The details of the plot are not important. For the purposes of my dissertation, the following clip I feel arms you with all the requisite context: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CHNieMwYbmQ&feature=player_detailpage#t=122s
There you have your typical "guy getting hit in the groin" moment; that the damage was inflicted by an overactive child makes the instance all the more unremarkable. It's the go-to ploy in any comedy that plays off a sort of slapstick element. But I think even a movie like this could afford to take a bit of a gamble and try a new go-to trope. Nothing too extreme, just something to inject a bit of freshness into a formula that is showing its age. My idea for where this film could have gone could work especially well I think because it plays off the actors specifically. This movie, for example, might have benefited from omitting the "hit in the groin" jokes in lieu of something along the lines of, say, multiple scenes of Adam Sandler having a heart attack.
You could have basically the same moment juxtaposed against various backdrops, making for an amusing callback. One scene could, for example, take place in an elevator overlooking Paris: Imagine a version of that trailer in which is included a brief interlude to a shot of Sandler standing in a glass elevator, the window behind him opening up to a picturesque view of the Paris skyline on a clear Spring day- I can picture the plotting vividly- when suddenly he lets out a sharp, anguished grunt, grasping at his chest and sinking to the floor as the mandala of the Place de l'Étoile junction rises prominently in the background. It'd even mitigate the annoyance factor of the trailer's repeated use of the "music goes quiet on the beat of a punchline" trope.
(bouncy pop love song playing)
Once you start a LIE...
... it's hard to STOP.
(Record scratch, followed by silence)
Sandler is in a regally regally decorated Bangladeshi restaurant where a vivd cerise paint job contrasts smartly with a smattering of humbly framed parchment and assorted vases sporting elaborate golden floral designs. Suddenly he clutches his chest, letting out an anguished grunt as he stumbles and knocks some decor and silverware off a table as he sinks again to the floor, dragging the neatly laid out tablecloth down over himself like a shroud. The warm, indirect lighting playing off his face aptly accentuates Sandler's sickly pallor.
It's quite basic, I know, but I hope Hollywood will see fit to lend an ear and try implementing some of these suggestions in the near future.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Saturday, April 16, 2011
On the Subject of Gondola Lifts (script)
"WE BROKE THE CAR"
EXT. CABLE CAR HILLSIDE- DAY
A Cable Car moves downhill along it's route towards a station. The people look out at the scenery, pointing, snapping pictures, etc.
INT. EXT. CABLE CAR DOCKING STATION, HILLSIDE- DAY
Some ENGINEERS look out as the car hovers in toward it's station, but look worried as the car's approach reveals it's remarkable velocity.
With the panicked push of a few buttons, the car violently CRASHES and GRINDS it's way into the dock.
People SCREAM and some engineers YELL, all is in disarray as the scarred car dangles pathetically on it's cable.
INT. MANAGER'S OFFICE- DAY
Two engineers enter, the MANAGER looks up from some paperwork.
MANAGER
What happened?
ENGINEER 1
Well sir... see,
here's the thing...
ENGINEER 2
We were bringing in
the car to dock, and...
ENGINEER 1
...and you're not gonna
be mad, but...
ENGINEER 2
We sorta crashed
the cable car sir.
MANAGER
What!
What happened?
ENGINEER 1
Well sir... see,
here's the thing...
ENGINEER 2
We were bringing in
the car to dock, and...
ENGINEER 1
...and you're not gonna
be mad, but...
ENGINEER 2
We sorta crashed
the cable car sir.
MANAGER
What!
The manager gets up and rushes out to the balcony where he surveys the carnage. As he rushes past, they hurriedly try to explain:
ENGINEER 1
...But the damage is
mostly just superficial!
ENGINEER 2
And the damage to the
passengers is mostly emotional,
they said.
ENGINEER 1
All except that one guy
who got totally
dismembered.
ENGINEER 2
Yeah. That one was unlucky.
...But the damage is
mostly just superficial!
ENGINEER 2
And the damage to the
passengers is mostly emotional,
they said.
ENGINEER 1
All except that one guy
who got totally
dismembered.
ENGINEER 2
Yeah. That one was unlucky.
The manager hunches over the railing, looking with horror at the scene below:
The cable car, now taped off like a crime scene, emits black smoke. Casualties lie on the ground as medical personnel rush around, moving and treating the injured while teams of police are ordered around.
MANAGER
Jesus Christ almighty!
Jesus Christ almighty!
The Manager whips around and grabs one of the engineers (1) by the collar.
MANAGER
YOU. HAVE. RUIEND ME!!
ENGINEER 1
Yeah, well. Honestly
I can't understand how
it got do damaged anyway.
ENGINEER 2
Didn't look to be moving
so fast, really.
ENGINEER 1
'Til it got close.
ENGINEER 2
Yeah and then, you
know. Woah.
ENGINEER 1
Really must've only
been going about 15
miles an hour, tops.
ENGINEER 2
But that's fast enough
with something that big
I guess.
ENGINEER 1
Quite a bit of
velocity on it.
YOU. HAVE. RUIEND ME!!
ENGINEER 1
Yeah, well. Honestly
I can't understand how
it got do damaged anyway.
ENGINEER 2
Didn't look to be moving
so fast, really.
ENGINEER 1
'Til it got close.
ENGINEER 2
Yeah and then, you
know. Woah.
ENGINEER 1
Really must've only
been going about 15
miles an hour, tops.
ENGINEER 2
But that's fast enough
with something that big
I guess.
ENGINEER 1
Quite a bit of
velocity on it.
The Manager lets go, and walks away, defeated.
MANAGER
This will be a PR
disaster. We'll never
recover from this.
This will be a PR
disaster. We'll never
recover from this.
Below, some news reporters can be seen rushing into the scene.
MANAGER
Ahh, son of a god-
damned bitch!
Ahh, son of a god-
damned bitch!
He collects his thoughts for a moment. After a while, one of the engineers breaks the silence:
ENGINEER 2
Well, it's still not as
bad as the disaster in '94.
Well, it's still not as
bad as the disaster in '94.
ENGINEER 1
Yeah. The test failure.
I still have nightmares
about that.
Yeah. The test failure.
I still have nightmares
about that.
MANAGER
But that was kept under
wraps for months! These
goddamned reporters
are gonna have a field
day with this!
But that was kept under
wraps for months! These
goddamned reporters
are gonna have a field
day with this!
A dark look crosses his face. Some reporters spot him, pointing up to the balcony. They begin rushing toward the stairs.
MANAGER
...How did this happen.
...How did this happen.
The Engineers look at each other, but stay silent.
MANAGER
I WANT ANSWERS, GODDAMNIT.
I WANT ANSWERS, GODDAMNIT.
Behind the enraged Manager, a flood of papparatzi can be seen ascending the stairs, crowding round. They flood the manager with questions as camera bulbs FLASH:
REPORTERS
Is it true this is the
work of terrorists?
What do you have to say
about the disaster?
Do you have a comment
on today's tragedy?
etc...
ENGINEER 1
...Well, we thought the new
guy set the lever a
bit too low, but it didn't
seem like such a-...
Is it true this is the
work of terrorists?
What do you have to say
about the disaster?
Do you have a comment
on today's tragedy?
etc...
