Dear Mr. Salinger;
When getting sexy with someone these days, J.D., you have to go chameleon. Morph like a catcher to a meet-er, a casual fission device to an ICBM, a phony old movie to a global blockbuster. Shoot the lemon moon and chalk it up to the cinema sell-out when your little red book and its explosive, iconoclastic, fundamentally American excremental ideology forms the same post-industrial, Big-Mac imperialism coordinate point as good ol’ Pency Prep did for conscientious objector Holden Caulfield.
So the Black Panthers had Mao’s “Little Red Book,” cause everybody needs cash money—but for the rest of us, the would-be Stradlaters, Phoebes and Mr. Antolinis, it was, and is, your novel. So what if our digestible little high school staple, the rebellious, frenetic energy of the pre-medicated Holden is carefully inscribed by the state? We can hope somebody doesn’t read Chapters 14-19 and answer the focus questions because differential calculus problems are already cutting into cybersex time.
Too bad Mark David Chapman had a frustrated modem.
You see J.D., everything is pre-cinema nowadays—celluloid pimples, clunky boom mikes, swing shifts in the editing bay. Cross-cut those ducks and frozen pond with paper moon and all “Fuck You” signs get rubbed out. Holden’s endless genetic progeny populate creative writing programs, sit bound and gagged with biodegradable sci-fi, oh-so-slow-motion sports treatments, dime-store Mafioso romance.
Stop the film J.D. Cut the tape, Ackley kid! Blank generations see red matrices for the interactive wham bam, as contemporary Lunts cut take after take, suffocating the measured mind with a facsimulated death shroud. They flood somebody else’s vena cava with embalming fluid for display in the museum basement. Even Leni Riefenstahl can’t touch that, your frozen moment. With 24 frames per second, there’s a lot we can plug into the hardware.
Martin Heidegger kept quiet about “improprieties”; Thomas Pynchon lives in the sewers and we barely smell his gas. But you J.D., despite all censorship, still give lectures in eleventh grade English class on inventing America, imaging Rebel w/o a Cause 6.1 through a painted face prostitute and her five bar Johnny pixel riding circadian elevators because somebody has to staff the multinational fiberoptic cords.
Stop the tape J.D., and some body catching a body will adjust your vertical hold.
Can anybody get sexy with your little red book anymore? I strip naked and read it over the toilet bowl, at the company picnic with dick in hand, at the Oscars wearing saline-filled breasts, at the anti-hegemony hootenanny where the nouveau riche fight oppression via endlessly recycled checks. Just so long as the alternate sexualities stay away from their kids. And they have plenty of minority friends I’ll have you know. I’m not angry J.D…just want to get things straight.
Underneath the clothes, J.D., those Eskimos at the museum don’t have any sex organs, and even if somebody edits in a stylized cock, alters the frequency, shifts the codon—I used to be glad that you gave us a peek at one slick, frozen negative.
Now, though, after everything that's happened between us—I just don’t give a fuck.