Letters of Not Lite. Dale Shaw
‘The Kiss’. Do you happen to have the name of the other model that posed with me? I have some sort of blister that has appeared on my upper lip and I think I may need to get in touch with him.
Warmest regards,
Sophia
Lou Reed writes to a television producer
8th March 1975
Hey Barry, Barry.
Great meeting you at Andy’s the other week. You said if I had any ideas for the TV I should drop you a line. Well, I was just sitting here at Max’s Kansas City with some friends and we came up with a dynamite idea for a show. Sorry for writing this on bar napkins, wanted to get this down while it was still fresh in my head.
So, here’s the idea – BLADIAC!
I play a hard-bitten New York Cop in a leather jacket called Lou Bladiac who investigates New Wave crimes in the music industry. Bladiac don’t take no shit and plays by his own rules, while also playing some sweet guitar licks.
You know I did ‘Walk on the Wild Side’? So I know quite a bit about the noir stuff and the dark side of life. Well, imagine that song in a TV cop show format. And get this, at the end of each show Bladiac can sing a song about the investigation (which I’ll write and perform). Something like ‘It was the drummer who did it / he just went ahead and did it …’ You see, I just came up with that off the cuff. Imagine how great it would be if I’d put some thought into it. Wait … what … what? Hold on Barry, someone’s shouting at me … what? Yeah, I said about the song …
Sorry Barry, so yeah. And Bladiac is handy with a blade, hence his name. That’s his main weapon in fighting crime, he uses a switchblade. He don’t kill people, just stabs them up a bit before arresting them.
What? Hold on, Rachel’s yelling something. No, we said we weren’t having the Indian Spirit Guide. No! That’s dumb. Oh great, now he/she’s crying …
Forget all that Barry, so yeah Bladiac goes undercover and gets in with all these New Wave groups who are doing crimes or are having crimes done against them. He uses disguises and he’s a real one for the ladies. And the dudes. He has a female alter ego called Shofanna who’s completely convincing. And he has a real great car. And I mentioned the knife thing, right?
God, sure there was more to this than that. Lemme think. Bladiac. Cop. New Wave. Blade. Shofanna. Car. Song at the end. Yeah, guess that’s it.
Oh wait, guest stars! Yeah, we can get tons of guest stars and people to be in it. I can ask Andy, he loves TV. Maybe he can be the police chief or something. That would be pretty funny. Bowie can be like a snitch. No wait, Iggy can be like a snitch, maybe Bowie can be like a jewel thief or something. Then I, like, stab him up and arrest him.
What did you say? I’ll just have a gimlet. Yeah a gin one, they’re always gin. Shit, stop distracting me, I keep writing this shit down. Sorry Barry. People keep distracting me. I look really good as a cop. I’ve got shades and leather jackets, so we can save money on that. And I’m good at playing the tough guy (and the opposite in Shofanna’s case). Think this will be a total blast. Put a record out at the end of every season with all the songs I’ve sung about investigations. Bladiac! I came up with the name first.
Lou Reed
P.S. Wait, what? What was that? Oh sorry Barry, that wasn’t about you.
Now, for the weekending and the weekening of the daze and the dillydallying concerning the abstagnation and the never nearlyness, the chump who chunders the pagination of the month and the moth, hovers and heaves into views notwithstanding. Oh yes it does! Trussed up in clingarounds, sandy stones scarring the soles. Banished I have ole Greggster from desked-neighbourly, suffering with his sulphurous excursions and exertions, my nasal hole burnt aron it, ironic and a tonic. Nevermore the tea totalling prowess of old Annie the pro-ess, her Queen of the Prawns and never a round brought in, but always of excepting like a bergamont and a lackspittle. A throat cut! Her sister there, is it hairyditty? A showdow not cross the kettle nor neither. Let the big forms of their bodices be hexspelled from the witchery of my headspace. Oh releaf, under a bough and bow as the branches blanche old Blanche the Blough. But the worms flashed back returned into your binbox? Contrusion puddles the poodle in your noodle, yawcrazy and wisha, wisha, wisha, clamber an ants were. Pitee thee! Petee thoo! Potty too! Mister Typhus! Him clother the dor! In his mitt and ants wer! Cry not yet! A can-on-diced man! Not just a stoutfellow but with that a nascent nearsaint, stars arc when ham-mused but in cups then inn sane. Forward go thee, to the whole inside papyr for reptilecation. His throne will hillruminate my drams, as I squander on the rox, a ail, ailing my day’s tail, ma happydermus toasting a tan, tan, tan. On retrieving, lo a casket, a basket a brisket of bonbons, desecrated with seens of palmed treens and a salty sombrero, nevermore. Bynoon, a dessert in there, hand to mouth and vice and verses, blood boils and black bowls and abasing the baldyqueen. Tails tolled of clemency and awfulas belie from Delie, with knitbrows on the counterstaff when fixings are fist repoached. Efter seems thousand yaws, in reversal my forms, but yat still the gripes limply passus. Bitter ayes on anvil, no you hold the fort, lick the Army Man, a Left Tenant or a Bomb Dadear or a Primate. Met a sternum senorita with the tickle of Madman Rosy Litre. Tack me Rosy Litre! To you shock or hunt or lacked garage. I am hell-lopped alongwith my olive skimmed sad duchess. To an isle land of Kronthos of Polmopus of Gnaccus. Netter agin to the folded card bored of greeting
What now for yew? A nude job of learning?
Hold your applause! Wake until the envy lopes at youe scythe. The digdeep into the pocketfold and resurrect the lint laden current see of Kween and co. No, no, no. Strip those from your lobes, the boy is bound to trav well. Be symbthos for this deviated friend. A weigh Iago. Axe Linda no mention be four, be fine, be leave and takes your sweetgum in baresocked supernauts. When tireds reassemble forty times from now then I shall satagin. Be bound and bald to paint aunts or dream and more from commune cayun lines cut. A bottled massage sea perhaps? Never.
Orson Welles’ suggestions for The Transformers: The Movie
11th August 1986
Dear Barry,
Thank you so much for selecting me to play the role of Unicron in Transformers: The Movie. I have read the script and absolutely love it. (It’s a sort of Lear in space wouldn’t you say?) If you would indulge me, I have a slight addition I would like to make to the dialogue provided. I feel that a brief soliloquy, just prior to Unicron devouring the moons of Cybertron and, as a consequence, Jazz, Bumblebee, Cliffjumper, and Spike, would more clearly frame his state of mind. Please consider the following merely a suggestion.
What do you think?
Yours, Orson
EXT – SPACE – NIGHT
On the point of exhaustion, Unicron turns to his vanquisher Rodimus Prime.
UNICRON
(Weakly)
It’s good to see you Rodimus. You and I aren’t heroes you know, this galaxy doesn’t make any heroes …
Look down there … Would you feel any pity if one of those Autobots stopped activating forever? If I offered you Two Zillion Quazseks for every Autobot that powered down would you really, old man, tell me to keep my money? Or would you calculate how many Autobots you could afford not to transform? Free of Space Tax, old man … free of Space Tax. It’s the only