Subfile A4: “Christmas With James Dean”

A Requiem With Poinsettias

In its million-year span of Romany Gypsy-like wandering, AC always had its rebellious youth culture who couldn't figure out just where they fit in. And youth treasures its icons. Since the CCRP revived many of past youth’s heros and heroines, it was only a matter of time before Jame Dean the Sheik of Sneerdom was resurrected. Instantly, he became a celebrity after umpteen thousands of years of being forgotten. The production of this latest revival did not begin the revival, since books and films of his were already crazes among the youth, but the CCRP site, when the word went out, quickly became the most popular hang-out on the planet--so popular, if fact, that the Board was obliged to furnish extra security and even lay down a curfew, or the site would have been ripped apart for souvenirs, or just ripped apart for the fun of it.

Rates of vandalism, inspired by the revived James Dean cult, soared. His manner of slouching, dressing, talking, and being a rebel without a cause became the rage and the norm for everyone under twenty five. What they could not have guessed, in copying his look and behavior, was the real James Dean. The production helped make that happen, bringing the reality home to them in a way they had not anticipated.

Defiant to the end,

famed rebel without cause;

what wouldn’t break or bend,

you just hated what was?

(Refrain): You may have died

a superstar, but I have to

wonder where you are;

is it heaven? Is it hell?

The sadness in your eye--

it’s not hard to tell...

it’s not hard to tell.

You had no reason or solution;

you took your stand on

cocky irresolution;

“Don’t tell me the way I gotta

go; it’s my life and how I

live it, don’t ya know?”

Don’t wanna live, don’t wanna

die; don’t wanna change,

don’t wanna try.

So you hung out on the scene,

just like on the screen;

three flicks, you’re a legend,

time may break, time may bend.

Life, for you, seemed fatally flawed,

so you took the fast lane

in your little red hot rod;

millions of fans have followed

your walk; copied the guy, the most cool on the block.

Your sensitive, hurting,

passionate stance--

you set the stage and the

way they dance;

wear rumpled clothes,

stick your thumbs out;

don’t comb your hair,

but hang head and pout.

In a split second crash your

gig was cut short,

and the result is you’ll stand

in God’s Supreme Court;

will He declare, “Innocent,

charges dismissed by my


Or will it be

dreadful “Guilty, begone!”?

Icon still, forty years since you

died; but over your shrine

stands the One crucified;

I wonder what thoughts go

through HIS head;

are they words, are they cries,

the last that you said?

One moment you’re here and

drawing a breath;

then fatal collision, an

“untimely” death;

it happens so fast, there’s no

time to pout;

The impact has thrown you

beyond your own shout.

James Dean, you’re no

different, you’re just like

all us; our ticket’s paid, but

will we board the bus?

There is only one way to

escape a “Too late!”:

settle now, settle now,

on this side Death’s gate!

The whole teen culture was stunned when the actor who had played Dean the most famous export of Fairmount, rural Minnesota, was killed in a transit tube, after he had commandeered the vehicle and sent it flying at supersonic speeds up and down the planet until finally the master computers proved unable to correct his constant collisions and he was wiped out in an accident that took the lives of over a thousand innocent people, many of them children returning home from touring the James Dean production site.

The lesson, needing to be learned, was, nevertheless, very hard for those who survived and who were so young. Rebels without causes were, after that, were no longer viewed without qualificaion or so avidly. The whole youth culture was shaken to the core as they viewed, in person and on wide screen in the home or school, the havoc in the lives of people caught in the transit tube disaster.

Some were so affected, in fact, they began crossing the lines, from secular-humanist-mechanist to the religious side of the colony. This should not have amazed the secular side, but it did. They really had nothing any more to offer grieving, bewildered, meaning-seeking youth--and the grief propelled them to answers--any answers. The secularists--they could only ask questions. They were good at that--but there comes a time when questions will no longer do someone who needs to anchor himself, or else he sink and drown. For drowning, sinking youth, who really wanted to find the “Crucified One” the Sulkowsky archive identified, there was no putting them off any longer. It is unfortunate the religious half of AC had only “Ultimate Reality” and a “Supreme Being” to give them. But at least it was a start, and anything was, for practical-minded, troubled youth, better than the mechanist parents’s smug nothing--a sucking vacuum, a Black Hole that drained the light from life and the blood from their veins, because without realizing it their parents, so well-meaning, so educated, so prepared with the right things to say, robbed them of the very reason for living and doing anything at all.

Ah, where is Ricky Nelson and his garden party hurt feelings, and Ono Yoko Lemmon's hired walrus? and Howard Hughes and his Hollywood tool company and line of starlets?

And where are Ozzie and Hariet and their sweet Darwinian, Eisenhower-era smiles, atheistic shirt in cuffs and pull-over sweater, and nice little intramural basketball team today? Is that all there really is? Come on, be real! Ricky, where are you? Where exactly did you go after that plane crash with your band? Did that spoil your garden party? Answer the A-C's last generation--truly, GenX! They really wanna know.

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