Apparently. - Pete Phillips

Apparently.
In a different time, things were a bit more
absolute. The sun moved around the Earth
and there was a limit to the shores of the
ocean. But we’ve had Golden Ages, Bronze
Ages, Industrial Ages (curiously no Plastic
Age), Renaissances all over the world, and
technology building up all around us. Now
it’s not so easy to know many things for
certain. The more science you have, the more
room you have to disprove things you already
think are accurate. The more things you can
disprove, the more conflicts you can have with
new theory verses old. The more conflict you
have, the more people you can get involved.
And with so many different types of people
across the world, working, hunting, cooking,
starving, living, dying, arguing, and laughing,
it’s hard to say that any one thing is certain at all.
APPARENTLY
the only thing worth clinging onto is faith.
For all those reasons, the things that are
discussed in here are done so with full
knowledge that there is always another side
and another story to be told. It’s impossible
to remain fair, but to give up trying is to quit.
I think we’re all aware that quitters never win.
Contents within by Pete Phillips, unless cited.
Over the years, I gathered different parts of the outfit I was wearing that
night. The cargo pants go way back, that’s why they look so… worn, I
guess. The ash-grey hat is a hit when winter comes by. People seem to like
it as much as I do. The jacket, my latest addition, I bought a few weeks ago.
It’s black and very simple, only a collar and two pockets on the front.
My hands were stuffed in those pockets as I caught my shadow off of a
wall. I looked like a dock worker. Shady. Round-headed. Indistinguishable.
I saw two women coming my way. They talked loudly until we got closer,
then reduced to whispers, and then silence as we passed. It occurred to me
that I hadn’t shaved in a few days. That’s what vacations are for, right?
I saw another group of women coming and went to cross the street out of
courtesy. On the other side, there were even more women. Where were they
all coming from? Were any single?
I should’ve shaved.
I remembered someone mentioning Nick Lachey was in town at the Kirby
Center tonight. I smirked to myself at the thought that this is what brought
them all out. The three girls coming at me were bundled up in puffy jackets
and bouncing scarves. I wondered why they traveled together, since they
were each on separate cell phone calls. They looked past me.
I walked towards two middle-aged women, each with a daughter. They
walked towards me. A streetlight cast down onto the sidewalk and I saw
the face of one of the little girls. I smiled at her. Her dark eyebrows dipped
inwards and her mouth didn’t smile back. She looked almost afraid. I looked
up to see her mother, who also looked at me suspiciously. The other motherdaughter team matched their companions.
I suppose they thought I was a hood. Maybe I looked like a creepy streetflasher or a candy-wielding maniac. As more women of various ages flowed
past me, only one or two looked indifferent or smiled. Maybe I have that
pedophile look when I don’t shave and wear this hat and coat. That was a lot
to find out all at once. I had to remember not to wear these clothes together
again. One miscommunication and I could get arrested.
Then I paused and realized that I didn’t care if they thought I was a
potential night-stalker, future-convict, or pederast. At least they didn’t think
I wasn’t a Nick Lachey fan.
Round-headed and Shady
-3-
Vilmos Zsigmond is
a Hungarian-born
cinematographer
who won an Oscar in
1978 for his work
on Close Encounters
of the Third Kind.
Years before, he
started his career on
movies with titles
like The Incredibly
Strange Creatures
Who Stopped Living
and Became Mixed-Up
Zombies!!? and Blood
of Ghastly Horror.
“I never look back at my old work and wish
that I’d done something different. It’s
simply not a question of done right
or done wrong... We made it the
way that we did, and people
either liked it, or they didn’t.”
Vilmos Zsigmond
-4-
Sometimes when I check your info on
AOL Instant Messenger it says
you’re Available.
I just think that’s funny.
-5-
Charlie (The Monkey)
Once there was a monkey named Charlie. Charlie had to go to
work everyday. Charlie hated work. The monotony of every day
made Charlie go mad: go to work, sit at the desk, type, type, type,
go home, eat dinner, sleep, wake up, go to work again. As said,
Charlie went mad, but this was after Charlie was given a huge
typing assignment by one of his bosses, Mr. Armadillo; ordered
to prepare for the next day’s huge typing assignment by another
boss, Mr. Tuna; and his average load of typing from his other
bosses, like Mrs. Walrus and Sergeant Fly (a retired war hero).
Charlie lived in a tree equipped with cable modems and various
other computer contraptions. Charlie took all of his assignments
home to do, but he was uninspired by the growing boredom he
found in his day to day life. He was lost and didn’t know what to
do with himself, so he went to the cornerstore to pick up some
monkey booze. The monkey booze did nothing to solve Charlie’s
problems, as booze do not solve problems for monkeys or
anyone else for that matter. Charlie was trashed and didn’t get
his assignments done because he was already sleepy before
drinking.
With crooked collar and knotted tie, Charlie headed to work in
sunglasses, swinging from tree to tree, hitting many on his way.
Charlie found his destination, surprisingly only ten minutes late.
Ten minutes is ten minutes though, so Dr. Platypus called in
Charlie and scolded him for being sloshed on the job. Charlie was
fired. Charlie said, “Good, this job sucks anyway,” and headed out
to find himself a new job, neglecting his place of employment of
fifteen years on his resume. Many other employers on the market
were suspicious of his fifteen-year gap, but Charlie told them he
was abducted by aliens and the employers didn’t seem to mind.
Charlie’s first venture into the work force was at Tree Mart,
the million-dollar corporation that ruled department store capitol,
contending only with Bullseye. The constant barrage of angry
customers with crying children took its toll on Charlie; he was
forced to quit only a week after starting.
-6-
After Tree Mart, he moved onto Mc Doogals, because they
love to see people happy, just like Charlie. Mc Doogals was, in a
word, nasty. Charlie was very accommodating, but the people had
no mercy. Once Charlie stepped in a bucked of grease from the
burgers and couldn’t change his shoes until he got off of work that
night. Sad times had fallen upon Charlie.
In a final attempt to receive a more challenging career Charlie
headed to the main staple that made his city (that held a lone tree
in the middle called Charlie’s home) so popular, the hotel/casino
industry. Charlie wasn’t going to be a dealer or anything, he was
now working at the Frump World Health Center. It was okay
starting out, until someone defecated in the hot tub. Charlie, being
the low man on the totem pole, was forced to fish it out. Charlie
fished out the squalor and quit, he wasn’t too smart. Later Charlie
had his neighbor, Rita Raccoon, slap him in the back of the head
for not quitting before he fished out the poo-poo.
At this point, Charlie went mad. He experienced many colorful
hallucinations and many other forms of craziness. Charlie held
his knees in the corner and rocked back and forth for three days
straight. When Rita couldn’t see Charlie in the window she rigged
a number of mirrors, pipes and pulleys to see where he was in
the house. She broke in and slapped Charlie, she always knew
what to do. She convinced Charlie to go get his typing job back
because it was better than Tree Mart or Mc Doogals.
Charlie was set. Putting on his most vibrant tie and most firm
collar he set off. He begged Mr. Tuna and Dr. Platypus for his
job back, but they refused because he was only wearing a tie
and collar. His monkey junk was all over the place. Charlie was
exhibiting signs of mental instability, so he was sent to a home for
crazy monkeys called the wacky monkey home. After six months
of rehabilitation from the acid flashbacks Charlie was having due
to his drug use as a teenager, Charlie was released and he got his
job back. Charlie woke up, went to work, typed, typed, typed, and
went to sleep with a giant smile on his face all the time.
November 14, 2000
-7-
-8-
Scene 1
Guy waiting for the elevator at work. Older woman comes
up, they enjoy a fluff conversation about how are you,
fine, blah blah…
“What do you have planned for the weekend?”
“Oh, just watching the grandkids for my daughter.”
“Oh yeah? If it rains all weekend, you’ll have them all
cooped up in the house with you.”
“Yeah, I know-- I might have to kill ’em.”
They laugh and part.
Scene 2
Woman comes out of work, gets in her car, looking up at
an overcast sky. She drives on to the drug store
Scene 3
Picks up prescription for pills. Druggist warns her to be
careful because they could be very harmful. She says “It’s
okay,” and shows her pill a day container.
The Grandkids
Short Film Screenplay
Notes
Written screenplay available for anyone who
wants to produce it.
-9-
Scene 4
She goes to the hardware store to buy trash bags. She asks
to make sure they are the big, sturdy ones.
Scene 5
She grinds the pills to dust, three at a time, and puts them
in small individual envelopes, resting them next to the juice
mix in the cabinet
Scene 6
In the closet she takes cleaning supplies and lines them up
in a nice row. She places the box of trash bags at the end
of the line.
Scene 7
She pulls back her blankets and looks out the window to
see clouds. She looks down and shakes her head as she
walks towards the bed and climbs in.
Scene 8
Fade in to find a ray of sunlight shining on her bed. She
rolls over to the window to see the light coming in and she
smiles. “That was a close one.”
Credits roll.
Scene 9
At the elevator, guy asks how the weekend was. She says,
“It cleared up, thank goodness. I wasn’t sure I had it in
me.” Guy is confused as he gets on and she walks towards
her office. Elevator doors begin to close, then he sticks his
hand in to stop it—pops his head out and peers down the
hall with a look of confused horror.
- 10 -
Christopher
Columbus
I’m here, at
work. It’s 11:30 AM. I’ve
been working for a ile and I’m kind of
tired. The tiredn com from the weekend, in ich I went
to a wedding and did yardwork. I didn’t sleep much. From there, I came back
and tried to catch up, but I may have overshot the mark bause I’m tired anyway.
Add to that, my lovely location. It’s a seasonal thing, but it’s cold and w in
Northeastern PA. While some lac g windy and cool as leav fade to orange in
autumn, NEPA gs foy and overcast, to remind you of the pending doom that is
winter. For some reason, too, my office only has the settings “Oven” or “Freezer” and I
have no control over ich is chosen. Needl to say, I’m cold.
I’m also hungry. I had a wedding meal and went out to breakfast before I left to
come back to Wilk-Barre. The were two uncommonly large meals for me, ich
led me to being very hungry today. You know, en you eat big meals, then come
back to the small, cheap meals you feed yourself en someone else isn’t paying? The
small on don’t suffice anymore.
In summary, I’m cold, hungry, and tired. Then I thought of Christopher Columbus.
Today is his day, and there’s a man o must’ve been hungry and tired. Maybe he
wasn’t cold, but at night I b he was. Some people think Columbus don’t derve
his own holiday. I used to think he didn’t. I mean he stole the land from the Nativ,
blah, blah, blah. You know the story. But think about it, he was the first person to be
an idiot in America and make a name for himself.
He thought he was in Aisa, come on! That aside, he derv a day bause he
accidentally stumbled upon our continent. After the ole cold, hungry, and tired
thing, his ole crew had a mutiny, right? I think I remember that from school. So
he really had to fight for his way home. And after all of that, he made it long enough
to die from a tropical disease that caused joint pain.
I had joint pain (ich turned out to be cancer), and today I’m feeling the common
effes of the American voyage. Of course I had doors and I have food at my
apartment, so we’re only kind of close. But maybe we’re all Christopher Columbus in
some way. Zealous lunatics o want to be rognized and loved by the m.
I don’t care either way-- I’m going to go g some re-heated mac and chee!
- 11 -
I.
We used to have a couch that sat under the window on the
left side of the living room. It was black and white and made
out of whatever that rough fabric couches are made of—you
know the kind, where you don’t want to fall asleep with your face
directly on it because you’ll wake up with the rough cross marks
on your face?
It wasn’t really the softest couch. Modern couch technology never
really caught up to it. I assume it was at least twice a hand-medown because the front wasn’t soft at all, more like a piece of
wood with cloth over it, no padding. It wasn’t the most attractive
blend of black and white plaid, but it seemed to match the rest of
the room if only for the fact that nothing really matched at all.
I may have been the only person who liked this couch so much.
Someone would hate it because it was too heavy, it wouldn’t be
comfortable enough for another, and still another would say it was
too short to lie on. Regardless, it had an endearing quality to it. As
uncomfortable or as clunky as it may have been, I’d never seen a
couch quite like it before. Sometimes an object can be so bad that
you want to keep it to show other people, “Look at this, it’s the
worst couch ever!” That wasn’t exactly how I felt, but maybe that’s
why we hung on to it for so long. I may remember all the couches
that we’ve had over time in our house, because a person of such
a worldly physique needs to know where he’ll be sitting, but this
couch will always stand out as my favorite, if not for its charming
nature then the memories I have of it.
- 12 -
II.
“Is that vodka?”
“No, Gatorade. Strawberry.”
“Hmph—would you like anything to drink?”
“Nah, thanks.”
“How come?”
This is my least favorite part of the college party scene. At this
moment in the conversation I, the non-drinker, like to look around
for a larger distraction to point the intoxicated to. Just my luck
though, everybody’s being tame. The brunette interrogating me
seems harmless enough, with the light complexion that looks like
it would show vivid color if she were very drunk, but she isn’t, just
curious I guess.
“Have you ever drunk before?”
“Nope.”
“How do you know you won’t like it?”
“I just don’t think I will.”
“Well, you never know…”
“Yeah,” I say apologetically, sick of all the questions, “But my
dad’s a recovering alcoholic and I really don’t trust the genes.”
“Oh,” the girl backs off really fast, as if I’ve gotten defensive. I
actually feel bad for defending myself though; I know the reality
of alcoholism at a drinking party is a bit of a downer, so I usually
don’t like to bring it up. She looks into her drink and continued to
dip a Tootsie Pop into it and licking the lollipop. I wonder if that
creates an extra buzz or if she just needs a new way to drink.
- 13 -
III.
My dad left my family when I was three years old. I
think I remember more than what you might expect
a three-year-old to remember about that night, but
the specific reasons for his leaving are still unclear. Things seem so
much bigger when you’re that small, and the twelve-foot hallway
we had seemed to be a mile long; at the end of that mile was my
mom and dad. From far away I couldn’t hear, or at least remember,
the words that made it down the hallway, but there was no reason
to hear them, it was obvious something wasn’t right. The words
weren’t really that important, though I do remember being told to
sit down on the old black and white couch to watch TV while my
sister sat on the other couch. We were probably separated because
we were causing a ruckus of some sort, insensitive to the stresses
of our parents, but in the most innocent of ways. I can’t recall
exactly what was on the TV, but again, that wasn’t very important.
What strikes me the most was when my father came into the room
in his traditional insulated flannel shirt over a stained Hanes tee
shirt and jeans and held me as he gave a hurried kiss on the cheek,
“I gotta go.” It didn’t cross my mind to wonder where he was
going or when he’d be back, but kids don’t need to worry about
that stuff—they live for the here and now. The next day Dad wasn’t
back and those days repeated. My mother would never say that
Dad left us or he was a bad man. If Mom would say anything, it
would just be that Dad was sick and he was getting help. It would
be a very long time before he got help, but we’d see him before
then anyway. After he kissed my sister and left the living room I
leaned back in the couch and watched some recycled cartoon plot
line unfold for the millionth time.
- 14 -
IV.
“Is there anywhere to sit, Kellie?” I ask one of the
gracious hosts.
“Why do you need a seat? What’ve you been up
to?” The brunette is back. I don’t much mind the questions, but
it’s strange revealing all the major experiences in your life to a
stranger in one night.
“I did a lot of standing tonight, and I have a bad knee, and I went
to a county fair,” I say, hoping that the mention of a fair would
segue into a new topic.
“What’s wrong with your knee?” I guess she wants it all in one
night.
“When I was ten I had a cancerous tumor taken out of my knee, it
was attached to a muscle so I have one less muscle to work with,
too.”
“Wow,” she says, eyes wide, looking surprised at my double
misfortune.
“It was the same cancer Robert Urich had.” That line never brings
people back to normal conversation.
- 15 -
V.
When my sister and I were a bit older we would still
fight. We were about the same size, but we never got too
gritty. In this particular instance, my sister and I were in
a pushing type of fight, probably over some toy or game. Those
fights probably brought us closer over time instead of having
pushed us apart. In this particular fight, though, my sister gave me
a big push. As I stumbled across the room I found myself heading
right for our black and white couch. I didn’t worry at all because
I knew the top was soft, but I forgot that front that felt like thick
wood wrapped in thin fabric. My knee slammed right into the
wood and the sharpest pain that I’ll ever remember ran straight up
my leg. I fell onto the couch holding my knee and crying. Through
the tears I told my sister not to freak out because this had happened
before. I would be okay in a few minutes, it was just an unbearable
amount of pain to tolerate for those minutes. My sister obviously
felt bad and I think I won the fight by default, but the memory of
the event stuck in my head.
