Whore Train

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Film & TV: Pop Tarts (The Boston Phoenix . 10-27-97) Pop Tarts From Fallen Woman To "Pretty Woman," Hollywood's Love Affair With Hookers By Peter Keough OCTOBER 27, 1997: "Whatever you desire," is the slogan for Fleur de Lis, the agency in L.A.Confidential that provides its clients with call girls "cut" to resemblesuch movie stars as Rita Hayworth and Lana Turner. It's an appropriate mottofor Hollywood itself, which has made its fortune by cutting images to fulfillits audience's desires, offering the illusion of love, life, and death to bevicariously enjoyed for the price of a ticket. Prostitution in Hollywood is asanitized, sanctioned whoredom where stars transform themselves into theforbidden or inaccessible dreams, wet and otherwise, of their voyeuristicclientele. Small wonder then that the world's oldest profession has always fascinated theyoungest art. From Gloria Swanson in the silent Sadie Thompson (1928) toKim Basinger as the Veronica Lake wanna-be in L.A. Confidential , themost glamorous of Hollywood's beauties have prostituted themselves -- perhapsin an effort to elevate the institution that uncomfortably resembles their own.They've allowed Hollywood -- and us -- to have it both ways: we can reject theforbidden fruit even as we ogle it on screen. It's a lot safer and cheaper tosavor, say, Julia Roberts's charms in Pretty Woman (1990) and rejoice inher fairytale redemption than try to achieve the same result on Berkeley Streeton a sordid Saturday night. The body of films about prostitution reflects our culture's uneasy andobsessive love/hate affair with the ultimate commodity. It's a catalogue of thefantasies -- not all of them male adolescent -- that adorn prostitution likecheap perfume and tawdry glad rags. One of the earliest and most persistent isthat of the fallen woman saved from her fate by the love of a good man. In theracier years of the classic studio period, before the 1934 Production Codeeliminated any reference to the unwholesome facts of life, Hollywood was freeto call a whore a whore and not label her with euphemisms like "party girl" or"actress." The studios were still obliged, however, to reform her or elsepunish her for her sins -- and ours. In Josef von Sternberg's Shanghai Express (1932), Marlene Dietrich's"Shanghai Lili" becomes a high-class courtesan cruising the China coast afterbeing dumped by her stuffy lover, British Army officer Clive Brook, for testinghis jealousy. They meet years later on the title train, which is then seized byrevolutionary warlord Warner Oland. Dietrich gets a chance to make up for herrough trade and tough-minded independence by offering herself to Oland inreturn for her ex-lover's eyes, which the warlord, in a Freudian moment, hasthreatened to put out. The timely intervention of another hooker (playedseductively by Anna May Wong) discloses and prevents Dietrich's sacrifice, andall ends respectably. Not so in John Cromwell's adaptation of Somerset Maugham's Of HumanBondage (1934). Bette Davis, in the role that made her a star, plays thewaspish, consumptive waitress who seduces aspiring artist/physician LeslieHoward. As her treachery and bitchiness intensify, her health and professionalstanding decline; she winds up as a broken streetwalker dying in a poorhouse.It's a chilling lesson not to cheat on pallid, club-footed dreamers; the ironyis that Davis is far more attractive, if not more sympathetic, than Howard. Like Dietrich in Shanghai Express , Hollywood's women of little virtueshow a strength, independence, and allure that's more appealing than appalling.Especially when compared with the milksop representatives of respectablesociety. That's why hookers so often serve to send up the hypocrisy ofestablished morality. In Rain (1932), Lewis Milestone's remake of Sadie Thompson , Joan Crawford plays a South Seas trollop whosewantonness exposes the repressed desire behind puritanical preacher WalterHuston's intolerance of the flesh. In Clarence Brown's adaptation of EugeneO'Neill's Anna Christie (1930), Greta Garbo talks for the first time onscreen and earns an Oscar nomination for her efforts as the fallen young womanof the title who returns to her ne'er-do-well seafaring father after beingabandoned 15 years before. What she did all that time to support herself isrevealed after a young sailor proposes to her -- but she's vindicated