Beat Up Insafemode The Bruce Campbell Way

Tuesday night, I was assaulted by Bruce Campbell. It was past seven PM on an already trying day that had included work, a bus accident (the narcoleptic MBTA employee driving the bus I was on crashed into a stopped car at a traffic light), and stops at every house in the Boston area I have ever lived in (with the exception of the one I shared with Melissa Plummer). I was scheduled to meet Zuzu and Lot at 6:00 in Coolidge Corner. Due to the bus accident, I was running about a half hour late. Naturally, I was there about an hour before Zuzu and Lot.

The first thing I see at the theater is a sign that reads "All Bruce Campbell events are SOLD OUT." Bugger. I do a shakedown of the line, asking strangers for extra tickets. I get two. There are three of us.

When Zuzu and Lot show up, I run out of the standby line to give them my tickets, thus losing both tickets and line space. I will never make it in. Luckily, the ticket guy feels pity for the fact that I had worked my ass off for two tickets, and then gave them away, so he lets me in.

I am standing at the end of the aisle, trying to find Zuzu and Lot in the theater when someone knocks on my back like they're being chased by coyotes, and my back is the door of their insomniac savior. I turn around.

Bruce Campbell: Hi.
Me: Uh. Hey.
Bruce Campbell:You're in my way.
Me: Yes.
Bruce Campbell looks at me inquisitively.
Me:I should get out of your way.
Bruce Campbell: Yes. Yes you should.
Me: I'm going to sit down.
Bruce Campbell (laughing) : Ok, then. Good.

I sit down in the only empty seat in sight. Bruce shoots me one more look, snickers, and trots down the rest of the aisle to thunderous applause. He announces that instead of reading from his new book Make Love the Bruce Campbell Way, he is going to do a question and answer session for an hour, then start signing books. A woman to my left says really loudly in a thick indistinguishable Eastern Europeanesque accent "I am not shy. Is a book. Is down. Where?"

Bruce either doesn't hear her or chooses not to reply. Instead he calls on a random lady in the audience. Zuzu. She asks something about Sam Raimi. He answers it, then says something incredibly flirtatious to her.

"I am not shy. Is movie theater." Incoherent mumbling.

Bruce calls on some geeky guy.

Crazy Lady screams "I am from Latvia. I am not shy." Something Something "Russian mafia."

Bruce says "I don't think I called on you, but since you won't stop talking, what is your question?"

"I am from Latvia. I am not shy." Something Something "Upset."

"I don't know what you're saying."

"I am not shy." Rikki-Tikki-Tembo-No-Sorembo-Cherry-Berry-Bucci-Pip-Berry-Pembo "Kill me."

"Yea. Look Latvia. I don't know what you're saying. Why don't you ask your question to someone around you, and I'll call on them to translate."

"I am not shy." Blah Blah Super Soaker "Why won't you answer my question?"

"Because I don't know what it is. Who's next?"

For the next twenty minutes or so, Latvia tries several times to ask her incoherent question, despite the fact that she is never called on.

"You've gotten a hero's welcome here in Boston." Some sixteen year old in a black shirt says. "Is there anywhere you've ever been where you've felt like the local people didn't like you?"

"Yea." Bruce says. "I hear they hate me in Latvia."

"I am not shy. People who use bad languages are not bridges."

I wonder what the bad languages are. Icelandic? Swahili? Elbonian?

"Could someone," Bruce asks, "preferably four large someones escort Miss Latvia out of theater?"

He then goes on to an interesting story about how, through his chain of logic, he's going to be playing Spider Man in Spider Man 3. I'm listening so intently to it that I don't see who it is that removes Latvia's Least Wanted.

After the session is over, Zuzu, Lot, and I head to the bookstore to buy a copy of his book. Latvia is at the counter. "I will not but this book." She says, waving around a copy of If Chins Could Kill. "He is trying to kill me. Always he follows me to the grocery store. Is Russian agent. He thinks I don't see him, but he is not bridge."

The lady behind the counter nods the service industry "you're a nutbag, but I'm stuck behind this counter and must talk to you" nod.

"Not bridge! Not bridge!"

Five minutes later, she leaves.

I purchase a blank book to use for a One-Off. While I'm at the counter, I compliment the lady on how well she handled The Latvian.

"Oh, it's nothing." She says. "Last week Mitt Romney was trying to kill her. The week before that it was Tony the Tiger. She's a popular mark for assassins and members of the Russian mafia."

The only thing I tried to shoot her with was a nasty look.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/122297.html

Peer Pressure

Sometimes, no matter how badly you want to fuck a guy, you really have to pee first. It's important in these situations that you put your bladder's interests before your testicles, even if it means an extra minute and a half of not yet fucking. I know this, but I am drunk, and Eric looks so cute in his boxer briefs. Surely I can wait a few minutes an hour or two.

