The Gaga Manifesto by A. A. Khan

by A. A. Khan

GAGA – The First Word…

A man walks into a room full of bananas, slips and falls on his ass.

The room quickly fills with laughing bananas as the man's face turns

red with anger. He stands to his feet and clears his throat. Urrumph!

He stares at the bananas, the laughter dims down.

He eats the bananas and leaves a large pile of banana peels in the

middle of the room. He throws a pair of old panties on top of it and

calls the girl who they belong to. She hangs up the phone upon

recognizing his voice because she thinks that he is an asshole. He

smiles and shits his pants thinking about how lovely the way things

used to be. Call this man an artist or call him a vulgar human loser?

Call him what you will but in the short time it took him to do what he

did thousands of children all over the world salivated at the thought

of walking into a room full of bananas. In the short time it took him

to do what he did twelve children were born with no mothers to call

their own. Where is the justice you may ask? "Gaga, My brothers and

sisters! Gaga!!"

"Gaga" is the first word that one utters. It sparks the desire to

express one's most convoluted inner thoughts. It is completely

uncensored and spontaneous. It may be the only true expression from

deep within the soul created entirely without the effects of societal

conditioning. Gaga is the building block of all understanding and

communication. Once uttered a child repeats it over and over, with

thousands of different implications. The child learns to express every

living thought with this simple two-syllable gossamer.

The woman who received the phone call is Lucy. She is sick and tired

of receiving these horrible menacing phone calls. She tries everyday

to get rid of this artist's face from her memory but his weekly

attempts make it almost impossible. No, they were never lovers. Lucy

simply walked into the wrong place at the wrong time. She was a victim

of circumstance trapped in an unforgiving city filled with perverted

coffee guzzlers and trash talking chumps. Lucy quickly shaves her head

and writes a long letter to her ex-boyfriend about his lack of sexual

prowess and unflatteringly small "unit". She drinks half a bottle of

wine in the bathtub and reads the daily rag about an art exhibit. In

the fine print she notices her favorite pair of underwear tossed upon

a heap of rotting banana peels next to the grimacing face of the man

she has grown to loathe. She shrieks with disbelief and drops the

bottle into the tub. It bleeds into the water like a wounded horse as

she stares blankly at the droplets of water that have collected on her

ceiling.

The Gaga movement believes that all art should be derived from this

fundamental "first word". A Gaga artist has the ability to find this

inner voice and uses it to communicate to either herself or humanity

through her art. The purpose of Gaga art is to communicate, art that

fails to do so must be hissed at very loudly.

This is a very amusing gagaist practice which is recommended to all

readers. Next time you are at the movies feel free to hiss at all the

parts which you feel are inadequately stimultating the dopamine

production in your brain.

The Gaga movement is essentially a non-utopian, multi-functional,

ethno-barbituate with only one desire… to make the destruction of the

earth a more heavenly experience.

The full power of the first word can only be realized by repeating it

endlessly for hours and hours while concentrating entirely on the

creation of fine Gaga art. This gaga mantra is based on the highly

complicated rituals involved in sexual spell casting and owl meat

preparation. By repeating the first word in such a hypnotic way, the

voice and its sound becomes secondary to the eye. Thus creating a more

complete and direct connection from the brain to the hand. Talk is

cheap in the land of Gaga; one must give up the distractions of idol

conversation while creating art, so they may fully experience the

artistic process.

The man on the phone who ate all the bananas is a gaga artist. Many

turtle-necked people, who admire his every fart, constantly surround

him and flatter him with ten-letter words. He is deeply in love with

himself and now mesmerized by Lucy for all the wrong reasons. Not long

ago Lucy innocently walked into his vernisage hoping to soothe her

weary eyes with some of what art critics like to call his "sleepy but

brutal masterpieces". She had read about his work in her daily rag and

could not possibly expect to leave his exhibition with scars that not

even time could heal. But she did.

As Lucy walked in, the artist smelled her white musk perfume and

hungrily approached her. Behind him a trail of admirers followed like

a swarm of pilot fish feeding off of scraps of conversation that

dribbled out of his mouth. Lucy was surprised and somewhat charmed by

this man, who approached her with much savvy. He invited her for a

stroll to gaze at his fine works. She followed with much excitement.

