....metling away my will to live...my ability to spell...
The hotter it gets, the shorter my list of Things I'm Capable of Doing Right Now gets....
Things I'm Capable of Doing Right Now (In This Heat)
2. Laying flat on back
4. Twitching slightly
5. Groaning feebly
3. Thinking about ice cubes
6. Wiping brow
7. Changing shirt again
8. Applying more deodorant
9. Taking off shirt
10. Taking off pants
11. Taking off skin
12. Running toward distant oasis only to find it's just a mirage
....metling away my will to live...my ability to spell...
Texan Blogger Chet Gasset is one of the fine fine people who bought a copy of my novel, The Inside, and he liked it so much he interviewed me about it. And about many other things. Pretty much EVERY other thing, actually. So if you ever wanted to find out what my answers to every question in the universe are, you please to visit following link:
CHET GASSET INTERVIEW
Labels: The Inside
There was a moment last week that I almost became a model.
I got a message on Myspace from a "talent scout" for this New York company, said they were doing a shoot in Seattle and wanted me to be in it. I was a little puzzled, because it's a HAIR product company, and my hair, with its unyielding double cowlicks and limp, unmanageable thinness, is the bane of my existence. It has been since I first learned that my mom's embarrassed buzz cuts weren't actually the "it" hairstyle.
But they were going to pay me 500$ a day just to stand around and look good for a few hours, so I said, "Um, if you say so..." and agreed.
What they didn't mention was that the "meeting" they scheduled with me before the shoot was actually a quality-control meat inspection along the lines of 18th century slave auctions.
The time arrives, and as requested, I head downtown to the ritzy Hotel 1000 (where rapper Andre 3000 is reported to have stayed recently). I make a pitstop in the restroom for a hair check and nervous-pee, and marvel at the softness of the paper towels laid out on the marble counter. If I could have clothes and bedsheets made out of those paper towels....oh I would.
I am escorted into a room in the lobby, and without any preamble or explanation of what's going on or what's going to happen, I am introduced to some kind of director named Voltaire (of course his name is Voltaire). I consider introducing myself as Isaac 4000, but I'm caught up in the assembly line and pushed in front of an angry-looking British/Australian man who looks me over, inspects my gums, kicks me in the shins, and then dismisses me with an offhanded shout to his assistant, "Get a polaroid of Isaac". A woman tells me to look straight ahead and takes two mugshot-style polaroids of me, then gets my number (again) and tells me they'll call me that night to go over the schedule.
They never called me. Nor did they answer my followup email or acknowledge my existence ever again. So, readers, I'd like to take this moment to call for a global boycott of Bumble & Bumble hair products, on account of rudeness. I mean come on, guys...so I don't have the most majestic mane of hair you've ever seen, but what about my personality? What about my friendly smile and warm handshake? What about my thoughts and philosophies on life? Isn't that worth anything to you? Like, 500$ a day, maybe?
The whole experience was a real wakeup call for me. I mean who would have ever imagined that the fashion industry would be so shallow?
Labels: Strange experiences
I suppose it's about time I told you about my Sasquatch Music Festival experience. Let me see if I can distill it down.
Nichole arrives, we set off for the Gorge with nothing but goldfish crackers, whiskey, and a block of Comte cheese for sustenance. Nichole smokes in the goddamn car the whole goddamn trip. I patiently endure the freezing wind as we drive 80 mph with the windows down.
We reach the Gorge. The Fest doesn't start till tomorrow so we drive around looking for a place to camp. We run across a group of middle aged folks parked on the side of the road, and strike up a conversation. They tell us they just paid 60$ to camp at this nearby campground but it was "a little too wild" for them. They give us their camping pass.
We enter the campground. At first we think this is the Sasquatch overflow campsite, but this starts to seem unlikely, as we haven't met many backwards-hat wearing neckless linebackers in our lives who listen mainly to T-Pain but also enjoy a little Flaming Lips and Beirut. It quickly becomes apparent that something else is going on here. The campground is PACKED with frat-persons, the Top 40 hip hop is blaring from every vehicle, and you can barely see the grass through all the Bud Light cans. This is the kind of scene where--I poop you not--multiple black Escalades roll through the camp sites with three or four girls dancing on the roofs to the song "She Moves Her Body Like a Cyclone" on repeat, grinding on each other and occasionally--when the crowd roars for it like Coliseum spectators calling for death--whipping off their tops and giving everyone an eyefull of titilation. Nichole wants to dance, but the Dance Floor rejects her free-spirited dance moves and near-total lack of ass-grinding, so we ditch the club with a quickness, and hit the road again.
After ending up at the Sasquatch campground last night, here we are, ready to rock. Some friends arrive and join our campsite. They offer us a delicious breakfast of scrambled eggs and Coors tallboys. And so it begins.
The first band we all really really want to see is the hit accordian-rock group, Beirut. This doesn't turn out quite as we planned however, as one of the girls in our group has been on a rotating diet of Coors, Tequila, Whiskey and Weed since 8:00 am. And so I find myself trudging stoically across the entire Gorge lawn with this young lady folded up in my arms, murmuring incoherently between occasional stomach spasms. Fabio makes this look so easy on all those romance novel covers.
