Thursday, January 11, 2007
ONCE THE BABY STARTS CROWNING, ALL DRUGS ARE RENDERED USELESS BY A MASSIVE SURGE OF ADRENALINE
By Brad Listi
LOS ANGELES, CA-
Last night my fiancee and I went out to dinner with some friends here in Hollywood.
It happened fast.
Impromptu.
I went over to my fiancee's apartment at around seven, and all of a sudden we were rushing around with dinner plans.
One of our friends is pregnant with her first child.
She delivered the good news last week.
She and her husband have been married about six months.
Already: a conception.
We gave her a ride up to the restaurant.
She was sitting in the backseat.
Three months pregnant.
"The kid is about the size of a peach," she said. "Next week it'll start to get fingernails and hair."
The gender is currently unknown, though apparently they're gonna find out pretty soon, ahead of time.
Eventually we started talking about the birth itself.
Our friend said she wasn't sure if she wanted her husband to be looking at her business when the baby comes out.
"I'm just not sure I want him to see all of that," she said. "I mean, I want him to be there, of course---it's just that I might want him to be standing up by my face instead of down by....my business."
"He'll be able to see your business," I said. "There's no real way around it. If he's there with you in the delivery room, your business will be pretty much unavoidable."
"Isn't there a curtain?" she said. "I'll make them put up a curtain."
"No curtain," said my fiancee.
"I don't think there's a curtain," I said. "Unless you have a C-section. And even then, he'll still be able to see your business."
My friend is concerned for her husband's overall psychological health.
"I like my sex life," she said mournfully. "I'm just not sure if I want my husband to see my business turn inside-out with my feet in stirrups. I'm afraid he'll be scarred for life."
"I doubt it," I said. "You gotta remember: we're animals, at the end of the day. Programmed for reproduction. Chances are, he'll get over it. Some switch will flip in his brain. He'll find it oddly endearing."
"Sloppy mess-hole," said my fiancee.
She then went on to mention that I once filmed a live birth back when I was in college.
"I think it's funny," she said, "that out of all of us, Brad is the only one who has actually seen a live birth."
"Yeah," I said, looking at our friend in the rearview mirror. "I can film it for you if you want. I'll bring a crew in. I'll bring a dolly and a lightbank. A couple of boom microphones...."
Our friend said: "Shut it."
My fiancee started singing The Circle of Life.
Our friend said "Shut it" again.
She then went on to ask me about the filming of the live birth.
I told her that it was a random college thing.
A fated experience.
One of the most exhilarating experiences of my entire life.
As it happened, a friend of mine's boyfriend was acting as the Lamaze partner for one of his neighbors.
The woman had gotten pregnant, and the father of the child had split town.
So now my friend's boyfriend was lending a hand.
His name is Archie.
A bit of an eccentric.
I think I might have mentioned him before.
He was a bit of a hippie, back in those days.
He used to play the guitar on campus at CU while wearing a red Speedo.
The girls adored him.
Here's a picture of him that I pulled off of the Internet, taken at one of his high school reunions in Michigan:
Archie, as you may recall, insisted on getting me stoned before the birth.
He walked me outside of the hospital, right by the emergency room doors, and fired up a big joint.
We stood there smoking it while sirens wailed and doctors passed in and out through the sliding glass doors.
Then we walked back inside the hospital and took the elevator up to the delivery room.
I had a bunch of equipment with me, which I had rented over at the campus film department.
One of my buddies was along for the ride as well, serving as my sound man.
He was carrying a big boom microphone.
We walked into the delivery room, and there was the pregnant woman, lying there in stirrups.
We could see her business right away.
Her business was dilated to 5 centimeters, and she was a little bit loopy on an epidural.
"Hey," she said. "It's the film guy."
Her mother was there, as was her aunt and one of her nieces.
I remember being stoned to the bone, shaking hands with all of them.
Archie was moving around the room in animated fashion.
"Brad's gonna film the birth," he said. "He's an expert documentarian. And this is his technical assistant."
He was pointing at my friend.
My friend looked like he'd just seen a ghost.
Archie was a high-functioning stoner.
The situation didn't really seem to faze him.
My friend and I, on the other hand, were not high-functioning stoners.
I was middle-of-the-road, average at best, with a tendency toward aggressive over-analysis.
Pot made me a little paranoid, but in critical situations I could usually deal with it.
I could function when I absolutely had to.
In this case, I absolutely had to.
And for the record, I felt it would've been discourteous to refuse the weed, on account of Archie's exuberant insistence.
He smoked that joint as if it were a sacrament.
He wasn't doing it to be stupid; he was doing it to be holy.
That was his angle back in those days.
He would play the guitar and sing about it.
It was all very sweet and bohemian.
So there we are, in the car, last night, driving down Sunset on the way to dinner.
My friend hears all of this, and she says, "There's no way I would ever let my husband be stoned around me while I was giving birth."
"I know," I said. "It was a little bit unconventional, admittedly. But I was younger back in those days, and ultimately it wasn't really my call."
"Then again," said my friend. "Maybe he'll need a sedative. Or some sort of beta blocker. Maybe I'll let him take a Xanax."
"Nah," I said. "Forget about it. He wouldn't even feel it. Once the baby starts crowning, all chemical ingestions will be rendered useless and fully nullified by a massive surge of adrenaline."
"I can't believe you just used the word crowning as a verb," said my fiancee.
"Seriously," said our friend. "I'm actually getting hot in the throat back here. I'm actually gonna start to feel nauseous."
I laughed and said: "The placenta's the craziest part. It looks like a little alien egg pod, and the doctors pull it out by umbilical cord, hand-over-hand, like a rope."
With that, I started pantomiming the hand-over-hand rope-pulling motion.
My fiancee laughed and said, "Jeeeeeesus."
Our friend kicked the back of my seat.
"I'M SERIOUS," she said. "IF YOU DON'T SHUT THE FUCK UP RIGHT NOW, I'M GONNA START HAVING A MASSIVE PANIC ATTACK."
My fiancee and I just sat there laughing.
We pulled up in front of the restaurant a few minutes later and went inside and had dinner.
LOS ANGELES, CA-
Last night my fiancee and I went out to dinner with some friends here in Hollywood.
It happened fast.
Impromptu.
I went over to my fiancee's apartment at around seven, and all of a sudden we were rushing around with dinner plans.
One of our friends is pregnant with her first child.
She delivered the good news last week.
She and her husband have been married about six months.
Already: a conception.
We gave her a ride up to the restaurant.
She was sitting in the backseat.
Three months pregnant.
"The kid is about the size of a peach," she said. "Next week it'll start to get fingernails and hair."
The gender is currently unknown, though apparently they're gonna find out pretty soon, ahead of time.
Eventually we started talking about the birth itself.
Our friend said she wasn't sure if she wanted her husband to be looking at her business when the baby comes out.
"I'm just not sure I want him to see all of that," she said. "I mean, I want him to be there, of course---it's just that I might want him to be standing up by my face instead of down by....my business."
"He'll be able to see your business," I said. "There's no real way around it. If he's there with you in the delivery room, your business will be pretty much unavoidable."
"Isn't there a curtain?" she said. "I'll make them put up a curtain."
"No curtain," said my fiancee.
"I don't think there's a curtain," I said. "Unless you have a C-section. And even then, he'll still be able to see your business."
My friend is concerned for her husband's overall psychological health.
"I like my sex life," she said mournfully. "I'm just not sure if I want my husband to see my business turn inside-out with my feet in stirrups. I'm afraid he'll be scarred for life."
"I doubt it," I said. "You gotta remember: we're animals, at the end of the day. Programmed for reproduction. Chances are, he'll get over it. Some switch will flip in his brain. He'll find it oddly endearing."
"Sloppy mess-hole," said my fiancee.
She then went on to mention that I once filmed a live birth back when I was in college.
"I think it's funny," she said, "that out of all of us, Brad is the only one who has actually seen a live birth."
"Yeah," I said, looking at our friend in the rearview mirror. "I can film it for you if you want. I'll bring a crew in. I'll bring a dolly and a lightbank. A couple of boom microphones...."
Our friend said: "Shut it."
My fiancee started singing The Circle of Life.
Our friend said "Shut it" again.
She then went on to ask me about the filming of the live birth.
I told her that it was a random college thing.
A fated experience.
