Ed Hellman
Something about a Man with an Ax..

My mother gave birth to a beardless lumberjack. I adored lumber and found chopping it down even more thrilling. Throughout my childhood it was pretty much assumed that I would grow up to become a full-fledged, membership-card-holding, plaid-shirt-wearing lumberjack.
Did you know that “timber” was my very first word (if you don’t count “daddy”)? It’s true, it’s true. Let me just say, I learned that word much too early on. There were these great moments where I would shout it out: “Timberrrrrrr!” and all the surrounding adults would turn nervously. Instead of immediately pushing something over or cutting something down, I would stand perfectly still - and wait. The adults would circle me anxiously, each wondering, “What is he going to knock down? The lamp? The flower pot? The precariously stacked firewood?” It would drive them all terrifically mad while I would be having the best time. Once, I actually waited a full forty-five minutes after saying “timber” before plowing into the boney legs of an aging house guest.
This passion has faded. Regardless, I still have a soft spot for lumberjacks and was tickled pink when I found Russell Lee’s 1937 photograph of two lumberjacks relaxing.
What I love most about Lee’s photograph is that the lumberjacks are laying down - I had never pictured that happening. Lumberjacks are supposed to stand tall and proud. Lee shows them just sort of hanging out. It is one of those situations no one wants to see but should, because - imagination be damned - lumberjacks are just like the rest of us.
Another point of interest: Perpendicular to the lumberjacks rests the fruit of the morning’s hunt: Lumber. Lumber! I am picturing those old Looney Toon episodes where the coyote would try and kill herds of sheep but at the end of the day he would tip his hat and exchange pleasantries with his enemy, the sheepdog. These lumberjacks don’t just chop would, they chill with it.
Curiously enough: The lumberjacks are reading newspapers and one front page story has in its title the name “Hercules”. Is that not the definition of “cute”? They have a hero!

... Or do they?

Are they just reading up on other strong men or could this point to something deeper: To you, me and the average shmoe, these lumberjacks look relatively tough, but perhaps they feel inadequate. All those gruff men of the forest stumbling about in fear of something greater, spending their days madly shortening nature’s tallest and most upright creations..

-- -- -- -- --

Lumberjack watching appeals to me now much more than lumberjacking itself. It is a thinking man’s sport. The insightful lumberjack watcher can learn a great deal from photos such as Lee’s. There is something sacred - nay, heavily erotic - about seeing these gentle giants frozen in time. Lee would agree.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 4:59 PM

 
Ed Hellman
The Value of Caging Small Evil Things

I was sad, oh so sad, and needed something to lord over. Chinchillas, cute as they may appear, are quite possibly devil spawn. For this reason alone, I highly recommend them as pets. Kids will adore their deliciously soft coats of fur, but we, the privileged adults, can appreciate these spherical monsters on a higher level. For a child, a pet chinchilla is a plaything, a companion, or (I apologize here for any parent out there with the misfortune of having a child where this is the case) a best friend. The little brats can tug on the ears or rub the soft underbelly.. It will keep them busy for hours. What they do not know, can not know, will never know, is the real reason to own a chinchilla: They make the best prisoners. Now, this may be shocking at first, but think it over. Chinchillas are tiny balls of evil who love sinning.
Let’s start with avarice (or greed). Have chinchillas got that? Oh yes. A chinchilla will do anything in its power to accumulate other creatures’ possessions. For example: A chinchilla is bored with existence (what else is new). You sit down next to it and give it a gift - say, a tongue depressor to gnaw on. Today’s chinchilla is not content with just one tongue depressor. It will snatch it from your fingers only to throw it down behind it a second later. Then what does it do? It stares into you with soulless eyes, as if to say, “that’s it? You think you can appease me that easily?” When when you confess, “I have no more tongue depressors”, what does it do? It chews your watch right off your wrist and throws it next to the tongue depressor. After that? You guessed it: It goes for your shoe lace. Then shoe. Then sock. Then toenails. Of course, one must ask the purpose of all this. Why does the chinchilla want a sock or shoe or toenail? The reason is simple: Greed.
Next you have gluttony. Chinchillas don’t have meals. They feast. A chinchilla will eat nonstop until it runs out of food. At that point, it makes the inedible edible. Sheets, metal, clay, plastic, you name it, they will eat it. I’ve even seen a chinchilla lick urine encrusted pipes out of shear desperation.
Any chinchilla owner knows that raisons are to chinchillas as alcohol is to alcoholics. I give my chinchilla one raisin a day and as soon as it sees the raisin near the cage bars, the monster stretches its claws out to snatch it from my hand. When it has the raisin in its clutches, the chinchilla opens its mouth wide and shoves the entire thing in. Does it stop to chew? No time. It slides the whole raisin straight down its throat and into its stomach. If a chinchilla came across a bag of raisins it would eat them until it died.
I theorize that chinchillas do not enjoy eating. They hate eating. The only reason they stuff themselves so quickly is so they can rejoin their dark lord, Satan, when they have eaten too much. A chinchilla will never consider death by starvation though, they see at as a waste. Why starve to death when it can consume our food? They know that what they do not eat, we might. They want to take as much from us as possible. Chinchillas are sad and desperate creatures.
All this eating and hoarding may give the impression that chinchillas are active creatures. This is not the case. Chinchillas are the definition of laziness. The reason behind this is they know they have us fooled. No self-respecting person can bare to mistreat such a cuddly rodent. The chinchilla will tremble its lips and peer out of its cage with eyes wider than anything else in the world. This can all be done while reclining or stretched out on its side.
Chinchillas are utterly self-serving and demand constant care. They lend next to nothing to society. They know this, and know we know it too. When let out of its cage, a chinchilla will suffer a burst of energy where it will bounce off as many surfaces as it can as quick as it can. This love of exercise is short-lived. A few minutes will pass and the chinchilla will turn its attention to the more important task at hand: Destruction. It is in their blood. First it will attack wood-panelling. Next it will hit your wallpaper and carpet. Once it has butchered all of that, the chinchilla will take on wires and clothes and tiles and anything else within reach. Keep your babies high above the ground. Once a chinchilla has a taste for blood, it never forgets it. In fact, it prides itself on its ability to destroy those we love.
This leads perfectly into the subject of pride. A chinchilla will stare for hours at its own reflection. If you happen to walk by while this is going on, the chinchilla will stop, only for a second, to send you a disdainful look. Once it has made clear how little it thinks of you, the chinchilla will turn back to its reflection and sigh lovingly.
It should not come as a surprise that chinchillas are fully capable of expressing a wide range of emotions. They shriek when scared, grind their teeth when ignored, grunt when annoyed, and whine when hungry. The cherry on top is that the chinchilla is actually able to laugh. When it has stolen food from its owner, it will let out a deep, throaty chuckle. When it has successfully tricked its owner, it will do the same. It will laugh when it manages to chew on something it has been instructed to respect. It will laugh if the noise will keep its owner awake. It will also laugh at anything remotely humorous, as long as the joke is at someone’s expense. Chinchillas do not laugh with you. Chinchillas laugh at you.
Revolting as it may be, chinchillas have large sex drives. When denied a mate, they will take matters into their own hands - literally. Many have bizarre fetishes and will stop at nothing to have their way with an owner’s foot. This can be vexing. Once a chinchilla has reached sexual maturity (always much too early), it will become obsessed with the possibility of creating litter upon litter upon litter of its own kind. This is devil’s work, so one must be careful around the sex-crazed chinchilla. It has more lust in one stubby finger than all of mankind put together. Sure, it may sound kind of cute at first, but trust me, that fades. Boy does it fade.
Just like in the movie Aliens, these creatures are most likely intrigued by the notion of inter-species breeding. Will a chinchilla breed with a rabbit? Yes. A ferret? If it can. A dog? Snake? Cougar? Yes, yes yes. Chinchillas would love to have Chinchilla-Spiders or Chinchilla-Elks. Of course, the anatomical differences set the process back a bit, but if you look into a chinchilla’s eyes you can tell, without a doubt, that it is plotting. I do not want to label them as potential rapists but, well, we all know the possibility is out there.
Chinchillas envy mankind’s sexual freedom. We have the luxury of online dating, arranged marriages, mass weddings. Chinchillas have to beg for sex. Take their pride and greed and gluttony and it does not take a rocket scientist to figure out how much envy is bottled up inside a chinchilla. One word: Tons. Even wild chinchillas, stampeding in herds at the base of the Andes mountains, frolicking freely and undisturbed, envy us.
Sexual freedom aside, we have the one thing chinchillas will never have: Cages. Take that and that and that! Box them up and ship them anywhere in the world. If a girl in China wants a chinchilla, a chinchilla is sent to her in a cage, ready to torture or love or what-have-you. We have the ability to trap and cage chinchillas. Can you imagine what they would do if they had the same power over us? I see human zoos stretching over hundreds of miles of land. You and your neighbor, side by side, clanging tin cups along the bars, begging to be fed.
Wrath is a no-brainer here. Chinchillas hate us. They really, truly, hate us. We know they are evil, but they see us as just as bothersome. Chinchillas show their hate for us best in an unfortunately childish behavior: Ruthless, purposefully messy urination. When a chinchilla is frightened it will urinate. Does that bother you? It should, because you can bet the chinchilla won’t be urinating on itself. When provoked, chinchillas are known to rear up, pause, take aim, and fire at will. These things actually take aim. A happy chinchilla is one perched on a pile of decaying human corpses.
The above image is not far from becoming reality. Chinchillas grow stronger everyday. Stronger and more cunning. How soon before one of our kind is lost to the jaws of one of theirs? Days, possibly minutes. This can be avoided easily. Buy a chinchilla. Buy two chinchillas. Slap them in a cage. Lock them up. Any day with a chinchilla running wild could be our last.
These are all valuable reasons why a chinchilla makes a wonderful pet. Sure, we could kill them, but it feels so much better keeping them around in padlocked cages and cramped, duct taped shoe boxes. Your kids will thank you. Sleep will come easily once you control the fate of the demonic chinchilla. Let them hate us. Let them curse us. We hold the keys. Isn’t that fun?
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 4:58 PM

 
GHOST OF THE HAUNTED SNAKE!
by

Ed Hellman

FADE IN:

EXT. HOLSTADT HOUSE MORNING

DAVEY HOLSTADT, 17, strolls down the front walk and past his sister, EMMA RAY HOLSTADT, 22, head down and working under the hood of her hot rod. She looks up as Davey steps into the street.

EMMA RAY
Nosebleed! Where you runnin’ to?

Davey rolls his eyes.

DAVEY
The passion pit with Janie!

Emma Ray wipes grease from her forearms.

EMMA RAY
She’s one stacked paper shaker!

Davey shoots a glance back but keeps going.

DAVEY
Hang a moon, skag!


EXT. AROUND THE CORNER CONTINUOUS

Davey marches down the street. A hissing sound comes from behind a nearby bush. Davey pauses.

DAVEY
Shug?

The hiss grows louder.

