On Getting Into a Fight at my Sister’s Wedding.

I’m from the deep back woods.  Eat that bug spray covered dick cocksucker.  As soon as I made the connections I needed to make a living I moved back to the deep back woods.  I got my beer.  Got my TV.  Got my guns.  Ain’t nobody gonna take any of that shit from me without a fight.  I’m from so far down that dirt road that not only am I the first one with my surname to graduate college, but, at my sisters wedding she had PBR on tap.  Till this day I still can’t see a hipster drinking PBR without getting punch happy.  That’s how you want to live you swine?  We back woods people don’t have shit, not even a full set of teeth, and you want to take something from us you privileged teat sucking fiends.  I’ll fight a motherfucker for drinking that shit if he’s doing it while wearing a wool hat.

You’re my boy blue.

 

When my sister got married she had this bridesmaid, Rosie.  Rosie had a fiancé who didn’t come to the wedding.  He stayed in the hotel, and then came to the reception because the reception had an open bar, and he’s classy.  For real.  What kind of docuhebag ratfink fucking move is that.  Your fiancé is in the wedding, but you can’t be bothered to go.  However you can be bothered to take advantage of the bride’s family’s generosity by eating, and drinking for free.  Dick.  So it’s getting towards the end of the night, and I see this cocksucker, and he’s redfaced drunk like a Mexican at 8am on any street in LA.  The only thing he’s missing is the 40 in a brown paper bag.  He’s waving back, and forth too drunk to stand still, and he’s got his hands all over my cousin Jamie.  He’s trying to grab her tits.  He’s trying to force his tongue down her throat, and she’s trying to push him off.  I go over, and I tell the kid “Look man, we’ve all had too much to drink, and done something stupid.  Just realize that’s what you’re doing right now, and cut the shit.”  He tells me “No, she likes it’” and goes back to trying to force himself on her as she tries to get away.  So I put my hand on his shoulder as I try to lead him towards the exit, and tell him “I think it’s time you left chief.”  Angered he pushes my hand of his shoulder, and flips over a table while yelling, “I’m not going anywhere.”  The crash of the table got my old man’s attention, and he came running over.  Taking in all the commotion I look over, and this kid’s throwing awkward rope-armed haymakers at my old man.  You’re not gonna do that shit in front of me.  I take the bar’s pint glass that’s in my hand, and I come crashing down on the top of his head with it.  I used it like it was a rock, and gave him one good shot to the crown of his skull with the bottom of the glass like the apes when they first discovered tools in 2001.  He hit the ground like his legs were taken out from beneath him.  My old man grabs the kid in the fishhook, and leads him by the mouth out of the reception hall, into the hallway, and through a folding table.  Seeing he’s on the ground I go over, and start stomping the guy like I’m Joe Pesci in Goodfellas.  My Uncle is a Boston cop.  He comes running up next to me, and stars yelling out what crimes I’m committing.  “Your foots a deadly weapon.  That’s 3-5.  Use your fists.”  I keep stomping, and as I do his wooden leg falls off.  The guy had a fucking wooden leg.  Like a pirates leg.  A peg leg.  So, now, it’s turned into some fucked up version of the fugitive where it isn’t me it’s the one legged man.  I stand the kid, and put my shoulder into him like a linebacker, drive him from the hallway, out the front door, and into a limo that’s parked in front of the reception hall.  My old man comes running out, and just throws the kids discarded wooden leg like it’s a javelin.  Now there’s a big crowd, and the limo driver wants to fight me for throwing the kid into his shitty car.  He’s a pussy.  My old man’s a big guy.   I’m more of a twink.  A twink that digs the pussy, fuck yeah motherfucker.  But, my old man used to kick my ass growing up, so I can defend myself despite my size.  One of my arms is longer than the other because my old man broke my wrist 3 times when I was a kid.   My old man tells the limo driver that the guy he’s trying to fight is his son, and if he had a beef with me he had one with him.  The limo driver tells him “I’ve got no problem with you sir, my problems with the little guy.”  Fagot can’t pick on someone his own size.  I called the limo driver a cunt a bunch of times.  The crowd keeps us apart.  Things disperse.  Some strange old man uses his fingernails to scratch my neck from behind me.  I elbow him in the nose.  He cries like the bitch he is.  A bitch that comes out of the shadows, and scratches you from a blind spot.  I go back inside.  There was a prom in the room next to my sisters wedding reception.  They had come out to see what had happened.  “Whatcha looking at you fucking cunts?” I yelled.  I shouldn’t have done that; I apologize.  The next day when my old man, and I returned the rented tuxes we just threw them on the counter, and ran out of the store because those monkey suits had blood stains.

