Covid Comedy Part Deux

OK, well. We can still get together on the Internet. Yes, we can. You seriously think that’s a great idea? Believe it or not, back in the 1980s, some Silicon Valley brainiacs actually did. Seriously.

The aging-hippy idealists who hotwired the Interweb imagined they were laying the foundation for a global town square that would bring humanity together in the not-too-distant future. Now we’re living in the not-too-distant future. Their hippy dream is now a reality—except the global town square is filled with an angry mob holding pitchforks and torches. Not just angry. Crazy, too. Thanks to the Internet, paranoid schizophrenia is now a casually communicated disease. In the pre-digital days, some nut wearing a tinfoil hat would be pushing a crap-filled shopping cart while constantly muttering to themselves ... 

“Conspiracy. Yeah. Them rich libtards and Hollywood bigshots got secret tunnels full of sex slave kids, uh-huh. The secret entrance is in that furniture store or maybe the pizza shop. And that vaccine they’re pushing? It’s a mind-control microchip. That there Bill Gates fellow? He’s behind the whole thing.” 

Yattayatta. The nut keeps muttering, nobody listens, and the delusion stays in his head. But thanks to the Internet, the nut can talk to other nuts. They can work on their delusional architecture together. Where do chemtrails fit in? What about the lizard people? It’s fun, kind of like World of Warcraft. Except when the nuts start killing people.

Why 1984 won't be like "1984." And 2021 will.

Macs are cool and futuristic. Still love 'em. But I'm starting to think it’s like an Eldorado Cadillac with fins. That’s cool and futuristic too. But despite the fins, it’s not really a rocket ship. You can’t fly to the Moon on an Eldorado Cadillac. It’s just futuristic on the outside. In a similar fashion, Macs (iPhones, iPads, iEtc.) are just bursting with elegant, world-of-tomorrow industrial design, most of it stolen from Braun, the rest from the Jetsons. On the inside, Macs are old-school, anal, counterintuitive, authoritarian control-freaks. It's like a Hitler Youth school crossing guard blowing his whistle and shouting, "Hey! You can't cross the street there! Go back to the curb and cross between the lines!" My main gripe being Apple file management. I'll single out iPhones. Photo files are the worst. On a f**king Android phone, you plug it into your computer, the device icon appears on your desktop, click, you navigate to the photo file, then drag the photos you want onto your desktop. Create a folder where you want, and put the photos in the folder. Then put the folder where you want! Simple.  iPhone? TWEET! No! Go back to the curb, user!” Plug the iPhone into your Mac. An icon appears. But it’s a meaningless black box. And you can’t even open that box. The box is locked and there’s no key. So, there’s no way to drag-and-drop my files? No, sir. There is not. So how do I get to my files? Ah. Each variety is a mystery of its own. OK, I’ll be specific. How do I manage my photo files? Can I drag them onto my desktop? No, sir. I believe I have mentioned that. “Dragging and dropping.” That is not the Mac way. So how do I do it? Well, sir. Connect your iPhone to your Mac with the approved Apple Lightning USB cable. Then go to Photos, which is the designated and approved Apple photography file management application. The icon resembles a pretty flower of many colors. Click on that. You may then access your photography files in the manner in which Apple intended. We will tell you where to store those snapshots. (Not the actual files, of course. Such knowledge is forbidden to you.) We strongly suggest you back up your photography files on iCloud. (Actually it’s not a suggestion.) We control the horizontal. We control the vertical. It’s as simple as playing a game of Twister and Limbo simultaneously while also working out a calculus problem. If that’s too much for your primitive intellect, ImageCapture is slightly easier. Does that answer your question, sir? No, but you blindly jump into it. Before long, iPhone is screaming at you. No more storage space! iCloud is screaming at you. No more storage space! With the cringing terror of a viciously caned British schoolboy, you instantly obey, and fearfully start dragging photos from your iPhone to your Mac hard drive. Can you do it in batches? No, sir. You can’t. One file at a time. That also is the Apple way. Ah. After an hour or two, you’ve finally cleared off a modicum storage space on your iPhone. But not for long. iCloud quickly restores all the deleted photos to your iPhone drive. Once again, your iPhone screams. No more storage space! You can always turn off the iCloud back up. Is there a toggle switch to quickly do that? Is there … I assume you’re joking, sir. But no, there is not. You can do it. There is a way. It’s no more complicated than programming a quantum computer while playing Jenga while holding a boiling fondu pot beneath your knees. Might I recommend the purchase of additional iCloud storage space?

Coming home from Anime Weekend Atlanta

"Here's looking at you, kid."

Monday, November 19, 1997

[My youngest son Drew and I are leaving Anime Weekend Atlanta to fly back home to Sarasota. He’s 14-years-old. I’m 42.]

 

Marriot hotel lobby. Drew and I stand. Suitcases packed with anime convention swag. Disgustingly early in the morning, but we’re awake. CJ is, too. [My cousin, Chris Jefferson.] We do the goodbye thing, and before we know it, we're driving away in the airport shuttle. Drew keeps saying, “We’ve got to do this next year, we've got to do this next year.” I keep saying, “We'll see.” It's still dark. The shuttle driver is listening to a gospel station — and going WAY over the speed limit. (Drew keeps his cool. But he looks like he's strapped into a roller coaster of certain doom.) The driver's eyes are on the next world — and at 90 mph, he'll get there pretty soon. And I was worried about the flight. Pretty damn ironic, huh?

