Detective Hargitay Gets an Earful of Her Favorite Psychological Profiler, Drunk-Dialing On Speed
Dennis Mahagin
Oh, its hard enough to extend your stay in the company of a bore, wholl swell up, say the name of every rich and famous actor who’s ever done a voice-over ad spot for a major corporation, until the bit, its not uncanny, nor even funny anymore. Tricky as hell to hang with a liar, wholl shirk back and cook the garlic bread with sea salt in a micro- wave, pull it out and swear its soup, a kind of consommé with chive and dumpling, smacking lips and insisting that somehow it has been your fault, your fault from the very beginning. And what is there, to say, one way or the other, about a whore in chiffon and busted heels stumbling out of a Las Vegas 7 Eleven like a fawn at dawn? Long hot drink of water with an ass hurts you more than her, but a face to remindshes Daughter
and somewhere close by, a pimp from Chechnya in goose down bathrobe, Dutch rub, snub nose, eye sore
gray matter. And youre never bored, riding shotgun with a neurotic, wholl send you back to check the stove top burners, twice before you even get to the end of the blockthose die hard squids and puffer fish with cracks to skirt and knocking wood, knocking, would look good in, say, a Che Guevara doo rag as a bald cap like every Jersey Steve who sang back-up for Springsteen, while burning to act. Yes, its beyond tough to relax with a schizophrenic, so often, a shock and daunting to catch him down on Pike street at dusk, in that sliver of a window before the sodium lights snap on, throwing an arm in the air, spring loaded in late autumn, like an umpire calling Strike! as if to expend what it takes to scare starlings from power lines, a con, jogging backwards down the up slope screaming at the Sound, that everything is going to be just fine, and when I say addict
. Lets just think of train whistles and prosthetic limbs, of Nicholas Cage with the shakes, a severance check he cant sign and six thousand nerve ganglia going off like napalm-coated king snakes and mescal worms in the Mojave. Nick Cage, yes, for a moment lets simply hold onto him who fears the corporate voice-over lords like a gateway to catatonia, like a yawn that stops the heart, because when you cant sign your own name anymore, its a shame what transcends, tricky as two banshee moans in a Santa Ana, some sick and sordid timbre in the ring tone, to deny, before hanging it up, and hey, have I ever told you about the psychic who slipped me a mickey, yanking my chain? She drew a perfect circle in the dirt, and jabbed it, jabbed it, as if things could never be more plain
a ringer in her noose, but God made it rain. I slip, dearest Mariska, I abstain.
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