says who

You hurt my feelings.

What?

You hurt me.

You, or your feelings?

You're doing it again.

Doing what?

Hurting me. Sowing harm.

"Sow" what.

It's not some big joke.

I didn't say it was.

You're acting that way, talking that way.

But you hurt me.

When? How?

That time. You remember.

No, I don't.

We're not going to start arguing about arguing.

Why not? 

It's like we got into our NASA spacesuits, buckled up, listened to the countdown as we waited on the launchpad, 4-3-2-1-0 ignition liftoff, traveled a few light years, and landed on Planet Harm.

Or Planet Hurt.

Anyway, we can agree on that, pretty much.

True.

. . . and then opened the hatch, climbed down the little ladder, more wobbly than expected, and planted our feet on the hardscrabble, arid harmscape, littered by empty promises, goodwill wrappers, and used condomeants.

Condomeants?

Prophylactic measures meant to prevent punctured egos, infertile ejaculations, and scrambled eggs.

Ewww.

You stepped on the surface first.

No, you did.

Not going to argue that. It's all on the tape.

"That's one small step for a gland, and one existential leap for love."

That wasn't it.

Close enough.

That was the problem: not close enough.

We were in those spacesuits. I couldn't reach you, touch you.

I couldn't find you.

You had G.P.S.

G.P.S.?

Guaranteed Personal Symmetry.

But it didn't work on Planet Harm. Doesn't work . . .

Why would it? How could it?

By design.

The atmosphere, the gravity, the loneliness.

And then they played the meanest trick in the history of the universe. Houston pulled up the ladder, turned the ignition on, and flew away. Without us.

Left us to our own devices.

And we don't mean handheld devices.

Left us to our own vices.

And virtues, what's left of them.

Right.

They must've figured we were the best lab rats misery could buy.

What now?

What then?

What when?

What next?

Hey, Planet Harm doesn't even have Wi-Fi!

What does Wi-Fi stand for, again?

 

Bipolar Bear Berlin Madness

You may've heard about Knut, the cuddly polar bear cub at the Berlin Zoo. In fact, if you have not heard about Knut, you are the only one, the lone ignoscentus among the legions of the global Knut cognoscenti. (Blog about it, if you have not heard about Knut. It's newsworthy in and of itself, since knowing about Knut automatically puts you in the know. Take Leonardio DiCaprio; he's so in the know he and Knut are on the cover of the upcoming issue of Vanity Fair, fitting enough to be vain so famously, in a photo taken by the famous Annie Lebowitz.)

We saw Knut today at the Berlin Zoo. Knut was allowed to live after his mother rejected him; that's rich for all kinds of Freudian musing, speaking of another famous German.) Knut was allowed by his handlers to make a personal appearance between 1400 and 1500 hours. The press of crowds remined me of Beatlemania! Barriers held throngs back; uniformed guards controlled crowds by megaphone and stern reproach. Batches of people were allowed a 10- or 15-minute glimpse of the bear celebrity -- as popular as a bare celebrity -- human version. Women and children -- well, children -- were allowed along the first ring of viewers (speaking of that, we saw on Sunday a very original ballet rendering of The Ring yesterday; the short version, two hours; sort of a take by Maurice Bejart by way of Samuel Beckett by way of Richard Wagner -- at least to these eyes because the narration was all in German; it should've been called The Pole because there was more of long poles being swung than any ring or ring or Ring(s).) Back at the zoo there were international TV crews. Pushing. Bustling. Feverish excitement.

I saw a few glimpses, being in the Outer Ring.

Exciting? No. Mildly entertaining for a few minutes.

I get the cuddly and warm thing; I get the saved and rescued victim thing. But it's a polar bear (one that PETA ironically wanted killed)!

Later, back at the panda bear exhibit, a small handful. At the Washington, D.C. National Zoo, there would be throngs for the pandas (not thongs; they wouldn't fit).

Fame is such a fickle animal.

How bipolar.

What disturbed me was the artifice of it, the mob mentality of celebrity. If somehow a komodo dragon was deemed the object of fame, or a muddy hippo, or a violet macaw, would we be braving the lines and jockeying for space and snapping pictures, because this was Famous? This was a Cool Celebrity Animal? Probably.

The bipolarity of fame and fortune; celebrity and anonymity.

Thanks for your comments and your views; more later this week, perhaps; maybe some pix too.

Tschuss.