tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88854015624634599192024-02-10T11:29:29.085-08:00Welcome To Hollywood.Musings, Writings, and Slanderous Accusations of Tony TallaricoTTalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682147384268382860noreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885401562463459919.post-3742243439891003852013-03-06T13:55:00.002-08:002013-03-06T13:55:40.288-08:00Eek and MarvinMy friend, Brian Kistler, (a talented animator and illustrator check out his artwork <a href="http://kistlerart.blogspot.com/2013/03/work-sketch.html" target="_blank">here</a>) and I decided we wanted to write a graphic novel. He had the idea of a child discovering a monster in a well. So I wrote a 20-page short story/script that we would base it on. What I wrote was a bit long for a graphic novel and in my efforts to edit it down, I've actually ended up expanding it into something much larger.<br />
<br />
Anyway, after the jump is the original story. Hope you enjoy.<br />
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<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
Eek and Marvin.<br />
<br />
Eek is a kid. Smaller than the other kids in his class. He’s younger too. The teacher is explaining something about advanced math. Eek is fascinated by it. The numbers and graphs float around him. A large, grumpy kid next to him grabs Eek’s imaginary graph and throws it to the ground.<br />
<br />
The teacher speaks, “I’m going to pass back your tests from Wednesday.” He moves down the aisles, handing out the test results to the students. “With so many of you struggling, I was going to curve the grade.” He arrives at Eek’s desk, “But someone managed to get a perfect score.” The teacher pats Eek’s head.<br />
<br />
Every student is turned and glaring at Eek.<br />
<br />
LATER<br />
<br />
Eek is in the Library getting a stack of books. He fumbles and drops them. He starts picking them up and another set of hands is helping him. They belong to Glenda Gartrel, the prettiest girl in the school.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You really like Jules Verne, huh?” She says.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Uhh…” Eek blushes brightly. His jaw is on the floor.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I like him too. If you like science fiction, you should read Bradbury.” She hands him his books.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Okay,” he says. She smiles to him and he smiles back and she waves,<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“see you later!” Eek watches her go, smiling like a fool.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I love Bradbury…” he manages to whisper.<br />
<br />
LATER<br />
Eek is walking along the sidewalk on a cool autumn day. He’s reading Journey to the Center of the Earth “Hey, Geek!” Eek’s head lowers, picks up the pace. “I said, hey Geek!” Eek stops.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“My name is Eek,” he whispers.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Behind Eek is a huge kid. He towers over Eek. This is Bruno. “You say something, geek?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“No…”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Behind Bruno is a pack of kids, all of them are older and taller than Eek. One of them is a girl.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Leave him alone, Bruno!” Says the girl. Eek smiles when he sees her. Glenda Gartrel, the prettiest girl in school.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“We’re just talking, Glenda!” Bruno puts an arm around Eek and musses his hair. “we’re buddies.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“He’s just a little kid,” Glenda says. Kinda hurts Eek to hear that. Bruno shoves Eek into the arms of one of his cohorts and walks to Glenda.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“We’re having fun, babe. That’s all. Me and my little buddy here. Why don’t you go home? I’ll call you later.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Don’t hurt him, Bruno.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Hurt him?! Why, I’d ha! Glenda, baby, c’mon.” Bruno kisses Glenda. “I’ll talk to you later.” Glenda looks from Bruno to Eek and back and shuffles off in a huff.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bruno walks back to Eek, puts an arm on his shoulder. “C’mon geek. We’re gonna play a game.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I need to go home… I’ve got a lot of homework,” Eek says.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You hear that guys? He’s got a lot of homework! Big ol’ brain a yours and you wanna go do more homework. C’mon,” Bruno leads Eek down the road. Bruno notices the book Eek’s holding and grins. “The game’s called…”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bruno and his gang have taken Eek to a well on the edge of town. “Journey to the center of the earth?” Eek asks. He looks down the well that seems to go on forever into blackness. The well has a rope and a bucket attached.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Yeah, buddy. Here’s how we play. You get into the bucket and we lower you down.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I don’t want to go down there”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You’ll be fine,” Bruno says. He puts Eek into the bucket. “Here’s a flashlight.” Eek tries turning the flashlight on.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“It doesn’t work.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Here are the batteries,” Bruno extends a hand with the batteries. Eek goes to grab them when, “Whoops!” The batteries fall down deep into the well. Eek starts to panic.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“No! No! I don’t want to play! I have to go do homework!” Bruno chuckles and nods to his cohorts who turn a crank, lowering the bucket into the well. And Eek goes Down. Down. Down.<br />
<br />
IN THE DARKNESS<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The bottom of the well expands into a large cave sort of thing. There’s no water, though.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>At the bottom of the well, Eek fumbles in the dark until he hears something. “Hello?” Eek says. “Guys! I think something is down here!” He shouts up, and hears only laughter that fades and grows further away. He hears the noise again. “Is someone here? Hello? I’m sorry, I’m not supposed to be here. My friends sent me down here… I think they may have left…”<br />
<br />
A voice in the darkness responds, “Don’t sound much like friends at all.” Eeks eyes go wide. Terror. “You shouldn’t be down here, kid. Monsters live down here.” Eek looks back up to the opening of the well.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Monsters live up there, too.” Eek says. “Probably more of them. Did your friends send you down here, too?” A beat of silence.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Kinda.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Eek starts groping around on the floor, looking for batteries.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Are they coming back for you?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I hope not.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You wanna be down here forever?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“What are you looking for?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“My friends gave me a flashlight, but they threw the batteries down here. I can’t see really well. Have you seen them?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I’ll help you look.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I don’t think my friends are coming back,” Eek says.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“They sound like bad friends.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Yeah, I guess they’re not really my friends at all. My friends are really…” Eek pauses and thinks: Captain Nemo. Phileas Fogg. Ishmael. “Well, they’re on submarines and whaling ships, I guess.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Are they always on submarines?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Kinda.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Here they are.” The batteries roll towards Eek, who finds them at his feet.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Thanks! Do you wanna be my friend?” Eek picks them up and puts the batteries into the flashlight.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Really? Yeah, sure. I‘ll be your friend.”<br />
“My name’s Eek. What’s your name?” Eek turns on the flashlight, illuminating the vast cave at the bottom of the well. And finally there, in the light is,<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Marvin…”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Marvin is a little wary of the light. “Aren’t you going to scream?” Marvin asks. Eek shakes his head.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“No, why?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I dunno. People usually scream.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Well, I’m not going to.” Eek looks up the bucket-rope. He grabs onto the rope and tries to climb up. It’s a struggle and he falls back down. “It’s getting dark…”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Yeah.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I need to get home.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Oh, okay. I understand.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Do you know of any other way out of here?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Sure. This way.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Marvin takes him down a path into this cave system. The walls are covered in paintings Marvin has done. Marvin says, “You can turn the flashlight off if you want. I know this place by heart.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> “Aren’t you afraid?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“There’s no one here but you and me.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> “Yeah… Did you paint these?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Yeah.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I like them. They’re really good. I draw sometimes, but I’m better at math.” Eek leaves the flashlight on. “Do you live here?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Yeah.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Eek stops walking and cocks his head, puzzled, “Why? There’s no one here.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Yeah. C’mon, kid.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Your friends put you here and now you live here? Why didn’t you go home?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“This is home. There’s… There’s no other place. I tried to live in town but like I said, people usually scream when they see me.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Why?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Cause I look… I don’t look normal. So they scream and they call me names. Then something happened. Something bad.” Marvin thinks back to a young girl lying in a street. She’s not moving. “It’s easier for people to point fingers at something they don’t understand.” Marvin thinks about the anger of the village. The torches. Pitchforks. Mob. “People can hate so easily if they decide that you’re different. They can turn cruel if they get the idea you don’t belong there.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Yeah…”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>They arrive at an opening, the cave lets out into a hilly field by the woods at the edge of town. Eek says, “I gotta get home. My mom might be making meatloaf. You want to come have meatloaf?” Marvin smiles and gets excited at the invitation, but looks at the town and remembers the villagers and the torches. His smile droops and he shakes his head. “Maybe some other time, buddy,” Marvin says.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Oh… okay. Sure. See you, Marvin!”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“See ya…”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Eek runs home and Marvin disappears back into the shadows of the cave. He bumps into something, holds it up- a book. 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>At home, Eek runs into the house. “Mom?” He gets into the kitchen. “Oh, hey, mom,” Eek says to a note on the fridge. The note reads, “Meatloaf dinner is in the freezer. Do your homework and brush your teeth before bed. I’ll see you in the morning. Love, Mom.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Thanks! Love you too, mom!” Eek says, opening the freezer.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>LATER, Eek is doing his homework in front of the TV. Big ol’ calculus book that’s almost bigger than he is. There’s a noise. Eek looks around. “Mom?” No response. The noise again, a clink. Small pebble on the window. Eek goes to the window and looks out. Down below is Glenda, Bruno’s girlfriend.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Hey, Eek. You okay?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Glenda? What are you doing here?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I just wanted to say… I didn’t know they were going to do that today. I think that it was really mean of them.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“It’s okay. I’m alright. They were just having fun.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“It was mean. They always do stuff like that and I… Anyway. I’m glad you’re okay. See you at school. Goodnight, Eek.” And Glenda leaves. Eek watches her leave, enamored.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In front of Bruno’s house, Bruno passes a car parked on the lawn. He gets home, slams the door behind him. “Mom? Dad? Anyone home?” He shouts.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>A voice shouts back, “How many times have I told you, don’t slam the God damn door!?” In the living room the TV is on. Whiskey on the coffee table. Stubble-faced father, Burt.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Sorry, dad.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“What took you so long to get home?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I was playing with my friends?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“The hell were you playing for? You’re fourteen. When I was your age, I had a job at the mill.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Me and the guys, we were having some fun with this new kid. He’s a couple grades below and in our math class.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Sounds like a smart kid. Bet he makes his father really happy.” Bruno looks down, kinda ashamed. Hurt.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Well, remember when Uncle Phil told me about the time you put him down the old well and you kept laughing and laughing as he was telling it? Well me and the guys put this new kid down the well!”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Burt’s eyes are anger. “You did what?!” Burt yells. He gets up.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bruno cowers. “We were just having fun, like you and Uncle Phil used to. I thought it would be funny.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You put a boy down the old well?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Yeah, but it-”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“The hell were you thinking? Is he okay?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Yeah, I guess-”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Top drawer. Now.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Dad, I just wanted-”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Top drawer. Left side. Belt. Go.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bruno goes to fetch the belt.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>THE NEXT DAY, MORNING. Eek walks into the kitchen. “Morning, mom,” Eek says to the note on the fridge, “Pop tarts are in the cupboard. Love you, Mom.” Eek stands on a chair to reach the pop-tarts.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Then, Eek is at the CAVE. He goes in. “Marvin? Marvin you home?” Eek shines his flashlight around. Finds Marvin painting.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“What’re you doing here?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I thought I’d come say hi before school. I brought you a pop-tart.” Hands him the poptart.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Thanks, buddy.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Whatcha painting?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“It’s the Nautilus. I um… You dropped this yesterday.” Marvin hands Eek 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea. “I hope you don’t mind, I read it.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Did you like it? It’s my favorite! The part with the Giant Squid!”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“That’s the part I’m painting!”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Here,” Eek says. And hands the book back to him. “Keep it! I’ve read it a million times.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“But it’s your favorite.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“It still will be. But now it can be your favorite too.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Thanks.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I gotta get to school, but I’ll see you later!”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Later…”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Eek runs off.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>SCHOOL. Eek sits at his desk, reading around the world in 80 days. A massive fist slams down on the desktop. Eek looks up. Bruno above him in the stratosphere, Black eye.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Today. After school. You’re dead.” GULP. Bruno walks to his desk behind Eek. Eek stares at the clock. TICK TOCK. He can’t focus on the teacher or the board. He looks at the window. A red balloon is caught on a branch. Wind picks up, the Balloon is loosed from the tree and flies away. Eek sighs.