Reason #1354 why Rogue 2 is the best work buddy ever. Our lunchtime conversations are similar to this one:
Rogue 2: That purple nubby is sure getting a workout.
Chauncy: Sad, but true.
Rogue 2: Don’t break the damned thing.
Chauncy: What the hell would I do if that happened?
Rogue 2 (looking down at hand): Fingers, don’t fail me now!
This astronaut is trippin’ balls. How else do you explain driving across four states while wearing a diaper listening to “How I could just kill a [wo]man!” The astronaut, Nowak, thought Shipman was interested in her man. So she figured she’d teach her a lesson. According to CNN:
“Nowak told Shipman her ride had not arrived and asked for help, but Shipman refused, saying she would send help instead, the reporte said. When Nowak complained she couldn’t hear Shipman and started to cry, Shipman opened her car window about 2 inches — and Nowak sprayed pepper spray into the car, police said.
Shipman, her eyes burning, drove away and found police, who returned to the bus stop and found Nowak, who was wearing a different coat. As he approached to bus stop, an officer observed Nowak put some items into a trash can. Those items were found to be a wig and a plastic bag containing a carbon dioxide-powered BB pistol, the report said.
Inside a bag Nowak was carrying, the officer found a tan trench coat, a new steel mallet, a new folding knife with a 4-inch blade, 3 to 4 feet of rubber tubing, several large plastic garbage bags and about $600 in cash, the report said.
Nowak admitted the details of Shipman’s allegations, according to the police report, and permitted a search of her car.
Inside the car, police found an a half dozen latex gloves, MapQuest directions from Houston to Orlando International Airport, e-mails from Shipman to Oefelein, diapers that Nowak said she wore to reduce stops along the highway, a letter indicating how much she loved Oefelein and directions to Shipman’s home address in Florida.”
Diapers, man, diapers. However, according to CNN, “It is standard procedure for astronauts to wear diapers when they suit up for launch and re-entry.”
That totally makes it okay.
The conversation that made the phrase ”dick in a bag” the logical successor to dick in a box:
K: He returned everything? Even your cookies?
P Yeah.
K: The cookie thing is weird. Do you think his girlfriend told him to remove every trace of you from his house?
P: If that’s the case, he should’ve taken his dick off and put it in the bag.
When things get tough, we all turn somewhere. Some people turn to Buddha. Others to Shiva. Me, I turn to the teachings of Dr. Richard Wertime, professor extraordinaire.
In between counseling apprentice writers to avoid disembodied dialogue and scolding them about their blatant information mongering, Wertime will get a gleam in his eye and say, “We wish to understand our human experience, even if we understand it wrongly. An explanation of what we perceive and experience is, all in all, better than no explanation.”
And when you stare at him blankly, he will look you right in the eye and urge you to “Write this down!”
In the midst of a discussion about ordering the elements, which morphs into a lecture on inadvertent objectification, he’ll drop a jewel on you like “What people are consciously concerned about and unconsciously concerned about are not always the same.”
Write that down.
Because you’ll remember it. You’ll have a fucked up night and some Wertime-isms will dance around in the back of your mind. Because above all, he reminds you that just like the characters you create, you’re constantly reinventing yourself. At any moment, you can step out of the muck and choose differently.
So when you ask What Would Wertime Do, the answer might mean that instead of falling into your usual role, you might find yourself flying down 95 at 1:30 in the morning, heat on, windows down, blasting the Pixies and doing your very best Frank Black imitation. “If the devil is six, then God is seven.”
Choosing differently feels really good.
Tomorrow night, it’s just me and the girls. That is, me, Rogue 2, and the DJ you can’t escape even if you want to–Girl Talk. He’s gotten the reach around from everyone–Pitchfork to Rolling Stone. And don’t forget Rogue 2. He gave him the back handed reach around so we could have tickets to tomorrow night’s sold out show at Johnny Brenda’s.
It’s a goddamned shame that in a moment of experimentation with non-attachment, I deleted my old blog, Pencopal’s Project. Reading some of those posts would’ve really helped our four and a half readers (hello, young dwarf) get to know the author who goes by Rogue 2, formerly known as Pastori-i. You would’ve read about young Rogue 2, who was made to wear his mother’s bra until he’d memorized all names of the songs from Led Zeppelin IV.
