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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in
wes_paul_thomas' LiveJournal:
| Thursday, November 30th, 2006 | | 11:59 am |
Scene 1 (In his apartment, Dylan, 25, sleeps, slumped over in his wheelchair. His muted television bathes him in light. Next door, Jeremy sits at a table, flipping through an address book, cellphone pressed against his ear.) JEREMY Hi, is Kevin there? Hey, what’s going on, man? Oh, sorry: It’s Jeremy. (Holds the phone away from his ear, wincing.) Kevin! Kevin, calm the f- Kevin! Calm the fuck down, man. I just wanted to see if you needed any... You’re kidding me. A clinic? Kevin, why? Kevin. You’re not going to kick it, come on. This is stupid, you’re fine. Here, just buy like... forty. No! Don’t hang up. Look, you’re already getting methadone, this’ll add on to it, they’re not gonna test you. (He listens intently and then closes his phone. He looks at his book and quickly dials another number.) JEREMY Hi, is Matt there? Hey, Matt- (A singular thud falls on Jeremy’s door, causing him to spring to his feet. Next door, Dylan stirs awake. He stares at the television, turns it off and begins preparing to go to sleep. Jeremy stares at his now silent door and continues his phone conversation.) Matt, it’s Jeremy Conlon, not sure if you remember me, but uh... No, that’s my older brother. Yeah, I used to cut your hair for weed. That’s me. Listen, sorry to call you so late but uh, I was just seeing if you’d want to buy- (The door is again pounded upon. Jeremy walks to the door and looks out his peephole. He ducks down away from the hole. He whispers into the phone.) Matt, can I call you right back? I’m selling some junk, so if you want any... Yeah, ok. Call you right back. (He slowly shuts his phone and tip toes away from the door.) BRANDON (V.O.) Saw you, Conlon! I saw you in the peephole! (Jeremy sighs and, hesitating a second before turning the lock, opens the door. Brandon, 36, stout and smelling of the slaughterhouse where he works, jovially walks in. His voice is raspy from yelling vulgar comments all night. He takes a seat at Jeremy’s table, thumbing through the address book.) JEREMY What’s up? BRANDON Nothing, did you like my knock? I freak your shit out? JEREMY Yeah, my shit was... freaked. BRANDON You a telemarketer now? JEREMY What? BRANDON (Holding up the address book) Were you making some sales calls? How much you sell? (Jeremy opens his mouth but hesitates. After a couple seconds of silence, he can not think of an answer that can justify his pause. He just watches Brandon.) BRANDON Damn, man... Did you use it? How much? JEREMY I’m sorry, Brandon! BRANDON How much did you use, you shit! JEREMY A little over a gram, maybe. (Brandon throws the address book onto the table and stands, pacing.) I had to, Brandon! I’m so sorry, I’m an idiot. I couldn’t... I couldn’t sit up in bed in the morning. There was a slow couple days, I ran out of my own stuff, I had to use it. I’m sorry, but I was dying! BRANDON Shut up! You junkie piece of shit! JEREMY Don’t call me that! BRANDON Don’t tell me what to do, bitch! You’re in fucking trouble! Ok? You promised you’d have the money for me. Do you have anything? JEREMY There were those slow days, I had to use the money for a couple- BRANDON You used the fucking heroin, you used the money! Shit, man! What the hell? I’m... you’re dead. I promise you. I’m in trouble now ‘cause of this. JEREMY I don’t know what to tell you, I’m so sorry. Tell your guy it was me. (Brandon looks at Jeremy in silence. Next door, Dylan grunts, trying to pull himself from his wheelchair and into bed. He is weak from sleep, slumping harshly back into his chair and rolling back several feet. Brandon’s eyes dart to the wall.) BRANDON Who’s that? JEREMY What? My neighbor. BRANDON Yeah, I know, but I mean, guy girl, old young, rich poor? JEREMY Is he rich? I don’t think so, I mean, he lives next door to me. BRANDON Fuck you. Kiss a monkey’s ass. JEREMY Sorry. He’s a guy. Crippled guy, I drove him to the doctor’s once, I don’t know. He was in the Gulf War. BRANDON He alone? JEREMY I think so, yeah. BRANDON Did you see his apartment? JEREMY Why? BRANDON Does he have anything good? JEREMY Brandon, fucking... no. He’s my neighbor. He lives right there. Just, don’t. BRANDON You owe me, so I owe my guy. I need something to give him, huh? JEREMY I’ll call my brother tomorrow, I’ll get you the money tomorrow night, we’ll be ok. BRANDON Kiss a fuckin’ monkey’s ass. I don’t need anything tomorrow, I need it tonight. And your brother owes me goddamn money already. I wrote him off a year ago. So. We’re gonna go knock on the cripple’s door, because you know that any trouble you get me in comes back on you fifty times, you little... bitch. JEREMY There’s a billion ways for you to steal. Please. Please. Get money some other way, he lives right next door, they’ll find me. He KNOWS me! (Brandon goes to the door and turns to Jeremy.) BRANDON Come on, you little shit. JEREMY (Pleading) Brandon... Can’t you do it yourself, if you have to? BRANDON I’m in this shit ‘cause of you! No, I can’t. You’re