So let’s just recap: Here I am.
No money. No work. No shampoo. No food. No credit. NO CAR. No
dignity. No hope. Basically, I have nothing but a roof over my head
& my health (both which I am extremely grateful for—especially
since I also have no health insurance). The all-consuming sense of desperation settles in, waiting to strike when I’m weak.
And sure enough, just at my
weakest, brokest moment, something arrives on the wings of hope: an
offer for my show. A 100%-real, with-a-contract-and-everything,
completely legitimate offer.
As I drive Maggie’s mom-mobile to Slimy’s office, a single thought runs
through my mind: No matter what they say and what they offer, SAY NO
TO IT. At least for now. For now, I am unable to trust my own
judgment about anything. I lost my fuckin’ car. And clearly, I have
lost something else (other than my mind)--the right to make good,
capable decisions.
So here I am, driving to Century
City, all the while scanning the gray matter of my brain for the last
recollection of where my car might be. In between that and trying not
to psyche myself out, there wasn’t much time to pump myself up for a
pitch meeting. I am too humbled by my irresponsibility to get excited
about anything.
About a year ago, I
lost my car. How does such a thing happen, you ask? Blame it on the
TRUE gateway drug, alcohol. And it’s no secret I occasionally like to
drink.
It is a beautiful Sunday sometime
during the fall of 2008. I meet my friend, we’ll call him Pokerface,
at a bar on Montana. From there, things get fuzzy. I only remember
him driving us 10 blocks to Sonny’s, the Boston bar on Wilshire. It’s
also no secret that I like the Red Sox. I believe it was a playoff
game. One they lost. I didn’t take it well. At least, I’m guessing I
didn’t.
My girlfriend runs
this site: http://letterstomyexes.com/ (I have yet to post on it--I
have to decide who my first victim is going to be--I think it's
going to be someone who was never an ex, but I sure wish he was).
Ms.
Letterstomyexes is the only person I know whose stories rival mine in
terms of pure craziness, bizarre coincidences and tragic hilarity. I
say, "this-shit-only-happens-to-me" but, it happens to her too.
This list was compiled over
breakfast as we tried to make sense of our poor taste in men. Clearly we haven't been asking the right questions. It is based 100% on life experience.
I look around and
take in the scene. Inside the yoga studio, along the back wall, a
table is set up with wares for sale; magic potions infused with gold
that cure ailments and enhance consciousness; raw food balls that
eradicate cancer or whatever else they do; lavendar/patchouli candles
that you can definitely burn and maybe eat.
The smell of vegans
is overpowering. Whatever it is that raw foodists and vegans don’t eat
makes them stink. I can’t put my finger on it, but vegans smell
weird. Maybe it’s from years of waitressing and dealing with their
high-maintenance, condescending food modifications, but I can sniff out
a vegan from a mile away. And I don’t like the smell of it.
I recently watched the preview for your forthcoming new movie, Inglorious Basterds and, other than Brangelina’s annoying accent (which I doubt I’ll be able to sit through an entire movie listening to) there was one thing about this trailer that really went up my ass sideways:
I found this statement particularly amusing: “You haven’t seen war/until you seen it through the eyes/of Quentin Tarantino.”
Oh really, Quentin? What war was that? The Hollywood Video vs. Blockbuster Video War of ’97?
Or was it the Great Battle of the Strippers vs. the Hookers ‘00. We lost a lot of good hookers that year, didn’t we? Turns out, ecstasy isn’t the best drug to feed your soldiers after all! I bet those coked-up strippers were a lot stronger than they looked!
Or perhaps you’re referring to the ongoing fracas between Foot Fetishists and Uma Thurman Stalkers.
Whatever war was yours, Quentin, just because you put a lot of blood and gore in your movies, doesn’t mean you know shit about what it’s like to be in battle. And I’m pretty sure I speak for soldiers everywhere when I say: You haven’t seen war, until YOU’VE SEEN WAR.
But what do I know? You’re probably right, Quentin. We haven’t seen
war--until we’ve seen it through the eyes of a jacked-up, strung-out, crazy
director probably getting his dick sucked.
Right. Now.
I'm sure troops everywhere can appreciate your perspective.
Sincerely, Bridge
P.S. I still love you, think you’re a genius and keep up the good work, ya’ jackass!
This playlist is all over the place, but I think it might be my favorite ever. Some old, some new, from hip hop to rock and roll it's a regular musical journey. Some of these songs literally saved my life during hard times, some are just good for nostalgia, some are done by up and coming artists you have never heard of... either way, you only have one job: plug some good speakers in, hit play and go with the flow.
Yes you read that correctly. I've said it before and I'll say it again, this SHIT, (that's right, I said SHIT) only happens to me. Well let's just say I'm probably the only person who has ever walked out of a healing crying hysterically because someone was really mean to me. Of course I'm laughing hysterically at the moment just re-reading that sentence, but I still want my fuckin' money back. FIRST, here is a dramatic recreation of the scene:
The brilliant Eric Cartman once asked, "Is it possible that you can see something so funny...nothing is ever funny again?"I find myself asking this question after seeing the video below.Why only 226,0...
...Because of the random-ass, hilarious shit you find wandering around.I have no idea what's going on here. Or if this guy even has an asshole.But that's the best line I've heard in a while.