Failed Suicide off a Short Building

I tried to kill myself when I was seventeen years old, but I failed. That’s blunt, I’m sorry. Not sure what else there is to say. That’s pretty much the important part. I tried to kill myself when I was seventeen years old but, obviously, I was unsuccessful.

I maintain that I really did try to kill myself, though there are some who don’t believe me. No one has ever accused me of anything less than an honest effort outright to my face, but there are hints. I hate it when people leave hints. It’s so disingenuous. People think no one ever gets the hint no matter how obvious the hint is. I think at least part of this is a result of dishonesty on the other side. When we see a hint, our first impulse is to ignore it. Half so we can pretend the hint was never given to salvage our egos and half to spite the hinter, to deprive them of the satisfaction of knowing that they were crafty and clever and got their point across without the need for confrontation. The fractions might not be exact, but those motivations are always there, I think. I try to avoid this by bringing any conflict that is hinted at subtly to the surface. It does the trick and when I suspect someone is dropping hints, I am rarely wrong. I have never done this when I think that people might be dropping hints about the authenticity of my suicide, though. I don’t know why.

But like I said, there is some controversy about my suicide. Some people believe that I had no intention of killing myself. That the whole thing was just a ploy for attention or pity. That my failure was my greatest success, excuse the self-conscious literary posturing. But like I said, no one has said this, so I guess the only person who I know for sure believes that I had no intention of killing myself is me, even though I do believe that I wanted to kill myself. And not just wanted, because one can want to kill himself and then fake a suicide attempt or whatever I did or didn’t do. But tried to kill myself. I think I’m working on two different planes here and one has no concept of the other. I mean, I know that’s the first thing you learn in Psych 101, but I don’t actually believe in the two planes thing. It sounds simple, like overly simple, but I don’t think it is. I think it’s a bit too complicated to explain how stupid we can be. I think there can’t be more than half a plane running the show, or else we wouldn’t have so much trouble handling things. Psychologists talk about battling forces in the mind, but that has never seen right. I imagine just one force, completely overwhelmed by the enormity of the task. Even if they’re right about all the other stuff like the libido and the death drive and society and its discontents, you think the ego wouldn’t want a little help? You think the libido would want to run the show on its own? No way in hell.

I just can’t get around the strange ways people have of describing the event. I’m not sure if what I did can be described with all of our strange limited little terms and diagnoses. I remember the first time I heard it. I was lying in the hospital bed and I heard some nurses or interns or something talking outside of my room, I heard one of them describe me as a “failed suicide,” the word suicide used as a noun which I’ve always thought is kind of cool. Maybe it was the drugs I may or may not have been on or the fog that may or may not have enveloped my mind at that moment, but I couldn’t comprehend the term “failed suicide” for the life of me. It must, I thought, be an oxymoron or redundant, one or the other, or a redundant oxymoron, which I think is an oxymoron. It’s something, one of those two opposite things that can’t be reconciled with one another. What is a failed suicide? Aren’t all suicides failures? Is a successful suicide any less of a failure than a failed suicide? If anything, it seems to me a success would be a greater failure, unless of course one was trying to fail as it is alleged by none out loud that I was trying to do, in which case the failure—never mind. This isn’t fun anymore.

But it’s made me into a kind of double negative in the eyes of others, I think, except for the ones who think that I didn’t really want to kill myself, to whom I guess I would be a successful failed suicide. Though if you ask me, it takes a special kind of failure to try to not kill oneself. Perhaps that deserves another failure affixed somewhere. Of course, this needs to be distinguished from not trying to kill oneself. What is the default state called? Who has the time to figure all this out?

So you see, I maintain that I did not try to not kill myself that day on top of that short building. Kind of an ingenious idea, though, but I don’t think I would have been capable of coming up with it on my own. I wasn’t exactly in optimal mental condition at the time. I was pretty messed up, obviously. It’s not that I was in despair or anything, it was strange. I wasn’t sad. I had always imagined that people who committed suicide had to be really sad, the kind of people who only stopped crying long enough to tighten the noose. I thought it was or would be a deeply significant thing, where the act was the only thing that I would be able to consider. I thought it would somehow involve a kind of tunnel vision. Like I wouldn’t be able to see or hear or consider anything else, because how else does anyone get it done? How can one think about anything and still go through with it? Any thought of anything else, I imagined—the groceries, the sound of a telephone, anything—would make the act impossible. Only the act could be considered, or else the link would be impossible to sever.

I did think about things, that’s what made it so difficult for me. I couldn’t stop thinking about things. I was kneeling on the roof like a catcher behind home plate and I couldn’t stop thinking. I’ve never done so much thinking in my life and I hope I never have to think so much again, because it’s a stressful, exhausting condition. I expected my last thoughts before the act to center around the people I know. My family and friends. But it wasn’t like that (no thoughts I have had to date have been my last thoughts, obviously, but that’s not what I mean). I thought about other people, the ones who would be around after I did it. Like people walking past at the time. Then I thought about a firefighter. I imagined that after an hour or so there would be a firefighter who would have to scrape me off the pavement with a big spatula. And I chuckled, in spite of myself, looking over that ledge that wasn’t so high after all, contemplating the last thing I would ever do. I chuckled and then I stopped chuckling suddenly and then I threw myself over the edge. I didn’t look. People think I looked. They don’t say this; these are the people whom I suspect of suspecting me. But I didn’t look. I just rolled over the brick lip at the edge of the roof like I was vaulting over the arm on my couch onto the floor and I fell.

I thought about death a lot back then. I still do now, but in different ways. Back then I was an idiot. I romanticized it as I suspect lots of people do when they’re immature and stupid. I didn’t know what form the afterlife would take, but I took for granted that it would exist. I don’t use the word afterlife these days unless it’s specifically to reference my frame of mind back then. It’s an anachronism now. I speak about it the afterlife the same way my parents talk about 45s. With a bit of mocking for show but really boatloads of nostalgia that isn’t hard to notice if you’re listening carefully.

But like I said, I thought about death a lot. I would talk about it with my girlfriend whose name was Terry. She was very fat and I was very thin and we would have gentle encouraging arguments about whether it was worse to be fat or to be thin until we finally hit upon the idea that it was being in general that was the problem. We probably would have killed ourselves together, but we were afraid. Not of death; we were entranced by death. It was simply the things which brought death that were frightening. Between the two of us, we had everything covered. She had heights, pills and chemicals while I covered guns, knives and razors. And most of all there was a deep resentment. We felt that in offing ourselves, we would be doing a world a favor and, having come to hate the world so much, refused to give it the satisfaction. This wasn’t just silliness on our parts, I think. I believe to this day that we really would have been doing the world a favor. We were awful people. What good were we doing the world? We were sapping resources and inconveniencing everyone else. More teenagers should kill themselves. I truly believe this.

Being with her was miserable, though I didn’t realize it at the time. Like I said, being. That was the problem, that was our great revelation. But when we broke up, I realized that the problem had been her all along. Sure, there was a week when the simple fact that I no longer had any girlfriend of any kind was depressing. It was a blow to the ego. Having any kind of relationship, after all, says something about yourself. It gives you a status, an identity. I thought of myself through my relationship with her. Which would cause problems later. But at first, I quickly recovered from this sense of loss, not just of Terry but self. I mean, I don’t want to psychoanalyze and make a fool of myself. But after about a week, I discovered there was nothing missing, really, which struck me as significant.

Then a month later, she called me up and she was angry with me. I think she was upset that I didn’t take our breakup any harder, but I’m not sure if that was it, and either way she started saying some horrible things about me. This was shortly before my failed suicide off the short building. It wasn’t the things she called me that upset me. For one, she called me sanctimonious, which my dictionary defines as “making an exaggerated show of holiness or moral superiority,” but I don’t think she knew what the word meant because I wasn’t that at all. But misused big words aside, it wasn’t the insults she threw at me that stung, it was the general feeling. She was someone that despite my new revelation I still vaguely cared about and she was trying to hurt me and that she was trying to hurt me was enough to make it hurt.

And it was also the things she said I wasn’t that stung. Worse than the intent alone. She said I wasn’t really nice or smart or funny or insightful or any of the other things she had called me when we were dating. She had only been humoring me because we were dating, she said. And she was probably right about all those things, maybe she was right and I don’t want to say that I was bothered by her accusations as much as the idea that I had been duped. She had fooled me, not into thinking that she had a high opinion of me—that had happened but didn’t bother me—what bothered me was that I could be tricked by such a simple transparent thing. And that such trickery was played at all, and suddenly I saw it everywhere I looked: someone laughing a bit too hard at a boyfriend’s or girlfriend’s joke, nodding too vigorously at another’s observation. Such obviously shallow pretension. The whole world was just silliness, or so I imagined. What’s that quote? “All is vanity?” Is that Moby Dick? That’s what I had hit on, only a century and a half later than Melville and with none of his sophistication, if that was really him.

This consumed me for weeks and I had a kind of kiddie sized existential crisis. I couldn’t imagine living another sixty years in such a world and I decided to kill myself. I decided I would jump off a building because I figured it would be easiest and I settled on the historic tavern in town because, at five stories, it was the tallest building I could find without driving a half hour into the city. Doing it right wasn’t worth a half hour drive to me, which seems like the kind of lesson my father should have taught me. There’s a lesson for you, kids. If you’re going to kill yourself, kill yourself right, even if it takes you thirty even forty-five minutes to get there.

I climbed up to the top floor of the tavern and found a way onto the roof, which was a lot easier than I expected it would be. How many historic taverns have stairways that go all the way up to the roof? One, probably, in the entire country, and I happen to live in the same town—only a three minute drive. And like I said, I was up there and I laughed. And I was so surprised and kind of horrified, though I couldn’t and still can’t identify why, that I slid over the edge without thinking. Down below there was a sidewalk and a flower bed and though the plan was to swan dive onto the pavement, I kind of rolled into the flower bed and broke a couple bones and hit my head and knocked myself out for a bit and was taken to the hospital. This wasn’t a big flower bed and one might think that I would have to aim to hit the flowers rather than the pavement, but that’s not how it was. I didn’t look. I just jumped, or rolled, rather, and I landed right on some flowers in front of a window looking into the lobby where someone saw me fall and called 911.

