I’m moving the lever. I’m pushing forward. My body is ready and in my mind I’m everyone I’ve known. My Sensei has been getting “transmissions” from his “antenna to God,” his precious Paper Mate Felt Tip Flair Pens. I’m afraid to ask what this one’s all about, this jag. My Sensei has a habit of dreaming up projects, talking about projects, even completing projects—like a feature length screenplay—only to abandon and never speak of them again. You don’t hear about The Movie Critic anymore. Neither do I. Despite our intimacy, and the frayed nerves and more porous personalities endemic to a movie set of any size, My Sensei hasn’t let one word slip about the abandoned project. It would’ve been his final movie, and it would’ve been the one to go out on: an epilogue, a melancholy character study with just as much subversion and structural brilliance. Maybe he shoots himself or gets AIDS and dies at the end, maybe that’s his carne asada moment.
I don’t think that My Sensei gets enough credit for his narrative construction. His movies are long, but they’re almost always made up of really long scenes or sequences (Jackie Brown is an exception, but that’s a great fuckin’ movie); this structure benefits the audience’s perception and attention, because if each scene is great, and none are bad (Howard Hawks), then you’ve got a good movie on your hands, maybe even great. Who knows, maybe I’m the Dalai Lama in disguise, and you’re Churchill. I’m making games for myself now. I’m talking to My Sensei. I enjoy talking to My Sensei. His Dragon Energy is palpable and non-toxic, unlike The Menace Charlie Sheen who annoyed friends of mine when he dropped out of his role on Two and a Half Men. He was fired, but what do you expect the network to do when one of their hit sitcom leads is smoking crack? Not film that instead?
We’ve all been disturbed by the murder of Rob Reiner and Michele Singer Reiner. It’s the most shocking news story of the year, and My Sensei is worried that he’s not going to be seeing Billy Crystal for dinner on Thursday anymore. He hasn’t heard from him since the weekend. “He could at least call.” I agree. Even though he found the slain bodies of one of his oldest friends just a few days ago, that was the weekend, and now it’s Friday I understand there are plans and logistics to be worked out, but some urgency in my direction would be appreciated. I don’t know anyone involved, so I can’t comment beyond the purview of anyone else on the internet. It’s all so sad—and scary. How could this happen? At least, unlike when Charlie Kirk was assassinated and liberals applauded and cheered and japed like hyenas (My Sensei is nodding), everyone feels the same: this is horrible. And Donald Cheeto President Trump was extremely rude to the late director, which everyone also agreed on. You’ve gotta take what you can get these days when you only get what you give.
My Sensei is still working on his play. Will he stage it on the West End? All of a sudden he’s talking about lunch, where to get lunch, what he wants for lunch, what are the vegetarian options, no I know he eats “chicken” but he won’t eat me because I’m a friend, and a good bird at that. “I’m feeling Jamaican.” Oh, again. Great, now I have to smell the flesh of all that “jerk chicken.” That’s not advertising, those birds are really mean. But I do be liking some of de sidefOOOOOOd items, mon! Is big on de islands.
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