P. Gomes
Hash Schedules-n-Acid Plans
(The Dadists Plan Spring Break, 1972)
Shooting craps with pterodactyl talons that peeled in layers (or so it appeared at the time), we decided a search among the icicles for Frankenstein's corpse would be a grandiose aim for spring break provided we could rake all the feathers from the pea-green shag (Pterodactyl's do shed so!) in time to board the plane.
Should we happen to stumble upon the Creature, with screw bolted neck and twine-stitching still intact, (a wondrous skill, Herr Docktor!) it would be an added bonus!
It seemed like a good idea at the time. Like attempting a Julia Child culinary masterpiece: Ortolans en brochette. Baby birds slow-roasted and eaten whole —beak, skull, Twiggy feets the whole shebang . . . except the feathers. (There's no end, it seems, to these mythic feathers!)
Are sardines any less disgusting, swallowing heads and pen dot eyes?
Ah, but the Arctic, the Arctic!
Sadly, the Arctic is barren
and the allure of a warm, rum-soaked breeze off the Triangle triumphed. We used Amelia and a downed plane as the perfect excuse
for putting lime into coconut and showcasing our future tan lines — ever so much simpler than strapping on snowshoes. Would Amelia have Karloff's eyes making the expedition worth the sacrifice of Monstrous discovery and the chance to get one's name in the headlines? We were spellbound and captivated, brainwashed . . . not by the sun or the Reverend Moon, but rather a filthy pith helmet. Papa Hemingway — what hath thou wrought?
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