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Dilapdiated lapidary, dilated "sez Tom"on the sidewalk, walking to the porch, with the muted street lights and the scrub grass. Doesn't that sound wonderful "sez Tom"and he repeats it again. "Earlier he asked me"Do you find more interest in the story or the words? And I really was caught flatfooted. Didn't even know what to answer, had to really think, took 75 seconds, that was a good question and finally "I said"words. And I had thought to the book. And to what makes a story move for me, and finally "I said"words. I disagree now.
I have to say, things look precipitous. There's a photo here in the room my mother has set aside for me. She has put this photo here too. Words, not over story. Must have been a birthday I want to say. There are two girls here, Caroline Quinlan and Meredith Simpson, whom I wonder about. Malaika Kim, Jeb Banner, Ben barbera, Tom Vacca, Chris Blad and uncle Ted are there. I'm 15 I want to say. Photos snap a moment in time, capture something specific, they reveal a part of a whole. Like a rupture in time for me, like.
Rebalance. Return. Regift. Renaissance. One thirty AM. I've seen the pictures. In hand and on the computer. The contrast. They are blown out. Smiles are too clean, too white, too much. The folks are there, those that came. It was a photo op. you have to give in to the digital image now. Images are ghosts and aren't real. We won the tournament. Death by fire, I said. No one died this weekend. Everyone told me, "drive carefully."The pictures are there, but behind them is an embittered reality. On the other side of the photograph, there, you can write.
It's nighttime you know, when you discover the dark things, The hidden-under-your-eyes truths. Scary stuff! You have to keep your heart full, and your head sound. You have to vow for a brighter future, such a hopeless vestige of past romanticism. But maybe you just have to go to sleep. It's there that your dreams will haunt you and infuse your waking life anyway, but there they will be but shadows and still hidden. They won't bite you like MDC's March 27th entry when you start to think about Venn diagrams and shit like that. So you cool it down.
On the verge of a priapism! Warning signs said so. On the bottle. What the eff is this stuff. I feel like particles are missing and the only way to put all the pieces together, to MAKE them come together is to build up a concentrated pipeline to a release. Now put this pipeline under a religion. It will burn, it will consecrate with rage. My head is stuffed like dough. My anger rises. My illness persists. Evil snatch. Missing pieces. Drug cocktails. Bloody nose. Ringing ears. I have flashes of seeing things that aren't real come to life. Delusions....
The incompleteness of impotency. Fullfillingless' last desire, replaced by visions of Luis Bunuel. But me, here today, am sick, still, head of clay. The bacteria! For a moment today the urge was upon me but I couldn't burn it off. Nothing would suffice until the urge was fulfilled, completed. Murder, rape, incest, bacteria in the brain. Dogs that bark. Computers that hum. Bodies that bruise. The ring of posion. Complete the circle by infusing the deadly bacteria in someone else. Where's the moral fulcrum for that, how does one not respond as the animal kingdom does, as savages we are.
Looks just like the sun, looks just like it, but it looks just like the sun, it looks like it, but I'm breathing even thinking of one, heart is pounding in his chest, should be sailing in the west, flower that could be his fun (keep going), Tiavanas on his head, split his eyes, on my corner thinking in my bed, on the corner signifies (1,2,3) It looks just like it. Looks just like the sun. And it looks just like it, oh and even if I think of one (here we go). Cool and red, the colors change. Credit:BSS.
So time to move on to a new doctor, one who can diagnose a bacterial infection versus a virus. It's time also to continue to be where I'm at and make some dough, and let the projects roll. Last night was a hellbender and just what I needed. Except the girl, after 2 hours of coital bliss, couldn't remember a thing in the morning. Too drunk. Reminds me of Julie. It was funny - she messaged that she was "ripped"so I had to have an equalizer. I inputted some OC, sucked down some whiskey and showed up incapicitated and sweating profusely.
