Out of Time Three Headed Talking Head
Did I ever tell you about…
I announce today, on the eve of nothing in particular, while we stand at the cusp of nothing more than a few minutes from now, the dawn of a new triumvirate. No figurative language or symbolism here, my friends, I speak directly of that governmental force, a three wheeled horse. But! and of course, this is a triumvirate like none have seen before. Very Hollywood…very Hollywood…well, cinematically anyway…not politically or philosophically. The members are quite clear, at least in fiction. Myself, of course, teamed with none other than James Traficant and William F. Buckley, together we will take the tangible world by absolute storm.
I know nothing of the eventual outcome, the end product as it were, but I drool simply pondering the events that journey our sorry selves to that point. The soundtrack, my friends, will be spectacular…though nothing is official as yet. More on that later perhaps. Reiterating the fact that I have no idea our roles after the fact, I stress that our roles are quite clear on getting there.
First, to the venerable and currently imprisoned James Traficant, Jimmy to his friends and “bitch” to his cell mates, for he was the first I thought of including in this, “revolution”. He will be, will do, as he is, as he does, but positioned out of his normal place — its merchandising! Appearing on billboards across this land and theirs in milk campaigns and noir style photographs — simply as he is I remind you — he will gain the support ‘o the yutes of America, the easily swayed. The concluding phase of Traficant’s role in this heaviest of matters, since I am so enthralled by synchronicity, will come to fruition when at the same time he becomes a new MTV VJ, a new dance craze sweeps the nation, DOING THE TRAFICANT. Christ, man, it will be beautiful. The world will abandon the use of high technology and instead resort to crappy black and white newsreels with that nostalgically classic voice pronouncing, “Teens everywhere are going crazy over that new style from Paris,” — for some reason Paris — “THE TRAFICANT!” Accompanying visuals will consist of teens of all types — remember, in black and white — with hoola hoops, in front of malt shops, but…what’s this? Their hair is done up in the Traficant fashion, light on top, somehow seemingly hovering above the head in some places, but attached at others, then a completely different texture and shade running down the sides and back of the head. ASTOUNDING! I have to pause simply picturing it…work on that Mr. Hawking! And the clothing you ask, well…let me tell you, each little darling will be all swaddled up in suits made of recycled jeans and ties from a different dimension of the color spectrum than the shirt. Across the land, girls and boys alike, we will have unified the sexes and gained the whore-power of the young.
With William F. Buckley, whom my father says I sound like when I get into a very heated fundamentals-of-life conversation — of course he doesn’t say ‘very heated fundamentals-of-life conversation’ — it is a very different matter. While less extensive than Traficant’s role, it is no less effective and important. Very special effects oriented, I assure you. We’ll first have to get him a better agent so that his infrequent appearances on cable-news become a great deal more frequent. Though what he says at this point doesn’t matter in the least, it is how he says it. His own naturally unnatural gyrations, having him spit out and re-swallow his own tongue while riding his chair like the sex contraption it is will be coupled with some very high-end special effects including a wind tunnel contraption, for that very effect, and an environmental manipulator which produces a combined illusion similar to stop-motion animation and time-elapse film, but in real time mind you, sufficiently imploding the heads of all those connected with the network. It is during this permanent lapse in judgment that the stars are in perfect alignment for me to take action.
Myself, dressed as I commonly am in striking earth tones, will be involved in what might be the most fictional and laws-of-science defying acts. With the necessary tears in both the heads of cable-news CEOs and physics, I will, by some yet invented procedure, tiptoe through space and time, appearing in a blink of an eye next to the political flavor of the week. I will then, on air mind you, proceed to metaphorically? slap this politician in the head with a decade-aged, wistful IRC large trout , proceeding to tell him or her why he or she is wrong, but not providing the precious secret as to what is right. This charade will continue until I tire of it and the three of us go out for a smoke.
Clearly the most gruesome and distracting Talking Heads since Chris Frantz and Tina Weymouth.
Breath that audible air. It is there.
I’m Thomas K…and I’m not