Midyear review
And so it´s come to pass that Michael Jackson has passed away and Farrah Fawcett has passed away and Robert McNamara has passed away, and even the Doctor who pulled me out of my mother like close to thirty years ago, has also passed away: They all made front page news, even the Doctor.
Time passes and another full minute elapses here between paragraphs: The hitherto-nonstopping typing, that frantic, manic, staccato-like burst of typewriter fire from the screenwriters from hell under Satan´s Writers Guild ceases for a minute or two.
They leave their desks unoccupied for the time being, go for a drink of water (boiling water, that is). If you approach their desks and look over their papers you will get to see the script they´ve been writing for the last six, seven months: They are halfway through this 2009 of theirs, let me tell you that.
My classes have since ended.
We went to this bar last Friday to sort of celebrate and people asked me why I wasn´t going to Europe with them. It´s not like a guy like you don´t have the money, some said. I said nothing, not really, and not really caring too much anyway. Great guys though. Great girls too. They actually thanked me for making class so much fun, and said last Thursday had been the greatest day ever because of that thing we pulled in the back of the class, when we started trying to associate each student to a famous person: From Poltergeist´s Carol Anne to Mad´s Alfred E. Newman, we did everything and everyone. Charlie Brown. Alf. Super-Vicky. Bette Davis, for crying out loud, for the hot chick with the big, deep eyes (Better Davis was my favorite but I don´t think people got that one). I got to be this local crooked politician, some bald one with thick eyebrows.
A couple of girls asked me if I was gay. They said it was because of the things I´d say and how I´d say them. I think it was because of my naming someone Bette Davis, even though to my defense I was actually thinking of the song instead of the actress per se.
“Naahh”, I told them anyway. “That´s like, really dumb.”
This other girl sort of took me from the away from the bar at about close to 2 in the morning: Caught me by the arm and said she was hellbent on taking me home. It got pretty clear I was going to get some at last, jesus christ, some vindication was sorely needed after all that time. “Okay,” I told her.
Thing is halfway to my place she started blabbing about her boyfriend and their being like six or six hundred years together despite all their differences and so on, while me, I was just praying to hell there were still enough condoms at the medicine cabinet. Not that you´re actually either thinking or assuming you´re gonna be needing like seventeen of them in one night for chrissakes, but you know: boys will be boys. Also, there but for the grace of god, and all that jazz.
A minor plot twist: She parks in front of my building and we talk for like three milliseconds. Kiss on the cheek. She never comes up.
There are four condoms back in the medicine cabinet. I make the point so as to check it like, first thing upon entering the apartment, even before peeing, even before brushing my teeth or taking a shower.
And there was another one to spare in my wallet but that one was sort of old and I don´t even think it was textured, you know? “Ribbed for her pleasure”.
Screenwriters from hell indeed: Halfway through the script and just you look how far we´ve come without a single plot.
2009 carries on...
Time passes and another full minute elapses here between paragraphs: The hitherto-nonstopping typing, that frantic, manic, staccato-like burst of typewriter fire from the screenwriters from hell under Satan´s Writers Guild ceases for a minute or two.
They leave their desks unoccupied for the time being, go for a drink of water (boiling water, that is). If you approach their desks and look over their papers you will get to see the script they´ve been writing for the last six, seven months: They are halfway through this 2009 of theirs, let me tell you that.
My classes have since ended.
We went to this bar last Friday to sort of celebrate and people asked me why I wasn´t going to Europe with them. It´s not like a guy like you don´t have the money, some said. I said nothing, not really, and not really caring too much anyway. Great guys though. Great girls too. They actually thanked me for making class so much fun, and said last Thursday had been the greatest day ever because of that thing we pulled in the back of the class, when we started trying to associate each student to a famous person: From Poltergeist´s Carol Anne to Mad´s Alfred E. Newman, we did everything and everyone. Charlie Brown. Alf. Super-Vicky. Bette Davis, for crying out loud, for the hot chick with the big, deep eyes (Better Davis was my favorite but I don´t think people got that one). I got to be this local crooked politician, some bald one with thick eyebrows.
A couple of girls asked me if I was gay. They said it was because of the things I´d say and how I´d say them. I think it was because of my naming someone Bette Davis, even though to my defense I was actually thinking of the song instead of the actress per se.
“Naahh”, I told them anyway. “That´s like, really dumb.”
This other girl sort of took me from the away from the bar at about close to 2 in the morning: Caught me by the arm and said she was hellbent on taking me home. It got pretty clear I was going to get some at last, jesus christ, some vindication was sorely needed after all that time. “Okay,” I told her.
Thing is halfway to my place she started blabbing about her boyfriend and their being like six or six hundred years together despite all their differences and so on, while me, I was just praying to hell there were still enough condoms at the medicine cabinet. Not that you´re actually either thinking or assuming you´re gonna be needing like seventeen of them in one night for chrissakes, but you know: boys will be boys. Also, there but for the grace of god, and all that jazz.
A minor plot twist: She parks in front of my building and we talk for like three milliseconds. Kiss on the cheek. She never comes up.
There are four condoms back in the medicine cabinet. I make the point so as to check it like, first thing upon entering the apartment, even before peeing, even before brushing my teeth or taking a shower.
And there was another one to spare in my wallet but that one was sort of old and I don´t even think it was textured, you know? “Ribbed for her pleasure”.
Screenwriters from hell indeed: Halfway through the script and just you look how far we´ve come without a single plot.
2009 carries on...
posted by 186282mps at 10:19 PM
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