Wokeness

Ladies and Gentlemen,
I’ve tried.
Believe me, I’ve tried.
I just can’t do it.
Can’t do woke. It slips from my fingers.
I took P.G. Wodehouse as a model for my Toby books, the “mentally negligible” Bertie, as Jeeves calls him, telling the story of his brilliant valet. Wodehouse took the formula from Conan Doyle, Watson describing the exploits of a genius, and Conan Doyle took it from Poe, who invented so much, not least the detective story, his narrator awed by the ruthless logic of Le Chevalier C. Auguste Dupin.
(Indeed, so attached was Conan Doyle to his model that, in the first stories, he shop-lifted some of Poe’s phrases. Most embarrassing.)
Note that these heroes are aristocrats. Poor Toby sleeps with aristocrats, but his own aristocracy consists in his being above work, above money, and above effort.
So it’s an American formula, and as a North American I, in my modest way, claim it. Toby is a kept man of, shall we say average mentality, dominated by the superior intellect of a nine-year-old girl.
All right, so I’ve got myself a nice little set of books. In a good month they pay the rent. But then look what happens with the movies! Total unwokeness!
To whom do we sell these? In theory, we sell them to those giant markets that are fed up with the politically correct kaka we’ve been sending them—Latin Am, Mediterranean Europe, Mediterranean Arabia, Russia (Russia!), China (China!), Japan, Korea, Indonesia, India…the world! And when our own Nordic Puritans see all that money coming in…
But I theorize. None of my business. I too am above money.
As for wokeness, here is the Doctor on feminism.
And on Amazon Prime is a lesbian-pickpocket-chase comedy I made here in Athens. I hate to tell you why.
Please give us five stars so I can signal the waiter, who is watching topless women emerge from the sea, for more wine.
Completely yours,
Robert

Robert MacLean is an independent filmmaker. His recent The Light Touch is on Amazon PrimeTubi and Scanbox, and his 7-minute comedy is an out-loud laugh. He is also a novelist, a playwright, a blogger, a YouTuber, a film reviewer, a literary critic, and a stand-up comic poet. Born Toronto, PhD McGill, taught at Canadian universities, too cold, live Greece, Irish citizen. No brains, but an intellectual snob.

Spring


Late afternoon at the cafe.
On the railing overhead
Fat gray pigeons,
Sidestepping nervously to emphasize their remarks,
Gossip
While we sit in paralytic silence
Looking in different directions.
A splat on the table
Draws our gazes parallel
For perhaps the last time
At a gob of green and white swirl
As of unmixed paint,
Floral with impact
And already hardening into a symbol of our affair.
You lean faintly forward,
Raise as it were your lorgnette
And peer at it, dissatisfied.
The feathered whorl flutters
And recomposes itself
With the unmistakable levity of spring
While I settle back
Overcome by a splendid enervation,
Cross my legs at the ankles
And wait for the waiter
To come and scrape it off with a screwdriver.
But he is already hovering,
Waving the birds into flight
Before another anus can tremble,
Removing the mess with a single pass of his cloth
And replacing it with a Martini Rosso,
Which will have to do.
And speaking of gigolos:

Robert MacLean is a bad poet and an independent filmmaker. His The Light Touch is on Amazon PrimeTubi and Scanbox, and his 7-minute comedy is an out-loud laugh. He is also a screamingly funny novelist, a playwright, a blogger, a YouTuber, a reviewer of films, a literary critic, and a stand-up comic poet. Born Toronto, PhD McGill, taught at Canadian universities, too cold, live Greece, Irish citizen. Committed to making movies that don't matter. No brains, but an intellectual snob.

Some snaps a friend took of me there for a book cover: