Sunday, as I drove out to Beardy's suburban oasis I had an idea for a television show. I know, I know, there's a writer's strike (believe me, I know), but at some point it will be over and this show will be ready to crush the primetime schedule.
Here's the pitch:
Crossin' Lines
Urban Real-life Family Comedy
Synopsis: Augustus and Carol Washington are professors at the University of Southern California. Amidst their collaborative research on race in America, the two of them found love, got married, and had twin sons. With their research focusing on equality and social justice, it is only apropos that their bi-racial marriage produced one black twin and one white twin. Teaching these two boys to love and honor people of all backgrounds, and choosing to live near the USC campus in rough-and-tumble Compton, the Washingtons are the new urban, nuclear family.
The pilot episode begins with Chad and Marq starting their senior year at Compton High School. Marq is is smart, athletic, and popular. Chad's life is in a state of upheaval primarily due to the fact that he is a white kid going to high school in Compton because parents think it is a good social experiment. In an attempt to bolster Chad's confidence, Marq convinces him to run for class president; with Marq running a grassroots campaign to get his brother elected. However, before Chad's name gets on the ballot, the gangs that run Compton High will have to give their approval. To make matters even more complicated at the school, there's a new, beautiful girl starting classes - and no one can figure out her ethnicity! Principal Whitefried hosts talent night in an attempt to bring everyone together through performance.
Starring: Mario van Peebles / Lori Loughlin / Jason Alexander / Malcolm David Kelley / Jonathan Lipnicki
Status: Second draft complete
Monday, December 10, 2007
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Monday, December 3, 2007
Back in the USA
Hello folks.
I'm back in Chicago after a two week stint in NYC, Athens, Paris, and Barcelona. True, Paris was limited to the three hour layover; although we did get on the train to see Notre Dame for 15 minutes. I'm sure a longer viewing of this cultural structure will occur at some point in my life.
Matthew at mystainedteeth.com recently wrote about his late fall visit to Chicago and our trip to Webster's Wine Bar. It was great to see him in Chicago. Matthew and I have known each other since September of 1986. He was the new-kid-in-town from Denver. I was a sensitive kid tasting his first drink of public school.
Matthew's article is very telling of my formative years and chips away at the patina I have so carefully constructed around my former life. A patina that layers down to early fall 1997. There are a few stretches in his article, though, specifically in his claim that he was fired from his job as a cool kid in the 9th grade. I only remember his popularity growing in high school - he was funny, athletic, and had Christ on his side. Growing up in Texas, keeping Christ on the payroll was of paramount importance.
Anyone who can prove (100%) the origin of my nickname gets a prize. Please note: this will involve Google and locating some SHS alums.
I'm back in Chicago after a two week stint in NYC, Athens, Paris, and Barcelona. True, Paris was limited to the three hour layover; although we did get on the train to see Notre Dame for 15 minutes. I'm sure a longer viewing of this cultural structure will occur at some point in my life.
Matthew at mystainedteeth.com recently wrote about his late fall visit to Chicago and our trip to Webster's Wine Bar. It was great to see him in Chicago. Matthew and I have known each other since September of 1986. He was the new-kid-in-town from Denver. I was a sensitive kid tasting his first drink of public school.
Matthew's article is very telling of my formative years and chips away at the patina I have so carefully constructed around my former life. A patina that layers down to early fall 1997. There are a few stretches in his article, though, specifically in his claim that he was fired from his job as a cool kid in the 9th grade. I only remember his popularity growing in high school - he was funny, athletic, and had Christ on his side. Growing up in Texas, keeping Christ on the payroll was of paramount importance.
Anyone who can prove (100%) the origin of my nickname gets a prize. Please note: this will involve Google and locating some SHS alums.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Baby, some say it never went out of style
Photo update, see below. This photograph was taken with a Blackberry 8100 from a moving car; while tailing a city bus.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
In progress
Folks, there are some HUGE things in the works. As those ideas percolate and develop from a pouch of primordial slime, here's a tidbit...
I am currently in the pre-planning stages of starting a new series here called Interview with an Unlicensed Physician. Totally true.
This is still in its infancy, but I'm feeling very confident about it. A combination of information (though not to be taken as medical advice) and a study-guide for armchair physicians everywhere, this series should prove a welcome addition to late-2007.
Here are excerpts from a recent email conversation.
Justin: If paramedics are called and the body is DOA, do they drop the body off at a hospital or at the city morgue? Would they ever bring someone who died of a heart attack to a hospital? Organ donor? Or basically if the paramedics show up and the person is dead they get shuffled off somewhere else?
Unlicensed Physician: The paramedics and police bring the body to the ER if there are any signs that the person is alive or was alive recently. ... It they have no vital signs (no heart beat, not breathing) and have signs that they have been dead for some time (rigor mortis), or have an injury incompatible with life (decapitation) they can be taken straight to the morgue.
Genius.
Especially when he describes decapitation as incompatible with life.
I am currently in the pre-planning stages of starting a new series here called Interview with an Unlicensed Physician. Totally true.
This is still in its infancy, but I'm feeling very confident about it. A combination of information (though not to be taken as medical advice) and a study-guide for armchair physicians everywhere, this series should prove a welcome addition to late-2007.
Here are excerpts from a recent email conversation.
Justin: If paramedics are called and the body is DOA, do they drop the body off at a hospital or at the city morgue? Would they ever bring someone who died of a heart attack to a hospital? Organ donor? Or basically if the paramedics show up and the person is dead they get shuffled off somewhere else?
Unlicensed Physician: The paramedics and police bring the body to the ER if there are any signs that the person is alive or was alive recently. ... It they have no vital signs (no heart beat, not breathing) and have signs that they have been dead for some time (rigor mortis), or have an injury incompatible with life (decapitation) they can be taken straight to the morgue.
Genius.
Especially when he describes decapitation as incompatible with life.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Illustration
With regards to my earlier posting on my invaded parking space, below is a photograph of the previously mentioned invasion. This is right off the presses, current to Saturday, 10/27/07.