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bell rings.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Eek runs down the street. He looks around constantly. Running through a woody thicket, jumping over logs, going through a meadow.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Gotcha!” Hand grabs him by the scruff of his neck.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“What’d I do?!” Eek squeals.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Shut up!” Bruno says, cracking his knuckles. Eek winces, closing his eyes. “Open your eyes!” Eek peeks through one open eye. He sees the Well on the hill a bit away.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Help!” Eek shouts.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“No one is going to help you.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In the cave, Marvin is painting a Squid on the side of the Nautilus. He hears Eek calling for help and rushes up the rope and out of the well. To see:<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bruno lands a solid blow right across Eek’s face. Eek falls down. Bruno follows him down and swings. Marvin charges Bruno and knocks him off of Eek!<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Leave my friend alone!” Marvin’s voice booms and echoes. Bruno’s face is shock.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Monster!” He shouts, “The freak and the monster are friends!” Eek is crying, but trying to hold it back.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Get out of here. Now!” Marvin shouts.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“ Weirdos! You two should just stay in that well! Hah!”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Go!” Marvin shouts and it reminds Bruno of his father before a beating and shakes him. He flees.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Marvin turns to see Eek, tears streaming, fists clenched.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Why? What did I do to him?” Eek says. “I just want to be left alone. Why won’t he just leave me alone?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Marvin shakes his head. “Guys like him have trouble…”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bruno arrives at home. Door slams behind him. “…We don’t always get to see what it is...”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bruno’s father, Burt, storms in. Bruno puts his hands up, apologetically. “…And they try to keep it hidden…”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> Burt, points at a grass stain on Bruno’s shirt. Bruno shrugs, shakes his head. “…But they take their anger from their trouble…”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Burt backhands Bruno across the face. “…And they put it on someone else. They feel out of control…”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>BACK AT THE WELL, Eek and Marvin sit next to each other. “ so they try to take control from someone else,” Marvin says.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“It’s not fair,” Eek says.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Nope. It’s not.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Marvin?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Hmm?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Can we always be fair? Can we try to be fair to each other?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“We can try.” Marvin puts his arm on Eek’s shoulder.<br />
<br />
AT BURT/BRUNO’S Bruno is on the ground, huddled fetal from his father. “Dad, stop! It’s not my fault! It was that freak kid and the monster!” Burt relents.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“What did you say?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“That monster! The one you blamed for Sophie’s death to cover—”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Shut your damn mouth! The monster that killed Sophie did this?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Yeah, that freak kid I was telling you about yesterday is friends with it. They hang out at the abandoned well.” Burt takes a pull of whiskey.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Well, we can’t just let that menace be… That old well has a second entrance, a cave on another hill. If we can seal that cave, we can trap him in there!”<br />
<br />
LATER, Eek is sitting alone against the Well on the grass, reading. “Heya, Eek,” Glenda says as she walks up. “Been looking for ya.” Eek sets his book down.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Really? Looking for me?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Yeah. Heard about what Bruno did. I dunno what’s wrong with him, but he’s been a real jerk lately.” She sits down next to Eek.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Yeah.” Eek wipes some blood from his swollen lips.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Oh my God, did he do that?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Yeah…”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Well I didn’t come here to apologize for him. He can’t do that himself, I’m not gonna do it for him anymore.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“What do you mean?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“When I heard what he did I broke up with him. He told me what happened and it was unreal. I couldn’t believe him. It was like suddenly a thick fog cleared in my mind and I could see him for the jerk he really is.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“So you’re single, then?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Of course! I couldn’t keep dating him. What kind of a person beats up a little kid?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Little kid…”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I mean, he’s so much bigger and older than you—” Eek leans over and kisses her cheek. Glenda is wide-eyed with surprise and turns to him.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I love Bradbury and you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. Will you be my girlfriend?” She blushes.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Oh, Eek that’s really sweet. You’re a special guy. I don’t think I really want a boyfriend right now though.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Oh… Okay. That’s okay. I understand.” Eek is a little crestfallen. Then he looks down at his hand and notices that Glenda is holding it. He smiles like crazy.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Hey, Eek! Come check out the painting!” Marvin shouts from inside the well.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Who was that, Eek?” Glenda asks.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Oh, that’s Marvin,” Eek says as Marvin climbs up and over the well.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Hi, I’m Marvin!” Marvin introduces himself. Glenda Screams.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“No, no! Don’t scream,” Eek says. Marvin looks worried and a little ashamed. “Glenda, It’s okay. He’s not a bad guy. He’s my friend.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I know who he is!” Glenda shouts, “I was only eight, but I remember the day that Sophie died.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“What?” Eek is confused.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“That wasn’t me! I didn’t do that!”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“What wasn’t you?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“This… This thing… This Monster killed my sister.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The memories come back to her: Her sister, the girl that was lying in the street in Marvin’s early flashback, dancing. Twirling carefree and then in the street. “He smashed her! He hit her so hard it broke all her ribs.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I would never do that!”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“When the people in town found out what happened, they got together and drove him out!”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Is that true, Marvin? Is that why you live in the well?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I had nothing to do with that! Eek, I would never hurt someone.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You hurt Bruno…”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Because he was attacking my friend! Eek, you’re my friend. You understand, they just blamed me because I was different!”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Because you’re a monster!” Glenda shouts<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I’m not!” Marvin starts to cry, but holds it back.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“C’mon, Eek. Let’s get out of here.” Glenda takes Eek by the hand and leads him away. Eek looks back.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Wait…” Eek whispers. Marvin climbs down into the well behind them. His sobs echoing in the well-shaft.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Did you say something, Eek?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Nothing.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>On their way to Eek’s house, they see a group of people in the street. Torches. Pitchforks. “What’s that?” Eek asks. The mob is lead by Burt. All of Bruno’s bully friends march down the street. Dozens of people all moving together. Eek realizes what’s happening. “I have to go,” he says. He pulls away from her, but her hand is tight on his.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Eek, it’s for the best.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“The best for who?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“It’s dangerous.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“He’s not violent.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“It’s not a person.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“He’s my friend.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“He’s a monster.”<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Eek points at the mob. “That’s the monster.” He pulls his hand from hers and runs. Down the street, away from the city to the edge of town where he runs through the field, the mob closing in. He gets to the Well.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Marvin! Marvin, where are you?!” He shouts down.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Go away!”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Marvin! Come up here!”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Let’s try to be fair to each other! That’s what you said!”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Marvin, I’m sorry. I was wrong! But you have to go! You’ve got to run. There’s a mob coming.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Eek slides down the rope into the well.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“They’re coming here?” Marvin is next to the finished painting of the Nautilus.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Yeah. You finished the painting… Is that you and me fighting the giant squid?” Eek smiles, enchanted by the painting.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“But this is my home… Where do I go?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I’m sorry, Marvin. This is all my fault. It’s not fair that they’re doing this.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“No, Eek. It’s not your fault. This is the way things have always been. You must run, take the exit through the cave. I’ll go up the well and see how far they are. I’ll meet you at the exit and we can say good-bye.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Marvin goes up the well as Eek runs into the cave. Marvin sees the torches in the distance and runs for the cave entrance.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>At the cave entrance, Bruno and his gang swing pick axes at the loose rock supporting the ceiling.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“So we’re gonna trap the monster in there?” One of them says.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Exactly,” says Bruno.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“And then what do you we do?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I dunno,” Says Bruno.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Do you think they’ll kill it?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Probably,” says Bruno.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I heard it killed Glenda’s sister.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Of course it did! What else could have killed her? Crushed all her ribs, smashed her apart. It’s a monster!”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Did anyone see it kill her?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Shut your damn mouth,” says Bruno. The ceiling of the cave collapses.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The mob arrives and circles the well. “We know you’re in there, monster!” shouts Burt. “You’re trapped and surrounded! Come out now or we’ll smoke you out!”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The mob stands, listening. No response.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Alright,” Burt shouts, “pour it in!” Mob members pour kerosene down into the well. “Good! Now… Light it up!”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>A couple of people drop their torches down into the well and flames go way into the sky.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>IN THE DARKNESS<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Eek searches for the cave’s exit. He can’t find it. “Marvin?! Marvin where are you? I can’t find the exit!”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>AT THE COLLAPSE<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Marvin hears Eek shouting. “Eek! The cave collapsed!” Marvin goes to move a rock. It won’t budge. Even he isn’t strong enough.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Marvin! I can see… there’s a light down here now.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Hang on, Eek! I’m coming to get you!”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Okay!” Eek says and starts to cough.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Marvin sprints back to the well. He sees the mob surrounding and the warm glow of the flames below. He lets out a shout and runs through the crowd. He dives into the well. People scream, shocked. Marvin lands in the well with a thud and a roar. He dashes out of the fire down the cave and finds Eek, huddled on the ground. Eek coughs.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“C’mon, buddy.” Marvin scoops Eek up and puts him on his shoulder. He runs back, through the fire. He climbs the wall of the well, digging his fist into the rock, clambering up the wall with one hand still holding Eek the entire way.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Marvin bursts out of the well again and the crowd is shocked. Marvin glares at them and they make a space.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“He’s got a kid with him!” Someone shouts.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>He lays Eek down on the ground.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“C’mon Eek!” Marvin says. “C’mon!” Marvin nudges Eek, shakes him lightly. “Someone do something!”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“He did it again! He’s killed another kid,” says Burt.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Eek! Please, wake up. Wake up, Eek…” Someone from the crowd steps forward and kneels down next to Eek. They check his pulse. Marvin looks at them with hopeful eyes but they shake their head. Tears are already down Marvin’s face.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Eek was the only person that took a moment to know me before screaming and running. He was the kindest boy and you… You just…” Marvin’s fists clench. <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“But Eek made me realize something in the time I knew him. That sometimes, when things are out of our control, we lash out against others to pretend like we’ve got control. But I refuse to do that. Eek was better than that and so am I.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“How many kids are we gonna let this monster take from us before we finally decide enough is enough,” Burt shouts.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“No, dad,” says Bruno.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Shut up, boy,” Says Burt. “Let’s put an end to this here and now!” Burt hefts his pitchfork.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“No! This is all your fault, Dad. All of this! You’re the reason Eek’s dead. You’re the reason Sophie’s dead. Not him!”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Burt backhands Bruno, who falls to the ground. A murmur rises in the crowd.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“What’s he mean, Burt?” someone asks.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Nothin, he’s just smartin off like the fool son he is.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I’m not smartin off. I’m telling the damn truth. My dad was drunk as hell that night. He was driving back from the liquor store. I was there with him. I saw Sophie in the street. I saw her eyes look at me and then I heard the brakes, but it was too late.”<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“That’s bull-” Shouts Burt.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Looks like we’ve got our monster right here.” Someone says. The crowd tightens around Burt. Marvin walks away, his head hung low in despair.<br />
<br />
END<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
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<br />TTalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682147384268382860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885401562463459919.post-78658294842969516532013-03-04T22:05:00.000-08:002013-03-04T22:05:05.342-08:00First Sentences that SuckRecently, I've been struggling to put down a first sentence. And I realized that this had something to do with the fact that none of them were any good. I'd write something like, "Morning light broke through the blinds and bathed the floor in stripes." And then I'd say to myself, "Well what the fuck am I even talking about?"<br />
