The Presenters (Season 2)

The critically acclaimed animated program makes its unwelcome return to HBO for another season of inexplicable eccentricities. Join your most hated characters Harold, The Editor, Tom, and many others as they learn about themselves, and why that is usually too much information to know. Fridays at 9 only on HBO.

Season 2 was trickier to create episodes for than Season 1, I'll admit. In Season 1, you can take as many liberties as you can with the characters in order to develop them, but in Season 2, you make choices that determine whether or not the characters are behaving like they should be. Also, certain plot points, such as Harold's job as an animator, can go so far as to what kind of problems they bring for him, and with this, you have to think creatively which can be very easy when your life plagues with you with unusual thoughts and situations. Season 2 definitely takes more risks than Season 1, but usually, such risks determine whether or not the show can establish its own identity rather than fall back on past influences. I hope you enjoy Season 2, the most daring season yet.

P201-The Director The worst director in recent history begins filming his sci-fi epic of a city on the verge of being swallowed up by a black hole(a small one, however). After catching one glimpse of Harold and his co-workers in a childish argument about exit signs, he immediately hires them for the movie.

P202-The Dead Best Friend Harold, working on a long shift at Flowers United, suddenly sees his dead friend(buried in Season 1's The Funeral) right in front of him. Harold becomes horrified and tries to curse away the evil spirit, while the best friend tries to convince Harold that seeing him is worthwhile.

P203-Animatorcide Harold's failure leads to a spiraling depression that leads to him making minimalist remarks of perfection. Since every animator at Flowers United knows about the mythic "animatorcide" that killed a famed animator, they keep a close eye on Harold to make sure he doesn't try to use it. 
 
P204-The Writer When the studio realizes that their television program is on the verge of cancellation, they group together all of the writers for a show-changing brainstorm session. One writer isn't amused by the idea, curses everything in existence, and then quits. Harold goes on an impossible journey to replace him.

P205-A Weird One For Sure Hal finally gets his driving permit and drives around Los Angeles for two hours, celebrating. After a while, he drives in an unfamiliar neighborhood, and in a panic, drives in reverse into a homeowner's garage while the homeowner is still at home. The homeowner takes Hal in as a hostage until Hal is able to pay for a new garage door.

P206-The Cameo Spot Harold gets the opportunity to work on another channel to increase his notoriety. Unfortunately, it requires a cameo on a television program he hates with a star he despises. When Harold tries to switch places with Tom and fails, he gets into a childish argument with the star and accidentally exposes the star's homosexuality.

P207-Wellesian Connection Harold meets an ambitious voice actor who notices Harold's stress and suggests he tries some weed. Harold refuses and sees the actor's vocal performance, only to realize he's become attracted to the actor's voice.

P208-A Nightmare Someone Else Had After a long and frustrating day, Harold daydreams about meeting up with famous figures from horror movies(Chucky, Jason Voorhees, Alien(as a joke)) that ruined his childhood. It leads to an therapy session that the figures remorsefully give him.

P209-Wait, Say That Again? Harold, who decides to walk in on the animators working, meets Arlill Rodriguez, a 25-yr old animator brimming with possiblity. When Harold recalls their first meeting, he begins to realize that it might be a reincarnation of him, a theory everyone dismisses. Harold's suspicions are heightened when Arlill refuses to open the door for him.

P210-Flowers United Inc. Harold is woken up by a sudden phone call from The Editor. The Editor blames Harold of not being a team player, so Harold is forced to leave his house early to go to work. Arriving, he's surprised to see that no one is there except the Editor who sits in his disorganized office. Harold works on the filing while the Editor regales him on a tale of just how Flowers United was established.

P211-The Bartender Harold slips out of the office one day, and sneaks into a bar where he meets a bartender who hates people but wants to become a barber. The bartender's existence fascinates Harold and Harold gives him his contact information. After a week of no replies, the bartender begins stalking Harold.

P212-The Awkward Conversation Between Two Boys Harold notices his son Hal is finished with his homework and is now watching TV. Harold uncharacteristically walks up to Hal and begins asking him about every aspect of school, including awkwardly enough, Hal's past romantic experiences which Harold can recite from memory and in consecutive order.

P213-The Sandwich Harold meets up with Sarah, an old friend from high school who wants to break out as a voice actress. As they're having lunch, Sarah suddenly leaves in a hurry. She leaves her sandwich behind, completely untouched, and Harold becomes tempted to eat it. He slowly slides the plate towards his side.  Looking left and right, he takes a bite and has an orgasm. Harold wonders if it was the fact that she made the specific order or the sandwich itself that made his body react so strongly.

What's more surprising than the show getting picked up for a second season is the fact that there is still only one main writer who's come up with 13 more episodes to entertain the lessers with, those who can afford an HBO subscription. In this second season, with most of the characters well-established, the show takes on an unusual turn in order to dissociate itself from its source material(Curb Your Enthusiasm, South Park), and becomes its own program. The situations range from normal experiences heightened to ridiculous levels, to moments of intimacy and consciousness between the characters. The problem with an animated series is that it's expected to be very comical and hilarious all of the time, and a series won't have any space to develop if it's reduced to making rapid-fire jokes. In the spirit of Louie on FX, the show will go in whatever direction it has to for telling a story, whether it requires breaking the laws of physics or the demands of an audience. Understandably, there's very little episodes about Harold's wife since I still don't know who she is or supposed to be, and it would be insulting to her character to include in every episode as a background device. With that, I also admit that the series is becoming much more personal with certain episodes that deal with issues that I constantly think about, such as the possibility of meeting your equal(not in a romantic sense) and having horror film characters apologize for a damaged childhood, as well as reuniting with your ex-love interest. This series is meant to defy expectations, but also take viewers daring enough to watch on an unforgettable journey. If the second or first season of the Presenters has done that for you all, I'm satisfied. Third season? We'll see. 

You're Not Gonna Open With That, Are You?

You are never supposed to go beyond your bedtime, especially when you're a mischievous 10 year old. Mine was at 10pm, but I was just too invested in professional wrestling to respect the 10pm curfew. I'll admit that I never paid any attention to the intersecting storylines, I just loved watching The Rock kick ass. He was my favorite wrestler, and I remember I bought one shirt that could be more suitable as bed covers or a duffel bag; I knew my parents were waiting outside, watching the seconds cross into the forbidden zone of 10pm, waiting to whip out the belt. PHEWCHA! At 10, I always turned off the TV, dove into my covers, and hid under my pillow, watching from a small opening to see if my parents were coming. One night, I forgot to turn off the TV. I heard their footsteps coming closer and closer to my room. With the most stealthy silence a 10-yr old can make, I  jumped towards the television and silenced it. The steps shrunk in silence. Wait a minute, what is this? It's a man, holding a microphone, red suit, very clean, and quite the hairdo. I rose the volume up just a bit out of curiosity of wanting to hear what this strange, and well-dressed man was talking about. No longer was I interested in the exploits of half-naked men and women putting themselves in unusual positions. This was my first exposure to a show that became my obsession for countless months, a little program called Seinfeld. The night Seinfeld was introduced into my life was the night I saw "The Parking Garage", one of the show's most famous episodes. I didn't understand most of the jokes, and I didn't know why the characters were in the parking garage to begin with, but for some reason, they were compelling characters to look at. I know, I know, what the hell could I be talking about? Well, all I understood was that the four guys were looking for their car, with no luck. When they found the car and started shouting and dancing, I applauded them for their efforts, the four guys with no name. When they got into the car and it wouldn't start, I knew I came upon something special. Every night at 10, right after my parents would come and go, I'd watch Seinfeld back-to-back, and though I sacrificed a good night's sleep, it was all worth it to see Kramer sliding in and out of Jerry's apartment. With more episodes came more characters: the eccentric billionaire J. Peterman, the diabolically nnnyehehh postman Newman, the incorrigible Frank Costanza, as well as the almost impressive catalogue of failed relationships. Despite the praise, I found other experiences, curiosities, and Seinfeld became a dormant interest for nearly 6 years. High school, life became ever more complicated, I fell in and out of love, and schoolwork began to grow exponentially. YouTube became yet another escape from reality as I preferred to deal with being Rick Rolled than with another goddamn English paper. Seinfeld bloopers, what could this be? From season 1 to 9, I saw this seemingly perfect group of actors break apart in unprofessional giggles and yelps as their scenes hilariously collapsed into something incomprehensible. One of my favorite bloopers was Kramer's unused take of ...check it out yourselves and bloopers from The Tape. After having nearly fatal giggle fits, I decided to watch two documentaries on the conception of Seinfeld, and it was truly fascinating to learn about how drastically different Seinfeld was compared to other shows airing in the 90's and it made me appreciate the series in a more profound way than I had when I was 10. Recently, I wrote a paper on George Costanza's effect on pop culture, and later on, I hope to demonstrate my appreciation towards this wonderful and groundbreaking series in many other ways. I've recently had difficult experiences to deal with, and revisiting Seinfeld has rekindled my appreciation for life, even if life treated the New York Four unfairly most of the time.

