March 20, 2010
My New Motto
by way of Deron to Sheila to Cindy to me:
“Just pitch me in the pussy dump.”
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comments:
- Joel Bernstein: For the record, if you pay to see this, you are no longer my friend.
- Deron Bauman: Meow.
- Joel Bernstein: This must be why I fuck so many cats.
- Michael Smith: Seems to me the experiment almost does itself.
- Casey Cichowicz: No. It is not possible. I can assure you.
- Joel Bernstein: Luca Brasi sleeps with the fishes?
- LaurenH: I’m with those who say get that girl out of that household. The father has now very effectively...
- Rick Neece: Holee sh..!
- Rick Neece: Asian calligraphy, ‘cept instead of a brush, hot glass. The image of her controlling the glass and...
- Rick Neece: For the gull-wing, I’m sure it would knock me in the chin every time I opened it.
- Marco: Oh god yes.
- Rick Neece: Chuck, testes, testes, One-Two-Three. I can hear you breathing. (TAP,TAP,TAP) “Is this thing...
- Joel Bernstein: Chuck Testa
- Rick Neece: I know the Jag has gone through changes since Ford owns the company. It makes me a little sad for the...
- Michael Smith: WRONG, I’m anime FREAK.
!
I forgot about that.
I pretty much love this. I think.
Uttered with the sang-froid of a man who knows that the road he follows does not lead to the pussy dump. Unless, of course, he wants to go to the pussy dump, in which case — fuck ‘em. Just fuck ‘em.
Deron, too, he is like that. But his style, it is a little different. He is, like, a spiritual son of Ruben Bustes.
“How did you get in here?”
“This is where the road took me.”
The Tao of Ruben Bustes.
Dios mío, it is the way, man.
I mean, shit, if we are going to sort through a life’s worth of treasures, and drive 40 minutes to Wilmer-Hutchins through pre-rush-hour traffic, we are not then going to toss what we have accumulated into a few unmanned bins in a forlorn corner of the fucking city dump.
I want gulls — gulls I tell you! — and the sickly sweet non-organic stench of what exactly punctuated with the pulse of ten-ton earth movers bearing down on us and the flapping frenzied wings of those mother fucking gulls.
Pussy dump be damned!
Proper dump, I tell you!
My mother (and her detritus) deserved better than the pussy dump.
Thank you, Deron, for standing up and being a man.
Gulls. Yes. Thousands of gulls. Those who have not seen cannot know.
Yes. In our erstwhile dump it was huge black ravens everywhere. Cawing. So there’s something beautiful about the gulls in the sunlight. It sounds like one of these gorgeous epiphanies that needs a more profound medium than a blog post, I think.
it would take a movie.
Yes, well I hope you do it.
When I die, take me to the dump. I want to be food for the gulls. Or ravens.
Do not take me to the pussy dump. There, there are no scavengers. Only, I fear, the antiseptic end of a recycling center operated by humans.
it was all I could do to snap a few pictures before they threw us out of there. they did not like us. they did not like us a lot.
When I described the scene to Jon, he said, “Werner Herzog.”
It would have to be on that scale.
I’m up for it.
We must return to the dump.
we need kinski.
We’ve got Daryl.
Frankly I see Wes Anderson.
it felt distinctly herzogian.
Okay then you make your little Herzogian version and I will make the Anderson version and we will have a mudfest deathmatch and see whose version kicks the living shit the hardest out of the other one. Okay?
Lucy, I can imagine how you might see that. But if you had been down there in the pit with us, you might understand how Herzog could come to mind.
The scale. The scope. The madness. The whole place-of-human-beings-within-the-whole-of-the-natural-world thing.
There was a heaviness to all of the verbal exchanges that felt distinctly Teutonic.
Mudfest deathmatch. Living shit.
That smell.
You’re still up? You need sleep!
Okay I’ve got the opening line for the novel:
“They were coming up the hill of trash, and it took me a while to see that they were not happy.”
I slept a little. But I’m up again. Things are just starting to get good.
Daryl, you might want to confer with Cindy in the event there is a scene set after hours in the home of one of the dump employees.
Suppertime. Husband to wife.
“Says to me, ‘This is where the road took me’. Oughta said to him, ‘I’ll show you the road, boy! Show you the road to the hurtin’ place.’ “
“Wadya find?
Helmit.
Football?
No. Old war.”
Deron, in the living room of my mother’s house, there is a shoebox labeled HUMMINGBIRD SUPPLIES. It’s got Christmas decorations in it, in the event you want to go back over and collect them for use in a sad and beautiful moment when I (or the actress playing me) heave the family’s holiday keepsakes out the back of the Jeep and into the primal ooze.
I’m on it.
Take any rug in the house.
Tinsel in the slush. Damnded if that doesn’t have history all over it.
Sheila, I hope you will let me steal the detail of the shoebox labled Hummingbird Supplies. That’s a story right there.
Take any rat in the house.
Daryl, take any detail in the house.
Labels and notes from the dead to the living were at the heart of the clearing-out-the-house experience.
