SURVEILLANCE PELICANA
SURVEILLANCE PELICANA
BY
DAN WEISMAN
(The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:
Chapters 1-10: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-full-book-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/.)
Chapters 11-20: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-ii-chapters-11-to-20-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/
Chapters 21-30: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-iii-chapters-21-to-30-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Mac leads Tyger and Armor’s on the official
New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival party tour.
This chapter provides an insider’s look at the popular festival.
Consciousness expands with the generally jolly jaunt
around the festival culminating in a karmically uplifting
concert by saxophonist Kidd Jordan.
CHAPTER 21
“JAZZ FEST”
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Somebody has died. Somebody has been born.
And somebody is very excited today.
That must be Big Mac. Today is the first Sunday of the
Louisiana Jazz and Heritage Festival, commonly known as Jazz Fest.
It is Mac’s — and a lot of other persons who don’t even
know him — favorite event of the year.
Laissez Bon Temp Roules. Let the good times roll, Big Mac,
and party comrades.
Mac arrives at Tyger·s lair about 11 a.m. on Sunday
April 23, 1988 according to filed reports. He wears a purple, red
and orange tie-dyed t-shirt. He has stashed his beatific bongos in the
maroon MacVan, records reveal. On with the big shoe…
“Come on. Let’s go. Got to get there. Time’s a’wasting,”
Jazz Fest Mac blows through the front door with all the furious
force of Hurricane Camille.
“Get ready. Come on,” etc. etc.; as Mac heads like a Patriot
anti-missile missile to intercept the bathroom.
Tyger sits in his usual chair by the wood table in the
center room observing the current explosion. “Guess it’s time to
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go–huh?” he asks as if he didn’t know.
Flush flush, fizz fizz, oh what a joy it is to be somewhat
young, bound for fun. “What you doing? No time to waste, Let’s
roll,” continues Mac’s words flooding over the sea wall.
“Oh. You don’t want me to roll a couple of reefers?” Tyger
asks. “That’s different,” Mac sorts through priorities. “Go
ahead. Two minutes,” adding as he scrounges through the freezer.
Finally, “Where are the archives?” Mac asks in apparent
reference to the collection of LSD Tyger has accumulated through
the years and saves for special occasions.
Is there a more special occasion to the actual real-life
every day inhabitants of the City that Care Forgot and it’s
immediate environs than Jazz Fest? Mac thinks not.
“I got them,” Tyger states. “Right here on the table.” Mac
kerplunks in the visitor’s chair. He snatches the specially
marked film canister, emptying said contents on the terrible table.
Three separate folded tin foil pieces sparkle. Each foil
strip contains within a full compliment of the decade’s most
potent psychedelics, or at least those representatives Tyger has
managed to acquire, squirreling away for purposes of
preservation. No longer.
Tyger rolls the party joints carefully placing them in the
metal tin Altoids box. Mac busies himself examining the various
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tasty treats, choosing a blue blot dot he remembers
from the notso distant past.
“Hey. Isn’t this part of the Donald Ducks we used at last
Jazz Fest?” asks Mac. Tyger looks up from his business and nods
in agreement. “Think so. Why don’t you try one?”
“O.K.” as Mac snips off a corner. “You take this,” he
annunciates, handing the sacred sliver to Tyger, “I’ll have
the rest. O.K.” preparations apparently complete,
the field commander recapitulates.
“Let’s go. Got sun block?” “Already did that.” “Got a hat?
Where’s your hat?” “Uhh, No. I’ll get the M’s cap.”
“A-O.K. Got everything? Altoids box?” “Yup.” “Hat, sun
block, acid. Anything else?” “I think you’ve covered it.”
“Great. We’re off. Got to pick up Armor’s and get to the Fair Grounds.”
Across Uptown in the MacVan, impresario Mac hizzoner, puts a
MacLand cassette in the dash player, up cranks the volume like
a runner working out on stadium stairs, higher higher higher pick
those legs up, listen to this: “Waaaaah … ”
“Like that one?” Mac asks. “This one is pretty good too.
Recorded it last night:
‘It’s all for art. It’s awful art. You think you’re smart.
Surpriiiiise. Frustration. Time zero–was it goood? Potted palms.
Was she right? Did it hurt?’
Wah wah wah. Wahwahwah … “
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The band plays on … endless tape loop
dedicated to the higher consciousness of great art.
“Yeah,” agrees Tyger as the song reaches its final conclusions.
“That does sound good. My fingernail’s are clicking. Who is on it?”
“I did the drum machine,” Mac says, “and bongo tracks.”
“I like it,” Tyger says.
“Mr. Milty’s on mystery sax,” Mac continues. Best song ever.”
Pure sounds guide the blithe spirits over Magazine Street in
the snap of a finger beat to the Coliseum Street resting place of
the Armor’s Tungsten experience. It is a typical New Orleans
shotgun house, flesh colored wood frame, sitting by heavenly
coincidence next to the Third Missionary Baptist Church of the New Age.
Armor’s Armor’s hallelujah, sings the blah blah blah of blah
blah church chorus. “Thank you Lord for Armor’s is thine
neighbor,” intones the tall black preacher man. “We are lucky
souls.” Not. “In Jeeeezus” Maybe.
Mac pulls up, ejecting Tyger on to the small crabgrass front
lawn. Then, the cherubic musical artist switches off the master
controls and follows suit.
“Armor’s always takes fucking forever,” Mac notes. “We have
to get him up and get him going as quickly as possible. Got to
have some Oyster Artichoke Millie right this split second.”
The screen door is unlatched for a change. Armor’s sits at
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the — shall we say — ready inside the middle room.
Mama cat scurries for cover as the boys enter Armor’sville,
a secret universe created sometime before the Big Bang.
And dedicated to God knows what.
“Hey hey hey,” Armor’s voice leads Tyger and Mac past the
100, or so, empty Kentwood natural spring bottled water
containers, past the drafting table, the Jack Kerouac poster and
into the receiving chamber. Although they walk through the
shadow of the valley of Armor’s Tungsten, the boys fear not
where they tread. Silly rabbits.
“Want some espresso?” Armor’s asks. “It will just take a few
minutes.” Yeah, just what Mac wants to hear, right.
“No no no man. We have to get going,” Mac implores. We are
late for fun. Come on. Come on. You’re ready. Let’s go.”
“Oh. Oh,” Armor’s is thrown off his game, therefore
mumbles. “Uhh. Just a second. Let me get something.”
“No no no,” Mac has seen this act a million eons before.
“Let’s go. He who hesitates is lost.”
“Ahh,” Armor’s stumbles from his director’s chair. “Let me
ahh, go,” and walks to the bathroom.
“O.K. Two minutes,” directs Mac. “That’s it and we are out of here.”
Tyger busies himself thumbing through a stack of computer
magazines on a nearby — coffee? — table .. Armor’s has lately
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gotten into personal home computing. As with his many other
interests, he has gone completely gung-ho bonkers
insanely wild about the subject.
Not to say Armor’s comprehensive discourses on the topic are
totally uninteresting or he doesn’t provide wonderful insight.
He is a brilliant fellow, true. However,
He tends to ramble on and on and on.
Sometimes, one just has to say enough is enough already, turn
off the faucet before the waterlogged mind springs a leak.
Tyger settles in for a long haul, but Mac is inspired by
thoughts of fun to come. He continues urging Armor’s — Christian
soldiers? — onward, forward; or at least in the general
direction of the UnFair Grounds.
“Come on. We’re late. We’re late. For a very important
date,” Mac pushes the recalcitrant party with whatever urging
might raise Armor’s out of the bathroom.
“Ahh, ahh. O.K. Coming. I hear you. Got to just do this.
Ahhh,” Armor’s, out of habit, is stalling in the john.
Same old Armor’s Tungsten.
Tyger looks around the room. He spots another of Armor’s
cats playing with a strand of Mardi Gras beads. See, they are
useful for something after all. But ever the detective, also
notices that a little something seems missing.
As Armor’s emerges wearing an old Houston Astros cap and
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enigmatic smile, Tyger innocently inquires.
“Where are the two kittens you got from MacLand.”
“Ahhh, ahh. They are around somewhere playing I imagine,”
Armor’s replies. The topic is dropped like a sad oyster sack.
Mac gathers momentum and jump-starts Armor’s engine as the
terribly terrific trio finally achieve escape velocity. Out, out, and
about brief candles; all systems go, A-O.K. for blast off.
Armor’s finally locks the front door.
Mac loads the kiddies into the MacVan headed for the festival.
The New Orleans Jazz Club started the Jazz and Heritage
Festival in the mid 1960’s as a small affair for jazz purists. It
was held in Congo Square where the slaves were allowed to play
their old world music on Sunday.
Congo Square — later renamed Louis Armstrong Park — was
situated just off Rampart Street. It straddled a quadrilateral
design fronted by the Iberville Projects on one side and
clockwise by St. Louis Cemetery, the Vieux Carre and what used to
be Storyville — the scandalous Red Light District closed by
authorities in 1917 because it was too rough for the conscript
soldiers. Now commercial properties stretched up to and along Canal Street.
Initial festivals were frequented by jazz superstars of
the pre-rock era like cornetist Johnny Wiggs (real name: John
Wigginton Hyman, mechanical drawing instructor at Fortier High
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School) and Dr. Edmund Souchon–guitar playing obstetrician; as
well as the pre-Elvis pre-Beatles galaxy of old-line and now
obscure traditional jazz giants. Said festival evolved into New Orleans’
second major tourist attraction drawing the legions of losers from sites
worldwide to the New Orleans Fair Grounds and venues
all around the Crescent City.
Locals love the festival, too, despite the throngs of
ignoramuses from elsewhere in their face. It is tough to avoid
having fun given the amazing quantities of great food, music, and
— for the lame of heart — crafts, available throughout the two week affair.
Mac guides his portable world along South Jefferson Davis
Avenue, across Canal Street and finally to the Gentilly area
where beckons the traditional Mac gang parking site along Mystery
Street. No mystery to that spot. One must be careful about parking as the city,
true to its rip-off leadership, has amassed an armada of meter maids and tow trucks
ready to do everybody a favor by enforcing beyond imaginable strictness
their money making parking regulation scam.
Who do those corrupt grafting New Orleans politicians that
buy votes, get themselves fraudulently elected, take free trips
on developer ‘s money, believe they are fooling?
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For Jazz Fest anyway, they are fooling with tourists and
locals alike. Tow-trucks are floating like butterflies and
stinging like bees as they surreptitously sneak off with
unsuspecting jazz lovers vehicles, thereby ruining someone’s post
Jazz Fest once-uplifted demeanor.
Mac parks the van carefully measuring off the 20 feet from
the curb’s end in order to comply with the most arbitrarily
rendered, and commonly ticketed, rule.
“We are safe here,” Tyger concludes, “probably,” as Mac
continues pondering. “Although sometimes they give you a ticket
no matter how ‘legally’ you park. I got a ticket the other day
for parking in my driveway. ”
“What do you think?” Mac asks Armor’s for a third opinion.
“Dunno. you never know,” Armor’s sez. “Good enough for me,” Mac pez.
Armor’s has taken a small hit of LSD from the secret
compartment of his mechanical pencil. He slyly rolls the paper
blotter on his tongue before swallowing. “All set,” he says. Blast off.”
The terrible three join the crowd as it gathers streams of
steam along the beaten path in the general unspecific direction
of the Fair Grounds. Trucks tow to the right of them, groups of fellow travelers
gaggle to the left. The smell of sun block and tanning cream
blots out the natural Aroma of honeysuckle and willow root
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or whatever that is, along the way. Mystery Street reveals Esplanade Avenue
by the Whole Earth Food Store and Cafe Degas. Streaming personality
disorders become roaring ocean waves pummeling Fair Grounds shores.
Turning right, the trio follows the river past the high outer fence,
past the street of bus fumes ahem, ahem, and to the side
of the pedestrian gate. Cough, cough, gee whiz, oh what a thrill it is…
Mac applies additional sun screen due to depleting ozone layer
paranoia, probably not a bad idea as they glide, Clydes, not missing a beat.
Then, it is time to pay the piper in order to face the music.
The gang of three fork over the $8 toll, like the tide, rises every time; it takes in ’88
to join the select crowd of approximately many wading through metal turnstiles,
then plying along the wood plank walk-way. Shiver those timbers, m’lovelies.
About 50,000 comfy-bizarrely dressed fest junkies and fellow travelers
will traipse the same path that day. Come along and join them comrades,
as if you had a choice or wanted one. Colors sparkle in the mid-April sun.
After three days, the festival is heating up as is the Southeastern Louisiana weather.
Soaring like pelicanas above and beyond the throngs, the boys
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trek over the second longest stretch run in America’s dirt track
and onto the grassy infield. A perfect day for a perfect day to follow.
Armor’s has been walking very fast unsuccessfully attempting
to keep the masses from bumping him or otherwise blocking his
path. That is an impossible order, so he surrenders and waits for
Mac and Tyger by the first porta-lets — registered trademark? —
signaling a happy exit from work-a-day civilization.
“Hey you guys, Al Belleto is over at the Jazz Tent,” Tyger
reports, pouring over a program Mac has just purchased. “Al
Belleto?” Armor’s asks Tyger who has some knowledge of jazz
history garnered from working briefly at the local fake Jazz Archive.
“Yeah, man. He is Frank Sinatra’s favorite jazz saxophonist.” Tyger roars.
Mac laughs fairly unimpressed. “Yeah well. Let’s not miss
that. First we have to find some nourishment.
Then, we’ll check out Al Bell Etto.”
They fly past galaxies of spinning planets who cover the
universal infield over to Food Tent Two where Mac and Tyger grab
$2 “small” portions of Fried Potato Po-Boys, a weird sandwich of
french fries on french bread covered with thick brown gravy.
“Wow!” Mac shouts as he takes the first bite.
“That tastes great. You try.”
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He hands the messy sandwich to Armor’s who eyes it warily
then takes a mini-bite. “Hey, sort of OK. Maybe, I’ll get one later.”
Of course, he won’t. With so many food booths
with so many amazingly succulent dishes, each Jazz Fest
touring group can only sample a few items at any given appearance.
They are required by Jazz Fest law to buy small portions so
more items can be tried. That is the most efficient method to get
a full taste of the festival.
(Exceptions, however, are always permissible depending on
circumstances. For example, barbecued chicken from the Second
True Love Baptist Church ladies a few booths down at Food Tent
Two must be consumed in portions as large as possible due to
mind-blowing properties.)
Munching while they are crunching atop the trammeled earth,
Mac leads the official Jazz Fest appreciation society tour past
10,000 identically different fun junky planets across the
spaceways to the Al Belleto Experience, or whatever that is, at
the Uncle Ben’s Rice (corporate logo) Jazz Tent.
Well fest fans, Al Belleto’s easy brand of cool jazz is so laid back
he is not even close to breaking a sweat. A tenor
saxophone draped from his shoulder strap, Belleto breath snaps
his fingers just this side of narcosis as the group takes off,
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where? Why? And how? The Jazz Tent fills up as the noon-time sun
scorches the brown tan earth. Mac and Tyger gaze on, grandly unimpressed.
“This cat is beyond lame,” Tyger comments after sampling a near dead version of
“The World is Waiting for a Sunrise,” adding, “If he were any lamer, he could collect
legitimate insurance benefits.” Therefore, the gang must mosey on along, little doggies.
“We have to get over to Congo Square and check it out,”Mac announces
as Armor’s, off course, lingers. “You coming,” Mac adds.
“Yeah, just trying to figure out where that dude was coming from,”
Armor’s replies. “Guess from nowhere,” Mac says.
“What do you expect from Frank Sinatra’s favorite sax player,” Tyger notes.
“The boss probably too busy screwing Nancy Ray-Gun to notice
how lame this guy is. Good background music, maybe. Then, again…”
Congo Square is just past the porta-lets and omnipresent can kids.
(These are little black kids officially sanctioned to knock over anybody
or anything in their path as they retrieve discarded aluminum cans
for future recycling. It is sort of a scorched earth first environmental policy.)
The trendy African-American trading area and spiritually uplifting stage
used to be called Koindu Square when the festival was smaller
and closer to the real roots of jazz and Louisiana living.
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That was way back when none of the stages were afflicted with corporate logos.
Armor’s and Mac ignore the obvious while immersing
themselves in the higher karma of the Kambuka Collective. Tyger
must make a stand for what is right in this the place of ultimate truth.
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REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
The Kambuka Collective finishes up with a shake, rattle, and
roll. Armor’s tosses a pebble at Roots who doesn’t pay attention.
“I know what you mean,” Armor’s notes. “He is stupid and ugly too. Never liked him.”
They walk by the rooted Badburns as Mac tries to be polite:
“Hey Roots. How’s it hanging?” Roots barely acknowledges the
greeting. What a rude motherfucker.
Mac tour paisley paces traces skipping merrily merrily
merrily onward soaring above the Fair Grounds rounds appreciating
one of the grand rewards of festival grazing. Or as Mac puts it:
“Check out those giant titties.. Yes!”
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Heard that right. That is correct, comrades. Checking out
the girls’ titties as they wear the skimpiest of outfits, if
that, represents a continuation of Carnival tradition, but in a
more tasteful manner. All sizes, shapes, and colors transport Mac
and the gang to girl-and-titty watching paradise.
“My favorite part of Jazz Fest,” Mac notes in glassy eyed
wonder . “Well, along with the music and food, of course.
Don’t tell Sarah I said that.”
Food Tent Three stops the boys dead in their tracks. What an
awesome aroma enveloping the immediate environs.
Soft Shell Crab Po-Boys, Key Lime Pie and Strawberry
Shortcake, Alligator Stew, Chicken with Tasso and, look, over
there. Mac has spotted a fortuitous opening in food riot ambiance.
“Come on. Follow me,” he issues general orders. “Look.
No line at the Crawfish Monica booth.”
Sure enough. Colonel Mac has landed a big one. A temporary
lull in the battle in front of the usually massive Crawfish Monica line.
“Three smalls,” Mac requests and passes the war booty along
to Tyger and Armor’s. “No way.” “Way.”
They continue by the lame Gospel Tent filled with leisure
clad tourists and whoever else pretends to like that good time
religious noise-nonsense. Then, past the WWL-Ray Ban Festival
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Stage where the big acts play. James Brown and Little Feat
are scheduled later that day. Over to the AT&T Economy Hall Tent
where traditional jazz establishes its niche. Tastes great, less filling.
Then, the boys pass the Travel New Orleans Lagniappe
Tent where Washboard Sam is holding forth, and the Spirit of
Louisiana Stage where Johnny J. and the Hitmen are whacking
the insane public with straight ahead rockabilly madness.
They fly O.J. Simpson airport commercialism style past the
masses of enthusiastic fun-seekers everywhere dancing, clapping,
eating, and passing a good time. Whooo — look out below.
This party is happening every which way and loose in the now
intense heat. “This sure beats Mardi Gras,” Tyger grasps between gasps.
A group here is drinking beer in Romulak-like quantities.
Over there, over there; a fat lady already has bought the farm.
She lies huddled in a meaty heap.
Blankets spread across every unoccupied piece of earth.
Large banners fly. Persons dressed in any imaginable and
borderline legal costume possible party the day away. Or like
Tyger and Armor’s in plain white t-shirts, they forget about
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their troubles, grooving with the infinite moment.
Armor’s flips on his shades. “Cool, man,” he
says. “Is it not time for Kidd Jordan, Al Fielder and the
Improvisational Arts Ensemble at the Jazz Tent?”
As a matter of fact, dear boy, it is.
The terribly terrific trio cuts across the Fair Grounds
infield to the large, cool blue with white trim canopied tent.
This combination of sun and fun seekers has raised the local
temperature to the approximate level of the planet Mercury.
A large throng congregates inside. However, it seems
likely from the blank visage of many of their faces that they
have entered merely to beat the oppressive heat. Unfortunately,
whatever the explanation, there do not seem to be any seats currently available.
“Shit,” Tyger notes as he surveys the scene. “I don’t see
anywhere to sit. I really want to concentrate on the greatest
saxophone player in the universe, Sir Kidd Jordan.”
“Don’t worry,” Mac soothes. “Most of these organisms will
devolve once Kidd gets going.”
Armor’s, quick as a cat despite his large frame, beats a fat
cow lady, her thick thighs pumping loudly, in a game of musical
chairs. “Aw gee,” sympathizes Armor’s from a seated position.
“Were you going to sit here?”
But Armor’s knows his tungsten. That fat bitch like half the
crowd exits as soon as Jordan starts blowing. They are not in it
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They are not in itfor the music.
So it begins. Blah blooh, blooie, blablooie, wonderful
avant tones of the great man who was knighted in France and
slighted, virtually unknown in New Orleans, his native land.
Unrecognized that is by the hoi polloi. A chosen few like
Tyger, Mac, and Armor’s are well aware that true genius has
captured the stage and for 45 minutes will hold them in his
mystical spell. This is contemporary spirit music for the
initiated by virtue of their enthusiasm.
Thank you sir knight. Play on and ignite a fire in our poor
dark souls with your all-illuminating light.
Those in the wanna-know lean ever so slightly forward like
small plants thirsting for a shining gro-lamp or sun. Every
nanosecond of Kidd and his compatriots — don’t forget the
fabulous Al Fielder on skins — grows a million shoots, flowers
the most potent buds, and drives consciousness towards fruition,
if that is ever fully possible.
Wawawawa, blooey blah, blah…Kidd is talking at you and me,
babe. He has attracted an all-star crowd in back of the tent
where the musicians congregate.
There stands the African Cowboy, Earl Turbinton, halting his
hobnobbing momentarily to catch an intricate solo. Over there
the good guys from Astral Project: Steve Masakowski, Johnny
Vidacovich, Jim Singleton, Hector Gallardo, and of course long
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lean Tony Dagradi, fellow sax traveler.
They groove along to the outer stars expanding,
smiling in subtle appreciation before politely applauding.
So do all others who are in secret configuration.
Kidd is at the top of his game. He knows
when it is time to rise and shine. He brings
that battery acid on high octane,
driving through the unknown universe
seeking the most significant calling possible,
and it replies beautifully.
Thank you Kidd, God is listening.
Thank you Kidd, center of the Milky Way.
Partaking you sweet, then sultry,
then slick and tough and far-out truth,
usually hidden, suddenly so fucking sublime.
Waa-waa-waa-ditty, bloop. Bla-bloop. Bla-waaaah…
Kidd raises his soprano saxophone to salute the crowd.
They respond in kind, rising as one massive wave
of rolling thunder acknowledging the master’s greatness.
“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” they are longing for that moment
connecting with the most primal and advanced of humanly impossible sounds.
“Thank you!” “Wahwahwah!” “Thank You Kidd Jordan!”
“You are the greatest babe!” “Yoweee!”
(That is Mac raising his Jazz Tent top.)
Just another mind-blowing, mood enhancing,
consciousness altering forever moment
granted us by the true king of New Orleans,
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a monarch greater than any odd Rex or even Comus.
Highest order of France bestowed him, and now, in this humble
space of time, a rich and finally honored prophet joyously
affirming man’s infinite possibilities.
Take it not as lightly as the fatass Ray-Gun shrubbery who
gave us the generation of greed, and despair. They are propelled
away from the universal magical moment by entropy
rendering them irrelevant.
They feel the cattle-like prod and need to sink to the
lowest level of feces-in-life probable. They dial counter-programming
at the WNOE/Tostitos Stage where some lame pseudo-cajun faux
zydeco band is playing shit they can sort of comprehend.
One redneck mother in a “Just Say to No to Drugs” t- shirt
exits unimpressed, saying “I don’t know what all the fuss
is about. I play better than that. He wasn’t even playing a song.”
Perhaps we came from the primordial shit. Perhaps we are
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going nowhere fast. Perhaps. Perhaps.
But for a magnificent molecular moment stopped in time,
through a wondrous black hole in which all indecision and fear
completely vanish; pure beauty, joy, and hope for all of future
generations remain in its wake.
Yes. Yes we can. Just say yes, baby. Kidd points his crafty
fingers at other members of the group kicking off an awesome
interpretation of a sacred incantation translated for modern ears
to enthrall. Thank you sir. We are your servants in truth forever.
Snap the picture, comrades in art. Kidd and his group
finish their set to a half-filled Jazz Tent, applause, applause
acknowledging a new age with the force of many new suns exploding.
“Wow,” finally Mac can speak. “That was a Jazz Fest moment.”
“Whoo, baby,” Tyger affirms. “What an incredible experience.”
Over to the side of the tent Armor’s has discovered a new
world, in this case a Mr. Milty he presumes, who slipped in
during the performance, likewise standing stuck by awe in place
cascading from the spaceways. They are jawboning.
Over to the other side, a few seekers of ultimate truth aside
a few dotards who are only there to appear to be cool.
“Oh yeah,” Tyger points out one despicable cur of the latter variety.
“There lies Heave Broward. I guess he is looking for a way
to steal our fun again.”
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Heave salivates over one cute blonde following her like a
labrador retrieving. “I wonder what he’s saying,” Tyger asks
rhetorically. Then sarcastically imitating, “You … are … the …
prettiest … girl … here.”
Yep, just another fantastic Jazz Fest moment. Mac and Tyger
return to Congo Square swimming like trout upriver to spawn on
the continuing river of sounds and sights spectacular.
The tall men walk nearby along a concrete path. Boy, are
they tall, walking on stilts surrounded by smaller interplanetary parties.
Mac and Tyger drink their weight in sweet tea and beer.
Mac grabs an Omar’s pie on the way over as Tyger jokes with Omar,
the pie guy himself, in the flesh.
“I hope these profits don’t have to go to the IRS.” Tyger
says as Omar, tres cool, nods his head and laughs. “Not to
mention IRS Inc.,” Tyger adds in a secret joke beyond Omar’s ken.
(Internal Revenue Service agents had bogusly seized Omar’s
pie stock claiming he owed back taxes. Then, the genius Ray-Gun
government agents sold his $1.50 pies on Camp Street outside the
U.S. Courthouse for 20 cents each.)
Congo Square is the usual happening galaxy as Hector
Gallardo and his Songo All Stars sway the crowd with Latin
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percussion brilliance. All sorts of hippy-like chicks in tried-and-
true-tie-dyed outfits dance mechanically maniacally on the
grass while Mac and Tyger stand nearby smoking the same as
removed from the Altoids box. A great time is had by all.
Then, over to Food Tent One where the dangerous duo
partakes of Seafood Au Gratin, Spinach-Artichoke Casserole, and
yum yum sweet potato pone. “Aay-iie!” Mac screams after
finishing a small portion blackened fish. “Aay-iie!” Tyger
concurs after completely downing the greatest Key Lime pie
confection ever concocted.
Food business taken care of tastefully, they wander past
the WWL-Rayban Festival Stage because Mac wants to sample Little
Feat for a few minutes. Not because he is a fan, or anything even
close, but because they are supposed to be one of the top acts of
the day. Part of Mac’s annual Jazz Fest’s manifest destiny
is to walk by the so-called name acts, so he can tell people later how bad
as in bad; horrible, shitty, the worst, they are.
Simply standard part of Jazz Fest procedure.
The area overflows with thousands of Little Feat enthusiasts
attempting to approximate an experience already perfected by such
as Kidd Jordan. Very lame crowd indeed as Little Feat
stink. Next time, maybe, they won’t take off their shoes.
Back to home base, the Jazz Tent. Henry Butler Trio
serenades the audience with a tasteful blend of traditional
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and avant garde jazz mixed with interesting New Orleans R&B
choruses. Butler on the ivories. The blind pianist likewise glistens.
The boys find a nice pair of plastic chairs in the middle of
the tent, settling in for bassist Charlie Hayden’s Quartet West
which follows, playing the same type of music with a harder bebop
edge sans New Orleans allusions. Simply fantastic.
The crowd of true jazz lovers goes Willie Wonka bonkers
when they finish playing. Armor’s finds his way back to the center of the universe.
He joins the group for the last Jazz Tent act of the day, clarinetist
Alvin Batiste leading a final affirmation of jazz brilliance.
Again, a great musical act in which he pays homage to old
New Orleans jazz tradition with a blow-you-away and in-your-face
version of “High Society,” followed by “Ole Miss.” Both versions
have been Batistely updated for contemporary sensibilities to appreciate.
Getting on about 7 p.m. when the Batiste group ends its
performance. Sun setting on a vast plane of music, food,
crafts lovers and their fellow just plain fun seeking friends.
Everyone is in a jovial mood for the festival, as always,
has been a roaring success. It’s as as close to heaven as we shall ever
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come in this life, thereby sufficing tremendously.
As all things must, so too does this wonderful celebration of fun
like a lovely dream pass into historical record. The boys
float away as n a dream from the Fair Grounds,
back on the time-worn path to Mystery Street,
Mac’s awaiting minivan preparing to return them to reality.
Shine and set, then, friends.
That night, fueled by the inspiring karma of the festival’s magical moments,
Mac and his buddies pound out the finest beats imaginable.
They rock the dead souls at the mortuary next door,
rolling in the greatest vibes available until dawn.
A wonderful day has passed in a wonderful way,
yet remains as a beacon of light in the window of recollection
returning as misty-eyed memories again and again.
That is the path to freedom shining brightly brightly
through the space-time night.
It is up to you, comrades of the sacred monumental
moment, never to forget.
The boys of Jazz Fest certainly won’t.
SURVEILLANCE PELICANA
BY
DAN WEISMAN
(The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:
Chapters 1-10: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-full-book-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/.)
Chapters 11-20: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-ii-chapters-11-to-20-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/
Chapters 21-30: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-iii-chapters-21-to-30-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Mac leads Tyger and Armor’s on the official
New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival party tour.
This chapter provides an insider’s look at the popular festival.
Consciousness expands with the generally jolly jaunt
around the festival culminating in a karmically uplifting
concert by saxophonist Kidd Jordan.
CHAPTER 21
“JAZZ FEST”
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Somebody has died. Somebody has been born.
And somebody is very excited today.
That must be Big Mac. Today is the first Sunday of the
Louisiana Jazz and Heritage Festival, commonly known as Jazz Fest.
It is Mac’s — and a lot of other persons who don’t even
know him — favorite event of the year.
Laissez Bon Temp Roules. Let the good times roll, Big Mac,
and party comrades.
Mac arrives at Tyger·s lair about 11 a.m. on Sunday
April 23, 1988 according to filed reports. He wears a purple, red
and orange tie-dyed t-shirt. He has stashed his beatific bongos in the
maroon MacVan, records reveal. On with the big shoe…
“Come on. Let’s go. Got to get there. Time’s a’wasting,”
Jazz Fest Mac blows through the front door with all the furious
force of Hurricane Camille.
“Get ready. Come on,” etc. etc.; as Mac heads like a Patriot
anti-missile missile to intercept the bathroom.
Tyger sits in his usual chair by the wood table in the
center room observing the current explosion. “Guess it’s time to
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go–huh?” he asks as if he didn’t know.
Flush flush, fizz fizz, oh what a joy it is to be somewhat
young, bound for fun. “What you doing? No time to waste, Let’s
roll,” continues Mac’s words flooding over the sea wall.
“Oh. You don’t want me to roll a couple of reefers?” Tyger
asks. “That’s different,” Mac sorts through priorities. “Go
ahead. Two minutes,” adding as he scrounges through the freezer.
Finally, “Where are the archives?” Mac asks in apparent
reference to the collection of LSD Tyger has accumulated through
the years and saves for special occasions.
Is there a more special occasion to the actual real-life
every day inhabitants of the City that Care Forgot and it’s
immediate environs than Jazz Fest? Mac thinks not.
“I got them,” Tyger states. “Right here on the table.” Mac
kerplunks in the visitor’s chair. He snatches the specially
marked film canister, emptying said contents on the terrible table.
Three separate folded tin foil pieces sparkle. Each foil
strip contains within a full compliment of the decade’s most
potent psychedelics, or at least those representatives Tyger has
managed to acquire, squirreling away for purposes of
preservation. No longer.
Tyger rolls the party joints carefully placing them in the
metal tin Altoids box. Mac busies himself examining the various
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tasty treats, choosing a blue blot dot he remembers
from the notso distant past.
“Hey. Isn’t this part of the Donald Ducks we used at last
Jazz Fest?” asks Mac. Tyger looks up from his business and nods
in agreement. “Think so. Why don’t you try one?”
“O.K.” as Mac snips off a corner. “You take this,” he
annunciates, handing the sacred sliver to Tyger, “I’ll have
the rest. O.K.” preparations apparently complete,
the field commander recapitulates.
“Let’s go. Got sun block?” “Already did that.” “Got a hat?
Where’s your hat?” “Uhh, No. I’ll get the M’s cap.”
“A-O.K. Got everything? Altoids box?” “Yup.” “Hat, sun
block, acid. Anything else?” “I think you’ve covered it.”
“Great. We’re off. Got to pick up Armor’s and get to the Fair Grounds.”
Across Uptown in the MacVan, impresario Mac hizzoner, puts a
MacLand cassette in the dash player, up cranks the volume like
a runner working out on stadium stairs, higher higher higher pick
those legs up, listen to this: “Waaaaah … ”
“Like that one?” Mac asks. “This one is pretty good too.
Recorded it last night:
‘It’s all for art. It’s awful art. You think you’re smart.
Surpriiiiise. Frustration. Time zero–was it goood? Potted palms.
Was she right? Did it hurt?’
Wah wah wah. Wahwahwah … “
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The band plays on … endless tape loop
dedicated to the higher consciousness of great art.
“Yeah,” agrees Tyger as the song reaches its final conclusions.
“That does sound good. My fingernail’s are clicking. Who is on it?”
“I did the drum machine,” Mac says, “and bongo tracks.”
“I like it,” Tyger says.
“Mr. Milty’s on mystery sax,” Mac continues. Best song ever.”
Pure sounds guide the blithe spirits over Magazine Street in
the snap of a finger beat to the Coliseum Street resting place of
the Armor’s Tungsten experience. It is a typical New Orleans
shotgun house, flesh colored wood frame, sitting by heavenly
coincidence next to the Third Missionary Baptist Church of the New Age.
Armor’s Armor’s hallelujah, sings the blah blah blah of blah
blah church chorus. “Thank you Lord for Armor’s is thine
neighbor,” intones the tall black preacher man. “We are lucky
souls.” Not. “In Jeeeezus” Maybe.
Mac pulls up, ejecting Tyger on to the small crabgrass front
lawn. Then, the cherubic musical artist switches off the master
controls and follows suit.
“Armor’s always takes fucking forever,” Mac notes. “We have
to get him up and get him going as quickly as possible. Got to
have some Oyster Artichoke Millie right this split second.”
The screen door is unlatched for a change. Armor’s sits at
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the — shall we say — ready inside the middle room.
Mama cat scurries for cover as the boys enter Armor’sville,
a secret universe created sometime before the Big Bang.
And dedicated to God knows what.
“Hey hey hey,” Armor’s voice leads Tyger and Mac past the
100, or so, empty Kentwood natural spring bottled water
containers, past the drafting table, the Jack Kerouac poster and
into the receiving chamber. Although they walk through the
shadow of the valley of Armor’s Tungsten, the boys fear not
where they tread. Silly rabbits.
“Want some espresso?” Armor’s asks. “It will just take a few
minutes.” Yeah, just what Mac wants to hear, right.
“No no no man. We have to get going,” Mac implores. We are
late for fun. Come on. Come on. You’re ready. Let’s go.”
“Oh. Oh,” Armor’s is thrown off his game, therefore
mumbles. “Uhh. Just a second. Let me get something.”
“No no no,” Mac has seen this act a million eons before.
“Let’s go. He who hesitates is lost.”
“Ahh,” Armor’s stumbles from his director’s chair. “Let me
ahh, go,” and walks to the bathroom.
“O.K. Two minutes,” directs Mac. “That’s it and we are out of here.”
Tyger busies himself thumbing through a stack of computer
magazines on a nearby — coffee? — table .. Armor’s has lately
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gotten into personal home computing. As with his many other
interests, he has gone completely gung-ho bonkers
insanely wild about the subject.
Not to say Armor’s comprehensive discourses on the topic are
totally uninteresting or he doesn’t provide wonderful insight.
He is a brilliant fellow, true. However,
He tends to ramble on and on and on.
Sometimes, one just has to say enough is enough already, turn
off the faucet before the waterlogged mind springs a leak.
Tyger settles in for a long haul, but Mac is inspired by
thoughts of fun to come. He continues urging Armor’s — Christian
soldiers? — onward, forward; or at least in the general
direction of the UnFair Grounds.
“Come on. We’re late. We’re late. For a very important
date,” Mac pushes the recalcitrant party with whatever urging
might raise Armor’s out of the bathroom.
“Ahh, ahh. O.K. Coming. I hear you. Got to just do this.
Ahhh,” Armor’s, out of habit, is stalling in the john.
Same old Armor’s Tungsten.
Tyger looks around the room. He spots another of Armor’s
cats playing with a strand of Mardi Gras beads. See, they are
useful for something after all. But ever the detective, also
notices that a little something seems missing.
As Armor’s emerges wearing an old Houston Astros cap and
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enigmatic smile, Tyger innocently inquires.
“Where are the two kittens you got from MacLand.”
“Ahhh, ahh. They are around somewhere playing I imagine,”
Armor’s replies. The topic is dropped like a sad oyster sack.
Mac gathers momentum and jump-starts Armor’s engine as the
terribly terrific trio finally achieve escape velocity. Out, out, and
about brief candles; all systems go, A-O.K. for blast off.
Armor’s finally locks the front door.
Mac loads the kiddies into the MacVan headed for the festival.
The New Orleans Jazz Club started the Jazz and Heritage
Festival in the mid 1960’s as a small affair for jazz purists. It
was held in Congo Square where the slaves were allowed to play
their old world music on Sunday.
Congo Square — later renamed Louis Armstrong Park — was
situated just off Rampart Street. It straddled a quadrilateral
design fronted by the Iberville Projects on one side and
clockwise by St. Louis Cemetery, the Vieux Carre and what used to
be Storyville — the scandalous Red Light District closed by
authorities in 1917 because it was too rough for the conscript
soldiers. Now commercial properties stretched up to and along Canal Street.
Initial festivals were frequented by jazz superstars of
the pre-rock era like cornetist Johnny Wiggs (real name: John
Wigginton Hyman, mechanical drawing instructor at Fortier High
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School) and Dr. Edmund Souchon–guitar playing obstetrician; as
well as the pre-Elvis pre-Beatles galaxy of old-line and now
obscure traditional jazz giants. Said festival evolved into New Orleans’
second major tourist attraction drawing the legions of losers from sites
worldwide to the New Orleans Fair Grounds and venues
all around the Crescent City.
Locals love the festival, too, despite the throngs of
ignoramuses from elsewhere in their face. It is tough to avoid
having fun given the amazing quantities of great food, music, and
— for the lame of heart — crafts, available throughout the two week affair.
Mac guides his portable world along South Jefferson Davis
Avenue, across Canal Street and finally to the Gentilly area
where beckons the traditional Mac gang parking site along Mystery
Street. No mystery to that spot. One must be careful about parking as the city,
true to its rip-off leadership, has amassed an armada of meter maids and tow trucks
ready to do everybody a favor by enforcing beyond imaginable strictness
their money making parking regulation scam.
Who do those corrupt grafting New Orleans politicians that
buy votes, get themselves fraudulently elected, take free trips
on developer ‘s money, believe they are fooling?
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For Jazz Fest anyway, they are fooling with tourists and
locals alike. Tow-trucks are floating like butterflies and
stinging like bees as they surreptitously sneak off with
unsuspecting jazz lovers vehicles, thereby ruining someone’s post
Jazz Fest once-uplifted demeanor.
Mac parks the van carefully measuring off the 20 feet from
the curb’s end in order to comply with the most arbitrarily
rendered, and commonly ticketed, rule.
“We are safe here,” Tyger concludes, “probably,” as Mac
continues pondering. “Although sometimes they give you a ticket
no matter how ‘legally’ you park. I got a ticket the other day
for parking in my driveway. ”
“What do you think?” Mac asks Armor’s for a third opinion.
“Dunno. you never know,” Armor’s sez. “Good enough for me,” Mac pez.
Armor’s has taken a small hit of LSD from the secret
compartment of his mechanical pencil. He slyly rolls the paper
blotter on his tongue before swallowing. “All set,” he says. Blast off.”
The terrible three join the crowd as it gathers streams of
steam along the beaten path in the general unspecific direction
of the Fair Grounds. Trucks tow to the right of them, groups of fellow travelers
gaggle to the left. The smell of sun block and tanning cream
blots out the natural Aroma of honeysuckle and willow root
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or whatever that is, along the way. Mystery Street reveals Esplanade Avenue
by the Whole Earth Food Store and Cafe Degas. Streaming personality
disorders become roaring ocean waves pummeling Fair Grounds shores.
Turning right, the trio follows the river past the high outer fence,
past the street of bus fumes ahem, ahem, and to the side
of the pedestrian gate. Cough, cough, gee whiz, oh what a thrill it is…
Mac applies additional sun screen due to depleting ozone layer
paranoia, probably not a bad idea as they glide, Clydes, not missing a beat.
Then, it is time to pay the piper in order to face the music.
The gang of three fork over the $8 toll, like the tide, rises every time; it takes in ’88
to join the select crowd of approximately many wading through metal turnstiles,
then plying along the wood plank walk-way. Shiver those timbers, m’lovelies.
About 50,000 comfy-bizarrely dressed fest junkies and fellow travelers
will traipse the same path that day. Come along and join them comrades,
as if you had a choice or wanted one. Colors sparkle in the mid-April sun.
After three days, the festival is heating up as is the Southeastern Louisiana weather.
Soaring like pelicanas above and beyond the throngs, the boys
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trek over the second longest stretch run in America’s dirt track
and onto the grassy infield. A perfect day for a perfect day to follow.
Armor’s has been walking very fast unsuccessfully attempting
to keep the masses from bumping him or otherwise blocking his
path. That is an impossible order, so he surrenders and waits for
Mac and Tyger by the first porta-lets — registered trademark? —
signaling a happy exit from work-a-day civilization.
“Hey you guys, Al Belleto is over at the Jazz Tent,” Tyger
reports, pouring over a program Mac has just purchased. “Al
Belleto?” Armor’s asks Tyger who has some knowledge of jazz
history garnered from working briefly at the local fake Jazz Archive.
“Yeah, man. He is Frank Sinatra’s favorite jazz saxophonist.” Tyger roars.
Mac laughs fairly unimpressed. “Yeah well. Let’s not miss
that. First we have to find some nourishment.
Then, we’ll check out Al Bell Etto.”
They fly past galaxies of spinning planets who cover the
universal infield over to Food Tent Two where Mac and Tyger grab
$2 “small” portions of Fried Potato Po-Boys, a weird sandwich of
french fries on french bread covered with thick brown gravy.
“Wow!” Mac shouts as he takes the first bite.
“That tastes great. You try.”
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He hands the messy sandwich to Armor’s who eyes it warily
then takes a mini-bite. “Hey, sort of OK. Maybe, I’ll get one later.”
Of course, he won’t. With so many food booths
with so many amazingly succulent dishes, each Jazz Fest
touring group can only sample a few items at any given appearance.
They are required by Jazz Fest law to buy small portions so
more items can be tried. That is the most efficient method to get
a full taste of the festival.
(Exceptions, however, are always permissible depending on
circumstances. For example, barbecued chicken from the Second
True Love Baptist Church ladies a few booths down at Food Tent
Two must be consumed in portions as large as possible due to
mind-blowing properties.)
Munching while they are crunching atop the trammeled earth,
Mac leads the official Jazz Fest appreciation society tour past
10,000 identically different fun junky planets across the
spaceways to the Al Belleto Experience, or whatever that is, at
the Uncle Ben’s Rice (corporate logo) Jazz Tent.
Well fest fans, Al Belleto’s easy brand of cool jazz is so laid back
he is not even close to breaking a sweat. A tenor
saxophone draped from his shoulder strap, Belleto breath snaps
his fingers just this side of narcosis as the group takes off,
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where? Why? And how? The Jazz Tent fills up as the noon-time sun
scorches the brown tan earth. Mac and Tyger gaze on, grandly unimpressed.
“This cat is beyond lame,” Tyger comments after sampling a near dead version of
“The World is Waiting for a Sunrise,” adding, “If he were any lamer, he could collect
legitimate insurance benefits.” Therefore, the gang must mosey on along, little doggies.
“We have to get over to Congo Square and check it out,”Mac announces
as Armor’s, off course, lingers. “You coming,” Mac adds.
“Yeah, just trying to figure out where that dude was coming from,”
Armor’s replies. “Guess from nowhere,” Mac says.
“What do you expect from Frank Sinatra’s favorite sax player,” Tyger notes.
“The boss probably too busy screwing Nancy Ray-Gun to notice
how lame this guy is. Good background music, maybe. Then, again…”
Congo Square is just past the porta-lets and omnipresent can kids.
(These are little black kids officially sanctioned to knock over anybody
or anything in their path as they retrieve discarded aluminum cans
for future recycling. It is sort of a scorched earth first environmental policy.)
The trendy African-American trading area and spiritually uplifting stage
used to be called Koindu Square when the festival was smaller
and closer to the real roots of jazz and Louisiana living.
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That was way back when none of the stages were afflicted with corporate logos.
Armor’s and Mac ignore the obvious while immersing
themselves in the higher karma of the Kambuka Collective. Tyger
must make a stand for what is right in this the place of ultimate truth.
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REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
The Kambuka Collective finishes up with a shake, rattle, and
roll. Armor’s tosses a pebble at Roots who doesn’t pay attention.
“I know what you mean,” Armor’s notes. “He is stupid and ugly too. Never liked him.”
They walk by the rooted Badburns as Mac tries to be polite:
“Hey Roots. How’s it hanging?” Roots barely acknowledges the
greeting. What a rude motherfucker.
Mac tour paisley paces traces skipping merrily merrily
merrily onward soaring above the Fair Grounds rounds appreciating
one of the grand rewards of festival grazing. Or as Mac puts it:
“Check out those giant titties.. Yes!”
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Heard that right. That is correct, comrades. Checking out
the girls’ titties as they wear the skimpiest of outfits, if
that, represents a continuation of Carnival tradition, but in a
more tasteful manner. All sizes, shapes, and colors transport Mac
and the gang to girl-and-titty watching paradise.
“My favorite part of Jazz Fest,” Mac notes in glassy eyed
wonder . “Well, along with the music and food, of course.
Don’t tell Sarah I said that.”
Food Tent Three stops the boys dead in their tracks. What an
awesome aroma enveloping the immediate environs.
Soft Shell Crab Po-Boys, Key Lime Pie and Strawberry
Shortcake, Alligator Stew, Chicken with Tasso and, look, over
there. Mac has spotted a fortuitous opening in food riot ambiance.
“Come on. Follow me,” he issues general orders. “Look.
No line at the Crawfish Monica booth.”
Sure enough. Colonel Mac has landed a big one. A temporary
lull in the battle in front of the usually massive Crawfish Monica line.
“Three smalls,” Mac requests and passes the war booty along
to Tyger and Armor’s. “No way.” “Way.”
They continue by the lame Gospel Tent filled with leisure
clad tourists and whoever else pretends to like that good time
religious noise-nonsense. Then, past the WWL-Ray Ban Festival
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Stage where the big acts play. James Brown and Little Feat
are scheduled later that day. Over to the AT&T Economy Hall Tent
where traditional jazz establishes its niche. Tastes great, less filling.
Then, the boys pass the Travel New Orleans Lagniappe
Tent where Washboard Sam is holding forth, and the Spirit of
Louisiana Stage where Johnny J. and the Hitmen are whacking
the insane public with straight ahead rockabilly madness.
They fly O.J. Simpson airport commercialism style past the
masses of enthusiastic fun-seekers everywhere dancing, clapping,
eating, and passing a good time. Whooo — look out below.
This party is happening every which way and loose in the now
intense heat. “This sure beats Mardi Gras,” Tyger grasps between gasps.
A group here is drinking beer in Romulak-like quantities.
Over there, over there; a fat lady already has bought the farm.
She lies huddled in a meaty heap.
Blankets spread across every unoccupied piece of earth.
Large banners fly. Persons dressed in any imaginable and
borderline legal costume possible party the day away. Or like
Tyger and Armor’s in plain white t-shirts, they forget about
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their troubles, grooving with the infinite moment.
Armor’s flips on his shades. “Cool, man,” he
says. “Is it not time for Kidd Jordan, Al Fielder and the
Improvisational Arts Ensemble at the Jazz Tent?”
As a matter of fact, dear boy, it is.
The terribly terrific trio cuts across the Fair Grounds
infield to the large, cool blue with white trim canopied tent.
This combination of sun and fun seekers has raised the local
temperature to the approximate level of the planet Mercury.
A large throng congregates inside. However, it seems
likely from the blank visage of many of their faces that they
have entered merely to beat the oppressive heat. Unfortunately,
whatever the explanation, there do not seem to be any seats currently available.
“Shit,” Tyger notes as he surveys the scene. “I don’t see
anywhere to sit. I really want to concentrate on the greatest
saxophone player in the universe, Sir Kidd Jordan.”
“Don’t worry,” Mac soothes. “Most of these organisms will
devolve once Kidd gets going.”
Armor’s, quick as a cat despite his large frame, beats a fat
cow lady, her thick thighs pumping loudly, in a game of musical
chairs. “Aw gee,” sympathizes Armor’s from a seated position.
“Were you going to sit here?”
But Armor’s knows his tungsten. That fat bitch like half the
crowd exits as soon as Jordan starts blowing. They are not in it
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They are not in itfor the music.
So it begins. Blah blooh, blooie, blablooie, wonderful
avant tones of the great man who was knighted in France and
slighted, virtually unknown in New Orleans, his native land.
Unrecognized that is by the hoi polloi. A chosen few like
Tyger, Mac, and Armor’s are well aware that true genius has
captured the stage and for 45 minutes will hold them in his
mystical spell. This is contemporary spirit music for the
initiated by virtue of their enthusiasm.
Thank you sir knight. Play on and ignite a fire in our poor
dark souls with your all-illuminating light.
Those in the wanna-know lean ever so slightly forward like
small plants thirsting for a shining gro-lamp or sun. Every
nanosecond of Kidd and his compatriots — don’t forget the
fabulous Al Fielder on skins — grows a million shoots, flowers
the most potent buds, and drives consciousness towards fruition,
if that is ever fully possible.
Wawawawa, blooey blah, blah…Kidd is talking at you and me,
babe. He has attracted an all-star crowd in back of the tent
where the musicians congregate.
There stands the African Cowboy, Earl Turbinton, halting his
hobnobbing momentarily to catch an intricate solo. Over there
the good guys from Astral Project: Steve Masakowski, Johnny
Vidacovich, Jim Singleton, Hector Gallardo, and of course long
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lean Tony Dagradi, fellow sax traveler.
They groove along to the outer stars expanding,
smiling in subtle appreciation before politely applauding.
So do all others who are in secret configuration.
Kidd is at the top of his game. He knows
when it is time to rise and shine. He brings
that battery acid on high octane,
driving through the unknown universe
seeking the most significant calling possible,
and it replies beautifully.
Thank you Kidd, God is listening.
Thank you Kidd, center of the Milky Way.
Partaking you sweet, then sultry,
then slick and tough and far-out truth,
usually hidden, suddenly so fucking sublime.
Waa-waa-waa-ditty, bloop. Bla-bloop. Bla-waaaah…
Kidd raises his soprano saxophone to salute the crowd.
They respond in kind, rising as one massive wave
of rolling thunder acknowledging the master’s greatness.
“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” they are longing for that moment
connecting with the most primal and advanced of humanly impossible sounds.
“Thank you!” “Wahwahwah!” “Thank You Kidd Jordan!”
“You are the greatest babe!” “Yoweee!”
(That is Mac raising his Jazz Tent top.)
Just another mind-blowing, mood enhancing,
consciousness altering forever moment
granted us by the true king of New Orleans,
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a monarch greater than any odd Rex or even Comus.
Highest order of France bestowed him, and now, in this humble
space of time, a rich and finally honored prophet joyously
affirming man’s infinite possibilities.
Take it not as lightly as the fatass Ray-Gun shrubbery who
gave us the generation of greed, and despair. They are propelled
away from the universal magical moment by entropy
rendering them irrelevant.
They feel the cattle-like prod and need to sink to the
lowest level of feces-in-life probable. They dial counter-programming
at the WNOE/Tostitos Stage where some lame pseudo-cajun faux
zydeco band is playing shit they can sort of comprehend.
One redneck mother in a “Just Say to No to Drugs” t- shirt
exits unimpressed, saying “I don’t know what all the fuss
is about. I play better than that. He wasn’t even playing a song.”
Perhaps we came from the primordial shit. Perhaps we are
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going nowhere fast. Perhaps. Perhaps.
But for a magnificent molecular moment stopped in time,
through a wondrous black hole in which all indecision and fear
completely vanish; pure beauty, joy, and hope for all of future
generations remain in its wake.
Yes. Yes we can. Just say yes, baby. Kidd points his crafty
fingers at other members of the group kicking off an awesome
interpretation of a sacred incantation translated for modern ears
to enthrall. Thank you sir. We are your servants in truth forever.
Snap the picture, comrades in art. Kidd and his group
finish their set to a half-filled Jazz Tent, applause, applause
acknowledging a new age with the force of many new suns exploding.
“Wow,” finally Mac can speak. “That was a Jazz Fest moment.”
“Whoo, baby,” Tyger affirms. “What an incredible experience.”
Over to the side of the tent Armor’s has discovered a new
world, in this case a Mr. Milty he presumes, who slipped in
during the performance, likewise standing stuck by awe in place
cascading from the spaceways. They are jawboning.
Over to the other side, a few seekers of ultimate truth aside
a few dotards who are only there to appear to be cool.
“Oh yeah,” Tyger points out one despicable cur of the latter variety.
“There lies Heave Broward. I guess he is looking for a way
to steal our fun again.”
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Heave salivates over one cute blonde following her like a
labrador retrieving. “I wonder what he’s saying,” Tyger asks
rhetorically. Then sarcastically imitating, “You … are … the …
prettiest … girl … here.”
Yep, just another fantastic Jazz Fest moment. Mac and Tyger
return to Congo Square swimming like trout upriver to spawn on
the continuing river of sounds and sights spectacular.
The tall men walk nearby along a concrete path. Boy, are
they tall, walking on stilts surrounded by smaller interplanetary parties.
Mac and Tyger drink their weight in sweet tea and beer.
Mac grabs an Omar’s pie on the way over as Tyger jokes with Omar,
the pie guy himself, in the flesh.
“I hope these profits don’t have to go to the IRS.” Tyger
says as Omar, tres cool, nods his head and laughs. “Not to
mention IRS Inc.,” Tyger adds in a secret joke beyond Omar’s ken.
(Internal Revenue Service agents had bogusly seized Omar’s
pie stock claiming he owed back taxes. Then, the genius Ray-Gun
government agents sold his $1.50 pies on Camp Street outside the
U.S. Courthouse for 20 cents each.)
Congo Square is the usual happening galaxy as Hector
Gallardo and his Songo All Stars sway the crowd with Latin
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percussion brilliance. All sorts of hippy-like chicks in tried-and-
true-tie-dyed outfits dance mechanically maniacally on the
grass while Mac and Tyger stand nearby smoking the same as
removed from the Altoids box. A great time is had by all.
Then, over to Food Tent One where the dangerous duo
partakes of Seafood Au Gratin, Spinach-Artichoke Casserole, and
yum yum sweet potato pone. “Aay-iie!” Mac screams after
finishing a small portion blackened fish. “Aay-iie!” Tyger
concurs after completely downing the greatest Key Lime pie
confection ever concocted.
Food business taken care of tastefully, they wander past
the WWL-Rayban Festival Stage because Mac wants to sample Little
Feat for a few minutes. Not because he is a fan, or anything even
close, but because they are supposed to be one of the top acts of
the day. Part of Mac’s annual Jazz Fest’s manifest destiny
is to walk by the so-called name acts, so he can tell people later how bad
as in bad; horrible, shitty, the worst, they are.
Simply standard part of Jazz Fest procedure.
The area overflows with thousands of Little Feat enthusiasts
attempting to approximate an experience already perfected by such
as Kidd Jordan. Very lame crowd indeed as Little Feat
stink. Next time, maybe, they won’t take off their shoes.
Back to home base, the Jazz Tent. Henry Butler Trio
serenades the audience with a tasteful blend of traditional
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and avant garde jazz mixed with interesting New Orleans R&B
choruses. Butler on the ivories. The blind pianist likewise glistens.
The boys find a nice pair of plastic chairs in the middle of
the tent, settling in for bassist Charlie Hayden’s Quartet West
which follows, playing the same type of music with a harder bebop
edge sans New Orleans allusions. Simply fantastic.
The crowd of true jazz lovers goes Willie Wonka bonkers
when they finish playing. Armor’s finds his way back to the center of the universe.
He joins the group for the last Jazz Tent act of the day, clarinetist
Alvin Batiste leading a final affirmation of jazz brilliance.
Again, a great musical act in which he pays homage to old
New Orleans jazz tradition with a blow-you-away and in-your-face
version of “High Society,” followed by “Ole Miss.” Both versions
have been Batistely updated for contemporary sensibilities to appreciate.
Getting on about 7 p.m. when the Batiste group ends its
performance. Sun setting on a vast plane of music, food,
crafts lovers and their fellow just plain fun seeking friends.
Everyone is in a jovial mood for the festival, as always,
has been a roaring success. It’s as as close to heaven as we shall ever
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come in this life, thereby sufficing tremendously.
As all things must, so too does this wonderful celebration of fun
like a lovely dream pass into historical record. The boys
float away as n a dream from the Fair Grounds,
back on the time-worn path to Mystery Street,
Mac’s awaiting minivan preparing to return them to reality.
Shine and set, then, friends.
That night, fueled by the inspiring karma of the festival’s magical moments,
Mac and his buddies pound out the finest beats imaginable.
They rock the dead souls at the mortuary next door,
rolling in the greatest vibes available until dawn.
A wonderful day has passed in a wonderful way,
yet remains as a beacon of light in the window of recollection
returning as misty-eyed memories again and again.
That is the path to freedom shining brightly brightly
through the space-time night.
It is up to you, comrades of the sacred monumental
moment, never to forget.
The boys of Jazz Fest certainly won’t.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Unfortunately, Tyger is broke and can’t attend the second Jazz Fest weekend.
He makes the best of it with karmic daydreams at Audubon Park’s lake.
Following this interlude, Tyger is sent on the wrong assignment by Jack LaFleur,
Dorothy’s dipsy husband. Then, Tyger sets up on a case in Gretna and
takes a memorable ferry ride across the river.
Finally, Armor’s pitches in and returns Tyger to the surveillance scene.
The investigator reviews and logs the tape of strange Subject activity.
CHAPTER 22
“IN THE RIGHT PLACE, MUST HAVE BEEN THE WRONG TIME”
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Darn. Back to the same old lame old reality selection. That
is the way it going going goes, apologies to baseball announcers everywhere.
Another day passes and another in alarmingly swift fashion.
Therefore, comrades, put on and take off your easter bonnets.
That sucker is solid gold gone.
Second weekend of Jazz Fest is the same great fun-fess.
However, Tyger can not participate. He still has not straightened out
his finances, probably never will. He has been working with fair
to good frequency, true; but was so far behind in
earthly expenses he can barely afford to touch the financial ground.
This is an unacceptable Jazz Fest recusal to the big Mac
attack, but not much a poor boy can do about a world
uninspired. Mac rounds up another batch of suspects doing his
thing during the second weekend almost same as the first.
A Jazz Fest exile sits at home watching Cubs and
Braves games as consolation prizes. Actually, the stay at home
lofestyle is not half bad. Uptown seems devoid of personality
disorders, thereby making living easier.
Tyger busies himself after baseball viewing by going to
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places usually prohibited by weekend laws. P.J’s on Maple Street
apparently has been evacuated. He sits in front drinking coffee,
watching the stray vehicle or two mistakenly rolling around Uptown.
An evidential pleasant diversion swears terrific testimony.
Strolling along Maple Street likewise becomes a positive
experience this late dog day afternoon. No assholes being walked
by brain dead pets. No kids. No noise. A peaceful vacuum fills spring void.
Finally, the ultimate of amazing occurrences. Tyger goes
shopping, shopping until he is dropping which does not take long.
A jaunt to Langenstein’s to make overpriced groceries. A joust
with the windows Allons-y upper Magazine Street.
Rather predictable results. Like at Lake Forest Mall, try as
Tyger might to shop, there seems to be nothing material he wants.
Tyger promises himself a special low-priced purchase to
take the edge off of missing Jazz Fest. No sale. Cha-ching not.
Nor ba-da-bing, babies. Nada nada nada.
Everything displayed in the bookstore, antique store, art
gallery, knick-knack store, hobby shop, is the same old made in
America cheesy junk product. What else would one expect from the
Age of Ray-Gun crap factory?
Where are some well made Japanese goods when one wants them?
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Tyger laughs when he thinks of that. Take that, trade
deficit. No making it wider, this holiday from holiday non Jazz
Fest personal celebration.
Tyger surveys the scene natural; blue skies, no crows,
beautiful lake at Audubon Park by the botanical garden, just off
the golf course ripe for the solitary dreamer. “Fore!” Tyger
yells as he flips rocks into dazzling aquamarine waters.
Rippling circles widen like the universe expanding after a
deity’s intervention. Tyger is in charge here and now. Don’t
the sitting ducks on the pond know it. They quack crackle hop to
the far side of the moon.
Tyger represents a benevolent presence this quiet dog day
afternoon. He lays back laid back while sitting at a picnic table
by the park gazebo, scene of the 1884 Cotton Exposition, now a
sightseeing shore. It is a great day to have a great day.
On to Kinderhook, O.K.
Amazing colors are like space-time prisms relatively astral
projecting to another galaxy resplendent where they have yet to
hear of Star Dreck.
So close and yet so far. A tugboat wails along the river.
Birds squeak nearby in the oak trees accompanied by squirrels
scurrying for higher cover. Crooked men float above the nearby
neutral ground in neutral moods.
Tyger’s endless tape loop wraps around the world at large.
Comrades of the sacred moment, Tyger is a collection of molecules
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splitting and reforming each moment with force exploded.
The detective might seem like a walking neutron bomb to the
likes of Dill Pickle and the myriad other insurance frauds.
He resembles force at rest at this particular juncture
in the never-ending story.
Thusly, Tyger continues his special mind’s eye surveillance of
poor lost thoughts sunk in a brain not as nice as Audubon Park to
know. Grant him a moment of introspection before he resumes the
natural progression of existential information.
A dreamer dreams beyond the ever-more. It goes, sings Patti
Smith at CBGB’s-OMFUG, like this:
Comrades have washed upon these unkempt shores only to be
consumed completely.
Here lies land’s end where one can fall off
or be saved, depending
on random intervention by fate, undertow,
whatever force acknowledged.
Hail to the valiant comrades who have suffered and lost,
never suffered, never lost;
dastardly piggies, great thinkers through time.
All the same, all dissolving
into circles on the lake,
covered by time.
Hidden by the same blanket of darkness;
illuminated by a most beautiful sunset,
or not,
all alone at empty picnic tables.
Here comes the untergang, the plague, the cessation of being,
a Caesarian section.
It’s all the same.
Snap your fingers, snap crackle pop your
cereal; leave the surveillance of nothingness
to experts.
Leave it to those who expect, deliver,
and receive nothing.
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Drop two dissimilar rocks into the lake,
smile as they dissolve into nothingness.
We are bound even in the most bountiful of lands
by such a nothingness.
Cry wolf. Cry enough.
Cry nothing.
Good grief. Ruminations of a foolish inmate in this
coming hothouse of universal disorder. Tyger tyres of his
grid-locked diversion. He is a foolish sack of dreams whiling away
the future with hopes unhinged.
Therefore, Tyger person leaves the park sleep-walking
while theoretically awake, passing this way for a sacred
monumental moment, then dissolving into a hallowed differential
of space-time.
Take another hit, baby, of sweet air filled with blunt reefer.
Tyger huffs, he puffs, and blows the joint down. No one is
available to question his absolute authority.
Feel better? Time has stopped. Tyger feels small, then tall,
then small again and ever so silly. Groovy white rabbit.
Good shit like this makes a person feel as good as President
Ray-Gun when one of his buddies knocks over a couple of million
saving and loans institutions. (Dynamite stuff, by the way obtained
from Ray-Gun’s personal psychic connection.
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Bonzo’s buddy must get high constantly to act
the way he does screwing the nation if he actually wields
power, highly theoretical at this point — while Nancy screws
the real boss, Sinatra, according to tabloid and memoir accounts.
Later Iran-Contra testimony definitively shows Ray-Gun
had no control over any governmental function not dictated
by sphincter muscle. He seems convincing, claiming to
remember nothing about his presidency. He never would have left
Hollywood if he were that good an actor.)
What does it matter? The greedy era of Ray-Gun and his
buddies is best left like the terror of the Khmer Rouge for
history to judge. They form equal and opposite reactions of the same equation.
Therefore, in his best dialectical rationale, Tyger flips
the album to something more amenable. He falls captive to that
beautiful Spanish dancer, fawn brown eyes, slender buttocks,
light dress flowing in waves down to the brown ground.
She glides like a dinky dark moth becoming madame butterfly
tapping at Tygertown’s right temple. Then naked, just say yes
baby! Poosh, implosion, gone. Tyger’s dream disintigrates
like the El Avion plane of future terrorist targets disappearing
from a radar screen.
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Strange voice leaps on the picnic table like a dispossessed bunny
rabbit-sized squirrel, Professor Irwin Corey style mocking
startled subject, Tyger Williams. “Follow me, m’kinder.
Follow me home,” it cries.
Whoa poppa. Tyger slaps himself with the awful truth
no beautiful dancer in sight, just a poor boy whose
limited attention span is wandering and wondering.
Tyger chills as Francois Truffuat might, magically turning
day to night. Mere trifle for a “genius” mind.
A higher force turns night back to day. So forth and so
on until the working week begins again in earnest.
A few days later, Tyger finds himself on the road to the LSU
Dentistry School at 1100 Florida Boulevard. Sorry comrades, not
for a much needed dental check-up, but on yet another
silly surveillance assignment.
This time Tyger is supposed to sit in the large main waiting
area and wait for the subject, Pearly Mae Spencer,
African-American, 46 years old, married, four children, 5’2″, 230 pounds.
Stop. She should not be too hard to pick up, so to speak,
because that is one large Marge of a — Jerry Lewis voice —
laid-eeeeee…
Here are the grim details of the investigation.
Tyger sets up the black box system, recently remanded back
into custody, in his vehicle at the outside parking lot with
close-up lens zoomed on the large building’s front door and
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immediate asphalt vicinity. This should provide the proper
picture of Mrs. Spencer as she buffalo soldiers into the phacility.
The where is the beef Ms. Spencer is reported to be
suffering the pain and agony of a bad knee injured in a terrible
tumble outside a neighborhood grocery store.
Maybe it is true. Sure. Then again, who knows? Tyger is
being paid to discover, Paul Harvey voice, the rest of the story .
Tyger Tyger burning bright takes a still camera
which he slides under his plastic seat. He pretends to be
engrossed in the latest lying issue of the Slimes-Picayune.
Now, there is a good joke.
Looky, looky gumshoedrop, the Slimes mongers have the
wrong date on the top of the front page. No, guys, ’tis not
May 5, 1899. It is May 5, 1988. Get a clue. You would think they
could at least get the century right.
Of course, the next day they will run a retraction buried in
the metro section beneath the obituaries. Class act, these
deadheads.
Hurry up and wait. Hurry up and wait. Tick tick tock tock.
Tyger lingers past the 1 p.m. appointment Ms. Spencer
allegedly has at the dentist’s building.
Dorothy has taken the day off to conduct personal business.
The location was passed down the line to Tyger by her husband,
Jack LeFleur, who is home alone. How could anything go wrong, ugh.
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Hmmm. More tick, more tock, not; nothing, neither way Laertes breath.
Phat lady hasn’t sung this soap opera over. Maybe someone screwed up
the surveillance location. Could it be …
“Ahh, yeah dude. I”m the middle-man today. Dorothy had to go
off with her mother to do some baby stuff shopping. What’s the
good word.”
“Well Jack,” Tyger news flashes, “The subject is supposed to
be at a 1 p.m. orthopedic surgeon”s office. But I happen to be
waiting for the subject at the LSU Dentistry Building. What is
wrong with this picture?”
“Ahhh, wait a second dude. Let me look up something,” Jack
says as da voice disappears from their pay umbilical chord. It
is 2 p.m., time for the soap opera “General Hospital,”
not this tired waste of time.
Finally, Jack returns to the line, hooking a big one.
“Ahhh, dude. Dude. Know what. Thought it was the
orthodontist. l’m such an idiot sometimes.
“What do you know,” Tyger says. “LSU Medical Center at 1 p.m. for the
Orthopedic surgeon. Not LSU Dentistry Center. It’s right here in
black and white.”
“Aw man,” Jack, flat as a hat, continues.
“Medical Center is all the way Downtown.”
“I know.”
“Sorry, my man. You can see how I mixed it up.”
“Right.”
“You don’t think she is still down there? Do you, dude? Do you?”
“Not in this lifetime.”
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“Damn. Dotty is going to be all over me like red beans on rice.”
“Right.”
“I guess we better call it a day.”
“Guess so. I’ll check in with Dorothy later.”
“Damn.” (Dumb.)
End of Assignment.
Next up, the following Monday bright and early, Waldo B.
Utley Gretna insurance scam scum lifestyle. He has a bad back
allegedly resulting from a spill off a motorcycle. But he was
wearing a helmet, so there. Safety first and all that jazz.
Tyger drives by the Utley pad about 8 a.m. checking it
out for camera angles. It is a small blue with yellow trim house
in a lower middle class area just southwest of the Gretna Ferry.
Looks like the same old same old.
In this case, Tyger has been instructed to leave the system
running while keeping a sharp eye on it, and the Utley abode, for
about an hour. That way he can assume an active follow by car
maneuver should the subject leave for,
(Thanks, Maynard G. Krebs brain.)
heaven forfend — WORK! WORK!.
The presumption will be Utley is unemployed if he has not
moved by about 9:15 a.m. or 9:30 a.m. at the latest.
Then, Tyger is to to leave the area, retrieving the system
after five, or so, hours. Dorothy wants him to review the tape
before submitting it, and his report, the following day.
Like the usual case of flu, therefore, Tyger flutters in the
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neighborhood’s lungs. He waits for a while at a nearby corner bus
stop. Hey, one never knows who might pass by the Jefferson Parish
psychic swamp this fresh spring day.
Maybe Ann Margaret, Princess Margaret, or Jane Snowden an
obscure and smashing British actress who played the ingenue in an
equally obscure movie “French Lesson” and for whom Tyger has a
passionate crush will stop, notice the mysterious stranger,
and give him a lift. (Yeah, right. Dream on. Get a life. Etc.)
A couple of busses pass. Drivers open doors. Tyger
politely declines their indifferent invites. Diverse drivers depart
the scene looking perplexed.
Seeking to avoid further suspicion, Tyger wanders
about the neighborhood for a while enjoying the healthful
benefits of physical exercise. Surveillance continues with
negative subject activity.
Tyger looks inside his mother the car to confirm all
systems are operating effectively. That is a big a-go-go,
mission control. Investigative capsule blasts off like the
Space Shuttle Discovery. He wishes himself a hardy bon voyage,
and a fat g’day to Mr. Utley.
Irony is but a literary affectation, so therefore shall we
say coincidentally, Tyger decides to take public transportation,
returning Uptown to home base. He wanders in wonder past empty fields
littered with garbage and who knows what faded memories, crossing
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railroad tracks on Gretna’s always less than fashionable
lower than sea level east side.
Quick jaunt over to the Gretna Ferry, running on a
non-specific schedule across the Mississippi River below the
crescent to Jackson Avenue in the emerald city.
No ferry in sight, not even close.
Nothing in New Orleans ever runs efficiently. That is part
of the charm of being the only resident Third World Banana
Republic of the United States.
(Rebublic? Not when Edwin Edwards was governor.)
Deserted ferry terminal absolutely reeks of piss and
human excrement. Cochon. Yet, nary a pig in sight.
Tyger returns outside, sits on the grassy knoll, waiting
10 minutes, 20 minutes, 30 minutes, 40 minutes…
Geez, what is the story already?
A thin reed of a black man, around 50, 60, or 70 years old,
dealer’s choice, take youse pick, stops by.
s”Yeah. They said there wasn’t no boat today.”
“What?” Tyger asks fairly pissed off. “The ferry always runs.
What do you mean not running today?”
“That’s what the. man said,” the ancient — mariner? —
replies. “He said river too high. Ain’t no running.” Ohhh-key.
“Thanks for the upfake,” Tyger replies.
A skeptical soul by design, as well as recent potty training, and
having no alternative, Tyger hangs around another 15 minutes.
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Then, a loud horn blow, and sure enough, hear that ferry
coming, coming around the riverbend, turning into view,
backing into the dock. That old guy was just like the dirty terminal inside,
full of piss and no vinegar. What else is new, que sera? Trust but
verify, possibly the only reasonable saying ever uttered by Ray-Gun.
Uniformed ferry worker ropes the boat dockside.
Snatches back the long steel chain preventing potential
passengers from jumping in the river and being swept away.
He accomplishes that task with studied nonchalance.
Hasn’t lost a passenger yet. At least that he knows of.
Ah, hubris, always a first time.
Vehicles on board roll off the deck on to the
wooden planks leading to West Bank River Road wrapping like
a water moccasin around the protection levee.
They are rolling rolling rolling rawhide.
Look out below.
A few dirty dozen passengers, mainly African-Americans
although a white college student-aged bicyclist counts among
their number, amble off as if they have just completed a scenic
cruise through the Caribbean. How sweet, cue the Love Boat theme.
All aboard who are going to be bored once outgoing traffic
dissipates. Again, same verse just like the first,
the orange jump suit crowd of blase’ ferry employees wave
along vehicles and their river crossing slaves Aye aye sirs.
This nondemoninational procession of Ford, Chevy Blazer,
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Toyota Camry, indeterminate makes and models of decrepit wrecks
still salvageable, proceed en masse until the ferry has been
circled by a veritable bonanza of wagons, car, and vans.
Banzai, y’all.
Tyger embarks along with three black women who have
magically materialized despite the ancient one’s warning. In
other words, the savvy ferry crowd have assumed their rightful
place in historical perspective.
No need to reach into those shallow pockets either, comrades
in water transportation. The ferry is one of the few items in New
Orleans that is free. At least at that point in time.
A free ride takes the edge off of hard wooden benches on
which these earthbound birds perch. Brian Ferry swings back
to conform to the river currents, darting across thick brown
soupy sales waters.
A grand view of the greater New Orleans Metropolitan Area in
the bright distance sticks in place like a glossy postcard image
shimmering in the mid-morning sun. White skyline holds a
pretty picture Kodak moment contrasting favorably with the
slow as a tortoise barge traffic and more upscale riverboats
floating on the Big Muddy.
Sweet river air, too, breezily blows past a reflective
Tyger. Life at such a moment becomes a calm collection of
collective imagery.
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Tyger loses himself in momentary contemplation. N’awlins as
concrete inanimate object of affectionate smiles, touching
an observer like a lover longing for small pleasures. The place
might be on to something if they could just get rid of those darn people.
The women of the ferry’s far dark corner are yap yak yatting
away far too loudly, mitigating Tyger’s blissful meditation.
Ah well, what ya gonna do? He tries to lift and
separate their idle chatter from delightful observation
like a bra off a pornographic image.
Same tyred story repeats along the river’s East Bank.
Vehicles depart followed by a few stragglers ejected into the
urban blight bordering on Jackson Avenue and Tchopitoulas Street.
A recently completed concrete sea wall lines the street
towards Uptown thereby blocking the once beautiful view of the
docks and river environment. They think of everything in this
half-baked excuse for a City That Care Forgot. No stopping,
shall we say, progress.
(Funny thing is the wall seems useless for actual protection
from flooding. It floods just the same anyway. A more likely
explanation for its construction is that somebody lined their
pockets. Welcome to politics as unfortunately usual in the Pig Sleazy.)
Tyger gets along little doggy walking the ever unpleasant
length of Jackson Avenue to Magazine Street where a bus will pass
along eventually. He steps lively over the endless accumulation
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of dog shit further blighting the sort of sidewalk.
The wandering detective glides by that ever radioactively retroactive
wasteland of broken glass and discarded rubble by the projects
that makes this part of the city look more like war-torn Beirut or the
moon than a quaint local tourist attraction. Just as well for any
tourists here would definitely be shot and mugged,
and we are not talking travel photography.
Tyger feels safety in daylight, walking over to the
scenic “Checks Cashed” and “Hard Liquor” corner of Magazine
Street hopping on a waiting bus. What do you know, convenience
for a change. He hands the bus driver 60 cents in return for safe passage.
Usual collection of bus riders, a gay mixture of old men
and women with a few youngsters thrown in for good measure. It is
a trip in another way too. Tyger is on the giving rather than
receiving end of the RTA black fume spewing society.
Finally, Tyger has returned to his lair . It is about noon so
he lights up a big one, settles back at the home television
fires, relaxes, observing the passing soap opera.
Aw shit on it. They recycled that damn amnesia plot for
the billionth time. Yeah right, amnesia is a very
common occurrence in modern day society.
Soapsuds who are impersonating writers of those shows should
be taken out in the countryside Khmer Rouge Sendero Luminoso
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fashion and, shall we say, re-educated. Tyger passes the time by
watching the show anyway. It is in his anti-social contract.
That is to say watches between lousy stinking
stupid commercials for which Tyger must always mute the sound.
Who do they think they are fooling anyway?
Wouldn’t have to advertise if the products were any good.
Even a moron like Roots Badburns must know that. Then
again … as Emily Litella is saying on the Comedy Channel’s
Saturday Night Live “encore presentation” at this precise
intersection of space-time, “neeeever mind.”
Tyger hangs around the home liars burning for a while until
“General Hospital.” He telephones Armor’s, who thankfully is
available, in order to finagle the currently underemployed artist
into giving him a lift to the West Bank.
Screw this public transportation stuff. Tyger has had about
his annual fill of that type of pilgrim’s progress.
Armor’s is a lot like a Louisiana politician in this regard.
He definitely can be bought, and not even for the right price.
The “for sale” sign always hangs prominently outside his
outstretched loafstyle.
The promise of two thick joints cinches the deal.That is a
bit below the going rate. Armor’s is being a good guy apparently.
“Hey hey hey, working a case are we?” Armor’s chimes in as
he breaks down the front door. Another parish heard from.
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“Here, take this,” Tyger replies handing the dear boy
a marijuana mutah cigarette.
Armor”s grabs a lung full of joy. “Thanks. I needed that.
Sure glad I gave up tobacco. Now I can really enjoy pot. Let me
know when you want to go. I am right on it baby.”
They return downstream about 3 p.m. This time the ferry
must be forsaken for the seemingly faster route across the
Greater New Orleans Bridge, steel span glistening in
mid-afternoon’s bright glare.
“Hey hey. You know what man?” Armor’s broaches a subject
beside the usual dissection of daily details. “I would like to
work on a case one of these days. The detectives ever have any openings?”
Ah, so that is his angle. “Sometimes, they need extra help
to be a ghost or something,” Tyger confirms. “They use someone on
a case and then they disappear like Casper. (Weinberger?)
“You never know. I’ll tell them about you when something like that comes up.”
“Alright man. I’m gonna get to be a detective just like Tyger. Outasight.”
Wafting like a zephyr across the West Bank Expressway and
down Manhattan Boulevard, Armor’s spots the Pho Tau Bay
Restaurant and Expressway Lanes.
“Hey man. Let’s get some Cafe Sua Da to go.”
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“Better not man,” Tyger replies. “I have to pull the car out
of the neighborhood. Maybe next time.”
Tyger instructs Armor’s to navigate around the choppy waters
determining the coast be clear; no nosy neighbors or subject
activity to interfere with retrieving the secret surveillance unit.
Or so it seems.
“Let me off down the block,” requests Tyger passing off the
Altoids box. “Thanks for the reef man,” Armor’s notes.
“No problem.”
“See you later alligator. I’m history.”
“Thanks again for the lift, Casper.”
Tyger wades into the Utley zone, recovering what is Tyger’s;
no more, no less. All quiet on the West Bank front.
He removes the towel covering the video recorder. The
machine is off, tape run to conclusion. Six sickly
hours of heaven knows what Mr. Allison to watch.
Tyger checks Slimes-Picayune television listings when he
returns home. Guess what’s on tap this evening before the daily
baseball game from the Left Coast at 9:30 p.m.
Why, the Utley family television special, of course.
Tyger considers this special must see TV. That’s entertainment.
Usual pre-game functions transpire. Tyger rewinds tape,
and ready, steady, go. Here is hoping a black cat hops
across Utley·s path, making him bend over, and not in the good way.
