June 2003; Issue No. 63
THE UNDENIABLE APPEAL OF THE HYPERREAL
"Bagby," I bellowed
in a stiff, clipped British accent. "Bloody good to see
you again!"
This was unusual. I don't
have an English accent.
It further alarmed my coterie because there was no one nearby
named Bagby.
"Bagby, old man, what do you make of those Iraqi
devils?"
I don't know what came over me. Then again I seldom do.
The last thing I clearly remember was standing on the terrace of an architecturally significant clubhouse of a country club in Southern California. I was a guest of some collectors who were members. It was another night in paradise. The sun had set a while ago. A few stars in the East were busting out of navy blue while the Western sky still echoed a rusting orange. It was a good-looking dinner party. Shirts were well starched, skirts were crisp and sweaters were tied around a lot of shoulders. Thick New Yorks were grilling over mesquite. Jasmine and eucalyptus danced in the warm evening air. A jazz trio played slow and lazy.
The conversation hovered between the French Open, Iraq and Martha's indictment. Maybe I was bored. Or just susceptible to an attack. When a HyperReal Projection hits, there really isn't much you can do about it. Or maybe it was the booze. Either way, I was transmogrified.
"Bloody good to see you
again Bagby!"
I suddenly found myself surrounded by high ceiling'd walls of
dark mahogany and gilt-edged books. Waiters in full livery sailed
through the Library on silent steps over plush Persian rugs.
The quiet light of brass Kashmiri lamps shadowed the room, but
I could still make out a few of my fellow members snoozing in
their
wingbacks or reading the Times.
I thanked Chandou, my favorite man, for the Gin Ricky. I had
to smile; he has been serving me for most of my life. He's a
bit slow, like all his kind, but he always gives me a grin and
a laugh.
When I crossed my legs and sank deeper into the red Argentine leather, I caught my reflection in the spit shine of my cavalry boots. My nose may have been broken several times but it never broke my good looks. I set the drink down onto the side table, inlaid with African ivory, and brushed a speck of lint off the gold braid of my left epaulet.
I have never liked nor respected
Lord Bagby. My elderly, working father recently needed his old
friend Bagby's help and was refused. Nonetheless, I had to be
polite. I had to ask again because Bagby lost some of his hearing
years ago when we were taking a bit of lead in the South African
campaign, "Bagby old man, what do you make of those Iraqi
devils?"
The former consul's face darkened. "An ungrateful lot."
He paused and then said with a laugh, "Those brigands are
a far cry from the civilization that was old Babylon! Eh? Ho!"
"I had some good news this morning," he continued brightly,
"My SS Lorelei landed safely this morning at Portsmouth.
Sailing in from Calcutta. I shall sleep better tonight."
Lord Bagby married well after leaving the Foreign Service and
then invested in shipping and cotton. He was a miserly employer,
favoring a hard stick to a carrot. The "Free India"
movement was hurting his business a great deal with the rioting
in Bombay and New Delhi.
He took a pick and loosened
the charred tabacco in the bowl of his pipe, then tapped it empty
into the big elephants foot ashtray.
Bagby has a tendency to get long winded. I knew that he was going
to start blustering about business, so I thought I'd tweak his
ruddy nose a bit. I didn't realize how much.
"Bagby," I asked, "What do you think of this Mahatma
Ghandi business?"
"That runty! Little bald!" Lord Bagby slammed his ham
sized fist upon the Balinese endtable. His face grew scarlet
and he stood abruptly. "That little brown Hindi has cost
me a fortune!" Bagby blew long and hard enough to wake up
old Smallwood who was snoring across the room. Continuing his
rant, "That scrawny, brown, cotton weaver has---".
I stood up and with humor said,
"Isn't that something, when a little man in a diaper can
push around a Lord like you!"
Well, obviously I had touched a nerve. He cocked up to take a
swing at me. I stepped back and he caught air with great embarrassment.
"Good God, man!" I said loudly and sarcastically, "This
is a gentleman's club!"
Like a bull, Bagby tried to dance like a butterfly but his clumsy
second attempt to connect his fist to my face sent his rather
large frame crashing into a wingback chair, rolling it over with
he in it. I couldn't see Lord Bagby but I heard a large "OOOFF"
in harmony with the sound of breaking wood.
Chandou pulled the chair off of him.
Old Smallwood snickered.
Somewhere, a crystal glass fell to the floor and shattered.
Lord Bagby, huffing and puffing, crawled about on all fours trying
to stand but his fat legs could find no traction. Servants were
trying to help but he shoved them away.
Beet red, Bagby lumbered to his feet by climbing up the leg of
the huge stuffed Grizzly Bear that Teddy Roosevelt had bequeathed
the club.
A sharp cry turned everyone's
attention. The Club Manager stood in the doorway, hands plastered
on his face in horror wailing "This is a gentlemen's
club!"
He spoke directly to me, this time rather dryly, "Lieutenant.
Once again."
The Manager turned to the security guard behind him, "Eddie,
escort The Riot out of the Club immediately and I don't want
to see his boots touching the floor as you go."
