Saturday, December 03, 2005

Crestmont Methodist "...the whole idea of 'truth', then is determined from man's point of view – literally man's vision, what he can see. Isn't this debate about the nature of theistic eternity just a case of man's lack of vision? There are transitional creatures that many amongst us have seen: spirits, ghosts or angels, whatever you wish to call them. And then there are many who have some measure of the powers that we all shall have if and when we cross over. The medium, and the telekinetic, and those with less understandable powers, the clairvoyant and the prophet. These are the transitional creatures.” Harold turns to Betty, whispering 'Don’t you this new preacher is kind of weird? What’s all of this ‘when we cross over’ brouhaha?" "Hush. I want to hear the sermon." Betty glares at Harold's #8 NASCAR hat before returning her eyes to the pulpit. Reverend Luella has fired up a PowerPoint display. "...look, indeed, look through the lens of a microscope, and a whole new world comes into existence. Before the means was created by which its vastness could be viewed, this world did not exist. Even afterwards, many refused to believe, many could not hold the vision in their minds, and vast numbers never even got the news." “I haven’t heard anything about God, yet.” Harold removes his watch and shakes it by his ear. Frowning at the result, he slides it back on to his wrist. There had been donuts earlier this morning, donuts that he had foolishly ignored. “I think he’s getting ready to go there. He’s only got about ten minutes to wind things up.” It was into Betty’s pie-hole that the donuts had flocked. Why had he sullenly stuck to his ridiculous cup of black coffee and not-quite ripe banana? He would someday die in spite of his gustatory deprivations, and the preacher’s word only increased his abstract sensation of witherhood. Yes, he had made up that word, but only because there was none other that could adequately describe his abstract sensation of you-know. “…and in the past few decades the telescope has grown magnitudes more powerful than Galileo dared dream. We see back to the very beginning of time, my friends. Think on it. Time is merely the movement of matter and energy through space. It is a conceit, of course, an admission of the limits of our vision. How can time have a beginning or an end? What we see, when we think we see the beginning of time, is beyond vision. Instead we are looking at a transitional point…” “Never thought about that before.” “You never think about anything, Harold. You just drift around with that stupid grin on your face all the time.” “It is not a stupid grin. It’s just the way my face is arranged. I don’t go around insulting your face, do I? You’d have none of that.” “I’d smack you silly if you did. Sorry. It isn’t a stupid grin. But it does get irritating when…” “Hold on. I think he’s getting ready to tie his themes together.” “…in a transitional universe defined by the limits of our vision. If we can see back to what we perceive as the beginning of time, cannot we look forward to what, if we could see it, we would describe, falsely, as the end of time? Ah, but this is where our transitional creatures, the clairvoyant and the prophet, come in.” “What the hell is he talking about?” “Look! Did he just light a cigarette?” “Well, let’s just hope that it's a cigarette.” “…and as you can see, the ushers are now passing out the ashtrays. Please feel free to smoke ‘em if you got ‘em. Thinking can be hard work. Seeing is even harder. Why do we feel challenged by the existence of the transitional man, when by their very existence, they offer us a glimpse of the eternal?” “Hey, preacher! How bout a little something from the gospel?” “Look, Betty. It’s George Peterson. He’s got a gun!” “I think it’s a flask, Harold. But you know how one thing leads to another…” “…upon a hill, stars shining furiously, the transitional creature lives closer to the transitional points and sees them as what they are – portals. Portals for transitions into new waves of grace unknown and unknowable… ouch! Who threw this flask?” “It’s me, Reverend Luella. George Peterson, loyal member of the Crestmont Methodist Church since 1987, and a man who will take no whatnot. This isn’t a very good sermon that you’re preaching here, particularly considering it’s your first one. What’s up next week – the mating habits of the Australian caribou?” “As a matter of fact, yes. Just for you, George Peterson, sermon interrupter and thrower of silver-plate… What’s this? Cheap whiskey? Tastes like Virginia Gentleman… come clean, George Peterson. You live at 426 Velmont, do you not, the grand home with the twin porticos? And yet you drink this swill? Please. We will not be asking for your tithing with today’s collection plate, as you obviously need the money more than we do. As a matter of fact, get out. Get out of my church right now.” “Well, technically it’s not your church. I mean, it’s our church, and you’re just an employee, like the custodian. And I agree with George Peterson. He may not have very good taste in whiskey, but he knows religion when he doesn’t hear it.” “Ethel Schwartz, you are a heathen. You wouldn’t know religion if it came up and bit you on the ass. I was just about to get to the part on the union between the transitional man and the eternal spirit and how we can navigate the…” “Sit down, Harold. Where do you think you’re going.” “I’m putting an end to this nonsense, that’s what I’m going to do.” “But he’ll embarrass us! You saw what he did to George and Ethel. The man is brutal.” “Nevertheless… Reverend Luella! If you’re a real preacher, I challenge you to lead us all in a hymn right now.” “Oh you do, little man… It’s Harold Green, is it not, and the woman quivering beside you must be your common law wife Betty. How’s that yeast infection coming along, Betty? All right, infidel, I accept your challenge. Hand me my guitar, Bishop Ginger. Is everyone familiar with ‘Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now’ by the Smiths?” “That’s not a hymn.” “True. But it’s a darn good song.” “Rubbish. Morrissey is a wanker.” “Is that a teddy that you’re wearing under your suit, Brother Justin? Never mind, I can tell by your blush. Now out with you. And out with anyone who can’t sit still and listen nicely. Okay, bye bye, Nancy Frank, and take good care of the wee one. Ever learn who the father was? Anyone else? All right, then. I was talking about portals before I was so rudely interrupted. The transitional creatures use these as a means to breach…” 1:13:04 PM    comment []

