Stuck in Chicago

Non-Fiction22 Jun 2007 06:39 pm

So I got stuck in Chicago in a canceled layover flight, so I decided to do what everyone does when they get stuck in a canceled layover flight: rename my blog. The title was a little too anti-intellectual, and I’m not intellectual enough to be anti-intellectual. So, my blog is now a random title devoted to this inconvenient experience.

I got a call and an email from a woman at MTV named Brittany. Apparently she wants to use “Dick in a Sketch” on some new Nick Cannon sketch show. The rights would be indefinitely theirs, but we would get $1,000 and a shitload of popularity. Sign me up. I can’t believe Bleak! has been around for less then a year and we already have potential offers from television networks for our content. Boo-yah.

By the way, here’s a hilarious sketch I saw on College Humor. It’s been out for a few months but I just saw it now. It sums up all the feelings I have about Boston in a really funny way. Their original videos have been getting better and better. Check it out:

http://youtube.com/watch?v=jXIDdLCfuoI

Fiction11 May 2007 03:45 pm

A Tisch Film Student Critiques “The Golden Girls”

By Dave Epson

First of all, love the set up, love the premise. Rose’s characterization and dialogue is a bit tough to sit through, however, and at times I start to feel a bit like an audience member during Erich Von Stroheim’s Greed (1924).

I believe what I’ve been fed: four elderly females living together, enjoying retired life. But where’s the conflict? Why am I watching this, really? Spare me the jazzy fluff, Melies (A Trip to the Moon, 1902), and get to the heart of it.

So Blanche is a man-hungry vixen. Is that really all there is to her? When does she cry? Does her undying need for affection relate to her neglection as a child?

Flashback sequence. Think about it.

Let’s not get started on the endless slew of boyfriend guest stars, now. In the words of Bruce Kilroy, my Television Writing teacher: “Have faith in what you’ve created”. Don’t blow your sharp idea on big names and throwaway romances; really save what is there. And Bruce knows a lot, he was a staff writer on “Harry and the Hendersons” (1987). IMDB it.

Get rid of this Sophia busybody. Nobody wants here there; she doesn’t add anything that can’t be established in a flashback sequence. Too many one-liners. If I wanted that, I’d rather enjoy the swashbuckling antics of Chaplin (City Lights, 1931), or perhaps Harold Lloyd (Chaplin’s lesser known compadre, The Kid Brother, 1927).

Maybe it’s me, but does anyone else get a Clara Bow vibe from Blanche? Not downright attractive, but swimming in an ocean of sexuality. You got “It”, girl. You got “It”.

“It” was a romantic silent film produced in 1927. “It”, a euphemism for “sex appeal” took the world by storm and gave American Cinema a new, sexy voice.

As I feel I have expressed my thoughts on the series as a whole, I will now nitpick at a few episodes I feel deserve it.

EPISODE F-118 “The Operation”

This one is a classic by many Golden Girls’ fans, but little do they know about proper execution and storytelling. I don’t know if the director (Terry Hughs) was hungover (probably, he had a notorious drinking problem), but this episode contains countless omissions to detail and cohesiveness.

What stands out the most, is that there is countless breaking of the 180 rule. (For those of you who are not in the know, this basic filmmaking rule states that two characters in the same scene should always have the same left/right relationship to each other) The camera clearly crosses the 180 degree line time after time. It may be because there were scenes in a hospital room and they needed all the angles they could salvage, but really, come on. You’re showing this to America. At least have the decency to put Dorothy in the corner or something.

EPISODE F214 - “Ladies of the Evening”

This episode was one of the show’s lesser-known “floptastics”.

First thing’s first: the lighting. I don’t know which gaffer forgot to put his corrective lenses on, but to me, it looks as if Blanche’s make up is part of her skin. If it weren’t for the starry backdrop in the window, I wouldn’t be able to tell day for night. Let’s cut it down a few footcandles, guys, and show me you’re trying.

EPISODE 311 - “The Way We Met”

Finally, the producers grew some sense and threw together a half hour full of flashbacks and backstory. The “Girls” spend the entire half hour explaining the way they met. It should deliver, however, the writing falls flat. Think about their past, guys. Really feel their motivations out.

Also, the location of their first meeting is a bit lackluster. They all met at a supermarket? Come on, boys. You have a network budget and Hollywood set designers. Have them meet somewhere awesome, like at the center of the earth, or my dream location: Nazi Germany. Nothing evokes cinematic emotion more like four runaway Jews who decide to dodge the Holocaust by living in a swanky retirement complex in southern Florida. That was my biggest bone to pick with this episode. And the editing was way off.

