Posts Tagged ‘randall’

Death in the Making, Chapter 3: The Victams

December 20, 2009

Note: All spelling and grammatical errors are there for reason. And now… 

 

Chapter 3: The Victams 

Chapter 3, The Victams

“Well kids were almost to the airport!” Sam Drake said happily. He was a tall man in his late 20’s. He had light long brown hair. His kids, 13-year old Jimmy who had black hair and was dark. And 9-year old Andrea. She likes to be called Andy. She was pretty. With blond hair and blue eyes. They were in the back seat of the blue jeep cherokee. “Jimmy would you stop reading that X-Men junk. It’s too violent,” Sam said defensively.  

Jimmy looked up from his comic and just said “Dad I’m thirteen.” 

“And Andy stop playing that game gear,” Sam said.  

She repeated, “Dad I’m thirt nine.” 

“I see where you get your sense of humor.” Sam laughed. They pulled in the parking lot of the airport. “Got all your stuff?” Sam asked. 

“Yeah” they said at the same time.  

“Good I hope Chris is around here.” Sam said while looking around.  

“He’s a dork. He’s mean and he doesn’t like Ruby!” Andy yelled. Ruby was their dog. He’s at the pound.  

“Yeah Dad the jerk’s a total loser. I mean he always smacks me on the back and says ‘hey kiddo.’ He annoys me Dad.” Jimmy said while putting headphones on.  

“Look he works with me and we gotta check it out. Ahh there he is. Hey Chris over here!” Sam yelled. Chris turned around. And started running toward them. He was very tall. In his early 20’s, he had thin black hair that always stayed in place. He wore a gray buisnesssuit with a white shirt under it. He carried a large briefcase that Andy probaly couldn’t carry. He shook hands with Sam and slapped Jimmy on the back and said “Hey kiddo. What’s up.” 

“Nothing.” Jimmy mumbled. Jimmy whould of kicked the craip out of him if it wasn’t for Sam.  

“So what’s this park about? Is it like an old park with just roller coasters and rides? Or anything exciting?” Chris asked quickly.  

“Slow down. I think you’ll like it. You see I don’t know. But my brother Micheal works there, he invited me, and he said it was really interesting.” Sam said.  

“Sounds great.” Chris said enthusiastically.  

“There’s the helicopter.” Andy yelled over the sound of the helicopter.  

“Dude.” Jimmy said walking closer. “Is Uncle Mike in there? Man this is cool.” 

“Well he might be in there. I dought it though, he’s probaly working.” Sam answered.  

They walked in and who else but Micheal Drake was sitting in a passenger seat. “Hey guys.” Drake greeted them.  

“Uncle Mike.” Both kids yelled as they ran and hugged their Uncle.  

“Slow down. Hey guys kids what’s up. I missed you guys!” Drake said.  

Sam and Drake hugged. Then Chris came up. “Hello I’m Chris Links. Assistant manager of Star Fun Parks.” They shook hands.  

“Everyone sit down were going!” yelled the pilot.  

“Who’s that?” Andy asked queitly. 

  

“I’m Jackson Winters. I’m the handyman around the park. It’s real fun. I’ve seen the whole park about five times because I’m always walking around the park fixing every craipy thing that’s wrong. Oh, sorry.” He lit a cigerette and started smoking. “I get a little carried away, because our boss is so cheap. He’d sell his grandmother for five bucks, he-he, Max Wicks. That’s his name. He’s making you guys pay ya know.” 

“No problem. I brung money.” Said Sam.  

“Who else works with you?” asked Jimmy.  

“Well other people well there’s Jackson, Steve Hicks, Kasey Simpsom, Cooper Michaels, Jack Russell, Duran Jones, Agan Bason, George Blanton, Bart Robinson, and there’s others.” Drake informed him.  

“Excited about it now kids.” Sam said. 

“I don’t know Dad. It depends on what it’s like.” Andy said playing game gear.  

“Well were almost there. About five more minutes.” Jackson informed them. “Look down and see the park.”  

Andy and Jimmy looked out the window. “Whoa. Look at that. It’s all trees and mountains, and” 

“Monsters.” Drake said queitly. “Monsters.” 

“What do you mean.” Sam asked.  

“Yeah I don’t get it.” Andy butt in.  

“You see you ride around in a car looking at monsters that run at you and terrorize you. They look real and they come out of nowhere to scare you.” Drake replied.  

“Yeah it’s a real hoot when you get to the mountain and the de–” Jackson started. “Oh sorry again better not give it away. He he. Well down we go.” 

The helicopter lowered down onto the large piece of land. “Stay with Uncle Mike okay.” Sam told his kids.  

“Right.” They both said. They Andy ran out and stopped in their her tracks. It was he most beatiful thing she’s ever seen in her entire life. There were beatiful groves of forests, hills, streams, and a huge waterfall coming down from a huge mountain.  

“Wow. This is great.” Andy said astonished by the sites. 

Jackson jumped out and put his hand on her shoulder. “Like it. It’s a great view. Your hotels up there.” He pointed to the top of the mountain. “You get a view of the whole entire park. You and your brother can share the room overlooking it. Even I took that room. It’s so beatiful.” 

“Do all the workers stay there?” Andy asked.  

“Nope. Only the people who don’t live around here, like your Uncle Mike, and Steve Hicks, and me. You can meet the guys and you can go on the tour. Sounds fun.” 

“Yeah. I can’t wait.” She said enthusiastically.  

Andy was thinking about going on the trip. It was going to be fun. She loved getting scared. Especially while you were getting scared and having fun at the same time. I can’t wa–Jimmy’s voice interupted her thoughts.  

“Is there any pools at the hotel?” 

***********************************************************
 
They walked into the control room to meet the workers. Jimmy stared at everything then spotted the long window stretching all around the room looking out at the park. “Wow.”
 
“Jimmy listen.” Sam whispered in his ear.
 
