‘Happiness, for instance…’
Dreams for free, and other poetic vignettes from the before times and the now
I met three Jacks in 48 hours, and that’s got to mean something.
I had been waiting for a Trump fugshot for seven years and two decades. I first began reporting on his criminality in the mid-aughts, and by 2016, it became my full-time unpaid job. I was a woman unshackled by a corporation with a certain skillset, and I deployed for God and country.
Fugshot is not a typo btw — it’s a portmanteau of fugly and mugshot — portmanteaus are my speciality, and I’ve invented them liberally throughout our war. It is, after all, rather komprocated.
Back to the Jacks. When the fugshot finally came down and began rickrolling the Western hemisphere, I didn’t feel as I expected I would — elated, vindicated, proud of my service to my country, pain of seven years washed away with irrefutable criming evidence — I felt none of that. I simply defaulted to that place of steely neutrality, a place I have trained myself to reside in.
I found that fact disconcerting. Shouldn’t I feel something?
The struggle’s been so real since 2016, that feelings can be hazardous to my emotional health, so I did what I often do after writing into the wee hours for Byline — I pressed pause and continued to work on my 1000-piece puzzle. This one is of wild horses running free in an idealized West. I’ve spent the last few years traveling through our wild West — once found a restaurant in the middle of nowhere when I was very hungry, opting to walk out as soon as I walked in because there on a 64” screen was Newsmax, a Russian propaganda outlet poisoning the minds of perfectly decent Americans.
I’d rather be hungry than dine at a place that serves its patrons poison.
So I kept driving — hungry, but principled.
The wild horse puzzle is the hardest one I’ve ever undertaken. It’s panoramic and the colors are muted and only slightly varied. As I let my brain roam free I realized that in the before times, there were things that I liked to do.
Mine was a career interrupted. A decade ago I realized I couldn’t continue to take a check from Rupert Murdoch and call myself a human. I had no idea what I would do, but I knew I wouldn’t do that anymore. He runs a lie factory, and propaganda kills.
It took me awhile to cure myself from Rupert scurvy, but part of how I did it was immersing myself in film. I was writing screenplays, and I thought I best learn the biz. I became a cinephile, and thanks to a theater actor who worked in the film section of Amoeba, I earned an honorary PhD in film history within months. To say I devoured the Golden Age of Cinema would be an understatement. I was obsessed. And I had such a terrific mentor — who always gave me the good stuff, that I can speak most cinephiles under the table. Later, I would move to a community that had a local video store specializing in the French New Wave, which I now specialize in.
But a decade ago, I was at the New Bev nightly, catching double headers of Jean Harlow films and DePalma obscura at midnight. Double features by Leone and Peckinpah — I’d always duck out of the theater during the rape scenes and hang out with the boys in concessions, heading back in when it was safe.
I became friends with the doorman of the theater, which is owned by fellow cinephile Quentin Tarantino. The doorman’s name was Corky and he was Iggy Pop’s last living roadie from the ‘70s. I used to drive him home after work and listen to stories from the archives of punk.
He recognized a kindred spirit the first time we met. The wristband on my arm from whatever show I’d been to that night was the tell.
Puzzling
As I filled out the mountains behind the horses, I had a moment. I realized I used to love going to the New Beverly Cinema. I even wrote poetry about it.
There was nothing stopping me from going that night!
I started to feel overcome with emotion. I was gonna run to the New Beverly Cinema right after we finished filming RadPod & Chill. I was going to catch a Jean-Luc Godard double header and it would, of course, change my life.
I did just that. I missed the first showing — a Godard film I’ve already seen and whose poster is the first thing I see each morning — A Woman Is A Woman — Une Femme Est Une Femme. But I was first in line for Godard’s Made in the USA — a surrealist adventure with a snaky plot — an unauthorized adaptation of ‘The Jugger’ and a send up of Raymond Chandler’s ‘The Big Sleep’ and Vietnam.
That’s where I met the first Jack. A fellow cinephile — a Rivette fan. While waiting in line for the second show to open and spitting knowledge on our favorite French films, we promised to meet again at one of the three showings of Melville’s ‘Army of Shadows’ — the definitive film on the French Resistance featuring my alternate universe husband Lino Ventura.
Jack had never seen it, and I told him that had to be rectified.
When they opened the box office, I went to pay for my ticket and instead, the cashier handed me a ticket.
“This has been waiting for you,” he said.