<br />
It bothered me to the point that I grabbed my Hemingway section from my library and looked at the first sentence of each book. My findings lead me to an exercise and a method for writing good first sentences that story can grow from organically and help alleviate "writer's block."<br /><br />
<a name='more'></a><br />"Robert Cohn was once middleweight boxing champion of Princeton." <i>The Sun Also Rises</i><br /><br />"He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish." <i>The Old Man and The Sea</i><br />
<br />
"He lay flat on the brown, pine-needled floor of the forest, his chin on his folded arms, and high overhead the wind blew in the tops of the pine trees." <i>For Whom the Bell Tolls</i><br />
<br />
"We were sitting in the blind that Wanderobo hunters had built of twigs and branches at the edge of the salt-lick when we heard the truck coming." <i>Green Hills of Africa</i><br />
<br />
"They were living at le Grau du Roi then and the hotel was on a canal that ran from the walled city of Aigues Mortes straight down to the sea." <i>Garden of Eden</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I noticed a pattern. First of all, we know, while not explicitly or definitively, who we are talking about. There is the mention of a character or characters within the first sentence. Secondly, we learn either something about the characters themselves, or their setting. He packs his first sentence densely with a lot of data to be understood.<br />
<br />
My initial sentence about morning light or whatever spent an entire sentence giving very little data; it is morning and there are blinds and a floor. Who gives a fuck? That could be any room at the first hours of the day.<br />
<br />
So I devised an exercise: Write sentences that mimic Hemingway's technique giving information about both character and setting immediately. I wasn't worried about the second sentence because I was working on building first sentences that laid foundation for second sentences. That second sentences could grow organically from.<br />
<br />
My examples:<br />
<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"He was crouched behind the craggy outcropping of granite, the sun high above, and in the distance a hawk screeched."<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Stephen Jones had been at the battle when the allied forces surrendered.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"We had just finished folding the blanket and packed it back into the basket."<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I tapped the final nail into the coarse box of deal and set the hammer on the table that ran the length of my workshop."<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Brenda sat on the cold porcelain and, when she finished peeing, she retreived the stick from between her legs."<br />
TTalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682147384268382860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885401562463459919.post-34608547095546494022013-02-28T14:13:00.000-08:002013-02-28T14:16:03.825-08:00The New Record Chapter 2 Part 1Bill and Modern Psychiatric Parenting. The story continues.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It was a belief once held by some people on earth that dreams were a omen of things to come. That they could foretell the future. Of course, when we made notes of this in the record, we thought it was an adorable little phase that your race was going through. Any species with an even half-assed understanding of quantum mechanics knows that there is absolutely no way of foretelling the future with any decent accuracy. Yet you have all developed so many ways that are just vague enough to work. Crystal balls, tarot cards, the so-called mediums that can see through time into the future. Your desire to know the ending is so intense, you’re willing to buy into all of that hocus pocus.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>But then came a time when the role of dreams was something else altogether. They were a reflection, not of the future, but of the inner workings of a person. They brought to the surface great fears, past traumas, unknown feelings and hurts. There were still people to read these dreams and soothsay what they meant. And from the interpretation of dreams arose an entire field of analysis of the human mind. Through the understanding of symbols and metaphor, a patient’s mind could be unspun from the web of subconscious into a single thread of logic. It was very scientific.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Somewhere along the line they decided that there should be involved a type of statistical analysis that decided the experience of the most people should be the experience of everyone. It was called the norm.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The norm.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>And it became the role of these mind-reading head doctors to help people achieve the norm. To keep them from the fringes, a place vilified and filled with deviants and cretins. The fringes were where drug addicts and serial killers lived. No one wanted to be one of them.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So if someone felt like maybe they were becoming a serial killer, they would go see the head doctors. And then they would talk. They would talk, an hour at a time, about their parents and their jobs and their friends and made you decide to see me? This reflection allowed patients to see more of the puzzle than ever before, and it was good.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The record shows that some point in the last hundred years, it was determined that the chemicals that people are made of are sometimes wrong. That sometimes, people had a few puzzle pieces missing or in the wrong spot, and this kept them from the norm. Thankfully, humans had developed ways of manufacturing puzzle pieces to give to people that allowed them to achieve the norm. For a lot of people, this filled them in and gave them goodness.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>But the folks that made the pieces knew that there weren’t enough people with pieces missing to make them any money. A lot of these folks were the same folks that made a snuff-load of money selling tobacco. They went to their friends in government and said to them,<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Look at all the goodness we’re giving our countrymen. Let us give more goodness to everyone.” And the government looked and saw that it was good and agreed, yes it may be given it to everyone. So the folks that made puzzle pieces spent some money to make advertisements. And these advertisements would make people think that they had missing pieces, even if they didn’t.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>These poor confused people that thought their pieces were missing would go to the doctor. The doctor, whose job it was to make people better, would agree that certainly they needed those missing pieces. So they would take some pills and it would put the fake pieces in them and knock the real pieces out of their place.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Now, over time the fake pieces begin to melt. So to stay at the norm, you have to keep getting more pieces. The people that made the fake pieces may have known this, but they figured that it was a sure way to keep demand high, and that it would make them a lot of money. So they did it anyway.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>* *</div>
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>About a month ago, when Bill started living alone in his apartment, Howard had given Bill the card to the company head doctor.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I’m sure this is a difficult time for you,” Howard had said. He put a hand on Bill’s back and walked him out of the office. “I just can’t imagine what I would do if Sandra ever left me.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Thanks,” Bill said and he looked at the card, but never called.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Now, Howard sat in Bill’s office. He was holding two cups of coffee, both still steaming. He was still smiling then, excited about the potential of Bill’s new assignment and looking forward to giving Bill a brief overview of the project before an syn-synch with his own bosses in two hours. Bill was expected to be there at any minute and Howard had gone through the trouble of bringing him a cup of coffee. The record shows that this was intended to be a polite gesture. Howard had legitimately forgotten that Bill told him he stopped drinking coffee the day before. Howard had a tendency to gloss over the minutia of conversation, feeling that it was superficial. Howard looked at his watch and smiled.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bill sat in the head doctor’s waiting room, three floors below his office. He had taken a ticket from the deli-style red number dispenser and when he sat down, he glanced up to a large illuminated sign where numbers made of little red dots of light told him what number they were on. There were only a few other patients ahead of him. He looked down at the stack of last year’s magazines on the table and decided to read an article about how spinach might be bad for him. He worried for a moment, thinking that he had eaten spinach at some time in the last week, but then remembered that he had larger problems in his life. For example, that morning he had seen an alien in his living room that told him he was going to save the world. Bill believed, frankly, that he was losing his mind.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Across the dull waiting room, kicking his legs beneath his chair, a boy no older than six sat impatiently with his father. Every so often he would start to squirm in his chair. He was squirming then, when he jumped up to his feet and proclaimed, “The floor is lava!” And he jumped up onto his chair and from the chair onto the coffee table, then onto a chair next to Bill. The child’s father looked up at the boy and rolled his eyes.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Buddy,” the father said, “come on guy, get down from there.” There was a meekness to the father’s voice that was enough for the child to know the father wouldn’t do anything.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I want toys!” the boy shouted. “I want my Mr. Action Man!”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I don’t have your Mr. Action Man. Maybe we can get it when we get home,” the father said, continuing to read his paper.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The boy walked down the row of chairs, stomping loudly on each one, then back down the line to Bill where he stopped, put his hands on his hips, and put his face right in Bill’s.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Move!” The boy said.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Excuse me?” Bill said. The boy put his hands on Bill’s face and wriggled them around.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Move it, doo doo head!” The boy shouted this time. The father looked up from his paper.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Don’t do that buddy,” the father said. The boy looked at him for a second and then back to Bill and pantomimed his father with a wagging finger. Bill wrung his hands together and coughed nervously.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Don’t do that buddy,” the boy said wagging his finger in Bill’s face and speaking through his nose. Bill bit his lip and looked away, trying to ignore the child the way the father was. Again the child repeated his father’s words.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bill sat there and stared in astonishment. Never in Bill’s childhood would he have dared to do something like that. He tried once, and we have notes of it in the record.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When Bill was eight he pointed his toy gun at the ice cream man. The ice cream man stopped the truck, grabbed Bill by the ear, walked up to Bill’s house and told his father. His father apologized to the man, thanked him, and took Bill inside. Bill’s father took off his belt and tanned his hide. Says here, that’s what Bill’s father called it, tanning a hide. Foot note says that it is a term borrowed from leather making.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bill turned from the boy, who was still mocking his father in his nasally voice, to the father, who was now continuing to ignore his child. “Excuse me,” Bill said. The father set down his paper and raised an eyebrow as if to say, can I help you? “Could you do something?” Bill asked then added, “please?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Kids, huh?” The father said, and smirked. “You got any?” Bill shook his head. “They’re a handful, that’s for sure!” And the father laughed. The child kept repeating his father and adopted the line “you got any?” and put his hands back on Bill’s face and pushed the halves alternately up and down.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Go away,” Bill said to the child. The father lowered his newspaper.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Go away,” the child took up as his new mantra. As Bill’s face was smushed together and spread apart by the tiny hands of a six year old, he thought about how this was not how the world was supposed to work. The thought went through his mind that there were supposed to be rules against children smushing together the faces of strangers. This violation of the rules could not go on any longer.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bill grabbed the child’s hands and removed them from his face, then pointed at a chair across the room and shouted, “Go sit down in that chair and do not get up again.” A stunned silence filled the room for a moment. Even the receptionist was staring at them. The father stood up from his seat, throwing the paper to the floor.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You don’t touch my son.” His eyes filled with righteousness and the fury of a choir of cherubs. He glared down at Bill. It was when his son stepped down from the chair that the man’s face softened. The boy dismounted with a hop and walked across the room to the seat that Bill had pointed, where he sat down and kicked his feet beneath him. The father looked from the boy then to Bill and did a double take in confusion, unsure how Bill managed to wrangle the little monster. Then, he exhaled, shrugged, and sat down, picking up his paper.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Shortly after the scene had been made, the receptionist called the man’s name and he lead the boy, who Bill was beginning to believe was actually named Buddy, into the back. Before the large wooden door clicked shut, Bill could make out the father saying, “I’d like to get him on Ritalin, or whatever. He gets out of control and I just don’t know what to do.” And the nurse nodding.TTalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682147384268382860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885401562463459919.post-36684782355718739652013-02-26T19:56:00.000-08:002013-02-26T19:56:18.439-08:00The New Record: Chapter 1 Part 3The conclusion of the first chapter of The New Record!<br />
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<a name='more'></a><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bill was watching an advertisement when I came to him for the very first time. It was an advertisement for the beer he was drinking and when the women in bikinis started playing volleyball, Bill curled the bottle up to his mouth and took a long slurp and licked his lips to get the last drops of yeast fart from them and then I tapped his shoulder.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Excuse me?” I said to Bill, who froze stiff and then jumped across the coffee table and turned around to see me. Then Bill screamed. When he finished screaming, he gasped and screamed again. For all the terror he seemed to be experience, Bill remained frozen to the spot he landed opposite me across the coffee table. After his lungs exhausted their air on the second scream, Bill’s eyes rolled skyward and his body gave a light shudder and he collapsed down to the carpeted floor of the living room.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Something you should know, while this seems to paint Bill in a sort of cowardice, it is actually a completely common reaction. It’s the same reaction that Ernesto Hathaway had had about eighty years before when I first met him in Africa. And Ernesto was among the most courageous humans to have ever lived.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When Bill came to, he found himself laying on the couch covered with a blanket. I was in the kitchen, making a sandwich. When I returned to the living room, Bill was rubbing his head. I set the sandwich on the coffee table and the clanking of the plate on the glass tabletop made Bill look up and he went to scream again.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Knock that shit off!” I yelled. And you know what? He did. Bill went into a state of shock, eyes wide, jaw agape, speechless and staring. “Thank you. Well. Hello, Bill,” I said to him. He didn’t respond.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Perfectly natural of you to be surprised,” I said to him, “but at some point you’re going to seem rude if you don’t start acting normally.” And so Bill blinked once and forced from his lips one struggled word.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Alien.” And Bill passed right on back out. I ate half of the sandwich I made for him and left.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The next morning, Bill awoke refreshed and terrified. His alpha and beta wave patterns indicated that he’d had a terrible dream. In his dream, Bill was in an empty void of blackness all by himself. Suddenly a little green alien came to him. The alien poked Bill and he exploded into a hot mess of nonsense that expanded out into the void. I’m making a note on the record that I am neither little nor green. Though I could be if I so desired.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bill rubbed his eyes and shook his head, remembering the night before. He thought for a moment it must have all been a dream. Then he saw the half eaten sandwich and the two empty beer bottles on the tabletop. Part of him chalked it up to indigestion and stress, but still he couldn’t remember making or eating the sandwich. It was important that I speak to Bill.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So I returned.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>This time I appeared in front of Bill at the foot of the couch. He rubbed his eyes.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Bill. My name is Gazoo,” I said, and waited for him to speak. He took a deep breath, pulled the blanket tight around him and spoke.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Okay,” he said. I smiled. Bill maintained his dull empty look. It was something he did a lot when we first met. I thought he might say more, but he just sat there.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Right. Bill, it has come to my attention that you may well be very important to the survival of humanity.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Okay.” Bill looked out the window, then back to me and blinked. “Okay.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Great. Your boss, Howard. His new project for you is very important and must be taken very seriously. I can’t tell you why yet, and I’m only ninety-nine percent sure, but it is my hypothesis that your success on this project will be the defining moment of the human race. Do you understand?” Bill looked down at his own hands, raised one, and slapped himself hard across the face. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, counted to ten, slapped himself in the face again, and then looked back to me.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Human race. Got it,” Bill said. He stood up from the couch, letting the blanket fall to the floor, and walked to the front door. He looked to me over his shoulder and laughed a bit then went out the door and closed it behind him.<br />
