.cousin reginald catches the thanksgiving turkey painted by norman rockwell.

.thanksgiving day, nov. 28, 1986 read by william s. burroughs directed by gus van sant.

.rayman raving rabbids bunnies very useful scientific facts : bunnies can’t cook turkey spot.

.the thanksgiving visitor written and narrated by truman capote starring geraldine page and michaeal kearney.adapted for sell-a-vision by eleanor perry with capote.directed by frank perry.

.joaquin phoenix thanksgiving peta ad reminds us holidays can be murder on turkeys.

.johnny cash sings thanksgiving prayer on dr. quinn, medicine woman.

.a charlie brown thanksgiving.though it’s the great pumpkin, charlie brown is my favourite.

.that idaho-born sweat potato sarah palin.may your wretched body return to the dirt quite soon.

.thanksgiving trailer directed by eli roth.

.jibjab presents thanksgiving cranberry slaughter.

.christina ricci as wednesday addams telling it like it is.burroughs would be proud.

Some artists ––– oh, say, Leonardo Da Vinci —— are known for their discipline and concentration. Consider the number of sketches he made for a horse statue that was never completed. Others, however, have taken the tack that to be an artist or an intellectual, you must somehow be undisciplined, clueless, and/or completely self-absorbed. THOSE are the kind Hollywood likes. After you’ve been awed by Leonardo at the High’s Hand of the Genius exhibition at our 12-hour artfest Go All Night, why not visit with some of his lesser brethren?

Eleanor Ringel Cater’s picks:

Barton Fink

Barton Fink (1991)

Leave it to the brothers Coen to come up with something as hilariously berserk and mind-teasingly perverse as this surreal black comedy about (of all things) writer’s block. A High-minded New York playwright, Barton Fink (John Turturro) is lured to 1941 Hollywood to give “that Barton Fink feeling” to a Wallace Beery wrestling movie. On one level, the film is about Fink’s Day-of-the-Locust encounters with moguls, producers and washed-up self-loathing Southern writers who’ve sold out to the flicks. But then there’s also the Earle, the hotel where Barton is holed up to write his masterpiece. A hotel worthy of The Shining, it’s also home to genial traveling salesman, John Goodman, who’s got stories to tell. LOTS of ‘em. The picture is a brainy goof, fleshed out by the brilliant performances, the rich production design and the Coen’s ever-clever camera. It’s as bleakly funny and tantalizingly obtuse as a Beckett on-act. I’ll give you the life of the mind…..

Naked Lunch (1991)

It will eat you alive if you’re not well-versed in the coded cool of Beat junkie icon, William S. Burroughs, or the insect-infected visions of director David Cronenberg (The Fly). And even if you are, this mercilessly exacting black comedy will leave its teeth marks on you.

Part biography, part literary adaptation, the film is less a literal rendering of the writer’s scandalous 1959 novel than a jazz-riff interpretation. Turning down the role of Robocop 3 (!), Peter Weller is the Burroughs surrogate who travels from 1953 New York to the Interzone — a kind of surreal Tangiers of the mind, populated by sweaty addicts, decadent ex-patriots and typewriters that mutate into giant talking bugs. However, those less than enthralled with Burroughs’ masturbatory self-infatuation may find this daring demanding picture something of a Pyrrhic victory. That is, more worthily done, perhaps, than worth doing.

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (1998)

Too much is never enough for fabled gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson and director Terry Gilliam. You could almost say they are a match made in excess heaven (or hell). This is Hollywood’s second attempt to translate Thompson’s 1971 book about his drug-drenched trip to Vegas, the first being the rather abysmal Where the Buffalo Roam, starring a game Bill Murray.

Here, it’s the ever-unpredictable Johnny Depp who takes on the role of Raoul Duke (Thompson’s alter-ego) and a chunked-up pre-Oscar Benicio Del Toro plays Dr. Gonzo, Duke’s lawyer/companion-in-chaos. The assignment — as if it matters — is a dirt-bike race. Their true quest is to ingest every kind of “uppers, downers, screamers, laughers” they can find. Plus several oceans of booze. However, like most drug experiences, the film has a downside, too. Barely making it out of Vegas alive the first time, they’re dragged back in (like Pacino in Godfather III) for another round of the same thing.

Still, Depp is astonishing, Joe Coker by way of John Belushi and pure pandemonium on the prowl. The movie isn’t exactly a success, but it’s the most glorious kind of failure: Imaginative, uncompromising and true to itself. A tip: if hearing Debbie Reynolds tell a Vegas crowd, “Let’s rock and roll!” doesn’t crack you up, you don’t want any part of this movie. Not even the good parts.

Linda Dubler’s picks:

A Bucket of Blood

A Bucket of Blood (1959)

With its lurid title and down at the heels production values, A Bucket of Blood is a sterling example of legendary B-movie producer/director Roger Corman’s talent for entertaining, inspired schlock. The film’s central character, Walter Paisley (Dick Miller), is a bus boy at a beatnik coffee house who is so inept he makes Maynard G. Krebs look like Jackson Pollock.

Poor, talentless Walter longs for the limelight, so when his landlady’s cat dies accidentally, he covers the stiff feline in plaster, a la George Segal, and presents the critter as a work of art. The hipsters are wowed, and soon the would-be-genius is trolling for additional bodies to receive the Paisley treatment. The lively script was written by Charles Griffith, screenwriter for The Little Shop of Horrors. Corman mentored Scorsese, Coppola, and Jonathan Demme among others, so even if you’re not a B-movie fan, consider taking a look.

Sullivan’s Travels (1941)

The grass is always greener – even for those who’ve successfully made it to the other side. Such is the case for Sullivan, a sought-after Hollywood director known for hits like Ants in Your Pants of 1939. Yearning for the gravity and respect that genius endows, this would be Steinbeck declares he’s finished with fluff and ready to undertake his masterpiece, a gritty, relevant opus called Oh Brother Where Art Thou? But before he can write about the common man, it would help to meet a few.

Sullivan and his fetching, hold-the-hooey secretary (Veronica Lake, famous for her peek-a-boo wave) take to the road in a luxuriously appointed Airstream in search of America. Preston Sturges, a treasure of American cinema and the writer/director behind The Palm Beach Story and The Lady Eve, mixes comedy with melodrama in this delicious satire of self-importance and fame.