DAVEY
You tiltin’ my sign?

Davey pokes his head behind the bush - finds himself face to face with a THREE HUNDRED FOOT SNAKE - and screams shrilly.


INT. HOLSTADT HOUSE LIVING ROOM AFTERNOON

Emma Ray, holding a guitar, opens the front door. JANIE SULLIVAN, 17, in tears, rushes inside.

JANIE
I’m not eggin’ to be a phiz, but is Davey in?

EMMA RAY
Rumor has it he’s out right now playing back seat bingo... with you.

JANIE
He never showed!

EMMA RAY
Woah, dolly! I’ll ring Sheriff Matthews.

Emma Ray walks over to a nearby telephone and dials. Janie takes an EAR OF CORN out of her purse, holding it out of Emma Ray’s line of vision.

EAR OF CORN
I DON’T TRUST HER, JANIE!


INT. SHERIFF’S OFFICE AFTERNOON

SHERIFF MATTHEWS, 55, sits at his desk, talking on the phone.

SHERIFF MATTHEWS
Missing? It’s on the front burner. Keep a cool sky, baby.


INT. HOLSTADT HOUSE LIVING ROOM AFTERNOON

Janie is sitting on the couch, next to Emma Ray’s guitar. The Ear of Corn is back in her purse. Emma Ray hangs up the phone.

EMMA RAY
A’s to our F’s for the time being.

JANIE
I sure hope Davey’s a-okay!

EMMA RAY
Me too, kiddo, me too. That onion peeler is the only family I’ve got.

Janie holds up the guitar.

JANIE
I never knew you swung axe!

Emma Ray sits on the arm of the couch and takes the guitar.


INT. SHERIFF’S OFFICE AFTERNOON

Sheriff Matthews stands behind his desk. He puts on a jacket and cowboy hat and sticks a pistol in his waistband. He pauses. He removes the pistol and lays it on his desk. He sits back down and pulls out a flask from his pocket.

SHERIFF MATTHEWS
Liquid pearl, make me dance!

He tilts his head back and takes a long swig. He pulls the cowboy hat over his eyes and snuggles further into the chair. The hissing sound starts up again. Sheriff Matthews slowly pulls his hat up and looks down between his legs. He scream shrilly as his body is yanked under the desk.


INT. HOLSTADT HOUSE LIVING ROOM AFTERNOON

Emma Ray finishes a song on the guitar. Janie claps her hands.

JANIE
Wow! That was the most!

EMMA RAY
Thanks.. I kinda laid it down after Momma and Poppa died.

JANIE
Oh, Emma Ray, that would really get me frosted!

EMMA RAY
This ol’ battle axe got me through some tough times.

JANIE
(swooning)
And you wrote that song!

The doorbell rings. Emma Ray opens the front door. Behind it stands FLINT HOLLOWAY, 38, attractive, big game hunter. Janie stands.

EMMA RAY
What’s buzzin’, cuzzin’?

FLINT
Are you writin’ a book? Cool it, ankle-biters. The name’s Flint Holloway.

JANIE
(eyeing Flint’s figure)
That’s one classy chassis!

Flint walks around the room, peering out each window.

EMMA RAY
This ain’t no girl-ask-boy so quit playin’ the role. The heats on his way.

Flint cocks an eyebrow.

FLINT
Bone box, you’re razzin’ my berries! You gotta get on the stick. Bad news is goosin’ it to your pad and I’ve got the word from the bird. The heat is gone.

Janie gasps. Emma Ray furrows her brow.

FLINT
(continued)
You ever heard of Serpenti Cerastes?

Janie shakes her head.

FLINT
(continued)
I’ve been trackin’ it for calendars and it’s gone ape on your town. Took out the law and-

Flint shrugs.

FLINT
(continued)
-countless others.

Janie leans in toward Flint.

JANIE
What is Serpenti Cerastes?

Flint leans in toward Janie.

FLINT
Mankind’s most radioactive wet rag: the three hundred foot snake.

Emma Ray smirks.

EMMA RAY
Quit rattlin’ her cage. Cast an eyeball, cube, ain’t no snakes here. That’s close.

Janie gasps and clutches Emma Ray’s arm.

JANIE
Oh, Emma Ray, what if it sunk Davey, too!?

Emma Ray’s face drops. A hiss comes from outside.

FLINT
It’s outside!

Emma Ray and Flint rush over to a window and peer outside.


EXT. HOLSTADT HOUSE CONTINUOUS

The Three Hundred Foot Snake is coiled on the lawn.


INT. HOLSTADT HOUSE CONTINUOUS

Janie takes the Ear of Corn out of her purse.

JANIE
This ain’t cloud nine, talking corn.

EAR OF CORN
TAKE THE PHONE, JANIE!

Janie stuffs the nearby phone into her purse. Emma Ray and Flint turn around. Flint turns around and points at Janie.

FLINT
Alright, you’re nuggets! You’re going out as bait while we agitate the gravel.

EMMA RAY
No!

Flint opens the door and begins to shove Janie outside, despite Emma Ray’s protest. Janie holds the Ear of Corn close to her.

FLINT
Pop the clutch, fream!

The Three Hundred Foot Snake flinches. Emma Ray pushes Flint out of the way and pulls Janie back in.

EMMA RAY
The corn! Of course! Snakes hate corn!

Emma Ray grabs the Ear of Corn from Janie’s hand and chucks it outside.


EXT. HOLSTADT HOUSE CONTINUOUS

The Three Hundred Foot Snake explodes.


INT. HOLSTADT HOUSE CONTINUOUS

Flint stares out the door.

JANIE
That was close!

Flint places his arms around Janie’s shoulders.

FLINT
You’re safe now, baby. It’s Fat City from here on out.

Flint coughs, buckles, dies.

JANIE
Emma Ray, what happened!?

EMMA RAY
The curse of the weaker sex, Clyde, the curse of the weaker sex. You know, here’s a solid sender that’ll chill ya: I’m kinda glad they’re all dead.

Janie looks deep into Emma Ray’s eyes.

JANIE
Why?

Emma Ray kisses Janie smack dab on the lips.

JANIE
(blushing)
Oh! Emma Ray, you’re a living doll!

Emma Ray kneels down and plucks something up from the doorway.

EMMA RAY
Why, it’s popcorn!

JANIE
Can I eat it?

EMMA RAY
I don’t see why not!

FADE OUT:
THE END
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 1:49 PM

 
Ed Hellman
Cultural Reportage
Photo Review

Russell Lee Photographed Me in 1938

We threw down the advertisements and combed and combed, combed and combed. The little things had been relatively safe before Photography. We had writing (cursed by many) but there were few images to distract, so rare was it to come across “the ideal”. I bathed, you not so much; and that was okay. We all were a bit mousey. Words told us what to do, but there was no pressure nor urge to visually conform. No smiling, crinkled up pictures of Errol Flynn, Elvis, Giselle, Jay Leno. I asked you, remember, “Will she like me now? Is this how they look?” and you said, “Who are ‘they’? You look lovely.”
When they sent the first camera across the mountains we learned what the world expected of us. Everyone wore red caps. Ski jackets were preferred. When I went to school, I hid everything but eyebrows because eyebrows were “in”. Everything else was “out”.
All that is left of the old world is a photo, the result of our perfectionist revolution. It captures the change so well, and you took it, and it is lovely. Title: Son of a Sharecropper Combing Hair in Bedroom of Shack, Missouri. My father was a tyrant but keen in the sharecropping industry (and that’s what it was, an industry). Your father was a photographer, and fought with mine sometimes. The photo you took depicts my transformation from innocent to modern. There I stand, peeking up into Mirror, surrounded by visual stimuli: Mother Advertisement. I can still hear her whispering to me to “comb harder”. We can see her words quite well in the cracks creeping through my reflection. What I saw was distorted and broken. My true face is hidden because it has become obsolete. I see a distortion and the viewer (he, she, it) is left with what I present to the world - my back - something I can only see clearly through photographs.
What I had forgotten was the costume trunk. We hid in it once, then took it out to sea. The hats I wore till they frayed. Now I am old and you visit me with photographs of our world, photographs which I once hated and have begun to like. I comb my hair for you, in front of Mirror - so cracked it would be useless, had I not pinned more advertisements to its shoulders.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 2:05 AM

 
NEW POST! NEW POST! NEW POST!

Here are two short scripts I did recently:


HOW IT ENDS by Ed Hellman

FADE IN:

EXT. TALL OFFICE BUILDING LATE EVENING

Gray sky, windy.


INT. VETERINARY OFFICE WAITING ROOM LATE EVENING

HERBERT, 46, and STEPHANIE, 47, huddle on bench. Stephanie, perspiring, strokes Herbert’s clasped hands.

A NURSE IN TRAINING approaches.

Stephanie stands to face her. Herbert keeps his head down.

Nurse In Training looks down to the side. She shakes her head.

Stephanie covers her mouth with both hands.

Herbert covers his eyes with one hand, cries.


INT. VETERINARY OFFICE HALLWAY LATE EVENING

Holding each other, Herbert and Stephanie follow Nurse In Training.


INT. VETERINARY OFFICE EXAMINATION ROOM LATE EVENING

Stephanie rushes to: DOCTOR, rolled up sleeves, behind examination table. They cry in each other’s arms.

Herbert stays in the doorway.


INT. CAR NIGHT

Stephanie drives. Clutches wheel too hard.

Herbert cradles a SHOE BOX. Occasionally caresses it.


EXT. BACKYARD NIGHT

Herbert, with Shoe Box to his side, digs grave with gardening spade.

Stephanie looms over Herbert’s shoulder. Crying. Hair blowing in her face.

Herbert finishes and looks back to Stephanie.

Herbert opens Shoe Box.

Herbert removes MR. TRUMPINGTON, dead sock puppet, and places him in grave. Covers. Stands.

Stephanie’s hair continues to blow in her face. Herbert’s, not so much.


INT. BEDROOM NIGHT

Missionary position. Herbert’s left hand lays limply to the side.

Stephanie looks at it.

Herbert looks too.

They stop.


EXT. BACKYARD - FROM BEDROOM WINDOW NIGHT

Rain spatters Mr. Trumpington’s cardboard headstone.


INT. BEDROOM NIGHT

Herbert packs a suitcase.

Stephanie sits cross-legged in CONNECTING BATHROOM doorway.


INT. HOTEL ROOM MORNING

Sun streams through cheap blinds down to where Herbert is sleeping: the floor. The bed is empty.


INT. DINER AFTERNOON

Herbert studies his menu. His finger runs over various pictured meals. It stops at a “Meal for Two”.

Herbert frowns.

His finger moves on. Stops at “Meal for Three”.

Herbert bawls.


INT. SAME BEDROOM AFTERNOON

Stephanie, sprawled on bed, eyes wide open.

INT. KITCHEN FLOOR AFTERNOON

Stephanie sews button eyes onto a sock.


EXT. LONG PARK BENCH EARLY EVENING

Sitting next to SEVERAL LARGE ASIAN MEN, Herbert plays with his WEDDING RING. Into it is carved seven notches.

