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(One night in Paris will wipe the smile off your pretty face.)
The time chronicles of Kilgore Trotsky Trout: author Kilgore Trosky Trout Music: Cubist Cinema Illustration: Kilgore Trotsky Trout, Picasso
I, Kilgore Trout and my band Cubist Cinema was time traveling to Paris, just before the Nazis invaded, and I decided it was a good time to meet Pablo Picasso. I could not interfere by stopping the Nazis, as once one screws with events he or she sends the world in an unknown spin, that could make it even worse. I know. How could you get worse than the Nazis? However, my clients informed me that the human race has a prestigious knack for making things worse not better. Personally, I thought about killing Hitler and then going forward in time, but the Tramadorians advised against it. My band is D. M. Satan guitar, bass and wind, and Frank Oppenheim on keyboards; all those louts are still asleep in the hotel room. Like all bands, the guitar player has a habit of sleeping with some tramp, and forgetting to practice his art, the keyboard player has a habit of dreaming that he is the guitar player, so he can sleep with those same tramps. Ironically, at times we can make wondrous music, but the inner pulse of one’s ego destroys the community, like all interactions between humans, there is that egocentric time bomb. So it goes, with civilization, bands, business, etc. To quote George Harrison: “ALL THROUGH THE DAY, I ME MINE!” It all ends becoming a time bomb of imploding filth built about the turf turd blossom of jealousy and ego. It is I, Kilgore Trout that provides the percussion and drum set artistry, which also forced me to become the time managers for my clients, yes the clichéd but real aliens. The Tramadorians are bunch of insect-like creatures whose intellect shames the human race into a class of species that should have died off like the dodo bird. Well, actually, the Tramadorians already pointed out that our race is scheduled to slip into that category, but since they control the time machine, I am not allowed to mention that exact date. Plus the fact, the time machine has an inherent bug in its software for the wormhole. Yes, a wormhole. You, Republicans or the anti-science crowd can stop looking at porn on the Internet for five minutes, and search for such concepts as worm-holes, relativity for more knowledge. I have the time, but not the patience; you see the wormhole sometimes makes me jump into all different time points, like a friggin American tourist taking in the Louvre in fifteen minutes. I am frazzled from the mere jolt to the wormhole.
The Parisians were now a nervous bunch, like rabbits who had the good life only to end up in the stew pot. France had drunk too much in their glory days and had gotten like the Americans: Lazy and full of pate instead of hot dogs, hubris and wine instead of beer and baseball. Bad management and ineptitude of leaders along with the 1930’s depression let the country slide without any sort of military prep for the oncoming onslaught from the conceited Krauts, the Bosch bandits. My mind/body now sees forward images of flashy Mercedes, Bmws, the sporty Porsches filled in my view, that in the world of the crazy future 2012, people will buy high-priced cars by the grandsons and granddaughters of Nazi murders, even the descendants of Chosen people will buy the Kraut mobiles without an afterthought of how could I be so dumb? Why did I buy an overpriced car from some country whose main goal was to wipe my people off the face of the earth? An American Cadillac is not good enough? Why not a Swedish Volvo, at least were neutral in the war? I believe that sold arms to both sides. They also took in Jewish refugees, so an ethical consideration for the Volvo makes that Yuppie choice more palatable. While walking and functioning with this Worm-hole machine, which is the size of your Iphone, I have noticed that its main software bug is that the wearer thoughts are tied directly into the machine causing unforeseen travels. “OH SHIT…. THERE IT GOES AGAIN…” “WHERE THE HELL, I AM GOING?” Just as I thought about this the Worm hole machine automatically turns itself on and throws me into the tunnel of time. SON OF BITCH……… NOW, I am walking down a street in Hollywood California, the year 2012 and I have been dropped outside a car-dealership in an exclusive neighborhood. I see a middle age somewhat balder, fatter Jerry Seinfield, buying another Porsche to add to his already large collection of German penis enlarging vehicles. Since, I can change my time and place, I have no problem insulting this overpaid excomedian. “HEY, JERRY! HITLER’S Cousins’ THANK YOU! “Pst… NUMBNUTS, YOU STILL CAN ONLY DRIVE ONE CAR AT A TIME.”
