11 June 2010

Do Weejuns Dream of Designer Feet?

The life of a columnist is never still and in recent weeks, as you may have heard, my social calendar has filled up with cocktail receptions, book signings, and jaunty outings to local cafes.

I am a sociable enough fellow, both genial and striking-looking, as you have probably sussed by now, but the happy-chappiness is punctuated by regular bouts of melancholia for which the best cure is solitary refinement. And cocktails. Nothing personal mind you, but my tolerance for most other people, I have discovered over the years, is directly proportional to cocktail intake.

Last week I went drinking with some chums. After work we filled the bankers’ bar in Aurelius Heights before onset of the astral clouds. A vintage cream motomaton parked outside glinting in the starshine attracted a group of females in cocktail dresses and silk arm warmers. Inside: the din of hoary pyschonauts, frothing-at-the-mouth in chalk-striped suit and chisel-toed kickers and calling for more oysters and Veuve Clicquot.

In a black Versace dress of fine Italian wool a cherry-minded bint revealed to me the extent of her loneliness. She had spent three years here on assignment from the bank, she said, and had made zero significant friends. Tilting back her well-coifed head, she took another sip of champagne. “I’m moving back home to Georgia,” she continued, her eyes widening. “I want to be near my family.”

The mood changed. A troop of razor-toothed Planetarians and their Tongan allies in t-shirt and baggy denim entered the place, gathering in the corner like a roiling stormhead of angry black and sipping cheap lager. Across our view with a loping ape gait moved chunky hoodie seething with criminal intent.

Violence is always a possibility, then as now. Due to rising anti-Weejun sentiment I sometimes keep in my Tweed jacket pocket a Teutonic dagger, which I now unsheathed and held by my side at thigh level, hoping the droids would get the message before I was forced to cut the wires. Violence works—contrary to what you may have heard. An act of violence against the robots is an act of liberation. Do not tell yourself otherwise.

There is special beauty in decline. As disintegration occurs essence is gradually exposed like old bones in an eroded sandbank. The return of the time of the Weejun is almost upon us. For myself I ask only for consistent supply of codeine and wine and books and the means with which to buy every now and then a pair of Alden tassel loafers, Brooks Brothers OCBDs, and a Southwick suit. Am I asking too much?

The days pass in pleasant routine. I spend much of my time in the science library of the Technical College conducting research, leafing through back issues and revisiting articles that caused so much controversy when first published, but now look jarringly prescient in their reasoning. For people like us, there is no peace, ever; it is our fate to lurch after shadows across long field. But there are moments, I will concede, when the situation is not as it appears and further action is required.


brohammas said...

I do believe this is the first time I have seen or heard the words weejun and Tongan in the same piece. OR same province for that matter. Would you like some real Tongan stories of violent elegance, ask me to tell tales of the year I spent in Salt Lake City playing rugby in an all polynesian league.

You cannot tell, but I am in fact missing teeth... yet I retain my collar stays.

~Tessa~Scoffs said...

love the Blade Runner reference. I wonder if anyone else got it? Anyone?

K.S. Anthony said...

I prefer my violence like my women: cold, abrupt, and quiet.

As usual, a smashing entry.

Don't get me started about Polynesia, old sport.

To the Weejuns of the Lost Ones....

Reggie Darling said...

Marvelous post, AC, a joy to read. I miss my old Weejuns, held together with duct tape, from my college days, many decades ago.

ADG said...

Damn. four fifths of my life is captured in this post. the other fifth is without much meaning. start writing more stuff my man. this is stellar.



Belle de Ville said...

Very nicely written yet a little too clever for me on a Saturday morning after a Friday night where martinis were involved.
After a couple of cups of coffee I shall re-read and maybe pick up the
Blade Runner reference that Tessa spotted.

v. Braun. said...

A very good, lyrical post. I also don't know that Blade Runner reference (will have to watch the whole of it again, some time) but I could probably make a good guess at the words inscribed on the blade of your dagger. ;) (MEhT)

A.E.F. said...

Yet again your incisive and elegant prose has left me both discomforted and inspired by its jarring beauty. Write more.

~Tessa~Scoffs said...

BR reference is the title. Or am I reading subtleties into the Admiral's post titles that aren't really there (again)?

K.S. Anthony said...

Would it be tacky to put 1933 Reichsmarks in the "penny" slot?

Anonymous said...

No, I think you are right. The title of the book upon which the movie Blade Runner was based was Philip K. Dick's Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? thus the reference.

The text of the post has some Dick noir-ish type moments as well, I think, though I don't recall any Tongans.

Ed Hill said...

Your writing style is poetic and evokes the longing for old style and old manners to return. I avoid the evangelists of baggy denim when possible. I wear sport coats and suits daily, even in the ad agency office. I'm stubborn that way. Thank you for speaking out for old fashioned dress. It will return one day.