Time of silk scraping and delicate shallows, kisses like bee stings, the ripple of air is too much for the breathing, the taste of her flesh is too rich for the blood
Flow tresses like rainfall in cool draughts unlasting, starlight strikes beaming through shadows of doubt, prey slinks through the brush of her mind’s tangled weaving
Sprays of sweet sangre within lips cracked by wanting, desires a fortune of cares without hope, in passing we touch with our magnets and fingers and gazes long gone
Yeah, it’s been a while. Life tried to kill me, but without success. Watch this space.
Previously on THE BOWIE EFFECT, SEASON TWO: https://philloz3000.wordpress.com/2021/04/03/the-bowie-effect-season-two-in-production/
I’m afraid, my devoted and beautiful lovelies, that I must disappoint you yet AGAIN due to uncontrollable circumstances thanks to an incredibly inconvenient bout of a recurring occupational hazard: The way my right arm turns into a useless flipper, thanks to decades of carpal tunnel syndrome.
So today, I thought we could delve into the fan mail. Our first letter comes from one of my oldest fans in the Human Universe, the eternal Goddess of Wisdom, Diana. You may have heard of her.
Anyway, she wrote me a lovely note, and it was so lovely I couldn’t stop crying for an hour. Just see for yourself (How did I deserve to know and love so many amazing beautiful genius Amazon fire goddesses?):
“Dear Phillip:
There are events and entire portions of my life that I actively avoid thinking about. They are not just painful, but I am afraid of what I might find … things I am ashamed of, things I don’t understand how I let happen.
But I see you have not only been brave enough to face your past, call out the horrible and ugly, but then share it in your characteristic blasphemous style which is so wickedly entertaining.
I remember reading one of your emails while still employed at NASA, and thinking I was going to go to Hell for thinking your blasphemy was hilarious, and thinking it was so unfair for me to go to Hell because was it really my fault if it was funny? I’ll bet that email is still on some ancient server, in some NASA storage shed or landfill somewhere.
I see from your writing how much it has helped you. You faced your demons, you found grace in a few very dear friends.
You can look at your tormentors with empathy, and most strikingly, you seem to have accepted yourself. I can see why your writing has struck a chord – not just among the LGBTQ community, but within anyone who is afraid to look in their past.
You have done something really powerful, and I think there will be many who will see that and appreciate you. Your project is so aptly titled because you are like David Bowie singing in Rock ‘N’ Roll Suicide: “You’re not alone … Gimme your hands!”
You are very brave, and whether or not this becomes a bestselling memoir and has a Netflix series with Timothee Chalamet playing you, I deeply admire and respect you. I am very proud of you, and proud to have you as a friend. I hope to be able to come to terms with the things in my past with as much grace – and perhaps a few fewer expletives – as you.”
That is incredibly generous. I am speechless for a change – an extremely rare condition for a compulsive monologuist.
And this is so beautiful, a wonderful and archetypical example of the nurturing, boundless LOVE this Queen Goddess bestows upon my weary, crippled soul on a routine basis, because she is Diana, my eternal friend, and companion in exploring the infinite mysteries of the human heart.
I cannot ever express my gratitude and humility to be the recipient of such a wonderfully ebullient declaration of love and admiration – which is, of course, duly reciprocated – not even if I had a million years to probe the mushy folds of my cerebellum for all the permutations of my own devotion and undying love.
“All life is transitory. A dream. We all come together in the same place at the end of time. If I do not see you again here, I will see you in a little while, in the place where no shadows fall.”
_________
NEXT: Medical Update + Victories Greater Than Death: https://philloz3000.wordpress.com/2021/04/13/the-bowie-effect-technical-difficulties-medical-update/
For a very long time, I’ve had a friend – not a close one, casual – I have admired very much for his inner strength and fortitude. A middle-aged person of color and a devoted parent to a special needs child, his resilience in the face of struggle has long been a source of inspiration.
Unfortunately, I don’t feel that way anymore, and it only took one declarative sentence in a public forum to do that.
It turns out in the new Pixar feature, Lightyear, employs an interesting meta-conceit. We’re used to seeing the adventures of a Buzz Lightyear action figure (voiced by conservative icon Tim Allen) in the popular movie series Toy Story. Here, we’re presented with the “real” Buzz Lightyear and the adventures that supposedly inspired the in-universe merchandising we’ve seen replicated on real-life store shelves writ large for the last three decades.
