Seconds (2012)
__________________
Doctor in Operating Room: Relax, old friend.
[aside to a medical assistant]
Doctor in Operating Room: Cranial drill.
______________________
I fell in love with this guy in college. He was a gymnast with a body built like a brick-shithouse. He dropped outta school—I followed him to San Francisco.
His str8t friends didn’t like me much. They pretty much had my number. They invited me over to their apartment one night—to watch a scary Halloween movie.
They had plans for me—to scare me outta town. And get rid of me—to keep me from hanging around my lover boy all the time. They spiked my drink with acid—and got me stoned outta my mind.
_________________________
That stormy dark night—there was this movie on TV. Rock Hudson in “Seconds” (1966). A real mind-fuck horror flick—about this guy who gets reborn in another body. Plus he gets stuck with a new Malibu personality and lifestyle. None of which works.
Frankenheimer puts the screws on the guy—it’s a classic black & white horror flick. Rock Hudson gets this “second” chance deal—at both living a new life. And dying a real death this time around—not just a fake one.
Naturally, it fucked me up real good—plenty of psychedelic horror, stoned neo-noir dread and acid melodrama snaking thru every inch of my body.
_________________________
Naturally, I couldn't help it. My whole life went flashing backwards thru this weird, morose, meandering, melodramatic, nightmarish sit-com. All the things I didn’t do right—all the things I’d done that went wrong. Not exactly nostalgic.
The years I’d spent trying to do all the things I was told were important—that I was supposed to do! Things! Not people... or meaning. Just things. And San Francisco was the same.
I blamed it on myself all over again. I’d made the same decisions for myself all over. Again and again. They were the same mistakes, really. All that got played back in my brain.
_________________________
It was supposed to be different this time. But it wasn’t. It was going to be different from now on I thought. But it was the same. All over again. At least that was the psychedelic paranoia I had.
It was just like Rock Hudson. Even if I had a new face and a new name. I'd do the same thing all over again. Nothing was going to be any different. I suppose you know what I mean. Life’s a dead end street.
His str8t friends laughed and sneered at me. Their faces were even more grotesque and leering than before. Back before I wasn’t even stoned. They were str8t and ugly. And ugly wasn’t skin-deep—it went all the way to the bone.
_________________________
"I have the distinct impression,” I said to them. “That I have been subjected to a humiliating and obscene exposure—possibly under the influence of drugs. It’s added to the various other unpleasant experiences of this evening, and although as I say, I should be very snappish with you on this score, I am not even curious about you anymore.”
I got up and left—walking down the steep hill from Pacific Heights. I could smell the eucalyptus trees blooming—old Victorian bay-windows smiled down at me. The Golden Gate off to the west—the cool Pacific breezes in the evening. I caught a bus down there in Japantown—took the next flight outta SF.
__________________
Doctor in Operating Room: Relax, old friend.
[aside to a medical assistant]
Doctor in Operating Room: Cranial drill.
______________________
I fell in love with this guy in college. He was a gymnast with a body built like a brick-shithouse. He dropped outta school—I followed him to San Francisco.
His str8t friends didn’t like me much. They pretty much had my number. They invited me over to their apartment one night—to watch a scary Halloween movie.
They had plans for me—to scare me outta town. And get rid of me—to keep me from hanging around my lover boy all the time. They spiked my drink with acid—and got me stoned outta my mind.
_________________________
That stormy dark night—there was this movie on TV. Rock Hudson in “Seconds” (1966). A real mind-fuck horror flick—about this guy who gets reborn in another body. Plus he gets stuck with a new Malibu personality and lifestyle. None of which works.
Frankenheimer puts the screws on the guy—it’s a classic black & white horror flick. Rock Hudson gets this “second” chance deal—at both living a new life. And dying a real death this time around—not just a fake one.
Naturally, it fucked me up real good—plenty of psychedelic horror, stoned neo-noir dread and acid melodrama snaking thru every inch of my body.
_________________________
Naturally, I couldn't help it. My whole life went flashing backwards thru this weird, morose, meandering, melodramatic, nightmarish sit-com. All the things I didn’t do right—all the things I’d done that went wrong. Not exactly nostalgic.
The years I’d spent trying to do all the things I was told were important—that I was supposed to do! Things! Not people... or meaning. Just things. And San Francisco was the same.
I blamed it on myself all over again. I’d made the same decisions for myself all over. Again and again. They were the same mistakes, really. All that got played back in my brain.
_________________________
It was supposed to be different this time. But it wasn’t. It was going to be different from now on I thought. But it was the same. All over again. At least that was the psychedelic paranoia I had.
It was just like Rock Hudson. Even if I had a new face and a new name. I'd do the same thing all over again. Nothing was going to be any different. I suppose you know what I mean. Life’s a dead end street.
His str8t friends laughed and sneered at me. Their faces were even more grotesque and leering than before. Back before I wasn’t even stoned. They were str8t and ugly. And ugly wasn’t skin-deep—it went all the way to the bone.
_________________________
"I have the distinct impression,” I said to them. “That I have been subjected to a humiliating and obscene exposure—possibly under the influence of drugs. It’s added to the various other unpleasant experiences of this evening, and although as I say, I should be very snappish with you on this score, I am not even curious about you anymore.”
I got up and left—walking down the steep hill from Pacific Heights. I could smell the eucalyptus trees blooming—old Victorian bay-windows smiled down at me. The Golden Gate off to the west—the cool Pacific breezes in the evening. I caught a bus down there in Japantown—took the next flight outta SF.
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