Happy Meal

My life is kind of fucked right now but I'm still hanging on to the strength that the Welbutrin time releases into my bloodstream. I'm on a Temp Assignment for the next coupla days @ this University named for a Saint where I work in their cafe; biding the time until I hear about a Hawaiian job I'm up for for the summer and a gig in The Hamptons and a gig in Fire Island. All three are potentially relapse jobs but so is every day, I guess. Anyway, I've always liked younger guys; but It would usually be only 7-10 years older than them; not 20. Yet, I could kind of see myself being with a few of these newborns that I've met in the last couple of days. I'm an Aesthete, I know it. If your a bow wow chances are I will not recognize your glowing personality for a while; sad but true yet it is only a condemnation on the part of me and how sad a shape I must be in to think this way.
The place where I'm rolling wraps and 'dropping' fries is a dorm so you basically see the same people three meals a day, and frankly, my presence there had them all clamoring to know who I was and will I be replacing the guy who is out (who is from what I hear a real pervy skeeve who is high all the time and is scaring the co-eds. For it is because of their complaints that he is meeting with the union tomorrow to determine his fate). Today was day two, and I basically got 'hired' if these students have anything to say about it. "Dude, that was the best wrap I've had all year" and the like, meanwhile my mind is on the menu of my future restaurant and wondering if the broccoli rabe should be served with the Cavatelli or the Rigatoni and I wonder how much black truffles will cost by then. I mean, I was smiling when they were complimenting me and asking me to stay and I was not going to rip out a copy of my resume and ask them to sing "One of these things is not like the Other" comparing this gig with my former jobs. Like, even the studs were like, "Bro, your awesome, that was great." It was like when I was forced to cook for my three other brothers starting @ 9 years old and waiting for their approvals on how the meal was. It does feel good that someone enjoys what you made them whether it be a freaking Reuben or Chicken Cacciatore. It feels good because I grew up with the phrase that my mother always told me. She said; "You have to love to cook and you have to cook with love and no one will ever be disappointed."
I started off talking about guys and ended up with food. Typical Italian.

SPACE INVADERS is now available on thecoolstore...it's down by the summer reading list 

I was a boozer, a loser and a user. There is no Flatpoint High for me, and although I am a little younger than Jerry Blank, I'm kind of living with my Mom right now as I transitioned out of the 1/2way House (read: Kicked Out). So now I can humor you with tales of Staten Island Guido's and their very poor cruising methods, hooking up with CL S.Islanders, tales from the Crypt (I mean the Ferry) and other 'hilariously sad' adventures from my life. 

SWM

This is the new Header for my personnel Ad which may or may not go into print once all of these idiosyncratic traits are found. I have tons that I've been compiling in the junk drawer of my mind.
We will start with the easy stuff:

#1 MUST BE A READER.

This might seem vague. (Whenever I say that word I think of Julie Brown's (the white one) parodying of Madonna's "Truth or Dare" tour and "Vogue"...'Nick-O-Let Sher-I-Dan')... I know "Dare to be Truthful" almost better than "Goodfella's".

If you are my type and you are on the subway and just sitting there staring into space without a book or music....Brrrnnnt. I'm sorry; you could be thinking of the cure for Cancer or you could be wondering why we, on the subway do not fall into the middle of the Earth. You are Thrown Out...Potential is Inconclusive.

If you are reading the 'Metro' or 'Habla' or one of the free newspapers that are given out on basically every subway stop; you are immune...for the time being.

If you are reading "The Hobbit" and/or "the Lord of The Rings" and it's ilk, Immune. You may be reading it for class or something. Even though I 'm not into Sci-Fi and I can almost predict what our after sex life viewing will be, I'll let you slide this time. But, then again; I swore off anyone under 21 when I was 21.

If you are reading a sport's players Biography; I'd trepidate a bit. If we hooked up, I know we would have great sex, but I'd have to high five you at weddings and events so everyone could think we were hetero.

Mob, Serial Killers and 'Chick Books' get a free pass for one ride and then if you are looney I could bail quickly with an excuse. Hey, I even read "Like Water for Chocolate".

Any guy with a 'Harlequin' type male on male book could go visit the daydreamers from above.

"Geek Love" or "The Corrections" or "A Prayer for Owen Meany" would have me instantaneously stalking you.

