3.01.2002
1) I was contacted today by Poi Pot, head of the famous underground Cambodian Improv Troupe, "The Laughing Fields," earlier today. It was a thrilling experience.
2) For every story Amanda at Validate This accepts, there are two to three hundred that she rejects. To protect them from ever being seen, I am going to post them here periodically. Here is the first one:
Episode One
A Teleplay by Joey Michaels
We are in some sort of warehouse. It is night. Various machinery for moving heavy crates, heavy crates, and some partially filled shelving units are visible as we pan by. Sounds of clanging - machinery? - are heard, as if in the distance. As we move on, we notice a hand poking out from behind a crate in the background. We can't be sure, but from the angle it is lying we guess that it is attached to somebody who is recently dead.
As we continue panning, we see a man lying face down on the ground in a pool of blood. This man apparently has big, white feathery wings. Other bodies soon become visible: a woman in mostly red with a tattoo (a snake?) on her arm is trying to struggle to her feet; a morbidly obese man wearing only bike shorts, his head crushed under a forklift; a teenage boy on his knees with obsidian black skin, his face a mask of grief, kneels over a similarly skinned girl, also in her own blood; a man in a business suit with a thin tie pinned to the wall by a spear. There are other bodies as well, but these are of minor minions and allies, while the ones described are major characters that we meet later.
The clanging sounds become clearer - they are now clearly weapons. We hear labored breathing as we see a shattered window. GAIAS stumbles back into view. He is handsome in a Gary Oldman in "Sid and Nancy" sort of way. He has a stunned look in his eyes as we zoom closer to him.
Mother…
A flash of steel, probably a sword, severs GAIAS' head. It comes flying at us in a spiral of blood. Perhaps we catch a look of stunned defeat on its face as it flies past us. The body, a fountain of blood, stands for a beat then falls to the ground. A 60ish woman, JOCASTA, comes into view from, partially coated with blood. She looks like the angriest bag lady in the world. She expertly re-sheaths the bloody sword in a sheath on her back as she speaks…
I have no children.
We zoom into her eyes. They are cold, remorseless.
CUT TO: Credits
CUT TO: Title: Weeks Earlier
CUT TO: We are close up on the same old woman's eyes. We pull back to see JOCASTA walking down a town street at dawn. It is spring. She wears an enormous, oversized backpack. She has a hat she likely found abandoned on the side of the road. She walks by a cheap diner with a name like ROSIE'S or something. She walks by, we go in. We zoom in on a table where the woman with the tattoo from the first scene sits. AGENT LAURITA TESORO is looking at a menu. She wears a business suit with a thin tie.
We see a shadow across her table. Presumably ROSIE, the proprietor.
More coffee?
It's swill.
Do you want more?
Yes.
LAURITA offers her cup. A huge, hairy arm with revolting skin blemishes, possibly oozing, pours some coffee.
You want to wait to order?
We hear a bell. LAURITA's eyes flash up.
CUT TO: The door of Rosie's diner opens. GAIAS walks in. He is wearing a flamboyant, light blue suit. Not quite clichéd pimp-wear, but pretty god damned close. He was a wide walking stick, a broad smile, and a thick head of curly, peroxide blonde hair.
CUT TO: ROSIE'S face. She has a face that is more than a match for her revolting arm.
Jesus H. Christ.
CUT TO: LAURITA at the table.
I'll order. I want Rosie's Omelet.
Sure.
CUT TO: GAIAS sitting down at the table. We see ROSIE from behind and immediately wish we hadn't. LAURITA smiles lazily at her guest.
The usual.
I don't know you.
Get me the usual, Rosie.
What would that be?
Rosie, I just want the usual. Go back to your little musty kitchen and heat up your grill. You can do that, can't you?
CUT TO: ROSIE looking perplexed
You've made it for me every time I've been in here. EVERY TIME. I want the same thing I had last time, and the time before that. I am not here for some sort of exotic culinary experience. I am here for comfort.
CUT TO: LAURITA watching with half interest.
The comfort of the same meal repeating itself again, and again, and again without the trouble of having to vomit it up and re-eat it like some sort of predator snake. I want you to make me the usual.
CUT TO: GAIAS, a forced look of mirth on his face.
I want you to look in my eyes. Then I want to bring me the usual.
