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I've had blog-worthy thoughts lately, but I am writing a screenplay right now, so I've been spraying my creative juices in that direction.  Let me get through that, and then I'll write some more stuff here.  

Also, if any of you want to buy a screenplay, let me know.  

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Language is overrated.  A few years ago I was on the T heading toward Kenmore Square when the preceding sentence was dramatized by the passengers sitting opposite me.  (This was right when they were introducing new T-cars on the green-line with the weird steps to a second level -- I didn't understand the new design, but I suppose that they might all be like that by now, so I should get over it.  I THINK that my particular car was a big painted advertisement for Code-Red Mountain Dew  -- that might not be right -- it was something like that though.  This parenthetical statement may seem like the mother of all non-sequiturs, but Boston insiders will recognize this as a unique moment in time and imagine passing The Elbow Room, Viper Video, The Avenue, Lee's 2 convenience store, that one bum who looks like an African American Abraham Lincoln near Harvard Ave, and stuff like that.)  The passengers across from me were a young couple in love.  They had big backpacks and I overheard references to Europe, so I think they were on their way to the airport.  The guy had rimless glasses and seemed like the kind of nerd who becomes an engineer: i.e. he had tendony forearms and seemed confident, but he didn't care quite enough about humans to be socially talented.  He probably ran exactly 6.2 miles a day and knew how to use every feature on a graphing calculator.  He was going on and on and on about the locations of various pieces of camera equipment that he had carefully packed and he was very pedantic about it.  I guess he wanted the girl to be able to repeat his packing method in the event that he was incapacitated and she became responsible for the luggage.  The girl had one of those black leather rocker belts with silver studs on it.  She had a pixie haircut.  She had an ironic T-shirt.  And, she wasn't listening to a word that he said.  She just stared at him with adoration.  Sometimes she would sarcastically say "uh huh uh huh . . . that is VERY interesting."  Sometimes she would kiss him while he was in mid-sentence.  He would pause to kiss her back, and then proceed talking about a lens.  At the time I was dumbfounded.  I couldn't figure out how this relationship happened.  They don't communicate AT ALL.  Then I realized that language doesn't matter.  Very little that anyone says is probably ever heard, and if it is, it's probably not interpreted correctly.  The couple on the T communicates just fine -- just not their thoughts.  

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Dinosaurs are made up.  Paleontologists are frauds.  Paleo means ancient or prehistoric; and, ontology is the study of "being".  So, paleontology is the practice of naming ancient things.  But, of course, paleontologists don't name EVERY ancient thing -- rocks are old as hell, but paleontologists steer clear of naming rocks.  Why?  Because rocks already have names.  Geologists got there first.  And, if your whole job is naming things, you'd be pretty silly to name something that already had a name.  So, paleontologists needed some ancient non-rock thing to name and they chose ancient beasts -- they called the beasts that they "discovered" "dinosaurs."  The problem is that, like rocks, "dinosaurs" already had a name.  Dragons.  

Religion is generally very silly.  And, mythology that isn't Judeo-Christian is treated so much like fiction that it is difficult to distinguish it from fiction.  The reason is that the intelligentsia is fond of empirical evidence in advance of belief.  The more fantastic a belief, the more rigor they require for proof.  (One of my favorite comedians, Dana Gould, was talking about a recent question posed to Barak Obama about his prayer habits.  Barak said that he prays once or twice a day.  With the caveat that he understands the near impossibility of any sort of American political career for an admitted agnostic or atheist, Dana pointed out the silliness of such a prayer requirement.  Why should we be MORE comfortable to know that our president "mutters his desires to an invisible giant" at least two times a day?)  For the most part I'd count myself as a member of the camp composed of comedians and scientists.  However, the thinkers shouldn't let their egg-heads get too big.  Science should not have inherent value.  Science is an important tool for discovery and description but in the event that a myth rears it's majestic bony head, science doesn't get to pretend that it has made a discovery -- science has to play it as it lays, and it should admit the FACT that Dragons were real!  We haven't found griffin bones.  We haven't found halos.  We haven't found centaur pants.  But, we have found dragons.  Maybe we didn't live among them and maybe they weren't breathing fire, but they were legit mythical monsters, and I resent a field of study that diminishes their cred.  

The earth is flatter than you think.  

 

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Hotbodypeebed Epilogue:

A few weeks ago, I attended a party in Boston (it lasted until dawn and we had to change locations before it was done because the police broke up the first half . . . it would have seemed wild if the arrival of the fuzz didn't prompt commentary about the 4th amendment by several of the party-attendees.  No amount of beer can ever fully suppress a lawyer's inner nerd.)  As I was leaving the party, the lovely hostess held my face in her hands, kissed me goodbye, and whispered "I am well with words."  Cracked my shit up.  I'm glad that line is the legacy of the Hotbodypeebed story . . . and not the pee part.  

And, now a new blog entry -- if anyone is still reading this, sorry about my hiatus. 

