April302010

It’s not that I don’t have it finished.  
It’s not that I don’t want you to read it.
It’s just that it costs $3.00 per issue to print and I don’t get that Kickstarter money until the end of May.
But hey, here’s a picture of me, holding it.
So that’s two things you can quietly long for.

It’s not that I don’t have it finished.  

It’s not that I don’t want you to read it.

It’s just that it costs $3.00 per issue to print and I don’t get that Kickstarter money until the end of May.

But hey, here’s a picture of me, holding it.

So that’s two things you can quietly long for.

April172010
Coming in May.  Donations accepted HERE.

Coming in May.  Donations accepted HERE.

October182009
Rosario Dawson and I are lying in the queen-sized bed inside our treehouse, eating berries while the Victrola spins out lazy, gauzy tunes that crackle and snap with the analog warmth of the brittle vinyl upon which they’re stamped.  We are also having a conversation.
"I love you."
"I love you.”
"I am in love with you."
"I’m in love with you too."
"Yeah, but I love you though."
"Except that I love you."
"Ah, but have I mentioned that I love you?"
"Uh huh, but I don’t know if you caught the part where I love you."
"It was hard to hear because I love you so much."
"Yeah, I was going to mention that but I was too busy loving you."
"Oh.  Oh guess what?  I love you."
"Really?  That’s so weird, because I love you too."
"I love you."
"No, I love you.”
"Allah view."
"Olive yew two."
"I …"
"Love me?"
"I love you."
"I thought so."
"Hey.  Hey guess what?"
"I love you?"
"No!  I love you!”
"I did NOT see that coming!"
"I KNOW, RIGHT?!"
Etc.

Rosario Dawson and I are lying in the queen-sized bed inside our treehouse, eating berries while the Victrola spins out lazy, gauzy tunes that crackle and snap with the analog warmth of the brittle vinyl upon which they’re stamped.  We are also having a conversation.

"I love you."

"I love you.”

"I am in love with you."

"I’m in love with you too."

"Yeah, but I love you though."

"Except that I love you."

"Ah, but have I mentioned that I love you?"

"Uh huh, but I don’t know if you caught the part where I love you."

"It was hard to hear because I love you so much."

"Yeah, I was going to mention that but I was too busy loving you."

"Oh.  Oh guess what?  I love you."

"Really?  That’s so weird, because I love you too."

"I love you."

"No, I love you.”

"Allah view."

"Olive yew two."

"I …"

"Love me?"

"I love you."

"I thought so."

"Hey.  Hey guess what?"

"I love you?"

"No!  I love you!

"I did NOT see that coming!"

"I KNOW, RIGHT?!"

Etc.

October152009
There is a breeze.  Always, there is a breeze, sometimes as faint as the last breath exhaled into the cold Winter air from the punctured and leaking lungs of a dying cyclist in Chicago’s Ukrainian Village, one half of a word perennially unfinished, and likely a question, carried forth in that fascinating mist or steam they can never quite convincingly CGI into movies which necessitates a lot of proper seasonal filming, skirting the edge of visibility or hearing and going unrecorded forever, other times strong and fragrant and kicking up the hems of Summer sun dresses and rustling loose the weightless puffs of plant dander that dandelions produce and scattering them far and wide over the rich green fields and well-paved streets of Heaven.
It’s the motion of the angels, invisible and intangible, or the swirling, eddying currents of the disembodied souls who spend their days as sunlight and oxygen and drops of Spring rain.  It’s the breath of God.  It’s the current of human desire.  It’s a gentle reminder that even here, where everything is possible and beautiful and nothing hurts or leaves you empty or lost or wanting that there is still momentum, still somewhere to go or something to be and with all the malleable time in the world to pursue your interests and dreams and realize at last the culmination of all the hope you might have stifled in the life that came before this one for fear of disappointment, there really is nonetheless a path and a purpose, and isn’t it nice that that breeze also smells like fresh tarragon today? 

I think so.

There is a breeze.  Always, there is a breeze, sometimes as faint as the last breath exhaled into the cold Winter air from the punctured and leaking lungs of a dying cyclist in Chicago’s Ukrainian Village, one half of a word perennially unfinished, and likely a question, carried forth in that fascinating mist or steam they can never quite convincingly CGI into movies which necessitates a lot of proper seasonal filming, skirting the edge of visibility or hearing and going unrecorded forever, other times strong and fragrant and kicking up the hems of Summer sun dresses and rustling loose the weightless puffs of plant dander that dandelions produce and scattering them far and wide over the rich green fields and well-paved streets of Heaven.

It’s the motion of the angels, invisible and intangible, or the swirling, eddying currents of the disembodied souls who spend their days as sunlight and oxygen and drops of Spring rain.  It’s the breath of God.  It’s the current of human desire.  It’s a gentle reminder that even here, where everything is possible and beautiful and nothing hurts or leaves you empty or lost or wanting that there is still momentum, still somewhere to go or something to be and with all the malleable time in the world to pursue your interests and dreams and realize at last the culmination of all the hope you might have stifled in the life that came before this one for fear of disappointment, there really is nonetheless a path and a purpose, and isn’t it nice that that breeze also smells like fresh tarragon today? 




I think so.

October112009

Retirement, here I come.

So today I went to Quimby’s to buy Nick Cave’s The Death of Bunny Munro because I love Nick Cave and he wrote a new book and I love books too.  It’s all happening, right?  That shit is on some snake-eat-tail level.  Inescapable.

While there, I asked the scrawny, bespectacled ginger at the counter to check on the sales status of Rosario Dawson Loves Me, the ‘zine for which this website serves as the drafting board.  Not only did he actually know what I was talking about, he said, “I thiiiink we have … one.” to which I replied, “You sold one?” because that’s crazy, and he says, “No, I think we have one left.”

And do you know what?  They did.  Which means FOUR PEOPLE I HAVE NEVER MET bought a copy.  FOUR!  At the $.90 I am raking in per issue, that is ALMOST FOUR DOLLARS.  Conceive of it, mortals!  Finally, I can fulfill my lifelong dream of going, “No, don’t worry about it.  Money is no object.

To all four of you, thank you.  I truly hoped you enjoyed reading it half as much as I enjoyed making it.  Look for volume two in time for Christmas.

Also, speaking of Christmas, did you know Rosario Dawson Loves Me makes a great stocking stuffer?  Or kindling?  Or a flyswatter?  That’s right, it’s a multifaceted recession buster.  Versatile and priced to move.  It also helps level wobbly tables!

Again, thank you.  I really do hope you liked it.