(The photo was taken for my clients, as even the Aliens I work for have a shallow, celebrity watcher side. They even have their version of the National Enquirer on their planet.) Back into the wormhole the light moved me back into the Paris of the hipster, writer, painter, the home of fashionable and cranky, nervous Parisians. Flashes of the 1930’s styles, and the cubes of light, pulsate as my body is reassembled, while I see the Paris streets move around in a traffic of impatient drivers, and hawkers, gawkers, pimps, prostitutes, shop girls, office drones, thieves and beggars. My luck of course did hold, as I do not land my bulgy American body inside a nice café. No! This fucking device, screwed up once again. Now I was flung back into the dank, smelly sewer of Paris. I am among the sewer rats, and I can even hear the Nazi rats rumbling forward soon to be the occupiers of the city of lights is made apparent by vibrations of troops being moved, as the sewers are rumbling and shaking. The wormhole time machine dropped me off me inside the sewer right next to a giant rat, who seemed to be grinning at me. “Nice boy, calm down, your life down here is safer, then on the outside.” Even Alien technology is not flawless. Lucky for me, I found the ladder to the sewer grate above my head, and I popped out like an American clown into the Latin quarter of Paris, which some would consider the same thing, as the sewer I had been in.
Picasso’s France is a hip and lovely just waiting like a lonely teenager on a summer's night having a inner turmoil with itself. Be an angel or the devil. The devil is much more fun, the angel just a bore. Like Americans, the French can’t judge themselves with honesty. So until the shit hits the fan they will not look into the mirror to see that behavior will put them on the list of cowards and collaborators who besmirch their own good name. However, when the wolf is at your door, it may be better to feed them Granny and hope for the best. Sadly, the French will judge others more harshly like conceited prom queens. Yes, the Parisians and not all French are a judgmental bunch. The French showed us the best and worst in the human race. They sometimes strive for art, but then think their shit doesn’t stink; they think they are the best cooks, the best lovers, the country of the civilized perfumed elite with a style and flair that puts others to shame. However, these are the same people who screwed up their own revolution. Now, sleep on France and you will wake to and your pain it will not be a dream. Americans will later become French in their success, and they will have to kiss the asses of their masters, until they to have lost their empire. For now just wait. It will be a long time before the Americans can get you your country back. The French people are not cowards, as led to believe by other countries PR machines, but have a horrible knack like Americans to pick some of the worst Generals and leaders at exactly the wrong time.
Airplanes are interesting toys but of no military value." - Marshal Ferdinand Foch [Professor of Strategy, Ecole Superieure de Guerre] (circa 1911) "The Horse is Here to Stay, but the Automobile is Only a Novelty, a Fad." ........... Marshal Foch, France's Top General
“ I am not a crook!” Richard Nixon.
I feel like I am living a waking dream. Clouds of the shade of burgundy wine surround the night sky, and moon turns a blood blob of sliver and red. An opium pipe is passed and smoked as Picasso takes out a pencil and draws his view of France. It is a horrid dwarf of Napoleon with Marie Antoinette holding his tiny penis and a destroyed French flag, while a bull steps on his head. No wonder the French hated him, not to mention that he keeps on shagging their younger women. He is such a horny old goat. I am still in the Latin quarter of Paris, which is and seems always will be the seedier side of Paris. I see the immitigable pegmatite Pablo getting drunk in the locals hangout. He is bitching about how the French having denied him citizenship. Since 1901, the French police have been watching him like J Edgar Hoover controlling
their romantic souls. Pablo is being watched by the Dali dissolving eyes of the Cops. Their eyes are always on this little bulldog painter. As Pablo was an artist and commie which are a big no, no for even the Frogs. I spot the great man. Sitting at the bar is Pablo solid and built like a bulldog or block of bricks. If he didn’t strut like a conceited peacock, along the jingle of his cash, most ladies would have not found him attractive, but since times are tough, all the ladies watch the great painter with interest. “Vous muets bâtards français” Pablo spits out his French insult with his Spanish accent, which already offends the touchy Parisians. The drunken Parisians defend their honor from the Spaniard.