ENGINEER 1
...Well, we thought the new
guy set the lever a
bit too low, but it didn't
seem like such a-...
He is cut off as the Manager whips round to rush through the crowd of reporters, making his way toward a meek looking engineer who is still standing around with some others on the dock below.
MANAGER
YOU FUCKER!!
YOU FUCKER!!
The Engineer looks terrified as the Manager advances on him.
The Manager grabs him by the shoulder and pulls him over to the wreckage of the car.
MANAGER
YOU SEE?! YOU SEE
WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU
DON'T TAKE THE JOB
SERIOUSLY?!
YOU SEE?! YOU SEE
WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU
DON'T TAKE THE JOB
SERIOUSLY?!
MANAGER 3
Sir, I...
MANAGER
RAAAAAAAAAGH!!
Sir, I...
MANAGER
RAAAAAAAAAGH!!
The Manager ROARS as he PUNCHES the engineer in the face. The young man crumples to the floor, utterly ruined.
The media crowd around and frenzy at the violence.
REPORTERS
He's gone crazy!
He's going to kill his
employee!
What a scoop!
etc....
He's gone crazy!
He's going to kill his
employee!
What a scoop!
etc....
The Manager turns to face the reporters.
MANAGER
YOU WANT A STORY?! I'LL
GIVE YOU A GODDAMNED STORY!!
YOU WANT A STORY?! I'LL
GIVE YOU A GODDAMNED STORY!!
The Manager TAPS away at some uncharacteristically complex-looking panels near the control lever, and hits a conspicuous red button.
The panel DISCHARGES electricity and BEEPS chaotically.
MANAGER
... I'll see you IN HELL.
... I'll see you IN HELL.
The reporters look in terror at the panel as it goes haywire.
The Manager rushes over and picks up the injured employee.
MANAGER
...Looks like we're in
it together from here on
out, son.
...Looks like we're in
it together from here on
out, son.
He HOISTS the barely conscious man above his head and leaps off the edge of the dock, yelling:
MANAGER
I'VE ALWAYS LOVED YOOOOUU!!!
I'VE ALWAYS LOVED YOOOOUU!!!
The first two engineers look over the balcony, horrified.
ENGINEER 1
He's jumped!
ENGINEER 2
And he's taking Tommy
down to hell with 'im!
He's jumped!
ENGINEER 2
And he's taking Tommy
down to hell with 'im!
The panel BLASTS the reporters with energy, skeletonizing them bloodily.
As the Manager falls to his death:
MANAGER
FFFFFFFUUUUUCK!!
FFFFFFFUUUUUCK!!
INT. SCREENING ROOM
The scene freezes, revealed as only a movie playing on a projector.
PRESENTER
...and THAT is why we
always mind the controls!
...and THAT is why we
always mind the controls!
His small audience looks incredulous.
PRESENTER
...Are there any questions?
...Are there any questions?
One STUDENT raises his hand.
STUDENT
Are you completely insane,
by chance?
PRESENTER
YES.
Are you completely insane,
by chance?
PRESENTER
YES.
END.
Monday, April 4, 2011
I guess something is better than nothing?
"God damn it!" "RRRRRAAAAAAAAAGH!" screamed Officer Dan.
At this, he impulsively swatted at the porcelain lamp on the end table, with greater force than he'd intended, and it was sent hurtling across the room into the wall where it shattered with a cacophonous resound.
For a moment, he stopped short as rage was dissipated by an influx of adrenaline.
In the same instant the Chief burst through the door into the office. His eyes scanned the room as he mouthed a silent "what the fuck," and his eyes fell upon the sad remains of the lamp, following its path of travel to the desk where it once sat, beside which a now red-faced Officer Dan stood, stock still. The Chief's hand gripped involuntarily on the doorknob.
"Aw, you stupid piece of shit!" he hollered.
At this, he impulsively swatted at the porcelain lamp on the end table, with greater force than he'd intended, and it was sent hurtling across the room into the wall where it shattered with a cacophonous resound.
For a moment, he stopped short as rage was dissipated by an influx of adrenaline.
In the same instant the Chief burst through the door into the office. His eyes scanned the room as he mouthed a silent "what the fuck," and his eyes fell upon the sad remains of the lamp, following its path of travel to the desk where it once sat, beside which a now red-faced Officer Dan stood, stock still. The Chief's hand gripped involuntarily on the doorknob.
"Aw, you stupid piece of shit!" he hollered.
Monday, March 21, 2011
"Taking a Trip to the Zipper Factory"
Imagine the following occurrence:
A guy is sitting alone in the dark, lying back insouciantly in a recliner. He's sort of catatonic, you know? Just sort of leaning back and staring blankly at the ceiling, grinning a bit, but he can't really help that.
Suddenly, his friend enters:
"Hey, asshole, we were supposed to meet 10 minutes ago! Now we're gonna be late for the movie! What are you doing in here?"
The guy in the recliner isn't really in a position to offer a cogent response here, so he offers what best he can manage while in the haze through which he is experiencing the world; it comes out sounding like a sort of "Hrrnk." (A tone suggesting as though it was a statement of fact. His face doesn't change at all.)
Of course, his friend has little patience for this:
"What the hell's the matter with you? Y-.."
A sudden clinking of something to the floor draws his attention to a small, plastic bottle which has fallen adjacent the recliner. Picking it up to investigate, he realizes that it is an empty bottle of Nyquil.
"What's this? Huh? What's this? You taking a trip to the Zipper Factory right now? Huh?"
"Hrrnk." is the only answer the boy can give.
His friend seizes a nearby Wallgreens bag, sitting openly on a desk across from the pitiable scene in the recliner. He pulls out a receipt, the date of which is the damning proof that the medicine was bought, and hence consumed in its entirety, sometime in the last 20 minutes.
"You're sick, you know that? You're really sick."
"Hrrnk."
"Well you just sit here and enjoy your little Nyquil trip, you son of a bitch. Thanks for wasting our time!"
As he storms from the room in a huff, his voice can be heard from down the hallway:
"Yeah, no he's not coming. No, you won't believe this, fucker downed an entire bottle of Nyquil. Tells us he'll be ready in 10 minutes, gets fucked on Nyquil instead..."
The voices of a disappointed coterie recede into the distance as the boy sits, immobilized, crying silent tears, his face still frozen in a false expression of joyfully hedonistic profligacy.
And so we have an apt application of a delightful new trope which I highly encourage you to adopt into your regular conversational repertoire: if someone is acting foolish, seems disoriented, or inebriated, pose them a rhetorical, "You taking a trip to the Zipper Factory?" You'll be glad you did.
A guy is sitting alone in the dark, lying back insouciantly in a recliner. He's sort of catatonic, you know? Just sort of leaning back and staring blankly at the ceiling, grinning a bit, but he can't really help that.
Suddenly, his friend enters:
"Hey, asshole, we were supposed to meet 10 minutes ago! Now we're gonna be late for the movie! What are you doing in here?"
The guy in the recliner isn't really in a position to offer a cogent response here, so he offers what best he can manage while in the haze through which he is experiencing the world; it comes out sounding like a sort of "Hrrnk." (A tone suggesting as though it was a statement of fact. His face doesn't change at all.)
Of course, his friend has little patience for this:
"What the hell's the matter with you? Y-.."