Thanks for reading, if you did. Below are episodes I would recommend above all others, or as an introduction to the series.

"In No Particular Order"
-The Limo
-The Tape
-The Chicken Roaster
-The Parking Garage
-The Contest
-The Marine Biologist
-The Mango
-The Pitch
-The Hamptons
-The Deal
-The Opera
-The Outing
-The Heart Attack
-The Cafe
-The Sniffing Accountant
-The Opposite
-The Yada Yada Yada
-The Library
-The Trip(Pts. 1 and 2)
-The Boyfriend(Pts.1 and 2)

Pink Elephants

The rosy cheeks of a boy chewing an apple.

The bright, glowing shirt that weaves a path in the air.

Dense as cotton candy.

Loveliest of beings.

A day where your head can pop right of your neck socket.

A trip lasting forever in a second.

“I’m floating on pink elephants.”

Middleness

Originally written in 12th grade.

In the creative writing club, one of our most popular projects had our group creating characters only with a few descriptions that defined them and then writing a story about these characters. I ended up with a bitter old man living in Russia and a 14 year old girl trying to find some kind of connection in the world. The story itself doesn't make much sense since the old man and the girl meet in Russia under serendipitous circumstances and an drunken Russian boy who can communicate perfectly with the old man and girl, as well as a planned subplot of the old man being a spy undercover who is trying to behave like a 95 year old when he is in fact, 72. And if there's one thing Russia is known for, it's drunken people and spies. Clearly, I have a very biased perspective on Russia and in order to complete the story, i would have to extensively research Russian culture and give a hint as to what would invite the girl to come to such a place. The story also deals with the problem of acceptance in a complicated world that rejects others, in this case, the innocent girl running away from the law, and the old man who couldn't stand to be around people he understood and moved to a country where he can remain as the foreign treasure. Originally, I wanted the girl to fall in love with the old man, but I realized that spinning a story with that kind of angle would be difficult to believe. I might eventually complete the story but only when I'm not boggled with other projects to worry about. Please leave comments and thanks for reading, if you do.
 
Characters by Creative Writing Club ’11

Masks of different kinds lined up his closet. Each looked like a fog of color that oversimplified its meaning.
“Rrrg.”
He trotted towards his drawer and picked up his glasses shaped with dark, thick frames and a 5-cm diameter circle. With the glasses, he could see beyond his field of view. He stumbled back to the closet and picked out today’s mask, a bleak expression that could remind someone of a fierce and unholy battle. Upon the slipping the mask on, he left his house and walked to a bar. He hated using a cane; he thought it was a sign of weakness even though he could seriously bludgeon someone if he wanted to. Occasionally, he’ll stumble off and get to a liquor store though he doesn’t figure it out since both places have similar odors. The bright lights confused him, the swear words even more so.
“You’re too young!”
“So what if I am?”
“Go away! And don’t come back!”
Kye stood for a while outside of the bar. Every time she saw the bartender, she made a face.
“Nyag!”
Inaudible. John bumps into Kye.
“Jesus! What the hell is wrong with you, old man?”
“That’s a first.”
“What do you mean?”
“Old man,” he said while adjusting his glasses. “People usually call me a geezer or a wiseass but not old man. You’re not from around here, are you?”
“What-uh-whadda ya mean?”
“I’ve walked on this street for the past 47 years; never have seen someone as thin as you. Did you move in recently?”
“You can say that.”
“Now why did Frank do that earlier? He doesn’t give a damn about the drinking age.”
“Oh, he saw me staring at one of his sons, it seems, and got worried that they might be taken by my beauty.”
“Frank’s son is almost 20.”
“Well, he’s still a man.”
John slowly nodded his head. Compared to the lesser-minded individuals he was forced to interact, day after day, there hadn’t been a reason to nod at anyone. For a moment, John thought he was nodding incorrectly.
“What’s your name?”
“Kye. What’s yours, old man?”
“John. John Smith. You can laugh at the mediocrity later, ok?”
“What’s mediocrity?”
“Literally middleness. Halfness.”
“(chuckles) Seriously?”
“Very.”
The bar door swings open, smacking and dividing Kye away from John. A blue coated boy stumbles out of the bar, carefully choosing his next step. He opens up his coat and sees a broken bottle.
“Aw, shit! That was for my (burps) mother.”
“My fucking nose!” yells Kye, closing the door.  “You little-“
“Easy, Ki. Don’t’ forget you walk this way to go back home.”
“Right. I always go-um-wrong way.”
“Tell you what,” says John holding his cane with both hands. “How ‘bout I take you home?”
“Ok.”
John holds the little boy’s hand and walks carefully so the boy doesn’t throw up on his shoes. Kye, still massaging her nose, walks behind them. It’s a wonder, she thought, how much more attractive the old man was compared to the bartender’s son. Has it really been that long, she wondered.
“Mommy wanted the bottle. But it’s broke. She wont want it now.”
“Well, maybe I can take care of that, too.”
“Jesus, it’s cold out here!”
“Well, how long were you in there?” insisted John to Kye.
“A few hours, maybe minutes.”
The sidewalk remained consistent with the same pattern, gray, black, gray black. The walls of each street were colorless in nature and display, even the paint cracking under was a bleak eggshell white, not nearly as exciting or as whimsical as the snowflakes vibrating above their heads.
“We’re almost there. Keep your head up, boy.”
“I’m try (spits)’n. It’s (burps) nasty.”
 “Ki, how much can you lift?”
“Uh…some amount.”
“Would you mind carrying the boy?”
“Nnnno…if he doesn’t spread his mouth shit.”
“Sure. You’ll be careful, won’t you?”
“Yes.”
Kye approached the boy carefully. Never had she seen a more delicately constructed creature. His features were perfectly symmetrical, eyes were a glowing green, and even the little spittle at the side of his mouth reminded him of a teardrop that only a sensitive person could create. She gently lifted him up and carried him in her arms. Like holding a feather.
“Brooul!”
“Ugh, uh, ew!”
“You shouldn’t have picked him up that fast.”
“I..couldn’t help myself! He’s so cute. Ugh!”
“Urp…sm…I’m sorry.”
“It’s..okay, I guess.”
They continued walking; leaving behind the only original color the sidewalk will have for a week. In a short while, they arrived at John’s doorstep.
“I thought we were going home,” exclaimed the boy quizzically.
“We are. I just don’t want you to come empty-handed.”
John opened the door, and Kye stepped in, wanting to drop the boy on the couch. What surprised her, aside from the house smelling appropriately, was the lack of furniture.
“Jon, where can I drop him?”
“On the floor, I guess. Just don’t make another mess.”
As he commanded, she carefully placed the boy on the floor, unusually colorful and confusing from the repeatable tessellations she’d seen before.
“Here we go,” said John, looking at the only furniture at his house: a liquor cabinet with a beautifully engraved handle of a dragon on it. “Have a little vodka left over from my birthday party. Hope your mom likes this.”
“Thanks. I hope she does, too.”
“Do you want to leave now?” asked John.
“Not yet. Thank you.”
“This feels like Kindergarten.” replied Kye despondently.
“How so?”
“Sitting on the floor like misbehaving shits. Looking up at the teacher and listening to her. Or watching her lips open and close. Like a fish.”
John chuckles.
“What grade are you in, little boy?”
“The one you say. Kinder-garter.”
“Do you like it?”
“I no know. I was there once. But not again.”
“Hmm…mmm.” So innocent. So little.
“Ki.”
“Hm?”
“So what’s a sweet, innocent girl like you finding drunk, impotent men in Russia?”
“Well, (clears her throat), I’m an emancipated minor, my parents…were horrible people, and I’ve been traveling the rails, as they’d say in the 1800’s. I was at a library once, looking at pictures of buildings, when one of Russia’s (put her hand on her chest) in-credible buildings caught my attention. I was flabbergasted at its design, its colors, its inventiveness. I just had to see it. Just once. Touch it once. Oh. Crazy, huh?”
“No. Not at all.”
John was a detail-oriented person, in thought and execution. He cross-examined Kye’s words, dissected every gesture and pulse she made. If Kye was aware of John’s ulterior motive, she would’ve been flattered.
“It was tricky, but luckily, I was able to sneak onto a flight and was on my way. To touch that building. I couldn’t wait, but life had other plans. Shortly after, the airline became aware of the stowaway and I ran, till I got to the bar. Eh, shit happens, Jon.”
“Amen.”
“By the way, is it J-O-N?”
“No. With an h.”
“That’s all right. Like I give a damn about my name, anyway. Yours is K-I?”
“No. K-Y-E. I give a bit more of a damn, but enough, it seems.”
“Thing is,” said John, sitting upright and moving his hands, “if you corrected your name every single time someone mispronounces it, it becomes a chore and your name’ll lose its initial significance.”
 “Huh. You’re right.”
“This time, Kye.”
One spoke, the other responded, an instinctive act neither of them had accomplished in a while. Inside, both of them wondered why the other hadn’t left yet.
“Hungry, Kye?”
“Oh, fucking. Whaddya got?”
“Well, let’s see.”
(TBC…)

