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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Today marks the last session in my latest sketch writing class over at ImprovBoston. We had a good run this time around — and even get to do a staged reading of our favorite scripts. Sadly, I have to miss the reading this Tuesday night.
(Though they still decided to include one of my skits, which was very sweet. I chose Mail Call, so if you’re in the Central Square, Cambridge area this Tuesday evening with time on your hands, slip over and see the gang. Good people. Good sketches. Ample parking, probably. How could you not?)
“The Lord works in mysterious ways, son. But not THAT mysterious.”
Happily, my reason for missing the reading is another sketch-related something that I’ll talk more about later in the week. But it should be a hoot. So keep an eye out for that.
Meanwhile, our last assignment was to each write a sketch around a theme. We decided, somehow, on ‘religion’ as the thing tying the skits together, and I went off on my merry way to poop something out. Below is the fruit of said pooping.
My angle was to think about faith healers, and other professions in which they’d be really probably pretty awful. Financial planner came to mind. Also, marriage counselor, computer repair person and customer support rep. In the end, though, I settled on mechanic.
(Probably because I once myself went to a garage where spooky, unexplained things happened. I thought that guy was a magician. Maybe he just had THE POWER! Who knows?)
Anyway, I hope you get a chuckle out of it. And I hope you don’t get any ideas about home car repair. I saw The Exorcist. That shit can go south in a hurry. Happy weekend!
[TOM pulls his car into a garage; the car makes various pinging and clunky noises. Tom parks and gets out, looking around the empty garage.]
TOM: Hello? Anybody here?
[CARL bursts into the room, arms raised to the heavens. He’s wearing a long priest’s robe, made out of denim with a name patch ‘CARL’ on the chest. Carl has Donald Trump televangelist hair and the mannerisms of a faith healer.]
CARL: Hallelujah! Another soul, come for automotive salvation! How can I serve you, my son?
TOM: Um… Sorry. I’m looking for the garage.
CARL: Then your prayers have been answered, child! You’re in the LORD’S Garage now! Tell me what ails your weary vehicle today.
TOM: Well, uh, okay. It makes a lot of noise when I drive.
CARL: He says it’s making noise!
TOM: Yeah… sort of knocking and pinging.
CARL: Pinging, child! Testify!
TOM: And some grinding. Sounds like grinding.
CARL: Lordy be, that is a troubling tale. But I can help you, my son. I can bring your car back into the light. Will you help me do that today?
TOM: Uh, sure. I guess. What do you need me for?
CARL: Sir, I need you to believe. Do you BELIEVE, child?
TOM: Believe in what?
CARL: Son, I am but a vessel for the power that flows from on high, these healing hands an embodiment of the sacred trinity of the muffler, the piston and the holy spark plug. But it is YOUR faith that will set your car back on the freeway of righteousness. So I ask again, do you BELIEVE?
TOM: Yeah, okay. Sure.
CARL: They cannot hear you in the cloisters, son! DO YOU BELIEVE?!
TOM: Yes. I believe.
CARL: SHOUT IT TO THE HEAVENS, CHILD!!
TOM: I BELIEVE! I BELIEVE!!
CARL: Good. Now let’s have a look at this wayward soul.
[Carl raises his arms, as if commanding the hood to rise.]
CARL: Raise up the hood! Raise it up and let the Lord shine in!
[Tom watches Carl with wide eyes. The hood doesn’t move. Carl waits for a beat, arms still high in the air.]
CARL: Sir? If you could raise up the hood, please?
TOM: Oh! Right. I thought you were… like, you had the power. Or something.
CARL: The Lord works in mysterious ways, son. But not THAT mysterious.
[Tom opens the driver’s door and pops the hood. Carl peers in, inspecting various bits.]
CARL: Oh, my… Dear me… mercy, mercy, mercy.
TOM: What’s wrong? Is it bad?
CARL: I’m afraid so, child. It appears your car is suffering from a demonic possession. Dark, evil spirits have your baby in their clutches!
TOM: (doubtfully) Evil spirits? Really?
CARL: Indeed! Demons sent from the depths of hell to clog your valves and befoul your crankshaft! But we can defeat this evil, son! We have the POWER!
TOM: We do, huh?
CARL: That’s right! With your faith and these healing hands, we shall exorcise these spirits from your vehicle. Can I get an ‘amen’?
TOM: Fine. Amen.
CARL: Shout it like you mean it, son! These are Satan’s minions we’re dealing with here!
TOM: AMEN! AMEN!! All right?!
