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July 28, 2008
August 25, 2008
August 28, 2008
August 30, 2008 - finished
Bio
(A twelve-tone story to be read aloud, adagio, ma non troppo)
“Hee was conceived in spaghetti, brought fourth whole from the bell of a great iron pot.” Brother Of
We all recognize that quote, do we not. The memorable first sentence to Brother Of’s mighty preface to Italian Food Incarnate Cooking Booking. Submerged as we are in its entertainment value since childhood, we tend to lose sight of the deeper significance of the Story of Hee. It references the most extreme case of Spontaneous Conception (SC) known to house ware departments anywhere. Granted, this no longer is news, but in Brother Of’s time SC was considered a pasto-carnico miracle so significant that it led to Hee being short listed for Pope. (In the end, as we know, his candidacy was scuppered by an end running evango-psycho Parrot-breath who claimed to have not only actually visited a Black Hole but returned with raw BM (Black Matter), trumping SC’s down to Earth achievement which is so, so insubstantial and diaphanous and cloudy to the brain. Predictably, my last word on that contest is “Sigh!”
I only bring this up because of the old saying “Suck the cock that feeds you and die fat.” Apt indeed. Consequently, it was later determined that back burner wheat paste forgotten on low heat over geologic time under a marginal film of mycrondial (D&A) mold, AND catalyzed by a savory paring of pale pasta pureed between pork and pollinated pear pieces wrapped in pancreatic inspired poetry excerpts purchased from Portugese octopus pillagers, PLUS meat sauce (purged of Roughage and Squirt) ... well, add it up, Pushbaby. This is nothing less than the familiar “primary co-valuator” of Spontaneous Conception’s parent compound. Pure and simple. A basic re-Hash for un-tempered ears. Today we celebrate Hee’s b-day. Hee is six-fourteenths in forty four. Congratulations (also a few lacrimonious commiserations) have been splashing in from all corners of Kitchen since twenty nano-sabayons ago making this one of the neatest nativo-defibrilato of all time. One, essentially, for the Prelate books.
Indeed, doctor, the pure lyricism of Formula lies lightly in the gut. But, of course, that is a contemporary assessment and, sadly, we cannot leave our time to visit the Origins, not even the Previews. Constructed as we are by Society, we act accordingly. Like a Bambi Lyn mantra,” you are too old to really learn anything, all you can do is regret as you regress.” Who cannot excuse the authorities? These people : these Pests : the Pissers : the Protestors : popularizers of the Past : can you not excuse their doubts about SC ? The childish simplicity of “spaghetti-as-placenta technology” rebounds rectangular-like from a contemptible chorus of CocoPuff puerility. We know there are Now no sins on board. Not so Then, though, not so Then. Oh, oh hardened Brother Of, scratch my Balls before you go-go!
Still, the creep of doubt is like Greensick. Hee’s eye sees a high coldness of embezzled self,
a persistent Cling to every minty mind. It is history now. It is Story now. For the questions will now not cease. The great WHAT’s ! The Conception (Say What?), Birth (What th’...?)...the (What!) Sauce : What happened? They all want to know Follow-up ... what? Critical yet hopeful, like the air in a Ship that has lost its clarity but sloughs courageously through aspirating systems of Mainstream. “They”: us, we, you, I, them asks “Where is Hee now?” Most critically : “Is Hee dressed in priestly drag?” Most cynically : “What exactly happened to the left over Spaghetti Milanese alla Placenta and its irredentist Iron Pot?” Most crayola-ry: “Did it really rhapsodize whole and entire into a sublimated State of progination, the so-called “Progresso Spaghetti-o Ascenso” theory-o?” Shit my head ! Spins from a surfeit of blessed incubi! Is this news to muse?
