Lunacy In America novel introduction

<BACK ________________________Home>

Watch the "Video-Novel" of Lunacy

Channel 49

Lunacy In America Mini-Review

‘Young Ski,’ would-be-opportunist-turned moralist-clown and his alter-ego buddy, ‘Dr.’ Winthrop, (who has even greater ambivalence and less ambition) live in an era beset by an economic malaise that coexists with resurgent elitism. There is much decadent fun and foolish sorrow in such a time. The individuals peopling the ‘Insecurities Business’ have personas borrowed from economic philosophers and Greek gods. The female characters are ciphers for fallen women representing America. There is much parody and perhaps some illumination behind the semi-serious espousal of the principals relating to ‘Sexual Finance.’

Back in the days when ‘Money’ woke from it’s nap beside a younger America… MAY 1980 -- APRIL 1982

LUNACY IN AMERICA

Or Gillhensky’s Law

With

John E. Winthrop, DD

The following is a chronology of my essay concerning LUNACY in America. --Young Ski

BOOK ONE

NUMBERS

In discussions with Dr., Winthrop who had attempted an amateur psychoanalysis of me based solely on crib notes of Freudian personality theory stolen from Psy. 201, we pinned down my basic problems before 1975 to traumas that happened in the preceding 26 years.

"Now," I had thought, "we are getting somewhere." I unburdened myself. At twelve years of age I had wished to become an Air Force pilot. During my fourteenth winter I had constructed a largish, glider-plane-thing in the cold basement of my parent’s house (hoping to accelerate the fantasy of flying off somewhere to greater illusions). The following summer was spent trying to write obscure science fiction stories in the sweltering attic of my Grandmother’s boarding house. All was failure. My plane could not fly, my writings could not suffice as writings. At eighteen I became a Top Secret Air Force radar operator and finding myself thrust into the turmoil of geopolitical forces beyond my control concentrated all efforts in the quest to lose my virginity.

At the time of my ad-hoc analysis I had worse problems. No money, less future than past. But, Dr. Winthrop was making progress.

"It was cultural" he had said "societal" he had bemoaned "global!" He warned. "America had become a new person" Yes, that was it.

We would have attempted more breakthroughs. But Winthrop experienced his own neuro-breakdown. He was unable to express his difficulties in language so his coming to me for assistance was made impossible. I already knew his problem. He was lonely.

IN THE BEGINNING (1972)…

I had gone to Dr. Winthrop who was then a tyro literary agent for advice on my novels. As usual, he was ahead of his time.

"Mr. Gillhensky nowhere in your manuscripts is there any hint of the main protagonist assisting in the death of his son," he said.

"No shit," I replied.

"But Larry how can you, a male writer imitating serious fiction, be successful without sonicide?"

I asked what my alternatives were.

"There are none!" He answered "unless you are a woman."

A woman wasn’t expected to write about sonicide. A woman writer had only to hike up her SKIRTS (Dr. Winthrop was fond of anachronisms), place a mirror between her ankles stare into the reflection of her own gaping vagina and write of whatever came-to-mind such as the imperfect orgasm. Dr. Winthrop called this CUNTISM, the main artistic force of the 70’s.

"If I am incapable of cuntist literature and unwilling to consider artistic sonicide what else is there?" I asked.

"Suicide!" He shouted, tearing the curtains off the windows in order to wrap them about his chilled body. The dust cloud that escaped choked him causing the Doctor to rack himself with coughing spasms designed to approximate asthma. He wished sympathy from me. I ignored his ailment.

"Write about suicide?" I asked.

"No, commit it."

Then he disparaged against my writing for being too illiterate for some but too literate for others.

"Give up writing and get a job," he advised solemnly while he took pills from six different vials and attempted to swallow them en-mass. Quickly he spit them out in disgust onto his desk.

"Doing what? All I know is military radar operations."

Winthrop thought my question over carefully as he mashed the pills up with a paperweight and drenched the mess with applesauce so he could eat it with the spoon attachment on his Swiss Army knife.

"What are they for?" I inquired of the medication.

"They are for everything… But are only placebos. Sugar pills."

"Why crush them? Take them with your tea," I said.

"They are much more effective this way," Winthrop replied.

Having realized the Doctor’s limitations I took the fellow under wing. On his part Winthrop abandoned his neophyte literary agency and turned his attentions to job counseling and mental therapy for me. (Actually we were students together), soon we became buddies.

IN SEARCH OF A SUITABLE CAREER

The sirens on the street corner were begging to be fucked for love of money. Their torn shawls and long stained garments fluttered and flayed in the dirty breezes as they tugged on suit sleeves asking passersby, "Hey Mister can you spare me a load?"

Later, drinking cheap wine from paper-bag-hidden bottles they laughed wantonly while leaning against one another, fresh stains spreading in downward crescents between their thighs.

Professor Winthrop was enthralled with prostitutes. He tried borrowing money from me in order to seek a tryst but I reneged and he went forward with his own note fresh from the inner soul of his worn, wing-tip shoe.

Unfortunately, he ignored the ones who pleaded for his attention considering them unworthy of his sordid interest. Instead, he insisted on a careless rebuff from the most haughty and drug addicted one of the bunch, a tall, scabbied twit named Lisa who blew cigarette snake into Winthrop’s face.

Immediately I invited her to accompany us to a sleazy bar around the corner where the good Doctor and I plied her with cheap booze and lied to her about our intentions, "I’m doing a paper an sociology for the White House."

"I’m a boy scout. I have to have orgasm for a merit badge."

"What are your views on the coming financial collapse of the Western World?"

She didn’t answer our questions, She mumbled paranoid incantations in a scratched and throaty voice, Her most sublime observations concerned "those fucken’ bastards always trien’ to do you in," etc.

Winthrop, overcome with illicit passion grabbed her under the table in the crotch area. Quickly she slugged him to the floor, Winthrop confusing her violent aggressiveness for defense of chastity proposed matrimony. He inquired of her religious beliefs and surname in case he would have to make changes in his own.

I pulled the good Doctor aside, "You can’t marry her, she’s infected with alcoholism, drug addiction and probably venereal contagions yet unknown to medical science."

"She is AMERICA, and I love her," he said. I didn’t agree and stated as much.

"Then what is AMERICA?" Winthrop questioned.

"America," I began, "is fruit upon the bountiful plain. Besides, she is not incorporated

"Then let’s do it!" He shouted.

"Get a corporate charter - profit sharing and pension plan. Lisa Slut, PA. Hooker," I added.

"Get her a consulting job with an international oil company. She’ll be rich! We’ll both marry her!" I exclaimed.

He returned to the table and attempted to rouse her from a mumbling slumber so we could tell her more lies about our intentions.

"I have a grant from the Fort Foundation to study the effect of clitoral stimulation upon the federal deficit."

What ever piffle came into our heads we tossed out to her stimulating our manic giggling to new highs. She mumbled, "Get off me, pig," and fell into a troubled doze.

GET THE REST.... (Allow 4 min.* at 28.8 - 2 min at 56.6)

Back To Top

* This is the time for the entire document to download; you can begin reading almost immediately.