I don’t know if this last part is true. But as soon as there was nothing but air under me, I was so terrified and so consumed with regret I’m surprised I didn’t die right there in the air, five stories above the earth. I do know this is true, actually. I feel it so strongly there is no mistaking the reality of it. In that second I was in the air, I thought “I’ll never be anything.” That flashed through my mind in an instant, before I had even rolled completely off the roof and then my mind was empty, completely empty for the rest of the trip down, cleared of everything but the physical reality of the sensation of rushing wind and approaching ground. And the frightening thing is that I know that’s what is facing me when I die for real. That’s how I know that what I’ve done is a terrible terrible thing that goes against nature. Nobody should have to see his last moment years before it comes. They were like a physical presence, and though they’re gone now, those words will haunt me for the rest of my life and when it is finally time to die, they will come back, just as they were before. At first, it was obvious to me that those words were a pang of regret and resignation, but now I’m not so sure it wasn’t a choice, a principle, a mission statement, an act of defiance. Which seems silly, but I don’t think I’ve let it go. In many ways and to many people, my character is completely different now. Unthinkably different. But I’ve still done nothing, really. And I don’t even know what that means and I don’t even know how I would go about doing or being anything, invalidating that last message that is waiting for me for the next time I die, but maybe I am just saying this to myself so I don’t have to do anything, so I can keep up the charade of false rebellion. And I have been given a real revelation, I think. A real understanding, a real vision, if not of the afterlife then of the last moment of consciousness. And now I have this burden of trying to decode those words that will stay with me for the rest of my life, but imagine how much worse it would have been if I hadn’t lived. If I had done it right and if I was accelerating towards the earth at negative nine point eight meters per second squared and I heard or saw or received the words and had only that fleeting moment before I hit the ground to understand them. “I’ll never be anything,” and then it’s over, with only enough time for a flicker of reception before it is all extinguished forever, condemned to understand the revelation or else prove it and become it and nothing more than it, a ghostly epitaph scraped off the pavement by a firefighter with a giant spatula, laughing and throwing itself into oblivion to escape itself, its emptiness, its absence, its nothingness.

Or maybe I’m just a fuck-up with a lot of stupid ideas. Who can tell.

Because the rest of the post really wasn't worth it, one line from an aborted attempt at an "UglyDolls" commercial

MOTHER 5
Look, Mary! She's got a cleft lip, just like you!

Saved for posterity

Password

CHRISTIAN
Tonight, we have a very special segment. We’ve picked out two couples who were here in our studio audience and we’re going to have a competition to win some great BUTV prizes. We’re going to play Password, the idea is there’s a secret password only one roommate can see and the pair that can solve the password in the fewest one-word clues wins. So let’s bring out the couples. First, from Myles Standish, it’s Dan and Kate.

DAN and KATE enter, holding hands. They smile and shake hands with CHRISTIAN enthusiastically as they take their seats.

CHRISTIAN
All right, and our second couple comes to us from Sleeper Hall down on West Campus, please welcome Tim and Liz. Come on out, you guys.

CUT TO

The place from which TIM and LIZ are supposed to enter. Nothing happens. We hear strained whispering.

CHRISTIAN
(off-screen)
Uh, Tim? Liz? You can come out now?

TIM
(off-screen, whispering)
Will you just forget about that?

LIZ
(off-screen, whispering)
How can I forget about it? Do you have any idea how much that hurts me?

TIM
All right! I get the picture! I’m sorry, I told you that, it just came out—

CHRISTIAN
Uh, Tim! Liz! The—the game is starting.

TIM and LIZ are suddenly quiet. They peek out nervously and make their way to their seats. They shoot each other glares. LIZ starts to mouth something but TIM cuts her off, hissing “not now!”

CHRISTIAN
OK, great to see you guys.

DAN AND KATE
Great to be here!

TIM
(curt)
Yeah.

CHRISTIAN
All right, well the first word is for Dan and Kate, so Dan, pick up the card in front of you.

DAN
OK.

VOICE
The password is, “cherry.”

DAN
OK, um—fruit.

KATE
Apple.

DAN
No. Uh—stem.

KATE
Cherry?

DAN
That’s it!

CHRISTIAN
Good job, guys! You got it in two. OK, Tim and Liz, you two are up. Tim take the card.

TIM
Huh?

LIZ
The card, Tim. Let’s get this over with.

TIM
Well that’s some attitude.

LIZ
Just take the card!

TIM
I’m taking it!

VOICE
The password is, “boyfriend.”

TIM
(under his breath)
Christ.

LIZ
Was that a clue, Tim?

TIM
No. Just shut up, OK?

CHRISTIAN
Uh, guys? One word only please.

TIM
All right, just keep it down, Curly. Here’s my clue. Me.

LIZ
Cruel.

TIM
(annoyed)
Me.

LIZ
Inconsiderate.

TIM
(exasperated)
Me.

LIZ
Why don’t you try giving me another clue, Tim?

TIM
This is a good clue, Liz! It’s pretty easy! Me!

LIZ
Slow! Stupid! Idiot! Only got into BU because of a high-placed friend in the admissions department.

TIM
Hey, that’s below the belt, Liz!

CHRISTIAN
(interjecting quickly)
Sorry. Sorry, you guys didn’t get it. Uh, this time you go first. Liz, please pick up your card.

LIZ
(without picking up the card in front of her)
Oh yeah, here’s a clue for you Tim. Rachel.

TIM
Liz, we’ve been over this! Rachel’s just a friend of mine!

LIZ
Oh yeah, I know all about your special friendship. Give up? (imitating VOICE) The password is, “slut.”

TIM
You’re so insecure, what did your parents do to you? Why don’t you go throw up in the bathroom and then cry about it while I’m trying to study for a midterm again.

VOICE
The password is, “pillow.”

LIZ
Oh, real mature, Tim. I might need something to get me started though, could you lend me the socks you stuff down your shorts when you go to the gym.

TIM
All right, I’m out of here.

LIZ
Don’t call me.

TIM and LIZ exit in separate directions. CHRISTIAN, DAN and KATE sit awkwardly for a few seconds.

CHRISTIAN
All right, let’s hear it for our winners Dan and Kate!

DAN and KATE smile nervously.

CHRISTIAN
Let’s never do that again. We’ll be right back.

The Chris Sartinsky Memoirs: Chapter Seven: A Summer in Vienna

In the seventh grade, I joined the band and picked up the alto saxophone. I found music a wonderful release from the stresses of middle school life and would often lock myself in my room, playing for hours from the time I got home from school until the time I had to go to sleep. As will happen whenever someone practices as much as I did, I became pretty good. I joined the concert band, but the director quickly recognized some talent in me and promoted me to the symphonic band with the higher level players.

The rigor of symphonic band was very different from the easy-going concert band. It seemed that the stress that I had sought to escape with music had continued following me and was now poisoning my new favorite hobby. Symphonic band worked on a kind of tier system, where the section was divided into parts and, within those parts, chairs. The solos and whatever glory was involved in a middle school band went to those in the first chair of the first section. Despite my reluctance, I found myself swept up in the cutthroat competition.

I started at the bottom of the ladder, as the third chair in the second alto saxophone section. At first, I was content to just be a part of such a celebrated ensemble, but this feeling did not last for long. The players in front of me were ruthless. They insulted each other and, quickly, me. Being the new kid in the section, the four of them quickly found a common target in me. They mocked my technique—my articulation, mainly. At first, I found their taunts easy to ignore as the saxophone was just a hobby for me, not a lifestyle as it seemed to be for them. But their taunts began getting on my nerves.

One could move up a chair by challenging the person in front of him to a one-on-one audition to be judged by the conductor. Such challenges were infrequent, but they were always fiercely competitive. They also took up an entire class period, so they were popular with the rest of the band who would become spectators. Before I had arrived in March, the saxophone section had existed in a kind of unstable equilibrium, with no changes in structure or even any challenges since the beginning of the school year. But my presence somehow changed all this. My initial refusal to be affected by their mocking made them turn against each other for some reason. There were three challenges in two weeks, one of them resulting in a change in seat. Then, I decided to throw my hat in the ring.

I challenged the kid in front of me, a fellow who was also named Chris. Our competition consisted of playing scales selected at random by our conductor and a sight-reading of a piece that would be new to both of us. I embarrassed him. When we finished, a hush fell over the band room as the outcome was instantly obvious to everyone. When the conductor announced me as the winner, Chris ripped his mouthpiece off his saxophone and flung it across the room in frustration and walked out.

This monumental defeat plunged the saxophone section into bedlam. For weeks, there was a new challenge every day. Sometimes I was the challenger, sometimes I was the challenged, sometimes I was just a spectator. I won some and I lost some. Much of the system became trying to exploit your opponent’s weakness on a bad day; one kid named Matt broke up with his girlfriend and was challenged every day for a week until he dropped from second chair to the very bottom. It was not uncommon for a person to inhabit two or three different chairs in a single week. Since these challenges took the entire period, we got very little practice as a band. When our concert arrived in late May, we were awful. But I was first chair, and that’s what was important.

On the night of the concert after the show was finished, I was waiting in the parking lot for my parents to come pick me up. It was late and it was dark and the school had mostly emptied out. Suddenly, before I knew what was happening, I was hit across the shoulders with a pipe. I was soon being stomped by four people—the rest of the saxophone section. They beat me viciously for a few minutes before they left. Lying on the sidewalk clinging to consciousness, I vowed to myself that I would do whatever was necessary to lock up that first chair for my entire eighth grade year.

That summer, I convinced my parents to send me to an expensive and highly regarded conservatory in Vienna. I did not speak the language, but this only helped me as I was forced to focus all my waking energy on the saxophone. I joined a junior orchestra and tackled more and more difficult pieces as the summer wore on. By July, I was able to play any piece almost flawlessly the very first time it was put in front of me.

