Let's Get Dangerous

[Carnival 0]

Daring duck of mystery,

Champion of right,

Swoops out of the shadows,

Darkwing owns the night.

Somewhere some villain schemes,

But his number's up.

 

(3-2-1) Darkwing Duck (When there's trouble you call DW)

Darkwing Duck (Let'sget dangerous)

Darkwing Duck (Darkwing, Darkwing Duck!)

 

Cloud of smoke and he appears,

Master of surprise.

Who's that cunning mind behind

That shadowy disguise?

Nobody knows for sure,

But bad guys are out of luck.

 

'Cause here comes (Darkwing Duck)

Look out! (When there's trouble you call DW)

Darkwing Duck (Let's get dangerous)

Darkwing Duck (Better watch out, you bad boys)

Darkwing Duck!

[Guest wildpegasus]

Daring duck of mystery,

Champion of right,

Swoops out of the shadows,

Darkwing owns the night.

Somewhere some villain schemes,

But his number's up.

 

(3-2-1) Darkwing Duck (When there's trouble you call DW)

Darkwing Duck (Let'sget dangerous)

Darkwing Duck (Darkwing, Darkwing Duck!)

 

Cloud of smoke and he appears,

Master of surprise.

Who's that cunning mind behind

That shadowy disguise?

Nobody knows for sure,

But bad guys are out of luck.

 

'Cause here comes (Darkwing Duck)

Look out! (When there's trouble you call DW)

Darkwing Duck (Let's get dangerous)

Darkwing Duck (Better watch out, you bad boys)

Darkwing Duck!

 

I love it when this song gets stuck in my head. One of the better opening themes I've ever heard.

 

"Let's get dangerous"

[Art Sandusky 0]

Who said Carnival was tolerable.

[Carnival 0]

we are all at the mercy of mother nature, kotz

[Art Sandusky 0]

Again, who said Carnival was tolerable now.

[Detox 0]

Carnival is a powerful poster, real recognize real

[Art Sandusky 0]

Dude, whatever.

[Star Ocean 3 0]

In any case, to summarize:

 

