I don’t know why but my friends who claim to hate Woody Allen but constantly praise movies that are heavily and blatantly derivative of Woody Allen crack me up. Like, be less of a dipshit, guys. Annie Hall is great. Shit holds up.
Anonymous asked: Yo, Max. What games are you most anticipated for?
Sucks it got delayed till 2016, though.
Penny Dreadful is actually pretty good. I’m not just saying that because of Eva Green. I mean, she helps, but the show manages to balance this noir, grindhouse, Victorian horror mash-up that would make Alan Moore claim he wrote it. Good stuff.
I think I’ve bought every Philip K. Dick book at least twice, just because I always seem to give them out, lend them out, or lose them to some infinite, unknowable machine god ghost president clone monster that is secretly me.
There I was, fingerbanging a thousand nihilistic redheads with attention deficit disorder, when my friend who looks like a thunderstorm made of fuck kicks down my front door and insists we buy a mansion in the worst parts of Los Angeles. I tell him no, fire is the constant in which we burn, or something, something, Star Trek: Generations.
At this point, one of the redheads hatches into her next phase, which is a hotter redhead, and begins to lecture me about Baudrillard. I find this arousing, so I buy her Billy The Mountain (the album, not an actual mountain) and we listen to it on a helicopter made of brushed silver and filigreed blades. While I stare out the window, I think about the incompetence of editorialists and the vast, improbable luck of notaries. She kisses me with a mouthful of ants and I spit them into a desk drawer in someone else’s office.
It’s always someone else’s office when you’re spitting ants, you know?
Time seemed to find a new perimeter inside a duck’s cage when I enveloped a paradigm of attractive women with great hair into brusque, lanky mannerisms. We all hired new management. I found myself staring into her eyes as I made faxes, sending them to all the departments, great litanies and numerical disciplines, the modern alchemical. I may also have petted a dog. I never did find out that dog’s name.
Sometimes, you never find out the dog’s name.
While finding ourselves in a sartorial dispute during a philosophy lecture about iconographic semiotics and other things that didn’t exist yet, I was in the back row getting a blowjob from a concept with really great tits, attempting to fight my way up a staircase of my own design. We are all Kosh, I told myself. Deep Space 9 is better than Babylon 5 anyway. I knew if I was locked in that lecture hall, nothing would ever happen again, all time would stop, and my microwave would never cook that burrito. We all need that microwave burrito sometimes. It’s the human condition. Crawling towards burritos.
There I was, stuck in the lecture hall, watching time unfold, watching my zipper go down, thinking about that one time the thing happened. Son of a bitch. Always back to that thing. Are we really alive or is this just a bottle episode? You never know; it’s just that burrito you always want to eat. Bottle episodes and burritos. Ants in desk drawers learning dog’s names. Here we go, there we are. Sentences, sentences, sentences.
Her apartment was spartan, just tiny black dresses and an excess of lingerie in a small closet, a huge drawer full of sex toys, and the rest was all books and dvd collections. It hadn’t been a terribly exciting date but I went home with her anyway because it was Wednesday and I hated not getting laid on Wednesdays. Fucking on Tuesday just seems like you’ve got something to prove, and fucking on a Thursday, well, christ, who has the time? Thursday is all errands and responding to that backlog of emails. And Friday? That’s just being uncreative.
Wednesday is prime fuck day.
She had both the box sets for Lexx and Farscape and all of the Star Treks and was talking about how she had a massive crush on Patrick Stewart. I started talking about how Dax had a killer rack when she asked if I wanted to take a shower. I had nothing to offer but a perplexed face. She further clarified that she didn’t want to fuck per se but she was more than happy to see where things would go, but she wanted to shower first and thought I could contribute to the experience.
Due to somewhat of a height difference, the size of her bathroom, and a few incidents in which I was clumsy, we ended up with a couple of bruises and a slightly torn shower curtain, but things went as expected. We’re all adults here, we know how these things work. Afterwards, we went to her bed, and laid there, naked, smoking cigarettes, staring in silence at the ceiling. She started smoking my cigarettes, and talking about how she had been in a punk band, and that’s where most of her tattoos came from, and then she started to jerk me off. Actually, that’s not right, she just started to give me some sort of thorough but definitively handjobesque inspection, all while continuing this monologue about a punk lifestyle, how there were expectations, how it was all a facade for this endless renegade surge of adolescence, all while leashing the python. Taking the one eyed snake for a stroll around the block. Partying with the…you get it.
It would have been Lynchian if there had been some oldies playing.