For the first time in Lucy's young life she was guided into the

artistic process by the hand of a real "artist". This could be a

momentous occasion in her not-so-eventful life that may sow seeds of

inspiration perhaps for her very own artistic endeavors. She felt a

round of fireworks go off inside her head as she listened to every

word the artist muttered. She smiled her brightest smiles and even

crossed her arms around her breasts making them look twice their b-cup

size. Lucy was finally on the inside looking out somewhere she had

never really been, or so she thought.

The artist thought Lucy looked absolutely beautiful. She had the

innocence of a little lamb in her eyes and the giggle of a very happy

child. The artist could feel his ego pulsate as it churned out word

after word of his what he called his "momentary conversational

philosophies". He knew that what he had created could never be really

expressed in words yet his ego forced them out unabashed. His art

dealer stood next to him with a tiny cellular phone that seemed to be

glued to his ear. The poor artist's body and mind had become a vessel

controlled by his throbbing ego, which grew even larger with every one

of Lucy's pretty smiles.

Suddenly a large gastric noise followed by a dreadful smell permeated

out of the artist's tight white trousers. Lucy tried her best to

ignore the digestive phenomenon and quickly glanced at the ceiling

like she had done countless times during the 23 years of her

existence. As she pretended not to smell the disaster, one of the

artist's admirers pointed to the back of the artist's trousers and

exclaimed "Holy Shit!"

As every face in the crowd turned its head towards the artist's soiled

trousers he quickly fell to the floor and began to laugh maniacally. A

fury of whispers went around the room. After a short moment of deep

thought and contemplation, a roar of applause filled the air. The

artist's admirers began to clap furiously yelling, "Genius!" and

"Bravo!" Lucy stood above him and stared at the ceiling as a cold

silent horror filled her petite body. What she did not realize was

that the artist was not simply laughing at his untimely pooh accident.

He was in fact chuckling about Lucy's baby blue lace panties, which he

could see in plain vision as he lay beneath her on the floor. They

were decorated with tiny silk bows and what appeared to be little

yellow baby ducks. He had never seen such wonderful underwear and was

even more thrilled than sexually aroused by his discovery. The simple

thought of her panties quacking set off a wave of laughter in his

brain, as last night's supper dribbled down his pant legs. Lucy felt a

wave of nausea hit her as the smell grew worse and worse. She looked

around and saw hundreds of faces filled with pure amazement and awe.

She refused to accept this debauchery as art and get blinded by this

scheisster's shit, literally. She did not want to throw up immediately

because she feared the intellectual impact it might have on his

admirers. She looked down at the artist with a sour face and then

noticed him staring up her dress.

This horrific experience marked the end of all rationality for poor

innocent Lucy who grew up admiring pastel colors and collected fridge

magnets of famous paintings. As the artist's eyes photographed every

detail of the panties that were given to her by her grandmother, she

felt the rage of ten bulls coarse through her veins. She turned bright

red and stormed out of the exhibit ready to vomit with all her might.

This was just the beginning of Lucy's nightmare. Lucy sought vengeance

on this artist for the crime of ruining what was once so sacred to

her. Her beloved vision of art was forever squashed by the rude

digestive behavior of this miscreant. She wished to get back at him

and the only way was to fight fire with fire.

She sought the shelter of some public transportation. She could not

get the image of his laughing face out her mind. She grinded her teeth

and ran home, sobbing softly into a handkerchief with her initials

embroidered on it.

Lucy entered her apartment panting heavily. She looked around as if

she had been there for the very first time. She glanced at her

favorite "I Love Cats" calendar and ripped it off the wall in a wild

rage. She tore it to pieces and threw it out her window. Her

collection of fridge magnets was next, then her Van Gogh T-shirts and

her matching Van Gogh bed sheets. As she cleansed herself of these

"artistic" possessions she felt a calming solace overcome her body

with every toss. As a pile of art collectibles grew outside her

window, she laughed and danced with even more joy than she had felt

after her first one-night stand. After a few hours had passed she

looked around her apartment and could hardly recognize the place. This

was a momentous occasion in Lucy's not-so-eventful life, but she still

felt that something more needed to be done. She pulled up her skirt

and took off her once favorite baby blue panties and threw them out

the window. The final "piece de resistance" on what would be her first

day on the inside looking out.

