Traffic

They said he was born with his head high, his head high. He didn't believe in God yet, couldn't, so he had to be looking up at something, maybe the ceiling, but whatever it was, it was above his parent's heads, above the trudgy, boxy camcorder that would record his eye whites, as if he were being possessed, but he was just born with his head high, his head high.

Some days in later age he would roll his head around on the fancy armrest of his favorite recliner, staring up at the ceiling fan, remembering how as a child he would put his hands up to it ever so slowly, wondering if they would chop them off. His parents would walk in the room and look at him, and he was still looking above them, at that ceiling fan, not sure whether he should put his hands in. He would lean back and breath out fumes of aged scotch like a car exhaust, this time his head stuck and sickly, like he wanted to vomit. He wanted to stick his head in that fan, his head in that fan with his head high, his head high.

Some days in early age he would stop playing with his friends, and would just stand still and visor his eyes and look up, but his head couldn't go so high because the sun was too bright, it was that time of the afternoon when it was directly overhead. And he would look down, and the kids were looking at him too, thinking him crazy for looking over their heads.

Some days in middle age he would look down at that piece of paper, kind of crumbled when he tore it out in euphoric delight, ready to scribble the white spaces black. Dream that he would write enough pages to reach the ceiling, then he could look up at that first page, his head held high, his head held high. 

So those days that are now the present, he sits and waits until the ceiling fan slows when you stare it down, almost to a crawl, as if your eyes have stopped it by will. And every rotation draws the momentum away, a train dragging along to a stop, his eyes circling faster than the fan.  And he lets the scotch run out like a car exhaust, and he wants to vomit, and stick his head in that fan, his head high, his head high. Like the day he was born.

Elephant Bones

Why are all the famous martial arts stars I worshipped as a child big, fat douchebags?

I think that as children we are subconciously drawn into a perverse obsession with jerks in nice costumes.  It all begins with the obligatory family trip to Disney World, where you meet ever-grinning, jolly ol' Mickey Mouse.  You smell something odd when he comes to hug you.  It smells rank and alcoholic, but you're so innocent and naive and at peace with the world that you decide...'it must be the smell of love. Mickey loves me'!  You walk away coughing on the gentle breeze of pot, aftershave, and tobacco , but your heart is so full that this minor discomfort must be nothing short of overwhelming joy.

And from that timeless experience (that our parents keep the picture of just in case we forget), we learn to love characters more than the people inside the machinery.  Or is that just me?

Chuck Norris seems to spend more time fighting gay rights and suing the people that made him relevant again than being the 'productive valuable American' archetype he professes.

Jackie Chan apparently doesn't think that the Chinese people should able to have freedom in watching films because they will become corrupted and sinful.  Like, sinful enough to watch movies featuring strippers and motorcycle gangs?

And Steven Seagal.  After the world realized Chuck Norris was a goateed bigot (and probable recreational seal clubber), they moved on to liberal-activist-come-destroyer-of-faces Steven Seagal.  Though the man looks like he's about to crap himself everytime he stares down a bad guy, at least he's on our side.  If we ever need a one man strikeforce to take down the evil oil conglomerates, at least we have Steve.

"I'm gonna fuck your day up.  Right after I punish your toilet."

The Conservatives have Norris and Chan.  The Liberals have Seagal.  

Honorable Mention: Tony Jaa.  This man takes animal rights activism to a whole new level.

This is partisan politics at its best.   

I Should Coco, Because All My Friends Are Dead

A question about webspace. Is it so large and infinitessimal that any mark we leave, whether it be blog, or shadow, or awkward social networking post will never get erased? I mean, here is this blog, sitting in the depths of the internet since 2007, the two and half years between posts long enough to to raise an army of adolescent kids discovering the horrors of Saturday morning cartoons. And it's still here!

So it's come to this. I, author, manipulating and guilting myself to start writing. We've all had that moment, or for the more awkwardly-prone of us, moments, where our dream scenario runs all too perfectly. Kiss and make up, get that job, write 8 hours everyday until you get discovered and carried to Hollywood via throne carried by underlings. Then reality. The reality never leaps on to you, never jumps and you and slaps you in the face, telling you what an idiot you are for thinking things would be easier. It sort of creeps up on you...very slowly and awkwardly. The morning of the interview, you might accidentally brush your teeth with shampoo. A small symptom of epic failure. But who ever sees it coming?  

Something smells off. The receptionist looks at you a little funny. And before you know it, you're stuttering and listing off your greatest weaknesses like it was your pastor asking you.  

For those of us lucky enough to be sane in America (the number is dwindling), these are mere moments. We learn to chide ourselves for being too optimistic, but at the same time, know better than to jump out the nearest three-story window when we accidentally brush our teeth with shampoo. Those are just moments. Unless you go to art school. In which case, it turns into a lifetime. Of 'moments'.

The thing is, it's not a....bad life per se. Minimum wage jobs and all the cheap booze a half broke person can buy. Mmm! You wake up, give yourself an extra hour to start working. You start working, give yourself an extra two to catch up on your favorite television program. Get drunk, give yourself an extra day to recuperate. And then the avalanche. Hours into days. Days into months. Months into years. Before you know it, you've become so old that the "mailbox" you place your screenplay in is really just a cleverly disguised trashcan your significant other created to spare you the embarassment. And you didn't even know the difference! Ah, the life of an artist!

It's scary, it's sad, it's insecure. And that's why it attracts the craziest of us. A good chunk of this country is depressed, and a good chunk more are gluttons for punishment. There are too-good-to-be-true moments where all you need to do is hit pause in your mind, let things crawl a bit, and keep everything in a beautiful equilibrium. But no. Not for the artists. Maybe its being so used to being in a constant state of despair. Happiness is strange, and elicits a near-paranoia. Why am I happy? Is someone plotting to kill me? Is there some sort of evil conspiracy going on to make life happy for the next 50 years and then kill me of old age?

The constant tension is that the days don't go any slower when you're looking to work in entertainment. Every day, your friends bring home ten times more money than you, and logically they're ten times closer to a comfortable life. Meanwhile, you try to convince yourself that a bottle of liquor will release the brilliant artist hiding inside you....and then you puke the little bastard out four hours later.

To say I'm lost would a bit cliche, because its not that I don't know where I am. I just refuse to accept that as the truth. It's a weigh station, right? Byways, highways, and surface roads full of traffic.  

And like a true artist, I'm taking up valuable webspace to write inane thoughts. 

And like a true artist, I'm writing the end before the end should be written.

Gotta love those fake artists. You know, the successful ones.