Below you'll find two YouTube videos I made recently for a Video Sketch class at the Upright Citizen's Brigade Theatre. The first is a straight-up comedy featuring my friend Brandon, while the second is a drama/comedy featuring, among others, John Adams Atchley, III.
Edward's headphones were made of synthetic styrofoam, and conformed to the contours of his inner ear. Their design effectively blocked outside noise, which proved especially convenient on his morning subway commute.
One September, at the end of a long summer, the city buckled and burned under the season's final heat wave. The eyes of the citizenry were tinted rageful red, and exhaustion dueled with fury for atmospheric dominance. On Edward's C train, the air conditioning unit had malfunctioned, and pressing bodies, athrob with discomfort, shared their temperature. Edward wore a large blue backpack, filled with library books to be returned at lunch, and while he dimmed his thoughts in deference to the music, a grinning rider unzipped the bag's small pocket in tentative increments. Inside, he found a cell phone, a pair of keys, and various receipts, all of which he kept. Others on the train saw him, and some began to protest, but the man took a pistol from his left pocket, and his grin increased when he showed them. He brought one finger to his lips, and the gun tilted down.
Edward remained oblivious.
At the next stop, the man with the gun stepped off, and a woman tapped Edward on the shoulders. He removed his earphones, and she told him everything. "Why didn't you stop him?" he asked, and she told him about the gun.
While the train waited in the station, the doors remained ajar. Edward raced out, and another passenger stepped onto the platform. He pointed at a departing figure, and Edward gave chase.
The gunman took his time, and Edward caught up at the turnstiles. Both slowed while they exited the station, and Edward's energy dissipated as he considered his next course of action. "Hey," he said, and the man turned around. "You stole from my backpack."
"And what'll you do?" said the man. His hand drifted. Edward felt compelled to move, and because the man fumbled his weapon, the altercation became immediate. The gun stayed in the man's pocket until a pen had wrenched his eye from the socket, and then he spun around, howling, and shot all six bullets into the ceiling. Edward ducked. Everyone ducked. Soon the gun clicked, empty, and pieces of debris fell from the cement ceiling of the station.
The police questioning lasted two hours, all processes included, and Edward was free. At the desk, he picked up his phone and keys in a plastic bag. The man was arrested.
Afterward, Edward feared the man with one eye. He spent two years worried that they'd meet on a late night, in the subways, where the man would have his revenge and more. He looked over his shoulder with increasing frequency, and anyone who fit the man's build, even slightly, quickened his pulse.
On the second anniversary of the incident, Edward had a breakdown. He moved out of the city, and for a time his life returned to a liveable state. He married and had children, and gradually, as the children grew, his fear returned. He began to worry about revenge on his family, enacted with all the ferocity of satisfaction delayed. He saw the man with one eye wherever he looked, and his sleep was interrupted by nightmares.
The stress ate, and soon his wife left with the children. Edward felt some relief, thinking this cleared them from the one-eyed man's revenge, but his own fear persisted. Soon, he left the country.
This too proved a measure short, and he underwent plastic surgery, changed his name, and moved again.
For twent years he lived this way, until business forced him, one summer, to return to the city.
The trip found Edward distraught, and before he'd been two hours out of the airport, he returned to the police station. There, he explained his history and requested records on the whereabouts of the assailant. This information was confidential, and his request met an official denial, but the clerk followed him outside, and the two struck a deal. An hour later, they reconvened on a nearby street corner, and copies were exchanged for money.
The records said the man had died twelve years prior of a heroin overdose.
Edward considered.
The one-eyed man had faked his own death, he decided. He'd gone underground, dispatching his own identity, and had been hot on Edward's trail since.
Edward had another breakdown, and his wife paid for him to live in a rest home in the country. Drugs kept him mostly sedated, but the image of his pursuer never left, and he never achieved the rest that would let him leave the home.
As he died, old and withered, Edward looked up at the faces of his children, but all he saw was a man with one eye.
