On Being Shitty at my Job.

I put together a small amount of money to shoot a flick next year.  This seems nice, but now I have to write a script.  There was a quote, I think it was by Blake.  I could google it, but I’m not the kind of asshole that puts energy into shit.  The quote goes a little something like “Writing free verse is like playing tennis with the net down.”  Writing a flick with next to no money to put into production value is playing tennis with the nets up.  Anything you want to do you can’t afford to do.  Lately all I seem to be writing about is vandalism, and masturbation.  All my reoccurring ideas are silly nonsense that don’t push the story forward, shed light on the characters, or make for a compelling story.  They don’t even fit into a traditional narrative.  It’s just bullshit.  It’s not even logical bullshit.  I’m writing a father son story, and all I’m producing is vandalism, and masturbation.  Fathers and sons don’t do that shit together.

This was in my notebook this morning.  It’s a voice over that was written over a montage of the main character taking a small piece of plywood, and turning it into a bed of nails.  Taking that bed of nails, and placing it puncture side up inside of an empty pizza box.  And, then, placing that pizza box in the road, so an unsuspecting driver would drive over it thinking it was an empty pizza box, and shred his tires.  This was the voice over for that scene; a non-sequitur that accompanied that montage of vandalism: “I first figured out to masturbate between two a days.  I had Playboys I stole trying to look cool in front of the older kids.  The magazine rack was in the back of the corner store.  I’d stick a Playboy down my pants and walk out.  I’ve never had the fear that other people do.  One day, I went home after first practice, and for some reason I started to stroke myself.  It wasn’t until around the third time of doing this that I figured out that there was an ending.  A logical conclusion point.  After that I had a silk shirt.  I cut the sleeves off, put one sleeve inside the other, stuffed cotton in between them, and sewed up the ends.  I fucked that as my pubic hair was growing in.”

Now what am I going to do with that bullshit?  This is the end game when you have no talent.

On the Death of my Therapist, and Recomendations: “The Devil’s Butcher Shop” by Roger Morris and “Pryor Convictions” by Richard Pryor

My therapist died in a car accident.  I’m not sure how to feel.  I mean I do feel sadness, and grief.  It’s weird to lose someone you tell your secrets to for an hour a week, but it’s not like we’re friends.  I paid her to listen to me pointlessly pontificate.  She didn’t do it because we were pals, and she was trying to help me get my shit together, but you do feel some sort of friendship.

I wanted to find a new therapist because she was bad at her job.  I’d tell her something I needed help with like that I don’t feel proud of myself, or most days I have a hard time finding a reason to keep going on, and she’d change the subject.  She offered me no insight into life, or myself, but I didn’t want to criticize her job as a therapist, or find a new one because you do feel like it’s a friend, and you don’t want to say something hurtful to them.  Even though it’s a friend you pay for.  Like one time I told her I’m embarrassed by myself, and instead of trying to help me deal with that she asked me if I believed in Santa Claus.  I’m thirty fucking two, and she’s asking me if I believe in Sante fucking Claus?  And, I’m paying her for this nonsense.  The only move she had was to blame my father because I was bullied by that asshole.  My father’s an sshole who made my life much more difficult than it needed to be.  I grew up with him I didn’t need to pay for that information.  But, that’s all she had.  She also didn’t take into account the shitty childhood he had that he still hadn’t wrapped his head around when he had children before condemning him for my entire psyche.

She’d play around on her laptop during our sessions.  So, maybe in the long run this is what’s best for me.  Although maybe I’m a huge dick for thinking that.  I don’t know the person I’d attempt to discuss that with isn’t around.

 

These are some things I’ve been reading that I found interesting:

This is one of the most haunting things I’ve read since I read “Helter Skelter” when I was in forth grade.  That book was such a nightmare that as an adult I paid some Mexican garners to let me act like I was with them just so I could wander around the former Tate property to make an attempt to exercise those demons.  It’s not only haunting because of the slaughter it details.  If you want to know what happens when a blow torch is taken to a snitches head – that picture is painted in this book.  But, it’s haunting because of the corruption in details that not only lead to the riot, but the corruption that was used to cover the asses oft he  people in power so they didn’t have to face any of the consequences of there actions that lead up to the riot.  It’s haunting because that story is not unique; it’s happening in mass.

