Friday, October 19, 2012

Part 37

I periodically suffer from insomnia, and am in the midst of a particularly bad bout at the moment. I've stopped trying to figure out why I go through these sleepless times, it is what it is. If I did try to explain it the best thing that I could come up with would be that I simply cannot turn my mind off. Thoughts flow unbidden through my head, and while I try to consciously blank my mind, snippets of intrusive songs or images force their way in.
It usually isn't until the third night or so that my mind wanders into all manner of weird tangents. Sexual scenarios, passages of books, lyrics to songs long thought forgotten play on a loop behind closed eyes.

 Last night as my mind pinballed around I recalled that the Plaza Theater here in town is screening "Kill Bill Volume I and II" soon. This led my thoughts to the life and death of David Carradine, and the earnest importance of leaving a proper legacy.

 When one is known for something - whether it be sports, cinema, scientific endeavor, or the like, you'd think it would be of paramount importance to keep a semblance of dignity with your conduct so as to be remembered in the proper light.

 A prime example is ex NFL QB Brett Favre who enjoyed an illustrious career. Will Favre be remembered for leading his time to a Super Bowl victory, his all time win/loss record, his completion to interception ratio? Yes, on the NFL channel, but to most he'll just be remembered as the guy who sent pictures of his cock to hot sideline reporter Jenn Sterger.

 Can you say immediate tarnishing of his legendary status? Yes sex makes men stupid, but some of us have way more to lose. Not to mention the fact that it's not even that great a dick. By the way, it is not gay to check out an NFL quarterback's dick on google if it is for purely comparative purposes. It allows one to say, "Yeah well he may have fame and fortune, now if only he had a cock like mine he'd have it made". That is presuming that your cock is nicer than his, if it isn't I didn't mean to pour salt on your wounds. Sorry about your cock, man... 

Then there's the whole "explaining it to the Missus" thing. You can't tell her, "that's not my cock" unless you're a Mormon and have never done it with the lights on. It would be worse to try to blame it on your team mates, "they took pictures of my dick and sent them to her as a joke". I don't think the League would take kindly to suggestions of homo erotic shenanigans in their locker rooms. But enough about this romantic fool.

When I was eleven one of my favorite shows was "Kung Fu", I used to love the made for TV martial arts sequences and watching the matchbook philosophy exchanges between Kwai Chang Caine and Keye Luke's Master Po. The show made David Carradine a star, something that wasn't surprising given his pedigree as John Carradine's Son, and the fact that he had been a working actor since he was eleven years old. 

(A quick aside here. As I am still relatively sleep deprived, upon typing the name John Carradine the first thing that popped into my head was him singing the song, "Night Train To Mundo Fine" from Coleman Francis' astonishingly bad movie "Red Zone Cuba". This is not a good thing. That I remember this first instead of his impressive body of film work speaks to the import of making sound choices.)



Unfortunately, for David that would be the height of his career, he still worked constantly though probably not on the kind of projects he would have wished for. As he does with so many though, Quentin Tarantino revived David's career, placing him back into the mainstream eye with the "Kill Bill" films. It's not as though Carradine worked more, but he was getting a better grade of script until his death in 2009. But we'll get back to this.

I think every man would like to shuffle off this mortal coil in a grand sexual way. Kevin Smith addresses this in "Clerks" through the character of Randal Graves who explains that his cousin Walter died from a broken neck while trying to suck his own dick. While this is not the best example, it illustrates my point. The fact that Walter made it, and was found with his, "Balls resting on his lips" only enhances the story.

 I would even go so far as to say that every man would like to die of a massive coronary seconds after ejaculating into an ultra hot 18 old year old. Don't believe me? Ask your significant other ladies. He'll lie of course, he'll probably say something like, "Of course not Honey, that would mean I would have to enter into sexual congress with someone that is not you". But in his mind he's thinking, "Fuck yeah, DUH". It would be a story that you would be proud of, and one that even your grand kids could be proud of: "That's nothing. My Grandpa".........

The best part is that there is no embarrassment or repercussions when you're dead, because, well, you're fucking dead. That is the best case scenario, the "cousin Walter" type, while still being a great story, doesn't shed the kindest light. Which brings us back to David Carradine.

Mr. Carradine, an actor much beloved by many, died of auto erotic asphyxiation dressed in a wig and fishnets while giving himself a tug job. This is not the way I would choose to be found, but more so if I had a legacy to protect. Imagine being the poor bastard who found him, what a sight. He'd be hanging there in what would appear to be purple fishnets because of lividity. There'd be a pile of shit behind him and a puddle of piss below, as the bowel and bladder would have evacuated at the time of death, and hopefully a copious trail of semen shot away from the body. It breaks my heart and besmirches my childhood memories to think of him expiring before he made it; that his last thought would be, "but I'm not fini"...I like to picture him with a smile on his grizzled face.


But this was not to be the end of the story, Carradine's wife added an additional twist that could only come out of Hollywood.


I wasn't aware that this was something a "handler" was supposed to look after.

"David it's midnight, you're not going to put on the wig and fishnets and lash yourself with a noose to the coat hanging rod in your room while you squeeze one out are you"?

"No."

"Promise"?

"Yeah, I guess".

"Okay, I'll come and check on you in an hour".

I mean it's not like it was his first time. It was clearly premeditated, he'd have to have packed the accoutrements in his suitcase. He probably wasn't sitting in his hotel room thinking, "Well supper's cancelled, now what should I do? Maybe I'll try that thing that Michael Hutchence did, but first I'll have to pop out to Wal-Mart for a wig, some nylons, and a six foot length of sturdy rope".

Oh well, as I stated earlier, it is what it is. My sexual philosophy has always been to try and not be judgemental. In this great big, crazy world of ours doing whatever makes you cum, so long as it involves a willing partner and doesn't involve children, is nobody's business but your own. I guess if I've learned anything from David's untimely passing it would be this: if one is going to attempt auto erotic asphyxiation wear sensible shoes, ones that you're not likely to slip in. You can quote me on that.