Shemp-Satan

Satan came to me in a dream last night. He came in the form of Shemp Howard. He looked like Shemp, acted like Shemp—he was Shemp in every respect … but without the humor …

Shemp-Satan got right in my face going “hee-bee-bee-bee-bee-bee,” but it was annoying and offensive, not funny at all … and menacing ... I pushed him away, tried to walk away, but he started dancing around me, punching me like a prizefighter, going “hee-bee-bee-bee-bee-bee.” And the punches hurt and were full of static electricity that went straight through my spine …

There’s only one thing to do, I realized: Play the God Card …

“O Lord God Almighty,” I prayed out loud, “remove this damnable Stooge of a Devil from my sight etc”—can’t remember the entire prayer, but it worked. Shemp-Satan shriveled away to a tiny disc of purple neon tubing and vanished …

Free at last, I walked down a tree-lined sidewalk into a saloon, loud with music and raucous laughter. A big burly cowboy (just for fun) sprayed a chemical on his head and went up in flames, his laughing maniac face framed by a Stetson Halo of Hell Fire (like Big Tex last week, I realize now in waking life) …

I didn’t like the vibe at all, so left the saloon … and came to a big ramshackle multi-leveled many-roomed barn of a building and fell in love with it right away; the place had a Li’l Rascals Clubhouse quality that felt just right …

So I moved in (squatter’s rights) and set up my studio in a top floor room overlooking a beautiful forest … it was wonderful; the room had a Tarzan’s Tree House feel, and was comfortable and cozy inside, just the perfect place for me … shelves full of books and my vinyl collection and a shortwave stereo booming some kinda’ strange jazz from Nairobi—everything I needed, except Dutch Coffee …

So I went down the street to a Dutch-style coffeehouse and purchased a bag and carried it back to my new abode, but upon returning discovered other people were moving in to the building … an acting company was setting up a theatre space in the big downstairs room … some women were setting up a trendy café in the kitchen … a lot of annoying hustle and bustle, way too many people everywhere …

“It’s Austin all over again,” I thought, not happy with this development, but then I thought: Maybe it’ll be okay, as long as they stay out of my Tarzan Tree House …

So I went upstairs to my room and God, did it ever take a long time to get there … so many more steps than I remembered, up and up, and down and down, and up again, Escher-like architecture twisting in upon itself, going everywhere and nowhere all at once (and all the while I’m trying to hide the bag of Coffee under my coat—flowery buds keep spilling out—incriminating evidence everywhere—I’m constantly bending down to pick up the buds and glancing over my shoulder) …

Finally, I reach my room and encounter three persons on their way out; one carrying something under his arm—it’s one of my record albums!—“Hey, that’s mine!” I scream—he turns (beak-nosed fellow, icy eyes, with an aristocratic attitude) and holds it up—it’s not a record album after all, but a poster I drew—my artwork! …

“Hey buddy,” I say, “if you want it, you PAY for it”—he gives a haughty sniff and says, “You presume to bargain with one who publishes this … sort of thing. I might publish YOUR work some time … if I wish”—and starts to hand me his card … I push it away, saying, “I have no intention of contacting you. It is you who will contact me.”