Enterprises Of Great Pith & Pitchy Cooglin


Enterprises of Great Pith


And


Pitchy Cooglin


By

Ghost Rider A.C.B.

© 2000

Perhaps it was because so much of my youthful folly was centered on horse related activities that “Kings Playboy” became the end all and be all of my youthful existence. After all, my horse was the only one who accepted me just as I was without reservation. Nor did he, aristocrat though he was, have any unrealistic expectations as to who or what I should become.

If I never became a violinist like Heifitz, or a pianist like Horowitz, or a ballerina like Pavlova---it was fine with him. Just so long as I picked his hooves, gave him carrots and took him for long rides to mysterious hideouts only the two of us knew about.


It wasn’t like I was spending time hanging out at “Smacks” where the other teenagers, both good and bad, in crowd or out, engaged in the familiar rituals of American Teenagers everywhere. As if I had a choice!

Had I even been clever enough to manage the under-ground guerilla tactics necessary to so subversive an AWOL excursion from our winter family compound to where The Burger and Shakes were The Best Buy In Town ( that Heavenly Come Hither Teen Hang Out strategically located directly across the street from Sapritto Bros. Fruit Stand where well meaning relatives were stationed as spies) I’d have been tracked down and followed by a Cowboy Posse of Latin Strong Men convinced I was about to be sucked into the infamous Black Hole and bottomless pit of moral corruption as defined by The American  Style Den of unspeakable iniquities.       
One unguarded moment at “Smacks” and I would be ravished and ruined for all time, rendered damaged goods and denied any future opportunities for matrimonial alliances with alternate Big Top Dynasties.


They of course were nowhere near our auguste Sawdust and Spangled Status – but certainly high enough within our own cockamammy caste system, to allow for procreation.                                                           

As if I wanted to bring any more blue-blooded nutcases like ourselves into the world!!!                                                                                                                     

They didn’t realize that riding a line bred descendant of the great “El Alazan Viejo” was about as aristocratic as I ever wanted to get. Under the Big Top or out!!!                                                                                                                    
Besides, the possibility of my being compromised either at Smacks or any other place even remotely connected to that teen-age G spot was virtually zilch.                                                                                                                      
No male high school student who considered himself a member of the opposite sex would risk even a passing “hello” to the youngest member of a family renowned for leaving potential new boyfriends or hopeful suitors wishing to God they had never been born. Or at least been born eunuchs without the offensive floral arrangement, which seemed to be the main bone of contention.                                                                                                            
According to The Italian Sex Police that Bone of Contention was the only reason teen-age boys went to high school in the first place.                                              
“What they want to learn all about in school has nothing to do with books. Capish?”                                                                                                                
My Uncles, all-irrational umpteen bunches of these rough riding Comancheros, had the same essential tunnel vision view of life that all male testosterone dickheads like themselves have.                                                                       
 And that is that the female of the species fall into one of two categories. The Saint or the Slut category.                                                                    
 Only those very few stunningly Good Looking Ones ( the lookers who could easily make a fortune elsewhere peddling their asses for assets) who also happened to be the Saints in the bargain, were hand picked by God and the Catholic Church to become Sainted Mothers and eventually equally wicked Sainted Grandmothers empowered by Divine Right to rule despotically over the lives of multiple children and grandchildren (preferably male) for as long as they both shall live.
The trick to accomplishing so extra ordinary a feminine feat & tour de force was by means of an iron hand, a pot of Spaghetti and a completely untouched vagina. And of course The Rhythm Method, whereby my Hispanic Gypsy Grandmother had 16---count em---sixteen children by natural childbirth. That is if anyone can construe the happy accident of having sixteen children as being natural to begin with!!!
Especially when all sixteen of them plus their own separate nuclear extensions and various populations live eight to nine months out of the year on a Traveling Circus Train. And you can imagine what sort of finned, feathered, fanged, and furred “Pets” that kind of train is likely to contain. Alas, if only the Animal  Rights People had tried to thoroughly screw up our lives sooner, I’d have at least had enough room to go to the bathroom!!!               
 
