We were cruising down the street when I spotted Winter on the corner.
He looks how you imagine he would look. Old man. Cruel sneer. Would yell at someone else's four year old.
I pulled over, got out, and without saying a word, punched him in the temple.
I laid that old man out on the sidewalk then I spit in his eye.
"You didn't have to do that," said Summer. She was standing behind me the whole time. "It's almost April already."
"Shut up," I said, "and get in the car."
She did, then I did. It was still running. When we turned the next corner, we were in California.
Speaking of Ludacris videos I like how the little mini-video for "The Potion" at the end of the "#1 Spot" video (both of which are ridiculously good songs) was clearly shot on the Bill Nye the Science Guy set while Bill and his crew were out to lunch. "OK, people, we have 45 minutes to get this. Drop a little dry ice in the beakers. Girls, be objects. Little more object-y...there. Luda...yea. I don't really feel the need to direct you. Oh, we're rolling right now? Fine. That's fine. Use it."
Someone in the student center is playing a mix where 50's "Disco Inferno" fades into "Gasolina" by Daddy Yankee. Over and over again. Man, I wish I was on the step team.
If Dominic and Donald and I could make a living coming up with concepts for Ludacris/Missy Elliot music videos, I think that is probably what we would do 'till we died.
We have a theory. The production of every Ludacris video begins with Ludacris proclaiming, "In this video, I'm gonna (ridiculous characteristic)." IE, "I'm gonna have a giant head" (Rollout), "In this video, I'm gonna have big arms" (Get Back), "In this video, I'm a baby" (Stand Up). We have found there are very few ideas that seem like they'd be too strange for a Ludacris video.
With that in mind:
In this video, I'm a faucet.
Ludacris' face on a faucet. He raps the song. People come by and turn the faucet on and off to wash their hands. At a certain point, four drops of water morph into Missy Elliot and three twelve-year old breakdancing girls in matching tracksuits, who do a dance in the wash basin, only to melt and go down the drain as Luda's third verse begins.
In this video, I'm an elephant.
Ludacris' face on a full-size African elephant. For some reason the elephant is really into nice cars, but is frustrated by the fact that he can't fit in any of them. Also, he raps. Then there is a disturbed look on his face. We pan 180 degrees around the elephant to see Missy Elliot emerging from its rectum. She only gets halfway. She is kind of shitty but her makeup is reasonably intact. The elephant does a hand-stand, so it appears as if the elephant's back legs are Missy's bottom half. The half-elephant half-Missy begins dancing awesomely. At the end of the video, the zookeeper (played by Timbaland) comes to fetch the elephant from the Hummer dealership, pacifying it with a stun-dart full of Courvoisier.
In this video, I'm Dave Grohl's shirt.
The whole video is a medium shot of Dave Grohl (head and chest.) Dave Grohl wakes up in the moning. He goes and gets a red flannel shirt off the floor and buttons it absentmindedly as he walks out the front door. We see that the shirt pocket is Ludacris' face. Luda does his verses as Dave Grohl goes about his day: going to the ATM, picking up laundry, etc. No one who passes by seems particularly bothered by the fact that Dave Grohl's shirt is rapping. At a certain point, Dave Grohl is at the grocery store paying for a cream soda. He motions to the cashier as if to say "Wait, I have change." He reaches into his shirt pocket, and seems disturbed by what he finds there. He lays the contents of the pocket on the checkstand: a tiny Missy Elliot and three breakdancing twelve year olds. Missy is wearing a jumpsuit that is a big barcode. The cashier scans Missy. The register's display reads "HOT."
In this video, I appear normal at first...
In this video, Ludacris appears, rapping into the camera, seemingly with no exaggerated physical features. Then after the first two verses, the camera flips completely, revealing that Ludacris' legs are, in fact, Missy Elliot's torso, her hands functioning as his feet and keeping him standing. Despite the awkward postion and all the blood no doubt rushing to her head, she manages to dance in a crazy, off-kilter yet really awesome fashion. The verse is entirely backwards.
We zoom way out to reveal that, a la The Little Prince, the Luda/Missy creature is standing on a tiny planet, which, we come to realize, is in fact Timabaland's head. We zoom out more to reveal this Timbaland-head planet orbits a yellow sun much like our own, except the solar flares are twelve year old breakdancers in flaming tracksuits.
If Mr. Cris is interested in any of our treatments, he knows where we can be reached.