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TTalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682147384268382860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885401562463459919.post-71600270100825968312013-02-26T13:37:00.003-08:002013-02-26T13:37:26.380-08:00McRib<div>
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Nature's first green is gold," read the general manager, Cameron Sondren, of the Ventura Avenue McDonald's on Wednesday morning. The early morning staff all had their heads bowed, hats removed. Sondren recited all of Frost's poem to the small, somber collection of employees, family, and close friends. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"We knew it would happen. And we knew when, but," Susan Derigrass, a close friend said, pausing for a moment to collect herself. "It just never seems real until it happens." She excused herself.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>As of midnight the night before, the orders from corporate were clear: McRib season was over.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Sondren finished the poem and a moment of silence befell the room. "We mourn our loss, but only because what we'd had was so great," Sondren reminded the staff and others gathered for the memorial. "We must carry on. Steve, take down the posters. Anna, fire up the friers."</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>As Steve took down the window-sized posters, a hush fell over the crowd gathered outside the restaurant. Some wept openly. Others laid bouquets of flowers on the sidewalk. "I told myself, I'd get one tomorrow," said one witness. "I'd had one maybe a week ago and it was good. Nothing amazing, but it was there and ready so why not?" </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It seems as though there is an understanding between the employees and management at Ventura. "This isn't Cameron's fault. It's no one's fault. It's just a thing that had to happen," said Anna as the friers began to boil. Then she shot a glance towards her co-workers. "I don't really get what the big deal is. It's just a sandwich. It will be back next year."</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Outside, the reaction wasn't as calm. "What do we do now?" Our anonymous witness cried out towards the sky. "What are you trying to tell us? What have we done wrong?"</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Though the flags fly at full mast, in the hearts and minds of many a great piece of the year has escaped them. A moment in time never to be recaptured for another 10 months. Nothing gold can stay. </div>
TTalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682147384268382860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885401562463459919.post-50134869710851871232013-02-25T04:57:00.000-08:002013-02-25T04:57:07.152-08:00The New Record Ch. 1 Part 2<br />
Ongoing series of Bill and Gazoo and Howard and so on and so forth!<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In the elevator, Bill had no idea that this would be the most important day of his entire life, and for that matter the entirety of the human race. You see, Bill at this time had no idea that he would be the savior of humanity and rescue the miracle of life, that at this point, he believes to be unique to Earth. Of all of the planets in all of the galaxies of the universe, Bill believes that his is the only planet to have successfully arranged the jigsaw. And he would continue to believe that until he met me.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When Bill arrived at Howard’s office the secretary made a phone call and waved him in. Behind the Plexiglas and metal walls lined with shades, always drawn, sat the office of Howard. On the solid wall behind him, a large window that couldn’t open stood wide next to a few plaques and framed documents confirming Howard’s accomplishments.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>On his desk was a photo of a beautiful woman holding Howard close and two children, a boy and a girl that sat pleasantly and smiled. Behind them was a gorgeous autumn day when the leaves were just the right shade of gold and red and the lighting was perfect. Rembrandt couldn’t have done much better. Every time Bill sat in Howard’s office, he saw that photo and thought about how wonderful that family looked and how he hoped him and Wendy would be that happy one day with their own children. Every time, that is, but this one.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>On this particular time, Bill looked at the photo and felt an empty and dull pain in his stomach. His alpha and beta brain activity decreased and he frowned and his eyes sagged.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“First one here?” Bill asked vacantly. Howard didn’t look up from the paperwork he was filling out, a summary of a report Bill had turned in earlier.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Well, actually Bill, it’s just gonna be you here today,” Howard said and scribbled a signature onto the summary and laid the pen down.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Everything alright there, Bill?” Howard asked. Bill looked up to him.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Hmm? Oh, yeah. Quit caffeine. Not as awake as I was. Withdrawals, I guess.” Howard nodded. Bill looked from him back to the photo there on his desk. “How’s Sandra?” Bill asked.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Good.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“And Ben, Heather?” Bill looked back to him. Howard smiled.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Good, good.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Ben’s gonna be 10 in March, isn’t it? Must be getting big now. He gonna play ball ya think?” Bill asked. Howard chuckled.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Sure, yeah. That’s a hell of a memory you’ve got there, Bill,” Howard said. Bill nodded. “So what I called you up here about. You’ve done a great job as team leader, but we think that we could better utilize your skill set in another position.” Bill looked around the office and behind him.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Am I being fired?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“No.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Demoted?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“No, Bill, don’t worry. Your job is fine, we’re just doing some restructuring and a new position is opening up that we think you have the perfect qualities for?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Qualities?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Bill, you’re good at following directions. You’ve been a great subordinate for me and I’d like to keep it that way. You’re flexible, you adapt to new protocol quickly, you’re expendable. I’m moving you on to a new team that we’re forming to do a new type of research project focused on the future of the company.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Huh?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“It’s. Well, it’s new Bill. No one is really sure what to expect from it, but we’d like to have you head up the team.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Did you say expendable?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“No. Look, Bill there’s literally no limit on the potential of this position.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I could have sworn you said--” Bill began, but Howard interrupted.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Bill, come on, look, I came to you first because I thought you’d be perfect for it and love the opportunity to get out of the office.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Field work?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Of sorts. Are you onboard or not?” Howard smiled with his teeth. A single bead of sweat rolled down his forehead. Bill looked to him, then the photo on his desk and felt that dull blah and nodded. “Great!” Howard shouted and threw his hand across the desk and Bill took it and Howard shook it vigorously.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>According to the record, the handshake was originally a gesture of peace. It showed that neither party carried a weapon in their hand.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Well, Howard finished shaking Bill’s hand and told him that he would get all of the details on the new position in the morning and congratulations and this was a big step up for Bill, lots of opportunity you know. Finally, Howard told Bill to take the rest of the day off, that he’d earned it. This is of course, summary of the record’s official transcript.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>As Bill walked out of Howard’s office, he turned one last time and glanced back at the photo on Howard’s desk.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“That’s a great family you got there, Howard,” Bill said. “And a fine looking photograph, too.” Howard looked up from the work he had resumed and smiled to Bill.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Thanks. It’s my favorite one. And the photo’s pretty good too,” and they both laughed and Howard’s weird little joke.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>According to the record, Howard had paid a model family to pose with him six years before. It was the only photo of Howard’s “family” that he had. It is also noted that Sandra, Howard’s “wife” ended up sleeping with Howard and conceiving their child. She carried it through to term and it is being raised by someone that believes it to be his. Howard is unaware of any part of this other than the intercourse.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> Both of the children in the photo are now failed child models that continue to be unloved by their parents, real or otherwise.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When Bill got home, he grabbed a cold beer, slumped into his couch, and turned on the television.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bill was allowed to drink beer because it was a depressant and relaxed him. It calmed him down and after the second one, he felt a warm and numbing sensation move up the back of his spine and into the base of his skull, and it was good. Beer is a mix of water, grains, and tiny little specks of life called yeast. These little specks of life, like all life, have to eat. So they eat the grains and drink the water and they fart out this thing called alcohol. The wonderful thing about these little yeasty beasties is that their farts can really mess a person up. They can make a person act funny, speak funny, and if a person drinks down too much alcohol, they can even die.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Drinking yeast farts was a great past time in Bill’s country. Though there was a time when drinking yeast farts was illegal and people who made them were arrested and put in jail. This was mostly brought about by ugly women that were tired of being told by drunks how ugly they were. That’s not on the record, it’s just something I noticed at the time. I was still new to this job then, but I saw it all the same. When everyone else in the country realized how mean the ugly women had been, they used democracy to change the law and then they all had a drink, and it was good.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Now, when Bill was sitting there drinking his beer he watched his television. Television, I’ll have you know, was one of the greatest inventions of Bill’s century. It allowed the transmission of moving pictures from one location to another that could be halfway across the world. People could, if they so desired, see what was happening in other countries, even countries that didn’t have televisions. People in Bill’s country could see parts of the world that before were only available in photographs and to be read about in books.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>But you know what they liked to do instead? One third of a person’s time watching television was spent being told how to improve their lives through buying things. The best way to tell people how to improve their lives is to tell them that their lives are terrible. When you tell someone that their life is terrible, then tell them they can fix it by buying your product, odds are, they will go out with their money and buy it. They called them advertisements.<br />
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TTalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682147384268382860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885401562463459919.post-73045286762149900432013-02-25T04:53:00.002-08:002013-02-25T04:53:49.720-08:00Writing Warmup 2/25/13<br />
Writing Warm-up from 2/25/13 after the jump.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The frog meant nothing by it, yet it silenced its croaking as Susannah walked by. Eyes shot cautiously towards the intruder. Susannah had never walked home alone before. Ripples in the surface chased each other away after the frog splashed in. He had said he'd be there. She skipped over the faults, lines in the pavement.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>He looked at the cashier and she didn't notice. It was almost two so he wiped his lips with the napkin. Fifteen minutes ago, he had been expected. Why would he bus his table?<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Brenda, the girl behind the counter, waved goodbye, but he didn't see her. Did he see her? How couldn't he have seen her? She waved hard enough. He must have seen her. Why didn't he wave back?<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In the winter, the smooth rock was covered by flowing currents. Water sloshed against the shore. Here, the rocks got smaller and smaller. Last year, the cliff fell into the river, leaving a calm tide in the outcropping.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Hop. Hop. Skip. Jump. Don't land on a crack.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Tadpoles of water streamed up the windshield, only to be knocked away and replaced.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Are you sure you want to wear that?" Her brother had asked her. "That much pink is weird." She had just smiled and nodded. He had shrugged and put the car in gear.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Visibilty was for shit. Dammit. C'mon, where is she? Dammit, where is she? Oh, Susannah... I told her, you take a left on Sycamore, right on Carlsbad, left on Charlize, and then the second left onto Estrella and on until you're home. Where is she? I'll take another pass around and then I'm going home.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Hop. Hop. Skip. Jump. Don't land on- left on Sycamore, right on Carlsbad, left on Charlize and then... and then... Hop. Hop. Skip. Jump. Don't land on a cra- right on Carlsbad, left on Charlize and then... Hop. Hop. Skip. Jump. Don't land on a crack or you'll break your mama's back!<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It was coming down hard now and the smooth rock was way under. Against the worried bedrock of the river walls, the level had risen several inches. The frog arrived where the embankment had collapsed. He paddled around, until his legs were too tired and he let go, falling into it.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
TTalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682147384268382860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885401562463459919.post-59949855050728309892013-02-23T14:08:00.001-08:002013-02-23T14:14:10.489-08:00The New Record Chapter 1 Part 1This is the first segment of a novel I began writing over a year ago called <i>The New Record.</i> It's a science fiction tale about aliens, space travel, and the end of the Earth. Think <i>Cat's Cradle</i> crossed with <i>Breakfast of Champions. </i>Anyway, I told myself I wouldn't drink until I finished writing a novel. Well, I got about a hundred pages into it before, well, whatever. Anyway, I'm at a point again where I'm trying to accomplish things and after having reread these pages, I think they're not altogether terrible and I may want to finish this damn thing. Here's a blurb to entice you. Full text of chapter 1 part 1 after the jump.<br />
