Archive for the the snows of yesteryear Category

REMEMBERING JOURNALSPACE

Posted in And now the snorting starts, Television, the snows of yesteryear, The Wilhelm Scream, The Wrath of God, TV on August 29, 2012 by paulboylan

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Looking for something else, I found this.  I don’t remember writing it, or posting it, but it reminds me of a strange, rarified experience that ended when that place just just seemed to evaporate one day.

On November 18, 2007, I posted the following silliness at Journalspace:

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I am sure by now all of the People of Earth are aware that the Screen Writer’s Guild is on strike.   The men and women who write scripts for your favorite television shows and movies are refusing to write anything unless they get a teeny, tiny share of the billions of dollars Hollywood producers are paid.

 You may see this as a terrible thing. How many reruns can the human mind stand? But I see this as my big chance to finally become a Hollywood writer. I am hoping that producers are desperate enough to seriously consider my ideas.  Here are some of them:

SURVIVOR CHINA/BIG BROTHER:  Takes place in a Mainland Chinese supermarket.  The contestants have to eat what they find there. The last contestant who doesn’t die of food poisoning, lead poisoning or from ingesting industrial solvents wins.

THE BIG STICK:  Imagine two people in a room. One of them is hitting the other with a big stick. This idea is a sure winner. Violence sells. Americans love violence.  And the best part is that it doesn’t require any writers. There is no script. Just a room, two people and a stick. Maybe a chair. Talk about your “high concept.”

THE JUDGE MANN SHOW:  Retired Judge Mann makes a statement, and for the rest of the show a panel of legal experts and mental health professionals debate whether the statement has a sound legal foundation or whether it is a manifestation of a psychotic episode.

THE PERSONAL HYGENE HABITS OF THE RICH AND FAMOUS:  Who doesn’t want to watch Jennifer Aniston, Angelina Jolie or Brad Pitt’s brushing their teeth?  I sure would.

THE PADRE CADRE:  Just like the Mod Squad from the 1970’s, but with priests.  A group of priests, rabbis and Imams secretly solve crimes, many of them supernatural in nature. The main characters might also have faith-inspired super powers, like walking on water, summoning forth locusts (to confound the bad guys) or moving mountains.

THE SENATOR AND MR. VIVA:  A California State Senator is forced by humorous circumstances to share a Sacramento apartment with “Mr. Viva” – a professional male stripper.  Even though the Senator and Mr. Viva lead very different lives, they are nevertheless united by their paranoid fear of Government surveillance.

MY THREE SONS OF SAM:  In this sit-com, a single father is raising three sons, each of which is a serial killer taking instructions from the talking family dog, Sam.  Hijinks ensue.

SHOOTIN’ UP!:  Three heroin addicts keep pursuing hilariously complex hare-brained schemes to get enough money for their next fix. In the pilot episode, the addicts impersonate the lost relatives of a dying rich old lady, only to learn after her death that she gave all of her money to her cat.  Each episode always ends back in the abandoned house where the show begins with the three addicts going into withdrawal as the audience laughs and applauds. Fade to black.

TALKING BEER BOTTLE ISLAND:  Something for the kids.  This show is just like Lidsville back in the 1970’s, except that the characters are talking beer bottles with personalities to match the kind of beer they are. For example, Lone Star is a Texan, Bud is king, and Sam Adams is an American revolutionary. Fun for the whole beer drinking family.

GASPAR THE FRIENDLY SKULL:  In this kid’s show, Gaspar is a friendly, disembodied floating skull. Gaspar is sad because all of the children are frightened of him and run away every time he floats up and says “hi!”  The show teaches tolerance for disembodied skulls and acceptance of Día de los Muertos festival activities.

Speaking of tolerance, there is a growing television market catering to homosexuals.  They even have their own cable television station – Logo (which is Latin for “logo”).  Even though I am not gay, I am confident I can write for this new, important television, underserved market. Here are some of my ideas:

OKLAHOMO!:   Brokeback Mountain revealed to the straight world how much gay people are fascinated with cowboys.  My idea is basically the exact same thing as the musical Okalahoma! except that the direction emphasizes the homo-erotic tension between Curly and Judd. As the audience watches the plot unfold, they slowly realize that Curly loves Judd and is pursuing the beautiful but clueless Laurey because Curly is in denial of his true sexual orientation.  The song lyrics “brand new state…plen’y of room to swing a rope!/ plen’y of heart and plen’y of hope” will take on a totally new meaning.

HOMOCIDE: Just like the detective drama Homicide but everyone in the show is gay – and fabulous.

GAYLIENS: Closely based on the classic TV sitcom My Favorite Martian. Set in the 1960’s, Uncle Martin is flamboyantly gay guy from Mars. Martin’s “nephew” knows it, but this being the ‘60’s, none of the straight people in the show realize it – even though Inspector Brennan often suspects “something is up.”

I am going to send these ideas to every Hollywood producer out there, and maybe, just maybe, I will get my lucky break.

However, in the meantime, I will heed my wife’s advice to “keep my day job.”