One of the most exhilarating experiences of my entire life.
As it happened, a friend of mine's boyfriend was acting as the Lamaze partner for one of his neighbors.
The woman had gotten pregnant, and the father of the child had split town.
So now my friend's boyfriend was lending a hand.
His name is Archie.
A bit of an eccentric.
I think I might have mentioned him before.
He was a bit of a hippie, back in those days.
He used to play the guitar on campus at CU while wearing a red Speedo.
The girls adored him.
Here's a picture of him that I pulled off of the Internet, taken at one of his high school reunions in Michigan:
Archie, as you may recall, insisted on getting me stoned before the birth.
He walked me outside of the hospital, right by the emergency room doors, and fired up a big joint.
We stood there smoking it while sirens wailed and doctors passed in and out through the sliding glass doors.
Then we walked back inside the hospital and took the elevator up to the delivery room.
I had a bunch of equipment with me, which I had rented over at the campus film department.
One of my buddies was along for the ride as well, serving as my sound man.
He was carrying a big boom microphone.
We walked into the delivery room, and there was the pregnant woman, lying there in stirrups.
We could see her business right away.
Her business was dilated to 5 centimeters, and she was a little bit loopy on an epidural.
"Hey," she said. "It's the film guy."
Her mother was there, as was her aunt and one of her nieces.
I remember being stoned to the bone, shaking hands with all of them.
Archie was moving around the room in animated fashion.
"Brad's gonna film the birth," he said. "He's an expert documentarian. And this is his technical assistant."
He was pointing at my friend.
My friend looked like he'd just seen a ghost.
Archie was a high-functioning stoner.
The situation didn't really seem to faze him.
My friend and I, on the other hand, were not high-functioning stoners.
I was middle-of-the-road, average at best, with a tendency toward aggressive over-analysis.
Pot made me a little paranoid, but in critical situations I could usually deal with it.
I could function when I absolutely had to.
In this case, I absolutely had to.
And for the record, I felt it would've been discourteous to refuse the weed, on account of Archie's exuberant insistence.
He smoked that joint as if it were a sacrament.
He wasn't doing it to be stupid; he was doing it to be holy.
That was his angle back in those days.
He would play the guitar and sing about it.
It was all very sweet and bohemian.
So there we are, in the car, last night, driving down Sunset on the way to dinner.
My friend hears all of this, and she says, "There's no way I would ever let my husband be stoned around me while I was giving birth."
"I know," I said. "It was a little bit unconventional, admittedly. But I was younger back in those days, and ultimately it wasn't really my call."
"Then again," said my friend. "Maybe he'll need a sedative. Or some sort of beta blocker. Maybe I'll let him take a Xanax."
"Nah," I said. "Forget about it. He wouldn't even feel it. Once the baby starts crowning, all chemical ingestions will be rendered useless and fully nullified by a massive surge of adrenaline."
"I can't believe you just used the word crowning as a verb," said my fiancee.
"Seriously," said our friend. "I'm actually getting hot in the throat back here. I'm actually gonna start to feel nauseous."
I laughed and said: "The placenta's the craziest part. It looks like a little alien egg pod, and the doctors pull it out by umbilical cord, hand-over-hand, like a rope."
With that, I started pantomiming the hand-over-hand rope-pulling motion.
My fiancee laughed and said, "Jeeeeeesus."
Our friend kicked the back of my seat.
"I'M SERIOUS," she said. "IF YOU DON'T SHUT THE FUCK UP RIGHT NOW, I'M GONNA START HAVING A MASSIVE PANIC ATTACK."
My fiancee and I just sat there laughing.
We pulled up in front of the restaurant a few minutes later and went inside and had dinner.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
IF JESUS WAS THE KING OF MYSPACE, I WONDER IF HE WOULD HAVE 147,031,267 FRIENDS
By Brad Listi
LOS ANGELES, CA-
Hugo Chavez, the president of Venezuela, was sworn in for a new six-year term today.
"Fatherland, socialism or death," he said. "I swear it."
His right hand was raised.
He was invoking memories of Fidel Castro's famous call to arms.
Chavez went on to make mention of Jesus Christ, calling him "the greatest socialist in history."
"Stick with me," Chavez seemed to be saying. "I'm on Jesus's team."
Jesus's team.
Which brings up an interesting question, and one that gets batted around from time to time, usually during election years:
If Jesus were alive today, what would his politics be?
How would he operate?
For whom would he vote?
It's a bit of a useless question in many ways, as Jesus is long dead and arguments can be made on just about every side of the line to support just about every viewpoint imaginable.
Everybody, in essence, can claim to be on Jesus's team, and inevitably certain people will agree with them.
Hitler did it.
Bush does it.
Chavez does it.
Etcetera.
At any rate, whenever the question comes up regarding Jesus's hypothetical politics, my mind tends to drift to comparable men and women of our time.
Holy men.
Oprah.
Bono.
Angelina.
Men and women of the cloth.
The Pope, Desmond Tutu, Pema Chodron, Thich Nhat Hanh.
Etcetera.
The Jesuses of the 21st century.
Generally speaking, you don't hear too much from these people in the way of politics.
They have their views, certainly, and they do speak up from time to time, particularly in periods of war and strife, but you wouldn't really characterize them as being explicitly political individuals.
Or maybe a lot of them just can't get air time.
At any rate, perhaps Jesus would be much like these people, spreading his radical message of peace and compassion on the periphery, in a generally apolitical kind of a way.
Or maybe he would be more like Mahatma Gandhi or the Dalai Lama, who have somehow managed to be effective as both spiritual leaders and heads of state.
Or maybe Jesus would just snap his fingers, and everybody would suddenly listen to him.
Maybe that's all that Jesus would need to do.
The King of the World.
Or maybe he would be on the television, the star of his own reality show.
The Jesus Life.
Maybe he would be marketing his message with tremendous skill and zeal.
Shit, who knows?
Maybe Jesus would be the King of Myspace.
147,031,267 friends.
And what is socialism, anyway?
And why does it carry such a negative connotation among so many people in the United States of America?
Why is it so often considered to be so evil?
According to the dictionary, socialism is "a theory or system of social organization that advocates the vesting of the ownership and control of the means of production and distribution, of capital, land, etc., in the community as a whole."
So does socialism equal, say, Nazism?
Not at all, as far as I can tell.
Socialism in and of itself isn't an inherently evil thing.
Christianity, after all, doesn't always equal the Crusades.
In an attempt at clarity, I'll try this:
A website managed by the Socialist Labor Party has this to say about what socialism is and is not:
WHAT SOCIALISM IS:
Socialism is the collective ownership by all the people of the factories, mills, mines, railroads, land and all other instruments of production.
WHO BENEFITS?
Socialism means production to satisfy human needs, not as under capitalism, for sale and profit.
WHO RUNS THINGS?
Socialism means direct control and management of the industries and social services by the workers through a democratic government based on their nationwide economic organization.
Under socialism, all authority will originate from the workers, integrally united in Socialist Industrial Unions. In each workplace, the rank and file will elect whatever committees or representatives are needed to facilitate production. Within each shop or office division of a plant, the rank and file will participate directly in formulating and implementing all plans necessary for efficient operations.
WHAT SOCIALISM IS NOT:
-Socialism does not mean government or state ownership.
-It does not mean a closed party-run system without democratic rights.
-It does not mean "nationalization," or "labor-management boards,"
or state capitalism of any kind.
-It means a complete end to all capitalist social relations.
The site goes on to claim that socialism in its legitimate form has never really existed on planet Earth.
It didn't exist in Nazi Germany, they say, nor in the U.S.S.R., and it doesn't exist in China today.
Any claims to the contrary are apparently just perversions of the word.
So.
If the definition of socialism offered above is to be taken at face value, one is left to ponder whether or not there is any validity to Hugo Chavez's claims.
Was Jesus the greatest socialist in history?
And if he were alive today, and he was forced to pick from the same lame candidate pool that citizens tend to choose from, who would he be voting for?
Would it be Hugo Chavez?
George W. Bush?
Would it be Vladimir Putin?
Lula da Silva?
Himself?
And just for the record, I was kidding about Oprah and Bono and Angelina.
LOS ANGELES, CA-
Hugo Chavez, the president of Venezuela, was sworn in for a new six-year term today.
"Fatherland, socialism or death," he said. "I swear it."
