Tuesday, December 27, 2011

An Uncle Rodney Christmas


From my Uncle Rodney:

MERRY CHRISMAS!!!!

Billy did that. the colores and the snmowman.
Now it;s my turn at hthe computer.

i like this font because it lookes like it is REAL HAND RIGHTING WITH A PEN. It;s whatdoyoucall genuine. and when i talk at at to you i want to be like  a GENUIUNE GUY.

SO I GABE BILLY A BOOK FOR CHRISTMAS. YOU CAN LOKA T THE PICTURE ON THE IPICTURE. IT IS THE BOOK.





BILLY ISN;T OLD D ENOUGH TO USE GUNS SO I TOOK THE BOOK BACK AND NOW IT;S MINE. I THINK IT;S GREAT BECAUSE I ALWAYS WANTED A BOOK LIKE THAT. WHAT LUCK!

BILLY BUILT ME A TOMHAS JEFFERSON STYLE DUMB-WAITER AND ALSO A MODEL PLANE AND CLEAED MY HOUSE AND FIXED MY CHIMNEY FOR HIS CHRIST-X PRESNENT TO ME. I THINK THAT IS A LOT OF SHIT COMPARED WITH TO MY PRESENT. BILLY HAS GOT A LOT TO ELEARN ABOUT GROWING UPO AND BEING GROWED UP.

I WOULD LIKE TO CLOSE WITH SOME CHRISTMAS CAROLES. YOU CAN FOLLOW ALONG BECAUSE I ROTE THE LYRICS FOR YOU.
JIGGLE BELLSDASHIG THROGH THE SNOW
LAUGHING ON THE FUN
ON THE FIELDS WE GO
LAUGHING ON THE WAY (YOU CAN LAUGH AT THIS PART BUT ONLY IF YOU DON;T SOUND LIK E A DUMB ASS)
JINGLE BELLS

JIGGLE BELLS
JINGEL ON THE WAY
OH WAHT FUN IT IS TO RIFE IN A OPEN HORSE SLEIGH RIDE
JINGLE BELLS 
JIGNGLE BELLS
JINGLE ALL THE WAY
OH WAHT FUNI T IS TO RIDE IN A 1 HORSE RIDE.

Dick The Halls

DESK THE HALLS WITH BOWLS OF HOLLY
FALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALA (YOU SAY IT MAYBE SIX OR FIVE TIMES AND THEN YOU STOP)
DECK THE HALLS TO BE JOLLY
FALA LA LA LALA. (ONCE AGAIN, FIVE OR FIVE TIMES)
DON WE NOW GAY ON PERIL
FA LFA LALALAL A (THIS PART IS DIFFERENT A LITTLE)
TIS THE SAEASON TO BE JOLLY
FALALALAFALAFEL POCKETSFAFAFAFAFA!! (loudly)
Santos Claus is Coming to TownYOU BETTER WATCH OUT!
YOU BETTER NOT CRY!
YOU BETTER WATCH OUT AND ILL TELL YOU WHY
SANTA CLAUS IS COMING AT YOU
HE'S CHECKING A LIST
HE'S CHECKING IT TWICE
HE'S GONNA FIND OUT WHO;S NOT A NICE
SANTA CLAUS IS IN TOWN
HE SEEMS YOU WHEN YOU'RE SLEEPING
HE SEEMS WHEN YOU'RE AWAKE
JINGLE ALL THE WAY
OH WAHT FUNI T IS TO RIDE IN A 1 HORSE RIDE.

We Wish You a Merry Hcristmas
WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS
WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS
WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISMAS
WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTERMSAS
WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISMAS
(REPEAT CHANT TIL THE SONG IS DONE)


Sleigh Ride

Check the address for typing errors such as
    ww.example.com instead of
    www.example.com
  If you are unable to load any pages, check your computer's network
    connection.
  If your computer or network is protected by a firewall or proxy, make sure
    that Firefox is permitted to access the Web.

I'll Be Home For Christmas
I'LL BE HOME ON CHISTMAS
YOU CAN CUNT ON ME
PLEASE HAVE SNOW AND MISSLE TOE
AND PRESENTS ON THE TREE
YOU CAN HOME FOR CHRISTMAS
CHRISTMAS EVE WILL FIND ME
WHERE THE BLUE LIGHT ROAMS
I'LL BE AT THE CHRISTMAS
IF ONLY IN YOUR DREAMS


(YOU CAN BELCH AT THE END, I ALWAYS DO BECAUSE THAT;S WHEN IT COMES)
I HOPE YOU GOT LEARNED SOMETHING BY THIS EMAIL. MERRY CHESTNUTS.

LOVE,
RODBNEY

Saturday, December 24, 2011

The President of Canada


“I just don’t like it,” she said, staring at him with those big brown eyes under smoldering eyebrows.
“You think I like it any more than you do? But what choice do I have?”” he asked, his blue eyes wide.
“You have no choice.”
“I have but one choice – to die for my country.”
“That’s not a choice, that’s a path.”
“Yes, I have but one path – country-death.”
“So it’s not heroic, it’s just tragic.”
“Yeah, I’m a tragic hero.”
“You are tragic.”
“Heroically.”
Actually, I take it back – you always have a choice.
Yeah, to starve or to do the devil’s work – some choice.
Weaker men than you have chosen the former.
DUMBER men than I have chosen the former.
I can’t tell you what to do.
Seems like you are.
Well, I can’t make you do what I want.
Not for lack of whining.
Where’d u hear that?
The president of Canada.
Canada doesn’t have a president.
Then I declare myself President of Canada!
You’ll have no power.
Neither do those Windsors, but look how famous they are.
Technically, they do, but they’re only to be consulted when all else has failed.
Like Bush!
I guess so.
So, that’ll be me, minus the power.
I don’t see the point.
It’ll be great! You can be my mistress!
Mistress?
Yeah, I’ll need a respectable wife, but you’ll provide just that hint of scandal that keeps people interested – you’ll be my Camilla.
Your Lewinski.
Exactly!
Fat chance.
Ha ha!
My gosh – let the poor woman rest in peace!
I’m pretty sure she’s still alive.
I should hope so – she’s sleeping on my couch.
Oh, is that who that was? I thought it was your sister.
My sister’s in another state.
Which one?
Shock.
What happened?
She fought the law.
And the law won?
Yeah, the law of physics – she was fixing this one outlet – turned out it was a live one.
Was she like, “We’ve got a live one here!”?
No, she was like, convulsing.

