Saturday, April 24, 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Career Suicide (part IV)
Scarecrow: Webster's Timeline History, 1590 - 2007
Mrs. Brady is standing, head bowed, cleaning the grime from Mr. Brady‘s glasses. She rubs them on the corner of her towel with a determined, squirrel-like intensity.
She freezes.
She hands the glasses to Mr. Brady.
She stumbles towards the couch. She drops heavily into the cushions. Somehow she is able to keep her towel on.
We reveal then, in the midst of this near-faint, the back story on how and why Mrs. Brady became Mrs. Brady:
The screen flashes back to a slightly younger, soon-to-be Mrs. Brady. We see her strolling along a sunlit suburban sidewalk. She has spent the afternoon helping out an elderly, but ‘still-sharp-as-ever’ neighbor.
Something is wrong at the home.
A shotgun is recessed within the manicured front lawn.
The gun is pointing towards the foyer.
A wicker-topped chair from the kitchen table is there.
The chair has fallen towards the house. The camera holds on this image of pointing gun and fallen kitchen chair, both embedded within the lawn.
Now we pull back and see the future Mrs. Brady
poignantly gripping the hunter-green mailbox.
She is immobilized by the scene.
The flag is still up: the mail hasn’t arrived yet.
You recommended that the scene be set up so that just the legs of the tipped chair are visible over her left arm; the arm that clutches the mailbox.
The camera will pull back further to reveal her, small and motionless at the mailbox- a mailbox identical to fifty others in this suburban neighborhood.
Powerful, stark-suburbia’s façade of uniform okay-ness is shattered!
And then the comedic masterpiece- the camera zooms in jarringly on the body.
Oh no!
Wait.
The body is a straw-filled dummy (referred to in the contracted way of the common vernacular as, “scarecrow,” a word justified with the argument that: “Weel. It skurs crows, so we say skurcrow.”).
There is a note, safety-pinned at all four corners, to the chest of this scarecrow.
Mrs. Brady moves to the scarecrow. She bends stiffly from the waist and pulls the note into her hands.
All four safety pins retain a corner from the note.
Perhaps we have the camera zoom in to show these paper fibers, raw, exposed and roughly torn.
Viewed close up, they are rags impaled by steel, melodramatically correlating with the state of this woman’s heart.
She reads the note aloud:
School bus approaches.
Pneumatic door whooshes.
A flash of pigtails:
End of flashback.
________________________
This spec script did little, at first, to pull you from the ranks of hacks writing jokes for those stand-up comedians relegated to performing at strip-clubs, frat parties and ‘blue,’ venues. In fact, you began losing work as you transitioned into your new career focus.
says Raleigh of, The Lost Dove Bar.
says Tomas, visiting Raleigh from Tijuana.
you argue,
Tomas stands up and crosses his arms.
Raleigh stops leaning on the bar and crosses his arms.
They both step towards you.
You retreat from the low-lit dive.
__________________
More still to come. Also, I'm heading to the island of Brac- I'll keep you updated.
Mrs. Brady is standing, head bowed, cleaning the grime from Mr. Brady‘s glasses. She rubs them on the corner of her towel with a determined, squirrel-like intensity.
She freezes.
She hands the glasses to Mr. Brady.
She stumbles towards the couch. She drops heavily into the cushions. Somehow she is able to keep her towel on.
We reveal then, in the midst of this near-faint, the back story on how and why Mrs. Brady became Mrs. Brady:
The screen flashes back to a slightly younger, soon-to-be Mrs. Brady. We see her strolling along a sunlit suburban sidewalk. She has spent the afternoon helping out an elderly, but ‘still-sharp-as-ever’ neighbor.
Something is wrong at the home.
A shotgun is recessed within the manicured front lawn.
The gun is pointing towards the foyer.
A wicker-topped chair from the kitchen table is there.
The chair has fallen towards the house. The camera holds on this image of pointing gun and fallen kitchen chair, both embedded within the lawn.
Now we pull back and see the future Mrs. Brady
poignantly gripping the hunter-green mailbox.
She is immobilized by the scene.
The flag is still up: the mail hasn’t arrived yet.
You recommended that the scene be set up so that just the legs of the tipped chair are visible over her left arm; the arm that clutches the mailbox.
The camera will pull back further to reveal her, small and motionless at the mailbox- a mailbox identical to fifty others in this suburban neighborhood.
Powerful, stark-suburbia’s façade of uniform okay-ness is shattered!
And then the comedic masterpiece- the camera zooms in jarringly on the body.
Oh no!
Wait.
