This is a crappy script I through together out of boredom. Can't use it so I figured I'd post it.
Two drifters by the name of Winslow and Daphney settle beneath a cruddy old bridge near the cities industrial district. Beneath them is a polluted creek that bleeds into a swamp and above is the steam rolling of early morning commuters. The floors and walls of the bridge are covered with bugs and rats.
Winslow: We finally made it eh, babe?
Daphney: Oh sweetie, the big city is everything I envisioned and more!
Winslow: Now look, I know it's exciting and all but don't lose site of the ultimate goal. You're going to have to really get out there and hustle that pussy fast and furiously if we are ever going to afford that studio efficiency down in the bowery.
Daphney: Anything sweetie, whatever I have to do I'll do it. I don't care if I have to suck on a million syphilis filled sphinctors to get us there.
Winslow: Good girl, you hungry for your medicine lil mama?
Daphney: Starving, My cot damn skins burning!
Winslow pulls out a tiny jar of "pouperi" he claims to have purchased from the gas station as well as a can of malt liquer energy drink called Mondo Socko with a brightly colored label.
Winslow: I still can't get over that dirty fuckin chink at the corner store trying to tell me $10 for this shit. Can you believe that?
Daphney: Well, you know how those people are sweetie.
Winslow: Fuck that, $5 is the asking price for this shit and the Mondo Socko is $2.99tops! It's the same at every store in Amwerica. I should call the attorney general and report his ass.
Daphney: So assertive baby, you make my butthole pucker when you get that like, stop it.
Winslow smirks devilishly while rolling a gar out of the $5 gas station popouri.
Winslow: Here ya go baby, put this in your pipe and smoke it.
Daphney: Yaaaay!
Winslow cracks open the can of malt liquer Mondo Socko and takes a chug. He shakes his head and body violently.
Winslow: Whooooa! Man that packs a fuckin punch.
Daphney takes her time inhaling the popouri gar.
Daphney: You're to fuckin good to me Winslow, what did a dirty little skeez like me ever do to deserve such a wonderful man?
Winslow: Gods divine intervention I suppose. You need to look at it in the grand scheme of things, ever since the first tadpole crawled onto the the earths soil outta the swamp, destiny has been bouncing people, places and things in one direction so that the cosmos could lead to our lives intersecting at this very moment in history. Everything that has ever had to happen has and we're apart of a greater narrative.
The popouri is starting to take it's toll on Daphney. Her eyes squint, her voice softens and speech slows.
Daphney: So classy and intellectual.
Winslow hands her the can on Mondo Socko which she makes short work of with a few strong gulps.
Daphney: Oh, my head. It hurts so bad.
Winslow: How many times do I have to tell you. It's just the high.
Daphney: Sweety, I can't feel my hands. I can't feel anything.
She places hand on chest.
Daphney: My heart is thumping out of my chest. It feels like I'm dying, baby.
Winslow: You're just high you fuckin dingbat. Mellow out. I'm tired of going through this everytime you smoke that stuff.
Daphney looks at Winslow suspiciously. The harder she looks the more she notices that he now has the body of a cochroach and the face of a man.
Winslow: Hey, why the hell you lookin at me like that?
Daphney: You son of a bitch, you dirty motherfucker!
Winslow: Huh?
Daphney: How long? How long have you been hiding this from me?
Winslow: What the hell are you talking about?
Daphney: That, this whole time. This whole cot damn time you've been a big greasy brown hairy roach!
Winslow: Oh boy...
Daphney: It's ok. No need to panic. I'll still love you. No matter what I'll still love you Winslow. Even if it means we procreate and birth a half roach baby. I'll love that fuckin baby too!
Daphney begins hallucinating herself giving birth in a hospital room. The doctors are all wearing thick black sunglasses and gas mask. The room is very sterile looking and white.
The baby pushes it's way out of her bloodied vagina one hairy limb at a time til it is yanked out of her womb.
The doctor holds the roach baby in his big rubber gloves and hands him to her. The baby has a human head. It smiles at her and winks. She smiles back.
When she awakens she finds herself on her back. A line of strange scraggly men has formed around her. There is a elderly old man with no teeth between her legs, he's drooling profusely.
Daphney: What is going on here?
The old man keeps humping and looks back at Winslow.
Old Man: Winslow, you better give her some more of that popouri, I think she's regaining consciousness and I ain't paying this ugly bitch to chat!
Winslow rushes over.
Winslow: Here baby, smoke this. It'll calm you down. We've almost got enough for that efficiency apartment.
Daphney takes another hit.
The old man begins climaxing.
Old Man: Damnit, I just blew my whole wod in that death trap!
Winslow: That's the breaks old timer.
The old man removes himself, Daphney keeps smoking and drinking the gas station drugs. A new man crawls between her legs and covers her mouth with his hand.
