Well, shit, do you want me to pull over? I'll pull over right the fuck now and you can walk your way back to that one-horse-town we told ourselves two nights ago we were gettin' out of forever. If that's what you want, fine. If what I said's makin' you so darn uncomfortable, fine.
Good. I thought so.
Anyways, it was just a suggestion.
What do you mean, GAY? It ain't a gay thing! It's a two-guys-on-the-road thing!
What part of it ain't gay? I'll tell you what part of it ain't gay! The part where two men who been friends since birth, growin' up on the same dead-end block, runnin' up and down the same dusty streets and never havin' no promise and no hope finally decide they're gonna make a last-chance bid for freedom, so they jump in the one fella's beat-up '68 Chevy, only thing he ever had in the world besides his father's debts and his momma's disapproval, and peel out never lookin' back! The part where that first rush o' freedom has wore off and the reality is just startin' to set in, that you can run from anywhere but no matter where you go you're still yourself, and the tedium of the road, too, the endless stretches of middle America, wheat and sameness extendin' far as the eye can see, and to beat back the boredom of the road and the existential terror of feeling trapped no matter how much space stretches before you, one fella reaches over and gives the other fella a handjob, and once he's finished, the other fella reciprocates!
No, I'm tellin ya, it ain't gay! It's called the Friendly Passenger! Friendly like "between friends." You sayin' we ain't friends? You sayin' that those long summers workin' at old man Patterson's Gas and Go, all those scraps with the Reynolds boys from two towns over, all those years sittin' in the back of the class knowin' they couldn't teach us nothin' we couldn't learn on our own, you tellin' me they meant nothin'?
No, no, it's too late for sorry. I been sorely mistaken. I intended to set out on a journey from nowhere to who-knows-where with the one friend ever meant anything to me in this world, and instead I hopped in the car with a stranger. And that's my fault. Small town man like me, guess I'm too dumb to know the difference.
Fine, stranger, you can turn the radio up.
Aw, hell, you know I love Patsy Cline. Don't expect just 'cause you happened to find a station out in the middle of nowhere playin' Patsy Cline I'm supposed to take you back into my good graces.
Aw, that right there, that ain't even a question! I'd take Loretta Lynn in her prime over Patsy Cline in hers any day! Hell, I'd take Loretta Lynn NOW over Pasty in 'er prime! My grandaddy saw Patsy play the State Fair in 1956, swore up and down she had an ass flat as a nickel 'neath an elephant's foot!
Well sure, some men are into that. Ain't no shame in it, stick to yer choice.
So...Patsy Cline, huh? Y'know. Certain school of thought that says, if a man closes his eyes and lets the roar of the engine and the whoosh of the open road lull him into a sort of a reverie, any hand that touches that man may as well be Patsy Cline's.
Aww, now, c'mon, now! Now you know it ain't like that! If you're imagining a woman, how can it be gay?
What do you mean, it just is? YOU just is! A fool, I mean! Only a fool would turn down a perfectly good non-gay handjob from a man he known since birth, especially when we won't hit Kansas City for another one-hundred-and-eighty miles! That's a hundred and eighty miles of engine vibrations! That's a hundred and eighty miles of blueballs courtesy of U.S. 71!
Well, that's small-minded is what that is. I guess you can take the man out of the small town, but you can't take the small town out of the man. Makes me real sad for our prospects once we get wherever we're goin'. Makes me question the wisdom of the whole venture. Makes me plain sad, is what it does.
Yea, sure, I'll take some jerky.
Nah, see, we're approaching a bit of a bend here in the road, so I'd like to keep both hands on the wheel. Just go ahead and place the jerky in my lap.
Aww, what, Jed? What?
For Halloween I was:
Annie Hall (Halloweekend @ Helen's party, Rachel as my Woody Allen)
Biggie Stardust (Halloween @ UCB, Gregor as my Gregor)
Bowie scholars will be quick to note that my makeup is actually Aladdin Sane, not Ziggy. Shut up, Bowie scholars. Unless you are a cute girl in which case, shut up and marry me.
Also, let it be known that I believe a Phillie blunt in its wrapping, a cane, a white hoody and a white Panama hat are enough to convey the Biggie element of any hybrid costume in which Biggie is one element. Feel free to use this standard next year, whether you're planning to go as Twiggy Smalls , or the Notorious F.I.G.
I haven't been writing here. In a strange twist of fate, my hits have gone up, up UP! (largely from traffic through the DERRICK site) and that's a HUGE dis-incentive to actually, y'know, write.
Nerdiest complaint in history on the way: People have no respect for quiet in the NYU computer labs anymore. There, I said it. A man needs a place where he can go and type in peace without assholes talkin' out they neck. It's not like I'm even trying to get anything done: I just watched the latest 30 Rock (which was par for the dope) and now I'm writing this. I'm not trying to study. I just like to have an hour or two every day where I'm not listening to someone near me have an inane cell phone conversation.
There are tiny curmudgeons in my bloodstream, and they flow to my heart and brain when I am forced to listen to somebody on a RAZR tell their friend Kylie about how terrible work at the botique was today.
I just re-read Microserfs by Douglas Coupland. It reminded me that the last time I read it, I must've been about 12 or 13, and either still wanted or recently got over wanting to be a computer programmer when I grew up. It's interesting: I didn't end up doing what the people in the book do for a living, but I managed to emulate their distincly unsexy work habits. A lot of people lamenting about working too much and not having a life. I can convince myself when I'm in a lame mood that that's what I've done.
Anyway, it was fun to revisit a previous incarnation of my nerd-dom (I traded computers for movies, and then movies for comedy.) I think I've found my lifetime nerd-domain. I think this nerd-dom will pay the bills. I hope it will. It sure is fun.
This week has been a barrage of activity prepping for the second HKATZNYU show of the year. It should be a gas: it is adequately strange and fast. It's weird how show week works: You go into the week with gusto, you burn out around Wednesday and think everything is awful and this is the time we won't pull it off, but you plow through and the show happens, and you go, holy fuck, we fooled them again. And you feel pretty fucking great about it and think, man, is making stuff ever cool. Man it's cool that insanely talented people gave you their time and energy and ideas and support. And you think, who wouldn't be a workaholic with work this cool?
It bugs me when people leave comments on YouTube videos (not just ours) to the effect of "get a job!" Like they can't understand why somebody would want to just make something because it's fun and interesting to them and geeks them out. Like the most effective use of anyone's time is being miserable at a job.
And I understand that, being a student, I am in a very convenient, luxurious place to be making those kind of statements. And man am I balls-scared of having a dayjob when I graduate (soon). But I know enough people with dayjobs who use their off-hours to make their weird ideas into real things that at least I know I won't be alone.
There's a great passage in Microserfs which I can't quote directly because I returned the book to the library, but it's basically the main character justifying writing the journal that constitutes the novel, basically, that things change so fast and so imperceptibly that there is absolutely no shame in putting down what seems like minutiae at the time. Actually, it's kind of sacred. And I'm probably not even paraphrasing, just coloring whatever I thought I read with other shit I've been thinking. And time has felt particularly fast lately so that's why I'm writing this. That and because I drank a huge coffee and a huge Diet Coke at rehearsal a couple of hours ago while we were choreographing a vampire dance-fight.
Special thanks to Steve for lending us his staging/stage-fighting expertise at such a retardedly late hour.
Should be a good one tomorrow.