The Emerald Burrito of Oz Read online

  ERASERHEAD PRESS 205 NE BRYANT PORTLAND, OR 97211

  WWW.ERASERHEADPRESS.COM

  ISBN: 1-936383-12-8

  Copyright © 2010 John Skipp & Marc Levinthal

  Cover art copyright © 2010 Samuel Deats http://www.deatsfeats.com

  This is a work of parody, as defined by the Fair Use Doctrine. Any similarities, without satirical intent, to copyrighted characters, or individuals living or dead, are purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Printed in the USA.

  MARC'S DEDICATION:

  To Rebecca, for putting up with me while we wrote this. To my brother Steve, for sparking my interest in all thingsfantastic... To Michael, because I will always miss you.

  SKIPP'S DEDICATION:

  To my family, for making me as good as I've gotten. To Alexandra Schmidt, my excellent muse this time; and To all Dorothys, everywhere (you know who you are).

  Marc would like to acknowledge L. Frank Baum, Philip Jose Farmer (for A Barnstormer in Oz [You Rock!]), Margaret Hamilton, Jack Haley, Ray Bolger, Bert Lahr, Judy Garland, Terence McKenna, Timothy Leary, Miles Davis, Buckminster Fuller, Carl Jung, Alan Watts, Albert Einstein, Robert Anton Wilson, and Coleman Hawkins.

  Skipp would like to add Fairuza Balk, Frank Zappa, Ray Bradbury, Tim Burton, Robert Crumb, Carlos Casteneda, Hunter S. Thompson, Nicola Tesla, Terry Gilliam, Stanislav Grof, Mark Ryden and Dr. Seuss to the list... plus the guy who painted that Rembrandt-looking, super-realistic portrait of Popeye. (Just hearing about it was a huge inspiration).

  We also want to acknowledge Art and Lydia (of Babbage Press), Jim Ford and Mitch Stein (of the Stein Agency), and all of the good friends and neighbors we've made, since arriving here in darkest LA.

  Finally, the authors need to thank Krystine Kryttre—a great artist and exceptional person—for first introducing us, thereby inadvertently kick-starting this whole happy mess.

  Thank you, Kryttre!

  3/13/07

  I bought a pint-sized bottle of Jack, down the street from the Comfort Inn—at a little corner liquor store, right here in Salina, Kansas—and I don't mind telling you that I'm loaded right now. I'm not used to drinking this crap, and I don't know why I got it, except that I'm really nervous. Hell, I'm terrified.

  This could be my last night on Earth. But hopefully not my last night alive. Or my last night human.

  I never thought I'd feel this scared. I mean, by the time I'd gotten the notice of acceptance from U.S. Customs, I'd run the statistics that I'd downloaded, modeled a profile for myself that told me my odds of making it through were really good. Still, there's always that chance that you could wind up like poor old Michael Jackson.

  Poor bastard thought he was gonna be the first kid on his block to go moonwalking with the Munchkins and instead—kablam!— winds up wetly decorating the walls of the Gateroom. Heard it took them three days to clean up. Lots of scrubbing and scraping involved.

  But that kind of stuff doesn't happen very often. Usually, you make it through, or you're standing there wondering why you're not in Oz yet, until somebody taps you on the shoulder and tells you to go home.

  I remember holding that notice in my hands, just staring at it, and thinking, Gene, your life is never going to be the same. You just turned a corner. Like one of those probability nodes in some alternate universe story. I just split off into the universe where I get to go see Aurora. Not the one where I work in the record store until I turn into a fat old bald guy. Fuckin' A.

  Right? And I didn't get scared then. But I'm scared now.

  I made good time today; it was pretty clear all the way down I-4O from Albuquerque to Oklahoma City. It started to turn shitty right outside of Wellington, rain you could see falling in broad gray sheets miles across the plains.

  I passed through the border check on route 35 about ten miles past Wichita. The patrolman scoped the California plates, slowly shined a flashlight into the backseat of my Galaxy, and asked me where I was headed.

  "Topeka," I said, lamely, "visiting my mom." I didn't want to be messed with right then. It was too late, and there was half a joint in the ashtray.

