Once, I went to college, and it wasn't even a total waste of time. I didn't graduate, of course, don't be silly. My college years coincided with the rise of Youtube, and this is what I blame for my failure. Essays about Thoreau didn't stand a chance when I could spend an evening watching highlights of Larry Bird or old episodes of Duck Tales. But that's not to say I didn't learn things at college, because I did. For instance, I learned that Japanese people love smoking cigarettes. This fact (or perhaps generalization based on a few random dudes I saw hanging out by the student union building) brought me a great deal of joy, as I'm intimidated by the intellect and efficiency of the Japanese culture, and seeing them engaging in poor life choices made me feel like they're not that much better than me, after all. This feeling lasted until I saw a Japanese guy on campus wearing a purple shirt that said in huge, blurry letters, HOW DOES IT MAKE YOU FEEL? I realized then that the Japanese understand coolness on a level that I will never achieve.
These are the real lessons you take from college. The big ideas don't stick--all those abstract, conceptual things like modernism, communism, nihilism, existentialism, and math--they occupy your brain for a while, muddling up and shuffling your thoughts temporarily, but ultimately they get absorbed back into your basic life philosophy (which for my generation can be summed up as "if it's not me, I don't care"). The minutia is what's really important in this period of life, and for most of this, one doesn't really need to be officially enrolled in college. Any high school grad can benefit from learning how to handle grocery shopping with no car, or why you should make yourself puke when you're just drunk enough, or how much suckier life becomes if you suddenly don't have a microwave. Poverty and poor life decisions are public domain to all young folk who have yet to have their enthusiasm for the world sucked from their souls.
So why go to college, then? To learn the most valuable lesson of all: How to commit the best years of your life, not to mention an absurd amount of money, to an endeavor that will most likely be futile and disappointing. This is a process that one should get used to as an adult. Ultimately, life is not about making good decisions, because those don't exist. It's about enjoying whatever bad decisions you will inevitably make.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Saturday, December 19, 2009
My Year-End Reviews of Movies I Haven't Seen
Every year movies come out. Lots of them. Like, at least twelve. It's fucking crazy. I don't see most of them, but that shouldn't preclude me from having things to say. So let's party.
Avatar
A group of humans travel to a strange and dangerous planet to do battle with a race of hostile blue meanies in this high-tech remake of Yellow Submarine. Apparently there's a rare ore called Unobtanium that the plot is centered around. Inconcievablah!
Blind Side
Being a white person is so awesome. The scene in which Blindside gets a handjob from Sandra Bullock is among the most compelling cinema moments of the year.
Twilight
I hate these stupid movies about pretty-boy teenage prancing vampires. Totally gay. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go watch Lost Boys like an adult.
The Invention of Lying
Written, directed by, and starring Ricky Gervais. Apparently, I have jumped right in line with the rest of the America in saying "Yes, Ricky, you're the funniest man on the planet, but we will never support anything you do."
Precious
Being a white person is still awesome. The scene in which Precious gets a handjob from Sandra Bullock is among the most compelling cinema moments of the year.
Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen
Remember at the end of the first movie when Shia and the butch one were making out on top of Bumble Bee? That's what every boy wants, a pet that you can sit inside of while getting a handjob. Bumble Bee should transform into a hotel room instead of a Camaro. I guess in this new movie there's something called a Sun Harvester, not to be confused with Son Harvester, who's a popular figure in Nambla web forums.
Crank 2: High Voltage
Dude, that dude that was so fucking jacked and he fucked that girl in public and did drugs and punched motherfuckers and all that crazy shit? He's totally jacked again and he fucks someone else in public and presumably he does drugs and punches motherfuckers EVEN HARDER! I LOVE HOLLYWOOD!! THEY MADE THIS SHIT!! THEY REALLY MADE IT!!! THOSE ASSHOLES!!!
Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince
Director David Yates boldly tackles the subject of Barack Obama's family roots and his rise to power. Show us the birth certificate, Barack! We all know it says "mudblood!"