And of course the autobiography of a legend:

 

On Woodshop, and Neighbors.

I took woodshop in high school not because I like building shit with my hands, in fact I despise it,  I took woodshop because I’m stupid, and I couldn’t handle real classes.  I got a two in Spanish one year.  When I asked the teacher how I got a two she told me she gave me a point for each day I showed up.  Most people in woodshop build shelves; build a table.  I had no use for any of that bullshit, so I usually sat in the back of the shop  huffing from the schools supply of paint.  Eventually the teacher told me I had to build something, or he’s going to remove me from the class.  I told him I’d start something next week.  That I just needed time to think of a project because I have no use for that shelve nonsense.  I came back in next week, and told him that I decided to build a life sized coffin.  That sounds creepy as fuck, right?  That’s why I did it.  Once a girl told me broads take an interest in me because I have this mysterious jack ass like quality to me.  So imagine that mysterious kid is in the wood shop building a coffin for god knows what, or for god knows why.  You’re going to cross to the other side of the street to avoid that cocksucker.  That’s why I did it.  Because shit like that makes me laugh.  I went to the Home Depot purchased lumber, hinges, and brasswork purely to make people uncomfortable because that amuses me.  That’s how committed I am to fucking with people.  I further alienated myself, made myself the schools Charles Manson,  just to make one person laugh.

Awhile back , I noticed there was an empty storefront across the street from the church in town.  I need a place to work because I’m not responsible enough to work from home.  I just end up jerking off, and watching television.  So, I rented this storefront.  One day I’m sitting in my store staring out the front window at the church across the street; thinking about the people going in, and going out.  Even in a forced work exile I can’t get my shit together enough not to procrastinate.  Watching this church I came up with an idea that was too funny not to pass up.  The fuck with people, even to spite my own face, beast was awaken.  I went to the nearest Kinko’s, and had a sign made up that said a swingers club was opening  soon, and hung it in the store’s front window; just to fuck with the church people across the street.  Caution to the wind, ignoring all consequences, I did it just to make one person laugh.

The sign is hanging in the front window for a few days,  I’m down at my store working, and there’s a knock on the door.  Now this store’s an empty store.  It’s just a makeshift office.  It’s dark.  There’s not even an incline that there’s anything there for sale.  There’s just a desk, and a lamp.  I’ve given no reason for anyone to be calling.  I get up to find the source of the knocking, and it’s the local police.  It turns out the church people across the street have been calling the cops nonstop telling them to arrest me for attempting to open up a swingers club.  Now hanging a sign that’s just black letters on a white background isn’t illegal.  There’s no imagery that would be inappropriate to the public, so I’ve done nothing to warrant the cops attention.  All the police could do was ask me to take the sign down. Now I’m a mother fucker who if he’s not doing something illegal; he’s thinking about it, so, it’s always a good idea for me to be on the good side of the police just in case I need a favor.  So, I took the sign down just to make their life easier, and stop the church people from harassing them with phone calls.  The police leave, but I can’t get any work done because all  I can think about is what assholes my neighbors are, and how they have no sense of humor.  Didn’t Jesus say to love thy neighbor, and they’re trying to persecute me?  So, I’m turning it over in my head, getting no work done, and I’m getting pissed off.  Now is the time for action to purge my thoughts, and cleanse my mind.

I go home, and I get on one of those websites that advertises prostitutes.  Not a classy site.  One of those sites that has really low end hookers on it.  I contacted the girl who had the ad that made her look like the most meth ridden whore that was on that website, and I hired her for the day.  When we met I tell her I didn’t hire her for sex.  That I just want to start drinking heavily.  After a minor, but lightly dizzying level of drinks I tell her my prank.  I tell her that we’re going to go down to my storefront neighborhood, and go door to door introducing ourselves as the new proprietors in town.  The new proprietors that are the one who are opening up the swingers club.  I shaved my beard into a pedophile looking mustache, and slicked back my hair.  She put on the skankiest dress she had, which she apparently was already wearing, and we went to introduce ourselves to the community; to our new neighbors.  We told them that we hoped to see them when our club had its grand opening next week.  To come to the opening with an open mind, and protection.  We even gave them the password to get through the door: yellow popsicle.  I don’t think there has been more fun had in my life.  Never have I returned home full of more laughter, and satisfaction.  Never have a returned home feeling more like Terry Southern’s Magic Christian.

