If the world as we know it began with an explosion of gas (and I have no reason to believe or not to believe in this theory) than I’m inclined to think of my insignificant flatulence as a small tribute to our creation. I’m not trying to be crude here — that’s just a pleasant side-effect — but rather to illuminate how our bodies are elegant vessels of life and small reflections of the cosmic miracle that is the universe, even the stinky gas that sometimes leaks out of our black holes is a miracle unto itself.
I was flying in an airplane on my way back from Costa Rica when I looked down and saw the long, snaking coastline of Central America and it dawned on me that I really have no idea how anything works in this world: not coastlines, not airplanes, not gravity, and not my asshole. It was all a mystery to this dumb passenger who was impatiently looking around for a stewardess to refill my Jack & Coke.
They don’t make stewardesses like they used to.
In fact, they don’t make them at all, they’re called flight attendants now, I’m pretty sure. And they’re not the beautiful, leggy things that used to hang out at the Regal Beagle with Larry Dallas and Jack Tripper, but older, wider and often hairy individuals who push their carts through the aisle not with flirtatious smiles but with surly grins. This also means they don’t make stewardess fantasies like they used to. At this point I would gladly trade a just-in-town-for-a-night affair with any modern day stewardess, er, flight attendant, for one of those little plastic Jack Daniels bottles and half a can of flat coca-cola.
I really enjoy hanging out in airport bars. There is a thrill in knowing in just a couple of hours you’ll be landing in a new city and be far away from the people whose elbows are propped against the counter next to yours. In Hollywood you don’t have that comforting piece of hard fact. At an airport bar you can get into a fight over politics or religion and not worry about offending anyone. Unless, of course, they’re boarding the same plane as you, in which case, careful whom you insult over a bowl of peanuts.
What’s the best/worst insult you’ve ever been called? One time a man I “accidentally” cut off in traffic rolled down his window and yelled, “Learn to drive, you dick sucking caveman!”
My memory won’t let go of this incident for some reason. I think of all the interesting scientific/historical facts it has pushed out of my mind to secure its place there and cringe. The reason, I think, that this insult is so durably entrenched in my consciousness is I just can’t imagine many cavemen giving fellatio to other cavemen. Maybe it did happen and my lack of imagination is to blame but I doubt it. The image is sublimely ridiculous to me and everytime I think of it I can’t get it out of my head. I take it to the next level and picture cavemen dancing to electronic music, coifing their scraggly, grizzly beards and drinking martinis, etc..
What did I say in response to the absurd insult? I laughed and shrugged my shoulders, which just made him madder. He drove away, flipping me the bird behind his back. I’ve often found that the best thing you can do to really upset someone after they’ve insulted you is to not care.
Defeat Hate with Apathy. Ghandi would be proud.
I consider myself a writer and a poet and a muckracker. Hunter S. Thompson would spit on my Steve Maddens if I told him that. He wrote a couple of good books but what does he know? He put a gun in his mouth and took the cowardly way out after a lifetime of tough guy posturing. My father and his girlfriend recently informed me that growing old is not for sissies. I would have to agree with them, quivering as I am in front of a mirror of thinning salt & pepper hair.
Some days I plan to run the L.A. marathon. Other days I just hope to make it home in one piece. I’ve got the heart of a lion but it doesn’t always know when the right time is to roar. I’m a light that never goes out but is too dim to see in the daytime. In my heart is a burning fire that is icy cold. The treadmill keeps spinning long after I step off, just to let me know that it’s better than me. It can go 13 marathons in a row as long as the chord is plugged in. But can it understand a joke, or write a poem, or look into your eyes and kiss your gentle, moist, waiting lips?
What is it that pulls two people together? That indescribable attraction you have for someone that makes you never want to be apart? Some use the word “chemistry”. Some call it fate. Some lovers are supposedly “star-crossed”, but I never quite understood what that means.
I fell in love at first sight when the most beautiful brunette in the world walked in the room and went straight for a chicken wing. I noticed it first by a churning in my stomach. That eventually transformed into a longing I thought could only be satiated in a dream. Through some kind of magic my love was returned. What’s it called when you’re living a dream you don’t want to wake from? Paradise? Nirvana?
Time seems to pass so quickly in a dream. One second you’re sliding down a water slide and the next you’re smoking a hookah with a belly dancer in Morocco. We try to remember them when we wake up, to hold them in our hands and analyze them, but mostly we’re left with just fragments slipping through our fingers. Dreams are numinous shadow-shows our subconscious puts on to remind us we’re passengers on a spirit-train.
I used to meditate regularly. I used to light incense and stare out windows. I used to take long walks in the woods, my hands folded behind my back, noticing the color of birch trees and the songs of thrushes.
They say we get wiser as we get older. I think that’s just something old people say to justify their opinions. Take it from me, I’m a pretty smart dude!