BLUE EYED BOY by Dennis Doph

beyond beyond . 68

When first I encountered the blue eyed boy I was hardly more
than an impressionable child. I'd seen handsome men before
Never repeat never had I seen a man onscreen who could come up
to this paragon of beauty laboring opposite Virginia Mayo while she
pretended to be Princess of Something.

The blue eyed boy had gravitas and a chiseled face and the body
from hell. The picture (Silver Chalice) sank without a trace but
two years later Amazingly I saw the same man impersonating
Rocky Graziano in a low budget Metro picture Somebody Up There
Likes Me There is no particular reason to remember Somebody
Up There Likes Me.

Other than the blue eyed boy who displayed for the first time
a pithy interior quality (along with the body from hell) which
indicated he was one of those .... those unusual theater devils
who put brain before clout.

What really tied the can to Paul was Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.
Here finally he was able to repeat a stage role written for him
by America's most famous publicly homosexual playwright.
We watched him reel through it, pushing voluptuous Elizabeth
Taylor away with his crutch, sobbing and flailing at Burl Ives
in the basement of that foul old antebellum mansion, embodying
the twisted soul of Brick Pollett, beloved of "Skipper" -- broiling.

We knew Brando and Clift had been joined by a third sensational
film presence -- Paul Newman would be heard from, and heard from,
and heard from. He was blasting his own individual way through the
cieling of the film pantheon. Great roles fell to him like plums.

He returned to the stage and Elia Kazan to create another flipped-out
Tennessee Williams antihero -- Chance Wayne in Sweet Bird of Youth.
Here at last was the core of the blue eyed boy -- a down-and-out
hustler, pandering his own perfect body to the debased lust of a has-been
movie star (Geraldine Page as Alexandra del Lago; words cannot convey
the impact).

Paul was on his way to glory. Marrying Joanne Woodward , another
Actor's Studio drama icon, didn't hurt. They clung together in picture
after picture, some bad (Rally 'Round the Flag), some very good (Long,
Hot Summer). What they put onscreen was the core of their simmering
heterosexuality -- amusing, hip, and cooked to the core.

The Sixties proved a prize for the blue eyed boy as he scored one valuable
difficult role after another: Hud, the Hustler, Harper, Cool Hand Luke,
Butch Cassidy. He WAS the Pantheon. Brando had fallen into disarray
and fat. Clift was dead.

The blue eyed boy became for besotted American men and women
what no one had yet attempted: a devastatingly handsome, intellectually
transparent totally involving antihero who could bring audiences to their
knees. When he and Bob Redford sailed off the top of the cliff at the end
of Butch Cassidy, we suspected the worst. And prayed for it.

The Seventies tarnished his impreturbable escutcheon as Newman, like
so many, fell victim to the super-action movie (Towering Inferno) the
romantic epic (the Sting), and one meritorious but commercially unsuccessful
low-budget independent movie after another. He was a whole new game plan.

Just when we thought the blue eyed boy's professional luck had run out, he
redeemed himself throughout the 80s with one jaw-dropping, intellectually
coherent success after another: Fort Apache, the Bronx; Absence of Malice;
the Verdict; Mr and Mrs Bridge with Joanne. And directed his own wonderful
adaptation of Glass Menagerie (yes, Tenn!) once again starring Joanne.

He finally received his only competitive Oscar for the Color of Money which
everyone agreed, was a reward for all which had gone before. His final glorious
and frightening contribution was Road to Perdition, in which he sent Tom Hanks
to his death with a killer's smile.

Last fall we saw him on the Showtime presentation of "The Iconoclasts" leading
Redford through the bosky dells of his and Joanne's Connecticut getaway, and her
treasured theater. Newman was twelve years older than Redford, and looked
twelve years younger.

Paul Newman was the very last intelligent, significant movie star. There is no one
to replace him. All over the world men and women are re-living their favorite wet
dream: the blue eyed boy who said Take me to all of us.