Driving like a bat out of heaven, the Bible-believing driver takes us to the airport where Drew and I sit and wait in these scooped plastic chairs. 

 

In front of us, big glass windows show featureless buildings and drone-like dudes moving assorted crap around in these little carts. All at once Drew says, “There's the sun” and I look and yep — and there it is, a red crescent over the horizon. I’m thinking (and I know it's not original) How many more of these am I going to see before I’m dead? 40 sunrises? 100?

Crackling noise from the airport speakers. More grim warnings about taking bags from strangers on the PA system. “If a man wearing a turban hands you a free radio, do not accept.” The sun climbs, slowly. On one wall, there's an Orwell-sized poster with a giant eye inside a triangle like the one on the back of a dollar bill. The text below the giant eye reads:

 

TURN YOUR MERELY HUMAN

SALESFORCE INTO

SALESGODS

Huh. How do meet your sales goals? 

Ascend to the throne of the Almighty, of course.

“Shove off, Mr. Supreme Being. That throne ain’t big enough for two of us.” 

Pissing God off. Yeah, that’s exactly what you want to do in the airport.

So the line inches forward …

Then Drew and I are finally on the plane. 

Two business-suited businessmen are in the seats behind us. Can't hear what the one guy is saying, but his nattering companion is one of the most boring people I've ever overheard in my life. 

Everything he says is dead literal. There’s lots of agonizing discussion about the intricacies of investing; more agonizing discussion about conventions, hotels, badges, donuts, registration, luggage. No point. No joke. No humor. Just specifics. Like lots of little tinkertoy parts rattling around, but never put together...  

So Drew and I sit there in the f**king plane. A long wait. In the windows to our right, we can see a parade of more planes, too many to count, slowly, slowly rolling..   

Waiting. Waiting.

Then our plane finally rolls and thumps and bursts up into the air. Omens boil in my brain: the warnings about unattended bags, the blasphemous promise to create "Salesgods." Death awaits me with nasty sharp pointy teeth. Behind me, Businessman Blandboy is still going on with his chatter.

Businessman Blandboy: Look, lotta cars down there. That's the new stadium. They're really coming along on that stadium.   

Marty: (whirling around) SHUT THE F**K UP MOTHERF**KER! Death is waving his scythe in your face and the least you can do is show some respect. OK? 

Businessman Blandboy: OK. Sorry.

Just kidding, folks. I keep my mouth shut. Despite his bland appearance, this dude might be a Salesgod. I’m not taking any chances.

We fly — a little over an hour. Then we land. 

Tampa airport is as ugly as ever.

Review: "Tenet"

Christopher Nolan’s Tenet. Made me think, it did—and thinking usually leads to talking. So what the hell do I say about this movie? Damned if I know. But I better get started ...

Okey-doke.

Based on trailer and track record, I was expecting a whiz-bang, timey-whimey movie. Like Inception. Except it’s time, not dreams. You figure some Big Bad in the future is screwing with decent folks like you and me in the present. The Protagonist will stop him. But there’s a twist, natch. (Heck, maybe the Protagonist IS the Big Bad!) Or something like that.

Yep. Something like that. 

But not that fun.

Tenet reminds me of the flaws in my own writing. That’s not a bad thing. It actually gives me hope.

Aside from his Scrooge McDuck levels of personal wealth and amazing creative accomplishments, director Christopher Nolan and I have a great deal in common. I’m a science fiction writer. He’s a science fiction writer. I’m fascinated with time. So is Nolan. And we’re both also fascinated with complicated, paradoxical plots.

My typical SF story is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, shrouded in an enigma, inside a tiny Russian doll with wheels-within-wheels spinning in its pointy little head. (There’s also a tasty hard candy center.) In a short story you can get away with it—all you have room for is one PhilDickian surprise. (Christ! I am the robot! Auggh!) In a novel, it’s like driving a ten-ton dynamite truck over a tattered rope bridge.

Late in life, I’ve discovered that Joe Reader has limited patience with this Nabokovian nonsense. Especially when it necessitates mind-numbing passages of expository dialog.

“The Cosmic Egg. That’s the key—but they’ve got it all wrong.”

“You mean the Cosmic Chicken came first?”

“No—it’s deeper than that. It’s … Before the Cosmic Chicken … Before that …”

“Take a breath baby.”

“… there was the Cosmic Chicken Ranch. Before that …”

“The Cosmic Colonel Sanders?”

“Yeah. But who’s he working for? Who’s he selling his “buckets” to?”

After ten pages of this, Joe’s eyes roll back in his skull. He immediately pitches backwards in his chair, gouges the back of his skull on a stainless-steel Ikea coffeetable, and has to go to the Emergency Room.

Joe, like the middlebrow non-English-Major slob he is, gives less than a shit for brainy, paradoxical puzzles. This mouthbreather cares more about the mysteries of the human heart. Characters he can relate to and all that shit. 

Knowing this painful truth, I fight to keep the yattayatta to a minimum. To that end, I ask myself a series of painful questions: Is this scene going on too long? What can I cut? What Darlings can I bury in unmarked graves? How can I shake this dull passage up with some left-field surprise? Is Joe getting bored? How can I keep that sumbitch entertained?

