The House's Money

There are many words associated with a ship: ballast, bollard, buttocks, chamomile, fish scrapers, tooth takers, soothsayers, long-johned ramblers, and Mexican gamblers alike, all freaks of their own kind, born and bred full of piss and vinegar. I was once a sailor, and in one of my many past lives, I experienced some of the greatest and lowest moments I’ve ever known. I don’t recommend the sea to anyone without an appetite for risk, mortal danger, and a self-destructive streak that can verge into the suicidal. I met the one named Moby-Dick and she was kind, flattered she was the subject of such a famous book. She lived longer than its author, having only died last year. She was sad to see David Lynch go, as well.

My Sensei has me scouting locations in the South of Spain. This doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me since The Popinjay Cavalier is a play being staged in London, and we’re not using any projections or video technology, so why would I waste my time in Spain where the water’s foul and the hotels have no air conditioning? “Fassbinder shot there. He made Whity in Almería.” I never liked Fassbinder: fat, smelled bad, Napoleon complex, chain-smoked, stole my woman despite being a homosexual drug addict. My Sensei agrees: “People like the idea of Fassbinder more than the films themselves. They’re mostly just not for me. But the idea of Fassbinder is super cool. Even if you don’t like his movies, as a filmmaker, you’ve gotta love him and what he did.” My Sensei somehow still isn’t aware that I am much, much older than him, and that I experienced all of this in the present tense. Many years ago, to be sure, but when I saw The Bitter Tears of Petra Von Kant, it was at the New York Film Festival, not Video Archives.

I’ve not been able to read this trip because My Sensei insisted that I “get a feel for the local flavor” by sticking exclusively to Spanish texts. Por ejemplo: John Dos Passos, e. e. cummings, Ezra Pound. Confused? So was I; apparently the syllabus was put together by a P.A. who picked a bunch of names that sounded Spanish. It’s an easy mistake to make. “Dos”? What the hell kind of middle name is that? So I’ve been reading, but not about pirates, or popinjays or cavaliers of any kind. My Sensei promises he’s going to be sending me pages later this spring, but I feel like I’m being left out of the loop. He must already be sending the full script out to actors, and if not the whole thing, at least more pages than I have. All I know is what you’ve read: 1830s, pirates, trouser-dropping farce. If he disappoints me—or you—something really bad is going to happen.

Meanwhile, back in Los Angeles, I had to take some meetings at Netflix. I call it Satan’s Lair, but they do pay me a lot of money, so I can’t really complain. As My Sensei said recently, working with Netflix “is like playing with the house’s money.” I agreed to some clauses, signed some contracts, and flew right back to Spain. It’s amazing how in the digital cyber worldwide electronica era, we still have to sign paper in person. I get back to the hotel and it’s a disaster. It’s as if they don’t know me, and these are people who have waited on my every whim the past week. So what if I don’t tip and rip up the carpeting and upholstery wherever I go? It’s my nature. Don’t let me stay there if you don’t like it. But you already let me so you sort of have to this time.

When I try to explain that I’m paying with “the house’s money,” this bird gets his butt thrown out onto the sidewalk, which is mostly clay and sand. “Is long way from airport, señor,” says one of the bandoliers on my way out, “is no time for a chicken like yooooooooo…” He started slurring his words as I spur-clawed him to death—accidentally. I swear, I didn’t mean any harm, but I did leave an “innocent” in my wake in Almería, and that’s on me. They tried to arrest me but I went on my beast shit and basically left Spain uninhabitable for a long time. Don’t go there anytime soon, you’re cool. I like you. Don’t go to Spain anytime soon.

I just found some cacti; there’s water and thick ooze coming out of it. We’s eating’ goods tonight, poms.

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