NANCY THE SPAZ 9/17/99
(a monologue as remembered by a friend)
My friend went to meet a woman at a restaurant. He found her in a dark corner, sitting with a demure smile. Even after he introduced himself and sat down, she could only stare straight ahead. Finally she spoke. With a snapping, desperate voice she began, "Hi I'm Spaz. Vomit. Puke. Disgust. You wanna leave? Now's your chance. Cause I really don't give a fuck. I have given up. Completely. Totally. Yeah. I'll bet you're thinking, then why did I even show up today? Why waste my time? Cause I'm hungry. Cause the cable went out. Cause I turned thirty. Cause I'm divorced with one kid and my eyes are going. Yesterday I had to get glasses. Would you mind if I spit a tooth? I can't afford a dentist.
My friend was afraid to say anything as she tried to spit. She couldn't. She just stopped to think and started biting her fingernails like a famished rabbit. While chewing on her thumb, she suddenly looked up, remembered he was there and said, "God. Where did I go wrong? Where does the future become the past? When does a woman's hopes and dreams become mocking nightmares? Would you mind if I cried? I can't afford a therapist.
The waiter had heard her talking and turned the other way. Unfortunately she noticed and tried to cry. She couldn't, so she laughed wildly until catching herself and continuing, "There's nothing left to give. Nothing! I am dry. I can't believe I am on a blind date. No offense. You're pretty good looking in a non ugly sort of way. My friend Sara says you're successful and haven't been indicted for any Federal crimes. Sounds magical to me. Who am I to be picky? You wanna fuck me out in the parking lot? You know, save the cost of dinner. Don't worry, I won't even ask you to call me back. Pretend I am disposable. Like a filthy prostitute. Yeah. Tonight I am your filthy little whore. Call me Fifi. I can bark like a poodle, if that's what turns you on."
By this time nobody within ear shot was surprised when she started yelping like an injured French poodle. With a large sigh and a gulp of vodka she asked, "why are you still sitting here? Is it the sex thing? You're thinking i am such a loser, I'm fucking insane, I'm so unstable that you might actually be able to bend me over your car phone and not even worry about small talk. What you maybe should realize is that I am waaay past being unstable. I've taken so many Prozac it's part of my DNA. What you should be wondering,..., is this psycho bitch from hell armed and does she understand the difference between homicide and suicide? What? Why so quiet? Believe me, there's nothing you could say that would bother me. I am so numb, you could lean over and tell me you're' a serial killer who's going to cut off my head and dance around my skull dressed like Boy George. You know what I 'd say to that? Karma chameleon cannibal. HA!
She laughed and bit a bread stick in half like a trucker on meth eating beef jerky. Even with her mouth full, she kept talking.
"To tell the truth I can't believe you're still here. And I am beginning to wonder what that says about you. I am almost afraid to imagine what could be so wrong with you to sit there and not even flinch. Have you been listening to me? Are you deaf? Are you a virgin with only one week to live and heard I'm easy?"
For the grace of God, she was getting tired, sighed and actually shot a look of fear across the table.
"This isn't right. You should be long gone by now. What kind of a freak are you? That's it. You're a freak. How does Sara know you? She said she works with you right? Oh this isn't good. People know I Am herewith you. My babysitter has the number. I have a small child. He's three. He depends on me. I have mace in my purse. I was only joking about that serial killer stuff. You see, this is all a put on, you know? I was fed up with men. Meeting new men every week and going through the same old song and dance. Oh, I love a man who can cry, oh you love a woman who's independent, oh, our last lovers didn't understand us, yes sunsets are so beautiful. What bunch of bullshit that all turned out to be."
Soon her fear was replaced by anger. Vicious, postal kind of anger. Only in a very soul baring truthful way. She finished her third drink and softly said, "i want somebody who believes in me, somebody who'll remind me that I'm alive. That it is good to be me. That I deserve to be loved. for the last two years of my marriage my asshole ex would never touch me and I thought it was my fault. Turns out it wasn't me, he was worn out from doing three other women. I kicked him out."
BAM! Just like that she pushed herself away from the table and stood up to leave.
"Screw this. If you're not gonna kill me, I'm leaving. I could use some sleep. See ya, no, guess not."
Calmly, as sweetly as possible, my friend finally spoke. He told her who he was and why he was there. Listening to the truth, her jaw dropped into her open cleavage. She wobbled, caught herself and wiped a tear from her eyes as she replied, "You mean, you're not Ted? You're,...did I hear you right? Oh shit, I mean damn, no, I'm sorry Father O Connell. That means you're a priest, right? Where is your little collar thing? Yeah, sure, I'd like to get a cup of coffee and talk some more,...sure I'll take decaf. Did anyone ever tell you, you 're a good listener?"
