Wednesday, November 9, 1994

Satan Claus

ANNOUNCER: (ridiculously cheery) Yes Children, it's Christmas time again! Time to visit the winter wonderland of Santa's workshop!

We see a row of elves--miserable, sweating elves--working frantically to produce toys. Santa appears with a bullwhip. He kicks one of the elves off a stool and begins whipping him.

SANTA: WORK! WORK YOU MANGY ELVES! CHRISTMAS IS COMING... (Santa notices us.) Christmas...yes. Ever wonder about Christmas, eh? Buy buy buy! Sell sell sell! The pressure! The insanity! All the time ignoring you-know-who...

We see a lonely, sad, old-timey preacher in an empty church.

SANTA: All the time celebrating materialism! Greed!

We see a shot of frantic shoppers at the mall.

Santa: Christmas has become MY HOLIDAY. When all the world worships ME, hahaha. Ever wonder who I am? Who I really am? Isn't it obvious? Ho-ho-ho.

At a blackboard, Santa points out the anagram of SANTA and SATAN.

Santa: Ho-ho-ho! I've been working...steadily WORKING, yes. For two thousand years I've waited. I have built my following. My Kingdom grows. Now the time has come...

SANTA leaps into his sled, which flies into the air. The reindeer have a hideous, glazed, undead look in their eyes.

Cut to ground level. People are looking up at the sky as in the old Superman show. We can hear SANTA's voice filling the world...


SANTA's helpers go out, ringing bells, chanting "Worship Santa...worship Santa." The Santa's helpers put up enormous Big Brother-like posters of SANTA on buildings everywhere. They enter churches, defiling them, placing statues of SANTA on the altar. Across the world the evil figure of SANTA appears on TV, calling out to the children to worship him. And they do.

SANTA: Worship me...worship me...

CHILDREN: We worship you!

SANTA: I will bring you presents...

CHILDREN: You will bring us presents!

SANTA: The Spirit of Christmas must live all year long!

CHILDREN: All year long!


The CHILDREN scream with fanatic worship, devotion. The scene resembles a Nazi rally.

Cut to: SANTA flying through the air in his evil sleigh, flying over rows and rows of houses in the suburbs. He lands on the roof of a house. The hideous, demonic reindeer stamp. Inside, Dad with pipe looks up, sees hooves poke through roof...

DAD: Wha...

SANTA: (leering red face popping out of chimney) Merry Christmas, hahaha...

He grabs MOM and DAD, then ties them to the Christmas tree with the electric lights.

SANTA: Now, children, I demand...sacrifice!

DAD: No, can't! We're your parents!

SANTA: Plug it in. Plug in the tree!

We hear a hideous scream. In Santa's face, we see a reflection of the red light of the parents being electrocuted. Santa is grinning. Last shot: Santa's sleigh against the sky.

CAPTION: "And I heard him explain as he went out of sight...'Merry Christmas to all...and to all, a good night!"

Friday, November 4, 1994

The Clastic, Fantastic Deconstructions of Pseudo DiGiolino

Schweene Gallery through November 30

Polymorphously perverse, the ethnic deconstructions of Pseudo DiGiolino present, as it were, a fractured synthesis of peripatetic realization; a forced march through shattered glass synechdoche, visually realized in sequential synchronicity.

The viewer is astonished at the deconstructed entelechy; the matrix of surds, analog and digital; the holistic yet fractured fractals recalling Feynman diagrams or Coach Vince Lombardi's representations of football plays.

Atom or etym, pigskin or boson, the biomorphic abstraction within DiGiolino's work seems to multiply geometrically, advancing and receding in the picture plane; ultimately crawling out and devouring the inattentive viewer in one gulp, sending screaming, panic-stricken, art-walking crowds into the streets as the biomorphic abstraction grows and grows and grows, bursting through the roof, destroying the gallery in one enormous jet of flame, as the relentless biomorphic abstraction emerges to crush, to destroy, to grow, to feed.

Such imagery recalls the work of Caravaggio, with oblique references to Destroy All Monsters, as well. One sees bread sticks, biscuit tins, buckets and bears. This is a tickertape parade for newspaper people who tear themselves into millions of little bits; shards of meaning, blowing in the wind; words reduced to nonsense celebrating the triumphant arrival of the man who wasn't there.

But there is something to be said for nothing.

