Category Reviews

How Not To Date Mellzah, Part II

I have previously discussed how NOT to date me on this journal. However, I had an experience so…utterly special on Friday night that it requires an update. Friday was Pirate Vs Ninja night at Noc Noc, and since I have a ridiculous amount of pirate costume pieces, I would’ve been remiss not to attend.

The show was fantastic, with firedancers and burlesque and suspensions; there were far more pirates than ninjas in the audience (as far as I could tell, anyway. Sneaky bastards.) and EVERYONE loved my pirate hat. After a while, I was approached by a…gentleman who struck up a conversation with me. Shortly, he begain emphasizing how as he is MATURE, his tastes aren’t NORMAL in that he doesn’t appreciate stick-figure women and on and on…because, of course, one of the best ways to earn points is to let someone know that they wouldn’t be considered attractive by anyone BUT you and your MATURE tastes. Point the second: if I am happy with myself and secure in my attractive qualities, you telling me about them isn’t helping your case. I already know I’m going home with ME at the end of the night; I’ve known myself much longer than you’ve known me, so there’s no way that anything you’re telling ME about ME is going to convince me to do anything with YOU. If you don’t sell me on YOU, what reason would I have to want to even have another conversation?

And that’s the moment that he chose to tell me some things about him that caused my mind to reel. Verbatim:

“See, I love my wife, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t beat off to a picture of Scarlett Johansson in the bathroom at night. Excuse me for a minute, I need to go say goodbye to someone; I’ll be back to hit on you some more in a minute.”

WHAT.

NO.

Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.

Go home to your WIFE, dude.

DO NOT HIT ON ME IF YOU HAVE A WIFE. DO NOT DESCRIBE HOW AND WHY YOU BEAT OFF WHEN YOU ARE TRYING TO HIT ON ME.

DO NOT HIT ON ME IF YOU HAVE A WIFE.

One of these days, Alice.

Everyone who stayed home on Friday to watch the mid-season finale of Battlestar Galactica, I envypity you. Because WE watched ‘Nude on the Moon’, a movie where the title succinctly describes the plot. That is, if ‘Nude on the Moon’ HAD a plot. When I see movies this bad, I expect to see two robots and a cheeky lad silhouetted in the lower right-hand corner of the screen.

It’s about 10 minutes of two men doing ‘science’ to get themselves to the moon, which mostly involves random acts of chemistry, 2 minutes of the secretary pining for one of the uninterested scientists, 8 minutes of the most hilarious spacesuits ever, and 50 minutes of topless ladies cavorting in a manner that indicates that ‘Developmentally Disabled Nudes on the Moon’ might have been a more apt title.

Who knew that all it took to go to the moon was mixing a couple of chemicals together while staring pensively and muttering that you’re not interested in a family? If that’s true, I should’ve rocketed off to the moon at some point during 10th grade chemistry. Screw stealing dad’s Playboys, now adventurous pre-teens can use their ‘Lil Rascal Chemistry Kit’ to go to the moon!

So, the moon is full of topless babes wearing bikini bottoms that display ample amounts of coinslot (who also don’t talk, and therefore can’t talk back), and speedo-wearing dudes who are so hairy it looks like they might be wearing cashmere sweaters, plus two douchebags in the aforementioned hilarious spacesuits.  Also, the moon has a blue sky with plenty of atmosphere. Also, plants, trees, and plenty of water. Shockingly, the moon’s surface looks just like Florida!

Once our intrepid chemists arrive on the moon, they set out to explore, finding that the moon is full of gold (which they can’t take back, owing to the weight). The gold revelation, however, is completely forgotten once they see boobies, and apparently, so is the dialogue. For the period of nearly 40 minutes that they’re wandering around on the moon, there are maybe six lines of dialogue, consisting of “Hey look at that one” and then ten minutes of dialogue-free booby shots…then another three second shot of one of them saying “Get a picture of that one!” and then another ten silent minutes.