Daphney looks at the group of men surrounding her. They are all roach's with the faces of men.
Friday, March 16, 2012
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Paco and The Man!
Awaking from a restful eleven and a half hours of sleep on a Saturday morning, I was grief stricten to realize that I had slept through a Friday night of rampant popularity, the likes of which have previously been unseen in quite sometime.
Invitations to sportsbars and pizza pig outs aside, it was time to begin my day. Starting with a excavation of my work pants in search of Burger King coupons and assorted loose change.
By noon a flurry of text message exchanges set in place plans for a trip to meet and greet with rising rap phenom J.Cole. The supposed next big thing, a lightskinned gangly protege of current hip hop mega star Jay-Z. My main focus was retrieving a photograph with the young star. Bait for luring co-workers by my desk at work, flaunting various impressive photographs with celebrities. An illusion that would lead cubicle dwelling types with the impression that outside of the office I actually lead quite the exciting life. J.Cole would be the center piece of this collection.
Sadly, mother nature and fate would have other plans on this day. By mid afternoon our scavenger hunt of hotels and tour buses was cut premature. The only option now was to seek shelter beneath an awning outside of the venue where a small crowd of J.Cole devotees had arrived FOUR HOURS IN ADVANCE!
Things were beginning to look grim on our part, the gaggle of scrawny pre-pubescent twelve year old girls were never going to allow us close enough access for autographs and photos upon the stars arrival.
As the rain cleared and the sun shined it dawned upon me that todays generation of kids are not only better looking then the previous one (mine or close to it) they are also much cleaner. Their hair is groomed immaculantly, their sneakers are spotless and their clothes although cheap looking are quite expensive. They are excessorized to a T even in a economy where their parental overlords are possibly struggling to find work or making ends meet on meger wages. The possibility of dripping a sweat appears to have never been a threat to these kids and if it had I imagine it would have been such a life shattering revolation that their worlds would have unraveled, leaving them huddled in a corner somewhere in the fetile position deep throating their baby smooth thumbs.
From out of this glob of hair gel and freshly unboxed Air Jordan sneakers arose a scuzzy ball of battered flesh so ghastly, so threatening to the mainstream way of life, likely the only way of life these kids knew, that he immediatly caught my attention.
This hideous creature, stinking of trash and carrying around a makeshift pole fitted with a hook on the tip, approached me with a friendly grin full of tooth decay and gingivitis. We exchanged pleasantries and small talk over the weather before delving into more serious subject matter such as the JFK assassination and our shared hatred for George W. Bush. Or, the "bitch boy" as my new found friend would repeatedly refer to him.
"The names Paco!"
Paco would go on to share with me tales of adventure that he experienced as a prisoner for twenty-eight years in the OHIO prison system. Claiming that after an altercation with the warden at one prison he was sent to "the hole" for a year and a half where he feasted upon generous helpings of Jack Daniels. The hole as he described it was roughly five-by-five, dark, filthy and if you didn't catch your meals before they were slopped on the floor then you were pretty much fucked.
His crime was double-attempted-homicide.
Before prison Paco did several years in Vietnam where he lost a brother and uncle who also served in his unit. He himself left Vietnam after taking no less then six bullets in various parts of his body. His SSDI payments were apparently brought to a screeching hault a few years ago thanks to budget cuts by then President George W Bush.
At 3 am every morning Paco can be found trolling the treacherous alley ways and dumpsters behind downtown bars where he collects aluminum cans.
"This is my job, man. One night some dude left a pack of sixteen Miller Genuine Drafts on a table, I didn't hesitate to crank those fuckers down!"
By Pacos own estimates he is one of roughly 30,000 homeless citizens who have made the sunwashed streets of St. Petersburg home.
Invitations to sportsbars and pizza pig outs aside, it was time to begin my day. Starting with a excavation of my work pants in search of Burger King coupons and assorted loose change.
By noon a flurry of text message exchanges set in place plans for a trip to meet and greet with rising rap phenom J.Cole. The supposed next big thing, a lightskinned gangly protege of current hip hop mega star Jay-Z. My main focus was retrieving a photograph with the young star. Bait for luring co-workers by my desk at work, flaunting various impressive photographs with celebrities. An illusion that would lead cubicle dwelling types with the impression that outside of the office I actually lead quite the exciting life. J.Cole would be the center piece of this collection.
Sadly, mother nature and fate would have other plans on this day. By mid afternoon our scavenger hunt of hotels and tour buses was cut premature. The only option now was to seek shelter beneath an awning outside of the venue where a small crowd of J.Cole devotees had arrived FOUR HOURS IN ADVANCE!
Things were beginning to look grim on our part, the gaggle of scrawny pre-pubescent twelve year old girls were never going to allow us close enough access for autographs and photos upon the stars arrival.