He swallows it.


INT. SAME BEDROOM EARLY EVENING

In moderately-sexy-lingerie, Stephanie approaches the bed.

Her NEW SOCK PUPPET lays in it. Comfortably. Looking at her.

Stephanie slithers under the covers.


INT. SAME BEDROOM EVENING

Stephanie sits on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably.

Her NEW SOCK PUPPET hangs halfway off the end of the bed.

In its head: Three kitchen knives.


INT. TALL OFFICE BUILDING MIDNIGHT

The parking lot is empty.


INT. TALL OFFICE BUILDING HALLWAY MIDNIGHT

Herbert jimmies the lock to the VETERINARY OFFICE.


INT. SAME BEDROOM’S CONNECTING BATHROOM MIDNIGHT

Stephanie showers.


INT. VETERINARY OFFICE WAITING ROOM MIDNIGHT

Herbert, alone, ashen. Holding his suitcase.


INT. CAR MORNING

Behind the wheel: Stephanie rubbing her eyes.

Something out the window catches her attention.

She whips into the TALL OFFICE BUILDING PARKING LOT.


INT. VETERINARY OFFICE HALLWAY MORNING

Many NURSES IN TRAINING run towards...


INT. VETERINARY OFFICE EXAMINATION ROOM MORNING

Doctor, standing in doorway, arm stretched out.

The window is open.

Herbert is on the windowsill.

He looks back at Nurses In Training.

Left fist clenches.

Shuts his eyes.

Jumps.


EXT. TALL OFFICE BUILDING MORNING

Herbert: eyes still closed, falling.


EXT. TALL OFFICE BUILDING - GROUND LEVEL MORNING

Stephanie stands on sidewalk, looking up at Herbert.

He lands on her.

Rolls.

Opens his eyes. Confused. Alive.


A PASSERBY rushes over. Feels Stephanie’s pulse. Shakes his head. Closes Stephanie’s glazed eyes.

Five POLICEMEN grab Herbert and haul him away.


INT. JAIL CELL - YEARS LATER LATE EVENING

Herbert, bearded, gray.

FADE OUT:

THE END

---------

MANY QUIET THINGS by Ed Hellman

FADE IN:

INT. HOSPITAL EXAMINATION ROOM DAY

ED, boxers and undershirt, perched on the edge of an examination table, biting the inside of his mouth. There is a clean, large window to his right with curtains half drawn.

A stack of cracked picture frames on the counter to Ed’s left catch his eye. He slips down to the floor and pads over to examine them. Ed begins to straighten the stack.

Before he can finish, Ed’s attention is drawn to the waste bin at his feet and the mass of shredded paper inside it. He kneels down and removes a few strips. He places them on the floor and arranges them together. They make the midsection of a medical diploma.

Ed cranes his neck over the edge of the waste bin and pushes his hand around inside the shreds of paper, all of which can now clearly be identified as strips of shredded medical diplomas. He peers up at the stack of frames.

Ed picks himself up and hops back onto the examination table. He places strips of paper he had arranged on the floor onto the table beside him and pushes them around.

Ed looks up. His eyes drift over the sink and various medical devices that line the walls (IV Pole, ventilator, set of bagged thermometers, blood pressure monitors, etc.). He notices two large, unmarked cabinets facing him against the far wall. He wrinkles his nose and wipes it. He turns and looks down to the white light shining through the one inch gap under the door to the room. There are no shadows of movement in the hallway.

Ed pads over to one of the cabinets and places his hand on the cold, metallic cabinet door. He surveys the second cabinet without moving, and notices a fist shaped dent a few feet up from the floor. He turns his attention back to the first cabinet and opens it.

Two fur jackets cut for women hang on wire hangers inside the first cabinet.

Ed resumes biting the inside of his mouth.

He closes the doors to the first cabinet, then reopens them. Ed crosses over to the second cabinet and opens its doors.

Inside the second cabinet are shelves cluttered with glass jars holding single human hands. The hands appear fresh, as if still attached to a living body.

Ed closes the doors to the second cabinet and returns to the first cabinet. He tries a fur coat on. He shakes dust out of it. He places it back on its hanger an closes the cabinet.

Ed reopens the second cabinet. He removes a jar and holds it up to eye level. As he moves to replace it on its shelf, he drops the jar, sending the hand inside it out onto the floor.

Crouching low, Ed fumbles to gather the jar and its top together. He picks up the fallen hand and as he does so, the hand he is holding it with falls off. One of the hands lands next to his foot and the other rolls under the first cabinet.

Ed crawls across the floor and reaches with his remaining hand under the first cabinet, slips on his own blood and hits his chin on the floor and his forehead on the cabinet door. The door swings open and a fur coat drops on Ed’s head.

Ed gets up and shakes the blood out of the coat. He uses his remaining hand and his mouth to replace the coat back on its hanger and into the cabinet.

He kneels down and reaches under the cabinet, grabbing the hand. He crawls back to the second cabinet and leaves the hand on the floor next to the other severed hand. He picks up the jar and turns back to the hands, which look far too similar. Ed moves to inspect the hands with his remaining hand, but as he pulls his arm away from the jar, the hand falls off. Ed leaves it on the floor and turns back to the other hands.

He leans down and picks one of the hands up with his mouth. He carries it over to the jar and stuffs it in. He uses his bloody stumps to clasp the bottom of his shirt and attempts to wipe the blood off the jar.

Ed wipes his nose with his sleeve but gets his face bloody, so he wipes it again on his shoulder. Ed picks the jar up again with his stumps and turns back to the cabinet, which he bangs into with the outer side of his right arm. The jar falls for a moment but is caught between Ed’s left arm and his chest just barely before it can touch the floor.

Ed shoots his glance upwards to the jars inside the cabinet, all of which are shaking from the impact.

Finally they stop.

INT. HOSPITAL HALLWAY DAY

A DOCTOR in a lab coat walks alone. The hallway is littered with doors and the Doctor stops in front of one. He examines the chart attached to it and enters:

INT. HOSPITAL EXAMINATION ROOM DAY

Ed sits on the examination table, pursing his lips. He still has bloody stumps at the end of his arms, but now one of the hands is seamlessly attached to the side of his neck.

The Doctor examines the hand on Ed’s neck. The hand quickly clenches into a fist.

Ed looks up at the Doctor and then starts to pull his shirt up with his mouth. The Doctor helps him and pulls the shirt all the way up, revealing Ed’s second hand, now attached to his belly.

The Doctor puts the edge of the shirt in Ed’s mouth for him to hold up and examines the second hand.

The Doctor pulls a pen from his lab coat and clicks it. He straightens his tie and smoothes his hair. The chart is held up to his chest to write on.

FADE OUT:

THE END



P.S.

Don't try to copy this stuff --> it's backed up and copyrighted and all so back off!


- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 1:06 PM

 
Ed Hellman

Blue Ship

Dole sat in his small, olive-drab, ground floor apartment and painted the model ship a deep blue. This was his favorite ship and Dole had assembled it many, many times. The plastic sails were almost done and next would come the rigging; then back to the hull for a black wash. The glue would dry and the paint too and then Dole would take the ship into the laundry room and strip the paint, loosen the glue and start over. This was his favorite ship and Dole took as fine care of it as he knew how.
Dole licked the corner of his mouth and pushed hair out of his eyes. His heart ached a bit as he leaned back and wiped paint off of his thumb. He still had a week before he would be able to hold the finished ship in his hands again. He inhaled deeply and held the breath a little longer than he had to. It was cold in the room and Dole had forgotten to look into why. Dole scrunched his shoulders up around his neck and click went the camera and click went the camera and click went the camera and click went the camera...

The Polaroids floated down to the concrete and settled in a small pile before being gathered up by two hands wearing $450 gloves. The roll was done, but Dole had gone through three over the past half hour. He placed the photos in his $2,000 jacket and secured the $3,000 camera in his $300 camera bag. Dole crouched down further from the window and tiptoed away from the apartment building. At first, when he had discovered it and its inhabitant, he had been terrified of being seen or getting caught, but it had recently dawned on him that this would never, ever happen. Dole’s $45,000 luxury sedan sped out onto I-95 and left the enthusiastic hobbyist to apply a third coat of blue.

Dole’s $8,200,000 mansion welcomed him stiffly. Dole had skipped dinner again, but hurried past the kitchen to his bedroom. The camera bag went in a closet on the way. Dole switched on the five light switches and walked over to the $1000 mirror his father had given to him several years prior. Lifting it off the wall, Dole moved the mirror onto the floor. He removed the photos from his pocket and spread them out on the back of the mirror, underneath the others. Dole’s $90 answering machine beeped and beeped again. Dole pressed “play” and set to work taping each photo in place. His $3,000,000 reflection scowled up at him from the gloss of the photos, forcing him to finish with both eyes closed. Dole replaced the mirror on the wall. Recorded voices filled the room and frozen images lulled Dole to sleep.

Dole woke early and slipped into the shower. His apartment was even colder than the night before, but the water was a relatively refreshing lukewarm. After dressing himself, Dole checked to see how his ship was drying. The mast was almost ready to be glued on and the rudder too, but there was still much to be done. Dole made himself a turkey sandwich and left his apartment, as he did every morning.
Men in caps nodded at Dole and unloaded bags of recycling as he entered the sorting shed. Dole put on a pair of cheap rubber gloves and opened up the bag nearest to him. Junk mail went into one bin, high grade paper in another, the rest with newspaper or cardboard or bottles or trash... Dole pulled up a sleeve to check the time but realized he had left his watch elsewhere. As he worked, Dole saw his beautiful blue ship floating on a beautiful blue sea. He smiled as the ship sailed above him.
After returning home, Dole began applying the mast to the plastic deck. It took several minutes for his glue to set.

Dole parked his $45,000 luxury sedan and crept alongside the apartment building. He could see inside the window and stood for a while, watching Dole work. He felt calm for the first time that day. Dole smoothed down the back of his hair and put on his $450 gloves. He breathed in deeply...

... And dropped his paintbrush when the doorbell rang. He wiped his nose and stood up. The glue had set well, but he was in the middle of black washing. Dole rubbed the back of his neck. He peeked out the window but saw no one, though the door was barely visible from that angle. Dole slipped the key into the door lock and opened the door. $450 gloves grabbed at his neck and Dole felt himself crashing down to the floor, felt himself struggling to push off the attacker, felt the beautiful blue waters fill the space around him, and watched his boat sail away.