“–and people will pay lots of money to bring and pay me to come and look at the park. Find that interesting kids?” Max went on.
 
They didn’t answer. “Now you can meet the group.” Max said happily.
 
 
Jimmy noticed a strong man with uncombed black hair, tanktop and jeans. A tall weak man who didn’t look the least bit interested. A short teenager, some mexican people, a fat guy in a police uniform, and a guy who looked like a used car salesman, and a man with long blond hair.
 
“–and so thats everybody you need to meet.” Max finished. He noticed Andy looked quite bored too. At the end they gave Sam a flare gun and six flares. Just in case. They finally went to look at the hotel. They walked outside through some grassland to the hotel. Drake led them to their rooms. It was on the top floor and Andy and Jimmy had a great view of the whole park. Sam and Chris’s room wasn’t as good. They had a nice room in all but the view just showed some grass. What Jimmy didn’t understand was why there were bars on the windows. He found it quite rude. I mean it’s not like the monsters are going to attack us.
 
***************************************************************
 
“Now your sure you got everything under control?” Jack asked Raymond.
 
“Yes everythings great. The only problems that chip. I need to get it.” Raymond said.
 
“You mean this chip.” Mac walked in holding a computer chip.
 
“You took it!” Raymond yelled.
 
“Uh what. I-I don’t get it. I found this lying around in the hall someone should of dropped it.” Mac said nerveosly.
 
“Did you see who took it?” Jack asked.
 
“Um no. It was just laying there.” Mac replied.
 
“Well thanks Mac. Now go back to work.” Raymond said.
 
“Well looks like you got everything under control now, huh.” Jack said happilly.
 
“Yeah I guess.” Raymond replied.
 
What I remember: When I gave a finished copy of Death in the Making to my sixth grade English teacher, Ms. Conlon (later Mrs. Bracken), I included a short questionnaire on the back. I asked her who her favorite character was, why, and if she had any additional comments.
 
 
Her favorite character? “Jimmy.”
 
Why? “He reminded me of you.”
 
Any other comments? “Keep writing. You’re good :)”
 
Is there a more affirming thing a teacher could write to an 11-year old aspiring author? About 12 years later, Arthur Kopit would scrawl a similar sentiment to me in the front cover of a collection of his, a gesture that I cherish almost as much Ms. Conlon’s simple words. Granted, Ms. Conlon only read the first five chapters of the novel before becoming “too busy” to finish, but I digress.
 
Jimmy was me. Well, perhaps some idealized version of me. One where I was a few years older, bratty but assured, a hero who had loved and lost (we’ll encounter Jimmy’s heroics and failed courtships in later chapters), a kid on the verge of adventure and affection. Okay. I’m giving him a little too much credit. There’s nothing very interesting about Jimmy. He’s rude and boring, as was I at the age of 11. I honestly didn’t have much of a life. Not many friends to speak of. When I think of sixth grade I remember the following things:
 
1. Wrestling with the YMCA. In one of his many bids to foster my athletic side, my father signed me up for wrestling classes. We practiced at a local Detroit-area high school that was littered with bullet holes and smelled like sweaty plastic. I kinda hated it, but not really. I hated getting up at 6AM to drive to Southfield for tournaments, but I still have my one gold medal I won (as well as the one silver and several bronzes). I used to write when I came home from practice, often while eating a TV dinner and watching The Monkees.
 
2. Andrea. My “girlfriend(?)”. Tall, blonde, awkward and bespectacled, Andrea was my first girlfriend. My brother saw a photo of her and famously quipped that she was “ugly as sin”, a phrase I still attribute to him. She had a birthday party and I told myself I’d kiss her but I never did. She was much taller than me and I broke up with her while my friends listened in on the line and giggled. It was awful and so was I. I may revisit this (and other) middle school crushes and romances (so few, but so potent) in later chapters, as I remember Jimmy does have some emo moments.
 
3. Jeremiah. My best friend and worst enemy. I still write about this kid. We met in first grade and rekindled our friendship when we both ended up at the same middle school (L’Anse Creuse Middle School North). When he found out I was writing a book, he began one to spite me. He never finished. He went from being wildly supportive to oppressively demeaning at the drop of a hat. He was, in many ways, my only friend. And my only enemy.
 
4. Yesterday I was discussing (tongue-in-cheek) several of my life’s most traumatic events with a psychologist friend. We were trying to pinpoint those moments you can concretely recognize as catalysts for your deepest fears, etc. We spent the bulk of our time discussing the last five years or so, but I’d be remiss to not bring up Wagon Wheels West, the first of two melodramatic Westerns my middle school produced during my tenure at LCMSN (the third was a melodramatic jungle adventure titled Hurricane Smith, which bears no relation to the “black rage kung fu” epic of the same name starring Carl Weathers). 
 
Stakes were high on getting cast in Wagon Wheels West. As one of about 20 students in the Beginning Drama class, we were looked at as the kids to beat, as the kids to carry LCMSN Theatre to the next level (I smirkingly realize how ridiculous this sounds). These were also our “expected friends”. A tight class like that, built on interaction and team-building, meant that these were your companions, but also your competitors, for the next three years. We were all on the verge of stardom or failure at that time, just waiting for the first big audition.
 
Now, Wagon Wheels West’s sub-villains were three goofy gunslingers with alliterative names I can’t recall. At the time, I thought the comic stylings of myself, Jeremiah, and another “sorta-friend” would be perfect for the roles, but they (unsurprisingly) went to eighth-graders. This was fine, there were at least thirty roles and there had to be a place for go-get-’em wildchild such as myself, right? Jeremiah got cast as Josiah Aimless, a minor role. Sorta-friend Darren was cast as a soldier with no lines. And sorta-friend Chris got Chuck Wagon (yes, Chuck Wagon), the lead (as a sixth-grader)! When I opened my slim envelope (Mrs. Hannert, the director, left envelopes in her classroom to pick up in the morning), I didn’t see the colorful cast list and rehearsal schedules that everyone else had in their fat ones. There was simply a white piece of paper and a few cocktail words about how there were only so many roles. I was devastated. I cried in front of my friends. I watched them high-five, watched them giggle as the eighth-graders patted their backs, raising their eyebrows in a sort of paternal admiration. I remember walking through the cafeteria on my way to the buses every day, passing the stage where Jeremiah and co. would be laughing and practicing, getting a wave maybe, nothing else.
 