October82009
“That is an excellent tie,” says Rosario Dawson, taking my excellent tie between her fingers to examine it more closely.
“Thank you,” I respond, taking the opportunity to place my hands upon her hipbones.  Her face is close to mine, so I kiss her.* 
She makes a small and heartwarming noise of appreciation and desire and kisses me back, which is pretty much the intended result of a kiss, so I consider this tie a very worthwhile purchase.  After about ten minutes of hot lip-on-lip action I pick up my wife, my well-defined muscular arms beneath her knees and shoulderblades, and carry her to the window.  A breeze which carries the faintest suggestion of lilacs or mint blows the curtains inward, bringing with it the faint sound of tinkling bells which always seems to haunt the air in Heaven.  Over the rich fields which stretch toward the vineyards and the lake hundreds of fireflies dance and flicker, their crepuscular communications a neverending source of delight.  We have an entire room in the adjacent wing whose sole source of illumination is jar upon jar of them, each one containing this really neat invention that looks like an average stick or small tree branch but is some sort of nutrient-rich oxygenating polymer which provides both sustenance and air (and a place to sit) to each jar’s inhabitants, so there isn’t even a need to poke airholes or clean out the depressing remains of expired bugs so instead you can just hang out in there listening to Coltrane while they do their bioluminescent blinking game in near perpetuity, and it’s great.
Roario (Dawson, my wife) is kissing my cheek over and over, a hundred times on or near the same spot, making these exaggerated smacking sounds like cartoon kisses, which prompts me to scrunch up my face (quite a bit of what we do causes face scrunching, now that I think of it) and squint my eyes and kind of pull my head to the side to escape her incessant osculation until after a minute or two I’m all like, “What are you doing, dork?” and she goes, “Looooooooooving you,” and continues smacking away on my cheek like a charming creep until I threaten to throw her out the window if she doesn’t stop.
“I’ll just float,” she says.
“Shit,” I reply.
Mwah, mwah, mwah goes Rosario Dawson, smooching on me like a retard, pausing only to sing “Looooooooving yoooooooou … is easy ‘cause you’re aprettygoodcookwithnicehairandIreallylikethattieyou’rewearingggggg …” and stuff like that and eventually I kind of hoist her up and around off my shoulder and chuck her out the window of our sprawling, architecturally progressive mansion and into the fragrant night air, where she does in fact just hover, smiling.
“Hey, watch this,” she says, and her belly glows with that fascinating yellow-green color, just like the fireflies for a few seconds, then grows dim.
“Are you glowing like a firefly?” I ask my wife, who is obviously glowing like a firefly.
“I am the prettiest firefly ever,” she responds and flies around for a few minutes, intermittently glowing.
“You are the prettiest retard ever, maybe,” I say with a smile, alighting through the window and chasing her through the warm Summer air, weightless and giggling and happy.
When I catch her, I do some prerequisite tickling and then we stop, hovering side by side and slowly rotate until we’re staring up at the smattering of stars, then close our eyes and with a practiced thought we materialize in the front seat of a 1953 Studebaker in the third row of the drive-in movie theatre down the road from our house just as the cartoon with the dancing popcorn and snacks is beginning, which precedes the previews which precede tonight’s movie, which is Thor, starring Chris Hemsworth and Natalie Portman and directed by Kenneth Branagh because it is cheesy action movie night and my wife is a major comic book geek.  Beside us, in a ‘59 Lincoln Premier is my friend Dani and her boyfriend David Duchovny.
“Hey, Dani,” I say, rolling down the window, “Hey, David Duchovny.”
“Hey Justin.  Hey Rosario Dawson,” says Dani, and David Duchovny smiles and waves as well.  “We thought you weren’t going to make it.  What have you guys been doing?”
“I was glowing like a firefly,” says Rosario, smiling, and Dani, even though she’s way smart and kind of highfaluting is nevertheless also a lot like an overgrown seven year old regarding certain things (one of those things, I now know, is fireflies) goes, “Oh my God that sounds sooooo fun!” and Rosario is all like, “Watch,” and she glows like a firefly and Dani squeals a little or at least makes some sort of indescribable noise of excitement and then she also glows like a firefly and Duchovny is looking at me, all ghostly greenish in the glow of Dani (which I must also be in the glow of Rosario) and I just roll my eyes and shrug my shoulders while the ladies discuss making a light language for when the phones are broken which I don’t even have the energy or desire to point out won’t happen because we live in Heaven and even if I did they’re both so happy and blinking and bioluminescent I just ask Dave if he wants to go get some concessions from the concession stand and he concedes and so we do.
“Long time no see,” says David Duchovny, clapping me on the shoulder. 
“We took a vacation to the island district,” I say, shaking his hand and smiling.  “It’s good to see you.”
I buy a bunch of Sour Patch Kids and some JuJuBees for Rosario, then get popcorn and soda for good measure.  David buys two packs of cigarettes, a large popcorn, bottled waters and some coffee, which will still be hot even if they drink it after the movie ends.  We both have a cooler full of beer in the trunk of our car, and a flask or two, because this isn’t our first drive-in rodeo.
And when we get back the previews have started and the gals are not glowing anymore and we settle into our respective cars with our respective candies and popcorn and regular (not diet) soda with the ice that never melts and the perpetual carbonation and a surprising zero calories and we watch Thor starring starring Chris Hemsworth and Natalie Portman (directed by Kenneth Branagh) in the dark and balmy evening while in the distance, near a thicket of trees just outside the gate, several hundred fireflies flicker and blink, a perfectly acceptable form of talking during a film.
* I don’t mean to imply that the only reason I kiss her is because she happens to bring her face into general proximity with my lips.  I kiss her because she is my wife and I love her and I think she is beautiful and oftentimes the words I would use to tell her so would end up coming out all hackneyed and overwrought, some little torrent of purple prose that both overstates and underimpresses my feelings, and so in lieu of this embarrassment I instead gently kiss her, hoping that in the soft pressure of my lips and palms and the sound of my drawing breath all the poetry my speaking voice lacks my body will be able to convey.

“That is an excellent tie,” says Rosario Dawson, taking my excellent tie between her fingers to examine it more closely.

“Thank you,” I respond, taking the opportunity to place my hands upon her hipbones.  Her face is close to mine, so I kiss her.* 

She makes a small and heartwarming noise of appreciation and desire and kisses me back, which is pretty much the intended result of a kiss, so I consider this tie a very worthwhile purchase.  After about ten minutes of hot lip-on-lip action I pick up my wife, my well-defined muscular arms beneath her knees and shoulderblades, and carry her to the window.  A breeze which carries the faintest suggestion of lilacs or mint blows the curtains inward, bringing with it the faint sound of tinkling bells which always seems to haunt the air in Heaven.  Over the rich fields which stretch toward the vineyards and the lake hundreds of fireflies dance and flicker, their crepuscular communications a neverending source of delight.  We have an entire room in the adjacent wing whose sole source of illumination is jar upon jar of them, each one containing this really neat invention that looks like an average stick or small tree branch but is some sort of nutrient-rich oxygenating polymer which provides both sustenance and air (and a place to sit) to each jar’s inhabitants, so there isn’t even a need to poke airholes or clean out the depressing remains of expired bugs so instead you can just hang out in there listening to Coltrane while they do their bioluminescent blinking game in near perpetuity, and it’s great.

Roario (Dawson, my wife) is kissing my cheek over and over, a hundred times on or near the same spot, making these exaggerated smacking sounds like cartoon kisses, which prompts me to scrunch up my face (quite a bit of what we do causes face scrunching, now that I think of it) and squint my eyes and kind of pull my head to the side to escape her incessant osculation until after a minute or two I’m all like, “What are you doing, dork?” and she goes, “Looooooooooving you,” and continues smacking away on my cheek like a charming creep until I threaten to throw her out the window if she doesn’t stop.

“I’ll just float,” she says.

“Shit,” I reply.

Mwah, mwah, mwah goes Rosario Dawson, smooching on me like a retard, pausing only to sing “Looooooooving yoooooooou … is easy ‘cause you’re aprettygoodcookwithnicehairandIreallylikethattieyou’rewearingggggg …” and stuff like that and eventually I kind of hoist her up and around off my shoulder and chuck her out the window of our sprawling, architecturally progressive mansion and into the fragrant night air, where she does in fact just hover, smiling.