Dole left the door open and the body on the floor. He sat down at the workbench and placed his $450 gloves in the pocket of his $2,000 jacket. He retrieved the paintbrush from the floor and dipped it in the watered-down black paint. He dipped it in the paint and then placed it on the boat.
Dole woke early and slipped into the shower. After dressing himself, he checked to see how his ship was drying. There was still much to be done. Dole made himself a turkey sandwich and left his apartment.
Men in caps nodded at Dole and unloaded bags of recycling as he entered the sorting shed. Dole put on a pair of cheap rubber gloves and opened up the bag nearest to him. The bag was full of discarded junk mail, crumpled up tissues and empty soda cans. Dole was miserable and Dole was very happy.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:47 PM

 
Ed Hellman
Double Story #2

The Inch

As he stood before the obligatory bathroom mirror, Jerome admired his sleek, naked form. He looked fit and Shelley liked fit guys. Shelley, in fact, liked just about everything about Jerome, which did not come as too much of a surprise to anyone, considering his house was quaint yet roomy, his income steady and admirable, and he was one all-around great guy. Yes, Jerome was the type of fellow a girl could bring home to her father again and again. Jerome was, as they say, a keeper.
Shelley arrived home just as Jerome took supper out from the oven.
“Oh, Jerome,” Shelley said, “You’re so good like that.”
Shelley was right. Jerome was good like that, and he was good like that all the time. He had that certain way of being able to get everything done and still have time to spare. Jerome knew, and Shelley knew that Jerome knew, that Shelley liked it when supper was right on time.
After a delicious meal, Shelley and Jerome moved straight into the bedroom and embraced dramatically. Several short hours later, Shelley curled up next to Jerome and laid her head on his bare chest.
“That was amazing, Jerome,” Shelley mewed.
Jerome wiped a moderate amount of sweat from his forehead and chuckled lightly.
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” Shelley continued, “that you would be able to perform so well after this afternoon.”
“How do you mean?” asked Jerome, still chuckling.
“Oh, you know,” Shelley said, “Tonight was amazing, really amazing, but this afternoon you were just perfect.”
Jerome stopped chuckling.“Shelley,” he said, turning to her, and in doing so, pushing her off of his chest, “What are you talking about?”
“You know,” Shelley said, now with a brow set to furrow, “You’re always better in the afternoon.”
Jerome sat up. “Shelley,” he said, “I work all afternoon. What are you talking about!?”
“Oh, Jerome,” Shelley said, “Sometimes you are so unexpectedly weird.”
Jerome stormed down to the kitchen, which was as far away from the bedroom as he could storm without leaving the house. “That girl,” he grumbled, “Sometimes that girl....” This grumble came to an abrupt halt as Jerome entered the kitchen and came face to face with someone who looked very much like himself nibbling on the leftovers from dinner.
“Wuh Ohhh. . .” murmured Jerome’s double.
For Jerome, this was a new experience and as he did with all new experiences, he waited until he was absolutely sure he knew what was going on before asking anyone else what was going on.
“So,” Jerome stiffly said, “I want some of those leftovers.”
He pulled out a chair and sat diagonally from his double. He tried his hardest to stare as deeply and casually ahead of him as he could, but the television screen that sat across from him on the counter wasn’t on, wasn’t even plugged in as a matter of fact, due to his secret, strong distaste for new information (the television was for Shelley). He ended up feeling incredibly stupid, yet he had the sneaking suspicion that he would look even stupider if he stopped. As Jerome puzzled over the situation at hand, his double seemed to realize that Jerome had no intention of eating the leftovers and begin picking at them again. This puzzling and picking continued for several minutes in silence before Shelley called down from the bedroom, “Jerome, are you coming to bed or not?” at which point Jerome’s double promptly stood up and tromped up the stairs to the second floor, leaving Jerome alone in the kitchen.
After covering the remaining leftovers with plastic wrap, Jerome tiptoed into the living room and curled up on the couch. He was not sure why he had made a point of moving quietly or why he was downstairs and not in bed with his girlfriend. The following day was a Friday, so Jerome concluded he had the whole work day to puzzle as much as he pleased and everything would be revealed by the next evening. As it turned out, he was sort of half-right.

When Jerome woke, three things struck him: That he was on his couch, that with his alarm clock upstairs he was most definitely late for work, and that there was a hot pink post-it note stuck to his jugular. The note read:
Jerome,
I thought you could use the extra sleep, so I went to work for you. Shelley did not seem to notice you on the couch so no worries there. Enjoy the day off, just be sure to do all my chores for me before supper time. The chores list is attached to the fridge.
Signed,
Your double

Jerome mulled this over for a few minutes and then meandered into the kitchen. So far, he thought, his double was up to snuff, for there indeed was a list attached to the fridge, though Jerome was sure this was the first he had noticed it. On it there was a calendar of sorts with little notes pointing out the chores he had for each day. To his surprise, all of the chores up to that day had been successfully checked off with his initials next to them. Jerome squinted.
“By gosh,” he muttered, “He’s got my signature to boot!” Jerome poured himself a tall glass of scotch and returned to the couch.

This time, Jerome was woken by his girlfriend Shelley.
“Wake up, you adorable man,” Shelley purred, “It’s three o’clock!”
Jerome wiped sleep from his eyes and struggled to sit up.
“Shelley?” he asked, “What time is it?”
“What time is it?” She whispered as she crawled on top of him, “I think you know very well what time it is. Now come on, honey, my break ends in an hour.”
This statement was followed by a kiss and many other things. Forty minutes later, Shelley pulled up her stockings and lit a cigarette.
“Odd,” she repeated for the third or fourth time, “Usually you are so much more. . .”
“So much more what?” Jerome asked, not even trying to hide his pout, “You keep saying ‘so much more’ and trailing off, so what am I usually so much more of?!”
Shelley took a long drag.
“Nothing, sweetheart, nothing at all to worry your pretty little head about,” she said, “I woke you from your nap so it’s my fault you weren’t as good you usually are at this time. I think it was just special. Yes, that’s it, today was. . . very. . . Special.”
She seemed to have a hard time getting the last few words out, as if she had planned on trailing off but decided against it on too short notice. In an attempt to fix this, she kissed Jerome on the forehead and left. Jerome decided it was once again a time for scotch.

When Jerome’s double returned home he passed the living room where Jerome was waiting ominously and headed up for the daily post-work shower. Jerome hurried up after him.
“Hey!” Jerome shouted, “Don’t even think about using that shower!”
His double spun around with a surprised look on his face.
“What’s gotten into you?” he asked.
Jerome flung his arms out making himself into a cross.
“Me!?” Jerome howled, “Me!? I’ve got some questions for you, bub, and what I want is answers, not your sneaky double talk, answers! You hear me? Am I talking loud enough!?”
“Geez, okay, man, just be chill.” Said his double. Then the double suddenly knelt down and inspected the carpet. “What the-” he stammered, “You didn’t vacuum! Did you do any of the chores at all?!”
“No, I haven’t!” snarled Jerome, “What’s the deal with that anyway? You go around my house doing chores and taking credit for them and sleeping with my girl?!”
“Your girl? Your girl? How about our girl?! How the heck did you think the house has stayed clean and presentable? Who do you think has kept Shelley coming back every night for more? You think you could look this good all by yourself?!?”
Jerome’s double turned his back to Jerome and slammed the bathroom door behind him. After a minute, Jerome heard the shower going. After another minute, he marched right in.
“Okay, okay,” he said, “I’ve figured it out, it all out! You think I need so much help? You think I need a double to have everyone loving me?!”
“Don’t be spiteful,” said his double from behind the shower curtain, “Think of me as a friend who’s sole purpose is to help you out.”
“Oh yeah!?” said Jerome, “Oh yeah? Oh yeah!??! Oh yeah? Oh - Well. . . That doesn’t sound so awful. . . If you’ve kept out of my hair this long it shouldn’t matter really, should it?”
“No,” said his double, “I don’t think so.”
Jerome felt himself smile. He found that he liked how this was all turning out. He had a real double. A twin, of sorts. Just another Jerome to get things done in a timely matter.
“Well,” said Jerome, “I have decided you can stay. I have decided a double might be useful to me. I mean, who knows? Yeah, you can keep doing the chores and that stuff. That sounds fine. It’s sort of weird you look and sound just like me, but I think I can look past that for now. . .”
Jerome’s double turned the shower off and stepped out. He wrapped himself in Jerome’s favorite towel and inhaled loudly with his nose a bit.
“That is not entirely true,” he said, “We aren’t exactly the same.”
There was a short pause that probably should have lasted a bit longer before Jerome asked what the difference was.
“You see,” said his double, looking directly into his eyes, “You’re wearing shoes. I’m not. And yet. . . We’re level.”
There was another pause. Jerome stared blankly into his double’s eyes.
“So?” he asked, “What of it?”
“Jerome,” his double said slowly, “I am exactly one inch taller than you.”
To some people, this difference would have been insignificant, even forgettable, but Jerome would not have it. All his life he had been told he was perfect. He had been told he had nothing to worry about and nothing to fear. He had been told this by friends, neighbors, lovers, even the occasional stranger or passerby. Now, all of a sudden, out of the bluest of blue, had come this fiend, this usurper, who had not only his image, his voice, his talents, his success and accumulations, but one full extra inch. One whole inch of Jerome that he, the real Jerome (well, that’s what he thought, though his double was just as real) lacked. His own double was more Jerome than he himself could lay claim to. For Jerome, a man who considered himself the best of the best, this was not perfect. This was beyond sub-par.
“Double,” he said in a hushed tone, “I think it’s time that I prepare supper. I expect the couch for you tonight. I trust our little secret will remain just that: A little, unrepeatable secret.”

Jerome spent the next few weeks awkwardly. He wanted to act natural (which was impossible at this point) and he wanted to appear okay with their little compromise (though it was Jerome who was doing anything at all differently than in the past). He tried to look on the bright side of things. He tried to think of himself as blessed. A mighty god had thought it a shame to only create one Jerome so he had made two. Unfortunately, all the perks of having a double quickly faded. It was the inch that he wanted. The inch he needed.
During this time, Jerome’s double went about his business as usual. He made sure to change the light bulbs in the house and did, alongside his other daily tasks, the little chores that only a man of superior height could be perfect at.
Shelley grew increasingly confused. Next to being perfect, Jerome had always been consistent. Now he was hot and cold. Half the time he was a dear but the other half of the time he seemed distracted, lost. This worried Shelley. Had she been a perfect girlfriend instead of a fairly decent one, she would have tried harder to ease Jerome’s apparent suffering, or questioned whether or not she might be to blame, or even put two and two together. Shelley, however, was not perfect. That department had always been left to Jerome. Now she was out at sea with only one paddle. Sure, it moved the boat keenly to the left, but that other paddle, where the heck was that?
Though he never let on to his double, Jerome knew that, despite being on somewhat of a downward spiral, the two could go on forever without change. The situation was not perfect, but he knew he could adapt. Whether he could tilt the spiral upward was a question Jerome decided was better left unanswered. Unfortunately for Jerome, the straw his camel was so earnestly trying to avoid turned out to be quite unavoidable. It came while he was at work. Of course, he noticed it as soon as he got home.
“Double,” Jerome said, “Did you move the lock on the front door?”
His double looked down at the floor.
“Double,” continued Jerome, “Tell me you did not have the lock moved up from its original spot.”
His double said nothing.
“Double,” hissed Jerome, “How much higher has it moved?”
His double pretended to cough. There was another pause. Then he looked back up at Jerome.
“A half of an inch,” said the double, “I thought it could meet us halfway. . .”
“You did, did you?” said Jerome, “Is that what you thought? You thought you could come into my house and change my lock to suit your needs, whatever they might be, while I am off at work slaving-”
“Technically,” cut in his double, “It’s our house and our lock and I didn’t move it up a full inch-”
“I’m not talking technically,” cut in Jerome, his voice rising, “I’m talking here, now, in my house where you go around flaunting your ridiculous height, which really, though I have never said it, is just ridiculous and I don’t even think it suits you so hot. Technically speaking of course! So you thought it was so damn necessary to move the lock up an inch just so you could fit the key in easier? Is that it?!”
“I said it’s only half of an inch,” said his double, “It’s not closer to me than it is to you. It’s an equal distance!”
“Oh!” cried Jerome, “So now we’re talking about distance! It’s always about your height! That you’re better than me! You can’t live that down, can you!? ‘Equal’! Ha! I’ll show you equal!!”
Jerome lunged at his double and knocked him to the ground. He had been waiting for this moment and pulled a thin blade from his back pocket. He got on top of his double and, due to the advantage of preparing for the attack, was able to hold his double down and shuck off his double’s shoes.
“Hey!” cried his double, “What gives, bub?!”
“The inch!” shrieked Jerome, “The inch!”
Jerome quickly and precisely cut the bottom inch from both of his double’s feet (Jerome went to medical school, did I mention that?) and ran upstairs to his bedroom, locking the door behind him. At that moment, Jerome could not hear his double howling downstairs. In fact, at that moment, Jerome could not hear anything at all. His mind was set on one task: Find Shelley’s sewing kit.