Look at how the kick stand is over the line. And the drape of his motorcycle sheath is most certainly falling into my space. He taunts me by leaving the wheels on his side. Oh, how he taunts me. Or she.
Look at how the kick stand is over the line. And the drape of his motorcycle sheath is most certainly falling into my space. He taunts me by leaving the wheels on his side. Oh, how he taunts me. Or she.
The orator, Pt. II
It appears that the video link within the posting below wasn't functional over the weekend. From what I can tell, it's up and running.
Apologies for any wheel-spinning you may have endured.
Apologies for any wheel-spinning you may have endured.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
The orator, Pt. I
For those of you who missed it live a few years ago, here is a video of my college commencement address.
I remember that writing the speech was a difficult process - particulary the parts where I attempted to come up with something that wasn't reminiscent of the "off into the world" speeches that I had heard before. The speech went through about five drafts, finally resting on this version. The bulk of the text was written while waiting on lines at Six Flags during Senior Week. Kudos to ZNog for helping me sort through the catalogue of dialogue lines on the table AND for encouraging me to eat a whole turkey leg right before riding the Batman ride.
I remember that writing the speech was a difficult process - particulary the parts where I attempted to come up with something that wasn't reminiscent of the "off into the world" speeches that I had heard before. The speech went through about five drafts, finally resting on this version. The bulk of the text was written while waiting on lines at Six Flags during Senior Week. Kudos to ZNog for helping me sort through the catalogue of dialogue lines on the table AND for encouraging me to eat a whole turkey leg right before riding the Batman ride.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Mixed signals
Just back from a weekend in Ann Arbor with Tiniest. The Michigan University campus is pretty close to what you'd expect for a school of that stature - rolling quads, interesting mix of campus architecture, and a main drag with independent bookstores, coffee shops, and an Urban Outfitters.
It was a great weekend getaway. As usual, eating was a HUGE part of the experience. With that in mind...
I strongly recommend you visit Zingerman's, a combination delicatessen/grocery that has a real slant towards organic and local ingredients. We bought more cheese than should be allowed to sit unrefrigerated on a four-hour drive.
On the other side of the coin, I strongly do NOT recommend you visit the restaurant pictured below. While I am unsure of its intentions in a rather unfortunate name, I would rather not find out by actually going inside. There are a few permutations that make me instantly lose my appetite.
A free haiku is offered to anyone who can give an acceptable explanation of this name. $100 to the owner of this restaurant if s/he participates in a interview with me regarding their corporate branding.
Ann Arbor, MI; 10/20/07 @ 6:00pm
It was a great weekend getaway. As usual, eating was a HUGE part of the experience. With that in mind...
I strongly recommend you visit Zingerman's, a combination delicatessen/grocery that has a real slant towards organic and local ingredients. We bought more cheese than should be allowed to sit unrefrigerated on a four-hour drive.
On the other side of the coin, I strongly do NOT recommend you visit the restaurant pictured below. While I am unsure of its intentions in a rather unfortunate name, I would rather not find out by actually going inside. There are a few permutations that make me instantly lose my appetite.
A free haiku is offered to anyone who can give an acceptable explanation of this name. $100 to the owner of this restaurant if s/he participates in a interview with me regarding their corporate branding.
Ann Arbor, MI; 10/20/07 @ 6:00pm
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
No one listens
I wrote the title to this post before actually thinking of what I wanted to write.
The gist of it was the people tend to care more about the sounds of their own voices rather than engaging in the actual conversation they pretend to be in. Apparently, I was so interested in coming up with a witty headline that I forgot to pay attention to my brain that was trying to come up with something worthwhile to discourse.
And although this is not a first (for anyone), I do take offense that I have effectively tuned myself out.
Also on the subject of listening...
I happened to catch episode 1.02 of Cavemen. For those who haven't seen Cavemen, it's ABC's most recent effort to change itself into brothel. They've actually outdone themselves as the premise for Cavemen stems from television commercial characters.
However, it should be noted that I did laugh at the following scene:
- Two cavemen are looking at a website about Russian mail-order brides
- Another caveman comes in; this caveman is the most "modern human" of all of the cavemen, and tries to convince his compatriots that they should assimilate.
- The two cavemen looking at the website about Russian mail-order brides start talking to each other in Russian.
- The "modern" caveman looks at them sternly and asks them to stop talking in Russian.
I believe that this was a subtle reference the possibility that primative man may have crossed the Bering Strait. The Bering Strait separates Russia from Alaska and it has been hypothesized that man may have walked this distance in prehistoric times.
Or maybe it was a bullshit throw-away line and I wasted my laughter.
Someone please find me a writer from Cavemen to confirm the intent of this joke.
The gist of it was the people tend to care more about the sounds of their own voices rather than engaging in the actual conversation they pretend to be in. Apparently, I was so interested in coming up with a witty headline that I forgot to pay attention to my brain that was trying to come up with something worthwhile to discourse.
And although this is not a first (for anyone), I do take offense that I have effectively tuned myself out.
Also on the subject of listening...
I happened to catch episode 1.02 of Cavemen. For those who haven't seen Cavemen, it's ABC's most recent effort to change itself into brothel. They've actually outdone themselves as the premise for Cavemen stems from television commercial characters.
However, it should be noted that I did laugh at the following scene:
- Two cavemen are looking at a website about Russian mail-order brides
- Another caveman comes in; this caveman is the most "modern human" of all of the cavemen, and tries to convince his compatriots that they should assimilate.
- The two cavemen looking at the website about Russian mail-order brides start talking to each other in Russian.
- The "modern" caveman looks at them sternly and asks them to stop talking in Russian.
I believe that this was a subtle reference the possibility that primative man may have crossed the Bering Strait. The Bering Strait separates Russia from Alaska and it has been hypothesized that man may have walked this distance in prehistoric times.
Or maybe it was a bullshit throw-away line and I wasted my laughter.
