In which our hero battles Cragganmore to a final resolution.

Welcome to my blog. Previous readers have expressed confusion as to whether the narrator of this blog – or what Henry James refers to as the center of consciousness – really is Jack Nicholson. All I can tell you is that I, the writer of the blog, am indeed Jack Nicholson. However, I should mention that the characters in this rather disjointed chronicle are NOT intended to represent any real people, living or dead. And so, I felt this preface necessary.

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I would wish it on no one to be me.


Only I am capable of bearing myself.


To know so much, to have seen so much, and


To say nothing, just about nothing.

   - Robert Walser 

Letters:

I’d like to apologize to the people who brought us Mouse Hunt. 

CLERIHEW 1:

Jack Nicholson

lived under a fickle sun.

For him it seemed to shine

until he appeared in Blood and Wine.

CLERIHEW 2:

Michael Ironside

suffered from a dire pride.

With every autograph signing

he’d break at the mere mention of The Shining.

CLERIHEW 3:

Danny DeVito

ate every last dorito.

When he finally farted,

he was ready to watch Jack Nicholson in The Depated.

OR

Danny DeVito

drank one too many a mojito.

When he moved onto cider,

he was ready to watch Jack Nicholson in Easy Rider.

CLERIHEW 4:

Cragganmore

did not know what was in store,

until out of the shadows appeared Nicholson’s double,

more frightening than his mustache in Man Trouble.

Like oakum in tar, several eyebrow hairs had been culled on a glue-trap beside the toilet.

Remembering the corpse of Lady Laphroaig floating in the toilet.

 

 

My apartment building was constructed in the 1920s, and perhaps this is something normal with these old apartment buildings, but it seemed strange to me: there is this small, plastered grill plating in the wall between the bathroom and the building’s exterior. Actually, there’s two of them – one on my side, in the bathroom, and one on the building’s outside wall – and there is a kind of triangular stage between them. I believe my bathroom was at one time a kitchen, as I have no sink in my kitchen, and that this contraption was probably conceived as a security measure in case someone left an oven on. It’s a kind of suicide-proofing, like the windows on tall buildings that cannot open enough for my body to squeeze through.

On the little triangular stage between the two grill plates, I imagine Cragganmore doing a little dance. Trapped within the building wall since it’s construction, he pleads to me – not for freedom, but for food. “Come on, Man…” he groans, “Tenants in this apartment have been feeding me to keep me alive since Day One.” And I look at him. I study him. And he does look rather skinny and pale, malnourished with a little protruding mouse-belly to prove it. The grill plates have made some sort of cage, or prison, and Crag reminds me of some sort of human rights cause I ought to be using my celebrity to advocate. Then I wonder why I don’t pull these grill plates off my wall, why I don’t smash the wall in, and I realize that I am not his advocate. There is nobody else around, so I must be something more like his guard.

> i love writing to you so much. 

> i'd like someone to make it my job,

> and i would like to be paid 367-thousand

 > dollars to

=== message truncated ===

A shrill pierce. Small enough – and in my heart – to be a song.

In its move towards the peanut butter pabulum, Cragganmore’s body attached itself to the fresh sheet of glue beside the fridge. The fucking exterminator was wrong! The mouse never reached the poison before finding the trap.

When Cragganmore first heard him enter the apartment, the mouse played dead, but once Jack was out of sight, she gave into panic and frantic breathing – lungs and heartbeat were all that remained in the creature’s control. Though her skin would not permit the flipping of her body off the glue-trap, her insides persisted in attempting to raise their constraining chassis. The purple-pink of her lungs pushed through her rib cage, thumped against the thin layer of grey skin that withstood the break free from herself, and undulated back to the start position. The whole thing again. These operose efforts grew increasingly futile until a bronzing cinnamon light swept the floor and crawled like early mold on cheese toward the eye not concealed, not sealed, by the glue-trap, her open eye. That same eye widened with fear and beseech for two, and the nocturnal creature embraced the peremptory option: slow and painful starvation. What kind of human being would I be to neglect responsibility at a time like this? And so, the mouse regarded the supernal approach of her landlord’s Rockport shoes as an intrusion of aide rather than rapine. Upon the release of Crag’s final squeal – the whistle of a broken kettle giving into a puff – Jack Nicholson understood that there was no one else to hear the creature’s cries.

If he only had a bucket, he could drown it. Flushing it down the toilet would have been the easiest solution – I once found a baby mouse floating in my toilet (Lady Laphroaig), either from suicide or desperate thirst due to the ingested poison – but Crag’s glue-trap was too big and sticky to make its way down the bowl and through the waxing. Stepping on the mouse would be far too yucky. He could smash it, crush it – with a frying pan! But with Cragganmore’s umbra stained to the pan, he’d never be able to cook in the thing again. Best to first cover her with a plastic bag. And in the speed by which this task was completed, a loose electrical cord attached itself to the glue-trap.

