A UCLA film student spotted an unknown man blocking traffic on Wilshire boulevard in the Beverly Hills area. This blockage lasted hours and was a direct result of a sudden irresistible urge for a bowel purge on the part of the lone man. The man's bicycle was left leaning on its kickstand in the middle of the street. The man was said to have been wearing a suit and an inscrutable look.
Drivers in the area were both shocked and secretly thrilled at the spectacle; most of them, of course, having read up on theories relating to voyeurism the evening prior to the event. An overwhelming percentage of drivers polled stated that the intoxicating visual was much more fulfilling due to its immediate nature than it would have been had they bought a ticket.
The live man defecating was reported to be alone and not, as previously suspected, accompanied by a Native American gentleman fond of William Blake. The live man defecating was, however, genuinely impressed with Romantic poetry though he admitted to never having had visions. He expressed a desire to join the Dead Poet's Society, stating that anyone with either the inclination or the information was welcome to contact him.
The defecating man denied being at all acquainted with Dead Man or even (as film students badgered him) Dead Man Walking. He did relay a loose fondness for Monty Python by screaming, "But I'm not dead yet" in a genteel, however husky, voice. Clarity's sake demands divulging that this fondness may have been merely an irate reaction to spiritually insignificant film titles rather than a sincere love of comedic television.
The lone, live man was not standing and took direct offense at any hint that he unconsciously desired to be upright in the least, never mind shoulder the cumbersome title of Last Man Standing. He repeatedly repeated that he was merely a man defecating and harbored no desire to be standing, walking, dead nor any combination of the three. He was, he insisted, live if somewhat squatting.
A reliable source, often intimately linked with Ms. Sharon Stone, suggested that perhaps this event was the lone man's last dance, rather, his last hurrah so to speak. The lone man became quite animated at this suggestion, readjusted his suit coat with oblivious agitation and hollered that he had performed the polka only once at a mid-western wedding quite some years ago, but had not danced since. He also intimated that a corpulent and somewhat hirsute Wisconsin farm girl had misused him awfully at this festive function.
The man asked that Greta call him if she reads this. He stated, and I quote, "Greta call me if you read this. The Amish girl meant nothing. It was just the apple cider talking. Greta, it was just that darn cider."
The man was quite lucid amidst the exhaust and gazes of curious onlookers. He appeared quite sane when inquiring on the safety of his bicycle. It was only later that he quietly mentioned a slight cramping about his calves. However, at no time were the paramedics nor the LAPD called.
A somber group of entrepreneurial youth set up a refreshment stand while their older siblings roped the area off. As the sun began to set it was only due to the occasional passing motorists that the turbulent emotional scene was illuminated at all. The lone man drew his coat about his face like a curtain. Indeed, this was our hero's last action.
An aspiring film student was heard muttering, "It was much better than Cats. I'd see it again and again."
Jasmine Paul is an MA Critical Studies student in the UCLA Department of Film and Television.