All aboard the Stantmeister Express for salvation

My life before accepting Harry Dean Stanton as the Messiah was largely dull and inconsequential. Driven primarily by teenage impulsiveness and that tickly feeling  you get when a tiny chunk of food is lodged in your throat, I would insinuate myself into all sorts of aimless shenanigans. I might entertain company by shoving Fruity Pebbles up my nose and doing a jig in my underwear. Sometimes I would even build a time machine and travel decades into the past for the sole purpose of flipping off Ayn Rand.
There came a time, however, when such fleeting joys revealed themselves to be hollow and empty. I started to question why Fruity Pebbles become hilarious when dangling limply from a pair of nostrils and how Ayn Rand came to be such a colossal expletive deleted.

It was then that the heavens parted their white, milky, creamy clouds to unveil the obvious. I stood face-to-face with that which had been directly in front of me all along (I hadn’t noticed because I was too busy combing through my desk drawers when I should have been looking on top of the bureau). My epiphany came in the form of a woefully underappreciated character actor by the name of Harry Dean Stanton.

“But Justin!” you cry (yes, child, I hear), “What are you saying? Are you really claiming that this Harry Dean fellow is the second coming of Christ?”

Allow me to explain myself. To answer the inquiry, no, I do not believe HDS is the new Jesus. I believe that Jesus was the precursor, the beta test, if you’ll allow the terminology, for HDS.

Oh, you may bring up the water-walking, the whole shebang with the bread and all that jazz. Ignoring the strong probability that HDS could do all this and more with minimal effort, let me ask you this: Was Jesus in “Paris, Texas?” Did he own all over the place as a supporting player in John Carpenter’s auto-biopic/documentary “Escape From New York?” Was he there to help Emilio Estevez bleep those aliens up in the cult classic “Repo Man?” I will have you know that Harry Dean did and was.

This is a man who’s been everywhere worth being and done everything worth doing. He’s kicked it with Jack Nicholson and sang with Art Garfunkel, as well as Bob Dylan. Quite frankly, he’s better than you.

“But Justin!” you exclaim once again, “How will accepting Harry Dean as my lord and savior improve my lot in life?”

I am unable to promise anything specific at this juncture because Harry Dean likes to tailor his services according to the preferences of the individual follower. He may show up at your door every now and again to provide a much needed back massage. He might serenade your girlfriend on her birthday (note: we of the Church of Harry Dean Stanton assume no responsibility for any subsequent seduction attempts on the part of Mr. Stanton). If you are particularly devout, he may even arrange for a reenactment of his climactic speech in “Paris, Texas,” complete with a sex booth and rising ‘80s star Nastassja Kinski. As you have no doubt surmised, the joys of allowing the Stantmeister into your life are both sweet and plentiful.

In all seriousness, Harry Dean Stanton truly is an incredible actor, certainly one of the best of his generation. “Paris, Texas” is thus far the only film in my adult life to reduce me to a blubbering heap of tears and snot. If you don’t know him, check him out. And if you do, hop aboard the Stantmeister Express, because we are on our way to the promised land.

Justin Levesque can be contacted at jlevesque@keeneequinox.com.