Dave Epson is a junior at NYU Tisch School of the Arts. He majors in Film Directing, and has created such student films as “Untitled: First Year Final Project” and “Human Disease: Explored”. He is from Dayton, Ohio.

Uncategorized11 May 2007 03:17 pm

Update

Hopefully I’ll be updating this more frequently. Actually, that’ll just mean I’m bored. So I guess, for my sake, I won’t be updating this more often.

Here’s a video my group, Bleak! Comedy did last month. There’ll be a new one up soon:

Non-Fiction02 Feb 2007 10:58 am

Tee Ball and Bees

When I was 8, I thought it’d be a grand idea to play tee ball.

I had seen the baseball greats on television and in person: Bernie Williams, Tino, Wade Boggs, etc., and assumed playing tee ball was only a few steps away from my first endorsement deal.

After my Dad half-convinced me to actually do it, I signed up, paid my entrance fee, and was well on my way.

I remember going to the uniform/athletic store, trying on various things that were foreign to me, but figured it was all part of the drill.

“How do those pants feel on ya? Not too tight, now, you want to be able to move in them.”
“Uh, yeah, they feel perfect.”
“How about this cap? Enough dots snapped in place? Feel snug?”
“I guess so.”
“How’s this glove feel? Could ya catch a ball in one of these?”
“Yeah, whatever, did you say we were getting ice cream?”

I was excited, but reluctant. I knew in the back of my head I was never meant for sports, sort of the way the gay adolescent feels when he gets his first girlfriend. Something ain’t right, but what the hell, everyone else was doing it.

My first game was horrifying. For some reason, I was afraid of getting hit with the ball, even though the chance of getting hit with a ball in tee ball was -80%. I guess I didn’t trust other kids my age with a thick, heavy baseball. I figured I’d get smacked with a loose throw to second base, knocking my teeth out as I fell in the outfield grass.

There were girls on my team, and they were all better then me. For some reason, I was thrown on the local team with all the girls who would eventually grow up to smoke in the girl’s room and wear dark Nike hoodies all throughout high school. They had no trouble making me feel inferior from the get go of our long and awkward relationship, soaring balls off the trembling tee as they knocked another one into the outfield.

Just like any other uncomfortable, non-athletic eight year old on a tee ball team, I was thrown in the outfield. I felt a little indignant about that, because I didn’t think I was fat enough. I looked to my right and saw a borderline obese teammate, sitting on the grass, playing with ants. I looked over to my left and saw another out of shape teammate, prancing around until the inning was over. Am I that fat, I thought? Hell, you don’t need to run that much on defense, and I could throw a ball somewhat. Why get thrown into the same mix with a bunch of fat losers whose mothers fed them Fruitsnacks and cake all the time?

Another reason why I hated being in the outfield was because I hated bees. I had gotten stung once as a six year old, and from then on, made it my life’s purpose to never come in contact with another bee again. If I ever got my hands on a grenade as a child, you could rest assured I would send it into one of the biggest beehives I could find. Hated bees.

I would stand in the outfield and swat the bees I feared were after me. It was mostly in my head; there were barely any bees even around, and none of them wanted a part of me. They just didn’t want to be bothered, as did I.

Also, for some reason, my poor eyesight would turn into that of a hawk’s, and I was able to squint and see a yellow jacket resting on a dandelion several yards away. “Oh, boy,” I would think, as the sweat would accumulate, “Bees.”

And so the humiliation began. The only thing “the bottom of the fifth” meant to me was trying to dodge an angry hornet. Soon, I would be running all around the outfield, making my display of wussiness more embarrassing then any stationary fat kid could ever be. The bored parents on the bleachers would look at me and laugh. “Glad that kid ain’t mine,” a mother would laugh to her girlfriend, “Kid’s afraid of bees.”

My grandfather would come up to me after the games, shaking his head, hands on his hips. “You keep pulling that garbage, I’m gonna put a bag on my head when I come to these games,” he’d say, fully meaning it. He would repeat it to my parents that night at dinner and would get a laugh. At least the embarrassing anecdote gave them some pleasure after their long workdays. As long as I can provide some sort of goofy story. That’s why I was there, not for playing tee ball.

