Only fags pee here... At least that's what someone had written with a sharpie on top of the urinal that I was using yesterday (with the ellipsis). This was the work of one of the middle schooler's where I was subbing or maybe it was a teacher or the custodian. Anyway, I braved the possibility of peeing in a fag zone. My friend Tom, who also calls himself Gay Tom, says "Oh that's so gay, in a bad way, not in the good way."
A couple of months back some guy asked Tom for one of his beers as he left the Handy Pantry. Tom said no. Tom was riding his blue scooter. The guy aggressively said, that scooter should be pink. Tom, said, "Why because I'm a cocksuscker?" The aggressive man just looked to the ground.
Tom has been a good friend of mine for a long time. He hosted my 50th birthday party. About five years ago or so, we were going to see the Japanese band Melt Banana. They are great live act, with the diminutive cute Japanese woman fronting a thrashing noise pop group that executes very precise songs that at first sound thrown together. I've seen them several times. They are very affable, speaking broken English, one of my favorite languages.
Tom and I decided to meet for drinks before the show at the Backbooth bar. We met at the old Bodhisattva Social Club. We also decided to send out press releases and make a poster that simply said, Drinking With Pat and Tom.
When we arrived at Bodhisattva's we went upstairs to the stage and just started to have one of our usual conversations, except we had mikes, but paid no attention to the people in the audience. Some guy, yelled "What time are you going on?" I said, "We are on." Then resumed conversation with Tom as if he were the only person in the room, a couple people were visibly upset. They said they thought we were going do a play. Another guy asked, "Is this one of those avant-garde plays?" Tom and I just kept talking to each other.
A few minutes later that nights DJ came in. He was pissed off at the club. He thought that we had taken over his night. Tom and I decided to go over to the Backbooth.
I had made some banana bread. I have been told that my banana bread is some of the best in the land, but of course I got the recipe from my friend Sandie Walker in Knoxville, she got it from some elderly woman in the small town where she grew up in middle Tennessee. Sandie got word that I was getting lots of credit for this recipe that was passed down from a nice old lady. Sandie, said, "I hope you're not dishonoring this woman by seducing women with banana bread."
I know Sandie would probably really be happy if she found that the bread was acting as an aphrodisiac.
I almost forgot, the reason I started to talk about the banana bread. I made some to give to Melt Banana. Tom made tin foil sculpture to wrap the bread in. We presented the bread to the band before the show. The drummer placed it on top of his bass drum while he played manically. The bread tumbled down soon after the show began.
A couple of months later, somebody told me that Tom and I were mentioned, not by name on the Melt Banana site. It said something like thanks to those two nice boys in Orlando who gave us a tasty cake, named Melt Banana Bread.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Monday, January 28, 2008
Yo Yo
The Guiness World Book of records was one of my favorite books as a kid. I dreamed of eating more eggs, hot dogs or tacos than anyone had ever digested. Maybe I would have a huge growth spurt and grow to be 9' tall, instead of my current 6'2". I wondered if I could live in a buried casket for a few months or break the record for hiccups. I could run pretty fast, maybe I could be the worlds fastest human someday. None of these records are likely at this point.
Friday, I got an email from my friend Rusty telling me that if I go with him to the History Center that I can get a free yo yo. Not only would I get a free yo yo, but I would also have a chance to be one of the participants in an attempt to break a world record, a Guiness World Book of records sanctioned record. The record is, and I admit this sounds a bit dodgy, the most yo yoers in one setting. I guess there are all kinds of verifications that have to be made. I went Saturday and yo yoed with some friends and a bunch of strangers. The girl at the registration desk said we will email you soon to let you know whether you were part of a record.
I guess it's like falling in love. If you really look for it, it won't happen, but it may sneak up on you. I've always been sure that I would be part of a world record, even if I had to invent a category, but I was waiting for an idea to hit me.
A couple of years back my friend and former campaign manager Dave Plotkin tried to break the world record for staying on the radio. I can't remember the exact facts, but I think the old record was around 100 hours. I think he got 110, thinking he broke the record. We found out later that a record in Australia was pending and it was around 120 hours. Dave didn't get the record. The reality hit me about the insanity of these records. Dave became a little delirious after a few days of hosting the radio show. The nurse said that his tongue was starting to swell.