The Lady Eve (1941) , Ball of Fire (1941) , and Bringing Up Baby (1938)

The movies are full of evil geniuses (Dr. Frankenstein and his many peers), troubled geniuses (viz. any standard issue artist bio pic, from Lust for Life to Basquiat), even idiotic geniuses (e.g. Austin Powers), but my favorite variety are the clueless intellectuals, beloved by the makes of classic screwball comedies. Invariably men, these champions of book learnin’ are short on smarts and easy marks for women who either thing or two about the world, or are so ditzy they defy comprehension.

In The Lady Eve, Henry Fonda is a herpetologist (a snake specialist to be precise) who makes an appetizing victim for slithery card-sharp Barbara Stanwyck. Stanwyck shows up again in Ball of Fire as Sugarpuss O’Shea, a nightclub singer who knows her way around a colloquialism, who ends up hiding out in a house full of lexographers, among them sexy language specialist Prof. Bertram Potts (Gary Cooper). And in what’s probably my favorite American comedy, Katherine Hepburn is as untamed as the titular leopard Baby, driving poor paleontologist Cary Grant around the bend and into her waiting arms. After a lousy day or a lousy week, any one of these gems will help to chase away the blues.

“Joe Truposz należy do wybranej rasy banitów, znanych jako NB, naturalni banici, którzy dążą do złamania tak zwanych wszechświatowych praw naturalnych, narzuconych nam przez fizyków, chemików, matematyków, biologów, oraz przede wszystkim: by zastąpić gigantyczne oszustwo przyczyny i skutku koncepcją synchroniczności, dającą o wiele więcej możliwości.

Zwyczajni banici łamią prawa ustanowione przez ludzi. Zakazy kradzieży i zabójstwa są łamane w każdej sekundzie. Prawo naturalne łamie się tylko raz. Dla zwykłego przestępcy złamanie prawa jest środkiem do celu: zdobycia pieniędzy, usunięcia źródła zagrożenia lub irytacji. Dla NB złamanie prawa naturalnego stanowi cel sam w sobie: kres tego prawa.“

William S. Burroughs, Zachodnia Kraina

Il Giorno del Ringraziamento (Thanksgiving Day) è una festa osservata negli Stati uniti e in Canada: si celebra il quarto giovedì di Novembre, in segno di gratitudine per la fine della stagione del raccolto.

Risalente al 1623, e istituita dai Padri Pellegrini (quelli sbarcati in America a bordo della Mayflower, per intenderci), la festa si estese, anche grazie a George Washington, in tutti gli Stati e a metà del XIX° secolo era già unanimemente riconosciuta. Con il tempo la festa acquistò anche una certa sfumatura di patriottismo.

In occasione dell’annuale ricorrenza, che scade giovedì prossimo, qui su Bizzarro Bazar pubblichiamo un testo di  William S. Burroughs dedicato al Ringraziamento, cogliendo l’occasione per introdurre i suoi lettori alla forza dissacrante di un genio letterario senza pari.

Inizialmente associato alla beat generation di Kerouac, Ginsberg & soci, Burroughs ha in seguito intrapreso una ricerca artistica che ha influenzato tutta la seconda metà del ‘900, e che continua ad ispirare le avanguardie moderne. E’ difficile illustrare quanto importante sia stato il suo peso nei diversi campi artistici: le sue tecniche e i suoi temi si ritrovano nella letteratura, nella musica, nell’arte figurativa, nella body art, nel cinema.

Esploratore della coscienza e del perturbante, psiconauta per antonomasia, cultore di visioni macabre ed estreme ed artefice di un umorismo al vetriolo, il vecchio zio Bill ha praticamente scardinato ogni classico assunto culturale.

Angoscia del Controllo, distruzione dell’identità, algebra del bisogno, scarafaggi e Disinfestatori, “scimmie” sulla schiena, millepiedi allucinogeni, morbide macchine del sogno, esseri mutanti dalle forme imprecise, tossicomani e omosessuali, il cut-up come metodo non-logico per sottrarsi alla dipendenza del pensiero.

Questi, a grandi linee, i temi ossessivamente ripetuti da William S. Burroughs lungo tutta la sua carriera di romanziere e saggista, a partire da quando nel 1959 venne pubblicato Il Pasto Nudo, a tutt’oggi considerato il suo capolavoro, e grossi intellettuali e letterati americani si mossero per difendere il romanzo dalle accuse di oscenità e immoralità.

La sua vita stessa assomiglia ad un’opera d’arte. In tempi non sospetti (anni ‘40-’50) ha provato tutte le droghe esistenti, è stato eroinomane per sedici anni, ha ucciso sua moglie (sposata con l’unico scopo di darle cittadinanza americana) con un colpo di pistola mentre strafatti giocavano a inscenare la sfida di Guglielmo Tell. E’ stato omosessuale e tossicodipendente, ha elaborato la teoria secondo cui il linguaggio sarebbe un virus letale, ha cercato di sbriciolare i limiti del dicibile mediante diverse tecniche quali il cut-up, ha confuso il confine fra narrativa e pornografia, ha intrapreso avventurosi viaggi per provare droghe sconosciute come lo yage (la liana magica degli sciamani dell’Amazzonia), ha rivoluzionato ed esploso la forma del romanzo, ha creato dipinti sparando a dei barattoli di colore… ha lottato per tutta la vita contro il concetto di “controllo”, cercando di liberare la letteratura e la mente dagli insidiosi vincoli del condizionamento. In breve, un autore irrinunciabile.

Per ritornare al Giorno del Ringraziamento, vi proponiamo qui il testo e la traduzione di una preghiera (tutt’altro che patriottica, come vedrete) scritta da Burroughs nel 1986.  Più in sotto, troverete il video in cui William Burroughs recita il testo, per la regia di Gus Van Sant.

A THANKSGIVING PRAYER

by William S. Burroughs

Thanks for the wild turkey and the passenger pigeons, destined to be shit out through wholesome American guts.

Thanks for a continent to despoil and poison.

Thanks for Indians to provide a modicum of challenge and danger.

Thanks for vast herds of bison to kill and skin leaving the carcasses to rot.

Thanks for bounties on wolves and coyotes.

Thanks for the American dream, To vulgarize and to falsify until the bare lies shine through.

Thanks for the KKK.

For nigger-killin’ lawmen, feelin’ their notches.

For decent church-goin’ women, with their mean, pinched, bitter, evil faces.

Thanks for “Kill a Queer for Christ” stickers.

