My Buddy Pic with Owen Wilson
We’d be depressive cops fighting crime and our own demons with wit, fast-paced car chases and cognitive behavioral therapy--but never by the book. I’d use outrageous comic rejoinders and “Redirect Negative/Irrational Thoughts into Positive/Rational Ones” worksheets to help Owen track down Santos, find the missing girl and steer him away from destructive self-medication towards more focused psycho-pharmaceuticals and talking cures.
But there’d still be room for some questionable dark humor. Damn straight. I’d gently rib him about slit wrists and pills being kinda girly. “Was there a copy of The Bell Jar on the mantel?” But then most comedians are assholes—that explains the demons being not-so-subtly masked in forced smiles and gallows humor. Like when Family Feud host Ray Combs committed suicide and some local comic—I always thought it was the subtly deadpan Eric Hunter but he never remembers saying it—noted “He was on suicide watch. Who was watching him Richard Dawson?” Or when that guy from Suddenly Susan downed a six-pack of beer and then hung himself and I “joked,” “Well, he was on Suddenly Susan. And as if that weren’t soulless and tepid enough, that empty six pack? It was Bud Lite. Not even an import.”
But this isn’t meant to make light of hardship but to de-glamorize self-demise. “It’s a permanent solution to temporary problems, buddy,” I’d tell Owen. “You’re right, pal,” he’d ultimately agree. “Now let’s get that Santos!”