November 24th, 2007


Lew's Your Lunch

Once upon a time I sat in my room and almost died of heat stroke because the fucking heat in here wouldn't turn off and I had nine beers earlier and it's a quarter to one and I can't sleep because.

I've got a post about Washington D.C. but in the meantime I've got a post about nothin' much at all.

You know, I don't know the guy personally. The guy who played the teenager in Turd Rock From The Sun could be a total freak who jacks off puppies for masturbating billionaires, but it seems to me for a guy who made his name playing an alien on a primetime sitcom, who got his start as a child actor in Angels In The Outfield among other enterprising enterprises (for the record, his name is Joseph Gordon-Levitt), he's a pretty well-rounded person who turned into one hella-van actor.

Of course, I'm only basing this on "The Lookout" which I just saw. But, I also base that on "Mysterious Skin" which nobody saw and Foreal nobody SHOULD see unless they can stand a movie about an 8-year old who gets his willie sucked by a pedophillic little-league baseball coach. Obviously they don't show any of that, but Mr. Gordon-Levitt plays a "teenage" version of that 8-year old boy who turns homosexual tricks for money in Smalltown, KS in the late 80s. I'm assuming the film was made in-or-around 2003, which would've made him my age (then) playing a 15 year old, but that's neither here nor there. He's quite the acting prodigy who should be seen in the same light as Edward Norton and Kevin Spacey and Robert Downey Jr. and Val Kilmer and Mark Wahlberg and Diane Keaton (who, yes, is as old as dust, but believe me I have my reasons and she has her acting chops well in hand). All are moronically underrated in the pantheon of the world's greatest actors (unlike, say, Johnny Depp or Jack Nicholson or Marlon Brando or Robert DeNiro or Al Pacino who are aptly or possibly even OVER rated in the pantheon of the world's greatest actors).

Anyway, again, neither here nor there. I'm just killing time because as long as I hear the sound of water flowing (which is really oil-heat passing all through my walls like Satan's sweat glands in overdrive), then I have to have my window cracked to let the 30-degree heat into my room so that I don't suffocate.

In the meantime, I'm writing again sort of. It's all ... ahh, it's all bullshit, but I'm trying to make it sound like more than it really is by saying things like, "Oh, I'm writing a series of 1-page short-shorts about this fucked-up small-town with all these fucked-up people who do this REALLY fucked-up shit for moneyn'shitsn'giggles." And things like, "Oh, what I do best right now is write these short-yet-intense stories that are compact in size but - as a whole - will end up telling this larger narrative." And, you know, "Poo poo pee pee ka-ka." I don't really know where I'm going, I just know that I've written seven or eight of these things in the last week (which amounts to about 7 or 8 pages with lots of white space) and they could be a part of a collection of stories or they could be chapters in a novel or they could be throw-away scenes from a larger or shorter piece of fiction I haven't even started writing yet.

I've just come to this conclusion that in my stark, repressed life, I've gone and let that repression seep into my writing and as a result I've been writing drab, repressed bullshit. Well nomore! Nomore! Nomore!

I may not be able to write what I used to write, but where the hell has that gotten me? I read what I've written in the past and it makes me want to take up piano; I think you hear me knocking and I think I'm coming in. If I can't write like I used to (which, again, was crap), I can at least write some short bursts of insanity and have it say more than when I'd write 40 pages of nothing in the past.

And the walls keep dripping and I keep writing. Here's a sample of something I came up with tonight:

Earl Downing's oldest boy came in and said How's it hangin' Bob and I said Long and hairy and hard to carry and he winced in pain and sat down at the bar in front of me and pulled his out of his jacket pocket and said Mine ain't Mine ain't hard to carry at all and we both laughed.

I said Now dammit Earl Jr. why haven't you gotten that damn thing reattached and he said 'Cause Dr. Appleby's a man and I said But he's a doctor It don't matter if he's a he and he said Well it matters to me.

So I asked him because I was real curious then considering it'd been a week since it happened God damn Earl Jr. How in the hell do you ... go and he stood up and unzipped his fly and showed me the most God-awful mound of diseased infection and said It kinda oozes outta that little hole when I hafta go and he pointed to what looked like a little crater inside a miniature sideways volcano and I said Now boy that ain't right You're gonna catch somethin' if you don't get that thing fixed up and he said Don't worry about it Bob I was just stoppin' in to say g'bye.

I asked him where he was goin' and he said Stapleton Bridge and I knew what he was doin' because that's where all them suicidals go when they want to off themselves. Earl Jr. gave a slap to my hardwood on his way out and I stopped him and said Don't forget that and he walked over and picked it up and put it back in his pocket.

That's the story. THAT'S NOT A STORY!!!!

But it is, it's what I'm writing now, and I've got more where that come from (actually, that's part 2 of a story that started out even weirder than what I got there). Yes, I write fucked up shit. Marry Thanksgiving.
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