  He gave me the hairy eyeball for half a second and waved me on.

  If I'd told him was headed for Salina and the Gate, he probably would have taken my car apart. Well, could have, anyway. If he thought I was trying to bring any contraband through.

  I switched the wipers up a notch, and started looking at the billboards for a Motel Six or some other variation on a theme of crap motel. A quick glance at the gas gauge told me that I needed to fill up; I'd failed to notice through my stoned reverie that I was almost on "E."

  I pulled off at the next exit that had a Chevrex station. I got out of the car, pulling my coat up over my head against the rain, and went into the snack shop to pay.

  For about a half a minute I stood there, occasionally yelling "hello" before I realized, much to my chagrin, that there was actually someone behind the counter.

  A very short person.

  "Can I help—you?," he said, as he climbed up onto a stool that put him at roughly eye-level. He spoke with that unmistakably weird accent, and his long unnaturally red beard hung down over his Chevrex uniform. I could see the curly tips of his prayer-shoes peeking out under his wide pant-cuffs.

  "Fill it on six," I said, trying not to stare. The closer you got to the gate, the more immigrants you saw working at the burger joints, gas stations, as maids in hotels. Sure, Ozians headed for Earth didn't use the same gate we did (you could go through it from this end, but it was really hard to find), but for some reason they all seemed to materialize somewhere close to Kansas. Of course there were exceptions. Whether or not these conditions were natural or artificial was anybody's guess.

  I handed him a hundred and walked out.

  I still couldn't understand why they came. True, Oz was dangerous as hell, but no more so than parts of New York City or Lebanon. And no one starved there. No one got sick. Usually.

  Of course, in Oz one could actually wake from uneasy dreams to find himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect.

  It happens.

  So now I'm sitting on the bed in my shitty hotel room, with my laptop on my lap and the puzzle-pieces of my future splayed out absurdly all around me. The tacky bedspread looks like an oversized fortune teller's table, covered with misshapen tarot cards.

  For example: just to my left is the Fodor's'07 Guide to Known Oz, with the Rand McNally map in the back of it. It contains almost everything I currently know about where I'm going.

  Just above it, directly before me, are the papers that allegedly will get me in.

  To my right, scrinched up against the edge of the bed, is a loose fan of photographs. There's a shot of my cats. My bedroom. My roommate, eating thai barbeque (we made it ourselves) and grinning, waving, sauce all over her face.

  There's a shot of me behind the counter at Aron's Records. Coworkers mill around me, hip Los Angelenos all. I am holding up a recent piece of gruesome Millennial nostalgia—the Boyz 2 Men commemorative boxed set—preparing to ring it up; and my pain is hard to miss.

  There are also postcards of places that I always wanted to see, right here on Earth. Hong Kong. The Australian outback. Morocco. The Caveman Room at the Madonna Inn.

  In the center spot of the photo-fan is the shot that basically brought me here. It's a shot of me.

  And Aurora Q. Jones.

  I'm staring at
that picture of the two of us: Aurora and Gene, true buddy-pals forever. We are drunk as skunks, throwing firecrackers into the bathtub. God bless America, it's the Fourth of July. Almost three years ago. It was one of the best parties ever, and the photograph makes me smile.

  She's got a grin on her face that almost reaches her ears, and those green eyes of hers are flashing madly under a wild tease of red-orange hair. She's tall and curvy, and I want to reach into the picture and kiss her on the lips, just as I wanted to do that night. Kiss her hard, in that perfect moment, on that perfect summer night.

  And there I am, in that otherwise-perfect photograph: besotted, bemused, about half a head shorter than Aurora, holding a lit fire cracker contemptuously between my fingers. My long brown hair— back in the day, before I buzzed it—framing a roundish, long-nosed face.

  I look at the picture, and I find myself wondering just what in the hell I'm thinking. I feel stupid and scared and unprepared and at least as drunk as I was at that party.

  But as much as I'm feeling all of that stuff, there's a part of me that just can't wait. I want to see what munchkins look like in their natural habitat. I want to hear what kind of music they play. I want to go somewhere where a little girl named Ozma and a good witch named Glinda actually run the government, instead of winding up in mental institutions or, worse, taking campaign contributions from the NRA and the Christian Right.

