EAT A BAG OF SHIT
Dear heckler,
one day I was
sitting on the bus
& I met your moms & your
moms moms & I moved to sit
closer & they smelt of manjuice & womanjuice & so I ever-so-gently put it to them
that I have a passion-pit of my own if they’d like to come over & listen to records
& drink gin from my asshole.
Not reluctant, they nodded yes,
&
when we got to my place,
I put on that Frampton song that goes
“Ooooh baby I luv yer waaay.”
& we started talking, & your moms said that her son
is the biggest fucking loser this side of the
prime meridian
who has to pay fat girls just to get to second base
& jerks off into his dirty socks.
You sick, depraved fucker.
Your moms moms is dying of embarrassment
she doesn’t make you cookies anymore because
she’s afraid to spit now that she has dentures.
Feisty, the old lady couldn’t wait
& used her fake chompers to open the gin
they came out in the process, but it was a laugh
& your moms pulled down my pants &
commenced to sucking my cock & fondling my nuts
she kept saying that she hadn’t tasted jizm since
your daddy promised he’d tell her when
& he lied, of course
(She was excited)
& she wished that that jizm contained the sperm that was you.
Dear heckler,
your moms moms made me pull my knees to my chest
& ate out my asshole & gummed my nuts
& then she poured a shot of gin into
my asshole.
It was cold & tingly & some of it ran down my crack
but she drank it all & licked it clean.
So basically,
your whole maternal lineage is comprised of sluts.
Eat a bag of shit.
*Dedicated to the late, great Sam Kinison.
---
“How Academics Fuck”
Academics are turned on by academic things.
My friend Adam Strange
Said that they are
Not
Turned on by alchemy or gods in gaps
(only drunk pseudo-intellectuals are)
But he added that they enjoy socialism and criticizing
Revisionist histories.
One time I crafted my own vision.
I wouldn’t call it re-vision, but it was different than
What
The
Books
Say.
In my vision,
Señor Raygun was a staunch liberal who said and did all
Those crazy conservative things because
He wanted the
World
To see how insane the neo-cons are.
The Academics, of course, disagree.
So do I.
I was just having some fun.
Academics, well, they fuck for fun.
They are very studious and wear formal things,
But in the bedroom, they are animals.
Sucking cock, eating pussy, analingus,
No rubbers.
Cum on bellies,
Cum on backs,
Reverse cowgirl, doggie style,
FUCK.
They say that ts elliot and ezra pound are impenetrable fascists.
They’re for speech codes and against on-campus
Military recruitment
Good good liberal types
Trangressive behind closed doors,
Sensitive to feelings in the open
And I support transgression, and I support free speech,
In the open.
Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.
When Academics fuck
People listen (credibility)
And follow suit
Fucking in emulation
Intellectual masturbation
For a monkey see-monkey fuck-in-same
Nation.
Showing posts with label A slap in the face to public taste. Show all posts
Showing posts with label A slap in the face to public taste. Show all posts
23.5.10
15.3.10
Scary Messican Gangsta Dude
I don't care about permissions or any of that shit. This scene is gold. The movie is even golder.
That aside, I have been considering some things. At one point I was thinking, "oh hell, I'm gonna move to Mexico, be a bullfighter (note: I almost wrote bullshitter; don't need to go to Mexico to be that!)," but then I realized that I am such a whitewashed Mexican that it'd make more sense if Patrick did that. I say, "gwakamoley." He uses the accent. I think he does it around me to be a prick. I tell him, "when you do that, it's like... your sister fucking machinations are becoming vividly clear, guero."
But whatever.
Then I thought, "hey, I'll finally sit down and write the great American novel." But I don't have the dedication or attention span for that shit. I'll settle for a cover story in the Observer. Make up some shit about being a bullfighter. Take some photos of me in a sombrero with a bottle of mezcal in my paws, taming a mechanical bull. I'll even sing the Jarabe Tapatío! Humor isn't usually their "stock-in-trade" for cover stories, but I think it'd be awesome.
I considered starting a band. I like to sing and swagger in the shower, so I figured it would translate. Well, I got in line for American Idol and had my dreams subsequently crushed. Not by Simon or or any of those other fucks, but by the people in line with me! They thought I was so awful. They couldn't even hide their contempt. Little kids were covering their ears and crying. So I flipped 'em all off, told 'em to go fuck themselves (especially the kids), and went to a bar where I drank myself stupid.
Currently I'm working on some drawings. I'll put those up soon, see what peeps think.
Re: dumpster readings, I've decided that the final reading will be downtown. They don't know it. Yet. But I will be joined by Patrick and Adam (of the Strange variety). I don't know when, but it will happen.
As the great philosopher Al Green said,
"Let's Stay Together."
20.12.09
Lists, I love you; I hate you; I can't live without you; it's better that you die; you complete me; you confuse me; I am a whirling dervish of passions, contradictions, and judgments!: A Decade of Bests
Lists may be the bane of the existence of many.
Recently, the contributors and readers of a website called htmlgiant have had several discussions with regards to listing and its validity or lack thereof. Lists & Polaroids / Twenty Important Translations from English to a multitude of languages / Best Movies of the Decade. Personally, my default position with regard to lists is that I hate them because I just really don't give a shit what people like. I'm not in marketing, and even if I were, simple listing would do very little in the way of mapping out demographics and such. But I usually make sure people know that I dislike lists only to segue into a list.
So, in the grand tradition of consistency (in the words of Hank Moody from Californication: "I'm a consistent motherfucker, that's why!"), Stu González and I had a drink meeting-- meaning, it was me, him, lots of paper and ink, and a handle of Highland Mist-- whereby we discussed the merits of compiling (attempting to compile) comprehensive "end of decade best and worst of" lists. We decided that we'd drink until we were legless. Whoever lasted the longest would automatically earn the right to put their "worst of" list on this blog. We fought about it, but Stu won fair and square, and instead of being the bigger man and deferring to me what I wanted, he chose to keep what he had won. As such, these entries will consist of a series of arbitrarily numbered bests/worsts from a pool of arbitrary topics: none of which were stipulated in the drinking game. The only must, is that the lists be decade specific (2000-2009).
And while it is my general position that no miscellaneous lists can be "comprehensive," I am going to make an attempt at being as thorough and concise as I can possibly be. This list will be, in a similar vein to Antosca's list for htmlgiant, the top 20 films of the last decade.
My Top 20 Films of the Decade:
20. "Fay Grim" (2006) Written and Directed by Hal Hartley/Starring: Parker Posey, Jeff Goldblum, and James Urbaniak/Hal Hartley is quite possibly my favorite filmmaker. This knowledge well-known to anyone who knows me, it is my belief that Hartley's best works came about in the 90's. This film, a sequel to Henry Fool (1997), has Hartley experimenting with camera angles, most notably, the "Dutch angle," whereby the camera is tilted slightly, adding a striking visual accompaniment to the mania of the story about a wife looking for her supposedly dead husband amidst international intrigue. Parker Posey turns in one of her best perfomances as the titular character.
19. "Time to Leave" (2005) Written and Directed by François Ozon/Starring: Melvil Poupaud, Jeanne Moreau, and Marie Rivière/Excellent, quiet little French film about a hot-shot gay photographer who discovers he has an incurable disease and chooses to tell no one but his grandmother. An interesting study into how one faces terminal illness. Solid performances and a beautiful closing shot.
18. "In Bruges" (2008) Written and Directed by Martin McDonagh/Starring Colin Farrell, Ralph Fiennes, and Brendan Gleeson/Good travel film about inept hitmen, and one the best one-liners I've heard: "You're an inanimate fucking object!". My favorite scene is the one in the restaurant where the American guy gets beat up by Farrell for being a jackass about smoking. Normally I loathe violence, but in this case it kind of made me feel good. Yeah, I'm a smoker.
17. "Dave Chappelle's Block Party" (2004/'05/'06) Written by Dave Chappelle/Directed by Michel Gondry/Starring Dave Chappelle with appearances by Mos Def, Talib Kweli, Dead Prez, The Fugees & more/This film is LOADED with exciting performances by some really great performers in hip-hop/r&b. Chappelle is charming and funny the entire way through (and you get a really good idea of what kind of guy he is in person), and it was Gondry at his most "hands-off" as a director. This film has excellent re-play value, awesome collaborative effort.
16. "Interview" (2007) Written by Steve Buscemi and Dave Schechter/Directed by Steve Buscemi/Starring Steve Buscemi and Sienna Miller/Remake of Theo Van Gogh's 2003 film is light on plot, heavy on character. I thoroughly enjoy these kinds of films, and admittedly, while I never saw the original (in honesty didn't realize it was a remake until I looked it up), I'm going to assume it took a very similar approach. Miller and Buscemi really battle one another. When two good actors can carry a movie on sheer tension, I have to give the credit where credit is due. This is a quality film.
15. "Sin noticias de Dios" or "Don't Tempt Me!" (2001/'03/'05) Written and Directed by Augustín Díaz Yanes/Starring: Penelopé Cruz, Victoria Abril, Demián Bichir, and Gael García Bernal/This one benefits from the fact that I've recently seen it, but I LOVED the creativity with which scenes set in Heaven (in French with a song in Portuguese)/Hell (in English)/Earth (in Spanish) were presented aesthetically-- especially heaven-- nouvelle vague styled (even borrowed footage from the intro to Les Quatre Cents Coups). Very tongue-in-cheek performances and treatment of the subject matter. Cruz and Abril approach sexiness from two different angles and achieve the expected results.
14. "Shaun of the Dead" (2004) Written by Simon Pegg and Edgar Wright/Directed by Edgar Wright/Starring: Simon Pegg, Nick Frost, Lucy Davis, and Dylan Moran/A romantic comedy with zombies! That was one of the taglines. If there's one criticism that many level against this film, it's the acting. But I hardly think it's fair. Pegg might have been overwrought emotionally at times, but the comedic exchanges are brilliant, and as filmmakers, they demonstrate a pretty good understanding of the genre. In my mind, nothing quite matches the original Dawn of the Dead which is amazing in just about every way and to me is the measuring stick for these kinds of films (the Evil Dead series is spectacular, but not really a zombie thing).
