Thursday, January 17, 2008

Super-Dave goes nuts

Generally speaking, you shouldn't write when you're depressed.
Worse still when you are in a manic phase.

You end up with a piece that's really scary.

Like:




It was fun being a superstar.

People would say, "There goes Super Dave , the superstar.
"Dave be nimble, Dave be quick!"

I was jumping over so many candlesticks.

A superstar is one who make his entire living on largely his own B.S., and I guess at this, I qualified.
I was a writer and a teacher of writing, I was a musician and a teacher of music
I was a sexual acrobat long before Cirque de Soleil, where I'm told they have some wild apres' performance parties.
I was convinced the whole world was really my idea.

"What," you may ask, "Did your wife think of all this?"
She didn't.

"Okay, Superstar, here's mop. The kitchen floor is filthy from where you do your nightly pace after class, drinking, and thinking. Thinking you're somebody.
"But I am a superstar, Martha. I am an artist."
"Artist isn't too far off from another word that starts with an a. Get the mop.!
Sigh.
Brought back down to earth again.

It all came from a slim novel that gained a large cult following. It dealt with survival and had a catchy title, certainly in todays world: The Black Icon.

Then the newpaper column, a dalliance with Martin Lynch, the Globe and Mail's typographer-poet who showed me how to get to the heart of the matter in writing; there was a groupie I dared not confess to and a call from the college, who wanted to make me an ein profesor! Ja, gemacht!

But then superstardom is something a family develops over many generations.

Dropped on a potato field in Ukraine many moons back, I knew my first cousin was really a potato and knew for sure my family crest had two crrossed hoes rampant on a potato field. I knew my luck wouldn't last, potato-head upstart, and it didn't.

I picked up a whiskey habit and a pint-sized hooker with an IQ of 140. Veritably, a f*cking genius.
Systems analyst by day, hooker at night.
But she did like to flatter me.
"We have IQ's of 140 plus. We can create things. We can make things sing and dance. People hate us."
Well, I knew for sure some people hated her.
And probably me.
We both shared an ability to really work on people's insecurities by our self confidence, our brashnes, our outright being bad.
"We be bad." Same as the two horny cats in the R.Crumb underground comic.

Hung up on each other and yowling madrigals to the world, in five tones. Oh, we were so hip. We superstars.
But she was a superstar of a different magnitude. Jezebel of Holland Landing.
And I was just poor Mr. Potato Head hoping for some, uh head..

Well, sometimes one's own wife can defuse a bad situation, where the poor professor has a guttening candle on his head and is following some image of a porn queen.
"Wha are you doin' McLuhan?"

Gave me a start
What was I doing?

Ah, excesses of the noveau riche. Never had any money. Never had any fame.
Now I just wanted to jump up and grab my own tail. Or apiece of the hooker's.

I was pulled back home, almost by the ear.

But I didn't stay long.
Foxy chicks. Gotta get. All the ones I missed in high school.


Soon I was in an "Eyes Wide Shut" world of Stanley Kubrick.

Pimps, priests, police, poltergeists.

No wonder young stars go wild in Hollywood. I was merely in Holland Landing, and that was bad enough.

I had written in my high school year book that I feared I would be "quite ordinary."

Oh if only.


And here am I in a psycho ward, throwing turds at my keeper.

"This is the guy who had been telling us what to think, how to behave.
"Friggin arsehole."

"Is that a diagonsis?"
"Yes, it is a diagonosis."

"But I was a superstar".
"You're an arsehole."

"I knew that! Now tell me what's wrong with me!"

"You believe in that sort of sh*t? You think psychoanalysis is for real?

"This place is for arseholes. They have fancy names for them, but they're still arsholes. Nobody want to know one. Nobody wants them, really. So they end up here.

Ah superstardom.

Maybe the whole thing was in my head to begin with.

Now I've got to design this really cool glider to get the hell out of here!

Brewster McCloud.

Superstar.

"Oh, Brewster," I heard my hooker pal sigh to me, next cage over.

LOL.

14 comments:

Josie said...

It's that old fear of success bugaboo, Ivan. Self-destruction. Somehow something in your psyche didn't believe you deserved success, so you actively screwed it up.

ivan said...

Heh.
You're only saying that because it's true.

the walking man said...

Fuck it, you lived the life you lived, one definitely not on the beaten path, and the only thing wrong with any of it is that you regret some of it. Why?

Don't throw shit at your keepers get a small baggie and throw shit and piss at them, it works better when it splatters against the cell bars.

Peace

mark

Middle Ditch said...

:-)

Shesawriter said...

You know, I never understood the fear of success until I actually said to myself one day, "What if all that you wish for is granted?"

I have to tell you, for a brief (very brief) moment, I was absolutely terrified. I mean full shot of adrenaline to the heart terrified. The feeling passed but it left behind a hint of anxiety that has not lifted.

ivan said...

Mark,

It's scary when you're being held sort of incognito.
You wanna break out and the first thing you bump up against is a fat orderly who just loves the physical contact. Lol.
I swear there were parts of my life what were straight out of Nicholas Gogol's Diary of a Madman.
Gogol had his madman intending to go to Spain, but ending up in a madhouse instead.
Says the madman: "Spain is a terrible country. They are so rude.
And they beat you often, with sticks." LOL.

ivan said...

Tanya,

There is certainly a period of "numbness" when the first real success hits.
After getting a phone call confirming that my essay for the Globe and Mail was accepted, I was totally incapable of operating a company fax machine so the editor could put the contract through.

Immobilized by success.
The Globe, after all, was a world-class newspaper, and who was I?

Happily, a fellow-employee (my boss, actually) soon inserted some paper into the fax machine and the contract went through.
Patted me on the back. "Scared, huh?"
I was, sort of scared. The success was something of a fluke and it almost bowled me over.

ivan said...

Middle ditch:

Heh.
The smile of reason.

Lana Gramlich said...

*LOL @ the family crest!* Reminds me of the logo for a smalltown baseball team in Ontario called the "Bethel Bombers"; 2 bats crossed behind a big mug of beer!

ivan said...

Lana,

Bethel Bombers.

"2 bats crossed behind a big mug of beer!"
Most cool! :)

Charles Gramlich said...

I got a laugh at this one. I remember Super Dave. I remember a joke Ron White told about the guy who rolled his shit into little balls. Yeah, not far from throwing turds.

ivan said...

I just loved Super Dave.

All of his self-confident, professional daredevil stunts lead to disaster.
So much like yours truly! :)

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