and thepatriarchal society that lowered her is condemned. Prostitutes became personae non grata once the Hays Office took over inthe mid '30s, so Hollywood called them showgirls, or the non-specified femmesfatales of film noir, or, in the notorious case of From Here to Eternity (1953), USO workers. With the easing of moral restraints in the '60s, however,hookers once again could speak their name on screen, ushering in an onslaughtof films whose changing take on the subject of prostitution is a coy history ofour society's attitudes toward sex, gender, power, and money. Elizabeth Taylor and Audrey Hepburn started things off timidly enough with Butterfield Eight (1960) and Breakfast at Tiffany's (1961), respectively. In Daniel Mann's diluted adaptation of John O'Hara's Eight , Taylor plays a "model" with a taste for rich men and late hours;she will abide being called a tramp, but she won't accept the $250 hersocialite lover Laurence Harvey leaves her. Neither will he leave his sexless,devoted wife for her, and Taylor is duly punished for offering Harvey andaudiences a sexy alternative to drab middle-class existence (she would berewarded later, with an Oscar). As Truman Capote's Holly Golightly in BlakeEdwards's Tiffany , Hepburn evades, briefly, the strictures ofrespectable housewifery by flittering on the fringes of Manhattan society,earning her keep from men by, it would seem, being witty and fascinating. Inneither film are the nuts and bolts of the actual business referred to: theheroine's lifestyle merely seems somewhat mysterious, maybe a littledepraved. But certainly enticing -- for women as well as men. There's the great clothes,the idle luxury, the independence (just like a James Bond film); there's alsothe lure of sexual experimentation, self-abasement, maybe even romance.Hollywood in the '60s contented itself with suggesting the forbidden appeal ofprostitution, but European filmmakers like Jean-Luc Godard with 1962's Vivresa vie (and, in a sense, every film he's made) and Luis Buñuel withhis deliciously perverse 1967 classic Belle de jour exploredprostitution both as a manifestation of repressed desire and as an allegory ofthe movie industry in particular and capitalist society in general. American filmmakers tend to be more idealistic, if not more naive. Especiallywhen they're trying to be hip, as they were in the late '60s and early '70s.One prostitution myth that evolved in this period was theknight-in-shining-armor scenario, in which the hero rescues the heroine fromthe wicked pimps who enslave her. In so doing he also frees himself from allhis unacknowledged inhibitions, which makes for a happy or at leastclarifyingly tragic ending. In Herbert Ross's The Owl and the Pussycat (1970), nerdy would-be writer George Segal is tossed together with unbearablyshrill call girl and actress Barbra Streisand. Think Pygmalion : heimproves her vocabulary, she screws him and teaches him how to be himself. The pattern is much the same if dicier in Alan Pakula's Klute (1971),as small-town policeman Donald Sutherland squires big-city call girl Jane Fonda(another hooker role that turned Oscar gold) for information about thedisappearance of a prominent acquaintance. His tight-lipped repressivenessdoesn't long withstand Fonda's frisky savoir faire, and his straight-arrowvirtue proves more therapeutic to her than her psychiatrist does. The formulagoes sour, however, in the uncompromising assault of Martin Scorsese's TaxiDriver (1975), in which Robert De Niro's lumpen Sir Galahad fuses squalorand chivalry to save an unwitting, pubescent Jodie Foster in one of cinema'smost astounding scenes of sparagmos . Too bad the knight syndrome didn't come to an end with Travis Bickle's killingspree -- we might not have had to endure the demeaning, vastly popular treacleof Garry Marshall's Pretty Woman (1990). Richard Gere is a corporatebuccaneer who dismembers companies and sells the fragments. Julia Roberts ismore in the corporeal line, and their chance merger is mutually beneficial asRoberts learns which is the proper fork to eat with and Gere learns to have agood time and stop being pissed off at his father. Needless to say, the brutal realities of both businesses are airbrushed --what's the deal with Roberts's drug-addict friend, for example? And yet thefilm is quite matter-of-fact about prostitution's capitalist nature. As suchit's another in a long line of films