The good folks at McSweeney's have finally come to their senses and accepted a piece of mine for the main page. Previously they'd rejected me twice, accepted a piece for their Short Imagined Monologues section, and followed this minor validation with the heinous error of rejecting the spectacular piece you can read in the previous entry. Now, on try #5, I've cracked the front page. Hurrah! Here's a sneak preview. By 'sneak preview,' I mean to say that I'm pasting the entire thing into my blog. It's a magnum opus of humor and egotism, and it would be a crying shame to isolate it to one humor magazine, no matter how well-respected. I don't know when it will go on McSweeney's. They just say "in the queue," without giving any hints as to the length of said queue.
People Whose Names Are Anagrams of My Own- Shane Patrick Ryan- Hold a Town Meeting
SHERRY ANNA TAPICK: Alright, everybody, let's settle down and take a seat.
"PANICKY" SARA RENTH: I'd rather stand.
SHERRY ANNA PATICK: That's fine, Sara. (she bangs a gavel) As Mayor of Bluff Creek, I call this meeting to order. Mr. Anikaph, please proceed.
SECRATARY ANIKAPH: Tonight's first order of business is-
PHANTASIA KRYNCER: Why is Secretary Anikaph's placard spelled wrong?
SECRATARY ANIKAPH: For the last time, I am NOT a secretary! I'm just helping Sherry keep things in order. Secratary is my first name, it's Romanian, and yes, it's spelled differently. Can we move on, Phantasia?
PHANTASIA KRYNCER: Fine with me.
SECRATARY ANIKAPH: Thank you. Now, the first order of business is the vandalism problem, which has only gotten worse since last month's meeting. In the past week, the town's front lawns have been littered with garbage, most of it stolen from the landfill.
CHRIS P.A. TANNYAKER: Isn't the culprit obvious? It has to be Trash-Can Rik.
"TRASH-CAN" RIK PAYNE: Excuse me? I take offense to that, Chris! You're new to Bluff Creek, so maybe you didn't know, but my nickname stems from a deep commitment to proper waste disposal.
SHERRY ANNA TAPICK: That's true. Rik's done a lot of good. This hits him harder than anyone.
CHRIS P.A. TANNYAKER: My apologies. In that case, I'd look to the town drunk. The vandal strikes at night, right? I'd bet alcohol plays a big role.
"TIPSY" KAREN CHARNA: Go to hell, Chris!
SECRATARY ANIKAPH: Everyone calm down! We won't get anywhere with all this shouting! I see a hand…go ahead, Seth.
SETH, AN ARYAN PRICK: Have you questioned all the minorities?
(loud boos)
SHERRY ANNA TAPICK: Seth, we've talked about this before. If you're going to be racist, we'll ask you not to attend the meetings.
SETH, AN ARYAN PRICK: I'm just saying…
HARRY STANCAK PINE: Look, I hate to say this, but maybe Seth, in his backward way, has a point. Bluff Creek is a small, insular community, and we natives have a way of being cold to outsiders. Couldn't the guilty party be a disgruntled out-of-towner?
SIR CARY K. TANNAPHER: Surely you don't include me among the accused!
HARRY STANCAK PINE: Well, no, it probably wasn't you…
SIR CARY K. TANNAPHER: A Knight of the Crown has no business among trash! Further, he will not stand to be so impugned!
HARRY STANCAK PINE: What about the Greek guy? He's always angry.
PHINEAS CINTAKARRY: I have a name, you bastard!
SECRATARY ANIKAPH: Order! Order! It's unfair to accuse outsiders with no evidence, Harry. And look, maybe this is endemic of a bigger problem…let's face it, there's just not enough space at the landfill. People are more wasteful than ever, especially the youth.
HENRY "PACK RAT" NISA: I disagree. I'm only seventeen, but very thrifty.
HENRY "RAT PACK" NISA: Anyone want to go watch a Dean Martin film?
HENRY "PACK RAT" NISA: Be quiet, dad!