My training essentially complete, I spent the last month and a half of my time in Vienna enjoying the city. I learned every street like the back of my hand and to this day I have an undying passion for the old Austrian capital. I hope to retire there someday on the crooked streets that I grew to know and love that summer. I would just wonder around aimlessly for hours, taking in every sight and somehow finding my way back to the conservatory by dinnertime as if directed by some unperceived force. I would eat in cafés, watch people in sunny parks and speak to tourists I found who spoke English about any old thing. Vienna was truly a reawakening for me. I had never been able to converse with others or live so fully back in Connecticut. I never wanted to leave.

My love for the place only grew when I met a local girl named Johanna. She had long, bright blonde hair which is what I remember about her more than anything. We had a strange courtship that lasted only three weeks before I had to return to the United States. I have vivid memories of waking up early in the morning so I could get to her house for a light breakfast and spending the whole day with her. It was a true summer romance; every day shared the same lazy, lovely feel and we would do essentially the same thing every day. We shared breakfast at her house, walked the streets for a few hours before having lunch in a sunny park somewhere and then returning to the conservatory where we talked for a while before I insisted on walking her home and wouldn’t get back to bed until it was time to go to sleep. It was strange when I left. It was undoubtedly sad, but the whole relationship had this feeling of inevitability about it. We knew it would happen and we were mature enough and not caught up in our feelings enough to keep ourselves contained.

I never stopped thinking about her, which isn’t necessarily unusual for me, but is worth noting, I suppose. After college I went back to Vienna to look for her, but never found her. The people who know lived in her old apartment told me that they had heard rumors that Johanna was prostituting herself across Europe, but I did not believe them, and we may have just misunderstood each other. They also called me an orange little boy, so I don’t think they had a perfect grasp of English.

Things that might have been going through the mind of the hitchhiker I saw yesterday by the Hinman Sawmill on Rt. 69

1

These shoes are uncomfortable

2

Somebody better pick me up, I need to get back to my time machine so I can return to the late 1930s.

3

WHOOOOAAAAAOOAOAA OOOOOHHHHHHH AAAAAAHHHHH OOOHOOOOHHHHH
FOR THE LONGEST TIME
WHOOOOAAAAAA AAAAAAHHOOOHHHH
FOR THE LONGEST

4

Why is that kid with the ugly hair laughing at me?

The Chris Sartinsky Memoirs: Chapter Six: The Awkward Age

I entered the sixth grade and, with it, middle school with no small degree of trepidation. Lockers, periods, different lunches, the whole thing was intimidating. Suddenly, my future began to loom ominously in front of me. There were only three years of middle school and then there was high school and then college and then it was time for a career. I thought I should learn a trade and got a part-time job over the summer working with a local mechanic who paid me under the table to avoid scrutiny for hiring a ten year old.

Unfortunately, I knew nothing about cars. Only three weeks in, my right ring finger was sucked into an engine. It was shredded seemingly beyond repair, but the good people at the Bristol Cosmetic and Reconstructive Surgery Office did miracle work. The only time an observer can tell the difference is after a particularly long shower when it turns a strange shade of brownish purple and swells to the size of a thick marker, but the swelling quickly subsides. I feel no soreness when it rains, though I did feel a strange soreness once and a small freak tornado touched down a few miles from my house only an hour later. I do not know if this is a coincidence or if something in my finger reacts to changes in pressure or wind speed just before a tornado is about to touch down since I was never able to test it again, tornadoes being exceedingly rare in Connecticut. I have lobbied several weather prediction companies and tornado watchers hoping for financing to live in the Midwest for a while and test my abilities, but so far have received no offers.

With no more job, I spent the summer before sixth grade lounging around the house. I decided that since I was clearly not fit for manual labor, I would pursue more intellectual endeavors. I read Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment and The Brothers Karamazov in three weeks. Perhaps less than ready to deal with the implications of the great Russian writer, I attempted suicide in utter desolation after reading the novels. I tried to overdose on a prescription medicine I found in our cabinet. I was unsuccessful in my attempt, so much so that I regained consciousness after only a short forty-five minute nap and no one in the family was even aware of what I had tried to do.

Unfortunately, the episode did not end there. The medicine had unforeseen side effects. It wreaked havoc on my thyroid glands, my hormones and just about every gland, nerve and secretion in my body. As a result, I grew seven inches the night after my attempt. I grew another five and a half inches the next night. At first, my parents only told themselves that I was going through a growth spurt, but this explanation soon proved insufficient after I shrunk a foot and a half the next night. My height continued climbing and falling night after night so that in a period of a week the difference between my tallest and shortest heights might be as much as three feet. Doctors could do nothing for me and the only solution was a series of boots with soles of different sizes so my classmates would not noticing my fluctuating size. Unfortunately, because of the extremity of the growth spurts, the boots had to level off at seven feet four inches, an effect which was aided by boots that were as tall as four and a half feet. As a result, I was very easy to push over and it became something of a pastime for my friends to slam into my huge boots and send me sprawling to the ground. The condition stays with me today, though it is nowhere near as bad as it once was with my tallest lifts giving me no more height than an average pair of stiletto heels.

As one might expect, enduring middle school with such a condition was less than ideal. My life became something of a nightmare. I was teased mercilessly and I was only able to put up a fight about half the time. Even when I was tall enough to handle any physical intimidation, my spirit was depleted. I would spend most of my time between classes hiding from other people, a task which would vacillate between simple and difficult from day to day.

My parents encouraged me to join activities in school to keep my mind off my problems. I tried out for the basketball team, and though I was decent, the coach was intimidated by the prospect of building a lineup around someone whose position would change every day and cut me. After that, I tried out for the school play. The director asked every student to come prepared with a monologue from a movie or play we enjoyed. I found something from “Caddyshack” but accidentally printed a seven page anti-Semitic Fascist political tract. Hopelessly nervous on stage and not really aware of the full connotations of what I was reading, I delivered the whole thing with no feeling. Of my stiff performance, the director said he was relieved that I seemed to be a good democrat but, unfortunately, I was still a terrible actor.

Desperate, I joined the new Calligraphy Club. Struggling and uninspired with school, I poured a great deal of effort and discipline into my calligraphy. I became quite good and the teacher who ran the club even called me a prodigy. I made a sample sheet and my teacher submitted it to a design company who turned it into a font. To date, six brands of publishing software bundle my font, which is named after the teacher who ran the group who took credit for the font and enjoyed royalties until the club was disbanded and he was imprisoned for molesting a seventh grade girl who was on the track team, which he also coached. Her name was Debbie and the font bears her name, which makes it more creepy than anything. It is not very popular.

0505

Clearing my name

I was reading something about employers using various Internet resources to check up on applicants, and though I've successfully avoided Facebook and Myspace, there is always this here blog for people to find. I'm not sure how I feel about that. Currently, a Google search for my name results in a mention of this site on Greg's, my DFP column and a link to the Pac-Man video among other things. Now of course all of us know that The Adventures of Pac-Man is hilarious, but I'm not sure if prospective employers would feel the same way.

So I've decided that since I have this powerful Internet tool in my hands, I should exploit it. There's this technique called Google Bombing where blogs and other sites try to influence Google's search rank. It's the reason "miserable failure" returns George W. Bush and Michael Moore as numbers one and two respectively despite no mentions of miserable failure on either site. This is clearly what I need to do. So the remainder of the space on this page will be devoted to clearing my name and getting some good things to pop up when people search for my name. Here we go!

chris sartinsky
chris sartinsky
chris sartinsky
chris sartinsky
chris sartinsky
chris sartinsky
chris sartinsky
chris sartinsky
chris sartinsky
chris sartinsky
chris sartinsky
chris sartinsky
chris sartinsky
chris sartinsky
chris sartinsky
chris sartinsky

A bull, being ridden

My life is a farce. An absolute farce. What am I? What the hell am I doing? I'm a circus freak. A sideshow act. Entertainment for these braindead drunken hicks. I'm a fucking show for these people. I am here solely for their amusement. How fucking degrading.

What happened to me? How did I get here? I had such promise. Such amazing promise. I wrote an undergraduate thesis on postmodern satire. And what of it? Where did that bring me? A dusty ring in some backwater dump, saddled up by inbred morons, forced to prance around like an animal. This is disgusting. Don't these people know who I am? Don't they know what I've done? I mean, I'm not famous, but I have an education. Don't they care? No, they don't care. They can barely read, what would they care what I have to say about Pynchon or Heller or Barth. Idiots.

Oh jeez, here we go. This guy's going to ride me now. How exciting! Think this dumbass realizes his sport is nothing more than an absurd crapshoot? I mean, if you can hold on to a bull, there's nothing really separating the guys who can hold on for three seconds and the ones who can do it for six seconds. Yeah, the pinnacle of your sport is six seconds. Real hero, you.

I'm not going to do it this time. I'm not going to do it. I don't care. I don't care what they say or what they do. They can open the gate, they can kick me, they can sell me down to Mexico to slowly bleed to death at the hands of some queer with a cape. I'm not moving. No more. You hear me? I'm done being your little bull-whore. I have my dignity, after all. If nothing else, I have my dignity.

OK, here we go. That's right, buddy. Take a seat. Get nice and comfortable 'cause we're not going anywhere. Little nervous? You're holding on pretty right there, guy. Why? Like I said, we're staying right here. We're gonna be here for a while.

That's right. Open the gate. OPEN THE FUCKING GATE. Oh, what's that? The big dumb bull won't move? Oh, gee! But what will become of the rodeo? Doesn't the bu--

Did this prick just yell "Yee haw?" Holy fucking shit. I'm sending his ass back to the stone age.

Oh, but I'm doing it again. I fell for it. Isn't this just exactly what they wanted? I'm a pathetic sell-out, that's all I really am. Every time, it's the same story. Big bull is gonna make a stand this time! He's not going to put up with it anymore! And then what happens? He folds. Every time. I am a joke.

All right, you're done buddy. I'm through with you. One point eight seconds. Ha. You suck. That's what you get for fooling me into going along with your little game again. Here, take a nice hoof to the head. How do you like that, huh? Now who's in charge? Oh, you're gonna curse at me, are you? Well you know what I think about that? Looks like it's just you and me alone in this ring. Just you and me. I am going to dominate you.