As the rain cleared and the sun shined it dawned upon me that todays generation of kids are not only better looking then the previous one (mine or close to it) they are also much cleaner. Their hair is groomed immaculantly, their sneakers are spotless and their clothes although cheap looking are quite expensive. They are excessorized to a T even in a economy where their parental overlords are possibly struggling to find work or making ends meet on meger wages. The possibility of dripping a sweat appears to have never been a threat to these kids and if it had I imagine it would have been such a life shattering revolation that their worlds would have unraveled, leaving them huddled in a corner somewhere in the fetile position deep throating their baby smooth thumbs.
From out of this glob of hair gel and freshly unboxed Air Jordan sneakers arose a scuzzy ball of battered flesh so ghastly, so threatening to the mainstream way of life, likely the only way of life these kids knew, that he immediatly caught my attention.
This hideous creature, stinking of trash and carrying around a makeshift pole fitted with a hook on the tip, approached me with a friendly grin full of tooth decay and gingivitis. We exchanged pleasantries and small talk over the weather before delving into more serious subject matter such as the JFK assassination and our shared hatred for George W. Bush. Or, the "bitch boy" as my new found friend would repeatedly refer to him.
"The names Paco!"
Paco would go on to share with me tales of adventure that he experienced as a prisoner for twenty-eight years in the OHIO prison system. Claiming that after an altercation with the warden at one prison he was sent to "the hole" for a year and a half where he feasted upon generous helpings of Jack Daniels. The hole as he described it was roughly five-by-five, dark, filthy and if you didn't catch your meals before they were slopped on the floor then you were pretty much fucked.
His crime was double-attempted-homicide.
Before prison Paco did several years in Vietnam where he lost a brother and uncle who also served in his unit. He himself left Vietnam after taking no less then six bullets in various parts of his body. His SSDI payments were apparently brought to a screeching hault a few years ago thanks to budget cuts by then President George W Bush.
At 3 am every morning Paco can be found trolling the treacherous alley ways and dumpsters behind downtown bars where he collects aluminum cans.
"This is my job, man. One night some dude left a pack of sixteen Miller Genuine Drafts on a table, I didn't hesitate to crank those fuckers down!"
By Pacos own estimates he is one of roughly 30,000 homeless citizens who have made the sunwashed streets of St. Petersburg home.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Fear Of A Islamic Planet!
9-11-2001
I'll never forget the moment it happend.
Sitting in the back corner of my senior year economics class goofing around with my buddy Nick. Our teacher, an unappologetic capitalist with a thinning comb over hair cut and a face that looked uncomfortably like a cheap Hitler Halloween mask (Thus, why he was referred to as Rubber Face. A nickname I still claim to have originated, although the origins have and will continue to be debated), was yammering on as usual about remote Florida locales along treacherous stretch's of highway where he planned to invest and sell for a profit to developers.
Without warning a class mate, her name escapes me, barges in through the doorway tardy by about fifteen minutes with claims that a plane has just struck the World Trade Center in New York City. Rubber Face immediatly rushed to his computer, no doubt to check on his stocks. A girl sitting next to myself and Nick, a ditzy blonde with the IQ of a used condom said, "was it intentional?".
We looked at one another in disbelief that any person this stupid could have survived on this planet for as long as she had. Ofcourse it wasn't intentional, who would fly a plane purposely into a giant building?
Amazingly, I managed to sit through one more class without even the slightest of mention of what was happening in New York City with exception to murmers in the hallways. So, I didn't think to much about it and why would I have? I was a naive seventeen (a week before my eighteenth birthday) year old slacker with bad skin and a part time job at a grocery store, my main concern was graduating with a C average so my dad wouldn't kick my ass. Life continued as normal, although I was conscious that a major news story was developing.
In those days I would leave school around 11:30 - Noon each day because of the OJT Program. As I walked home I could sense that something had changed, cars were driving slower, the few that were actually on the roads and the city itself seemed have lost it's pulse.
When I finally found myself infront of a television screen I vividly remember Tom Brokaw on NBC and the horrific visions of a mass murder being broadcasted in real time for the whole planet to witness. Words were flying across the bottom of the screen with quotes and facts as cameras showed helpless souls launching themselves from the windows of a flaming skyscraper. The streets of lower Manhattan covered in clouds of dust and people in tears fearing for the safety of their loved ones. It was a miserable sight to behold and yet I couldn't look away, it was the greatest car crash in the history of the world and instead of casually strolling by with a curious eye we all stopped dead in our tracks and stared.
My attention sooned turned to the radio where I recall hearing that retarded "Proud To Be An American" song and blowhards demanding immediate carpet bombing of every city in the middle east.
In a instant the world had changed forever.
It's kind of crazy, even now as I write this my eyes tend to water a bit. The real tragedy of 9/11 isn't the dismantling of The World Trade Center, it's the monsters we have all become in the years to follow. Bitter partisianship, exploitation and a willingness to sacrifice the lives of others for the comfort of our own safety without ever blinking an eye.