Someone please find me a writer from Cavemen to confirm the intent of this joke.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Voice ID
From time to time I end up on the phone with customer service agents. Tonight, I had the pleasure of two such conversations.
The first was with T-Mobile, who has the most incredible agents in the business. Just give them a call, you'll see. Every time you call because you're overcharged for minutes or your phone breaks, it's like you get a new friend. This isn't bullshit either -- they really do have a great system.
Call #2 was to United Airlines. And for maybe the thousandth time the agent thought that I was a woman. They come off so quickly with the "ma'am," even now it still catches me off-guard. The conversation gets so deep into my air travel that although I cringe everytime I hear him call me "miss," I am too polite to note the correction. Then again, I've also agreed to let a man most likely in Bangalore give himself the name Johnny Ricardo. Who am I to tell people what they can and can't be?
But I ain't no "Miss Justin."
I'll be the first to admit that my voice doesn't sound like Morley Safer's -- but I like to think it sounds masculine. Or at least vaguely non-feminine.
The first was with T-Mobile, who has the most incredible agents in the business. Just give them a call, you'll see. Every time you call because you're overcharged for minutes or your phone breaks, it's like you get a new friend. This isn't bullshit either -- they really do have a great system.
Call #2 was to United Airlines. And for maybe the thousandth time the agent thought that I was a woman. They come off so quickly with the "ma'am," even now it still catches me off-guard. The conversation gets so deep into my air travel that although I cringe everytime I hear him call me "miss," I am too polite to note the correction. Then again, I've also agreed to let a man most likely in Bangalore give himself the name Johnny Ricardo. Who am I to tell people what they can and can't be?
But I ain't no "Miss Justin."
I'll be the first to admit that my voice doesn't sound like Morley Safer's -- but I like to think it sounds masculine. Or at least vaguely non-feminine.
The process
I've spent the past few weeks trying to resurrect the creative side of things in my life. It's been a while since I've been in a comedy troupe or had regular stage time. The muscles have atrophied a little bit but they're coming back.
Sometimes the process is kinda screwy.
Today I was working on an opening scene for a 1/2-hr comedy pilot script. I'm writing this one with a terrific writing partner, so we'll see how it passes the mustard after she takes a look at it.
The general premise of the scene is that two featured characters have an informal meeting, not knowing who the other is and what the actual relationship to eachother is.. At the end of the scene they'll formally meet and more will be revealed. There are a lot of cliched ways this scene could go. For example, if this was a romantic comedy we'd see two characters screaming at each other and at the end of the scene we'd find out they're in-laws-to-be. Something like that.
While that forumla seems to work well ( I've got dibs on the above scenario) and sell well, I am trying to avoid something so contrived.
This is what I worked on today. In about four hours I wrote by hand a couple of options that could work. Most of them perfect examples of already-been-done. Right around the time that option 4 was complete I stood up and looked a picture of a frog that Tiniest took in Costa Rica.
And then I figured out option 5. It seems to work.
I relayed this experience to Minto who said that it sounded like a transcript from a David Lynch movie.
I agree.
But that's the process. Sometimes you spin your wheels and the smallest detail can set you back on your path.
Sometimes the process is kinda screwy.
Today I was working on an opening scene for a 1/2-hr comedy pilot script. I'm writing this one with a terrific writing partner, so we'll see how it passes the mustard after she takes a look at it.
The general premise of the scene is that two featured characters have an informal meeting, not knowing who the other is and what the actual relationship to eachother is.. At the end of the scene they'll formally meet and more will be revealed. There are a lot of cliched ways this scene could go. For example, if this was a romantic comedy we'd see two characters screaming at each other and at the end of the scene we'd find out they're in-laws-to-be. Something like that.
While that forumla seems to work well ( I've got dibs on the above scenario) and sell well, I am trying to avoid something so contrived.
This is what I worked on today. In about four hours I wrote by hand a couple of options that could work. Most of them perfect examples of already-been-done. Right around the time that option 4 was complete I stood up and looked a picture of a frog that Tiniest took in Costa Rica.
And then I figured out option 5. It seems to work.
I relayed this experience to Minto who said that it sounded like a transcript from a David Lynch movie.
I agree.
But that's the process. Sometimes you spin your wheels and the smallest detail can set you back on your path.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Biotechnology essays are my favorite
Thanks to Beard for this link. We've had a number of ideas of this variety. At least someone is making money. See below for the item to which David Sedaris refers.
Stadium Pal
Stadium Pal
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Ghost Dad meets Gone Fishing
Earlier today I had the beginnings of an amazing idea for a movie. This came from a discussion with Todd about how we have been trying to take a trip out of the country together for the past 6 years.
Here's the pitch:
With the Living
International Supernatural Buddy Comedy
Synopsis: Two 80-year old friends (Abe and Tom) dream of taking an international vacation with each other. When they are both killed during a freak Fourth of July parade accident, they begin their new existence as ghosts. One of the benefits of being ghosts is that they can inhabit living bodies for a period of time. Seizing the opportunities they never had while living, they possess two young travelers (Kyle and Jake) and live vicariously through them. However, when Abe and Tom realize that they can commit crimes and never be punished, all bets are off. With the police on their tail, Kyle and Jake wonder why they can't remember the horrible deeds they've done, and Abe and Tom try to figure out what they really need to do to get them into heaven.
Starring: Ryan Reynolds / Dax Shephard / Jack Lemmon (CGI) / Walter Matthau (CGI)
Status: In development
Here's the pitch:
With the Living
International Supernatural Buddy Comedy
Synopsis: Two 80-year old friends (Abe and Tom) dream of taking an international vacation with each other. When they are both killed during a freak Fourth of July parade accident, they begin their new existence as ghosts. One of the benefits of being ghosts is that they can inhabit living bodies for a period of time. Seizing the opportunities they never had while living, they possess two young travelers (Kyle and Jake) and live vicariously through them. However, when Abe and Tom realize that they can commit crimes and never be punished, all bets are off. With the police on their tail, Kyle and Jake wonder why they can't remember the horrible deeds they've done, and Abe and Tom try to figure out what they really need to do to get them into heaven.
