ITALIAN GENIUS: Use your fucking brain.
DUTCH GENIUS: I don’t feel like it. I’d rather use… my arms [they embrace]
ITALIAN GENIUS: [His face mashed into the DUTCH GENIUS‘s shoulder, not without affection] You’re such … a freaking… murmbrling…
DUTCH GENIUS: Love is painful, no?
ITALIAN GENIUS: Yeah. And music is popular. What’s fer dinner?
DUTCH GENIUS: I made rabbits.
ITALIAN GENIUS: Great! My paunch is as empty as your head, dummy. Let’s eat!
DUTCH GENIUS: They’re still stewing.
ITALIAN GENIUS: God, you’re a dummy. A beautiful dummy. [Pouting. Whole face a droopy vector down. Begins crying. On a screen behind them a film is projected: New York City in the early nineties. Pizzerias, trees, fire hydrants, marijuana cigarettes, tobacco cigarettes, brownstones, sedans, moustaches, skinny jeans, receipts on little plastic dishes, piled under change.]
DUTCH GENIUS: Isn’t it fabulous that the word where contains the word here?
My best friend Andrew Leland, who is a huge supporter of this blog — really, it wouldn’t exist without his encouragement — is participating in something called “National Magazine Day” this Saturday at the Booksmith on Haight — informational link here. He’s on the panel at 6 p.m. I just wanted to post that to support him, because he needs a lot of support — really, he’s like a giant “anthropomorphized” set of male genitals about to participate in a celestial football game, and we, his friends and allies, need to be his associative jock strap — get it? this is a pun on the word support. Andrew Leland is like a giant sagging woman’s breast, and we, his colleagues and lovers, need to hold him up–like a ladies’ brassierre. That was also a support joke. Maybe you could also make a joke about “tech support.” “What was the robot’s nickname for his jock strap?” or: “What was the sexy female robot’s personal pet nickname for her sports-bra?” If I ever have my own show on ESPN, which I probably will, I’m going to call it Sportsbrah. That’d be funny if in a play you’re reading there was a character called “The Act of Human Cunnilingus” and it was basically a personified sexual act — not the people performing it, but the act itself — and it had its own personality that wasn’t necessarily how you’d expect the act of cunnilingus to behave — mercurial, sanguine, tempestuous, I hate language, just kidding, fuck you, seriously,
Matt “Mailer-Daemon” Damon
[Ten hours later]
DERRICK: I hate cats, I like dogs
JELLIE: I know
DERRICK: What if I adopted a cat instead
JELLIE: Call me Julie.
JULIE: Your apartment is too small.
[They get married.]
DERRICK: I want a divorce
[Julie’s uncle murders Derrick.]
DERRICK’S DANISH COUSIN, JAMIE MEEPENSTONE: Hey
JULIE: Hey meeps
DERRICK: [Licking the salt from the fingers of the bird lord again?]
JULIE: [Nope.] Studying.
DERRICK, I MEAN HIS COUSIN, : thasts cool. wanna watch a TV?
JULIE: Ok, which one
DERRICK [opens trenchcoat to reveal horrible red agitated member]: This one! [Awesome heavy metal soundtrack begins.]
[Supertitles over careering hand-held unmodified home VHS footage of an empty living room, fireplace roaring, maybe some stockings taped to the mantle:
[DERRICK returns] What’s the score [i mean his cousin] laziest instructor?? [delete key gets stuck, a generation of talented hacks and prophets falls under the digital knife. your girlfriend and my girlfriend board a small craft. it embarks from sloate pond at 7 fifteen in the morning. it’s a small pond in golden gate park, dimensions exact, but they manage through a miracle of imagination and physics and literature and crying to break the boundary of the ponds [EDITOR STET MISSING APOSTR., EXTRA S, STET ALL TYPOS,] circumference and they blast forth across the sea in early dusk. If you need a referent for the night sea voyage let’s have it be Homer and not Eggers/Sendak/Jonze, OK?
BETH: That’s fine.
