You’re not the only movie exec who can greenlight his 5th grader’s movie script, Washburn.

Well, well, Washburn, my old friend, times must be hard at that sad little warehouse you call a motion picture studio. What's with this wild rumor I hear? This crazy announcment in Variety that you’ve signed your kid’s 5th grade English assignment to 'write a science fiction movie script' into production? “The Goo Aliens fight Space Pirates,” is it? Sony Pictures, with a budget of 80 million? With Singer to direct? I see, I see.

If this is some kind of scheme, it will never work. If you think you’ve got some kind of advantage over me, that’s where you’re wrong. Because you’re not the only movie exec who can greenlight his 5th grader’s movie script, Washburn.

My kid’s in the same school. Of course, you’d know that, since you put your little boy Braydon in Hodgington Academy not three months after my Sophia was enrolled. Bush league move, that, Washburn. Did you not consider my Sophia has the same English teacher, and had the same assignment?

“Rainbow Princess Cop” goes into principal photography in six weeks. Oh, and while I have your attention, three more words: Jolie. Gosling. Dench. That’s right: Dench. I sense you’re wincing a bit at that, aren’t you? I am forced to chuckle like a cheap melodrama villain. Mwa-ha-ha, Washburn.

It didn’t have to be like this. Remember the old days, when we were in film school in that wave following Spielberg and Scorsese? We were going to set the world on fire. We could have been partners. But here we are, forty years and countless trophy wives later, these children of our late middle age pitched in heated proxy wars for box office totals that mean nothing, nothing!

Actually, what was I thinking? They mean everything.

Nevertheless, this is the life we’ve chosen. Ever since Goldman made a fortune off of his grand-daughter's Time-Travel Unicorn Bounty-Hunter concept, this is the path the American public has chosen for Hollywood. We merely provide, Washburn, we do not dictate the tastes of a nation. But I digress…

I hear you have no third act, Washburn. I hear the Space Pirates have no motivation. Well, all the fire-breathing black-hole Godzilla clones Weta can render won’t get Blockso the One-eyed Pirate Prince through his dark night of the soul!

Yes, it’s true: Sophia made a copy of Braydon’s script. We know everything.

You thought you could keep this from me? Well, I thought we were friends! But co-chairing the PTA subcommittee on uniforms and field trips means nothing to you. I had to learn it from the front page of Variety like every other schmuck in this town.

I have Michael Bay on hold right now. This is what we call the endgame, my friend.

To conclude, I wish you the best, Washburn, I really do. I consider you my closest rival. Sophia (she really has her father’s instincts for this sort of thing) tells me Pennington’s boy wrote “Pizza Disaster!” (it's lazy and uninspired, the boy simply won't apply himself, even with Adam Sandler on board). And Weinberg’s kids, well, “Nemo Unchained” would be caught in legal limbo for decades. No, it is you and I, my old friend, who will see this battle through to the bitter end.

See you at the Oscars, Washburn. May the best parent win.

Mistletoe Drone.. of DEATH!!!!!: (a one-act Christmas melodrama)

They ordered Love...
....they got MURDER!!!!!

Here is my 2014 Christmas gift to you all:

Mistletoe Drone ... of DEATH!!!
Inspired by a true story

*** Mistletoe Drone Operator at TGI Friday’s was the best job this "kind-of-a-loner, kept to himself" could get.***

SCENE: TGI Fridays, interior. BARRY, pimpled and bitter, is dressed in TGI Friday's shirt and suspenders with lots of flair. His hair is lank and greasy, a sneer on his face. He holds the MISTLETOE DRONE controller and scans the restaurant. It’s filled with young couples in love, feeding each other french fries and sesame jack™ chicken strips.

BARRY (Voice-over): (Bitterly) Look at all you happy couples. Sitting there with your thai pork tacos, staring into each other’s eyes, longing to kiss. Here, I'll make you kiss!

He controls the MISTLETOE DRONE toward a SEXY COUPLE. It stops, its mistletoe payload directly over the WOMAN's head. The SEXY COUPLE looks up. WOMAN laughs, and MAN kisses her.

MISTLETOE DRONE dips closer, closer, while the SEXY COUPLE’s kiss becomes more passionate.

Ominous music swells.

Enter MANAGER

MANAGER: Hey, Barry, that drone’s a little close, don’t you think?

BARRY (falsely cheerful): Hey, yeah, oops! Guess they looked a little too happy!

The MISTLETOE DRONE rises, ominous music fades. The SEXY COUPLE's kissing becomes more passionate.

MANAGER: Want me to take over for a while?

BARRY: Nah, I’m good.

MANAGER (Looking at SEXY COUPLE, who knock dishes off the table and climb on to continue making out and groping each other): Well, you’re doing a great job.

BARRY: Thanks, boss!