13. "Sleuth" (2007) Written by Harold Pinter/Directed by Kenneth Branagh/Starring: Michael Caine and Jude Law/Talk about a lineup of dramatic heavyweights. This is another remake, and a formiddable one, at that. Caine is an amazing actor and Law is no slouch (one of my favorites, in fact). The fact that Branagh is helming this thing and NOT acting as well is good news. Branagh is a fine performer (especially in Shakespearean productions), but with this film, he sits back and commands killer performances without the awkwardness of having to direct oneself. Pinter wrote the screenplay, which is strange to me since he is a playwright and he didn't write the play this is based on, but he takes thin material and makes it interesting. Caine and Law constantly one-upping one another in a game of cat and mouse is fun to watch.
12. "She Hate Me" (2004) Written by Michael Genet and Spike Lee/Directed by Spike Lee/Starring: Anthony Mackie, Kerry Washington, Dania Ramirez, Woody Harrelson, and Q-Tip/I don't think many enjoy this film as much as I do. It has its flaws (the CGI sperm and the sexual montages border on awful), but I think there are segments of it that really lift it. It's not Do the Right Thing or Jungle Fever, but it's a well executed piece of cinema at the best of times. The scenes with Q-Tip and Mackie are sparkling with chemistry, the re-enactment of the Watergate scandal was clever (powerful, in fact), and the Bonasera crime family doesn't seem as tacked on the more times I watch.
11. "Nada +" or "Nada Mas" (2001) Written by Juan Carlos Cremata Malberti and Manuel Rodríguez/Directed by Juan Carlos Cremata Malberti/Starring: Thais Valdés and Nacho Lugo/Lighthearted and visually bold, Malberti's portrayal of Cuba and her people is fun and doesn't beat you over the head with a bunch of political bullshit. It's all very subtle, understated even. And not just because it HAS to be. Just when you think it's about to get deep and serious, there's colorful cartoony scenes and goofy chase scenes. All the performances are fairly over-the-top, excepting Valdés and Lugo, who are stolid and matter-of-fact in equal measure.
10. "Man, Woman, and the Wall" (2007) Written by Masashi Yamamoto based on a story by Fumihiro Yamada/Directed by Masashi Yamamoto/Starring: Sola Aoi and Keita Ono/Apparently this little Japanese film is a "less raw" kind of a type of cinema called "pink" in Japan. I can't comment more on that because I am unfamiliar with this style. Exploitative but sensual, bordering on art-house sensibility, what I like most about this film is its overall feel and approach to the subject. It never gets too menacing or deranged, and Yamamoto treats his characters with care. Admittedly, I was taken aback by the scene where Ono rummages through his beautiful neighbor's trash in efforts to experience her more. My western sensibilities say, "Oh, that's mad stalkerish," and it's actually fun to be challenged like that. The idea of obsession is one of my favorites, and the perspective is executed nicely here.
9. "Batalla en el cielo" or "Battle in Heaven" (2005) Written and Directed by Carlos Reygadas/Starring: Marcos Hernández, Berta Ruiz, and Anapola Mushkadiz/This film will always be remembered in my mind, as the movie that made my friend Robert walk out. The sex scenes made him uncomfortable as they apparently reminded him of his parents. I asked him if his parents are tubby, middle aged Mexicans. His reply: "fuck you." Yes, there is explicit sex in the film. I love the close-ups on the characters' genitalia in post-coital comedown. It's a beautiful thing. Perhaps to some it is porn, but I find it bold and beautifully done. The repitition of imagery is done seamlessly. The story itself is about an aging couple who kidnap a baby only to have it die on them soon after and the existential crisis that follows. The supposed-to-be powerful, but ultimately hollow expression of Marcos's religiosity in the end, to me, is a statement of Reygadas's disapproval of this type of insincerity in the face of reality.
8. "Pretty Persuasion" (2005) Written by Skander Halim/Directed by Marcos Siega/Starring: Evan Rachel Wood, James Woods, Jane Krakowski, Ron Livingston, and Selma Blair/As a general rule, I can't stand films about teenagers. There are exceptions, of course, and this is one of them. Wood's portrayal of a spoiled, manipulative, and intelligent teen girl is amazing. In fact, she's a bad ass. This movie is everything Juno isn't, and that's a good thing. Kimberly Joyce doesn't betray pretensions to the hip (an annoying trait of supposed indie flicks in the last decade), she's a vindictive bitch, and she's so much the better for it. She plays sides, ignores the pain of others, all while reveling in her own grandeur. The world is her orchestra, and she is the insane conductor.
7. "Requiem for a Dream" (2000) Written by Hubert Selby Jr. and Darren Aronofsky, based on Selby Jr.'s novel of the same title/Directed by Darren Aronofsky/Starring: Ellen Burstyn, Jared Leto, Jennifer Connolly, and Marlon Wayans/Perhaps part of what I really love about this film is that is pisses my mother off so. She thinks it's one of the worst movies ever. I haven't been able to pinpoint the reasons because she's very vague, but it entertains me. When I told her I was writing this, she asked if this movie would be on it. "Of course," I say. "It has to be. Number seven." Visually, it's one of the best movies I've ever seen. Lots of juxtaposition: Closed vs. Open spaces. Crowded vs. Intimate shots. Bright colors. Dull colors. Grit. Beauty. The cinematography helps the story, and it's a story that frankly doesn't need a lot of help. This is a very honest film. The characters spend much time fantasizing about what they want their lives to be. I could say that they abuse drugs because the feeling delivered is the closest experience to the realization of their fantasies, and maybe that is right, but I don't know. Each time I watch it, I find myself flip-flopping about the end. "It's sad. No, it's happy. No, sad," etc. The only thing I know, is that it's one of my favorite films about drug usage. As an aside, Burstyn is endearing in this.
6. "Ghost World" (2001) Written by Daniel Clowes and Terry Zwigoff/Directed by Terry Zwigoff/Starring: Thora Birch, Scarlett Johansson, Steve Buscemi, and Brad Renfro/Daniel Clowes is my favorite graphic novelist. "Ghost World" is his "magnum opus," and for good reason. A grown man has never captured teen girls (another exception to my rule about teens) in a such an accurate light. Granted, there's some quirk in there, but that's only because Clowes himself is an eccentric. Zwigoff isn't any different. Their collaboration on this film makes sense: Zwigoff is the man behind my favorite documentary (Crumb), and Clowes's work has just been begging for cinematic representation. "Ghost World" is a series of sweeping statements on art, film, and life (especially as a teen-ager at the end of a stage in life). It's snobby, it's pretentious, but it makes several points. Maybe it's just a big "fuck you" to everyone. Its minimalism suggests that it might not be a visual wonder, but when you can get an almost passable performance from the thespian train-wreck that is Scarlett Johansson, it makes the luxury of having fully developed characters that much better.
5. "Kill Bill Vol. 1" and "Kill Bill Vol. 2" (2003/2004) Written and Directed by Quentin Tarantino/Starring: Uma Thurman, David Carradine, and a whole lot of other motherfuckers/Let it be said that Tarantino is one of my favorite auteurs. Bar none. Maybe not my number one, but this guy fucking BLEEDS cinema. I don't know if there's anyone as film literate as him. I might know someone personally who approaches this kind of knowledge, but QT is up there. He expresses his love by giving us "Kill Bill," an epic in all respects. Better than the LotR series, better than the three films that sum up the Star Wars series. Just better. Initially, I had considered putting up "Vol.2" as my number 5 because there was no way I was going to waste spots, but then I figured, fuck it, they are just not complete alone. Maybe stylistically, as they are drastically different in that department, but if you look at the story, they cannot stand alone. Thus the shared position. It's true, "Vol 2," to me, is much better, but I have my reasons. The second installation develops character, fleshes out the story, has the better dialogue, and is stylistically more to my liking (a hint: my favorite Kurosawa film is Stray Dog, which is a noir, NOT a samurai film). The most damning misstep for Vol. 1? Casting Vivica Fox. Ugh. Taken together, these two volumes are a love-letter to all that is fun and beautiful about film.
4. "4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days" (2007) Written and Directed by Cristian Mungiu/Starring: Anamaria Marinca, Laura Vasiliu, and Vlad Ivanov/This is one of those films that reveal much about humanity without slapping you about the face with a "moral" or a "lesson" or some kind of judgment with regards to the humans involved. Mungiu uses the same approach with his characters that Todd Solondz does (Happiness, Storytelling, Welcome to the Dollhouse). He doesn't manipulate his audience one way or the other. He presents us with a picture of humanity. I remember while I was at college in Houston (a Catholic college), people urged me to see a film called "Bella" because it was supposed to present the audience with a "life-affirming (i.e, "pro-life") view towards abortion. But the subject is not so much about life-affirmation as it is about seeing that without a safe alternative, desperate women will go at great lengths to follow through on a decision that they have made about their own bodies. In a country where abortion is illegal, women are subject to a range of abuses. But this film shows. It doesn't tell. And it is extremely compelling.
3. "Amores Perros" (2000) Written by Guillermo Arriaga/Directed by Alejandro González Iñarritu/Starring: Gael García Bernal, Emilio Echevarría, Vanessa Bauche, and Goya Toledo/Hands down, my favorite Spanish language film. It starts out strong, and ends even stronger. There has been some discussion about the English translation of the title, which is, "Love's a Bitch." It's wholly inaccurate, but the sentiment makes sense. I can't be certain there is a literal translation. Amores=lovers, Perros=dogs. I say, "Dog lovers," but that isn't exactly accurate, either. Though dogs are very integral to the story. What really propels this film into something amazing is the acting (and the writing, which is sadly not matched in the next two films). There's not a weak spot in the whole damn thing. Echevarría steals the show as El Chivo, a hitman with an undefined past who roams the streets with his dogs. He doesn't get redemption, but he certainly is human as fuck, and that is amazing. You want to cry with him, as he calls his estranged daughter, desperately trying to reconnect in an act that is ultimately--and he knows this-- futile.