I'll never forget the moment it happend.
Sitting in the back corner of my senior year economics class goofing around with my buddy Nick. Our teacher, an unappologetic capitalist with a thinning comb over hair cut and a face that looked uncomfortably like a cheap Hitler Halloween mask (Thus, why he was referred to as Rubber Face. A nickname I still claim to have originated, although the origins have and will continue to be debated), was yammering on as usual about remote Florida locales along treacherous stretch's of highway where he planned to invest and sell for a profit to developers.
Without warning a class mate, her name escapes me, barges in through the doorway tardy by about fifteen minutes with claims that a plane has just struck the World Trade Center in New York City. Rubber Face immediatly rushed to his computer, no doubt to check on his stocks. A girl sitting next to myself and Nick, a ditzy blonde with the IQ of a used condom said, "was it intentional?".
We looked at one another in disbelief that any person this stupid could have survived on this planet for as long as she had. Ofcourse it wasn't intentional, who would fly a plane purposely into a giant building?
Amazingly, I managed to sit through one more class without even the slightest of mention of what was happening in New York City with exception to murmers in the hallways. So, I didn't think to much about it and why would I have? I was a naive seventeen (a week before my eighteenth birthday) year old slacker with bad skin and a part time job at a grocery store, my main concern was graduating with a C average so my dad wouldn't kick my ass. Life continued as normal, although I was conscious that a major news story was developing.
In those days I would leave school around 11:30 - Noon each day because of the OJT Program. As I walked home I could sense that something had changed, cars were driving slower, the few that were actually on the roads and the city itself seemed have lost it's pulse.
When I finally found myself infront of a television screen I vividly remember Tom Brokaw on NBC and the horrific visions of a mass murder being broadcasted in real time for the whole planet to witness. Words were flying across the bottom of the screen with quotes and facts as cameras showed helpless souls launching themselves from the windows of a flaming skyscraper. The streets of lower Manhattan covered in clouds of dust and people in tears fearing for the safety of their loved ones. It was a miserable sight to behold and yet I couldn't look away, it was the greatest car crash in the history of the world and instead of casually strolling by with a curious eye we all stopped dead in our tracks and stared.
My attention sooned turned to the radio where I recall hearing that retarded "Proud To Be An American" song and blowhards demanding immediate carpet bombing of every city in the middle east.
In a instant the world had changed forever.
It's kind of crazy, even now as I write this my eyes tend to water a bit. The real tragedy of 9/11 isn't the dismantling of The World Trade Center, it's the monsters we have all become in the years to follow. Bitter partisianship, exploitation and a willingness to sacrifice the lives of others for the comfort of our own safety without ever blinking an eye.
The Internet Ruined The Sex Culture!
A few evenings ago as I sat around lurched over infront of my laptop, drooling to the site of a woman drilling herself into the shaft of a bedpost, it occured to me that the internet has completely ruined the sex culture in this country.
Back in the day lonely women desperate for love had no choice but to get out of the house and make themselves available, going to bars, etc. They were easy picking for the scoundrals of the time. Even those without agendas still had to get out of the house and therefore allow nature to take it's course if they ever planned to procreate with the opposite sex. Therefore a healthy and vital ecosystem existed on this planet for centuries, that is before the invention of the internet.
In the modern age it is almost taboo to meet somebody in a social setting. The fun of face to face interaction, learning somebodies behavior first hand and enjoying the simplistic mysteries of a first date seem to have gone the way of the dodo bird. These days our attractions are rooted in the salesman ship and self fetishizing of social networking and text messages.
Don't get me wrong, I've dabbled in the online dating scene here and there. It's a easy means of getting laid but the problem is that people with self esteem issues get a hold of a digital camera, some good lighting and allow their newfound celebrity status amongst the gaggles of their perverted fanbase to go to their head.
A chick that used to be a casual homebody, the type of woman that would be a good catch in a not so distant primitive past is now a devient with an addiction to jilling off over the phone and infront of web videos for strangers. A chick may boast of having had only a few sexual partners, but ask her how many dudes she has sent photos of her baby portal to and see if the layers of that wholesome church lady image doesn't shed away like the peels of an orange.
Capitalism is a strange beast, a system that thrives upon providing it's participants with options is not necassarily a bad thing, unless it is being utilized by a lonely species that since it's earliest beginnings of crawling out of the mud as a walking tadpole has been in search of communication with others of its own kind. The combination has resulted in the greatest technological arms race in the history of the world and amongst its best achievements is the ability for a man in Omaha, Nebraska to send a photo of his manhood to a woman in Tallahasee, Florida in a matter of seconds.
What I am getting at is that being a human being no longer seems good enough. Although still flesh and blood our lifestyles are becoming more and more roboticized and safe. The pay off of a sexual encounter much like everything else that was ever worth accomplishing is the adventure that takes place along the way. Looking for perfection on a website with a glossy profile is not human and worst of all it's boring.