Maybe you are wondering about the comment that Dave was my campaign manager, maybe you're not. Anyway, I will tell you. In 2004 I ran for mayor of Orlando as a write in candidate. My slogan was I don't want to talk about it (sound sort of familiar?). I walked around town looking like my slightly disheveled self, avoiding people. When someone would ask me about my views, I may say, I'm busy. I could have been walking down the street alone, looking at the ground. I spoke at a few places and always had a very attractive woman interpreting what I said into Spanish. My Spanish isn't so great, but I heard one woman say Pat likes beer and women. Yeh, well.
I didn't get any votes, because there wasn't a write-in candidate spot on the Orlando ballot. I think there is one now. Maybe I changed things. One woman asked me my views on gay marriage. I told her, "When I'm mayor I'm going to ban all marriage."
Friday, I got an email from my friend Rusty telling me that if I go with him to the History Center that I can get a free yo yo. Not only would I get a free yo yo, but I would also have a chance to be one of the participants in an attempt to break a world record, a Guiness World Book of records sanctioned record. The record is, and I admit this sounds a bit dodgy, the most yo yoers in one setting. I guess there are all kinds of verifications that have to be made. I went Saturday and yo yoed with some friends and a bunch of strangers. The girl at the registration desk said we will email you soon to let you know whether you were part of a record.
I guess it's like falling in love. If you really look for it, it won't happen, but it may sneak up on you. I've always been sure that I would be part of a world record, even if I had to invent a category, but I was waiting for an idea to hit me.
A couple of years back my friend and former campaign manager Dave Plotkin tried to break the world record for staying on the radio. I can't remember the exact facts, but I think the old record was around 100 hours. I think he got 110, thinking he broke the record. We found out later that a record in Australia was pending and it was around 120 hours. Dave didn't get the record. The reality hit me about the insanity of these records. Dave became a little delirious after a few days of hosting the radio show. The nurse said that his tongue was starting to swell.
Maybe you are wondering about the comment that Dave was my campaign manager, maybe you're not. Anyway, I will tell you. In 2004 I ran for mayor of Orlando as a write in candidate. My slogan was I don't want to talk about it (sound sort of familiar?). I walked around town looking like my slightly disheveled self, avoiding people. When someone would ask me about my views, I may say, I'm busy. I could have been walking down the street alone, looking at the ground. I spoke at a few places and always had a very attractive woman interpreting what I said into Spanish. My Spanish isn't so great, but I heard one woman say Pat likes beer and women. Yeh, well.
I didn't get any votes, because there wasn't a write-in candidate spot on the Orlando ballot. I think there is one now. Maybe I changed things. One woman asked me my views on gay marriage. I told her, "When I'm mayor I'm going to ban all marriage."
Saturday, January 19, 2008
You Say Apatosaurus- I Say Brontonsaurus
The apatosaurus is commonly, but incorrectly identified as the brontosaurus. The discrepancy goes back to 1877 when Othniel Charles Marsh discovered the bones of what he called the apatosaurus, meaning deceptive lizard. Two years later he found another creatures bones, much larger and he thought slightly different. He mistakenly thought he had found an altogether different creature. He called it a brontosaurus, meaning thunder lizard. He actually discovered a juvenile originally and an adult in 1879. Brontosaurus is a name that has taken hold in popular culture. Until 1974 both terms were used, since '74 the official name has been apatosaurus.
When I was a kid Sinclair gas stations used a cartoony version of the dinosaur on it's logo. The gas stations sold bright green little transistor radios in the shape of the apatosaurus. I really wanted one of those radios. I think you might be able to still find one on ebay.
One day we stopped for gas. I asked my father for a dinosaur radio. He said no. My father's good friend Tim went into the station immediately after I was rejected. When he came out he handed me a radio and gave another to my brother. My father was obviously upset about being upstaged, usurped and for another reason that my mother explained to us later that night. Tim had shoplifted the merchandise. My father then became upset with my mother for blowing Tim's cover. Shortly thereafter, I was looking at a necklace with a silver dollar in the middle of some other ornate stuff. Looking back it was probably a hideous piece of jewelry. I mentioned that it would be a nice present for my mother's birthday. Tim presented it to me in the car, and told me to give it to my mother. He told me not to tell her where I got it. I finally broke down and told her, when she kept asking how I could afford it. She stared silently when I said Tim "bought" it.