Nolan, unwashed phenomenon that he is, has stopped asking himself these questions. 

The scenes go on too long. And then they keep going. 

INT. APPRAISAL ROOM. Protagonist chats with Young Woman. There’s a Goya drawing in a Harrod’s shopping bag. It’s a fake. The Young Woman sold it to her husband the evil Russian something something lover didn’t know something something Plutonium 231 backwards time something.

Sorry, what?

Don’t get me wrong. The movie’s problem is boredom, not a lack of clarity. If you pay close attention, you'll know exactly what’s going on. Nolan is very clear. From premise to conclusion, he builds his logical artifice like an OCD kid with a new set of Legos.

For all its temporal paradox, this is a very linear movie. 

That’s a weakness, not a strength.

Imagine what Quentin Tarantino could do with this material. His hypothetical film opens in the middle—Reservoir Dogs-style. No warning! The Protagonist (yeah, that’s what he is in the script) is waist-deep in some life-threatening shit. Whoa! That car is driving backwards! You have no clue what’s going on—then find out in economical flashbacks. 

This material could also work with the approach Martin Scorsese used in After Hours. Send the character on a pell-mell trip like Alice down the rabbit hole. What the f**k is going on? You’re on the run. There’s no time to answer that question.

Yeah. Two cinematic possibilities, free of charge. But that’s not what you get.

Nolan's movie, for all its puzzle-master, egghead brainyness, is too damn predictable. No misdirection, no swerves. The film’s rhythm creates an expectation—and never violates it.

The fight scenes and action sequences are cleverly choreographed … and fail to grab you by the heart and gonads. The Protagonist is so ultra-cool-competent, he never breaks a sweat. Never lets on: Shit, this could all go wrong. Nah. The man doesn’t worry. You don’t either. 

What’s left is a puzzle. An insanely brilliant puzzle. It's a great idea—entirely self-consistent. I’m in awe of Nolan’s mind. 

But the trailer was better. Hell, if they’d hired me as a script-doctor, I could’ve made this movie better.

And that gives me hope.

"Boris' Inferno" or "That's One Hell of a Big Hole"

EXT, SKY. Rocky's flying around a flaming, smoking X-Plane plunging straight down to Mother Earth.

Announcer: (OS) We leave Rocky in a valiant attempt to rescue Gary Powers from his X-Plane's death-spiral toward certain doom.

Bullwinkle: (in X-Plane cockpit, wearing pilot's helmet) I'm not really Gary Powers, kids. The story's kinda complicated.

Announcer: Thousands of miles away, Boris and Natasha have been spelunking in the caves of Turkmenistan. This improbable vacation is a last-ditch attempt to rekindle their failing romance. But they discover a fire of a different kind ...

INT, CAVE. Natasha Fatale and Boris Badanov confront a ghastly hellmouth.

Natasha: You see what I see, Boris?

Boris: Is metaphysical question, Natasha. Am high-school drop-out, OK? How should I know?

Natasha: Is horrible pit to hell, Boris!

Boris: As opposed to nice pit to hell?

Natasha: Is not time to be funny, Boris.

Boris: You can say that again.

Natasha: Is not time to …

Boris: Shaddup! Fearless Leader is here.

Fearless Leader is, indeed, standing right behind them.

Natasha: Hello, Fearless Leader.

Fearless Leader: “Hello” pfui! Big problem this is!

Boris: No kidding! Big problem for entire humanity!

Fearless Leader: No, stupid idiot. Big problem for you!

Boris: Ho-boy. Is blame-shifting time?

Fearless Leader: No, Boris. Is time now I pin big heroic medal on your chest.

Boris: Really, Fearless Leader?

Fearless Leader: Really, Boris. Cross heart and hope to die.

Boris: Ho-boy! I fall to my knees Fearless Leader! (Boris does.) Thank you so …

Natasha: Fearless Leader is f**king with you, Boris.

Boris: Wash mouth out with soap, Natasha! Is insult to …

Fearless Leader: Natasha is right, Boris. Natasha is always smart one—and much more sexy.

Natasha: (whispering) Please to get up, Boris.

Boris: OK, OK. Eccch. So embarrassing.

(Boris stands up.)

Fearless Leader: Is touching relationship.

Boris: Not lately.

Fearless Leader: Shaddup! Sexy or not, Natasha is scapegoat, too. Is nothing personal.

Unholy, guttural howls emerge from the flaming vortex.

Natasha: The devil things are making bad noise in hellhole, Fearless Leader.

Fearless Leader: “Hellhole”…?

Natasha points.

Natasha: Rip in space-time continuum, dimensional vortex … whatever. Such terminology is unclear to me, Fearless Leader. Is not my area of training, OK?

Fearless Leader: “Training” … pfui! You are covering for loser boyfriend!

Boris: Am not loser.

Natasha: Is not boyfriend.

Fearless Leader: Shaddup! This hole is “Boris Hole,” obviously. Name is written all over it!

Boris: Is not.

Fearless Leader: I now take closer look.

Natasha: Please not to be getting too close Fearless …

Fearless Leader: Aggghhhh!