And that was the year in film, according to a guy who was too busy watching past seasons of Law and Order SVU to really give a damn.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
From the Director's Diary part 3
Day 52
Production was halted today so I could fly to LA and meet with the presidents of the studio, Lenny and Benny Weisenbergsteinman. Lenny and Benny are typical billionaire studio moguls, except for the fact that they are conjoined twins. Or at least, the official word is that they're conjoined twins; rumors abound that they are really two guys who share one suit, rumors that are fueled largely by the fact that they don't seem to quite be identical to each other. Either way, the effect is the same: negotiating with Lenny and Benny like negotiating with a two-headed dragon, only if the dragon was 5 foot 2 and reeked of Scotch.
Upon arriving in the studio I was made to wait 15 minutes in a conference room with one of those stereotypical long board-room desks that you only see in movies about movie studio conference rooms. The entire time I waited, I had nothing to do but practice Keigel exercises with my anus. The air in the room was stale and musty--this is what the death of a thousand great ideas smells like, I thought. On the wall in front of me was a mural of the Weisenbergsteinman brothers with a toga draped between the two of them. They were standing atop a mountain literally comprised of nude female concubines, piled into the sky like cords of wood.
Finally Lenny and Benny entered, followed by a wormy-looking assistant, who carried with him a birdcage containing a brightly feathered tropical bird.
"Archie, my boy!" Benny greeted me, smiling warmly.
"What the fuck are you jackasses doing out there in that God damn dessert?" shouted Lenny, decidedly the frostier of the two.
"Well, I can tell you I'm very excited," I began, before Lenny cut me off.
"Yeah, shut the fuck up, you shit-eating troll."
"Listen," said Benny, patting the table gently as if to comfort me, "tell me--what do you see here in this cage?"
"Well, looks to me like some kind of parrot?" I ventured.
"Close," said Benny, "It's a hyacinth macaw, actually."
The brothers stood up and walked to the other end of the table, where the parrot's cage rested, as Lenny addressed me in an exaggerated faux-lecture. "Let's perform a little character exercise here, Archie. You prancing artsy fucks are all about this imagination shit, you'll like this. Let's pretend for just a moment, that you are this bird--"
"Hyacinth macaw," Benny interjected.
"Right--you're this higher-cent macaw, just sitting here in our little cage. Got it?"
"Got it," I agreed dutifully. "I'm a macaw."
"Good. Now, Archie, can you tell me what is this paper that is lining the bottom of your cage?"
I peered over across the table. "Is that newspaper?"
"Wrong," said Lenny, as Benny raised his eyebrows at me and shook his head. "This paper here on the bottom of your cage is the printout of the budget for your movie. You see that? And what have you done, Archie? Why--why, look at this! You, Archie, you have SHIT all over the budget for the movie!"
"That's disgusting," chimed Benny.
"You have taken the budget--the budget, by the way, that WE gave you--and you have literally smeared your shit all over it. You filthy fucking animal! Look what you fucking DID!"
With that Lenny (or whichever one of them controls the left arm) flung the birdcage across the room, where it smashed violently against the wall and fell to the floor. The bird inside shrieked, batting its wings and flailing.
"YOU FUCKING DIRTY PIECE OF SHIT, YOU BETTER HAVE SOME FUCKING ANSWERS!" Lenny was red-faced and quaking as he berated me. I stood up from my chair to look over at the bird.
"Is the macaw gonna be ok?" I asked.
"FUCK THAT BIRD! I'LL EAT THAT FUCKING BIRD!" screamed Lenny.
Finally Benny spoke up, still calm and level-headed. "Archie, look. This is about results. It's one thing to be over-budget, but we haven't seen any of the dailies--not one minute of film from this movie."
"Are you just burning piles of fucking money in that fucking desert?" demanded Lenny, which startled me.
"Who told you about Tommy Newbold's campfire sing-a-longs?" I asked. Lenny just stared at me in silence for a moment, his eyes bulging. Benny spoke again.
"Archie! Your dad was a great man--the best director this studio has ever had! But that doesn't change the business. We need to see what our money is going toward."
