President Watch 2009: An Observation of the Process Leading to the Selection of the

two tons of milkshake later and I still smell like dairy

2008-04-08T00:02:00.000-07:00

Roar.

I don't actually want you to respond, but could somebody tell me what's up with the chatty devils behind the counters of this fine nation's rapid food establishments. Of today's nine meals seven were consumed at such establishments, and in the process of procuring four of these meals I found myself awkwardly dancing on the edges of conversations with greasy people. They were polite though, and for this I'm grateful. After jiving away a decade's evenings worth of my youth in the food service and retail industries any sort of positive encounter contained by walls of these sorts renders me light-headed, weeping and glowing like a wife after her wedding and/or honeymoon. So when a pudgy mass of indeterminate age or gender remarks as to the fleeting nature of curly fries when one must transport them via automobile to a hungry and waiting mouth, I'm only able to further rubberize my smile and say, "I think I'll be able to make it." Perhaps an elderly woman, working off the payments on her nineteen year old son's tattoos, smiles toothlessy and begins to unravel a five minute yarn on the merits of ordering milk with spicy food. As the yarn descends into talk of milk spoiling in her car one day and how she decided to drink it anyway because it was worth it because she ate a spicy chicken sandwich I excuse myself to use the restroom. An hour's worth of napping later I emerge remarkably unrefreshed and snatch my food from it's perch on the cool metal counter and gorge myself on the most terrible potato and cheese combination this humble American has ever tasted.

The day's other encounters with food service personnel were typical, though I admit it mildly atypical for them to have shared a kite-fly-off as a climax. Won one, lost one. Not bad.

Final words: gemini, arm-smashing machine, Ireland

on a fistfight with a shabby rabbi* over an antique cauldron (in pretty good shape though...the cauldron, not the rabbi)

2008-03-19T23:24:00.000-07:00

Hey!

It's been a while since I've shoveled my nutritious prose-gruel down your throats, and I won't do that today. Instead I only ask you, with minimal force-feeding-inspired gyrations, to read. So calm down already, assuming you aren't already calm.

I suppose I owe you some explanation for my extended absence. Alas, the story is unbelievable, terrible even; but if you stuck around until the semi-colon then I am forced to conclude I rendered you a kneeling, drool-coated wreck, (in)explicably rapt at the words thundering across your screen. At this point, considering your state, it would be crueller than Sunday dinner with a pack of starving (but still spry) hyenas long past the taste-acquisition phase as it pertains to man-flesh. Much like that hollywood starlet! Right. Whores, sinners, the lot of 'em#. So as you sit there, your waste pooling around you in deference to the attention my words command, mind this: I'm not a cruel master. Not the sort of man/(manbot?) to leave your fingertips eroded to the bone by your never ceasing search of the "Information Routes Internet" and your local library for clues as to the cause of my vacation from giving your eyes something to think about: that thing: treasure maps. Nope, here you go:

OK, I'll get back to that later. The important thing now, you find yourself thinking, is where am I going to be the next couple of days. All you need to know, nosy-britches, is that I won't have access to the city-block-sized mainframe that generates these web-log entries. So rather than set the timer (worse than a VCR, am I right!?), I won't. But that's ok. I suggest rereading a handful of my previous "posts" forever.

*His tunic might as well have been pulled fresh from the sewar after a tobacco-juice-spit rainstorm. Forelock like a coyote with mange.

#I'm sure the majority of starlets, all of 'em even, are nice people. I mean to say, I don't hate women, and this in the face of their endless onslaught of puppy-theft and court orders%#

%#I don't really have any court orders against me. I'm a reasonable fellow^#$.

^#$And you'd do mothereffin well to agree with me there, son!

!No footnoot, just an exclamation mark.

Final words: exclamation, farm, and taxidermy-induced carpal tunnel syndrome

on a celebratory congregation of people, some one might presume vain

2008-02-25T23:46:00.000-08:00

I'm a lucky guy: I live in a town so prosperous as to contain establishments where, in exchange for legal tender, you may sit in a large room and watch television on a very large screen. Combine their proximity with my untold wealth (I'll tell you about it soon) and I'm liable to attend upwards of twenty thousand movies a year. Strange, but I quite enjoy this process.

Every few years the people responsible for "giant television" gather together to present trophies to the finest perpetrators of these hoaxes on reality. The ceremony is called the "Oskars" and it never fails to be a spectacle. The beginning was typical: Oprah Winfrey auctioned off a peasant girl, script-writers were cordoned off so that they could conduct a "lottery" in which the winner was killed in the belief that it would result in a prosperous harvest, Ron Howard transformed into a two-story-tall robot (lasor overkill-one man's opinion) and argued the merits of the banjo. But after the predictable intro no one could have predicted the extent to which the evening was scripted. Jon Stewart is swell, and near the beginning of a ceremony wherein some of the industry's most powerful folks would present each other with trophies, he said, get this, "Let's all just take a moment to congratulate ourselves." I applaud his wit, unless it's turns out he was being sincere, in which cause I will write a series of harrassing letters bemoaning his obliviousness. Some people just don't get it.

Some people gamble on "Oskar results". I abhor this process, and the people who would bandy money about as if it was a child to be won in a game of blackjack. But if I had gambled on the evening's winners I'd be a moderately more wealthy man: I correctly predicted the winner of every category, though my ballot did take the over on four as it concerns streakers-perhaps a penality would have been leveled.