that explore the profits and losses ofwhoring. Leave it to Billy Wilder to come up with one of the first, the saucy ifoverlong Irma La Douce (1963), in which gendarme Jack Lemmon loses hisjob and his heart to Shirley MacLaine's Parisian trollop of the title. On therebound, he becomes her pimp, but since he cannot bear to have her sleep withanyone else, he disguises himself as a wealthy English lord who just wants toplay solitaire. The lord becomes her sole customer, and in order to pay her --in fact himself -- Lemmon must work nights in a meat market. After taking onthe roles of capital, labor, and the aristocracy, he's left too exhausted toenjoy the object of his desire. A similar critique of capitalism might be read from Robert Altman's McCabe& Mrs. Miller (1971). At the turn of century on the West Coast,entrepreneur and gambler McCabe, played with raffish insouciance by WarrenBeatty, joins forces with brothel keeper and opium addict Mrs. Miller, playedby a luminously besotted Julie Christie. Together they transform a sleepybackwater into a frontier boomtown, only to attract the interest of corporatehonchos back east. The film concludes with one of cinema's greatest sequences,one that is simultaneously lyrical, tragic, and epic -- a rapturous and somberimage heralding the end of the frontier spirit and the beginning of Americancorporate capitalism. In the age of Reagan, though, the corporate types are the heroes, not the badguys, so pioneer McCabe gets replaced by preppie self-promoter Tom Cruise in Risky Business (1983). Left home alone in his ritzy Chicago suburb,Cruise avails himself of the services of hooker Rebecca De Mornay and in shortorder turns the family home into a brothel. That annoys the lower-class scumwho are the girl's pimps, and after some misfortunes involving a Steuben eggand a Porsche in Lake Michigan, she gets reformed and he learns a lesson beforeheading off to Princeton, presumably to learn to become a corporate raider likeRichard Gere. Ron Howard's half-witted Night Shift (1982) plays the same theme offthe old pairing of love and death. Henry Winkler is a morgue attendant who'stempted by moronic colleague Michael Keaton to take advantage of the slowlate-night shift by setting up a brothel among the stiffs. All works well --the boys make money and the girls get health benefits -- but Howard, likeLemmon in Irma La Douce , falls in love with the merchandise, starstablemate Shelley Long. Then there's the requisite threat from thelower-class-scum pimps that want in on the action. Not to worry, though: thetrue love of heart-of-gold Long enables Winkler to shake off his middle-classrepressed self and his respectable eating-disordered fiancée and haveeverything his way (his sending back a sandwich he didn't order is a dramatichighlight). Recent Hollywood efforts have taken thisrespectable- folks- turning- brothel- keepers to new smarmy heights. Prostitutionbecomes not just as another business but a reflection of and cure-all for thedysfunctional family. In Mighty Aphrodite (1995), Woody Allen ickilymirrored his own tabloid-blazoned scandals as the father of an adopted childwho tracks down its natural mother in a misguided attempt to heal his troubledmarriage and tweak his Oedipal curiosity. That the mother is a whore -- ascatological Mira Sorvino winning an Oscar by imitating Minnie Mouse -- says asmuch about Allen's trouble with women as Hollywood's inveterate misogyny. The unholy mother/whore combination can be seen in flagrante in RichardBenjamin's Milk Money (1994). A trio of scampish suburban kids puttogether a hundred bucks in change and ride their bikes to the big city. Therethey employ bimbo Melanie Griffith to show them her tits and give them a ridehome. One of the more annoying tykes is determined to hook Griffith up with dadEd Harris, a widower devoted to saving "the wetlands." The traditional avengingpimp turns up, of course -- not lower-class, this time, but Eurotrash BritMalcolm McDowell. Yet this marriage of suburbanite complacency andtransgressive urban sass is as inevitable as Griffith's cleavage. Although vastly inferior, Milk Money is reminiscent of Jonathan Demme's Something Wild . And not just because both feature Melanie Griffith in asundress. In Demme's masterpiece, she's Lulu, the spitting image of LouiseBrooks's archetypal prostitute from the Pabst silent film of the same name.