Typically, in our bizarrely parochial fan culture, the notion of rebooting (and re-casting with all-American boy Chris Evans) a fan-favorite pop icon has proven somewhat controversial. But the real controversy has nothing to do with the concept at all. Apparently, there are a pair of LGBTQ+ characters in the film who briefly engage in a same-sex kiss. Horrors!
Leaving aside the manufactured outrage over Disney’s alleged agenda to “queer up” the nation and entice God-fearing Christians over to what is apparently an irresistibly seductive lifestyle – which is predictable and typical when coming from flutter-hearted ideologues – the matter that concerns me is otherwise caring, sober and reasonable people agreeing to and enabling the active persecution of LGBTQ+ people as an undesirable group.
Which brings me to the point at hand, the single declarative statement that eroded my respect for another human being, which is thus: While he allegedly had no problem with same-sex attraction personally, he agreed that parents should be given a “heads-up” about it.
So, what’s the problem with that? Well, let me phrase it in a way that’s much more evocative of the actual nature of the controversy: Those horrible fucking queers are doing horrible fucking queer shit in my family space opera cartoon.
Making it somehow a threat to the Family – a concept so revered and sacrosanct in American society that the so-called “family values” faction have made it nearly impossible to raise one in safety and comfort, at reasonable effort and expense, without the built-in privileges of white, Christian, heteronormative society.
In an attempt to be discreet, I directly messaged my concerns to this person, which he chose to ignore. So I present my concerns here. I’m not attempting to vilify this person, you understand. I am highlighting the fact that many, far too many “ordinary” American citizens are quite willing to agree to the casual persecution of marginalized populations without too much thought about what that agreement really means or entails.
Here is what I messaged, with a few minor elaborations to clarify a point added here and there:
Giving a “heads-up” on same-sex kisses is singling out such displays of affection as deviant behavior. It is not helpful and marks LGBTQ+ individuals as undesirable and unworthy of the same consideration and rights that hetero/cisgender people enjoy without having to explain their existence or their behavior.
Even if, as you say, you don’t object to queer behavior, you’re still agreeing to a gestalt in which people (like me) are ostracized for not being heteronormative. Well, people like us exist. I would ask you to substitute any other marginalized group for LGBTQ+ people. Imagine if people wanted to have a warning for parents about people acting Jewish, Mexican, or disabled in a movie.
Why is it that equal rights and equal protection are seemingly only for white, abled, neurotypical, heterosexual Christians in this country? I’m Chicano, I’m queer, I’m disabled, and I’m agnostic; I guarantee you I chose only ONE of those things.
For heaven’s sake, if a kid asks you why two people of the same sex are kissing, it should not be beyond the ability of a parent to explain. The only possible answer is that they love each other, the same reason any other two people would kiss. The only possible purpose for setting up some kind of “heads-up”/warning system for parents is to avoid the film entirely and thus avoid the question coming up entirely, and allowing them to pretend LGBTQ+ people do not even exist.
Your stance explicitly enables the active persecution of a marginalized population.
That’s messed up.
Again, I’m not trying to paint this individual as a villain. He’s an absolutely decent person. He is an honorable man.
It is also true that the greatest crimes in human history, crimes so monstrous there can be no atonement for them, have all been enabled by decent, honorable men.
No human being is sans flaw. We must all strive to be better, more understanding, and more compassionate toward others.
The problem I have is when intelligent, informed people of conscience casually decline to expend the effort.
FUCK YEAH, KING SHARK! Nom nom, indeed.
First, yes, this movie is just plain fun from beginning to end, unlike its predecessor. No surprise from James Gunn. And it brings the feels, big time. No surprise from Gunn, either. But this may be the apotheosis of the misfit superhero genre, to boot. Think Mystery Men with stakes.
The best part is seeing obscure/outre elements of the DC Universe, mythology I grew up with, come to life in an engaging and affectionate way. Never in my life have I had such affection for The Polka-Dot Man, Ratcatcher II or Nanaue (King Shark), but my familiarity deepened the feels considerably. And just seeing Starro the Conqueror in live-action was outrageously thrilling beyond what I would have thought possible.
But, almost more than that is the deft achievement of what the first Suicide Squad failed to do years ago – take full advantage of the IP assets without attempting to ape other movies in the process. The first film was an exercise in film by committee with all of its worst excesses. The Suicide Squad is brilliant, funny, unique, tight and emotionally involving, difficult enough with a comic book picture, next to impossible for a picture that sets out to demolish the paradigm and promises so in the trailers – an achievement the first one also promised and utterly failed to accomplish.
