Tuesday, January 27, 2009

Play Her Isms

I was recently contacted by a local university in regards to a student being investigated for plagiarism.

Apparently, they do a random web sweep of certain phrasings and found my blog came up. I can’t wait to find out who it is (I have my suspicions), but I’m not sure how I feel about ruining someone’s academic life.

I will refrain from posting anything new until this is resolved, but hate to leave a gap (who doesn’t?) so will gently pluck from the archives here and there.


I'm Not Human, I'm Just Stuck in One, Pt. 2

I was just having a chat with my friend Candy about Marlon Brando in that scene in "Last Tango in Paris" where he's shoving butter up that woman's ass.

Who thought that one up? Is/was this a common thing, butter-packing? Do you think it inspired others to squish some "Land O' Lakes" between the cakes?

Imagine the director, Bertolucci, telling Brando "Ok, the butter…you put uppa her ass, no?"

Brando was probably like "But then what do we put up mine, paté ? Frozen, or fresh? I need to know how to project the texture - it's a Stanislovski thing."

I do wonder how one mentally prepares for a day of filming that requires a straight face while implementing a stick of butter into someone else's rectal area. Or for that matter, being on the receiving end of the dairy product. Was there like 20 takes with a big cooler of fresh butter from craft services at hand? Can you tell the difference if they use margarine instead?

Think of the conversations between the stand-ins while the lighting is being tested for this shot, or better yet, imagine the actress, after the scene, deciding the best route of removal. Let it melt or is it latex glove snapping time?

Were there other items that Bertolucci first opted for butt plugging, but found they didn't suit the scene? What was the deciding factor that butter was the clincher?

I used to play with this drummer who let me have a go on his kit whenever we took a break at practice, that is, until he told me his girlfriend would shove his drumsticks up his ass whenever they had sex. I can still hear the clicking sounds of the sticks when they fell from my very sorry hands to the unsuspecting floor below (that floor never did forgive me). I scrubbed like a surgeon about to crack open a lawyer after that tidbit of information (there is a limit to how well informed I want to be). It certainly gave new meaning to the term "rim shot", if nothing else.

I guess I'm boring vanilla, since I'm pretty much an "exit only" person when it comes to the workings of my butt, though I don't begrudge those that get hopped up on the old "reach around", I guess. Your thing is your thing.

How does one broach the subject these days? Especially if butter is the insertion of choice. Do you just stop off at the fridge on the way to the bedroom, point and raise your eyebrows? Or do you discuss it beforehand, over dinner when the bread arrives?

Currently listening:
I Should Coco
By Supergrass
Release date: 1995-07-18

Sunday, January 18, 2009

Word to Your Mummy

I think your mummy is pretty hotUr Mummy - Niyi

She unloaded the giant jar of loose change (as opposed to "tight" change) onto the horrified State Farm Insurance agent’s desk, all $170.00 worth. The agent glanced my way as if I was going to reveal that this was indeed a joke, but I was existentially blank aside from my left hand fiddling with the collar of my faux leopard coat.

They needed time to count it, so we went to the bathroom and each dropped a hit of LSD.

Next to the bathroom was an arcade that upon entering we were promptly thrown out of for not having any ID during school hours. We were 19 and 20 respectively, and didn’t think we’d need them since we had taken the subway, so we loitered elsewhere until it was time to collect our receipt of payment from the clenched teeth on legs back at State Farm.

The acid kicked in when we arrived at the first museum. We didn’t stay long as I couldn’t take seeing those paintings trapped in frames; they just looked too painfully boxed in and my empathy was bringing on an attack of claustrophobia.

We went to a café for a drink and as we made our way to a table, she gasped behind me. I stopped without turning around and with the widest of eyes asked what was wrong.

“Jesus Fucking Christ!” She said, “For a second there, I thought I had no clothes on!”

I immediately shrieked and clasped my arms to my chest causing her then to ask me of my issue. “I just figured that if you didn’t have anything on, then neither would I” I snorted. She started to giggle too, and then we quickly stopped in suspicion of ourselves and everyone around us.

The Museum of Natural History was perfect for the next eyeful; incredibly bad taxidermy, people in long lines to see a very shiny rock, and MUMMIES! Dead encased in glass, demanding complete quiet or hushed tones. Each see through, resting place had a marker on it explaining whether a male or female resided there, where it was found, and how old it possibly was.

We and a vast group of others were encircling the one that was an unidentified female who was about 4 feet tall, and had given birth three times. Not a word was uttered as people pondered whatever it is one processes when looking at a rotted corpse from another era altogether, or any corpse for that matter.

“Someone FUCKED that!” I yelled, breaking the silence with a Ball Peen hammer.

Sounds of disgust and even the beginning chokes of vomiting were heard as hard stares focused on me and my pointed finger. Realizing I said that out loud backed me right into a fit of uncontrollable cackling. She was already on the floor crying the best kind of cry and trying to express her disbelief that I actually said that, when I suggested we dash in case I really upset someone.

As we took our exit, I looked over my shoulder at the unidentified female and hoped that she laughed that hard at least once in her short time outside the glass.

Currently listening:
Taking Drugs to Make Music to Take Drugs To
By Spacemen 3
Release date: 2003-09-23

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

The Sound

Light up, light up
As if you have a choice
Even if you cannot hear my voice
I'll be right beside you dear
Run - Snow Patrol

A bloated moon was trying to con its way into my room early Saturday morning, as if it felt the need to witness my insomnia once again.

