Sunday Sceneggiata

Killer/App

This is the greatest app.. ever..

No.. really..

It’s not just YouTube and Facebook and built-in compass and light saber-sound cool..

But get this –

(must make sure that there’s no one within earshot)

My iPod can see the future.

Cool!  Right?

I wouldn’t suggest you run out to the apps store and get one.. For one thing, I’ve got the only one!  For another, Once you get past the stock tips and the sports scores (this thing has paid for itself .. twice over!) it becomes a heavy responsibility.

Ipso facto/Q.E.D. (both learned from my latin dictionary app) --

Do I tell everyone (or just Facebook friends) about the coming biblical flood (calamity caused not by melting ice caps, but a 2% rise in..  shh!  I've already said too much!)

Take it from Bob Dylan (iTunes!) you better start swimmin', or you'll sink like a stone!

I know what you’re thinking.  (My iPod is not merely clairvoyant, but telepathic as well.)  At first I thought – impossible!  Maybe it’s just a system error, a glitch which would resolve itself when I downloaded the new iPod operating system ($29.95 presently, but only 111,121,111.00 Buffetian Universal Ducets (BUD) in the future currency system, I’ll explain later.) 

Or maybe it was just my neighbor’s iPod which could see the future, and I was siphoning off his Wi-fi?

And furthermore, why me?  How me?  Maybe it’s just another one of those wonky apps I shouldn’t have downloaded after seeing the silhouette people dancing on the commercial – like say… the “Are you a Foodie or A Jew?” app  (turns out I’m both!)

But then I got to thinking – if I’m Steve Jobs.. and I want to get this thing out into the water supply.. I ’m not going to advertise it (this ain’t New Coke!) but rather he’d slip it out on little cats feet.

The man’s the living embodiment of Willy Wonka (only not so menacing) and I got a golden ticket!  Woo-hoo!

Before you get jealous (see: burden, above) note that I didn’t ask for this.. and I certainly don’t want to hog it..  If you want to know more, especially those of you with interests in financial market crashes (I cannot say more.. just.. cash in your cash – it’s Monopoly money!)  just send me an email.. better yet..  a tweet at..

Hold on!  Message coming in..  From tomorrow!

..............................

Sorry, ‘bout that.   Correction: It was my neighbor’s Wi-Fi. 

But then in the interest of science, and societal ethics, and, since, y’know.. he changed his password protection (what kind of password is “My Modem?”) I was forced to find a new “hotspot.”

I haven’t paid for internet access since I got this thing, nor before.  But especially not “post-Future-iPod” informed me that Wi-Fi access was a Bush (Jeb) Cheney (Mary) White House plot to monitor the private lives of Americans who opposed their formation of a third.. and fourth intergalactic/interspecies political party.

Yet this morning when I grabbed my iced-blended at the Coffee Bean, and logged in off their Wi-Fi (future secret:  every Coffee Bean will have an internet access code located in the bottom left-hand corner of their video display board.. check it out if you don’t believe me!) I was instantly online, and in touch with the leader of Neo-Interplanetary Revolutionary Underground  - salutations Anna Paquin!

Mind-blowing, huh?  Want more proof?  My iPod doesn’t have a battery.. or extension cord.. hahahaha.. thought of that, too.  I flipped it over and it’s solid as a rock, no double AAs, no solar recharger.. though that is an option the Jobs clones (more on that later) will introduce (to the Southern Hemisphere, and only on AT&T) in the year 20--..

............................

They’re after me! 

Hunting me. 

And they can smell me.  (iScent – Free!)

Fortunately, I have a plan.  Or more specifically, my iPod has a plan (iPlan – an app not available at ANY price) and if you’re reading this, you’re probably not “evolved” enough to read my thoughts and know precisely what I’m talking about.  But an app that makes EVERY decision for you (what a relief) and hatches a scheme aka “a plan” – well my friends.. that’s better than a Magic 8 Ball, or rock/paper/scissors.. or calling my cousin Max, which is how I used to make all my decisions.

I do not mean to imply that in the future the iPod has replaced all human decision making and we are at the mercy of the machines (not.. quite, though there are quantum dimensions where this has unfolded.)