Alas, life was not destined to be so simple for poor Lucy, who sat in

front her easel for hours thinking tirelessly about what she should

paint. She began drinking lots of wine in hope for some sort of lost

Bacchic inspiration. Unfortunately the wine usually made her fall

asleep much faster and then wake up with a horrible hangover. She

wondered where all the romance had gone.

While Lucy was trying effortlessly to change her not-so-eventful life,

the artist who did her in was searching all over town for a very

particular pair of baby blue underwear, the kind that made him thrill

so much on that strange and brutal evening. He drove all over town

going from store to store asking for these panties. As he described

them to every store clerk with a strange raw unbridled passion, he was

greeted with many cold stares and uncomfortable silences. One

storeowner even called him a pervert and threatened to call the

police. Now I ask you, was it just chance or divine intervention that

made this particular artist walk by 17 Abbey Lane on the same

particular evening that Lucy changed her ways? Could it be the will of

god or simply a solar flare that led the artist to discover what in

his eyes was equivalent to the Holy Grail of panties floating through

the air?

The artist's eyes widened at the miracle which was unfolding in front

of them. The panties that he so tirelessly searched for all over town

were indeed floating through the air and landed directly above his

nose, covering his mystified eyes. He was momentarily blinded by this

baby blue cotton miracle and felt closer to Lucy than he could ever

be. The city went completely silent for the first time in his life. He

heard his heart beat slightly faster as he breathed in its musty

scent. He ran to his Renault 5, started the engine and paused for a

moment. He was very relieved at the fact that he didn't have to cut

off his ear. He smiled a great big smile as he ran over a pile of

fridge magnets and T-shirts.

Gaga artists do not decide to be gaga, they are forced by the chaotic

circumstances that surround them to heed the road less traveled. For

example, to even come close to the gaga experience it takes rigorous

mind expansion, a short but severe cough syrup addiction and an

insatiable desire to wear other people's prescription glasses for long

periods of time. Some gaga artists have even smoked cinnamon because

of empty bank accounts, while really enjoying the films of John

Waters. Eating loads of very hot food knowing full well that it will

burn twice is also the trademark of a successful gaga artist. Shaving

very badly and/or wearing the same shirt for more than two days,

smelling it and putting it on for a third day is typical for the gaga

artist. Not getting laid in high school and then racking them up like

bowling pins in college is very common in the gaga community. A gaga

artist is usually a late bloomer whose hooters develop first in the

main brain rather than on the body, although Gaga founders have been

known to be very well blessed in the sausage department and also have

remarkably nice asses. Gaga above all is the opposite of poopoo, and

often referred to as "the idiot mother of pure genius".

After a few weeks of painting fruits and Campbell's soup cans, Lucy

decided to throw her easel out the window too and get on with her

not-so-eventful life. The artist, meanwhile, had not slept for many

nights as he planned his second exhibition. It was to be entirely

devoted to his brand new muse, which fell into his grasp from the

heavens above and now lay so innocently on his coffee table. He

painted furiously and planned great sculptures like none that he could

have ever dreamed of before. This was to be his "blue panty period"

and possibly the greatest bloody time in his life. After every

finished masterpiece he closed his eyes and thanked god for those

panties, lighting candles in fond memory of his 100% cotton

revelation.

After hours of intense work, the artist took a break for a moment and

picked up his telephone. Thinking in the back of his mind that he may

get lucky, he called information and asked for the phone number of

"Lucy Curtis from 17 Abbey Lane." He dialed the number and waited

anxiously for her reply.

"Hello!" answered Lucy.

"Hi, is this Lucy Curtis?"

"Yes, who's this?"

"Hi, I'm an artist, we met at my…CLICK!… Hello! Hello!"

Lucy hung up the phone immediately. She felt a sharp pain in her head

followed by a mysterious fit of laughter. The gaga delirium was

settling in. Her mouth dropped momentarily as a thousand lights

flicked around her head. She felt as if she would faint. She sat down

in her easy chair gasping for air. She picked up her high school

yearbook, like she had done a thousand times before whenever times got

really tough. She got great comfort in reading her best-friends heart

felt good-byes. The same kind of solace one gets after reading a

two-dollar hallmark card after a horrible car accident. She began to

read …

"Dear Lucy,

French class was great. This grad year was the best. We have become

such good buddies. Never change because you are beautiful the way you

are. Keep in touch.