Thursday, November 03, 2005

Bebe When we would fight the dogs would fight, since Bebe was loyal to me and Basher was loyal to Hank. That would calm things right down usually, since Bebe could kick Basher’s ass, and Hank didn’t want anything happening to his dog. They were both Pits, but Bebe was younger and she had the fire in her. This was pretty funny, since Basher was the tough guy’s dog, and Bebe was mine. They were both sweet dogs though, most of the time. People have this misconception about Pit Bulls, that they’re all crazed killer dogs that will attack at the drop of a hat. Yeah, I mean that can be true, but it’s only because people train them to behave that way. It’s not just something they are. You have to be firm with them, give them a lot of love, and they’ll grow up all right. That’s all there is to it. There was a horrible local story a short while back, so sick, about two Pits that broke through a fence and killed a little boy. Just ripped him up. And you know, when they captured those dogs they were covered with cigarette burns. Cigarette burns! Can you believe that? And at the owners house they found a fighting pen and all sorts of animal carcasses buried around the property. These dogs were trained to be bad, and they were put down right after they were examined. It’s the owners that should be killed. They’re the ones. Julios. Probably not even in the country legal. They’re talking about charging them with second degree murder, but I’ll bet they don’t even get six months. Now some people are afraid to even come near our house. The dogs may bark, but they’re not going to hurt anyone as long as the people don’t act like they’re afraid. And as long as you don’t fight in front of them. One of these days Hank is going to hit me at the wrong time and place, and Bebe is going to tear his fucking throat out.   9:52:18 AM    comment []

Friday, September 23, 2005

Della          Anyone who has ever owned a pet understands Marge Rogers' deep sentiments for her cat, Della. Rogers got Della just before her divorce 14 years ago, and her ''flabby tabby'' kept her company through stretches of loneliness... So when Della died two weeks ago, Rogers went into grieving. The night Della was returned from the crematorium, Rogers invited several friends to her Baltimore, Md., home to lament Della's death. ''We had a very spiritual ceremony,'' said Rogers, a Christian whose brother, an ordained minister, later officiated at a formal ceremony honoring Della's life. ''We ordered pizza and sat around and talked about what a big, wonderful cat she was.'' - Carole Morello, Wasshington Post   "Aye, my Della was a gold old cat, she was." "A very good cat indeed, Marge. A cat to be proud of. Ouch, this pizza's still hot." "I'd go as far as to call her a fine pussy, wouldn't you agree, Blanche?" "Oh yes, Sally, a fine pussy indeed." "Yes..." "Mmm..." "Remember the time when Della got caught in the walnut tree and we couldn't get her down to save our lives?" "Oh, heavens yes. What a day that was." "And then the fire truck shows up and asks me where the fire was, and I told them 'There's no fire, my cat is in the tree'." "Hee, hee, hee..." "And then they said..." "And then they said 'Wots that, mum, you say your cat is in a bleedin' tree? Preposterous'." "I could have died, I was laughing so hard." "Yes... Five hundred dollar fine for unlawful dispatching of emergency services... But at least I got my Della back..." "You sure did..." "But now she's gone... ahhboohoohoo." "Here, Dear, have another slice of this pepperoni. I'm sure you'll feel much better "Wahhoohoohoo..." "Oh dear." "Wahhahahooo..." "There's a slice of green pepper and sausage left if you'd prefer..." "Ahhh, hoo, hoo, ahuh ahuh ahuh..." "She's not hyperventilating, is she?" "AAAAH! AAAAH! AHOOAHOOAHOO..." "Do something, Blanche, do something!" "I don't know what... Uh... I know, I've got just the thing. Let's share some kitty jokes!" "Bwuhuhu, bwuhu... kitty jokes?" "You know, Marge, some funny little stories about the kitties." "Sniff... well, you go ahead Blanche." "All right, then, here's a riddle. What do you get when you cross an elephant with a cat?" "What?" "A big furry creature that purrs while it sits on your lap and squashes you to death." "Oh... sniff... much like my Della, I suppose... big old kitty." "A very fat cat indeed, Marge. A hefty parcel of love. I believe I'll have another slice." "I'd go as far as to call her an enormous pussy, wouldn't you agree, Blanche?" "Oh yes, Sally, an enormous pussy indeed." "Yes..." "Mmm..." "Your turn, Sally. Tell us your kitty joke." "Okay, but I'm warning you - this joke's a bit randy! Well, there was this little old lady..." "Della wasn't really all that old. For a cat." "I agree, Marge, but the old lady in question is absolutely ancient. And she's puttering around the house one day, in her elderly sort of way, and she goes to polish her brass..." "Polish her brass? Ah-ha, I bet I know where this is going." "And when she starts cleaning her great-grandmother's lamp, a genie pops out. 'Land O'Goshen' she shouts. That's one of those really old phrases which means 'Mercy me!' And the genie tells her 'I grant you three wishes'. So she..." "I know what I'd wish for... Sniff..." "Hush, Marge. Let Sally finish her story." "She doesn't have to think but a moment. 