who dat? contest
actor wes studi
heat, mystery men
first correct answer:
celebrity interview: jack kerouac
After my last two celebrity interviews, Ive been
having a rather difficult time getting anyone to agree to sit down with me. I had
Princes old keyboardist "Doctor" lined up, but he cancelled at the last
minute. But I would not let an industry-wide blackballing keep me from my duties, so I
invented a time-machine out of an old refrigerator I found on the side of Caheunga Blvd.
and went back in time to interview one of my favorite writers: Jack Kerouac.
August 6, 1963. New York City. A decrepit five story
walk-up on the corner of B and Third. I can hear what sounds like congas coming from
inside apartment 17C. I knock. The door swings open to reveal a fat naked Jack Kerouac,
unfiltered cigarette in one hand and a large jug of red wine in the other. He presses the
wine into my hand and hands me a fist full of pills. I take a swig and Jack laughs as I
cough deeply. He sits on the floor and being cooking a bottle of codeine cough medicine,
reducing it to a black tar which he then smokes. This goes on throughout the interview. I
sit on a pile of books and put my tape recorder on the floor between us. Jack picks up the
tape recorder and lights it on fire, cackling and warming his hands in front of the
ME: So Jack. I really enjoy your work.
JACK KEROUAC: Crazy.
JK: Its all kicks, man. Its just wild crazy kicks in the black-hearted
American night. You want a baloney sandwich?
ME: No thanks.
ME: What do you make of your fame, now that On The Road and other books have become so
JK: Im a Bhikku Blank Rat.
JK: This beat room holds in my reindeer caterwaulings.
ME: Im sorry?
JK: What do I care about the squawk of the beat souls journeying from the neverthink to
the neverdo? They read the holy mad ramblings of my poor lost freeish-floating soul and
find a hibbity jibbity passle o logic and highfallutingness and thats just A-1
perfect-o man. You have to hear this. (Jack jumps up and tears the room apart, books
and bottles flying until he finds Mingus Epitaph. He drops the needle on the
record and begins a spastic dance that lasts for 38 minutes. Grabbing my head in his
hands, sweating, grinning, and grinding his teeth, he laughs.) You see??? Do you?
JK: Aw, yer just joshin me. But thats AOK too. Thats 100 percent-o
ME: About your popularity.
JK: Right. Its great.
What is your relationship like with Alan-
JK: That Jewish faggot! Hes wild man. Have you read his poems?
ME: I love Howl.
JK: Howl is fer shit, man. He wrote me these crazy lines the other day, better than a
thousands hellos for your precious Howl. Dig this: "Jack Jack Jack / Saint Jack / You
are fat, drunk, and happy / I need some boy-cock." Righty?
ME: Great. Are you still riding the rails?
JK: I crawl through the streets like a giant spider.
ME: Trains? You still hop them?
JK: Buddham saranam gocchami. Your pancakes are ready.
ME: The rails?
JK: I camped out under the stars one night, smoking a Lucky Strike and watching the
patterns of the pine needles brushing the stars back and forth in the gentle New Mexico
breeze. Far off in the distance, I heard the whistle of a locomotive headed somewhere in
the lonely American night, carrying the ghosts of dead railhounds and mad gypsy hobos
dancing the stinky-sock shuffle in the open boxcars and flatbeds of the still-born womb of
the United States of Heartbreak. The whistle of that Nelly was so sad and forlorn sounding
that it touched something deep inside my poor lost vagabond soul and I shimmied out of my
BVDs and howled a lonely echo back to my train brother, "WHOO
WHOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" And as the last sounds of my train call were carried off by the
night wind, I saw myself in the shadows of the dying campfire, standing there nekkid as
Noah. I was staring at me, staring at me, staring at me. I said "who are you?"
And the other me replied, "Youll have to find that out for yourself."
ME: (tears in my eyes) Wow.
JK: Lets find us some pussy.
ME: Just a few more questions.
JK: I dont want to answer your pinning-down soul-stealing brain-questions, Cowboy.
Yer beat intellectual journalistic gobblity-gook is no good for anypeoples or animals or
plant-type-life youknowwhatimsaying. My name is Raja. King of the frozen food section.
ME: You played football in college. Do you still follow sports?
(Jack Kerouac runs at me naked and tackles me. He knocks his head into a three-legged
coffee table and slumps to the ground. An hour later he wakes up.)
JK: Crazy football tackle.
ME: Good one.
JK: Im a Canuck feets-ball ex-pat Kiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnng!!! You sure you
dont want a baloney sandwich?
ME: Thats OK. (Jack begins work on a bottle of Four Roses.) Regarding your
struggle to invent a style of writing akin to the improvisational sax work of Charlie
Parker and Lester Young, do the marathon Benzedrine and caffeine-fueled writing sessions
youve talked about help or hinder that "jazz" prose?
JK: Look at this. (Jack hands me an Etch-A-Sketch.) Its this crazy new
mind-blowing thingamabob they inventicized. Crazy, huh? Cmon. Lets go find us
some real gone chicks. (Jack unwraps a Twinkie, bites off the tip of one end, and
ME: Can I just ask one or two more questions?
JK: Awwwwww. Sure, Ricky.
JK: Twenty-Stee Skiddoooooo!!!
ME: Satori in Paris actually got me writing my own dream journal. Its a beautiful
JK: Ha Cha Cha.
ME: And I felt that a lot of the novella really reflected a maturing, but also a deep and
profound sadness. Would you care to comment?
JK: Whats Satori in Paris?
ME: Oh. Shit. Yeah, um. Nothing.
JK: Wait. Ive been think-a-linging about using that as a title lates-ly. How did
ME: Nothing. Nevermind. Lets go for those gone chicks you were talking about.
(Jack pins me against the wall. Hes still very strong.)
JK: Who are you, man?
ME: Im no one.
JK: Who are you?
ME: I write an online journal.
JK: On what Line? The left? A Commie rag?
ME: No, uh
JK: How did you know the title? (Raising his beat fist.)
ME: Im from the future.
(Jack backs off, blinking. Pause.)
JK: Me too.
ME: No really. Im from the future. From 1999.
JK: Oh. Wow. (Jack just stares.) Am I still alive?
ME: (I stare at Jack for a minute at his early deterioration. He looks 50
already, though hes nowhere close. But there is a fierce twinkle in his bloodshot
eyes.) Yes, you are.
JK: (Jack smiles broadly and takes a massive swig of whiskey.) Crazy.
The Larry King Happy
Who dat is?
A mean brotha, bad for your health. Lookin damn good though, if I could say it myself.
Told me Larry is a mad man, but I don't fear that. Got mad weapons too, ain't tryin to
hear that. Tryin to bring down me, this champion. When y'all clowns gonna see that it
can't be done. Understand me son, I'm the slickest they is. I'm the quickest as they is,
did I say I'm the slickest they is?
speaking of which. The other day my good friend
Marlon Brando apparently gave an impromptu lecture to agents and guests at CAA. Why
wasnt I invited? I have to learn this from that freaking yenta Liz Smith?! Who
kissed Marlon on the lips, Liz? It was Larry! Larry alone, damn you! Marlon is a mad man
for not inviting me. A mad man, I say!
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