Tuesday, December 26, 2006

Mack Reed Is A Bastard

Los Angeles, CA

So, I'm sitting there at the computer huffing paint and surfing porn, when I get this email from Mack over at LA Voice. I don't remember the details. Something about underage hookers and a donkey show in Thailand, I think. Anyway, he finally gets to the point and tags me with this Five Things You Didn't Know About Me crap.

Fine. It's the holidays. Peace on Earth, good will toward men, yada yada yada. So I'll play along.

1. I don't speak Spanish

I know what you're thinking. How the fuck is someone supposed to operate in this town when they can't even speak the language? I spend a lot of time talking loudly and slowly. Because, you know, that always works. For some reason I'm constantly met with odd comments people must have learned from a phrase book, like "Fuck you, I'm a goddamn Harvard grad, asshole". Then they slap me.

Sure, it's my own fault. I took French in high school. Language of love, my ass. Language of indecipherable vowel movements. No, sorry, the first three letters are silent and the last two must be spoken through a specialized wine funnel while gargling sparrow piss. Want to know what I learned in French class?

Ou est le toilette?

Je n'a pas su elle ├ętait votre soeur.

For the record, that second doesn't help you much when her brother catches you with her panties on your head.

2. I have never been to jail

So far as you know.

3. I have yet to learn to drive a stick shift

If god had meant us to drive with both hands he wouldn't have given us cup holders and drive-thru Starbucks. What is it with you people? Might as well have a horse and buggy. What, are you Amish?

Look, it's simple. Stomp on the gas, drive the car. None of this mucking about with 1st and 2nd or 5th or 12th or whatever the fuck it is you people do with those things. How's a guy supposed to do balloons of nitrous when he needs more than one hand to move the fucking vehicle?

Goddamn Luddites.

4. I once painted a giant, plastic cow for a production of Oklahoma

"Surrey With The Fringe On Top" still haunts my nightmares. As do songs from Cats, A Chorus Line, Joseph and The Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, Anything Goes, and, dear sweet Jesus shoot me, Pippin. I've had others surgically burned from my memory. Amazing what you can do with a lighter and a coat hanger these days.

If he weren't already dead I'd hunt down Cole Porter and beat him over the head with a Leko. Musical theater. This is why Bob Fosse drank.

5. I was a Boy Scout

Scary, no? Made it to two ranks below Eagle.

Don't believe the hype. There are no more dangerous a group of thugs than the Scouts. Like Lord of the fucking Flies. Especially when they're run by your Army drill sergeant father. Think of a weekend long cage match in the Sierras. With wild boars and rattlesnakes. There's a reason they teach us how to use knives.

Explains a lot, doesn't it?


Mike said...

Hey Steve, remember this:

If youll be my bodyguard
I can be your long lost pal
I can call you betty
And betty when you call me
You can call me al

(evil laugh)
Happy Commerce Day!

Ruthie Black nude said...

Noir Naivete.
Only 5 things NOT known? Better get a little vaguer my boy, if you expect the survive in noir land. Nobody KNOWS more than 5 things about me, since they've all read my story and gotten it wrong. i.e. their eyes are crooked. eyes, and gotten it all wrong. Fine with me, since RUTHIE BLACK (amazon.com) is all lies to begin with.

Mack said...

I'm no mere bastard, sirrah. I'm a motherfucking bastard. Have a care with your weak little insults.

David said...

I'll take your cage match and raise you a marauding band of Visigoths.

I belonged to the Juvenile Delinquent Troop of the BSA. My fellow scoutmates spent most of their time studying electronics so as to be able to spoof burglar alarms, and stealing supplies from what was supposed to be the "Plumbing" merit badge to make homemade bongs. The only time I saw any of them display any spark of vulnerability is when one guy came in with a torn-up hand.

Then I learned that he had been bitten and clawed by a desperate rabbit they had stolen out of his cage, while they were trying to cram a cherry bomb up its ass.

I come from Wisconsin, punk. Land of Ed Gein. And Jeffrey Dahmer. Shallow graves out deep in the woods. The Posse Comitatus holed up in the southeast corner of the state and the milleniallist wackos who blew up the bridges leading to the township of "Spirit" way up near the U.P.

Elizabeth said...

So, you were a Boy Scout. I was a Boy Scout Leader. Yup. And the leaders are who should really scare you.

At my first campout with the scouts, all the leaders sent the kids to bed and stayed up late. Ok, so no surprises yet. A little whiskey went around. One of the leaders decided we should play a campfire game, "Tell the story of your life in 5 minutes or less." I thought my story would be damned impressive, what with my rock climbing background and all. Then the 100-pound lady wildlife biologist told us about her job: she camped for months in the wild, wrestled bucks to the ground by their antlers in order to tag them and got hunted and shot at by poachers. And there was the guy who'd huddled in a snow cave with three Japanese climbers (not one of whom spoke a word of English) for three weeks during a blizzard near the summit of Mt. Aconcagua. And there was another guy who sold guns and heavy artillery to Third World Countries.

So you were a Boy Scout. Yup. Explains a lot.