[Fade to pink]
[Fade to black]
[text scrolls across the bottom of the black screen:
If a marginal dipweed dimcracks the buzz
[fade back up, matthew broderick is there]
MATTHEW BRODERICK: Dimweed, it’s a clownfoot, I’ll club ’em
AMBITIOUS WOMAN: I’d love to be involved, in whatever possible way.
MB: OK. I’m sure we could find something.
AW: OK, Great. I’d love to see you eat my BlackBerry.
MB: Very well. [He takes her BlackBerry phone and dunks it into a bowl of beaten eggs, then drops it into a bowl of flour. Dash of salt. And then right into the frying pan.]
ANTHROPOMORPHIZED MFA PROGRAM: I’m sleeping with Harper’s.
MB: Anthropomorphized Harper’s?
RUDY GORNIK: We have to go to Russia tomorrow.
AW: The former Soviet Union?
[dissolve to DERRICK in the same hearthy living room, this time stable camera shot through gauze. High production value. Sexy teenagers, Tight turtlenecks. Loafs of loathing warming off-camera in a megascented kitchen with the sunlight you remember.]
DERRICK: I am ready. A cat. Dander’s fine.
POLYMORPHOUS AMORA: Several sheets to the wind
DERRICK: [To someone] No. [To Sarah] Sarah, putting the pain into paint.
SARAH: In my portrait, do you mean?
DERRICK: No… don’t try to strike terror into my
SARAH: I didn’t mean to strike your terror
DERRICK: It’s not my terror that’s struck. The terror ends up inside of me, but it’s not there before it’s struck
SARAH: That’s why it gets struck
DERRICK: right but it’s not like there’s dormant terror there that gets struck and vibrates into real terror. like a cold gong that gets struck with the mallet of emergency
SARAH: I do think its that way [EDITOR STET MISSING APOSTROPHE]
DERRICK: It’s not like a cold gold gong in my heart that gets struck with the hot fearful emergency of your presence, babe
SARAH: I think it is that way
DERRICK: i’m contradicting myself, I think my heart isn’t empty of terror, and then terror gets imported from somewhere else — it’s more like there’s a cold gong, emblazoned with chinese characters, ideograms I cannot translate, not even Pound could pound the meaning out of
DERRICK: Shammy. Listen:
DERRICK: it’s dormant and silent and cold and then I see your face and a mallet made from your head stuck on the end of a stick, your face covered in a calfskin bag tied together with leather strikes the cold center of the gong hard and it booms and I am thus filled with terror
SARAH: Terror is a cold mercury liquid that surges? A soundless blind thunderstruck rumbling?
DERRICK: Sure. It’s a bad joke on a good tv show. It’s a fucking recourse, jazzman
DAN: What’s for lunch?
DALE: What’s your fucking problem?
DAN: It’s lunch-time.
DALE: Maybe fat pieces of shit like you should skip lunch now and again. Global poverty, ecology, so on.
DAN: I’m allowed to eat lunch.
DALE: You’re also allowed to engage in sodomy.
DAN: You ever seen a fat man cry?
DALE: Ever seen a blind rabbit?
DAN: Ever see a blond rabbi?
DALE: Ever been knifed in the gut by an ostensible friend?
DAN: “These styrofoam peanuts are non-ostensible. We apologize for the inconvenience.”
DALE: Ever fucked a piece of raw chicken while an arctic seabird looked on, holding a video camera?
DAN: Leave me be. I’m driving to L.A. this afternoon. Before I leave, I’m going to bake a seven-layer-bar with marijuana butter. Then I’ll eat the bar and drive to L.A., stopping at In-N-Out and Jack in the Box on the way. When I get to L.A., I’ll sleep in a motel, watch Pay-Per-View pornography, CNN, Adult Swim. The next morning I’ll drive to the Getty Center, and spend all day there, at a café table, writing in my journal, letting seagulls shit into my mouth.
DALE: What car will you use for this? What about your job?
DAN: I’ll be OK. Don’t worry about me. City CarShare.
