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October 2005

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Monday, October 24th

Fame and Ambition

music: "Life Is A Cabaret"
mood: Garish

I'm writing just to be writing, like there's something in my brain that's compelling me to put down some words, no matter how stupid they make me seem to be. David Lynch's head is chuckling in the corner, but I ignore it, as I have been doing for many days now. I suppose I could, perhaps should, bury it, but it makes a great conversation piece. Also, it gives me someone to talk to.
Right now he's saying I should rewrite my screenplay, so that instead of me being the main character, it's a woman with large breasts. "The Frenchman would give you a blank check," Dead David said. "It's the opportunity of a lifetime."
"I've decided to make an even cheaper movie first," I said. "Then I won't need the Freanchman."
"You fool. The Frenchman gets everyone he wants, everything he wants. He'll have you licking his Guccis, and that's just to start. Any weakness you have, he'll use to bring you into his grasp."
"That sounds awful, yet flattering." I began to sweat, and the room was getting hot. I unbuttoned my shirt, and rubbed my chest. I heard laughter.
I turned to see the Frenchman.
"Why don't you take it all off?" he said.
The sweat turned cold. "I'll keep it on, thank you." I turned away.
He swung my chair around, and got his face within inches of mine. "So you will do as the head suggests, I presume?"
"No," I said, but wanly. I felt strange.
"Then you must take off your clothes. If you do not change your screenplay, then you must strip."
"I shouldn't have to make that choice," I argued, but I was gettin woozy, and my voice was barely audible.
He sneered. "You are playing in my world now. You must make that choice." He put his hands on my arms, and lifted me to my feet. Do a little dance while you get naked for yor integrity."
I found my feet doing a little jig as I threw off my shirt. My silly dance continued as I reached for the button of my trousers, then the zipper, then the pulling of my pants down to my ankles. Then with a quick yank, I pulled my underpants down to my knees.
The Frenchman laughed. "Now, for your cherished integrity, masturbate and dream of me."
Sweat poured off me, but I had to obey to protect the purity of my vision. I reached down slowly, and sighed, then I grasped my penis. It was already erect, to my shame and the Frenchman's delight, and I began to stroke it. "Let me stop," I pleaded. but he would have none of that.
"Describe the fantasy of your lust for the Frenchman," he demanded (it looked like he had an erection, too).
"We're shooting a movie I wrote for you, and when I argue with the director, David, you make me take off all my clothes. You say, 'I will make you give me head in front of the woman you love', and like now, I lose my will, fall to my knees, and put your lovely penis in my mouth. When you come in my face, everyone on the set applauds." With that, I climaxed; some of the jism fell on my pants and underwear.
"Put your pants back on, just the way they are." I obeyed. "Now write me that movie, and I will make your dream come true."
With those words, he was gone as suddenly as he appeared. I turned to see the head laughing.
"I hope you enjoyed your integrity," Dead David said, then he laughed even louder.
"What's so funny?" I asked, extremely irritated.
"He owns you. You better keep writing, because he owns you."
I picked up a pen, and went to work.
tommygun on 10.24.05 @ 06:37 PM CST [link] [No Comments]

Tuesday, October 11th


music: Chopin's Death March, played happily
mood: irrationally exuberant

"Death's not so bad," David Lynch's head told me. "It's liberating in its own way. For example, I never have to go the bathroom anymore., plus I don't have to worry about slow service at restaurants."
I sighed. "That's okay for you. You were a success, in your own weird, disjointed way, but there's so much I have left undone, and so many people that I owe so much to."
He laughed, a strange, unearthly laugh that disturbed me so much that I vomited on the floor. I made no move to clean up the mess, but stared at the warm puke. As it cooled, I could see cities being built,
populated by many small creatures (they seemed to be hominids, but it was hard to be sure). Over the next hour, or more, I saw the architecture get more advanced, and the number of citizens increased many times over. It was pleasant to see them create, but soon the buildings got cheap and uninspired, and the crowds grew restless. A great argument had begun, and soon the creatures took sides; soon after that, they fell upon each other in a great battle, and little arms hacked off little heads, which rolled down tiny streets into miniscule gutters.
When it was all over, the buildings were blackened, and no movement was seen in the little city. Grabbing a near-by rag, I cleaned up the mess, leaving no chance for this civilization to rise again.
I told the head, "It seems to me that we are no more than God's vomit, doomed to end in misery."
"I knew that."
I looked at the head, and was disgusted by the smug smile on its face.
"Maybe you did. Is that why Mulholland Drive sucked?"
Again, I heard that unearthly laughter. I knew that sound would haunt me to the grave.
tommygun on 10.11.05 @ 07:35 PM CST [link] [No Comments]

Monday, October 3rd


music: The Gnome by Mussorgsky
mood: sullen, yet inspiring

So if I keep writing this, someone will read this, right? Someone might actually care if I can string enough sentences together without letting my inner rage explode into spasms of diabolical thought. No
one wants to read this, but if no one does, then David Lynch died for naught. No sense having his head impaled on a stick in the corner of my basement, blathering on about the big mystery in Mulholland Drive. Maybe I'll mail it to the President for Christmas. What better than a talking, disembodied head for the man who has everything? Mr. Lynch will take your mind off of boondoggles and balderdash, and no need to feed him.
Yet I feel my effort would be in vain. The box I shipped it in would be tested and ripped apart, and someone would fail to appreciate the beauty of this wonderful present. It would be tossed into the garbage, and the hours of fun possible only with a talking head would be wasted. This is such a horrible world! What sad times we are in when a man can't send a head to our beloved leader without his sycophants spoiling all the fun. I'm sure a disembodied David Lynch would give better advice than that fat zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.....I must've been dreaming...George called me to thank him for the head. "He's not my favorite director, but I do appreciate his use of color and camera movement," the president said. "I learned a lot about life from this head, but I won't let Laura go down on Cindy Sheehan, no matter what the head says. Laura only likes God-fearing war-mongers, and I'm not about to change her. Lord knows where I'd be if that happened."
"Maybe I can stay with you the next time she leaves town, sir," I ventured. "It would be my patriotic duty."
"I will think it over," George said. "Make sure you bring lots of contributions, or the head of Oliver Stone."
Was it a dream? Would I win a date with the leader of the Free World, and keep Oliver Stone from making more ponderous pieces of crap, or would I awaken to a world of pain and frustration, with only David Lynch's head to guide me?
tommygun on 10.03.05 @ 04:24 PM CST [link] [No Comments]