All this needed was the music from “The Natural” to send me completely over the top, but it does what it promises – forty tear-jerking, spirit-rousing, adreneline-pumping (can that be in the same sentence as tear-jerking?) mashed together speeches from films as diverse as “Braveheart,” “Street Fighter,” “Bring It On,” “Stand and Deliver,” “Swingers,” and “Galaxy Quest.”
Simply put – it’s awesome. I wanted to list it all, but it might spoil it.
Personally, I think Obama should try to use it at his Inaugural Speech.
The towel with which he wiped his face left this image
As the wise and sage-like Gary Busey once said, “Son of a bitch everything’s real,” I too spent my eve teetotaling, and realized there is much to learn while the mind is clean and the thoughts are clear. Namely, I have to write in a pretentious tone, and make use of odd phrasings and word choices.
Fuck that. Here’s some things I learned the night I decided not to drink and still hit four bars. (Maybe that’s how I lasted for four bars… I can get sleepy when I do the brew.) (Image from Drawastar)
Chapter One – Buffalo Wild Wings
Sarcasm doesn’t work in text messages. I knew this was the case with emails, but for some reason that didn’t translate in my brain. Basically, I hurt sumbuwy’s feewings.
Edith Bunker was the first TV character to experience menopause, and not Maude. Who knew that Norman Lear spread the wealth of taboo around? (FYI: Maude was the first to have an abortion.)
Paying cover for a band sucks when you show up right before their set ends, and the group decides to leave before the next set starts because the overall scene is lame. Even if it’s $3. And even though you didn’t pay it (thanks Doctor J).
The Trivia Jockey from my usual Wednesday stop hits this bar after leaving the other bar. Not a big deal. Just if I was a couple pillow cases to the wind I wouldn’t have noticed.
Everybody knows a dude that looks like Al Pacino.
Chapter Three – Kickers Complex (I just learned that’s what it’s called!)
It’s equally nice and sad to be recognized by bartenders.
You never want to hear a man sing Sara Bareilles’ “Love Song.” Not even in an ironic way. Trust me.
This song is supposedly popular, although I’ve never heard of it.
I know it’s country, but I’m familiar with the biggies. This one? I never even heard of its name. Also, the two dudes singing David Allen Coe no favors.
Karaoke in an empty bar sucks.
Chapter Four – Plymouth Roadhouse
It’s equally nice and sad to be recognized by the bartender and the waitress.
When big screen projection TV’s are on their last legs, they look like crooked bootleg DVD’s of movies, minus people walking in front.
In theory, nobody knows shit about what’s going to happen to the Big Three Automakers. The proof (as if you need it) is in the fact that everybody heard and knows something different. Some of my favorite speculations: Ford will be picking up Jeep from GM, Chrysler will go bye-bye, GM will absorb Chrysler’s minivan division and make Dodge Ram their only truck, and Ford will get bought out by the Chinese but will keep the family name as part of the agreement.
And in closing, I learned that what Cerebus did in securing Chrysler was a lot like what Richard Gere’s character did in “Pretty Woman.” They both bought a product at a reduced cost solely to strip it down and liquidate it for profit. In essence – treat it like a whore (a regular one though… not Julia Roberts).
I’m going on Day 20 of a major bender (I should be on a colonel bender by the end of the year, and an admiral bender by the end of January). My brain has been paying the price, and as a byproduct, so has my writing. (It’s all trivia’s fault! But don’t worry – we got into the tournament… as if you cared.)
The follwing videos help my mental state in no way.
Any dream involving a portion of the cast of “That 70’s Show” should be kind enough to include Mila Kunis. This dream did, but the Brothers Masterson did they’re best to keep her from me.
I was visiting New York City, and I was wondering Times Square. I stumbled upon a falafel shop and Danny and Christopher Masterson were manning the window. They had aprons on and spatulas in their hand. I approached and saw Mila in the background, slaving away at the fryer.
“Hey fellas,” I began. They nodded like they knew me. Mila rushed toward the front, but they held her back.
“Help get me out of here! It’s a trap!” (I think this comes from watching “Empire Strikes Back” over Thanksgiving weekend on Spike.)
The Brothers Masterson slammed the windows shut, and there were no visible doors. As I hurried up and down the street searching for an entrance, I ran into him – Mr. Demi Moore himself, Ashton Kutcher. He had a knit cap on and tried calming me down.
“Relax,” he said. “I’ll help you get in there, but you have to do one thing.” He paused. “You need to find me a cool new hat.” He took a step back and removed the winter garment from his head, revealing this:
...yikes...