Later the night is over.  We had a shuttle take us back to the hotel, and when we get there a cop is waiting for us.  The one legged man had called the cops on us.  He asks us about the fight, and we tell the cop the story.  We finish and he goes “Sounds like he got what was coming to him.”  And, the cop left.  We get inside the hotel, and my sister is crying.  She goes “I didn’t want to have a white trash wedding, and a fight broke out.”  I tell her, “Angela, your first dance as wife and man was to Poison, no matter what happened you had a white trash wedding.”  Then I went to bed, which lead to the best part of this story: no hangover the next day.

On Being My Own Worst Enemy.

I write shitty scripts.  Occasionally I have to pitch projects.  As far as I can tell, there’s two secrets to pitching a project:

1.  Be enthusiastic.  Jump up on chairs, wave you hands around, get passionate because if you’re excited about something other people will get excited too because enthusiasm is contagious.

2.  Act like you don’t need them, and they’re doing you a favor.  It’s the douche bag getting the hot chick theory.  He got her because he acted like an asshole that didn’t need her, not because he was needy and worshiped the ground she walked on.  People are weird like that.

One time I was pitching this project, and they were digging it.  They told me they loved the script, and they wanted to do business with me.  That they always pay for lunch, and they believe in what I do.  They asked who I envisioned playing the lead.  Now, this is why I shouldn’t be allowed to talk.  “Well I was watching this flick on cable last night because it had a girl in it I could jerk off to.” I told them.  “I’m watching it for her, but this young kid came on, and he was electric.  Straight charisma.  He’s got star written all over him.”  “Really who was it?” They leaned forward in their chairs anticipating the answer.   “I believe his name was Keith Ledger.”  Now that Batman flick hadn’t come out yet, but Heath was dead.  It was a big news story.  They broke the news to me he had passed.  I pretended that I didn’t know.  No one got this joke, but me.  No one was intended to get this joke, but me.  They never returned my calls after that.  But it was funny.  It made me laugh.  It was worth shooting myself in the foot.

On Having an Old Black Gay European Man Who Walked With a Cane Stalking me.

I was walking down Mass Ave. one day.  I looked over, and there was this old black man talking to me.  He had been following me, and talking to me for quite some time apparently.  I walk with my head down.  I look at my feet.  I paused the music, take off the headset, and looked over to hear what he had to say.  “Are you in a band?”  “Nope.”  “You look like you’re in a band.”  He followed me down the street.  I went in a shop, and got a metal rod shot through my face.  I came out, and he was still there.  He waited for me.  Like a dog waits for you.  He offered to buy me coffee.  He was an old black man.  Probably in his seventies.  He walked with a cane.  It’s next to imposable for me to be mean to my elders.  He came off as lonely.  I felt for him.  No matter how polite I was he wouldn’t leave, and I can’t bring myself to disrespect my elders.  I had a great grandmother that lived to 113.  It’s hard to get to that age.  Everyone dies on you, everyone leaves, and your body falls apart.  And the cats, and the cradle, and the silver moon.  My boy he grew up just like me.  I had a soft spot for him because of her, so I went, and got coffee with him.  I tried politely to tell him I had to go on with my day.  He followed me to the grocery store.  I said goodbye.  He waited for me outside.  While I shopped.  Again.  He followed me home.  I was in college in Boston at this point.  After I paid my tuition the only place I could afford to rent was a tiny room in the back of a frat house because it was $400 a month.  Rent in Boston is mother fucking expensive.  The alternative was to sleep on this girls couch for $385 a month.  At least at the frat I had my own space.