I nodded. "Okay," I began, wondering what would come out of my mouth as I said it, "hear me out: You give me until the end of the month--that's two weeks. On the day of the 31st I will have a courier bring in the opening scene of the movie, completely finished and edited. It's an epic battle scene in which Sam and his sidekick Omelette take on a legion of Amazonian warrior princesses. If you don't love it, you can cancel the entire movie, and I will personally pay you back all the money you've invested." Of course, I had no plan of how to execute any of this, or how to pay the money back if I failed.
The brothers Weisenbergsteinman looked at eachother for a moment, then Benny turned to me. "Alright," he said, "but kid--it better be amazing."
Lenny only muttered, "I should set fire to his fuckin' balls." I took this as his implied consent.
"Alright you, get the heck out of here and go make us some money," said Benny, grinning broadly and extending his hand across the table to me.
"Will do boss." Again I looked over at the far end of the room. The bird in its over-turned cage was bobbing in a way that could almost be described as a stagger--or at least as close to a stagger as I've ever seen a bird perform. "Um, you guys really should get the macaw to a vet, he looks...damaged."
Benny burst out with a loud, hearty laugh. "Don't worry my boy, it's actually a robot." I didn't know whether or not I should believe him. "Hey, say hello to your father for me."
"Of course," I replied, "and the two of you send my regards to your lovely wife. And oh, by the way, happy Rosh Hashanah."
At this, the brothers stopped silently, turned, and looked me directly in the eye. "The fuck are you talking about?" asked Lenny.
"Rosh Hashanah--big Jewish holiday coming, no?"
Lenny scoffed. "Jewish? You think we're Jewish? Don't be fucking ignorant. We're Mormon."
Production was halted today so I could fly to LA and meet with the presidents of the studio, Lenny and Benny Weisenbergsteinman. Lenny and Benny are typical billionaire studio moguls, except for the fact that they are conjoined twins. Or at least, the official word is that they're conjoined twins; rumors abound that they are really two guys who share one suit, rumors that are fueled largely by the fact that they don't seem to quite be identical to each other. Either way, the effect is the same: negotiating with Lenny and Benny like negotiating with a two-headed dragon, only if the dragon was 5 foot 2 and reeked of Scotch.
Upon arriving in the studio I was made to wait 15 minutes in a conference room with one of those stereotypical long board-room desks that you only see in movies about movie studio conference rooms. The entire time I waited, I had nothing to do but practice Keigel exercises with my anus. The air in the room was stale and musty--this is what the death of a thousand great ideas smells like, I thought. On the wall in front of me was a mural of the Weisenbergsteinman brothers with a toga draped between the two of them. They were standing atop a mountain literally comprised of nude female concubines, piled into the sky like cords of wood.
Finally Lenny and Benny entered, followed by a wormy-looking assistant, who carried with him a birdcage containing a brightly feathered tropical bird.
"Archie, my boy!" Benny greeted me, smiling warmly.
"What the fuck are you jackasses doing out there in that God damn dessert?" shouted Lenny, decidedly the frostier of the two.
"Well, I can tell you I'm very excited," I began, before Lenny cut me off.
"Yeah, shut the fuck up, you shit-eating troll."
"Listen," said Benny, patting the table gently as if to comfort me, "tell me--what do you see here in this cage?"
"Well, looks to me like some kind of parrot?" I ventured.
"Close," said Benny, "It's a hyacinth macaw, actually."
The brothers stood up and walked to the other end of the table, where the parrot's cage rested, as Lenny addressed me in an exaggerated faux-lecture. "Let's perform a little character exercise here, Archie. You prancing artsy fucks are all about this imagination shit, you'll like this. Let's pretend for just a moment, that you are this bird--"
"Hyacinth macaw," Benny interjected.
"Right--you're this higher-cent macaw, just sitting here in our little cage. Got it?"
"Got it," I agreed dutifully. "I'm a macaw."
"Good. Now, Archie, can you tell me what is this paper that is lining the bottom of your cage?"
I peered over across the table. "Is that newspaper?"
"Wrong," said Lenny, as Benny raised his eyebrows at me and shook his head. "This paper here on the bottom of your cage is the printout of the budget for your movie. You see that? And what have you done, Archie? Why--why, look at this! You, Archie, you have SHIT all over the budget for the movie!"
