We are all in the gutter, but some are looking at the stars...
Since it appears that Sadie Frost does not love me anymore, I have reduced myself to some warped and awful form of storybooking all alone. If you know me by now you will probably be expecting me to write you a masturbatory adventure that I had in the third person. Although there are many, this story happens to be about Vincent Vaughn.
¦¦¦
It was a deplorable April the 12th in Wilmington, North Carolina. That fateful year of 2001 was still young and fresh, still at unawares of the horrible events that were already in motion. The Firebelly Lounge was just seedy enough to be cozy, offering a break from the general xenophobia life usually had to offer. Us indie film darlings, plus one Scott Rosenberg (who was just perspicacious enough to fuck us into letting him tag along), had decided to distance ourselves from the then steroid-popping John Travolta for the night. All in all it had been a long day on the set of Domestic Disturbance and we may or may not have had awful plans to do something stupid.
Timothy Fogerty was already sitting at the bar as we swung the heavy wooden door inwards, pushing a wave of blue air into an eddy against the dull yellow hum of the caged billiard-lights. As soon as I saw him my actor-sense started to tingle. I could tell that he was of the variety that nit picked through the daily garbage of his life, retrieving the bits and pieces of recyclables in a sad attempt to preserve his outside environment; a prototype that I would obviously have loved to portray. We later learned that he had just been mixing booze with his anxiety pills, one of the many many no-nos of prescription drugs.
As the door thumped shut behind us, salvos of catcalls began spewing from the various drunkards, lowlifes and whores; all of them at once realizing their seat at the ass-end of society as the glare from our Rolexes blinded them. As per usual, Vincent was just drunk enough off of the contents of his flask that he fed the dumpster-divers' rage with his garbage mouth and trash talk. By that point in time he had already been receiving psychiatric care for about 18 months to control his anger and drinking. He inevitably called all the sleazy patrons in the bar outside for a good old-fashioned parking lot rumble.
It was all very like The Outsiders as the masses of Greasers formed an odd and drunken circle around us Socs. If I had been wearing flood-pants and if switchblades were still legal, I'm almost sure that the air would have been abuzz with the all-too-familiar pop of cheaply made spring mechanisms. Vincent, of course, realized at last what he was doing and made amends with the patrons that he had so ruefully pissed off. Then out of the blue, King Dumbass himself, Timothy Fogerty, starts to wave his Swiss Army knife at me.
I was trying to calm myself down with a cigarette, smoking it in a way that could be compared to that of a stressed out, ninety-year-old, French-Catholic woman: with barely enough time to scream obscenities at her grandchildren between hard and shuddering puffs. Timothy told me to "cool down". What in the holy hell did he think that I was doing? Putting my smoke out in someone's eye did not even occur to me until years after the fact. I got into some mock jujitsu stance, looking for a patch of asphalt that was not stained with rainbow colored gasoline on which to toss my cigarette. I made some lame attempt to kick the knife from his hand, when with the cat-like agility only the frail limbs of a junkie could possess, he pounced.
I tried to bat the knife away with my hands, but my skin was no match for the sharp steel. With his first blow he managed to stab me in the head, with the second he perforated my face, and with the third he slashed my throat. To get him off of me I had to go against every male instinct that I have ever had: I jammed the thick leather heel of my boot into his testicles. "I'm happy Buscemi got stabbed," later remarked Kenneth Robert Purgason to Vincent. Upon which Vincent finally did something to defend me and kicked the fucker's ass. After being strapped to a stretcher and sped off to the hospital, I had to wait until I was released from the Intensive Care Unit to find out what happened next.
Turns out that Vincent got himself thrown into prison. And of course, this story could never be complete without the mugshots to prove it.
In the end I got off scot free, the Other Superstars were denigrated with misdemeanor assault, while Timothy Fogerty of that Savage Proletariat Persecution pleaded guilty to assault with a deadly weapon with intent to kill. I demanded that he undergo intense rehabilitation, the rest is history.
¦¦¦
It was a deplorable April the 12th in Wilmington, North Carolina. That fateful year of 2001 was still young and fresh, still at unawares of the horrible events that were already in motion. The Firebelly Lounge was just seedy enough to be cozy, offering a break from the general xenophobia life usually had to offer. Us indie film darlings, plus one Scott Rosenberg (who was just perspicacious enough to fuck us into letting him tag along), had decided to distance ourselves from the then steroid-popping John Travolta for the night. All in all it had been a long day on the set of Domestic Disturbance and we may or may not have had awful plans to do something stupid.
Timothy Fogerty was already sitting at the bar as we swung the heavy wooden door inwards, pushing a wave of blue air into an eddy against the dull yellow hum of the caged billiard-lights. As soon as I saw him my actor-sense started to tingle. I could tell that he was of the variety that nit picked through the daily garbage of his life, retrieving the bits and pieces of recyclables in a sad attempt to preserve his outside environment; a prototype that I would obviously have loved to portray. We later learned that he had just been mixing booze with his anxiety pills, one of the many many no-nos of prescription drugs.
As the door thumped shut behind us, salvos of catcalls began spewing from the various drunkards, lowlifes and whores; all of them at once realizing their seat at the ass-end of society as the glare from our Rolexes blinded them. As per usual, Vincent was just drunk enough off of the contents of his flask that he fed the dumpster-divers' rage with his garbage mouth and trash talk. By that point in time he had already been receiving psychiatric care for about 18 months to control his anger and drinking. He inevitably called all the sleazy patrons in the bar outside for a good old-fashioned parking lot rumble.
It was all very like The Outsiders as the masses of Greasers formed an odd and drunken circle around us Socs. If I had been wearing flood-pants and if switchblades were still legal, I'm almost sure that the air would have been abuzz with the all-too-familiar pop of cheaply made spring mechanisms. Vincent, of course, realized at last what he was doing and made amends with the patrons that he had so ruefully pissed off. Then out of the blue, King Dumbass himself, Timothy Fogerty, starts to wave his Swiss Army knife at me.
I was trying to calm myself down with a cigarette, smoking it in a way that could be compared to that of a stressed out, ninety-year-old, French-Catholic woman: with barely enough time to scream obscenities at her grandchildren between hard and shuddering puffs. Timothy told me to "cool down". What in the holy hell did he think that I was doing? Putting my smoke out in someone's eye did not even occur to me until years after the fact. I got into some mock jujitsu stance, looking for a patch of asphalt that was not stained with rainbow colored gasoline on which to toss my cigarette. I made some lame attempt to kick the knife from his hand, when with the cat-like agility only the frail limbs of a junkie could possess, he pounced.
I tried to bat the knife away with my hands, but my skin was no match for the sharp steel. With his first blow he managed to stab me in the head, with the second he perforated my face, and with the third he slashed my throat. To get him off of me I had to go against every male instinct that I have ever had: I jammed the thick leather heel of my boot into his testicles. "I'm happy Buscemi got stabbed," later remarked Kenneth Robert Purgason to Vincent. Upon which Vincent finally did something to defend me and kicked the fucker's ass. After being strapped to a stretcher and sped off to the hospital, I had to wait until I was released from the Intensive Care Unit to find out what happened next.
Turns out that Vincent got himself thrown into prison. And of course, this story could never be complete without the mugshots to prove it.
In the end I got off scot free, the Other Superstars were denigrated with misdemeanor assault, while Timothy Fogerty of that Savage Proletariat Persecution pleaded guilty to assault with a deadly weapon with intent to kill. I demanded that he undergo intense rehabilitation, the rest is history.