I am not sure whether or not I ought to post that script I wrote

First of all, it's really long. Not so much long for a play, necessarily, but way too long to fit here comfortably; it's about seven pages according to Microsoft Word, and that seems kind of extravagant for a blog.

Second, it's not really all that great, taken out of context. I was assigned the first and last lines I was to use ("I didn't mean to hurt you... really. But it felt so goddamned good" and "I figured it should be less than 3,000 pages... All the best books have less than 3,000 pages," respectively) and had roughly five hours to write the whole thing (not counting the time I spent fighting with my computer, or getting sidetracked by KIDS director Larry Clark's endearingly clumsy 2005 film Wassup Rockers, which despite the absence of Lou Barlow or Daniel Johnston songs was pretty interesting). So the best you can say about it is "for something produced under considerable constraints, it succeeds on its own terms!"

Third, it's called "Jolly Jolly Jinglebeans." Probably because I hate theatre.

Fourth, I don't have the script on the computer I'm on now so the issue's moot at the moment anyway. God I'm sick to death of not having internet access at home... Comcast is supposed to come a week from tomorrow and end my exile in 1995, and not a moment too soon; I'm really fed up with having to check my email at work, like the frigging Pilgrims did.

On a 170% unrelated note, that movie Superbad opens tomorrow. For one reason or another, I haven't seen a movie in theaters in close to a year, but I might see this one. Michael Cera is going to own Hollywood within five years... You heard it here fifth.

Do you think Bono ever gets tired of being in U2?

Of course not! Have you even SEEN Bono in the last ten years? How many elderly mullet-survivors are convinced they're saving the world by doing this:

That is the rock squat of a man who loves what he does.

The play thing happened

I'll put the script up later.

TOMORROW NIGHT: Come see a play I wrote (if you live in or around the city where I live)

LIVE THEATRE: NOT JUST FOR DUMBFUCKS AND ELDERLIES ANYMORE!


I was asked to participate in something called MADCAP 24 ("an avant-garde multi-theatrical event involving a collaboration on the production of 8 original one-act plays," according to some of the first words on the website I just linked you to). Technically I haven't written it yet, because the whole deal is everything has to be written, rehearsed and performed within 24 hours (and they're gonna give me some parameters so I don't cheat and just show up with a pre-written script), but I'm already fairly confident that it's going to be the best short play ever written ever so you should come and see it is what you should do.

If you can't, I'll post the script next week and you can print a few copies out to put on your own independent production / staged reading with your friends, family, or stuffed animals. If you do so, make sure to film the results and put them on YouTube, especially if it's the stuffed animals thing.

Let's get snarky!

I went back and read some old comments this morning. I was hoping to feed my insatiable Thursday morning narcissism (it only seems to flare up Thursday mornings... I'm supposed to schedule a doctor's appointment but I keep putting it off), but in doing so I discovered that a couple folks didn't seem to appreciate my Magritte Explained post dealing with "The Treachery Of Images." Sort of:

Sue Who said...
Of course not. It's a painting.

Duh.
12:37 PM

Danny said...
It's not a pipe. It's a picture of a pipe, and that's the GOSH WOW difference.
5:46 AM

Loathe as I am to get into such a discourse (on the fucking internet, no less) I figured I ought to somehow respond. When I was done, it seemed like I had enough for today's post, so enjoy my rebuttal as I go back to looking at myself in the mirror until it's time for lunch.

Joe Mathlete said...
This is a "humor blog," where I write jokes and things similar to jokes. I did not think I would confuse anyone with this or any other of the Magritte Explained posts into believing I was turning it into a legitimate surrealist painting discussion/interpretation blog, but I forgot that you can now get college credit for smugly commenting on inaccuracies in blog entries, so my mistake for leaving any room for error.

I understand that getting that degree (and proving to the internet that you've grasped the meaning of a half-century old painting) can win out over any desire to give a guy the benefit of the doubt, so from now on I'll be eschewing subtlety, ambiguity and irony altogether. Tune in tomorrow for a list of my Grandpa Nestor's favorite Polish jokes.

Sincerely,

Joe Mathlete

p.s.-- To take a different angle: don't you suppose that I'd know a thing or two about Rene Magritte and his art if I was writing these entries? I didn't just google "apple face guy painting" and go from there.