going. I have to do this ‘cause you’re fucking me out of my money, so come on. Don’t let him see your face, bitch. (Without waiting for an answer, Brandon opens the door and walks into the hallway. Jeremy hesitates and then follows. Brandon knocks on Dylan’s door, rapidly.) DYLAN Who is it? BRANDON Oh, man. Fucking... help me, man. My dad’s down the hall, having a heart attack or something. Oh, God, I have to call 911, man, let me in, please... (Dylan slowly wheels himself to the door, and opens it until the chain catches it. Brandon slams himself against the door, breaking the chain and pushing Dylan backwards. Jeremy hurries in after Brandon, shutting the door and staring out the peephole for any witnesses.) DYLAN The fuck! Fuck you! Fuck you! What are you doing! Get out! Get out! (Jeremy doesn’t move from the peephole, keeping his face hidden. Brandon tries to ignore Dylan, opening dresser drawers and searching through clothes. Dylan wheels himself next to Brandon, grabbing at him.) I don’t have anything, you fucking lowlifes! Leave me alone! Help! Help! (Brandon spins around and grabs at Dylan’s flailing arms. Dylan continues shouting, and Brandon draws a medium-sized knife and points it at him.) BRANDON Seriously, man, shut up. DYLAN (Spitting at him.) Fuck you, lowlife! BRANDON I’m serious, I’m going to mess you up! Just be quiet! Shut up! (Brandon turns back to the dresser, and begins rifling.) Fucking cripple. (Dylan rams into Brandon’s legs with his chair and begins shouting, as loud as ever.) DYLAN Mess me up! Mess me up! What are you going to do, you fucking lowlife!? (Brandon spins and begins swinging at Dylan, who’s shouts get louder. Jeremy spins to face them.) JEREMY Brandon! What the hell, leave him alone! (Dylan sees Jeremy and his eyes widen.) DYLAN Wait, I know you! I know you! You’re from fucking NEXT DOOR! (Brandon lunges forward, jamming the knife into Dylan’s stomach. Dylan’s wheelchair starts to roll backwards, but his brakes click on and the chair tips over, bringing Brandon with it. Brandon scrambles to his feet. Dylan begins to shout.) DYLAN (Between gasps of surprise and pain) Help! Help! Oh... Shit! Ahhhh... (Jeremy clasps his hands over his mouth in shock. Brandon looks to Jeremy, squats and holds the knife to Dylan’s face.) BRANDON Shut up! Shut up, goddamnit! DYLAN Please, don’t! Please! Leave me alone! BRANDON I’ma kill you, you don’t shut up! JEREMY Brandon! Oh, God, what are you doing? What are you doing? DYLAN Help! Help me! God! What are you doing? HELP! (Brandon panics and awkwardly stabs Dylan in the throat. Jeremy groans in horror and stares as Brandon removes the knife and steps over Dylan, towards the dresser. Dylan gasps and gurgles, unable to speak.) JEREMY Brandon! What are you doing? What are you doing? What the hell, Brandon! BRANDON Just shut up, keep watching for anyone. Shut up! (Jeremy glues his eyes to the peephole. His hands cover his ears.) DYLAN (Gasping) Please... please... please... (Brandon, carrying a half full grocery bag, hurries to the door. Jeremy grabs him.) BRANDON What? Come on. JEREMY What about him? What do we do? (Brandon shoves past him and returns to Jeremy’s apartment. Jeremy hurriedly follows him, shutting both doors behind him.) BRANDON That wasn’t even worth it. Shit. Thirty dollars in his wallet. CDs. Shit, man, that’s so bad. JEREMY Yeah, it’s bad! What do we DO, Brandon?! Why’d you do that? You ruined everything! You didn’t have to do that! BRANDON Just shut up. I did it, so... I did it. It’s your fault. You made me fucking do that. JEREMY MY FAULT? You- BRANDON I’ll hide the knife, you just get the fuck out of here, don’t talk to anyone. After a few days, come back and be REAL quiet. You’re fine. JEREMY I can’t live here after this. Are you serious? BRANDON Then move. Get the deposit back and pay me the money you owe me. (Pause.) This is messed up. Is he dead? JEREMY I DON’T KNOW! BRANDON Ok. JEREMY Did anyone hear? What if someone heard it, he was yelling so much! BRANDON You stop yelling and it’ll be ok. I’m washing the blood off. JEREMY Oh, God! You’re covered! Oh, shit! BRANDON Most of it’s cow blood, shithead. Put any of the junk you got left in the bag with the CDs, I’m getting out of here. JEREMY I’m coming with you, though. BRANDON No. No no no no, we leave separately. I’m done with you. You’re wrote off, like your shithead brother. That’s your problem in there. No. You’re wrote-ten off. JEREMY Brandon! No! Help me! I didn’t do anything! You- (Brandon shuts the bathroom door. Jeremy stares at the door, now crying. He sees the bloody knife on his table and bends to look at it. He listens to Brandon washing and rushes to his kitchen and pulls a knife from the drawer. He faces the bathroom door and practices threatening with the knife. A heavy knock sounds on his door and he drops the knife. He freezes. There is another series of heavy knocks and then silence. Careful not to pass the peephole, Jeremy darts to the bathroom door and quietly knocks.) JEREMY Someone was knocking on the door, Brandon. Someone was knocking. I heard footsteps, hurry! BRANDON (Exiting the