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The following is the log of Waldo Utley’s experiences for
bad luck Friday May 13, 1988:
At 9:42 a.m. the Subject carries large plastic garbage bags
stuffed with laundry to wife’s vehicle. She leaves.
At 10:51 a.m. until 11:06 a.m. an elderly white female
arrives by car and speaks with the Subject who crouches on
the porch.
At 11:06 a.m. until 11:12 a.m. Clear identifying picture of
the Subject sitting on his porch.
At 11:55 a.m. two white males, in their twenties, arrive in
a green car with white roof.
At 12:14 p.m. brief shot of the Subject retrieving mail.
At 12:17 p.m. the Subject’s wife returns with the laundry.
The Subject carries the laundry bag from the car to the
porch.
At 12:55 p.m. the white males leave. The Subject picks up
the child with one hand then lifts him up to the porch.
At 2:35 p.m. two black males, late twenties or early
thirties, arrive at the house by car and speak with the
Subject. The Subject jumps off the porch and joins them
in their vehicle.
At 2:40 p.m. the Subject and the black males walk in the yard,
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At 2:49 p.m. the Subject hops into his vehicle and backs
it into his driveway.
At 2:56 p.m. the black males leave area.
End of tape.
Hmm. Firstly, Waldo B. Utley is in fine condition.
As usual, bad back, his bad ass. He is in better shape than Tyger,
Armor’s or anyone. That part of the case seems easily resolved.
Secondly, however, Utley appears to be engaged in another
activity with which Tyger is acquainted somewhat. He seems to be
dealing drugs. Not much question about that.
Tyger labels the tape. He writes up the final report,
leaving off the drug business. Dorothy can pick that out for
herself, comment to the client or not.
All the same to Tyger Williams. He has bigger fish to fry.
Thus concludes the day’s surveillance. Friday night and all
is as always was in and around the Crescent City. They are probably
partying the house down at the Utley residence. Tourists walking
mindlessly up and down Bourbon Street.
Tyger watches the Cubs-Dodgers game, falling asleep at half
past one in the morning. Nothing else to do that night.
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Another day, another 9.5 hours investigative time, 27 miles
and $5.89 for videotape for a total of $106.29 in billable costs.
Another night, restful and blissful ignorance knowing
that at least one American worker did a good job today.
Sleep tight, dear Tyger, for tomorrow is another day.
That much, the future always promises and delivers.
SURVEILLANCE PELICANA
BY
DAN WEISMAN
The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:
Chapters 1-10: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-full-book-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/.)
Chapters 11-20: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-ii-chapters-11-to-20-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/)
Chapters 21-30: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-iii-chapters-21-to-30-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Unfortunately, Tyger is broke and can’t attend the second Jazz Fest weekend.
He makes the best of it with karmic daydreams at Audubon Park’s lake.
Following this interlude, Tyger is sent on the wrong assignment by Jack LaFleur,
Dorothy’s dipsy husband. Then, Tyger sets up on a case in Gretna and
takes a memorable ferry ride across the river.
Finally, Armor’s pitches in and returns Tyger to the surveillance scene.
The investigator reviews and logs the tape of strange Subject activity.
CHAPTER 22
“IN THE RIGHT PLACE, MUST HAVE BEEN THE WRONG TIME”
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Darn. Back to the same old lame old reality selection. That
is the way it going going goes, apologies to baseball announcers everywhere.
Another day passes and another in alarmingly swift fashion.
Therefore, comrades, put on and take off your easter bonnets.
That sucker is solid gold gone.
Second weekend of Jazz Fest is the same great fun-fess.
However, Tyger can not participate. He still has not straightened out
his finances, probably never will. He has been working with fair
to good frequency, true; but was so far behind in
earthly expenses he can barely afford to touch the financial ground.
This is an unacceptable Jazz Fest recusal to the big Mac
attack, but not much a poor boy can do about a world
uninspired. Mac rounds up another batch of suspects doing his
thing during the second weekend almost same as the first.
A Jazz Fest exile sits at home watching Cubs and
Braves games as consolation prizes. Actually, the stay at home
lofestyle is not half bad. Uptown seems devoid of personality
disorders, thereby making living easier.
Tyger busies himself after baseball viewing by going to
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places usually prohibited by weekend laws. P.J’s on Maple Street
apparently has been evacuated. He sits in front drinking coffee,
watching the stray vehicle or two mistakenly rolling around Uptown.
An evidential pleasant diversion swears terrific testimony.
Strolling along Maple Street likewise becomes a positive
experience this late dog day afternoon. No assholes being walked
by brain dead pets. No kids. No noise. A peaceful vacuum fills spring void.
Finally, the ultimate of amazing occurrences. Tyger goes
shopping, shopping until he is dropping which does not take long.
A jaunt to Langenstein’s to make overpriced groceries. A joust
with the windows Allons-y upper Magazine Street.
Rather predictable results. Like at Lake Forest Mall, try as
Tyger might to shop, there seems to be nothing material he wants.
Tyger promises himself a special low-priced purchase to
take the edge off of missing Jazz Fest. No sale. Cha-ching not.
Nor ba-da-bing, babies. Nada nada nada.
Everything displayed in the bookstore, antique store, art
gallery, knick-knack store, hobby shop, is the same old made in
America cheesy junk product. What else would one expect from the
Age of Ray-Gun crap factory?
Where are some well made Japanese goods when one wants them?
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Tyger laughs when he thinks of that. Take that, trade
deficit. No making it wider, this holiday from holiday non Jazz
Fest personal celebration.
Tyger surveys the scene natural; blue skies, no crows,
beautiful lake at Audubon Park by the botanical garden, just off
the golf course ripe for the solitary dreamer. “Fore!” Tyger
yells as he flips rocks into dazzling aquamarine waters.
Rippling circles widen like the universe expanding after a
deity’s intervention. Tyger is in charge here and now. Don’t
the sitting ducks on the pond know it. They quack crackle hop to
the far side of the moon.
Tyger represents a benevolent presence this quiet dog day
afternoon. He lays back laid back while sitting at a picnic table
by the park gazebo, scene of the 1884 Cotton Exposition, now a
sightseeing shore. It is a great day to have a great day.
On to Kinderhook, O.K.
Amazing colors are like space-time prisms relatively astral
projecting to another galaxy resplendent where they have yet to
hear of Star Dreck.
So close and yet so far. A tugboat wails along the river.
Birds squeak nearby in the oak trees accompanied by squirrels
scurrying for higher cover. Crooked men float above the nearby
neutral ground in neutral moods.
Tyger’s endless tape loop wraps around the world at large.
Comrades of the sacred moment, Tyger is a collection of molecules
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splitting and reforming each moment with force exploded.
The detective might seem like a walking neutron bomb to the
likes of Dill Pickle and the myriad other insurance frauds.
He resembles force at rest at this particular juncture
in the never-ending story.
Thusly, Tyger continues his special mind’s eye surveillance of
poor lost thoughts sunk in a brain not as nice as Audubon Park to
know. Grant him a moment of introspection before he resumes the
natural progression of existential information.
A dreamer dreams beyond the ever-more. It goes, sings Patti
Smith at CBGB’s-OMFUG, like this:
Comrades have washed upon these unkempt shores only to be
consumed completely.
Here lies land’s end where one can fall off
or be saved, depending
on random intervention by fate, undertow,
whatever force acknowledged.
Hail to the valiant comrades who have suffered and lost,
never suffered, never lost;
dastardly piggies, great thinkers through time.
All the same, all dissolving
into circles on the lake,
covered by time.
Hidden by the same blanket of darkness;
illuminated by a most beautiful sunset,
or not,
all alone at empty picnic tables.
Here comes the untergang, the plague, the cessation of being,
a Caesarian section.
It’s all the same.
Snap your fingers, snap crackle pop your
cereal; leave the surveillance of nothingness
to experts.
Leave it to those who expect, deliver,
and receive nothing.
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Drop two dissimilar rocks into the lake,
smile as they dissolve into nothingness.
We are bound even in the most bountiful of lands
by such a nothingness.
Cry wolf. Cry enough.
Cry nothing.
Good grief. Ruminations of a foolish inmate in this
coming hothouse of universal disorder. Tyger tyres of his
grid-locked diversion. He is a foolish sack of dreams whiling away
the future with hopes unhinged.
Therefore, Tyger person leaves the park sleep-walking
while theoretically awake, passing this way for a sacred
monumental moment, then dissolving into a hallowed differential
of space-time.
Take another hit, baby, of sweet air filled with blunt reefer.
Tyger huffs, he puffs, and blows the joint down. No one is
available to question his absolute authority.
Feel better? Time has stopped. Tyger feels small, then tall,
then small again and ever so silly. Groovy white rabbit.
Good shit like this makes a person feel as good as President
Ray-Gun when one of his buddies knocks over a couple of million
saving and loans institutions. (Dynamite stuff, by the way obtained
from Ray-Gun’s personal psychic connection.
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Bonzo’s buddy must get high constantly to act
the way he does screwing the nation if he actually wields
power, highly theoretical at this point — while Nancy screws
the real boss, Sinatra, according to tabloid and memoir accounts.
Later Iran-Contra testimony definitively shows Ray-Gun
had no control over any governmental function not dictated
by sphincter muscle. He seems convincing, claiming to
remember nothing about his presidency. He never would have left
Hollywood if he were that good an actor.)
What does it matter? The greedy era of Ray-Gun and his
buddies is best left like the terror of the Khmer Rouge for
history to judge. They form equal and opposite reactions of the same equation.
Therefore, in his best dialectical rationale, Tyger flips
the album to something more amenable. He falls captive to that
beautiful Spanish dancer, fawn brown eyes, slender buttocks,
light dress flowing in waves down to the brown ground.
She glides like a dinky dark moth becoming madame butterfly
tapping at Tygertown’s right temple. Then naked, just say yes
baby! Poosh, implosion, gone. Tyger’s dream disintigrates
like the El Avion plane of future terrorist targets disappearing
from a radar screen.
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Strange voice leaps on the picnic table like a dispossessed bunny
rabbit-sized squirrel, Professor Irwin Corey style mocking
startled subject, Tyger Williams. “Follow me, m’kinder.
Follow me home,” it cries.
Whoa poppa. Tyger slaps himself with the awful truth
no beautiful dancer in sight, just a poor boy whose
limited attention span is wandering and wondering.
Tyger chills as Francois Truffuat might, magically turning
day to night. Mere trifle for a “genius” mind.
A higher force turns night back to day. So forth and so
on until the working week begins again in earnest.
A few days later, Tyger finds himself on the road to the LSU
Dentistry School at 1100 Florida Boulevard. Sorry comrades, not
for a much needed dental check-up, but on yet another
silly surveillance assignment.
This time Tyger is supposed to sit in the large main waiting
area and wait for the subject, Pearly Mae Spencer,
African-American, 46 years old, married, four children, 5’2″, 230 pounds.
Stop. She should not be too hard to pick up, so to speak,
because that is one large Marge of a — Jerry Lewis voice —
laid-eeeeee…
Here are the grim details of the investigation.
Tyger sets up the black box system, recently remanded back
into custody, in his vehicle at the outside parking lot with
close-up lens zoomed on the large building’s front door and
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immediate asphalt vicinity. This should provide the proper
picture of Mrs. Spencer as she buffalo soldiers into the phacility.
The where is the beef Ms. Spencer is reported to be
suffering the pain and agony of a bad knee injured in a terrible
tumble outside a neighborhood grocery store.
Maybe it is true. Sure. Then again, who knows? Tyger is
being paid to discover, Paul Harvey voice, the rest of the story .
Tyger Tyger burning bright takes a still camera
which he slides under his plastic seat. He pretends to be
engrossed in the latest lying issue of the Slimes-Picayune.
Now, there is a good joke.
Looky, looky gumshoedrop, the Slimes mongers have the
wrong date on the top of the front page. No, guys, ’tis not
May 5, 1899. It is May 5, 1988. Get a clue. You would think they
could at least get the century right.
Of course, the next day they will run a retraction buried in
the metro section beneath the obituaries. Class act, these
deadheads.
Hurry up and wait. Hurry up and wait. Tick tick tock tock.
Tyger lingers past the 1 p.m. appointment Ms. Spencer
allegedly has at the dentist’s building.
Dorothy has taken the day off to conduct personal business.
The location was passed down the line to Tyger by her husband,
Jack LeFleur, who is home alone. How could anything go wrong, ugh.
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Hmmm. More tick, more tock, not; nothing, neither way Laertes breath.
Phat lady hasn’t sung this soap opera over. Maybe someone screwed up
the surveillance location. Could it be …
“Ahh, yeah dude. I”m the middle-man today. Dorothy had to go
off with her mother to do some baby stuff shopping. What’s the
good word.”
“Well Jack,” Tyger news flashes, “The subject is supposed to
be at a 1 p.m. orthopedic surgeon”s office. But I happen to be
waiting for the subject at the LSU Dentistry Building. What is
wrong with this picture?”
“Ahhh, wait a second dude. Let me look up something,” Jack
says as da voice disappears from their pay umbilical chord. It
is 2 p.m., time for the soap opera “General Hospital,”
not this tired waste of time.
Finally, Jack returns to the line, hooking a big one.
“Ahhh, dude. Dude. Know what. Thought it was the
orthodontist. l’m such an idiot sometimes.
“What do you know,” Tyger says. “LSU Medical Center at 1 p.m. for the
Orthopedic surgeon. Not LSU Dentistry Center. It’s right here in
black and white.”
“Aw man,” Jack, flat as a hat, continues.
“Medical Center is all the way Downtown.”
“I know.”
“Sorry, my man. You can see how I mixed it up.”
“Right.”
“You don’t think she is still down there? Do you, dude? Do you?”
“Not in this lifetime.”
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“Damn. Dotty is going to be all over me like red beans on rice.”
“Right.”
“I guess we better call it a day.”
“Guess so. I’ll check in with Dorothy later.”
“Damn.” (Dumb.)
End of Assignment.
Next up, the following Monday bright and early, Waldo B.
Utley Gretna insurance scam scum lifestyle. He has a bad back
allegedly resulting from a spill off a motorcycle. But he was
wearing a helmet, so there. Safety first and all that jazz.
Tyger drives by the Utley pad about 8 a.m. checking it
out for camera angles. It is a small blue with yellow trim house
in a lower middle class area just southwest of the Gretna Ferry.
Looks like the same old same old.
In this case, Tyger has been instructed to leave the system
running while keeping a sharp eye on it, and the Utley abode, for
about an hour. That way he can assume an active follow by car
maneuver should the subject leave for,
(Thanks, Maynard G. Krebs brain.)
heaven forfend — WORK! WORK!.
The presumption will be Utley is unemployed if he has not
moved by about 9:15 a.m. or 9:30 a.m. at the latest.
Then, Tyger is to to leave the area, retrieving the system
after five, or so, hours. Dorothy wants him to review the tape
before submitting it, and his report, the following day.
Like the usual case of flu, therefore, Tyger flutters in the
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neighborhood’s lungs. He waits for a while at a nearby corner bus
stop. Hey, one never knows who might pass by the Jefferson Parish
psychic swamp this fresh spring day.
Maybe Ann Margaret, Princess Margaret, or Jane Snowden an
obscure and smashing British actress who played the ingenue in an
equally obscure movie “French Lesson” and for whom Tyger has a
passionate crush will stop, notice the mysterious stranger,
and give him a lift. (Yeah, right. Dream on. Get a life. Etc.)
A couple of busses pass. Drivers open doors. Tyger
politely declines their indifferent invites. Diverse drivers depart
the scene looking perplexed.
Seeking to avoid further suspicion, Tyger wanders
about the neighborhood for a while enjoying the healthful
benefits of physical exercise. Surveillance continues with
negative subject activity.
Tyger looks inside his mother the car to confirm all
systems are operating effectively. That is a big a-go-go,
mission control. Investigative capsule blasts off like the
Space Shuttle Discovery. He wishes himself a hardy bon voyage,
and a fat g’day to Mr. Utley.
Irony is but a literary affectation, so therefore shall we
say coincidentally, Tyger decides to take public transportation,
returning Uptown to home base. He wanders in wonder past empty fields
littered with garbage and who knows what faded memories, crossing
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railroad tracks on Gretna’s always less than fashionable
lower than sea level east side.
Quick jaunt over to the Gretna Ferry, running on a
non-specific schedule across the Mississippi River below the
crescent to Jackson Avenue in the emerald city.
No ferry in sight, not even close.
Nothing in New Orleans ever runs efficiently. That is part
of the charm of being the only resident Third World Banana
Republic of the United States.
(Rebublic? Not when Edwin Edwards was governor.)
Deserted ferry terminal absolutely reeks of piss and
human excrement. Cochon. Yet, nary a pig in sight.
Tyger returns outside, sits on the grassy knoll, waiting
10 minutes, 20 minutes, 30 minutes, 40 minutes…
Geez, what is the story already?
A thin reed of a black man, around 50, 60, or 70 years old,
dealer’s choice, take youse pick, stops by.
s”Yeah. They said there wasn’t no boat today.”
“What?” Tyger asks fairly pissed off. “The ferry always runs.
What do you mean not running today?”
“That’s what the. man said,” the ancient — mariner? —
replies. “He said river too high. Ain’t no running.” Ohhh-key.
“Thanks for the upfake,” Tyger replies.
A skeptical soul by design, as well as recent potty training, and
having no alternative, Tyger hangs around another 15 minutes.
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Then, a loud horn blow, and sure enough, hear that ferry
coming, coming around the riverbend, turning into view,
backing into the dock. That old guy was just like the dirty terminal inside,
full of piss and no vinegar. What else is new, que sera? Trust but
verify, possibly the only reasonable saying ever uttered by Ray-Gun.
Uniformed ferry worker ropes the boat dockside.
Snatches back the long steel chain preventing potential
passengers from jumping in the river and being swept away.
He accomplishes that task with studied nonchalance.
Hasn’t lost a passenger yet. At least that he knows of.
Ah, hubris, always a first time.
Vehicles on board roll off the deck on to the
wooden planks leading to West Bank River Road wrapping like
a water moccasin around the protection levee.
They are rolling rolling rolling rawhide.
Look out below.
A few dirty dozen passengers, mainly African-Americans
although a white college student-aged bicyclist counts among
their number, amble off as if they have just completed a scenic
cruise through the Caribbean. How sweet, cue the Love Boat theme.
All aboard who are going to be bored once outgoing traffic
dissipates. Again, same verse just like the first,
the orange jump suit crowd of blase’ ferry employees wave
along vehicles and their river crossing slaves Aye aye sirs.
This nondemoninational procession of Ford, Chevy Blazer,
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Toyota Camry, indeterminate makes and models of decrepit wrecks
still salvageable, proceed en masse until the ferry has been
circled by a veritable bonanza of wagons, car, and vans.
Banzai, y’all.
Tyger embarks along with three black women who have
magically materialized despite the ancient one’s warning. In
other words, the savvy ferry crowd have assumed their rightful
place in historical perspective.
No need to reach into those shallow pockets either, comrades
in water transportation. The ferry is one of the few items in New
Orleans that is free. At least at that point in time.
A free ride takes the edge off of hard wooden benches on
which these earthbound birds perch. Brian Ferry swings back
to conform to the river currents, darting across thick brown
soupy sales waters.
A grand view of the greater New Orleans Metropolitan Area in
the bright distance sticks in place like a glossy postcard image
shimmering in the mid-morning sun. White skyline holds a
pretty picture Kodak moment contrasting favorably with the
slow as a tortoise barge traffic and more upscale riverboats
floating on the Big Muddy.
Sweet river air, too, breezily blows past a reflective
Tyger. Life at such a moment becomes a calm collection of
collective imagery.
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Tyger loses himself in momentary contemplation. N’awlins as
concrete inanimate object of affectionate smiles, touching
an observer like a lover longing for small pleasures. The place
might be on to something if they could just get rid of those darn people.
The women of the ferry’s far dark corner are yap yak yatting
away far too loudly, mitigating Tyger’s blissful meditation.
Ah well, what ya gonna do? He tries to lift and
separate their idle chatter from delightful observation
like a bra off a pornographic image.
Same tyred story repeats along the river’s East Bank.
Vehicles depart followed by a few stragglers ejected into the
urban blight bordering on Jackson Avenue and Tchopitoulas Street.
A recently completed concrete sea wall lines the street
towards Uptown thereby blocking the once beautiful view of the
docks and river environment. They think of everything in this
half-baked excuse for a City That Care Forgot. No stopping,
shall we say, progress.
(Funny thing is the wall seems useless for actual protection
from flooding. It floods just the same anyway. A more likely
explanation for its construction is that somebody lined their
pockets. Welcome to politics as unfortunately usual in the Pig Sleazy.)
Tyger gets along little doggy walking the ever unpleasant
length of Jackson Avenue to Magazine Street where a bus will pass
along eventually. He steps lively over the endless accumulation
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of dog shit further blighting the sort of sidewalk.
The wandering detective glides by that ever radioactively retroactive
wasteland of broken glass and discarded rubble by the projects
that makes this part of the city look more like war-torn Beirut or the
moon than a quaint local tourist attraction. Just as well for any
tourists here would definitely be shot and mugged,
and we are not talking travel photography.
Tyger feels safety in daylight, walking over to the
scenic “Checks Cashed” and “Hard Liquor” corner of Magazine
Street hopping on a waiting bus. What do you know, convenience
for a change. He hands the bus driver 60 cents in return for safe passage.
Usual collection of bus riders, a gay mixture of old men
and women with a few youngsters thrown in for good measure. It is
a trip in another way too. Tyger is on the giving rather than
receiving end of the RTA black fume spewing society.
Finally, Tyger has returned to his lair . It is about noon so
he lights up a big one, settles back at the home television
fires, relaxes, observing the passing soap opera.
Aw shit on it. They recycled that damn amnesia plot for
the billionth time. Yeah right, amnesia is a very
common occurrence in modern day society.
Soapsuds who are impersonating writers of those shows should
be taken out in the countryside Khmer Rouge Sendero Luminoso
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fashion and, shall we say, re-educated. Tyger passes the time by
watching the show anyway. It is in his anti-social contract.
That is to say watches between lousy stinking
stupid commercials for which Tyger must always mute the sound.
Who do they think they are fooling anyway?
Wouldn’t have to advertise if the products were any good.
Even a moron like Roots Badburns must know that. Then
again … as Emily Litella is saying on the Comedy Channel’s
Saturday Night Live “encore presentation” at this precise
intersection of space-time, “neeeever mind.”
Tyger hangs around the home liars burning for a while until
“General Hospital.” He telephones Armor’s, who thankfully is
available, in order to finagle the currently underemployed artist
into giving him a lift to the West Bank.
Screw this public transportation stuff. Tyger has had about
his annual fill of that type of pilgrim’s progress.
Armor’s is a lot like a Louisiana politician in this regard.
He definitely can be bought, and not even for the right price.
The “for sale” sign always hangs prominently outside his
outstretched loafstyle.
The promise of two thick joints cinches the deal.That is a
bit below the going rate. Armor’s is being a good guy apparently.
“Hey hey hey, working a case are we?” Armor’s chimes in as
he breaks down the front door. Another parish heard from.
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“Here, take this,” Tyger replies handing the dear boy
a marijuana mutah cigarette.
Armor”s grabs a lung full of joy. “Thanks. I needed that.
Sure glad I gave up tobacco. Now I can really enjoy pot. Let me
know when you want to go. I am right on it baby.”
They return downstream about 3 p.m. This time the ferry
must be forsaken for the seemingly faster route across the
Greater New Orleans Bridge, steel span glistening in
mid-afternoon’s bright glare.
“Hey hey. You know what man?” Armor’s broaches a subject
beside the usual dissection of daily details. “I would like to
work on a case one of these days. The detectives ever have any openings?”
Ah, so that is his angle. “Sometimes, they need extra help
to be a ghost or something,” Tyger confirms. “They use someone on
a case and then they disappear like Casper. (Weinberger?)
“You never know. I’ll tell them about you when something like that comes up.”
“Alright man. I’m gonna get to be a detective just like Tyger. Outasight.”
Wafting like a zephyr across the West Bank Expressway and
down Manhattan Boulevard, Armor’s spots the Pho Tau Bay
Restaurant and Expressway Lanes.
“Hey man. Let’s get some Cafe Sua Da to go.”
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“Better not man,” Tyger replies. “I have to pull the car out
of the neighborhood. Maybe next time.”
Tyger instructs Armor’s to navigate around the choppy waters
determining the coast be clear; no nosy neighbors or subject
activity to interfere with retrieving the secret surveillance unit.
Or so it seems.
“Let me off down the block,” requests Tyger passing off the
Altoids box. “Thanks for the reef man,” Armor’s notes.
“No problem.”
“See you later alligator. I’m history.”
“Thanks again for the lift, Casper.”
Tyger wades into the Utley zone, recovering what is Tyger’s;
no more, no less. All quiet on the West Bank front.
He removes the towel covering the video recorder. The
machine is off, tape run to conclusion. Six sickly
hours of heaven knows what Mr. Allison to watch.
Tyger checks Slimes-Picayune television listings when he
returns home. Guess what’s on tap this evening before the daily
baseball game from the Left Coast at 9:30 p.m.
Why, the Utley family television special, of course.
Tyger considers this special must see TV. That’s entertainment.
Usual pre-game functions transpire. Tyger rewinds tape,
and ready, steady, go. Here is hoping a black cat hops
across Utley·s path, making him bend over, and not in the good way.
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The following is the log of Waldo Utley’s experiences for
bad luck Friday May 13, 1988:
At 9:42 a.m. the Subject carries large plastic garbage bags
stuffed with laundry to wife’s vehicle. She leaves.
At 10:51 a.m. until 11:06 a.m. an elderly white female
arrives by car and speaks with the Subject who crouches on
the porch.
At 11:06 a.m. until 11:12 a.m. Clear identifying picture of
the Subject sitting on his porch.
At 11:55 a.m. two white males, in their twenties, arrive in
a green car with white roof.
At 12:14 p.m. brief shot of the Subject retrieving mail.
At 12:17 p.m. the Subject’s wife returns with the laundry.
The Subject carries the laundry bag from the car to the
porch.
At 12:55 p.m. the white males leave. The Subject picks up
the child with one hand then lifts him up to the porch.
At 2:35 p.m. two black males, late twenties or early
thirties, arrive at the house by car and speak with the
Subject. The Subject jumps off the porch and joins them
in their vehicle.
At 2:40 p.m. the Subject and the black males walk in the yard,
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At 2:49 p.m. the Subject hops into his vehicle and backs
it into his driveway.
At 2:56 p.m. the black males leave area.
End of tape.
Hmm. Firstly, Waldo B. Utley is in fine condition.
As usual, bad back, his bad ass. He is in better shape than Tyger,
Armor’s or anyone. That part of the case seems easily resolved.
Secondly, however, Utley appears to be engaged in another
activity with which Tyger is acquainted somewhat. He seems to be
dealing drugs. Not much question about that.
Tyger labels the tape. He writes up the final report,
leaving off the drug business. Dorothy can pick that out for
herself, comment to the client or not.
All the same to Tyger Williams. He has bigger fish to fry.
Thus concludes the day’s surveillance. Friday night and all
is as always was in and around the Crescent City. They are probably
partying the house down at the Utley residence. Tourists walking
mindlessly up and down Bourbon Street.
Tyger watches the Cubs-Dodgers game, falling asleep at half
past one in the morning. Nothing else to do that night.
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Another day, another 9.5 hours investigative time, 27 miles
and $5.89 for videotape for a total of $106.29 in billable costs.
Another night, restful and blissful ignorance knowing
that at least one American worker did a good job today.
Sleep tight, dear Tyger, for tomorrow is another day.
That much, the future always promises and delivers.
SURVEILLANCE PELICANA
BY
DAN WEISMAN
The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:
Chapters 1-10: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-full-book-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/.)
Chapters 11-20: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-ii-chapters-11-to-20-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/)
Chapters 21-30: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-iii-chapters-21-to-30-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Unfortunately, Tyger is broke and can’t attend the second Jazz Fest weekend.
He makes the best of it with karmic daydreams at Audubon Park’s lake.
Following this interlude, Tyger is sent on the wrong assignment by Jack LaFleur,
Dorothy’s dipsy husband. Then, Tyger sets up on a case in Gretna and
takes a memorable ferry ride across the river.
Finally, Armor’s pitches in and returns Tyger to the surveillance scene.
The investigator reviews and logs the tape of strange Subject activity.
CHAPTER 22
“IN THE RIGHT PLACE, MUST HAVE BEEN THE WRONG TIME”
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Darn. Back to the same old lame old reality selection. That
is the way it going going goes, apologies to baseball announcers everywhere.
Another day passes and another in alarmingly swift fashion.
Therefore, comrades, put on and take off your easter bonnets.
That sucker is solid gold gone.
Second weekend of Jazz Fest is the same great fun-fess.
However, Tyger can not participate. He still has not straightened out
his finances, probably never will. He has been working with fair
to good frequency, true; but was so far behind in
earthly expenses he can barely afford to touch the financial ground.
This is an unacceptable Jazz Fest recusal to the big Mac
attack, but not much a poor boy can do about a world
uninspired. Mac rounds up another batch of suspects doing his
thing during the second weekend almost same as the first.
A Jazz Fest exile sits at home watching Cubs and
Braves games as consolation prizes. Actually, the stay at home
lofestyle is not half bad. Uptown seems devoid of personality
disorders, thereby making living easier.
Tyger busies himself after baseball viewing by going to
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places usually prohibited by weekend laws. P.J’s on Maple Street
apparently has been evacuated. He sits in front drinking coffee,
watching the stray vehicle or two mistakenly rolling around Uptown.
An evidential pleasant diversion swears terrific testimony.
Strolling along Maple Street likewise becomes a positive
experience this late dog day afternoon. No assholes being walked
by brain dead pets. No kids. No noise. A peaceful vacuum fills spring void.
Finally, the ultimate of amazing occurrences. Tyger goes
shopping, shopping until he is dropping which does not take long.
A jaunt to Langenstein’s to make overpriced groceries. A joust
with the windows Allons-y upper Magazine Street.
Rather predictable results. Like at Lake Forest Mall, try as
Tyger might to shop, there seems to be nothing material he wants.
Tyger promises himself a special low-priced purchase to
take the edge off of missing Jazz Fest. No sale. Cha-ching not.
Nor ba-da-bing, babies. Nada nada nada.
Everything displayed in the bookstore, antique store, art
gallery, knick-knack store, hobby shop, is the same old made in
America cheesy junk product. What else would one expect from the
Age of Ray-Gun crap factory?
Where are some well made Japanese goods when one wants them?
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Tyger laughs when he thinks of that. Take that, trade
deficit. No making it wider, this holiday from holiday non Jazz
Fest personal celebration.
Tyger surveys the scene natural; blue skies, no crows,
beautiful lake at Audubon Park by the botanical garden, just off
the golf course ripe for the solitary dreamer. “Fore!” Tyger
yells as he flips rocks into dazzling aquamarine waters.
Rippling circles widen like the universe expanding after a
deity’s intervention. Tyger is in charge here and now. Don’t
the sitting ducks on the pond know it. They quack crackle hop to
the far side of the moon.
Tyger represents a benevolent presence this quiet dog day
afternoon. He lays back laid back while sitting at a picnic table
by the park gazebo, scene of the 1884 Cotton Exposition, now a
sightseeing shore. It is a great day to have a great day.
On to Kinderhook, O.K.
Amazing colors are like space-time prisms relatively astral
projecting to another galaxy resplendent where they have yet to
hear of Star Dreck.
So close and yet so far. A tugboat wails along the river.
Birds squeak nearby in the oak trees accompanied by squirrels
scurrying for higher cover. Crooked men float above the nearby
neutral ground in neutral moods.
Tyger’s endless tape loop wraps around the world at large.
Comrades of the sacred moment, Tyger is a collection of molecules
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splitting and reforming each moment with force exploded.
The detective might seem like a walking neutron bomb to the
likes of Dill Pickle and the myriad other insurance frauds.
He resembles force at rest at this particular juncture
in the never-ending story.
Thusly, Tyger continues his special mind’s eye surveillance of
poor lost thoughts sunk in a brain not as nice as Audubon Park to
know. Grant him a moment of introspection before he resumes the
natural progression of existential information.
A dreamer dreams beyond the ever-more. It goes, sings Patti
Smith at CBGB’s-OMFUG, like this:
Comrades have washed upon these unkempt shores only to be
consumed completely.
Here lies land’s end where one can fall off
or be saved, depending
on random intervention by fate, undertow,
whatever force acknowledged.
Hail to the valiant comrades who have suffered and lost,
never suffered, never lost;
dastardly piggies, great thinkers through time.
All the same, all dissolving
into circles on the lake,
covered by time.
Hidden by the same blanket of darkness;
illuminated by a most beautiful sunset,
or not,
all alone at empty picnic tables.
Here comes the untergang, the plague, the cessation of being,
a Caesarian section.
It’s all the same.
Snap your fingers, snap crackle pop your
cereal; leave the surveillance of nothingness
to experts.
Leave it to those who expect, deliver,
and receive nothing.
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Drop two dissimilar rocks into the lake,
smile as they dissolve into nothingness.
We are bound even in the most bountiful of lands
by such a nothingness.
Cry wolf. Cry enough.
Cry nothing.
Good grief. Ruminations of a foolish inmate in this
coming hothouse of universal disorder. Tyger tyres of his
grid-locked diversion. He is a foolish sack of dreams whiling away
the future with hopes unhinged.
Therefore, Tyger person leaves the park sleep-walking
while theoretically awake, passing this way for a sacred
monumental moment, then dissolving into a hallowed differential
of space-time.
Take another hit, baby, of sweet air filled with blunt reefer.
Tyger huffs, he puffs, and blows the joint down. No one is
available to question his absolute authority.
Feel better? Time has stopped. Tyger feels small, then tall,
then small again and ever so silly. Groovy white rabbit.
Good shit like this makes a person feel as good as President
Ray-Gun when one of his buddies knocks over a couple of million
saving and loans institutions. (Dynamite stuff, by the way obtained
from Ray-Gun’s personal psychic connection.
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Bonzo’s buddy must get high constantly to act
the way he does screwing the nation if he actually wields
power, highly theoretical at this point — while Nancy screws
the real boss, Sinatra, according to tabloid and memoir accounts.
Later Iran-Contra testimony definitively shows Ray-Gun
had no control over any governmental function not dictated
by sphincter muscle. He seems convincing, claiming to
remember nothing about his presidency. He never would have left
Hollywood if he were that good an actor.)
What does it matter? The greedy era of Ray-Gun and his
buddies is best left like the terror of the Khmer Rouge for
history to judge. They form equal and opposite reactions of the same equation.
Therefore, in his best dialectical rationale, Tyger flips
the album to something more amenable. He falls captive to that
beautiful Spanish dancer, fawn brown eyes, slender buttocks,
light dress flowing in waves down to the brown ground.
She glides like a dinky dark moth becoming madame butterfly
tapping at Tygertown’s right temple. Then naked, just say yes
baby! Poosh, implosion, gone. Tyger’s dream disintigrates
like the El Avion plane of future terrorist targets disappearing
from a radar screen.
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Strange voice leaps on the picnic table like a dispossessed bunny
rabbit-sized squirrel, Professor Irwin Corey style mocking
startled subject, Tyger Williams. “Follow me, m’kinder.
Follow me home,” it cries.
Whoa poppa. Tyger slaps himself with the awful truth
no beautiful dancer in sight, just a poor boy whose
limited attention span is wandering and wondering.
Tyger chills as Francois Truffuat might, magically turning
day to night. Mere trifle for a “genius” mind.
A higher force turns night back to day. So forth and so
on until the working week begins again in earnest.
A few days later, Tyger finds himself on the road to the LSU
Dentistry School at 1100 Florida Boulevard. Sorry comrades, not
for a much needed dental check-up, but on yet another
silly surveillance assignment.
This time Tyger is supposed to sit in the large main waiting
area and wait for the subject, Pearly Mae Spencer,
African-American, 46 years old, married, four children, 5’2″, 230 pounds.
Stop. She should not be too hard to pick up, so to speak,
because that is one large Marge of a — Jerry Lewis voice —
laid-eeeeee…
Here are the grim details of the investigation.
Tyger sets up the black box system, recently remanded back
into custody, in his vehicle at the outside parking lot with
close-up lens zoomed on the large building’s front door and
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immediate asphalt vicinity. This should provide the proper
picture of Mrs. Spencer as she buffalo soldiers into the phacility.
The where is the beef Ms. Spencer is reported to be
suffering the pain and agony of a bad knee injured in a terrible
tumble outside a neighborhood grocery store.
Maybe it is true. Sure. Then again, who knows? Tyger is
being paid to discover, Paul Harvey voice, the rest of the story .
Tyger Tyger burning bright takes a still camera
which he slides under his plastic seat. He pretends to be
engrossed in the latest lying issue of the Slimes-Picayune.
Now, there is a good joke.
Looky, looky gumshoedrop, the Slimes mongers have the
wrong date on the top of the front page. No, guys, ’tis not
May 5, 1899. It is May 5, 1988. Get a clue. You would think they
could at least get the century right.
Of course, the next day they will run a retraction buried in
the metro section beneath the obituaries. Class act, these
deadheads.
Hurry up and wait. Hurry up and wait. Tick tick tock tock.
Tyger lingers past the 1 p.m. appointment Ms. Spencer
allegedly has at the dentist’s building.
Dorothy has taken the day off to conduct personal business.
The location was passed down the line to Tyger by her husband,
Jack LeFleur, who is home alone. How could anything go wrong, ugh.
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Hmmm. More tick, more tock, not; nothing, neither way Laertes breath.
Phat lady hasn’t sung this soap opera over. Maybe someone screwed up
the surveillance location. Could it be …
“Ahh, yeah dude. I”m the middle-man today. Dorothy had to go
off with her mother to do some baby stuff shopping. What’s the
good word.”
“Well Jack,” Tyger news flashes, “The subject is supposed to
be at a 1 p.m. orthopedic surgeon”s office. But I happen to be
waiting for the subject at the LSU Dentistry Building. What is
wrong with this picture?”
“Ahhh, wait a second dude. Let me look up something,” Jack
says as da voice disappears from their pay umbilical chord. It
is 2 p.m., time for the soap opera “General Hospital,”
not this tired waste of time.
Finally, Jack returns to the line, hooking a big one.
“Ahhh, dude. Dude. Know what. Thought it was the
orthodontist. l’m such an idiot sometimes.
“What do you know,” Tyger says. “LSU Medical Center at 1 p.m. for the
Orthopedic surgeon. Not LSU Dentistry Center. It’s right here in
black and white.”
“Aw man,” Jack, flat as a hat, continues.
“Medical Center is all the way Downtown.”
“I know.”
“Sorry, my man. You can see how I mixed it up.”
“Right.”
“You don’t think she is still down there? Do you, dude? Do you?”
“Not in this lifetime.”
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“Damn. Dotty is going to be all over me like red beans on rice.”
“Right.”
“I guess we better call it a day.”
“Guess so. I’ll check in with Dorothy later.”
“Damn.” (Dumb.)
End of Assignment.
Next up, the following Monday bright and early, Waldo B.
Utley Gretna insurance scam scum lifestyle. He has a bad back
allegedly resulting from a spill off a motorcycle. But he was
wearing a helmet, so there. Safety first and all that jazz.
Tyger drives by the Utley pad about 8 a.m. checking it
out for camera angles. It is a small blue with yellow trim house
in a lower middle class area just southwest of the Gretna Ferry.
Looks like the same old same old.
In this case, Tyger has been instructed to leave the system
running while keeping a sharp eye on it, and the Utley abode, for
about an hour. That way he can assume an active follow by car
maneuver should the subject leave for,
(Thanks, Maynard G. Krebs brain.)
heaven forfend — WORK! WORK!.
The presumption will be Utley is unemployed if he has not
moved by about 9:15 a.m. or 9:30 a.m. at the latest.
Then, Tyger is to to leave the area, retrieving the system
after five, or so, hours. Dorothy wants him to review the tape
before submitting it, and his report, the following day.
Like the usual case of flu, therefore, Tyger flutters in the
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neighborhood’s lungs. He waits for a while at a nearby corner bus
stop. Hey, one never knows who might pass by the Jefferson Parish
psychic swamp this fresh spring day.
Maybe Ann Margaret, Princess Margaret, or Jane Snowden an
obscure and smashing British actress who played the ingenue in an
equally obscure movie “French Lesson” and for whom Tyger has a
passionate crush will stop, notice the mysterious stranger,
and give him a lift. (Yeah, right. Dream on. Get a life. Etc.)
A couple of busses pass. Drivers open doors. Tyger
politely declines their indifferent invites. Diverse drivers depart
the scene looking perplexed.
Seeking to avoid further suspicion, Tyger wanders
about the neighborhood for a while enjoying the healthful
benefits of physical exercise. Surveillance continues with
negative subject activity.
Tyger looks inside his mother the car to confirm all
systems are operating effectively. That is a big a-go-go,
mission control. Investigative capsule blasts off like the
Space Shuttle Discovery. He wishes himself a hardy bon voyage,
and a fat g’day to Mr. Utley.
Irony is but a literary affectation, so therefore shall we
say coincidentally, Tyger decides to take public transportation,
returning Uptown to home base. He wanders in wonder past empty fields
littered with garbage and who knows what faded memories, crossing
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railroad tracks on Gretna’s always less than fashionable
lower than sea level east side.
Quick jaunt over to the Gretna Ferry, running on a
non-specific schedule across the Mississippi River below the
crescent to Jackson Avenue in the emerald city.
No ferry in sight, not even close.
Nothing in New Orleans ever runs efficiently. That is part
of the charm of being the only resident Third World Banana
Republic of the United States.
(Rebublic? Not when Edwin Edwards was governor.)
Deserted ferry terminal absolutely reeks of piss and
human excrement. Cochon. Yet, nary a pig in sight.
Tyger returns outside, sits on the grassy knoll, waiting
10 minutes, 20 minutes, 30 minutes, 40 minutes…
Geez, what is the story already?
A thin reed of a black man, around 50, 60, or 70 years old,
dealer’s choice, take youse pick, stops by.
s”Yeah. They said there wasn’t no boat today.”
“What?” Tyger asks fairly pissed off. “The ferry always runs.
What do you mean not running today?”
“That’s what the. man said,” the ancient — mariner? —
replies. “He said river too high. Ain’t no running.” Ohhh-key.
“Thanks for the upfake,” Tyger replies.
A skeptical soul by design, as well as recent potty training, and
having no alternative, Tyger hangs around another 15 minutes.
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Then, a loud horn blow, and sure enough, hear that ferry
coming, coming around the riverbend, turning into view,
backing into the dock. That old guy was just like the dirty terminal inside,
full of piss and no vinegar. What else is new, que sera? Trust but
verify, possibly the only reasonable saying ever uttered by Ray-Gun.
Uniformed ferry worker ropes the boat dockside.
Snatches back the long steel chain preventing potential
passengers from jumping in the river and being swept away.
He accomplishes that task with studied nonchalance.
Hasn’t lost a passenger yet. At least that he knows of.
Ah, hubris, always a first time.
Vehicles on board roll off the deck on to the
wooden planks leading to West Bank River Road wrapping like
a water moccasin around the protection levee.
They are rolling rolling rolling rawhide.
Look out below.
A few dirty dozen passengers, mainly African-Americans
although a white college student-aged bicyclist counts among
their number, amble off as if they have just completed a scenic
cruise through the Caribbean. How sweet, cue the Love Boat theme.
All aboard who are going to be bored once outgoing traffic
dissipates. Again, same verse just like the first,
the orange jump suit crowd of blase’ ferry employees wave
along vehicles and their river crossing slaves Aye aye sirs.
This nondemoninational procession of Ford, Chevy Blazer,
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Toyota Camry, indeterminate makes and models of decrepit wrecks
still salvageable, proceed en masse until the ferry has been
circled by a veritable bonanza of wagons, car, and vans.
Banzai, y’all.
Tyger embarks along with three black women who have
magically materialized despite the ancient one’s warning. In
other words, the savvy ferry crowd have assumed their rightful
place in historical perspective.
No need to reach into those shallow pockets either, comrades
in water transportation. The ferry is one of the few items in New
Orleans that is free. At least at that point in time.
A free ride takes the edge off of hard wooden benches on
which these earthbound birds perch. Brian Ferry swings back
to conform to the river currents, darting across thick brown
soupy sales waters.
A grand view of the greater New Orleans Metropolitan Area in
the bright distance sticks in place like a glossy postcard image
shimmering in the mid-morning sun. White skyline holds a
pretty picture Kodak moment contrasting favorably with the
slow as a tortoise barge traffic and more upscale riverboats
floating on the Big Muddy.
Sweet river air, too, breezily blows past a reflective
Tyger. Life at such a moment becomes a calm collection of
collective imagery.
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Tyger loses himself in momentary contemplation. N’awlins as
concrete inanimate object of affectionate smiles, touching
an observer like a lover longing for small pleasures. The place
might be on to something if they could just get rid of those darn people.
The women of the ferry’s far dark corner are yap yak yatting
away far too loudly, mitigating Tyger’s blissful meditation.
Ah well, what ya gonna do? He tries to lift and
separate their idle chatter from delightful observation
like a bra off a pornographic image.
Same tyred story repeats along the river’s East Bank.
Vehicles depart followed by a few stragglers ejected into the
urban blight bordering on Jackson Avenue and Tchopitoulas Street.
A recently completed concrete sea wall lines the street
towards Uptown thereby blocking the once beautiful view of the
docks and river environment. They think of everything in this
half-baked excuse for a City That Care Forgot. No stopping,
shall we say, progress.
(Funny thing is the wall seems useless for actual protection
from flooding. It floods just the same anyway. A more likely
explanation for its construction is that somebody lined their
pockets. Welcome to politics as unfortunately usual in the Pig Sleazy.)
Tyger gets along little doggy walking the ever unpleasant
length of Jackson Avenue to Magazine Street where a bus will pass
along eventually. He steps lively over the endless accumulation
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of dog shit further blighting the sort of sidewalk.
The wandering detective glides by that ever radioactively retroactive
wasteland of broken glass and discarded rubble by the projects
that makes this part of the city look more like war-torn Beirut or the
moon than a quaint local tourist attraction. Just as well for any
tourists here would definitely be shot and mugged,
and we are not talking travel photography.
Tyger feels safety in daylight, walking over to the
scenic “Checks Cashed” and “Hard Liquor” corner of Magazine
Street hopping on a waiting bus. What do you know, convenience
for a change. He hands the bus driver 60 cents in return for safe passage.
Usual collection of bus riders, a gay mixture of old men
and women with a few youngsters thrown in for good measure. It is
a trip in another way too. Tyger is on the giving rather than
receiving end of the RTA black fume spewing society.
Finally, Tyger has returned to his lair . It is about noon so
he lights up a big one, settles back at the home television
fires, relaxes, observing the passing soap opera.
Aw shit on it. They recycled that damn amnesia plot for
the billionth time. Yeah right, amnesia is a very
common occurrence in modern day society.
Soapsuds who are impersonating writers of those shows should
be taken out in the countryside Khmer Rouge Sendero Luminoso
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fashion and, shall we say, re-educated. Tyger passes the time by
watching the show anyway. It is in his anti-social contract.
That is to say watches between lousy stinking
stupid commercials for which Tyger must always mute the sound.
Who do they think they are fooling anyway?
Wouldn’t have to advertise if the products were any good.
Even a moron like Roots Badburns must know that. Then
again … as Emily Litella is saying on the Comedy Channel’s
Saturday Night Live “encore presentation” at this precise
intersection of space-time, “neeeever mind.”
Tyger hangs around the home liars burning for a while until
“General Hospital.” He telephones Armor’s, who thankfully is
available, in order to finagle the currently underemployed artist
into giving him a lift to the West Bank.
Screw this public transportation stuff. Tyger has had about
his annual fill of that type of pilgrim’s progress.
Armor’s is a lot like a Louisiana politician in this regard.
He definitely can be bought, and not even for the right price.
The “for sale” sign always hangs prominently outside his
outstretched loafstyle.
The promise of two thick joints cinches the deal.That is a
bit below the going rate. Armor’s is being a good guy apparently.
“Hey hey hey, working a case are we?” Armor’s chimes in as
he breaks down the front door. Another parish heard from.
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“Here, take this,” Tyger replies handing the dear boy
a marijuana mutah cigarette.
Armor”s grabs a lung full of joy. “Thanks. I needed that.
Sure glad I gave up tobacco. Now I can really enjoy pot. Let me
know when you want to go. I am right on it baby.”
They return downstream about 3 p.m. This time the ferry
must be forsaken for the seemingly faster route across the
Greater New Orleans Bridge, steel span glistening in
mid-afternoon’s bright glare.
“Hey hey. You know what man?” Armor’s broaches a subject
beside the usual dissection of daily details. “I would like to
work on a case one of these days. The detectives ever have any openings?”
Ah, so that is his angle. “Sometimes, they need extra help
to be a ghost or something,” Tyger confirms. “They use someone on
a case and then they disappear like Casper. (Weinberger?)
“You never know. I’ll tell them about you when something like that comes up.”
“Alright man. I’m gonna get to be a detective just like Tyger. Outasight.”
Wafting like a zephyr across the West Bank Expressway and
down Manhattan Boulevard, Armor’s spots the Pho Tau Bay
Restaurant and Expressway Lanes.
“Hey man. Let’s get some Cafe Sua Da to go.”
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“Better not man,” Tyger replies. “I have to pull the car out
of the neighborhood. Maybe next time.”
Tyger instructs Armor’s to navigate around the choppy waters
determining the coast be clear; no nosy neighbors or subject
activity to interfere with retrieving the secret surveillance unit.
Or so it seems.
“Let me off down the block,” requests Tyger passing off the
Altoids box. “Thanks for the reef man,” Armor’s notes.
“No problem.”
“See you later alligator. I’m history.”
“Thanks again for the lift, Casper.”
Tyger wades into the Utley zone, recovering what is Tyger’s;
no more, no less. All quiet on the West Bank front.
He removes the towel covering the video recorder. The
machine is off, tape run to conclusion. Six sickly
hours of heaven knows what Mr. Allison to watch.
Tyger checks Slimes-Picayune television listings when he
returns home. Guess what’s on tap this evening before the daily
baseball game from the Left Coast at 9:30 p.m.
Why, the Utley family television special, of course.
Tyger considers this special must see TV. That’s entertainment.
Usual pre-game functions transpire. Tyger rewinds tape,
and ready, steady, go. Here is hoping a black cat hops
across Utley·s path, making him bend over, and not in the good way.
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The following is the log of Waldo Utley’s experiences for
bad luck Friday May 13, 1988:
At 9:42 a.m. the Subject carries large plastic garbage bags
stuffed with laundry to wife’s vehicle. She leaves.
At 10:51 a.m. until 11:06 a.m. an elderly white female
arrives by car and speaks with the Subject who crouches on
the porch.
At 11:06 a.m. until 11:12 a.m. Clear identifying picture of
the Subject sitting on his porch.
At 11:55 a.m. two white males, in their twenties, arrive in
a green car with white roof.
At 12:14 p.m. brief shot of the Subject retrieving mail.
At 12:17 p.m. the Subject’s wife returns with the laundry.
The Subject carries the laundry bag from the car to the
porch.
At 12:55 p.m. the white males leave. The Subject picks up
the child with one hand then lifts him up to the porch.
At 2:35 p.m. two black males, late twenties or early
thirties, arrive at the house by car and speak with the
Subject. The Subject jumps off the porch and joins them
in their vehicle.
At 2:40 p.m. the Subject and the black males walk in the yard,
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At 2:49 p.m. the Subject hops into his vehicle and backs
it into his driveway.
At 2:56 p.m. the black males leave area.
End of tape.
Hmm. Firstly, Waldo B. Utley is in fine condition.
As usual, bad back, his bad ass. He is in better shape than Tyger,
Armor’s or anyone. That part of the case seems easily resolved.
Secondly, however, Utley appears to be engaged in another
activity with which Tyger is acquainted somewhat. He seems to be
dealing drugs. Not much question about that.
Tyger labels the tape. He writes up the final report,
leaving off the drug business. Dorothy can pick that out for
herself, comment to the client or not.
All the same to Tyger Williams. He has bigger fish to fry.
Thus concludes the day’s surveillance. Friday night and all
is as always was in and around the Crescent City. They are probably
partying the house down at the Utley residence. Tourists walking
mindlessly up and down Bourbon Street.
Tyger watches the Cubs-Dodgers game, falling asleep at half
past one in the morning. Nothing else to do that night.
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Another day, another 9.5 hours investigative time, 27 miles
and $5.89 for videotape for a total of $106.29 in billable costs.
Another night, restful and blissful ignorance knowing
that at least one American worker did a good job today.
Sleep tight, dear Tyger, for tomorrow is another day.
That much, the future always promises and delivers.
Chapters 21-30: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-iii-chapters-21-to-30-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/
SURVEILLANCE PELICANA
BY
DAN WEISMAN
The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:
Chapters 1-10: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-full-book-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/.)
Chapters 11-20: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-ii-chapters-11-to-20-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/)
Chapters 21-30: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-iii-chapters-21-to-30-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
A wild barbecue party ensues at MacLand.
Collaborative art activity takes place with great success.
Tyger goes to the bank and embarks on a detailed discussion
concerning the Savings and Loan scandals under the Reagan Administration,
especially the Silverado S&L rip-off involving Neil Bush.
Armor’s assists Tyger on the return to Sammy Nestor and all hell breaks loose.
CHAPTER 23
“Barbecue Parties and Lost Subjects Past”
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As the month of May turns hot hot hot in this hothouse of a
prison known to some as the Louisiana here and then, Tyger
continues with his daily task of existential illusion. There you
see him, there he’s gone through the looking glass.
Hippity hop. Hippity hop. Tyger impersonates a small bunny
rabbit jumping from place to place impersonating the silliness of
surrealism while contemplating the nature of disorder.
Comrades, is there nothing to be done about that?
Such is the constantly shifting task of keeping from being
driven totally insane by life’s turns and illogical twists. But
then again, it is a crazy world. Everyone walks that fine line
between personal accomplishment and possible psychological disorder
bordering on disaster.That is one of the defining factors differentiating
men from the other wild beasts lurking on the outer fringes of the unnatural
world’s orchestral maneuvers. The beasts are always crazy, baby,
at least by human interpretation.
Dreamy Tyger person has been lately recalling his nightly
visions. That seems unusual because the dream cycle only filters
into his daily consciousness on a highly irregular undefinably
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selective basis. He looks at it like an acid flashback,
a special mind’s eye bonus.
A series of three dreams occur in sequence.
One of them has recurred as well. Have they no meaning?
The first dream is a rather pleasant sojourn in a cool and
clear mountain valley about as different from the Big Easy swamp
lifescape as one might imagine. Tyger descends down the valley
into a blooming field of sinsemilla marijuana buds flowering.
No great mystery there.
He stoops to conquer, sniffing a particularly potent bud
exuding the sweetest fragrance ever. Nice dream.
Thanks, inner mind of the beast, for sharing that.
Second dream has a more surreal aura, and difficult
interpretation. Tyger is enclosed in a kind of prisoner of war
camp, a square city block surrounded by high barbed wire and
watch towers manned by big hairy guys with machine guns and black
hairy arms. They look like human apes, an army of Roots Badburns.
Tyger stands upright pissed off below. He seems to be
considered somewhat of a leader byother poor prisoner souls.
Maybe it is a representation of the American gulag that exists
everywhere but remains invisible outside of Guantanamo Bay .
Yard contains only birds in street clothes waddling aimlessly
through purple haze. Individuals of both sexes continue
normal monkey business immediately outside the fence.
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The “political prisoners” want to escape,
naturally. One beckons to Tyger.
They walk to the end of the fence beneath a guard tower.
Guard looks away from them. Door flings open.
Tyger calmly walks through like in a movie scene
where the main character flies through time
by entering an eerie portal.
The other prisoners notice this.
They raise their voices in a loud huzzah cheer
as he stands safely outside.
“For he is a jolly good fellow!” they cry.
Tyger celebrates with a Mark Gastineau type sack dance,
popular before being outlawed by No Fun League
Commissar Pete Rozelle.
Standing on the outside, Tyger mocks the guards.
“You can’t hold me you assholes. I am free.
You have no power outside the fence.”
They do nothing.
Some men walk over, imploring Tyger to help them escape.
Try as he might to devise a plan, he is stumped.
So much for lucid dreams as real life Tyger awakes.
The third of this dream trilogy involves the subject of spiritual love.
Tyger has this vision three nights in a row.
He rides in the back of an open bed truck.
In charge of a bird cage containing the same girl he believes
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he has seen before with long black hair, flowing white dress.
Maybe she is the Spanish dancer for she is thin and light on her feet.
He feels pity for her. She speaks to him, telling him her
name. It is something like Marian. He opens the cage, frees her,
and she becomes a beautiful black bird that flies away.
He cries upon seeing that.
Dreams of freedom, or so it seems, these
last fine days of May. Who knows what a dream means, after all.
Maybe only a parlor game. Maybe they have deeper
psychological significance. Maybe Tyger has watched David Lynch’s
“Blue Velvet” one million too many times.
From dreamtime to space time, then.
Late May means Mac and his world have embarked big time
on their annual passion for nearly daily barbecue running like
Rickey Henderson through the end of the baseball season.
As Tyger sails into MacLand’s shores, the impresario is busy in back
flaming charcoal, roughly massaging the Old Smokey grill
with lighter fluid, cooking up a coming storm.
Tyger helps Mac compose a song while he cooks.
“Where’s the chicken?” Tyger asks.
“Missing information,” Mac responds.
“Stuck between floors.”
“Between two whores.”
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Mac grins as he covers the blackened grill surface with a
grey Old Smokey lid emblazoned with the MacLand coat of arms in
black paint. That is to say a picture of the mad Mac bongo man
design maniacally banging his drums in dark effigy forever
suspended on the light grey metal top.
“Hold that thought,” Mac continues. “Let’s go inside.” Which
they do, Mac gliding over to the four-track recorder that he
flicks of the wrist on causing the tape to spin rapidly.
“O.K. Got to get it on here.”
Mac adjusts a drum machine, picks up the bongos, begins
playing, da da da dada, da da da dada. Armor’s walks in
the room at the precise moment ordained by
higher consciousness or fate.
Armor’s picks up the mystery saxophone.
Wah wah wah, wah
wah, wah wah wah … ”
So begins a collaborative effort. Tyger continues with
MacLand’s Bongoloids Interview based on memory retrieval.
What follows is a partial transcription of the, shall we say, song:
Tyger: (Marijuana smoke exhaling.) That came out funny. What
about rhythm?
Mac: In place of spontaneity I prefer rhythm.
Tyger: Are Mac’s words art?
Mac: Garbage in, garbage out.
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Tyger: Where’s the chicken?
Mac: Missing information.
(Wah wah wah. Da dada da da. Wah wah wah. Da da da dada … )
Tyger: What·s the infinite?
Mac: I’ve got your fun.
Tyger: Any more thoughts about …
Mac: Primitive relationships.
Tyger: Can it last?
Mac: I spilled my batteries.
Tyger: Postmortems or postmasters?
Mac: (????????????)
(Waaaaaaaaaaaaaah! Bloo-blooey. Hahahaha.)
Mac raises his arms in triumph, shutting off the tape deck.
“I will add a few tracks and polish this off later,” he aside notes.
Mac, Tyger, and Armor’s return outside perching on back
steps watching the cover on top of Old Smokey smoke
like a house on fire. Add to this the wonderful aroma of
barbecuing chicken, ribs, and sausage, one might imagine the
ambiance of the moment.
“Hey big Mac. Tyger and I are going to work on a case,”
Armor’s informs while Tyger smiles nervously.
“My condolences,” Mac observes.
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Whiling away the rest of the day, sun setting in the
distant frame of background levee fronting riverbend curving
towards the Huey P. Long Bridge. Dogs, persons jogging and being
walked by dogs, children, and yes over there struts a white
mother pelican guiding her new offspring along a muddy estuary.
An electric grid blinks wildly as if signalling to extraterrestrials
that this seems like a good place to land. And of course,
E.T.’s can walk from that site to Mac’s nearby pad
for the latest culinary and musical delights.
Sarah is inside speaking with her sister on the telephone.
Home boy animal cats hang around the Old Smokey perimeter. They
beg for scraps which they seem to believe, given their loud cries
for attention, surely will be tossed like Hephaestus out
immediately by Zeus and the lesser food gods.
Typical feline logic, but no dice. Tough luck cats, these
good eats are for human beings first. Food god worship
will have to wait for scraps.
Mac removes Old Smokey’s crown like Mount St. Helens,
cautiously placing it on the ground
as the two cats, one black and one white
illustrating racial harmony, scurry with equal fervor for cover
underneath the wood frame house.
Eventually, the hepcats will figure it out, as they stealthily
wander closer, ever closer, to the grill; eventually being bombed
with the prevailing scraps, thinking that somehow they have
pulled off some sneaky trick. (Sorry cats, you are no Bill Casey.)
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Such is the natural order of a place called MacLand for the
purposes of recollection. Taking a knife, Mac cuts sausage slices
for sampling purposes. Yum yum yum yum. Tastes great,
and that ain’t no beer commercial filling.
Idyllic intermission between surveillance engagements.
Mac relaxes, leaning back on the steps as another BBQ
joint joint is smoked. The Drug Enforcement Agency can only
steal so much fun with hard-working citizen’s tax dollars.
Stage fright right on past the terribly terrific trio embarking on the
artistic diversion au courant; in this case, the latest craze
which is called the poetry game. They draw straws to determine
who begins, part of the objective being to finish a line as soon
as possible. It is kind of a speed art competition in which everyone wins.
They take turns alternating lines for what might be, what
could be, what is . .. a darn good-looking ode to the muse of
barbecue party fun.
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Mac: Like a polaroid injected into fetid atmosphere
You discharge my colors by rubbing me
With foreign objects
Tyg: Ayatollah breath
Arm: (Pass.)
Mac: I substituted a strange rash of emotions
For my habits
Tyg: Which are strange dreams
Better dreamt than dead
Arm: (Pass. )
Mac: Like robots that never know they are machines
But keep on working instead
Tyg: They are the working world
Performing, if they could, as trained birds
Arm: Or parrots
Mac: No more able to speak
Than I am able to deal with this life
Tyg: Falling like fruit from a banana tree
Arm: (Pass.)
Mac: My peeling is all that protects me
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Tyg: Welcome to the 1980’s
Mac: Now have fun by matching gears with my machines
Arm: Or throwing pears at your latrine
Mac: I should try to illustrate how to have fun. Figure one would disintegrate inhibitions
Tyg: Hosing down my careful intonations. If they had brains, they’d need less food
Arm: Yoooowwwwiiiieeee! The end, bro’s.
So it goes, apologies to nobodies and everyones.
Lean sausage cuisine is followed
by the chicken course which, in turn, is followed
by the final rib course with side salad and baked potato
thrown in for good measure.
Mac and Armor’s wash down the repast with Dixie Beer
While Tyger downs some PurpleSaurasRex
grape-lemonade flavored Kool-Aid.
The cats, feline division, emerge
from under the house to claim their bootalicious
bounty from the self-designated food gods.
Barbecue partying lingers until prime time
TV displaces consciousness with what
passes for that’s entertainment.
Tyger and Armor’s take their leave, kind sirs
while Mac and Sarah do whatever it is they do at night.
Another barbecue party has bitten off
as much as it could chew.
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The next waiting for the sunrise
considered for the permanent record breaks
like a pony of beer on Tuesday June 7, 1988. It is followed by a
visit to the Crescent City Bank of Rip-Off where Tyger is by
statute of elimination now forced to store his meager amount of
available cash.
Two other institutions where the Tygermeister previously had
deposits have gone into officially government sanctioned
receivership as specified by savings and loan bailout programs
instituted under the Ray-Gun administration.
You remember comrades, the guys who pledged to get
government off your backs. Guess some backs are broader than others.
Tyger feels a bit honored by having to switch accounts
between three institutions, each time encountering new and
different deposit rules to be broken, thoroughly
confusing him as a law abiding taxpaying citizen.
Obviously, if the S&L went out of business it must have been
owned by a close relative of Vice-President Shrub since his
kinfolk are engaged in the receiving end of the bailout scandal.
Sonny boy Neil Bush spends 1985 to 1988 as vice
president of Denver-based Silverado Banking, Savings and Loan
Association despite having no banking experience.
Silverado goes belly up in 1988 resulting in a $1 billion government bailout.
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The federal Office of Thrift Supervision accepts an
administrative law judge’s finding that Neillypoo Shrub’s
undisclosed business partnerships with two large borrowers
constitutes a conflict of interest.
Shrub votes to approve more than $100 million in loans for
Bill C. Walters, a developer with large investments in the Shrub
oil business. Shrub recommends a $900,000 line of credit for a
joint venture between himself and Kenneth M. Good, another Shrub
oil company investor.
Good? Good God. Bad, bad Shrubby. Walters defaults on his loan.
Good never repays his line of credit.
Get the government off our backs. Get rid of welfare
cheaters, welfare queens, mealy-mouths the Ray-Gun-Shrub Administration.
How do the Shrubs get away with it? That is the $101 million question.
At least Shrub-face keeps it all in the family. At least he
gets to root for the Texas Rangers which son George Shrubby Jr.
purchases with ill gotten unsecured loans from Shrub family affiliated S&L institutions.
And if you don’t believe it, you can, as umpire Doug Harvey
says between blowing calls, look it up. It is a matter of broken public record.
REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
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REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
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Tyger needs to withdraw the princely sum of $50 to make
groceries for the coming week at the currently solvent bank’s
drive-through window. Too bad, a geek in a black Cadillac has
beaten him to the punch line. Tyger waits. Waits and stews for 10 minutes more.
Finally, the disembodied teller’s voice comes through loud
and clear. “Sir, we have a $l,000 drive-in limit on all cash
transactions. Do you need a deposit slip?”
The disembodied voice floats over the intercom:
“Sorry for the wait sir.”
“It’s not your fault,” Tyger notes, grabbing his
meager withdrawal in two seconds flat.
Over to Barataria Mall and the usual progression of the
Sam the Sham Nestor case with one notable exception.
Mall bro R.C. apparently unavailable for updated consultations.
Unfortunately, the carny amusement show blew Barataria Mall
never to return again. Sometimes, as Joni Mitchell sings, you
don’t know what you’ve got ’till it’s gone.
Disappointed, but unsurprised and undaunted, Tyger plays a
morning series of childish detective games with the fast moving subject.
Nestor must think he is at the Marrero 500. And he is in the front row.
Many IRS Inc. clients believe following another
vehicle is the cat’s meow. They don’t know, what they don’t know.
A maniacal driver like Nestor can be a total turkey to track.
Pinning a tail to this donkey depends on luck as much as
skill. Tyger loses the subject somewhere over the predicate, under
Westbank Expressway. Nestor runs a red light in the most
bogus fashion. Tyger, unfortunately, is trapped two vehicles
behind with no way of running the light in pursuit.
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Lost tail of woe circles the area’s wagons for a while,
returning to Sammy’s pad. No way Jose’, he is like an honest city
official, nowhere to be found. Snake eyes, this time the rat has
escaped his trap. Tyger gives Dorothy the bad news.
She takes it surprisingly well. “I know how you feel,” she commiserates.
“We still have four hours of authorization on him. We can
use an additional investigator if necessary. It might work
out better if another person drives while you use the camera.
“Do you happen to know anyone who wants to drive and work a
few hours? We can pay $8 an hour.”
Equally unfortunately, Tyger indeed knows someone who
wants to work a case for, shall we say, fun, and a few extra
ducats. “Oh that must be Armor’s,” he notes at long last after
considering all options, karmic and otherwise.
“I guess this friend of mine can help out.”
That — Lucy, you got some ‘splainin’ to do —
is how Armor ‘s was hired.
Boy, oh boy, is he ever excited.
Gretna’s newest team leaves Uptown New Orleans the next
investigative day for Barataria Boulevard’s Mad Max driving clinic
as interpreted by Sammy Nestor.
“I am going to do it to it baby,” Armor’s vows with WTUL
cranked up at ear-splitting volume. “I am going to eat this guy’s
lunch. I am going to chew him up and spit him out like a bad
seed. I am going to . . . ”
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“Enough Armor’s,” Tyger intervenes, “Enough already. Turn
down the damn radio. We have to concentrate.”
“Uhh, oh. Sorry man. I wasn’t thinking.”
“That’s O.K. Let’s get our plan ready. The game is a’foot.”
“Uhh, oh. Yeah. Game plan. Play ball. That’s the ticket.
Uhh, oh. What about if the cops stop me?”
“They won’t.”
“Yeah, but what if … ”
“Don’t worry about it,” Tyger says. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Uhh, yeah. Oh. O.K.. Sounds good. Are we there yet?”
“No. Not yet.”
Tyger lies. He is already tired of Armor’s act.
They have, in fact, just passed Nestor’s pit area.
Sure enough, the red Fiat is there and ready to rumble.
Tyger does not want to alarm Armor’s prematurely. He has a
bad feeling something bad already has happened.
REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
“O.K. Armor’s. Stop here,” Tyger orders, pointing at a gravel
parking lot outside a log cabin home sales office .
(Nothing but the most modern conveniences out there in the
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wild west bank of Marrero. One can imagine
how long such a place would stay in business. )
In any event, it is a quiet place down the street from
Sammyland from which to initiate surveillance.
Tyger settles in for the wonderful wait.
“Should we get more coffee?” Armor’s asks. “That’s what the
detectives do on Rockford Files.”
“Nah. We set. Any more coffee, we’ll be spending all day at the porta-let.”
Armor’s turns on the radio. WTUL, for some reason, is
playing an appropriate tribute to Devo during the so-called album
hour. The album hour passes. It is about 11:15 a.m.
The red Fiat backs out of the driveway and v-rooooom,
takes off down the road. Maybe, the yellow caution flag is up as
Nestor drives somewhat sanely for a change, slowly negotiating
his way towards Barataria Boulevard.
“Shake off that moss, Armor’s,” Tyger orders, “and make like
a rolling stone.” “Huh?” “Yoicks. Follow that sports car.”
“Uhh, uhhh. O.K.” Armor’s replies unsteadily. “Yeah.” He
seems to be shedding body water profusely.
“Hey, no sweat Armor’s,” Tyger says. “Chillax. Let him
pass by and get behind him like a fox.”
“But what if he, ahh he, spots us. What if he …”
“Don’t worry about it. No one can tell anything by looking in the rear-
view window. You know that. He won’t even notice.”
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“Uhhh. Oh. Uhhh … ” as Nestor, roadrunner hound
of a subject, beep beeping beeps left on Barataria Boulevard.
“O.K. man, after the silly rabbit,” Tyger orders as he starts
the VCR, picks up the camera, checks the viewfinder. All
systems go with one exception. Armor’s continues to hesitate.
He seems lost.
“Hey man, step on it,” and vroom, vroom, smoke billows from
Armor’s rusty tailpipe. They’re off, kinda sorta. The car makes
funny popping noises as Armor’s flips off a hard left barely
missing an oncoming cement truck moving away from the mall,
south towards Lafitte.
Tyger lays down the camera for a moment, grabbing on to the
lap belt from the door. He lets out a small sick moan like the
butler Lurch on the Addams Family. “Ohhhhhh.”
Armor’s is impervious, weaving between slow moving vehicles
operated by typically brain dead West Bank motorists. Not that
alarming a maneuver, technically speaking, because Sammy in the sports
car is driving in a similar manner.
Of course, Nestor is doing it out of habit with his flashy
sports car while Armor’s tactics are more ad hoc borne
of extreme nervousness.
Whatever gets the job done, however.
Subject stops at the cheapie gas station at the corner of
Barataria Boulevard and West Bank Expressway. “Uhhh. Uhhh,”
according to the now overtly nerve racked Armor’s Tungsten.
“Go into the station, Armor’s, and stop,” Tyger implores.
“He’ll see us,” Armor’s stalls.
“Don’t worry about that. Just do it.”
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“Uhh, O.K. Finally following directions, Armor’s
pulls up directly across the gasoline pump island from the red Fiat.
If there ever were a candidate for a summary court-martial …
“Not there stupid,” Tyger calls. “Stop at the edge of the
station, so it’s not so obvious.” “Uhhh, O.K,” Armor’s
acknowledges abandoning the spot with a squeal
and sudden kickstart jump. Tyger gets a clear shot
from the front of the station minimart to the pump island.
Nestor-mania emerges with a small paper bag that he flings in the car.
He pumps gasoline while Tyger records the activity.
“Good job Armor’s,” Tyger reassures the highly volatile
amateur investigator. “Good shot of the asshole. Wait until he
moves and resume the rolling surveillance.”
“What? What?” Tyger continues as Armor’s holds up his hands like
Jesus blessing the multitudes in some type of quizzical signal.
“Never mind,” Tyger replies as he catches Armor’s drift.
“I will tell you when to go.”
“Uhh. Okee Dokie smokey. You think he noticed us?” Armor’s flounders.
“He just looked at us. I saw him looking right at us.”
“I don’t care,” Tyger states flatly. “Relax. So far, so good.”
Zut and e’he, off to the races, Reason’s Boy.
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Nestor gets up on the West Bank Expressway high-rise with Armor’s
following in hotsy-totsy pursuit.
“Give him a little room, but not too much room,” Tyger
cautions. “He isn’t going to be able to pick us up in the rear
view window, but we don’t want to hug his tail yet. We want to
get a feel for what he’s doing.”
“Huh?” Armor’s replies as he accelerates awkwardly, then
slows down somewhat followed by another burst of pure combustive
energy. Gravitational force lurches Tyger forward.
Camera almost hits the front dashboard as Tyger is
thrown for a loss. “Shit, Armor’s. What the expletive deleted are
you doing? You gonna kill us.”
“Uhh, yeah yeah. Got to catch him. Got to catch him. Which
way did he go? Which way did he go? Wait. I don’t see him. Where
did he go?” Silly wabbit.
Tyger lowers the camera to assume a more proper position
burying his forehead in his left hand. “Look Armor’s. I see him
fine. Don’t worry about it. Get in the left lane.”
Armor’s does not bother looking. How mundane.
He simply cuts over, followed by loud horn honking behind his wake.
Tyger glances over his shoulder, momentarily glimpsing an
old pink haired lady in an equally ancient Ford rambler. Zoom
zoom zoom, intruder disappears in the dust.
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“Oh shit,” Tyger says out loud to himself. “Ohhhhhh,” like
Lurch again. “Look out!” he warns Armor’s, swerving across the
median line, avoiding an abandoned rubber truck tire obstacle
course, then swerving back to the left.
Tyger’s knuckles turn white from holding on to the front
dashboard for dear life. “Oh, man. There he is, get over to the
right. Get closer to him,” he manages to state.
“O.K. Here goes,” and zoom zoom, guns blazing automobile
exhaust backfire sound, Armor’s complies with instructions, sort
of. “Too close. Too close,” Tyger gasps. “Let that car get between us.”
“I don’t want to lose him man. I don’t want to lose him.”
“Lose this Armor’s,” Tyger says but refrains from making the
appropriate accompanying hand gesture.
Nestor exits on Manhattan Boulevard followed by Armor’s who
continues to wonder if the tail has been spotted.
“Don’t worry about it,” Tyger foot in mouth notes. “Probably
going to the post office. He has done that before.”
Sure ’nuff. How predictable. Fucking low-life.
“Go past, turn around, and go to the gas station over there,”
Tyger roars above the car engine.
“What? What? Where? Who?” Armor’s strings together
interrogative pronouns like a grammarian gone mad.
“What? Where? What? Who? Why?”
Wah-wah-wah-wah, nitrous sounds.
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Finally, Tyger has seen enough of this show.
Talking back to his TV boob tube, “Shut up,”
pointing, “right there, stop.”
“Uh, O.K.,” Armor’s says. “Don’t have to get mad
about it.” Lear is mad. Lady MaBeth is mad.
Tyger, like barbecued andouille sausage
Is done. As is Armor’s who moves not a whit.
“Oh wait,” Armor’s continues. “I see where. OK.”
At long last, the man of the lost hour hangs the huey;
amen, brothers and sisters. Across the boulevard,
Armor’s steers his Corolla to rest.Nestor enters
post office proper. Tyger tries to get the money shot.
It’s a post office too far. Normal protocol might include
re-positioning for a better angle. But nah. Not worth the aggravation.
Wham, bam, Sam the sham comes bouncing out of the federal
building like an Energizer bunny. Tyger gets a far shot.
“O.K. mission control,” Tyger tells Armor’s. “Blast off.”
Nothing happens. “Come on. Let’s go.”
Nope.
“What? What?” Tyger asks as Armor’s lingers. “What?”
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“Come on. What?”
Tyger lowers the camera, glowering at the calcifying
recalcitrant retainer. “Come on. What is the matter with you.
Let’s go. Go already.”
Nothing.
Nestor zooms out of the postal parking area headed
east on Manhattan Boulevard. Boom! He explodes, accelerates and
departs through the distancing dust.
Armor’s turns the key, at long fucking last starting the
motor. “Ahh. Where should I go?” he asks innocent as Snow White.
Tyger only can shake his head. “Right.” The red sports car
may be observed weaving between two Harvey municipal streets
department trucks and off beyond the rainbow.
“Just go towards the river on this street,” Tyger says
with half a heart. “Which way is that?” asks Armor’s leaving the
gas station. “Right,” Tyger says. “Turn right.”
“Ahhh. Where do you think he went?” asks Armor’s ever
obliviously curious. “Haven’t a clue, Armor’s. Just keep going. Maybe
we’ll luck out and pick him up down there.”
“You think we lost him?”
“Distinct possibility.”
“Aw man. I was just getting warmed up.”
“No doubt.”
Tyger resigns the commission. Armor’s a turns into a
fairly aimless somewhat guided missile finally follwing without
questions Tyger’s more casual directions
back to the mall, to mull over what the F was the matter.
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The dynamic duo circles various open air
West Bank shopping centers in the faint hope of
relocating the fabled red sports car.
Sorry Charlie, no luck, snake eyes on that score.
Armor’s wants to stop, grab a quick bite at the Pho Tau
Bay when he spies Expressway Lanes. “Hmmmm,” he notes,
smacking his lips in accompaniment. “Some spring rolls sure
would taste nice after such a tough assignment.”
“Seriously?” Tyger fumes. “We don’t have time for that.
Get some Cafe Sua Da to go. Then I want to check on something.”
“Uhh. O.K. captain.”
They stop at the Vietnamese restaurant for the five minutes
it takes to fill up on condensed milk sweetened java before returning
to Sammy’s Barataria Boulevard circus. No sign of the subject.
Tyger checks in with Dorothy after about 20 minutes of
negative subject activity observed from the log cabin showcase.
She tells Tyger, rather predictably, to call it a day,
bring over the tape in a few days.
“I have some good news for you,” Dorothy adds. “We are going
gung ho on Baker . Remember that crazy lady?”
“How could I forget?” Tyger replies.
“The client just authorized us to put in a lot of time on
her,” Dorothy continues with a lilt to her voice. “Joe Fine
really wants to get her done. So, you should be quite busy the
next few weeks. Probably going to do a few days each week
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through the end of June on her.
We will talk more about it when you drop the Nestor tape
off with your report. Oh, and so sorry
about the Pearly Mae mix-up. Don’t know
what Jack is thinking sometimes. Space cadet.
I’ll be around, until I get ready to drop,”
pregnant pause, “if you know what I mean.”
Returning to Armor’s sad mission control,
Tyger initiates capsule recovery lighting
an after-burner phatty. Could have been
better, half-baked ended, but that’s how it goes.
“I think we did a pretty good job
all things considered,” Armor’s says.
“When is the next case?”
“Seriously?” Tyger says. “Never.”
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“Come on, man,” Armor’s drags on.
“That wasn’t so bad. I was just
getting the hang of it.”
Oh brother, not Armor’s keeper.
“Just spoke with Dorothy,” Tyger notes wearily for this dog don’t hunt.
“Nothing coming up any time soon where they need two guys.
I will let you know if they need someone.”
“Definitely, up for another chase,” Amor’s says,
smoke clouding his mind’s eye similarly his Corolla car.
“I’m sure you are,” Tyger laughs. “I’m sure you are.
You’ll get ’em next time.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
A wild barbecue party ensues at MacLand.
Collaborative art activity takes place with great success.
Tyger goes to the bank and embarks on a detailed discussion
concerning the Savings and Loan scandals under the Reagan Administration,
especially the Silverado S&L rip-off involving Neil Bush.
Armor’s assists Tyger on the return to Sammy Nestor and all hell breaks loose.
CHAPTER 23
“Barbecue Parties and Lost Subjects Past”
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As the month of May turns hot hot hot in this hothouse of a
prison known to some as the Louisiana here and then, Tyger
continues with his daily task of existential illusion. There you
see him, there he’s gone through the looking glass.
Hippity hop. Hippity hop. Tyger impersonates a small bunny
rabbit jumping from place to place impersonating the silliness of
surrealism while contemplating the nature of disorder.