Just saying...
Back in the day lonely women desperate for love had no choice but to get out of the house and make themselves available, going to bars, etc. They were easy picking for the scoundrals of the time. Even those without agendas still had to get out of the house and therefore allow nature to take it's course if they ever planned to procreate with the opposite sex. Therefore a healthy and vital ecosystem existed on this planet for centuries, that is before the invention of the internet.
In the modern age it is almost taboo to meet somebody in a social setting. The fun of face to face interaction, learning somebodies behavior first hand and enjoying the simplistic mysteries of a first date seem to have gone the way of the dodo bird. These days our attractions are rooted in the salesman ship and self fetishizing of social networking and text messages.
Don't get me wrong, I've dabbled in the online dating scene here and there. It's a easy means of getting laid but the problem is that people with self esteem issues get a hold of a digital camera, some good lighting and allow their newfound celebrity status amongst the gaggles of their perverted fanbase to go to their head.
A chick that used to be a casual homebody, the type of woman that would be a good catch in a not so distant primitive past is now a devient with an addiction to jilling off over the phone and infront of web videos for strangers. A chick may boast of having had only a few sexual partners, but ask her how many dudes she has sent photos of her baby portal to and see if the layers of that wholesome church lady image doesn't shed away like the peels of an orange.
Capitalism is a strange beast, a system that thrives upon providing it's participants with options is not necassarily a bad thing, unless it is being utilized by a lonely species that since it's earliest beginnings of crawling out of the mud as a walking tadpole has been in search of communication with others of its own kind. The combination has resulted in the greatest technological arms race in the history of the world and amongst its best achievements is the ability for a man in Omaha, Nebraska to send a photo of his manhood to a woman in Tallahasee, Florida in a matter of seconds.
What I am getting at is that being a human being no longer seems good enough. Although still flesh and blood our lifestyles are becoming more and more roboticized and safe. The pay off of a sexual encounter much like everything else that was ever worth accomplishing is the adventure that takes place along the way. Looking for perfection on a website with a glossy profile is not human and worst of all it's boring.
Just saying...
Monday, August 1, 2011
The Jacksonville Summit Part 8: Life, Love and Ilsa: She Wolf Of The SS!
I'm posted up on the hallway walls outside of the convention entrance, feeling a little creeperish. Still somewhat trashed from the previous nights hijinks, questioning in my own head the logic behind my current motives. That of working up the courage to talk to the shiniest bronzed skinned, natural fro wearing, cleavage packing female I have ever laid eyes upon. If only I had bumped into her fifteen-hours earlier in a poorly lit nightclub as opposed to this brightly lit hotel lobby.
Normally I would take a quick glance and go on about my business, but this broad was obviously in this hallway with a specific purpose. Considering the type of crowd to show up at this event it was highly unlikely that she was there to get her poster for House Of 1000 Corpses signed by Sid Haig. Na, she was anxiously waiting for Pam Grier. Who, judging by her appearance must have been a influence over her.
I took a deep breath, told my brain to shut-up and took a giant step forward towards the target in my crosshairs.
"John, you ready or what?" a voice shouted from the distance.
My focus was disrupted and the kind of woman I had waited twenty seven and a half years to baby-mama was gone, out of sight and probably out of my life forever.
Opportunity blown.
"Come on we're having dinner with Dyanne Thorne at Gene's Seafood", explained Ed Tucker.
"Dyanne Thorne huh", not a bad backup plan for the evening I thought to myself.
Allow me for the briefest of seconds to be sparingly honest. I've never been a huge fan of the Ilsa films. Not because they are bad or not something I'd be interested in viewing. On the contrary, Ilsa is right up my alley. The problem is that I have been putting off viewing them for some time in the not to distant future so that I have atleast some type of cinematic treats on reserve for a rainy day.
With that said, I have been a huge fan of the films trailers for years. I even recall an experience at Unique Videos "Cult-O-Ween" when a discussion amongst fans came to a screaching halt as a trailer for Ilsa: Harem of the Oil Shieks came on the TV.
Bronzed over beauties are a dime a dozen, but dinner with a legend such as Dyanne Thorne was an experience to rare to pass up.
As I entered the restaurant joined by the likes of Ed Tucker, Brandon Merkely and Jon Haughton, my partners in crime for the weekend. I realized we were also accompanied by a few of Ed's personal friends.
At first I viewed this as a possible threat to my personal satisfaction, boy was I wrong. Amongst this crew was a conservative looking family of fourish, the mother I'm assuming a virgin to such cinematic spectacles as the Ilsa films.
Jon Haughton along with Dyanne Thornes wonderfully pleasent husband Howard Maurer strolled to the table, wearing none other then a bright red t-shirt with a giant Ilsa on the front decked out in full Nazi garb.
