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Dead Squirrel Story, Bratislavan Rap, Japanese Schoolgirl Stalked by Big-Headed Freak, MORE

So it’s late Thursday night, and I haven’t written a blog in a long time…

It might be a little unwise to get behind the blog wheel at this present time – although I’m not drunk, I’m deliriously tired, as I’ve slept perhaps a total of 12 hours since Sunday morning.

Why? Because I’ve been working my ass off writing PETS, prepping one of my web series, and dealing with the ludicrous dramas of my personal life…

But fuck it.

I have some shit to show you.


I fucking love it. Fuck those Bulgarian rappers for rawking my world so completely.

I also want to show you this awes video by MURAKAMI

Poor Inochi made a complete mistake by looking in that girl’s locker room! Now she’ll never like him. Also, he looks just like me in grade school, only from the inside-out! (Thanks for the video, Bill Pardy’s Doppelganger.)

And I want to show you this piece of art by SCOTT MUSGROVE I just bought…

It’s called Lepus Perilous, and it’s currently part of Scott Musgrove’s fantastic show at the Billy Shire Fine Arts Gallery here in Los Angeles. It’s up for the rest of this month, so go check it out! Here are a few more from the show…

Find out more about the show at the Billy Shire Fine Arts web site.

Or see more of Scott’s work on his MySpace Page.

But mostly I want to tell you this fucked up DEAD SQUIRREL STORY.

So I’m in my house a few days ago, and I happen to look out the window. I see something in the middle of the street outside, and I pray it’s a big piece of bark. So I walk outside and take a closer look.

But it’s not a piece of bark, it’s a dead squirrel. It looks like he’s been hit by a car mid-run. He’s still in the running position with his eyes open, and a little bit of an expression that says, "Holy Jesus, I think I’m kind of fucked here." He’s just starting to get it.

Admittedly, I might be reading a little into his expression, as normally I belive squirrels only have four expressions:

1. Fuck, I don’t have a nut.

2. Hm, I think that’s a fucking nut over there!

3. No, that’s not a nut. It’s a little piece of bark. Shit.

4. MMM, this nut is fucking delicious!

I think this dude’s expression was probably number 3. That’s the best way he could react to getting hit by a car. This is because God invented squirrels before modern times, he didn’t think to put car-oriented expressions into their bag of tricks.

But I’m getting way off track (tired, remember?)

So I see the dead squirrel and I’m not happy it’s so close to my house. See, I hate small, dead things. Don’t ask me why. I hate dead mice and dead birds and dead rats and dead squirrels – they freak me out. Something bigger – like a dead possum or a dead pig – really doesn’t freak me out quite so much. (A dead child, which is also bigger, actually WOULD freak me out a bit – but perhaps that’s just because I’ve known a lot of children personally.)

Anyway, I think, "Well, the street cleaner will be here tomorrow, so no big whup, I’ll just leave it here."

And I did.

A couple of hours later I’m on the second floor of my house, talking on the phone to my friend Stevie Blackehart, who was admitting to me that he can only masturbate while thinking of fucking men while strangling them to death (well, not really, but I’m doing what I can to spice up this story). I glance out my window and I see some freaky, swarthy dude with a little mustache using a stick to push the squirrel onto a piece of what looks like brown butcher’s wrap. Also, the dude is parked in my driveway and he has a friend in his front seat who is only a silhouette.

I can’t figure out what this dude could possibly want with a dead squirrel. I always thought those Road-Kill-Diary cookbooks were just a joke. I hear giggling coming from downstairs – it’s my assistant Tara, who is watching the same scene from the first floor.

"What’s that guy doing?" I say to Tara.

"I don’t know!" she says. "Who are you talking to about fucking men while strangling them?"

"Nobody," I say. Then I lean over the bannister and mouth "Stevie."

"Ohhhh," she says.

(Okay, again, that dialogue isn’t exact – but this next part IS — )

Then the freaky, swarthy dude carries the dead squirrel on the piece of butcher’s paper towards my house. He’s carrying it very gently, as if it’s his dead lover. Then the motherfucker sets it down on my lawn. He kneels beside it. And then, God knows why, he fucking uses his bare hand to arrange it on the paper, as if the frozen running position with the "that isn’t a nut" expression was more aesthetically pleasing horizontally than vertically. NOTE: The dude used his hand to do this when he was touching it with a stick just a moment before. He also looks melancholy while he arranges his body – again, like he knew this squirrel personally.