The Twentithird One

Ladies and gentleman of the jury, I may or may not be losing my fucking mind right now. At this point, I have no evidence to confirm either diagnosis, but I'm pretty sure I'm losing it. My back aches right now, the pain is mostly around the right shoulder blade, due to the amount of crap I lugged around yesterday for some goddamn reason. And I'm swearing a lot, another thing to check-mark. Why is this relevant, ladies and gentleman? Where's the connection with losing my mind and having back pain? As it turns out, I have also been shaking uncontrollably for the past hour and a half. Now this may have something to do with the window being open, but most likely, my thoughts have been racing incredibly fast, and my body has to compensate for it. As each thought makes its way across my body, I can feel each thought blazing right through.

I apologize in advance for this post. As you can tell, it's more disorganized than my posts usually are. I've had several conversations with some close friends and each of them, whether they were a sophomore, or a senior in college, convinced me that my life in college was only an illusion, and that I'm only taking on a separate personality. It's fair to say that, if you're someone who studies more often than you sleep, and if all of your classes are terrible and complete wastes of time, but for some reason, I never thought of college this way. I've enjoyed the 2 months I've spent in college so far, and yes, they have been a difficult two months, but at no expense to myself as a human being. Maybe I was wrong. When I realize the things I've had to give up in order to turn in a certain assignment in on time, it's really depressing. Most of the time I spend on weekdays is in my room or at the library studying. Is that a fair reason to complain about not having a life? I think my real problem is that I'm gullible, superficially gullible. I've never considered the negative aspects of a person, and when I hear them for the first time, it's always a shock. Why? It's true. So-and-so instead of being this, is actually this. We all have the skeletons in our closet about disturbing things that wouldn't be acceptable in polite society. I'm afraid of having sex. Deathly afraid. Why? I've been having an identity crisis for quite some time, between my adult self, the crazy, swearing, cynical 18 year old, and my past self, the crazy, sweet, intelligent 10 year old, and when I think of myself in a bedroom with someone, I'll hesitate because of the 10 year old self. It's the same reason I'm always shaving, and trying to stop swearing. It's just so damn confusing. One more thing, it took me years to break my habit of not saying "so", since I thought saying "so" would make me sound stupider; well, I don't have to sound like a brilliant person every day, especially when formulating the thoughts precisely enough to make sense of it is complicated and frustrating enough as it is.

Is there any reason to be complaining right now? Is my life, at this point in time, better than it has been before? Of course it is, and yet, there's still something wrong. I woke up this morning, thinking about someone's request of no longer asking invasive questions, and I don't know what to do about it. I've asked a lot of unusual questions before, but how can anyone react politely with that kind or request? You'll only be spurred into asking more "invasive" questions, such as "What kind of questions wouldn't be invasive?" Frankly, I feel terrible that I made them feel this way, and I imagine they've felt this way for a long time, and finally had the courage to ask that question. Should I feel insulted by the fact that they asked it? Personally, I've always asked questions like that, so being asked not to do that is an attack to my personality. Maybe I'm reacting childishly about it; I'll admit I had a tantrum just a few minutes ago, and yesterday when I was at the park. Maybe the reason I'm asking all of these questions is only because of their request. If asking invasive questions isn't an appropriate way to develop a friendship, then what is, and if it's supposed to be really obvious, why can't I understand that?

Life can be complicated, sometimes. All the time.

The Twentisecond One

Citrus Providers
When life gives you lemons, do the obvious. When life gives you grapefruit, throw it back since you don’t like it.  Sometimes, the grapefruit has rotted beyond repair, and catching it means getting the rotten, sticky pulp all over your hands. You go to the bathroom to get the pulp off but the unbearable stench remains, so you douse yourself with many different perfumes and finally, the awful stench disappears. You’ve had the stench for almost 2 weeks, and very little people have decided to stick around and suffer through the stench with you. But those are the good guys, the defiant ones; they’re the ones who’ll stick around longer than the terrible smell. You can never predict the whereabouts of the grapefruit; some of them appear out of nowhere and hit your chest incredibly hard, others are coughed up and spit out (luckily, they’re not rotten), and others have just fallen from the sky, splattered all over the floor. You recognize that these aren’t your grapefruit and take a moment to wonder if you should care about the floor grapefruit. Your first instinct is to clean it up, and throw it in the dumpster or in some kind of compost heap. Once you’ve done that, you can’t help but wonder about the other grapefruit that makes up the compost heap. You realize that people might’ve been hit by the exact same grapefruit, but it’s such an embarrassing thing to happen to a person, getting hit by grapefruit, that it doesn’t surprise you that no one else ever talks about it. In fact, upon realizing the amount of grapefruit in the compost heap, you get sick of saying the word grapefruit and resort to calling it “Citrus provider”, but oranges and tangerines are also “citrus providers” so now you’ve blurred your understanding of the term. You start having dreams of “citrus providers” raining from the sky. Upon seeing the rest of the world take advantage of the “citrus providers”, from practical juice-making means to ridiculous robot making means, you start attacking everybody and stealing their “citrus providers”. In the dream, you create an enormous basket and with your imaginary strength, you succeed in taking away everybody’s “citrus providers” and decide to jump into the basket and dwell within the pulps and juices of the “citrus providers”. You have the time of your life within the basket until others realize the existence of the basket breaks various zoning laws and have the basket destroyed by missile fire (since it’s a dream, you know). No one considers the explosion causes all of the “citrus providers” to pour out of the basket at once and engulf everyone in sight. You’re the lucky one, however, and are the only one alive after the missile fiasco, but you look around and clearly see how everyone perished, by the means of your precious “citrus providers”. The thought makes you insane and you wake up, before any further damage is caused. At this point, waking up in a moistened bed, you think about all of the grapefruits of the world and wonder why the grapefruits come and go that easily. It’s been two weeks since your last grapefruit hit you, but you start yearning for the grapefruit, praying and making ridiculous ceremonies to bring it back. One summer afternoon, the clouds are the same purple-orange that led to the “citrus provider” storm, and you smile and wait patiently, only to be disappointed by the rain, saddened by the reaction from others, and furious from being tricked by Mother Nature again. You go into a crazed madness that leads you to a farmer’s market, still open at Midnight, apparently, and smash up every “citrus provider” you can see. Lo and behold, the cops have arrived, forgotten their training, and hurl a grapefruit right at your face. The grapefruit smashes and opens up immediately, covering your whole face like a ski mask. You’re sitting in the back of the cop cruiser, having refused to remove the grapefruit from your face. The cops think you’re the most ridiculous lunatic they’ve ever had to arrest, but you’re not listening. You have your grapefruit back and that’s all that matters. After a while, the grapefruit slowly slides off of your face, and lands onto your handcuffed arms. It’s not the same grapefruit you remember, just a convincing impostor. Your eyes, filled with grapefruit pulp and tears, burn savagely, and your body crumbles. Your time in jail is thankfully a quick one, as it’s your first offense. As you sit in jail with the grapefruit mask next to you, you consider the grapefruits in the compost heap again.  You look at the grapefruit mask again.