The use of pop music is, this time, more than a glorified K-Tel greatest hits ad, as it was in the first SS feature. Gunn’s use of carefully selected tracks here is also a partial progression beyond the dad rock of his Guardians films, and a return to the more eclectic choices of his first costumed weirdo saga, Super.
Lloyd Kaufman dutifully makes his appearance in a James Gunn film.
Previously on The Bowie Effect: https://philloz3000.wordpress.com/2021/05/15/the-bowie-effect-season-two-episode-two-my-red-queen-rises/
“That A.I. you sold me was shit.”
“First of all, I didn’t sell it to you. You traded with me for a set of Mars Attacks trading cards. Very nice condition, by the way.” Colin thumbed through the pasteboard stack, held together by rubber bands. Do rubber bands even exist anymore?
Paul grimaced. That wasn’t exactly what he meant to say, especially to Colin. Except that he was still emotionally jacked from the Valerie session, and wanted someone to blame. This was a bad idea. Nevertheless …
“Well, it was wrong. SHE was wrong. She wasn’t like a real person,” Paul complained. He looked across the living room, toward the kitchen. Diana was in there somewhere, and he longed for her help.
Colin was tall, lanky, bespectacled, and hopelessly geekish. He was a born cybergerth, an engineer and programmer with a wild artistic, anarchistic streak. He saw Romeo and Juliet in terms of algorithms, Luke Skywalker Vs. Darth Vader in terms of imaginary weight ratios and power stats. His chosen avatar was one of the Mads from Mystery Science Theater 3000 – a white lab coat and wild, green and purple hair. It suited him immensely.
“It’s not supposed to be real, for Jebus’ sake. It’s a fantasy construct, a toy,” Colin whispered. “Even that level of A.I. is forbidden by your PlasmaLife contract, you know. It’s an illegal patch. You’re supposed to be in Communionication when you role-play.”
Paul nodded, made out a shadow in the doorway, and stubbed out his cigarette. Diana entered the room, all sun and light, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet and bringing a tray.
“Oolong tea,” she chimed, her musical voice resounding in Paul’s PlasmaLife abode, a smart, avant-garde space dominated by various cutting–edge sculptures and paintings. “I know it’s your favorite,” she sang to Paul.
Paul was momentarily stung by a one-time memory – from puberty – of being chided for putting sugar in his Chinese tea. “And why not?” he asked out loud, to no one in particular, while lifting his cup. The tea was delicious and soothing. Paul relaxed. These are friends, he reminded himself.
“I’m sorry, Colin, it just wasn’t what I expected,” Paul heard himself say. He still resented him, for a panoply of irrational reasons. Stupidly, as a matter of fact. Just because he was smarter and richer and lived on the Other Side …
Colin embraced his lovely wife as she sat down next to him. Diana was also an engineer, even more versed in A.I. than he, and for good reason. She had worked for the Aimes Research Center before the war. There were planets being conquered by cyborgs whom chanted her name as Mother-Creator. Not as artistic as her husband, but more intuitively connected with their inhuman machinery. A genius or savant, depending on the way you looked at it. Perhaps the old ballet lessons tempered her inhumanity. Maybe.
Colin leaned forward. “The problem lies not in the program, but in your own conflicting impulses.”
“A rather Freudian diagnosis, don’t you think, doktor?” Paul scowled, while drinking his tea.
“Not at all. The program can only read the information stored in your frontal lobe, augmented by whatever public records are available,” Colin countered. “I’m not a psychologist, but I’d have to say your problem has to do with cognitive dissonance.”
“What?”
Diana chimed in, with her lilting singsong voice blunting the cruel edge of the truth. “It’s really quite simple. The scans of your frontal lobe are at odds with your subconscious memory of Valerie. When she behaves in a manner than offends your conscious recollection, you experience this cognitive distress. It simply doesn’t jibe with your expectations.”
Paul took half a moment to absorb this. It has been a long time, he thought. Am I idealizing Valerie’s memory in conflict with the truth?
Whatever the truth may be?
“I’m not a computer. I only have my memories to go on,” he said lamely. “But it didn’t feel right. She seemed – programmed. Robotic.”
Diana looked and frowned at her husband. Colin leaned forward and chided, “We don’t take kindly to that term here.”
Paul blushed. “I apologize. But you know what I mean. She was not really there, in consciousness. She was there in physical form.” He paused. “I could smell her. I could feel her. That part was real.”
Diana smiled in satisfaction. That part was her doing, no doubt.
“Olfactory memories are among the most powerful and accurate in human awareness,” she lilted. “You may forget a face, or a name, but you never forget a smell.”