"No Country for Old Men", or as I hilariously call it: "Country for Mean Men", was extremely enjoyable for me to watch. And though any splatter-graph detailing my history with Tommy Lee Jones would be shotgunned full of dots representing our disputes over the use of his middle name, the entire cast was kissable (if one is of the opinion that an outstanding performance in a movie renders the performer kissable). Daniel Day Lewis's performance as man named Daniel was incredible, so much so that I've pierced by ears, and then found myself mortified at the destruction I'd inflicted on my body. When a winnebago's worth of priests had finally talked me back from the brink of total disregard for convention (How many holes in a body toes it take to send one over the edge into total twinkie-and-couch-cushion oblivion? Answer: 4.) they asked me why I was moaning so loudly. I wasn't able to answer as I still am unable to choke back the hell-hot releases of grief, but I will now reveal the reason my computer is slick with tears: the performance of the old man who asks if he can adopt the young man. I'd like to place a silk hanky against the sad springs on that guy's face. "Hey, let's go get a milkshake." He'd smile and we'd talk about my favorite things. He'd become increasingly uncomfortable with my unwavering stare. I'd talk around his excuses for leaving. When the old-timey milkshake shack closed I'd insist that I drive, "Those dying eyes can't be much good for seeing," I'd smile. Gently insisting that his directions were wrong, I'd take a long time taking him to his house. "We have to do this again sometime," I'd say. He'd leave the car and walk to his door, risking and instantly regretting a look back at me and my thick stare and over-stretched smile. He'd struggle to insert the proper key and I'd call out an offer of my assistance. "No, got it. Good night," he stammer. And still he'd struggle with his keys, the door finally clicking open just as I'm a step away from obtaining his porch, "I could come in," I'd say. It's pretty obvious that he pretends not to hear or see me as he closes the door.

Final words: Ron Howard, igloo, and mortified

i WILL mark your forehead with calf's blood

2008-02-25T20:32:00.000-08:00

What a day! I ought to file a patent on being exhausted, but that is absurd and I already did it this afternoon. You see, I'm exhausted because I spent the afternoon filing frivolous patent claims. One must do what one can to make life more difficult for the scum that lines the ruby-embossed thrones down at the patent office. I think you'll agree I've done my share, though now that I've put myself out there it will be rather embarrassing if you don't. The pertinent question (I pray you'll agree) is: Have you done your share? The answer is as obvious as the reek of diesel fuel I imagine you emanate. Freaking no. You haven't. Otherwise I don't think the boys down at the patent office would have time to sit around counting bags of rubies and writing slanderous letters concerning repeated incidents of frivolous patents being filed. So join me in the crusade, I promise you, after our inevitable success I will mark your forehead with calf's blood.

Sorry for the rare digression, now, on to politics. My post office box has been flooded (if you can pretend envelopes filled with letters are water) with envelopes filled with letters begging me with a desperation so palpable it brings tears to my eyes and vomit to my mouth to provide them with the correct answer to the question: Who should I vote for? Well, there is no easy answer. (Here's the easy answer: vote for your mother. I bet that would make her feel nice.)
The difficult answer is that you must carefully consider the myriad pertinent issues, and then, should a candidate aligned with your views prove available, storm the alligator-guarded offices of The Diebold Corporation and alter, with the help of a diamond-tipped drill, the results (stored in a olympic-sized pool of chili). To sum it up: consider which potential-president you'd prefer to play board games with on Play Board Games With The President Day, and pick the other one (You're never going to grow as a person if you don't challenge yourself.).

Final words: honored, tempest, and eleven

free meat for sale

2008-02-22T15:19:00.000-08:00

Welcome back. You're here to find out about presidents, and I'm here to give you all the links to photographs of a pantless Ron Paul that a healthy constituency can stomach (which, according to my team of scientists and stationary, is 33). By the time voting day stampedes into our lives it will have been a while since the last voting day. About 640 months, if my math is slightly off. But you aren't here to talk about time, you're here for some semi-nude Ron Paul action:

click on this text you glory-hunter

I imagine it's been several hours since you clicked on the above link. Hour glasses have been upended, ties have been loosened, tightened, and tightened some more. Beverages with just a touch too much artificial sweetener have been spilled on your expensive geometry tools. Your children have forgotten you. Dan Akroyd has a beard. It's ok-fine even. Just relax. I'll walk you through the tsunami of reflection necessary to offload the tremendous "feelings" you're experiencing.

1. Have a candy bar! You're not getting any skinnier, might as well embrace the delicious.

2. Refuse to compromise.

3. Carve yourself a tiny Winston Churchill from a bar of heavily-perfumed generic soap. He's your new best friend, sure. But he will betray you if you give him a chance. Make it clear-verbally-that you aren't a pushover.

3. Steal something from a friend or neighbor's home. If they ever notice it's missing remove your least favorite digit from your right hand.

4. Refuse to compromise.

5. Glandular disorders don't carry much weight with the police. Try flattering them with bribe money instead!

6. After the betrayal: pull yourself, legless and half-blind from the outhouse that soap-bust-of -Churchill left you in, and wash yourself with him until he's just a sliver. Then save that sliver to be combined with other slivers. That's how you save money: recycle your soap. It's that fucking simple, you moneyless wretch.

So, I've solved your problems. Yeah, yeah. Just send me a few telegrams or letters crammed with heartfelt thanks, that's really all the thanks I need.

Final words: absolved, Massachusetts, filmy

v.d.

2008-02-14T15:26:00.001-08:00

That's right politics-people, it's v.d. Hope you've stimulated the economy in a love-inducing fashion on this fine day. Now, on to politics.