“You stole Picasso, Matisse is the genius and you a mere Spanish dog.” “ My kid’s poop looks better than your paintings you fool.”
For a culture that had created independence, an orderly city of lights, a world of art with new ideas, sadly the city was going to end up like a teenage street girl, raped and pillaged by the power-mad Germany pigs. Pablo didn’t need to time travel to see this. He was a Spaniard whose country gave the world the prototype dictator Franco, and that son of a bitch lived on and on…. If there is a God, you think he would have given those dictators some horrid disease that would have killed them just before they took office. Even the god of the chosen people didn’t intervene, as six-million or so souls were turned into ashes, as the German citizen, the Pole, the Frenchman, the Italian seemed to find his inner Mel Gibson crazed hatred that let them turn people into soap, or lampshades. (The Jews killed Jesus didn’t they? There is no statute of limitation on that crime.) When I tapped Pablo on his muscular shoulder, he recognized my American Midwest demeanor and became friendly and exuberant. My introduction was made in high-school Spanish, then English. I found Pablo cheerful; he had got my letter that I was a dealer of art and that my clients would pay big money for his paintings. The letter was written in 1924 and sent for my Trafamordian clients. The Tarfamordians collected human art, as a remembrance of culture that would end up in an ash pile, but they loved history even if it wasn’t there own history. He laughed when I arrived and told, these painting were going to make him even richer than even Hitler. “Yes, that son of a bitch is a mere bag of donkey dung and hatred.”
( Hitler a successful writer, son of bitch! “Much of his fortune came from royalties earned on ''Mein Kampf,'' his best-selling autobiography
and political tract, which is still banned in Germany. But during his time as German leader, every couple who married were given a copy of ''Mein Kampf'' by their local community -- which had to buy the book from the publisher. Talk about your crappy wedding gift! According to Mr. Helm, Hitler earned some 7.8 million reichsmarks from the book alone. It is hard to give a precise value in today's currency, but the reichsmarks would be worth some $5 to $8 today, Mr. Helm said -- a tidy sum.) ”
It was the generous drinks and too many tokes on that pipe which flipped my head around too see the world in a new light. Being high on absinthe and opium makes reality a surrealistic crazy quilt of images, as I walk or stagger down the street with Pablo. I noticed that all the Parisian have turned into Reptilians snarling and hissing at the two foreigners. Picasso and I both are staring back with an insolent manner “fuck you too,” glaring back at them and capturing their faces in our minds eye. “Hold on Pablo, I was given a traveling gift from my clients, a Lecia camera.”
This camera was made for me by the Tafarmodians, so it has been adapted for color, 3-d, sound, ip-location defuser and GPS modifier and with the added computer chip to become my own portable worm hole. For now, I will not mention the added features to Pablo but introduce him to those later in private, as not to clue in the French, as they have certain Parisians who would turn me and my belonging over to the Nazis, for the money or the status. Whispering in drunken English, I can’t help but artistically critique the French girl, in all her glory. “Pablo look, there she is the Reptile queen of France, look at that leathery skin, those slits for eyes.” “Look at the stare of hatred, she is another Komodo dragon lady for your collection.” “Don’t sleep with this one, or she will snap your bulldog neck, like a twig.” Pablo demands a photo and smiles his dog like smile at the reptile-girl who stops thinking we may be famous, and helpful. Pablo most likely would have tried to sleep with her to see the bull of Spain, defile another French girl, but his current wife, would most likely then too become reptilian. I quickly snap her image. She then dissolves back into her fashion and her bird-like bones fly her down the street. As I check the worm-holer built in camera, I noticed that I had pressed the wrong button on the worm-holer version 2.0 and had taken Pablo forward in time.