As time went on and the pain progressed I eventually went to the
doctor’s to see what this chronic knee pain was all about. The doctor asked if anything traumatic had ever happened to my knee and
I, being nine, saw this as a great opportunity to get my sister back.
I recalled the event with the black and white couch, but my mom
passed it off as another fight between brother and sister. It was, but
the knee pain wasn’t so simple. After explorative surgery it became
clear that a muscle in my knee had a cancerous tumor attached to
it. At nine years old I wasn’t bright enough to take the root word
“cancer” from “cancerous,” so I figured more surgery meant more
toys and presents. When I put all the pieces together and knew
what I was going up against I was worried, but I still remember
waking up from anesthesia and reaching for my full-grown leg,
still attached, and feeling a great relief.
- 16 -
VI.
“Yeah, so I have to go home next weekend,” I
inform a friend whom I spend a lot of time with,
knowing that he may want cross my name off the
list of people to visit for that weekend.
“Aw man.”
“Where ya goin’?” The brunette returns again. I suppose I can’t
complain, I haven’t really made a strong effort to get away from
her. After all, with all the sympathy she must be feeling, I want to
let her know I’m a normal person.
“I have to go home for a doctor’s appointment and help my mom
trim some trees before winter comes and it gets too cold out.”
“Can’t your dad?”
“Well, he doesn’t live with us.”
“Oh my God.”
- 17 -
VII.
“You’ve had such a rough life,” the brunette
said as she hugged me at the end of the night,
“You take care.”
I think I am. It’s been seventeen years since my dad left and ten
years cancer-free, so I feel like I’m ‘coping’ just fine, and maybe
that’s the best part. I don’t even know that I’m coping at all. If you
live a life like mine you get to take a few personal laughs at the
world around you. When a friend is worried about what people
will think if they wear a certain shirt or if they’ll make it through
life without a certain special person in their life anymore, you
can grab a quick snicker to yourself before you turn on the goodfriend-button and start consoling. It’s not like I don’t experience
these same worries, God knows I may feel it more than anyone, but
when cancer enters your life at ten-years-old you know that you’ll
make it through the occasional, “That’s a nice shirt—where do you
plug it in?”
I wouldn’t trade my life for anything because it’s the culmination
of ‘traumatic’ experiences that have made me who I am today.
Without cancer I may not have such strong faith or such a strong
bond with my mother. Without knee surgery maybe all those
people who said, “You’re a big guy—ever try football?” would
have been onto something. What makes everything so great in
the end is to sit back and say, “Oh well.” Maybe I missed out on
a football career, though I’ve never been one for voluntary pain,
but it wasn’t in the plans for me and I’m not bitter about any of
that. To anyone outside of me I may have had a rough life, but to
me having cancer and a single-parent is just like learning to ride a
bike or a getting a driver’s license: there was a challenge and it was
overcome. It’s that simple.
We lost the black and white couch a long time ago and I was sad to
see it go, but I can remember it like it was still in our living room,
right where a china cabinet and small table sit now. I still have a
place in my heart for the hideous couch, for reasons that aren’t
quite easy for me to understand so well.
- 18 -
Change for the Better
Bright green shines in my face. I usually loathe this sight, but today it seems
a little easier to take.When my eyes focus I can see the digits a little bit
clearer: 7:03 AM.Time for work.
As the morning DJs go on about their weekend and today’s current events,
which rarely seems to extend past the weather and a major headline or two,
I squeeze the Crest onto my toothbrush. Looking at the mirror, I appear
more rested than usual. I feel more rested too. Maybe today is the day.
I pour the Rice Krispies into the bowl, and then add some milk. My next
step is usually cleaning up the ones that fell out when the milk hit the bowl.
They all stayed in today though.This must be the day.
Today I will change. I’ll smile and mean it. I’ll be patient and sensitive to
the other people around me. I’ll listen to their problems, and only offer
constructive responses.Today I’ll be a better person and have a smile and
salutation for everyone. And I’ll do it tomorrow too, and every day after that.
It just feels like today is the day.
······
I’m a technical writer. I write directions for a living.That doesn’t seem
very difficult, but you have to understand that the product doesn’t come
with directions when I get it. I have to figure it out, and teach you through
words and diagrams. It’s not a bad job though. I like learning new things and
teaching them to people.
My office is bright.The fluorescent lights shine from above on the
institutionally white walls. If I had wandered in as a child, I could mistake it
- 19 -
for heaven. As an adult, with my own two carpeted walls, I know it is not. Of
course, it’s thinking like that that got me here today.
“Good morning Julie!” I pass her cubicle. Julie is a typist. Some projects don’t
allow for the work to be concentrated into one person. Julie gets a pile of
notes and makes sense out of them. I think that makes her more than a
typist, but what do I know, right?
“Good… morning, Joel?” Julie seems confused. I guess she should be. I’m not
ducking past her cube to find mine and settle into my little world, like most
days. She’s also not the sharpest tack in—no, no.Thinking like that…
“And what did you do this weekend?”
“Oh. Hmm,” Julie was obviously unprepared. “Well, I went to my yoga class
with my friend Cassie. She works over at Ginsley and Associates, in the
building on 54th. She’s a clerk there. Not bad work, so she says...”
Julie is going on. It’s a reminder of why I don’t stop off to talk with her often.
But a happy, nice person would listen without showing signs of irritation. I
did start the conversation after all. Now, I have to stop that kind of thinking.
I’m doing well enough, I should say. I’ve zoned her out for these thoughts,
after all. I’m just watching her thick pink lips move with each word she says. I
wonder if I could read lips if I was deaf.
“…and then David said, ‘Plant—don’t you mean fruit?’” Thank goodness she
giggled afterwards or I wouldn’t have known what was going on. I smile and
chuckle.
“Well Julie, I have to get to my desk, but you have a great day, and I’ll talk to
you later.”
“You too Joel.This was a nice talk.We should do it again.”
We should do it again, eh? I think, as I smile and nod. I wonder if this happynice thing is paying off already. Julie has curled blonde hair that bounces on
her head, and a curvy figure, but not in a nice-way-to-say-fat-way. She looks
like the women that started joining the work force: traditional, empowered,
beautiful. If she could just be quiet.
I shouldn’t rush ahead of myself. Julie is a nice girl. She’s probably just being
friendly. I don’t even know who David is. He could be a boyfriend.
“Joe, good morning,” calls Gilbert. I don’t know why I make it a point to
know his name. He still gets mine wrong. But we’re thinking positive today.
Three out of four letters isn’t bad.
“Hello Gilbert,” I say. I stop walking to engage in conversation. Gilbert
comes to an uneasy stop. “How’s the family doing?”
- 20 -
“My family? Hmm,” Gilbert also seems unprepared.What’s the deal here?
“Well they’re just fine... Huh.” That ‘huh’ came with surprise.
“Good.The kids must be getting big.”
“They sure are, Joe,” Gilbert says. He looks me up and down curiously,
“What put you in such a good mood today?”
I was totally unprepared for this.What was I thinking? I really needed a
cover for this. Epiphanies are very un-me. I can’t manufacture that kind of
thing anyway.That’s bad karma or something. I guess it would be easy to say
that I had sex, but how cliché is that? I don’t want to add sex to the list of
things I can talk to Gilbert about. His family, sex, and maybe the weather. By
now it seems like ten years have passed, and I’m expecting to see Gilbert’s
moustache turn grey at any minute.
“Oh, you know. Just a good weekend.” Everyone doubts the power of
generalizations.The market just tipped in my favor.
“Huh.Well it’s good to see.You’re usually such a sourpuss I would never
think to stop and chit-chat.”
Asshole.
“We should do lunch some time, Joe. I’ve got to get up to my office now
though.You have a good one.”
“You too, Gilbert”
Who does that? ‘You’re usually such a grump, but hey—you’re in a good
mood, let’s do lunch!’ Well you’re usually always getting my name wrong, so
why would I want to listen to you get it wrong for an entire lunch break?