Comrades, is there nothing to be done about that?
Such is the constantly shifting task of keeping from being
driven totally insane by life’s turns and illogical twists. But
then again, it is a crazy world. Everyone walks that fine line
between personal accomplishment and possible psychological disorder
bordering on disaster.That is one of the defining factors differentiating
men from the other wild beasts lurking on the outer fringes of the unnatural
world’s orchestral maneuvers. The beasts are always crazy, baby,
at least by human interpretation.
Dreamy Tyger person has been lately recalling his nightly
visions. That seems unusual because the dream cycle only filters
into his daily consciousness on a highly irregular undefinably
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selective basis. He looks at it like an acid flashback,
a special mind’s eye bonus.
A series of three dreams occur in sequence.
One of them has recurred as well. Have they no meaning?
The first dream is a rather pleasant sojourn in a cool and
clear mountain valley about as different from the Big Easy swamp
lifescape as one might imagine. Tyger descends down the valley
into a blooming field of sinsemilla marijuana buds flowering.
No great mystery there.
He stoops to conquer, sniffing a particularly potent bud
exuding the sweetest fragrance ever. Nice dream.
Thanks, inner mind of the beast, for sharing that.
Second dream has a more surreal aura, and difficult
interpretation. Tyger is enclosed in a kind of prisoner of war
camp, a square city block surrounded by high barbed wire and
watch towers manned by big hairy guys with machine guns and black
hairy arms. They look like human apes, an army of Roots Badburns.
Tyger stands upright pissed off below. He seems to be
considered somewhat of a leader byother poor prisoner souls.
Maybe it is a representation of the American gulag that exists
everywhere but remains invisible outside of Guantanamo Bay .
Yard contains only birds in street clothes waddling aimlessly
through purple haze. Individuals of both sexes continue
normal monkey business immediately outside the fence.
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The “political prisoners” want to escape,
naturally. One beckons to Tyger.
They walk to the end of the fence beneath a guard tower.
Guard looks away from them. Door flings open.
Tyger calmly walks through like in a movie scene
where the main character flies through time
by entering an eerie portal.
The other prisoners notice this.
They raise their voices in a loud huzzah cheer
as he stands safely outside.
“For he is a jolly good fellow!” they cry.
Tyger celebrates with a Mark Gastineau type sack dance,
popular before being outlawed by No Fun League
Commissar Pete Rozelle.
Standing on the outside, Tyger mocks the guards.
“You can’t hold me you assholes. I am free.
You have no power outside the fence.”
They do nothing.
Some men walk over, imploring Tyger to help them escape.
Try as he might to devise a plan, he is stumped.
So much for lucid dreams as real life Tyger awakes.
The third of this dream trilogy involves the subject of spiritual love.
Tyger has this vision three nights in a row.
He rides in the back of an open bed truck.
In charge of a bird cage containing the same girl he believes
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he has seen before with long black hair, flowing white dress.
Maybe she is the Spanish dancer for she is thin and light on her feet.
He feels pity for her. She speaks to him, telling him her
name. It is something like Marian. He opens the cage, frees her,
and she becomes a beautiful black bird that flies away.
He cries upon seeing that.
Dreams of freedom, or so it seems, these
last fine days of May. Who knows what a dream means, after all.
Maybe only a parlor game. Maybe they have deeper
psychological significance. Maybe Tyger has watched David Lynch’s
“Blue Velvet” one million too many times.
From dreamtime to space time, then.
Late May means Mac and his world have embarked big time
on their annual passion for nearly daily barbecue running like
Rickey Henderson through the end of the baseball season.
As Tyger sails into MacLand’s shores, the impresario is busy in back
flaming charcoal, roughly massaging the Old Smokey grill
with lighter fluid, cooking up a coming storm.
Tyger helps Mac compose a song while he cooks.
“Where’s the chicken?” Tyger asks.
“Missing information,” Mac responds.
“Stuck between floors.”
“Between two whores.”
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Mac grins as he covers the blackened grill surface with a
grey Old Smokey lid emblazoned with the MacLand coat of arms in
black paint. That is to say a picture of the mad Mac bongo man
design maniacally banging his drums in dark effigy forever
suspended on the light grey metal top.
“Hold that thought,” Mac continues. “Let’s go inside.” Which
they do, Mac gliding over to the four-track recorder that he
flicks of the wrist on causing the tape to spin rapidly.
“O.K. Got to get it on here.”
Mac adjusts a drum machine, picks up the bongos, begins
playing, da da da dada, da da da dada. Armor’s walks in
the room at the precise moment ordained by
higher consciousness or fate.
Armor’s picks up the mystery saxophone.
Wah wah wah, wah
wah, wah wah wah … ”
So begins a collaborative effort. Tyger continues with
MacLand’s Bongoloids Interview based on memory retrieval.
What follows is a partial transcription of the, shall we say, song:
Tyger: (Marijuana smoke exhaling.) That came out funny. What
about rhythm?
Mac: In place of spontaneity I prefer rhythm.
Tyger: Are Mac’s words art?
Mac: Garbage in, garbage out.
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Tyger: Where’s the chicken?
Mac: Missing information.
(Wah wah wah. Da dada da da. Wah wah wah. Da da da dada … )
Tyger: What·s the infinite?
Mac: I’ve got your fun.
Tyger: Any more thoughts about …
Mac: Primitive relationships.
Tyger: Can it last?
Mac: I spilled my batteries.
Tyger: Postmortems or postmasters?
Mac: (????????????)
(Waaaaaaaaaaaaaah! Bloo-blooey. Hahahaha.)
Mac raises his arms in triumph, shutting off the tape deck.
“I will add a few tracks and polish this off later,” he aside notes.
Mac, Tyger, and Armor’s return outside perching on back
steps watching the cover on top of Old Smokey smoke
like a house on fire. Add to this the wonderful aroma of
barbecuing chicken, ribs, and sausage, one might imagine the
ambiance of the moment.
“Hey big Mac. Tyger and I are going to work on a case,”
Armor’s informs while Tyger smiles nervously.
“My condolences,” Mac observes.
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Whiling away the rest of the day, sun setting in the
distant frame of background levee fronting riverbend curving
towards the Huey P. Long Bridge. Dogs, persons jogging and being
walked by dogs, children, and yes over there struts a white
mother pelican guiding her new offspring along a muddy estuary.
An electric grid blinks wildly as if signalling to extraterrestrials
that this seems like a good place to land. And of course,
E.T.’s can walk from that site to Mac’s nearby pad
for the latest culinary and musical delights.
Sarah is inside speaking with her sister on the telephone.
Home boy animal cats hang around the Old Smokey perimeter. They
beg for scraps which they seem to believe, given their loud cries
for attention, surely will be tossed like Hephaestus out
immediately by Zeus and the lesser food gods.
Typical feline logic, but no dice. Tough luck cats, these
good eats are for human beings first. Food god worship
will have to wait for scraps.
Mac removes Old Smokey’s crown like Mount St. Helens,
cautiously placing it on the ground
as the two cats, one black and one white
illustrating racial harmony, scurry with equal fervor for cover
underneath the wood frame house.
Eventually, the hepcats will figure it out, as they stealthily
wander closer, ever closer, to the grill; eventually being bombed
with the prevailing scraps, thinking that somehow they have
pulled off some sneaky trick. (Sorry cats, you are no Bill Casey.)
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Such is the natural order of a place called MacLand for the
purposes of recollection. Taking a knife, Mac cuts sausage slices
for sampling purposes. Yum yum yum yum. Tastes great,
and that ain’t no beer commercial filling.
Idyllic intermission between surveillance engagements.
Mac relaxes, leaning back on the steps as another BBQ
joint joint is smoked. The Drug Enforcement Agency can only
steal so much fun with hard-working citizen’s tax dollars.
Stage fright right on past the terribly terrific trio embarking on the
artistic diversion au courant; in this case, the latest craze
which is called the poetry game. They draw straws to determine
who begins, part of the objective being to finish a line as soon
as possible. It is kind of a speed art competition in which everyone wins.
They take turns alternating lines for what might be, what
could be, what is . .. a darn good-looking ode to the muse of
barbecue party fun.
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Mac: Like a polaroid injected into fetid atmosphere
You discharge my colors by rubbing me
With foreign objects
Tyg: Ayatollah breath
Arm: (Pass.)
Mac: I substituted a strange rash of emotions
For my habits
Tyg: Which are strange dreams
Better dreamt than dead
Arm: (Pass. )
Mac: Like robots that never know they are machines
But keep on working instead
Tyg: They are the working world
Performing, if they could, as trained birds
Arm: Or parrots
Mac: No more able to speak
Than I am able to deal with this life
Tyg: Falling like fruit from a banana tree
Arm: (Pass.)
Mac: My peeling is all that protects me
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Tyg: Welcome to the 1980’s
Mac: Now have fun by matching gears with my machines
Arm: Or throwing pears at your latrine
Mac: I should try to illustrate how to have fun. Figure one would disintegrate inhibitions
Tyg: Hosing down my careful intonations. If they had brains, they’d need less food
Arm: Yoooowwwwiiiieeee! The end, bro’s.
So it goes, apologies to nobodies and everyones.
Lean sausage cuisine is followed
by the chicken course which, in turn, is followed
by the final rib course with side salad and baked potato
thrown in for good measure.
Mac and Armor’s wash down the repast with Dixie Beer
While Tyger downs some PurpleSaurasRex
grape-lemonade flavored Kool-Aid.
The cats, feline division, emerge
from under the house to claim their bootalicious
bounty from the self-designated food gods.
Barbecue partying lingers until prime time
TV displaces consciousness with what
passes for that’s entertainment.
Tyger and Armor’s take their leave, kind sirs
while Mac and Sarah do whatever it is they do at night.
Another barbecue party has bitten off
as much as it could chew.
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The next waiting for the sunrise
considered for the permanent record breaks
like a pony of beer on Tuesday June 7, 1988. It is followed by a
visit to the Crescent City Bank of Rip-Off where Tyger is by
statute of elimination now forced to store his meager amount of
available cash.
Two other institutions where the Tygermeister previously had
deposits have gone into officially government sanctioned
receivership as specified by savings and loan bailout programs
instituted under the Ray-Gun administration.
You remember comrades, the guys who pledged to get
government off your backs. Guess some backs are broader than others.
Tyger feels a bit honored by having to switch accounts
between three institutions, each time encountering new and
different deposit rules to be broken, thoroughly
confusing him as a law abiding taxpaying citizen.
Obviously, if the S&L went out of business it must have been
owned by a close relative of Vice-President Shrub since his
kinfolk are engaged in the receiving end of the bailout scandal.
Sonny boy Neil Bush spends 1985 to 1988 as vice
president of Denver-based Silverado Banking, Savings and Loan
Association despite having no banking experience.
Silverado goes belly up in 1988 resulting in a $1 billion government bailout.
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The federal Office of Thrift Supervision accepts an
administrative law judge’s finding that Neillypoo Shrub’s
undisclosed business partnerships with two large borrowers
constitutes a conflict of interest.
Shrub votes to approve more than $100 million in loans for
Bill C. Walters, a developer with large investments in the Shrub
oil business. Shrub recommends a $900,000 line of credit for a
joint venture between himself and Kenneth M. Good, another Shrub
oil company investor.
Good? Good God. Bad, bad Shrubby. Walters defaults on his loan.
Good never repays his line of credit.
Get the government off our backs. Get rid of welfare
cheaters, welfare queens, mealy-mouths the Ray-Gun-Shrub Administration.
How do the Shrubs get away with it? That is the $101 million question.
At least Shrub-face keeps it all in the family. At least he
gets to root for the Texas Rangers which son George Shrubby Jr.
purchases with ill gotten unsecured loans from Shrub family affiliated S&L institutions.
And if you don’t believe it, you can, as umpire Doug Harvey
says between blowing calls, look it up. It is a matter of broken public record.
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Tyger needs to withdraw the princely sum of $50 to make
groceries for the coming week at the currently solvent bank’s
drive-through window. Too bad, a geek in a black Cadillac has
beaten him to the punch line. Tyger waits. Waits and stews for 10 minutes more.
Finally, the disembodied teller’s voice comes through loud
and clear. “Sir, we have a $l,000 drive-in limit on all cash
transactions. Do you need a deposit slip?”
The disembodied voice floats over the intercom:
“Sorry for the wait sir.”
“It’s not your fault,” Tyger notes, grabbing his
meager withdrawal in two seconds flat.
Over to Barataria Mall and the usual progression of the
Sam the Sham Nestor case with one notable exception.
Mall bro R.C. apparently unavailable for updated consultations.
Unfortunately, the carny amusement show blew Barataria Mall
never to return again. Sometimes, as Joni Mitchell sings, you
don’t know what you’ve got ’till it’s gone.
Disappointed, but unsurprised and undaunted, Tyger plays a
morning series of childish detective games with the fast moving subject.
Nestor must think he is at the Marrero 500. And he is in the front row.
Many IRS Inc. clients believe following another
vehicle is the cat’s meow. They don’t know, what they don’t know.
A maniacal driver like Nestor can be a total turkey to track.
Pinning a tail to this donkey depends on luck as much as
skill. Tyger loses the subject somewhere over the predicate, under
Westbank Expressway. Nestor runs a red light in the most
bogus fashion. Tyger, unfortunately, is trapped two vehicles
behind with no way of running the light in pursuit.
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Lost tail of woe circles the area’s wagons for a while,
returning to Sammy’s pad. No way Jose’, he is like an honest city
official, nowhere to be found. Snake eyes, this time the rat has
escaped his trap. Tyger gives Dorothy the bad news.
She takes it surprisingly well. “I know how you feel,” she commiserates.
“We still have four hours of authorization on him. We can
use an additional investigator if necessary. It might work
out better if another person drives while you use the camera.
“Do you happen to know anyone who wants to drive and work a
few hours? We can pay $8 an hour.”
Equally unfortunately, Tyger indeed knows someone who
wants to work a case for, shall we say, fun, and a few extra
ducats. “Oh that must be Armor’s,” he notes at long last after
considering all options, karmic and otherwise.
“I guess this friend of mine can help out.”
That — Lucy, you got some ‘splainin’ to do —
is how Armor ‘s was hired.
Boy, oh boy, is he ever excited.
Gretna’s newest team leaves Uptown New Orleans the next
investigative day for Barataria Boulevard’s Mad Max driving clinic
as interpreted by Sammy Nestor.
“I am going to do it to it baby,” Armor’s vows with WTUL
cranked up at ear-splitting volume. “I am going to eat this guy’s
lunch. I am going to chew him up and spit him out like a bad
seed. I am going to . . . ”
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“Enough Armor’s,” Tyger intervenes, “Enough already. Turn
down the damn radio. We have to concentrate.”
“Uhh, oh. Sorry man. I wasn’t thinking.”
“That’s O.K. Let’s get our plan ready. The game is a’foot.”
“Uhh, oh. Yeah. Game plan. Play ball. That’s the ticket.
Uhh, oh. What about if the cops stop me?”
“They won’t.”
“Yeah, but what if … ”
“Don’t worry about it,” Tyger says. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Uhh, yeah. Oh. O.K.. Sounds good. Are we there yet?”
“No. Not yet.”
Tyger lies. He is already tired of Armor’s act.
They have, in fact, just passed Nestor’s pit area.
Sure enough, the red Fiat is there and ready to rumble.
Tyger does not want to alarm Armor’s prematurely. He has a
bad feeling something bad already has happened.
REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
“O.K. Armor’s. Stop here,” Tyger orders, pointing at a gravel
parking lot outside a log cabin home sales office .
(Nothing but the most modern conveniences out there in the
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wild west bank of Marrero. One can imagine
how long such a place would stay in business. )
In any event, it is a quiet place down the street from
Sammyland from which to initiate surveillance.
Tyger settles in for the wonderful wait.
“Should we get more coffee?” Armor’s asks. “That’s what the
detectives do on Rockford Files.”
“Nah. We set. Any more coffee, we’ll be spending all day at the porta-let.”
Armor’s turns on the radio. WTUL, for some reason, is
playing an appropriate tribute to Devo during the so-called album
hour. The album hour passes. It is about 11:15 a.m.
The red Fiat backs out of the driveway and v-rooooom,
takes off down the road. Maybe, the yellow caution flag is up as
Nestor drives somewhat sanely for a change, slowly negotiating
his way towards Barataria Boulevard.
“Shake off that moss, Armor’s,” Tyger orders, “and make like
a rolling stone.” “Huh?” “Yoicks. Follow that sports car.”
“Uhh, uhhh. O.K.” Armor’s replies unsteadily. “Yeah.” He
seems to be shedding body water profusely.
“Hey, no sweat Armor’s,” Tyger says. “Chillax. Let him
pass by and get behind him like a fox.”
“But what if he, ahh he, spots us. What if he …”
“Don’t worry about it. No one can tell anything by looking in the rear-
view window. You know that. He won’t even notice.”
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“Uhhh. Oh. Uhhh … ” as Nestor, roadrunner hound
of a subject, beep beeping beeps left on Barataria Boulevard.
“O.K. man, after the silly rabbit,” Tyger orders as he starts
the VCR, picks up the camera, checks the viewfinder. All
systems go with one exception. Armor’s continues to hesitate.
He seems lost.
“Hey man, step on it,” and vroom, vroom, smoke billows from
Armor’s rusty tailpipe. They’re off, kinda sorta. The car makes
funny popping noises as Armor’s flips off a hard left barely
missing an oncoming cement truck moving away from the mall,
south towards Lafitte.
Tyger lays down the camera for a moment, grabbing on to the
lap belt from the door. He lets out a small sick moan like the
butler Lurch on the Addams Family. “Ohhhhhh.”
Armor’s is impervious, weaving between slow moving vehicles
operated by typically brain dead West Bank motorists. Not that
alarming a maneuver, technically speaking, because Sammy in the sports
car is driving in a similar manner.
Of course, Nestor is doing it out of habit with his flashy
sports car while Armor’s tactics are more ad hoc borne
of extreme nervousness.
Whatever gets the job done, however.
Subject stops at the cheapie gas station at the corner of
Barataria Boulevard and West Bank Expressway. “Uhhh. Uhhh,”
according to the now overtly nerve racked Armor’s Tungsten.
“Go into the station, Armor’s, and stop,” Tyger implores.
“He’ll see us,” Armor’s stalls.
“Don’t worry about that. Just do it.”
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“Uhh, O.K. Finally following directions, Armor’s
pulls up directly across the gasoline pump island from the red Fiat.
If there ever were a candidate for a summary court-martial …
“Not there stupid,” Tyger calls. “Stop at the edge of the
station, so it’s not so obvious.” “Uhhh, O.K,” Armor’s
acknowledges abandoning the spot with a squeal
and sudden kickstart jump. Tyger gets a clear shot
from the front of the station minimart to the pump island.
Nestor-mania emerges with a small paper bag that he flings in the car.
He pumps gasoline while Tyger records the activity.
“Good job Armor’s,” Tyger reassures the highly volatile
amateur investigator. “Good shot of the asshole. Wait until he
moves and resume the rolling surveillance.”
“What? What?” Tyger continues as Armor’s holds up his hands like
Jesus blessing the multitudes in some type of quizzical signal.
“Never mind,” Tyger replies as he catches Armor’s drift.
“I will tell you when to go.”
“Uhh. Okee Dokie smokey. You think he noticed us?” Armor’s flounders.
“He just looked at us. I saw him looking right at us.”
“I don’t care,” Tyger states flatly. “Relax. So far, so good.”
Zut and e’he, off to the races, Reason’s Boy.
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Nestor gets up on the West Bank Expressway high-rise with Armor’s
following in hotsy-totsy pursuit.
“Give him a little room, but not too much room,” Tyger
cautions. “He isn’t going to be able to pick us up in the rear
view window, but we don’t want to hug his tail yet. We want to
get a feel for what he’s doing.”
“Huh?” Armor’s replies as he accelerates awkwardly, then
slows down somewhat followed by another burst of pure combustive
energy. Gravitational force lurches Tyger forward.
Camera almost hits the front dashboard as Tyger is
thrown for a loss. “Shit, Armor’s. What the expletive deleted are
you doing? You gonna kill us.”
“Uhh, yeah yeah. Got to catch him. Got to catch him. Which
way did he go? Which way did he go? Wait. I don’t see him. Where
did he go?” Silly wabbit.
Tyger lowers the camera to assume a more proper position
burying his forehead in his left hand. “Look Armor’s. I see him
fine. Don’t worry about it. Get in the left lane.”
Armor’s does not bother looking. How mundane.
He simply cuts over, followed by loud horn honking behind his wake.
Tyger glances over his shoulder, momentarily glimpsing an
old pink haired lady in an equally ancient Ford rambler. Zoom
zoom zoom, intruder disappears in the dust.
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“Oh shit,” Tyger says out loud to himself. “Ohhhhhh,” like
Lurch again. “Look out!” he warns Armor’s, swerving across the
median line, avoiding an abandoned rubber truck tire obstacle
course, then swerving back to the left.
Tyger’s knuckles turn white from holding on to the front
dashboard for dear life. “Oh, man. There he is, get over to the
right. Get closer to him,” he manages to state.
“O.K. Here goes,” and zoom zoom, guns blazing automobile
exhaust backfire sound, Armor’s complies with instructions, sort
of. “Too close. Too close,” Tyger gasps. “Let that car get between us.”
“I don’t want to lose him man. I don’t want to lose him.”
“Lose this Armor’s,” Tyger says but refrains from making the
appropriate accompanying hand gesture.
Nestor exits on Manhattan Boulevard followed by Armor’s who
continues to wonder if the tail has been spotted.
“Don’t worry about it,” Tyger foot in mouth notes. “Probably
going to the post office. He has done that before.”
Sure ’nuff. How predictable. Fucking low-life.
“Go past, turn around, and go to the gas station over there,”
Tyger roars above the car engine.
“What? What? Where? Who?” Armor’s strings together
interrogative pronouns like a grammarian gone mad.
“What? Where? What? Who? Why?”
Wah-wah-wah-wah, nitrous sounds.
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Finally, Tyger has seen enough of this show.
Talking back to his TV boob tube, “Shut up,”
pointing, “right there, stop.”
“Uh, O.K.,” Armor’s says. “Don’t have to get mad
about it.” Lear is mad. Lady MaBeth is mad.
Tyger, like barbecued andouille sausage
Is done. As is Armor’s who moves not a whit.
“Oh wait,” Armor’s continues. “I see where. OK.”
At long last, the man of the lost hour hangs the huey;
amen, brothers and sisters. Across the boulevard,
Armor’s steers his Corolla to rest.Nestor enters
post office proper. Tyger tries to get the money shot.
It’s a post office too far. Normal protocol might include
re-positioning for a better angle. But nah. Not worth the aggravation.
Wham, bam, Sam the sham comes bouncing out of the federal
building like an Energizer bunny. Tyger gets a far shot.
“O.K. mission control,” Tyger tells Armor’s. “Blast off.”
Nothing happens. “Come on. Let’s go.”
Nope.
“What? What?” Tyger asks as Armor’s lingers. “What?”
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“Come on. What?”
Tyger lowers the camera, glowering at the calcifying
recalcitrant retainer. “Come on. What is the matter with you.
Let’s go. Go already.”
Nothing.
Nestor zooms out of the postal parking area headed
east on Manhattan Boulevard. Boom! He explodes, accelerates and
departs through the distancing dust.
Armor’s turns the key, at long fucking last starting the
motor. “Ahh. Where should I go?” he asks innocent as Snow White.
Tyger only can shake his head. “Right.” The red sports car
may be observed weaving between two Harvey municipal streets
department trucks and off beyond the rainbow.
“Just go towards the river on this street,” Tyger says
with half a heart. “Which way is that?” asks Armor’s leaving the
gas station. “Right,” Tyger says. “Turn right.”
“Ahhh. Where do you think he went?” asks Armor’s ever
obliviously curious. “Haven’t a clue, Armor’s. Just keep going. Maybe
we’ll luck out and pick him up down there.”
“You think we lost him?”
“Distinct possibility.”
“Aw man. I was just getting warmed up.”
“No doubt.”
Tyger resigns the commission. Armor’s a turns into a
fairly aimless somewhat guided missile finally follwing without
questions Tyger’s more casual directions
back to the mall, to mull over what the F was the matter.
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The dynamic duo circles various open air
West Bank shopping centers in the faint hope of
relocating the fabled red sports car.
Sorry Charlie, no luck, snake eyes on that score.
Armor’s wants to stop, grab a quick bite at the Pho Tau
Bay when he spies Expressway Lanes. “Hmmmm,” he notes,
smacking his lips in accompaniment. “Some spring rolls sure
would taste nice after such a tough assignment.”
“Seriously?” Tyger fumes. “We don’t have time for that.
Get some Cafe Sua Da to go. Then I want to check on something.”
“Uhh. O.K. captain.”
They stop at the Vietnamese restaurant for the five minutes
it takes to fill up on condensed milk sweetened java before returning
to Sammy’s Barataria Boulevard circus. No sign of the subject.
Tyger checks in with Dorothy after about 20 minutes of
negative subject activity observed from the log cabin showcase.
She tells Tyger, rather predictably, to call it a day,
bring over the tape in a few days.
“I have some good news for you,” Dorothy adds. “We are going
gung ho on Baker . Remember that crazy lady?”
“How could I forget?” Tyger replies.
“The client just authorized us to put in a lot of time on
her,” Dorothy continues with a lilt to her voice. “Joe Fine
really wants to get her done. So, you should be quite busy the
next few weeks. Probably going to do a few days each week
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through the end of June on her.
We will talk more about it when you drop the Nestor tape
off with your report. Oh, and so sorry
about the Pearly Mae mix-up. Don’t know
what Jack is thinking sometimes. Space cadet.
I’ll be around, until I get ready to drop,”
pregnant pause, “if you know what I mean.”
Returning to Armor’s sad mission control,
Tyger initiates capsule recovery lighting
an after-burner phatty. Could have been
better, half-baked ended, but that’s how it goes.
“I think we did a pretty good job
all things considered,” Armor’s says.
“When is the next case?”
“Seriously?” Tyger says. “Never.”
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“Come on, man,” Armor’s drags on.
“That wasn’t so bad. I was just
getting the hang of it.”
Oh brother, not Armor’s keeper.
“Just spoke with Dorothy,” Tyger notes wearily for this dog don’t hunt.
“Nothing coming up any time soon where they need two guys.
I will let you know if they need someone.”
“Definitely, up for another chase,” Amor’s says,
smoke clouding his mind’s eye similarly his Corolla car.
“I’m sure you are,” Tyger laughs. “I’m sure you are.
You’ll get ’em next time.”
SURVEILLANCE PELICANA
BY
DAN WEISMAN
The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:
Chapters 1-10: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-full-book-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/.)
Chapters 11-20: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-ii-chapters-11-to-20-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/)
Chapters 21-30: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-iii-chapters-21-to-30-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
A wild barbecue party ensues at MacLand.
Collaborative art activity takes place with great success.
Tyger goes to the bank and embarks on a detailed discussion
concerning the Savings and Loan scandals under the Reagan Administration,
especially the Silverado S&L rip-off involving Neil Bush.
Armor’s assists Tyger on the return to Sammy Nestor and all hell breaks loose.
CHAPTER 23
“Barbecue Parties and Lost Subjects Past”
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As the month of May turns hot hot hot in this hothouse of a
prison known to some as the Louisiana here and then, Tyger
continues with his daily task of existential illusion. There you
see him, there he’s gone through the looking glass.
Hippity hop. Hippity hop. Tyger impersonates a small bunny
rabbit jumping from place to place impersonating the silliness of
surrealism while contemplating the nature of disorder.
Comrades, is there nothing to be done about that?
Such is the constantly shifting task of keeping from being
driven totally insane by life’s turns and illogical twists. But
then again, it is a crazy world. Everyone walks that fine line
between personal accomplishment and possible psychological disorder
bordering on disaster.That is one of the defining factors differentiating
men from the other wild beasts lurking on the outer fringes of the unnatural
world’s orchestral maneuvers. The beasts are always crazy, baby,
at least by human interpretation.
Dreamy Tyger person has been lately recalling his nightly
visions. That seems unusual because the dream cycle only filters
into his daily consciousness on a highly irregular undefinably
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selective basis. He looks at it like an acid flashback,
a special mind’s eye bonus.
A series of three dreams occur in sequence.
One of them has recurred as well. Have they no meaning?
The first dream is a rather pleasant sojourn in a cool and
clear mountain valley about as different from the Big Easy swamp
lifescape as one might imagine. Tyger descends down the valley
into a blooming field of sinsemilla marijuana buds flowering.
No great mystery there.
He stoops to conquer, sniffing a particularly potent bud
exuding the sweetest fragrance ever. Nice dream.
Thanks, inner mind of the beast, for sharing that.
Second dream has a more surreal aura, and difficult
interpretation. Tyger is enclosed in a kind of prisoner of war
camp, a square city block surrounded by high barbed wire and
watch towers manned by big hairy guys with machine guns and black
hairy arms. They look like human apes, an army of Roots Badburns.
Tyger stands upright pissed off below. He seems to be
considered somewhat of a leader byother poor prisoner souls.
Maybe it is a representation of the American gulag that exists
everywhere but remains invisible outside of Guantanamo Bay .
Yard contains only birds in street clothes waddling aimlessly
through purple haze. Individuals of both sexes continue
normal monkey business immediately outside the fence.
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The “political prisoners” want to escape,
naturally. One beckons to Tyger.
They walk to the end of the fence beneath a guard tower.
Guard looks away from them. Door flings open.
Tyger calmly walks through like in a movie scene
where the main character flies through time
by entering an eerie portal.
The other prisoners notice this.
They raise their voices in a loud huzzah cheer
as he stands safely outside.
“For he is a jolly good fellow!” they cry.
Tyger celebrates with a Mark Gastineau type sack dance,
popular before being outlawed by No Fun League
Commissar Pete Rozelle.
Standing on the outside, Tyger mocks the guards.
“You can’t hold me you assholes. I am free.
You have no power outside the fence.”
They do nothing.
Some men walk over, imploring Tyger to help them escape.
Try as he might to devise a plan, he is stumped.
So much for lucid dreams as real life Tyger awakes.
The third of this dream trilogy involves the subject of spiritual love.
Tyger has this vision three nights in a row.
He rides in the back of an open bed truck.
In charge of a bird cage containing the same girl he believes
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he has seen before with long black hair, flowing white dress.
Maybe she is the Spanish dancer for she is thin and light on her feet.
He feels pity for her. She speaks to him, telling him her
name. It is something like Marian. He opens the cage, frees her,
and she becomes a beautiful black bird that flies away.
He cries upon seeing that.
Dreams of freedom, or so it seems, these
last fine days of May. Who knows what a dream means, after all.
Maybe only a parlor game. Maybe they have deeper
psychological significance. Maybe Tyger has watched David Lynch’s
“Blue Velvet” one million too many times.
From dreamtime to space time, then.
Late May means Mac and his world have embarked big time
on their annual passion for nearly daily barbecue running like
Rickey Henderson through the end of the baseball season.
As Tyger sails into MacLand’s shores, the impresario is busy in back
flaming charcoal, roughly massaging the Old Smokey grill
with lighter fluid, cooking up a coming storm.
Tyger helps Mac compose a song while he cooks.
“Where’s the chicken?” Tyger asks.
“Missing information,” Mac responds.
“Stuck between floors.”
“Between two whores.”
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Mac grins as he covers the blackened grill surface with a
grey Old Smokey lid emblazoned with the MacLand coat of arms in
black paint. That is to say a picture of the mad Mac bongo man
design maniacally banging his drums in dark effigy forever
suspended on the light grey metal top.
“Hold that thought,” Mac continues. “Let’s go inside.” Which
they do, Mac gliding over to the four-track recorder that he
flicks of the wrist on causing the tape to spin rapidly.
“O.K. Got to get it on here.”
Mac adjusts a drum machine, picks up the bongos, begins
playing, da da da dada, da da da dada. Armor’s walks in
the room at the precise moment ordained by
higher consciousness or fate.
Armor’s picks up the mystery saxophone.
Wah wah wah, wah
wah, wah wah wah … ”
So begins a collaborative effort. Tyger continues with
MacLand’s Bongoloids Interview based on memory retrieval.
What follows is a partial transcription of the, shall we say, song:
Tyger: (Marijuana smoke exhaling.) That came out funny. What
about rhythm?
Mac: In place of spontaneity I prefer rhythm.
Tyger: Are Mac’s words art?
Mac: Garbage in, garbage out.
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Tyger: Where’s the chicken?
Mac: Missing information.
(Wah wah wah. Da dada da da. Wah wah wah. Da da da dada … )
Tyger: What·s the infinite?
Mac: I’ve got your fun.
Tyger: Any more thoughts about …
Mac: Primitive relationships.
Tyger: Can it last?
Mac: I spilled my batteries.
Tyger: Postmortems or postmasters?
Mac: (????????????)
(Waaaaaaaaaaaaaah! Bloo-blooey. Hahahaha.)
Mac raises his arms in triumph, shutting off the tape deck.
“I will add a few tracks and polish this off later,” he aside notes.
Mac, Tyger, and Armor’s return outside perching on back
steps watching the cover on top of Old Smokey smoke
like a house on fire. Add to this the wonderful aroma of
barbecuing chicken, ribs, and sausage, one might imagine the
ambiance of the moment.
“Hey big Mac. Tyger and I are going to work on a case,”
Armor’s informs while Tyger smiles nervously.
“My condolences,” Mac observes.
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Whiling away the rest of the day, sun setting in the
distant frame of background levee fronting riverbend curving
towards the Huey P. Long Bridge. Dogs, persons jogging and being
walked by dogs, children, and yes over there struts a white
mother pelican guiding her new offspring along a muddy estuary.
An electric grid blinks wildly as if signalling to extraterrestrials
that this seems like a good place to land. And of course,
E.T.’s can walk from that site to Mac’s nearby pad
for the latest culinary and musical delights.
Sarah is inside speaking with her sister on the telephone.
Home boy animal cats hang around the Old Smokey perimeter. They
beg for scraps which they seem to believe, given their loud cries
for attention, surely will be tossed like Hephaestus out
immediately by Zeus and the lesser food gods.
Typical feline logic, but no dice. Tough luck cats, these
good eats are for human beings first. Food god worship
will have to wait for scraps.
Mac removes Old Smokey’s crown like Mount St. Helens,
cautiously placing it on the ground
as the two cats, one black and one white
illustrating racial harmony, scurry with equal fervor for cover
underneath the wood frame house.
Eventually, the hepcats will figure it out, as they stealthily
wander closer, ever closer, to the grill; eventually being bombed
with the prevailing scraps, thinking that somehow they have
pulled off some sneaky trick. (Sorry cats, you are no Bill Casey.)
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Such is the natural order of a place called MacLand for the
purposes of recollection. Taking a knife, Mac cuts sausage slices
for sampling purposes. Yum yum yum yum. Tastes great,
and that ain’t no beer commercial filling.
Idyllic intermission between surveillance engagements.
Mac relaxes, leaning back on the steps as another BBQ
joint joint is smoked. The Drug Enforcement Agency can only
steal so much fun with hard-working citizen’s tax dollars.
Stage fright right on past the terribly terrific trio embarking on the
artistic diversion au courant; in this case, the latest craze
which is called the poetry game. They draw straws to determine
who begins, part of the objective being to finish a line as soon
as possible. It is kind of a speed art competition in which everyone wins.
They take turns alternating lines for what might be, what
could be, what is . .. a darn good-looking ode to the muse of
barbecue party fun.
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Mac: Like a polaroid injected into fetid atmosphere
You discharge my colors by rubbing me
With foreign objects
Tyg: Ayatollah breath
Arm: (Pass.)
Mac: I substituted a strange rash of emotions
For my habits
Tyg: Which are strange dreams
Better dreamt than dead
Arm: (Pass. )
Mac: Like robots that never know they are machines
But keep on working instead
Tyg: They are the working world
Performing, if they could, as trained birds
Arm: Or parrots
Mac: No more able to speak
Than I am able to deal with this life
Tyg: Falling like fruit from a banana tree
Arm: (Pass.)
Mac: My peeling is all that protects me
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Tyg: Welcome to the 1980’s
Mac: Now have fun by matching gears with my machines
Arm: Or throwing pears at your latrine
Mac: I should try to illustrate how to have fun. Figure one would disintegrate inhibitions
Tyg: Hosing down my careful intonations. If they had brains, they’d need less food
Arm: Yoooowwwwiiiieeee! The end, bro’s.
So it goes, apologies to nobodies and everyones.
Lean sausage cuisine is followed
by the chicken course which, in turn, is followed
by the final rib course with side salad and baked potato
thrown in for good measure.
Mac and Armor’s wash down the repast with Dixie Beer
While Tyger downs some PurpleSaurasRex
grape-lemonade flavored Kool-Aid.
The cats, feline division, emerge
from under the house to claim their bootalicious
bounty from the self-designated food gods.
Barbecue partying lingers until prime time
TV displaces consciousness with what
passes for that’s entertainment.
Tyger and Armor’s take their leave, kind sirs
while Mac and Sarah do whatever it is they do at night.
Another barbecue party has bitten off
as much as it could chew.
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The next waiting for the sunrise
considered for the permanent record breaks
like a pony of beer on Tuesday June 7, 1988. It is followed by a
visit to the Crescent City Bank of Rip-Off where Tyger is by
statute of elimination now forced to store his meager amount of
available cash.
Two other institutions where the Tygermeister previously had
deposits have gone into officially government sanctioned
receivership as specified by savings and loan bailout programs
instituted under the Ray-Gun administration.
You remember comrades, the guys who pledged to get
government off your backs. Guess some backs are broader than others.
Tyger feels a bit honored by having to switch accounts
between three institutions, each time encountering new and
different deposit rules to be broken, thoroughly
confusing him as a law abiding taxpaying citizen.
Obviously, if the S&L went out of business it must have been
owned by a close relative of Vice-President Shrub since his
kinfolk are engaged in the receiving end of the bailout scandal.
Sonny boy Neil Bush spends 1985 to 1988 as vice
president of Denver-based Silverado Banking, Savings and Loan
Association despite having no banking experience.
Silverado goes belly up in 1988 resulting in a $1 billion government bailout.
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The federal Office of Thrift Supervision accepts an
administrative law judge’s finding that Neillypoo Shrub’s
undisclosed business partnerships with two large borrowers
constitutes a conflict of interest.
Shrub votes to approve more than $100 million in loans for
Bill C. Walters, a developer with large investments in the Shrub
oil business. Shrub recommends a $900,000 line of credit for a
joint venture between himself and Kenneth M. Good, another Shrub
oil company investor.
Good? Good God. Bad, bad Shrubby. Walters defaults on his loan.
Good never repays his line of credit.
Get the government off our backs. Get rid of welfare
cheaters, welfare queens, mealy-mouths the Ray-Gun-Shrub Administration.
How do the Shrubs get away with it? That is the $101 million question.
At least Shrub-face keeps it all in the family. At least he
gets to root for the Texas Rangers which son George Shrubby Jr.
purchases with ill gotten unsecured loans from Shrub family affiliated S&L institutions.
And if you don’t believe it, you can, as umpire Doug Harvey
says between blowing calls, look it up. It is a matter of broken public record.
REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
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REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
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Tyger needs to withdraw the princely sum of $50 to make
groceries for the coming week at the currently solvent bank’s
drive-through window. Too bad, a geek in a black Cadillac has
beaten him to the punch line. Tyger waits. Waits and stews for 10 minutes more.
Finally, the disembodied teller’s voice comes through loud
and clear. “Sir, we have a $l,000 drive-in limit on all cash
transactions. Do you need a deposit slip?”
The disembodied voice floats over the intercom:
“Sorry for the wait sir.”
“It’s not your fault,” Tyger notes, grabbing his
meager withdrawal in two seconds flat.
Over to Barataria Mall and the usual progression of the
Sam the Sham Nestor case with one notable exception.
Mall bro R.C. apparently unavailable for updated consultations.
Unfortunately, the carny amusement show blew Barataria Mall
never to return again. Sometimes, as Joni Mitchell sings, you
don’t know what you’ve got ’till it’s gone.
Disappointed, but unsurprised and undaunted, Tyger plays a
morning series of childish detective games with the fast moving subject.
Nestor must think he is at the Marrero 500. And he is in the front row.
Many IRS Inc. clients believe following another
vehicle is the cat’s meow. They don’t know, what they don’t know.
A maniacal driver like Nestor can be a total turkey to track.
Pinning a tail to this donkey depends on luck as much as
skill. Tyger loses the subject somewhere over the predicate, under
Westbank Expressway. Nestor runs a red light in the most
bogus fashion. Tyger, unfortunately, is trapped two vehicles
behind with no way of running the light in pursuit.
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Lost tail of woe circles the area’s wagons for a while,
returning to Sammy’s pad. No way Jose’, he is like an honest city
official, nowhere to be found. Snake eyes, this time the rat has
escaped his trap. Tyger gives Dorothy the bad news.
She takes it surprisingly well. “I know how you feel,” she commiserates.
“We still have four hours of authorization on him. We can
use an additional investigator if necessary. It might work
out better if another person drives while you use the camera.
“Do you happen to know anyone who wants to drive and work a
few hours? We can pay $8 an hour.”
Equally unfortunately, Tyger indeed knows someone who
wants to work a case for, shall we say, fun, and a few extra
ducats. “Oh that must be Armor’s,” he notes at long last after
considering all options, karmic and otherwise.
“I guess this friend of mine can help out.”
That — Lucy, you got some ‘splainin’ to do —
is how Armor ‘s was hired.
Boy, oh boy, is he ever excited.
Gretna’s newest team leaves Uptown New Orleans the next
investigative day for Barataria Boulevard’s Mad Max driving clinic
as interpreted by Sammy Nestor.
“I am going to do it to it baby,” Armor’s vows with WTUL
cranked up at ear-splitting volume. “I am going to eat this guy’s
lunch. I am going to chew him up and spit him out like a bad
seed. I am going to . . . ”
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“Enough Armor’s,” Tyger intervenes, “Enough already. Turn
down the damn radio. We have to concentrate.”
“Uhh, oh. Sorry man. I wasn’t thinking.”
“That’s O.K. Let’s get our plan ready. The game is a’foot.”
“Uhh, oh. Yeah. Game plan. Play ball. That’s the ticket.
Uhh, oh. What about if the cops stop me?”
“They won’t.”
“Yeah, but what if … ”
“Don’t worry about it,” Tyger says. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Uhh, yeah. Oh. O.K.. Sounds good. Are we there yet?”
“No. Not yet.”
Tyger lies. He is already tired of Armor’s act.
They have, in fact, just passed Nestor’s pit area.
Sure enough, the red Fiat is there and ready to rumble.
Tyger does not want to alarm Armor’s prematurely. He has a
bad feeling something bad already has happened.
REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
“O.K. Armor’s. Stop here,” Tyger orders, pointing at a gravel
parking lot outside a log cabin home sales office .
(Nothing but the most modern conveniences out there in the
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wild west bank of Marrero. One can imagine
how long such a place would stay in business. )
In any event, it is a quiet place down the street from
Sammyland from which to initiate surveillance.
Tyger settles in for the wonderful wait.
“Should we get more coffee?” Armor’s asks. “That’s what the
detectives do on Rockford Files.”
“Nah. We set. Any more coffee, we’ll be spending all day at the porta-let.”
Armor’s turns on the radio. WTUL, for some reason, is
playing an appropriate tribute to Devo during the so-called album
hour. The album hour passes. It is about 11:15 a.m.
The red Fiat backs out of the driveway and v-rooooom,
takes off down the road. Maybe, the yellow caution flag is up as
Nestor drives somewhat sanely for a change, slowly negotiating
his way towards Barataria Boulevard.
“Shake off that moss, Armor’s,” Tyger orders, “and make like
a rolling stone.” “Huh?” “Yoicks. Follow that sports car.”
“Uhh, uhhh. O.K.” Armor’s replies unsteadily. “Yeah.” He
seems to be shedding body water profusely.
“Hey, no sweat Armor’s,” Tyger says. “Chillax. Let him
pass by and get behind him like a fox.”
“But what if he, ahh he, spots us. What if he …”
“Don’t worry about it. No one can tell anything by looking in the rear-
view window. You know that. He won’t even notice.”
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“Uhhh. Oh. Uhhh … ” as Nestor, roadrunner hound
of a subject, beep beeping beeps left on Barataria Boulevard.
“O.K. man, after the silly rabbit,” Tyger orders as he starts
the VCR, picks up the camera, checks the viewfinder. All
systems go with one exception. Armor’s continues to hesitate.
He seems lost.
“Hey man, step on it,” and vroom, vroom, smoke billows from
Armor’s rusty tailpipe. They’re off, kinda sorta. The car makes
funny popping noises as Armor’s flips off a hard left barely
missing an oncoming cement truck moving away from the mall,
south towards Lafitte.
Tyger lays down the camera for a moment, grabbing on to the
lap belt from the door. He lets out a small sick moan like the
butler Lurch on the Addams Family. “Ohhhhhh.”
Armor’s is impervious, weaving between slow moving vehicles
operated by typically brain dead West Bank motorists. Not that
alarming a maneuver, technically speaking, because Sammy in the sports
car is driving in a similar manner.
Of course, Nestor is doing it out of habit with his flashy
sports car while Armor’s tactics are more ad hoc borne
of extreme nervousness.
Whatever gets the job done, however.
Subject stops at the cheapie gas station at the corner of
Barataria Boulevard and West Bank Expressway. “Uhhh. Uhhh,”
according to the now overtly nerve racked Armor’s Tungsten.
“Go into the station, Armor’s, and stop,” Tyger implores.
“He’ll see us,” Armor’s stalls.
“Don’t worry about that. Just do it.”
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“Uhh, O.K. Finally following directions, Armor’s
pulls up directly across the gasoline pump island from the red Fiat.
If there ever were a candidate for a summary court-martial …
“Not there stupid,” Tyger calls. “Stop at the edge of the
station, so it’s not so obvious.” “Uhhh, O.K,” Armor’s
acknowledges abandoning the spot with a squeal
and sudden kickstart jump. Tyger gets a clear shot
from the front of the station minimart to the pump island.
Nestor-mania emerges with a small paper bag that he flings in the car.
He pumps gasoline while Tyger records the activity.
“Good job Armor’s,” Tyger reassures the highly volatile
amateur investigator. “Good shot of the asshole. Wait until he
moves and resume the rolling surveillance.”
“What? What?” Tyger continues as Armor’s holds up his hands like
Jesus blessing the multitudes in some type of quizzical signal.
“Never mind,” Tyger replies as he catches Armor’s drift.
“I will tell you when to go.”
“Uhh. Okee Dokie smokey. You think he noticed us?” Armor’s flounders.
“He just looked at us. I saw him looking right at us.”
“I don’t care,” Tyger states flatly. “Relax. So far, so good.”
Zut and e’he, off to the races, Reason’s Boy.
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Nestor gets up on the West Bank Expressway high-rise with Armor’s
following in hotsy-totsy pursuit.
“Give him a little room, but not too much room,” Tyger
cautions. “He isn’t going to be able to pick us up in the rear
view window, but we don’t want to hug his tail yet. We want to
get a feel for what he’s doing.”
“Huh?” Armor’s replies as he accelerates awkwardly, then
slows down somewhat followed by another burst of pure combustive
energy. Gravitational force lurches Tyger forward.
Camera almost hits the front dashboard as Tyger is
thrown for a loss. “Shit, Armor’s. What the expletive deleted are
you doing? You gonna kill us.”
“Uhh, yeah yeah. Got to catch him. Got to catch him. Which
way did he go? Which way did he go? Wait. I don’t see him. Where
did he go?” Silly wabbit.
Tyger lowers the camera to assume a more proper position
burying his forehead in his left hand. “Look Armor’s. I see him
fine. Don’t worry about it. Get in the left lane.”
Armor’s does not bother looking. How mundane.
He simply cuts over, followed by loud horn honking behind his wake.
Tyger glances over his shoulder, momentarily glimpsing an
old pink haired lady in an equally ancient Ford rambler. Zoom
zoom zoom, intruder disappears in the dust.
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“Oh shit,” Tyger says out loud to himself. “Ohhhhhh,” like
Lurch again. “Look out!” he warns Armor’s, swerving across the
median line, avoiding an abandoned rubber truck tire obstacle
course, then swerving back to the left.
Tyger’s knuckles turn white from holding on to the front
dashboard for dear life. “Oh, man. There he is, get over to the
right. Get closer to him,” he manages to state.
“O.K. Here goes,” and zoom zoom, guns blazing automobile
exhaust backfire sound, Armor’s complies with instructions, sort
of. “Too close. Too close,” Tyger gasps. “Let that car get between us.”
“I don’t want to lose him man. I don’t want to lose him.”
“Lose this Armor’s,” Tyger says but refrains from making the
appropriate accompanying hand gesture.
Nestor exits on Manhattan Boulevard followed by Armor’s who
continues to wonder if the tail has been spotted.
“Don’t worry about it,” Tyger foot in mouth notes. “Probably
going to the post office. He has done that before.”
Sure ’nuff. How predictable. Fucking low-life.
“Go past, turn around, and go to the gas station over there,”
Tyger roars above the car engine.
“What? What? Where? Who?” Armor’s strings together
interrogative pronouns like a grammarian gone mad.
“What? Where? What? Who? Why?”
Wah-wah-wah-wah, nitrous sounds.
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Finally, Tyger has seen enough of this show.
Talking back to his TV boob tube, “Shut up,”
pointing, “right there, stop.”
“Uh, O.K.,” Armor’s says. “Don’t have to get mad
about it.” Lear is mad. Lady MaBeth is mad.
Tyger, like barbecued andouille sausage
Is done. As is Armor’s who moves not a whit.
“Oh wait,” Armor’s continues. “I see where. OK.”
At long last, the man of the lost hour hangs the huey;
amen, brothers and sisters. Across the boulevard,
Armor’s steers his Corolla to rest.Nestor enters
post office proper. Tyger tries to get the money shot.
It’s a post office too far. Normal protocol might include
re-positioning for a better angle. But nah. Not worth the aggravation.
Wham, bam, Sam the sham comes bouncing out of the federal
building like an Energizer bunny. Tyger gets a far shot.
“O.K. mission control,” Tyger tells Armor’s. “Blast off.”
Nothing happens. “Come on. Let’s go.”
Nope.
“What? What?” Tyger asks as Armor’s lingers. “What?”
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“Come on. What?”
Tyger lowers the camera, glowering at the calcifying
recalcitrant retainer. “Come on. What is the matter with you.
Let’s go. Go already.”
Nothing.
Nestor zooms out of the postal parking area headed
east on Manhattan Boulevard. Boom! He explodes, accelerates and
departs through the distancing dust.
Armor’s turns the key, at long fucking last starting the
motor. “Ahh. Where should I go?” he asks innocent as Snow White.
Tyger only can shake his head. “Right.” The red sports car
may be observed weaving between two Harvey municipal streets
department trucks and off beyond the rainbow.
“Just go towards the river on this street,” Tyger says
with half a heart. “Which way is that?” asks Armor’s leaving the
gas station. “Right,” Tyger says. “Turn right.”
“Ahhh. Where do you think he went?” asks Armor’s ever
obliviously curious. “Haven’t a clue, Armor’s. Just keep going. Maybe
we’ll luck out and pick him up down there.”
“You think we lost him?”
“Distinct possibility.”
“Aw man. I was just getting warmed up.”
“No doubt.”
Tyger resigns the commission. Armor’s a turns into a
fairly aimless somewhat guided missile finally follwing without
questions Tyger’s more casual directions
back to the mall, to mull over what the F was the matter.
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The dynamic duo circles various open air
West Bank shopping centers in the faint hope of
relocating the fabled red sports car.
Sorry Charlie, no luck, snake eyes on that score.
Armor’s wants to stop, grab a quick bite at the Pho Tau
Bay when he spies Expressway Lanes. “Hmmmm,” he notes,
smacking his lips in accompaniment. “Some spring rolls sure
would taste nice after such a tough assignment.”
“Seriously?” Tyger fumes. “We don’t have time for that.
Get some Cafe Sua Da to go. Then I want to check on something.”
“Uhh. O.K. captain.”
They stop at the Vietnamese restaurant for the five minutes
it takes to fill up on condensed milk sweetened java before returning
to Sammy’s Barataria Boulevard circus. No sign of the subject.
Tyger checks in with Dorothy after about 20 minutes of
negative subject activity observed from the log cabin showcase.
She tells Tyger, rather predictably, to call it a day,
bring over the tape in a few days.
“I have some good news for you,” Dorothy adds. “We are going
gung ho on Baker . Remember that crazy lady?”
“How could I forget?” Tyger replies.
“The client just authorized us to put in a lot of time on
her,” Dorothy continues with a lilt to her voice. “Joe Fine
really wants to get her done. So, you should be quite busy the
next few weeks. Probably going to do a few days each week
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through the end of June on her.
We will talk more about it when you drop the Nestor tape
off with your report. Oh, and so sorry
about the Pearly Mae mix-up. Don’t know
what Jack is thinking sometimes. Space cadet.
I’ll be around, until I get ready to drop,”
pregnant pause, “if you know what I mean.”
Returning to Armor’s sad mission control,
Tyger initiates capsule recovery lighting
an after-burner phatty. Could have been
better, half-baked ended, but that’s how it goes.
“I think we did a pretty good job
all things considered,” Armor’s says.
“When is the next case?”
“Seriously?” Tyger says. “Never.”
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“Come on, man,” Armor’s drags on.
“That wasn’t so bad. I was just
getting the hang of it.”
Oh brother, not Armor’s keeper.
“Just spoke with Dorothy,” Tyger notes wearily for this dog don’t hunt.
“Nothing coming up any time soon where they need two guys.
I will let you know if they need someone.”
“Definitely, up for another chase,” Amor’s says,
smoke clouding his mind’s eye similarly his Corolla car.
“I’m sure you are,” Tyger laughs. “I’m sure you are.
You’ll get ’em next time.”
SURVEILLANCE PELICANA
BY
DAN WEISMAN
The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:
Chapters 1-10: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-full-book-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/.)
Chapters 11-20: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-ii-chapters-11-to-20-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/)
Chapters 21-30: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-iii-chapters-21-to-30-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Mac and Tyger go shopping for nitrous
at the supermarket. Tyger proceeds with in depth surveillance at
Mildred Baker’s apartment during late June. Boredom gives way to
confusion as the most amazing events transpire. Tyger joins Alice
slipping into wonderland as everything becomes curiouser and
curiouser. The case concludes for the time being with a few
perplexing questions posed by Dorothy that further stun Tyger.
CHAPTER 24
“O, EXCELLENT AIR BAG”
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Like TOW anti-tank and Hawk anti-aircraft missiles — you
know, the types that were secretly and illegally traded by Ray-Gun
White House officals to Iran in 1985 and 1986 in a failed bid
to gain the release of American hostages held in Lebanon — Tyger
Williams is electronically guided by psychic currents to the
center of the universal condition.
Stuck inside of limbo again. Isn’t that nice? What else is news?
Tyger walks through the Delchamps Supermarket with Mac, who is
furiously unscrewing whipped cream dispenser tops,
like there is no tomorrow, inhaling nitrous oxide contained within.
Laughing off their respective Rodney Dangerfield asses. No respect.
The dynamically deranged duo carefully return nitrous emptied
canisters to the wrong shelves and keep moving along.
Nothing to see. Woosh, hahaha, woosh, hahaha, slam bam,
thank you Mr. Grocery Gods. Floating along like
a couple of Weird Al songs, feeling like a day on the beach.
Bitching, dudes.
Tyger explains the latest surveillance assignment with
Armor’s as Mac commiserates. “I could have told you that,” he
second-guesses with voice starting a million octaves too high,
finally leveling off to below sea level where the Big Uneasy
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sinks to its natural state.
Hahaha. Haha-haha. Last can. Mac grabs it as a final hiss
hiss hiss flies to the bright fluorescent ceiling and beyond.
“I love this place,” Mac finally observes.
“Best whipped cream deal in town.”
Like plane loads of spare F-4 fighter aircraft and
helicopter gunship parts. You know, the type Ray-Gun
Administration CIA director William Casey along with former Nixon
Administration CIA director and current 1988 Vice-President
George “Shrub” Bush traded with Iranian operatives in not so gay
Paree for a promise not to release the 52 American hostages held in
Teheran until after Ray-Gun had assumed the position, president
in the case, according to former Carter administration officials;
Tyger Williams is headed straight for his assigned
repository. He buys a bottle of Meyers’ rum and “classic” coca-cola
mixer. Mac handles the chips and dip. Sweet nitrous bright light
enhancement inducing fun propels them through the check-out line.
Hey hey, that was an easy does it mission. Is America a great country or what?
They return to MacLand ready, willing, and able to induce
inaction. Conversation number one: Who the hell is in charge here.
Hard to say. HaHaHa…
Conversation number two: That fucker Ollie North can get
away with anything. Fuck him. He is shit.
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Conversation number three: Pass the reefer. Getting high is
a job. But, it is fun. In other words, it’s a fun job.
Like chartered supercargo planes loaded with Stinger hand-held
anti-aircraft missiles; fighter aircraft and helicopter
spare parts — you know, the kind that Casey, North, and other
Ray-Gun White House flunkies secretly sold without Congressional
approval as specified by United States law to Iranian
representatives (who they overcharged, by the American way)
diverting the excess profits to supply weapons
for Nicaraguan Contra counterrevolutionaries,
according to federal court and sworn
congressional testimony — the conversation shifts course
striking an alternate objective.
“I am getting wasted,” Mac proclaims. “Incoming. Better take
cover.” Tyger scurries along with the cats to the next room.
Big Mac, armed with a chemical fire extinguisher, and whoosh,
empties its contents across the room in a wide wet wild arc.
“Duck and cover, y’all. Duck and cover.”
So much for the lost weekend, friends. Never did it begin and
never did it end. Like the universe, it continues expanding into
an infinite dark hole leading nowhere, man.
So fills the part of the donut between the dough ever
enclosing, ever exploding, ever expanding until it doesn’t.
An awesome, and perhaps awful, display of pyrotechnics without
further explanation. More than a little, comrades, like the Ray-Gu
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mal-Administration policies. Unfathomable beyond description.
Tyger passes a good time during the second
weekend in June partying his little ass off, unlike Ray-
Gun dirty tricks sneak thief junkies not messing with anyone’s
karma in order to hide lack of same.
Just another hot late spring weekend take, coming on to a
sweltering New Orleans summer head.
Another day passes and another. Night substitutes for day as
sleep resembles death. Life stumbles (seemingly) ever forward
targeting this planet along a continuum of sun rays.
Relativistic astrophysicists continue their ongoing debate
on the future of entropy. Hey guys, what possibly could
survive the backwards arrow of time or would want to?
Inspired by the last few fleeting days of pure unadulterated
fun, Tyger home alone stares smartly at the Atlanta Braves versus
Los Angeles Dodgers matchup managing to daydream nevertheless
at approximately 2:45 p.m. this Sunday June 12, 1988 aided by
a whipped cream making rig and numerous whippets:
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Notice how white the neutral ground along Canal Street
seems to be in the searing sun. There is a parking lot where
buildings spin, pirouette like that beautiful Spanish dancer
while Tyger dissolves in mirthful fun.
A yellow line squanders time along the wide boulevard,
tracing shadows to the Maison Blanche Building. Tyger sits in an
unmarked vehicle hugging his baby seat video surveillance
system. This is true love 1988 American style: ready, aim, who
loves you Telly Savalas baby.
This time the subject, black female, 30 years old, takes a
circuitous and curious route just beyond the camera s eye. Try as
he might, Tyger can not motor control the aperture to recapture
her in his sights.
Damn it, another slice of reality life rush lost forever.
Perhaps his efforts would be better placed at another stakeout.
Same old, same cold war post parade. The good
investigator descends to another level of hellish half-life
where exactas flash, humanity surges from space to lonely
lost outpost. Secret ritual of the bus stop revealed,
he places the surveillance vehicle at a place where it is
sure to be ticketed, i.e. anywhere in the City that Care Forgot.
The bright white mid-dog day afternoon reveals secret
rituals and dark passages. Unpronounceable patois is inflicted on
the unknowing as another slim dancer sweeps along, light as a leaf
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gliding past the Downtown monoliths, chaotic chasms bounded
by those tall monuments to unfeeling.
For joy. For joy. She loves Boethius too. She curtsies at
his tearful eyes. The camera spits and she disintegrates.
Where oh queer has this vision flown? All Tyger sees
are black roaches crawling, a few soaring to catch a better view.
She has disappeared forever? Tyger must decide
whether he is happy or sad to have seen her, then consider the
implications of his decision.”
Shit, Tyger takes another hit just as it might be, it could
be, it is .. . a home run by Atlanta catcher Bruce Benedict of
all persons. What is frigging happening?
One to nothing, Skip Caray recounts. Tyger awakens from
his illusion to the higher reality of the purest American sport
besides ripping off people, killing them, and covering up;
that is to say, BASEBALL. Hip hip hooray. Pitch on
McWilliams. Lay that libido lumber number, Raffy Ramirez.
Tyger loses himself in the ongoing continuity of comparison
between each individual effort of the moment,
those that have passed, and will follow.
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Bright and early Monday with the sun at his back like a
gunslinger slaying ancient lore, Tyger is ejected into the fetid
psychic atmosphere leading towards New Orleans East.
He is an early morning zombie stumbling past the
multitudinous masses and former kings of Rex, past derelicts
along Camp Street in their ragged uniforms and the legal
derelicts who argue in sustained finery at federal court.
(Why do they wear ties that bind anyway? Never mind, Tyger
answers his own question.)
Therefore, among all those representatives of order
coming and going, a familiar call has sounded. A new day has
come, risen to fall again across the valley of time.
Immutable echoes of anonymous forces that pulled our fathers
and pushed our lives to an inevitable conclusion reverberating like
Mac’s bongos bonging bonging gone.
For Mildred Baker, insurance claimant mondo bizarre
extraordinaire, this is your unlucky day, babe. Tyger is about to
cover you like a wet towel. Enjoy the shoe.
Coming on to 10 a.m. Monday June 13, 1988 — 1899 if you
are stuck in last century like the Slimes-Picayune — Tyger
travels I-10 East. His loud unmuffled engine roars past
housing project red rooftops to the left, Vieux Carre on the
right; over and beyond the high rise asphalt road climbing
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above the Almonaster-Michoud Industrial District funneling down
into New Orleans East. The 13 mile journey to the far side
of the Crescent City might as well be the far side of the moon,
The inveterate investigator exits on Morrison Road.
A quick check of Bakermania shows all activity normal,
therefore all systems a big a go go, shindig control. Tyger pulls
into the numero uno surveillance location watching the
ever-loving story unfolding. An old bugger walks his equally ancient
large shaggy dog. A couple of black kids talk loudly as walk down the sidewalk
path to open air mini-shopping centers just beyond visible sight-lines.
Traffic flows north-south in vehicular contrapuntal design.
Being mid-morning of mid-June, the day straddles a
borderline between a somewhat pleasant temperate evening and
quickly ensuing scorching hothouse humidity heat that saturates
Crescent City sensibilities until October.
Tyger begins sweating the small stuff as he fine tunes the black box system.
Tiny beads of Tyger water drip on the video recorder. He covers
the car floor with the Kool Aid Kids beach towel and an astronomical calendar.
Why the large colorful astronomical calendar issued by the
Clemson University Physics Department? Because it’s there, babe.
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Don’t ask so many questions.
Tyger considers the calendar a classy touch in case anyone
sees through the tinted car windows. Maybe this will subliminally
inspire them to spend more time considering the all encompassing
nature of the heavens instead of their usual stuck in the mud shit
helluva earthly presence. Following general orders based on a cursory review
of previously recorded Baker surveillance, Tyger remains in the immediately
indigenous zone. This is to observe any activities and, if necessary, hop in his
car to follow any Bakerian anomalies. He doublechecks the rear parking area.
Truck, van, poorly aging red Buick sit around the asphalt lot, no doubt
swapping old war lies. Sub rosa investigator walks around the backside,
up and over by an adjoining apartment complex, finally ending up where
he began, by his mother the car. An uneventful surveillance scene.
Nothing neither way declaim Horatios of insane world orders.
Like Hamlet, Tyger looks to the sky, contemplating the inner meaning
of his navel. That cloud looks very like a whipped cream dispenser
nitrous oxide cartridge. Nay, nave, looks very like a wheel chair,
the type that Mildred Baker shtups to conquer, pretending to ride.
A hot hotter hottest sun begins dominating consciousness,
wiping away early morning dew. Tyger rests in the shade of an old
oak tree, leaning nonchalantly on tired wood bark.
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Hey, de nada no problem. The investigator has nothing but
time to kill at $12 an hour plus mileage and relevant expenses.
About 11:20 a.m. a sudden flurry of subjective activity.
A Mustang with Mississippi plates reportedly owned by Baker’s
ex-husband, driven by her teen-age son, rolls up to the apartment complex.
Surprise, surprise, a tall thin lad about 17 years old
jumps from the driver’s seat. He double-quick steps lively to the
passenger side gallantly opening the door. Out limps Mrs. Baker
oh so very bang the drums slowly melodramatically sporting
a huge metal brace hanging stiffly from both arms. She sways
from side to side low stepping between awkward placement of brace on
pavement. Yoiks, Youch, ouch, almost pains the soul to see her goose step.
She looks like a massive red ant hill of pain. Hell, seems almost
too much to bear as she waits for her son to open the front gate.
Truly overkill. One almost might believe she was seriously
injured if not for the histrionic display outside Touro
Infirmary. This bitch simply takes the cake. (Eat it already.)
After about 15 minutes of Monday silence, young Baker
carries out a series of assignments. He places four potted plants
outside the front upstairs apartment. He checks for mail.
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None apparently available.
The thin lad climbs in his car, driving north up Morrison
Road to the nearby yatville market. He returns about 15
minutes later, two bags of groceries full.
Tyger lets the boy pass because he is not the primary target
of surveillance. Meantime, negative subject activity.
After about two hours, Tyger figures he has hung around the
spreading oak tree long enough and wanders a bit farther away
near the interstate underpass. He takes a well earned rest,
keeping on guard for any unusual observers.
Nope, pope. Vehicles come and go across the nearby road
as sneaky Tyger person remains invisibly cloaked by a freeway
pillar and post. Nice spot, hopefully no illegally dumped
hazardous waste in the vicinity to spoil such fun.
Tyger wanders a bit farther afield and what do you know,
spies a very familiar four foot high light blue object. He walks
to it,. bends down, laughing uproariously incognito in utter cognition.
Comrades, believe it or nuts, a discarded nitrous oxide tank
graces the interstate underworld. Apparently, someone has nearly
emptied its sacre blue contents, dumping it in the wasteland below the highway.
Talk about Lagniappe. Surveillance sometimes can be a funny game resembling,
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like Joe Fine said, the ultimate Andy Warhol movie. Yuck it up, comrades.
Tyger wobbles back to the spot for a walkabout at 1 p.m. He
figures if Baker is a soap opera fan maybe she will roll during
the break between “All My Children” and “General Hospital.”
Nobody watches “One Life to Live.”
No dice. Apparently, no rolling stone, simply gathering moss today.
Tyger kills another half-hour nearby alternating between
walking and whatever it takes to stop. Negative subject activity continues.
Final act, the usual search for a pay telephone to destroy.
Rather surprisingly, there seems to be a lack of such functions.
Tyger eventually locates a nice model near Ullo’s Family Supermarket.
Dialing Dorothy for an upfake, she says, “Run the system until 3 p.m.,
break it down, look at the tape, and return on her tomorrow at 11 a.m.
Run the system the full six hours. Spend the first hour nearby,
nearby, then leave the area. Break it off a little before 5 p.m.
“Fair enough,” Tyger acknowledges. “I will give her the royal treatment.
We all know she is faking. Just a matter of getting her again.”
As per instructions, Tyger returns the next morrow like an
ill wind that means Mildred Baker no good. He sets up, sticking
to the catbird’s seat. Baker the junior’s car is back in the lot hobnobbing
with the other inanimate objects.
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About the only activity of note, if that, is Mrs. Baker executing her
walking like death warmed over shtick, leaning painfully on heavy
metal arm braces trudging to the edge of the apartment complex
stairs. Yoiks! Youch! What a pathetic slouch. She needs new material.
Previously cited elderly dog walking man opens his door
below. She speaks to the neighbor. He walks a few steps to the
row of open mailboxes, peers inside.
Then he returns and speaks to the fabulous Mrs. Baker as
her son places potted plants outside. She lamely returns
inside. And that’s the name of that game. Tyger gives it another 30
minutes before departing to kill a wonderful four hours at Lake Forest Mall.
The mall is its usually insipid environment, but at least air conditioned,
to put it not so mildly. The place exudes an arctic like cold.
No wonder the ozone layer is being totally depleted. It must
take about 100,000 future skin cancer cases alone to keep this
zootropic void comfortable enough for the zombierrific manimals
currently on display. Imagine, this is just one such location out of galaxies
exhibiting the usual shopping until they are dropping school of scandal.
Tyger alternates periods of walking around aimlessly with
innocent window shopping and sitting at each of the mall eating
areas in random rotation. He grabs a cup of chicory here, a cold drink
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there, chilling a couple of hours.
A quick check of the mall cinema reveals “Clue” is playing.
Not interested. Maybe there is something interesting next week.
Nope. It’s some piece of pap called “Jocks.” Reads the front
poster with a picture of two guys ogling tennis balls and bosoms.
“A big tennis tournament in Las Vegas looks like the perfect
road trip for a college team with something to prove; starring
Richard Roundtree and Perry King.”
Better to watch grass grow and paint dry. At least
those allow for possibilities of flying fancy free.
Bored with mall marauding, Tyger returns to “Discreet Charm
of the Bourgeoisie” “Last Year at Marienbad” mode.
He walks around outside in the 90 degree heat,
90 percent humidity. Ahh, Louisiana living;
O, excellent air bag, be sure to pass the gas.
New Orleans East around these parts is nothing but open
spaces punctuated by shopping areas, apartment complexes, and
related structures. Tyger walks this way and turns that. He
retraces his steps and like a compass gone wild moves little
doggie along in random counterclockwise measures north, east,
south, west, and back again.
The intrepid investigator discovers a sort of bayou-drainage
ditch near a huge decrepit apartment complex. He sits around
there tossing rocks in the putrid green water. Good times.
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Kids bicycle about like mad fruit flies. Cars race along
in the distance, far away from the madding Baker crowd.
Tyger determines this to be a psychically safe area,
lighting up a marijuana roach. He inhales deeply, leans back,
watching time flow like a flash flooding arroyo.
Feeling a bit overheated after a spell, the detective from
across the River Styx strikes out again for the overly cool
to say the least mediocrity mall. Lighting up the tote
board, Cerberus determines he has earned about 60
1988 dollars while hanging out in the eastern hot zone.
Maybe this is what purgatory is all about. Taxi zum klo redux.
Tyger checks in with Dorothy letting her know all systems are
operating properly when he arrives back among the — living? —
at safety first mall. Nothing much more to report.
“Great,” Dorothy notes. “Look at the tape when you get home.
Do the same thing tomorrow. They really want to get Baker.
She is asking for a zillion dollars. She is a strange
bird alright. The say she was a trapeze artist in her salad days,
then somehow ended up working messes at Gulf oil rigs.”
A review of the tape shows minimal activity. Baker hobbles
around like the invalid she pretends to be and not to be. (That
is the question.) She speaks briefly with neighbors by her door
a few times. Quite the social butterfly. She sends her son on
neighborhood errands.Tyger has acquired a feel for the lay of the land,
and then some, by now. He maxes out on the camera focus shooting
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very nice, even artistic close-ups from the Bakerian enclosure
to her lower steel framed extremities.
Seems like a real job being Mildred Baker.
Three days in a row and by now, comrades, one can appreciate
the picture. Nothing much has changed.Subject makes her usual
ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille cameo appearances on the
po’ liddle me ode to Mildred Baker insurance sham show
while Tyger hangs around not so innocently across the street.
The subject moves in the usual woe is me painful mass while
Tyger prays for something more active. No way today,
comrades in sitting around waiting for nothing to happen.
Tyger walks around an endless tape loop. He hangs out
at the mall well on his way to being an honorary teeny bopper or
maintenance worker. He retrieves the unit, then returns home.
Instant replay rules no change in the official’s call.
Like you were expecting a change in the weather.
Fat chance. It is hot hot hot and Mildred Baker is
not not not. Dorothy tells Tyger to break off the surveillance
for the remainder of the week. “Let’s give Baker a little rest.
We’ll go back on her Tuesday.”
“No problem,” Tyger replies. “Getting sick of LakeForest Mall anyway. ”
The following Tuesday, June 21, 1988 is the summer solstice,
longest day of the year. That makes no difference in the wide
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world of Baker dog and pony show histrionics. Roots Badburns
must be her technical advisor. Set up is promptly at 11 a.m.
Tyger hangs around long enough to see little lord Faunteroy Baker
putting out the plants before leaving on morning errand call.
Tyger decides to mix up the routine somewhat.
He waits an hour for an RTA bus that finally arrives.
A couple of well groomed African-American ladies dressed for
Downtown Canal Street sit in front. A couple of kids lounge out back.
An elderly Who Dat Yat man assumes the middle position. Tyger joins
him a few rows back. He plans to ride this wild beast to the end
of the line. Hey man, no wonder no one takes this shit. Takes fucking
forever to get nowhere. Not helping matters any, the driver takes
the Chef Mentaur Highway exit, then stomps off to an inconvenience store.
“Ah, what the hell is going on?” Tyger wonders loudly. Elderly
Yat presence simply shakes his balding head. “Happens all the time.”
Dat man says. “They just stop when they feels like it. Goes with the turf.”
“How can they get away with this?” Tyger asks.
“That’s just the way it goes,” says Yat.
Right. The driver hangs on a pay telephone. Tyger would be
angrier but, after all, he is not really going anywhere. Guess he
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and the bus driver have more in common than first appreciated.
Finally, the driver climbs back in his cockpit and blasts off.
“Got everything accomplished, have we?” Tyger loudly asks
sarcastically from the middle seating kingdom The driver is
obviously too dedicated to his craft to acknowledge.
Downtown on Canal Street at long last, Tyger takes his
nickel paper transfer, walking over to South Claiborne Avenue
near the medical centers. He waits forever for forever again,
finally catching a bus Uptown.
At approximately 2 p.m. by the “General Hospital” clock;
final destination, Tygertown, all detectives please exit. Well,
comrades in the transportational arts, Tyger knew before he
started that the trip probably would be a bust. He wanted to
confirm that data by scientific method. Bad thinking.
Back on the road again after a 30 minute pit stop. Let us
skip description of the return trip. Another pointless
exercise in return to forever. Aboriginal dreamtime.
Tyger is exhausted when he finally returns to the
surveillance scene. Now, that really was like working.
The instant replay investigator picks up the system while
acknowledging his foolishness. We all must learn from our
mistakes or they go for naught. Next time, sensibility must triumph
Definitely back to the mall. The hell with Gulliver’s Travels.
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On Wednesday, more of the same old same old. Set up, mall
extravaganza, take down, review tapes. No scoring. Nothing
neither way. Another rest period until the end of the week is ordered.
on Monday June 27, 1988, events begin to pick up the pace
Curious comings and curioser goings around the Baker place.
About time, ya thunk?
Increased activity is apparent tout de suite as a series
of 30- and 40-something white males arrive and depart en masse.
They have that coke classic redneck mother demeanor tooling around in
raunchy pick-up trucks and vans with dirty Mississippi and Louisiana license plates.
Tyger sticks with the scene longer than usual due to a case
of highly aroused curiosity. Mrs. Baker flitters across her
universe of front door to top of the stairs like the grand queen
carnival bee greeting her visitors, passing on loopy commands.
Drone bees ignore her for the most part, although one tall thin
redneck with visible arm tattoos pays her more attention than the others.
While most of them seem interchangeable anonymous parts in
some crazy yahoo party machine, tattoo man appears to be
more of a leader type. His presence like that of the son is continuous.
Following orders, and figuring discretion is the better part
of valor, best to make himself scarce in case something bad
happens, Tyger retreats from the battle field for the mall.
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He fritters away the hours leaving the Baker critters to frolic.
D’uh dangerous detective returns for 4:30 p.m. system
retrieval. He waits a bit longer inside his vehicle in the event
something interesting happens. True dat. Ain’t happenin’.
A redneck mother of a red truck zooms out of the parking lot on Morrison
Road towards the interstate. Tyger follows. He lets go of the
truck, however, when the driver turns east on I-10 on
the way to Spring Woods and the Mississippi state line.
Tyger must head west to his house to review the tape. After
all, the departing vehicle does not overtly concern the subject of
the investigation. Baker is not aboard, so pursuit seems
irrelevant. Upon further review, more of the same perplexing activity.
A party of rednecks arrive. A party departs. Tattoo man and
Baker son generally hover in and around the apartment perimeter.
Sometimes, said son runs short errands.
Baker rules the space between her front door and stairs with
bizarre grace and awkward heavy metal brace aided movements.
This goes on all day.
This goes on all the next day; more rednecks, constant
activity. Tyger runs the system, sticking closer to the viewing
area just in case Baker rolls. Nothing doing on that score.
Still, it seems a puzzling surveillance scene. Tyger simply
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can not figure it out. What the hell could
all those motherfucking rednecks be doing in there?
Damn thing is more puzzling than relativistic physics
and Big Bang theories. They don’t seem to be dealing drugs.
No way is Baker a madame nor does she appear to be anything
more than a figurehead greeter whom the others ignore. Would you
want to sleep with that? Not in this life.
More there than meets the eye, obviously. But what?
Tattoo guy appears to be running the big shoe, but that is
about all Tyger can discern. Like that oak tree he stands by, stumped.
On Wednesday June 29, Tyger joins Alice slipping into wonderland
as everything becomes curiouser and curiouser.
The raunchy redneck convention breaks up about noon.
The entire crew departs en more masse in two minivans.
No return on deposit. They are solid gone for the day.
As Tyger lurks down the road near the market, he notices a
wild break in the weather. Baker son’s car emerges from the back
parking lot, meandering about 40 yards to one of the street turnarounds.
Nothing unusual about that. But then, what the hey line?
Mildred Baker, without her heavy braces, jumps — that is jumps
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like a silly white rabbit — out of the passenger seat and
walks, that is walks like you or Tyger over to the driver’s
side. She practically drags a reluctant teenager out of his seat
and have another hit, holy shit! — climbs in herself and
drives down the street. The poor kid, hang-dog demeanor, sits
like death on the passenger side.
Tyger stands by the market with his mouth wide open in
disbelief. What a time to be out of his car. Damn.
Elvis has left the building!
Tyger immediately returns to his vehicle, rewinding the
tape. As expected, rats, all he has is Baker doing the usual
hobble step polka while leaving the apartment.
The acrobatic turnaround segment happened in outer space
beyond the videomaker’s universe. Who would have thunk it?
Tyger drives up and down Morrison Road hoping to pick up
Baker’s car, especially considering the current driver.
Alas, it is to no avail. No Baker Baker anywhere, not a hood to wink.
Tyger does not want to leave the immediate area because the
fabulous Mrs. Baker might be driving when they return.
However, he has a bad feeling about that possibility.
Sometimes, one shot is all you get.
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The big bad Baker vehicle returns about 20 minutes later.
Sure enough, the comeback kid is behind the wheel.
Like a bear who shit in the woods, he appears greatly relieved.
Baker upon return to sender, has resumed her vegetative
state. The boy helps her out of the car in a show for the
neighbors and good God, no doubt.
Tyger feels fairly confident he has gone undetected despite
his frequent presence. In fact, by this time his constant
appearance has induced an inverse effect. He has become just as
much a part of the Morrison Road landscape as the other yat finks.
Hell, he has spent so much time around Baker purgatory that
legitimate residents of the area believe he lives nearby. He is
Cerberus from beyond the mall to their River Styx death-in-lifestyles.
Back at his actual Uptown residence, Tyger reviews the tape
and telephones Dorothy. “Well, what do you know,” she comments,
thoughtfully considering the big picture. “Spoke with Joe today.
Says it is time to wrap up on Baker. Wants you to take an active surveillance.
Sit in your car on her, follow any movements. Just go for it. Don’t care
if you blow your cover. Shoot her if she moves.”
Noooo problema. Tyger sets up, waiting for hours. He
ignores the neighbors as they likewise ignore him. That is some
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neighborhood watch program they have over there.
The son’s car is missing from the parking lot.
No sign of the redneck conventioneers.
A little after 1 p.m. Baker, encased like a manic mummy
in steel embrace, walks — make that painfully hobbles —
down the street to the market, and returns.
Tyger gets right up on her fat ass with his car,
first shooting from behind. Then, he leap-frogs
to the market parking lot, obtaining a good front shot.
Silly wabbit looks like agony of the anti-christ on crutches.
Quite a performance from the lady who just the other
day was driving like a batwoman out of hell along Morrison Road.