HENRY "PARK ACT" NISA: I still support the 1881 Yellowstone Park Act.
HENRY "PACK RAT" NISA: Grandpa, you're embarrassing me!
SHERRY ANNA TAPICK: People, can we focus? Does anybody have a valid idea on how to stop the vandalism?
PERRY TANIACI KNASH: Yeah, I've got an idea. I've got a great idea. Let's ask Icy Pants.
"ICY PANTS" HANNAKER: If one more person calls me Icy Pants, based on nothing more than the fact that I have a Norwegian last name, I am going to fucking explode!
SECRATARY ANIKAPH: Why don't you address the allegation? Where were you on the nights in question?
"ICY PANTS" HANNAKER: Gee, I don't know, maybe I was de-frosting my jeans, Secratary!
PHANTASIA KRYNCER: He's not a real secretary.
PERRY TANIACI KNASH: So you do have icy pants!
"ICY PANTS" HANNAKER: I was being sarcastic!
"PANICKY" SARA RENTH: What if it's terrorism??
ATICAS PHERRYKANN: Oh God, I see where this is going.
SETH, AN ARYAN PRICK: I bet you do. Careful everyone, Mr. Muslim extremist here might be strapped with dynamite!
ATICAS PHERRYKANN: Seth, you have known me your entire life. You see me every weekend at church, and, further, you know my last name is German. It is different- I repeat, different- from Louis Farrakhan. Who, for the record, is also not a terrorist.
SETH, AN ARYAN PRICK: Well what about-
PAT NYACKER SIRHAN: Seth, I know what you're about to say, and I'm warning you to stop.
SHERRY ANNA TAPICK: Enough! If nobody can be civil, I'm ready to adjourn this meeting, and the trash problem will continue unabated!
STEPHANIK CANARRY: Pardonnez-moi, si vous plait. I may only be the town's hair stylist, but there is one man whom nobody has mentioned. I'm speaking of the mysterious Armenian butcher.
"PANICKY" SARA RENTH: Cipher Syntarakan!
(The back doors burst open)
CIPHER SYNTARAKAN: Did someone say my name?
(general gasps)
CIPHER SYNTARAKAN: That's right, citizens of Bluff Creek. It was me! I dumped trash on everyone's lawn! And I'm talking everyone! I'm talking Ayn Tanrick Parish, the girl named after Ayn Rand. I'm talking Yanshir Trespancek, the Bosnian refugee! I'm talking Terin "Ash Can" Pyrak, the chain smoker! I'm talking "Prankster" Cay Hain and his lesser-known sidekick, "Prankish" Arny Cept, who finally got a taste of their own medicine! I'm talking H.N. "Paris Racket" Nya, the man who runs the French black market. I'm talking "Aspen" Ricky Hartan, the arrogant rich guy who skis a lot! I'm talking NN Party-ac, i.e. Shark, who I'm not real sure what his deal is, except that he creeps me out pretty bad. I'm talking-
SECRATARY ANIKAPH: Enough! Someone subdue that man!
(Cipher Syntarakan throws smoke capsules to the ground. When the smoke clears, he has escaped. Only a note remains, pinned to the door. It reads "I escpr! Ran! Thnk ya!")
"TIPSY" KAREN CHARNA: Did something just happen?
As everyone who reads this blog probably already knows, I recently had an article accepted at McSweeney's. My first two submissions were rejected, and they accepted my third. In a fit of inspiration, I wrote and submitted my fourth on Friday, and received a rejection notice this morning. Although the good people of that website don't agree, I liked this better than the piece they accepted, so I'll post it here. Some of you may recognize the poem from an earlier blog installment. On a sad side note, I tried to copy and paste from Word into gmail, and while it looked okay in my submission, the rejection revealed that it was interspersed with long, strange bits of gmail links. The editor probably didn't even bother to read it. It looked such a mess, I can't say I blame him. Enjoy!
