My Take on the Portland Fluoride Debate

Posted on April 28, 2013 by admin

My teeth are genetically superior. On the rare dental visit, the dentist says, “good job” and doesn’t even give me a free toothbrush because she assumes whatever I’m using is from the future. I purposefully stop brushing my teeth and eat nothing but candy and Coca-Cola for two weeks prior to a dental visit. I shellac my teeth in the plaque of others because, even after my rigorous preparations, my teeth are still clean and healthy.

Genetics may only be a part of it. I grew up where there is fluoride in the water. I notice the difference. People in Portland have some pretty janky teeth. It could be the meth, but I don’t think so. You can tell the native Portland resident by the smell of rotted out teeth and the fact that they don’t smile with their mouths open.

Granted, fluoride has made me insane. John Lithgow and Ray Liotta have mentioned numerous times that they refuse to sleep with their doors unlocked because I stalk soft-footed around the house at night gnashing my perfect teeth and gibbering. I regularly insist that the Hindu creation myth is more logical than anyone else’s creation myth.

That’s crazy. The myth isn’t mathematically sound. But it did develop in me a fetish for shape changing. Rrowr.

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Health Kick

Posted on March 22, 2013 by admin

John Lithgow is on a fitness kick. He has been exclusively drinking smoothies made from whatever leftovers he finds in the refrigerator. Ray Liotta has been eating a lot of take out and fast food as a result, taking a few bites and then leaving the rest on a plate in the middle rack of the refrigerator. To help out, I have removed all the condiments, sealed them in plexiglass and arranged them on the stove.

To date, John Lithgow is looking pretty good.

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Comforting Axl Rose

Posted on September 20, 2012 by admin

I was given backstage passes to see Guns N’ Roses play a reunion show at a small venue in Portland. I thought it might be Holocene, because it seemed kind of wispy and the crowd out front made a ring around the front of the stage as if they were goblins and the stage lights would turn them into stone. You know, checking out a show Portland-style.

Axl and I warmed to each other immediately, which was weird because the crew and some of the band members (Slash conspicuously missing) were sure he was going to get wasted and either a) not perform or b) go on stage and pick a fight with the replacement lead guitar. By “warmed” I mean we sat near each other drinking shots of Southern Comfort from the big watercooler of booze backstage, not saying anything for awhile.

Eventually Axl turns to me and says, “I don’t think I can do it, man. I hate this shit.” I knew exactly what he meant.

“Hey,” I said, “It’ll be OK.”

Axl asked me to hold him for awhile, so I did, cradling him in my arms like he was a little kid who’d had a nightmare. He said, “Thanks, Chris,” which surprised me because I didn’t think Axl Rose knew my name. Then I glanced at my backstage pass and saw that it was printed right there in some kind of metal-graffiti font. How can he read that crazy font, I wondered.

It was getting closer and closer to the time Axl needed to be onstage. Which made him more nervous and causing him to sharply decrease the waiting period between shots of Southern Comfort. I matched him shot for shot despite the fact that I think SoCo tastes like cheap perfume and then let him rest his head on my chest while I stroked his hair and made comforting sounds.

Finally, I explained to him that I hate the part of what we do where it’s time to go out in front of people because every time I’m in a crowd it feels like I’m getting my life energy sucked out of me and that it takes weeks or sometimes months for me to recover and that even this, being backstage at the show, would probably render me inert for days since even the act of hanging out with people seems to rapidly drain my batteries, but I’ll push myself to go do these uncomfortable things out of a desire to see my own efforts completed or out of love for the efforts of others. It’s a responsibility, I said, to complete the act of art in the event that someone might get a spark inside.

“It’s easier for other people,” he said,”they seem to love this shit.” I agreed. Some people are just constantly energized by being in the gaze of others, or being a part of the crowd, instead of feeling like the circuit is broken and all the energy is only flowing out.

Axl asked me to kiss the top of his head, for luck. And I did. Which is right about when this dream ended.

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Games

Posted on July 25, 2012 by admin

We’re playing strip ping pong.

Ray Liotta is totally losing.

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This humidity makes the nori get weird

Posted on July 17, 2012 by admin

“I’ve been learning how to make sushi,” John Lithgow announces brightly.

One of the ping pong balls drops off my motion capture suit and bounces down the hall. Tick…tick..tick.tick tick tick-tick-tick-tick-tick. Ray Liotta swears under his breath, knowing we’ll have to sew the ball back on and start all over again.