I loved it, the mother of the family, an obvious Sarah Palin fan leaned cautiously into her husbands ear, her eyes a glaze. Distraught and in a panic she whispered, "Oh my, I think we may be in danger".
On any other that night that would have been enough to suffice my appetite for moments of the unique variety. Not on this night, one of the most special of any I have ever lived through was nothing more then the bite of a delicious appetizer.
As our gang settled in, myself along with Ed, Jon and Brandon were basically tucked into a corner of the table with Dyanne and Howard to ourselves. Both of whom were filled with all sorts of amazing tales of filmmaking and life in general.
**** The Previous Evening ****
My first night in Jacksonville, sprayed down with Roca Wear cologne, dressed to impress and packing a bottle of Hennessy Black, I strolled through the hotel hall on my way to share a drink and conversation with good friends and a cult film legend.
On my journey through the halls I encountered a petite little number decked out in firm fitting black leather.
"Ilsa, what's up" I shouted.
The woman turned to face me, "That's not my name!", Ms. Thorne proclaimed in a sassy fit.
I caught up to her, we exchanged pleasentries and introductions as I escorted her down the hall to an elevator and to a gig performing a wedding ceremony for a pair of die-hard fans.
On the way we discussed a few topics, but mainly her and her husband Howard Maurers careers performing wedding ceremonies in Vegas.
As we parted ways I promised that when the time comes for me to tie the knot, there was no other option I would settle for other then to be married by Ilsa.
She turned to face me with the warmest smile and said, "John, when that time comes she will be a very lucky woman".
**** Next Night @ Gene's Seafood ****
Overwhelmed by the quality of conversation being held at this dinner table, surrounded by fan boys with an encyclopedic knowledge of cinematic history, I couldn't help but shift my focus to the chemistry of Mr and Mrs Maurer.
Never in my life have I ever witnessed two people so obviously in love. These two cuddled and swooned at one another like a couple of pubescent kitty cats in love.
Besides meeting with legends and having an awesome weekend of fandom, I also had alterior motives of going wild in a strange city, getting fucked up and wrecklessly poon banging as many whores as I could get my hands on. I didn't want to just write a blog, I wanted to tell my fucking tales to the annoyed doctors at the damn health department Monday morning! My dick was like a kamikazi pilot with a death wish, it was all or nothing this weekend.
With that said, it's no secret that at this point in my life I have all but given up hope on true love. It's a myth, an urban legend but as I sit at this table staring at The Maurers I might as well have been slapped in the face by the Lochness Monsters tail or bitten on the throat by the Chupacabra!
My brain, temporarily rattled was jolted back to life by a question I feel honored to have been apart of answering.
"This may sound kind of stupid to you guys, but what is a grindhouse?" asked Mrs. Maurer.
Me and Brandonly Merkely turned to face each other in astonishment. Then the four of us eagerly talked over each other trying to answer her question, each with a different answer.
Here I was telling a legend of 42nd St, one of several female representatives of the grindhouse genre what she was apart of. Fucking amazing!
As we arrived back to the hotel our group became somewhat scattered for a brief moment and I somehow wound up alone strolling with Howard Maurer. I told him about my crazy experiences in Jacksonville and he shared a few experiences back. We had a few laughs and suddenly Mr. Maurer put his hand on my back and turned me towards his wife who was walking with the rest of the group.
In one of those rare, life changing moments Mr. Maurer told me something to the effect of, "You know, I been married for "x" amount of years to the most beautiful woman on the face of the earth, I could never do anything to ruin that." As an example of why he had given up partying.
I've heard this type of talk before but there was something very genuine and real in Mr. Maurers tone. When I looked at him I could see that in his heart of hearts this was a man who could not live without this woman next to him everyday for the rest of his life. His world obviously meant nothing without her and I believe that she felt that way about him in return.
We all met upstairs and settled into some couches to enjoy one anothers company a little while longer. A great deal of conversation was had and friendships were ceiled.
Normally I would take a quick glance and go on about my business, but this broad was obviously in this hallway with a specific purpose. Considering the type of crowd to show up at this event it was highly unlikely that she was there to get her poster for House Of 1000 Corpses signed by Sid Haig. Na, she was anxiously waiting for Pam Grier. Who, judging by her appearance must have been a influence over her.
I took a deep breath, told my brain to shut-up and took a giant step forward towards the target in my crosshairs.
"John, you ready or what?" a voice shouted from the distance.
My focus was disrupted and the kind of woman I had waited twenty seven and a half years to baby-mama was gone, out of sight and probably out of my life forever.
Opportunity blown.
"Come on we're having dinner with Dyanne Thorne at Gene's Seafood", explained Ed Tucker.
"Dyanne Thorne huh", not a bad backup plan for the evening I thought to myself.