“Hey, watch this,” she says, and her belly glows with that fascinating yellow-green color, just like the fireflies for a few seconds, then grows dim.

“Are you glowing like a firefly?” I ask my wife, who is obviously glowing like a firefly.

“I am the prettiest firefly ever,” she responds and flies around for a few minutes, intermittently glowing.

“You are the prettiest retard ever, maybe,” I say with a smile, alighting through the window and chasing her through the warm Summer air, weightless and giggling and happy.

When I catch her, I do some prerequisite tickling and then we stop, hovering side by side and slowly rotate until we’re staring up at the smattering of stars, then close our eyes and with a practiced thought we materialize in the front seat of a 1953 Studebaker in the third row of the drive-in movie theatre down the road from our house just as the cartoon with the dancing popcorn and snacks is beginning, which precedes the previews which precede tonight’s movie, which is Thor, starring Chris Hemsworth and Natalie Portman and directed by Kenneth Branagh because it is cheesy action movie night and my wife is a major comic book geek.  Beside us, in a ‘59 Lincoln Premier is my friend Dani and her boyfriend David Duchovny.

“Hey, Dani,” I say, rolling down the window, “Hey, David Duchovny.”

“Hey Justin.  Hey Rosario Dawson,” says Dani, and David Duchovny smiles and waves as well.  “We thought you weren’t going to make it.  What have you guys been doing?”

“I was glowing like a firefly,” says Rosario, smiling, and Dani, even though she’s way smart and kind of highfaluting is nevertheless also a lot like an overgrown seven year old regarding certain things (one of those things, I now know, is fireflies) goes, “Oh my God that sounds sooooo fun!” and Rosario is all like, “Watch,” and she glows like a firefly and Dani squeals a little or at least makes some sort of indescribable noise of excitement and then she also glows like a firefly and Duchovny is looking at me, all ghostly greenish in the glow of Dani (which I must also be in the glow of Rosario) and I just roll my eyes and shrug my shoulders while the ladies discuss making a light language for when the phones are broken which I don’t even have the energy or desire to point out won’t happen because we live in Heaven and even if I did they’re both so happy and blinking and bioluminescent I just ask Dave if he wants to go get some concessions from the concession stand and he concedes and so we do.

“Long time no see,” says David Duchovny, clapping me on the shoulder. 

“We took a vacation to the island district,” I say, shaking his hand and smiling.  “It’s good to see you.”

I buy a bunch of Sour Patch Kids and some JuJuBees for Rosario, then get popcorn and soda for good measure.  David buys two packs of cigarettes, a large popcorn, bottled waters and some coffee, which will still be hot even if they drink it after the movie ends.  We both have a cooler full of beer in the trunk of our car, and a flask or two, because this isn’t our first drive-in rodeo.

And when we get back the previews have started and the gals are not glowing anymore and we settle into our respective cars with our respective candies and popcorn and regular (not diet) soda with the ice that never melts and the perpetual carbonation and a surprising zero calories and we watch Thor starring starring Chris Hemsworth and Natalie Portman (directed by Kenneth Branagh) in the dark and balmy evening while in the distance, near a thicket of trees just outside the gate, several hundred fireflies flicker and blink, a perfectly acceptable form of talking during a film.




* I don’t mean to imply that the only reason I kiss her is because she happens to bring her face into general proximity with my lips.  I kiss her because she is my wife and I love her and I think she is beautiful and oftentimes the words I would use to tell her so would end up coming out all hackneyed and overwrought, some little torrent of purple prose that both overstates and underimpresses my feelings, and so in lieu of this embarrassment I instead gently kiss her, hoping that in the soft pressure of my lips and palms and the sound of my drawing breath all the poetry my speaking voice lacks my body will be able to convey.

September252009
September222009
September172009
"So," says Rosario Dawson, holding up a Rodarte dress she picked up somewhere in the fashion district, "What’s for dinner?"
"Well," I say, adjusting my cufflinks and staring with unfixed attention at or near Ad Reinhardt ‘s Black Painting which hangs on the wall, "I have beef tenderloin I rubbed with a black pepper and Indian-ish spice mix that’ll only take 45 minutes, but I can’t think of a good salad."
"I can make a quick fava and romano bean thing with basil," she replies, and turns so I may help her with the zipper and small clasp.
"I suppose if we had one of the angels whip up a little herbed bulgur with almonds and some merlot we’d almost have ourselves a dinner, then," I smile, and look at my wife as she fastens first one earring and then the other, her large eyes unfocused.
"We might," she says, finishing with her earrings and then adjusting the knot of my tie with her slender fingers. 
I take her hands in my hands (not like when we doing Titanic, but just sliding my thumbs into her palms and laying my fingers over her knuckles) and I kiss her fingertips clumsily.  “We probably should have waited to get dressed if we’re going to be making dinner,” I point out.
"You are a silly, silly goose," she replies, kissing me on each cheek and then the tip of my nose.  "We can’t get our clothes dirty because we’re in Heaven."
"Oh, that’s right.  I’m retarded," I say with a shake of my head, turning her toward the standing mirror, admiring her admiring me admiring her and then the both of us admiring us, Rosario and Justin, the happiest couple in West Heaven, looking sharp as a couple of tacks.
"Let’s make dinner," I say with a smile and a flourish of my arm.
"Indeed, let’s," she replies with a small bow, taking my proffered arm in hers, and that is exactly what we do.
And we look damned good doing it, too.

"So," says Rosario Dawson, holding up a Rodarte dress she picked up somewhere in the fashion district, "What’s for dinner?"

"Well," I say, adjusting my cufflinks and staring with unfixed attention at or near Ad Reinhardt ‘s Black Painting which hangs on the wall, "I have beef tenderloin I rubbed with a black pepper and Indian-ish spice mix that’ll only take 45 minutes, but I can’t think of a good salad."

"I can make a quick fava and romano bean thing with basil," she replies, and turns so I may help her with the zipper and small clasp.

"I suppose if we had one of the angels whip up a little herbed bulgur with almonds and some merlot we’d almost have ourselves a dinner, then," I smile, and look at my wife as she fastens first one earring and then the other, her large eyes unfocused.

"We might," she says, finishing with her earrings and then adjusting the knot of my tie with her slender fingers. 

I take her hands in my hands (not like when we doing Titanic, but just sliding my thumbs into her palms and laying my fingers over her knuckles) and I kiss her fingertips clumsily.  “We probably should have waited to get dressed if we’re going to be making dinner,” I point out.

"You are a silly, silly goose," she replies, kissing me on each cheek and then the tip of my nose.  "We can’t get our clothes dirty because we’re in Heaven."

"Oh, that’s right.  I’m retarded," I say with a shake of my head, turning her toward the standing mirror, admiring her admiring me admiring her and then the both of us admiring us, Rosario and Justin, the happiest couple in West Heaven, looking sharp as a couple of tacks.

"Let’s make dinner," I say with a smile and a flourish of my arm.

"Indeed, let’s," she replies with a small bow, taking my proffered arm in hers, and that is exactly what we do.

And we look damned good doing it, too.