<br />
From Ch. 1 Part 2:<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bill drank beer because it was a depressant and relaxed him. It calmed him down and after the second one, he felt a warm and numbing sensation move up the back of his spine and into the base of his skull, and it was good. Beer is a mix of water, grains, and tiny little specks of life called yeast. These little specks of life, like all life, have to eat. So they eat the grains and drink the water and they fart out this thing called alcohol. The wonderful thing about these little yeasty beasties is that their farts can really mess a person up. They can make a person act funny, speak funny, and if a person drinks down too much alcohol, they can even die.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Drinking yeast farts was a great past time in Bill’s country. Though there was a time when drinking yeast farts was illegal and people who made them were arrested and put in jail. This was mostly brought about by ugly women that were tired of being told by drunks how ugly they were. That’s not on the record, it’s just something I noticed at the time. I was still new to this job then, but I saw it all the same. When everyone else in the country realized how mean the ugly women had been, they used democracy to change the law and then they all had a drink, and it was good.</blockquote>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>All too long ago, a great violence erupted in the peaceful vacuum of space and spewed forth a hot mess of everything that has ever been. Of course, there was no one there to see that moment, that great source of everything that will become, but we’ve observed the evidence of that particular event and took notes and they have been added to the record.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Some time after the hot mess cooled, it got heavy and grouped together into larger and larger pieces of stuff. When that stuff got big enough and cold enough, some of the stuff started grouping together in different ways. I suppose you’d think of it as a puzzle. Imagine there are trillions and trillions of puzzle pieces all smashing together. Now imagine that suddenly, the puzzle pieces smash together and the puzzle is complete. That was life.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Of course, there was no one there to see that moment either. But be sure that we’ve observed the evidence of that particular event and took notes and they have been added to the record. We were so sure of our notes, we decided to experiment on it. Or so the record reflects, as I wasn’t there when we began this little beast of a thing.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So about six billion years ago, we put the trillions of puzzle pieces in one spot and began waiting and taking notes, all of which have been added to the record.<br />
<span style="white-space: pre;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Living alone was never something that came easily to Bill. He found himself walking from bed to couch and back four or five times a night before sleep would finally overwhelm his mind. Too much caffeine, he thought. And the next morning he would forego his double espresso soy latte and drive straight to the office. It was a coffeeless morning that Bill’s boss would call and ask Bill to join him in his office.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bill’s office building was a tremendous sky-scraping affair that he had to enter by elevator from the subterranean parking structure five floors below. And thank God that Bill had that underground elevator to get upstairs. If Bill had ever entered through the front doors of his building and looked up, his overwhelming sense of being alone in the world would have been magnified by the thousands of feet of building looming over him and he may well have just shrunk to the size of a penny on the sidewalk and kicked into a storm pipe never to be heard from again.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Ever since Bill began living alone in his one bedroom apartment, last month, his performance at work has been slipping. It all started when he quit drinking coffee after lunch, in an effort to escape the nightly pacing between bed and couch. He would return to his cubicle after lunch in the cafeteria feeling overwhelmingly lethargic and unable to get his shit together. He would look at his computer’s screen and then to his coffee mug and then back to the screen and still nothing would happen. In the four hours of work that were supposed to follow Bill’s lunch break, he would accomplish an hour’s work. The drop in efficiency was observed by his superiors. Notes to this effect were made and placed on the record.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When Bill’s pacing continued every night, he decided to stop drinking coffee in the morning. And so he did, that next morning. And that was when the call came.<br />
<span style="white-space: pre;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bill’s job is to make copies. That is, one of his supervisors will hand him an assignment and he will make four copies of the memorandum and forward it to the four people that report directly to him. They would then go out and make four copies each and pass them along to the four people that reported directly to each of them. Their subordinates would then make four copies, and so on, until some poor college student working for credit was researching market trends in Marrakesh and writing a summary of his findings and passing that back up the ladder, each person writing a summary of their four subordinate’s findings until it arrived at Bill-- the collective efforts of dozens, summarized in four brief reports, that Bill would then condense and pass along to his superior where, unbeknownst to Bill, although at moments suspected, it would continue upwards in a similar fashion.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bill liked to sigh.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Ultimately, the summaries arrived at someone a few floors above Bill who decided that what he read wasn’t worth the while and tossed it into a waste bin. It was a terrible data collection process if you ask me, and I said so in my report.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bill liked coffee.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bill was thinking about coffee and how he couldn’t sleep well at night when the call came for him. Line two. He picked up on the second ring, unsure if he had actually heard it on the first one.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Hello?” Bill said.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Bill?” The voice at the other end said.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Yes, sir?” The record shows that it is doubtful Bill recognized the voice at that point of the conversation. Most signs, alpha and beta wave patterns included, indicated that Bill was actually in a near sleep state wherein his mind was unable to focus on reality. A quick search showed it to be a common side effect of the yet undiagnosed insomnia Bill was suffering. I found it interesting and made a note of it and included a quick reference note on alpha and beta wave patterns. Your brains are so interesting.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“It’s Howard, upstairs. Bill, I’d like to see you in my office in fifteen minutes for a team syn-synch.” The record defines syn-synch as: Synergize and Synchronize, a conference intended to maximize efficiency and output and generate a greater flow of communication between levels of task agency. It also says “see: meeting”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You got it, Howard. Fifteen. See you then.” And the line was dead. Bill hung up and stared at the telephone for ten minutes and then progressed to the elevator, where he boarded with the same empty look on his face and pressed a button that he believed to be where he wanted to go and off he went.<br />
<span style="white-space: pre;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>For thousands of years, people have enjoyed the stimulating effects of coffee. The potent effects of the bean were encountered by people in feathers and leathers and the such thousands of years ago. And they enjoyed it. Then people in steel and armor with swords and guns shot all of the people in leathers and feathers until they were all dead. Then they took their gold and coffee. Or rather, that’s a summary of what the record says. The people in steel took it back to where they lived with another stimulating substance: Tobacco.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>For hundreds of years, people enjoyed both of these things, often together. Personally, I don’t get it. While I’m sure for all of you it provides the euphoric and driving sensation all of the billboards claim, I’m afraid my chemistry just isn’t right for it.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Sometimes, the people that enjoyed tobacco died before other people would. And some time ago, they realized that it was caused by a thing called Cancer. That is, the little pieces of stuff in the tobacco would go into a person and cause their puzzle pieces to melt. Slowly, the people would melt enough of their puzzle pieces until they would start melting on their own and then they would die. This troubled doctors, whose job it was to make people better. Doctors were paid to make people better. So the doctors made a note of what would happen and they put together a record and tried to stop puzzles from melting.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The doctors who wanted to keep people alive went with other people to the government in Bill’s country. They knew that if enough people wanted something, they could have it. That was called democracy and it was how Bill’s country worked. The people went to the government and told the government that this tobacco thing was killing their countrymen.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Here’s the problem, a lot of the fellas in the government were friends with the fellas that made tobacco. In fact, some of the fellas in the government made a lot of money making and selling tobacco. Money, the record says, is a currency used to get what you want and make other people do things they don’t want to.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The folks in government knew that they would lose a lot of their friends if they told them they couldn’t make money killing people anymore. But they also knew that they would lose votes if they let their friends continue to kill people. According to the record: Votes are how government is formed, through democracy; can be bought (SEE: MONEY).<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So the fellas in government decided to make a compromise, like wise Salomon. Which is why they were in government, their wisdom. The government decided to put a warning on all tobacco products that said, in effect “if you use this, you will get cancer and die.” And this is why I wish my chemistry worked the way yours does, human. Because even though those products will give you cancer and melt your pieces until you die, people still buy them with money and use them. What stuff!<br />
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TTalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682147384268382860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885401562463459919.post-71808840617897918242013-02-19T19:01:00.002-08:002013-03-04T22:06:46.009-08:00Brotherhood of the Box<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> He speaks above the whir of fans in the darkness where t</span>he crispness of the air has a bite that stinks like old yogurt. <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Legend holds that, in time before time, there were but two factions: the perishable and shelf-stable. But as way gives on to way, the division of loyalties grew greater spread yet. Along the wayside of history fell the shelf-stable: archaic relics gathering dust and forever un-rotated. The custies required more from their product. And our founding father, Adam Trask devised a way to ship fresh products from land to land. In Trask we trust. We persevere. We are lords of the cold."<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"We are lords of the cold." countless voices repeat in the darkness.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"It is through our might that the custies gain the grace of fresh food. It is our tireless toiling that grants them sustenance. We are the beginning and end of civilization."<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"From time immortal man sought freshness," a choir of voices responds.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"There's none fresher than that which we give willingly."<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"We are but chill on the frost," the voices chant.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Today we welcome to our ranks young Stephen. He is being awarded the rank of neophyte. I grant unto him the green hoodie of initiation. The green of his hoodie represents a new life that he is born into," the speaker wears a black hoodie, all but imperceptible against the shadows of the room.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Stephen, shivering, takes the sweatshirt from the outstretched hands and burrows into it.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"We are the frost, we are the hum, we are the-" the voices begin to reply as the fluorescents come up. Stephen's eyes grow wide. As light bathes the narrow and white-walled room, a door opens with a hiss like an airlock and beyond it stands the figure of a man, smiling.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Stephen, come on," says the newcomer. "You work in a grocery store." Amidst the man in the black hoodie stand others, shrouded in hoodies. The hem of their cowls almost reaches where the light bounces against the diamond plating of the floor.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"You have no authority here," shouts a shrouded monk. The man at the doorway smirks.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Nor you. C'mon, Stephen." The gathering of hoods hisses as Stephen rises from his knee and walks towards the door.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"None have ever left the brotherhood of the box and lived to tell the tale," says the man in black. Stephen quickens his pace.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Of course they haven't," says the man at the door. "They've got better things to do with their lives."<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Stephen slams the door behind him as he leaves. Several men in their twenties stand around in hoodies staring at the one in black. Among them, one speaks up, "he had tiny hands. He would have been perfect."<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Stacks of yogurt and milk-crates surround the men in hoodies. "You think I don't know that?"<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The man in the black hoodie shrugs. He takes his hood down. This is Fred. Fred sighs. "Just restock the eggs and the orange juice and get back to me." Two men in brown hoodies salute him and Fred sits down on a throne made of overturned milk-crates.<br />
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TTalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682147384268382860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885401562463459919.post-65566189295058248852012-10-03T13:52:00.001-07:002012-11-01T04:36:55.981-07:00Morning writing<br />
Once upon a time, there was a little boy who had become trapped in the body of an adult. You see, he had been a child for all of his life and had grown very fond of the experience. But one day, his body was no longer his. His body had grown several feet. He had stubble. People called him sir.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>And the child inside the body remained unable to process these changes, which had happened so subtly and over so much time that there was no moment when they actually happened yet there they were.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Suddenly, the world had so many demands and it seemed as though it was impossible to meet them all. The little boy was terrified by the constant bombardment of responsibility and wanted nothing more in the world than to shrink back down to the size of the middle-schooler he felt he was inside.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So the little boy looked up at the light-polluted night sky and when he finally saw a star, he made a wish with all his heart. He scrunched his eyes closed and felt every grown-up piece of him willing himself to be young again. He bargained and pleaded with the cosmos to return him to being a child. An ache, starting in his chest, crept through his body until it reached his eyes and a single droplet rolled down his cheek.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>He went to bed that night, expecting to wake up ready for the first day of seventh grade.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>But that’s not how the world works, and the next day they turned off the water.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The little boy spent the day spinning in his mind coming to terms with the fact that there was no going back. That he would never again effortlessly exist with his means of living provided simply because he was.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The little boy took a deep breath and pulled out his pocketbook and wrote out a check to the Department of Water and Power. Then he got dressed, ate an apple, and left for work.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The next day, the little boy woke again, still in the oddly aged body of some hairy twenty-something. He rose from bed with a sigh and wrote another check, this time to the Gas Company. Then he got dressed, ate an apple, and left for work.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Everyday the little boy got up, paid for the things he needed, ate the food he had to, and worked the job he needed to pay for the things that kept him alive. Everyday it got easier and easier. He learned to manage his income and expenditures.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Then, something magical happened. The phone rang and it was the little boy’s mother. She asked him how he was and if was seeing anyone and that she missed and loved him and oh, won’t you come visit soon, I know you’re so busy but I’d love to see you. And the little boy told her he loved her too and he’d love to visit, but maybe next month.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>He said good-bye and hung up the phone, returning to his morning bill paying. As he comfortably slid a bill into an envelope that was just the right size for it, a proud smile crept across his bearded face.TTalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682147384268382860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885401562463459919.post-68564293916196700132012-06-01T04:55:00.002-07:002012-06-01T04:55:33.918-07:00Not quite a tweet.I’m not very quick to form opinions. I’m not quick to form opinions, I’m still not sure how I feel about Swiss cheese. I know deep down that it’s cheese and therefore, I should like it. I know that I love cheese, the Platonic form of cheese, but I just don’t enjoy Swiss. I’ve never, not a single time, have I put Swiss cheese in my mouth and said “this is a pleasant experience.” But I still grab a slice from the platter at every party.TTalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682147384268382860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885401562463459919.post-90967268986325661422012-04-20T02:30:00.002-07:002012-04-20T02:30:19.745-07:00The Pho KingI was sick the last few days, and naturally craved soup. I, being the well cultured individual that I am, decided that I wanted to get pho. My decision was 80% based on a joke involving being the "king" of pho.<br />