"That's disgusting," chimed Benny.
"You have taken the budget--the budget, by the way, that WE gave you--and you have literally smeared your shit all over it. You filthy fucking animal! Look what you fucking DID!"
With that Lenny (or whichever one of them controls the left arm) flung the birdcage across the room, where it smashed violently against the wall and fell to the floor. The bird inside shrieked, batting its wings and flailing.
"YOU FUCKING DIRTY PIECE OF SHIT, YOU BETTER HAVE SOME FUCKING ANSWERS!" Lenny was red-faced and quaking as he berated me. I stood up from my chair to look over at the bird.
"Is the macaw gonna be ok?" I asked.
"FUCK THAT BIRD! I'LL EAT THAT FUCKING BIRD!" screamed Lenny.
Finally Benny spoke up, still calm and level-headed. "Archie, look. This is about results. It's one thing to be over-budget, but we haven't seen any of the dailies--not one minute of film from this movie."
"Are you just burning piles of fucking money in that fucking desert?" demanded Lenny, which startled me.
"Who told you about Tommy Newbold's campfire sing-a-longs?" I asked. Lenny just stared at me in silence for a moment, his eyes bulging. Benny spoke again.
"Archie! Your dad was a great man--the best director this studio has ever had! But that doesn't change the business. We need to see what our money is going toward."
I nodded. "Okay," I began, wondering what would come out of my mouth as I said it, "hear me out: You give me until the end of the month--that's two weeks. On the day of the 31st I will have a courier bring in the opening scene of the movie, completely finished and edited. It's an epic battle scene in which Sam and his sidekick Omelette take on a legion of Amazonian warrior princesses. If you don't love it, you can cancel the entire movie, and I will personally pay you back all the money you've invested." Of course, I had no plan of how to execute any of this, or how to pay the money back if I failed.
The brothers Weisenbergsteinman looked at eachother for a moment, then Benny turned to me. "Alright," he said, "but kid--it better be amazing."
Lenny only muttered, "I should set fire to his fuckin' balls." I took this as his implied consent.
"Alright you, get the heck out of here and go make us some money," said Benny, grinning broadly and extending his hand across the table to me.
"Will do boss." Again I looked over at the far end of the room. The bird in its over-turned cage was bobbing in a way that could almost be described as a stagger--or at least as close to a stagger as I've ever seen a bird perform. "Um, you guys really should get the macaw to a vet, he looks...damaged."
Benny burst out with a loud, hearty laugh. "Don't worry my boy, it's actually a robot." I didn't know whether or not I should believe him. "Hey, say hello to your father for me."
"Of course," I replied, "and the two of you send my regards to your lovely wife. And oh, by the way, happy Rosh Hashanah."
At this, the brothers stopped silently, turned, and looked me directly in the eye. "The fuck are you talking about?" asked Lenny.
"Rosh Hashanah--big Jewish holiday coming, no?"
Lenny scoffed. "Jewish? You think we're Jewish? Don't be fucking ignorant. We're Mormon."
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Instruction Manual for model X42434Z881
Congratulations--you are the proud new owner of your very own human being, a product of the FleshCo International Manufacturing Company! Your human should prove to be a most remarkable and versatile tool; there are just a few things you should know about caring for your human in order to assure maximum efficiency:
The physical maturation process for human beings takes approximately sixteen years. Before that age, your human should not be exposed to alcohol, automobile operation, heavy combat, tax document preparation, or anal sex. Violation of these terms renders all warranties null and void.
Avoid prolonged exposure to direct sunlight. Ideal operating temperature for your human is between 50 and 85 degrees Fahrenheit--exposure to extreme temperatures may cause whining and complaints of skin irritation. Humans need to be fed daily and cleaned once every two weeks. If your human is left alone with another human for an extended period of time, it is recommended you wash the genital areas with a diluted bleach solution.
For repairs, take your human to a certified FleshCo Body Technician (referred to in some rural areas as a "medical doctor"). NOTE: It is common for humans to undergo a variety of problems despite having no apparent physical damage. These so called "psychological" problems are typically malfunctions in the data processing center located inside of the human's skull. The following are signs that your human may be undergoing one of these malfunctions:
Crying throughout the night; longing for something called "mother;" abusing intravenous drugs; praying; compulsively gambling; writing bad poetry; masturbating with unusual household objects; and performing stand up comedy.