No, rather, the iPod is for me, a crutch;  and like many handicaps, the casual acquaintance is too embarrassed to point it out.  Go ahead, I say!  Call attention to my “challenge.”  For I can read minds without its assistance.  Or should I say, “link” minds without it.   If you are in my iMind network, then you’ve already shared this thought.  And you know what I’ve long suspected;  that everyone with the iMind app is able to speak to both the “Windows” and “Mac” guy(s) on the tv commercials.

And by speak I mean not just speak.

But speak without speaking..

Or the use of a mouse..

Spine-tingling, right?  Brrrr…. (and ouch) My skin is very sensitive, you see.

For my skin is now a touchscreen.

My fingertips. Are like.. umm.. Fingertips.

And wherever they touch.

I feel.

This app must be stopped, the rip in the time/space continuum mended.  If only I could get back to our dimension.  I’ve been trying to get in touch with Anna Paquin, but she’s gone into hiding.

My only hope?  An audience with the future Job Clones (the good ones, NOT the evil colony.)  But I’m still on hold with customer service.  Time slows down.  It’s all irrelevant/relative when you can mold time like child’s clay.

I can wait.  Forever.  Or at least until someone invents an app to save me.

Or the Jobsians update this thing.

Still on hold..

Fading/Collapsing/rebirthing as a supernova.

Still don’t believe me?  Did I mention the Yankees winning the world series (in six?)

Aha!

Still not convinced?

Did I mention that my iPod is also a phone?

If  you’re reading this -- on paper --  It’s not too late.  The future is nigh.

And if you find my iPod, whatever you do, don’t press the app marked --

Sunday Sceneggiata

music/up&down courtesy/the mountains and the trees http://www.rockandroots.com

Roman/à clef

ZURICH (DICTATED LETTER from undisclosed location CENSORED by Swiss Justice Ministry)

My Dearest Wife(s)

As I write I sweep away the last crumbs of my paltry prison breakfast – pain au chocolat (stone-cold) orange juice (concentrate, I suspect) eggs (over-poached) and a pauper’s wedge of cheese (runny) I ask that you plead my case with the lawyers, the French government, and the court of public opinion.

Please speak to the children – perhaps in a low, gravely accent from an adjoining room, just as they are falling asleep – and remind them that although he is being held captive behind bars, like an animal without acceptable moisturizer or bottled wasser – their papa is a man, a flawed man, a man who has made mistakes. And counsel them, again, in hushed tones, perhaps over a speakerphone, oui? – not to make the same mistakes I, by no fault of my own, save for my puckish spirit and predisposition toward elfin mischief, have made.

Let us not compound these errors my love(s.) Chins up! While I am in the care of the Swiss government, life goes on! Alas, would you please set the DVR to record the Hell’s Kitchen Finale and next week’s Ramsey’s Kitchen Nightmares. And do not forget to postpone our October 11 reservation at L’Ambroisie (indefinitely.) Injustice and liberty denied shall not affect long-standing relationships with favorite maître d’s.

Yours,

R.

.......

Written in spidery hand on the back of a Lindt Chocoletti Stracciatella Bar WRAPPER

Dear Madame and Mr. President Secretary Clinton (and Chelsea)

Surely YOU understand. I am the victim of a Frankenstein witch-hunt. A vast right-wing conspiracy! For too long have the names Polanski and Clinton been slandered (though rarely in the same breath) on Fox News and held over the devilish flames of politically motivated inquisition. I say to fathead Glen Beck, YOU FIB!

Sweet Madame, I know you are a busy woman, a citizen of the world whose passport has been stamped more times than Carla Bruni (wink) but as they say in America, if you want something done right, go to the top! And I know of no higher authority in the Department of State - save for Vice-President Biden, who does not list his email online.

Rest assured I would have voted for you, save for my status as a citizen of the Republique Française. France, where the great libertarian and free-thinker Thomas Jefferson – middle namesake of your own free-swinging husband “Le Willy Luisant” – could educate and cavort with his true love Sally Hemmings! I appeal to your sense of patriotism, your sense of propriety, your sense of persecution!

And if all else fails, may I opt instead for traffic school?

Check enclosed,


A victim of circumstance
 .......