Jerome enjoyed his new height quite a bit. Sometimes he even dared to wear lifts and this made him feel worlds above everyone else. With the extra inch, Jerome felt he could do anything he dreamed of. His confidence level boomed. He was a new man, a new, taller man. Perfect height, really.
Shelley never met this new Jerome. When she had returned home she had promptly driven Jerome’s double to the hospital to have his wounds treated. It was there that she broke up with him.
Truth be told, this story could end here. In fact, it could have ended a few paragraphs earlier, but technically speaking, there is more to tell, for six months later Jerome was dead.

“I’m sorry,” said the elderly doctor with a fleck of emotion, “I can’t do much about foot cancer. You’ve landed the ol’ foot cancer.”
Sad as it may be, the very piece of extra flesh Jerome had so admired on his double was in fact what would have caused his double permanent death. That inch was cancerous. Jerome died soon after leaving the doctor’s office.
Things turned out a bit differently for Jerome’s double. With his new wounds, he was now eligible to enter the special handicap olympics. He entered and won. They all won.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:46 PM

 
i added some new/old stories below... check 'em out. more soon, really this time. if you haven't seen "nervous laughter", "Two AM Wont Shut Up", or "Crablad2Crablad", gimme a hollar on AIM at carlmule and I will send them to ya - short films BTW. I'm working on a script for a more trumped up piece to be shot in the next few weeks and edited throughout the semester - to be used when declaring a major. When it is done/when i have news on that i will post about it... and i plan more posts, once i regain my fanbase. updates soon, e
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 8:05 PM

 
It Was Snowing, So We Traveled To The Desert And Got Lost

The llamas sloshed on. Goodbye civilization, goodbye hum and tinker of modern life! I began to philosophize about a great many unspeakable things and came up with some pretty deep theories on humanity etc. I had not seen my reflection in days, but could feel myself changing into a modern day prophet. A wiseman. During all of this, Leonard was telling me a story, something about a department store and a tree of hooks. His rationality seemed dubious to me, so I played it off like I was paying attention. Momentarily, we were both satiated.
By dusk we had joined up with a herd of nomads, large mystics of the desert. They offered us food and shelter for the night and we bestowed upon them trinkets from the city: Bubble gum, cheap lip gloss and more - anything we could find that belonged to our lost comrade. The nomads were enchanted, having never seen such intriguing samplings of the West, or at least their latest versions. I regaled them with a realistic take on our adventure and Leonard helped out with some extraneous, yet cute, details. Real tears cascaded down my manly cheeks when I told them about little Vivian and her disheartening fate and I think I made Leonard cry too. “Eaten by a pack of wild cats!?” one of the nomads exclaimed, “Never in my life have I heard of such a thing!” Their innocence was adorable, and I slept blissfully.
I tell you, desert folk are extraordinary hosts. We were treated to a veritable feast for breakfast. Unfortunately, when Leonard asked what we were eating, a nomad replied, “your llamas” and it took a great deal of shushing to calm my companion. These were our hosts, our friends. I taught him all about their crazy antics and how we should respect their social differences. Maybe eating a visitor’s ride was customary? Surely, we were not in a place to judge.
After the meal - the feast! - a nomad dragged out a young girl and cried, “And now, you marry my daughter!” I wish I could have said no, but a leader is forced to risk unpopularity when tough issues arise, so I gave my consent for Leonard to marry her. She was not a looker, but I thought she might be able to get our llamas back. Leonard looked a fool as he attempted to argue his way out of responsibility. I began to prove him wrong, but stopped short because I already held his money.
The wedding was short and aesthetically bearable, much like the bride. I made a rousing speech and admitted to going to bed with one of Leonard’s former loves, chiding him as a best-man does. It was a special day. I was, of course, beside myself with emotion.
We left on foot, girl in tow. She would become a valuable ally against the harsh things the desert threw at us. She reminded me of Vivian in a blurry, fleeting sort of way. It seemed fitting that our old chum would be reborn in the form of a dusty, foreign, parcel. Vivian had always been a trooper, from the day she moved in upstairs and discovered the snakes to the moment we threw her into the swarming, feline melee of claws. This new girl gave off that same sort of vibe. You knew she could keep her mouth shut, or open, if need be. I trusted her more than I trusted Leonard.
I remember one time I passed out on his couch after a party and woke up to find my hair smelling of a different conditioner. This is not the sort of behavior that translates well to heroic, desert life. The eccentricities that had charmed then were now grating on my every nerve. For a while he had been my stepping stone, my golden ladder or bridge or silver raft. Admittedly, I would not have made it to the desert without the money his Toyota had hauled in. Now, he was, realistically speaking, living deadweight.
The night earlier, as he slept on exotic blankets under a primal nomad tent, I took note of his absurd use of facial hair. He just looked silly. Silly, really. This in itself was not a big deal, but I realized that Leonard, much like his beard, was barely a comfort blanket. He was like the ugly cow that only makes black milk; your daughter loves it so you give it to her as a pet, and then it kicks her and you have to take it out and shoot it. In the end, you figure out that the smart thing would have been to shoot it right when it left the birth canal and that the daughter probably was not yours to begin with. Being my closest friend, I knew he would concur, after all, he too had studied Darwinism. Leonard was a city boy out of his element, doomed to historical obscurity, but I was a desert man, free at least.
I understood that it was, and always had been, just the desert, my map, and me. I had freed myself from the civilized world. I knew the map was bogus, but by then it did not really matter. I had already found my Nazi gold. You know, in the whole experience. It was like someone had shook me in bed and said, “Listen, when you get up, we’ll share the pancakes!” I am left, half asleep, all groggy and stuff, thinking, “I had pancakes? I did not even know I had pancakes and now I lost half of them just by sleeping.” and still I do not get up. It was like a revolution inside my mind. I could feel my perception of the world - of the universe - shifting magnetically. Indeed, the world was my pancake, and I had lost half of it in the form of Leonard and Vivian and the llamas, but I had a new appreciation for the remaining half-pancake and knew I would spend the rest of my life sopping up every last drop of syrup.
The girl pulled me off Leonard’s corpse before I was through defacing it, but morale was up. I named her Pickles and used her as a toboggan down a sandy hill. Oh, the things we do...
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 8:05 PM

 
The Last Tuesday

This morning, Paul Selsian awoke drenched in ice-cold sweat. He had dreamt pleasantly, but as the geriatric English professor stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom, his mind was filled to the brim with the darkest of thoughts. He is a good man, or at least a reasonable one, so his sudden urge was utterly inexplicable... And yet, it existed all the same.
After packing a lunch and an afternoon snack into a small duffel bag, he tumbled out his front door and headed to work. It is not a short journey, from Queens to Annandale, but Selsian believes himself to be a master skateboarder and managed a nearly respectable time. Of course, this morning, the usual day dreams of giant sunflowers and huggable bunnies were nowhere to be found.
By the time he reached Bard College, Selsian knew he had a problem. A very large, dangerous, problem. For some reason he just could not shake the sneaking suspicion that he was about to do something extraordinarily evil.
Leaving the circling vultures outside, he trudged up six hundred and fifty-two stairs and into his classroom. Per usual, the students let out a quiet, collective gasp as he lurched across the room and slumped down into a few seats, unintentionally doing his best impression of a slightly lifelike, bag of potatoes.
“Well???” he growled, “What are you all doing here!?”
The students stared silently.
“Well???” he repeated, “What is the matter with all of you!?”
No one said a word. Selsian had always enjoyed the students, even the ones who desperately needed to “pound the thesaurus”, but as he glared back at their round, pancake faces, he could feel his blood boil and anticipated the smell of cooked meat. Despite the pleasure he had always felt when served a fresh, head of lettuce at supper time, he found himself reaffirming that, above all else, he was a carnivore.
“You think you are pretty delicious,” Selsian sneered, “Don’t ya?”
His tiny, caterpillar eyes darted back and forth across the room. He began to picture the students as peppermint matchsticks, and shuddered at the possibility of rubbing and then licking their red-hot, flaming skulls. He slouched down low. Selsian’s face crinkled up as he smiled knowingly.
“Yes,” he thought, “The door most definitely has a lock.”
Just then, radiant light flooded the room as the last student sauntered in, excusably late. Selsian’s eyes turned to saucers and his knuckles whitened. Though the student’s name alluded him, he was suddenly certain that this would be the target of his mysterious wrath.
“I submit to you,” oozed Selsian, “That you are the most succulent, the most choice being I have ever laid my eyes on.”
The student rubbed the back of his neck and looked up slowly.
“What was that?” he asked.
Selsian’s lips pursed and then smacked open.
“You are perfect,” he clucked, fishing in his coat pocket for something blunt or full of spikes.
The student smiled and said, “Well, yes.”
So he stood up, slung his bag over a shoulder, and left. It was only 10:45 and the cafeteria was still serving breakfast.

- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 8:04 PM

 
SECRET FUN PROVERB

Wendy had a husband, three kids and a secret: Every week, the world famous Superman would fly into her dry-cleaning shop and give her his suit to clean. Of course, she was sworn her to secrecy. Superman was all about secrets, but Wendy just felt guilty. Her poor husband had no idea and she was dying to tell him.
One day, she was thinking and decided that if she could get Superman and her husband into the same room, the secret was bound to come out.
So Wendy stayed home from work and entertained her surprised husband by dancing. She danced him outside. Then she poured lighter fluid around the house and lit a match.
“The kids are inside!” he yelled, but Wendy just stood calmly and watched. She held her husband back, saying, “There’s nothing we can do. Leave this to a professional.”
She waited until the house was completely leveled before releasing her husband. Where was Superman?
Wendy ran down the street and all the way to her store. There stood Superman in his skivvies.
“Your suit!” she cried, “I forgot to dry-clean it!”
Without a word, Superman crossed the floor and gave Wendy a good slap. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough for her to know the next one would. Wendy felt her face turn bright red.
Seconds later, her husband exited a phone booth, tucking his plain white shirt into his plain khaki pants. He was not so much confused as he was bitter. Now he had a nutty wife, no kids, no house, and still a blasted secret. Damn his super powers, damn Lex Luther, Kryptonite, and most of all his wife. The slap, however, had been a treat.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 8:04 PM

 
(Sock Puppet) Love Hurts
(or Threesome Uh-Oh)

Stitch by stitch, Mr. Trumpington was coming together and it was Herbert’s fine handy-work to thank for it. He had not picked up a needle in years, but sewing was like riding a bicycle and he did not prick his fingers even once. Yes, Herbert wore the thimble well.
By mid-afternoon, the project was complete and Herbert had time for a bath.
“Bubbles?” Herbert thought, “Shall I add bubbles?”
Stephanie returned home, drenched to the bone. There was a steaming pot of vegetables waiting for her on the kitchen table, along with a note. Stephanie put down her gym bag and umbrella and headed straight for the first-floor bathroom. When she emerged again, a second note was waiting for her on the table alongside the first. Twisting her hair up into a bun, Stephanie sat down in the living room and flipped through a TV Guide. It was Tuesday and CBS always seemed to have an underrated sitcom on in the early evening, though she could never remember which sitcom it was. Before she had time to find out, her stomach let out a loud groan, sending Stephanie back on her feet and into the kitchen for a snack. As a Hot-Pocket grew toasty warm in the microwave, Stephanie opened up the first of her three notes. The first read:
STEPHANIE! SURPRISE! THERE IS A SURPRISE WAITING FOR YOU UPSTAIRS! LOVE, YOU KNOW WHO!
The second read:
STEPHANIE! SURPRISE! I LOVE YOU AND AM UPSTAIRS WITH YOUR SURPRISE! LOVE, YOU KNOW WHO!
The third read:
STEPHANIE! COME ON UPSTAIRS! LOVE, YOUR HUSBAND, HERBERT!
As she finished the last note, Stephanie heard the microwave beep and furrowed her brow.
Heavy footsteps made their way up the carpeted staircase and onto the second floor. Stephanie stuffed the last corner of Hot-Pocket into her mouth and opened the bedroom door, one eye closed. Inside waited her husband and his freshly made sock puppet, both terribly naked.
“Honey,” Herbert began, “Meet Mr. Trumpington...”
“Herbert, dear...” Stephanie whispered.
“HELLO I AM MR. TRUMPINGTON!” cut in the puppet.
“Right,” said Stephanie, “I am very-”
“IT IS NICE TO MEET YOU TOO!” cut in the puppet again.
“-tired...” finished Stephanie.
“But honey,” Herbert cooed, “You always wanted a threesome.”
“HAVE A HEART, LADY!” cut in the puppet.
Stephanie began a sigh that finished in a full-blown frown. “Who should I be addressing here?” she whispered. Herbert and the puppet looked at each other quizzically.
Needless to say, the night was filled with romance. As the sun came up, the three lovers collapsed on the bed in a sweaty heap. Herbert felt a new sense of satisfaction spread through his body and drifted asleep. As far as he was concerned, the surprise had been a smashing success. Stephanie, however, thrashed about restlessly. Over the past ten years of marriage, she had not stayed faithful to Herbert, though her indiscretions could certainly be called sporadic. She cared for him, yes, but every now and then adultery seemed to be unavoidable. Once again she felt that tingle of lust for another man slither up her spine and Stephanie sank her yellow teeth into her Todd Oldham pillow. This time, things were so much more complicated.
The following week was a tornado of lovemaking, but by the weekend Herbert began to feel a tad left out. He noticed his wife spending an extra-long amount of time in the bathroom, mysteriously taking the puppet with her. Of course, to his face, Mr. Trumpington was all smiles and playful winks, but Herbert grew increasingly suspicious. Once, when pressed on the subject, Stephanie had told him that the puppet was kind enough to give her harmless bath massages, but when Herbert asked if he himself could experience Mr. Trumpington’s “magic fingers”, she had blushed and changed the subject. What went on behind that bathroom door?
By this time, Stephanie, however, was having a ball. Her affair was mind-shatteringly hot. She was having her cake and not only eating it, but spreading it all over her sexy face. Mr. Trumpington was a gentle lover.
The tip of Stephanie’s iceberg was reached not long after. Once again, Herbert prepared a tasty dinner and waited in the bedroom, but this time he was alone, his wife having taken the sock puppet to work with her. Apparently Mr. Trumpington was the “inspiration” for her new presentation, though Herbert honestly could not figure out what sort of presentation a swim instructor would make. Herbert heard the front door open and close and puffed himself up. Moments later, the bedroom door opened, but in walked his wife, his sock puppet, and a very large, very grim looking Asian man. Herbert’s jaw snapped open but found himself at a loss for words. The Asian man was wearing the sock puppet. The Asian man was wearing the sock puppet.
Noticing her husband’s confusion, Stephanie asked, “What’s wrong?”
Herbert blinked a few times and said, “Who is he??”
Stephanie spun around, rubbing her forehead. She made her mouth very small, and then said, “Oh. Him. I thought Luther could be Mr. Trumpington today.”
Herbert knew there had to be a hole in his wife’s logic, but came to the conclusion that it was an invisible hole, for he could not find it at all.
The next day, Stephanie could not concentrate. She had such a wonderful time the night before - who could say what fun awaited her after work? The times were good. Oh, oh, so good. Recently, she had begun to actually fantasize about Herbert, somehow. This surprised her more than anything, but it was a fact, none the less. Mr. Trumpington - and Luther, oh Luther! - had been terrifically exciting, but Stephanie sensed a change in Herbert. He had grown angsty, sullen, hot. She had even forgotten the sock puppet on her way to work. When the work day ended, she hurried straight home.
Stephanie flung open the front door and stripped on the welcome mat. Her large bare feet padded up the stairs and to the bedroom. For a change, the door was open, and the room empty. Stephanie’s heart sank a little bit. Then she noticed the shower was running. She scurried over to the bathroom and burst in, a blank smile plastered on her face. Unfortunately, the smile quickly disappeared. There stood, in the shower, Herbert, with Mr. Trumpington on his hand, and Stephanie’s sister, Hilda.
“What is going on!?” shrieked Stephanie.
Herbert looked up and wiped water from his eyes. “What’s wrong?” he said, “I thought your sister could play you today.”
Stephanie’s eyes burned a hole in Mr. Trumpington, who gave her the sock puppet equivalent of a shrug. Herbert had found his iceberg.

- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 8:03 PM

 
MOVING TOWARDS (by E.H.)

As our eyes close, a young woman named Noon Ending switches on her mental nightlight and follows the wind to a scrap of paper it stole from her. We might say she is stalling, her having memorized the scribbled-down address hours ago, but Noon understands the nature of time and appreciates this chance to accelerate it. After spotting her camouflaged prize, Noon turns and crawls in the opposite direction, toward the sanctuary of a flickering lamppost. Peering down from her lip, a defeated cigarette watches an army of ice crystals claw their way up a plaid skirt, wonders how such a girl as Noon could be naturally so much prettier than she ought to be, and attempts to put itself out.

The lone sound of Noon’s high heels click down the hall and past our room. Her clothes are dry now, but pale flesh prevents the hotel’s musky warmth from comforting anything deeper. Noon finds herself in front of a numbered door and reminds herself that behind it hides the key to a fresh meal. She knocks, but receives no answer. Noon scrambles to find the address that has suddenly been torn free from the directory between her ears. She runs a hand along the nape of her neck, and brings the edge of a long hair to her mouth. She turns the door knob herself and is mildly relieved to find it unlocked.

The door is opening...

The second fact that registers in Noon’s mind is that the room is almost entirely empty. There are no windows, no tables, no beds, no chairs, no carpets, and not even a light switch to operate the single bulb screwed into the ceiling. What greets Noon’s eyes, if greet is the word, is in the center of the room, opposite the door, and living inside a small cage. It is hard to tell what sits behind the rusted bars, but various flashes of movement prove that Noon is not alone. She turns to leave...

...But a new shape catches the corner of her eye. Squinting, she can now make out a cord leading up to a faded blue telephone, its receiver laying off the hook and beside the cage, and sticking out underneath it, a messy wad of twenty dollar bills. Noon takes all of this in, still silhouetted in the doorway. She bites, then licks, her bottom lip.

This is the moment - when her soft tongue traces the location of her first and last kiss - where Noon hears the low, sickeningly thick, rhythmic, croaking. A shiver travels up her spine and settles in her mouth, chilling the back of her teeth, and reminding Noon how a rabbi at day school had taught her to eat an Italian Ice from the bottom up. Her brow furrows on its own and her eyes snap back to the cage. She had missed one last object in the room: a coiled tube running out from the cage connects to a doll-sized respirator. Its bag fills and empties with every wheeze and hiss; every mucus filled gurgle. Noon feels a thick, wet, river flood from her lips and realizes she is biting down hard. Two beady, black eyes burn into Noon. The creature, whatever he may be, has been alive for a very long time.

As the voice of Prince rises from Noon’s walkman, the horrible breathing sound is drowned out. A button from Noon’s shirt has been lost. Noon’s eyes have closed. Her hips are gyrating. Her leg is raised. She kicks off a heel. A stocking is lowered and tossed on top of a tiny oxygen tank. As Noon dances, we remember her practicing in the snow, the fate of her twenty-sixth cigarette, and how the night lamp had bent down from its pole and kissed the tears from her cheeks.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 7:58 PM

 
sugarcane twist

shades of white, shades of gray
morning moon, fade away
as walls engulf the room
we prophesy our doom
you realize the laughter is not your's
tears drop in tens and twos and fours
this minute march I can not lead
so turn it into flavored beads
and put it on a string
I’m pretty now but soon you’ll see
colors deep inside of me
so wear it as you wait for snow
and remember that my nightmares go
around your neck
we’ll measure Shapley’s redshift
give Socrates a face-lift
send Thales down a well
then follow him to Hell
and if we fall from Satan’s window
do not worry, do not fret
it’s time to make a wicked bet
out the alley, through the spring
she dangles on a crooked string
fist a ball of bone and blue
you thought you’d won, didn’t you?
night will shine on my spiral
wedged against your glassy palm
stay with me and no go nothing
someone will turn the light switch on
and then as you limp the wrong direction
from their neck I’ll swing
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 4:27 AM

 
Ed Hellman
5/6/03

Billy’s Raft

Billy knew next to nothing about nuns, but he found them very alluring. Everyday after his piano lesson he raced down to the churchyard to watch, with vulgarian glee, the nuns do their thing. With faces like prunes and the grace of downed fowl, they were not conventionally sexy, but there was something about them that made his heart wiggle inside his skeletal torso in an extremely pleasurable manner. Yes, they were definitely hot.