'I'd like to be a beautiful young woman' she says, and POOF, she looks just like Julie Christie in 'Doctor Zhivago'." "Oh she was such a lovely young thing in that." "I much prefer her in 'McCabe and Mrs. Miller', but that's just me, ever the renegade. What about her second wish?" "She wished for world peace... Hahahaha, just kidding. She wished she could be as rich as Queen Noor..." "Ooh, good wish, that one. There's still plenty of pizza, you all." "The genie goes POOF, and..." "Why do they always go poof?" "Yes, why do they go poof? I've always wondered about the very same thing." "It's traditional." "Mmm, I suppose... When do we get to the part about the cat?" "It's coming, Marge, I promise. So, getting back to the story, she wishes to be rich, and Poof, money everywhere. Ah, money, youth, beauty, what more could she ask for? Well, she looks at her cat..." "I wish I had a cat to look at..." "...and she looks at the genie, and she says 'I need someone to share my good fortune with. Please, mister genie, turn my little kitty into a handsome movie star. And the genie goes..." "Poof!" "Poof!" "Poof, and there he stands, the spitting image of George Clooney." "Ooooh..." "Ahhh..." "That's what she said! And she just about swooned. And so he walks over to her, leans down, and whispers in her ear, 'too bad you cut off my balls, bitch'." "Sally! Oh my god..." "My Della didn't have any balls. Ahoohoohoo... Sniff... But I did have her fixed when she was just a kitten. Sniff... And I wonder sometimes if she's sitting up there in kitty heaven, hating me because she never got to be a mommy." "Probably, Marge. Probably."   10:30:15 AM    comment []

Sunday, September 18, 2005

Birthday Boy With the store empty and two minutes left until closing time, Duffy jiggled the keys in his hand and looked anxiously out the front window. Two drunks were talking loudly, staggering inches away from his car. Sure, it was only a 2013 Hyundai, but it was low mileage and almost paid for. The scragglier of the two slipped and banged his head on the hood, causing his companion to erupt into spasms of laughter. Duffy rushed to the door yelling "Get the fuck away from my Elantra." Both men turned around, and the one who had been laughing shouted back a hearty "Hey, fuck you!" before kicking the fender and sauntering off. As he watched the drunks fade off into the night, two weirdoes walked in through the door that Duffy was holding half open. How many times had this scene played out in the past? Trash comes blowing in off of the street right as you're getting ready to lock up. Closing time was the most dangerous time of the day, and Duffy scurried back to the counter where he could be closer to his gun. The shorter of the two was a small framed elderly woman with a glazed look in her eyes and a purple streak in her unnaturally black hair. Her makeup had been applied with a trowel, and her short skirt revealed more leg than Duffy cared to see. "Hi!" she said brightly, giving him a wink and waiting for him to respond. Duffy nodded his head. No danger here. The other individual in the store was a freak of an unknown type. At first Duffy had thought the creature, hunched over a walker, was wearing some sort of burka, but on closer inspection this turned out not to be the case. The garment was a robe, black silk reaching down to the floor, so oversized that the person inside appeared to be lost. And on their head was a sort of velvet hood, also black, with slits cut out for the mascara-laden eyes. "Can I help you?" asked Duffy, hoping to expedite their visit. He didn't really want to help. He touched his gun for comfort, and flicked off the switch for the open sign, killing the outside lights. "No, my friend, no help today," said Foxy Grandma in a sing-song voice. She followed behind as the figure with the walker edged past the gin section and into the vodka, making a beeline towards the bourbon. A bejeweled hand with silver fingernails pointed to a lower shelf, and the old woman plucked up a quart of Jim Beam Black. "I'm going to need to see some ID for that, compadre." "Oh no, my friend, it's for my companion here." She hugged the covered figure, and Duffy heard a high pitched giggle come from inside the hood. "Well, the law says that your companion here is going to have to show her face and her ID before I can sell you anything. And make it snappy." "My face is my ID," said the muffled voice, as two fluttering hands appeared to slowly lift the hood. "Oh no," said Duffy, momentarily frozen by the visage before him. And then his voice rose. "Get out! Get the hell out of here! Take the booze and go. Just beat it." As the two headed for the door, Duffy twisted the cap off his own bottle, swigged heartily, and shook his head in disgust. * * * * * * * * Michael fell out of bed on the morning of his sixtieth birthday. Oh screw me, he muttered, wondering if any new part of his body was chipped or bruised. He thought that he might just stay on the floor until somebody found him. He had bumped his bad knee, the one doctors had been urging him to replace for years. Funny to wonder why he never chose to have surgery for that. There were half a dozen vials of pills on the bed stand for when he arose. That was enough motivation to get him to try, but not enough to make him complete the effort. Why bother? Michael raised himself up far enough to drag down one of the pillows off of the bed, and then lay back down against the sky blue carpet. It was nice down on the floor, really, sort of like camping out, and he leaned up once again to pull down a blanket of weightless warmth. Exotic cookies would be nice, he thought, fine ones prized by foreign lands (such as Nigeria's Chocanoodas), but that would take more effort than he was willing to expend. Michael felt a dream tugging on him and decided to follow. His new world was full of cotton-candy colors and the laughter of children. A cheery Paul McCartney song was playing through the loudspeakers in the never-ending park. No, wait. It was Paul McCartney! He was playing