Wednesday, November 19, 2008

the real househusband of chicago

I almost went back to bed this morning. I gave it some serious thought. When the baby went down for a nap, I looked at the pot of coffee and the door to the bedroom, my two divergent Alice in Wonderland style choices, and at the last possible second, I went with the coffee. I’m not sure that was the right choice.
It’s pretty crazy, I read this interview with Johnny Depp, and…well, actually, that makes it sound so much more classy than it really is, so let’s just dispense with the bullshit, shall we? I was flipping through one of those celebrity garbage magazines…in touch or us weekly or something like that and the big pull-out quote on the page, which featured a picture of the Deppster, said something to the effect of “now that I’m older, I talk about good nights of sleep like I used to talk about good nights of getting fucked up.” This is so true. Sleep’s like that bag of drugs that the one dude brought you the one time, but ever since then he only rarely comes through, so you sit around all night, antsy, anxious and just hoping it’s gonna show up, which it rarely does. Every once in a while you score big though. “Oh shit, last night man, I got so much fucking sleep. I started sleeping at seven thirty and didn’t even think about stopping til the sun was up, like way up. It was awesome.”
This is a metaphor, of course, and a not particularly apt one, because I didn’t sleep that well last night. I had crazy dreams and I was cold and hot at the same time, which is pretty uncomfortable, honestly. Whatever, not the point. I’m tired, my boy is sleeping, and I cannot WAIT to see those bitches from Real Housewives of Atlanta duke it out on the reunion show next week. That’s gonna be beautiful.
Anyone watch this thing? It’s about a bunch of rich black ladies (and one skanky drunk white lady who’s fucking some married man…pretty great) and they HATE each other. Even the ones who are supposedly friends just absolutely hate each other. It’s just this fucked up hodge podge mixture of desperate housewives and flavor of love. I’ve gotta be in a very specific mood to be able to handle it, and last night I was able to get through about two and a half episodes of the marathon. I don’t believe that DNA tests proved that Curtis isn’t really Ne-Ne’s father, do you???
Fuck…I have my class tonight and I’m supposed to write a clash of contexts script, like where Jesus is working at a Subway or you have a labor dispute at the great Pyramid. Or, you could do something where, say, you’re talking about movies in the way people talk about their favorite sports teams. I don’t really have any ideas. It’s currently looking like I’m not gonna write anything and not go to the class. Like I said, I’m pretty tired right now. Of course, it’s only 9 am so a lot can still change. Still, I don’t know what the fuck to write. Man. Wow. That’s pretty interesting, huh? My baby is still in there moaning, which means he hasn’t started sleeping yet, which I suppose, technically, means I can still go lie down. It’s tempting, let me tell you. Lord knows this isn’t really going anywhere.
I’m back. Wow. A tiny nap and a shower will do wonders for a guy. I feel about a zillion times better. The other night, my friend who just got back from Africa where he’s shooting this really upbeat little number about AIDS nurses and my friend Farth, who’s currently in the process of breaking into the film scene in Cordoba, Argentina and I went out for some cocktails at the local watering hole. It was nice to feel like a part of a group of people doing interesting things. I mean, in a way that wasn’t just related to being around a bunch of drunk guys who play music for a living. That’s cool too, but there’s a whole scene around that that I’ve been too close to for too long, so I’ve got enemies, and I’ve got issues with how certain bands stack up to other bands and all sorts of shit that just kind of sullies the excitement of it all. Plus, being in a band is so boring so much of the time that there’s hardly ever anything good going on, except what people are doing creatively outside of their musical endeavors. Whatever, I’m just mentioning that the other night when I was hanging out with two guys doing really global, ambitious projects I was like “Well, Kelly, you’ve arrived! Here you are with your two friends from gradeschool, the African documentarian, the bilingual south American script writing jew and you, a stay at home dad with a blog.” Felt good. Oh yeah. What didn’t feel nearly as good was waking up the next morning, but hey, that’s what artists do, right? They indulge. That’s why they…we! Become so compulsive about projects, it’s all the indulgence and excess that inform good writing/films whatever. Indulgence and excess are two things that absolutely MUST go into any good project. Even a minimalist piece, if it’s worth a shit, is by definition self indulgent and excessive in it’s dedication to its final result. So, that shot of Malort…totally in the name of art. Thank god that’s settled. Just so we’re clear, I’m not suggesting that people need to be fucked up to create good art. I absolutely DON’T think that’s true. In fact, while it’s sometimes true that being drunk or high or something can result in a truly off-the-cuff wonderful moment of conception or representation, as a rule, it makes it harder to create consistently good stuff. Just sayin. Whatever, though. Do what you want. Lord knows I don’t care.
My baby has this thing that we call his office. It’s a round desk that he stands in the middle of with all sorts of bells and blocks and fake phones and speakers and monkeys and yodas and shit all over it. Sometimes it’s a real gas, but he seems like a disgruntled little employee right now. He needs a break, I think, from his fake office job. I mean fuck, he’s only seven months old. Okay, this is getting loud, so I’m done. Have a good one, people.


Anonymous said...

I don't get how you can manage to read celebrity magazines and those shows. I mean, yes, I can glance at the occasional magazine and I know those shows are horribly addictive, but there is no way I could watch a marathon of any of that shit, let alone a whole episode.

But I think it might be a test of will-power and you passed, congratulations.

Manny Los Gatos said...

Paris Hilton's New BFF is the shizzle fo sho. Stop ruining our grand ideas of being in a band and all that. You gotta pretend like it's woodstock every night.

Def skip class too. Who needs all that bullshit to become an effective writer?


Holy fuck, I love Real Housewives of Atlanta. How can Sheree sit there and say that Kim has a beautiful voice with a straight face? Also, did you notice Kim driving with a glass of wine in her hand?! She is so incredibly trashy. That show is what dreams are made of.

Sam Tie Blogger said...

I dont know how anyone can watch that shit. Flavor of Love, Rock of Love, all that shit, its humanity at its absolute worst. I hate it. I went on vacation this summer for a week with my girlfriends family, and all of her aunts had US Weeklys laying around, like, months and months worth. Now those get fucking addictive, though its not because its good, its just like, WHO CARES ABOUT THIS SHIT? I read a hundred of em! How else am I going to get my Katy Perry fix, I mean, you have to be a really good musician/actor/shitsucker to get in those things, right??

martin* said...

I hope Farth paid, that cheap bastard!

Mikey said...

I classify you as a philosopher.

Anonymous said...

Brendan - are you serious about not knowing what to write in the clash of context scripts?

You seriously just described one about a paragraph earlier - the ol' sleep junkie talking about sweet 8 hours like he just finished a coke binge

John Brown Style said...

Once again, I'm with you on the sleep thing, but I'm 8 years younger than you. How's my future looking Brendan? I have terrible, terrible nightmares and would love to knock myself out with some vicodin. My girlfriend hates the idea of me using vicodin or heavier stuff, but hey, that just means I'm going to take an extra sleeping pill or six extra cold medicine tablets. People get such fucked up ass backwards ideas about drugs. Why is six tylenol some how more correct than a vicodin?

Karmina said...

I think the next time you write something for your class you should post it on here.
I would like to read it.