Exit MANAGER

BARRY scans the room again. His eyes squint.

BARRY (Voice-over): Oh, you blissfully ignorant fools. All of you, believing love is anything but a bittersweet prelude to a lifetime of solitary misery.

His attention becomes focused on a YOUNG INNOCENT COUPLE making lovey-eyes at each other; it’s apparent they are on an early date, infatuated but shy.

BOY: Hey, they have that mistletoe drone thing. (exaggeratedly casual) That's cool, I guess.

GIRL: Oh, I hope it doesn't come here. It would be a *shame* if I had to kiss you. (She smiles and blushes.)

BARRY (Voice-over): Is that... Tiffany? Tiffany who once spurned my advances? I spent the night of Spring Fling alone because of you, Tiffany! Oh, and now, you flounce and rut with this unworthy cur?

BOY stabs a shrimp, puts it on GIRL'S plate

BARRY: (voice-over) Ah! You split with him a Jack Daniel's Shrimp and Ribs that should by rights be mine? Oh, yes, kiss him, by all means ... I’ll make you kiss. I’ll make you kiss... in hell!

BOY: Hey, that operator is looking at you funny. Do you know him, Kelly?

GIRL: Never seen him before.

MISTLETOE DRONE-view camera, closing in on the YOUNG INNOCENT COUPLE who smile and set down their cutlery as it approaches, and give each other a bashful glance.

BARRY (voice-over): Oh, sweet revenge best served cold, with Tennessee Whisky Cake for desert, on special this week!

The BOY moves close to the GIRL, puts an arm around her shoulder. She touches his hand as they wait for the MISTLETOE DRONE...

MISTLETOE DRONE-view camera as their smiles turn to confusion, then fear as the MISTLETOE DRONE buzzes ominously closer, closer.

BOY: It's coming in kind of... fast...

GIRL: Hold me!

BARRY begins to chuckle, rising to laughter, rising to maniacal laughter.

Cut to SEXY COUPLE, now half-naked, making out on their table. BLOOD SPATTER hits them. They look up. WOMAN screams.

MANAGER: Oh, for Pete's sake, Barry.

Fade to credits as BARRY’s laughter grows ever louder and the screams of patrons drown him out.

-- END --

Colchis is famous for the Golden Fleece

Jason and Medea

Excerpts from a new international version


Cast
Chorus: various fifth and sixth grade Korean public school students whose vocab consists mostly of phrases from their textbooks.

Jason: A greek warrior, prince of Iolcus
Medea: Sorceress and princess of Colchis
Creon: King of Corinth


Part 1, Colchis:

Chorus:
Hello, how are you? I’m from Colchis.
Colchis is beautiful and special.
Colchis is famous for the Golden Fleece.

[Enter Medea]
This is Medea. She is very pretty.
She can do magic too.
But, she is very sad. Let’s listen!

Medea:
Oh, but that the world could know of my laments,
of the darkness in my soul. For it has
been said that tragedy should bite my heels
until time’s bitter end, that I should be
the ruin of great men through magicks and treason
most foul. But in truth I know not whether
my mind’s contents are fair or foul, for a life
of shelter tells me that should the test come,
I may not know it. Hark? What silver flash
upon the sea’s wine-stained horizon do I spy?

Chorus:
Look! It’s a boat! Such a big boat!
Who is it? Who is in the boat?
Medea does not know.
But, he is handsome.

ENTER Jason

Chorus:
That is Jason. He’s from Greece.
He’s very strong and kind. He wants to be King.
Let’s listen again!

Jason:
Long I have journeyed and hard, to this land
to seek and claim the fleece of gold foretold
as birthright destiny. But unseeming
of kindness is this land, and people here
shall surely prove awesome strange indeed.
But lo, what shape is that of woman shone
on distant parapet? Let us move close,
that providence may to me her hand reveal.

Chorus:
Medea likes Jason. She will help him.
She gives him many things.
She helps him get the golden fleece.

----

Let me know in the comments if you want the rest.

A grebmaR Christmas special: the Miser Brothers

When I was a kid, the holidays meant Christmas programming. There were the obvious solid, heartwarming classics like The Grinch, Charlie Brown, and Frosty the Snowman. But no one could match the Rankin/Bass studios for sheer madcap discombobulatory dissonance. Their specials were often pretty good, like the charmingly awkward "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" or the maudlin but effective "Santa Claus is Coming to Town." But they were equally capable of churning out bottom feeding dreck such as "The First Easter Rabbit" or "Frosty and Rudolph Save the 4th of July."*

Somewhere in between, there was "The Year Without a Santa Claus," a syrupy tale of Jingle and Jangle, two elves who set out to save Christmas when Santa gets the sniffles. (Why Santa gets sick on Christmas so often is an unexplored mystery.) You actually forget that part, though, once the Miser Brothers show up. These two narcissistic avatars of nature steal the show like Samuel L. Jackson dreams he could.

