and the twain shall meet inside a bossanova and settle it all out. I just realized, watching old episodes of The Incredible Hulk, which is what turned me on to turning green and smashing things when I was young, though I never did it, is that, other than superb acting for a science fiction show and careful and compassionate storytelling, is that each episode is 48 minutes, meaning 12 minutes of commercials per hour in 1978-1982 when it aired originally; these days, a drama is more of 42-44 minutes; should I blame it on Reaganomics? Tempting. A lot of twisted darkness began with that presidency.
This is my scattershot night; I promise I won’t stay on topic at all, starting seventeen conversations and finishing a couple here and there out of oder, Fellini Escher style. I continue to heal from Mystical Flu; if I were going to pitch it to producers I’d say it’s mono meets Bucky Larson! It’s Friends With Benefits meets Hostel! When I was dealing with the producer a few years ago for Fishbowl Zipper (one of my/our scripts) every time we spoke he tried to clump it with another film so he had a frame of reference when it was really fear talk straight out of the spare horns hanging Satan’s closet; how can we market it? What he said to me and I quote from Frenemies, one of my other scripts, regarding Fishbowl Zipper was “we can’t decide if this is a romantic comedy or supernatural thriller.”
New York apartments have two tempatures: surface of sun and winter classic; I am sitting in my underwear when it’s forty five degrees out it’s so damn hot in here; if I close the radiators they will retaliate and clang a symphony not meant to be heard.
My two year old nephew called me tonight; or my brother called for him because he wanted to talk to me and talking to a two year old on the phone is the greatest challenge of human communication; forget R2-D2; when he talks I really try and hear what he says and not condescend with a dismissive response; babies are sensory sponges; I been there and have the scars like a scrabble board tucked inside a couple of blind spots to prove it; so when Peter talked I usually say nothing or ask what if I don’t understand; I have dreams with talking babies in it; once again, psychology majors and dream analysts, devour. One day I’ll crack the code and realize he holds the free energy solution inside him and he just pooped. It could swing either way.
If tonight I can sleep without feeling in my throat like I’d swallowed a bowling ball, a Canadian bowling ball, I think they’re smaller, if I sleep I will be grateful; I was telling my friend they need a god of sleep; that god probably never showed up to meetings and was probably ditched for gods of war and such because they get up at 5am and want to kick someone’s ass by lunchtime; god of sleep sleeps.