I was an instant loser. It was sixth grade and every single one of my friends/sorta-friends was cast in the play and I was not. And every day in drama class, every time I hung out with Jeremiah or the pretty girls or any of those sorta-friends they regaled me with stories from rehearsal and how amazing all of it was and sad it is that I didn’t get cast. It was a dark time, honestly, followed by a much darker time the following year (one which also relates to an LCMSN play and is on the traumatic list).
 
I understand this may all sound rather trite (it does to me as I write it), but I suppose one of the points of this blog is to gain a kind of understanding about who I was at this age as I wrote this book. And where it came from. And where I came from. See, middle school was a formative time for me. Middle school was a horrible time for me. But, shit, when I was in middle school, I would’ve died for the girls I had crushes on. I would’ve sold my soul for a good role. I would’ve sliced my wrists onstage, bleeding out in the name of some shitty melodramatic Western. Emotions were almost impossibly high at that time in my life, and I think so much of that began with not getting cast in Wagon Wheels West as a goofy gunslinger (or a solder with no lines).
 
In lieu of all of that, every day I came home and wrote this book. And when I think of loose timelines, I was probably writing this chapter (or something near it) around the time I didn’t get cast. In the same way my play Lamp & Moth brought me comfort as I adjusted to Char being gone and losing God and faith, Death in the Making brought me a comfort as I reconciled myself with being an outcast for the very first time.
 
But wait! We haven’t really discussed the chapter! That’s okay. This chapter is, more than any other, the most blatant ripoff of Jurassic Park, from the helicopter ride to the “beatiful” scenery to the bars on the window. My continuing obsession with setting up Steve Hicks as a character stands out, as does Drake’s pointless list of other employees, some with names so aggressively fictive that I wonder what method I was using to create them (Agan Bason?!). The introduction of Chris Links is fairly important, as that character offers a surprising amount of pathos later on. What I’m perhaps most struck by, though, is age.
 
I was eleven, writing this book. Park employee Jack Russell is described as being in his teens, Chris Links (an assistant manager for a major theme park corporation) in his early twenties, and Sam Drake (assumed owner of a major theme park corporation) is in his late twenties with a thirteen-year old son and eight-year old daughter. Clearly, I didn’t understand age. And to wonder where I expected to be when I was in my teens or my early twenties is a sobering thought. Where did I expect I’d be? What did I want to do? Write books? Be the next Mark Paul Gosseler? I dreamed, as we all did, of being loved and respected and famous with no doubts, no filters, no expectations, no heartbreak, no understanding of what it was to fail. What Wagon Wheels West gave me was my first true failure, and is there any more potent? I say yes, but only half-heartedly.
 
The fact that this chapter is called “The Victams”, and victims is spelled “victams”, and beautiful is spelled “beatiful” and so on and so on speaks to my then-innocent desire to know things that I did not yet understand. I was so young, right on the verge of so many life lessons, so many aches and pains and friendships whose violent end vomited loss and heartbreak upon an heretofore bright sky. 
 

Keep writing. You're good 🙂

 
Sure, it’s life, I know…but to remember an age where age was practically irrelevant…well, it makes me feel old. And a statement like that brings us to the edge of a deep, dank well that nobody needs to look into just yet.  
 
So…yeah.
 
Coming soon: Chapter 4, The Tour
 
 Beautiful: “Is there any pools at the hotel?”
 
 They finally went to look at the hotel. They walked outside through some grassland to the hotel.
  
Embarrassing: “Well other people well there’s Jackson, Steve Hicks, Kasey Simpsom, Cooper Michaels, Jack Russell, Duran Jones, Agan Bason, George Blanton, Bart Robinson, and there’s others.” Drake informed him.

Death in the Making, Chapter 2: The Heist

December 7, 2009

Note: All spelling and grammatical errors are there for a reason. And now… 

 

Chapter 2: The Heist 

Raymond sat in his office typing on his computer. He was tired. He tilted back in his chair. He opened his drawer and pulled out a pack of cigerettes and a liter. Raymond lit a cigerette smoked it and checked his watch “6:30. Half an hour left.” He said breathlessly. He lay back and fell asleep. Then there was a knock on the door. “Hello.” Someone said. “Anyone there.” The person opened the door and walked in. “Allll right. Now let me look for this.” The man said. The man opened drawers and looked. “Man. Where is it! Ahh the computer!” The man said. He opened the disk package and pulled it out. Then the man left. “This is finally gonna get me some respect.” The man said quietly.  

*********************************** 

“Hey yo, bro, what’s up.” Drake was on the phone with his brother Sam Drake.  “Yeah whadayya need.” Sam said groggily. “Look we finished the park and we need some people to come and test it. And I thought you and your kids and whoever else you want to bring.” Drake proposed.  

“I’d love to! Great I can’t wait to tell the kids! I’ll bring the assistent manager, too. Chris Links. That’s his name. A real smart fellow.” Sam said excitidly. 

“Where’s Jimmy and Andrea now?” Drake said. “There in the family room watching some dumb predictible show. Full House I think. And Andrea hates her name so call her Andy. She really likes it.” Sam said still excited.  

“Okay go to the airport on Saterday and there will be a helicopter waiting for you at about 8:30am. Got it.” Drake said.  

“Got it. See ya.” Sam ended.  