Me and my various pee weeing cousins played musical comfort stations, but in an emergency it was usually my bare behind that was left hanging out of the caboose as our colorful Noah’s Ark wound its way through densely forested areas.                                                                         
Just exactly how all of us arrived at the existential oxymoron of our tribal choo choo train existence was as mystifying to me as the algebraic equations I was unable to comprehend during those off the road times of our winter hiatus when my Teutonic terror of a Mother forced me to go to school.                                       
A place that I fit in just about as well as any square peg fits into any round hole.
My Mother “Luisa the Lollapalooza”, who according to eye witnesses, made claims of having seen and heard her bay at the moon, apparently came to this country by way of Transylvania.                    
This blonde blue-eyed “Feuhrer” had an ongoing penchant for forcing me to do things that were fulfilling for her. Not me!!!  
But since I was essentially born for the purpose of giving birth to my parents, each of whom saw in me the possibility of further extending their
own derailed delusions of grandeur and fantasized accomplishments of lives interrupted---there were certain things, try as I might, I was never able to avoid.
Such as practicing the violin circa the area of the Sea Lion Cage to which I had been exiled for the purpose of making those awful screeching sounds neophyte violinists make that only a homesick Sea Creature could possibly find comforting.   
Or practicing entre chats on the top of a circus trunk in preparation for my forthcoming debut as Prima Ballerina of the Side Show.
Or being duly dragged daily to each and every hick town throughout the length and breadth of our Whistle Stop Tours in search of an accommodating church or hotel ballroom with a piano so that my father could act as Maestro and Conductor to my Steinway interpretations of “Entry of the Gladiators”, “Malaguena” or “Chopin’s Minute Waltz”      
As much as I might have appreciated their effort to clone me in the spitting image of their once and future selves & Ghosts of opportunities denied, neither one of them ever seemed to realize that, unlike them, I might someday want to have a mind and a life of my own.                                           
As for the unlikely possibility that my intermittent High School Experiences would in anyway resemble anything you ever saw depicted in “Grease” “Our Miss Brooks” “West Side Story”, “Happy Days” or that long ago series of Mickey Rooney, Judy Garland movies which painted a Norman Rockwell cinematic portrait of youthful, carefree High School Days—I have only one thing to say……. “Pitchy Cooglin”
The dreaded Red Code Alert around which the psychodrama of my teenage years revolved!

“Pitchy Cooglin”

Words that moved the entire underground and above ground army of Circus and Wild West Show volunteer defenders to action!!!
Words they had learned from one of the greatest Cossack Riders that ever saw a horse.

A woman whose name unlike that of Lilly Langtrey’s, was in no way a match for the face to which it was attached!!! Or visa versa. Either way, I most grudgingly have to admit  “Our Lilly” would have sent that Hanging Judge, Roy Bean, hell bent for leather in the opposite direction!!!

Just exactly where this Hungarian, Russian, Latvian Lilly or wherever the hell this flower of blossoming woman-hood hailed from, is really anybodies guess. More than likely she was a Citizen of the World who like most Circus Performers and traveling Equestrians of The Old School consider the back lot of any traveling Horse Opera appreciative of their talents their only true home. Be it a Circus, Wild West Show, Rodeo or any glorified equitation event in which if at all possible ---  “ they can bring the house down “!!!
However in her travels, for reasons of some psychic disorder or emotional trauma, she had concocted an enormous lexicon of words borrowed from each and every country in which she had dazzled audiences with her spectacular displays of horsemanship which included dare devil leaps over various barriers of flame with her high jumping horses and even higher jumping Russian Wolfhounds who unlike the world of men who had discounted her for the most superficial of reasons --- they instead had taken to heart this magnificent person of extraordinary ability and sensitivity for whom they would have given their very lives. As she had devoted her life to them.
Perhaps there was an ulterior motive in her unwillingness to speak a language that was easily understood by all.    
By retreating into a world of words of her own making --- A Universal Language which only the most astute world travelers could decipher --- she had efficiently discounted the same world that had discounted her for so superficial a barometer of worth as her lack of symmetry as projected by a face that could stop a clock.    
In more modern times, given the advances in plastic surgery, she could have had the kind of make over that would have deemed her acceptable to even the most discriminating member of the opposite sex.

