Cheech and Chong's "Buzz Killer"

INT, RATTY, CLUTTERED OAKLAND FLAT - DAY 
Cheech and Chong, sitting at home, stoned. Then a drug delivery drone buzzes in from an open window. They take awhile to react. Then… 

Chong: What the hell's that buzzing noise? 
Cheech: I dunno, man. Some kind of bug flew in. 
Chong: I told you not to leave the window open. 
Cheech: No, man. I told you … remember? 

Drone buzzes around, bounces off walls. 

Chong: Wow, look at it go! It’s like a Roomba with propellers. (giggles) It’s a big mother***er. 
Cheech: It’s a dead mother***er. 

Drone buzzes around. Cheech grabs a fly swatter from a filthy kitchen counter. 

Chong: You’re gonna need more than that, man. 

Cheech grabs an iron skillet. He runs around, swatting at the drone. It tries to avoid him, knocks over most of the glassware, bongs and lamps. Cheech finally corners it and smacks the hell out of it. The drone goes down. 

Cheech and Chong walk up to it. 

Tarantino point-of-view. A fish-eye lens, looking up at Cheech and Chong looking down.

Chong: So what the hell is this thing? Like an alien?
Cheech: No, dumbass. It’s a delivery drone, like Amazon or whatever. 
Chong: Yeah. That makes sense. There’s something strapped to its back. See? It’s like clown makeup or something. 
Cheech: No, man. That’s not makeup. 

Cheech reaches down out of frame, comes back holding a brick of white powder wrapped in plastic. 

Cheech: It’s a shitload of cocaine. 
Chong: (giggles) Somebody up there likes us. 
Cheech: No, pendejo. Someone other there got the wrong address. We better kill this motherf***er.
Chong: It looks dead to me, man. 
Cheech: That’s just the flying shit! It’s still got a robot brain inside. There’s probably GPS or something. Maybe even a camera. 
Chong: How would it hold a camera? 
Cheech: No, stupid. Like a built-in camera. Like an eye. 
Chong: Hey ... That black ball on top kinda looks like an eye. 
Cheech: Yeah, it does. Like the ones they put on security cameras in the grocery store. 
Chong: Wow … so it’s watching us? 
Cheech: No. The guys who sent the cocaine are watching us. 

Chong waves. 

Cheech: Don’t wave, you idiot. These are not nice guys. They cut off your face and shit. 
Chong: That’s scaring the shit out me, man. How do we kill it? 
Cheech: Not by talking to it! Give me a hammer, stupid! The toolbox is right behind you! 
Chong: OK, here. (hands tool to him) 
Cheech: That’s a screwdriver! 
Chong: Sorry, man. 
Cheech: Gimme the f***ing hammer! 
Chong: OK! (hands it to him) You don’t have to shout, man. 
Cheech: Yes I do. It’s the only way to get your attention! 
Chong: Hey. You think that's really a camera?

Cheech bends down, holding hammer and looking into camera. Smiles evilly.

Cheech: Goodnight sweetheart. 

Smashes hammer down. Go to black. 

Cheech: (OS) And close the f***ing window.

Henrik Ibsen's "Pulp Fiction" (an excerpt)

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INT. APARTMENT (ROOM 49) – MORNING

Jules shoots Roger on the couch. Brett reacts with horror.

Jules: (to Brett) Oh, do forgive me. I appear to have broken your concentration. I assure you, that was not my intent. By all means, please continue. Something about “best intentions,” I believe? Oh … Is something the matter? Ah, I see! You have completed your apologia! Very well. With your permission, my retort shall be a query.
Brett: I fail to grasp your meaning!
Jules: Then you are clearly not from this country.
Brett: Your meaning is still opaque, sir!
Jules: Opaque? Opaque? I’ve never heard of such a country! Do they speak Norwegian in Opaque?
Brett: Norwegian?
Jules: Yes, you Oedipal afterbirth. Norwegian! Are you fluent in this language?
Brett: Yes! 
Jules: Ah. Then you do grasp my meaning. 
Brett: Admittedly so.
Jules: Then please describe for me the physical appearance of Marsellus Wallace.
Brett: Excuse me?
Jules: No, sir! I will not excuse you! I will repeat the question—and caution you of dire and dreadful consequences if you respond with an “opaque” reply.
Brett: Sorry. What was the question?
Jules: Please describe for me the physical appearance of Marsellus Wallace.
Brett: Oh. Well. His head is entirely devoid of hair.
Jules: Ah. Does he by chance resemble a female dog?
Brett: Excuse me?