  It might suck really hard. It might be just okay. It might be the best thing that ever happened. But fuck it, that's what I'm doing with my summer vacation.

  God help me, I'm going to Oz.

  Now I'm gonna watch tv until I black out, soaking up the drone of vapid talk show banter and commercials for sneakers, amusement parks, and fast food/movie tie-ins. It may be the last time I ever see Jay Leno.

  Jeez, when I look at it that way, maybe I'm not so stupid after all.

  The Emerald City.

  Some night this year.

  Dear me,

  Tonight of all nights, there are piggels in the rafters, and the candles won't stop dancing. I think it's hilarious, but Quilla's already getting dizzy. And I don't have time to waste.

  "STOP!" I tell them. "JESUS CHRIST!" The piggels giggle. The candles prance. It's hard not to laugh, but inside I'm uneasy. Wouldn't surprise me if Quilla's picking up on that, too. My poor little pen squirms in feeble protest; I hold her steady, reassuring but firm, popping her pointily-elegant head in and out of the lavender ink-rose blossom, then back to the page.

  Again and again, I repeat the manuever. "Sorry," I tell her. "I gots to do it. A girl needs to write, and a deal is a deal." But I'm not so sure that she understands. (Point of fact, I'm not so sure I understand, either. This writing compulsion. This need to set down. And not only that, but to measure up, too, while I'm pouring out my soul.)

  I mean, it's not like Oz is crawling with expatriate writers. And it's not like anyone cares, of course, but... oh, god. The crux is this: I'm pretty sure it's March by now, which means that Gene's probably on his way; and though I am utterly, thoroughly stoked—I am, I really am, can't you tell from my voice?—I must admit it's dragging up a few issues for me.

  (Now STOP that! Damn piggels! They're nuts!)

  Like, just for instance, this matter of Time. According to his letter, it's been, what. over two years since I totally lost track, threw up my hands, gave up on the calendar chase and gave into the long trippy slipstream-of-consciousness that is Oz in the moment to moment. It's been good. Very good. I have learned much by cutting loose.

  Now, suddenly, I'm calling all that into question. I'm remembering that, christ, I'm almost fucking twenty-five! That was the year that I swore to myself I would make my mark in the world or die. All the wrongs would be righted. All the truths would be told.

  It seemed so important.

  Why doesn't it now?

  Or maybe it does, and I'm just in denial. Or I just don't remember. Or maybe I do. When I write about this, it sure yanks me back hard.

  When I think about Gene, it yanks even harder.

  Gene and I met on the Internet, in the banner year 2000: a couple of wacky e-mail freaks and part-time online 'zinesters. His 'zine was called Exploding Clown Experiment. Mine was called Wait My Ass. Both of them were intensely first-personal accounts of whatever the fuck happened to pop into our heads.

  The point was that we were both compulsive. Anything that happened, and anything that didn’t happen—in our minds, in our lives, in the greater World Outside—was totally fair game for our poisoned word processors. It was a trait we shared in common with just about every other lunatic both driven and alienated enough to go to all that trouble; but for some reason, we cracked each other up. Became fans of each other. And, very quickly, became electronic friends, bonded by our written words.

  The fact that we were both Lost Angelenos made it easy for us to meet, though we put it off for a very long time, mostly through sheer inertia. The clincher was a tribute to Little Jimmy Scott at the Wiltern Theatre, in the spring of 2002. The fact that Gene was a fan of Jimmy Scott's music—loved it as much as I did, and maybe even more—was all I needed to know.

  We went to the show. Had a blast. Hung out some more. Got high and fucked around a little. Snapped out of it. Went "whoa." And laughed: the best possible response. Came out the other side of that, not as boyfriend and girlfriend, but with total affection and appreciation for each other.

  I love Gene a whole big bunch.

  But we are all mirrors to each other; and what Gene reflects back—in my mind, right now—is the urge to catch up and just get it all down. To leave a record of my cranial trail, regardless of what happens to us, it, or me.