"Catcher...", "On the Road", "Basketball Diaries" would be too taxing of an involvement with you because I could never trust you.

There are others I have yet to discern. I was just reading or trying to read, "Tropic of Cancer" and I could not get past page 20. Should I go on with this supposed "classic"?

When will the lambs stop screaming?

I'm assuming that when you cringe at something you've done it is a sign of low self esteem. I'm thinking that it can't be that low, because at least your able to determine whether you were in fact wrong or an asshole as opposed to those 'beings' who take no shame or blame in what they do.
From working @ C___________ recently, I had noticed how some people woke up with the predestined role of ruining other people's days. The more the merrier was there motto.
Today I witnessed a woman walk into a store after seeing this domestic type woman spend five minutes to set herself up as she washed the stores windows. I was smoking a cigarette while trying to pass another half hour away before my interview. There was this uptown women's clothing store with big ass windows. I was watching "Lupita" get all these things ready to go as she tackled the windows. Mop bucket, squeegee, pole, sponges; and as I was watching this whole process, I noticed "Grizelda" watching as well. Finally, Lupita comes outside with a step stool and looks around. The coast was clear she felt. She got a good spongefull of soapy water, climbed up the stepstool and was about to start on the windows over the shop's entry when Grizelda made a mad dash for the store. Lupita had no time to even get a soapsud on the window that she had do come down so this Uptown Bitch could get in the store. Now, based on the clothes in the window and what this Telethon totebag holding troglodyte was wearing was no where near a compromise. I needed no fantastic odds to see what was going to happen next. As soon as Lupita got back up and situated herself the Trog would exit the store. Which played as predictable as a prosecutor screwing up a major trial.
These are the flies in 'our' ointment of life. Apologetic feelings are replaced by those of entitlement. These people do not cringe or reflect on their mis doings.
My interview sucked. I sat down with this guy interviewing for a position I have held, have succeeded at, and I became this incomprehensible dick. The instant replay of this interview is still playing in my head as I nod back and forth saying, "No. I did not say that." Self deprecation is a feeling that I thought I was getting over. I was so ill prepared for a good tet a tet interview that I spoke in 'valley girl' lingo of, 'ya knows' and 'likes'.

Urgghhh, I think; as Lucy pulls that fucking football away from me again.

The well is dry...

Before entering Rehab, and basically for the last 8 years I have been prone to crying like a dog home alone. A commercial would form a lump in my throat, I would empathetically have changes in my voice while helping a friend through their stuff and I would completely LOSE IT on movies.
I was just telling my fuck buddy the other day how if I was in a movie and they needed me to cry, you could forget the yank the nosehair technique, all I would have to do is watch the last five minutes of "Longtime Companion".
But these times are kind of lost on me now. I don't know if it has anything to do with me being sober or has sobriety turned me into this hardened fuck. All through Rehab @ S_______, guys poured their hearts out and I heard the sickest shit. They were crying buckets as I sat by and nodded. I worked through the inner turmoil's, the father Hating, the abuse in all forms and still I was as dry as a triple lined Huggies. This did not go unnoticed by my counselor S____ and my peers. It seems, they stated that I have just not reached that point yet. Always the nay sayer, I felt that I had soaked too many sheets with my blubbering and this is progression for me (not crying).
Man, I have been testing the limits lately with some of the movies I have been renting. You know how usually during the resolution of the film, that's when they (movie makers) want the tears to come a flooding, but nothing. I get a little choked and I feel the build up of the tears getting in place at their respective ducts, but nothing comes out. It's like the sneeze that never comes out or better yet, the "crack head" boner that never comes.
I'll gladly take suggestions of films and keep you posted.
Somberly,
Mickey

Oedipus casting

Last night I watched 'Vera Drake' (2004) and I was really impressed with the performance of Imelda Staunton (Vera). It seems I have this older woman, kind of nurturing mother role in a chaotic situation thing going on.
It bums me out to see that if your not playing the flavor of the months mother in a film, you might as pack up your belongings and move to that Old Folks Movie Star Retirement Village in Los Angeles.

