This Is My Life Starring Moss Jervins

Everybody's favorite forgotten star of screens large and small, and also now those plasma screens and satellites and so forth. That's me—I'm the favorite forgotten star etc. I now have this wonderful BLOG and I have turned over a new leaf and want to tell you about my new life and I also want to hear about YOURS but please be nice.

Saturday, February 04, 2006

Real-life conversation (part two)

—I’m no longer thirsty. Your speech has slaked my thirst.
—Our sink is now a beverage unit. The cold water tap emits coffee. The hot water one delivers milk.
—Is the coffee cold? Is the milk warm?
—You always question. You never just accept the way things are. You should get back on the yoga wagon before it’s too late.
—It’ll never be too late for yoga.
—That’s not what my sources tell me.
—I’ve already said too much.
—They live in Canada and the Republic of SMOGG.
—They send me a newspaper every fortnight chock full of obscure but essential information.
—It’s written in hieroglyphics inscrutable to all but a few former students of Professor Trent O’Brien Yuengling, of East New York, New Jersey.
—East New York is in New Jersey?
—It’s akin to how Kansas City is in Missouri, or Missoura, as the natives call it.
—What about East St. Louis?
—I don’t know anything about East St. Louis.
—What about East Orange?
—I don’t know anything about anything.
—What about Easter Sunday? Are we inviting the Morrisons again next year?
—The Morrisons!
—The Morrisons!
—You hate them. You love them. The Morrisons. Season begins next Wednesday at 8:30 Eastern, 7:30 Central.
—I only heed Mountain Time.
—Mountain Time has been outlawed. Pacific is on probation. You grew up in Hawaii so you keep time by the sound of the waves. How they crashed onto the shore in your youth. Your youth of surf and fresh fruit.
—Not to mention fresh fish and the occasion luau.
—A nascent vegetarian, you objected to the perennial trotting out of a porker with an apple in its mouth.
—My cousin Rocko always got to eat the apple. I always only ever got the snout.
—Dreadful youth in the tropics.
—It helped me develop my psychic powers.
—I knew you were going to say that.
—I knew you were going to say that.
—Repeating what I say doesn’t make you a psychic.
—Repeating what I say doesn’t make you a psychic.
—Oh now stop it.
—Oh now stop it.
—There’s a culture-bound syndrome in Malaysia where the victim is incapable of resisting the temptation to repeat another’s actions.
—What about words?
—I don’t know. I read it in an article.
—Something in your so-called mythical newspaper from Canada and the Republic of SMOGG?
—It’s 3 o’clock. We’ve been talking for several hours already.
—Talking to you is like talking to myself.
—I don’t know whether to understand that as a compliment or an insult.
—Don’t seek to understand. Just accept.
—I can no more accept than the drop of dew can choose the flower it forms on.
—You really should look into re-upping with the yoga. You will achieve a breakthrough. You’re already like a zen master. You will receive vibrations of many colours through your ears, spine, nose, feet, in roughly that order.
—The CD player is broken. It’s been playing this same note for 18 days.
—I don’t hear a thing.
—I turned the volume down. Here.
—I see. Well, it’s a good note. It tells you a lot.
—Is this you talking or the Republic of SMOGG talking?
—Neither. I’m just inhabiting the music right now. I’m not speaking with my conscious mind. I am not a mouthpiece. I am simply investigating the streams of data that the speakers are unleashing.
—Those speakers, by the by, come from a small mom-and-pop factory in Germany. It’s true. It says so on the box.
—You still keep the box.
—Of every appliance, baby.
—You are a mad creative genius and a man worthy of becoming president of the Republic of SMOGG.
—It’s a duty I would not accept lightly.
—You would need to consult with a team of specially assembled advisers from all walks of life.
—My spiritual masters are all dead. They exist on another plane.
—That’s OK, as far as the Republic of SMOGG is concerned.
—I’m relieved. Also, I will require seven servants. One will make my bed. One will lie in it. One will open the curtains. One will draw them. One will wax the floor. One will scuff it. And servant number seven is responsible for alphabetizing my large collection of Beach Boys albums, which I listen to every evening and petulantly scatter upon the parlour floor.
—I have seven people in mind who will serve you well. One is Anna, who comes from the west. Another is Loretta Sabor-Junker, whose parents once ruled Canada. Third is Joyce James, a beer enthusiast who used to direct music videos. Numero cuatro is Billy Manchego, who I believe you know from your days as sous-chef at Manchego Brothers on East 19th Street. The fifth person doesn’t have a name. She’s a former systems analyst with pearl-coloured hair. Number six is your brother, Jacob. And last but not least is Betsy Wellington-Sousa, wife of Stefano Sousa. And there you have it.
—That sounds lovely. Have the transcript of this talk sent to my office. I’ll see you next year.

Thursday, February 02, 2006

Real-life conversation (part one)

—It’s Feb Deux in the oh-six, baby.
—Did I ask for the date?
—Did you ask me for a date? I’m startled and flattered, in roughly that order.
—Let’s go see that movie tonight. The one with the yoga instructor.
—Your yoga instructor or mine?
—I don’t have one. I don’t do any yoga anymore, remember? I got tired of taking my mat everywhere I went. It became a professional liability. I think the perpetual yoga matting was a reason I got fired at the Institute.
—You weren’t happy there anyway. You would always complain. And what it did to your breath, skin, mind, soul.
—In roughly that order.
—You were a zombie. You would come home and play the harpsichord and not talk to me. Did you strategically forget to remember this? You would drink scotch and stare at the dog. I wasn’t attractive to you anymore. You accused me of bearing another man’s child.
—Yes. The thing was, I didn’t know a Toby. Neither did you.
—In my mind, Toby was the editor of a ladies’ undergarment trade journal, a roguish sort who always got his way.
—I was powerless to resist.
—It was the way his gel-slicked pompadour captured the rays of a dying sun.
—It was the way his eyes seemed to draw one in.
—Music could be heard every time he walked into a room.
—Toby. Toby the psychic. Toby the thaumaturge. Toby the rebel leader.
—He wore a loincloth to the office. He came from a family of Thibetan nomads.
—He could levitate entire bodies of water. His followers would quickly duck under the floating H20, scamper to the other side. In his later years, what they call “after years” in certain books of yore, his powers waned a touch. Some of his devotees got a bit wet when the agua came crashing down.
—Nothing too serious, though.
—No. He was well-liked by all. Though he was a rogue. And though he impregnated every woman he so much as glanced at. His eyes.
—Supernaturally potent.
—I’m getting a drink. Do you want one?
—From the fridge? There’s nothing in the fridge.
—Oh? Nothing, really?
—We no longer have a fridge. They confiscated it last week, after the blackout.
—What blackout?
—You were sleeping. Actually, you had blacked out.
—After a night of drinking with Toby, I expect.
—I think you OD’d on frog’s legs. It’s a nasty meal. I don’t see why you persist.
—It’s the way my parents brought me up. But I can see how, in this country, such tastes could be considered aberrant, even dangerous, by the powers that be.
—I’m one of the powers that be now, in case you didn’t know.
—That’s awesome. Can you make a fridge appear, full of beverages and week-old Chinese takeout.
—That can be arranged, yes.

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