Huffington-Inspired Re-Post: My Lunch With David Mamet

A commenter said he was disappointed that David Mamet's entry on the Huffington thing didn't contain enough f-bombs or eliptical tough-guy nonsequitors for his liking.

So I thought I'd re-post this old interview I did with David Mamet (not really), mostly about blogging, as well as the metaphical properties of a steak sandwich.

And, of course, about what it means to be a man.

This has been lightly edited to make it somewhat more topical.

That dumb exposition aside... a funny post, which follows below.

I recently down for a lunchtime interview with playwright, screenwriter, and director David Mamet.

Mr. Mamet is famous for his eliptical, even cryptic, writing style, and his frequent use of recursive or downright repetitive dialogue. He's also notorious for his signature brand of profane, intellectualized tough-guy talk. Mr. Mamet's works include Oleander, Heist, The Spanish Prisoner, and Glengarry Glenn Ross.

What follows is a complete and verbatim transcript of my conversation with him.

WARNING: Contains genuine, four-letter profanity. Also contains confusing David Mamet discursive tangets.

ACE: Thanks for coming. Let's start be talking about your new gig blogging for Arian--

DAVID MAMET: Are we talking about this? We are not talking about this.

We are discussing this, yes.

We are chewing this over, maybe.

We are chatting this up... perhaps? Perhaps, perhaps yes.

But talking about this?

Look.

No, no.

No, we are not. We're not talking about this.

ACE: What? Pardon?

DM: Don't--

Don't. Look, don't.

Don't do this.

Don't--

Look. Look. Look here. Let's be.

Let's be reasonable here.

Let's be reasonable.

Don't tell me what we're--

wait--

yes, yes.

Don't tell me what we're talking about, or not talking about. I know what of we speak. We speak of--

of.

We speak of, of.

We speak of.

Of which, of the thing of which we were speaking.

Of.

ACE: Of what? What are you talking about?

DM: (takes off sunglasses in a threatening manner) They say a man should know his betters. They say that a man should show respect when he knows not of whom he speaks.

A man becomes careless, that man also becomes dangerous.

Now, let me ask you:

Are you a man?

Are you a man?

Are you a man?

Are you a fucking man!?

Heh.

Heh.

A man would have punched me in the mouth already.

You fairy. You fucking cunt.

Fuck.

Of.

BLACK: I just wanted to to discuss blogging. But I seem to have offended you somehow...

WAITER: (interrupting) And... are we ready to order now?

DM: Lunch.

What is this lunch? Think. Think about it.

What is lunch? What do we mean by this?

What could lunch be?

It could be many things. Many things. It could be, say, a strip steak sandwhich. This is good.

This is life's bounty.

It could be a piece of fish.

A nice piece of fish?

That remains to be seen. Who can say. Who can say, before the fish is served.

Not the fish, then.

And what more? What more could lunch be?

It might not be steak, or even fish.

It could also be a salad.

A salad!

A salad, which is what you fucking cunts--

wait--

let me finish--

what you fucking cunts, who were not men, not ever, not from the sweat on the floor of the holding cages at the gladiator games--

wait--

you were not men, who eat this salad.

This.

Salad.

Not men.

You fairies. You faegulas.

So I will have the new york strip steak sandwich, please. Medium-rare.

And a Diet Pepsi. Slice of lemon.

ACE: Uhhhh... popcorn shrimp for me, I guess.

DM: You are not a man!

You are not a man!

You are not a man!

You are--

ACE: Uh, strike that. I'll just have whatever he's having.

WAITER: All set then. I'll put in your orders for you.

(awkward silence)

BLACK: So, then, Mr. Mamet... what do you think about other bloggers?

DM: Not men. Those fairies!

...........................

Further efforts at interviewing Mr. Mamet ended in failure. He began speaking in nonsense phrases like "dog my cat" and then began running some sort of a confidence-game on a retarded 13-year-old boy.