Tyger knows she has spotted owl him now. Hoot hoot.
Fuck her, if toucan. Give her the bird. She can make
Tyger from here to eternity for all the investigator cares.
He simply is following orders. There is no tomorrow today.
That about sums up the extent of Baker’s activity. Tyger posts
high on the apartment complex. He notices her pointing him
out to a neighbor. Did she just wave at him? Must be a pigment of his
imagination. Then again…After further review, Tyger decides she indeed was
waving at him from the top of the stairs. He doesn’t particularly care
except for a modicum of anger induced by her half-assed attitude that she believes
she has gotten away with something.Tyger has been following the acrobat turned
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faux invalid’s activities for weeks without being noticed. She only
caught him when he turned up the heat in the most obvious fashion.
That evening, Dorothy delivers final marching orders.
“We are going one last time on Baker, and that is the fat lady singing.
I bet you are sick of the place by now.”
“No kidding,” mind of the Tyger replies. “Everyone thinks I live around there.”
Dorothy laughs. “All we want you to do is set up the system
as usual. Run it the six hours and pick it up. This will conclude
our mission. Then, drop off the tapes and equipment. Joe want
to make a few modifications, or something. Don’t worry about
your reports until later. We only need the tapes for now”
Tyger takes a final leap through the looking glass into the
wonderful world of Mildred Baker where nothing is as it
seems, and even less makes sense.
He sets up the picture, gets the hell out of River City
East over to the covered mall. The maxed-out mall experience finally comes
in somewhat handy as the weather has now turned hot for the
duration of summer and beyond. Tyger chills in the usual manner.
He is a bit more cautious than previously due to Thursday’s
events, picking up the system about 4:30 p.m. after first
determining that the coast, as they say, is clear. Not even a
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Mariel boat-lift dinghy or Cajun pirogue on the horizon.
A change in course is taken per instructions.
Tyger drives to the West Bank during rush — haha — hour, crawling into
Marrero about 5:30 p.m. He leaves off the tapes and equipment,
then returns home. Land line rings at Tyger’s lair about 9 p.m.
Yes? Dorothy from behind the curtain at Oz.
“Ahhh, Tyger. Is everything alright?” inquires his supervisor ever so cautiously.
“Huh?” Tyger replies a bit perplexed. “What you mean?”
“You didn’t notice anything, ahh, unusual about, say, your car?”
continues Dorothy mining the same vein. Conversation ensues.
“No,” Tyger says. “Same as always.”
“You sure?” Dorothy says.
“Well, yeah. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, that’s a relief,” Dorothy notes. “No one said anything
to you or anything? Did they?”
“No,” answers a suddenly concerned Tyger .
” I better tell you what happened,” Dorothy continues.
“Baker and a couple of neighbors were around your car for at
least 20 minutes, shaking it, and everything like that. I was
afraid maybe they did something to it.”
“Shaking my car?”
“Yeah. Actually it is kind of funny because they
are right up in the window staring inside, then
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shaking it for a spell. Didn’t really affect the picture any.
That darn black box is very sturdy.”
“They were shaking my car?”
“Well, yes. But if you didn’t notice anything unusual, guess it’s alright.”
“No. Car drove crappy as always.”
“Well, that’s a relief. I guess. Sorry to put you through that. We didn’t
think anything like that would happen, but Mildred Baker is mad
as a hatter, as we all know.”
“They were shaking my car? You are kidding, right?”
“Don’t get too concerned. Apparently everything turned out for the best.”
“I must have been at Lake Forest Mall when they were doing
that. Everything seemed normal when I returned. Didn’t have a clue.”
“Good then. Let me know if there are any problems with your
car or anything.” Dorothy resumes, her laughing gasps.
“I mean, you really should see the tape. Never seen anything
that funny in my life, them all clucking like chickens, shaking the car.
They were trying to look through the windows, but from
the appearance of it, didn’t seem to see anything. Actually, quite a gas.
Guess I can say that because it isn’t my car. Seriously, let me
know if anything is wrong. We’ll take care of it.”
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“Like I said. We are through with the case. Nothing on
the horizon for a while,” Dorothy continues. “I’m sure we
will have you going on some cases after the Fourth of July.
I know Joe wants to get at Bingo LeBeouf very badly.
Might be some other cases too.”
“Sure. Sure. Need a little break anyway.” Tyger replies,
shaking his head in amazement. “They were shaking my car?
I’ll be damned. Didn’t have a clue.”
Tyger immediately screeches like a cruise missile to his
vehicular target reconnoitering for any scrapes, cuts, bruises,
or Baker-related abrasions.
No, seems alright. He road tests around Audubon Park. All
systems operate as always, which is to say not great, but no
unusual noises or problems. So it goes. The Baker riot did not
cause any significant fall-out like a nuclear tipped Cruise missile might.
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Watching the Cubbies blast the Philadelphia Philthies
9-1 behind the pitching of Rick Sutcliffe, Tyger nevertheless
feels a sense of uneasiness. He hits on the last remaining
nitrous whippets from the ISIS 20-pack. Whoosh whoosh ah-ha-ha.
“Man, I was in that damn mall when all hell was breaking
loose,” Tyger thinks, shaking his head in resignation. “I am very
glad I did not see that happening. I really would have broken
Baker’s back if I had. Bitch.”
No harm, no foul, no matter. In a Midsummer Night’s Dream
so pleasant, so right, Tyger kicks back his mind reflecting on
the Bard’s sentiments. All’s well that’s well ended.
The intrepid investigator can’t ask for much more than that,
except, maybe, Prospero’s daughter. But that is another play
entirely. Take another hit, O’ excellent air bag. Reality is unreal.
Hahaha…laughing it up till the coming morrow.
SURVEILLANCE PELICANA
BY
DAN WEISMAN
The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:
Chapters 1-10: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-full-book-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/.)
Chapters 11-20: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-ii-chapters-11-to-20-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/)
Chapters 21-30: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-iii-chapters-21-to-30-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Igor, a startling performance artist
from New York, visits the gang. Igor makes the usual splash upon
arrival and his story is told. He supervises the creation of
Snack Rack, a discarded postcard tree filled with rotten food and
crawling insects that is unofficially entered in a local art show
with resulting mayhem. On July 4th, Igor and the gang attend a
lame performance by the New Neanderthals in the French Quarter.
CHAPTER 25
“IGOR COMES TO TOWN”
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Igor. The very name strikes fear in the heartless souls of art philistines everywhere
Igor. Armor’s good art buddy lately of the Arcosanti Commune
near Flagstaff, Arizona; more recently performing the herculean
task of cleaning the stables at Belmont Park Race Track at Elmont, New York.
(He helps with renovations at Carnegie Hall in his spare
time. His picture even made it into the New York Times on that score.)
Igor. Master of modern primitive painting and weird frog art
as well as the odd performance piece between engagements.
Igor. Igor. Igor. The crowd chants his name rising in a
nitrous wave above these distant shores. All hail the great
artist of our time. How about dropping into our planetary hell hole some time?
Yes, comrades in art, the July 4th weekend is heating up as
if that were possible given the 92 degree plus temperatures
accompanying humidity fit to soak one’s soul in sweat.
Igor’s body lies over the water yet.
Armor’s receives the call eagerly. Igor has decided to get
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away from the city — that’s the Big Apple y’all — over the
weekend. He believes it high time to commune with his friends in
New Orleans. Cognoscenti are excited.
Two events coincidentally distinguishing this year’s
Crescent City, shall we say, celebration also call quite vividly
for Igor’s rapt attention.
Firstly, the Contemporary Arts Center on “this used to be
Camp Street” as they once advertised during a street fair thrown
to rid the area of street derelicts in favor of their pseudo-art
derelictions is having an art exhibition and contest.
Winner receives bogus recognition, theoretically.
Secondly, that well known purveying group of doom, the New
Neanderthals, have somehow gotten their shit together long enough
to play an equally bogus July 4th gig in the French Quarter
courtyard of a sort of hip collectibles shop.
They say they are going to make a music video.
We will have to see about that. Hopefully, so will Igor.
Igor, of course, will stay with Armor’s and his cats at the
petting zoo. The controversial by design great artist is due for
a Saturday morning arrival, Tuesday evening departure.
That should give him more than enough time to wreak havoc on what
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used to be known as the Big Crescent City that Care Forgot Easy.
Let us see what they call this place after Igor is through.
Armor’s drives out to New Orleans International Airport at 7:30 p.m.
He is his usual rambunctious self, passive-aggressively tempting death
while playing in fast moving traffic. Thankfully, as Tyger clutches the lap belt
for dear life, no more surveillance for this pelicana. Armor’s number is retired.
The Mercury Capris makes it safely to the short-term parking area by act
of a higher power’s caprice. The boys head for the Delta terminal
at this used to be called Moisant Field. Not surprisingly, they are late,
they are late for a very important date. Welcome to Armor’s world already.
The official gang greeting committee cascades up the escalator, leaping steps in a series
of long bounds, mini-supermen — or stupormen, your call — passing a startled
security guard. Lucky for him they are not in the mood for a skyjacking.
Regular jacks will do.
(The uninformed, incidentally, always ask for the proper definition
of the local slang use of the word “jack,” that can be used grammatically
as verb, noun, adverb, or adjective being a most descriptive term. Mr. Milty
summed it up perfectly with his classic ink drawing of an angry man
pounding a pinball machine inside a picture of an angry man pounding
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a pinball machine inside apicture of an angry man
pounding a pinball machine inside etc….)
The welcome to N’Awlins this is your life ad hoc Igor society flies
across the busy airport concourse O.J. Simpson pre-murder style.
They hear a voice ring out as all traffic stops like in the old
Dean Witter commercials, all necks craning to hear the stock tip.
“Ho ho ho there boys,” a far figure enthralling,
drawing Armor’s and Tyger like shades towards his shadowy
denouement of arrival strategy. “I’m all Ho’d out.”
Wearing a Davey Crockett coonskin cap with a long blonde
pony tail sticking out for good measure, Igor walks confidently
towards his steering committee. “Ho ho ho there boys,” he repeats
for effect and halts just before reaching Armor’s outstretched hand.
Then, what do you know comrades, he flips his trim lean body
over in an acrobatic handstand, walking a few feet with his feet
in the air. That lad always knew how to attract a crowd, kind of
like Jelly Roll Morton without the extreme verbal histrionics.
Igor rolls to a stop in a sitting position as Tyger, Armor’s
and a small crowd of curious bears break into applause.
“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you all very much,” Igor acknowledges as
the crowd quickly disperses. Maybe they have heard about him.
Meanwhile, airport security guards are quickly scrambling
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like rats after cheese in the opposite direction. They know
trouble when they see it. “That was great,” Armor’s finally comments.
“Great to see ya Igor.”
“How is everything in the Big UnEasy?” Igor asks.
“Same old same old,” Tyger states. “Been looking forward to seeing you.”
“Got a couple of awful activities on tap,” Armor’s reports.
“Goody,” Igor notes with pleasure. “Goody gum drop.
That’s what we all came for.”
Tyger grabs Igor’s duffle bag as the orange tinged artist
walks along with Armor’s to the escalator. Tyger and Armor’s ride
the automatic steps. Igor tries to slide down the railing
alternating between sliding a few feet and falling off.
Good show, old chap. Everybody finds this game quite
amusing. Igor laughs uproariously more like a happy lion than silly rabbit.
Tyger and Armor’s are now officially in the Igor zone and
loving it. They can feel the karma level rising rapidly.
The three artists become imbued with a sense of heightened
artistic energy. They break the sound barrier near confused,
possibly frightened, beautiful rent-a-car chicks sitting in their
ridiculously colored uniforms at respective corporate
commercialism counters. Armor’s immediately, excitedly bee-
lining to a bank of black telephones.
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“What you doing there?” Igor inquires.
“Have to call Mac,”Armor’s replies. “Everybody at MacLand wants to see you
as soon as humanly possible.”
“Yes. Let us stop there,” Igor says. “Mac’s a great guy. We can reminisce
about our adventures through the weirdly wilds of Arcosanti.”
Armor’s mutters a few words into the phone, handing the
apparatus to Igor. “Heeeeeeey Mac:! How is it going?!?” Igor yells, nearly
undressing the phone’s mouthpiece. “Heeeey Mac! Hip Hip hooray you dirty dog.”
A few additional nonsensical pleasantries exchanged. Mac
gives Igor the proposed Saturday night agenda. Igor agrees to the
proposal with one amendment before breaking off the commos line.
“Let me drop my duffel bag at Armor’s house and wash up,”
Igor appends. “I feel quite grungy after the airplane ride, not to
mention three margarita cocktails.”
Igor apprises the greeting committee of the upcoming meeting
schedule. “Your wish is my command sir. Yes,” replies Armor’s
with his best Ed McMahon imitation.
(Was Armor’s consciously imitating the Johnny Carson second
banana? He will never tell. In any event, lucky for Ed McMahon
breath, Armor’s is not interested in hosting “Star Search.”)
The boys float on the wings of uplifted consciousness to
Armor’s awaiting chariot. They Ben Hur Uptown narrowly missing
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identified driving objects who have the misfortune of blocking
Armor’s way at that particular point of space and time.
Hey, you lousy driving dharma bums, no one promised you a
rose garden on the interstate. Make way for real art royalty and
we don’t mean no carnival klutz.
Armor’s wildly honks his horn while Igor sticks his head out
the window making weird faces at other vehicular units. All the
while, Igor’s pony tail sways madly in the speed breaking highway
wind. Beats the roller coaster of defunct Ponchartrain Beach for
excitement any day of the week.
“Next time,” Igor tells Armor’s as they decelerate towards
the South Carrolton exit, “let me do the driving.”
“You don’t have a license though. Do you?” Tyger asks if
memory serves him well.
“Don’t need one, dear boy,” Igor replies. “I just want to drive. I
don’t use identification.”
“Oh,” Tyger says. “Sorry for asking.”
“Uhh, O.K,” Armor’s adds. “Want to drive now?”
“Nah. Remind me later.”
Tyger feels like the personification of his Lurch imitation,
but bites his tongue. First chance, he vows, he is retreating to
his own car. He will meet up with Igor and Armor’s
traveling show later at Mac’s pad.
Scene dissolve. Stage left as hours pass like seconds. Igor
and Armor’s curtsy. Then, they disappear courtesy of the hands of time.
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They re-emerge 9 p.m. at MacLand followed by Tyger,
the semi-great art hunter-detective.
An interesting discussion ensues as Mac, Armor’s, and Igor
recall a journey they took in 1986 when the former rescued the
latter from his less than free state at Arcosanti, a self-contained
commune theoretically dedicated to the positive
advancement of humanity’s consciousness.
Igor lived in a cave in the Arizona high desert wasting his
considerable artistic talents by engaging in whatever commune
practices were en vogue there. Anyone can be a flunky, but the
great shaman artists of an age are few and far between. (Such is
the grinning Igor Buddah seated cross-legged on Mac floor.)
Mac and Armor’s somehow sensed that Igor was becoming
disillusioned at the commune. They showed up at his cave doorstep
in the Nick Bowers of time, apparently. Igor’s attitude was
beginning to run afoul of commune authorities.
Igor’s cavalry packed his few belongings in Mac’s old car.
They charged northeast to Colorado and a “Jack Kerouac: On the
Road Again” conference. Picking up a female hitchhiker called
Flora along the way, the art soldiers happily careened across the
great Southwest taking slightly obscene photographs of the
willing young girl, stopping along the road for red-green hot
Mexican chili dinners and cold drinks.
A good time was had by all. At least, that is their story
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and they’re sticking to it. Attention spans to another topic.
Armor’s has a bit of current news update for the visiting performance artist.
“Those lame assholes at the CAC are having an art show,” Armor’s reports.
“They are so fucking stupid that they give true artists a bad name.
We need to teach them a lesson.”
Igor laughs in his trade-marked vaguely sinister manner.
“Remember the bird scout cookies?” he asks, alluding to an unforgettable instance
in which he filled up empty girl scout cookie boxes with decaying dead birds;
then went door to door “selling” them.
Predictably, no buyers although a particularly rabid off-duty Houston policeman
threatened to arrest Igor on the spot, thereby ending, for the day, the infamous art project.
Yes, it was a pheasant way to the pass that particular day.
Of course, the boys remember the bird scout cookies incident
immortalized in the ongoing memory of man
as related from generation to generation at life’s wonderful way stations
such as this Mac’s house bullshit seance.
Reminiscences such as these reverberate far louder
than the roar of MacLand’s huge fans beating the heat senseless.
“Tell me more about this so-called show,” an interested Igor asks,
his mind click clicking instantly formulating a secret game plan.
“Uhhh, uhhh,” Armor’s stutters, coming to a pot hole chasm in the road.
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Tyger jumps in noting, “Tomorrow night.
They have the Slimes-Picayune art critic and a couple of
others judging the exhibits. All entries must have themes
relating to the culinary arts since this is, after all, a part f
New Orleans fake claim to fame. Winner gets screwed or something.”
“Screwed, eh?” Igor contemplates. “I could use a little screwing.”
Igor pauses to consider further, then turns to.Armor’s Tungsten.
“What was that I saw abandoned outside the hardware store on the corner?”
“Uhh. The postcard rack?”
“Ah-huh. The snack rack.”
“Snack rack?” Mac repeats.
“Ah-huh. Let’s retrieve it,” Igor says.
What the hey-line. The boys walk down the street to where
sits discarded an old postcard rack. Mac picks it up like
a Christmas tree, lugging it back to the home pad.
“Let us get to work lads. We have some serious art to make,”
Igor announces, as he — whomp! — captures a large roach under a
plastic cup. “I believe we have our first subject.”
Thus begins the making of Snack Rack so christened. Igor
tapes a paper bottom under the cup thereby preserving the roach
forever in time. He places roach-in-a-cup on one of the lower
branches of the soon to be art wracked tree.
“What have we in the kitchen,” he announces as Sarah goes to
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the back of the house. “You want something” she says, “gross?”
to which Igor replies, “Grosser the better,”
laughing maniacally as per his peculiar style.
A mad scramble ensues as each of MacLandia’s citizenry
scours the property for the most awful, horrible, preferably
crawling live or rotting dead objects, to place on a particular rack.
A wild assortment of indigenous insect life combines with
decaying foodstuff to form the core of the proposed exhibit.
Every now and then cries of “Ooooooh,” or “ahhhhhh, disgusting,”
escape as the racks quickly fill to overflowing with, dare we say, snacks.
Disgusting work, comrades, but an artist must do what an
artist must do, damn the consequences. “I feel a little like
throwing up,” Sarah comments to which Igor appends, “Please do.
We have a spot for that on the lower right arm left.”
“Maybe I’ll hold it in,” she notes after careful consideration.
Odor most foul stinking to high heaven; insects most fair
crawling in their plastic cages, fighting to no avail to exit the
evolving exhibit. “Is this how Picasso got started?” Tyger asks.
“I don’t believe he dealt much in food art,” Igor replies.
“Of course one never knows about a person’s inner passions.”
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Igor continues to supervise as he whips the upper right rack
in shape, literally, with a healthy serving of chill-and-whip.
“Looks good,” he notes, “and tastes good too. Yum yum.”
Tyger and Armor’s pick over the remnants of the evening’s
last supper producing the odd piece of fruit and leftover
vegetable garbage for Igor to consider.
“Good. Good,” he approves. “I think that putrid banana adds
a very nice touch.” He smells it. “Hmmmm. Pungent aroma. This
will definitely do. Any more lying around, preferably for days?”
Even the cats pitch in as one drags a chicken bone into the
room which Igor eagerly fetches. He accompanies that motion with
the wonderfully evil laugh as eternally trademarked.
“Yes, yes kitty,” he says petting the purring animal
contributor. “Go back into the yard and see what else is appropo.”
The cats might not know much, but they seem to intuit what makes great food art.
They immediately withdraw to follow Igor’s further instructions.
“Oh, how lovely,” he notes as with a flourish Armor’s hands
him a particularly disgusting brown object.
“Don’t tell me what it is. It will ruin the surprise.”
“Good idea,” Sarah adds as she looks on with an air of
suspended disbelief that always forms the basis of appreciation
of true art. “Don’t believe I want to know either.”
Armor’s is well pleased with his contribution. He returns to
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the bathroom area for more raw art. He, too, knows a good Snack
Rack object when he feels it.
This activity, accompanied by a long-playing tape of the
latest Macland bongo associative productions for Igor’s benefit,
continues for an hour or so until every branch of the snack rack
tree is filled with the most vile and perplexing of subjects.
Everyone stands back, well back at that, because the
horrible aroma is overpowering, admiring the latest creation of
the great Igor, supervising artist.
“I think we have something here,” Igor concludes. “I think
we truly have an inspirational, magical special representation of
man’s inhumanity to man and the immediate environment.”
Everyone appears quite impressed. “Awesome,” Tyger utters.
“Uhhh. I like it,” adds Armor’s.
“Awful, accent on the first syllable; art of the highest order,” according to Mac.
“This stinks,” Sarah opines.
“Yes. Yes. That’s good,” Igor states. “Let us go with that. Life stinks.”
“It seems quite alarming,” Sarah continues.
“Yes. Yes,” Igor is well pleased. “I think the girl has got it. Life is alarming.
We are ready for the show.”
So it comes, so it goes. The CAC show is scheduled for
8 p.m. to “when or what ever” on Sunday July 3, 1988.
Regular submissions already have been numbered and
installed around the large space at the center of the gallery floor.
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They represent standard local crapola like grass skirts lined
with plastic Mardi Gras type fruit beads, and stupid gingerbread
houses with small carefully crafted, equally insipid, figurines.
What an ugly mess it forms.
Local artists think they have outdone themselves, of
course. The 7 p.m. exclusive reception crowd sit around
immersed in idle self-promoting chatter like a bunch of monkeys
at Audubon Zoo. “Eeeh-eeeh-eeeh-eeeh-eeeh.” “Oooh.”
Looks ripe for a Snack Rack rotten banana attack
Snack Rack has spent the night marinating outside Mac’s house,
acquiring a well rounded buoyancy as well as an
unique and unsubtle aroma through a 92 degree afternoon until
presto perfect ’tis ready for prominent public display.
About the time the paying CAC art consumers start horsing
down hors d’oeuvres; gangway critics, here comes the ultimate
exhibit. Don’t say you weren’t warned.
Igor and Armor’s carefully unload Snack Rack from Mac’s
minivan, carrying it like a traveling pre-revolutionary French
monarch on a small carriage through the red brick building’s unlocked back doors,
“Excuse me sirs,” an officious name tag type rudely asks the
Snack Rack retainers as they walk tall through the exhibit with
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their unofficial submission.
“Do you have the proper permission for this, ahhh, thing?”
Armor’s takes the usual low road.
“We don’t need no fucking permission, ass-wipe.”
The fawning suit and tie guy steps back eyebrows arched.
Igor, however, is a more conciliatory soul with considerable
experience in these delicate matters. He seeks to keep the peace.
“Oh yes. Yes. We have consulted with the proper authorities,”
Igor placates. “This is properly sanctioned. Yessiree Bob.”
Igor calls to Armor’s in front. “Put it down next to the ornamental
salad bowls. Turn the rotten vegetable arms in that direction.
Believe it fits quite well with the general ambiance of that piece.”
The well dressed crowd gives the Snack Rack crew a very,
very wide berth. A gorgeous blonde in short black dress holds her nose.
“Well, I never,” she finally blurts. “Hey babe,” Mac snaps. “You do now.”
Igor stands back with his arms folded gazing with admiration at his supervised creation.
“I think we have really done it this time,” he concludes.
“Me too,” Tyger agrees. “I just hope we don’t get arrested or something worse.”
Congratulatory high fives all around self-salute the successful art project crew.
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Mac busies himself schmoozing at the open bar, pouring
prodigious quantities of rum in a glass with a splash of mixer.
“Gang way. Gang way. Gotta get this drink,” he announces,
clearing a path through the pseudo-polite crowd.
Armor’s is all over the actual food table
scarfing down petite sausage balls and less subtle
little hot dogs on buns. Manners, mannerisms,
touch of drool dribbling down his pure white shoit.
Or maybe that is sweat from Snack Rack transportation duties.
Armor’s will never tell.
Igor is all for art and fun for all. He lobbies one of the judges in the corner.
“Is not this the most spectacular comment on the current state
of American culture you have ever seen,” he states proudly.
“Dunno about that,” here come da judge returning service.
“It’s something alright. Give you that.”
Two more large crawfish name tags signifying nothing much;
art show judges in this event appear as if by magic, confused
as they consider the space.
“Is it art?” asks the elderly grey-haired society matron crawfish tag.
“My dear,” replies the the token gay compadre.
“You wouldn’t know art if it were your dog’s name.”
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Ohhh-key. Starting to get uglier at the CAC.
Not even counting the large number of people milling about the art watering hole with
fear and loathing in Hunter S. Thompson’s mind. An event organizer accompanied by two burly
uniformed security mavens stridently strides to Igor ground zero. “Oh no,” Tyger says,
this is what happened last time.”
(This references another art event when Igor wandered into a clay pottery exhibition at the
Houston Contemporary Arts Museum clad only in loin cloth, awkwardly flipping high
to the sky and, oops, clumsy me, dramatically missing a largegeological hammer.
Igor repeated his actions long enough for nervous pottery exhibitors to corral and subdue him,
ejecting his ass outside. This rude interaction launched a scene of vitriolic argumentation lasting over an hour.)
Resuming our scene, the red faced menacing event coordinator displays an unmistakeable
sense of purpose. “Sorry, ah, sir,” he says, “Are you responsible for this, er..”
“Exhibit,” Igor interjects. “Of course. Is it now the piece de resistance, creme de la creme?”
“Dunno about that,” the organizer says. “I am going to have to ask you to take this out the way you came,
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then to a landfill and never come back.”
“Hey buddy. You are the only mockery here,” Mac, somewhat in
his cups, slurs. “Why don’t you get lost. Everyone was enjoying
themselves a lot before your fat ass showed up.”
Armor’s watches in silent wonder, finally chiming in with,
“You know nothing about great art. Who do you think you are?”
“I am in charge of this,” the man says wheeling around to
the rear-guard back-up of this distasteful guerilla action.
“I am going to have to ask you to leave as well, sir.”
“Yeah, well, leave this,” Armor’s replies flashing
upright his trademark right middle finger.
Mac agrees. “Yeah. Leave this too,” repeating Armor’s
obscene gesture with both hands for extra emphasis.
Tyger does not have to be asked to leave as he is all too
familiar with the approaching scenario. He escapes outside and
stands by Camp Street viewing the scene through a large glass window.
He flirts briefly with a petite, possibly attractive brunette.
“Can you believe some people?” he asks innocently enough.
“I don’t know what the world is coming to,” she replies.
“Some people are just animals.”
“Bow wow,” Tyger opines.
The security guards herd Armor’s and Mac to the large front
door. “Hey, you don’t have to push,” Armor’s says. “I was just leaving.”
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Mac adds for good measure, “Who would want to stay at such
a crappy expedition anyway.”
The gay judge begs to disagree with snack rack’s disqualification on technical grounds.
“Frankly, my dear, this is the finest piece in the show,”he says, finger on jaw. “I don’t know about you,
but this — what do you say, snack pack — gets my vote hands down.”
The society dame is a bit less approving. “This thing, pardon my French, sucks, and I mean that literally.”
No matter, anti-matter, da die is cast. The praetorian guards return for Igor who, somehow,
had escaped their wrath. Roughly ejecting Igor into the warm dark night.
“Don’t come back,” lead guard says. “Ever.”
Igor and the gang huddle up on Camp Street assessing the situation.
“Don’t know about you lads,” Igor says, “I believe it went quite well.”
“Uhhh, I need a joint,” Tyger says.
“Read your mind,” Mac says, producing a giant blunt, which they puff away on
like Bad Brains along St. Joseph Street before climbing in the minivan and back Uptown
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to MacLand. They party the night away there in joyous celebration
until dawn’s first light.
Later that Sunday, no mention of the Snack Rack related
conflagration appears in the Slimes-Picayune, although
considerable space in the arts section is devoted to the
official version of the CAC exhibition. Winners are duly
noted in the driest account unimaginable. Fake official
recognition is heaped like Snack Rack’s rotting broccoli and
flaying insects on such as the crawfish mural and still fruit painting.
The next day, as well, is some nation’s birthday.
Yup. Here comes the 4th of July. A trip to the French
Ouarter for the New Neanderthals fake out is on tap this day.
(Maybe someone should play taps.)
Ah yes, comrades, the historic Vieux Carre, the New Orleans
French Quarter. That place synonymous with the Big Easy to all
tourists, demented travel agents, and assorted assholes the world over.
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Roots kills a set, then stumbles around trying to bum a
reefer. He chain smokes cigarettes and pretends like he is
writing a doctoral thesis.
“Yeah, I wrote three pages last week. I am bushed,” he tells
Heave Broward loudly, so others might overhear. “I am going to try
write another three pages next week. Man, it is hard work.”
Must be since he has been “writing” his thesis for 20 years.
His “writing” consists of watching Pee Wee’s Playhouse on
television, the only program relating to him on his own
level — and pretending to be working at BooRay University, Home
of the Blue Foam.
REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
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Then there is the sad but true case of Heave Broward, slack
bass nowhere-man non-artist. He is a hypocrite too, of course,
going around pretending to be “creative,” as in “yeah man, I
been concentrating on GWAR and I really think they’re on to
something creative,” (Create this, pal.)
“Don’t know why Mr. Milty won’t let the rest of us play
our songs. He always insists on only playing his and I feel, I
don’t know, creatively intimidated. Milty is a great guy. Don’t
get me wrong. He is my best buddy.”
REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
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And then there is the lead singer, Little Ro, a thin ugly
African-American youth already aging ungracefully. He
never made it past the 11th grade in high school, but goes around
pretending to be “intellectual,” trying unsuccessfully to
fool others and himself about his role as an “artist.”
Such is the group that plays in a French Quarter courtyard
to celebrate our nation’s birthday. How form fitting.
They play a set of ripped off covers plus a few of Milty’s
originals, then take a break. Comes noon as the parking lot
soundstage becomes hot as hell’s kitchen. The New Neanderthals are definitely not.
Igor has the great privilege of witnessing the usual slackmen effort although Milty and
Buck try to pep the set up with some original riffs and lyrics. Game, set, match. Break.
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Heave is off in the far corner trying to pick up chicks with
the one millionth recitation of “You are the prettiest girl here.
Congratulations Heave, you have reached escape velocity from reality.
Ro preens by a mirror. Milty and Buck smoke a joint with
Mac, Armor’s and Igor walking up Decatur Street laughing and joking.
A crowd of about 50 background actors mill about the
courtyard taken in by the New Neanderthal performance.
What a way to spend the Fourth.
They play a second sloppy set and pack up the instruments.
Roots finagles a ride from an acquaintance. He has no friends.
Heave hops in with a gullible half-beautiful girl fan,
departing like a snake slithering off the hook. Milty leaves with
his latest girlfriend edition whom he will later pass on as
gullible used goods to a social climbing base bassist Broward.
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Buck is in a good mood. He leaves with his girlfriend for a
real party. Ro is … who cares. That accounts for the afternoon.
Mac’s van takes the boys around the French Quarter, honking
at tourists like turtles snapping pictures of anything that moves
and everything that doesn’t.
“Hey you just took a picture of an oak tree,” Armor’s shouts
out the window at one fatass couple. “They don’t have trees where
you come from?”
Guess not. They take another photograph. And over there by
the crime infested St. Louis Cemeteries One and Two, across the
street from the Iberville and St. Thomas Housing Projects, the
tourists wander blissfully unaware of a recent gruesome murder of
two of their own the week before.
The tourists pay lip service to memory — the historic
French Quarter and all that jazz — but don’t even know what went
down last week. Just the way the state Tourist Commission loves
it. Keeps them coming back for more.
Mac drives Igor down Decatur Street by Jackson Square with
the horseback charging hero of the Battle of New Orleans.
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(That was, incidentally, the greatest military victory in
United States history through 1988. It took place at the nearby
Chalmette parapets in January 1814, after the War of 1812 had
been negotiated to an end. Appropriate battle for the City that Care Forgot.)
Also in the vicinity stand St. Louis Cathedral where Pope
John Paul II said mass; the Presbytere; the Cabildo, first seat
of Louisiana government; and the hanging plant baskets lining the
long red east and west Pontalba Apartments on both sides of the
square, the first apartment buildings in America.
But, you, comrades of the never-ending story, do not want a
wasteland travelogue. You do not want to walk pointlessly up and
down Bourbon Street in front of sleazy strip joints and t-shirt shops.
This tale is about New Orleans, not the small 16-square
block of Disneyland for tourists and a few derelicts that the
Chamber of Commerce wishes to pass off as our land. We have a
higher purpose in mind for our future.
Seekers of truth will find none in the Vieux Carre. So, Mac
moves past Jax Brewery, a renovated home for overpriced shops in
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which no local can afford to shop. Waving his hand, Mac explains,
“Oh by the way, this is the French Quarter.”
“Oh,” Igor notes. “Always wondered what it looked like
after hearing so much about it.” Enough said on that score.
Guest performing artist Igor, who arrived with a bang,
leaves these foreign shores with more like a whimper. Everyone is
well pleased with his artistic input, happy to have had him lend
his validating presence to their small slice of lifestyle.
Tuesday July 5th arrives as it must.
Igor leaves Armor’s with a warm embrace.
“See ya later alligator,” the performance artist calls over his
shoulder paying homage to local culture. “Great visit man,”
Armor’s bon voyages. “Come back again as soon as you can.”
A great bird carries Armor’s into the sky, above the clouds,
beyond the top of the terminal telescope.
But, we can recount in these pages whatever happened to the
New Neanderthals. Nothing.
Roots pretended he had to quit the band because his bosses
required it and to devote more time to his thesis.
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It was the usual lie.
Milty started his own band–Belt of Tools.
Buck hooked up with a strange rockabilly group.
Heave continued his nowhere hypocracy hanging out at local
nightclubs pretending to be working on song-writing, lying to
chicks in order to get in their pants. And Little Ro? Who cares.
But of Snack Rack? Aye, that is another story. No doubt some
zealous collector guards its terrible beauty in a darkened art
warehouse somewhere in the Big Uneasy waiting for the proper time
to display the awful truth that gave bad food art a somewhat tasty claim to fame.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Igor, a startling performance artist
from New York, visits the gang. Igor makes the usual splash upon
arrival and his story is told. He supervises the creation of
Snack Rack, a discarded postcard tree filled with rotten food and
crawling insects that is unofficially entered in a local art show
with resulting mayhem. On July 4th, Igor and the gang attend a
lame performance by the New Neanderthals in the French Quarter.
CHAPTER 25
“IGOR COMES TO TOWN”
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Igor. The very name strikes fear in the heartless souls of art philistines everywhere
Igor. Armor’s good art buddy lately of the Arcosanti Commune
near Flagstaff, Arizona; more recently performing the herculean
task of cleaning the stables at Belmont Park Race Track at Elmont, New York.
(He helps with renovations at Carnegie Hall in his spare
time. His picture even made it into the New York Times on that score.)
Igor. Master of modern primitive painting and weird frog art
as well as the odd performance piece between engagements.
Igor. Igor. Igor. The crowd chants his name rising in a
nitrous wave above these distant shores. All hail the great
artist of our time. How about dropping into our planetary hell hole some time?
Yes, comrades in art, the July 4th weekend is heating up as
if that were possible given the 92 degree plus temperatures
accompanying humidity fit to soak one’s soul in sweat.
Igor’s body lies over the water yet.
Armor’s receives the call eagerly. Igor has decided to get
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away from the city — that’s the Big Apple y’all — over the
weekend. He believes it high time to commune with his friends in
New Orleans. Cognoscenti are excited.
Two events coincidentally distinguishing this year’s
Crescent City, shall we say, celebration also call quite vividly
for Igor’s rapt attention.
Firstly, the Contemporary Arts Center on “this used to be
Camp Street” as they once advertised during a street fair thrown
to rid the area of street derelicts in favor of their pseudo-art
derelictions is having an art exhibition and contest.
Winner receives bogus recognition, theoretically.
Secondly, that well known purveying group of doom, the New
Neanderthals, have somehow gotten their shit together long enough
to play an equally bogus July 4th gig in the French Quarter
courtyard of a sort of hip collectibles shop.
They say they are going to make a music video.
We will have to see about that. Hopefully, so will Igor.
Igor, of course, will stay with Armor’s and his cats at the
petting zoo. The controversial by design great artist is due for
a Saturday morning arrival, Tuesday evening departure.
That should give him more than enough time to wreak havoc on what
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used to be known as the Big Crescent City that Care Forgot Easy.
Let us see what they call this place after Igor is through.
Armor’s drives out to New Orleans International Airport at 7:30 p.m.
He is his usual rambunctious self, passive-aggressively tempting death
while playing in fast moving traffic. Thankfully, as Tyger clutches the lap belt
for dear life, no more surveillance for this pelicana. Armor’s number is retired.
The Mercury Capris makes it safely to the short-term parking area by act
of a higher power’s caprice. The boys head for the Delta terminal
at this used to be called Moisant Field. Not surprisingly, they are late,
they are late for a very important date. Welcome to Armor’s world already.
The official gang greeting committee cascades up the escalator, leaping steps in a series
of long bounds, mini-supermen — or stupormen, your call — passing a startled
security guard. Lucky for him they are not in the mood for a skyjacking.
Regular jacks will do.
(The uninformed, incidentally, always ask for the proper definition
of the local slang use of the word “jack,” that can be used grammatically
as verb, noun, adverb, or adjective being a most descriptive term. Mr. Milty
summed it up perfectly with his classic ink drawing of an angry man
pounding a pinball machine inside a picture of an angry man pounding
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a pinball machine inside apicture of an angry man
pounding a pinball machine inside etc….)
The welcome to N’Awlins this is your life ad hoc Igor society flies
across the busy airport concourse O.J. Simpson pre-murder style.
They hear a voice ring out as all traffic stops like in the old
Dean Witter commercials, all necks craning to hear the stock tip.
“Ho ho ho there boys,” a far figure enthralling,
drawing Armor’s and Tyger like shades towards his shadowy
denouement of arrival strategy. “I’m all Ho’d out.”
Wearing a Davey Crockett coonskin cap with a long blonde
pony tail sticking out for good measure, Igor walks confidently
towards his steering committee. “Ho ho ho there boys,” he repeats
for effect and halts just before reaching Armor’s outstretched hand.
Then, what do you know comrades, he flips his trim lean body
over in an acrobatic handstand, walking a few feet with his feet
in the air. That lad always knew how to attract a crowd, kind of
like Jelly Roll Morton without the extreme verbal histrionics.
Igor rolls to a stop in a sitting position as Tyger, Armor’s
and a small crowd of curious bears break into applause.
“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you all very much,” Igor acknowledges as
the crowd quickly disperses. Maybe they have heard about him.
Meanwhile, airport security guards are quickly scrambling
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like rats after cheese in the opposite direction. They know
trouble when they see it. “That was great,” Armor’s finally comments.
“Great to see ya Igor.”
“How is everything in the Big UnEasy?” Igor asks.
“Same old same old,” Tyger states. “Been looking forward to seeing you.”
“Got a couple of awful activities on tap,” Armor’s reports.
“Goody,” Igor notes with pleasure. “Goody gum drop.
That’s what we all came for.”
Tyger grabs Igor’s duffle bag as the orange tinged artist
walks along with Armor’s to the escalator. Tyger and Armor’s ride
the automatic steps. Igor tries to slide down the railing
alternating between sliding a few feet and falling off.
Good show, old chap. Everybody finds this game quite
amusing. Igor laughs uproariously more like a happy lion than silly rabbit.
Tyger and Armor’s are now officially in the Igor zone and
loving it. They can feel the karma level rising rapidly.
The three artists become imbued with a sense of heightened
artistic energy. They break the sound barrier near confused,
possibly frightened, beautiful rent-a-car chicks sitting in their
ridiculously colored uniforms at respective corporate
commercialism counters. Armor’s immediately, excitedly bee-
lining to a bank of black telephones.
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“What you doing there?” Igor inquires.
“Have to call Mac,”Armor’s replies. “Everybody at MacLand wants to see you
as soon as humanly possible.”
“Yes. Let us stop there,” Igor says. “Mac’s a great guy. We can reminisce
about our adventures through the weirdly wilds of Arcosanti.”
Armor’s mutters a few words into the phone, handing the
apparatus to Igor. “Heeeeeeey Mac:! How is it going?!?” Igor yells, nearly
undressing the phone’s mouthpiece. “Heeeey Mac! Hip Hip hooray you dirty dog.”
A few additional nonsensical pleasantries exchanged. Mac
gives Igor the proposed Saturday night agenda. Igor agrees to the
proposal with one amendment before breaking off the commos line.
“Let me drop my duffel bag at Armor’s house and wash up,”
Igor appends. “I feel quite grungy after the airplane ride, not to
mention three margarita cocktails.”
Igor apprises the greeting committee of the upcoming meeting
schedule. “Your wish is my command sir. Yes,” replies Armor’s
with his best Ed McMahon imitation.
(Was Armor’s consciously imitating the Johnny Carson second
banana? He will never tell. In any event, lucky for Ed McMahon
breath, Armor’s is not interested in hosting “Star Search.”)
The boys float on the wings of uplifted consciousness to
Armor’s awaiting chariot. They Ben Hur Uptown narrowly missing
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identified driving objects who have the misfortune of blocking
Armor’s way at that particular point of space and time.
Hey, you lousy driving dharma bums, no one promised you a
rose garden on the interstate. Make way for real art royalty and
we don’t mean no carnival klutz.
Armor’s wildly honks his horn while Igor sticks his head out
the window making weird faces at other vehicular units. All the
while, Igor’s pony tail sways madly in the speed breaking highway
wind. Beats the roller coaster of defunct Ponchartrain Beach for
excitement any day of the week.
“Next time,” Igor tells Armor’s as they decelerate towards
the South Carrolton exit, “let me do the driving.”
“You don’t have a license though. Do you?” Tyger asks if
memory serves him well.
“Don’t need one, dear boy,” Igor replies. “I just want to drive. I
don’t use identification.”
“Oh,” Tyger says. “Sorry for asking.”
“Uhh, O.K,” Armor’s adds. “Want to drive now?”
“Nah. Remind me later.”
Tyger feels like the personification of his Lurch imitation,
but bites his tongue. First chance, he vows, he is retreating to
his own car. He will meet up with Igor and Armor’s
traveling show later at Mac’s pad.
Scene dissolve. Stage left as hours pass like seconds. Igor
and Armor’s curtsy. Then, they disappear courtesy of the hands of time.
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They re-emerge 9 p.m. at MacLand followed by Tyger,
the semi-great art hunter-detective.
An interesting discussion ensues as Mac, Armor’s, and Igor
recall a journey they took in 1986 when the former rescued the
latter from his less than free state at Arcosanti, a self-contained
commune theoretically dedicated to the positive
advancement of humanity’s consciousness.
Igor lived in a cave in the Arizona high desert wasting his
considerable artistic talents by engaging in whatever commune
practices were en vogue there. Anyone can be a flunky, but the
great shaman artists of an age are few and far between. (Such is
the grinning Igor Buddah seated cross-legged on Mac floor.)
Mac and Armor’s somehow sensed that Igor was becoming
disillusioned at the commune. They showed up at his cave doorstep
in the Nick Bowers of time, apparently. Igor’s attitude was
beginning to run afoul of commune authorities.
Igor’s cavalry packed his few belongings in Mac’s old car.
They charged northeast to Colorado and a “Jack Kerouac: On the
Road Again” conference. Picking up a female hitchhiker called
Flora along the way, the art soldiers happily careened across the
great Southwest taking slightly obscene photographs of the
willing young girl, stopping along the road for red-green hot
Mexican chili dinners and cold drinks.
A good time was had by all. At least, that is their story
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and they’re sticking to it. Attention spans to another topic.
Armor’s has a bit of current news update for the visiting performance artist.
“Those lame assholes at the CAC are having an art show,” Armor’s reports.
“They are so fucking stupid that they give true artists a bad name.
We need to teach them a lesson.”
Igor laughs in his trade-marked vaguely sinister manner.
“Remember the bird scout cookies?” he asks, alluding to an unforgettable instance
in which he filled up empty girl scout cookie boxes with decaying dead birds;
then went door to door “selling” them.
Predictably, no buyers although a particularly rabid off-duty Houston policeman
threatened to arrest Igor on the spot, thereby ending, for the day, the infamous art project.
Yes, it was a pheasant way to the pass that particular day.
Of course, the boys remember the bird scout cookies incident
immortalized in the ongoing memory of man
as related from generation to generation at life’s wonderful way stations
such as this Mac’s house bullshit seance.
Reminiscences such as these reverberate far louder
than the roar of MacLand’s huge fans beating the heat senseless.
“Tell me more about this so-called show,” an interested Igor asks,
his mind click clicking instantly formulating a secret game plan.
“Uhhh, uhhh,” Armor’s stutters, coming to a pot hole chasm in the road.
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Tyger jumps in noting, “Tomorrow night.
They have the Slimes-Picayune art critic and a couple of
others judging the exhibits. All entries must have themes
relating to the culinary arts since this is, after all, a part f
New Orleans fake claim to fame. Winner gets screwed or something.”
“Screwed, eh?” Igor contemplates. “I could use a little screwing.”
Igor pauses to consider further, then turns to.Armor’s Tungsten.
“What was that I saw abandoned outside the hardware store on the corner?”
“Uhh. The postcard rack?”
“Ah-huh. The snack rack.”
“Snack rack?” Mac repeats.
“Ah-huh. Let’s retrieve it,” Igor says.
What the hey-line. The boys walk down the street to where
sits discarded an old postcard rack. Mac picks it up like
a Christmas tree, lugging it back to the home pad.
“Let us get to work lads. We have some serious art to make,”
Igor announces, as he — whomp! — captures a large roach under a
plastic cup. “I believe we have our first subject.”
Thus begins the making of Snack Rack so christened. Igor
tapes a paper bottom under the cup thereby preserving the roach
forever in time. He places roach-in-a-cup on one of the lower
branches of the soon to be art wracked tree.
“What have we in the kitchen,” he announces as Sarah goes to
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the back of the house. “You want something” she says, “gross?”
to which Igor replies, “Grosser the better,”
laughing maniacally as per his peculiar style.
A mad scramble ensues as each of MacLandia’s citizenry
scours the property for the most awful, horrible, preferably
crawling live or rotting dead objects, to place on a particular rack.
A wild assortment of indigenous insect life combines with
decaying foodstuff to form the core of the proposed exhibit.
Every now and then cries of “Ooooooh,” or “ahhhhhh, disgusting,”
escape as the racks quickly fill to overflowing with, dare we say, snacks.
Disgusting work, comrades, but an artist must do what an
artist must do, damn the consequences. “I feel a little like
throwing up,” Sarah comments to which Igor appends, “Please do.
We have a spot for that on the lower right arm left.”
“Maybe I’ll hold it in,” she notes after careful consideration.
Odor most foul stinking to high heaven; insects most fair
crawling in their plastic cages, fighting to no avail to exit the
evolving exhibit. “Is this how Picasso got started?” Tyger asks.
“I don’t believe he dealt much in food art,” Igor replies.
“Of course one never knows about a person’s inner passions.”
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Igor continues to supervise as he whips the upper right rack
in shape, literally, with a healthy serving of chill-and-whip.
“Looks good,” he notes, “and tastes good too. Yum yum.”
Tyger and Armor’s pick over the remnants of the evening’s
last supper producing the odd piece of fruit and leftover
vegetable garbage for Igor to consider.
“Good. Good,” he approves. “I think that putrid banana adds
a very nice touch.” He smells it. “Hmmmm. Pungent aroma. This
will definitely do. Any more lying around, preferably for days?”
Even the cats pitch in as one drags a chicken bone into the
room which Igor eagerly fetches. He accompanies that motion with
the wonderfully evil laugh as eternally trademarked.
“Yes, yes kitty,” he says petting the purring animal
contributor. “Go back into the yard and see what else is appropo.”
The cats might not know much, but they seem to intuit what makes great food art.
They immediately withdraw to follow Igor’s further instructions.
“Oh, how lovely,” he notes as with a flourish Armor’s hands
him a particularly disgusting brown object.
“Don’t tell me what it is. It will ruin the surprise.”
“Good idea,” Sarah adds as she looks on with an air of
suspended disbelief that always forms the basis of appreciation
of true art. “Don’t believe I want to know either.”
Armor’s is well pleased with his contribution. He returns to
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the bathroom area for more raw art. He, too, knows a good Snack
Rack object when he feels it.
This activity, accompanied by a long-playing tape of the
latest Macland bongo associative productions for Igor’s benefit,
continues for an hour or so until every branch of the snack rack
tree is filled with the most vile and perplexing of subjects.
Everyone stands back, well back at that, because the
horrible aroma is overpowering, admiring the latest creation of
the great Igor, supervising artist.
“I think we have something here,” Igor concludes. “I think
we truly have an inspirational, magical special representation of
man’s inhumanity to man and the immediate environment.”
Everyone appears quite impressed. “Awesome,” Tyger utters.
“Uhhh. I like it,” adds Armor’s.
“Awful, accent on the first syllable; art of the highest order,” according to Mac.
“This stinks,” Sarah opines.
“Yes. Yes. That’s good,” Igor states. “Let us go with that. Life stinks.”
“It seems quite alarming,” Sarah continues.
“Yes. Yes,” Igor is well pleased. “I think the girl has got it. Life is alarming.
We are ready for the show.”
So it comes, so it goes. The CAC show is scheduled for
8 p.m. to “when or what ever” on Sunday July 3, 1988.
Regular submissions already have been numbered and
installed around the large space at the center of the gallery floor.
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They represent standard local crapola like grass skirts lined
with plastic Mardi Gras type fruit beads, and stupid gingerbread
houses with small carefully crafted, equally insipid, figurines.
What an ugly mess it forms.
Local artists think they have outdone themselves, of
course. The 7 p.m. exclusive reception crowd sit around
immersed in idle self-promoting chatter like a bunch of monkeys
at Audubon Zoo. “Eeeh-eeeh-eeeh-eeeh-eeeh.” “Oooh.”
Looks ripe for a Snack Rack rotten banana attack
Snack Rack has spent the night marinating outside Mac’s house,
acquiring a well rounded buoyancy as well as an
unique and unsubtle aroma through a 92 degree afternoon until
presto perfect ’tis ready for prominent public display.
About the time the paying CAC art consumers start horsing
down hors d’oeuvres; gangway critics, here comes the ultimate
exhibit. Don’t say you weren’t warned.
Igor and Armor’s carefully unload Snack Rack from Mac’s
minivan, carrying it like a traveling pre-revolutionary French
monarch on a small carriage through the red brick building’s unlocked back doors,
“Excuse me sirs,” an officious name tag type rudely asks the
Snack Rack retainers as they walk tall through the exhibit with
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their unofficial submission.
“Do you have the proper permission for this, ahhh, thing?”
Armor’s takes the usual low road.
“We don’t need no fucking permission, ass-wipe.”
The fawning suit and tie guy steps back eyebrows arched.
Igor, however, is a more conciliatory soul with considerable
experience in these delicate matters. He seeks to keep the peace.
“Oh yes. Yes. We have consulted with the proper authorities,”
Igor placates. “This is properly sanctioned. Yessiree Bob.”
Igor calls to Armor’s in front. “Put it down next to the ornamental
salad bowls. Turn the rotten vegetable arms in that direction.
Believe it fits quite well with the general ambiance of that piece.”
The well dressed crowd gives the Snack Rack crew a very,
very wide berth. A gorgeous blonde in short black dress holds her nose.
“Well, I never,” she finally blurts. “Hey babe,” Mac snaps. “You do now.”
Igor stands back with his arms folded gazing with admiration at his supervised creation.
“I think we have really done it this time,” he concludes.
“Me too,” Tyger agrees. “I just hope we don’t get arrested or something worse.”
Congratulatory high fives all around self-salute the successful art project crew.
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Mac busies himself schmoozing at the open bar, pouring
prodigious quantities of rum in a glass with a splash of mixer.
“Gang way. Gang way. Gotta get this drink,” he announces,
clearing a path through the pseudo-polite crowd.
Armor’s is all over the actual food table
scarfing down petite sausage balls and less subtle
little hot dogs on buns. Manners, mannerisms,
touch of drool dribbling down his pure white shoit.
Or maybe that is sweat from Snack Rack transportation duties.
Armor’s will never tell.
Igor is all for art and fun for all. He lobbies one of the judges in the corner.
“Is not this the most spectacular comment on the current state
of American culture you have ever seen,” he states proudly.
“Dunno about that,” here come da judge returning service.
“It’s something alright. Give you that.”
Two more large crawfish name tags signifying nothing much;
art show judges in this event appear as if by magic, confused
as they consider the space.
“Is it art?” asks the elderly grey-haired society matron crawfish tag.
“My dear,” replies the the token gay compadre.
“You wouldn’t know art if it were your dog’s name.”
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Ohhh-key. Starting to get uglier at the CAC.
Not even counting the large number of people milling about the art watering hole with
fear and loathing in Hunter S. Thompson’s mind. An event organizer accompanied by two burly
uniformed security mavens stridently strides to Igor ground zero. “Oh no,” Tyger says,
this is what happened last time.”
(This references another art event when Igor wandered into a clay pottery exhibition at the
Houston Contemporary Arts Museum clad only in loin cloth, awkwardly flipping high
to the sky and, oops, clumsy me, dramatically missing a largegeological hammer.
Igor repeated his actions long enough for nervous pottery exhibitors to corral and subdue him,
ejecting his ass outside. This rude interaction launched a scene of vitriolic argumentation lasting over an hour.)
Resuming our scene, the red faced menacing event coordinator displays an unmistakeable
sense of purpose. “Sorry, ah, sir,” he says, “Are you responsible for this, er..”
“Exhibit,” Igor interjects. “Of course. Is it now the piece de resistance, creme de la creme?”
“Dunno about that,” the organizer says. “I am going to have to ask you to take this out the way you came,
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then to a landfill and never come back.”
“Hey buddy. You are the only mockery here,” Mac, somewhat in
his cups, slurs. “Why don’t you get lost. Everyone was enjoying
themselves a lot before your fat ass showed up.”
Armor’s watches in silent wonder, finally chiming in with,
“You know nothing about great art. Who do you think you are?”
“I am in charge of this,” the man says wheeling around to
the rear-guard back-up of this distasteful guerilla action.
“I am going to have to ask you to leave as well, sir.”
“Yeah, well, leave this,” Armor’s replies flashing
upright his trademark right middle finger.
Mac agrees. “Yeah. Leave this too,” repeating Armor’s
obscene gesture with both hands for extra emphasis.
Tyger does not have to be asked to leave as he is all too
familiar with the approaching scenario. He escapes outside and
stands by Camp Street viewing the scene through a large glass window.
He flirts briefly with a petite, possibly attractive brunette.
“Can you believe some people?” he asks innocently enough.
“I don’t know what the world is coming to,” she replies.
“Some people are just animals.”
“Bow wow,” Tyger opines.
The security guards herd Armor’s and Mac to the large front
door. “Hey, you don’t have to push,” Armor’s says. “I was just leaving.”
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Mac adds for good measure, “Who would want to stay at such
a crappy expedition anyway.”
The gay judge begs to disagree with snack rack’s disqualification on technical grounds.
“Frankly, my dear, this is the finest piece in the show,”he says, finger on jaw. “I don’t know about you,
but this — what do you say, snack pack — gets my vote hands down.”
The society dame is a bit less approving. “This thing, pardon my French, sucks, and I mean that literally.”
No matter, anti-matter, da die is cast. The praetorian guards return for Igor who, somehow,
had escaped their wrath. Roughly ejecting Igor into the warm dark night.
“Don’t come back,” lead guard says. “Ever.”
Igor and the gang huddle up on Camp Street assessing the situation.
“Don’t know about you lads,” Igor says, “I believe it went quite well.”
“Uhhh, I need a joint,” Tyger says.
“Read your mind,” Mac says, producing a giant blunt, which they puff away on
like Bad Brains along St. Joseph Street before climbing in the minivan and back Uptown
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to MacLand. They party the night away there in joyous celebration
until dawn’s first light.
Later that Sunday, no mention of the Snack Rack related
conflagration appears in the Slimes-Picayune, although
considerable space in the arts section is devoted to the
official version of the CAC exhibition. Winners are duly
noted in the driest account unimaginable. Fake official
recognition is heaped like Snack Rack’s rotting broccoli and
flaying insects on such as the crawfish mural and still fruit painting.
The next day, as well, is some nation’s birthday.
Yup. Here comes the 4th of July. A trip to the French
Ouarter for the New Neanderthals fake out is on tap this day.
(Maybe someone should play taps.)
Ah yes, comrades, the historic Vieux Carre, the New Orleans
French Quarter. That place synonymous with the Big Easy to all
tourists, demented travel agents, and assorted assholes the world over.
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Roots kills a set, then stumbles around trying to bum a
reefer. He chain smokes cigarettes and pretends like he is
writing a doctoral thesis.
“Yeah, I wrote three pages last week. I am bushed,” he tells
Heave Broward loudly, so others might overhear. “I am going to try
write another three pages next week. Man, it is hard work.”
Must be since he has been “writing” his thesis for 20 years.
His “writing” consists of watching Pee Wee’s Playhouse on
television, the only program relating to him on his own
level — and pretending to be working at BooRay University, Home
of the Blue Foam.
REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
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Then there is the sad but true case of Heave Broward, slack
bass nowhere-man non-artist. He is a hypocrite too, of course,
going around pretending to be “creative,” as in “yeah man, I
been concentrating on GWAR and I really think they’re on to
something creative,” (Create this, pal.)
“Don’t know why Mr. Milty won’t let the rest of us play
our songs. He always insists on only playing his and I feel, I
don’t know, creatively intimidated. Milty is a great guy. Don’t
get me wrong. He is my best buddy.”
REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
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And then there is the lead singer, Little Ro, a thin ugly
African-American youth already aging ungracefully. He
never made it past the 11th grade in high school, but goes around
pretending to be “intellectual,” trying unsuccessfully to
fool others and himself about his role as an “artist.”
Such is the group that plays in a French Quarter courtyard
to celebrate our nation’s birthday. How form fitting.
They play a set of ripped off covers plus a few of Milty’s
originals, then take a break. Comes noon as the parking lot
soundstage becomes hot as hell’s kitchen. The New Neanderthals are definitely not.
Igor has the great privilege of witnessing the usual slackmen effort although Milty and
Buck try to pep the set up with some original riffs and lyrics. Game, set, match. Break.
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Heave is off in the far corner trying to pick up chicks with
the one millionth recitation of “You are the prettiest girl here.
Congratulations Heave, you have reached escape velocity from reality.
Ro preens by a mirror. Milty and Buck smoke a joint with
Mac, Armor’s and Igor walking up Decatur Street laughing and joking.
A crowd of about 50 background actors mill about the
courtyard taken in by the New Neanderthal performance.
What a way to spend the Fourth.
They play a second sloppy set and pack up the instruments.
Roots finagles a ride from an acquaintance. He has no friends.
Heave hops in with a gullible half-beautiful girl fan,
departing like a snake slithering off the hook. Milty leaves with
his latest girlfriend edition whom he will later pass on as
gullible used goods to a social climbing base bassist Broward.
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Buck is in a good mood. He leaves with his girlfriend for a
real party. Ro is … who cares. That accounts for the afternoon.
Mac’s van takes the boys around the French Quarter, honking
at tourists like turtles snapping pictures of anything that moves
and everything that doesn’t.
“Hey you just took a picture of an oak tree,” Armor’s shouts
out the window at one fatass couple. “They don’t have trees where
you come from?”
Guess not. They take another photograph. And over there by
the crime infested St. Louis Cemeteries One and Two, across the
street from the Iberville and St. Thomas Housing Projects, the
tourists wander blissfully unaware of a recent gruesome murder of
two of their own the week before.
The tourists pay lip service to memory — the historic
French Quarter and all that jazz — but don’t even know what went
down last week. Just the way the state Tourist Commission loves
it. Keeps them coming back for more.
Mac drives Igor down Decatur Street by Jackson Square with
the horseback charging hero of the Battle of New Orleans.
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(That was, incidentally, the greatest military victory in
United States history through 1988. It took place at the nearby
Chalmette parapets in January 1814, after the War of 1812 had
been negotiated to an end. Appropriate battle for the City that Care Forgot.)
Also in the vicinity stand St. Louis Cathedral where Pope
John Paul II said mass; the Presbytere; the Cabildo, first seat
of Louisiana government; and the hanging plant baskets lining the
long red east and west Pontalba Apartments on both sides of the
square, the first apartment buildings in America.
But, you, comrades of the never-ending story, do not want a
wasteland travelogue. You do not want to walk pointlessly up and
down Bourbon Street in front of sleazy strip joints and t-shirt shops.
This tale is about New Orleans, not the small 16-square
block of Disneyland for tourists and a few derelicts that the
Chamber of Commerce wishes to pass off as our land. We have a
higher purpose in mind for our future.
Seekers of truth will find none in the Vieux Carre. So, Mac
moves past Jax Brewery, a renovated home for overpriced shops in
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which no local can afford to shop. Waving his hand, Mac explains,
“Oh by the way, this is the French Quarter.”
“Oh,” Igor notes. “Always wondered what it looked like
after hearing so much about it.” Enough said on that score.
Guest performing artist Igor, who arrived with a bang,
leaves these foreign shores with more like a whimper. Everyone is
well pleased with his artistic input, happy to have had him lend
his validating presence to their small slice of lifestyle.
Tuesday July 5th arrives as it must.
Igor leaves Armor’s with a warm embrace.
“See ya later alligator,” the performance artist calls over his
shoulder paying homage to local culture. “Great visit man,”
Armor’s bon voyages. “Come back again as soon as you can.”
A great bird carries Armor’s into the sky, above the clouds,
beyond the top of the terminal telescope.
But, we can recount in these pages whatever happened to the
New Neanderthals. Nothing.
Roots pretended he had to quit the band because his bosses
required it and to devote more time to his thesis.
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It was the usual lie.
Milty started his own band–Belt of Tools.
Buck hooked up with a strange rockabilly group.
Heave continued his nowhere hypocracy hanging out at local
nightclubs pretending to be working on song-writing, lying to
chicks in order to get in their pants. And Little Ro? Who cares.
But of Snack Rack? Aye, that is another story. No doubt some
zealous collector guards its terrible beauty in a darkened art
warehouse somewhere in the Big Uneasy waiting for the proper time
to display the awful truth that gave bad food art a somewhat tasty claim to fame.
SURVEILLANCE PELICANA
BY
DAN WEISMAN
The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:
Chapters 1-10: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-full-book-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/.)
Chapters 11-20: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-ii-chapters-11-to-20-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/)
Chapters 21-30: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-iii-chapters-21-to-30-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Igor, a startling performance artist
from New York, visits the gang. Igor makes the usual splash upon
arrival and his story is told. He supervises the creation of
Snack Rack, a discarded postcard tree filled with rotten food and
crawling insects that is unofficially entered in a local art show
with resulting mayhem. On July 4th, Igor and the gang attend a
lame performance by the New Neanderthals in the French Quarter.
CHAPTER 25
“IGOR COMES TO TOWN”
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Igor. The very name strikes fear in the heartless souls of art philistines everywhere
Igor. Armor’s good art buddy lately of the Arcosanti Commune
near Flagstaff, Arizona; more recently performing the herculean
task of cleaning the stables at Belmont Park Race Track at Elmont, New York.
(He helps with renovations at Carnegie Hall in his spare
time. His picture even made it into the New York Times on that score.)
Igor. Master of modern primitive painting and weird frog art
as well as the odd performance piece between engagements.
Igor. Igor. Igor. The crowd chants his name rising in a
nitrous wave above these distant shores. All hail the great
artist of our time. How about dropping into our planetary hell hole some time?
Yes, comrades in art, the July 4th weekend is heating up as
if that were possible given the 92 degree plus temperatures
accompanying humidity fit to soak one’s soul in sweat.
Igor’s body lies over the water yet.
Armor’s receives the call eagerly. Igor has decided to get
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away from the city — that’s the Big Apple y’all — over the
weekend. He believes it high time to commune with his friends in
New Orleans. Cognoscenti are excited.
Two events coincidentally distinguishing this year’s
Crescent City, shall we say, celebration also call quite vividly
for Igor’s rapt attention.
Firstly, the Contemporary Arts Center on “this used to be
Camp Street” as they once advertised during a street fair thrown
to rid the area of street derelicts in favor of their pseudo-art
derelictions is having an art exhibition and contest.
Winner receives bogus recognition, theoretically.
Secondly, that well known purveying group of doom, the New
Neanderthals, have somehow gotten their shit together long enough
to play an equally bogus July 4th gig in the French Quarter
courtyard of a sort of hip collectibles shop.
They say they are going to make a music video.
We will have to see about that. Hopefully, so will Igor.
Igor, of course, will stay with Armor’s and his cats at the
petting zoo. The controversial by design great artist is due for
a Saturday morning arrival, Tuesday evening departure.
That should give him more than enough time to wreak havoc on what
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used to be known as the Big Crescent City that Care Forgot Easy.
Let us see what they call this place after Igor is through.
Armor’s drives out to New Orleans International Airport at 7:30 p.m.
He is his usual rambunctious self, passive-aggressively tempting death
while playing in fast moving traffic. Thankfully, as Tyger clutches the lap belt
for dear life, no more surveillance for this pelicana. Armor’s number is retired.
The Mercury Capris makes it safely to the short-term parking area by act
of a higher power’s caprice. The boys head for the Delta terminal
at this used to be called Moisant Field. Not surprisingly, they are late,
they are late for a very important date. Welcome to Armor’s world already.
The official gang greeting committee cascades up the escalator, leaping steps in a series
of long bounds, mini-supermen — or stupormen, your call — passing a startled
security guard. Lucky for him they are not in the mood for a skyjacking.
Regular jacks will do.
(The uninformed, incidentally, always ask for the proper definition
of the local slang use of the word “jack,” that can be used grammatically
as verb, noun, adverb, or adjective being a most descriptive term. Mr. Milty
summed it up perfectly with his classic ink drawing of an angry man
pounding a pinball machine inside a picture of an angry man pounding
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a pinball machine inside apicture of an angry man
pounding a pinball machine inside etc….)
The welcome to N’Awlins this is your life ad hoc Igor society flies
across the busy airport concourse O.J. Simpson pre-murder style.
They hear a voice ring out as all traffic stops like in the old
Dean Witter commercials, all necks craning to hear the stock tip.
“Ho ho ho there boys,” a far figure enthralling,
drawing Armor’s and Tyger like shades towards his shadowy
denouement of arrival strategy. “I’m all Ho’d out.”
Wearing a Davey Crockett coonskin cap with a long blonde
pony tail sticking out for good measure, Igor walks confidently
towards his steering committee. “Ho ho ho there boys,” he repeats
for effect and halts just before reaching Armor’s outstretched hand.
Then, what do you know comrades, he flips his trim lean body
over in an acrobatic handstand, walking a few feet with his feet
in the air. That lad always knew how to attract a crowd, kind of
like Jelly Roll Morton without the extreme verbal histrionics.
Igor rolls to a stop in a sitting position as Tyger, Armor’s
and a small crowd of curious bears break into applause.
“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you all very much,” Igor acknowledges as
the crowd quickly disperses. Maybe they have heard about him.
Meanwhile, airport security guards are quickly scrambling
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like rats after cheese in the opposite direction. They know
trouble when they see it. “That was great,” Armor’s finally comments.
“Great to see ya Igor.”
“How is everything in the Big UnEasy?” Igor asks.
“Same old same old,” Tyger states. “Been looking forward to seeing you.”
“Got a couple of awful activities on tap,” Armor’s reports.
“Goody,” Igor notes with pleasure. “Goody gum drop.
That’s what we all came for.”
Tyger grabs Igor’s duffle bag as the orange tinged artist
walks along with Armor’s to the escalator. Tyger and Armor’s ride
the automatic steps. Igor tries to slide down the railing
alternating between sliding a few feet and falling off.
Good show, old chap. Everybody finds this game quite
amusing. Igor laughs uproariously more like a happy lion than silly rabbit.
Tyger and Armor’s are now officially in the Igor zone and
loving it. They can feel the karma level rising rapidly.
The three artists become imbued with a sense of heightened
artistic energy. They break the sound barrier near confused,
possibly frightened, beautiful rent-a-car chicks sitting in their
ridiculously colored uniforms at respective corporate
commercialism counters. Armor’s immediately, excitedly bee-
lining to a bank of black telephones.
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“What you doing there?” Igor inquires.
“Have to call Mac,”Armor’s replies. “Everybody at MacLand wants to see you
as soon as humanly possible.”
“Yes. Let us stop there,” Igor says. “Mac’s a great guy. We can reminisce
about our adventures through the weirdly wilds of Arcosanti.”
Armor’s mutters a few words into the phone, handing the
apparatus to Igor. “Heeeeeeey Mac:! How is it going?!?” Igor yells, nearly
undressing the phone’s mouthpiece. “Heeeey Mac! Hip Hip hooray you dirty dog.”
A few additional nonsensical pleasantries exchanged. Mac
gives Igor the proposed Saturday night agenda. Igor agrees to the
proposal with one amendment before breaking off the commos line.
“Let me drop my duffel bag at Armor’s house and wash up,”
Igor appends. “I feel quite grungy after the airplane ride, not to
mention three margarita cocktails.”
Igor apprises the greeting committee of the upcoming meeting
schedule. “Your wish is my command sir. Yes,” replies Armor’s
with his best Ed McMahon imitation.
(Was Armor’s consciously imitating the Johnny Carson second
banana? He will never tell. In any event, lucky for Ed McMahon
breath, Armor’s is not interested in hosting “Star Search.”)
The boys float on the wings of uplifted consciousness to
Armor’s awaiting chariot. They Ben Hur Uptown narrowly missing
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identified driving objects who have the misfortune of blocking
Armor’s way at that particular point of space and time.
Hey, you lousy driving dharma bums, no one promised you a
rose garden on the interstate. Make way for real art royalty and
we don’t mean no carnival klutz.
Armor’s wildly honks his horn while Igor sticks his head out
the window making weird faces at other vehicular units. All the
while, Igor’s pony tail sways madly in the speed breaking highway
wind. Beats the roller coaster of defunct Ponchartrain Beach for
excitement any day of the week.
“Next time,” Igor tells Armor’s as they decelerate towards
the South Carrolton exit, “let me do the driving.”
“You don’t have a license though. Do you?” Tyger asks if
memory serves him well.
“Don’t need one, dear boy,” Igor replies. “I just want to drive. I
don’t use identification.”
“Oh,” Tyger says. “Sorry for asking.”
“Uhh, O.K,” Armor’s adds. “Want to drive now?”
“Nah. Remind me later.”
Tyger feels like the personification of his Lurch imitation,
but bites his tongue. First chance, he vows, he is retreating to
his own car. He will meet up with Igor and Armor’s
traveling show later at Mac’s pad.
Scene dissolve. Stage left as hours pass like seconds. Igor
and Armor’s curtsy. Then, they disappear courtesy of the hands of time.
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They re-emerge 9 p.m. at MacLand followed by Tyger,
the semi-great art hunter-detective.
An interesting discussion ensues as Mac, Armor’s, and Igor
recall a journey they took in 1986 when the former rescued the
latter from his less than free state at Arcosanti, a self-contained
commune theoretically dedicated to the positive
advancement of humanity’s consciousness.
Igor lived in a cave in the Arizona high desert wasting his
considerable artistic talents by engaging in whatever commune
practices were en vogue there. Anyone can be a flunky, but the
great shaman artists of an age are few and far between. (Such is
the grinning Igor Buddah seated cross-legged on Mac floor.)
Mac and Armor’s somehow sensed that Igor was becoming
disillusioned at the commune. They showed up at his cave doorstep
in the Nick Bowers of time, apparently. Igor’s attitude was
beginning to run afoul of commune authorities.
Igor’s cavalry packed his few belongings in Mac’s old car.
They charged northeast to Colorado and a “Jack Kerouac: On the
Road Again” conference. Picking up a female hitchhiker called
Flora along the way, the art soldiers happily careened across the
great Southwest taking slightly obscene photographs of the
willing young girl, stopping along the road for red-green hot
Mexican chili dinners and cold drinks.
A good time was had by all. At least, that is their story
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and they’re sticking to it. Attention spans to another topic.
Armor’s has a bit of current news update for the visiting performance artist.
“Those lame assholes at the CAC are having an art show,” Armor’s reports.
“They are so fucking stupid that they give true artists a bad name.
We need to teach them a lesson.”
Igor laughs in his trade-marked vaguely sinister manner.
“Remember the bird scout cookies?” he asks, alluding to an unforgettable instance
in which he filled up empty girl scout cookie boxes with decaying dead birds;
then went door to door “selling” them.
Predictably, no buyers although a particularly rabid off-duty Houston policeman
threatened to arrest Igor on the spot, thereby ending, for the day, the infamous art project.
Yes, it was a pheasant way to the pass that particular day.
Of course, the boys remember the bird scout cookies incident
immortalized in the ongoing memory of man
as related from generation to generation at life’s wonderful way stations
such as this Mac’s house bullshit seance.
Reminiscences such as these reverberate far louder
than the roar of MacLand’s huge fans beating the heat senseless.
“Tell me more about this so-called show,” an interested Igor asks,
his mind click clicking instantly formulating a secret game plan.
“Uhhh, uhhh,” Armor’s stutters, coming to a pot hole chasm in the road.
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Tyger jumps in noting, “Tomorrow night.
They have the Slimes-Picayune art critic and a couple of
others judging the exhibits. All entries must have themes
relating to the culinary arts since this is, after all, a part f
New Orleans fake claim to fame. Winner gets screwed or something.”
“Screwed, eh?” Igor contemplates. “I could use a little screwing.”
Igor pauses to consider further, then turns to.Armor’s Tungsten.
“What was that I saw abandoned outside the hardware store on the corner?”
“Uhh. The postcard rack?”
“Ah-huh. The snack rack.”
“Snack rack?” Mac repeats.
“Ah-huh. Let’s retrieve it,” Igor says.
What the hey-line. The boys walk down the street to where
sits discarded an old postcard rack. Mac picks it up like
a Christmas tree, lugging it back to the home pad.
“Let us get to work lads. We have some serious art to make,”
Igor announces, as he — whomp! — captures a large roach under a
plastic cup. “I believe we have our first subject.”
Thus begins the making of Snack Rack so christened. Igor
tapes a paper bottom under the cup thereby preserving the roach
forever in time. He places roach-in-a-cup on one of the lower
branches of the soon to be art wracked tree.
“What have we in the kitchen,” he announces as Sarah goes to
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the back of the house. “You want something” she says, “gross?”
to which Igor replies, “Grosser the better,”
laughing maniacally as per his peculiar style.
A mad scramble ensues as each of MacLandia’s citizenry
scours the property for the most awful, horrible, preferably
crawling live or rotting dead objects, to place on a particular rack.
A wild assortment of indigenous insect life combines with
decaying foodstuff to form the core of the proposed exhibit.
Every now and then cries of “Ooooooh,” or “ahhhhhh, disgusting,”
escape as the racks quickly fill to overflowing with, dare we say, snacks.
Disgusting work, comrades, but an artist must do what an
artist must do, damn the consequences. “I feel a little like
throwing up,” Sarah comments to which Igor appends, “Please do.
We have a spot for that on the lower right arm left.”
“Maybe I’ll hold it in,” she notes after careful consideration.
Odor most foul stinking to high heaven; insects most fair
crawling in their plastic cages, fighting to no avail to exit the
evolving exhibit. “Is this how Picasso got started?” Tyger asks.
“I don’t believe he dealt much in food art,” Igor replies.
“Of course one never knows about a person’s inner passions.”
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Igor continues to supervise as he whips the upper right rack
in shape, literally, with a healthy serving of chill-and-whip.
“Looks good,” he notes, “and tastes good too. Yum yum.”
Tyger and Armor’s pick over the remnants of the evening’s
last supper producing the odd piece of fruit and leftover
vegetable garbage for Igor to consider.
“Good. Good,” he approves. “I think that putrid banana adds
a very nice touch.” He smells it. “Hmmmm. Pungent aroma. This
will definitely do. Any more lying around, preferably for days?”
Even the cats pitch in as one drags a chicken bone into the
room which Igor eagerly fetches. He accompanies that motion with
the wonderfully evil laugh as eternally trademarked.
“Yes, yes kitty,” he says petting the purring animal
contributor. “Go back into the yard and see what else is appropo.”
The cats might not know much, but they seem to intuit what makes great food art.
They immediately withdraw to follow Igor’s further instructions.
“Oh, how lovely,” he notes as with a flourish Armor’s hands
him a particularly disgusting brown object.
“Don’t tell me what it is. It will ruin the surprise.”
“Good idea,” Sarah adds as she looks on with an air of
suspended disbelief that always forms the basis of appreciation
of true art. “Don’t believe I want to know either.”
Armor’s is well pleased with his contribution. He returns to
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the bathroom area for more raw art. He, too, knows a good Snack
Rack object when he feels it.
This activity, accompanied by a long-playing tape of the
latest Macland bongo associative productions for Igor’s benefit,
continues for an hour or so until every branch of the snack rack
tree is filled with the most vile and perplexing of subjects.
Everyone stands back, well back at that, because the
horrible aroma is overpowering, admiring the latest creation of
the great Igor, supervising artist.
“I think we have something here,” Igor concludes. “I think
we truly have an inspirational, magical special representation of
man’s inhumanity to man and the immediate environment.”
Everyone appears quite impressed. “Awesome,” Tyger utters.
“Uhhh. I like it,” adds Armor’s.
“Awful, accent on the first syllable; art of the highest order,” according to Mac.
“This stinks,” Sarah opines.
“Yes. Yes. That’s good,” Igor states. “Let us go with that. Life stinks.”
“It seems quite alarming,” Sarah continues.
“Yes. Yes,” Igor is well pleased. “I think the girl has got it. Life is alarming.
We are ready for the show.”
So it comes, so it goes. The CAC show is scheduled for
8 p.m. to “when or what ever” on Sunday July 3, 1988.
Regular submissions already have been numbered and
installed around the large space at the center of the gallery floor.
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They represent standard local crapola like grass skirts lined
with plastic Mardi Gras type fruit beads, and stupid gingerbread
houses with small carefully crafted, equally insipid, figurines.
What an ugly mess it forms.
Local artists think they have outdone themselves, of
course. The 7 p.m. exclusive reception crowd sit around
immersed in idle self-promoting chatter like a bunch of monkeys
at Audubon Zoo. “Eeeh-eeeh-eeeh-eeeh-eeeh.” “Oooh.”
Looks ripe for a Snack Rack rotten banana attack
Snack Rack has spent the night marinating outside Mac’s house,
acquiring a well rounded buoyancy as well as an
unique and unsubtle aroma through a 92 degree afternoon until
presto perfect ’tis ready for prominent public display.
About the time the paying CAC art consumers start horsing
down hors d’oeuvres; gangway critics, here comes the ultimate
exhibit. Don’t say you weren’t warned.
Igor and Armor’s carefully unload Snack Rack from Mac’s
minivan, carrying it like a traveling pre-revolutionary French
monarch on a small carriage through the red brick building’s unlocked back doors,
“Excuse me sirs,” an officious name tag type rudely asks the
Snack Rack retainers as they walk tall through the exhibit with
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their unofficial submission.
“Do you have the proper permission for this, ahhh, thing?”
Armor’s takes the usual low road.
“We don’t need no fucking permission, ass-wipe.”
The fawning suit and tie guy steps back eyebrows arched.
Igor, however, is a more conciliatory soul with considerable
experience in these delicate matters. He seeks to keep the peace.
“Oh yes. Yes. We have consulted with the proper authorities,”
Igor placates. “This is properly sanctioned. Yessiree Bob.”
Igor calls to Armor’s in front. “Put it down next to the ornamental
salad bowls. Turn the rotten vegetable arms in that direction.
Believe it fits quite well with the general ambiance of that piece.”
The well dressed crowd gives the Snack Rack crew a very,
very wide berth. A gorgeous blonde in short black dress holds her nose.
“Well, I never,” she finally blurts. “Hey babe,” Mac snaps. “You do now.”
Igor stands back with his arms folded gazing with admiration at his supervised creation.
“I think we have really done it this time,” he concludes.
“Me too,” Tyger agrees. “I just hope we don’t get arrested or something worse.”
Congratulatory high fives all around self-salute the successful art project crew.
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Mac busies himself schmoozing at the open bar, pouring
prodigious quantities of rum in a glass with a splash of mixer.
“Gang way. Gang way. Gotta get this drink,” he announces,
clearing a path through the pseudo-polite crowd.
Armor’s is all over the actual food table
scarfing down petite sausage balls and less subtle
little hot dogs on buns. Manners, mannerisms,
touch of drool dribbling down his pure white shoit.
Or maybe that is sweat from Snack Rack transportation duties.