CUT TO: ROSIE looking in his eyes. A look of profound horror passes over her face.
Holy shit. Little Boots.
CUT TO: GAIAS, even the forced mirth drained.
The usual Rosie.
CUT TO: The table view.
Two eggs, over easy. Toast. Brown. Apple juice. Coffee. Black. Bacon. Black.
That'll do, Rosie. That'll do.
ROSIE scuttles off, bumping into a chair in her hurry.
Little Boots?
A childhood nickname.
You Gaias?
Yes, Agent Tesoro.
Here's what I have.
CUT TO: LAURITA's skinny legs. She has a portfolio leaning on her chair, which she picks up.
CUT TO: LAURITA, front view, GAIAS' perspective. She rifles through her portfolio.
I am impressed with your speed.
That's why you hired us.
LAURITA finds the dossier she is looking for and pulls it out of the portfolio.
Yes, but I had no idea you were this fast.
LAURITA lays out the dossier in front of us/GAIAS. We see papers and little pictures, like police mug shots.
Ethel Mikaelson. Last known area of residence: Regina, Saskatchewan, at least as recently as last February. Last seen heading south, possibly as far as Montana or North Dakato.
CUT TO: GAIAS looking at the dossier.
Farther than that.
CUT TO: LAURITA
We doubt that. She seems to only travel by foot. Our satellite system has not been able to locate her, but it is only a matter of time.
Only a matter of time.
CUT TO: ROSIE delivering the food, GAIAS' first.
Shall I contact you when we've found her?
I want you to get her and bring her to me.
I'm not target retrieval.
Oh, but only you will do.
GAIAS takes a bite from his bacon and gags.
Are you all right?
I'm a vegetarian.
GAIAS continues to eat the bacon, gagging as he does.
I've seen some of your other agents. You are the only one that looks like the sort of person she would trust.
I'll need back up. It will cost…
No object. Mr. Schaeffer should have told you.
I am not trained…
GAIAS starts gagging heavily, almost choking. He stands up.
Get the bill please. Sorry. This revolting bacon. Just like old time.
Mr Gaias? I…
I hate to stick you with the bill, but I'm going to be sick and can only do it in my own toilet…
Pull back as GAIAS starts to stumble to the door.
Mr. Gaias… Sir…
(Yelling from somewhere)
That will be $12. In American money, please.
CUT TO: LAURITA looking perplexed.
CUT TO: A dingy motel room. LAURITA sits there on an unmade bed in her sports bra and granny panties eating a pint of ice cream from the container. She is watching some sort of cartoon, possibly Huckleberry Hound or something equally inane. Any illusions we had that she might be some sexy, Jennifer Lopez style heroine are pretty much shot. She is not unattractive, but she looks like a character straight out of a "Love and Rockets" story: big hair (now that it is down), enormous breasts, a slight belly and chicken legs.
She realizes the ice cream container is empty and sulks. She throws it expertly across the room to the trashcan and misses by two or three feet.
F-uck.
LAURITA gets up out of bed, pulling at the back of her panties as she rises - if we'd been looking from the correct angle, we would have gotten a cheap thrill. She walks over to the trashcan, which is beneath a window. As she bends over to get the container, we see a sudden streak of movement at the window. She stands, oblivious, and drops the container in the garbage. We see clearly that she has a snake tattoo on her right arm.
Suddenly, there is a knock at the door. She looks to the door, not even slightly startled. On her way there, she grabs a robe and tosses it on. She opens the door without hesitation.
Hello?
SHANKAR, a short teenage boy with obsidian black skin is at the door, his teeth gritted. He holds a wound up towel and immediately steps into the room. He wears robes that are suggestive of India.
Whoa - can I help you?
INDIRA talking from behind LAURITA. LAURITA spins around to face INDIRA, obsidian skinned girl also in robes that are suggestive of India. The window, which was apparently not locked, is wide open.
Boys don't talk.
SHANKAR has suddenly wrapped the towel around LAURITA's neck from behind and is pushing her towards the bed. She is too stunned to make any sound.
We are not here to kill you, but we must have the file. Point.