Paul looked up at Diana. So young, so fresh. Straight black hair, smooth-skinned, slim-hipped, a beautiful Chinese girl. Was this how she still looked in real life?
Did it matter?
“Colin,” Diana said, “I’d like to speak with Paul alone for a moment.”
Colin grimaced for a second, then quickly recovered. “Of course. Take all the time you need,” he said, while collecting the empty teacups. He stepped out the door and blinked offline, disappearing into whatever homely nesting place he and Diana had constructed for themselves in the PlasmaLife ‘verse.
Paul sulked in nameless desperation in his idealized living space. Original paintings from favorite masters adorned the walls. Various toy robots and other post-modern trinkets faced him accusingly. A moody haze of smoke clung to the air, moving in synchronization to the cool riffs coming from the ancient Marantz hi-fi; Julie London sang “Cry Me A River” to a receptive audience – him.
Diana leaned forward, grasped Paul’s upper right arm. Not unkindly.
“I’m worried about you, to tell the truth,” she said gently. “You want this Avatar to behave like a real person, but that person is fated to disappoint you.”
Paul blinked backed the beginning of tears, even as he appreciated Diana’s simulated touch. The plasma field was working perfectly now, even through the privacy patch.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he choked. “I just want my wife back.”
“And that’s something you can never have. Valerie is dead, Paul,” Diana said, her intonation loaded with compassion. “She died before personality downloads were ever possible. There are no waveforms to guide us but your own fractured memory.”
“So you’re saying I’m crazy?” he asked bitterly. “A pathetic burnout?”
Diana grinned in condescending sympathy. “Of course not. You’re a man mourning his wife. I even liked her,” she prefaced. Here it comes.
“But she was never all that good for you. Do you remember all the times you called me in tears during your marriage? Do you remember how she destroyed your ego? There’s a lot of pain left there, Paul. A lot of cognitive dissonance to overcome.”
“How would you know about that?”
“I know you, sweetheart,” Diana said, planting a comforting kiss upon Paul’s cheek. “You put women upon a pedestal, your late wife chiefly so. You worshipped her,” she paused.
He knew what the pause signified. As you once worshipped me.
“Why can’t she behave like a person?” Paul asked. It was a plaintive, desperate inquiry. Diana alternately frowned and smiled benevolently.
“My good friend,” she said. “It would be irrational and immoral to have a fully cognitive A.I. serving as your dead wife. Sentients are not toys to play with. They are people.”
“I don’t want to play with a toy.”
“I know,” she said, again kissing him, this time on the forehead. “You are a good man of lovely virtue. A learned, peaceful, devoted man,” she paused. “Which is why I loved you.”
“Loved, in the past tense,” Paul grumbled.
“We all grow up,” Diana said. “Or grow old.”
“Which have I done?” Paul asked.
“Both,” she said. “And neither. But I remain here. Contact me when you need me.”
And then she faded.
Paul grimaced again, thinking of Diana and Colin embracing in banal, superficial happiness on the other side – swaddled in their comforting Communionication, apart from the world of cruel loss and fallout and entropy and pain.
But yet the thought comforted him, in spite of his envy. He was not yet so grief-sticken that the happiness of others offended him. Even if it was in PlasmaLife’s virtual reality.
Paul flicked off the network connection, and found himself in his own grey bed. He drifted off to dreams of Chinese girlfriends and dead wives.
© 2008 P.J.L.
“The Physical World as a Virtual Reality,” by Brian Whitworth; published by Massey University’s Centre for Discrete Mathematics and Theoretical Computer Science in Auckland, New Zealand: http://arxiv.org/pdf/0801.0337
Dedicated to Janelle Farvour, writer, raconteur, lover, wandering spirit, restless angel. She died May 13, 2021. Your suffering is over; mine begins anew.
Previously On The Bowie Effect: https://philloz3000.wordpress.com/2021/05/02/the-bowie-effect-season-two-non-linear-time-jump-no-1-tears-in-rain/
It was somewhere amid all of this polyamorous, bisexual turmoil that my lovely friend Diana re-entered the picture. In a wonderful display of undying devotion and passive-aggression, she invited me to her tiny Animal Crackers cookie box-sized apartment in Houston – where she attended classes in Applied Mathematics at Rice University – in order to see David Bowie perform at the Spectrum Arena during a presentation of the 1987 Glass Spider Tour, in support of his ginormous EMI record deal and the new LP, Never Let Me Down.
Have I told you how much I adore and admire this amazing woman? I think so, but let me know if you require more gushing, especially if you happen to live with the brilliant, award-winning HusbandPerson Colin Skywalker and his genius daughters in Palo Alto, CA.
