I interviewed Charlie Murphy in anticipation of his March 5th performance here in Portland. Our local weekly was kind enough to run part of our conversation as their ‘Headout’ section lead.
Like many people in show business, he was a bit difficult to talk to because he’s pushing forward his agenda, hitting his usual talking points, etc. On top of that, he has a gruff, bullish attitude. As a result, there’s some fluff in here. If I could do it over again I would dwell longer on the creative process with him, as I’ve taken a keen interest in the production of storytelling.
Speaking of hindsight – looking back over this interview now, after the show, I feel a little silly for getting as excited as I was about it. He wasn’t great; he covered some of the same old material from years ago, talked about Gary Coleman and the internet (tired topics), and made a really ignorant joke about AIDS. While I have never held him to a high intellectual or moral standard, it was still disappointing to hear him tell weak jokes and rely on the same sort of misogynistic/homophobic garbage that his brother trotted out in the ’80s. Sort of the antithesis of his angle he cops in the interview.
Either way, here it is:
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Sometimes she forgets it’s cold until it’s too late. She’s been up all night at that guy’s house near the highway, getting high and watching TV. When she got there yesterday it was warm, so the sandals made sense.
She woke up freezing under a crocheted blanket. Somebody was on the floor under a huge coat, their face turned away from the flashing, silent howl of the screen. It was Ricky – she hadn’t seen him show up. She stepped over him carefully and walked down the hall to the bathroom, passing by an open bedroom door. Inside was a dark mass of damp air. She peed in the dark.
The sun was coming up. She made her way back to the front room by the light peeking through the blinds. This time she knocked over some empties when she stepped over Ricky, waking him. He sat up and gathered his coat around his shoulders and knees. He felt in his pockets slowly. He pulled out a shiny white shape and handed it to her.
“Go hawk this for us.”
She turned it over in her hands. It was heavy. “What should I get for it?”
Ricky laid back down and covered his head with the coat. “Twenny.”
Brilliant purples and oranges tore across the cold sky, painting the MAX train as it passed. She waited for the bus, shivering, while the kids with fleeces embroidered with the name of their school passed her by. She should have asked Ricky for his coat, but Ricky wasn’t like that.
The bus came and she found herself sitting on the bus with the white thing in her hands. She opened it, and it lit up. It was a video game. Two screens – one with two cartoon faces talking to each other. A child with a sword talking to a green monster. The monster was asking the child, “What is it that you want more than anything in the world?” and the child said, “To destroy you.”
It was flashing “PUSH A BUTTON,” so she did.
The monster said, “What if that’s not an option?” and the child didn’t say anything.
The beast turns its back to her now empty plate, letting her gaze settle on the blue porcelain bird figurine that hasn’t moved from the porch for days. She cannot understand why it ignores her, even when she blatantly dares it to taunt her. I will ravage you, she silently vows, upon nightfall.
But for now, her thoughts return to the small salad plate near the screen door that brimmed with tuna juice just moments earlier. She scans the area for any remnants, wishing her Assistant would rise from the large soft rectangle and refill the dish.
Her tail twitches in delight to the rhythm of her heartbeat and the gentle gurgle of her full belly. She slowly licks her black lips, pausing to savor the last bits of fish stuck to her fur.
The flavor takes her back, unexpectedly, to a time of great satisfaction. She must squint to recall, that moment….what was it? Ah, yes. Salmon. The Assistant had helped Itself to her salmon supply in the white chamber, and she chose to take matters into her own paws, nomming the feast while It stared at the image box.
The beast understands the importance of morning and night, grooming and plentiful rest, rigor and self-discipline. She does not apologize for her actions, nor is she grateful. When dusk arrives, she will retire to the shadows with her diary, painstakingly detailing the day’s events in mice blood, for future generations.
Just found this remix from 2 years ago that my friend Cosmos did of a Morals’ song from our cd, The Warming Light Of Dawn.
It’s an honor to have someone make something so beautiful out of something I made.
Listen here, but go over to his “neverending album” site to hear more remixes of the likes of Typhoon and Starfucker.
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The swirly syths are so summery. You know how partial shadows near a summer sunset can tug at emotional strings you didn’t know existed? How when you’re climbing a mountain or a hill and you get near the top, so you can see where the ground levels off and the sky seems to leap into view with each step? Those things are what this sounds like to me.
File under: instant messages I’ve sent.
the command line is more humble — it avoids the faux-omniscient hubris of the “window” or “desk” metaphor and ultimately is more powerful for its humility
or if not more powerful, at least more pure
the command line is computing before man deified himself
it is the garden of eden
WHEN I WAS YOUNGER, I saw the movie about Harvey Pekar, American Splendor, and thought that I, too, could make comics about my life. I found these crude [both meanings of the word] sketches recently while sorting through old papers looking for my birth certificate (see earlier post). I thought I’d show them to you.
I erased some names and one unique detail that would embarrass me or someone else.
A poem my aunt wrote for me 5 years ago after my first (and next to last) poetry reading:
POEM FOR MY NEPHEW
The stone set quiet against the green,
And the young poet, in garlands,
Pleased as any stag or ox.
The priesthood smiles
Waiting for the rush of blood.
But no, that was
An age ago. The crowds
Had beat the square to dust beneath their feet,
And danced in great chains, spilling half the wine.
Now it is a lonely thing
A man, a rock, the wind,
Remembered notes of but a single flute.
How will he learn, then, to shake his horns, consenting,
And come whole from the madness of the God?
-Kathleen Piper