And then the dude LEAVES THE DEAD SQUIRREL ON MY LAWN and gets back into his car!

Tara continues laughing downstairs. She just thinks this whole thing is delightful.

I run downstairs as fast as I can and out the front door. The dude is backing out of my driveway. Luckily, his window is open so I can yell at him through it.

All of this dialogue is completely real –

"Yo! Yo! Yo! Yo!" I’ve never used the word ‘yo’ in a confrontational context before, but it somehow seems appropriate. "What are you doing?!"

The dude gets out of his car and he looks at me with his freaky, swarthy, Comedia dell’ Arte sad clown face, and he says, as if he’s about to burst into tears, "Someone has killed a wild animal!"

Now I’m pretty good with placing accents – but this dude has some weird fucking accent that I don’t think even exists, like he’s Balki’s brother from PERFECT STRANGERS. It’s a mix of Easter European, Mexican, and E.T.

I respond: "What the fuck are you putting it on my lawn for?!"

Again, about to cry, weird accent, "Someone has killed him in the street!"

"So leave him there! Why did you carry him off the street and put him on my lawn!?"

The guy makes a sad, wailing sound: "Ohhhhhhh!"

"The street cleaner’s going to come tomorrow!" I say (I actually have no idea what day the street cleaner comes). "Get him off my lawn and back on the street!"

The guy wretchedly nods, making another whiny sound, as he gets into his car.

"Where are you going?! Dude! I got your license plate number!"

He nods as he starts backing out of my driveway. I hear giggling. I look back at my front porch. Tara is there, gleeful, loving this whole interaction.

"Do you have his license plate number?!" I say to her.

"SAF 569!" she says, as she laughs.

A moment of sobriety passes over me, as I wonder what the hell I’m going to say if I do call the cops: "A dude lovingly arranged a squirrel vertically on my lawn! Arrest him!"? I don’t think that would work. And now I’m seriously panicking because I really don’t want a small, dead thing on my lawn. I honestly won’t be able to sleep knowing it’s out there. I CAN’T touch it, because it freaks me out. So I’d have to have Tara do it, which seems to cross-the-line when it comes to a personal assistant’s duties, or I’d have to emasculate myself by asking Stevie or my ex-wife to come over and do it for me. So I resort to one of my older techniques that I’ve found to be remarkably effective in these situations: physical violence.

"Dude!" I yell. "I’m going to pull you out of that fucking car if you don’t get out and move that thing now!"

In truth, I am quite a bit bigger than this dude and probably could pull him out of the car, but I was also rather foolishly discounting his unspeaking silhouette friend in the front seat. I’m not even sure he’s a human being, he might be a shadow person or a golem or something. I think in my disorientation I was somehow thinking Tara had my back, but she’s so tiny she couldn’t take a human, much less the other, more frightening options.

Then the dude says, "No, I am just backing out my car so I am not in your driveway."

"Oh," I say, kind of calming down. "Dude, you can stay parked in my driveway."

I turn around and look at Tara again. She’s still laughing hysterically, only now I’m sort of wondering if she’s laughing at me.

So swarthy backs out and parks along the curb. He gets out of the car and walks over to the dead squirrel on the piece of paper. Again, he picks it up, cradling it gently with both hands.

And he just stands there for a moment, looking around, pathetically, like he doesn’t know what to do with the thing.

I go back inside to watch the rest from the window, because I’m becoming uncomfortable. Tara stays on the front porch, openly laughing. She really doesn’t seem to give a shit that she’s essentially laughing right in this guy’s face. I’m beginning to think there’s something wrong with her.

And this is the whole reason I’m telling the story, because what he does next defies logic, and makes this whole story fall into the category of what-the-fuck-even-is-this-fucking-story stories.

But the dude walks over to his car. And he arranges the squirrel on his windshield.

And then he lifts up his windshield wiper. And he clamps it down onto the dead squirrel so that it’s firmly in place.

Now Tara is screaming as she laughs: "Oh my God! What is he doing!? Oh my God!!"

Then the dude gets into his car.

And off he goes, down my street, a dead squirrel securely clamped to his windshield for all to see, including all the kids playing soccer there in the park.

Yep. I’m not kidding.

I’ll post a blog soon with videos from the CUT film festival. Until then, go fuck yourselves.


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