Thanks for laboratory AIDS.

Thanks for Prohibition and the war against drugs.

Thanks for a country where nobody’s allowed to mind the own business.

Thanks for a nation of finks.

Yes, thanks for all the memories– all right let’s see your arms!

You always were a headache and you always were a bore.

Thanks for the last and greatest betrayal of the last and greatest of human dreams.

UNA PREGHIERA PER IL GIORNO DEL RINGRAZIAMENTO

di William S. Burroughs

Grazie per il tacchino selvatico e i piccioni di passaggio, destinati ad essere cagati fuori attraverso budella del tutto Americane.

Grazie per un continente da rovinare e avvelenare.

Grazie per gli Indiani per fornire un minimo di sfida e pericolo.

Grazie per le vaste mandrie di bisonti da uccidere e spellare lasciando le carcasse a imputridire.

Grazie delle taglie sui lupi e sui coyote.

Grazie per il sogno Americano, Volgarizzare e Falsificare finché le nude menzogne non risplendano.

Grazie per il Ku Klux Klan.

Per gli uomini della legge ammazzanegri, che contano le tacche.

Per le decenti donne di chiesa, con le loro malvagie, contrite, amare, cattive facce.

Grazie per gli adesivi “Uccidi una Checca per Cristo”.

Grazie per l’AIDS da laboratorio.

Grazie per il Proibizionismo e la guerra contro le droghe.

Grazie per un paese dove a nessuno è permesso farsi gli affari suoi.

Grazie per una nazione di senzapalle.

Sì, grazie per tutti i ricordi ― va bene, ora vediamo le tue braccia!

Sei sempre stato un mal di testa e sei sempre stato una noia.

Grazie per l’ultimo e massimo tradimento dell’ultimo e massimo tra i sogni umani.

I’ve been tuning into some of the discussion occurring around the internet concerning review writing in Canada. It’s certainly an issue that gets the blood boiling, since it involves the interpretation of writing which, at its core, seeks to sort valued work from doggerel and discover what we consider truly good writing. The concern seems to be centered around ideas of writer intension and reviewer assessment of a work.

Over at Table Music, Chris Banks’  blog, there has been some back and forth on the issue stemming from a quote posted on the part of the site author by William S. Burroughs from his essay “A Review of the Reviewers”. To what extent does personal bias and prejudice on the part of the reviewer factor into her/his assessment of a writer’s work? Is it proper that this bias come into a book review at all? Is there a balance that can be reached between objective assessment and personal preference? These questions have been tossed around a bit already and the comments section of this post has some interesting points, if you feel like probing into it.

I suppose my recent cut-up experiment is more about marketing than writing. It’s certainly easier to write a cut-up than it is to get someone to read it, but I don’t want to trick anyone into reading something that isn’t any good. Quality should always come first. One should believe they have a product of top-notch quality before promoting and marketing it. One produces a good cut-up the same way one creates good poetry or prose – study, practice, persistence, and patience.

I used to think maybe I was “cheating” when I added, deleted, or otherwise manipulated the raw composite of two different texts joined together in the middle. Finally, a quote from William Burroughs himself, which I found at Reality Studio, put my mind at ease. In a statement to the 1962 International Writers’ Conference, Burroughs said, “In using the fold in method I edit, delete, and rearrange as in any other method of composition.”

Note: A fold-in is simply a variation of the cut-up. As Burroughs explains in the same Statement to the 1962 International Writer’s Conference:

“Brion Gysin, an American painter living in Paris, has used what he calls ‘the cut up method’ to place at the disposal of writers the collage used in painting for fifty years — Pages of text are cut and rearranged to form new combinations of word and image — In writing my last two novels, Nova Express and The Ticket That Exploded, i have used an extension of the cut up method I call ‘the fold in method’ — A page of text — my own or some one else’s — is folded down the middle and placed on another page — The composite text is then read across half one text and half the other — The fold in method extends to writing the flash back used in films, enabling the writer to move backwards and forwards on his time track — For example I take page one and fold it into page one hundred — I insert the resulting composite as page ten — When the reader reads page ten he is flashing forwards in time to page one hundred and back in time to page one — The deja vue phenomena can so be produced to order — (This method is of course used in music where we are continually moved backwards and forward on the time track by repetition and rearrangements of musical themes.”

Go to Reality Studio to read more of Burroughs’ statement as published in the Transatlantic Review

Now, back to my statement that quality should always come first. I’m enjoying a novel by Jeff VanderMeer called Finch (the third and possibly last in the Ambergris cycle). This reminded me that Jeff and I had briefly discussed an article by Jessa Crispin about Jeff’s other new book, Booklife. It went like this:

19 October 2009 at 6:21 PM

Bill Ectric says:

Jeff, I would like to say a word about the one negative review of Booklife that I’ve read. I’m a fan of Jessa Crispin and many of the books she recommends are right up my alley, but when she says Booklife “made her uneasy” and has questionable priorites, it occurs to me that virtually every book Crispin likes has already been through the “networking” and “ego-feeding” processes that she apparently finds distasteful. The difference is, in many cases, those authors have people in the trenches to do the legwork and nurturing for them. Jeff, I believe you wrote Booklife for authors who must “switch hats” from artist to publicist to merchant without loosing foucus. Anyone who has read your fiction knows that creativity and skill are first and foremost. I’m finding Booklife to be quite solid and helpful.

19 October 2009 at 6:27 PM

JeffVanderMeer says:

Bill: I was bothered by it because it seemed to insinuate that I was being dishonest in the book. But I’ve since asked Jessa if I can interview her for this site, and she accepted. That’ll run sometime in November or December, but it’ll go into more detail about her views on writing, creativity, and careers. I do plan in the second edition to reference that “non review” as she called it, in the context of double and triple making sure that readers understand why I’m offering up the information in the Public Booklife section.

I really look forward to further dialogue between Jeff and Jessa, two of my favorite bloggers, and I hope it happens!

Fresh from the research field!

I’m the first to admit this experiment was not as scientifically controlled as it could have been. It was more of a warm-up exercise; nevertheless, I did learn something that I found quite interesting.

First, a brief summary of the experiment:

I created a piece of cut-up writing from two newspaper articles and asked twenty people to read it. Each person was asked to write a brief summary, at least one sentence, as to what the piece was about. There were no wrong answers, as this particular cut-up piece was by no means self-contained and coherent. I did in fact have a story line in mind when I created the piece, but the point of the experiment was not really what the readers thought the piece was about, but whether or not they even gave it a chance.   