THE POSE by Dennis Doph

beyond beyond . 67

I like to take my streetside pose
with one foot out and a tilt to my nose
Pretending I'm a cellphone-scofflaw deputy
to all the bad mad drivers I can see

I strike a deadly pose without a doubt
(with a tilt to my nose and one foot out)
when I see some bitch toolin' along so grand
with a cellphone clutched in her hot little hand
I whip out my own cell and then I pretend
To be dialing the cops and then to send
A message that a scofflaw is in my sight
and should be grovelling like a dog in prison tonight

So I pretend to be reading her license plate
Punching in the numbers to seal her fate
Then I beller to the bitch, Yer breakin the law
And I give her a sign with my unoccupied paw
She's been singled out as one bad mad person
and of all scofflaw-drivers there's no example worse'n

All this posing went fine till Tuesday at three
when I was standing at Rossmore and Beverly
Saw this chick babbling away on her cell
Waiting at the traffic light to go pell-mell
So I stood right there in my fearless pose
Striking attitude with that FUCK YOU tilt to my nose
Punching imaginary numbers into my little phone
Giving the bitch in the car a FUCK YOU bone

She scoped out what I was doing and this scofflaw star
Cranked down the window of her bunged-up car
Screamed SON OF A BITCH and what is more
She leveled down on me with a handy .44
Giving me no marginal reason for doubt
That to continue her cellphone-fetish she would take me out!

Well; being a person with respect for his ass
I hunkered right down on the freshly mown grass
Dropping my cell and, like a grunt in Iraq
Looked for some cover for my freaked-out back
And the bitch chortled with unmitigated glee
at how she had made a real rool out of me

But all over California this sticks in their craw
And they curse Schwarzenegger for this hated new law
Insisting they can drive with foolish intent
doing any stupid fucking thing they might invent
Buffing their nails; picking their nose
Sloshing hot coffee all over their clothes
Eating yesterday's lunch while reading the Times
Separating their pennies and nickels and dimes
Doing anything but just fucking DRIVE
While we wonder why these stupid bitches are even alive

So I continue to stand with my cell in my hand
Making my presence felt as a reprimand
To these drivers toolin' along in some beat-up car
and what a pain in the butt I really think they are

for when a scofflaw is toolin' along in plain sight
He belongs (like a dog) in some prison tonight
And if they scream or begin to shout bloody murther
I'll just tilt my famous nose up even further
Stick out my foot, and, without another word
Punch in my imaginary message
and throw them the bird

CELEBRITY by Dennis Doph

beyond beyond . 66

Ah
The elusive ephemeral concept Yclept CELEBRITY
It's the turn of the screw that eludes most of you
But because of tell-and showment
and my considerable endowment
what the man behind the plow meant
Does not exclude me.

Take the case of each dropped stitch
of that sleek Alaska bitch
Temper of turmoil and twitch
and no desire to please us
When her eldest became, say
ineluctibly gay
She just cast him away
with a prayer to Jesus

And when Johnston came to shove in
Bristol's bun in the oven
She was sent to Christian coven
in backstreet Anchorage
Sister Sarah dropped in her tracks
when she was knocked to the max
So she brought poor Bristol bax
from the Penalty Cage.

Ah, Celebrity, Republican Celebrity
Nurtured at the paps of Alaska ur-regnant
All this Celebrity is shammily
Sloughed off as "Just Family"
When these gals hoarily and hammily
Became publicly pregnant.

Why, in the name of all that's logical
Can a Peace Corps conception tragical
Be morphed into something quite magical
and potentially defeatist?
When a man with melting brown lamps
Raised in Hawaii on food stamps
Becomes linked with Hollywood tramps
and considered elitist?

So our man considers this
and accepts the friendship kiss
of Beatty whose celebrity bliss
is just curds and no whey
He would never be a harborer
of that celebrity known as Barbra
No GOP-goader that's sharperer
When she blows them all away!

Celebrity, Democratic Celebrity
a calamitous offshoot
Blasted to the root by New Republic bloggers
Obama should have been a punter
Or an Alaskan wolf hunter
He might be trucked from Fairbanks to be shucked
and ceremonially fucked by "Drill, Baby!" loggers

But Old John is Natural Man Himself
never to linger on the shelf
or to forego any pelf that any can see
So he gets down with the handjive
of the sleek Keating Five
And accepts damn dirty money from the beer industry
Cindy whirls in all directions
with her smart Mob connections
As McCains seek resurrections
in some Montenegrin play
They endure the rich and rottish
In Cetinje dance the schottische
with a Neapolitan hottish and Anne Hathaway.