Drake hung up smiling. He was happy. He liked seeing those kids. He got up from his chair and left his office. Right when he left he heard fast footsteps coming at him. Suddenly he felt an arm push him into the wall and he watched a dark figure burst past him with something in his hand then he ran on the elevator. “Man who was that in such a hurry?” He wondered. Drake checked his watch. “Well time to go.” 

*********************************************** 

Raymond burst through Maxs doors screaming, “Why’d you take it!” 

“What are you talking about!” Max yelled back.  

“You stole the computer chip that runs the whole stinkin park! Y’now what could happen if that fell in the wrong hands! It could destroy the park entirely!” Raymond was still screaming.  

“I didn’t steal a thing so shut up!” Max yelled at the top of his lungs.  

“Then who did steal it!” Raymond said so high he didn’t recognize his own voice.  

“Okay, okay. Slow down. We’ll find out who it was.” Max said trying to calm him down.  

“Your right. The person who stole it probaly doesn’t even know how to use it. I mean there probaly won’t be any problems.” 

************************************************** 

“Okay, okay, that was funny but watch this.” Jack Russell said. He, Kasey, Drake, Steve Hicks, and Cooper were making jokes and faces. Jack blew his cheeks and pulled out his ears. “I’m a monkey! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.” 

“Oh, that was good but watch this. A clam tongue.” Steve Hicks made his tongue look like a clam. He was in his fortys and had long blonde hair. He was quite normal.  

“7:00 time to go.” Cooper said quietly.  

“Bye everybody. And remember tomorrows the tour.” Drake said waving.  

“Yeah it’s gonna be fun.” Casey replied.  

What I remember: I’ll begin with what I can’t remember, and that would be where Steve Hicks came from. Or why I felt the need to give him, the “quite normal” one, a special introduction in this chapter. More “worker” characters are added as the story continues, minor ones whose main purpose was to die a ridiculous death. Yet, with an already full palette of characters to choose from, I included Steve Hicks, the “quite normal” one in this scene, goofing off with the others. Steve Hicks actually goes on to play a major role in the story, but I’m completely puzzled as to his origin. I don’t even think he had an action figure counterpart, although the “long blonde hair” description makes me skeptical of such an assertion. Maybe I just wanted somebody older. I take great pains to point out his age, something I didn’t do with any of the other characters. Regardless, keep your eye on ‘Ol Blondie. 

I’m also drawn to several other things when I read this chapter: 

The first signs of my love for the seemingly banal. The scene of the guys making dumb faces serves only to introduce Steve Hicks, something that could’ve been easily done in a more plot-serving way. It’s a pointless scene, but I kinda love it. Why? Because it makes the characters more than just devices. Plot is not my strong suit. It never has been. I would say I handle plot more effectively in this book than in any of plays. The prologue gives us a beast and a mysterious death. Chapter One gives us the threat outsiders in an unstable environment. And Chapter 2 gives us a “heist”. Of course my 11-year old self wasn’t quite sure what a “heist” was, but a villain has been established and Max’s ambivalence is a bright flare of doom. I’ve even manufactured a magic “computer chip” that HOLDS THE KEY TO EVERYTHING (but ends up becoming fairly MacGuffin-ish, if I’m not mistaken).   

Regardless, the wheels are turning. It has begun. But that doesn’t change the fact that, more than anything, I just love to see characters existing in their element, acting like idiots. Sure, we’re defined by what we do, not what we say, but we shouldn’t discount our moments of fellowship. I feel as if a great deal of my personal character can be gathered by simply watching me quote shit with my friends at the bar, or tell a story about some relationship that went horribly, hilariously wrong. The way we react to people, the way people react to us at our most comfortable, so on. 

I’m also reminded of a recent reading of my play, Pretty Penny (which opens this Feb. by the way!), wherein an actor questioned a scene where a character gives his credit card information to a phone sex operator before the “fantasy” begins. His claim was that it was long and pointless. My claim is that more character could conceivably be found in that moment than in the rest of the play. There’s so much there, and even in Death in the Making I seemed to understand that. That there is a value in the seemingly mundane.   

I also can’t wait to dissect the villain’s “chilling” exit line in later chapters: “This is finally gonna get me some respect.” Why? Because (SPOILER ALERT) it has nothing to do with “respect”. I suppose at the time I was just trying to offer him some sort of motivation. I also wonder if I even knew who the villain was at this point. Either way, if I remember correctly, the villain’s motivations end up being much less interesting than if they were fueled by inadequacy. Too bad I abandoned what could’ve been fertile ground for something much more base and superficial. 

Lord knows it’s not the first time. 

Beautiful: He, Kasey, Drake, Steve Hicks, and Cooper were making jokes and faces. 

Embarrassing: There in the family room watching some dumb predictible show. Full House I think. (I have no idea what my beef was with “Full House” at the time. I thought I loved it. I thought that’s where my current nostalgia came from.) 

Raymond’s deduction that the boss stole the “computer chip” that “runs the whole park.” 

Stay tuned soon for Chapter 3: The Victims, wherein we officially meet Sam, Jimmy, and Andy Drake, as well as “assistent manager” Chris Links, who was modeled after this doll: 

Pee Wee, motherfuckers.

Death in the Making: Prologue

November 18, 2009

A prologue to the Prologue (wherein the author laments the loss of his previous concept and explains the new one):

This blog began as a way for me to chronicle my interest and analysis of shitty entertainment. I love shitty entertainment. It makes me smile. But alas, it proved too hearty an endeavor in a stretch I best describe as “doldrumtastic”, a stretch where getting laid just wasn’t enough, a stretch when I didn’t much feel like analysis of any medium. It was a dark time for your humble narrator, but I’ve bounced back and retooled. I miss having a place to upchuck and since I find blogging for the sake of blogging boring (and since I’ve been revisiting Sufjan), I’d prefer to couch my thought-vomit in a concept of sorts.

001

The cover.