After awhile she stood back up, put on my shirt, and turned her television to one of those mid-nineties Twilight Zone rip-offs, and asked if I had more cigarettes. I told her I didn’t, and I’d have to get more. She threw a five at me and told me to be a dear. I squinted skeptically at her, and then threw my blazer on over nothing and headed for the store. The guy behind the counter gave me a similar skeptical look, and I shrugged. What can you do? They have the tits and ass, they can make and unmake the world. You live in a system of crazy bargains, of escalating negotiation and diminishing returns. The invulnerability of systems is the only thing bleaker than life itself. I wish I could have told that counter guy, with a strange girl’s keys in my pocket and two packs of marlboro reds, it’s a harsh world of monopoly money and crazy people and dying friends and cute cats and sometimes you wanna get so fucked up you can’t even see. Some nights you can’t win for losing. Some nights you get to kiss a pretty girl and walk home thinking about how improbable everything is. Some nights nothing happens because nothing happens.
Some nights, you don’t get your shirt back.
It was back when cell phones were all silver rectangles that only worked sometimes. She was rail thin, nearly as tall as I was, with a huge ass and a perpetual scowl. This was long ago — I was rail thin, wiry, suicidally angular — and I wore nothing but black suits and white shirts that hung loose at the neck, making me look even thinner than I was. She talked about old books, which excited me, and I talked about the state of affairs of all the world being shitty, because at that time, that’s all I knew how to talk about. And by all the world, I mean half the television and music I was exposed to. I never knew how to separate art from reality, for me art and reality have the same level of importance. Only through media, through the connections we make through the kind of art that resonates through us, and our memory, could I find what reality was. I tried to tell her this, and she tried to tell me about Hemingway.
Eventually, we ended up at one of our places (when you’re that age, you have a shitty apartment decorated in things your friends threw away and posters you probably found, so whichever place it was doesn’t matter) and she brought out the cocaine and the weed. We got high, and then we got higher, and she crawled into my lap, and kissed me, and in that moment everything erotic that had happened before it — the slight touches of the arm, the way we brushed against each other, when I touched her hair — fled in an instant. It was the opposite of what I was used to with cocaine, but when there’s a lanky, curvaceous beauty in your lap, you can’t just interrupt. I was ugly back then — I’m still ugly now — and I knew this was one of those things, one of those defining moments that would shape the kind of art I would make in the future, how I would talk to women for the rest of my life — and I didn’t know what to say. You can’t just say to someone, hey, the thing that was going on simply vanished, there was some drug-induced sexual and ideological shift, and I’m kind of more interested into going back to talking about how Zelda Fitzgerald didn’t really matter because a lot of people fight me on that and it’s nice you agree because duh her book was terrible and she obviously didn’t write Tender Was The Night. I knew, in that sub rosa of humanity that keeps me from being the sociopath that people act like I am, I could keep kissing her, and yeah, still fuck her, but my heart wouldn’t really be in it. She was getting handsy, and I had to do something. The moment had become this paralyzing chasm of responsibility. She started biting my ear, and making those slow gasping little moans, and raised her dress up, and put my hand on her ass, and I opened my mouth to ask if she had more cocaine, if she had read John Fante, if she had seen Bonnie And Clyde with Warren Beatty, if she had heard Led Zeppelin III on vinyl, if she was going to keep lifting her dress up, if I had to do things, if I had to wake up, if we were really aware of moments, if I had a prayer of getting out of there alive. My cell phone began to buzz in my pocket, and as she moved against me, I answered it with a cursory “yeah?” and that’s when they told me my parents had died in a catastrophic car crash, and I started to laugh. Hysterically.
The girl asked me what it was, and I said “my parents didn’t just die, my friends are playing a prank, we’re just awful pricks to each other”, and kept laughing. She got off of me, and slid her dress back down and stared at me. Her hair was a mess, in her face, and she looked great, a real knockout, and I could tell she didn’t have any clue what to think, so I grabbed her hand, and I said “it’s okay, all our parents will die some day.”
The Man With The Getaway Rasp
- Boss: Transfer call -- it's a client looking for "the man with the condescending voice".
- Me: Oh, OF COURSE that's me.
Guys, one of the most notorious Shanghai-ers was a blind labor boss who identified people through their handshake, ran a bar (while still blind), and convinced the local Chinese population he was quite literally a ghost wizard. I’m never feeling safe again.
Today I found out Shanghai-ing people was legal until 1915, and the world feels a little less safe.
- Me: So. The "zombie apocalypse" nerds keep talking about is just a metaphor for the race war, right?
- Matt: Obviously.
- Adam: Obviously.
- Matt: All the nerds who talk about it would die, though. It's just a way to feel better about "oh, I could survive as everything is coming apart".
- Adam: I'd die. I wouldn't even bother trying.
- Matt: Yeah, I'd die too.
- Me: I dunno, I wonder if the more sociopathic side of me would present itself and I'd make it.
- Adam: Daniel.
- Adam: You would adapt for any apocalypse.
- [long pause]
- Adam: That's the nicest way I could put that.
- Me: Oh.
Tonight Kelsey, Daniel, Matt, Adam and Chris created my new persona “sadgirlcamgirl” and it’s just a lot of me sitting around in my undies and a cure shirt and crying while eating cupcakes.
There is a studio audience.
Y’all gonna love the Seinfeld episode.
imagen sara is jary
It’s gold, Sara! Gold!