(This latter-day Lulu's profession is left ambiguous.) She pounces ondown-on-his-luck corporate executive Jeff Daniels, who's lost his wife,furniture, and very likely his job when Lulu lures him through the HollandTunnel and on the road to an America Charles Kuralt never encountered. With RayLiotta in his first and finest performance as a psychopath who shows Daniels aglimpse of the dark side, Something Wild is exactly that, a rollickingvoyage through comedy and melodrama that discloses the savage face beneathgenial stereotypes. Demme's film also reminds us that, at their best (which is not often),Hollywood's movies about prostitution serve as a bridge -- in the case of Something Wild , a tunnel -- between the respectable and the forbidden,the repressed and the desired. In Leaving Las Vegas (1995), NicolasCage's sodden screenwriter abandons the glitz of LA for the desert of the titletown. There, at the bottom of cases of bottles, he finds call girl ElisabethShue. They fall in love, but neither reforms the other: he'll drink himself todeath; she'll sell herself until she's no longer desirable. They offer us noconsolation, and neither does the film. It takes the sweet beauty and theangelic attentions of Shue, in her Oscar-nominated performance, to make anaudience embrace those brutal truths. Which is Hollywood's way of showing thata hooker's heart of gold is in fact our own heart of darkness. Prostitution Theory 101 - A Boston Phoenix article on hookers The Boston Phoenix's Movies Archives Peter Keough Archives Film & TV: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 © 1995-99 DesertNet, LLC . The Boston Phoenix . Info Booth . Powered by Dispatch

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I think you will like them. http://www.myspace.com/sleepwithzzz SoCal Val Jan 10, 2006 02:11 PM Loved you guys so much at HOB, I went back for more at Chain... loved it! you guys are awesome!!!! The Moose Jan 10, 2006 02:01 PM Glad to see about the tour. U guys deserve it. Hope all is well and i love the e.p. Moose Midnight Temptress Jan 10, 2006 01:18 PM hey just dropped bye to say you guys kick ass! i love you music ;) The Great Blumpkin Jan 10, 2006 09:54 AM We thank you for the add. ROCK!! -The Great Blumpkin ♥STEPHALATISMO says: KISS OFF♥! Jan 9, 2006 11:49 PM HAHAHA! I was SO excited when i Heard a commercial on indie today about THe whole Big bear thing. 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I'm sick of this scene need to break the routine Jan 9, 2006 12:37 PM hey guys omg i just seen u are on taste of chaos wow im going for sure now i saw u guys once before at the glasshouse with i am ghost and u guys were amazing so i hope to see u guys at taste of chaos take care guys these sheets tell of regret♥ Jan 9, 2006 12:31 PM SABRINA KORVA Jan 9, 2006 12:29 PM YOU GUYS SOUND GREAT!! TURN IT UP!!!!!!! sandrita Jan 9, 2006 12:27 PM hey!thaks for the add!^^ *Sarabeth* Jan 9, 2006 12:15 PM why was the keyclub cancelled?? :( that just ruined my day. but I still love you guys! only time will tell... Jan 9, 2006 12:00 PM i really love your music. & your "about me" (it made me laugh) ♥ TUESDAY Jan 9, 2006 11:34 AM make sure to drop by, check out our songs and leave a comment rock on TUESDAY Amanda Jan 9, 2006 10:39 AM are you guys going to be at the Taste of Chaos tour in Jacksonville on 2/24?? please tell me you are.... you guys are the only reason i got a ticket Ms. Sherlock Jan 8, 2006 10:27 PM I'll cya' at the Taste of Chaos Long Beach!! ..m/ .Brock.<3 Jan 8, 2006 07:39 PM HEY you guys are so awesome. I was looking at your shows and i didn't see Australia im dissapointed. i hope to see you's come here i love your music take care. Jaeleen Jan 8, 2006 07:36 PM Thank you for accepting me, you guys manage to give me a pick-me-up every day! You rule! i like cheese. Jan 8, 2006 07:24 PM your guys' music made my day today. therefore, i love you. ♥ Shutup whore bag Jan 8, 2006 06:05 PM no problem you guys make me smile =] sara. Every Rose Has its Thorns Jan 8, 2006 05:47 PM No thank you!!!! You guys rock!!!! Mister Me Jan 8, 2006 05:24 PM anytime... btw ill whore yall whenever. just send me ur codes id.die.for.you.love.recreate.me. 2.your.perfection Jan 8, 2006 04:26 PM you guys rawk..awsomex7387487398 [Staciosaurus.] Jan 8, 2006 04:26 PM no problem. i love your music. ill whore u guys anytime. and ill keep that comment on my page only because i love ur music =] hehehe but yes just comment me if u need anything . LAMP SHADE GHOST doesn't need your approval!! Jan 8, 2006 03:56 PM hey, got you cd at the sugarcult show and i love it. well, keep rockin'!! [My Heart Is Yours] Check out Invictus Jan 8, 2006 03:54 PM No thank-you for accepting my f/r :) You guys are fully awesome..Come to Australia some time..I'll be sure to catch the show ;) This Hussy Kills Jan 8, 2006 03:54 PM I'll see you boys in philly on March 4th. I'll be visiting daniel. 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Whore Train

