As an art director her reputation was harsh. All previous locations for filming she had declined. I explained: “abandoned three story brick city newspaper building with hauntingly layered – deeply textured – retro – black and white Superman vibe”.
She was excited, perhaps thinking back to the man of steel. I was excited too, thinking about my check.
by – Doug Mathewson
After what happened at the London Live-Aid show, it was no surprise that Michael Jackson sold the rights to the entire American Jazz music catalogue. With the death toll sky-rocketing, liquidity would be essential to his defense and survival. No one could have imagined that his latest radical cosmetic surgery would be visually toxic. Everyone in the first thirty rows died in their seats. All in attendance suffered injury, how severe depending on their proximity to the stage. The full impact of the “Visually Fatal Event”, or VFE as it was now known, was thankfully filtered by television. Viewers around the world got headaches and nausea, but nothing worse. As a musician who grew up loving jazz, I found the whole situation sad, but I understood. The Korean investment group that made the final purchase was large and well funded. They retained the absolute best material. Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Charles Mingus, Bill Evans, and Charlie Parker’s work. Only the very best. What I found surprising was how quickly the Korean firm moved to sell the rest of this sprawling catalogue.
It was purchased with a very minimum of negotiations by a multi-national corporation specializing in salvage. Jazz fans around he world were outraged! There is no sentimentality at this level of global business, and the Fargo Asset Management Group
were know to be absolutely ruthless. Jazz was broken down into sale lots more or less by category and auctioned by Christie’s Ltd. online.
By this time American art and investment forces had rallied. The Smithsonian cherry-picked to fill in it’s Delta Blues collection. Texas oil money snapped up New Orleans Jazz in it’s entirety. Out of nowhere Bjork bought all of the Ragtime – Dixieland. When asked about the purchase she explained, “it is the only music that truly speaks to the
very souls of the Icelandic peoples”.
That was it. The magic was gone. The musical dream was over. Things went downhill
from there. The Hip-hop populous burned scraps of old jazz in street corner trash cans for warmth. Punk thrashers and slashers ripped out chunks of jazz with their sharpened teeth all up and down Sunset Blvd. Country music took just enough for appearances to maintain their mournful nostalgic point of view. Musical “found objects” kept the downtown New York art scene just spinning! Moby tribute bands took the final scrapings
into their world of ambient electronic whispers.
The discarded very last lump found it’s way eventually by post to North Africa. In dance clubs and cafes it was gradually reborn. No longer hindered by pretension it could thrive. Beautiful African voices sang this new music in the most sensual of smooth lingering French. The music felt like a lovers touch. The beat as familiar and welcome as that of your own heart. Wild and exciting, dangerously pounding fast, or slow and confident, sexy and steady in it’s own rhythmic measure.
This new jazz then traveled north to Parisian clubs. The music found me there, or I found it. The details now unimportant. After so much time apart, jazz and I discovered we could love each other again. I cried tears of joy to find my intimate friend and musical confidant had returned to my life.
by – Doug Mathewson
Everybody had photos in their cubicles, of loved ones, pets, and friends.
Having none of the above I cut out an old magazine picture of Courtney Love and put it
in a cheap plastic frame. She looked great in this smokey live concert shot.
Her hair whacked-out, lipstick badly smeared, cigarette upthrust like FDR,
and mayhem in her eyes. She had ripped the broken-strapped tacky sequin bra
far from one shoulder, slick with sweat her bare breast exposed, nipple defiant.
The department supervisor made his courtesy visit, saw the photo,and conversationally inquired , “So, ah… is that the Mrs.?”
by – Doug Mathewson
I was going to call this entry Smooch – Smooch Kiss-y-face, probably because of the moive title “Faster Pussy Cat, Kill – Kill”. But on consideration, I did not want to detract from what should be said. March 2008 will see my work appearing in The Boston Literary Magazine, Door Knobs and Body Paint, eMuse-zine, and Six Sentences. I wish to thank these editors as well as editors who have published me over the last few months. I especially am very grateful to people who are kind enough to find the time to give insightful, specific, well considered advice and criticism whether they publish me or not. Thank you to the following people and publications.
Robin: The Boston Literary Magazine.
Jen: Creative Soup.
Leila: Door Knobs & Body Paint.
Llewellyn: eMuse-zine.
Elizabeth
and C.M.: Pen Pricks Microfiction.
Rob: Six Sentences.
Kristen
and Shelly Rae: Tuesday Shorts. And most of all,
Gemma: The Museum of Rain
Sincerely, Doug Mathewson
So this guy was named Philbert or something, I said
That Filbert, what a nut! You exclaimed
Who’s Philbert? Your moron boy friend asked
No no, it’s just a joke! You said
Your idiot boyfriend didn’t believe you. I saw
He squirmed and simmered uncomfortably,
you mentioning another man. You enjoyed it, I shook my head
by – Doug Mathewson
Since they both grew up in Europe, speaking English was exotic and new.
What I found they had in common was a fascination with American idioms.
Their word choices were often awkward or odd. The Polish engineer was astonished at
the phrase “where were you when the shit hit the fan?” I explained to the
Czech graphic designer that I wrote a story about this for The Village Voice.
She exclaimed in response “What pluck!”
by – Doug Mathewson
Family called us difficult children. School and the neighbors called us worse.
“Your Mothers nerves can’t take it “ Dad would angrily yell. Late at night, I would squirt lighter fluid on our boots, my sister would strike the match, and we would run screaming through the house. Stunts like these just made our folks nuts.
by – Doug Mathewson
Japanese medieval literature has a reoccurring theme of foxes who turn themselves into women to to trick and deceive the unwary. Corrupt magistrates are embarrassed, dishonest merchants are exposed, and unfaithful lovers revealed. In one story an imaginative woman said “I just can’t believe you thought it was me!”
“It was so obviously a magical fox taking my place who did and said all these things.” ” You must be quite foolish, to be so easily deceived”
If we could speak the language of foxes, what might they have to say on the subject.
by – Doug Mathewson
The world was in attendance
We watched on
Black and white TVs
1961’s bright January day held promise
Bare headed John Kennedy
Addressed the nation
On Inauguration Day
A breeze went through his Hyannis Irish hair
He offered us a boarding pass
To a nation united in hope
Behind him stood in somber rows
Dignitaries great and small
In formal top hats
Photo-shopped in, perhaps
From Lincoln’s address at Gettysburg
Images more fitting to a faded past
They were the dinosaurs
Suddenly irrelevant
Reduced to token roles
Why were they there?
Wasting our countries time
In their foolish old man hats
To the savvy and astute
The transformation was instantaneous
No time for hats
So much to do
Men in motion
Taking charge
Or keep your hat
Sit on the porch
In a rocking chair
Your teeth now in a water glass
Just forget to shave
And wear your hat
Offer your sage council
To a now diminished audience
Consisting solely
Of one sleepy
Hound dog
by – Doug Mathewson
When she wore the sweater that I gave her
The one she hated so
I knew she wished to please me
Suspicious as to why she did
What could she be up to this time
So with concentrated vision
I looked until there it was
Saran Wrap protruding from her collar
To keep another tattoo I would hate
From itching beneath the scratchy wool
by – Doug Mathewson