The readers were divided evenly into two groups. When I say “groups” I don’t mean they were gathered together in one room at the same time. I interacted with each person individually.

Group One received no explanation at all as to the technique I used to write the cut-up, nor were they advised of the sources material (newspaper articles A and B), or given any other information. 

I gave Group Two an explanation of the cut-up method and briefly described my source material. In a departure from my original plan, I gave in to temptation and added more “clues” after the first two subjects in Group Two expressed complete bafflement upon reading the cut-up. Beginning with the third person in Group Two, I asked them think of the piece as Science Fiction. By the fifth person, I found myself explaining that some cut-ups are impressionistic, evoking images or feelings that are not literally stated. As I said earlier, this was not a strictly controlled experiment.

 The interesting discovery I mentioned at the beginning of this article is this: The more I spoke to each subject about the cut-up, the more they found to say about it after they read it. This is not to say they necessarily understood what they were reading, if that were even possible, but even if they didn’t understand it, they were more willing to talk about it and less shy about venturing “guesses” about the meaning of the piece.  

 This result seems to confirm my hypothesis, which is that the work of William S. Burroughs would be much less accessible without the helpful blurbs and reviews that serve essentially as tutorials to potential readers, as exemplified in the Amazon.com Product Description for The Soft Machine:

“An adventure that will take us even further into the dark recesses of his imagination, a region where nothing is sacred, nothing taboo. Continuing his ferocious verbal assault on hatred, hype, poverty, war, bureaucracy, and addiction in all its forms, Burroughs gives us a surreal space odyssey through the wounded galaxies in a book only he could create.”

 I am not suggesting that Burroughs is anything less than a genius, or that he owes his reputation only to hype and marketing. Far from it; he is one of my favorite writers and my favorite person to hear reading from his own books in audio recordings. I do, however, believe that the promotional blurbs and reviews bring in more readers who would otherwise deem his work unreadable. While this is somewhat true for almost any book (think of an American Literature teacher saying, “While reading Gatsby, look for examples of excess and decadence…”), it is especially true for the cut-up works of Burroughs and other writers.

One might say, “And you needed an experiment to prove that?” Still, until something is proven, it is only an assumption, no matter how obvious it seems.

A more in depth study would include a higher number of subjects, divided into more groups based on their reading habits as determined by a questionnaire. I simply asked each potential subject if they preferred fiction or nonfiction, whether or not they ever shop on Amazon.com or Barnes & Noble, and approximately how many books they read in the past year. There were an equal number of men and women in each group.

What follows is the cut-up piece that I used in the experiment, followed by a record of the responses from the twenty subjects, reproduced as closely as possible to their actual written responses.

(My comments are in parentheses and italics).

 The Cut-up:

A friend from Cairo and that man, Reynolds, if he would, in the midst of a telescope someone starts to cry. Florida feels helpless and sure.

“Reynolds, they don’t know how to have you.”

“Got that, suddenly,” said Reynolds. “We’ll ship them rather than facts. Woman friend, an official worry, justifiable in most technologies.”

“Edibility and competent. How many have they asked again, or too emotional to succeed?

“We’ll get them out environmentally. Next few weeks. The crying is, how many are conned voluntarily responding? It’s old, an association that can muster tears and science actors.”

“College at Jacksonville on the Westside, about 12,000.  Expect the eye. Humans.”

Reynolds gulped and replied, “Among all the creatures, the five tractors have facial nerves and use Northeast Florida as respiratory and facial, which is closely related, so distributing them free, they sometimes merge, and other organized laughter.”

“And a 1986 Florida teacher, other former executives in communication centers in Oakland, evidenced when infants donate members. Attention strong, because the company may trigger that line.”

“Anymore, anger a society member such as joy, and since it types range, it may be related.”

 Group One Responses (no information given) 

1. I don’t know
2. I have no clue
3. Confusing. A hurricane headed for Jacksonville?
4. I don’t get it.
5. NASA space shuttle
6. He talks about humans, so they must not be human (Good deductive reasoning, I thought. This person might enjoy cut-up writing)
7. No interpretation can be made. Sentence fragments yield no clear story or idea.
8. I don’t know. I see words with no meaning.
9. It’s about college students trying to save the environment
10. Women in the field of technology  

 Group 2 – Given Extra Information

1. Sounded like a combination of 3 articles. One is about a shipping company, one a flyer for FCCJ (Florida Community College of Jacksonville – Bill). The other is a laboratory.
2. The telescopes are coming to life or being born. What are they going to do next? They might try to take over the world like Transformers.
3. It sounds horrible. Crying, worry, facial nerves
4. The dichotomy of cybernetics. Technology taking over humanity
5. You had too much coffee. (Even this somewhat flippant remark demonstrates more willingness to contribute original thought than simply stating, “I don’t know” or “I have no clue.”  On a personal note, I would rather be accused of drinking too much coffee than of writing something so bland it only merits an “I don’t know”. – Bill)
6. Alien conversation about abducting humans for use on another planet. The aliens are trying to speak English but they don’t know the language well. (This was my favorite response and closest to the story I formed in my own mind as I manipulated the text. – Bill)
7. Two people talking about the environment and how it angers society but it needs to be talked about
8. It’s a nightmare, one where you want to wake up
9. Cloning and stem cells. They are growing eyes and other body parts
10. Is this about Mike Reynolds at Florida State College? (Mike Reynolds is a Professor of Astronomy at Florida State College at Jacksonville, FL, and yes, the telescope article does mention him. – Bill) 

Frammenti di delirio, accozzaglia di pensieri sconnessi e visioni più d’una volta fortemente predittive di drammi destinati a superare la dimensione individuale, che ben presto sarebbero divenuti collettivi. La cronaca di una malattia, quindici anni di sistematica e metodica tossicodipendenza. Le immagini violente e allucinate formano una sequenza che nella sua spietata immediatezza risulta impossibile da ignorare. Pasto nudo è tutto questo, il racconto visivo di una ripugnante condizione vissuta intimamente dietro la quale s’intravede il destino di altri, di tutti gli uomini, un modello umano. Una serie di istantanee esemplari di una condizione servita «sulla punta della forchetta».

La dipendenza dalla droga diviene in Burroughs sperimentazione, al più alto livello, e nello stesso tempo metafora, di qualunque forma di controllo finalizzata allo sfruttamento dell’uomo.

