My lethal weapon's my mind

Movie making in New York City

I like movies, but I pretty much hate Hollywood. Not the place as much as the institution. Those privileged douchebags that spend staggering sums of money to churn out sub-par bullshit. I think the best art is created when one is working within a limited set of parameters and produces something unexpected, beyond those boundaries. But when you can throw bundles of cash at a project to justify your mansion and a yacht, what you get is some predictable crap targeted to the most lucrative demographic. They might as well be slanging bootleg Rolex watches in Rockefeller Center, for all of the thought and care that goes into many major motion pictures today.

What really annoys me is when moviemakers get permission from the Mayor’s office to shut down areas of New York City to make this garbage. It’s completely unnecessary, and it’s an obnoxious way for a movie producer to say, “Look at me! I’m a big shot! I fucking shut down Fifth Avenue in the middle of a work week!” And while these retards set up their little ten-minute shot, you’ve got production assistants running around the periphery of the set, shooing people away and acting like you’re bothering them. Motherfucker, I work here. I don’t get to stand around with a walkie talkie, telling the lighting designer how I got a handjob on the set of Evan Almighty while directing an underling to pick the sprinkles off a dozen donuts so the movie’s primadonna star won’t have a shit fit. I know every second costs you oodles of dough, but that’s not my problem. If I were running the show, you’d still be down at the bus station positioned at the glory hole in the men’s bathroom.

Hippies that try to get me to register as a Democrat

I’m not technically a Democrat, but I sure as fuck ain’t a Republican. I normally vote for the Democratic candidate in local and federal elections because my opinions are more in line with those candidates’. But nothing turns me off to the party more than some unwashed, bearded pothead standing around on the street with a clipboard, trying to get me to sign up for the Democrats so he can feel like a political crusader. It’s enough to make me go conservative and smoke a carton of cigarettes while popping off my handgun, preferably at one of these dickheads. You want to make a difference for your party? Take off that Superbad t-shirt and put on a suit. Act like you are representing a political party and not some righteous frat house with a seven-foot bong in the foyer. Give me more to think about than just being “against Bush,” because that was the last presidential election’s tactic, and it didn’t work then. Bush is fired in oh-nine no matter who wins next November, so come up with a better platform than “Dems ROCK!”

I really believe that the Democratic party doesn’t want to win. They certainly don’t act like it. I mean, here you’ve got an election that should be a lay-up. Democrats already control Congress, the president’s approval rating is in the shitter, and even die-hard Republicans profess a desire for change. All they’ve got to do is pick a moderate liberal with a decent haircut, and the Dems should be in like Flynn. So who are the front-runners? A leftist black guy and a conservative, abrasive woman. Why don’t you run Martin Lawrence dressed in drag and Jokey Smurf while you’re at it?

People that refuse to acknowledge another person’s skin color when it is pertinent to the conversation

I love how people will often say, “My friend Jerome, who just happens to be black…” In the words of George Carlin: is his mother black? Is his father black? It didn’t just “happen,” did it? The guy is black by design. And while people will often interject a person’s ethnicity or hue into conversation for seemingly no reason, if it’s going to help me understand what the fuck you’re talking about, then by all means, be descriptive. Case in point: a friend of mine was telling me a story about how he and his co-workers got new uniforms. He then fell all over himself to say, “This one guy…he’s black…I don’t even like to mention it…I mean who cares if he’s black…but he is a black dude…anyway I say to this guy…this black guy, whatever…’hey, you’re looking cleaned up!’ And this guy…the black guy…he says, ‘What, you’ve never seen a black guy in a suit before?!’” Now here’s a story where the person’s skin color is integral to the tale. I’m going to find out he’s black by the end, anyway, so why not be up front about it from jump? It’s not like you’re saying he was dribbling a basketball and eating watermelon while the story’s events took place.

I get the same kind of shit in my office. “Oh you know Mary…she’s about five and a half feet tall, always wears these red shoes, has thick-rimmed glasses…she’s always on the third floor…you know who I mean?” Then, after five minutes, “You know…the Hispanic woman on the third floor.” Well why didn’t you fucking say so? Are you so blind to skin tone, you haven’t noticed the office is ninety-eight per cent white? Because if you did, then you would understand why pointing out a non-white person’s skin color would be the first and best description to give. And you never hear the shit in reverse. No one ever says, “Oh yeah, Keith Van Horn from the Dallas Mavericks…you know, the bearded guy…the one with the close haircut…the guy that runs fast…” No, you say, “The white guy on the Mavericks.” You don’t even need to say his name. I’m not pro-racism, I’m pro-clarity. I don’t have time for your self-effacing bullshit.