It suddenly started raining hats, like in that car commercial where it rains shoes. I found a nifty green pimp hat, handed it to him, and we were off on our way.
Turds of a feather...
Then I was suddenly a cockroach. But I could walk and talk. I sounded sorta dopey, as did my one other buddy, Ralph. It was a lot like “Joe’s Apartment,” which I have not seen since 1996, and coincidentally one of the roaches in that shares the same name.
My roach pal and I were caught in some kind of laboratory we were trying to escape, a la “Secret of NIMH.” Adventures were had, and it culminated in a final battle with the scientist. He was all that stood between us and freedom. Ultimately, every cockroach but me enveloped him and devoured him, like how Professor Screweye died in “We’re Back! A Dinosaur’s Story.” Since I could not find video of that – this will have to do:
The second job I ever had was at a medical center for a major hospital (my first job was at a toy store). I worked there just over six years, and the staff saw me through two graduations and a move from Detroit to L.A. In this dream, I had returned to the facility (which no longer exists in real-life). It was in the same location but major remodeling updates had occurred, such as having wood floors throughout, an updated kitchen, and forest green walls with better than average art hanging on them.
I remember walking through as if it was filmed, and it felt like a David E. Kelley show (“Boston Legal,” “Ally McBeal,” the awesome “Chicago Hope,” “Picket Fences,” “L.A. Law,” home sex movies with wife Michelle Pfeiffer).
I was the generic perspective guy through whom the viewers relate. I kept checking out the new looking digs, expecting a big homecoming, trying to run into people that might have remembered me. I saw a few doctors and medical assistants I knew, but they were busy heading between rooms. Otherwise, through the back hallways, I encountered new faces that were basically upgrades of people that came before.
The show jumped into action once I reached the front desk where I worked as a customer service rep. My uncles, Fred and Richard, were doctors for some reason, and Danny Glover (pictured below) was a special guest star.
The scene went like this: Doctor Uncle Fred brought me the billing sheet for one of his patients. The patient had a co-pay of $5 which my uncle knocked down to $3. Doctor Uncle Richard stepped in to pay the remainder, to help the guy out. I guess he was an old friend of the pair that had fallen on hard times. The man also had his two moppet sons with him.
Danny Glover, a fellow CSR, took issue with it. “I don’t care if it’s hard times or not! You have to do what you must! You stop buying the fancy things you don’t need. You make bread instead of going out and buying it. You fish instead of going on vacation!” After the patient left, someone informed Danny that the man lived in a car with his sons.
Cut to: Fyvush Finkel (pictured above – a Kelley recurring player). He’s an older doctor that’s just been told his wife of 50 years is leaving him when we meet him. Also, she’s stolen all his belongings and money. He clutches a forest green wall in disbelief. The hallway he’s in seem to converge and narrow as he stumbles down it toward his office.
Cut to: me at the front desk trying to remember how to do things. When I was there before, it was all on paper. Now everything was digital. A patient came in that had a specimen to deliver with a message. As I looked for the old forms we took messages on, the patient revealed the specimen was anthrax.
I was about to list a handful of reporters, and tell them to get the fuck out of the way, but then I realized I was hard pressed to find any that could hold a torch to CNN’s Sara Sidner. I don’t think in all my recent years I’ve ever seen a modern reporter handle a situation like this:
To me, she is already reminiscent of those I consider to be the Greats – your Cronkites, your Brokaws, your Jennings. I need to keep an eye on Sara Sidner. I need to believe there are journalists out there willing to report their findings… not their opinions. Here’s a bit about Sara Sidner from an article by Leslie Griffith from the Huffington Post:
Objectification to reach a goal is not Sara’s style. Instead she chose the unknown. She chose to walk away from the comforts of home toward potential terror. She has a reporter’s heart and mind, and if she could be cloned, Americans would be better informed and democracy would be safer. She chose to immerse herself in Indian culture while surrounded by countries with itchy trigger-fingers, twisted loyalties and sectarian and political killing fields.
The lump in my throat melted when I saw Sara reporting from Mumbai. I knew her ability to gather information and relate it to viewers, and I also know America cannot avoid another 9/11 without understanding these conflicts.
As a counter-point, imagine if this guy had been in India during the attack:
I’ve put ideas out into the collective unconscious before, only to have them robbed and bastardized without any input from me. Joe Piscopo’s stinker, “Dead Heat?” Mine first (“Harry Cadaver”). JCVD’s “Timecop?” I had the idea two years earlier with the same title (this one I’ll forgive because it’s not that creative). Eddie Murphy in Eddie Murphy in “Meet Dave?” I originally thought “Osmosis Jones” plucked my idea of having Robin Williams inside of Bill Murray’s spaceship body, but “Meet Dave” robbed us both (“The Neuron Conquest”). Even He-Man stole (or borrowed liberally) a character I entered into a contest. Their Snout Spout was my Elephantom.