My decision to post my childhood works, chapter by ridiculous chapter (with commentary), is two-fold:

1) I’d like to chronicle this shit. My hard copies are fading a slow fade.

2) I’m in the mood for self-analysis. And where better to begin than my first major work?

006

"The text on some pages are bad. So please don't kill me. He-he. Now this copy won't be perfect but when I review it top to bottom it will be better."

The first major work in question is DEATH IN THE MAKING.

003

Title page.

004

Lightning!

The following is a piece I wrote two years ago about it. Seems like a good place to begin:

I was 10 or 11,

whatever sixth grade is,

and this was my life.

My novel

I wrote this novel then, in sloppy pencil.

My first real major work: Death in the Making.

I know, horrible title.

My process began with my action figures.

I rounded up every one I had:

a plastic party of WWF wrestlers,

movie figures from Aliens, Jurassic Park, and Star Trek,

humans from the Ninja Turtles cartoons.

My characters came from grabbing one I liked and building a personality out of it.

Kasey Jones, the hockey mask wearing martial artist from the Ninja Turtles became Kasey the sound engineer with his scraggly black hair, jeans, and tank tops.

WWF’s Big Boss Man became my secret villain, Cooper Michaels,

a security officer with a crew cut and police uniform.

The big, blue, slimy alien from the Alien movies even took the role of the main monster.

I spent hours after school, creating scenes,

developing relationships,

and staging deaths over and over and over.

It brought me such joy then,

and I’d sometimes ask my weary mother to watch while I acted out scene after scene,

taking on 10 different voices, 10 different characters with personalities I’d so painstakingly developed. 

Once I could no longer play, I wrote.

And for three solid months, I wrote every day after school,

kneeling on the blue carpet,

writing on the coffee table in front of the TV.

Every time I grabbed a new sheet of notebook paper

and wrote a new, higher, page number in the top right corner,

I felt like I had climbed another mountain.

I even drew little flashy lines around page 100,

which was, at that time, the greatest accomplishment of my life.

There was no revision.

I found a way to make everything I’d written work in the grand narrative.

And a grand endeavor it certainly was.

The book boasts about 20 main characters, and probably 20 more minor ones.

There’s backstabbing, murder, love, longing, memory, loss, grief, treachery, you name it.

And I was 11.

In complete and total love.

 Now I remember, so many years later,

coming home drunk and high,

alone

blurry-eyed.

And I grabbed this book.

I began to read.

And I cried.

Because at that moment I realized it was the greatest thing I’d ever written.

A boy who knew nothing about craft,

who knew nothing about pain,

about disappointment, or depression.

A work not written to be published, or produced,

but it was fun.

I was playing. 

And I was in love.

“Jackson dove off the ledge of the huge mountain into the crashing waterfall feeling pretty nauseous. He has never been that nervous in his entire life. Will I live or die? Will I live or die? The question kept going through his mind. Suddenly he felt a burst of cold cover his body. I’m in the waterfall. Falling. Cutting through water like a bullet. As he damped in water he opened his eyes. It was a blur of wondrous colors. From light blue to fluorescent green. It was beautiful! Suddenly Jackson started to feel loose and happy. He spread his arms out far and put his legs together. Then he twirled and twirled in a circle while falling. He didn’t know why he was doing that. He just felt it.” 

In retrospect, I realize this 11-year old was describing his craft. 

Now I’ve always believed that change is a cosmetic illusion.

At our cores, we never change.

We are who we are who we are who we are. 

And so the same desire exists between this boy and myself.

But what he seemed to grasp is what I now strive for. 

“Suddenly Jackson started to feel loose and happy. He spread his arms out far and put his legs together. Then he twirled and twirled in a circle while falling. He didn’t know why he was doing that. He just felt it.”

 Abandon.

Writing was abandon.

And the elation I find now as I create,

An elation which shoots sparks, saves my soul,

It seems to pale in comparison to that 11-year old boy

and his piddly handwritten novel.

 

007

Prologue. Probably too faded to make out.

 

So we begin:

Silas Burton wandered helplessly through the huge forest of the unfinished amusement park. It was nighttime and everyone was gone. Something scurried across his feet. He screamed and fell. He wiped off the dirt on his khaki shirt he noticed a footprint. “Oh great! Someone’s around. I gotta follow the…Oh my god. Oh man.” He stared at the footprint. Only it wasn’t a footprint. It had three toes and a strange marking by the hoof. Then he realized the marking was the marking of the company he’s in. And the markings are on the bottom hoof  of each main attraction monster. But those were locked in the storage area. And no one was in the control room. “Oh my god I gotta get outta here!” He started running until he came to the mountain. He stared at the beatiful scenery. A 500 km drop. Deadly. Well there’s the ladder better go down it,” he said. He heard a rustling sound in the bushes. “Aaah!” he screamed. He felt something stab him in the shoulder. He grabbed his shoulder and pulled out a claw. He pulled out a packet of band-aids. He took one out and put it over the bloody wound. He put the band-aids back in his pocket and headed for the ladder. Suddenly something wacked him in the back and he fell and grabbed the side of the mountain and hung. He saw a figure of some sort but was too dark to see. He felt a sharp pain in his hand he went to grab for it and suddenly remembered he was hanging. He let out a bloodcurdling scene and toppled into darkness.

What I remember: Jurassic Park. I saw the movie some rainy afternoon. I bought the book at a SEARS. I read the book in Science class. I didn’t get half of it. I liked the bloody parts. I don’t remember beginning, although I vaguely recall writing this section long before I wrote the rest. The off-color appearance of the pages, coupled with the especially faded script, contribute to this theory.

I recall reading it to Mike Ethier’s mother. I recall her being struck by my use of “khaki”. Rightly so. I barely knew what khaki was. All I knew was that Michael Critchton’s characters wore it. Which is really where much of this began. When I met Vernell Lillie she told me how August Wilson’s earliest writings were simply imitations of writers he admired. John Guare wrote about how he’d type out the first three acts of Chekhov plays and then write the fourth act himself.