Oh, inbred well-connected Annapolis trash
You'll criticize Obama for any paltry bash
Then accept the mob-connected corrupted cash
of this Neapolitan Nob as he climbs on your bus

so you Plain Folks play Tell-and-Show
and snort some Sicilian blow
in smart EU-friendly Montenegro
and with Hathaway and her mobster you pass GO
as they both adjust your truss.

THE OLD CAT ROLLS by Dennis Doph

beyond beyond . 65

The old cat rolls around in the sun
Impervious to the wishes of everyone
Grunting at a whiff of a dog in the street
Biting at the talons on his four fat feet
Cuddling and cooing when we stroke his chest
Giving Billy Bedamned about all the rest

Giving Billy Bedamned when Hillary sulks
Billy Bedamned about these Alaskan hulks
If the slut will marry the Ice Hockey King
Of if the Down's-Syndrome infant
ever knows anything
The cat doesn't care if Sarah slaughters a moose
And turns on her sullen husband with its blood
and its juice
The old cat just rolls around on our sundrenched quilt
And doesn't give a shit
if the Bridge to Nowhere ever gets built

The cat squats in his poop box and makes piss mud
Bites my hand softly and never draws blood
He doesn't care if Cindy is in Mamie Eisenhower mode
Or if John's neck swells till he's about to explode
The cat doesn't care about their multiple lies
Or the soft haze of pollution over Arizona skies
He just worries about warming his ancient bones
And doesn't give squat
about how many homes the bitch actually owns

Oh!
If Independent voters were like our old tom cat
But these dweebs never know where their heads are at
Sarah breaking her water can give them a thrill
And they all get hard when John shrieks
"Drill, Baby, Drill!"
They gaze briefly at Obama and then shy away
Knowing full well he's a lot smarter than they
They'll vote for the Old Cocker out of laziness and spite
And wonder why the Dude didn't captialize
on his mother being white
So we slide messily toward another fray in the balance
Wishing the Man were Dave Petraeus
who does pushups like Jack Palance

Trailer Trash is our new Big Noise from Winnetka
So geographically ignorant
she thinks Moscow is in Kamchatka
Once again real issues have been pushed to the side
As we agonize on poor Bristol who may never be a bride
The overreaching syndrome of this mighty nation
Is not freedom of choice; it's obfuscation

As the electoral gap becomes wider and wider
Hillary sits in Washington like a black widow spider
Putting blue plumes on her Presidential hat
Rolling in the Patomac sun like an old tabby cat

in OLD Arizona by Dennis Doph

beyond beyond . 64

Under the soft red hot Arizona sky
Cindy Hensley was the queen of Phoenix Princessi
Bullied the servants till they called for Quits
Gave her elder sisters conniption fits
Her Dad Sherm Hensley loved her almost to death
As he covered her with affection and denture breath
Cindy was much more than a shrew and a scold
for Cindy was hung up on everything OLD

Cin was never exactly lacking in class
Like the way she cut her sisters off at the pass
Refused to recognize 'em while Dad was in his coffin
Went lookin' for somethin' OLD to be boffin
Before Amtrak pulled out of the Phoenix yards
Cin cut off her sisters' credit cards

Rah! Rah! Cindy and Rah! Rah! rowdy
You could never say Cindy was dull or dowdy
She could never be described as sizzling tail
Had a mouth like a slot intended for mail
Went about Phoenix dispensing cheer
'Cause Dad had a corner on Arizona beer
And in the barrooms of Phoenix Cindy huddled
Because needed to be Dad-coddled and cuddled

Then from across the bar Cin was totally poleaxed
God threw Cindy's switches and the Holy Ghost faxed
A message to Cin our Principessa Star
About the very short guy across the bar
Old enough to be Dad and then some more
Soon our heroine was acting like a tough little whore
Even though his wife Carol was universally respected
Cin soon had his tiny little dick resurrected

Yeah,
She fucked John McCain out from under his wife
Prepared to set him up in a rich kind of life
Was her wedding expensive? Well, I'd say very
Because beer in Arizona is so necessary
She set her Hanoi hero up as a congressperson
Soon she had three blond babes to be sucklin and nursin
But Dad's Mob connections made all these pickins clean
And John's two grown boys signed on
to the Phoenix Beer Machine

Swirl, swirl, Cindy in your Beerleader skirt
Though John left you alone so much it would hurt
She knew this Old Dad was a ruff kind of man
Soon she started overdosing Percodan
Even though she no longer was regularly boned
She learned how much fun it was to be totally stoned