She sat back down and relaxed for the first time in a year.
THE PUMP ROOM 9/17/99
Her thighs are clamped around my head so tight I can't breathe. Maybe it's the lack of oxygen to my brain, but all I can think of is Lloyd Bridges playing a sea diver in an old TV show called Sea Hunt. Ha, I get it. See Cunt, diver down! I quickly rise above the surface, rest my chin on her blonde patch and stare at her white, smooth belly. Her stomach heaves up and down alternately exposing and concealing her breasts. God I can't wait to get her on top of me so I can have her tits hanging right above my face. Just like a man, I dream all night about getting into her pants and now I have a microscopic view of her most precious jewel, and all I want is her tits. She lifts her head, smiles and pushes my head back down. Somebody call the search and rescue squad if I am not out soon.
I've already been licking the hell out of her for about three days and if it weren't for it all the thrashing and moaning I'd swear she was paralyzed below the waist. Despite the fact that she's ripping a hole into my back with her fingernails, I don't think she is close to coming and I'm afraid she never will. I really wish I had given up smoking cause I'm about to pass out from exhaustion and my tongue has cramped up twice. I'm not saying she's not enjoying my efforts, only that I think she likes the attention so much she's holding back her orgasm. If I didn't know better, I'd swear she was using me to get back at all the cocks she's spent a lifetime sucking.
Man, when I spotted her sitting across from me in the bar I would've been happy with some mild flirting and a few cheap laughs. That all changed when she slid off the bar stool to go take a piss. Her short skirt caught on the red vinyl seat and was pulled up to her waist. I think I musta bit the head off my beer bottle. She was wearing black mesh stockings attached to red garters framing a smiling blonde pussy. The sight of her bare, swollen lips grabbed my eyes by the nuts and squeezed so hard I think I let an audible whimper. I became a dog and she snapped her leash tight.
It all started when I got edgy sitting in my Chicago hotel room and went down to the bar for an innocent drink. Of course I realize no drink is innocent when it's clutched in my hand. I suppose it doesn't help that I'm here in Chicago for a TV show with 22 thousand dollars in petty cash bulging in my pants pocket. There's something about a thick wad of hundred dollar bills that can make a person go crazy. False power, too much money and a hip bar packed with hot women has ruined a better class of men than I. I'm staying at the Ambassador East. The bar is called the Pump Room and has seen it's share of hormonal collisions. Actually it's a very chic place, so suave you have to wear a jacket to get in. This is the bar where Phil Collins wasn't allowed inside while on tour with Genesis because he didn't have the proper attire. A few years later he entitled and album, NO JACKET REQUIRED, in honor of the Pump Room's old world snobbery.
Tonight, the Charlie Watts, yes, the drummer from the Rolling Stones, was drinking in the bar. He was on tour with his jazz quintet. Even though he was surrounded by a brick wall of body guards and foaming-at-the-mouth groupies, I grabbed my beer and walked over to him. It was okay, you see I was in Chicago to produce a TV movie on parents who murdered their son because he was gay. The parents admitted they killed their boy, only they got off. Yep, found innocent due to a seldom used embarrassment defense. Their fuck head lawyers carefully explained to the brain-dead jury that the ungodly rich parents were afraid of being kicked out of their white bread country club for having an openly gay son. Imagine, the lawyer pondered, these sheltered, pampered, shit-don't-stink bigots being forced to eat their future meals with all sorts of minorities in a, GULP, Denny's. Well, you should have seen the shiver that went through the courtroom.
What great fucking television!! I slapped Charlie on his bony back as I laughed like a fool with one of the original Rolling Stones. I suggested to Charlie that he should entitle his next album NO FAGS REQUIRED. Charlie, being English and all, understood my dry, drunken, witty humor. Now that I was a close friend of Charlie fucking Watts, the women in the bar began to notice me. I suppose it didn't hurt that I was yelling at the top of my lungs that I was a Hollywood producer and was waving fists full of cash. That was about the time that my greedy bed partner slid off her chair.
And with another flashback of that heavenly vision, I'm back in my hotel room still eating the shit outta her cunt. I'm getting mean and nasty and she's loving it. Finger, thumbs, chin, lips, tongue, nose, hell, at this point I'm ready to use a lamp on her. Please baby, come, please baby release my head. I'm ready to get another drink down at the Pump Room.