The first one, they pull you and they push you away from it and then that’s my mother your talking about standing drunk and as good as nude in the sun not so unlike the brass lamp in the shape of a woman that disappears from my aunt’s apartment and reduces me to perhaps my first tears of genuine loss, the woman you’re never going to replace but punish every other woman for not being, but in that sunny afternoon, it’s my friend’s eyes going wide and in this tat for teat world, his mother stands pantied and bra'd before me as he sobs, how good it is to win, and there will be other twists in this childhood, the tic of a babysitter shoving our little hands into her overstuffed bar—who can forget the first feel of what has been identified as forbidden but given flesh—and the little girl who teaches me how to French kiss and lets me watch her pee, and that’s me leaning over a Hustler in the willows memorizing pictures that I will see until I die, and there’s another babysitter and a beaver pond, and how her auntie whips her for having undressed us, and how we witness it, still naked, as ashamed as little Adams in the back seat of the car in which the poor girl was delivered up: and this is what I call my youth—it is our nature to escape the Garden and there could be no other course. The first time I masturbate I’m reading Danny Meadow Mouse and watching the reflection of my grandmother change its blouse. Joan Jett is the first woman I fantasize over while abusing myself, her in black against a yellow back ground, the cover of a tape I’ve gotten for Christmas, and though I haven’t learned that that’s what it is supposed to be I develop a wonderfully haunting sense of guilt—that hardest of habits to break—that plagues me even now, every time I come, though I can’t remember the first time I come. In any case I develop a sort of fascination with my own x, which under the blankets with my flashlight is something next to beautiful and certainly seems, like any wand, capable of magic; it leads your right into the hard years when it’s real flesh you go yearning, and so there is the salty skinned girl outside the church on the outskirts of the fair, and by now I know to be afraid as well, like Da Vicini outside of the cave in which he finally found the skeleton of an ancient sea creature and gave birth himself to the preamble idea of evolution, but as for you there’s A, pretty pretty pretty, who dates the wrestling team captain and stumbles drunk to you at an outdoor fire where people are fucking in the backs of trucks amongst the heaps of beer cans, and the fire burns, and you and your freshman pack of friends have little to do but drink and tend the flames, here comes A slurring that she wants to be with you, saying your name over and over and over again and looking at you the way a woman has never before looked at you (an addiction is born: I want you want to want me; I wanna be adored; and all those 80’s cliché songs that get it right), and she wanders off to fuck her wrestling captain boyfriend in this totem pole pecking order world where the kiss she smears across your mouth is more valuable than half the fucks of your adult life; your hormones tell you your looking for love—they’re clever that way—and you’ll survive the fire and every night. Sunshine Valley, her real name, you kamikaze into her and L, whose ass will define the asses you most seek out for a decade, and it’s all smoke and spin and nobody really falls, not for years, until you yourself are the captain of the wrestling team and B with her brother who has thirteen years to live, and her werewolf x going wild on your fingers in the bedroom your parents don’t keep warm in the house they never pay enough to properly heat, and C playing kissing games with you and your buddies to show you how you’ll invent any strategy to get to be alone with an x, even if in the end you’ll not be able to prove you want it: color it dawn and open her teddy and for all the million hard-ons you’ve cultivated, for the life of you in the light of that rising sun, you can’t really come up with anything of significance so what is perhaps officially your first fuck is more accurately recognized as you just pushing your half self inside her, and this is as good a place as any to graduate high school, not that you ever really get out of it, all the laws of hunger that will keep you busy the next sixteen years. College means J in the sunlight on the floor of your mother’s apartment with her hairy open x and your hands on her thighs, her belly, her pants never really off, your x never really making contact with her, as if it doesn’t exist or she doesn’t want it to, at least not yet; that first fall means c the liar in the black slacks that you want to take down and finally do but to no real ends, the way you secretly want women to be Russian dolls: a mystery in a mystery in a mystery in a mystery (and how child bored you are when all the mysteries are solved or seem to be, and lucky you are for the time when getting to the most little and magical and final of the dolls was an impossibility); in short, though, your whole life at this point is a series of half starts and you’re not sure you’ve even really kissed a girl properly, but finally finally finally comes M, who treats you like the man she wishes you were, your first real fuck and series of them, although she’d hardly call you a real fucker, your first real lover, though she’d never call you a lover, you trying to sleep fully clothed in her bed beside her nude, the tailspin that follows her sudden absence (an absence that in its heaviness will be the lesser versions of every absence to follow), you draw red lines on your forearms with razor blades and a cat drinks your blood with milk, and jesusgod this isn’t even the loss of real love, just wants, but that you are wishing you were dead or just somebody other and to morph yourself further you begin with the weights and the situps, planning—like any kid on the back page of comic with sand kicked in his face—to make yourself bigger than that; L reappears and what you get off her you should have gotten in high school and this just goes to prove that for everything including a love affair there is a time and when it’s gone the window is closed and what you try penetrate after that will only be through glass; you are nineteen and then twenty and you still don’t know what you want though want is a driving force, so you just fling yourself, the way the karate instructors tell you to hit through the bored; there is a girl on a bunk