This is a Parisian but she lives in 2012 .
Not to alarm my stoned friend Pablo, I flip the switch back to 1940 and hit the button. Jesus, thank god, we are back on the correct streets and correct year and time. Back to the style of the 1940s and as American, I was struck and disappointed that the Parisian don’t look like a Renoir painting. The women of Renoir are colorful, big breasted, sexy and friendly. The lady in front of me looks like a scrawny chicken and almost like a Barney Fife in drag. Art certainly doesn’t always mirror life.
As we arrive inside Picasso apartment/ studio on 7, rue des GrandsAugustins it is a not a dump like most people thought when entering the garret of a painter. However, for the people that would later spend oodles and oodles of cash on his work, they would find the disorganized and ramshackle house beneath them. The studio is awash with painting stacked up waiting to find a sucker to buy them the price of oil, linseed and Picasso brush strokes. Pablo points to his latest painting and sighs. “What will happen to these works, when I am gone, and turned into dust?” “Who will look at my paintings for their workmanship and skill. Who will appreciate my sense of history and toil?” “I wish I knew your clients and the others that will hold my work in esteem in the future.” I knew Picasso feared death more than most men, which explains his need for younger women and the output of work. He was trying to overcome his inner short man's disease and fear of impotence. “Pablo I can take you to in owner of your painting, and you can see how they treat your work or why they purchase it in the future.” I was cleared for taking a guest into the worm hole, if they had security clearance from my clients. “You are just feeling the effects of the opium my friend, how can you show me the future. Are you some sort of mystic or the new Nostraumdas?” Picasso laughs. “ Pablo, you said you had to remain a childlike to be the great painter, now trust me, and you will follow me to the 21st century to see your painting and his owner.” “Pablo put on a tux and remember your manners, as we will soon be in America the land of the free and the home tax breaks for the rich. You will be astounded that one of your paintings resides in a place called, now wait for it: SIN CITY!” “Now Pablo, look into this tiny hole with me, and we proceed into the savage heart of American capitalism at its best.”
The wormhole time warper version 2.0 drops us inside the locker room for wait staff of the Wynn Hotel. Picasso is now stunned and dizzy. “Where the hell are we?” “Las Vegas, Lost wages, the place founded by the Mob.” “Ok, but why?” “Well one of your most famous portraits is here, and owned by a man who runs part of this town.” We are going to be waiters for the man to see how he admires your painting. “Pablo is not a waiter; he is a great artist.” “If you want to see the truth, Pablo, a moment of you working for living is not going to kill you, plus I will take you to the Mustang ranch, so that you can get your pussy fix.” Pablo now mulls this over. His mind now thinks of future sex and then nods yes. If you want to get someone to do what you want to find their weakness. Pablo is a pussy junkie, so there you have it. Pablo is now mere clay in my hands. We now dressed like waiters were headed to Steve Wynn’s personal office suite were he houses Picasso’s painting, his ode to his twenty one-year-old mistress, Marie-Therese Walter. Now, we take our trays of caviar and high end toast into his party, were we see Steve Wynn bragging that he is going to sell this painting for $139 million to another billionaire collector Steven Cohen. (Oh, yes, he is on those infamous hedge fund managers.) Pablo smiles that his work is still commanding a top dollar. Pablo and I notice a skinny lady, that I recognize as Nora Ephron staring with her mouth gaping open at his picture and turning to her husband shaking her head in disgust. Steve Wynn is explaining that the picture is in two sections, and Marie’s face is actually shaped like a man’s member. I see Nora Ephron; whose own time clock is running down, being shocked by the painting. “My god, her face looks like a penis.” Nora whispers this to her husband, which is loud enough for Picassco to hear as he is serving them their fish eggs on toast. Pablo walks away fuming and muttering, “ infidels, idiots, schmucks.” “ It is not a penis; you perverted rich idiots.”