Some grapefruits are the lucky ones.

-To my sister.­­­­­­­ 

Ideas That Will NEVER Happen: Vol.III !!!

Take a look, if you'd like, at a past life of mine: Making comic strips. This was my second pet project in 7th grade. Over the course of the year, I made 120 strips, 23 of which I ended up posting. This was a time that I realized that becoming a success on the internet would be far more difficult than I ever could've imagined. I was a temperamental guy back then, so a day with little or no hits would devastate me, enough that I gave up on posting more comics until September of 2008 when I planned to reboot the comic strip only to give up again after a small reaction from the new comic. Looking back, these comics were terrible and ill-inspired and yet, I did notice an amount of progress in the comics, as the creative process became more intuitive, certain choices were made for the comics to look more presentable, and even the immature humor became much better. Unfortunately, outside obligations(such as school and...) forced me to abandon the comic strips for good.
And now for the matter at hand, what these comic strips have to do with an impossible idea:

An R-rated feature-lengthed film based on the "popular" webcomic. Movie poster advertisements all over would feature Sonic, Shadow, and Kirby hidden in the darkness with a tagling saying, "The Darkest Comedy Ever." The jokes, profanity, and gratuitious content are at unspeakable levels of filth. The plot of the movie is that an alien is creating duplicates of popular characters that have better personalities than the originals. Sonic, Shadow, and Kirby team up to destroy all of the clones before it's too late, and insult Kirby's weight the whole way through. This is the ending: After the amount of chaos that has happened in the past 90 minutes, the movie cuts to this strip. The audience gets a chance to read it until the camera starts pulling away from the computer screen on which the strip is displayed on. People notice that it's a low-tech computer that may've run Windows XP at some point. The camera pulls away further, revealing an abandoned room that has one computer still running. Going back further, the camera moves out of the house, through the doorway, and reveals an enitre city completely devoid of life. The camera stops moving back as soon as it's able to see the entire skyline and begins fading out as soon as one of the buildings collapses.

Why this will never happen: like it or not, my comic strip is probably really similar to other video games comic strips that have self-referencing characters and violence, and each of them have the same low chances as mine to get noticed by a movie studio. Also, the movie tries to throw as much inappropriate content as it can in the 90 minute runtime with a goal of breaking the Guiness World Record for the amount of profanity in an animated movie(currently held by South Park: Bigger, Longer, and Uncut) which, one, is an incredibly short-sighted goal, and two, would sacrifice the quality of the story to make lots and lots of terrible jokes. Also, it just wouldn't suitable for an adorable character like Kirby to be in a movie this raunchy, and the guys at Nintendo would probably agree. Although this movie and comic strip was insane as it was, I look forward to making a new comic in the near future, if and only if I have the time and patience to do so.

Ideas That Will Never Happen: VOL. 2!!

What you are about to read will never happen. It doesn't matter how much money you contribute, how many brilliant minds you stuff into a cramped room to make the idea comprehensible, it will NEVER happen. Though the mind is free to create whatever scenarios it can, even it is fully aware of some ideas that poison the mind and endanger it. This is one of those ideas.

In 7th grade, I began work on my most ambitious project to date: Spongebob Squarepants in an adventure through time!!!! (Spongebob: Trapped in Time!!!). Originally written to be the next bestselling novel, this version is the film adaptation. Our hero Spongebob retreats away form society when a mistake at the annual fry cook games costs him the gold spatula and a life of happiness working at his favorite job. Nearly everyone in Bikini Bottom insults Spongebob for his mistake, and so, Spongebob decides to stay in his pineapple until it rots. Just when all hope is lost, his friend Patrick encourages Spongebob, through much comical complication, to experience the outside world again. Reluctantly, Spongebob does until waltzing into Plankton's clunky restaurant, The Chum Bucket, where he and Patrick uncover Plankton's latest diabolical device, a time machine! Plankton goads the two bestest buddies to go into the machine, only to be teleported back in time, back to the days of Ancient Egypt. Spongebob's adventure takes him on a rampage with a flying car of the future, getting swallowed by a Sphinx, makes him and Patrick the last ones remaining when the Titanic splits open, accidently kill a few gladiators and lion fish in Rome, wonder about their lives as they run away from the battle happening in Gettysburg, and inadvertently cause the end of the universe which, since it's a Spongebob movie, they somehow repair and make it back to the present. The adventure features an impressive combination of classic cel animation and CGI(Computer Generated Imagery) in the designs of the future buildings of Future Bottom and the Titanic, as well several other set pieces such as the kickass flying car, and the Sphinx which somehow comes to life and has functioning organs. It's a PG-13 rated flick so it features intense cartoon violence that might frighten a tot or two, some profanity, and a few low-brow jokes.

Why it will never happen: The idea, although practically understandable for standard saturday morning cartoon fare, is far too ambitious to ever be produced. Imagine me, in 7th grade, lacking of any kind of friends, rushing home every day after completing his homework, booting up his computer to write the next chapter of the Spongebob epic that would cement his place in history. Even with that kind of determination, it would never be picked up by anyone, and trying to make a blockbuster film of this degree would require a budget larger than for the making of Tarzan, the most expensive animated movie to date. It's also a fairly risky feature in trying to tell a coherent story that mixes in high-speed dramatic thrills, suspense, and pitch-perfect comedy all in one. It's also risky for even being more violent than a regular animated movie and for being more risque. Also, even with Spongebob, the market film companies are chasing after these days are CGI features, leaving the cel animation features to be left in the dust. The reason I would ever write a story like this was because of my disappointment of the promise of a Spongebob special(Dunces and Dragons) that ended up only being 30 minutes long. The movie would run for about two hours, again something almost unheard of for an animated movie, but if the Spongebob creators were risky enough to make a character like a walking, talking sponge, then maybe this idea might work. It's such a large idea that I will spend more posts talking about it, but in the near future.

Degas' Laundresses

Originally written in 11th Grade.

This was the following project after the short story. The assignment was to use a poem we discussed in class and make an adaptation of it, in the form of a theatrical play. Originally, the project felt like an obligation that I had to finish, as I couldn't connect well with the characters as I had in my previous projects, but later in the class when we had a chance to revise any project of our choice, I decided to revise this one since I felt it had lots of unused potential. The first draft(of 4 pages) was well-received in the class, more so than the short story, with some people being really impressed at how fully fledged out and three dimensional the characters were despite the source material. Some criticized the prose likeness but really, for any project, it's much easier to work with prose than with a proper screenplay. The version I'm posting is almost 11 word-doc pages. The play was a daring departure from my other projects, mainly due to the inclusion of female characters, and an attempt at a story related to life other than an exaggerated comical situation. Many told me it would've been a worthwhile inclusion in the school's playwright festival, but I wasn't sure it was ready for that kind of recognition. There were numerous amounts of changes I made, such as the character's names, the timing for moments, dialogue that wasn't period related; it was truly a difficult but worthwhile effort. I don't know if I'll ever come back to this project in the future, by then, much more diverse ideas will have come and gone, but the project as it stands is still an important part of my career as a writer, when only the characters and myself could dictate if it would be a success. Please enjoy the one-time only showing of Degas' Laundresses.

Pt. 1
Scene 1
Setting: 19th Century France, The Art Studio
Characters:  Merle, Corentine, The Artist

Curtain rises. Dim lights. Merle sits with her back to a large piece behind her, unaware that it’s been painted recently. Her legs stretch towards the audience, as if wanting them to come join her. She’s dressed in a simple white dress with some traces of dirt. She holds her fist tightly, covering most of her mouth. She allows one finger to be set free unknowing that the finger curls up on her chin. She stares with contempt at the audience for 20 seconds. She begins wincing in pain and blinks her eyes a few times.