2. "The Edge of Heaven" (2007) Written and Directed by Fatih Akin/Starring: Nurgül Yeşilçay, Baki Davrak, Tuncel Kurtiz, and Hannah Schygulla/I am officially a big fan of Fatih Akin. The give away is that my top two films in the last ten years were both written and directed by him. "The Edge of Heaven" is a film ostensibly about death and how we deal with it. It's also about being an outsider. About being an outsider who loves an insider who isn't really an insider. Bottom line, Akin draws you in. You care for his characters, but only realize it when you hear yourself saying, "now what is he/she gonna do?" It's almost as if you are following around real people. They aren't extremely clever and witty. They aren't overly emotional, they aren't entirely detached, there's a perfect balance. Akin, being a German of Turkish descent, paints a picture of Turks who are trying to live their lives within the bounds of a culture that is not theirs. They don't fit in, and they don't try. Ultimately, this film will break your heart, because it doesn't end at all how your emotions want it to. Undying love is answered with denial, and you lose the character you most adore.
1. "Head-On" (2004) Written and Directed by Fatih Akin/Starring: Birol Ünel and Sibel Kekilli/When contemplating this list, I already had this film as number one. In some ways this film can be considered a package deal with The Edge of Heaven. It is the predecessor, but all the same, the themes are similar, and even the style is. Death is the caveat to life; random, inevitable. It can come from anywhere at any time. And that is a common theme. A driving one. One that serves as plot arc. So what makes this better than my number two? What sets it apart? It's a more compelling story. The characters are just that much more endearing. Kekilli is beautiful, and for me, I went from wanting simply to fuck her, to loving her character. Not literally, of course, but as a matter of the story. And Cahit (Ünel) goes from annoyance to seeming indifference, to the exact same feeling. The best part, once again, as a viewer, you are denied the ending which you desire.
17. "Dave Chappelle's Block Party" (2004/'05/'06) Written by Dave Chappelle/Directed by Michel Gondry/Starring Dave Chappelle with appearances by Mos Def, Talib Kweli, Dead Prez, The Fugees & more/This film is LOADED with exciting performances by some really great performers in hip-hop/r&b. Chappelle is charming and funny the entire way through (and you get a really good idea of what kind of guy he is in person), and it was Gondry at his most "hands-off" as a director. This film has excellent re-play value, awesome collaborative effort.
16. "Interview" (2007) Written by Steve Buscemi and Dave Schechter/Directed by Steve Buscemi/Starring Steve Buscemi and Sienna Miller/Remake of Theo Van Gogh's 2003 film is light on plot, heavy on character. I thoroughly enjoy these kinds of films, and admittedly, while I never saw the original (in honesty didn't realize it was a remake until I looked it up), I'm going to assume it took a very similar approach. Miller and Buscemi really battle one another. When two good actors can carry a movie on sheer tension, I have to give the credit where credit is due. This is a quality film.
15. "Sin noticias de Dios" or "Don't Tempt Me!" (2001/'03/'05) Written and Directed by Augustín Díaz Yanes/Starring: Penelopé Cruz, Victoria Abril, Demián Bichir, and Gael García Bernal/This one benefits from the fact that I've recently seen it, but I LOVED the creativity with which scenes set in Heaven (in French with a song in Portuguese)/Hell (in English)/Earth (in Spanish) were presented aesthetically-- especially heaven-- nouvelle vague styled (even borrowed footage from the intro to Les Quatre Cents Coups). Very tongue-in-cheek performances and treatment of the subject matter. Cruz and Abril approach sexiness from two different angles and achieve the expected results.
14. "Shaun of the Dead" (2004) Written by Simon Pegg and Edgar Wright/Directed by Edgar Wright/Starring: Simon Pegg, Nick Frost, Lucy Davis, and Dylan Moran/A romantic comedy with zombies! That was one of the taglines. If there's one criticism that many level against this film, it's the acting. But I hardly think it's fair. Pegg might have been overwrought emotionally at times, but the comedic exchanges are brilliant, and as filmmakers, they demonstrate a pretty good understanding of the genre. In my mind, nothing quite matches the original Dawn of the Dead which is amazing in just about every way and to me is the measuring stick for these kinds of films (the Evil Dead series is spectacular, but not really a zombie thing).
13. "Sleuth" (2007) Written by Harold Pinter/Directed by Kenneth Branagh/Starring: Michael Caine and Jude Law/Talk about a lineup of dramatic heavyweights. This is another remake, and a formiddable one, at that. Caine is an amazing actor and Law is no slouch (one of my favorites, in fact). The fact that Branagh is helming this thing and NOT acting as well is good news. Branagh is a fine performer (especially in Shakespearean productions), but with this film, he sits back and commands killer performances without the awkwardness of having to direct oneself. Pinter wrote the screenplay, which is strange to me since he is a playwright and he didn't write the play this is based on, but he takes thin material and makes it interesting. Caine and Law constantly one-upping one another in a game of cat and mouse is fun to watch.
12. "She Hate Me" (2004) Written by Michael Genet and Spike Lee/Directed by Spike Lee/Starring: Anthony Mackie, Kerry Washington, Dania Ramirez, Woody Harrelson, and Q-Tip/I don't think many enjoy this film as much as I do. It has its flaws (the CGI sperm and the sexual montages border on awful), but I think there are segments of it that really lift it. It's not Do the Right Thing or Jungle Fever, but it's a well executed piece of cinema at the best of times. The scenes with Q-Tip and Mackie are sparkling with chemistry, the re-enactment of the Watergate scandal was clever (powerful, in fact), and the Bonasera crime family doesn't seem as tacked on the more times I watch.
11. "Nada +" or "Nada Mas" (2001) Written by Juan Carlos Cremata Malberti and Manuel Rodríguez/Directed by Juan Carlos Cremata Malberti/Starring: Thais Valdés and Nacho Lugo/Lighthearted and visually bold, Malberti's portrayal of Cuba and her people is fun and doesn't beat you over the head with a bunch of political bullshit. It's all very subtle, understated even. And not just because it HAS to be. Just when you think it's about to get deep and serious, there's colorful cartoony scenes and goofy chase scenes. All the performances are fairly over-the-top, excepting Valdés and Lugo, who are stolid and matter-of-fact in equal measure.
10. "Man, Woman, and the Wall" (2007) Written by Masashi Yamamoto based on a story by Fumihiro Yamada/Directed by Masashi Yamamoto/Starring: Sola Aoi and Keita Ono/Apparently this little Japanese film is a "less raw" kind of a type of cinema called "pink" in Japan. I can't comment more on that because I am unfamiliar with this style. Exploitative but sensual, bordering on art-house sensibility, what I like most about this film is its overall feel and approach to the subject. It never gets too menacing or deranged, and Yamamoto treats his characters with care. Admittedly, I was taken aback by the scene where Ono rummages through his beautiful neighbor's trash in efforts to experience her more. My western sensibilities say, "Oh, that's mad stalkerish," and it's actually fun to be challenged like that. The idea of obsession is one of my favorites, and the perspective is executed nicely here.
9. "Batalla en el cielo" or "Battle in Heaven" (2005) Written and Directed by Carlos Reygadas/Starring: Marcos Hernández, Berta Ruiz, and Anapola Mushkadiz/This film will always be remembered in my mind, as the movie that made my friend Robert walk out. The sex scenes made him uncomfortable as they apparently reminded him of his parents. I asked him if his parents are tubby, middle aged Mexicans. His reply: "fuck you." Yes, there is explicit sex in the film. I love the close-ups on the characters' genitalia in post-coital comedown. It's a beautiful thing. Perhaps to some it is porn, but I find it bold and beautifully done. The repitition of imagery is done seamlessly. The story itself is about an aging couple who kidnap a baby only to have it die on them soon after and the existential crisis that follows. The supposed-to-be powerful, but ultimately hollow expression of Marcos's religiosity in the end, to me, is a statement of Reygadas's disapproval of this type of insincerity in the face of reality.
8. "Pretty Persuasion" (2005) Written by Skander Halim/Directed by Marcos Siega/Starring: Evan Rachel Wood, James Woods, Jane Krakowski, Ron Livingston, and Selma Blair/As a general rule, I can't stand films about teenagers. There are exceptions, of course, and this is one of them. Wood's portrayal of a spoiled, manipulative, and intelligent teen girl is amazing. In fact, she's a bad ass. This movie is everything Juno isn't, and that's a good thing. Kimberly Joyce doesn't betray pretensions to the hip (an annoying trait of supposed indie flicks in the last decade), she's a vindictive bitch, and she's so much the better for it. She plays sides, ignores the pain of others, all while reveling in her own grandeur. The world is her orchestra, and she is the insane conductor.
7. "Requiem for a Dream" (2000) Written by Hubert Selby Jr. and Darren Aronofsky, based on Selby Jr.'s novel of the same title/Directed by Darren Aronofsky/Starring: Ellen Burstyn, Jared Leto, Jennifer Connolly, and Marlon Wayans/Perhaps part of what I really love about this film is that is pisses my mother off so. She thinks it's one of the worst movies ever. I haven't been able to pinpoint the reasons because she's very vague, but it entertains me. When I told her I was writing this, she asked if this movie would be on it. "Of course," I say. "It has to be. Number seven." Visually, it's one of the best movies I've ever seen. Lots of juxtaposition: Closed vs. Open spaces. Crowded vs. Intimate shots. Bright colors. Dull colors. Grit. Beauty. The cinematography helps the story, and it's a story that frankly doesn't need a lot of help. This is a very honest film. The characters spend much time fantasizing about what they want their lives to be. I could say that they abuse drugs because the feeling delivered is the closest experience to the realization of their fantasies, and maybe that is right, but I don't know. Each time I watch it, I find myself flip-flopping about the end. "It's sad. No, it's happy. No, sad," etc. The only thing I know, is that it's one of my favorite films about drug usage. As an aside, Burstyn is endearing in this.
6. "Ghost World" (2001) Written by Daniel Clowes and Terry Zwigoff/Directed by Terry Zwigoff/Starring: Thora Birch, Scarlett Johansson, Steve Buscemi, and Brad Renfro/Daniel Clowes is my favorite graphic novelist. "Ghost World" is his "magnum opus," and for good reason. A grown man has never captured teen girls (another exception to my rule about teens) in a such an accurate light. Granted, there's some quirk in there, but that's only because Clowes himself is an eccentric. Zwigoff isn't any different. Their collaboration on this film makes sense: Zwigoff is the man behind my favorite documentary (Crumb), and Clowes's work has just been begging for cinematic representation. "Ghost World" is a series of sweeping statements on art, film, and life (especially as a teen-ager at the end of a stage in life). It's snobby, it's pretentious, but it makes several points. Maybe it's just a big "fuck you" to everyone. Its minimalism suggests that it might not be a visual wonder, but when you can get an almost passable performance from the thespian train-wreck that is Scarlett Johansson, it makes the luxury of having fully developed characters that much better.