It's 3am and I'm a bit winded. The Boondocks is on, some tripped out TV there, some good fun stuff with a real edge. The girl is great, she's off to Paga for a week soon. "Granddad, You might have to change your middle name from Jebediah to Bitches, that's all I'm sayin''"This is in fact the second show in a row I've watched tonight that is directly calling out the shallow, base and crass exploitation that reality TV often is. Fundamentally, TV is as Thompson says, "[a] money trench where pimps run free and good men die like dogs-
It's 11pm. Beneath my eyelids is crimson. My head feels like sand. My ears are pained by decibels of small denomination. My pirated software is firing back at me. It's been no small waste of a day. There's no vanity left for me, no Great Belief For Tomorrow. Sad, criminal and petty resolutions await. Pitiful pornography, degraded thoughts, burned-up emotions. Chores with no joys upon completion. Unparked vehicles. Odors of animal waste. Clusters of bad vibes, no mojo left. Crust and dusty papers. The Vehicle For Tomorrow, this computer, is revolting and sick and damaged. Nightmares await. Pray for morning.
11:23 pm. Woke up from a nap after a 6am call time and a 3am sleep last evening. Watched Bottle Rocket for the first time and it is an endearing movie, no matter how cloying Wes Anderson is. Tomrrow up at 5:30 am ish to make it to Jones Beach by 7am for a shoot on the beach. So my schedule is a bit topsy-turvy this week. Same thing for tomorrow. Rest will come Friday whence I may again tackle the Sandblast DVD problem. I expect only the best in the end and will again sacrifice timeliness to get quality.
Cloudy past in present tense, on a Thursday, one day after. Let me ask myself this: how much benefit does telling the truth get you? When you take all you learned in grade school and middle school and high school and with TV specials and from your parents and from movies and books, and what your own inclination tells you, when you have gathered in so much that suggests, implores and sings the values and great benefit of "telling the truth"and you think of all the times you've been falsely accused and have only hurt yourself and others... tell me.
Inspirations: Mo Better Blues. Girls. Ultimate. Parents and Grandparents, for their frankness, honesty and integrity. Futurama, for being able to break away. Tommy Vacca, for continued exploration. Shachar, for energy and excitement. My sister, for her success. Luis BuÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â±uel. Hunter S. Thompson. John Lee Hooker. Fela. The White Stripes. Janet Weiss & Sleater-Kinney. David O. Russell. Women's soccer teams. Kurosawa. Corey Sanford. Mary Harron. Abel Klainbaum. Rhode Island. Cars, nearly all of them. Jen Harvey. The Boondocks. Matt Maillero, ATHF, 12 Oz Mouse & Squidbillies. The authors of GiG. Spike Lee. Praise. Positivity. Alcohol, at times. Hard work, at times.
FWD: Travel Document - Indianapolis 4/20/06 yo yo yo! have fun in SB. did Ele contact you? That would be... i dunno if we want her, but i wouldnt say no. I doubt she will come anyway. Not her style. she knows she would get offended mightily and mighty quickly by such male barbarism anyhoo, below is the date/time of the Indy flight (arrive 2:45pm on Thursday, leave 10:52 am monday) looks like I am going to Seattle nearly for sure for Potlatch this year over July 4th wekeend (actually 2 days before the fourth). I'll be hanging with Bean and Co.
is there a shrine for John Lee Hooker in Clarksdale? I believe he is from the neighborhood? If so, I'd like to go pay my respects. He may be a Tupelo man, but I think Clarksdale is correct. And then of course we can pay our respcts to old bluesmen by getting drunk and horny as is the protocol... where is tha talking fish onlone? Who is Ayers Froc? Is that the Washington DC women? Did you get the DVDs from Courtney? I have been trying to follow Paga at home but it is difficult! Is Sexxxpensive going to win it all?
The South is only a home, sez Eleanor, from the Fiery Furnaces. On Thursday this week, no make that Friday, I expect to investigate further and perhaps prove otherwise. It's 2:30am. I'm beat. I think we're gonna roll with the Williamsburgers @ Fort Totten for the NYTVF. Quirks of the day: Jessie naming her daughter "Eliza."She says, "Grandma used to always pat my head and say I was her favorite. So after she died and I saw her gravestone I saw for the first time her name was "Eliza"and "Beth.-"Now the controversy is over Rose's Liz, now deceased.
