behind the green door.

Roger Avery, Thanksgiving & Thankstaking; On Death & Dying In New Jersey. Lemon Chicken.The Kobiashi Maru. The Real Paris. Oly WA. Call The Doctor. Starfucking In Reverse: The Musical!

did you know…?

Julie Delpy made me so happy last year. She was talking about love and if love didn't change for us what it would be like. She went on to tell the interviewer that the love you feel at nineteen is not the love you feel in your thirties or even your forties. It couldn't possibly be, she said, in that forever-pretty blonde so-French I-could-care-less way she has. Because it would fucking KILL you. I smiled for about a week after that. I like Julie Delpy.

One Thanksgiving while my paternal grandmother was still alive I put Killing Zoe on and I remember the slow motion sex scene with her twenty-something tits-not-yet-breasts rising and falling while she [presumably] rode Eric Stoltz into the Parisian sunset while Nosferatu scanned behind her taking the whole fuck scene about an eon to complete. My father walked in and asked me, his forehead pulsing [his poker tell that everyone within grabbing distance was about to fucking die]: “just what the hell are you watching?” My grandmother, a tiny Neapolitan Italian woman of at least seventy years, said quickly, “No. This is really good. Leave it.” My father chuckled at the room and simultaneously stabbed me to death with his eyes, promising to run my ass over with a bulldozer blade or sharpened farm implement some private & fast coming later date. He made her another Scotch. My grandmother’s scotches were taller than some skyscrapers I have seen. “Have one,” she’d say. “It will wake you up.” Direct quote. That woman could sell smallpox to Native Americans. Declared smallpox.

w.m.a.

I have been at 1PP a lot lately. For reasons unknown (but forthcoming!). I’m not in any white trouble (trouble being a relative term, obviously), but are sorting through some things. White trouble, white slavery, white power, white torture. Light may be the absence of dark, but us paleface motherfuckers always manage to come off as a rather sinister bunch. More on this late breaking story as it develops.

everything is green: where our hero demonstrates he has more game than a football league:

You’ll appreciate this one.

She sounded lost in the blackness of the Oregonian night. The air was so thick there in SE Portland; IFC wouldn't make that goddamn TV show for another six years or so. I ran into Carrie Brownstein at Late Night With Stephen Colbert in the hallway smoking a cigarette and talking on the phone, and she smiled at me but I didn't know who she was without a guitar and patented castration stare that the riotgrrl movement had perfected thirty years before. and anyway, I was there with a woman [she was close family friends with one of the guests as well as her editor; so I agreed to come, and didn't want to seem disrespectful]. My lady friend excused herself to go to the little girl's room [Mrs. Peacock, FTW!] after asking offhand if I had seen half of Sleater-Kinney in the stairwell [my woman used the performer’s name, that woman wouldn't have known Sleater-Kinney if she had grown up in fa chrissakes Olympia, Washington].

The door to the green room wasn't closed for five seconds when Jennifer Lawrence walked in from the stage area and asked me if she could sit down. She looked like she had a halo around her entire being. I told her I guessed she could do anything she liked and she laughed in that practiced way actors have. Who are you, she said, and I said, truthfully: “I’m nobody. Who are you?” which I was biting directly from Emily Dickinson but was having trouble thinking straight. I no longer cared about being rude or disrespectful. I wanted to move to a deserted island with this woman and her halo and live in a tree and wear only flowers until we were octogenarians together, rocking in chairs with the fulcrum mechanism built from the halves of coconut shells. it would be a manic congress of Gilligan's Island and Swiss Family Robinson. She laughed. “I’m Jen,” she said, and sat down on the chaise lounge, simultaneously crossing her legs as she descended in one fluid motion. I remember shaking her hand and saying, “Christopher, pleasure,” from very far away. Before I knew what I was doing I gathered up my coat & book and went tear-assing out of the room before my lady friend returned from the loo and nailed me to the wall in front of God, a Hollywood Goddess, and Everyone.

Carrie Brownstein was gone from the stairwell, and I probably read for awhile before my girl came out and corralled me. I think I might have smoked half a joint someone had stubbed out there. It seemed a shame to waste it and it looked lonely all scrunched up, sitting there.

“Jennifer Lawrence asked about you,” she said, her eyes daggers. This woman was one of the best educated, most jealous people I had ever met in my life. She was one of those feminists that make it a point to hate every other woman on the planet. As Calvin The-Six-Year-Old once said to Hobbes-The-Tiger vis-a-vis Ms. Susie Derkins, “How does one fathom the depths of the female mind?”

“Who’s Jennifer Lawrence?” I said helpfully, not looking up from my book.

“You’re kidding, right?” But her face was softening already. Love is either allowing yourself to be a sucker or to just act like one. Of this I am assured.

[sucker love is heavensent you pucker up your passion spent your hearts a tart/yr body rent my body's broken yrs is bent/carve yr name into my arm/instead of stressed i lie here charmed/cos rhere’s nothing left to do/every me and every you…]

“What?” I said, squinting, hoping she didn't pick up on the dope. She was one of those people who took those who occasionally partook extraordinarily personally.

“Are you stoned?” Shit.

“Me?” I said, incredulous, like she had just suggested I paint our foreheads blue, mount horses, and charge through Times Square screaming about freedom, tartan kilts flying.

“Never mind,” she said, crossly. “You really are too dumb to live. Come on. I want you to meet D____ before she goes on.” We went back into the green room. Jennifer Lawrence was gone but my lady’s family friend was there. I met D____. She said - and I quote: “So *this* is Jack London.” What. The. Fuck. I imagined myself dressed up all buckskin like Robert Rogers of Rogers' Rangers, hatchet at the ready, in unconscious homage to the famous scene in Annie Hall when Alvy Singer is having supper with Annie’s family of WASPS and he is imagining them seeing him dressed up as a bearded Hasidic Jew, replete with spit curls and stodgy black brimmed hat.

I briefly debate asking if there are any metal detectors in this fucking building [we literally just walked in off the street through a side door with zero security, one flight of stairs, unlocked door - it seemed odd] and decide it will only make things worse. My mouth is great like that.

“That's right,” I said, ignoring my brain and shaking D____’s hand like an investment banker whilst stabbing mi novia with my own cuchillo de en la ojos. It had been a night for knives into eyes, all right. I did not say, “more Martin Eden than To Build A Fire. Bet your ass.” This woman was one of the most influential historians/political authors in American history. I was in enough trouble already.