Ang Lee make Hulk movie. It not bad, it no Brokeback Mountain. It no Ice Storm. Hulk cry during Brokeback Mountain. Hulk cry during Ice Storm. Hulk not cry watching Ang Lee Hulk movie, Hulk mad. Hulk thinking now time for new Hulk movie. New Hulk movie good for Hulk image. Good for Hulk bank account. Hulk thinking, maybe no more Hollywood. Hulk imagine long long slow movie with no Hulk for long long time, maybe 45 minutes! Just green grass in breeze and ripples in green pond and lily pads waving and then finally green Hulk float like water lily into view. Hulk look around, think he go crazy at first, then Hulk think, "This a pretty place," Hulk not be disappointed. Hulk think new Hulk movie good for world. Maybe people be at peace when they watch new Hulk movie, maybe people talk to each other with their minds and not shove each other and fight. Hulk direct new Hulk movie, "Hulk Movie by Hulk." Hulk think Ang Lee jealous of Hulk. Ang Lee not say Hulk name out loud. Sometimes Hulk say Ang Lee name to Ang Lee by phone and then Ang Lee say Hulk name in Hulk ear and laugh.
Like I said at the start, one of the things I have learned from being Hulk is comedy; making jokes. You can only make jokes about something if you have some idea what that thing is, some basis for the joke. For instance, right now I am sitting in front of my desk, looking down at my feet. It's like if I was on a cruise ship and my feet were floating in the water, and I had a desk with two little holes in it that the water just went in and out of. My feet are floating on the water and they are waiting for something to happen to them. When I am feeling really Hulky, I do not think about the things I am not looking at and that makes it pretty hard to make jokes about the things I am not looking at. If you do not laugh about something you must have a pretty big emotional state about it or a lot of sympathy. Or empathy. Either way, not very funny. So, I would say to any comics reading this, just do what I am doing right now and make a joke about your feet. That's my advice.
Not right now though. Right now Hulk lying down for like a minute at peace. It's nice and warm and not noisy on this little island, but as soon as Hulk gets up there is trouble somewhere Hulk can probably help with and make the world a better place, you know, yelling and smashing and running with vast long strides. Hulk not sure why everyone go crazy but at least they come to him when they need help or want to cheer up. One time there was a mommy rabbit who lost all of her babies because they were just little and crawled down a hole that was deep then the hole moved when the sun moved and they were all stuck in the dark. Hulk not like dark. Dark not a fan of Hulk, either, but that another story. In this story, mommy bunny cry a little when she tell story because it sad. Hulk fan? Yes indeed. There are a lot of people out there that like the things Hulk do and say even if other people say they do not make sense and act like ripping them apart or disobey them is not the right thing to do. Also rip off his name tag when they sneeze, but, as publicist Paul once told Hulk, any publicity is good, right?
Being big is bad, being big is hard, being big takes work. The least I could do is respect Hulk's limitations. Hulk is not a poser. Hulk is big and scary but first and foremost, he's a baby. Bruce Banner was born a giant and turned into a baby, who is still a baby, the baby has arms and legs these baby limbs are pretty fucking big. I might have gotten mauled if I had been coming home from Berkeley and coming around the corner from something blue and glittering and metallic and sharp. As far back as I remember I was unaccustomed to things so big. I was too small to talk about big things to real people, my roommate was like "that is not possible" but as kids there is a big thing and an even bigger thing and a really even bigger thing and these things combine to make sure you get jostled around a bit in the world.
In general, people do not pay attention to the humungus thing they are standing next to. Just like many boys do not like to notice what other boys do to their penises, many women are disgusted about what others do to their vaginas, and much of the unhappiness the Hulk brings is the stuff of unvoiced regret. God I get so excited when I see a humongous regret that requires so much space that there is room for two people to sit up front and one in the rear. There is a McDonald's near my old apartment in Berkeley that has a few giant statues of corporate mascots that remind me of Lost Boys. You see me taking it all in when I spot The Hulk. Of course. No one talks about Hulk the size of a minivan while a Hulk the size of a bus is on the loose, but I do. In fact, I am not sure a Hulk the size of a jumbo jet is in not in public awareness. We still do not have a nomenclature for large-looking-but-not-so-big-that-you-have-to-really-work-to-locate-even-bigger sized things. The random Mr. Bear. The truck-size Bruce Banner. These babies must be manna stuffed, and if a third one is a medium-sized monster shaped like a house in front of you with some reptilian lump inside that has a green apple for a heart, scoop that fucker out!