Merle: (pinching her left arm as punishment) Eh, ah! Aaahh…ech… (Stops pinching) Ah… (Sighs)

Lights slowly become brighter, revealing most of the scenery. A tub of water is at the left side of the stage, with a small pile of clothes next to it. Merle stands up, her left leg slightly bent. She stretches her arms towards the audience, and then clasps her hands. The rest of her motions are simple stretches, no detail is needed for those. After she is done, she walks over to the tub of water, and puts her knees to the floor. She begins sweating almost immediately and uses her right arm to dry off. She forgets about the patches of dirt on her palm, and makes salty mud. She looks at her hand for a moment then dries off using a black smock from the pile. She grabs a white shirt from the pile and dunks it carelessly in the tub. She puts lots of pressure onto the shirt as if she is drowning a helpless victim, waiting to smack it back down if it comes up for air. She makes a puzzled expression as she quickly takes the shirt out of the tub. The shirt is now blue. She takes a closer look at the water, and then realizes what she has just done. She drops the shirt, and walks back to where she had been. Lights become brighter, revealing an enormous painting. The painting has a mixture of colors, near the bottom, almost like a tidal wave of colors that don’t fit with each other. It leaves a blank spot on the painting, as if it was trying to be erased. The woman’s position is halfway towards the painting, and half towards the audience.

Merle: No. No! No-au-ahhh! (Sobbing) Noooo! Aug-hu-ha! Ahhgggg! (Breaths deeply) Mmmm… Hoh! (Sniffles) Uh. (Coughs) (Sniffles)

There’s a loud knock. Merle attempts to contain herself by wiping away her tears with her dress. She dusts herself off and walks to the right side of the stage. She looks at the reflection from the doorknob. She gets frightened at what she’s become and cleans herself up more carefully, evening out the marks on her face. Another knock.

Merle: (coughs) (sniffles) Ex-excuse me one moment.

Corentine: Who said that? I thought this place was empty at this time.

Merle appears relieved to find that someone else is at the door. She grabs the doorknob, cautiously still, and opens the door. A woman, an inch smaller in height than her, wearing a similar white dress with a flower stitched on it, comes in. Corentine passes Merle, and stares in awe at the studio. She can’t help but walk nonchalantly around the stage, walking back to where she was. Corentine sees Merle.

Corentine: Oh, I’m so sorry. I did not see you there. (Clasps her hands apologetically) Please forgive my rude-

Merle: You’re forgiven. Who are you?

Corentine: What do you mean? You…did not know I was coming?

Merle: I’ve been here most of today (clasps her hands tightly)…and yesterday (Separates hands).

Corentine: Oh, how unfortunate! Do you ever eat or-

Merle: (Staring stupefied) Wha?! Kind of question is that?

Corentine: Sorry! I was just wondering how the services-

Merle: They’re fine. Don’t worry about that.

Merle walks away from Corentine, both arms tight and (frigid), and goes back to the pile of clothes. Corentine walks behind her, about 5 feet apart. Merle sits down and turns around, frowning when she sees Corentine right in front of her.

Merle: What are you doing?

Corentine: Is this where I’m supposed to be?

Merle: I don’t know! (Throws her hands up in the air) I don’t know anything about you besides your tendency to ask stupid questions! Are you supposed to be here?

Corentine: I…eh…yes. (Sits with an apologetic expression)

Merle: (Turns back towards clothes) then start folding. Don’t get in the way.

Corentine: (Like a toddler who misbehaved) Okay.

Merle goes back to washing clothes, forgetting that the water hasn’t been replaced. She dips a shirt in the water, splashing both of their white dresses. She pulls it out, noticing it’s turned blue.

Merle: Aaghg!

Merle molds the shirt into a ball and hurls it to the center of the stage. Corentine looks at the formation and departure of the ball-shirt with a curious expression. She can’t help but run towards the shirt, pick it up, and look at it.

Corentine: Wow. This is interesting. (Looks at the sleeves) Ooh! (Turns the shirt around)

Merle: (Scratching her head) will you stop that? There’s nothing special about that shirt. It’s blue and it’s useless. That’s all you have to know. Now get back here, right now!

Corentine: (looks away from the shirt and leers at Merle) Hold on a minute, I’m just…a little curious. I mean look at it! (Holds the shirt towards Merle) I mean how does something like that happen. It’s fascinating!

Merle: (Irritated) No, it’s useless. The great artist hates blue shirts. I wouldn’t be too concerned over this if the shirt became red or orange. That’s fine. But not blue. I have to get rid of the shirt.

Corentine: No! (Starts hugging the shirt) You can’t! (Hugging more tightly) Can I…at least have it?

Merle: Oh, now look at what you’ve done! Your dress is ruined, you fool!

Corentine pulls the shirt away from her and looks down. Blue drops of water tumble down and over the folds on her dress, leaving an intriguing pattern on her dress, similar to the calm painting style of a Monet.

Corentine: (Looking closer) Actually, I like this. It’s much more interesting this way.

Merle: Oh, for… Fine, you can have the shirt. And I really couldn’t care less about the way your dress looks, truthfully.

Corentine: (Eyes lighting up) Oh, thank you! You are so kind!

Merle: (under her breath) Right.
Pt. 2

Corentine walks eloquently back to Merle who has picked up the tub of water, and dunked it offstage. She comes back onstage and puts the tub back where it was. She sits back down, where she was, and grabs a white smock. Corentine sits next to Merle. Merle dunks the white smock in the water and tries to scratch off some of the dirt marks. Merle goes on with her normal routine as Corentine patiently watches on. 30 seconds go by. Merle becomes more irritated with each passing second, as she begins ripping her fingers through some of the clothing. 10 more seconds. Merle’s fingers curl up like the claws of a beast, waiting to tear into the entrails of a dying carcass. Time.

Merle: (Dunking the shirt, splashing both of them a bit) what are you even doing here, anyway?! You’ve done nothing but stare at me for what feels like forever! If you aren’t going to help, then just leave!

Corentine: I’m…I’m-

Merle: Sorry?! For what? For being incompetent? Useless? That’s your own damn fault!

Corentine: (Starts tearing up) I…

Merle: My god, what is your problem? Speak!

Corentine:  I had a chance and I took it! That is my problem! (A teardrop)

Merle: What are you…what?

Corentine: (Sniffles) A chance to work with the greatest artist in France. The one and only. (Starts crying, but hides her tears in her hands) The great one!

Merle looks at Corentine for a few seconds as Corentine’s tears scatter onto the ground. Merle reconsiders her next comment and thinks for a moment. 

Merle: Oh. Uh… (Still irritated but a bit sympathetic) so…you’re a painter?

 Corentine: (sniffles) Yes. (Sniffles) I’ve painted many things. Well, I am a painter but I want to be a better one.

Merle: (pinching herself over guilt) Eh! (Lets go) Listen, I understand your problem, but why did you come here of all places?

Corentine: I would tell you but…I can’t think straight right now. I just want to start by apologizing for being-

Merle: No, I’m sorry. I thought you were a laundress. Or my replacement. I overreacted. I do that from time to time.

Corentine: That’s fine. (Cracks open a little smile)

Merle: (almost as if the act is foreign, tries to mimic her smile) listen, you look like a wonderful girl but… you can’t work here. You wouldn’t learn anything that you don’t already know.

Corentine: What do you mean? (Wipes tears from the right side)

Merle: I…

Corentine: Yes?

Merle: (Stares at the ground for 8 seconds) I think…you might enjoy yourself here.

Corentine: (Coming closer) What?

Merle: (Looks up) YOU’LL BE FINE HERE!(Sees Corentine shaken) Oh-(pinches herself) Ah, ah, eh! (Lets go) You’ll-(coughs)You’ll be fine here. Make yourself comfortable.

Corentine: (A little stunned) Uh…why did you…

Merle: (Grabbing another shirt) Oh, that always happens. You will get used to it.

Corentine: (Jokingly, but still phased) Well, I hope that I do!

Corentine, tearless, feels gratified in learning that she can stay. Overdramatically, she begins skipping with joy around the stage while Merle proceeds with washing the shirt.

Corentine: La,la,la,la,ala,ala,laala-(trips) Ahh!(Falls on the ground, a few feet away from Merle, dragging her dress) Ohhh!