If you're a baseball fan then you might be aware that pitchers and catchers reported to spring training today. Spring training is a place is northern Montana where baseball players recite poetry from midnight to dawn in an effort to strengthen their rhyme-schemes in preparation for a grueling schedule including more than just the typical 49 baseball contests all teams must grind through. Minds and bodies must be toughened to a leathery-sheen for all the extra-marital activities such a grind requires. Tolerances to illegal drugs must be built up, acquintances must be made with all the new strip-club faces, and of course one must brace themselves for the dreary conversations and illegitimate-child-related bribes with all the old faces, except bouncers and bartenders. But new cell phone numbers to new premium hookups must be acquired. If you haven't already obtained your steriods and Hgh then should probably start prepping for another season in the minor leagues, where your strip club and drug budget will be laughable compared to the big boys. But it isn't all nudity and drugs, baseballers all over the country have, starting today, begun to do light exercises: up to a dozen toe-touches...brace yourself...in a single morning. In coming weeks batsmen will begin to take late afternoon walks, should the sun not prove too punishing to their hung-over heads. Pitchers (people who throw the ball in baseball games) will throw balls in order to build up the strength needed to engage in fisticuffs with disrespecting night-club patrons. Baseball coaches, or "managers," will play high-stakes poker and smoke thousand-dollar cigars in a mansion hidden by a Florida swamp. Tony La Russa will win their money, and, like every year, burn it in a bbq pit while his peers laugh in their shared dog-ear piercing tone. The men will be seperated from the boys in a lengthy process that consists entirely of moving everyone over the age of eighteen to one side of the room. Spring is in the air?

Final words: men, ribald, and telephone

lawn-chair accessible

2008-02-08T01:50:00.001-08:00

Can you believe this weather? I've left near a dozen clocks on the lawn and all of em stop running quick as you can say "unplugged". As a man with much reverence for time this frustrates me. I don't dilly-dally with......well, anything. You can take that to the bank, but it will do you little good, as you'll be offered not much more than confused expressions slowly shifting to a knowing pity-riddled disgust. It's hard to get around in this world.

Which brings me to lawn-ornaments. Let's talk about voting. Here, in your, as you'd have me call it, country, 1 in 4,136, 739 people wake up on "Voting Day", grab a jar, write the name of their favorite presidential-candidate on a maple leaf, kiss the leaf like it's their longlost infant, place it in the jar, place a lable on the jar reading "Snow Tires", and bury the jar in a comic-book derived compost heap in the backyard. After the thaw has broken in an unnamed Tennessee town and the sky is flooded with magpies nationwide people without vowels in their names retrieve the jars and burn them. Then money exchanges hands, coyotes are sacrificed to innumerable cruel gods and voila, you have a president! I can't vouch for the process, but the results vouch for themselves.

Final words: chrysanthemum, armistice, and vouch

the executive gist

2008-02-07T23:52:00.000-08:00

I just fed my cats, hurrah for me, I know. But really it's not that big of deal, cats have to eat, or just like any other animal, and even humans, they'll die. So I feel a bit silly making a big deal about it. So, anywho, I thought you avid readers of random blogs might like to know a little bit about myself. So, here goes:

I am not a park ranger. I don't spend all my time shuffling through the woods and grinding discovered berries into a fine paste for some hypethetical "Uncle Linus's Best Darned Mystery Jelly Super Stuff", nor do I condone senseless murder. I think you should think about me while you learn a musical instrument. I don't tear through magazines searching for the perfume samples and then feast on the bounty. I could not beat a lion in a fight. I don't understand "complex issues". Actually, I'm really freaking modest. It might be the most impressive personality trait you'll ever encounter. I don't construct basketball goals from ceiling fan parts and dominate the post in three on three basketball tournaments comprised of myself and some ironically old child-star and the sickest kids local hospitals have to offer. Nor do I fashion an elaborate trophy from sugary foodstuffs and devour it after the championship game right in front of the hungry faces of my opponents and teammates. I have a "cell phone". As ridiculous as it might sound, even if I had gills I probably wouldn't live in a giant aquarium. I concede I might visit one. I've never been fond of a "good jabbing". I could live without a rocket car, I've been doing it all my life. I refuse to reveal even the slightest portion of a detail from my life that could, by the most twisted turns of thought through the darkest mind, be construed as even remotely embarrassing. I'd pick the cat hair from a piece of pizza and pretend I didn't see that flake of litter on the crust.* I don't belong to a gym, but you'd be surprised just how obvious it is, I mean, I said it just before the first comma in this sentence. When guests arrive I don't swab them with house paint and declare them a masterpiece before admonishing them for their taste in grapefruit. I'm not sure I'd make it as a cowboy, and frankly I don't want to try. I might be inclined to "jive" "the night away" or whatever the poets are calling it. I think lemonade smells fine.

* I wouldn't really eat such a tainted slice, I'm actually quite fastidious about my food.

The Second Part of This post

Let's adjourn to the darkest recesses of that terrible castle with bricks of bone mortared with blood and shit, buried in the thick liquid fire of our earth's core and talk* about politics: I'm a fan. So you'd do well to adopt my stances as we traipse through the likely limb-shattering minefield of "issues". Issues: I'm not a fan. That was a joke. Of course I like issues, it's what we're here to talk** about. I'm firmly on the side of owning pets. I think immigration is overrated. I think this platform would make me a candidate to get behind, though not in a literal sense as I get a bit uncomfortable when someone's standing over my back. But let's not get ahead of ourselves, I'm not qualified to be president, I can admit that. Of course, sometimes the voice of the people becomes an earth-encompassing thunder-storm, in which case even the most "dangerously unqualified" person has no choice but to listen, as ignoring the storm would only lead to becoming very wet and possibly Thunderstruck! The presidential election is in November 2008 so I would have to get started with my campaign (or "cam-pain" really, right?) by late summer, or October if I really needed more time to get my stuff together. And even then my chances would be slim. Yeah, seriously. It takes a lot of effort to get elected. You can't just drink your way through college and enlist a professional baseball team as henchmen in a needless-to-say-diabolical coup on the margarine industry. A president has to be able to look into the presidential looking-glass***, which in itself is pretty easy because it's just a looking glass in a conveniently located and smallish room in the white House. I'd say being president offers a bounty not worth the price more than any other occupation, but that's simply not true, far from it.