But in those times she was limited to mere prayer and petition as a last resort.
But no matter how earnestly she pleaded in this particular face off with God --- she failed to get a response.
You see Dear Reader, as it happens, that Big Guy in the sky thought she was just fine, exactly the way she was. And so did I  as a child.
Lilly and an Italian Dwarf called “Baghonghi” most often acted as my baby sitters throughout those preschool years when nobody else volunteered for the job of guarding “The Hell Baby”.
Consequently Lilly’s Universal Language for which there is no Rosetta Stone frame of reference beyond the psychic dimensions of her own screwed up mentality was the first language in which I became fluent.
As a result my kindergarten teacher who had never traveled beyond the stilted perimeters of her own stuffy prejudices, concluded that I was badly retarded.

As proof of the quick wit and keen intelligence of my fellow kindergarten students, the more “normal children”, -- they quickly picked up The Universal Language from me and in no time at all I was forthwith expelled from kindergarten for being a disrupting influence on the entire brilliant group – all of whom were going to be Presidents, Stock Brokers, Doctors, Lawyers, Bankers and Society Moms and Dads like theirs. Leaders in their community and future country club members of a squeaky clean, all white wonderful world of stuffed shirts.
Me, I had other plans. I was going to grow up to be an Outlaw and Then I was going to join up with “The Under The Rainbow Gang”.
My Mothers idea of enrolling me in one of the most exclusive upscale kindergartens in town turned out just about as well as all of her other plans to gain leverage and acquire respectability from those whose worldview and conceptual schemes did not address her needs.
My Alas the lovely Lilly’s influence on my life went far beyond kindergarten. In fact, it extended so far into the Star Crossed Arena of our
pseudo Cowboy Land that if as a child I may have agreed with The Man Upstairs, that Lilly was fine just the way she was, but there are lingering doubts as to whether she would have gained His approval for the colloquialism she coined or barrowed from God knows where to indicate that spiritual union between horny individuals for which there are a number of alternate F words used to describe that activity engaged in by humans either in the Missionary Position of other pretzelized positions arrived at as illustrated in the hospital manuals designed for knee surgery patients.
The Red Alert Code Words that strikes fear in the hearts of every dedicated Circus Dynasty. “Pitchy Cooglin!”
Given the fallout of the possibility of any unauthorized “Pitchy Cooglin” going on in or near the vicinity of any circus oriented enterprise – it’s a wonder that our curious sub-culture didn’t experience extinction long before it did.
You see Dear Reader, if any other teenager or female on the loose gets her toite entangled with the wrong person at the wrong time and an
unplanned pregnancy occurs – it is no doubt a matter of grave concern for a number of reasons, morally, socially, and even financially.
But for a Show Business Dynasty of Sawdust and Spangled origins that is dependant on each and every member of their ensemble acts whose female members are required to perform with as much bravado and physical prowess as its male members – the possibility of an unwanted pregnancy or even worse – the possibility that she might fall in love and elope with a person who could ruin the act—an act which has taken years – sometimes even generations to develop – well needless to say it’s a crisis of major proportions which can be likened to the advent of floods, earthquakes, tornados, tidal waves, -- even Tsunami’s.
So it was that various versions of the Circus Sex Police were on guard at all times legislating morality and ever alert to the possibility that any kind of unauthorized “Pitchy Cooglin” might be going on.
And of course when it came to “escape prevention” my very own “Famiglia Dearest” excelled in that area as they excelled in all other areas.
My every move was interpreted as a signal that I was about to engage in the worst of all possible acts of Circus Subversion. “Pitchy Cooglin”.
Consequently my desire to hang out at “Smacks” with the rest of the teenagers or to go to the Senior Prom with my very first date was not an option apart from being accompanied by my two ever dedicated and loyal Duennas.
“Baghonghi”, the Italian Dwarf whose breathing apparatus required frequent regular snorts as though snoring while wide awake.
And the lovely Lilly who arrived in her own prom dress hungrily eying the shy young studs backed up against the wall.
Needless to say though my Mother spent a fortune to assure that I was to be The Belle of The Ball all eyes were on Lilly and the face that launched a Thousand Ships in the wrong direction. But at least her conversation was stimulating.
 
 
The pages you have just read are an excerpt from the Dime Novel Series:
"The Promised Land of Beginning Again" 
We thank you for your time, please stay tuned, there's a whole lot more to come!!!

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