Frozen Brains for Breakfast
On a whim I put an orange in the freezer. Two nights later I took it out. It looked pretty much the same. I decided to hit it with a hammer for a while. It came apart in chunks of pulpy slush, but didn't shatter like I hoped it would.
"Well, that's that." I thought to myself and started to get ready for bed. But I didn't even make it out of my pants.
Now it's a week later and I still haven't slept. To find my kitchen floor you’d have to dig a foot and a half through a rotting layer of fruits and vegetables, first frozen and then smashed. But I haven't been in there for a while. By day four I'd completely ceded the kitchen to the insects and the rodents.
The living room is where I've been spending my time lately--except when I run to the 24-hour store to purchase solid blocks of ice.
You see, my latest project involves carving an ice sculpture bust of George Clooney and then coating it with silicone putty and painting on his facial features. Next I put the rubber ice statue in front of the heater for about an hour. Lastly I pierce it with a metal straw and drink his liquefied brains.
"I'm drinking your brains George Clooney!" I shriek, slurping water from the life-like mold.
When the rubber face crumples in on itself and no longer resembles George Clooney, I run out and buy another ice block and do the whole thing over again.
At some point I decided to change it up and did one of Scarlett Johansson instead. But halfway through I could no longer control my grief and my shame.
"Oh God, I'm sorry Scarlett!" I screamed, and tried to reassemble the mold.
"No more." I solemnly promised myself. "No more drinking the liquefied brains from the rubber heads of actresses I adore."
I broke that promise a few hours later when the metal straw pierced the Keira Knightley sculpture’s eye.
***
Today the landlord stopped by--something to do with a complaint or two from the other tenants about the incessant pounding of chisels and unusual smells and vermin emanating from my tiny apartment.
He had the police with him--something to with hysterical death threats the first four times he knocked on my door.
I tried to explain to everyone that I was engaged in performance art. That it was a shrewd commentary on our tendency to worship our celebrities and yet at the same time crave to drink their liquefied brains.
They weren't buying it.
"But I have a grant pending from the National Endowment of the Arts!" I hollered, diving into the kitchen and burying myself in the warm layer of filth that covered the linoleum floor.
The cops argued with each other for a while about whose job it was to go in there and pull me out. In the end the rookie lost and he took his rage out on me.
"I am not resisting you!" I screamed as I smacked him in the eye with a rotten melon rind.
Then he played a game called "Let's Break Bones" with a black-wrapped stick that felt like dying when it struck.
(And I don’t know why all this happened and I don’t know what it was for. I only know I’m broken now, and the flat, rubber heads of perfect people litter my living room floor.)
posted by Latigo Flint @ 1:24 AM
9 comments
9 Comments:
"Then he played a game called "Let's Break Bones" with a black-wrapped stick that felt like dying when it struck."
On an especially metaphorical day, you are that frozen orange.
See how the sickness perpetuates itself? Festering and fermenting and inflaming wounds, old and new, exactly like a layer of rotting fruit on linoleum.
Sympathies.
Dear Latigo Flint,
I'm sorry to abuse your comment section in this way, (and the fact that this post was savage true funny and deeply poetic only exacerbates my crime) but I wish to ask a favour from a poor defenseless women, to a manly gunslinging hero and non puppy kicker. I will use the analogy of the Magnificent Seven. There is a group of poor defenseless philosophers who have set up a blog to discuss philosophy. (think of it as a mexican farming village). The blog is being antagonised by a certain malevolent person (think of him as some bad guys with black hats) by the name of gianlucadimilano.blogspot.com. Please! Latigo, please don't shoot him, no, no, don't kill him, no! Not in the face! Just a jeering comment on his blog will do.
I'm off to round up six others.
yea. its LA isn't it?
rubber heads and liquid brains. and cops that argue instead of wrestling you to the ground.
Want to hear the flaw in this story? To drink Scarlett's liquified brains you have to believe she has brains to begin with. Which I don't.
You can get a better consistency if you use tapioca instead of water. I'd reccommend it thus: shape the head out of ice, but partially embed a balloon, filled with tapioca, in the brain cavity. That way a certain greater realism is achieved, and, I find, the results much more satisfying.
Furthermore, you should try shaping busts of Stephen Hawking, or Albert Einstein, or J. Robert Oppenheimer. Then you can pretend you are absorbing their power. I have a coffee mug shaped like Albert Einstein -- every time I drink from it, I go:
"Ahhhhh..." and say to myself: "Einstein, I am absorbing your mind power! I can feel my brain growing larger, stronger, faster... BETTER."
That, along with the coffee, gives me the boost of ego and self-esteem I need to get through the day.
Drinking brains? Don't bother with a sculpture of Alec Baldwin. You'll starve.
M
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But brilliant as usual, I swear with your blog Latigo I never need to think of new activities for the coming weekend.
I don't know about you but I've got my eyes on some Steven Hawking brains...
(I took it too far didn't I... damn)
- Mr Winston
Yes Sam, I see. I do see how the sickness perpetuates itself. And I shudder and twitch when I should be sleeping.
We'll talk about this later Helga Von Porno. (I'm not entirely certain everything is what it seems.)
Exactly Mel. And shame too. Don't forget the shame.
Well then you have no soul Cindy-Lou and I hope you get diarrhea for saying such a mean thing about the celebrity I love.
Yours is a very good plan ATD. Would that I had spent more time drinking the liquid brains of intellectuals and less time swilling beer and trying punch anything with a beard.
Will and Steve and Dan are lookin' to kick your ass now LBB fer what you done said about their bro.
If you take anything far enough, Mr. Winston, theory goes it'll eventually lap the field and be behind again.
You have to suffer for your art.
It's in the manual.
I wrote that bit of it, you see. So I should know. It took me 8 years. To understand the concept fully, I lived in the forest for that period and had a lot of group sex with bears. Somehow I survived and they made me their king, which was not the plan.
But, needless to say, the chapter was written with the grit and honesty of someone who had been there and done that (i.e bears)
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