I fell in love with Fernanda Montenegro after seeing 'Central Station' (1998) and I wanted to write her into every screenplay I could muster up.
Don't even get me started with Rena Owen.
Rena Owen played the mother in one of my top ten favorite, greatest movies; 'Once Were Warriors' (1994-holy shit...time is freaking cruising by). This movie generated at least $100 in ticket sales from me alone and the people I had to take to this this great, disturbing and beautiful New Zealand film. (Which by the way was directed by Lee Tamahori; whom cops recently arrested in drag, in Los Angeles about to sell a cop a blowjob).
I was walking down Sunset Boulevard to my apartment. The area I was coming up to is called Sunset Plaza which has a couple of high end boutiques, but mostly Iranian Gaudy Restaurants. It's like a three block strip where people actually walk (and your not considered a hustler or a hooker). Oooh. Coming from my direction is a restaurant called 'Chin Chin' which is awesome. I've had a few cool run ins @ Chin Chin and it is usually a kinda of oogling parade when you walk by. Having always had those Lana Turner hopes for myself, I would be very self conscious when approaching.
Anyway, I had seen '...Warriors' about 4 months before hand, and as I'm coming up to the first table I see Rena Owen. I was speechless. The movie was so profound (everytime I use that word I think of Oprah and her 'profound' phase-Maya Angelou is so profound {2002 ish}) and her role as mother to this family was so taxing and full of sorrow that I transferred all of that acting to her, as a real mother. It was like seeing your favorite distant aunt a funeral for one of her kids. You just want the silence and the hug to speak volumes.
The transference here was to do the same. I stood before her and had my arms partially at my side as if to say, "C'mere; let me hold you". She was sitting down waiting for someone. Probably some Hollywood clown who heard a buzz about her performance, never bothered to see the film while inviting her out top Los Angeles.
She looked up at me standing there; mouth agape and with inviting arms and smiled back at me. I think I mouthed the word, 'Wow' and I'm guessing I had a lump in my throat (I'm a softie some times).
I half smiled at my stupidity and put out my hand to shake hers. I said 'thanks' and walked on. I smiled and shook my head at being foolish and smitten the rest of my walk home.

"Don't confront me with my failures, I (pause) Have not forgotten them.

It's kind of hard to be in my shoes these days. Drug Counselors and their ilk all say that I (upon being sober) am basically at the age when my addiction first started. So now, instead of looking like a really young 39, I'm a really old looking 15. Kind of like those kids with alopecia (sp?) you see on Maury.
So, this was my job history @ 14-15-16. I would get a job to obtain what I needed and quit afterwards. I wanted to go to 'Joe Namath Football Camp' so I delivered the Daily News for 5 months. I wanted to go to Italy with my class, so I worked like a slave in a diner for 6 months. I looked at a job as just a bartering tool for action and travel. I never had any strings nor cared if they moved me up or held the position open for me once I returned, I'd just wait til I got the traveling bug or the need for a new pair of 'Capezio's (white. natch) and scan the Staten Island Advance for a job.
I've got to break this cycle. My great friend Donna's only goal in life was to have kids and get a house, and she achieved this by the time she was 23. My friend Joyce started settling down a little later and now she has the house, the career and a great traveling schedule. I've never wanted these things because I knew I would have to give up drinking. I swear. I had foregone being in a relationship for the last 8-10 years because I knew I would have to give up my true love (alcohol) or at least be exposed as being a drunk/druggie if I got too close to someone, and quite frankly, I was NOT READY to do so.
I notice a lot of people after they've been through Rehab start getting their teeth fixed and start working out and that's great, but for me I've got to start keeping a job and possibly work towards another goal.
For the last two days all I did was sleep. I was so freaking depressed. And trying to sleep in a busy halfway house where you have to be out of your room by 8 am is difficult. I spread a blanket on the bathroom floor, I contemplated sleeping under the bed and all from what. Because I'm so pissed that I did not hook myself up with a job before I quit C________. I felt so vindicated when I walked out of there. They; stringing me along for 3 months with my raise that never materialized, and for the fact that they will never find someone like me again. I knew for sure they would be calling me back.
It just goes to show, we are all replaceable. Even people I thought who would never re coup from losing their partners have moved on to 'newer' spouses. If I stopped writing this blog without a warning and it just hung their in cyberspace. Would people who check in from time to time and just see the same last entry; would they even speculate to where I had gone? What's up?