6:57 AM

The Grone Protocol: Remembrance’s Deceptitude, Chapter 006

Like most of you, I am a popular writer of highbrow thrillers and suspense novels in my spare time. For your entertainment and erudition (both of which I care about so much it hurts), I will be serializing my latest work, THE GRONE PROTOCOL, here in my “blog” (short for “web blog”) every week (unless I forget or something like last week). Here’s the sixth chapter, which should more than fill your daily quota of gripping intrigue. If not, go down to the library and start yelling “MYSTERY BOOK MYSTERY BOOK I WANT A MYSTERY BOOK!!!” until somebody helps you.

006

Sassafras Jones had been through plenty of troubles in her time, but she had also had her fair share of worries.

She fancied herself happy in her position at the Grone Corporation, doing office type things in an office amongst office people, but she found her thoughts often returning to her childhood. The youngest of three children in her family, she was also the eldest of six others, ranking third out of eight total. She loved each and every one of her brothers and sisters more than anything in the world, though she often entertained the notion that they were all robots, part of some sort of grand psychological experiment devised by her parents, the government, or worse. Lately she had been able to convince herself that this was, all things considered, fairly unlikely.

Sassafras opened the door to the seventy-second floor's supply room gingerly, touching the doorknob the way you'd touch your grandfather while bathing him. She opened the door as quietly as she could, hoping that whoever might be inside wouldn't hear. Three weeks ago, she had accidentally walked in on one of the secretaries going down on the mail boy, and she was hoping to witness something similar. Alas, as she peeked around the door her eyes fell upon an empty room. Putting her camera away, Sassafras cursed to herself under her breath. "If I want to run a famous porn website," she thought, "I'm going to have to actually pay people to have sex and let me photograph them."

As she filled a plastic bag with chicken feed, she felt a strange longing in her heart. Before she began working for Grone, she had been a champion jockey, but it had been years since she had so much as stepped in horse poopoo. She missed the thrill of the race, the roar of the crowd, the friction between the saddle and her ladyparts, but she knew that it was a world she could never return to. However, she would always, in her heart, be a good horse riding person.

Still, no matter how well she could sit on a horse that was running, in the end it would not be able to save her from what was about to happen.

Oh crud I was supposed to come back yesterday

Uh, sorry about that, internet. To be fair, returning to your side wasn't the only promise I failed to keep yesterday; I also neglected to make it into work, which meant I didn't have access to the internet save for a brief jaunt over to a friend's house (which mostly involved checking a couple email and MySpace accounts and searching YouTube for that video of the guy who programmed Showbiz Pizza robots to sing a Fergie song).

That's right. I don't have internet access at home. I also don't have cable TV, or even rabbit ears. Or a radio, now that I think about it... I'm actually starting to see a pattern emerge, but it's not like I live in a lean-to on Walden Pond or just make dolls out of corn cobs after I get off work; I'm terribly used to having the internet where I live, so much so that it has completely and totally taken the place of both television and radio as a form of passive entertainment in my life (and anyway if I wanted either one, I've got youtube, last.fm, bittorrent, and like a hundred kajillion other things). Or it had, until I moved a couple months ago and neglected to call Time Warner or Comcast or a third, theoretically/hopefully cheaper provider.

Anyway it's worked out alright so far, seeing as I work with a computer in a tiny room at a company where most people really don't seem to realize I do anything, or at least pay attention to it. But I will not be working here forever; I'm what you refer to as a "contract employee," and plus I don't seem to show up to work every day (see: yesterday) so it might even be shorter than I'm expecting.

So: sorry I balked on returning to writing on you, internet. I like you loads more than I like doing my job. Here's that Showbiz Pizza video... Someone emailed the link to me; I have yet to watch it a hundred times since YouTube videos won't play on my work computer (other things I can't do here: access MySpace; use AIM, AIM express, Yahoo Messenger or Meebo; look at pornography; not wear shoes; hit people; urinate OR defecate anywhere except a men's or unisex bathroom; make out with the cute girl in the room down the hall without probably at least asking her first*), but as far as I could tell it's the best thing that's ever happened anywhere ever.


*: I guess these last few things are pretty much true of most of society and not just where I work