Alcohol addiction. Nicotine addiction. Cocaine addiction. Efferdrine addiction. Caffeine addiction. Marijuana addiction. I'm so fucking hip, it's gonna kill me. I tell my brain to shut up as I gulp another Jack and ginger. The glasses are small, the drinks are strong and the prices are high. The tip is mandatory. Once this Silverlake bar gets packed, bartender acknowledgement will keep the booze flowing my way. Yeah, Bukowski would never pay these kind of prices, but this type of dive is for the dirge. And tonight I am not in the mood to get sloppy drunk in another hazy, ten-stool, no-wait bar complete with a hunched-back AA reject. Fuck Bukowski and anybody who ever uses his name. Tonight I want to feel superior and that means starting this major alcohol bender in the midst of younger, cuter, richer, sitcom wannabes. My kingdom for an extra sharp knife.
God damned childproof lighters. I mean seriously, can you picture the truly great old time degenerate bums chain smoking all natural American Spirit lights while fumbling with a plastic lighter booby-trapped with a safety latch?
Yeah, yeah, sure. As you can probably tell I hate cell phones and all the SUV driving motherfuckers who live life with them surgically attached to their heads. Right now there is some MBA asshole talking on his cell phone to Trailer Hitch Montana. He is trying to negotiate a movie of the week rights with the distressed parents of some misguided child who went nuts and played show and tell in her 5th grade class by squeezing off three hundred and sixty one rounds into the wide-eyed bodies of her classmates.
My ears develop verbal diabetes while listening to the dripping sincerity of the MBA's voice as he says, "No sir, it's not about the money, it's about getting the message out to the public so something this nasty will never happen again. And yes I agree with you sir, that if we can only get the government to put childproof latches on automatic weapons, our work is done. Thank you sir, my law department will send you a contract. Of course I'll pray for you too" He flips his cell phone shut and high-fives a herd of wannabe actresses with exposed bare midriffs. Right now I'd trade my entire unemployment check for a used baseball bat.
It's getting harder and harder to leave my house. Yes years of living in a sugarcoated fantasyland can do that to a dreamer like me. I've been beaten down so low it's even hard to wander through my beloved bars. Drinking insane quantities used to compensate for the numbness slowly subletting my body. It's not easy to continue believing everything is fine when my attitudes and passions are being replaced by the perky cast of Dawson's Creek. Have I become so old and so outdated that America's advertising dollars no longer deem my disposable income worthy?
Shit. I am out of money and I have abused my credit cards worse than a Southern politician butt-fucking a pre-teen callboy. So many banks are suing me, the LA courts had to hire a new judge solely in charge of serving all my summons. No wonder I usually spend everyday with my stained curtains drawn tight against the predictable LA sun. I just sit inside my house, a house I can no longer afford and wait for somebody official to bust through the front door. Cops, IRS, banks, lawyers, government. Whichever agency has the best reason to teach me how to be a responsible American.
OH! Here's a new hope. Maybe fate is on my side. Since I decided to leave the safety of my home tonight and ingest so many addictions that my ears are popping from the altitude, maybe, with a little luck, I'll get pulled over. After the special SWAT trained, anti-dreamer, Sheriff's unit drags me from my car, they'll beat to within an inch of my death. HA! Then I can sue the city for millions. That'll show 'em who's in charge.
More Rants and Raves
TOM SAWYER GETS A MOHAWK
With one eye squeezed shut to kill the double vision, I look over at Alex sunk deep down in the worn red vinyl booth. With a twisted brown smile he holds up a packed one hitter. Somehow the burning match in my hand meets the thin metal pipe. I inhale, then cough, then cough again, then pass it to some chick wearing a shiny plastic bra and red thigh boots. Sweet pot smoke fills the room, turns a few heads and dissipates towards the rain stained drop ceiling. This shit is Mr. Big. Complete genetic exploitation of THC. I picture some crazed Humbolt herbal scientist surrounded by a sea of hydroponic tubes and seed recipes ripped out of the High Times. With a laugh of hacking giggle he perfects splitting the freak atom and synthesizes some mind-blowing hemp. Amen and pass the flashback pudding.
