"AMERICAN LANGUAGE," PART 5:
DANCING WITH THE DEAD
© Alan Reade, 1994 and 2020
Photo by Dana Schuerholz, 1994
View the Show Notes
Dead Letter (in stereo)
Dear Richard: How are you? Well, besides dead, I mean, silly? I'm OK. Rather obsessed lately, since I've been thinking about death and how close it keeps cutting me. I feel like a hunted species sometimes.
But, hey, I didn't write to complain! It's been more than a year now since you've moved on, and I haven't witnessed any clear signs that you've "haunted" me. Which must mean that your passage went pretty well: First class seats, I hope? Yeah...well, um...the other day, I was trying to get a performance together, about you actually.... But I didn't know where to start: My memories of you are so fragmented. The way we remember seems to depend on luck sometimes. Also, you seemed to span a number of incarnations, a number of "separate lifetimes," which made it harder to get started.
Meanwhile, a friend of mine came over and we started talking about some ways you can kick the bucket...croak...you know, die....
Ways To Die
Well, let's see...what are some ways to die?
Oh, you could go off skydiving and your chute doesn't open....
Mmm-hmm. You could go fucking and your condom doesn't work, and you could die of AIDS.
Yeah. So many have. You could get shot for being a doctor at an abortion clinic.
You could be aborted.
Hmm. Yeah. I guess you could. Heroin overdose? That's a big one these days.
Yeah. Especially here. But you could die from too much Ecstacy...or Prozac!
Yeah! I think that's happened....
It doesn't have to be heroin....
No.... You could fall off a cliff while you're hiking.
You could get acute chlamydia.
Hey, it could happen....
Wouldn't want it to, but it could happen....
Cancer. Big, big death-causer.
Stroke.
That too, yeah...Nixon. Medical experiment gone bad at some sleazy hospital.
Yeah...I saw on TV about this guy who tried to light his own fart, and it went up inside his intestines and killed him.
No, it's true! I saw it on TV!
Oh, I guess it must be true, then. Um...yuck.... Uh, you could kill yourself because you were spurned by a lover.
Mmm-hmm. You could be caught in a printing press.
Mmm.... You could spontaneously combust.
Or, you could join a cult and then the FBI could bomb your compound.
Hmm.... You could starve to death.
Yeah.... You know, this is getting really depressing.
I don't know if I want to continue in this vein.... I mean, fuck this death stuff!
I wanna party!
Hey! Let's go to the disco!
Hey, yeah! Dy-no-mite!
Wait.... It'll just take me a few seconds to get ready, so hold on!
Like a Dog
Come on, baby, make me heel!
Or you can stretch me on your lovin' wheel.
Round and round, my lust does turn--
Oh, these walls are gonna burn! (Burn, baby, burn.)
I'm a canine, I sense your need;
It's high time my libido was freed!
Like a dog,
Like a hog,
Like an angel.
(There's a fire within my soul.)
When you treat me bad, I feel so good;
So let's wake up the neighborhood!
Get out the muzzle, get out the straps;
Make me clean your toilet in your leather chaps! (Hoo! Hoo!)
You're such a beast, and now I'm one too;
And let's face it, we look so cool!
Like a dog,
Like a hog,
Like an angel.
(I like it. Uh-huh.)
Like a dog,
Like a hog,
Whoo!
We'll fly to higher heights, while we
Do filthy things all night.
I never knew we could work this out--
Things my mother never told me about!
So, tell me, are you the right kind of man
Who can treat me like the trash that I am?
Like a dog,
Like a hog,
Like an angel.
I am a Dog of the Universe,
A Hog of God;
I am an Angel of Light!
Do not question me
Because I come to thee
In my canine form!
For I have evolved,
And I now do tricks
For a higher purpose!
For I am a dog,
And also a hog,
And also an angel!
1-2-3!
Like a dog,
Like a hog,
Like an angel.
(Shake your boo-tay.)
Like a dog,
Like a hog,
Like an angel.
(Toot toot! Hey! Beep beep!)
Like a dog,
Like a hog,
Like an angel!
"That's Alan with one 'L'!"
Good Times
Dear Richard: Well, I certainly hope you're watching, you big queen! It's not every day I get dressed up in my finest rags to do an ode to the era when you had such a good time. Yes, the subject of "disco" came up when I was thinking about you. I thought you'd like that: You know, down and dirty like a farm animal but flying high like a winged thing! (Well...disco never really made sense....) I was just thinking about days of dance and debauchery...pre-plague. I thought about doing an entire performance with covers of 70's disco hits. But my neighbors really complained about the noise. So, I had to come up with other ideas too.