5. "Kill Bill Vol. 1" and "Kill Bill Vol. 2" (2003/2004) Written and Directed by Quentin Tarantino/Starring: Uma Thurman, David Carradine, and a whole lot of other motherfuckers/Let it be said that Tarantino is one of my favorite auteurs. Bar none. Maybe not my number one, but this guy fucking BLEEDS cinema. I don't know if there's anyone as film literate as him. I might know someone personally who approaches this kind of knowledge, but QT is up there. He expresses his love by giving us "Kill Bill," an epic in all respects. Better than the LotR series, better than the three films that sum up the Star Wars series. Just better. Initially, I had considered putting up "Vol.2" as my number 5 because there was no way I was going to waste spots, but then I figured, fuck it, they are just not complete alone. Maybe stylistically, as they are drastically different in that department, but if you look at the story, they cannot stand alone. Thus the shared position. It's true, "Vol 2," to me, is much better, but I have my reasons. The second installation develops character, fleshes out the story, has the better dialogue, and is stylistically more to my liking (a hint: my favorite Kurosawa film is Stray Dog, which is a noir, NOT a samurai film). The most damning misstep for Vol. 1? Casting Vivica Fox. Ugh. Taken together, these two volumes are a love-letter to all that is fun and beautiful about film.
4. "4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days" (2007) Written and Directed by Cristian Mungiu/Starring: Anamaria Marinca, Laura Vasiliu, and Vlad Ivanov/This is one of those films that reveal much about humanity without slapping you about the face with a "moral" or a "lesson" or some kind of judgment with regards to the humans involved. Mungiu uses the same approach with his characters that Todd Solondz does (Happiness, Storytelling, Welcome to the Dollhouse). He doesn't manipulate his audience one way or the other. He presents us with a picture of humanity. I remember while I was at college in Houston (a Catholic college), people urged me to see a film called "Bella" because it was supposed to present the audience with a "life-affirming (i.e, "pro-life") view towards abortion. But the subject is not so much about life-affirmation as it is about seeing that without a safe alternative, desperate women will go at great lengths to follow through on a decision that they have made about their own bodies. In a country where abortion is illegal, women are subject to a range of abuses. But this film shows. It doesn't tell. And it is extremely compelling.
3. "Amores Perros" (2000) Written by Guillermo Arriaga/Directed by Alejandro González Iñarritu/Starring: Gael García Bernal, Emilio Echevarría, Vanessa Bauche, and Goya Toledo/Hands down, my favorite Spanish language film. It starts out strong, and ends even stronger. There has been some discussion about the English translation of the title, which is, "Love's a Bitch." It's wholly inaccurate, but the sentiment makes sense. I can't be certain there is a literal translation. Amores=lovers, Perros=dogs. I say, "Dog lovers," but that isn't exactly accurate, either. Though dogs are very integral to the story. What really propels this film into something amazing is the acting (and the writing, which is sadly not matched in the next two films). There's not a weak spot in the whole damn thing. Echevarría steals the show as El Chivo, a hitman with an undefined past who roams the streets with his dogs. He doesn't get redemption, but he certainly is human as fuck, and that is amazing. You want to cry with him, as he calls his estranged daughter, desperately trying to reconnect in an act that is ultimately--and he knows this-- futile.
2. "The Edge of Heaven" (2007) Written and Directed by Fatih Akin/Starring: Nurgül Yeşilçay, Baki Davrak, Tuncel Kurtiz, and Hannah Schygulla/I am officially a big fan of Fatih Akin. The give away is that my top two films in the last ten years were both written and directed by him. "The Edge of Heaven" is a film ostensibly about death and how we deal with it. It's also about being an outsider. About being an outsider who loves an insider who isn't really an insider. Bottom line, Akin draws you in. You care for his characters, but only realize it when you hear yourself saying, "now what is he/she gonna do?" It's almost as if you are following around real people. They aren't extremely clever and witty. They aren't overly emotional, they aren't entirely detached, there's a perfect balance. Akin, being a German of Turkish descent, paints a picture of Turks who are trying to live their lives within the bounds of a culture that is not theirs. They don't fit in, and they don't try. Ultimately, this film will break your heart, because it doesn't end at all how your emotions want it to. Undying love is answered with denial, and you lose the character you most adore.
1. "Head-On" (2004) Written and Directed by Fatih Akin/Starring: Birol Ünel and Sibel Kekilli/When contemplating this list, I already had this film as number one. In some ways this film can be considered a package deal with The Edge of Heaven. It is the predecessor, but all the same, the themes are similar, and even the style is. Death is the caveat to life; random, inevitable. It can come from anywhere at any time. And that is a common theme. A driving one. One that serves as plot arc. So what makes this better than my number two? What sets it apart? It's a more compelling story. The characters are just that much more endearing. Kekilli is beautiful, and for me, I went from wanting simply to fuck her, to loving her character. Not literally, of course, but as a matter of the story. And Cahit (Ünel) goes from annoyance to seeming indifference, to the exact same feeling. The best part, once again, as a viewer, you are denied the ending which you desire.
25.10.09
Selections from my forthcoming chapbook of poetry, "AHORA, TENGO QUE IR; ¿TAL VEZ UN DÍA PODEMOS TOMAR UN CAFE? or ¡ADIOS Y GRACIAS POR EL SEXO!"
Hi, Stu González here. I know no one really reads this shit, but I'm like, in the words of Bart Simpson referring to Prinicpal Skinner, a no-giving-up-school guy.
So!
La vida ha estado muy ocupada para mi. ¿Y para ti mismo (a)?
Patrick and I had this idea that I could do, a la Gustavo Arellano, something called "Preguntale a Un Chicano" and I would answer questions from non-chicanos about chicanos. We bounced this thing around like a beach ball until the damn thing flattened. Patrick said it was "derivative, not creative, lame, 'just something to ruminate on'" I thought it was a bad idea because I considered how I might react the first time some pinche puto cavrón asks me why we are "so proud."
Anyway, for the last few months I've been putting together a carefully thought out, thematically cohesive chapbook of poetry. I'm looking for takers. Despite the title, all poems are in Spanish and English.
Ahora, tengo que ir; ¿tal vez un día podemos tomar un café or ¡adios y gracias por el sexo!
... is filled with morning after regrets and rejoices, rallying cries and escape plans.
"Coyote Really Fuckin' Ugly"
i woke up and didn't even have to think.
her face was turned, buried in a pillow, but i knew.
i'd gone and done it again.
i was naked, but luckily my arm was not around her.
i got out of the bed and searched for my clothes.
i heard her snort, cough and shift.
my heart rate rose.
my chest was like the speakers of a sub woofer.
i turned to her.
she was smiling at me.
her teeth were crooked and stained from nicotine.
her hair was stringy, greasy.
"no entiendo ni hablo inglés," i squeaked.
"aww. pablo. my sexy man. don't be silly!"
i didn't even want to think about the fact...
...that she called me pablo... for when she raised the covers and
kicked up her legs, i was blinded by BUSH!
she offered to make coffee.
"claro, claro," i said.
she kissed me on the cheek and in a haze of bed smell...
moved past me and through the door.
hastily, i re-dressed, made sure i had my wallet,
made sure i DIDN'T have the condom that i'd been carrying,
(good on both fronts)
and opened the sliding glass door.
time for pablo to blow this hag haven.
MOTHERFUCKER!
this bitch lives 3 fucking floors from the ground!
so then i had an existential crisis.
"¡piensa, pablo, piensa! ¿para saltar o no?
i looked behind me.
coast clear.
but suddenly, i heard a "psst." from above.
"young man! i don't mean to pry, but... coyote ugly or forced marriage?"
"coyote ugly, señor."
"ah, well... forced marriage here. 15 years. look at it this way, you could be on my floor."
&&& S.G.
"La Novia que no Sabe Nada"
"The Girlfriend that Knows Nothing"
For the first time in my life
I had two girls at once
For the first time in my life
My girlfriend wasn't one of them
For the first time in my life
I had breakfast not at Denny's
but on my own gas stove
buttered tortillas
como mi mamá siempre las preparó.
For the first time in my life
I was alone and everything felt good
For the first time in my life
When my girlfriend came home
she suspected nothing
she usually suspects everything
because I'm out eating Denny's
after a binge with my friends.
Ay, she knows nothing!
&&& S.G.
"Friends, Brothers, Their Sisters, My Lovers"
--for posterity, may they learn all the lessons i had to, in every conceivable way--
one night i promised my buddy that i'd never hit on his sister.
his hot sister.
of legal age.
and one night while drinking and smoking and talking
we were sitting inches apart
and she confessed that
she liked smoking and sex and tattoos.
oh really?
¿en serio?
well then.
i showed her my tattoo of Raquel Welch
"did you know that she's a latina?"
"yes. very beautiful."
"indeed."
she noted that i have a reputation.
curious.
for what?
"well. showing off your tattoo of Raquel Welch..."
there was an and.
i knew.
"...and fucking my friends' sisters?"
"yes."
soon after we were kissing and petting
O, ROMANCE!
O sweaty, drunken, sloppy romance!
we had each other on the couch then on the floor
and for a few hours more
we talked and smoked and then she got a wild idea.
we got matching tats.
mine said, "i fucked your sister."
hers said, "i fucked your friend."
the next day, her brother, my friend, we sat and talked
for what seemed a time without end,
and he couldn't believe i'd do it to him.
haha haha haha
didn't you know, that nothing is sacred?
BUT.
"in my defense, i never hit on her."
&&& S.G.
"It all started with a conversation about Warren Zevon"
It all started with a conversation about Warren Zevon.
Me, a studious but hard drinking pupil of rock & fuckin' roll,
Her, a cocktail waitress/queen in need of a king,
By the time we realized that our collective shit was fucked up,
We decided that sleep could only come once we were dead,
Or after a night of raging hard-ons satiated by much needed friction,
Then we went to her place, had drinks, listened to some records,
And when I went to kiss her, she was not a whore nor slut,
But a beautiful queen,
Stuck in a rut,
Tut tut tut,
This is a caprice, and sex is a many splendored thing,
She said, "I guess" and we continued to drink and drink and drink,
And the vodka was screaming, I couldn't think,
Were we listening to the Dolls or Rundgren?