above another bunk in which another girl lies with another boy, nobody fucking, you just put your mouth to her x as if to commune with, and is quick as this exchange is, whatever you whisper there most have been important for you turn your head to every x after that, you put your ear close, as if to a sea shell, just in case there might be something important in some echo. There is the car crash girl not all healed up, the friend of the girlfriend of a friend who will be gone for a year, and yes at this stage in your life you still believe in the virtue of keeping her to keep her hands off of you, and the greater virtue of taking on that friend of hers, this impromptu replacement (and what rare girl really hasn’t been merely one of those?) whose x you lick for an absurd amount of time, though it won’t be for years, an accidental re-meeting, that you really go in, a time when she’s all hard of body and her face is thinner, so all of this is bonus material until her x goes Disney, you and her and Donald Duck, and that nipple not matter how much you touch it, isn’t going to uninvert; you are sophomore or a junior, impressing none of your teachers, making no significant marks, choosing your degree by default, adept at nothing really but a kind of self loving mixed with a kind of self loathing that in retrospect will seem kind of charming, the way it must have been for some girl at a club who overly anxiously and tells you one of her legs is shorten than the others, she talking to her boyfriend while you mouth her x through her shorts, and this maybe is the birth of being the other man (if you weren’t already competing with your father, and god I want to say I wasn’t); she’s got too many earrings and her hairspray makes the ear around them shiny, but her face is sweet and it is an honor to be chosen above the one she has chosen, though in the end you cannot close the deal, which in fact is still a challenge in general; the next girl S with her little boy whose name I have not forgotten, in the falling snow, and in this story of me, everything links, if you mean it to, or if you just look hard enough, and in one night, seven hours, you are reborn as a lover, no longer afraid, no longer passive, her x itself not the cocoon but her bed and the bedroom around it and the snow that fell and fell so that when it was dawn and time to go you had to push your way out, prepared, finally, for what it was you almost always thought you wanted, leaning in the willows to kiss the picture of an airbrushed x; enter S and K, sisters who never properly fought over you but fought just enough, that machine gun fire of fake or real orgasms followed by you half naked in a tree wondering why you couldn’t fuck K—even though she opened herself for your x—who is smoking on the steps below, more distracted than humiliated, this unhard night that gives birth to a friendship that goes right up until the nownow, and you try to amend the not fucking with a perfect fuckdoll of a girl, C, all blond and breast, and on the mattress on the floor the problem is even more persistent so that finally in the kitchen you watch her and listen to her, a kind of shell shock during, but it’s the painting she shows you, hanging there, a cowboy in a tub, something she sat and thought and crafted over, and it is odd and maybe meaningful and in this way she reshapes herself and you too are reshaped: you have learned what it takes to want to fuck her: to see her better, or at all, but it’s too late, so out into the dawn with the realization that you need to find girls in the middle ground, not like K for whom you have such strong feelings, and not like C for whom you felt nothing; in later meetings, C is a splash of wine in the snow; she is a smear of lipstick; of ketchup; of mustard, that window too being closed. These are the best years of your lives. These are the glory days. The hard winter, J, who gives me a book and tells me about love—there is no book of love—but all I can know from her is want and fear of not having, the things they put in front of you that you’re not ready to take, even if all you have to do is reach you arm and extend your fingers, like a baby, you just don’t get it. Yet. Football in the afternoon, you dislocate your shoulder, you destroy your knee, and M, with her Mongol eyes, comes up against the broken you, she places the disappearing condom trick, her little apartment with the jelly beans she bought for me. I look back long after I leave it, mortal me recognizing a good safe place, this newborn urge to nest a girl. To mate her for real. L, with her ass in white pants leaning over a copy machine, with her blond bob hair and her golden eyes. I become vegan. I realize I both love and fear the dark. L wakes me in the middle of the night to tell me that I was wide eyed and afraid, whispering to her: who are you? That’s me, the you sometimes that means me, young and slightly broken and just below the surface: terrified. You fuck A, simply because every girl you know well you’ll eventually want to fuck, just as it is with A’s friend, S, who you dance with and tell on inspiration that despite A, despite L, you want her—in fact you do, more than anything—and she turns from you, but in the car that is too too cold she leans in and kisses you, a good kiss in a life of good kisses, cold and wet, and in the colder hallway of her apartment complex, you fumble out her breast, get to know that nipple, all of her there is for you. You stay still but keep moving, the way men do when they don’t challenge their natures: J, Devil’s hit or double hit, you wander around the cemetery thinking about the diseases she may have given your friend, this moment apropos, and you push off, away from her, from them, that place, 1000 miles away: graduate school, goodbye L, that long goodbye, the LA girls, J and J, you would end up their lovers even if it weren’t for the quake, and the monster in the Weekly World News rises from a crack in the street, and you realize for the first time the very obvious: that first and foremost you are a sexual entity, that this is what you do. A, with her dying cat and shades of From Here to Eternity—fill in any cliché you like, but there is no natural way for a life like this to end, only you don’t know it: LA’s an open x, an open cave, an open tomb, open open open, the only thing you really asked the world to be, and your energy is running out like the appetite of the starved at a feast, and so you look at K and think she’s going to save you, finally. You. Can. Rest. As you might