on the long and elegant mahogany promenade stage. Michael made his way effortlessly through the crowd, and soon found himself gazing at a wonderful carousel with rainbow-hued fish and high-kicking donkeys. A small female child with long golden hair reached up to hand him a white plastic cup of French fries. Michael smiled sweetly at the girl, who was dressed in a wondrous gauzy white gown, and asked her for ketchup. "You may have no condiments," she told him, a furrow appearing on her seven year old brow. "They are forbidden to you now." And then the little bastard threw a Big Gulp on his trousers. Michael woke in wet pajamas. Once again he'd forgotten his Depends. * * * * * * * * Now just where on God's green earth were his teeth? Had he mislaid them around the house once again? Honest to god, he thought, will I ever learn to keep a spare pair in my dresser? Michael considered showering and shaving, but then he thought about breakfast, and breakfast sounded so much better... He swabbed himself off with a coral colored velour washcloth, which he then tossed into the trash beside last night's socks. Maria was Michael's morning person, in charge of getting him off to a happy start each and every day. Lately her job had been getting increasingly difficult, as her boss's behavior became ever more erratic. Playing a role somewhere between a mother and a maid - though always dressed frothily as the later - Maria had been with Michael for the better part of fourteen years, ever since the horrid year of his big comedown. Maria greeted Michael as soon as he hobbled up to the fringe of the dining complex. He had made quite the racket getting there, with his moans, groans, and shovel steps. "Happy birthday, honey," she said, before giving him the once over, and shaking her head in disapproval. "My goodness, Michael, we are really going to have to fix you up a bit this morning..." "I hurt my knee real bad, Maria," said Michael, who, with exaggerated effort, made it to the chair that she had pulled out for him by the classic Pacman table. "Real bad. It hurts. Could I have some sausages, and some French fries with extra ketchup, please? Lots of ketchup, the good kind that sticks in the bottle. And a large orange juice, extra good." "I'll let the cook know to start rattling his pans, Michael. Oh, and we're almost out of Grey Goose, so I'll have to use Absolut for the OJ." Maria did the little twirl that Michael just adored, but the look she gave him showed her obvious distaste. "You've got a birthday visitor, honey. Maybe you want to put in your teeth before I show her in." "I can't find them." "Well I'll keep my eyes peeled. Maybe you left them in the game room again. But Michael, why don't you at least put on one of your wigs? They make you look so much younger." "I don't want to wear a wig," whined Michael. "I'm sixty years old today. I've decided that it's time for me to look more distinguished." "But your hair is so, uh... irregular, Michael. Don't you want to look your best for Ms Minelli?" "Liza!" Michael said excitedly, rising up from his chair and falling straight to the floor, where he began to bawl. "I'm old, I'm old, I'm really really old. Old old old old old old old old old old old." You're a goddamn pathetic freak is what you are, thought Maria as she helped him back into an upright position. "I'll have the doctor come by as soon as I speak to the cook. He can take a look at that knee and you'll be just as good as new." Her face was in a frozen smile as she left, and she vowed to steal an ashtray before the day was through. "Ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ouch ouch uh oh it hurts." Michael said to no one in particular. Two perky eyes and a pixie haircut peeked around the kitchen door. "Sounds like somebody in there has a big ouchie." Michael squealed when he jumped up, and Michael squealed when he fell down. "NOW IVE BUMPED MY HEAD! AND I ALREADY HURT MY KNEE! LIZA! Ow ow ouch ouch ouch ouch. Ahhroooo!" "Calm down, Mikey. Liza will kiss it and make it all better." The former dancer made a wobbly beeline towards Michael, landing an elegantly spiked heel on the palm of his outstretched hand. "AAAIYEEEEEEEEEEE!" said Michael. "Sorry," said Liza, plopping down to take a seat by Michael, her leather skirt riding high on her once vaunted thighs. "Clumsy me." "Ooh ooh oh oww oww ouch. Oh man. Ouch ouch ouch. I'm dying." Liza opened her enormous purse and pulled out a platinum flask. "Have a swig of this and you'll feel like living again. Come on, it's a... Michael. What happened to you?" "My knee has been hurting real bad and I..." "No. Your nose." Michael slowly moved his trembling forefinger to his face, and when it should have touched something, it did not. "GAHHHH! YIIII! OH NO OH NO OH NO!" Michael's screams were loud enough to bring Maria running back into the room. "What is going on now, Ms Minelli?" she asked, fearful of hearing the answer. There were two idiots on the floor and it wasn't even eleven. "I don't know," said Liza, moving her hands like a symphony conductor. "His nose came off. When he fell. I think it rolled under the refrigerator." "My nothe... my nothe...," sobbed Michael. Liza pulled a flashlight out of her enormous purse, and put her face to the floor, shining the rays underneath the Kenmore. "Here. I think I see it. Anybody got a coathanger? No, wait a minute. I've got one in my bag." Within moments she had dislodged Michael's nostrils from their dusty alcove. "Here you go, sweetie. Do you know how to put it back on again?" "No," Michael said sadly, shaking his nearly hairless head. "It'th not thuppothed to fall off." He paused for a dramatic shiver, and would have sniffed his nose if there had been one on his face. "Litha, I'm really deprethed. I'm getting old and falling all apart. I with I could die." "Michael! Don't ever let me hear you say such a thing again. You are not like this." Liza kissed him softly on the neck, and arose with the nose. "We'll wash it off here