Oh, look at this, they're sending the clown to try to save you. That must make you feel pretty good. Big strong rodeo man! He rides bulls! He hogties cattle! He's a cowboy! And yet, he needs a man in a rainbow wig and makeup to save his ass. A clown! Is there anything lower than a clown? Perhaps a small impoverished child can help you next time! Or a butterfly! Or a daisy! Forget it, I'm not going to be distracted. You are mine. Let's go.

Look at that clown, bouncing around. What a moron. Sure, this bullrider is sad for needing a clown to save him, but at least it isn't his job to dress like an asshole and absorb blows from dangerous animals. I bet your parents are real proud. Do you need a degree to land that job, clown? Do you have connections? Is there a waiting list? Do you have to intern first and then work your way up to rodeo clown? What are you getting paid for this? You making six figures? Ha. You are pathetic.

No, no. Don't lose focus here. Forget about the clown. He's probably an alcoholic anyway. His liver will give out or he'll crash into a telephone pole or something soon enough. Don't waste your energy. This is about Cowboy Bill over here. Destroy him. Skewer him like a marshmallow. Hear me buddy? You know what it means when I scrape my hoof in the dust like this? Yeah, that's right. That means it's OVER. IT'S ALL OVER. YOU ARE MINE. I AM GOING TO--

Look at that fucking clown. Is that seltzer? Oh my God, tell me he did not just spray seltzer at me. I am going to crush that clown.

File under: never gets old

Ah! But wait! There's more to this post than a gratuitous Nick Nolte mug shot. Hooray for Kaitlin who stumbled across this gem somewhere on the wondrous web of Facebook:


Who is this kid? What is his relation to Nick Nolte? Is he drunk? Does he go to BU? Can I speak to him? Where's that right hand headed? Why can't he button his shirt and stop smiling so the picture could be absolutely perfect?

I think this picture alone is turning me around on the whole Facebook issue. I'm this close.

Million dollar inventions (please don't steal)

Has this ever happened to you?
















































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YES JIMMY FALLON'S CAREER IS OVER YESSSSS

I consider this a victory

(You can't see me right now, but I'm with Horatio Sanz and we're laughing at my own post right now)

Odd

GanglyWhiteBoy (10:52:56 PM): oh, yeah, uh, thas cool i guess--chicken sandwich

Auto response from ShrimpSar (10:52:56 PM): Dreams about punching middle aged women in the face after they cut you in line:

GanglyWhiteBoy (10:53:02 PM): uh, french fry soda straw
GanglyWhiteBoy (10:53:04 PM): napkin hat
GanglyWhiteBoy (10:53:08 PM): maka napkin hat
GanglyWhiteBoy (10:53:10 PM): yeah uh
GanglyWhiteBoy (10:53:12 PM): chicken sandwich
GanglyWhiteBoy (10:53:21 PM): i wunna chicken sandwich sub now
GanglyWhiteBoy (10:53:23 PM): make it bigger bread
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GanglyWhiteBoy (10:53:56 PM): tomato
GanglyWhiteBoy (10:53:59 PM): got any pickle?
GanglyWhiteBoy (10:54:06 PM): yeah i don't wanna pickle
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GanglyWhiteBoy (10:54:11 PM): no pickle on my chicken sandwich
GanglyWhiteBoy (10:54:42 PM): yeah no chicken salad
GanglyWhiteBoy (10:54:45 PM): chicken sandwich
GanglyWhiteBoy (10:55:03 PM): unless you put the chicken salad on the sandwich bread and take away the mayon
GanglyWhiteBoy (10:55:07 PM): yeah mayon
GanglyWhiteBoy (10:55:09 PM): like mayp
GanglyWhiteBoy (10:55:12 PM): and mayo
GanglyWhiteBoy (10:55:13 PM): more fat
GanglyWhiteBoy (10:55:15 PM): chicken
GanglyWhiteBoy signed off at 10:55:16 PM.

Dreams about punching middle aged women in the face after they cut you in line:

Oddly satisfying.

Burlington, CT: the USA's Worst Place (excluding LA, New Jersey and large desolate stretches of the midwest)

The latest issue of Hartford Magazine features a profile of my sleepy little hometown that really makes me realize what an awful place it is. I've never had a ton of town pride, but I always thought it was kind of nice for what it was: a scenic suburb in the middle of the woods. At the very least, I knew we were at least better than the likes of Harwinton and Bristol. But this article has really opened my eyes. Unfortunately, they didn't print the article online, so I'll provide a synopsis:

• Pretty much in an indescribable spot in the middle of nowhere, belonging to noplace (Litchfield Hills? no. Farmington River Valley? not really. Hartford County? barely.)
• Full of ignorant small-towners who make minor problems into major issues, mainly because there's nothing the fuck else to think about.
• Quaint small-town traditions (campaigning at the local dump, see others below) eradicated, replaced by gaudy banalities of every bland suburb like Dunkin' Donuts and CVS
  
• Village Foodmart: gone, Johnnycake Airport: gone, historic buildings: gone, waving man: dead

So there it is, folks. I strongly urge every Burlington resident to read a copy of this article if you want to see your hometown's ass nailed to the wall. I'm barely even exaggerating; it really is amazingly negative. We can't even look good in a puff piece in a puff magazine! Something is very wrong.

Search that led an Egyptian person here

how can i do shrimps farm

I now know what kind of people go to skittles.com and similar sites to enter the codes on the packaging hoping to win cash and other prizes

People trying to avoid their Huck Finn papers, that's who.

One more Marmaduke

(one of these days I'm going to go over everything I've ever posted on this site and see how many of them are inside jokes)

Oscar Mayer Watchables

(by the way, whatever happened to the pizza Lunchables? I would eat those every day if I could)

recommended viewing one
recommended viewing two
required viewing one
required viewing two
required viewing three

New Marmadukes

More Freep atrocities (or Jesus Christ I can't believe I go to the same school as these people, I must be pretty dumb after all)

I really really hate it when people talk about stupid things like Facebook and Instant Messenger, even moreso when they take themselves seriously in the process. You can find evidence of this here and here and probably elsewhere. I don't know why, exactly. It's probably just a silly pet peeve of mine. But what the hell is a blog good for if not for indulging silly pet peeves?

Today's entry is called "The social consequences of AOL Instant Messenger" for Christ's sake. Unless you're a sociologist, you shouldn't be coming within thirty miles of this stupid topic, and even if you are it probably isn't a good idea. Anyway, here we go.

We are Generation Y. We were clad in remnants of 80s fashion throughout the majority of our elementary school pictures. We fell in love with the Backstreet Boys and Britney Spears, only to later discover we had lost our minds in junior high. We learned to drive when the price of gas was under $2.00. We also came to college incessantly attached to our computers and the fast technology of AOL Instant Messenger.

I know, my life was exactly like that too. By the way, if anyone ever calls me Generation Y again, I'm popping them in the face. Hell if my generation is going to be known for nothing more than following one of the most insulted generations of all time.

The obvious impacts of AIM for the majority of people our age are beneficial. It's instant, for one. No waiting and no hassle, especially with the way the internet runs today. It cuts out the small talk apparent in any other type of conversation because you can get right to the point. If you still have small talk on AIM, you're simply bored.

I can't tell if this part is a joke.

It encourages our creativity by letting us choose from a myriad of icons, and if one does not suit our tastes, we can even make one from scratch. Not to mention the witty and sometimes colorful away messages we come up with.

You heard it here first, folks. Buddy icons + away messages = art.

And I mean, it goes on. Who has the energy to rip apart someone who thinks AIM encourages creativity? It's hardly worth it. It's not even fun. It's just sad. Like taunting a dying animal. If you're interested in reading the whole thing, it doesn't just extol the virtues of Instant Messenger. It deals with its weaknesses as well, like in this powerful passage.

That is, most of our "Jiminy Crickets" have to force us to even slightly interact with humankind, if at all.

If you're less interested in the deep social implications of mindless technology and nauseating masturbatory self-righteousness is more your thing, then check out the weekly column of Sufia Khalid. That's right, she's a Muslim and she's not gonna take any shit about it from anybody! Sufia will give you a great glimpse into another world where Saudi Arabia is more free because they're allowed to wear scarves and say what they want (never mind that Sufia is currently in America wearing a scarf and saying what she wants) and where people care about the disadvantaged! She's a very expressive writer; peruse her archives and watch the broken English spring to life off the page! This week, she examines why BU students are so selfish, kinda like she's done in every column she's written for the past month or so. Anyway, she apparently doesn't so much attend college as must as she just watches PCU a lot (I know I know, I've seen like twenty movies in my entire life and "PCU" is one of them, go figure).

Hundreds of thousands of students have made it into prestigious universities in America, the capital of higher learning. But among them I find potheads, drop-outs, alcoholics and "professional students" -- those who stay in school forever with no intention of graduating...When I talk to friends overseas (who would do anything for the opportunities people here have) and tell them about the drop-outs, the people who are "taking some time off," the potheads and all the other wasteful students, they think I'm seriously exaggerating.

Ummmm...

The Cult, Act II

[Two weeks later. The same office, morning. PRITCHARD is once again in good spirits and is, for the most part, as confident in himself as he was in the beginning of the play. TIMOTHY enters.]