Was I Sid Vicious and she Nancy Spungen?
We rode one another into the morning,
And when I woke up and smoked the last cig,
And thought a final thought,
I dedicated it to Zevon, the man who made it all possible,
To fuck and flee and never get caught!
&&& S.G.
(2009)
So!
La vida ha estado muy ocupada para mi. ¿Y para ti mismo (a)?
Patrick and I had this idea that I could do, a la Gustavo Arellano, something called "Preguntale a Un Chicano" and I would answer questions from non-chicanos about chicanos. We bounced this thing around like a beach ball until the damn thing flattened. Patrick said it was "derivative, not creative, lame, 'just something to ruminate on'" I thought it was a bad idea because I considered how I might react the first time some pinche puto cavrón asks me why we are "so proud."
Anyway, for the last few months I've been putting together a carefully thought out, thematically cohesive chapbook of poetry. I'm looking for takers. Despite the title, all poems are in Spanish and English.
Ahora, tengo que ir; ¿tal vez un día podemos tomar un café or ¡adios y gracias por el sexo!
... is filled with morning after regrets and rejoices, rallying cries and escape plans.
"Coyote Really Fuckin' Ugly"
i woke up and didn't even have to think.
her face was turned, buried in a pillow, but i knew.
i'd gone and done it again.
i was naked, but luckily my arm was not around her.
i got out of the bed and searched for my clothes.
i heard her snort, cough and shift.
my heart rate rose.
my chest was like the speakers of a sub woofer.
i turned to her.
she was smiling at me.
her teeth were crooked and stained from nicotine.
her hair was stringy, greasy.
"no entiendo ni hablo inglés," i squeaked.
"aww. pablo. my sexy man. don't be silly!"
i didn't even want to think about the fact...
...that she called me pablo... for when she raised the covers and
kicked up her legs, i was blinded by BUSH!
she offered to make coffee.
"claro, claro," i said.
she kissed me on the cheek and in a haze of bed smell...
moved past me and through the door.
hastily, i re-dressed, made sure i had my wallet,
made sure i DIDN'T have the condom that i'd been carrying,
(good on both fronts)
and opened the sliding glass door.
time for pablo to blow this hag haven.
MOTHERFUCKER!
this bitch lives 3 fucking floors from the ground!
so then i had an existential crisis.
"¡piensa, pablo, piensa! ¿para saltar o no?
i looked behind me.
coast clear.
but suddenly, i heard a "psst." from above.
"young man! i don't mean to pry, but... coyote ugly or forced marriage?"
"coyote ugly, señor."
"ah, well... forced marriage here. 15 years. look at it this way, you could be on my floor."
&&& S.G.
"La Novia que no Sabe Nada"
"The Girlfriend that Knows Nothing"
For the first time in my life
I had two girls at once
For the first time in my life
My girlfriend wasn't one of them
For the first time in my life
I had breakfast not at Denny's
but on my own gas stove
buttered tortillas
como mi mamá siempre las preparó.
For the first time in my life
I was alone and everything felt good
For the first time in my life
When my girlfriend came home
she suspected nothing
she usually suspects everything
because I'm out eating Denny's
after a binge with my friends.
Ay, she knows nothing!
&&& S.G.
"Friends, Brothers, Their Sisters, My Lovers"
--for posterity, may they learn all the lessons i had to, in every conceivable way--
one night i promised my buddy that i'd never hit on his sister.
his hot sister.
of legal age.
and one night while drinking and smoking and talking
we were sitting inches apart
and she confessed that
she liked smoking and sex and tattoos.
oh really?
¿en serio?
well then.
i showed her my tattoo of Raquel Welch
"did you know that she's a latina?"
"yes. very beautiful."
"indeed."
she noted that i have a reputation.
curious.
for what?
"well. showing off your tattoo of Raquel Welch..."
there was an and.
i knew.
"...and fucking my friends' sisters?"
"yes."
soon after we were kissing and petting
O, ROMANCE!
O sweaty, drunken, sloppy romance!
we had each other on the couch then on the floor
and for a few hours more
we talked and smoked and then she got a wild idea.
we got matching tats.
mine said, "i fucked your sister."
hers said, "i fucked your friend."
the next day, her brother, my friend, we sat and talked
for what seemed a time without end,
and he couldn't believe i'd do it to him.
haha haha haha
didn't you know, that nothing is sacred?
BUT.
"in my defense, i never hit on her."
&&& S.G.
"It all started with a conversation about Warren Zevon"
It all started with a conversation about Warren Zevon.
Me, a studious but hard drinking pupil of rock & fuckin' roll,
Her, a cocktail waitress/queen in need of a king,
By the time we realized that our collective shit was fucked up,
We decided that sleep could only come once we were dead,
Or after a night of raging hard-ons satiated by much needed friction,
Then we went to her place, had drinks, listened to some records,
And when I went to kiss her, she was not a whore nor slut,
But a beautiful queen,
Stuck in a rut,
Tut tut tut,
This is a caprice, and sex is a many splendored thing,
She said, "I guess" and we continued to drink and drink and drink,
And the vodka was screaming, I couldn't think,
Were we listening to the Dolls or Rundgren?
Was I Sid Vicious and she Nancy Spungen?
We rode one another into the morning,
And when I woke up and smoked the last cig,
And thought a final thought,
I dedicated it to Zevon, the man who made it all possible,
To fuck and flee and never get caught!
&&& S.G.
(2009)
6.8.09
Paying the Rent
"Yeah, but does it pay the rent?"
By Patrick Patterson-Carroll
Got beat up a couple of times for her. Yeah. We’d hang out. Drink a little, maybe sex for the nightcap and then, bam. She wants money. All women want money. Whether you’re dating them or plain fuckin’ ‘em or you’re married. My mother always used to say that prostitution is the world’s oldest profession. Fuckin’ A.
So I never had the money. Not once. First time just springed it on me, “Yeah honey, you owe me.” Then the pimp comes over. Big black guy. Punches me a couple of times and says, “You’re lucky she’s not top shelf.” Well, I tell him that I think I’m in love. He laughs and says that I’ve been watching too many movies. Fuck him.
Next time, she asks me at the beginning. I’m broke. I just want to talk, but unfortunately, that would cost me as well. I beg of her to have her pimp beat me up in lieu of payment. She shakes her head and starts to head for the door. But something made her look back to me. Puppy dog eyes I was giving her. Couldn’t resist.
Pimp beats me up, she says, “You got twenty minutes, whatcha want?”
“I want this to be over,” she says, sighing.
Over? I’m not even a page in on this story and she’s already bored. Cindy, my ex-girlfriend. If you could only look at her. Elbow on table, hand crumpled against cheek, cigarette burning away. “You always write like that,” she observes, ashing her cig.
“Like what?” I ask.
“Like that. Colloquial. Casual. Seamy underbelly and such. But you’re from Plano, so who the fuck are you kidding?”
“It’s just a story. They’re all just stories, Cindy.”
“Who was that that said... ‘write what you know’?”
“I don’t know.”
So what? My mother never says “prostitution is the world’s oldest profession” either. I heard it in a movie or saw it on the internet. I don't know. I just like the way it sounds. That’s what I like about modern literature and that whole “anything goes” kind of attitude. You can throw all this pop cultural shit in, and it only adds to the cadence, the euphonious blah blah of it all, as my professor would say. And sure, I don’t know shit about shit, and I graduated from the University of Wikipedia, but if I can slop a few sentences together with some pizzazz, no one cares.
I’ve written four stories in my creative writing class, and I’m just trying to find a style. Maybe Bukowski meets Palahniuk. That seems all the rage these days. Nihilism. Debauchery. Mainly, I’m trying to find a way to make a living as a scribe.
“Maybe you just hate the way I read,” I offer, handing her the stapled together pages upon which the story is typed.
“Maybe,” she says, “But it’s more like I think you try way too hard, writing about things that have very little to do with the life you lead and have led. You know?”
"Fiction has its own reality."
"Who told you that shit?"
"Mr. Memphis."
"Well, he's full of it. Fiction is informed by reality."
She always does this. Anything to contradict me. I wanted to get married. She says, "let's call it quits." I told her she was breaking my heart, she tells me that it’s irresponsible to lay my emotional responses on her doorstep. I say she doesn’t get it. She says she gets it well enough. I suggest that we never see each other again. She counters with an offer for friendship.
And here we are. Six in the morning at a diner. I think I've had twenty cups of coffee. She says I'm in love with hyperbole. I say she's in love with pointing out the flaws of my character. She says "hey, we're both right about that fiction thing." What? Out of nowhere. We're both right? Didn't even need to come from an unbiased third party! How nice of her to extend her understanding hand. We're both right. Great.
She smiles because she knows the truth. See, we still live together. My parents have cut me off (long story), and the rent's due. Of course, she can cover it. But she won't because we're split. Obviously. So she's been playing this game with me for the last couple of days. Extreme criticism. Merciless mocking. "You're wasting your time," she says. "Sometimes you have to defer those dreams and live 'in the now.'"
This is me. Living in the now. Professor Memphis says I've got something. Last class he told me that I should "push the envelope more," "explore the edge," and a whole lot of other platitudes that lent kitsch to his persona. Sometimes he reads his own writings aloud in class and I sit there, like everyone else, and think, "there's a reason this guy is teaching."
So we all sit around watching him. Listening to him read another bitter piece of misogyny. He has a lot of those. A lot of the girls in class cringe. Another guy laughs a lot. Not a big surprise, though. He's already made some ridiculous comments about god and the bible and the "way things are." Had all the ladies in the room in an uproar. I noticed Mr. Memphis grin. Like, "yeah, I stirred up some shit."
When he finishes his story, he asks for comments. Says it's a "piece" from the novel he's working on and that we should "be thoughtful in both criticism and compliment." There's lots of silence. I can hear some asses shift uncomfortably in their seats. I say, "I think it's an interesting piece of writing. Though I must say that it suffers from a lack of context. We don't even know where this is coming from and why."