She never supports my dreams.

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Reading the foregoing – for the first time in nearly five years – was bitter-sweet.  Seeing what I was capable of only a few years ago was sweet. Talking Beer Bottle Island?  Could I be any funnier?  But concluding I am no longer the person who wrote this piece, that I’ve changed in five years, that my creative powers, the glee that bubbles up, or used to, doesn’t quite do that anymore left a very bitter taste.  I’m not the grinning imp I once was.  Heck, now that I think of it, I haven’t perpetrated a complex practical joke for  longer than I can remember.  When did I so thoroughly and unequivocally grow up?

Then I thought about it and decided that if I could revise the original I would add one more idea, one more perfect television show:

SAY YES TO THE MESS:

My wife watches three television programs I detest – The first is Say Yes to the Dress, a program that follows a bride on her quest to purchase a wedding dress. I admit the sales staff’s invariably successful attempts to massage the ultimate sale to a level higher than the family’s “budget” is interesting.  Anyone who has ever worked in retail sales would admire the skill used to squeeze more money out of bride’s family for what amounts to the purchase of something that will only be used once. But otherwise the program features people readily indulging in six of the seven deadly sins and watching it leaves me feeling unclean.

The second television program my wife enjoys – but that I hate – is House Hunters.  In this program, wealthy people who want to purchase a home consider three gosh real estate prospects, eventually arbitrarily settling on one of the three.

The third television program my wife enjoys – but that I find horrific beyond my ability to articulate – is Hoarders.  This television show is about people who accumulate so much “stuff” that their homes become unlivable – and often vermin infested.  They are “hoarders” living in their own private circle of hell devoted to their endless worthless possessions and broken refrigerators and freezers filled with rotting produce and meat.

Although I hate all three programs, I love the idea of combining them into a show with the working title Say Yes to the Mess.  Imagine a television program where hoarders go and visit the homes of other hoarders and consider swapping their disgusting homes for the disgusting homes of other hoarders.

I’d watch that show. Wouldn’t you?

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Yep. I’ve still got it.

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MEMORIES

Posted in Captain America, dada, Europe, fetish, French Impressionistic Knock-Knock Jokes, Is that really Ellie Goulding?, photograph, Photography, the snows of yesteryear, Uncategorized, Why do people in other countries talk funny? on March 30, 2012 by paulboylan

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I just found this photo in long forgotten file within my computer:

I took it in 1984.  I was in a bar located in a bad part of Paris. I was really, really drunk, and I saw this really pretty girl. So I went up to her and told her I wanted to take a photo of her with her hands over her face.

“Pour quoi? ” she asked.

I distinctly remember her asking that, but I don’t remember what I said in response. I seem to recall it wasn’t very polite.

Years later I photoshopped it into what you see now.

Can’t say I wasted my youth, eh?

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A GRIM FAIRY TALE – Free Among the Monkeys And Elephants

Posted in And now the snorting starts, Art, Cowboys and Aliens, Grim Fairy Tales, Hubris, 재미, αστείος, скарлетт йоханссон, Our animal friends, Pop Culture, The Great State of Montana!, The River of Time, the snows of yesteryear, The Wilhelm Scream, مقاطع‏ ‏سكس‏ ‏مصارعه, مضحك on March 6, 2012 by paulboylan

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"Hello, children. Would you like to hear a story?"

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I just saw a ten minute preview of the new movie John Carter, and it got me thinking.

I’ve met a lot of professional writers, many of which I admire as artists who have skills I cannot and could not possibly match.  But not all the writers I’ve encountered in my life fit that description. The simple fact is that being a good writer and being a successful writer are often different things and depend on factors that have nothing to do with skill.

So I see the John Carter preview and it looks great. And I am reminded of the book and the author that inspired it back in 1912 – exactly a century ago. And I realize, again, that no one can say what is good or predict with any accuracy what will last.

What follows isn’t exactly a grim fairy tale, but it’s close enough to fit in that category.

So, without further faffing, I give you…

FREE AMONG THE MONKEYS AND ELEPHANTS

On night in late October, 1913, in Dover, England, in a pub at the bottom of a hill, in the shadow of Dover Castle – walking distance to the beach where Matthew Arnold heard ignorant armies clashing by night – George Bernard Shaw was working hard to persuade Lydia, an aspiring American actress, to have sex with him.           

“Should we be going?” Lydia asked.  The piercing cry of gliding seagulls sounded loudly throughout the thick seaside darkness. “The train back to London leaves in ten minutes.”

 ”We can catch the next one,” Shaw responded. 

 ”Do you really think you can get me a reading for Liza?”

 ”I am the playwright.  Of course I can.”

 ”But I don’t know how to do a cockney accent.”

 ”That’s won’t be a problem,” Shaw said.  “I can teach you.  Look, since we’re waiting for the next train, why don’t we take a walk down to the beach?  Matthew Arnold wrote his famous love poem there.”

  “Who? Lydia asked.

