LONDON APPROACHETH (PRAY FOR MOJO)

I was at the dentist and in order to make garbled conversation I told her that I was going to London soon.

"Oh, how nice!" she said, her foot planted in my chest. "Will it be for business or pleasure?" she said, shoving pneumatic talons into my gum lining.

"Gaaaaah," I said.

"I'm sorry?"

"Gaaaahd bless you. [She had sneezed.] But I'm going to London with my mom, so... neither."

"Oh, I'm sure you'll have a wonderful time!"

"Mmmggh?"

With the acetylene forceps detached, my mandibles were free to tell her that during Mom's last trip to Mexico she had been seized by an irresistible urge to fling herself off the balcony of her seventh-floor hotel room. Being a wonderful son, I made sure to book a fling-proof hotel room--not wanting to make the staff get Mom out of the tree tops with a rake.

"They don't have rakes in Great Britain," said my dentist with a scowl.

"Hmmggheahmuuh?"

When I got to the library that day, my mouth throbbing erotically, I was waylaid by Jonah. He wanted to tell me about it.

"It?"

"We did that routine last week, jackass."

"Jackass?"

"Are you going to put up my review of IT or not?"

"Itornot?"

"Grrr."

IT is a movie about a kind-hearted clown who likes to ponder the simple things in life. He's sort of like Forrest Gump but more cakey.

"Heck, who needs a cloud on a sunny day?"

He spots a puppy playing with a kitten. He wants to play!

"Hey, I love you!"

This gentle soul just wants to be understood and cuddled with babies. 

"Who wants to see my poop?"

Anyway, the clown dies because no one loves him. The end.

"What the hell?"

"What?"

"That's not the review I wrote," Jonah said. "It starts out with Freud's famous dictum, "Wo Es war, soll Ich werden" [where It is, there shall I be], which is often regarded as the inaugural gesture of psychoanalysis, designating the main task of the analyst as locating the Es, the Id, the "It" of the unconscious. Freud's statement also has a predictive quality, as over the weekend, I found myself locating the movie theater where Stephen King's IT was playing--indeed, where IT was, there I found myself (for some reason).

What "IT" is, is precisely the manifestation of trauma in the subject's unconscious. What "IT" also is, is a shitty remake of a shitty adaptation of a shitty novel. Therefore, "IT" is a Baudrillardian loop of never ending excrement.

The circuit is best represented by one of Lacan's lesser-known mathemes:

$ → a + A (⦽)

Stephen King must have read his Lacan, as evidenced by the curvature of Lacan's Graph of Desire which matches perfectly the contours of IT's head:

"Yes, but..."

"But what?"

"Where are the puppies?" I whined.

"Actually, I have a few things to say about your relationship with your mother," Jonah said, nodding pipefully. "First of all, you have a co-dependency complex that--"

"OKAY THAT'S IT FOR TODAY FOLKS!! AND KEEP THOSE DONATIONS COMING!!!"

(Big Lacanian Thanks to Jonah!!!)