I’ve reached a radical conclusion

I often bother people in line at the post office about the complexities and nuances of Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan. “Won’t any of you listen to reason!” I scream as I’m being dragged out by security. I’ve always said that Star Trek II is the best screenplay in science fiction history.

But after rewatching Star Trek III: The Search for Spock, I’ve reached a startling conclusion: maybe we’ve had it all wrong. Sure Harve Bennett’s screenplay for the third film isn’t as strong as it is in the second. It’s not that it’s bad per se. It’s just too economical. Case in point is the phenomenal “stealing the Enterprise” scene. That sequence is saved by the acting, Leonard Nimoy’s direction, and James Horner’s score. And it’s really a simple scene of the main characters backing up the Enterprise out of space dock and being lightly perused by another ship. If it were written today, it would be far more complex. But what III does better than II is in its staging. Nimoy directs the film like it’s a stage play. When news reaches Kirk that his son has been killed, it is quietly the most tragic moment in Star Trek history. Of course, Nimoy is careful to not let it outshine Spock’s death in II, but the doesn’t minimize how much it stings. Kirk is able to quickly recover because he had a job to do, but you can see that pain linger. And this pain is only made more tragic by the destruction of the Enterprise moments later. In short, in just a matter of a few minutes, Kirk lost his ship and son to save his friend. While the film is about “the search for Spock”, it’s really a character study of Admiral James T. Kirk. Nimoy’s direction expertly balances out the scope that a big screen science fiction film requires and the little moments that make us bond with the characters. So while III might have a relatively weak script, it might be the best directed movie in the Trek franchise. And as I result, I say it’s the best Star Trek movie.

It’s just a shame that Nimoy didn’t direct more pictures 😔

Probably got carried away

So I *might* have overreacted to someone on Threads calling my opinion and question “dumb”. Clearly that person is an asshole. Yet maybe I shouldn’t have responded by calling them “smug”, “arrogant”, a “fucking moron”, then blatantly accused them of sending out unsolicited dick pics. But in my defense, they ended their response with some shithead quote like “I could go on but I’ll quit while I’m ahead” like they were proud of beating me in some argument that only existed in their demented brain. In retrospect, I’m not sorry at all. Fuck that guy.

But the annoying thing about Threads is that it has the polar opposite problem of Twitter; it’s safe. Too safe. In many respects this is a good thing. But this also means the app sucks hard cock. It’s filled with safe people who believe they have transgressive takes.

And while we’re on the subject of people who piss me off, I don’t know how some assholes can stay perpetually happy knowing the terrifying evil that lurks around every corner. A storm was brewing to the west. I could see it spewing lightning off on the horizon. All the parents at the park threw their kids in the car and sped home to shield themselves from the impending rainfall. As I was speeding home, a homeless man was strolling down the sidewalk with a big ol shit-eating grin on his face. He was walking in the direction of the storm. That’s the only man that should be happy. He earned his bliss.

The rest of you rich, handsome fucks owe us. You owe everyone. You have no right to be happy. You don’t know what it means to starve; to live under the haunting echoes of a machine gun. What do you know about that? But sure. I’m sure all that high-minded lecturing you give us poor ugos on Threads has stopped at least ONE bomb from falling on the children of Gaza.

Man, FUCK Threads.

And yet another shot at the title (part xxxv)

After dinner, which was huevos rancheros, Slick Rick tried to tell me about his six year old daughter whose name was Sandy, or Sally, or Shannon or some shit. “She’s already in Mensa!” he proudly said.

“Yeah yeah yeah,” I told him. “Where’s Cornelius?”

Rick shrugged. “His room probably.”

So I sauntered upstairs to his son’s room where I found Cornelius shouting antiquated racial slurs to some Polish kids over his headset. He was playing some shoot-em-up game on his PS19. The room was littered with grape soda bottles and reeked of piss.

“Knock knock,” I said.

“Sup,” Cornelius replied without taking his eyes off the game.

“So being as I’m probably your grandpa and all, I was wondering if you’d like to come on set for the next movie I’m about to shoot.”

“Will there be bare titties there?” he said, eyes still glued to the screen.

“You know it,” I told him. “And afterwards, you can come to my house in the hills and I’ll show you my massive Penthouse collection.”

“Do you have the old ones where the girls have massive bushes?”

“Of course.”

“Hmm,” Cornelius pondered. “Yeah I guess.”

“Great!” I exclaimed. “I’ll have a limo pick you up next Tuesday and take you to Burbank!”

“Whatever dude.”

“I’ll see you next week.”