His right hand was raised.
He was invoking memories of Fidel Castro's famous call to arms.
Chavez went on to make mention of Jesus Christ, calling him "the greatest socialist in history."
"Stick with me," Chavez seemed to be saying. "I'm on Jesus's team."
Jesus's team.
Which brings up an interesting question, and one that gets batted around from time to time, usually during election years:
If Jesus were alive today, what would his politics be?
How would he operate?
For whom would he vote?
It's a bit of a useless question in many ways, as Jesus is long dead and arguments can be made on just about every side of the line to support just about every viewpoint imaginable.
Everybody, in essence, can claim to be on Jesus's team, and inevitably certain people will agree with them.
Hitler did it.
Bush does it.
Chavez does it.
Etcetera.
At any rate, whenever the question comes up regarding Jesus's hypothetical politics, my mind tends to drift to comparable men and women of our time.
Holy men.
Oprah.
Bono.
Angelina.
Men and women of the cloth.
The Pope, Desmond Tutu, Pema Chodron, Thich Nhat Hanh.
Etcetera.
The Jesuses of the 21st century.
Generally speaking, you don't hear too much from these people in the way of politics.
They have their views, certainly, and they do speak up from time to time, particularly in periods of war and strife, but you wouldn't really characterize them as being explicitly political individuals.
Or maybe a lot of them just can't get air time.
At any rate, perhaps Jesus would be much like these people, spreading his radical message of peace and compassion on the periphery, in a generally apolitical kind of a way.
Or maybe he would be more like Mahatma Gandhi or the Dalai Lama, who have somehow managed to be effective as both spiritual leaders and heads of state.
Or maybe Jesus would just snap his fingers, and everybody would suddenly listen to him.
Maybe that's all that Jesus would need to do.
The King of the World.
Or maybe he would be on the television, the star of his own reality show.
The Jesus Life.
Maybe he would be marketing his message with tremendous skill and zeal.
Shit, who knows?
Maybe Jesus would be the King of Myspace.
147,031,267 friends.
And what is socialism, anyway?
And why does it carry such a negative connotation among so many people in the United States of America?
Why is it so often considered to be so evil?
According to the dictionary, socialism is "a theory or system of social organization that advocates the vesting of the ownership and control of the means of production and distribution, of capital, land, etc., in the community as a whole."
So does socialism equal, say, Nazism?
Not at all, as far as I can tell.
Socialism in and of itself isn't an inherently evil thing.
Christianity, after all, doesn't always equal the Crusades.
In an attempt at clarity, I'll try this:
A website managed by the Socialist Labor Party has this to say about what socialism is and is not:
WHAT SOCIALISM IS:
Socialism is the collective ownership by all the people of the factories, mills, mines, railroads, land and all other instruments of production.
WHO BENEFITS?
Socialism means production to satisfy human needs, not as under capitalism, for sale and profit.
WHO RUNS THINGS?
Socialism means direct control and management of the industries and social services by the workers through a democratic government based on their nationwide economic organization.
Under socialism, all authority will originate from the workers, integrally united in Socialist Industrial Unions. In each workplace, the rank and file will elect whatever committees or representatives are needed to facilitate production. Within each shop or office division of a plant, the rank and file will participate directly in formulating and implementing all plans necessary for efficient operations.
WHAT SOCIALISM IS NOT:
-Socialism does not mean government or state ownership.
-It does not mean a closed party-run system without democratic rights.
-It does not mean "nationalization," or "labor-management boards,"
or state capitalism of any kind.
-It means a complete end to all capitalist social relations.
The site goes on to claim that socialism in its legitimate form has never really existed on planet Earth.
It didn't exist in Nazi Germany, they say, nor in the U.S.S.R., and it doesn't exist in China today.
Any claims to the contrary are apparently just perversions of the word.
So.
If the definition of socialism offered above is to be taken at face value, one is left to ponder whether or not there is any validity to Hugo Chavez's claims.
Was Jesus the greatest socialist in history?
And if he were alive today, and he was forced to pick from the same lame candidate pool that citizens tend to choose from, who would he be voting for?
Would it be Hugo Chavez?
George W. Bush?
Would it be Vladimir Putin?
Lula da Silva?
Himself?
And just for the record, I was kidding about Oprah and Bono and Angelina.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
IT'S UNDENIABLE, IT'S EXCRUCIATING, IT'S TOTALLY REPELLENT--AND YET SOMEHOW YOU CAN'T TURN AWAY
By Brad Listi
LOS ANGELES, CA-
By now you've probably seen it.
That show on television.
To Catch a Predator.
Dateline NBC.
Hosted by Chris Hansen.
Pedophiles caught on tape.
Sting operations.
Stakeouts.
The bait and switch.
Perverted justice.
Jesus Christ.
It's awful.
I could watch that show for days.
I think it's great TV.
Gut-wrenching.
Terrifying.
Fascinating.
Riveting.
It's undeniable.
It's excruciating.
It's totally repellent.
And yet somehow you can't turn away.
Everybody I know who's seen that show can't stop watching it.
It's like some sort of freaky sporting event.
You sit there watching the perverts get crushed.
You sit there watching these people's lives go down the drain.
A San Francisco doctor is caught on camera.
A formerly well-respected member of the community, caught on tape in a sinister freefall.
The police are booking him.
Cameras everywhere.
He's stammering into the telephone, shaking and pathetic, whimpering like a child, telling his wife to come down to the local police station to bail him out of jail.
"I'm in trouble," he sobs. "I can't tell you....what it is right now....I'm just....in trouble....and I need you to come down.....to the police station....and I need you....to bail me....out of jail...."
Jesus.
The poor woman.
That's all I keep thinking.
That poor fucking woman.
He's been married to her for thirty years.
It's $50,000 bail.
He's got kids.
A grandkid, maybe.
And now he's being brought up for attempting to nail a twelve-year-old.
A trunk full of rubbers and whipped cream and kiddie porn.
The cops have mountains of evidence.
All of it nasty stuff.
Damning and irrefutable.
Chat room transcripts a mile long:
thedoctorisin: Are you a virgin?"
thedoctorisin: I want to know what you taste like.
thedoctorisin: I could show you new positions.
And on and on it goes.
Dateline's ratings go through the roof every time they run an episode.
To Catch a Predator is a smash hit.
America loves perverts.
We love to watch them get crushed.
We love to watch justice.
We love to watch these people's lives go down the drain.
"Honey!" we say. "Come in here, quick! A pervert is about to get crushed! His life is about to go down the drain! You're never gonna believe this!"
And here's the thing:
You're never gonna believe this.
A lot of the time, the perverts aren't who you'd think they are.
That's a big part of the show's allure, a big part of what makes it so terrifying and so utterly staggering.
These pedophiles are sometimes doctors.
They're sometimes lawyers and teachers.
They're rabbis, and they're accountants, and they're PhDs and scholars.
And they all want to fondle a teenager for some reason.
Twelve-year-olds, even.
Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.
It's some sort of twisted sickness.
Baffling.
Stomach-turning.
Troubling.
Unsettling.
It's real human drama.
It's real reality television.
The predators are all men.
A majority of them are white.
For some reason they just can't stop themselves.
And they don't know that the cameras are on until it's way too late.
And here's something else that's odd:
I often find myself feeling sorry for these guys---or almost feeling sorry for them, anyway.
It's an odd experience.
I sit there watching justice be done, and I pity these wretched fucks.
They're sick.
They're disturbed.
And on the one hand, sure, I think to myself: Fuck these fucking bastards. Castrate all of them. Chop off their nuts, and lock 'em up for life.
And on the other hand, I think: Jesus. These poor, pathetic freaks. What the fuck is wrong with these people?
You watch that show enough times, and you start to see behavior patterns.
You start to see how anguished these guys are, how conflicted and out of control.
You start to see how similar they are in terms of their psychology.
Chilling behavior.
They want to have sex with children.
They know what they're doing is twisted and wrong, and yet they can't resist the temptation.
They obey their rank compulsions.
They go to the dark side.
A lot of times, it's like they would crawl across hot coals to get to these kids.
It's like they're poisoned by some wretched impulse....cursed by a desire that completely overwhelms them.
Is it an illness?
Is it genetic?
Is it simply pure evil?
Pathetic criminal behavior?
Truth of the matter is, I don't really know.
