Tag Archives: andy michaels

Mustache Mustache?

If Irony is defined as the opposite of the literal meaning of a thing, then why do we refer to the Ironic Hipster Mustache as being ironic? If we expect a hipster to have an ugly mustache, with the intention of being ironic, then isn’t that precisely what we expect it to be, and therefore, not ironic?

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I don’t have the time for a proper post this week. However, for the LA readership, should you need your weekly dose of the Dunn, should make their way to the Lounge Theatre at 6201 Santa Monica Boulevard this Thursday evening, where there will be a performance of my original one-act play, Fixing a Hole (which was inspired, in part, by this Five by Five Hundred post from last year by former contributor Andy Michaels). It’s an evening full of visual art, music, and one act plays, also featuring the work of former Five by Five Hundred’er Giovanni Mooring, and it only costs $14, all of which goes to “raise funds for a tour across the US visiting low income communities that can’t afford art programs, and presenting their students with interactive workshops that will raise self esteem and open their minds to a different way of expression.”

So Thursday night. 6201 Santa Monica Boulevard, Los Angeles. Go see my play. Got it?

Flamingo Pink

It always starts out with an excuse, a justification, something to alleviate the guilt and awkwardness. “Are you sure you’re okay?” or, “I’ve never done this before,” or “Does that feel good?” A voice that spills in hushed whispers, wearing a sexy disguise of low decibel tones and airy breath that tickles the other’s ear. Subtle, revealing secrets that manage somehow to advance the foreplay to another step when choreographed and dubbed to the nervous grope of fingertips that dance across her skin.

“You like that, baby? Yeah?” fumbled Andy from his lips as he worked his hand down her thigh. He stood above her, looking down at her with slotted eyes as he bit his lip and pulled the skin of his cheeks tight against his teeth. Her thighs were thick like watermelons, with the texture to boot—skin like vinyl, recessed beneath incongruous ridges of razor burn and rashes trying desperately to clear.

He kneaded her flesh with a hard sensuality until his first finger reached the ridge; his hand stopped at the cliff, like a bungee jumper paralyzed with a sudden fear of heights. His trembling fingers tried to recover and sneak back up her leg, but she grabbed his hand with hers and placed it back on her raw, severed flesh.

“Wassamatah, baby,” she squeaked too loudly. “Ya neva bin wit’ a amputee befoah?
He fumbled for a suitable response—“What? Sure, I…”

“Or ya neva bin wit’ a prah’sitoot?” she growled, less like a cat and more like a lion devouring it’s prey. “Why’nt’chu c’mere n’ gimme yer cahk, baby?”

Andy quickly pulled his hand from the stump of her leg and held the armrests of her wheelchair with a kung-fu grip. He clenched his muscles tightly as pushed up on the armrests and lifted himself onto her. “Uh, yeah. Are you-are you ready for my cock now, b-baby?”

“Mm, yeah.” As she slid down in her seat to give him better access, Andy’s fragile left arm buckled at the elbow, unable to support his weight. He flailed backwards, his nervous leg kicking frantically, fumbling for grounding but finding instead the brake release of her wheelchair. With one wheel still stabilized, the chair began to pivot until the other wheel spun off the edge of the stairwell landing. Gravity pulled her viciously down the stairs like an angry beast grasping for his meal but still confined to his pit.

Sprawled out on his back, Andy couldn’t see her topple down the stairs—but the war drum rhythm was unmistakable and deafening as it echoed throughout the stairwell.
After a moment of shock and gathering senses, he leaped to his feet and bounded pantless down the stairs. He could hear the warbled torque of her bent and twisted wheel, still spinning in an oblong route, cutting through the air the whole down. As he got closer, he could make out another soft, liquid sound that kept a steady beat beneath it.

“Baby? You okay?” he asked with a waver in his voice as his eyes scanned the wreckage with the excitement of a driver going past a motor vehicle accident on the interstate. But he didn’t lost his erection until he saw blood from her head dripping off the ledge of the bottom stair and pooling on the landing below.

The Truth is In The Bottle

Alan shifted groggily as the first ray of sunlight slipped through the cracks in his blinds, its luminescence clawing at his eyes. A threat to face the day. As with any afternoon like this, he thought he would roll from his left side to his right, his body a sodden, rotting log, curved like an “S” that somehow insinuates cutlery, but when his left arm tried to lead him there and shield him from the sun, it was faced with some resistance. Not much, but still enough to startle his body to a slightly higher form of consciousness than that booze-induced coma he was in. He aware of his flesh, and his flesh now aware of its surroundings, Alan felt something sleek and smooth, cold and curved, held tightly against his body like that terrifying clown he used to cuddle with as a child. What was his mother thinking when she gave that to him, anyway?