LazyBastard.Com: October 29, 2001-- On The Train From Paris to Berlin Home LazyBastard.Com toward Prague: October 29, 2001--On The Train From Paris to Berlin It's autumn, oh, yes, the skeletal horses in the fields, and the leafless trees rubbing the sky's grey belly certainly attest to that. Level after level after level of gray, as if the world were a low resolution screen--the world on glass, covered with insincere craftsmanship, painted for quick sale in cheap art fairs, in weekend street galleries, the world as caught by the insincere and the speedy. The world, in short, very much like the way I catch the world, and only the occasional (less than occasional) moment of purity counterpointing all the swift graytone perceptions, the illusion of depth created through negative space and the judicious use of gradation. Suddenly we have a town in France, suddenly it's the undescribed bullet train, suddenly we're in the middle of Jeff's life. You can't help but hold up the book with an expression to indicate that it smells bad. Who wrote this? And who, I ask? I 'm looking up now at the blinding eye of the sun, brilliant even through the layers of high cloud cover--more gray and white, although finally with some streaks of blue far up there. But I look at the sun, looking down unblinkingly like the eye of a reptile and wonder if this is the author I should thank. I want to be believe that there's a warmer ore mammalian eye up there. But maybe not. Maybe the secret all pet owners know is that the world is a gnostic dream--a petting zoo gone awry. The fish are outside the tank watching us. It's the lizard's terrarium that holds us now. And there's not much to do but watch us foul our water and spill our food, let the cows fall where they may. As long as the music keeps playing, I guess we really can't be too upset. [] Yes, the phantom limb, the scourge of San Francisco, and only brave M. Druisellet can curb the evil mastermind's terrible plans for vengeance! The phantom limb, mistaken by other people as their own heart or their own mind, but actually my renegade soul, escaped from me during a fierce attack of heartbreak, and lurking even now in the BART tunnels under the city. And while it runs amok, here I am, the only man who could stop it, on the train moving through the vast trainyard and car dealership that is Brussels (admittedly traveling by rail will make almost any city seem like a vast trainyard). Actually, now that we've turned a corner, Brussels seems more interesting to me--a modern city with some sort of ancient ruin in the center and the typical Provencal-style buildings, as functional and as decorative as shoe trees, plus the complete regularity with which windows are applied to them, as if it were every European's guaranteed right to defenestrate themselves at a moment's notice. It may seem arrogant, but I think Europe has a lot to learn from us Americans now. How, after all, will Europe take to the coming homogenization--greater than it's ever been--presented by the Euro and its borders, perhaps never before spread so wide. How sorry a state of affairs conquerors would find this now. Who has replaced the blood of our countrymen with milk, they would ask. Who allows such free interbreeding between cultures? The answer, of course, would be America, land of the mongrel and the mutt, the weak-blooded and the apathetic; my lack of history, my lack of culture, except for what I choose to make of it. The Internet seems odd over here, not nearly as in place as I thought it would be. I can't help but seeing all the Internet signs with the jaundiced eye of a San Franciscan. Perhaps the Internet is a particularly American dynamic, an American "utility" that people don't really want or need in a world of porous borders. Maybe the Europeans will want their own little Euronets, where they can meet people from their