Starring: Ryan Reynolds / Dax Shephard / Jack Lemmon (CGI) / Walter Matthau (CGI)
Status: In development
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Still relevant
Folks, this comes straight out of the 2004 archives. Can you believe it? Three years later and nothing has changed. How about that?
All of this is true. No shit.
Winter, 2004
Dearest Friends,
Just before the holidays I had a profound experience that I wanted to share with all of you. As many of you know, I am a strong believer that since there are so many different energies around us we have to be open to receiving all the good, bad, and crazy in the world.
Mark this down in column three.
Recovering from a disappointing late-fall Spin class, I decided to vent the failures of the early morning by taking a few moments in the sauna. With my water bottle half full, clothed in a towel, I sat on the pine bleacher-style seat and enjoyed a relaxing beginning to an otherwise normal Tuesday.
Twenty minutes into my retreat, my water bottle was drained -- typically, this is when I retire to the showers and begin my standard morning routine.
Not today.
Two visitors joined me. The first was an Italian gentleman wearing a track suit. The other, in similar attire, was R. Kelly. The first question that comes to mind when encountering a male celebrity in an au natural setting is, “How big are his balls?” Mr. Kelly’s balls were nowhere to be seen, buried under a layer of NBA warm-up gear, sneakers, and, I think, a turtleneck.
For those of you who may not be familiar with R. Kelly, one of the finest R&B artists/child rapists of our time, here is a link to Mr. Kelly's bio.
Let’s pause for a moment. It’s 7:00 a.m., almost 160 degrees -- no odds-maker could have predicted this encounter.
Another member of his entourage entered, this time wearing camouflage pants and a hooded sweatshirt, carrying a small cooler of Gatorade. I looked out the window of the sauna door and saw the gentleman who I believed to be R. Kelly's sentry wearing a full parka with fur hood.
After a brief exchange including: “Where is it,” “It’s on the bus,” and “Well, go get it,” we were once again left alone. What “it” was or why “it” was so important is left to the ages.
Deciding that I had to unpurse my lip, lest the opportunity escape, I remarked, “I feel under dressed.” A cheerful observation on my obvious nakedness and their clothedness.
R. KELLY: Man, really? I’m cold in here, I’m trying to get a blanket or something.
My mouth tried to say "huh" but my brain was trying to conserve energy.
R. KELLY: This is how we do it.
TRAINER: If you’re here to just exfoliate, you do it like you’re doing it. But if you’re here to lose a few pounds, this is how we do it.
R. KELLY: This is how we do it.
R. KELLY & TRAINER: This is how we do it.
R. KELLY: This? I don’t feel nothing.
Taking a sip of his chilled Gatorade, he then pulled up the leg of his warm-up pants to show an under-layer that resembled a garbage bag with the NBA logo on it. Something to really seal in the heat.
At this point I make a conscious note that I am out of water.
This is not an excuse for the following comment.
ME: You’re all wrapped up like a turkey.
Then there was silence. I thought to myself, “What does 'turkey' mean? Is it slang for ‘you’re a rapist,’ or ‘please, sexually assault me in the sauna?’”
At this moment, the clouds part and I am met with a moment of clarity. I realize that I am white, naked, and have zero street-cred.
They laugh and nod in true Trainer/R.Kelly rhetoric -- whether or not it’s in reference to my comment is between them. R. Kelly and his trainer have a very intimate grammar, with neither actually needing to finish sentences, although the other clearly knows the intent.
I closed my eyes, rapidly approaching the thirty minute mark. Should I stay? Should I go? When else will I have an opportunity to spend time with one of the world’s top-selling recording artists? This was a man who urinated on a 14-year-old in a Chicago McDonald's, then followed up with one of the most amazing albums the world had ever heard. His record label had so much confidence that he would beat the child-rape charges that they actually allowed the album title to read The Chocolate Factory.
The silence broke again as a rather large, naked, man flew through the front door. With his milky white skin and salt-and-pepper hair, he looked like he was on furlough from Planet Accountant. Taking one look at the pastoral scene he proclaimed, “Man, it’s hot in here,” and promptly left.
R. KELLY: What does that fool think? It’s gonna be cool in here?
TRAINER: It ain’t cool in here.
I nodded in agreement. I also started to see spots. Most importantly, I tried to look cool as I eavesdropped, redistributing my body’s precious (and rapidly evaporating) sweat over my burning flesh.
They discuss the wake-up time in the morning and how the trainer will be there right when he wakes up. Very paternal, indeed. And then there was something about a night shift, but the specific details were unknown to both of them. Apparently R. Kelly's days are 100% scheduled, although the person that keeps the schedule was not in the sauna, locker room, or easily accessible at that moment.
Finally, knowing my limits, I got off the soaked pine bench and made my way to the door. I nodded and dropped a, “Have a good one, guys,” on my way out and was met with reciprocity.
The cool air calmed my screaming nerves, glad to be out of the pressure cooker. As I showered, dried off, and put on my non-NBA-issue sneakers, I welcomed the return to reality.
All of this is true. No shit.
Winter, 2004
Dearest Friends,
Just before the holidays I had a profound experience that I wanted to share with all of you. As many of you know, I am a strong believer that since there are so many different energies around us we have to be open to receiving all the good, bad, and crazy in the world.
Mark this down in column three.
Recovering from a disappointing late-fall Spin class, I decided to vent the failures of the early morning by taking a few moments in the sauna. With my water bottle half full, clothed in a towel, I sat on the pine bleacher-style seat and enjoyed a relaxing beginning to an otherwise normal Tuesday.
Twenty minutes into my retreat, my water bottle was drained -- typically, this is when I retire to the showers and begin my standard morning routine.
Not today.
Two visitors joined me. The first was an Italian gentleman wearing a track suit. The other, in similar attire, was R. Kelly. The first question that comes to mind when encountering a male celebrity in an au natural setting is, “How big are his balls?” Mr. Kelly’s balls were nowhere to be seen, buried under a layer of NBA warm-up gear, sneakers, and, I think, a turtleneck.