As the artist himself once said, "Art is like a baked potato, except the potato is made of dynamite and the microwave oven is a nuclear bomb."

DiGiolino acknowledges his debt to dadaism, not to mention his mounting credit card bill, which is now a five-digit figure. Other influences include: Caravaggio, Davide, R. Crumb, the Venus of Willendorf, dirty pictures on the bathroom wall, Art Nouveau, Art Deco, Art Levine, Stella (the artist), Stella (from A Streetcar Named Desire), Jackson Pollock, Jackson Pollack, Chuck Close, Chuck Far, Chuck Norris, Chuckie the evil doll in Child's Play 1-3, all those paintings in Rod Serling's Night Gallery, Caravaggio, Norman Rockwell, Tristan Tzara, and a napkin drawing of the penultimate expression of aesthetic experience that existed on the floor of the Horn and Hardart automat in New York City which is now, unfortunately, lost. And, of course, Caravaggio.

I could go on. His work, in fact, reminds me of everything. Fittingly so, because everything which has existed up to the present moment has led, ineluctably, to the creation of his work. DiGiolino's work is also strikingly reminiscent of art work which will be produced in the future. As these pieces are unavailable to this reviewer, I cannot comment on these resemblances at this time. But what am I really saying? The question intrudes like a doctor's finger in a latex glove. To truly understand DiGiolino's work, one would have to see with the eyes of God, and understand with the mind of God all that ever was, is, and will be, as well as the penumbral matrix of hypostasized possibilities and potentials. Lacking this omniscience, my review clearly means nothing. But, I have reached my word count.

Sunday, October 30, 1994

Quentin Tarantino's Wizard of Oz

WIZARD: Harvey Keitel.
LION: Samuel L. Jackson
SCARECROW: Steve Buscemi
TINMAN: Michael Madsen
DOROTHY: Linda Fiorentino

DOROTHY and her friends stride into OZ's vast, echoing hall. Purposeful, not polite.

The head flames to life.

OZ: Can I believe my eyes? Why ... (pause) Why have you come back?

DOROTHY: Surprised?

DOROTHY kicks broom across the shiny, green marble floor.

DOROTHY: Weren't expecting me, huh?

LION: No, man. Big fuckin' head over there? He ain't expecting shit.

The head flames again. Oz roars.

OZ: I am the great and powerful Wizard of Oz!

SCARECROW: Yeah. And you made a great and powerful miscalculation. We're supposed to be dead.

OZ: I am the great ...

LION: Hey, fuck that talking head shit. (pointing) Check out the goddamn dog.

TOTO starts sniffing around a curtain hiding ... something.

SCARECROW: Dogs are smart. They got like a fucking instinct or something.

LION: Instinct for bullshit.

TOTO pulls the curtain open, revealing the man -- OZ, the very human grifter -- working the controls. DOROTHY and her FRIENDS surround him.

OZ: Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.

LION: Bust that shit up.

TINMAN: With pleasure. (advances with axe)

SCARECROW: (blocking him) No. That's expensive hi-fi shit, man. We can sell it.

Their voices echo from the sound system. Painful feedback.

TINMAN: I can't stand this fucking --

SCARECROW: Then turn it the fuck off. (turns a nob) See? Sounds of silence.

LION: Motherfucker got some explaining to do.

OZ: I'm a very good man, but I'm a very bad wizard.

TINMAN: No. Actually. You're a very dead fuck.

Clubs him with flat end of the axe.

OZ: (stunned) Why ... Why'd you--

TINMAN: Why? You're asking me why?

OZ: Why --

TINMAN: 'Cause it amuses me. 'Cause you asked, fucker. I don't even have a fucking heart. (raising axe) You wanna see how it feels?


LION: Tie him up. I ain't got all damn day.

OZ's POV. The TINMAN smiles. Lifts his axe ...


They slap OZ back into consciousness. He's tied to a chair, beaten bloody. DOROTHY and FRIENDS are laughing at him.

LION: You were asking?

OZ: Asking?

LION: Well then, allow me to refresh your memory. You posed the Tinman here a question. "Why" ...

OZ: (delirious) Oh. Yes .. yes. "Why"... Why are you doing this?

LION: Yeah. You said that already. Allow me to ...

OZ: Why ..

LION: Say why again! I dare you! I double dare you!

OZ: Why ...

TINMAN: (raising axe) I'll fucking kill you!