<br />
My fever had lead me to an odd sleep pattern. I found myself waking up at all odd hours of the day. Seven, Eight in the morning. I finally managed to gulp down enough green-dyed jager-flavored cough syrup to pass out until a far more manageable hour. Nine PM. At which point, I made the choice to seek the aforementioned pho.<br />
<br />
Fortunately, I found a 24 hour pho place that was only a few miles from my place. Pho Citi in Silverlake. I arrived to be greeted by the kindly gentleman behind the counter whose v-neck was deep enough it revealed his chest stubble. He asked me to wait a minute. It's cool, I get it. I've worked shitty jobs too. He's got shit to do. And I had to decide which type of Pho was acceptable to order. Trite and tendon? Really?<br />
<br />
I figure out what I want and set the menu back to let him know, ya know, I'm ready to order. No reaction, but it looks like he's kind of busy, so I don't say anything. Another customer comes to the counter. He helps them and goes back to what he's doing.<br />
<br />
"I think I'm ready to order," I say. And he gives me this look like fucking whatever. Look, dude. Your job sucks. Bummer. Do it anyway.<br />
<br />
I order the rare beef pho and he places the order with the cook in the back. In the meantime, his shift relief arrives. "I had to deal with the bitchiest customer today. It was like you wouldn't even believe." They do their respective eyerolls and the cook puts my to-go container at the window.<br />
<br />
The cashier hands me my bag with the soup in it. And in the most bullshit passive-aggressive voice says "Thanks so much for coming. Come again soon." I honestly think he does shit like that to get a reaction out of people. Because his job is so tiresome, he can't help but want to provoke people with his sarcastic crybaby bullshit.<br />
<br />
Pho was great though. Good Pho and I passed right the fuck back out.<br />
<br />
I woke up at like 1pm. I slept like a narcoleptic. No, like a narcotics addict. I finally came out of my small coma and wanted more pho. So I drove back to this place, figuring asshole's shift was finally over.<br />
<br />
I was right. When I arrived, he wasn't there. Turns out, he doesn't work 18 hour shifts so his job isn't really as bad as he thinks and he needs to shut the fuck up and stop being such a little girl. Or just kill himself. Seriously. No one cares about how bad his job is in this economy.<br />
<br />
I arrived back at the 24 hour Pho place. At lunch time. The door is wide open, so I walk in. Two dudes are sitting at tables doing paper work. One of them tells me that they're closed.<br />
<br />
"What?"<br />
"Closed. No open."<br />
"You're... 24 hours... "<br />
"No Pho."<br />
"But it's lunch time. All you serve is Pho."<br />
"No pho."<br />
"I really just want some soup. Do you know somewhere else that sells pho?"<br />
"I don't work there. Go now!"<br />
"You don't have any like... in the back I could—"<br />
"No Pho! Go now!"<br />
<br />
So yeah. Things got a little heated. Turns out, passive aggressive is a better attitude than aggressive aggressive, but aggression has no place in a business model. Especially not in a food service job that lives on tips. You wanna be a dick? Get a real job. The rest of us have shitty jobs and we just have to deal with it cause we know we're not hot pho king shit.<br />
<br />TTalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682147384268382860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885401562463459919.post-40044358493506327172012-04-20T02:02:00.000-07:002012-04-20T02:02:18.818-07:00Space Brain FeverI've been sick the last few days, and that's my excuse for not updating. Please, enjoy the following images I made while succumbed by Space Brain Fever.<br />
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<br />TTalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682147384268382860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885401562463459919.post-48418356457016039412012-04-14T01:58:00.000-07:002012-04-14T01:58:10.619-07:00Prom Queen of California<br />
Fuck this town. The stars are ground down to gravel and paved in the sidewalk for everyone to walk on. It’s a dying behemoth, heaving under the weight of its final throes. Everyday a hundred thousand small town prom queens from all over Nebraska, Idaho, and all the other loser states come here to pay homage to the letters in the hills. Tomorrow they’ll bring me my coffee when I’m too hung over to speak. Back home they were hot shit. Now they spit in my eggs cause they know they’re not going anywhere, but they can’t go back.<br />
<br />
They write their letters home. How they saw a movie star. A real-life movie star. They don’t mention he was a shitty tipper. They don’t talk about how many promises they’ve been seduced by. Then they’re thirty and the game is over. Just another weathered face, tired of filling my cup. There’s nothing left for them but they can’t go home. This is just how life is sometimes. But they can’t go home. Then they’re forty. An old apron on laundry day, hanging on the rim of the hamper, stained by strawberry jelly and God knows whatelse.<br />
<br />
Fuck this town. If you’re not drowning you just haven’t realized it yet. So breathe in deep as you get off the bus. That haze is your life now. Fingers to the bone every day and you think you’re ready. Ha.<br />
<br />
But buy that ticket, because fuck this town. Ain’t anywhere else on earth that’s got what she has. She’s the brightest star in the sky and you know she’ll kill you but the glint in her eye seduces you. She reels you in and sets you down on that couch. She’s all “ra-ra” and kisses your wounds and whispers those promises in your ear as you’re about to fall asleep. She’s a tease, but you’d do anything to have her. She’s the prom queen of California and God you want her so bad. Give it to her hard. Fuck this town.<br />TTalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682147384268382860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885401562463459919.post-65538054608359789872012-04-10T11:05:00.002-07:002012-04-10T11:05:35.549-07:00No Careers for Young MenIn an interview yesterday, I was told that I wasn't interviewing for a job, or a career. I was interviewing for a lifestyle. It's an unrelenting force. You take it home with you. Your vacations become time with clients. Your hobbies become golf with executives. It consumes you and never lets you go.<br />
<br />
Honestly, that sounds amazing. I want a job like that. I need something that I'm so passionately possessed by, I can't let it go. I don't want a job that I leave at the office. I want something that takes up all my time and grinds me to bits and leaves me wanting more.<br />
<br />
Because I don't want a Hollywood career. I want the Hollywood life.<br />
<br />
I've known it since I got here, that this is a beautiful city of people willing to help if you can help them. I'm always trying to help. You put enough in and you start to get returns. I've seen it already, and I'm gonna keep seeing it.<br />
<br />
I don't know if I got the position. But I do know that if I did, I'm gonna be the best damn assistant possible. Not because it's good for my career, cause that's not a thing. And not because it's what my boss wants. I'll be the best damn assistant possible, because I have to be. I refuse to settle for anything less.<br />
<br />
I'm not gonna stop till I'm more than everything I want to be.TTalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682147384268382860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885401562463459919.post-84501957954554388172012-03-27T20:02:00.001-07:002012-03-27T20:02:48.015-07:00Fuck you. And your little dog, too.I don't mean to sound like a stand up in 2004, but God dammit if people haven't let this tiny dog shit go.<br />
<br />
Seriously, what the fuck do you think you're doing? When your cutest accessory is a canine, you need to rethink your life. I'm tired of you coming into the store, holding your little yappy piece of shit chihuahua-doodle. And I shouldn't hate on the dog that much, cause it's staring at me like Jeff at the end of The Fly. It's all your doing. You've ruined two, no three lives every day that you do that. Mine, the dog's and your own.<br />
<br />
You claim that it's a helper dog, that it assists you in living. But we know that your pathetic dog can hardly bare to get out of the sad little bed in the corner of your room, let alone do any worthwhile task that helps you. When your dog needs a baby bjorn, it's not even laughable. Your dog caught your celiacs? How's that even possible.<br />
<br />
They say that dogs start to look like their owners.<br />
<br />
Your dog's not gonna be a good attention whore, like a sad old woman that slops into her fuck-me pumps and hits the club like no one notices she's not twenty-two anymore.<br />
<br />
You can't bring it in here, we sell people food. How's that not clear to you?TTalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682147384268382860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885401562463459919.post-90356758466557794362012-03-07T17:06:00.000-08:002012-03-07T17:13:11.892-08:00Papa's New BagAfter many fruitless attempts applying to jobs with a pussy piece of shit cover letter, I wrote this monster last night while drinking my second Mickey's.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
To my potential future employer:</div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
My name is Tony Tallarico and I'm perfect for this job.</div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
I’ve got a degree in English from the illustrious San Jose State University where I ran writer’s workshops, worked two jobs simultaneously, and still found time to get a bachelor’s degree. I’m serious.</div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
What do you want to hear? That since I’ve been in LA, I’ve found an internship, worked a day job, taken improv classes, and been a volunteer PA on a couple sets? Well, good news. I was just listing shit I’ve done. I’m busy seven days a week trying to hustle this town. Ryan Daly’s office at Zero Gravity Management wishes I had more time that I could dedicate to interning for them. Word around the water cooler is that I'm the best intern they've ever had. </div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
It's been said that I write epic coverage. Samples are available upon request.</div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
Look, there are two things about me you need to know. The first of which is that I’m amazing. I’m the best person for this job because I crave the satisfaction of approval. The second of which is that everyone else is an idiot. Let’s be honest, you wouldn’t still be reading this if I hadn’t caught your attention. Everyone else is busy telling you about how they “completed tasks in a goal oriented fashion,” or whatever, and I’m here giving you the straight dope. </div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
I’m sick and tired of stocking shelves to pay my bills. I’m a grown man and I’m willing to work damn hard to make myself a somebody. Give me an interview. You’ll love me. </div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
Best,</div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
Tony Tallarico</div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
925.989.1007</div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;">I don't give a fuck. I am the best.</span></div>TTalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682147384268382860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885401562463459919.post-67439118177353778872012-03-05T13:17:00.003-08:002012-03-05T22:48:27.295-08:00Nice problems to have.I need a job. I'm not unemployed, I work at a grocery store in Hollywood. I've been employed by the company for half a decade now. It was a great place to work while going through college. But now I want a career. I need a job that at the end of the day, I feel that satisfaction of knowing that I did something worthwhile. <br />
<br />
I'm busy seven days a week. If I'm not stocking shelves or scanning groceries, I'm either at my internship or improv classes. My internship gives me that satisfaction, two days a week. I can leave there knowing that I learned something that day and it feels damn good.<br />
<br />
My improv classes give me a different satisfaction. It's still based on the idea that I learned something, but the satisfaction comes from the creative element of it. I created something, and even if it was as short lived as those moments on stage, there's still a powerful sentiment that comes from creating.<br />
<br />
Yesterday, I applied to a job at United Talent Agency or UTA. I'm excited about it. I know that the job itself will be soul draining. Long hours, low pay, and extremely stressful. Did I mention it's an entry level mailroom job? But even a position in a mailroom offers more potential for growth than where I am. <br />
<br />
I haven't heard back from them. I assume it's because of the massive number of applications they receive each day. Or maybe it got marked as spam, who knows. <br />
<br />
But here's the rub. I absolutely love improv comedy. It gives me an opportunity to get creative juices flowing with other people in an environment that harbors it completely. I want to pursue improv comedy and continue taking classes at UCB. But I know that I can't do that if I have a nine to five (more like seven) job at an agency. I know that my Monday through Friday will be devoured by ten hour days. I know that the weekend classes at UCB are almost impossible to get into.<br />
<br />
Working at UTA would offer me the growth potential, industry insight, and connections that will undoubtedly help me further my career as a screenwriter. Classes at UCB will help me hone my craft and teach me the lessons I need to be a better screenwriter. Ah, there's the rub.<br />
<br />
What's a kid in his quarter-life crisis to do?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Do I continue working at the unrewarding grocery store to pursue academics in improv? Or do I take arms against the monotonous melancholy of melon stacking, and by opposing miss out on the thousand natural pleasures which comedy is heir to? To perform, and it is by performance that I must indulge that I've never considered myself an actor. No, I'm but a funny guy making observations and witty comments at apropos moments. But perhaps it is a strength that I've never fully explored.<br />
<br />
Pox upon it.TTalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682147384268382860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885401562463459919.post-22570554199266440562012-03-04T18:43:00.000-08:002012-03-04T19:05:53.829-08:00So, I don't post as often as I should.I don't work as often as I should either. I've gotten over it, so should you.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In other news, I've been writing like crazy lately. Completed a first draft of a pilot with my friend and writing partner Anthony. We're currently getting feedback on that before we attack it with revisions and try to get some meetings. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
While we're waiting for some fresh eyes for that pilot, we're going to start breaking a new story for a feature. I'm looking forward to working with him some more. The pilot was a good experience and I'm hoping that we can bring some of that momentum to feature writing.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I've been doing some solo writing as well. Working on a hero's journey story in a steampunk setting with magic. Yeah, all of those things. It's gonna be awesome. Check the first five pages after the jump:<br />
<br />
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<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
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<p scenestr="1" scenenumber="1" id="FiMii000" class="sceneheading">EXT. ALLEY
WAY - DAY</p>
<p class="action">A dimly lit alley way lined with buildings of brick and
mortar. Running FOOTSTEPS grow louder and closer. They belong to a middle-aged
man, WILLIAM, dressed like a vagabond and sporting a serious beard. <br>
</p>
<p class="action"> As William runs, he looks over his shoulder. Someone's after
him. He bursts out of the alleyway and into the slightly brighter:</p>
<p scenestr="2" scenenumber="2" id="uGMii000" class="sceneheading">EXT.