Eddie, a former sergeant in
the Royal Light Dragoons, was rather large. I've known him a
while. We were friends. As he came at me, I saw the ole 'sorry-but-my-job-is-on-the-line'
look on his face.
One of Eddie's paw-like mitts landed at the back of my neck and
yanked skyward. My toes no longer touched the ground.
The next morning, I woke up back in Southern California with a needlepoint hangover. After a several hour Forensic Nightlife investigation, I learned that I had gotten quite rambunctious at the country club the night before. It seems I can't resist any chandelier that swings. Of course, some people have no sense of humor. Security was called and I hear I had a swell time leading a billyclub wielding septuagenarian on a foot chase at jogging speed, out to the soon to be stolen golf cart that ended up in the water trap on the Thirteenth Hole which... It just goes on.
CLOTHES MAKE THE COLONIAL MAN
I have never been so embarrassed
in my life. What will the Iraqi people think?
The picture in the morning paper made me cry out in nationalistic
shame. It showed Paul Bremer, our new Viceroy in Iraq, on his
first day on the job. He was shaking hands with one of our new
fellow citizens. In the picture Bremer wore a business suit with
sneakers. I was too mortified to even laugh. Or cry.
If I had trotted out like that at home, my mom would have sent me back upstairs to change. We judge a book by its cover. First impressions are last impressions. Just ask Dale Carnegie. If clothes make the man, then a Viceroy makes a nation.
The entire presentation was flawed from the top down. What looked like a UN Peacekeeper's helmet on Bremers head was in truth a dry look, blow-dried do from the Seventies. If he weren't wearing a tie, I would have thought he was a Dallas society dame with a bouffant.
His dress was more appropriate to a winter in Iowa than a day in Baghdad. A heavy wool pin stripe suit with vest in the Arabian Desert does not project a knowledgeable image nor does it reassure a nervous people. You'd think the State Department would have their own Mister Blackwell to pack the steamer trunk. Tony Blair should have whispered "loose linen and breathable cotton" into his ear. There is a reason why GQ Gentleman's Quarterly goes to press every month.
I am assuming L. Paul Bremer wanted to portray himself as a dynamo, a take charge kinda guy, a man who literally hits the ground running. But the sneakers did not achieve that goal. Yachting deck shoes can work with a suit but shopping mall Ankle-Savers just spells D-O-W-D-Y. If I were an Iraqi, I would read the footwear as a promise of more looting, lack of water and no electricity for quite some time.
As an aesthetic and an American, I am appalled, appalled, by our presentation in Iraq. And obviously, so are the Iraqis. Just the thought of the embarassment makes me want to slap on a Strap-On. (I am referring to the popular explosive with a one-way ticket.) Has anyone considered the audience? What might the Iraqis be thinking? Our spectacular and explosive First Act with its easy foxtrot into Baghdad may have sent a message of power, hope and too much promise. American culture is no stranger to these good people. For generations, they have seen our films, admired our style and emulated the American panache. They know Tom Cruise and they all, except for the fundamentalists, have studied Pamela Lee Anderson in great detail. Their expectations are rather high. Here they are, expecting the best of Western Civilization but instead they get the best of Mid-Western Civilization. Clothes make the Consul.
LIVING IN THIS WARTIME
How am I living in wartime?
Badly. I am pissed at the inconvenience, the turn of events and
the anxious wait for some other sandal to drop. I am angry at
the way everything is turning out. This Bin Laden fella
has crossed a very wide line: You don't mess with an American's
comfort. He has taken my old life, which I now fondly look back
on as 'idyllic and easy', and he has given it the old 'shaken
not stirred.' Everything has shifted. There is too much going
on that is forcing me to take my attentions elsewhere. I am distracted
to places I'd rather not focus. Free time, once plentiful, is
now at a premium.
Never have I had a greater urge to make art. And, now, because
of one's rather extremist religious leanings, I have less
time than ever to make art. I am like a teenager in heat. I sneak
out of work to paint but I really have to spend more time at
work to pay the rising rent. And given the demands of all the
other obligations in life, like sitting down and writing
this goddamned column, I am now a seething inferno of frustration.
I'm not doing what I want. The interior of my mind speeds like
the ricochet of a machine gun. My Emotionalism is a volcano of
rumbling unmet need. My intestines are a churning river of boiling
lava. I am a rage. I roar.
I'm pissed.
And to further the Bin Laden blight, I have been painting badly.
No, I am not living well in wartime. Thanks for asking.
TRUE TALES OF THE HYPERREAL
I have no idea what is going
on but I can tell you what I prefer. The world may be rather
dull and gray but my Rich Inner Life is filmed in Technicolor.
I prefer that the daring rescue story of brave little Army Private
Jessica Lynch was true and just. I hope Davy Crockett died a
hero's death at the Alamo. I am so relieved to learn that there
are no Christian Terrorists. I pray Abraham Lincoln wasn't a
homo and I am sure sweet little Martha Stewart was out digging
in the garden when her Sell Order was placed.
_______________________
GORDY GRUNDY is a Los Angeles based painter. His
visual and literary work can be found at www.gordygrundy.com.