So. This week’s been fairly Oliver Stone, I don’t mind sayin’.
Or, as the kindly black man says to the portly, ultimately acquiescent Kellerman at the close of Dirty Dancing: lots of changes, old Max. Lots of changes.
First, I had drinks with the gunslingers.
I know, right. I have no godly excuse for such a brain fart. I don’t know why they wanted me, or why I agreed to go. I’d like to call it survival tactics, but that’s like saying Twilight is an existential look at man’s need to live forever. That dog don’t tap dance. It was like sitting across from two sharks, beers nestled in fin, contesting my juicy jugular. E pluribus unum.
At worst, it was strangely inspiring; like attending a high-school reunion where you hated all you schooled with, but to which you’re oddly drawn in curiosity and self-loathing. Like all reunions, then. Twas indeed glorious to hear Cult Boy failing in a job where he’s incompetent in perpetuum (aka routinely-reamed by Schwarzenegger, like Shriver on a Saturday night).
Second, I had coffee with Gay Prince.
I know, right. But, while he’d left our place of work (dropping from view like the boobs of Whoopi Goldberg), he’d also left me with more possibility in the air than bubbles from a drunken hiccup. He’d been building towards something, a kin to crescendo; and the demise of one routine left an opening for another (if you get my Tokyo drift). Probable, even.
This coffee, like all coffee, was the crux. Where our sentimental soufflé would rise to Tim Robbins’ heights, or collapse like Elijah Wood’s career in the early hours of adolescent morn.
And so. Like Indiana entering the Temple de Doom, I ventured forth in hope and inquisition – armed with nouse, nerve and my proverbial Short Round. Further and further into the belly of the romantic beast … to come vis-à-vis with the manicured hand that held the answer. The same hand which once high-fived me in comedic and questionable union. That had stroked my arms and ego. The same hand that led me here, in conspiracy and adventure.
The hand that now … reached into my ample chest and ripped out its pumping heart, before holding it maniacally aloft and tossing me into the fiery depths of singledom.
Not to be dramatic or nothin.
As swift as any Taylor, I was sexually irrelevant. As if someone flipped my plot, mid movie. One minute, I was Sandra Bullock. The next, Meatloaf. In rocky, shocky horror.
Ah, screw it. Our landscape always was Seussian, so what did I expect?
What went before, was not to come. His attention fickle and my luck, dumb. So wave bye-bye and fuck it all to hell. My heart came near, but never truly fell.