To the best of my knowledge, it's up in the air.
Doctors and scientists haven't figured out what causes pedophiles to be pedophiles.
A lot of them were abused as children---you hear that a lot when the subject comes up.
But then again: not all of them were abused as children.
Some of them have past histories of criminal behavior.
Others: nothing at all.
It's weird.
It's unpredictable.
A dark and insidious mystery.
And it seems to involve facial hair:
Be afraid.
LOS ANGELES, CA-
By now you've probably seen it.
That show on television.
To Catch a Predator.
Dateline NBC.
Hosted by Chris Hansen.
Pedophiles caught on tape.
Sting operations.
Stakeouts.
The bait and switch.
Perverted justice.
Jesus Christ.
It's awful.
I could watch that show for days.
I think it's great TV.
Gut-wrenching.
Terrifying.
Fascinating.
Riveting.
It's undeniable.
It's excruciating.
It's totally repellent.
And yet somehow you can't turn away.
Everybody I know who's seen that show can't stop watching it.
It's like some sort of freaky sporting event.
You sit there watching the perverts get crushed.
You sit there watching these people's lives go down the drain.
A San Francisco doctor is caught on camera.
A formerly well-respected member of the community, caught on tape in a sinister freefall.
The police are booking him.
Cameras everywhere.
He's stammering into the telephone, shaking and pathetic, whimpering like a child, telling his wife to come down to the local police station to bail him out of jail.
"I'm in trouble," he sobs. "I can't tell you....what it is right now....I'm just....in trouble....and I need you to come down.....to the police station....and I need you....to bail me....out of jail...."
Jesus.
The poor woman.
That's all I keep thinking.
That poor fucking woman.
He's been married to her for thirty years.
It's $50,000 bail.
He's got kids.
A grandkid, maybe.
And now he's being brought up for attempting to nail a twelve-year-old.
A trunk full of rubbers and whipped cream and kiddie porn.
The cops have mountains of evidence.
All of it nasty stuff.
Damning and irrefutable.
Chat room transcripts a mile long:
thedoctorisin: Are you a virgin?"
thedoctorisin: I want to know what you taste like.
thedoctorisin: I could show you new positions.
And on and on it goes.
Dateline's ratings go through the roof every time they run an episode.
To Catch a Predator is a smash hit.
America loves perverts.
We love to watch them get crushed.
We love to watch justice.
We love to watch these people's lives go down the drain.
"Honey!" we say. "Come in here, quick! A pervert is about to get crushed! His life is about to go down the drain! You're never gonna believe this!"
And here's the thing:
You're never gonna believe this.
A lot of the time, the perverts aren't who you'd think they are.
That's a big part of the show's allure, a big part of what makes it so terrifying and so utterly staggering.
These pedophiles are sometimes doctors.
They're sometimes lawyers and teachers.
They're rabbis, and they're accountants, and they're PhDs and scholars.
And they all want to fondle a teenager for some reason.
Twelve-year-olds, even.
Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.
It's some sort of twisted sickness.
Baffling.
Stomach-turning.
Troubling.
Unsettling.
It's real human drama.
It's real reality television.
The predators are all men.
A majority of them are white.
For some reason they just can't stop themselves.
And they don't know that the cameras are on until it's way too late.
And here's something else that's odd:
I often find myself feeling sorry for these guys---or almost feeling sorry for them, anyway.
It's an odd experience.
I sit there watching justice be done, and I pity these wretched fucks.
They're sick.
They're disturbed.
And on the one hand, sure, I think to myself: Fuck these fucking bastards. Castrate all of them. Chop off their nuts, and lock 'em up for life.
And on the other hand, I think: Jesus. These poor, pathetic freaks. What the fuck is wrong with these people?
You watch that show enough times, and you start to see behavior patterns.
You start to see how anguished these guys are, how conflicted and out of control.
You start to see how similar they are in terms of their psychology.
Chilling behavior.
They want to have sex with children.
They know what they're doing is twisted and wrong, and yet they can't resist the temptation.
They obey their rank compulsions.
They go to the dark side.
A lot of times, it's like they would crawl across hot coals to get to these kids.
It's like they're poisoned by some wretched impulse....cursed by a desire that completely overwhelms them.
Is it an illness?
Is it genetic?
Is it simply pure evil?
Pathetic criminal behavior?
Truth of the matter is, I don't really know.
To the best of my knowledge, it's up in the air.
Doctors and scientists haven't figured out what causes pedophiles to be pedophiles.
A lot of them were abused as children---you hear that a lot when the subject comes up.
But then again: not all of them were abused as children.
Some of them have past histories of criminal behavior.
Others: nothing at all.
It's weird.
It's unpredictable.
A dark and insidious mystery.
And it seems to involve facial hair:
Be afraid.
Monday, January 08, 2007
NOTES FROM A RIBALD COCKTAIL PARTY ON THE OBSERVATION DECK OF THE STARSHIP ENTERPRISE
By Brad Listi
LOS ANGELES, CA-
I went to a party this weekend in the Hollywood Hills.
A small gathering.
A lotta fun.
A couple of my fiancee's friends and their significant others, and a few other people I hadn't met before.
It was a good time.
We sat around and drank alcohol.
And we talked.
We were at this house that sits on a hillside overlooking Los Angeles.
Glass walls.
Low leather couches.
A sea of lights in the distance.
A view like this:
It felt kinda like being in a spaceship.
A beautiful place.
Restores your faith in LA a little bit.
Twinkling lights.
A view of the power grid.
A little bit surreal.
And strangely breathtaking.
I felt like I was sitting on the observation deck of the Starship Enterprise.
I felt like the house could take off at any moment.
Everybody was drinking champagne.
The champagne came out shortly after we arrived.
Another toast to the engagement.
Another round.
Another toast to everybody.
I couldn't stop eating.
For a while there, I was the only one at the party eating anything.
I was hovering around the food table, wondering if anybody was noticing that I was the only person eating anything.
Eventually everybody went and sat over in the living room, and I wound up bringing a bowl of mixed nuts with me over to the couch.
I wondered if I was being rude, but I couldn't manage to stop myself.
My blood sugar was low, and I was putting booze in my system.
I needed food.
I brought the nuts with me.
Everybody was sitting over there, having their champagne while a fire roared in the fireplace across the room.
I kept getting crumbs on my sweater and my fiancee kept wiping them off of me.
I think she was worried that I was the only one eating.
I think I was worried that she was wiping crumbs off of me and onto the floor.
Anyway, I couldn't really help it.
I had to eat something.
I was completely starving.
I hadn't eaten anything all day.
I do that sometimes:
I forget to eat.
I get caught up.
Distracted.
I get too busy.
I'll go over to my fiancee's apartment at around 8pm and I'll say, "Jesus Christ, I'm starving, I completely forgot to eat."
I did that on Saturday, the day of the party.
Completely forgot to eat.
I worked all day long, and then I drove over to get my fiancee so that we could drive up to the hills, and then suddenly it occurred to me that I was famished.
A little light in the head.
Before then it hadn't really occurred to me.
It's not like I sat around starving all day.
It's not like I sat around suffering or anything.
I just had other things going on.
Anyway.
The party.
The party was a riot.
It was a good crowd, a funny crowd.
Conversation was good.
All of us were sitting there on the observatioin deck of the Starship Enterprise, and somehow dentistry came up.
We were talking about going to the dentist and dentistry in general.
We were talking about finding a good dentist.
And somewhere along the line this friend of mine who was sitting there on my right, she says, "Yeah, you know, tell me about it. I just had to fire my dentist the other day."
And everybody chuckles a little bit, listening to her tell her story, and I'm sitting there thinking, "Wait a minute. You fired your dentist the other day?"
It's kind of an odd visual, when you really stop and think about it:
Somebody sitting there, firing their dentist.
Going into the office and having a solemn one-on-one.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Larson, but I'm going to have to let you go."
I think in the end it turned out that the girl didn't actually fire her dentist.
She didn't go in and have a formal conversation or anything.
She just simply quit going to him.
Or at least, I think that's what happened.
I don't think she actually fired the guy, in the classic sense of the word.
But I could be wrong.
For some reason my memory is a little foggy on that point.
I think I got so involved with the notion of actually firing a dentist that I failed to properly listen to the rest of the story.
I got caught up in my own imagination.