CARL: Good. Now the healing can begin. Just one thing, first.
[Carl pulls out a basket and holds it out to Tom, shaking it as though he’s looking for money.]
TOM: Oh. Do I pay the bill up front?
CARL: Heavens no, sir — this is our donation plate. We maintain a non-profit charity center for orphaned auto parts. It’s the Lord’s work! Praise be!
[Carl shakes the basket again, meaningfully. Tom shrugs, pulls some change from his pocket, and drops it in. Carl checks the basket and shakes his head sadly.]
CARL: Thirty-eight cents. Mercy. There are gonna be some cold hungry hubcaps in the orphanage tonight! All right — let’s exorcise some demons! Can I get a ‘hallelujah’?
TOM: (shouting, but without enthusiasm) HALLELUJAH!!
CARL: Amen. I will now lay my healing hands on your troubled car and drive the demons from her.
[Carl places both hands on the engine, shouting and convulsing.]
CARL: Out, foul demons! Release this innocent Tercel coupe back into the light! In the name of our patron Saint Goodwrench and the Church of Napa Auto Parts, I command thee — BEGONE!!
[As Carl finishes his speech, a huge THUNK! is heard. Carl peers over into the engine.]
TOM: What was that? Did it work?
CARL: That appears to be your engine block, son. On the ground.
TOM: The ground? As in, fell out?
CARL: So it seems. The demons were powerful strong in this one. I’m sorry, child. Your car’s with the Lord now.
TOM: Let me get this straight. I came in here with a few knocks and pings for you to look at.
CARL: Tell it, brother!
TOM: You tell me that’s caused by ‘demons’ possessing my car, and you want to perform an exorcism.
CARL: Praise be!
TOM: So you slap your hands on there, and the engine falls out, and that’s because these evil spirits were ‘powerful strong’. Do I have this right?
CARL: Perfect as an angel!
TOM: I see. Well, all I can say is… thank you so much, Reverend Carl! I could still be driving around in that satanic deathtrap. You saved my life!
CARL: WE saved your life, son. WE HAVE THE POWER!
TOM: HALLELUJAH!
CARL: Now how about we go have a look at those poor orphaned hubcaps?
TOM: Absolutely! I’ll write you a check!
CARL: Praise be!
[Tom and Carl exit.]
Permalink | No Comments(For those of you who bother with that holiday looming on the December horizon, you can find me infused with Christmas spirit over at ZuG.com. If that’s your sort of thing.)
So, I mentioned a few days ago that I’ve decided to change jobs. Luckily, I found a new one to swap with.
That’s kind of the important part, really. It’s like exchanging gifts at the mall. If you go in with something and you’re there to trade, then you need to leave with something similar in value. If you leave empty-handed, it’s a failure. Ditto for ‘store credit’. Also, if you go in with a gold watch, and come out with an aluminum toaster. Not a win.
Luckily, as I said, I managed to make the exchange. It’s official and everything. So I’ve started telling people. In fact, I’ve almost finished telling people. I told the people I work with now. And I told the people I’m going to work with soon.
(Again, that’s kind of an important part. Also important that they don’t laugh in your face or do a spit-take when you tell them you accept the job. That would be an ‘off on the wrong foot’ sort of thing.)
I told my wife, because that’s just the sort of close-knit sharing relationship we have. And I told my parents, and quite a few of my friends. A lot of people, as it turns out.
But there’s one person I haven’t told. It’s been a week, and I just don’t know how to break the news to him. I’m not sure I can, frankly. Not to this guy.
He’s my lunchtime burrito shack guy.
What’s the big deal about leaving your lunch vendor? For most people, none. For me, it’s a Big Deal. With a capital ‘B’, and a ‘D’ on salsa-fried steroids.
Here’s the thing. Lunch is sort of a different animal for me. I have a singular strategy for my workday midday meal. As I mentioned a few months ago:
“Find greasy joint of dubious nutritional benefit. Order same lunch every day. Eat lunch. Digest. Rinse. Repeat.”
“I’m not a picky eater. I’ll put things in my mouth at the dinner table that you wouldn’t let your neighbor’s cat get too close to.”
I’m not a picky eater. I’ll put things in my mouth at the dinner table that you wouldn’t let your neighbor’s cat get too close to. But lunch at the office is different. This is no time for pleasure, or creativity or hope or variety. You’re on the job to have your soul slowly crushed beneath you, and lunch is an important part of the process. Eating exactly the same thing every single day, day in and day out, has its advantages.