bathroom) Shit, man, someone had to have heard. (The knocking gets more intense. From outside, someone unlocks the door, but the deadbolt remains.) Ok, do your windows open? JEREMY Yeah, I’ve gone out them before. Brandon, please let me come with you. Please. BRANDON (Picking up the knife from the table) You little shit, I promise you, if you don’t go the opposite way once we get out the window, I’ll fucking kill you. YOU killed that guy when you couldn’t pay me- (The door frame rattles as someone slams into it. Brandon throws open the window. Jeremy stares at him.) JEREMY I didn’t kill him. I didn’t kill him! I’m sick! I’m sick! (Jeremy clutches the crook of his arm and winces.) BRANDON You’re a junkie. I’m gone. Fuck you. (Jeremy stares, turns and walks towards his front door. Brandon watches terrified. Jeremy places his hand on the doorknob.) BRANDON You fucking idiot! What are you doing? Do you know what you’re doing? Get away from that! (Brandon begins to run towards Jeremy. Jeremy pulls the door open as if ripping off a bandage. The police officer outside gets a look at the bloody man running towards the door with a knife, draws and fires. Brandon falls to the ground, gasping. The officer and the building superintendent rush Jeremy and pin him to the ground. Through the officer’s screams, Jeremy pleads.) JEREMY Help me... help me... help. | | Tuesday, November 28th, 2006 | | 1:25 pm |
Scene 1 (In his apartment, Dylan, 25, sleeps, slumped over in his wheelchair. His muted television bathes him in light. Next door, Jeremy sits at a table, flipping through an address book, cellphone pressed against his ear.) JEREMY Hi, is Kevin there? Hey, what’s going on, man? Oh, sorry: It’s Jeremy. (Holds the phone away from his ear, wincing.) Kevin! Kevin, calm the f- Kevin! Calm the fuck down, man. I just wanted to see if you needed any... You’re kidding me. A clinic? Kevin, why? Kevin. You’re not going to kick it, come on. This is stupid, you’re fine. Here, just buy like... forty. No! Don’t hang up. Look, you’re already getting methadone, this’ll add on to it, they’re not gonna test you. (He listens intently and then closes his phone. He looks at his book and quickly dials another number.) JEREMY Hi, is Matt there? Hey, Matt- (A singular thud falls on Jeremy’s door, causing him to spring to his feet. Next door, Dylan stirs awake. He stares at the television, turns it off and begins preparing to go to sleep. Jeremy stares at his now silent door and continues his phone conversation.) Matt, it’s Jeremy Conlon, not sure if you remember me, but uh... No, that’s my older brother. Yeah, I used to cut your hair for weed. That’s me. Listen, sorry to call you so late but uh, I was just seeing if you’d want to buy- (The door is again pounded upon. Jeremy walks to the door and looks out his peephole. He ducks down away from the hole. He whispers into the phone.) Matt, can I call you right back? I’m selling some junk, so if you want any... Yeah, ok. Call you right back. (He slowly shuts his phone and tip toes away from the door.) BRANDON (V.O.) Saw you, Conlon! I saw you in the peephole! (Jeremy sighs and, hesitating a second before turning the lock, opens the door. Brandon, 36, stout and smelling of the slaughterhouse where he works, jovially walks in. His voice is raspy from yelling vulgar comments all night. He takes a seat at Jeremy’s table, thumbing through the address book.) JEREMY What’s up? BRANDON Nothing, did you like my knock? I freak your shit out? JEREMY Yeah, my shit was... freaked. BRANDON You a telemarketer now? JEREMY What? BRANDON (Holding up the address book) Were you making some sales calls? How much you sell? (Jeremy opens his mouth but hesitates. After a couple seconds of silence, he can not think of an answer that can justify his pause. He just watches Brandon.) BRANDON Damn, man... Did you use it? How much? (Next door, Dylan grunts, trying to pull himself from his wheelchair and into bed. He is weak from sleep, slumping harshly back into his chair and rolling back several feet. Brandon’s eyes dart to the wall.) BRANDON Who’s that? JEREMY What? My neighbor. BRANDON Yeah, I know, but I mean, guy girl, old young, rich poor? JEREMY Is he rich? Yeah, he’s filthy rich, he gets his kicks “slumming it” in this shithole building. BRANDON Fuck you. Kiss a monkey’s ass. JEREMY He’s a guy. Crippled guy, I drove him to the doctor’s once, I don’t know. He was in the Gulf War. BRANDON Did you see his apartment? JEREMY Why? BRANDON Does he have anything good? JEREMY Brandon, fucking... no. He’s my neighbor. He lives right there. Just, don’t. BRANDON You owe me, so I owe my guy. I need something to give him, huh? JEREMY I’ll call my brother tomorrow, I’ll get you the money tomorrow night, we’ll be ok. BRANDON Kiss a fuckin’ monkey’s ass. I don’t need anything tomorrow, I need it tonight. And your brother owes me goddamn money already. I wrote him off a year ago. So. We’re gonna go knock on the cripple’s door, because you know that any trouble you get me in comes back on you fifty times, you little... bitch. DYLAN Who is it? BRANDON Oh, man. Fucking... help me, man. My dad’s down the