You can't judge quality by a premise.  In the vacuum created by Seinfeld's departure from prime-time, producers began looking for the next young single Jewish comedian to fill his shoes. Absurd.  Jerry's heritage didn't make Seinfeld funny; it wasn't a Zionist conspiracy; there is no secret combination of backgrounds and genders; 99 out of 100 "shows about nothing" will probably just be painful -- Jerry Seinfeld's religion didn't make the show funny -- his funny made it funny.  For some reason, people think that the secret to entertainment is wrapped up in a formula.  They think that genres matter.  In reality it's all execution.  Any premise can make a good movie (like, what the fuck was Being John Malkovich about?) -- (and, no matter how awesome it sounds, Alien vs. Predator sucked.)  With two exceptions, there are no inherently interesting subjects.  Ultimately we're all just looking for a buoy in our private seas of ennui, so a story is good when it stirs our emotions: if it creates tension and we feel anxious or if it offers an intellectual puzzle and we feel like smarty-pantses, then a given story successful.  So, don't resist chick flicks just because they are chick flicks -- the Notebook wasn't bad.  And, you should also Netflix the whole Firefly series even if you think Science fiction is weird.   

The exceptions I mentioned are sex and violence.  If there is enough quality sex or violence, a program will be entertaining.  Swordfish, for instance, is a shitty shitty shitty movie, but its famous topless Halle Berry scene allows it to break even.  Sex and violence provoke emotions no matter what else is going on (ideally not the same emotion), so a story will be entertaining -- maybe not good, but definitely entertaining -- as long as somebody is moaning.  (The same logic may apply to relationships.)  

I advocate the abolition of the genre.  Aliens should land in our inspirational sports movies and our giant monsters should struggle with adolescent angst.  At the very least, just to be on the safe side, every movie should have an underground kung-fu tournament hosted by nude sunbathers.  

  

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Errata: In the post with all of the youtube 80s cartoon themesongs, Transformers was the last entry. That honor should have gone to He-Man. Obviously. Don't worry. I fixed it.

And now . . . Hotbodypeebed Part The Last wherein our buxom heroine earns her distinctive moniker.

So, when we got to my apartment, I realized that I didn't have anything to offer her except for diet coke and water, and I was a little worried that I wouldn't seem sophisticated. I know that sounds dumb since I wasn't really into this girl -- but I was aware that her previous boyfriends had been millionaires, and even if she was a drunken narcissist, I still didn't want to be disappointing. But, out of nowhere she produced a bottle of wine. I was taken aback -- where had she kept that hidden? Her clothes were so tight. Then I realized that she had snagged it from my office on the way through the front door. It was a Christmas present from my boss that I had forgotten about -- she was like an alcohol bloodhound. I poured us each a glass of wine.

--Flash forward to the next morning: I was in my kitchen and I noticed that the wine bottle was completely empty. I never poured more than those first two glasses, so at some point during the date she went into my kitchen and killed the whole bottle. Now back to the date --

We sat on the couch. She continued to tell me about her beauty. By 11:00 I was bored and tired. I had to be at work in the morning. The novelty of the date's events had worn off. I was done. So, I said as much: "I have to get up early blah blah blah. Let's call it a night blah blah blah." Then this conversation --

HBPB: "I'll just sleep here."

Me: . . . uh . . . okay . . . I can just stay on the couch I guess.

HBPB: We'll share your bed.

Me:. . . uh . . . Do you need a T-shirt or something to sleep in.

HBPB: (Stands up, takes her shirt and pants off, and walks toward me room.)

Me: . . . (Follows)

HBPB: Introduce me to your room!

Me: . . . uh . . . HBPB this is my room, room, this is HBPB (I used her real name at the time).

HBPB: No!

Me: . . . uh . . . HBPB this is my bed, this is my closet and this is my rug.

HBPB: (nods her head once and gets into my bed)

Me: (shrugs, disrobes, joins her)

I know that I seem like a great big prude so far. The "I'll just sleep here" line should have clued me in that action was imminent. And, we had already kissed. But, it was pretty abrupt for one thing; I didn't really like her for another thing; and, also, I can be super dense. To the shock of my womanizing friends, I have failed to see the nipples of several girls whose beds I have shared. (Interesting corollary -- many of the nipples that I HAVE seen came to me by surprise. Sometimes dense is the way to go I guess. For example . . . we resume the story with a super hot mostly naked girl in my bed.)

We started making out. The remaining clothes came off. &c. &c. &c. Then I noticed that she was still wearing her socks.

Me: It's cute that you're still wearing socks.

HBPB: (Eyes suddenly glowing red, fingernails extending into claws) Why? Are you saying that I can't be HOT with socks on? (She threw me down and straddled me) HOT WITH MY SOCKS ON! (Grinding and writhing) HOT WITH MY SOCKS ON!

HOT WITH MY SOCKS

SOCKS HOT

HOT WITH SOCKS

SOCKS WITH MY HOT

HOT SOCKS

SOCKS ARE HOT

I was turned on I guess . . . but mostly very nervous. In addition to the sock talk, she was also making animal noises and panting like Sigourney Weaver in Ghostbusters when she was possessed by Zuul. But, I was gamely trying to get my head in the game when, without warning . . . she fell asleep and started snoring loudly . . .