Shifting movement of the glue-trap beneath the bag. Nicholson gently held the bag down, and forcefully pulled the cord off the trap opposite the mouse.

           

A drink seemed to be in order. He plucked a stiff, deep hair from his eyebrow.

           

Unfortunately, in the process of freeing the cord, his foot found its way onto the glue-trap. After hobbling a couple of steps and dragging the trap, bag and mouse with one shoe – hoping I could just walk the thing off, miraculously proving the glue faulty – he nearly stepped on the recalcitrant coating with his right shoe while attempting to release the left. Thankfully he thought better of it, choosing instead to stare at his left and debate if he really needed the Rockports.

My sister, my mother, drunk on the couch and playing with herself before giving in to one of her erotolepsy-induced fits.

 

Smoking cigar in mouth, Nicholson took the plastic bag past the courtyard to the haphazardly stacked garbage cans. If he were a cowboy, like in Ride the Whirlwind, the awaiting action would be very matter-of-fact and easy as pie. He placed the plastic bag under the heaviest trashcan. He raised the can high into the air and looked the other way before squishing Cragganmore’s body. He gave the can a little twist. He lifted it again, and hammered it down three more times. Five more times. He wanted to be sure the thing was dead – it would have been awful to let her live in that condition, and I didn’t want to look inside the bag to check. Six. Seven.

John Wayne.

The mouse didn’t climb up. It didn’t fly.

 

In which our hero is accosted by a group of pious Jews in the public restroom.

Welcome to my blog. Previous readers have expressed confusion as to whether the narrator of this blog – or what Henry James refers to as the center of consciousness – really is Jack Nicholson. All I can tell you is that I, the writer of the blog, am indeed Jack Nicholson. However, I should mention that the characters in this rather disjointed chronicle are NOT intended to represent any real people, living or dead. And so, I felt this preface necessary.

LATEST NEWS!

“I am seized by two contradictory feelings: there is so much beauty in the world it is incredible we are ever miserable for a moment; there is so much shit in the world that it is incredible we are ever happy for a moment.” (Albert Camus)

Letters:

It has come to my attention from a number of your responses that my previous blog entry may have been interpreted as offensive to some of our wonderful African Blacks of America. Please know that this was never my intention. I only meant to suggest the possibility that reading minds might imply racial superiority. I believe all men equal, be it in our power to read human thought or not.

The scent of stale body odor creeps forward as the smelling salt is withdrawn. “Are you Jewish?” asks the kid Hasid. A fat bearded face beneath a black hat pokes in to confirm, “Both your parents are Jewish?” Pogrom eyes peer above and through the cracks of the toilet stall with unspoken questions. Finally, the elderly Hasid wrinkles his eyes to ask, “And you had a Bar Mitzvah?” Upon verification, the small minyan masks their approving nods with sidelong glances, muttering wise nothings in elevating tones. The fat Hasid rolls up Nicholson’s left shirtsleeve and the young Hasidic skateboarder removes the actor’s watch and ring.

Like a drunken doctor about to perform emergency surgery in a John Ford western, the old Hasid’s palsy shakes are mystically lifted with a strap of black leather attached to a small box that he measurably fixes against Nicholson’s naked bicep. “Repeat after me: Barooch attah…” “Barooch attah…”

After the blessing, the old man tightens the band of leather with immaculate strength, and speedily wraps it around Nicholson’s arm seven times. His yellow-nailed thumb firmly presses another leather box against Nicholson’s forehead (between the eyes) and smoothly traces the roots of our hero’s hairline across the phylactery’s belt. “Barooch shayme –” “Barooch shayme–" “cvode malcootoe – ” “cvode malcootoe –” More Hebrew prayers are repeated, and the event culminates with the old man suddenly switching back to English to forcibly call out: “We want Moshiach now!”

Nicholson’s repeated demand for the coming of the messiah enspirits a circle of Jewish men through which God could vessel the intertwined force of life and love – unfortunately within the tight confines of a public restroom stall, their circle centers a toilet sheltering Jack Nicholson’s unflushed bowel movement. Just as the floating excrement of a three-time Oscar winner seemed a lacuna in the Almighty’s plan for a force of life and love without form, our Devine Creator had not attended to the cleanliness of His most devoted followers. And so, avoiding the frowzy underarms rubbing against both his right and left shoulders, Jack Nicholson had no choice but to push his nose towards the center, where it met smiling beards singing above his shit.

