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I woke up this morning at around 5:00 a.m. and didn’t get back to sleep for about 2 hours. I kind of enjoyed just laying in be and thinking while it was still quiet out and light was just starting to filter in through the blinds. One of the things that crossed my mind was Conan O’Brien’s premiere on TBS the other night. I’m not a huge fan of his, but it inspired this little story about Jay’s reaction.

It was cool in the bunker. Jay pulled his silk robe closer to his body, enjoying the slide of the material against his skin. Somewhere in the sprawling mansion above him, he knew his wife searched for him. They were supposed to leave for the charity golf tournament an hour ago, but he needed to watch one more time.
On the two big screen televisions situated in front of him were the images that had revealed to him his demise. Freeze framed before him were the images from both his and Conan’s show at exactly 11:45 on Monday night. On one screen, Conan’s eyes were screwed shut, his mouth agape with ecstasy as his hands gripped an electric guitar with the ease of a rock star. Jack White’s face rested near Conan’s shoulder, his face contorted mid-croon as he sang into the lanky ginger’s ear. On the other screen, Jay saw himself, sitting at his desk pointing at a Photoshopped picture of a squirrel. His face was slack, resigned.
He heaved a sigh and leaned back in his chair, resting his chin on his chest.
“Cesar,” he called quietly.
The compact Central American man emerged from behind one of the luxury cars flanking Jay’s seat. His fleet of expensive toys required an army of undocumented workers, and sometimes they bought him more pleasure than the automobiles themselves.
Jay hit the play button on one of his remotes, and the strains of Conan and Jack wailing “Twenty Flight Rock” echoed off of the concrete surfaces of the underground garage. Jay’s last refuge.
“Dance for me, Cesar.”

I often write little scarps of things on my smartphone. I’ll try to start posting more of them here, so they aren’t lost forever when my phone inevitable conks out.


The other day I had the opportunity to see a cinematic masterpiece available on Netflix instant watch and decided to partake.

White Dog is a 1982 American drama film directed by Samuel Fuller using a screenplay written by Curtis Hanson loosely based on Romain Gary‘s 1970 novel of the same title. The film depicts the struggle of a dog trainer named Keys (Paul Winfield), who is black, trying to retrain a stray dog found by a young actress (Kristy McNichol), that is a “white dog”—a dog trained to viciously attack any black person. Fuller uses the film as a platform to deliver an anti-racist message as it examines the question of whether racism is a treatable problem or an incurable condition.


Save the dark meat for me!



If you think you’d enjoy the tale of a misguided young white woman willing to risk it all to save a racist German Shepard, then this is the movie for you. I didn’t watch the entire film, but what I did see was hilarious. If you don’t want to see a movie that has racist dogs, gratuitous use of fake blood on a white dog so that you can see the handprints od the person who applied it, sappy 80s anti-racism messages, and motherfucking BURL IVES, then we can’t be friends anymore.