I will say that when word came down to the underworld that the editors of The Simon were going to corporeally resurrect me for one day for an assignment, I was genuinely excited. First and foremost, it was a chance to get out of the underworld for a day. Always a plus. Also, though, in this increasingly youth-oriented world, it was nice to be contacted by a relatively young publication (on the interbot, no less!) which respected the opinions of their elders, and still thought a man who has never been on a skating board in his life had an opinion and perspective of value. Also, the rejoicing of the literary world must be immense, I imagined. The opportunity for a legendary author (I do not think I exaggerate) and literary titan to engage the modern world, to perhaps survey the current offerings of the world's best scribes, or to reflect on the state of contemporary culture... well, you can just imagine, I was positively giddy with anticipation.

Then I received my assignment. It was relayed by way of an Ouija board, and still I swear I could hear the giggling in those bastard Editors' voices. I was asked to review the film Blue Crush. I shit you not.

So that is what I am about to do. I have spent my one afternoon back in the physical realm at an outdoor shopping mall cinemaplex watching Blue Crush, and I am about to spend my one evening here writing a review of it. I can only guess that the Editors thought it would be ironic, a great mind such as myself with a difficult last name reviewing a hormone-drenched pre-pubescent piece of mid-summer fluff. Yes, I suppose in the strictest sense of the word, it is ironic. Let me just begin by saying thanks a lot, assholes.

When I had fully materialized as a physical being in this world, I telephoned the Editors to fish for another angle on the story. I asked if I was to give some sort of perspective relating to my books, or my life, or perhaps use this as a jumping-off point to speak of deeper issues.

"No," they responded, "just tell us how the movie was."

How was it? Have you seen the poster? How the hell do you think it was? It was fucking terrible. You need a giant of 19th century literature to tell you that? And yet, I am a professional. I have been paid in advance for my assignment. I will complete my work. Though my time grows short, though the flesh rots away from my bones as I write these very words, by God and the Mother Mary you shall have your Blue Crush review.

Anne Marie is a local Hawaiian girl who is trying to discover her way in the world. She is poor and has been the sole caretaker of her increasingly rebellious little sister since their mother abandoned them. My own father was violently killed by his own peasant workers when I was just a child, so I know exactly how she feels. The profound loneliness and confusion inherent in losing a parent shaped the darker regions of my young life's course. Anne Marie seemed to have fared much better than I, who found myself alienated and alone, prone to fits of depression and despair. Then again, I didn't have two wacky but attractive surfer girlfriends to help her learn the harder lessons in life and despite her misery accomplish her bigger goal, which is to be on the cover of Surfer Magazine.

I have just spent 15 minutes pacing my hotel room. I wrote The Brothers Karamazov, for chrissakes. What the fuck am I doing? One of Anne Marie's other demons in life is a near-death experience several years past, in which she was nearly drowned while surfing at Pipeline. A large step which she may or may not accomplish during the film (far be it from me to give away the ending) is overcoming her memories of this incident and, both physically and symbolically, getting back on the board and shredding the proverbial Pipe. When I was 28, I was arrested for being a dissident, torn from my home and sentenced to death. With 20 of my comrades, young men all of them, I was led before a firing squad. My eyes rested on the icy, barren, Siberian taiga, and in that image I found the true and unfathomable knowledge that my final moment had come. At the very last moment, a reprieve came. We were spared. The memory of death's light kiss haunted my life and work for years to come. Not so with young Anne Marie. The main factor aiding her resilient decision to put the shadow of her brush with eternity behind her seems to be her friends yelling "Wooo Hoooos" of encouragement from the beach. That gives her the strength she needs. In her friends' "Woo Hooos" and arm-waving gestures, Anne Marie finds the wellspring of courage in her soul to get past the whole fear-of-death thing. (Here you need the visual aid of my making a "wanking" gesture in the air with my left hand.) I did wonder, in all sincerity, if a group of hardy bikini-clad Russian women prancing about with concerned optimism on the icy tundra that black day might have done the same for me. Shit, it might have saved me all that tiresome writing.

One additional issue caught my attention in Anne Marie's journey of self-discovery. She is distracted by a love interest, a professional football player named Matt. (Again, I am put in the position of assuring my reading public that I am not shitting you.) Matt wins her attentions by paying her for surfing lessons, though from the context of the money changing hands, it is implicitly made clear that he is indirectly buying the favor of her carnal intimacies. I believe the dialogue played thusly:

HE: I only have 40 bucks with me. Come up to my room and I'll give you the rest.

SHE: Are you trying to buy me?

HE: Mmmslph.

(His concluding line being the sounds of him lip-locking and mounting her like a painted show pony.)

The conceptualization of women as Virgins and/or Whores has consistently run through my work in one way or another. The dichotomy, I always believed, plays well beyond the obvious issues of male perception and cuts to a deeper issue of self- conceptualization in the feminine psyche, as well as nailing a primal religious symbol whose significance goes far past the issue of sex or the sexes.

I guess not, though. To watch Anne Marie pocket the cash almost as quickly as she loses the garment to which those pockets are sewn, one would think tossing money on a mattress was the most goddamn charming way of winning a girl to come around since they invented the lute. I'm not asking for guilt. Maybe I am. Actually, yes, I absolutely am. What of it? Call me old-fashioned, but in the 1800s you could still expect a little guilt from a girl for hopping into bed with some dickhead just to make her rent. Maybe it's just me, though. Maybe I'm the asshole.

My allotted word count approaches, and my left arm is falling off as my temporary body decomposes. Soon my soul will descend back into the nether regions. So, to wrap up, let me just remind you that I died in 1881, before the motion picture as a public exhibition was popularized. This was my first experience watching a film, or watching a moving reproduction of any image whatsoever. In other words, I'm not exactly a jaded filmgoer. When the THX logo came on, I literally shit my pants. I missed most of the trailers while changing in the restroom (and repeatedly flushing the toilet, to my endless delight).

It would not have taken much to amuse me for two hours. A looped filmstrip of a horse jumping over a fence would have probably done it. Blue Crush did not. I consider those two hours of life wasted, which would not be so tragic if I didn't only have a total of six remaining on this earth. To add insult to injury, the ticket price was nine American dollars, which could have literally fed a family of 12 for two years in my time.

I know when I get back down there, Henry [Henry Miller, who D is evidently and inexplicably friends with in the afterlife — ED] will read the piece and tell me I should lighten up. Dirty old perv, but hell, he's probably right. Maybe if I had lowered my expectations for this sojourn into the modern world, I would have had a better time. At the very least, I'm getting out of the deal with a souvenir Master of Disguise popcorn bucket, which can be folded into a turtle. God, just shoot me.

And to The Simon Editors, congratulations on wasting one of the great opportunities of the modern age. I hope you were freakin' amused. I'm attaching my receipt for the ticket, though I've got a feeling that might truly be the dream of a ridiculous man.

Copyright © 1998-2006 TheSimon.com
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