Non-Fiction11 Nov 2006 07:52 pm

Tales From a Late Night Train Ride

by Paul Briganti

I’m on a train from one home to the next. The old home to the new home. I have two homes.

I got in the train and sat down. Literally, there was maybe one other seat taken in this very car. I rest my eyes for about ten minutes. I open them, and I feel like someone picked me up and brought me to a completely different train. The cart was now filled with 19-24 year olds, all drinking stuff that didn’t smell like Pepsi out of Pepsi bottles, heading towards the city for a night of expensive fun.

There are three girls in front of me who, I think, want my seat. I am the only one in between them and the rest of their friends. They are on the outside and I am the fence. This makes me feel uncomfortable. I can hear them saying things like “He’s taking up three seats!” and “This is so unfair!” You know, things that they hope I hear but would be embarrassed if I did. It’d be nice to just say, “Look, I hear you. But I don’t want to move. Mostly because I know your friends hate you.”

There is a high school couple across the aisle that are acting like Homeland Security is on their tail. They have their heads down low, and before every time they kiss, they both look around to make sure no one is looking. Also, the girl never shuts her eyes when she’s kissing the guy. She’s actually looking around her to see if any of her friends are watching. The poor guy has no idea, his eyes are shut and into the moment. She’s just doing it for a show.

There are a few baseball fans sitting behind me, and they are sporting the hats to defy any challengers. They aren’t too interesting, though, just fading in and out to sleep while listening to their Ipods. The weed is probably kicking in.

While I am probably around the mean age in this cart, I still feel like a grandpa. I am sitting, quietly on my laptop, not having the same good times that people my age are. Am I wrong? No, I’ve really tried to participate in that, full on, and all it leads is to me, feeling ashamed of myself. I can’t pretend I’m a certain way and like certain things. I’m not that good of a faker. Except when I pretend I enjoy someone’s cooking, or a gift. Really, I could eat rotten coleslaw and act like it was decadent cheesecake.

Fiction29 Oct 2006 03:49 pm

Seriously Everyone, Jim’s Been Abusing the Punch-In Clock

by Ted Foley

Listen, guys. I know we’ve all been working here at TriniCorp for a while now, and we all have a pretty good handle on things. When Phil spilled ink on his shirt and all the Myer reports, everyone remained cool. When Mary told that joke with the word “WASP” in it, I knew we felt the negative energy around the office for a few days, and we approached her with the problem and a solution. But it seems like Jim, the new intern-turned entry level employee, has been treating the punch clock like it’s his own personal joystick. I mean, I know he’s new and wants to make a good impression on management, but it seems like everyone’s been getting fed up with his baloney.

It’s a good invention. I appreciate it, and I’m sure everyone here silently does. But no one else really needs to hear you call every number as you push it. “And here we go…5!” he’ll start, inevitably followed by the “…now give me a 2!” We all have a punch in number, Jim. You aren’t special. I mean, sure a specific number is really a fun idea when you think about it, but we all have one. Big deal. All that does is make us look bad.

Speaking of making us look bad, whenever he engages in any kind of conversation here, be it small talk or whatever, he always needs to run to the clock and punch out. What is that, really? Even if he’s at his desk and I come over and ask him if his son passed his orange belt test, sure enough he’s running over to the break room to punch his number before he can even think of answering. By the time he gets back from that escapade, I usually feel so sick I don’t even care anymore.

While it has been getting on my nerves lately, I must admit, I almost laughed out a loud one when he punched out and forgot if he had done it or not. “Wait a second, does anybody remember if I punched out? Did anyone see me?” Man, he was pacing and cursing to himself that day, he was just going bananas. And what’s with him punching in other people’s numbers? Has anyone else gotten that? I got to work two minutes late the other day—two minutes, and sure enough he let me know that he punched me in, “just looking out for me”. What in God’s name is that? First of all, how does he even know my number, and second of all, I don’t need his help with the punch clock. No sir, not me. No thanks.

Maybe, as time goes on, Jim will let up a bit. I just think we need to bring it to his attention that his work is getting in the way of his obsession. Now, I know he’s new and you all feel sorry for him, but if we don’t let him know what he’s doing wrong, he may go too far. Who knows, one day he may punch out every time he thinks of a clad lady at work, or even worse, watches funny videos on the internet. Hell, I know if I punched out every time I tuned into a baffled cat playing a piano, I wouldn’t even be able to pay rent on my condo!

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