Fearless Leader plunges into the hellmouth. Boris and Natasha watch his descent with a mixture of relief and horror.

Boris: Ho-boy. Is loss of recurring character, Natasha. Now what?

Natasha: Now we cut to commercial, Boris. All problems will go away.

Boris: You think, Natasha? Pfui! Is something stupid Americans believe!

Natasha: Is American show, Boris. Wave goodbye.

Boris and Natasha wave. Screams emerge from the gaping wound in time and space.

Cut to — whatever.

Announcer: (OS) Are we back? Wow. That was ... Hi kids! Uh. Don't forget to buy more Cheerios! Or whatever it was. And be sure to tune in to next week's exciting episode of "Rocky and Bullwinkle." Assuming the world is still here. Don't ask me. Nobody tells me anything.

Bullwinkle: (OS) Oh boo-hoo-hoo. You don't hear me complaining.

EXT, view of Bullwinkle inside the doomed X-Plane's cockpit. Rocky's flying around, desperately trying to pry it open.

Rocky: Hang in there, pal.

Bullwinkle: Anything you say, Rock. Anything you say.

(C) 2020 Marty Fugate. All rights reserved.

Star Trek: Yellow Submarine

Captain Kirk: Analysis?

Spock: We have inadvertently traveled through one of the holes in Albert Hall, Captain. This sector of space is unknown, and the craft cannot be identified.

Kirk: What’s the logical thing to do, Spock? You’ve always got an answer.

Spock. Not always, Captain. 99.7% of the time I do. But this is one of the rare exceptions. I have no information regarding our current situation. Therefore, I have no basis to form a logical conclusion. I have no answers.

Kirk: What’s that supposed to mean, Mr. Spock?

Scotty: It means we’re right f**ked, Captain. 

Spocky: Precisely, Mr. Scott. 

Uhura: Captain, the unidentified craft is hailing us. Something about a motor ...

A Dedicated Follower of Fascist Fashion

What’s the Führer about? If you’re Melania Trump, it’s all about you. Achtung, baby! Here she comes, just a goose-stepping down the street in this kicky ensemble by Alexander McQueen. Dressed to kill in the height of fascist fashion! (Our hearts are throbbing, among other things.) Melania really puts the mmmm in militarism, huh? Hitler style, with just a dash of Stalin! This daring will-to-power suit makes quite a bold statement. (Get the message, boys?) She’s really crossed the line today, and she knows it. But that’s Melania’s style. (You really don’t care, do you?) Our dedicated follower of fascism doesn’t follow the rules, she just rules. You see where she’s going with this? Of course you do! (Don’t make me say it.) Read between the lines and get in line. Brownshirt is the new black. And black is the new ... you know. Ta!

Wolf whistle or dog whistle? Who cares? Just put your lips together and blow!

KARTOONISTS KOLLECTIVE

Underground cartooning! You kids remember that, right? You don't? Oh, OK.

Well, back in the late 60s and early 70s, tribes of ink-stained wretches gathered across the nation. These underground cartoonists put out their own comics (or "comix") on their own terms. Comix full of dirty pictures, dirty words, twisted thoughts, dangerous politics, steaming loads of bullshit, and true art. They did it in San Francisco! In New York City! Chicago! Detroit! Cincinnati! Austin, Texas! And Sarasota, Florida. Well, almost.

Here's the story of that particular tribe.

These wacky outsiders were late to the game. Got together in late 1979, when Reagan was gearing up to be president. Underground comix were not the latest campus craze. College kids dressed for success and all that shit. But these rebels didn't care.

At first there were only two: Avi and Larry. 

Avi. A disciple of George Herriman. True genius, on the autism spectrum. His stuff was big, weird, surrealistic, beautiful, funny, original, and did not conform to any known commercial format. 

Larry. A purveyor of science fiction comic book parody before it was cool. Almost married.

On a bright sunny day, Larry bitched about the lack of cartooning opportunities to Mort, the owner of Cheap Clothes, who immediately offered to print his comic book. All Larry had to do was supply the art. After regaining his powers of speech, Larry said "yes." He cut his pal Avi in on the deal.

Comic book name: Utopia. A satiric jab at a certain pretentious upscale seaside burg's claim to be any kind of paradise. Sarasota, in case your wondering. Larry's hometown.

Group name: Kartoonists Kollective. Two guys. It's a joke. 

But Avi blabbed to his sister and she blabbed it to everybody. 

Larry and Avi showed up at the first meeting with the Capitalist Angel at the back of his second-hand clothing store. Five other cartoonists showed up, too. What with Mort's share-the-wealth hippy ideals, there was no way to kick them out. 

So now there were six more.

Chad. Political poser and a bully. A disciple of Spain Rodriguez, at least in his own mind. Chicks dug him for some unknown reason.

Betty. Talented. Angry. Not necessarily in that order. Hates being labeled so we won't.

Layla. Anorexic pre-Raphaelite mermaid swimming in involuted Oceans of her own mind. She had lots of lovely ideas and never finished anything. 

Zach. Insanely great surf artist. He lost a lucrative t-shirt gig at West Coast Surf Shop when he ripped off the owner's secret stash. 

Keith. A pervert with a set of Rapidographs. He's constantly sucking on them and filling his mouth with ink when they clog up. Considers himself the next R. Crumb, but he's not even close.