hall, having a heart attack or something. Oh, God, I have to call 911, man, let me in, please... (Dylan slowly wheels himself to the door, and opens it until the chain catches it. Brandon slams himself against the door, breaking the chain and pushing Dylan backwards. Jeremy hurries in after Brandon, shutting the door and staring out the peephole for any witnesses.) DYLAN The fuck! Fuck you! Fuck you! What are you doing! Get out! Get out! (Jeremy doesn’t move from the peephole, keeping his face hidden. Brandon tries to ignore Dylan, opening dresser drawers and searching through clothes. Dylan wheels himself next to Brandon, grabbing at him.) I don’t have anything, you fucking lowlifes! Leave me alone! Help! Help! (Brandon spins around and grabs at Dylan’s flailing arms. Dylan continues shouting, and Brandon draws a medium-sized knife and points it at him.) BRANDON Seriously, man, shut up. DYLAN (Spitting at him.) Fuck you, lowlife! BRANDON I’m serious, I’m going to mess you up! Just be quiet! Shut up! (Brandon turns back to the dresser, and begins rifling.) Fucking cripple. (Dylan rams into Brandon’s legs with his chair and begins shouting, as loud as ever.) DYLAN Mess me up! Mess me up! What are you going to do, you fucking lowlife!? (Brandon spins and begins swinging at Dylan, who’s shouts get louder. Jeremy spins to face them.) JEREMY Brandon! What the hell, leave him alone! (Dylan sees Jeremy and his eyes widen.) DYLAN Wait, I know you! I know you! You’re from fucking NEXT DOOR! (Brandon lunges forward, jamming the knife into Dylan’s stomach. Dylan’s wheelchair starts to roll backwards, but his brakes click on and the chair tips over, bringing Brandon with it. Brandon scrambles to his feet. Dylan begins to shout.) DYLAN (Between gasps of surprise and pain) Help! Help! Oh... Shit! Ahhhh... (Jeremy clasps his hands over his mouth in shock. Brandon looks to Jeremy, squats and holds the knife to Dylan’s face.) BRANDON Shut up! Shut up, goddamnit! DYLAN Please, don’t! Please! Leave me alone! BRANDON I’ma kill you, you don’t shut up! DYLAN Help! Help me! God! What are you doing? HELP! (Brandon panics and awkwardly stabs Dylan in the throat. Jeremy groans in horror and stares as Brandon removes the knife and steps over Dylan, towards the dresser. Dylan gasps and gurgles, unable to speak.) JEREMY Brandon! What are you doing? What are you doing? What the hell, Brandon! BRANDON (Placing the knife on the top of Dylan’s dresser and opening the next drawer) Just shut up, keep watching for anyone. Shut up! BRANDON Just calm down, shit. It’s your fault, you fucked up. I’ll hide the knife, you just get the fuck out of here, don’t talk to anyone. After a few days, come back, be real quiet. You’re fine. JEREMY I can’t live here. BRANDON Then move. Get the deposit back and pay me the money you owe me. This is fucked up. BARRY DANCE DANCE? (pause.) JOAN (Quietly) blahpoisdfgsidfng;flasdf;djsnf;sdjfn;sdk fms;dfm | | 1:17 pm |
Ben Dudley 11-28-06 On October 13th, 2006, I attended the Ohio University production of William Saroyan’s Time of Your Life. The show was directed by Edward Cisneros and starred Andrew Coil in the lead role of Joe. I left the play with mixed feelings. I was impressed by the performance itself, as many of my peers were performing in their first college production and handled the material given them very well. The set was imaginative, with hundreds of glass bottles serving as walls and the staging clever (the saloon transformed into a bedroom seamlessly). The play itself troubled me, as I felt that the playwright failed to truly create emotion, and that this failure had lead to my disappointment. Saroyan’s characters failed to engage me, and with this lack of interest, I could not involve my emotions in the play. The characters often seemed unrealistic or one dimensional, like Joe’s dimwitted friend Tom, who is innocent and wide-eyed to the point of disbelief. Tom’s love interest, Kitty Duvall, also struck me as a stock character. Her introductory speech is sad and wistful and sounds straight out of the mouth of a dame in a detective story. The cowboy character of Murphy was brash and told tall tales. Almost immediately after each character’s introduction, I could predict their next actions and words. I realize that perhaps in 1939 when the play debuted, such broad characters were either more commonly acceptable or had not yet become cliché, but they have not stood the test of time. The storyline of the play was heavily based around its characters, so I also had trouble becoming caught up in that. Often times, the focus would turn to the exploits of a peripheral character, most likely to characterize the type of people that would frequent the bar. As I found the characters to ultimately be one dimensional, these side-stories only made the play seem longer, failing to advance the story. The audience was most entertained by the performances of the actors, rather than by their words or the slowly-developed story. The play culminated in the murder of a police officer, an event that supposedly put an end to the characters’ troubles, but it seemed to me that a murder investigation would be under way and that life would only get worse. Instead, the characters laughed off the murder with no worry. This felt fitting with the characters, as they had behaved unrealistically throughout, and the ending felt just as superficial as they had. I did, however, learn from the play. Saroyan successfully incorporates a variety of characters into the story, even if I did not connect with them. Each character felt like they had his or her place within the play, and interacted with each other dynamically. He created a distinct role for each character in the ensemble piece; I just wish he had made them believable outside of the world of the play, or perhaps outside of 1939. | | 7:35 am |
