Get yer t-shirts

This is for kay_willow, because I love her. :-) And also kellinator, because I love her too.
And other than that, it's a slow day. :-)

Ich bin ein flatlander (schuyler: postcards/notes)

When he was editing, he deliberately cut himself off from the outside.
It was easier that way, because somewhere around the second reel of shot film he came to the realization that he had lost all capacity for linear thought and his mind had taken its cue from his hands, chopping sentences into ribbonlets of word and syllable. Somewhere between the slick spaghetti of celluloid and the editor's drinking game (for every flubbed line, take a drink; for everything that would be on the proverbial blooper reel, take two drinks; for every time the cameraman's laughing so hard it looks like real cinema verite, finish the bottle) Schuyler totally lost touch with reality. But that was fine. Reality was overrated. The reels of film were life and air and food and it was getting assembled into a thing of beauty viewable at twenty-four frames per second.
He stumbled out of the office for breakfast (slurpee, coffee, day-old danish, Raisinettes and a handful of no-doz) and revelled in the purity of a five-thirty a.m silence. No roommates fooling around on the sofa - no sudden clattering of the beads on Mik's dreads followed by Kismet's awkward giggle that meant that he'd walked in on them again; no jackass neighbors across the street blaring spanish-language rap and the smell of empanadas. Silence. A rare thing, but as important as breathing. Nothing but the gentle warm humming of the fridge and the distant whisk of cars on the freeway.
Fridge. Food. Right. If Kismet had eaten his Raisinettes again he was selling her to the Korean deli on Ventura by the pound, and Mik could just deal with it, because older brothers had rights, goddamn it. Fridge. Yeah. Pull the handle and the food comes out. Hee. God, he was just brilliant today. The gamble of food consumption, the obvious parallels between modern appliances and gaming tables. Look out, Tarantino.
Kismet was safe. He still had Raisinettes, although they'd been moved on top of a cardboard container - probably some refrigerator feng shui bullshit, you can't keep your raisinettes in the door or something because that's not your money center, whatever. And some damn pink postit note on top of the container glaring at him like the eye of Sauron. It took him three minutes of dazed sleepless staring to realize that some of the letters on the post-it note formed his name.
Schuyler,
I'm worried about you. Mik says you always act this way when you're editing a film but I'm still worried anyway. Eat something? Please?
x o x o x o
Kismet.
Weird.
It was a bento box from his favorite sushi place. The chopsticks would just not work for some reason, useless in his clumsy grip, so he picked up clumps of sticky rice with his fingers and stuffed them into his mouth, falling down on the sofa and putting his feet up while he ate. Bento and raisinettes - breakfast of champions.
Back to work.
Yes.
Work.
Maybe in a few minutes ...
Just lie here and ...
For a few minutes ...

Wow. Just ... wow.

This is the best anti-Bush political ad /ever/. I swear. Whoever did this layout deserves ... something. Something big. The pictures are huge so it'll take a while to load over dialup, but it's worth it.