The Televisionary Oracle (12 page)

Stim’s not home and his answering machine’s not on. I can’t remember Katrina’s number, and it’s not listed in the directory. She lives just a few minutes away, though. I decide to make the trek to her house immediately. Whether or not she’s home will constitute the first omen from the Goddess about whether She approves of the union of Rapunzel and me.

Oops. Another pang of conscience intrudes. A big, inconvenient pang. My love nausea recedes just enough to remind me that I and my band World Entertainment War will be taking the stage at exactly 11 o’clock tonight, which means that a few hours from now I’ll be called upon to generate fountains of virile energy. The singing and dancing and performing I’ll do during the show will be the equivalent of playing three consecutive full-court basketball games. If I expect to endure till the end I’ve got to approach the delivery of fuel to my body with a scientific discipline similar to that of a long-distance runner. By rights
I should have loaded in one high-carbohydrate meal within the last hour, and should plan another between 8:30 and 9:00.

Then there are all the other pre-gig rituals I haven’t done yet: yoga, meditation, vocal warm-ups, pep-talking the band, method acting exercises with my assistant Marijka, and coordinating with my stage manager Erica on the organization of costume changes and props. These are very serious matters. My many years as a professional performer have pointedly taught me that there’s nothing worse than arriving on stage unprepared, my voice not ready to hit the high notes, my body unlimber, my improv instincts unlubricated.

This gig is our maiden voyage since we divorced both our giant record company, CBS, and our giant management team, Will Boehm Management (WBM). After struggling for years to link our fortunes to powerhouse institutions with the clout to make World Entertainment War a household name, it turned out that we could not bear the ignominious compromises imposed on us by their corporate hackdom. Our relationship with WBM lasted fifteen months, with CBS eighteen. For the foreseeable future, we’ve opted to uphold our creative integrity at the expense of disseminating our music to as many people as possible. So begins our headlong plunge into the hype-less, fund-less void.

Do I know what the hell I’m doing? The entire mess scares and depresses me.

When I stumbled onto my career in music way back when, I had two main ambitions. First, I wanted to be a sacred entertainer: a shamanic clown conducting poetic rituals of catharsis for my tribe. The second motive, composing maybe thirty percent of the total, was to be worshiped as a rockstar. This sub-personality of mine, which I call the wannabe sexgod, was not and has never been in it for the joy of being of service. He’s greedy for all the fame and adoration he can suck up.

To my credit, the sacred entertainer has held the upper hand in the relationship for most of my career. It has only been recently that the rockstar persona began, like a smarmy parasite, to gobble up more than its rightful share of psychic energy. I’ve found myself performing more and more acts of self-violation which I’d once sworn off as taboo.

Capitulating to WBM’s wishes for us to do absurdly inappropriate shows was just one example. Nothing made me more embarrassed in front of myself than opening for the sweetly polished Neville Brothers at a sit-down concert in a Sacramento auditorium filled with yuppie baby-boomers. World Entertainment War is a radical chaotic tantric pagan dance band, for Goddess’ sake. In contrast to the Nevilles, as well as ninety-nine percent of all other famous rock bands, we don’t do no stinking love songs.

And then there was the bit about working with the CBS-assigned stylist, she whose aesthetic must have been imprinted by the anorexic pouting robots that populate the Neiman Marcus catalogues. Her attempts at sleek, chic makeovers made the rowdy faces of me and my fellow band members resemble evil but goofy harlequins.

And those humiliations are mild compared to the worst stuff, which I will not allow myself to obsess on for the thousandth time.

But that’s exactly why my music career, after many years of slow, steady ascent, has in the past year begun to degenerate. I’ve discovered, to my amusement and horror, that I’m one of those rare and unfortunate men whose success—maybe even my very survival—depends on maintaining my integrity.

Which is the reason I had no choice but to bail out of my contracts with one of the world’s biggest recording companies and a management group founded by a legendary name in the rock biz.

If this were any other day, even any other gig day, I would immerse myself in the delirium of the encounter with Rapunzel and its aftermath. I would cultivate and savor this mood for as long as it would last; would spend the next ten hours or three weeks in a dreamy haze of erotic nausea, revving up a master plan of seduction, composing love letters and creating gifts and staging surprises for my new-found goddess.

