September 30, 2004

SALIV, Page 2 + 3.

What he did not know then is that it is sometimes an appropriate response to reality to go insane.

He continued his insidious, long decline into misery and illness, the sort of chaos that astrophysicists say is the fate in store for the whole universe.

He was ahead of his time, ahead of the universe.

Posted by dean at 05:27 PM

September 25, 2004

Which I'm Going To Call The James Whitmore Hangs Himself In The Shawshank Redemption Suites.

I got to Seattle Wednesday morning. It was gray, drizzly and hopeless. The way I like it. Then I got to the hotel.

The entire place smelled like the sad dreams of an old man who looks back on a life filled with failure, regret, and bad food. The workout room was a broken stationary bike next to three snack machines filled with fruit pies that went stale the day Kennedy's head went blooey in Dallas. The desk clerk was the Patron Saint of Unsung Indie Bands, and snarled and snapped at us when we so much as asked if there was an ice machine. The documentary crew was levitating from happiness, all the good footage they were getting. And how about my bed, made lumpy by the dozens of teenage hookers who fought for their lives as a trucker on black beauties tried to strangle them. Oh, and lost. I left that part out.

But the show was amazing. Neumo's Crystal Ball Reading Room was packed with cool drunks, and they laid snacks out on an autopsy table for us in the green room. Maria smiled and Brian listened to metal and I drank some scotch. We all got massive love before we even opened our mouths, plus a floor-pounding encore. Wow. And I sold a lot of copies of "222". I apologize to anyone who has the stomach to get through it.
Patton Oswalt

Posted by dean at 07:55 PM

September 18, 2004

. . .

Posted by dean at 04:03 AM

September 15, 2004

It Was A White World, Near The End Of It, Broken Up By The Girl In Front Of The Apartment Building.

Lawn chair, feet propped, hive of mailboxes, laundry-day underwear -- her mind drifted over the top of the snowbank.

She'd never seen a freshwater fish before until one was spluttering in front of her door with a sign tied around its neck.

Her name was on it, her real name.

Posted by dean at 09:44 PM

September 13, 2004

Over Scrod-Smears, Page 320.

"I saw him in the bathroom afterward. A legend. He couldn't figure out how to turn on the faucet."

Posted by dean at 12:44 PM

September 12, 2004

Over Scrod-Smears, Page 315.

"I'm not even talking about something that's kitschy or trashy, an AIP picture. These were lousy made-for-TV movies, flat, one-dimensional, and still his eyes would be glued to the tube. After a while, I realized you could literally be showing him anything, you could turn it upside down and put it out of focus, and he'd be watching it like a kid with a pacifier, a lonely little boy in his living room, where he was safe. It was sad and beautiful at the same time."

Posted by dean at 12:17 AM

September 09, 2004

Oat Tug, Mob Tot Texts, A Vibratory Shammy Toffy Jet, Page 303.

In her book 'A Distant Mirror: The Calamitous Fourteenth Century,' Barbara Tucman writes about a peasant revolt in 1358 that began in the village of St. Leu and spread throughout the Oise Valley. At one estate, the serfs sacked the manor house, killed the knight, and roasted him on a spit in front of his wife and kids. Then, after ten or twelve peasants violated the lady, with the children still watching, they forced her to eat the roasted flesh of her husband and then killed her.

Posted by dean at 10:55 AM