61 Frames Per Second by John Constantine Today in Nerve's videogame blog: Street Fighter. The movie. A new one. With that chick from that Superman show. Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about!
The Remote Island by Bryan Christian Mad Men's January Jones struts her stuff in Vanity Fair. Plus: Damages returns, the latest Gossip Girl guest star and Donna Martin capitulates.
You wanna
know the — THE — most out shit? How the fuck out I been?
On this mission, for real. I am on the mission to find a baby. A baby
momma,
for real. One night I rented a room at the Marriott — hyped out
my head — coming back from the strip club — thinking: Sexy
dancer, you're my sexy dancer, I want your body, want your body. Do that
sexy
dance.
Crazy HIGH dreams of melting a stripper's hooker heart of
gold and giving her a baby. So, I comes back from the Crazy Horse and
walks — HYPED — I'm not bullshittin' — back down Market
Street to the Marriott. I had a homeboy there. Gave that muthafucka a
c-note or some weak ass shit like that. That muthafucka skated me into
one of they big ass rooms on the down low. You know, they plush shit — not
like Penthouse Hefner shit — but some pretty wild shit. Shit was
at the end of the hall. Know wha' I mean? Thas how they do in these big
bitches like the Marriott. They put the plush cats at the end of the
hall. Some private residence shit. Some reversal discriminatory type
shit.
So, this muthafucka take my ass up in the service elevator — you
know them big ass elevators. I'm ridin' the fuck up with hella little
Asian fools. I mean some little MAID ass muthafuckas — hella South
East Asians ladies — most they asses
Watch her, watch her as her water breaks, and take her hand,
take her rushing to the hospital for something beautiful, for once.
was too old to fuck wit — BUT
there was ONE in the middle of this whole pack of them.
(They all in black, you know wha' I mean? They got black shirts, shoes, pants — the
whole nine. I ain't saying the muthafuckas all look the same, but when
you got a pack a short bitches packed up next to a laundry cart, and
they asses all is in black, in a no-light-having elevator, them bitches
DO all look the same. You like how a momma's boy gonna say "bitch" and
"muthafucka"?)
So, this one — there was one tender — not even
a tender — a honey. A dream like, I dunno. She looked even mo' different
cause she right in the middle. And I just stepped to her — you know — I'm
kinna half-lit, still, but that wasn't what it was really about. I just
grabbed her hand. No, that's not what happened. I mean, I held out my
hand. And yeah, I'm kinna burnt, but it was beyond that high, cause it
was, it was hella slo' mo for mo' than a minute. And she just lifted
her hand, and we held hands like that — frozen and shit, but hot — from
the second floor, all the way to this plush floor. Hella high up. Like
thirty-two, thirty-three, some tall ass shit.
And I don't know, none
of them other maid ladies tripped. I mean, even if her Mama wasn't in
the pack, one of them HAD to be her fucking Auntie or some shit. She
was like a kid in the middle of all these housecleaning ladies. And shit,
the elevator kinna went — Ding! Ding! Like on some alarm
clock shit.
promotion
And my partner's all, "Blood, here it is."
They — the
maid ladies — let Dude pick his floor first. I guess some hotel
hierarchy stuff. Bellman be running the hotels behind the scenes. And
me and Dude stepped, just bounced, from the elevator. I don't even remember
letting go of her hand. But all of a sudden I'm halfway down the hall,
walking with this dude, but she's gone now. The elevator's like three,
four, five doors away now, and I can't even remember letting her go.
I didn't even say a word to her — not "Hello." And no "Goodbye" now.
I'm drifting from my dream now, trooping through the hotel hallway without
the girl. Smelling my hand, like tripping. Smelling — not like smelling
fingers for pussy — but some froze-in-time-type-shit. I'm walking
with Dude, but in my head, I'm off on some out-in-the-fields-daisies
and running to each others' hugging arms and shit. Smelling — I
don't know — jasmine or something from her. I don't know. It wasn't — I
don't even know what jasmine smells like — but, you know, the sound
of that sounds like what it smelled like. Her in my hand. Jasmine.
