Tag Archives: Angel

Playing God

The snake convulsively curled and uncurled around the mass of pulped organs that used to be its stomach.

It wasn’t a big snake, maybe a foot and a half long at most, which probably explains why it lost so badly when it went up against a car tire while trying to cross the road.

I found the snake at the end of the nose used by Buzz, The Garbage Disposal That Walks Like A Dog, as he sniffed his way through his latest walk.

The snake didn’t look good at all. Most of its middle was smushed along one side, as if the car had only crushed one side of it as its massively heavy weight rolled over the small reptile.

My heart broke for the snake.

Yes, really.

I’ve always had these strangely timed bouts of empathy. Which goes a long way toward explaining the Incident Of The Flounder On The Floorboards.

See, I’d gone river fishing in St. Augustine with my Dad and a dude I’ve known since grade school, who I’ll call. . . um. . . John.

Anyway, we were pretty successful and managed to pull in a couple of pretty good eating fish. The prize of which collection had to be the A flounder is a fish with a bit of a mutation concerning its eyes. Because it is a bottom dweller, the flounder faces danger only coming from above so it evolved to have both of its eyes on the same side of its head so it can look up all the time.nice flounder I pulled off the bottom of the river and into our boat.

To keep the fish alive, we slid a twine into their mouths and then out their gills, effectively leashing them to the side of the boat, while still allowing them to breathe enough to survive. Eventually, we’d caught enough fish and headed on home. We put the string of fish on the floorboards in the car and headed out.

And I kept looking down at the Flounder and it kept staring up at me. With both eyes at the same time. Flounder are creepy that way. My heart broke for the flounder. So I took a wet towel and dropped it over the flounder, not to hide its face from me, but to give it enough water to keep it alive for a bit longer.

To keep it alive. I was trying to keep alive this fish that we were about to gut, then cut off its head and then fillet it before cooking it and eating it. No, I didn’t think it through all the way, that’s for sure.

All of which flashed through my brain when I stepped up next to the snake. There was no way the reptile was going to make it, especially considering that the midsection of its body was, essentially, glued to the cement by its own body gunk.

The only thing it could do was to die slowly, in agony, writhing on the hot cement of the roadway.

Buzz, The Garbage Disposal That Walks Like A Dog, was bored. Since I wasn’t going to let him eat the snake, he had wandered off to sniff some bushes and maybe scent a few himself.

I stayed with the snake, lending it some of my shade, and thought about the flounder. Buzz tugged at the leash harder and harder, impatient to get going.

I picked up my foot, ready to turn and leave, when the flounder’s face flashed through my brain again. Good? Bad? Indifferent? Right? Wrong?

Did it matter in the face of a short lifetime’s worth of unending agony? My heart broke for the snake.

 

I slammed my foot down onto the road, crushing the snake’s skull.

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Sunday Serenade: My Boyfriend’s Back

Well, not my boyfriend, understand.

Just, you know, in general.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Look, we’ve just escaped from Valentine’s Day (well, most of you, I guess. Lucky dudes.) and I thought I’d celebrate with the original song that tells the story of a woman, unfairly spurned, who takes her revenge by sicing a bigger kid on a smaller kid and saying kill.

“My boyfriend’s back and he’s gonna save my reputation.”

Yeah, because nothing says that your girl is pure, chaste and true than whipping ass on some random dude.

Man, the 50’s were a strange place. Am I right?

Anyway, it’s a short song by The Angels.

Enjoy.


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It’s Going To Be A Festival

I’ve found a new love.

Not the people-type love, dudes. I’m talking the love of things.

No, not that kind of love either. Perverts.

No, the love I’m talking about is the new-found love I now have for small independent movies and small-scale documentaries, courtesy of my cousin, the Babbling Brook. The BB is the founder of a wonderful film festival called the Key West Film Festival and it’s wonderful.

For any number of reasons. The most obvious being the first two words of its name: Key West. D’uh!

Yeah, the KWFF takes place over five days and is situated in the heart of Key West, on or just off of Duval Street at the historic Tropic Cinema and a few other places around town.

I never in my life conceived that I would not only go see 12 movies in three days while on vacation in Key West of all places, but I did do just that. And I loved it.

Even though my wife, known to me as She Who Must Be Seeing More Movies In Three Days Than She’s Seen In The Last Year, and I were only able to make three days of the festival, we saw 12 movies. And, for the most part, they were just outstanding.

The best features, I thought, were the documentaries. I saw some really amazing documentaries that took me into worlds I’d never imagined.

For instance, there was the showing of Mr. Angel, about porn star and transgender activist Buck Angel. He was born a genetic female, but came to realize that not only was she a lesbian, she also was a man. So she began testosterone treatments and other steps, including the top half of her gender reassignment surgery into a maleMr. Angel.

He then turned himself into a hulking, muscled-out, goateed, shaven-headed icon of masculinity, with one slight difference: He kept his vagina in perfect working order. Yeah, dudes. Think on that for a while.

As you might expect, the movie brought out a lot of discussion when it was over. I was of the opinion that his porn career was, for the most part, fueled by his desire for people to desire him just as he was, to receive reassurance that he was not an “oddity.”

Mr. Angel was, in other words, the perfect documentary that informed us of something we’d never known and also provided fodder for long and fruitful discussion.

Bending Steel, on the other hand, did not provoke discussion. Instead it provoked cheers; loud cheers from the entire audience. The documentary told the story of a shy, reclusive New Yorker who decided he wanted to become a performing circus strongman.

You know the type. The dudes who get up on stage and then set about bending solid-steel objects. This little man had that desire. He also had a pathological fear of being in front of crowds and wasn’t all that big.

BendingSteel_poster_thI’m telling you, this documentary was just astoundingly good. We laughed. We cried. We growled in anger. And we all cheered and screamed and almost jumped for joy near the end. This was an hour well spent.

There were more good movies than I have time to talk about here, dudes and dudettes. Suffice to say, I’ve definitely come to the realization that film festivals aren’t just about showcasing snooty, subtitled foreign films that no more than 17 people would ever see (even though there were several of those). They can be a wonderland full of amazing people with fantastic stories to tell and a place for you to listen.

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