Quietly, insanely, I watch the surging flesh as the music rages. I sense a strange cloud of silence as the world thinks out loud. I hear guitars, yelling, ice bouncing and a Zippo clicking like a tiny shotgun pump slamming a shell into the chamber. I feel a perimeter of nothing envelope my body. It's clear and crisp. The air is thin and light. I've become a transparent paperweight clutching an empty cocktail glass. Where the fuck is the waitress? My head moves back and forth like an inquisitive bird. I know there's noise everywhere, yet I am not apart of the scene. A stupid buddha with a stoned lack of self esteem. Why did I smoke so much? WHERE'S THAT WAITRESS!? Maybe I can drink this buzz into control. I can't move. There is nothing to say to anybody. These thoughts are a newly uncovered bottomless pit. I've dug a hole into a deeper level of my consciousness and I don't know how to climb out of it. I nod toward the plastic bra chick. She can only offer a silicone shelf. She has lost life's ladder long ago and has adapted to the dungeon we all call the Los Angeles nightlife.
I stare into the surging crowd. A mass, a religion of retro-sixties, neo-punk, bohemian grunge, hyphenated fashion statements blowing their minds closer toward a wet fuse. Everybody here is unemployed or hold meaningless jobs in order to pursue their art, their hearts, and their passion for life. For they all know the truth, they know more than they should. They also understand you can't dig too deeply when accepting the truth. How many times is someone willing to tear the mask off a dream when all they find underneath is Dorian Gray's hideous face? I know more people that would trust their dealer for a good count than trust anyone official.
This country has gone full circle, censorship, skinheads, strip, bend over, and piss in a bottle, welcome to freedom. You know if ignorance is bliss, sometimes I wish I was fucking stupid. I mean, watching real murders on tape, viewing smart bombs splatter their victims is considered normal. We know the truth behind the government, we've seen the lies on videotape. If watching a newsreel of the atomic bomb leveling Hiroshima awoke a cynicism and restlessness in one generation, watching Nixon and hundreds of other politicians after him lie to their nation slapped reality into our generation. We know the truth behind war. Americans don't die on a battlefield of glory anymore, our soldiers die protecting American investments. We know the truth behind life. We're here and then we're not. That's it! There is no God. Organized religion is a corporation. If your Catholic, you only eat fish on Fridays during lent because the disciples were fishermen. That's good product placement. The only religion we can trust is our own.
I believe there is no heaven or hell except for the external kind right here on earth. This does not mean that there aren't outside spiritual sources at work, but this spirituality misses most humans. They have become flesh shells, sucked of all soul long ago. And that has nothing to do with saying ten Hail Mary's and a money offering to a wicker basket. It is an offering of an individual mind to an individual spirit. Most people do not recognize this spirit therefore they do not offer it anything but depression, jealousy, envy and self-loathing. If the scientific idea that matter is neither created nor destroyed is true, then what we are now is what we were then. Molecules form buildings that were once molecules from a red cliff in Montana, water from the Caspian Sea flows through our blood. The magic is still there, only people refuse to see for fear that their two-income family won't be able to visit Euro Disneyland. Once you see the truth, become enlightened, it's hard to concentrate on escrow, tax shelters and working overtime. To have faith in nothing but your own being is a direct threat to the American dream! We won't question why were here, just what we're supposed to do until we die.
Americans need Disneyland cause they've forgotten how to imagine on their own. There was a time when my job was so stressful that I didn't dream for three years. Your average person can't orgasm anymore without the aid of techno-mechanical cartoon characters exploding in front of them. Wouldn't it be nice to remember ripped paper as confetti instead of just another trip to the recycling plant? We have become so serious. It's hard for people to have fun anymore without jumping out of airplanes with sports equipment strapped to their feet.
There are no rebels in the nineties. The second before a unique person can become a rebel they are instantly bronzed by the media, oversold and end up on a plastic milkshake cup at McDonalds. Pseudo rebels are big business. American freedom of expression is conformation. This way we all understand the finished product. How many people live their lives on a constant level, neither up nor down? Middle class hell. Color inside the lines to make pretty picture that will look exactly like everybody else's. The world will soon have an explicit language-warning sticker attached across the equator in order to save us from obscenities.
Fuck it all. That's the anthem. Fuck it all. Not very healthy. But reality. I slowly slip into a coma and dream of unzipping red thigh boots on the chick next to me. I'll fuck it all. Just not right now. I am too drunk.
MARLON BRANDO GOT FAT
Alright, we're at a party. We're in the kitchen. Raiding the fridge. Tom the painter brought along some German chick. The dining room is lined from head to toe in aluminum foil. Some freak, skinny with black hair and a camera around his neck is playing Brain Eno pulses. He's screaming out at the top of his lungs, SAVE THE CHILDREN! WHAT ABOUT THE CHILDREN! He's being cynical. He's young. He hasn't lived thought Nixon, or Reagan. He doesn't remember sitting in a room with a bunch of liberals watching Reagan being reelected. The women cried. The men were ready to start a revolution.