For those of you who may not be familiar with R. Kelly, one of the finest R&B artists/child rapists of our time, here is a link to Mr. Kelly's bio.
Let’s pause for a moment. It’s 7:00 a.m., almost 160 degrees -- no odds-maker could have predicted this encounter.
Another member of his entourage entered, this time wearing camouflage pants and a hooded sweatshirt, carrying a small cooler of Gatorade. I looked out the window of the sauna door and saw the gentleman who I believed to be R. Kelly's sentry wearing a full parka with fur hood.
After a brief exchange including: “Where is it,” “It’s on the bus,” and “Well, go get it,” we were once again left alone. What “it” was or why “it” was so important is left to the ages.
Deciding that I had to unpurse my lip, lest the opportunity escape, I remarked, “I feel under dressed.” A cheerful observation on my obvious nakedness and their clothedness.
R. KELLY: Man, really? I’m cold in here, I’m trying to get a blanket or something.
My mouth tried to say "huh" but my brain was trying to conserve energy.
R. KELLY: This is how we do it.
TRAINER: If you’re here to just exfoliate, you do it like you’re doing it. But if you’re here to lose a few pounds, this is how we do it.
R. KELLY: This is how we do it.
R. KELLY & TRAINER: This is how we do it.
R. KELLY: This? I don’t feel nothing.
Taking a sip of his chilled Gatorade, he then pulled up the leg of his warm-up pants to show an under-layer that resembled a garbage bag with the NBA logo on it. Something to really seal in the heat.
At this point I make a conscious note that I am out of water.
This is not an excuse for the following comment.
ME: You’re all wrapped up like a turkey.
Then there was silence. I thought to myself, “What does 'turkey' mean? Is it slang for ‘you’re a rapist,’ or ‘please, sexually assault me in the sauna?’”
At this moment, the clouds part and I am met with a moment of clarity. I realize that I am white, naked, and have zero street-cred.
They laugh and nod in true Trainer/R.Kelly rhetoric -- whether or not it’s in reference to my comment is between them. R. Kelly and his trainer have a very intimate grammar, with neither actually needing to finish sentences, although the other clearly knows the intent.
I closed my eyes, rapidly approaching the thirty minute mark. Should I stay? Should I go? When else will I have an opportunity to spend time with one of the world’s top-selling recording artists? This was a man who urinated on a 14-year-old in a Chicago McDonald's, then followed up with one of the most amazing albums the world had ever heard. His record label had so much confidence that he would beat the child-rape charges that they actually allowed the album title to read The Chocolate Factory.
The silence broke again as a rather large, naked, man flew through the front door. With his milky white skin and salt-and-pepper hair, he looked like he was on furlough from Planet Accountant. Taking one look at the pastoral scene he proclaimed, “Man, it’s hot in here,” and promptly left.
R. KELLY: What does that fool think? It’s gonna be cool in here?
TRAINER: It ain’t cool in here.
I nodded in agreement. I also started to see spots. Most importantly, I tried to look cool as I eavesdropped, redistributing my body’s precious (and rapidly evaporating) sweat over my burning flesh.
They discuss the wake-up time in the morning and how the trainer will be there right when he wakes up. Very paternal, indeed. And then there was something about a night shift, but the specific details were unknown to both of them. Apparently R. Kelly's days are 100% scheduled, although the person that keeps the schedule was not in the sauna, locker room, or easily accessible at that moment.
Finally, knowing my limits, I got off the soaked pine bench and made my way to the door. I nodded and dropped a, “Have a good one, guys,” on my way out and was met with reciprocity.
The cool air calmed my screaming nerves, glad to be out of the pressure cooker. As I showered, dried off, and put on my non-NBA-issue sneakers, I welcomed the return to reality.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Alternate casting
I was lucky enough to hit record on a classic film the other day - Howard the Duck. A few days later I plopped in front of the televesion with my favorite microwave lasagna and zoomed through this gem. I remember that folks were really excited about this film. It was a George Lucas-produced piece which, coming off the heels of Return of the Jedi, was a big deal. It also featured Lea Thompson, who was incredible in Back to the Future.
Despite the catchy plot of "humanoid duck comes to Earth an befriends a punk rock chick," Howard the Duck was a bomb. It lost something like $21 million based on the domestic box office. The website Box Office Mojo suggests it broke even on the worldwide release - maybe foreign-language dubbing did something for the themes. Moreso this was a huge studio picture with a lot of names behind it that failed to deliver.
Personally, I thought the movie was great. I still think it's great. If for no other reason that there a numerous references and innuendo about the possibility of a male alien duck and a human woman having a sexual relationship. If Howard and Beverly had sealed the deal, the movie would habe been on the AFI top 100 list, guaranteed.
I think they should remake this movie. I read somewhere that Weird Science is being remade. If we are that bankrupt for new ideas, then Howard the Duck should should be at the top of development cycles.
Here's my updated cast list:
Voice of Howard: Zach Braff - this jerkoff needs a hit, big time. And he's already played an anthropomorphic dinner-bird in Chicken Little. Strangely enough, the cute-faced asshole's biggest hit was Chicken Little. Maybe the world isn't ready for Zach Braff's face.
Beverly Switzer: Anna Farris or Julia Stiles - we can debate this, most likely there is even a better choice. I'm imagining in this role an actress who thinks she's street, but has no collateral to back it up. However, the studio wants someone that can potentially open a movie.
Phil Blumburtt: Rainn Wilson - this is a no-brainer. Tim Robbins' costume design (especially the glasses) even looks like Rainn Wilson circa now. Maybe someone has a time machine. If so, they should go back in time and fire the executive who authorized Garden State.
Dr. Walter Jenning: Jeffrey Jones. He may be the only person who can play his roles; definitely a niche actor. Too bad he was arrested in 2003 for possession of child pornography. However, I do think Hollywood has the compassion to forgive that. My second choice for Dr. Jenning is Tom Sizemore.