LION: No, man. Let him answer the damn question. Then kill him.

TINMAN: How 'bout I kill him, and then he answers it?

LION: No. (to SCARECROW) Hey motormouth. You got all that verbal ability. This lying motherfucker here asked why. Fucking explain it to him.

SCARECROW dances up. Punch-drunk, loopy.

SCARECROW: Why? Why, why, why. (hits him) Why'd I hit you? (hits him) Why'd I fucking hit you again? Why are we gonna kill you?

They laugh. SCARECROW slaps OZ silly again.

OZ: Why ...?

SCARECROW: Good question! Let's pose a hypothetical. That's lawyer talk. You know what it means?

OZ: Y-yes.

SCARECROW: Outstanding! (slaps him) Now here's the hypothetical, so pay attention.

OZ groans.

SCARECROW: OK. Let's say there's this teenaged girl living in white trash Kansas. Some sorry-ass third world country drop the fucking H-bomb on Kansas City and her fucking Airstream trailer rides the shockwave and miraculously lands in Uganda intact and crushes Idi Amin's second in command. The poor kid walks into a war zone. There's a war going on, civil war, worst kind of war there is. Now she's a fucking refugee. She's running for her fucking life. What does she do? She teams up with three other fuck-ups who are all running for their lives. And they all go to this guy for help. The big cheese, lives in some enclave like Colonel Kurtz in Apocalypse Now. The locals all think he's King Shit. But he's really some grifter from the USA who's been hiding out. He's spread this big story to the local yokels about his magical powers -- sound familiar? Hey, I asked you a question.

OZ nods.

SCARECROW: Yeah, I thought so. The kid's scared. She's a stranger in a strange land full of weird fucking shit and she doesn't know the rules. So, the kid and the three fuck-ups finally meet the magic man. "I wanna go home," she says, "Send me back home, if there's anything left of it." He's fucking pissing his pants this little girl might blow his cover. So, you know what he says to her? "Yeah, sure, I'll send you back. If you bring me Idi Amin's machine gun." Get it? What are the fucking odds of success? I'll tell you. None. Zero. Squat.

OZ: This is hardly ...

LION: You stone cold motherfucker. You sent her to die. You sent us all to die.

TINMAN: (OS) This head thing. It's like a projector. All that fire. That's gotta come from somewhere. (starts rooting around -- OS)

SCARECROW: Whatever man.

TINMAN: (OS) Kerosene! It's like a bigass barbecue grill. Hahaha!

SCARECROW: We need some fucking music in here.

Starts fiddling with dials.

SCARECROW: (OS) Hey! Stealer's Wheel!

"Stuck in the Middle with You" starts playing. DOROTHY walks up to OZ.

DOROTHY: We coulda been friends, you and me. You're kinda cute. That's the tragedy.

OZ: Wait! You need me!

DOROTHY: I need you?

OZ: I have a balloon.

SCARECROW: He has a fucking balloon!

OZ: I'm from Kansas City! The Omaha State Fair ...

They laugh.

OZ: You don't understand! I can take you home! You can't get home without me!

DOROTHY walks up to him and kisses him wetly.

DOROTHY: Fuck home. Somebody take care of this Kansas City motherfucker.

TINMAN: With pleasaure.

He starts dancing around with the axe. Dances out of frame.

DOROTHY: Let's get something to eat.

SCARECROW: Read my mind, gorgeous. I'm starving to death.

LION: Yeah. Me too. Ate a fucking munchkin outside but they like Chinese food. (shouting to TINMAN) You want anything?

TINMAN: No. I'm having my own barbecue.

He dances back into frame with a can of kerosene. Splashes OZ with it.

TINMAN: See you when I see you.

He dances. In a kind of trance.

SCARECROW: He's doing his thing again. Hey! Act like a fucking professional!

TINMAN ignores him, keeps dancing.

LION: Let's split this fucking joint.

DOROTHY: I love you. I love all of you.

DOROTHY puts her arm around the LION and SCARECROWs shoulders with great familiarity. They leave. "Stuck in the Middle with You" continues to play. OZ screams. The Tinman dances with his axe.

Friday, August 26, 1994

Natural Born Clowns


Two CLOWNS walk in -- a guy clown and a girl clown. One of them is holding a seltzer bottle. The fat MANAGER looks them up and down with amusement.

MANAGER: What're you gonna do...spritz me with that thing?