PRITCHARD: Good morning, Timothy.
TIMOTHY: Good morning, sir.
PRITCHARD: It’s a beautiful morning, is it not Timothy?
TIMOTHY: [looking out the window] It appears that it is, sir.
PRITCHARD: [standing up, gesturing grandly] It is a beautiful morning, Timothy. It’s warm, the green is returning to our beautiful surroundings, life is returning to the land. Can you feel it?
TIMOTHY: [looking out the window again] Everything is greener, sir.
PRITCHARD: Yes it is! Timothy—you might think this sounds strange. But could you sing me a song?
TIMOTHY: A song, sir?
PRITCHARD: Yes! Any old thing. I just would like to hear the sound of music. I mean, there are the chants, but—those just don’t have any life in them. I need some life, Timothy! Something effervescent, something vibrant, something alive!
TIMOTHY: I don’t know many songs, sir.
PRITCHARD: Anything!
TIMOTHY: Well I do know a song that gets on everybody’s nerves, sir. Would you like me to sing that?
PRITCHARD: [frowning, seriously considering the proposition] Hmm. This song is annoying, you say?
TIMOTHY: Yes, sir.
PRITCHARD: Well I don’t know if I want to hear a song if it will only be an irritation.
TIMOTHY: I understand, sir. I wouldn’t want to spoil your good mood.
PRITCHARD: On the other hand, who am I to judge the merits of the song unless I hear it first? It seems to me that I would miss out on many of life’s greatest pleasures if I listened to the opinions of others without judging for myself. I don’t mean to insult you or impugn your judgment, Timothy—
TIMOTHY: No, of course, sir.
PRITCHARD: It’s just like the apple orchard we build on the east of the development. People said “we don’t need apples, it’ll be a bore, you’ll plant all the trees and a week and a half later you’ll forget you ever planted it,” and now what? Everybody loves it! They take their Goodness and Loyalty Tablatures and they read them in the shade and the breeze.
TIMOTHY: It was an unmitigated success, sir.
PRITCHARD: Good word, Timothy.
TIMOTHY: Thank you, sir!
PRITCHARD: Anyway, as I was saying—I believe I would like to hear the song and then make a decision on its irritability for myself.
TIMOTHY: That’s always the best way, sir.
PRITCHARD: Though again, I don’t want it to be a completely uncomfortable experience.
TIMOTHY: One would never wish such a thing, sir.
PRITCHARD: If this song really does, as you say, get on everybody’s nerves, perhaps it would be best if I did not hear the whole thing, lest it get on my nerves and dampen my spirits.
TIMOTHY: Perhaps I could begin singing and wait for you to tell me when to stop?
PRITCHARD: No, Timothy. You know the song better than I do so I wouldn’t want to cut you short. Perhaps you could just sing the first verse of this song that gets on everybody’s nerves.
TIMOTHY: That sounds fair. Should I begin?
PRITCHARD: Surely!

[TIMOTHY clears his throat.]

TIMOTHY: [sung to the tune of the Battle Hymn of the Republic.] I know a song that gets on everybody’s nerves! I know a song that gets on everybody’s nerves. I know a song that gets on everybody’s nerves and this is how it goes.

[TIMOTHY stops. There is a silence. PRITCHARD scratches his chin, then begins chuckling.]

PRITCHARD: Is that it, Timothy?
TIMOTHY: It is, sir.
PRITCHARD: Well that wasn’t so irritating!
TIMOTHY: You didn’t find it so?
PRITCHARD: Not at all! Not in the least! I think that the people to whom this song refers are simply approaching the song with the wrong attitude!
TIMOTHY: Perhaps you’re right, sir. A positive attitude can go a long way towards making an otherwise unpleasant situation enjoyable.
PRITCHARD: Exactly, Timothy, exactly! Chin up, I say! It’s a beautiful world. It should be enjoyed. One can’t approach the world cynically or the world will seem an unfriendly place.
TIMOTHY: Your attitude is truly inspirational, sir. Perhaps you should circulate a memorandum.
PRITCHARD: I do believe I will, Timothy. Add it to the end of the agenda. But first, there are other matters to be dealt with, am I right?
TIMOTHY: As always, sir.
PRITCHARD: Well let’s have at them!
TIMOTHY: Well first, sir, there’s the juice.
PRITCHARD: The juice, Timothy? Didn’t we address this issue two weeks ago? Or a similar situation anyway?
TIMOTHY: Yes, sir, but this problem is seemingly a result of the first.
PRITCHARD: Explain.
TIMOTHY: Well, sir, apparently word got out that you preferred orange juice and now that’s all anyone will drink. We have gallons of excess grape juice.
PRITCHARD: [chuckling congenially] Boy, those people sure do take my opinions seriously, don’t they?
TIMOTHY: They do, sir. A result of decades of fine decision-making, I’d say.
PRITCHARD: Well thank you, Timothy.
TIMOTHY: It’s true, sir.
PRITCHARD: Well, I suppose a decision needs to be made on this issue then, yes?
TIMOTHY: It would appear so, sir.
PRITCHARD: Something must be done. A decision must be made. And who is going to make the decision if not me?
TIMOTHY: No one, sir.
PRITCHARD: That’s right. So I suppose recommending the grape juice won’t do much good.
TIMOTHY: It will make people drink the grape juice at the expense of the orange juice and we will have an identical problem with the other juice.
PRITCHARD: Exactly! Well deduced, Timothy. So we’ll sell our grape juice reserves to the town and spend the excess on more orange juice.
TIMOTHY: But then won’t we have an excess of orange juice, sir?
PRITCHARD: Not if we simply deposit the extra cash into the orange juice fund and only release it gradually, when we need it.
TIMOTHY: But sir, if I may.
PRITCHARD: Of course, Timothy.
TIMOTHY: We are not having any orange juice shortages. We’re buying just as much as we need, no more and no less.
PRITCHARD: Yes, but this money would form an extra security cushion should we ever have an orange juice crisis of some sort.
TIMOTHY: Sound planning, sir.
PRITCHARD: Well, you have to be prepared for everything, don’t you?
TIMOTHY: Yes sir.

[Suddenly, there is a clamor of excited voices outside the office. Voices can be heard saying “He’s back!” and “Where are we going?”, etc. TIMOTHY walks over to the window and looks down.]

PRITCHARD: What’s going on out there, Timothy?
TIMOTHY: I appears there’s a crowd coming this way.
PRITCHARD: Into the building?
TIMOTHY: Yes, sir.
PRITCHARD: What do they want? What are they talking about?
TIMOTHY: I don’t know, sir. Should we let them in?
PRITCHARD: Yes, yes. I’m sure it’s nothing serious. Just find out what the situation is first.
TIMOTHY: Yes, sir.

[TIMOTHY exits. The voices are now directly outside the door in the lobby and some of them sound angry. One sharp voice demands entry into the office and a hush descends over the rest of the crowd. TIMOTHY reenters.]

TIMOTHY: The Sheffer boy is back, sir.

[There is a short pause. PRITCHARD looks at a loss for words.]

PRITCHARD: Back?
TIMOTHY: Yes, sir.
PRITCHARD: Well what does he want? Does he want to return?
TIMOTHY: I don’t know, sir. He is demanding to see you immediately. [Short pause.] Should I let him in?
PRITCHARD: Yes.

[TIMOTHY starts to move towards the door.]

PRITCHARD: Wait! No. What do you think, Timothy?

[There is a pause.]

TIMOTHY: I think whatever you think is best, sir.

[There is a silence. PRITCHARD is visibly worried by TIMOTHY’s confidence.]

PRITCHARD: OK.
TIMOTHY: Let him in?
PRITCHARD: Yes. Let him in. I suppose—yes.

[TIMOTHY exits. Voices can be heard in the lobby. PRITCHARD rolls his eyes, plays nervously with his hands, coughs. TIMOTHY is only gone for a few seconds.]

PRITCHARD: What in the hell is taking them so long? [Short pause.] I’m talking to myself.

[TIMOTHY reenters with DAVID SHEFFER following, looking out of place wearing a pair of tight jeans, an old Philadelphia Eagles sweatshirt and sneakers. PRITCHARD clears his throat nervously and stands up straight, trying to reflect a benevolence without diminishing his authority. DAVID is followed by a crowd that he has picked up throughout the convent on his way to the office.]

TIMOTHY: Should I let them all in sir?

[People continue streaming in, fifteen in all. PRITCHARD sees that he has no choice, but doesn’t let on.]

PRITCHARD: Yes, yes, let everyone in. We have nothing to hide. This is—
DAVID: Bob Pritchard!

[There is a powerful silence. The crowd looks at one another, confused. TIMOTHY, understanding the significance, looks at PRITCHARD, eyes bulging in shock and terror. PRITCHARD is caught off guard. He looks down and forces a casual smile. He is afraid.]

PRITCHARD: Ye—yes.

[Someone in the crowd gasps.]

DAVID: Your name is Bob Pritchard. You were born on December 9, 1958 at New Britain General Hospital.

[There is another silence. The crowd murmurs nervously. PRITCHARD tries to keep a congenial smile on his face, but is staggered. He considers whether or not what DAVID has just revealed hurts him in other ways. His knees are weak.]

PRITCHARD: [chuckles] Yes. That’s right. That’s very good.
MAN 1: How dare you speak to the Prophet that way!
PRITCHARD: No no, it’s quite all right—
DAVID: That man is no prophet!

[Exaggerated outrage in the crowd. Soon, one is just trying to outdo the next and prove that they are the most devoted to PRITCHARD, who waves his hands, trying to calm everyone down.]

PRITCHARD: Please, please. Now son, you know that is a serious accusation.
DAVID: You ran a nursery school in Andover for seven years before you went under and converted the land into a farm. You always had a thing for authority, it seems. Then you whipped up your little handbook and bought more land off the state and started this joint. You were a failure in business and that’s the only reason this place exists.
WOMAN 1: No! It’s not true! It’s not true!
MAN 2: I would lay down my life for you, Prophet!

[MAN 2 rushes forward and punches DAVID in the face. DAVID falls and the crowd cheers wildly. MAN 2 gets up on the couch next to PRITCHARD’s desk and raises his arms in victory, smiling widely. Another man kicks DAVID as he is standing up. TIMOTHY rushes over and separates the two, protecting DAVID.]

PRITCHARD: [shouting now] That’s enough!

[There is a long tense silence. MAN 2 jumps off the couch and tries to blend in with the rest of the crowd. PRITCHARD looks embarrassed.]

PRITCHARD: Sorry. I’m sorry, really. I didn’t mean to shout. Or scare you.
TIMOTHY: Sir—
PRITCHARD: Uh, please, please, give me some time alone with the boy so we can sort this whole thing out. You can all wait in the lobby if you’d like.