Armor’s will never tell.
Igor is all for art and fun for all. He lobbies one of the judges in the corner.
“Is not this the most spectacular comment on the current state
of American culture you have ever seen,” he states proudly.
“Dunno about that,” here come da judge returning service.
“It’s something alright. Give you that.”
Two more large crawfish name tags signifying nothing much;
art show judges in this event appear as if by magic, confused
as they consider the space.
“Is it art?” asks the elderly grey-haired society matron crawfish tag.
“My dear,” replies the the token gay compadre.
“You wouldn’t know art if it were your dog’s name.”
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Ohhh-key. Starting to get uglier at the CAC.
Not even counting the large number of people milling about the art watering hole with
fear and loathing in Hunter S. Thompson’s mind. An event organizer accompanied by two burly
uniformed security mavens stridently strides to Igor ground zero. “Oh no,” Tyger says,
this is what happened last time.”
(This references another art event when Igor wandered into a clay pottery exhibition at the
Houston Contemporary Arts Museum clad only in loin cloth, awkwardly flipping high
to the sky and, oops, clumsy me, dramatically missing a largegeological hammer.
Igor repeated his actions long enough for nervous pottery exhibitors to corral and subdue him,
ejecting his ass outside. This rude interaction launched a scene of vitriolic argumentation lasting over an hour.)
Resuming our scene, the red faced menacing event coordinator displays an unmistakeable
sense of purpose. “Sorry, ah, sir,” he says, “Are you responsible for this, er..”
“Exhibit,” Igor interjects. “Of course. Is it now the piece de resistance, creme de la creme?”
“Dunno about that,” the organizer says. “I am going to have to ask you to take this out the way you came,
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then to a landfill and never come back.”
“Hey buddy. You are the only mockery here,” Mac, somewhat in
his cups, slurs. “Why don’t you get lost. Everyone was enjoying
themselves a lot before your fat ass showed up.”
Armor’s watches in silent wonder, finally chiming in with,
“You know nothing about great art. Who do you think you are?”
“I am in charge of this,” the man says wheeling around to
the rear-guard back-up of this distasteful guerilla action.
“I am going to have to ask you to leave as well, sir.”
“Yeah, well, leave this,” Armor’s replies flashing
upright his trademark right middle finger.
Mac agrees. “Yeah. Leave this too,” repeating Armor’s
obscene gesture with both hands for extra emphasis.
Tyger does not have to be asked to leave as he is all too
familiar with the approaching scenario. He escapes outside and
stands by Camp Street viewing the scene through a large glass window.
He flirts briefly with a petite, possibly attractive brunette.
“Can you believe some people?” he asks innocently enough.
“I don’t know what the world is coming to,” she replies.
“Some people are just animals.”
“Bow wow,” Tyger opines.
The security guards herd Armor’s and Mac to the large front
door. “Hey, you don’t have to push,” Armor’s says. “I was just leaving.”
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Mac adds for good measure, “Who would want to stay at such
a crappy expedition anyway.”
The gay judge begs to disagree with snack rack’s disqualification on technical grounds.
“Frankly, my dear, this is the finest piece in the show,”he says, finger on jaw. “I don’t know about you,
but this — what do you say, snack pack — gets my vote hands down.”
The society dame is a bit less approving. “This thing, pardon my French, sucks, and I mean that literally.”
No matter, anti-matter, da die is cast. The praetorian guards return for Igor who, somehow,
had escaped their wrath. Roughly ejecting Igor into the warm dark night.
“Don’t come back,” lead guard says. “Ever.”
Igor and the gang huddle up on Camp Street assessing the situation.
“Don’t know about you lads,” Igor says, “I believe it went quite well.”
“Uhhh, I need a joint,” Tyger says.
“Read your mind,” Mac says, producing a giant blunt, which they puff away on
like Bad Brains along St. Joseph Street before climbing in the minivan and back Uptown
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to MacLand. They party the night away there in joyous celebration
until dawn’s first light.
Later that Sunday, no mention of the Snack Rack related
conflagration appears in the Slimes-Picayune, although
considerable space in the arts section is devoted to the
official version of the CAC exhibition. Winners are duly
noted in the driest account unimaginable. Fake official
recognition is heaped like Snack Rack’s rotting broccoli and
flaying insects on such as the crawfish mural and still fruit painting.
The next day, as well, is some nation’s birthday.
Yup. Here comes the 4th of July. A trip to the French
Ouarter for the New Neanderthals fake out is on tap this day.
(Maybe someone should play taps.)
Ah yes, comrades, the historic Vieux Carre, the New Orleans
French Quarter. That place synonymous with the Big Easy to all
tourists, demented travel agents, and assorted assholes the world over.
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Roots kills a set, then stumbles around trying to bum a
reefer. He chain smokes cigarettes and pretends like he is
writing a doctoral thesis.
“Yeah, I wrote three pages last week. I am bushed,” he tells
Heave Broward loudly, so others might overhear. “I am going to try
write another three pages next week. Man, it is hard work.”
Must be since he has been “writing” his thesis for 20 years.
His “writing” consists of watching Pee Wee’s Playhouse on
television, the only program relating to him on his own
level — and pretending to be working at BooRay University, Home
of the Blue Foam.
REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
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Then there is the sad but true case of Heave Broward, slack
bass nowhere-man non-artist. He is a hypocrite too, of course,
going around pretending to be “creative,” as in “yeah man, I
been concentrating on GWAR and I really think they’re on to
something creative,” (Create this, pal.)
“Don’t know why Mr. Milty won’t let the rest of us play
our songs. He always insists on only playing his and I feel, I
don’t know, creatively intimidated. Milty is a great guy. Don’t
get me wrong. He is my best buddy.”
REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
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And then there is the lead singer, Little Ro, a thin ugly
African-American youth already aging ungracefully. He
never made it past the 11th grade in high school, but goes around
pretending to be “intellectual,” trying unsuccessfully to
fool others and himself about his role as an “artist.”
Such is the group that plays in a French Quarter courtyard
to celebrate our nation’s birthday. How form fitting.
They play a set of ripped off covers plus a few of Milty’s
originals, then take a break. Comes noon as the parking lot
soundstage becomes hot as hell’s kitchen. The New Neanderthals are definitely not.
Igor has the great privilege of witnessing the usual slackmen effort although Milty and
Buck try to pep the set up with some original riffs and lyrics. Game, set, match. Break.
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Heave is off in the far corner trying to pick up chicks with
the one millionth recitation of “You are the prettiest girl here.
Congratulations Heave, you have reached escape velocity from reality.
Ro preens by a mirror. Milty and Buck smoke a joint with
Mac, Armor’s and Igor walking up Decatur Street laughing and joking.
A crowd of about 50 background actors mill about the
courtyard taken in by the New Neanderthal performance.
What a way to spend the Fourth.
They play a second sloppy set and pack up the instruments.
Roots finagles a ride from an acquaintance. He has no friends.
Heave hops in with a gullible half-beautiful girl fan,
departing like a snake slithering off the hook. Milty leaves with
his latest girlfriend edition whom he will later pass on as
gullible used goods to a social climbing base bassist Broward.
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Buck is in a good mood. He leaves with his girlfriend for a
real party. Ro is … who cares. That accounts for the afternoon.
Mac’s van takes the boys around the French Quarter, honking
at tourists like turtles snapping pictures of anything that moves
and everything that doesn’t.
“Hey you just took a picture of an oak tree,” Armor’s shouts
out the window at one fatass couple. “They don’t have trees where
you come from?”
Guess not. They take another photograph. And over there by
the crime infested St. Louis Cemeteries One and Two, across the
street from the Iberville and St. Thomas Housing Projects, the
tourists wander blissfully unaware of a recent gruesome murder of
two of their own the week before.
The tourists pay lip service to memory — the historic
French Quarter and all that jazz — but don’t even know what went
down last week. Just the way the state Tourist Commission loves
it. Keeps them coming back for more.
Mac drives Igor down Decatur Street by Jackson Square with
the horseback charging hero of the Battle of New Orleans.
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(That was, incidentally, the greatest military victory in
United States history through 1988. It took place at the nearby
Chalmette parapets in January 1814, after the War of 1812 had
been negotiated to an end. Appropriate battle for the City that Care Forgot.)
Also in the vicinity stand St. Louis Cathedral where Pope
John Paul II said mass; the Presbytere; the Cabildo, first seat
of Louisiana government; and the hanging plant baskets lining the
long red east and west Pontalba Apartments on both sides of the
square, the first apartment buildings in America.
But, you, comrades of the never-ending story, do not want a
wasteland travelogue. You do not want to walk pointlessly up and
down Bourbon Street in front of sleazy strip joints and t-shirt shops.
This tale is about New Orleans, not the small 16-square
block of Disneyland for tourists and a few derelicts that the
Chamber of Commerce wishes to pass off as our land. We have a
higher purpose in mind for our future.
Seekers of truth will find none in the Vieux Carre. So, Mac
moves past Jax Brewery, a renovated home for overpriced shops in
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which no local can afford to shop. Waving his hand, Mac explains,
“Oh by the way, this is the French Quarter.”
“Oh,” Igor notes. “Always wondered what it looked like
after hearing so much about it.” Enough said on that score.
Guest performing artist Igor, who arrived with a bang,
leaves these foreign shores with more like a whimper. Everyone is
well pleased with his artistic input, happy to have had him lend
his validating presence to their small slice of lifestyle.
Tuesday July 5th arrives as it must.
Igor leaves Armor’s with a warm embrace.
“See ya later alligator,” the performance artist calls over his
shoulder paying homage to local culture. “Great visit man,”
Armor’s bon voyages. “Come back again as soon as you can.”
A great bird carries Armor’s into the sky, above the clouds,
beyond the top of the terminal telescope.
But, we can recount in these pages whatever happened to the
New Neanderthals. Nothing.
Roots pretended he had to quit the band because his bosses
required it and to devote more time to his thesis.
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It was the usual lie.
Milty started his own band–Belt of Tools.
Buck hooked up with a strange rockabilly group.
Heave continued his nowhere hypocracy hanging out at local
nightclubs pretending to be working on song-writing, lying to
chicks in order to get in their pants. And Little Ro? Who cares.
But of Snack Rack? Aye, that is another story. No doubt some
zealous collector guards its terrible beauty in a darkened art
warehouse somewhere in the Big Uneasy waiting for the proper time
to display the awful truth that gave bad food art a somewhat tasty claim to fame.
SURVEILLANCE PELICANA
BY
DAN WEISMAN
The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:
Chapters 1-10: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-full-book-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/.)
Chapters 11-20: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-ii-chapters-11-to-20-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/)
Chapters 21-30: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-iii-chapters-21-to-30-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Igor, a startling performance artist
from New York, visits the gang. Igor makes the usual splash upon
arrival and his story is told. He supervises the creation of
Snack Rack, a discarded postcard tree filled with rotten food and
crawling insects that is unofficially entered in a local art show
with resulting mayhem. On July 4th, Igor and the gang attend a
lame performance by the New Neanderthals in the French Quarter.
CHAPTER 25
“IGOR COMES TO TOWN”
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Igor. The very name strikes fear in the heartless souls of art philistines everywhere
Igor. Armor’s good art buddy lately of the Arcosanti Commune
near Flagstaff, Arizona; more recently performing the herculean
task of cleaning the stables at Belmont Park Race Track at Elmont, New York.
(He helps with renovations at Carnegie Hall in his spare
time. His picture even made it into the New York Times on that score.)
Igor. Master of modern primitive painting and weird frog art
as well as the odd performance piece between engagements.
Igor. Igor. Igor. The crowd chants his name rising in a
nitrous wave above these distant shores. All hail the great
artist of our time. How about dropping into our planetary hell hole some time?
Yes, comrades in art, the July 4th weekend is heating up as
if that were possible given the 92 degree plus temperatures
accompanying humidity fit to soak one’s soul in sweat.
Igor’s body lies over the water yet.
Armor’s receives the call eagerly. Igor has decided to get
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away from the city — that’s the Big Apple y’all — over the
weekend. He believes it high time to commune with his friends in
New Orleans. Cognoscenti are excited.
Two events coincidentally distinguishing this year’s
Crescent City, shall we say, celebration also call quite vividly
for Igor’s rapt attention.
Firstly, the Contemporary Arts Center on “this used to be
Camp Street” as they once advertised during a street fair thrown
to rid the area of street derelicts in favor of their pseudo-art
derelictions is having an art exhibition and contest.
Winner receives bogus recognition, theoretically.
Secondly, that well known purveying group of doom, the New
Neanderthals, have somehow gotten their shit together long enough
to play an equally bogus July 4th gig in the French Quarter
courtyard of a sort of hip collectibles shop.
They say they are going to make a music video.
We will have to see about that. Hopefully, so will Igor.
Igor, of course, will stay with Armor’s and his cats at the
petting zoo. The controversial by design great artist is due for
a Saturday morning arrival, Tuesday evening departure.
That should give him more than enough time to wreak havoc on what
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used to be known as the Big Crescent City that Care Forgot Easy.
Let us see what they call this place after Igor is through.
Armor’s drives out to New Orleans International Airport at 7:30 p.m.
He is his usual rambunctious self, passive-aggressively tempting death
while playing in fast moving traffic. Thankfully, as Tyger clutches the lap belt
for dear life, no more surveillance for this pelicana. Armor’s number is retired.
The Mercury Capris makes it safely to the short-term parking area by act
of a higher power’s caprice. The boys head for the Delta terminal
at this used to be called Moisant Field. Not surprisingly, they are late,
they are late for a very important date. Welcome to Armor’s world already.
The official gang greeting committee cascades up the escalator, leaping steps in a series
of long bounds, mini-supermen — or stupormen, your call — passing a startled
security guard. Lucky for him they are not in the mood for a skyjacking.
Regular jacks will do.
(The uninformed, incidentally, always ask for the proper definition
of the local slang use of the word “jack,” that can be used grammatically
as verb, noun, adverb, or adjective being a most descriptive term. Mr. Milty
summed it up perfectly with his classic ink drawing of an angry man
pounding a pinball machine inside a picture of an angry man pounding
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a pinball machine inside apicture of an angry man
pounding a pinball machine inside etc….)
The welcome to N’Awlins this is your life ad hoc Igor society flies
across the busy airport concourse O.J. Simpson pre-murder style.
They hear a voice ring out as all traffic stops like in the old
Dean Witter commercials, all necks craning to hear the stock tip.
“Ho ho ho there boys,” a far figure enthralling,
drawing Armor’s and Tyger like shades towards his shadowy
denouement of arrival strategy. “I’m all Ho’d out.”
Wearing a Davey Crockett coonskin cap with a long blonde
pony tail sticking out for good measure, Igor walks confidently
towards his steering committee. “Ho ho ho there boys,” he repeats
for effect and halts just before reaching Armor’s outstretched hand.
Then, what do you know comrades, he flips his trim lean body
over in an acrobatic handstand, walking a few feet with his feet
in the air. That lad always knew how to attract a crowd, kind of
like Jelly Roll Morton without the extreme verbal histrionics.
Igor rolls to a stop in a sitting position as Tyger, Armor’s
and a small crowd of curious bears break into applause.
“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you all very much,” Igor acknowledges as
the crowd quickly disperses. Maybe they have heard about him.
Meanwhile, airport security guards are quickly scrambling
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like rats after cheese in the opposite direction. They know
trouble when they see it. “That was great,” Armor’s finally comments.
“Great to see ya Igor.”
“How is everything in the Big UnEasy?” Igor asks.
“Same old same old,” Tyger states. “Been looking forward to seeing you.”
“Got a couple of awful activities on tap,” Armor’s reports.
“Goody,” Igor notes with pleasure. “Goody gum drop.
That’s what we all came for.”
Tyger grabs Igor’s duffle bag as the orange tinged artist
walks along with Armor’s to the escalator. Tyger and Armor’s ride
the automatic steps. Igor tries to slide down the railing
alternating between sliding a few feet and falling off.
Good show, old chap. Everybody finds this game quite
amusing. Igor laughs uproariously more like a happy lion than silly rabbit.
Tyger and Armor’s are now officially in the Igor zone and
loving it. They can feel the karma level rising rapidly.
The three artists become imbued with a sense of heightened
artistic energy. They break the sound barrier near confused,
possibly frightened, beautiful rent-a-car chicks sitting in their
ridiculously colored uniforms at respective corporate
commercialism counters. Armor’s immediately, excitedly bee-
lining to a bank of black telephones.
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“What you doing there?” Igor inquires.
“Have to call Mac,”Armor’s replies. “Everybody at MacLand wants to see you
as soon as humanly possible.”
“Yes. Let us stop there,” Igor says. “Mac’s a great guy. We can reminisce
about our adventures through the weirdly wilds of Arcosanti.”
Armor’s mutters a few words into the phone, handing the
apparatus to Igor. “Heeeeeeey Mac:! How is it going?!?” Igor yells, nearly
undressing the phone’s mouthpiece. “Heeeey Mac! Hip Hip hooray you dirty dog.”
A few additional nonsensical pleasantries exchanged. Mac
gives Igor the proposed Saturday night agenda. Igor agrees to the
proposal with one amendment before breaking off the commos line.
“Let me drop my duffel bag at Armor’s house and wash up,”
Igor appends. “I feel quite grungy after the airplane ride, not to
mention three margarita cocktails.”
Igor apprises the greeting committee of the upcoming meeting
schedule. “Your wish is my command sir. Yes,” replies Armor’s
with his best Ed McMahon imitation.
(Was Armor’s consciously imitating the Johnny Carson second
banana? He will never tell. In any event, lucky for Ed McMahon
breath, Armor’s is not interested in hosting “Star Search.”)
The boys float on the wings of uplifted consciousness to
Armor’s awaiting chariot. They Ben Hur Uptown narrowly missing
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identified driving objects who have the misfortune of blocking
Armor’s way at that particular point of space and time.
Hey, you lousy driving dharma bums, no one promised you a
rose garden on the interstate. Make way for real art royalty and
we don’t mean no carnival klutz.
Armor’s wildly honks his horn while Igor sticks his head out
the window making weird faces at other vehicular units. All the
while, Igor’s pony tail sways madly in the speed breaking highway
wind. Beats the roller coaster of defunct Ponchartrain Beach for
excitement any day of the week.
“Next time,” Igor tells Armor’s as they decelerate towards
the South Carrolton exit, “let me do the driving.”
“You don’t have a license though. Do you?” Tyger asks if
memory serves him well.
“Don’t need one, dear boy,” Igor replies. “I just want to drive. I
don’t use identification.”
“Oh,” Tyger says. “Sorry for asking.”
“Uhh, O.K,” Armor’s adds. “Want to drive now?”
“Nah. Remind me later.”
Tyger feels like the personification of his Lurch imitation,
but bites his tongue. First chance, he vows, he is retreating to
his own car. He will meet up with Igor and Armor’s
traveling show later at Mac’s pad.
Scene dissolve. Stage left as hours pass like seconds. Igor
and Armor’s curtsy. Then, they disappear courtesy of the hands of time.
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They re-emerge 9 p.m. at MacLand followed by Tyger,
the semi-great art hunter-detective.
An interesting discussion ensues as Mac, Armor’s, and Igor
recall a journey they took in 1986 when the former rescued the
latter from his less than free state at Arcosanti, a self-contained
commune theoretically dedicated to the positive
advancement of humanity’s consciousness.
Igor lived in a cave in the Arizona high desert wasting his
considerable artistic talents by engaging in whatever commune
practices were en vogue there. Anyone can be a flunky, but the
great shaman artists of an age are few and far between. (Such is
the grinning Igor Buddah seated cross-legged on Mac floor.)
Mac and Armor’s somehow sensed that Igor was becoming
disillusioned at the commune. They showed up at his cave doorstep
in the Nick Bowers of time, apparently. Igor’s attitude was
beginning to run afoul of commune authorities.
Igor’s cavalry packed his few belongings in Mac’s old car.
They charged northeast to Colorado and a “Jack Kerouac: On the
Road Again” conference. Picking up a female hitchhiker called
Flora along the way, the art soldiers happily careened across the
great Southwest taking slightly obscene photographs of the
willing young girl, stopping along the road for red-green hot
Mexican chili dinners and cold drinks.
A good time was had by all. At least, that is their story
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and they’re sticking to it. Attention spans to another topic.
Armor’s has a bit of current news update for the visiting performance artist.
“Those lame assholes at the CAC are having an art show,” Armor’s reports.
“They are so fucking stupid that they give true artists a bad name.
We need to teach them a lesson.”
Igor laughs in his trade-marked vaguely sinister manner.
“Remember the bird scout cookies?” he asks, alluding to an unforgettable instance
in which he filled up empty girl scout cookie boxes with decaying dead birds;
then went door to door “selling” them.
Predictably, no buyers although a particularly rabid off-duty Houston policeman
threatened to arrest Igor on the spot, thereby ending, for the day, the infamous art project.
Yes, it was a pheasant way to the pass that particular day.
Of course, the boys remember the bird scout cookies incident
immortalized in the ongoing memory of man
as related from generation to generation at life’s wonderful way stations
such as this Mac’s house bullshit seance.
Reminiscences such as these reverberate far louder
than the roar of MacLand’s huge fans beating the heat senseless.
“Tell me more about this so-called show,” an interested Igor asks,
his mind click clicking instantly formulating a secret game plan.
“Uhhh, uhhh,” Armor’s stutters, coming to a pot hole chasm in the road.
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Tyger jumps in noting, “Tomorrow night.
They have the Slimes-Picayune art critic and a couple of
others judging the exhibits. All entries must have themes
relating to the culinary arts since this is, after all, a part f
New Orleans fake claim to fame. Winner gets screwed or something.”
“Screwed, eh?” Igor contemplates. “I could use a little screwing.”
Igor pauses to consider further, then turns to.Armor’s Tungsten.
“What was that I saw abandoned outside the hardware store on the corner?”
“Uhh. The postcard rack?”
“Ah-huh. The snack rack.”
“Snack rack?” Mac repeats.
“Ah-huh. Let’s retrieve it,” Igor says.
What the hey-line. The boys walk down the street to where
sits discarded an old postcard rack. Mac picks it up like
a Christmas tree, lugging it back to the home pad.
“Let us get to work lads. We have some serious art to make,”
Igor announces, as he — whomp! — captures a large roach under a
plastic cup. “I believe we have our first subject.”
Thus begins the making of Snack Rack so christened. Igor
tapes a paper bottom under the cup thereby preserving the roach
forever in time. He places roach-in-a-cup on one of the lower
branches of the soon to be art wracked tree.
“What have we in the kitchen,” he announces as Sarah goes to
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the back of the house. “You want something” she says, “gross?”
to which Igor replies, “Grosser the better,”
laughing maniacally as per his peculiar style.
A mad scramble ensues as each of MacLandia’s citizenry
scours the property for the most awful, horrible, preferably
crawling live or rotting dead objects, to place on a particular rack.
A wild assortment of indigenous insect life combines with
decaying foodstuff to form the core of the proposed exhibit.
Every now and then cries of “Ooooooh,” or “ahhhhhh, disgusting,”
escape as the racks quickly fill to overflowing with, dare we say, snacks.
Disgusting work, comrades, but an artist must do what an
artist must do, damn the consequences. “I feel a little like
throwing up,” Sarah comments to which Igor appends, “Please do.
We have a spot for that on the lower right arm left.”
“Maybe I’ll hold it in,” she notes after careful consideration.
Odor most foul stinking to high heaven; insects most fair
crawling in their plastic cages, fighting to no avail to exit the
evolving exhibit. “Is this how Picasso got started?” Tyger asks.
“I don’t believe he dealt much in food art,” Igor replies.
“Of course one never knows about a person’s inner passions.”
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Igor continues to supervise as he whips the upper right rack
in shape, literally, with a healthy serving of chill-and-whip.
“Looks good,” he notes, “and tastes good too. Yum yum.”
Tyger and Armor’s pick over the remnants of the evening’s
last supper producing the odd piece of fruit and leftover
vegetable garbage for Igor to consider.
“Good. Good,” he approves. “I think that putrid banana adds
a very nice touch.” He smells it. “Hmmmm. Pungent aroma. This
will definitely do. Any more lying around, preferably for days?”
Even the cats pitch in as one drags a chicken bone into the
room which Igor eagerly fetches. He accompanies that motion with
the wonderfully evil laugh as eternally trademarked.
“Yes, yes kitty,” he says petting the purring animal
contributor. “Go back into the yard and see what else is appropo.”
The cats might not know much, but they seem to intuit what makes great food art.
They immediately withdraw to follow Igor’s further instructions.
“Oh, how lovely,” he notes as with a flourish Armor’s hands
him a particularly disgusting brown object.
“Don’t tell me what it is. It will ruin the surprise.”
“Good idea,” Sarah adds as she looks on with an air of
suspended disbelief that always forms the basis of appreciation
of true art. “Don’t believe I want to know either.”
Armor’s is well pleased with his contribution. He returns to
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the bathroom area for more raw art. He, too, knows a good Snack
Rack object when he feels it.
This activity, accompanied by a long-playing tape of the
latest Macland bongo associative productions for Igor’s benefit,
continues for an hour or so until every branch of the snack rack
tree is filled with the most vile and perplexing of subjects.
Everyone stands back, well back at that, because the
horrible aroma is overpowering, admiring the latest creation of
the great Igor, supervising artist.
“I think we have something here,” Igor concludes. “I think
we truly have an inspirational, magical special representation of
man’s inhumanity to man and the immediate environment.”
Everyone appears quite impressed. “Awesome,” Tyger utters.
“Uhhh. I like it,” adds Armor’s.
“Awful, accent on the first syllable; art of the highest order,” according to Mac.
“This stinks,” Sarah opines.
“Yes. Yes. That’s good,” Igor states. “Let us go with that. Life stinks.”
“It seems quite alarming,” Sarah continues.
“Yes. Yes,” Igor is well pleased. “I think the girl has got it. Life is alarming.
We are ready for the show.”
So it comes, so it goes. The CAC show is scheduled for
8 p.m. to “when or what ever” on Sunday July 3, 1988.
Regular submissions already have been numbered and
installed around the large space at the center of the gallery floor.
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They represent standard local crapola like grass skirts lined
with plastic Mardi Gras type fruit beads, and stupid gingerbread
houses with small carefully crafted, equally insipid, figurines.
What an ugly mess it forms.
Local artists think they have outdone themselves, of
course. The 7 p.m. exclusive reception crowd sit around
immersed in idle self-promoting chatter like a bunch of monkeys
at Audubon Zoo. “Eeeh-eeeh-eeeh-eeeh-eeeh.” “Oooh.”
Looks ripe for a Snack Rack rotten banana attack
Snack Rack has spent the night marinating outside Mac’s house,
acquiring a well rounded buoyancy as well as an
unique and unsubtle aroma through a 92 degree afternoon until
presto perfect ’tis ready for prominent public display.
About the time the paying CAC art consumers start horsing
down hors d’oeuvres; gangway critics, here comes the ultimate
exhibit. Don’t say you weren’t warned.
Igor and Armor’s carefully unload Snack Rack from Mac’s
minivan, carrying it like a traveling pre-revolutionary French
monarch on a small carriage through the red brick building’s unlocked back doors,
“Excuse me sirs,” an officious name tag type rudely asks the
Snack Rack retainers as they walk tall through the exhibit with
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their unofficial submission.
“Do you have the proper permission for this, ahhh, thing?”
Armor’s takes the usual low road.
“We don’t need no fucking permission, ass-wipe.”
The fawning suit and tie guy steps back eyebrows arched.
Igor, however, is a more conciliatory soul with considerable
experience in these delicate matters. He seeks to keep the peace.
“Oh yes. Yes. We have consulted with the proper authorities,”
Igor placates. “This is properly sanctioned. Yessiree Bob.”
Igor calls to Armor’s in front. “Put it down next to the ornamental
salad bowls. Turn the rotten vegetable arms in that direction.
Believe it fits quite well with the general ambiance of that piece.”
The well dressed crowd gives the Snack Rack crew a very,
very wide berth. A gorgeous blonde in short black dress holds her nose.
“Well, I never,” she finally blurts. “Hey babe,” Mac snaps. “You do now.”
Igor stands back with his arms folded gazing with admiration at his supervised creation.
“I think we have really done it this time,” he concludes.
“Me too,” Tyger agrees. “I just hope we don’t get arrested or something worse.”
Congratulatory high fives all around self-salute the successful art project crew.
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Mac busies himself schmoozing at the open bar, pouring
prodigious quantities of rum in a glass with a splash of mixer.
“Gang way. Gang way. Gotta get this drink,” he announces,
clearing a path through the pseudo-polite crowd.
Armor’s is all over the actual food table
scarfing down petite sausage balls and less subtle
little hot dogs on buns. Manners, mannerisms,
touch of drool dribbling down his pure white shoit.
Or maybe that is sweat from Snack Rack transportation duties.
Armor’s will never tell.
Igor is all for art and fun for all. He lobbies one of the judges in the corner.
“Is not this the most spectacular comment on the current state
of American culture you have ever seen,” he states proudly.
“Dunno about that,” here come da judge returning service.
“It’s something alright. Give you that.”
Two more large crawfish name tags signifying nothing much;
art show judges in this event appear as if by magic, confused
as they consider the space.
“Is it art?” asks the elderly grey-haired society matron crawfish tag.
“My dear,” replies the the token gay compadre.
“You wouldn’t know art if it were your dog’s name.”
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Ohhh-key. Starting to get uglier at the CAC.
Not even counting the large number of people milling about the art watering hole with
fear and loathing in Hunter S. Thompson’s mind. An event organizer accompanied by two burly
uniformed security mavens stridently strides to Igor ground zero. “Oh no,” Tyger says,
this is what happened last time.”
(This references another art event when Igor wandered into a clay pottery exhibition at the
Houston Contemporary Arts Museum clad only in loin cloth, awkwardly flipping high
to the sky and, oops, clumsy me, dramatically missing a largegeological hammer.
Igor repeated his actions long enough for nervous pottery exhibitors to corral and subdue him,
ejecting his ass outside. This rude interaction launched a scene of vitriolic argumentation lasting over an hour.)
Resuming our scene, the red faced menacing event coordinator displays an unmistakeable
sense of purpose. “Sorry, ah, sir,” he says, “Are you responsible for this, er..”
“Exhibit,” Igor interjects. “Of course. Is it now the piece de resistance, creme de la creme?”
“Dunno about that,” the organizer says. “I am going to have to ask you to take this out the way you came,
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then to a landfill and never come back.”
“Hey buddy. You are the only mockery here,” Mac, somewhat in
his cups, slurs. “Why don’t you get lost. Everyone was enjoying
themselves a lot before your fat ass showed up.”
Armor’s watches in silent wonder, finally chiming in with,
“You know nothing about great art. Who do you think you are?”
“I am in charge of this,” the man says wheeling around to
the rear-guard back-up of this distasteful guerilla action.
“I am going to have to ask you to leave as well, sir.”
“Yeah, well, leave this,” Armor’s replies flashing
upright his trademark right middle finger.
Mac agrees. “Yeah. Leave this too,” repeating Armor’s
obscene gesture with both hands for extra emphasis.
Tyger does not have to be asked to leave as he is all too
familiar with the approaching scenario. He escapes outside and
stands by Camp Street viewing the scene through a large glass window.
He flirts briefly with a petite, possibly attractive brunette.
“Can you believe some people?” he asks innocently enough.
“I don’t know what the world is coming to,” she replies.
“Some people are just animals.”
“Bow wow,” Tyger opines.
The security guards herd Armor’s and Mac to the large front
door. “Hey, you don’t have to push,” Armor’s says. “I was just leaving.”
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Mac adds for good measure, “Who would want to stay at such
a crappy expedition anyway.”
The gay judge begs to disagree with snack rack’s disqualification on technical grounds.
“Frankly, my dear, this is the finest piece in the show,”he says, finger on jaw. “I don’t know about you,
but this — what do you say, snack pack — gets my vote hands down.”
The society dame is a bit less approving. “This thing, pardon my French, sucks, and I mean that literally.”
No matter, anti-matter, da die is cast. The praetorian guards return for Igor who, somehow,
had escaped their wrath. Roughly ejecting Igor into the warm dark night.
“Don’t come back,” lead guard says. “Ever.”
Igor and the gang huddle up on Camp Street assessing the situation.
“Don’t know about you lads,” Igor says, “I believe it went quite well.”
“Uhhh, I need a joint,” Tyger says.
“Read your mind,” Mac says, producing a giant blunt, which they puff away on
like Bad Brains along St. Joseph Street before climbing in the minivan and back Uptown
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to MacLand. They party the night away there in joyous celebration
until dawn’s first light.
Later that Sunday, no mention of the Snack Rack related
conflagration appears in the Slimes-Picayune, although
considerable space in the arts section is devoted to the
official version of the CAC exhibition. Winners are duly
noted in the driest account unimaginable. Fake official
recognition is heaped like Snack Rack’s rotting broccoli and
flaying insects on such as the crawfish mural and still fruit painting.
The next day, as well, is some nation’s birthday.
Yup. Here comes the 4th of July. A trip to the French
Ouarter for the New Neanderthals fake out is on tap this day.
(Maybe someone should play taps.)
Ah yes, comrades, the historic Vieux Carre, the New Orleans
French Quarter. That place synonymous with the Big Easy to all
tourists, demented travel agents, and assorted assholes the world over.
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Roots kills a set, then stumbles around trying to bum a
reefer. He chain smokes cigarettes and pretends like he is
writing a doctoral thesis.
“Yeah, I wrote three pages last week. I am bushed,” he tells
Heave Broward loudly, so others might overhear. “I am going to try
write another three pages next week. Man, it is hard work.”
Must be since he has been “writing” his thesis for 20 years.
His “writing” consists of watching Pee Wee’s Playhouse on
television, the only program relating to him on his own
level — and pretending to be working at BooRay University, Home
of the Blue Foam.
REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
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Then there is the sad but true case of Heave Broward, slack
bass nowhere-man non-artist. He is a hypocrite too, of course,
going around pretending to be “creative,” as in “yeah man, I
been concentrating on GWAR and I really think they’re on to
something creative,” (Create this, pal.)
“Don’t know why Mr. Milty won’t let the rest of us play
our songs. He always insists on only playing his and I feel, I
don’t know, creatively intimidated. Milty is a great guy. Don’t
get me wrong. He is my best buddy.”
REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
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And then there is the lead singer, Little Ro, a thin ugly
African-American youth already aging ungracefully. He
never made it past the 11th grade in high school, but goes around
pretending to be “intellectual,” trying unsuccessfully to
fool others and himself about his role as an “artist.”
Such is the group that plays in a French Quarter courtyard
to celebrate our nation’s birthday. How form fitting.
They play a set of ripped off covers plus a few of Milty’s
originals, then take a break. Comes noon as the parking lot
soundstage becomes hot as hell’s kitchen. The New Neanderthals are definitely not.
Igor has the great privilege of witnessing the usual slackmen effort although Milty and
Buck try to pep the set up with some original riffs and lyrics. Game, set, match. Break.
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Heave is off in the far corner trying to pick up chicks with
the one millionth recitation of “You are the prettiest girl here.
Congratulations Heave, you have reached escape velocity from reality.
Ro preens by a mirror. Milty and Buck smoke a joint with
Mac, Armor’s and Igor walking up Decatur Street laughing and joking.
A crowd of about 50 background actors mill about the
courtyard taken in by the New Neanderthal performance.
What a way to spend the Fourth.
They play a second sloppy set and pack up the instruments.
Roots finagles a ride from an acquaintance. He has no friends.
Heave hops in with a gullible half-beautiful girl fan,
departing like a snake slithering off the hook. Milty leaves with
his latest girlfriend edition whom he will later pass on as
gullible used goods to a social climbing base bassist Broward.
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Buck is in a good mood. He leaves with his girlfriend for a
real party. Ro is … who cares. That accounts for the afternoon.
Mac’s van takes the boys around the French Quarter, honking
at tourists like turtles snapping pictures of anything that moves
and everything that doesn’t.
“Hey you just took a picture of an oak tree,” Armor’s shouts
out the window at one fatass couple. “They don’t have trees where
you come from?”
Guess not. They take another photograph. And over there by
the crime infested St. Louis Cemeteries One and Two, across the
street from the Iberville and St. Thomas Housing Projects, the
tourists wander blissfully unaware of a recent gruesome murder of
two of their own the week before.
The tourists pay lip service to memory — the historic
French Quarter and all that jazz — but don’t even know what went
down last week. Just the way the state Tourist Commission loves
it. Keeps them coming back for more.
Mac drives Igor down Decatur Street by Jackson Square with
the horseback charging hero of the Battle of New Orleans.
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(That was, incidentally, the greatest military victory in
United States history through 1988. It took place at the nearby
Chalmette parapets in January 1814, after the War of 1812 had
been negotiated to an end. Appropriate battle for the City that Care Forgot.)
Also in the vicinity stand St. Louis Cathedral where Pope
John Paul II said mass; the Presbytere; the Cabildo, first seat
of Louisiana government; and the hanging plant baskets lining the
long red east and west Pontalba Apartments on both sides of the
square, the first apartment buildings in America.
But, you, comrades of the never-ending story, do not want a
wasteland travelogue. You do not want to walk pointlessly up and
down Bourbon Street in front of sleazy strip joints and t-shirt shops.
This tale is about New Orleans, not the small 16-square
block of Disneyland for tourists and a few derelicts that the
Chamber of Commerce wishes to pass off as our land. We have a
higher purpose in mind for our future.
Seekers of truth will find none in the Vieux Carre. So, Mac
moves past Jax Brewery, a renovated home for overpriced shops in
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which no local can afford to shop. Waving his hand, Mac explains,
“Oh by the way, this is the French Quarter.”
“Oh,” Igor notes. “Always wondered what it looked like
after hearing so much about it.” Enough said on that score.
Guest performing artist Igor, who arrived with a bang,
leaves these foreign shores with more like a whimper. Everyone is
well pleased with his artistic input, happy to have had him lend
his validating presence to their small slice of lifestyle.
Tuesday July 5th arrives as it must.
Igor leaves Armor’s with a warm embrace.
“See ya later alligator,” the performance artist calls over his
shoulder paying homage to local culture. “Great visit man,”
Armor’s bon voyages. “Come back again as soon as you can.”
A great bird carries Armor’s into the sky, above the clouds,
beyond the top of the terminal telescope.
But, we can recount in these pages whatever happened to the
New Neanderthals. Nothing.
Roots pretended he had to quit the band because his bosses
required it and to devote more time to his thesis.
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It was the usual lie.
Milty started his own band–Belt of Tools.
Buck hooked up with a strange rockabilly group.
Heave continued his nowhere hypocracy hanging out at local
nightclubs pretending to be working on song-writing, lying to
chicks in order to get in their pants. And Little Ro? Who cares.
But of Snack Rack? Aye, that is another story. No doubt some
zealous collector guards its terrible beauty in a darkened art
warehouse somewhere in the Big Uneasy waiting for the proper time
to display the awful truth that gave bad food art a somewhat tasty claim to fame.
SURVEILLANCE PELICANA
BY
DAN WEISMAN
The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:
Chapters 1-10: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-full-book-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/.)
Chapters 11-20: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-ii-chapters-11-to-20-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/)
Chapters 21-30: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-iii-chapters-21-to-30-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Igor, a startling performance artist
from New York, visits the gang. Igor makes the usual splash upon
arrival and his story is told. He supervises the creation of
Snack Rack, a discarded postcard tree filled with rotten food and
crawling insects that is unofficially entered in a local art show
with resulting mayhem. On July 4th, Igor and the gang attend a
lame performance by the New Neanderthals in the French Quarter.
CHAPTER 25
“IGOR COMES TO TOWN”
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Igor. The very name strikes fear in the heartless souls of art philistines everywhere
Igor. Armor’s good art buddy lately of the Arcosanti Commune
near Flagstaff, Arizona; more recently performing the herculean
task of cleaning the stables at Belmont Park Race Track at Elmont, New York.
(He helps with renovations at Carnegie Hall in his spare
time. His picture even made it into the New York Times on that score.)
Igor. Master of modern primitive painting and weird frog art
as well as the odd performance piece between engagements.
Igor. Igor. Igor. The crowd chants his name rising in a
nitrous wave above these distant shores. All hail the great
artist of our time. How about dropping into our planetary hell hole some time?
Yes, comrades in art, the July 4th weekend is heating up as
if that were possible given the 92 degree plus temperatures
accompanying humidity fit to soak one’s soul in sweat.
Igor’s body lies over the water yet.
Armor’s receives the call eagerly. Igor has decided to get
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away from the city — that’s the Big Apple y’all — over the
weekend. He believes it high time to commune with his friends in
New Orleans. Cognoscenti are excited.
Two events coincidentally distinguishing this year’s
Crescent City, shall we say, celebration also call quite vividly
for Igor’s rapt attention.
Firstly, the Contemporary Arts Center on “this used to be
Camp Street” as they once advertised during a street fair thrown
to rid the area of street derelicts in favor of their pseudo-art
derelictions is having an art exhibition and contest.
Winner receives bogus recognition, theoretically.
Secondly, that well known purveying group of doom, the New
Neanderthals, have somehow gotten their shit together long enough
to play an equally bogus July 4th gig in the French Quarter
courtyard of a sort of hip collectibles shop.
They say they are going to make a music video.
We will have to see about that. Hopefully, so will Igor.
Igor, of course, will stay with Armor’s and his cats at the
petting zoo. The controversial by design great artist is due for
a Saturday morning arrival, Tuesday evening departure.
That should give him more than enough time to wreak havoc on what
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used to be known as the Big Crescent City that Care Forgot Easy.
Let us see what they call this place after Igor is through.
Armor’s drives out to New Orleans International Airport at 7:30 p.m.
He is his usual rambunctious self, passive-aggressively tempting death
while playing in fast moving traffic. Thankfully, as Tyger clutches the lap belt
for dear life, no more surveillance for this pelicana. Armor’s number is retired.
The Mercury Capris makes it safely to the short-term parking area by act
of a higher power’s caprice. The boys head for the Delta terminal
at this used to be called Moisant Field. Not surprisingly, they are late,
they are late for a very important date. Welcome to Armor’s world already.
The official gang greeting committee cascades up the escalator, leaping steps in a series
of long bounds, mini-supermen — or stupormen, your call — passing a startled
security guard. Lucky for him they are not in the mood for a skyjacking.
Regular jacks will do.
(The uninformed, incidentally, always ask for the proper definition
of the local slang use of the word “jack,” that can be used grammatically
as verb, noun, adverb, or adjective being a most descriptive term. Mr. Milty
summed it up perfectly with his classic ink drawing of an angry man
pounding a pinball machine inside a picture of an angry man pounding
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a pinball machine inside apicture of an angry man
pounding a pinball machine inside etc….)
The welcome to N’Awlins this is your life ad hoc Igor society flies
across the busy airport concourse O.J. Simpson pre-murder style.
They hear a voice ring out as all traffic stops like in the old
Dean Witter commercials, all necks craning to hear the stock tip.
“Ho ho ho there boys,” a far figure enthralling,
drawing Armor’s and Tyger like shades towards his shadowy
denouement of arrival strategy. “I’m all Ho’d out.”
Wearing a Davey Crockett coonskin cap with a long blonde
pony tail sticking out for good measure, Igor walks confidently
towards his steering committee. “Ho ho ho there boys,” he repeats
for effect and halts just before reaching Armor’s outstretched hand.
Then, what do you know comrades, he flips his trim lean body
over in an acrobatic handstand, walking a few feet with his feet
in the air. That lad always knew how to attract a crowd, kind of
like Jelly Roll Morton without the extreme verbal histrionics.
Igor rolls to a stop in a sitting position as Tyger, Armor’s
and a small crowd of curious bears break into applause.
“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you all very much,” Igor acknowledges as
the crowd quickly disperses. Maybe they have heard about him.
Meanwhile, airport security guards are quickly scrambling
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like rats after cheese in the opposite direction. They know
trouble when they see it. “That was great,” Armor’s finally comments.
“Great to see ya Igor.”
“How is everything in the Big UnEasy?” Igor asks.
“Same old same old,” Tyger states. “Been looking forward to seeing you.”
“Got a couple of awful activities on tap,” Armor’s reports.
“Goody,” Igor notes with pleasure. “Goody gum drop.
That’s what we all came for.”
Tyger grabs Igor’s duffle bag as the orange tinged artist
walks along with Armor’s to the escalator. Tyger and Armor’s ride
the automatic steps. Igor tries to slide down the railing
alternating between sliding a few feet and falling off.
Good show, old chap. Everybody finds this game quite
amusing. Igor laughs uproariously more like a happy lion than silly rabbit.
Tyger and Armor’s are now officially in the Igor zone and
loving it. They can feel the karma level rising rapidly.
The three artists become imbued with a sense of heightened
artistic energy. They break the sound barrier near confused,
possibly frightened, beautiful rent-a-car chicks sitting in their
ridiculously colored uniforms at respective corporate
commercialism counters. Armor’s immediately, excitedly bee-
lining to a bank of black telephones.
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“What you doing there?” Igor inquires.
“Have to call Mac,”Armor’s replies. “Everybody at MacLand wants to see you
as soon as humanly possible.”
“Yes. Let us stop there,” Igor says. “Mac’s a great guy. We can reminisce
about our adventures through the weirdly wilds of Arcosanti.”
Armor’s mutters a few words into the phone, handing the
apparatus to Igor. “Heeeeeeey Mac:! How is it going?!?” Igor yells, nearly
undressing the phone’s mouthpiece. “Heeeey Mac! Hip Hip hooray you dirty dog.”
A few additional nonsensical pleasantries exchanged. Mac
gives Igor the proposed Saturday night agenda. Igor agrees to the
proposal with one amendment before breaking off the commos line.
“Let me drop my duffel bag at Armor’s house and wash up,”
Igor appends. “I feel quite grungy after the airplane ride, not to
mention three margarita cocktails.”
Igor apprises the greeting committee of the upcoming meeting
schedule. “Your wish is my command sir. Yes,” replies Armor’s
with his best Ed McMahon imitation.
(Was Armor’s consciously imitating the Johnny Carson second
banana? He will never tell. In any event, lucky for Ed McMahon
breath, Armor’s is not interested in hosting “Star Search.”)
The boys float on the wings of uplifted consciousness to
Armor’s awaiting chariot. They Ben Hur Uptown narrowly missing
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identified driving objects who have the misfortune of blocking
Armor’s way at that particular point of space and time.
Hey, you lousy driving dharma bums, no one promised you a
rose garden on the interstate. Make way for real art royalty and
we don’t mean no carnival klutz.
Armor’s wildly honks his horn while Igor sticks his head out
the window making weird faces at other vehicular units. All the
while, Igor’s pony tail sways madly in the speed breaking highway
wind. Beats the roller coaster of defunct Ponchartrain Beach for
excitement any day of the week.
“Next time,” Igor tells Armor’s as they decelerate towards
the South Carrolton exit, “let me do the driving.”
“You don’t have a license though. Do you?” Tyger asks if
memory serves him well.
“Don’t need one, dear boy,” Igor replies. “I just want to drive. I
don’t use identification.”
“Oh,” Tyger says. “Sorry for asking.”
“Uhh, O.K,” Armor’s adds. “Want to drive now?”
“Nah. Remind me later.”
Tyger feels like the personification of his Lurch imitation,
but bites his tongue. First chance, he vows, he is retreating to
his own car. He will meet up with Igor and Armor’s
traveling show later at Mac’s pad.
Scene dissolve. Stage left as hours pass like seconds. Igor
and Armor’s curtsy. Then, they disappear courtesy of the hands of time.
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They re-emerge 9 p.m. at MacLand followed by Tyger,
the semi-great art hunter-detective.
An interesting discussion ensues as Mac, Armor’s, and Igor
recall a journey they took in 1986 when the former rescued the
latter from his less than free state at Arcosanti, a self-contained
commune theoretically dedicated to the positive
advancement of humanity’s consciousness.
Igor lived in a cave in the Arizona high desert wasting his
considerable artistic talents by engaging in whatever commune
practices were en vogue there. Anyone can be a flunky, but the
great shaman artists of an age are few and far between. (Such is
the grinning Igor Buddah seated cross-legged on Mac floor.)
Mac and Armor’s somehow sensed that Igor was becoming
disillusioned at the commune. They showed up at his cave doorstep
in the Nick Bowers of time, apparently. Igor’s attitude was
beginning to run afoul of commune authorities.
Igor’s cavalry packed his few belongings in Mac’s old car.
They charged northeast to Colorado and a “Jack Kerouac: On the
Road Again” conference. Picking up a female hitchhiker called
Flora along the way, the art soldiers happily careened across the
great Southwest taking slightly obscene photographs of the
willing young girl, stopping along the road for red-green hot
Mexican chili dinners and cold drinks.
A good time was had by all. At least, that is their story
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and they’re sticking to it. Attention spans to another topic.
Armor’s has a bit of current news update for the visiting performance artist.
“Those lame assholes at the CAC are having an art show,” Armor’s reports.
“They are so fucking stupid that they give true artists a bad name.
We need to teach them a lesson.”
Igor laughs in his trade-marked vaguely sinister manner.
“Remember the bird scout cookies?” he asks, alluding to an unforgettable instance
in which he filled up empty girl scout cookie boxes with decaying dead birds;
then went door to door “selling” them.
Predictably, no buyers although a particularly rabid off-duty Houston policeman
threatened to arrest Igor on the spot, thereby ending, for the day, the infamous art project.
Yes, it was a pheasant way to the pass that particular day.
Of course, the boys remember the bird scout cookies incident
immortalized in the ongoing memory of man
as related from generation to generation at life’s wonderful way stations
such as this Mac’s house bullshit seance.
Reminiscences such as these reverberate far louder
than the roar of MacLand’s huge fans beating the heat senseless.
“Tell me more about this so-called show,” an interested Igor asks,
his mind click clicking instantly formulating a secret game plan.
“Uhhh, uhhh,” Armor’s stutters, coming to a pot hole chasm in the road.
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Tyger jumps in noting, “Tomorrow night.
They have the Slimes-Picayune art critic and a couple of
others judging the exhibits. All entries must have themes
relating to the culinary arts since this is, after all, a part f
New Orleans fake claim to fame. Winner gets screwed or something.”
“Screwed, eh?” Igor contemplates. “I could use a little screwing.”
Igor pauses to consider further, then turns to.Armor’s Tungsten.
“What was that I saw abandoned outside the hardware store on the corner?”
“Uhh. The postcard rack?”
“Ah-huh. The snack rack.”
“Snack rack?” Mac repeats.
“Ah-huh. Let’s retrieve it,” Igor says.
What the hey-line. The boys walk down the street to where
sits discarded an old postcard rack. Mac picks it up like
a Christmas tree, lugging it back to the home pad.
“Let us get to work lads. We have some serious art to make,”
Igor announces, as he — whomp! — captures a large roach under a
plastic cup. “I believe we have our first subject.”
Thus begins the making of Snack Rack so christened. Igor
tapes a paper bottom under the cup thereby preserving the roach
forever in time. He places roach-in-a-cup on one of the lower
branches of the soon to be art wracked tree.
“What have we in the kitchen,” he announces as Sarah goes to
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the back of the house. “You want something” she says, “gross?”
to which Igor replies, “Grosser the better,”
laughing maniacally as per his peculiar style.
A mad scramble ensues as each of MacLandia’s citizenry
scours the property for the most awful, horrible, preferably
crawling live or rotting dead objects, to place on a particular rack.
A wild assortment of indigenous insect life combines with
decaying foodstuff to form the core of the proposed exhibit.
Every now and then cries of “Ooooooh,” or “ahhhhhh, disgusting,”
escape as the racks quickly fill to overflowing with, dare we say, snacks.
Disgusting work, comrades, but an artist must do what an
artist must do, damn the consequences. “I feel a little like
throwing up,” Sarah comments to which Igor appends, “Please do.
We have a spot for that on the lower right arm left.”
“Maybe I’ll hold it in,” she notes after careful consideration.
Odor most foul stinking to high heaven; insects most fair
crawling in their plastic cages, fighting to no avail to exit the
evolving exhibit. “Is this how Picasso got started?” Tyger asks.
“I don’t believe he dealt much in food art,” Igor replies.
“Of course one never knows about a person’s inner passions.”
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Igor continues to supervise as he whips the upper right rack
in shape, literally, with a healthy serving of chill-and-whip.
“Looks good,” he notes, “and tastes good too. Yum yum.”
Tyger and Armor’s pick over the remnants of the evening’s
last supper producing the odd piece of fruit and leftover
vegetable garbage for Igor to consider.
“Good. Good,” he approves. “I think that putrid banana adds
a very nice touch.” He smells it. “Hmmmm. Pungent aroma. This
will definitely do. Any more lying around, preferably for days?”
Even the cats pitch in as one drags a chicken bone into the
room which Igor eagerly fetches. He accompanies that motion with
the wonderfully evil laugh as eternally trademarked.
“Yes, yes kitty,” he says petting the purring animal
contributor. “Go back into the yard and see what else is appropo.”
The cats might not know much, but they seem to intuit what makes great food art.
They immediately withdraw to follow Igor’s further instructions.
“Oh, how lovely,” he notes as with a flourish Armor’s hands
him a particularly disgusting brown object.
“Don’t tell me what it is. It will ruin the surprise.”
“Good idea,” Sarah adds as she looks on with an air of
suspended disbelief that always forms the basis of appreciation
of true art. “Don’t believe I want to know either.”
Armor’s is well pleased with his contribution. He returns to
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the bathroom area for more raw art. He, too, knows a good Snack
Rack object when he feels it.
This activity, accompanied by a long-playing tape of the
latest Macland bongo associative productions for Igor’s benefit,
continues for an hour or so until every branch of the snack rack
tree is filled with the most vile and perplexing of subjects.
Everyone stands back, well back at that, because the
horrible aroma is overpowering, admiring the latest creation of
the great Igor, supervising artist.
“I think we have something here,” Igor concludes. “I think
we truly have an inspirational, magical special representation of
man’s inhumanity to man and the immediate environment.”
Everyone appears quite impressed. “Awesome,” Tyger utters.
“Uhhh. I like it,” adds Armor’s.
“Awful, accent on the first syllable; art of the highest order,” according to Mac.
“This stinks,” Sarah opines.
“Yes. Yes. That’s good,” Igor states. “Let us go with that. Life stinks.”
“It seems quite alarming,” Sarah continues.
“Yes. Yes,” Igor is well pleased. “I think the girl has got it. Life is alarming.
We are ready for the show.”
So it comes, so it goes. The CAC show is scheduled for
8 p.m. to “when or what ever” on Sunday July 3, 1988.
Regular submissions already have been numbered and
installed around the large space at the center of the gallery floor.
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They represent standard local crapola like grass skirts lined
with plastic Mardi Gras type fruit beads, and stupid gingerbread
houses with small carefully crafted, equally insipid, figurines.
What an ugly mess it forms.
Local artists think they have outdone themselves, of
course. The 7 p.m. exclusive reception crowd sit around
immersed in idle self-promoting chatter like a bunch of monkeys
at Audubon Zoo. “Eeeh-eeeh-eeeh-eeeh-eeeh.” “Oooh.”
Looks ripe for a Snack Rack rotten banana attack
Snack Rack has spent the night marinating outside Mac’s house,
acquiring a well rounded buoyancy as well as an
unique and unsubtle aroma through a 92 degree afternoon until
presto perfect ’tis ready for prominent public display.
About the time the paying CAC art consumers start horsing
down hors d’oeuvres; gangway critics, here comes the ultimate
exhibit. Don’t say you weren’t warned.
Igor and Armor’s carefully unload Snack Rack from Mac’s
minivan, carrying it like a traveling pre-revolutionary French
monarch on a small carriage through the red brick building’s unlocked back doors,
“Excuse me sirs,” an officious name tag type rudely asks the
Snack Rack retainers as they walk tall through the exhibit with
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their unofficial submission.
“Do you have the proper permission for this, ahhh, thing?”
Armor’s takes the usual low road.
“We don’t need no fucking permission, ass-wipe.”
The fawning suit and tie guy steps back eyebrows arched.
Igor, however, is a more conciliatory soul with considerable
experience in these delicate matters. He seeks to keep the peace.
“Oh yes. Yes. We have consulted with the proper authorities,”
Igor placates. “This is properly sanctioned. Yessiree Bob.”
Igor calls to Armor’s in front. “Put it down next to the ornamental
salad bowls. Turn the rotten vegetable arms in that direction.
Believe it fits quite well with the general ambiance of that piece.”
The well dressed crowd gives the Snack Rack crew a very,
very wide berth. A gorgeous blonde in short black dress holds her nose.
“Well, I never,” she finally blurts. “Hey babe,” Mac snaps. “You do now.”
Igor stands back with his arms folded gazing with admiration at his supervised creation.
“I think we have really done it this time,” he concludes.
“Me too,” Tyger agrees. “I just hope we don’t get arrested or something worse.”
Congratulatory high fives all around self-salute the successful art project crew.
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Mac busies himself schmoozing at the open bar, pouring
prodigious quantities of rum in a glass with a splash of mixer.
“Gang way. Gang way. Gotta get this drink,” he announces,
clearing a path through the pseudo-polite crowd.
Armor’s is all over the actual food table
scarfing down petite sausage balls and less subtle
little hot dogs on buns. Manners, mannerisms,
touch of drool dribbling down his pure white shoit.
Or maybe that is sweat from Snack Rack transportation duties.
Armor’s will never tell.
Igor is all for art and fun for all. He lobbies one of the judges in the corner.
“Is not this the most spectacular comment on the current state
of American culture you have ever seen,” he states proudly.
“Dunno about that,” here come da judge returning service.
“It’s something alright. Give you that.”
Two more large crawfish name tags signifying nothing much;
art show judges in this event appear as if by magic, confused
as they consider the space.
“Is it art?” asks the elderly grey-haired society matron crawfish tag.
“My dear,” replies the the token gay compadre.
“You wouldn’t know art if it were your dog’s name.”
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Ohhh-key. Starting to get uglier at the CAC.
Not even counting the large number of people milling about the art watering hole with
fear and loathing in Hunter S. Thompson’s mind. An event organizer accompanied by two burly
uniformed security mavens stridently strides to Igor ground zero. “Oh no,” Tyger says,
this is what happened last time.”
(This references another art event when Igor wandered into a clay pottery exhibition at the
Houston Contemporary Arts Museum clad only in loin cloth, awkwardly flipping high
to the sky and, oops, clumsy me, dramatically missing a largegeological hammer.
Igor repeated his actions long enough for nervous pottery exhibitors to corral and subdue him,
ejecting his ass outside. This rude interaction launched a scene of vitriolic argumentation lasting over an hour.)
Resuming our scene, the red faced menacing event coordinator displays an unmistakeable
sense of purpose. “Sorry, ah, sir,” he says, “Are you responsible for this, er..”
“Exhibit,” Igor interjects. “Of course. Is it now the piece de resistance, creme de la creme?”
“Dunno about that,” the organizer says. “I am going to have to ask you to take this out the way you came,
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then to a landfill and never come back.”
“Hey buddy. You are the only mockery here,” Mac, somewhat in
his cups, slurs. “Why don’t you get lost. Everyone was enjoying
themselves a lot before your fat ass showed up.”
Armor’s watches in silent wonder, finally chiming in with,
“You know nothing about great art. Who do you think you are?”
“I am in charge of this,” the man says wheeling around to
the rear-guard back-up of this distasteful guerilla action.
“I am going to have to ask you to leave as well, sir.”
“Yeah, well, leave this,” Armor’s replies flashing
upright his trademark right middle finger.
Mac agrees. “Yeah. Leave this too,” repeating Armor’s
obscene gesture with both hands for extra emphasis.
Tyger does not have to be asked to leave as he is all too
familiar with the approaching scenario. He escapes outside and
stands by Camp Street viewing the scene through a large glass window.
He flirts briefly with a petite, possibly attractive brunette.
“Can you believe some people?” he asks innocently enough.
“I don’t know what the world is coming to,” she replies.
“Some people are just animals.”
“Bow wow,” Tyger opines.
The security guards herd Armor’s and Mac to the large front
door. “Hey, you don’t have to push,” Armor’s says. “I was just leaving.”
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Mac adds for good measure, “Who would want to stay at such
a crappy expedition anyway.”
The gay judge begs to disagree with snack rack’s disqualification on technical grounds.
“Frankly, my dear, this is the finest piece in the show,”he says, finger on jaw. “I don’t know about you,
but this — what do you say, snack pack — gets my vote hands down.”
The society dame is a bit less approving. “This thing, pardon my French, sucks, and I mean that literally.”
No matter, anti-matter, da die is cast. The praetorian guards return for Igor who, somehow,
had escaped their wrath. Roughly ejecting Igor into the warm dark night.
“Don’t come back,” lead guard says. “Ever.”
Igor and the gang huddle up on Camp Street assessing the situation.
“Don’t know about you lads,” Igor says, “I believe it went quite well.”
“Uhhh, I need a joint,” Tyger says.
“Read your mind,” Mac says, producing a giant blunt, which they puff away on
like Bad Brains along St. Joseph Street before climbing in the minivan and back Uptown
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to MacLand. They party the night away there in joyous celebration
until dawn’s first light.
Later that Sunday, no mention of the Snack Rack related
conflagration appears in the Slimes-Picayune, although
considerable space in the arts section is devoted to the
official version of the CAC exhibition. Winners are duly
noted in the driest account unimaginable. Fake official
recognition is heaped like Snack Rack’s rotting broccoli and
flaying insects on such as the crawfish mural and still fruit painting.
The next day, as well, is some nation’s birthday.
Yup. Here comes the 4th of July. A trip to the French
Ouarter for the New Neanderthals fake out is on tap this day.
(Maybe someone should play taps.)
Ah yes, comrades, the historic Vieux Carre, the New Orleans
French Quarter. That place synonymous with the Big Easy to all
tourists, demented travel agents, and assorted assholes the world over.
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Roots kills a set, then stumbles around trying to bum a
reefer. He chain smokes cigarettes and pretends like he is
writing a doctoral thesis.
“Yeah, I wrote three pages last week. I am bushed,” he tells
Heave Broward loudly, so others might overhear. “I am going to try
write another three pages next week. Man, it is hard work.”
Must be since he has been “writing” his thesis for 20 years.
His “writing” consists of watching Pee Wee’s Playhouse on
television, the only program relating to him on his own
level — and pretending to be working at BooRay University, Home
of the Blue Foam.
REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
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Then there is the sad but true case of Heave Broward, slack
bass nowhere-man non-artist. He is a hypocrite too, of course,
going around pretending to be “creative,” as in “yeah man, I
been concentrating on GWAR and I really think they’re on to
something creative,” (Create this, pal.)
“Don’t know why Mr. Milty won’t let the rest of us play
our songs. He always insists on only playing his and I feel, I
don’t know, creatively intimidated. Milty is a great guy. Don’t
get me wrong. He is my best buddy.”
REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
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And then there is the lead singer, Little Ro, a thin ugly
African-American youth already aging ungracefully. He
never made it past the 11th grade in high school, but goes around
pretending to be “intellectual,” trying unsuccessfully to
fool others and himself about his role as an “artist.”
Such is the group that plays in a French Quarter courtyard
to celebrate our nation’s birthday. How form fitting.
They play a set of ripped off covers plus a few of Milty’s
originals, then take a break. Comes noon as the parking lot
soundstage becomes hot as hell’s kitchen. The New Neanderthals are definitely not.
Igor has the great privilege of witnessing the usual slackmen effort although Milty and
Buck try to pep the set up with some original riffs and lyrics. Game, set, match. Break.
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Heave is off in the far corner trying to pick up chicks with
the one millionth recitation of “You are the prettiest girl here.
Congratulations Heave, you have reached escape velocity from reality.
Ro preens by a mirror. Milty and Buck smoke a joint with
Mac, Armor’s and Igor walking up Decatur Street laughing and joking.
A crowd of about 50 background actors mill about the
courtyard taken in by the New Neanderthal performance.
What a way to spend the Fourth.
They play a second sloppy set and pack up the instruments.
Roots finagles a ride from an acquaintance. He has no friends.
Heave hops in with a gullible half-beautiful girl fan,
departing like a snake slithering off the hook. Milty leaves with
his latest girlfriend edition whom he will later pass on as
gullible used goods to a social climbing base bassist Broward.
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Buck is in a good mood. He leaves with his girlfriend for a
real party. Ro is … who cares. That accounts for the afternoon.
Mac’s van takes the boys around the French Quarter, honking
at tourists like turtles snapping pictures of anything that moves
and everything that doesn’t.
“Hey you just took a picture of an oak tree,” Armor’s shouts
out the window at one fatass couple. “They don’t have trees where
you come from?”
Guess not. They take another photograph. And over there by
the crime infested St. Louis Cemeteries One and Two, across the
street from the Iberville and St. Thomas Housing Projects, the
tourists wander blissfully unaware of a recent gruesome murder of
two of their own the week before.
The tourists pay lip service to memory — the historic
French Quarter and all that jazz — but don’t even know what went
down last week. Just the way the state Tourist Commission loves
it. Keeps them coming back for more.
Mac drives Igor down Decatur Street by Jackson Square with
the horseback charging hero of the Battle of New Orleans.
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(That was, incidentally, the greatest military victory in
United States history through 1988. It took place at the nearby
Chalmette parapets in January 1814, after the War of 1812 had
been negotiated to an end. Appropriate battle for the City that Care Forgot.)
Also in the vicinity stand St. Louis Cathedral where Pope
John Paul II said mass; the Presbytere; the Cabildo, first seat
of Louisiana government; and the hanging plant baskets lining the
long red east and west Pontalba Apartments on both sides of the
square, the first apartment buildings in America.
But, you, comrades of the never-ending story, do not want a
wasteland travelogue. You do not want to walk pointlessly up and
down Bourbon Street in front of sleazy strip joints and t-shirt shops.
This tale is about New Orleans, not the small 16-square
block of Disneyland for tourists and a few derelicts that the
Chamber of Commerce wishes to pass off as our land. We have a
higher purpose in mind for our future.
Seekers of truth will find none in the Vieux Carre. So, Mac
moves past Jax Brewery, a renovated home for overpriced shops in
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which no local can afford to shop. Waving his hand, Mac explains,
“Oh by the way, this is the French Quarter.”
“Oh,” Igor notes. “Always wondered what it looked like
after hearing so much about it.” Enough said on that score.
Guest performing artist Igor, who arrived with a bang,
leaves these foreign shores with more like a whimper. Everyone is
well pleased with his artistic input, happy to have had him lend
his validating presence to their small slice of lifestyle.
Tuesday July 5th arrives as it must.
Igor leaves Armor’s with a warm embrace.
“See ya later alligator,” the performance artist calls over his
shoulder paying homage to local culture. “Great visit man,”
Armor’s bon voyages. “Come back again as soon as you can.”
A great bird carries Armor’s into the sky, above the clouds,
beyond the top of the terminal telescope.
But, we can recount in these pages whatever happened to the
New Neanderthals. Nothing.
Roots pretended he had to quit the band because his bosses
required it and to devote more time to his thesis.
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It was the usual lie.
Milty started his own band–Belt of Tools.
Buck hooked up with a strange rockabilly group.
Heave continued his nowhere hypocracy hanging out at local
nightclubs pretending to be working on song-writing, lying to
chicks in order to get in their pants. And Little Ro? Who cares.
But of Snack Rack? Aye, that is another story. No doubt some
zealous collector guards its terrible beauty in a darkened art
warehouse somewhere in the Big Uneasy waiting for the proper time
to display the awful truth that gave bad food art a somewhat tasty claim to fame.
SURVEILLANCE PELICANA
BY
DAN WEISMAN
The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:
Chapters 1-10: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-full-book-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/.)
Chapters 11-20: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-ii-chapters-11-to-20-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/)
Chapters 21-30: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-iii-chapters-21-to-30-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Tyger investigates a prisoner in
Picayune, Mississippi; as well as the strange behavior of
indigenous yahoos. Then, Tyger links up with Joe and Lana on a
complicated Vietnam style mission near Hammond in pursuit of
Joe’s evil arch enemy Bingo LeBeouf. Following the case, the
three share thoughts at the Lamplighter Lounge. Joe contemplates
retirement.
CHAPTER 26
“MORIARTY ON A HOT TIN ROOF”
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So hot and yet so not, the merry merry month of July this
way flies. Tyger picks up the black box system at the West Bank,
tackleing yet another assignment in the wilds of Yahooland.
This fine time the fun location is just over the Mississippi
border at Picayune, a place that is booooring, to say the least.
Oh well, what the hell, it’s an attitude as they say in the
modeling biz. In this case Tyger models the latest in Fine
surveillance gear, courtesy of IRS Inc., insurance
claims investigations, home of the super sleuth line of discovery wear.
(Sandy Alexander has even printed up an impressive batch of
Tyger Williams “Claims Investigator” business cards for the lad to
flash about town, mainly outside nightclubs attempting to impress.)
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William R. Robertson is the subject d’jour, a white male,
35 years old, 5’8″, 230 pounds. Yep, surveillance fans,
another real porker. This corker this blessed instance
is between a rock and a hard place so to speak.
Can of investigative corn waiting to be popped open,
Robertson currently resides at the Picayune Hilton, otherwise
known as the municipal prison. He is incarcerated for skipping bail on
outstanding warrants, reckless driving, and vagrancy, among a
multitude of sleazoid charges, municipal court records show.
Outstanding citizen, our Mr. Robertson. It seems that good
sir insurance claimant was arrested while “lying passed out,” at
Bob’s Quick Stop along Highway 43, the main avenue linking
greater Picayune with Interstate 59.
“Robertson exhibited slurred speech and alcohol on his
breath when woken by Officer Brenda Jones next to a trash
receptacle. He walked in a staggering manner, and was unable to
pass a breathalizer test as administered by the arresting officer.”
Picayune must be a tough town. Pedestrians get arrested
for drunken ambling. Robertson apparently is a well known local
miscreant. He has a rap sheet longer than Jose Canseco,
Dick Nixon, and Zsa Zsa Gabor combined.
It is a rather impressive document a shade shorter
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than Remembrance of Things Past. Shooting Robertson’s activity
poses an interesting quadratic equation
with a simple, yet elegant solution as a mathematician might remark.
All Tyger has to do is set up the black box system
outside the prison exercise yard and wait for Robertson,
along with the other prisoners,
to take their court mandated recreational break.
What’s more, a basketball rim is set up.
With any luck, Jefferson might shoot a few hoops
while the camera’s eye shoots him.
Now that, comrades, is a true sporting surveillance assignment.
It just seems to get easier from that point, perhaps too easy.
The back service area of a small shopping center
directly faces the high chain-link fence
topped by barbed wire completely surrounding the bite-sized jailhouse asphalt yard.
The shopping center is asphalt as well.
The only difference between the two seems to be that one area is closed in
while the other is open aired.
Then again, maybe the two are more similar than first appreciated.
Tyger sets up the system with a clear wide
angle shot of the prison yard, then enters the police station
to check on the prisoner’s status.
Simple request, right? Wrong, redneck breath.
What do you know, takes 20 minutes to find anyone
willing to talk to an insurance investigator.
All the local cops are stuffing their faces with donuts and coffee.
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Tyger finally finds an officer responsible for prison
supervision who confirms Robertson’s presence.
“Y’all after his sorry ass for insurance fraud, too, huh?” he asks.
“No sir,” Tyger replies “We are simply trying to determine
the validity of his claim. We make no assumptions prior to an investigation.”
“Yeah, well I’m sure Billy Ray is as clean as the driven
snow. Hahaha. One our real upstanding citizens. Spends a
lot of time with us, so we have the opportunity to commingle
with his particular brand of inspiration.
We got a real quiet town here unlike that place you’re
from. Wouldn’t have much to do without fun-loving boys like
Billy Ray Robertson. No sir. He keeps our lil’ old Picayune
Hilton stocked with live bait customers.”
Surprisingly, the police lieutenant displays a certain
subtle truth in his last comments. The inmates at Picayune
Municipal Prison not only have the great privilege of serving
time at such a great sorta state of the art facility, but also the
responsibility of paying for it.
Courts charge them $50 a day for room — a small bunk in a
15×15-foot double occupancy cell; and board — don’t ask. Nice deal.
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Tyger makes himself scarce with a comprehensive tour of the
greater Picayune metropolitan area after confirming the temporary
residential status of the sub. Walkabout takes about 10
minutes as the Highway 43 loop quickly swallows itself leaving
Tyger at the dead road where he began.
Apparently, the whole megalopolis of 4,000 citizens revolves
around the city jail like spokes on a wheel of misfortune. No
need for Cerberus here. Tyger has seen all the sights like
the Quick Stop, McDonald’s, Shell Station, and a few other small
mom-and-pop establishments.
Not to sell the place too short, there is one semi-hip
street by the A&P Supermarket and Woolworth’s surveillance system
center that contains a small country cafe, stationary shop, antique
store, and bookstore among more approachable commercial locations.
Tyger hangs out at the hip adjacent Picayune arts and crafts district
waiting for the black box to clean up Robertson-related business.
He saunters on over to the Bluebird Cafe, decorated, appropriately
enough with a painting of two bluebirds –necking, how romantic — on the front
glass window. nInvestigator at rest grabs a cup of coffee at the
Bluebird, followed by another and another and another until the
regular coffee klutz crowd of retired citizens becomes curious.
Not in the mood for idle chatter, Tyger departs at that precise
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moment for the next venue. Let’s see.Where shall Tyger go with choices so mindless
A no-brainer alright. He flips the two headed coin and it
comes up, surprise surprise, heads. Guess that means the antique store.
No sale. The antique store fronted by an equally antique
elderly man has nothing to offer. Tyger wastes about two minutes
there looking over an old wood chair. What is it you say sir? Pinewood? That’s nice.
Then, Tyger walks to the bookstore perchance to find himself
some of that-thar-book-learning. Large cardboard boxes filled
with books line the walls. “Make yourself at home sir,” the 40ish woman
with bobbed black hair and black framed glasses tells the seeker of truth as
Tyger rummages through a particularly filled to the brim with books box.
“You are in luck today. We just received a new shipment
They usually sell like hotcakes. You are the early bookworm, I see,
and have beaten the usual book crowd. Let me know if I can help you.”
Tyger looks through the boxes, one after another, picking out a few
books that look interesting, mainly paperback versions of Shakespeare plays.
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He takes the Tempest, Hamlet, Othello, and Merchant of
Venice, all small brightly colored volumes from a collegiate
series of some sort. They might be good buys, Tyger reasons,
since it would be nice to have them available for future reference.
Approaching the woman, Tyger inquires, “How much do these
cost?” “What do you mean sir?” she replies confusing Tyger greatly.
“What do you mean what do I mean? This is a bookstore,
right? You sell books, right?” “Yes sir, but we don’t sell them
individually. We sell them by the box.”
“By the box?” Tyger asks incredulously as he looks again
through one of the cardboard containers filled with all sorts of
ridiculously banal titles, mainly romance novels. “By the box?
Just want to buy these four books. Not a box. Never heard of such a thing.”
“Yes sir,” the woman replies testily. “We are a wholesale
bookstore catering to the retail trade. They come in here, buy
the entire contents of the box and re-sell the books later .”
“You’re telling me I can’t buy just these four books,”
Tyger says, “but if I put them in a box and buy the whole box,
that would be O.K.?”
“That’s right. Five dollars for that box.”
“How did you determine that price?”
“We charge by the poundage.
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The more a box weighs the more it costs. That one is a $5 box.”
“Doesn’t matter what’s in it? It’s still $5?”
“Correct, sir. If you want an individual book you should go to a
bookstore. They have a very fine one at the county seat in Poplarville.”
“Don’t think I am going to Poplarville today.”
“Oh well. Do you want the box then?”
“Think I’ll pass. Don’t have room in my car
right now for a box of books. Thanks anyway.”
Welcome to the cultural mecca that is Pearl River County,
Mississippi. Book ’em by the box, Danno.
Tyger wraps up the details of investigation, dropping the tape
off at Dorothy’s house. Poopsie slurps at his heels. “Come on
Poopsie, be a good girl now,” Dorothy orders the pink ribbon
poodle, not a DIY girlie alcoholic drink.
Turning to Tyger, “She gets so excited when we have company.
That darn dog. Well, Tyger here is some news for you,” according
to the now very obviously pregnant Dorothy Lafleur.
“Joe wants to go back on Bingo LeBeouf. He has devised quite
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an operation. I think he is going to use a helicopter and follow
Bingo by air.” She stops and laughs. “That Joe Fine. Sometimes …
Anyhoo, he wants you to meet him at the Ramada Inn at
Hammond tomorrow, work the case with him. I will be here
handling back-up if there are any problems.”
“Love to do it, but not really into being high,”
Tyger understates. “Been up in helicopters a few times.
Didn’t particularly care for the sensation.”
“No no no. Joe is going up in the air. I think he wants you
on the ground. He is going to follow Bingo with a tracking device,
radio to you where to shoot the video.” Ohhh-key.
“Bingo LeBeouf is a real creep,” Dorothy adds. “One slippery devil.
Joe really wants to nail him on the hot tin roof this time.”
On to Kinderhook. O.K. Captain Ahab had his white whale.
Original Super Sleuth, Sherlock Holmes after whom Joe Fine
patterns himself with Holmesian hat and pipe adorned business
cards, has his Professor Moriarty. And yes surveillance fans,
Joe Fine has his Bingo LeBeouf, master baiter of all cracker evil.
After the fox, then, we must hunt, fine feathered friends,
silly rabbits. Do not get caught between the hedges.
Yoicks! The hunting hound-dogs are yapping at the heels of
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the insidious villainous Bingo LeBeouf of Tickfaw,
Tangipahoa Parish, Loosi-hosannah.
Tyger arrives at the Hammond Ramada Inn Motel Coffee Shop,
known for some reason as the “Lamplighter Lounge,” bright and
early at 8 a.m. Joe already hangs there looking a bit ruffled,
and dirt-caked, which is out-of-character. No doubt, he has spent
the dawning hours preparing something special for his arch enemy LeBeouf.
Working class dapper, Super Sleuth wears a “Joe’s Garage” blue cap and
trademark short-sleeved alligator logo blue shirt. He appears to
be in a better mood than first appearances indicate as he greets
his trusty aid, the goodly Tyger at bay Williams.
“Hey hey hey. We are getting that bastard today,” glows Joe,
doing his Mr. Sunshine impression.”Yep. That slippery bastard does not
know what he is up against. Already put the long distance tracking device
underneath his truck. That was a bitch to do, let me tell you.”
Joe interrupts himself. “More coffee sweet-pie,” he asks the
orange uniformed with white apron youngish waitress
who complies sheepishly and sleepily. Maybe,
too much late hour fun at ye old Lamplighter Lounge.
“Thanks sweet thing.”
“Anyway,” Joe continues, “here’s the deal. Bingo’s wife tells me he is
working a construction job today. Doesn’t know where.
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Drop me off at the Bogue Falaya Commercial Airfield.
Got a chopper there on stand-by. We get up
in the air over LeBeouf, follow him by the
tracking device when he moves. This baby has a range
of five miles, about the same as my 2-year-old’s voice.
That sucker won’t even know we’re up there.
I two-way radio you with the precise position when we
determine where that bastard is. Then, you go in for the kill and
shoot his ass full of videotape. I mean, just nail the sucker.
Don’t worry about being subtle. Get him up there. Get out of there.
Real surgical strike. Don’t want to take forever, you understand.
You would not believe how much it costs to rent a chopper.
Client has agreed to foot the expenses. He is going to love the
results. We’ll get that Bingo bastard yet.”
Tyger catches Joe’s infectious spirit. “Yeah you right!
Let’s get that sucker. Let’s nail him balls to the walls.”
“We are going to cut off his nuts and eat them for lunch,”
Joe adds for good measure. “Today is the day we end his little
game. That asshole has danced enough. Time has come to pay the piper.”
Hmmm. Joe has Tyger almost convinced that this insanity might
prevail. Then, Tyger’s turtle brain catches up with his racing heart.
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Follow the subject by helicopter? Seriously?
“Hoping skies are clear today,” Joe adds as a
pensive footnote. “Had to book the chopper in advance.
Cloudy skies could inhibit communications. Tracking
device and radios won’t cut through the soup.
Continues Joe as Annie, “Let’s look at the bright side. That bastard is due for
a fall from a hot tin roofing job. His unlucky number is up today.
We are gonna get him, sucker. Yes, indeedy.” Pause. “Check, please.”
Tyger places surveillance equipment in the back seat.
Joe climbs in the passenger side. They drive about 10 miles
east on Highway 190 to the commercial airfield.
Sure enough, as promised, a small four-seat Bell
Helicopter sits like a weird giant insect outside the large metal
framed open hanger. About a half-dozen light aircraft rest in
various states of disarray along the side of the runway. Not
exactly what one might consider an invasion armada.
Tyger drives through the open fence onto a dirt road towards
the hanger. Who should be sitting on the chopper like a Vietnam
War poster girl, but the lovely Lana, female investigative ghost assistant.