Despite the catchy plot of "humanoid duck comes to Earth an befriends a punk rock chick," Howard the Duck was a bomb. It lost something like $21 million based on the domestic box office. The website Box Office Mojo suggests it broke even on the worldwide release - maybe foreign-language dubbing did something for the themes. Moreso this was a huge studio picture with a lot of names behind it that failed to deliver.
Personally, I thought the movie was great. I still think it's great. If for no other reason that there a numerous references and innuendo about the possibility of a male alien duck and a human woman having a sexual relationship. If Howard and Beverly had sealed the deal, the movie would habe been on the AFI top 100 list, guaranteed.
I think they should remake this movie. I read somewhere that Weird Science is being remade. If we are that bankrupt for new ideas, then Howard the Duck should should be at the top of development cycles.
Here's my updated cast list:
Voice of Howard: Zach Braff - this jerkoff needs a hit, big time. And he's already played an anthropomorphic dinner-bird in Chicken Little. Strangely enough, the cute-faced asshole's biggest hit was Chicken Little. Maybe the world isn't ready for Zach Braff's face.
Beverly Switzer: Anna Farris or Julia Stiles - we can debate this, most likely there is even a better choice. I'm imagining in this role an actress who thinks she's street, but has no collateral to back it up. However, the studio wants someone that can potentially open a movie.
Phil Blumburtt: Rainn Wilson - this is a no-brainer. Tim Robbins' costume design (especially the glasses) even looks like Rainn Wilson circa now. Maybe someone has a time machine. If so, they should go back in time and fire the executive who authorized Garden State.
Dr. Walter Jenning: Jeffrey Jones. He may be the only person who can play his roles; definitely a niche actor. Too bad he was arrested in 2003 for possession of child pornography. However, I do think Hollywood has the compassion to forgive that. My second choice for Dr. Jenning is Tom Sizemore.
Friday, September 28, 2007
International news
Here are a two of this week's (un)surprising articles. Feel free to stop after you get through the headlines and subheads.
FYI: I think writing newspaper headlines would be an incredible freelance career. The personal growth that one would get from writing such encaptioning phrases could be amazing. The pay is probably a mess, though.
Switched
BBC News
AP via Yahoo! News
FYI: I think writing newspaper headlines would be an incredible freelance career. The personal growth that one would get from writing such encaptioning phrases could be amazing. The pay is probably a mess, though.
Switched
BBC News
AP via Yahoo! News
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Sticks and oil
My friend Beard and I recently started dining at a fondue restaurant called Geja's. For some reason, even in my many years in Chicago, this establishment escaped my eating itinerary until recently. That's especially curious since it has a number of elements that I find particularly interesting: hot oil, skewers, meats, chocolate, onions, and an unhelpful waitstaff.
The last time we went to Geja's, our waiter was a cross between Danny DeVito and Tatu from Fantasy Island. He also sounded just like -- or was doing an impression of -- Truman Capote. I do have to give him credit, as he was able to put meat or veggies onto a skewer, dip them in cooking oil, stir the mix, and remove appropriately cooked food.
We were not able to come nearly as close.
At one point, while fishing for a potato in a vat of boiling oil, and simultaneously trying to remember if the cooking time for chicken was 2 or 3 minutes (it was 3), I realized that the table was too high. I couldn't get the proper angle to stir the pot effectively.
Beard was also having difficulty, too. We were a mess. I looked around the restaurant and no one else was even flinching. Apparently, they had either been instructed by someone who was willing to divulge a dipping secret OR we were monkeys in an experiment. At this point in our lives, calling us monkeys would be a compliment.
After ruining several skewers and eating some undercooked chicken, dessert came.
I LOVE DESSERT.
The chocolate fondue had a layer of alcohol on top that was lit on fire. We were given marshmallows and our waiter told us to cook them over the fire. Getting caught up in the moment, I interpreted his instructions as, "submerge the marshmallows in the chocolate with the alcohol-induced flame." This became a problem instantly, as the marshmallow caught on fire. Unfortunately, attempting to blow out the ignited marshmallow just spewed fire in Beard's direction. And in the direction of several other tables of people competently eating their dessert.
In addition to the ill-fated marshmallows, a couple of other dipping options were provided. Here's what doesn't taste good dipped in chocolate: chocolate covered pineapple; chocolate covered honeydew melon.
Finally, as oil seeped out of our pores and I lamented requesting additional pieces of pound cake (delicious), I flagged down the smartest looking waiter. He looked like Brian Bosworth, for those of you who remember "the Bos'."
I asked him if there were any stories of casualties or food mishaps and he got an idiot's grin and started nodding his head "yes."
He told us two stories:
1. Patrons sometimes think that the boiling oil is too hot and they pour ice water into it. If you've ever been in a chemistry lab OR a kitchen before, you know that oil and water don't mix. He said that when you pour ice water into boiling oil, the oil shoots up and sometimes touches the fringes of the curtains they have around the booths.
These fringes are highly flammable and tend to send a booth up in flames very quickly.
2. He then told us that a man brought his fiancée to Geja's to break up with her. Why someone would choose such a romantic restaurant to end a relationship deserved what happened next. The fiancée took a pot of boiling oil and threw it in the dude's face.
SHE THREW IT IN HIS FACE.
To give you some perspective, water boils at 100°C/212°F. Oil boils at 175°C /345°F.
The nature of our organic skin is that it's mainly hydrophobic (water repellent). This is why water doesn't seep into our pores and puff us up every time we jump in a pool.
There's an old adage, "like dissolves like." What this means is that inorganic solvents (like water) dissolve inorganic solutes. Organic solvents dissolve organic solutes.
This is why water and oil are immiscible.
However, our skin is organic, as is oil. This meant that at the moment the gentleman decided to break off his engagement during dinner, the delicate fabric covering his muscles, bones, tendons and organs was right next to something that could turn it to jelly.
Now that you've had the science lesson, here's where we left off: angry fiancée threw boiling oil in his face. It took him a 1/1000 of a second to close his eyes, and 1/100 of a second for his eyelids to burn like Napoleon's cock did when he had syphilis.
