SCENE B
INT. THE ZOMBIE HOUSEHOLD - DAY
(MARY, EDGAR, ANNE, H.P., BABY)
MARY WALKS INTO HER HOUSE, WHICH IS SPOOKY AND DANK, LIKE AN OLD HAUNTED HOUSE. THE AIR AND THE MUSIC IS SUDDENLY VERY CREEPY AS SHE SLOWLY UNWRAPS THE OBJECT SHE TOOK FROM JESSE. OF COURSE, IT IS ONLY A VASE, JUST LIKE SHE SAID. SHE PUTS IT ON A PEDESTAL
ANNE'S VOICE
(O.S.)
Mary! Breakfast!
MARY
Coming, mom!
MARY ENTERS THE KITCHEN. THE DINING ROOM IS ADJOINING, AND HER FATHER, EDGAR, IS SITTING AT THE KITCHEN TABLE WITH A NEWSPAPER BLOCKING HIS FACE. BEFORE HIM IS A MUG OF WHAT COULD BE COFFEE, BUT IS IN FACT BLOOD. HER MOTHER, ANNE, IS LEANING OVER THE COUNTER, CUTTING SOMETHING WITH A BUTCHER KNIFE. SUDDENLY, ANNE REARS UP TO HER FULL HEIGHT, AND WITH THE BUTCHER KNIFE IN ONE HAND AND A HUMAN BRAIN IN THE OTHER, REVEALS IN ALL HER HIDEOUS GLORY THAT SHE IS A DESSICATED ZOMBIE.
MARY
(shrieking)
Mom!
ANNE LOOKS AT HER DAUGHTER QUIZZICALLY.
ANNE
What?
MARY
That blouse does NOT match those pants.
ANNE FROWNS.
ANNE
Oh, says the fashion police. When I was sixteen I thought I knew more than my mother, too.
MARY
Just because you're old, doesn't mean you have to dress like you're old.
ANNE PUTS HER HANDS ON HER HIPS AND IS ABOUT TO PUT MARY BACK IN HER PLACE. EDGAR PUTS DOWN HIS NEWSPAPER AND REVEALS THAT HE, TOO, IS A LOVABLE ROTTING CORPSE.
EDGAR
All right, all right. Can this discussion wait until after breakfast? What are we having, anyway?
ANNE
Eggs and brains.
EDGAR
(with disgust)
Aww, eggs?
ANNE
Edgar! You have to start eating like a human being.
ED GRUMBLES UNDER HIS BREATH.
MARY
Mom, Dad, I have a special favor to ask.
THE PARENTS PERK UP. THIS IS UNUSUAL.
ANNE
Well, what is it, sweetie?
MARY
Well, while I was outside I met the boy next door...
ANNE
Is he alive?
MARY
Well, of course he is, mom.
EDGAR
Absolutely not! I'll not have you kids dating the living. If you want to see this boy, you make sure to kill him first.
MARY
Dad, I don't want to date him! It's just that he invited us to a barbecue tomorrow. All of us. During the day.
EDGAR
(with distaste)
During the day?
MARY
I'm sure you'll all be fine if we wear sunglasses and SPF 50. It's just...I really want to fit in here.
EDGAR SIGHS.
ANNE
Well, of course we'll go, sweetie. All of us. And we'll try not to embarrass you. Right, Edgar?
EDGAR GRUMBLES. MARY KISSES HER FATHER ON HIS CHEEK, AND OF COURSE A LITTLE BIT OF GOO COMES AWAY ON HER LIPS. THEN SHE RUNS UP AND HUGS HER MOTHER.
MARY
Thank you, Dad! Thank you, Mom!
ANNE
Of course, dear! Now where's your brother? His brains are getting rubbery. (yelling) H.P.!
SUDDENLY, H.P. RUNS INTO THE ROOM DRESSED LIKE A SPACEMAN AND BRANDISHING A SQUIRT GUN. HE, TOO, IS A ZOMBIE, BUT BEING YOUNGER LOOKS LIKE A LESS AGED CORPSE. HE LICKS HIS LIPS AND POINTS HIS GUN AT MARY.
MARY
Don't you dare, you little freak!
H.P.
Space Command, this is Cadet Zombie! We have detected a giant ugly space monster and it looks like...a living human girl! Open fire!
H.P. SQUIRTS HIS SISTER WITH WATER. SHE ROARS AND LEAPS AT HIM.
MARY
I'm going to break your neck, you little freak!
THEY TUSSLE ON THE GROUND.
ANNE
Stop it, you two!
THEY BOTH STAND UP. H.P.'S HEAD HAS BEEN TWISTED ALL THE WAY AROUND, LIKE THE GIRL IN THE EXORCIST, AND HE IS HOLDING MARY'S RIGHT ARM, WHICH HE TORE OFF.
H.P.
Mom! Mary broke my neck!
MARY
He tore my arm off!
ANNE
Enough! I'm tired of you two fighting like hyenas every time you're in the same room together. Now, H.P. give your sister her arm back.
RELUCTANTLY, H.P. HANDS MARY HER ARM, WHICH SHE ANGRILY SWIPES OUT OF HIS GRASP AND STICKS BACK ON HER SHOULDER.
H.P.
Aren't you going to make her turn my head back the right way?
MARY
Turn it back yourself, dork.
H.P. PAINFULLY TURNS HIS HEAD ALL THE WAY BACK AROUND. HE SITS DOWN.
H.P.
(under his breath)
You think you're better than the rest of us just because you look like you're alive.
MARY STANDS UP. SHE IS OBVIOUSLY HURT BY H.P.'S REMARK.
MARY
I'm going to go feed the baby.
SHE LEAVES. BOTH OF HIS PARENTS STARE AT H.P. ANGRILY. HE SLOUCHES DOWN IN HIS CHAIR AND CONTINUES TO EAT HIS BRAINS. ANNE STANDS UP AND STARTS TO CLEAR THE DISHES, LEAVING EDGAR AND H.P. ALONE.