A Poetic Recap of the Hypothetical Dogfight Between WWI Flying Aces Eddie Rickenbacker and Manfred von Richthofen, aka “The Red Baron,” as Written by an Enthusiastic Patriot to Celebrate Independence Day in America, with Endnote Commentary by a Humorless Historian.
FLYING CIRCUS [1]
Fearless Eddie Rickenbacker [2]
left his helmet in the locker [3]
and said unto Le'gens du arme, [4]
"Today my soul is free from harm."
He swaggered to the waiting plane-
a Nieuport 28 from Spain- [5]
and once the rear guns were aligned [6]
(and confidential papers signed), [7]
he made the tiny engine sing [8]
and woe! the Hat (was) in-the-Ring. [9]
Sipping on his grail of tea, [10]
the Baron smiled, sick with glee. [11]
He thought of evil things he'd do
aboard the Albatross D-2. [12]
A finger traced the Kaiser's crest; [13]
the wicked German beat his breast. [14]
Soon with gestures quick and mean,
he drank a human blood canteen [15]
and in a flash- his craft aloft-
the deathly red beret was doffed! [16]
The pilots met above the lake
called Vunderlee ("the steady drake") [17]
and circled twice around before
they made their silver missiles roar. [18]
But Rickenbacker saw his chance:
he flew up close, he drew his lance [19]
and leapt into the German plane- [20]
a tactic some had called "insane." [21]
But with a shout of "U-S-A!" [22]
he slew the Nazi; Oh, hooray! [23] [24]
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[1] A reference to Von Richthofen's Jagdgeschwader 1 air unit.
[2] Eddie Rickenbacker's first flight, on April 29, 1918, came eight days after the Red Baron's death.
[3] The practice of flying without a helmet is forbidden by military protocol, and there is no indication that any pilot seriously challenged the rule.
[4] Rickenbacker, an American, would not have reported to a gendarme, a title which describes a French military policeman. Its inclusion would seem to be for convenience of rhyme only. In addition, the French spelling is inaccurate.
[5] While I'm surprised to report that Rickenbacker did, in fact, fly the Nieuport 28, none of this model were ever manufactured in Spain. Again, rhyme would seem to be a motivating factor.
[6] This is wholly spurious as a supposed preparation for combat.
[7] See #6.
[8] The engine was actually larger than average for WWI-era aircraft. It is unclear why the adjective "tiny" is utilized.
[9] A reference to the 94th Aero Squadron, sometimes called "The Hat-in-the-Ring Squadron."
[10] There are no historical documents to confirm that Von Richthofen drank tea, much less from a grail.
[11] Any assumption of sadism would also appear to be poetic license.
[12] At the time of this hypothetical encounter, Von Richthofen had switched to the Albatross D-III for its superior maneuverability.
[13] No such emblem existed.
[14] Along with being inaccurate, this line may be borderline offensive.
[15] See #14. Completely unsupported by historical evidence.
[16] As stated in endnote #3, aviators wore helmets, not "deathly" berets.
[17] There is no lake in Germany called "Vunderlee." Further, the word itself is nonsense, and does not translate to anything resembling "The Steady Drake."
[18] Neither plane was outfitted with missiles, silver or otherwise.
[19] The idea of a pilot carrying a lance, in any epoch of aerial combat, is preposterous.
[20] Even in the context of the poem's largely questionable content, I find this detail especially unrealistic for reasons too numerous to list.
[21] This tactic has never been seriously discussed by military strategists.
[22] Such a shout would be inaudible above the engine's din.
[23] Nazis did not exist in World War I. This line displays a stunning lack of research and passively condones a harmful stereotype about the German population.
[24] As a final comment, I feel obliged to point out that the aftermath of such a stunt would be highly problematic for Rickenbacker, who, after a series of unlikely acrobatics, would now find himself alone in an enemy plane. The act of landing the plane in a friendly field would prove extremely difficult. In light of this and other shortcomings, I'm sorry to report that I cannot give this poem an official endorsement.