Wednesday, July 20, 2005

Weird call from Ray

I was out back watering our new herb garden today (basil, thyme, oregano, mint, chives) when Ray called my cell phone. I almost didn't take it, but you never know what you're going to get with him. Being on Ray's speed-dial is kind of like playing the Lottery: 99.999% of the time he's just calling because he wants to know if Kevin Bacon and Sissy Spacek have ever been in a movie together, but there's always that off chance he just accidentally won a new 63" flat-screen TV he doesn't need and wants to give it to the first person who's home.


TÉODOR:
Hello?

RAY: Ray? This is Téodor.

TÉODOR: No it’s not. This is Téodor. Ray?

RAY: Oh, sorry man. I...oh, yeah. Listen, Téodor, I notice that you’ve put on a few pounds lately.

TÉODOR: Thanks! Alright, see you around.

RAY: Wait! Don’t hang up. You don’t know what I’m going to say.

TÉODOR: I’m guessing you’re going to move on to my mother’s parenting abilities.

RAY: What? Your mom was bad to you? I’m sorry, dude. Maybe I should call back later.

TÉODOR: I...if my mother didn’t raise me well, what would be different in a couple hours?!

RAY: This isn’t going at all the way I intended, man. I’m sorry. This is my fault.

TÉODOR: You wanted to call to tell me you think I’m fat. I think this is about as good as can be expected.

RAY: You’re not fat, dude! But your body has reached a certain...believability.

TÉODOR: Look, I know you like to get all 4:20 but I actually have something going on right now.

RAY: Man, I ain’t high! Not for that reason, anyway. Listen, I'm thinking of starting a club.

TÉODOR: A club for fat guys with bad moms? Isn't that club already called "Bowling"?

RAY: Heh heh! Heh hehh[HACK COUGH COUGH COUGH kh-chuck PTOOEY!] Hey, man! Man, you just made shit come outta my nose!

TÉODOR: That's picturesque.

RAY: Oh, shit. Somebody's at the door. I'll call you right back.


So, I guess this call fell into the former category, minus the Kevin Bacon stuff. It's been four hours and I haven't heard back from him, so I guess we're not starting a club about how I'm fat. Not that I'm fat. I don't know what he's talking about. I look the same as I always have.

Wednesday, July 13, 2005

Penis Maximus

Work on the cooking show has kind of slowed lately since I fell in with this Circus Penis guy. If you haven't heard of him, and a lot of guys pretend that they haven't, he's kind of like the "main guy" in terms of adult film/porno. I ran into him at Ray's and we sort of clicked. Before I knew it I was the chief designer of the "Circus Penis Army," which is a fanclub-type thing sort of like the KISS Army, except the main idea is to have margaritas and slap womens' asses as they walk past our poolside chaise lounges. Currently I'm developing a uniform that flatters the male body while evoking Roman standards of sexual readiness. It's looking pretty good, it had been a long time since I worked with patterns and forms but it's all coming back to me.

I had him over to look at a few of my insignia and headwear prototypes tonight, and since it was during the evening I asked if he could stay for dinner. Naturally easygoing, he agreed, so I threw together a risotto Milanese with fresh crab, heirloom tomato, and spinach, paired with a rocky pinot grigio.

I guess it surprised me a little when he said he'd never had risotto before, because you'd think a guy like that would have been out to more than his fair share of upscale dinners. He actually asked if it was a Mexican dish, if you can believe that. Forgivable, I guess, if you consider that the rice in a Milanese is colored, sort of like Spanish rice, and that Mexican people use a lot of tomatoes...anyway.

I also noticed that he wasn't touching his wine. I wondered if he hadn't had a rocky substance-abuse background and was restraining himself, but when I asked if I couldn't bring him something else to drink he waved his hand and laughed. "Sorry," he said. "I usually don't do shooters until after!" With that he licked all around the rim of his glass, rubbed on a little salt, and downed the entire five ounces or so that I'd poured him.

He remarked that he'd never had a tequila so smooth and mild. I didn't say anything, because it feels wrong to correct Circus Penis, so I just offered him a beer chaser. He asked if I had any Budweiser, and I thought we might have a can somewhere in the Calcutta of rotting arugula that is our fridge, so I said I'd be right back with one. It turns out that all I had to my name was a Samuel Smith's Oatmeal Stout, which I poured into two coffee mugs (the only clean glasses in the whole place) and brought back to the table. "Thank you, man," he said, before taking a nice pull from his glass. "Ahhh," he sighed. "I love Budweiser. Maybe the best beer there is."

After the meal, when we went on to the headwear and insignia, he was actually remarkably lucid and insightful, which made our little dinner together all the more bizarre. I'm not sure what to do with a guy who apparently does nothing with his palate other than draw the beef curtains, if I may make a food/cunnilingus analogy. It's sort of eerie. Or maybe that's the reason his tastebuds are dead — did his costars used to use corrosive douches inbetween scenes? Honestly, this could be good logic. Douche science has probably come a long way since he broke into the business.