*I can't actually hear you.
**I can't actually hear you.
***A device whose origins are rumoured to be the calloused thorns of the devil's hands, and which is capable of seeing deep into the future and rendering the decision process easy and, because the glorious outcomes of all decisions are known, infallible.

Final words: regional, fastidious, and purple

splish-splash I'm making a light dinner

2008-02-07T17:26:00.000-08:00

Three Cheers. I get so sick of that show. An hour and a half-I get it, it's alcohol.

But if you'll permit me a dash of whimsy, I'd much like to slip into my flower-print ensemble.

There, slipped in.

Now, if you like politics, then you like the process by which people make decisions. And you like this blog: President Watch 2009: an observation of who's going to be making the decisions that might modestly impact the minor and infrequent problems that such a person might encounter: that person: the President of America.

If I had the money to buy a house I would like to buy a house that would provide sufficient shelter. But those liberals/neo-cons are too busy labeling people to throw even the slightest drunken effort to the cause of correcting our wiley housing market. I've had it up to here. (I'm holding my hand about breast-high, an indication that I'm not quite fed up with the whole ordeal, but certainly slowly approaching that point. ETA: April 18, 2010.)

You're here to form an opinion about presidents, and others who aspire to be judged cruelly by history. So let's edit out that sermon about shaving my cats' faces.

My cats' faces would look so weird without hair. I'm not sure about razor selection, of course There, sermon eradicated. Let's talk presidents/politics. As I'm sure you know by know politics is the process by which people make decisions, and presidents are the lords of a crude but sexy feudal system known as U.S.A. of America. The cats won't like being shaved. This much I know intuitively. But will they thank me later? I speculate the chances for this are dubious. In America the president lives in a white house. During the winter the house is made of ivory sheened from the world's best pianos and elephants. During the summer the hoCatuse is made out of mysteriously white popsicles. The summer-composition, as you can imagine, requires occasional maintenance. But if the social security and credit card numbers I suck out of your computer whenever you click on this site are any indication, you didn't come here to have your gullett or storage areas crammed with facts. Fact: Of this site's 78 million daily viewers, I've made them all up.
Goodnight. So who do you want to be president? Think. Wrong answer, I assume.

You wish we could throw a suit on an elderly German Shephard with bowel troubles. Well sidle up tight to the screen hombre, you can't go solving all your problems with scotch tape and whiskey. I've got the right idea. Let's take the journey together.

Final Words: violin, Cormac McCarthy, sauce

pliers slipped out of my hand and blinded my deaf cat

2008-02-07T17:02:00.000-08:00

Don't worry about my cat. She's a lamp, and so is fine as long as I buy a new bulb (non-eco friendly variety) every once in a while.

I figured it's time to buckle down and let you know you can take a breather. I've got two handfulls of crap to say, and so let's get cutting?

First: Politics:

Is it just me, or did those damned wigs come back to fashion. Every time I fantasize about spending a chilly weekend in a courtroom circa 1880 I see the things on all the best judges' heads. I'm no arbiter of cool, I simply decide what's cool. So you'll excuse me if I find the whole powdery mess supremely unappetizing.

Second: Who Gets My Vote? (Politics Part 2):

Due to the frantic scrubbing of my knotty-kneed grandmother of a lawyer it appears I've been granted (along with only a few dozen other citizens) the right to determine this nation's next president. I like that one guy, the one with the legs of a gopher and the head of a hammer. But he lives in my kitchen and I'm not sure he's got the gumption, or the desire for "change", so clearly craved by this nation of fornicators. Next: I guess if someone wants my vote they're going to have to start pandering to me.

Third: What I like for Dessert (Politics Part 3):
(Note: My glasses, which are much too strong for me perfect eyes and therefore leave me nearly blind when wearing them, are fogging up and I'm not sure if I'm typing right now or performing hasty and unnecessary surgery on my hat-headed cousin. Don't worry! He's a robot. And not even my first-cousin. (Sorry for screaming.)) !

I try to skip dessert (the Olympics approach and I have a lot of snacking to do while I watch people swim), but I'm no superhero (despite the spiderwebs so menacingly draped over the bulk of my body), and so, two or three times a day, I indulge. Maybe six or seven nice strips of bacon to sweeten up the palate after a strenous meal. Tip: Make a stack of candybars and jump on them and you'll get crap all over your feet: End-Tip.

Fourth: Politics (Politics Part 4)

I'm a person with a computer. So don't get any ideas. You might have seen my around: I read a bunch of stuff on the computer. There's three or four pretty good websites out there. Look around, you'll see. I don't mean to sound ominous.

Final words: umbridge, calypso, and space-cadet

let's put those notions on a t-shirt and wear it twice a week

2008-02-07T17:01:00.000-08:00

Thunderstruck!