CLOWN #1 smiles and sprays him in the face.

MANAGER: Ahhh, my eyes!

Instinctively, his hands shoot up to his eyes. The second he does this, the other clown viciously gut-punches him. The MANAGER folds up like a pocket-ruler. One more club to the head with the seltzer bottle and he's down. CLOWN #1 smashes the seltzer bottle to the floor and pulls out a gun. CLOWN #2 pulls out another gun.

CLOWN #2: I say we waste these fucks, whaddya say?

CLOWN #1: I dunno Clowny-bunny.

CLOWN #2: We got any heroes here? Anybody wanna be a hero?

The camera pans to the people sitting in the diner. We see a long table. Sitting at the table are all the "Superfriends" -- Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman, etc. They all shake their heads no.

CLOWN #2: Gimme your fuckin' wallets!

They do.

Cut to the two CLOWNS driving away in a large, brightly colored clown-car with big bouncy wheels. CLOWN #2 is counting the take.

CLOWN #2: "Super Friends"...(snorting) "Super Fags" is more like it.

CLOWN #1: You think the police will be after us?

CLOWN #2: (pulling condom with large "S" from Superman's wallet) No.

CLOWN #1: Why not, Clowny-bunny?

CLOWN #2: 'Cause we're wearing this clown makeup, dumbass. They'll never recognize us!

EXT, view of clown car driving away comically down the road, obvious as all get-out.**

[I actually dreamed this, more or less as is. Ever now and then, your subconscious gives you one for free.]

Wednesday, August 24, 1994


to the tune of "I'm a Toys-R-Us Kid"

I don't wanna grow up.
I'm an HRS kid!
My mommy didn't beat me
But my daddy sure did!
With bricks and boards
And electrical cords.
That's why I'm an HRS kid!

Wednesday, August 10, 1994

Shall we gather at the reefer?

Ah, dearie, dear. The Man continues to persecute the Ethiopian Zion Coptic Church, having recently thrown "Brother Louv" in the slammer for pot possession. Seems the EZCC views pot-smoking as a sacrament. Which strikes me as, y'know, more mellowing than wafer and wine, though the Man doesn't share my opinion.

Let us turn in our hymnals to Hymn 420. "Shall We Gather At the Reefer?"

All rise.

Shall we gather at the reefer?
The beautiful, beautiful reefer.
Shall we gather at the reefer ...
And get completely stoned?

Thursday, June 23, 1994

Slob Dressed Man

(to the tune of ZZ Top's "Sharp Dressed Man")

Stained shirt, full of holes
My BVDs ain't dirty -- I don't wear none at all
Nose hairs, double chin
You smell me coming before I step in

The girls run screaming just as fast as they can
They're so damn disgusted 'bout a slob dressed man

Ass crack, stupid hat
Can't see my own feet cause I'm extremely fat
Stinky sneakers, don't match
My gut's exposed, makes it easy to scratch

The girls run screaming just as fast as they can
They're so damn disgusted 'bout a slob dressed man

Saturday, May 7, 1994

Beanie Babies

We see the front of a toy shop. DER KINDERSPIEL or sumpin like that. Black-and-white footage.


PETER LORRE is dusting the shelves. Ding. A bell rings. A child comes in. She looks around.

INGA: Hey! Ya gotta any Beanie Babies?

PETER: No. What are Beanie Babies?

INGA: They're cute little plush toys, stoopid! Their little bellies are stuffed with beans!

He considers the thought.

PETER: S-stuffed with beans?

He shudders

PETER: That's sickening. No. I don't carry Beanie Babies. I am not interested in fads. I carry only classic toys. Get out of my store!

INGA: Jerk.

The bell rings. PETER LORRE looks up as another little girl walks in.

HELGA: Ya got any Beanie Babies?

PETER: No! I don't have any Beanie Babies! I will never have any Beanie Babies! From now until the end of time!


The store is now stuffed with a feeding frenzy of giggling children. It's also stuffed with Beanie Babies. The kids are buying them as fast as he can restock them. PETER LORRE is making tons of money -- but he's miserable. He looks at the clock on the wall.

PETER: OK, that's it! Closing time! Everyone get out of here!

An adorable little girl holds up a Beanie Baby.

EVA: But I just want to ...

PETER: No! It's too late! No more buying and selling! I'm tired of making money! It's closing time! My shop is officially closed!

Later ...