under the faucet and it will be like brand new." "But I don't know how to put my nothe back on!" "Not to worry," said Liza, rummaging around in her bag. I've got scotch tape, the invisible kind. Right now I want you to sit back and have some of my pills. They'll make you feel a lot better." "And I've got you an extra big glass of orange juice," said Maria, popping in the room right on cue. The three laughed and laughed, as Liza proceeded to do a fine job of taping Michael's nose back on. Maria had another surprise. "I found your teeth right where I expected. In the game room, stuck in a big old caramel apple." "YAY!" shouted Michael. "Maria, bring me a wig. It's time to be beautiful again." Liza cheered. "You know, Michael, for us, beauty is not an option, it's a duty. It's something we owe the world for all the world has given us. This guy, I believe it was Dudley Moore, once told me, describing all that's important in the world, 'Justice, Truth, Beauty, but the best of these is beauty'. Now I have got a new lip color that you just have to try..." * * * * * * * * "Oooh, that was fun," said Liza, twisting the cap off of the Beam bottle. "Here's to beauty, forever and ever." "Beauty's our duty," sang Michael. "Our duty doo dah, yeah girl." "Great hook, Michael! I think you've got another hit!" "I think I'll have another hit," laughed Michael, lifting his hood to take a swig from the birthday bottle. "Told you I could get it for free, hee hee. The people love us, and they always will. Now let's go ride fire trucks."   10:05:22 AM    comment []

Friday, March 11, 2005

Scenes From an Imaginary Movie In August of 2003, there arose one particularly bizarre story that really caught my attention, locked on to it like a rabid Pit Bull. It still sticks with me today, even though there have been no real developments since day one. Some of these cases will do that, if you’re the kind that follows the crime beat. The innocence factor, that’s what always sucks me in. Not much ever happens to resolve most cases unless they’ve got a good hook. Cash helps to move things along, but if you want to capture the TV Eye, it never hurts to have a kid or two in the story. Or maybe a pretty, pregnant victim - good looks won’t do it by themselves anymore. Of course, the celebrity factor is a sure-fire angle, though the smart money tells you that the fame card may be getting a bit overplayed these days. Lifetime Channel fodder, maybe Court TV. Bottom line is, without the right twist, no matter how spectacular the crime, the story just don’t have the longevity you need for a feature film or good documentary. Maybe you can pull a splash of interest, and then the world spins on, leaving justice dependent on luck. The media could never really find a good hook with Brian Douglas Wells, in spite of the fact that his demise was spectacular enough to make for an edge of your seat movie. Sure, a film like that would probably have to go through some extensive rewrite, but what else is new? You’d definitely want to be able to accommodate a younger star, maybe even change the lead to a female. The good part is that, except for the end, you’d have all the leeway you could ever dream of. You probably don’t even remember the name, do you? Well, I can change all that with just two words – pizza bomb. Go ahead, Google it. You’ll be reading for a long time. Context wise, one thing you can say for pizza delivery is that aside from the poor pay, it is one hell of a risky business. The Bureau of Labor Statistics puts out a little document that they like to call the Most Dangerous Jobs Report, and in the number five slot, right below structural metal workers, is ‘driver-sales workers’. Yeah, that would be your Dominos, your Pizza Hut, and all the countless local variations, the folks who get to take your abuse after speeding through the rain with your pie, the ones who pray they get to keep the change. Real life people. Spend a little time over at the Association of Pizza Delivery Drivers web site, and browse a while through their crime archives. Stabbings, shootings, baseball bats, acid to the eyes… And it’s not all about the Benjamins, either. Sometimes you’ll find scumbags who are willing to seriously fuck you up just for your pizza. There are thousands of pizza horror stories from naked cities all cross this great land, but the most unforgettable, if not the most macabre, is the tale of Brian Wells, a driver for Mama Mia’s Pizza-Ria in Erie, Pennsylvania. Here we have a guy who was literally blown up, sitting cross-legged on the pavement, surrounded by police uncertain whether they were being hoaxed, and unable to help even if they were in the know. What a climax! Wells was murdered in a twisted puzzle rife with details, but unknown in motive. Maybe you could say it’s all beyond meaning, but in this picture, you can take away what you need to believe. It’s that innocence angle that reeled me in. Like I say, I’m a sucker for that sort of thing. See, Brian Wells seemed to have been a genuinely simple man. Not simple in the sense of being dumb, but simple in the sense of contentedly leading an ascetic life, simple because that’s the path he chose. He was forty-six years old and into the Zen of pizza delivery. Good at it, and with no interest in moving on to bigger things. He lived alone in a little white cottage furnished with a chair, a mattress, a television. He had three cats, each of which he just called kitty. His best friend was his mother, who lived short miles away. The two of them would frequently watch rented movies at night, and then Brian would take his leave and drive back on home. The guy just didn’t dig materialism. He must have slipped through the system. Brian even took the hubcaps off his little delivery car, a Geo Metro, because he thought they were too flashy. The film starts here. Early on the afternoon of August 28th, a call comes into Mama Mia’s, Wells steady employer for the past ten years. In an oddly mechanical voice, the caller asks for two small sausage pizzas to be delivered to a nearby construction site. The manager smiles and good naturedly shakes his head at Brian, who is sitting in a small booth with a red checkered tablecloth, absorbed in a crossword. This is a favorite pastime of his while in between orders, and the manager will hold the puzzle behind the counter for him until he returns. At exactly 1:37, Brian takes the pizzas and heads off in his immaculate Metro.  