Ya Fat Fucks...

So, smoking is down among tweens. What the frig do you expect when you charge $8 for a pack? But, instead of fashioning these pre-pubes out for a "Marlboro Miles Iron Lung" we can always look forward to burying them in a piano case. The obesity epidemic is now threatening to be this countries most major concern for the future (next 20 years), next to Cancer. Not lung, but all cancers. So, when are we going to impose taxes on some of these fatties favorites. Yeah, I think obesity might get the shot in the arm it needs once we start adding a 6 dollar tax to Big Macs or boxes of Russell Stovers. How about weighing stations for the two ton Tessie's I always see getting out of tiny Japanese cars at the local Wendy's drive thru. I'm not being this pissy because I'm a smoker. I just can not see why we have to pay for government programs with the huge taxes we pony up on every pack. Maybe all the taxes should be put in a fund for when and if we come down with emphysema or other smoking related diseases. Meanwhile Marty Menthol who is most likely shooting blanks is putting 5 kids through aftercare.

It Lives

I never would have imagined I would regain those feelings you get when you are younger and in lust. The feelings I mean are akin to dropping a bowling ball on your relaxed stomach while you are laying down, shooting your legs up with novicaine and drawing the breath out of you like the Grim Reaper. I can't recall ever really going with these feelings and hooking up with the person with whom I experienced them from. Once, when I was 17, I was a messenger for the summer in Lower Manhattan. Unlike the other messengers you would see around bearing bike gear or carrying one of those boxy suitcases, I worked for this respectable place where I had a cool attache case and I wore a tie. My deliveries were mostly to import/export shipping offices which were all located in and around the World Trade Center.
After a week or two of walking up and down lower Manhattan you would recognize repeat people, which is kind of weird considering the magnitude of the square miles and the people within them.
I was still a virgin by this time in both genders, but I was more educated. I had a stash of porno mags and after 12 years of Private Catholic School which stunted my sexual education education as well as explorations, I knew more than ever and was eager to act on my feelings towards either sex. I thought.
My first foray was with this other messenger. he dressed as well as me, but I would always see him walking around. He was a great looking Latino guy, my age, great olive skin and black oily hair. Kind of a pre-pube moustache and a great Romanesque nose (one of my favorite facial features). He attracted me enough so that when I first noticed him I got a little flushed with attraction and when I turned around 10 feet later to see which direction he was going in, he turned and stared at me. I nearly fainted on the spot and when I had to double check if it was me he was looking at again, 5 feet more down the line, he turned and I had to sit down.
Now, maybe "Juan" was more adept at this than me in the cruising department, because if I knew than what I know now...
This continued for about 2 months. Everyday I would scan the busy streets looking for a glimpse of the attache he would carry or I would retrace the places where we would infrequently pass. I had a sighting about every three or four days and after each one I told myself I was going to say 'hey' or 'what's up' or in my wildest scenario's I would just stop him, grab his hand and duck into battery Park for a make out session and more.
I had about two weeks left on my job before I went to college and I wanted so bad for something to materialize. I was in one of the WTC towers which I knew like the back of my hand. I had to pee, so I went to a floor which I knew was completely vacant, construction crews were remodeling this floor and all the bathrooms were unlocked. I got in the express elevator that would whoosh you up to 79 or so and transferred to the 'local' that would take me to 87. As I was getting off the local @ 87 he was getting on. I stood there, completely wrecked of all possible functions of how to proceed with this "GIFT ENCOUNTER". I stared at him for what seemed like a minute but in real time was only a second or two as I let him get on the elevator and another second later, I got off.

Long Story Short
I was walking down the street in Queens the other day and feeling pretty good. I saw this total hottie approaching (rare in this particular area) from about 20 feet away. I checked him out for a good second or two and worked my way up to his eyes which were consequently doing the same to me. All of a sudden, those feelings of the novicaine and the bowling ball from the above story came flooding back. Feelings I thought I was too grown up to ever feel again. Too jaded to ever feel again. And you know what, I am so glad I can feel again.

Acceptance Speech if their was an award for this story
I would thank the makers of Welbutrin, Lexipro, my Therapist, the Medicaid System for allowing me to afford these drugs, My New Fuck Buddy and God.

Shit Happens...a lot!