A sudden clinking of something to the floor draws his attention to a small, plastic bottle which has fallen adjacent the recliner. Picking it up to investigate, he realizes that it is an empty bottle of Nyquil.
"What's this? Huh? What's this? You taking a trip to the Zipper Factory right now? Huh?"
"Hrrnk." is the only answer the boy can give.
His friend seizes a nearby Wallgreens bag, sitting openly on a desk across from the pitiable scene in the recliner. He pulls out a receipt, the date of which is the damning proof that the medicine was bought, and hence consumed in its entirety, sometime in the last 20 minutes.
"You're sick, you know that? You're really sick."
"Hrrnk."
"Well you just sit here and enjoy your little Nyquil trip, you son of a bitch. Thanks for wasting our time!"
As he storms from the room in a huff, his voice can be heard from down the hallway:
"Yeah, no he's not coming. No, you won't believe this, fucker downed an entire bottle of Nyquil. Tells us he'll be ready in 10 minutes, gets fucked on Nyquil instead..."
The voices of a disappointed coterie recede into the distance as the boy sits, immobilized, crying silent tears, his face still frozen in a false expression of joyfully hedonistic profligacy.
And so we have an apt application of a delightful new trope which I highly encourage you to adopt into your regular conversational repertoire: if someone is acting foolish, seems disoriented, or inebriated, pose them a rhetorical, "You taking a trip to the Zipper Factory?" You'll be glad you did.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Short Takes
Some scenes that I find amusing:
•Someone talking really fast, right before they fall down
•A man is playing with some magnets, delighting in the resistance he feels as he pushes the like poles toward each other. But then, in a momentary lapse of vigilance, he allows one of the magnets to flip around, and the powerful bond latches the two pieces down painfully on either side of his hand, WHAP. Him: "AHH! Fucking god damn magnets!" (To onlookers): Help me get them off!" (He tries, but can't pry them away.) "AAGH, GET THEM OFF GET THEM OFF GET THEM OFF GET THEM OFF!"
•When someone reacts to something you say by making a sort of face with just their mouth, without altering any other facial feature. (Especially if they seem unaware that they're doing it.)
•When one person is really reluctant to fight someone, but they sort end up getting into it anyway. They easily overpower their belligerent challenger, pretty much effortlessly. Like, with a single punch. The other guy is just hunched over, immobilized by the pain of a swiftly delivered blow to the stomach, and he's just sort of emitting a strained, high pitched groan. So, the first guy tries once again to call the thing off. "Hey man," he says. "This has gone far enough." Then the other guy looks up at him, red faced, and barely manages to eek out a strained, "You're a son of a bitch!"
•Someone talking really fast, right before they fall down
•A man is playing with some magnets, delighting in the resistance he feels as he pushes the like poles toward each other. But then, in a momentary lapse of vigilance, he allows one of the magnets to flip around, and the powerful bond latches the two pieces down painfully on either side of his hand, WHAP. Him: "AHH! Fucking god damn magnets!" (To onlookers): Help me get them off!" (He tries, but can't pry them away.) "AAGH, GET THEM OFF GET THEM OFF GET THEM OFF GET THEM OFF!"
•When someone reacts to something you say by making a sort of face with just their mouth, without altering any other facial feature. (Especially if they seem unaware that they're doing it.)
•When one person is really reluctant to fight someone, but they sort end up getting into it anyway. They easily overpower their belligerent challenger, pretty much effortlessly. Like, with a single punch. The other guy is just hunched over, immobilized by the pain of a swiftly delivered blow to the stomach, and he's just sort of emitting a strained, high pitched groan. So, the first guy tries once again to call the thing off. "Hey man," he says. "This has gone far enough." Then the other guy looks up at him, red faced, and barely manages to eek out a strained, "You're a son of a bitch!"
Monday, February 28, 2011
The Ballad of Beakman
Yeah, basically nobody will ever "get" this except for me and Cory, and maybe the other six people on Earth who remember fucking Beakman's World, but I still find this amusing. What follows is basically the result of a few hours of bullshitting around that followed a viewing of a "Best of Beakman" tape that Cory had on his person a winter ago. As he has pointed out, you really kind of have to know what the characters sounds like to get anything out of it. Anyway.
WHAT IF: Beakman was an embittered, abusive individual who barely managed to uphold the façade of emotional and mental stability only while the cameras were running. Behind the scenes he relentlessly volleys verbal and emotional abuse at Lester the rat, and carries on a sexual relationship with an underaged girl he met at a green peace rally before dosing her with acid. (read: Josie.)
INT. BEAKMAN'S DEMOLISHED LAB -- DAWN
LESTER, walking into work on one of he few occasions he doesn't have to pull an all-nighter, espies BEAKMAN'S giant wig lying on the floor. Recognizing this for the ominous telltale sign it is, he advances pensively.
Beakman is on the couch, clutching a paper in one hand, an almost-empty bottle of Wild Turkey in the other.
As Beakman laments, Lester hurriedly carries the sad wig over and attempts to place it back on Beakman's head:
He offers the crumpled page to Lester:
He gestures wildly about the room, stumbling in his drunkenness:
He stumbles a bit, and:
He hurls his booze bottle in rage.
In a fit of anger, Beakman advances on Lester, nearly tripping over a table as he does:
He takes an uncoordinated swing at Lester but misses by a wide margin, losing his balance and falling to the ground, where he sobs messily into the floor.
Suddenly something dawns on Lester, prompting him to look around in a panic.
As Beakman's sobbing becomes progressively more undignified, Lester shakes his head solemnly. A phone RINGS, and Lester picks up.
Lester looks over at Beakman who is sobbing drunkenly over a cardboard tube.
He hangs up.
Beakman does not react favorably to this news. Suddenly, the time machine activates and out steps ALAN TURING.
Lester exits.
BEAKMAN simply pouts.
TURING nods solemnly.
Turing calms him.
WHAT IF: Beakman was an embittered, abusive individual who barely managed to uphold the façade of emotional and mental stability only while the cameras were running. Behind the scenes he relentlessly volleys verbal and emotional abuse at Lester the rat, and carries on a sexual relationship with an underaged girl he met at a green peace rally before dosing her with acid. (read: Josie.)
"THE BALLAD OF BEAKMAN"
INT. BEAKMAN'S DEMOLISHED LAB -- DAWN
LESTER, walking into work on one of he few occasions he doesn't have to pull an all-nighter, espies BEAKMAN'S giant wig lying on the floor. Recognizing this for the ominous telltale sign it is, he advances pensively.
Beakman is on the couch, clutching a paper in one hand, an almost-empty bottle of Wild Turkey in the other.
LESTER
What's the matter, Beakman?
BEAKMAN
(drunkenly slurring)
It's over.
LESTER
Whaddya mean, what's over?
What's the matter, Beakman?
BEAKMAN
(drunkenly slurring)
It's over.
LESTER
Whaddya mean, what's over?
As Beakman laments, Lester hurriedly carries the sad wig over and attempts to place it back on Beakman's head:
BEAKMAN
IT'S OVER! ...I just
got the letter from the
studio heads today.
IT'S OVER! ...I just
got the letter from the
studio heads today.
He offers the crumpled page to Lester:
BEAKMAN (CONT'D)
WE'RE SHITCANNED!
WE'RE SHITCANNED!