“What do you know?” Joe asks facetiously. “Look who showed
on time. Things are beginning to look up.”
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Tyger laughs nervously. “Lana is on the case?”
“She wanted to go up in the chopper,” Joe says. “Why not?
Got room. Can always use a little window dressing.”
Indeed. Lana hops off her purty preening perch, walking
seductively, her posterior swaying in the breeze, to greet the team.
“Where you been?” she asks Joe in a charming reversal
of previous role play. “Been waiting for over an hour.”
“Now you know how I feel,” Joe replies, winking a cheery right eye.
“Turnabout is fair pay. How you like it now?”
“Oh men. they’re all alike,” Lana flirts Lolita-style.
One beat, two beats, a holla.
“When we going up? This is going to be great.”
“Hold your horses honey. We’ll get there.”
Turning to Tyger.
“Post up at that church we passed on Highway 190.
You know the one?”
“Yeah,” Tyger says. “Yeah. Baptist church down the road.”
“Correct, Watson,” Joe says. “Set up the system and the radio,”
handing Tyger one of the two-way transmitter-receivers.
“We will come in with directions, hopefully, in about 30 minutes.”
“Sounds good, Joe. I’m on it as Dorothy’s husband says like white on rice.”
“That buffoon,” Joe sidebars. “Oh right. He screwed up the Pearly Mae case.
We have to keep that clown out of the kitchen.”
Joe walks towards the waiting helicopter like a pilot in a
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Hollywood Grade B World War Two movie.
“Tyger,” as he points both thumbs up, “here’s to happy hunting.”
“You go get ’em boss. I’ll be waiting.”
“Oh yeah,” Joe adds,”use the Dill Pickle codes.
There a mess of hunters in the woods. Don’t want to take
any chances in case one of Bingo’s buddy’s might be listening on the CB radio.
We’ll refer to Bingo as the fox. You be yourself, Tygerriffic.
I’ll be,” he pauses to consider the options, “great white hunter. Yeah. Like the sound of that.”
“Later, boss.”
“Happy hunting, Tyger. We’ll find him. You shoot him. Let’s get some
Bingo butt for the trophy case. Tenth time is the charm.”
It’s a strange world beyond Baker Street, friends, so who knows,
Joe Fine’s master plan might work. Then again, maybe his bald head has
spent too much time out in the sun without a hat.
Tyger sets up equipment outside the First Baptist Church
of Hammond. He waits, waits and Tom Waits. Nothing.
The radio crackles continuously. Tyger sets it on low,
listening instead to the soft July breeze. He tries to keep as
still as possible to beat the overpowering heat. Every now, and
then, a vehicle whizzing along two-lane Highway 190 breaks the monotony.
Suddenly, an unusual sound overhead — whompa whompa whompa.
Tyger looks up. Hmmm…incoming ?
Who would be flying in the bright blue sky at this time of day
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over this particular locale? Take a wild leap to conclusion
central. It’s not quite “Apocalypse Now,” but it will do for Tangipahoa Parish.
On blinks the radio. “Position Tyger. Position Tyger. Do you read?
Do you read? This is great white hunter. Over.”
Amazing, Tyger shifts from his upward vigil, scrambling for
the radio transmitter. “Uhh. Read you great white hunter. Has the
fox left the henhouse yet? Over.”
“Negative. Sitting along Sherwood Forest. Heading for the
happy hunting grounds. Stick to your guns. Will advise when the
cat jumps over the hot tin roof. Over. Over and out.”
Yeah right, over and far out. No need to utter the sign-off
as the helicopter dips left, soaring north by northwest
towards the mission at Tickfaw.
Maybe, Joe should load the chopper up with some automatic
weapons, napalm, or flechettes, get the damn thing over with
once and for all. That would be an interesting sight.
Wait wait wait. Wait wait wait. Another hour passes as Tyger
sits at ease in the hot car because he does not want to miss any
relevant radio communications. Sorry Victor Charlie, no more
commos of which to speak. Early afternoon and long white clouds
begin lining the sky. They grow by the minute like a sad army gathering to bivouac.
Oh yeah, Tyger recollects, summer in Loosiana means
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afternoon showers as atmosphere attempts to counterattack
blistering heat. That is an “X” factor that might put a crimp in
Joe Fine’s attack manual. Nearby birds soar past Spanish moss
hanging on trees in anearby leafy patch. The air, already thickly humid,
crackles. Thunder begins rolling in the distance. A change in the weather is now
officially in progress. In the far corner of his right eye, Tyger notices a lawnmower
man scrambling for cover. A lunging sheet of rain chases him in full fury,
running down Highway 190 towards ye olde First Baptist Church of Hammond.
That is followed by a deafening roar of water striking the dull asphalt pavement.
Oh boy for joy, rain starts pouring down in long sheets of buckets.
So much for this surveillance. It seems a losing proposition
like the Vietnam War. Waste deep in the Big Muddy, Pete Seeger
fans, and the big fool says to push on.
Tyger rolls up the car window. He finds himself surrounded
by a relentless pounding pulsating body of falling water. Can’t
see a thing. Hope there are no Bingo LeBeouf sappers in the far trees.
Sightless in Gaza, no scent of subject; can’t touch that
darn LeBeouf now, lucky insurance claimant miscreant. Pound
pounding sound of pummeling rain overpowers all other senses.
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Best Tyger can hope for is that Joe Fine is above the
clouds or on the ground. Hate to be flying through that mess.
Looks dangerous. Lightning flashes and small white objects hell, that’s
sleet, pound the car. It is about 2:30 p.m. The radio is a big fat tabula raza.
If nothing else, at least the place will be comfy
cool for a little while after the rain stops although that shows
no signs of happening in the near future. Of course, this is the
place where humidity never ends, least of all after a summer shower.
After about 30 minutes, sure enough, the sky brightens, and
clouds disappear as if the horrible rain explosion had never
happened. Once again the hot summer air blows; in another 15
minutes oppressive heat resumes, if anything, increasingly intense.
About 94 degrees now as Tyger scans the road for cues. And you
know what? He spies a truck that greatly resembles the red
pinstriped vehicle attributed to the evil LeBeouf bouncing west
through the heat waves reflecting off asphalt. Maybe it is a mirage.
Tyger looks long and hard as said truck careens down the
highway operated obviously by a madman maniac driving. It could
be, it might be, he considers for a momentously long macromoment
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Nah. Couldn’t be. Could it? Nah. But … Nah. No way.
That would be way too much.
Ten more minutes pass. Tyger relaxes. Then, crackle
crackle pop the voice of an invisible Joe Fine breaks through the
airwaves. “Position Tyger. Position Tyger. Do you read me. Over. Over.”
“Yes indeed. Great white hunter? Over.”
“Yes. Nasty rain shower that. Did you see the fox,
I mean cat, fox, whatever? Over.”
“The fox?” Tyger forgets the code. “That wasn’t the red
pinstriped truck that flew by here a little while ago. Was it? Over.”
“Yeah. Yeah. Did you catch him? Over.”
“Well, ah, no. Couldn’t confirm, It happened in a flash. Was waiting for your
orders on that one great white hunter. You know. Over.”
“Oh damnit. Damnit. Not your fault Position Tyger. That
bastard left during the rainstorm. Goddamn that Bingo LeBeouf. He
is out of range now. We must return to home base.
Damn it! Not your fault Position Tyger. Not your fault.
That fox, cat, whatever, must have a sixth sense for evil.
Damn it. Stick by your position for 20 minutes in case the fox
cat returns, then report back to home base. Over.”
“Sorry about that great white hunter. I had a sneaking
suspicion but could not confirm. It happened too quickly. Sorry man. Over.”
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“That’s alright Position Tyger. We gave it our best shot.
We’ll get that cat. He will make a mistake, slip up
sooner or later, run out of lives. Over. Over and out.”
“Read your instructions, great white hunter. Will sit for a
while, then head back home. Over, over and out.”
Far out. They even paying Joe for that at this point?
Maybe, the 11th time will prove the charm.
What do you know, way. No doubt about it, that was as close
as Tyger could get to Bingo LeBeouf, theoretically anyhow, if
that is who made the road blur. No telling actually.
Of course, no more sign of the mad insurance scam artist.
Tyger returns to the airfield 20 minutes later. Joe and Lana
are sipping cold drinks in the hanger office.
“Hey I’m sorry. If I had only known,” Tyger begins, but Joe
interrupts with a wave of his right hand.
“No. No. No. Rotten luck again. That cat has more than nine lives.
It started raining cats and dogs just before he moved. We
lost commos when we went above the clouds. Goddamn that Bingo
LeBeouf. He’ll mess up and I will grab him like a piranha. His ass is grass.”
Tyger takes down the equipment, then drives Joe and Lana
back to the motel. They sit for a while in the Lamplighter
Lounge. Tyger and Lana drink sweet tea while Joe sips on a longneck Dixie beer.
“You know,” Joe confides to his two junior associates. “I have been
in this game for a long time. First, when I was breaking codes in
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the Army of the Galilee, and the last 10 years in Florida.
I don’t know. I am thinking of maybe franchising out the surveillance
systems. Become like the Al Copeland Popeyes Chicken shit king
of undercover video devices. That way, rent other detectives the systems,
show ’em how to operate them, repair any that break. Might just be
the right time for that. You guys would part of it. Don’t worry about that.
Hell, Tyger, you know the systems as well as I do. You can show
others how to work them. And Lana, you coming along real
goody goody two shoes. Always use a smart young beautiful kid like yourself.
It’s not just that Bingo LeBeouf thing. I’ll get that bastard yet. Believe you me.
He ain’t no Moriarty. His well will run dry. Been thinking about this for a while.
Getting a bit old for this game. Maybe it’s time to retrench. It’s a young man’s game.
That’s something to keep on your plates, guys. We’ll see how it goes.”
Pause to refresh. Snap of the fingers skyward. “Check, please.”
Check. Even as Joe Fine speaks, Tyger realizes that maybe a
special moment in time is quickly passing. The major video
companies have just begun marketing the ultra-light palm-sized
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8mm handicamcorders and similarly miniaturized devices.
Tyger does not have the heart to mention this fact of video
future life to Joe, who, being au courant with such updated
technologies, knows about it anyway. It is not exactly a
closely guarded state secret, rather a made in Asia
revolution in state of the art videographic matrices.
It won’t take an ingenious Joe Fine black box system or
experienced videomaker like Tyger to mess with the bogus claimant
mindless designs soon enough. Any fool who can hide a small
camera in his palm will be able to trap the feckless injury fakers.
Even dull as copper ex-cops, DEA agents or former
politicians would soon be able to operate successfully as
insurance investigators. Tough luck and farewell then, dear comrades.
That is simply progress. The world does not stop for a
glorious concept no matter how divine.
Joe Fine’s secret surveillance system’s salad days are
probably ending even as the temporarily defeated army of three
intrepid investigators regroup in late afternoon ever a hardwood
restaurant table. Joe, Joe; say it ain’t so.
What a shame. What a sham. The world sometimes can seem like
the proverbial steak without the sizzle.
Bid adieu then friends, to a moment unfrozen briefly in
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bright light ascaptured by a camera’s eye. It spits out a
few small, but cherished, memories, vanishing like a quick fox
beyond the zoom lens that black night inevitably darkens with forever.
For our purposes, Joe chases arch enemy, the evil Bingo
LeBeouf, through that endless space of time. He will catch that
fatted calf yet before the universe explodes.
Have no doubt of this dear comrades. Right always triumphs
in the end. So it is written and so it must go.
Or not. Your call.
SURVEILLANCE PELICANA
BY
DAN WEISMAN
The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:
Chapters 1-10: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-full-book-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/.)
Chapters 11-20: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-ii-chapters-11-to-20-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/)
Chapters 21-30: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-iii-chapters-21-to-30-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Mac discusses his visit to the beach.
Tyger and Armor’s talk about environmentalism and abortion
rights. Tyger investigates a topless club owner and others in
Morgan City. Then, the most amazing revelations concerning the
Mildred Baker case become public knowledge thereby solving many
of the riddles in the case and creating additional puzzles. Tyger
is acknowledged as the savior of Suriname. Upon revelation of the
fate of Armor’s cats, Sandy Alexander organizes a final
disposition of their fate.
CHAPTER 27
“Savior of Suriname”
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“Fun fun in the summer time. Fun fun in the summer time.
Ooh-Ahh-Ooh-Doh-Ooh-Ooh-Aahhhh …”
“And those are the Beachy Balls, all you summer bummers out
there. This is the Mighty Tool. WTUL-FM N’awlins and I am not
telling you who I am.”
Tyger, sitting at Mac’s house on Tuesday July 19, 1988;
turns the radio heat up a notch. “I know who you are asshole,”
Tyger informs the black boom box. “And I know where you live.”
“Oh what the hey line. You have reached the fun zone. I am
Mr. Milty to those uninitiated coming right at you babies.
You remember Captain Lockheed and the Starfighters album, I am sure.
Here goes Robert Calvert again with something more
appropriate to the heat wave that never ends. Viking aryans on
surfboards doing their worst Beach Boys imitation.
It is noon and I am out-a-here.”
So that is where Milty has been. He was hiding out in
plain sight at the least likely of places, ye olde public airwaves.
“I have some good news and some bad news
about our trip to Pensacola Beach,” Mac tells Tyger.
“Good news first,” Tyger says. “I simply live for the good news.”
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“Good news is Sarah and I went to Dainty Del Restaurant,
had the best Oysters Rockefeller in the free world.
Then, we went to the beach all day, had an incredible amount of fun.
We swam to the sand bar for a starfish and rum. We danced
to the B-52’s. We barbecued on the beach. Everyone was jealous
that two people could have so much fun. It was great.”
“Ah, and the bad news?” Tyger asks.
“We decided to sleep on the beach, had a bottle of liquid acid,
maybe 60 hits worth. Got so loaded on rum drinks
we forgot all about it and swallowed nearly the whole bottle.”
“That’s the bad news?”
“That is bad news. We wasted so much good clean ‘L’, but that was not
the worst news. The wind that was blowing in from the Gulf all day suddenly
died about midnight. We were attacked by swarms of killer mosquitos,
biggest damn mosquitoes I ever has seen. We had to run for dear life
away from the beach to the car beating ourselves with towels. I must have
been stung a million times. Just when we were coming on
to the megadose. Oooh, hum baby.. Hurts still to think about.”
“Maybe,” Tyger notes, “you ought to file an insurance claim, hahaha
You probably had too much fun. What goes up must come down
Primary astrophysical principle of ars fortuna particles.”
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“Remind me not to hang around there again when the wind dies,” Mac says.
“Put a damper on the evening.” He smiles, grinning like the dog
who caught the squirrel. “What you gonna do,” he laughs. “Going
back to the beach next weekend. Can’t have too much fun.”
Good to see Mac taking full advantage of the summer.
Armor’s, however, has been acting a bit stranger than usual
following the departure of Igor for the Big Apple.
Perhaps Armor’s feels the shallowness of the Big Easy’s cultural shores
and has become a little antsy. Maybe the heat is getting to him.
Armor’s, like Tyger, takes a macho approach to the summer inferno.
Neither uses air conditioning at home. Each has large fans set up
at their respective spaces. They sneer at the weaklings who must chill out
constantly in artificial cool-down mode, or as Henry Miller noted
on a trip to New Orleans, the air conditioned nightmare.
Tyger drops by Armor’s on Wednesday, July 20 during visiting hours.
He engages the dear lad in friendly discourse over a couple of cups of blended espresso.
They definitely strike the sweet spot.
Number one point made during the ensuing conversation:
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Those assholes are destroying the ozone layer for future
generations just so they can feel temporarily comfortable.
Mention that to them. They pretend you are crazy.
Number two point: They use hardly any electricity, but the surrounding
pigs use so much in their artificial cool-house environment
that the horrible NOPSI Nazi system constantly overloads,
causing frequent brown and black outs.
(One little piggy with a Ray-Gun/Shrub bumper sticker on her
Japanese minivan said between puffs on a “You’ve come a long way
baby” Virginia Slims cancer death-shtick “Why don’t you run your
air conditioner? You are only hateful because you’re overheated.
That stuff about the ozone layer is a bunch of lies from limousine liberals.”
Armor’s had only one reply to make. “Liberal this bitch,” flipping
her a bird as she flew away horrified at his “rude” behavior.)
Yeah, and it isn’t too rude to ruin everything for future generations.
Like the Louis Armstrong song relates, “I’ll be glad when you’re dead,
you rascal you.”
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Unfortunately, it is not soon enough to save the planetary
environment. All we can do is our best for as long as possible to
keep from losing it completely.
Number three point: In a related topic of discussion, the
subject of the recent sit-in by anti-abortion hotheads at the
Delta Women’s Clinic on St. Charles Avenue.
Those pigs won’t let women go in for abortions. They have to
be dragged away from the clinic entrance by the storm troopers,
for once on the side of natural law as well as order.
Armor’s makes the salient point that they give a shit until
the unwanted baby pops out.Then, their attitude is “I am out
of here. Yeah. They care about the unborn,
but the born are another matter.”
(“That damn crime and those shiftless negroes,” an antiabortion
fruit-and-nut-cake states in another persona on Eyewitless
News-Fake playing at Armor’s. “They the reason everything is disgusting here.”)
Armor’s fiddles around the shotgun apartment, producing
interesting items for Tyger’s approval. One is a detailed hand-drawn
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map of the Pinnacles National Monument where he wants to go for a while.
Another is a flyer from the Earth First! “environmental freedom fighters.”
Armor’s wants to join an Oregon sit-in to stop the pig Ray-Gun
commercial bulldozer buddies from destroying ancient legacy trees
harboring the wise and wonderful endangered Northern Spotted Owl population.
The rape of the Spotted Owl is repeated throughout America
during the waning years of the Ray-Gun rip-off scam. Same bad deal
at the Sportsman’s Paradise, hahaha, of Lousyana where the
beautiful and ancient sea turtle is threatened by the wide nets
of brain dead commercial redneck fish exploiters.
Which would you prefer in your face — owls, turtles and
natural wonders — or assholes, losers and a scorched earth for eternity?
Tough choice. Tell the fishermen to get a real job not harming
innocent wildlife to feed their fat consumptive lofe-style.
They are not after a decent living. Just an easy living.
Tyger walks into the kitchen area to grab a little skim milk
for his black chicory coffee that the boys alternate with espresso.
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He innocently opens the freezer compartment.
Two unusual brown paper objects sit in the back of the freezer.
Tyger looks with the eyes of a child not thinking too much of them.
He returns to the main room.
“Hey Armor’s,” Tyger mentions, oh by the way casually no big whoop.
“You eating gourmet now? What are those wrapped objects in the back of the freezer?
They look like Cornish hen wannabees or something. Planning a special super supper.”
“Ahhh,” Armor’s sudden eloquence concerning the environment dissipates
with this line of questioning. “What do you mean?”
“You know, the things that are wrapped and look like cornish hens,” Tyger says.
“Taste like chicken, eh?”
“Oh those,” Armor”s hesitates a one-two-three spell, then blurts out missing information.
“Those are the kittens.”
Tyger does not quite grasp the moment.
“The kittens? What kittens?”
“The kittens from MacLand.” (Tyger spit take.)
What? Tyger had completely forgotten about the cute little kitties
Armor’s took under his wings all those months previously
for what turned out be some kind of not so safe keeping.
“You have the kittens wrapped up in the freezer?” Tyger asks at long pointed last.
“Ahh yeah,” Armor’s replies. “Had to. Remember that real cold spell in February?”
“Yeah.”
“They caught a horrible fever, cat pneumonia or something,
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died suddenly. I put them in the freezer,
so they would keep until I could bury them properly.”
“Why don’t you bury them right now? We’ll go out in the yard.”
“No, Can’t bury them.”
“Why not?”
Pregnant pause by Sir Armor’s Tungsten, performance artist,
before delivering the ultimate punch line.
“Don’t have a shovel.”
Ka-boom! Knock out.
Tyger takes under advisement this bizarre turn of events finally disclosed.
Strange behavior by Armor’s true, but dead kittens will keep
a bit longer lying in frozen state. They’re not going anywhere.
The investigative merry-go round is a different matter entirely.
Tyger goes to Lockport in Lafourche Parish on Thursday, July 22.
He sets up the system in a very nice location about 30 yards away
from the Albert Indelicato green with white stripe house trailer.
Thank goodness. The trailer is set aside in a large dirt and gravel area,
no inconvenient nay-bores. What’s more, a small pleasant cafe sits
about 50 yards away from the trailer. It has a large glass window fronting the big picture.
Looks like Tyger can spend much of the surveillance pelicana experience
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inside the cafe drinking coffee, yet keep a close eye on subby-poo.
Frozen freezer kitties inspire Tyger to order up the luncheon special,
a very tasty barbecued chicken entree.
What is with that Armor’s anyway, Tyger considers while munching
lunch, watching the wonderful wide world of Indelicato.
Subject, white male, 30 years old, 5’11”, 190 pounds,
stinkers around the trailer proper for a while, exhibiting no
particular signs of the debilitating right knee injury he claims.
Tyger runs the system for three hours as authorized before calling it a day.
Two days later on Saturday July 23, Tyger visits Morgan City
in the oil patch where he conducts a background investigation of
one James Nelson Norton; lately of the Honeymooners, right?
Wrong, Jackie Gleason breath.
Turns out the good Norton is a well known local “club” owner.
The clubs, in his case, are exotic dancer lounges at the
edge of town on Highway 90. Check, please, maitre-d’.
Norton’s most recent entrepreneurial venture is named,
appropriately, the “Hot Stuff Lounge.” Like the other four strip
joints at Morgan City’s red light district, Hot Stuff is a small nondescript
one-room shack hosted by an Oriental babe looks Filipino in short slit dress.
Tyger tells her the truth in this instance. He is a po’ boy of an investigator
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just doing his job, conducting a routine background check of the owner.
an’t say why ’cause he don’t know himself. Nobody
knows anything about anything, of course. Tyger goes
about the immediate vicinity performing his duties in a perfunctory
fashion. This isn’t really his cup of java. Besides, not to belabor the all too obvious,
the very name “Hot Stuff Lounge,” more or less says it all.
In a nutshell, Tyger determines Norton had two similar clubs,
each mysteriously burned to the ground. He has been telling
associates he plans to open a new improved version of the Hot
Stuff in the near future. He got the bucks. Just won’t say how he got it.
Only clues Norton has furnished associates is that the money
is coming from unnamed silent investors. Yeah right, probably
by the name of Mutual Insurance Corporation’s fire protection fund.
Norton also has told a nearby car repair shop owner that the
Hot Stuff has been losing money which does not matter because he
is living on a tidy, but vague “allowance.” Tyger concludes his investigation.
He files a report to that effect through the U.S. mail to Dorothy.
Hope it gets there by the end of the World Series.
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Ensues the usual weekend frolicking, baseball viewing and lifestyle functions.
No more sleazy strip show clubs, thank you very not.
Then, on a day like any other day except for it being
officially designated for our purposes as Tuesday, July 26, 1988,
Tyger continues in the usual way. First stop after morning dress
rehearsal, an out of business real estate office down the street
where for some bizarrely inexplicable the reason the
Slimes-Picayune delivery person continues to leave a newspaper.
Tyger, good boy, retrieves it, then hikes around Audubon Park.
He returns home abut 10:40 a.m.
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At 11:15 a.m. “subject” pours a cup of coffee, sits down
at his feeding table watching a Saturday Night Live re-run.
Hmm, it is from one of the good SNL’s. Jesse Jackson hosts. Hahaha.
At 11:19 a.m. Tyger unwraps the newspaper rubber band, removing
the front section, which he then unfolds with gusto.
At 11:20 a.m., glancing down Page One, usual pack of lies beginning with
smiley yellow sun forecasting sunny skies, temps in the mid-90s.
Considering fake is real, that can only mean torrential rains. Forewarned?
Today’s top story, man bites dog, “Hansen’s Sno-Bliz great for summer.”
At 11:22 a.m., Tyger army half-notices a photograph.
It is the tattooed man from Mildred Bakers apartment.
Tyger sips some coffee.
‘Wait, what!!!
THE TATTOOED MAN FROM MILDRED BAKER’S APARTMENT. Ugh.
Stop the presses!
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Forget about the how for now.
This is the who, what, where, when, and why of all time.
Larry Bob Henley, 45, of Senatobia, Mississippi,
is identified as the tattooed man as revealed by the Slimes-Picayune.
Is this some kind of sick joke?
Tyger motor controls his full attention span to the inside
story of insane explication now introduced for your consideration.
The picture shows Henley along with “James Michael Baker, 17, of New Orleans East”
being taken from a Ford minivan with Mississippi plates at the
Bogue Falaya Commercial Airfield near Hammond, Louisiana.
Two burly U.S. federal marshals escort our good buddies
An additional notation is appended: see story, Metro B-1. D’uh. Seen.
Henley and Cook are among 14 persons charged in an alleged plot
to overthrow the government of Suriname.
Suriname? What the hell is that? Pancake syrup?
“Suriname is on the northeast coast of South America.
It gained independence from the Netherlands in 1975,
and is governed by Lt. Col. Desi Bouterse
who came to power in a 1980 coup.
He has been the target of four overthrow attempts.”
Fair enough. But, what the hey-line.
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“All but one of the 14 were arrested July 25 on their way to
the Hammond airport where they were to board a plane for Suriname
to overthrow the military government, according to an indictment
filed by the U.S. Attorney at New Orleans.
Five men along with alleged ring leader Henley were charged
with conspiracy to violate the U.S. Neutrality Act which bars
United States citizens from invading countries with which the
U.S. is at peace.
They also are charged with conspiracy to carry a concealed
and deadly weapon onto an airplane, a misdemeanor that carries a
maximum of one year in prison and a $10,000 fine.
Evidence against the group consists of videotape recordings
and wiretaps of recorded conversations, as well as statements by
undercover agents and some of the defendants themselves upon arrest.”
Videotape recordings? Videotape recordings? Videotape recordings?
Yeah, right. A lot of what Tyger witnessed during those three weeks in
June suddenly make a whole lot more sense. Like the meetings.
Like the weird redneck guys. Like the insane comings and going.
But one part of the story doesn’t yet jibe. Mildred Baker’s connection?
And now, comrades, as Paul Harvey says, for the rest of the story.
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The Marx Brothers, Three Stooges, aided, and abetted by
Laurel and Hardy; Lewis and Martin, Bozo the Clown, W.C. Fields, Buster Keaton
attempt to invade a bizarre Third World kleptocracy. Dat-Man to Baker’s Rob-in,
came up naturally enough with a no-brainer. He intended to launch an all-out
night assault using mercenaries recruited through Soldier of Fortune Magazine.
What could possible go right? Henley’s Dutch oil executive overlords
planned to arrange a meeting with — please refrain from snickering —
the Surinamese Minister of Finance to discuss instituting a Swiss-style
banking system with super-secret confidential numbered accounts.
Henley’s mercenaries would pose as — stop us if you heard of this before —
financiers. They then would bring Bouterse into the meeting, take him
hostage or liquidate him and voila’ Suriname at your pleasure, sir.
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Not one to rest on his dubious laurels, Henley signed contracts with
other private individuals and foundations, including the Ansus Foundation
of the Netherlands, that would pay him a large amount of money if
the plan were successful. Or maybe it was the Anus Foundation, which
which would have been more appropriate to this mission. Henley also
planned to bring in-country a large yacht filled with Miskito Indians from Nicaragua
acting as support troops. The same Miskitos that fought alongside the Contras.
(Not the ones that attacked Mac and Sarah at Pensacola Beach.)
The coup lite leader promised $500 a week for those Americans who
helped him in the operation with a $1 million bonus for any who
stayed to see it through. Maybe he had watched one too many reruns
of the movie “Walker,” or something. Tyger had seen “Walker”
plus the as-yet not released version of the Larry Henley show,
live on tape from Morrison Road. One might even consider the Tygermeister
to be the world’s leading expert on that particular score. Henley, true
to American democratic values, and/or a desire to max out on looting,
planned to hold “elections” shortly after taking over, then install a Surinamese
puppet official who would follow his bat-shit cracker orders.
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Henley had lifted a play straight out of the Gipper’s Grenada game plan.
How fitting in the age of Ray-Gun with the great leader urging Americans
to exercise private initiative. Yup, Henley figured he had it made in the shade.
Suriname would become his personal piggy bank. And what an opportunity.
Consider the tale of the tape: Suriname had 480,000 residents, 63,037-square miles,
slightly larger than the state of Georgia. Guyana, a former British colony, to the west;
Brazil to the south, Atlantic Ocean to the north, French Guiana, former home of Devil’s Island,
due west. Suriname’s coast is flat where dikes permit agriculture. Inland is a rain forest
built with about 75 percent of the country consisting of unexplored areas. About one-third
of the population live in the capital city of Paramaribo. The small nation’s wealth consists
of offshore oil and inland bauxite attracting considerable interest and attention.
Not aiding the political security of the indigenous Creole, East Indian, Bush Negro populace
was the fact that Bouterse sought to keep all the wealth at home, that is to say
in his and associates’ pockets while international interests wanted a, shall we say,
larger piece of the pie.
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Talk about a bad trade, sports fans. You thought the
Cubs made some losers. Consider the origins of Suriname.
The Netherlands acquired the property in 1667 from Britain
in exchange for that well known slice of pie from Hell’s Kitchen
drum roll please — New Netherlands, known currently as New York City.
That’s right. Believe it or nuts. A straight-up one-for-one transaction ,
Suriname for the Big Apple.
No doubt still smarting from that apparent bad bad bad deal,
20th Century Dutch descendant uncles finally succeeded in forcing
the reluctant Surinamese into independence on Tuesday November 25, 1975.
Nearly 40 percent of the colony’s nationals then fled the new nation,
and the rest, as they say, is history.
Kind of makes one misty-eyed, don’t you think?
The next day’s follow-up story, rudely pushed inside by the
evil newspaper demigods to Metro Section Page B-3, provided the
final missing pieces in the Mildred Baker jigsaw puzzle.
Baker was charged with conspiracy and violation of the
Neutrality Act and arrested at her Morrison Road apartment.
She claimed no knowledge of a plot. Root a toot hoot. Knew nothing,
her fat circus trapeze insurance fraud ass.
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The conspirators were meeting all that time at
Baker’s apartment. She was using insurance company
money to finance the revolution. Or something like that.
After all, comrades, an infinite possibility of conspiracy
theories were available. Joe Fine was a former member of the
Israeli Defense Forces. Could it be involved? What was Joe Fine
actually, insurance investigator or spy under separate cover?
Maybe, the FBI somehow was involved in the set-up, or the CIA
working with Dutch interests to remove a hostile foreign
government in this hemisphere? (Reports had circulated recently
that the erratic Bouterse, a non-commissioned officer before
leading the coup, might go so far as to ally with Cuba.)
Or, these persons could just be complete loons, buffoons,
and fools. Otherwise known as occam’s razor.
Best available explanation of the scenario was that Baker
first decided to fake the injury. The rest was lagniappe.
Tyger’s tapes were part of the evidence of a three-pronged
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investigation also using wiretaps and informants culminating
in the arrest of the Baker’s dozen cum 14. Hmmm. That type of sitc
directly harked back to Joe Fine’s explanation of the use of ghosts.
Tyger is relieved his name has in no way been associated publicly
with any aspect of the investigation. He feels confident the authorities
want to grab all the credit, so they will never mention his “contribution.”
While being the sub rosa the savior of Suriname might be a very nice
honor to enjoy, those efforts had saved the evil Bouterse who continued
to oppress his people and steal the nation blind. Oh well, comrades,
can’t have everything. Tyger was a mere technician hired under pretense.
He was only following orders. In the final analysis, however, one might conclude
Tyger had performed a good deed after all. He saved the poor unwitting
citizens of Suriname from a fate possibly worse even than the horrible Bouterse,
a government of Mississippi rednecks masterminded by the incredibly moronic Larry Bob Henley.
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Like these idiots ever were going to overthrow a Third World nation.
They couldn’t even tie their shoelaces, or apparently, keep Mrs. Baker in line.
(Final footnote comrades in “Dragnet”: They all pleaded
no contest to the charges. Nine of the 14 received suspended
three year sentences, three years probation, and small fines.
The young Baker was placed on 30 months probation with no fine.
Henley was slapped with two concurrent 30 month prison terms and $10,000 fine.
Mrs. Baker was sentenced to one year and one day in prison,
followed by three years probation. U.S. District Judge Lansing Mitchell was
”particularly angry with Baker because she involved her 17-year-old son in the plot.”
“I’ve been on the bench for 20 years,” Mitchell said, “this is about as far out a case as I’ve heard.”)
No shit, Sherlock.
But you know what they say about unstable Third World military governments.
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Sixth coup attempt is the charm. Bouterse was toppled the next try by a
successful coup plot. Following 11 years in a Dutch prison, he eventually
resurrected his drug smuggling and political career, returning
to the presidency by election from 2010 to 2020. Tyger’s phone
rang soon after the initial discovery of the public side of Larry Bob’s
tattooed activities. Dorothy hanging on the line discussing details fantastical.
“Can you beat that?” she says. “By the way, Joe gave your tapes to the FBI.”
“”At least I understand the Baker case,” Tyger says. “Sure didn’t last month.”
“By the way,” Dorothy continues. “Joe needs the equipment back. Said something
about fine tuning. Feeling there won’t be any jobs for a while.
Joe has been acting kind of funny again.”
“Funnier than usual?” Tyger asks not haha.
“Funniest ever,” Dorothy notes. “Having a mid-life crisis or something.
Hopefully, just needs some rest.”
“Who doesn’t,” Tyger says. “Say no mo’.
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I’ll bring the system back tomorrow.”
Understandably, Tyger is excited by the current news fake items concerning
his Mildred Baker misadventure. He drives by Sandy Alexander’s house to share
the latest in eye-witless new up-fakes, in this rare case the real fake real item.
Sandy, cat and dog front door greet. Sandy is watching the Braves-Expos game.
“Don’t blame me,” he says. “I’m from Atlanta.”
Details, details. Mulling over the Surinamese news. In an unrelated news item,
Tyger drop kick mentions what was discovered in Armor’s freezer. Sandy plays aghast.
“Hold that thought,” he says, walking towards a closet. “I got a shovel right here. Let’s go.
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We got to bury those pussies. They had faces.”
Word. Sandy transports Tyger and shovel toot sweetly to Armor’s pad.
Sleepy keeper of the frozen kitty mausoleum eventually answers loud
poundings of the grim burial reapers on his door.
“We have come to bury those cats,” Sandy notes, bristling
with righteous outrage. “Uhhh, uhhh,” Armor’s stutters while
wiping nappy-time cobwebs from his opening eyes. “Don’t have a shovel.”
“You do now,” Sandy says. “Where the kittens?” Missing information.
“Uhh, freezer.” “Good.” Sandy followed by Tyger followed by Armor’s
second line in funereal procession march to freezer doorward.
Sandy flings open the metal door, retrieving the shrouded kittens.
“What were their names?” he asks in order to provide a brief ceremonial eulogy.
“Didn’t have names,” Armor’s replies. “They died before I could name them.”
“Fine.” Sandy leads the processional outdoors to the weed overgrown
yard. He digs a three foot wide, four foot deep, hole in the sad black dirt.
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“Why don’t we say a few words,” Sandy directs.
Armor’s watches from the nearby back porch in silence.
“For you, the noble unnamed two who are about to meet your,
and our, maker,” Sandy reverentially observe. “We salute you.
Good luck and appropriate karma in all that inevitably follows. Amen.”
Tyger and Armor’s agree with “ahem,” “ahem,” as the tall
thin lover of truth covers dead kittens with the rich Cajun Creole soil.
“Thank God,” Sandy says as the three mourners return indoors.
“Couldn’t have slept knowing about this.”
Let us conclude this chapter, therefore, with the elevated
hope that perhaps a higher force considers our ultimate
well-being from cradle to grave.
Sandy took care of kitten disposal as such a higher power.
Perhaps powers higher even than Sandy Alexander, Tyger Williams,
and Armor’s Tungsten, to name but three poor wandering souls,
will take care of their earthly disposal and heavenly disposition.
At least, we can pray for as much, and let the chips fall
where they may. Say hey.
SURVEILLANCE PELICANA
BY
DAN WEISMAN
The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:
Chapters 1-10: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-full-book-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/.)
Chapters 11-20: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-ii-chapters-11-to-20-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/)
Chapters 21-30: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-iii-chapters-21-to-30-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Mac discusses his visit to the beach.
Tyger and Armor’s talk about environmentalism and abortion
rights. Tyger investigates a topless club owner and others in
Morgan City. Then, the most amazing revelations concerning the
Mildred Baker case become public knowledge thereby solving many
of the riddles in the case and creating additional puzzles. Tyger
is acknowledged as the savior of Suriname. Upon revelation of the
fate of Armor’s cats, Sandy Alexander organizes a final
disposition of their fate.
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“Fun fun in the summer time. Fun fun in the summer time.
Ooh-Ahh-Ooh-Doh-Ooh-Ooh-Aahhhh …”
“And those are the Beachy Balls, all you summer bummers out
there. This is the Mighty Tool. WTUL-FM N’awlins and I am not
telling you who I am.”
Tyger, sitting at Mac’s house on Tuesday July 19, 1988;
turns the radio heat up a notch. “I know who you are asshole,”
Tyger informs the black boom box. “And I know where you live.”
“Oh what the hey line. You have reached the fun zone. I am
Mr. Milty to those uninitiated coming right at you babies.
You remember Captain Lockheed and the Starfighters album, I am sure.
Here goes Robert Calvert again with something more
appropriate to the heat wave that never ends. Viking aryans on
surfboards doing their worst Beach Boys imitation.
It is noon and I am out-a-here.”
So that is where Milty has been. He was hiding out in
plain sight at the least likely of places, ye olde public airwaves.
“I have some good news and some bad news
about our trip to Pensacola Beach,” Mac tells Tyger.
“Good news first,” Tyger says. “I simply live for the good news.”
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“Good news is Sarah and I went to Dainty Del Restaurant,
had the best Oysters Rockefeller in the free world.
Then, we went to the beach all day, had an incredible amount of fun.
We swam to the sand bar for a starfish and rum. We danced
to the B-52’s. We barbecued on the beach. Everyone was jealous
that two people could have so much fun. It was great.”
“Ah, and the bad news?” Tyger asks.
“We decided to sleep on the beach, had a bottle of liquid acid,
maybe 60 hits worth. Got so loaded on rum drinks
we forgot all about it and swallowed nearly the whole bottle.”
“That’s the bad news?”
“That is bad news. We wasted so much good clean ‘L’, but that was not
the worst news. The wind that was blowing in from the Gulf all day suddenly
died about midnight. We were attacked by swarms of killer mosquitos,
biggest damn mosquitoes I ever has seen. We had to run for dear life
away from the beach to the car beating ourselves with towels. I must have
been stung a million times. Just when we were coming on
to the megadose. Oooh, hum baby.. Hurts still to think about.”
“Maybe,” Tyger notes, “you ought to file an insurance claim, hahaha
You probably had too much fun. What goes up must come down
Primary astrophysical principle of ars fortuna particles.”
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“Remind me not to hang around there again when the wind dies,” Mac says.
“Put a damper on the evening.” He smiles, grinning like the dog
who caught the squirrel. “What you gonna do,” he laughs. “Going
Good to see Mac taking full advantage of the summer.back to the beach next weekend. Can’t have too much fun.”
Armor’s, however, has been acting a bit stranger than usual
following the departure of Igor for the Big Apple.
Perhaps Armor’s feels the shallowness of the Big Easy’s cultural shores
and has become a little antsy. Maybe the heat is getting to him.
Armor’s, like Tyger, takes a macho approach to the summer inferno.
Neither uses air conditioning at home. Each has large fans set up
at their respective spaces. They sneer at the weaklings who must chill out
constantly in artificial cool-down mode, or as Henry Miller noted
on a trip to New Orleans, the air conditioned nightmare.
Tyger drops by Armor’s on Wednesday, July 20 during visiting hours.
He engages the dear lad in friendly discourse over a couple of cups of blended espresso.
They definitely strike the sweet spot.
Number one point made during the ensuing conversation:
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Those assholes are destroying the ozone layer for future
generations just so they can feel temporarily comfortable.
Mention that to them. They pretend you are crazy.
Number two point: They use hardly any electricity, but the surrounding
pigs use so much in their artificial cool-house environment
that the horrible NOPSI Nazi system constantly overloads,
causing frequent brown and black outs.
(One little piggy with a Ray-Gun/Shrub bumper sticker on her
Japanese minivan said between puffs on a “You’ve come a long way
baby” Virginia Slims cancer death-shtick “Why don’t you run your
air conditioner? You are only hateful because you’re overheated.
That stuff about the ozone layer is a bunch of lies from limousine liberals.”
Armor’s had only one reply to make. “Liberal this bitch,” flipping
her a bird as she flew away horrified at his “rude” behavior.)
Yeah, and it isn’t too rude to ruin everything for future generations.
Like the Louis Armstrong song relates, “I’ll be glad when you’re dead,
you rascal you.”
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Unfortunately, it is not soon enough to save the planetary
environment. All we can do is our best for as long as possible to
keep from losing it completely.
Number three point: In a related topic of discussion, the
subject of the recent sit-in by anti-abortion hotheads at the
Delta Women’s Clinic on St. Charles Avenue.
Those pigs won’t let women go in for abortions. They have to
be dragged away from the clinic entrance by the storm troopers,
for once on the side of natural law as well as order.
Armor’s makes the salient point that they give a shit until
the unwanted baby pops out.Then, their attitude is “I am out
of here. Yeah. They care about the unborn,
but the born are another matter.”
(“That damn crime and those shiftless negroes,” an antiabortion
fruit-and-nut-cake states in another persona on Eyewitless
News-Fake playing at Armor’s. “They the reason everything is disgusting here.”)
Armor’s fiddles around the shotgun apartment, producing
interesting items for Tyger’s approval. One is a detailed hand-drawn
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map of the Pinnacles National Monument where he wants to go for a while.
Another is a flyer from the Earth First! “environmental freedom fighters.”
Armor’s wants to join an Oregon sit-in to stop the pig Ray-Gun
commercial bulldozer buddies from destroying ancient legacy trees
harboring the wise and wonderful endangered Northern Spotted Owl population.
The rape of the Spotted Owl is repeated throughout America
during the waning years of the Ray-Gun rip-off scam. Same bad deal
at the Sportsman’s Paradise, hahaha, of Lousyana where the
beautiful and ancient sea turtle is threatened by the wide nets
of brain dead commercial redneck fish exploiters.
Which would you prefer in your face — owls, turtles and
natural wonders — or assholes, losers and a scorched earth for eternity?
Tough choice. Tell the fishermen to get a real job not harming
innocent wildlife to feed their fat consumptive lofe-style.
They are not after a decent living. Just an easy living.
Tyger walks into the kitchen area to grab a little skim milk
for his black chicory coffee that the boys alternate with espresso.
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He innocently opens the freezer compartment.
Two unusual brown paper objects sit in the back of the freezer.
Tyger looks with the eyes of a child not thinking too much of them.
He returns to the main room.
“Hey Armor’s,” Tyger mentions, oh by the way casually no big whoop.
“You eating gourmet now? What are those wrapped objects in the back of the freezer?
They look like Cornish hen wannabees or something. Planning a special super supper.”
“Ahhh,” Armor’s sudden eloquence concerning the environment dissipates
with this line of questioning. “What do you mean?”
“You know, the things that are wrapped and look like cornish hens,” Tyger says.
“Taste like chicken, eh?”
“Oh those,” Armor”s hesitates a one-two-three spell, then blurts out missing information.
“Those are the kittens.”
Tyger does not quite grasp the moment.
“The kittens? What kittens?”
“The kittens from MacLand.” (Tyger spit take.)
What? Tyger had completely forgotten about the cute little kitties
Armor’s took under his wings all those months previously
for what turned out be some kind of not so safe keeping.
“You have the kittens wrapped up in the freezer?” Tyger asks at long pointed last.
“Ahh yeah,” Armor’s replies. “Had to. Remember that real cold spell in February?”
“Yeah.”
“They caught a horrible fever, cat pneumonia or something,
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died suddenly. I put them in the freezer,
so they would keep until I could bury them properly.”
“Why don’t you bury them right now? We’ll go out in the yard.”
“No, Can’t bury them.”
“Why not?”
Pregnant pause by Sir Armor’s Tungsten, performance artist,
before delivering the ultimate punch line.
“Don’t have a shovel.”
Ka-boom! Knock out.
Tyger takes under advisement this bizarre turn of events finally disclosed.
Strange behavior by Armor’s true, but dead kittens will keep
a bit longer lying in frozen state. They’re not going anywhere.
The investigative merry-go round is a different matter entirely.
Tyger goes to Lockport in Lafourche Parish on Thursday, July 22.
He sets up the system in a very nice location about 30 yards away
from the Albert Indelicato green with white stripe house trailer.
Thank goodness. The trailer is set aside in a large dirt and gravel area,
no inconvenient nay-bores. What’s more, a small pleasant cafe sits
about 50 yards away from the trailer. It has a large glass window fronting the big picture.
Looks like Tyger can spend much of the surveillance pelicana experience
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inside the cafe drinking coffee, yet keep a close eye on subby-poo.
Frozen freezer kitties inspire Tyger to order up the luncheon special,
a very tasty barbecued chicken entree.
What is with that Armor’s anyway, Tyger considers while munching
lunch, watching the wonderful wide world of Indelicato.
Subject, white male, 30 years old, 5’11”, 190 pounds,
stinkers around the trailer proper for a while, exhibiting no
particular signs of the debilitating right knee injury he claims.
Tyger runs the system for three hours as authorized before calling it a day.
Two days later on Saturday July 23, Tyger visits Morgan City
in the oil patch where he conducts a background investigation of
one James Nelson Norton; lately of the Honeymooners, right?
Wrong, Jackie Gleason breath.
Turns out the good Norton is a well known local “club” owner.
The clubs, in his case, are exotic dancer lounges at the
edge of town on Highway 90. Check, please, maitre-d’.
Norton’s most recent entrepreneurial venture is named,
appropriately, the “Hot Stuff Lounge.” Like the other four strip
joints at Morgan City’s red light district, Hot Stuff is a small nondescript
one-room shack hosted by an Oriental babe looks Filipino in short slit dress.
Tyger tells her the truth in this instance. He is a po’ boy of an investigator
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just doing his job, conducting a routine background check of the owner.
an’t say why ’cause he don’t know himself. Nobody
knows anything about anything, of course. Tyger goes
about the immediate vicinity performing his duties in a perfunctory
fashion. This isn’t really his cup of java. Besides, not to belabor the all too obvious,
the very name “Hot Stuff Lounge,” more or less says it all.
In a nutshell, Tyger determines Norton had two similar clubs,
each mysteriously burned to the ground. He has been telling
associates he plans to open a new improved version of the Hot
Stuff in the near future. He got the bucks. Just won’t say how he got it.
Only clues Norton has furnished associates is that the money
is coming from unnamed silent investors. Yeah right, probably
by the name of Mutual Insurance Corporation’s fire protection fund.
Norton also has told a nearby car repair shop owner that the
Hot Stuff has been losing money which does not matter because he
is living on a tidy, but vague “allowance.” Tyger concludes his investigation.
He files a report to that effect through the U.S. mail to Dorothy.
Hope it gets there by the end of the World Series.
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Ensues the usual weekend frolicking, baseball viewing and lifestyle functions.
No more sleazy strip show clubs, thank you very not.
Then, on a day like any other day except for it being
officially designated for our purposes as Tuesday, July 26, 1988,
Tyger continues in the usual way. First stop after morning dress
rehearsal, an out of business real estate office down the street
where for some bizarrely inexplicable the reason the
Slimes-Picayune delivery person continues to leave a newspaper.
Tyger, good boy, retrieves it, then hikes around Audubon Park.
He returns home abut 10:40 a.m.
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At 11:15 a.m. “subject” pours a cup of coffee, sits down
at his feeding table watching a Saturday Night Live re-run.
Hmm, it is from one of the good SNL’s. Jesse Jackson hosts. Hahaha.
At 11:19 a.m. Tyger unwraps the newspaper rubber band, removing
the front section, which he then unfolds with gusto.
At 11:20 a.m., glancing down Page One, usual pack of lies beginning with
smiley yellow sun forecasting sunny skies, temps in the mid-90s.
Considering fake is real, that can only mean torrential rains. Forewarned?
Today’s top story, man bites dog, “Hansen’s Sno-Bliz great for summer.”
At 11:22 a.m., Tyger army half-notices a photograph.
It is the tattooed man from Mildred Bakers apartment.
Tyger sips some coffee.
‘Wait, what!!!
THE TATTOOED MAN FROM MILDRED BAKER’S APARTMENT. Ugh.
Stop the presses!
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Forget about the how for now.
This is the who, what, where, when, and why of all time.
Larry Bob Henley, 45, of Senatobia, Mississippi,
is identified as the tattooed man as revealed by the Slimes-Picayune.
Is this some kind of sick joke?
Tyger motor controls his full attention span to the inside
story of insane explication now introduced for your consideration.
The picture shows Henley along with “James Michael Baker, 17, of New Orleans East”
being taken from a Ford minivan with Mississippi plates at the
Bogue Falaya Commercial Airfield near Hammond, Louisiana.
Two burly U.S. federal marshals escort our good buddies
An additional notation is appended: see story, Metro B-1. D’uh. Seen.
Henley and Cook are among 14 persons charged in an alleged plot
to overthrow the government of Suriname.
Suriname? What the hell is that? Pancake syrup?
“Suriname is on the northeast coast of South America.
It gained independence from the Netherlands in 1975,
and is governed by Lt. Col. Desi Bouterse
who came to power in a 1980 coup.
He has been the target of four overthrow attempts.”
Fair enough. But, what the hey-line.
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“All but one of the 14 were arrested July 25 on their way to
the Hammond airport where they were to board a plane for Suriname
to overthrow the military government, according to an indictment
filed by the U.S. Attorney at New Orleans.
Five men along with alleged ring leader Henley were charged
with conspiracy to violate the U.S. Neutrality Act which bars
United States citizens from invading countries with which the
U.S. is at peace.
They also are charged with conspiracy to carry a concealed
and deadly weapon onto an airplane, a misdemeanor that carries a
maximum of one year in prison and a $10,000 fine.
Evidence against the group consists of videotape recordings
and wiretaps of recorded conversations, as well as statements by
undercover agents and some of the defendants themselves upon arrest.”
Videotape recordings? Videotape recordings? Videotape recordings?
Yeah, right. A lot of what Tyger witnessed during those three weeks in
June suddenly make a whole lot more sense. Like the meetings.
Like the weird redneck guys. Like the insane comings and going.
But one part of the story doesn’t yet jibe. Mildred Baker’s connection?
And now, comrades, as Paul Harvey says, for the rest of the story.
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The Marx Brothers, Three Stooges, aided, and abetted by
Laurel and Hardy; Lewis and Martin, Bozo the Clown, W.C. Fields, Buster Keaton
attempt to invade a bizarre Third World kleptocracy. Dat-Man to Baker’s Rob-in,
came up naturally enough with a no-brainer. He intended to launch an all-out
night assault using mercenaries recruited through Soldier of Fortune Magazine.
What could possible go right? Henley’s Dutch oil executive overlords
planned to arrange a meeting with — please refrain from snickering —
the Surinamese Minister of Finance to discuss instituting a Swiss-style
banking system with super-secret confidential numbered accounts.
Henley’s mercenaries would pose as — stop us if you heard of this before —
financiers. They then would bring Bouterse into the meeting, take him
hostage or liquidate him and voila’ Suriname at your pleasure, sir.
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Not one to rest on his dubious laurels, Henley signed contracts with
other private individuals and foundations, including the Ansus Foundation
of the Netherlands, that would pay him a large amount of money if
the plan were successful. Or maybe it was the Anus Foundation, which
which would have been more appropriate to this mission. Henley also
planned to bring in-country a large yacht filled with Miskito Indians from Nicaragua
acting as support troops. The same Miskitos that fought alongside the Contras.
(Not the ones that attacked Mac and Sarah at Pensacola Beach.)
The coup lite leader promised $500 a week for those Americans who
helped him in the operation with a $1 million bonus for any who
stayed to see it through. Maybe he had watched one too many reruns
of the movie “Walker,” or something. Tyger had seen “Walker”
plus the as-yet not released version of the Larry Henley show,
live on tape from Morrison Road. One might even consider the Tygermeister
to be the world’s leading expert on that particular score. Henley, true
to American democratic values, and/or a desire to max out on looting,
planned to hold “elections” shortly after taking over, then install a Surinamese
puppet official who would follow his bat-shit cracker orders.
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Henley had lifted a play straight out of the Gipper’s Grenada game plan.
How fitting in the age of Ray-Gun with the great leader urging Americans
to exercise private initiative. Yup, Henley figured he had it made in the shade.
Suriname would become his personal piggy bank. And what an opportunity.
Consider the tale of the tape: Suriname had 480,000 residents, 63,037-square miles,
slightly larger than the state of Georgia. Guyana, a former British colony, to the west;
Brazil to the south, Atlantic Ocean to the north, French Guiana, former home of Devil’s Island,
due west. Suriname’s coast is flat where dikes permit agriculture. Inland is a rain forest
built with about 75 percent of the country consisting of unexplored areas. About one-third
of the population live in the capital city of Paramaribo. The small nation’s wealth consists
of offshore oil and inland bauxite attracting considerable interest and attention.
Not aiding the political security of the indigenous Creole, East Indian, Bush Negro populace
was the fact that Bouterse sought to keep all the wealth at home, that is to say
in his and associates’ pockets while international interests wanted a, shall we say,
larger piece of the pie.
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Talk about a bad trade, sports fans. You thought the
Cubs made some losers. Consider the origins of Suriname.
The Netherlands acquired the property in 1667 from Britain
in exchange for that well known slice of pie from Hell’s Kitchen
drum roll please — New Netherlands, known currently as New York City.
That’s right. Believe it or nuts. A straight-up one-for-one transaction ,
Suriname for the Big Apple.
No doubt still smarting from that apparent bad bad bad deal,
20th Century Dutch descendant uncles finally succeeded in forcing
the reluctant Surinamese into independence on Tuesday November 25, 1975.
Nearly 40 percent of the colony’s nationals then fled the new nation,
and the rest, as they say, is history.
Kind of makes one misty-eyed, don’t you think?
The next day’s follow-up story, rudely pushed inside by the
evil newspaper demigods to Metro Section Page B-3, provided the
final missing pieces in the Mildred Baker jigsaw puzzle.
Baker was charged with conspiracy and violation of the
Neutrality Act and arrested at her Morrison Road apartment.
She claimed no knowledge of a plot. Root a toot hoot. Knew nothing,
her fat circus trapeze insurance fraud ass.
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The conspirators were meeting all that time at
Baker’s apartment. She was using insurance company
money to finance the revolution. Or something like that.
After all, comrades, an infinite possibility of conspiracy
theories were available. Joe Fine was a former member of the
Israeli Defense Forces. Could it be involved? What was Joe Fine
actually, insurance investigator or spy under separate cover?
Maybe, the FBI somehow was involved in the set-up, or the CIA
working with Dutch interests to remove a hostile foreign
government in this hemisphere? (Reports had circulated recently
that the erratic Bouterse, a non-commissioned officer before
leading the coup, might go so far as to ally with Cuba.)
Or, these persons could just be complete loons, buffoons,
and fools. Otherwise known as occam’s razor.
Best available explanation of the scenario was that Baker
first decided to fake the injury. The rest was lagniappe.
Tyger’s tapes were part of the evidence of a three-pronged
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investigation also using wiretaps and informants culminating
in the arrest of the Baker’s dozen cum 14. Hmmm. That type of sitc
directly harked back to Joe Fine’s explanation of the use of ghosts.
Tyger is relieved his name has in no way been associated publicly
with any aspect of the investigation. He feels confident the authorities
want to grab all the credit, so they will never mention his “contribution.”
While being the sub rosa the savior of Suriname might be a very nice
honor to enjoy, those efforts had saved the evil Bouterse who continued
to oppress his people and steal the nation blind. Oh well, comrades,
can’t have everything. Tyger was a mere technician hired under pretense.
He was only following orders. In the final analysis, however, one might conclude
Tyger had performed a good deed after all. He saved the poor unwitting
citizens of Suriname from a fate possibly worse even than the horrible Bouterse,
a government of Mississippi rednecks masterminded by the incredibly moronic Larry Bob Henley.
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Like these idiots ever were going to overthrow a Third World nation.
They couldn’t even tie their shoelaces, or apparently, keep Mrs. Baker in line.
(Final footnote comrades in “Dragnet”: They all pleaded
no contest to the charges. Nine of the 14 received suspended
three year sentences, three years probation, and small fines.
The young Baker was placed on 30 months probation with no fine.
Henley was slapped with two concurrent 30 month prison terms and $10,000 fine.
Mrs. Baker was sentenced to one year and one day in prison,
followed by three years probation. U.S. District Judge Lansing Mitchell was
”particularly angry with Baker because she involved her 17-year-old son in the plot.”
“I’ve been on the bench for 20 years,” Mitchell said, “this is about as far out a case as I’ve heard.”)
No shit, Sherlock.
But you know what they say about unstable Third World military governments.
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Sixth coup attempt is the charm. Bouterse was toppled the next try by a
successful coup plot. Following 11 years in a Dutch prison, he eventually
resurrected his drug smuggling and political career, returning
to the presidency by election from 2010 to 2020. Tyger’s phone
rang soon after the initial discovery of the public side of Larry Bob’s
tattooed activities. Dorothy hanging on the line discussing details fantastical.
“Can you beat that?” she says. “By the way, Joe gave your tapes to the FBI.”
“”At least I understand the Baker case,” Tyger says. “Sure didn’t last month.”
“By the way,” Dorothy continues. “Joe needs the equipment back. Said something
about fine tuning. Feeling there won’t be any jobs for a while.
Joe has been acting kind of funny again.”
“Funnier than usual?” Tyger asks not haha.
“Funniest ever,” Dorothy notes. “Having a mid-life crisis or something.
Hopefully, just needs some rest.”
“Who doesn’t,” Tyger says. “Say no mo’.
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I’ll bring the system back tomorrow.”
Understandably, Tyger is excited by the current news fake items concerning
his Mildred Baker misadventure. He drives by Sandy Alexander’s house to share
the latest in eye-witless new up-fakes, in this rare case the real fake real item.
Sandy, cat and dog front door greet. Sandy is watching the Braves-Expos game.
“Don’t blame me,” he says. “I’m from Atlanta.”
Details, details. Mulling over the Surinamese news. In an unrelated news item,
Tyger drop kick mentions what was discovered in Armor’s freezer. Sandy plays aghast.
“Hold that thought,” he says, walking towards a closet. “I got a shovel right here. Let’s go.
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We got to bury those pussies. They had faces.”
Word. Sandy transports Tyger and shovel toot sweetly to Armor’s pad.
Sleepy keeper of the frozen kitty mausoleum eventually answers loud
poundings of the grim burial reapers on his door.
“We have come to bury those cats,” Sandy notes, bristling
with righteous outrage. “Uhhh, uhhh,” Armor’s stutters while
wiping nappy-time cobwebs from his opening eyes. “Don’t have a shovel.”
“You do now,” Sandy says. “Where the kittens?” Missing information.
“Uhh, freezer.” “Good.” Sandy followed by Tyger followed by Armor’s
second line in funereal procession march to freezer doorward.
Sandy flings open the metal door, retrieving the shrouded kittens.
“What were their names?” he asks in order to provide a brief ceremonial eulogy.
“Didn’t have names,” Armor’s replies. “They died before I could name them.”
“Fine.” Sandy leads the processional outdoors to the weed overgrown
yard. He digs a three foot wide, four foot deep, hole in the sad black dirt.
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“Why don’t we say a few words,” Sandy directs.
Armor’s watches from the nearby back porch in silence.
“For you, the noble unnamed two who are about to meet your,
and our, maker,” Sandy reverentially observe. “We salute you.
Good luck and appropriate karma in all that inevitably follows. Amen.”
Tyger and Armor’s agree with “ahem,” “ahem,” as the tall
thin lover of truth covers dead kittens with the rich Cajun Creole soil.
“Thank God,” Sandy says as the three mourners return indoors.
“Couldn’t have slept knowing about this.”
Let us conclude this chapter, therefore, with the elevated
hope that perhaps a higher force considers our ultimate
well-being from cradle to grave.
Sandy took care of kitten disposal as such a higher power.
Perhaps powers higher even than Sandy Alexander, Tyger Williams,
and Armor’s Tungsten, to name but three poor wandering souls,
will take care of their earthly disposal and heavenly disposition.
At least, we can pray for as much, and let the chips fall
where they may. Say hey.
SURVEILLANCE PELICANA
BY
DAN WEISMAN
The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:
Chapters 1-10: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-full-book-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/.)
Chapters 11-20: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-ii-chapters-11-to-20-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/)
Chapters 21-30: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-iii-chapters-21-to-30-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Mac discusses his visit to the beach.
Tyger and Armor’s talk about environmentalism and abortion
rights. Tyger investigates a topless club owner and others in
Morgan City. Then, the most amazing revelations concerning the
Mildred Baker case become public knowledge thereby solving many
of the riddles in the case and creating additional puzzles. Tyger
is acknowledged as the savior of Suriname. Upon revelation of the
fate of Armor’s cats, Sandy Alexander organizes a final
disposition of their fate.
CHAPTER 27
“Savior of Suriname”
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“Fun fun in the summer time. Fun fun in the summer time.
Ooh-Ahh-Ooh-Doh-Ooh-Ooh-Aahhhh …”
“And those are the Beachy Balls, all you summer bummers out
there. This is the Mighty Tool. WTUL-FM N’awlins and I am not
telling you who I am.”
Tyger, sitting at Mac’s house on Tuesday July 19, 1988;
turns the radio heat up a notch. “I know who you are asshole,”
Tyger informs the black boom box. “And I know where you live.”
“Oh what the hey line. You have reached the fun zone. I am
Mr. Milty to those uninitiated coming right at you babies.
You remember Captain Lockheed and the Starfighters album, I am sure.
Here goes Robert Calvert again with something more
appropriate to the heat wave that never ends. Viking aryans on
surfboards doing their worst Beach Boys imitation.
It is noon and I am out-a-here.”
So that is where Milty has been. He was hiding out in
plain sight at the least likely of places, ye olde public airwaves.
“I have some good news and some bad news
about our trip to Pensacola Beach,” Mac tells Tyger.
“Good news first,” Tyger says. “I simply live for the good news.”
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“Good news is Sarah and I went to Dainty Del Restaurant,
had the best Oysters Rockefeller in the free world.
Then, we went to the beach all day, had an incredible amount of fun.
We swam to the sand bar for a starfish and rum. We danced
to the B-52’s. We barbecued on the beach. Everyone was jealous
that two people could have so much fun. It was great.”
“Ah, and the bad news?” Tyger asks.
“We decided to sleep on the beach, had a bottle of liquid acid,
maybe 60 hits worth. Got so loaded on rum drinks
we forgot all about it and swallowed nearly the whole bottle.”
“That’s the bad news?”
“That is bad news. We wasted so much good clean ‘L’, but that was not
the worst news. The wind that was blowing in from the Gulf all day suddenly
died about midnight. We were attacked by swarms of killer mosquitos,
biggest damn mosquitoes I ever has seen. We had to run for dear life
away from the beach to the car beating ourselves with towels. I must have
been stung a million times. Just when we were coming on
to the megadose. Oooh, hum baby.. Hurts still to think about.”
“Maybe,” Tyger notes, “you ought to file an insurance claim, hahaha
You probably had too much fun. What goes up must come down
Primary astrophysical principle of ars fortuna particles.”
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“Remind me not to hang around there again when the wind dies,” Mac says.
“Put a damper on the evening.” He smiles, grinning like the dog
who caught the squirrel. “What you gonna do,” he laughs. “Going
back to the beach next weekend. Can’t have too much fun.”
Good to see Mac taking full advantage of the summer.
Armor’s, however, has been acting a bit stranger than usual
following the departure of Igor for the Big Apple.
Perhaps Armor’s feels the shallowness of the Big Easy’s cultural shores
and has become a little antsy. Maybe the heat is getting to him.
Armor’s, like Tyger, takes a macho approach to the summer inferno.
Neither uses air conditioning at home. Each has large fans set up
at their respective spaces. They sneer at the weaklings who must chill out
constantly in artificial cool-down mode, or as Henry Miller noted
on a trip to New Orleans, the air conditioned nightmare.
Tyger drops by Armor’s on Wednesday, July 20 during visiting hours.
He engages the dear lad in friendly discourse over a couple of cups of blended espresso.
They definitely strike the sweet spot.
Number one point made during the ensuing conversation:
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Those assholes are destroying the ozone layer for future
generations just so they can feel temporarily comfortable.
Mention that to them. They pretend you are crazy.
Number two point: They use hardly any electricity, but the surrounding
pigs use so much in their artificial cool-house environment
that the horrible NOPSI Nazi system constantly overloads,
causing frequent brown and black outs.
(One little piggy with a Ray-Gun/Shrub bumper sticker on her
Japanese minivan said between puffs on a “You’ve come a long way
baby” Virginia Slims cancer death-shtick “Why don’t you run your
air conditioner? You are only hateful because you’re overheated.
That stuff about the ozone layer is a bunch of lies from limousine liberals.”
Armor’s had only one reply to make. “Liberal this bitch,” flipping
her a bird as she flew away horrified at his “rude” behavior.)
Yeah, and it isn’t too rude to ruin everything for future generations.
Like the Louis Armstrong song relates, “I’ll be glad when you’re dead,
you rascal you.”
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Unfortunately, it is not soon enough to save the planetary
environment. All we can do is our best for as long as possible to
keep from losing it completely.
Number three point: In a related topic of discussion, the
subject of the recent sit-in by anti-abortion hotheads at the
Delta Women’s Clinic on St. Charles Avenue.
Those pigs won’t let women go in for abortions. They have to
be dragged away from the clinic entrance by the storm troopers,
for once on the side of natural law as well as order.
Armor’s makes the salient point that they give a shit until
the unwanted baby pops out.Then, their attitude is “I am out
of here. Yeah. They care about the unborn,
but the born are another matter.”
(“That damn crime and those shiftless negroes,” an antiabortion
fruit-and-nut-cake states in another persona on Eyewitless
News-Fake playing at Armor’s. “They the reason everything is disgusting here.”)
Armor’s fiddles around the shotgun apartment, producing
interesting items for Tyger’s approval. One is a detailed hand-drawn
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map of the Pinnacles National Monument where he wants to go for a while.
Another is a flyer from the Earth First! “environmental freedom fighters.”
Armor’s wants to join an Oregon sit-in to stop the pig Ray-Gun
commercial bulldozer buddies from destroying ancient legacy trees
harboring the wise and wonderful endangered Northern Spotted Owl population.
The rape of the Spotted Owl is repeated throughout America
during the waning years of the Ray-Gun rip-off scam. Same bad deal
at the Sportsman’s Paradise, hahaha, of Lousyana where the
beautiful and ancient sea turtle is threatened by the wide nets
of brain dead commercial redneck fish exploiters.
Which would you prefer in your face — owls, turtles and
natural wonders — or assholes, losers and a scorched earth for eternity?
Tough choice. Tell the fishermen to get a real job not harming
innocent wildlife to feed their fat consumptive lofe-style.
They are not after a decent living. Just an easy living.
Tyger walks into the kitchen area to grab a little skim milk
for his black chicory coffee that the boys alternate with espresso.
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He innocently opens the freezer compartment.
Two unusual brown paper objects sit in the back of the freezer.
Tyger looks with the eyes of a child not thinking too much of them.
He returns to the main room.
“Hey Armor’s,” Tyger mentions, oh by the way casually no big whoop.
“You eating gourmet now? What are those wrapped objects in the back of the freezer?
They look like Cornish hen wannabees or something. Planning a special super supper.”
“Ahhh,” Armor’s sudden eloquence concerning the environment dissipates
with this line of questioning. “What do you mean?”
“You know, the things that are wrapped and look like cornish hens,” Tyger says.
“Taste like chicken, eh?”
“Oh those,” Armor”s hesitates a one-two-three spell, then blurts out missing information.
“Those are the kittens.”
Tyger does not quite grasp the moment.
“The kittens? What kittens?”
“The kittens from MacLand.” (Tyger spit take.)
What? Tyger had completely forgotten about the cute little kitties
Armor’s took under his wings all those months previously
for what turned out be some kind of not so safe keeping.
“You have the kittens wrapped up in the freezer?” Tyger asks at long pointed last.
“Ahh yeah,” Armor’s replies. “Had to. Remember that real cold spell in February?”
“Yeah.”
“They caught a horrible fever, cat pneumonia or something,
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died suddenly. I put them in the freezer,
so they would keep until I could bury them properly.”
“Why don’t you bury them right now? We’ll go out in the yard.”
“No, Can’t bury them.”
“Why not?”
Pregnant pause by Sir Armor’s Tungsten, performance artist,
before delivering the ultimate punch line.
“Don’t have a shovel.”
Ka-boom! Knock out.
Tyger takes under advisement this bizarre turn of events finally disclosed.
Strange behavior by Armor’s true, but dead kittens will keep
a bit longer lying in frozen state. They’re not going anywhere.
The investigative merry-go round is a different matter entirely.
Tyger goes to Lockport in Lafourche Parish on Thursday, July 22.
He sets up the system in a very nice location about 30 yards away
from the Albert Indelicato green with white stripe house trailer.
Thank goodness. The trailer is set aside in a large dirt and gravel area,
no inconvenient nay-bores. What’s more, a small pleasant cafe sits
about 50 yards away from the trailer. It has a large glass window fronting the big picture.
Looks like Tyger can spend much of the surveillance pelicana experience
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inside the cafe drinking coffee, yet keep a close eye on subby-poo.
Frozen freezer kitties inspire Tyger to order up the luncheon special,
a very tasty barbecued chicken entree.
What is with that Armor’s anyway, Tyger considers while munching
lunch, watching the wonderful wide world of Indelicato.
Subject, white male, 30 years old, 5’11”, 190 pounds,
stinkers around the trailer proper for a while, exhibiting no
particular signs of the debilitating right knee injury he claims.
Tyger runs the system for three hours as authorized before calling it a day.
Two days later on Saturday July 23, Tyger visits Morgan City
in the oil patch where he conducts a background investigation of
one James Nelson Norton; lately of the Honeymooners, right?
Wrong, Jackie Gleason breath.
Turns out the good Norton is a well known local “club” owner.
The clubs, in his case, are exotic dancer lounges at the
edge of town on Highway 90. Check, please, maitre-d’.
Norton’s most recent entrepreneurial venture is named,
appropriately, the “Hot Stuff Lounge.” Like the other four strip
joints at Morgan City’s red light district, Hot Stuff is a small nondescript
one-room shack hosted by an Oriental babe looks Filipino in short slit dress.
Tyger tells her the truth in this instance. He is a po’ boy of an investigator
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just doing his job, conducting a routine background check of the owner.
an’t say why ’cause he don’t know himself. Nobody
knows anything about anything, of course. Tyger goes
about the immediate vicinity performing his duties in a perfunctory
fashion. This isn’t really his cup of java. Besides, not to belabor the all too obvious,
the very name “Hot Stuff Lounge,” more or less says it all.
In a nutshell, Tyger determines Norton had two similar clubs,
each mysteriously burned to the ground. He has been telling
associates he plans to open a new improved version of the Hot
Stuff in the near future. He got the bucks. Just won’t say how he got it.
Only clues Norton has furnished associates is that the money
is coming from unnamed silent investors. Yeah right, probably
by the name of Mutual Insurance Corporation’s fire protection fund.
Norton also has told a nearby car repair shop owner that the
Hot Stuff has been losing money which does not matter because he
is living on a tidy, but vague “allowance.” Tyger concludes his investigation.
He files a report to that effect through the U.S. mail to Dorothy.
Hope it gets there by the end of the World Series.
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Ensues the usual weekend frolicking, baseball viewing and lifestyle functions.
No more sleazy strip show clubs, thank you very not.
Then, on a day like any other day except for it being
officially designated for our purposes as Tuesday, July 26, 1988,
Tyger continues in the usual way. First stop after morning dress
rehearsal, an out of business real estate office down the street
where for some bizarrely inexplicable the reason the
Slimes-Picayune delivery person continues to leave a newspaper.
Tyger, good boy, retrieves it, then hikes around Audubon Park.
He returns home abut 10:40 a.m.
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At 11:15 a.m. “subject” pours a cup of coffee, sits down
at his feeding table watching a Saturday Night Live re-run.
Hmm, it is from one of the good SNL’s. Jesse Jackson hosts. Hahaha.
At 11:19 a.m. Tyger unwraps the newspaper rubber band, removing
the front section, which he then unfolds with gusto.
At 11:20 a.m., glancing down Page One, usual pack of lies beginning with
smiley yellow sun forecasting sunny skies, temps in the mid-90s.
Considering fake is real, that can only mean torrential rains. Forewarned?
Today’s top story, man bites dog, “Hansen’s Sno-Bliz great for summer.”
At 11:22 a.m., Tyger army half-notices a photograph.
It is the tattooed man from Mildred Bakers apartment.
Tyger sips some coffee.
‘Wait, what!!!
THE TATTOOED MAN FROM MILDRED BAKER’S APARTMENT. Ugh.
Stop the presses!
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Forget about the how for now.
This is the who, what, where, when, and why of all time.
Larry Bob Henley, 45, of Senatobia, Mississippi,
is identified as the tattooed man as revealed by the Slimes-Picayune.
Is this some kind of sick joke?
Tyger motor controls his full attention span to the inside
story of insane explication now introduced for your consideration.
The picture shows Henley along with “James Michael Baker, 17, of New Orleans East”
being taken from a Ford minivan with Mississippi plates at the
Bogue Falaya Commercial Airfield near Hammond, Louisiana.
Two burly U.S. federal marshals escort our good buddies
An additional notation is appended: see story, Metro B-1. D’uh. Seen.
Henley and Cook are among 14 persons charged in an alleged plot
to overthrow the government of Suriname.
Suriname? What the hell is that? Pancake syrup?
“Suriname is on the northeast coast of South America.
It gained independence from the Netherlands in 1975,
and is governed by Lt. Col. Desi Bouterse
who came to power in a 1980 coup.
He has been the target of four overthrow attempts.”
Fair enough. But, what the hey-line.
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“All but one of the 14 were arrested July 25 on their way to
the Hammond airport where they were to board a plane for Suriname
to overthrow the military government, according to an indictment
filed by the U.S. Attorney at New Orleans.
Five men along with alleged ring leader Henley were charged
with conspiracy to violate the U.S. Neutrality Act which bars
United States citizens from invading countries with which the
U.S. is at peace.
They also are charged with conspiracy to carry a concealed
and deadly weapon onto an airplane, a misdemeanor that carries a
maximum of one year in prison and a $10,000 fine.
Evidence against the group consists of videotape recordings
and wiretaps of recorded conversations, as well as statements by
undercover agents and some of the defendants themselves upon arrest.”
Videotape recordings? Videotape recordings? Videotape recordings?
Yeah, right. A lot of what Tyger witnessed during those three weeks in
June suddenly make a whole lot more sense. Like the meetings.
Like the weird redneck guys. Like the insane comings and going.
But one part of the story doesn’t yet jibe. Mildred Baker’s connection?
And now, comrades, as Paul Harvey says, for the rest of the story.
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The Marx Brothers, Three Stooges, aided, and abetted by
Laurel and Hardy; Lewis and Martin, Bozo the Clown, W.C. Fields, Buster Keaton
attempt to invade a bizarre Third World kleptocracy. Dat-Man to Baker’s Rob-in,
came up naturally enough with a no-brainer. He intended to launch an all-out
night assault using mercenaries recruited through Soldier of Fortune Magazine.
What could possible go right? Henley’s Dutch oil executive overlords
planned to arrange a meeting with — please refrain from snickering —
the Surinamese Minister of Finance to discuss instituting a Swiss-style
banking system with super-secret confidential numbered accounts.
Henley’s mercenaries would pose as — stop us if you heard of this before —
financiers. They then would bring Bouterse into the meeting, take him
hostage or liquidate him and voila’ Suriname at your pleasure, sir.
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Not one to rest on his dubious laurels, Henley signed contracts with
other private individuals and foundations, including the Ansus Foundation
of the Netherlands, that would pay him a large amount of money if
the plan were successful. Or maybe it was the Anus Foundation, which
which would have been more appropriate to this mission. Henley also
planned to bring in-country a large yacht filled with Miskito Indians from Nicaragua
acting as support troops. The same Miskitos that fought alongside the Contras.
(Not the ones that attacked Mac and Sarah at Pensacola Beach.)
The coup lite leader promised $500 a week for those Americans who
helped him in the operation with a $1 million bonus for any who
stayed to see it through. Maybe he had watched one too many reruns
of the movie “Walker,” or something. Tyger had seen “Walker”
plus the as-yet not released version of the Larry Henley show,
live on tape from Morrison Road. One might even consider the Tygermeister
to be the world’s leading expert on that particular score. Henley, true
to American democratic values, and/or a desire to max out on looting,
planned to hold “elections” shortly after taking over, then install a Surinamese
puppet official who would follow his bat-shit cracker orders.
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Henley had lifted a play straight out of the Gipper’s Grenada game plan.
How fitting in the age of Ray-Gun with the great leader urging Americans
to exercise private initiative. Yup, Henley figured he had it made in the shade.
Suriname would become his personal piggy bank. And what an opportunity.
Consider the tale of the tape: Suriname had 480,000 residents, 63,037-square miles,
slightly larger than the state of Georgia. Guyana, a former British colony, to the west;
Brazil to the south, Atlantic Ocean to the north, French Guiana, former home of Devil’s Island,
due west. Suriname’s coast is flat where dikes permit agriculture. Inland is a rain forest
built with about 75 percent of the country consisting of unexplored areas. About one-third
of the population live in the capital city of Paramaribo. The small nation’s wealth consists
of offshore oil and inland bauxite attracting considerable interest and attention.
Not aiding the political security of the indigenous Creole, East Indian, Bush Negro populace
was the fact that Bouterse sought to keep all the wealth at home, that is to say
in his and associates’ pockets while international interests wanted a, shall we say,
larger piece of the pie.
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Talk about a bad trade, sports fans. You thought the
Cubs made some losers. Consider the origins of Suriname.
The Netherlands acquired the property in 1667 from Britain
in exchange for that well known slice of pie from Hell’s Kitchen
drum roll please — New Netherlands, known currently as New York City.
That’s right. Believe it or nuts. A straight-up one-for-one transaction ,
Suriname for the Big Apple.
No doubt still smarting from that apparent bad bad bad deal,
20th Century Dutch descendant uncles finally succeeded in forcing
the reluctant Surinamese into independence on Tuesday November 25, 1975.
Nearly 40 percent of the colony’s nationals then fled the new nation,
and the rest, as they say, is history.
Kind of makes one misty-eyed, don’t you think?
The next day’s follow-up story, rudely pushed inside by the
evil newspaper demigods to Metro Section Page B-3, provided the
final missing pieces in the Mildred Baker jigsaw puzzle.
Baker was charged with conspiracy and violation of the
Neutrality Act and arrested at her Morrison Road apartment.
She claimed no knowledge of a plot. Root a toot hoot. Knew nothing,
her fat circus trapeze insurance fraud ass.
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The conspirators were meeting all that time at
Baker’s apartment. She was using insurance company
money to finance the revolution. Or something like that.
After all, comrades, an infinite possibility of conspiracy
theories were available. Joe Fine was a former member of the
Israeli Defense Forces. Could it be involved? What was Joe Fine
actually, insurance investigator or spy under separate cover?
Maybe, the FBI somehow was involved in the set-up, or the CIA
working with Dutch interests to remove a hostile foreign
government in this hemisphere? (Reports had circulated recently
that the erratic Bouterse, a non-commissioned officer before
leading the coup, might go so far as to ally with Cuba.)
Or, these persons could just be complete loons, buffoons,
and fools. Otherwise known as occam’s razor.
Best available explanation of the scenario was that Baker
first decided to fake the injury. The rest was lagniappe.
Tyger’s tapes were part of the evidence of a three-pronged
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investigation also using wiretaps and informants culminating
in the arrest of the Baker’s dozen cum 14. Hmmm. That type of sitc
directly harked back to Joe Fine’s explanation of the use of ghosts.
Tyger is relieved his name has in no way been associated publicly
with any aspect of the investigation. He feels confident the authorities
want to grab all the credit, so they will never mention his “contribution.”
While being the sub rosa the savior of Suriname might be a very nice
honor to enjoy, those efforts had saved the evil Bouterse who continued
to oppress his people and steal the nation blind. Oh well, comrades,
can’t have everything. Tyger was a mere technician hired under pretense.
He was only following orders. In the final analysis, however, one might conclude
Tyger had performed a good deed after all. He saved the poor unwitting
citizens of Suriname from a fate possibly worse even than the horrible Bouterse,
a government of Mississippi rednecks masterminded by the incredibly moronic Larry Bob Henley.