He grabs his chin and rubs the stubble. "Hmm," he intones. Then he charges out of the gate. He says that context is for modernist purists too attached to strict convention. That context defeats the purpose of stream of consciousness. That context is a tool of the uncreative. That context should be as much of a consideration when we set out to write as not offending our readers. I start thinking about Cindy. She'd laugh her ass off. I cough. There's no "bullshit!" furtively lurking in its confines, though. It's not that clever. At least I guess that's what he'd say.
Next I read my piece. After two laughter riddled false starts, I get into the story. I'm emoting, projecting, acting it out! I feel so alive in front of the class. Their dropped jaws are a mirror reflecting back to me my personality. I'm starting to feel, as I approach the conclusion of the story, like I'm getting somewhere. That maybe he'll tell me that I'm finally publishable.
I finish. Just as with the professor's story, I am confronted with silence. Only this time it's pale-faced with something that perhaps best resembles disgust. "Comments?" Memphis asks the class. When nothing is offered, he looks at me and claps slowly. "It's brilliant," he says. The best thing he's heard in awhile and it's made even more amazing by the fact that he had two excellent writers the semester before.
"He's full of shit, you know," Cindy says.
Yeah. He is. He went through this very gushy song and dance about how my story reminded him of something that "met at the crossroads" somewhere between William T. Vollmann and Elmore Leonard. Then, because he quickly realized Leonard is perceived as more of a genre writer, he amended his position. Irvine Welsh and Vollmann! Yeah. That's much more of a canonical combination!
Cindy laughs over her French Toast. She says that the first sign of bullshit smoke blowing into certain bodily crevices is overwrought comparison to established writers.
"But doesn't everyone do that?"
"I've never compared you to anyone."
"You hate my writing!"
"Not true. I just haven't seen a whole lot of it."
Tonight I sit in the living room, tapping away at Cindy’s laptop. Nothing feels mine anymore. I’ve got to get my own place, but more than that, I have to start my novel now if I’m ever going to start one. Cindy laughs at me, occasionally poking her nose over my shoulder, reminding me that it’s better I write something I know about. Like being a spoiled fuck-up whose parents have disowned him. Very supportive.
Half a page and I’m ready to quit. It’s so much easier to just write what sounds good. I am not interested in doing the memoir thing because writing about parents is cliché. Although guys like Augusten Burroughs and Dave Eggers have made the convention marketably viable, and most importantly, they have given it a legitimacy amongst the kinds of people I want to impress.
I step outside into the dark, warm night. I need to think. Figure something out. I've got two paragraphs and the ends are wide open. Some writers can function like this. I cannot. And to make matters worse, I am sans cigarette because I quit a couple of weeks ago. Cindy joins me, smiling as she wraps her lips around an unfiltered clove. She blows some smoke out past the tree that reaches out to the balcony.
"You're disgusting," I say, lashing out.
"Hey asshole, you can sleep out here tonight if you want. It's up to you. No one told you to quit. No one told you to fuck up your whole deal with your parentals. I bust my ass. You write bullshit, and because some moronic teacher thinks you're on to something, you're making yourself even more of a basketcase."
Memphis tells me to meet him after class. So I'm thinking that he's got some ideas, some options. Like, maybe I can get some of these stories published or entered into contests. After all, cash prizes are always good. The very possibility of them gives me something of a hard-on. Especially since Cindy isn't fucking me.
Instead, after an hour of lecture and a discussion on a reading assignment which will lead to our fifth writing assignment, he looks me in the eyes and says nothing. Deep in thought. A familiar uncomfortable silence. "What are you doing tonight?" he asks. I stammer some, knowing that I don't really have any plans.
"You ever heard of 'The Safari'?" he asks me as he closes his briefcase, which I've always jokingly imagined was filled with shredded paper, a la Lionel Hutz.
"The Safari? Can't say I have." He explains that "The Safari" is something that a group of his students turned him on to a couple of semesters ago. This, coming at the height of his failing marriage, was a view of the city he'd never seen before. It "opened his eyes" to the realities, and by extension, the possibilities of living in the big city.
This explanation does little to describe exactly what "The Safari" is, but he promises that if I follow him to his car, all will be revealed in due time. Normally, I'd never agree to such a cryptically veiled proposition, but curiosity getting the better of me, I walk alongside him while he whistles "Rule Britania" for no particular reason.
Outside the sun bears down on the parking lot. Ninety + degree weather forces him to loosen his tie. We get to his car. It's a Volvo with a child safety seat in the back. Let's go for a ride, he suggests. I stare at the back seat. He laughs. "Fucking bitch," he mutters.
Inside it's hotter than outside, such is the nature of dark colored vehicles in Texas. Both windows are rolled down. He looks at me and smiles. He asks me if I'm ready to live like all the greats. Sure, whatever that means, I say.
We sip lager from dirty pint glasses at a hole in the wall down the street from the school. The perfect place, Memphis insists, to reveal to me what exactly "The Safari" is and what it entails. "Brace yourself," he begins in earnest, "because I realize that though your subject matter leans toward the transgressive, what this means, and what I will subsequently be requesting of you might be a bit too much."
An "uh-huh" escapes my lips as I swallow the last drop of the lager, and my annoyance threatens to take root. He grabs my arm. "The Safari," he says, "is a nightly drive through prostition heavy areas of town... particularly through the gay parts. In other words, we look for trannies, and... if the surroundings appear amenable, we might... you know... engage."
"Engage?"
"Engage."
"As in... proposition?"
"Yes."
He's smirking at me. This guy is something else. But still, I have to consider it. I mean, I'm not going to have sex with guys; freaks with artificial hormone enhanced tits and soft faces, but it might be interesting. I say to Memphis that I might need some time to mull it over. He motions the bartender for a couple more and asks me what I mean.
"What I mean is that I'm not just going to jump into something without all the proper mental checks. Is it logical? Is it safe?"
"Come on, kid! Think of it like this. You got potential. Potential. But that only gets you so far. Your stories could be so much better if you experience your chosen subject matter. Think Hunter Thompson. Gonzo, man. Delve into the lifestyle."
"Maybe this isn't all I want to write about..."
"Okay, but what have you been writing about?"
"Prostitution. Not fucking trannies!"
He's not very convincing. He's just name-dropping. It's starting to annoy me a little. My annoyance, my reluctance is annoying him, and the air around us is becomming quite smothered in the beer soaked breath of tension.
"If you don't want this kind of confrontation," he suggests, "perhaps you should just write what you know. You wanna be William T. Vollmann or Tucker Max? Because believe me, there is a great, wide valley of difference between the two. You can straddle that fault in the middle or you can hop to one side or another."
Write what you know. Ha! Yeah, I've never heard that one before. It's been the chorus in the shadows since Cindy dumped me. Speaking of. She's texted me. The message is:
By Patrick Patterson-Carroll
Got beat up a couple of times for her. Yeah. We’d hang out. Drink a little, maybe sex for the nightcap and then, bam. She wants money. All women want money. Whether you’re dating them or plain fuckin’ ‘em or you’re married. My mother always used to say that prostitution is the world’s oldest profession. Fuckin’ A.
So I never had the money. Not once. First time just springed it on me, “Yeah honey, you owe me.” Then the pimp comes over. Big black guy. Punches me a couple of times and says, “You’re lucky she’s not top shelf.” Well, I tell him that I think I’m in love. He laughs and says that I’ve been watching too many movies. Fuck him.
Next time, she asks me at the beginning. I’m broke. I just want to talk, but unfortunately, that would cost me as well. I beg of her to have her pimp beat me up in lieu of payment. She shakes her head and starts to head for the door. But something made her look back to me. Puppy dog eyes I was giving her. Couldn’t resist.
Pimp beats me up, she says, “You got twenty minutes, whatcha want?”
“I want this to be over,” she says, sighing.
Over? I’m not even a page in on this story and she’s already bored. Cindy, my ex-girlfriend. If you could only look at her. Elbow on table, hand crumpled against cheek, cigarette burning away. “You always write like that,” she observes, ashing her cig.
“Like what?” I ask.
“Like that. Colloquial. Casual. Seamy underbelly and such. But you’re from Plano, so who the fuck are you kidding?”
“It’s just a story. They’re all just stories, Cindy.”
“Who was that that said... ‘write what you know’?”
“I don’t know.”
So what? My mother never says “prostitution is the world’s oldest profession” either. I heard it in a movie or saw it on the internet. I don't know. I just like the way it sounds. That’s what I like about modern literature and that whole “anything goes” kind of attitude. You can throw all this pop cultural shit in, and it only adds to the cadence, the euphonious blah blah of it all, as my professor would say. And sure, I don’t know shit about shit, and I graduated from the University of Wikipedia, but if I can slop a few sentences together with some pizzazz, no one cares.
I’ve written four stories in my creative writing class, and I’m just trying to find a style. Maybe Bukowski meets Palahniuk. That seems all the rage these days. Nihilism. Debauchery. Mainly, I’m trying to find a way to make a living as a scribe.
“Maybe you just hate the way I read,” I offer, handing her the stapled together pages upon which the story is typed.
“Maybe,” she says, “But it’s more like I think you try way too hard, writing about things that have very little to do with the life you lead and have led. You know?”
"Fiction has its own reality."
"Who told you that shit?"
"Mr. Memphis."
"Well, he's full of it. Fiction is informed by reality."
She always does this. Anything to contradict me. I wanted to get married. She says, "let's call it quits." I told her she was breaking my heart, she tells me that it’s irresponsible to lay my emotional responses on her doorstep. I say she doesn’t get it. She says she gets it well enough. I suggest that we never see each other again. She counters with an offer for friendship.
And here we are. Six in the morning at a diner. I think I've had twenty cups of coffee. She says I'm in love with hyperbole. I say she's in love with pointing out the flaws of my character. She says "hey, we're both right about that fiction thing." What? Out of nowhere. We're both right? Didn't even need to come from an unbiased third party! How nice of her to extend her understanding hand. We're both right. Great.
She smiles because she knows the truth. See, we still live together. My parents have cut me off (long story), and the rent's due. Of course, she can cover it. But she won't because we're split. Obviously. So she's been playing this game with me for the last couple of days. Extreme criticism. Merciless mocking. "You're wasting your time," she says. "Sometimes you have to defer those dreams and live 'in the now.'"