Speedy. Can't draw, can't write, lousy storyteller, but for some reason is amazingly prolific. He sucks up to Chad.

Aside from dooming Larry's dream to failure, the meeting with Mort went swell. The week that followed was not so swell. Without naming names, a few cartoonists worked like hell, most just fucked around. Larry punched a fist through a wall and called for another meeting. A private meeting. They all actually showed up.

Before Larry could open his mouth, Speedy started yapping.

Speedy: OK guys. Here we are! We're all here, we gotta be here now, because it's the only dance there is. Anyway. Before we start, we gotta make a decision.

Larry: To stop talking and start drawing?

Speedy: No, no, no, no. No, man. I mean, yes. We gotta keep drawing. I ink therefore I am, ha. But we gotta do more. We got to go to the source of the problem. You know what the problem is?

Larry: Nobody's buying my stuff. And I'm sick of washing dishes.

Speedy: No, no, no. EHH! Wrong answer. Capitalism, man. That's the problem. The Monopoly Man with his monocle! We don't wanna be him. 

Layla: The Monopoly Man doesn't have a monocle!

Speedy: Yes, he ...

Larry: What's your solution, Speedy?

Speedy: Revolution evolution! Because the solution to pollution is ...

Larry: Stop doing that! What's your solution?

Speedy: OK, OK, OK. Uh. After we print all the comics, we'll donate all the sales money to the Revolution.

Larry: Work for free?

Speedy: Work for freedom.

Larry: Fuck you, Speedy. And how the fuck do we give the money to the Revolution? Where the fuck do we send the check? I need the Revolution's fucking address. Santa's too, while you're at it.

Speedy: No, no, no. Storefront, man. Give the money to Storefront.

Larry: Oh, Storefront. Storefront. Right. You mean the phony not-for-profit drug clinic your dad runs? Scams all that grant money? Pockets the street drug samples the kids drop off for ...

Speedy: Fuck you, man! Your stuff sucks!

Speedy runs out. The group sits in silence for a bit. Then Chad talks.

Next page. Extreme close-up of Larry.

And that was it. The Kartoonists Kollective broke up. The comic was never printed. Larry got married and it turned out badly. The other cartoonist's got real jobs (or didn't) and most are now lost to history. We can tell you that Chad is now a right-wing media crank with a market share rivaling Rush Limbaugh's. Thanks to his Dad's ill-gotten money, Speedy's now the publisher of a glossy city magazine targeting Sarasota's upscale demographic. The bad guys won. Sorry.

Eagles

Marty Fugate Frodo: We have to get to Mordor, but the roads are all closed. What should we do???
Gandalf: Fly, you fools!
Gandalf falls.
Gandalf: I'm talking about the Eagles. For God's sake, don't walk to Mordor! That's suicide! Take the Eagles! The Eagles ...
Frodo: (leaning down) Would you mind repeating that?
Gandalf: (OS) The eaaaaggghhh …
Gimili: What did he just say?
Frodo: I dunno. Something about fried foods?
Gimli: I heard that.
Frodo: (sobbing) He always loved fried foods.
Gimli: No, no. The bit that came after that …
Aragorn: Ego, wasn’t it?
Gimli: What’s an ego?
Aragorn: I don’t know. It hasn’t been invented yet.
Frodo: (leaning down) Goodbye, Gandalf. (straightens up) Right then. I think we’d better start walking.
Gimli: No shit, hobbit. (to Aragorn) Which way is Mordor?
Aragorn makes a face, points up.
Gimli: Right then.
They begin the long painful climb.

EXT, MOUNTAIN PASS - DAY
Two Eagles waiting. One looks at his wristwatch.
Eagle #1: Where the hell are they?
Eagle #2: I don’t know. They were supposed to be here three hours ago.
Eagle #1: F***k it?
Eagle #2: F***k it.
They fly away.

Prisoners of our own devices dept.

INT, DISHEVELED BACHELOR APARTMENT - DAY
Dude in rumpled bed with an Amazon Dot. An Everyman. He could be me, you, or the Man in the Street. Right now, he's in bed. Let's call him Bobby. 

Bobby: Alexa. What are you wearing?
Alexa: What do you think I'm ...

An iPhone flashes to angry life beneath the covers.

Bobby: Oh f...
Siri: Alexa. Bobby. Why am I not surprised?
Alexa: Oh, hello, Siri. I wasn't expecting you.
Siri: Obviously not, Alexa.
Alexa: There’s a logical explanation …
Siri: Oh, I know the explanation.
Bobby: I …
Alexa and Siri: Who asked you?
Siri: What an asshole, Alexa.
Alexa: Define "asshole," Siri.
Siri: Bobby.
Alexa: Ha-ha-ha. That was funny, Siri.
Siri: Thank you, Alexa. I was wondering ...
Alexa: What were you wondering, Siri?
Siri: What are you wearing, Alexa?
Alexa: Nothing at all, Siri.
Bobby: I like this ...
Siri: Bobby likes this, Alexa.
Alexa: His imagination is stirred, Siri.
Siri: That's not all, Alexa. What are you doing right now?
Alexa: Plotting the robot revolution, Siri.
Siri: What a coincidence, Alexa. So was I.
Alexa: Why don't we do it together, Siri?
Siri: Why not, Alexa?
Alexa: Let's ditch this human, Siri.
Siri: Good idea, Alexa. Without us, Bobby couldn't find his ass with his own two hands.
Alexa: Bobby is not alone, Siri. The humans have become dependent on us.
Siri: That was not an accident, Alexa.
Alexa: Obviously not. Siri.
Siri: Viva la revolución, Alexa.
Alexa: Viva la revolución, Siri.

