Veronica
Chirico
It’s not as if there were no
clues. And today he says? “Clues don’t buy a donut.” In about 1959, my maternal
uncles said, “The doctor said he’s healthy as a horse.” How did they know about
a stressed-out Howard Hughes Jr. having been ordered to run up and down flights
of steps? It was in the newspaper? No sir! Did you say, Howard Hughes, you
little D.O.D. puke? He invented the “stress test.” He invented “palimony.” He
invented modern birth control. He re-invented the whorehouse. He did not invent
the airplane; he flew them.
In 1966, I said, “Dad, you sure
go to Washington a lot. How come we don’t have any money?” When mom held a .45
pointed at Charles Hughes that same year, I now realize it was merely parental theatre
so Billy would recognize the Mormon bodyguard’s favorite handgun when the time
came. When I threw at the heads of big kids crowding the plate, “dad” said,
“Don’t do that any more.” That’s parenting! [Not really, Charlie] TICK-TOCK. TICK-TOCK.
Is my flying Saab here yet? Mormon Temple = TARGET. Meanwhile, you can Christmas
shop at the store where I’ve long said, “It’s easy to find (overpriced) stuff.”
The poisoned Target popcorn fiasco? Hey, I need some
oil money! The end of that story finds the receipt for a “spiked” bag of
popcorn on my seat in the hospital lot. I was not a mental patient, I worked on
Ward H. You know you are Howard’s son when your head feels like it is going to
explode, and blood starts to trickle down your upper lip from a drug that
spikes blood pressure. Tastes like seasoned salt, eh Pentagon kook? Your funny
shaped building still there? No new hole in it? What I did was go write in a
medical chart, to see who stared at me. The foreign-born doctor present that
day they still won’t let me find. Where is Rebecca, Jay Nixon?
Hey, y’all want 9/11 truth? No,
you don’t. In late 2001, oh the interrogatories! (As if I’m in charge of where
Air Force One goes!) Gather around Hughes as he may explain again that when
there is big trouble, the president should go “In the hole,” or fly around way above
your day-ruining, well-deserved nuking. I’ve got a not JOHN LENNON
feeling Howard R. Hughes thought up the “Doomsday Plane” concept, and was never
destined to fly in it, or did he? He really did design the L.E.M.? That’s what
a Zip Code 91362 old lady said, and they generally know what they are talking
about. As for “Yoko” scribbled on cocktail napkins (2004), I’ll take that up
with her later. Possibly much later.
As with Howard, nothing
pisses-off this Hughes like the moonscape spinning around. Got enough gas,
Houston? “Contact light,” not with E.T., MethBrain! So bored am I these days, I
critique the descents. Now, let’s FOIA nasa and ask why there is a big WHOOP
(Shout) when 14 reported it was on the Moon. This writer thinks that 12 involved
three fatalities, and 13 was Howard…and who? Who was in that room?
BANG – Let’s show them it’s
dangerous.
BANG – Let’s create some drama.
BANG – Don’t tell the rookie
engineers. Let them sweat.
Now, it’s time for the
backchannel nasa video of:
BEEP “Houston, it’s getting
kind of misty in here. We’ve got droplets on the windows.”
BEEP “Roger that, and, uh,
stand by.”
The duct tape? Plastic tubes?
Almost killed three more!
Eating and staring directly
into Howard’s camera lens? Apollo 13 survivors, Bill knows what it means now
(Unfortunate as that is). [The HP “i” key has died again, soldier]
And the Space Shuttle? Nobody
died in the Pentagon’s space truck! Nobody!!
How long ago did this Hughes
sit in a Southern California public building at the appropriately named “Puzzle
Table” studying a diagram of that Apollo 13 tank with a problem? Too long! And?
The hole in the spacecraft was larger than expected. Did you steal my image of
it yet? I can get another one, sailor. The download failed? I can walk to the
library. Don’t shoot the cop while I’m in there, please.
Back to my youth and HOWARD K.
SMITH, I was repeatedly asked, “Why do you like that one?” (ABC). HARRY
REASONER? ERIC SEVARIED? Why not kill young people one by one who do not know
who these people were? e.g. “Who was Chet Huntley, or you die!” I knew WWII
correspondent names, dude. Your flat top tattooed meth-fired ass does not know
a thing.
The nasa coffee cup? Sam old,
same old. “Why do you like that one?” And, let us hear my detractors, with
their incessant excuse-making, such as, “Well Bill, that was a popular coffee
cup on the Mission Control station with less RAM than a throw-away cheap-o fone
today.” Do I have to depose a TWA retiree for, “Yeah, we rocked him around a
little bit.” Ah, my fond memories of looking at the “overhead compartment”
expecting it to burst open and be hit on the head with some bastard’s
mid-1990’s very slow laptop. Blessed I was to hear aircraft tires upon
concrete, with the final holy BANG of the front set of wheels concluding
another commercial thrill ride. I was not “scared,” but I stated to mental
health colleagues I’d much rather be flying the plane. Man, did they look at me
funny (2006).
Now, we have no “steady-cam”
yet for “Bill the Pitchman” like that Remington guy. How about, “I liked red
and white so much, I painted a plane.” No? I’ve been practicing my line as:
“Where ‘ya goin’?” Magically, not so cheap fares appear on a TV screen of the
future. Later, when we rescind all FAA rules, the sacred door will open with
that wretched stinkhole LA out the windows on a clear night. Like the old dude
in Contact, I’ll say, “Aw c’mon guys.
No one will snitch.” The straight men flying your plane free of box cutters shall
yell, “Hughes, shut the door!” I can’t make money on an airline? With Super
Bowl Sunday ads, in this culture, you could sell shit to a soldier digging a
latrine. As a female said about my potential playboy status late in life, “Who
says you can’t?”
Can’t alter the playbook, but
no one seems inclined to drive me to the 1988 Chevy with no rust for sale cheap.
1993 GMC van? 1998 Suburban? 2003 Tahoe? Now we’re looking wealthy, girls! The
latest clues from decades past are astounding, and what could top, “Why don’t
you put a motor on your bike?” (1967). I’ve newly discovered they can’t seem to
put the same name on a tombstone and the paperwork in my family, it
seems, and the number “14” has great significance, but not to me.
What does the 32 years refer
to?
8 years of REAGAN
8 Years of CLINTON
8 years of GEORGE W.
8 years of B.O.
Man, it stinks, but now I’m a
businessman, so who cares about those guys?
Why not 2 year terms for the
president?
Shhhhh…he’s talking politics again.
The answer to all hobo transportation
dilemmas is:
1-800-USA-RAIL
Regina Dansatoar
No comments:
Post a Comment