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Like these idiots ever were going to overthrow a Third World nation.
They couldn’t even tie their shoelaces, or apparently, keep Mrs. Baker in line.
(Final footnote comrades in “Dragnet”: They all pleaded
no contest to the charges. Nine of the 14 received suspended
three year sentences, three years probation, and small fines.
The young Baker was placed on 30 months probation with no fine.
Henley was slapped with two concurrent 30 month prison terms and $10,000 fine.
Mrs. Baker was sentenced to one year and one day in prison,
followed by three years probation. U.S. District Judge Lansing Mitchell was
”particularly angry with Baker because she involved her 17-year-old son in the plot.”
“I’ve been on the bench for 20 years,” Mitchell said, “this is about as far out a case as I’ve heard.”)
No shit, Sherlock.
But you know what they say about unstable Third World military governments.
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Sixth coup attempt is the charm. Bouterse was toppled the next try by a
successful coup plot. Following 11 years in a Dutch prison, he eventually
resurrected his drug smuggling and political career, returning
to the presidency by election from 2010 to 2020. Tyger’s phone
rang soon after the initial discovery of the public side of Larry Bob’s
tattooed activities. Dorothy hanging on the line discussing details fantastical.
“Can you beat that?” she says. “By the way, Joe gave your tapes to the FBI.”
“”At least I understand the Baker case,” Tyger says. “Sure didn’t last month.”
“By the way,” Dorothy continues. “Joe needs the equipment back. Said something
about fine tuning. Feeling there won’t be any jobs for a while.
Joe has been acting kind of funny again.”
“Funnier than usual?” Tyger asks not haha.
“Funniest ever,” Dorothy notes. “Having a mid-life crisis or something.
Hopefully, just needs some rest.”
“Who doesn’t,” Tyger says. “Say no mo’.
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I’ll bring the system back tomorrow.”
Understandably, Tyger is excited by the current news fake items concerning
his Mildred Baker misadventure. He drives by Sandy Alexander’s house to share
the latest in eye-witless new up-fakes, in this rare case the real fake real item.
Sandy, cat and dog front door greet. Sandy is watching the Braves-Expos game.
“Don’t blame me,” he says. “I’m from Atlanta.”
Details, details. Mulling over the Surinamese news. In an unrelated news item,
Tyger drop kick mentions what was discovered in Armor’s freezer. Sandy plays aghast.
“Hold that thought,” he says, walking towards a closet. “I got a shovel right here. Let’s go.
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We got to bury those pussies. They had faces.”
Word. Sandy transports Tyger and shovel toot sweetly to Armor’s pad.
Sleepy keeper of the frozen kitty mausoleum eventually answers loud
poundings of the grim burial reapers on his door.
“We have come to bury those cats,” Sandy notes, bristling
with righteous outrage. “Uhhh, uhhh,” Armor’s stutters while
wiping nappy-time cobwebs from his opening eyes. “Don’t have a shovel.”
“You do now,” Sandy says. “Where the kittens?” Missing information.
“Uhh, freezer.” “Good.” Sandy followed by Tyger followed by Armor’s
second line in funereal procession march to freezer doorward.
Sandy flings open the metal door, retrieving the shrouded kittens.
“What were their names?” he asks in order to provide a brief ceremonial eulogy.
“Didn’t have names,” Armor’s replies. “They died before I could name them.”
“Fine.” Sandy leads the processional outdoors to the weed overgrown
yard. He digs a three foot wide, four foot deep, hole in the sad black dirt.
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“Why don’t we say a few words,” Sandy directs.
Armor’s watches from the nearby back porch in silence.
“For you, the noble unnamed two who are about to meet your,
and our, maker,” Sandy reverentially observe. “We salute you.
Good luck and appropriate karma in all that inevitably follows. Amen.”
Tyger and Armor’s agree with “ahem,” “ahem,” as the tall
thin lover of truth covers dead kittens with the rich Cajun Creole soil.
“Thank God,” Sandy says as the three mourners return indoors.
“Couldn’t have slept knowing about this.”
Let us conclude this chapter, therefore, with the elevated
hope that perhaps a higher force considers our ultimate
well-being from cradle to grave.
Sandy took care of kitten disposal as such a higher power.
Perhaps powers higher even than Sandy Alexander, Tyger Williams,
and Armor’s Tungsten, to name but three poor wandering souls,
will take care of their earthly disposal and heavenly disposition.
At least, we can pray for as much, and let the chips fall
where they may. Say hey.
SURVEILLANCE PELICANA
BY
DAN WEISMAN
The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:
Chapters 1-10: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-full-book-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/.)
Chapters 11-20: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-ii-chapters-11-to-20-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/)
Chapters 21-30: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-iii-chapters-21-to-30-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
IRS Inc. temporarily suspends operations.
Tyger turns attention to the Republican National Convention
taking place in August 1988 at the Louisiana Super home dome
Discussion of Republican tactics, strategies, and activities
taking place within the context of the Iran-Contra scandal,
the Reagan Administration, and historical perspective.
CHAPTER 28
“Covering (up) the 1988 Republican National Convention”
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No change in the weather. No change in the sea. No change in
the government. No change in you. No change in Tyger, naturally.
But, maybe the moon is in Aquarius. Something seems to be
changing all around us comrades. It is not a pretty sight.
Firstly, the Joe Fine experience has reached a summer
hiatus. Tyger returns the secret surveillance system to Dorothy,
who is about to deliver a baby.
(Now, maybe that car seat can be used for its intended purpose.)
“I’m scheduled to have a C-Section in about two weeks,”
Dorothy reports, “and with Joe Fine’s delicate condition, if you
know what I mean, we will probably shut down operations for a
while. If anything urgent comes up either Jack or Joe will give you a holler.”
Yeah, Jack. Right. And Joe? Doubtful as well. Who knows what
strange shore Joe has washed upon by this late date of Monday August 1, 1988.
Tyger gives not a whit at this point. Something generally turns up to save
the good soul and kind spirit. Perhaps, detective work will resume
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when Dorothy leaves the hospital or Joe recovers some of his senses.
Besides, Tyger has laid in three months worth of savings. He
is well accustomed to the living on the edge lifestyle. Have no
fear, friends of the starving masses, Gloria Gaynor will survive.
By heck become, sometimes it can even be fun for as Bob Dylan says, when you
got nothing, you got nothing to lose. Dylan ought to know a thing or two
about that, baby boom generation junkies. After all, his mind is
somewhere beyond the left field fence blowing in the wind.
Maybe the times they aren’t a’changing, but a final curious
chorus lurks just beyond the curtains of consciousness over the
right field wall, in this case. (Get ready to duck and cover.)
That is to say, comrades of higher politically correct aspirations,
the 1988 Republican National Convention is slated to begin
Monday Aug. 15 at the home of the Saints and an infinite
series of tractor pulls and trade shows; that is to say,
again, hey, the Louisiana Super Home. For joy.
What an appropriate setting, comrades, the Big Fucking Easy,
Disneyland for adults, a place where crowd control tactics have
been honed to a fine art, run by political scoundrels who can be
bought by the easy tourist buck.
In short, the Republicans are guaranteed a non-threatening
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made for television gathering, more of a pep rally than an actual
discernment of the will of the people, even the people of their
own party. If it is a party, friends, why isn’t it fun?
The Repubs are crazy fools, true dat, but they are crazy
like foxes, sneaky like snakes in the garden.
They have no 1988 platform walking the planks
except to say whatever sounds good to
a majority of voting citizens. Should the pollsters find
Americans opposed, they think nothing of abruptly switching positions.
Tricky Dicky Nixon pioneered the first made for television
self-promotional media tactics. Then he blew the cookie store
with his politics of paranoia.
The “just win baby” generation learned its lesson after
Nixxon’s Watergate dirty tricks approach backfired due to
incredible personal malfeasance. A new old generation of
scoundrels were ready to take greed and corruption to the limit
as soon as national repulsion at the subversion of Constitutional
principles under the Nixxon (expletive deleted) subsided.
(Besides, practically no one in the nation even knew
what was in the Constitution.)
The Repubs finally hit the jackpot with the know
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nothing ambitious fool Ray-Gun whose primary strength was as a
television sound bite figurehead. They were not about to
let a small concern like the public good stand in their way.
They are prepared to do whatever it takes to “just win
baby.” They go about their business taking the first logical
step, holding the convention in the most noncontroversial —
goronteed in Cajun patois — and television colorful sound bite
distracting site available. Yes comrades, Third World Banana Republic?
New Orleans, the City that Care Forgot, the Big Easy, is God’s last
gift to the Repubs. The Grand Old Party, literally, has no ideas except
to lie lie lie until the Democrats cry uncle. They have no vision for
the future except to keep the gravy train rolling rolling
rolling, until the poor and underclass — hell, they don’t vote
anyway — were ground into rawhide or co-opted.
Those who were not on the gravy train per se, can be
persuaded temporarily into becoming fellow travelers through the
cynical tactic of having them believe they will make a bundle if
they come along for the ride. They can be mesmerized by holding
as examples for public acclaim the very financiers and Wall
Street scum who were in the process of ripping off the people blind.
Some of the financiers eventually were socked away for short
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spells at minimum security country club prisons for such
delightful frolics as insider trading and pyramid financial
schemes. Leading the pack, looting savings and loan institutions,
bailed out through government intervention from a Ray-Gun administration
whose big domestic political project was eliminating social safety nets
for the poor and disadvantaged. Hosanna. Hosanna. Ray-Gun going bonzo hosting
General Electric Theater through Death Valley Days.
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Now his grate-est role. Know nothing figure head of state. Or so
he testified at the Iran-Contra trials. Ray-Gun couldn’t remember cabinet officials,
chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and any meeting, decision and policy,
except for invading Grenada. As for the rest of the mess, a constant stream of
“Well, I don’t remember that.” “It’s in the transcript sir.”
“Well, I must have said that then, if you say so.” Or “Did I say that?”
Continuing, “I can’t remember any details because I spent every day having
my picture taken in photo opportunities or giving speeches.”
That’s correct. Ray-Gun estimated he participated in 40,000 photo sessions
during his presidency which came to about 15 each working day.
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In other words, that is all he did in the official capacity of playing President.
In a fitting footnote after Ray-Gun retired, but not before “suggesting”
the Constitution be amended to allow the president more than two terms
because it wasn’t fair to limit the office. Later, he gave a speech of “reminiscences”
about his White House years when a presidential library of his “papers” was dedicated.
Reminiscences? Don’t even need nitrous on that one. In any event, New Orleans
is the perfect place for the end of such an era. New Orleans had old world,
almost European, charm; a Potemkin village facade called the Vieux Carre; and
world class food to distract delegates and media. All that and a world class Superdome
facility cordoned off around its perimeter with a 4,700 foot chain link fence,
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connected to the outside media liars let 9,000 telephone lines buzz
into an infinite array of satellite transmitters.
No chance of dissent here. Employing Mardi Gras Krewe of
Krowd Kontrol KKK tactics; the rent a Big Easy police
department was well trained, ready, and willing to handle any
dissent however unlikely in the City that Care Forgot.
Fat chance. New Orleans, home to an indigenous population
that was 70 percent black, 70 percent poor, and 70 percent
Democratic was dripping with apathy towards life in general, not
to mention ye olde Republican Convention. Ho-hum, another contra intervention.
The local attitude is to let the Republicans have their fun, drop some big
bucks around town, and leave the way they came. Convention only lasts
four days. Mardi Gras lasts five times that with 20 times more visitors.
Give the suckers what they want.Tyger walks this planet moron during the first two
weeks of August. It is too hot even for the mangy mutts who lie all day
under trees not even bothering to go forth and fetch.
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Satisfied by the opiate of an endless series of Major League
baseball games to view, Tyger wanders aimlessly through the haze.
Reefer supplies are abundant. In fact, marijuana is more available than ever,
due, no doubt, to the imminent arrival of Republicans who will require their pot smoking
needs satisfied. Even as they double-talk the public with the “just say no to drugs” party line.
Who smokes more or consumes more liquor than these party animals?
Hell, they are the only ones with enough money to keep stocked with drugs
although they prefer the more expensive cocaine to marijuana.
Then, they package and sell the rest as cheap crack to the
poor before breaking down the crackhouse doors and arresting the
poor downtrodden scum. Quite a racket they got going.
Not to mention facts later revealed that the great
“just say no to drugs” King Ray-Gun himself smoked reefer with
Nancy. Just check out Kitty Litter’s, er Kelly’s, expose’ look at
Ray-Gun White House follies including the parts about Ronny and
Nancy getting high while slacking by at the highest office.
Barbara Bush did, hiding the Kelley tome under another book cover.
Unlike some future presidential candidates claimed, Ray-Gun
inhaled. Maybe that explains his frequent memory lapses.
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Sucker was too high to remember.
And Nancy — the goodly wife elected by no one who ran the
nation during the Ray-Gun Administration’s early years until she
tired of time management restraints and passed the buck,
literally, to the likes of Baker, Casey, Schultz, Weinberger, and
Shrub — was a notorious pep pill popper, downer and alcohol
abuser, as well as child beater, according to daughter Patti Davis in her memoirs.
Darn. So it goes and so it blows a gentle breeze hot as hell, but
pleasant to contemplate. Like the calm hours immediately preceding a violent
hurricane, darkening clouds begin to accumulate in the southern sky.
News fake flakes issue oblique warnings. Tangelo Schill and Garbage Hairnet,
leading eyewitless cover-up flake-news interruptions, begin self-promoting their
convention coverage. Trucks and vans unload the first vanguard of
national media liars and their fellow travelers. These mental
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giants flock like sheep to the more infamous N’Awlins feeding troughs,
blocking up the better known traffic arteries. Mindlessly wandering up and down
Bourbon Street, then appearing later as some kind of talking head on the
national liars network extolling the charm of quaint old New Orleans.
News pap accompanies pictures of large southern mansions along St. Charles Avenue,
the Garden District, conveniently ignoring squalid housing projects a few block over.
Legacy of slave quarters just behind massa’s mansions. Political sound-bites
reverberate through the day, how quotas and entitlement programs created by “libs”
were “unfair” to white people, “discriminated” against better qualified white applicants.
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Opening credits ended, time for the big shoe to drop
Sunday August 14, 1988 and…YOU ARE THERE.
Welcome to the insane world of disorder descending
like a long Carnival parade on the poor but good souls of N’Awlins.
Greetings from the gates of hell. Slimes-Picayune page one sums it up in a nutshell,
the kind that even Slimes pseudo-editors can store in their squirrel-like little excuses for brains.
A picture of Ray- Gun smiling blankly with his thumb in the air no doubt,
one can imagine a more appropriate digit upraised above the caption,
“Here’s to George,” Right. The funny thing is Ray-Gun does not even like Shrubby.
However, the Gipper is a team player and Shrub, perhaps the most unpopular politician in America,
is somebody’s idea of the next president. That is the only idea they have left.
Traffic is a bit more aggressive than usual on this sweltering excuse for a summer
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afternoon. Taxis swarm like killer bees madly descending on the airport
to pick up the latest in arriving pod people, like brooms whisking them Downtown.
Conventioneers grow exponentially by the arriving plane each few minutes unloading.
Driving around town yields no great surprises other than the utter stupidity and,
yes, pathetic countenance of the oppressing class. Tyger had expected more,
but apparently many of these evil minions are not even from the real class
of super-oppressors.Tyger imagined would be flocking to such a gathering.
These delegates, so-called, are more like foot soldiers, battle fodder
of the high command generals. These are the storm troopers, allowed to attend
the irrelevant convention to rubber stamp their leaders’ parking meters.
The actual command and control structure arrives silently at night,
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whisked to town by private aircraft and high roller transportation
devices at Lakefront Airport across town by the shores of
Lake Ponchartrain. Inmates over-goddamerrung the asylum
while supervising doctors smile maniacally in their air-conditioned
super-delegate luxury rabble. Suites above the foolish
Repub subs are confined, for the most part, to the tourista
section of town stretching in an arc around Downtown through
the French Quarter. A few delegations who don’t rate have
the distinct dishonor of rooming in suburbs like Metairie and
Kenner. But who cares about them anyway?
Tyger scours Downtown in his mother the car searching for
interesting anti-Repub demonstrators as if the 1968
Chicago convention might be duplicated in the Big Easy, finding
none, nary a trace, natch. He returns home disappointed, watches
the Cubs battle the Braves. After a bad day, finally a great game with something
to good cheer about. Harry Caray’s Cubbies pull off a triple play yet
manage to lose the contest. Typical. At 9 a.m. Monday, August 15, 1988,
the non-awaited event officially begins at long last. Surprise surprise, grab an icee
from Time Saver, relax, comrades, nobody cares. The big news is local eyewitless
newsfake anchor Garbage Hairnet being prevented from entering the convention
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floor because he is carrying a concealed handgun. (Guess he has
become a bit paranoid in his bad haircut dotage.) He is angry
and decries the censorship of a free press. Yeah, right.
A so-called “March to the Superdome against CIA/Military
Intervention in Central & South America, Middle East, Africa,
Asia: vote with your feet in the streets,” event organized by the
National Convention Mobilization Coalition, Emergency Coalition
Against Martial Law, and Anarchists Against Republicans and
Democrats, is a big fat zero.
A group of maybe 50 persons make it to within four blocks of
the Superdome. They easily are turned away by New Orleans
policemen mounted on horseback. The, shall we say, protesters
leave like the sheep who are inside the Superdome. Bah bah bah.
And what it is, friends, going down inside the Superhome
proper? No less than the official end of the Ray-Gun years
presided over by Mr. Anti-Karma himself, Ronny Bedtime For Bonzo
world Satanic leader. A bizarre ritualistic self-suicide takes place as Ray-Gun
shoots himself in the foot, as usual, ending matters rather anticlimactically.
No great conclusion of an era address here. What can one say about
Rip Van Winkling away the previous eight years? Ray-Gun gives a 44-minute speech
amounting to a big fat nolo contendere replete with the usual idiotic platitudes.
Who are this guy’s speech-writers anyway? They need better material.
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“Don’t expect me to be happy hearing all this talk abut the twilight of my life,”
Ray-Gun reads off the teleprompter. “Twilight? Not in America. Here, it’s
sunrise every day. Fresh now opportunities. Dreams to build.”
If only. Same old BS speech. “I don’t think the Big Easy was ever
any bigger than it is tonight,” Ray-Gun says exiting to cheering crowd
of stage extras, waving pre-fab banners including “Four More Years”
and the ever-democratic sentiment of “Ron for King.” Lots of verbal abuse
heaped from the peanut gallery on ever popular straw man Teddy Kennedy.
They didn’t like how the “Hero of Chappaquidick” made a July speech
at the Dem’s Atlanta convention asking “Where was George,” during the Ray-Gun years.
Check Iran-Contra testimony. George was in there somewhere handling dirty tricks.
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With that pap, the age of Ray-Gun dead-ended. Thaaat’s aaaallll folks!
His porta-party hands the town over to Shrubbariffic.
Convention speculation exists merely to give the media
something to do between stuffing their faces with Cajun and
Creole delicacies. It centers around the choice of Shrubby’s
running mate since the nomination was locked up many years before.
Bill Macon, chairman of the Missouri Delegation, notes the
deep thinking behind that choice. “If the nominee wants an 800-
pound gorilla, I’m for an 800-pound gorilla,” he states proudly.
(Macon later outrages fellow delegates by casting his
presidential nominating vote for that well known candidate “The
Shadow” explaining, “It was purely a matter of trying to inject a
little levity into the convention where the outcome had been preordained.”
Asked to explain who the Shadow was, Macon replies “a mythical figure.”
Perhaps the vote makes sense after all. Wasn’t Ray-Gun a mythical leader?)
Marilyn Quayle, the you-know-what-to-come, comments on the vice-presidential
prospects of her husband Dan Fail, an obscure Indiana junior Senator, but more importantly
for future reference, a Shrub golf partner. “We’re not panting after it,” she utters.
(Who does wear the pants in the Fail family?)
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Asked about the historical precedents for Shrub’s policies, and
vice-presidential nomination, U.S. Rep. Newt Gingrich from Georgia amplifies
on the primate nature of Repub sub politics.
“We’re a party that twice nominated a man who made movies with
chimpanzees. Why do you think that we would worry about historical precedents?”
About sums it up, Newt. The few activists in town express displeasure at the lack of
local response. This shows that the left can be as stupid as the right because
if they knew anything, they would realize that protests make no difference
to the Repubs or the nation. Television ratings are so low they fell off the Nielsen
chart. Who gives a shit about this big joke? The only — effective? — protest
of the day is staged at the swanky Inter-continental Hotel off Poydras Street by
six members of the Church of the Green Frog who get in a fight with
Pat Robertson Christian fanatics. The green frogs are arrested while the Robertson rabble
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goes about its business unaffected. Nothing like a fair fight friends,
can’t have that. Next day brings the great Shrub entourage to town to
fill the vacuum left by the Ray-Gun train’s hasty late night departure.
Shrub lands at Belle Chasse Naval Station on the West Bank,
snarling city traffic for an hour with his motorcade.
Then, the president of vice turns up at Spanish Plaza where
Rex meets Proteus the night before Mardi Gras, and springs his own
Carnival non-surprise, Dan Fail for vice-president. That way, Shrub
can have a handy golf partner on standby for those days when it
is tough to rouse a foursome. America is screwed without the foreplay.
Shrub acquires, he believes, an insurance policy. Who is going
to shoot him when Fail is next in line?
All is not well inside the Superdome, either, as the convention
turns. Nothing to do with dissent and protests. Problem
with the sound system. Delegates on the floor can’t hear
any speeches. Aw shucks, bummer in the summer.
They will have to listen to the meaningless drivel while
watching television along with the other 20 million Americans who
are at least nominally viewing the show.
That represents about 8 percent of the American nation.
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About 40 million Americans watch whatever else
they can find on television during convention hours.
Delegates who can’t hear the speeches are really missing something.
Governor Kean of New Jersey, keynote speaker, apparently comes to the podium
after a bad meal at the Burger King across Poydras Street from the Superdome.
“We offer poor Americans not the junk food of more big government,” he cries,
“but the full meal of good private-sector jobs.” Yeah and elephants fly.
Other Day Two low-lights of the convention include the following:
- Future terminator Arnold Schwartzenegger signs autographs at the National Rifle Association
lunch at the Fairmont Hotel. Is this guy a voter. Is he even a citizen?
2. CBS — newsman? — Ed Bradley talks his way into a Little Feat gig at Tipitina’s
thereby saving the $17.50 cover charge. Classy guy at a classy act. Simply
reeks of credibility and exquisite musical taste.
3. Don Defoe, who played “Mr. B” on the television show “Hazel” gets a
free pack of “Mr. B” napkins from the restaurant
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of the same name after he eats there. Quite an honor. Inquiring
minds want to know: Did he order cole slaw like Ray-Gun did when
he ate there?
4. A Salt Lake City television station comes up with the
brainstorm of persuading the mostly Mormon Utah Delegation to
walk down Bourbon Street so they can tape their reaction.
“We’re not exposed,” so to speak, “to that type of thing in
Utah,” notes alternate delegate Nancy P. Nesmith. “We didn’t even
look. We just walked down the center of the straight looking
straight ahead.”
Yeah, sure. Like you didn’t even sneak a peak at the
swinging legs at Big Daddy’s. Join the crowd, babe, and chill.
5. The Repubs ratify a platform. Do what?
6. And oh, by the way, any dissenter who comes within four
blocks of the Superdome is arrested by N.O.P.D. utilizing Mardi
Gras tactics. The cops haul them away out of sight of Repubs
and scum media, as if either cared.
One woman is arrested for writing “register and vote” on a wall.
A group of Act-Up Aids activists are arrested for marching
in the direction of the Superdome.
Other dissenters are arrested for being beaten up by anti-abortion
terrorists. The save a fetus while screw the child crowd goes free.
In fact, the Orleans Parish Prison is filled to the brim with dissenters.
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Magistrates working in the wee hours of pre-dawn Wednesday
free prisoners on their own recognizance, fining them for all the money
they have in their pockets, saying protesters do not have to face any charges.
In other words, illegal arrests have been made simply to remove perceived troublemakers
from public exposure. Once the photo opportunities have ended, they are left to their own devices,
tired and hunry, for another day of fun in the sun.Nice having a Third World Banana Republic
in your own national backyard for such a useful function as a nationally irrelevant convention scandal.
No media mention of any protests. Except one feeble quote buried beneath the obituary page
inside the Slimes-Picayune from one John Mason, who calls himself an activist poet.
“I’d like to thank the police for being here. And I’d like to thank the media.
Otherwise I wouldn’t have an audience. In fact, I don’t have any audience at all.
I think that’s a very accurate reflection of New Orleans activism.”
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Yeah Mason, maybe you can say you were misquoted given the
Slimes Picayune’s reputation for inaccuracy. On the other hand,
maybe you fell from another planet. Thank the police, huh? You don’t get it, sir.
New Orleanians have seen the police tactics on an annual basis. They are
too smart to get themselves arrested for no reason and to no purpose.
The cops are throwing strictly out-of-town convention protesters in the Orleans Parish Hilton.
Tyger calls up the Village Voice telling a theoretically politically correct editor what is happening.
“Why don’t you write anything about what really is taking place?” Tyger asks. “I will send you the details.”
“No need to,” replies the thickly accented New Yawk new squawk editor. “We’ve got plenty of reporters
on the scene.They have the story covered.” Yeah, right.
Even the Village Voice has sold out to Ray-Gun Era bullshit
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jockeys and their own Peter Principle stupidity.
No, and you can look it up. There is not word boo about the
illegal mass arrests taking place even as the Repubs pay
fake homage on televised convention pack of lie speeches to the
American values of free speech they claim to defend. Not in the
so-called liberal Village Voice, nor anywhere.
But the Voice runs one hell of a special section about New
Orleans food, music, and apathetic lifestyles. They have it all
covered (up). Thanks for nothing, fellows. Sleep well.
Tomorrow is another day of shame.
SURVEILLANCE PELICANA
BY
DAN WEISMAN
The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:
Chapters 1-10: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-full-book-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/.)
Chapters 11-20: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-ii-chapters-11-to-20-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/)
Chapters 21-30: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-iii-chapters-21-to-30-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The convention hits full stride as
Tyger embarks on guerilla protest. He spends a lot of time with
convention protesters and reveals all the counter-culture events
pertaining to the gathering. Much time is spent at the Yippie
Peace Camp — the abandoned World’s Fair parking lot where the
box of troubles burned — and other Yippie events. Details of the
convention are considered and explained, as well as pertinent
historical correlations. The novel ends with a wrapping up of
details concerning the leading characters and relevant events.
CHAPTER 29
“Pie in the Sky at Peace Camp”
‘
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By Wednesday August 17, Armor’s is mad as hell about events
pertaining to the convention. The utter banality of the proceedings,
coupled with the unbelievably unconstitutional nature
of unpublicized mass arrests convince him to take matters into his own hands.
Armor’s grabs Tyger by the proverbial lapel taking it to the streets. Guess who is driving.
About 11 a.m. on a typically hot and humid New Orleans mid-morning, Tyger climbs in the cockpit
of his muffler — not — bomb that somehow manages to navigate around town. Adjusting an
internal compass, he heads east beneath a cloudless sky for the streetcar line.
Armor’s mission is simple. Seek out Republicants wherever they land, preferably in groups
of three and smaller, and destroy them with well placed barbs.
In other words, engage the invaders in one-on-one dogfights
using the quick verbal zap technique before fleeing the scene.
‘Tis a classic guerilla campaign thanks to General Giap’s handy
training manual with a hardy assist from Joe Fine mobile Israeli tactics.
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This way, mobility plus intimate knowledge of the area
can be used effectively to overwhelm the confused target and
defeat it. Then, executing a timely escape enables the
guerilla to seek and destroy another objective. The tactic has a
certain charm, plus the additional safety first factor.
Targets must be chosen carefully.
Of course, it is easy to spot delegates and their fellow travelers.
They stick out like Cajun pig sandwiches — cochon d’lait for the goyim —
at a kosher supper. Repub delegates are the ridiculous fools wearing
jackets and dress suits plastered with ridiculous badges,
buttons, and symbols. Fellow travelers, as well, are costumed in
formal wear of the poorest taste. They all seem to be gunning for
Mr. Blackwell’s worst dressed list. Quite a few appear to be making it.
First up at 11:15 high, Armor’s blows reefer, as Tyger avoids
radio contact due to the need to concentrate on prosecution of
the offensive. First up is an insipid “well dressed man” right out of
“Blue Velvet.” He looks quite lost along the neutral ground just
past Napoleon Avenue. Josephine this, baby.
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Tyger checks right and left; nobody else in the vicinity,
no traffic behind him, all systems a go go, big brother. Tyger
slows his vehicle to a crawl, waiting until the man looks his way.
Then, Armor’s lets loose the initial volley of his personal guerrilla war on evil.
“Repuboscum faggot. Everybody hates your shitty guts,” boom boom boom.
Tyger speeds away, leaving the guy with a pissed off expression staring
at mother the car’s dust. Tyger checks in all directions. No one else has noticed.
Direct hit mission control. We bagged a dead live one. Armor’s is somewhat disappointed in his
initial encounter. The tactic works great, but he wants a more special brand of verbal abuse
for a special brand of inbred porkers. Another target about 11:30 a.m., 12 o’clock high
about 50 yards down the neutral ground. Looking bad, two Repubbubbly
women replete in hideous suit dress camouflage with tell-tale badges.
Tyger checks all directions, slows almost to a stop. Armor’s
attracts their attention by waving his right hand out the cockpit glass.
They take the bait, looking his way. “Hey bitches,” Armor’ yells.
“How many Contras have you fucked. Die, Repuboscums.”
The women appear highly disgusted in the rear view, leaving.
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Fun enough, but lame. While entertainment value
is high, verbiage, like snack rack, is a bit raw.
Armor’s spots three “young” Republicans lingering at the neutral ground.
“Hey assholes,” Armor’s yells at the short haired freaks,
“You like the Contras? Go to Nicaragua and die, chicken shit faggots.”
Boy should have been a military recruiter. Not. Slowing almost
to a stop, the masters of disaster elicits a direct gaze from the walking asshole.
Tyger pretends to be an ally flashing a wide happy face grin.
Armor’s turns his ass on the spit.
“No abortion,” Armor’s cries. “You should have been aborted GeoPig fat ass.
The world would be a better place. Abort this.”
Armor’s smacks left arm with right in the timeless fuck you obscene gesture.
Ker-boom! Bagged it mission control. Direct hit. Subject destroyed.
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REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
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REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
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Traffic thickens, worsening tactical advantages.
Time to return to home base, leaving well enough alone.
Repubs will vanish in two days, only so much passive-aggressive fun
to be had. The convention rolls through the next afternoon with the usually
sickening rhetoric heard by no one. Proceedings are not televised.
Conventioneers are disguised as empty seats.
Even if they were there, no one can hear anything due
to the failure of the recently installed $250,000 sound system.
It is, therefore, the perfect Republican gathing.
Nothing is being said.
No one is listening.
Sure beats working.
That evening Shrubby gets the coronation in a well orchestrated light comic opera.
An all-star celebrity cast takes over the ceremonial absurdities.
Charlton Heston recites the Pledge of Allegiance. Groovy.
Bob Dole, senior senator from Kansas and former Shrubby presidential opponent,
gives a kind of valedictory address.
“Four years from now we will say, thank God for George Bush,”
he screams to the deafened and dumbed-up listening audience.
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Joe Paterno pre-Sandusky disclosed child sex abuse scandal, and
Helen Hayes give Shrub seconding speeches.
“I’ll be damned if I sit here while people not fit to
carry George Bush’s shoes ridicule him,” Paterno says
of the nominated president who later refers to himself as Dr. Feelgood
while picking up young chicks in his post-presidential wheelchair.
Then, the artful dodger, Roger Staubach, keeping with the pigskin motif
introduces U.S. Sen. Phil Gramm who calls Democrats “amnesia merchants,”
talk about projection, adding that a President Michael Dukakis would
“wimp America and endanger world peace.” Enough foreplay, Shrub officially
“wins” the nomination Aug. 26, 1988 surpassing 1,139 delegates needed for coronation.
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At 11:08 p.m., future outrage George W. Shrubby Jr.
announces the Texas delegation’s 118 votes for dear old dad, ending all convention “suspense.”
The United States is officially doomed at that moment.
Tyger is not in the viewing audience.
He is on Frenchmen Street in the Faubourg Marigny joining the anti-matter
partying hardy at a Cafe Brasil benefit for the Yippie Peace Camp.
Late to the political — if it’s not fun is it a — “party,” Yippies have set up camp
at the deserted 1984 World’s Fair parking are underneath the Greater
New Orleans Bridge by the Robin Street Wharf.
(The place where the 1987 box of troubles burned to high heaven.)
Tyger takes Armor’s with him to the street party, looping along Rampart Street,
avoiding the French Quarter zombie night of the living dead traffic.
A right on Esplanade Avenue and Arrivederci Repuboscum GeOPig amnesia merchants;
yippie-ca-yay cayenne, howdy wowee zowee Yippies.
A sparse yet highly colorful group gathers on Frenchmen’s Street
more or less randomly milling outside the small coffee bar.
Only a few locally familiar faces present, present arms.
Congregants mainly hail from the national traveling circus.
Long hairs a’plenty, fit to be tie-dyed t-shirts,
somewhat grubby exteriors and mysterious interiors.
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Wandering lost souls listen through pained glass outside Cafe
Brasil to the Dadbaggies inside rocking and rolling.
Yes comrades, welcome to the ultimate outside at the inside
experience. Those for whom the benefit is staged, refuse to
attend. Just a habit picked up through many years of exclusion
from the system. How is that for purity of spirit.
A familiar soul wanders up to the Tyger-Armor’s connection
filling them in on the current scenario. It is Ralph, a well-known
local validator of significant experiences.
What it is Ralph? “Isn’t this typically funny,” he observes.
“The Yippies are down here for the convention but there is
nothing happening around town, as usual.”
“Yippies eh?” Tyger notes with interest. “Didn’t think there were any left.”
“Oh yeah,” Ralph states. “Over there is the former editor of
Overthrow magazine, the former Yippie newspaper. And over there,
that fat guy in the tie-dye,”
“Which one?” Tyger asks. “That one,” Ralph points. “Do you
know who that is?” “No.”
“That’s Aron Kay, the pie guy. The guy who pied Phyllis
Schafley, John Haldeman, Henry Kissinger, Hubert Humphrey, Norman
Mailer, and a cast of thousands.” “Very impressive.”
Armor’s busies himself schmoozing with a better dressed man
as the Dadbaggies display a curious blend of rockabilly mixed
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with art rock noise. Tyger approaches the pie guy cautiously. You never know.
“Hey dude,” Tyger greets. “Heard you’re the guy with the pies. What’s happening?”
“You heard right,” he replies affable and ever not so humble pie.
“I’ve pied all the rotten celebrities and politicians of our time
from Merv Griffin and Charo all the way down to Spiro Agnew and John Mitchell.”
“I used to read the Pie Times supplement to Overthrow Magazine,” Tyger says,
“What’s your secret to success?”
“Simple,” replies the huge as a wildebeest bearded pie throwing artist.
“Pick your spot, get a nice cream filled pastry, plaster them right between the eyes.
The bigger they are, the harder they take a pie in the face. It’s an educational device.”
Very down-to-earth in your face approach to practical politics.
“Pied anyone good recently?” Tyger asks.
“Got Mayor Koch the other day,” Pie Guy says. “Nice coconut cream job smack in the kisser.
Had a bad attitude about it though. Some people just do not know
how to take a pie. What a waste.” The former editor of Overthrow Magazine,
a thin aging Yippie with long straggly grey hair is dancing like a Turkish dervish,
whirling in the black night with a blanket around his head.
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A little girl, about six years old, mimics his motions like a small Javanese shadow puppet.
“See that beautiful maiden dancing there,” Aron pie Kay guy asks.
“That’s my daughter Rainbow. What a sight. A new generation growing.”
Short attention span theater takes a break-in to higher consciousness.
Aron joins the dancing fools on the sidewalk.
Tyger, now feeling quite at home with the visitors, approaches another fellow traveler.
“What is the deal with that long flat bed truck with the loudspeakers on the corner?”
“Oh yeah man,” answers a long hair. “That’s the Peace Truck. We own the cab, rent
the flatbed. We have been taking it around to Rock Against Racism rallies.
Our plan is ssimple. We stage heavy metal, and rock and roll performances
from the truck to attract the younger crowd of kids. That is where our future lies.
We bring them in with the music, then give them a good old political re-education.
You would be surprised at how receptive they are to our message because we tell it like it is.
Those Reagan fuckers might think they have won the battle, but we will win the war.
Reagan shitheads don’t even realize that they have already lost.
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Their greed and hubris has already sown the seed of their ultimate defeat.
The future belongs to the righteous purveyors of truth.”
“If you say so,” suspends Tyger disbelief.
“We must be strong,” Sir Yipster continues. “Solidarity in numbers.
One person can make a difference. You add one plus one to get two
Two plus to two to get four. Four plus four to get the idea until so forth
and so on and so forth, numbers vaster than ocean waters, overwhelming
any land-stuck obstacles in their way. Greed eventually turns upon itself like a worm,
entirely consumed by truth. Our day will come.”
Such is the promise of karma. Such the opposite effect of hubris,
a sin Ray-Gun junkies possess in spades and is used with a spade to bury them forever.
Figuratively speaking.
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Peace Camp numbers are small, yet they possess the ultimate power
to stand one day stand above the Repub’s shallow graves, dancing John Belushi style
through the sands of time overturning. Hooray for the triumph of the spirit
signified in a small counter-cultural bash for the people
while the evil ignorant ripoff artists toast themselves in perceived victory
even as they are being soundly defeated in the street
by powerful forces invisible to their blind eyes.
Or so it seems one hot summer day Dadbaggies beating bummers.
Armor’s is swept away by the moment. He springs
like a Mexican jumping bean on top of the Peace Truck
“Fuck you Repubpscum loser Nazis,” Armor’s cries.
“We will bury you in the shit you pooped.”
Or not.
About 25 goodly souls facing Mecca politely applaud.
“Sometimes your buddy Armor’s makes a lot of sense,” Ralph says.
“Sometimes is a great notion,” Tyger replies.
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“Not often,” continues the tall lean Ralph machine, “but sometimes.”
“You got to give the boy credit,” Tyger adds extra. “When he is right, he is awesome.”
If only. Armor’s now stands silently, right fist skyward, saluting eternity
frozen like a Grecian urn in time. Yippies fill Tyger in about the final day’s activities
commemorating the convention’s dead end. They plan to take Peace Truck over to Peace Camp,
bivouac there. Strange as it may seem to outsiders, Peace Camp is indeed
the safest spot for dissent in all of the Crescent City. Cops don’t even bother because
why should they. Peace Camp is well out of sight and out of its mind.
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More power to them for they know not what they ignore.
Fine for the righteous, as well who, not bothered by authorities
unconcerned, live in joyous anarchy taking LSD and smoking reefer
until they are crunked bent; sharing food and raising political consciousness.
Tyger will be there manana. But first, another sleepy
night must pass and day follow as it always does.
Tyger awakens about 10 a.m. still joyously hung over from
the night before. He briefly retraces his guerilla neutral ground
sorties zapping along Jackson Avenue before turning around towards
the home hangers. He claims a few confirmed kills before stopping
at noon for the “All My Children” update. A good day for a good day
is well at hand. The cool spirit flows despite stifling heat. Repub subs
should be well on their piggy ways within 24 hours. Life will return to
what passes for normal in the Big Easy. Given Mardi Gras training,
Tyger can do the remaining time standing, like Igor, on his head.
College junior repubs hand out “Get out of Jail Free,” cards
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that at the bottom add “compliments of Michael Dukakis,”
referring to the Massachusetts prison furlough program
soon to be immortalized by Shrub’s Willie Horton demagoguery.
The Repubs are completely hung over by their stay in the Big Easy.
They now wallow in smug self-congratulations.
“The system works,” exclaims John K. Wu, a delegate from Delaware beware.
(“Now, aren’t we pleased with ourselves,” observes the wise Church Lady.)
“Wednesday was the day the party pooped,” notes Susan Brenna of Long Island New York’s Newsday.
“A combination of rich cuisine, abundant watering holes, the stimulation of star-mingling with senators,
Pat B(o)one and too many free feeds, Wednesday’s schedule included
118 pre- and post-session fetes finally had its effect on the Republicans.”
Even New Orleans Mayor Sidney Barthelemy, an African-American Democrat supposedly
is swept away by the “good” feelings. “It was very important to pull this off,” he notes,
apparently referring to pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes, selling out the city,
“to show that the public and private sector could work together. I think we’ll reap the benefits
of this for years to come.” (Think again. History shows this to be the last such outing
at New Orleans as the city hits rock bottom during his maladministration.
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The good mayor is too busy taking trips financed by developers, records
and news accounts show, to look after the interests of his constituency.)
The pre-packaged media presentation actually loses viewers
during the week. Only 18.4 million Americans — 40 percent of
those watching the boob tube at the time watch Shrub’s acceptance
speech, a decline of nearly two million from opening night
festivities. Popular dude, Herr Shrub.
In the equally moronic acceptable to Repuboscum fake
protester department, one Jack Defandorf, if that is his name,
claims to the media newsflakehounds: “The thing that bothers me
is where are the people of New Orleans? I don’t know if they’re
afraid the CIA is taking pictures of them or what, but I know
there are a lot of people who don’t agree with the policies of
the Republicans. Where are they hiding?”
Peace Camp, that island of serenity set among tall weeds and
broken glass that once — teemed? — with World’s Fair non-traffic
as that developer’s bonanza went bust. (Oh, developers
boomed along alright making gobs of money after the taxpayers of
Louisiana were forced by then Gov. Edwin Edwards to bail the
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financiers out with state funding.) Damn wham thank you ma’am.
Why won’t they get the government off our backs? Hahaha. The laugh is on us.
Peace Camp is the one place in the City that Care Forgot
where the Bill of Rights — among those rights, freedom of
expression — actually is cherished. It is the only place locally
where the July 4, 1776 Declaration of Independence rings true. We
would be a lot better off if the Republicans knew what was
declared in the document. It begins:
“We hold these Truths to be self-evident, that all Men are
created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with
certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty
and the Pursuit of Happiness. That to secure these Rights,
Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just Powers
from the Consent of the Governed, that whenever any Form of
Government becomes destructive of these Ends, it is the Right of
the People to alter or abolish it, and to institute new
Government, laying its foundation on such Principles, and
organizing its Powers in such Form, as to them shall seem most
likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.”
Ring a bell libertarians? Hell, we have already witnessed
the fate of anyone muttering the previous sentiments while
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walking towards the Superdome within four blocks of that facility.
They get arrested. Comrades in search of an accurately recalled
Declaration of Independence and Bill of Rights must conclude that it is
not in vogue during the last week of August 1988 circa New Orleans.
The American flag lapel poseurs have replaced the shining
light of truth with their squalid imitation of death-in-life just
like any run-of-the-mill tinhorn dictatorship.
These free floating spirits at Peace Camp dance in pure joy,
even as the Repubs conclude their exercise in cynical deceit
for public consumption. About 50 survivors of the previous
psychic holocaust have passed through to the other side, left by
the forces of oppression in splendid isolation to lay the karmic
foundation for a coming coalition of truth and justice.
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Peace Truck as centerpiece is outlined against a red-and-orange background stretched
half a football field in length. A local dog and pony duo butchers Bb Dylan songs
while tiny groups of suddenly best buds mingle, sharing philosophical discourse, food,
drink, acid, reefer, and laughter. “Safest spot in town,” reiterates Sir Aron of the pie toss.
“Isn’t a cop within miles.” All smiles. Well dressed suit and tie type festooned with badges and
politically incorrect buttons stands out in the crown not caring.Who is this guy anyway, a police plant?
“Hey, what is the deal with the get-up?” Tyger asks as he approaches the suit.
“Why, don’t I look nice. Aren’t I with it? Isn’t this great?” rat-a-tat-tats the cheshire cat,
grin only showing. “Don’t I make a fine Republican delegate?” “Say what?”
Pie guy, ever the scoundrel, joins the conversation. “You look great. How’s it going pal?”
bear-hugging da suit who smiles brightly; responding,”Going much better inside the convention.
You know, they have air conditioning, free food and everything.”
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Tyger begins to buoy along in the drift. “Wait a second,”
he stops time. “You aren’t really a delegate…are you?”
“I’m not? I have all the proper credentials.”
“Come on man. Come clean. You a Yippie, right?”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t attend the convention. I am a Yippie Republican. Yay!”
Laughing laughing nitrous fit subsides finally as Tyger
looks over the Yippie Republican’s, er, credentials.
“These are fake, right?” he concludes.
“Well, no one has stopped me from going anywhere I want yet.
I certainly have not been arrested.”
“Tell me about the inside of the convention,” Tyger asks the
Yippie infiltrator. “What is it like being outside on the inside?”
“Weeeeeeelllllll, they are very comfortable. Food is great.
Can’t hear what’s going on, but no one cares. I have been inside
every day, observing their sheepish behavior. Bah bah bah. Freaked out rabble.
l fit right in, but of course I have to be blasted out of
my mind with acid and marijuana to appreciate the completely
horrific ambiance. Overall, I have enjoyed myself. It has been fun.
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Hope to attend the next one too. Maybe bring along a bomb or something,
just for an additional thrill. Ker-boom! Hahaha. That will shake em
out of their lethargy some.” Tyger laughs his ass off as well dressed imposter,
pie guy, pie guy daughter, dance to the next group;
what do you know, the Dadbaggies again.
Guess the New Neanderthals couldn’t be bothered for such a politically correct event.
Roots and Heave are around some nowhere land pretending they are “Democrats,”
Good, just keep out of the way of the real event.
Hypes like them give Repubs the excuse to give liberals a bad name.
Sign reading “Evil U.S. Empire out of the Persian Gulf,”
prophetically hangs from the elongated Peace Truck
sound system flatbed. Two young acolytes stroll around
distributing small pieces of paper to all who desire.
Tyger checks it out and, yes comrades, it is indeed LSD.
Not just any acid either, but the purest acid
America’s finest somewhat secret San Francisco scientists
ever have developed. Outasight. Outamind.
Take another hit, immediately appreciating the awesome purity of acidic perfection.
Wowee-zowee, finally having fun, yes.
Quick surveillance of the scene reveals the total ecstasy
of unfettered by authority monumental anarchy of the highest karmic moment.
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Former editor of Overthrow walks in a straight — for him — line towards the bridge.
Pretty girl walks the opposite direction south to a portalet left behind by a wayward
construction crew knocking off work early. Small groups of countercultural types maintain commos,
smoking blunts, passing around a wine-skin, trading literature and free expressions of opinion sorta
promised by the Declaration of Independence as codified by the U.S. Constitution. African-American
rastaman sells Tyger a colorful peace symbol cloth suspended from a silly string that Tyger
slips around his neck. The guy also hands Tyger a flyer for a group called U.M.O.N,
“United Mankind Organizing Naturally.” Tall thin man, about 30 years old with
long grey Elijah the Prophet beard and countenance, sits on a car passing out
orange pamphlets to the ever-curious. Meet Calvin Peterson from Kansas City, Mo.
Tyger trades internal New Orleans gossip for Calvin’s great work,
titled”The Truth Has Been Thrown To The Ground.”
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The name of Calvin’s game is that he is sick of the U.S. Government’s oppression
of its people in general and himself in particular. He feels “the government” naturally
wants him to leave the country, and he wants to leave. Only catch, he ain’t got no money.
Therefore, he has been walking around town looking as grungy as possible trying
to sell his pamphlet to GO(im)P(osters) based on the premise their contributions will get
him out of their hair sooner, which is what everyone wants. The ingenious tactic
is not working very well, so he has a lot of these pamphlets left. He is trying
to hawk to those at Peace Camp to those perhaps are a bit more amenable to his message.
“I hate the God of the Easter Bunny,” rails Calvin to Tyger listening with acidically amplified attention.
“This is the nation of the Easter Bunny, of Santa Claus, of the false symbol. We have forgotten
our past and substituted the fake for real. I have given the matter of searching for the truth of my life
a high priority. I tell you Tyger Williams, the God of the Easter Bunny is a false prophet.”
Alrighty then. Tyger thumbs through the 50-page anti-tome. It’s inevitable conclusion:
“If everybody that loved this country sent one dollar, thousands of my people could be set free to live
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some place far away from your great society where you would not have t look upon them again.
They would not sleep in your streets anymore, or panhandle for your change. Could you think
of a better way to spend what is your labor than to send the homeless, the poor, the lame,
and those in captivity far away from you. Send you payment today,so we leave immediately without delay.
When the list of those who donated to send us away is published, would not you want your name
to be on there so your friends and neighbors can see you sent those ungrateful people
far away from your presence, you had a hand in ridding those people from your places.
Send your farewell gifts to: CALVIN PETERSON; P.O. Box 17634; Kansas City, MO 64123.”
Tyger nods his head in agreement as he looks up. “If you say so Calvin. I just gave my last dollar
to the rasta guy for the peace symbol cloth. But good luck.”
Bless his soul, Calvin understands. “Yeah, it is tough getting out of here,” he says.
“You would think the Republicans would want us to go in the worst way. But, they don’t seem to care.”
“No shit, Sherlock. it’s a strange world.”
Moving on, a box flyers squat unattended near Tyger’s mother the car.
He asks the closest person nearby, a girl with short sandy hair,
who belongs to the stack of attacks. No sale.
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They are titled: “BUSH IS GUILTY!… THIRTY YEARS OF DIRTY TRICKS & TREASON.”
Watergate: Bush, implicated in dirty tricks as head of Republican National Convention,
narrowly escaped being named unindicted co-conspirator; 1980: Bush, one of two or three principals
who actually flies to Europe to negotiate Treason: In return for assuring Reagan’s election by holding
the hostages an additional three months, the Ayatollah gets a better deal than the one
being offered by Carter. On behalf of U.S. Intelligence, Bush promises to facilitate
both the arms and heroin business interrupted by Carter. Other charges include various Bush
dealings with Panama strongman Manuel Noriega, tax breaks for associates, and various involvement
with other drug-related activity. Tyger places the flyers in his car, remembering he has
a time-worn mini-cassette recorder previously used for insurance investigating in the glove compartment.
He retrieves the tape recorder in order to record the final moments of Peace Camp as Dan Fail
is nominated veep and the convention winds down.
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What follows is a partial telling of the tape:
“They are probably starting to play baseball in some distant stadium.
But here, the peace truck rallies on proving that you can’t have too much fun
at a place like this except when you’re …
Look at he colors; orange, red pink, on the wharf, it is
approximately 7:35 (p.m.), sun is setting, so it is actually
an incredibly beautiful vista. Kid you not.
And that guy is not even waiting to use the porta-let.
He is just kind of using whatever is available, I suppose.
The former editor of Overthrow Magazine is speechifying. Let’s listen.
‘I want to explain for a minute a couple of banners we have
up here,’ he begins, long grey hair flowing in the evening breeze.
‘It wasn’t me that came up with this evil empire business,
after all. It was Ronald Reagan. He said that anyone who shoots down a civilian air
liner is an evil empire. You qualify if you shoot down a civilian airliner.
So, either the United States should quit acting like an evil empire
in shooting down those civilians or they should get out.
And this other thing over here on the end of the cab is a personal message
to you from Peter Tosh who came up with the design before he unfortunately lost his life
in a dispute over the music business which in Jamaica can sometimes can be fatal.
But his idea, this symbol — we’re trying to popularize it.
The idea was that we don’t think the government can solve anything.
We are the only people who can solve things and that is by taking
our own lives into our own hands. And we just happen to believe
that herbs are safer than refined chemicals. Rock Against Racism
brought this truck and this concert to this parking lot tonight in order
to celebrate a significant event, the self-annihilation, the suicide if you will,
of the Republican Party, who at this time across town is finishing the nomination process
to elect as their nominee just about the most unpopular guy in America in political life.
So, the only good thing we can say about the Regan years is
it’s over. Thanks God they didn’t blow up the world, although they really
fucked up the ozone layer. But we will have to deal with that
under the next guys.'”
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The event rolls to a conclusion within the endless tape loop
with which we have grown familiar. The final band scheduled to play,
a lame punk rock outfit called the Scandals, disagree with the Peace Truck banners.
They refuse to perform. The rally disintegrates in anarchy and darkness.
So it ends and begins on the same blank page, comrades, of
what can be set down about Tyger Williams’ life and times
between Christmas Day 1987, a good Friday, and the last day of
the Republican National Convention on Thursday August 18, 1988.
Shrubby and his minions finish their dirty little business
at the Superdome, blasting into outer space, fleeing the Big Easy
as if a fire alarm suddenly has been sounded. Tyger, under cover
of nightfall, returns to his Uptown apartment, catching Cubs-Padres from the West Coast.
Cubs win! Cubs win! Cubs win! Americans lose! All is as it always is with the world of 1988.
Time continues to flow beyond the range of our thick file on a small portion
of subject Williams’ activities. An accounting never can be completely made as he,
and associates timelessly walk the earth engaging in their various trials and tribulations.
This much can be appended to the public file for the purposes
of a summation on a need to know basis;
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Armor’s is the first of that old gang of Tyger’s to evacuate these hallowed shores.
He has had it with the urban lifestyle, retreating to a life of quiet contemplation
in rural California at the foothills of a national park that shall remain nameless in
order to preserve his privacy. Shortly thereafter, Mac takes his world to the quiet little
burg of Barataria — the resting place for the pirate Jean Lafitte — southwest of New Orleans,
past the national park just off Lake Salvador.Mr . Milty disappears suddenly one fine night,
loading up a moving van — sort of like the Baltimore Colts — eventually
emerging in the Texas Hill Country where his Belt of Tools band
becomes a local sensation. He is heard from only on special and surprising occasions.
Sandy Alexander, along with wife Mary Ann, relocate to the mountains of western
North Carolina, so they can raise a family in a friendly hard-working place, the total opposite
of the steamy and lazy Big Easy environment. More power to them. Dorothy LaFleur has
a bouncing baby girl whom she dresses in lovely pink ribbons and pretty flowered dresses.
She assumes the role of working mother-housewife as Jack rises to a position of
small importance in her father’s warehouse business. Fine, and Joe Fine?
What of the Super Sleuth, one wonders. Who knows.
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He disappears from the known universe possibly
maintaining a useful undercover existence that he finds
personally satisfying. Perhaps, he finally snares the evil Bingo
LeBeouf. No telling, although one can only hope.
And the other extras, heroes and villains alike, considered
for these purposes in the same breath. To the heroes: Well done.
We have psychic medals in the closet should you come over for
brunch. To the villains: Who cares. Get fucked. You suck.
Tyger, Tyger, what of the centerpiece around whom the others
revolved? What of the dear boy with whom we have sat surveillance
these wonderful, awful, groovy, horrible moments, and all that
could be cited in-between? What of the Tygermeister brewery of
consciousness drunk deeply?
Well comrades, he is well. As noted earlier, all is well
that is well ended. Tyger gets by for those who try and never
quit, never say “enough,” never give up the ghost, never die.
As John Heisman — after whom is named the trophy signifying
the best player in college football — told his Rice Institute
(now University) football team at half-time in a 1924 game they
were losing: “A team that won’t be beat can’t be beat.”
And the Fighting Owls flew out that second half and kicked
some sorry Longhorn butt, dominating a squad from the much larger
University of Texas, 19-6.
Yes, Tyger Williams and all he stood for, sat for, wished for,
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lived for, lives on in your well wishes and the memory
elicited through these long pages. We leave him for now as we found him,
a figment of the mind’s eye imagination, a surreal out-of-body, place and time
existential presence sitting by the lake at Audubon Park, flipping pebbles
into the placid waters, watching circles crop, expand and disappear.
He dreams of a beautiful dancer, of that equally beautiful time
when all of God’s slaves are free.
Only you can make that happen, comrades of the sacred moment.
You have Tyger’s best wishes as forever you strive,
succeeding through that striving,
regardless of final outcome.
SURVEILLANCE PELICANA
BY
DAN WEISMAN
The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:
Chapters 1-10: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-full-book-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/.)
Chapters 11-20: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-ii-chapters-11-to-20-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/)
Chapters 21-30: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-iii-chapters-21-to-30-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The convention hits full stride as
Tyger embarks on guerilla protest. He spends a lot of time with
convention protesters and reveals all the counter-culture events
pertaining to the gathering. Much time is spent at the Yippie
Peace Camp — the abandoned World’s Fair parking lot where the
box of troubles burned — and other Yippie events. Details of the
convention are considered and explained, as well as pertinent
historical correlations. The novel ends with a wrapping up of
details concerning the leading characters and relevant events.
CHAPTER 29
“Pie in the Sky at Peace Camp”
‘
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By Wednesday August 17, Armor’s is mad as hell about events
pertaining to the convention. The utter banality of the proceedings,
coupled with the unbelievably unconstitutional nature
of unpublicized mass arrests convince him to take matters into his own hands.
Armor’s grabs Tyger by the proverbial lapel taking it to the streets. Guess who is driving.
About 11 a.m. on a typically hot and humid New Orleans mid-morning, Tyger climbs in the cockpit
of his muffler — not — bomb that somehow manages to navigate around town. Adjusting an
internal compass, he heads east beneath a cloudless sky for the streetcar line.
Armor’s mission is simple. Seek out Republicants wherever they land, preferably in groups
of three and smaller, and destroy them with well placed barbs.
In other words, engage the invaders in one-on-one dogfights
using the quick verbal zap technique before fleeing the scene.
‘Tis a classic guerilla campaign thanks to General Giap’s handy
training manual with a hardy assist from Joe Fine mobile Israeli tactics.
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This way, mobility plus intimate knowledge of the area
can be used effectively to overwhelm the confused target and
defeat it. Then, executing a timely escape enables the
guerilla to seek and destroy another objective. The tactic has a
certain charm, plus the additional safety first factor.
Targets must be chosen carefully.
Of course, it is easy to spot delegates and their fellow travelers.
They stick out like Cajun pig sandwiches — cochon d’lait for the goyim —
at a kosher supper. Repub delegates are the ridiculous fools wearing
jackets and dress suits plastered with ridiculous badges,
buttons, and symbols. Fellow travelers, as well, are costumed in
formal wear of the poorest taste. They all seem to be gunning for
Mr. Blackwell’s worst dressed list. Quite a few appear to be making it.
First up at 11:15 high, Armor’s blows reefer, as Tyger avoids
radio contact due to the need to concentrate on prosecution of
the offensive. First up is an insipid “well dressed man” right out of
“Blue Velvet.” He looks quite lost along the neutral ground just
past Napoleon Avenue. Josephine this, baby.
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Tyger checks right and left; nobody else in the vicinity,
no traffic behind him, all systems a go go, big brother. Tyger
slows his vehicle to a crawl, waiting until the man looks his way.
Then, Armor’s lets loose the initial volley of his personal guerrilla war on evil.
“Repuboscum faggot. Everybody hates your shitty guts,” boom boom boom.
Tyger speeds away, leaving the guy with a pissed off expression staring
at mother the car’s dust. Tyger checks in all directions. No one else has noticed.
Direct hit mission control. We bagged a dead live one. Armor’s is somewhat disappointed in his
initial encounter. The tactic works great, but he wants a more special brand of verbal abuse
for a special brand of inbred porkers. Another target about 11:30 a.m., 12 o’clock high
about 50 yards down the neutral ground. Looking bad, two Repubbubbly
women replete in hideous suit dress camouflage with tell-tale badges.
Tyger checks all directions, slows almost to a stop. Armor’s
attracts their attention by waving his right hand out the cockpit glass.
They take the bait, looking his way. “Hey bitches,” Armor’ yells.
“How many Contras have you fucked. Die, Repuboscums.”
The women appear highly disgusted in the rear view, leaving.
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Fun enough, but lame. While entertainment value
is high, verbiage, like snack rack, is a bit raw.
Armor’s spots three “young” Republicans lingering at the neutral ground.
“Hey assholes,” Armor’s yells at the short haired freaks,
“You like the Contras? Go to Nicaragua and die, chicken shit faggots.”
Boy should have been a military recruiter. Not. Slowing almost
to a stop, the masters of disaster elicits a direct gaze from the walking asshole.
Tyger pretends to be an ally flashing a wide happy face grin.
Armor’s turns his ass on the spit.
“No abortion,” Armor’s cries. “You should have been aborted GeoPig fat ass.
The world would be a better place. Abort this.”
Armor’s smacks left arm with right in the timeless fuck you obscene gesture.
Ker-boom! Bagged it mission control. Direct hit. Subject destroyed.
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REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
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REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
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Traffic thickens, worsening tactical advantages.
Time to return to home base, leaving well enough alone.
Repubs will vanish in two days, only so much passive-aggressive fun
to be had. The convention rolls through the next afternoon with the usually
sickening rhetoric heard by no one. Proceedings are not televised.
Conventioneers are disguised as empty seats.
Even if they were there, no one can hear anything due
to the failure of the recently installed $250,000 sound system.
It is, therefore, the perfect Republican gathing.
Nothing is being said.
No one is listening.
Sure beats working.
That evening Shrubby gets the coronation in a well orchestrated light comic opera.
An all-star celebrity cast takes over the ceremonial absurdities.
Charlton Heston recites the Pledge of Allegiance. Groovy.
Bob Dole, senior senator from Kansas and former Shrubby presidential opponent,
gives a kind of valedictory address.
“Four years from now we will say, thank God for George Bush,”
he screams to the deafened and dumbed-up listening audience.
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Joe Paterno pre-Sandusky disclosed child sex abuse scandal, and
Helen Hayes give Shrub seconding speeches.
“I’ll be damned if I sit here while people not fit to
carry George Bush’s shoes ridicule him,” Paterno says
of the nominated president who later refers to himself as Dr. Feelgood
while picking up young chicks in his post-presidential wheelchair.
Then, the artful dodger, Roger Staubach, keeping with the pigskin motif
introduces U.S. Sen. Phil Gramm who calls Democrats “amnesia merchants,”
talk about projection, adding that a President Michael Dukakis would
“wimp America and endanger world peace.” Enough foreplay, Shrub officially
“wins” the nomination Aug. 26, 1988 surpassing 1,139 delegates needed for coronation.
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At 11:08 p.m., future outrage George W. Shrubby Jr.
announces the Texas delegation’s 118 votes for dear old dad, ending all convention “suspense.”
The United States is officially doomed at that moment.
Tyger is not in the viewing audience.
He is on Frenchmen Street in the Faubourg Marigny joining the anti-matter
partying hardy at a Cafe Brasil benefit for the Yippie Peace Camp.
Late to the political — if it’s not fun is it a — “party,” Yippies have set up camp
at the deserted 1984 World’s Fair parking are underneath the Greater
New Orleans Bridge by the Robin Street Wharf.
(The place where the 1987 box of troubles burned to high heaven.)
Tyger takes Armor’s with him to the street party, looping along Rampart Street,
avoiding the French Quarter zombie night of the living dead traffic.
A right on Esplanade Avenue and Arrivederci Repuboscum GeOPig amnesia merchants;
yippie-ca-yay cayenne, howdy wowee zowee Yippies.
A sparse yet highly colorful group gathers on Frenchmen’s Street
more or less randomly milling outside the small coffee bar.
Only a few locally familiar faces present, present arms.
Congregants mainly hail from the national traveling circus.
Long hairs a’plenty, fit to be tie-dyed t-shirts,
somewhat grubby exteriors and mysterious interiors.
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Wandering lost souls listen through pained glass outside Cafe
Brasil to the Dadbaggies inside rocking and rolling.
Yes comrades, welcome to the ultimate outside at the inside
experience. Those for whom the benefit is staged, refuse to
attend. Just a habit picked up through many years of exclusion
from the system. How is that for purity of spirit.
A familiar soul wanders up to the Tyger-Armor’s connection
filling them in on the current scenario. It is Ralph, a well-known
local validator of significant experiences.
What it is Ralph? “Isn’t this typically funny,” he observes.
“The Yippies are down here for the convention but there is
nothing happening around town, as usual.”
“Yippies eh?” Tyger notes with interest. “Didn’t think there were any left.”
“Oh yeah,” Ralph states. “Over there is the former editor of
Overthrow magazine, the former Yippie newspaper. And over there,
that fat guy in the tie-dye,”
“Which one?” Tyger asks. “That one,” Ralph points. “Do you
know who that is?” “No.”
“That’s Aron Kay, the pie guy. The guy who pied Phyllis
Schafley, John Haldeman, Henry Kissinger, Hubert Humphrey, Norman
Mailer, and a cast of thousands.” “Very impressive.”
Armor’s busies himself schmoozing with a better dressed man
as the Dadbaggies display a curious blend of rockabilly mixed
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with art rock noise. Tyger approaches the pie guy cautiously. You never know.
“Hey dude,” Tyger greets. “Heard you’re the guy with the pies. What’s happening?”
“You heard right,” he replies affable and ever not so humble pie.
“I’ve pied all the rotten celebrities and politicians of our time
from Merv Griffin and Charo all the way down to Spiro Agnew and John Mitchell.”
“I used to read the Pie Times supplement to Overthrow Magazine,” Tyger says,
“What’s your secret to success?”
“Simple,” replies the huge as a wildebeest bearded pie throwing artist.
“Pick your spot, get a nice cream filled pastry, plaster them right between the eyes.
The bigger they are, the harder they take a pie in the face. It’s an educational device.”
Very down-to-earth in your face approach to practical politics.
“Pied anyone good recently?” Tyger asks.
“Got Mayor Koch the other day,” Pie Guy says. “Nice coconut cream job smack in the kisser.
Had a bad attitude about it though. Some people just do not know
how to take a pie. What a waste.” The former editor of Overthrow Magazine,
a thin aging Yippie with long straggly grey hair is dancing like a Turkish dervish,
whirling in the black night with a blanket around his head.
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A little girl, about six years old, mimics his motions like a small Javanese shadow puppet.
“See that beautiful maiden dancing there,” Aron pie Kay guy asks.
“That’s my daughter Rainbow. What a sight. A new generation growing.”
Short attention span theater takes a break-in to higher consciousness.
Aron joins the dancing fools on the sidewalk.
Tyger, now feeling quite at home with the visitors, approaches another fellow traveler.
“What is the deal with that long flat bed truck with the loudspeakers on the corner?”
“Oh yeah man,” answers a long hair. “That’s the Peace Truck. We own the cab, rent
the flatbed. We have been taking it around to Rock Against Racism rallies.
Our plan is ssimple. We stage heavy metal, and rock and roll performances
from the truck to attract the younger crowd of kids. That is where our future lies.
We bring them in with the music, then give them a good old political re-education.
You would be surprised at how receptive they are to our message because we tell it like it is.
Those Reagan fuckers might think they have won the battle, but we will win the war.
Reagan shitheads don’t even realize that they have already lost.
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Their greed and hubris has already sown the seed of their ultimate defeat.
The future belongs to the righteous purveyors of truth.”
“If you say so,” suspends Tyger disbelief.
“We must be strong,” Sir Yipster continues. “Solidarity in numbers.
One person can make a difference. You add one plus one to get two
Two plus to two to get four. Four plus four to get the idea until so forth
and so on and so forth, numbers vaster than ocean waters, overwhelming
any land-stuck obstacles in their way. Greed eventually turns upon itself like a worm,
entirely consumed by truth. Our day will come.”
Such is the promise of karma. Such the opposite effect of hubris,
a sin Ray-Gun junkies possess in spades and is used with a spade to bury them forever.
Figuratively speaking.
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Peace Camp numbers are small, yet they possess the ultimate power
to stand one day stand above the Repub’s shallow graves, dancing John Belushi style
through the sands of time overturning. Hooray for the triumph of the spirit
signified in a small counter-cultural bash for the people
while the evil ignorant ripoff artists toast themselves in perceived victory
even as they are being soundly defeated in the street
by powerful forces invisible to their blind eyes.
Or so it seems one hot summer day Dadbaggies beating bummers.
Armor’s is swept away by the moment. He springs
like a Mexican jumping bean on top of the Peace Truck
“Fuck you Repubpscum loser Nazis,” Armor’s cries.
“We will bury you in the shit you pooped.”
Or not.
About 25 goodly souls facing Mecca politely applaud.
“Sometimes your buddy Armor’s makes a lot of sense,” Ralph says.
“Sometimes is a great notion,” Tyger replies.
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“Not often,” continues the tall lean Ralph machine, “but sometimes.”
“You got to give the boy credit,” Tyger adds extra. “When he is right, he is awesome.”
If only. Armor’s now stands silently, right fist skyward, saluting eternity
frozen like a Grecian urn in time. Yippies fill Tyger in about the final day’s activities
commemorating the convention’s dead end. They plan to take Peace Truck over to Peace Camp,
bivouac there. Strange as it may seem to outsiders, Peace Camp is indeed
the safest spot for dissent in all of the Crescent City. Cops don’t even bother because
why should they. Peace Camp is well out of sight and out of its mind.
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More power to them for they know not what they ignore.
Fine for the righteous, as well who, not bothered by authorities
unconcerned, live in joyous anarchy taking LSD and smoking reefer
until they are crunked bent; sharing food and raising political consciousness.
Tyger will be there manana. But first, another sleepy
night must pass and day follow as it always does.
Tyger awakens about 10 a.m. still joyously hung over from
the night before. He briefly retraces his guerilla neutral ground
sorties zapping along Jackson Avenue before turning around towards
the home hangers. He claims a few confirmed kills before stopping
at noon for the “All My Children” update. A good day for a good day
is well at hand. The cool spirit flows despite stifling heat. Repub subs
should be well on their piggy ways within 24 hours. Life will return to
what passes for normal in the Big Easy. Given Mardi Gras training,
Tyger can do the remaining time standing, like Igor, on his head.
College junior repubs hand out “Get out of Jail Free,” cards
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that at the bottom add “compliments of Michael Dukakis,”
referring to the Massachusetts prison furlough program
soon to be immortalized by Shrub’s Willie Horton demagoguery.
The Repubs are completely hung over by their stay in the Big Easy.
They now wallow in smug self-congratulations.
“The system works,” exclaims John K. Wu, a delegate from Delaware beware.
(“Now, aren’t we pleased with ourselves,” observes the wise Church Lady.)
“Wednesday was the day the party pooped,” notes Susan Brenna of Long Island New York’s Newsday.
“A combination of rich cuisine, abundant watering holes, the stimulation of star-mingling with senators,
Pat B(o)one and too many free feeds, Wednesday’s schedule included
118 pre- and post-session fetes finally had its effect on the Republicans.”
Even New Orleans Mayor Sidney Barthelemy, an African-American Democrat supposedly
is swept away by the “good” feelings. “It was very important to pull this off,” he notes,
apparently referring to pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes, selling out the city,
“to show that the public and private sector could work together. I think we’ll reap the benefits
of this for years to come.” (Think again. History shows this to be the last such outing
at New Orleans as the city hits rock bottom during his maladministration.
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The good mayor is too busy taking trips financed by developers, records
and news accounts show, to look after the interests of his constituency.)
The pre-packaged media presentation actually loses viewers
during the week. Only 18.4 million Americans — 40 percent of
those watching the boob tube at the time watch Shrub’s acceptance
speech, a decline of nearly two million from opening night
festivities. Popular dude, Herr Shrub.
In the equally moronic acceptable to Repuboscum fake
protester department, one Jack Defandorf, if that is his name,
claims to the media newsflakehounds: “The thing that bothers me
is where are the people of New Orleans? I don’t know if they’re
afraid the CIA is taking pictures of them or what, but I know
there are a lot of people who don’t agree with the policies of
the Republicans. Where are they hiding?”
Peace Camp, that island of serenity set among tall weeds and
broken glass that once — teemed? — with World’s Fair non-traffic
as that developer’s bonanza went bust. (Oh, developers
boomed along alright making gobs of money after the taxpayers of
Louisiana were forced by then Gov. Edwin Edwards to bail the
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financiers out with state funding.) Damn wham thank you ma’am.
Why won’t they get the government off our backs? Hahaha. The laugh is on us.
Peace Camp is the one place in the City that Care Forgot
where the Bill of Rights — among those rights, freedom of
expression — actually is cherished. It is the only place locally
where the July 4, 1776 Declaration of Independence rings true. We
would be a lot better off if the Republicans knew what was
declared in the document. It begins:
“We hold these Truths to be self-evident, that all Men are
created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with
certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty
and the Pursuit of Happiness. That to secure these Rights,
Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just Powers
from the Consent of the Governed, that whenever any Form of
Government becomes destructive of these Ends, it is the Right of
the People to alter or abolish it, and to institute new
Government, laying its foundation on such Principles, and
organizing its Powers in such Form, as to them shall seem most
likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.”
Ring a bell libertarians? Hell, we have already witnessed
the fate of anyone muttering the previous sentiments while
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walking towards the Superdome within four blocks of that facility.
They get arrested. Comrades in search of an accurately recalled
Declaration of Independence and Bill of Rights must conclude that it is
not in vogue during the last week of August 1988 circa New Orleans.
The American flag lapel poseurs have replaced the shining
light of truth with their squalid imitation of death-in-life just
like any run-of-the-mill tinhorn dictatorship.
These free floating spirits at Peace Camp dance in pure joy,
even as the Repubs conclude their exercise in cynical deceit
for public consumption. About 50 survivors of the previous
psychic holocaust have passed through to the other side, left by
the forces of oppression in splendid isolation to lay the karmic
foundation for a coming coalition of truth and justice.
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Peace Truck as centerpiece is outlined against a red-and-orange background stretched
half a football field in length. A local dog and pony duo butchers Bb Dylan songs
while tiny groups of suddenly best buds mingle, sharing philosophical discourse, food,
drink, acid, reefer, and laughter. “Safest spot in town,” reiterates Sir Aron of the pie toss.
“Isn’t a cop within miles.” All smiles. Well dressed suit and tie type festooned with badges and
politically incorrect buttons stands out in the crown not caring.Who is this guy anyway, a police plant?
“Hey, what is the deal with the get-up?” Tyger asks as he approaches the suit.
“Why, don’t I look nice. Aren’t I with it? Isn’t this great?” rat-a-tat-tats the cheshire cat,
grin only showing. “Don’t I make a fine Republican delegate?” “Say what?”
Pie guy, ever the scoundrel, joins the conversation. “You look great. How’s it going pal?”
bear-hugging da suit who smiles brightly; responding,”Going much better inside the convention.
You know, they have air conditioning, free food and everything.”
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Tyger begins to buoy along in the drift. “Wait a second,”
he stops time. “You aren’t really a delegate…are you?”
“I’m not? I have all the proper credentials.”
“Come on man. Come clean. You a Yippie, right?”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t attend the convention. I am a Yippie Republican. Yay!”
Laughing laughing nitrous fit subsides finally as Tyger
looks over the Yippie Republican’s, er, credentials.
“These are fake, right?” he concludes.
“Well, no one has stopped me from going anywhere I want yet.
I certainly have not been arrested.”
“Tell me about the inside of the convention,” Tyger asks the
Yippie infiltrator. “What is it like being outside on the inside?”
“Weeeeeeelllllll, they are very comfortable. Food is great.
Can’t hear what’s going on, but no one cares. I have been inside
every day, observing their sheepish behavior. Bah bah bah. Freaked out rabble.
l fit right in, but of course I have to be blasted out of
my mind with acid and marijuana to appreciate the completely
horrific ambiance. Overall, I have enjoyed myself. It has been fun.
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Hope to attend the next one too. Maybe bring along a bomb or something,
just for an additional thrill. Ker-boom! Hahaha. That will shake em
out of their lethargy some.” Tyger laughs his ass off as well dressed imposter,
pie guy, pie guy daughter, dance to the next group;
what do you know, the Dadbaggies again.
Guess the New Neanderthals couldn’t be bothered for such a politically correct event.
Roots and Heave are around some nowhere land pretending they are “Democrats,”
Good, just keep out of the way of the real event.
Hypes like them give Repubs the excuse to give liberals a bad name.
Sign reading “Evil U.S. Empire out of the Persian Gulf,”
prophetically hangs from the elongated Peace Truck
sound system flatbed. Two young acolytes stroll around
distributing small pieces of paper to all who desire.
Tyger checks it out and, yes comrades, it is indeed LSD.
Not just any acid either, but the purest acid
America’s finest somewhat secret San Francisco scientists
ever have developed. Outasight. Outamind.
Take another hit, immediately appreciating the awesome purity of acidic perfection.
Wowee-zowee, finally having fun, yes.
Quick surveillance of the scene reveals the total ecstasy
of unfettered by authority monumental anarchy of the highest karmic moment.
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Former editor of Overthrow walks in a straight — for him — line towards the bridge.
Pretty girl walks the opposite direction south to a portalet left behind by a wayward
construction crew knocking off work early. Small groups of countercultural types maintain commos,
smoking blunts, passing around a wine-skin, trading literature and free expressions of opinion sorta
promised by the Declaration of Independence as codified by the U.S. Constitution. African-American
rastaman sells Tyger a colorful peace symbol cloth suspended from a silly string that Tyger
slips around his neck. The guy also hands Tyger a flyer for a group called U.M.O.N,
“United Mankind Organizing Naturally.” Tall thin man, about 30 years old with
long grey Elijah the Prophet beard and countenance, sits on a car passing out
orange pamphlets to the ever-curious. Meet Calvin Peterson from Kansas City, Mo.
Tyger trades internal New Orleans gossip for Calvin’s great work,
titled”The Truth Has Been Thrown To The Ground.”
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The name of Calvin’s game is that he is sick of the U.S. Government’s oppression
of its people in general and himself in particular. He feels “the government” naturally
wants him to leave the country, and he wants to leave. Only catch, he ain’t got no money.
Therefore, he has been walking around town looking as grungy as possible trying
to sell his pamphlet to GO(im)P(osters) based on the premise their contributions will get
him out of their hair sooner, which is what everyone wants. The ingenious tactic
is not working very well, so he has a lot of these pamphlets left. He is trying
to hawk to those at Peace Camp to those perhaps are a bit more amenable to his message.
“I hate the God of the Easter Bunny,” rails Calvin to Tyger listening with acidically amplified attention.
“This is the nation of the Easter Bunny, of Santa Claus, of the false symbol. We have forgotten
our past and substituted the fake for real. I have given the matter of searching for the truth of my life
a high priority. I tell you Tyger Williams, the God of the Easter Bunny is a false prophet.”
Alrighty then. Tyger thumbs through the 50-page anti-tome. It’s inevitable conclusion:
“If everybody that loved this country sent one dollar, thousands of my people could be set free to live
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some place far away from your great society where you would not have t look upon them again.
They would not sleep in your streets anymore, or panhandle for your change. Could you think
of a better way to spend what is your labor than to send the homeless, the poor, the lame,
and those in captivity far away from you. Send you payment today,so we leave immediately without delay.
When the list of those who donated to send us away is published, would not you want your name
to be on there so your friends and neighbors can see you sent those ungrateful people
far away from your presence, you had a hand in ridding those people from your places.
Send your farewell gifts to: CALVIN PETERSON; P.O. Box 17634; Kansas City, MO 64123.”
Tyger nods his head in agreement as he looks up. “If you say so Calvin. I just gave my last dollar
to the rasta guy for the peace symbol cloth. But good luck.”
Bless his soul, Calvin understands. “Yeah, it is tough getting out of here,” he says.
“You would think the Republicans would want us to go in the worst way. But, they don’t seem to care.”
“No shit, Sherlock. it’s a strange world.”
Moving on, a box flyers squat unattended near Tyger’s mother the car.
He asks the closest person nearby, a girl with short sandy hair,
who belongs to the stack of attacks. No sale.
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They are titled: “BUSH IS GUILTY!… THIRTY YEARS OF DIRTY TRICKS & TREASON.”
Watergate: Bush, implicated in dirty tricks as head of Republican National Convention,
narrowly escaped being named unindicted co-conspirator; 1980: Bush, one of two or three principals
who actually flies to Europe to negotiate Treason: In return for assuring Reagan’s election by holding
the hostages an additional three months, the Ayatollah gets a better deal than the one
being offered by Carter. On behalf of U.S. Intelligence, Bush promises to facilitate
both the arms and heroin business interrupted by Carter. Other charges include various Bush
dealings with Panama strongman Manuel Noriega, tax breaks for associates, and various involvement
with other drug-related activity. Tyger places the flyers in his car, remembering he has
a time-worn mini-cassette recorder previously used for insurance investigating in the glove compartment.
He retrieves the tape recorder in order to record the final moments of Peace Camp as Dan Fail
is nominated veep and the convention winds down.
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What follows is a partial telling of the tape:
“They are probably starting to play baseball in some distant stadium.
But here, the peace truck rallies on proving that you can’t have too much fun
at a place like this except when you’re …
Look at he colors; orange, red pink, on the wharf, it is
approximately 7:35 (p.m.), sun is setting, so it is actually
an incredibly beautiful vista. Kid you not.
And that guy is not even waiting to use the porta-let.
