From the back of the bus comes a belch that sends out sound waves you can feel against your skin. The volume and intensity of this belch are unrivaled. Everyone turns, ears ringing, to find the culprit slouched in his seat. He has pulled up the neck of his T-shirt to cover his mouth. “EX-cuuse me. EX-CU-se me,” he shouts. His tone is defiant, threatening. He belches again. This second belch reaches multiple climaxes. The other passengers recoil, and the belch stretches down the center aisle. It is deafening; it strains credulity. “EX-cuuse me. EX-CU-se me,” he shouts. “EXCUSE me, ladies and gentlemen!” The irritated man in front of him responds.
“You better say excuse me. You almost ripped my ear off, dog.”
“That’s why I’m covering my mouth with my shirt, man. Chill out, man.”
“You the one makin’ all the noise. Disgusting.”
“I covered my mouth. It’s all good.”
“No, it ain’t.”
“It’s all good. We’re 93 million miles from the sun.”
… (The man in front of him stiffens.)
Anyway, I’m gettin’ off right here. It’s all good anyway. I’m getting the hell away from you. Everything is war, and war is everywhere.
I sit down on the bus next to a guy my age. He smiles winningly; I pull out my magazine. “What are you reading?” he asks. I show him the cover. “Oh. GQ?” “No,” I reply, “Esquire.” I go back to reading. “… Isn’t that a men’s magazine?” he asks. “Mmmhmm,” I say, and continue reading. “Yeah,” he says, “I sometimes pick up copies of Cosmo.”
Two good things from Defective Yeti:
- “Inguinal” means ” Of, relating to, or located in the groin.”
- My barista is jittery and high-strung. I find this comforting, like a barber with well-coifed hair.
Me: That bar’s called The Caucus.
Bryan: Come on in and argue for eight hours. By the end of the evening, we must reach consensus.
This man is walking along the street in a pair of sweats and a rain slicker. His hair is long and gray, bald in patches, and it seems to be reaching away from his scalp in every direction. He is holding a sign that says DOWN WITH DIKS. He passes someone with a video camera, and the man mugs, turning his sign round and round:
DOWN WITH DIKS
UP WITH CHIKS
DOWN WITH DIKS
UP WITH CHIKS
And so on down the street.
Josh Cagan, is a peculiarly good guy. The guy to whom you’d give your spare set of keys, the guy who would be extra-careful with your newborn infant, the guy who worries about you when something has you down.
Josh recently sold his first screenplay for a jillion dollars. He was in LA, and he flew up to celebrate with us. We baked cookies, played Scrabble, and drank too much, while Josh shook his head in disbelief. He flew back down… and sold another damn screenplay. For those of you who are counting, that’s two screenplays in two weeks.
This officially makes Josh a rockstar. And, in my book, he is exactly kind of guy to whom that stuff should happen. Thanks, karma.
But will it be whips or hot candle wax? Safe word: excellence.