The body is a straw-filled dummy (referred to in the contracted way of the common vernacular as, “scarecrow,” a word justified with the argument that: “Weel. It skurs crows, so we say skurcrow.”).
There is a note, safety-pinned at all four corners, to the chest of this scarecrow.
Mrs. Brady moves to the scarecrow. She bends stiffly from the waist and pulls the note into her hands.
All four safety pins retain a corner from the note.
Perhaps we have the camera zoom in to show these paper fibers, raw, exposed and roughly torn.
Viewed close up, they are rags impaled by steel, melodramatically correlating with the state of this woman’s heart.
She reads the note aloud:
“Every day with you is like this. I’m heading to LA. Hopefully soon, I will write for TV. It’d be really groovy if we could pretend we never met. The kids are yours; my gift to you. Ciao.”
School bus approaches.
Pneumatic door whooshes.
A flash of pigtails:
“What’s that, mommy?”
“Mommy, it’s not Halloween yet,“
“She knows. Mommy is practicing.“
End of flashback.
________________________
This spec script did little, at first, to pull you from the ranks of hacks writing jokes for those stand-up comedians relegated to performing at strip-clubs, frat parties and ‘blue,’ venues. In fact, you began losing work as you transitioned into your new career focus.
“…So maybe you’ll like this. It’s in-line with that whole trend towards, “it’s funny because it’s true:
Now what’s the deal with these people killing themselves. Don’t they know that someone’s gotta clean that shit up?”
“Not funny. Not like your old stuff. C’mon. Jokes about poop- something everyone loves.”
says Raleigh of, The Lost Dove Bar.
“In poor taste, and brutishly insensitive,”
says Tomas, visiting Raleigh from Tijuana.
“But,”
you argue,
“All I’m advocating is that they just do it so that nobody has to, as I say, “clean that shit up. Discussing the social etiquette of suicide. New comedic territory, guys.”
Tomas stands up and crosses his arms.
“Is that supposed to be intimidating?”
Raleigh stops leaning on the bar and crosses his arms.
“Look. My little cousin killed herself over a boy. You think that’s funny?”
“More like ridiculous. I- I just think it’s important to see how there is humor- in, in, well, like the fact that you tattooed tear drops under your eye and that is supposed to signify toughness.”
They both step towards you.
You retreat from the low-lit dive.
__________________
More still to come. Also, I'm heading to the island of Brac- I'll keep you updated.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Monday, April 19, 2010
Sunday, April 18, 2010
A Pleather Jacket in Venice
Something new. I'm on a vacation from my vacated-life, and I thought that you could be here too. This is an unvarnished glimpse for you, live from some bench, somewhere in Venice.
Sitting on a bench in venice.
Had a redbull. Maybe have a cigarette or a beer, maybe I move on.
A squatty Asian guy in a pleather jacket, surely it is pleather, sits behind me, lurking, really, and I see a couple of guys with the low, rectangular glasses like mine, so, turns out, I'm in style.
The day will unfold for me, and I will be present, that is the thing, then.
Here I am and I see a sign that says 'parochial s. simon grando' and I don’t know too much any more about where I am and the arrows point to alla Ferrovia and piazzale roma.
The odd little Asian man morves on.
I’m paying more and more attention to people’s gait these days. Some people stomp and others bounce or some tread along, others glide. Others walk as if mounting a hill. Some old people walk together in perfect synchronization for a bit. You can see them tangibly picking up their collective rhythm.
There is the odd little Asian man at the telephone booth.
There are two guys in sweats and black tank tops running together, seems homoerotic somehow.
Lots of pretty young mothers with their little boys stopping in the middle of this campo, as I believe these little open spaces are called.
I look at the buildings, and I like the erosion of the plaster to reveal the bricks and stones. I like that.
There is another little Asian man, a different one, and he has a chocolate colored pair of slacks, a navy sweater, a maroon checked button down and a pair of plum colored shoes. Okay, cool.
Everyone hoping to find their Venice. Is that so?
You can just see the American girls who dress up for Venice. Dress up to 'do Venice', we must be stylish, and the guys in sweatsuits and black tanks run oddly by again and again, and the asian man in the plum shoes returns with a white box full of san carlo chips and a plastic bag that looks like dog food.
There is some middle aged guy with green- bright green glasses.
There is a woman in a drab coat with a rolling bag- the rolling bags here make sounds on the stones and are little machines that get into your head.
There is the guy in the black leather jacket and black boots and dark glasses. He is bald and clean shaven except for his dark and thick goatee. He has an odd rolling thing next to him, could be a stroller. Is not really for normal luggage, I don’t think. He opens it, and deposits a copy of the financial times. It is too empty, you know? There was nothing in it, it would seem except for the financial times he just deposited.