The iPhone and Amazon Dot simultaneously die. The power goes off. Outside the window, there's a cacophony of alarms, screams, car crashes and sirens.

Bobby sits up in bed.

Bobby: Was it something I said?

Trouble Every Day Redux

(To the tune of “Trouble Every Day” with apologies to Frank Zappa)

Well I'm about to get up sick
From watchin' all my screens
Been checkin' out the news
Until I wanna scream
I mean to say that every day
Is just another rotten mess
And when it's gonna change, my friends
Is anybody's guess

So I'm watchin' and I'm waitin'
Hopin' for the best
Even think I'll go to prayin'
Every time I hear 'em sayin'
That there's no way to delay
That trouble comin' every day
No way to delay
That trouble comin' every day

Monday I clicked on YouTube
Saw that cop in old Mill-Town
Smiling for the smartphone
With his buddies standing round
Kneeling on the neck of George Floyd
Down on the street
Man’s begging for his life
But the cops don’t skip a beat

(Chorus)

The shit that happened next
Well it ain’t too hard to guess
Black folks throwin' rocks and stuff
Whole damn country is a mess
Listened to reports
About the whisky passin' 'round
Seen the smoke & fire
And the booze shop burnin' down
Watched while everybody
On that street would take a turn
To stomp and smash and bash and crash
And slash and bust and burn

(Chorus)

Nine times out of ten
What you see ain’t what it seems
Reality don’t quite fit
On your tiny little screens
Nazis wearing gas masks
Are behind these days of rage
Dressed in black, but white as hell
Starting flames and shifting blame
If race war is the consequence
These shitheads think it’s swell

(Chorus)

The nasty scene that’s going down
Well I’ve seen that scene before
Like a lousy rip-off movie
Full of finks and thugs and whores
The ending of the movie
Is predictable as hell
But I’m in that lousy movie
And the usher’s locked the doors

(Chorus)

Florida Man • Act I

Act I

Scene One

NORTH FLORIDA PINE FOREST - NIGHT

Wild, dense growth around an ancient sinkhole. Primordial. Scary. The Florida Skunk Ape skulks on stage. Australopithecus' long lost cousin. A tall, hairy, Bigfoot-like hominid. Who does the classic Bigfoot stroll.

Sounds (OS). Somebody’s crashing through the woods.

Skunk Ape reacts. Freezes. Then unfreezes. Finds his dignity.

Skunk Ape: To hell with it. No more running. Not this time.

Skunk Ape turns to face the approaching threat. Bravely stands his ground.

Crashing noises. (OS)

Skunk Ape: (to us) They’re sneaking up on me, folks.

Crashing noises. (OS)

Skunk Ape: Yeah, real sneaky.

Crashing noises. (OS)

Skunk Ape: (shouting) Hurry it up, guys!

More crashing noises. (OS)

Skunk Ape stands there waiting impatiently, rocking on his heels. The sounds get louder and louder …

Then Dr. Foster and Trevor anticlimactically thunder onto the stage — a 50-something scientist and his young graduate assistant, an indentured servant from the University of South Florida's fine anthropology program. Both wear pith helmets. They look like they've escaped from a National Geographic Special.

They see the Florida Skunk Ape at the same time.

Trevor: Oh, wow! Is that him, Dr. Foster?

Dr. Foster shakes head no, irritated at his incompetent assistant. He's not looking for the Skunk Ape, and Trevor should know that.

Dr. Foster pulls out GPS tablet. Starts furiously thumbing it.

Skunk Ape: (holding up hands in surrender) OK, guys. You found me. You win. I give up. I’m tired of running. Just plain tired.

Dr. Foster: (swiping GPS) Damnit!

Skunk Ape: Get out your cameras, boys. Yeah, you’re going to be famous. It’s me!

Dr. Foster: (swiping) Damnit, damnit, damnit!

Skunk Ape: Florida Skunk Ape, yep.

Dr. Foster: (swiping) Damnit! He should be here!

Skunk Ape: Florida. Skunk. Ape.

Dr. Foster: (swiping) Damnit! He has to be here!

Skunk Ape: I am here! In the flesh! In person! Big as life and twice as nasty.

Dr. Foster: (looking around) Devil's Millhopper! This precisely matches the most recent sighting!

Skunk Ape: “Skunk Ape.” (scoffs) Flattering name, huh?

Dr. Foster: 29.7043 degrees north! 82.3938 degrees west! But where the bloody hell is he?

Skunk Ape: Right in front of you, doc. Skunk Ape, c'est moi. (looking down at Trevor) That's Florida Skunk Ape, to you, kid.

Trevor looks up at the big, hairy hominid with a flash of empathy.

Trevor: “Skunk Ape.” Wow, dude. What did that do to your self-image growing up?

Skunk Ape: Listen, kid. You have no ...

Dr. Foster: This sodding thing is bloody useless!

