BRUCE MCCULLOCH - ERASERHEAD

I walk around the house ... drunk. I'm wearing women's slippers. Man, I must be a sight to behold. But I'm not quite sure; I lost my mirror. And the pizza I ordered offers no reflection.

I walk around the house. I think about people who have fouled me and therefore should die. But then, I think of all the interesting crafts you can make with toilet paper rolls.

Once a year, I get drunk in a darkened house, for a week. I get drunk and watch ... Eraserhead, as I think we all do sometimes. It's my vacation.

Once a year I have a little black and white drunk-a-thon. No phones; not a single luxury. My horoscrope has been suspended. Loud, industrial noises.

The first three days I just watch. Well, I *drink* and watch ... Eraserhead.

The third and fourth day I find myself pacing, circling the TV, looking at the glow from behind. I'll pause for a pizza. I won't eat it; I just order it to prove I'm still -- in control. Eraserhead.

By the end of the week, I interact with this majestic little film. Not so much words as -- gesticulations. I kiss the screen. I rub my buttered belly on the screen, as I think we all do sometimes.

I roam around the house. The darkened, drunken house. Sometimes, and this has got to be an hour before dawn, I put a rose up my bum. You know, the business end sticking out. And I sort of improvise a playful dance in my surroundings. "La la la la la la la Eraserheeead.

If you were there, in my house, you could follow a trail of those rose petals, and they would lead to me. Curled up, fetal position, quivering, crying, my teeth chattering, industrial, Eraserhead-type noises coming from inside ... me.

And as you pick me up, and wrap me in a blanket, my vacation would be -- complete.

This behaviour might disturb me if Eraserhead weren't such a fine little film. Don'tcha think?