DALE: You’re such a fucking f——— [Blasts DAN in the privates with a paintball gun at close range]
DAN: [Howls in pain]
- Fun Jason Polan project in NYC w/ Esopus
- I myself have sampled F. “Breadstixxxx” Horrorwicky’s Fish Stew, and can attest to its excellence, and so it’s a great boon that Waffle Songs has posted her interpretation.
- Sometimes I find myself mentally making epigrammatic observations about the little Nicholson Bakery pleasure-giving tabs that hang off of the good, everyday white nodules of contemporary life. Then, profound web-based solipsist that I am, I think, I’ll write a short, epigrammatic observation about this mental/contemporary phenomenon on my blog. Then I remember the presence of Magic Molly and I stop, because I know she’s taking care of it—she’s got it covered.
- “Don’t be one of those writers who sentence themselves to a lifetime of sucking up to Nabokov.”—Geoff Dyer in the Guardian. (via Juliet.) Is this a crazily brilliant pun on the word “sentence”? I think so. E.g. to emulate or too-slavishly worship Nabokov—on the sentence level of your prose, emulating those rich, sentencey sentences—is to give a prison sentence to your writing?
- The inimitable A Rockridge Life: “Blanc doesn’t soothe me as hard.” I wonder when her usage of “soothe” is going to catch on as a national slang trend.
- Plebiscite returns from hibernation with a generous slice of hilarious fan-fiction based on a “notorious” Bay Area Yelper. Also: Come to MSF this Saturday for Plebiscite’s always classic “Mission Stoned Food.” Classic!!!!
JIM: Do you think it’s a good idea, wearing that phallic bolo tie?
CEE: I don’t know. I’m a sexual umbrella.
JIM: Okay. Send me an email later.
CEE: Okay. I think I understand.
JIM: Okay. That’s no problem.
JIM: Okay, that sounds good. You got it, you get it
CEE: Yes, I know, Okay, will do
JIM: That’s right, that’s fine. Be safe, et cetera
CEE: Lick my nave, baby, I’m a cathedral of sound [CEE leaves forever, thank god. BEA enters]
JIM: Did you read the Roger Angell piece in the New Yorker?
BEA: We already talked about this. The part where he calls someone a “New Yorker friend.”
JIM: Yes. That killed me. It’s amazing they’re still publishing that sort of nonsense. It’s so far past self-parody at this point…
BEA: And still they persist. I know.
JIM: I guess there’s some sort of internal obligation there to let the self-consciously old old boys publish self-consciously old-boy pieces twice a year or something. I feel like it’s self-perpetuating, but maybe once the people who were friends with “Bill Shawn” are all dead those pieces won’t be published anymore… Even some of the old-boy Salinger stuff I found noxious. I don’t know. They should just ask themselves, at every turn, is there any reason whatsoever for an avg reader to give half a fuck about whatever elite country-club bullshit we’re talking about
BEA: Lilian Ross is exempt from that. I mean, her piece was genuinely interesting, in light of Salinger’s death. I don’t mind her calling him “Bill Shawn.” And the Angell piece, if you edit out all the pip-pip wing-tip garbage, was pretty fascinating
JIM: OK, OK, OK, OK
BEA: I wonder if your reaction to this stuff is so strong because you grew up in the guest-room of a Davos Chalet
JIM: Probably. You look remarkably similar to CEE.
[Thirty years later. Two twenty-eight year olds stand before the gates of the university.]
JOMMS: I heard you’re teaching a class on food and sex this semeseter, is that right?
CHAUNA: No, that’s not right. I’m teaching a class, called The Carnality of Cuisine, about the eroticism encoded in the texts of different vegetarian recipes, going back to Brillat-Savarin up through Bittman, Madison, et al
JOMM: Is it—
CHAUNA: Limited enrollment; sorry, Jomms.
Get yr last clean dirty shirt out of the wardrobe, because
Saturday, February 20th
7PM to 10PM
1100 California Street @ Taylor