September152009
A unicorn is standing in the window of my bedroom.  Its long and purportedly magical protuberance has actually breached the windowsill and is pushing one of the gauzy curtains out of place.  For a moment I stare into its liquid black eye and I understand that the creature is fiercely intelligent and proud.  It sees me and I see it and while I cannot fathom its thoughts I admire the way the sunlight dances in its mane and the silent majesty of its musculature.  For a moment I feel foolish, thinking of the wild corkscrews in my hair and my squinted eyes and then I look at the rich crimson carpet underfoot and Goya’s Saturn Devouring His Son on the East wall and I remember I’m in Heaven so my bedhead looks like the bedhead of people in Hollywood films, meaning even if it is slightly mussed askew from the way it was originally sculpted by a careful team of stylists it is still remarkably sexy and only disheveled in a manner that emphasizes what a stunning and rich head of hair it truly is, the equivalent of a smudge of dirt on the cheek of a model, its contrast to her beauty only serving to bring it into sharper focus, and furthermore, part of the orientation process my first week in Heaven involved complimentary Lasik eye surgery in the ocular district because no one wears glasses in Heaven unless they were famous for wearing them when they were alive or they want to look distinguished or scholarly or what-have-you so I’m not even squinting at all and so I don’t know what the hell I’m feeling embarrassed about in front of a goddamned imaginary creature I didn’t invite to my window and then I’m all like Wait a minute, where the fuck did this thing come from? and I look around and in strolls my unbelievably pretty yet down-to-earth and affable wife Rosario (Dawson) and she’s got an armful of these giant St. Valery carrots and she’s humming what sounds like Journey’s ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ and behind her this little angel is carrying what can only be a canvas sack of oats and a tray with our sleek and modern brushed steel coffee mugs which are leaving wisps of steam hanging in the air behind them and she (Rosario Dawson) says to me “Good morning, sleepyhead,” and kind of languidly tilts her face toward the thick bars of sunlight streaming through the window around this unicorn that now has its whole head inside our bedroom and is straining its neck forward to nibble at one of the carrots Rosario is feeding it and it is definitely ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ she’s humming and the angel hands me a cup of coffee and damn is Heaven coffee so good, with or without creamer and/or sugar or artificial sweeteners (which all taste exactly like sugar up here and have zero aspartame and/or calories and really there’s just one and it’s called Splendequal & Low and it comes in a purple packet with yellow writing and everyone agrees it’s pretty awesome) and I say “Thank you,” because my mother raised me right and the angel says “You’re quite welcome,” because God raised him right and now this unicorn’s horn thing is glowing which I assume either means it likes the carrot or it’s about to make a magical fucking rainbow or grant a wish or something, neither of which I want happening in my bedroom, really, and not to be a dick or interrupt Rosario’s elevator muzak version of Journey’s most popular jam but because I just woke up and I DO NOT BELIEVE IN UNICORNS I’m like “Honey?  Is that a unicorn you have there?” and Rosario Dawson goes “Yep!  Isn’t he adorable?  And look!  His horn is glowing!” which it’s like, obviously, but I can tell that she’s super excited about this … thing … and feeding it carrots, and I suppose there are no diseases she can catch and I think about taking the angel aside and asking him if this counts as paganism or something but he’s already vanished to wherever they go when you don’t need them so instead I pick up her (Rosario’s) cup of coffee and I bring it over to the window and the unicorn regards me with its hyperintelligent big black eyes which I can barely see through all the glowing horn and she (Rosario Dawson) hands me a St. Valery and I in turn hand it to the unicorn who eats most of it in one bite so I reach down for a double handful of oats and I part my palms just enough to pour a stream of them into my wife’s waiting hand and together we spend twenty minutes feeding this mystical creature while she sings little songs and tells it all about our life and then, and only because I love my wife and she asks so politely and expectantly, we ride it around the perimeter of our house (which is a huge, huge perimeter because our house is big as fuck because we live in Heaven) and the unicorn does all sorts of fancy shit like flying and making rainbows it can walk on and whatever, and I have to admit it’s pretty cool, and Rosario squeals with delight like a little girl every time it happens and by the time we’re halfway around the house I have forgotten all about being surprised and put out by having this big white mofo nosing (or horning, I guess) around my window first thing in the morning and I’ve just got my hands in its mane and Rosario’s hands are around my waist and we’re giggling like retards and she’s going “Faster!” and the unicorn is going faster and I see Eddie Norton walking his dog and he gives me this look like “What the hell?” and I just kind of shrug and cock a thumb at Rosario and he starts laughing (and have you ever noticed what a rich and warm laugh Eddie Norton has even though it’s kind of half-desperate or wild most of the time?) and then we’re speeding past him and coming around to the lake by the vineyards and our little beach house is there and it’s an amazing day so we decide to stop riding this unicorn and go make some chilled sweet corn soup with mint and chili oil and maybe some mojitos and just kind of have ourselves a half-picnic so we dismount and you can tell the unicorn is kind of disappointed and I actually, now that I like him, want to invite him along but it’s not like he’s got hands to help with the soup or hold a mojito and he probably has, you know … a gumdrop river to get back to or whatever, but I ask anyway because fuck it, I like this thing and my wife was right about summoning him from her imagination and the unicorn nods and so we amble over to the beach house and while Rosario is removing the mint bundle and I am beginning to puree the soup I look outside and this unicorn touches its horn to the huge redwood stump we use for a table and I’ll be damned if two mojitos don’t appear, along with all the necessary fixings for several more and a bucket of oats and I go “Would you look at that,” and Rosario claps her hands like the worlds most attractive seal and makes this little squeal of delight and for no good reason kisses me on the cheek and says “I love you!” and I’ve got my hands full straining the soup but I smile as wide as I can and I say “I love you too, weirdo,” and she runs outside to pet and talk to the unicorn while I slice little sprigs of mint into almost invisible strips and place them on top of the soup with a touch of cooked corn and chili oil and head outside to spend the day by the lake with my wife and our new friend/pet/whatever you call it.
I really hope God doesn’t mind.  There are so many weird rules about things like this.