Without hesitation, LAURITA points to the portfolio on the chair. INDIRA heads for it. We hear the sound of breaking wood. All heads spin to the door, where AGENT SCHAEFFER has just kicked it in. He is the man pinned to the wall in the first scene. He fires something at INDIRA through a pipe and she swats her neck like a bug has bitten her.
Brother!
SHANKAR yanks the towel away from LAURITA, who starts coughing, and whips it, locker room style, at SCHAEFFER. The blowpipe flies from his hands. SHAEFFER lunges towards SHANKAR, who deftly, and in defiance of gravity, leaps at the wall and runs along it. SCHAEFFER lands on the still choking LAURITA.
Home.
INDIRA, holding the portfolio, passes out into SHANKAR's arms. He effortlessly picks her up and leaps out the window.
SCHAEFFER struggles to his feet on the bed and trips over the bedspread on his way to the window, landing head first between the bed and the window. He struggles up and looks after the departing duo.
LAURITA is still on the bed, her robe open, and her bra in serious danger of earning this show a TV-MA rating, but not quite. Thank goodness there is only gratuitous violence and no evil, sin inducing nudity in this episode!
What the fuck just happened, Schaeffer?
Agents of Ravena.
What?
Doomsday cult from Calcutta… or Bombay… or some other fucking place in India.
Did you shoot them?
SCHAEFFER is picking up his blow tube, which has snapped.
Standard issue blow dart.
If it's standard, why don't I have one?
Standard issue covert ops. You're not safe here.
Well thanks for the fucking warning. I'll let you know if anyone tries to strangle me in my hotel room in broad daylight.
SCHAEFFER is looking around.
They got your portfolio. That should slow them down for a little while. They'll be back.
I think they got what they wanted.
You mean this?
SCHAEFFER flips the file from the restaurant over onto the bed.
Put some clothes on.
How did you get this?
You left it in a diner. An ogre of a waitress asked me to drop it off at the hotel for you.
LAURITA is getting dressed. She puts on a sleeveless red shirt and struggles into some jeans.
Oh, shit, I'm sorry, Schaef.
Your incompetence saved the day. They can't get this file. If this file falls into their hands, it could mean the end. The end of everything.
Frighteningly portentous music plays. SCHAEFFER grits his teeth at the camera. His chiseled face would not look out of place on Mt. Rushmore.
Why don't we destroy it?
Destroy it?
Like this.
LAURITA takes the file and rips it in half.
No!
I got the information once; I know where to get it again. If these Agents of Ravena were so competent, they could get it again, too.
SCHAEFFER looks a little perplexed. LAURITA sets the file on fire.
Right?
You can get it all again?
I'm information retrieval.
Oh.
LAURITA is putting on some sneakers.
Thank god these Agents of Ravena aren't some more modern cult. Anyone with access to the Internet and a small amount of hacking skill could have gotten this without attacking anyone. I guess we're lucky they were from India and not from Japan, huh?
SCHAEFFER is looking uncomfortable.
Not that I don't appreciate the save, but what brings you here, Schaef.
Oh. Yes, well, we found Ethel Mikaelson. Mr. Gaias asked me to take you to her. He said you'd know what to do.
Bullshit I'll know what to do!
He assured me it wouldn't be a problem.
Whatever. Where is she.
Follow me. She's behind the hotel.
LAURITA and SCHAEFFER exit the room. She has put on her jacket, and carries an unzipped duffel bag, probably a prize from a gold tournament.
CUT TO an alley behind the hotel. JOCASTA is sitting next to a dumpster, her pack leaning on the wall next to her. A cat rubs against her legs and purrs. Her hands fly like lightning behind her as she catches a rat and breaks its neck. She feeds it to the cat.
Soon. Soon.
We zoom in on her placid, dead eyes.
Well, it was one of the music industry's biggest nights tonight! Yes, The Grammys were held somewhere in America. I no longer keep track of where for fear that even thinking of the location will summon the two Rivers women to my home, where they will descend like locusts into my walk-in closet.