This is the first guy in months I've been close to doing anything with. I haven't seen My Future Fry Cook in ages, I don't feel like meeting new people, and I feel like MAMIP is on another planet, even when we're sitting next to each other at the bar. So how can I waste precious naked time peeing?

"I'm sooooo hot." He says. He's not being arrogant or narcissistic. Yes, he is good looking, but I'm fairly sure he means, it's eighty fucken degrees. I turn on the air conditioner. "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh."

I slide next to him on the bed. This is no small feat. My bed is the size of a pencil case. Eric and I are Sharpies. If we end up fucking, there's going to have to be floor involved.

I hate this house. I hate Landlord. I hate that my room is the size of a Pistachio shell. I hate that my room smells like smoke. I hate this place so much that, in the six months I've lived here, only Celeste, Goth Girl, and Dmitri have ever seen the inside of it. Until tonight, the closest I've come to having sex is hearing my cute straight roommate moaning a little too loudly in the other room. But tonight I say fuck this house, and fuck Eric, too, but for entirely different reasons.

I liked Eric immediately when we met. I don't remember where that was, or why I liked him, but when I found his phone number on a post-it note in my drawer of doom I immediately thought "Oh cool, it's my friend Eric, the poet, I should call him." Only, when Eric picked up the phone I realized Eric wasn't my friend Eric at all but an entirely different Eric.

"Hey, Safey. I didn't think you were going to call me again. How are you?"

"Well, I, uh, lost your number for a while. Sorry."

I now like Eric because he doesn't small talk, he doesn't care that I have no idea who he is, and he's lying almost naked on my bed. Right. Stop the extemporaneous narration, nearly naked guy next to me on bed.

I am not nearly naked, and that needs to be fixed. The problem is, I am a freeballer, so there's no nearly naked me unless I add boxers after I subtract pants. I should go downstairs, pee, change into my boxers and come back upstairs.

"I'm thirsty." Eric says.

I go downstairs to get juice, change into my boxers, and pee. Unfortunately, someone is in the shower when I get downstairs. I get the juice, drop trou in the kitchen, pick up different trou in the kitchen, and run back upstairs, leaving my jeans in the laundry room. We each down some juice, and start making out.

I've never understood the term making out. What is out, and what exactly are the ingredients that go into making it? Sure, saliva, tongues, lips, but those are the ingredients in kissing too. When does kissing become making out?

I think the shower stops, I should really go downstairs and pee, but my dick takes it upon itself to pop pout of my boxers and say hello to our new friend, Eric. Eric politely kisses him hello, and I am reminded of a great haiku by Joel Derfner:

Remember when I
said I disliked oral sex?
I meant just with you.

Eric is pretty good with his tongue. No Tommy, but adequate. I'm starting to really get into his rhythm when he stops, looks up at me and laughs. His laugh. Imagine a pig gets his hoof caught in a ceiling fan and spraining its (do pigs have ankles?) ankle. You put a cast on it, but whenever it steps on that ankle it makes that little squealing pig noise. This is Eric's laugh.

I want to ask him what's so funny, but I start laughing at his laughing, and he leans up to kiss me, and somehow the condom is on my dick and so is Eric's ass, and I no longer care what was so funny. I can only think "Yes" "Wow" "Dear Lord" and "I swear I've never met this guy before in my life, how did his phone number get into my drawer of doom? God I really have to clean that drawer out soon. I'm moving out in two weeks and I should really get a move on and, hey aren't I having sex right now? Yes, right there."

Andrew, I mean Eric, Whatever His Name Is is bouncing on me like I'm a Spider Man Hop Ball, and the pressure on my balls as he bounces is almost perfectly balanced with the pressure on my kidneys from the liter and a half of Cherry Coke I drank earlier combined with the juice we chugged pre-fuck. I envision my ejaculation blasting him across the room, followed immediately by a tidal wave of urine filling my Barbie Dream House sized room. This is the unsexiest thought ever, and while I hate to waste a condom "I'll be right back, I really have to pee."

Ha, Moment. I have not only killed you, I've chopped you into tiny pieces, and now I am on my way downstairs to piss on your grave.

When I get back upstairs Eric is asleep.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/121749.html

Tragic

The most boring date in the world would have to take place in a museum. It's a Saturday afternoon, and a singer and an author, each with a penchant for witty one liners, are too tired to come up with anything funnier than a yawn. Due to a diabolical scheme by the MBTA to throw off their chemistry, they both arrive late. Author arrives first, sits on the steps of the Museum of Fine Arts, and writes fanmail to a person he doesn't respect. When Singer shows up, full of sunshine and apologies, Author smiles, and the two head into the lobby.