Allow me for the briefest of seconds to be sparingly honest. I've never been a huge fan of the Ilsa films. Not because they are bad or not something I'd be interested in viewing. On the contrary, Ilsa is right up my alley. The problem is that I have been putting off viewing them for some time in the not to distant future so that I have atleast some type of cinematic treats on reserve for a rainy day.
With that said, I have been a huge fan of the films trailers for years. I even recall an experience at Unique Videos "Cult-O-Ween" when a discussion amongst fans came to a screaching halt as a trailer for Ilsa: Harem of the Oil Shieks came on the TV.
Bronzed over beauties are a dime a dozen, but dinner with a legend such as Dyanne Thorne was an experience to rare to pass up.
As I entered the restaurant joined by the likes of Ed Tucker, Brandon Merkely and Jon Haughton, my partners in crime for the weekend. I realized we were also accompanied by a few of Ed's personal friends.
At first I viewed this as a possible threat to my personal satisfaction, boy was I wrong. Amongst this crew was a conservative looking family of fourish, the mother I'm assuming a virgin to such cinematic spectacles as the Ilsa films.
Jon Haughton along with Dyanne Thornes wonderfully pleasent husband Howard Maurer strolled to the table, wearing none other then a bright red t-shirt with a giant Ilsa on the front decked out in full Nazi garb.
I loved it, the mother of the family, an obvious Sarah Palin fan leaned cautiously into her husbands ear, her eyes a glaze. Distraught and in a panic she whispered, "Oh my, I think we may be in danger".
On any other that night that would have been enough to suffice my appetite for moments of the unique variety. Not on this night, one of the most special of any I have ever lived through was nothing more then the bite of a delicious appetizer.
As our gang settled in, myself along with Ed, Jon and Brandon were basically tucked into a corner of the table with Dyanne and Howard to ourselves. Both of whom were filled with all sorts of amazing tales of filmmaking and life in general.
**** The Previous Evening ****
My first night in Jacksonville, sprayed down with Roca Wear cologne, dressed to impress and packing a bottle of Hennessy Black, I strolled through the hotel hall on my way to share a drink and conversation with good friends and a cult film legend.
On my journey through the halls I encountered a petite little number decked out in firm fitting black leather.
"Ilsa, what's up" I shouted.
The woman turned to face me, "That's not my name!", Ms. Thorne proclaimed in a sassy fit.
I caught up to her, we exchanged pleasentries and introductions as I escorted her down the hall to an elevator and to a gig performing a wedding ceremony for a pair of die-hard fans.
On the way we discussed a few topics, but mainly her and her husband Howard Maurers careers performing wedding ceremonies in Vegas.
As we parted ways I promised that when the time comes for me to tie the knot, there was no other option I would settle for other then to be married by Ilsa.
She turned to face me with the warmest smile and said, "John, when that time comes she will be a very lucky woman".
**** Next Night @ Gene's Seafood ****
Overwhelmed by the quality of conversation being held at this dinner table, surrounded by fan boys with an encyclopedic knowledge of cinematic history, I couldn't help but shift my focus to the chemistry of Mr and Mrs Maurer.
Never in my life have I ever witnessed two people so obviously in love. These two cuddled and swooned at one another like a couple of pubescent kitty cats in love.
Besides meeting with legends and having an awesome weekend of fandom, I also had alterior motives of going wild in a strange city, getting fucked up and wrecklessly poon banging as many whores as I could get my hands on. I didn't want to just write a blog, I wanted to tell my fucking tales to the annoyed doctors at the damn health department Monday morning! My dick was like a kamikazi pilot with a death wish, it was all or nothing this weekend.
With that said, it's no secret that at this point in my life I have all but given up hope on true love. It's a myth, an urban legend but as I sit at this table staring at The Maurers I might as well have been slapped in the face by the Lochness Monsters tail or bitten on the throat by the Chupacabra!
My brain, temporarily rattled was jolted back to life by a question I feel honored to have been apart of answering.
"This may sound kind of stupid to you guys, but what is a grindhouse?" asked Mrs. Maurer.
Me and Brandonly Merkely turned to face each other in astonishment. Then the four of us eagerly talked over each other trying to answer her question, each with a different answer.
Here I was telling a legend of 42nd St, one of several female representatives of the grindhouse genre what she was apart of. Fucking amazing!
As we arrived back to the hotel our group became somewhat scattered for a brief moment and I somehow wound up alone strolling with Howard Maurer. I told him about my crazy experiences in Jacksonville and he shared a few experiences back. We had a few laughs and suddenly Mr. Maurer put his hand on my back and turned me towards his wife who was walking with the rest of the group.
In one of those rare, life changing moments Mr. Maurer told me something to the effect of, "You know, I been married for "x" amount of years to the most beautiful woman on the face of the earth, I could never do anything to ruin that." As an example of why he had given up partying.