Anyhow, it is my understand that Alicia Keys won a Grammy for Best New Artist I would like to take this opportunity to take a quick looksie at some of the past winners of the Best New Artist Grammy, courtesy of Rock on the Net:
2001: Shelby Lynne
2000: Christina Aguilera
1999: Lauryn Hill
1998: Paula Cole
1997: LeAnn Rimes
1996: Hootie & The Blowfish
1995: Sheryl Crow
1994: Toni Braxton
1993: Arrested Development
1992: Marc Cohn
1991: Mariah Carey
1990: Milli Vanilli (revoked)
1989: Tracy Chapman
1988: Jody Watley
1987: Bruce Hornsby & The Range
1986: Sade
1985: Cyndi Lauper
1984: Culture Club
1983: Men At Work
1982: Sheena Easton
1981: Christopher Cross
1980: Rickie Lee Jones
1979: A Taste Of Honey
1978: Debby Boone
1977: Starland Vocal Band
1976: Natalie Cole
1975: Marvin Hamlisch
1974: Bette Midler
1973: America
1972: Carly Simon
1971: The Carpenters
1970: Crosby, Stills & Nash
1969: Jose Feliciano
1968: Bobbie Gentry
1967: ---
1966: Tom Jones
1965: The Beatles
1964: The Swingle Swingers
1963: Robert Goulet
1962: Peter Nero
1961: Bob Newhart
I am sure that there are two questions flying through your mind right now:
1) Where are most of these artists now?
2) Bob Newhart?
Well, let us travel back in time to the 1961 Grammy Awards. The thing I remember most vividly is when Ernest Gould won his Best Song award for the "Theme From Exodus." I remember this well because Best Pop Singer of the year Ray Charles and I had just finished a drug laden "glory hole" experience to the strains of that very song.
When I stumbled into the auditorium, my dress tucked partially into my support hose, I saw a balding little comic, Mr. Newhart. I hadn't heard any of his routines yet, but was aware he was up for "Best New Artist." Frank Sinatra, who was my date for the evening and the previous year's Best Pop Vocal winner, introduced me to Bob and told me what he was nominated for.
"Why don't you sing something from your album, Bobby!" I cried.
Well, Bob stammered a little bit, but Frank turned red with rage. He punched me so hard in the stomach that I regurgitated my lunch (and the contents of my stomach from my encounter with Mr. Charles) all over the young comedian. Ah, Frank apologized to Bob profusely, but by this time they were reading the winner of the Best New Artist category.
Frank yelled "Hold it, Zsa Zsa," to the presenter and stormed the podium
The audience burst into thunderous applause as the great man mounted the stage (and later, Zsa Zsa, if rumor is to be believed).
"I would like to read the winner," he said.
Well, nobody argued with Sinatra in those days! He took the envelope and threw it aside.
"I don't need to look at this. We all know who the winner should be. My good friend, Bob Newhart!"
A smattering of applause burst into thunderous applause after Sinatra shot "the look" out to the crowd. Bob was speechless, but made a speech anyways.
Later, he thanked me in the only way I would accept.
He is a funny, funny man and can make a woman "laugh" into the wee hours of the morning, if you know what I mean. And I think you do.
Now drink up!
2.28.2002
Mr. Sylvan's troupe is, potentially, the world's first nude improv company. The nudity in and of itself isn't quite as exciting as the reasons for why the performers are going to be nude. You can find some details at his site (link above) and in the interview.
Anyhow, the main thing about the troupe that is exciting is that he hopes to do emotionally raw, risky improvisation. This is to be encouraged, and I hope that I can visit him and his group in L.A. so I can see the work he creates!
2.27.2002
I don't understand gossip. Of course, I don't understand public nudity either, so I am odd that way.
What I do know is that there are sites on the Internet dedicated to gossip. I visit one of them pretty religiously and always leave it feeling sort of icky.
I am not sure why I would keep visiting a place that makes me feel bad, so I thought I would do a bit of self-examination. I like to examine myself. Sometimes I rent prison movies and examine myself for hours at a time. I digress.
Before I could figure out why I was simultaneously attracted and repulsed by gossip would be to figure out what it was, so I visited dictionary.com, which provided the following helpful definition:
gos·sip n.
1. Rumor or talk of a personal, sensational, or intimate nature.
2. A person who habitually spreads intimate or private rumors or facts.
3. Trivial, chatty talk or writing.
4. A close friend or companion.
5. Chiefly British. A godparent.
While the British make me feel mildly unsettled, I have yet to see a gossip site dealing with being a godparent, so let us knock off definition #5. Since most close friends or companions don't reveal your intimate secrets, let us eliminate definition #4.
