suicide squad!

April 11, 2016

 

Friend: “I think your spirit animal might just be Harley Quinn.”

Me: “Doy.”

 

 

 

Because this post is just that cool. Yay! [Also I always pray to God I am spelling that man’s name right, ahhh!]

 

I wish I could tell you —

The original source for this. I can’t. I found it on Tumblr and have always loved it. If you know the original source, drop me a line. Meanwhile —

 

What Denis Leary Thinks About St. Patrick’s Day

First thing’s first: There are many Irish-Americans in this country who
celebrate St. Patrick’s Day in a quiet and sober manner, perhaps heading off to work with a muted-olive tie or a small emerald pin as their nod to the day’s events. There are also those who go to the 7 A.M. mass at St. Patrick’s Cathedral and consider the day a prayerful tribute to the patron saint of all things green. There are still others who awaken the morning of March 17 and carry on as if it were just another 24 hours — no drinking, no fighting, no puking.

I don’t know any of these people.

Therefore, this piece will be about the red-blooded, hard-boiled, hammer headed souls who patrol the St. Patrick’s Day arena as if it were life’s last call. If you consider the image of a working-class Mick named Fitzy caterwauling down Fifth Avenue wearing a kelly-green plastic derby, well oiled on whiskey and slurring his words, an offensive and demeaning stereotype, then call the Irish Anti-Defamation League (IDLE) right now. I think the number is 1-800-NO-FITZY.

I’ve spent several hundred official and unofficial St. Patrick’s Day celebrations in New York City over the years, and the calm, bespectacled intellectual Irishman clutching his copy of Finnegan’s Wake is a rare sight
indeed. Unless he’s passed out around 3:15 A.M. in the back booth at McQuigan’s Pub.

No, March 17 is not for the squeamish. It’s for the thirsty masses. Those young rebels willing to shout and scream about their Irish blood, the chosen few who will toss raw eggs into open cab windows, the banshees who only want (as House of Pain so eloquently put it) to “get off their feet and jump around.” That’s what St. Patrick’s Day is all about. Doing incredibly stupid things while under the influence of alcohol and wearing neon-green clothing.

Herewith, a guide to spending the day in the Big Apple. This is what I’ll probably be doing this year.

9:00 A.M.
Meet best friend Sully at Greek diner for traditional Irish-American breakfast of wet toast, runny eggs, cold home fries, bitter black coffee, three cigarettes, and the sports page. Curse the Knicks. Marvel at pat Riley’s hair.

9:30 A.M.
Corner of Ninth and 39th. Ring Fitzy’s buzzer 23 times. On the twenty-fourth try, he buzzes us up. Find him naked on the living-room floor surrounded by empty Bud Tall Boys and an open can of paint. His entire body, including his hair, is green.

10:00 A.M.
Arrive at the corner of 51st and Fifth and take our places for the parade. Sully steals three cans of Molson out of some Italian guy’s cooler. Fitzy tosses a half-eaten green hot dog into the middle of the Staten Island Marching Men’s Choir.

10:14 A.M.
Fitzy gives Mayor Giuliani the finger. Mayor waves back. “Fuckin’ typical,” Sully says. Fitzy steals three more beers from the Italian guy.

11:05 A.M.
The Francis Mulcahy School of Irish Step Dancing pauses right in front of us and runs through a rigmarole of jigs and reels. Fitzy bops out into the street and joins them by doing a variation on the twist. Two cops promptly escort him back to the curb. Ends up one of them (Blaney) is Sully’s second cousin. All charges dropped. I steal a few more beers out of the cooler. We toast the NYPD.

12:02 P.M.
The Italian guy accuses us of raiding his stash. Waves his fists in the air. Sully punches him on the neck. Fitzy pulls out a lighter and starts to melt the cooler. Two more cops show up. So happens, one of them (O’Keefe) is Fitzy’s dad’s old neighbor from Brooklyn. Tells the Italian guy to “Move it along, pal, this ain’t Columbus Day.” Brawl breaks out between Irish and Italian bystanders. We throw several punches, grab the cooler, and split.

12:06 P.M.
Drop into St. Patrick’s Cathedral for a quick gander at the Lord. Crack open a couple of beers. Sully and I debate the merits of a short confession. Sully’s argument — “In a half hour, at the bar at Paddy Reilly’s it’s gonna be standin’-room only” — wins out over mine, which involves Eternal Damnation. We opt for a fast Our Father, five bucks in the poor box, and a brief round of candle-lighting. Fitzy, meanwhile, steals a sip of Holy Water.