Dilbert.That’s a good one. I ought to call him Dilbert from now on.
Ah—that’s enough. Positive thinking. Gilbert just (thinks he) gave me a
compliment. I should be glad that someone cares enough to comment on
my positive demeanor.Thank you, Gilbert.
Who says sourpuss, anyway?
I finally make it to my carpeted walls. I only have two. I suppose if they
gave me four I would be less inclined to work, but that’s what I’m here for
anyway. I know my bounds. I’m here for work.
“Joel.” Oh that was a familiar sound. ‘Familiar’ seems very close to ‘family’
doesn’t it? The voice of a loving mother, or a supportive father, are both
familiar.This was a different kind of familiar though.This was my supervisor.
He is a short man. His comb over only takes attention away from his round
belly, neither of which made him exceptionally peculiar looking. He came out
of a movie.
- 21 -
“Good morning, Mr. Baker. How are you on this fine Monday morning?”
“What’d you get lucky last night or somethin’?” Sex was not on the list of
things to discuss with Mr. Baker. I wasn’t even comfortable calling him by his
first name.
I smiled back at him, unsure of where to go from there.
“Well, Joel, that’s your business, right? I don’t need any Human Resources
charges coming up against me anyway,” Mr. Baker went on. My practiced
zoning was coming in handy. I focused on his coffee mug from The Borgata,
in Atlantic City.The hottest new casino in the city and he bought a mug.
It seemed very Mr. Baker. “…and I figured it would be okay in the hands
of a guy like you, so stop by the office at about two and pick up this new
assignment.”
“Yes sir,” I smile back, unclear about the context that a ‘guy like you’ was
used. “Lovely mug by the way.” Uh-oh—did I tip my hat?
“Thanks. Bonnie and I went there last year. I’ve been using it ever since.
You’re not too perceptive are you, Joel? You need to be perceptive if you
wanna move up here.”
Perceptive? I could’ve proved awareness by pointing out the light brown
stain peeking out from behind his striped tie, probably a coffee stain from a
faulty mug. And—
“Joel—what’s up buddy?” Ah, the comfort. It was Stephen, from the cube
next door.
“Not too much, how’re things with you?” Stephen was a good guy. He
wasn’t made for the office world, but he tried. He had the clothes, though
they didn’t always match, and he could keep his hip hair tamed during the
day, and let it out for coffee shops and rock shows.
“Nothin’. I heard Baker bustin’ your balls.”
“Oh yeah, nothing really. A new project.”
“He’s such a phony.” Here we go—a chance for me to pop back. Defending
an enemy who just insulted me—that’s something a good person would do,
right?
“Nah, he’s not so bad.The work comes down, and he’s got to give it to
someone, right?”
“What? Joel, you wanna’ kill that guy every other day.” Now ‘kill’ is a bit
drastic. “You wanna’ kill most of these people every day.” That’s hardly
accurate, but before I can defend myself, Stephen comes close in for
something that looks important. “Dude, are you on pills?”
- 22 -
“No—I’m just trying to be a better person, that’s all.” It’s much harder than I
thought it would be, and I really wasn’t prepared, thought I wasn’t surprised
either, for the reaction.
Do you remember Monty Python and the Holy Grail? When they have that
killer bunny? It lunges from the ground in all its campy glory? I laughed so
hard when I first saw that. It was so obviously fake, but hilarious at the
same time.The concept, as well as the execution, was both just all-out funny.
Stephen seemed to think the same was true about me at the moment. I’d
never really seen him laugh so hard before. He had to go back to his side of
the wall to calm down. It took about ten minutes.
······
“I don’t know what’s up with him. He says he’s trying to be a better person
or something.”
“He’s usually so cynical. It’s weird.”
“Yeah it’s weird—I even asked him to lunch. I don’t know what I was
thinking.”
“I think he’s on some drugs or something.”
“Well I think it’s very nice. I look forward to talking to him again.”
Thank you Julie. It’s good to hear someone’s sticking up for me.
“After all, he is in the next cubicle, and he can probably hear us.”
Oh screw you, Julie. Screw all of you guys. I’m done. I’m cashing in these
happy chips for some cold, hard bitterness. After all, this is why I have it!
I lean back in my chair. It’s not a bad chair. It reclines 45° or so. It squeaks
too though—when I lean back, when I spin, when I shift. It’s a piece of crap.
I deserve a new one. I look up at the fluorescent lights and their quasiheavenly glow. I expect heaven’s white lights might have more warmth than
this office glow.Then comes the voice of my office cherub, Mr. Baker.
“Joel— this isn’t a vacation. Get to work!”
Eh, maybe tomorrow, huh?
- 23 -
Sunflower
Seeds Out the
Window
Twenty minutes ago I was 500 feet back there. The air is
cool, but as it floats through the car it makes my face crunch.
I look like a rabbit in the rearview. The occasional breeze is
a reward though, and I appreciate it, even if I get a breath of
emissions with it.
The gas is half-full and the temperature gage looks okay.
I have 8,456.8 miles on the car, 724.5 on this trip. That’s
way off. I’ll reset it. What else? Well the wheels are moving
at zero revolutions per minute. That’s no surprise though.
I’ll clean the windshield again. The fluid splatters onto the
glass. If I didn’t think it could be damaging, I might jump out
and spray myself. I wipe the sweat from my forehead as the
wipers create a nice border of dirt around a clean curve in my
driving view.
I pull my foot off the brake as my comrades and I
move up a foot or two. A pain runs up my leg like a squirrel
running up a tree to safety. It stops in my hip as I push down
on the gas. Back to the brake. A small red car’s blinker grabs
my eye. He slides over slowly, like a child would move a piece
in a china cabinet. One tap could make things far worse. He
makes it in with no problem at all, much to my relief. An
accident would really add some time to my day.
I patiently look ahead to the silhouette in the car, waiting
for the five fingers to jump up and give me a thank-youwave. Still waiting… Interesting. I’ll be sure not to make this
mistake again. I’m pretty sure they cover the thank-you-wave
in the driver’s manual in all fifty states by now. Maybe it’s
optional. Maybe he’s busy.
- 24 -
I readjust in my seat for the third time. The hip is still
aching. I’m no hero for not taking breaks to stretch in a three
hour drive. After all, I’ll get there faster.
It looks, in the near-distance, that cars are starting to
move. Maybe I can get a glimpse of what was going on up
there. I push the gas until we’re coasting at a smooth 15 mph.
This is kind of nice. Hey—there’s the guy in front of me’s
hand. Maybe he just got a hand free to wave. No. It looks like
he’s rubbing his fingers, like he’s demanding money? No,
that would be ridiculous. He’s wiping.
A spec grows into a spec in slow motion. Like a bullet in
The Matrix, I watch as the shell of a sunflower seed catches
the wind and sails through the air. The suspension is nice
at first. I feel a sense of freedom through the seed—flying
through the air, with no worry or fear. Then it lands on my
car. Another follows. And another.
The shells fly with design and grace, but all end up on
my car.
I’m surrounded by cars. I can’t squeeze out to pass him.
If I could, should I? Surely the next person would enjoy this
just as much. He should be stopped. What course of action
could stop him? We’ve finally started moving. I can’t rightly
honk and cause alarm. One wrong stop and there could be an
accident. Then we could be here for hours.
My mind reels. I should keep my mind on the road,
but I can’t. The road did give way to this tangent. I must be
justified. I will back off. If I back off, I won’t get hit by shells.
But another car may wrangle its way in. They would get
shells then. This is interminable. I will find no peace.
Brake lights. I ease on the brake. The shells lose
momentum as they take shorter and shorter trips downward,
until they hit the ground next to his window. Zero
revolutions per minute. Green and white lines tell me where
I am. Thirty minutes ago I was 1000 feet back there. That’s
progress.
- 25 -
SUNGLASSES:
The New Face of Terrorism
I’ve never been one for sunglasses.
The last picture of me wearing
sunglasses was at a Phillies Game in
‘93/4. They were those cool, one solid,
shiny lens ones. They were free one
game. Over the years, I would never
have a problem with sunglasses. They
were good for some people, and if I
found light to be irritating enough, I
would probably use them. In my life,
I’ve had plenty of medical problems,
but the eyes were never afflicted. I’ll
keep up my regiment of carrots and
no sunglasses until the doctors tell me
otherwise.