This is me. Living in the now. Professor Memphis says I've got something. Last class he told me that I should "push the envelope more," "explore the edge," and a whole lot of other platitudes that lent kitsch to his persona. Sometimes he reads his own writings aloud in class and I sit there, like everyone else, and think, "there's a reason this guy is teaching."
So we all sit around watching him. Listening to him read another bitter piece of misogyny. He has a lot of those. A lot of the girls in class cringe. Another guy laughs a lot. Not a big surprise, though. He's already made some ridiculous comments about god and the bible and the "way things are." Had all the ladies in the room in an uproar. I noticed Mr. Memphis grin. Like, "yeah, I stirred up some shit."
When he finishes his story, he asks for comments. Says it's a "piece" from the novel he's working on and that we should "be thoughtful in both criticism and compliment." There's lots of silence. I can hear some asses shift uncomfortably in their seats. I say, "I think it's an interesting piece of writing. Though I must say that it suffers from a lack of context. We don't even know where this is coming from and why."
He grabs his chin and rubs the stubble. "Hmm," he intones. Then he charges out of the gate. He says that context is for modernist purists too attached to strict convention. That context defeats the purpose of stream of consciousness. That context is a tool of the uncreative. That context should be as much of a consideration when we set out to write as not offending our readers. I start thinking about Cindy. She'd laugh her ass off. I cough. There's no "bullshit!" furtively lurking in its confines, though. It's not that clever. At least I guess that's what he'd say.
Next I read my piece. After two laughter riddled false starts, I get into the story. I'm emoting, projecting, acting it out! I feel so alive in front of the class. Their dropped jaws are a mirror reflecting back to me my personality. I'm starting to feel, as I approach the conclusion of the story, like I'm getting somewhere. That maybe he'll tell me that I'm finally publishable.
I finish. Just as with the professor's story, I am confronted with silence. Only this time it's pale-faced with something that perhaps best resembles disgust. "Comments?" Memphis asks the class. When nothing is offered, he looks at me and claps slowly. "It's brilliant," he says. The best thing he's heard in awhile and it's made even more amazing by the fact that he had two excellent writers the semester before.
"He's full of shit, you know," Cindy says.
Yeah. He is. He went through this very gushy song and dance about how my story reminded him of something that "met at the crossroads" somewhere between William T. Vollmann and Elmore Leonard. Then, because he quickly realized Leonard is perceived as more of a genre writer, he amended his position. Irvine Welsh and Vollmann! Yeah. That's much more of a canonical combination!
Cindy laughs over her French Toast. She says that the first sign of bullshit smoke blowing into certain bodily crevices is overwrought comparison to established writers.
"But doesn't everyone do that?"
"I've never compared you to anyone."
"You hate my writing!"
"Not true. I just haven't seen a whole lot of it."
Tonight I sit in the living room, tapping away at Cindy’s laptop. Nothing feels mine anymore. I’ve got to get my own place, but more than that, I have to start my novel now if I’m ever going to start one. Cindy laughs at me, occasionally poking her nose over my shoulder, reminding me that it’s better I write something I know about. Like being a spoiled fuck-up whose parents have disowned him. Very supportive.
Half a page and I’m ready to quit. It’s so much easier to just write what sounds good. I am not interested in doing the memoir thing because writing about parents is cliché. Although guys like Augusten Burroughs and Dave Eggers have made the convention marketably viable, and most importantly, they have given it a legitimacy amongst the kinds of people I want to impress.
I step outside into the dark, warm night. I need to think. Figure something out. I've got two paragraphs and the ends are wide open. Some writers can function like this. I cannot. And to make matters worse, I am sans cigarette because I quit a couple of weeks ago. Cindy joins me, smiling as she wraps her lips around an unfiltered clove. She blows some smoke out past the tree that reaches out to the balcony.
"You're disgusting," I say, lashing out.
"Hey asshole, you can sleep out here tonight if you want. It's up to you. No one told you to quit. No one told you to fuck up your whole deal with your parentals. I bust my ass. You write bullshit, and because some moronic teacher thinks you're on to something, you're making yourself even more of a basketcase."
Memphis tells me to meet him after class. So I'm thinking that he's got some ideas, some options. Like, maybe I can get some of these stories published or entered into contests. After all, cash prizes are always good. The very possibility of them gives me something of a hard-on. Especially since Cindy isn't fucking me.
Instead, after an hour of lecture and a discussion on a reading assignment which will lead to our fifth writing assignment, he looks me in the eyes and says nothing. Deep in thought. A familiar uncomfortable silence. "What are you doing tonight?" he asks. I stammer some, knowing that I don't really have any plans.
"You ever heard of 'The Safari'?" he asks me as he closes his briefcase, which I've always jokingly imagined was filled with shredded paper, a la Lionel Hutz.
"The Safari? Can't say I have." He explains that "The Safari" is something that a group of his students turned him on to a couple of semesters ago. This, coming at the height of his failing marriage, was a view of the city he'd never seen before. It "opened his eyes" to the realities, and by extension, the possibilities of living in the big city.
This explanation does little to describe exactly what "The Safari" is, but he promises that if I follow him to his car, all will be revealed in due time. Normally, I'd never agree to such a cryptically veiled proposition, but curiosity getting the better of me, I walk alongside him while he whistles "Rule Britania" for no particular reason.
Outside the sun bears down on the parking lot. Ninety + degree weather forces him to loosen his tie. We get to his car. It's a Volvo with a child safety seat in the back. Let's go for a ride, he suggests. I stare at the back seat. He laughs. "Fucking bitch," he mutters.
Inside it's hotter than outside, such is the nature of dark colored vehicles in Texas. Both windows are rolled down. He looks at me and smiles. He asks me if I'm ready to live like all the greats. Sure, whatever that means, I say.
We sip lager from dirty pint glasses at a hole in the wall down the street from the school. The perfect place, Memphis insists, to reveal to me what exactly "The Safari" is and what it entails. "Brace yourself," he begins in earnest, "because I realize that though your subject matter leans toward the transgressive, what this means, and what I will subsequently be requesting of you might be a bit too much."
An "uh-huh" escapes my lips as I swallow the last drop of the lager, and my annoyance threatens to take root. He grabs my arm. "The Safari," he says, "is a nightly drive through prostition heavy areas of town... particularly through the gay parts. In other words, we look for trannies, and... if the surroundings appear amenable, we might... you know... engage."
"Engage?"
"Engage."
"As in... proposition?"
"Yes."
He's smirking at me. This guy is something else. But still, I have to consider it. I mean, I'm not going to have sex with guys; freaks with artificial hormone enhanced tits and soft faces, but it might be interesting. I say to Memphis that I might need some time to mull it over. He motions the bartender for a couple more and asks me what I mean.
"What I mean is that I'm not just going to jump into something without all the proper mental checks. Is it logical? Is it safe?"
"Come on, kid! Think of it like this. You got potential. Potential. But that only gets you so far. Your stories could be so much better if you experience your chosen subject matter. Think Hunter Thompson. Gonzo, man. Delve into the lifestyle."
"Maybe this isn't all I want to write about..."
"Okay, but what have you been writing about?"
"Prostitution. Not fucking trannies!"
He's not very convincing. He's just name-dropping. It's starting to annoy me a little. My annoyance, my reluctance is annoying him, and the air around us is becomming quite smothered in the beer soaked breath of tension.
"If you don't want this kind of confrontation," he suggests, "perhaps you should just write what you know. You wanna be William T. Vollmann or Tucker Max? Because believe me, there is a great, wide valley of difference between the two. You can straddle that fault in the middle or you can hop to one side or another."
Write what you know. Ha! Yeah, I've never heard that one before. It's been the chorus in the shadows since Cindy dumped me. Speaking of. She's texted me. The message is:
Hey, rents due on the 5th. Just a friendly reminder.
Bitch. I realize that the rent is due on the 5th of every month. She's just adding iodine to the wound. No. Wrong. That would be a step toward healing. What she's doing is rubbing dirt in it and spitting on top for effect.
Memphis and I get back into his Volvo. The setting sun has allowed the interior to cool. This is good. He says the two-mile radius around the freeway is a good place to start. There are strips of nightclubs and flop houses, all seemingly pointing in the direction of the freeway. That's what he calls it. Just: the freeway. As if this city isn't littered with them. The man needs a map. He's been speaking in code ever since we left the school.
He reaches into the glove compartment and pulls out a notebook and a wad of cash. The man takes notes! "How long have you done this?" Couple years, he says. Caught his wife cheating, the whore, and since then he's been staking and partaking.
He starts the car and we begin south. We're quiet, but the car's tires banging over potholes is loud enough to cover the both of us. I glance down at the notebook in my lap. I'm somewhat afraid of what I'll find between its covers. I sigh, knowing that it's better to go into things sans preconceived notions. Memphis, sneaking peeks at me between mirror checks, pushes his glasses up to the bridge of his nose and grunts at me.
"Hey," he says. "Look, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, this guy is not only insane, but he might be gay. Yeah, might be. Hole's a hole. You know?"
"I don't care about that," I respond.
"I don't care what you care about man, what I care about is exposing you to the experiences that you ignorantly write of. That's all. This is real. Don't fucking judge me. If you're going to be that way, you can get out, because once I cross this next intersection, we are on the side of town governed by depravity. In city council, this district is represented by people who are much like characters out of a de Sade novel. Or de Sade himself.”
“Oh. Well. I do want to write.”
"I don't care about that," I respond.
"I don't care what you care about man, what I care about is exposing you to the experiences that you ignorantly write of. That's all. This is real. Don't fucking judge me. If you're going to be that way, you can get out, because once I cross this next intersection, we are on the side of town governed by depravity. In city council, this district is represented by people who are much like characters out of a de Sade novel. Or de Sade himself.”
“Oh. Well. I do want to write.”
More silence. I open the notebook. The inconsistent bars of street light that bounce over us make reading any of the words difficult, but if I squint, I notice sketches of “women” in compromising positions, dangling off curbs, leaning into car windows, and guiding men into dilapidated “trick-pads” by hand. Yeah, I did read Vollmann. Once. Very bizarre.
Besides pinpointing the man’s fetish, these images serve to cultivate suspicion that Memphis is better at drawing than he is at writing.
We pull up to a STOP sign. Unlike most, he makes a complete stop, but instead of continuing across the street, he unbuckles his belt and looks around. His attention quickly becomes fixed on a lanky silhouette of a figure about twenty feet down the sidewalk, disappearing and reappearing in the battle between street light and shadow.