MARKETPLACE - DAY</p>
<p class="action">A square in a Victorian-era city. Women in long dresses and
tremendous hats carry parasols. Men sport long overcoats, top hats, moustaches,
and look incredibly dapper. <br>
</p>
<p class="action">William pushes his way through throngs of people, looking
back every so often to the mouth of the <br>
</p>
<p class="action">ALLEY WAY where three large thuggish men arrive at the
threshold of the square and scan it. One especially TALL THUG suddenly grins
and points into the crowd.</p>
<p class="character">TALL THUG</p>
<p class="dialog">There he is! <br>
</p>
<p class="action">William continues to struggle past people, pushing some down
and shoving others. He runs past stands of merchandise-- fruit, cloth, bread--
until the TICKING of many clocks catches his ear. <br>
</p>
<p class="action">He jostles his way to vendor's table that is covered in
pocket watches, clocks, and ornately-engraved metal eggs of various sizes.
William scours the table with his eyes.</p>
<p class="character">TALL THUG (O.S.) (CONT'D)</p>
<p class="dialog">Stop him! <br>
</p>
<p class="action">William looks over his shoulder as the team of thugs draw
closer. Then back to the table. His eyes brighten, a moment of recognition, and
he snatches a metallic egg from the table and darts off into the crowd. <br>
</p>
<p class="action">William shoves his way through people, finally exiting the
square down a narrow street where clothing lines run across the street on the
second and third floors.<br>
</p>
<p class="action"> He glances back without stopping. No one. He makes a sudden
turn down an alley and stops at the dead end.He reaches into his overcoat and
from an inner pocket produces a rolled piece of parchment, fastened by wax seal.<br>
</p>
<p class="action"> William takes out the metallic egg he stole from the vendor.
He runs his thumb from the top of the egg down the side and it begins to
shudder in his palm. The shell begins to crack, but in smooth lines and right
angles.<br>
</p>
<p class="action"> Clicking and ticking as it opens, the egg begins to
transform, gradually taking the shape of a dragonfly. As incredible as it is to
see, William is hardly amused and in fact a little annoyed that it's going so
slow.</p>
<p class="character">WILLIAM</p>
<p class="dialog">C'mon. C'mon. <br>
</p>
<p class="action">Fully transformed, the dragonfly unrolls its wings and
flutters them for the first time. Its inner workings are visible at joints and
look like the inside of a clock-- springs, cogs, timing gears... <br>
</p>
<p class="action">The dragonfly crawls on William's hand and begins to flutter,
levitating mid-air. William hands the rolled parchment out and the dragonfly
lands on it. At the end of the alley, the three thugs arrive. The approach
William, grinning. William doesn't even turn around.</p>
<p class="character">TALL THUG</p>
<p class="dialog">Seems as though you've met a dead end. <br>
</p>
<p class="action">William continues ignoring them.</p>
<p class="character">TALL THUG (CONT'D)</p>
<p class="dialog">Hey! I'm talking to you! <br>
</p>
<p class="action">When William doesn't respond, the Tall Thug grabs William and
jerks him back. William drops the dragonfly, which starts flapping its wings
and levitating in the air.</p>
<p class="character">WILLIAM</p>
<p class="dialog">Go! <br>
</p>
<p class="action">The dragonfly zips skyward, rolled parchment clasped tight. </p>
<p class="character">TALL THUG</p>
<p class="dialog">It has the plans! Shoot it! <br>
</p>
<p class="action">The other two thugs draw revolvers and open fire, narrowly
missing the dragonfly as it disappears from sight. <br>
</p>
<p class="action">The Tall Thug turns back to William in time to see a fist
coming for his nose. It shocks the Tall Thug but doesn't shake his grip on
William. <br>
</p>
<p class="action">William closes his eyes and his fist begins to glow red. He
cocks his fist back again but the Tall Thug jerks William up by his overcoat
and punches him across the jaw.</p>
<p class="character">TALL THUG (CONT'D)</p>
<p class="dialog">You think a child's toy will save your resistance?</p>
<p class="character">WILLIAM</p>
<p class="dialog">Long as they keep hiring guys like you. <br>
</p>
<p class="action">The Tall Thug decks William across the jaw again.</p>
<p class="character">TALL THUG</p>
<p class="dialog">Where did you send the plans?</p>
<p class="character">WILLIAM</p>
<p class="dialog">Somewhere safe. <br>
</p>
<p class="action">The Tall Thug smirks.</p>
<p class="character">TALL THUG</p>
<p class="dialog">Baron Vandross has ways of making you scum talk. <br>
</p>
<p class="action">William opens his mouth to retort but the Tall Thug lands
another hook and William goes limp.</p>
<p scenestr="3" scenenumber="3" id="2AMii000" class="sceneheading">EXT. CITY
STREETS - DAY</p>
<p class="action">The bustling streets of a 19th century city. Men drive
horse-drawn carriages through the streets. It's almost exactly what you would
think that a city in the midst of the industrial revolution would look like.
But not quite...<br>
</p>
<p class="action"> From the sky comes the dragonfly with rolled parchment in
its grasp. It zips down to the crowd level of the street, dodging parasols and
weaving past top hats. <br>
</p>
<p class="action">It zips past a storefront where large crates are being
unloaded from a carriage... By a man in a mechanized exoskeleton-- think of the
power-loader from Aliens, but copper and a stove-pipe smoke stack billowing
black smoke. <br>
</p>
<p class="action"> The dragonfly buzzes past a carriage driven without a horse.
Instead it has wheels connected like a steam locomotive that chug down the
cobblestone. <br>
</p>
<p class="action">The dragonfly climbs suddenly, rising high above the street
and hovers like a hummingbird. <br>
</p>
<p class="action">WUMP WUMP WUMP! A single-passenger gyrocopter flies
dangerously close to the dragonfly. The pilot, clad in leather cap, scarf and
dark goggles takes no notice to the dragonfly losing grip of the rolled
parchment. <br>
</p>
<p class="action">The dragonfly is knock around in the wash of the gyrocopter
but then sees the parchment falling towards the street and goes into a dive to
catch up. <br>
</p>
<p class="action">It reaches the parchment, clasps it, and struggles against
gravity to keep from smashing into the street. It zips along, weaving through
the legs of horses and the spokes of wheels. <br>
</p>
<p class="action">It pauses, hovering in the middle of the street, looking
around. A MONOCLED MAN drives a horseless carriage directly at the dragonfly
without it noticing. With a single swat, the monocled man backhands the
dragonfly to the ground. <br>
</p>
<p class="action">It crawls to the sidewalk, dragging the parchment. On the
sidewalk, it tries to flap its wings-- to no avail. They were seriously crushed
by the swat and impact. The dragonfly drags the parchment across the sidewalk,
dodging the feet of people that don't even see it. <br>
</p>
<p class="action">After several close calls, FOOTSTEPS that RUMBLE the ground
start approaching. A TREMENDOUS MAN reading a paper is walking right for the
dragonfly. The dragonfly tries his wings again. He gets an inch off the ground
when his right wing snaps off completely. <br>
</p>
<p class="action">He looks at the Tremendous Man as his foot comes down
directly over the dragonfly.</p>
<p class="character">VOICE (O.S.)</p>
<p class="dialog">Stop! <br>
</p>
<p class="action">The Tremendous Man looks up as a young man in his late teens
pushes him backwards. The Tremendous Man stumbles backwards.</p>
<p class="character">TREMENDOUS MAN</p>
<p class="dialog">I say! <br>
</p>
<p class="action">The young man is about 17, thin and blonde. He's dressed
slightly better than a pauper. This is JASON. Jason kneels down and picks up
the dragonfly machine, carefully coddling it.</p>
<p class="character">JASON</p>
<p class="parenthetical">(to the dragonfly) <br>
</p>
<p class="dialog">Hey little guy. It's alright.</p>
<p class="character"><br>
</p>
<p class="character">TREMENDOUS MAN</p>
<p class="dialog">Young man! I have a mind to contact the authorities for this
assault!</p>
<p class="character">JASON</p>
<p class="dialog">You were about to step on this guy.</p>
<p class="character">TREMENDOUS MAN</p>
<p class="dialog">A toy? You struck me to save your toy? Police! <br>
</p>
<p class="action">A COP at the end of the block hears the call and starts to
walk over. Jason puts the dragonfly into a pocket of his coat.</p>
<p class="character">JASON</p>
<p class="dialog">I didn't assault you. I'm sorry. I don't--</p>
<p class="character">TREMENDOUS MAN</p>
<p class="dialog">Apology is an admission of guilt! You've admitted! Officer!</p>
<p class="character">JASON</p>
<p class="dialog">I don't want any trouble I just-- oh, Cog this! Jason starts
to walk off but the Tremendous Man grabs him.</p>
<p class="character">JASON (CONT'D)</p>
<p class="dialog">Cog you, buddy! <br>
</p>
<p class="action">Jason turns and cold-cocks the Tremendous Man and starts
running. The cop goes after him. Jason jumps a fence and runs through a garden.