He is whistling a song which he does not know the name of. The asphalt soon gives way to a bumpy dirt road, and the houses begin to thin out, eventually disappearing. Soon he arrives at a clearing atop a hill, and the road abruptly ends. This must be the place.  There is a row of satellite dishes, and seventy yards away there is an antenna tower, which in the soundtrack will buzz and crackle. This does not stir Brian’s suspicion, as he is often summoned to areas where construction or utility work is being done. <flashback rapid cuts of previous deliveries>. Little does he know that in this case, authorities <inset later> will find no reports of workers in the area. What to make of it? This is surely the scene of the crime, our mysterious big bang, the part of the movie where we are free to take any and all liberties. Someone or some group is there to meet Brian, and send him off on a frantic trip to eternity. Perhaps it is Willem Dafoe. We can fabricate a sadistic criminal mastermind with a taste for voyeurism, an urban terrorist setting a trap for the dreaded Eerie police force, a gang of redneck gamers having their way with a local misfit. All these and more have been suggested, and all can be rendered quite effectively. Wells had his own bits to add, but his information was a bit rushed, and will only be seen in flashbacks. Those who knew Wells describe him as the sort of man who would not have put up very much of a fight if put into a threatening situation. And this is without a doubt a most threatening situation, although investigating authorities spent several months floating the possibility that he was a willing participant. This is an intriguing element which we may want to introduce subliminally through a series of flash cuts, and of course, dialogue between individual police officers, as we build to the climax. (For the sake of narrative, however, Brian should be endowed with enough cunning to stretch this dark sequence out effectively, with at least one harrowing escape attempt.) We see Wells being fit into a collar bomb, the same device that has been used by Colombian rebels in extortion schemes. We may allude to that, depending on the choice of antagonist. It is an ugly metal restraint that locks around the neck, wired to the explosive portion which is fused to the bottom of the device. Even the most experienced Hazardous Device Technicians find this type of bomb a nightmarish device to disarm, as we shall stress. (Note: given the time frame of events, the part of ‘the expert’ is a cameo, at best. Contact Mickey Rourke.) We next see Wells sitting in his car outside a branch of the PNC bank just south of Eerie. (There should be an ironic message on the front door poster – will provide on next draft.) He is franticly reading through several pages of handwritten notes, written in crude, black, block print. "Quietly give the following demand notes to a receptionist or a Bank Manager," the instructions tell him. <Focus on hands>. Wells removes four pages and stuffs them in his pocket. He gets out of his car and tries to walk calmly into the bank, but his face has changed. We noticed the tightness of his lips and the fear in his eyes. <tight close up>. He is carrying what looks like a walking stick, but which we know, (via flashback), is a devilishly clever gun that has been shaped to look like a cane. [Can we get Giger to do some prototype props?] Wells slips the note, with its request for a quarter million to the teller. He tells her that he has a bomb, and her eyes widen. He doesn’t mention that the bomb is locked around his neck and that he doesn’t have a key. He only whispers “Hurry”. (We may want to flash a counter on the screen periodically from this time out.) He plays it low key, just like he’s been told, but is visibly shaken up as he turns around with his garbage bag of cash. <Cut to the teller’s hand reach towards the silent alarm.> (For a tension breaking moment of humor, as soon as Wells walks out the door, everybody in the bank pulls out a cell phone.) All in all, there are nine pages of notes, filled with threats, directions, and even little drawings of landmarks for his journey. We pan over these, slowly revealing the horror of his situation. He is on a treasure hunt, the prize being the keys which could disarm and unlock the explosive metal collar. Brian has to play this game – somebody is watching.  <pan notes> "MOST IMPORTANT RULE: DO NOT RADIO, PHONE OR CONTACT ANYONE. ALERTING AUTHORITIES, YOUR COMPANY OR ANYONE ELSE WILL BRING YOUR DEATH. IF WE SPOT POLICE VEHICLES OR AIRCRAFT, YOU WILL BE KILLED..." We watch Wells re-enter his car from above, the fiend’s point of view. The next step on this journey is a very short one, and Wells stops in the parking lot of Eyeglasses World to refer to his notes. “EXIT THE BANK AND GO TO THE MCDONALDS RESTAURANT. GET OUT OF CAR AND GO TO THE SMALL SIGN READING-DRIVE THRU/OPEN 24 HR. IN THE FLOWER BED BY THE SIGN THERE IS A ROCK TAPED TO THE BOTTOM. IT HAS YOUR NEXT INSTRUCTIONS”. Beside these words is a small picture of the golden arches and the sign, with a rectangle labeled as ‘rock’. The artist has even added a few blades of grass. We realize now that Wells is still in the neighborhood, parked just a few yards away from McDonalds. We pan down four city blocks and see that we are only moments away from the robbery, where the police have already arrived, and now stand talking to the agitated teller. Time is running out and Wells still has busy work to do. His next step is to tie a length of orange tape (conveniently located on his explosive device) to a fire hydrant in the parking lot, as a signal to the mastermind that he has successfully pulled the heist. The cops must be on their way by now. Wells stumbles out of his car, looks at the hydrant, and decides to go for the next instructions instead. There’s just no time for anything else. After McDonalds, he would have less than thirty minutes remaining to make three more stops. And then maybe… He spots the sign, the flower bed, the rock. We hear a trigger cock, and view Wells through a telescopic lens. Bingo. The cops are on him like flies on shit, right as he approaches the hiding place. <Quick shot of a hand placing a silver dollar under the stone.