Tim first came into our lives when I was around five. We lived in an area that bordered Orlando and was still kind of rural. Tim had a pet rattle snake and an alligator. He would jump off the roof of his one story ranch house with a homemade parachute, that didn't really work. It was mostly for theatrics. He used to get drunk and run through the neighborhood wearing a sheet, with nothing underneath, he was usually accompanied by a drunk female sidekick, who was similarly attired. Tim would wave a Bible mockingly yelling intentional blasphemes. Another thing he would do after tormenting wait staffs at dinner would be to pound on the window of the restaurant we were leaving while pressing his bare ass towards the dinner crowd. He was the wildest person I had ever known. My mother seemed terrified, but occasionally charmed by him.
My father seemed to take it all in stride, his behavior wasn't too far off Tim's.
A few years later it became evident that he was far more menacing than charming. He was married for awhile. I'm not sure how long. We lived in Cleveland when I was in the latter part of the fifth grade until Thanksgiving weekend of the sixth grade when we fled the asylum we called home.
Tim followed us to Cleveland with his new wife. I had a bit of a crush on her. I thought she looked like Angie Dickinson. The two were often dinner guests at our house. After my brother and I would go to bed, they would usually get into a shouting match, then Tim would hit her. My father was not much as a father, but my mother said he never hit her, and he barely used any methods of corporal punishment on us. I was very scared and my mother and brother were too. My father, I think was trying to defend his friends character. Then I kept hearing these stories about Tim punching people with barely a reason. These stories were paired by my father telling us that Tim had been a golden gloves boxer and a paratrooper in the Army. I'm not sure if those credentials were supposed make anything O.K., they definitely didn't sit well with three quarters of the family.
After we fled that Thanksgiving weekend, I think I saw Tim a couple of times. When I saw him, it was briefly. He was charming during those brief visits. I almost forgot past horrors. I don't think my father saw much of him either. Tim went to St. Pete. I think he was single again. I heard a story about him talking his way out of a heroin bust. I heard stories that he was touring with the Allman Brother's, not as a musician, but as a buddy. When I was fifteen, my father told us that Tim had passed away. I never got any solid details. The official story was that he died from a self inflicted gunshot in his front yard. My father said, he wasn't the suicide type. He thinks he was murdered. Tim apparently told some shady character's to fuck off, after they wanted the ungodly amount of money he owed them. Tim was smuggling heroin, according to my father. At his funeral a recording of the Allman Brother's Ramblin' Man played followed by Deodato's Also Sprach Zarathustra, the 2001 Space Odyssey theme (his favorite film), my father was our only family member to attend, supposedly 400 people were there.
Yesterday, January 18th would be Tim's birthday. I think he would have been around 69 or 70.
When I was a kid Sinclair gas stations used a cartoony version of the dinosaur on it's logo. The gas stations sold bright green little transistor radios in the shape of the apatosaurus. I really wanted one of those radios. I think you might be able to still find one on ebay.
One day we stopped for gas. I asked my father for a dinosaur radio. He said no. My father's good friend Tim went into the station immediately after I was rejected. When he came out he handed me a radio and gave another to my brother. My father was obviously upset about being upstaged, usurped and for another reason that my mother explained to us later that night. Tim had shoplifted the merchandise. My father then became upset with my mother for blowing Tim's cover. Shortly thereafter, I was looking at a necklace with a silver dollar in the middle of some other ornate stuff. Looking back it was probably a hideous piece of jewelry. I mentioned that it would be a nice present for my mother's birthday. Tim presented it to me in the car, and told me to give it to my mother. He told me not to tell her where I got it. I finally broke down and told her, when she kept asking how I could afford it. She stared silently when I said Tim "bought" it.
Tim first came into our lives when I was around five. We lived in an area that bordered Orlando and was still kind of rural. Tim had a pet rattle snake and an alligator. He would jump off the roof of his one story ranch house with a homemade parachute, that didn't really work. It was mostly for theatrics. He used to get drunk and run through the neighborhood wearing a sheet, with nothing underneath, he was usually accompanied by a drunk female sidekick, who was similarly attired. Tim would wave a Bible mockingly yelling intentional blasphemes. Another thing he would do after tormenting wait staffs at dinner would be to pound on the window of the restaurant we were leaving while pressing his bare ass towards the dinner crowd. He was the wildest person I had ever known. My mother seemed terrified, but occasionally charmed by him.
My father seemed to take it all in stride, his behavior wasn't too far off Tim's.