“Legacy of Ashes” by Tim Weiner “The War for Late Night” by Bill Carter and Jim Jefferies’s “Legit”

These are all things I’d recommend:

It says Weiner.

As usual I’m late to the party.  I think this sat on my bookshelf for two years.  It gave me no reason to wait that long.

On Questions.

A couple of conundrums that have been making me scratch at the ole noggin.

Stuffed nose.  Soar throat.  Coughing.  Sneezing.  I feel a cold coming on if it isn’t already here.  To combat it I’ve started drinking what I’ve taken to calling “BeerQuil.”  It’s served like an Irish Car Bomb, but with different ingredients; you pour the drink, and drop the shot in.  Even if the shot is in that little plastic serving sized like shot glass that comes on top of a medicine bottle.

There’s no way this can possibly be bad for me, is there?  I mean alcohol kills germs, and I doubled down on that shit.

Driving through an upscale neighborhood today I looked out the car window to see  an elderly woman walking down the sidewalk.  She looked like the grandmother we’ve come to love; caring, jovial, like a warm blanket,and a cup of hot chocolate on a cold day.  She was dressed to the nines.  Dressed in expensive clothes; dinner at the country club clothes.  I’m better than you clothes.  Mink stole.  Hair perfect.  Makeup done with a lifetime of skill.  Heels.  A hint of superiority.  Walking with purpose and perfect posture.  She looked like the wet dream recruit for the Red Hat Society.  Except; she was carrying a sledge hammer.  Hours later I’m still trying to wrap my head around this.  Is there an explanation for this?

A Word From Dan Marino’s Secret Love Child.

Today, January 31st, word broke that former NFL quarterback Dan Marino had a secret love child.  We have heard Dan’s statement.  As Dan Marino’s secret love child, seven year old Soft Skull Savattere, I would like to make a statement of my own.  There is nothing wrong between the love of a child and a man.  I didn’t; wasn’t Dan Marino’s secret lover child because he was a guy who never won, but just a guy who threw the ball around a lot, I loved him because of his inbred smile, hair plugs, and mouth breather gaze.  I do not wish to break up his family, although, much like Micheal Jackson dying ,maybe that’s what’s best for the children  involved as I’ve experienced the wet noodle Marino tries to push inside of me, and I can’t in good conscience recommend that for another lover child.  Sure I received hush money payment, but wouldn’t it be a bigger crime if I wasn’t in the Hamptons?  Most of all I would just like to say Dan’s CBS career shouldn’t make like Dale Earnhardt, and die by crashing into a wall because this is no scandal; this is love.  We will not despair.  We are true to our feelings.  Our oppression will end.  We are brave.  We are proud.  We are not ashamed of our man child love.

I will end this statement echoing the statement the lover of this child, Dan Marino, made.  This is to request that people respect our privacy because this is a personal and private matter.  What that really means is like Ray Lewis ignoring questions about the murder case he was involved in; it’s just easier for them if you didn’t ask people about the fucked up shit they do.  Huh.  Easier.  That’s Dan’s thing.  Reminds me of this nugget of pillow talk that Dan used to regale me with: “You know Soft Skull it’s a lot easier to fuck a child than to win a Superbowl.”

On Bullshit.

Walking down Hollywood Boulevard, it’s the street with the nonsense stars in the sidewalk, going back to the hotel I’m staying in after grabbing something to eat. 

The hotel I like to frequent for the long term LA stay I choose because the room is arranged in such a manor that one can watch the television while simultaneously seated on the shitter.  Walking towards the temporary domicile I approach a street psychic who has a small almost cardboard box like table in front of her.  She has a tourist she’s looped into her scam seated across from her.  She has the mark’s hand in hers, over the table, as she runs the short con.  As I walk past this is what I hear of the psychic’s reading of her rube “I get the impression that you’re very gullible.”  The laughter comes in such a violent eruption that I  can’t breath; can’t move.  I hope I didn’t ruin her grift as she spoke this statement without a hint of irony, or a confession of manipulation of the rube’s lack of intelligence.