oscar night redux

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it’s almost oscar time yet again. it’s also time once again to trot out a couple of moldy oldies of mine to commemorate hollyweird’s biggest TV show, oscar night. the first of the two is for the more mature reader among you. however, i’m not your parents nor do i want to be. i hope you enjoy the reads.

jmh

donna di’monico

yeah, donna di’monico was her name.  a contract player for warner bros in the 40’s and 50’s.  lot’s of b westerns as second leading lady, plus the last of the serials.  she once told me, in a round about way, she had fucked howard hughes.  but she wasn’t one of his hayseed bimbos locked up in one of howie’s fuck pads.  no, not donna.  she moved and grooved to a beat all her own.

donna was an early lipstick lesbian.  when doing a bit part on an early ‘colgate comedy hour’,  she blew dino while playing dildo momma to marilyn maxwell and some make-up lady.  jerry sat and watched.  nice work if you can get it, i suppose.  as time passed she got fewer acting calls.  she never got into the older character stuff.  too much work she used to tell me.  but every once in awhile she would get some commercial work.  lever bros or one of the other yid soap joints, as she used to call them.  nice work.  easy 2 day max work.  plus the residuals were good, even in the late 60’s early 70’s.

don’t get me wrong she wasn’t hurting.  no, not donna.  she did ok.  she had plenty of time to prowl the bars on la cieniga and ventura.  out looking for some young cooze who may have seen her when she was a kid, like they were.  some kid who wanted to munch down on that well manicured carpet.  so they could say, hey, ever hear of donna di’monico?  we fucked last night.  nice old babe and still holding up ok.  god, she ate my snatch like she hadn’t eaten anything in months.  great fuck.

yeah, donna di’monico, the older she got the more genteel she became. doing charity work and joining historical societies. she got off on the historical stuff.  the older the shit was the more she was into it.  like trees.  she really got into old trees.  say 450 year old california oaks in some old downtown southern california berg gone to seed or illegal aliens.  or like this old cork tree where i live.  it’s at least a good 500 years old, probably the oldest around.  left standing when they razed the old hotel it had stood in front of for decades.  rumor has they had built the hotel there, where the cork tree stood, because it was such a beauty and old way back then.

yeah, donna di’monico.  she really got into that cork tree.  at some point she started badgering this local pbs tv guy, who was into trees as well, to come out and take a gander and shoot some video of the tree.  the cork tree and genteel historical society lady, donna di’monico.  for donna that meant another shot at some air-time, 21st century air-time.  she would email the guy weekly.  donna always got a return email from some staffer saying, thanks, we get lots of ideas and email.  we’ll give this one to the boss.  donna kept it up.  the guy finally said, ok.  the tree sounds ok.  they are coming out tomorrow morning.  only trouble is donna bought the farm last night.  yeah, donna di’monico, is dead.  so, i guess i’ll have to meet the guy out by the cork tree in the morning, which means i’m going to be her last stand in.  adios, aunt donna.

jmh

the dust and heat…

hung in the tijuana air like a freeze frame from hell.  cars honked and clamored looking for an inch in which to move.  nothing ever did.  in sunglasses and old clothes he moved through it all.  no one knew him.  he moved slowly looking for the place.  if you looked at him closely you could see the disease at work.  taking what was left of his life and mocking him with each painful step.  finally the place.  the earthly waiting room for hell. 

the bell above the door tinkled when he opened it.  as the door closed the hell from the streets outside stopped and the smell of the office over came him.  a small greasy headed man got up from behind an equally greasy desk and spoke.

ah, senor bullet, you have come.
yes, on the phone, you said you could help me?
si.  yes, i can.  por favor, follow me.

through the cluttered outer office and into the dank dismal treatment rooms they went.  a strange but familiar odor growing in the man’s nose.  the small mexican finally stopped at a dirty examination table.  he turned and said.   

please, senor, you must deesrobe.
ok. the man replied.

he was resigned to it.  it was all that was left.  this final sad humility of an approaching death.  a last chance stop on the road of life.

hokay, meester bullet, now you must assept these enemas of the coffees to cure you cancers.  por favor, on the tables.  you must spread you nalgas for me.

a tear formed in the corner of his eye as the man moved to comply.  only to be used as substance by a very large nasty house fly.

outside the dust, heat, and noise, for that moment, stopped.  something had gone from us all.  forever.  in an instant they all began to move.  again.  to oppress.  again.  moving us closer to this hell on earth.

jmh

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