Final Words: salt-scoured, macadam, pistol-whipped

washboard absolutes (volume 1)

2006-01-19T23:32:00.000-08:00

through how many fog encrusted lenses must i peek

chapter 9

2004-11-01T13:07:00.000-08:00

1.

Emily has wanted to be a lion tamer since childhood, and has kept this a secret from everyone. This dream wasn't dispelled by aging, rather it has intensified. Unfortunately she has fallen in with the animal rights crowd, and while she holds those values dearly, ultimately she is willing to turn hypocrite in order to tame lions. Recently while flipping threw the classifieds she found an add for a circus that is looking for someone "brave enough to tame the earth's wildest beasts". She can go through with her dream, but it will alienate all her friends, and her fiance, who would certainly leave her if she decided to join ranks with the "enemy". Emily is a bit of a wild child, decidedly liberal, an expert on the effects of just about any drug one could think of, and a few that no one except some of her chemist buddies from college could.

Justin is Emily's fiance. He loves animals, but has become so involved in fighting people to protect animals that a lot of that love has gone a bit stagnant. He disaproves of Emily's wild nature, and is glad that she (as far as he knows) is off all drugs. He once defecated in a van meant for circus personal, and obviously has no interest in taming lions, and would certainly break off the engagement with Emily were he to find out she is interested in taming lions, and might crucify her if he found at that she was actually going to tame lions. He covered his forearm with homemade tatoos when he was seventeen, but is now brutally ashamed of them and always, regardless of the heat, wears long sleeve shirts.

chapter 7

2004-10-07T10:18:00.000-07:00

3.

Tim: I've been waiting for you.
Lyn: I've been walking towards you. You could have walked too, would have saved some time.
Tim: But then I would've had to break this cool pose I've got going. Leaning up against a streetlight and all.
Lyn: So now we fight.
Tim: To the death.
Lyn: No weapons.
Tim: No weapons? Is that what I said on the phone. Well, I meant be sure to bring some weapons, because I definitely have some.
*opens his trench coat and reveals that it is lined with throwing stars*
Yeah, you like those don't you? And this...*reaches behind him and withdraws a samurai sword* Well, I know you like this.
Lyn: Looks like you have the upper hand now. If this was a homework assignment for a playwriting class I would call that a beat, maybe,I might be wrong.
Tim: What are you talking about?
Lyn: I think we need one more beat for this assignment.
Tim: What ARE you talking about?
Lyn: Just one more and we are done.
Tim: One more what.
Lyn: This. *she removes a fancy machine gun from her purse, and fills Tim with bullets*
Lyn: Assignment complete.

chapter 7

2004-10-07T09:52:00.000-07:00

4.

Lenny is at a donut shop, George has just entered and takes the stool next to Lenny. They are both regulars.

George: How's it going?
Lenny: Why ask? You know you don't care.
George: Uh, Jesus Lenny. It's, uh, it's just a greeting.
Lenny: I know it's just a greeting. I know you don't care how I'm doing. I'm simply saying I'm tired of hearing the entire world run around faking it. And especially tired of hearing you fake it.
George: I actually do care how you're doing, hell I care how anyone's doing.
Lenny: That's bullshit coming out of your mouth. Can you taste it?
George: Uh, Jesus Lenny. What's wrong with you today?
Lenny: There you go again. Acting like you care.
George: Jesus. I do care, now I do anyway, cause you're pissing me off.
Lenny: Well, George I don't care.
George: You're an asshole.
Lenny: You're a hypocritical moron.
George: *to the cashier* Can I get a dozen, six chocolate, 3 jelly, 2 glazed, 1 cinnamon. *louder, and clearly directed at Lenny* TO GO.
*cashier makes no answer, but bags the donuts and hands them to George. George hands her money.*
Lenny: *laughs* Enjoy your donuts George.
George: As if you care. *exiting the store*
Lenny: *still laughing* I love that moron.

chapter 6 #7

2004-10-05T09:54:00.000-07:00

7.

7.

Will and Margaret are sitting in Will’s car, a 1994 Ford Tempo. Will doesn’t share his father’s taste for expensive cars. It is raining. (Of course it is) This is the conversation on the night before Margaret delivers the news to Callahan.

Margaret: How can I tell him Will?
Will: We could leave. Run away. Do that whole romantic thing. Live somewhere exotic. I have a bit of money.
Margaret: I can’t just run away. I have to be an adult, maybe it’s stupid. But I have to face up to this. I was being a child when I married him. I won’t be a child at the start of this…of us.
Will: You were a child when you married him Margie. I’m not trying to be a jerk, but I mean, he prayed on you. He’s a predator. That’s who he is, that’s even what his job is. Predator. That’s a job title for him.
Margaret: I can’t blame my youth. I made that decision. I thought, or I pretended I thought, I was in love with him.
Will: I’m sorry Margie. *matter of fact tone* I could kill him. Do you want me to? I kind of want to...
Margaret: Are you serious?
Will: *not answering question* I really want to sometimes. Right now I think I’d be great.
Margaret: I won’t let you commit murder. This is cheesy, but that’s not who you are.
Will: I could be someone else for a bit.
Margaret: Umm, that’s sweet of you, I guess, offering to kill your father.
Will: No, you’re right, I couldn’t kill him. But it’s fun to pretend sometimes.
Margaret: *laughs* Yes it is.

They snuggle together, and are silent for some time, we get tired of waiting for something to happen, so we stop watching.

more chapter 6

2004-10-05T09:38:00.000-07:00

4.

The climax may have already occurred when Callahan found out his wife was pregnant, and that his son is the father.