EDGAR
I think you'd better go apologize to her, son.
H.P.
Why should I?
EDGAR
Because it's the right thing to do. You hurt her feelings.
H.P.
But, Dad...
EDGAR
No buts, son. I won't make you do anything.
EDGAR STANDS UP.
EDGAR
I have to go to work. But you know what's right.
EDGAR FINISHES HIS MUG OF BLOOD AND WALKS OFF. ANGRILY, H.P. GOES UPSTAIRS TO THE BABY'S ROOM. MARY IS HOLDING THE BABY IN HER ARMS AND IS FEEDING IT A BOTTLE OF WHAT IS CLEARLY BRAINS. THE BABY IS INCREDIBLY CUTE, DESPITE BEING A ZOMBIE. H.P. SLOWLY OPENS THE DOOR. HE IS OBVIOUSLY SORRY, AND IT COMES OUT IN HIS VOICE, BUT HE REFUSES TO SAY THE ACTUAL WORDS.
H.P.
You suck.
MARY
I know.
H.P.
You're not getting an apology from me. Mom and Dad can make me apologize but they can't make me mean it.
MARY
I know.
H.P.
Did I really hurt your feelings?
MARY PUTS THE BABY OVER HER SHOULDER AND STARTS TO BURP IT, BUT SHE MAKES NO RESPONSE TO H.P.
H.P.
I'll see you.
H.P. CLOSES THE DOOR.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
A "Link" to the Past (Zing!)
Go here. You know you're intrigued by unexplained links. And, no, this has nothing to do with the compelling prizes involved with reposting. Nothing whatsoever...
Monday, March 29, 2010
We interrupt your regularly scheduled manuscript...
...For this important announcement.
I know, I know, you've just barely started to dip your toe into the shallow end of the baby pool with "The Neighbors Are Zombies," and you're sitting on pins and needles wondering what's going to happen next. I hate to drag you out of this eagerly anticipated manuscript update, but I want to make an announcement of sorts and give you all a few days to get onboard (if you're so inclined.)
April is Script Frenzy month. Apparently every April is, though I've just discovered it this year, just as I just discovered NaNoWriMo this year. The two are, apparently, siblings, although it seems as though Script Frenzy is more of thre red-headed bastard child. (Interesting side note: if you made an account for NaNo, you already have one for Script Frenzy. Go fig.) What it comes down to is this: 100 pages in 30 days, irregardless (yes, I know that isn't a word, unless, you know, you believe language is organic) of whether you want to write a play, a television pilot, or a movie treatment.
I had to wipe the goo out of my eyes when I first read that, because 100 pp is a very...shall we say...modest goal compared to the ridiculously out-of-proportion 50,000 words of NaNo. 50,000 words is about 100 pp of prose, single spaced. 100 pp of screenplay is somewhere between 1/3 and 1/6 of that, and that's probably a conservative estimate.
Don't believe me? Allow me to illustrate. You can already see this at play with any of the scripts I've previously burned, but let's just use a fresh example. Here's a brief excerpt in prose, which I just made up:
Slippy stood in the laboratory of Deathblow Castle, concocting an arcane and fanciful new alchemical solution. Suddenly, a massive cockroach, towering easily two heads over Slippy, burst into the room. The effect was so startling and frightening that Slippy dropped a beaker, and watched as it shattered on the floor into a billion glass shards.
"Fall into my mandibles, easy meat!" the ghastly beast cackled.
Frightened, but emboldened by his faith, Slippy held up a holy cross and recited the magical words his grandmother, the town's witch-doctor, had taught him, "Never! Get thee back to Hell, thou damned she-cockroach!"
Now here's the exact same thing in (relatively) correct script format. (I admit, I can't get this blasted Blogger to center some stuff and not other stuff...so just imagine it's centered. Also, the dialogue would be significantly more indented.)
INT - DEATHBLOW CASTLE - NIGHT
DR. BUGULA, AN 8-FOOT-TALL COCKROACH, ENTERS THE ROOM. STARTLED, SLIPPY DROPS A BEAKER ON THE FLOOR.
BUGULA
(cackling)
Fall into my mandibles, easy meat!
SLIPPY
(holding up a cross)
Never! Get thee back to Hell, thou damned she-cockroach!
See the difference? The prose is ten lines (actually it would only be eight in a properly formatted manuscript, where we were tabbing instead of using line breaks, but I digress) it is much denser, and it took about three times as long to write. Three time as long as the 14 lines of script, which took about a minute to write.
For one thing, every dialogue tag is an extra three lines, instead of just, "he/she said." For another, description is as much or as little as you want, whereas in a novel you, the writer, must get us from every step A to step B, rather than relying on the potential future director and actors. And every scene change, instead of a line break or a "***" is an extra three lines, considering the location header. Admittedly, there are no chapter breaks, but when whole lines are taken up with just character's names and emotions, a script has a TON more white space than a novel. Honestly, I don't even really understand why they don't just say, "Do 50,000 words of scriptwriting instead of prose."
But, the upshot of it is, this is a much, much, much more modest starting point for any writer, and, if anyone wants to participate along with me, I wanted to give you at least a few days to be aware of it and set up your account. Any takers?
I know, I know, you've just barely started to dip your toe into the shallow end of the baby pool with "The Neighbors Are Zombies," and you're sitting on pins and needles wondering what's going to happen next. I hate to drag you out of this eagerly anticipated manuscript update, but I want to make an announcement of sorts and give you all a few days to get onboard (if you're so inclined.)
April is Script Frenzy month. Apparently every April is, though I've just discovered it this year, just as I just discovered NaNoWriMo this year. The two are, apparently, siblings, although it seems as though Script Frenzy is more of thre red-headed bastard child. (Interesting side note: if you made an account for NaNo, you already have one for Script Frenzy. Go fig.) What it comes down to is this: 100 pages in 30 days, irregardless (yes, I know that isn't a word, unless, you know, you believe language is organic) of whether you want to write a play, a television pilot, or a movie treatment.