The first three definitions seem to hit the mark, but it doesn't seem to explain why I feel attracted to gossip and always hate myself for reading.
I found this article about why gossip is bad. The author writes:
The fact is that most of us who gossip about the affairs of others do so simply because we feel unfulfilled in our own lives; we look to the misery or excitement that others experience as a way to take our minds off our own drudgery or perhaps because it exposes us to a better or more interesting way of being.
If you read the whole article, you'll find that the lady who wrote it is some sort of New Age spiritual loony. As much as it pains me to say this, though she may be right, we have to discount everything she says because she uses the phrase "it's only a test of our ability to face the many challenges the Light throws at us." Use of religious clichés immediately renders your message moot.
Actually, nearly the entire set of "gossip is bad" sorts of articles I found online has some sort of spiritual or religious content. One that has minimal religious content is Words Can Heal. They are an anti-gossip organization that is supported by celebrities like Tom Cruise.
I like Tom Cruise. I think he is hot and don't mind that he denies his real sexual orientation. We all know the truth.
Never the less, I am put off by Words Can Heal. They're not cool - even slightly. They come across as some sort of early 70's "Free to be you and me" sort of thing and that is, frankly, lame.
Anyhow, around this point in my search for understanding, I lost interest and went to read more about how Rosie O'Donnel is gay.
Moral: It is better to be talked about than to talk about not being talked about.
Yes, indeed, I spelled "Discordian" incorrectly. So astute of you to notice, Joey.
In fact, there is a story behind this. Back in the mid-1960's, British hair music was all the rage, so I figured I could make gobs of cash by promoting an English act. I called some of my chums in the House of Windsor, and they suggested that Cliff Richards would be an excellent choice.
Well, Cliff was considered to be the Elvis of England, a ridiculous assertation, seeing as Cliff had *two* names, while Elvis only had one. I figured with some tight pants and the proper lighting, though, some of the less intelligent youths of American might be fooled.
Anyhow, I brought him over to the United States of America for a tour. I imagined endless parties and nights of rough trade! Alas, it was not to be, as Cliff was a big boyscout. Lights out at 10 pm, even if he was in the middle of a show at that time. He was a complete bore.
Fortunately, his bass player, Teddy "Dirt Rat" Morrison, was what the British call "a go-er." Indeed, he and I spent many a night wandering the mean streets of various American suburbs and drinking anything we didn't vomit back up.
One night, due to some technical problems, the show didn't start until 9:45. I was in a panic, both because of a bad batch of shrooms, and because I worried that the crowd of expatriate Brits (the only ones who would usually show up for a Cliff Richard's concert, damn his eyes) might riot if he only played for fifteen minutes. I wracked my brain for a solution.
When 10:00 rolled around and Cliff wandered off to bed, I yelled "C'mon Dirt Rat, let's give them a taste of the future."
Dirt Rat grabbed a guitar, an instrument which he had previously only seen from a distance, and we launched into a set of poetry that I had composed while on an Absynthe binge with T.S. Eliot. Alas, Dirt Rat didn't really know what he was doing. When I berated him for playing the same sound over and over again, he stated, 'Lady, dis chord is the only chord I know." Ah, that lovely British lower class accent!
Anyhow, out of tribute to our wild nights together, I named my Canadian Ladies Club as much after him as anything.
So, let us all drink some rum in honor of Dirt Rat! Cheers!
2.26.2002
I don't like my layout.
This layout came with the site, more or less, thanks to the fine folks at Blogger. I would like something more black and white with maybe the ability to have little pictures of myself above each individual posts.
If you have any clever code for me, write me.
On another note, the ending of this season of HBO's "Oz" rocked. I can't wait a year to see season six!
BTW - Lady Potamus, it is spelled "Discordia."
I am Lady Potamus of the Canadian Ladies Dischordian Society and the newest member of this exciting online team.
For those of you who may not know me, I have been working as an improvisor, a hostess of grand balls, and a general lover of celebrities since my early teens. I attended Miss Verlaine's School for Misbegotten Lasses in Montreal during the first part of the Twentieth Century, and have had the pleasure of knowing numerous celebrities (in every sense of the word "know") from that time on.