A unicorn is standing in the window of my bedroom.  Its long and purportedly magical protuberance has actually breached the windowsill and is pushing one of the gauzy curtains out of place.  For a moment I stare into its liquid black eye and I understand that the creature is fiercely intelligent and proud.  It sees me and I see it and while I cannot fathom its thoughts I admire the way the sunlight dances in its mane and the silent majesty of its musculature.  For a moment I feel foolish, thinking of the wild corkscrews in my hair and my squinted eyes and then I look at the rich crimson carpet underfoot and Goya’s Saturn Devouring His Son on the East wall and I remember I’m in Heaven so my bedhead looks like the bedhead of people in Hollywood films, meaning even if it is slightly mussed askew from the way it was originally sculpted by a careful team of stylists it is still remarkably sexy and only disheveled in a manner that emphasizes what a stunning and rich head of hair it truly is, the equivalent of a smudge of dirt on the cheek of a model, its contrast to her beauty only serving to bring it into sharper focus, and furthermore, part of the orientation process my first week in Heaven involved complimentary Lasik eye surgery in the ocular district because no one wears glasses in Heaven unless they were famous for wearing them when they were alive or they want to look distinguished or scholarly or what-have-you so I’m not even squinting at all and so I don’t know what the hell I’m feeling embarrassed about in front of a goddamned imaginary creature I didn’t invite to my window and then I’m all like Wait a minute, where the fuck did this thing come from? and I look around and in strolls my unbelievably pretty yet down-to-earth and affable wife Rosario (Dawson) and she’s got an armful of these giant St. Valery carrots and she’s humming what sounds like Journey’s ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ and behind her this little angel is carrying what can only be a canvas sack of oats and a tray with our sleek and modern brushed steel coffee mugs which are leaving wisps of steam hanging in the air behind them and she (Rosario Dawson) says to me “Good morning, sleepyhead,” and kind of languidly tilts her face toward the thick bars of sunlight streaming through the window around this unicorn that now has its whole head inside our bedroom and is straining its neck forward to nibble at one of the carrots Rosario is feeding it and it is definitely ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ she’s humming and the angel hands me a cup of coffee and damn is Heaven coffee so good, with or without creamer and/or sugar or artificial sweeteners (which all taste exactly like sugar up here and have zero aspartame and/or calories and really there’s just one and it’s called Splendequal & Low and it comes in a purple packet with yellow writing and everyone agrees it’s pretty awesome) and I say “Thank you,” because my mother raised me right and the angel says “You’re quite welcome,” because God raised him right and now this unicorn’s horn thing is glowing which I assume either means it likes the carrot or it’s about to make a magical fucking rainbow or grant a wish or something, neither of which I want happening in my bedroom, really, and not to be a dick or interrupt Rosario’s elevator muzak version of Journey’s most popular jam but because I just woke up and I DO NOT BELIEVE IN UNICORNS I’m like “Honey?  Is that a unicorn you have there?” and Rosario Dawson goes “Yep!  Isn’t he adorable?  And look!  His horn is glowing!” which it’s like, obviously, but I can tell that she’s super excited about this … thing … and feeding it carrots, and I suppose there are no diseases she can catch and I think about taking the angel aside and asking him if this counts as paganism or something but he’s already vanished to wherever they go when you don’t need them so instead I pick up her (Rosario’s) cup of coffee and I bring it over to the window and the unicorn regards me with its hyperintelligent big black eyes which I can barely see through all the glowing horn and she (Rosario Dawson) hands me a St. Valery and I in turn hand it to the unicorn who eats most of it in one bite so I reach down for a double handful of oats and I part my palms just enough to pour a stream of them into my wife’s waiting hand and together we spend twenty minutes feeding this mystical creature while she sings little songs and tells it all about our life and then, and only because I love my wife and she asks so politely and expectantly, we ride it around the perimeter of our house (which is a huge, huge perimeter because our house is big as fuck because we live in Heaven) and the unicorn does all sorts of fancy shit like flying and making rainbows it can walk on and whatever, and I have to admit it’s pretty cool, and Rosario squeals with delight like a little girl every time it happens and by the time we’re halfway around the house I have forgotten all about being surprised and put out by having this big white mofo nosing (or horning, I guess) around my window first thing in the morning and I’ve just got my hands in its mane and Rosario’s hands are around my waist and we’re giggling like retards and she’s going “Faster!” and the unicorn is going faster and I see Eddie Norton walking his dog and he gives me this look like “What the hell?” and I just kind of shrug and cock a thumb at Rosario and he starts laughing (and have you ever noticed what a rich and warm laugh Eddie Norton has even though it’s kind of half-desperate or wild most of the time?) and then we’re speeding past him and coming around to the lake by the vineyards and our little beach house is there and it’s an amazing day so we decide to stop riding this unicorn and go make some chilled sweet corn soup with mint and chili oil and maybe some mojitos and just kind of have ourselves a half-picnic so we dismount and you can tell the unicorn is kind of disappointed and I actually, now that I like him, want to invite him along but it’s not like he’s got hands to help with the soup or hold a mojito and he probably has, you know … a gumdrop river to get back to or whatever, but I ask anyway because fuck it, I like this thing and my wife was right about summoning him from her imagination and the unicorn nods and so we amble over to the beach house and while Rosario is removing the mint bundle and I am beginning to puree the soup I look outside and this unicorn touches its horn to the huge redwood stump we use for a table and I’ll be damned if two mojitos don’t appear, along with all the necessary fixings for several more and a bucket of oats and I go “Would you look at that,” and Rosario claps her hands like the worlds most attractive seal and makes this little squeal of delight and for no good reason kisses me on the cheek and says “I love you!” and I’ve got my hands full straining the soup but I smile as wide as I can and I say “I love you too, weirdo,” and she runs outside to pet and talk to the unicorn while I slice little sprigs of mint into almost invisible strips and place them on top of the soup with a touch of cooked corn and chili oil and head outside to spend the day by the lake with my wife and our new friend/pet/whatever you call it.

I really hope God doesn’t mind.  There are so many weird rules about things like this.

September142009
Sometimes in Heaven when I am not doing anything important and my wife is at work or celestial yoga or whatever I am overcome with this feeling of intense possibility and wonder so blinding and strong and pervasive it literally causes the atoms of my body to ripple and untether themselves, my consciousness washed white in attempted contemplation of the limits of my happiness.  I disperse, trillions of atoms whirling outward with a sound like a sigh, becoming one with the walls of my mansion, the fragrant Spring breeze, the rays of the sun (or whatever it is that lights heaven.  It looks like a sun).  My energy flows through every possible conduit and into any conceivable receptacle.  I am part of every other person who has ever lived or died, and both outside and integral to time, which is so much different than anyone ever dreamed and yet so much simpler to comprehend once you’re free of its constraints and part of its purpose. 
I spend an eternity as a grain of sand (specifically a bit of silica, though I have at other times been glauconite, or feldspar).  I am simultaneously and eternally a photon as well, a lonely gauge boson of spin 1, lacking charge or mass.  I am the hydrogen bond that links covalency between hydrogen and oxygen, not knotting the two but clumsily disrupting their electrons’ path enough to form water, and from that water to form life, stitching protein peptides like a subatomic seamstress until creatures so unfathomably complex not only rise but live and breed and build and shop at Target and work in 20th floor offices on Monroe in Chicago’s Loop district and turn to wave to their friends one overcast day as Autumn threatens to break beneath the weight of Winter and with one gloved hand still on the handlebars and the steam from their mouth snaking out between their grinning teeth be struck at speed by another inexpressibly complex collection of mitochondria and ribonucleic acids and thinning hair follicles and second stage pancreatic cancer driving a comparatively simple machine that some would call a ‘73 Lincoln Towncar, dragging them under its wheels with a sickening crunch and tangling the top tube of a 1982 Raleigh Pursuit around and through the brittle cage of ribs that houses a heart that still beats at a steady 110bmp most days despite being broken and untended for the better part of a year and with that crackling, wet noise still filling their ears they watch all the light, every gauge boson of spin1 with no mass and no charge flare once, just for them, and then go as black as the dead center of the pupil of Leviathan behind its unthinkable closed eyelid in the darkest and deepest trench of the undiscovered ocean only to find everything set and ready to go for dinner half an eyeblink later at a long banquet table in the most verdant field to the West of Heaven’s silver city with the vineyards stretching just past the fence toward the horizon and the smell of truffle oil and some stinky but delicious French cheese filling the air and the soft sound of bells tinkling in the distance.
This can and does happen.
Other times, though, Rosario Dawson comes home to our Heaven house and she’s all sweaty from her yoga class and I’m just sitting there in an oversized chair reading DFW’s The Pale King and drinking bourbon or maybe mincing shallots and cucumbers and dicing tomatoes while some bulgur rests on the stove, swelling and softening as it absorbs steam from the small pot with the ivory handle (part of a set my grandmother gave me last time she stopped by to smoke cigarettes and talk about the ‘20s) and there’s parsley bits all over everything and a bunch of lemon juice in a little bowl and she’ll kind of lift one eyebrow and say, “Do you have to destroy my nice clean kitchen every time you make tabbouleh?” and I go, “Listen, babe, the mess is half the fun,” and she goes to dip her finger in the lemon juice and I grab her around the waist and the small of her back isn’t just damp it’s downright wet and I love it because I know she hates me touching it and the way her mouth wrinkles in mingled embarrassment and distaste is almost as adorable as the way it smiles and the feel of her sweaty back is just confirmation that Yes, this is my wife and Yes, she is real and Yes, please, I would like to be right here forever, covered in tabbouleh bits and holding my wife and brushing all the stray strands of her hair out of her eyes and tugging the one from the corner of her mouth so I can kiss her and feel her quit pulling back gently and surrender to the fact that I don’t give a shit about her yoga sweat and in fact actually like it and she so she kisses me and then still sticks her finger in the lemon juice and puts it in her mouth and then makes this face like Damn, that’s sour and I can’t help but go, “What did you expect?” and she says, “I expected to be able to take a shower before you started manhandling me,” and I go “Manhandling?!” in this shocked falsetto voice like I’m so offended I must squawk and flutter like a girl and we are magically standing in our shower which we don’t even need because she could just think herself clean and I repeat “Manhandling?!” and I set her down and I smile and she goes, “You are, quite possibly, retarded.  You know that don’t you?” and I go, “Retarded like a fox,” and she gives me this exasperated but affectionate shake of the head and I take off my perfectly fitted Richard Hell and the Voidoids 1978 concert t-shirt and there’s parsley all over my hands still and she says, “How was your day?” and I go, “Boring, but it’s much better now,” and then we shower and make love and later she helps me finish the tabbouleh, which is delicious (and healthy).
And those are two types of days I might have in Heaven.