Cindy and I used to go to estate sales all the time. Some of them were just terribly sad; some were irritating because stupid people were running them (and were sure that a mason jar of screws should sell for $10); and some were delightful because a sense of good karma was still in the air. I got to where I didn’t really want things anymore–I just wanted to see into lives. The old papers always fascinated me. But then I wondered why there wasn’t somebody around to go through such things to retrieve the pictures and scribbled notes. I realized finally that even the people who collected and owned all of it over years wouldn’t have had the time to go through it and think about each piece. In the end, worlds decay. All things are dispersed to what begins to grow. Those birds seem to know this better than we do.
In the end, worlds decay.
You nailed it, Daryl.
That’s something I thought I knew, but the activity of the past week brought it home, so to speak.
I love this thread.
Would you like some thread, Kathy? If Deron goes back over to my mother’s house, he could probably snag some thread for you.
An officious dump employee really did ask Deron, “How did you get in here?”
Deron did reply, civil and deadpan, with just a pinch of don’t-fuck-with-me, “This is where the road took us.”
I have a great cam-phone snapshot of Deron establishing his credentials at the entrance to the dump. I am hoping maybe he will grant permission for me to post it.
you have my permission always, Sheila.
Then so be it, my friend.
I love this thread.
How y’all make me bust out bawlin’ and laugh out loud in turns.
*issues. issues christ*
This is where the road took us.
Now, see, in my movie version of this, Officious Dump Employee #3 replies, “Don’t give me any that kung fu shit, grasshopper. You in the goddamn dump, you unnerstand me?”
Cindy Cindy Cindy we have to work on this movie together.
Yes, Lucy. I’m definitely in the Wes Anderson camp on this one. We’ll battle it out with the Herzogians. But we’ll win. Because we’ll have the grant.
And we will have paid the laughing squad.
But Deron and I will suffer for our art and will garner eternal fame.
Well you’ll need it after being eaten by large hulking dump employees who will sound hilariously funny in our movie.
Amy has been to the dump. Amy has suffered for art. Deron and I will persuade Amy to be in our movie.
I want Amy to play the role of me.
That alone will ensure that we earn back lots and lots of money on our film.
Ah, but Lucy and I will have Daryl.
Let the games begin.
Fuck, I’m even beginning to think Deron needs to be in the film he and I will make. At first I was thinking of Daryl in the Klaus Kinski role, but if you people had seen the look Deron gave me at dinner Friday night when all I did was speak the words coconut ice cream — as printed on the dessert menu at Hattie’s . . .
That look came so swiftly and was so shocking. It was terrifying and incandescent.
Combine that with Amy Mabli in the role of Sheila Ryan.
Think doomed over-reaching. Think over-budget. Think enraged backers.
I know what I want to do.
Lucy, Cindy, and Daryl.
Sheila, Amy, and Deron.
Scenes from an imaginary
Werner HerzogWes Andersondump film.Mondo Trasho.
Wait. No. John Waters already made that.
A Boy and His Dog
We’ll all get nominated for Academy Awards and go to the ceremony together, dressed up and drunk.
But I’ll boycott the ceremony and send the nephew of Ruben Bustes to accept my award.
Lucy will charge said nephew from the wings, all Kanye-ish.
Can I be an extra? I don’t want a speaking role more demanding than — I dunno, something along the lines of rhythmic grunts. I’m good with gestures. Real good.
Maybe you could sit behind bullet-proof glass and scowl at Deron.
I lack the skill to scowl at Deron. I could gesture, though.
That might be better, Kathy. No eye contact. Just a dismissive gesture.
and scene.
If Kathy’s in yours, then MGS is in ours.
I’m also getting Applejack and Bob Mapplethorpe, by god.
I want Bigfoot and Socrates in mine.
fuck it. let’s put it to a vote. anderson or herzog?
We can’t make both? We could sweep the Oscars, I’m telling you.
If we have to choose, obviously I’m going with Anderson. And Lucy.
originally, I was just going to post “the herzog picture”, but I tell you, that first gull looks a little Max Fischer.
I will take the Archangel Gabriel if he is available, but it’s going to be hard to change the public perception of him. This is why he will need to work with us.
Ah, Deron. I knew you’d come around.
to be honest, I only posted it to be fair. the majority of photos I was able to take show an ungodly hell on earth — you know, in a wes anderson sort of way….
The Max Fischer gull is appealing, but Herzog is how I remember things.
fuck it. let’s go bowling.
Yeah. This is all way too much work. I’m drinking.
I know Jesus is an obvious choice for the part of Deron but sometimes it’s good to play to type.
I’ll scowl at the shoe guy. And gesture too.
[...] That world all seems very long ago and very far away, and that is as it should be. Worlds decay, as Daryl noted, and the alchemy of the dump has already set to work transforming a small portion of [...]
[...] Sheila Ryan: Labels and notes from the dead to the living were at the heart of the clearing-out-the-house experience. posted by Deron Bauman in adventure, family, from the comments, history, local | * | comment [...]