Yesterday was Easter. Spent some time with the fam, Pops and Uncle Ernie and cousins Gabe and Angie, and Rob, Patty, Kishani and James. Kishani's mom from India was in attendance. She smiled a lot and seemed quite bemused, or confused. I couldn't quite tell which. Kishani bought a book. My father picked one up. The guy who is running the AMERICARES program in Banda Aceh, one of the cities destroyed by the Tsunami, apparently started the Jakarta Ultimate club. Ernie therefore figured it couldn't hurt to bring back a gift from the States. Today I finished the Sandblast DVD, finally.
Charles K. is a director/ producer of films that are the behind-the-scenes of Oliver Stone movies and fodder for the DVDs. HeÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â¢Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â€šÂ¬Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â€žÂ¢s a good friend of OliverÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â¢Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â€šÂ¬Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â€žÂ¢s, as well as James Woods (ÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â¢Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â€šÂ¬Ãƒâ€šÃ…â€œJimmyÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â¢Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â€šÂ¬Ãƒâ€šÃ‚Â he calls him) and Dustin Hoffman and Val Kilmer and so on. I worked with him today, we were shooting interviews with staff members of Bellevue Hospital who had helped two policemen survive after being buried in the rubble of the World Trade Center on September 11th, of which a new Oliver Stone movie will be coming out soon. "Oliver tends to lean to sentimentality" warned Charles.
Now begins the beginning of an ominous point in time for me. Tomorrow afternoon I head to Indianapolis where I will meet up with Tom for the roadtrip to Oxford, MS. I feel wary, I suspect that this mini-vacation may cost more than I will realize. I must maintain momentum in the battle to turn the corner and get a movie off the ground. I can sense time starting to close in on me, a slow suffocation. I know I'll live to 70, but the vigor and hope in a particular future is being consumed by the very force of living.
If the "true freak" quality that enables permanent hope for future rockers and artists holds up, then the Fiery Furnaces have arrived. The come-and-go quality of most bands will be gone when these guys are ripping it up in their 50s. Matt Freidberger is an amazingly wicked guitartist with severe ADD who cops choppy 80s new wave guitar riffs. Eleanor has a built-in intensity and anger that will never fully dissipate. Tonight they played an all-rock set, drums, bass, electric guitar, vocals. They tore the scene to pieces. An unforgettable evening, even if it is difficult to sing their songs afterwards.
Last night was malibu rum-scented stripper flesh in the sniffer seats, jigglies to get your singles. An occasional back of the skull rub over the shaft trick carried some entertainment value, as did the tongue sliding delicately on the side of the neck, and the whispered moans and grunts--the special effects in Dolby surround sound. Of more desirable pleasure was the scent of a woman beneath the perfumes and oils, the natural odor of sex. When that faint touch broke through the fakeness then a little bit of ecsstasy descended upon you, briefly of course, but well worth the exchange rate.
Well, this was the day we knew was coming: the return to three-man. I somehow had Ed resist playing Led Zeppelin but otherwise the day was well-ordered around Doctor Professor Gutting and his retinue. We picked up Ele at the Memphis airport, which is where we told her we were on Friday, a lie made manifest and true on Saturday. The preppies in the town, the call made to Ed on Friday, myself as the lookalike for Mayor Howorth, the twins in the closet, the call to Jesus, the keg, karoake with the metrosexual, the Ole Miss FKA Rebels, steaks.
8 hours, to the minute, 4:12 to 12:12, from Oxford, Mississippi to Bloomington, Indiana. Via the freeways and interstates, MS to TN to AR to MO to IL to IN. We couldve gone the Neil route through Kentucky, to Terre Haute, for a lecture on Intelligent Design. But we made our own way under clear skies and trucker's fumes. In Missouri on 55 going 85mph the black-tinted sunroof on Tom's car EXPLODED upon us, a great big crack with small blackened bits of what looked like birdshot crashing into the car. Tom's knee got cut in three places, all minor.