LESTER
Y'mean we been cancelled?
BEAKMAN
(rising from couch, unbalanced)
They're giving our timeslot to Bill Nye
the motherfuckin' Science Guy!
Y'mean we been cancelled?
BEAKMAN
(rising from couch, unbalanced)
They're giving our timeslot to Bill Nye
the motherfuckin' Science Guy!
He gestures wildly about the room, stumbling in his drunkenness:
BEAKMAN
That smug son of a bitch saunters
onto here, like he owns the
place, all actin' like he's
king of the science castle
with his... LIQUID NITROGEN.
That smug son of a bitch saunters
onto here, like he owns the
place, all actin' like he's
king of the science castle
with his... LIQUID NITROGEN.
He stumbles a bit, and:
BEAKMAN
FOR FOUR YEARS I been on
the TV! I been on four years
makin' rockets outta empty
soda bottles an' cardboard,
all usin' cardboard tubes to
teach Bernoulli's principle an
shit!
FOR FOUR YEARS I been on
the TV! I been on four years
makin' rockets outta empty
soda bottles an' cardboard,
all usin' cardboard tubes to
teach Bernoulli's principle an
shit!
He hurls his booze bottle in rage.
LESTER
Aw, Beakman! It ain't all that
bad, is it? I mean, we had a
pretty good run, didn't we? We
wanted to teach kids science,
and that's what we did every
week for like, 90 episodes!
90 episodes, that's nearly a
hundred!
BEAKMAN
Nearly a hundred?!
Aw, Beakman! It ain't all that
bad, is it? I mean, we had a
pretty good run, didn't we? We
wanted to teach kids science,
and that's what we did every
week for like, 90 episodes!
90 episodes, that's nearly a
hundred!
BEAKMAN
Nearly a hundred?!
In a fit of anger, Beakman advances on Lester, nearly tripping over a table as he does:
BEAKMAN (CONT'D)
I'LL 'NEARLY 100' YOU YOU SON OF
A BITCH!!
I'LL 'NEARLY 100' YOU YOU SON OF
A BITCH!!
He takes an uncoordinated swing at Lester but misses by a wide margin, losing his balance and falling to the ground, where he sobs messily into the floor.
LESTER
Aw, beakman! Pull yourself
together! How are we gonna
break the news to Phoebe?
BEAKMAN
Phoebe ain't here.
Aw, beakman! Pull yourself
together! How are we gonna
break the news to Phoebe?
BEAKMAN
Phoebe ain't here.
Suddenly something dawns on Lester, prompting him to look around in a panic.
LESTER
Oh my gawd... Phoebe, what
happened to her?!
BEAKMAN
She ain't come in yet!
LESTER
(relieved)
Oh thank God! For a minute
there I... I thought we
had another Josie situation
on our hands.
BEAKMAN
(rage)
WHAT DID YOU SAY?!
LESTER
(frightened)
Ah, jeez no I didn't mean
to bring it up Beakman!
BEAKMAN
I told you NEVER TO SAY HER
NAME AROUND ME!
LESTER
I know Beakman, I forgot!
BEAKMAN
(sobbing)
I toldja never to mention the
name... Josie...
Oh my gawd... Phoebe, what
happened to her?!
BEAKMAN
She ain't come in yet!
LESTER
(relieved)
Oh thank God! For a minute
there I... I thought we
had another Josie situation
on our hands.
BEAKMAN
(rage)
WHAT DID YOU SAY?!
LESTER
(frightened)
Ah, jeez no I didn't mean
to bring it up Beakman!
BEAKMAN
I told you NEVER TO SAY HER
NAME AROUND ME!
LESTER
I know Beakman, I forgot!
BEAKMAN
(sobbing)
I toldja never to mention the
name... Josie...
As Beakman's sobbing becomes progressively more undignified, Lester shakes his head solemnly. A phone RINGS, and Lester picks up.
LESTER
Hi? Oh, hello Phoebe. Listen-
what? Oh no Beakman wasn't
makin' me pull another all-
nighter. What? Yeah, he's
here.
Hi? Oh, hello Phoebe. Listen-
what? Oh no Beakman wasn't
makin' me pull another all-
nighter. What? Yeah, he's
here.
Lester looks over at Beakman who is sobbing drunkenly over a cardboard tube.
BEAKMAN
Air pressure! It's always
AIR PRESSURE!
Air pressure! It's always
AIR PRESSURE!
LESTER
(to phone)
Eh... he ain't feelin so
good just now. You better
come in. We have to talk
about something! Okay.
See ya.
(to phone)
Eh... he ain't feelin so
good just now. You better
come in. We have to talk
about something! Okay.
See ya.
He hangs up.
LESTER
(to Beakman)
That was Phoebe, Beakman.
She'll be here soon, don't
worry I know she'll take
care of ya.
(to Beakman)
That was Phoebe, Beakman.
She'll be here soon, don't
worry I know she'll take
care of ya.
Beakman does not react favorably to this news. Suddenly, the time machine activates and out steps ALAN TURING.
TURING
Hello? Where am I?
LESTER
Oh, hey Beakman we have a
visitor from the time machine!
BEAKMAN
Whoop-de-fuckin doo.
TURING
What has him so out of sorts?
LESTER
I'm afraid you got here at a
bad time, mister. We just got
news that Beakman's World
has been cancelled to make
room for Bill Bye.
BEAKMAN
THAT HOT SHOT USURPING PIECE
OF-...
TURING
Woah, calm down Mr. Beakman!
Hello? Where am I?
LESTER
Oh, hey Beakman we have a
visitor from the time machine!
BEAKMAN
Whoop-de-fuckin doo.
TURING
What has him so out of sorts?
LESTER
I'm afraid you got here at a
bad time, mister. We just got
news that Beakman's World
has been cancelled to make
room for Bill Bye.
BEAKMAN
THAT HOT SHOT USURPING PIECE
OF-...
TURING
Woah, calm down Mr. Beakman!
(TO LESTER)
Might you leave us alone for
a moment?
Might you leave us alone for
a moment?
LESTER
Well, okay. I'll go tell
Phoebe when she gets here.
Well, okay. I'll go tell
Phoebe when she gets here.
Lester exits.
TURING
Now now, Beakman! It can't
be all that bad! I'm sorry
to learn of your cancellation.
I've always been a fan of
your work.
Now now, Beakman! It can't
be all that bad! I'm sorry
to learn of your cancellation.
I've always been a fan of
your work.
BEAKMAN simply pouts.
TURING (CONT'D)
But why are you taking this
so hard? Surely you can't
be having regrets after
so many successful years
on television?
BEAKMAN
Well, Mr. Turing. The fact is
I haven't been honest with myself.
I've been living a lie.
TURING
Nonsense! You are a well
respected educator!
BEAKMAN
NOT THAT. I mean, I brought on
those female sidekicks to get
the show green-lit, and along
the way I convinced myself I
fit the role of a television
educator, lusting for jailbait.
But why are you taking this
so hard? Surely you can't
be having regrets after
so many successful years
on television?
BEAKMAN
Well, Mr. Turing. The fact is
I haven't been honest with myself.
I've been living a lie.
TURING
Nonsense! You are a well
respected educator!
BEAKMAN
NOT THAT. I mean, I brought on
those female sidekicks to get
the show green-lit, and along
the way I convinced myself I
fit the role of a television
educator, lusting for jailbait.
