Friday, July 9, 2010

On Carbombs and Other Calamities

* “Que vigila las vigilantes?--Who watches the Watchmen?

From my vantage point on the upper level of this Metra train, I can see everyone assembled in this car. Like the American media blitz I report on absolutely everything, but silently. Nothing can escape my clear gaze—I swear to God I can even stare into the nature of their souls—Friends, my fellow Americans, my FoxNews nation! Your interpretation of events is absolute, now, quick, TO TWITTER!—Our stoned conductors argue loudly about the Union and Iron Man 2 before they stop long enough to reach up for my money—I never get away with a free ride—especially not on Thursdays. I always feel accountable on Thursday. It is a day of reckoning—And on the fourth day God looked down upon his half-finished creation and lo he declared: For a minute there…I lost myself—the 8:30 train from Fox Lake is dead quiet. It is the uneasy calm that precedes hurricanes…and divorces…and terrorist attacks. Alone with my thoughts, and the beat of the rain on the windows, I begin to figure my chance of survival if this train were targeted by terrorists—don’t we all worry about such things? It’s perfectly normal—Even if I lived, think about the effect on the American consciousness. A terrorist attack in Times Square, though horrific to imagine, is at least understandable. It is the Mecca of capitalism, a microcosm of the triumphs and failings of the western world. But a senseless attack against an almost-empty commuter train in the Chicago suburbs? Now that’s terrifying. No American would feel safe anymore. I mean, we could never leave our homes. Obviously the only sane course of action would be to elect Palin, build bigger walls, kick out all the troublesome immigrants back to the desert—Hot like Mexico, rejoice!—But, honestly, I think I’d rather perish on the train—Most of my fellow passengers doze on the seats beneath me. One woman’s mouth is gaping wide. I too leave my mouth open when I sleep, but this woman’s nap passes remarkably dry—You see I’m a drooler when I sleep. Perhaps it’s not proper to discuss in polite company, but I can tell y’all are a hip crowd. I think I’ll chance it—I drool so much even Deepwater Horizon has nothing on me—Just gushing and gushing dreams and thoughts and masterpieces and immense retail value onto the beach—Won’t you all come in for a dip? The water’s lovely, I just set it on fire—Lately I’ve been wondering if all the disparate crises of the world are all connected. Some divine trial of faith. And that is saying something, something suitably shocking—Allow me to illuminate the situation with an explosion—Blast off, it’s party time, and where the fuck are you?—Now my rant may be ridiculous, melodramatic perhaps, but this is the truth, this is gospel—Brothers and sisters, by our presence on this train, we are sanctified, say amen!—In New York I saw a spectacular piece of graffiti overlooking Lafayette—It showed the figure of a monster eating a key, and underneath it read “Hacuha Lives”— I knew then (by pure instinct) this was the key to an infamous Nissan Pathfinder, left idling in Times Square—Sorry, I just remembered my purpose. I promised a carbomb and have failed spectacularly…but never worry true believers. I always deliver—BOOM—Now I’m not one for conspiracies or determined destines but it is certainly fascinating to see how the oil now pouring into the gulf—powers the car that he tried to blow up—to damage the bright façade of Times Square, the extreme culmination of the capitalist American dream—built on the materials and labor of the Chinese and Hondurans and ESPECIALLY THE MEXICANS that we are so desperate to keep out—I have been watching all along and now I see the bomb is the nexus that connects it all…and the bomb, the bomb (and here, finally, is the punchline friends) the bomb…failed to go off—Brothers and sisters, do you understand what this means ? Hacuha lives, he has eaten the key! We need no longer live in constant fear, this is not a Nation of Calamity—Justice for the gulf, REMEMBER it every time we guzzle at the pump, Justice for the immigrants, Justice for New York, and for the NYPD, major props—I exit the 8:30 train at Edgebrook, make my way out into the stormy night, sigh and close my eyes as the raindrops soak through my skull and cool the fire of my thoughts—thank you mis amigos (love you mucho), my time is done—but just keep in mind one final thought…WHO watches the Watchmen?

SM Jun 2010

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