> <Cut to Wells being thrown to the ground by a burly police officer.> The blood drains from his face. <Cue Nine Inch Nails, or a knock-off if Trent is busy.> The camera crew from WJET-TV arrives and the film starts rolling. Wells grunts as the cuffs are slapped on. <Cut to bulge under t-shirt.> <Cut to cop pulling garbage bag from car.> “Somebody put a bomb on me”. <Cut to gathering crowd.> “Somebody put it there”. <Cut to sensitive cop kneeling by Wells.> He pulls down the collar of Wells t-shirt. “It’s going to go off soon”. <Cut to cameraman dropping cigarette.> <Pan row of cops faces.> “What the hell is that thing?” They sit him upright on the pavement and cautiously back away, mentally calculating a safe distance. Training didn’t cover this. This is insane. <Cut to cop on radio calling bomb squad.> Wells struggles to alleviate the weight on his chest. <Cut to sniper POV.> <Pan perimeter in vicinity of Wells. It is empty.> <Cut to Wells close-up. He appears crushed, defeated, a man falling over a ledge.> "I don't have much time." <Cut to camera crew, backing away.> <Switch to videotape POV.> “It’s going to go off”. Left leg jerks spastically. "I'm not lying. Did you call my boss?" <Extreme close up.> "Why is nobody trying to come get this thing off me?" <Kill sound.> The camera slowly pulls back until Wells is seen at a distance. He is sitting cross legged on the ground. He has stopped struggling. Wells looks briefly around, then lowers his head. <Sound up, but there is only street noise.> No one is near the man. He barely moves. And then, suddenly he is gone. There is an explosion, but we don't see Wells. The force of the blast has slammed him flat to the ground, out of camera range. It is more like a magicians trick than a snuff film, debris flying through the air, while the performer has vanished.   1:56:31 PM    comment []

Monday, November 22, 2004

Poke Chop Poke Chop is doing the Watusi; this is my best guess. It's also entirely possible that he is shaking his sorry-ass groove thang to the Mashed Potato. There are two statements that can be made with relative certainty. First, at this point in his inebriation, Poke Chop has no discernable sense of rhythm. Second, and more importantly, Poke Chop may not be long for this world. "Take ya look, yall, look at ole Poke Chop. Poke Chop is doin it man, whooo yeah he doin it. Ain't nobody gawna slow ole Poke Chop down, nobody. Whatchu lookin at, fool? Yeahhh… You lookin at Poke Chop, aintcha? Poke Chop the best." Poke Chop has wandered into a place where he absolutely should not be. Folks are looking at him in amazement. No way he wasn’t already been blind drunk when he first walked in, else he would have instinctively known better. The joint is borderline redneck, absolutely working class, a narrow sea of blue jeans and white faces. The men all have facial hair and hats, the women all have tank tops, and everyone has at least one tattoo. Poke Chop is not just a black man. While that would be somewhat of a problem, it would not be an insurmountable one. Sure, some of the more racist patrons glare at anyone of color who walks into their bar, muttering rude asides to their buddies. Or if they have no buddies, they curse into their beers. But times have changed here in the big city, and at least inside this public space, most everyone adheres to the doctrine of tolerance. They know that’s an attitude they ought to have. Julios, niggers, fags and punks, they all put in the occasional appearance, and if they behave themselves, there’s usually no trouble. You can have a patron launch into an ‘I hate niggers’ rant at the top of his lungs, but he’ll shut up the moment a couple of blacks walk in. You might even see the same gentleman shooting the shit with a black man; once he’s a known quantity, he’s no longer a nigger. Trouble is, Poke Chop is the stereotype incarnate, a walking cartoon. Bad hygiene, clothes half falling off his lanky frame, indeterminate age, and a ludicrous minstrel accent. For God’s sake, the boy calls himself Poke Chop. “Poke Chop take care of you girls good,” he shouts lasciviously, grabbing a hefty blonde on her return from the ladies room. “Poke Chop be the best you ever had,” he assures her. The girl whirls away, spitting out a quick “asshole” as she rushes back to her table. There’s a hush in the room. “What you call Poke Chop, ya ole bitch? Poke Chop gonna give it to you good. Poke Chop be the best you ever had.” Poke Chop is doing a little dance around his stool as he shouts this, holding onto the edge of the bar for stability. George Jones is playing on the jukebox. All eyes are on Poke Chop about now. A barrage of shouts and derisions are hurled his way. Oddly, none of the obscenities make reference to his race. Checking the room for body language, there appear to be at least two dozen fists cocked and ready to commence wailing on his hide. Poke Chop is somehow able to pick up on these visual cues, and he plops wearily down on his stool, immediately knocking over his beer. This is the final straw for his neighbor, who grabs him by the shirt and pulls him to his feet. He glares hard, ready to strike, but Poke Chop goes all limp on him, head down and limbs lifeless. He gets yet another reprieve. And now, it’s melancholy time. “Hey, hey,” he