TURING nods solemnly.
BEAKMAN (CONT'D)
I demonstrated air pressure,
conservation of energy, the
laws of thermodynamics, all
without LIQUID FUCKING NITROGEN.
I demonstrated air pressure,
conservation of energy, the
laws of thermodynamics, all
without LIQUID FUCKING NITROGEN.
Turing calms him.
BEAKMAN (CONT'D)
...But for all the science I ever
done, there's still one experiment
I never had the courage to try.
TURING
Good, Beakman! It's time to come
out! Be proud of who you are!
...But for all the science I ever
done, there's still one experiment
I never had the courage to try.
TURING
Good, Beakman! It's time to come
out! Be proud of who you are!
Beakman sobs drunkenly as Turing placates him.
BEAKMAN
Thanks, Alan. It's good to
finally meet someone who
understands... when I
think of all the time
I've wasted trying to be
something I'm not.
TURING
Right! There's a big world
out there! This may be the
end of your show, but it
is the beginning of something
much bigger!
Thanks, Alan. It's good to
finally meet someone who
understands... when I
think of all the time
I've wasted trying to be
something I'm not.
TURING
Right! There's a big world
out there! This may be the
end of your show, but it
is the beginning of something
much bigger!
Beakman rises to his feet, teetering somewhat.
BEAKMAN
Yeah! YEAH! Though... I still
feel bad about dosing and
kidnapping that poor girl from
that peace rally... then forcing
her to follow me and the rat guy
all around the world for 3 years.
Yeah! YEAH! Though... I still
feel bad about dosing and
kidnapping that poor girl from
that peace rally... then forcing
her to follow me and the rat guy
all around the world for 3 years.
Turing looks somewhat disturbed at hearing this.
BEAKMAN
But now's not the time for
regrets! I'm gonna get out of
this place and really LIVE
for the first time in my life!
Poor Lester, though... I think
he's still not right after what
happened to Liza.
But now's not the time for
regrets! I'm gonna get out of
this place and really LIVE
for the first time in my life!
Poor Lester, though... I think
he's still not right after what
happened to Liza.
FLASHBACK:
INT. Lab-- DAY
Beakman looks on with satisfaction as LIZA exhales a flurry of bubbles from beneath the surface of a purple-colored liquid in a large glass tank.
INT. Lab-- DAY
Beakman looks on with satisfaction as LIZA exhales a flurry of bubbles from beneath the surface of a purple-colored liquid in a large glass tank.
BEAKMAN
Ah, ya see Lester! The
Perfluorochemical molecules in
the fluid allow her to breathe
comfortably, even under water!
LESTER
Wow, Beakman! That's
really something!
BEAKMAN
Yeah, it is! It'll make a hell
of a season opener in a few
months! Now come on, pull her
up, we're going to Applebee's!
Ah, ya see Lester! The
Perfluorochemical molecules in
the fluid allow her to breathe
comfortably, even under water!
LESTER
Wow, Beakman! That's
really something!
BEAKMAN
Yeah, it is! It'll make a hell
of a season opener in a few
months! Now come on, pull her
up, we're going to Applebee's!
Lester clumsily ascends a ladder and begins pulling a pulley system as Beakman turns to go, but:
LESTER (O.S.)
Eh, Beakman! Beakman wait
a sec!
BEAKMAN
What is it, Lester?
Eh, Beakman! Beakman wait
a sec!
BEAKMAN
What is it, Lester?
Lester stands at the top of a ladder, at the edge of the tank, Liza lying motionless in an apparatus hooked up to a pulley system, which is left dangling just above the surface of the water.
LESTER
W-w-we got a problem here!
She ain't breathin'!
W-w-we got a problem here!
She ain't breathin'!
He jostles her, but she shows no response.
BEAKMAN
Ah, Zaloom!
Ah, Zaloom!
END.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
For my part
I'm not even sure who the audience of this blog is, so the majority of my writing will most likely just be directed towards the other two writers here, in a classic self-indulgent style.
However, in the theoretical sense that this might one day fill with blog entries, this one will serve as an introduction, and some necessary context.
The three of us: "t3", "imp", and myself are all twenty-something guys, rapidly aging into obsolescence, with little more in common than an overinflated opinion of our respective senses of humor. We are burnouts, deadbeats, and losers, and each of us has uniquely failed or bungled something major in each our lives. We have not found success in our endeavors, and each of us has more than his share of that depressive, self-deprecatory edge that is so common among wannabe comedians.
Imp is a small town bumpkin who has worked a series of dead end jobs in order to support his drug habits. He struggles to find himself creatively and mentally stagnates in his New England hell.
T3 was utterly incapable of dealing with life in a proactive way, and has currently foisted that job off on the United States Air Force, ceding to them his youth and vibrant years. It is profoundly unclear what will happen next, but that is years away.
As for myself, a combination of factors allowed for me to drift miserably through high school and college, and graduate with a mediocre GPA and a useless degree, all without ever figuring out what I actually wanted to do with my life. I am now unemployed and languishing in Los Angeles, desperately seeking something that I would actually enjoy doing, as well as something that someone will pay me to do.
If the three of us can, together, write something good, then maybe I can get a real job and we can all have successful and fun lives. Here's hoping.
A Pointless Anecdote
The greatest difficulty one might impose on oneself while trying to collude with others on a writing project of any sort is probably to place immeasurable physical distance between everyone involved, and this happens to be precisely the failing formula that we at 'Color me Unimpressed' have adopted. What began as easily traversable distance between adjacent states has grown to include the vast expanse of multiple continents; we now find ourselves trying to manage the sysyphean task of honing our terrible craft as though circumstances did not singularly stand to impede us. So it is that this blog has been established as a desultory attempt to bridge the gap and amuse each other by proxy. Hopefully it will also serve us as an effective heuristic to improving our ability to generate actual content.
Lord knows this sort of thing has proven difficult in the past, as was duly demonstrated when, right in the beginning, my luddite tendencies ultimately necessitated that the task of actually creating this blog be pushed onto 'imp.' If one purveys the below documented Santa-riddled odyssey of terrifying introspection which he traversed in the process of performing this perfunctory first step, you get an idea of the kind of troubles that can beset a project like this when in the hands of people like us. But, lest we stagnate further on a second introductory post, I'd like to illustrate for you the general dynamics at play amidst the contributors to this blog. Maybe when you read this, you'll understand a bit better where we're coming from:
Let's say, as is so often the case, that the three of us are in the car en route to one of our many favorite pancake-and-waffle joints. From the passenger seat next to me, Cory takes another drag of wild dagga from his commemorative alabaster Ute calumet, adding a bit more smoke to the already impenetrable haze which fills the car, severely impairing my ability to see the winding country roads along which I tear recklessly at top speed. (Which admittedly is less than impressive in my run-down 1986 Chevrolet Cavalier). The windows in the back don't work, and Klein's famed intolerance for effluvia of any sort is prompting him to indulge in a series of severely embellished coughing fits. Eventually realizing we aren't going to take the hint, he resorts to a more direct form of communiqué:
"Roll your fucking windows down, assholes!" he blurts out, at last.
"What's that, hoss?" I yell, my hand simultaneously twisting the volume knob to turn up Shonen Knife to an ear-splitting volume.