WE WENT TO THE PIE WITHOUT A PIPER
We went to the pie without a Piper, which was not our custom at the time. The pie itself was not great, not bad. We took a number of photos with the pie. Then we went back to the pier for beers. At the pier, many of our friends were friends for the first time. Some of them were pro Piper people, they were fine. There were also some Pippers who became flippant (maybe a little aggressive) in the presence of so-called "pros." There were a couple of more radical Pippers but my photos of the rest of the evening have been erased.
ONE THING TO KNOW ABOUT PIPPERS
One thing to know about Pippers is they are people, too. They love their pets, friends, siblings, and so forth. They don't love being pigeonholed, but they love pie charts, bar graphs... They love drinking beer and sharing practical advice about Powerpoint and Excel. When I was in high school a Pipper was my locker partner for a semester; eventually she became my tutor in math. One time I went to her house after school. She microwaved a pizza for herself. We started watching Top Gear and then she fell asleep. I didn't know what to do so I left.
PIPERS, ON THE OTHER HAND
Pipers, on the other hand, will share whatever pizza they have, or beer, even if they are running low. Pipers will let you to take their photograph, they won't ask for copyrights, or cash. When we go to the pie, we like to have a few Pipers on hand. Just because they have Puff the Magic Dragon on their hats and t-shirts, does not mean they are up to no good.
MY PICK FOR PIPER OF THE YEAR
Peter, my pick for Piper of the year, is going to be controversial, but in the end, I think, he is the type of crossroads townie we need. Peter has an amazing sense of humor, he's a fantastic dancer, and, above all, he is a total underdog who refuses to let go of his dreams. When I go to the pie, I want Peter at my side: he's worth every penny, every pep talk, every half-peck on the cheek. I want to see Peter go on to the big time.
MY PICNIC WITH PETER AT THE PINES
One time I was invited, totally random, to a picnic at the Pines. I brought Peter as a kind of shield, or foil. There was a Pipper there with a big poof of hair who patted Peter on the head as if Peter were a golden retriever; Peter took it like a pro. Meanwhile I was snapping pics left and right. Pippers were jumping into the pond, playing Frisbee, there were bagels, cream cheese, pita chips, lamb ribs braised in mustard and pistachio... At the centre there was a huge pie, acting as a kind of pivot or hub around which everything revolved. The Pippers were all side-eyeing the pie, but no one looked right at the thing, no one got close. Me, on the other hand, I got a few great shots, including one with Peter in the foreground, just to the right of the pie. Peter was holding up his right hand; it looked totally huge, compared to the pie. In the picture, Peter pincered his fingers around the pie as if he were popping a zit.
They ran to the airport. Anyone could see they felt good. Did they have anything to declare? Not much. And they had so little to lose: no imports, no exports, there was no one there to say goodbye. Kuka wore a Russian baseball t-shirt. The bear in the skinsuit had no teeth. "I do the talking," said the bear. They were heading back to Prague. They hoped to return the child to the hospital as soon as possible.
In Russian hospitals, everything is beautiful, everything old. The walls are painted with chrysanthemums, in gold. The chairs are painted in ice, white with small blue leaves. The statues are painted with the national colours of Russia, with a bear, black, in the middle. The child will soon be painted in the colours of the Russian flag. My child will be painted in the colours of the Czech Republic, with a Czech bear in the middle, in red. No, white. My children will be painted in the colours of the English language, Slavic script, with the blue Czech bear in the middle, the bear is running, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.
The bear runs and runs until the dirt is brown and the sun is setting and the bricks are crumbling to dust. It runs and runs until it feels it is in Moscow again. It comes to a t-shirt shop. "What are you running from?" the t-shirt seller says, "We sell only the finest t-shirts here. With our t-shirts you will turn heads and drive your comrades wild. Second skins for first-rate sinners. You must ask yourself, what kind of hypocrite do you want to be?"
You need to understand the hospital is not some dark place in which to lie awake, afraid. The hospital is a night museum filled with beds. I would be lying if I said I do not miss my family and friends. I would be lying if I said I don't think about trying to leave. So much of life comes from lying down, trying to sleep. But then, there is only the night outside, much like any night, and there is city light, the steady glow. The window is tight. I press myself against the bars to see if I fit. I do not fit, but I dangle my legs out the window a long time.
Desperation for attention fills the beds. Attention, in hospitals, is precious, it bleeds, it is bled. Attention is a kind of currency, used to buy flowers, to buy statues, to feed the newly born, mewling in their beds. Once attention, by whatever means, enters the hospital, it must be quickly spent or it is lost. So much attention is wasted trying to save it, or to spread it evenly among the newborns, the invalids and the ill.