The Mother of Garlic and her deep fried, two liter bottles of Seagram’s

Chapter 26  (From the book, "Mereology: The Origins of Garlic Cures and the Art of Telling a Tale of Ragout"...   http://birddogbooks.com/bdb/content/free-digital-version-mereology-origins-garlic-cures-and-art-telling-tale-ragout)

 

I recently wrote Brooks and asked him if he wanted to write the story of Momma Lush with me, but he never replied.  I think he misunderstood my need for his input.  You see, I don't really see or spend time with any of the friends in this story, in as far as I (of the I can) can see them―not including, of course, my wife and daughter.  And since the time of having written the first draft of this book I now have two sons who I do see every day.  This isn't to say that I wouldn't like to see all the old friends in this Tale of Ragout, “for without friends no one would choose to live” (Aristotle, NE Bk. VII: Ch. 1), but Life has led us on different paths.  When I wrote Brooks, I was hoping we could spend time working on this chapter together. The funny thing is he never liked Momma Lush in the first place.  She was too decadent for him, as she was for a number of our friends, but Brooks sometimes has a way of telling a story that is charmingly entertaining, and I would have greatly enjoyed rehashing with him the bitter, ugly truths of our youth called Momma Lush:  Which just so happens to have occurred during the same time period that I ended up in the nuthouse. 

If Metal Head is to be considered the archetype to the deep fried Twinkies of the Indiana State Fair then Momma Lush would be the archetype to the not yet existent deep fried half-gallon jug of Seagram’s Whiskey.  In a sense, Momma Lush only wanted to live, but her existence in the suburbs of Chicago, and not directly in Chicago (or New York, or LA), caused her life to be corralled into a psychoses within the sanctity of suburban fortresses of individual mass consumer success stories.  There was, and still is, no lifestyle, no pizzazz, no pep, no flair, and no zing to suburbia:  Suburbia is the Zero of 1/0 binary intercourse.  Additionally, Midwest America has nothing except malls:  strip malls, mall walking, mall shopping, mall food courts, mall entertainment, and mall zombies.  (George A. Romero was a prophet of Garlic, and, as far as malls go, ironically, the word comes from pall-mall, which was a croquet-like game involving hitting a ball with a mallet through a ring played in shady, tree-lined promenades.  After the game fell out of favour, the tree-lined promenades were then used for the operation of open markets. From a pleasant, unsullied function-free hobby to a life of sheer function and purpose.

 I don't know if Momma Lush ate Garlic, but to be fair it could be said that she was and still is The Mother of Garlic.  

Momma Lush was the mother of three children; two semi-attractive girls roughly my age, and Johnny, her eight-year-old son, and she, Momma Lush, was as lost as the rest of us.  Her husband, Harvey, worked the night shift at a local factory, and, to his misfortune, before his shift was over at midnight, his wife, our Momma Lush, opened his door to the alcoholic youths of suburbia.  In all frankness, Momma Lush’s nightly parties were driven by a desire to be ravaged by some young, teenage man—which is something that might have happened if not for the fact that she was a fifty-year-old dead-ringer for the now-deceased Divine.  Or better yet, imagine a three-hundred pound slobbering drunk, already having lost her fortunes and now living in a trailer park, bleached-blond Britney Spears and you'll have a good idea of the odds of something like that happening—unless you're into that sort of thing.  No one signed some Faustian contract with her; she just had continued hopes that at some point one of us kids would be too drunk to notice who we were fucking.  If nothing else, Momma Lush was the ultimate optimist. 