own countries, their own history. History is spread everywhere across like Europe, like mayonnaise, inescapable and informing the way every person dressses, every person sits, every person sleeps. Whereas the Internet is about an attempt to build history and culture in a country that has traditionally tried to destory it--let us build our own culture, let us choose our own history. Such ideas would seem impossible everywhere but in America. But here in Europe where there are already too many histories, too many cultures, and you can walk down the street to the local church three times older than America, who needs or wants to build a culture? It would be like putting a swimming pool in an aquarium. I'm torn, then, as to what I would say to the Europeans if they were to ask me for advice. Part of me is tempted to say, throw out your culture, put in the megamall. There is not much good that can come from your brasseries that all serve the same thing badly, there is nothing to be gained, no comfort to be had in a house filled with old ghosts and open windows. Burn down the trainyards, destroy your old lederhosen, and for god's sake destroy your belief in anarchy. How embarrassing is it to see signs supporting anarchy in cities so old they've outlived every possible citizen dozens of times over. Anarchists in European cities just seem to me like badly spoiled children. I can see it in America where history is mutable and corrupt. But in Europe? Come on! If you're that fond of anarchy why are you keeping all these ugly old buildings? Why are you shivering under the weight of woolen blankets in hard-walled rooms? Why do you keep passing the open windows? There is nothing be had here of anarchy. Either embrace your part as drone and messenger, as citizen and envoy of a city that is the actual European (not you) or else cast off this mark of Cain and try to begin again. It took you thousands of years to invent the bourgeois and half of you still act like you want to get rid of him. I would call the bourgeois the greatest creation since sliced bread if it wasn't for the fact that I believe the bourgeois was a by-product of sliced bread and so is contemporaneous. No, admit to yourselves what anarchy is in Europe. It's a hobby: lepidoptery, philately, anarchy. [] Between my typing and this keyboard, the English language is devolving before what would be my very eyes if I was even looking at it. Instead, I'm staring at a variety of passengers in the mirror above me, at the backs of the French businessmen in the seat in front of Dave, in the dashing about of the bored children who seem to yell and shriek and cause the youngest one to burst into tears every eight minutes. It would actually be more quiet to be riding outside the train at this point, and I've thought about wandering to another car, or else kicking the kids up to the next coach. I guess we're not allowed any special privileges in second class, such as infanticide. [] I think also that my history where we have Redwoods and intelligences that walk in the woods far older than these cities, have left me a bit more jaded than perhaps other Americans. To be in a wood and feel the breath on your neck of something that was old long before men even glimpsed the forest line, much less tried to enter it, makes me wonder if I'm to have few surprises in Europe apart for the occasional ogling of the architecture. Or perhaps I'm missing the point of Europe, which is that it is our first alien intelligence, the city as subject, as hero of a narrative, and a chance to visit that narrative even as it's being acted out. To see Beowulf when Beowulf was young, to move through the veins of Daedalus as he constructs the prison from which no one can escape. And perhaps I'm just fooling myself, but when the catacombs of Paris are roughly as old as San Francisco and hold 6 million people (outnumbering San Franciscans by at least six to one), it seems to me that I'm come from a city that is about sentient as a retarded infant. It has received so little succor, it has barely begun to open its eye and look around and it has been mired in the stunting cigarette smoke of political corruption for most of its life--it amuses me that I was ever afraid of San Francisco, its sentience. To be afraid of a city is to be afraid of one's own death, but the more comfortable with that subject one becomes, the more comfortable a city is. It's