Sometimes in Heaven when I am not doing anything important and my wife is at work or celestial yoga or whatever I am overcome with this feeling of intense possibility and wonder so blinding and strong and pervasive it literally causes the atoms of my body to ripple and untether themselves, my consciousness washed white in attempted contemplation of the limits of my happiness.  I disperse, trillions of atoms whirling outward with a sound like a sigh, becoming one with the walls of my mansion, the fragrant Spring breeze, the rays of the sun (or whatever it is that lights heaven.  It looks like a sun).  My energy flows through every possible conduit and into any conceivable receptacle.  I am part of every other person who has ever lived or died, and both outside and integral to time, which is so much different than anyone ever dreamed and yet so much simpler to comprehend once you’re free of its constraints and part of its purpose. 


I spend an eternity as a grain of sand (specifically a bit of silica, though I have at other times been glauconite, or feldspar).  I am simultaneously and eternally a photon as well, a lonely gauge boson of spin 1, lacking charge or mass.  I am the hydrogen bond that links covalency between hydrogen and oxygen, not knotting the two but clumsily disrupting their electrons’ path enough to form water, and from that water to form life, stitching protein peptides like a subatomic seamstress until creatures so unfathomably complex not only rise but live and breed and build and shop at Target and work in 20th floor offices on Monroe in Chicago’s Loop district and turn to wave to their friends one overcast day as Autumn threatens to break beneath the weight of Winter and with one gloved hand still on the handlebars and the steam from their mouth snaking out between their grinning teeth be struck at speed by another inexpressibly complex collection of mitochondria and ribonucleic acids and thinning hair follicles and second stage pancreatic cancer driving a comparatively simple machine that some would call a ‘73 Lincoln Towncar, dragging them under its wheels with a sickening crunch and tangling the top tube of a 1982 Raleigh Pursuit around and through the brittle cage of ribs that houses a heart that still beats at a steady 110bmp most days despite being broken and untended for the better part of a year and with that crackling, wet noise still filling their ears they watch all the light, every gauge boson of spin1 with no mass and no charge flare once, just for them, and then go as black as the dead center of the pupil of Leviathan behind its unthinkable closed eyelid in the darkest and deepest trench of the undiscovered ocean only to find everything set and ready to go for dinner half an eyeblink later at a long banquet table in the most verdant field to the West of Heaven’s silver city with the vineyards stretching just past the fence toward the horizon and the smell of truffle oil and some stinky but delicious French cheese filling the air and the soft sound of bells tinkling in the distance.


This can and does happen.


Other times, though, Rosario Dawson comes home to our Heaven house and she’s all sweaty from her yoga class and I’m just sitting there in an oversized chair reading DFW’s The Pale King and drinking bourbon or maybe mincing shallots and cucumbers and dicing tomatoes while some bulgur rests on the stove, swelling and softening as it absorbs steam from the small pot with the ivory handle (part of a set my grandmother gave me last time she stopped by to smoke cigarettes and talk about the ‘20s) and there’s parsley bits all over everything and a bunch of lemon juice in a little bowl and she’ll kind of lift one eyebrow and say, “Do you have to destroy my nice clean kitchen every time you make tabbouleh?” and I go, “Listen, babe, the mess is half the fun,” and she goes to dip her finger in the lemon juice and I grab her around the waist and the small of her back isn’t just damp it’s downright wet and I love it because I know she hates me touching it and the way her mouth wrinkles in mingled embarrassment and distaste is almost as adorable as the way it smiles and the feel of her sweaty back is just confirmation that Yes, this is my wife and Yes, she is real and Yes, please, I would like to be right here forever, covered in tabbouleh bits and holding my wife and brushing all the stray strands of her hair out of her eyes and tugging the one from the corner of her mouth so I can kiss her and feel her quit pulling back gently and surrender to the fact that I don’t give a shit about her yoga sweat and in fact actually like it and she so she kisses me and then still sticks her finger in the lemon juice and puts it in her mouth and then makes this face like Damn, that’s sour and I can’t help but go, “What did you expect?” and she says, “I expected to be able to take a shower before you started manhandling me,” and I go “Manhandling?!” in this shocked falsetto voice like I’m so offended I must squawk and flutter like a girl and we are magically standing in our shower which we don’t even need because she could just think herself clean and I repeat “Manhandling?!” and I set her down and I smile and she goes, “You are, quite possibly, retarded.  You know that don’t you?” and I go, “Retarded like a fox,” and she gives me this exasperated but affectionate shake of the head and I take off my perfectly fitted Richard Hell and the Voidoids 1978 concert t-shirt and there’s parsley all over my hands still and she says, “How was your day?” and I go, “Boring, but it’s much better now,” and then we shower and make love and later she helps me finish the tabbouleh, which is delicious (and healthy).


And those are two types of days I might have in Heaven.

