Pat Cadigan - The Final Remake Of Little Latin Larry

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Pat Cadigan - The Final Remake Of Little Latin Larry

So! Fix yourself a smell and sit down!

There's a wet bar, too, if you go that way. You know, for years I told

myself I didn't, even though I always kept a full complement of cheers,

vines, and the hards and their pards. I'd say to myself, Oh, but of course

the hooch is strictly for hospitality and nothing else.

But now, I'm out about it and I really feel much more non-bad about it.

And wasn't it Elvis who said, "Drinkers, like the poor, we will always

have with us"?

Or was that Dylan? Might have been -- Dylan was the big expert on

drinkers, wasn't he, dying as he did face down in the gutter -- lucky

beast! -- not fifty paces from the Tired Horse Tavern where he came up

with his biggest and best -- "All the Tired Horses" (of course!),

"Knockin' on Fern Hill's Door," "The Hand That Signed a Paper Got to Serve

Somebody," and, my personal favorite, "Do Not Go Gentle Into Those

Subterranean Homesick Blues." "Rage, rage against the leaders, watch the

parking -- "

Sorry, sorry, sorry! I can barely hold still, this is such an exciting

time for me. I think my man Dylan put it best when he said, "I sang in my

chains: everybody must get stoned." One of his most evocative lines, at

least for me. Even now, long, long, long after I first read it, it still

stirs up for me the sensation of that state where you're practically

thrumming in excitement, and the only thing that keeps you from flying up

in the air and dragging the whole world after you like a cape tied around

your shoulders is the incontrovertible fact of your

just-that-much-too-heavy flesh --

Sorry again! The human condition tends to make me wax poetic. Rather, it

makes me want to wax poetic, except I can never think of the poetic

counterpart to words like "incontrovertible." Got a drink now? Good, good,

sit, sit. Did you smell anything you liked? No? Ah -- you must tell me the

truth here: did the aromabar intimidate you, or are you just not

olfactory? I vow that either way, I'm not insulted, truly I'm not. Not all

senses can be our senses, can they? And when you're retro besides -- well,

some people can get that so wrong.

Like the other day. Packed in my usual buzzbomb was a silly tag from one

of my sillier friends telling me that everyone was saying behind my back

that I was the most retro creature they'd ever heard of. I tagged back to

tell Old Sillyhead that not only were they saying it behind my back, but

also behind my front, too, and in front of my back and all that, and so

what.

Anyway, it's not like I'm detoxing and then relapsing just for the wallop

that first sinful sip will give you. I know people who have gone through

three and four livers that way, even with top-of-the-line blood-doping.

But I don't consider them drinkers. And personally, I think TeflonTM on

the central nervous system is cheating.

And in spite of what you may have heard, the aromabar really is just for

amusement, I don't do aromatherapy of any kind. Of course, anyone who does

is welcome to mix themselves a bouquet with my essences and if they want

to claim it gives them some kind of therapeutic fizz, I'm not going to

argue with them. After all, we all sing our own particular song in our

chains, don't we.

But you'll want to know about the last remake, won't you. That last

remake. Everybody always wants to know about that. I swear, I'll do a

thousand projects before I go gentle into my subterranean homesick blues

and the one thing I'll be remembered for is that damned remake.

Everyone'll still be mad at me for one of two reasons and by god, they'll

both be wrong.

So, one more time, for the record and with feeling: I did not rediscover

Little Latin Larry, and I didn't kill him.

Who did?

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file:///G|/Program%20Files/eMule/Incoming/Pat%20Cadigan%20-%20The%20Final%20Remake%20Of%20Little%20Latin%20Larry.txt

Well, I was afraid you'd ask me that.

First of all, let's get all the facts we know -- all right, all the facts

I know -- straight. You'll pardon me if I go over to the bar and fix

myself a few memory aids. This brown stuff here, this is an esoteric drink

called Old Peculier, which is the liquid equivalent of wrapping yourself

in a comfy blanket on an uncommonly bad day. Fair Annie -- you wouldn't

know her, she liked the low-profile life -- introduced me to it. But this

other stuff that looks a lot like, well, frankly, urine -- it's no-class

lager. Cheap beer was the term for it then and it was sought after for

both its cheapness and its beerness, if you see what I mean.

The Old Peculier is for drinking, just because I like it. But the lager is

for smelling, because I can remember Larry best when I smell cheap beer.

It was just about the only thing you ever smelled around Larry.

And let's get something else straight: the full name of the band was

Little Latin Larry and His Loopy Louies, His Luscious Latinaires, and His

Lascivious Latinettes.

Little Latin Larry was, of course, lead vocalist, conductor, arranger, and

erstwhile composer. Which is to say, for a while, he was trying out some

originals on the playlist. I've heard them. They weren't too bad, you

know; they were just meant to be songs to dance to, or jump up and down

to, or puke to, if you went that way (not like the Bulimic Era stuff --

that was later, and didn't have much to do with having a good time). But

every time Larry tried to slip in an original, everyone would just kind of

stand there looking puzzled. There'd be some people dancing, some people

nodding along, a few of the hard-core puking, but most of them just stood

around with these lost expressions, and you could tell they were trying to

place the song and couldn't. So Larry forgot about being even a cheap-beer

ditty-monger and went back to covers. There were skintillions of bands

that played covers for anyone who hired them, but when Larry and the band

did a cover it was . . . I could say that when Little Latin Larry and Co.

covered a song it was, for the duration, completely their own, as if no

one else had ever sung it. And if I did put it that way, I would be both

right and wrong. Just as if I said, when they covered a song, it was a

complete tribute to the original artists. That would be right and wrong as

well.

It was both. It was neither. It was an experience. It was all shades of

one experience, a million experiences in one. In other words, you had to

be there. Yes. You had to be there at least once.

But no, I won't try to wiggle out on that one. Even if there is so much

truth to it that most people were there once. Whether they were there or

not.

I don't expect you to understand me. I'm a visionary. No, just kidding,

just shaking your leg, as (I think) they used to say.

All right, back to it, now. The Larry people came to me. I don't care what

they told everyone later about my chasing them over hill and dale, or chip

and dale, or nook and cranny. The Realm of the Senses Theatre kept me busy

enough that I didn't have to chase anyone. People were always beating down

the door with sense-memories. My staff at that time was a mad thing named

Ola, about three and a half feet tall -- achondroplasia -- who usually

kept most of her brain in her sidekick, and vice versa. Half the time, you

never knew exactly which was which. It wasn't really any kind of

intentional thing, or a statement or anything. Ola just went that way. A

happy accident. Happy for Ola. So she mated with a machine, so what. I may

be retro, but I'm not that retro; I certainly wasn't then.

Ola put off a lot of people for a variety of reasons -- she was doing the

jobs of several people and so depriving them of jobs, cyborgs were against

Nature or the Bible, or she wasn't enough of a cyborg to claim the title

(which she didn't in the first place), or she was too spooky, too

feminine, not feminine enough, not spooky enough, for god's sake. People,

my god; people. Nature gave them tongues, technology gave them

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