During his time on the moon, Our Hero falls in love with the leader of the Boob Squad, who looks exactly like his pining secretary, minus the giant black mole, complete with the world’s scariest eyebrows, but has to leave her when the fire extinguisher strapped to his back runs out of ‘oxygen’. When he gets back to Earth, he pictures his secretary naked and realizes that he could love her, after all.

AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW.

Here’s what the Mystery Science Theater guys might have had to say about it:

The First Rule of a Chuck Palahniuk Reading is…

“So, this book is about a gangbang.”

The interviewer paused, and stared pointedly at the woman who had brought not one, not two, but three young children to last night’s reading.

“A G-A-N-G-B-A-N-G. A gangbang.”

Even though Chuck had gone to the trouble of passing out earplugs to the audience, the woman huffed, grabbed her children, and left.

Then, friends, it was time for the contest. In order to reward those with the greatest lung capacity, blow-up dolls were tossed out into the audience.

To me, there’s something special about watching a people desperately, frantically blowing up sex dolls, as if their very lives were dependent upon it.

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When the reading began, the audience was now studded with blow-up dolls, dead plastic eyes facing forward. The fact that this reading was taking place in what used to be a church made the whole event extra sacrelicious.

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Instead of reading to us from the book he was on tour to promote (Snuff), Chuck read everyone an unpublished short story that changes slightly in every city he stops at; intending for no one to hear this story exactly the way we have, to thank us for supporting him, for coming to see him on a Thursday night. I settled in and let his words wash over me. Chuck is a gifted storyteller; I could have listened to him for hours. Though I don’t have a recording of last night’s reading, I do have a recording of a reading he did in 2003 in New York, promoting ‘Diary’ by reading a story rejected by Playboy, entitled Guts. You can listen to it here, but be forewarned: On this tour, over 60 people passed out listening to this story. It’s graphic, shocking, and the first time I heard it, it even made ME a little woozy. For all that, it’s awesome.

Last night’s story was about a college-age kid, going on a game show (clearly styled after The Price is Right, but not mentioned by name) while on an acid trip which started with consuming a strawberry-flavored Hello Kitty stamp that was made by a guy who works as a janitor in the chemistry lab.

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When the reading came to an end, Chuck was interviewed onstage about Snuff, his writing process, how much fun he and his friends had coming up with porn titles to work into ‘Snuff’, and his plans for future books, but before that could happen, both interviewer and interviewee belted down some gin. Quote of the moment: “Well, there go MY three hours of sobriety. It looks like we’re playing ‘bad cop….despicable cop’.” One of the interesting things he talked about is how the protagnist(s) of Fight Club embody the three main archetypes of modern story characters all in one: the callous destructor, the sad shy self-destructor, and the detached survivor. An example: In Gone With The Wind, you don’t want to be Scarlett. She’s mean, she pushes people around, and in the end, she’s friendless, loveless, her child is dead, and she’s alone. You want to be Rhett, who just doesn’t give a damn. Detached. He’s able to walk away from anything that could hurt him.

After the interview, we watched a trailer for ‘Choke’, which is hitting theaters in September–though if you live in Seattle, you can see it on June 5th or June 7th at the Seattle International Film Festival.

More blowup dolls and autographed schwag were tossed out into the audience, and then Chuck resumed signing books for people with signing tickets; only the first 150 people to buy ‘Snuff’ from the university book store got signing tickets. I was counted among that number, but barely: I was number 143.

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When it was my turn, I mentioned my friends and I have played the porn title game as well, whiling away the hours at work while coming up with pirate porn names for Arrdor, Inc.  He snorted and then groaned when he realized what an awful, hilarious name ‘Arrdor’ is.

So, that’s how I ended up with this signed into my book:

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That’s me. Pirate porn star. He then sprayed my book with Stetson cologne, so now it smells like a cowboy.

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If you want an explanation for this one, you’ll have to listen to Guts.

And then, I got my picture taken with Palahniuk. And a blow-up doll.

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