I was invited by my dear, dear, dear friend Joey to contribute to this site, which might lead you to ask "Lady Potamus! How on earth did Joey Michaels ever meet you?"
Well, back in his younger days, Joey was the child star of the ill-fated sitcom "Missionary Position." This network sitcom followed the adventures of a young, idealistic missionary, sent to a different developing third world nation every week. He traveled with his young son (played by Joey). The two of them would basically arrive in the new country, mock the traditions of its inhabitants with their ignorance, and then get chased our by the angry natives when little Jimmy (Joey's character) would inadvertnetly anger their pagan gods. It was quite charming, but the audiences of the early 1960's weren't ready for that sort of progressive humor.
Well, in '61, I was asked to star as a Malaysian priestess in one episode. I don't look the least bit Malaysian, but the make-up department took care of that! By the end of the session, I looked like a mature caucasian woman with heavy Indonesian make-up. It would never do in today's politically correct climate, but back then most North Americans wouldn't know a Malaysian if one walked up and bit them on the ass.
Now, of course, I would be able to tell by the way that their firm Malaysian teeth clamped down on my still firm buttocks, but that is another story altogether!
Back to the narrative, another young actor was featured as the male slave of the priestess, and it was none other than a young, strapping Fabian. He had had a few minor musical hits and was looking to break into the big time through television appearances. Let his modern anonimity be a warning to teen pop stars everywhere.
Well, Fabian had the sweetest little crush on me, so I let him bone me like a trout. Ah, young love.
Still in the afterglow, I walked out of my trailer, my Indonesian make-up now smeared all over my upper torso, and shot my scene. It was one of my greatest performances ever. Little Joey Michaels was so impressed with my performance that he immediatly renounced his family and asked that I adopt him.
Alas, child protective services had made it frightfully clear to me that I was to stay 150 yards away from anyone under the age of 16, so I was unable to adopt him, but we formed a life long friendship that has lasted to this day.
I am thrilled to be a part of this new growth of Joey's. I look forward to being able to give you this window into my life.
Cheerio, dears! Drink up!
2.25.2002
The best thing about working at Kinko's is that I can make all the copies I want. The other good thing is unlimited high speed internet access.
I wish that the soda machine had more choices.
Oh well, we can't have everything! No Mello Yello for me.
Images:
Every line is said by a different person. The faces should be heavy looking mostly caucasian men, possibly Republicans. Shot in black and white.
Dialogue:
Everyone is using it.
I just financed a terrorist today.
I blew up a building.
I was running late, so I took the car instead of the bus.
I helped kidnap Americans.
My car needs a higher grade of fuel to keep the engine clean.
I let the Taliban oppress women.
I blew up ancient Buddhist statues.
My car only gets 20 miles a gallon, but I need the room.
I filled up my tank with gas.
I killed innocent civilians today.
I accepted a campaign donation from an oil company.
Everyone should have a car.
I helped fund the attacks of September 11.
I buy gas.
Cut to: Black Screen.
Words Appear:
When you buy gas and oil, you help support terrorists.
Say no to gas and oil.
2.24.2002
I don't want to go into too much detail here, as I go into plenty of detail there, but let me just say that Phil is one of the finest improvisators I've ever had the pleasure to work with. He has been a little hacked off at me ever since I tried to have some of his DNA submitted for cloning. I don't think it was the cloning thing that hacked him off nearly so much as the way I had my associate aquire the DNA.
Suffice to say, I'm sorry Phil. I hope everything heals.
I really don't understand HTML code and am living in constant fear that I am going to enter a piece of bad code that will inadvertently destroy the Internet.
I also have been spending my free time worrying that I am going to crash bl0gspot with the heavy traffic that is no doubt pouring in now that I am sharing my intimate thoughts online. I'm sure it will be only a matter of time before I need to move to a host that can handle the number of hits I am generating.
I have three articles in the hamper right now. Two were sent to Manuel at Improvland and one (a new screenplay) was sent to Amanda at VT.
You may be wondering how I am so prolific. Well, I have discovered that my writing is so great that I never have to edit anything ever. As a matter of fact, virtually everything of mine that ends up online is a first draft. I am that good.
One of the best things about writing a bl0g is that I can share all of these intimate details of my life with all of you. I wish I was you so I could be reading this for the first time.
Kip tells me I should plan on being rich.