Lots of love,

Bambi

P.S. Van Gogh rules!"

As Lucy imagined Bambi giving two thumbs up to her favorite painter

she felt her flesh crawling. It was at this time that Lucy experienced

the first of her nineteen nervous breakdowns. It was no accident, it

was destiny. As Lucy hyperventilated into a brown paper bag several

thoughts crossed her mind. How could that creep have the nerve to call

her? Was this the way that the cruel gods of art taunted her failure

as an artist? Could this be Van Gogh mocking her pathetic attempts to

enlighten her life by destroying all that she once loved so earnestly?

This brings us back to how we first found Lucy, relaxing in the

bathtub with a half-empty bottle of wine. As you may recall her head

had been freshly shaved and she was reading her daily rag. What Lucy

really longed for right now was escape. She was too smart to start

shooting dope and, frankly, too prudish to try lesbianism. She craved

freedom from the daily pressures of her nine to five existence. She

sought refuge from the evil that she so unknowingly discovered in what

was once her favorite art gallery. Lucy felt like Pandora sitting next

to her open box as she hummed her favorite song "Ain't it funny how

time slips away…" by Willie Nelson.

The last thing on earth that Lucy needed right now was to discover

that her panties had started an artistic revolution. And of course as

fate would have it she did. On the front page of her daily rag, in

full color, were the same cursed panties that her grandma had once

given to her as a gift on her 19th birthday. Strewn across a heap of

rotting banana peels and right next to the smiling face of the man who

was responsible for all the torment that Lucy had suffered. Her poor

panties lay silently in plain view for the whole world to admire.

Lucy decided to get out of her wine filled tub and headed directly for

the radio in her bedroom. She turned it on to her favorite rock n'

roll station for the first time in years. She started listening to

that fine, fine music and suddenly felt every burden lift off her

soaking wet body. She started shaking her hips and suddenly realized

that life was only beautiful when she wanted it to be beautiful. At

the same precise moment that this fantastic revelation blossomed in

her mind, the sound of Willie Nelson came tumbling out her

stereophonic speakers. She jumped out of her favorite easy chair and

was miraculously reborn.

The starlit sky looked a tad darker than usual. The water tasted like

wine, and the moon was brighter than ever before. Lucy's shackles had

finally been shaken loose. She quickly put on her slinkiest dress and

ran out the door. She felt new blood coursing through her veins as she

walked down boulevard after boulevard following her animal instincts.

Lucy purchased an expensive wig, hopped into a cab and headed straight

for the airport where she bought a one way ticket to Las Vegas. She

spent the next several years working the strip as Lucy Lips, exotic

dancer. Like the aforementioned gaga artist, Lucy Lips is now

surrounded by loads of admirers who love to buy her wonderful things.

These days Lucy rarely even thinks about that strange man who adored

her panties on that sleepy and brutal day. However, strange as it

seems, this perverse affliction seems to follow her even more so today

than ever before in her entire life. In fact every man she meets seems

to go gaga for her panties. Lucy, however, is very content spending

her spare time reading Archie comics and chewing Hubble-Bubble, she

often tells her clients that she'd like to learn how to paint one of

these days, if only she'd have the time…

Many artists spend their entire lives dreaming about what Lucy did in

just a few days. While most usually wither away in their own

self-pity, some get the chance to really bite the bullet and take the

bull by its horns. While Lucy may not have been gifted in the fine

arts, she found happiness in drinking girlie drinks all night and

shakin' some tail. Lucy found her calling with the help of gaga and

probably never even realized it. Then again, many children are born

hungry and motherless while Lucy sips a cool Pina Colada in the summer

sun and hums her favorite song. "Where is the justice?" you may ask.

Well padre, in this world of bananas and panties, strippers and hungry

children, justice is not born, it must be acquired. Justice does not

come to those who deserve it. Justice must be taken. So with this

thought I invite you to the world of Gaga, where the artist is the

supreme master of reality and the rest is just a Technicolor

nightmare…