[The crowd files out respectfully. PRITCHARD and DAVID look at each other. DAVID is suspicious, PRITCHARD is trying to look as harmless as possible to make him feel at ease. PRITCHARD looks at his sweatshirt.]

PRITCHARD: Did you go to Philadelphia?
DAVID: No.
PRITCHARD: [making a lame joke] Did you see any eagles?
DAVID: No. It’s a professional sports team.
PRITCHARD: Yes, I know. I was—joking. I’m not that cut off, after all.
DAVID: The others are. They didn’t know what it meant. [short pause] Why don’t you let us watch professional sports?
PRITCHARD: Well, we have our own sports. No one has ever raised any objections before. [He sees that this is inadequate.] We have studies—Timothy?
TIMOTHY: Yes. We found that intramural sports are enhanced—
DAVID: You’re not going to brainwash me.
PRITCHARD: [Defensive] Brainwash? When have we ever tried to brainwash anyone here?
DAVID: You—
PRITCHARD: Never! This is a voluntary commune. If you want to leave, then leave! I don’t appreciate you sticking your nose around here and causing trouble with people who just want to live a happy, quiet life!
DAVID: It is brainwashing! What do you call all the religious claptrap you feed these people? Prophets! Visions! You’re a failed headmaster. You always had a thing for authority, didn’t you?
PRITCHARD: I have never overstepped my bounds. I have done nothing that I thought wouldn’t benefit the entire commune. I ask you—I dare you to show me evidence of any time where I used my authority unfairly here at Dairyview or ever!
DAVID: You’re a failure!
PRITCHARD: [hissing] A failure? Would a failure have close to a hundred people following his every word? His every suggestion? You’re the silly failure. These people listen to me. You— [he is embarrassed. He speaks normally again.] Look. The religious implications of the commune—
DAVID: Cult.

[PRITCHARD takes offense at this word but carefully hides any reaction.]

PRITCHARD: Dairyview is about brotherhood and leadership. Again, if you find life on the outside preferable, then you are free to leave as you have done before. But please, I just ask that you respect that these people want—they have—they believe in me.
DAVID: And that’s wrong.
PRITCHARD: [condescendingly] Uh huh, I see. And just how is it wrong, David?
DAVID: Because it’s wrong! You had no vision! You fooled these people!

[There is a pause. PRITCHARD takes these words to heart. He leans back in his chair and sighs.]

PRITCHARD: OK, David. I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told anyone before. Timothy, I want you to hear this too. This is very embarrassing for me. It sounds silly—I used to take a lot of drugs. And one day, I thought I had a vision. And that’s where Dairyview came from. You know the rest of the story, it’s all there in the literature you’ve been taught since you were born. But that’s how it started. I believed in that vision. Now—I know—what it was. But I believed it. This wasn’t some cynical deception. It was a mistake.
DAVID: That’s wrong.
PRITCHARD: What’s wrong about it? My only goal from the very beginning was to make this place good and comfortable for everyone. I’ve tried to make the right decisions. For everyone! Have I taken advantage of people? Do I live in luxury? No, I live in the same lodgings as everyone else here. I’ve never forced anyone to stay or do anything against their will. There are no political prisoners, no executions. What more do you want from me? I can’t do anything more. These people are going to stay no matter what. I’ve done my best for them.
DAVID: But it’s based on a lie.
PRITCHARD: There was no lie!
DAVID: It’s based on a falsehood!
PRITCHARD: [standing up, now shouting] Oh, so what! People have been wrong since the dawn of time! Everyone who has ever lived has been wrong! The smartest, the greatest people the world has ever known have been wrong! Socrates was wrong, Napoleon was wrong, Columbus was wrong. Isaac Newton thought all motion could be explained by gravity, and for a while it looked like he was right. All the math checked out. And then what happened? Quantum mechanics! Newton! One of the smartest men to ever walk the earth! Was wrong! And God knows how long quantum mechanics will last until the next thing comes along.
DAVID: What does any of this have to do with—
PRITCHARD: Everyone is wrong. I was wrong. It happens. People have always lived with ideas that have been or will be laughed at later. This is another one of those. So be it.
DAVID: Who’s to say, you sad little nihilist! Who’s to say something out there now can’t work?
PRITCHARD: It doesn’t work! And look at history, it won’t work. And it won’t be long before everyone finds out and the next new trend comes along. I’m no nihilist, there’s some truth somewhere, but you’re a damned fool if you think you’ll ever live to see it.
TIMOTHY: [shocked, unable to contain himself] Sir!

[PRITCHARD swallows, looking uncomfortable and ashamed.]

PRITCHARD: Yes, Timothy.
TIMOTHY: I don’t even know where to begin.

[There is a short pause. MRS SHEFFER bursts through the door and hugs her son, sobbing. MR SHEFFER follows closely. The door is left open and the crowd begins to filter back in.]

MRS SHEFFER: My son, my son!
DAVID: Mom, please.
MRS SHEFFER: Where have you been? Why did you leave?
DAVID: I went out to find the truth about this place.
MRS SHEFFER: What’s wrong with this place? What have we done wrong?
DAVID: This place is a lie, Mom. His name is Bob Pritchard. He just told me everything. Ask him.

[A silence. The crowd looks at PRITCHARD who stands still.]

PRITCHARD: I think you should all leave.
DAVID: [breaking away from his mother] No! Tell them! Tell them what you just told me. About how all of this was a mistake. How there’s no truth to anything they believe in. How it was all just one of your drug-induced masturbatory fantasies.
PRITCHARD: [shouting] That’s enough!
CROWD: What does he mean? What’s he talking about? Etc.
PRITCHARD: There’s nothing to tell! And you, young man, have crossed the line! You have committed crimes against the Prophet! Slander!
DAVID: You’re not a prophet! You’re fried!
PRITCHARD: Everybody out! Everybody out!

[The crowd starts to move back into the lobby but is pushed back into the office by MARYANN, the daughter of PRITCHARD.]

MARYANN: What are you going to do to him?
PRITCHARD: Maryann, what are you doing here? What do you know about this lying miscreant?
MARYANN: He’s not a miscreant, Daddy.
PRITCHARD: Honey, I don’t know what he’s told you, but it’s all fiction.
DAVID: It’s not fiction! Lying to your own daughter, there are no depths you won’t sink to.
PRITCHARD: I’ve had enough of your slander! This is unprecedented! Timothy, what are the procedures for trial on the grounds of treason and slander against the Prophet and Dairyview? [Pause as Timothy just looks forward, lost in thought seemingly not paying attention.] Timothy!
TIMOTHY: Oh, uh what? Sir?
MARYANN: You can’t try him for treason! I—I’m in love with him!
PRITCHARD: Love?! You know how I feel about love! Timothy!
TIMOTHY: [shaken, speaking the words hollowly.] A shallow socially-constructed artifice that only serves to justify intercourse and other sundry acts of meaningless lust and abject depravity, often used to manipulate otherwise unwilling partners into engaging in said acts, sir.
PRITCHARD: That’s right, Timothy!
MARYANN: No! I feel things for him!
PRITCHARD: What do you even know about him? Enough of this absurdity! He’s a runaway and a slanderer and a traitor and I’m not going to allow this.
MARYANN: You’re being unfair.
DAVID: Unbelievable.
PRITCHARD: Silence! Not another word out of you! Not another word! I’ll let you know when I want you to speak. Out! Out! Everybody out but the miscreant and Timothy. Everyone else go!
MAN 3: Why?
PRITCHARD: Excuse me?
MAN 3: Why do we have to go?
WOMAN 2: Yeah, what’s going on?
PRITCHARD: Official business! Nothing you need to know about. Who are you people to— [softening] nothing. Nothing’s going on, we’re just going to have a talk with the boy and straighten some things out.
DAVID: Did you hear that? Another lie!
PRITCHARD: [shouting again] Out! Get out of here!

[The crowd begins to file out slowly. Again, MR SHEFFER and MRS SHEFFER don’t move, staying beside their son. PRITCHARD sees this and turns to them.]

PRITCHARD: [again calm] You two as well. Please, you have nothing to worry about.
MAN 4: At least let the parents stay.
PRITCHARD: OUT!

[The crowd, MR and MRS SHEFFER included, now hurry out of the office. They leave the door open. PRITCHARD shuts it after them. He is now alone with DAVID and TIMOTHY.]

PRITCHARD: Well, young man, you’ve gotten yourself into a lot of trouble today.
DAVID: I don’t care.
PRITCHARD: You’ve gotten all of us into a lot of trouble today. That you should care about. These poor people here today, you’ve shattered their—
DAVID: I’ve told them the truth.
PRITCHARD: Things were just fine before!
DAVID: No they weren’t!
PRITCHARD: Look, I’m not going to have a philosophical discussion with a sniveling little teenager. Timothy, what is the procedure for a trial on the charges of slander and treason against the Great Prophet.
TIMOTHY: That’s unprecedented, sir.
PRITCHARD: We have an unprecedented problem, Timothy.
TIMOTHY: I just don’t know if this is the best—
PRITCHARD: When I want your opinion, Timothy, I will ask for it! What is the procedure?
TIMOTHY: The Great Prophet will present evidence for both sides and make the decision for himself, acknowledging the guidance of the Guiding Spirits.
DAVID: Guiding Spirits. Rich.
PRITCHARD: Don’t mock me. Sit down.

[DAVID doesn’t sit. PRITCHARD pays no attention. Through this scene, DAVID is quiet and confident as PRITCHARD’s anger grows. Neither believes it will end as it does.]