Recently, in today’s tenuous political
and social climate, I have found that the
sunglasses are now a threat. Already,
this summer (which starts in a couple
more weeks), I have seen people who
I know, but that I don’t recognize
because half of their face is hidden
behind sunglasses. I look like an ass
because they’re playing superhero.
Think about it: Batman hid his
identity behind a mask that covered
his nose, eyes, and hair. No one knew
who he was! Ok, sunglasses don’t
cover as much as a cowl, but Robin
got away with it, and he just had some
magical eye-wear that stuck to his
face around his eyes. Better still, we
all know that people knew Superman,
but throw on those glasses, and no
one could tell that Clark Kent was
Superman-- and his were regular
see-through lenses. Obviously it’s not
just me who recognizes the power of
this socially acceptable mask.
But in today’s society, how can we
get away with this? If a guy has a beard
and turban, he can be labeled a terrorist
by some ignorant guy, but some babe
with face-covering sunglasses strolls
by and no one bats an eye. Furthermore,
no one can tell if she’s batting an eye,
and we all know full well that terrorists
don’t blink. Who’s to say she doesn’t
have a bomb strapped to her? I hardly
think it’s a safety-first mentality.
The danger of sunglasses isn’t
limited just to terrorism either. Social
problems include the “what are they
really looking at” paranoia. How can
you tell what’s going on behind that
tinted plastic? Are they staring at your
giant nose? Are they even awake? How
do you know, unless you have your
sunglasses-x-ray specs on?
As I mentioned, I’ve seen a few
people I know around town, and I simply
don’t recognize them because they’re
hiding. This makes things awkward for
me. What’s worse is the self-reflecting
lenses. Even if I recognize someone,
I still can’t comfortably communicate
with them. I was taught to look
people in the eye when you talk to
them, and I can’t see their eyes! They
can see my eyes though. I can’t even
wander with my eyes because they’ll
know, but I have no idea where their
eyes are. It’s maddening. Instead, I
have to talk to a reflection of myself,
which is just as uncomfortable. I’m
not practicing a speech or affirming
myself-- I’m just trying to say, “Hello.”
- 26 -
If you take the chance and you say,
“Hello unnamed sunglassed stranger,”
and you don’t mind talking to your
reflection and not knowing what they’re
looking at, you’re still putting yourself
at risk. You can’t see some major face
area, and if you’re looking for a special
someone, that’s dangerous. The things
you’re missing are the eyes (which I
find very important), how the cheeks
match the face, possible nose issues,
and the potential for a unibrow. Oh you
were all noble before I said unibrow,
eh? “Looks don’t matter-- wait, did
you say unibrow?” See? It’s a risk you
have to take. You could end up with
a red-sunken-eyed, bone-cheeked,
unibrow-having person with the body
of a model. Not a fair trade.
I’ve only had one attractive woman
say, “Hello,” on my walks to and from
work. Then again this is Wilkes-Barre.
The woman had sunglasses on, and I
was skeptical. But I’m not one to ignore
a stranger-hello. I throw them out all
the time and never get them back, so
I try to always return them, even to
potential terrorists.
Remember the Unibomber? He had
some nice shades, huh? Well in this
country, with impressionable youth all
around, it could be anybody turning
next. All I’m saying is that you should
be careful out there this summer. You
never know who’s hiding behind those
sunglasses. It could be Green Lantern...
or something worse... like Aquaman.
EDIT: Elton John shades don’t
count. You never see a flamboyant
terrorist.
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- 27 -
Scene from:
No Choice
(tentative title)
INT. CAR - NIGHT
“Who Can it Be Now” plays over the radio while Paul
drives. Gary sits in the passenger seat nodding his
head. Paul adjusts his mask. He can’t see correctly to
drive.
Paul pulls the mask off. He leans over towards Gary,
while looking in the rearview mirror.
PAUL
Gary-- you think he’s okay?
GARY
(in a German accent)
Lars-- Code names, Horatio!
Gary turns to look in the back. The hood is still on
Ben, but he’s awake and his hands aren’t tied.
PAUL
Like he really hears a German accent.
Gary turns back, facing forward.
GARY
I admit, it is strange. I would’ve
at least taken off the hood by now.
Can I?
BEN
Gary and Paul look at each other.
BEN
I didn’t think I was allowed.
You’re not.
GARY
CUT TO:
INT. CAR - NIGHT
The outdoor scenery has changed. They’ve traveled a
bit. The CD in the car stops. Quiet fills the car.
PAUL
So what’s the plan here?
- 28 -
GARY
We’re on our way. Give it time.
Paul looks in the rearview mirror.
PAUL
How ya doin’ back there, Mr. Dumont?
What’re-Okay.
GARY
BEN
PAUL
I’m negotiating your hood removal
with my partner here.
Okay.
BEN
Gary smacks Paul on the shoulder.
GARY
What are you doing?
BEN
Paul? Is that you?
GARY
Oh great-- way to go.
Gary’s defeated. He looks out the window to pout.
GARY
That messes this whole thing up.
Paul?
BEN
PAUL
Were we keeping him hooded the
whole time? C’mon. He would’ve seen us.
GARY
Whatever. You may as well take it
off now.
Paul looks in the rearview.
PAUL
Mr. Dumont-- you can take the hood
off if you want.
- 29 -
GARY
If you want... pshh.
Ben removes his hood.
BEN
Thank you. What exactly’s going on
here?
PAUL
I don’t know if this is the time to
explain.
Ben grows worried.
BEN
Where are you taking me? Where are we?
GARY
Here we go...
PAUL
Don’t worry-- we just can’t explain
it right now.
BEN
Are you hard on?
What?
What?
GARY
PAUL
BEN
Hard on your luck? Do you need money?
Oh!
Phew.
PAUL
GARY
BEN
Because we don’t have much money, Paul.
It’s not--
PAUL
BEN
And I can identify you. It won’t do
any good to get money for me.
- 30 -
PAUL
We’re not trying-BEN
You’re going to kill me. Why else
would you kidnap someone you know? Why?
GARY
I knew this would happen.
BEN
Oh my goodness-GARY
You don’t de-hood while you’re
moving, it instills panic in the
hostage.
BEN
Please don’t kill me. I won’t tell
anyone-- I promise. We don’t have
any money for ransom! Please!
Stop!
PAUL
(frantic)
Everyone quiets and looks at Paul.
PAUL
Do you think they’d pay? Even if
you had the money?
Ben doesn’t sound as confident as he should.
BEN
Well I think-PAUL
Did I say start again?
GARY
You did ask a question. I mean it
beckons a response.
PAUL
Mr. Dumont-- we’re taking you on a
trip. We won’t kill you. I promise.
We don’t even have weapons to kill
you with-Gary takes out his knife.
- 31 -
PAUL
Put that away!
GARY
I thought we should be up front
with him.
Gary puts it back in his bag.
GARY
I’m Australian.
Gary reaches into the back seat for a handshake.
GARY
G’day. I’m Gary.
Ben shakes his hand.
BEN
Ben Dumont. You sound American.
Thank you!
PAUL
GARY
Well yeah, but my ancestors are
from Australia.
PAUL
We’re taking you to North Carolina,
Mr. Dumont. To a seminar about
decision making.
Why?
BEN
PAUL
Do you remember when you were young?
Our age?
BEN
Oh yeah-- it was great. I used to
fish with the guys. We’d go to the
movies. I had a friend named Larry.
Like you guys, we were. Always
getting into something. But we
never kidnapped anyone-PAUL
Okay-- you remember though?
Sure.
BEN
- 32 -
Fishing?
GARY
Paul looks over
GARY
I thought you said he was fun.
PAUL
Movies too-- come on-Paul turns back to the rearview.
PAUL
We think Carol’s defeated you, Ben.
She’s taken away your independence.
GARY
You’re not free.
PAUL
She’s crushed your spirit and
defeated your will.
GARY
You’re dying on the inside.
PAUL
She’s made it so you can’t function
without her.
Ben sits up from the back.
BEN
Well, boys, marriage is all about
compromise.
PAUL
There is such a thing as compromise,
but you’ve lost yourself.
GARY
You’re missing.
PAUL
When was the last time you went
fishing with Larry?