Now we're getting close to another election in 2000. And FUCK any of you that say Y2K. That is not a word. Nike is not a word. It is an advertisement. Na-na-na-na-na naaaa-naaaaa. The synthesizer goes and goes. Does any of you realize that soon you will be all fucked? Do any you know that reading these words will soon be illegal? SAVE THE CHILDREN!!! Fuck the children and fuck all the people who use them to advance their political careers. We are not dangerous.
Well, only to those of you that fear freedom. Good kitty, yeah kitty. Let me pet you into submission. How much can I contribute to your cause? Stop those young people!! Stop them from showing art on the internet. Talk about confused Gods and devils. Words can not hurt except those that are guilty. Pictures can not hurt except those that prey on the flesh. Save me from all morals, make me a Republican candidate.
I once filmed a t.v. show with a Sheriff in a small Oklahoma town. Population 250. He spent the night showing snuff films. He was the town's morals. He was one sick puppy. He voted for Reagan and Bush. Don't forget that Bush was the head of the CIA and his son was one of the assholes that raped the S & L banks. His fine (while his dad was the king) was 600,000$. Young Bush had ripped off the American people by billions. Oh, gee sorry, didn't mean to do it.. FUCK HIM.
I sit around at night with caring, loving friends and they're scared. Scared of the legislation that you KKK moralists deem correct. AK-47s for all and fuck the blacks. OH and can't forget the spics and the Asians. They're ruining our country. Get real all you relatives of Italians, Irish and Eastern Europeans. Your parents couldn't speak English either. But, they worked and they cared and they didn't divorce their mothers because they got boners watching little boys in tight church pants. Talk about lies. Do you realize that soon there will be no congressperson that hadn't smoked dope in college? ARREST THEM ALL!! What about the children? They may have to grow up in a horrible world without the right to own automatic weapons. OH THE HORROR!!
So I was on the plane flying back to L.A, looked down and saw a single jelly bean sitting on the airplane floor, missed by the Mexican cleaning crew. I focused and stared at that orange and brown jelly bean and for some reason I flashed back on the week spent working out of a resort in Tucson. I was filming a t.v. show. The hours wore me down and beat my ass up.Low budget, cheap shit for cable.I'm asked to beg, borrow and steal in order to rip off sweet, trusting locals while acting like a nice guy all in the name of saving a few hundred bucks for a bunch of millionaires.Everyone believed in me and all I wanted to do was get laid. Fucked, sucked and born to suffer.Yeah, yeah, yeah, we all have our cross to bare and mine is making enough money to feed my habits.The Hollywood dream and female orgasms.
There was this Chinese/Italian chick working free lance for me. She always wore low cut tops.She had dark skin, real dark skin and breasts that leaned forward for my eyes to watch and memorize. We talked about religion, we talked about God, we talked about music and the whole time I waited in my stiff hotel chair for her to bend over. Oh, baby, remember what you see, remember how she looked.We drank a case of beer in 110 degree heat.She made me sweat, I made her wet. Liquid combination of lust.
I kept thinking, give me a little more, let me see, let me lick, let me, let me, let me, oh, shit, why was I thinking about her tits? The drunker we got, the more Chinese she became.Her eyes, her smile, her face. It was strange.She was becoming this surreal morph of integrated sex.I was there unbelieving while she was laughing, innocently, only a few feet away. I finally got up to piss right before my bladder burst. Once in the bathroom, holding my greedy dick, I found it had to pee with an erection. Bam, point, stream, ahhhh. Here it came, uncontrolled urine, all over the floor.Seemingly, hours later I finished pissing and thanked God for the hotel towels I used to wipe up the spillage. Mopping up the pastel tiles I wondered what she was doing and if she was thinking of me while I cleaning up my mess.
When we first got back to room, we had worked a long, hot day and she wiped herself down with a wet washcloth. I stood there watching her move the white cotton over her dark body. She'd lean over and rub between her breasts. Oh man, talk about religion, talk about God. There was God for me. A beautiful woman washing in front of me.Can you say hard on?Nobody needed to explain the teenage term boner to me. I knew. Look out pants, hold on zipper, reach a little lower down your top.
When she finished, she showed the dirty rag to me. It was brown. With dirt. With dirt I would have gladly licked from her body. I like to think, I like to enjoy. Photo images I tried to click into my mind of this woman I might only know by myself. She was beauty and later gave me joy in a lonely hotel room and really bad t.v. She let me taste the desert and I let her taste Hollywood. In the morning we used the hotel bedspread to erase the dreams.