70% confused, 15% disappointed and 15% relieved, I went to sleep too.

Then . . . 3:00AM . . . I woke up.

I woke up because me knees were cold.

My knees were cold because they were wet.

They were wet because she had peed in my bed.

!!!!!!

The way the covers were situated, most of the biohazard was contained in one comforter, so I wadded it up and threw it across the room. The next morning, I woke up before she did, got dressed and got ready for work. She continued to snore. At about 6:30, while I was watching TV, she came into the living room (totally naked) and asked me where her clothes were. I told her. She sat in my lap (which made me uncomfortable since I assumed that there was probably now urine residue on my pants). Eventually, she got dressed, and I took her home. In the car, in a much more sober voice, she continued to tell me that about the power of her looks. I dropped her off, and despite her lengthy campaign in support of its irresistibility, never saw her moist beauty again. 

I have friends who were furious with me when I didn't call her. They said that wild animal sex with a super hot girl should trump the casual urine issue, so I'll concede that my standards might be too high, but it's one thing to go on safari -- it's another thing to go native . . . I'm just not ready for that. 

The end.

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Hotbodypeebed unabridged . . . part the third.

When I tell this story, I usually leave out a part.  I tend to paint my date with the crazy-blotto-brush throughout my whole description.  That's what the people want.  But, if you want the whole truth, there was a sentimental moment . . . I'm not saying that she SHOULDN'T be painted with the crazy-blotto-brush.  She gets that brush.  There is no question.  But, for a second, she should also be accented with the sweet-brush.  About half-way through dinner, she stopped in mid-delirious-sentence, looked me in the eye and sincerely asked me to tell her about myself.  I made some glib deflector joke (as I'm wont to do) and waited for her to start talking about herself again . . . but she didn't.  She continued to look into my eyes.  She was waiting for me to ACTUALLY reveal something about myself.  I was genuinely touched.  I didn't really know what to say.  I'm used to sharing my opinion.  But, just talking about my life with no irony or attempt at humor simply because a girl want to know me better? Unheard of.  So, I kissed her in the parking-lot after dinner.  (For the record, that's a standard move of mine if I like a girl.  I think it's a good first kiss moment.  There is a pause in the dinner conversation when you're walking back to the car, so you don't have to wait for your opening.  But, unlike the END of the date, the girl doesn't see a kiss coming -- less pressure.  Also, if you kiss a girl in the middle of the date, you can almost certainly make-out with her at the end of the date, but since the ice is broken, there is again less pressure.)  

In the car, I asked her what she wanted to do next, she said that it wasn't her job to decide.  So, I took her to my apartment.  

Onward!

 

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Hotbodypeebed unabridged . . . part II. 

I'm sorry for the delay.  I was moving to Arizona.  Arizona is pretty cool -- it looks just like Rygar. 

Anyway -- the plan was to pick up the myspace girl at 7:00 and then go to dinner.  Girls are funny about going out for the first time.  Half of them want to meet at a neutral location because they don't want to get into a car with a stranger.  The other half likes it when the guy picks them up.  There is nothing wrong with either point of view.  What makes the male point of view intrinsically different is that we don't care about a date's logistics at all.  Meet 'em . . . pick 'em up . . . whatever, let's just get on with it.  Speaking of getting on with it . . . 

When she answered the door, I was simultaneously struck by three powerful impressions: 1) her proportions were eye-popping; she's 5'8", size 2,  DD (shirt popping? . . . zipper popping?); 2) her giant mastiff was drooling and growling at me; and, 3) she was DRIIIIIZZZZZZZZUNK . . . stumbly-wumbly, one-eye-closed, SLOSHED.  She grabbed my hand and explained that we had to leave quickly before her amateur cage-fighter cousin came home because he probably has an incestuous crush on her (he punches guys who show interest in her amazing body).  Ordinarily, early handholding makes me happy, but I was dazed by the sudden anxiety about her violent cousin and relief from escaping her violent dog.  

I felt much more at ease once we got into my car, so it surprised me when she slurred, "you're nervous aren't you?"  I wasn't.  I said that I wasn't.  She wouldn't believe me.  I guess that most guys who go out with her either try to get into her pants immediately or quiver in fear.  Since I didn't try the former, she assumed the later.  This theme (the power of her physical appearance) would be the dominant subject of conversation for the remainder of the time that I knew her (the term conversation is misleading -- I didn't say more than a few sentences the entire night).  She explained that she lost 100 pounds when she was 21 and went from zero male attention to constant male attention -- the shock may have caused some brain trauma.  NBA players and real estate millionaires come on to her on a regular basis -- that would mess me up too.  

At dinner the conversation briefly changed from her looks to her mind.  Evidently, she is a genius.  Her IQ is off the charts.  She especially loves language . . . I quote:

"I am litter . . . I am littery . . . I am literary . . . (sigh) . . . I am well with words."

More to come.