I-- uh--
BEN
GARY
You don’t know where Larry is.
- 33 -
PAUL
When was the last time you went to
the movies?
GARY
Three Men and a Baby.
PAUL
You’ve lost your spirit to your
wife and we will not let her take
that away.
GARY
You’re dying, Ben. You’re a zombie!
PAUL
You have to stand up for yourself-be the man you used to be.
GARY
(shouting)
Rise Lazarus!
PAUL
And we’re gonna help you do that.
Ben stares back at both of the guys.
PAUL
The seminar’s on decision-making.
That’ll give you some pointers on
thinking for yourself. Follow me?
GARY
And I got you a ticket for a Men at
Work concert.
Ben is quiet in the backseat. Gary turns to face
front.
GARY
I knew this would be too much at once.
PAUL
You alright, Mr. Dumont?
I think so.
BEN
Quiet fills the car for seconds that move like minutes.
Gary looks concerned that the plan may unravel in
front of him. Paul is similarly concerned.
- 34 -
BEN
So we’re going on a road trip?
Gary and Paul look at each other and nod.
Yeah.
Basically.
GARY AND PAUL
PAUL
Ben falls back against the seat comfortably.
BEN
Well it should be fun then. Let’s
do it. Carol will be back tomorrow
though, so we have to be back
before that.
Paul looks at Gary. Gary waves his hand to signify
letting this one go for now.
FADE TO:
EXT. TRUCKSTOP DINER - MORNING
- 35 -
She turned and walked away.
I watched her from some tent.
She asked a vendor, in her
happy way, for some change.
He was a total jerk. I didn’t
hear what he said to her, but
I saw her face turn sad. She
went to another and he said he
hadn’t sold anything yet either.
She said that she admired the
vendor for following his dream.
She was trying to do the same as
a caramel popcorn maker, but it
wasn’t going so well. The vendor
wished her luck, and I watched
her walk back to her table,
empty-handed. The customer
was gone. My heart broke.
you try to make some people happy
but it doesn’t work all the time.
dennis duffy, 30 Rock
- 36 -
ROBERT PASTORELLI
Robert Pastorelli was born in New Brunswick, NJ, in 1954.
His acting career took him from stage, to TV, to film. His presence
on the screen would rarely go unnoticed. His blue-collar persona
and memorable vocal delivery left a mark in just about every role.
Best known as Eldin the Painter, from Murphy Brown, Pastorelli
brought some depth to a simple painter and made him into much
more than comic relief. As time progressed, Pastorelli started to
become type-cast as a rough and tumble street thug. An actor’s
actor, Pastorelli couldn’t be bound by the stereotype. He went on
to play in a few children’s pieces, before hitting family film success
in 1996’s Michael. As the owner of a little dog and a dedicated
husband, this role looked like it could draw attention to Pastorelli
again.
In 1997 Pastorelli took center stage on Cracker, an adapted
American version of a British hit series. Pastorelli played a
psychologist (Gerry “Fitz” Fitzgerald) whose life was as messed
up as his patients’ lives. Doing small psych-jobs here and there,
Fitz made ends meet. Between his family, mistress, gambling, and
alcoholism, Fitz still had time to help the police as an interrogator/
profiler. The show was dark and ugly. It examined parts of the
human psyche that shows make commonplace today. Still, in 1997,
the show was far too gritty for network TV. It was cancelled. Acting
is a ride of ups and downs, however. Pastorelli knew this all too
well by now.
In March of 1999, Pastorelli and his live-in girlfriend (and mother
of their infant child) were having hard times. In a fight, his girlfriend,
Charemon Jonovich, held a gun to her head to simulate shooting
herself. Whether she did not know the gun was loaded or her finger
slipped, Jonovich shot herself in the head. Los Angeles Police ruled
that no foul play was suspected and that it was an accidental death. It
would be futile to try and put yourself in Pastorelli’s mind. To watch the
woman you love shoot herself in front of you is enough to traumatize
anyone. Five years later, in early April, Pastorelli was found in the
bathroom by his assistant. A syringe was in his arm, and a powdery
substance lay on the sink. He had died of a heroine overdose.
Pastorelli had been clean from a past drug addiction for 15 years.
He was last seen on screen in 2005’s Be Cool.
1954 - 2004
- 37 -
Diplomacy is the Only
Bridge Across the Ocean
Sometimes there are questions
that even the greatest minds haven’t
considered. One day, such a question
might pop into your head and you’ll
type it into Google, hoping that
someone is as smart (or insane) as you
are. Billions of people are on this world
and surely one of them has thought the
same thing and gotten an answer, or at
the least considered possible answers.
One such question is “Why don’t they
have a bridge across the ocean?” it’s not
my question, but it is one that doesn’t
have an answer.
When I heard this question I thought
that surely Beakman or Bill Nye had
gotten this and explained. No luck
though. I think the question was so
simple that no one bothered to answer
it. Beakman turned to that big ass rat
that lived in his workshop and said,
“Screw this-- their parent can handle
this question-- let’s do that hovercraft
out of a balloon and vinyl record again.
I gotta go play Jax if you know what
I mean.” And the rat re-ran the same
strip we’ve seen a hundred times.
“Who asked you this question,
Pete?” The story is irrelevant-- the
point is that no where on the internet
has anyone examined the structural,
social, economic, and scientific reasons
why this cannot be done. For those of
you who could care less about these
reasons, I ask you to take the answer of
one elementary school teacher: “They
just don’t have the materials for it.”
For you nay-sayers who claim that
if a trip to the moon is possible, then
surely a bridge across the ocean is, we
have more evidence. Before I get into
that, let me just say, if we had stairs
to the moon, I would agree with your
logic, but since we don’t, it’s flawed.
First, let’s consider the social angle.
This isn’t the most logical place to
start-- most jump right to the structure,
but go with it. Who would finance such
a project? If the world can’t unite to
resolve poverty, do you think they’ll
join up for a bridge across the ocean?
And if it does get built, you always
have dissenters who will target it for
terrorist attacks anyway. I’m going to
throw the problem of road rage into
the social category too. On I-95 in
Philadelphia you see some road rage.
I-95 stretches across the Eastern Coast
of America, from Houlton, Maine, to
Miami, Florida. That’s a total of 1,927
miles. I bet there’s a lot of road rage on
there, huh? Well put a bridge across the
Atlantic Ocean and you got about 4800
miles. Somebody’s getting shot.
Economically the bridge would
really put a damper on trade. Oil would
have a hard time getting around. Either
the northern half of the world or the
southern half will miss out on a lot of
goods. The answer seems simple: a
draw bridge. But to stall that many cars
while waiting for the bridge to open and
close could kill our ozone (more) with
emissions. Think about it. I’m sorry to
squeeze environmentalism in here, but
it had to be done. And while on the topic
of oil, you’ll need floating gas stations
out there, and I can’t get behind that.
I remember oil-slicked ducks from the
tanker spills of my youth.
Keeping organized, let’s go with
the structural and scientific reasoning.
- 38 -
This is where you get most of your
information. When you build a
bridge, whether it’s arch-supported
or suspended, you need some posts,
for lack of a better word, that provide
the support of the bridge. This is
elementary bridge-building. Now,
these posts would have to be anchored
in the earth (or at the bottom of the
ocean). You’ll need to have something
that satisfies the criteria to achieve this
task. That would be something that
is 5.4 miles long and can sustain the
pressure of approximately 40 jumbo
jets. For you nerds, the deepest point is
in the Pacific at 6.8 miles and 50 jumbo
jets. Other structural factors include
building to the curvature of the earth
and how much weight these posts have
to support from above, in addition to
the water pressure from all sides.
In the words of elementary school
teacher Kathy Kirschner, the materials
just aren’t there. And if you find a mileslong support beam that can sustain
that pressure, you’ll need to find a
transportation unit that will allow your
workers to install such a post into the
Earth. How many of those workers will
die too? How many lives is it worth to
achieve your end?
Practically, let’s look at existing
bridges. That could give us a good idea
of what to expect, right? The longest
bridge, without qualifications, is the
Second Lake Pontchartrain Causeway
in Louisiana (which was damaged
quite a bit from Hurricane Katrina).
This bridge has arches and supports all
over. The length, 38.4 miles, couldn’t
be achieved by a suspension bridge.