  Of late, I have been lax in chronicling: a whole lot more do than tell.

  Gene makes me remember how much I love to get it all in writing.

  I size myself up in the Old Faithful Mirror: that gorgeous magick object I have mounted on the wall. It sees through souls, and tells no lies. It has no bias of its own. The too-big eyes reflected there, the too-large lips, are the ones I've always had. The body is my body. Perhaps I haven't changed a bit. Between the pink and blue lights of the floating piggels and the multifaceted firelight flicker, I feel like I'm back at a plug-in party: alone in my room, locked in cybercast transmission, desperately throwing myself at some weird projected abstraction of happiness. Like a dope. Not even fooling myself.

  But this is the thing. I am not in the world.. I'm in Oz. I'm in Oz. And I'm not even stoned. It's not like I'm sitting around in a room, dreaming dreamy dreamdreams that are just veiled excuses. It's not like I didn't make love to that dragon. It's not like I haven't been getting around. Every second I've spent here, awash in walking symbols—learning warrior tech from the Winkie King, conversing with the dinner plate, repainting Scarecrow's head—has been magick in action. Astonishing action. I mean, I always wanted to talk with the trees. Now I talk with the trees all the time.

  Gene has never had that conversation, much as he's always wanted one. Back in the world, that shit just doesn't happen. Back in the world, it's banal as all hell. The magick is stunted. There is no belief. It's as gray as the day that cyclone scooped up Dorothy Gale.

  But now I'm in a place where imagination matters. Where magick is a given, and its fruits are everywhere. And while I don't have any new, improved powers—I can't flap my arms and fly, I can't shoot fireballs out my ass—the magick I always knew I had is appreciated here, and that is SO GRATIFYING. Every day, I can hardly believe it.

  I mean, sure, I work in a Mexican restaurant; and sure, I sometimes have to moonlight as an artist's model. But there's never BEEN a restaurant like the Emerald Burrito; and you haven't LIVED till you've posed nekkid for a roomful of sweaty munchkin artistes.

  Fact is, everybody in Oz has got some kind of job, even if it means farming goomer cream (yeesh). I could even live with that, as long as I had wildness in my life. You get a spark that's called a soul, you wanna believe that it's worth something. A
nd it is. It truly is.

  At least in Oz.

  And here I am.

  So I guess I'll just stop agonizing, and wait for Gene to come. Maybe he'll like what I'm writing enough to think it's worth smuggling back. It doesn't have to be Jack Kerouak, Jr.'s On the Yellow Brick Road; I'll just call 'em as I sees 'em, and let posterity sort it out.

  At the very least, we're gonna have some fun. This is one vacation he'll never forget.

  (Okay, Quilla. That's it for tonight. I'm gonna blow out the candles.)

  And, piggels?

  GOOD NIGHT!!!

  3/14/07

  That guy was right about the laptop.

  OH HO oh HO OH HO!!!! Lovely to see you, how do you do?

  Shut the fuck up, will you, I'm trying to write! I swear to God, I'll turn you off.

  I'm typing this by the glow of the screen, down at the bottom of a sea of stars, the only sounds an occasional pop! from the crimson embers of the dying campfire, and the strange flanged chirping of the local crickets. There's a heady scent in the air, some strange local herbal melange, and multicolored fireflies are practicing figure-eights off in the deep, dark Ozian night.

  I should be asleep, but I'm still a little wound up. A drink would help, but nobody around here seems to have any booze, and I neglected to pack another bottle. Figures Ralph is in a twelve-step program, and I get the feeling Nick doesn't drink. Wine. Probably kill him. A little would go a long way, that's for sure.

  But I'm getting ahead of myself.

  Maybe committing the day's events to hard-drive will help. I guess I should start at the beginning:

  aginning, taginning, hooray!!!!

  Stop it, please.

  At seven-fifteen this morning, in Salina, on another planet far far away, I said goodbye to my Galaxie, socking it away in a gargantuan long-term parking lot. I grabbed my backpack out of the trunk, and walked away. The rule is, if you don't come back for the car in a year and a half, it belongs to the government. Simple. Otherwise, the rates are pretty reasonable.