(no subject)
It’s been months since I’ve been able to visit one of the porn sites in my daily rotation without seeing some dude or chick wearing a LIVE STRONG bracelet. Basically, way to screw up my orgasm. Some people want to just watch a good show, maybe a little sweat, but the cancer-jewelry is just too much. It reminds me of every loser Capitol Hill staffer living in Georgetown (nobody lives in Gtown, by the way, you assholes who think everybody lives there or wants to live there. The only people who live there are from movies, or, frankly, awful people).
And while you’re at it, please don’t look directly at the camera. Have you heard of the fourth wall? I have. I acted a lot in high school and a bit in college (and I’ve written four plays). King Lear, a Woody Allen thing, One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest, ect. I’ve been in these, choice roles too. Breaking the fourth wall has to be a conscious decision, made after much consideration. In the end, it is a device, and if it does not improve the story in some critical manner, or if the emotion depends on the connection, then maybe you can do it. But when some nimble tart is brushing her teeth with a cod-piece, please avert your eyes from mine, as I carefully and luxuriously study the quickest way from here to there, on myself.
I fed some left over chicken to the pigeons last weekend-a rewarding thing-to eat your own, to recycle life through your own commitment to survival. A little Croation girl, dare I say E-block, rode by on a bicycle and asked what I was doing. Well, feeding a bird a wing, I said, a chicken wing. I could have said anything and that kid would have laughed. She did drop a mitten quite close to where I was feeding the birds, and even though she seemed liked a swell kid, there was no way I was going to pick up that pigeon-shit-glove. So she had to totally stop riding, get off, pick up the mitten, then get back on her bike. Of course, she was way young for that so she kind of tipped over trying to re-embark, falling to the ground, tearing her tights slightly. Her mom rushed over and shot me a look like, “hey buddy, you could have helped out.” Then I shot back, “crap-mitten.” I only wished I could have killed that pigeon and fed it to a bald eagle. That would have been profound, and tertiary homage to survival to boot.
Piss off a Mexican, was my goal last Saturday. Anyone, just get one really pissed at me. So I went to this hole-in-the-wall taco place I love. The kind of place that shows telenovelas nonstop all day long, and yes, where dudes lines the walls to watch as well. I sat on a bench across from three other guys. They were watching TV over my head. Either I was really hungry and didn’t care about TV, or I didn’t speak Spanish and didn’t care about TV, cause there were plenty of places to sit away from these guys and watch the tele.
If I was a movie or serial director, I would have taken a far away cut shot to show that it was conspicuous how closely I sat next to these three dudes in a completely open restaurant. It didn’t take long after I sat down for one guy to ask me if I had ever seen this show. So I said, “the only thing I’ve seen is his sister’s taco.” And then I pointed to one guy, yes, wearing a cowboy hat. Basically, I had a pen in one of my hands in the likely case that they just started wailing on me. I figured, if you stab a guy, even a little, that hurts wikkid bad and his friends will probably call the police before beating me up. And not to seem macho or anything, or have the appearance of that, I’m 5’8” and these guys were easily four inches shorter than me. Well, I guess I picked the easiest target cause the other two guys laughed so hard they actually punched me in the shoulder as an initiation into the brotherhood of making fun of this one dude, who clearly had a small, but rigid following of other people who made fun of him. His friends bought me a beer, yes, a Corona. I ate two tacos, drank a beer, and stared at my food as these three guys watched TV over my head, pausing only to wink at me during the commercials, the official club wink, I suppose.
And while you’re at it, please don’t look directly at the camera. Have you heard of the fourth wall? I have. I acted a lot in high school and a bit in college (and I’ve written four plays). King Lear, a Woody Allen thing, One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest, ect. I’ve been in these, choice roles too. Breaking the fourth wall has to be a conscious decision, made after much consideration. In the end, it is a device, and if it does not improve the story in some critical manner, or if the emotion depends on the connection, then maybe you can do it. But when some nimble tart is brushing her teeth with a cod-piece, please avert your eyes from mine, as I carefully and luxuriously study the quickest way from here to there, on myself.
I fed some left over chicken to the pigeons last weekend-a rewarding thing-to eat your own, to recycle life through your own commitment to survival. A little Croation girl, dare I say E-block, rode by on a bicycle and asked what I was doing. Well, feeding a bird a wing, I said, a chicken wing. I could have said anything and that kid would have laughed. She did drop a mitten quite close to where I was feeding the birds, and even though she seemed liked a swell kid, there was no way I was going to pick up that pigeon-shit-glove. So she had to totally stop riding, get off, pick up the mitten, then get back on her bike. Of course, she was way young for that so she kind of tipped over trying to re-embark, falling to the ground, tearing her tights slightly. Her mom rushed over and shot me a look like, “hey buddy, you could have helped out.” Then I shot back, “crap-mitten.” I only wished I could have killed that pigeon and fed it to a bald eagle. That would have been profound, and tertiary homage to survival to boot.
Piss off a Mexican, was my goal last Saturday. Anyone, just get one really pissed at me. So I went to this hole-in-the-wall taco place I love. The kind of place that shows telenovelas nonstop all day long, and yes, where dudes lines the walls to watch as well. I sat on a bench across from three other guys. They were watching TV over my head. Either I was really hungry and didn’t care about TV, or I didn’t speak Spanish and didn’t care about TV, cause there were plenty of places to sit away from these guys and watch the tele.
If I was a movie or serial director, I would have taken a far away cut shot to show that it was conspicuous how closely I sat next to these three dudes in a completely open restaurant. It didn’t take long after I sat down for one guy to ask me if I had ever seen this show. So I said, “the only thing I’ve seen is his sister’s taco.” And then I pointed to one guy, yes, wearing a cowboy hat. Basically, I had a pen in one of my hands in the likely case that they just started wailing on me. I figured, if you stab a guy, even a little, that hurts wikkid bad and his friends will probably call the police before beating me up. And not to seem macho or anything, or have the appearance of that, I’m 5’8” and these guys were easily four inches shorter than me. Well, I guess I picked the easiest target cause the other two guys laughed so hard they actually punched me in the shoulder as an initiation into the brotherhood of making fun of this one dude, who clearly had a small, but rigid following of other people who made fun of him. His friends bought me a beer, yes, a Corona. I ate two tacos, drank a beer, and stared at my food as these three guys watched TV over my head, pausing only to wink at me during the commercials, the official club wink, I suppose.