One thing I do remember is this conversation we all had about Michael Clarke Duncan, the Academy-Award-nominated actor from The Green Mile.
My fiancee and I were talking about how the guy used to have a crush on one of our friends a while back.
She works as a publicist here in town.
He was putting the moves on her.
He had a big thing for her.
He had a thing for her feet.
A foot fetish guy.
One time he told her that she was a "statuesque woman" and that he would "like to draw a bath for [her] someday," or something like that.
That was his line, apparently.
That was his big pitch.
"You are a statuesque woman," he said to her, "and I would like to draw a bath for you someday."
Big, deep voice.
Smoooooooooooooooth.
And as we were sitting there telling the story, everybody was laughing a little bit, and then all of a sudden my fiancee said---completely deadpan:
"My god, he would've split her like a log."
Immediately I choked on my champagne.
Started laughing uncontrollably.
The line caught a couple of people in the room off-guard a little bit.
It was delivered casually, with little in the way of special emphasis.
And it was delivered by my fiancee.
She does this to people sometimes.
She catches them a little off-guard.
You look at the girl, and you don't necessarily expect that kind of sensibility.
She's a Midwestern girl.
Down-home yet refined.
But then you hang around with her for a while, and you discover how completely bawdy and tasteless she is.
It's interesting.
It's an interesting dynamic.
And naturally I'm smitten.
I remember sitting there on the Starship Enterprise on Saturday night, drinking champagne, watching the room come apart in the wake of the joke.
I probably had a shit-eating grin on my face.
LOS ANGELES, CA-
I went to a party this weekend in the Hollywood Hills.
A small gathering.
A lotta fun.
A couple of my fiancee's friends and their significant others, and a few other people I hadn't met before.
It was a good time.
We sat around and drank alcohol.
And we talked.
We were at this house that sits on a hillside overlooking Los Angeles.
Glass walls.
Low leather couches.
A sea of lights in the distance.
A view like this:
It felt kinda like being in a spaceship.
A beautiful place.
Restores your faith in LA a little bit.
Twinkling lights.
A view of the power grid.
A little bit surreal.
And strangely breathtaking.
I felt like I was sitting on the observation deck of the Starship Enterprise.
I felt like the house could take off at any moment.
Everybody was drinking champagne.
The champagne came out shortly after we arrived.
Another toast to the engagement.
Another round.
Another toast to everybody.
I couldn't stop eating.
For a while there, I was the only one at the party eating anything.
I was hovering around the food table, wondering if anybody was noticing that I was the only person eating anything.
Eventually everybody went and sat over in the living room, and I wound up bringing a bowl of mixed nuts with me over to the couch.
I wondered if I was being rude, but I couldn't manage to stop myself.
My blood sugar was low, and I was putting booze in my system.
I needed food.
I brought the nuts with me.
Everybody was sitting over there, having their champagne while a fire roared in the fireplace across the room.
I kept getting crumbs on my sweater and my fiancee kept wiping them off of me.
I think she was worried that I was the only one eating.
I think I was worried that she was wiping crumbs off of me and onto the floor.
Anyway, I couldn't really help it.
I had to eat something.
I was completely starving.
I hadn't eaten anything all day.
I do that sometimes:
I forget to eat.
I get caught up.
Distracted.
I get too busy.
I'll go over to my fiancee's apartment at around 8pm and I'll say, "Jesus Christ, I'm starving, I completely forgot to eat."
I did that on Saturday, the day of the party.
Completely forgot to eat.
I worked all day long, and then I drove over to get my fiancee so that we could drive up to the hills, and then suddenly it occurred to me that I was famished.
A little light in the head.
Before then it hadn't really occurred to me.
It's not like I sat around starving all day.
It's not like I sat around suffering or anything.
I just had other things going on.
Anyway.
The party.
The party was a riot.
It was a good crowd, a funny crowd.
Conversation was good.
All of us were sitting there on the observatioin deck of the Starship Enterprise, and somehow dentistry came up.
We were talking about going to the dentist and dentistry in general.
We were talking about finding a good dentist.
And somewhere along the line this friend of mine who was sitting there on my right, she says, "Yeah, you know, tell me about it. I just had to fire my dentist the other day."
And everybody chuckles a little bit, listening to her tell her story, and I'm sitting there thinking, "Wait a minute. You fired your dentist the other day?"
It's kind of an odd visual, when you really stop and think about it:
Somebody sitting there, firing their dentist.
Going into the office and having a solemn one-on-one.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Larson, but I'm going to have to let you go."
I think in the end it turned out that the girl didn't actually fire her dentist.
She didn't go in and have a formal conversation or anything.
She just simply quit going to him.
Or at least, I think that's what happened.
I don't think she actually fired the guy, in the classic sense of the word.
But I could be wrong.
For some reason my memory is a little foggy on that point.
I think I got so involved with the notion of actually firing a dentist that I failed to properly listen to the rest of the story.
I got caught up in my own imagination.
One thing I do remember is this conversation we all had about Michael Clarke Duncan, the Academy-Award-nominated actor from The Green Mile.
My fiancee and I were talking about how the guy used to have a crush on one of our friends a while back.
She works as a publicist here in town.
He was putting the moves on her.
He had a big thing for her.
He had a thing for her feet.
A foot fetish guy.
One time he told her that she was a "statuesque woman" and that he would "like to draw a bath for [her] someday," or something like that.
That was his line, apparently.
That was his big pitch.
"You are a statuesque woman," he said to her, "and I would like to draw a bath for you someday."
Big, deep voice.
Smoooooooooooooooth.
And as we were sitting there telling the story, everybody was laughing a little bit, and then all of a sudden my fiancee said---completely deadpan:
"My god, he would've split her like a log."
Immediately I choked on my champagne.
Started laughing uncontrollably.
The line caught a couple of people in the room off-guard a little bit.
It was delivered casually, with little in the way of special emphasis.
And it was delivered by my fiancee.
She does this to people sometimes.
She catches them a little off-guard.
You look at the girl, and you don't necessarily expect that kind of sensibility.
She's a Midwestern girl.
Down-home yet refined.
But then you hang around with her for a while, and you discover how completely bawdy and tasteless she is.
It's interesting.
It's an interesting dynamic.
And naturally I'm smitten.
I remember sitting there on the Starship Enterprise on Saturday night, drinking champagne, watching the room come apart in the wake of the joke.
I probably had a shit-eating grin on my face.
Friday, January 05, 2007
I THINK THE GUY IN THE MIDDLE IS MOST LIKELY TO BREAK SHIT & CHALLENGE GOD TO A FIGHT
By Brad Listi
LOS ANGELES, CA-
My right arm looks freakishly long in this picture:
The other night my fiancee and I were walking across the street at night and there was a photo on the ground.
I picked it up and kept walking.
The photo had been torn in half.
Part of it had been dropped in the road.
I looked at the photo in the glow of the streetlights and kept walking.
"What is it?" said my fiancee.
"It's a couple of guys," I said.
"What are they doing?" she said.
"A couple of Latino guys," I said. "The photo's been torn in half. They're holding beers and smiling."
There's a third guy in the photo, but he's mostly cut out of the frame.
All we can see is his left arm.
His wristwatch.
He appears to be holding a Corona.
His index finger is extended in an apparent gesture to the camera.
A "number one" sign.
The other two guys are drinking Bud Light, I think.
It's hard to read the label.
Maybe it's something else.
I'm not really sure.
The guy on the far right has a diamond stud in his left ear and is wearing what appears to be a wedding ring.
He's pointing at the camera.
Smiling.
His eyes are a little de-focused.
There's a bit of a shine on his face.
He's wearing short sleeves.
This makes me think that either:
A.) This picture was taken in summertime.
B.) The guy was shit-faced.
or
C.) Both.
Maybe they were someplace tropical.
Someplace humid.
Mexico.
Or the Caribbean.
Or Hawaii.
Or El Salvador.
All three guys are wearing short sleeves.
They appear to be outside, at night.
The guy in the middle is dressed in red.
He looks particularly wasted to me.
His face has a high shine, and his eyes appear a little glassy.
No wedding ring.
A mustache.
Receding hairline.
A shit-eating grin.
He's flashing a peace sign at the camera.
A peace sign is a pretty good indicator of a high blood-alcohol content.
His shirt is tucked in, though.
