Had a quick cameo in Creative Workaround’s 2017 submission to the 48 Hour Film Project. Our film won four local awards: Best Film (3rd Place), Best Cinematography, Best Genre Mashup, and Best Location.
How to be a Man: Splitting Firewood with your Face and Other Manly Skills
Say manly things. In fact, insert man into everything you say. It’s not that hard, man. There are plenty of manly words to diversify your manabulary. For example, mancore. It’s like a manticore, but manlier. Try shouting mancore after every manly thing you do, which should be all the time, and then some. DoMANate conversations with words like mandaculous, mandate, mandible, mandetta, mandlebars, comMANdo, mand.
Don’t get confused if people shit their pants. Real men have that effect.
Brag. Brag about everything. Even if it’s not true. No shame. I’ve never cock slapped a shark. I am not facebook friends with the Dalai Llama. I don’t even know how you’d arm wrestle a volcano but I brag about it all the time. And I’m so manificent that the world changes to fit my point of view. So brag, and if anybody calls you out on it, mount their genitals on a spear as a warning to others. Then brag about it.
I’ve actually concocted a few phrases to get your ginormous braggart balls rolling. “You know my girlfriend was complaining about her ex the other day so I threw him off a mountain.” “I’m sorry teach I’m late for class but you know I was too busy clubbing a bear to death with my schlong.”
Hit something. Be it a man, a woman, a child, then throw it. Ever seen judo? They throw stuff all the time. Don’t want to get up? Throw verbal abuse. “Your never going to amount to anything, son.”
Which brings me to my next point: pee on everything. Pee on the ground, pee on pee, pee on the audience, pee in space, pee on pandas, especially if they’re cock blocking you. Peeing is like marking your territory; it tells people where you’ve been and what you’ve been up to. It’s like Facebook. Where you’re going to pee next should be a constant discussion between you and your other men.
Finally, facial hair. It isn’t fashion, it’s life. It’s not accessory, it’s necessity. Mustachery is mandatory in the mantheon of manly men. Just look at the muschateers. Grow a mustache. No, two mustaches. Doublestache. Use the extra mustache as a boomerang to destroy your enemies. Can’t grow a stache, mortal? Staple a moose to your face.
So, if you’ve been listening to my mantra, you should be a man by now. Your balls should be dragging two feet behind you. You should have the ability to stare the sun to death. You should be like “yeah, sucka, you go down. You go down. Rematch!” Your very scent should cause women to keel over pregnant, but that’s okay, babies are great, they’re more people to fight!
So be a man, unless of course, you find a woMAN.
My 16mm black & white short film “Bare Romance” debuted at UCSB’s Reel Loud Film Festival 2012. Worked with some wonderful people, and a few wonderful naked people, plus the band Each Peace who performed live at the show (per Reel Loud tradition).
SYNOPSIS: An avant-garde comedy about a naked guy (Zach Lemke) who shows up at a party and feels ostracized and different because he’s naked.
Dear Post-America, no, Postal America,
I’m coughing myself to sleep on howling steps that were once the Gateway Arch in St. Louis, pillowed by the tombstones of Louis and Clark, spooning the mummified corpse of Sacagewea. I can see twin towers covered in fuselage and the dead men they swallowed. Before that we didn’t do ruins.
Now we are the modern Pompeii buried beneath newspapers and motel sixes, beneath brick and stone and the bones of Pharisees and Wall Street Brokers.
I’m foreign in a familiar land. I’m a bookless, homeless, bombed-out, burned-up pioneer in a dead world made of dead words facing a sea-washed statue liberated from meaning, her flame out, her arm stretched in the air as she sinks in the sand. Over there is a mountain with four worn-away faces, there’s Washington’s limp phallis, a white house sick with the blood of Indians and presidents. I start to think this is all one big middle finger to whoever came up with the phrase ideas never die and the phrase I’d give you the shirt off my back and to whoever thought democracy was immortal.
And I know the devil’s been most patient.
We couldn’t afford color blinds on our windows, not with kids in Disney shirts waving from the roadside, young women stooped over rubber trees, old men smiling with malachite teeth. There was the International conglomerate and the poor indigenous and all that separated us were barbed-wire fences and fat bank accounts. I spent my day learning U.S. History; my nights playing soccer with a ball of teak root. Some locals dropped a hornet nest on my head. I thought 9/11 occurred in Kuala Lampur.
The skies were gray. There were no pigeons but deadly chemicals disguised as bread crumbs and iron spikes on rooftops. We couldn’t let the pets outside – I wondered if it was because of the poison or the markets where vendors lined their stalls with freshly-gutted dogs. The Chinese saw us less as bourgeois and more as barges. Strangers would call their friends over to laugh at our large feet. A business man wanted my picture by a bull statue’s testicles. Poverty had been swept behind smiling skyscrapers and the endless ranks of cranes. Our U.S. passports could only get us so far. From there on it was knowing which barbershops cut your hair and which were fronts for brothels.
We lived in rich man prison – a network of mansions connected by a network of canals. Transport included travel-by-yacht. I’d take the boat to the Mall, tie her up, watch a film with English subtitles. Or take her to open water and fish like Ernest Hemingway. We said what we wanted about Hugo Chavez. The taxi drivers never agreed with us. Nothing could stop our wanton – not the insurgents, not the kidnappers who took our neighbors, not the pirates asking for agua with pistols behind their backs, not the man who collapsed in the Wendy’s drive-through with a bullet in his shoulder.
Santa Barbara, California
I’m idling incognito, an exclusive ooze, wasting away with a cynical smile. There are scars on my legs from jungle hornets, a little red book full of Mao. I think in languages I never use. I walk along landing strips and thumb airplanes and would never play tricks on Gimpel the Fool. I don’t belong.
I am expatriate, both brahmin and untouchable.