12:17 P.M.
In the cab downtown, our driver, one Adjid Sakeel, expresses his opinion that the Irish Lesbian and Gay Organization should be allowed to march in the parade. Fitzy — his large green mug plugged right into the pay slot — begs to differ: “They awready got their own parade downtown inna Village. We don’t go down there, so why should they come uptown ta ours?” Adjid says, “Because this is America.” “No it ain’t,” counters Fitzy. “This is New York City. It’s a whole different ball game.” The argument ends with Fitzy barking like a dog and Adjid veering all over Second Avenue. We get out at 29th Street. I give Adjid a $3 tip and the cooler.

12:22 P.M.
Stop in at Paddy Reilly’s for a few pops. Several rounds of green beer and whiskey. Rogues March — a local band made up of guys who used to know members of the Pogues — bash through a loud, boisterous show. The lead singer — Joe Hurley — stretches his voice to the point of aneurysm. We toast the IRA. We toast the cease-fire. We toast the pope. Fitzy pukes.

4:27 P.M.
Stop in at Molly Malone’s Pub for a few more pops. Eat several slices of green pizza made by Sweeney the Bartender’s wife. She’s Italian. We drink green champagne and vodka. Sweeney calls JFK the greatest man who ever lived. Fitzy calls Mario Cuomo a fag. Mrs. Sweeney kicks Fitzy. Sully pukes.

About a Quarter Past Eight
Over at the Emerald Inn, we drink green Guinness and recite dialogue from The Quiet Man verbatim. The Stogues — a local band made up of guys who used to know the mother of one of the guys in the Pogues — play “Danny Boy,” and Fitzy starts to cry, green tears streaming down his puffy green cheeks. As Sully and I pat Fitzy on the back, the lead singer passes out.

Sometime After Ten

Head over to A Blarney Stone, where we order a drink called the Shane
MacGowan — three ounces of vodka, four ounces of gin, six ounces of Irish whiskey, a teaspoon of something that smells like turpentine, and half a beer. You gotta down it in two slugs. Makes you spout poetic musings with a tongue so thick only Shane could understand. The Problem is — he ain’t here. Fitzy stuffs an entire green bagel in his mouth, swallows it almost whole, downs his MacGowan, and says, “Now this is the life!”

That Same Night
Stop in at Sin-é. Place holds only 75 people, 72 of whom look like they just stepped off the boat. People without green cards drinking green beer. We’re in time to see another local band (really local, since they live in the cellar) take the stage. Call themselves the Fogues. Made up of guys who used to be friends with guys who once bought a round for the guys who used to roadie for the Stogues. During “Thousands Are Sailing,” the guitar player leaps up into the air and stays there. For what seems like a long time. His head is stuck in the ceiling; he gets a standing ovation. The lead singer asks if there’s a carpenter in the house. There is. Thirty-three of them, to be exact.

Later
The fact that we’re in the Dublin House is news to all three of us. But it’s printed right there on the matches. And the wall. And the back of the bouncer’s T-shirt. As my old man used to say: “Wherever the hell you go, there you fuckin’ are.”

Later Still
The thing about painting yourself green is this: It’s a great symbolic way to show your support of the Old Country and your family tree, but it’s a terrible way to go out drinking. Mostly because your friends can’t tell when you’re about to puke. The point is, we didn’t see it coming when Fitzy leaned over an Englishman named Trevor — who was explaining his support of the peace process in Ireland — and let blow. The hot dog, the pizza, the bagel — they made a comeback even Travolta woulda been proud of. And set off a brawl the likes of which we may never see again. Seventeen Englishmen, 27 Micks, and a side order of Hispanic, African-American, and Polish guys. When the cops show up (Carelli, Tiveiros, Jackson, etc.) none of them is related to Fitzy or Sully, so they just pack the whole melting pot in the back of a couple of paddy wagons (just for the sake of historical irony, I guess) and drop us off downtown. I share a cell with Fitzy and a Puerto Rican plumber named Bob. He says the cell gives him “déja-vu” because he had the same one after the Puerto Rican Day Parade last year.

The Next Morning
I wake up to the sound of Mickey Mantle repeatedly pounding a Louisville Slugger across the side of my face. I make a count of my few remaining brain cells — eight and holding. Bob’s droning on about pipe wrenches and putty knives when they come to take us to court. Ends up the judge (McSwiggin) is not only a fifth cousin of Fitzy’s mom but also happened to be in Dublin House last night when the hot dog hit the fan. He thinks the Englishman, the Queen, and the United Kingdom had it coming. All charges dropped. (That should be the motto above the entrance to the Irish Embassy.) We tell the judge about Sully, and fifteen minutes later, me, Sully, Fitzy, and Bob are sitting in P.J. Clarke’s chugging Bloody Marys and discussing the merits of indoor plumbing — copper pipe vs. plastic. Fitzy says he likes plastic: “It’s more modern. And it don’t look shiny.” Sully and I make our minds. Bob turning a light shade of burnt sienna — pukes.