PRITCHARD: Evidence for the defense: he is simply a child, he doesn’t know of what he speaks, he has been deluded by outside forces, he should be banished for his own good and for the good of the entire commune but any further punishment is unnecessary and would simply be meaningless, benefiting no one but the Prophet’s sense of vengeance.
DAVID: Did the spirits tell you that? Or do you need another Mystical Injection first.
PRITCHARD: Evidence for the prosecution: he’s a no-good miscreant poisoning the minds of other residents of Dairyview.
DAVID: Evidence for the defense: you’re a quack and a liar.
PRITCHARD: Evidence for the prosecution: the defendant shoots off at the mouth and has no respect for the Great Prophet.
DAVID: Evidence for the defense: the Great Prophet is a deluded failure.
PRITCHARD: Evidence for the prosecution: the defendant’s insul—insolence.
DAVID: Evidence for the defense: the prosecution is stuttering.
PRITCHARD: Evidence for the prosecution: shut up I’ll do what I want! The defendant is found guilty—
DAVID: Hah!
PRITCHARD: of all charges. Timothy, what are the penalties.
TIMOTHY: Uh, I don’t—
PRITCHARD: Timothy!
TIMOTHY: Choice of the Great Prophet, sir.
DAVID: Reasonable.
PRITCHARD: It is reasonable! I choose Penalty Phase Four.
DAVID: Governmentspeak. Nice. You’re good at this.
PRITCHARD: Penalty Phase Four, Timothy.
TIMOTHY: There is no Penalty Phase Four, sir.
PRITCHARD: Well what’s the highest one, then?
TIMOTHY: Penalty Phase Three.
PRITCHARD: That one then!
DAVID: Hah.
TIMOTHY: Sir, this is unprecedented, I don’t—
PRITCHARD: Timothy!
TIMOTHY: [now frantic] You don’t know what you’re doing!
PRITCHARD: [he pauses, then speaks with his voice thick with threat.] Don’t say that. Don’t you ever say that.

[There is a long pause. TIMOTHY is petrified. He quickly moves to a file cabinet and pulls out an old handgun. DAVID jumps.]

DAVID: What the hell is this?
PRITCHARD: Penalty Phase Four.
DAVID: Three.
PRITCHARD: Three. Timothy, into position.

[TIMOTHY holds the gun to DAVID’s temple. DAVID laughs.]

DAVID: No fucking way.
PRITCHARD: I’m sorry, it’s out of my hands.
DAVID: You wouldn’t.
PRITCHARD: I am. Do you have any last words?
DAVID: Yeah, I boned your daughter.
PRITCHARD: Timothy!
TIMOTHY: Sir?
PRITCHARD: Timothy!

[TIMOTHY pulls the trigger and kills DAVID, who drops heavily behind the couch. There is a significant silence. TIMOTHY doesn’t move, leaving the gun hanging in the air. The silence lasts for four seconds until we hear the anguished tortured sobs of MRS SHEFFER coming from outside the door. No one moves. PRITCHARD, who has been standing, starts shaking and collapses into his chair. He points feebly towards the door. TIMOTHY starts walking out.]

PRITCHARD: [whispering] Timothy!

[TIMOTHY stops, then notices he is still holding the gun. He flips it off his hand as if it were on fire, horrified. He looks at PRITCHARD who cannot return his stare. TIMOTHY rushes out of the room. We hear MRS SHEFFER being led away, her cries growing softer until they are no longer heard. PRITCHARD is alone in the complete silence, sitting at his desk. Finally, TIMOTHY returns, shutting the door behind him. He does not move into the room. The two men stare at each other.]

PRITCHARD: Timothy. I’m sorry. [pause] I’m so sorry.
TIMOTHY: I killed him.
PRITCHARD: Timothy, please.
TIMOTHY: You killed him.
PRITCHARD: Timothy, please.

[There is another pause. TIMOTHY moves over to the body, lifts it as if to move it, then drops it. He steps away from the couch. Blood has seeped into the bottom of his robe. He lets out a small cry and starts ripping furiously at the bloody fabric.]

PRITCHARD: Timothy. Timothy! Get a hold of yourself!

[TIMOTHY snaps up. He sits on the couch, holding his head, dizzy. There is a silence.]

PRITCHARD: You have to understand. They have to understand. I was just doing what I thought was right. I was just trying to help. I was just helping.
TIMOTHY: [frenzied, gesturing towards the body.] This! Doesn’t help anybody!

[PRITCHARD looks down, ashamed. Suddenly, he is seized by purpose and grabs a telephone out of his desk. He plugs the cord under his desk. He picks up the receiver and looks at the phone for a second, as if to remember how it works. He dials two numbers. Suddenly, his nervous breathing is heard over a powerful PA system. He speaks slowly and haltingly.]

PRITCHARD: Attention, Dairyview residents. This is the voice of your Prophet—Bob Pritchard. Dairyview is closed. I am not really a Prophet. That was—a mistake. I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry.

[He tries to say something else, but then just hangs up. He taps his fingers on the desk, then dials three more numbers.]

PRITCHARD: Hello, police? There’s a dead person at Dairyview. He’s been shot. It was a murder. Yes. Thank you.

[He hangs up again. He sighs deeply.]

PRITCHARD: I’m sorry, Timothy.
TIMOTHY: Yeah.
PRITCHARD: I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would end this way.
TIMOTHY: I knew it would end this way.
PRITCHARD: Maybe you did. [There is a long pause.] We did the right thing, though. [There is a long pause.] We did. Telling all those people. They deserved to know. We did the right thing. And for the right reasons. That’s always the best thing to do, Timothy. These things come back around. This will pay off. It’s good karma.

[There is a short pause. TIMOTHY looks at PRITCHARD hopefully.]

TIMOTHY: You believe in karma?

[There is another long pause. PRITCHARD sighs.]

PRITCHARD: Nah. It’s just something you say.
TIMOTHY: Yeah.

END

Helpful footnotes in my edition of the Caryl Churchill play "Top Girls"

1 Hawaii -- Pacific island
7 cruise -- holiday taken at sea
7 walking shoes -- outdoor shoes
14 cock -- penis
14 fella -- fellow, man
19 balls -- vulgar for testicles (from ballocks)
19 giggles -- laugh uncontrollably (usually in company)
20 anorexic -- without appetite
23 pee -- urinate
28 the Spanish -- Spanish invaders
31 kids -- children
32 fiancé -- betrothed
34 birthday money -- money presented to her for her birthday
36 silly cunt -- vulgar term of abuse
36 Stupid fucking cow -- as above, Kit replies in kind.
36 stupid -- you stupid person
45 so -- so there! an expletive
47 poor little nerd -- dismissive expletive
49 kidding -- joking
60 Yeh -- yes
74 Grand Canyon -- spectacular scenic area of Colorado, USA
75 L.A. -- Los Angeles
76 forecast -- weather forecast
83 US of A -- United States of America
83 the eighties -- 1980s

Weather forecasts I would have appreciated more than yesterday's snow

Scattered earthquakes

Blitzkrieg

Plague watch

Moderate to heavy scorpionfall

70% chance of volcanoes

Dinosaur attack

Oprah circa 1992-sized hail

SCOTTYWOOD vs. SCOTTYWOOD

required reading 1
required reading 2
required reading 3
required viewing 1

::Scottywood's music comes over the PA. The crowd goes crazy::

JR: Well what is this?
LAWLER: Looks like we're getting a little visit from Scottywood!
JR: What's he doing here?

::Scottywood comes down the ramp. The crowd cheers. He grabs a microphone from ringside::








: For those of you who didn't know, this is Scottywood!

::The crowd goes crazy::

: Now as you may or may not know, there's a Pay-Per-View coming up, and I've got a title match. So you'll have as good an opportunity as you're gonna get to see The Perfect One in action! Because I am the one, the only, Sco--

::Scottywood's music plays again. Scotty drops the mic and looks around, confused. He swears to himself. Suddenly, someone else enters to Scottywood's music, flashing Scottywood's signs to the crowd::














: Well would you look at that!









: And just who in the hell do you think you are?















: Who am I? Who am I? Well I'm Scottywood. The question is--who the hell do you think you are?

::The crowd boos loudly::








: Boy, everyone in this arena knows who I am!

:The crowd goes crazy::














: Oh, is that right? Well they'd better learn to get it right. Because from now on, I am the only Scottywood on the Internet!








: Look at this guy in the red shirt! What is he doing? He ain't--foolin' anybody!

::The crowd goes crazy::














: You're getting old, Scotty. The fact is, you wouldn't even last ::holds up three fingers:: two seconds with me!








: You ain't nothing cool. You ain't even the flavor of the month! You just a one day--minuter.

::The crowd looks at one another, confused::

After I win at the Pay-Per-View, it'll be you and me, one on one!














:Why wait? Are you scared of me? Are you afraid of what I'm going to do to thee?








: You, with the weird curly hair. (Long pause) You gonna look at me and stare?

::There is a long awkward silence. Scottywood's music plays. Both Scottywoods exit slowly::

JR: Well, King, I'm not sure what we just saw.
LAWLER: Can you understand a thing those kids were saying?
JR: No I can't, King.

One of my supervisors this summer has revived his blog

OH THAT'S RIGHT, FOLKS

Social Studies project: interview someone of foreign heritage

INTERVIEWER: OK, tell me what it's like to be Indian.
SUBJECT: Uh--well really, it's no different from being anyone else, I don't think. I mean, everyone's real nice to our family. We haven't seen any racism or anything like that.
I: Do you ever really miss your home culture?
S: Uh, no, not really. I mean, my family, my grandparents especially are a kind of link to--uh, our past. So--yeah, it's not something I think about a lot.
I: What are some of your customs?
S: Well, really, we're pretty much Americans now. A few generations will do that to you, but, uh, sometimes we still celebrate old Mohegan holidays, like the harvest and such.
I: Uh--Mohe--OK. Um--so--when did you--uh--move to America?
S: Well, uh, I was born in America.
[shuffling of papers, nervous coughing]
I: Oh. Uh, well when did--your family move here.
S: Well, uh, we didn't move here. We're Native Americans.
I: Uh--uh huh. Well--did you find--uh--Thank you.
S: Sure.

Other

So you've finished reading those other blogs and were offended by the objectionable material of BUTV. And yet your insatiable thirst for miscellaneous content rages on. Luckily there's Mallory Amsden. Like our friend Ben Simpson, Mallory has promised an update a day. Hmm. Sounds familiar. AND WE ALL KNOW HOW THAT TURNED OUT, AM I RIGHT? HA HA HA! Seriously, though, good luck with all of that, you two. We'll be watching.