The cop gets caught briefly on the fence, but then keeps after Jason. <br>
</p>
<p class="action">Jason turns down an alley and finds a dead end. He tries to
jump for the wall, but can't reach the top. Jason's fists curl in anger. He
closes his eyes and waits for... <br>
</p>
<p class="action">The Cop reaches the alley way Jason's in. He pulls his club
and turns the corner to find... <br>
</p>
<p class="action">Nothing.</p>
<p scenestr="4" scenenumber="4" id="u4Nii000" class="sceneheading">INT. CLOCK
SHOP - DAY</p>
<p class="action">The inside of this cluttered workshop is decorated with
clocks of all sizes and shapes. From floor-standing grandfathers to
wall-mounted cuckoos.</p>
</body>
</html>
</div>TTalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682147384268382860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885401562463459919.post-3576237004973292452012-02-04T23:43:00.000-08:002012-02-04T23:43:59.210-08:00First February Post!This is the first post of February! Isn't that exciting.<br />
<br />
I hadn't made an update in a while, but for good reason-- I'm either extremely busy or incurably lazy. I'd like to think that I'm busy but I do spend my little bits of free time liking photos myself on Facebook. I've been spending two days a week at my internship and learning the representation side of the entertainment industry. Really fast-paced and sort of intimidating, but I think that I could really excel at it.<br />
<br />
Tuesday is my UCB improv101 class. Absolutely an amazing experience. Something that I think is really cool about the improv game is that it gets me out of my head. I'm just doing things. And it turns out that sometimes those things are really funny. I've been beginning to realize that there are two different sides of Tony. When I'm comfortable, I shine. I'm on my A-game and making things happen.<br />
<br />
When I'm out of my comfort zone, I clam up and get nervous. Which is, I think, normal.<br />
<br />
But I need to expand that comfort zone, and I think the only way to do it is to spend more time in the situations that make me uncomfortable.<br />
<br />
He said, blogging from his bedroom.<br />
<br />
Womp womp.<br />
<br />
But really, It's something I've recognized and am working on improving.<br />
<br />
Goals for 2012:<br />
-Get a full-time career job thing. You know, one in the entertainment industry that pays my bills. I think that's a great first step.<br />
-Get comfortable. Really comfortable. Anywhere. I've got to be more relaxed to just be me. I'm not the obnoxious kid from high school and I don't have to be silent to be accepted. I'm good enough. I'm smart enough. Gosh darnit, people like me.<br />
<br />
<br />TTalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682147384268382860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885401562463459919.post-31477600290673382442012-01-26T03:33:00.000-08:002012-01-26T03:33:38.760-08:00Metaphysics of DemonsDemons have been classically aligned with the supernatural. They are hellspawn from another plane, attempting to possess us and control our actions in the real world. But what has gone for too long unrealized is that they are actually a metaphor. They're not really supernatural multi-planar beings, but rather elements of the real that inhabit our personalities. They are the elements of us that we hate the most because they have a tendency to rise up against us in our moments of weakness.<br />
<br />
Demons can pervade our lives in many forms. Anger, greed, addiction, etc. They are personal aspects of self that can take the reigns of our lives whenever we let them. This is why so often, in twelve step programs, we are required to give our power up to a higher being than our self. Because demons can control us, but if we are forced to appeal to a higher power then perhaps that power can grant us strength against them.<br />
<br />
I'm a smoker. It's a terrible habit and has been since I started it. It's disgusting and I'm personally repulsed by it. But in my moments of intoxicated weakness, I find myself desiring to light up. There's no stopping that want. It will always be there. The desire is a biological ramification of addiction to the drug nicotine. Experts say that addiction rewires the brain, forcing it to rely on that chemical to achieve satisfaction.<br />
<br />
So if there is nothing that I can personally do to overcome that addictive force, then how can I banish it, so to speak? An appeal to a higher power is required. But to accept a supernatural higher power to counter a non-supernatural force seems whimsical to me. As though I'm but playing pretend to conquer something very real.<br />
<br />
A good friend of mine is involved in a twelve step program and has maintained her position as an atheist. My friend's higher power is peace. My friend appeals to peace, not only on a global level but on a personal level to achieve power over the demons that plague.<br />
<br />
My point is not so much the methodologies of a twelve step program, but rather the nature of demons. They aren't horned beasts from other dimensions hellbent on destroying our existence. Rather, demons are aspects of the real, parts of our lives, that have the ability to possess us and control us. They whisper in our ear when we are weak and define the logic by which we must abide.<br />
<br />
It is by this understanding of demonology that we come to terms with the idea of the devil. If the devil is the source of all evil and the spawn of all demons then he too is an aspect of the self, within us all and capable of terrible things. It is up to us to master those elements of ourselves whether they are greed, sadism, lust, or wrath.<br />
<br />
It is up to us to find the peace of self that leads us not into the reigns of our demons, but lets us work towards a greater sense of well-being with the world.TTalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682147384268382860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885401562463459919.post-44953600619899032872012-01-15T02:37:00.000-08:002012-01-15T02:37:16.370-08:00I've been in LA for almost a month now. So far I've seen three "celebrities." My first encounter was on my third day. I went to see the a show hosted by Jimmy Pardo at UCB theater. Pardo does warm up for Conan. In the audience that night was Labamba. It was a huge moment for me. That was Labamba. Labamba sat a few feet from me for a show. My mind was blown.<br />
<br />
The next encounter was seeing Eugene Mirman while driving. He was walking with some lady. He was wearing a t-shirt and looked like any other schlub on the street.<br />
<br />
Today, Zach Woods came to the store I work at. I saw him for about a second and a half.<br />
<br />
Oh, he plays Gabe on The Office. I'm starting to realize that my definition of celebrity may be a little loose.<br />
<br />
I was taking a stack of empty boxes to the baler and I heard a voice I'd heard before. It was weird. I recognized it, but not immediately. I turned my head and I saw him talking to someone else.<br />
<br />
The dude is tall. Really tall.<br />
<br />
I realized who he was. Then I baled some cardboard. But I've been thinking about it for the rest of the day. I'm still adjusting to the fact that actors on television are also people in real life. That's when I realized that I divide reality and television. And I think that's probably a healthy response.<br />
<br />
But there is a reality that exists in television. It is a world that is entirely distant from my own. It doesn't exist within the real world that I experience. But elements of it are real. Zach Woods is a person and he bought some orange juice today.<br />
<br />
It's still weird to see people that you see on television in your own world. There he is, existing in my life. This is my world, but there he is, from another fucking, planet buying juice.TTalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682147384268382860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885401562463459919.post-73934394865612503462012-01-13T13:05:00.000-08:002012-01-13T13:05:56.638-08:00Just do something new.While talking to a good friend of mine, we came to the subject of ham and brie sandwiches. It's not an uncommon topic, given my propensity towards eating ham, brie, and sandwiches. Subsequently, we were also discussing how we would both love to lose some weight.<br />
<br />
For the record, she's gorgeous and looks amazing the way she does.<br />
<br />
I'm a hot mess of man that needs to drop 15 pounds just to get back to where I was 4 months ago and those nachos bell grande aren't helping.<br />
<br />
After I assured her she looked great, which she does, she made an observation that blew my mind. It was completely obvious but I'd never recognized it. It was one of those hidden in plain sight deals. You know what she pointed out to me?<br />
<br />
She knows what a ham and brie sandwich tastes like.<br />
<br />
And then I realized: I know what it tastes like, too.<br />
<br />
Why keep eating something again and again when you know what it tastes like? Sure, there is the satisfaction of getting exactly what you expected. But isn't the satisfaction of trying something new, and exploring something else even more rewarding?<br />
<br />
Now, all of this seemed much more mind blowing when I was wasted. But I think that it's still pretty good. Branch out. Try new things. Don't stay comfortable. Do something new.<br />
<br />
Do something new.TTalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682147384268382860noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885401562463459919.post-69930796877148272552012-01-11T13:20:00.000-08:002012-01-11T13:20:55.671-08:00Multi-Pronged AssaultIt's been a full month since I've posted to this blog and my, how shit has changed.<br />
<br />
1) I finished my classes. After my trip to LA earlier in the semester I became a supercharged dynamo aimed to destroy any assignment in my path. So I did. I passed them and applied for graduation.<br />
<br />
2) I found a Trader Joe's in LA that would accept my transfer application. I now work at the Hollywood Trader Joe's on Vine. It's phenomenal and the crew seem like a good bunch of folks, but I still miss all of my friends at the Coleman store in San Jose. 212, I <3 you.<br />
<br />
3) I packed up my entire life into a 16' Budget truck and drove it almost 400 miles to LA. The drive was phenomenal. I stopped at Harris Ranch with my dad and ate a steak the size of my head.<br />
<br />
4) I signed up for improv101 at the Upright Citizen's Brigade Training Center.<br />
<br />
5) I Interviewed for and landed an internship at Zero Gravity Management in Santa Monica.<br />
<br />
Each of these things is absolutely vital for my multi-pronged assault of the film industry. My internship will teach me how the industry works and put me in contact with people in the representation field. My UCB class will get me in contact with other comedians and actors. Again networking but also a chance to demonstrate my comedic chops and work my way through the UCB ranks. I'm continuing to work on my feature screenplays and enter screenwriting competitions.<br />
<br />
Oh, and I'm working on a blog that will give me web exposure. So that's a thing.<br />
<br />
Here I am, LA. Let's fucking do this.TTalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682147384268382860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885401562463459919.post-34658775960773640382011-12-12T23:11:00.000-08:002011-12-12T23:11:42.100-08:00Lapses of Posting, Finals, and an official response to John August's Blog Post regarding music educationAs I'm sure you've noticed, It's been a few weeks since I've updated. My life has been somewhat chaotic and full of promising terror. At the end of this month I'll be moving to LA. I'm transferring with my current company to a similar position down there and moving in with some friends in the Los Feliz area. Very exciting.<br />
<br />
And it just means that in addition to finishing out my last semester at San Jose State, I also have the responsibilities of making sure my work transfer goes through, mailing checks to my future room mates, canceling my internet, finding the best deals on moving trucks, packing, and giving my landlord a thirty-day notice. Did I remember to cancel the PG&E?<br />
<br />
Anyway, I wanted to apologize (because I know you wait with bated breath for every one of my updates) and reassure you. No, you are not forgotten. Yes, I will be continuing to update this blog. Yes, I am mostly saying that for my own benefit.<br />
<br />
The other thing I wanted to address here is a blog post that John August made on Saturday regarding the music education of the country's children. John (I feel like that's kinda informal, but we're in my living room now) made an update more or less claiming that rather than teach kids the instruments of a traditional symphonic band, we should just have them learn piano and guitar.<br />
<br />
I totally follow his logic. I played music all through high school and even went to a summer band-camp that I continue to be a counselor at every summer. I'm 24 and that is in no way weird.
I realized one thing about the kids that tended to sit first trumpet or first clarinet. For the most part, they played piano as well. It's clear that there is a correlation between children that play piano in addition to their symphonic instrument and their success as music students.
Piano is an incredibly visual instrument that makes for an intuitive association between the written music and the way it is played. I really wish I had started playing on piano, but I wanted to be like Lisa Simpson so I just went straight to the saxomaphone.<br />
<br />
However, as he points out, the sound of twenty-four pianos being played together in a concert isn't something to behold. It is in this vein that I maintain that the traditional symphonic band must be maintained in schools. That the instruments that have always been taught ought to continue to be taught. Because playing in a symphonic band brings in entire new dynamics to the performance of music. There is a dialogue that takes place between conductor and musician as well as amongst the musicians themselves. They listen to each other and respond. They communicate cues and indicate, in a very dynamic way, the direction of the ensemble. It is a very different experience from playing piano or guitar alone.<br />
<br />
It doesn't matter if you're five or fifty with thirty years of piano playing, the first time you play the violin it's gonna squeak and sound terrible. At least when you're five you're just happy that you're playing an instrument. So here's what I'd suggest. If your child shows an interest in playing music get them a piano or a guitar and some lessons. But also let them enroll in their schools music program and play trombone, clarinet, or violin. They'll gain all the benefit of an education in piano or guitar, as well as the invaluable experience of playing in an ensemble.<br />
<br />
Alright, back to studying. Three final exams and a 6 page paper left until freedom.TTalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14682147384268382860noreply@blogger.com0