 

pretty dresses yay!

February 23, 2015

Because I love pretty dresses, some of my Oscar faves —

 

Cate Blanchett

Cate Blanchett

Rita Ora

Rita Ora

Scarlett Johansson

Scarlett Johansson

Sienna Miller

Sienna Miller

Zendaya

Zendaya

Margot Robbie

Margot Robbie

 

 

 

 






a few bad apples

January 8, 2015

 

poison_apple

 

In 1988, the Ayatollah Khomeini put a price on author Salmon Rushdie’s head. Rushdie wasn’t wanted “dead or alive.” Khomeini wanted Rushdie dead. I don’t know what the original price tag was for one dead author, but as of 2013, the price on Rushdie’s head was over 3 million pounds.

The Ayatollah is gone. The prices on artists’ heads are not.

 


 

In 2004, Dutch filmmaker Theo van Gogh was shot dead on a busy Amsterdam street. The first bullet took Theo off his bicycle. He tried to make it across the street. Theo’s murderer followed him on foot and shot him again. Then Theo’s murderer slashed Theo’s throat and stuck a letter to his chest with a knife. Theo was 47 years old. His crime was a short fiction film aired on Dutch public television depicting a Muslim woman’s difficulties in an arranged marriage.  

In 2005, Danish cartoonist Kurt Westergaard’s drawing of Muhammad with a bomb in his turban put him on Islam’s hit list. There have been multiple attempts to murder Kurt. He lives in a home rivaling a Brinks security office and under police protection to this day.  

Also in 2005, Danish publication Jyllands-Posten’s former editors Carsten Juste and Flemming Rose made the hit list – for publishing Westergaard’s drawing.  

In 2006, Swedish artist Lars Vilks made Islam’s hit list. He, like Rushdie and Wetergaard, is still alive. He sleeps with an axe by his bed.  

In 2010, South Park creators Matt Stone and Trey Parker received death threats for their depiction of Muhammad in a bear suit in their animated cartoon. They were assured they too were on the road to Theo van Gogh’s fate. A photo of Theo with his throat slit and a knife in his chest was attached just to make things festive. The South Park guys are still breathing. Probably because stations caved and censored a lot of the episode.  

In 2010, in response to the South Park threats, Seattle artist Molly Norris, who worked for a Seattle paper, publicly suggested an “Everybody Draw Muhammad Day.” Molly received so may death threats she quit her job, fled Seattle, and changed her name. As far as I know, she’s still in FBI protective custody.  

In 2011, the Paris offices of satirical French magazine Charlie Hebdo were firebombed, forcing the publication to move after its offices were destroyed. Editor Stephane Charbonnier, you guessed it, was on Islam’s hit list. Had been for a while, fending off litigation and death threats. Charlie Hebdo’s crime? A few satirical and not particularly tasteful cartoons featuring Muhammad.  

Apparently Muhammad seriously does not have a sense of humor because In 2015, armed men stormed Charlie Hebdo’s new Paris offices with automatic weapons and shot Stephane Charbonnier and 11 other people dead.

 


 

There is now an Al Queada Most Wanted poster being passed around the internet showing Charbonnier’s face struck out in red.

 


Think about that. These murderers, these serial murderers, don’t just keep little photos of their victims to themselves they can cross your face off of. They put your photo on the fucking internet. With a big red X through it.

THAT is fucking blaspheme.

 


 

The above is the short list. There are more.

And that’s a long time span.

17 years. For 17 years, artists, filmmakers, satirists, journalists, comics, authors, editors, gallery owners have been threatened, attacked, murdered in the name of defending the honor of a man who heard voices in a cave and has been dead for 1500 years. In Switzerland. Sweden. The US. France. Denmark. All over the fucking globe, artists are targeted, intimidated, threatened, and murdered.

 


 

A few bad apples, I am told. Most of Islam is not like that, I am told. Most Muslims are just nice people trying to go about their daily lives, I am told.

 


 

You know what a few bad apples are? The Unibomber. He was a bad apple, with a couple buddy bad apples.

This is a fucking orchard.

 


 

It’s time to burn that orchard down.