have done with L who is fading quickly even as you meet her in Vegas and she kneels over you and you lie beneath her a final time, the long drive in the deep night through the desert, that a particular unforgettable pain (I can evoke it precisely right now, the pains I hold as precious and the pleasures) and K with her sulfur mouth and sweet disposition gives way to the real Irish M, the nanny, in your confusion, in this self ignorance that makes you feel like the victim when the girl before you isn’t the one you want any longer even though she is the one you sought, and the other M, like her Brady Bunch namesake, her plastic lined panties, she’d passed a kidney stone, and how does real lust survive that? Her disappearance in your vanity and your youth you mistake for a suicide, a sunny CA day outside her apartment, pounding doors and windows, her phone always busy, the shades drawn, as if you were that important and you’re not, and you’re not, and you’re not—and thank God which is what you sometimes think to do, because once upon a time, how lovely it was, you thought the only girl problems had to do with not having them., and who is to say when the bull gets too heavy (you know the little boy, the little baby bull, he carries it everyday around the barn, when does it happen, what second passes, that he can no longer lift it like that?) and how then does the lip hover above the apple, what it is to know, you want it just as it is, everything to be open but no girl to jump in, not H or B, your demand for certain qualities grows, not in the girls you fuck but the ones you fuck with an eye toward loving, and the truth is you are a damned romantic because you rarely fuck without hoping it will grow to love, though your cynic heart probably knows better, this ying and yang of your opposing forces, your squashed between them; in any case, they’re all wrapped up, these friends, one with the fiancé, one with the boyfriend, both of them looking for that dangerous escape she can call momentary, as if when you let the cat out of the house it won’t want to go again; you let each of the half seduce you on the roof, it all ends in a pearl necklace and a great photo, as with many good affairs, and just about then, re-enter V—who I forgot to enter the first time, that BMW girl, the first CA affair—with her dim teeth, her Islander looks, she’s still got gifts for you, this time it’s an apartment complex in West LA with a hot tub on the roof, and all the stars she’ll suck you off beneath, you can’t really take anything before you, not those bright lights or the crown of her head or the inside of her x or the inside of the rest of her, this is a solo endeavor but you don’t tell yourself those kind of truths for long: keep walking and you get to the righteous end of this path; it’s not R who calls you angel and sucks you until you come; it’ not B: you think she might kill you in the mist of a mess of x’s you never infiltrate or even get to seeing, a bad luck string she breaks apart with worse luck, her x too open, she’s coming down the apartment hallway, angry, but she’s not got a knife, just her demands: she gets you in her car and just won’t let you out until you fuck her (and later, you say to people that that felt like what it is to be raped, but you don’t really know, or you do, because almost all of sex is rape, if you mean rape to include the coercion that is not just physical but based on lie, on manipulation, you never really know the girl whose x your fuck, she never really knows the boys whose x she allows inside, everybody is tricky as hell) and this the very best way to say goodbye to LA, with a girl, a first wife, you meet her at a bar, and one thing leads to another: and then you do, but you’re not done, where is this wife of yours when you bang the girl who ends up at your performance, where is she when you refind L, slip down into J, finally fuck N, and C? And together you try not everything, but enough for a start, a series of single girls and couples, he’s fucking your wife, you’re fucking his, and some of them you love for a minute or two, all these alternate futures unrolling in front of you and then fading away, like every girl you pass, the potential for a completely different story popping up and dying away; the boy is born, the marriage falters. There is H and H, and I remind you now that everything ends, your innocence, this marriage—the strippers at the bachelor party viable memories as you sign your confession of failure in the amicable lawyer office split. What then, and why? In the dark freedom at the end there is nothing to do but what you’ve always done—most lessons are not immediate, and you wouldn’t want to know what you ought to. Poor Y, they take her purse, you hold her breasts, and A, the dry cleaner and the other A, the vegan, you’re standing in a bar licking some girl’s arm, call this an upward spiral, what you need is a change, everything is stacking up, and the first time you lose a name, you know you are in trouble, a drunk with a blackout, an addict who thinks too hard about the future hits and not enough about those that have passed or might be present. And so the first time you lose a person forever and ever, you really finally know that this is finite. That wherever and however it began, so too will it end, all this fucking: there will be a final girl, a final touch, a final everything (you cannot keep alive this way either). Like your broader life. Like all life. This is just a ghost story, haunted by people I used to be, people I once was with, freeze frame upon freeze frame of ever evolving me’s and you’s, right out of the gardens and into the cosmos and the heat death of the universe. It seems a good time to change continents, the way humans have always looked for broader horizons (from Greece right up to LA and a final end to Manifest Destiny). On the other side of the airplane there is the false celebrity of a revered and hated nationality, and a list of girls, M with her perfect body and downy face, F, you try to imagine that you want to live with her in a lighthouse by the sea, but what you settle for is her kneeling nude on the bed, and S from Portugal and E from Belgium and H who teaches you a better love for the little animals, and M whose uncle molested her and makes you feel in on it, and the other M, as beautiful a girl as anyone can find, and as vapid as any girl you want to unfind, M in her rich uncle’s apartment, this is the life, just not yours—you’re not so much running through them as into them, bouncing a