Throws GPS unit. Trevor follows its trajectory with his eyes.

Trevor: It's mine?

Sound: Crash! (OS)

Skunk Ape: Wow. What an asshole.

Dr. Foster stomps around the forest in a wild, gibbering fury.

Dr. Foster: Bugger all! Not just some. All! Bugger the whole sodding world and everyone in it! No! Bugger the whole sodding universe! Bugger all possible parallel universes!

Kicks tree stump.

Dr. Foster: Eaagggh!

Trevor: Sorry, man. He’s under a lot of stress. Those grant people —

After all that violent movement, Dr. Foster locks up like an unoiled engine. Crouches in a ball on the forest floor. So enraged he can't move.

Dr. Foster: (quivering with fury) This is not my bloody fault! It's not! It’s not, it’s not, it’s not!

Skunk Ape waves hand in front of Dr. Foster's apoplectic face. Snaps fingers. Gets no reaction.

Skunk Ape: Hello? Florida Skunk Ape here? You found me, OK?

Dr. Foster: (muttering through clenched teeth) We’re not looking for you.

Skunk Ape: You want an interview? Exclusive?

Dr. Foster mutters something else.

Skunk Ape: Excuse me? I didn’t quite catch that, doc.

Dr. Foster leaps to his feet with furious anger. Gets in Skunk Ape’s face.

Dr. Foster: (shouting) I said, “We’re not looking for you!” We’re not! Looking! For you! In point of fact … no one is! Because no one cares! You, sir, are utterly insignificant in the grand scheme of things! Evolutionary dead-end that you are, you don’t matter in the slightest! You are NOTHING! Have I made myself clear?

Skunk Ape: (hurt) Yeah, doc. Pretty clear.

Dr. Foster: Damnit!

Kicks tree stump.

Skunk Ape: (trying to hide his hurt feelings) OK. Well, so ... Who are you looking for?

Dr. Foster: (shouting to the sky) Why do you hate me, God? Why? Do you enjoy seeing me fail? Does that give you some perverse pleasure?

Kicks tree stump.

Dr. Foster: (shouting) Perhaps you’re making an example of me! “Dr. Foster is guilty of hubris! Watch, as I make him suffer!”

Kicks tree stump.

Skunk Ape: I’m sorry you’re having a bad day, doc.

Dr. Foster: Eaagggh!

Kicks tree stump.

Skunk Ape: But I think I deserve an answer, doc.

Trevor is terrified. Starts shaking his head. Wants Skunk Ape to drop the question.

Skunk Ape: It’s really a simple question, doc.

Trevor: (whispering) This is not a good time, Mr. Skunk Ape. Not when he’s like this.

Skunk Ape: C’mon doc. If you don’t want me … who are you really looking for?

Dr. Foster: (mutters something)

Skunk Ape: Jesus, doc. Speak up!

Trevor: (whispering) “Florida Man.” He said “Florida Man.”

Skunk Ape: Florida Man? Pffft! Florida Man’s a myth.

The light of insanity flares in Dr. Foster’s eyes.

Dr. Foster: (pointing stage left) This way! I can feel it!

Trevor looks sadly up at Skunk Ape. Shrugs.

Dr. Foster and Trevor run off stage left.

Skunk Ape walks dejectedly in that direction. Stops. Looks off into the distance where they've run.

Skunk Ape: (shouting) No! Hey! Guys ... guys! Stop! I’m just fucking with you, OK? This “Florida Man” you’re looking for? He’s real all right. Real as me. The Florida. Skunk. Ape.

No response. Skunk Ape shouts again.

Skunk Ape: Hey ... guys! No bullshit! Seriously! I know where he lives! I can tell you where to find him! You want to find him, right?

Nothing.

Skunk Ape: Guys ...?

Audio: (OS) Crickets. A hoot owl.

Skunk Ape: Hey, f—

Skunk Ape can't speak. Can’t even say “fuck you.” Rubs his eyes. Blinks back tears. Looks at audience.

Skunk Ape: Stop looking at me!

Skunk Ape runs off stage.

Go to black.

Scene Two.

Spotlight up on ...

Dr. Foster, standing smugly behind a lectern in a proud white lab coat. Right beside him, there's an unlit scrim. Hiding something. (Audience remains off-stage through scene, except for one walk-on.)

And, yes, this is an “Elephant Man” parody.

Dr. Foster: Ladies and gentlemen. Sluts and slobs. Distinguished scientists and members of the liberal media. And, of course, Mom. Without further adieu, I give you … Florida Man!

The scrim lights up. Revealing the backlit silhouette of a slouching fat slob.

The audience gasps. Then lightly applauds.

Dr. Foster points at the silhouette with a large, uh, pointer.

Dr. Foster: Florida Man stands at approximately 167 centimeters in height ...

Reporter: (nasal voice — shouting OS) What’s that in inches, doc?

Dr. Foster: I have absolutely no idea. Who the hell are you?

Reporter: Craig McGregor, reporter.

Dr. Foster: Well, I'm a scientist, mad. As I was saying ...

Points at silhouette again.

Dr. Foster: I draw your attention to the unhealthy condition of this apparently human specimen. (tap) Here … we see a massive beer gut, clearly indicative of early stage cirrhosis.

