open onto west side of chicago neighborhood. A CONDOR, played by Paul Giamatti, waddles (he has short condor legs) down a cracked and bud light & clamato chelada-can-decorated pavement. he addresses the camera, ala ferris bueller)
CONDOR (Giamatti): so i have this nascent inamorata type situation with teenage mexican èmo chicks i see on public transportation. but my new thing is, i can say i’m in love with a kind of people and not with persons. i know this is a frequent topic of mine, romantic confusion in the face of the future’s garish fiberoptic bouquet, or maybe it is like, if you made some kind of floral arrangment of out of the multicolored wires that would be in a bomb in a TV…
DESK (from nearby porch, where he sits casually tilted back against the brickwork)(drinking from a can of Murphy’s Oil Soap): I THINK WHAT YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT IS HOW YOUR BRAIN HAS AIDS EXCEPT WITHOUT EVEN LIKE THE WARM SOFT DIGNITY CONFERRED BY A SOCIAL DISEASE
CONDOR (failing to not be bothered) (sort of recovering): well let’s leave off talking about mexican teenage girls for a while. so, DESK (he yelled that back at the DESK) MAYBE IF YOU EVER GAVE A SHIT ABOUT ANYTHING OTHER THAN SHITTING ON ME MAYBE PEOPLE WOULDN’T (thinking) FASTIDIOUSLY AVOID YOU LIKE REGULAR AIDS. JUST GO BACK INSIDE SHITSTAIN AND CALL ME WHEN YOU MANAGE TO UNDO VIA TIME TRAVEL OR MAGIC THE THOUSANDS OF HORRIBLE MISTAKES THAT IT TOOK TO MAKE YOUR LIFE FEEL LIKE THE OPPOSITE OF TAKING A SHIT SUCH AS EITHER A SHIT TAKING A GUY OR A GUY BEING CRAMMED INTO A PILE OF SHIT SHAPED LIKE HIS LIFE
CONDOR: OK i’m sorry. I’m sorry. That was out of line.
DESK (long drink): asshole
GIRL DESK (has dishtowel over shoulder and [speculative] distracting, kind of sweaty rack): Hey guys. Stop fighting. Or, alternatively, make out, or maybe, this is an idea i had, put your heads on the railroad tracks and patiently wait for a train to send you to the next world.
BABY DESK: crying
NARRATOR (Dennis Haysbert walking out from bushes in between houses): James Joyce posited that God, instead of being (pause, looking for book)(looking for page) history
DESK: THAT’S NOT REALLY ACCURATE OR MEANINGFUL. I DON’T EVEN HAVE TO HEAR WHAT YOU’RE GOING TO SAY I CAN JUST LIKE SEE A BUBBLE ABOVE THAT TELLS ME THE CORRECT JUDGMENTS TO MAKE ABOUT YOUR INTELLECTUAL CAPACITIES AND TODAY’S BUBBLE SAYS “ONE OF THOSE JELLYFISH WITH A NERVOUS SYSTEM THAT’S JUST AN ANUS AND TWO TENTACLES”
NARRATOR (louder) HISTORY, or the present tense of modernity, the lived moment and its contingent status quo, God was a shout from the street. Joyce didn’t bother to explain what God was shouting, but his take-home is clear and important. I remember earlier one of these two individuals here (gestures) said something about our lives being woven from mistakes, and I found that, well, maybe interesting isn’t the word so much as an annoying nonsense thing, kind of like “you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take” or the like. But what i was saying was, and my apologies for getting distracted, is that God, that shout from the streets, that illegible and anti-grammatical voice, that capital of the invisble, is shouting right now. and God is not a talking Desk, and god is not a condor that is just a stand-in for the guy typing, but God is (lost his train of thought)
CONDOR: boozy detective? amoral scientist who nails his postdocs but is a really good dad but also probably has defective genes that carry some kind of curse. also his genome spells out some secret Aztec codice about how religion is a virus.
DESK: Yeah yeah yeah and the cops figure it out and castrate him with the laser from Real Genius
NARRATOR: Word, word
CONDOR: So, yeah, girls. I noticed today that i find girls prettier when I can’t see below their neck. But the thing is, you can’t be pretty below the neck, you can only be like, some kind of awful fanged advertisement for me to waste the precious life force that I was lucky enough to inherit from the sky father.
(end of part 3)