Art often begins with mimicry. Many writers never grow past that stage. 

Critchton was my Chekhov. Death in the Making is Jurassic Park. There’s even a Velociraptor.  Anne Rice took over eventually. But we’ll get there later.

Beautiful:  Silas Burton wandered helplessly through the huge forest of the unfinished amusement park.

Embarrassing: Then he realized the marking was the marking of the company he’s in.

And so, some brief thoughts on a brief intro. Chapter 2: The Meeting coming soon. Prepare for shit to get intense.

Real World Season 3,584: Season Premiere

January 8, 2009

You know what I say about MTV putting a transgendered person on The Real World?

Too little, too late.

Bromance, Episode 2: Things Just Got Real

January 6, 2009

“…[It’s got] more of a comedic value to it. So, uh, it’s funny. Ya know, it’s to entertain the public. I love it, I think it’s really funny and I hope you will, too.” -Brody Jenner on Bromance

This quote bothers me. This quote makes me uneasy. Why? Because Brody Jenner…how do I put this? Brody Jenner, well, he, um, kinda won me over tonight.

For this hour, I saw the charm. Not the charm that gets him laid more than the average porn star, but the charm that makes people want to watch him, that makes people want to be around him. In the Pilot (I love calling it that), Brody was the bullyjock, the sideways trucker cap, the sticky man-boner. I laughed at him in the same way I laughed at the popular kids I didn’t secretly emulate.

This week I laughed in the same way I laughed at the popular kids I did aspire to be. I laughed because…because he was kinda funny. And most importantly, I laughed because he came across like a genuine person. When Brody said, “I don’t want a jock, I want a friend,” I BELIEVED HIM. And I know, I KNOW I probably shouldn’t! I shouldbe smart enough to realize the producers were like, “Brode, last week you were party dude, this week you’re sensitive dude.” And Our Man Jenner prolly flipped up his aviators, scratched his balls and shrugged. “Whatever, man.”

But I don’t want to believe that, g-dammit! Because for the briefest moment, this son of a b-word felt (to borrow Bromance’s favorite word)…real. In a way that Bret Michaels or Flava Flav or Paris Hilton has ever been on their shows. I mean, the competition’s not stiff, but like it or not, those are your peers, Jenner. 

Now, to me, the term “real” is just an unimaginative way of saying “genuine.” Real is whatever is at any given moment. Things are real because they exist. But when somebody drops the image and listens; or stops joking long enough to say something about what makes them tick: That’s what we can call “genuine” because it comes from an honest place. It means something. When Brody opens up about his family, or talks about how he and his dad have a shitty relationship, that shit felt genuine. And to watch somebody open up who, up until now, came across like a football with hair, well…there’s something about that.

Maybe I scoffed too soon when Brody told me to expect the unexpected.

There were more tears in this episode than in my bed on New Year’s Eve. The emotion flowed. The characters became people. And sure, basic lesson, right? How easy is it for us to forget people are people? Easier than I think we realize.

So with all that said, lemme reiterate something:  

“…[It’s got] more of a comedic value to it. So, uh, it’s funny. Ya know, it’s to entertain the public. I love it, I think it’s really funny and I hope you will, too.” -Brody Jenner on Bromance

Yes, I can see where he’s coming from. It is silly, it’s called Bromance. But Brody seems so quick to dismiss, in words and body language, that there was something “real” about the experience, that it was more than few chuckles. His casual demeanor, his insistence that it’s only entertainment, this cheapens the fact that Caveman 2 sobbed over his longing for a distant family, that Gary the Dancer cried over a rebuke from Femi, that Femi tearfully pleaded his case that he’s earned this more than the others, that Our Man Jenner has loved and lost and found empty solace in one blondtourage after another.

This quote makes me feel like whoever wins just amiably parts ways with Brody, never to bask in the promised Bromance. Should that make me sad? I don’t know, but right now it does. By the end, will the show have sunk into MTV’s vaccuous vat of waxed emotions like, say, The Pick-Up Artist 2 cast did? As Cake so eloquently put it: Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps.

Bromance is not The Wire. Bromance  is not even Full House. But Bromance gave us something genuine in this episode, something I didn’t expect from a show of this caliber. And maybe I get invested too easy. Maybe I trust too readily. But to give me something human, and then to dismiss that? Brody…

Now I’ll add that when Brody rightfully eliminated Chris P. in tonight’s episode, he made him leave the yacht they were occupying and row to shore on a blow-up raft, silly captain’s hat and all. Chris P., the perennial agent of awkward in these last two episodes, painfully tried to look cool as the guys blew by shouting, “Kentucky’s THAT way!”

Damn. Jacob just had to leave the hot tub.

From the ether:

  • Do we really need name-cards (name-cards?) every time Frankie and the Sleaze are onscreen? His name is Sleazy T, for Christ’s sake!
  • Jered: “I’m a lot better at taking bras and panties off than putting them on.” Boooooo.
  • I wanna meet the producer who forced Chris F. to say that stupid line about how his dick was a foot long.
  • An ad for the sequel to Without a Paddle. Only on Bromance.
  • How off-put did Brody look when Gary told him he was straight? Odd choice in the editing room there. The same goes for the awkward shot of Luke sipping the margarita and saying, “Delicious.” C’mon, guys.
  • “That’s femalish! That’s a female trait!” Thanks for the blatant misogyny, Femi. And…femalish?
  • I’ll miss Chris P’s outfits. He always looked dressed for an ice cream social.

Rock of Love Bus- Episode 1, “Every Rose Has Its Porn”

January 5, 2009

“If you don’t remember it, it didn’t happen.” – Cleavageface #17

What do you say about the epic mountain of cleavage that is the Rock of Love saga? 