I don't see any stains.
Maybe that means he was still functional.
In fact, I don't really get the sense that any of the guys in the photo are shit-faced beyond recognition.
For the most part, I think they still have it together.
If anybody in the picture is wasted, though, I'm thinking it's the guy in the red shirt.
And even if he's not wasted, it seems reasonable to assume that he might have been on his way to being wasted.
You can see it in his eyes.
He could turn at any moment.
An unpredictable drunk.
Happy, then dangerous.
Laughing, then sad.
One minute he's dancing on the patio.
The next minute he's throwing bottles at the wall and challenging God to a fight.
Then again, he doesn't appear to be as bad of a drunk as, say, this guy:
And really, that's not even the point.
The point---for me, anyway---is this:
Who the hell are these guys?
What are they doing?
And where?
And who took this photograph?
And why has it been ripped in half?
And why was this half discarded?
And who is on the other half?
Etcetera.
For some reason I'm thinking it was a woman who took the shot.
Or maybe it was a gay man.
If you have any ideas, I'm all ears.
I like old photos.
And found photos.
And things like that.
LOS ANGELES, CA-
My right arm looks freakishly long in this picture:
The other night my fiancee and I were walking across the street at night and there was a photo on the ground.
I picked it up and kept walking.
The photo had been torn in half.
Part of it had been dropped in the road.
I looked at the photo in the glow of the streetlights and kept walking.
"What is it?" said my fiancee.
"It's a couple of guys," I said.
"What are they doing?" she said.
"A couple of Latino guys," I said. "The photo's been torn in half. They're holding beers and smiling."
There's a third guy in the photo, but he's mostly cut out of the frame.
All we can see is his left arm.
His wristwatch.
He appears to be holding a Corona.
His index finger is extended in an apparent gesture to the camera.
A "number one" sign.
The other two guys are drinking Bud Light, I think.
It's hard to read the label.
Maybe it's something else.
I'm not really sure.
The guy on the far right has a diamond stud in his left ear and is wearing what appears to be a wedding ring.
He's pointing at the camera.
Smiling.
His eyes are a little de-focused.
There's a bit of a shine on his face.
He's wearing short sleeves.
This makes me think that either:
A.) This picture was taken in summertime.
B.) The guy was shit-faced.
or
C.) Both.
Maybe they were someplace tropical.
Someplace humid.
Mexico.
Or the Caribbean.
Or Hawaii.
Or El Salvador.
All three guys are wearing short sleeves.
They appear to be outside, at night.
The guy in the middle is dressed in red.
He looks particularly wasted to me.
His face has a high shine, and his eyes appear a little glassy.
No wedding ring.
A mustache.
Receding hairline.
A shit-eating grin.
He's flashing a peace sign at the camera.
A peace sign is a pretty good indicator of a high blood-alcohol content.
His shirt is tucked in, though.
I don't see any stains.
Maybe that means he was still functional.
In fact, I don't really get the sense that any of the guys in the photo are shit-faced beyond recognition.
For the most part, I think they still have it together.
If anybody in the picture is wasted, though, I'm thinking it's the guy in the red shirt.
And even if he's not wasted, it seems reasonable to assume that he might have been on his way to being wasted.
You can see it in his eyes.
He could turn at any moment.
An unpredictable drunk.
Happy, then dangerous.
Laughing, then sad.
One minute he's dancing on the patio.
The next minute he's throwing bottles at the wall and challenging God to a fight.
Then again, he doesn't appear to be as bad of a drunk as, say, this guy:
And really, that's not even the point.
The point---for me, anyway---is this:
Who the hell are these guys?
What are they doing?
And where?
And who took this photograph?
And why has it been ripped in half?
And why was this half discarded?
And who is on the other half?
Etcetera.
For some reason I'm thinking it was a woman who took the shot.
Or maybe it was a gay man.
If you have any ideas, I'm all ears.
I like old photos.
And found photos.
And things like that.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
MINING FOR GOLD IN A COOKIE-CUTTER NEIGHBORHOOD AT THE WOUNDED GATES OF A PLASTIC PARADISE
By Brad Listi
LOS ANGELES, CA-
Today the street-sweepers come.
I have to make sure not to park on one side of the street, or else I'll get a ticket.
Street parking.
A pain in the ass.
I got back to the home office early this morning and the skies were gray overhead.
A marine layer.
It's probably burning off right now.
It's probably turning into air.
I drove around the neighborhood at around 7:30am, looking for a suitable parking spot.
It took me a few minutes.
Driving around in circles.
Cussing under my breath.
Drinking a juice.
Looking at cars and trees.
Waiting for people to go to work.
I finally found a spot up the block, not too far from a construction site.
Dirt on the road.
An apartment building going up.
It's amazing how fast an apartment building can go up.
The workers show up like an army of ants, and the next thing you know there's a building on your block.
It happens in a time warp.
A constant parade of bulldozers and forklifts.
Hammering.
Wiring.
Lumber.
Utilities.
Someday it'll all be dust.
Someday everything will all be dust.
And smells.
A lot of things wind up turning into smells.
It's one of my favorite thoughts.
Everything turning into smells.
I think I've probably mentioned this before.
Human beings turn into smells, eventually.
You and me.
And everyone.
Same with cities.
Same with trees.
Dust and smells.
And air.
And whatever else.
It's an ugly apartment building, the one on my block.
From what I can tell, it's run of the mill.
Painfully standard.
Fresh off the line.
Architecture is a fascination for me.
I drive by a construction site in its early stages of development, and I see a massive hole in the ground.
A manmade crater, waiting to be filled.
It always boggles my mind.
Makes me impressed with human beings, even if only temporarily.
We may be killing the planet, I think, but sometimes we manage to do it in style.
Monarchies, it seems, were pretty good for architecture.
Kings and popes.
Pharaohs and queens.
Dictators with good taste.
Manifest destiny.
Style points.
Nowadays, it's not so simple.
Nowadays, it's a whole different story.
I sit there and I try to wrap my head around it.
Large-scale architecture.
Urban ascent.
I can't figure it out.
I can't figure out how it works.
You're a guy.
You get hired to oversee the construction of the Empire State Building.
"We need you to build the Empire State Building," they tell you.
So you say yeah, sure, I'll be glad to build the Empire State Building, thank you very much.
And then you sign the contract.
And then you go back to your office.
You put your briefcase down.
Your sketchbook.
Your coat.
You sit there.
You look at the telephone.
What's the first thing you do?
What's the first move?
Where do you begin?
What's the procedure?
What's the first thing you do at the site itself?
Who goes out there with a shovel or some heavy machinery and says, "Okay, guys, whaddya say we all get started on the Empire State Building?"
6,500 windows.
73 elevators.
102 floors.
It makes my head hurt just to think about it.
I don't like working with other people.
I think that's why I'm a writer.
I have great admiration for anyone who knows how to put a beautiful building together.
There isn't enough of that, in my opinion.
There aren't enough beautiful buildings anymore.
There aren't enough originals.
There aren't enough risks.
There aren't enough works of art.
Too much plastic.
Too much mass-produced crap.
Especially in suburban America.
Anyone can see it.
I guess the money must not be right.
Whenever there's too much mass-produced crap, it usually has something to do with the fact that the money's not right.
The good way is too goddamned expensive.
It takes too long.
Seems too impractical.
People don't want to bother with it.
People don't want to pay for it.
They'd rather line their pockets and get on with it.
Contractors are trying to keep costs down.
There are market demands to consider.
Contractual obligations.
And in the end:
Cookie cutter neighborhoods sitting like warning signs at the gates of paradise.
There are a lot of people in this country who have made a king's ransom by putting mass-produced crap up all over America.
The mass-produced crap business.
It's all the rage these days.
I watched a documentary on Frank Gehry not too long ago.
Sketches of Frank Gehry, directed by Sydney Pollack.
I think I might have mentioned this before.
The movie made my head shake.
Frank Gehry.
Pretty unbelievable.
Think what you will of his buildings, the man's been able to make some big, weird stuff on planet Earth in a time when the mass-produced crap business is running rampant over everything.
Gehry is an anomaly.
He's managed to game the system.
He's gotten paid a king's ransom to take big risks in big cities.
I gotta believe he's got a pretty big brain.
Is there any artist in the world today who is working on a bigger canvas?
My uncle is an architect.