It seems that a lot of people filled with the spirit of a divine creator are always stating, "There are no coincidences". I'm with these thinkers on a lot of things, but what do we call these 'happenings'? My friend Lisa calls them "synchronizaties" and I've kind of adopted this word as well, but it pains me to say it sometimes because it reminds me of Sting and I hate Sting so much. (The Police had an album, "Synchronicity").

It never fails but everytime I look at the clock it's my birthday. Two times a day, it happens like...clockwork. Someone intellectual remarked that "You probably look at the clock a lot." Au Contraire mon frere...He went on to state that these things are just the law of averages and we only notice it as a 'coincidence' (me with 9:24) because that # means something to me.

The other day I had an interview for a decent managerial job. As I was showering I was trying to pick out my wardrobe in my head. I was going to wear this hot Hugo Boss suit I have and I was imagining what shirts I had here with me at the halfway house. I went to get my clothes out to iron when I came upon a shirt that I had totally ruled out because it required cuff links. But wait, I thought. My brother Philip gave me a pair of his @ Christmastime. Cool, because this shirt is one that I bought @ a Thrift Store a year ago for a buck,and it was hand tailored in Hong Kong.
As I was getting dressed, I was putting on the links when I noticed that the cuffs were monogramed. "Shit".
I put on the suit jacket and figured the monogram would be covered by the jacket sleeves anyway, no biggie.
I was on the train, 3 stops away and I closed my book and was checking out my fingernails when I saw the initials. I smirked and started basically inventing an alter ego with those initials or thinking of Celebrities with them.
Union Square stop, I walk up the stairs to see my possible new employer, Whole Foods.
My heart stopped for a second. I glanced at my shirtsleeves to check...The monogramed initials were: W F

GLINT

A friend who doesn't bullshit told me that the "Strangers with Candy" movie should be out in the next 2 months. I wish I could post a picture of Geri along with this.

Grace

New York City (Manhattan especially) allows one to explore their KooKoo side. I mean, you could basically be the biggest nutbag and you would be shouldered alongside Mr. Investment Banker on the train. And this scene, viewed from anyone but a stranger to this City, seems so normal, yet a snapshot of it would seem surreal.
My shuffle was loaded with new songs. A lot of the music I picked up in Florida when I went to retrieve some of my stuff. A Jeff Buckley song came on which I had not heard in a long time, and I, oblivious to the surrounding people on the train felt the need to "air sing" this song with so much passion you would think I was auditioning for a role in "Dreamgirls". It felt so good. I could care less of what I may have looked like ( a major issue of mine). The whole scenerio was perfect; the lyrics, the accompaning music, the train, the way I was dressed, the effect of the Welbutrin & Neurontin. I hit replay, Brilliant.

Reminds Me Of...

Man, Sienna Miller is just morphing into Edie Sedgwick every time I see her in a photo. From what I've read, I thought the movie "Factory Girl" had already finished filming. If she is still going around flaunting this Edie look, she might be a little unstable ala George Reeves (Superman) and that guy who played Jesus. (<---- I tried IMDB to find his name. Do you know how many people have played Jesus? Tons, is the answer; and I'm on a timed computer)

"Falling" <--- Not the Alicia Keyes Version either

I thought long and hard while I was waiting to get my ashes. I mean, I usually blow whatever it is that I decide to give up for Lent, but I seem to do better than I would if it was a New Years Resolution.
For those who are wondering what the frig is this guy talking about. Lent begins on Ash Wednesday. That is the day you may see people walking around with coal like smudges on their foreheads (this happened last Wednesday by the way), eventually lasting 40 days and nights leading up to Easter Sunday. Someone (Can Hallmark be blamed for this one?) came up with the idea to abstain from something for this time period. It carries the same false promises one might make to themselves on New Years Eve as well.
Since I am free of Alcohol and Drugs and I do not eat chocolate I tried to think of some vice of mine that I need to chill on. I was at a loss @ the time, probably owing to my Narcissistic personality, so I basically was going to ride this Lenten Season out.