Moshiach, Moshiach, Moshiach! Aye, yaye, yeah, yeah, yaye, yeah…

They serenaded each other the hosanna repeatedly, everyone’s left foot crossing his right, followed by the right foot moving out and the left foot moving in behind the right. Moshiach, Moshiach, Moshiach! Bearded faces slid beneath the lower openings of the stall’s door and walls to harmonize Aye, yaye, yeah, yeah, yaye, yeah. Lifted into the air by other Hasids, who had climbed the neighboring stalls and leaned down on either side of Nicholson, the group resembled a band of circus performers. Once floor space opened, more black-hats sprawled out by his feet, only to be raised just as quickly above the toilet seat – as if crowd-surfing at a rock concert. He who avoided the vertical carousel still had to crawl along the upper deck of the toilet’s back and dance around its rim tauntingly, in order to make room for the next tide of believers. As grips tightened and inched closer to his neck, Nicholson felt compelled to join the vigor with which the Hasidim danced round and round, ever-compressing the circle and crimsoning their faces. Moshiach, Moshiach, Moshiach! Aye, yaye, yeah, yeah, yaye, yeah… The group laughed joyfully and felicitating our hero, the fat Hasid removed a small decorative paper from his prayer book. “If I give you this leaflet that informs you of synagogues in the area, will you go?” 

“Do you like stand-up comedy?” asked the skateboarding Hasid. “I do stand-up on the side.” The young spieler kicked up his skateboard and handed Nicholson a flyer advertising his stand-up show. “If I give you this,” he asked with the same seriousness he heard from the beard of his fat comrade, “Will you come by and check out my act?” Soon enough, all the brethren were passing forward printed advertisements.

“Best bagel this side of 42^nd Street!”

“Take this! These guys are the professional’s source!”

“You go here, and only the floors are crooked!”

“I mean, there’s bagels and then there’s rolls with holes! Am I wrong?”

Just as the skateboarding Hasid prepared his celebrity guest for a comedic comparison between the way Jews and Black people walk, Nicholson was pulled aside by a wizened hand.

“I understand that you are also a performer,” the elderly Hasid pried. “You’ll have to forgive me, I don’t watch television.” He put his hand on Nicholson’s shoulder, “Tell me… which characters do you play?”

“Mostly crazies,” the actor responded with some embarrassment.

“Why crazies?”

“I don’t know. I suppose bad guys are just the fun parts for me. More… variation.”

The old Hasid stared at him in silence for an uncomfortable length of time before deciding, “I don’t understand that.” 

When the Hasids left the bathroom to approach the next Jew, they grew quietly concerned about Nicholson lingering in the hallway and refusing to move along. The mitzvah was over. They did not understand what he waited for. “Shalom…” they said for goodbye, but the Hebrew word also meant hello and peace, so this did not put the confusion to rest. “Be well…” they said to him, while packing up their tefillin after winning the blessings of another unobservant Jew. He wished them well too, and everyone shook hands. He knew from their increasingly exaggerated grimaces and hushed orisons that it was time to depart, but he could not break from the group. Things grew more awkward at the elevators because of the stillness involved with waiting. Whenever he attempted his physical exit, the other foot bounced him back toward them. So, instead of walking away, he performed this idiotic jittery boy dance with the misplaced energy remaining from his earlier beseeching of the messiah. He huddled into the elevator with the Hasidic Jews, eager to re-ignite the crowded bathroom stall experience, but when they reached the lobby, the Hasids rushed to the revolving doors – no longer stopping individuals of possible Jewish persuasion.

Outside, Jack Nicholson tried to place his arms around the wise old man and the fat one. He howled out: “Moshiach, Moshiach, Moshiach! Aye, yaye, yeah, yeah, yaye, yeah…” the sough of his shuffling feet unaccompanied against the sidewalk. The sun had set, but our ululating hero remained with the afterglow, leaning against the wall, trying to support the rest of himself with his arm – a straphanger in the midtown flux. His mouth hung open, dangling a string of acidic saliva, and he just stood there, letting it, his immobility a quiet rebellion against his body.

“Are you okay, sir?” asked a mother. Her son ogled the slobber driveling over the movie star’s lips. “Ma, it’s The Joker!”

“I’ll give you fifty bucks if you let your boy go to the bathroom on me.” The boy’s eyes lit up in eager anticipation of what would happen next. Nicholson’s hand pulled out a jittery fifty-dollar bill.

He picked up a dirty newspaper to wipe the vomit off his shoes. Rockports. The headline on the New York Post: SAVED! (and a photograph of two trapeze artists using their skills to rescue a drowning child).