Something about this
exchange which took place earlier today made me squeel with delight in the
knowledge that I have at last begun to unravel every major mystery in the known
universe.
The last two episodes
of the second season of television program Hannibal have included two of my
favorite moments of the series and in recent television history. Episode
11 – entitled Ko No Mono – contained such a beautiful, tear-inducing intimate
conversation between Will and Hannibal, discussing Abigail, time and
philosophy. It summed up so much of the
intellectual and emotional heart of the series which keeps me frothing at the
mouth like a rabid dog who has just mauled a child because his government
funded leech parents weren’t paying attention and let him run all over the damn
neighborhood while they watched something on their 75” widescreen TV and
chatted with their friends on their new iPhones for each new episode. And then episode 12 – entitled Tome-wan –
finally showed Mason’s fate. It was
something fans of the books and movies already knew would happen but that only
made the anticipation greater. And it
was delightfully brutal, once again striking that perfect balance of horror,
gore and absurd black comedy. This show
was made for me. Tonight is the season 2
finale and I may cut off my own face in anxiousness.
I awoke on my sofa
sometime after midnight after falling asleep while watching William Friedkin’s
1977 film Sorcerer. This
is no indictment against the film as I was quite tired at the time. However
I awoke with a very palpable feeling of dread. I did not want to
leave the living room for the bedroom but I was expected. She was waiting but I was somehow certain
there was going to be someone or something else other than her in that
bedroom. I heard a man’s voice from
behind the door, guttural and almost mocking.
For some reason I still opened the door and only saw her lying on
the bed, her face masked by the darkness.
Despite the familiarity of her presence I did not feel any comfort and
part of me wondered if that was really her at all or she had been replaced by
some kind of doppelganger. I lay down
next to her and tried my best not to cry.
Something else was in there with us.
A few minutes later she stood up from the bed and left the room without
saying a word. I knew what would happen
next. I know the door would fling back
open again and things would come inside and they would join me on the bed. I would be having sex with monsters and they
would get inside my head and inside my body.
Their skin was red and they wore black robes. I was too frightened to ever scream. They chanted things I could not
understand. I think for a moment I was
floating. My hands clutched the sheets
and trembled along hot and rough skin.
Astute followers of my
work no doubt noted with much anguish the extensive preamble I gave to the film
Dracula 3D in Monday’s blog post
(here is a helpful link for any new fans http://creamybrandenblog.blogspot.com/2014/05/where-have-all-brides-gone.html ) while not
following through with a proper review.
I continue to be
stunned by the sheer amount of garbage we prioritize on a daily basis. This cannot be what was intended. So many artificial people running around and
screaming and judging and fucking, everyone so deeply loves the exchange of
body fluids. You are so grotesque, so
unbelievably disgusting but I guess that is true about the rest of us as
well. What useless things we all
are. How can anyone take pride in the
bullshit they do every day when none of it means anything? How can anyone care when it is all so
empty? Fucking pathetic, every last bit
of it.
Sunday I tuned in to the
Billboard Music Awards despite my searing hatred for awards and
billboards. My chief motivation was to
see Shakira perform her song “Empire”.
Upon deeper reflection and examining the darkness of my soul I now
realize this was my sole motivation. Yet
my world was thrown into chaos as I did know when the Colombian songstress was
going to perform. As such it was by
complete accident that I watched Iggy Azalea’s performance of her song “Fancy”. My initial reaction was a frozen state of
abject horror. Yet after roughly one
minute – 60 seconds for all you time fans out there (my jungle love!) – my subjugation
(incorrect usage) swiftly turned into adoration. Simply put, I fell in love with the
song. Everything from her 80’sesque flow
to her gangsta tude’ to the sexy chorus by pop charmer Charli XCX all
contributed to a song which left me in a state of hippity-hop delirium. And yes, I am well aware that all the true
hardened urban music loving homies and g’s out there will dismiss this tune as
so much faux rap drivel but if I cared what they think then I wouldn’t have
started that infamous gangland war in east L.A. last year where no less than 89
people lost their lives with over two hundred more being hospitalized and
roughly 3.5 million dollars racked up in property damage. But damnit, I still think we can bring back
our fair city. If we can just cut
through all the bureaucracy and peck away at the knees of Big Business we can
clean up the streets and make sure no child ever has to walk to school afraid
ever again. Basically, what I’m saying
is that for the past 5 days I’ve done but walk around with a smirk and say “Who
that? Who that? I-G-G-Y. Who that?
Who that? I-G-G-Y.” This made some of my co-workers band together
and form an elaborate plan to discredit me in a public venue, frame me for
embezzling millions of our tax dollars and insure that I end up in a federal
prison where I will be penetrated covertly (just as our army does to Middle
Eastern countries) on a nightly basis.
Azalea’s studio album debut is entitled The New Classic and it is a foregone conclusion that I will
purchase this album and listen to it while driving in my car to go visit my
formerly estranged daughter at her new ocean view penthouse where she lives
with her fiancé who is a hotshot CEO at a cutting edge software company. I’ll wrap my arms around her in a fatherly
hug and tears will well up in my eyes as I beg for forgiveness yet again for
all the softball games missed and all the letters not written during all those
lonely Christmases.
“What do you think of the painting Lavender
Mist by Jackson Pollock?” I asked.
“I like lavender,” she
said.
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