His son (my cousin) is also an architect.
My roommate from the dorms my freshman year is an architect, too.
Gerber is his name.
Frank Gehry's given name was Ephraim Owen Goldberg.
He went to college at USC, and afterwards he worked a series of odd jobs, including one at the Los Angeles International Airport, where I think he washed airplanes for a living, or something along those lines.
He was struggling to find his way in life, and so he washed airplanes at the airport for a little while.
He talks about it in the documentary.
His dead end airport job.
Hosing down wings.
He talks about how valuable the experience was to his future career.
He spent a lot of time around jumbo jets, looking at the way they were constructed, admiring the precision and artistry of their design.
He was able to take that seemingly mundane and thoroughly depressing temporary occupation and turn it into artistic gold.
Call it alchemy.
Call it whatever you will.
The man is fast.
And he kept his eyes open.
It's an important thing to remember.
A beneficial lesson.
There's gold to be mined pretty much everywhere, if you can manage to keep your eyes open.
You might even be able to find some in the cookie-cutter neighborhoods that sit like warning signs at the wounded gates of paradise.
It's pretty strange.
LOS ANGELES, CA-
Today the street-sweepers come.
I have to make sure not to park on one side of the street, or else I'll get a ticket.
Street parking.
A pain in the ass.
I got back to the home office early this morning and the skies were gray overhead.
A marine layer.
It's probably burning off right now.
It's probably turning into air.
I drove around the neighborhood at around 7:30am, looking for a suitable parking spot.
It took me a few minutes.
Driving around in circles.
Cussing under my breath.
Drinking a juice.
Looking at cars and trees.
Waiting for people to go to work.
I finally found a spot up the block, not too far from a construction site.
Dirt on the road.
An apartment building going up.
It's amazing how fast an apartment building can go up.
The workers show up like an army of ants, and the next thing you know there's a building on your block.
It happens in a time warp.
A constant parade of bulldozers and forklifts.
Hammering.
Wiring.
Lumber.
Utilities.
Someday it'll all be dust.
Someday everything will all be dust.
And smells.
A lot of things wind up turning into smells.
It's one of my favorite thoughts.
Everything turning into smells.
I think I've probably mentioned this before.
Human beings turn into smells, eventually.
You and me.
And everyone.
Same with cities.
Same with trees.
Dust and smells.
And air.
And whatever else.
It's an ugly apartment building, the one on my block.
From what I can tell, it's run of the mill.
Painfully standard.
Fresh off the line.
Architecture is a fascination for me.
I drive by a construction site in its early stages of development, and I see a massive hole in the ground.
A manmade crater, waiting to be filled.
It always boggles my mind.
Makes me impressed with human beings, even if only temporarily.
We may be killing the planet, I think, but sometimes we manage to do it in style.
Monarchies, it seems, were pretty good for architecture.
Kings and popes.
Pharaohs and queens.
Dictators with good taste.
Manifest destiny.
Style points.
Nowadays, it's not so simple.
Nowadays, it's a whole different story.
I sit there and I try to wrap my head around it.
Large-scale architecture.
Urban ascent.
I can't figure it out.
I can't figure out how it works.
You're a guy.
You get hired to oversee the construction of the Empire State Building.
"We need you to build the Empire State Building," they tell you.
So you say yeah, sure, I'll be glad to build the Empire State Building, thank you very much.
And then you sign the contract.
And then you go back to your office.
You put your briefcase down.
Your sketchbook.
Your coat.
You sit there.
You look at the telephone.
What's the first thing you do?
What's the first move?
Where do you begin?
What's the procedure?
What's the first thing you do at the site itself?
Who goes out there with a shovel or some heavy machinery and says, "Okay, guys, whaddya say we all get started on the Empire State Building?"
6,500 windows.
73 elevators.
102 floors.
It makes my head hurt just to think about it.
I don't like working with other people.
I think that's why I'm a writer.
I have great admiration for anyone who knows how to put a beautiful building together.
There isn't enough of that, in my opinion.
There aren't enough beautiful buildings anymore.
There aren't enough originals.
There aren't enough risks.
There aren't enough works of art.
Too much plastic.
Too much mass-produced crap.
Especially in suburban America.
Anyone can see it.
I guess the money must not be right.
Whenever there's too much mass-produced crap, it usually has something to do with the fact that the money's not right.
The good way is too goddamned expensive.
It takes too long.
Seems too impractical.
People don't want to bother with it.
People don't want to pay for it.
They'd rather line their pockets and get on with it.
Contractors are trying to keep costs down.
There are market demands to consider.
Contractual obligations.
And in the end:
Cookie cutter neighborhoods sitting like warning signs at the gates of paradise.
There are a lot of people in this country who have made a king's ransom by putting mass-produced crap up all over America.
The mass-produced crap business.
It's all the rage these days.
I watched a documentary on Frank Gehry not too long ago.
Sketches of Frank Gehry, directed by Sydney Pollack.
I think I might have mentioned this before.
The movie made my head shake.
Frank Gehry.
Pretty unbelievable.
Think what you will of his buildings, the man's been able to make some big, weird stuff on planet Earth in a time when the mass-produced crap business is running rampant over everything.
Gehry is an anomaly.
He's managed to game the system.
He's gotten paid a king's ransom to take big risks in big cities.
I gotta believe he's got a pretty big brain.
Is there any artist in the world today who is working on a bigger canvas?
My uncle is an architect.
His son (my cousin) is also an architect.
My roommate from the dorms my freshman year is an architect, too.
Gerber is his name.
Frank Gehry's given name was Ephraim Owen Goldberg.
He went to college at USC, and afterwards he worked a series of odd jobs, including one at the Los Angeles International Airport, where I think he washed airplanes for a living, or something along those lines.
He was struggling to find his way in life, and so he washed airplanes at the airport for a little while.
He talks about it in the documentary.
His dead end airport job.
Hosing down wings.
He talks about how valuable the experience was to his future career.
He spent a lot of time around jumbo jets, looking at the way they were constructed, admiring the precision and artistry of their design.
He was able to take that seemingly mundane and thoroughly depressing temporary occupation and turn it into artistic gold.
Call it alchemy.
Call it whatever you will.
The man is fast.
And he kept his eyes open.
It's an important thing to remember.
A beneficial lesson.
There's gold to be mined pretty much everywhere, if you can manage to keep your eyes open.
You might even be able to find some in the cookie-cutter neighborhoods that sit like warning signs at the wounded gates of paradise.
It's pretty strange.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
POST-CINEMA PERSONAL GROOMING REVELATIONS IN A BRIGHTLY LIT BAD RESTAURANT: A LOVE STORY
By Brad Listi
LOS ANGELES, CA-
So my fiancee and I go out to the movies on Monday.
A matinee.
3pm.
A holiday.
Notes on a Scandal.
A terrific film.
Cate Blanchett.
Dame Judi Dench.
I have a thing for Cate Blanchett.
Cate Blanchett and Kate Winslet.
I think most guys have a thing for Cate Blanchett and Kate Winslet.
Anyway, those are my two favorite starlets.
The two K/Cates.
Great actresses, both of them.
Judi Dench is pretty spectacular too, but of course she's old enough to be my mother.
A grand old dame.
There's something fierce about her bearing.
She seems to project strength.
But then she can also play soft pretty well, too.
Hot and cold.
A woman with range.
Notes on a Scandal.
Brilliant stuff.
Riveting cinema.
Based on the acclaimed novel by Zoe Heller.
I'm guessing it'll go down in history as one of the all-time classic freaky-lesbian-obsession-films.
A gripping story about weird sexual behavior, weird human behavior.
A wrenching story about strange human needs.
Remarkable acting.
After the movie let out, my fiancee and I went outside into the dusk and decided to stop off for a drink and a bite to eat.
We walked over to a bad, overcrowded restaurant nearby.
We were too lazy to go anywhere else.
It was easy.
We went in.
A table was open in the bar area, and we took it and ordered a drink.
Next thing you know we're sitting there.
It's too bright in there.
Neither of us likes to eat bad food in a place that is too brightly lit.
But there we were.
Talking.
And then for some reason I started to recall this scene in the movie where Cate Blanchett is sitting on the toilet.
You see this in the theater from time to time:
Somebody sitting there on a toilet, approximating a natural moment.