I had to wipe the goo out of my eyes when I first read that, because 100 pp is a very...shall we say...modest goal compared to the ridiculously out-of-proportion 50,000 words of NaNo. 50,000 words is about 100 pp of prose, single spaced. 100 pp of screenplay is somewhere between 1/3 and 1/6 of that, and that's probably a conservative estimate.
Don't believe me? Allow me to illustrate. You can already see this at play with any of the scripts I've previously burned, but let's just use a fresh example. Here's a brief excerpt in prose, which I just made up:
Slippy stood in the laboratory of Deathblow Castle, concocting an arcane and fanciful new alchemical solution. Suddenly, a massive cockroach, towering easily two heads over Slippy, burst into the room. The effect was so startling and frightening that Slippy dropped a beaker, and watched as it shattered on the floor into a billion glass shards.
"Fall into my mandibles, easy meat!" the ghastly beast cackled.
Frightened, but emboldened by his faith, Slippy held up a holy cross and recited the magical words his grandmother, the town's witch-doctor, had taught him, "Never! Get thee back to Hell, thou damned she-cockroach!"
Now here's the exact same thing in (relatively) correct script format. (I admit, I can't get this blasted Blogger to center some stuff and not other stuff...so just imagine it's centered. Also, the dialogue would be significantly more indented.)
INT - DEATHBLOW CASTLE - NIGHT
DR. BUGULA, AN 8-FOOT-TALL COCKROACH, ENTERS THE ROOM. STARTLED, SLIPPY DROPS A BEAKER ON THE FLOOR.
BUGULA
(cackling)
Fall into my mandibles, easy meat!
SLIPPY
(holding up a cross)
Never! Get thee back to Hell, thou damned she-cockroach!
See the difference? The prose is ten lines (actually it would only be eight in a properly formatted manuscript, where we were tabbing instead of using line breaks, but I digress) it is much denser, and it took about three times as long to write. Three time as long as the 14 lines of script, which took about a minute to write.
For one thing, every dialogue tag is an extra three lines, instead of just, "he/she said." For another, description is as much or as little as you want, whereas in a novel you, the writer, must get us from every step A to step B, rather than relying on the potential future director and actors. And every scene change, instead of a line break or a "***" is an extra three lines, considering the location header. Admittedly, there are no chapter breaks, but when whole lines are taken up with just character's names and emotions, a script has a TON more white space than a novel. Honestly, I don't even really understand why they don't just say, "Do 50,000 words of scriptwriting instead of prose."
But, the upshot of it is, this is a much, much, much more modest starting point for any writer, and, if anyone wants to participate along with me, I wanted to give you at least a few days to be aware of it and set up your account. Any takers?
Friday, March 26, 2010
The Neighbors Are Zombies 2
ACT ONE
SCENE A
EXT. THE FULTON LAWN - DUSK
(JESSE FULTON, GREG FULTON, LOUISE FULTON, A MOVER, MARY ZOMBIE)
JESSE IS MOWING THE FRONT LAWN ON A RIDING MOWER. HIS FATHER, GREG, IS PRUNING SOME TREES. SUDDENLY A HUGE YELLOW MOVING TRUCK PULLS INTO THE DRIVEWAY NEXT DOOR. JESSE TURNS AND LOOKS. HE IS SO EXCITED HE JUMPS OFF THE MOWER AND RUNS UP TO HIS FATHER. OF COURSE, THE MOWER IS STILL PUTTERING ALONG.
JESSE
(pointing at the moving truck)
Dad! Look at that.
GREG STOPS HIS PRUNING AND LOOKS
GREG
Well, I'll be. Someone bought the Joneses' house.
JESSE
So we have someone new to keep up with?
GREG
Quiet, boy. Well, if they're new to the neighborhood maybe we should invite them to the barbecue.
JESSE
And by "we" you mean me.
GREG
Smart as a whip, that's my boy. Now get your ass over there.
JESSE
What about the mower?
GREG
What about...my mower!
THE MOWER IS PUTTERING DOWN THE STREET. GREG THROWS HIS PRUNING SHEARS AND TAKES OFF WILDLY AFTER THE MOWER. THE SHEARS, OF COURSE, SHATTER A WINDOW.
LOUISE'S VOICE (O.S.)
(shrilly shrieking)
Gregory!
JESSE FOLDS HIS HANDS BEHIND HIS BACK AND WHISTLES AS HE WALKS OVER INTO HIS NEIGHBOR'S YARD. HE LOOKS IN THE BACK OF THE TRUCK, WHICH IS ALMOST EMPTY. THERE IS ONE OBJECT LEFT, WHICH COULD BE A HUMAN HEAD WRAPPED IN BROWN PAPER AND TWINE. JESSE EVER-SO-SLOWLY REACHES INTO THE TUCK TO PICK UP THE HEAD SHAPED OBJECT. SUDDENLY, THE MOVING TRUCK ROARS INTO LIFE AND JESSE JUMPS BACK. HE LOOKS AT THE MOVER DRIVING, WHO IS PALE WHITE AND OBVIOUSLY FRIGHTENED TO DEATH. THE DRIVER BACKS THE TRUCK OUT OF THE DRIVEWAY SO FAST THAT HIS TIRES SHRIEK.
JESSE
Hey, wait! There's still stuff in the back!
THE TRUCK FLIES DOWN THE SUBURBAN STREET AT 60 MILES PER HOUR OR MORE. THE HEAD-SHAPED OBJECT FLIES OUT OF THE BACK. JESSE WALKS UP TO THE OBJECT AND PICKS IT UP. SLOWLY HE TAKES THE TWINE IN HIS FINGERS AND STARTS TO PULL, WHEN MARY'S HANDS TAKE THE OBJECT FROM HIM. JESSE JUMPS, BUT WHEN HE SEES MARY HE IS STARTLED BY HOW PRETTY SHE IS.