little, falling down together, but you will get up, you will dust off, you will wave goodbye, taking what you have to take, leaving what you must, the downstairs neighbor with her gambling addicted husband and her big breasts and her doll face, the bed one floor below but exactly in the same place as yours, and the first time you realize that sometimes it is not fun to win, or at least to recognize what someone else has lost, and worrying about what you’ve proven, that there is a man in the dark, outside the door, clearing his voice, talking better than you (and so you say between the wolf and the lamp I will be the wolf). It’s almost time to go. Home again, if it was home, but even until the last second, you will be taking hands, lifting shirts, opening mouths—this is your nature, you’ll be making out in hospitals, in nursing homes, on subway cars, in hell. T, the reporter, everybody calls her name and she drags you along, pub to pub, a girl not that pretty really, but of substance, and it’s almost time to go, but of course this all happens in a heartbeat, what she does with you and to you and vice versa, and the rest, a two year flash, so you emerge from it with another wife, and with her there will be the wives of other men and some of them she’ll know about, M only sort of, by long blond hairs in your vehicle, though her husband gets even more savvy, this cop who promises her and you that you’ll pay, and so you drive carefully and pretty certain that sometime or another, you’ll pay for it all, and, oddly, the price doesn’t seem high; you recognize that your playing well a game that the law of averages guarantees you’ll never win, spoiled as you are, you can’t get away with it forever, and A, the black and hungry girl, the big secret, L with her body so hard you can find no soul, J and I, you could say they all sort of blur but not a girl here is a blur, not the dangerous E in the nearly empty apartment, not R with her Boston Terrier, or M, mething beneath you, B, the business student whose voice you could never like, whose whole then you could never love, she’s the prize you take from the hands of some other wannabe alpha male, checkers in a bar, and you know that if you’re not careful in all this hubris, you’ll be him in five years, maybe six (it is dangerous to win a lot young—you never learn how to age, but age you will). You are not a boy any more; you child is not even a toddler. Somebody says the shock of gray in your hair is called an angel’s kiss, but it’s the real kissing you’re worried about, what do they mean and what value of she who gives them? D, proof positive, later, that when you see a girl later, she’ll always seem like she could have been the one, but it’s R you get seriously wrapped up in for the first time since your second divorce, that desperately beautiful girl who proves to you yet again that however sane you can appear if you get close enough to somebody you’ll see how fucked up you both are (and you tell yourself, a vodka tonic a night, you could be with her for half a life), and then there are the personals, K and K, as if you’re going to find good love or good sex this way, online dating a short cut to the heart of the matter, and a, her crooked spine and sad face, like Charlotte Rampling, her hard heart, and then L, a’s anecdote, honest and happy, what you’ve got now is some fixation on mothers, perhaps because you want to double date with your son, four years old, women with daughters, C and M and K and so on, Chukie Cheese’s and parks and the Children’s Museum and you know it’s all wrong when he starts mixing up the names of the little girls, so you zero in on somebody up your alley: a PhD candidate who intellectualizes everything and makes the mistake of wanting you for your mind, your fingers are in her x, those sloppy kisses on Halloween past the point you’d already crossed her from a list, throw in B, nude in your bed but not fucked, like L, a girl who wants to prove her power against you and fails, so that you feel not grown up but grown tough, and this is a new stage of your life, the women are mature but this is not Oedipal, if anything, you seek the opposite of your mother, M who travels six hours and meets you in your sickness, and another M, who in the heart of it will call you on the Christmas Day on which you first believe in your death, M with her black hair and killer smile, she calls to tell you about a baby that may or may not be on its way, and it’s all catching up. And you’ve fucked it all up. In your sickness, in your hotel bed, alone and far away, you’re finally going to crash. And then the relief. K, who comes to your convalescence with a sad story she tells as if it makes her happy about a husband she wants to lose, and you’re thin and tired and pushing down her gym pants and burying your tongue in her x, the same bed, the same sickness from which you emerge alone but with the wife of a friend, telling yourself this will save them; her attraction after grows into obsession and you pretend for the sake of yourself that you’re surprised, as if you haven’t got most of the dynamics of an affair figure out by now, and what you want, what you think you want just throbs: settle me, break me, take hold of me—it must be written on your face, so naturally some girl tries, v, the friend of K, who tries as well, and S the girl from a plane, photos and photos, all of them, these girls these pictures, as if they will extend your life, but what you tell yourself, what you know is that you’ve got to find another way, someone to get old with, not J, her wild story, her Salinger family, she’s brazen, overly pretty, everything stops on her table manners, and J, who you might have loved but just didn’t, and god, K, she’s hanging on, and G, she’s wants to shake it up and maybe you want her to, but it’s no use, that power is no longer legitimate, you are half sewn up, half swallowed up, and you can pretend you made these decisions, but they made you. You wake up on a day like today and you tell yourself that there is hope only in self defeat, you’re going to make it to that bright tomorrow, your muscles can still be forced to grow, and the gray is not bad, and the lines aren’t many, and you have a few good years left, to spend with a one and not the many, real intimacy, all the way, the final surrender, the Buddhist death in life, but jesusgod, your father and uncle are waiting in the wings, they’re going to fold you in, what will you have, what you will have left, there in the sharp light of this or any confession?

