book one redone - Coldbacon
book one redone - Coldbacon book one redone - Coldbacon
No steady stream of commercials to distract your bones. Like listening to your favorite music on some good tight headphones. It’s better. 172 Dear Mr. Jones, Whenever I look for a standard—a guide—I look to your work. But it’s more than just that. It’s a way of living, of moving, physically I mean. The other day, I found myself, in the shower, soaping and singing in time with Rossini, “Welcome to my shop, let me cut your mop…daintily…daintily.” I believe from watching so many of your cartoons I have actually absorbed your rhythm and timing into my being. And for this I am saved. When I think about my life, about retiring—I am so young—I think about the day I can finally take the time to read some books—not just pages of books—and watch the movies and cartoons I still haven’t seen enough times (fifty or sixty being scarcely sufficient for something like “Rabbit of Seville” or “What’s Opera Doc?”). Whenever I meet someone I think is really cool, I show them your cartoons. Not so much as a litmus test, but when I get excited about someone, I want to share with them the best things I know. And I know what they are. I wrote you a letter in my last year of college when I had finally figured it out. To not hear back from you was at first a cause of some distress. But then I realized you must not have gotten my letter. But now I hear about a Chuck Jones tribute project going on. To cheer you up! At first, I was going to just send a copy of my old letter. But then I couldn’t find it, so I had to write this instead.
Not part of letter, I guess. Just wondering aloud. Most of this I wrote on the construction site for this new house going up down the street from where I live. The fence was only a gesture, knocked down in parts, which I walked over. I carried the blueprint of my letter into the structure and quickly made the second floor. There was a third floor, but the second was good enough. Naked 2x2’s, 4x4’s, jacks, tens, concrete wells, stairs without rails, sockets, sprockets and dangly things, crumpled cigarette boxes bought by the carton, washers, nails, would-be splinters, big open frames—almost like windows. Good enough. I sat in the future second-story window watching people push their way down the street. Chuck Jones? Wasn’t he the thirty-second president? I spit out the future window for no good reason. It was Sunday, but today was Saturday. Some day a couple paying nine-hundred dollars a month, good rent, will have their spat in this very room, while a tender four-year old plays quietly on the carpeted floor. This child will have the benefit of knowing what it’s like to be Allen Iverson, to be lost and then found, and all in 3D Slam Vision. I dreamed this construction site was the set for some new Bugs Bunny cartoon. They were planning the big pie throwing sequence right here, and just through that hole, there—the stick of dynamite would be handed, wrapped up like a gift for Troy. And I was there alone, way before the man said, “Action!” It was cool. These cardboard boxes are popping up everywhere. The tenants prize their walls painted gray, giving the impression of real stone, which makes a wonderful sound of hollow plywood when you knock it. This is my favorite architectural style— American throw-up. Gee Pa, they sure don’t make ’em like they used to. Said the little sign on the chain link fence, “Keep out,” but I didn’t. “Don’t doubt,” but I do. At first, I was going to send a copy of my old letter, but I couldn’t find it, and had to write this instead. Your Friend, Pablo Bacon (61) 173
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Not part of letter, I guess. Just wondering aloud.<br />
Most of this I wrote on the construction site for this new house going up<br />
down the street from where I live. The fence was only a gesture, knocked<br />
down in parts, which I walked over. I carried the blueprint of my letter<br />
into the structure and quickly made the second floor. There was a third<br />
floor, but the second was good enough. Naked 2x2’s, 4x4’s, jacks, tens,<br />
concrete wells, stairs without rails, sockets, sprockets and dangly things,<br />
crumpled cigarette boxes bought by the carton, washers, nails, would-be<br />
splinters, big open frames—almost like windows. Good enough.<br />
I sat in the future second-story window watching people push their way<br />
down the street. Chuck J<strong>one</strong>s? Wasn’t he the thirty-second president? I<br />
spit out the future window for no good reason. It was Sunday, but today<br />
was Saturday. Some day a couple paying nine-hundred dollars a month,<br />
good rent, will have their spat in this very room, while a tender four-year<br />
old plays quietly on the carpeted floor. This child will have the benefit of<br />
knowing what it’s like to be Allen Iverson, to be lost and then found, and<br />
all in 3D Slam Vision.<br />
I dreamed this construction site was the set for some new Bugs Bunny<br />
cartoon. They were planning the big pie throwing sequence right here, and<br />
just through that hole, there—the stick of dynamite would be handed,<br />
wrapped up like a gift for Troy. And I was there al<strong>one</strong>, way before the<br />
man said, “Action!” It was cool. These cardboard boxes are popping up<br />
everywhere. The tenants prize their walls painted gray, giving the<br />
impression of real st<strong>one</strong>, which makes a wonderful sound of hollow<br />
plywood when you knock it. This is my favorite architectural style—<br />
American throw-up. Gee Pa, they sure don’t make ’em like they used to.<br />
Said the little sign on the chain link fence, “Keep out,” but I didn’t.<br />
“Don’t doubt,” but I do. At first, I was going to send a copy of my old<br />
letter, but I couldn’t find it, and had to write this instead.<br />
Your Friend,<br />
Pablo Bacon (61)<br />
173