I’ll begin by saying that Rock of Love, to me, exists as a cultural petrie dish containing an incredibly specific, endlessly frustrating, but eternally fascinating slice of our society. These are not the girls you see everyday. These are not the girls you see in the movies. These are not even the girls you see on The Real World.

These are the girls you see on TV.

They do not exist anywhere else.

(P.S: High five and a hug for ANYONE who can get all the way through that awkward slideshow.)

So Bret Michaels…

…will be referred to as Hunky Uncy Bret from now on. 

Where to begin?

Okay. There’s a porn scene floating around the interweb where a guy (sporting an obnoxious member) is running a game show where the winner gets to bone him. It’s played comically, tongue-in-cheek. If there’s one thing I love about porn-at-large it’s their refusal to take themselves seriously.

Now, Rock of Love slowly circled the gates of PornLand in the first season, with Hunky Uncy Bret gushing about his desire for a soulful, spiritual connection while soliciting blowjobs at every turn. The show’s massive success, coupled with Bret’s unlikely emergence as a somehow-still-sexy idol, made for a second season whose ads played up the slutdom, going so far as to insert a digitally enhanced member for our humble hero. Bret’s pleas for love and transcendence came off all the more hollow as blowjobs became creepily mandatory. Choosing the less promiscuous of the two babes at the end did little to change the show’s image.

In tonight’s season premiere, the word “love” (outside of the title) is not mentioned once. Bret talks about finding the right woman for his life (with no emphasis on “right”) and someone he can come home to, but by now even he has abandoned the ridiculous idea that love is any part of this equation.

Basically, to bring it back around, Hunky Uncy Bret Michaels has become that Porno Game Show Host. These women are competing for sole ownership of Bret’s cock. He is there to facilitate, to move things along, to engage in a little bit of chit-chat.

And ya know what? Good for him.

Anecdote:

One day, some time back, I found out some great news. That night, I went to a party. It was a great party. Friends, laughs, drinks were all in abundance, consumed copiously by yours truly. In the midst of this, I met a young lady. Young lady liked me. Young lady took me to her home. In some swirling haze, our hands like snakes, we listened to Tom Waits and made out for what felt like hours. She changes. She’s wearing an Eraserhead t-shirt.

I don’t know what turned me on more. Her, or her Eraserhead t-shirt.

I told her, “You’re beautiful.” And I meant it. In that moment, I meant it.

She said, “Don’t say things you won’t mean tomorrow.”

I told her, “We should hang out. We should watch movies.” I meant it.

She said, “Don’t say things you won’t mean tomorrow.”

And I didn’t get it. Tom Waits crooning about closing time in my ears, all I could do was think about how we would share this singular moment again and again. I could love this girl, I thought. I really could.

The next day I went to the movies with some friends. She was there with her friends.

And we both knew.

We barely said a word to each other again.

The central conceit of any of these dating shows (a conceit which has pervaded our society), is that love at first sight (or even love in first week) is a tangible reality. These shows coast on our country’s idealism, on our tired insistence  that love conquers all. And us cynical SOB’s watch and we laugh because we’ve experienced what Elliot Smith so mournfully sang about: The Morning After, and all the while we’re clinging to or rejecting the explosion of emotion the previous night’s intoxication brought with it. In the season 2 finale, when Uncy Bret sheds tears at the final elimination and the world scoffs, I believed every second of it. 

But he knows better. In the end, we all know better.

That’s not love. Not that love is an answer, or a formula, or an endpoint of any kind.

Bottom line: Love is Earned. Not won.

It’s all about what Nietzsche called the Dionysian. Unlike the Appolonian, which emphasizes creation, order and clarity, the Dionysian revels in intoxication, sexual license and destruction. There is no logic when you’re in the Dionysian; there is only the joy of the moment, regardless of how destructive you know it really is. And of course, no one can live there forever. Not even Bret Michaels!

What we’re all sobbing about when we have to choose between two busty blondes, it’s simply the Greek God of sex, drugs and rock n’ roll invading us like the Holy Spirit. And to call that love? Well, I guess that’s some form of idolatry.

So thank you Hunky Uncy Bret for never uttering (outside the title) the word “Love.” Thank you Hunky Uncy Bret for playing up the sluttiness, for not pretending you have no intentions of having sick, nasty old-man Michaels intercourse with these ladies.

Rock of Love Bus is the same ‘ol bullshit. But at least its got respect for the sublime.

Now, Bret said if he doesn’t find “it” this time around, he’s quitting. Bret, homey, I’m with you. Quit while you’re ahead.

From the ether:

  • I have a theory that Nikki (aka DJ Lady Tribe) is not real.

Nikki, Rock of Love

  • She doesn’t speak. She grunts, bellows and cackles. She vomit-barks. My theory is that she is either a robot invented by an evil, twisted, mad science douche, or she is a beyond brilliant performance artist (along the lines of Marina Abramovic) who immersed herself so deeply into the role of Nikki after subjecting herself to every form of plastic surgery that she has lost all semblance of self. We’ll never find out, though. She was voted off, and while I couldn’t believe the producers would get rid of such a specimen, she was obviously on heavy, heavy scrips or some shit. Hellllo, liability.
  • When people describe themselves as “deep” I always cringe a little. Being “deep” is like being attractive or talented: it’s not your call to make.
  • I like the Oompa Loompa music during scenes the producers deem comic.
  • Big John: “It’s just like a puzzle. Big pieces on the bottom, small pieces on top.” That’s not a puzzle, BJ. That’s a pyramid.
  • Was Bret lip-synching? PLEASE say yes.
  • I love how the girl who closest resembles of an everyday member of American society (Beverly) is immediately the one “othered” in this environment.
  • No one under a C-cup. And I’m being generous. If they’re C’s, they’re big C’s. All girls, unless they somehow make their presence known in a positive way (like Beverly), will be referred to as Cleavageface.
  • Watching the girls on the pink bus simply exist reminded me of a goat chasing the teet of a baby bottle across a linoleum floor (see the “Grass Valley Greg” sketch of Mr. Show for a visual).
  • Why does Bret keep wearing shirts with his name on them? He did this when he was hosting a Vh1 countdown, too. After 22 years in the business you’d think he’d of learned his lesson by now.
  • Every time Bret kisses one of these things I wonder what it could possibly taste like. My current guess: “burnt plastic.”
  • Coming this season on Rock of Love Bus: Bitches be passed out on speedbumps, yo. 