1 – Non dare mai niente per niente.
2 – Non dare mai più di quel che si deve (prendere sempre per fame il cliente e farlo aspettare).
3 – Riprendersi sempre tutto se possibile.

La comunanza di regole fa sì che il rapporto tra Spacciatore e tossicodipendente divenga in Burroughs allegoria del vincolo tra singolo e Sistema nella società dei consumi. L’Uomo si annulla nel tossicodipendente così come si aliena nel consumatore. La roba, così vicina dal punto di vista lessicale al termine generico di cosa, ugualmente mercificata, prodotta, commercializzata, è tra le merci quella ultima, il prodotto ideale.

La roba è il prodotto ideale… la merce ultima. Per venderla non sono necessarie tante chiacchiere. Il cliente è disposto a strisciare in una fogna supplicando di poterla comprare… Il mercante di droga non vende il suo prodotto al consumatore, vende il consumatore al suo prodotto. Non migliora né semplifica la merce. Degrada e semplifica il cliente. Paga la gente che lavora per lui in droga. La droga produce la formula di base del virus del «male»: L’Algebra del Bisogno.

La massima espressione della eteroinduzione del bisogno. L’uomo degrada a merce. Tutto quello che si fa per la roba è anche tutto quel che si è pronti a fare per qualsivoglia bene di consumo, per la possibilità di scelta tra di essi, alimentati dal medesimo vuoto: si mente, si imbroglia, si ruba. Si è disposti a tutto pur di perpetrare la propria condizione di possessori e posseduti dalle cose. La droga diviene così metafora di un condizionamento che di fatto si attua in modo ancor più capillare ed ugualmente implacabile attraverso le molteplici manifestazioni della dipendenza dai prodotti nelle attuali società industrializzate.

Come vedete il controllo non può mai essere un mezzo per perseguire un fine pratico… Non può mai essere un mezzo per conseguire qualcosa che non sia un controllo maggiore… Come la droga…

Pasto nudo converge esattamente in questo punto. Il punto in cui diviene chiara, servita nel modo che non ne tollera più l’ignoranza, la condizione umana. Ed è ciò che fa di Burroughs l’autore di uno dei ritratti più impietosi e feroci dell’uomo moderno.

William S. Burroughs, Pasto nudo, traduzione di Franca Cavagnoli, Adelphi, 2006

ART VOLUME ONE PRESENTS:

The Road to Interzone: Reading William S. Burroughs Reading

by Michael Stevens

“The Road to Interzone is the result of a fascination with the works of William S. Burroughs and the literary influence that made his legendary canon of work possible. Here, the raw material of the shaping spirit of the imagination, is analyzed by presenting quotes and selections from Burroughs works (novels, interviews, criticism, etc.) alongside the primary literary sources that influenced him.

Also contained herein are listings from the recorded archives of the books Burroughs read through most of his lifetime. Redacted from university archives and WSB’s personal libraries, these listings attempt to catalog the source materials of what was to become Burroughs literary legacy.

The Road to Interzone provides the skeleton for an interpretation of the operational processes of influence and the function of artistic inspiration.”

“Editorial Review:

Michael Stevens has found the right vein, circulating raw material of the mind of visionary genius in post modern literature and art. His exhaustive compendia and matrix is like the fractal’s pattern bringing similarities that could reveal whole equation. He has provided the reader with the sources of allusion, influences, critiques, and the spirit of scatological obsessions of the late William S. Burroughs, the well-read innovator, inventor, and investigator in literature, art, culture and cosmology. Ezra Pound once advised readers who thought the Cantos too obscure, to just think of them as people throughout history sitting around talking. This book allows me the conversations with Uncle Bill that I unfortunately neglected in his presence. –Charles Plymell

To scan Michael Stevens’ bibliography is to dream of entering into William Burroughs’ head from a new angle — not from his writings but from his readings. You can’t live Burroughs’ life but you can read the books he read. You can infect yourself with the same word virus he picked up in writers ranging from Abrahamson (Crime and the Human Mind) to Yeats ( ‘cast a cold eye on life, a cold eye on death…’ ) Will these get you any closer to the mutations Burroughs performed on the word virus? Doubtless you’ll understand the man and his work better. And perhaps, with the help of the creative reading Burroughs espoused, Road to Interzone will even put you in position to subject the same viral sources to a few new mutations of your own. –RealityStudio.org

‘A fascinating and richly helpful piece of literary archeology, tracing as broadly as possible the sources William Burroughs had available to him as he wrote. Both the title and the method echo the classic Road to Xanadu, John Livingston Lowes excavation of Coleridge s reading: Coleridge, like Burroughs, being more than a little interested in drugs. It is a work for which all Burroughs students should be grateful.’ –Larry McMurtry“

EXCERPTED FROM: LOOK AT, READ ABOUT & OWN IT HERE!

SUICIDEPRESS.COM

-

FILM:

William S Burroughs – Commissioner of Sewers

The following is an excerpt from a chapbook I made and distributed in ‘05. Printed in very limited quantities, and receiving even less critical acclaim, a friend of mine recently suggested that I re-read this. It’s been nearly four years since I last read it, and even with that distance, I found that I still liked it. Without further ado, I present the Introduction to an out-of-print chapbook called, “Sudden Beat Inspirations.”

I recently came to grips with the realization that I will never be, nor be considered, a Beat Writer. Never a Beat Poet, a Beat anything really. There’s that whole time issue, which I’m really not oblivious to, but more importantly is the voice issue. No matter whose name (and many people will disagree with me on this point) is on what’s traditionally accepted as Beat Literature, there is a very distinct voice— the voice of the Beat. I recently came to grips with the realization that the Beat voice is not my voice.

There is one story which is not included in this collection. Right now, I couldn’t even tell you the name of the story. It was the first story I ever wrote and it was about William S. Burroughs’ funeral. Really, from what I remember, the funeral was more of a backdrop to what was really going on. Gary Snyder was giving the eulogy, and some young boy walked up and spit onto the casket. When reprimanded by Mr. Snyder, the nameless boy replied that he meant no disrespect, but that the “seed” needed moisture to grow another one like him. Then the boy, whose description many people would recognize as a young Kerouac, stuck out his thumb and hitched a ride away from the funeral. The idea of the story is more pertinent to this collection than the story itself. Not only was it the first story I ever wrote, for no other reason than I felt like writing, but its significance would take me a long time to shake.