Perhaps his attraction was due to the way their black and white cloaks played off his colorblindness, or perhaps it was bad parenting at hand; regardless, the obsession continued throughout into adulthood. Particularly turbulent were his college years because he insisted on wearing a nun’s habit in the bedroom, limiting himself to brief romances with unconventionally experimental girls.

Billy felt his obsession was damaging his chances at becoming a concert pianist, but his family knew differently. In fact, they blamed all of his lost jobs, loves, and opportunities on one thing alone, something entirely separate from his nun-fetish. They blamed the gigantic blue tentacle that grew out from Billy’s left ear. He’d had it all his life and something about it, well, bugged them.

“It’s not natural,” Mom would say, “You have such a beautiful tentacle-less right ear.”
Billy always responded the same way, with a simple shrug of his shoulders and an absent-minded tug on his tentacle. After all, what else could he do? Then Dad could be counted on shuffling in, holding half-opened mail in one hand and muttering, “What’s that I hear? You think the woman carried you for nine months to have you come out like this? Get rid of that thing already!”
“It has a name and it’s name is Molly!” Billy would shout back as he ran up a staircase, his long fingers feebly covering the tears that invariably streamed down his face at this point in their conversation.
“What, you think my part was easy too!?” Dad would roar back, “Look at her!!”

On their thirty-third birthday, Billy and Molly decided to seek the advice of the only people they trusted, the local nuns. It took all the courage they could muster to approach these sinfuly-heavenly beauties, but at thirty-three, they knew it was all downhill.
“Look, see,” Billy began, and before he knew it, the nuns were huddled together discussing what would become of Molly. Billy waited in the corner of the churchyard, his stomach filled to the brim with butterflies.

After what seemed like ages, the nuns approached Billy and Molly with a verdict.
“Son, “ the largest nun said, “you should really lop that thing off.”
Billy was taken aback. He had trusted them. They were his nuns. His luscious, luscious nuns. They would never tell him to cut off Molly. No, they had to be mistaken.
“I think you might be mistaken,” Billy squeaked out. He felt as though the butterflies in his stomach had grown fangs and a taste for stomach lining.
“No,” replied the nun, “The tentacle is a real turn off.”

On tiny feet, Billy ran from the churchyard crying. He had always known his love of nuns would bring him into harms way, but at the same time, how could anyone ignore the advice of goddess in women’s bodies? His skin tingled as he remembered the way one nun had bent over in prayer. Billy slowed to a stop as he realized what he had to do. Life without Molly would be tough, but he still had his blueprints for shear nun’s habits, and that had to have a market. Pulling out his pocketknife, Billy patted Molly goodbye and made a clean cut along the tentacle’s base.

What happened next was beyond anything Billy could have ever imagined. As the discarded tentacle fell to the ground, salt water poured from its gash, knocking him off his feet. Before Billy had the chance to stand, the tentacle had unleashed enough water to flood the entire earth. Everyone drowned. Well, everyone except Billy. As he struggled to stay afloat, Billy came across the body of a nun. Soon he had shackled together all the nuns’ bodies and road his makeshift raft to safety. Sure, everyone had died, but things were still pretty much okay.

Billy wiped his brow and surveyed the bloated bodies before him. All his life he had craved nun, and now he had a veritable harem before him. He knew he should feel content, but as he ran his fingers over the fresh wound on the side of his head, he realized it was no longer nuns that he desired.

This story is dedicated to my girlfriend, Molly, who is the tentacle to my Billy.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:18 AM

 
jenni (the poem)

dolphin rug ontop
slippery yellow marble middle
after that its hard to say
(we all want to
but never do)
dolphin middle
yellow top
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:37 AM

 
eclectic melon

the sea escapes me
on a boat
of wicker shadow sails
and later eats
one
excellent
melon
that was mine, on dry land
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 12:34 AM

 
more tonight!!
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 9:18 PM

 
below you find 2 funfilled essays (dont let the word scare you) and some new poems. go crazy. or slightly antsy-in-your-pantsy.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 1:11 AM

 
5/18/03
Ed Hellman
FYS
Personal Essay Draft 3

Not-So-Generic Man Makes Not-So-Generic Movie
or Extraordinary Man Makes Extraordinary Movie

I am not an arrogant man, merely an introspective observer, so I say this with the utmost humility: What a glorious world it would be if each of you could live inside this web of flesh within which I am bound. Perhaps then you would learn to fully appreciate the magnitude of my consummation, for I can honestly say that hearing the applause was one of the finest auditory experiences of my life. To finally finish what I had spent nineteen months laboring on was all I wanted, so, knowing that the end result was both appreciated and understood by others was almost too delicious. The cheers of excitement from the crowd confirmed their enjoyment; however, in the end, the best part of that applause was the cozy warmth deep inside my abdomen that had finally had its own optimism justified. The applause, yes, that was something wholly indelible.
I will admit: I can be a bit naive. Those nineteen months earlier, my simple-hearted consciousness had failed to grasp the absurd enormity of what I wished to achieve. My mind had been clouded by a desire too strong to question. Whether some celestial power had burrowed this urge deep inside me or I truly conceptualized it myself is hardly relevant. That I was able to stumble my way through such an endeavor, and still come out utterly triumphant, deserves endless accolades.
As you must know, I was not entirely inexperienced. I had made four films prior to “Generic Man’s Noteworthy Excursion”, although they were significantly shorter in length. I will always cherish these gems, much like a mother who can never fully turn her back on her disfigured child. The fondness for them, albeit pure, is (dare I say it?) incomparable to the fierce and passionate love I have always had for my first feature-length motion picture.
It was the millennium, and eleventh grade was really boring.
***
With conscience clear as a champagne flute, I wish to stress that anyone who says making a movie is easy should be shot. For those who ask why: nineteen long, arduous months. For a dog, that is more than seven years. For the slight, awkward, bedraggled teenager that I was, nineteen months was the equivalent of several lifetimes. Some skeptics may say I was impatient, but how could I not be? Even one day of waiting to attain a dream is an eternity!
To properly recognize my success, it is essential that you understand who I was before I began the undertaking. Growing up in Baltimore was a fairly unexceptional experience, even for the exceptional boy that I was. The city provided little in terms of entertainment, so, aside from attending a particularly stellar school and the occasional visit to a peer’s house, I spent the bulk of time between birth and senior year up in my bedroom brooding. It was there, during the summer after fourth grade, that I discovered my lust for film making. I spent the following years making short videos in my spare time, and the shyness that had plagued me to this point diminished with each effort. The desire to create, however, swelled dramatically. I yearned to undertake a truly challenging project and grew increasingly dissatisfied with the brevity of my creations. By eleventh grade I knew I could wait no longer. My very existence depended on the creation of a feature-length movie. The dark claws of cinematic realism gripped my “élan vital” and I was swept up in a whirlwind of what I can only describe as Promethean euphoria...
Being the prodigy that I was, coming up with a plotline was a cakewalk. The film would be about a local superhero who, with the help of his crustacean sidekick, must stop a nefarious ice cream mogul from poisoning the children of America. In one of my “classic Ed” strokes of genius, I took special note to include an underlying theme of homo-erotic bestiality between the hero and his young ward, Crab Lad. Everything fit together as expected, so I went about the task of choosing writers for the screenplay.
The first choice was obviously myself, but I felt confident that the burden of writing should not rest on my own shoulders. That said, I delegated the responsibility to three college freshmen whom I knew to have rapier wits: The ever imperturbable Dale Beran, small-time drug kingpin Paul Nestadt, and my own brother, David. I do not relish using the word “mistake”, but choosing these three to write was a lapse in judgment on my part. I was correct in assuming that they would write dynamic scenes for me to shoot, but what I failed to consider was that all three of them were chronically procrastinating booze-hounds. We all make “mistakes”.
While pushing the writers to churn out scenes on time, I multi-tasked and took on the role of casting director. Beran was easily swayed into portraying the hero, Generic Man, having already committed himself to the project as a co-writer. The same went for Nestadt who filled the role of the Vincent Price-meets-Peter Lorre-esque villain, Baron Narcotic. The casting of these two lead roles worked perfectly to fit with the surprise twist that I and the writers wove into the storyline: Beran’s own seediness and Nestadt’s gentle complacency carried over into their characters, allowing the audience to realize at the critical moment that the violent, slothful Generic Man is the movie’s actual antagonist, and Baron Narcotic, despite his supervillain appearance, a penchant for dark clothing and inappropriate fits of maniacal laughter, is a simple-minded ice cream entrepreneur with a great love for children (Of course, this is all realized too late, for Generic Man, after surprising the Baron in the home of a fictitious young cancer victim and yelling “Not so tough when you’re defenseless, huh!?”, beats the poor sap to death with a baseball bat). The roles of the thirty other cast members were quickly filled by more than willing peers, blood relatives, and personal gurus.
After borrowing a Hi8 video camera from a friend who happens to be a professional photographer, repeatedly cracking the whip over the writers, painstakingly drawing out every camera angle, making sure that those who had volunteered to sew costumes were upholding their part of the bargain, and spending hours (and I mean HOURS) on the phone scheduling cast and locations for every scene, it was time to begin filming (While I am sure you would be utterly enthralled by specific details pertaining to the above tasks, it would be impossible for you to appreciate them on the same level as one such as myself).
As I stood behind the camera on July 8th, 2000, the first day that actual filming took place, the image I saw through the viewfinder was not that of Generic Man and Crab Lad sneaking into the Narcotic Ice Cream Industries building, but of myself accepting award after award after award after award after award...
Complications arose when J.P. McIntyre, the frail, curly-haired youth playing Crab Lad, developed what those in the Industry call “an attitude”. Lord knows, I did everything humanly possible to pacify him, but in the very end, he turned out to be a traitor in the same league as Brutus and Judas Iscariot. This may sound harsh, but there was a self-serving ferocity underneath McIntyre’s pimply skin that no man could contain. After portraying Crab Lad for several months, he suddenly refused to film his two remaining scenes. As if signaled by Lucifer himself, my three writers joined in the diseased melee of atrophy left in McIntyre’s absence and gave “lethargy” a whole new meaning. Beran would arrive hours late to film dates with his customary hangover and Nestadt rarely performed sans the influence of any number of medicinal aides. The reins of productivity I had so masterfully held began to slip from my grasp. I contemplated the actuality of a sacred higher power, etc.
What followed is what I refer to as “The Dark Period”. Forced to exert all my energy into freeing myself from the sea of incompetence that flowed around me, production was at a stand still. Days became weeks, weeks became months, and, as ashamed I am to admit it, even I questioned the fate of my beloved creation.
...And then, in a brainstorm meteorologists all along the East coast would dub “Cyclone Ed”, I, single-handedly, saved “Generic Man’s Noteworthy Excursion”, bestowing upon the lives of those who had taken part in production months earlier a newfound worth. The writers were rallied together and, after altering several key scenes, it was undeniably apparant that my idea was more than satisfactory. Throughout the earlier drafts, Crab Lad had learned of Generic Man’s fickleness in regard to replacing his sidekicks. In my new draft, the film would start with an alternate Crab Lad who would be quickly fired. McIntyre’s Crab Lad would be introduced as the replacement, lending more credence to his fear of abandonment. The Ex-Crab Lad would have his own subplot, illustrating the downward spiral of the “oublié”. A new actor, Micah Joseph Gates, was commandeered to play the Ex-Crab Lad, and, at last, we resumed production.
Aside from a cast member calling in sick claiming to have vomited blood (What she had foolishly diagnosed as “vomiting blood” turned out to only be vomiting with a harmless nosebleed. She was quickly replaced), filming the remaining scenes went like clockwork. I taught myself how to use an advanced editing program on an Apple G4 loaned to me from my high school, and began piecing together the thousands of shots I had filmed. Oh, how delightful it was to watch my ideas come to life! Editing the film was by far the most delectable part of the project for me. I was blessed with the luxury of solitude.
As the lights dimmed in my high school’s auditorium at the premiere of “Generic Man’s Noteworthy Excursion” on January 19th, 2002, I surveyed my audience. I marveled at the fifty-odd viewers who arrived too late in the packed house to enjoy seats but stayed anyway, and the camaraderie of my cast and crew, all of whom would be experiencing the film for the first time with everyone else. With pride, I realized it was I who had brought them all together and it would be I who would go on to bring similar transcendental events to commonalty across the globe. At that instant I finally felt at peace. I had done it. I was rich, wise, and beautiful. I had beaten the odds. Nothing imaginable could surpass such an absolute level of elation.

