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jackass, c'est moi

I was going to talk about writing some more -- other things that writing is like, apart from exercise. Because writing is like a lot of things. But I'm going to take a moment here and talk about the movie Jackass instead. (I mean the movie entitled Jackass, not a Jackass in a movie, like Bottom in Midsummer Night's Dream.) I saw some of Jackass the other night on television with my young son (who knew the movie well, and was able to keep up a running commentary on stunts to come ...). What was interesting to me was not that the movie storyline was compelling -- it wasn't.

Or that the acting, camerawork, set design, costumes, or overall production concept were first rate -- they were not.

In fact they were kind of last rate. Nothing about the movie was worth watching on the surface ... and yet I watched it. That was the fascinating thing -- the watchability of the movie. I was interested in it, and in myself for being interested. That, I guess, is the storyline -- human beings in trouble, and aren't you glad you aren't them. That's why I was able to spend precious precious time watching a man attach a leech to his eyeball (yes, that's the picture), or wrestle with anacondas in a ball playland, or inhale someone else's flatulence.

There is a prurient side to me I had not suspected -- seems I enjoy someone else's strife. My life may be mixed up, but I do not (Oh, this is a good bit, dad. You'll like this! See Johnny race for the door!) get beehives dumped on me while I am in a limousine. I tell you I watched the movie with the same horrified half-averted stare I would wear near a bus accident, or a train wreck, or a fire.

One of the jackasses in the film drinks a cup of horse semen (don't ask) and says, That's semen all right, which is a pretty good line, and then confesses that he is ashamed of himself.

Him and me both.


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