"God damn it, you motherfucker!" can just barely be made out over the din of broken English caterwauling and erratic guitar raking. "FUCK!"
"Alright, alright, sorry about that," I say as I turn it back down to a reasonable volume. "What did you want?"
"Open a window in here! I can't BREATHE." From the rearview mirror I can see his exaggerated gesturing as he tugs his collar away from his neck, as though to vent some pent up body heat away from his vital areas.
"Jesus, it's not that bad!" I say, although in in all honesty it is, by any reasonable standards intolerably smoky in the close confines of the car. "I think it smells like blueberries!"
"It does not!" he retorts, his frustrated tone becoming severely grizzled. "And it's not just the smell, the SMOKE is irritating my EYES." He punctuates this with another round of vociferous coughs.
Cory, silently laid back in his seat, shows sudden movement for the first time in maybe 20 minutes as he reaches for the window lever, cracking the window a bit and letting in a whistling stream of shockingly cold air. Happily, my view of the road clears up a bit as the smokescreen is reduced to a thin residual haze.
"There," I say. "Happy now?"
I am answered with another flurry of histrionic coughs; there's no pleasing some people.
Finally we arrive at the place. Klein, all too eager to finally be free of the smoke, lunges for the door and piles out of the car before I even come to a full stop. Getting out of the car, I can't help but take a quick mental inventory of the number of moments on the drive here where we well may have been killed. As usual, my imagination is able to generate an unsettling multitude of unique causes of death, both plausible and farfetched. After a moment of being frozen in transfixed horror, I follow after Klein while Cory hurriedly huffs a last few precious puffs of smoke like they'll be his last for the next 3 weeks.
In short order, the three of us are situated at a booth, warding off a waitress with simple orders for ice water and perusing a fairly standard breakfast menu. For me this is really just a formality, serving little purpose beyond determining whether a photograph of pancakes or waffles might in that moment influence my choice in favor of one or the other. At the very least this serves as a welcome distraction from my ongoing morbid internal montage.
Klein meanwhile scrutinizes his menu like an engineer poring over reactor core schematics. It takes me not long to make a choice between my self-imposed binary selection; I've been fixated on blueberry pancakes since my quip about the smoke. Cory announces to no one in particular that he wants only some coffee. When the waitress reappears with our water, Cory and I relay our selections and prepare to face the deafening silence that ensues.
In a few minutes Cory has his coffee and Klein wonders aloud if the Tater Crisper Deluxe is preferable to the Bacon and Egg Breakfast Platter with hash browns. Minutes later our ice water stands sweating and undisturbed as I continue to avoid eye contact with any and all sentient beings, and try not to think about dying in traffic accidents, as Cory busies himself emptying what would seem to me to be an inordinate amount of sugar into his coffee. Klein continues to deliberate over god knows what, the waitress' patience undoubtedly waning away rapidly.
Finally the silence is broken:
"Can I get the Bacon and Egg Breakfast Platter?" he asks in a deadpan monotone.
"Would you like white toast or wheat?" she asks.
"Actually, I was wondering if I can just get it without toast?"
Oh, Jesus.
We've been through enough meals in public venues that I have come to dread this point in the proceedings, where I know we will be made to bear witness to Klein's special gift for turning any food-related endeavor into a goddamned filibuster. There is an inexorable 10 minute or so process of arduous song-and-dance with the barista before he finally deigns fit to order anything. Surely a test of patience for even the most magnanimous food industry worker, and a source of anxiety for me as I hope that tales I've heard of the goings-on in the kitchen of a slighted crew are purely apocryphal.
In what eventually amounts to a parlé the likes of which this waitress surely never imagined she would be contending with in a career in the service industry, relative market values of the various Platters and their constituent ingredients are compared and contrasted, and a vast array of recombinations of meals and side dishes are proposed, all for the sake of finalizing the details of Klein's Perfect Breakfast. Time drags by like the moments of a terrible car accident.
Snow leopard leaps into the road. Never see it coming.
Next to him, I can see Cory maintaining a surprising level of nonchalance. Although she shows no outward sign of it, I suspect the waitress now hates all of us.
"I'll just have wheat toast" he decides at last.
The waitress scrawls something on a pad before taking the menus and departing.
"But I'm not going to eat any of it," he adds, turning to me.
Silently I hope in vain that the wait staff will appreciate my non-involvement in their suffering and leave my pancakes free of scrotal contact.
The three of us banter for a while, managing to mitigate some of the tension in the air left following the requisite ordeal. Mostly our discussions involve arcane in-jokes, vivid recollections of grievous faux pas past, and frivolous debates comparing the merits of Beakman's World vs. Bill Nye the Science Guy.
"I liked Beakman!" says Cory, defensively but diffidently.
"Bill Nye had liquid nitrogen and all kinds of stuff," I assert. " What did Beakman have? A guy in a rat suit and some jailbait hippie assistant he probably started grooming from the time he dosed her with acid at whatever peace rally he found her at."
Cory looks mildly horrified at the terrible turn this innocuous topic has so suddenly taken, even Klein halts for a beat before taking a long sip of water. Got 'im there, I think to myself. For a moment Cory seemingly prepares to offer a rebuttal, but finally just sighs and shakes his head, the very picture of resignation. Turning to Klein, I ask,
"How about you Klein? Were you big on Beakman or Bill Nye?"
"I don't know what Beakman is," he says. "And I never watched Billy Nye."
"What," asks Cory, "Mr. Wizard then?"
Several seconds pass as Klein takes another lengthy, deliberate sip of water, apparently the only response he intends to give.
The atmosphere is very much back to normal by the time our food arrives, the entire incident with the wheat toast seemingly forgotten by all. I look for a moment at the short-stack that is set before me, before taking a pensive bite. It's flaky, fluffy, blueberry-ey...
Hmm. Does this taste at all like someone dabbed it with their balls?
Some moments pass as we eat in silence. Suddenly, I am wrested from what is probably some dire rumination by a clanging sound. I look to see Cory ducking beneath the table. He reappears holding a spoon, elucidating:
"I dropped my spoon."
He flags down the waitress, while Klein eats silently, looking wholly unamused.
"Excuse me," Cory says in a tone which "winsome" wouldn't quite do justice. "Something happened to my spoon, can I have another one?"
For the first time since she had the misfortune of having us in her charge , I note that she is smiling as she takes the sullied instrument and vanishes around the corner of an adjacent row of booths. It doesn't seem like a mandated smile of the "service-with-a" variety, either. There is genuine endearment on her face. 'Shit,' I think. 'Why couldn't you have done that before I ate somebody's ball sweat on a pancake?' As if in response so my silent query, Cory turns to me, grinning slightly and pointing in the general direction the waitress had gone.
"I think she likes me!"
"Fuck you, Cory" interjects Klein.
"No, really." He takes a quick look behind the booth. "I'm gonna talk to her when she comes back."
"Make sure you tell her you were a Bill Nye fan," is all I care to contribute.
In a moment or two the waitress is back, handing a fresh gleaming spoon off to Cory. I watch with bemusement as Klein lets out a resigned sigh, Cory leaning far to reach over his head to receive it, all the while effusing his thanks.
"Thanks, thanks, that's fantastic," he says, looking over the spoon like it was a finely crafted filigree.