MARY
Oh, thank you. I was afraid they had forgotten to bring this in.
JESSE
(in the throes of puppy love)
Yeah...hey, you know, that guy looked terrified when he drove off.
MARY
(rolling her eyes)
Oh, yeah. My dad has that effect on people. I'm Mary. Mary Zombie. We're new here.
JESSE
Jesse Fulton. I've lived in Willberry all my life...unfortunately.
THEY SHAKE HANDS. JESSE'S HEART IS THUMPING.
MARY
Oh, it doesn't seem that bad here. Nice lawns, big houses, everybody has a car. It's a lot better than Haiti was.
JESSE
You're from Haiti? You're lucky. I've never even been out of Willberry.
MARY
I'll tell you about it sometime. I need to go inside though, it's time for breakfast.
JESSE
Breakfast? It's almost seven. You mean dinner.
MARY
Oh, yeah, that's what I meant. Sorry about my English.
BEHIND THEM, THE LAWNMOWER PUTTERS SLOWLY BY ON THE STREET. JESSE'S DAD IS SWEATING AND HUFFING AND PUFFING AS HE RUNS AFTER IT.
GREG
Damn you, John Deere!
THE TWO KIDS STOP FOR A MINUTE TO WATCH THE MAN CHASE HIS PRIZED MOWER OFFSCREEN. THEN THEY TURN BACK TO EACH OTHER.
JESSE
Oh, that reminds me, my dad's having a big block party tomorrow. There'll be burgers and ponies and crap like that. He wanted me to invite you and your family. I'd...really like it if you'd come.
MARY
Well, I'll tell my parents, but they don't like to come out much. Bye, Jesse.
JESSE
Bye, Mary.
MARY STARTS UP THE LAWN TOWARDS HER DOOR.
JESSE
(calling after her)
Hey, wait! What's in that package?
MARY
(over her shoulder)
Just a vase!
MARY DISAPPEARS INSIDE HER HOUSE. ALL OF THE WINDOWSHADES ARE CLOSED AND THE HOUSE IS UTTERLY INSCRUTABLE FROM THE OUTSIDE. WHEN HE'S SURE SHE CAN'T SEE HIM, HE STAGGERS BACKWARDS, CLUTCHING HIS HEART.
JESSE
She touched me...I'll never wash this hand again.
HE HOLDS UP THE HAND HE SHOOK MARY'S HAND WITH AND LOOKS AT IT. IT IS COVERED WITH A GROSS PUS AND THERE ARE A FEW MAGGOTS ON IT.
JESSE
Eww!
JESSE WIPES HIS HAND ON HIS SHIRT IN DISGUST.
SCENE A
EXT. THE FULTON LAWN - DUSK
(JESSE FULTON, GREG FULTON, LOUISE FULTON, A MOVER, MARY ZOMBIE)
JESSE IS MOWING THE FRONT LAWN ON A RIDING MOWER. HIS FATHER, GREG, IS PRUNING SOME TREES. SUDDENLY A HUGE YELLOW MOVING TRUCK PULLS INTO THE DRIVEWAY NEXT DOOR. JESSE TURNS AND LOOKS. HE IS SO EXCITED HE JUMPS OFF THE MOWER AND RUNS UP TO HIS FATHER. OF COURSE, THE MOWER IS STILL PUTTERING ALONG.
JESSE
(pointing at the moving truck)
Dad! Look at that.
GREG STOPS HIS PRUNING AND LOOKS
GREG
Well, I'll be. Someone bought the Joneses' house.
JESSE
So we have someone new to keep up with?
GREG
Quiet, boy. Well, if they're new to the neighborhood maybe we should invite them to the barbecue.
JESSE
And by "we" you mean me.
GREG
Smart as a whip, that's my boy. Now get your ass over there.
JESSE
What about the mower?
GREG
What about...my mower!
THE MOWER IS PUTTERING DOWN THE STREET. GREG THROWS HIS PRUNING SHEARS AND TAKES OFF WILDLY AFTER THE MOWER. THE SHEARS, OF COURSE, SHATTER A WINDOW.
LOUISE'S VOICE (O.S.)
(shrilly shrieking)
Gregory!
JESSE FOLDS HIS HANDS BEHIND HIS BACK AND WHISTLES AS HE WALKS OVER INTO HIS NEIGHBOR'S YARD. HE LOOKS IN THE BACK OF THE TRUCK, WHICH IS ALMOST EMPTY. THERE IS ONE OBJECT LEFT, WHICH COULD BE A HUMAN HEAD WRAPPED IN BROWN PAPER AND TWINE. JESSE EVER-SO-SLOWLY REACHES INTO THE TUCK TO PICK UP THE HEAD SHAPED OBJECT. SUDDENLY, THE MOVING TRUCK ROARS INTO LIFE AND JESSE JUMPS BACK. HE LOOKS AT THE MOVER DRIVING, WHO IS PALE WHITE AND OBVIOUSLY FRIGHTENED TO DEATH. THE DRIVER BACKS THE TRUCK OUT OF THE DRIVEWAY SO FAST THAT HIS TIRES SHRIEK.
JESSE
Hey, wait! There's still stuff in the back!
THE TRUCK FLIES DOWN THE SUBURBAN STREET AT 60 MILES PER HOUR OR MORE. THE HEAD-SHAPED OBJECT FLIES OUT OF THE BACK. JESSE WALKS UP TO THE OBJECT AND PICKS IT UP. SLOWLY HE TAKES THE TWINE IN HIS FINGERS AND STARTS TO PULL, WHEN MARY'S HANDS TAKE THE OBJECT FROM HIM. JESSE JUMPS, BUT WHEN HE SEES MARY HE IS STARTLED BY HOW PRETTY SHE IS.
