This is a website devoted to my Charles Bronson. Not Charles Bronson, the action legend. Although my Charles Bronson is also an action legend. It's complicated.
So without fully disclosing the definish of my Bronson, I will say that it is a frame of mind manifest from experiences teaching powerpoint and the Iliad to sixth graders in the Bronx, writing an essay in college with a ten page title but subtitled "The Goal of Man," and reading copious amounts of Hunter S. and F. Scott and DFW before dominating dancefloors and eeeny-meeny-miiiny-moeing girls for the superfling and subsequent destructive relationship.
My Bronson is drunk and ready to drink, losing control and gaining skanks, and the best goddamn teacher in this bar.
He is a pied-piping master's-degree-holding chalk-powdered teacher eloquently pounding the pulpit with words and diagrams and challenging students to learn and achieve and be somebody.
Everyone Charles Bronson meets comes on to him sexually, even when he wears baseball uniforms or kimonos or clown sweaters amidst the seething throng of Bourbon Street.
My Bronson is the artist the philanthropist the wicked great time, but he is no myth.
He may score 35 points per game at the JCC hoop league, bomb touchdowns all over the Great Lawn, spray fastballs like darts all over the Louisville batting cages, and then appear as a photographer on primetime sitcoms, You Humble Narrator in your reading book or the reason you are grabbing your coat when you promised yourself you'd stay in tonight.
You will meet him, you will love him, and he will haunt you, but know that he is straight from the heart and he is as passionate as anyone willing to help this world heal and grow by tearing off its clothes and laughing and caressing its nakedness.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
My Charles Bronson
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2 comments:
Here's a nickel (.05)... now answer my questions Bronson;
Does Bronson sing show tunes with hands in pockets?
Does Bronson do shots of Wild Turkey... The Dirty Bird?
Does Bronson know the number for Yogi's payphone?
What does Bronson wear?
If Bronson could bone any woman in history, who would it be (Faust already said "Helen," so she's taken)?
How many stars did Bronson give "Rock 'N Roll Jesus?"
When is Bronson moving out west suckah?
Enquiring mind,
BTB
BTB,
I know the concept of Bronson can be very slippery and perhaps too overarching for you (or anyone) to properly pin down. So, your follow up questions are warranted and I take them very seriously. If they were merely rhetorical in nature, they would point more to the essence of Charles Bronson (circa Death Wish 3 or his Oscar-caliber turn as Pardon Chato in a MOV), in that they would illuminate a defining, unquestioning pathos. Since, in my shrewd reading, your questions do not hold Bronson in a firm grasp and are, in fact, general inquiries, I will answer your questions to the best of my Bronson.
1. A Bronson will sing showtunes with his hands in his pockets under only one circumstance. If he is fortunate enough to be reeled home by his college ex-girlfriend but distrurbingly forced to endure her split-second switch from hot club clothes to frumpy pajamas and then pick at her pre-bone meal of microwaved nachos, he may sing showtunes (since she is a NY theater promoter) to reverse the pseudo-domesticated bliss and rev her back to the reason for being.
2. Yes, much.
3. Used to, but now it's disconnected, so he can't call during work and converse over the weary warrior woes anymore.
4. All Bronson's clothes are well-made and sincere. I'm wearing a dashiki, a blue blazer, and have a briefcase on my lap as I write. Later, I'm going to wear a diaper.
5. Your mom.
6. Four Stars. Not fucking bad, Rock.
7. As soon as the self-flagellation is over here in the Nation's Cap. Which is probably one more traffic jam or car malfunction away. There could be a cause and effect there, since I almost ripped the steering wheel off going from first gear to first gear to fucking first gear on GW parkway last week.
Love,
The Reaper
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