Tonight I’d compose an invitation, handsomely printed on a pumpkin I’ve saved since last fall, for her to meet me on Mt. Shasta, where, with the power of our combined voices uttering thunderous prayers in the language of the angels, we would precipitate avalanches that would lay bare the secret entrance to the fabled pleasure dome of the Atlanteans which they built eons ago inside the mountain.

Tomorrow I’d buy a Barbie doll and, with the help of modeling clay, surgically alter it to resemble the figurines of the obese mamas found all over old Europe by the archaeologist Marija Gimbutas. Taking my inspiration from “Venus of Willendorf,” the most famous of those ancient big-assed goddess statues, I’d call my creation “Barbie of Willendorf” and impale her on a homemade crucifix. Rapunzel would find the gift on her doorstep wrapped in an Easter basket together with colored eggs emblazoned with bull skulls, alongside of which would be a real double-headed ax fresh from the hardware store, inscribed with the faux autograph of famous feminist sexpert Susie Bright.

But I won’t launch any of that fun stuff tonight. The show at the Catalyst is too important to shortchange. In my personal mythos, I’ve already built it up into a landmark. I intend it to symbolize a turning away from my ego’s cheap agendas; to be an exacting and final cure for the rockstar virus.

Redemption and resurrection are words too pretentious for me to breathe in the presence of anyone else, but alone with myself they’re my mantras.

I decide on a compromise. I’ll give myself the next hour to be utterly irresponsible in service to my infatuation. Who knows? Maybe I’ll actually be able to get in touch with the Menstrual Temple’s most tantalizing witch and offer to put her on the guest list for tonight’s show.

With guilty triumph, I head towards Katrina’s house. I pray she’ll be able to tell me where the Grail resides.

As I leave the Catalyst parking lot and head into the residential neighborhood behind the downtown area, a wry voice from my higher self’s funny bone adds a corollary to my recent musings. There is, of course, another impetus that has propelled my musical ambitions since they were first spawned, I mean aside from the urges to be a sacred entertainer and a famous rockstar. It’s the desire to pick up chicks. Or to be more candid and specific: In lieu of being independently wealthy, I imagined that a job as a sacred entertainer-cum-rockstar was the best possible position from which to execute my yearning to make love with every decent-looking, halfway-smart woman I met.

I hasten to add that I’m painfully aware of how common and tawdry
this aspiration is. Often I’ve wished it could be easier to sustain the delusion that my omnidirectional lust is more noble and unique than the dumb lust of the other two billion males on the planet past the age of puberty. But I was almost thoroughly deprived of that luxury long ago.

The earliest I recall admitting the ugly truth was one warm October afternoon in a college anthropology class taught by the witty and acerbic Dr. Tacker. My testosterone was burbling and gnashing in response to the vistas of flesh visible on three different nubile coeds seated within pheromone-sniffing distance. The sight of Joanie Rivalson’s freckled back screamed at me from the plunging scoop of her purple tank top. The shimmering vision of Hilary Clark’s slightly spread thighs hovered at the edges of her denim miniskirt, which I could steal glimpses of if I turned sideways in my chair and pretended to gaze out the window thoughtfully. The bulge of Tara Worthington’s breast where it overflowed from her pink bra was begging me to stare at it through the gap between her upper arm and her sleeveless white blouse.

Together, the three muses had launched me deep into a ritual fantasy I’d been regularly invoking since kindergarten. For maybe the five-thousandth time in my life, I found myself on a gorgeous green and blue planet much like Earth, with one exception: There were no other human males in all the world except me. As I stood atop a verdant hill wearing nothing but a red silk robe, I surveyed hordes of females streaming towards me from all directions. They were all ages, all races, all shapes and sizes. I turned slowly in circles to drink in the abundance. They gazed at me with tender longing or fierce lust, spilling out of their clothes as they converged.

As it had each of the four thousand nine hundred ninety-nine previous times I’d invoked it, the fantasy’s prologue gave way to an utterly unique scenario. In other episodes, for example, my English teacher from junior year in high school smeared her entire body in virgin olive oil and gave me the ultimate full-body massage, or the German female double agent from the TV show “Hogan’s Heroes” brought forth six of her cohorts to conduct a ritual that combined the Episcopalian eucharist with a psychedelic orgy.