MARY
Oh, thank you. I was afraid they had forgotten to bring this in.
JESSE
(in the throes of puppy love)
Yeah...hey, you know, that guy looked terrified when he drove off.
MARY
(rolling her eyes)
Oh, yeah. My dad has that effect on people. I'm Mary. Mary Zombie. We're new here.
JESSE
Jesse Fulton. I've lived in Willberry all my life...unfortunately.
THEY SHAKE HANDS. JESSE'S HEART IS THUMPING.
MARY
Oh, it doesn't seem that bad here. Nice lawns, big houses, everybody has a car. It's a lot better than Haiti was.
JESSE
You're from Haiti? You're lucky. I've never even been out of Willberry.
MARY
I'll tell you about it sometime. I need to go inside though, it's time for breakfast.
JESSE
Breakfast? It's almost seven. You mean dinner.
MARY
Oh, yeah, that's what I meant. Sorry about my English.
BEHIND THEM, THE LAWNMOWER PUTTERS SLOWLY BY ON THE STREET. JESSE'S DAD IS SWEATING AND HUFFING AND PUFFING AS HE RUNS AFTER IT.
GREG
Damn you, John Deere!
THE TWO KIDS STOP FOR A MINUTE TO WATCH THE MAN CHASE HIS PRIZED MOWER OFFSCREEN. THEN THEY TURN BACK TO EACH OTHER.
JESSE
Oh, that reminds me, my dad's having a big block party tomorrow. There'll be burgers and ponies and crap like that. He wanted me to invite you and your family. I'd...really like it if you'd come.
MARY
Well, I'll tell my parents, but they don't like to come out much. Bye, Jesse.
JESSE
Bye, Mary.
MARY STARTS UP THE LAWN TOWARDS HER DOOR.
JESSE
(calling after her)
Hey, wait! What's in that package?
MARY
(over her shoulder)
Just a vase!
MARY DISAPPEARS INSIDE HER HOUSE. ALL OF THE WINDOWSHADES ARE CLOSED AND THE HOUSE IS UTTERLY INSCRUTABLE FROM THE OUTSIDE. WHEN HE'S SURE SHE CAN'T SEE HIM, HE STAGGERS BACKWARDS, CLUTCHING HIS HEART.
JESSE
She touched me...I'll never wash this hand again.
HE HOLDS UP THE HAND HE SHOOK MARY'S HAND WITH AND LOOKS AT IT. IT IS COVERED WITH A GROSS PUS AND THERE ARE A FEW MAGGOTS ON IT.
JESSE
Eww!
JESSE WIPES HIS HAND ON HIS SHIRT IN DISGUST.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
The Neighbors are Zombies 1
THE NEIGHBORS ARE ZOMBIES
"PILOT: MEET THE ZOMBIES"
TEASER
INT. A WITCH DOCTOR'S HUT IN HAITI - MIDNIGHT
(BO, AN AMERICAN)
BO IS AN EVIL HAITIAN WITCH DOCTOR, OR BOKOR, AND HIS HUT IS FILLED WITH POTIONS, FEATHERS, HUMAN SKULLS, AND ALL MANNER OF STRANGE ECLECTIC THINGS. HE IS BUSY WORKING ON A STRANGE NEW POTION WHEN AN AMERICAN ENTERS. THE AMERICAN IS A FAT TOURIST, REMINISCENT OF MARLON BRANDO IN HIS LATER AND LESS TOLERABLE ROLES.
AMERICAN
I understand you are the village witch doctor.
BO
(Looking up from his work at the American)
Bokor. I am not a witch or a doctor. I am a Bokor.
AMERICAN
Bokor then. I understand you can bring a dead man back to life.
BO
In a sense.
AMERICAN
What about a whole family?
BO SMILES A TOOTHY VILLAINOUS GRIN.
BLACKOUT
"PILOT: MEET THE ZOMBIES"
TEASER
INT. A WITCH DOCTOR'S HUT IN HAITI - MIDNIGHT
(BO, AN AMERICAN)
BO IS AN EVIL HAITIAN WITCH DOCTOR, OR BOKOR, AND HIS HUT IS FILLED WITH POTIONS, FEATHERS, HUMAN SKULLS, AND ALL MANNER OF STRANGE ECLECTIC THINGS. HE IS BUSY WORKING ON A STRANGE NEW POTION WHEN AN AMERICAN ENTERS. THE AMERICAN IS A FAT TOURIST, REMINISCENT OF MARLON BRANDO IN HIS LATER AND LESS TOLERABLE ROLES.
AMERICAN
I understand you are the village witch doctor.
BO
(Looking up from his work at the American)
Bokor. I am not a witch or a doctor. I am a Bokor.
AMERICAN
Bokor then. I understand you can bring a dead man back to life.
BO
In a sense.
AMERICAN
What about a whole family?
BO SMILES A TOOTHY VILLAINOUS GRIN.
BLACKOUT
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
THE NEIGHBORS ARE ZOMBIES: PROLOGUE PART DEUX
Uh. Yeah. So. Did you check this space on Monday? Yeah, probably not, I assume. Or, if you did, you didn't care enough to start griping. Anyway, the truth is I had gotten so used to not updating the blog that I just plain went to bed last night and forgot about my over-the-weekend promise. Anyway, I could just backdate THIS entry, but I won't, as I've said before, I prefer to keep this blog censorship free, management blunders and all.
Anyhoo, I thought you might all benefit from a brief introduction to this new manuscript before I actually start burning. Which, I know, is kind of a cheap way of doing an already tardy update. But, you know what? After all the hours of free entertainment I assume I've already provided you with, you can indulge me. Have I ever forced you to endure the story behind the story before? Most likely yes, I assume, although I can't recall any specific examples. So feel free to post links in the comments section pointing out my obvious flaws to me. That's what you internet types like to do, isn't it?