PETER LORRE is alone in the store. The shelves are, once again, filled with Beanie Babies. He's just finished restocking. Tomorrow, he'll do the same thing.

PETER: (muttering to himself) Stuffed with beans. Their little bellies are stuffed with beans.

He begins to sweat. His eyes dart around nervously.

From his POV, we see various Beanie Babies. They all seem sinister. All seem like they're looking at him.

PETER: Oh. I know what you're doing. You can't fool me. You pretend to be toys. But you're ALIVE! You're always watching me! You're always following me. You! You little skunk thing. You weren't on that shelf before! You've moved! I know!

His eyes dart back and forth. Faster and faster.

PETER: No. That's just crazy talk. Ha. My imagination is getting the best of me. They're only toys. Harmless toys. (laughs) They can't hurt me. They're not alive. Their little bellies are filled with beans!

His eyes dart back and forth. Faster and faster.

Back to LORRE's POV. More paranoid glimpses of Beanie Babies. The editing rhythm speeds up. Expressionist camera angles, weird diagonal shadows.

LORRE: Stop looking at me!


PETER LORRE is waiting on a bench at a tram stop. GERTA, a fat, kindly, old German woman, sits next to him.

GERTA: Your shop is doing quite well, I hear.

PETER: Yes. Financially.

GERTA: Ja. The little kinder do love those Beanie Babies.

He shudders.

PETER: Yes. (barely containing his hysteria) The darling little monsters with their parent's money clutched in their tiny little fists.

GERTA: Der kinder are so wonderful, ja. You are making them happy!

PETER: Yes. That's true. I am spreading happiness and joy. I am spreading Beanie Beanies. Like an infection. The Beanie Babies. They love them so much. That's all I sell now. I am making so much money!

GERTA: (chortles) Ja. Money talks.

PETER: Yes, it does. It's true. Money is talking to me! I can hear it! Right now! It's whispering in my ear!

She edges away from him.

PETER: Do you know what it's saying?


PETER: Money is commanding me: "Sell the Beanie Babies. Fill your store with Beanie Babies!" I obey, yes. Like the cringing slave I am. What else can I do? It's the capitalist system! The Invisible Hand, forcing me against my will. The children want those hideous things! They pay obscene amounts of money. I must obey! I must sell Beanie Babies!

GERTA: Ja. Well. I'll suppose you'll be selling them for the rest of your life.

PETER: Yes. There's no way out

He buries his face in his hands. Trapped.

Then looks up with a psychotic gleam in his eye.

PETER: Or is there?


PETER LORRE Watches with feral joy on his face as a raging fire consumes the store.

PETER: Now I am free! Free!

Police and fireman appear.

POLICEMAN: Sorry about your store, sir.

PETER: I'm not sorry. I did it!

POLICEMAN: We never said you ...

PETER: No, it's true! I did it! I started the fire! Don't you see? Now I'm free!

He dances insanely.

Time has obviously passed. The store is now a burned-out, smoking shell. PETER LORRE is still standing there.

More police appear. Along with the men in the white coats.

PETER: Take me away! Yes, I did it!

POLICEMAN: Of course you, did.

PETER: No. I admit it! I started the fire! Lock me up. Lock me up where I'm safe! I don't care! I'm free! Don't you see?

The MEN IN WHITE COATS grab him. Drag him over to an ambulance.

PETER: The Beanie Babies can't hurt me anymore, no. For I have killed them!

He laughs insanely as they stuff him into the ambulance.

It turns on its old school European siren and drives away.

The nuthouse resembles the one in "The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari." More weird, expressionist shadows and camera angles. Orderlies march PETER LORRE down the hall. Take him into an office.


Lorre sits on a couch. A PSYCHIATRIST sits in a leather chair with a notebook and pen.

PETER: Your coat is so white and clean and scientific! Your beard is so pointy! I'm filled with a sense of confidence already. Are you going to examine my mind? Are you going to get your fingers dirty?

PSYCHIATRIST: We're going to talk.

PETER: Oh. That's wonderful! I love talking!

PSYCHIATRIST: Yes, Mister Lorre. Well. Let us talk about the Beanie Babies.


He curls up in a fetal position.

PETER: I don't want to talk about the beanie babies.

PSYCHIATRIST: Are you afraid of them?

PETER: No, of course not. I'm not afraid of them. I'm not a child!


PETER: I hate them.