I wasn’t in the frat; I just lived there.  They left me alone.  For the most part they were nice guys.  Although they referred to girls only by the name sluts, and one time I went to get a beer from their keg, and there was a bunch of them fucking a girl on their pool table.  Now that I’m thinking about it another time I went to get a beer, and I saw a girl going down a line of them blowing them all.  Things like that disturbed me.  That roving pack of rapists mentality is why I could never join a frat.  That, and I get punch happy when I see affliction t-shirts.  But, one time, I drank a case of beer, and then took a bag of mushrooms, and I puked on a girl I was talking to, I believe, all I remember about that night is glowing.  They cleaned up my mess, so they weren’t all that bad.  I’m not judging.  Plus I think this one kid, Conner, wouldn’t have minded if I had jerked off to his piece of ass girlfriend.  And, he bought me chicken wings once.

But my old black stalker followed me home.  I thought it would be funny to give him a tour of the frat house I lived in, and introduce him to some of the brothers.  The old man kept going on about buying plants for the place.  They were creped out by my old black stalker.  He offered to take me to dinner.  Being a broke college student who at that point was spending $12 a week to feed themselves; I had no choice but to go.  Plus I don’t know how to be mean to my elders.  He wasn’t a dangerous stalker.  He walked with a cane.  If he tried anything I could break him in two.  If he had a knife chances are  I could win that fight.  Although if he brought a gun.  So I agree to go to dinner with him.  He takes me to some fancy French Mexican restaurant on Newbury Street.  What the fuck.  What cocksucking backwards savage animal came up with that idea; French Mexican food?  It had some white sauce on it, which made me laugh because I was having dinner with my old black stalker; who was gay.  He started hitting on me.  Telling me how beautiful I was.  I’m not gonna lie, THAT was flattering.  No one tells me I’m good looking because I’m not good looking.  I’m very troll like inside, and out.  Appeal to my deflated ego it will smile at you.  The old black gay stalker who walked with a cane started telling me how he wanted to take me on vacation.  How his last traveling partner had died, and he was lonely.  He told me how everyone was bisexual.  And how this conversation wasn’t weird because he was European.  It’s not gay he’s just European.  It’s not gay, HE’s JUST EUROPEAN.  I got through it by ignoring him because I can’t be mean to my elders.  Then he kept trying to get me to drink.  I know this game.  I was renting a room in the back of a frat house.  I’m not gonna wake up on the pool table with a condom stuck in my ass.  I used the excuse that I had a metal rod shot through my face that day, and you couldn’t drink with the open wound.  I politely waited out the evening as he did his best to talk me into some companionship because he was an old black gay European stalker.  I tried to say goodbye.  He followed me home.  He went for a hug.  I said no, and stuck out my hand.  He shook it, and when he did he took his middle finger, and rubbed it on the inside of my palm using the same motion you’d use when fingering a girl.  I was thoroughly creeped out.  Chills shot down my spine; through my bones.  This is when he finally crossed the line.  No touching.  I stopped answering my phone.  I lived in a frat house, so he wouldn’t come by because he was scared of those kind of people.  I hope things worked out for my old black gay European stalker who walked with a cane.  I hope he’s happy.  I hope he’s not lonely.  Although, lets be honest, I was 18, 19 when this happened.  I’m 32 now.  He’s probably passed on.

This is the first image that popped up on google when I searched “old black gay European stalker with a cane.”

“Blue Movie” from Terry Southern “A Drinking Life” from Pete Hamill” and “Lifes Too Short.”

This is excellent if you’re looking for a satire on who makes your movies coming from a man who wrote two of the best ones ever made in Easy Rider, and Dr. Strangelove.