Mostly, those advantages involve not standing in line, or having to bother remembering what my order is. Instead, by the time I’ve moseyed up near the counter, the food is half-prepped. They take the money and hand me a burrito bag, and everyone’s happy. They get a customer, and I at least avoid the danger of standing in a long lunch line, where I might accidentally reflect on where I’ve gotten myself to and the nowhere my life is probably heading, which would in turn lead me to try to drown myself in a nearby Subway ranch dressing tub.
So I see this burrito guy a lot. I mean, a lot. But come 2012, I’ll be seeing him not at all any more. My next job isn’t even in the same town. I’ll be looking for a new burrito guy, and this one will be cast ingloriously aside.
I’m pretty sure this is the big disaster those Mayans were talking about a while back, frankly. All the pieces fit. It’s the Tacoshackpocalypse. Get yer T-shirts now.
The sad thing is, this guy’s going to be devastated. Not because it’s me leaving, in particular. I mean, I am unforgettable, sure. But that’s less in a ‘first love who got away’ sense, and more in a ‘I’d know that asshole’s face anywhere’ sort of way.
More likely, it’s the financial hit they’ll feel. Let’s face it — how well can they possibly be doing financially? This is an independent burrito shop in a medical center food court. They’re not a chain. They don’t have the power of a charismatic spokeschihuahua to keep them going. And there’s literally competition on all sides. They need every dime they can get. And I run like the German trains through that place — five days a week, always on time, with precious few exceptions, whether I need it or not.
(Come to think of it, that’s just about how their burritos run through me. It’s all circles within circles, man. Circles within circles.)
So at some point, I’ve got to break the bad news. Maybe I’ll blurt it out on my last day, or leave them a ‘Dear Juan’ note in the tip jar. Or I’ll have someone else go down in January to say, ‘Oh, that guy? No, he’s loooooong gone now, pardner.‘
Or maybe I’ll tell them tomorrow, if the time is right — and my burrito is already safely in hand. No way am I dropping a bomb before they deliver the daily bag. There’s no telling what I’d get for lunch. Hell hath no fury like a burrito shack worker scorned.
On the other hand, I’m excited about this job — a new group, in a new neighborhood, new work and new possibilities. Also, a new burrito shack. So that’ll be nice. I’ll be a regular in no time, and it’ll be just like the old days.
Until a few years (hopefully!) down the road, when I have to leave this new job for some reason. And then I’ll have to worry about telling that burrito guy good bye. Sheesh. It’s almost enough to make a man bring a brown bag to work.
Yeah. Almost.
Permalink | No CommentsApologies for being a bit sparse here over the last week or so. Rest assured, I’ve not simply been resting on my laurels.
(Particularly considering I’d have to steal someone else’s laurels first, were I inclined to rest upon a set.)
Rather, I’ve been hustling pieces out to meet a number of deadlines — a bit for the Mona Schreiber contest, another for the new Mug of Woe collection, Woe of the Road, and this weekend, the second assignment in the latest NYC Midnight Short Screenplay Challenge.
I bring these things up now, of course, because when the various results, decisions and standings come out, I’m not going to want to talk about it. Also, I’ll sit in my darkened bedroom eating ice cream straight from the tub and badmouthing writing of all kinds. Stupid writing, who does it think it is? I always said we should’ve stuck with hieroglyphs, anyway.
“Stupid writing, who does it think it is? I always said we should’ve stuck with hieroglyphs, anyway.”
In the meantime, I’ve also managed — just — to keep up with my sketch writing class over at ImprovBoston. This week was a ‘free form’ assignment, and I was a bit pressed for time, so I worked up a couple of short numbers. These are both TV commercial parodies — one that my friend Jenn and I talked (read: giggled like drunken schoolgirls) over a while back and I finally wrote up, and another that I can’t blame her, or anyone else, for any part of. Sadly.
So have a look, and be glad these ads aren’t running on your local late-night television station. Yet. Happy weekend.
[Stan, a middle-aged man sits on a couch, reading a newspaper. He serenely flips pages as the announcer speaks.]
ANNOUNCER: Are you afraid of the unknown? Terrified of the consequences of your every decision? Do the simplest questions throw you into a fevered panic?
NANCY: (offscreen) Stanley? What do you want for dinner?
[Stan freezes, wide-eyed with anxiety.]
ANNOUNCER: Well, fear no longer. Home Psychics is here to help.