Just as the waitress is turning to go, Cory speaks up:
"Wait, wait, just a sec!"
She stops and looks on with what seems to be approval as he scrambles up in his seat, Klein giving absolutely no outward reaction besides a perfunctory grunt as Cory presses his weight down on the back of his head to vault over him, still clasping the spoon in his other hand. Klein brings a forkful of egg white away from his mouth and sets it down with a measured click, staring dead ahead with an unamused grimace.
The ensuing conversation between Cory and the waitress carries on just softly enough to be inaudible from where we sit. I look from them down to Klein, who meets my gaze, shaking his head disapprovingly. The best I can offer in response is an exaggerated "I dunno" gesture. He merely resumes his straight ahead stare and pushes his plate away, his appetite apparently gone. He's hardly eaten a third of his Platter.
In the next instant, the clang of a spoon bouncing across the table immediately precedes the raucous clatter of 2 people slamming their full weight upon it. I have only barely enough reaction time to save my extant breakfast from being crushed beneath Cory and his new associate, who proceed to fuck right there on the table; fuck like it was going out of style. I hear Klein let out a loud and pointed sigh. We both just do our best to keep the spectacle just beyond the limits of our peripheral vision , and I note with mild annoyance that the violent shaking of the table has caused some of my water to splash out of its cup. But then 'Say,' I think. 'This might make a funny idea for a skit someday.'
Lord knows this sort of thing has proven difficult in the past, as was duly demonstrated when, right in the beginning, my luddite tendencies ultimately necessitated that the task of actually creating this blog be pushed onto 'imp.' If one purveys the below documented Santa-riddled odyssey of terrifying introspection which he traversed in the process of performing this perfunctory first step, you get an idea of the kind of troubles that can beset a project like this when in the hands of people like us. But, lest we stagnate further on a second introductory post, I'd like to illustrate for you the general dynamics at play amidst the contributors to this blog. Maybe when you read this, you'll understand a bit better where we're coming from:
Let's say, as is so often the case, that the three of us are in the car en route to one of our many favorite pancake-and-waffle joints. From the passenger seat next to me, Cory takes another drag of wild dagga from his commemorative alabaster Ute calumet, adding a bit more smoke to the already impenetrable haze which fills the car, severely impairing my ability to see the winding country roads along which I tear recklessly at top speed. (Which admittedly is less than impressive in my run-down 1986 Chevrolet Cavalier). The windows in the back don't work, and Klein's famed intolerance for effluvia of any sort is prompting him to indulge in a series of severely embellished coughing fits. Eventually realizing we aren't going to take the hint, he resorts to a more direct form of communiqué:
"Roll your fucking windows down, assholes!" he blurts out, at last.
"What's that, hoss?" I yell, my hand simultaneously twisting the volume knob to turn up Shonen Knife to an ear-splitting volume.
"God damn it, you motherfucker!" can just barely be made out over the din of broken English caterwauling and erratic guitar raking. "FUCK!"
"Alright, alright, sorry about that," I say as I turn it back down to a reasonable volume. "What did you want?"
"Open a window in here! I can't BREATHE." From the rearview mirror I can see his exaggerated gesturing as he tugs his collar away from his neck, as though to vent some pent up body heat away from his vital areas.
"Jesus, it's not that bad!" I say, although in in all honesty it is, by any reasonable standards intolerably smoky in the close confines of the car. "I think it smells like blueberries!"
"It does not!" he retorts, his frustrated tone becoming severely grizzled. "And it's not just the smell, the SMOKE is irritating my EYES." He punctuates this with another round of vociferous coughs.
Cory, silently laid back in his seat, shows sudden movement for the first time in maybe 20 minutes as he reaches for the window lever, cracking the window a bit and letting in a whistling stream of shockingly cold air. Happily, my view of the road clears up a bit as the smokescreen is reduced to a thin residual haze.
"There," I say. "Happy now?"
I am answered with another flurry of histrionic coughs; there's no pleasing some people.
Finally we arrive at the place. Klein, all too eager to finally be free of the smoke, lunges for the door and piles out of the car before I even come to a full stop. Getting out of the car, I can't help but take a quick mental inventory of the number of moments on the drive here where we well may have been killed. As usual, my imagination is able to generate an unsettling multitude of unique causes of death, both plausible and farfetched. After a moment of being frozen in transfixed horror, I follow after Klein while Cory hurriedly huffs a last few precious puffs of smoke like they'll be his last for the next 3 weeks.
In short order, the three of us are situated at a booth, warding off a waitress with simple orders for ice water and perusing a fairly standard breakfast menu. For me this is really just a formality, serving little purpose beyond determining whether a photograph of pancakes or waffles might in that moment influence my choice in favor of one or the other. At the very least this serves as a welcome distraction from my ongoing morbid internal montage.
Klein meanwhile scrutinizes his menu like an engineer poring over reactor core schematics. It takes me not long to make a choice between my self-imposed binary selection; I've been fixated on blueberry pancakes since my quip about the smoke. Cory announces to no one in particular that he wants only some coffee. When the waitress reappears with our water, Cory and I relay our selections and prepare to face the deafening silence that ensues.
In a few minutes Cory has his coffee and Klein wonders aloud if the Tater Crisper Deluxe is preferable to the Bacon and Egg Breakfast Platter with hash browns. Minutes later our ice water stands sweating and undisturbed as I continue to avoid eye contact with any and all sentient beings, and try not to think about dying in traffic accidents, as Cory busies himself emptying what would seem to me to be an inordinate amount of sugar into his coffee. Klein continues to deliberate over god knows what, the waitress' patience undoubtedly waning away rapidly.
Finally the silence is broken:
"Can I get the Bacon and Egg Breakfast Platter?" he asks in a deadpan monotone.
"Would you like white toast or wheat?" she asks.
"Actually, I was wondering if I can just get it without toast?"
Oh, Jesus.
We've been through enough meals in public venues that I have come to dread this point in the proceedings, where I know we will be made to bear witness to Klein's special gift for turning any food-related endeavor into a goddamned filibuster. There is an inexorable 10 minute or so process of arduous song-and-dance with the barista before he finally deigns fit to order anything. Surely a test of patience for even the most magnanimous food industry worker, and a source of anxiety for me as I hope that tales I've heard of the goings-on in the kitchen of a slighted crew are purely apocryphal.
In what eventually amounts to a parlé the likes of which this waitress surely never imagined she would be contending with in a career in the service industry, relative market values of the various Platters and their constituent ingredients are compared and contrasted, and a vast array of recombinations of meals and side dishes are proposed, all for the sake of finalizing the details of Klein's Perfect Breakfast. Time drags by like the moments of a terrible car accident.
Snow leopard leaps into the road. Never see it coming.
Next to him, I can see Cory maintaining a surprising level of nonchalance. Although she shows no outward sign of it, I suspect the waitress now hates all of us.
"I'll just have wheat toast" he decides at last.
The waitress scrawls something on a pad before taking the menus and departing.
"But I'm not going to eat any of it," he adds, turning to me.
Silently I hope in vain that the wait staff will appreciate my non-involvement in their suffering and leave my pancakes free of scrotal contact.
