Daniel M. Nester

Daniel M. Nester, a Pisces, lives in Brooklyn with his girlfriend and

Bang & Olufsen turntable. He just quit working at NYU where he pushed

pencils at the Film and TV and Philosophy Departments. He's an editor

of Painted Bride Quarterly and has been extensively published in the

little magazines, hardcopy and electronic.

He can be reached at danielmnester@hotmail.com.

Dramaturgical Aside

Now that I've gone

And said movies are too

Long, another thing:

This idea of the idiot hero

Has worn thin. Examples:

Rain Man-Terminator-ET,

Gilbert Grape-Star Man-Forrest

Gump, King Kong-Yentl-

I could keep going (Being There).

It's like I need this

Retarded arriviste

To prove to me, to convince

Village-sibling-household

Or skeptical sheriff-cop to

Save the Giant Kewpie Doll!

Spare the Heraldic Action Figure!

Free the Midget Krishna!

And in an immense

Cherubic instant, they

Always do, and my ass

Falls asleep over extended

Third acts as parvenu and towns-

People are beleaguered

Into agreement. A tousle

Of hair, a stray dog

Runs up, barks: Woof!

Woof! Woof! Well, Fido,

I guess that makes it unanimous!

Ars Tendonitis

Miss Denver Quarterly writes

"there are no unmediated experiences,"

and I want to believe her, I really do,

given my own tendency from narrative,

but the other day (just one more story)

I got these new shoes,

which may seem insignificant,

but it is significant, it's sui generis even,

because ten years ago this demon lawnmower

drove over my foot and cut up

my Achilles' tendon. It twanged

up my leg like a rubber band. And so now

every new orthopedic heel digs

into my ankle for weeks, rubbing it raw,

and I curse like the old man I am.

So Miss Denver Quarterly, Oh sure,

she giggles, walks past me

with her peasant hanky hairdo

and capri pants, utterly

unencumbered and rich,

utterly juvenated. And it's fierce

and acute, this ex-landscaper's pain,

gimping down Astor with iced coffee

with my fresh-smelling Doc Martens,

I am peripatetic, senile, and very,

very unmediated.

Lorne Greene Leads the Women in a Disaster Movie

Earthquake (1974)

After all that conflict,

Lorne leads the secretaries

to the jagged precipice. He shouts

over, as if calling his German

Shepherds. Aghast, gasmasked

in gray, dusted-up business

suits, they cling to each other,

cover their mouths or faint,

looking out to their destroyed city.

Charlton Heston finally shouts

back, the loyal son-in-law

talking over deals that morning,

earth now broken up beneath them.

They choose to go with the deskchair-

drawn-down-by-the-firehose

method of rescue, but they need to strap

in these ladies. They need

something firm. Something

flexible. Something resilient

springy, bouncy. Lorne thinks,

then recites those immortal lines:

"Panty hose! Give me your pantyhose!

That’s right. You heard me.

Give them to me, dammit.

All of you. Give them to me!"

The bottle blonde, racooned

by tears, drops them like

nobody’s business, and before

you can say Ben Hur, Charlton

grabs each whiff of womanhood

dropped down to him, each holding

on to their nylon cotton

middles. Lorne lowers his long hose

then raises it, calls out to woman

after woman, "Drop your strip

before you take the trip."

It’s the entire dénouement, a post-quake

woman exchange, and Lorne

holds court with his wild-style

harem. Lord, lord god, bring back

Lorne Greene, drag him up,

exhume him, bring back

movies with wide lapels.

Daniel Nester