Dear John, I thought your story was very well worded and shows that you have a strong grasp on language and sentence structure. A good vocabulary gave the story credibility and your description created an interesting setting. I felt like the location was very atmospheric, giving off a feeling of a European apartment- large and old fashioned, overlooking a dark, cobble-stoned street. The story itself, I felt, was lacking. In a lot of stories, events are referred to vaguely like “the accident” to keep the reader guessing until it’s finally revealed, but this is often a gimmick, and I feel it is used thusly in your story. The narrator is the main character, and he knows what the accident was, he has no reason to skirt the issue, or avoid explaining it as he explains what he’s doing. It seems like he’s just not explaining the accident just so the reader will be in false-suspense. You could inform the reader very early on that the narrator is injured from an accident that killed another person. As it is now, I had no idea that the main character was injured until he started to do the pull-ups. I thought he was just depressed after someone had died (possibly due to him). The ending also was lacking. The twist- that he had been in bed for five months instead of five days- did not mean anything. The amount of time spent in the bed isn’t really significant with the story, so the lengthening of the time just makes the reader go “Uh, ok. Why?” I think I understood that the man’s voice was trying to coax the narrator to live his life to the fullest and not waste time sitting around in bed, but then this isn’t really made clear, so it’s only a hypothesis, and also contrasts with the ending that the man was in bed for five months. I believe the story could use a clearer theme and meaning and a more meaningful ending. -Benjamin Dudley | | 7:34 am |
Scene 1 (In his apartment, Dylan, 25, sleeps, slumped over in his wheelchair. His muted television bathes him in light. Next door, Jeremy sits at a table, flipping through an address book, cellphone pressed against his ear.) JEREMY Hi, is Kevin there? Hey, what’s going on, man? Oh, sorry: It’s Jeremy. (Holds the phone away from his ear, wincing.) Kevin! Kevin, calm the f- Kevin! Calm the fuck down, man. I just wanted to see if you needed any... You’re kidding me. A clinic? Kevin, why? Kevin. You’re not going to kick it, come on. This is stupid, you’re fine. Here, just buy like... forty. No! Don’t hang up. Look, you’re already getting methadone, this’ll add on to it, they’re not gonna test you. (He listens intently and then closes his phone. He looks at his book and quickly dials another number.) JEREMY Hi, is Matt there? Hey, Matt- (A singular thud falls on Jeremy’s door, causing him to spring to his feet. Next door, Dylan stirs awake. He stares at the television, turns it off and begins preparing to go to sleep. Jeremy stares at his now silent door and continues his phone conversation.) Matt, it’s Jeremy Conlon, not sure if you remember me, but uh... No, that’s my older brother. Yeah, I used to cut your hair for weed. That’s me. Listen, sorry to call you so late but uh, I was just seeing if you’d want to buy- (The door is again pounded upon. Jeremy walks to the door and looks out his peephole. He ducks down away from the hole. He whispers into the phone.) Matt, can I call you right back? I’m selling some junk, so if you want any... Yeah, ok. Call you right back. (He slowly shuts his phone and tip toes away from the door.) BRANDON (V.O.) Saw you, Conlon! I saw you in the peephole! (Jeremy sighs and, hesitating a second before turning the lock, opens the door. Brandon, 36, stout and smelling of the slaughterhouse where he works, jovially walks in. His voice is raspy from yelling vulgar comments all night. He takes a seat at Jeremy’s table, thumbing through the address book.) JEREMY What’s up? BRANDON Nothing, did you like my knock? I freak your shit out? JEREMY Yeah, my shit was... freaked. BRANDON You a telemarketer now? JEREMY What? BRANDON (Holding up the address book) Were you making some sales calls? How much you sell? (Jeremy opens his mouth but hesitates. After a couple seconds of silence, he can not think of an answer that can justify his pause. He just watches Brandon.) BRANDON Damn, man... Did you use it? How much? (Next door, Dylan grunts, trying to pull himself from his wheelchair and into bed. He is weak from sleep, slumping