whisk me away.
strip me
blind me
bind me down
fill my cold heart with sound.
a future promised is warmth abound.
string me up and wash me.
let the water caress me
kicking and screaming
teething
fear of awesome believing.
im still in this pram,
this darkened cab.
the van parks out back.
there is a point
at which a confident man can no longer internalize.
he must act on these burgeoning emotions
with a conscious, determined catharsis.
in these times of crisis,
tranquility could mean leaping from the Manhattan bridge
on a hot Summer’s day.
everyone hello, and good evening! i hope you are enjoying yourselves at my expense! for those who dont know, i am paul! yes, yes your applause pleases me greatly. thank you. once a year we open the manor to our closest friends in celebration! celebration of another year! another school year! another year of steves bald head so fucking shiny it looks like his moms waxed asshole! another year just to say we made it. we call this the long night! thank you, thank you, but remember this was a team effort. so from the bottom of my heart i want to thank each and every one of you, newbies included, for making the last four years devoid of any police intervention! as you all know i am not one to pass off an opportunity to get everyones attention and less likely to give it away once ive got it, so as you can see our good friend andrew is going around the room handing out shot glasses, you will want to keep those and a shot of warrens dads everclear brought to you in a stylish, glass gallon jug, just let me know when everyones set up. good? ok first a toast to the long night, to four successful years and, i hope whoever lives here in september can find their own thing because this night is ours! to the night!
Continue readingthe break room at two thirty. morris wong, fifty two, sits next to chigane, another dime a dozen teenaged filipina with a potmarked face buried in her phone. morris’ warm congee scented breath can be felt on her shoulder but she doesnt recede. she leans in to him instead, laughing, pointing out the funny cat on her feed. joseline walks by and morris straightens himself, waking chi out of her digital stupor.
are you still coming to celias party tonight?
i told you no already. his accent is milder then his looks suggest.
why not?
we talked about this already.
i know.
its just not appropriate.
i know. she bats her mascaraed eyes. morris is a fool for her eyes.
then why do you keep asking?
i don’t know.
i want us to be more open too, just not yet. you know what people will say. she recedes, expecting a different result. hey morris?
he looks up to see steve, the colossi store manager. he has their full attention.
what’s up?
can i see you in my office?
Continue reading
Clint Eastwood. The man with the ever-brusque facial expression. Western hero turned cop hero turned cineaste with an output that rivals Woody Allen: in quantity and quality. I mean terrible. Wait, I don’t mean terrible. I mean “not for me”. His directorial efforts are not for me. You see, Eastwood seems to make movies that fit his own demographic: seniors that need everything spelled out for them.
Clint isn’t one for subtlety or ambiguity: his characters are often expressing exactly how they are feeling; and if they don’t express it, then someone else will put the words in their mouth. He wants the viewer to feel unburdened by things like subtext and metaphors. He wants you to “be on the same page”. A few examples: Sully, the discouraged aircraft pilot simulator; Mystic River, the child sex trauma victim simulator; and Invictus, the Nelson Mandela fanclub simulator. I use the word “simulator” because Clint’s movies are deliberately-paced for maximum pragmatism. You start to “feel” for Sully’s social isolation; for Dave Boyle’s self-inflicted alienation; for how stoked you’d be to get the chance to meet Nelson Mandela.
Continue reading
theory of a daskeman 