PETER: The Beanie Babies. Yes. I hate them! I hate them so much!

PSYCHIATRIST: Why do you hate them?

PETER: Because I hate them!


PETER: Why, why. Why do they they hate me?

PSYCHITRIST: They hate you?

PETER: Yes, you idiot. I know! They're always following me! Spying on me! They want to kill me! Their little bellies are filled with beans!


PETER: I'm only joking, of course. Ha-ha. Of course they can't spy on me. That's irrational! I know that, don't you see? They're only toys. They don't have brains or nervous systems. Their little bellies are filled with beans. Their little bellies are filled with beans!

PSYCHIATRIST: Do you wish to be cured of this obsession?

PETER: Please, Doctor. That's hardly scientific of you. Obsession is the wrong word.

PSYCHIATRIST: What is the right word?

PETER: I don't know. I don't belong here. It's A GREAT MISUNDERSTANDING, YOU SEE? One day, we will look back and laugh. Ha-ha. See? I'm laughing now. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!


PETER: The fire was an accident.

PSYCHIATRIST: Yes, well. Returning to my original question. Do you wish to be cured of your obsession?

PETER: Yes, yes, of course. But it's impossible. You can't help me. No one can help me! Not God! Not you! Some stupid scientist in a stupid white coat! What you can you possibly do?

PSYCHIATRIST: Hear me out, please. What do you have to lose?

PETER: Nothing. I have nothing to lose. Say what's on your mind.

PSYCHIATRIST: There's a new experimental procedure. Desensitization therapy. Ever heard of it?

PETER: No! I'm a toymaker, not a psychiatrist! That's your job!

PSYCHIATRIST: Yes, it is. Please allow me to do my job.

PETER: I'm sorry. I'm very sorry. I don't wish to be rude. I'm not myself these days. I don't know who I ... This therapy. What is it?

PSYCHIATRIST: We introduce the aversive stimuli to the patient. In gradual doses, you see. Eventually the aversive reaction is diminished.

PETER: Oh, that's wonderful. You pompous idiot! These words mean nothing to me. I have no idea what you're talking about!

PSYCHIATRIST: I'm talking about this.

The PSYCHIATRIST brings out a Beanie Baby and puts it on his desk. PETER LORRE screams and hits him with a paper weight.


PETER LORRE crashes out of a window and runs down a street.

Montage (as in "M") of police and men in white coats tracking a desperate PETER LORRE through a maze of streets.

Footsteps and police whistles outside. PETER LORRE enters. He has a Tyrolean hat pulled down over his head.

PETER: I need a room. Any room. I will pay you in cash.

The clerk grunts, takes a wad of bills. Dirty, perhaps blood-spattered.

Peter Lorre enters. exhausted. He collapses on the bed.

PETER: Free. At last I am free of the cursed Beanie Babies!

He turns off the light.

Hold a beat.

He turns the light back on.

The Beanie Babies have completely surrounded him in concentric circles like the rats at the end of Willard.


We hear PETER LORRE scream.

Sunday, May 1, 1994

The Time Vampire


A woman, working at her computer. A caped figure enters. A classic, shlocky Dracula-type character. None of that "Interview with a Vampire" shit.

WOMAN: Who are you?

TIME VAMPIRE: I am the Time Vampire, ha-ha-ha.

WOMAN: OK. Look, I'm really very busy.

TIME VAMPIRE: Yes. I can see that.

WOMAN: Can you come back tomorrow?


WOMAN: What do you want?

TIME VAMPIRE: Only your time. Just a little. At first.

WOMAN: Yeah. I've got stuff to do, OK?

The TIME VAMPIRE looks wounded and starts to go.

WOMAN: I'm sorry. That was rude of me. How can I help you?

TIME VAMPIRE: Look into my eyes.

WOMAN: Excuse me?

He walks up to her and leans over her desk.


She looks into his eyes.

TIME VAMPIRE: What do I want? Your time, my dear. I will feed upon your time. I will suck your time!


TIME VAMPIRE: Yes! Look into my eyes! I will tell you stories ...

WOMAN: ... that have no point.

TIME VAMPIRE: Yes! Stories that have no point! You think you can stop me by finishing my sentences? Ah-ha-ha! That only makes me talk more!

Lightning flashes.

WOMAN: OK. You tell stories that have no point. And?

