If I Should Die Before I Wake...Blame Larry Fishburne

A brief update

This is just a brief update, so the people who are like “Unsubscribed! It's too short!” are right now prepping to do so, their fat ugly little Down Syndrome faces beet red at the prospect of reading something too brief. One day I'd love to put the “it's too short” people in the same room as the people who unsub when a piece is “too long” and let them fight it out.

Of course, they wouldn't fight. They'd bond over being douchebags.

I know I promised to start posting my unused Takimag pieces, but FUCK what a week it's been! I've only been outta my house six days but it feels like six weeks. Every hotel I've tried has had “issues,” from a foul, chemical scent in the room to paper-thin walls (and I'm only looking at places in Beverly Hills/Century City, so these are NOT cheap hotels).

Finally, tonight I found a place I can lay my head for a while (BTW, “laying your own head” is every gay man's dream, but not being one o' them, I mean “rest”). So it's 1am and I finally feel comfortable enough to write again, which I haven't all week.

Plus, I’m bored.

So anyway this current hotel...

When I checked in, sitting in the lobby all by his'self, on the phone, was Larry Fishburne.

They say “black don't crack” but brother looks not just cracked but splintered. Dude's only 63 but he looks 73 in person.

He’s seen better days

After taking my duffel to my room, I go back down to the lobby for a few sundries. As I return to the elevator, there's only one other guy waiting. You guessed it: Larry Fishburne! He gets in first, still absorbed in his phone call, and I follow.

This is one of those high-security places where the elevator doesn't work unless you press your key card. So he presses his against the sensor, and pushes floor ten.

My floor.

Ah, we're on the same floor! So I don't have to press anything.

Note: This is very much a reversal of reality. Normally, it's whites who have to be “situationally aware” around blacks. This time, though, it's the black guy who isn't paying attention. I entered the elevator without having to show a key card, and I pressed no floor, as if I'm following him to his.

As a celebrity who's had...uh...tabloid issues, he REALLY should be more aware of his surroundings. I could be a paparazzi...or a stalker.

The doors close, and it's just the two of us. Dude's not even noticing me. And here's what he's saying to the person on the other end of the call:

“I don't know how they could let me outta the hospital when I'm still so contagious. Fucking hospital, they just wanted the bed.”

And for ten stories, we breathed the same air.

So please know: if I die in the next few days, it ain't “Mossad, it ain't the “Deep State.” It's Larry fucking Fishburne!

Anyway, this is a “complimentary bathrobe” place, so I figured, why not use it? When I die from Fishburne Disease, let this be how you remember me.

Yes, that’s what curly Jew hair looks like after a shower and towel-dry.

Some have called me grotesque, others very grotesque. True happiness in life is no longer caring.