“How do you make sushi,” I ask.

“Well, FIRST,” John Lithgow booms, pointing his finger at the ceiling,”you spend ten years cleaning rice, then you spend ten years COOKING the rice—”

“Whoa,” Ray Liotta says.

“RIGHT? Then you spend ten years seasoning rice; then you spend ten years rolling rice into nigiri shapes. After THAT, my friends, you get to make some inari if your rolls of rice are decent looking. Then you spend ten years making inari.”

Ray Liotta says he doesn’t know what inari is, but is ignored.

John Lithgow does a sweeping hand gesture that looks a little like a predatory water bird skimming the surface of a cold lake in the hidden high country around the Rockies. “After you’ve spent ten years making inari, you move on to creating rolls, but you’re not allowed to use filling. It’s just rice and nori. You practice making rolls for ten years.”

“Wait,” I start.

“After ten years making rolls, you can pick a vegetable ingredient. You know what I picked? Pickled carrot! Crazy, right? Everyone does cucumber!”

“Wait a minute,” I say.

“So THEN you spend ten years making, in my case, carrot rolls and inari,” John Lithgow’s eyes light up, “You know what’s next? CUTTING A FISH! You get to pick a fish. I was gravitating toward fugu, naturally, but decided on Salmon for the omega 3′s.”

Ray Liotta mutters darkly.

“So I spend ten years cutting salmon. Once I got the cut right, I was able to assemble salmon nigiri AND salmon rolls–that carrot decision kind of came back to bite me–for the next ten years. After those ten years, I got to add a fish and a vegetable, so I went with saba and shiso leaves–neat, right?”

“OK, wait!” I realize after the fact that I yelled. You’ve been doing this longer than you’ve been ALIVE? That’s impossible.”

John Lithgow straightens to his full height and looks down his nose at me. “You don’t know how I’ve spent my spare time before being born.”

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After the Show

Posted on June 13, 2012 by admin

By the time I got home from the reading, John Lithgow and Ray Liotta had finished all my Fernet.

Bastards.

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My thighs are on fire

Posted on May 16, 2012 by admin

John Lithgow has a new dress. Ray Liotta refuses to stop pretending to be asleep and help John Lithgow zip up the back. I can’t help because I’m covered in mud.

“Look at my legs!” John Lithgow yells, his nose almost touching Ray Liotta’s, “My thighs are on fire!”

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Hooch

Posted on April 10, 2012 by admin

Ray Liotta wants to have a pruno-brewing contest again. It isn’t fair. He learned so much while working on Goodfellas. He really knows how to tease out delicate, floral notes hiding in the Tang.

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Beardo

Posted on March 19, 2012 by admin

Me and John Lithgow are growing out our beards, both of us certain that it will improve our banjo playing.

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Bisque

Posted on March 13, 2012 by admin

Ray Liotta won’t let up about the dream. “John doesn’t think it’s that weird,” he says, handing me a bowl of crab bisque.

John Lithgow looks smug. He’s engaged in a heated competition with my sex dream. He’s been talking all day about stretchy legs and terry cloth. I scoop some of the bisque and think it looks a little thick.

It looks a little thick, I say.

“It is,” says John Lithgow. He holds his bowl upside-down. The contents plop out onto the table with a kind of sucking slap noise. “But I guess it’s not that thick.” Ray Liotta looks as though his feelings might be hurt. I taste the bisque. It’s like crab-flavored tapioca pudding.

I make a noise that I hope sounds like “delicious.” It was one of those dreams like I used to have when I was a kid, where all the parts are played by other people, I say, and my penis is some kind of narcissistic main character.

“Penises are naturally driven toward narcissism,” Ray Liotta says, “It’s part of the patriarchal construct.”

“Right!” John Lithgow is sopping up thick crab bisque with a baguette.

In the dream, I’m being evaluated by a council of coworkers and students. They are played by the cast of Friends, mostly, but also include people I went to high school with.

“And you’re naked,” John Lithgow asks.

No, but my pants are around my ankles. I’m trying to recite my CV from memory, but I keep making mistakes. Every time I make a mistake, food pops out of my penis. Each item is plated on bright white dishes–sauced and garnished. I am ejaculating cover images for Food & Wine. Everyone at the meeting is noisily eating, making it harder to concentrate, which means more food.

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