The Weekend in Foolish Attention

Bits and bytes of the week

Oof! The Weekend comes a day late! Been a crazy week.

Talk about a rude awakening. She slips under into the deep sleep of a coma in 2019. Wakes up and has so many true crime podcasts to catch up on.

Just get a lil ol pug. In recent weeks, I’ve read articles about a guy in Colorado who died from his pet gila monster’s bite, a dude whose pet wart hog killed him, a woman who had a lynx as a pet that mauled her, and an idiot whose boa constrictor ate his German Shepherd. I get it—challenge the narrative, dare to be different, get a pet that reflects your inner contrarian. I’m thinking that maybe Werner Herzog’s Grizzly Man should be required viewing because nature exists to find ways to kill us so inviting it in with some PIXAR anthropomorphic fantasy of wild animals joining us on our journeys through self actualization just speeds up that cycle.

The Missing Piece? Hannah Giorgis, over at The Atlantic, wrote an article about Bob Marley: One Love entitled THE MISSING PIECE OF THE BOB MARLEY BIOPIC. It’s a fine write-up and details her issues with the film ignoring Marley’s more activist tendencies (in the same way that people are desperate to point out how truly angry and anti-capitalist Martin Luther King was). She’s wrong—not about the lack of activist tone or story involved but, truly, the missing piece of the Bob Marley biopic is… subtitles. The accent work is so good that it’s exactly like being in Jamaica and only understanding a third of what is being said. The second missing piece is any sense that Marley had the ability to do much more than stare off into the distance dwelling on his white father abandoning him.

Closing it out. As I slowly made my way through the nearly abandoned building, checking to see if I had left anything un-prepped for an incoming Promo person, I realized I did the thing I like to think I always do—leave the place better than I found it. I spent the entire week building out contests as far out as May, writing a training document for the next victim, and cleaning everything.

The Sales Manager came in and took a look. “It doesn’t seem like you’re taking your stuff.”

“None of this is my stuff. I already took my things. This is basically was what was here when I arrived.”

“Hmmm. So you didn’t make yourself at home around here, did you? You were never planning on staying, huh?”

“Not here. Not at this job. This gig was one that was necessary but not long term.”

The road to Chicago…

Final Wichita Chef Meal. I couldn’t leave for Chicago without making my family one last dinner. My pops requested lasagna, my sister loves cheesecake, so I made them a three-meat lasagna, spinach/fennel salad with a olive oil and lemon dressing, garlic bread, and mini-ricotta cheesecakes with raspberries. Seriously, cooking for these goons is one of my favorite things to do.

I think Trump is in his own version of Boogie Nights.

Dirk Diggler: Look, man, all we need is the tapes, alright?

Record Producer: No. You don't get the tapes until you've paid.

Dirk Diggler: In our situation, that doesn't make any fucking sense.

Reed Rothchild: Look, we cannot pay for the tapes unless we take the tapes to the record company and get paid.

Dirk Diggler: Hello? Exactly.

Record Producer: That's not an MP, that's a YP, your problem. Come up with the money, or forget it.

Reed Rothchild: Okay, now you're talking above my head. I don't know all of this industry jargon, YP, MP, whatever. All I know is that I can't get a record contract, we cannot get a record contract unless we take those tapes to the record company. And granted, the tapes themselves are a uh um oh, you own them, all right, but the magic that is on those tapes. That fucking heart and soul that we put onto those tapes, that is ours and you don't own that. Now I need to take that magic and get it over the record company. And they're waiting for us, we were supposed to be there a half hour ago. We look like assholes, man.

Dirk Diggler: Let me explain to him in simple arithmetic. One, two three! Because you don't fuckin' get it, Burt! You give us the tapes, we get the record contract, we come back and give you your fuckin' money. Have you heard the tapes? Have you even heard them? We're guaranteed a record deal. Our stuff is that good!

Record Producer: Now I get it. Now I understand. You want it to happen...but it's not going to happen. Because it's a Catch-22.

Dirk Diggler: What the fuck does that mean? What is a Catch-22, Burt?

Record Producer: Catch-22, gentlemen. Think about it.

[pause]

Dirk Diggler: You know what I'm thinking about, man? I'm thinking about kicking some fuckin' ass!

***

Trump: Look. All I need is to be president again and you’ll get paid.

GOP/Lawyers/Donors: We’d like to get paid first.

Trump: You know what I'm thinking about, man? I'm thinking about kicking some fuckin' ass!

GOP/Lawyers/Donors: Uh… alright.

Moving Machinations. Whew. Picking up a U-Haul on Wednesday, filling it with my crap. Leaving the Prius in Mom’s garage. Driving to Springfield, IL on Thursday. Crashing in a crummy hotel. Driving into Chicago Friday morning. Get the keys, move in to the new pad. Start work Monday. Fly to Wichita Saturday morning. Bring the Prius to Chicago Sunday. Back to work on Monday. All told this is still a more organized and comprehensive move than the past four so there’s that.

My buddy in LA and his wife are looking to move where there’s better work for both of them and the other night we had a heart-to-heart about the shifting sands of security in life. I told him where you are determines what you are so pick wisely.

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OK. Here we go. Next time this pops up, I’ll be in Chicago.