Fake Link One
Fake Link Two
Fake Link Three

Greymatter | Memebot

November 2005

Valid XHTML 1.0!

Saturday, November 26th

True Love

music: The Swan by Camille Saint-Saens
mood: Delicate

I'd just finished the script for the Frenchman when David Lynch's head spoke to me.
"Did you remember to include women kissing?"
I laughed. "No one does any kissing. No one does any killing. It's about real life, in a surrealistic mode of thinking."
"So they just get right down to the sex, and the hero maims his enemies, is that it?"
I laughed even louder this time. "No. It's a sweet tale, in a weird sort of way. But if the Frenchman wants to put in a psychotic lesbian killer or two, and have a few explosions along the way, I won't fight
it. That's entertainment."
I yawned, and laid on the floor. Soon I was asleep, and I found myself in the dairy cooler of the college campus center where I worked. Milk cartons were stacked at weird angles, and milk had leaked on the floor. I ran out into the kitchen in search of a towel, cussing under my breath that so much had gone wrong in my brief absence from the place. I sang 'Trouble' by Clarence Henry when I got back into the cooler, and began to wipe up the mess. Later, I would have to come back with a mop, I figured.
As I kneeled on the cold metal floor, a young lady walked in.
"Do you have any orange juice?" she asked.
I smiled and said, "Yes. Let me get it for you." I stood and took a few brief steps to where the juice was. She followed, and I was surprised by how close she was when I turned around.
"Thank you," she said sweetly. "My name is Alanidondra." She took out a pen, and a scrap of paper, then she wrote her phone number. I took out a piece of paper, and wrote down mine, then we exchanged the pieces of paper.
"Maybe we can get together soon," I said.
"You are so sweet. All the bad things I hear about you must be lies."
"Only the things that aren't true."
We laughed, then she left me to the mess I had found. Once I had cleaned it up, I left the cooler. I looked all over the kitchen, but she was nowhere to be seen. Disappointed by this, I threw myself into my work, avoiding all the co-workers who had told her all sorts of horrible things. I walked up to my loading dock to crush cardboard, and I found the Frenchman, an intact David Lynch, and a film crew in the middle of filming a movie.
"In this scene," Mr. Lynch said, "I want the psychotic lesbian killers to tear off their shirts and start kissing."
Against my better judgement, I objected. "No, they would not do that on a bale of cardboard. They would throw a palette on the floor instead."
tommygun on 11.26.05 @ 02:57 PM CST [more..] [No Comments]

Sunday, November 20th

Bad movies

music: toccata and fugue in D minor by Bach
mood: let down

What pisses me off about movies is when everyone says what a good movie it is, and how great a certain performance so and so gives, and then you watch it and see it is just a bunch of crap. Case in point: Training Day, starring Denzel Washington. Mr. Washington deserved an Oscar for his performance,
but the movie stank, like a team giving up two touchdowns in the last minute to lose a game. Blame goes first to the writer for pulling his punches, and imposing a happy ending in a situation where that just was not very likely, and in such a way as to be virtually impossible. If Mr. Washington's character was in a truly desperate situation, then I don't think he would have given a second thought to killing the rookie cop, played by Ethan Hawke.
The second culprit would be the casting director, in giving the part of the young cop to Mr. Hawke in the first place. He was totally miscast, and despite a fine effort, he could not make his character live. It
was just a role he was not meant to play, like when Robert Wagner played in a cowby movie. There's no way certain actors can play certain roles, and producers should take that into account when making a movie. Of course, given the part, even Johnny Depp couldn't have saved that part, given the way the script refused to be truthful about the situation. Frankly, once the rookie cop takes the hit off the pipe, all that his character is becomes false. He can't be good once he's done bad to be a narc.
tommygun on 11.20.05 @ 03:53 PM CST [more..] [No Comments]

Wednesday, November 16th

plots not my own

music: Symphony Fantastique, final movement by Berlioz
mood: funereal

"Be honest," the Frenchman said. "You hate your fellow Americans more than even the most irascible French citizen. Tell me the truth. There is no harm in the truth."
"I love my country," I said. I had just come to, and was laying on the floor, still naked. The Frenchman
tenderly rubbed my shoulder, and chuckled.
"And I love my country, too. Still, that doesn't stop me from wanting to march down the Champs-Elysee with a shotgun, blowing every baguette eating pseudo-intellectual away. And if I was near the sacred Notre Dame, I would blow off a bomb just as the first worshipper took communion."
"You are an evil man," I said. "I would only kill for good, not evil."
He laughed. "So you would redeem your victims in their own blood," he surmised. "That is such a typical American way of thinking. Where would the art be in your approach?"
He was still caressing me, but I didn't mind. "There would be no art, just a quick, clean death, followed
by a sudden exit. Those who look into my eyes would see sorrow, for I would be sad about what I must do." He slid his hand down my back, and it came to rest on my right buttock. "That was nice," I told him. "Please don't stop."
He handed me some lubricant, and I applied it to his stiff penis. He shoved my face into the floor, and penetrated me. He said, "Tell me more about your merciful cruelty."
As he fucked me, I ranted, "It would all be based on the future of the race, the human race. I could tell in a second if you were a threat to the survival of the species. Black, white, yellow, red, skin color would prevent me from doing my duty. Mindless, rude, hopeless, naive, ugly, fat, or stupid...I'd have to snuff you for the glory of Mankind. If I could slay every misbegotten piece of garbage strewn about society without being caught, I would do so every time I could. I'd be such a bitch."
"You're my bitch, little Tommy. You're my bitch."
I agreed, and he repeated himself, and I agreed some more, and then he climaxed, and fell on to me.
I was lost.
tommygun on 11.16.05 @ 08:41 PM CST [link] [No Comments]