harshly back into his chair and rolling back several feet. Brandon’s eyes dart to the wall.) BRANDON Who’s that? JEREMY What? My neighbor. BRANDON Yeah, I know, but I mean, guy girl, old young, rich poor? JEREMY Is he rich? Yeah, he’s filthy rich, he gets his kicks “slumming it” in this shithole building. BRANDON Fuck you. Kiss a monkey’s ass. JEREMY He’s a guy. Crippled guy, I drove him to the doctor’s once, I don’t know. BRANDON Did you see his apartment? JEREMY Why? BRANDON Does he have anything good? JEREMY Brandon, fucking... no. He’s my neighbor. He lives right there. Just, don’t. BRANDON You owe me, so I owe my guy. I need something to give him, huh? JEREMY I’ll call my brother tomorrow, I’ll get you the money tomorrow night, we’ll be ok. BRANDON Kiss a fuckin’ monkey’s ass. I don’t need anything tomorrow, I need it tonight. And your brother owes me goddamn money already. I wrote him off a year ago. So. We’re gonna go knock on the cripple’s door, because you know that any trouble you get me in comes back on you fifty times, bitch. (Brandon lunges forward, jamming the knife into Dylan’s stomach. Dylan’s wheelchair starts to roll backwards, but his brakes click on and the chair tips over, bringing Brandon with it. Brandon scrambles to his feet. Dylan begins to shout.) DYLAN (Between gasps of surprise and pain) Help! Help! Oh... (Jeremy clasps his hands over his mouth in shock. Brandon looks to Jeremy, squats and holds the knife to Dylan’s face.) BRANDON Shut up! Shut up, goddamnit! DYLAN Please, don’t! Please! Leave me alone! BRANDON I’ma kill you, you don’t shut up! DYLAN Help! Help me! God! What are you doing? (Brandon panics and awkwardly stabs Dylan in the throat. Jeremy groans in horror and stares as Brandon removes the knife and steps over Dylan, towards the dresser. Dylan gasps and gurgles, unable to speak.) JEREMY Brandon! What are you doing? What are you doing? What the hell, Brandon! BRANDON ( Just shut up, keep watching for anyone. BRANDON Just calm down, shit. It’s your fault, you fucked up. I’ll hide the knife, you just get the fuck out of here, don’t talk to anyone. After a few days, come back, be real quiet. You’re fine. JEREMY I can’t live here. BRANDON Then move. Get the deposit back and pay me the money you owe me. This is fucked up. BARRY DANCE DANCE? (pause.) JOAN (Quietly) blahpoisdfgsidfng;flasdf;djsnf;sdjfn;sdk fms;dfm | | 7:34 am |
Ben Dudley 11-29-06 I was jostled awake on my third day of cold darkness by a set of hands, one grabbing my thigh and the other fondling my breast. As I was lifted and carried from the only freezer I had ever called home, I was blinded by a whirlwind of lights and beeping sounds until I was finally dropped in a wheeled-cage. I wasn’t too phased at that point, though. I mean, afterall, once you’ve been decapitated, nothing really phases you. My uneventful, almost pleasant, ride in the cage took place mostly in silence, until the woman, who I could only assume was a farmer, pushing me suddenly stopped. She reached into the cage and grabbed something next to me, briefly brushing against my thigh. Her tender contact was the first I had felt since my mother had nurtured me as a hatchling. The warmth seeping from her pink feathers reminded me that somewhere in this giant farm, my mother was searching for me. I was troubled, wondering how she would find me now that I didn’t have a head. The female farmer who touched me spoke. “Wayne. These are sweetened candied yams.” A male farmer stared at her. “Is that wrong?” “I said ‘unsweetened,’ the list said ‘unsweetened.’” “So... just regular yams?” The female farmer immediately began quickly wheeling the cage after he asked this. The male farmer did not follow us. Seconds later, the gentle touch of the female farmer was gone as I was roughly hoisted from the cage and then placed in a bag. I spent the next several days back in freezing cold darkness. My next contact came in the form of the male farmer yanking me from the cold darkness. His head feathers were ruffled, and his eyes were tired. He carried me a short distance and I found myself dropped in a cold metal dish. My mood bettered when I saw the female farmer across the room. Her feathers were ruffled, and her eyes were squinted, but seemed more angry than tired. I could only assume that the male was troubling her. I listened as she brought up all the work she had to do, pleaded with the male farmer and was forced to raise her voice. As the male’s rough hands inserted bread deep inside me, I remembered her kind touch. Her constructive criticisms were cut short when I was shut in a small, very warm room. I could only watch from a small glass window as the female hurried in and out of my sight. Occasionally, the male and female’s voices were loud enough to reach me through the glass. Things were different when I came out. Everything looked nicer. The male farmer’s feathers were in order. The female’s mouth was pulled in a smile. Even I had plumped nicely for the occasion. From my vantage point on the silver platter, things were looking great. I was surrounded by food and candles and the male and female farmers were