Philip Seymour Hoffman Found Dead
I’m not like the others, you know. Excepting, of course, all the ones I’m terribly similar to.
A grown man like me should not go more than a week without cooking a big meal. — Werner Herzog, shortly before cooking and eating his shoe.
I had a dream this morning. There was some kind of music festival, it was small scale. I was sitting in the grass up front by the main stage by myself, there were a few people about. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder, I turned, and who should greet me but The Boss himself, Bruce Springsteen. We hug as old friends glad to be reunited and he sits with me. A few of the people sitting around us are looking at Bruce in awe. A pair of girls, they couldn’t be more that 14 or 15, that are sitting in front of us turn around to giggle and Bruce-because he’s awesome-greets them warmly, asks if they know who he is. They don’t and Bruce says something charming and folksy about how that’s alright but their parents are never gonna believe em. So then Bruce Springsteen and I watch the rest of the bands, but someone has noticed he’s sitting out there watching. So they ask him to come up and play a song, he looks to me for guidance. I nod. The dream ends.
Recently, whenever I end up talking to my mom she asks me when I’m going to get married. It’s always in that goofy mom-joke type way, so it’s easy enough to brush off. But then she always follows up by asking about how my female friends are doing, what they’ve been up to, and “Oh, is she still seeing so-and-so?” All of this wouldn’t bother me so much if I could figure out if she is bad at being subtle or just doesn’t care to try.
Tonight it was silent in the corner liquor store, save for the ringing of the bell as I entered from the arctic city. But by the time I placed my purchase on at the counter we were halfway through “Hurt So Good”, the large bald Polish gentleman with the impressive coke pinky. We have an understanding based on mutual respect. Commerce occurred. Then we got drunk.
I blew up an egg making breakfast this morning. There was a shabby pop followed by a smell that was not quite the smell of burning. Along with the general melancholic malaise I was otherwise attributing to having to go to work today, I can’t help but feel this is a representation of things to come. And I should know, because as of this morning I can consider myself an egg-spurt.
Last night I dreamed I was a part of a hit squad. It was made up predominantly of people I know, but also James Brown. We had tied a young woman to a chair and placed her in view of the entry hallway to the room we were set up in. My friend Mel was supposed to flip a switch when the mark came rushing toward the girl, this would release a cage that fell on them. It was then up to James Brown to use a tranquilizer on the poor bastard, but James couldn’t help but use the tranq on himself. I had to extract the needle from his velour suit, refill it with more tranquilizer, and then jab it into the neck of the guy in the cage. There were probably around four other people in the room, I don’t know what their jobs were.
Later, the crew went out to a party to celebrate. It was a house party, very dark. And packed. Some chicky came up and took me by the arm, started showing me around the place. I recognized her, but can’t remember who she was. I saw a few familiar faces in the crowd, and one face that I didn’t recognize in reality but dream me did. All of the sudden I was wrenched away from the one girl by another. Turned out to be an old girlfriend. The face that I didn’t recognize but dream recognized turned out to be some guy she knew who was eyeing me, trying to make out whether or not my original guide and I were involved. Then I woke up.
I had messages from all those involved in said dream today, including James Brown. Now I’m watching a movie about a hit man. I think I’ll probably see a bunch of people I don’t recognize today.
A woman in my home town has gone missing.
I can’t believe I’m not there for this.
I’d like to travel to the underworld and have a drink with Rock Hudson and James Brown.
I think that’d be a pretty good night. Watching the Godfather of Soul play wingman for Hollywood’s biggest closeted icon.
Maybe Bogie would show up with Papa Hem and we three could knock back a couple Anis del Toros while listening to Cole Porter bang away on the pianer.
In the end Hudson goes home with Jobriath and Harvey Milk sits dejectedly in a corner wishing he hadn’t gushed about Douglas Sirk movies so much.
Yes, the underworld seems like a fine place to visit-any place run by James Woods would have to be. Just don’t look back on your way out or you’ll turn into a pillar of salt.