Steve walks closer to the painting and pointing out the curve, while Nora whispers to her husband, “I wouldn’t pay five dollars for that painting.” Pablo hears this and stops serving and is totally offended and begins scowling at Nora. He mutters loudly in Spanish, “She is clueless or not seen many penises.”
I have to stop Pablo from whipping on his penis in front of Nora, as he is very upset that this American woman has insulted his painting of one his favorite mistresses. Before Pablo starts yelling and whipping out his member in front of Nora, Steve Wynn starts talking about the painting when his elbow snaps through the painting with a horrible sound.” Pablo watches as his Masterpiece now has a sliver dollar size hole in Therese Walter's left forearm. Steve Wynn looks at the painting in disbelief and states the obvious. "Oh shit. Look what I've done." Picasso scowled and muttered, “Those idiots should not be allowed to have my work, I should take this painting back, from those American imbeciles.” Now the party, was over, as Wynn collapsed in a ball of despair that the painting, he had just sold. Wynn’s elbow had just cost himself to lose ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY NINE MILLION DOLLARS. Both Pablo and I watched as the rich man sobbed, not for the damage to the beautiful, ground breaking painting, but the money, as if it were a stock in company was crumpled up and thrown in the trash with dirty diapers, and coffee grounds. “OH, CRAP. ONE HUNDRED MILLION, DOWN THE DRAIN,” WYNN CRIED out with tears of pain running down his orange cheeks, Pablo looked at me and threw the tray of fish eggs on the table demanding to leave. “Ok, Pablo I will set you up with the best Las Vegas has to offer.” “In Vegas, the world is your oyster if you have the cash.”
As we walked out of the office of the esteemed Mr. Wynn, who could still be heard crying in the hall, “My Money, oh why!” Pablo strode down the hall, with a pissed off stagger. The reality of his work becoming a mere investment shook him. His art became a just mere piece of paper to be bartered by the rich without appreciation for the work itself just it’s mere money value. “So, this guy owns this garish capitalistic, swindle factory?” “Yes, Pablo he owns the casino and a place in China.” Walking back Pablo sees other waiters, who think we are real waiters huddled together complaining about their low wages. Pablo perks up and shouts to the them, UNITE! Fight for higher wages! Pablo now grasps dining room table Clothes and with a Pen designs a protest sign on the spot. The waiters bring him more cardboard and sheets to make their first protest signs.
I begin with an idea and then it becomes something else. ***** A LIVING WAGE! ***** - Pablo Picasso One must act in painting as in life, directly. MR. WYNN IF YOU CAN SELL YOUR PICASSO YOU CAN AFFORD TO PAY YOUR WORKERS MORE MONEY! - Pablo Picasso
Is there anything more dangerous than sympathetic understanding? - Pablo Picasso
Action is the foundational key to all success. - Pablo Picasso
I screwed up, as now Pablo had interfered with the future, but he was clearly agitated by what happened to his picture, and also believed in workers right. It could not be stopped and since a protest was most likely in place, the workers just had the added plus of carrying protest signs that now should be worth lots of money, although no one would belief that Picasso created them. “Hey guys hold on to those posters; they should be worth a lot of money.” Pablo now chimed in: “Yes, my worker, friends these Posters should be able to sell for copious amounts of cash.” “You see. I am Pablo Picasso.” Only a few, understood the name and significance of Pablo’s name. Plus, in earth time, Pablo could have not created these since he was dead. The signature was real, but the time was wrong. The workers did protest, which did get Steve Wynn's attention. He realized that he could ignore their protests, but he missed the fact that those unusual protest posters were created by one of his favorite artists. Steve Wynn realized that some of his actions were a little heavy handed, when he went for tip-pooling and therefore, like Picasso, he had created something different from his original management brush stroke. He created a Union, instead of lowering his bottom line; he created a dreaded Union masterpiece. Pablo in time would smile about the one percent buying from a Communist. We went on more trips, some that led to strange meeting with a little man, painter and crazed Time of the Year man who would sell us some of his sugary, sentimental artwork, but for now. We will be signing off.
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