TIME VAMPIRE: And I will tell you stories that have no point! And more stories that have no point! You cannot speed me up! It is not enough to say: I went to New York City. I will describe my trip to the airport in excruciating detail. I will tell you about the cab driver's hat!

WOMAN: You're a lousy storyteller.

TIME VAMPIRE: (hisses) Foolish woman! Do not try to summarize or make my point for me. My anecdote is like a record! It must play from beginning to end! But there is no end, ha-ha-ha!

Lightning flashes.


TIME VAMPIRE: Yes! I will feed upon your time! I will suck your time dry! You are helpless to prevent it! As I was saying, I will tell you about the cab driver's hat. It was a porkpie hat. Black. It was the hat the cab-driver was wearing. You know? The one on top of his head! Why do I say this? The detail has no significance! Are you expecting a punch line! Abandon such foolish hope! I am not Spalding Gray -- I am simply long-winded!

WOMAN: Wow, look at the time.

TIME VAMPIRE: Look at the time? The time is now my time. Your time belongs to me!

Lightning flashes.

TIME VAMPIRE: I will ignore your pitiful hints! You can look at the clock all you like! You can say "It was really great talking to you," "I'll have to get back to you," "Wow, I better get back to work" -- it will do you no good! Your glazed eyes and stifled yawns mean nothing to me! I will keep talking and talking! If I reach the end of a story, it will remind me of another story! You cannot get me out of here! There is nothing you can do!

VAN HELSING:(OS) Don't bet on it.

TIME VAMPIRE: (not breaking eye contact) Van Helsing! (hissing) You have no business here!

VAN HELSING: I'm making it my business.

TIME VAMPIRE: I'm in the middle of a story!

VAN HELSING: You're always in the middle of a fucking story.

TIME VAMPIRE: Stop interrupting! (to the WOMAN) Now look into my eyes ...

VAN HELSING: He has one weakness! It's your only hope.

WOMAN: Oh, yeah.

She whips out a cross.

TIME VAMPIRE: Ah, the cross. It reminds me of my trip to Spain ...

VAN HELSING: Not the cross, dumbass! Rudeness!

TIME VAMPIRE: No. Shut up!

VAN HELSING: Tell him he's a fucking bore.

WOMAN: It'll hurt his feelings.

VAN HELSING: It's you're only hope. Do it!

TIME VAMPIRE: Catalonia, really. The culture is truly unique. As well as the food!

WOMAN: You're a fucking bore.


VAN HELSING: Tell him to get the fuck out.

WOMAN: Get the fuck out.

The TIME VAMPIRE screams and bursts into flame.

They study the burned-out hole in the carpet.

VAN HELSING: You want to grab a coffee?

WOMAN: Yeah.

They leave.

Saturday, April 23, 1994

Vegetable House

DEAN WORMER sits at his desk. There's a look of pain on his face. GREG MARMALARD stands next to him. A choir is singing outside his window.(OS)

Have you heard about the animals?
Man, we're worse than cannibals
We eat baby cows, and carve meat from sows
It's a speciest nightmare play!
Vegetable House
Vegetable House

DEAN WORMER: Tau Beta Smegma?

GREG MARMALARD: (nods) Yes, sir.

DEAN WORMER: Well, I suppose it's poetic justice.

GREG MARMALARD: I don't know what that means, sir.

DEAN WORMER: Of course you don't, you little shit. You're poli-sci. You don't have to read real books. Let me paint a fucking picture for you.


DEAN WORMER: We kicked the Deltas off campus. Bully for me, bully for you. We replaced them with ... what? With them that's what.

GREG MARMALARD: Tau Beta Smegma.

DEAN WORMER: That's right. They don't drink. They don't smoke. They don't screw. They're vegans!

GREG MARMALARD: What's a vegan?

DEAN WORMER: Like a vegetarian, only worse. Their shit doesn't stink. Literally! They don't eat meat. They don't eat eggs, cheese or honey. If the fucking vegetable truck frightened a fucking flatworm on the way to the market, they don't eat vegetables.


DEAN WORMER: No you don't, goddamnit. They're androgynous angels without genitalia. Unlike the fucking Deltas, they're morally superior.

GREG MARMALARD: They're not ...

DEAN WORMER: Of course they're not superior! In their minds, dumbass. They think they're superior.


DEAN WORMER: Sure you do.

GREG MARMALARD: Can't we shoot them, sir?

