Poor king CO MA DI, slyly, with a Cheshire smile that assures himself we can’t possibly be on to him, vainly tries to place himself beyond the past. But, manifesting a noteworthy lack of self recognition, he condemns himself to dwell there.
We imagine him resonantly receding; perhaps loping atop a La Manchan steed, his arms furiously flailing in a vacuous attempt to defame his predecessors. Suddenly his curious costume is snatched by the blade of a wheeling windmill. Away goes Poor king CO MA DI, gracelessly lofted from his regal reverie, up, around, and around, counter clockwise he realizes with a characteristic mixture of anxiety and chagrin. “I must do better at seeing where I am going! How else will I become Emperor?”
As if he had minted the word ungracious, Poor king CO MA DI lingered . . . ‘til the shadows of the doorway barely alighted on their backs as they left the auditorium. He then turned his furrowed face toward confounding the present. “They are all corrupt!” Again with the annoying whine. Attempting to separate himself, as do all pretenders, he fumbles, stumbles, bumbles. “Reminds me of RMN,” someone inaudibly asided.
“Walt Whitman said so!” Poor king mumbles, while numbly succeeding in confounding only himself. He jumps onto the dais. “2.0, 2.0, 2.0!” he chants, as the audience, aghast at seeing the Poor king naked, that is, never expecting such a blatant confirmation of animosity and ineptitude.
“If only I had the right clothes! I would be Emperor!” he screams into the Castilian night. The huge white wheel, as if sensing an irritant attached to itself, whirls faster, its mechanism rumbling, rattling, and convulsing. The ground, the sky, the ground again! “STOP! STOP EVERYTHING I HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH!”
Poor king CO MA DI, the size of the font on his campaign posters proclaiming his intense desire for adequacy, but limited by . . . . well, limited. His extraordinary lack of creativity, his bottomless void, all he can think is to try to eradicate the past, where he alone is sinking, little, by exceedingly little.
Into Divine oblivion, Poor king CO MA DI, your timeworn treadmill keeps rolling, in reverse.
Martin Gantman is a artist who lives in West Hollywood.
I don’t understand people who point fingers at John D’Amico for doing what John Heilman has been doing for 30 years. Hypocrite, much?
On another note:
I can’t help but think that Ms Land is glad she retired on top and with dignity instead of muddling through these elections and the many embarrassing issues at City Hall and the hard fights of Weho 2.0 that are ahead. I think she saw the writing on the wall, and did the smart, classy thing.
Methinks the musings of the consort of the Red Queen opens a door to the magical world that exists on the third floor at City Hall, where dysfunction and jealously rule. While Mr. D’Amico’s ill fated attempts to foist Heidi Shink on the electorate are clearly a misadventure, it is hard to envision him as an aspiring emperor or even king maker. On the other hand we have a thirty year Council veteran who is anxious to return from Elba. Methinks his aspirations tend more toward tyranny. Anyone who wants to follow Mr. Gantman down the rabbit hole will not… Read more »
Brilliant! How about continuing with the remainder of his court. So many of them were in frightful evidence at the last CC meeting, one even denied herself the ever opportune photo op. The cast of characters is nearly limitless. The Divine Tragic Comedy continues…………
Thank you Aaron, after all West Hollywood is eclectic, unique and colorful. I assure all the Martin Gantman is his own person with, yes his own opinions, and a very clear, creative, visionary person that adds flair and style. Not to mention-on target analogy most get.
If you have the opportunity to meet him well intelligent, creative and wise come to mind.
Larry Block, you are living in the dark ages! What a sexist comment! The mere idea that a spouse would have to ask permission of another spouse to write an op-ed makes me think of men who I used to work with who would say “women are only good for two things, and if they can’t cook . . . . ” I wonder if you think women have to ask their husbands how to vote? My wife certainly doesn’t ask me. Get a new sign–“Block for the Stone Age!”
Forsoothe, me thinkest “Mr. Land” must do Lady Abbe’s bidding for her. The King hath been dethroned, and it shall take ever so many farthings to return him to power. I pray thee, glance above to the court jester, Mike Dolan’s comment. CO MI DA, Mike? That means food in Spanish. Lord Gantman (Mr. Abbe Land), was trying to be clever with a play on “comedy”, Mike. Interesting this is one of the few times anyone has EVER heard from him. Not one to partipate in the city, I presume.
I’m shocked to learn the author of this article is Abbe Land’s husband. Everybody is entitled to their opinion but I’m curious if Abbe endorsed this article to be published.
Thank goodness for medical marijuana.
CO MA DI = D’Amico (wasn’t that totally obvious?)
What a fanciful, and fabulous story.
what IS this? what is Abby Land’s husband blabbering about here???
The best short story, non-fiction, I have read this year. Bravo! I would like to add respectfully, the cogs and the widgets that are tied, oh so closely, to king CO MA DI’s. These fanatical and adoring components, are blindly unaware they too are part of the mechanism that turns king CO MI DA’s reign back into oblivion. Thank you Martin Gantman for truth, honesty and visionary insight for West Hollywood that has always been progressive, inclusive, eclectic and never shall become or welcome elitism! “Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” West Hollywood… Read more »