Not only and excellent memoir, but a meditation on how the culture of America, the culture of being a man is a culture of drinking.  One time I came to in a jail cell in Ventura, California.  Being that the guy who I was with that night was from Mexico, in this country on a student visa, and being that in California everyone in the cell was Mexican, when I came to, and my first thought after surveying the landscape was, “Fuck that Mexican cocksucker took me to Tijuana.  Fuck you don’t get out of jail in Tijuana.”  I lost my shit.  Started screaming how I was an American, and they had no right to hold me.  “What you don’t think I’m American ese.”  I turned around to see some very offended cellmates, and smartly shut the fuck up.  When I was booked I learned I was still in California.  I still have no memory of being arrested.  I have been told I picked a fight with a cop after they pulled over my friend for doing donuts in an abounded parking lot.  He got a DUI, and was released on his own reconnaissance.  Not a citizen.  Post 9-11.  I was told that since I had a NY ID they had to keep me in jail until my trail because I was a flight risk, even though I was in college.  Don’t pick fights with cops; they have the last word.  The upper hand.  They put me in a cell.  The guy I was rooming with asked me what I was in for.  After telling him I returned the question.  He informed me he was in for shooting into a carload of people, but HE was innocent.  Rightfully not being able to sleep with that in the room I used the pencil they gave me, and a roll of toilet paper to compose an essay.  Sitting on that top bunk, inches from a florescent light I wrote my mind on that day; which is essentially what “A Drinking Life” is about.  I later made it into a documentary.  When they let me out, I shit in my jail issued underwear, and threw it in the hamper.  Fuck there shit.  The next day I had to go talk to my professor because I missed my final exam.  He was quite angry.  Telling me, “You better have a damn good reason for missing my final.”  “I was in jail.”  I told him.  The anger left, he stared me down.  “Fuck.  That is a damn good reason.”

“A Drinking Life” has one of the best introductions.  Contains the great realization “Life doesn’t’ get easier when you walk away from the culture of drink; you simply live it with greater lucidity.”  That it man, that’s it.  I’ve not only came to in jail, I’ve come to married in Vegas,  Living with a stripper in both Niagara Falls, and Amarillo.  Come to in the hospital.  Come to having seizures.  Come to in the student union of Northeastern University with a waiter feeding me chicken fingers as his way to apologize to me for not letting me drink in there.  The list goes on.  It’s because I’m bored with life.  I enjoy waking up in the middle of Saigon, and piecing it back together.  Apologizing, and doing it all again.  It’s a distraction I enjoy because I find little enjoyment in anything else.

This is for those despisers of the body.  His soul wanted blood, not robbery.  — Nietzsche

WINE comes in at the mouth.  And love comes in at the eye.  That’s all we shall know for truth.  Before we grow old and die.   I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.  –  Yates

What’s the word?  Thunderbird.  How’s it sold?  Good and cold.  What’s the jive?  Bird’s alive.  What’s the price?  Thirty twice.  — Thunderbird radio ad.

See the lonely boy – out on the weekend; trying to make it pay.  Can’t relate to joy.  He tries to speak and – can’t begin to say.  — Neil Young.

I finally got around to watching this, and it hurt my fucking sides from laughing bitch.

On Winning Awards.

I just received word that I was voted the best lover in Stockton California for the third consecutive year.  What makes this accomplishment more impressive is that for years I’ve been missing my ear because one time when I was a cop I got caught up on the wrong end of a diamond heist gone wrong.  You have no idea how badly that throws off your balance, and on top of that makes you less attractive to you more stuck up broads that are out there.

On Mexicans

Fuck yeah I just drank a beer in the shower.

When I was living in LA, Hell A, the asshole of the world captain; I lived in an all Mexican neighborhood because I lived in LA.  My Mexican roommate told me there was another Gringo living in the neighborhood.  If there was I never saw them.  They never reached out for solidarity.  They never so much as even came to the meetings.  They were most likely an urban myth like the chupacara, or the g spot.  The neighborhood I lived in was so deep in Mexicans people had roosters, and horses.  This is LA – the Sunset Strip, Paramount Pictures, Capitol Records, Hollywood Blvd, drugs, sex, rock n’ roll, movies ,the porn industry, fame, infamy, destruction, god and the devil fighting it out for your soul, and if you were an all Mexican neighborhood, a stones throw from the tinsel, they let you have cocksucking mother fucking roosters, and horses.  Weird part was the closest bar to me, the one my Mexican roommate was afraid to go in because it was in a part of town known as the redneck fringe of LA.  It looked like this:

The Hideaway, they used is as The Boars Nest in a Dukes of Hazard movie.  The fact it was packed with bikers, and LA hillbillies made my Mexican roommate who bragged about stabbing someone shit in his pants at the sight of it.  It was a fringe place that contained the people swept under the carpet by life, and it had great live music on the weekends.  One time I was there drinking there alone, as I always drink alone, and an old Indian lady came up to me, the feather kind of Indian.  Being the polite one that I am, I listened to her stories.  She told me how her son committed suicide because he was ashamed of being an Indian, and the hardships that came from people when you’re dealt that hand.  She had no teeth, and skin like leather, and the entire time she was telling me about her son’s suicide she was rubbing my leg, my thigh; no matter how many times I moved it.

Back in my neighborhood; I go out to my car one morning.  I notice something is written on the hood.  I look closer.  Written on it was “Go Home Cacer.”  I turn that over in my head.  I come to a conclusion.  I assume they meant “Go Home Cracker.”  Hard to take you seriously when you leave out the R and the K.

Side note, one time I did some volunteer work for the homeless coalition in LA shooting a public service announcement.  The coalition  guilted me into going door to door for them one day, canvassing for donations.  One door I knocked on; I’m giving my spiel, and I recognized this woman whom I’m talking to as a porn star I’ve masturbated to.  Another time I was getting out the poison to this flick.  I’m looking at it, and the background looks familiar, the scenery, the view, I’ve seen it before.  I keep watching it, and it dawns on me I worked on this flick where we shot a wedding scene where the people in this flick were fucking.  Also, for being in the film industry I only have a couple of good celebrity stories.  One time Mike Tyson forced me to smoke weed with him.  Not that I’m against smoking weed; I just don’t want to be alone in a room with that man.  He’s a trained killer, and I’ve projected onto him that he has no to sparse regard for human life.  I also have a fucked up story about the Simpson sisters, but another time another place for those.  Viva La Rasta.

On Alienating The Room.

I’ve been down on myself lately because I’ve found myself enjoying Light FM.

I’ve developed this new habit of when I enter a bar I turn the light on and off while I calmly repeat in a monotone “It’s medication time.  It’s medication time.”  Seeing how this makes woman weep, and men kick me in the balls; as if I deliberately puked in their new car, or hit their dog – I think I can safely say that no one finds this funny but me.

I can see how people want to slap this look off my face, but mother fucker, doesn’t this cocksucker look satisfied?

On Learning a Lesson

When you make coffee, don’t replace the water with beer, and five hour energy.  The process of heating the alcohol will make you sick as fuck.  SICK AS FUCK.  The debate now is if I’m wasteful enough to throw the baby out with the bathwater, or do I bite the bullet, and drink this used motor oil.

UPDATE:  I drank it.  Another mistake in a long line of reoccurring poor decisions.

On John Cusack Having No Sense of Humor.

To entertain myself I like to do this thing were I play practical jokes on people.  One of the jokes I like to play is to creep people out, and then laugh to myself at their reactions.  Very Andy Kaufman like.  Weird part is I usually don’t see the payoff.  Example:  In my twenties I was living in this house in Seattle getting drunk, doing heroin, going on stage to do comedy at nights.  I needed to clean myself up, so I decided to move out of Seattle, and away from my bad habits.  About a week before I was to move out I started stapling trash to the walls of my room.  Just so that when I moved out the people I had lived with, when they finally went in the room to either show it to a new roommate, or to just see how I left it, they would see a room with trash stapled to the walls like a mental patient lived there.  I never saw the looks on their faces when they made the trash walls discovery, but I assume it must have been hilarious as none of them talk to me anymore.  Which is too bad because I liked them, and really enjoyed my time in Seattle.  I’m Comedy Underground for life.

When I have to mail things for business I like to draw kittens, and flowers, and syringes, and smiley suns on the envelopes, so whoever sees that persons mail will wonder what the fuck is up with the people who receive the packages I send.  As what kind of twisted mother fucker gets a manilla envelope with kittens, and syringes drawn on it?  It generally embarrasses the people I send letters to, especially when I send it to their offices, and it makes me laugh.  My most common apology is “Sorry, I just thought it was funny.”  Again, I never see the payoff in person.