 ”Never mind,” Shaw said, taking her hand and guiding her out of the pub.  They passed where James Joyce sat with his traveling companion and lover, Nora.  Joyce listened to Nora and watched her face as she drank pint after pint of bitter, dark, thick beer.   He listened as she talked about her sex life prior to meeting him.

“I think he made them a bit firmer sucking on them so long,” she slurred, nourishing her thick Irish working-class accent each time she lifted her glass and gulped beer. 

Joyce and Nora were on their way to Paris from Dublin by way of London.  Joyce was struggling to find a publisher for two books – a collection of short stories and a short semi-autobiographical novel.  At that moment, in the middle of her beer-sodden reminiscence, Nora could not have cared less.

 ”He made me spend the second time tickling my behind with his finger,” Nora laughed, red eyed.

Joyce smiled and nodded, encouraging her to continue. 

 ”I tried it with the banana,” she confessed. “But I was afraid it might break and get lost up in me somewhere.”  Joyce looked concerned, but wasn’t.  He listened carefully, trying with all his might to memorize every single word.

In the same pub, Edgar Rice Burrows sat with his friend and fellow writer, William Seabrook.  Burrows eagerly described a novel he was writing.

 ”Thuvia is this voluptuous Martian princess,” he began

 ”Are there any other kind?” Seabrook asked.  He genuinely liked Edgar, and admired his success as a popular writer, but nevertheless believed that Burrows was an idiot.

“She is in love with the son of John Carter, the Warlord of Mars -” Burrows explained.

“The Martian princess?”

 ”Yeah.  So she’s in love with this big warrior type who can jump really far and high because his father is from the Earth.”

 ”He can jump high because his father is from Earth?”

 ”Yeah.”

 ”Sort of like a handsome, muscular grass hopper.”

 ”Look, do you want to hear about this or not?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. Please go on.”

“So Carthoris – that’s the guy – he has the hots for Thuvia -”

 ”Carthoris and Thuvia?”

“Yeah.”

 ”Sounds like a bad Shakespearian play.”

 ”So she’s got the hots for him, too, but bad guys kidnap her and make it look like Carthoris did it.”

 ”So he sallies forth to rescue her.”

 ”Yeah. What do you think?”

“Charming.  But tell me about that ape-man novel you are writing.”

“Sure.  It’s based on the short story I published.  Did you read it?”

 ”No, but I’m still interested. It is about a man who is half man, half ape, if I remember correctly.”

“Not half-man half-ape.  He is an ape-man named Tarzan.”

“Whatever.  You say that your publisher is willing to pay you in advance to write it?”

 ”Yeah.”

 ”Well then, why waste your time with your Martian Romeo and Juliet until you’ve finished the Tarzan novel?  What are you going to call it?”

“Tarzan.”

 ”I should have guessed.  Sort of a foreign adventure piece I take it?”

“On, yeah. Lots of adventure.  Tarzan is a guy who was raised in the African jungle by apes.”

“It sounds ghastly.  Are you sure they’re going to pay you for this?”

“You bet.”

“I wonder what the appeal is?” Seabrook pondered.

“Every guy wants to be Tarzan,” Burrows explained.  “Tarzan has everything a man could want.”

“Fleas?”

“Tarzan doesn’t have fleas,” Burrows said, irritably.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not going to give him any,” Burrows said. “I’m giving him a great life.  He’s king of the beasts, lord of the apes.  He can talk to elephants.” 

“Elephants?”

“He can call elephants if he needs them.”

“Why would he need elephants.”

“If he needs a ride, or if he needs help.”

“How helpful can an elephant be?” 

“Lets say he’s surrounded by bad guys, and there’s no way out.  Well, he calls to the elephants and they come and trample the bad guys.”

Deus Ex Elephant?” Seabrook asked.

 “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  “The point is that Tarzan does what he wants.  He is totally free from the pressures of the modern world.  He could have been anyone, any one of us.  And that’s my point.  I want the reader to think, ‘Hey, if I had been dropped into a jungle, I could have been Tarzan.  Tarzan and me are the same guy, we were only brought up different.”

 ”You see this Tarzan as leading some kind of idyllic life?”

 ”Not idyllic – ideal.  Idyllic lives are boring lives.  Tarzan faces plenty of danger to keep things interesting.  And there are things missing that he really needs.”

“Soap and water?”

“No.  Women.  There aren’t any women around.”

“What about native women?”

“Oh, yeah, plenty of those.  But there are no white women anywhere.  So he meets this beautiful explorer, and she shows him the ropes -”

Seabrook smiled at the reference.

” – and brings him back to London.  Good stuff.  But the biggest reason why my readers are going to admire Tarzan is his total freedom, so it won’t surprise anyone when Tarzan would rather be in the jungle instead of in civilization.”

“Free among the monkeys and elephants?”

“Exactly.”

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Elmo Lincoln, in the first Tarzan film (1918)

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William Seabrook

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Nora Barnacle

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James Joyce

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George Bernard Shaw

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Lydia Atherton

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Edgar Rice Burroughs

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Thuvia

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Cathorsis (the one doing the stabbing)

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