Anyway, this brief introduction keeps ballooning. So, here's the story about this script. Round about...let's call it...2004...someone apparently pitched a new reality show to Bravo (yes, I know this is now the Gay Network. Actually, I probably knew that in 2004, because that Queer Eye show had already come out. But I digress. Yet again.) So, the premise of this show, and I'll be damned if I remember it's proposed name, because it certainly never made the airwaves, was that folks from around the country would write scripts for television comedies, send them in, people would paw through them, choose the best, and give the scriptwriter a certain amount of money to produce it. Or maybe the script would be produced by professionals, I forget which.
In any case, the whole point was to bring sort of an American Idol ethos to the fun and fabulous world of scriptwriting, which I can assure you is actually quite a boring procedure. Go figure this show never saw the light of day. Anyway, for whatever reason, despite having never written:
a) a comedy
b) a television pilot, or
c) anything remotely funny (any actual humor in TTROTB-M!!! is purely coincidental)
I naturally assumed I would be the best candidate and immediately win the Bravo grant. Or whatever the prize actually was. So, drawing on personal experience, I wrote a three camera sitcom about a family of zombies trying to make it in the 'burbs. Brilliant stuff, I know.
Here's where the hitch came in: I was in the army at the time. An officer, no less. And I, unlike some of the more prosecutable members of the officer corps, actually took the apolitical nature of the job seriously. So I didn't want to accidentally get caught up being famous for something other than being an officer, and all the nasty PR issues it could cause (ah, to have dreams again) so I was certain I couldn't submit it myself. So I slapped a friend's name on THE NEIGHBORS ARE ZOMBIES, sent it off to Bravo, and promptly waited for the show to, apparently, implode and never be produced. So, rather than waste a perfectly good script written on-spec with no future, I felt I would share it with you good people. So watch this space (seriously) tomorrow for the first bizarrely plotted scene in the epic. For now, I bid you adieu.
Anyhoo, I thought you might all benefit from a brief introduction to this new manuscript before I actually start burning. Which, I know, is kind of a cheap way of doing an already tardy update. But, you know what? After all the hours of free entertainment I assume I've already provided you with, you can indulge me. Have I ever forced you to endure the story behind the story before? Most likely yes, I assume, although I can't recall any specific examples. So feel free to post links in the comments section pointing out my obvious flaws to me. That's what you internet types like to do, isn't it?
Anyway, this brief introduction keeps ballooning. So, here's the story about this script. Round about...let's call it...2004...someone apparently pitched a new reality show to Bravo (yes, I know this is now the Gay Network. Actually, I probably knew that in 2004, because that Queer Eye show had already come out. But I digress. Yet again.) So, the premise of this show, and I'll be damned if I remember it's proposed name, because it certainly never made the airwaves, was that folks from around the country would write scripts for television comedies, send them in, people would paw through them, choose the best, and give the scriptwriter a certain amount of money to produce it. Or maybe the script would be produced by professionals, I forget which.
In any case, the whole point was to bring sort of an American Idol ethos to the fun and fabulous world of scriptwriting, which I can assure you is actually quite a boring procedure. Go figure this show never saw the light of day. Anyway, for whatever reason, despite having never written:
a) a comedy
b) a television pilot, or
c) anything remotely funny (any actual humor in TTROTB-M!!! is purely coincidental)
I naturally assumed I would be the best candidate and immediately win the Bravo grant. Or whatever the prize actually was. So, drawing on personal experience, I wrote a three camera sitcom about a family of zombies trying to make it in the 'burbs. Brilliant stuff, I know.
Here's where the hitch came in: I was in the army at the time. An officer, no less. And I, unlike some of the more prosecutable members of the officer corps, actually took the apolitical nature of the job seriously. So I didn't want to accidentally get caught up being famous for something other than being an officer, and all the nasty PR issues it could cause (ah, to have dreams again) so I was certain I couldn't submit it myself. So I slapped a friend's name on THE NEIGHBORS ARE ZOMBIES, sent it off to Bravo, and promptly waited for the show to, apparently, implode and never be produced. So, rather than waste a perfectly good script written on-spec with no future, I felt I would share it with you good people. So watch this space (seriously) tomorrow for the first bizarrely plotted scene in the epic. For now, I bid you adieu.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Warning Shot
Okay, so you haven't heard from me in a while. I get it. You feel betrayed, bewildered. Well, I'm back, baby!
My intensive scrutiny of the ontology of Central Asia ended with a brief trip to Sherman's Arsonry Project. And now I'm back in the real world. So it's time to burn another manuscript, and one that I've been sitting on the back burner (ha!) for a while. It's similar in ways to TTROTB-M, which is why I haven't posted it yet. Of course, that necessitated posting The Last War, which took damn near a year. But now I'm ready to unveil a new style (TV script, what?) and a new, penultimately burnable manuscript:
THE NEIGHBORS ARE ZOMBIES!
Coming Monday. Watch this space.
My intensive scrutiny of the ontology of Central Asia ended with a brief trip to Sherman's Arsonry Project. And now I'm back in the real world. So it's time to burn another manuscript, and one that I've been sitting on the back burner (ha!) for a while. It's similar in ways to TTROTB-M, which is why I haven't posted it yet. Of course, that necessitated posting The Last War, which took damn near a year. But now I'm ready to unveil a new style (TV script, what?) and a new, penultimately burnable manuscript:
THE NEIGHBORS ARE ZOMBIES!
Coming Monday. Watch this space.
Monday, March 8, 2010
The Development of the Pop Culture Id
So. Wow. 365 posts. That, like, would have been a full year of posts if I had stuck to my original schedule of updating daily. Thank God I didn't, but I still feel like I should acknowledge the occasion. Huzzah.
Moving on.
I developed a theory in the shower Monday morning. It occurred to me as I watched the Oscars on Sunday, although I can't fathom why. Oh, I remember. Old people and inexplicably young people. So here's what I've been thinking about how people function in the pop culture universe, or poptureverse.