But at this point I envision another confrontation, this one finding Callahan with too many martinis in tow, and perhaps an ancient maybe-working pistol in his pocket.

5.

The year is 2004. Many taboos of old have been obliterated. Sex with one’s mother, whether biological or not, is probably still a taboo. Divorce is common. Premarital sex is the standard. Producing children out of wedlock is common practice. There is a war a lot of people don’t agree with. There is a president narrowing the gap between church and state. Callahan is enjoying this president’s benefit-the-rich tax plan.

6.

Will approaches his apartment door, in his arms is a large package containing maternity clothes for Margeret. His father is sitting next to the door. He’s asleep, and smells like martinis.

Will: Dad.
Callahan: *sleepily* Don’t call me that.
Will: What do you want?
Callahan: I don’t know. Somehow I’ve having a heard time forgetting that you were once one of my sperm cells, and that now, my own sperm cell has created his own sperm cells, and used them to impregnate my wife.
Will: I don’t expect you to forget.
Callahan: What do you expect me to do?
Will: I don’t know. Something dramatic. I imagine you’ve spent all morning in front of your liquor cabinet. And that you’ve made significant progress towards emptying it out. I imagine you picked that old civil war pistol out of your desk drawer. I imagine you came here with the intention of threatening me with it, and then shooting yourself in the head with it. Sounds like a bad play to me Dad. Something some pompous creative writing major would churn out, thinking it's grand theater.
Callahan: *pulls pistol from coat pocket* You always were perceptive.
Will: Go home Dad.
Callahan:*points pistol at Will* Don’t call me that. And making fun of me isn’t improving your chances of not getting shot.
Will: That gun doesn’t work.
Callahan: Worked for the confederates.
Will: How appropriate, you using an instrument built to keep slavery alive.
Callahan: I don’t know what that means.
Will: You’re a slave driver. You would have fit right in on a plantation.
Callahan: So you hate me.
Will: I’m past those kind of extremes with you Dad.
Callahan: I don’t care if you hate me. I hate you. I hate your mother and lover. Which is the same person I might remind you.
Will: My mother has been dead for twenty years. You might remember her.
Callahan: smartass.
Will: Dad, I’m tired, are you going to do something with that gun, or are you going to go to a bar.
Callahan: Maybe I’ll do both.
Will: Well, please, I’m tired.
Callahan: I killed Margeret.
Will: What? *suddenly filled with anger, pain, hate, everything* You…you…
Callhan: *hearty laughter* No, I didn’t. Not yet anyway. Who’s to say what tomorrow will bring…

chapter 6 2&3

2004-10-05T09:30:00.000-07:00

2.

scene 1

Bill and Margaret are in his study. Bill has just found out Margaret is pregnant. He finds this a bit amazing due to the seven month gap between now and the last time they engaged in intercourse. They have a brief dialogue climaxing in Bill slapping Margaret, and Margaret slapping Bill.

Scene 2

Margaret is on the phone with the baby’s father.

Scene 3

Bill is on the phone with his son.

3.
scene 2
Margaret calls the baby’s father to let him know she has broken the news to her husband.
Margaret: I told him.
Will: How did he take it?
Margaret: You know him.
Will: Yeah, I’m sorry.
Margaret: It’s not your fault.
Will: As much mine as yours. Did you tell him who the father is?
Margaret: No. I’m not sure I should.
Will: He’ll figure it out eventually.
Margaret: Well, I might just enjoy the reprieve between now and then.
Will: I’ll tell him.
Margaret: How heroic. But I’d rather you weren’t murdered.
Will: I’m his son.
Margaret: You’re his wife’s accomplice in adultery.
Will: He doesn’t love you.
Margaret: Do you think he loves you?
Will: Ummm, I’ll tell him.
Margaret: I love you Will.
Will: I love you Margey.

Scene 3

Will calls his father.

Callahan: (answers the phone) Hello?
Will: Hi Dad.
Callahan: Hello William.
Will: How are you dad?
Callahan: Your mother’s a whore.
Will: ( surprised at his father’s bluntness, even after 24 years of conditioning) No she isn’t.
Callahan: Well she’s conceived. And not with my help. And I’ll bet it’s not of the immaculate variety.
Will: Maybe she’s in love.
Callahan: She’s married. She’s supposed to be in love with me.
Will: You’re supposed to be in love with her.
Callahan: I’m your father, I’d have thought you’d be upset that your mother’s an adulterer.
Will: The baby’s mine Dad.
Callahan: (surprised, but the first thing to come to mind is) That’s disgusting.
Will: What Dad?
Callahan: You’re telling me you impregnated your mother?
Will: I impregnated your wife Dad. I’m six months older than her. And she never adopted me. It’s legal.
Callahan: So you’ve researched this. Did you do it before or after you split your parents marriage apart.
Will: Dad…
Callahan: Stop calling me Dad.
Will: Dad, you never even put your marriage together.
Callahan: What?
Will: She was your house-servant Dad.
Callahan: Don’t call me Dad again.
Will: She was your house-servant.
Callahan: I don’t care how she made her spending money. We were married, the judge signed the papers, she wore my ring. A rather expensive ring I bet she can’t wait to pawn.
Will: She pawned it four years ago Dad. See how much attention you pay her.
Callahan: How long have you been fucking your mother?
Will: *angry* She’s not my mother.
they hang up simultaneously, Callahan with a ferocious slam, Will drops the receiver, and magically it lands in its cradle.

chapter 4.2

2004-09-21T09:48:00.000-07:00

3.