The three of us banter for a while, managing to mitigate some of the tension in the air left following the requisite ordeal. Mostly our discussions involve arcane in-jokes, vivid recollections of grievous faux pas past, and frivolous debates comparing the merits of Beakman's World vs. Bill Nye the Science Guy.
"I liked Beakman!" says Cory, defensively but diffidently.
"Bill Nye had liquid nitrogen and all kinds of stuff," I assert. " What did Beakman have? A guy in a rat suit and some jailbait hippie assistant he probably started grooming from the time he dosed her with acid at whatever peace rally he found her at."
Cory looks mildly horrified at the terrible turn this innocuous topic has so suddenly taken, even Klein halts for a beat before taking a long sip of water. Got 'im there, I think to myself. For a moment Cory seemingly prepares to offer a rebuttal, but finally just sighs and shakes his head, the very picture of resignation. Turning to Klein, I ask,
"How about you Klein? Were you big on Beakman or Bill Nye?"
"I don't know what Beakman is," he says. "And I never watched Billy Nye."
"What," asks Cory, "Mr. Wizard then?"
Several seconds pass as Klein takes another lengthy, deliberate sip of water, apparently the only response he intends to give.
The atmosphere is very much back to normal by the time our food arrives, the entire incident with the wheat toast seemingly forgotten by all. I look for a moment at the short-stack that is set before me, before taking a pensive bite. It's flaky, fluffy, blueberry-ey...
Hmm. Does this taste at all like someone dabbed it with their balls?
Some moments pass as we eat in silence. Suddenly, I am wrested from what is probably some dire rumination by a clanging sound. I look to see Cory ducking beneath the table. He reappears holding a spoon, elucidating:
"I dropped my spoon."
He flags down the waitress, while Klein eats silently, looking wholly unamused.
"Excuse me," Cory says in a tone which "winsome" wouldn't quite do justice. "Something happened to my spoon, can I have another one?"
For the first time since she had the misfortune of having us in her charge , I note that she is smiling as she takes the sullied instrument and vanishes around the corner of an adjacent row of booths. It doesn't seem like a mandated smile of the "service-with-a" variety, either. There is genuine endearment on her face. 'Shit,' I think. 'Why couldn't you have done that before I ate somebody's ball sweat on a pancake?' As if in response so my silent query, Cory turns to me, grinning slightly and pointing in the general direction the waitress had gone.
"I think she likes me!"
"Fuck you, Cory" interjects Klein.
"No, really." He takes a quick look behind the booth. "I'm gonna talk to her when she comes back."
"Make sure you tell her you were a Bill Nye fan," is all I care to contribute.
In a moment or two the waitress is back, handing a fresh gleaming spoon off to Cory. I watch with bemusement as Klein lets out a resigned sigh, Cory leaning far to reach over his head to receive it, all the while effusing his thanks.
"Thanks, thanks, that's fantastic," he says, looking over the spoon like it was a finely crafted filigree.
Just as the waitress is turning to go, Cory speaks up:
"Wait, wait, just a sec!"
She stops and looks on with what seems to be approval as he scrambles up in his seat, Klein giving absolutely no outward reaction besides a perfunctory grunt as Cory presses his weight down on the back of his head to vault over him, still clasping the spoon in his other hand. Klein brings a forkful of egg white away from his mouth and sets it down with a measured click, staring dead ahead with an unamused grimace.
The ensuing conversation between Cory and the waitress carries on just softly enough to be inaudible from where we sit. I look from them down to Klein, who meets my gaze, shaking his head disapprovingly. The best I can offer in response is an exaggerated "I dunno" gesture. He merely resumes his straight ahead stare and pushes his plate away, his appetite apparently gone. He's hardly eaten a third of his Platter.
In the next instant, the clang of a spoon bouncing across the table immediately precedes the raucous clatter of 2 people slamming their full weight upon it. I have only barely enough reaction time to save my extant breakfast from being crushed beneath Cory and his new associate, who proceed to fuck right there on the table; fuck like it was going out of style. I hear Klein let out a loud and pointed sigh. We both just do our best to keep the spectacle just beyond the limits of our peripheral vision , and I note with mild annoyance that the violent shaking of the table has caused some of my water to splash out of its cup. But then 'Say,' I think. 'This might make a funny idea for a skit someday.'
Sunday, January 23, 2011
some thoughts on the medium
so, i was going to do this thing where i looked up the current estimate of people in the world, then the estimate of how many of them had computers, then an estimate of how many of them had blogs, then compare that to the number of successful blogs... whatever. the whole thing was just going to boil down to this: everyone is insignificant. rather than trying to impress you with numbers, i'll just have you think about santa claus. there comes a point in every american child's life where they realize WHY santa claus is a rational impossibility, and i think we would all be better served as humans if we gave that moment a little more respect. it's entirely too strenuous a task to imagine all the people on the planet. once you acknowledge the existence of a person, you must then acknowledge that persons personality, his love affairs, his opinion on how fat children are these days - it's impossible. but in that one moment, when you realize exactly how much work it would take that well-dressed man to deliver toys to every child in the world, you get perhaps the best handle on the scope of JUST HOW MANY PEOPLE EXIST. what follows, of course, is a terrible moment of exasperated sadness. we don't want to live in a world where everyone is 95% "just like us," we want to be individuals. the best way to accomplish your dreams, after all, is to ignore all the people who dream of those very same things and will spend their whole lives trying to oust you from your position once you reach it. knowledge is a burden, compassion will get you nothing more than respect, and you don't get a mortgage application approved with respect.
but don't fret! it's possible to live in a world where you acknowledge how utterly meaningless you are and still have the motivation to get out of bed every day and work on whatever stupid thing it is that is your goal, your dream, your very life force! all you have to do is understand that people are more like you than you think. the reason we disagree so damned often is that we all want, at heart, the same things - comfort and satisfaction. there are a million slightly different routes to these constants, and that's where the internicine conflicts arise - and i'm not trying to knock conflict, as the world would be a much duller place without it - but at heart, we all just want to be happy. this is why i'm choosing to ignore the extreme Santa Claus Effect i felt when setting up this blog and moving forward with it anyway, because i know that no matter how many millions of people there are out there with opinions and keyboards and the impetus to get a blogger account, having my own will make me damned happy.
what follows will be a collection of crap my friends and i thought suitable for review. we hope you find it as suitable as we, but if not, you are free to color yourself unimpressed.
hugs and borderline inappropriate kisses,
CMI's imp
but don't fret! it's possible to live in a world where you acknowledge how utterly meaningless you are and still have the motivation to get out of bed every day and work on whatever stupid thing it is that is your goal, your dream, your very life force! all you have to do is understand that people are more like you than you think. the reason we disagree so damned often is that we all want, at heart, the same things - comfort and satisfaction. there are a million slightly different routes to these constants, and that's where the internicine conflicts arise - and i'm not trying to knock conflict, as the world would be a much duller place without it - but at heart, we all just want to be happy. this is why i'm choosing to ignore the extreme Santa Claus Effect i felt when setting up this blog and moving forward with it anyway, because i know that no matter how many millions of people there are out there with opinions and keyboards and the impetus to get a blogger account, having my own will make me damned happy.
what follows will be a collection of crap my friends and i thought suitable for review. we hope you find it as suitable as we, but if not, you are free to color yourself unimpressed.
hugs and borderline inappropriate kisses,
CMI's imp
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