The crack of dried saline and gunk compounded with the thudding in his head as he peeled his eyelids up, opened just enough for him to make out the shape of things beside him: an empty handle of Evan Williams bourbon. He’d crammed enough forensics knowledge into his head during that semester that even despite the horrific hangover he was still able to deduce that said hangover was likely due to the presence of said bourbon absent from said bottle and even more likely being processed somewhere between his liver and soul. Content with solving the mystery of the missing bourbon, and discovering the identity of the mysterious shape asleep beside him, Alan felt accomplished enough to complete his turn away from the window and fall back to sleep.

He closed his eyes before his bourbon-slowed mind could fully comprehend the significance—or even the presence—of the used condom sprawled on his hardwood floor like the sad and lonely shreds of the balloon that Jesse Hird popped at his 6th birthday party. Not that Alan was bitter or anything. The thought of this childhood trauma was finally enough to shake him from his slumber, and Alan sat up more abruptly than he likely should have. Blood rushed to his head with the thud of an angry fist against an oak door. Or maybe a baseball bat.

Once he was able to think again, Alan realized that perhaps the night’s conspiracy reached deeper than he previously thought. Especially since he was still wearing pants. Was he living in an episode of Californication? Alan had always idolized David Duchovny, but more for Fox Mulder than Hank Moody. The X-Files was his inspiration for moving to Washington, D.C., and pursuing a Forensics degree, in hopes of one day becoming an FBI Agent, and discovering for himself if the true was really out there after all. But if life should imitate art, he wondered, then perhaps his life was changing along with the career of the artist whom he imitated.

This threw him into a panic. A crisis of faith. What had he been doing with his life? He had only ever seen the Series Premiere. He would have to catch up on all the seasons on DVD. How many seasons had there been so far? The X-Files had nine! How many more would they have by the time he caught up? And when would he find the time, now that he had to leave George Washington and transfer to some school in California to pursue an English degree. What the hell was he going to do with an English degree?

For a moment, he wished there was still bourbon to drink, but the mere thought of it made his stomach churn and sent him hurtling towards the bathroom. Perhaps Californication would have to wait.

How I Died Trying to Rob a Wawa While Wearing A Panda Mask in New Jersey Last Week

I had gone through the plan at least thirty-eight times in my head. Any more than that, and it either would have started to bore me, or else I’d start over analyzing the whole thing and getting nervous like I do every time I try to talk to that girl at the Starbucks on Route 10. I think her name’s Amy (I read it on her nametag. Is that creepy?). No. Thirty-three times. That was the optimal amount of times to run over a scenario before you’ve just got to get it done.

Thirty-three? Thirty-eight. Whatever. I wasn’t actually keeping track. I mean, come on. Who does that? Who keeps track of how many times they actually think about something? That’s why we always use big numbers, like a thousand. Easy, hyperbolic lie. People get the point. I don’t even think I can count to thirty-seven. Thirty-eight? Whatever.

I’ve thought about Amy six hundred and ninety-two times since March.

This makes six hundred and ninety-three.

It was now or never. Casually stroll into Wawa, with the gun and the mask in my pocket. Scope out the scene, make sure no one else is in the store. Idle by the Hot Pockets freezer until the coast is clear. Duck behind the rack in the potato chip aisle, out of sight of the cashier. Slip on the mask. My beautiful, beautiful Panda mask. Pull out the gun, but don’t arm it; you don’t actually want to hurt anyone. Leap out from behind the potato chip rack, rush the cashier, shove the gun in his face, probably held horizontally like in those movies because that just looks a lot cooler, demand in your deepest, meanest panda growl that he give you all the money—because really, who’s going to say no to a panda?—take the money after he gives it to you, run outside, start the car, pull the mask off, peel out of the parking lot, drive back to J & J, buy the biggest diamond ring you can afford with the cash, drive back down Route 10 all the way to the Starbucks in Denville, ask Amy to elope and run away (use of mask and gun only if necessary), live happily ever after, fin.

There were two things I failed to consider:

Well, okay three:

1. The bathroom. I forgot to check the bathroom, or even consider that there might be someone in bathroom. I didn’t know people actually used those bathrooms, except in Clerks.

2. That the person in the bathroom would also have a gun, and that his, unlike mine, would be armed.

3. That said person in said bathroom would be a professional panda poacher and incredibly impulsive. I never realized there was a market for panda pelts either. Who would want to kill something so cute and cuddly?

But before he saw the gun, before he even knew what was happening, he saw the panda mask, and Blam! Headshot. Our professional panda poacher is now the hero of Randolph, New Jersey, I’m a lonely corpse in a panda mask, and Amy’s making a caramel macchiato for someone else, completely unaware of the sacrifice I made for her in the name of love.

God I hate New Jersey.