Chimera Lucida

Epithymeti.com – Wednesday, November 3rd, 2004—1:06 am Last night, at 11:32pm, Roberta Flackjacket—lead singer of the punk group Schmeiss Queen--dropped the tools of her tirade in favor of an automatic weapon. While loading the clip, she yelped: “Shit! Have the polls closed?” Cannon-balling into an unreflective pool of her admirers; carried swiftly along by choruscating currents of “quit treadmillin’ me”; it looked like clear assailing for the self-styled “star-mangled flâneur”… But she ran aground five minutes later, facedown on the crosswalk outside the capital’s least respectable conventicle of sound—the Bicameral Breakdown. Now awaiting trial in a maximum-security government facility, the young radical surprised friend and foe alike by opting to pitch her tense city-in-speech upon my campy site… A guard frisked me on the threshold. I bridled under her scrutiny, which carried over into a strangely well-upholstered chamber. The star of the show lay in wait for me, dangling booted feet over the plush edge of a burgundy couch. The latest issue of Time veiled her face below cross brows, bolted with irony. Two cups of black coffee, on the table between us, released plumes of jagged cosiness into the air. I settled into a brown armchair and reached for the one closest to me. A fiery tongue rustled through dead forests of pictures and words: “Is it good?” I took a sip before answering. I thought it was pretty good—and I said so. Roberta Flackjacket discarded the magazine and drew herself into my sights. I pressed “PLAY” and “RECORD”, groping for an entrance to the crypt—of her masque and her mind; of her demeanor and her misdemeanors; of her principled attacks on serviceable “Goods”. All I found was this transcript: “So what was the point? You knew that Ritzed Cracker was coolin’ out on the ranch, didn’t you?” “I don’t watch that show. Next question.” “Fine. You’ve been awfully quiet since they penned you—how ‘bout quoting me the price of Divine Violence?” “Whatever the market won’t bear, my friend.” “Bullshit! The market barely exists—in the way that you mean, I mean. You’re raging against the ghost of a machine.” “Well—that’s a relief! Thanks for the map! I’ve found my way home—reconciled! Comin’ down off the ledger. Washed up on the banks. You hear me Wah-den? I’m in earnest—lemme play too!” “You’ve been playing from the start. They dealt out your ID cards with the rest of ‘em. Your anti-’s part of the ante, Mame.” “So I’m just another femme fatale, hunh? Unwitting tool of the Patriarchy? Product of the New Hystericism— AM(I)BUSHED! UNSOUND FURY’S TIRESOME THREATS SIGNIFY NOTHING” “You took the lines right outta my head.” “Good! We oughtta be on the same page—present a united front.” “To whom?” “To whom it may concern.” “God damn!” “Aw’d’I go n’ leave you out on an iamb?” “Go ahead and leave me there. Let’s talk about you.” “Fine. What don’t you know?” “Everything… I mean—I don’t know anything about you.” “Every. Any. It amounts to the same thing.” “As long as it isn’t nothing, right?” “Boy you’re something!” “No kidding… Let’s have some more bright ideas.” “Happy to oblige—although I dropped the big one last night.” “That’s your best shot? Assassination?”