In the mythopoetics of Christmas Special Land, Heat Miser and Snow Miser lord over the realms of Snow and Heat. Twin children of Mother Nature, they couldn't have been more different, except for their theme song, which was eerily similar, and spectacularly AWESOME! Listen:



It's a beautiful tune, isn't it? A rollicking good-time number, with straw hats and chorus lines clearly influenced by Bob Fosse. And I don't think it's a stretch to consider Michael Jackson watching Snow Miser's spin-move showmanship and filing it away for future use.** In the years following their introduction, the Miser Brothers have inspired literally thousands of stoners, slackers, and blog posts. It was only natural that they would appear in sequels.

In the 00's, someone did a live action special remake starring Michael McKean (from Spinal Tap) and Harvey Fierstein, which turns the two part song into a duet complete with bikini-clad minions, slingshots and crossbows. It starts off as a total train wreck, then kind of grows on you, and then goes back to train wreck... here, see what I mean:



I understand their intention here, uniting both versions into one complete number - it always seemed sort of a time-filler and union-cost-cutting move to use the same song twice - but the execution seems spotty. Why are the two heat misers' domains separated by such a thin chasm? In what realm of physics can this exist? By taking the metaphorical division of heat and cold and placing them in such proximity, the dialectic of hot and cold turns into an in-house squabble between pouty brothers, rather than an epic, meta-conflict between points of view that the original suggested.

On the other hand, I do love Harvey Fierstein's Louisiana gutter accent, and the gusto with which he's determined to sell this turd as fertilizer. The icicle up the butt at the end also seems the work of a good sport. But McKean seems to be phoning it in here, like his agent had come to him with either this or a Lenny and the Squigtones reunion tour, and he chose poorly.

But, you know, it makes me wonder where Mr. Temperate is in all this? Mr. Heat, Mr. Snow, and no one in that sweet spot in between, where we live most of our lives. That boring zone of mud and flowers and sweet spring rain. The Temperate Miser. It's always the middle child that gets forgotten. Maybe it's the lost Miser Sister, Lady Temperate. She should have her own song:

I'm Lady Brown Christmas
I'm sorta 'meh'
I'm 'Bring a light jacket,'
I'm 'Watch out for that mud!'

Friends call me Temperate Miser
Whatever I touch
gets soon enough to room temp-utch-(ure)
I'm not that much!

I never want to know a day that's outside a particular range
From fifty to seventy, say! Hey, let's wear sensible shoes!

I'm not that much!

(spoken): Yeah, thanks a lot mom, my brothers got all the attention and why? Because they're all Hot and Cold and people think I'm just a law of thermodynamics or entropy well fuck you mom it's more than that, not that you care... (fades away, mumbling)

Well, you know, it's an idea.

Merry Christmas! And hey, Santa - take some vitamins this year. No more colds!

Addendum: For completeness sake, there's also a 2008 version of the song, from The Miser Brother's Christmas, which despite its techincal advances adds absolutely nothing to the conversation.


* This special is actually called Frosty and Rudolph's Christmas in July

** The question of whether the Miser Brothers influenced the Jackson 5 or vice versa I will leave for the comments section to determine.

Decision Tree: Korea

You may or may not know we're moving to Korea in a month. What that means is that everything I own now belongs to one of three categories: 1) Take to Korea 2) Put into Storage 3) Get rid of forever. How to decide, especially with the disposal part? I made a flowchart to help:

State Quarter Limericks

I wrote these a few years ago during the height of "State Quarter Frenzy," when everything was State Quarter this, and State Quarter that - you remember how it was. I figured everyone would love limericks that tell the back story of the images on all the Statehood Quarters. I sent a few out, but I guess the market wasn't as hot as I calculated.

If the public had demanded them, I suppose I'd have done all 50, because I'm nothing if not accommodating.

Anyway, here they are, after the more link. Enjoy.

Hotdish Revolution Recap

The Holland Neighborhood association holds a potluck every year, calling it the Hotdish Revolution. It's a fundraiser for the neighborhood, and a good cheesy excuse for a get-together. So we decided to throw together a Halupsi and a Jello, and headed over.

Girlfriend pulled out her brain-shaped jello mold and mixed up a zombie-brain jello on Oreo cookie dirt, with gummi worms and a secret bloody side jello. It was lovely, and creepy, and, we hoped, delicious. 

Open letter to the lamp-post from 59th street bridge song (feelin groovy) by Paul Simon

Dear Lamp-Post:
It was a simple question, wasn't it? "Wat'cha knowin'?" Or was that too much for you? Yeah, you know what I'm talking about, lamp-post. Years ago, this guy, Paul Simon. You remember. Little guy, stoned off his ass, wandering the street, mumbling groovy this, groovy that, dooby dooby doo. Stared at your flowers, then asked you for some rhymes. You didn't answer, lamp-post, and now I've got this stupid song stuck in my head.