 


The Silencing of Theo van Gogh
FBI Warns Seattle Cartoonist About Threats
Salman Rushdie bounty increased amid anti-Islam film controversy
Al-Qaida’s ‘dead artist club’
Charlie Hebdo editor Stephane Charbonnier crossed off chilling al-Qaeda hitlist
Swedish Police Hide Threatened Cartoonist
Seattle Cartoonist in Hiding After Death Threats
The Danish Cartoonist Who Survived An Axe Attack
Jihad Against Danish Newspaper
South Park censored after threat of fatwa over Muhammad episode
France manhunt: Police raid homes, arrest several suspects after Charlie Hebdo massacre
Paris Killers Got Wrong Door Before ‘Decapitating’ Magazine
Satirical Magazine Is Firebombed in Paris

 

moments that shame me

October 9, 2014

 

bloodI found a tiny elderly woman —

Out cold in a pool of blood in an alley.

It was an alley in Los Angeles that was the back way in to one of the last photography studios in Los Angeles that developed black and white film.

That is why I was there.

It was in the Hebrew part of L.A. By Fairfax and Santa Monica. Most of the people who lived there were elderly. Nice little old Jewish people. Quiet. Different. They wear a lot of black and don’t speak a lot of English. This was not gang country.

But there was a fucking body in the alley.

 


 
[Holy shit!]

 


 

I stopped the car and leaped out with no fucking clue what to do and she was this tiny [I mean tiny, like 80 poounds] elderly woman in this pool of blood [and I mean pool, like, gallons of blood] out cold and I was on 911 like a cat on fire freaking out because I had no idea how anyone who lost that much blood could still be alive but she was alive she was still breathing but I was sure any second that would stop and she would be dead and I had no idea how to cope with someone dying in front of me she had to live that was it.

Which is what I hit that poor bastard on 911 with.

 


 

People seeing my very dramatic screech to a halt in the alley mouth started coming out of shops across the street and showing up. I don’t know how long she was lying there but none of them saw her till they saw my car screach on the breaks and me hopping up and down on a phone yelling.

 


 

I was yelling at the guy on the 911 line and he was saying, Calm down. And I was saying, Fuck you, I AM CALM!, just get the fucking ambulance here now!

[Which probably means I was not all that calm.]

 


 

And then I was pulling clothes out of the back of the car to make her a pillow because a guy showed up who was a medical guy saying it was okay to give her a pillow though I was freaked if she had a spine injury it might increase it but he said no, no spine injury, we can give her a pillow.

So I pulled three shirts out of the car and shoved them at him to make a pillow for her.

And then she woke up and looked right at me and put out her hand.

She wanted me to hold her hand.

 


 

I don’t know why she picked me. By then there was a crowd, including that medical guy who was making the pillow and not afraid of blood at all.

But she looked right at me and put out her hand.

And I wouldn’t take her hand.

I couldn’t.

I couldn’t hold her hand because it was covered in blood.

 


 

We got her on an ambulance and to the hospital and she made it [though to me that’s fucking magic I don’t know how someone that tiny can lose that much blood and still live it was truly a lake of blood].

 


 

That haunts me.

And shames me.

I wouldn’t take her hand.

 


 
I can’t touch blood.

 

screenplay contest despair

September 9, 2014

 

vogue_1950

I’ve got writers flipping out over not placing in the Austin Film Festival screenplay competition.

Seriously?

Just stop it.

 


 

THE PURPOSE OF SCREENPLAY COMPETITIONS IS GET READS AND GET SOLD AND GET THE MOVIE MADE.

 


 

Do you need to win a competition to get a script read, a script sold, or a movie made?

 


 

NO

 


 

 

crucifiction

 

I stopped over on ScriptChat tonight.  It’s a Twitter thing, everyone hits one website [the ScriptChat website] and then chats it up and the site automatically adds a hashtag, #scriptchat to the conversation. Which all plays out on Twitter like Twitter comments.

 

[If you are not on Twitter, that will all be Mars speak to you.  Sorry.  Maybe you should get out more.  Hmm.]

 

Sometimes there are guests.  I have been a guest. This scriptchat there was no topic or guest, but I had a Sunday night off and thought I’d go see what people were talking about.

 

They were talking about “prep work.”

 

Oh sweet Holy Fucking Jesus.  Seriously?  Prep.  Work?

 

Okay, creatives, let me put this plainly and succinctly.  Artists and writers do not do “prep work.” 

 
Busboys and busgirls in restaurants do “prep work.”  Lower level chefs do “prep work.”  8 AM bartenders do “prep work.”  Folding napkins, polishing silverware, slicing up limes?  That’s “prep work.”
 
Screenwriters?
 
Screenwriters don’t do fucking “prep work.”
 

 

omg!

July 3, 2014

 

dinklage_grumpy_cat

 

Peter Dinklage & Grumpy Cat!

Score!

 


ps: the first person to shout this is photoshopped will be sacrificed to the goddess pele

 

throw back thursday

June 26, 2014

 

max_viper_bw_375

 

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