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It was kind of a short experimental project. We were on the set of an Alex Bulkley production. So I had yet another cool Roger exclusive last night in my slumber: Trying to learn my own Kung Fu in a post-apocalyptic, Warhol-funded parade of masks. In the meantime, I’m being haunted by the “Technoratti”. But Harlan Ellison once gave me a fiction infection and now I’ve got these screenplays to write. I’m supposing that fiction is kind of like that. The aboriginal’s of Australia have something they call dreamtime. Thank you for granting me shelter if only for a moment. There’s a media frenzy out there, acid rain from the fallout. A little out of order, but I’ve got the will to survive. Outside I feel like the Midnight Man with nowhere left to go. Who am I after all, an artist? A cinematographer? A writer? The spider- muse? Cinderella’s Pumpkin spawn? In the gallery I’m a tourist. How can something so sweet come from something so tortured? He was one of those dudes with the fat holes in his ears and lots of tattoos and grime. I think I talked to the artist of that piece about graffiti and how it’s mostly political. There’s an amazing Audrey Hepburn print in the gallery, but it’s like eighty bucks. Kevin may not show.Īm I a piece of art or an artist? How do I show it? Is it time for me to go now? I’ve got some digital footage of the Artwork and some information from some of the artists. Then an unburned candle on the table top. What I want to know is who’s giving the directions? I look up and check out the crystal chandeliers. And there’s that gal with the boots and the sweet bob hair cut again. Yep, this must be what I call the Nether Lounge. That’s so 80’s isn’t it? Well, it’s due for a revival I suppose. She’s the one with the rips in the jeans.
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The thin girl by the door in the frilly off-white top is what Rob would call Model-Hot. So I try not to stare too much, but her fashion tonight is on-point! Even with the fur collar. Whoa! Awesome black boots! You wouldn’t think so but, still eye-catching as all get-out! She caught my eye and made this amazing “he looked into the lens” grimace. Jeff lives about a block away from this place and I can come and go with this stamp on my hand. Everyone seems to know everyone, they knuckle at the door. at age 50 goes by, tattooed and covered in the soot of a thousand cigarettes. “Yeah, just like me” I answer making the best of my communicative efforts. “He’s very shy” quips the dog’s owner as I pat his head, probably a little more heavy-handed that he’s used to. I’ve always found it interesting when people name their dogs after human names. Hey! I just got to pet the Chihuahua! That’s got to be some kind of good luck. The lyrics desperately spill “Just a little more love, just a little more peace is all it takes to live in harmony” from the speakers. And I’m a consumer of said art, witnessed by the small photograph I purchased from one of the many photographers in the show. It’s been so long.Ī girl walks in with a Chihuahua under her arm and it makes me grin at her sense of fashion. My phone’s gone missing and I’m being forced to communicate in other ways now, I guess. I feel like just a wannabe in my sport coat and T. She shrugs and goes on dancing, ripped holes in the knees of her stylish jeans.
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The guy at the door declines one of those Full Throttle beverages from this cute, slim, model girl. She takes a swig of… what is that? Gin? I’m not in the Nether Lounge am I? Is this really who I am? I’m not in agreement with this, it’s weak. But alas, my body is like a couch potato. Taking in my surroundings with my flesh-camera. With video camera setting on the table in the off position, I rest my hand on my head, it’s my thoughtful director’s pose. Does it keep me safe or just hidden from sight? I’m not that cool. I’m wearing the ring we picked out, but it ridiculously gets shifted to my thumb. Why then do I feel so bankrupt? I fear it’s the lake of My Hummingbird. Maybe that should count? Investment in my creative soul. I am open to invitation but still, only a few smiles. Does that make such a difference? I’m not tattooed myself but the thought crosses my mind, often.Ī Greaser and his Betty Paige friends bop by. Kids with hoods bounce around and get kisses. A Colin Ferrell type came through the door with a Katy Perry type in a satin shirt.
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Wine drinkers in black dresses stroll by with nary a glance. The stage is clear and I just sit there on the couch. If she was invisible, I imagine Julie would be here, dancing on the stage. Beautiful creative types filter through the bar and I wait for Kevin to show up with the girls. It’s fresh and clean and productive and new. So I sit here for a while and listen to The Sounds that the new DJ is spinning. It’s not easy to be creative when you are alone and shy.