September132009
I am a ball of light.  I am one thousand buzzing bees.  I am a school of fish.  I am the color of verdigris.  I am a plume of smoke.  I am a hummingbird, an apple, the sound of small bells.  I am the first star in the night sky.  I am the night sky.  I am a beetle, a child’s laugh, a single note held for a minute and thirty seconds by Natalie Dessay in 2001.  I am a fingerprint on a windowpane.  I am the smell of garlic and shallots in hot oil.
When I am done being these things I am Justin Valmassoi, and I arrange the atoms and elements of the celestial ether to make it so.  I create myself from nothing, and it tickles.  Beside me is my wife, Rosario Dawson.  The bacon scented breeze is coming in through the window, shifting the gauzy curtains she has purchased this way and that.  She (that is to say Rosario Dawson) opens her big brown eyes and blinks, three times, slowly.  Then she smiles and I smile and we smile at each other and then we smile wider because we’re beginning to laugh because we’re just smiling at each other like a couple of assholes for no apparent reason and it’s funny but my face is actually starting to tense up, like the precursor to an actual discomfort which will soon occur because I can’t wipe this stupid, shit-eating grin off my face and neither can she and finally she just starts giggling and is all like “What the hell are you staring at?” and I go “Your perfect face, retard,” and then we kiss for twenty minutes and her breath is fresh and clean and minty because angels come while you’re sleeping and use Scope on you very gently so no one wakes up with that morning mouth where it feels like you took your socks off and coated them in beer and then used the material from your socks to line your mouth and teeth and even if it’s just in your head you think that there’s no way it can’t also be just the grossest, nastiest smelling mouth ever and you hate it when your girlfriend or wife tries to kiss you in the morning because you’re convinced she’s going to recoil in horror and be all like “What the hell happened in your gross, freak mouth?” but that doesn’t happen anymore now that I’ve died and gone to Heaven so of course we kiss for twenty minutes and it’s minty and enjoyable and she has such a delightfully full lower lip I just love to tug on with my teeth and we make love in the bacon scented air and The Afghan Whigs are soundchecking in the amphitheatre on the hill and they play a 14 minute version of ‘Faded’ and a cover of ‘Come See About Me’ and ‘then a 12 minute version of Prince’s ‘Purple Rain’ that kind of cuts into ‘Debonair’ the way they do and then Rosario and I are lying sweaty and content in our California king sized bed, her head on my chest and the smell of her hair in my nostrils and I’m all like, “What do you want to do today?” and she goes “You,” and I’m like, “Uh, no duh, doorknob.  But what else?” and she says, “I want to watch the Host do their maneuvers over the glowing lake to the east of the silver city and then I thought we could make dinner and invite Mike and Eva (Mendes) and maybe your grandparents over because I have this idea for a braised lamb shank with sunchoke puree that I’ve been meaning to try out and then we could all spend the night in the library,” and I kind of think it over for a minute and I’m like, “Well, we do have those eight sleigh beds we just put in there on the second floor and I’ve been meaning to see how the soundsystem is working out and grandpa just loves how it’s the library from Seven only it’s in our house and Morgan Freeman is always there researching something, plus Mike and I can get a few hands of poker in with the security guards while you and Eva get all giggly off the wine,” and she goes “See?  Doesn’t that sound nice?” and I have to admit that yeah, it does.
So we do that, and my grandparents and Morgan Freeman end up going to see The Bells of Saint Mary’s starring Ingrid Bergman (who is there as well because she’s dating Morgan Freeman) at the old-timey thatre in the theatre district and they thank us profusely for dinner and my grandpa won’t quit calling it “that gore-may stuff” and my grandma says “Shush” about a hundred times but he doesn’t because that’s their schtick.
Rosario and Eva go wandering off into the stacks with two bottles of chablis and I know they’re going to end up in the social sciences wing talking about that time they both wore the yellow mini dress to that awards show and who had the better shoes and then it’ll get all serious and Rosario will talk about her parents and New York and Eva will talk about her mom and L.A. and they will cry a little but comfort one another because it is a good thing to have sadness within you and a better thing to have a friend to help share and alleviate it and even in Heaven this is important and right and true so it exists.
Mike and I just go play poker with Julio and Miguel and Steve the security guards and smoke cigarettes (which are good for you now, in Heaven) and we all talk about beers we like and then angels bring them to us, but kind of on the sly so as not to break our poker faces and careful, calculated disinterest and all the other tricks and trappings of a good card shark and then Lady Gaga’s “acoustic” version of ‘Poker Face’ comes on the stereo and my library soundsystem is amazing and everyone waits for 2:11 and we pull up the video feed so we can watch her freak out and shriek like some possessed banshee with burning eyes and everyone giggles like schoolgirls and I take the pot with a boat, aces full, and Miguel is like “You bastard,” and I’m all like, “Sorry, Miguel.  Them’s the breaks.”
Later we all go get ice cream and Rosario gets some on her nose and I make her hold still and I kiss it off and it’s gross ‘cause I’m kissing her nose but it’s great because I’m kissing her nose and I give her a piggyback ride all the way home from the ice cream district while she kind of hangs out on my back and tells me all about induction cooking, which I’m way interested in, because she’s been taking a class down in the culinary district and it’s all they use over there.
Then we watch Eagle Eye and I’m like “You are so damned pretty,” and she says, “thank you,” and I’m like, “Why aren’t you with Shia LeBeouf?” and she says, “Because he is better looking than you, but he’s a bit of a dickhead and a real pain to work with and I love you, not Shia LeBeouf,” and I say, “Thank you for your honesty.  Are you sure?” and she goes, “You are funny and smart and you make me laugh and you play with my toes when they’re sticking out from under the covers and you look adorable hunkered over your little laptop all the time and most importantly, I know that you love me and you make me feel prettier than a princess and we make some pretty delicious dinners if I do say so myself,” and I think about it and I realize she’s right and I hug her super tight which is easy because she’s kind of half lying in my lap and I’m basically hugging her anyhow and then I go, “You’re the absolute best, Rosario Dawson,” and she says “Don’t you forget it,” and I don’t.
Ever.
Heaven is pretty okay sometimes.

I am a ball of light.  I am one thousand buzzing bees.  I am a school of fish.  I am the color of verdigris.  I am a plume of smoke.  I am a hummingbird, an apple, the sound of small bells.  I am the first star in the night sky.  I am the night sky.  I am a beetle, a child’s laugh, a single note held for a minute and thirty seconds by Natalie Dessay in 2001.  I am a fingerprint on a windowpane.  I am the smell of garlic and shallots in hot oil.

When I am done being these things I am Justin Valmassoi, and I arrange the atoms and elements of the celestial ether to make it so.  I create myself from nothing, and it tickles.  Beside me is my wife, Rosario Dawson.  The bacon scented breeze is coming in through the window, shifting the gauzy curtains she has purchased this way and that.  She (that is to say Rosario Dawson) opens her big brown eyes and blinks, three times, slowly.  Then she smiles and I smile and we smile at each other and then we smile wider because we’re beginning to laugh because we’re just smiling at each other like a couple of assholes for no apparent reason and it’s funny but my face is actually starting to tense up, like the precursor to an actual discomfort which will soon occur because I can’t wipe this stupid, shit-eating grin off my face and neither can she and finally she just starts giggling and is all like “What the hell are you staring at?” and I go “Your perfect face, retard,” and then we kiss for twenty minutes and her breath is fresh and clean and minty because angels come while you’re sleeping and use Scope on you very gently so no one wakes up with that morning mouth where it feels like you took your socks off and coated them in beer and then used the material from your socks to line your mouth and teeth and even if it’s just in your head you think that there’s no way it can’t also be just the grossest, nastiest smelling mouth ever and you hate it when your girlfriend or wife tries to kiss you in the morning because you’re convinced she’s going to recoil in horror and be all like “What the hell happened in your gross, freak mouth?” but that doesn’t happen anymore now that I’ve died and gone to Heaven so of course we kiss for twenty minutes and it’s minty and enjoyable and she has such a delightfully full lower lip I just love to tug on with my teeth and we make love in the bacon scented air and The Afghan Whigs are soundchecking in the amphitheatre on the hill and they play a 14 minute version of ‘Faded’ and a cover of ‘Come See About Me’ and ‘then a 12 minute version of Prince’s ‘Purple Rain’ that kind of cuts into ‘Debonair’ the way they do and then Rosario and I are lying sweaty and content in our California king sized bed, her head on my chest and the smell of her hair in my nostrils and I’m all like, “What do you want to do today?” and she goes “You,” and I’m like, “Uh, no duh, doorknob.  But what else?” and she says, “I want to watch the Host do their maneuvers over the glowing lake to the east of the silver city and then I thought we could make dinner and invite Mike and Eva (Mendes) and maybe your grandparents over because I have this idea for a braised lamb shank with sunchoke puree that I’ve been meaning to try out and then we could all spend the night in the library,” and I kind of think it over for a minute and I’m like, “Well, we do have those eight sleigh beds we just put in there on the second floor and I’ve been meaning to see how the soundsystem is working out and grandpa just loves how it’s the library from Seven only it’s in our house and Morgan Freeman is always there researching something, plus Mike and I can get a few hands of poker in with the security guards while you and Eva get all giggly off the wine,” and she goes “See?  Doesn’t that sound nice?” and I have to admit that yeah, it does.