Murphy’s needs are universal. He wants to be good at his job. He wants to provide for himself and his newly pregnant wife. He wants to be successful. He wants respect from his colleagues. Everyone wants to be good at what they do. Everyone wants to provide for those close to them. Everyone wants respect from colleagues.
4. Murphy must face many obstacles. The primary one is Handley. He must beat Handley to the sale. He must also face his inexperience and lack of confidence. He has to battle the heat in his ill-advised suit coat. His ultimate goal is success, and the as yet unproven ability to sell a car is an obstacle to that success.

chapter 4

2004-09-21T09:08:00.000-07:00

1.
1.

Murphy
Today is the day. Today I make a sale. Someone will want a car today. It’s a beautiful day to buy a car. It’s a beautiful day to buy a car from me. It’s a beautiful day for commission. My charm is on. My suit is immaculate. A bit hot, should I take off the coat? No, I can sacrifice comfort for a sale. Sale sale sale. I have to make a sale. If I don’t make a sale today I will be commissionless during my probation period. I’ll probably get fired. And I know it’s not long before my wife goes from saying things like, “It’s OK, it takes time, before long you’ll be the best salesman they have”, to things like, “I married the wrong man, an ambitionless loser incapable of selling a single car in ninety days on the job.” Then she’ll divorce me. Then I’ll be unemployed and divorced. And there’s Handley looking at me. He’s laughing, he seems to be quite the jerk, I’ll never outsell him though, I just wish…oh, customer here. Friendly smile in place and go.

Handley
You are a shark Handley, unstoppable in the car lot and at the poker table. Such a shark. Leading salesman for the first quarter, surprise surprise. Murphy still hasn’t made a one. Hahaha. Stupid schmuck. College boy thinks he can outsell the master. He couldn’t sell ice to Eskimos. I shouldn’t have drank so much last night…how bout some hair of the dog. *pulls flask from coat pocket* Oh that’s good. Murphy looks a little hot in his coat. Sweating a bit, why doesn’t he take off his jacket? Because he’s an idiot, and not a shark. As for the shark he is going to take off his jacket, even loosen the tie a bit, there we go. OK Handley, make a sale today and you’ll have the district lead at the close of the quarter. And that’s a bonus. And that’s a speedboat. Murphy’s getting up, customer’s here, time to go get my speedboat.

2.

Murphy: Hello Miss. Can I help you with anything?
customer: Yeah I’d like to test drive this I think.
Handley: *arriving at the scene*Can I help you with anything Miss?
customer: Ummm, yeah, I’d like to test drive this one.
Handley: Oh it’s an excellent car, good choice, I’ll grab the keys.
Murphy: Yes it’s a great car, I’ll get the keys.
*Murphy and Handley start towards the building for the key, following exchange continues during collection of key, and stroll back towards customer and car*
Murphy: That’s my sale Handley.
Handley: How do you figure Murphy?
Murphy: Because I got there first. That’s the rule. We all know that.
Handley: It looked like you were struggling, thought I needed to pick up the slack.
Murphy: *shocked* What?! I just got there. Asked her one question.
Handley: Yeah, and you were screwing it up. So I saved the sale.
Murphy: You said the same thing to her I did.
Handley: Yeah, but I said it with poise and charm.
Murphy: No, you said it with bourbon on your tie.
*back at customer*
Handley: Here you go miss. I’ll just step in with you.
Murphy: Yeah I’ll go for the ride too.
customer: o ok.
*they all get in the car, Murphy has to settle for the backseat*

chapter 1

2004-09-14T10:10:00.000-07:00

chapter 1#1.A 16 year old had videotaped a "shadowy, disc-shaped object hovering in the sky above his home about 100 miles south of St. Louis." Turns out that the disc was a toy, a disc that was supposed to soar when thrown, but wasn't working properly. And because it wasn't working it's pilot decided to fill it with helium. So, this isn't such a great idea, but i see some comic possibilities maybe. Maybe being able to see the teenager frantically searching for his camera in order to tape this UFO. At the same time a family down the road cursing at the disc as it floats away. "Good going Dad." That sort of thing. #4I am drawn to war because I like evil. And my uncle was in vietnam. I'm curious about his experiences, especially because he refused to ever speak of them. He was an all-american in high school football, scholarship, injury, addiction to pain killers, military, marriage, move far away, children, divorce, move back to hometown, have seizure, die. So it could be a feel good movie.

chapter 1 #5Why did my "true love" end our relationship after 2 years of telling me she wanted to be with me forever? Perhaps because I'm a jerk. But what if I could go back in time and treat her like a princess constantly. Perhaps I would go insane. Perhaps she would go insane. Perhaps I or she was already insane. Perhaps I am insane now and I really believe I am going back in time to treat her like a princess constantly. In such a case things like a "restraining order" wouldn't register in my distorted worldview, because I wouldn't want them to, and it wouldn't make sense..."she wouldn't put a restraining order on me, I'm her boyfriend and she loves me"...

8.

It's an empty house. It's been that way for years. After his parents died ownership passed to him. But he couldn't live there. He couldn't sell it. He couldn't destroy it. So he lets it be.
Insects thrive. Mice shoot from cabinet to microwave. A snake winds its way on top of a television. His room still covered with elementary school posters: Garfield, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. A spider has lunch on a bookshelf. A young couple from the local high school stop in the drive way. He has thoughts of losing his virginity. She doesn't want to go inside the dump. He leads her inside, thinking the potential of this house's being haunted is worth some fear in her, and fear is worth comfort, and giving comfort reaps rewards. He sees the snake on the television. He gasps and runs outside. She follows him, walking and laughing a little bit. He has the car running.

chapter3.3

2004-09-14T09:47:00.000-07:00

7.