Epilogue
I have been a major c word lately (rhymes with Linda Hunt). I've given up on all the 'earthy crunchy love thy neighbor/There- but- for- the- Grace- of- God- go- I' stuff. People are assholes no matter how you slice em. People are stupid no matter if I teach them the right way or not. And finally, I am so much 'better' than these people, that I pity them.
This type of thinking makes for great conversations in my head, but being short on nearby acquaintances and not really being a 'phone talker', I have begun to notice myself slipping into this negative mode.
This as you will learn when you see my movie and the educated person in the goofy counselor role wearing the requisite dangling earring and smoking like a fiend will explain that this shift in personality is the number one cause of relapse. Throw into the mix me walking from my job the other night after receiving my seventh week in a row paycheck lacking my supposed correct salary and the fact that I have to find a place to live within the next two months and all you have to do is know basic math as to what followed.
I got off the train @ 2 pm and walked the long stretch of Rooservelt Avenue looking for a Liquor Store. For all the bigots out there who cling to their cry of 'drunken' when describing Latino's I couldn't find a store that sold Hootch in about a half a mile. When I finally did see that familiar type of Italy Shaped logo saying "Liquors" down a side street, I had no regrets upon entering. I chose a nice potato Vodka which was triply distilled and bought a couple of Mango Arizona drinks in those big cans. I went back to the halfway House and drank the bottle. At 4 am I had to wake for my flight to Florida, and the only thing I can remember from the night before while I rode in the taxi was not procuring a better hiding spot for the empty bottle while I was gone for the next two days.
I cringed on the plane ride down as certain faces from the previous night popped into my head and wanted to hide my head in the sand when I checked out my phone to see who I drunk dialed as well. One happened to be this guy 'friend' from Rehab that I felt unceremoniously dropped me from his life like a stalker.
The first few hours in Florida with Joyce and Sloan seemed to have me acting 'jet lagged' and distant as I thought of myself being kicked out as soon as I arrive back in NYC. All the 'losers' I made fun of who got kicked out before me (the girl who dreamed she was smoking crack with her ex and actually turned up positive, the guy who I had pegged as a closet case and a possible prospect for a quick bj in the 'broom closet' who got kicked out for being in a police/hooker sting, et al) seemed to pop into my head as I wondered where they were living. I wanted so much for this weekend not to end; being in the womb like comfort of my friends but all I could think of was what was going to be my plan of action if I did get kicked out. I wore a fake smile the whole time having in the back of my head visions of garbage bags full of my stuff waiting outside the house.
I could not even pray for help, because I felt so guilty (thanks Catholicism).
After arriving back, a block from the house I had a cigarette. I rang the doorbell and was greeted by two guys who I kind of talk to. I expected to hear "Your back for your stuff" or something of the sort, but they just said hello as I walked up to my room which was still the same as I had left it. The Oliphant Vodka was still in the same bad 'hiding' space and I felt glad to have escaped eviction. This Time.

Crushed

It's so weird. Some of my earliest memories involving my mother and myself together involve us both watching award shows and/or beauty contests. I would always have my list of picks. At six or seven I had not seen any of the movies up for awards so I just went on aesthetic impulses, like someone who goes to the racetrack for the first time and knows nothing about odds or jockey's and just picks the prettiest horse or the one with the most interesting name (which is what I still do when I have to pick something in the animated short or other minor awards like that). I always use to draw my favorite stars with a bubble caption saying "and the winner is..." This is way before they started saying "...and the Oscar goes to". It would usually be females like Tina Louise or Sophia Loren with some unidentified male; holding the statuette clad in a creation of my own smushed cleavage drappery.
In the years of VCR's I would tape every award show and then edit them onto a seperate favorite parts tape with my second VCR. I would buy every follow up magazine to scour pictures containing probably the one or two people I cared about who might posssibly be at the ceremony. Check out what they were wearing and all.
And then, about 4 years ago it all came to an abrupt end. I can recall being at a friends house and someone was watching it in the living room and I just breezed by a few times to see what award they might be up to and exit the room. It was not intentional, it just seems that I had something else to do. I guess the days of someone on the short list of favorites of mine winning seemed as long a shot as I have in procuring a rent stabalized apartment. MTV awards, Emmy's and my last hold out, The Golden Globes all went unwatched these past two years.
Yesterday I flew back from Florida, where I went for the weekend and had the option of doing a few things. I picked entering all my cd's that I brought back with me into my laptop for my iPod. I didn't want to watch Catherine Keener graciously clap for the other winner (Rachel Weisz) or see Dolly Parton lose out ala Aimee Mann to some asshole (too true: Dolly lost to some rappers from Hustle and Flow and Aimee to (gasp) Phil Fucking Collins).
I was listening to the BBC news last night as I fell asleep and I heard no mention of any of the winners until this morning when I heard a blurb of upcoming stories on 'All Things Considered'. I nearly blew the contact lens I was about to put into my eye when exclaiming a loud "Holy Shit" upon hearing "Crash" had won Best Picture.