Tonight as I was waiting for the subway after Cagematch and the bar, two homeless guys got in a shouting match. One was a big fat guy with a jacket over no shirt, a fro and glasses. The other was old, wearing an Indian blanket poncho and a white turban. The fat guy shouted the other one away, across the way to the Uptown platform. Then for the benefit of all, he released a spit-cloud onto the track and shouted: "I could eat! I'm bein' real! I'm 395 pounds, I could eat! BROOKLYN! BUSHWICK! Yea! When you see me tomorrow at Fourteenth Street, you could even give me ten dollars. Thirty-fourth street. I could eat!"
Then, having said his piece, he sat down on the stairs and read a newspaper quietly.
I watched the turban guy across the way as he followed a group of three people like a vulture. Then a woman sitting on a bench, rolling suitcase in front of her, started yelling at him. I missed most of it except, "There ain't shit wrong with him, but if he comes around me again, there will be!" Turban guy hid behind a pillar after that.
My train came, and there was a cop in my car. I sat down and read my book. Across from me sat an old man in a flannel shirt reading WARBIRD Magazine, a publication devoted to military aircraft. Before the next stop, a guy in an IFC beanie came from the car behind us and said to the cop: "There's a homeless guy in the last car of the train,in the driver part." By which I assume he meant the conductor's booth. The cop and three transit employees subdued the guy at the next stop before we took off again. It was the fat shirtless bum who could eat.
If he had had an itinerary for his evening, it would've looked like this:
1) Get in a fight with another homeless guy wearing a turban
2) Bang on a garbage can
3) Spit on the tracks
4) Yell a platform monologue about being fat
5) See what's in the news
6) Hijack a subway car
I remember fifty-six degree yesterday, when my sweater was in my backpack and my jacket was open.
Tonight, walking down the street and getting stopped dead by freezing wind for a few seconds, it seems like a million years ago. In reality, it wasn't even yesterday: it was three weeks from now, but it got lost and ended up way early in the calendar.
This means we will get a motherfucker March day sticking out anarchronistically in April.
If April is the cruelest month, March has learned a few tricks by being next to it since the beginning ot time, the way inmates teach each other how to make shanks and prison wine.
Did I tell you guys about the acting student party I went to?
It was after the last Hammerkatz NYU show, down the block from Matt's, and the apartment was teeny-tiny and low-ceilinged.
There was a keg of one kind of beer and a pony keg of another kind.
There were too many people, and everybody was constantly flowing from one side of the apartment to the other trying to find someplace not crowded, like blood in a heart if the blood in a heart affected what it thought was a unique and endearing laugh.
Gregor was there and he and I staked out the kitchen for a little while and bullshitted. One of the kids I know who owns the place came in. I introduced the two of them. The kid asked Gregor what studio he was in. Ha ha ha.
I talked to Alyx for a while. Usually when I see Alyx in New York it's natural but for whatever reason that night it was very anachronistic. Anachronistic but very welcome. I didn't know any of these people and I didn't want to know them and unless I could define myself in the strata of what studio and what group and etc, etc, etc. they didn't want to know me either and fair enough.
The kegs ran out.
Miri and her friend were there, and they didn't really know anybody either except Hammerkatz people but they were dancing it up in the living room long after the gay guys had stopped dancing and the people amused by dancing with the gay guys stopped dancing. People I was talking to at the time scoffed at Miri and her friend and I wanted to bash some heads into the wall, 'cause what do they know. Miri doesn't give a shit. Not in the affected, we-are-freshman-theater-students-walking-down-the-street-singing-rent-you-guys not giving a shit; just really, really is self-assured in a way that doesn't exist especially among "artists." Miri goes to movies by herself. That is the highest compliment I can pay her.
The bullshit-to-bodyheat index was too high and the kegs were empty so I left. I didn't get to talk to Andrew as much as I would have liked.
And acting students aren't bad people, in the way that individually people are wonderful but sometimes they look at groups as permission to be nauseating.
The computer lab attendant comparing the old-looking stapler I asked him if I could borrow to the Millenium Falcon, in that it is ancient but still works, at 5:19 in the morning.
The speck of dust at the center of the universe of my never getting laid.
It is insignificant but it signifies everything.
PS - "never" is an overstatment - but it's like how much money I make - not enough for most people and certainly not commensurate with my self-estimation.
But things are rough all over.