“Sure.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

And yet another shot at the title (xxxiv)

Cornelius Vanderbilt Crane Pietermeister sat across from me at the dinner table in his father’s poorly lit home in Glendale. Rick’s Latina wife, I never caught her name, was constantly in and out of the kitchen. Rick chatted with his six year old daughter, I also never caught her name, while I tried to banter with Cornelius. He was a teen of about 16; prematurely balding, overweight, and covered in acne scars.

“So Cornelius, getting any ass?” I asked him.

“Who are you again?” he said with his finger jammed up his nose.

“I’m James. I’m your grandfather. Probably.”

“Oh yeah. Didn’t you movie that one movie with that girl with the nice tits?”

“Hell yeah dude. That ruled.”

“Fuck yeah,” he said. Then farted. Cornelius stood up and brushed off the Cheeto dust from his Hoobastank hoodie and announced his departure. “Welp, I’m gonna go play Zelda and beat off,” he said. Then left.

“Rick,” I said, “what a fine young man you raised!”

“Yeah,” Rick shrugged, “he’s a little “developmentally delayed” if you know what I mean.”

“But he reminds me of some much of myself at that age!”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Dude your getting a Buick

As I sat behind the wheel of my sleek new 2024 Buick Envista I asked myself a question: what happened to Ben Curtis, the actor who uttered the greatest marketing catchphrase of all time? (Come to find out, he was busted for marijuana in 2003) So with the mind of Don Draper, I consulted ChatGPT in an effort to put the great commercial thespian back to work. Here are the results:

“In a sleek, modern dealership, Matthew McConaughey, clad in his signature suit, saunters in with an air of mystique. As he approaches the reception desk, who else but Ben Curtis, the iconic ‘Dude, you’re getting a Dell’ guy, stands ready to assist, now a seasoned car salesman.

“Alright, alright, alright,” Matthew drawls, his gaze drifting towards the shitty Lincolns on display. “I’m in the market for something smooth, somethin’ that whispers luxury with every turn of the wheel.”

But Ben, ever the persuader, intercepts with a knowing smile. “Matthew,” he says, leaning in conspiratorially, “let me show you something that’ll blow your mind.” With a flourish, he guides Matthew towards the gleaming Buicks, each exuding an air of understated elegance.

As they stroll past the Buicks, Matthew’s curiosity piqued, Ben regales him with tales of performance, comfort, and sophistication. Matthew listens intently, his trademark introspection blending seamlessly with Ben’s persuasive charm.

Finally, they stand before a particularly stunning Buick, its lines sleek, its interior opulent. Matthew’s eyes light up with newfound appreciation. “You know what, Ben?” he muses, a grin spreading across his face. “I believe you’ve shown me the way. I’m gettin’ a Buick.”

With a triumphant chuckle, Ben claps Matthew on the back. “Dude, you’re getting a Buick!” he exclaims, his voice carrying the same infectious enthusiasm that once sold computers by the truckload.

As the camera pans out, Matthew slides behind the wheel of his new Buick, a symbol of sophistication and style. And with one final nod to Ben, the unlikely duo seals the deal, ushering in a new era of automotive allure.”

And yet another shot at the title (part xxxsomething)

I stared at my shirtless Tom Selleck poster for hours. It occurred to me that since Pablo jumped ship to Greta’s team that I didn’t have a friend in the world. I called up Dan to see if he wanted to swing by Olive Garden for a few drinks. “Heh. I shoot endangered cougars with James Woods up in Mt. Baldy. Why would I want to get a drink with you?” he said.

Fair enough, I thought.

I didn’t want to take the five minute drive to Glendale. But it was time. Perhaps Slick Rick was still in his air duster huffing phase and I thought maybe we could spend the afternoon killing a few brain cells together. Just like the old days. I hadn’t seen him in 15 years. So I drove my trike out to Glendale while blasting Night Ranger on repeat. When I knocked on the door a plump Latina answered.

“Hola,” she said.

“Hi, is Slick Rick home?”

“No comprende,” she shrugged.

“Slick Rick. Is this his house?”

“Father?” a voice behind me said. I turn around and saw an aged Slick Rick standing there with a bloody shirt and wielding a chainsaw.

“Rick!” I exclaimed. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by.”

“Oh yeah, great,” he said. “I was just out back slaughtering some chickens. Let me get cleaned up and I’ll join you on the porch.”

When he went back inside, I pulled out a cigarillo and lit it up. A small golden haired girl came out the front door and cocked her head. “Are you my grandpa?” she asks.

I’ve heard that question a hundred times. “Probably,” I said, “god knows I’ve banged enough women in this town. Glendale, that is. In fact, there was an old whore I used to frequent. Chinese I think she was. I hope she wasn’t a sex trafficked victim. I’d feel pretty bad about that. But I’ve forgiven myself since then.”

