le café des pluies
‘you see, you wouldn’t believe it, but my family would never buy me a nice camera because my whole family is unphotogenic. we’re as unphotogenic as can be. i mean i know you look at me and think it can’t be that bad, but i’m not the most photogenic looking guy, but compared to my family, i’m good looking.’
h. lamont interjects ‘well, i wouldn’t go that far…’ and it really gets the kid riled up, just doubled over in laughter, this punk with a few too many hair styles on his head (but a style’s a style and a man must have respect) so h. lamont ribs him to let him know he’s just ribbing like a friend. h. lamont, the louis l’amour of his spoken word, makes sure everything he says is a stately and well-balanced affair. and he walks in a stately manner, and, speaking of manners, knows that manners matter most. but he keeps those good deeds to himself. he’s drank so much coca-cola he can’t taste the sugar in his cake. and that’s a fact. a sad fact… sad like at night, when he leaves his window open, and motorcycles drive by far below him. motorcycles, with women on the back. men with cold stained teeth. all his stateliness has no one to entertain but himself. listen to those motorcycles go. just another life that l’amour will never know.
‘please, darling girl, sing a southern tune…’ and raise high that devil-raisin’ flag. i’ll have nothing to do with such unpleasantries. but give me my own tongue, my own tragic family romance, my own magnolia tree – and whatever comes to pass, it will be called our own. my god, how the sun can shine… and my how wide the wraparound porches go. hard cider, that’ll do. that is; cherry cola, and a chocolate cream pie milkshake. i think i’ll have a cowtail, a custard cream, or perhaps for sake of reason some indian cuisine. keep you sane. keep your blood pressure low. die young, they say… but you know what they say. he’s no good. can’t trust him as far as you can throw him. this guy… this guy’s a troublemaker. always got something up his sleeve. and they go on quoting nietzsche until morning. but he’s a southern gent. he’ll have nothing to do with it. he’s got one thing on his mind… the greater ideal. what is it nietzsche, that devil dog, says? a great man is a… man who lives in his own ideal; or, man whose self is his greatest ideal; or, ad absentium, ergo esse.
look at that queer man in tights… he must be mad, stark mad! and listen to the way he rambles. making eye contact with everyone he meets, giving them the one-over, a decent handshake, a vacuous thought, a few fleeting judgements, well-rehearsed lines. and between the right men, those petty routine lines are like a great greek tragedy, their performance so knowing and profound, so well-traded, that it is akin to watching any man excel at his profession… simply thrilling. it made the weird man sick to think about all those miserable clowns working who weren’t even good at their work. but that doesn’t matter. what matters is that everything is lost, and this is what comes from it. i’ve got truth, and it sounds like shit. can’t even read it between all the muck. simple, glorious language… if only… ‘no one likes the self-aware,’
in the words of jean paul sartre, ‘nausea’