A few years later it became evident that he was far more menacing than charming. He was married for awhile. I'm not sure how long. We lived in Cleveland when I was in the latter part of the fifth grade until Thanksgiving weekend of the sixth grade when we fled the asylum we called home.
Tim followed us to Cleveland with his new wife. I had a bit of a crush on her. I thought she looked like Angie Dickinson. The two were often dinner guests at our house. After my brother and I would go to bed, they would usually get into a shouting match, then Tim would hit her. My father was not much as a father, but my mother said he never hit her, and he barely used any methods of corporal punishment on us. I was very scared and my mother and brother were too. My father, I think was trying to defend his friends character. Then I kept hearing these stories about Tim punching people with barely a reason. These stories were paired by my father telling us that Tim had been a golden gloves boxer and a paratrooper in the Army. I'm not sure if those credentials were supposed make anything O.K., they definitely didn't sit well with three quarters of the family.
After we fled that Thanksgiving weekend, I think I saw Tim a couple of times. When I saw him, it was briefly. He was charming during those brief visits. I almost forgot past horrors. I don't think my father saw much of him either. Tim went to St. Pete. I think he was single again. I heard a story about him talking his way out of a heroin bust. I heard stories that he was touring with the Allman Brother's, not as a musician, but as a buddy. When I was fifteen, my father told us that Tim had passed away. I never got any solid details. The official story was that he died from a self inflicted gunshot in his front yard. My father said, he wasn't the suicide type. He thinks he was murdered. Tim apparently told some shady character's to fuck off, after they wanted the ungodly amount of money he owed them. Tim was smuggling heroin, according to my father. At his funeral a recording of the Allman Brother's Ramblin' Man played followed by Deodato's Also Sprach Zarathustra, the 2001 Space Odyssey theme (his favorite film), my father was our only family member to attend, supposedly 400 people were there.
Yesterday, January 18th would be Tim's birthday. I think he would have been around 69 or 70.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Take Me To The River
In 1967 Detroit police raided the Algiers Motel. The Algiers was a blind pig, in a predominately black neighborhood, it led into one of the bloodiest race riots in US history, now known as the 12th Street riots.
I could hear gunshots from my house. I never saw any of the violence. I was nine years old. At the time it seemed like a distraction from the Detroit Tigers pennant race. They ended up in second place that year. Later I realized that city blocks were razed during the riots, 43 people died, 467 injured, 7,200 arrests were made, over 2000 buildings burned, countless were disenfranchised, almost all of the victims were black.
A year later Martin Luther King was shot in Memphis. There was some more rioting in Detroit, and many other American cities.
The Tigers won the pennant that year and the World Series. There were stars like 30 game winner Denny McLain, hall of famer Al Kaline, perennial all star catcher Bill Freehan and Willie Horton, an African-American who had grown up in the neighborhood of Tiger Stadium. During the 1967 riots Horton went into the crowd with a loud speaker urging people to stop the violence. Willie ended up retreating from the angry mob. The mob normally would have regarded him as a hero. The Tigers were the second to last team to have a black player. Ozzie Virgil became the first black to play for Detroit in 1958, eleven years after Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier. The Boston Red Sox were the last to integrate in 1959.
Along with Horton the 68 Tiger's had a few other black stars, Earl Wilson the slugging pitcher, who just a few years back was the first person of color to pitch for the Red Sox. Gates Brown who had been discovered in prison, went on to become a great pinch hitter and a fan favorite.
It was all very confusing to me when I was nine. Why would anyone shoot Martin Luther King? Wasn't he trying to do good things? My mother told me, sometimes it doesn't matter, people don't always agree on things.
Seven years ago I went to Memphis. I attended Al Green's church. It was a two and a half hour hip shakin', God lovin' session. A chubby short woman, who was probably in her mid 70's kept knocking hips with me. Praise the lord.
The day before, I went to the Lorraine Motel. The motel is a museum now. It's also the place where Martin Luther King was murdered. I went through all the impressive multi-media presentations, the last stop was the room where King spent his last night. You can't go inside the room. I looked through the window at the unmade bed, a half eaten sandwich, an ashtray full of cigarettes, the room was supposed to look like it did the day he died. Then I looked across the parking lot to where the gunman was. I started to shake. Everything suddenly seemed real to me. My eyes welled up. What kind of motherfucker would kill this guy? I couldn't figure it out. I still can't.
Today is his birthday. I think the nation officially observes his birthday Monday.