Then I saw this commercial for Flagstar bank yesterday at the bar. I guess it premiered in this year’s Super Bowl, but since that game was so good (Giants spanked the ButtPats), I probably hit the can during the ads and missed it.
This reminded me of a story I wrote in high school and submitted to our literary journal called the Curio. No wonder I never dated.
B O X I N GY O U RH E A D
I feel deviated like a septum.Separated, apart from what it seems I should be a part of.Not fitting in, a circle in a world of squares.Here I, Lucas Pendleton, sit at the counter of Sigmund’s Soda Shop, and I watch my peers across the way, celebrating and playing by the jukebox.And I can’t be with them.I’ve tended to put my head in the proverbial box for years.So now’s the time to consider it for real.
Here’s a napkin and… here’s a pencil.I need to write this down or I’ll forget.If I did put a box on my head – cardboard being the only choice – it would need to have strategically placed eyeholes so I wouldn’t stumble through life (I do enough without a cube around my head).
As for eating, I would feed my mouth through the opening in the bottom.I wouldn’t need to talk with anyone.The only thing anyone cares about is your name, if even that, and I can have that printed across my forehead.If no one was asking that question anymore, I wouldn’t need earholes.There, the designs are finished.And I’ll never remove my perfect separator for any reason.
Rain.It’s raining outside now.I need to compensate for the dampening spirit that falls from time to time.I’ll draw a little umbrella that could be attached to the top.
Look at them standing over there.Not a care about my plans of seclusion.Will they be sorry, not at all.
They don’t know me anyway.That’s so clear.
Clear.I see clear because of my contacts.How will I remove them?I’ll get corrective surgery done on my eyes.That’s easy.
What’s another problem?
Hygiene.Well, I’ll deal with that as it comes along.
Sleeping comfort.I’ll pad the walls.
Television, movies, and music.How can I enjoy if I can’t hear?I’ll add earholes to the design, very small ones.
A sneeze, I just heard a sneeze.What if my nose runs, or I sneeze?That could get messy.But only I’d know, and only I-I-d–achooo!
“God bless you.”
–Care.Did someone say that to me, or the other guy?Maybe I’ll respond… just in case… to be polite.“Thanks.”See, it wasn’t–
“You’re welcome.”
Well, it’s a female voice, coming from behind me.Should I look?Or did the other fellow say thanks at the same time I did.I’ll say another thing to check.“That’s nice.Thanks.”Stupid, stupid…
“Really?You think so?”
It’s gotta be me.I’m gonna look.I grabbed the counter and hand over hand I turned around to see a woman standing behind me, beautiful as could be.She wore splashy hued shoes and a colorful box-pattern dress.Her flowing brown hair came down past her shoulders from beneath the box she wore on her head.I couldn’t believe it, I was in love.
“Whatcha doing?” she asked me as she tried to peak at my napkin.I just looked at her eyes shining through the sufficiently cut eyeholes.
I sighed in response to her question.She approached me, and I then noticed the earholes she had made.Her cute ears were exposed enough to easily hear me as well as the other man sneeze, yet she chose to ask God to bless me!
“A box, huh?That umbrella idea will never work.Believe me.Oh, believe me.”
She pointed out my flaws in design, and I didn’t care!She tilted her head to me and smiled.She cut out a space for her mouth… and her gorgeous smile.
“Why do you need a box on your head, anyway?”
“I’m thinking the same thing!” I said.I hope she thought I meant her.She brushed her right hand through the top of her flowing brown hair.I didn’t even notice the top and back portion of the box were missing.
“I mean, you’re attractive.”
“As well as are you.”I saw her cute nose wrinkle when I complimented her.
“And after all, you thanked me… twice.”She laughed an uplifting laugh.“Quit designing that box for your head.It’s a waste of time.Come on and dance with me.”Her smooth rosy cheeks lifted because of her smile.I could see her entire face.Her entire head.
She took my hand and did that twinkle thing with her eye.There was no box on this woman’s head.
With my free hand I crumbled the napkin.There was no box on this man’s head either.
I threw the napkin in a trash can – a trash can in which, as I was informed later, contained several wet pieces of cut cardboard… and a broken umbrella.
monkeyBLOG monkeyDO 