Confessions of a Teen Idol: Episode 1

January 5, 2009

Vh1’s new reality show, Confessions of a Teen Idol, follows seven television has-beens (two from Baywatch!) as they attempt to examine what went wrong.

The show opens with the world’s worst one-man show: A stiff-limbed Scott Baio, dressed like a desperate 20-year old (in touch with his “spiritual” side), delivers a preachy opening monologue he must’ve memorized ten minutes before call, introducing us to our guys which include:

  • Christopher Atkins: The boy from The Blue Lagoon is now building lagoons! I totally stole that from the show.
  • David Chokachi: The hot Australian guy from Baywatch…?
  • Billy Hufsey: This guy’s before my time.
  • Jeremy Jackson: The kid from Baywatch. Got busted for cooking meth and only got six months in rehab. B. S.
  • Eric Nies: The buff guy from the first Real World is now the Gary Busey of Confessions of a Teen Idol. Raw foods and holy healing. Don’t trust this punk.
  • Jamie Walters: “How do you talk, to an angellllll!” Whatever, I like that fuckin’ song.
  • Adrian Zmed: T.J Hooker. Now sings on a cruise ship. I wanna hug him.

Now, if this was a show about these guys when they were famous, they wouldn’t be nearly as lovable. Most of them lament their petulant youth, clogged rich with boozy logjammin’, painting the portrait of coked-out douche personified. Years of failure, arrest and bad luck has stripped them of said douche and now they’re a lovable bunch, egoless and amiable. Shows like this, devoid of elimination and populated by people who’ve actually, ya know, been through shit, are always much more interesting than the vapid fame-chuggers that populate most reality fodder.

There was an especially interesting moment in tonight’s episode when David Chokachi (I think he was the hot Australian on Baywatch…) threatened to bail after being “punked” by the show. He didn’t want any of the theatrics that accompany most reality shows, expressing the trepidation he faced when making the decision (something that is so rarely chronicled on these shows). He wanted a beneficial experience, he wanted positivity. The man wanted to revive his career.

Thus the gamble of trying to accomplish such things on the same network that airs Hogan Knows Best.

Let’s not forget who’s at the helm of this self-professed “experiment.”

WAYNE! Who now looks like frosted chach:

The show hangs its concept on the word addiction, which I don’t necessarily think its earned. What’s especially unsettling is how this word is bandied around by seemingly everyone (Baio, Hervey, the shrink) but the participants. These guys don’t come off like their addicted to fame, and none of them (I don’t think) explicitly states that they’re desperate for that old glory. This isn’t crack. This isn’t porn. They’re just looking for work. They’re entertainers, right? They don’t wanna be Brody fucking Jenner, they want acting work they can be proud of.

Does wanting something you once had but no longer have equal addiction?

I mean, I used to live by a Moe’s. I went to that Moe’s at least once a week back then. It was great. I ate up those burritos, I indulged. Moe’s was a tangible part of my life. Now there are no Moe’s. At least not anywhere near my apartment. And yes, I wish there was a Moe’s that I could attend. Does that make me addicted to Moe’s?

Looking at a few of their IMDB pages, I didn’t see much work on the horizon. And that this point, that kinda makes me sad. I’m rooting for Nies especially…although I’m not really sure where his talents lie…

From the ether:

  • How defensive is this shrink? She strikes me as a mediocre improv actress.
  • “Does anyone have Jason Hervey’s number?!”
  • “I don’t give a fuck what Jason Hervey’s gonna say to me!”
  • I might keep watching this just for Jason Hervey quotes.

Welcome to the Black Hole

January 4, 2009

Two anecdotes to begin this blog:

1) Some years back, my friend David R. Smith introduced me to a little movie called McBain. McBain stars Chris Walken as Bobby McBain, a Vietnam vet on a mission to overthrow Columbian drug warlords. McBain falls into a genre of film I’ve dubbed “Post-Vietnam Revenge.” McBain really wanted to be good. It really wanted to say something about our society. But McBain is bad. McBain is awful. Yet McBain nights at Dave’s apartment drew huge crowds. McBain discussions bordered on the revelatory. There were laughs. There were discoveries.  Why? Because McBain is brilliant. Because there were things to be learned from McBain. About our culture, then and now. About art. About expression. Oh yeah, there’s A LOT to make fun of as well.

2) A few years ago, in a little town in Illinois, I turned down sex to watch Troll 2.  

My old playwriting professor used to tell me that crap was good. I agree wholeheartedly.

That’s why my buddy Tim and I started B-Rated, our still-embryonic online bad-movie review show. Because I think there’s just as much joy, just as much revelation in the shit as the gold. And I love the gold. And I’ll maybe write about the stuff I love, too. And about my life, because that happens. But this blog is mainly about the shit we injest on a daily basis. And what we can get out of it.  

For an example, check out a couple episodes of B-Rated.

I’ll be starting the blog with my weekly reviews of MTV’s Bromance and Vh1’s Rock of Love Bus. Get those asses excited.

A brief intro to your humble narrator: My name is Randall Colburn. I’m from Detroit. Well, the Detroit area. Or, um, suburbs. But I’m hard like I’m from Detroit. At least that’s what my mom tells me.

Anyways, I’m a playwright living and working in Chicago. And there is a kitty on my lap right now.

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Thanks for entering the black hole.