says dispiritedly, as he waves his hand in the air, aiming to snag the bartender’s attention. As if he really needed to try. “Nutha,” he says softly. Melissa is a big strong girl who has only a limited amount of patience. “How you gonna pay for it,” she demands, her face inches away from the drunk. Poke Chop sticks his hand deeply into the pocket of his beer soaked pants, eventually digging out a couple of crumpled bills and an unknown quantity of change. Melissa takes the bills and counts out another dollar in change, leaving only nickels and pennies on the bar. “You don’t have enough here to get another,” she tells him. Poke Chop is crushed. His face goes through a passion play before he finally blurts out, “I spilt it. I spilt it.” These are the saddest words in the world, and they take seed in the heart of a grizzled old man in a blue Home Depot hat who nods at Melissa and points to himself. Melissa grimaces at the elderly bastard, and pulls another Bud. In Poke Chop’s mind, this beer has simply materialized because he wants it so bad. It’s the miracle of the Budweiser. Poke Chop is re-energized now, walking the length of the bar and speaking to anyone who will look his way. “Gimmee cigarette,” he says, demanding, not pleading. “Get the fuck out of here.” “Gimmee cigarette.” No reply from patron 2, just a gentle shove. “Gimmee cigarette,” he continues up the line. Someone throws a smoke from across the bar and it bounces off his sunken chest. Poke Chop happily picks it up off the floor, strut-staggering back to his seat. I turn on my stool to face the man sitting beside me, a burly fellow with the name Fred printed on his plumbing service shirt. “Dude is about five minutes away from dying,” I observe. Fred looks at me for a long moment, shaking his head. “Crazy nigger,” is all he has to say. It is the miracle of the Budweiser. Not only does Poke Chop avoid death today, he also manages to con a couple of Spanish speaking migrant workers into buying him another beer before his forced exit. Faith is the world’s culture; wisdom is America’s. Forget the intellectuals - we are some crafty bastards, and for all our lip service to the gods of good and evil, we are a pragmatic lot. Love us or hate us, it really doesn’t matter. We finish strong, just like a good beer. We try to avoid beating our weak, although it often takes a supreme act of will power. And we always – no matter how sorry you are – will give you a cigarette.   10:01:20 AM    comment []

Wednesday, November 10, 2004

Bitey Vs. The Singing Senators   Bitey ©2003, Susan McNerney “It’s disturbing, isn’t it?” That would be Turnblow talking. Not the brightest dog you’ve ever met, but he had great fur. And he was loyal. In my line of work you learn to prize loyalty above all else. “Yeah.” I had to agree. Three hours now without a signal. No phone call, not a scent, nothing. We were on the trail of The Singing Senators, but that trail had gone cold. Night was drawing near, and the dinner bowl was empty. All in all, a crappy day. The name is Bitey, Bitey Rodan. I carry a bone. “You know” said Turnblow, nibbling on a Marrow-Bone Bacon Flavored treat. “I don’t think the Singing Senators are still around. That’s the word on the street.” Damn that Turnblow. My stomach is starting to sound like a garbage pail full of cats, and I know without asking that he’s got nothing to share. He made his point, though. He fetched me the paper, a two year old copy of the Washington Times. There it was in black and white. Having burned both his Republican bridges and his Republican colleagues, Vermont's Jim Jeffords has also effectively sent the Singing Senators, that do-wopping, bow-tied, senatorial excursion into four-part Republican harmony which left listeners in varying degrees of slack-jawed amazement, up in smoke. In other words, it just got a little easier to be a Republican again. Yeah, that sounded pretty final to me. What the hell – there’s no denying I’ve been napping on the job. No excuses. It’s been a bad decade so far. The Singing Senators -  we used to call them Motley Crooners – seemed to have disappeared into thin air. Trent ‘Vacant’ Lott, James ‘The Traitor’ Jeffords, Larry ‘Whozat’ Craig, and John ‘Johnny Law’ Ashcroft had created quite a ruckus on Capitol Hill in their time, terrifying junior lawmakers by unexpectedly breaking into their Oak Ridge Boys imitations whenever a piece of legislation they didn’t care for would come to the floor. ‘Elvira’, indeed. But where were those illegal MP3s coming from if not the SS? My client didn’t want to hear excuses, he wanted results. Music piracy is destroying the industry, that’s what he told me, and then he played me some of the clips: I'll Fly Away, God Bless America, and Dig a Little Deeper. God did I ever howl. “Listen buddy,” I tell him, “Two of those songs are in the public domain, and the third isn’t going to bring down the house anywhere.” But he was right, I was missing the point. This was an inside job, and someone was getting their bread buttered on both sides. So I call up my buddy Drudge, see if maybe I can cash in a favor. Perhaps, he tells me. So I wait. And wait. I’m about to give up when the special line rings. “Bitey. Matt here. I think I got your guy.” “Talk to me Drudge.” “Two words for you, Bitey. The Smoking Gun.” “That’s three words, Drudge, but thanks.” I knew what he was saying. I was just afraid of what I’d find, but as awkward as my little paws are, I had the site pulled up quicker than you can say ‘You’ve got mail.’ There it was. An illegal MP3 by The Attorney General. My tail stiffened. He’s playing on both sides of the chess board, and I don’t have a pawn. I see that Turnblow has slipped out the door. Suddenly I need a drink more than I need dinner. Suddenly I don’t need dinner at all. I can use the work, but shit, I’m just a little dog. I can see a million ways this case can go wrong, badly wrong. What does The Patriot Act say about canines, anyway? 10:04:06 AM    comment []