I could hear gunshots from my house. I never saw any of the violence. I was nine years old. At the time it seemed like a distraction from the Detroit Tigers pennant race. They ended up in second place that year. Later I realized that city blocks were razed during the riots, 43 people died, 467 injured, 7,200 arrests were made, over 2000 buildings burned, countless were disenfranchised, almost all of the victims were black.
A year later Martin Luther King was shot in Memphis. There was some more rioting in Detroit, and many other American cities.
The Tigers won the pennant that year and the World Series. There were stars like 30 game winner Denny McLain, hall of famer Al Kaline, perennial all star catcher Bill Freehan and Willie Horton, an African-American who had grown up in the neighborhood of Tiger Stadium. During the 1967 riots Horton went into the crowd with a loud speaker urging people to stop the violence. Willie ended up retreating from the angry mob. The mob normally would have regarded him as a hero. The Tigers were the second to last team to have a black player. Ozzie Virgil became the first black to play for Detroit in 1958, eleven years after Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier. The Boston Red Sox were the last to integrate in 1959.
Along with Horton the 68 Tiger's had a few other black stars, Earl Wilson the slugging pitcher, who just a few years back was the first person of color to pitch for the Red Sox. Gates Brown who had been discovered in prison, went on to become a great pinch hitter and a fan favorite.
It was all very confusing to me when I was nine. Why would anyone shoot Martin Luther King? Wasn't he trying to do good things? My mother told me, sometimes it doesn't matter, people don't always agree on things.
Seven years ago I went to Memphis. I attended Al Green's church. It was a two and a half hour hip shakin', God lovin' session. A chubby short woman, who was probably in her mid 70's kept knocking hips with me. Praise the lord.
The day before, I went to the Lorraine Motel. The motel is a museum now. It's also the place where Martin Luther King was murdered. I went through all the impressive multi-media presentations, the last stop was the room where King spent his last night. You can't go inside the room. I looked through the window at the unmade bed, a half eaten sandwich, an ashtray full of cigarettes, the room was supposed to look like it did the day he died. Then I looked across the parking lot to where the gunman was. I started to shake. Everything suddenly seemed real to me. My eyes welled up. What kind of motherfucker would kill this guy? I couldn't figure it out. I still can't.
Today is his birthday. I think the nation officially observes his birthday Monday.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Shortly After The Epiphany
Yesterday I celebrated my first half a century on this planet.
I was born at 4:48PM in Ft. Lauderdale Florida. I don't remember what the weather was like, probably not to hot or too cold. It was exactly seventeen years after the death of James Joyce. Three years later on that day Wayne Coyne of the Flaming Lips was born. I also share a birthday with two of the most flamboyant game show regulars of the 70's, Rip Taylor and Charles Nelson Reilly. I don't know much about astrology, but I've heard that Capricorns are serious people.
My birthday is exactly a week after the epiphany celebration. My grandmother used to talk about watching the Greek boys dive for the cross in Tarpon Springs as a part of the celebration. She said it was marvelous.
Yesterday I had a party at my friend Tom Ward's house. There is a tiki bar that his shared by the people in the apartment next door. The party went on from noon until around 1:30AM. There were people young old and in between. Some friends played music. My friends Ben and Katie gave me a gift certificate to Cecil's Bar-B-Q. My mother always says, "Your father and I had Bar-B-Q the night before you were born, maybe that's why you like Bar-B-Q so much."
Today I went to lunch with some friends. I used my Bar-B-Q gift certificate.
In Knoxville a few of my friends decided to throw a party in my honor. They made a shrine of a Sunday New York Times, a cup of coffee (these are staples in my life) pictures of me and I'm not sure what else. They know something about me. I got a few happy birthday calls from Knoxville, Miami, New York, Atlanta, San Francisco, Seattle and then I lost track as the keg emptied.
I have no idea what the next half a century has to offer. I'm ready for the offerings. I've seen a good portion of the world. I have a good portion left. I don't plan on getting old even when the numbers indicate otherwise.
As I mentioned earlier, I don't know much about astrology, but Kris Kristofferson wrote a song several years back, called Jesus Was A Capricorn. I'm not very religious either, but I think I'm in good company. Nixon was also a Capricorn. I guess it's all about balance.