He is just kind of using whatever is available, I suppose.
The former editor of Overthrow Magazine is speechifying. Let’s listen.
‘I want to explain for a minute a couple of banners we have
up here,’ he begins, long grey hair flowing in the evening breeze.
‘It wasn’t me that came up with this evil empire business,
after all. It was Ronald Reagan. He said that anyone who shoots down a civilian air
liner is an evil empire. You qualify if you shoot down a civilian airliner.
So, either the United States should quit acting like an evil empire
in shooting down those civilians or they should get out.
And this other thing over here on the end of the cab is a personal message
to you from Peter Tosh who came up with the design before he unfortunately lost his life
in a dispute over the music business which in Jamaica can sometimes can be fatal.
But his idea, this symbol — we’re trying to popularize it.
The idea was that we don’t think the government can solve anything.
We are the only people who can solve things and that is by taking
our own lives into our own hands. And we just happen to believe
that herbs are safer than refined chemicals. Rock Against Racism
brought this truck and this concert to this parking lot tonight in order
to celebrate a significant event, the self-annihilation, the suicide if you will,
of the Republican Party, who at this time across town is finishing the nomination process
to elect as their nominee just about the most unpopular guy in America in political life.
So, the only good thing we can say about the Regan years is
it’s over. Thanks God they didn’t blow up the world, although they really
fucked up the ozone layer. But we will have to deal with that
under the next guys.'”
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The event rolls to a conclusion within the endless tape loop
with which we have grown familiar. The final band scheduled to play,
a lame punk rock outfit called the Scandals, disagree with the Peace Truck banners.
They refuse to perform. The rally disintegrates in anarchy and darkness.
So it ends and begins on the same blank page, comrades, of
what can be set down about Tyger Williams’ life and times
between Christmas Day 1987, a good Friday, and the last day of
the Republican National Convention on Thursday August 18, 1988.
Shrubby and his minions finish their dirty little business
at the Superdome, blasting into outer space, fleeing the Big Easy
as if a fire alarm suddenly has been sounded. Tyger, under cover
of nightfall, returns to his Uptown apartment, catching Cubs-Padres from the West Coast.
Cubs win! Cubs win! Cubs win! Americans lose! All is as it always is with the world of 1988.
Time continues to flow beyond the range of our thick file on a small portion
of subject Williams’ activities. An accounting never can be completely made as he,
and associates timelessly walk the earth engaging in their various trials and tribulations.
This much can be appended to the public file for the purposes
of a summation on a need to know basis;
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Armor’s is the first of that old gang of Tyger’s to evacuate these hallowed shores.
He has had it with the urban lifestyle, retreating to a life of quiet contemplation
in rural California at the foothills of a national park that shall remain nameless in
order to preserve his privacy. Shortly thereafter, Mac takes his world to the quiet little
burg of Barataria — the resting place for the pirate Jean Lafitte — southwest of New Orleans,
past the national park just off Lake Salvador.Mr . Milty disappears suddenly one fine night,
loading up a moving van — sort of like the Baltimore Colts — eventually
emerging in the Texas Hill Country where his Belt of Tools band
becomes a local sensation. He is heard from only on special and surprising occasions.
Sandy Alexander, along with wife Mary Ann, relocate to the mountains of western
North Carolina, so they can raise a family in a friendly hard-working place, the total opposite
of the steamy and lazy Big Easy environment. More power to them. Dorothy LaFleur has
a bouncing baby girl whom she dresses in lovely pink ribbons and pretty flowered dresses.
She assumes the role of working mother-housewife as Jack rises to a position of
small importance in her father’s warehouse business. Fine, and Joe Fine?
What of the Super Sleuth, one wonders. Who knows.
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He disappears from the known universe possibly
maintaining a useful undercover existence that he finds
personally satisfying. Perhaps, he finally snares the evil Bingo
LeBeouf. No telling, although one can only hope.
And the other extras, heroes and villains alike, considered
for these purposes in the same breath. To the heroes: Well done.
We have psychic medals in the closet should you come over for
brunch. To the villains: Who cares. Get fucked. You suck.
Tyger, Tyger, what of the centerpiece around whom the others
revolved? What of the dear boy with whom we have sat surveillance
these wonderful, awful, groovy, horrible moments, and all that
could be cited in-between? What of the Tygermeister brewery of
consciousness drunk deeply?
Well comrades, he is well. As noted earlier, all is well
that is well ended. Tyger gets by for those who try and never
quit, never say “enough,” never give up the ghost, never die.
As John Heisman — after whom is named the trophy signifying
the best player in college football — told his Rice Institute
(now University) football team at half-time in a 1924 game they
were losing: “A team that won’t be beat can’t be beat.”
And the Fighting Owls flew out that second half and kicked
some sorry Longhorn butt, dominating a squad from the much larger
University of Texas, 19-6.
Yes, Tyger Williams and all he stood for, sat for, wished for,
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lived for, lives on in your well wishes and the memory
elicited through these long pages. We leave him for now as we found him,
a figment of the mind’s eye imagination, a surreal out-of-body, place and time
existential presence sitting by the lake at Audubon Park, flipping pebbles
into the placid waters, watching circles crop, expand and disappear.
He dreams of a beautiful dancer, of that equally beautiful time
when all of God’s slaves are free.
Only you can make that happen, comrades of the sacred moment.
You have Tyger’s best wishes as forever you strive,
succeeding through that striving,
regardless of final outcome.
SURVEILLANCE PELICANA
BY
DAN WEISMAN
The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:
Chapters 1-10: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-full-book-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/.)
Chapters 11-20: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-ii-chapters-11-to-20-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/)
Chapters 21-30: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-iii-chapters-21-to-30-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The convention hits full stride as
Tyger embarks on guerilla protest. He spends a lot of time with
convention protesters and reveals all the counter-culture events
pertaining to the gathering. Much time is spent at the Yippie
Peace Camp — the abandoned World’s Fair parking lot where the
box of troubles burned — and other Yippie events. Details of the
convention are considered and explained, as well as pertinent
historical correlations. The novel ends with a wrapping up of
details concerning the leading characters and relevant events.
CHAPTER 29
“Pie in the Sky at Peace Camp”
‘
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By Wednesday August 17, Armor’s is mad as hell about events
pertaining to the convention. The utter banality of the proceedings,
coupled with the unbelievably unconstitutional nature
of unpublicized mass arrests convince him to take matters into his own hands.
Armor’s grabs Tyger by the proverbial lapel taking it to the streets. Guess who is driving.
About 11 a.m. on a typically hot and humid New Orleans mid-morning, Tyger climbs in the cockpit
of his muffler — not — bomb that somehow manages to navigate around town. Adjusting an
internal compass, he heads east beneath a cloudless sky for the streetcar line.
Armor’s mission is simple. Seek out Republicants wherever they land, preferably in groups
of three and smaller, and destroy them with well placed barbs.
In other words, engage the invaders in one-on-one dogfights
using the quick verbal zap technique before fleeing the scene.
‘Tis a classic guerilla campaign thanks to General Giap’s handy
training manual with a hardy assist from Joe Fine mobile Israeli tactics.
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This way, mobility plus intimate knowledge of the area
can be used effectively to overwhelm the confused target and
defeat it. Then, executing a timely escape enables the
guerilla to seek and destroy another objective. The tactic has a
certain charm, plus the additional safety first factor.
Targets must be chosen carefully.
Of course, it is easy to spot delegates and their fellow travelers.
They stick out like Cajun pig sandwiches — cochon d’lait for the goyim —
at a kosher supper. Repub delegates are the ridiculous fools wearing
jackets and dress suits plastered with ridiculous badges,
buttons, and symbols. Fellow travelers, as well, are costumed in
formal wear of the poorest taste. They all seem to be gunning for
Mr. Blackwell’s worst dressed list. Quite a few appear to be making it.
First up at 11:15 high, Armor’s blows reefer, as Tyger avoids
radio contact due to the need to concentrate on prosecution of
the offensive. First up is an insipid “well dressed man” right out of
“Blue Velvet.” He looks quite lost along the neutral ground just
past Napoleon Avenue. Josephine this, baby.
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Tyger checks right and left; nobody else in the vicinity,
no traffic behind him, all systems a go go, big brother. Tyger
slows his vehicle to a crawl, waiting until the man looks his way.
Then, Armor’s lets loose the initial volley of his personal guerrilla war on evil.
“Repuboscum faggot. Everybody hates your shitty guts,” boom boom boom.
Tyger speeds away, leaving the guy with a pissed off expression staring
at mother the car’s dust. Tyger checks in all directions. No one else has noticed.
Direct hit mission control. We bagged a dead live one. Armor’s is somewhat disappointed in his
initial encounter. The tactic works great, but he wants a more special brand of verbal abuse
for a special brand of inbred porkers. Another target about 11:30 a.m., 12 o’clock high
about 50 yards down the neutral ground. Looking bad, two Repubbubbly
women replete in hideous suit dress camouflage with tell-tale badges.
Tyger checks all directions, slows almost to a stop. Armor’s
attracts their attention by waving his right hand out the cockpit glass.
They take the bait, looking his way. “Hey bitches,” Armor’ yells.
“How many Contras have you fucked. Die, Repuboscums.”
The women appear highly disgusted in the rear view, leaving.
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Fun enough, but lame. While entertainment value
is high, verbiage, like snack rack, is a bit raw.
Armor’s spots three “young” Republicans lingering at the neutral ground.
“Hey assholes,” Armor’s yells at the short haired freaks,
“You like the Contras? Go to Nicaragua and die, chicken shit faggots.”
Boy should have been a military recruiter. Not. Slowing almost
to a stop, the masters of disaster elicits a direct gaze from the walking asshole.
Tyger pretends to be an ally flashing a wide happy face grin.
Armor’s turns his ass on the spit.
“No abortion,” Armor’s cries. “You should have been aborted GeoPig fat ass.
The world would be a better place. Abort this.”
Armor’s smacks left arm with right in the timeless fuck you obscene gesture.
Ker-boom! Bagged it mission control. Direct hit. Subject destroyed.
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REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
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REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
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Traffic thickens, worsening tactical advantages.
Time to return to home base, leaving well enough alone.
Repubs will vanish in two days, only so much passive-aggressive fun
to be had. The convention rolls through the next afternoon with the usually
sickening rhetoric heard by no one. Proceedings are not televised.
Conventioneers are disguised as empty seats.
Even if they were there, no one can hear anything due
to the failure of the recently installed $250,000 sound system.
It is, therefore, the perfect Republican gathing.
Nothing is being said.
No one is listening.
Sure beats working.
That evening Shrubby gets the coronation in a well orchestrated light comic opera.
An all-star celebrity cast takes over the ceremonial absurdities.
Charlton Heston recites the Pledge of Allegiance. Groovy.
Bob Dole, senior senator from Kansas and former Shrubby presidential opponent,
gives a kind of valedictory address.
“Four years from now we will say, thank God for George Bush,”
he screams to the deafened and dumbed-up listening audience.
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Joe Paterno pre-Sandusky disclosed child sex abuse scandal, and
Helen Hayes give Shrub seconding speeches.
“I’ll be damned if I sit here while people not fit to
carry George Bush’s shoes ridicule him,” Paterno says
of the nominated president who later refers to himself as Dr. Feelgood
while picking up young chicks in his post-presidential wheelchair.
Then, the artful dodger, Roger Staubach, keeping with the pigskin motif
introduces U.S. Sen. Phil Gramm who calls Democrats “amnesia merchants,”
talk about projection, adding that a President Michael Dukakis would
“wimp America and endanger world peace.” Enough foreplay, Shrub officially
“wins” the nomination Aug. 26, 1988 surpassing 1,139 delegates needed for coronation.
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At 11:08 p.m., future outrage George W. Shrubby Jr.
announces the Texas delegation’s 118 votes for dear old dad, ending all convention “suspense.”
The United States is officially doomed at that moment.
Tyger is not in the viewing audience.
He is on Frenchmen Street in the Faubourg Marigny joining the anti-matter
partying hardy at a Cafe Brasil benefit for the Yippie Peace Camp.
Late to the political — if it’s not fun is it a — “party,” Yippies have set up camp
at the deserted 1984 World’s Fair parking are underneath the Greater
New Orleans Bridge by the Robin Street Wharf.
(The place where the 1987 box of troubles burned to high heaven.)
Tyger takes Armor’s with him to the street party, looping along Rampart Street,
avoiding the French Quarter zombie night of the living dead traffic.
A right on Esplanade Avenue and Arrivederci Repuboscum GeOPig amnesia merchants;
yippie-ca-yay cayenne, howdy wowee zowee Yippies.
A sparse yet highly colorful group gathers on Frenchmen’s Street
more or less randomly milling outside the small coffee bar.
Only a few locally familiar faces present, present arms.
Congregants mainly hail from the national traveling circus.
Long hairs a’plenty, fit to be tie-dyed t-shirts,
somewhat grubby exteriors and mysterious interiors.
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Wandering lost souls listen through pained glass outside Cafe
Brasil to the Dadbaggies inside rocking and rolling.
Yes comrades, welcome to the ultimate outside at the inside
experience. Those for whom the benefit is staged, refuse to
attend. Just a habit picked up through many years of exclusion
from the system. How is that for purity of spirit.
A familiar soul wanders up to the Tyger-Armor’s connection
filling them in on the current scenario. It is Ralph, a well-known
local validator of significant experiences.
What it is Ralph? “Isn’t this typically funny,” he observes.
“The Yippies are down here for the convention but there is
nothing happening around town, as usual.”
“Yippies eh?” Tyger notes with interest. “Didn’t think there were any left.”
“Oh yeah,” Ralph states. “Over there is the former editor of
Overthrow magazine, the former Yippie newspaper. And over there,
that fat guy in the tie-dye,”
“Which one?” Tyger asks. “That one,” Ralph points. “Do you
know who that is?” “No.”
“That’s Aron Kay, the pie guy. The guy who pied Phyllis
Schafley, John Haldeman, Henry Kissinger, Hubert Humphrey, Norman
Mailer, and a cast of thousands.” “Very impressive.”
Armor’s busies himself schmoozing with a better dressed man
as the Dadbaggies display a curious blend of rockabilly mixed
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with art rock noise. Tyger approaches the pie guy cautiously. You never know.
“Hey dude,” Tyger greets. “Heard you’re the guy with the pies. What’s happening?”
“You heard right,” he replies affable and ever not so humble pie.
“I’ve pied all the rotten celebrities and politicians of our time
from Merv Griffin and Charo all the way down to Spiro Agnew and John Mitchell.”
“I used to read the Pie Times supplement to Overthrow Magazine,” Tyger says,
“What’s your secret to success?”
“Simple,” replies the huge as a wildebeest bearded pie throwing artist.
“Pick your spot, get a nice cream filled pastry, plaster them right between the eyes.
The bigger they are, the harder they take a pie in the face. It’s an educational device.”
Very down-to-earth in your face approach to practical politics.
“Pied anyone good recently?” Tyger asks.
“Got Mayor Koch the other day,” Pie Guy says. “Nice coconut cream job smack in the kisser.
Had a bad attitude about it though. Some people just do not know
how to take a pie. What a waste.” The former editor of Overthrow Magazine,
a thin aging Yippie with long straggly grey hair is dancing like a Turkish dervish,
whirling in the black night with a blanket around his head.
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A little girl, about six years old, mimics his motions like a small Javanese shadow puppet.
“See that beautiful maiden dancing there,” Aron pie Kay guy asks.
“That’s my daughter Rainbow. What a sight. A new generation growing.”
Short attention span theater takes a break-in to higher consciousness.
Aron joins the dancing fools on the sidewalk.
Tyger, now feeling quite at home with the visitors, approaches another fellow traveler.
“What is the deal with that long flat bed truck with the loudspeakers on the corner?”
“Oh yeah man,” answers a long hair. “That’s the Peace Truck. We own the cab, rent
the flatbed. We have been taking it around to Rock Against Racism rallies.
Our plan is ssimple. We stage heavy metal, and rock and roll performances
from the truck to attract the younger crowd of kids. That is where our future lies.
We bring them in with the music, then give them a good old political re-education.
You would be surprised at how receptive they are to our message because we tell it like it is.
Those Reagan fuckers might think they have won the battle, but we will win the war.
Reagan shitheads don’t even realize that they have already lost.
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Their greed and hubris has already sown the seed of their ultimate defeat.
The future belongs to the righteous purveyors of truth.”
“If you say so,” suspends Tyger disbelief.
“We must be strong,” Sir Yipster continues. “Solidarity in numbers.
One person can make a difference. You add one plus one to get two
Two plus to two to get four. Four plus four to get the idea until so forth
and so on and so forth, numbers vaster than ocean waters, overwhelming
any land-stuck obstacles in their way. Greed eventually turns upon itself like a worm,
entirely consumed by truth. Our day will come.”
Such is the promise of karma. Such the opposite effect of hubris,
a sin Ray-Gun junkies possess in spades and is used with a spade to bury them forever.
Figuratively speaking.
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Peace Camp numbers are small, yet they possess the ultimate power
to stand one day stand above the Repub’s shallow graves, dancing John Belushi style
through the sands of time overturning. Hooray for the triumph of the spirit
signified in a small counter-cultural bash for the people
while the evil ignorant ripoff artists toast themselves in perceived victory
even as they are being soundly defeated in the street
by powerful forces invisible to their blind eyes.
Or so it seems one hot summer day Dadbaggies beating bummers.
Armor’s is swept away by the moment. He springs
like a Mexican jumping bean on top of the Peace Truck
“Fuck you Repubpscum loser Nazis,” Armor’s cries.
“We will bury you in the shit you pooped.”
Or not.
About 25 goodly souls facing Mecca politely applaud.
“Sometimes your buddy Armor’s makes a lot of sense,” Ralph says.
“Sometimes is a great notion,” Tyger replies.
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“Not often,” continues the tall lean Ralph machine, “but sometimes.”
“You got to give the boy credit,” Tyger adds extra. “When he is right, he is awesome.”
If only. Armor’s now stands silently, right fist skyward, saluting eternity
frozen like a Grecian urn in time. Yippies fill Tyger in about the final day’s activities
commemorating the convention’s dead end. They plan to take Peace Truck over to Peace Camp,
bivouac there. Strange as it may seem to outsiders, Peace Camp is indeed
the safest spot for dissent in all of the Crescent City. Cops don’t even bother because
why should they. Peace Camp is well out of sight and out of its mind.
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More power to them for they know not what they ignore.
Fine for the righteous, as well who, not bothered by authorities
unconcerned, live in joyous anarchy taking LSD and smoking reefer
until they are crunked bent; sharing food and raising political consciousness.
Tyger will be there manana. But first, another sleepy
night must pass and day follow as it always does.
Tyger awakens about 10 a.m. still joyously hung over from
the night before. He briefly retraces his guerilla neutral ground
sorties zapping along Jackson Avenue before turning around towards
the home hangers. He claims a few confirmed kills before stopping
at noon for the “All My Children” update. A good day for a good day
is well at hand. The cool spirit flows despite stifling heat. Repub subs
should be well on their piggy ways within 24 hours. Life will return to
what passes for normal in the Big Easy. Given Mardi Gras training,
Tyger can do the remaining time standing, like Igor, on his head.
College junior repubs hand out “Get out of Jail Free,” cards
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that at the bottom add “compliments of Michael Dukakis,”
referring to the Massachusetts prison furlough program
soon to be immortalized by Shrub’s Willie Horton demagoguery.
The Repubs are completely hung over by their stay in the Big Easy.
They now wallow in smug self-congratulations.
“The system works,” exclaims John K. Wu, a delegate from Delaware beware.
(“Now, aren’t we pleased with ourselves,” observes the wise Church Lady.)
“Wednesday was the day the party pooped,” notes Susan Brenna of Long Island New York’s Newsday.
“A combination of rich cuisine, abundant watering holes, the stimulation of star-mingling with senators,
Pat B(o)one and too many free feeds, Wednesday’s schedule included
118 pre- and post-session fetes finally had its effect on the Republicans.”
Even New Orleans Mayor Sidney Barthelemy, an African-American Democrat supposedly
is swept away by the “good” feelings. “It was very important to pull this off,” he notes,
apparently referring to pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes, selling out the city,
“to show that the public and private sector could work together. I think we’ll reap the benefits
of this for years to come.” (Think again. History shows this to be the last such outing
at New Orleans as the city hits rock bottom during his maladministration.
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The good mayor is too busy taking trips financed by developers, records
and news accounts show, to look after the interests of his constituency.)
The pre-packaged media presentation actually loses viewers
during the week. Only 18.4 million Americans — 40 percent of
those watching the boob tube at the time watch Shrub’s acceptance
speech, a decline of nearly two million from opening night
festivities. Popular dude, Herr Shrub.
In the equally moronic acceptable to Repuboscum fake
protester department, one Jack Defandorf, if that is his name,
claims to the media newsflakehounds: “The thing that bothers me
is where are the people of New Orleans? I don’t know if they’re
afraid the CIA is taking pictures of them or what, but I know
there are a lot of people who don’t agree with the policies of
the Republicans. Where are they hiding?”
Peace Camp, that island of serenity set among tall weeds and
broken glass that once — teemed? — with World’s Fair non-traffic
as that developer’s bonanza went bust. (Oh, developers
boomed along alright making gobs of money after the taxpayers of
Louisiana were forced by then Gov. Edwin Edwards to bail the
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financiers out with state funding.) Damn wham thank you ma’am.
Why won’t they get the government off our backs? Hahaha. The laugh is on us.
Peace Camp is the one place in the City that Care Forgot
where the Bill of Rights — among those rights, freedom of
expression — actually is cherished. It is the only place locally
where the July 4, 1776 Declaration of Independence rings true. We
would be a lot better off if the Republicans knew what was
declared in the document. It begins:
“We hold these Truths to be self-evident, that all Men are
created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with
certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty
and the Pursuit of Happiness. That to secure these Rights,
Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just Powers
from the Consent of the Governed, that whenever any Form of
Government becomes destructive of these Ends, it is the Right of
the People to alter or abolish it, and to institute new
Government, laying its foundation on such Principles, and
organizing its Powers in such Form, as to them shall seem most
likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.”
Ring a bell libertarians? Hell, we have already witnessed
the fate of anyone muttering the previous sentiments while
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walking towards the Superdome within four blocks of that facility.
They get arrested. Comrades in search of an accurately recalled
Declaration of Independence and Bill of Rights must conclude that it is
not in vogue during the last week of August 1988 circa New Orleans.
The American flag lapel poseurs have replaced the shining
light of truth with their squalid imitation of death-in-life just
like any run-of-the-mill tinhorn dictatorship.
These free floating spirits at Peace Camp dance in pure joy,
even as the Repubs conclude their exercise in cynical deceit
for public consumption. About 50 survivors of the previous
psychic holocaust have passed through to the other side, left by
the forces of oppression in splendid isolation to lay the karmic
foundation for a coming coalition of truth and justice.
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Peace Truck as centerpiece is outlined against a red-and-orange background stretched
half a football field in length. A local dog and pony duo butchers Bb Dylan songs
while tiny groups of suddenly best buds mingle, sharing philosophical discourse, food,
drink, acid, reefer, and laughter. “Safest spot in town,” reiterates Sir Aron of the pie toss.
“Isn’t a cop within miles.” All smiles. Well dressed suit and tie type festooned with badges and
politically incorrect buttons stands out in the crown not caring.Who is this guy anyway, a police plant?
“Hey, what is the deal with the get-up?” Tyger asks as he approaches the suit.
“Why, don’t I look nice. Aren’t I with it? Isn’t this great?” rat-a-tat-tats the cheshire cat,
grin only showing. “Don’t I make a fine Republican delegate?” “Say what?”
Pie guy, ever the scoundrel, joins the conversation. “You look great. How’s it going pal?”
bear-hugging da suit who smiles brightly; responding,”Going much better inside the convention.
You know, they have air conditioning, free food and everything.”
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Tyger begins to buoy along in the drift. “Wait a second,”
he stops time. “You aren’t really a delegate…are you?”
“I’m not? I have all the proper credentials.”
“Come on man. Come clean. You a Yippie, right?”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t attend the convention. I am a Yippie Republican. Yay!”
Laughing laughing nitrous fit subsides finally as Tyger
looks over the Yippie Republican’s, er, credentials.
“These are fake, right?” he concludes.
“Well, no one has stopped me from going anywhere I want yet.
I certainly have not been arrested.”
“Tell me about the inside of the convention,” Tyger asks the
Yippie infiltrator. “What is it like being outside on the inside?”
“Weeeeeeelllllll, they are very comfortable. Food is great.
Can’t hear what’s going on, but no one cares. I have been inside
every day, observing their sheepish behavior. Bah bah bah. Freaked out rabble.
l fit right in, but of course I have to be blasted out of
my mind with acid and marijuana to appreciate the completely
horrific ambiance. Overall, I have enjoyed myself. It has been fun.
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Hope to attend the next one too. Maybe bring along a bomb or something,
just for an additional thrill. Ker-boom! Hahaha. That will shake em
out of their lethargy some.” Tyger laughs his ass off as well dressed imposter,
pie guy, pie guy daughter, dance to the next group;
what do you know, the Dadbaggies again.
Guess the New Neanderthals couldn’t be bothered for such a politically correct event.
Roots and Heave are around some nowhere land pretending they are “Democrats,”
Good, just keep out of the way of the real event.
Hypes like them give Repubs the excuse to give liberals a bad name.
Sign reading “Evil U.S. Empire out of the Persian Gulf,”
prophetically hangs from the elongated Peace Truck
sound system flatbed. Two young acolytes stroll around
distributing small pieces of paper to all who desire.
Tyger checks it out and, yes comrades, it is indeed LSD.
Not just any acid either, but the purest acid
America’s finest somewhat secret San Francisco scientists
ever have developed. Outasight. Outamind.
Take another hit, immediately appreciating the awesome purity of acidic perfection.
Wowee-zowee, finally having fun, yes.
Quick surveillance of the scene reveals the total ecstasy
of unfettered by authority monumental anarchy of the highest karmic moment.
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Former editor of Overthrow walks in a straight — for him — line towards the bridge.
Pretty girl walks the opposite direction south to a portalet left behind by a wayward
construction crew knocking off work early. Small groups of countercultural types maintain commos,
smoking blunts, passing around a wine-skin, trading literature and free expressions of opinion sorta
promised by the Declaration of Independence as codified by the U.S. Constitution. African-American
rastaman sells Tyger a colorful peace symbol cloth suspended from a silly string that Tyger
slips around his neck. The guy also hands Tyger a flyer for a group called U.M.O.N,
“United Mankind Organizing Naturally.” Tall thin man, about 30 years old with
long grey Elijah the Prophet beard and countenance, sits on a car passing out
orange pamphlets to the ever-curious. Meet Calvin Peterson from Kansas City, Mo.
Tyger trades internal New Orleans gossip for Calvin’s great work,
titled”The Truth Has Been Thrown To The Ground.”
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The name of Calvin’s game is that he is sick of the U.S. Government’s oppression
of its people in general and himself in particular. He feels “the government” naturally
wants him to leave the country, and he wants to leave. Only catch, he ain’t got no money.
Therefore, he has been walking around town looking as grungy as possible trying
to sell his pamphlet to GO(im)P(osters) based on the premise their contributions will get
him out of their hair sooner, which is what everyone wants. The ingenious tactic
is not working very well, so he has a lot of these pamphlets left. He is trying
to hawk to those at Peace Camp to those perhaps are a bit more amenable to his message.
“I hate the God of the Easter Bunny,” rails Calvin to Tyger listening with acidically amplified attention.
“This is the nation of the Easter Bunny, of Santa Claus, of the false symbol. We have forgotten
our past and substituted the fake for real. I have given the matter of searching for the truth of my life
a high priority. I tell you Tyger Williams, the God of the Easter Bunny is a false prophet.”
Alrighty then. Tyger thumbs through the 50-page anti-tome. It’s inevitable conclusion:
“If everybody that loved this country sent one dollar, thousands of my people could be set free to live
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some place far away from your great society where you would not have t look upon them again.
They would not sleep in your streets anymore, or panhandle for your change. Could you think
of a better way to spend what is your labor than to send the homeless, the poor, the lame,
and those in captivity far away from you. Send you payment today,so we leave immediately without delay.
When the list of those who donated to send us away is published, would not you want your name
to be on there so your friends and neighbors can see you sent those ungrateful people
far away from your presence, you had a hand in ridding those people from your places.
Send your farewell gifts to: CALVIN PETERSON; P.O. Box 17634; Kansas City, MO 64123.”
Tyger nods his head in agreement as he looks up. “If you say so Calvin. I just gave my last dollar
to the rasta guy for the peace symbol cloth. But good luck.”
Bless his soul, Calvin understands. “Yeah, it is tough getting out of here,” he says.
“You would think the Republicans would want us to go in the worst way. But, they don’t seem to care.”
“No shit, Sherlock. it’s a strange world.”
Moving on, a box flyers squat unattended near Tyger’s mother the car.
He asks the closest person nearby, a girl with short sandy hair,
who belongs to the stack of attacks. No sale.
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They are titled: “BUSH IS GUILTY!… THIRTY YEARS OF DIRTY TRICKS & TREASON.”
Watergate: Bush, implicated in dirty tricks as head of Republican National Convention,
narrowly escaped being named unindicted co-conspirator; 1980: Bush, one of two or three principals
who actually flies to Europe to negotiate Treason: In return for assuring Reagan’s election by holding
the hostages an additional three months, the Ayatollah gets a better deal than the one
being offered by Carter. On behalf of U.S. Intelligence, Bush promises to facilitate
both the arms and heroin business interrupted by Carter. Other charges include various Bush
dealings with Panama strongman Manuel Noriega, tax breaks for associates, and various involvement
with other drug-related activity. Tyger places the flyers in his car, remembering he has
a time-worn mini-cassette recorder previously used for insurance investigating in the glove compartment.
He retrieves the tape recorder in order to record the final moments of Peace Camp as Dan Fail
is nominated veep and the convention winds down.
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What follows is a partial telling of the tape:
“They are probably starting to play baseball in some distant stadium.
But here, the peace truck rallies on proving that you can’t have too much fun
at a place like this except when you’re …
Look at he colors; orange, red pink, on the wharf, it is
approximately 7:35 (p.m.), sun is setting, so it is actually
an incredibly beautiful vista. Kid you not.
And that guy is not even waiting to use the porta-let.
He is just kind of using whatever is available, I suppose.
The former editor of Overthrow Magazine is speechifying. Let’s listen.
‘I want to explain for a minute a couple of banners we have
up here,’ he begins, long grey hair flowing in the evening breeze.
‘It wasn’t me that came up with this evil empire business,
after all. It was Ronald Reagan. He said that anyone who shoots down a civilian air
liner is an evil empire. You qualify if you shoot down a civilian airliner.
So, either the United States should quit acting like an evil empire
in shooting down those civilians or they should get out.
And this other thing over here on the end of the cab is a personal message
to you from Peter Tosh who came up with the design before he unfortunately lost his life
in a dispute over the music business which in Jamaica can sometimes can be fatal.
But his idea, this symbol — we’re trying to popularize it.
The idea was that we don’t think the government can solve anything.
We are the only people who can solve things and that is by taking
our own lives into our own hands. And we just happen to believe
that herbs are safer than refined chemicals. Rock Against Racism
brought this truck and this concert to this parking lot tonight in order
to celebrate a significant event, the self-annihilation, the suicide if you will,
of the Republican Party, who at this time across town is finishing the nomination process
to elect as their nominee just about the most unpopular guy in America in political life.
So, the only good thing we can say about the Regan years is
it’s over. Thanks God they didn’t blow up the world, although they really
fucked up the ozone layer. But we will have to deal with that
under the next guys.'”
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The event rolls to a conclusion within the endless tape loop
with which we have grown familiar. The final band scheduled to play,
a lame punk rock outfit called the Scandals, disagree with the Peace Truck banners.
They refuse to perform. The rally disintegrates in anarchy and darkness.
So it ends and begins on the same blank page, comrades, of
what can be set down about Tyger Williams’ life and times
between Christmas Day 1987, a good Friday, and the last day of
the Republican National Convention on Thursday August 18, 1988.
Shrubby and his minions finish their dirty little business
at the Superdome, blasting into outer space, fleeing the Big Easy
as if a fire alarm suddenly has been sounded. Tyger, under cover
of nightfall, returns to his Uptown apartment, catching Cubs-Padres from the West Coast.
Cubs win! Cubs win! Cubs win! Americans lose! All is as it always is with the world of 1988.
Time continues to flow beyond the range of our thick file on a small portion
of subject Williams’ activities. An accounting never can be completely made as he,
and associates timelessly walk the earth engaging in their various trials and tribulations.
This much can be appended to the public file for the purposes
of a summation on a need to know basis;
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Armor’s is the first of that old gang of Tyger’s to evacuate these hallowed shores.
He has had it with the urban lifestyle, retreating to a life of quiet contemplation
in rural California at the foothills of a national park that shall remain nameless in
order to preserve his privacy. Shortly thereafter, Mac takes his world to the quiet little
burg of Barataria — the resting place for the pirate Jean Lafitte — southwest of New Orleans,
past the national park just off Lake Salvador.Mr . Milty disappears suddenly one fine night,
loading up a moving van — sort of like the Baltimore Colts — eventually
emerging in the Texas Hill Country where his Belt of Tools band
becomes a local sensation. He is heard from only on special and surprising occasions.
Sandy Alexander, along with wife Mary Ann, relocate to the mountains of western
North Carolina, so they can raise a family in a friendly hard-working place, the total opposite
of the steamy and lazy Big Easy environment. More power to them. Dorothy LaFleur has
a bouncing baby girl whom she dresses in lovely pink ribbons and pretty flowered dresses.
She assumes the role of working mother-housewife as Jack rises to a position of
small importance in her father’s warehouse business. Fine, and Joe Fine?
What of the Super Sleuth, one wonders. Who knows.
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He disappears from the known universe possibly
maintaining a useful undercover existence that he finds
personally satisfying. Perhaps, he finally snares the evil Bingo
LeBeouf. No telling, although one can only hope.
And the other extras, heroes and villains alike, considered
for these purposes in the same breath. To the heroes: Well done.
We have psychic medals in the closet should you come over for
brunch. To the villains: Who cares. Get fucked. You suck.
Tyger, Tyger, what of the centerpiece around whom the others
revolved? What of the dear boy with whom we have sat surveillance
these wonderful, awful, groovy, horrible moments, and all that
could be cited in-between? What of the Tygermeister brewery of
consciousness drunk deeply?
Well comrades, he is well. As noted earlier, all is well
that is well ended. Tyger gets by for those who try and never
quit, never say “enough,” never give up the ghost, never die.
As John Heisman — after whom is named the trophy signifying
the best player in college football — told his Rice Institute
(now University) football team at half-time in a 1924 game they
were losing: “A team that won’t be beat can’t be beat.”
And the Fighting Owls flew out that second half and kicked
some sorry Longhorn butt, dominating a squad from the much larger
University of Texas, 19-6.
Yes, Tyger Williams and all he stood for, sat for, wished for,
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lived for, lives on in your well wishes and the memory
elicited through these long pages. We leave him for now as we found him,
a figment of the mind’s eye imagination, a surreal out-of-body, place and time
existential presence sitting by the lake at Audubon Park, flipping pebbles
into the placid waters, watching circles crop, expand and disappear.
He dreams of a beautiful dancer, of that equally beautiful time
when all of God’s slaves are free.
Only you can make that happen, comrades of the sacred moment.
You have Tyger’s best wishes as forever you strive,
succeeding through that striving,
regardless of final outcome.
SURVEILLANCE PELICANA
BY
DAN WEISMAN
The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:
Chapters 1-10: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-full-book-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/.)
Chapters 11-20: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-ii-chapters-11-to-20-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/)
Chapters 21-30: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-iii-chapters-21-to-30-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The convention hits full stride as
Tyger embarks on guerilla protest. He spends a lot of time with
convention protesters and reveals all the counter-culture events
pertaining to the gathering. Much time is spent at the Yippie
Peace Camp — the abandoned World’s Fair parking lot where the
box of troubles burned — and other Yippie events. Details of the
convention are considered and explained, as well as pertinent
historical correlations. The novel ends with a wrapping up of
details concerning the leading characters and relevant events.
CHAPTER 29
“Pie in the Sky at Peace Camp”
‘
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By Wednesday August 17, Armor’s is mad as hell about events
pertaining to the convention. The utter banality of the proceedings,
coupled with the unbelievably unconstitutional nature
of unpublicized mass arrests convince him to take matters into his own hands.
Armor’s grabs Tyger by the proverbial lapel taking it to the streets. Guess who is driving.
About 11 a.m. on a typically hot and humid New Orleans mid-morning, Tyger climbs in the cockpit
of his muffler — not — bomb that somehow manages to navigate around town. Adjusting an
internal compass, he heads east beneath a cloudless sky for the streetcar line.
Armor’s mission is simple. Seek out Republicants wherever they land, preferably in groups
of three and smaller, and destroy them with well placed barbs.
In other words, engage the invaders in one-on-one dogfights
using the quick verbal zap technique before fleeing the scene.
‘Tis a classic guerilla campaign thanks to General Giap’s handy
training manual with a hardy assist from Joe Fine mobile Israeli tactics.
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This way, mobility plus intimate knowledge of the area
can be used effectively to overwhelm the confused target and
defeat it. Then, executing a timely escape enables the
guerilla to seek and destroy another objective. The tactic has a
certain charm, plus the additional safety first factor.
Targets must be chosen carefully.
Of course, it is easy to spot delegates and their fellow travelers.
They stick out like Cajun pig sandwiches — cochon d’lait for the goyim —
at a kosher supper. Repub delegates are the ridiculous fools wearing
jackets and dress suits plastered with ridiculous badges,
buttons, and symbols. Fellow travelers, as well, are costumed in
formal wear of the poorest taste. They all seem to be gunning for
Mr. Blackwell’s worst dressed list. Quite a few appear to be making it.
First up at 11:15 high, Armor’s blows reefer, as Tyger avoids
radio contact due to the need to concentrate on prosecution of
the offensive. First up is an insipid “well dressed man” right out of
“Blue Velvet.” He looks quite lost along the neutral ground just
past Napoleon Avenue. Josephine this, baby.
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Tyger checks right and left; nobody else in the vicinity,
no traffic behind him, all systems a go go, big brother. Tyger
slows his vehicle to a crawl, waiting until the man looks his way.
Then, Armor’s lets loose the initial volley of his personal guerrilla war on evil.
“Repuboscum faggot. Everybody hates your shitty guts,” boom boom boom.
Tyger speeds away, leaving the guy with a pissed off expression staring
at mother the car’s dust. Tyger checks in all directions. No one else has noticed.
Direct hit mission control. We bagged a dead live one. Armor’s is somewhat disappointed in his
initial encounter. The tactic works great, but he wants a more special brand of verbal abuse
for a special brand of inbred porkers. Another target about 11:30 a.m., 12 o’clock high
about 50 yards down the neutral ground. Looking bad, two Repubbubbly
women replete in hideous suit dress camouflage with tell-tale badges.
Tyger checks all directions, slows almost to a stop. Armor’s
attracts their attention by waving his right hand out the cockpit glass.
They take the bait, looking his way. “Hey bitches,” Armor’ yells.
“How many Contras have you fucked. Die, Repuboscums.”
The women appear highly disgusted in the rear view, leaving.
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Fun enough, but lame. While entertainment value
is high, verbiage, like snack rack, is a bit raw.
Armor’s spots three “young” Republicans lingering at the neutral ground.
“Hey assholes,” Armor’s yells at the short haired freaks,
“You like the Contras? Go to Nicaragua and die, chicken shit faggots.”
Boy should have been a military recruiter. Not. Slowing almost
to a stop, the masters of disaster elicits a direct gaze from the walking asshole.
Tyger pretends to be an ally flashing a wide happy face grin.
Armor’s turns his ass on the spit.
“No abortion,” Armor’s cries. “You should have been aborted GeoPig fat ass.
The world would be a better place. Abort this.”
Armor’s smacks left arm with right in the timeless fuck you obscene gesture.
Ker-boom! Bagged it mission control. Direct hit. Subject destroyed.
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REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
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REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
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Traffic thickens, worsening tactical advantages.
Time to return to home base, leaving well enough alone.
Repubs will vanish in two days, only so much passive-aggressive fun
to be had. The convention rolls through the next afternoon with the usually
sickening rhetoric heard by no one. Proceedings are not televised.
Conventioneers are disguised as empty seats.
Even if they were there, no one can hear anything due
to the failure of the recently installed $250,000 sound system.
It is, therefore, the perfect Republican gathing.
Nothing is being said.
No one is listening.
Sure beats working.
That evening Shrubby gets the coronation in a well orchestrated light comic opera.
An all-star celebrity cast takes over the ceremonial absurdities.
Charlton Heston recites the Pledge of Allegiance. Groovy.
Bob Dole, senior senator from Kansas and former Shrubby presidential opponent,
gives a kind of valedictory address.
“Four years from now we will say, thank God for George Bush,”
he screams to the deafened and dumbed-up listening audience.
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Joe Paterno pre-Sandusky disclosed child sex abuse scandal, and
Helen Hayes give Shrub seconding speeches.
“I’ll be damned if I sit here while people not fit to
carry George Bush’s shoes ridicule him,” Paterno says
of the nominated president who later refers to himself as Dr. Feelgood
while picking up young chicks in his post-presidential wheelchair.
Then, the artful dodger, Roger Staubach, keeping with the pigskin motif
introduces U.S. Sen. Phil Gramm who calls Democrats “amnesia merchants,”
talk about projection, adding that a President Michael Dukakis would
“wimp America and endanger world peace.” Enough foreplay, Shrub officially
“wins” the nomination Aug. 26, 1988 surpassing 1,139 delegates needed for coronation.
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At 11:08 p.m., future outrage George W. Shrubby Jr.
announces the Texas delegation’s 118 votes for dear old dad, ending all convention “suspense.”
The United States is officially doomed at that moment.
Tyger is not in the viewing audience.
He is on Frenchmen Street in the Faubourg Marigny joining the anti-matter
partying hardy at a Cafe Brasil benefit for the Yippie Peace Camp.
Late to the political — if it’s not fun is it a — “party,” Yippies have set up camp
at the deserted 1984 World’s Fair parking are underneath the Greater
New Orleans Bridge by the Robin Street Wharf.
(The place where the 1987 box of troubles burned to high heaven.)
Tyger takes Armor’s with him to the street party, looping along Rampart Street,
avoiding the French Quarter zombie night of the living dead traffic.
A right on Esplanade Avenue and Arrivederci Repuboscum GeOPig amnesia merchants;
yippie-ca-yay cayenne, howdy wowee zowee Yippies.
A sparse yet highly colorful group gathers on Frenchmen’s Street
more or less randomly milling outside the small coffee bar.
Only a few locally familiar faces present, present arms.
Congregants mainly hail from the national traveling circus.
Long hairs a’plenty, fit to be tie-dyed t-shirts,
somewhat grubby exteriors and mysterious interiors.
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Wandering lost souls listen through pained glass outside Cafe
Brasil to the Dadbaggies inside rocking and rolling.
Yes comrades, welcome to the ultimate outside at the inside
experience. Those for whom the benefit is staged, refuse to
attend. Just a habit picked up through many years of exclusion
from the system. How is that for purity of spirit.
A familiar soul wanders up to the Tyger-Armor’s connection
filling them in on the current scenario. It is Ralph, a well-known
local validator of significant experiences.
What it is Ralph? “Isn’t this typically funny,” he observes.
“The Yippies are down here for the convention but there is
nothing happening around town, as usual.”
“Yippies eh?” Tyger notes with interest. “Didn’t think there were any left.”
“Oh yeah,” Ralph states. “Over there is the former editor of
Overthrow magazine, the former Yippie newspaper. And over there,
that fat guy in the tie-dye,”
“Which one?” Tyger asks. “That one,” Ralph points. “Do you
know who that is?” “No.”
“That’s Aron Kay, the pie guy. The guy who pied Phyllis
Schafley, John Haldeman, Henry Kissinger, Hubert Humphrey, Norman
Mailer, and a cast of thousands.” “Very impressive.”
Armor’s busies himself schmoozing with a better dressed man
as the Dadbaggies display a curious blend of rockabilly mixed
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with art rock noise. Tyger approaches the pie guy cautiously. You never know.
“Hey dude,” Tyger greets. “Heard you’re the guy with the pies. What’s happening?”
“You heard right,” he replies affable and ever not so humble pie.
“I’ve pied all the rotten celebrities and politicians of our time
from Merv Griffin and Charo all the way down to Spiro Agnew and John Mitchell.”
“I used to read the Pie Times supplement to Overthrow Magazine,” Tyger says,
“What’s your secret to success?”
“Simple,” replies the huge as a wildebeest bearded pie throwing artist.
“Pick your spot, get a nice cream filled pastry, plaster them right between the eyes.
The bigger they are, the harder they take a pie in the face. It’s an educational device.”
Very down-to-earth in your face approach to practical politics.
“Pied anyone good recently?” Tyger asks.
“Got Mayor Koch the other day,” Pie Guy says. “Nice coconut cream job smack in the kisser.
Had a bad attitude about it though. Some people just do not know
how to take a pie. What a waste.” The former editor of Overthrow Magazine,
a thin aging Yippie with long straggly grey hair is dancing like a Turkish dervish,
whirling in the black night with a blanket around his head.
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A little girl, about six years old, mimics his motions like a small Javanese shadow puppet.
“See that beautiful maiden dancing there,” Aron pie Kay guy asks.
“That’s my daughter Rainbow. What a sight. A new generation growing.”
Short attention span theater takes a break-in to higher consciousness.
Aron joins the dancing fools on the sidewalk.
Tyger, now feeling quite at home with the visitors, approaches another fellow traveler.
“What is the deal with that long flat bed truck with the loudspeakers on the corner?”
“Oh yeah man,” answers a long hair. “That’s the Peace Truck. We own the cab, rent
the flatbed. We have been taking it around to Rock Against Racism rallies.
Our plan is ssimple. We stage heavy metal, and rock and roll performances
from the truck to attract the younger crowd of kids. That is where our future lies.
We bring them in with the music, then give them a good old political re-education.
You would be surprised at how receptive they are to our message because we tell it like it is.
Those Reagan fuckers might think they have won the battle, but we will win the war.
Reagan shitheads don’t even realize that they have already lost.
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Their greed and hubris has already sown the seed of their ultimate defeat.
The future belongs to the righteous purveyors of truth.”
“If you say so,” suspends Tyger disbelief.
“We must be strong,” Sir Yipster continues. “Solidarity in numbers.
One person can make a difference. You add one plus one to get two
Two plus to two to get four. Four plus four to get the idea until so forth
and so on and so forth, numbers vaster than ocean waters, overwhelming
any land-stuck obstacles in their way. Greed eventually turns upon itself like a worm,
entirely consumed by truth. Our day will come.”
Such is the promise of karma. Such the opposite effect of hubris,
a sin Ray-Gun junkies possess in spades and is used with a spade to bury them forever.
Figuratively speaking.
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Peace Camp numbers are small, yet they possess the ultimate power
to stand one day stand above the Repub’s shallow graves, dancing John Belushi style
through the sands of time overturning. Hooray for the triumph of the spirit
signified in a small counter-cultural bash for the people
while the evil ignorant ripoff artists toast themselves in perceived victory
even as they are being soundly defeated in the street
by powerful forces invisible to their blind eyes.
Or so it seems one hot summer day Dadbaggies beating bummers.
Armor’s is swept away by the moment. He springs
like a Mexican jumping bean on top of the Peace Truck
“Fuck you Repubpscum loser Nazis,” Armor’s cries.
“We will bury you in the shit you pooped.”
Or not.
About 25 goodly souls facing Mecca politely applaud.
“Sometimes your buddy Armor’s makes a lot of sense,” Ralph says.
“Sometimes is a great notion,” Tyger replies.
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“Not often,” continues the tall lean Ralph machine, “but sometimes.”
“You got to give the boy credit,” Tyger adds extra. “When he is right, he is awesome.”
If only. Armor’s now stands silently, right fist skyward, saluting eternity
frozen like a Grecian urn in time. Yippies fill Tyger in about the final day’s activities
commemorating the convention’s dead end. They plan to take Peace Truck over to Peace Camp,
bivouac there. Strange as it may seem to outsiders, Peace Camp is indeed
the safest spot for dissent in all of the Crescent City. Cops don’t even bother because
why should they. Peace Camp is well out of sight and out of its mind.
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More power to them for they know not what they ignore.
Fine for the righteous, as well who, not bothered by authorities
unconcerned, live in joyous anarchy taking LSD and smoking reefer
until they are crunked bent; sharing food and raising political consciousness.
Tyger will be there manana. But first, another sleepy
night must pass and day follow as it always does.
Tyger awakens about 10 a.m. still joyously hung over from
the night before. He briefly retraces his guerilla neutral ground
sorties zapping along Jackson Avenue before turning around towards
the home hangers. He claims a few confirmed kills before stopping
at noon for the “All My Children” update. A good day for a good day
is well at hand. The cool spirit flows despite stifling heat. Repub subs
should be well on their piggy ways within 24 hours. Life will return to
what passes for normal in the Big Easy. Given Mardi Gras training,
Tyger can do the remaining time standing, like Igor, on his head.
College junior repubs hand out “Get out of Jail Free,” cards
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that at the bottom add “compliments of Michael Dukakis,”
referring to the Massachusetts prison furlough program
soon to be immortalized by Shrub’s Willie Horton demagoguery.
The Repubs are completely hung over by their stay in the Big Easy.
They now wallow in smug self-congratulations.
“The system works,” exclaims John K. Wu, a delegate from Delaware beware.
(“Now, aren’t we pleased with ourselves,” observes the wise Church Lady.)
“Wednesday was the day the party pooped,” notes Susan Brenna of Long Island New York’s Newsday.
“A combination of rich cuisine, abundant watering holes, the stimulation of star-mingling with senators,
Pat B(o)one and too many free feeds, Wednesday’s schedule included
118 pre- and post-session fetes finally had its effect on the Republicans.”
Even New Orleans Mayor Sidney Barthelemy, an African-American Democrat supposedly
is swept away by the “good” feelings. “It was very important to pull this off,” he notes,
apparently referring to pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes, selling out the city,
“to show that the public and private sector could work together. I think we’ll reap the benefits
of this for years to come.” (Think again. History shows this to be the last such outing
at New Orleans as the city hits rock bottom during his maladministration.
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The good mayor is too busy taking trips financed by developers, records
and news accounts show, to look after the interests of his constituency.)
The pre-packaged media presentation actually loses viewers
during the week. Only 18.4 million Americans — 40 percent of
those watching the boob tube at the time watch Shrub’s acceptance
speech, a decline of nearly two million from opening night
festivities. Popular dude, Herr Shrub.
In the equally moronic acceptable to Repuboscum fake
protester department, one Jack Defandorf, if that is his name,
claims to the media newsflakehounds: “The thing that bothers me
is where are the people of New Orleans? I don’t know if they’re
afraid the CIA is taking pictures of them or what, but I know
there are a lot of people who don’t agree with the policies of
the Republicans. Where are they hiding?”
Peace Camp, that island of serenity set among tall weeds and
broken glass that once — teemed? — with World’s Fair non-traffic
as that developer’s bonanza went bust. (Oh, developers
boomed along alright making gobs of money after the taxpayers of
Louisiana were forced by then Gov. Edwin Edwards to bail the
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financiers out with state funding.) Damn wham thank you ma’am.
Why won’t they get the government off our backs? Hahaha. The laugh is on us.
Peace Camp is the one place in the City that Care Forgot
where the Bill of Rights — among those rights, freedom of
expression — actually is cherished. It is the only place locally
where the July 4, 1776 Declaration of Independence rings true. We
would be a lot better off if the Republicans knew what was
declared in the document. It begins:
“We hold these Truths to be self-evident, that all Men are
created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with
certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty
and the Pursuit of Happiness. That to secure these Rights,
Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just Powers
from the Consent of the Governed, that whenever any Form of
Government becomes destructive of these Ends, it is the Right of
the People to alter or abolish it, and to institute new
Government, laying its foundation on such Principles, and
organizing its Powers in such Form, as to them shall seem most
likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.”
Ring a bell libertarians? Hell, we have already witnessed
the fate of anyone muttering the previous sentiments while
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walking towards the Superdome within four blocks of that facility.
They get arrested. Comrades in search of an accurately recalled
Declaration of Independence and Bill of Rights must conclude that it is
not in vogue during the last week of August 1988 circa New Orleans.
The American flag lapel poseurs have replaced the shining
light of truth with their squalid imitation of death-in-life just
like any run-of-the-mill tinhorn dictatorship.
These free floating spirits at Peace Camp dance in pure joy,
even as the Repubs conclude their exercise in cynical deceit
for public consumption. About 50 survivors of the previous
psychic holocaust have passed through to the other side, left by
the forces of oppression in splendid isolation to lay the karmic
foundation for a coming coalition of truth and justice.
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Peace Truck as centerpiece is outlined against a red-and-orange background stretched
half a football field in length. A local dog and pony duo butchers Bb Dylan songs
while tiny groups of suddenly best buds mingle, sharing philosophical discourse, food,
drink, acid, reefer, and laughter. “Safest spot in town,” reiterates Sir Aron of the pie toss.
“Isn’t a cop within miles.” All smiles. Well dressed suit and tie type festooned with badges and
politically incorrect buttons stands out in the crown not caring.Who is this guy anyway, a police plant?
“Hey, what is the deal with the get-up?” Tyger asks as he approaches the suit.
“Why, don’t I look nice. Aren’t I with it? Isn’t this great?” rat-a-tat-tats the cheshire cat,
grin only showing. “Don’t I make a fine Republican delegate?” “Say what?”
Pie guy, ever the scoundrel, joins the conversation. “You look great. How’s it going pal?”
bear-hugging da suit who smiles brightly; responding,”Going much better inside the convention.
You know, they have air conditioning, free food and everything.”
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Tyger begins to buoy along in the drift. “Wait a second,”
he stops time. “You aren’t really a delegate…are you?”
“I’m not? I have all the proper credentials.”
“Come on man. Come clean. You a Yippie, right?”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t attend the convention. I am a Yippie Republican. Yay!”
Laughing laughing nitrous fit subsides finally as Tyger
looks over the Yippie Republican’s, er, credentials.
“These are fake, right?” he concludes.
“Well, no one has stopped me from going anywhere I want yet.
I certainly have not been arrested.”
“Tell me about the inside of the convention,” Tyger asks the
Yippie infiltrator. “What is it like being outside on the inside?”
“Weeeeeeelllllll, they are very comfortable. Food is great.
Can’t hear what’s going on, but no one cares. I have been inside
every day, observing their sheepish behavior. Bah bah bah. Freaked out rabble.
l fit right in, but of course I have to be blasted out of
my mind with acid and marijuana to appreciate the completely
horrific ambiance. Overall, I have enjoyed myself. It has been fun.
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Hope to attend the next one too. Maybe bring along a bomb or something,
just for an additional thrill. Ker-boom! Hahaha. That will shake em
out of their lethargy some.” Tyger laughs his ass off as well dressed imposter,
pie guy, pie guy daughter, dance to the next group;
what do you know, the Dadbaggies again.
Guess the New Neanderthals couldn’t be bothered for such a politically correct event.
Roots and Heave are around some nowhere land pretending they are “Democrats,”
Good, just keep out of the way of the real event.
Hypes like them give Repubs the excuse to give liberals a bad name.
Sign reading “Evil U.S. Empire out of the Persian Gulf,”
prophetically hangs from the elongated Peace Truck
sound system flatbed. Two young acolytes stroll around
distributing small pieces of paper to all who desire.
Tyger checks it out and, yes comrades, it is indeed LSD.
Not just any acid either, but the purest acid
America’s finest somewhat secret San Francisco scientists
ever have developed. Outasight. Outamind.
Take another hit, immediately appreciating the awesome purity of acidic perfection.
Wowee-zowee, finally having fun, yes.
Quick surveillance of the scene reveals the total ecstasy
of unfettered by authority monumental anarchy of the highest karmic moment.
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Former editor of Overthrow walks in a straight — for him — line towards the bridge.
Pretty girl walks the opposite direction south to a portalet left behind by a wayward
construction crew knocking off work early. Small groups of countercultural types maintain commos,
smoking blunts, passing around a wine-skin, trading literature and free expressions of opinion sorta
promised by the Declaration of Independence as codified by the U.S. Constitution. African-American
rastaman sells Tyger a colorful peace symbol cloth suspended from a silly string that Tyger
slips around his neck. The guy also hands Tyger a flyer for a group called U.M.O.N,
“United Mankind Organizing Naturally.” Tall thin man, about 30 years old with
long grey Elijah the Prophet beard and countenance, sits on a car passing out
orange pamphlets to the ever-curious. Meet Calvin Peterson from Kansas City, Mo.
Tyger trades internal New Orleans gossip for Calvin’s great work,
titled”The Truth Has Been Thrown To The Ground.”
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The name of Calvin’s game is that he is sick of the U.S. Government’s oppression
of its people in general and himself in particular. He feels “the government” naturally
wants him to leave the country, and he wants to leave. Only catch, he ain’t got no money.
Therefore, he has been walking around town looking as grungy as possible trying
to sell his pamphlet to GO(im)P(osters) based on the premise their contributions will get
him out of their hair sooner, which is what everyone wants. The ingenious tactic
is not working very well, so he has a lot of these pamphlets left. He is trying
to hawk to those at Peace Camp to those perhaps are a bit more amenable to his message.
“I hate the God of the Easter Bunny,” rails Calvin to Tyger listening with acidically amplified attention.
“This is the nation of the Easter Bunny, of Santa Claus, of the false symbol. We have forgotten
our past and substituted the fake for real. I have given the matter of searching for the truth of my life
a high priority. I tell you Tyger Williams, the God of the Easter Bunny is a false prophet.”
Alrighty then. Tyger thumbs through the 50-page anti-tome. It’s inevitable conclusion:
“If everybody that loved this country sent one dollar, thousands of my people could be set free to live
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some place far away from your great society where you would not have t look upon them again.
They would not sleep in your streets anymore, or panhandle for your change. Could you think
of a better way to spend what is your labor than to send the homeless, the poor, the lame,
and those in captivity far away from you. Send you payment today,so we leave immediately without delay.
When the list of those who donated to send us away is published, would not you want your name
to be on there so your friends and neighbors can see you sent those ungrateful people
far away from your presence, you had a hand in ridding those people from your places.
Send your farewell gifts to: CALVIN PETERSON; P.O. Box 17634; Kansas City, MO 64123.”
Tyger nods his head in agreement as he looks up. “If you say so Calvin. I just gave my last dollar
to the rasta guy for the peace symbol cloth. But good luck.”
Bless his soul, Calvin understands. “Yeah, it is tough getting out of here,” he says.
“You would think the Republicans would want us to go in the worst way. But, they don’t seem to care.”
“No shit, Sherlock. it’s a strange world.”
Moving on, a box flyers squat unattended near Tyger’s mother the car.
He asks the closest person nearby, a girl with short sandy hair,
who belongs to the stack of attacks. No sale.
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They are titled: “BUSH IS GUILTY!… THIRTY YEARS OF DIRTY TRICKS & TREASON.”
Watergate: Bush, implicated in dirty tricks as head of Republican National Convention,
narrowly escaped being named unindicted co-conspirator; 1980: Bush, one of two or three principals
who actually flies to Europe to negotiate Treason: In return for assuring Reagan’s election by holding
the hostages an additional three months, the Ayatollah gets a better deal than the one
being offered by Carter. On behalf of U.S. Intelligence, Bush promises to facilitate
both the arms and heroin business interrupted by Carter. Other charges include various Bush
dealings with Panama strongman Manuel Noriega, tax breaks for associates, and various involvement
with other drug-related activity. Tyger places the flyers in his car, remembering he has
a time-worn mini-cassette recorder previously used for insurance investigating in the glove compartment.
He retrieves the tape recorder in order to record the final moments of Peace Camp as Dan Fail
is nominated veep and the convention winds down.
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What follows is a partial telling of the tape:
“They are probably starting to play baseball in some distant stadium.
But here, the peace truck rallies on proving that you can’t have too much fun
at a place like this except when you’re …
Look at he colors; orange, red pink, on the wharf, it is
approximately 7:35 (p.m.), sun is setting, so it is actually
an incredibly beautiful vista. Kid you not.
And that guy is not even waiting to use the porta-let.
He is just kind of using whatever is available, I suppose.
The former editor of Overthrow Magazine is speechifying. Let’s listen.
‘I want to explain for a minute a couple of banners we have
up here,’ he begins, long grey hair flowing in the evening breeze.
‘It wasn’t me that came up with this evil empire business,
after all. It was Ronald Reagan. He said that anyone who shoots down a civilian air
liner is an evil empire. You qualify if you shoot down a civilian airliner.
So, either the United States should quit acting like an evil empire
in shooting down those civilians or they should get out.
And this other thing over here on the end of the cab is a personal message
to you from Peter Tosh who came up with the design before he unfortunately lost his life
in a dispute over the music business which in Jamaica can sometimes can be fatal.
But his idea, this symbol — we’re trying to popularize it.
The idea was that we don’t think the government can solve anything.
We are the only people who can solve things and that is by taking
our own lives into our own hands. And we just happen to believe
that herbs are safer than refined chemicals. Rock Against Racism
brought this truck and this concert to this parking lot tonight in order
to celebrate a significant event, the self-annihilation, the suicide if you will,
of the Republican Party, who at this time across town is finishing the nomination process
to elect as their nominee just about the most unpopular guy in America in political life.
So, the only good thing we can say about the Regan years is
it’s over. Thanks God they didn’t blow up the world, although they really
fucked up the ozone layer. But we will have to deal with that
under the next guys.'”
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The event rolls to a conclusion within the endless tape loop
with which we have grown familiar. The final band scheduled to play,
a lame punk rock outfit called the Scandals, disagree with the Peace Truck banners.
They refuse to perform. The rally disintegrates in anarchy and darkness.
So it ends and begins on the same blank page, comrades, of
what can be set down about Tyger Williams’ life and times
between Christmas Day 1987, a good Friday, and the last day of
the Republican National Convention on Thursday August 18, 1988.
Shrubby and his minions finish their dirty little business
at the Superdome, blasting into outer space, fleeing the Big Easy
as if a fire alarm suddenly has been sounded. Tyger, under cover
of nightfall, returns to his Uptown apartment, catching Cubs-Padres from the West Coast.
Cubs win! Cubs win! Cubs win! Americans lose! All is as it always is with the world of 1988.
Time continues to flow beyond the range of our thick file on a small portion
of subject Williams’ activities. An accounting never can be completely made as he,
and associates timelessly walk the earth engaging in their various trials and tribulations.
This much can be appended to the public file for the purposes
of a summation on a need to know basis;
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Armor’s is the first of that old gang of Tyger’s to evacuate these hallowed shores.
He has had it with the urban lifestyle, retreating to a life of quiet contemplation
in rural California at the foothills of a national park that shall remain nameless in
order to preserve his privacy. Shortly thereafter, Mac takes his world to the quiet little
burg of Barataria — the resting place for the pirate Jean Lafitte — southwest of New Orleans,
past the national park just off Lake Salvador.Mr . Milty disappears suddenly one fine night,
loading up a moving van — sort of like the Baltimore Colts — eventually
emerging in the Texas Hill Country where his Belt of Tools band
becomes a local sensation. He is heard from only on special and surprising occasions.
Sandy Alexander, along with wife Mary Ann, relocate to the mountains of western
North Carolina, so they can raise a family in a friendly hard-working place, the total opposite
of the steamy and lazy Big Easy environment. More power to them. Dorothy LaFleur has
a bouncing baby girl whom she dresses in lovely pink ribbons and pretty flowered dresses.
She assumes the role of working mother-housewife as Jack rises to a position of
small importance in her father’s warehouse business. Fine, and Joe Fine?
What of the Super Sleuth, one wonders. Who knows.
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He disappears from the known universe possibly
maintaining a useful undercover existence that he finds
personally satisfying. Perhaps, he finally snares the evil Bingo
LeBeouf. No telling, although one can only hope.
And the other extras, heroes and villains alike, considered
for these purposes in the same breath. To the heroes: Well done.
We have psychic medals in the closet should you come over for
brunch. To the villains: Who cares. Get fucked. You suck.
Tyger, Tyger, what of the centerpiece around whom the others
revolved? What of the dear boy with whom we have sat surveillance
these wonderful, awful, groovy, horrible moments, and all that
could be cited in-between? What of the Tygermeister brewery of
consciousness drunk deeply?
Well comrades, he is well. As noted earlier, all is well
that is well ended. Tyger gets by for those who try and never
quit, never say “enough,” never give up the ghost, never die.
As John Heisman — after whom is named the trophy signifying
the best player in college football — told his Rice Institute
(now University) football team at half-time in a 1924 game they
were losing: “A team that won’t be beat can’t be beat.”
And the Fighting Owls flew out that second half and kicked
some sorry Longhorn butt, dominating a squad from the much larger
University of Texas, 19-6.
Yes, Tyger Williams and all he stood for, sat for, wished for,
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lived for, lives on in your well wishes and the memory
elicited through these long pages. We leave him for now as we found him,
a figment of the mind’s eye imagination, a surreal out-of-body, place and time
existential presence sitting by the lake at Audubon Park, flipping pebbles
into the placid waters, watching circles crop, expand and disappear.
He dreams of a beautiful dancer, of that equally beautiful time
when all of God’s slaves are free.
Only you can make that happen, comrades of the sacred moment.
You have Tyger’s best wishes as forever you strive,
succeeding through that striving,
regardless of final outcome.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Considering the philosophical underpinnings
of the story and events of the surveillance between
Christmas Day 1987 and the Republican National Convention
in August 1988. Also, a story concerning the odd notions
of a Fourth Form English teacher.
CHAPTER 30
“Final Thoughts: Postmortems or Postmasters”
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However, comrades, does a story ever end? Does the universe
have a beginning and an end? Perhaps you realize the answer to both questions.
After all, we are left with the facts of this loaf of life as intuitively oblivious.
Marcel Proust sought to deal with the infinite by writing an infinite story.
Why bother reading even one book, some surrealists argued, when a small library
contained more books than a person could consume in a lifetime? Why indeed?
By the same token, as Proust realized, a writer could take the simplest object or concept —
a tree branch, molecule, a single thought — and describe it until the end of time, or at
least one’s time on earth. The task could be picked up by the next person and the next
in an infinite chain that never breaks. Therefore, can you comrades in ultimate confusion
even pretend to be shocked that the Tyger Williams saga never truly can conclude.
There always is this item or that to add, subtract, consider, and remove;
add again, paint, describe, draw to an end, and begin again resurrected.
Perhaps that is the core of all religion — the feeling, the belief,
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the inescapable impression that there must be more to the tiger’s tale
than meets the naked eye. Humanity needs to try to understand, bring
order to the basic principles of confusion. One will go insane trying
to understand the origins of physical principles. Instead, one must try
to explain as much as possible without asking that silly one word question:
Why?
Answer is always the same:
Why not?
And why, as the surrealists asked, bother?
If humanity can not know even the most basic questions, how we came into being,
what the perceived universe contains;
if humanity can not possibly explain the smallest part of the smallest portion of reality to the largest,
from the tiniest subatomic particle to huge supernovas, why bother discussing anything?
Why not stay in the simplest vegetative state, living for each moment, considering only
what makes a person happy, pursuing it with every ounce of attitude and being?
In case you have been buried beneath the ground in death-in-life forever like dirty rotten morons
such as Roots Badburns and Heave Broward, the answer is self-evident. Many persons do this.
This classification, in fact, includes much of humanity from the politically piggy higher up
corrupt conniptions like Shrubby, Fail, Ray-Gun, Nixxon, and the many legions of losers
who made them possible; all the way down to the simplest purest soul living in an
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as-yet undiscovered prehistoric Amazonia tribe, if one exists.
Many persons observed at this moment from a front window,
walking across a busy street, driving along a highway
bound for nowhere fast, simply do not care.
They could care less about the higher principles we now consider.
Truth means nothing to them. It means less than what is on television,
less than what transpires in front of their faces,
far less than question of what is for dinner or who are they going to fuck.
They are, in short, animals, animalistic like the cat, the giraffe,
the lowest insect and highest soaring bald eagle.
(Oh, dolphins and certain species of whale; octupuses, ravens,
a few other air, land, and sea creatures of superior intelligence have a clue
as to self recognition, true. Let us not demean such creatures unduly.)
Let them be. Let them be all they can be for they have no choice.
No higher options to consider for such as they.
Just the usual shop until they drop, eat until they are full,
live until they die, state of being. However, a few lost and lonely souls
must consider the higher meaning of life, ultimate questions that transcend life and death.
These questions have been considered since time immemorial
and will be part and parcel of man’s quest for ultimate meaning,
not to get too heavy lest gravity pin us to the ground.
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As long as the species and planet evolves.
Our highest mission is to understand what is our highest mission.
Such tasks in ancient societies might be assigned to an
individual called a shaman, priest, or known by some other
official designation. This division of function served a useful
purpose thereby freeing the strongest, and wisest, leaders down
to the lowest dull bulbs, nuts and dolts, to pursue the parallel
course of trying to fulfill the doctrine of survival of the
fittest or even improve humanity’s earthbound situation.
While most were toddling around with the actual physical
task of making man s lot better, more comfortable, more
efficient, less shitty to use an appropriately anal expression;
shaman, priest, psychic leader, guru bore the most troubling
burden of all, contemplation of the infinite, those questions
cutting to the core of man’s existence.
That is their horrible burden and awful task. Rewards,
however, are beyond anything that even the wisest temporal leader
could possibly imagine. The reward is a closeness, a closerness
to the fundamental building blocks of universal disorder.
Once upon a time, Tyger had a Fourth Form English teacher
named Mr . Sherman. This particular instructor was an odd bird. He
shaved his head, spoke with an effeminate and peculiar tone,
uttered bizarre and equally peculiar sentiments, all the while
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browbeating the class into a state of cowering mass submission.
Mr. Sherman hit on the simple truth that the best way to
control a large group of ignoramuses was to confuse them
further, splitting them like atoms, exploding their lame brains
with unrelated anti-matter. Highly effective counter-insurgency tactic.
The class of dullards, usually loud and rude beyond belief to less terrifying
and sublime instructors, reduced to an eerie state of submission and silence.
Some students followed Mr. Sherman around likea brood of kittens
after their big mama cat. Others took the opposite tact, mocking him,
albeit behind his back, never daring to confront those strange, blank staring eyes.
(That would be foolishly dangerous. Who knew what such a madman might do.
He might even flunk them, thereby blowing that all-important Ivy League college admission,)
Tyger took a more judicious approach towards the maniacal might be gigantic prophet.
As Ray-Gun said, trust but verify, a state of suspended disbelief, best associated
with appreciation of great art. One fine spring day, however,
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Mr. Sherman gave a lecture that stuck in Tyger’s mind forever. At the time,
Tyger considered the speech a standard diatribe given to each of Mr. Sherman’s
classes to keep them under control, perhaps an annual rite of passage.
The young boy didn’t think much of the talk, although it made sense in a quirky sort of way.
Consider the scene in this, the final moments of our brief time spent with the ever searching
and curious surveillance pelicana. Push the hands of time back back back to the outfield fence….
Take up a surveillance of that moment, existing in the mists of memory before there were
portable video cameras and recorders.That far-off time when the Great Society was all the rage.
Kennedys and liberals were respected American leaders. Little has cha-changed since then
except for political fashion, technical advancement, and alternation of popular personalities.
No changes of the fundamental human spirit or inner condition that persists through eternity
or at least until man’s perception of eternity has ba-da-bing ended.
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Final act begins stage right. Bell rings, signifying a change of school periods.
Boys enter a third floor classroom. They sit at wooden chair-desks still excited
by the brief freedom afforded in the temporary suspension of school discipline and order.
They are impervious, not noticing any particular differences before their twinkling eyes.
Mr. Sherman has drawn a white chalk picture on the blackboard. He sits stage left,
surrounded, almost obscured, in his chair. Boys chatter aimlessly until, one by one,
they sense the need to cease and desist. Mr. Sherman does not have to call them
to attention. He psychically wills their motor-mouths to simmering stops.
“Yes. Yes. You are quiet then,” Mr. Sherman notes in his strange turn of tone, a kind of
cocktail hybrid of geek with a twist of Marine drill sergeant. “I call your attention
to what I have drawn on the blackboard.” He points with a ruler. “Consider the weeds
I have drawn. Weeds that all of you, myself, everyone you know, will know,
are mired in, trapped like animals, beasts, inextricably bound, unable to escape,
unable even to imagine escape.” (Mr. Sherman had a funny way of pronouncing certain words,
and a masters degree in literature from the University of Michigan to validate his erudition.
So, he pronounced Oedipus as Oy-Ay-Di-Puuuus, for example, as the class went Greek from time to time.)
“Oy-Ay-Di-Puuuus is down there.” Mr. Sherman pointed to the ground.
“Clytemnestra is down there. Your mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers are down there.
The smartest person you will ever meet in your life is down there. And yes, even I am down there.
“Now, look above, above up there to the top of the blackboard.” Everyone looked over, under,
through the blackboard with X-ray visions blurring.” Nothing. Sorry, glorious comrades.
“That is God or what we call God or what others call what they call the ultimate being,”
Mr. Sherman continues monotone unabated. “The beginning and end of time.
That is off the blackboard. No one can see it. “Now, just beneath the edge of the board,
but significantly higher than the weeds is this. Look. Look.” Mr. Sherman has drawn
three white clouds set on the blackboard sea. “This is where one person reaches.
One person can find this place, a place above the weeds where the vista is clear.”
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Final Thoughts
Weisman
633
“He could look down upon the weeds and everyone in the weeds, but no need to bother.
He does not care what the weeds contain, what the weed persons do with their brief time
in the weeds. No. No. Never.” Mr. Sherman’s voice rose like a reedy flute, piercing
the psychic atmosphere marked by half-listening, barely comprehending 16 year old youths.
“No. He has made it to a place above the weeds. He can never look back. He is up there,”
Mr. Sherman held a hand up to the cloudy picture, “and all of us are down there.”
.He points with the ruler to the weeds. “You are a dull class,” Mr. Sherman said.
“In fact, when they gave me your class they warned me these boys care not to learn.
They are stupid boys. They only are interested in becoming businessmen, bankers, lawyers,
whatever. They warned me. Do not waste your time, your energy with boys such as these.
They will not benefit. Simply teach them the lesson, wish them good luck on their way to
wherever they are going. I have seen you boys for nearly a year.I must agree. You are the worst
class I ever have,” fake quote marks with his fingers, “taught. You will live your lives,
make what you will of them. That is nothing to me. You are stupid boys.”
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Final Thoughts
Weisman
634
“I have drawn this picture, wasted my valuable time all these months for a reason.
What reason is this, I see you ask with your dull eyes. I will tell you. While you and I
are stuck in the mud, hidden from the higher truth of order by these wretched weeds,
unable to get out or climb above; one of you is exempt from this inhumane status of humanity.
Yes. Yes,” Mr. Sherman’s thin voice seeming to rise like a fine mist, “look at your classmates.
Look to the right and left, behind and in front. One of you is here,” pointing to the blackboard clouds.
“One of you stupid boys is wisest of all, wiser even than me although he does not realize it.
One of you is above the weeds. This boy among all of we weed eaters, this boy who does not
realize what he is. For this boy, I have done everything. I have sweated at night, prepared
these many months of lessons even as you did not comprehend them, perhaps never will,
or might eventually come to realize a small portion. But this boy above the weeds comprehends,
and yes, understands even, understands all I have spoken, perhaps without realizing it as yet.
“I have done everything that I have done for this boy, this one boy who will rise above you,
above me. I have told only him about Oy-Ay-Di-Puuuus and Shakespeare’s sonnets.
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Final Thoughts
Weisman
635
“One boy out of all, and you know what, I will not tell you who he is. You will
never hear that from me. “He might be you,” Mr. Sherman pointed at a dull lad.
“Or you, or you, or you,” pointing at different students. “You must always wonder
who he is. It might be anyone. It might be he who none suspect, none of you even
vaguely consider. “Or it might be you,” pointing to Bob Lippman, straight ‘A’ honor roll
Mensa student. “Or you,” pointing to Andy Suchin, worst ‘D’ student one planet earth,
“or you or you or you…You must always wonder who he is for you are in the weeds.
This special boy will know the higher order that even I can not possibly understand, nor could I
should I live an eternity. He knows this intuitively. He knows this without asking.
I have done all I can to help him. I have devoted myself to him, this secret boy.
I will never utter his name. The rest of you are irrelevant. The rest of you are cattle.
I only hope this person remembers what I said, what I tried to show him. I hope he has pity
on me when he remembers my unworthiness.I hope I have been of some small service to him.
Pause as Mr. Sherman bows head towards floor. “Class dismissed.” Initial shock gives way
to boys quickly gathering belongings, throwing them into decal-covered book bags.
They fear Mr. Sherman — usually a stickler for detail and punctuality — might change his mind,
considering he had dismissed class with 20 minutes remaining on the big clock.
Mr. Sherman sinks in his chair scene stopped.
(That was the last lecture Mr. Sherman ever gave the class for he was terminated
suddenly, and without public explanation, the next week. Circumstances were unclear
although whispers of gay indiscretions refused to die.)
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Final Thoughts
Weisman
636
Three card monty shell game of a time when
nothing is as it appears, everything is as it seems,
no difference through the mists of history.
Pelicans sweeping above the levee, oblivious
to what has come and what yet will become.
Frauds and occasional triumphs of the spirit
in our mind one last time as in a dream or a Joe Fine black box
secret surveillance system videotape upon further review.
Funny thing about perspective provided by such a
long view telescoped through space. Classmates spun various webs of lives with wives,
children, and families. They became lawyer doctor businessman fool; even a few artistic
lines intertwined, splitting off in consciousness to places near and far, tight and wide.
But Tyger, Tyger Williams in his Gulliver’s travels through Alice’s looking glass wonderland,
stopping at this place or that seemingly at random, bouncing like a superball from this job to that,
this observation, this thought to the next in an inevitable progression; this mirror of time, snapshot
reflecting nothing happening for a reason while everything adds up to life in the weeds yearning for the
higher understanding of the clouds promised a class of dullards many eons ago by a madly bizarre
excuse for a prophet. Comrades who sat surveillance, sometimes ridiculous, sometimes awesome,
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Final Thoughts
Weisman
637
hit or miss, poignant, beyond comprehension and every point of human consciousness
betwixt and between a few white pages, as related by and for Tyger Williams, insurance investigating
art detective everyman observer. Comrades who bore witness everlasting to the small, although
potent, magic potion of events briefly described, mixed in random fashion between Christmas Day 1987
and RepublicanNational Anti-Matter Inconsequential Convention of August 1988 at the Louisiana Superdome
in New Orleans, of all fantastic places. That thought, comrades, dances in the sun, glints, glistens
through the slippery mirror of time as magnified by recollections divine. Anything is possible.
Anyone is possible. Let us spend the end of this tail, comrades, contemplating Mr. Sherman’s
sphinx-like riddle, never expecting to know the answer. We are lost in those damn weeds, nothingness,
dust dirt, mindless molecules floating nowhere, everywhere, too fast. We are their inevitable
conclusion; like it or not, know it or never care. But it would be nice, if only for the briefest moment;
“SURVEILLANCE PELICANA”
Final Thoughts
Weisman
638
it would be a pleasant and comforting thought to imagine, if only for a nanosecond,
that such a person might sit on a cloud above even as we shit in the weeds below,
and contemplate a high, higher, highest order. If this only were so, comrades of the
final forever so long fare thee well take care goodbye, we yet may wish upon a star.
After all the shit has hit the fan and blown nowhere, all is said and done, opened
and closed, considered, like the universe exploded into the great never ending what;
we may cling to a small silly hope, a hope dancing an awkward stupid jig that a hero
contemplates a higher calling, holds a wake in honor of all the other so-called heroes,
smart and dumb ones combined into one world order. This means we might hang by the
slimmest thread of that faint hope unwinding; that hope lingering after lights are
snuffed out; that hope like an uninvited party guest who simply will not vanish, hope that
Mr. Sherman’s riddle might yet be solved; that even the lowest soul sunk in the worst weedy
way may one day be freed from his awful state of unknowing. Could it be? Could it be? Could it be?
You? Them? Me? The infinite mantra last moment of time disappearing like a grinning illusionist,
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Final Thoughts
Weisman
639
vanishing into that space where nothing has existed forever.
Be that as it may. For your final contemplation comrades:
Tyger Williams thinks about the past year as he sits by the lake at Audubon Park
smoking a big fat illegal smile. He also thinks about the future, squarely rounding into view,
1989 on its inevitable way. WTF. A chapter in a life ended with simply one affirmation remaining.
Just say yes. Just say yes. Chanting the countercultural mantra of the magic moment.
Say Yes. Yes. Yes…
And scene.