So we do that, and my grandparents and Morgan Freeman end up going to see The Bells of Saint Mary’s starring Ingrid Bergman (who is there as well because she’s dating Morgan Freeman) at the old-timey thatre in the theatre district and they thank us profusely for dinner and my grandpa won’t quit calling it “that gore-may stuff” and my grandma says “Shush” about a hundred times but he doesn’t because that’s their schtick.

Rosario and Eva go wandering off into the stacks with two bottles of chablis and I know they’re going to end up in the social sciences wing talking about that time they both wore the yellow mini dress to that awards show and who had the better shoes and then it’ll get all serious and Rosario will talk about her parents and New York and Eva will talk about her mom and L.A. and they will cry a little but comfort one another because it is a good thing to have sadness within you and a better thing to have a friend to help share and alleviate it and even in Heaven this is important and right and true so it exists.

Mike and I just go play poker with Julio and Miguel and Steve the security guards and smoke cigarettes (which are good for you now, in Heaven) and we all talk about beers we like and then angels bring them to us, but kind of on the sly so as not to break our poker faces and careful, calculated disinterest and all the other tricks and trappings of a good card shark and then Lady Gaga’s “acoustic” version of ‘Poker Face’ comes on the stereo and my library soundsystem is amazing and everyone waits for 2:11 and we pull up the video feed so we can watch her freak out and shriek like some possessed banshee with burning eyes and everyone giggles like schoolgirls and I take the pot with a boat, aces full, and Miguel is like “You bastard,” and I’m all like, “Sorry, Miguel.  Them’s the breaks.”

Later we all go get ice cream and Rosario gets some on her nose and I make her hold still and I kiss it off and it’s gross ‘cause I’m kissing her nose but it’s great because I’m kissing her nose and I give her a piggyback ride all the way home from the ice cream district while she kind of hangs out on my back and tells me all about induction cooking, which I’m way interested in, because she’s been taking a class down in the culinary district and it’s all they use over there.

Then we watch Eagle Eye and I’m like “You are so damned pretty,” and she says, “thank you,” and I’m like, “Why aren’t you with Shia LeBeouf?” and she says, “Because he is better looking than you, but he’s a bit of a dickhead and a real pain to work with and I love you, not Shia LeBeouf,” and I say, “Thank you for your honesty.  Are you sure?” and she goes, “You are funny and smart and you make me laugh and you play with my toes when they’re sticking out from under the covers and you look adorable hunkered over your little laptop all the time and most importantly, I know that you love me and you make me feel prettier than a princess and we make some pretty delicious dinners if I do say so myself,” and I think about it and I realize she’s right and I hug her super tight which is easy because she’s kind of half lying in my lap and I’m basically hugging her anyhow and then I go, “You’re the absolute best, Rosario Dawson,” and she says “Don’t you forget it,” and I don’t.

Ever.

Heaven is pretty okay sometimes.

September122009
cakebeef:

It can’t just be me.  This looks like Heaven, right?  Like when I die and go to Heaven and all my friends are like “It’s in a buerre blanc.  I hope you like it,” and “Oh, hey, Rosario Dawson.  It’s so nice to see you here, kissing Justin constantly,” and things like that while the sun sinks low and heavy toward the horizon and all the wine disappears amid the tinkling of crystal and the clattering symphony of flatware on porcelain or the laughter of genuine camaraderie.  And of course the smell of flowers and their pollen colors our palates, making everything just a little sweeter, a little more a part of the earth.  And then some angels are all like “Would you all care for back massages and a brief stint in the sauna before we play levitating Heaven polo?” and everyone’s like “Fuck yes, thank you,” and Rosario Dawson takes my hand while I’m turned to talk to Mike and when I glance over she puts a dollop of creme fraiche on my nose and everybody laughs but then she kisses it off and I kiss her chin and Gabriel is all like “Ooooooh, get it!” and then we totally French kiss and Eva Mendes and Mike shake their heads because they see this shit all the time and then the dirty dishes turn into doves and fly away and Jake’s all amazed because he’s new in Heaven and we’re like “Just wait until these chairs turn into white stallions, kid,” and then they do and it’s sauna time.
Someone kill me.  I have such an afterlife to get to.

cakebeef:

It can’t just be me.  This looks like Heaven, right?  Like when I die and go to Heaven and all my friends are like “It’s in a buerre blanc.  I hope you like it,” and “Oh, hey, Rosario Dawson.  It’s so nice to see you here, kissing Justin constantly,” and things like that while the sun sinks low and heavy toward the horizon and all the wine disappears amid the tinkling of crystal and the clattering symphony of flatware on porcelain or the laughter of genuine camaraderie.  And of course the smell of flowers and their pollen colors our palates, making everything just a little sweeter, a little more a part of the earth.  And then some angels are all like “Would you all care for back massages and a brief stint in the sauna before we play levitating Heaven polo?” and everyone’s like “Fuck yes, thank you,” and Rosario Dawson takes my hand while I’m turned to talk to Mike and when I glance over she puts a dollop of creme fraiche on my nose and everybody laughs but then she kisses it off and I kiss her chin and Gabriel is all like “Ooooooh, get it!” and then we totally French kiss and Eva Mendes and Mike shake their heads because they see this shit all the time and then the dirty dishes turn into doves and fly away and Jake’s all amazed because he’s new in Heaven and we’re like “Just wait until these chairs turn into white stallions, kid,” and then they do and it’s sauna time.

Someone kill me.  I have such an afterlife to get to.

12PM
cakebeef:

Goin’ to Heeeeeaven, gonna see my giirrrrrlfriiieeend.
I’ll be all like, hey Rosario Daaaaawson and she’ll say hi Juuuustin.
Then we’ll make a baaaaby.  Mmm hm.  Baby baby baby.  Rosario oh oh.
[As you can see, I am also, aside from being a hunky scientist, a cake of beef and a swell cook, quite the accomplished little songwriter on the side.  If you need a jingle or a catchy little tune, drop me a line and we’ll work something out.]

cakebeef:

Goin’ to Heeeeeaven, gonna see my giirrrrrlfriiieeend.

I’ll be all like, hey Rosario Daaaaawson and she’ll say hi Juuuustin.

Then we’ll make a baaaaby.  Mmm hm.  Baby baby baby.  Rosario oh oh.



[As you can see, I am also, aside from being a hunky scientist, a cake of beef and a swell cook, quite the accomplished little songwriter on the side.  If you need a jingle or a catchy little tune, drop me a line and we’ll work something out.]

Page 2 of 2 Newer entries →