Eshtine

more old vignettes from Beatnik Bob's

I survey my vast corndog empire. The Dad's Cookies jars are full to the brim; I have six kinds of bubblegum cigars to sell--Wild Tiger, El Bronco, Mad Bull, Gold Dragon, El Bubble and Pink Owl; the new state quarters work in the baseball machine. "One Amazing Night: A Tribute to Burt Bacharach" is in the CD player. St. Michael the Archangel's candle is out of wax. I just lit the Chango Macho ("The Spirit of Good Luck") votive to replace it. I sit under my Shrine of Shameless Hucksterism sign and think shameless thoughts.
Last night I dreamed Jesus was giving a concert in my backyard. He sang a version of the Beatitudes:
"If you drink no wine--it's all right.
If you smoke no pipe--it's all right."
There's a little boy playing Beethoven's 9th on the piano in the fake coffeehouse. The piano was locked for months, and now that it is available for use, see what happens.
I went recently to Ireland. Before I left I had a conversation with the train conductor, who is pagan, about Croagh Patrick. This is the place known as "St. Patrick's holy mountain," but he said originally it was a place of worship for the god Lugh (as in Lughnasa). So now when he walks in I tell him I said prayers for everyone on Croagh Patrick--but I addressed my prayer for him and his wife to Lugh. He seems pleased by this.
There is an auxiliary beatnik now, Beatnik R-, with white-blond hair and black dresses. I give her some rules about beatnikhood. It comes up because I advise her against letting the BlowPop and Tootsie Roll Pop containers go even the slightest bit empty. "Never create the illusion of scarcity," I say. "That's beatnik rule #11."
"What are rules 1-10?" she asks.
"When the student is ready, the lesson will appear," I reply.
"What number is 'Be cool'?"
"Oh, that's number one."
Later I see her toss the empty candy boxes into the trash without breaking them down. So I call her over and ask what is wrong with the picture. She figures it out quickly. "Beatniks should be environmentally conscious," I say.
"Should I throw these in the trash can outside--does that get emptied faster?"
I shake my head. "They're supposed to empty this one as regularly. If they don't, that's their problem. Beatniks never go beyond the call of duty--that's rule #5."
At this point Rita wants to start writing these down, so she gets out her notebook. "What are these, what should I call them--'Rules for Beatnik Life'?"
"Naw, man," Beatnik S-, the resident caricature artist, interjects. "Rules just put limitations on yer inborn creativity."
"Call it 'untitled' for now," I suggest. So R- writes on the top of her notebook page "Untitled...For Now." Then as I remind her what rules we have so far, S- keeps challenging them on various semantic grounds.
"I like semantics," he says when I complain. One of his challenges is "Don't all rules carry their own contradictions?"
"You're good at this," I say. "That's rule number 7."
Later Bill the beatnik boss comes in, setting his wet soda can on my picture of Bob Cassilly (the big boss at City Museum). Young Max Cassilly, who is sitting next to me, says "Hey! Don't do that to a picture of my dad!"
"A healthy disrespect is a sign of respect," Bill says, and I know we have rule number two.