Diana never let me down. Ever.
The concert ticket was a rare birthday gift from my father (when Diana insisted on the arrangement, my dad would of course have never refused – she had a way of making even her mildest whims seem like an imperial command, but she only gave very polite, nice, “good guy” commands), and I would ride up to Houston from the RGV (about five to six hours’ drive, depending) with my buddy Frederik Saturn – my best bro in high school, creative partner, rock’n’roll singer and eternal wingman – doing the driving to attend the show with Diana and her boyfriend, Richard.
Richard did NOT like me.
I mean, I didn’t exactly have a sterling reputation (ahem), but Richard didn’t really know anything about that – to my shock, some people from high school still think of me as a Bad Boy, a Dangerous Boy, even. I never understood why they did so in the first place. If I was dating Diana, 99.6% for SURE I was a Good Boy – a real, live good boy.
Oh, he wasn’t mean or rude to me in any way whatsoever, quite the opposite. He was a perfect co-host. But his demeanor was exceptionally chilly and suspicious – he refused to let us sleep on Diana’s “living room” floor – while she slept in her own bed – without him being present at ALL times. I’m guessing he didn’t trust us, LOL. But knowing Diana as he should have, any such concern was entirely unnecessary – and, in fact, well-nigh unthinkable – since any such invitation she made would be beyond reproach as a matter of routine. Even assuming that Frederik and I would be so uncouth as to propose some kind of impropriety, Diana was well and fully capable of shutting down any such nonsense on her own. For most idiots, it never even came to that point, because Diana was so classy, intelligent and beautiful, they were too intimidated to even attempt such miserable, despicable folly. And you could take that to the bank.
It’s not that I absolutely did not have any remaining lingering sweet feelings for Diana, not by a long shot (it was only two-and-a-half years since we broke up), but by this point I was a real, live boy (a whole 20 years old, natch) and was capable of reigning in my more childish and harmfully selfish passions.
However, I do admit that I was exceptionally put out when a certain individual – whom Diana and I had both known in high school – expressed a belligerent intention to steal her from me during my junior/her senior year (I wasn’t smart enough or good enough for her, an opinion which I am sure had NOTHING to do with the malignant racism against Mexican-American People of Color in the RGV). He eventually followed her to Houston (being unable to attend Rice, I believe he attempted to enroll at the University of Houston, a HUGE bus ride across town). He even returned to visit my high school senior Radio and Television class to gloat to my face about his pretense of success. I’m glad to report it did not work out for him the way he wanted. Nonetheless, it was disconcerting, especially since he was the UGLIEST and LEAST INTELLIGENT of Diana’s “smart” friends (what a miserable INSULT!). But that’s neither here nor there.
Back to Richard. He was okay, I guess, obviously smart, a certain amount of charm, but unnecessarily condescending. It was nothing I could actually call out, but he was just smart enough to neg me without seeming like an obviously insecure A-hole. Hmmm.
Too bad, too, I would have preferred to have been his friend – we shared a LOT of the same tastes in music, if nothing else. Luckily, her magnificent, godlike Adonis superhero husband, the noble genius Colin, is not so ridiculously puerile (for reals, Colin is fucking awesome, he’s had his amazing fingers in so many things you love and you DON’T EVEN KNOW IT).
I love knowing special people. It’s an amazing thing to see hope and infinite possibility in everything a person can do. A person you can touch and feel in the flesh. THERE IS NOTHING BETTER (Hi, Britta!).
Bottom line, Richard did not trust his unimpeachable girlfriend with two other boys, either alone in her apartment or at a giant concert arena. He insisted on coming with us, even though he was suffering from a terrible flu, including a severe fever and chills. Throughout the entire concert – the very first Bowie concert I ever attended – he sat curled up and shivering like a furious chihuahua with asthma, glaring at me the entire time as Diana and I chatted away excitedly and swayed in rapture along with David’s glorious performance.
What a fucking asshole.
Frederik wasn’t bothered, it was his habit to sit back and take in the music thoughtfully. But I wanted to DANCE, and so did Diana. Nevertheless, respecting Richard and his insipid jealousy, we stayed in our seats the entire time.
Almost.
By the time David concluded the main set with the song “Fame,” I was going nuts. The house lights came up, and both Diana and Richard stood up to leave, but I reminded them of the traditional encore. Richard plopped back down in his seat miserably, glaring as Diana bobbed up and down excitedly at the prospect of more concert. Sure enough, within about 10 minutes, the house lights darkened, the giant glass spider stage set glowed feverishly with cool neon and hot plasma colors, and David emerged gloriously with glittery wings as an angel on the top of the spider’s head, singing “Time.”
