"the joke" by the comedian
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zRJIyjbiPcs
Rorschach's journal, october 16 1985. 42 street:
women's breasts draped across every billboard,
every display, littering the sidewalk.
was offered swedish love and french love...
...but not american love.
American love; like coke in green glass bottles...
...they don't make it anymore.
Thought about Moloch's story, on the way to cementery.
Could all be lies, could all be part of revenge scheme,
planed during his decade behind bars.
But if true, then what?
Puzzling reference to an island, also to dr. Manhattan.
Might he be at risk in some way?
So many questions. Nevermind. Answers soon.
Nothing is unsoluble.
Nothing is hopeless.
Not while there's life.
Paid last respects quietly, without fuzz.
Edward Morgan Blake. Born 1924. Forty five years a comedian,
died 1985, buried in the rain.
Is that what happens to us? a life of conflict with no time for friends
so that when it's done, only our enemies leave roses?
Violent lives, ending violently. We never die in bed.
Not allowed.
Something in our personalities perhaps, some animal urge?
Uninportant. We do what we have to do.
Others bury their heads
between the swollen teats of indulgence and gratification,
piglets squirming beneath a sow for shelter...
...but there is no shelter...
... and the future is bearing down like an express train.
Blake understood. Treated it like a joke, but he understood.
He saw the true face of the twentieth century and chose to become a reflection, a parody of it.
No one else saw the joke, that's why he was lonely.
Heard joke one:
Man goes to doctor, says he's depressed.
Says life seems harsh and cruel.
Says he feels all alone in a threatening world
where what lies ahead is vague and uncertain.
Doctor says "treatment is simple:
great clown Pagliacci is in town
tonight. Go and see him, that should pick you up"
Man burst into tears.
Says: "but doctor... I am Pagliacci"
Good joke.
Every body laugh.
Roll on snare drum.
Curtains.
Rorschach's journal, october 16 1985. 42 street:
women's breasts draped across every billboard,
every display, littering the sidewalk.
was offered swedish love and french love...
...but not american love.
American love; like coke in green glass bottles...
...they don't make it anymore.
Thought about Moloch's story, on the way to cementery.
Could all be lies, could all be part of revenge scheme,
planed during his decade behind bars.
But if true, then what?
Puzzling reference to an island, also to dr. Manhattan.
Might he be at risk in some way?
So many questions. Nevermind. Answers soon.
Nothing is unsoluble.
Nothing is hopeless.
Not while there's life.
Paid last respects quietly, without fuzz.
Edward Morgan Blake. Born 1924. Forty five years a comedian,
died 1985, buried in the rain.
Is that what happens to us? a life of conflict with no time for friends
so that when it's done, only our enemies leave roses?
Violent lives, ending violently. We never die in bed.
Not allowed.
Something in our personalities perhaps, some animal urge?
Uninportant. We do what we have to do.
Others bury their heads
between the swollen teats of indulgence and gratification,
piglets squirming beneath a sow for shelter...
...but there is no shelter...
... and the future is bearing down like an express train.
Blake understood. Treated it like a joke, but he understood.
He saw the true face of the twentieth century and chose to become a reflection, a parody of it.
No one else saw the joke, that's why he was lonely.
Heard joke one:
Man goes to doctor, says he's depressed.
Says life seems harsh and cruel.
Says he feels all alone in a threatening world
where what lies ahead is vague and uncertain.
Doctor says "treatment is simple:
great clown Pagliacci is in town
tonight. Go and see him, that should pick you up"
Man burst into tears.
Says: "but doctor... I am Pagliacci"
Good joke.
Every body laugh.
Roll on snare drum.
Curtains.