My cell rings. He whips his head around to meet me eye to eye. I pull the phone from my pocket. The display says Cindy. Fuck. I turn it off.
Memphis rolls down the window and whistles at the figure. As it steps off the curb, I recognize it as a dark, tall "woman" with makeup rolling off her face in beads. Long jet black hair. Can't tell the color of her eyes. She seems to recognize him, asking if it is indeed "Kev." “Indeed,” he answers. She leans into the window.
“How goes the night?” Memphis asks.
“Yeah, had to punch this drunk asshole’s lights out. Fucker was too grabby, and he just didn’t pay for that,“ she says with speed, voice cracking. Unsteady. She motioned to me. “Who’s your friend?”
“A pupil. He’s a writer. Doing research. I’m taking him on the Safari.”
“Oh?”
“Yep. Anything good going on tonight?”
“There’s some gloryhole action down the street at Fred’s. Got a cig?”
“Yeah, had to punch this drunk asshole’s lights out. Fucker was too grabby, and he just didn’t pay for that,“ she says with speed, voice cracking. Unsteady. She motioned to me. “Who’s your friend?”
“A pupil. He’s a writer. Doing research. I’m taking him on the Safari.”
“Oh?”
“Yep. Anything good going on tonight?”
“There’s some gloryhole action down the street at Fred’s. Got a cig?”
He tells her that he doesn’t smoke, but for a kiss he’ll give her the money to buy a whole carton of them “smoky, smelly shits.” She laughs and says, “Well, Carma is not a bitch, honey.” She grabs the back of his head and they share a prolonged kiss. Some seconds later, his spectacles foggy, mouth recovering oxygen in gasps, he hands her $70. A fifty and a twenty.
He looks at me. I smile, jot down what I just witnessed, and he says, “We’re going to Fred’s.”
Fred’s is not an abbreviation or some clever diminution of a longer name. It’s not a bar or a club. It’s not even a dive. It’s someone’s fucking house. There’s no alcohol unless you’ve brought your own. Depending on who you speak to or who’s around on any given night, you can purchase crack, pot, heroin, and really bad coke. The main draw of the place, apparently, is that seven days a week you can buy women, men, men dressed as women, and women dressed as men (a real oddity), all with the sole purpose of, well, doing whatever you want for the right price short of killing them, which has happened before.
A knot is forming in my throat, but a tickle in my pocket distracts me. It’s my phone. The battery signal is blinking red. It’s dying. I have a missed call and two unread texts; all from Cindy, no doubt. This place is dirty, redolent of the vilest of human bodily excretions, and frankly, fucking scary.
Moving on quivering knees, I can hear workmen-like grunts, women moaning without any indication of ecstasy, and cries of possible agony. Depressing enough. Fear and regret have taken residence in my gut and are letting their ridiculously dysfunctional in-laws move in as well! And they are not on the fucking lease! And it's dawning on me that oh shit (!) she really does expect me to put in on the rent. The hairs on the back of my neck are tingling and I'm feeling queasy.
I bump into a guy carrying a can of beer. He's drunk. He says it's okay, but who sent me. I say "Carma" as if it's a question. He pats me and tells me I'm funny, but he might have to lock me in the closet if I don't stop fucking around. Carma. Carma? Carma! “The fucking chick on the co...” Vomit. Puke! Shit’s all over my shoes. He backs up and laughs.
“You’re okay, kid.”
“You’re okay, kid.”
Except, I’m not. And I’ve lost Memphis. “Where is he?” I ask a woman on a couch. Who? “The guy I came in with,” I say, wiping bits of god knows what from my chin. “He’s tall, white and wears glasses.”
Her eyes glaze over. Great description. And I call myself a writer. If depression is an ocean, I’m floating on the corpse of a gay poet who threw himself overboard a ferry, and things are not looking good. I lay myself on the dirty couch situated at the ingress of the hall and rest my head against the cushion-less back. People have probably been raped on this thing.
Before I can doze off to sleep, Memphis grabs my arm and shakes me. Yeah, I’m awake man. I sit up and he’s just smiling, his teeth shiny and off-white. “Guess what I just did?” Yeah, just tell me because at this point I’d rather be spooning apple sauce into my terminal great aunt’s mouth. I’m pretty sure she won’t, you know, beat me or mouth rape me. Of course, I say none of this and blurt out an exhausted “what.”
“Glory hole, baby! Look, you gotta do this. I paid. My treat. Just remember, a hole’s a hole, and if the idea of a possible guy sucking you off makes you squeamish, I find that picturing Evan Rachel Wood or some other famous, nubile sweetie works.”
“Hell no!”
“Why not? This is experience, man!”
“Can’t I just smoke crack instead?” I plead somewhat seriously.
“Hell no!”
“Why not? This is experience, man!”
“Can’t I just smoke crack instead?” I plead somewhat seriously.
He lifts me up from the couch and tells me that yeah, I can’t possibly mean that because crack is overrated, addictive, and generally leads to doing the exact inverse of the glory hole. We move quickly, slipping through my barf en route. “Man, I came in like a minute. She was good.”
“Sure it was a girl?”
“Shut the fuck up, man. You’re testing my goddamned patience.”
“Shut the fuck up, man. You’re testing my goddamned patience.”
He’d never been as stern with me before. We get to a door. He knocks and it opens. A guy waves us in. It stinks in here worse than in the rest of the house; dark save for the emissions of light from a small fluorescent light above. A guy is up against the wall. His pants are around his ankles, his ass checks are flexing; he occasionally thrusts into a small hole which his dick and balls are in, presumably being serviced on the other side. He moans. He spasms. He pounds his fist against the wall and grunts, ostensibly the universal signal that he’s about to cum or is cumming (?).
Two guys are ahead of me, bouncing in place on tip-toes. Memphis starts rubbing my shoulders. He tells me that what’s about to happen will do wonders for all the tension. Yes, I realize that; who wouldn’t? But given the circumstances, I would rather not indulge. I like beds, privacy, knowing who is performing the act on me, and most importantly, I prefer that said performer is female.
The next guy is gasping and gesticulating animatedly like he’d never been blown before. I start to think that maybe this won’t be so bad. I wonder if they’d let me wear a condom. It wouldn’t feel good at all, but this way I can avoid herpes and whatever else is being passed around in this place. Hell, it’s probably too late. Just laying on that couch probably infected me with body lice or something. I am feeling kind of itchy. Jesus. These guys are cumming fast and loud. Now the guy in front of me is filling the hole with his dick.
Oh man. Memphis has disappeared. Again. The guy pulls his dick out of the opening, cum dripping from the tip, quiet. I told Memphis that crack would be better. The guy in the corner quietly throws him a towel. It’s my turn. I step up to the hole, exhale deeply and unzip and unbutton my jeans. Surprisingly I’m half hard. I turn to the guy in the corner and jokingly ask for a condom. No response. A rough hand is eagerly feeling around the uneven curve of the cut hole seemingly done with a butter knife, it was so poorly done.
I insert my half rigid, half floppy cock and put both palms on the wall. I hear a voice on the other end exclaim somewhat disappointedly. Now, my penis is probably in some man’s hand. Feels like a man hand. At least compared to Cindy. Oh man, Cindy. How am I going to get that money? The hand is jerking my cock. I’m getting a little harder, and I’m thinking, yeah, it’s long and thinner than normal. I have no girth. I know that. The two girls I’ve fucked know that, they’re just kind enough not to say anything.
Okay. I’m still being stroked. And I’m starting to feel it. Fuck it. I’m going to get hard, and this woman-- probably a man-- is going to suck me to fruition. Good. Whatever. I’ll have something to write about. I feel a tongue on the tip of my dick, but I also feel-- a hand in my hair? Yep. A hand. In my hair. Yanking my head back.
“You’re the motherfucker who puked on my floor and didn’t clean the shit up, aren’t ya? You son of a bitch. You’re going to clean it up! With your fucking tongue!”
And so I’m yanked away, hard dick erect from my jeans, in pain, and hoping that I still have a head of hair after this. Hell, I hope I’m still alive to recall this. He throws me onto the wooden floor face first, sits on my back, and rubs my face in my own vile regurgitation.
It’s all awful. The taste, the smell, the cold, soggy, slippery wetness of it all. I begin to vomit more, mixing the warm with the cold. The guy is yelling and telling me that he doesn’t give a shit if I Jimi Hendrix on his floor, he’s not going to stop until I have lapped every bit of the disgusting shit up.
***
I wake up sore in a hospital room. Cindy is sitting in a wooden chair, flipping through a book. I ask her what the hell happened to me. She tells me that I was attacked. Left in a dumpster. No shit. I can feel the swell of my face. I can detect, through a battered nose, even, the faint whiff of garbage. “All I can remember,” I choke, “is that I was made to ingest my own vomit. My own fucking vomit, Cindy.”
She slams down the book and looks at me. Somehow I don’t think she’s going to offer me anything in the way of sympathy. She picks her purse up from the floor and pulls out some printed paper. It has marks and notes on it. She says that she really thinks I can make it as a writer, but I have to stop being so stubborn and myopic.
“I can’t support you if you don’t support yourself. Get a real job. Write in your spare time. All I ask is that you contribute something. And you have no business going back to that class.”
Part of me wants to argue the point. To say that writing is a real job, and that one of the reasons why I’m so frustrated with her is that she refuses to see that. But the hurting part of me is a little more insistent and dependent on having her sympathy. Yeah, I’ll continue to write, but I’ll also quest to get back on her good side. If that means waiting tables or, I don’t know, selling drugs, fine. More than anything, I just want her to give me a nice bath, rub all my aches, and maybe, just maybe, give me a blowjob I’ll never forget.
© Patrick Patterson-Carroll
(2009)
20.5.09
The Alphabet (an introduction to the utilization of language)
The Alphabet.
Aa, Bb, Cc, Dd, Ee, Ff,
Aa, Bb, Cc, Dd, Ee, Ff,
Gg, Hh, Ii, Jj, Kk, Ll, Mm,
Nn, Oo, Pp, Qq, Rr, Ss,
Tt, Uu, Vv, Ww, Xx, Yy, Zz
By Patrick Patterson-Carroll
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