not half as horrible as the woods, as the field, as the stream, where nature has programmed itself with a blind thrusting version of mindfulness that is avaricious and yet apathetic, barely avoidable and awesome; only rarely strange, but even then more strange than Paris can aspire to. All cities that have streets are, if you think about it, only streetwalkers, possessing their initial gaudy appeal and then later their laziness and vanity. Whereas to live in the country is to have the willow-wife, the river wife, the lady of the woods, a relationship that is both stranger and deeper, capable of troubling and depressing but also rewarding at a level that is almost religious, to grow old and die in the crushing, ever-fecund arms of the willow wife, as opposed to dying alone, with the chattery gossip of the streetwalker city in your ear. If there is an appeal to Europe, I've decided, it's that the cities can frequently resemble nature. They can be so imperious as to resemble the silent wives of nature, even though it is in fact merely the stillness of the matronly madam, the borrowed airs of those who inherited strength through simple attrition, those who have cut low the forests of their own youth. The city, though, is all whore, and all chatter, talking outside your window and not caring if you die. Whereas the willow wife will hold her breath, if only for a minute, before she continues to envelop your house, and your body, and all that you have accomplished. To be married to the wood, or to live in the adultery of the city: are those the only choices available to me? Maybe there's something else I'll realize as we move through Berlin, through Prague and toward Venice, another possibility that will be offered through the embellishment of urban accretion. [] I don't know why I love the train so much. After all, the train is merely a bus without any potential for free will. Or, come to think of it, maybe that's what I love about the train. [] Just now, as I'm sitting here writing finally with my eyes closed, I can't help but wonder how safe it is to be riding at this high speed with one's eyes closed. What does the future hold to a man who willingly blinds himself to it. It's somewhat hard to believe that the future will provide if you're not willing to do anything about it. "Chance favors the prepared monkey." I believe Pasteur himself, whose face is currently in my wallet, said that. But who knows. There are guys like Einstein, to whom you can attribute any sort of half-assed truism and people will repeat it endlessly. Or you can say something that seems to finally have more than the slightest gram of truth to it, and all of a sudden every one wants to believe that Einstein wrote it, or that Murphy legislated it, and it's nothing like that. The world and the ideas exist---more and more I'm not sure if we exist as anything other than a conduit between the two. We are horses, we are autos, we are trains, shuttling about the passengers who live inside us to their desired destination. [] The dingy glass of the Berlin supertrain makes one think of all of the surrounding countryside as dingier than one would necessarily expect it to be. The seats on the train are comfortable but claustrophobic--it's like being smothered to death by a beloved uncle or aunt, perhaps. I'm sitting across from a woman with a face like poorly baked bread. Not particularly old, but having even a greater amount of the sort of joylessness and dead-eyed maturity I've come to expect from most Euros. Let's see, what else? Oh, yes. Mr. Tod's Wild Ride. I thought that one up while in the snug bathroom, the jostling moving bathroom, the sort of odd anti-uterus in which one doesn't kick but is kicked. And also none of this three language stuff for us now---it's all German all the time, unless they're breaking into Danish or some other sort of thing I'm not following. The houses are spinning right by, and I don't know why but I get the feeling I'm not going to like Germany much. So far it seems like France but with the flavor boiled out of it. More songs about buildings and food, I guess you'd call it. [] Previous: October 28, 2001--Paris, France Next: October 31, 2001--On The Train To Prague Email me . All material on these pages is ©2001 by Jeff Lester. With the exception of non-profit distribution, all other rights are reserved.

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