Richard, I really loved the way you talked about San Francisco in the 70's...when it was still called "Baghdad-by-the-Bay!" As you know, I was a kid then, watching all those strange Soul Train people on TV and listening to all my parents' K-Tel albums...but you told me all sorts of crazy things about that time: the parties, the easy love, the bars, the baths, the booze, the sex...who knew? It was a time to explore without shame in the big city, and explore you did. Now the 70's have been reduced to Partridge Family reruns and second-hand clothing stores. But you lived it. Pushing yourself to be what you wanted against the collective will of the 50's.
And when you died last year, I started to remember the strangest things about you! Like the way you postured your left hand as you ate a slice of pizza. Your couple of parting words to me on the phone. It was strange, the odd, specific things that popped up. It bothered me, until I realized that the way we remember is formed by our imprecise, fuzzy biology. It picks and chooses, and you can't control it like you can a computer. Memory has a mind of its own. Which is why I'm a little dubious of the people who want to commit every little thing to video. You know who I mean: The Video People.
What's the point? To capture each wart, each booger, each movement of the finger? I'm not for realism, necessarily, when it comes to memory; it's more important that I keep someone alive in my heart than in my head. It's important that I hold on to the good feelings that people like you have given me, even when the good times seem to just start their engines and roll away...leaving me singing some sad country song....
Don't Take Your Love
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, (6...)
I guess this is the Transportation Age; we keep on moving.
And if your being here was just a stage, it's a stage we're losing.
Interstates and city streets,
They only lead you away from me;
And though your tires know what's best,
Would you listen to my request?
Don't pack your bags; don't leave your key;
Don't take your love away from me.
I wouldn't last one single night;
You and I know that it just ain't right.
(That's right, it just ain't right.)
I'll do what you want if you don't leave me alone;
Baby, you can treat me like a dog; you can throw me a bone.
You can indulge your every fantasy,
But don't take your love....
Can't say I never saw this up ahead; I felt it dying.
But then I did everything you said--I kept on trying.
Petty fights and little demands,
They drove the nails right into my hands;
And I'm aware you're leaving, dear,
But there is something that you should hear:
Don't pack your bags; don't leave your key;
Don't take your love away from me.
I wouldn't last one single night;
You and I know that it just ain't right.
(That's right, it just ain't right.)
I'll do what you want if you don't leave me alone;
Baby, you can treat me like a dog; you can throw me a bone.
You can indulge your every fantasy,
But don't take your love....
Don't take your love away from me!
You don't know how cruel you can be.
You and I know this isn't right,
Basing everything on just one fight.
(One night, it just ain't right.)
I'll hunt you down if you leave me alone;
I'll call America's Most Wanted and I'll wait by the phone
Until the cops report to me;
I won't give up on love, sugar....
You see how crazy I can be?
Just don't take your love...
Away from me.
Tower
Dear Richard: Yeah, it's hard when somebody leaves. Whether in a Datsun or a Hearse, the pain is just the same. At least at first it is.
One night in Seattle, I was looking out my window, out onto Third Avenue below. It was really late, I guess about 2 or 3 a.m. (I'd had a lot of espresso.) Two jagged people were hooting and screaming at the tops of their lungs, ducking into alleyways and building crevasses, where I could see the faint glow of crack pipes light up like fireflies.
And I thought: These people have no one. No one, that is, but the sorority girls in their daddies' sedans or the office workers in their Lexuses (or is it Lexi?) driving up to my street corner for drive-in drugs, destroying my neighborhood so they can drive back to the suburbs to do their nose candy in peace. But there was only one small window separating me from them.
My seventh-floor window was a city watchtower, getting all the sound as it drifted up from Third Avenue. Instead of feeling like I was spying on them, though, I began to feel as though I were on display for all the street people below. Like they were watching me in my warm apartment, seeing beyond all the comfort into me; making fun of my cozy little life behind glass.
I became paranoid after a while, and started keeping my blinds drawn most of the time. Especially at night.
Small Window
Small window--so small.
White shadows--my wall.
Is anybody here?
Am I moving inside?
Cold curb and--central heat.
Seven stories down--orange feet.
Everybody is a ghost; everybody is a
Moving shadow.
Not long ago you had a life waiting for you;
A cage of locking arms of the people who did adore you.
Why are you living your life for other people?
Constantly giving your life--to other people?
Tall shadows--so tall.
They climb up--my wall.
Someone is falling;
Someone break my fall.
One night you were in front of me;
I saw you had a building key:
I was terrified
That you were moving inside.
I only know you by the epitaph.
I only know you by the aftermath.
I only know you by the life you grieve.
I only know you by the wake you leave.
Why are you living your life for other people?
A shadow against the night--for other people.