I’d like a spicy meatball. With ketchup. Dirty Harry Callahan may consider that disgusting, even worse than ketchup on a hotdog, but you know what? Fuck Dirty Harry. He let Tyne Daly die on Alcatraz and never gave her the respect she deserved. Thank GOD she got to be in Cagney & Lacey because of that movie. You know, I put it on the other night before Da Boss came home from one of the screenings—he started watching it with me, said he’d never seen it before, then as soon as Dirty Harry and his colleagues fell through a skylight into a porno set, Da Boss jumped up and screamed I’VE SEEN THIS BEFORE like an anteater being electrocuted. He said he saw it as a kid. A little young, no?
“Not at all,” he explained, “Dirty Harry is a superhero. He’s no different than The Punisher, which I also read at the time. The movie came out around the time I stopped reading comic books, and it wasn’t very good. I remember being pretty disappointed. And other than that, I don’t remember anything about the movie. Thomas Jane. Or Aaron Eckhart? See, they have the problem… the Audrey Hepburn/Jean Simmons problem… only one can succeed… OR… as I’d say in the case of Jane/Eckhart… they cancel each other out. They both lose.”
Wow, okay loser. I didn’t know you were such a nerd. “I can’t believe you want to edit my movies…” What, am I not doing a good job? “Quite opposite. Your work is fantastic. I’m just not sure what compels you or draws you to it because you’re so consistently, openly hostile to me.” Well, that’s just the way my love is. “That’s a Smashing Pumpkins song.” Wow—NERD ALERT! Rooster isn’t going to believe this one (I’m not telling Bennington). I should say the previous night we had a wonderful time projecting and mixing the world premiere of SATUR-19 at the Mercury Theater in Baltimore, but time has become such a blur and I’m losing pieces of memory so I’m starting to think we were talking about Clint Eastwood at the movies…
A guy came up to me after the show and asked what I was doing there, called me “a little piece of chicken” like Travis Bickle does in Taxi Driver. I started spur-clawing him in the thighs (unsuccessful: wintertime) and then the throat (successful: exposed jugular) so he started spraying all over the storefronts of the shuttered coffeeshop that was never open and Gatsby’s, which used to be Club Choices. Da Boss got me in a car and pushed the guy’s body down the street so that another business would be blamed and photographed in the new story that would eventually come out about this. Or not. Does anyone really care anymore if a hen kills a man in self-defense? I was defending my dignity, standing my ground. You got a fucking problem with that? I’m not a fictional character. I’m real. I exist. We exist (literate, talkative hens and roosters). So start respecting us, or else a lot more storefronts are going to be covered in your blood. Human blood—we make no distinctions based on money, age, gender, race, body type, none ‘o’ that. Just good old fashioned inter-species warfare. It’s actually been going on for a lot longer than you know, and longer than you’ll ever live.
“Monica, you really need to watch what you write on here.” Maybe I could if I wasn’t busy EDITING YOUR MOVIE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Mood.
—Follow Monica Quibbits on Twitter: @MonicaQuibbits