PHASE I: BLISSFULLY UNAWARE
"Ah, what a beautiful day in the womb."
In the first stage, which seems to me to be getting shorter and shorter, kids are blissfully unaware of pop culture. A brand new, expensive video game is just about as interesting as the box it came in, or, if during the holiday season, the wrapping paper. Kids are simply kids and are amused by whatever they're amused by, unconcerned by the whims of their peers or corporate marketing hacks. As I said, with the advent of The Wiggles, Dora the Explorer, Blues Clues, and the like, this phase seems to be getting shorter and shorter, although, I suppose to be fair, even back in my day they had things like Transformers and DuckTales to suck you in. This phase is followed by a transitional phase, which I hesitate to set on it's own, where kids will be aware of outside pop culture, but will only follow the bits that they are interested. Until they are sucked in to:
PHASE II: WITH IT
"I'm a white male, age 18 to 49. Everyone listens to me, no matter how dumb my suggestions are."
Not sure how long this phase lasts, again, this is all purely non-scientific. But there's probably a good ten or fifteen years where not only do you like everything that's popular, but everything that's popular is MARKETED TO YOU. And even if you don't like it, per se, you are aware of it enough to argue why you hate it. "God, I love *NSYNC, but Willa Ford is just beneath me," is something that I would certainly never say, or, indeed, even understand at this junture in time or any other, but which would be evocative of this particular period in the pop culture id.
PHASE III: WATCHING IT SLIP AWAY
"Am I so out of touch? No. It's the children who are wrong."
So, I think this semi-distinct phase (although I will keep it distinct) first occurred to me when my wife told me around New Years two years ago that Joe Jonas had broken up with Taylor Swift via text message, and I realized that I had no idea who any of those people were. And she looked at me like there was something wrong with me. I'm vaguely aware now that Hannah Montana is popular, and Twilight is increasingly a cultural phenomenon, but I have no interest in any of these things. I'm not even knowledgeable enough about them to make fun of them properly. I know Miley Cyrus is Billy Ray Cyrus's daugher - which is a lot more comforting to me, than, say, having her come out of the blue. But one day, my co-worker came into the office while the radio was going and said, "Ah, Miley Cyrus." That song I had heard every day, that one about how it's about "the cliiiiimb" was apparently by someone I didn't even think made songs that played on the radio. I guess I thought her songs only played on the Disney Channel, which, as far as I'm concerned, is still the repository of the Wuzzles and Zoobilee Zoo. The best way I can describe this phase is that I'm aware of all the business I should be aware of, but I'm not yet at that horrible level where it all seems alien to me.
PHASE IV: SCARY AND WEIRD
"I used to be with 'it.' Then they changed what 'it' was. Now what I'm with isn't 'it,' and what's 'it' seems weird and scary. It'll happen to you."
My father doesn't believe video games have evolved in any way past Super Mario Brothers. I don't know if he believes this ironically, or genuinely, but he consistently says it, that all video games are essentially the same (i.e. a platformer, albeit with a hedgehog instead of a plumber.) I don't know what to make of this kind of attitude. I didn't know what to make of it in the late '90s, when even back then it was patently untrue. But it occurred to me that your idea of things can become calcified. If you're not constantly checking up on something's status, it stays in your mind however it was the last time you checked in on it. A friend of mine has a brother who was 2 when I met him at the age of 12. He's quite possibly out of college now, but I habitually think of him as 2, because I haven't seen him that often since we first met.
I'll give you an even scarier example, at least to my way of thinking. There is a group of you, possibly a select few, but I hope broader than that, who, while reading this post, instantly identified each and every one of my header quotes. Certainly by the show, probably by the character that said each one, and quite vaguely possibly by the individual episodes. However, I'm warning you now that there are kids, kids born more than a decade ago, who can't do that. While I was in Georgia I sat down in the common area, which was the only place with a TV, on a Sunday night. I, and I suspect a vast swathe of my generation, have only one expectation on a Sunday night, an expectation we've held sacred for the past twenty years. The Simpsons. 8:00 pm, sharp, unless football's running late or it's a holiday and they're playing movies. However, inexplicably, there was no Simpsons on this particular Sunday night in Georgia. I even went to the trouble to ask the room, "Is anybody watching this?" ("This" in this case referred to The Pelican Brief, a not so great, twenty year old shitty John Grisham movie showing on Ion.) "Does anybody want to watch The Simpsons?"
Silence. Horrifying, horrifying silence. The guy next to me turned and said, "Is that show even still on?" Blasphemy. And with that, I realized that the show which had served as a pop culture Bible for my generation, unsurpassed but perhaps joined by the likes of Seinfeld or Buffy the Vampire Slayer, was irrelevant. I was like a toothless old man begging to watch Matlock. And it sickened me.
Moving on.
I developed a theory in the shower Monday morning. It occurred to me as I watched the Oscars on Sunday, although I can't fathom why. Oh, I remember. Old people and inexplicably young people. So here's what I've been thinking about how people function in the pop culture universe, or poptureverse.
PHASE I: BLISSFULLY UNAWARE
"Ah, what a beautiful day in the womb."
In the first stage, which seems to me to be getting shorter and shorter, kids are blissfully unaware of pop culture. A brand new, expensive video game is just about as interesting as the box it came in, or, if during the holiday season, the wrapping paper. Kids are simply kids and are amused by whatever they're amused by, unconcerned by the whims of their peers or corporate marketing hacks. As I said, with the advent of The Wiggles, Dora the Explorer, Blues Clues, and the like, this phase seems to be getting shorter and shorter, although, I suppose to be fair, even back in my day they had things like Transformers and DuckTales to suck you in. This phase is followed by a transitional phase, which I hesitate to set on it's own, where kids will be aware of outside pop culture, but will only follow the bits that they are interested. Until they are sucked in to:
PHASE II: WITH IT
"I'm a white male, age 18 to 49. Everyone listens to me, no matter how dumb my suggestions are."