Then his face started to melt.
For a moment, I bet she wondered if she wasn't better off being single. Sure, planning the wedding had been fun, but there was something about her independence that was withering away. And as the cops were called she couldn't help but think that maybe this was a blessing in disguise.
Speaking of blessings, G-d bless the patron who tried to help the screaming now-single guy by throwing water in his face, subsequently igniting the curtains above their heads. Did anyone eating a plate of beef, chicken, and shellfish ever realize that they had walked into a veritable kill zone? Would that stop them from putting grapes into cheese during the appetizer portion?
Probably not.
All in all, the man had third degree burns over his face and neck and his ex-fiancée had an apartment full of engagement gifts that she probably got to keep.
I wonder if anyone gave them a fondue pot.
The last time we went to Geja's, our waiter was a cross between Danny DeVito and Tatu from Fantasy Island. He also sounded just like -- or was doing an impression of -- Truman Capote. I do have to give him credit, as he was able to put meat or veggies onto a skewer, dip them in cooking oil, stir the mix, and remove appropriately cooked food.
We were not able to come nearly as close.
At one point, while fishing for a potato in a vat of boiling oil, and simultaneously trying to remember if the cooking time for chicken was 2 or 3 minutes (it was 3), I realized that the table was too high. I couldn't get the proper angle to stir the pot effectively.
Beard was also having difficulty, too. We were a mess. I looked around the restaurant and no one else was even flinching. Apparently, they had either been instructed by someone who was willing to divulge a dipping secret OR we were monkeys in an experiment. At this point in our lives, calling us monkeys would be a compliment.
After ruining several skewers and eating some undercooked chicken, dessert came.
I LOVE DESSERT.
The chocolate fondue had a layer of alcohol on top that was lit on fire. We were given marshmallows and our waiter told us to cook them over the fire. Getting caught up in the moment, I interpreted his instructions as, "submerge the marshmallows in the chocolate with the alcohol-induced flame." This became a problem instantly, as the marshmallow caught on fire. Unfortunately, attempting to blow out the ignited marshmallow just spewed fire in Beard's direction. And in the direction of several other tables of people competently eating their dessert.
In addition to the ill-fated marshmallows, a couple of other dipping options were provided. Here's what doesn't taste good dipped in chocolate: chocolate covered pineapple; chocolate covered honeydew melon.
Finally, as oil seeped out of our pores and I lamented requesting additional pieces of pound cake (delicious), I flagged down the smartest looking waiter. He looked like Brian Bosworth, for those of you who remember "the Bos'."
I asked him if there were any stories of casualties or food mishaps and he got an idiot's grin and started nodding his head "yes."
He told us two stories:
1. Patrons sometimes think that the boiling oil is too hot and they pour ice water into it. If you've ever been in a chemistry lab OR a kitchen before, you know that oil and water don't mix. He said that when you pour ice water into boiling oil, the oil shoots up and sometimes touches the fringes of the curtains they have around the booths.
These fringes are highly flammable and tend to send a booth up in flames very quickly.
2. He then told us that a man brought his fiancée to Geja's to break up with her. Why someone would choose such a romantic restaurant to end a relationship deserved what happened next. The fiancée took a pot of boiling oil and threw it in the dude's face.
SHE THREW IT IN HIS FACE.
To give you some perspective, water boils at 100°C/212°F. Oil boils at 175°C /345°F.
The nature of our organic skin is that it's mainly hydrophobic (water repellent). This is why water doesn't seep into our pores and puff us up every time we jump in a pool.
There's an old adage, "like dissolves like." What this means is that inorganic solvents (like water) dissolve inorganic solutes. Organic solvents dissolve organic solutes.
This is why water and oil are immiscible.
However, our skin is organic, as is oil. This meant that at the moment the gentleman decided to break off his engagement during dinner, the delicate fabric covering his muscles, bones, tendons and organs was right next to something that could turn it to jelly.
Now that you've had the science lesson, here's where we left off: angry fiancée threw boiling oil in his face. It took him a 1/1000 of a second to close his eyes, and 1/100 of a second for his eyelids to burn like Napoleon's cock did when he had syphilis.
Then his face started to melt.
For a moment, I bet she wondered if she wasn't better off being single. Sure, planning the wedding had been fun, but there was something about her independence that was withering away. And as the cops were called she couldn't help but think that maybe this was a blessing in disguise.
Speaking of blessings, G-d bless the patron who tried to help the screaming now-single guy by throwing water in his face, subsequently igniting the curtains above their heads. Did anyone eating a plate of beef, chicken, and shellfish ever realize that they had walked into a veritable kill zone? Would that stop them from putting grapes into cheese during the appetizer portion?
Probably not.
All in all, the man had third degree burns over his face and neck and his ex-fiancée had an apartment full of engagement gifts that she probably got to keep.
I wonder if anyone gave them a fondue pot.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Personal space
The following is a letter to the individual who has the garage parking spot directly across from me. This is the same person who often uses the leftover space in his stall to park his genital-compensating Harley-Davidson motorcycle. Subsequently, due to matters of area and volume, his motorcycle is often half parked in my spot.
Dear Dickface,
Perhaps you think this is the parking lot at a high school football game, but brother, you need to step up the etiquette. I know you've got the cash and you want to flash it to all the ladies and I'm with you on that. As much I like mixing it up and getting loud, let it be known my voice is pretty soft right now. Please, Dickface, get out of my fucking spot.
We all know you're rich, with your Mercury Sable co-parked in your spot and your wife's Ford Escape in the adjacent one. We get it; you've been lucky in life. But maybe there was a time when you could only afford one spot for your three vehicles - I bet then you would have freaked out if someone moved in on your precious auto pen
Maybe you don't think too much of my Toyota. Maybe you don't care that I pay a lot to have that 50 square feet of concrete garage. Maybe your condo is just a weekend retreat for you and your wife? Maybe it's not even your wife. Maybe you're an alien or a centaur or a dragon.