A half-year before I was locked up at the Hinsdale Sanatorium, Metal Head Ed appeared on the scene:  He was a south-sider.  Momma's house was on his side of town, and so he went to school with her daughters at the South High School; hence, the Momma Lush connection.  Though, before my friends and I, the North-siders, stumbled upon her home, Momma Lush had another group of kids for whom she supplied both alcohol and a place to hang.  Although these kids hailed from the elite sector of suburbia; had well-to-do middle class parents, and were high school football stars and such, they were all twisted and sick Individuals—and Garlic says Individual with a capital “I” because these youth were, in their Gestalt or primitive essence, the prototype personalities to the kind of people who now run our corporations, banks and country.  These champs of suburbia, during this time of my youth, got away with everything they did because they played their roles well—as they still do… and now their roles are at the top of the Too Big To Fail command posts.  The first night I ever went to Momma Lush's these champions of society were holding down Momma Lush’s eight year old son, Johnny, in the bathtub and were pissing on him.  From what I understood this wasn't the first time something like that had happened.  In one instance, they shaved Johnny bald, and in another they bound him, taped his mouth shut, and locked him up somewhere in the house knowing that Harvey, Momma Lush’s husband, would come home from his night shift, completely tired, and first have to search for his missing son as his wife and daughters laid unconscious, passed out cold from too much alcohol.  Sure Momma Lush was to blame, but what about these pillars of society? 

 

While Ronald Yates and paranoid J. Edgar Hoover may have only pointed fingers at the so-called freaks—granted, both men did more than just point fingers—it was the end result of their actions, thoughts, ideologies, and so-on that prepared the sales floor for the selling of selves and Existence into the Identity of absolute self-destructing, Finite Individuality.  Put differently:   It would be the progeny of the Ronald Yates of this world and the weed-like spreading legacy of Mr. Hover and his ilk that would, historically smelling, mix these ingredients natural but suppressed desires (naturally suppressed?) or, in some cases, sick and twisted fantasies as they, the offspring and acolytes of nuttiness, cheaply sold themselves, Life, and Existence, into Individual mass consumer Identities…Nixon's paranoia, as well, worked and still works wonders in developing the true middle class Individual values and dogmas as they rise into Nothingness.   From the mouth of Garlic

 

After watching the charming champions of Downers Grove South High School in action, I challenged them on their authority at Momma Lush's by yanking Johnny out of the bathtub and telling them all go fuck themselves.  To my advantage, my group of friends had grown in numbers, and even though we weren't the desired image of suburbia we had respect for Momma Lush:  We needed her home, booze, and company as much as she needed us. 

Momma Lush never wanted her son to be tormented, so she found some reassurance in our presence, and thus agreed to ban the previous group of kids from coming to her home.  Don't get me wrong, my friends and I were in no way making Momma Lush's life any easier:  We still did things like paint her bathroom from to top to bottom, including sink, tub, and toilet, camouflage, and after we were done, we hid outside her house in the bushes and waited for Harvey to come home.  Through an aromatic vision of Garlic I can see Harvey looking for some peace of mind after a long night of work as he enters his humble abode, and I can hear, shortly thereafter, his hollering and cursing.  From a safe distance away, standing alongside my comrades, I can feel the joy as we all let out rounds of cat calls, Bronx Cheers and whistles before Harvey finally throws open his screen door, shakes his fists, and shouts obscenities at us.   

Another time we put all of their furniture on the roof while Momma Lush lay passed out on the living room floor, and, again, we waited outside for Harvey to come home.  After getting out of his car, he stood still on the driveway and shook his head as he perplexedly stared at his furniture on the roof before finally screaming, “Goddamn it, Blaire!”  The twenty-five of us standing on the other side of the street, beer in hands, were in hysterics. 

The only thing we didn't do was torture her son.  We were punk rockers and not society's darlings.  We clung to morality, responsibility, and the value of relationships while the rest of our world was forging Super Individual Consumer Identities. Neither Momma Lush nor our own parents were or could ever become, due to their own circumstances, yuppies.

In the last days of high school, as they followed my stint at the Hinsdale Sanatorium, I was at Momma Lush's house when the ring leader from the previous crew of kids came by.  Not only was he one of the guys who had pissed on little Johnny the first night I met Momma Lush, but he was also the quarterback and captain of the Downers Grove South High School football team and… and he had recently been elected the Prom King.  On this night, though, he was there with the team’s star running back and receiver and they were all whacked-out on cocaine:  Their plan for the evening was to rob White Hen Pantries and 7-11’s so that they could have on-hand cash the following night for their Prom and cocaine addictions.  Mr. Quarterback’s father also happened to be an FBI agent, and so he and his buddies had broken into his dad's at-home collection of weapons:  At Momma Lush's they stood in the living room clad in camouflage and with Uzis strapped around their shoulders.  After the suburban youth heroes—America’s future bankers, CEOs and politicians—left Momma Lush's, they robbed a White Hen.  Not surprisingly they were caught while attempting their second heist at a 7-11, no more than a mile away from their first crime scene.