In one of my first English courses in college, I was granted a full pardon from writing anything for the entire semester. Not that I had supernatural writing skills which no one else possessed, much less comprehended, but because my professor recognized that I didn’t belong. Failing to complete (really, I never even started them) my first couple of assignments, I went out on a limb and showed him a copy of the aforementioned story about Burroughs’ funeral. He wasn’t impressed with what I wrote, but he was intrigued with what I chose to write about. He asked me about my topic choice, as it had nothing to do with any of the assignments, and as I began to stutter something, he cut me off and told me that he had someplace to be. As he walked away from me, he told me not to worry about coming to class for the rest of the week, but that he expected an answer e-mailed to him by noon, Friday. Being the eternal procrastinator (as I would prove time and again throughout the remainder of my college career) I ran to the campus computer lab around 11:30am on Friday and frantically began typing some gibberish about why I hadn’t written him sooner and how I’d just read Dharma Bums for the second time in a week (like I thought he might care) and how I suspected that my girlfriend was sleeping with this old lawyer guy she and I both knew (which was more annoying than heartbreaking) and that I just wanted to be able to live what I considered a Beat existence (whatever that means) and not have to worry about any of that shit because it was all about experience and that I wanted desperately to believe all that and just live my life like free-form verse, not concerning myself with rules or stanzas. Something I said worked, I was granted a full pardon from writing anything else for the entire semester.

Having written about the Beats so persuasively, I counted myself as part of their company. This belief lasted the better part of ten years. Not as productive as I would have liked, but entirely necessary.

College as a whole seemed to be a waste of time. Not that I wanted to enter the workforce, but I seriously contemplated following one of Kerouac’s routes of either joining the Merchant Marine (even though I had recently gotten out of the Navy), or traveling around the country, staying with friends and writing about my experiences. I had several dreams about hanging out with Kerouac, Cassady, Ginsberg, Snyder and a bunch of other guys who acted out the parts of their pseudonyms from the books and poetry of my literary heroes. A group of three of those dreams actually happened in sequence over a two week period. As difficult as it is to resume a dream, I did it twice, and all three dreams were centered around me hanging out with and talking to Kerouac. There were many peculiarities about this series of dreams, but the most poignant was Kerouac and I walking towards a crowd of cheering people on a hilltop and him reading to me, from a small back notebook, some line about a hawk in my house. I told him that all those people were waiting for him and he replied that they were not waiting for him. When I turned to him to ask what he meant, he had disappeared and I was engulfed by the crowd. I have had, and been told, many interpretations for that portion of the dream. At best, my own interpretations are arrogant. Other’s interpretations aren’t as flattering. Somewhere in the middle is way off target.

Few people believe (most don’t seem to care) that these dreams occurred a month before I picked up, or even heard of Kerouac’s Scripture of the Golden Eternity. Poem #22 ends with the lines: A hummingbird can come into a house and a hawk will not: so rest and be assured. While looking for the light, you may suddenly be devoured by the darkness and find the true light. (Which I later learned was a reference to Henry Miller’s  story, Stand Still Like the Hummingbird, which without being too ironizing, is a strange coincidence itself.)

One thing that Beat literature really opened my eyes to was the fact that there is significance in the mundane. Up until the point when I first read On the Road, literature seemed guilty of bypassing the mundane, or at best, treating it merely as a transition to the next sub-plot. Life to me wasn’t like that. The mundane was very real, very beautiful, worthy of significance, but in my youthful naivete, I never thought to damn the world and apply it myself. I had falsely assumed that since it wasn’t mentioned, the mundane was nothing more than mundane. Beat literature, and the lives I read about of the Beats, awakened me to Rilke’s advice to a young poet: If your daily life seems poor, do not blame it; blame yourself, tell yourself that you are not poet enough to call forth its riches; for to the creator there is no poverty and no poor indifferent place. I was the young poet— I still am. Kerouac, Ginsberg, Burroughs, Snyder, all of them were my Rilke; all of their poetry, all of their literature was a letter to me— it still is.

A lot of people in the academic world are experts at unearthing poetry from the mundane—  as long as it is somewhere else. Discovering the poetry in one’s day to day affairs is much more difficult; in fact, it would seem damn near impossible from an academic standpoint. Finding fault with another is much easier to swallow than strict self criticism.

That’s not where I want to go. Aside from being guilty of the same thing (that’s the reason I am leaving that paragraph), it’s simply not the direction I envisioned, but it did serve as a good resting point. If my mind will allow— back on track.

I had this other professor, well, I didn’t actually take his class, I only went to see him about switching my major to English Literature— so he was a potential advisor, if anything. I had several poems I had written to a lot of girls who would never see them, a couple of lyrics to heart wrenching songs about why those girls would never see them, and my story about the funeral. I went to meet him with my snazzy little portfolio. My definition of “snazzy” was markedly different from his, a point he was very vocal about. Following his sermon, he handed me a book of his poetry, which he had recently published, and instructed that I learn to write like him if I ever wanted to make it as a poet. As I was leaving, I was told to photocopy “ten or so of [my] favorites and return the book promptly.” I left the book on his desk along with my decision to become an English Lit major. I kept my desire to write, but I let the haughty s.o.b. beat me— I trashed all of my poems. He may have been right about them, but I acted rashly, thinking I would just start a new slate. I still wish I had them just to see from where I came. I have been ridiculed to my face for things I have written since then, but I still have them. What I learned above all else was perseverance.

Beaten but not defeated was my obnoxious battle cry. With time, I began to understand what he was telling me: There are a lot of people out there who write; not all of them will get published. Some will. There is something to be learned from those who do, namely, how to get published. The how-to market is flooded with experts on the field of how to get published. If you can’t publish a book, why not publish a book on how to get published? There is some logic in there which temporarily escapes me. The real meat on board this train is that, as a beginning writer, you should find something similar to yours that has been published and go from there. I drew more similarities than were actually there, but if nothing else, I was inspired by Beat literature. Not only by the literature, but by the Beats themselves. It takes a hell of a talent to make hobo-ing sound appealing. Fortunately, I never followed the path that far, but I did recognize the sheer power of the people behind the literature.

I hoped that in learning about them, I would learn to be more like them. If I could do it without being the hobo, wandering, starving artist, so much the better! There is something to be said about one’s literary voice, and it is this: No matter how well you hone your impersonation skills, you will never be who you are not. For me, this marks my departure.