[Stan smiles, relieved, and looks to his side. A woman in gypsy clothing sits on the other end of the couch, huddling over a crystal ball on the coffee table. She gazes into the ball, waving her hands mysteriously.]
PSYCHIC: I forsee… chicken cacciatore!
[The man beams, giving a thumbs up.
Switch to dining room, where Stan and Nancy are finishing dinner; they chat in the background as the announcer speaks.]
ANNOUNCER: We provide full-time, live-in psychic support to answer all of your most pressing questions. As well as those of your loved ones.
[Stan reaches for an open wine bottle.]
NANCY: Stan, you’ve had three glasses already. Don’t you think that’s enough?
[Stan turns to other side, where psychic is sitting. She has a place setting, but a ouija board instead of a plate. She moves her hands around the board, then shakes her head firmly ‘no’. Stan shrugs at his wife, and smiles as he picks up the bottle and refills his glass.
During next voiceover, a montage of ‘psychic assistance’ shots roll by:
Stan holds up two neckties. Psychic walks toward him with divining rod, eventually pointing to one of the ties.
Stan is in bed, and stirs groggily as though alarm has just gone off. Psychic stands over nightstand, staring intently into a teacup. She makes a ‘cut it’ motion with her hand; Stan hits the snooze alarm and rolls over to sleep.
In the living room, psychic shakes a Magic 8-Ball, reads it, and points to the couch. Stan triumphantly pulls the TV remote from between the cushions.
Stan holds large bottle of antifreeze, prepared to drink it. Psychic flips a coin, looks at it, and shakes her head ‘no’. Stan shrugs, caps the bottle and sets it down.]
ANNOUNCER: You lead a busy life. You can’t be expected to predict the future or unearth the secrets of the universe. That’s where Home Psychics comes in. Our highly sensitive clairvoyants, mentalists and futurecasters are standing by to plumb the depths of the unknown and divine all of the answers you seek. For a low monthly fee, you too can enjoy the exclusive service of a presumably-certified, partially-bonded shaman — or shawoman — of your choice.
[Cut to closeup of psychic, staring mesmerically into camera.]
PSYCHIC: You WILL choose me. I AM the best psychic. I will NOT hock your good china.
[Cut to bedroom. As announcer speaks, camera pans in slowly from side of bed, where Stan and Nancy are under covers. Stan is on top and squirming.]
ANNOUNCER: So call Home Psychics today. Because you don’t have all the answers in life. But *we* do.
[Cut to closeup of couple’s faces — his furrowed in concentration, hers bored.]
NANCY: Is it in yet?
[Stan’s eyes widen; they both look to the other side of the bed, where the psychic is lying on her stomach beside them, with tarot cards dealt. She flips over the final card and shows it to them.]
PSYCHIC: I see… the Hermit!
[Closeup of couple’s faces — his aghast and hers mildly disgusted.
Wider shot of bedroom with overlay containing title ‘Home Psychics’ and logo — a simple stylized house with turban on top — along with slogan “It’s not in until we *say* it’s in!”
In background, Nancy shoves Stan into floor. She reaches over and turns off nightstand lamp. Fade to black.]
[DUANE is in a bar with CAROL, trying to pick her up. He practically drips with sleazy innuendo.]
DUANE: C’mon, baby, let’s go back to my place. I’ll show you my pet ‘python’.
CAROL: I… don’t think that’s-
DUANE: Aw, c’mon! I got a footlong ‘hero sandwich’ in my bedroom with your name on it.
CAROL: I… I don’t know.
DUANE: Baby, please. I’ve got a big huge ‘pipe’ you need to see. It could leak at any moment.
CAROL: Well… all right, fine. Show me the CockFax.
DUANE: What?!
CAROL: The CockFax. Let me see the CockFax.
[The ANNOUNCER enters opposite. As he speaks, Duane pleads with Carol and protests. She remains adamant.]
ANNOUNCER: Look familiar, ladies? Don’t fall prey to false advertising, exaggerated claims or plain old wishful thinking. Before you commit — for a lifetime, or even half an hour — do the right thing. Ask for the CockFax.
[Duane finally relents, and produces a report. Carol reads a few lines and breaks out laughing. Duane slinks away as she laughs and points.]
ANNOUNCER: CockFax is an independent service providing reliable, up-to-date information on your prospective partners’ “endowments”. We provide a free comprehensive Johnson report, including service records, inspection results, odometer readings and flood damage history. Available at any reputable bar, restaurant, meeting place or Greyhound bus station near you.
[Duane returns, with SASHA on his arm, heading past Carol for the door. Carol taps Sasha on the shoulder and whispers in her ear.]