joined by a young farmer and a very old farmer. The old one confused me, though, as she watched the male with a scowl. How someone could scowl when there was so much available food was beyond me. The female seemed to feel the same as I did, as she wore a wide smile. She grasped the male’s hand and thanked God for such a wonderful family and blessed husband. She kept looking at the old one as she spoke. The young farmer had yet to react to anything, but did manage to smile when the female mentioned her blessed husband. Maybe he had noticed all of the food ready to be pecked. The old farmer behaved exactly as I would when the food was passed around: Instead of passing each dish to the male farmer, she helped herself and then set the dish next to her plate. Someone will peck the food right out from under your beak if you don’t take measures like that, it’s understandable. The angry male farmer turned to the female, who didn’t meet his gaze. The female still smiled and said that it was about time to carve me. The male farmer picked up a large knife, and again, the old farmer behaved exactly how I wanted to. She got angry. She said not to do it. I tried to nod, but again, no head. At this point, the young farmer smiled and agreed with the old one. The female farmer said, “Don’t cause trouble.” The young farmer sunk into his chair. A fork stuck into me. The old farmer spoke quicker, “I’ve done it every year since Cliff died.” The male farmer sunk the fork deeper into me and cursed God. The smile wavered on the female’s face. By this point I was in pain. The female farmer saved me, pulling the fork from me and taking the knife from the male. She then stuck the fork back in me and began to saw through my thigh. I felt betrayal. I felt immense pain. I watched through the pain as the young farmer looked away in disgust. I was disgusted, too. The tenderness I had felt from the female was gone. My leg was gone. I watched it passed in front of me on a platter. The old farmer sat in her seat. She wasn’t massacring me like she wanted, but she didn’t seem to care now. The male farmer stared at the old one with squinted eyes. I looked up and caught the eyes of the female. They were twisted to match her new frown. She hacked off my breast and added it to the platter. She continued to frown as the farmers ate my body parts in silence. She was quiet. No one mentioned things being blessed. No one smiled, except for the young farmer. He was interested in sparking conversation between the male and the old farmer. I disliked him for smiling during my final hour. The male farmer reached across the old one several times to get the hoarded dishes. From the time my beloved female intervened and sliced me, until I was finally dismantled and dead, there was no eye contact. The young farmer got up and left without a word. The old farmer shook her head at the female, who stared at me. My last sight before the darkness was the female farmer, shaking her head at me. | | Friday, March 3rd, 2006 | | 4:34 am |
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My dad commented on the review I wrote for King Kong for SpeakEasy. I just found the comment and i'ts like the sweetest thing ever. Ben, Loved your review. It makes me want to see the movie. Even tho i love adventure stuff anyway. now I got to see it, Poppa PS. I wish I could write as well as you * wayne – 7:30pm on 1/26/06 I was so surprised. I'm all warm now. | | 4:33 am |
It's my new goal to show as many people here as possible Before Sunset. Previously it was Shaun of the Dead, but that wasn't really a goal, I've just ended up watching it like 12 times. I get more paralells in it every single time, catch lines of dialogue, and homages and motifs each time. It sucks that it just looks like a kooky zombie spoof, when it's not at all. It's not a spoof, it's a comedy that happens to be set during a zombie invasion. It's not only hilarious (smart kind of hilarious), but genuinely scary, really well written (probably my favorite part about it, just HOW well written it is) and I love the direction, really smart it is. But yeah, I'm starting a list. Things I will never include in a movie A ticking clock The President Someone getting out of a situation by kicking someone in the crotch Lots of speaking roles Someone who wisecracks (example: Most Will Smith) The yelling of "Nooooooo!" when someone dies A person seeing something and dropping whatever they were holding in fear or shock. If you're scared, you're not gonna drop what you're holding, you're gonna hold the fuck onto it. This will be continued. | | 4:33 am |
 HE's soooooo fucking talented. I can't really emphasize how much... I'm moved by his work. you know in American Beauty when Ricky talks about how much beauty there is in the world that he feels his heart might burst? Paul Thomas Anderson's work has made me believe that that can be true. Boogie Nights is epic. Punch Drunk Love is moving. Magnolia is intricate. Sydney is intensive. That was so out of order. but seriously. There Will Be Blood, his next movie... my heart feels for its release. | | 4:32 am |