If any of these behaviors are observed, do not under any circumstances allow your human to sit alone in a dark room listening to electronic music from the 1980's, as this typically results in permanent cosmetic damage to the epidermis. Violation of these terms renders all warranties null and void. For help dealing with psychological malfunctions, call our customer service line at 1-800-375-2872 and speak with our specialist, Dr. Laura Schlessinger.
Again, congratulations on your purchase. If given proper care as instructed, your human could very well survive for up to three decades. And as a final note: The FleshCo International Manufacturing Company is not liable for any physical or personal damage your human may inflict as it lashes out desperately for what the humans call "freedom, sweet freedom." Remember: That's just their way of saying hello!
The physical maturation process for human beings takes approximately sixteen years. Before that age, your human should not be exposed to alcohol, automobile operation, heavy combat, tax document preparation, or anal sex. Violation of these terms renders all warranties null and void.
Avoid prolonged exposure to direct sunlight. Ideal operating temperature for your human is between 50 and 85 degrees Fahrenheit--exposure to extreme temperatures may cause whining and complaints of skin irritation. Humans need to be fed daily and cleaned once every two weeks. If your human is left alone with another human for an extended period of time, it is recommended you wash the genital areas with a diluted bleach solution.
For repairs, take your human to a certified FleshCo Body Technician (referred to in some rural areas as a "medical doctor"). NOTE: It is common for humans to undergo a variety of problems despite having no apparent physical damage. These so called "psychological" problems are typically malfunctions in the data processing center located inside of the human's skull. The following are signs that your human may be undergoing one of these malfunctions:
Crying throughout the night; longing for something called "mother;" abusing intravenous drugs; praying; compulsively gambling; writing bad poetry; masturbating with unusual household objects; and performing stand up comedy.
If any of these behaviors are observed, do not under any circumstances allow your human to sit alone in a dark room listening to electronic music from the 1980's, as this typically results in permanent cosmetic damage to the epidermis. Violation of these terms renders all warranties null and void. For help dealing with psychological malfunctions, call our customer service line at 1-800-375-2872 and speak with our specialist, Dr. Laura Schlessinger.
Again, congratulations on your purchase. If given proper care as instructed, your human could very well survive for up to three decades. And as a final note: The FleshCo International Manufacturing Company is not liable for any physical or personal damage your human may inflict as it lashes out desperately for what the humans call "freedom, sweet freedom." Remember: That's just their way of saying hello!
Friday, November 27, 2009
Bombing State Street
Stand up comedy is the ideal pursuit for anyone who thinks "it's a real shame that it's illegal for me to walk around in public with my balls hanging out of my pants." It's second only to reality television on the scale of depraved self-exploiting narcissistic acts a person can engage in. And so, of course, it comes with its fair share of humbling, humiliating, de-humanizing, and otherwise soul-crushing moments--after all, you can't expect to walk around with your balls hanging out without getting an occasional shot of pepper spray in your eyes.
One evening that was particularly rough this past summer was a show I took part in at a Salt Lake bar called Piper Down. Since the closing of Port O'Call last year, Piper Down has become the watering hole of choice for Salt Lake's most prominent twenty-something douchebags--a douchetrough, if you will. It's the type of bar that plays Girls Gone Wild on the closed circuit television, as if that's something that a normal healthy person would just idly watch in the midst of polite social company. "Herman, after you finish watching this girl puke on her own tits, come join us in the dining hall for tiramisu and cappuccino." Why would I do comedy at a place like this? Maybe it was the free beer and potential to make upwards of $40 in door money. Maybe it's because my usual audience (which consists three cats and my coffee maker) has grown tired of my material. Or maybe I just miss my awkward teenage years and compulsively feel the occaisional need to do something ridiculous in front of people who don't like me. Whatever the reason, I was there.