There is some bearded guy with long curly hair, and maybe in a year I will be him. Or maybe I will be the bald man with the goatee.
Venice is sort of a rich man’s morocco. Or is morocco a poor man’s venice. What is more apt? The musicians here approach the tables in the square, and one is an accordian and the other is a violin or fiddle, and the music here, I actually like a bit. And it is better than the twanging and the drumming of the guys in morocco. Play the radikal guru strong dub over the top of this. In this day and era, we can listen to multiple sounds and songs and layer them. Maybe that is the new thing layered images and sounds and bring in so much it becomes the color black.
Some people lift their knee exaggeratedly. These tall girls walk and glide, sort of . One has black tights and she is pulling at the knee of them, and she wears white shoes and her friend is stark white legs in flat black shoes.
My knees are more and more exposed through these jeans. Aren’t they, daniel . We all see your knees here, bro.
Here come the girls with tights again. The one in the white, the one in the black. The white lifts her right foot.
Here is an old and hobbled, squatty woman, but she has a smile like a favorite aunt might. She wears a shawl of some type.
Here is a tall and olive colored girl and her tiny sister and mother. The girl has a lilac clored scrunchei in her hair. Now it is quiet.
I hear sounds that remind me of a blower that you use to clean off your driveway.
Here is a girl force to pose by her boyfriend. She juts out her leg and freezes and you see the jaw line tensing, her cheeks sucked in. here is some american, trying to look cool, saying, I don’t give a shit.
As soon as you catch yourself feeling smart, you are not. Smart doesn’t’ have time to consider its smartness, bro.
Here is an asian girl in baggy pants hiding probably a nice body and she wears high heels and totters around, and the heels that would normally make her ass look great in these tight jeans are wasted with this baggy sack that she has chosen, so in effect, the heels are wasted.
There goes a pink rolling bag.
Here comes a man that lists dramatically to the left with every step, almost as if he is dancing.
Here is a girl in a fun hat. She has tightness in her torso and doesn’t walk properly.
Here is a squatty little guy lifting his foot to carefully place it down on the stones.
Here is a guy hoisting a white mattress onto his head and standing there in the doorway.
Oh, and a woman in flowing orange with orange scarf- an oleder itlaian woman who walks shakily and has her mouth open like some deep sea leviathan siphoning the water for krill.
The waitress in converse with pink shoelaces, and a green waitressing pouch attached to her waist and she hovers there scanning. Her day is there in that shadow of the building with the four green pots behind her.
Here is the red-haired girl: "the problem is I lost all that weight, and my jeans are big," and she is with some other thick-bodied guys.
Here is a couple: younger, and the guy sort of picks up his feet cautiously and the girl has the look of an inciter, and she is in a sanguine looking plum shirt.
A girl that walks loose and gangly with arms swinging too much to be graceful and her hair is curly.
There I see the old man with his glasses resting on his forehead and the light yellow sweater tied around his neck.
Another old man: plain except for his scarlet v-neck sweater and black scarf, tucked down into it so that it looks as if he is wearing a turtleneck.
Two old women. Walking one thousand one, one thousand two, in time moving across the square, arm in arm, planting their left feet, and floating the right one across.
Now the little Asian guy in the pleather jacket is back. He came towards me, hovered and stared behind me, and left to make a payphone call, and now he is perched on a bench behind me again.
And the dog is awake from his nap on the building and it is winding in my face and a man pushing a brig orange dolly with yellow wheels is passing so I must go.
Sitting on a bench in venice.
Had a redbull. Maybe have a cigarette or a beer, maybe I move on.
A squatty Asian guy in a pleather jacket, surely it is pleather, sits behind me, lurking, really, and I see a couple of guys with the low, rectangular glasses like mine, so, turns out, I'm in style.
The day will unfold for me, and I will be present, that is the thing, then.
Here I am and I see a sign that says 'parochial s. simon grando' and I don’t know too much any more about where I am and the arrows point to alla Ferrovia and piazzale roma.
The odd little Asian man morves on.
I’m paying more and more attention to people’s gait these days. Some people stomp and others bounce or some tread along, others glide. Others walk as if mounting a hill. Some old people walk together in perfect synchronization for a bit. You can see them tangibly picking up their collective rhythm.
There is the odd little Asian man at the telephone booth.
There are two guys in sweats and black tank tops running together, seems homoerotic somehow.
Lots of pretty young mothers with their little boys stopping in the middle of this campo, as I believe these little open spaces are called.
