Over the Darkened Landscape - By Derryl Murphy Page 0,7
could sing.
Beer! Beer!
Dale turned on his notebook, phoned Jimmy. “This is Unitel9 North. There has been a stockholder’s purchase, and we are pleased to announce that we are your new telecommunications supplier. Please allow us a moment to tell you about some of the exciting options . . .”
“No! Continue call.”
One ring. Two rings. Three rings.
“Hello?” Jimmy, squished and funny-looking on the tiny screen, image compressed and recompressed so he almost looked real-time.
“Hey. I need a drink.”
“Sure, man, what’s up?”
“I got drafted.”
Jimmy grimaced. “Oh, man, that sucks! I’m sorry.”
Dale let himself smile, but it didn’t feel real. “It’s okay. See you at Stormin’ Norman’s in an hour?”
“Done. See you there.”
Dale thumbed the notebook back to standby and reached over his cot to pull a T-shirt from his closet. He chose one with a picture of American troops in hi-tech cold weather gear gunning down penguins that looked decidedly Chinese. The logo on it read: “Antarctica—The New Cold War.”
The Cultural Yoke is Somewhat Runny
(Images of a burning building, firefighters hard at work, police and army troops dealing with civilian unrest)
Announcer: “The riot at Stormin’ Norman’s American Bar and Cheesecake Hangout10 (detailed map of location and description of Stormin’ Norman’s runs across lower quarter of screen) started at about three a.m. today. Although police sources are being circumspect (definition of circumspect flashes in upper right corner of screen), this reporter (image of reporter accompanied by curriculum vitae and news stories he has done in the past three months drifts down left portion of screen) has received an exclusive interview with two patrons of the club.”
(EXCLUSIVE! in bold type runs at the top of the screen. Thrilling music swells in the background)
(At least sixty other channels fall prey to a pirate burst informing their viewers that the EXCLUSIVE! is running on a rival channel. Twenty-six of those decide, in turn, to pirate the broadcast itself in an effort to keep viewers. In a sweeping decision handed down forty-three years later, the CRTC11 rules against all of the offending stations, of which one is still operating. But that’s another story).
Cut to image of two teenagers, one female, one possibly male, both with shaved heads, the one who might be male has two ringlets of hair growing from the cheeks, each ringlet dangling about two inches, curled. Tattoos track across the face of each youth, literally like tire tracks on the female, more like a cross between chicken and elephant tracks on the other)
Youth One (female): “We were dancin, yeah? Dancin’ and jitterin’ and humpin’, some sex on the floor but only for show, yeah? Sam Cooke, Bruce Springsteen, Jackie Wilson (access codes for information on these and other new buzz artists are offered to viewers) . . . all their new stuff, yeah? Even the new dance buzz by, by . . .”
Youth Two: “By Buddy Holly (access code offered). Honkin’ shit, yeah? Galsanboys on speakers, dancin’, some fights, but only for show, yeah? Couple get thrown off speakers, little bitta blood, not bad, yeah?” (Images of youth of today dancing to buzz music)
Youth One: “So couple guys, yeah? They go up to the BJ booth, I spy they got somethin’ in their paws, yeah?”
Youth Two: “Thinkin grandomatic, got some new buzz spottin’ here!”
Youth One: “Was not buzz they put out.”
Youth Two: “Was a disc, man, old stuff indeed. Punk, somebody say, Young Canadians12 (picture of Art Bergmann, details about punk music in late 20th-century Canada). Song called ‘No Escape.’”
Youth One: “Joyboy beside me starts jumpin’ up and down, hoppin’ like wackyow grasshopper. Then he stops, pumps his fists in the air and yells, ‘Time to shed the imperialistic cultural yoke of our Yankee bastard neighbors!’”
Youth Two: “Don’t know what the fuck he mean, but seemed like a good reason for party and fight.”
Hey Rocky, Watch Me Pull a Mountie out of My Hat
“Squad! You have been selected to serve your country. To serve your country must be the highest honor to ever be visited on your measly little lives!”
The man who speaks wears the traditional red serge of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. His hat is broad-brimmed, his boots spit-polished. Big-eared mouse pin, brass buttons and buckles shine, almost unnaturally. Service revolver sits in holster, looking menacing to the new recruits.
But it is his face that inspires the most stares, the most awe. His chin extends a full five, maybe even six inches beyond where it should stop. The cleft at the end of the chin is also enormous. Makeup covers the worst