So while John upped and upped from the House to the Senate
Superblond Cin learned how to take all these gentlemen at
their word; and as she grew angular and Nancy Reagan thin
She started idly wondering about the shape this world is in
Though her beer bonanza was really funded and run by the Maf
There's never enough brew for Arizona to quaff
So she turned a blind eye to each Macher and Greaser
and flew off to India and Mother Teresa

Even though she never met the Guru personally
Soon Phoenix was filled with stories of how the truth ought to be
She brought back from Pakistan a bundle of joy
McCain didn't have much to say but Oh, God! and, Oh, Boy!
So she added Bridget to her kiddie stables
And sat her family down at nine different tables
Though Cin was a dominant kind of a bitch
What she really was was filthy rich

When John began threatening Dubya-Dub
Karl Rove cut John out of the Presidential Club
They cut John out of the Carolina margin
Claiming the Old Boy had been through Pakistan
sexually chargin
Cin was so charmed by this Rovian bloke
She took herself away with a tiny little stroke
even though a cerebral accident is kind of a bummer
She acted just like the old babe in Suddenly Last Summer

Now she's shakin' But Cin will never be breakin'
On every GOPodium she'll regally stand
Wanting to be the Queen Brewski of the land
Dispensing largesse, dissing all that's queer
Encouraging everyone to drink Arizona beer
Standing straight and tall Glistening with carats
endlessly discursing the possible merits
of that imponderable Alaskan trailer trash
While this whole show is sponsored
by Mob and Brewski cash

Cindy rocks! So let the Old Babe gleam just a bit
Before she falls down in another Percodan fit
Living in all those neighborhoods socially restricted
It's no kind of crime to be chemically addicted
Addicted to chems Addicted to power
Set up to be the next Mamie Eisenhower
In this world of fools and Alaskan fool's gold
It's no sin to be addicted to everything OLD

Old Cindy! Old stepsons! And old, old John
This Presidential Slate has been written upon
As Cindy sets her Slot and, as a nine house owner
Tools her Hummer into the dust of Old Sedona
Looking like a ringer for Cissy Goforth
While the Alaska Barracuda rises like thunder
in the North

CRASHING THROUGH THE BRUSH by D.Doph

beyond beyond . 63

We fall in worship of fair Sarah Barracuda
Legions of loyal Alaskans have told us to
Knowing no woman in shoe leather could be cruder
or more in need of "Taming of the Shrew"
She's up at dawn brandishing her AK-47
Thrashing through mud and sleet outside divine Wasilla
Lusting for caribou anguish (puts her right in heaven)
And moose blood -- a real, authentic killer-diller
And ... WHAM! WHAM!
She and her lusty brethren breathe the scent
of frightened moose in the first light of Arctic dawn
WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!
emblazons their intent
To slaughter every animal they might chance upon

Meanwhile, back in the loins of Greater Metro Wasilla
Hubby Troy polishes all his wife's extra rifles
Watches lustfully as the Ice Hockey King trifles
with ever complaisant equally lustful Bristol
Fuck, man! That redneck hunk is one real pistol!
The other two bumpkins change and burp the feckless brat
with no more intelligence than a baby cat
But, to our immense and fiery indignation
His state has become a catchphrase for this entire nation

Indeed!
We might all model ourselves after this little gnome
We might all indeed be suffering from Down's Syndrome
Aching to elect a woman who doesn't know from squat
Where the only consideration, really, is her twat
All through Alaska there's no more gravid a ratcatcher
As she invokes the ghost of Margaret Thatcher
And, as rotor blades roar out across the Arctic Circle
She longs to trade ripostes with angry Angela Merkel
For, she's been told, in some unknown place that's known
as Yurrup
She might well get her party dress caught in some strange stirrup

So Sarah Barracuda cozens all her dumb dependents
Crashing through the brush -- along with all the man-boys
seeking Alaskan independence
She and her mighty men can give us all a whack
While her putative son-in-law mingles some grass
with Nomic crack
And, for the sake of wanting most to please us
Before they shoot the moose they all kneel down to Jesus
Praising Fair Alaska and her Son's to heaven's skies
Hoping that Arctic Circle sun will burn like hell
As John McCain's carcinoma multiplies