I dreamt last night that I ran into Simon Pegg at OU in the middle of the night, under the stars. We were all sitting on the ground outside my dorm. I made some observation that made him laugh really hard and it was awesome. We eventually decided that we would collaborate in writing his next movie.  I was sooooo happy. Why would he be at OU? He's British. | | 4:32 am |
I love the story behind C-47s. I learned it ON SET. Oooh. Clothes pins are one of the most essential tools on a film shoot. Seriously, you use them for everything. I come home from every shoot with pockets of them (oops). A film crew was running low on them, so they sent in a request to the studio, asking for more clothes pins. The studio refused to provide funding for clothes pins. So the film people made up an order for "C-47s" and the studio was like "Oh, snap, that sounds important" and gave them funding. For clothes pins. So now clothes pins are called C-47s and you get in trouble if you don't call them that. | | 4:31 am |
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Ok, so I made up a joke after Syriana tonight at Michael's. No one appreciated it as much as they should've due to its on-the-spot formation. What two Christophers are polar opposites of each other? Christopher Reeves and Christopher Walken. | | 4:29 am |
Early entry for worst movie of 2006 (hands down winner of worst trailer in 2005): http://movies.yahoo.com/feature/whenastrangercalls.htmlYou might accuse me of being too rough on a teen horror movie aimed at all those kids that look the same that go to the movies on friday nights to see horror movies and The Ringer (the kind that unanimously booed the very good Wolf Creek last night), but seriously, this trailer did the exact opposite of what it was supposed to do (scare). I have never laughed as hard in a theater (Charlie and the C F included). Once I realized it wasn't a Best Buy ad telling you to turn off your cell phones, I was astounded until about 2/3 through when a police officer calls her back and delivers the worst line I have ever heard. Tears came to me (first out of laughter, then depression [especially when the almost-equally-as-bad Pulse was advertised next]). Please watch. | | 4:29 am |
They finally confirmed that the killer of O-Ren's parents was Bill. I've thought that since the first time I saw Volume One, because the animated killer not only had a katana, BUT also wore several rings (all you see of Bill in Volume One is his ringed-hand clutching a katana). They never even mentioned it again in Volume 2. So I figured I was wrong. But David Carradine confirmed that he was the killer. Feels good. Also, Kanye West's new single, i'm not sure what it's called, but it has TWO music videos. The first one is animated and the second takes place in a department store. I've never seen the same version of a song have two videos. Either way, I was able to guess that the first one was animated by Bill Plympton and I was able to guess that the second was directed by Michel Gondry. I love Gondry, his last two videos "The Denial Twist" by the White Stripes and this have both been really cool. I love that he's so distinctive that you can tell when he's directing, but also consistantly unique. That's what it's all about. | | Monday, November 7th, 2005 | | 3:10 am |
| | Sunday, November 6th, 2005 | | 3:06 am |
"I've written myself into my own screenplay..."
Holy hell, every time I watch Adaptation., I need to... like, holler. I want as many people to see it as possible, but it's so incredibly complex that they won't get it the first time they see it, by no fault of their own, so they'd have to watch more than once, but after seeing it once and not being overwhelmed by it, why would you watch it again? (What a terrible sentence, huh?) My reason was not being able to sleep one night a couple years ago, and watching it on a whim. It's a movie about an insane (or is he?) orchid collector. And it's about a passionless woman studying him for an article a couple years later. And it's about a screenwriter making her book into a movie a few years after that. But it's not about three different things. All those things are the same in the movie. It's about screenwriting, passion and how the world adapts to survive. God, even the title is complex. I'm probably trivializing it, I realize, Tyler. But still... it's about writing the movie you're watching. And as he's influenced by things, the movie/script changes style... and I've read reviews that criticize the last act, which is one of the best parts, because it's supposed to be bad and incredibly cliched. We're just so used to seeing cliched shit like that, it's hard to tell that it's intentional, so you don't realize just how... smart it is. I don't know, the movie is funny, gorgeous, (somehow) simple, and brilliantly acted (three main characters are all Oscar-winners, one for this). Ah... I don't know, and the most amazing part is that it's possible to watch the movie and even like it, and still not see any of the stuff or aspects that I mentioned. I love it, and it has its permanent spot in my top 6 list. |
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