What is known is now shown. About five sabayons ago, Hee metamorphined from resembling a spot of tough ragú indistinguishable from other red-brown spots within the heavy, dark shadows of a uniquely typically ugly cast iron pot to become an image destined, from this silent witch-point, to become, in fact, the future symbol, the e-pit-to-me, so to speak, of Italian food Carnated. Thus, Hee became a slippery Logo : a fat, swarthy black haired Putti with five o’clock shadow straddling pale, off-white poles of paste in a drooly popped-cherry sauce.
It is here recorded what is known. What is known is that Hee paused in the pasta pot forty years (circa sixteenth sabayons), a lonely, polluting, prescient presence proscribed circularly, hemmed in by pressed aluminum walls decorated with a stamped African motive in the outline of a Dahomey dragon tethered to a Swahili swain. The warm and grainy-gushy comfort of heavy-coated smartly shaped-paste (of a distinctive pattern attributed to Piranesi’s mother-in-law) inevitably left its mark on Hee, indelibly setting Hee apart as a Pot Child, embossing Hee’s skin with a sticky web design, thereon.
There is myth and there is history. As far as Hee is concerned they are the same, for this phenomenon cannot afford memory. Just like that [(-!), that], one spectral moment Hee climbed out of his condiment confinement whole and entire, coated with slick birthing red sauce, a loopy, droopy spaghetto dangling from one nostril. Too cute to refute, pert as a polyp and credentialed besides, Hee wore prematurely-chiseled, leafy-marble pubic hair a la David Firenze; a razor nose and dark shadows on both cheeks like Federico da Montefeltro; greasy, waxy-wavy hair per Franco Corelli and a heavy gold chain and a chest full of black, curly fuzz so totally Johnny Stompanato, dressed to court. And a winning innocent smile like Liber-ace. Hee’s child’s breath whispered garlic foam loudly proudly. Green, pesto eyes, both somber and vibrant–and savory--embraced the world with indolent surprise. Hee left greasy prints everywhere. To the masses Hee was a marzipan Dream! We saw a vision : A so-totally cool crack-view of Heaven : THE Italian Food Incarnate Vehicle.
Yes, Hee left prints where Hee trod, upon what Hee touched, sat on, viewed slantingly. Where air was thinnest, so was Hee. Smear–a Delight!–over night became preserved truffle. Banks were stores, open twenty four seven. Hee’s tiny, oily finger prints coated light switches, combination locks, helipads, vaginas–mimicking the wedding announcements of heavy virgins and hymen keepers. He trod on lights, on bits and bytes, breathy summer nights, upon jaded flashy dykes’ eyes. Hee agreed to all, puked, though some say he was duped. I say he trod rough shod.
Everything has a point except this. This manic memoir, relying on hearsay as it does, repeating heresy as it will, resenting humor, requiring horse shit, repairing happiness, rejecting holiness, reclining to negativity in such an artificial manner, mocking Life. Life itself is function of unction; it is feature fashion folly followed by frightening fillips of flipped flight : Precisely so! As sweet heart is to sweetbread or toe cheese adjusts to head cheese. Just so! Though Hee was different. The best ad agencies in Saint Martinville were at a loss how to market Hee. “If only Heee were hot sauce,” she moaned, mis-spelling Hee’s name. “Murr-der!” ((He knew beyond doubting that the sight of her would make him sad. There is love in everything she does, and she does it for him alone. He could not bear that. Love, he knew, was the worse thing to suffer. It filled the soul with a series of desires, like vagrant puffs of wind.)) They tried campaigns to legitimize Hee’s image among the Masses. They tried : “What’s food got to do with it, Crank?” which went nowhere. They tried : “I put some truffle in her muffle....Umm-good!” which went nowhere. They tried : “Woppin’ good!” with minor success. They tried : “It was really ur-Dagos who killed Jesus.” Nothing worked. “If only Hee were hot sauce,” was the common moan “... or even Anne Sophie Mutter.”
Then, unaccountably ...
I be Hee from Italian Kitchen (10)
Take from Me Morality.(7)
Press your Lament into butt of Chicken(10)
Wear your toque ver-tic-ally. (7/8)
Need one say more?