Dude
pulls out this super pimp card and — 'Click, Click' — the door
is open. Like a stoplight. It go red, yellow, green — you in.
Now
that some pimp shit! Walk into a room off of a card? What!? No keys jangling
all up in yo' pockets and shit? Just a smooth card — some Visa-type
shit. And you in. And I was in.
And then I floated Dude — just on
the strength of that card pimp shit — another TWO c-notes. But,
for real, I was geeked tho' in my head still — off Baby from the
elevator, and in my head-world, I'm all about to be:
"Dude, can you please
tell me Baby's name. I need to talk to her. I need to get her pregnant!
Lay with her, stay with her, buy her ice cream and pickles and all that
ol' shit. Watch her, watch her as her water breaks, and take her hand,
take her rushing to the hospital for something beautiful, for once."
Not
even near some, "I'll mack this bitch." I mean, trippin — like junior
high type — "Will you pass this note to her — " shit.
I woke the fuck up:
buck ass naked in the middle of the floor with my fist bleeding and the
TV tube busted.
And I
think my dumb ass mouth musta been open. 'Cause Dude tells me, "Blood,
you burnt. You want some shit to bring yo' ass back down?"
Huh?! I punked
out on myself. On my memory, on my Momma. I just turned back to Dude
and said, "Shit, I'm all: 'Nah, fuck that. Get me some hoes — here.'"
And
I gave Dude the whole grip from one of my pockets — coulda been
three g's. I can't remember what I had dipped on at that point. Whatever
it was, it was cool cause Dude broke the fuck out like, "Yeah man. Cool."
And
I got on that big ass bubble goose comforter, on the no-water-waterbed,
and cried like fuck. Like a baby. Like a bitch in junior high — the
one that I was just dreaming on. Snot-type crying: "I won't evvvva do
this aaaaagain Mommy — " type hiccup crying.
I woke the fuck up:
buck ass naked in the middle of the floor with my fist bleeding and the
TV tube busted. I guess I broke through that bitch.
BUT, the next time
I rode through, I rented a plusher ass room and came — Don Magic
Juan de Marco — and fucked seven bitches — I shit you not — seven
bitches in one long ass night. Trip of it was, I wore rubbers with each
and every one of them broads.
I still got a scar — on my finger,
next to my thumb, on my right hand. A cut where I cracked and cried that
night for not talking to that Angel Baby. Crying still, not like a baby,
but for a baby. I run it still, in my head, talking to the scar: I
don't even, know how, to hold your hand, to just help you understand.
But I'm ready. Are you ready, yes I'm ready to learn. To fall in love.
Right now. . .n°
"Sexy Dancer" is a monologue from the play I Feel Love , which was written for the Alma Delfina Group and performed by Sean San Jose. It premiered at Campo Santo Theatre and the Intersection in San Francisco.
Sean San Jose is a native of San Francisco. He conceived the theatre project "Pieces of the Quilt" as an homage to his parents, who died of AIDS. The production involves over twenty-five writers, including Edward Albee, Lanford Wilson, David Henry Hwang, Tony Kushner and Migdalia Cruz. He is a co-founder of the theatre company Campo Santo, which has produced the world premiere of I Feel Love, along with works by Denis Johnson, Naomi Iizuka, Philip Kan Gotanda and Dave Eggers.
Erin Cressida Wilson is a Professor of English at Brown University. She won an Independent Spirit Award for her screenplay, Secretary, which starred James Spader and Maggie Gyllenhaal. Her musical,Wilder, will open at Playwrights Horizons in New York City in October of 2003. Her first novel will be published in 2004 by Simon & Schuster. She co-authored The Erotica Project with Lillian Ann Slugocki. She has been collaborating with Sean San Jose since 1986.
