Free Home Land: A Novel by Sam Lipsyte Page B

couldn’t play sports. What a whiner.
    “There’s no story,” said Philly now. “He’s just fucking Teabag.”
    Yes, Catamounts, Philly seemed loath to relive the incident, especially maybe the part where Will Paulsen swooped in, peeled Philly from my face, threw him up against the wall. This would also be the part where Philly maybe pissed his pants. He may have been a football star, a real backfield beast, at that, but he was no Will
Paulsen. Philly was bigger than Will, but that didn’t matter. Goliath never stood a chance, either. Too much mythology at stake.
    Now Philly took Stacy by the wrist, tugged her toward a window full of wicker goods.
    “Jazz Loretta whips Fontana,” I called out after them. “Gary loves Liquid Smoke. The pressure from my father was all in my head!”
    “What the hell?” said Stacy.
    “I’m giving you the news!” I said. “I’m bringing you up-to-date!”
    “Don’t come back here!” Philly shouted past his shoulder.
    It was a silly thing for him to say, Valley Cats. No man can tell another man to stay out of the mall. That’s not how America works. That’s not what the framers intended. Philly must have been flustered, all those dangerous old nut-dangle tingles, plus to meet someone with a legitimate sonic aesthetic. How can he defend a band whose hideous music is rivaled only by its insipid lyrics, a sample of which I’ve just downloaded from the Sporemonger home page?
    I have no home and I’m alone
Too scared to even face me
I close my eyes, close my eyes
Pray to Jesus to erase me
I want to be a nothing man
Because I’m nothing, man
Nothing without you, girl
    (words by Glave Wilkerson,
music by Spacklefinger)

    Catamounts, I implore you to shield your young from this pernicious drivel. What happened to hating the state apparatus, or just wanting to be regional Antichrist? Sure, it all gets set to a car commercial in the end, but at least give it a shot. Bang some dope, for
Pete’s sake, roll in broken glass. Don’t flee the melee in your heart. Don’t bitch to Jesus about it, either. If that Essene wild man was around today, and, say, headlining some monster summer tour, you can bet your ass Spacklefinger wouldn’t be allowed within five hundred miles of the stadium. There would be a tremendous wall of blood-colored lightning to keep those bastards at bay. That’s just my opinion, of course, but I’d also take any odds that if there’s one thing Jesus and the Devil agree upon, it’s that Glave Wilkerson is not punk. The man has the soul of a college boards coach.
    Which reminds me, I’ve yet to comment on the latest issue of Catamount Notes, wherein it was announced my old flame Bethany Applebaum is making a mint helping the doltish progeny of the rich gain admittance to our nation’s leading universities. Bravo, Bethany! Tuck those little one percenters in all safe and cozy. Keep that ruling-class razor wire sharp and shiny!
    Bethany, your father was head of the lathe workers local. Would he pop and lock in his grave knowing you’ve dedicated your life to helping these entitled cretins? You busted your hump to get to Cornell. All that panic and self-cutting, those blood-speckled scrunchies on your arm. Is this your way of giving back to the gatekeepers? Or is your cynicism a huge holy shimmering thing no mortal could view in its entirety at once?
    Please write in and let us know!
    I WALKED AROUND THE MALL for a while. I won’t talk about the mall, alums. You know about the mall, the scent of mallness that pervades it. It’s the scent of scents canceling each other out. Perfumes, pizza, leather, sweat. How do people proceed?
    They had a scientist-type in one of my magazines talking about ants. Nobody tells ants what to do, he said. Ants just know what’s best for ants.
    Moreover, they know what’s best by smell.

    Maybe that’s what Daddy Miner was driving at about the flowers at the Moonbeam.
    Plastic roses might confuse.
    See what I mean?
    Nor do