I've heard this type of talk before but there was something very genuine and real in Mr. Maurers tone. When I looked at him I could see that in his heart of hearts this was a man who could not live without this woman next to him everyday for the rest of his life. His world obviously meant nothing without her and I believe that she felt that way about him in return.
We all met upstairs and settled into some couches to enjoy one anothers company a little while longer. A great deal of conversation was had and friendships were ceiled.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Wanted: Overrated NBA Player Needed To Sell Used Cars
I didn't start out a Lebron hater. When I was in high school I enjoyed keeping up with his journal entries that he would publish for SLAM magazine about his summers palling around with Jay-Z and playing scrimmage pick-up games in Chicago with Jordan and other pro's. It was kind of cool to see this kid around my age succeeding.
I even watched his first ever professional game against the Sacramento Kings and cheered for him. He put on quite a show, his numbers were pretty good by anybodies standards let alone a kid just out of high school playing his first game in the NBA.
But then it all sort of started changing.
For me the crest broke on my Lebron James fandom when I heard him say during an interview that his ambitions where to be like Muhammed Ali. So here I am about to give this guy all the praise in the world thinking that the brother is about to say some profound shit, when he follows with, "I want to be a global marketing icon".
Now, call me crazy. But when I think of Muhammed Ali I think of him for his refusal to join the military and commitment to the Nation Of Islam at a time when it couldn't have been any more damaging to his image. Not for his loyalty to selling sneakers and car insurance. I also put Ali on a pedastal that very few can stand on, that of a great champion who was devoted first and foremost to being the best. It's guys like him who made pop culture in the United States the envy of the world and was not only a profound entertainer but a leader that any citizen regardless of class, gender, ethnicity could find inspiration from and apply the principles of hard work and achievement to their own lives.
Lebron James has virtually no redeemable qualities. He has achieved almost nothing because everything has been handed to him since day one. Yes, he wins games. Yes, he has alot of money. Yes, does this or that. But at the end of the day history will forget all of those things if the man retires from the NBA minus a handful of championship rings to accessorize with his classy wardrobe. And even then I have a hard time believing that he will retire with the same level of respect as the legendary players. The guys who were devoted day in and day out. Who never accepted failure as an option and took it personally. The kind of guys who could lead and win. Bird, Magic, Jordan, Kobe, these guys are legends. As of right now Lebron James despite all of the hype manufactured by apparell companies is not even close to being in the same category as these guys. Nobody is scared of him.
This offseason instead of practicing his dance moves, hosting events at trendy night clubs and getting tattoos, maybe he needs to put in a few extra hours of work each day to get to the level his talents demand of him.
Otherwise, he will go down as not only the most disappointing NBA star in history, but a guy who could have been a star during a time when the world needed one the most. Or, he can just keep getting wealthier. Whatever works for him.
I even watched his first ever professional game against the Sacramento Kings and cheered for him. He put on quite a show, his numbers were pretty good by anybodies standards let alone a kid just out of high school playing his first game in the NBA.
But then it all sort of started changing.
For me the crest broke on my Lebron James fandom when I heard him say during an interview that his ambitions where to be like Muhammed Ali. So here I am about to give this guy all the praise in the world thinking that the brother is about to say some profound shit, when he follows with, "I want to be a global marketing icon".
Now, call me crazy. But when I think of Muhammed Ali I think of him for his refusal to join the military and commitment to the Nation Of Islam at a time when it couldn't have been any more damaging to his image. Not for his loyalty to selling sneakers and car insurance. I also put Ali on a pedastal that very few can stand on, that of a great champion who was devoted first and foremost to being the best. It's guys like him who made pop culture in the United States the envy of the world and was not only a profound entertainer but a leader that any citizen regardless of class, gender, ethnicity could find inspiration from and apply the principles of hard work and achievement to their own lives.
Lebron James has virtually no redeemable qualities. He has achieved almost nothing because everything has been handed to him since day one. Yes, he wins games. Yes, he has alot of money. Yes, does this or that. But at the end of the day history will forget all of those things if the man retires from the NBA minus a handful of championship rings to accessorize with his classy wardrobe. And even then I have a hard time believing that he will retire with the same level of respect as the legendary players. The guys who were devoted day in and day out. Who never accepted failure as an option and took it personally. The kind of guys who could lead and win. Bird, Magic, Jordan, Kobe, these guys are legends. As of right now Lebron James despite all of the hype manufactured by apparell companies is not even close to being in the same category as these guys. Nobody is scared of him.
This offseason instead of practicing his dance moves, hosting events at trendy night clubs and getting tattoos, maybe he needs to put in a few extra hours of work each day to get to the level his talents demand of him.
Otherwise, he will go down as not only the most disappointing NBA star in history, but a guy who could have been a star during a time when the world needed one the most. Or, he can just keep getting wealthier. Whatever works for him.
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