But then, oh yes, then came the applause...
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 1:10 AM

 
Ed Hellman
5/19/03
Essay Three

ARTH 130
Introduction to Visual Culture

How They Play Us

A sickeningly cute little boy stands on a breathtaking beach with both hands stretched towards the setting sun in a momentary display of joyful exuberance one only experiences as a child. Next to him, you discover the words, “It’s not a feeling you can get everyday.” Nodding slowly, you find yourself whispering, “Ain’t that the truth. Boy, ain’t that the truth.” As the sensation subsides, your Ovaltine-stained fingers creep to the corner of the March 2000 issue of Vanity Fair you are reading and turn the page. To your surprise, the image in front of you is that of a BMW X5 Sports Activity Vehicle streaking from the left side of the page to the right. Next to it are the words, “Or is it?” It takes a minute for the connection between the two pages to register, but when it does, you immediately flip back to the image of the boy. “What the..” you say, “Is this kid, this innocent, wide-eyed bratling, trying to sell me a car? Or... Did the car run him over?” The next words out of your mouth, according to the advertisers at BMW, should be, “Gosh, I really need to get me one of these!” So, be honest, are they right?: Would the ad make you want a BMW? Do you truly believe that if you buy one of their cars you will attain some sort of equivalent to your lost childhood?
Some of you will have answered yes but the wiser minority of you will have screamed out, “No! Do you think I’m crazy!?” Well, I do not, but apparently the fine men and women at BMW do. They must be unaware of the mass headaches they are causing. Today’s consumer is forced to read an ad several times before understanding what it is attempting to sell. There has always been a varying level of manipulation between merchants and consumers, but, more often than not, contemporary ads work on highly subliminal or associative levels. If advertisers are out to brainwash us, what tricks are being surreptitiously employed and what differentiates these ads from more honest ads? Are there honest ads?
So as not to unfairly single out BMW, let us briefly examine a competitors ad. We will stick with Vanity Fair, this time looking at the February 2001 issue. At first glance, the advertisers would deserve kudos - the ad appears straightforward. It is a seemingly unaltered photograph of a man covered in bees. This bee-man is standing on a small soapbox in front of a rope fence. So, first reaction: “Oh, cool, bee-man.” The text next to the figure, however, brings us in for closer inspection. It reads: “Hey, there’s a blue one.” As we reinspect the ad, we are, understandably, quivering with excitement. Regrettably, this excitement only lasts until our eyes fall on the text at the bottom of the page, which reads, “Drivers wanted.” Following these words is the symbol for Volkswagen. It begins to hit us that we might not be seeing our elusive blue bee after all, which does not seem terribly fair, since the only reason we even considered the prospect of such a bee existing is because they alluded to one in their ad.
Now that we understand that this ad is also trying to sell us a car, we spot, way off in the distance past a field and behind a mesh fence, a small, blue, Volkswagen Bug. “Oh, I get it,” you mutter under your breath, “Yeah, they had bees and they are selling a Bug. Bee. Bug. Yeah, that’s... That’s funny.” No, Mr. and Mrs. Volkswagen, this ad is not funny. It is unclear what the ad even means. Volkswagen: Weird as Bee-Man. Or maybe, Volkswagen: Driving One is Like Being Covered in Bees. I am sure this would appeal to a certain demographic, but is it even Volkswagen’s target audience? The ad suggests too much and too little.
If you enjoyed the last ad, you bee lovers might get a kick out of the next example of advertising lunacy. Remember Honey-Comb cereal? Evidently, it still exists. I mention it only because of a certain provocative ad that can be found in the February 2003 issue of Teen People. The ad is a photograph of a mildly attractive, teenage, girl in a bathtub. Around her is your typical bathroom, but - surprise, surprise! - everything, from the bathmat to the tiled walls, is decorated with the image of a Honey-Comb. Not only that, but everything is also a varying shade of neon purple! Oh, and let us not forget the adorable (neon purple), Honey-Comb shaped hairclips in our friend’s hair, as well as the matching bracelet on her wrist. It seems as though someone sure loves her Honey-Comb cereal.
Now, I have to admit, this ad would not be so bizarre if it were not for the final touch the advertisers felt they needed to include: The girl, throwing sanity to the wind, is not bathing in water... She is bathing in a big bathtub full of milk and Honey-Comb! So, what is this ad telling us? There is a new type of Honey-Comb that not only tastes like honey, but cleans you as well? If it is not, I have a definite problem with this girl eating something she is soaking in. If it is a special new kind of cereal, it certainly should say so on the ad, right? This brings us to the only text in the ad, which can be found in the bottom righthand corner next to the image of a box of Honey-Comb (in case we did not get who was behind the ad). The text is, “anything but ordinary.” Ah, so that clears it up. This girl is not ordinary. Well, I could have told you that without the text. She’s bathing in Honey-Comb. That definitely is not ordinary, let alone sanitary. If the ad is trying to say that those who eat Honey-Comb love it so much they bathe in it, well, “no thank you.” The text negates that idea anyway because it would imply that people who love Honey-Comb are not ordinary. Even if they meant “not ordinary” in a good way, the image is contradictory. The only thing it could succeed in doing is instilling the notion in viewers that Honey-Comb is special in some unspecified way. This ad is clear as to what it is selling, but it is either so vague it is ineffective or inducing an idea in consumers’ heads that is utterly unfounded. I saw the ad. I still think Honey-Comb is a boring, boring cereal.
Coca-Cola is a popular product. It is probably the world’s favorite soft-drink. There are uncountable ways the company could advertise the soda. Sadly, the Coke ad I discovered in the same 2003 Teen People is no better than Honey-Comb’s. The ad is a two page spread and features an eye-level photograph of three giggling, teenage, girls. One is in a chair next to a cell phone and a bottle of Coke, and the other two are standing over the chair and tickling the first girl. There is another bottle of Coke (opened) on a nearby windowsill. The words, “he called back” are above the first girl, and the words, “Coca-Cola Real” are over one of the standing girls. The entire ad is tinted red because a giant Coke logo is printed on top of the photograph. My first question is the same as yours: Is there a product called “Coca-Cola Real”? There are so many varieties of Coke that it is actually surprising that “Coca-Cola Real” is not a product. This ad is selling regular, original Coke. What does the text mean then? And what are the advertisers getting at with, “he called back?” If it means what it suggests, that the girls are excited because a boy returned the first girl’s phone call, how does that connect to Coke? As you are still pondering this, the answer hits me: They mean that if you drink Coke, boys will call you back. In other words, they are saying that they are liars, because everyone who has called anyone knows that drinking soda does not make the person call back. The word “Real” is even more ridiculous because we have already caught them in their lie. Instead of giving us an ad that shows the good things that have happened to actual people who drink Coke, the advertisers expect us to believe this obviously phony claim. The devious part of this ad is that for those who do not take the time to look closely at it, the image of laughing girls becomes connected with Coke. Wait, “he called back”, I thought this ad was targeting females?
We have looked at ads that try to trick the viewer and ads that try to implant false messages in the viewer’s head. What is the next step from honesty that advertisers take? What sort of ad tries to trick the viewer as well as implant messages? As you are still cracking snide jokes about the previous ads (“Yeah Coke, that’s real.. A real lie!”) I whip out the March 2003 issue of RollingStone magazine. Sure enough, within minutes we have our mother of all ads. The page is entirely orange, with nothing on it, no small print or images, except for four words in the center of the ad: “Where did lunch go?”
Being the shut-in that I am, I turn to you for a clue as to whether this is even an ad. You check adjacent pages for some hint but find nothing. We are about to give up when your “friend” walks by and says, “Oh, hey, Uncle Ben!” After a lengthy internet search, we understand that this ad - if you can call it that - is for Uncle Ben’s Rice Bowls. Really. What does “What did lunch go?” mean? The only reason people connect it to Uncle Ben is the font and because they recognize the phrase. Bizarrely, nobody seems to actually know what the phrase means. This is the worst kind of advertisement. We, the consumers, are given a buzz word or phrase that means absolutely nothing and are taught to connect it with a product. Consumers connect buzz words that they have memorized with good things so they want to buy the product. Here is the resulting interaction as I understand it:

Person A: “Hey, where did my lunch go? It was right here a second ago!”
Person B: “Go buy Uncle Ben’s Rice Bowls.”
Person A: “Uh, ok. Why?”
Person B:“I’m not so sure.”
Person A: “Hm. Weird. Well, sounds good.”
Person B: “Go buy Uncle Ben’s Rice Bowls.”

I can only theorize that in the not too distant future, there will not be any clear-cut form of advertising at all. People will walk around and be surrounded by so many subliminal messages that no one will need to watch commercials to buy “Nike” shoes or “Coca Cola”; the level of manipulation will be so high that they will decide to buy these products on what they believe to be their own accord. Regardless, we do have one thing to look forward to: In the future, they might finally sell us our blue bee.
- posted by Errand T.X.E. @ 1:06 AM