The show actually started on strong footing. My friend John Hilder, a legitimately funny comedian, did quite well. He was followed by a touring comic, a legitimately crass impressionist, who also did well. The audience was engaged, the show had momentum, and I was on deck. Clearly it was time for the show organizers to take a fifteen minute break to change a microphone chord. Thank God, I almost thought this was going to go well.
Apparently during the short laughter-raping pause, the entire audience decided to shoot heroin into their eyeballs. It's not that they didn't like me or didn't think I was funny, they simply no longer had the ability to pay attention to anything further away than the beer on their tables. Being on a stage ten feet away, listening to my jokes was clearly out of the question. I know that nobody was paying attention, because after the show a few of the more helpful audience members took time to give me some constructive criticism.
The first guy I talked to told me I shouldn't have opened with so many jokes about being tall. I fully agree with him, actually: tall jokes are stupid, that's why I've never written or told a tall joke on stage in my entire life, including that evening. The next guy told me I shouldn't scream so much in my act, which is a little like telling Hitler that he shouldn't be so nice to the Jews. I couldn't have been more dead-pan that night unless I was one of those audience members jamming syringes in my tear ducts. His advice did, however, make me realize that I probably should have tried screaming; at least it might have gotten their attention--though with my material, it also would have made me sound like a recovering brain trauma patient ("SO I HAD A FUNNY THOUGHT ABOUT PIGEONS TODAY!!!!"). In short, I would have done better had I actually performed for my cats. They wouldn't have heard what I was saying, either, but at least I could have busted open a can of tuna and pretended that they liked me.
Still, there was one thing (two if you count seeing some Girls Gone Wild) that made the evening worthwhile:
This show was organized by a local comedian (since the community is so tight-knit in this city, in order to protect this comic's identity I'll refer to him with the name "NotCraig."). After the show was over, NotCraig got into a heated argument with his girlfriend. The argument became so heated that the two of them went out into the parking lot, where the argument continued to be very heated indeed. So heated, in fact, that NotCraig's girlfriend, who apparently suffers from some kind of chronic lung condition, started having some very heated seizures and heatedly lost consciousness. As the bystanders at the bar (who apparently had come down from their heroin binge) were tending to her, NotCraig was busy trying to convince everyone that emergency services really not need be involved in such a trifling matter. Apparently, some silly person with a tiny shred of respect for human life disagreed with him, and 911 was called. Upon learning this, NotCraig decided it was time to make his exit. I suppose for whatever reason he thought it better to leave his girlfriend, unconscious and seizing, with a bunch of strangers than to speak with a few nice police officers.
And this was the moment that I really enjoyed--the artful departure of NotCraig, who did not flee in a car or taxi or bus; no, he took off on foot, literally sprinting down state street, running at full speed until I could no longer see him in the distance. It was a magnificent thing to behold, so glorious it would have really been one of the highlights of my year, had it not been for the fact that NotCraig was sprinting away with my $40 of door money. All I could do was stand on the sidewalk and wave like Col. Hans Landa waving to Shoshana at the start of Inglorious Basterds. "Au revoir, NotCraig!"
One evening that was particularly rough this past summer was a show I took part in at a Salt Lake bar called Piper Down. Since the closing of Port O'Call last year, Piper Down has become the watering hole of choice for Salt Lake's most prominent twenty-something douchebags--a douchetrough, if you will. It's the type of bar that plays Girls Gone Wild on the closed circuit television, as if that's something that a normal healthy person would just idly watch in the midst of polite social company. "Herman, after you finish watching this girl puke on her own tits, come join us in the dining hall for tiramisu and cappuccino." Why would I do comedy at a place like this? Maybe it was the free beer and potential to make upwards of $40 in door money. Maybe it's because my usual audience (which consists three cats and my coffee maker) has grown tired of my material. Or maybe I just miss my awkward teenage years and compulsively feel the occaisional need to do something ridiculous in front of people who don't like me. Whatever the reason, I was there.
The show actually started on strong footing. My friend John Hilder, a legitimately funny comedian, did quite well. He was followed by a touring comic, a legitimately crass impressionist, who also did well. The audience was engaged, the show had momentum, and I was on deck. Clearly it was time for the show organizers to take a fifteen minute break to change a microphone chord. Thank God, I almost thought this was going to go well.
