It’s a Saturday morning, somewhere in the vicinity of 7 AM as I type this (who knows when I’ll post it, could be days knowing me), and I’m stuck here at work. Ugh.
In the parking lot outside are 9 cars and about thirty people commiserating before compiling into problably an easier carpooling configuraion and driving to the nearby local air show. The other day someone asked me why I was working instead of going to the air show. My answer was in two parts:
1) I don’t give a shit as I’m above the age of 6.
2) Haven’t you ever seen any TV show where they show “real life” videos? People die at air shows, man!
Anyway, the people in the parking lot are drinking. I can see the suds and foam of beers in the early morning sunlight from where I sit passively blogging away. I’m tempted to go out and tailgate with them, just a little bit. I’ll pretend I know them, throw out some stories about how I’m here as a friend of Gary’s and “AIR SHOW WOO HOOOO pass me another cold one, okay?” I’ve done this kind of thing before, no worries.
This is billed as the ultimate tailgate trailer. I keep for the humanity that devoted scientists to concoct this.
I’ve joked about it before but I have crashed a funeral before. Or a wake. Whatever part of the thing it was where the mourning was still going on but there was wine and finger food. It’s not as sexy as when Will Ferrell does it in Wedding Crashers but I won’t lie. It’s got a certain allure.
Fuck me, a Saturday at work. I lied and told Lollipop that I wasn’t going to work today, but mostly because I realized that she’s semi-expertly deduced a good majority of my schedule based on my email frequency and gchat availability. Not bad on her part. Sorry, Lollipop, I was half being sarcastic this morning when I said I wasn’t going to work this morning and half just flat out lying. You know how I do.
Saturdays are boring. Well, no, that’s not true Sundays are boring, but I tend to cram a lot of adventure into them, so I’m not going to knock them too much. Saturdays are that make or break down of your typicalweekend adventure.
It’s been Robert Altman week over at This Recording this past week and it’s been excellent, as they usually do. Definite highlights include Tyler Coates’ write up of Nashville, Molly Lambert talking about California Split and menfolk in general, and Georgia Hardstark on (and off) McCabe and Mrs. Miller. Oh, and Molly Young, of course, on The Long Goodbye. Such a weird, wonderful film, that one.
Especially since, back in the 70s, I feel you really only had two viable male role model ideals coming out of the film industry: Elliot Gould and Han Solo. I may not actually mean that, but it’s early and it sounds good and authoratative.
I’m a little sad that no one did anything on one of my favorite entries in the Altman filmography, Images. I should talk about it at some point. I remember I once was talking abot films with August Bravo and I told him he should see Images because it was great and I loved it and that was enough of reason. This was in emails or text messages and he said, “Yeah, I’ll definitely look for it.”
A half an hour later he texted/emailed me and said, “I’ll probably never see that movie. Whatever it was.”
Ha ha! That’s fine, August, that’s cool. Didn’t hurt my feelings at all. Bros! By the way, I slept with your girlfriend. I don’t know which, but one of them, okay?
In case you’re curious: This is how men of good camraderie one up each other in a playful and fun way. It invovles our penises and not our brains, so it’s easier for us to retain knowledge about movies we like, nacho stylings, and keeping straight whether we’re tits or ass or legs men. That’s really what we’re all about for the most part.
Of course I’m referring to straight men above. For gay men, bicurious men, or asexual men, or men who are in the process of changing which gender box they put the check mark in on when they’re applying for jobs in these tough recession-drenche times, it’s essentially the same, just give or take a few things.
To prove it, hardcore man-style, I’m going to march outside and have few beers at the pre-air show tailgate party, scream out a few sports-esque things as if I know what I’m talking about, like, “PUT PETE ROSE IN THE HALL OF FAME ALREADY FOR FUCK’S SAKE, YOU ANIMALS!” Somebody will then invariably have car trouble and I’ll say, “I’ve been drinking, so don’t worry, I know what I’m talking about,” and I’ll fix their engine with a hammer. Then I’ll club one of the women over the head (not with the hammer, mind you, that’d be monstrous) and drag her back to my love nest. I’d like to say that we’ll probably do something adult and very kinky there, but we’ll probably just watch Images and discuss it over some nachos. It’s tragic, but this is how I tend to roll more often than not.
And what are you doing with yourself today?