Not that I’ve given up trying to write like those who inspired me to put words together in an artistic way to say something that everyone knows but not everyone realizes. What I have given up is trying to be a Beat. I am not. I didn’t experience the disillusionment of the mediocrity which befell America after winning the second world war. I didn’t contribute to the creation of a literary genre that would not only define a generation but would serve as a model and influence generations for years to come. I could go on like this for some time, defining who the Beats are and who I am not, but that is not why I write, I’ve found. What I have found is that I am not a Beat anything. Much of my artistic make-up is heavily influenced by people who are, but I am someone else entirely. I was born in a different era from which most of the Beats came, I grew up experiencing situations that didn’t make sense to me, to those around me, and certainly wouldn’t register to the Beats, being that realistically they are, by and large, from my grandparent’s generation and have backgrounds representative of that era. Not only have I been blessed with the opportunity to read their works, but I have also been able to read those who came before them, and those who have been inspired by them since.

This collection can be read as a tribute to those who inspired me, as a childish quest to be something I am not, or, and I believe most accurately, the ambitious beginnings of an aspiring writer. Any of the above contexts will do, but the important thing to note is to acknowledge where you came from, but never lose sight of where you are going.

© 2005, n09XI—Furious Poet Press & Vagabond Lit

William S. Burroughts – Revolutionary Weapon
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_S._Burroughs

Yes, it’s been a long time since I posted anything. I’ve just been busy and also generally questioning whether the world needs another Blog.  After coming to the conclusion that it definitely doesn’t I decided to have another go but to focus a little bit more on art rather than animal photos.  I’m willing to admit that this is probably a bit of a mistake given the popularity of ‘Weird Owl’ and ‘Satisfied looking Monkey’.  Below is a text that I wrote recently for a catalogue on the artist/writer/visionary Brion Gysin.  It’s really more of a personal reflection than anything and I was so nervous about writing it that an hour and a half session on Gysin’s Dreamachine was necessary to calm the nerves.  The images are of a video installation I made which employed a visual and audio flicker similar to that produced by the Dreamachine. Thanks

The Frequency of Modern Life.

'The Eye don't see itself' by Mark Titchner. Installed Baltic, Gateshead. Image Colin Davison.

My first encounter with Brion Gysin, like that of many others, came through the work and reverence of William Burroughs.  Finding a copy of ‘The Job’ in the library at Central St Martins I was first exposed to an alternative history of averted potential, a time-line populated by the likes of Wilhelm Reich, Buckminster Fuller, L Ron Hubbard and at the tip of that arrow, Brion Gysin. Being the mid 90’s and thirty years since the book’s publication it was painfully obvious that the suppression and manipulation of such technologies and ideas had been as effective as Burroughs suggested.

As a young artist trying to negotiate the idea of function in an art object I was fascinated by how these ideas were crystallised into objects, as Orgone Accumulators, Dymaxion Cars, E-Meters and Dreamachines.  Whilst each object presented a vision of a future only the Dreamachine seemed still entirely viable as environmental pollution, multinational industry and religious dogma compromised the existence of the other devices.  As I discovered Genesis P-Orridge’s texts on Gysin in Re/Search and Rapid Eye it became clear that this was a very special person indeed.  A fountain; the cut-up, permutation poetry, calligraphic paintings, novels, collage and sound experiments, too much for one person to achieve and plenty left for the rest of us to fill in.

GYSIN/DREAMACHINE/BURROUGHS

Despite such an abundance of expertise it is the Dreamachine that is Brion Gysin’s masterpiece.  In collaboration with mathematician, Ian Sommerville, he created an object that flies in the face of commodity and utilises the greatest Readymade of them all, the Human Brain.  Somehow the duo managed to interpret W. Grey Walter’s discoveries about the brains electrical activity into a transcendental device that could be fabricated using simplest of means.  Self-Authored eyelid movies free for all, free forever.

Perhaps it was once possible to imagine a future/present when every home would have a Dreamachine, around which the family would gather, leave their bodies and dream.  Instead we have another kind of light we choose to gather around, a light show that we passively absorb and have little or no opportunity to influence.  The act of creation is inverted to absorption.

Perhaps at the heart of this is the failure of the Dreamachine as a commodity, like Duchamp’s Rotoreliefs before them.  Several attempts were unsuccessfully made to market the Dreamachine, there are many reasons for this failure but essentially the Dreamachine is a set of principals rather than an object as such:  One is as good as another and the aesthetics of a device that one views with eyes shut are always going to be difficult to market.  Even Gysin’s classic Dreamachine design is a little misleading because as long as the ratio between slots and rotation are correct the thing can look anyway it pleases.

'The Eye don't see itself' by Mark Titchner. Installed Baltic, Gateshead. Image Colin Davison.

However there is one more flaw in the device and that is that it requires concentration and repeated meditative use.  There is not an immediate hit, what is attained is well earned.  This is not the way of a world with a strap-line that proclaims ‘More, more, more, now, now, now!’  Speed in productivity, speed in consumption.  One Dreamachine will last you a lifetime.

The Dreamachine creates a very specific flicker corresponding to the Brains electrical activity in Alpha State, that is a bandwidth of between 8 to 13 Hz.  Most flickering light sources we encounter in our daily lives work at a much higher rate for instance Television uses a rate of 50 or 60hz, Computer monitors work at a rate of around 100hz and modern LCD screens at 200hz.  Technology embraces speed and in doing so reinforces the illusion of a single flawless flow of imagery, a faultless impenetrable wall. An illusion so real it supplants reality?  Sometimes I wonder whether like the Orgone Accumulator, The Dymaxion Car and the E-Meter, the Dreamachine is lost because even the archetypes and dreams it promises are polluted by this black spring of relentless images.

As Genesis P-Orridge writes in his tribute to Gysin, ‘His name was Master’, ‘Today (in) a society with a vested interest in the suppression of imagination…Dreams are merely disturbed nights or entertainment.’  Lest we forget the politics of internal life.

"a frozen moment when everyone sees what is on the end of every fork"

Edna was stricken with desire, as if suddenly possessed by some demon or spirit. Maybe it was her internal clock or human nature. Maybe it’s that she subconsciously desired to conform to her peers.

Technicalities aside, at 72 it was time to dye her hair in the brightest of oranges. The message was clear, though leaving much room to her imagination for size and style of her looming permanent.