There are more Greek Gods and heroes on the ceiling than Author could fall in love with in a week. Singer knows them all by name, and what errands they've run. He mentions he's an art snob, and when Author mentions something about not remembering which face goes with which psychological disorder, Singer says only "Tragic."

Tragic is the word of the day. The haircut of a passing off-white trash boy is tragic, as is his outfit. Author's inability to tell Picasso from...someone who clearly isn't Picasso is tragic. The lack of one liners during the date is tragic, as are certain works by William Shakespeare. When enough hours pass, that the only thing either guy can say of an entire hallway of paintings is "flowers," the date has turned tragic, and it's time to go home. First, they spend some quality time on one of the hard benches trying to be catty about the passing tourists, but only managing to sound like Lemurs: docile, vegetarian, and endangered.

The day grows more tragic by the moment.

On his way to the date, Author is accosted by a solatic, a crazy person who's affected by the sun. This is the first day of sun in over and a week, and this particular crazy lady has decided to take some public transportation, armed with some red, white, and blue flowers, and her mole. Author is sitting innocently on a bench, one of the few things he can manage to do innocently. He has his headphones on, and is writing a love note to someone he doesn't even like. As his pen spits out the phrase "penguin lust", solatic places a blue carnation on Author's book. He looks up at her.

"This is for you." She says.

He smiles, and says thank you.

"I just ask for a small donation to The Memorial Day Fund."

While this pisses Author off, he pulls his small wad of cash out of his pocket, and separates two ones from the pile to give her. She seizes his ten dollar bill, and says "This will do."

He does not let go of the ten. Yanks it out of her hand, and stuffs it deep down in his pocket.

"Please sir. Think of the children. This is the time of year when they need remembrance, and gifts, and some of these kids don't get presents or stuffing or turkey. Orphans, sir. Ten dollars will get them meals for a week, and aren't the children worth just ten dollars?"

Author wants to smack the mole off her face. Memorial day is about remembering soldiers, and while most of them are too young to be fighting battles for the Republican Chickenhawks with yellow ribbons where their brains should be, none of them are actually children. And gifts, stuffing, and turkey, are from an entirely different holiday. If there's a food associated with Memorial Day, it's grilled hot dogs, or hamburgers. Author would tell this all to her, if he weren't afraid it would encourage her to keep pestering him.

"What's wrong with your face?" Solatic asks. "It's so ugly."

Here he is, on his way to the first date in three years that didn't call for lube, condoms, and pseudonyms, and some crazy bitch has Author worried that his face is covered in zits, shaving cream, blood, or postage stamps. With no impending mirrors between bench and date, he decides to interpret her comment as "You look mad now, and I want to fuck with you because I'm insane." This satisfies him. Almost.

He sees her again on his way home. He thinks of some things to say to her, and some things to throw at her, should she reapproach. She, wisely, does not.

He spends the next day trying to get out of third person. Author is such a pretentious name. He I make plans to go to a poetry slam, which can only be nearly as boring as a museum. It is. The highlight of the night is a talented, drunk girl who has written a poem in response to my poem about bad poems. Eventually, all poetry will be about poems about other poems. The art form is on life support, and someone keeps kicking at the plug. After I've won the slam, the world's hottest slam singer gives his hottest performance in a couple of years. I'm starting to get drunk because Already Drunk Girl is buying me whiskey drinks. I'm not going to catch up with her, though. She's won $50 in Sacajawea coins, and has already spent most of that on whiskey and beer. She writes a love note, folds it into a paper airplane, and floats it to the stage. It hits a bewildered spectator who opens it up, reads it, and then gapes at me, as though I were hitting on him. He doesn't believe me when I point to Drunk Girl, and during the break starts a conversation about the guys he'd fuck. "I'd fuck Antoine." He says. "But only for the story. It's like Justin Timberlake. Fucking him would lead to me getting to fuck girls. Of course, I'd have to wear gloves, and a raincoat, cause that poet is a grimy little fucker."

I wouldn't fuck Antoine with a dildo and a radiation suit.

"You, I'd fuck." He says. "But I know you're a top, and I'm not into that."

Of course he's not. The only people into me are drunk girls and underage boys.

I duck out of the reading before the hack who is currently going by "His Holiness, The Righteous and Powerful Van Tyll of Boston" can maim the mic. I am greeted by another passive aggressive note on my door. I'm $1.50 behind on the rent. One dollar and fifty cents. A buck and a half. I leave a stack of pennies, dimes, and nickels in front of Landlord's door.

There are three messages in my voice mail. One Mom, one female, and one male asking for a favor that doesn't include the prefix "sexual". Tragic.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/120783.html