DEAN WORMER: No. Not officially. Please don't shoot them.


Dean Wormer tried to kill a cow.
We said that's bad. Don't do it now.

DEAN WORMER: God, I hate those vegan fuckers. At least the Deltas had balls. You can't grab a fucking eunuch by the balls, can you?


DEAN WORMER: No. (holding up pencil) I could, on the other hand, jab this delightful Faber Mongol #2 Pencil in my ear and drive it into my brain. But I won't.

GREG MARMALARD: I think that's a wise decision, sir.

DEAN WORMER: I'm glad you do, son. Go fuck yourself.


Wednesday, March 16, 1994

Die Hard Symphony

(to the tune of Beethoven's Ode to Joy)

It's another Die Hard remake
Even though they changed the name
A pumped-up, stressed-out, out-gunned good guy
Fights the thugs who kill and maim

Bombs exploding, bodies flying
Pieces spinning in the air
Oh, dear God, won't someone stop them?
Awful bad guys just don't care

The guns, the knives
The bombs, the moms
The shlock, the rock
The ticking clock
It's all been planned

Car chase! It's a car chase
And the gun in the face
Right guy, wrong place
The DA's bad pate
And the villain you hate
The children at risk
Is it too late?

Thursday, March 3, 1994

The Wo Fat Diet

Detective McGarrett wakes up. The protagonist of "Hawaii 5-0" is in a bad place. His hands are cuffed to the walls of a cargo container. He struggles but it’s useless. Wo Fat, his ancient enemy from the People's Republic of China, is behind it all.

WO FAT: (O.S.) Hello, Mr. McGarrett.


WO FAT: The very same.

McGARRETT: Wo Fat. I should have known it was you!

WO FAT: Yes. You should have. Please accept my apologies, Mr. McGarrett. I am sorry to interrupt your retirement on the pitiful fixed income of a Hawaiian police pension.

McGARRETT: Save it.

WO FAT: I am quite sincere, Mr. McGarrett. I take this action with regret.

McGARRETT: What action? What the hell are you doing? It’s over, Wo Fat!

WO FAT: For you, yes.

McGARRETT: You have the right to remain silent …

WO FAT: You are such a cop!

McGARRETT: You have the right to …

WO FAT: There is a picture of you next to the word “cop” in the dictionary.

McGARRETT: … an attorney.

WO FAT: Yes, of course. If I can’t afford one, your glorious country will provide it. I have memorized this speech, Mr. McGarrett. As Joe Strummer advises me, I know my rights!

McGARRETT: I don’t think so, Wo Fat. “Freedom” isn’t in your dictionary, you commie bastard.

WO FAT: Commie? Please, Mr. McGarrett. You are speaking to the CEO of Wo Fat Imports! I am an entrepreneur, you see? I walk the capitalist road!

McGARRETT: A commie rat by any name is still a rat!

WO FAT: (laughs) Your hair is still amazing, Mr. McGarrett. A frozen wave, trapped in Brylcreem. Exuberant, but dead. A metaphor for America, I think.

McGARRETT: Surf’s up, Wo Fat! America’s still tubular.

WO FAT: I think not.

McGARRETT: Communism is a dead system!

WO FAT: True. As is capitalism. After destroying the communist menace, America destroyed the capitalist menace as well!

McGARRETT: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

WO FAT: Really? (laughs) Today, the People’s Republic of China has become America’s sweatshop. For you we make Beanie Babies, barbecue grills, tiny American flags, and plastic flower pots. Slaves at work, Mr. MrGarrett. This is not, as you say, "free enterprise."

McGARRETT: You’re raving, Wo Fat!

WO FAT: Perhaps. As Lenin said, "The capitalists would sell us the noose to hang them with" …? Sadly, he was wrong. Today, American capitalists buy the noose from us and hang themselves!

McGARRETT: What noose?

WO FAT: Why, the crap I speak of. All of this crap! Look above you, Mr. McGarret. It is all there, suspended above your head!


He looks up. There is, indeed, a vast assortment of consumer crap, suspended by a net above his head.

McGARRETT: I’ve never bought that crap. Any of it! I buy American, Wo Fat. I check the label, every time.

WO FAT: I’m sure you do. Goodbye, Mr. McGarrett. You have been a worthy enemy.

Wo Fat pushes a button.

The vast heap of consumer crap falls down on McGarrett’s head, crushing him.