The noise alerts Merle, and she turns to see Corentine on the ground. She puts her shirt down momentarily and picks up a different one. She dunks it in the water. Corentine is sitting up, searching her body for injuries. Merle hurls the wet shirt. The shirt flies across the air, little drops of water drip on the stage, hitting Corentine directly on her chest, wrapping itself around her like a mother grasping her long, lost child.

Corentine: Ah!

Corentine removes the shirt and holds it on her arms.

Corentine: Why did you do that?

Merle: What are you expecting? It is my job and now it is yours.

Corentine looks at the shirt carefully, a bit disappointed that it isn’t as vibrant and wonderful as the blue shirt.

Corentine: Mmm…

Merle: Well? What are you waiting for? Get started!

Corentine: M- Oh! Uh, I do not kn-

Merle: Oh, what kind of excuse is that? Come here and I will tell you how it is done.

Corentine: (Standing up with the shirt in her right hand) Oh… thank you. Thank you very much!

Merle picks up the shirt she had before and dunks it the tub. Corentine walks over to Merle and sits next to her, eager to begin her lessons. Merle moves a few inches away. Merle takes out the shirt and shows it to Corentine. Merle drops the shirt.

Merle: OH! I…forgot something! I will be right back!

Merle walks offstage. She returns a few seconds later with a scrub brush and a bar of soap.

Merle: I must have lost half a mind to think I could do this without soap. (Turns to Corentine) Pay very close attention. This is very simple.

Corentine nods and looks at Merle admiringly. Merle moves an inch away in alarm. Merle, quickly and without pause, teaches Corentine the basic steps of laundry.

Merle: And that is all. See, like I told you, it is simple.

Corentine: It is easy! Oh, I could do this in my sleep!

Merle: (under her breath) You would drown first. (Aloud) Maybe, but you still have to be careful. (Looks up and curls her eyebrows) You know what? I have taught you enough. Would you like to try doing this yourself?

Corentine: (Amazed, yet unsure) Oh, that would be splendid! But…I do not feel as if I know enough…you know? You have done this much longer than I have-

Merle: Nonsense! You will be fiiine! Do not worry. (Walks towards the door) You will be just…fine…

Merle sits with her back on the door, and her arms crossed behind her head. Corentine looks at the tub of water. She sees her reflection in the water and makes a face to it. She makes a few more. When she remembers what she was supposed to do, she grabs a shirt and gets started. She works for about one and half minutes until she gets to a shirt with a larger patch of dirt. Surprised for just a moment, she grabs a bar of soap and scrubs with the brush.
Pt. 3
Corentine: Mm! Mm! Eh! Eegghh…

Corentine, noticing that the patch doesn’t get smaller, furiously dive-bombs the tub, splashing the floor a bit. She gets the shirt at the edge to the water, like an amateur surfer who doesn’t want to stand, and scrubs more intensely, unaware of her own potential.

Corentine: Eegghh! Err! RRAAAHHH!!

Corentine pierces the shirt open, making a large hole. The shirt ripping makes a loud, unrealistic noise that can terrify the audience.

Corentine: (Staring deeply at the shirt) UH! Uhh…Rrr…GR! DAMN IT!!

Uncontrollably, she throws the brush, which hooks onto the shirt, to the center of the stage, while it becomes more difficult for her to breathe. The brush makes a loud clunk noise that vibrates across the stage, yet isn’t enough to wake Merle, who is fast asleep.
     
Corentine: Rrr! Ouh!(Breathes for a few seconds) Oh no. Oh no! Oh! What have I done? Oh!

Corentine turns left and right guiltily and looks at Merle. She looks back and begins staring at her own hands, shaking in horror.

Corentine: (Breaths deeply) Oh. Oh… What have I done? What have I just did? This is…wrong! Oh! Oh!

Corentine shakes for a few more seconds until she covers her face and begins crying uncontrollably. She gradually begins coming closer to the floor. Once there, she stretches her legs towards the tub, nearly tipping it over. She continues crying, more and more loudly. Merle, who looks to be at peace as if it was the first time in years, begins blinking her eyes, absorbing the scenery around her. She becomes displeased in realizing she’s still in the studio.

Merle: (Sniffles) Yeh! Aaaahhh... (Yawns) Oh no.

Merle’s eyes open wide and stare at Corentine. She strokes her hair and rubs her eyes in shock and amuse.

Merle: (Chuckling) What are you doing?

It takes a few moments for Corentine for process this comment. Once she does, she tries to stop crying to respond back, but is still lying on the floor.

Corentine: (Looking at Merle) Geh! Uuh! Bu-

Merle: You are embarrassing yourself. Come. Stop, okay?

Corentine: Uuh…Im…monstuh…

Merle: What?

Corentine: I’m a monster! Can you not seeee?!

Merle, beginning to feel a little sympathetic, walks until she sees the ripped shirt hooked onto the brush. She grows a little bit furious until she begins to smile. She chuckles and picks it up.

Merle: Good work! (Looking at the hole) You got the stain out!

Corentine: Eeee…augh! (Looks away from Merle)

Corentine continues to cry, making several high noises like a baby. Merle walks over to Corentine, and carelessly throws the shirt-brush into the water, splashing Corentine a bit. She kneels down next to Corentine and places her hand on Corentine’s hair, caressing a little bit. Corentine stops crying for a moment and begins moving her head closer to Merle’s knees. Merle, a bit confused, allows Corentine to do so until Corentine’s head and neck are placed on Merle’s lap. Corentine silently smacks and licks her lips. Corentine swallows whatever she had in her throat and clears her throat.

Corentine: I’m a monster.

Merle: (Softly) No, you are not.

Corentine: I am. (Sniffles) I am a beast.

Merle: (Softly) Nonsense.

Corentine: Then why did I-

Merle: You were frustrated. It is perfectly understandable.

Corentine: But…I’ve never…done that before. I felt like a demon from... Oh, I cannot say!

Merle: Go ahead.

Corentine: A demon from Hell!

Corentine stays silent for a few more seconds until she begins to rise from Merle’s lap.
Pt. 4
Merle: (Whispers) Stay down.

Corentine: (Surprised) What?

Merle: (Aloud) Nothing! I did not say anything!

Corentine sits upright near Merle. Merle, blushing a bit, stands up and stretches her arms.

Merle: (Breaths deep) Ahh. So what went wrong?

Corentine stands up, a bit shaken, and dusts herself off.

Corentine: A certain shirt tried to make a fool of me. And…ended up succeeding. (Nervously giggles) Really, I must apologize for my brutish behavior.

Merle: It is fiiiine! Do not worry about it! Sometimes, on a really difficult day, if rip three or four shirts, I try to rip two or three at a time to see how much more strong I have become. I could survive a brawl here.

Corentine: With how many men?

Merle: Two on a good day, five on a bad one.

Corentine moves her hand toward her lips, trying to stifle her laughter but failing to do so. Her laughs are unpleasant and strangely offensive to Merle.

Merle: Please! It is not that funny!

Corentine: (Laughing) No! Of course it is not!

Corentine lets her mouth go and her arms move at their own pace. Her body sways back and forth and she nearly loses her balance. Corentine begins laughing more and more manically. Her face starts becoming red and she can’t stop blinking her eyes. Merle grows more and more impatient until she grabs Corentine from the sides of her body and shakes her furiously like a child wondering what his present is.

Merle: STOP LAUGHING!!

Corentine opens her eyes wide, staring right into Merle’s countenance, and shuts her mouth tightly. She begins struggling to breathe and opens her mouth.

Corentine: Uhhua! Huu! (Coughs) Agh! Ooph… (Breathes) Oh. I am so very sorry. I have never heard a joke that vulgar.

Merle: What?! You stupid idiot!

Corentine: (Chuckles) Well, I am sorry but I have not.

Merle: What did you think I meant by ‘a brawl’? You know what? I do not want to know!

Corentine: (Guiltily) Oh, but I am very sorry! That was not what I was thinking! You are not that kind of woman!

Merle: Exactly! Wait…you were just joking?

Corentine: Of course. A brawl is a fight. Five men is a lot of men. Five on a bad day. It is funny!

Merle: (Staring intently) Funny. Funny, funny, funny, funny. It is what is.

Corentine: What is the matter? You did not think…that was funny?