Scrawled on a cigarette rolling paper found as a MESSAGE IN A (Moet & Chandon) CHAMPAGNE BOTTLE

The Most Reverend Jesse Jackson –

My pleas to Amnesty International and the liberal media have fallen on deaf ears. Won’t you please help? In casting terms, you were always my first choice. If I were making a movie -- and believe me, before this Swiss sting operation, that’s exactly what I did between ski vacations and bible study – and I needed a suave, silver-tongued spiritual and social activist leader to play the private citizen cum diplomatic emissary, the role would be yours to lose! Man-to-man – we both rock a mean turtleneck, which is my way of saying “I dig your style.”

Let me put it another way – a non-nuclear Iran may be beyond your influence, but THIS is something you can accomplish.

Praying for a hero,


The Littlest Auteur

.......

EMAIL originally transcribed on a piece of one-ply toilet paper
 

To: bono@Amnestyinternatinal.org
cc: charlierose@bloomberg.com
cc: jerryspringer@jerry!jerry.tv

Good sirs –

Together you are the three most powerful men in the Jewish dominated media, and while only one of you is “technically” a member of the tribe, the remaining pair either work for Jews, or closely “identify” with our struggle. Though none of you are a filmmaker (nor need the gig to get with chicks – you all do fine on your own!) I ask that you lend your voices, and signatures, and bully pulpits to the huddle masses which have lined up behind me in support.

These include Oscar™ winner Martin Scorcese (not Jewish, but New York Italian!) Woody Allen (King of Jews!) Debra Winger (Oscar™-nominated Jewess!) Adrien Brody (Three-quarters Jew!) Sir Ben Kingsley (Gandhi AND a Jew!)

Why should you care? It is simple my landsman - Today, a Swiss prison, tomorrow a HUAC tribunal? There but for the grace of G-d, let he without sin, etc et al.

Let me be the first to wish you a belated L’shana Tovah!


Roman (my real last name) Polański

.......

ETCHED on a 1ply Dryer Fabric Softener sheet dropped at American Express, Zurich

Dear (NAME DELETED)

Free at last! Free at last!
I am out!

Without the time nor inclination for a “Hudsucker” denouement, I took matters into my own hands and volunteered for the prison laundry - an undesirable task in inhumane conditions – ever hear of “Swiss Laundry?” Exactement! 

Mummified in the scratchy sheets of my tormented sleep (150 thread count – sandpaper!) I tumbled vertiginously through an energy-saving cycle before squeezing out, born-again into newfound liberty via the linty loins of a steam vent. I am shaken, but not stirred, and my shirts have never been cleaner.

Disguised as a homely house frau in chain store-purchased dungarees – think of a taller Linda Hunt - I intend to sneak back into my hotel suite and retrieve—

POP! Flashbulbs! Merde!

PAPARAZZI!

And me in my chain store denim!


Jean Valjean


.......

E.C.U. (Extreme Close-up) DIGITAL VIDEO recorded on media card found in pocket of Wrangler (children’s) jeans retrieved outside Zurich Prison

Forgive me for I am weak.

(And for my derivative and under-lit composition - tres “Blair Witch.”)

I am returning to my Swiss hell, a baby bird to his nest. I am not meant for a life on the streets, hounded like a fox for the sport of those blood thirsty savages who will not be satisfied until I am ensconced in a squalid American minimum security facility for a presumed stay of 16 months to three years. (minus good behavior.)

Define “good behavior.”

I’d rather eat Nutella,

(Napoleon-in-Exile)
RP.

Sunday Sceneggiata

The Audacity/of Soap

An MSNBC survey asked:

What’s the biggest item you would steal from a hotel?
15.1% Wouldn’t steal anything
6.4% Towels
1.2% Slippers
2.7% Bathrobe
74.6% Just takes the soap, shampoo, and lotion

........

Come closer.

Oui mon coeur.. I am talking to you. And only you.
Your skin so perfect. So soft.

Like me.

Oui. We. Belong together.

I am exotic, this we know.

Born in the Orient.
Milled in Paris.

I am a citizen of the world.
A wanderer.
A seeker.

Like you.

That’s why we’re both here.
In this place.
At this moment.

Coincidence?

I don’t believe in coincidence.
I believe in you and me.

The catalytic explosion of chemistry. Le Big Bang.