It's not quite as overdone as the puking-while-traumatized scene that you see in so many films.
You know what I mean:
A character sees a dead body, or gets caught cheating, or experiences some sort of massive emotional trauma, and the next thing you know, he's heaving in a parking lot, or he's hunched over a sink or something.
It's frighteningly cliche.
We've all seen it a million times.
In Notes on a Scandal, we see Cate Blanchett sitting on the toilet, peeing, and then the film goes one step further, and we actually see her wipe herself.
It's a side view.
You can see Ms. Blanchett's flank.
Her panties are around her ankles.
She plucks a few squares of toilet paper from the roll, and then she reaches around behind herself and wipes her bits while seated.
She has the toilet paper in her right hand, and she reaches back around and under.
A strange move, by my estimation.
I said as much to my fiancee.
It was bothering me a little bit.
"That scene," I said. "The one where she wipes herself. I don't understand it. I've never been able to understand how anybody can wipe their ass or their bits while sitting down. It just seems like you can't really get a good angle. I don't understand how people do it. It just doesn't seem sanitary to me."
Me personally, I've always been a stand-up wiper.
Kind of a strange admission, I realize, but I figure what the hell.
It's wiping.
It's part of life.
As natural as breathing.
We all do it.
Might as well come clean.
And so there I am at this bad restaurant, and my fiancee is sitting there listening to me expound about the virtues of stand-up wiping.
She isn't really fazed.
This is why I asked her to marry me.
I can talk to her about this kind of stuff in a bad restaurant, and she'll just sit there and humor me.
She isn't really fazed by it.
She has a really bawdy sense of humor.
I sat there and told her about this guy I knew in high school.
He was a couple of years older than me.
James Spiller is his name.
He ran for student Senate one year, and one of his campaign slogans was: Vote for Spiller: He Wipes Standing Up.
I voted for him.
Maybe twice.
I think I might have even campaigned.
I felt like he spoke for the minority.
Though I can't be 100 percent certain, I tend to believe that most people wipe while sitting down.
And hey: If they can pull it off without making a mess of themselves, then more power to 'em.
Me, though, I prefer to stand.
I feel like I get a much better angle.
I went on about the issue for a little while, sitting there in that bad restaurant, and then after I was done my fiancee looked at me and alluded to the fact that she's a stand-up wiper, too.
I thought she was kidding at first.
I couldn't really tell what she was saying.
I kind of had to coax the admission out of her.
She alluded to it vaguely, and then, after I pressed her a little bit, she wound up issuing a full confession.
"I always have been," she said. "Ever since I was a little kid."
"Really?" I said.
"Really," she said.
"Do you stand there facing the toilet?" I said. "Or do you face away and drop your toilet paper blindly?"
"I think I do both," she said. "But usually I'm facing the toilet."
"Do you look at your business?" I said.
"What do you mean?" she said.
"I mean do you stare down at the toilet and survey your accomplishments."
"I think everybody does," she said.
"Yeah," I said. "I think everybody does, too. But most people won't admit it."
I sat there for a minute, letting the reality of the situation take hold.
And then I looked at my fiancee, deadpan, and said, "God, I love you."
And then we both started laughing.
Hard.
"I thought I was alone," I said, pretending to weep. "I thought I was alone. I had no idea that you were a stander. I had no idea that you were just like me."
What can I say, folks?
It's cosmic.
And it's crude.
We were meant to be.
LOS ANGELES, CA-
So my fiancee and I go out to the movies on Monday.
A matinee.
3pm.
A holiday.
Notes on a Scandal.
A terrific film.
Cate Blanchett.
Dame Judi Dench.
I have a thing for Cate Blanchett.
Cate Blanchett and Kate Winslet.
I think most guys have a thing for Cate Blanchett and Kate Winslet.
Anyway, those are my two favorite starlets.
The two K/Cates.
Great actresses, both of them.
Judi Dench is pretty spectacular too, but of course she's old enough to be my mother.
A grand old dame.
There's something fierce about her bearing.
She seems to project strength.
But then she can also play soft pretty well, too.
Hot and cold.
A woman with range.
Notes on a Scandal.
Brilliant stuff.
Riveting cinema.
Based on the acclaimed novel by Zoe Heller.
I'm guessing it'll go down in history as one of the all-time classic freaky-lesbian-obsession-films.
A gripping story about weird sexual behavior, weird human behavior.
A wrenching story about strange human needs.
Remarkable acting.
After the movie let out, my fiancee and I went outside into the dusk and decided to stop off for a drink and a bite to eat.
We walked over to a bad, overcrowded restaurant nearby.
We were too lazy to go anywhere else.
It was easy.
We went in.
A table was open in the bar area, and we took it and ordered a drink.
Next thing you know we're sitting there.
It's too bright in there.
Neither of us likes to eat bad food in a place that is too brightly lit.
But there we were.
Talking.
And then for some reason I started to recall this scene in the movie where Cate Blanchett is sitting on the toilet.
You see this in the theater from time to time:
Somebody sitting there on a toilet, approximating a natural moment.
It's not quite as overdone as the puking-while-traumatized scene that you see in so many films.
You know what I mean:
A character sees a dead body, or gets caught cheating, or experiences some sort of massive emotional trauma, and the next thing you know, he's heaving in a parking lot, or he's hunched over a sink or something.
It's frighteningly cliche.
We've all seen it a million times.
In Notes on a Scandal, we see Cate Blanchett sitting on the toilet, peeing, and then the film goes one step further, and we actually see her wipe herself.
It's a side view.
You can see Ms. Blanchett's flank.
Her panties are around her ankles.
She plucks a few squares of toilet paper from the roll, and then she reaches around behind herself and wipes her bits while seated.
She has the toilet paper in her right hand, and she reaches back around and under.
A strange move, by my estimation.
I said as much to my fiancee.
It was bothering me a little bit.
"That scene," I said. "The one where she wipes herself. I don't understand it. I've never been able to understand how anybody can wipe their ass or their bits while sitting down. It just seems like you can't really get a good angle. I don't understand how people do it. It just doesn't seem sanitary to me."
Me personally, I've always been a stand-up wiper.
Kind of a strange admission, I realize, but I figure what the hell.
It's wiping.
It's part of life.
As natural as breathing.
We all do it.
Might as well come clean.
And so there I am at this bad restaurant, and my fiancee is sitting there listening to me expound about the virtues of stand-up wiping.
She isn't really fazed.
This is why I asked her to marry me.
I can talk to her about this kind of stuff in a bad restaurant, and she'll just sit there and humor me.
She isn't really fazed by it.
She has a really bawdy sense of humor.
I sat there and told her about this guy I knew in high school.
He was a couple of years older than me.
James Spiller is his name.
He ran for student Senate one year, and one of his campaign slogans was: Vote for Spiller: He Wipes Standing Up.
I voted for him.
Maybe twice.
I think I might have even campaigned.
I felt like he spoke for the minority.
Though I can't be 100 percent certain, I tend to believe that most people wipe while sitting down.
And hey: If they can pull it off without making a mess of themselves, then more power to 'em.
Me, though, I prefer to stand.
I feel like I get a much better angle.
I went on about the issue for a little while, sitting there in that bad restaurant, and then after I was done my fiancee looked at me and alluded to the fact that she's a stand-up wiper, too.
I thought she was kidding at first.
I couldn't really tell what she was saying.
I kind of had to coax the admission out of her.
She alluded to it vaguely, and then, after I pressed her a little bit, she wound up issuing a full confession.
"I always have been," she said. "Ever since I was a little kid."
"Really?" I said.
"Really," she said.
"Do you stand there facing the toilet?" I said. "Or do you face away and drop your toilet paper blindly?"
"I think I do both," she said. "But usually I'm facing the toilet."
"Do you look at your business?" I said.
"What do you mean?" she said.
"I mean do you stare down at the toilet and survey your accomplishments."
"I think everybody does," she said.
"Yeah," I said. "I think everybody does, too. But most people won't admit it."
I sat there for a minute, letting the reality of the situation take hold.
And then I looked at my fiancee, deadpan, and said, "God, I love you."
And then we both started laughing.
Hard.
"I thought I was alone," I said, pretending to weep. "I thought I was alone. I had no idea that you were a stander. I had no idea that you were just like me."
What can I say, folks?
It's cosmic.
And it's crude.
We were meant to be.