Dla Johna Dillingera
W nadziei, że nadal żyje.
Święto Dziękczynienia, 28 listopada, 1986:

Dzięki [Ci Ameryko] za dzikiego indyka
i gołębia wędrownego, przeznaczonego
do wysrania przez zdrowe
amerykańskie jelito.

Dzięki za kontynent do profanacji
i zatrucia.

Dzięki za Indian, dostarczających
odrobinę wyzwania
i niebezpieczeństwa.

Dzięki za ogromne stada bizonów
do zabijania i ich skórę pozostawioną
na zgniliznę.

Dzięki za łowców wilków
i kojotów.

Dzięki za Amerykański Sen,
wulgaryzację i fałsz,
bijące indywidualność.

Dzięki za KKK.

Za prawych morderców czarnuchów,
czujących ich niższość.

Za przyzwoite kobiety, uczęszczające do kościoła
ze swymi nędznymi, ściągniętymi, gorzkimi,
złymi twarzami.

Dzięki za hasła
“Zabij pedała dla Chrystusa”.

Dzięki za laboratorium AIDS.

Dzięki za prohibicję
i wojnę antynarkotykową.

Dzięki za państwo, gdzie
nikt nie ma prawa dbać
o własny interes.

Dzięki za nację debili.

Tak, dzięki za wszystkie wspomnienia!

Zawsze byliście bólem głowy.
Zawsze byliście znużeniem.

Dzięki za ostatnią i największą
zdradę ostatniego i największego
snu człowieczego.

(William S. Burroughs, “Thanksgiving Prayer”)

I have been sitting on this story for the past few days wondering if it was a good idea to share with you all how crazy my family truly is. And then I figured if I have not scared you off yet, this one will entertain you.

The players:

Gram: my mom

Zaidie: my dad

Danny: my son

Gary: my husband

Me: me

(phone rings)

Me: Hello

Gram: Hi. Hey do you know what Steely Dan is.

Me: Sure, mom, it’s a band

Gram: No, I know it is a band. We were just listening to them. But do you know where the name came from.

Me: Um, no. Gary, do you know where the name Steely Dan came from?

Gary: (funny grin, then makes the universal hand signal for a boner)

Me: Really?! Ok, mom, Gary says it’s a boner.

Gram: A boner, nope. Dad said it is a metal dildo.

Ok, so let me interject here for a minute. My mom is 78! And she has always been rather proper. So I am going to say it is a safe bet that I have never heard her say ‘dildo’ before. Surely not ‘metal dildo’ (ouch, BTW)

Danny: (from downstairs) WHAT are you guys talking about?!

Me: Zaidie says that a Steely Dan is a metal dildo but Dad says it is a boner.

Danny: Oh Jeez!

Me: Danny, can you google it please.

a moment passes and then…

Danny: Hey Zaidie was right, it is a metal dildo. Sometimes 2-headed. Ew, I cannot believe I am having this conversation with my parents and grandparents (I believe that was paraphrased)

Seriously, don’t you think that hearing your 17-year-old son say, “Zaidie was right, it’s a metal dildo.” is somehow crossing the line?

Yeh, well, it will all come out on the couch.

FYI, here are may favorite definitions from urbandictionary. com:

1) proper name of a steam powered dildo from the novel Naked Lunch by William S. Burroughs.

STEAM POWERED?!! ouch! and this one:

2) A Massive Metal dildo, sometimes double-headed.

Yeh, well that will surely fuel a nice little therapy session for my son in his future.

Haven’t had enough of me yet? You can also read me at 50-Something Moms Blog. For photo enthusiasts, visit Leaving the zip code, photos from outside the comfort zone.

:  :  :  :  :  :  :  :  :  :  : 

“William S. Burroughs narra em ‘Junky’, as suas primeiras experiências com narcóticos (heroína, morfina, etc.).Com uma visão quase científica do especialista em drogas, este livro retrata as verdades de uma sociedade com o enorme poder da sacada sociológica e a atitude cultural revolucionária contra a burocracia e Lei.”

“A personagem “Bill” é um espelho e um retrato da vivência de William Burroughs enquanto toxicodependente. O “tio Bill” como muitos carinhosamente o chamam, experimenta várias casas de xuto, vive várias experiências sexuais e redescobre-se constantemente. Esta personagem transformou-se num mito para todos os amantes da droga. É um ídolo que representa várias facetas dos toxicodependentes. “Bill” descobre-se e justifica o porquê de se drogar. Como diz: “O gozo é ver as coisas de um ponto de vista especial, libertarmo-nos da carne envelhecida, assustada, prudente e incómoda.”

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Jonathan Richmann’s Roadrunner is the greatest 2-chord jam ever. I’ve never been tempted to visit every place mentioned in the song, but someone else has.

In Lipstick Traces, Griel Marcus writes about it and describes the final minute where Richmann abandons all narrative and shouts out random words from earlier in the song.

Like this:-

In love with massachusetts
I’m in love with radio on
like the roadrunner
o.k., now you rock & roll late at night
the factories and modern rock & roll
modern girls and modern now
roadrunner, roadrunner
going faster late at night
I don’t feel so bad now in the welcome to the spirit of 1956
patient in the the turnpike, got the
I’ve got the, got the shop
with the radio on at night
and me in late at night
it helps me from being lonely suburban speed
and it smells like modern massachusetts
I’ve got the world, got sing modern lovers

(radio on!)
I got the moonlight
128 when it’s dark outside
I’m rock & roll
don’t feel so alone, got the once
roadrunner twice
I’m in love with rock alright
I’m in love with modern the radio on
it helps me from being alone & roll and I’ll be out all on
like the roadrunner
that’s right

said power of massachusetts when it’s late at night
roadrunner
that’s right

well sounds
alright the
(radio on!)
got the rockin’ modern neon massachusetts, got the
(radio on!)
I got the power of the am
got the, late at night, (?), girlfriend as you go by quick
suburban trees, am
(radio on!)
got the am sound, got night
(radio on!)
I got the modern sounds of miles an hour
gonna drive to the stop ‘n’ the auto signs got the power of modern car
don’t feel so alone, got the radio heaven(thunder)
and I say roadrunner sound
(radio on!)
I got the car from love with modern moonlight
me in love with bushes next to ‘57
the highway is your am
(radio on!)
got the car, got the

Actually it isn’t like that at all, that’s my William Burroughs-style cut-up  of the lyrics.