Saturday, February 18, 2006
The Infinite Navel
Am I obsessed or alternatively focused?Why Sandra Dee?
Why not?
I only ever saw Gidget which is Lolita without the controversy or the Nabakov for that matter.
Give Humbert a surfboard and he's not such a bad guy. But the real story is Sandra smoldering like a ripe hothouse orchid of lustful innocence ready for the plucking she'd burst in your mouth like the first taste of ice cream on a hot summer day. Other than that I can't recall another thing about her. B
ut there's purity in my obsession. Like all celluloid virgins she was ultimately sacrificed on the altar of fame but I didn't walk down that littered path of her career, swim through her failed marriage to Bobby Darin or mourn her untimely early demise. So she'll never remind me of my own mortality by aging, failing or leaving. I treasure only prime USDA choice c
ut memories of Sandra Dee and wonder why anyone need look further than her bee-stung pout or molton adorability in Gidget.I keep thinking how cool it would be to live in a world of Kookie's, Moondoggie's and Gidgets knowing full well they were about to be ground up like hamburger in a cultural meat grinder and spit out in the snap of a Beatles' finger. I'
d even have a cool nickname like Surf Booger, drive a metal flaked hot-rod, and play reverb drenched guitar licks on a pristine white sand beach with a sunburst Fender Jazzmaster. I'd attend an antiseptic white-bread high school where the biggest concern was who to ask to the prom and not even see the looming jungles of Asia casting their long shadow acros
s my Pacific drenched paradise. I'd bag chicks named Connie and Susie with brothers named Brad and Chip and we'd win the State Championship with my last second shot, touchdown or triple followed by groping the night away at Inspiration Point after the big bonfire while Buddy Holly jingle-jangled deep into our p
syche before falling from the sky. But all the while I was reaching up the chiffon poodle skirt of my enormously well breasted date I'd be thinking: "Come on Gidget kiss the Moondoggie where it counts." Eventually I'd get Sandra Dee because that's what happens in the movies. No dream unrealized no outcome improbable. I'd 
be buying a jar of mayo or maybe a copy of Kerouac and I'd bump into her by mistake and she'd smile and I'd smile and I'd say something witty like "Would you like to listen to my transistor radio?" and she'd say "Yes I'd like to bear yourch
ildren because you own a nice portable appliance." Or maybe I'd be listening to Chet Baker, smoking an unfiltered Lucky Strike and watching waves crash against the bleak empty tomorrow of my soul and she'd be all trying to get my attention with a really cute pink bikini and telling her friends I was a dreamboat or the living end. Then we'd go to the prom and drink lots of punch while wearing silly hats. 
Would she be surprised, when we stood under an orange moon the size of Jupiter holding hands, that I'd whisper the reflection of fireflies twinkling in her eyes was the prettiest thing I'd ever seen let alone 
imagined? Probably not, but right as I kissed those perfect lips the music would swell and a big yellow "The End" would spash across my Ozzie & Harriet world because it's better to freeze at the golden moment than tarnish in the after.
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