Why is it everytime I get the new person. I just want to pay for my beer and go home. But the damned cashier can't figure out the complicated system for ringing up lottery tickets. And what is with this idiot in front of me anyway? How many lottery tickets does this guy need? OK, he probably needs a lot. Oh come on. And 11 scratchers tickets. This guy is insane. Maybe if I start to scowl harder...ok got the scowl going. Perhaps I should go to the counter and say something. No...I'll wait here. But I'll scowl harder...ok.

10.

They caught her crying in the photo. A stranger, in the left corner of the picture, holding her slightly pregnant looking stomach and crying.

She had left the farm. Not her kind of work. But who was going to take care of the baby? How could she have this baby? Fathered by a monster, how could she let this child live? How could she kill it? She didn't want the baby. But she also didn't want to be dragged onto the back of a truck and raped by a pair of uncles. So she didn't always get what she wanted. And all she wanted after the rape was not to be pregnant. Revenge, justice, whatever, none of that mattered. Just so long as God made sure she wasn't pregnant. How could she raise a child, a deformed creature of incest, a child and a cousin. How? A camera flash warms the air, and she wipes the tears from her eyes and thinks about bloodlines.

chapter 3.2

2004-09-14T08:54:00.000-07:00

13.

"Is it a coincidence I'm on the curb for the conversation, amongst the trash?"
"You're the one who sat down."
"It's where I belong, amongst the trash. Besides, I thought I might need to sit down in order to hear what you have to say. Good news doesn't often come you when you're in one of your picturesque poses."
She grunts a speck of laughter out. "Picturesque poses, huh?
"Well, you're leaning against that streetlight, biting your lip, this is a scene right out of a bad sad romance movie."
"You're right about bad."
"Ouch..."
"Look, we both know you're not ready for a relationship."
"Not true, I know no such thing."
"Well, maybe you'll learn."
"Probably not, I'm not so good at that."
"I'm sorry."
"Oh, it's not your fault, it's all that TV I watched growing up."
"Uhuh, well I'm sorry because I have to go."
"Do you HAVE to?"
"Yes."
"Am I supposed to fight for you, follow you to the ends of the earth to prove I love you, tell me, in your movie, how do I win your love back."
"You've always said fightings was stupid Mark, I think you should go home."
"Would you like to accompany me?"
"Goodbye Mark."
"I love you."

13.2

Oh, crap, why is he moving so quickly towards my desk? Oh crap oh crap. What did i forget? Here he comes, it's always bad news when he approaches your desk. What did I forget?
"What did you forget Jennings?"
"Sir?" I wish he'd get his hands off my desk. I just cleaned it.
"What did you forget to do today?"
"I'm sorry sir, I'm not sure." He could lean back a bit, and/or indulge in a breath mint.
"I don't pay you to be unsure."
"Of course not sir"
"What do I pay you to do?"
"Ummmm,anything that helps the company succeed." Endure your verbal abuse.
"Go home Jennings."
"What did I do sir?" Go to hell.
"I'll walk you out." Go to hell.
At the door the boss drops a meaty hand on Jennings' shoulder. "Nothing personal Jennings, you didn't forget anything. We just needed to put the fear of God in the other employees, you understand. You can pick up your last paycheck tomorrow."
"You should try a breathmint sir."

chapter 3

2004-09-14T08:26:00.000-07:00

11.
What had compelled him to do this? Why had he noticed the lack of a chain connecting a child's dilapidated bike to the park bench it leaned upon? Why had he wanted to be certain no one was watching him? Why did he look around to make certain no one was watching him? Why did he approach the bike? Why did he climb aboard and tear his suit on the handlebar in the process? Why did he begin to peddle out of the park? Why was he asking himself these questions?

He arrived in front of his office building, pushed the bike through the doors and made an oddly affable grunting noise to the receptionist. She, as always, presented a huge synthetic smile which managed to leak the words,"Good morning Mr. Callahan," without breaking its deceptively smile-like shape. Callahan guided the bike (tassle only on the right handle)over the immaculate carpet, between the evenly spaced abstract paintings,and towards his distant office door. He was aware that this was the hour the janitor was in this wing of the building, and suddenly his purpose in life was to prevent the janitor from seeing the bike. He began running towards his door, looking over his shoulder, and searching for his office key simultaneously. By the time he arrived at the door he had conceded he had lost the key. But, not to be outdone by a door, he punched it, quite hard. The door, having been ajar, moved rapidly open until it drove into the janitor's face. The janitor fell to the ground clutching his injury. Callahan's first realization was that the janitor had yet to notice the bike at his side, his second was that there was some horribly jagged singing wafting from the street to his window, after that it was all instinct. He pushed the bike towards the glass sliding doors that led to the balcony. Of course, the janitor liked fresh air, so the doors where open, and, of course, the bike slid smoothly, perfectly upright out the doors and through the railing, at which point it began it's downward descent. Not very long later there was a surprisingly melodic crash, and with that as her cue, the woman had stopped singing.

introductory post

2004-08-26T12:39:00.000-07:00

I expect to write a marvelous, awe-inspiring play, I imagine it will knock the wind from your stomachs, take the strength from your knees, and bring tears to your eyes as you sleep, inevitibly dreaming about it for the rest of your lives. Those near to you will grow to think you insane, as you obsess over my play, randomly breaking down into uncontrollable sobs, or insane guffawing. I apologize for the life-shattering quality of my as-yet-unwritten play, but it is beyond my control.

chris