Bored one day, I decided to try out this twitter thing.  I noticed black guys love Jesus, and hate gays.  I say fagot a lot, but that’s because I was raised on the East Coast, and that’s just part of the vernacular.  It’s a place full of people who are, and are, raised to be assholes.  You deal with a Buffalo winter it changes your personality like a prison rape.  You go outside, and the snow is over the basketball hoop in the driveway, and you’re going to yell out fagot.  Repeatedly.  Personally, I’m generations deep in assholedom.  But, why anybody would care what anybody else does in private is beyond me.  Noticing this bit of information I started tweeting black celebrates about our imaginary gay trysts, and bible quotes.  Like I can’t believe you let me cum in your ass last night.  For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.  No one ever responded, but Ice T.  He was quite adamant he wasn’t having a gay affair, which leads me to assume Ice T’s having a gay affair.  Next knowing how stupid people, and what kind of stupid complaints you get when you work with the fucking public I started tweeting customer service complaints to companies.  These complaints were quite outrageous, but knowing what kind of fucked up  shit people complain about in customer service I wanted to see how companies would respond.  I’d tweet Flinstone Vitamins that they should put a warning on the bottle that there product is not to be taken as a suppository, and that I keystered a handful, and well I shouldn’t have keystered a handful.  I’d tweet Pepto that they should put a warning on there product that even though it says it relieves stomach pain; it’s not to be used as a morning after pill.  It won’t relieve you of THAT kind of stomach pain.  None of them ever took me seriously enough to respond.  Next I noticed that celebrities would retweet pictures of fan art, so I started tweeting poorly drawn fan art that is very much like the envelopes I send out.  I tweeted this picture to the great Samuel L. Jackson:

I tweeted this picture to John Cusack:

John Cusack blocked me.  I creeped him out. John Cusack has no sense of humor.  I find this quite historical.  Sorry John, I just thought it was funny.

On Telling a Crack Dealer I Loved Him.

I’ve been having this reoccurring image within my head, it fills me with embarrassment, and shame: one time I told a crack dealer I loved him.

In high school I decided it was a good idea to smoke crack.  To smoke a lot of crack.  It was a time when peer pressure still worked on me, and I needed something for the loneliness, and harassment that is childhood.  It didn’t end well.  It didn’t end as bad as it did for Whitney, but it didn’t end well.   I ended up getting arrested for stealing a shot gun, which I traded for crack.  There was this disgusting disheveled man who lived above the cigar shop downtown; Neckbone.  Don’t know his real name, called him that because he had a neck that was one with a giraffes.  He lived with this fat woman, and litter.  Rumor was he had AIDS, and didn’t tell her.  I hated going to his place, over 15 years later I still can’t shower it off of me, but he was my connection to the crack dealer.  He needed me because he didn’t have a car, and he needed a ride to the dealer.  I had this pipe made out of a glass piece I stole from the high school chemistry lab, and a chunk of chore boy I stole from the grocery store I worked at.  There was a day when I knocked on  Neckbone’s door looking for it, so I could get high, and he threw it at my head.

One time I was with the crack dealer getting high in my car.  Smoked so much crack in that car that when you tuned on the heat the burnt soap smell of crack would come pouring out of the vents.  I was giving my friend, Roger, a ride to school one morning, turned on the heat, and that crack fog assaulting his nostrils made him puke.  Anyway I just hit the stem with this crack dealer, and he got out of my car to leave.  He was walking away, and I rolled down the window.  “Scott,” I called him back.  Turning around he was confronted with me telling him “I love you.”  At that time I really meant it.  I was actually happy when I was on crack.  It made my adolescent days so much better for me.  I even acted out my term of endearment with the pointing to the eye, you, and heart hand gestures.  I’m so gross.  There’s nothing but disappointment in my soul for myself.  My soul is calamity.  I am piss and shit and sugar; I am death warmed over.