Everything turns out ok, though. My friends and I listen to Beirut through the fence of the Medic Tent, while our girl enjoys a refreshing saline I.V, and pukes into a bucket.
Not to give the impression that the rest of us are models of sobriety. Despite the 12$ price tag for a can of Pabst, we manage to stay pretty well marinated throughout the day. By 7:00 pm I'm feeling inexplicably cranky and headachy. I laugh a little when I realize that I'm actually hungover, without even having gone to sleep yet. I didn't even know that could happen. Sasquatch is so educational!
(Matt Damer taking his medicine)
I don't remember anything that happened Sunday.
(Me, Lance, and Nichole)
It rained massively last night, and the zipper on my 20$ tent broke. I had to reattach the doorway by punching holes through it and "sewing" it together with duct-tape threads. By morning we're all feeling a little "done" with Sasquatch. But some of our most anticipated bands are playing today, so we stick it out. We visit the Comedy Tent. Some of the comics are hilarious. At one point this 30 something woman takes the stage, and I turn to Matt and say, quite sexistly, "She's not gonna be funny. Watch."
She's not funny. The entire tent listens in dead silence.
As fate would have it, possibly my two most desired-to-see bands are playing simultaneously. Battles, and Flight of the Conchords. I watch Battles in awe for about ten minutes then run over to the main stage to see FOTC. They are wonderful, and use the word "flip" and "flippin" alot.
FOTC is follwed by Mars Volta On Ten Pounds of Crack. Other than a brief moment of coherency when they play the riveting "Viscera Eyes", their show is an hour of total sonic and physical chaos. They throw mic stands into the crowd. The singer does a backflip off an amp and tosses his mic hundreds of feet into the air. The musicians play furiously, each one apparently playing a different song in a different key and time signature. If you made a "Shreds" video of this show, you wouldn't have to change the audio at all.
Finally, the grand finale, the Flaming Lips. Having seen them last time they played Sasquatch, I wasn't too surprised by the massive-scale theatrics, the exploding confetti, descending UFOs, and stage full of dancing Teletubbies. I was a little surprised by the looping background video of various topless women dancing, and even more surprised when the band invited the crowd to come up on stage and get naked, and they did. Now this may seem counterintuitive, but to be honest, after three days of sleeping next to and being surrounded by hundreds of insanely gorgeous women in the hot sweaty sun, watching ten or twenty beautiful girls frolic on stage completely nude was actually NOT what I needed. Hard times are upon us, my friends.
Finally it's over. I stab holes in my tent with the pair of sheet-metal shears I keep in my car, leave it on the lawn, and drive home. I finally get the shower I've been craving, and when I get out and dry off I think I weigh five pounds less. I have a music hangover. No more music! Get that shit away from me. For a while until I recover, it's gonna be nothing but traffic noise and atonal buzz for me. Oh wait, that's Mars Volta...
Ready for more gleeful self-promotion?
Well, as many of you may have noticed by my constant mentioning of it, I wrote a novel, and I'm trying to sell it. I printed 150 copies, and I have 60 left. Since I am quite literally a starving writer right now, I would very much like to sell those remaining 60. To YOU!
So I've collected a few reviews and responses from various readers, and posted them on my book page. I definitely understand distrust of "local authors" and their "vanity projects", so what I'd like to do is offer the book some legitimacy and prove to you that A) The book actually exists, and B) it's actually a decent read.
So go have a look. I mean, the woman who works on scripts for LOST loved it...how bad could it be?
Labels: The Inside
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you one of the most horrifying videos to cross my path...
Man With Pet Wasp
According to the video's caption, this man has made this wasp his "pet". Oh what hubris! That's like saying you made a lightning bolt your "pet", or like saying you made a fireball your "pet". Lightning bolts, fireballs, bees, these things exist for one reason--not to curl up at your feet and purr, not to eat out of your hand or to approximate love--TO KILL!! Most likely this wasp has been sent from the Hive to infiltrate human society and lull them into a false peace accord, then--ZAP! Ten foot nuclear stinger through your chest.
Don't worry though, I already called the CIA and Homeland Security's insect defense division to have the maker of this video interned and the "pet" wasp squished.
This kind of thing just...God...come on people. All it takes is a little common sense. I mean I don't think any of us is looking forward to a world controlled by bees where we're all held in glass cases and occasionally stung to death for no reason, so let's just get our act together a little and start paying attention to what's going on in the world. I don't think anyone is still debating whether or not the bee threat is real, so let's wake up and start taking it seriously. You don't...God, you don't take a bee as a fucking PET! Are you kidding me? Bee = Kill It, how hard is that formula? Come on people.
Holy shit! My submission to Ebert's Little Movie Glossary appeared in this weeks' Movie Answer Man!
Right there at the bottom of the page, lookit! That's me, Isaac Marion from Seattle!
My name in print! Things are gonna start happening to me now!
PEE ESS: Anyone out there from Chicago? Do you know if the Chicago Sun Times print edition contains the Answer Man column or the Movie Glossary? Or is it only on the webiste?
I'd love to get my hands on a print copy if my submission is in it....