Apparently during the short laughter-raping pause, the entire audience decided to shoot heroin into their eyeballs. It's not that they didn't like me or didn't think I was funny, they simply no longer had the ability to pay attention to anything further away than the beer on their tables. Being on a stage ten feet away, listening to my jokes was clearly out of the question. I know that nobody was paying attention, because after the show a few of the more helpful audience members took time to give me some constructive criticism.
The first guy I talked to told me I shouldn't have opened with so many jokes about being tall. I fully agree with him, actually: tall jokes are stupid, that's why I've never written or told a tall joke on stage in my entire life, including that evening. The next guy told me I shouldn't scream so much in my act, which is a little like telling Hitler that he shouldn't be so nice to the Jews. I couldn't have been more dead-pan that night unless I was one of those audience members jamming syringes in my tear ducts. His advice did, however, make me realize that I probably should have tried screaming; at least it might have gotten their attention--though with my material, it also would have made me sound like a recovering brain trauma patient ("SO I HAD A FUNNY THOUGHT ABOUT PIGEONS TODAY!!!!"). In short, I would have done better had I actually performed for my cats. They wouldn't have heard what I was saying, either, but at least I could have busted open a can of tuna and pretended that they liked me.
Still, there was one thing (two if you count seeing some Girls Gone Wild) that made the evening worthwhile:
This show was organized by a local comedian (since the community is so tight-knit in this city, in order to protect this comic's identity I'll refer to him with the name "NotCraig."). After the show was over, NotCraig got into a heated argument with his girlfriend. The argument became so heated that the two of them went out into the parking lot, where the argument continued to be very heated indeed. So heated, in fact, that NotCraig's girlfriend, who apparently suffers from some kind of chronic lung condition, started having some very heated seizures and heatedly lost consciousness. As the bystanders at the bar (who apparently had come down from their heroin binge) were tending to her, NotCraig was busy trying to convince everyone that emergency services really not need be involved in such a trifling matter. Apparently, some silly person with a tiny shred of respect for human life disagreed with him, and 911 was called. Upon learning this, NotCraig decided it was time to make his exit. I suppose for whatever reason he thought it better to leave his girlfriend, unconscious and seizing, with a bunch of strangers than to speak with a few nice police officers.
And this was the moment that I really enjoyed--the artful departure of NotCraig, who did not flee in a car or taxi or bus; no, he took off on foot, literally sprinting down state street, running at full speed until I could no longer see him in the distance. It was a magnificent thing to behold, so glorious it would have really been one of the highlights of my year, had it not been for the fact that NotCraig was sprinting away with my $40 of door money. All I could do was stand on the sidewalk and wave like Col. Hans Landa waving to Shoshana at the start of Inglorious Basterds. "Au revoir, NotCraig!"
Monday, November 23, 2009
From the Diary of the Director pt 2
Day 45
Production was halted today because our leading actress, Jayne DeWitt, was arrested and booked into jail for breaking and entering.
The first thing anyone should know about Jayne is that she is easily one of the most beautiful one-armed actresses in the history of Hollywood. What sets her apart from the other one-armed actresses (and there are more than you'd think) is that she has never tried to hide her missing arm under clumsy prosthetics or cheeky camera tricks like so many others. Instead, Jayne defiantly flaunts her rounded shoulder with sleeveless shirts and backless dresses regularly; in her most famous portrait, an ad for a perfume called "Pieds Boueux," a spaghetti strap hangs demurely from her stump, revealing just enough of her breast as to drive a man to remove her other arm just for a glimpse of the complete view.