The longest cable-stayed bridge is
the Akashi Kaikyo in Japan. This
bridge covers a whopping 1.23 miles.
The steel cable used to create this
mile-long bridge could circle the earth
seven times.
Traveling would also prove difficult.
Surely it would be more expensive to
have more lanes, but you’d need at
least four (two in each direction). Then
if there’s an accident you’d have to shut
down 3000 miles of cars at any given
moment. And it’s not like a highway.
You can’t get off the road at the next exit
you inch up to. You’re stuck. You’ve
got to wait for the ambulance to travel
3000 miles over the cars (43 hours at
70 mph). And clear the accident up. All
the while the Red Cross is dropping
rations because you haven’t eaten in 43
hours.
Don’t think that’s all either, because
you’ll have to fight for those rations-and the idling cars will be out of gas-then you need the floating gas stations
again-- you’d better have some money
on you too for that gas, because after
those types of favors, you still have
1800 miles to go before you can get a
hot shower to make yourself clean.
So, Virginia, it may have hurt you
to hear there is no Santa Claus, but
it’s gonna kill you to learn that you
can’t build a bridge across the ocean. I
don’t like to wreck dreams, and I hate
to crush spirits. I just had to examine
the reasons why this can’t be done.
Hopefully some person in Russia types
in the same question I did and he/she
finds this page. He/she will say, in a
thick Milla Jovovich/Yakov Smirnoff
accent, “I knew that was a crazy idea.
Thank God I can put it out of my head!
Now let me see what I can find on
teleportation...”
- 39 -
This piece is dedicated to
a former girlfriend and her
inquisitive nature. I hope it’s still
alive and well in her.
Things I Like Today, March 1, 2007
Superballs
Sunshine
Honesty
Foul-mouthed girls
Dogs playing poker
The gas pedal
Marcy Playground
Sleep
Subtlety
Delete keys
Variable eye colors
This pen next to me
Animaniacs
NyQuil
The prospect of getting a
fish of some sort
Tina Fey
Ice cream cake
Not saying anything
Mom’s meatloaf
Meat Loaf
Friendly people
Carrots
Sun
Tina Fey (again)
Trust
Different emphasis on
words in the phrase
“Work in progress”
Walks
Buying a CD
People laughing
NewsRadio
My dog
- 40 -
2
Always hack your joke off of another source. No matter what
you do, never develop a creative and well-crafted joke of
your own. After all, every joke has probably been told already,
right? Maybe it was a delivery boy in Japan who’s telling what
he feels is an innovative knock-knock joke. If that kid knew how
widespread such humor is here in the states, he would fit in like a
charm. Everyone LOVES a joke that has been told already, so the
best way to kill it is to steal it and claim sole authorship.
3
Perhaps the most important step to consider when
methodically killing a joke can be summed up in one word:
repeat. This is THE way you kill a joke. You could go through
the silly steps in thinking for yourself and devising an original joke,
but if you do, just repeat it and you’ll kill it in no time. This mastery
of murder can be illustrated by this classic example:
“Pete and Repeat were sitting on a boat. Pete fell off, who’s left?”
“Repeat?”
“Pete and Repeat were sitting on a boat. Pete fell off, who’s left?”
“Repeat.”
“Pete and Repeat were sitting on a boat. Pete fell off, who’s left?”
“Repeat that again and I’ll cut you from your throat to your bowels.”
“Pete and Repeat were sitting on a boat. Pete fell off, who’s left?”
4
Eight Steps to Killing a Joke
1
Make the joke an “inside joke.” This will make people on
the “outside” feel left out and sad. It will also make them
more likely to get sick of your joke sooner since they don’t
understand the humor in it. Inside jokes are great to pass around
amidst people who don’t get them because it makes you look like
the know-it all passing judgment over the imbeciles.
Volume is key when it comes to the art of joke murder. It’s easy to
tell a joke in a casual setting and make small talk with it, but the true
test comes when you shout the joke. Imagine, if you will, a social
situation with a few friends, when one says, “HEY, WHY DO FISH SWIM
IN SALT WATER?!” to use a classic, “BECAUSE PEPPER MAKES THEM
SNEEZE!” Like most things in life, jokes are also more effective when
they’re louder. This method also transfers into such communication as
criticism, ethnic slurs, directions, announcements, and many more.
- 41 -
5
If you have a Q&A joke, never give time for an answer. That levels
the playing field and really puts you at a disadvantage as the
stunning entertainer you really are. If your joke isn’t a Q&A, then
you have to do the complete opposite. Speak the first parts of a funny
phrase you stole from your favorite quirky comedian of the moment and
then leave it hanging with the expectation that another person around you
will finish it. To use Brian Regan as an undeserved example, “There’s not
a whole lot more humbling...” Experts will know right off the bat that the
finishing statement is “...than striking out in slow-pitch softball.” Peons will
look at you wondering why you stopped mid-sentence, but what do they
know? Surely the answer is “not a lot.”
6
Brag about your joke. If you’re coming to a group of friends who are
on the “outside,” then introduce them to the joke. Do this by setting
up a lengthily story for the context in which the joke was originally
told. This way the friends can jump into their mental time machines and go
to a place they may have never been and imagine people they may never
meet and then enjoy your joke to the fullest of its potential. If you have a
Q&A joke, then simply start every conversation with,” Dude, check out this
new joke...”
7
This simple step helps to cover a few of the previous steps in one
swoop. As easy as anything, add your joke/quote to your AIM (or
messenger service of choice) profile. This will let people who are out
of the loop enjoy your joke under the guise of confusion and disarray. Also
aiding in your delivery is an absolute lack of context or expression.
8
After a period of time and several re-tellings of your joke/quote, you
have to start telling it wrong with the optional correction-of-self while
telling it. While you may think this will weaken your laughs it actually
builds complexity and intricacy of your joke so that only the most superior
intellects may enjoy your witticisms. For example, “Why do fish-- No, why
don’t fish drink salt water? Because pepper water looks like poo.”
Published, at some time, in one edition, of the King’s College Scop.
- 42 -
Wrong + Wrong = Change
I went to see the Vagina Monologues a couple weeks ago. Quite
frankly, I just didn’t get it. Women were dressed up, made up, and
standing up to voice other women’s views on vaginas. A petite, curlyhaired blonde did her best to read a memoir of a black woman. Pet
names and anatomic synonyms were listed, shouted, whispered from the
stage. The thought, I assume, being that saying the words crippled their
effects. From the crowd reaction, it surely did not. Minorities don’t get
on stage and toss around ethnic slurs and call it moving forward. Even
the hardest of hardcore rappers knows that it’s not helpful.
Stories about being willfully molested by a 24-year old woman do
nothing to liberate women. The fact is that some women prefer to adhere
to the social norms, where a “muffin” is a breakfast food and nothing
else. I got the impression that I was in the wrong for not being able to
out-do the ladies in vaginal code words. The approach was all wrong.
You could easily cite that the show has been performed year after year,
with great success, and is therefore helpful. However, I’d like to point
out that American Idol is still running strong. Exploitation always does.
I feel sorry for women I know that are respectable, professional,
morally-sound people, trying to earn respect and fairness in the world.
They’re being thwarted (and outnumbered) everyday by women who
have no decency or warped ethical
guidelines. Modesty among women
has been declining for years, and with
something like rattling off out-of-date
concepts about tampons being passed
off as suffrage, it’s no wonder why.
Men, in a locker room-- hell, even
on a bus-- may talk about penises
all day long. I don’t know where
these men are or how they could
get enough content on that, but they
could be doing it. What many women
don’t seem to be realizing is a very,
very, very simple concept that we’ve
all heard in various circumstances
throughout our lives: If Tommy
jumped off a cliff, would you do it
too?
- 43 -
And if Nelly
Furtado comes
out and tries
to convince me
that promiscuity
is a sign of
women’s
liberation one
more time, then
I’ll punch her in
the face.
In other words, it’s completely useless to walk around saying that men
are pigs, men objectify women, and anything else you can think of along
those lines. It becomes futile when women, in an effort to fight back, do
the same things. “Two wrongs don’t make a right.”