Monday, November 14th

D&D 4 R&R

music: cool jazz
mood: mysterious

I threw a blue blanket over David Lynch's head yesterday. Dead David had started to make unwanted suggestions, not that he had ever said anything that I needed to hear. Lately, though, he has been most annoying, in a dark, evil, unsettling kind of way.
"Why don't you kill someone? Then you won't be queer."
"It's easy to be a terrorist with just a few simple household chemicals."
"No one would ever suspect you of being a killer, so why not grab some stranger and strangle him? Go to a gay bar, find some pathetic loser to take you to his place, and murder him. He'd probably give you a blowjob if you want."
These were his nicest suggestions. I almost threw the accursed head through a window, but my hand stopped an inch short of grabbing him. That's why I threw the blanket on him; I was so relieved when he shut his mouth. I was tempted to look but I managed to stay clear, and the next few days went by in peace. No evil ideas, no visits from the looked like I could muddle through my empty life in peace for a while there.
I threw myself into my job, and was extra nice to all my family and friends. Yet this did not give me any satisfaction, and I found myself sinking into a malaise. Without realizing, I sat with my notebook open, directly underneath the head.
"Hey, Mister Integrity," came a voice from beneath the blanket. I screamed.
"I thought I had shut you up," I said, and I found myself crying. "Can't you just shut up?"
The disembodied laugh shook me. "Come on sunshine. I'm here for you." When I said nothing, the head continued. "You didn't think a blanket would silence me, did you?" Again, I was silent; again, I was shaken by that laughter. "You did. You did think that was why I was quiet."
My tears were uncontrollable, and I stood up and made for the opposite corner.
"Stop right there," the head commanded, and to my horror, I was frozen in my tracks. "The Frenchman
has you in his grip, and as I am his greatest creation, you must obey me."
"No..." I said, but it was barely audible.
"The Frenchman will be here soon, so let's give him a show. Put on a smile, and take off your clothes."
Grinning like an idiot, I let my clothing fall to the floor, until I stood there with a big smile and an erection. "You are a queer, aren't you? No, you are queer, so queer you want to stick your little prick in my big, fat mouth."
I made jerking motions as I walked back across the room, as I tried to fight his power over me, but it was to no avail. I lowered the head until it was next to my penis, then I thrust it into his mouth.
"I just love your movies, David. I'm beginning to understand Mulholland Drive now."
There was more laughter. The Frenchman had arrived. With the laughter, there was the sound of film cameras and the heat of powerful lights.
"Don't turn your head, little man. We will record your degradation for posterity, and you will love it."
I wondered if this would be happening if I had killed someone as the head wanted, but the thought was overwhelmed by my pleasure. Soon I climaxed, and looked into the head's glazed eyes and swooned, and then the whole room went black.
As I hit the floor, I heard more laughter.
tommygun on 11.14.05 @ 04:13 PM CST [link] [No Comments]

Monday, November 7th


music: none
mood: irritated

Perhaps this is the best of all possible worlds, but it seems to me that rudeness has hit an all-time high in this country. Maybe it's the kids who don't respect their elders, or the elders who'll answer their damnable cellphones anywhere regardless of who they may annoy, but that to me is an issue that is neglected by the powers that be. Of course, the powers that be relish money over all things, so rude folks are to be tolerated, since they also tend to be stupid, therefore more easily seperated from their money. It's a shame I have to waste words on this matter, but obviously our institutions are doing a horrendous job of teaching our youth, and have been doing so for the last 30 years. Some call it tolerance, but I prefer to call it what it is: a total lack of discipline.
We should bring back the old days, when children were seen and not heard. Now parents don't watch their kids; the television does, or the computer, which is just a television on LSD. No wonder religious fanatics are sprouting up everywhere. Nothing like desperation to make people clutch at straws, for the peace that should already be established, but is sadly lacking due to the lack of taste and insatiable greed of the ruling class. Something should be done, but all I can do is have anxiety attack and be called a jerk. To hell with all the obnoxious brats, and the authority figures who let them get away with it.
tommygun on 11.07.05 @ 04:29 PM CST [link] [No Comments]