Overcome with emotion, I thanked him, and barely managed to buy a vegan dog and large popcorn without being all weepy.
I’d been away a long time.
I found Jack, and we watched the eyes of Anna Karina carry yet another Godard film, which also included interludes of Marianne Faithful singing ‘As Tears Go By.’
The film was thrown together to try to help out his friend, producer Georges de Beauregard, who was in hock over a Jacques Rivette film being hammered by the censors.
Man, it felt so good to be in that darkened space surrounded by people who love what I love.
Although I’m a big proponent of self-care during wartime — indeed, that is how Bette’s weekly Happy Hour formed — I have been so focused on winning, I have not stopped to smell the celluloid. There are still two French films by my bedside that I have deprived myself of watching for months.
Fascism Must Be Defeated
I am well aware my work isn’t done. As David Pepper taught us, our democracy isn’t saved if Trump goes to prison. We still have to fight for everything in every state, every race, every community. This is the war of our lives.
Fascism never goes away. It must defeated. And even after defeat, we must stay vigilant. We fell asleep after the Cold War, but our enemies plotted.
We thought we were safe, but we were not.
Because we hadn’t cleaned up our own side of the street — racism, misogny, churchy cults — we were easy to exploit and divide.
But ding dong, the witch is dead. Prigozhin — the criminal figurehead of the Internet Research Agency and the Wagner Group — along with his Nazi wingman — were got.
And now Trump’s criminal visage has exposed him as the mobster he is — even his most devoted dupes must be feeling awkward, unless of course, owning the libs is still their full policy.
Made in USA
I got out of that darkened theater elated. Although wildly imperfect, I knew I’d be thinking about it for days. And like Hitchcock at his worst (‘Topaz’), it still beats modern films. The greatest directors at their worst are still the best.
After filling up my soul with Ruth’s Lucid meeting yesterday morning, I had a moment when I realized all my immediate deadlines had been met, and it was time to wash my spirit clean by returning to the desert.
That’s where I met the two other Jacks — one is a rock and roller who traveled throughout Germany for 30 years playing guitar in Irish Pubs, the other, a simply affable chap.
Meeting three Jacks in 48 hours must mean something.
Or maybe it’s just these dreams we dream for free.
I go to sleep each night knowing I’m doing the best I can to be of service for my country during a time of mass deception.
The Godard film — made in 1966 — opens with these words…
‘Happiness, for instance…’
I swooned, surrendering fully.
In the final scene, Karina is driving in a car with a friend who tells her…
‘You shouldn’t be scared, fascism won’t come to pass. On the contrary, fascism must pass and it will.’
‘Like sailboats, mini skirts, and rock n roll,’ says Karina, who plays a reporter.
‘We have eight years of struggle ahead,’ she says. ‘Often within ourselves. That’s why I’m scared — scared of being weary in advance. Scared of giving up the struggle.’
Her friend says, ‘Left and right are the same — the right is so cruel and brainless, and the left is sentimental. Besides, left and right are completely obsolete notions. We shouldn’t phrase things in those terms.’
‘How then?’ asks Paula.
And then, unanswered, the film ends.
🫶🏼
****
Bette Dangerous is a reader-funded magazine. Thank you to all monthly, annual, and founding members. Thank you as well to all those who support my work with your generous coffee tips and who buy my ebooks. Some of you prefer making subsidizing donations via venmo, and it’s always greatly appreciated. If you wish to gift a membership, you can do so by donating to the ko-fi or venmo accounts, and indicate it’s for a gift, or do so here.
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“We just have to see that the battle for democracy is broader. It's deeper.”—David Pepper
“I need people to see they're on the frontline. Wherever you live, if you’re doing this work, you are the frontline.”—David Pepper
“The message should be a fair deal… fairness everywhere.”—Martin Sheil
💘
“I say a silent prayer of thanksgiving as I walk upon the earth.”-Audrey Peterman.
“May the viral hope for truth and humanity wash away the chaos of these years.”-S.C., Bette community member
“Something Sacred never dies in almost all of us, who can hear the invitation of Truth…”-words from a Bette Dangerous community member
“Non-violent protest is a life-affirming activity as it seeks to promote a more humane society.”-Ellen Zucker
“Nothing but blue skies from now on…”-Irving Berlin
💘
(Below, sunrise in the desert for Audrey, in honor of her birthday week)
New Bev Love Poem, circa 2014ish
