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post #360
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Fucking and Death

I was going to do a hoax post, but all my ideas were lame. Instead, I decided to just start off April with a bang.


Recently, in a bar, I was talking a writer/director (according to his card) named Jerkoff. He wore orange Bono-esque sunglasses indoors at night and amused me for about half a pint. He was super self-assured as if he had it all figured out and was on the road to super mega success. He even had the sunglasses for it.

Now I don’t want to knock down Jerkoff too much. He was happy in his own little universe, and I believed he could make all his dreams come true. He had the swagger for it. He oozed confidence, and the ooze wasn’t completely filled with puss.

So what do you do? Jerkoff asked as we got to talking.

Stories. I said.

Would I have seen any of them? Jerkoff asked next because success takes precedence over substance in Hollywood. It doesn’t matter what your stuff is about, but if it’s successful, then you’re interesting.

I don’t know. Would you have? I answered slightly coyly. After all, I don’t control what passes in front of Jerkoff’s eyes.

Jerkoff looked at me slightly befuddled. I sipped my pint and backtracked a bit.

Do you read stories? I asked.

No, I don’t read those things. Never really liked reading books. They were always so long. Jerkoff said. His answer did not shock me. No one in Hollywood reads except for those lucky few who are employed as readers.

Yeah, I wrote a book too. I said.

Oh has it been published? Jerkoff asked again on the success angle.

Nope. But I have a really nice collection of rejection letters. I said. Jerkoff frowned. He wasn’t use to dealing with the unsuccessful. He was all about moving forward and up and up and up.

So what’s your book about? Jerkoff asked.

I could've said that it was a post-feminism meditation on urban alienation and existential grief. Instead, I just said:


Jerkoff lit up. I had said the magic word.

Really? I’d read that book. Jerkoff said. After that our conversation waned because we ceased to shock or awe each other.

However, my brief tete-a-tete with Jerkoff reminded me of a little anecdote from college. I don’t remember much about the undergrad years. I do remember that I wrote on a Smith Corona with one of those screens that only showed six lines. I liked the Smith Corona because it wasn’t as clunky as the computers at the time.

Anyway, my play was in the college festival, and I had to write a bio of myself. What could I write about myself at 22? I was born, I went to school, and. . . .

So the last line of my bio (written in the third person) was she likes to write about fucking and death.

Unfortunately, Douglas Douglas (his first name is Douglas, not Doug), the faculty producer of the festival, objected to my use of the word fucking and changed the word to sex in the program.

I don’t remember if he had called me into his office or if I had stopped in between classes, but I do remember standing in front of his desk and shifting from foot to foot absolutely livid in my artistic twenty-two year old self.

Douglas Douglas explained that donors to the festival see the program and might object to the language. I hadn’t yet learned the no-cursing in theatre programs rule.

Just don’t censor my play. I told Douglas Douglas. I was worried that my intergalactic sex romp might run into trouble especially for the climatic (both theatrically and orgasmically) bed room scene.

Douglas Douglas reassured me that he would not censor my play, and he was true to his word. In fact, I think he even laughed at some of the play’s jokes when it was performed.

Still, Fucking and Death, what a great topic to spend a lifetime exploring. Just thinking about it makes me giddy.

Fucking and Death
Fucking and Death
Fucking and Death
Fucking and Death
Fucking and Death
Fucking and Death
Fucking and Death


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