Jules shoots Brett in the shoulder.

Spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam

Repetition is the sincerest form of flattery. In this art world, this is especially true. Because repetition is the sincerest form of flattery in the visual art world. Live any lover, in the throes of passion, the artist cries, "Do it, again! Do it again!" And so, the artist does. Again and again. The history of visual art is replete with obsessive examples. Monet had his mountain, Slab had his cheese danishes, Jacques Halbert had (and has) his cherries. But these pale in comparison with photographer James Mackay.

In the early 1970, Spam became Mackay's obsessive subject. (It is to this day, but we refer to his peak period.) The photographic artist-photographer captured more than 10,000 images of this now-iconic symbol of consumerism and processed pork shoulder meat.

None is more iconic than "A Study in Spam." (circa 1973). It is, to use a pedestrian term, a wonderful image. So wonderful, we can only wonder what we're wondering about. Let us do so now.

What do we see when we see what we see? A monochromatic image, a photograph created in a darkroom, no ones and zeroes involved. We have entered a world without color, a world defined in shades of grey. Within this world, a tin of SPAM rests on an indeterminate planar surface. Asphalt, perhaps? A badly-maintained badminton court? The tin itself is in harsh focus. Harshly lit from the side, casting a long linear shadow to the viewer's left. Behind it, we see the blurry images of palm trees, the lumpy suggestion of human dwellings, and a contrail in the sky. Or perhaps a darkroom mistake.

At first glance, the image is simple. At second glance, it remains simple. At third glance, not so much.

The figure-ground discordancy of this image creates a fugue state which leads the viewer to question the validity of their own perceptions. The biomorphic indeterminacy of the background creates a subliminal frisson of cognitive dissonance when juxtaposed with the foreground image — the seemingly benign, mechanical/inorganic mass-produced, consumer-oriented geometry of a tin of SPAM (emblazoned with its own lifeless "art" proclaiming the indeterminate "meat" within). Is there, in fact, a Caravaggesque sense of drama and lurking threat within this image? No, there is not. But the question was well worth asking.

I should be called to task if I neglect to mention the artist's use of chiaroscuro. He indeed uses it. A lot. But this pales in comparison to Mackay's use of Spam. His fixation on this subject matter is no less than monomaniacal.

But why? 

According to the artist, "affordability."

Special thanks to the meatpackers of Austin, MN - whose ingenious inclusion of "meat byproducts" — helped to make the purchase price of the subject affordable to the protean artist.

According to the Artist's Statement: "If 'classic' attributes of an image can be correlated to its 'timelessness,' then the Sodium Nitrite and Sodium Nitrate preservatives ensure that this image — and the very contents of the can of SPAM — are relevant to today's artists (and viewers.)

Justice has a new face.

TEASER TRAILER

EXT, BAR, NIGHT

The first thing you see is a Steadicam point-of-view shot. Mystery Man walks into the seedy bar and everybody reacts to him. Funny looks. Expression of derision and loathing. (OK, OK, kinda like that scene in “Terminator II.”) You’re seeing the bar through the man's eyes. You don’t know what he looks like at first.

Mystery Man sits down at the bar.

The guy sitting next to him looks at him contemptuously and starts laughing.

Laughing Guy: You’re not from around here, are you?

Mystery Man doesn’t answer. He takes a picture from his coat and puts it on the bar. A young girl, about 11 years old.

Mystery Man: I’m looking for this girl.

Laughing Guy: How? I don’t see no eyes up there.

Bar reacts with laughter.

Mystery Man: Have you seen this girl?

Laughing Man imitates him, making farting noises into his hand.

More laughter. But the Bartender senses danger. He's not laughing.

Mystery Man: I asked you a simple question. I'm trying to be polite.

Laughing Guy: Uh-huh. (snickering) Well I got another question for you!

Bartender: Lay off, Leroy.