My eyelids finally weighed in over my thoughts and I do believe I drifted off for approximately fifteen minutes, or maybe a lifetime, depending on your perception. It was the “wee” hours, when most tongues are collectively engaged in something far more enjoyable than verbiage, or they have signed on for snoring and swallowing detail only, so it was relatively quiet.

These January nights allow for open windows and where I live in Florida is quite flat so noise of any kind carries through screens without effort. The soft rustling of eyelashes brushing pillow every time I blinked was the only recognized layer over the silence, until I heard the sound.

That sound. Many have heard it and for some, it was the last thing audible. The unforgiving, callous sound of taking. The sound that took everything from me once, so I knew what came next.

5:17 A.M. Ten minutes passed before I heard the sirens. No helicopters.

That evening, on my way to pick up my friends, I saw the herd of mourners already placing floral markers in the dark.

My return trip was encased in fog that even werewolves would stay out of (I wonder if they drive?). It was nearly 24 hours later.

I found the story on the internet. The sound took three, one with the same first name as mine who was taken from me.

The name immediately triggers thoughts about those eyes that used to see the real me without expectations - they see for someone else now. The heart that symbolically belonged to me (even though I didn’t deserve it) saved yet another. All in all, what was taken from me was given to 6 others.

I take that fact and cover my ears with it, but I can still hear the sound.

Currently listening:
Final Straw
By Snow Patrol
Release date: 2004-03-30

Friday, January 9, 2009

My Middle Beast Solution

(Please note the following is sarcastic. The author does not support occupations or invasions of any kind.)

Bomb, bomb, bomb us back together
A new way into a lost answer
The Answer - Bloc Party

I say we solve this Middle East conflict in true American form.

Let’s pull an “Iraq” on Cuba and make it the new Israel! (Jew-ba?)

Why the fuck not? It makes perfect sense to me. It would be easy to do now that Castro is becoming all but obsolete, and I think we may actually get greeted with flowers this time (or at least a good sandwich). What’s another bearded led regime to us ay? It’s a perfect solution.

All Cubans will be absorbed into the U.S. boosting baseball to another level, and cutting down on raft deaths. They can just do a massive house swap with all the Jews in South Florida, who can then set things up for the Israelis to arrive.

I know there are religious based land issues, but if a mountain can be brought to Mohammed, then surely we can uproot a few sacred sites and transplant them “double wide” style for a couple of Seths and Rachels, no?

Now I know the weather would take some adjusting to, but hey, hurricane season is far more survivable than suicide bomber season. One other perk too, is if anyone starts feeling nostalgic about the old Israel, they can go picnic down in Guantanamo Bay and get screamed at by the Arabs imprisoned by the U.S. One afternoon full of “Death to Israel”s and that homesickness will float seamlessly away. Aaaaaahhhhhh.

There’s already a built-in cigar industry waiting for them, not to mention a tourist bonanza just waiting to happen (Disney on the Mount? Oy-Cot Center?).

I realize there are downsides. Making cigars legal will rapidly stink up the U.S., and when the Cubans find out they don’t have free health care here, they might get a bit pissy, but we need to focus on the positive. Particularly the saving of the billions of dollars that we send to both sides of this insanity every year. Maybe WE could have healthcare with that? Or you know, maybe some folks at the Pine Ridge Reservation could get some running water with that money - I’m just sayin’.

If we don’t do something soon, they may blow us all to Antarctica. I’m subject to chapped lips as it is and if I’m blown to bits, it’s much harder to apply the Burt’s Bees, ya dig?

Currently listening:
By Siouxsie and the Banshees
Release date: 1990-10-25

Sunday, January 4, 2009

She Shot

"Don't shoot shoot shoot that thing at me.
You know you've got my sympathy. but
don't shoot shoot shoot that thing at me
." Add it Up - The Violent Femmes

(Heheh you thought I'd put up "Happiness is a Warm Gun", but that's a heroin reference my sweets.)

My dream job at this point, aside from writing for "The Daily Show" or Jimmy Kimmel, would be to have my own cop series with an all female precinct.

I would play the cranky, seven time divorced captain. My girls Sabrina, Jean, Myla, and Kelly would be my detectives, and Candy would head up the K9 unit and be our bookie.

We would all play former skateboarders turned liberal cops. All would be borderline drunks that would never dream of going to rehab, and Denis Leary would direct and consult.

We'll start our own Lifetime Network branch, "Lifetime Fuck You" for the less sappy of our generation.

Actors need to be comfy with guns for parts like that, and yesterday a bunch of my dancing buddies and I cozied up to a variety of them: A PS-90, shotguns, 45's, and 9 mm's.

Can you believe a psycho like me is allowed to have a gun? (Some laws definitely need to be revised.)

I'm not a gun "nut" or advocate, but am not "anti-gun" either. I think getting behind some of those weapons helps one further understand what they can really do. I won't lie, I take to a Beretta like it's a pair of Italian boots, but shooting a 45 gave me the shakes and I had a lot of nightmares last night. I grew up with shotguns in Michigan (about 90% of all rural American Indians have guns specifically for shooting white people with), so those don't alarm me, but I will stick with the 9 mm's, thanks.

Yes, I am a "peace first", left wing liberal, but one that can step up to them Alaskan bitches if we're ever in a pinch. (That would be fucking hilarious.)

Me shooting a PS-90:

A rare pic where the shell casing is flying from the clip, just above my wrists:

When I yelled "Yeah I shot his dick off!" (referring to my target dude), everything got quiet and all my weaponry was swiftly confiscated:

Currently listening :
Don't Shoot Me Santa By The Killers
Release date: 2007-12-04