Typically narcissistic blogging.

Interlude: Denzel

Shit’s been heavy lately, and it’s time to lighten it up for a minute, I think, and tell you a story. The last time I did this, I told you the story of The Dick House, a terrifying tale of cannabis and disorientation. Today’s story will be much briefer, but I was reminded of it by the man sitting across from me at Arbor Cafe in Oakland. This guy looks just like a young Denzel Washington.

This is the story of why, even just aside from The Book of Eli, I can’t take Denzel Washington seriously.

When I was in college, I had a dream. In this dream I owned a bar. It was a beautiful bar, all wood paneling and a pool table, and polished brass accents. In walked Denzel Washington and a few of his friends, all dressed up like early 20th century mob bosses. He took off his fedora and smiled, and I said, “DENZEL!” And he said, “[WHISKEYPANTS]!” 

And then I woke myself up laughing, because the entire dream was so absurd even my subconscious couldn’t keep a straight face. My girlfriend at the time was a witness to this, and will likely mock me until the end of time for dreaming that I was buddies with Denzel Washington.

But to this day, every time I see Mr. Washington in a movie, all I hear is “DENZEL!” And I laugh and then all the gravitas disappears from his character. (Team America: World Police did a similar thing and made it impossible for me to take Matt Damon seriously.

But I’m not buddies with Denzel. Otherwise, I could call him up and say,
“DENZEL! What the fuck is going on in this photograph?
DENZEL, seriously. WTF. Wanna get coffee?”

And that’s the story of why I watch American Gangster for laughs.

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