Not sure how long this phase lasts, again, this is all purely non-scientific. But there's probably a good ten or fifteen years where not only do you like everything that's popular, but everything that's popular is MARKETED TO YOU. And even if you don't like it, per se, you are aware of it enough to argue why you hate it. "God, I love *NSYNC, but Willa Ford is just beneath me," is something that I would certainly never say, or, indeed, even understand at this junture in time or any other, but which would be evocative of this particular period in the pop culture id.
PHASE III: WATCHING IT SLIP AWAY
"Am I so out of touch? No. It's the children who are wrong."
So, I think this semi-distinct phase (although I will keep it distinct) first occurred to me when my wife told me around New Years two years ago that Joe Jonas had broken up with Taylor Swift via text message, and I realized that I had no idea who any of those people were. And she looked at me like there was something wrong with me. I'm vaguely aware now that Hannah Montana is popular, and Twilight is increasingly a cultural phenomenon, but I have no interest in any of these things. I'm not even knowledgeable enough about them to make fun of them properly. I know Miley Cyrus is Billy Ray Cyrus's daugher - which is a lot more comforting to me, than, say, having her come out of the blue. But one day, my co-worker came into the office while the radio was going and said, "Ah, Miley Cyrus." That song I had heard every day, that one about how it's about "the cliiiiimb" was apparently by someone I didn't even think made songs that played on the radio. I guess I thought her songs only played on the Disney Channel, which, as far as I'm concerned, is still the repository of the Wuzzles and Zoobilee Zoo. The best way I can describe this phase is that I'm aware of all the business I should be aware of, but I'm not yet at that horrible level where it all seems alien to me.
PHASE IV: SCARY AND WEIRD
"I used to be with 'it.' Then they changed what 'it' was. Now what I'm with isn't 'it,' and what's 'it' seems weird and scary. It'll happen to you."
My father doesn't believe video games have evolved in any way past Super Mario Brothers. I don't know if he believes this ironically, or genuinely, but he consistently says it, that all video games are essentially the same (i.e. a platformer, albeit with a hedgehog instead of a plumber.) I don't know what to make of this kind of attitude. I didn't know what to make of it in the late '90s, when even back then it was patently untrue. But it occurred to me that your idea of things can become calcified. If you're not constantly checking up on something's status, it stays in your mind however it was the last time you checked in on it. A friend of mine has a brother who was 2 when I met him at the age of 12. He's quite possibly out of college now, but I habitually think of him as 2, because I haven't seen him that often since we first met.
I'll give you an even scarier example, at least to my way of thinking. There is a group of you, possibly a select few, but I hope broader than that, who, while reading this post, instantly identified each and every one of my header quotes. Certainly by the show, probably by the character that said each one, and quite vaguely possibly by the individual episodes. However, I'm warning you now that there are kids, kids born more than a decade ago, who can't do that. While I was in Georgia I sat down in the common area, which was the only place with a TV, on a Sunday night. I, and I suspect a vast swathe of my generation, have only one expectation on a Sunday night, an expectation we've held sacred for the past twenty years. The Simpsons. 8:00 pm, sharp, unless football's running late or it's a holiday and they're playing movies. However, inexplicably, there was no Simpsons on this particular Sunday night in Georgia. I even went to the trouble to ask the room, "Is anybody watching this?" ("This" in this case referred to The Pelican Brief, a not so great, twenty year old shitty John Grisham movie showing on Ion.) "Does anybody want to watch The Simpsons?"
Silence. Horrifying, horrifying silence. The guy next to me turned and said, "Is that show even still on?" Blasphemy. And with that, I realized that the show which had served as a pop culture Bible for my generation, unsurpassed but perhaps joined by the likes of Seinfeld or Buffy the Vampire Slayer, was irrelevant. I was like a toothless old man begging to watch Matlock. And it sickened me.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Gilbey's
So I gave a small, approving grunt upon noticing a bottle of gin for $8.99 on the top shelf at the liquor store. (Yes, I've been relegated to the liquore store like every other schmoe, since Ft. Benning saw the need to take my military ID away and deny me my Class 6 entry.) Something didn't add up, though, because even the smaller bottles on the lower shelves cost more.
Now, admittedly, I had a bottle of Old Crow in my other hand, but when it comes to gin, I usually don't like to skimp. Bombay Sapphire is usually what I get; gin is kind of a treat. But I've got a few ounces of Vermouth in the liquor cabinet and nothing much to do with it (and olives and toothpicks, too.) So I ended up tentatively taking the bottle of Gilbey's.
Apparently the liquor store clerk saw me musing for a while and asked if I needed help.
I said, "Is this good gin?"
"Well, it's not terrible gin," she said.
"Why is it on the top shelf?" I asked.
She looked at it, then looked at the Old Crow in my other hand. Then she got that look in her face. Okay, shut up, I love my blue collar bourbon, I get it, it's not "cool," whatever.
"Well, it's not top shelf, it's just on the top shelf."
What?
Now, admittedly, I had a bottle of Old Crow in my other hand, but when it comes to gin, I usually don't like to skimp. Bombay Sapphire is usually what I get; gin is kind of a treat. But I've got a few ounces of Vermouth in the liquor cabinet and nothing much to do with it (and olives and toothpicks, too.) So I ended up tentatively taking the bottle of Gilbey's.
Apparently the liquor store clerk saw me musing for a while and asked if I needed help.
I said, "Is this good gin?"
"Well, it's not terrible gin," she said.
"Why is it on the top shelf?" I asked.
She looked at it, then looked at the Old Crow in my other hand. Then she got that look in her face. Okay, shut up, I love my blue collar bourbon, I get it, it's not "cool," whatever.
"Well, it's not top shelf, it's just on the top shelf."
What?
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