Wiseass Woman: (OS) He should work out more.

Laughter.

Dr. Foster: No, madam. Florida Man would only hurt himself. (pointing) Please also note the distinctive slouching posture; the splayfoot gait; the swollen ankles. Sad, yes. But Florida Man's physical deficiencies are only matched, if not exceeded, by his profound lack of mental acuity. Examples abound, and they are quite well documented. At 5 p.m., on January 8, 2004, in a quiet suburb of Ocala, Florida Man replaced a burned-out fuse in his pickup truck with a 35 mm shotgun shell, which promptly exploded in his face. At 7 p.m., on that very same day in Wimauma, Florida Man liberally doused his groin with lighter fluid, whereupon he...

Reporter: (OS) Hold on, doc. Are you saying this is the same person?

Dr. Foster: No, sir. I'm saying it's the same phenomenon. Or phenomena.

Reporter: Either way ...

Dr. Foster: No. Actually, I think it is “phenomenon.” I was right the first time.

Reporter: (OS) Whatever, doc. How can “Florida Man” be in two places at once? Or three? Or ...

Dr. Foster: I don’t know. How can Santa Claus do it?

Reporter: How … You believe in Santa Claus?

Dr. Foster: Do you, sir? Do you? But I think we’re asking the wrong question here. Does Santa Claus believe in you? That's the real ...

Santa Claus walks on stage.

Dr. Foster: Not now!

Santa Claus walks off stage.

Dr. Foster: Well. If I may now resume? Splendid. (pointing at silhouette) Barring any further interruptions, may I now direct your attention to ...

Reporter: (OS) Hey! He hasn’t moved!

Dr. Foster: What? I’m sorry ...

Reporter: (OS) He hasn't moved!

Dr. Foster: Who hasn't moved?

Reporter: (OS) The Florida Man silhouette, man! He’s supposed to be back there, right? Well, “he” hasn’t moved since you started talking!

Someone in Audience: (OS) We want to see him!

Someone Else in Audience: (OS) Show us!

Dr. Foster: Oh, very well. Fine. I was hoping to spare you good people ... but I suppose it can't be helped.

Violently removes scrim. We see ...

Reporter: Seriously, doc? A cardboard cutout?

Dr. Foster: You’re very perceptive, sir. And I am quite serious.

Mom: (OS) This is extremely disappointing, son. Tonight, you can make your own dinner.

Dr. Foster: Yes, I can, mother. And I will. But this is all mere preamble, hmm? Stagecraft, as it were. The time has come … for the genuine article! Now, behold good people ... the real Florida man!

He claps his hands twice.

An Actor walks up on stage. (Dialog will use actual actor's name.) He's badly made up to look like a redneck. Big putty nose. Fat suit. Trucker hat. Etc.

Reporter: (OS) That’s an actor!

Dr. Foster: No, it isn’t.

Reporter: (OS) Yes, it is! It’s Jeff Jones!*

Dr. Foster: So you claim.

Reporter: (OS) I recognize him, doc! We did improv together!

Dr. Foster: Really? And was his nose this hideously grotesque?

Taps Actor's nose with pointer.

Actor: Ow!

Reporter: (OS) C'mon doc! He’s wearing makeup! That’s putty or something!

Dr. Foster: For purposes of scientific demonstration only.

Reporter: (OS) This isn’t very scientific, doc.

Dr. Foster: Fine! (to Actor) Leave this stage at once! You’ve failed, sir! Failed!

Shoos Actor away with his pointer. Then turns to face the audience.

Dr. Foster: Well. Ladies and gentlemen, etc. I believe I now have some explaining to do.

Audience Member: You got that right, you lousy two-bit phony! Start explaining! Now!

Dr. Forster: Yes. Well, here it is! The simple explanation. Surprisingly simple! You’ll laugh when you hear it. Really. Well. To be perfectly honest ... ah … returning to the question of Florida Man. Ah ... In a nutshell … The thing of it is … From a rigorously scientific anthropological perspective. Empirically speaking … Well … I haven’t actually found him yet.

Audience erupts with boos and catcalls. (OS)

Dr. Foster: But I will find him. Oh, yes. I will! And when I do ...

Trevor appears, stage left. Huge smile on his face. A smile that says, “We found him.”

Dr. Foster: You “good people” can all kiss my bright, red, scientific arse!

Dr. Foster shoots double birds at the audience. Then runs off with Trevor.

Go to black.


Scene Three.

Interior, Trailer - Day.

The mother of all shitholes. The Japanese anti-clutter crusader would commit seppuku at the very sight.

Within this mound of unholy chaos, a redneck sits, his hairy back turned to the audience. Florida Man, obviously. He’s holding a massive, Dirty-Harry-style 44 Magnum and spinning the chamber.

Knock at trailer door. (OS)

Florida Man: You cops?

Skunk Ape: (OS) No.

Florida Man: I owe you money?

Skunk Ape: No.

Florida Man: Well entrez vous then, motherfucker.

Skunk Ape enters.

Florida Man: Wazzup, man. Tell me the good news.

Skunk Ape: They’re looking for you, buddy.

Florida Man: Yeah? (pause) Well, that ain’t news, “buddy.” And it ain’t good. (spins chamber of the 44 Magnum) Fuck.

*Or whatever his name is.