Merle: (Thinking) I do not know. I do not what is funny anymore. (Holding her chin) I know one time in my life I would have gotten an aneurysm from laughing at that joke. Well, maybe not. It was the joke of an amateur.

Corentine: (Giggling a little) It was bad, was it not?

Merle: (Chuckling) Horrible. All right. Enough talk. Back to work. I know you will need my help after how badly you destroyed that shirt.

Corentine: That is not fair!

Merle: Life is not fair. What can you do?

Corentine: (Thinking for a few seconds) Make another?

Merle: Ha! The Artist’s paintings are the most famous and prized in all of Europe. I am sure a new pile of dirty clothes are waiting for me right outside. Come on. I will…show you exactly how it is done.

Corentine: (Smiling) Thanks.

Merle and Corentine sit right next to each other, only about an inch apart, near the tub. They each grab another shirt from the pile. Corentine sits and watches studiously at everything Merle tells her everything. They talk together for what seems like minutes, but is actually hours. The lights become dimmer to indicate it is now late at night.

To be continued…
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Introduction:
I’m a bit thankful yet, hateful towards this project. Thankful that I’ve gotten the opportunity to experience the life of a writer, if only temporarily, imagine his or her choices, and how they can unexpectedly affect what the finished work will become. Hateful that this change is difficult to transplant into my work. This class(Creative Writing) has shown me that indeed, that kind of cooperative input can be greatly beneficial in the long run, so long as that help is well, helpful. The comments I wrote for this class, I could never(at this moment) write for an essay. I can’t spot those obvious errors and points even though it seems as though everyone else’ flashlights are working and pointing directly at the problem and I can see it, my flashlight stopped working and now I’m off to the store to buy some new batteries. Indeed, this class has been incredible with their input, with its diversity, and never again will I put down the potential everyone encases…until I forget what I just typed tomorrow. So thanks for being that teacher to give me that opportunity. Now onto the story… I’m beginning to grow fond of this one. As I mentioned in class, I thought it was a disturbing failure, an interesting idea that might’ve benefited at the hands of another writer. Now I say…STAY AWAY! THIS IS MINE! One of the major changes I made, which will be noticeable the 6 or 5 seconds you look at the front page is the name change from Collette to Merle. While I’m not sure how unexpectedly drastic this change was though, now that I think about, Merle is becoming her own character apart from Collette which may be completely accidental. At first, it would be that one of the laundresses was the experienced one, the other a newbie; the experienced knows what she’s got herself into and knows there’s no way out and knows the same will happen to the other woman, but has lost most of her humanity and couldn’t care less about what happens to Corentine. That was Collette. But in an unexpected change to a moment that would’ve been comical, it turns out that Merle used to be a mother in her previous life before becoming a laundress, making the situation and the destruction of Corentine’s future inevitable yet much more compelling. Well, at least that’s how it’s become so far. I might change Merle back to ‘Collette’ if the mother idea doesn’t work out but it seems to have much more potential. Of course, in a similar style to most of the great dramas of our time, her life as a mother is implied with how she takes care of Corentine. This is just the intro and you probably don’t know what I’m talking about, but consider this after you read that moment then you’ll see what I mean…maybe. It’s up to interpretation. I thought about changing Corentine’s name but I’ve grown strangely affectionate towards that name. It captures the fanciful and limitless potential of Corentine’s imagination. It’s also a word that comes up on Spell-check. I think I’ll name my daughter Corentine. Another change was making Degas into ‘The Artist’ which works beautifully for this play. Upon revising the Degas lines, I saw how quickly that could’ve derailed the whole production into an early finish. Plus since my characters are interesting to watch, I felt it would cheat the audience if a third character was suddenly thrown in who wasn’t not given as much care and attention as Merle and Corentine. Making the character a surrounding presence makes the whole production much more interesting to watch and it makes the climax much more striking and horrifying to watch. It could also be silly and laugh-inducing since it’s going to be a voice talking to Corentine as he’s about to rape her. I don’t know, I’m imagining that and I feel like cracking up. I’m not at that point yet but it’s something to consider. As for making it historically accurate as far as dialogue goes, I have no idea if it‘s right or wrong so far. I’d have to consult with a professional if I want to pursue this any farther. I changed the ‘yeah’ which had been hidden deep in the original draft since that was from the early 20th Century. I had no idea that ’yeah’ was a modern term. Someone mentioned in class that the play has to be more theatrical since it reads more like a short story at the moment, and I agree, but I’m having some trouble throwing those elements in this. At the moment, the only theatrical moments I know I will incorporate into the play are some sound effect to dramatize the objects that are thrown to center stage, the voice of ’The Artist’ and the tub of water being capsized, spilling large amounts of water across the stage; it’s a possible health hazard, however. Also, at the very end, the two unfortunate souls will pose in the same way as the painting. The curtain comes down, revealing a large size version Degas’s famous painting. Much like Merle has, this idea might change in the long run. I’ve written more that I should’ve. Much like some people have an unexplainable passion that captures them, I feel this class was certainly that as the homework assignments never felt like homework and writing those comments never felt like a chore unless there were previous time restraints. In a similar way, this intro paragraph had the same effect on me. I mean, look at how much I’ve written! I must be out of my mind. Thanks for reading this far.        

To Adam Howard, if he ever finds this blog post, and Creative Writing Class('09-'10).

Words That Don't Stop

Originally typed on April 2011.

With this post, I'll end the preceding warning for inappropriate content. I'm beginning to think that whatever I post here won't compare to the insanity the rest of the internet provides. This was written right after math class in 12th grade, on a particular day when almost everyone in the class acted obnoxiously to our teacher(and if I remember correctly, during a test, of all things). It was unfair, but nothing I could've said would've put the class at ease. This story is an alternate scenario, with other characters, of that terrible day. It's also very experimental with a mixture of 4 line dialogue and a short description that carries the story. I have a natural tendency to write blocks and blocks of dialogue, and although people have praised my dialogue in other stories for being rich and snappy, every bit of dialogue I've ever written has been an imaginary conversation I've had with myself, and the characters. In these idealized conversations, the characters never have awkward pauses(unless indicated in the text) or any moments of doubt; they speak their minds, even if what they're talking about can be interpreted as crap. This kind of writing does impair my real-life conversations with people, almost unfairly, and I'm still working on keeping those worlds separate or there might be a such colossal catastrophe that any amount of energy won't be able to electrify me back into coherence*. Technically, this was the first short story I worked on in 12th grade, and the only one until summer. It was very unexpected and a vicious attack on everything I hated that year. Although the pacing can be compared with Short Story and the amount of profanity to Accident on Freeman Ave, this story combines both elements well, but enough to introduce its own ideas. Like I said, it's rather angsty but like it or not, there it is.
 
What did it all mean, he wondered?
Why was it that every single time he thought, they were the words of a child who hadn’t been corrupted by society? By contrast, his mouth was filthy. Disgusting. And just as innocent as the child.

“What did you just say?”

“I said shut up.”


“That’s not what you said.”

“Well, it was part of it.”

He was the latest trend, the man who reached his limit and spoke against the class, the glass bottle that broke all of a sudden in the cafeteria and gained more attention than the dead fetus in some hospital. For the next few minutes or so, he would be the center of their attention.

“They were asking stupid questions.”

“No, they were asking productive questions.”

“Fine, sorry. The people in the back weren’t even talking about the assignment. Just some other crap.”

“Well, they weren’t disrupting the class as you have and continue to be.”

Each face made him sick. The assurance of a job well done. Morons. Usually, when he’s upset, he hates anybody who is in his proximity, even though he knows that some are innocent. But if you just ate lasagna and was next to somebody who enjoyed it more, won’t you still envy the dripping, calorie-filled lump on his plate?

“I’d like you to leave, if you continue further.”

“Fine. So long, everyone.”

“Bye-bye.” Said asshole while waving his hand. His delicate hands. He stepped outside and was walking toward the exit, just as it started to rain. Forgot his jacket, his gloves, pretty much any kind of covertures that would have prevented him from getting sicker.

“How can they talk to you like that?”

“It’ll suck even more when I have to go back to get my backpack.”

“Wait, arentcha only supposed to stay outside for five minutes?”

“Well, this is the first time this has ever happened to me. I guess I wasn’t aware of the procedure.”