Just because men do it, doesn’t mean it’s right. And if Nelly Furtado
comes out and tries to convince me that promiscuity is a sign of women’s
liberation one more time, then I’ll punch her in the face. How’s that for
gender equality? “Don’t stoop to their level.” Do you even know what a
cliche is anymore?! They’re cliches for a reason-- because they’re rooted
in timeless truth.
If women intend to keep fighting for a level of fairness that is higher
than it is today, the first thing that must be done is getting the team on
the same page. If you have a basketball team and half the people want a
championship, one guy wants to be a superstar, one guy won’t take risks
in case he gets hurt, and one coach is just looking to retire after this year,
then you’ll have no luck getting that championship. When everyone is
focused on the same goal, things come a lot easier.
I wish every woman luck. All human beings deserve fairness, respect,
and dignity.
The first time he ever saw a live boob, it was on
a mentally handicaed woman, through the
window of her community home’s bathroom
window. He was about nine years old and torn
bween at he was suosed to do (look for/
at boobs) and at he knew was pretty wrong
(exploiting a woman o forgot to close the
shad). He looked bause he thought it was the
social norm. He haened upon this sight and knew
that boys were suosed to look at boobs. He didn’t
gawk or stare; the moral dilemma prevented
any of that. The window was facing the stre, and
he was a qui, observant boy, always looking around
at somhing. A dog at the house next door took
his attention away from the boob and he never
looked back.
This s the bar for every experience he’d have
with live boobs...
- 44 -
What’s wrong with this poster?
Answers on page _____
- 45 -
THOMPSON
Not some girl he knew casually and
then remembered after fifty years,
on his death bed BERNSTEIN
You’re pretty young, Mr. (remembers the name)
Mr. Thompson. A fellow will
remember things you wouldn’t think
he’d remember. You take me. One
day, back in 1896, I was crossing
over to Jersey on a ferry and as
we pulled out, there was another
ferry pulling in (slowly)
- and on it, there was a girl
waiting to get off. A white dress
she had on - and she was carrying
a white pastrol - and I only saw
her for one second and she didn’t
see me at all - but I’ll bet a
month hasn’t gone by since that I
haven’t thought of that girl.
(triumphantly)
See what I mean?
(smiles)
Well, so what are you doing about
this “Rosebud,” Mr. Thompson.
- 46 -
From Citizen Kane (1941) - Mercury Productions Inc. / RKO Radio Pictures
BERNSTEIN
That Rosebud? Maybe some girl?
There were a lot of them back in
the early days, and -
Wrong Christmas

The snow fell hard outside. But
the guy at the end of the bar was
falling harder—“looking for solace
at the bottom of a glass”—that’s
what they say, right? The man in the
suit let his jacket fall to the sides
around him, doing its best to mask
the stained pants and affectionate
handles of love around his waist.
He wasn’t a fat man, per se, but
he had his areas of softness like all
normal people do. More indicative
of his desperate state was his face,
which was prickled with days-old
hair. This wasn’t so bad, as his face
rarely came up from the bar.
I thought they had laws that
prevented bartenders from letting
a man get so bad, but I guess this
man had vigor. And, in the name
of the season, maybe all this
bum wanted was to get smashed
for Christmas. Before you go off
feeling bad for him, let me relay
the story he so hopelessly poured
out between pouring in pints of
whiskey.
Our hero here was a man who
worked for “the government.” He
worked in “top secret stuff,” and
despite his state, he would not
divulge any information on his job.
More likely, he was flat out full
of it. All he would say was that
his specialty was nanotechnology.
This really didn’t pique anyone’s
interest. The drunk felt comforted
in the knowledge that no one in
the pub knew what a nanobot was,
much less what you could do with
them. He decided to tell his story.
Nanotechnology is no stranger
to me though. I saw Virtuosity,
with Denzel Washington, and I
read about nanobots in a science
artucle here and there. The subject
involves building things moleculeby-molecule. They’ve done it a
couple times, but not with anything
astoundingly significant. Certainly,
nothing living.
The drunk guy spoke to no one
as he spouted about his latest
project at work, which led him to
the North Pole. Santa lives there,
as we all know, and this guy had to
go help good Saint Nick. The busty
bartender responded well to this
part of the tale. I was surprised,
as Charlene rarely went for suits
like him. She had a sparkle in
her eye for the NASCAR fans. Her
big blonde hair built around her
wrinkling face. Charlene wasn’t an
old woman, but years of smoking
can have that effect on people.
Our drunk was hardly interested
in Charlene though. Her cleavage
- 47 -
was not nearly as deep as he had
already been.
It seemed that Santa Claus had
a rough year this year. I guess when
you get the whole story you’ll
assume that it’s rough every year.
As it went, Santa was laced with
nanobots. How? I couldn’t imagine.
I’ll spare you the gruesome details
and settle with this: according
to our storyteller, Santa would
cut himself up over the course
of the week before Christmas.
His nanobots would rebuild Santa
Clauses across the world, in a
replication sort of way, and they
would be in charge of passing out
the presents in that area. Bunch of
b.s. if you ask me.
The NASCAR boys offered their
sentiments of laughter too. From
behind their flannel shirts and
tattered jeans they slung expletives.
This was markedly indicative of the
intelligence housed inside those
greasy netted caps. The yuppies at
the tables weren’t much more of
a comfort either. They didn’t yell
at the drunk, but their whispers of
him were audible enough for me
to hear them from the corner of
the room. Their insults may have
been more hurtful, if only for the
fact that they were based in more
intelligence.
He went on to explain that
someone stole the nanotechnology
that Santa used. They completely
robbed Santa. That’s a horrible
thought from the get-go, but it
was made worse because the
drunk believed it. Apparently
these thieves now had more power
than he could imagine. Kindly,
he comforted us all with the
knowledge that, like the Santas,
the rebuilt nano-theives would
only last a few hours.
And when Charlene, still
affected by his grief, asked why he
was so sad, he could only answer
with what may be our first fact, “I
lost my job,” and our worst fantasy,
“There won’t be a Christmas.”
Charlene comforted him in the
fact that his family will be okay
and that they’ll love him no matter
what, or some cliché garbage like
that.
“I don’t have a family. There
won’t be a Christmas ANYWHERE!”
Nothing’s
worse
than
a
screaming drunk. Luckily he
bottomed out near closing time. I
put my coat on to leave and paid
my tab at the bar. I spoke down
to the drunk, “Get over it buddy,
we all have a bad day now and
then—you’re not special.” I left
slowly as he stared at me, mouth
open. I doubt if he even registered
my words, but they had to be said.
There’s no reason why the world
should revolve around him. He’s
not the only player in this game—
we’re all in this crap together. If
you can make it around the morons
and the self-absorbed, then you
can get through.
I opened my apartment door and
sat down in my recliner. The light
from the TV shined to fill the room
as A Christmas Story ran on TNT for
the sixth time this Christmas Eve.
My tree was soaked in the light
from the TV. The ornaments hung
perfectly. Underneath, there were
no presents.
- 48 -
There’s something sickly
self-indulgent in compiling
your own work, but it’s
been a while since I sent
anything out to be published
or paid for. I keep on writing
though, and I figure I should
do something with it.
Some people may think
that this and my website
(petephillipsonline.com) are
all about me feeding my ego.
People who know me well
will tell you, my ego’s pretty
shot. If anything, I do these
things to plant the seeds of
what may some day grow
into an ego.
Of course, if I had to choose
between the two faults, I’d
surely pick humility over
pride. What about you?
Thanks to these peeps for
pushing me to write
Janice Malone
Ed Ford
Laurie Sterling
Melissa Sgroi
Marissa Phillips
Mom & Chrissy
Greg Kirschner
Kyle Remmel
Emma Halpern
Tim Hoy
Melody Priebe
Mike & the Shannons
and more...
I have a bad memory.
Credits
Photo page 11 - Attila Schmidt
Any reproduced material was done so without permission and
without malicious intent.
30 Rock and Citizen Kane quoted with the utmost admiration.
If I never get paid to write, I’ll pay you all back in respect.
All original material is mine.
The Answer to the Curry Donuts Poster:
The apostrophe s
Use of quotes without citation
Use of quotation marks on such general statements
Why spell F-R-E-S-H?
They couldn’t find better looking donuts? (objective)
Reflection of the lights
- 49 -
Check yo’self before you wreck yo’self.