I don't presume to know you, although I do presume you understand the idea of property boundaries. In my closet there are a bunch of guest sheets and pillows that would LOVE a new home. How about I wedge the bin in your front door? Would that be okay, Dickface?
The answer to that question is no. Let's make this work. I'm a lover not a fighter. But I will write an email to the condo association and cite all of the rules you are breaking: 1) having more than one vehicle in a parking spot; 2) using your spot for storage (I see the extra SUV seat you have against the support column); 3) being in another tenants fucking spot.
You want that unenforceable $25/day association penalty assessed on you? Do you, moneybags?
Chew on that.
Best,
Justin
Dear Dickface,
Perhaps you think this is the parking lot at a high school football game, but brother, you need to step up the etiquette. I know you've got the cash and you want to flash it to all the ladies and I'm with you on that. As much I like mixing it up and getting loud, let it be known my voice is pretty soft right now. Please, Dickface, get out of my fucking spot.
We all know you're rich, with your Mercury Sable co-parked in your spot and your wife's Ford Escape in the adjacent one. We get it; you've been lucky in life. But maybe there was a time when you could only afford one spot for your three vehicles - I bet then you would have freaked out if someone moved in on your precious auto pen
Maybe you don't think too much of my Toyota. Maybe you don't care that I pay a lot to have that 50 square feet of concrete garage. Maybe your condo is just a weekend retreat for you and your wife? Maybe it's not even your wife. Maybe you're an alien or a centaur or a dragon.
I don't presume to know you, although I do presume you understand the idea of property boundaries. In my closet there are a bunch of guest sheets and pillows that would LOVE a new home. How about I wedge the bin in your front door? Would that be okay, Dickface?
The answer to that question is no. Let's make this work. I'm a lover not a fighter. But I will write an email to the condo association and cite all of the rules you are breaking: 1) having more than one vehicle in a parking spot; 2) using your spot for storage (I see the extra SUV seat you have against the support column); 3) being in another tenants fucking spot.
You want that unenforceable $25/day association penalty assessed on you? Do you, moneybags?
Chew on that.
Best,
Justin
Moment in history
Over the past few years most of my friends have decided to go back to school. The percentage is pretty equally split between business school and law school, although there is the occasional public policy or architecture thrown in there.
Breezing through some of their applications I found they looked strangley familiar. GPA, letters of recommendations, essays. From what I remember from undergrad applications, essays invoked a sense of acute literarly turmoil. Were graduate school applications any different? Not really. The prompts were generally the same - effectively yielding another hashmark in the "things never change" column.
Here are a few examples of prompts:
1. If you could have dinner with one person living or dead, who would it be and why?
2. What is a major challenge that you have overcome?
3. If you could time travel to any moment in history, which would you choose and why?
Pretty standard.
Here are my answers:
1. Nostradamus. I just want him to know how high his prediction batting average is.
2. Not being able to breathe underwater.
The third one is a no-brainer.
3. If i could choose any moment in history, I would choose the day that the tribe of proto-men decided to tell a less astute proto-man that it was no longer okay to fuck monkeys and/or apes.
PM1: Hey, Uglusk, can we chat a second?
UG: Sure, what's up?
PM1: Dude, I don't know if you got the email...
UG: What's email?
PM2: Shut the fuck up, Uglusk.
UG: No, seriously, I don't know what email is---
PM1: It doesn't matter. Uglusk, maybe you haven't noticed, but we've all been (stiffles laughter) banging chicks that walk upright.
The proto-men (save Uglusk) howl with laughter.
PM2: It's been like two weeks, man. Every time we ritually group-mate with the skirts in the camp, I look over and you're all up in a primate.
UG: Her name is Karen.
They laugh again.
UG: Fuck all of you. Karen gets me. Maybe I don't connect with the women here. But Karen .... Karen and I know exactly who we are to each other. And fuck email, whatever that is.
The proto-men laugh so hard their bodies convulse. Their convulsions turn to a group movement. They begin to dance.
Breezing through some of their applications I found they looked strangley familiar. GPA, letters of recommendations, essays. From what I remember from undergrad applications, essays invoked a sense of acute literarly turmoil. Were graduate school applications any different? Not really. The prompts were generally the same - effectively yielding another hashmark in the "things never change" column.
Here are a few examples of prompts:
1. If you could have dinner with one person living or dead, who would it be and why?
2. What is a major challenge that you have overcome?
3. If you could time travel to any moment in history, which would you choose and why?
Pretty standard.
Here are my answers:
1. Nostradamus. I just want him to know how high his prediction batting average is.
2. Not being able to breathe underwater.
The third one is a no-brainer.
3. If i could choose any moment in history, I would choose the day that the tribe of proto-men decided to tell a less astute proto-man that it was no longer okay to fuck monkeys and/or apes.
PM1: Hey, Uglusk, can we chat a second?
UG: Sure, what's up?
PM1: Dude, I don't know if you got the email...
UG: What's email?
PM2: Shut the fuck up, Uglusk.
UG: No, seriously, I don't know what email is---
PM1: It doesn't matter. Uglusk, maybe you haven't noticed, but we've all been (stiffles laughter) banging chicks that walk upright.
The proto-men (save Uglusk) howl with laughter.
PM2: It's been like two weeks, man. Every time we ritually group-mate with the skirts in the camp, I look over and you're all up in a primate.
UG: Her name is Karen.
They laugh again.
UG: Fuck all of you. Karen gets me. Maybe I don't connect with the women here. But Karen .... Karen and I know exactly who we are to each other. And fuck email, whatever that is.
The proto-men laugh so hard their bodies convulse. Their convulsions turn to a group movement. They begin to dance.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Hello and hi
In the interest of getting back in the habit of writing, I have severed off my own chunk of the Internet to call my own. I only hope that in the next few weeks, the Internet will run out of space and they'll shut me down. Then I could blame technology.
Right now I can only blame myself.
This is me.
Right now I can only blame myself.
This is me.
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