The next four songs were rave-ups in rapid succession: “Blue Jean,” Iggy and the Stooges’ “I Wanna Be Your Dog,“ The Velvet Underground’s “White Light/White Heat,” and finally, David’s monster hit “Modern Love,” opening with that distinctive, blistering guitar riff courtesy of Carlos Alomar.
I could not stand it anymore. Grabbing Diana by the hand, we both jumped up simultaneously and started dancing madly in place, with a lifetime of repressed joy erupting from the tops of our heads, flowing out of every orifice in our bodies. And Richard just sat there, stewing in his own hatred, glaring furiously at our shaking, thrusting backsides.
It was fucking awesome!
Several decades on, I forgive Richard. In the scheme of things, it’s not a big deal. But for that night, October 8, 1987, Richard saw me and his girlfriend share a love and passion that he could never be a part of, not in a million years. It was a night I’ll remember until I pass into dreams and hot, sweaty teenage memories.
NEXT ON THE BOWIE EFFECT – MY RED QUEEN RISES: https://philloz3000.wordpress.com/2021/05/15/the-bowie-effect-season-two-episode-two-my-red-queen-rises/?fbclid=IwAR3Wgj1BWPclVmfPOb6WTsPuyQqmkc7hRfroSg2vvNjEnjdZR_7lx30XoyM
PREVIOUSLY: https://philloz3000.wordpress.com/2021/04/01/the-bowie-effect-part-nine/
The Battle of the Tannhauser Jump Gate was NEVER supposed to be a battle at all.
It was in fact Colonel Roy Batty who led the first expeditionary group to probe the collapsar in the center of Tannhauser Gravity Anomaly X-1, off the shoulder of the constellation Orion (technically he was under Brigadier Tigh in the Exelion, but that fucking toaster-lover wasn’t within 30 light-years of the fucking thing, leading from the rear). To our amazement it took us directly to the white hole at the center of our own Galaxy, the hub of an enormous interstellar freeway system that reached all corners of the universe simultaneously. Unfortunately, that is also how the Arachnids found US.
They kept pouring out of the gate like locusts, which I guess is exactly what they were – no feelings, no doubt, no fear, remorse or compassion. Hell, no *intelligence* to speak of, certainly no SOUL. Just raw instinct, and a hive-mind dedicated to eradicating the Human Universe from existence. Colonel shut the fucking reactor down in the nick of time, but it was also too late – Armageddon was ON.
Of course Colonel Batty was put in charge of the assault. The CPT was filling in for his exec, Captain Motivational Sacrifice (she was killed in the initial first contact event), on the flagship Exelion. Normally she would have been on the assault frigate with us, but we had Sergeant Zim to fill in for us.
It was a goddamn Klausterfuk from the get-go.
Thanks to bad intelligence (and even shittier human brainjuice), the battle went off prematurely when the frakking Arachnids decided to send an inconvenient scouting party, coming at near light-speed off the Eastern Spiral from Klendathu. It was a goddamn bloodbath, a rout – they popped out right in the middle of our goddamn formation and opened fire, point blank, with particle cannon and plague mines. Hundreds of ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion, a torrent of z-beams slicing apart metal and flesh and hope for the human race going up in flaming arcs of hellfire and an expanding, sun-hot nebula of smoke, gas, and clouds of frozen human blood crystals raining on our flight deck’s canopy like hailstones.
The Exelion in flames, Colonel Batty ordered a regroup of the fleet for a Hail Mary, final attack run; it was nearly another total disaster. Surrounded by a million(?) enemy units, everyone traveling close to the speed of light, every encounter an orgy of disease and infection and destruction and flaming death.
The Zentraedi Imperium wiped out, in a cluster of gamma bombs. Corsair’s crew, Empress Lilandra and the StarJammers, all dead. The ENTIRE ARMY OF THE SOUTHERN CROSS, gone in an instant (pour out a 40 for Jeanne Françaix, commander of the 15th ATAC), ironically with allied tech acquired from the captured (and martyred) Invid Regis. It looked like the last sign-off for all People, everywhere in the Human Universe. It was All Over.
But then SHE stepped up.
Dragging the unconscious, wounded Colonel out of the flaming pyre of the Excelion’s CIC by what was left of the tattered sinews in his arm, CPT Evan ArmyPerson quickly made it down to the alternate control center located just above the main magazine. The CPT took command of what was left in the fleet and gave General Order 0010: Ramming Speed.
