My Own Private Ulysses: Live from Exile Row
Rumors of my excommunication are NOT exaggerated.
Instead of reciting your nightly prayers, you tune into your favorite James Joyce Zuckerbook Group, and lo and behold, your access has been denied.
That’s right, you’ve been blocked, barred, bogarted. From a James Joyce Club? Is there even an analogy for this? Being censored by so-called Joyceans is the apex of irony. But that’s a whole other podcast.
To add Kafkaesque insult to Orwellian injury, no explanation was provided, no warning, not a pip, not a squeak, just existential, echoing, silence. The Bloom-like masochist in me craves a bit of censuring with my censoring. And I itch for my day in a kangaroo court. It’s been a minute.
Years ago, my jalopy was mysteriously towed from the block on which I lived. (Newsflash: leaving a motor vehicle unattended longer than 72 hours in LA is a crime.) My inner J.J. O'Molloy awoke. I repeated that Angel City “stole” my car so many times the traffic court judge pleaded with me to stop saying that word. I can’t figure out how I lost that kangaroo case.
Though I walk in the valley of shadowy suppression, I will fear no Circe-esque Court. Recovering barrister and political operative, Doctor Reality, is on the case! He’s already masterminding a masterstroke Hail Mary defense against any Philip Beaufoy-like charges of being a “low cad,” “not fit to be mentioned in mixed society,” “archconspirator of the age.” Again, like Bloom, “I love the danger.”
On a truly, deeply spiritual note, my spotted soul wonders which Deadly Sin caused me to be cast out from this Joycean Eden: The Skipper, The Millionaire, His Wife, The Movie Star, The Professor, Mary Ann, Gilligan?
Stay tuned. Forced confession pending.
Same banned time, same banished channel.