February 7, 2008
by Volt and Electra Penn
About the time President Jimmy Carter flogged the Fed to 'Whip Inflation Now', we were writing incendiary flap-trap for Marylebone, an alt-rag in Omaha, Nebraska. The free monthly handout was named after the Rector of Saint Mary's---Marylebone---home of John Hampden Gurney (1802-62), who penned the little ditty We saw Thee not when Thou didst come, Lord.
Marylebone's 'nickel & a dime' opinions were shaped by owner-publisher-editor J. Edgar Findley's gout. His swollen left foot propped on an old Remington, Findley's rehearsed motto was: 'Let Jesus show up on Main Street today, they'd string him up for high crimes and misdemeanors.'
It was late September 1980, so in honor of Bob Marley's reggae and all drinks Jamaican, Electra and I planned a road trip to the Stanley Theater in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Before we could get away from our apartment on Dodge Street, Findley called us from his home/office/print shop that squatted in a shadow cast by Mutual of Omaha's headquarters. "Hey, youse two headed east," he said or maybe asked. "As long as you foot the tab, why don't youse guys make a run to the York? Flush out a celebrity or two. Anybody, just make sure they're famous, you know, universally proportioned."
We agreed and bugged out of the Oracle of Omaha's birthplace armed with cop-issued I.D. cards embossed with our black and white photos. Albeit, a few days later in New York City we quickly found out our two little snips of paper that read 'PRESS' were absolutely powerless. We were not only NOT allowed to speak to anyone of any importance, we were forbidden to even approach them, their place of work or their playground. What a cold, cold city. At least that's what we thought every time we knocked another icicle off our nose.
By the third day we were out of money, prospects and expectations. To enjoy one last bite of the Big Apple before we checked out, I drove east on W. 84th Street, where Central Park's 843 acres seemed to be as good as anyplace to gripe and regroup. We spread out on a park bench to fiddle away a perfectly glorious Manhattan day, with a gallon of Gallo.
I suppose you could say it was a little like we were waiting for Godot. But in this case the hero of our New York story eventually showed and redirected an afternoon into an event we still enjoy telling about today.
'Don't talk to strangers, don't offer strangers rides or money and never bring one home'. That was momma's advice. But Paddy Chayefsky was not an unfamiliar face. We'd seen him on T.V. once, lecturing Dinah shore. And we both immediately recognized those 'owl' eyed glasses, stubby half-eaten cigar-prop, and unfortunate bad teeth that made him appear furiously benign.
It would take more than a few books to tell a little history of this man. With space at a premium a cut & paste will have to do: Sidney Chayefsky was born in the Bronx, New York in 1923, to Ukrainian[1] Jewish parents. He studied at the City College of New York and Fordham University and served in the U.S. Army during World War II, for which he was awarded a Purple Heart. Mr. Chayefsky died in New York City of cancer in 1981 at the age of 58, and was interred in Kensico Cemetery in Valhalla, Westchester County, New York.
Back at the park, we were cool and clear under a sky so blue and calm not a kite had come out to play. Scattered here and there were more than a few pasty legs spread out on blankets in search of the ultimate tan. There was plenty of sun for everybody, even on our park bench that offered reserved seating. That day Paddy was killing time, too, looking for a receptive audience and an extra paper cup for a drink he couldn't refuse.
It started as a friendly encounter, somewhat politically incorrect for the times. To Paddy, our inane conversation probably sounded more naïve than farfetched. Still, there was connection. When his wine needed replenishing he got into a description of the North African tribe who were, "..so conservation-of-matter-minded they used body secretions for war and peace". He referred to their habits as, "..living lean off the sand by eating whatever drops from the sky". But what really stuck in our minds and note pad, was when he told us that the hormone-induced tribe used menstrual blood for war-paint and vaginal yeast to make their beer bubble.
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I sat on Paddy's right, just like Eddie Fisher did when he sat near Paddy on The Dinah Shore Show. True to form, Chayefsky completely cut me out of the conversation. His attention was directed at Electra, of course. In the outdoors, my ears strained to hear his talk show spiel. "..The Vatican, England's royal family," Paddy said. "Corporate America, Washington D.C.. You know, I could go on and on. Criminals, whores, money changing pimps.
"..then there's all the hard working immigrants who came here for a better life. Even all those who stayed behind in the old country to toil by the sweat of brow. All good people, just good people. There's more I could throw in, but who's got the time?
"You see, we've got these 2 homogeneous entities working with, around and against each another. Look." He was balancing imaginary weights in both hands, trying to dramatize. "Think of it this way. In this hand there's this Gangster Business Class, and in this one the Honest Working Man.
"We live in a world of civilized Apartheid, because it's all quite legal - everywhere. Always has been, in every society, only using different names. Today, they're bankers, politicians, preachers, generals, professors, lawyers. They steal. They extort. Some even kill. They have a prayer. 'Believe you are God - then you are'.
"Those honest little guys are the farmers, welders, teamsters, salesclerks and machinists---hard workers, every last one---they're the scrimpers and savers. They save their nickels and dimes to buy a TV, go to the movies or a football game.
"I hope you noticed I didn't put writers in either hemisphere. That's because writers can swing any way, you know. Some writers write to hear their own voice. Others write because the pay is good. A few write to witness. You want this writer's advice? Reach high, hang on to live wires but keep your feet grounded so your noggin won't get lost in space.
"..and yeah, there's one more thing. The Military. That's the grit that keeps grinding away at the honest man, and makes the gangster rich. Funny thing about the army---I hated it when I was in, but almost missed it once I was out. Hey, tell me. Who does the military man work for? You guys? Me? Not on your life. They get their marching orders from the power - the gangsters. Like that general once said, 'war's nothing but a racket'.
Paddy's button had been pushed and might've gone on forever that day, but the hour was getting late. Our sit-down concluded as the wind started to pick up. "We're all of us locked in this tango - all tangled up grabbing for control," he said, reached into his pocket, sighed and held a green credit card up in the lingering light. "Right now, this is the only pacifier that holds the beast at bay, and keeps us from ripping out each other's throats."
Electra and I are not sitting in Central Park today. Instead, we're parked in front of the computer. In 2008 Paddy's GBC is extruding plastic faster than the consumer can shred it. Notice too, that the HWM is still on the ropes, but the vultures are circling. And like all full blown addicts, we just can't stop playing 'credit card roulette'.
So, we leave it to the GBC to keep the wheels spinning with a promise of More-Bigger-Better-Best, and on to the next circus. All the H.W.M. has to do is sit back with an Alfred E. Neuman attitude, plug the Time-Warner rod into the Dell port and keep flipping those channels.
Once, if somebody on TV told the HWM to get out of his chair, throw open the window, and scream, "I'M MAD AS HELL AND I'M NOT GOING TO TAKE IT ANYMORE!", he'd do it. Know what? Anybody trying that stunt now would get their head blown off by friendly-fire.
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Have Penn they'll listen. Volt Penn writes speeches for Progressive Populists and reasoned arguments for those on the left of center. He has also written speeches for anybody who has read his work. You can reach Volt Penn through his artist friend, b.b.kemp, at bbkemp@bbkemp.com
Volt/Electra Penn copyright 2008
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