BUTV10 Schedule (March 29)

12 AM-4 PM: Off air
4 PM-4:30 PM: Static logo
4:30 PM-5 PM: Full Circle
5 PM-5:30 PM: Full Circle
5:30 PM-6 PM: Full Circle
6 PM-6:30 PM: Full Circle
6:30 PM-7 PM: Rendered (Episode 1 of 1)
7 PM-7:30 PM: Full Circle
7:30 PM-8 PM: Full Circle
8 PM-8:30 PM: Full Circle
8:30 PM-9 PM: Tape machine malfunctions, black screen
9:07 PM-9:37 PM: Full Circle
9:37 PM-10 PM: Static logo
10 PM-10:30 PM: Full Circle
10:30 PM-10:32 PM: Full Circle
10:32 PM-1 AM: Tape machine malfuntions, black screen
1 AM on: Off air

Others

So here's one I get a lot. Waah! You don't update your site enough! Waah! WAAH!

Well you know what? It's not easy being one of the premier* humor* bloggers* in America.

[* - I am not actually any of these things]

Sadly, the Burlingtonian Blog Revolution of Autumn 2004 died as quickly as it began. Luckily, there is a new generation of folks to pick up my slack in between my dumb updates about college basketball or bad ideas in my notebook (yesterday's: "Car w/ prescription windshield: bifocals?") or long-ass things no one bothers reading.

If you're looking for the kind of thing that says "I'm going somewhere in this world and I know it, even if it takes a little scabbing here or there," then check out Jeff Greco. Professional all the way; basically the antithesis of this place. And he doesn't even like basketball! Too many "penalties," I guess.

If hookers and hurricane jokes sound like your idea of a good time, then Ben Simpson is the blogger for you (feel free to use that in your press clippings, Ben). Sure, he's only made three posts in as many days, but he's already well on the road to making himself unemployable to any company who finds his site. Now that's dedication!

And then if you want to have that "What the fuck did I just read" feeling, but in a good way, perhaps the squirrel-woman hybrids and grown men eating naught but sugar who populate the site of Greg White will tickle your fancy. Mr. White also boasts more corpses than any other page on the web short of iraqbodycount.net (too soon?).

If there are any others, tell me and I'll post them.

On LSU beating Duke (which I called from the very beginning, by the way)

GREG PAULUS: OK, OK, we're still in this game. We just need a quick basket that will pump everyone up. Here's the ball, wait! Look at that! I have an open lane to the basket! Holy shit, an open look, this is great, I'm going to have a wide open layuOHGODTYRUSTHOMAS

MEANWHILE...

TYRUS THOMAS: Look at Paulus, that lilywhite pantywaist. Oh no, he's seriously not going for a layup right now. Are you kidding me? Christ, this is going to be the easiest block I've ever had in my life BABOOM


No, Greg! Don't do it!

BOO HOO


GOD, I AM AWFUL, WHO GAVE ME A SCHOLARSHIP?

The Boston University Student Union's ongoing attempts to make people care about them

DEC 05: Student Union Secretary resigns for undisclosed reasons.
JAN 06: President John Marker nominates replacement. Replacement voted down. Nobody quite knows why.
JAN 06: Student Union alleges misuse of funds by Marker. Hearing held and Constitution clarified to make clear the chain of command for use of funds.
JAN 06: Marker's second nominee for replacement Secretary voted in. Nobody quite knows why. Secretary promises to "bring students together" and "make students care about their Student Union."
FEB 06: Vice President criticized for distributing recycling bags to South Campus, going above the heads of the Student Union's Recycling Committee.
MAR 06: Vice President Jonah Goldberg censured for aforementioned recycling issue as well as disregard for Student Union body and disrespect to others on the Union. Goldberg scoffs at the censure and suggests nothing will change. Daily Free Press editorial pushes for his impeachment, because that's the sort of thing the Daily Free Press does.
MAR 06*: Vice President Goldberg impeached. In a press conference following the impeachment, Goldberg draws a gun, urges onlookers to "Stay away, this thing will hurt someone," and takes his life on live television.
MAR 06*: Student Union treasurer pisses on Goldberg's grave. Marker hits him with a chair.
APR 06*: Union splits into opposing sects which vow to destroy each other at WWE's upcoming Survivor Series.
APR 06*: Student Union Secretary criticized for misuse of Union funds after he is caught banging a prostitute.
APR 06*: Daily Free Press cuts Marker down with a particularly witty Ampersand.
APR 06*: Student Union vows to change Guest Policy. University administration nods politely, then asks them to please leave.
MAY 06*: Marker joins the nWo.
MAY 06*: A mole infiltrates the Student Union and there's like a virus or something in the offices. They get out just in time somehow, but a bunch of them die.
MAY 06*: Giant volcano engulfs Boston. BU explodes. Student Union vows to examine Guest Policy.
MAY 06*: Student Union elections, featuring Marker, some Neo-Nazis, H. Grande, Sufia Khalid and many more are among the most heated in Student Union history. Like eight people vote and nobody knows or cares who wins.
SEPT 06*: Radically reformed Student Union vows to reexamine Guest Policy.

(* projected)

STAND UP

WHERE: BU Central, GSU Basement
WHEN: Tuesday, March 14 (that's tomorrow) at 8:30 (doors open at 8)
Free, of course

Away from the bananas

Scott sits at his computer, typing. Steve enters.

STEVE: Hey, Scott, what's up?
SCOTT: Nothing much. I was just about to go to sleep, actually.
STEVE: Hey, uh, can I talk to you for a second?
SCOTT: Yeah, sure. What's up?
STEVE: Well, I'd like to talk to you in private.

Scott examines the room.

SCOTT: Uh, there's no one here.
STEVE: (whispering) I need to speak to you away from the bananas.

We only now notice that there is a bunch of bananas sitting on Scott's desk.

SCOTT: What are you talking about.
STEVE: Please?
SCOTT: Come on, Steve, I don't have time--
STEVE: Scott! (he glances nervously at the bananas) Please.

Scott sighs and follows Steve into the hallway.

SCOTT: All right, what did you have to tell me?

Steve smiles now.

STEVE: I got you to leave the room because I told you I didn't want to say something in front of the bananas.

Steve laughs. Scott rolls his eyes.

SCOTT: Yeah. OK. Good one, Steve.

They return to the room. Scott stops just in front of the door.

SCOTT: Did you close the door?
STEVE: No.
SCOTT: Hmm.

Scott opens the door. They walk in and almost trip over the bananas, which are now sitting directly in front of the door. They are now both nervous.

SCOTT: All right, Steve, this isn't funny. Really.
STEVE: No, I swear.

They look at each other, terror in their eyes.

SCOTT: They must have--fallen.

There is no way the bananas fell.

STEVE: Yeah. Yeah. Sure they did.

They stare at the bananas. Quickly, Scott grabs one and begins eating it. Steve looks at him in horror, but Scott shoves the thing down his throat, barely chewing.

SCOTT (mouth full): See? Just a banana. (he grabs his stomach. He runs into the bathroom and vomits.)
STEVE: You OK in there?

There is a silence.

SCOTT: Yeah. Just washing up.

We hear the toilet flush. We hear the sink run. It runs for a few seconds and Steve seems to calm down. It keeps running. It seemes Scott should have turned it off by now.

STEVE: Scott?

He takes a few tentative steps towards the bathroom.

STEVE: Scott? Are you OK in there?

Steve pushes open the bathroom door. He sees only a banana, unpeeled, sitting in the sink. He screams and runs out of the room. He down a stairwell into the street. He bumps into someone he knows.

FRIEND: Hey, Steve. How are you doing?

Steve looks back at the building. He is panting.

STEVE: I'm OK. I think I'm OK.

The friend sees something is wrong and just wants to get away, confused.

FRIEND: Uh, all right. I'll see you later.

The friend walks off. Steve sighs, relieved.

STEVE: OK, Steve. You're all right. You got away. I just need to get home and forget this ever happened.

Steve turns around and starts walking home. There is a banana in his back pocket. Ominous music and a clap of thunder.

Life before cell phones: An anthropological study

Society has only recently become saturated with cellular telephones, but already they have made an indelible mark on the world in which we live. To truly understand the impact of their proliferation, I decided to go 24 hours in Boston without one. Here are the results:

12:01 AM: Turned off my cell phone.
12:14 AM: Went to bed. Had a peaceful sleep wherein I dreamed of driving a bicycle with four wheels through Warwick, RI while wearing a red baseball cap.
8:00 PM: Woke up with my alarm. Got out of bed and was preparing to shower when my stomach was seized by an overwhelming pain. Rushed into the bathroom and vomited powerfully for some time.
8:22 AM: Returned to bed feeling feverish. Slept.
9:39 AM: Awoke, vomited again. Called into work (on landline) and told them I would be staying home.
9:44 AM: Vomited, then returned to bed.
9:57 AM: Vomited, moved garbage pail next to pillow and returned to bed.
10:20 AM: Vomited into pail. Went to sleep.
3:45 PM: Woke up, vomited into pail. Cleaned pail. Vomited.
4:02 PM: Dry heaved. Guzzled a 20oz bottle of water.
4:14 PM: Went back to sleep.
4:46 PM: Woke up. Found myself starving and tentatively snacked on a few Saltines.
4:48 PM: Vomited ferociously. Bitterly swore off food for the day. Almost checked voicemail.
5:01 PM: Brushed my teeth.
5:03 PM: Vomited.
5:07 PM: Brushed my teeth. Returned to bed.
7:16 PM: Woke up. Almost vomited. Saw spots.
7:22 PM: Tripped and fell returning to bed. Called ambulance (from landline).
7:34 PM: Brought to Beth Israel Hospital.
8:29 PM: Given spinal tap.
8:52 PM: Diagnosed with severe stomach flu. Told to rest.
9:17 PM: Slept.
10:10 PM: Vomited.
10:14 PM: Returned to bed. Slept until morning.
11:24 AM: Released from hospital.

So in conclusion, though I did find myself almost compulsively moving to check my voicemails, I was able to function in the course of a regular day without my cell phone.