Oh, I suppose you found him intimidating, or were scared, and maybe I understand you not wanting to engage stoned folk-hippies with small talk, but really, lamp-post, it was the sixties. Everyone was like that. You could have spared me a lot of embarrassment by throwing out a little something. Like, for instance, "What am I knowing? I'm just sittin' here glowing!" Cute little rhyme, good answer, Simon loses his train of thought, the whole hook of the song is gone. Would have nipped the whole thing in the bud. Simon doesn't write the song, it's not stuck in my head, and I never tell a senior partner his sportcoat was 'groovy' and get the stink-eye of a lifetime.

Groovy, lamp-post. I said 'groovy.' Worse, I meant it. Now, I don't know about 59th street, but here at a prestigious accounting firm in the midwest, to an aging schmuck with hair-plugs like a Ken doll, NOTHING is 'groovy,' especially when it comes from a network administrator who's humming folk songs in the john instead of upgrading the email server, and what's the deal with those Word 2007 documents he can never open? Huh?

Thanks for nothing, lamp post. If I'm never on 59th street it'll be too soon.

More Conversations with our dog.

Our dog's papers say his name is Sir Remington Rio. I've found that calling your dog 'Sir,' however, makes for interesting conversations. Here's a recent exchange:

Me: Sir? I’ve been asked to have a word with you.

Him: [quizzical look]

Me: It’s about the cats, Sir.

Him: Grrr.

Me: Very good, Sir. They’ve asked me to inquire whether you’ve changed your position on harassing them.

Him: [cocked head]

Me: Yes, I told them you only meant to play. But they are not used to your, shall we say, exuberance.

Him: *Rising whimper*

Me: And there is the matter of your pretending to eat them, Sir.

Him: [Scratching ear]

Me: Agreed, Sir. A complaint scarcely worth addressing. However, to a cat, placing one's open mouth over their head can seem a bit… forward, Sir.

Him: [Licking self]

Me: Oh, agreed again, Sir. Well put indeed. They however do not seem to share in the spirit of the the thing. As though you were not pretending at all.

Him: [Sitting, head cocked.]

Me: You are pretending, Sir, when you lunge at them, are you not? All in jest, eh what?

Him: [Grabs his duck and shakes it.]

Me: Well stated, Sir. I suppose, cats being cats - one can hardly change that, can one? Or a dog being a dog. Philosophically, you make a fine point. Still, trying harder is the American way, is it not?

Him: Arf!

Me: Well. I shall relay the message, Sir.

Our Dog: an introduction

This is our Dog. He has papers that say his full legal name is Sir Remington Rio. Sometimes for fun I simply call him Sir. We have conversations that go like this:

Me: You barked, Sir?

Him: [Quizzical look]

Me: Perhaps some food is in order, Sir?

Him: *Whimper* [cocked head]

Me: Some kibble, perhaps?

Him: Arf!

Me: Very good, sir.


Later:

Him: *Whimper*

Me: Yes, Sir?

Him: [Adorable look.]

Me: Perhaps a walk, then?

Him: [Cocked ears.]

Me: Shall I bring the leash around, Sir?

Him: [sound of scampering nails destroying hardwood floor]

Me: Very good, Sir.

Spoon and Fork

Lesser known than his sword, the fork and spoon of Damocles were lost for generations before turning up in a diner in Duluth, where they hang over the heads of unknowing tourists to this day.

Something about food

Ah, food. The other night, hungry to the point of exhaustion, I settled for an Archer Farms Turkey Club with a side of Archer Farms 'touch of Jasmine Plum' unsweetened water beverage.A good rule of thumb is to stay away from drinks whose name is longer than a twitter post. Oh, it wasn't bad water or anything, but they could have just stopped at 'water'. Why's everything so upscale?

This was the Target Deli section. We were shopping for Christmas, and time just got away from us, and I was ready to eat anything. Taco John's, air-dried peanut butter, railroad ties, microwave scrapings. Luckily my girlfriend was there to talk me down, point me towards something vaguely healthy in the big refrigerated case. There was yogurt, go-gurt, orange juice. Oh, look -- Turkey Club, I said. I could go for that. She looked at it and shrugged and left me to my fate.

The sandwich was not a club sandwich by any definition of club sandwich. It had turkey and a sad painting of lettuce, but the bread was not toasted, nor was it even bread. It was a pasty thick wrap of dough flecked with cheese that fell into my mouth and dissolved there, churning into the turkey flesh like a cheap cobbler might. I don't know how anyone could think to call this a club sandwich. I don't know why I took a picture of it, or why three days later I'm still thinking about it.

I may go back for another. You can't tell about these things.