The following Monday at school I had a speech class, and I decided to talk about high school football stars, cocaine addictions and Prom Kings.  After less than thirty seconds of introduction the teacher stopped me, grabbed my arm, and walked me outside.  It blew his mind that I knew something I shouldn't know.  He informed me that for my own protection some things were meant to be kept under wraps… by “protection” he meant my future as an Individual consumer.  He then explained to me that a special meeting had been called-in at 5 a.m. that morning for all the teachers in the school district, and that he and his colleagues were informed of the incident by the police and FBI, and, in the potted version of Garlic, it was decided that it wouldn't look good if the general public were to find out the truth about their own morality (see hypocrisy) by having to see what the future of yuppiedom and self-indulgent Individual mass consumerism brings; therefore it was agreed by all parties involved that all charges against suburbia's champs would be dropped and forgotten, so that life could continue on as if all were normal.  I told the teacher that the school board’s decision was ridiculous and that he couldn't keep me from my First Amendment rights.  He smiled and then asked me who was going to believe me.  He was right.  Since there were no news reports or TV coverage about the incident, the only ones outside of the law who knew were Momma Lush, me, and a couple of my friends… and the Downers Grove School Board.  In today's world nobody would bat an eye in disbelief at such a cover-up, but in 1985 the vampires and monsters were still festering beneath the picture and their ruthlessness and ugliness still needed time to mature before they could go too big to fail public. (I believe Lance Armstrong is perfect example of the Individual having realized the too big to fail dream on an Individual level…he is a champ!)  There was still need for the proverbial black sheep, scapegoat face: And to address this issue, throughout the late 1970s up until the early 1990s, punk rock kids were to blame for any and all problems rotting in suburbia.  (As a clear example, The West Memphis 3 might be free now but they’ve spent, combined, over fifty years of life, as black sheep, behind bars for the crimes committed by too big to fail America.)  The sense of failure coming out of the Vietnam era wasn't catalyst enough to distort the family values into the values of ME.  The Cold War and all of its nuclear Armageddon fear mongering was not enough for vampires and monsters to further their causes. The Individual mass consumer Identity was still in its infancy stage, and it could be said that my generation fearfully suckled on the teat of mommy and daddy yuppies, finding nourishment in the want of waste, but us Fuck You Generation, the ones who were on the front lines, did not go freely. We never had a problem taking responsibility:  We could not forsake Existence for a McTreat on the McTeat.   There is a definite irony in the fact that suburbia wanted to send my life as ragout straight into the garbage can and was willing to go to all lengths to protect those supporting and circulating the image:  regardless of their Uzi, cocaine-riddled, extra-curricular activities.  The sacrifice of the West Memphis 3 and all others, like myself, who were and still are unwilling to participate, either by choice or the misfortune of being found guilty on fabricated evidence, was never too much:  Because reward for all Americans would be the continued domination of the world—so the black sheep, although more truthful and virtuous in their own characters, could be sacrificed for the furtherance of the Individual consumer…the New World Order.  In retrospect, I know now that, at the time, I would have been safer in the nuthouse.  My stew could have cosily simmered in a pharmaceutical slushy for eons while my own army of flying pink Teddy Bears protected me from my emotions and sensual desires.  If only I would have known then what I know now, I could still be drooling over Linda Loma giblets day and night, until my parting breadth.

Ha! Fortunately for Existence there was, is, and will

always be Garlic.