ANNOUNCER: So don’t risk going home with a lemon. Or a baby carrot. Get the info you need, before you do the deed. And always ask:
SASHA: (to Duane) Show me the CockFax!
[Duane slinks off again, alone. The girls slide up to the announcer, who leads them away, one on each arm.]
Permalink | No CommentsI’ve decided to leave my job.
Actually, that’s not completely honest. I decided a little while back to leave my job. But today I’ve decided to write about leaving my job. Big difference. Now it’s serious.
Leaving a job is a funny thing. Most of the time — this time included — when people leave a job, it’s to find another job. That’s the goal: hop directly from one speeding rat racer onto the back of another. Which is sort of odd, if you think about it. There are very few things in life which one leaves, just to glom onto something of the very same kind again.
Take spouses, for instance. One doesn’t — usually — leave one’s spouse simply to jump headfirst into another matrimonial bed. Outside the Maury Povich show and certain late-night weekend Cinemax feature films, that sort of thing is pretty rare.
(To be fair, some spouses do leave their husbands and wives for other people. Fairly regularly, if you believe the TV dramas and reality shows and chat line commercials in vogue these days.
But that’s different. That’s not leaving your wife for another wife. That’s leaving your wife for a busty cheerleader who cooks killer pasta and doesn’t mind you snarfing Cheetos in bed. Never mind whether she actually exists — for some people, the specter of said indulgent culinary cheerleader is enticement enough.
Which is good, I suppose, because a specter’s as close as they’re ever likely to get.
I asked my wife if I could leave my job for a busty rigatoni-rocking Cheeto-enabling cheerleader. She said no. So I’m finding another job, instead. As “Plan B”s go, I can’t say it’s my favorite.)
“Come to think of it, I don’t need a refresher. I need whatever the Twitter version of Cliff Notes is.”
At any rate, I’m leaving my job and finding a new one. It’s not an entirely new experience for me — a sizable portion of my standup material was based on an interview I once had. But that was eight years ago. And frankly, I didn’t have a lot of choice in the matter, having just been unceremoniously laid off, along with many dozens of my closest coworkers after nearly four years on the job.
So it’s been over a decade since I’ve voluntarily taken my ball and gone home. And then taken my ball to some other office and dropped it there, because a man’s gotta work if he’s going to pay for beer and internet and bionic dog hospital bills. But the point is, I could use a refresher on this whole “job hunting” thing. Last time I did this, LinkedIn didn’t exist yet. Now I’m supposed to use it to hypnotize my four-and-a-half connections into giving me job offers, or something. Business is weird.
Come to think of it, I don’t need a refresher. I need whatever the Twitter version of Cliff Notes is. And a 3-D holographic resume, just to get a foot in the door.
Luckily, things appear to be coming together fairly quickly, When you’ve been doing what I do for as long as I have, in the places I’ve been doing it, and with the people I’ve done it with, you wind up making a few connections. No matter what your stupid LinkedIn semi-circle figures want you to believe.
And somewhere along the line — if you’ve ever helped those connections, or worked alongside them, or once offered them a piece of gum, only slightly chewed, for just a nominal gum transfer fee — you might get a boost out of one of them toward a new position. Or a good recruiter. Or a pit of angry vipers.
(This is why I always double-check the address for any set-up “interview” I might be pushed at. Anything on Snake Lane or Adder Way, and I’m out of there.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, and I might not have enough antivenom handy to survive the ordeal. No, thanks.)
So I’ve had some leads, and some interviews, and things are looking good. By next year, I should be wearing a brand new uniform.
(Which is the same old rack of rugbies I’ve always rocked. But somehow, maybe they’ll be just a little brighter, no?)
With the holidays looming, I’ve had to let people at my current job know the score. A few have seemed surprised, maybe even shocked — giggling and gleefully clapping your hands indicates “shock”, right? — but I think most people have seen this coming. I mean, let’s face it. I’m leading a few people right now, and thanks to me we have two team mottoes:
#1. Hope is for babies.
#2. It can always get worse.
Probably not the sentiments of a man content with his current lot. You don’t see a lot of “hope is for babies” in the Dalai Lama’s books, just for instance. Gandhi was ever so slightly more upbeat than that. Hell, for that matter, Edgar Allan Poe was more upbeat. The time, she is ripe.