“Slick Rick is my dad,” she said.

“Oh okay,” I told her as I puffed on my cigarillo. “Yeah, his mom was a whore. An expensive one. Not from Glendale though. I think she was Vietnamese. Did you know that I fragged my commanding officer when I was in Vietnam? It wasn’t during the war. It was an accident. It didn’t kill him but it did maim about a dozen people. I’ve forgiven myself for that too.”

“I’m six years old!” the girl blissfully smiled.

“No shit? Ya know, when I was six years old, I was a drug mule for the Mexican cartels. They’d give me a nickel for every ounce of cocaine I was able to shove up the ass of….”

“How you been dad!” Rick said all cleaned up as he stepped on the porch. “Care for a beer?”

“Daddy!” the girl squealed then ran into Rick’s arms.

“No thanks. I’m already drunk,” I told him.

“I’m sorry about my wife earlier,” Rick explained. “She doesn’t speak English.”

“Hell, I didn’t know you spoke Spanish.”

“I don’t. So what brings you by? It’s been nearly 20 years.”

“15 to be exact. I dunno, Cassandra told me about you. I figured you might be in some trouble or something. And why the hell do you still talk to Cassandra?”

“Trouble? Dad, I’m the most successful chiropractor in Glendale. I’m on the city council for fucks sake.”

“No shit? Goddamn son, what the hell happened? One minute you’re junkie suckin off Japanese business men behind Chipotle and now you’re the one getting sucked off?!”

“People change dad.”

I puffed on the cigarillo. “Ya know, I don’t think I’ve changed at all. Fuck that shit.”

“I can tell.”

“So why do you still talk to Cassandra?”

“Well,” Rick pondered as he gazed out across the lawn, “I always thought she was the only person to have ever cared about me.”

“I cared about you.”

“You never showed it.”

I could feel the tension brewing in the air. “Rick,” I said, “there’s something I always wanted to tell you. You see, that Russian bullet that struck me in the head. Remember? On that field in whatever that country was called? Well, something happened.”

“Yeah, you lost a lot of brain matter. In fact, you were deemed mentally handicapped.”

“No I was deemed that way before. Something else happened. I had a vision Rick. A vision that so terrified me that I hope to never experience it again. I lost you Slick Rick. You couldn’t imagine the pain I felt. I was afraid. I was afraid of losing you again. I guess that’s why I didn’t come around as much after that.” I finished my cigarillo and flicked out into the lawn. “I just thought you should know,” I concluded.

I tipped my hat and departed down the steps back towards the trike. When I was halfway across the lawn, Rick shouted. “Why don’t you stay for dinner?” he said.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Woe is me

Another day with my expensive ass hair with my empty ass bank account under the burning ass sun. How much shall I suffer? Some days I walk out into the Home Depot parking lot and shake my fist at the heavens and cry out “goddamn the gods for making me beautiful!”

My sorrow, the empty depths of my soul, knows no bounds. I’m hollow. I feel nothing but contempt for myself and all of humanity. When the waitress at Waffle House asked me if I wanted coffee, I said “only if it’s black. Like the asshole of Satan.”

I don’t recognize that disgusting, HADSOME man in the mirror. I never knew him anyway. But now I’m more unknown; living with a stranger.

When a lady approached me at a park where my son was playing, she asked “how old is he?” I said “look lady! I don’t know who you think you are but I am more than just a pretty man at the park! Somewhere, deep inside, is an actual human being! And some day I’m gonna find that man and I’m going to kiss him on the lips and tell him that he doesn’t need any of this shit…this fake ass hair, this false facade of handsomeness! I don’t need none of it! You see, long ago, there was a boy whose hair started falling out of his head. He didn’t know why. But it changed the trajectory of his life. He was, as they say, an ugly duckling throughout adolescence. He began to resent others, and worse yet, he began to resent himself. It affected every facet of his life; consumed him, made him feel inferior. Then one day he decided to do something about it. He was going to get fake hair. And now he has it and it has changed nothing. He feels more worthless than ever. That boy became me, the one standing here telling you this story. People tell me all the time ‘oh it’s okay that you flushed money down the toilet. Life’s too short to be feeling the way you do.’ But they’re wrong. Because life isn’t too short; it’s too long. It’s much too long for us to live our lives with the constant feeling of regret. I’m dead inside. You understand me? So fuck off!”

Where life goes from here is unknown. But that’s the path we all take. I thought being dangerously good looking would solve all my problems. But it was only a mirage.

On having hair (part II)

They say being beautiful ain’t easy.

Actually I don’t know if anyone said that. But it’s true. For starters, it’s goddamn expensive. Like, CRAZY expensive. The truth is that you’re probably not ugly. You’re just poor.