Goddamn, it was fucking beautiful. Watching Evan take command was like seeing the Archangel Michael, descending from heaven with a flaming sword, destroying all enemies and Hyperdemons from the Core with the pure, cleansing Wrath of JEHOVAH-ONE, it was the most beautiful and most terrifying thing I ever experienced in my entire life, and that’s saying something. I mean, come on, I was at the Fire Rings of Fornax, if that means anything to you.
And though it all, she was statue-still, non-regulation stoagie clenched in her teeth, her golden armored lid glowing like a crown of holy flame, gently but firmly giving commands with the authority of all of our dead battle buddies screaming in vengence, backing her all the fucking way to the gates of hell.
We managed to shatter the Tannhauser defense grid and boarded the hypergate, easy peasy lemon squeezy. The drones left in charge of the Collapsar’s Invid Clone BrainMother were fucking worthless … we slaughtered them like drunken jewel crabs on graduation night OrgyCon, which is exactly what it felt like. It felt great at the time – not so much later.
When the smoke and debris field had been swept out, the now-awake Colonel Batty sent out the SAR birds to pick our soon-to-run-out-of-oxygelatin asses after nearly 48 hours of holding down a secure position on a command deck open and vented out into space. At least half the crew had already passed out, sharing our empty bottles, when he and the brass finally arrived to tour the facility.
In the evacuation ship, we went at full burn, close to the speed of light, all the way home. Sure, we got home a hundred years too late for our own parade, but we got HOME, and not a single crew member of UN SPACY Assault Frigate No. 2039 died or was lost in combat, the only boat in the entire fleet that could say so. Go Striking Sneks!
CPT Evan ArmyPerson was the best field commander who ever lived, just after Saint Margo of the Wastes and the Universal ConstantPerson, but that’s another story.
ADDENDUM:
####TRANSMISSION ENDS SENT IN THE CLEAR NO ENCRYPTION PINGBACK ON FREQ CHECK####
Origin, Unknown. Destination, Unknown. Estimated time elapsed 457 years forward, late 25th century.
CASE FILE CLASSIFIED SECRET
Cc: Dr. Emil Lang, RDF Command, Macross City; Brigadier REDACTED, UNIT Commander, REDACTED; Gen. Claude Leon, Cmmdr., Army of the Southern Cross, Monument City Complex, Quarantine Control Zone
Signed,
Ric Gentrey, Cmmdr., Space Academy
OROCO
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NEXT, THE BOWIE EFFECT SEASON TWO PREMIERE AND FULL-LENGTH CONCERT! https://philloz3000.wordpress.com/2021/05/13/the-bowie-effect-season-two-episode-one-glass-spider-2/
Previously On The Bowie Effect: https://philloz3000.wordpress.com/2021/05/02/the-bowie-effect-season-two-non-linear-time-jump-no-1-tears-in-rain/
It was somewhere amid all of this polyamorous, bisexual turmoil that my lovely friend Diana re-entered the picture. In a wonderful display of undying devotion and passive-aggression, she invited me to her tiny Animal Crackers cookie box-sized apartment in Houston – where she attended classes in Applied Mathematics at Rice University – in order to see David Bowie perform at the Spectrum Arena during a presentation of the 1987 Glass Spider Tour, in support of his ginormous EMI record deal and the new LP, Never Let Me Down.
Have I told you how much I adore and admire this amazing woman? I think so, but let me know if you require more gushing, especially if you happen to live with the brilliant, award-winning HusbandPerson Colin Skywalker and his genius daughters in Palo Alto, CA.
Diana never let me down. Ever.
The concert ticket was a rare birthday gift from my father (when Diana insisted on the arrangement, my dad would of course have never refused – she had a way of making even her mildest whims seem like an imperial command, but she only gave very polite, nice, “good guy” commands), and I would ride up to Houston from the RGV (about five to six hours’ drive, depending) with my buddy Frederik Saturn – my best bro in high school, creative partner, rock’n’roll singer and eternal wingman – doing the driving to attend the show with her, Frederik, and her boyfriend, Richard.
Richard did NOT like me.
I mean, I didn’t exactly have a sterling reputation (ahem), but Richard didn’t really know anything about that – to my shock, some people from high school still think of me as a Bad Boy, a Dangerous Boy, even. I never understood why they did so in the first place. If I was dating Diana, 99.6% for SURE I was a Good Boy – a real, live good boy.
