You're a brave man, me
It’s a little after 1:30 am Pacific. I’m tipsy. I’m writing. The creative juices are flowing through me like I was bitten by a cobra. Earlier I wrote in my novel, but I still have to scratch the itch.
Last week I recorded “Full Metal Jacket” on our DVR. It’s one of the feature movies this month on HDNet Movies, a channel I’ve fallen in love with since rediscovering digital cable. Unlike HBO or Showtime, it shows some high quality movies — “Chinatown,” “Snatch,” and “All the President’s Men” to name a few — and in HD, or in the original format (since most stuff wasn’t filmed in HD until this decade).
I’ve seen the movie a couple times, but not all the way through. I’d seen the second half, the Vietnam segment, but scattered parts of the beginning, when the main characters are in basic training. The part I’d never seen, never even wanted to see, was the scene when Gomer Pyle shoots himself in the head.
I knew what happened — shit, everybody gave it away before I even saw a second of the film — but I didn’t want to see it. I didn’t share everyone’s fascination with the explosion of blood, skull, and brain matter. Was I interested in seeing a man’s memories, knowledge, and emotions sprayed all over a bathroom wall, even though it was movie magic? Hell no. I turned the channel or left the room when the scene approached, choosing to stand close by so I could reenter the room or flip back when Nancy Sinatra began to sing “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’.”
But tonight I made myself watch it. I’d been yellow for too long, adverted my eyes and chickened out for the last time. I wanted to see if I had it in me to watch. I thought the alcohol would help, too. Booze is courage syrup.
So I kept my eyes glued to my roommate’s 50-inch plasma TV. I became a little antsy and hesitant when Joker walked into the “Head” and illuminated Gomer Pyle loading a magazine full of ammunition. But I didn’t get up and go to the bathroom, didn’t fast forward or stop the playback. The sergeant was dead on the floor and I watched as Pyle sat down and stuck the gun in his mouth, Hemingway style (the greatest chicken of them all), and saw his mind splatter against the white tiles lining the latrine walls.
It wasn’t bad, I have to admit. I’m proud I forced myself to do it. It was my personal victory for the day, the antidote to put my creative urges to rest for the night. Well, I guess that’s what this is doing.
It’s a little after 2 am Pacific. Time to go to bed. Peace.
Last week I recorded “Full Metal Jacket” on our DVR. It’s one of the feature movies this month on HDNet Movies, a channel I’ve fallen in love with since rediscovering digital cable. Unlike HBO or Showtime, it shows some high quality movies — “Chinatown,” “Snatch,” and “All the President’s Men” to name a few — and in HD, or in the original format (since most stuff wasn’t filmed in HD until this decade).
I’ve seen the movie a couple times, but not all the way through. I’d seen the second half, the Vietnam segment, but scattered parts of the beginning, when the main characters are in basic training. The part I’d never seen, never even wanted to see, was the scene when Gomer Pyle shoots himself in the head.
I knew what happened — shit, everybody gave it away before I even saw a second of the film — but I didn’t want to see it. I didn’t share everyone’s fascination with the explosion of blood, skull, and brain matter. Was I interested in seeing a man’s memories, knowledge, and emotions sprayed all over a bathroom wall, even though it was movie magic? Hell no. I turned the channel or left the room when the scene approached, choosing to stand close by so I could reenter the room or flip back when Nancy Sinatra began to sing “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’.”
But tonight I made myself watch it. I’d been yellow for too long, adverted my eyes and chickened out for the last time. I wanted to see if I had it in me to watch. I thought the alcohol would help, too. Booze is courage syrup.
So I kept my eyes glued to my roommate’s 50-inch plasma TV. I became a little antsy and hesitant when Joker walked into the “Head” and illuminated Gomer Pyle loading a magazine full of ammunition. But I didn’t get up and go to the bathroom, didn’t fast forward or stop the playback. The sergeant was dead on the floor and I watched as Pyle sat down and stuck the gun in his mouth, Hemingway style (the greatest chicken of them all), and saw his mind splatter against the white tiles lining the latrine walls.
It wasn’t bad, I have to admit. I’m proud I forced myself to do it. It was my personal victory for the day, the antidote to put my creative urges to rest for the night. Well, I guess that’s what this is doing.
It’s a little after 2 am Pacific. Time to go to bed. Peace.
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