I learned this the hard way with my Faustian bargain to be hot. Before I corrected my balding problem, I was a normal, schlubby Joe. But with the hair, I’m now a hot dad; perhaps on par with Luke Perry in Riverdale.

But you see, when I finally got the hair on my head, I had a dark realization: I didn’t care anymore. I didn’t care that I was an ugly, stupid-looking jackass with a poor sense of style. Sure it cost me a lot of money to realize this but it was all worth it. Because I finally overcame a problem that I’ve experienced since 13 years of age. My self-worth no longer hinged on my shitty looks. I was a new man.

I should’ve listened to that strange voice in the back of my head. It’s not schizophrenia. It’s clear rationalization; of clarity. It’s a rationalization akin to Marx’s commodity fetishism, as if plain objects have some sort of holy power. But they don’t. They’re merely products that civilization programmed to make us think we need. I first heard this voice on Christmas Day in 1994. I got the very present that I wanted: a toy replica of the Enterprise D. I was ecstatic. But then a strange thought occurred to me: what was it about this object that made me so happy? It was just a piece of plastic. In short, I became a Marxist at 7 years old.

So back to present day, I knew that this hair would not fill the deep void of happiness in my heart. But I forked over a FUCKTON of money for it anyway. And now, here I am, hot as shit. Not only am I sexy as all get out, but my bank account is empty.

All that’s left now is a beautiful shell of a man.

All that crazy hot sex for nothing.

And another shot at the title (part xxxii)

I frantically called up Dan after receiving the horrendous news from Greta. “Did you hear that Greta is getting 100% of the merchandising rights from Chatty Cathy?” I shouted over the phone.

“Will you relax?” he explained. “I have a plan.”

“You’re my de facto agent, so you better have a plan!”

“We’re going to kill Greta.”

“What?!”

“In the press.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “What did you dig up on her?” I ask.

“She’s a tyrant on set James! 20 seconds of research will tell you that.”

I scratched my head. “I don’t know Dan,” I said. “I’ve been called that too but I’m still working.”

“But you have five times more accolades than her. You’re able to get away with it.”

I wasn’t so sure. “I’m gonna level with you Dan, I don’t like this plan at all,” I told him.

“Look, I know that we don’t have much leverage in this case so clearly this will be a slow burn. But we gotta use what we have. Maybe a few months of endless hounding from the press will force her to resign. Afterwards, contracts will be renegotiated and I’ll get you full control of merchandising rights. It’s the best we got!”

TO BE CONTINUED…

And yet another shot at the title (part xxxi)

“$400 million?!” Greta shouted.

“That’s his asking price,” I said.

“$400 million for an actor that hasn’t been in a picture in 20 years and was never that popular to begin with?”

“It’s only money,” I shrugged.

Greta shook her head. “There’s no way,” she said. “You might as well pile that money in this office and light it on fire. And besides, I already offered the role to Ryan Duckling.”

“But I already offered Casper the role.”

“When were you going to discuss this with me?!”

“When were you going to discuss Ryan Duckling with me?”

Greta tried to reply but words kept failing her. Finally I shushed her and spoke in a low, calming tone. “Why are we always fighting?” I asked. “Aren’t we a team? Isn’t this production supposed to be the teaming up of the two greatest filmmakers of our time? There’s got to be a way to resolve this as two sensible people.”

“James, like you’ve done many times before, you hijacked this movie!”

“Now wait a minute! You wanted me here! Sure you fired me and I took the studio to court and got an attorney killed, but that’s all in the past! This is now. So might I suggest a compromise: give Ryan the lead. Casper can be the villain. Does that sound fair?”

“And the $400 million?”

“I’ll pay it out of my own pocket. What does it matter to me? I fart on set and I make $400 million.”

“You’re a fool. The villain is only on screen for 10 minutes.”

“Worth every penny.”

“That’s $666,666 per second of screen time.”

“So it’s a deal?”

“You do what you want. I’ve got my hands full at the moment,” she explained as she gathered up paperwork. “I gotta be on the sound stage in 20 minutes.”

When I asked her about Pablo, her mood changed. “Oh he’s wonderful,” Greta beamed. “Did you know he played chess in college?”

I was puzzled. “Pablo went to college?” I ask.

“Yeah. Majored in physics. Minored in Russian literature.”

“Pablo?!”

“Yup. And he negotiated an incredible contract. He knows this picture will make billions. So I’m entitled to all the merchandising rights. Isn’t that great!”

“He never did that for me.”

“He’s one of the best in the business. You know, you never should have let him go as your agent.”

“Are you sure we’re talking about the same Pablo?”

TO BE CONTINUED…