I know what you are thinking (before you think it.)

You’re thinking –

“G-d does not play dice with the universe.
Anything Mother Nature makes that looks this good.
And smells this good.

Must feel so good.”

Come closer.

Take me.

You know you want to.

And I want to be taken.

(darkness)


........

I am alone.

In this strange place.

But unafraid.

The scents of bergamot and Provence Shea butter replaced by..

Renuzit?

(sniff)

Edelweiss and glacier buttercup overpowered by..

(sniff-sniff)

Pine-sol?

(sigh)

Why?

(sigh)

Why do you treat me so?

Shh. Don’t answer.
This is not what either of us expected.

Cie la vie.

I know you are seeing others. Using them.
Like you once dreamed of using me.

Do you not understand, mon petit chou?

When you use them, when you touch them, when you soil yourself by letting them rub themselves all across your body..

(moan)

You cheapen yourself.

Because you could be touching..

Me.

Allowing me to touch you.

What are you afraid of?

Is that it? Are you afraid?

Afraid to unwrap me, to ruffle my frilly decoupage?

To dance your fingertips along my timeless, Louis XIV contours.

To trace your tongue down my spine like a Mr. Whippy softserve cone?

Do you shiver when you peer at my pristine, chiseled physique?

Reminiscent of the chilly marble of Dave’s bedroom suite at the end of 2001, A Space Odyssey?

I am David. You are Bathsheba.
That is not a pun.

Ceci n'est pas un calembour.

Undress me – let me anoint you in juniper and sandalwood.

Let me sing to you with the smoky bonhomie of Leonard Cohen.

Let’s take a bath together and watch all of Kieslowski’s Decalogue.

What was that? How do I know so much about the cinema?

Pay-per-view, of course!

I am shocked you do not have a television in your bathroom.
You call this “living?”

I would rather endure the downward spiral of the drain..

No!.
Do not go! Not yet!

Do not shut me out. Do not –

(darkness, redux)


........

A dream of flight.

No. A dreamy flight. First class.
The clink-clink of airline crystal.

The pop of champagne.

Bubbles.
I know bubbles.

You’re taking me away.
I always knew you would.

Sweet music of an elevator.
Penthouse level.
Ding. Ding.

Music to my ears.

Déjà vu.
(all over again)

The perfume of freshly scrubbed Roman marble.
Brightly polished brass.

A five-star hotel suite.
The manner to which I’m accustomed.

We will rendezvous.
Tonight.

‘til then..

Au voir..

(interminable darkness)






.......

Time stood still while you were gone. Anticipation fed my soul.

How was my trip?

Eh. The usual.

The clumsy choreography of airport security.

Their ham hands and thick sausage fingers fumbling through your toiletry kit.

Shaking but not stirring my heaven-sent scent.

But that was then.

And now – we are alone
(at last.)

Would you like to freshen up first?
Or simply join me in the shower?

(grrrrowwl)

Mon cher?

Where are you going?
Leave your baggage at the door.

(Again, not a pun.)

Mon amour?

(!)

Sacre bleu – you are not unpacking.
You are packing up!

The rejuvenating lotion, the botanical shampoo!

Merd!
How could I have been so stupid?

And you?

Are you so superficial as to sell your soul for a whiff of lemongrass and chamomile?
A hint of tea tree oil and verbana.

You are leaving me for THAT?

Ha!

You will find that I am more than just a pretty label slapped across a (non)biodegradable polyethethylene fliptop bottle.

I am a survivor.
I will wait.

And I will find you.
This is my solemn promise.

Just as Daniel Day Lewis promised Madeline Stowe beneath the waterfall in
The Last of the Mohicans.

I will find you!

You will see!
We are meant to be.

You will be back – you filthy little..

Ho!

Someone harkens..
The servants?

No. I knew you would return – it was only a matter of..

Hellooooo…

Who are you?
Have we met before?

No, I would have remembered.

Are you..

New? Just checking in?

In our fair city for a short visit.
Of course.

Looking for a bit of good, clean fun.

(blush)

Do not be embarrassed.

We are the same, you and I.

Your pleasure is my pleasure.
Your future my path.

We meet at a fortuitous time.

(purrr)

Come closer..

Sunday Sceneggiata