Thursday, December 22, 2011

A shadow of a dream


Though the following is autobiographical, some of the names have been changed to protect the guilty.

One day, I saw the wireless-detector image blinking, alerting me to the availability of wireless networks. Sure, they'd always been available—they'd just never had anything to do with me. I was consistently, unyieldingly, locked out of them.

Call me superstitious, but something, this time, felt different. So I clicked to open the window, and sure enough, there she was—wApple633fq, a connection I'd never seen before, and, miraculously, absent that soul-crushing "lock" icon by her side.

Why not? I took a chance and clicked, still certain something would go wrong—we wouldn't connect, for some unknown reason. I'd connect with her, but it would be local access only—nothing that gave me any internet. It wouldn't be anyone's fault. It wouldn't even be a shame—it'd just be the way things were.

But no. Somehow, everything clicked, and, before I knew it, she had opened to show me Google, right there on my screen, clear as day.

The signal was strongest in bed—there, I could have it anywhere I wanted. The kitchen and bathroom were out of range, as was most of the entryway, but it worked fine right behind the front door.

It was wonderful. The days passed, and we fell into a routine. Honestly—and it seems like both a sin and an impossibility when I think about it now—the wonderment did fade. No longer was it an unexpected joy to come home and find internet in my bed, waiting for me to slip under the covers, ready to take me anywhere I wanted to go. If you can believe it, I actually began to expect to be transported to images of the Colosseum, to have access to definitions of any word in myriad languages, to be told everything I could ever want to know about the Armenian genocide. Sadly, perhaps—or, I don't know, maybe it's just the way of things—as I began to expect it, I took less and less advantage of the situation. I'd check e-mail and Facebook, craving that shallow, immediate buzz I'd find in mostly meaningless messages. I'd have conversations with people I wasn't interested in communicating with just to avoid working on that Hindi story, even though I finally had the miracle of bedroom access to translation dictionaries; grammar forums; and, wonder of wonders, actual real, live Hindi speakers.

As if she knew this, she began to withdraw. Once available in every square foot of the bed, she became accessible solely in the southeast corner, next to the wall, and only in a certain position—smack-up against the window, the laptop on my thighs.

Then, even that wasn't enough. It had to sit on my chest, inches from my face. It was getting to the point that it almost wasn't worth the effort.

Then things changed yet again—to gain access, I'd have to lie in bed with the window just on my left, legs up against the wall, laptop on my shins. I don't know how many times the resistance provided by my kneecaps was all that kept gravity from scrambling hardware on the bed like eggs in a pan.

But, still, I only accessed her when the need was strong, and it wasn't really uncomfortable. Overall, it was actually an improvement from the on-the-chest situation. Sometimes I'd have to swing my feet one way or the other to reach that connection with her, but it was sometimes surprisingly strong, and certainly reliably there, almost always attainable, if I had the motivation to do the needful.

Then, one day, just like that—as all victims of the thief called Time come to know—just as she had come into my life, she was gone.

This wasn't unprecedented—there'd been instances when I'd come home to find her gone, but, sure enough, like clockwork, the next morning, she'd be back with me, and things would return to normal.

So, as usual, I patiently awaited her return. Noon came and went. Still, no sign. I had an appointment. I left the house and came back that evening. Still no trace. I began to suspect something was different—that maybe, this time, she wouldn't come back.

I fell into the habit of sitting there, looking for her—trying to figure out if maybe she was around, just under a different name—is that you, now going by TWC0859? Did you use to be mine, Abramson Family Network? 2WIRE920, you look new—have I seen you around here before?

Truthfully, I don't know. It doesn't matter anyway. All of them were—are—locked. Off limits. Even if it is "she", it's not. She's a different entity than she was. As different from before as a locked bank vault to an open bedroom door.

Isn't it funny how circumstances dictate so much of life—so much of who we think we are? Already, it's returned almost completely to the way it was before her: I work on the computer at home. I study. I read. If I need access, I know where I can get it—if I want it with some level of privacy, and don't mind it seeming a bit like work, I can sit at a cubicle at FedEx Kinko's. If I'm happy to take what's available for the price of a bagel, I can head over to Starbucks. When the time's right, and there's a seat, I can get it at the library for free.

Truthfully, though, it's not totally the same. It never is, is it? Sure, this is the way my life used to be—exactly the same, by all outward appearances—even the most astute observer would be hard-pressed to pinpoint any change. Still, sometimes I'll just hover my mouse icon over the wireless detection box and watch, transfixed, for minutes on end, the weakest signals appearing and vanishing—like a cowboy staring out at the plain shadows at dusk, waiting for the silhouette of the beautiful girl he once knew, decades ago, to appear once more.

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

Merry Christmas, Mr. Turcotti

For the second part of Round 1 of our five-page-script competition, Rod and I were given the following:

Genre: Drama
Location: A Brewery
Item: A Cooked Turkey

We wrote this script:

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