I look at the buildings, and I like the erosion of the plaster to reveal the bricks and stones. I like that.
There is another little Asian man, a different one, and he has a chocolate colored pair of slacks, a navy sweater, a maroon checked button down and a pair of plum colored shoes. Okay, cool.
Everyone hoping to find their Venice. Is that so?
You can just see the American girls who dress up for Venice. Dress up to 'do Venice', we must be stylish, and the guys in sweatsuits and black tanks run oddly by again and again, and the asian man in the plum shoes returns with a white box full of san carlo chips and a plastic bag that looks like dog food.
There is some middle aged guy with green- bright green glasses.
There is a woman in a drab coat with a rolling bag- the rolling bags here make sounds on the stones and are little machines that get into your head.
There is the guy in the black leather jacket and black boots and dark glasses. He is bald and clean shaven except for his dark and thick goatee. He has an odd rolling thing next to him, could be a stroller. Is not really for normal luggage, I don’t think. He opens it, and deposits a copy of the financial times. It is too empty, you know? There was nothing in it, it would seem except for the financial times he just deposited.
There is some bearded guy with long curly hair, and maybe in a year I will be him. Or maybe I will be the bald man with the goatee.
Venice is sort of a rich man’s morocco. Or is morocco a poor man’s venice. What is more apt? The musicians here approach the tables in the square, and one is an accordian and the other is a violin or fiddle, and the music here, I actually like a bit. And it is better than the twanging and the drumming of the guys in morocco. Play the radikal guru strong dub over the top of this. In this day and era, we can listen to multiple sounds and songs and layer them. Maybe that is the new thing layered images and sounds and bring in so much it becomes the color black.
Some people lift their knee exaggeratedly. These tall girls walk and glide, sort of . One has black tights and she is pulling at the knee of them, and she wears white shoes and her friend is stark white legs in flat black shoes.
My knees are more and more exposed through these jeans. Aren’t they, daniel . We all see your knees here, bro.
Here come the girls with tights again. The one in the white, the one in the black. The white lifts her right foot.
Here is an old and hobbled, squatty woman, but she has a smile like a favorite aunt might. She wears a shawl of some type.
Here is a tall and olive colored girl and her tiny sister and mother. The girl has a lilac clored scrunchei in her hair. Now it is quiet.
I hear sounds that remind me of a blower that you use to clean off your driveway.
Here is a girl force to pose by her boyfriend. She juts out her leg and freezes and you see the jaw line tensing, her cheeks sucked in. here is some american, trying to look cool, saying, I don’t give a shit.
As soon as you catch yourself feeling smart, you are not. Smart doesn’t’ have time to consider its smartness, bro.
Here is an asian girl in baggy pants hiding probably a nice body and she wears high heels and totters around, and the heels that would normally make her ass look great in these tight jeans are wasted with this baggy sack that she has chosen, so in effect, the heels are wasted.
There goes a pink rolling bag.
Here comes a man that lists dramatically to the left with every step, almost as if he is dancing.
Here is a girl in a fun hat. She has tightness in her torso and doesn’t walk properly.
Here is a squatty little guy lifting his foot to carefully place it down on the stones.
Here is a guy hoisting a white mattress onto his head and standing there in the doorway.
Oh, and a woman in flowing orange with orange scarf- an oleder itlaian woman who walks shakily and has her mouth open like some deep sea leviathan siphoning the water for krill.
The waitress in converse with pink shoelaces, and a green waitressing pouch attached to her waist and she hovers there scanning. Her day is there in that shadow of the building with the four green pots behind her.
Here is the red-haired girl: "the problem is I lost all that weight, and my jeans are big," and she is with some other thick-bodied guys.
Here is a couple: younger, and the guy sort of picks up his feet cautiously and the girl has the look of an inciter, and she is in a sanguine looking plum shirt.
A girl that walks loose and gangly with arms swinging too much to be graceful and her hair is curly.
There I see the old man with his glasses resting on his forehead and the light yellow sweater tied around his neck.
Another old man: plain except for his scarlet v-neck sweater and black scarf, tucked down into it so that it looks as if he is wearing a turtleneck.
Two old women. Walking one thousand one, one thousand two, in time moving across the square, arm in arm, planting their left feet, and floating the right one across.
Now the little Asian guy in the pleather jacket is back. He came towards me, hovered and stared behind me, and left to make a payphone call, and now he is perched on a bench behind me again.
And the dog is awake from his nap on the building and it is winding in my face and a man pushing a brig orange dolly with yellow wheels is passing so I must go.
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