Laughing Guy: (ignoring him) So … What do they call you, anyway, fella? “Buttface” …? “Assface” … ?

Mystery Man reaches out and grabs the Laughing Guy’s hand. That hand is holding a glass of beer. Mystery Man crushes his hand and the glass within. Blood and beer stream out. The Laughing Guy screams.

Mystery Man: (Clint Eastwood-esque) I’ll repeat my question.

Laughing Guy: Eaggghh!

Mystery Man: Have you seen this girl?

Laughing Guy: No, sir! No, I ain’t seen her! Honest! Lemme go! Please!

Mystery Man: Well. Since you asked politely.

Mystery Man releases his hand. Picks up the photo. Walks away. Stops. Turns to look at the horrified bar customers. And the Laughing Guy, who’s turning white and holding his bloody ruined hand.

Anus: The name … is Anus.

Reveal of Mystery Man’s face. It resembles an anus.

And the title appears …

A Man Called “Anus”

In cinemas everywhere. March 1.

Disney on Ice Part Deux

EXT, FROZEN POND -- DAY

Donald Duck looks down at the bloodied corpse of Walt Disney on the ice. Which resembles a Jackson Pollock painting.

Mickey and Goofy walk up to him.

Mickey: Ha-ha. What’d you do, Donald?

Donald: (looking at the blood on his white-gloved hands) I’ve … I’ve killed my creator. It was an accident, honest!

Mickey: Could happen to anybody, ha-ha. Why …

Donald: Because he made me so f**king angry, that’s why! He kept pushing me. Always pushing! “Donald’s the epitome of everyone I hate.” S**t like that. I told him to back off. “Please back off, Mr. Disney.” I told him … I warned him … He wouldn’t listen! He just kept pushing! (screaming at Walt Disney’s corpse) You happy now, a**hole? You happy?

Goofy: He don’t look happy.

Donald: (collapsing in a heap of despair) Oh no. Oh woe is me! What do I do?

Goofy: Gorsh. You better do that right thing, Donald.

Mickey: Yeah. Let’s put this Nazi-f**ker on ice before anybody gets wise.

Goofy: That’s not what I …

Donald: (blushing shyly) Well … gee fellas. I did bring my ice pick.

Mickey: Good thinking, Donald! That’s planning ahead! 

Donald: It wasn’t premeditated. It wasn’t!

Mickey: No … of course not. Ha-ha. Let’s get going!

Goofy bends over the frozen pond and vomits.

Hyperstring Santa from the Nth Dimension

How the hell could Santa Claus be present in so many different malls at once?* How the hell could he deliver Christmas presents to every child in the world (aside from naughty Third World children) in a single night?

Glad you asked.

Here's my scientific explanation ...

One variant of string theory postulated that every electron and positron in our universe is actually a segment of a single N-dimensional hyperstring which cuts in and out of our 4-D bubble of space/time. (The particle is positive or negative, depending on the angle of attack.) I theorize it's the same with Santa. There's actually a single N-dimensional HyperSanta cutting in and out of our universe and manifesting in multiple locations. Krampus is, of course, the AntiSanta — who appears whenever the string intersects at an opposing angle. If Santa and Krampus ever met, our universe would explode. The would, of course, ruin Christmas.

A plausible theory, I think. The premise would also make a great, bad “Star Trek” episode on the original series. Sort of like The Alternative Factor. Except that the episode would end with Santa Claus and Krampus. Hands at each other's throats. Forever locked in agonizing combat in the void between universes.

In our universe, Kirk and Spock would glumly contemplate their fate.

Spock: The universe is saved, captain.

Kirk: Yes. But what of Santa Claus? What of Santa Claus?

* Thanks and a hattip to Michael O'Donnell for reminding me of this question and sparking this bizarre train of thought.

The A**holes Creed

The Assholes Creed

I believe in Me, the Trumpster Almighty, creator of Trump Towers and The Apprentice. Do you believe in Yourself? If you happen to be Me, the answer is "yes." I believe in Me, Myself and I, Donald J. Trump, who was conceived in defiance of the rhythm method, born with a silver spoon in his mouth, suffered under Spy Magazine, was elected, glorified, and televised; if you’re not Me, you’d be better off dead.