I keep thinking of Charlton Heston in "Soylent Green.” The sky is completely obliterated in fog, smog, and smoke throughout the entire movie. Heston is always bathed in sweat; his fetid, stained clothes never change their appearance, all conveying: “It’s fucking hot, it’s been fucking hot, and it’s going to be fucking hot.” The only high spot in the whole movie is Leigh Taylor-Young—I still own obscene ideas about her.
So here we are in the “Soylent” sky and air, waiting for this movie to end or Leigh to come over to borrow a cup of sugar, the former being more likely. I feel like I need an iron lung after going to Raley’s, and my utility bill is at war with my wallet, which seemed bad enough until I heard an angler near Fish Camp say he heard trout coughing.
Waking to “the world is my barbecue” is not the way to start the day! I know there are hills behind that opaque smoke, firemen looking much like Heston without a Leigh Taylor-Young reward when the day ends. Still, there are no trucks pulling up to hoards and hoards seeking their share, or more, of the green wafer, and the tourist-free aisles of Raley’s mean shorter checkout lines. All the while, satellite pictures disguise any indication that Oakhurst really exists under all that gray foam; chances are, when it clears, Leigh Taylor-Young still will not be my caddy, and Heston won’t be trying to part the waters at Bass Lake.
It’s Oakhurst, a “coincidental” city made by intersecting arteries. It ain’t Paris, the Bronx, or Bora Bora; of late, it conjures images more like Pompeii. But one thing is for sure about us coincidental residents: we’ll know a green wafer when we see it.
Besides, I figure when it comes to that, the city folk will go “Donner Party” long before us!
Don't be fooled; they're here!
So here we are in the “Soylent” sky and air, waiting for this movie to end or Leigh to come over to borrow a cup of sugar, the former being more likely. I feel like I need an iron lung after going to Raley’s, and my utility bill is at war with my wallet, which seemed bad enough until I heard an angler near Fish Camp say he heard trout coughing.
Waking to “the world is my barbecue” is not the way to start the day! I know there are hills behind that opaque smoke, firemen looking much like Heston without a Leigh Taylor-Young reward when the day ends. Still, there are no trucks pulling up to hoards and hoards seeking their share, or more, of the green wafer, and the tourist-free aisles of Raley’s mean shorter checkout lines. All the while, satellite pictures disguise any indication that Oakhurst really exists under all that gray foam; chances are, when it clears, Leigh Taylor-Young still will not be my caddy, and Heston won’t be trying to part the waters at Bass Lake.
It’s Oakhurst, a “coincidental” city made by intersecting arteries. It ain’t Paris, the Bronx, or Bora Bora; of late, it conjures images more like Pompeii. But one thing is for sure about us coincidental residents: we’ll know a green wafer when we see it.
Besides, I figure when it comes to that, the city folk will go “Donner Party” long before us!
Don't be fooled; they're here!
The Soylent sky outside my window