The world might want to judge Momma Lush for her

indirect crimes against her son, but in her defence, she was, at least, honest.  She wanted to live life, and in doing so she became negligent, but she never claimed to be America's mother, and because of this, because of her unwillingness to take the moral high-ground of naïve hypocrisy, unlike society's willing herd, she had no claims to forgiveness.  Those who stand behind the pulpits or who sit on the court benches or in the board rooms or who own the banks and high rises or hold titles or wear the white kittle or dance and prance on TV or who in the same moment hypocritically live morally depraved lives (Lance Armstrong, for example), can always demand respect without any valid reasons, but the person who openly embraces their sensual and emotional character, and who is a victim of delivered circumstance gets no leniency:  The people who are truly alive are castigated.  The Salem Witch Trials continue to this day.  Just turn on your TV and listen to any neo-conservative pundit and you can hear the Piper’s Witch Trial Tune. Because the privileged play the game as the monsters and vampires desire it, an eye gets turned when they and theirs get caught doing something wrong:  Bankers! Insurance Company CEOs!  Oil Company Executives! Politicians!  Pharmaceutical Executives! Monsanto and other Chemical Company Executives!  The list goes on and on. (Four years after delivering the first draft of this book, the US Government declares these institutions and businesses Too Big to Fail, and, inadvertently or intentionally, sentences the world’s working class to financially shoulder the burden of these sick-fucks general irresponsibility toward and contempt and disrespect for Life.)  

And even if they, the too big to fail, ‘get found out’ and are ‘made example’ by becoming ‘sacrificial offerings’ (to appease the masses), they have their own special, well-furnished prisons.  There is an irony to Federal Penitentiaries. Business people and politicians search out responsibility and when they abuse their power, which in the end affects millions if not billions of people negatively, they get sent to a Holiday Inn.  But a poor or working class slob who commits a crime but has never abused his or her circumstances, and who is, to some degree, a victim of circumstances, gets hard time in hell.  If we were to make white collar crimes the only capital offenses I guarantee you that the number of murders, violent crimes and theft would sink to almost nothing:  Because negligent mothers like Momma Lush would actually be able to live in a world where living needn't be twisted and distorted; thus returning the necessary sensual and emotional essences to the relationship. The awe would not be detoured so that vampires and monsters can continue to thrive. Perversions coated in bitterness and ugliness might still occur but they would no longer be impetus to becoming something real:  The monsters and vampires would not be the fuel of and to one’s Individual consumer success-story-lives.

The Momma Lushes of this world, and the kids who dress differently, and who play the wrong sports, or who wear last year's fashions are always going to be society's righteous representatives, and, as such, they are the sacrificial lambs:  Because even in her negligence Momma Lush was fighting for Life and not death.  She wanted to experience the flesh of Garlic and not the Identity delivered in the purchasing of a consumer product.  The oddballs always know deep down there is no I without the we.  In a sense, nonconformists were sent to test the waters of history.  It's our fate—and now Garlic is taking us nonconformists into the time of awareness, embracement and acceptance. 

No matter what the Rush Limbaughs, Bill O'Reillys, Ann Coulters (or pick your current right wing spokesmen of this world) claim, their agendas of Individual selfishness are a lie.  Without me in their thoughts, they would be nothing—hence their origins as they embrace nothing—and with this as their creed there is only a bitter, twisted sense of some greater knowledge found in their so-called wisdom.  The Finite Individual dogmas they cling to and use to expose the so-called left-wing agendas are nothing but malarkey; and we know this because the vampires tremendously reward these people, and that's why they will always have followers.  Through Individualism and the great illustrious feats of linear logic the Bills and Anns pretend to know God personally, but what is sorely missing from their make-believe worlds is the reality that:  Their God is Dead, and they, the Bills and Anns, keep Him dead, because Nothingness, as it is the source Identity behind the Individual, is their masterGarlic is blaming the Finite Ann Coulters and the Bill O'Reillys of this world, and, at the same time, is revealing to Life that the punks, freaks, and misfits have always fought for Existence.  As for the American Democrats and their media mouthpieces they have no sensible context. I’m not sure if they even know what Garlic looks or tastes like, and if they do know, they would only ingest it in moderation. As mentioned before, Democrats have long since embraced the role of corporate control in place of actual governing.  What an American Democrat doesn’t realize is that Garlic should never be swallowed in moderation, because Garlic delivers an All existence in light of pure positivity, and there’s no need to moderate the roots of radiances or the glorious aromas of Life.  Hallelujah!