But in this particular version of the fantasy, Hilary Clark, Joanie Rivalson, and Tara Worthington pushed to the front of the horde riding
on a sweaty black bull. They were yodeling and ululating like madwomen, their faces painted like nineteenth-century Native Americans going to war. The three of them slipped off the beast and ran around to face it. Joanie grabbed its horns and launched herself in an airborne somersault lengthwise over the bull, in the style of the daredevil maidens portrayed in frescoes in the Temple of Gnossos in ancient Crete. The other two women followed suit. As soon as they landed, they raced in my direction. Joanie rammed her shoulder into my midsection and tackled me. Hilary scurried over and threw her mouth over mine. Tara untied my sash and threw open my kimono. But as Joanie sat on my shins and began to swoop down devouringly, the voice of my anthropology teacher, to which I’d previously been oblivious, somehow injected its way into the scene.

“The human male,” Dr. Tacker was saying, “is driven by a biological imperative to disseminate his genetic material to as many members of the female gene pool as possible. He really is an automaton, a hostage in blind service to the All-Powerful DNA.”

In response to this awful magic, my lyrical fantasy collapsed. I was propelled into a humiliating line of thought about how much I resembled a robot. Tara and Joanie and Hilary and I explored no further intimacy that day.

Or for many days. For a few months following Dr. Tacker’s rude hex, I grew so self-conscious about my “Planet of Women” fantasy that I half-heartedly abstained from it. Eventually it raged back stronger than ever, though, and served me again as a talismanic meditation and beloved recurring dream.

Still, in my darker, less self-forgiving meditations, I fixate on Dr. Tacker’s assertion. My virtually indiscriminate lust could easily be seen as the damning proof that I’m little more than a slave exploited by my DNA—that resourceful matrix of amino acids—to disseminate its signature to as many different collaborators as possible. In this theory, DNA tricks me into believing I’m acting out my own designs so that I won’t notice it’s working to maneuver me into endless situations where I might conceive children, thereby making possible its infinite proliferation.

In my nobler moods, though, I envision an alternative. In this model, the human species is a single unimaginably complex intelligence. Call it the Goddess or the Christ or the Oversoul. Individual people are in a sense the body parts of this Gorgeous Supercreature, each with a unique assignment to carry out. I may be more like a lung cell and you may be more like a white blood cell. Because each of us gets so carried away with our specialized tasks, though, we lose sight of the larger purpose we’re in service to. I forget that I can’t be a good lung cell unless I coordinate my efforts with all of you white blood cells.

The good news is that just as every part of a hologram contains a tiny image of the entire hologram, each of us carries the master plan of the God that we collectively compose. The bad news is that the master plan is buried so deep beneath more immediate agendas that it might as well be a repressed memory. If we could only access it, it would detonate our passion to collaborate purposefully not just with a mate or a lover or a few special people but with every single one of the other cells in our shared body.

This is, in fact, the Root Desire masked by every one of our mundane desires. It’s the engine that secretly drives evolution and that will one day become fully conscious in all of us. It’s the original, divine agenda that we incessantly shortcircuit by chasing after inferior and incomplete unifications. Most of us can manage no more than a narrow little obsession with a particular human who we mistakenly imagine can satisfy our gargantuan yearning for the real, primordial thing.

According to this scenario, the reason I’m such a fucknut is that I’ve begun to tap into the Root Desire. I’ve awakened the drive to achieve conscious unity with all my fellow cells. I’m increasingly at one with the master plan of evolution, which intends for us to collaborate with all, not just a few. How, therefore, could I not help but lust for liaisons with as many different aspects of the Gorgeous Supercreature as possible?

According to the model implied by Dr. Tacker’s formulation, on the other hand, I’m just a pawn of my measly little DNA’s drive to reproduce itself everywhere.

Whichever is more true, the end result is that the wellspring of my life can be reduced to one pithy formula: cruising for babes. And if that’s the case, then those other obsessions feeding my music career—
to be a shamanic high priest and rockstar—are really only in service to the ultimate obsession.