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Twisting all the bad things into good

Dec 1, 2012

My Life (Time tv movie) Sucks. Chapt 26




         I didn't know what the hell Charlie Parker was playing...
         I just liked the way he played.
           Charlie Watts


     MONDAY. 9/13/10

     I'm about to fly this cuckoo's nest.
     When they see me heading North for the Winter, all the snowbirds will think I'm crazy.

     Tweet, tweet, motherfuckers. Tweet. Tweet.        


     Ken Kesey can rest in peace.

     
     He'll always be The Patron Saint of Mental Ward Books.

     The hero of his story dies in the end (SPOILER ALERT), but has still outlived his creator. Randle Mac will not die until people no longer read Kesey's book or watch the film adaptation. When that day comes, Randle will go meet his maker, and they will be able to rest in peace knowing Randle was and will forever be the greater Mac.

     My antihero will not outlive me.

     We're going to die together all alone.
     Forever the lesser of 2 Macs.     

     It's not a slight.

     Not in my book.
     In my book, all the pages remain blank.
     They wouldn't give me a pen.
     Too dangerous.
     I didn't bother asking for a sword.
           
     So, unless a riot breaks out in the rec room in the next 5 minutes, this story will go unwritten.

     No spoiler alerts necessary.

       
     There will not be any adaptation.
     No Broadway play.
     No major motion picture.
     No Academy Award for Best Writing, Screenplay Adapted From Other Material.
     No Best Picture.
     No Best Director.
       
     No big speeches.

     That's the only good part.

     
     No Best Actress Nomination for whoever plays Loretta.

     No Best Actor Nomination for David Morse, the Brian look-nothing-alike from The Green Mile who inspired Loretta to call Brian "Sparky". I still called him by the name his parents gave him, back when he was their little boy, back when Brian could have grown up to be anything, anything but a crackhead who lives in a tent, even if he owns it.

     Nobody will win Best Actor for portraying me better than I was able to portray myself.

           
     Jack Nicholson can rest in peace someday.

     As if anything could kill Jack.

                  
     At the end of the big night, the winners can all go rest in peace.
     The losers go home empty handed.
     We weren't the losers. 
     We were the even lessers.
     It was not an honor to have just been nominated.
     We weren't.
     We weren't even invited
     A limo would not take us to the after party.
     We're going nowhere, and we're taking the bus to get there.

     Nobody will win any editing awards on this one.

     Despite what Marlon told me, I didn't expect to go home with an award for "Best Mental Patient For A Grad Student To Converse With For Their Abnormal Psych Project". I did think I'd have something to take with me, something to show for my time in So Co, something to let people know that "Hey, I was in a mental health facility. How cool is that?"

        
     Not as cool as if they had a gift shop on the way out.  

     That would be cool as shit.

     Jeff could buy some happy face ballet slippers for little Ella, some cute cut off jean shorts for Kimmy, and maybe a novelty t-shirt for himself that reads "My Best Friend Went To South County And All I Got Was A Big FUCK YOU!" on the front, and on the back, in red, it reads "LIFEGUARD" with one of those little crosses beneath it.

     I spent 5 days in South County and all I got was absolutely nothing.


     I never expected South County to be South Park, but I didn't think it was possible to not have even one comedy skittish story not needy of embellishment to tell everyone as soon I'm released from a place for people dually diagnosed with drug and mental problems. Not that it would have been a kind of funny story, but not one of these crazy bastards got their asses of the couch to try to kill Ken.

     You lazy, crazy bastards.
     You're too lazy, and you're not crazy enough, to turn me into a writer.
     Maybe they all have narcissistic personality disorders, so they never realized my time there wasn't all about them.
     It was all about me.
    Selfish pricks.
     I'm the only one walking out today, the only one here with a chance.
     Because I'm gonna write a book.
     You'll be lucky to show up in a tangent.

     That might have almost gotten a half smile from them.   

     Them.
     I don't even know their names.

     I knew one of their names. 
     Alex. 
     He kinda stood in the corner most the time.
     Tall.
     Black.
     Schizo. 
     Looked like he was probably a crackhead too.

       
     Sidenote:
     I almost said, "I know his first name is Alex", but I didn't want it to sound like that LifeTime  movie I Know My First Name Is Steven.

     That's not even the worst of the long winded terrible Lifetime tv movie titles.
     That award goes to....

     Mother May I Sleep With Danger?

     Sure. 
     Why not?
     Sleep with whoever you want. 
     Sleep with anyone who will let you. 
     Invite Steven, have a threesome.

     Mother, may I sleep with danger?
     My mother would laugh if I asked her that.
     She always laughed when I made fun of MMISWD? and the one with the kid who knows his first name is Steven. 
     So she knows all about Steven and Danger.
     She don't wanna know who I never asked her permission to sleep with.
     I'm not sure I wanna know.
     I am sure none were named "Steven" or "Danger".
     Last name, or stage name, maybe. 
     Probably.
    
     If I had an awful LifeTime tv movie made about me, I wouldn't watch it, but I'd still make sure it had an awesome title, like Mother Fucker, May I Sleep?
      

     The only reason I know Alex's first name is not Steven is because when the girls had extra food, they would ask him if he wanted the food I wished they would have offered me first. I was trying to make up for a lot of lost meals. Apparently, Alex had also missed plenty of meals too. Before I could say "What about me?", Alex said "okay" and came over from his seat at the far corner of his reserved empty table in the far corner of the cafeteria.
     He always said "okay", and he always said "thank you".
     And those are the only words I heard come out of his mouth.
     It was probably mere coincidence I only heard him speak when I was eating or licking my styrofoam bowl clean of whatever Alex was being served seconds and thirds of.
     Selfish prick. 
     Alex seemed like a gentle, well mannered man who could just as easily kill you as thank you. 
    
     And as for you techies, how do you go 5 days without beating the shit out of any mental patients, not even Sparky. 
     Jesus, what does it take to get you guys to bust out the firehose?

     
The closest to violence I came in SoCo was putting a beatdown on my prolong direction like I caught it replacing my Percocets with Altoids. 
             

     As much pleasure and pride I felt after saving my sex life and the precious lives of my unborn and unwanted children, I decided the only appropriate place to keep this memory was under lock and key in the bottom drawer of my defile cabinet, the one permamarked  in black "Things I Don't Talk About At Parties". It's the one with the busted lock and the key I lost, the one I sprint to if I run out of things to talk about at parties.

     Then again, some things should remain private. Even party people, if they have no sense of humor, might find such a story of self abuse sobering.

     And that sucks.
     That was pretty much the best part.
     For me, at least.
     Maybe I'll tell Jeff.
     But that's it.
     Nobody else.
     And that sucks.
     For them, at least.
     People like stories with happy endings.
     The kind you can't get at the Rucky Dragon for one hunded tenty fi dolla...
     And don't forget tip girl this time.
     Okay.
     So maybe you can buy yourself a happy ending for a hundred and thirty bucks, but I can't.

     I'm a hundred bucks short.
    
     As much dirtbaggy things I've done, I'm proud to say I've never been with a whore, at least, not one I had to pay.
     Because I'm not some degenerate, I always took things into my own hand.
     I've done enough things to feel guilty about without driving home drunk and ashamed of myself for paying someone who was once somebody's little girl, dressed up like a little geisha, who could've grown up to be anyone, anyone except a masseuse whose job requirement requires giving hand-jobs.

     Sounds like your book could be a tearjerker.


     Don't be a jerkoff.
     I'll put something in your eye that stings worse than tears.

     Sorry, I can't help myself.

     A self help book, maybe?

        
     It's like I'm talking to myself.

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