Then there was the Rogue 2 who got caught blowing the tour manager from Velvet Revolver in order to score tickets to that show. That’s right. Swallowed for Velvet Fucking Revolver. The man has no standards. Goddamned GNR ripoff.
Despite his penchant for blowing random men and cross dressing, Rogue 2 is clearly the best friend a girl could have. When I had a really shitty day this week, Rogue 2 saved the day with what’s possibly the best pep talk I’ve ever received. If it weren’t for him, by the end of the day yesterday I would’ve dissolved into a puddle of sadness.
(Aside: ginger ale and captain morgan’s tattoo spiced rum is some nasty shit. I wish someone had reminded me of that while I was mixing it.)
So here’s to Rogue 2, that crossdressing fellatio master. Cheers.
Last night we of the Ritz Film Group got together for our twice monthly meeting. The movie of choice was the Alfonso Cuarón-directed Children of Men. The plot: In London, 20 years from now, humans have lost the ability to procreate. An alcoholic activist gets drawn into helping a young pregnant woman to sanctuary. And then the shit hits the fan.
Since I hadn’t seen a commercial in months (thank you TiVo), I had no idea what to expect. All I knew was that Clive Owen and Chiwetel Ejiofor were hot, so even if I got bored I’d have something beautiful to stare at.
I think we all got much more than we bargained for. Even those who knew what the movie was about admitted to watching the second half with their mouths agape and their hearts all aflutter. Maybe it was the shaky cam-style directing, which added to the flick’s documentary-like feel. Perhaps it was the long moments of silence, during which only the pop of gunshots and the rumble of falling rubble could be heard. The movie definitely taps into mythic sites, and comparisons to the birth of Jesus couldn’t be denied. At times I thought the writers took the messiah thing a little too far—it’s in the back of your mind the entire time so there was no need for a pregnancy’s unveiling in the barn, which of course called to mind the manger.
It’s an exciting film, one that’s as moving as it is engrossing. The spiritual undertones became overtones as some of the characters chanted the Buddhist phrase “Om mani padme hum” during times of extreme hardship. The filmmaker’s political views were apparent, especially during scenes involving the refugees, some of which called to mind the photos from Abu Ghraib.
If nothing else, see it for Michael Caine’s outstanding portrayal of the pot-smoking hippie Jasper. He grows pot that makes Clive Owen taste strawberries when he coughs. Priceless.
Sunday afternoon I took in a matinee, alone. I was on a date with myself in Princeton. Being single again means dating myself, which I’ve always enjoyed. The day began with a nice drive, during which I blasted random Stevie Nicks songs while trying to sing along but realizing that I didn’t really know the words. Parked in the section of Princeton that’s kind of ghetto (who knew?), and walked over to the Record Exchange. The great thing about going on a date with yourself is that you can flip through CDs for a hours, without anyone clamoring in your ear about being bored/hungry/tired.
When did the Record Exchange change hands from a hipster haven to a mecca for trashy people? There were so many trailer-park dwellers and biker types types I felt like I was in Bizarro Princeton Record Exchange. Plus there was a random farter who seemed to be following me throughout the store. I couldn’t escape the stench of this person’s ass, try as I might.
My lesbian taste in music reared its head as I handed over plastic to pay for a Lilith Fair double CD, 10,000 Maniacs Unplugged, and an ’80s compilation CD. All that for just under $11.
Tuckered out from my shopping excursion, and wondering how much money I had left, I sat on a bench in front of the theatre and balanced my checkbook. Dios mio. I am leaking money like I actually have some to blow. Stop me. Please.
Back to Volver. Did you know Penelope Cruz had tig old bitties? It was news to me. If you see Volver, you’ll be treated to a variety of birds-eye-view shots of her breasts.
Good movie. I’d forgotten how campy Almodovar’s style is. I was surprised during the first reaction shot, when the melodramatic music swelled in the background. But the actual plot will hold your attention, even if the melodrama slightly annoys you. I think Volver means “to come back.” The movie is about women coming back from different things–bad marriages, sexual abuse, death, madness, the list goes on. It’s kind of a phoenix story, as the different women find ways to rise from the ashes.
In one scene, Penelope Cruz sings a song that somehow brought me to tears. I’m not sure if that was her voice or not, but its lilting sadness broke my heart.
After that I worked out, baked some corn muffins that tasted like shit, made myself a martini, and watched Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I think I’m going to stop eating and cut my hair short so I can become the black Audrey Hepburn.