Jayne went into acting as a standard two-armed actress, and of course struggled to stand out among the throng of anonymous fully-limbed thespians all competing for the same old tired able-bodied roles. But her fortunes were changed by a high-speed motorcycle accident (Jayne often famously said, "the only animal that feels good between my legs is a hog"), and she was instantly transformed from a simple pretty face to a work of art, both figuratively and literally, as her severed arm was placed on display at the Guggenheim Museum (artist credit given to an H. Davidson). Her career immediately blossomed, propelled by her role as a stripper whose pole-dancing career was cut tragically short in the touching musical Drop Your Linen. She won multiple Academy Awards and had all the Oscar trophies modified to reflect her own asymmetrical form. Somehow, the loss of her arm gave her a certain je ne sais quoi, an air of tragedy and recklessness that captured the hearts and minds of movie fans around the world. As the great critic Wilhelm Masters once said: "It's so easy to fall in love with Jayne Dewitt because when Jayne waves goodbye to you, she waves with her entire being." So true.
Naturally, Jayne was the first actress we thought of when casting for the role of Betsy Rue, champion lasso artist and queen of the western frontier. Jayne was a natural choice for such a powerful and arm-intensive female lead, and she was happy and enthusiastic to be a part of the film--she always took time out of her day to hand out high fives and half-hugs to members of the crew. If anyone was going to be arrested on this film, I thought for sure it would be our leading man Tommy Newbold, as his habit of abducting local farm animals and disguising them as movie extras for bar-room scenes was growing increasingly brazen. That's why it was such a surprise when I received the phone call this afternoon, and Jayne's voice was on the other end.
"Archie. It's Jayne. I'm in New York. And I'm in jail."
"My God, are you alright? What the hell are you in jail for?"
"Well, Archie, I decided that I want my arm back," she said matter-of-factly.
"Oh no, Jayne, you didn't."
"I did," she declared, a tinge of pride in her voice. "I broke into the Guggenheim."
Production was halted today because our leading actress, Jayne DeWitt, was arrested and booked into jail for breaking and entering.
The first thing anyone should know about Jayne is that she is easily one of the most beautiful one-armed actresses in the history of Hollywood. What sets her apart from the other one-armed actresses (and there are more than you'd think) is that she has never tried to hide her missing arm under clumsy prosthetics or cheeky camera tricks like so many others. Instead, Jayne defiantly flaunts her rounded shoulder with sleeveless shirts and backless dresses regularly; in her most famous portrait, an ad for a perfume called "Pieds Boueux," a spaghetti strap hangs demurely from her stump, revealing just enough of her breast as to drive a man to remove her other arm just for a glimpse of the complete view.
Jayne went into acting as a standard two-armed actress, and of course struggled to stand out among the throng of anonymous fully-limbed thespians all competing for the same old tired able-bodied roles. But her fortunes were changed by a high-speed motorcycle accident (Jayne often famously said, "the only animal that feels good between my legs is a hog"), and she was instantly transformed from a simple pretty face to a work of art, both figuratively and literally, as her severed arm was placed on display at the Guggenheim Museum (artist credit given to an H. Davidson). Her career immediately blossomed, propelled by her role as a stripper whose pole-dancing career was cut tragically short in the touching musical Drop Your Linen. She won multiple Academy Awards and had all the Oscar trophies modified to reflect her own asymmetrical form. Somehow, the loss of her arm gave her a certain je ne sais quoi, an air of tragedy and recklessness that captured the hearts and minds of movie fans around the world. As the great critic Wilhelm Masters once said: "It's so easy to fall in love with Jayne Dewitt because when Jayne waves goodbye to you, she waves with her entire being." So true.
Naturally, Jayne was the first actress we thought of when casting for the role of Betsy Rue, champion lasso artist and queen of the western frontier. Jayne was a natural choice for such a powerful and arm-intensive female lead, and she was happy and enthusiastic to be a part of the film--she always took time out of her day to hand out high fives and half-hugs to members of the crew. If anyone was going to be arrested on this film, I thought for sure it would be our leading man Tommy Newbold, as his habit of abducting local farm animals and disguising them as movie extras for bar-room scenes was growing increasingly brazen. That's why it was such a surprise when I received the phone call this afternoon, and Jayne's voice was on the other end.
"Archie. It's Jayne. I'm in New York. And I'm in jail."
"My God, are you alright? What the hell are you in jail for?"
"Well, Archie, I decided that I want my arm back," she said matter-of-factly.
"Oh no, Jayne, you didn't."
"I did," she declared, a tinge of pride in her voice. "I broke into the Guggenheim."
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