Oh, he wasn’t mean or rude to me in any way whatsoever, quite the opposite. He was a perfect co-host. But his demeanor was exceptionally chilly and suspicious – he refused to let us sleep on Diana’s “living room” floor – while she slept in her own bed – without him being present at ALL times. I’m guessing he didn’t trust us, LOL. But knowing Diana as he should have, any such concern was entirely unnecessary – and, in fact, well-nigh unthinkable – since any such invitation she made would be beyond reproach as a matter of routine. Even assuming that Frederik and I would be so uncouth as to propose some kind of impropriety, Diana was well and fully capable of shutting down any such nonsense on her own. For most idiots, it never even came to that point, because Diana was so classy, intelligent and beautiful, they were too intimidated to even attempt such miserable, despicable folly. And you could take that to the bank.
It’s not that I absolutely did not have any remaining lingering sweet feelings for Diana, not by a long shot (it was only two-and-a-half years since we broke up), but by this point I was a real, live boy (a whole 20 years old, natch) and was capable of reigning in my more childish and harmfully selfish passions. However, I do admit that I was exceptionally put out when a certain individual – whom Diana and I had both known in high school – expressed a belligerent intention to steal her from me during my junior/her senior year (I wasn’t smart enough or good enough for her, an opinion which I am sure had NOTHING to do with the malignant racism against Mexican-American People of Color in the RGV). He eventually followed her to Houston (being unable to attend Rice, I believe he attempted to enroll at the University of Houston, a HUGE bus ride across town). He even returned to visit my high school senior Radio and Television class to gloat to my face about his pretense of success. I’m glad to report it did not work out for him the way he wanted. Nonetheless, it was disconcerting, especially since he was the UGLIEST and LEAST INTELLIGENT of Diana’s “smart” friends (what a miserable INSULT!). But that’s neither here nor there.
Back to Richard. He was okay I guess, obviously smart, a certain amount of charm, but unnecessarily condescending. It was nothing I could actually call out, but he was just smart enough to neg me without seeming like an obviously insecure A-hole. Hmmm.
Too bad, too, I would have prefered to have been his friend – we shared a LOT of the same tastes in music, if nothing else. Luckily, her magnificent, godlike Adonis superhero husband, the noble genius Colin, is not so ridiculously puerile (for reals, Colin is fucking awesome, he’s had his amazing fingers in so many things you love and you DON’T EVEN KNOW IT).
I love knowing special people. It’s an amazing thing to see hope and infinite possibility in everything a person can do. A person you can touch and feel in the flesh. THERE IS NOTHING BETTER (Hi, Britta!).
Bottom line, Richard did not trust his unimpeachable girlfriend with two other boys, either alone in her apartment or at a giant concert arena. He insisted on coming with us, even though he was suffering from a terrible flu, including a severe fever and chills. Throughout the entire concert – the very first Bowie concert I ever attended – he sat curled up and shivering like a furious chihuahua with asthma, glaring at me the entire time as Diana and I chatted away excitedly and swayed in rapture along with David’s glorious performance.
What a fucking asshole.
Frederik wasn’t bothered, it was his habit to sit back and take in the music thoughtfully. But I wanted to DANCE, and so did Diana. Nevertheless, respecting Richard and his insipid jealousy, we stayed in our seats the entire time.
Almost.
By the time David concluded the main set with the song “Fame,” I was going nuts. The house lights came up, and both Diana and Richard stood up to leave, but I reminded them of the traditional encore. Richard plopped back down in his seat miserably, glaring as Diana bobbed up and down excitedly at the prospect of more concert. Sure enough, within about 10 minutes, the house lights darkened, the giant glass spider stage set glowed with neon and plasma colors, and David emerged gloriously with glittery wings as an angel on the top of the spider’s head, singing “Time.”
The next four songs were rave-ups in rapid succession: “Blue Jean,” Iggy and the Stooges’ “I Wanna Be Your Dog, “The Velvet Underground’s “White Light/White Heat,” and finally, David’s monster hit “Modern Love,” opening with that distinctive, blistering guitar riff courtesy of Carlos Alomar.
I could not stand it anymore. Grabbing Diana by the hand, we both jumped up simultaneously and started dancing madly in place, with a lifetime of repressed joy erupting from the tops of our heads, flowing out of every orifice in our bodies. And Richard just sat there, stewing in his own hatred, glaring furiously at our shaking, thrusting backsides.
It was fucking awesome!
Several decades on, I forgive Richard. In the scheme of things, it’s not a big deal. But for that night, October 8, 1987, Richard saw me and his girlfriend share a love and passion that he could never be a part of, not in a million years. It was a night I’ll remember until I pass into dreams and hot, sweaty teenage memories.
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