I've been stuck in the Indianapolis airport for 3 hours now and at least 1 more to go. You don't really actually want to fly on bankrupt airlines. A pregnant woman walks by, buoyant and huge and well-rounded. Overhead, the fluorescents are humming madly like torture. Scouring for music on the laptop. Brain a little distended. Guy who looks like Tom Cruise sits across from me. My hands are aging, mottled, grotesque. Everyone leaves, they have changed the boarding gate. The entire area empties, it's again as it has remained, a terminal seeking to insure that I get stuck here interminably.
Collate: Casting Director. Yong. A rehearsal space and actor's actors. Tuning in comedy. Multi-camera shoot. Animated madness. Producer w/out money. Contract for future show pick-up if. Comedians/ Jim F. and the Board. Rififi. Nitzan & Shush. Brandon S. and/or Hiali. Build a set: Living Room, Kitchen, Bedroom. Schedule rehearsal time. Shoot in June >> mid to Late. [Jon from Ivory Snow -- the regulars are here, Tuesday, for NYC Bar League Pool Night. A man missing the left spoke on his extra-wide-gauge plastic spectacles -- looks like Jimmy Tokens. I digress. Tomorrow for progress. Caveman. Mexican man. Now they hiss.]
"Why do you have to act like you stole my love when I gave it to you?"--Royal Trux. I am not sure what this would have to do with my situation, whatever exactly that situation is. OK, I'll decipher: it's nearing the end of those moments of unchecked companionship and heading towards less-involved and freedom-loving freefall fun with girlie girls. Or the inevitable left-right combo, which I am assiduously trying to avoid. Or on over to active duty, but I'm kidding. So I've been working all day, trying to escape the gravity of a girl's world and not get drawn down
Sergeant Rockhard! Hup to. Bone up, chin down, lay into those DVD case covers! The grains, in my eyes, the burn. Shrug it off! No time to be soft, like Vince Carter. Go AJ on them. Dish out 8 assists, drop 25, and make zero turnovers. At point. Who makes zero turnovers at starting point guard? That's sick. That's revenge. That's gamesmanship. I have a 6am call time, on location, tomorrow morning. It's 11pm now, so in 20 minutes I am to be crashing out. I feel sad, but am covering well with work. Good signs abound for Wimmy.
After the Nap. 10am call time tomorrow. Am too tired now at 3am to think much. All I know now is vows and fingers rattling the keyboard. Vows to make the Williamsburgers happen, rattle. Vows to keep movies on the mind. Rattle, click, clephunk. Rubber bands around my wrists -- they are increasing in number. Reminders to stay the course and work diligently towards a goal. Comedy is all in the timing. Now for me, it's in the preparation. Out with the old, keep Grunberg around, and then in with the new. Saturday is the 1 year anniversary of Liz's death.
I'm here at I____ studios in the west village, milling about with 15 others for a QG photoshoot about London, which in advertising terms (what runs magazines) means Beefeater gin. Beefeater gin means Lonfon. It's a symbiotic thing. QG = the love of London, represented by the Good Life = Beefeater = London = New York = Stylish fashion for men = QG subscribers. It's part of the couture of London besides raincoats. Teddy boys and soulboys wearing black, or dandy at Wimbledon, drinking Beefeater and Tonic, if not getting told off for talking too much. Wimbledon being, of course, rather stately.
I'm a little run-down from a couple of games of Spring League Ultimate and the early morning shoot with D___. This would be the last entry for this month after losing a bet to complete March because the other bettor never bothered to remind me that March was going to happen, so she went ahead and did it. I owe her $31 but she refuses to accept the bet. I don't know what that means. Pride wants to have me send her the check. Is that really so necessary though? She doesn't need $31 nor expects it, and might be shown-up.
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