I was born at 4:48PM in Ft. Lauderdale Florida. I don't remember what the weather was like, probably not to hot or too cold. It was exactly seventeen years after the death of James Joyce. Three years later on that day Wayne Coyne of the Flaming Lips was born. I also share a birthday with two of the most flamboyant game show regulars of the 70's, Rip Taylor and Charles Nelson Reilly. I don't know much about astrology, but I've heard that Capricorns are serious people.
My birthday is exactly a week after the epiphany celebration. My grandmother used to talk about watching the Greek boys dive for the cross in Tarpon Springs as a part of the celebration. She said it was marvelous.
Yesterday I had a party at my friend Tom Ward's house. There is a tiki bar that his shared by the people in the apartment next door. The party went on from noon until around 1:30AM. There were people young old and in between. Some friends played music. My friends Ben and Katie gave me a gift certificate to Cecil's Bar-B-Q. My mother always says, "Your father and I had Bar-B-Q the night before you were born, maybe that's why you like Bar-B-Q so much."
Today I went to lunch with some friends. I used my Bar-B-Q gift certificate.
In Knoxville a few of my friends decided to throw a party in my honor. They made a shrine of a Sunday New York Times, a cup of coffee (these are staples in my life) pictures of me and I'm not sure what else. They know something about me. I got a few happy birthday calls from Knoxville, Miami, New York, Atlanta, San Francisco, Seattle and then I lost track as the keg emptied.
I have no idea what the next half a century has to offer. I'm ready for the offerings. I've seen a good portion of the world. I have a good portion left. I don't plan on getting old even when the numbers indicate otherwise.
As I mentioned earlier, I don't know much about astrology, but Kris Kristofferson wrote a song several years back, called Jesus Was A Capricorn. I'm not very religious either, but I think I'm in good company. Nixon was also a Capricorn. I guess it's all about balance.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
un? questionable
un? questionable. It was printed onto a magnetic sign on the side of a beat up pickup truck in the parking lot of the shady hotel in Miami, where I stayed last month. un? questionable, beneath it said, carpet cleaning.
I've had a case of writer's block lately. I've pondered the importance of what I have to say. Here I am saying it, anyway. Last night I went to Brian's benefit downtown. Several bands played, art was auctioned. The money goes towards his hospital bills. I'm not sure how much has been collected yet. I do know Brian has quite a following. I'm among them.
Brian is still in a coma, my mother has colon cancer. She seems to be doing well, she is stoic, but I've seen her breakdown when discussing the unknown. I read and hear that it's the most treatable cancer, but it's still cancer.
I keep thinking about those dreams where I yell and nothing comes out or I try to run, and I seem to be treading water. One of my favorite movies is Fellini's 8 1/2. It's about a director with director's block. The beginning of the movie, is a dream, where steam fills the inside of his car, while he sits in traffic and strange faces stare at him, or the dream about having all the women he wants, but it turns into a nightmare. The movie is very funny, disturbing too, way too close to my own life.
When I saw the un? questionable sign, I thought of some of my friends. I wish they could see this. This is the kind of entertainment we thrive on. I also thought that the person who made the sign, was probably not trying to be funny, or maybe they were. Whatever their motivation, Brian would be one of those friend's that would appreciate the attempt. I know my mother laughed when I told her about the sign.
I've had a case of writer's block lately. I've pondered the importance of what I have to say. Here I am saying it, anyway. Last night I went to Brian's benefit downtown. Several bands played, art was auctioned. The money goes towards his hospital bills. I'm not sure how much has been collected yet. I do know Brian has quite a following. I'm among them.
Brian is still in a coma, my mother has colon cancer. She seems to be doing well, she is stoic, but I've seen her breakdown when discussing the unknown. I read and hear that it's the most treatable cancer, but it's still cancer.
I keep thinking about those dreams where I yell and nothing comes out or I try to run, and I seem to be treading water. One of my favorite movies is Fellini's 8 1/2. It's about a director with director's block. The beginning of the movie, is a dream, where steam fills the inside of his car, while he sits in traffic and strange faces stare at him, or the dream about having all the women he wants, but it turns into a nightmare. The movie is very funny, disturbing too, way too close to my own life.
When I saw the un? questionable sign, I thought of some of my friends. I wish they could see this. This is the kind of entertainment we thrive on. I also thought that the person who made the sign, was probably not trying to be funny, or maybe they were. Whatever their motivation, Brian would be one of those friend's that would appreciate the attempt. I know my mother laughed when I told her about the sign.
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