I stayed in all of last week…mostly.
Certainly though, all this weekend, teaching words to dance brilliance around my not so modest foray of a script. I’m deep, deep in it. Lately, I’ve been carrying a heavy walk and talk. Draw what you will from such a statement. I’m opting out of an explanation.
…
Endless bottles of 32 oz. Gatorade stand scattered about the battlefield I call an apartment. 10 FOR 10 at my neighborhood 24-hour Pavilions. It’s flowing like a bountiful Egyptian tributary here at 8736 Holloway. Of course, you don’t have to buy 10. They could just as well place a sticker, “Gatorade for a buck. No need to buy an ass-load.” It can’t be helped. I HAVE to buy 10, as if I’m somehow pulling double reversal…so that I may some day bring the Pavilions regime to its knees.
I bore easily. It’s either that, or I’ve developed a serious case of ADD…even though I don’t believe in AD fucking D. Again, point of reference.
As I paced the grounds of my palace, I found three Gatorade bottles, each 1/3 full. I’ll be frank in stating I’m no mathematician. Truth be told, I think it was 3rd grade when I peaked. When the early stuff was the only thing on my plate, I was given a special book and a special class of one. I remember clearly, sitting with Miss Humm one day after school working out problems. She pulled her glasses from a soft, “should I roll the dice on my tenure and risk becoming a social outcast to breed with this soon to be stallion,” face. I remember it clearly. That was EXACTLY what I was thinking. The fundamental principles of early sexual investment. What?
No advances were made. Instead, she opted for the path of professionalism. Though, there was one remark I remember clearly from that afternoon. “How are you doing this? You’re getting these faster than I am.” I was on my way to becoming the next Bobby Fisher. All I needed was an abusive, alcoholic father…a broken home…and nowhere to turn but the mean streets.
After realizing I had none of above elements working in my favor, I moved on. Not long after, I remember getting REALLY into playground kickball. After that, I developed an obsession for grilled cheese sandwich and chicken noodle soup Wednesdays at the Sheridan School cafeteria.
Fifteen years later, I’m in West Hollywood, putting my pen to the movies...or, at least on my way. Though I can’t pinpoint the factors of grade school responsible for my landing on the West Coast, I’m here now…tangenting wildly as usual. What else matters?
…
Gatorade, fucking taste wizards. When was the moment exactly? The moment they decided to roll out the insanity carpet, creating the force of X-Factor. Without a doubt, hands down, THE most dangerous taste mating since the French roll smeared with wasabi and banana paste exploded on the late-Summer/early-Autumn scene, 2005. Seriously, who could forget?
The X-Factors have revolutionized the Gatorade field, standing above any other unleashed flavor of my lifetime. These lethal blends were strewn about my living quarters. On my desk sat Orange&Tropical Fruit. On my kitchen counter, Fruit Punch&Berry. In the fridge, Lemon Lime&Strawberry. Each bottle had 1/3 of its lifeblood still flowing.
That’s when it happened. I grabbed all three and lined them up on my coffee table. It was at that moment I could sense an approaching date with destiny. Again, let me stress…in each bottle remained equivalent amounts. I could have measured them to the last drop. Certainly, THIS meant something.
I lit a candle and said a prayer for the tenants resting peacefully at the corner of Holloway and Hancock. For I was a mad scientist ready to embark on a forbidden and uncharted journey. 6 flavors, varying temperatures, one small venue. It was in that moment I made a commitment…to progress, to fearlessness, to vision.
I lifted the two X-Factors that flanked the center, held my breath, held it some more…and poured…
Nothing happened. Not a thing.
Or perhaps the actual result was far too extreme to speak of…
Either way, I had myself some Internet sex and got back to work.