[Carnival 0]

Quit trying to hold me down Kotz.

[Vyce 0]

I don't even know what the fuck this is all about now.

[EricMM 0]

Star Ocean, give credit where credit is due

[Star Ocean 3 0]

consider it a scavenger hunt

[Star Ocean 3 0]

and i don't see people complaining about the lack of credit given for those darkwing duck lyrics, i bet this "Carnival" didn't even write them

[Guest wildpegasus]

and i don't see people complaining about the lack of credit given for those darkwing duck lyrics, i bet this "Carnival" didn't even write them

 

Don't diss on Carnival man. He's a good guy.

[... 0]

SO SEZ YOU!

[Carnival 0]

Star Ocean© Star Ocean 1© Star Ocean 2© Star Ocean 3© Star Ocean 69©

 

registered © Carnival, 1988

 

pay me

[Sideburnious 0]

ooh snap!

[Carnival 0]

oh noes! Kotz blocked me on AIM.

[Art Sandusky 0]

Fuckin' annoying bastard, go away.

[2GOLD 0]

Duck Tales and Talespin had better theme songs.

[Carnival 0]

Duck Tales, yes. I don't remember tail spin.

 

I'm going to stroke it...your arms are broken....

[Sideburnious 0]

Was it just me, or was tailspin terribly gay?

[Black Lushus 0]

Ducktales > Darkwing Duck > Rescue Rangers >>>>>>>>> Talespin

 

however, that was a damn fine 2 hours of cartoon programming in the afternoons.

[Sideburnious 0]

Ch-ch-ch-ip and Dale! Rescue Rangers!