hey all, I had access to my bloggerbot this weekend 

Young @ Indie Heart

The other night I was watching the movie 'Paris, Texas' and I realized that my window for getting my script made is probably over. I remember in the early 90's me and my friend Yasmine would go to the movies a lot after our shifts at The Russian Tea Room. We knew the ins and outs of the Angelica and the other Art House Theaters, because this was the fair we both enjoyed. At the time I had been playing ping pong in my head with a story called 'Alter Ego' which was loosely based on me because @ night I would turn into this club crawling bar fly/slash sexually charged risk taker while in the daytime I was this normal 20 something. Indie films were getting bought by the handfuls (meaning a lot), few getting made but securing nice paying jobs for some of the writers.
In 1997 I had a friend of mine budget my recent tome at the time to the tune of 3 million to make. It was still do-able enough to gather up an audience and make a still profit and perhaps garner a few awards and accolades.
Now it 2006. I just feel that the state of the movie making business is going to fucking hell. Reese Witherspoon is getting 20 something million for her next picture and all the piracy going round. The fact that "The Squid and the Whale" hardly made a dent in audiences except those in major cities and it was a really good movie. The fact that I heard Don Cheadle talking the other day about Crash (he was a producer), and that no studio wanted to touch it and only did so after Brendan Frasier was on board, not the fact that the director and writer just won tons of acclaim for "Million Dollar Baby". It's all bullshit. The way we are all going to be subjected to shopping at 'Wal-Marts' and 'Sports Authority's' and 'Costco's' is the reflection of movies starring only safe box office stars (for the moment) vehicles. So be prepared to walk into your local Cineplex Odeon Million Theater and see 30 movies with Tom Cruise and Reese Witherspoon and Reese Witherspoon and Tom Hanks and Tom Cruise and Julia Roberts and Tom Hanks and Julia Roberts and all will have narration by

Gateway Pleasures

Pot was never anything more than pot to me. It never led me to do anything I did not want to do, and for a while I basically became immune to it. I could do everything in my day perfectly fine while being stoned.
Due to weekly piss tests at this place I'm at, I can not get high (now), hell I can not even take cold medicine without facing an evict.
Here's the conundrum. I need a dube for my screenplay. Like the heroin addict who needs to get through his withdrawals with a hit, I need that extra creative part of my synapses exposed so I can get over this one hump, and the only way that I know to rectify this safely is with a joint. I started thinking of excuses I could make to the administrators of this place if I get busted. I pictured myself exclaiming "I work with all these Rastas" and blame it on second hand smoke, but how frigging lame is that. Freaking United States with it's puritanical ways. Holland as my home land is getting closer and closer to being real.

Ohio and 17 other states are trying their hardest in Legislature to pass a bill that would prevent anyone who is gay from adopting children. Some asswipe was talking on NPR the other day about how he had one 'victim' from a lesbian household explain how she herself turned gay and is so unhappy about her life now.
Is this their precise for this ban? I could get blue in the face (or fingers) typing out what is so wrong with these 'legislators' warped thinking. Sexual abuse among Hetero's, Your Born gay you don't vicariously become gay et al.
I get so disillusioned by this country so often. I get pissed and wish I could follow half of these mother fuckers who start these bills around and see if this is not some hidden agenda with a Roy Cohn like self hatred. I want to expose these bastards, what right do they have from preventing ANY child from having a home.
After I heard this story and the purported 'home-made lesbo's' denial, I was thinking of the first time I was attracted to guys ( I try to think of this often). Each time I think of an example I could pre date it with another. It's kind of fun because my attractions towards guys (even before I knew about sex) were always different from what attracted me to the females I liked. Like, the male attractions were saying to me, "More will be revealed later".