So it’s off on a new adventure — sort of like the one I was thrust into when I started this site back in mid-2003, when the wheels were clearly coming off my previous job. Will I meet another ZOLTON, PUNISHER OF SOULS? Will I be spat out by some corporate conglomerate machine? Most important, will they let me scarf Cheetos in bed?
These questions and many more shall be answered… as the job turns!
Permalink | No CommentsToday is Saturday, which means it’s Sketch Class Day over at ImprovBoston. Only there was no sketch class today. Something about a “Thanksgiving weekend” gumming up the works.
(Gentle aside / self-plug: you can see my thoughts on Turkey Day over at ZuG.com this time around.
I’m pretty sure you’ll never look at pressure washers — or Grandma’s gravy boat — the same way again.)
Now, I don’t know how long a tryptophan-induced food coma is supposed to last. But I was back on my feet today, and ready to cobble something together for class. But no. Class was canceled for the holiday — so no sketch today.
(What’s stopping me from writing one anyway, you ask? Well, nothing… except lack of a deadline, duh. Who actually accomplishes anything without a scary timer ticking ominously down to zero?
Librarians and UPS drivers, that’s who. Though what the UPS weenies “accomplish” is usually just pissing me off.)
At any rate — no deadline, no writing. As it has always been, and always shall be. Who am I to buck a system that’s been in place for six thousand years, when ancient Mesopotamians said things like, ‘Eh, I could get that TPS report to you today. But I think I’ll wait until we actually invent written language in a few hundred years. Better.‘
Instead, I tackled the other part of our assignment for class. I gave writing’s little brother — or snotty big sister, depending on how you look at it — a whirl: editing. And after half an hour of it, I can say with no small amount of conviction:
Writing’s hard. But editing blows.
Not editing my own stuff, mind you. I edit my own stuff all the time.
“We’ve all made suggestions that have gotten “the face” — that involuntary flash of scrunchy-nosed puzzled repulsion that’s quickly replaced with a kind pat-on-the-head smile and a dutiful jotting-down of whatever outlandish bunch of crack-addled bull hokum was just spouted.”
(Well, not all the time. Clearly.)
Here’s the thing. I have no problem believing I wrote a steaming pile of disjointed moose snot, and that improvements — many, many improvements — are in order. That’s easy. A little self-doubt and fourteen years of English teachers laughing and pointing at my essays — and not in the good way — will land a guy there.
This, though, was different. This was editing someone else’s work. The horror.
On the good side, I was only supposed to ‘make suggestions’ on a script we read in class last time. But we do that in class already — after a readthrough, we all brainstorm about how the script might be tweaked or massaged a bit.
I watch peoples’ faces as we do this, and I can see the confused, bitter — but still polite — anguish that it causes. I might make a suggestion, for instance, and the skit author will try to hide looking pained and disgusted and say something like:
‘Well, yes, I suppose I could write a funny elephant riding a unicycle into my courtroom sketch. Sure. I don’t know why I never thought of that. Uh… thanks?‘
It’s not just me. (This time. I swear.) We’ve all made suggestions that have gotten “the face” — that involuntary flash of scrunchy-nosed puzzled repulsion that’s quickly replaced with a kind pat-on-the-head smile and a dutiful jotting-down of whatever outlandish bunch of crack-addled bull hokum was just spouted.
(Okay, so it’s mostly me. Clearly.)
So now I was asked to make suggestions — just like in class, but in print. Written down in an email, where the author could go back repeatedly and re-read, making “the face” over and over and over again, convulsing in a twisted heap of sweaty incredulity.
I don’t want to do that to a person. Who would want to do that to a person? That’s a terrible thing to do to a person. Especially one who’s presumably still gorged on turkey and cranberries, and in no condition to handle the sweeping waves of nausea my ‘notes’ are likely to induce.
So I kept it short. A quick thought here, a possible suggestion — but only if you want to, and that’s the direction you were going, and anyway, what do I know — there, and I sent it off. Just enough to complete the assignment, but with as little nonsense and spewing as possible.
That was yesterday evening. This morning, I got an email back from the very nice and funny lady who’d written the skit, and she thanked me for the note and the ideas and reminded me that we didn’t have class today, so we’d meet back up in a week to see what comes next.
Which was very nice, considering that what she really wanted to write was something along the lines of:
‘I am NOT putting a goddamned elephant on the witness stand. FORGET IT with the elephant, already. Jackass.‘
Still, she made “the face”. She must have. I just hope she kept her stuffing and gravy down afterward. Otherwise, that next sketch class could get just a mite awkward. And nobody wants that.
Least of all, the elephant.
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