it’s a western but it’s really about viet nam

open onto west side of chicago neighborhood. A CONDOR, played by Paul Giamatti, waddles (he has short condor legs) down a cracked and bud light & clamato chelada-can-decorated pavement. he addresses the camera, ala ferris bueller)

CONDOR (Giamatti): so i have this nascent inamorata type situation with teenage mexican èmo chicks i see on public transportation. but my new thing is, i can say i’m in love with a kind of people and not with persons. i know this is a frequent topic of mine, romantic confusion in the face of the future’s garish fiberoptic bouquet, or maybe it is like, if you made some kind of floral arrangment of out of the multicolored wires that would be in a bomb in a TV…

DESK (from nearby porch, where he sits casually tilted back against the brickwork)(drinking from a can of Murphy’s Oil Soap): I THINK WHAT YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT IS HOW YOUR BRAIN HAS AIDS EXCEPT WITHOUT EVEN LIKE THE WARM SOFT DIGNITY CONFERRED BY A SOCIAL DISEASE

CONDOR (failing to not be bothered) (sort of recovering): well let’s leave off talking about mexican teenage girls for a while. so, DESK (he yelled that back at the DESK) MAYBE IF YOU EVER GAVE A SHIT ABOUT ANYTHING OTHER THAN SHITTING ON ME MAYBE PEOPLE WOULDN’T (thinking) FASTIDIOUSLY AVOID YOU LIKE REGULAR AIDS. JUST GO BACK INSIDE SHITSTAIN AND CALL ME WHEN YOU MANAGE TO UNDO VIA TIME TRAVEL OR MAGIC THE THOUSANDS OF HORRIBLE MISTAKES THAT IT TOOK TO MAKE YOUR LIFE FEEL LIKE THE OPPOSITE OF TAKING A SHIT SUCH AS EITHER A SHIT TAKING A GUY OR A GUY BEING CRAMMED INTO A PILE OF SHIT SHAPED LIKE HIS LIFE
(long silence)
CONDOR: OK i’m sorry. I’m sorry. That was out of line.
(silence)
DESK (long drink): asshole
GIRL DESK (has dishtowel over shoulder and [speculative] distracting, kind of sweaty rack): Hey guys. Stop fighting. Or, alternatively, make out, or maybe, this is an idea i had, put your heads on the railroad tracks and patiently wait for a train to send you to the next world.
BABY DESK: crying
NARRATOR (Dennis Haysbert walking out from bushes in between houses): James Joyce posited that God, instead of being (pause, looking for book)(looking for page) history
DESK: THAT’S NOT REALLY ACCURATE OR MEANINGFUL. I DON’T EVEN HAVE TO HEAR WHAT YOU’RE GOING TO SAY I CAN JUST LIKE SEE A BUBBLE ABOVE THAT TELLS ME THE CORRECT JUDGMENTS TO MAKE ABOUT YOUR INTELLECTUAL CAPACITIES AND TODAY’S BUBBLE SAYS “ONE OF THOSE JELLYFISH WITH A NERVOUS SYSTEM THAT’S JUST AN ANUS AND TWO TENTACLES”
NARRATOR (louder) HISTORY, or the present tense of modernity, the lived moment and its contingent status quo, God was a shout from the street. Joyce didn’t bother to explain what God was shouting, but his take-home is clear and important. I remember earlier one of these two individuals here (gestures) said something about our lives being woven from mistakes, and I found that, well, maybe interesting isn’t the word so much as an annoying nonsense thing, kind of like “you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take” or the like. But what i was saying was, and my apologies for getting distracted, is that God, that shout from the streets, that illegible and anti-grammatical voice, that capital of the invisble, is shouting right now. and God is not a talking Desk, and god is not a condor that is just a stand-in for the guy typing, but God is (lost his train of thought)
CONDOR: boozy detective? amoral scientist who nails his postdocs but is a really good dad but also probably has defective genes that carry some kind of curse. also his genome spells out some secret Aztec codice about how religion is a virus.
DESK: Yeah yeah yeah and the cops figure it out and castrate him with the laser from Real Genius
NARRATOR: Word, word
CONDOR: So, yeah, girls. I noticed today that i find girls prettier when I can’t see below their neck. But the thing is, you can’t be pretty below the neck, you can only be like, some kind of awful fanged advertisement for me to waste the precious life force that I was lucky enough to inherit from the sky father.
(end of part 3)

only time you get your (redacted) wet is in the shower

job interview monday. time to sharpen my mental darts. imagine stonewall jackson is also playing mario kart and listening a MOP/Minor Threat/Wanda Jackson mixtape. A always B be C closing.

get your fake updike on

just so everyone is on the same page here, the Condor stories will continue semi-regularly until I think of something better or less retarded to do with myself. and yes, to confirm, they are kind of a result of me reading Rabbit Run by John Updike. except that Rabbit in Rabbit is not actually a rabbit but a man. in this case it is actually a condor.

next up on the Fuck You Tuesday menu is Wendy’s (i am aware that it is not fuck you tuesday yet.

also fun fact i am moving to NYC (again). everybody wins.

pretty, vacant

part ii of “staying positive,” which has been renamed “MI CORAZON”

[open onto a moderately well appointed office setting. a young condor, balding, with glasses, soft-edged, is working his way through a stack of papers][he is also thinking about the girl condor he loves][muted rap music emanating from the walls]
CONDOR (quietly, seeming on the verge of tears): the disconnect between what i feel and what i do, and between both and what i say has got me all twisted up inside.
DESK (drawer moving like a jaw)(sonorous,; a velvety baritone): do not start with that shit. you are in double dogdirt trouble. stop feeling sorry for yourself and grow a sack.
CONDOR (visibly straining to grow a sack): when i was a child i was convinced there was a curse against me — all my toys broke, especially those with electronic components. mechanical failure was a personal slight against me, and not a possibility in the normal sense. externalized failure invariably brought me to tears.
DESK (scooting away disgustedly): DO NOT. START. THAT SHIT. do you ever stop and think that the topography of your soul is not a sui generis condition? do you know how it feels to be your desk? we are master and condor. i define your purpose yet you define me. can we talk about rap music or tacos?
CONDOR (starting to fly): FUCK YOU DESK
DESK (frowning): Nothing ever ends. Regret does not respond to whatever situation chemotherapy you choose to invent. The only future owed to you is woven from mistakes. Also please vacuum up all these scone crumbs before you turn me into fate’s toilet.
CONDOR (circling room ominously): it’s my world.

most affectations conceal something eventually, even though they don’t in the beginning

ok, one: here’s your future.

further down the fashion news parade: metatextual wolf shirt:

count it.

i swear to fucking god i’m going to finish my shit about your dad banging mad sluts with the help of Canadian Club Blended Whiskey.

Also forthcoming is some drivel about Deadspin, Buzz Bissinger and the work of non-art in the non-age of internet reproduction.