He was good friends with Michel except recently, none of their encounters evolved into a sophisticated conversation; they always needed the support of others to do that. Nothing terrible was happening, and yet it made him question their friendship. What was it based on? Michel never wondered, he only claimed that such a thing was happening. He wanted to look for a trigger to get their conversations back on track.

“Did you ask her out?”

“I thought that you didn’t give a shit about what was going on in my private life.”

“I don’t, but it’s the only question in my head right now. And by due process of thought, it should lead to other questions.”

“I was rejected. No more questions. Back to class, man.”

The ground was stained with raindrops. For a moment, he wanted to imagine how many raindrops were needed to create a one inch puddle. He loves puddles. Probably the most exciting thing about a rainy day, besides the extra dangers of driving, walking, chance of sickness, pneumonia, among other things.

“Class is over. Get your backpack and get out of here.”

“Why do you take it?”

“Take what?”


“The abuse from those idiots. I can’t understand how oblivious a person can become to such abuse.”

The teacher adjusted his glasses. Then his face. And then his collar. He wasn’t the kind of person who adjusted himself in front of anyone. It embarrassed him. How some people had a sixth sense when it came to comfort and his teacher still needed a mother’s assistance.

“Do you have everything?”

“I think someone took my calculator.”

“I’ll try to be stricter tomorrow with them. Just try not to curse next time, okay?”

“We don’t have class tomorrow, Mr. Feldman. It’s an X period.”

Even with only a few folders and a pink, plaid pencil case, he couldn’t carry a backpack or even a tissue box out of that room. Suddenly, he felt as dense as a neutron star, and could easily penetrate the ground under him. His odyssey would be painful with the bits of earth scraping his skin, but at least it would end when his body would mix with the molten core.

“Detention isn’t as terrible as it seems. An hour alone in a silent room,” said Michel.

“Nothing is as terrible as it seems. Even a rejection is only a split-second feeling.”

“Right. Do you want to borrow my jacket? I only live about 5 minutes away.”

“Thanks, but it’s my problem. Sides, this could mean a day away from school.”

He shivered, and kept kicking his desk. 4’ o clock and apparently a long day for the aged faculty member who was snoring at her seat. The room was notorious for having the worst possible temperature conditions compared to the actual weather. What he need was a warm breeze, not a freezing chill that might’ve been congealing his blood veins.

“Gg-gg-g-odddammmit.”

“Zzzzzzzzzzzz…”

“Agh! Uh! I have to use the bathroom! Hey! Wake up!”

“Zzzz. Huh? Oh, go ahead. No screaming, please.”

He rushed to the nearest sink and ripped away many paper towels. The sticker hastily posted on the bathroom mirror reminded him of all the trees he had just killed. But if all he did was accidentally lean on the 300 year old tree which was bound to break at any minute, could it still be murder?

“Mom, I’m out of detention.”

“Why the fuck did you get detention today? Now you don’t even have a clean slate. That’s gone, son.”

“The kids in my class were acting like assholes. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.”

“They weren’t acting like the dicks like in that other class? Or like the fuckheads in English? Seriously, does anyone in your school behave?” 

His mom’s car was a recent model, had comfortable seating, and even a sun roof. Anytime, except on a rainy day, he could pop his head out of the sun roof opening just like a mole. There wasn’t a large enough hammer that could smack him back in his seat. His mom dyed her hair again. Wanted to try a tertiary color this week.

“Go to your room.”

“I know, I know.”

“Damn it; if you know, then why do you keep coming back? Why haven’t you learned anything?”

“I have. It might not seem that way right now but I have.”

His backpack fumbled slowly on the corner. His socks were on the floor. His pants hung on to the poorly made hook he made. Another failed project his mom knew he would fail at. He wondered how he learned everything from his mother but never learned anything by himself. His decisions have been consistently terrible but at least they were morally correct. He no longer wondered how people made so many friends. He wanted nothing to do with any of them. He placed his head on his pillow and shut his eyes.
*Thank you, George Costanza

Another Comedy Routine

Originally typed in 12th grade.

Consider this one to be an especially ballsy post as this is one of many other comedy routines written in high school, each more outlandish and ridiculous than the next. I don't want to promise posting the other routines as such promises tend to go unfulfilled. The routines were written for our school's coffeehouses, a showcase of the students' impeccable talents. Since I was one of the performers, there wasn't a lot of talent to showcase. Each coffeehouse was a great one, many of the performances were particularly eclectic and unexpected and just now, I wonder what the line-up might be. A performance of a break-dance group while a poet is dangled upside-down and above a piano reciting The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe? I'd be surprised if it wasn't there. The following is my intended third routine, which unfortunately, wasn't completed before the coffeehouse. I was caught in between a rock and a hard place as to what I wanted to complain about for that routine. Would it have been a fake salutatorian speech that lambasts school principles and puts a spotlight on the silent voices or would I try to tackle on the holy grail of school events, the beloved Prom? As it turns out, both. After seeing the real Salutation speech and not attending Prom, I realized I had no right to criticize something I only had some recognition of and my fake speech would've been more serious and less entertaining. They're failed ideas, but they're ambitious failed ideas that, if I had more time, I could've developed enough and delivered an unforgettable performance at the coffeehouse. Oh, well. This can be considered as an outline for the routine, with some quick jokes and a few anecdotal ones, to be delivered in the form of Jerry Seinfeld and Demetri Martin, two of the most impressive comic minds at work today. The jokes can be unusual and unnecessarily vicious, but a comedy routine isn't meant to be taken very seriously although that doesn't denote a routine for being terrible or hilarious. Either way, I enjoyed writing them, and might try to write more in the future if they're any good. Some offensive content but again, not to be taken seriously. Enjoy.  

 -In AP Art History, I learned that Salvador Dali, master surrealist, co-director of the Andulusian Dog, proud owner of a large ego that made him believe he was a savior amongst other artists, had a wife. This fact alone gives me hope for the future.
-There are two kinds of conversations: the group conversation and the one-on-one. The group conversations puts a lot of pressure on the individual members as each of them has to keep adding details to keep the conversation alive. I prefer the one-on-one, a more intimate conversation option, depending on the person. If the conversation doesn’t work out, I awkwardly stick around and play a one-person staring contest. I always win.
-Recently, I saw a young couple hooking up near the bus stop. Their moment of intimate passion abruptly ended with me staring at them grimacingly. The guy asked, “You hate us, don’t you?”
“No,” I told him. “I hate your happiness.” Now, I won’t be afraid to state that I’ve felt the same way with couples here on campus, but since I was sure I would never see them again, I couldn’t let such an opportunity go to waste.
-The most insulting thing I’ve ever said to someone was “I couldn’t buy you a present even if I had the resources to get one.”
-Everyone who goes to this school is crazy.

-I have a problem with nail polish. It’s a small problem, but it’s still applicable. As human beings, we are very complicated. It doesn’t matter if you are someone making a crass comment during class or if you’re an arrogant person trying to prove your theory of crap is credible. You’re still very complicated. As an artist, I have noticed how much color people are made out of and it just have bothers me how some people are daring enough to simplify a concept such as the fingernail with one color. My most hated colors are red and black. Red and black are a presence. In a group of 400 people, the only thing you'll notice are the red and black nail polish flashing out in front of everyone, demanding your attention. There is an exception to the rule as there should be. If you have the Mona Lisa on your fingers, I will kiss each of them. You know what other event requires fingernail polish? Prom. THE MOST IMPORTANT EVENT OF YOUR ENTIRE LIFE. Marriage, kids? Feh, they don’t compare to the toxic amount of fruit punch you drank at Prom. There was one person who threw Prom away. His name is Mikey Sanders. He began his high school career as an Eric Cartman impersonator. (try to sound like Cartman) He wasn’t very good at it, however. Couldn’t quite capture the character’s sense of…ignorance and insecurity. He had to move on to other things. (End Cartman) He fell in love. That didn’t work out as it shouldn’t have. Senior year came along and most of Mikey’s dreams came true excluding the love thing again…with the same person. He went to all of his favorite classes, enjoyed every school production or attraction, talked to his friends every day, and lo, Prom was just around the corner. He bought his tickets on the first day they were available. He asked his best friend out and he said, “Sorry, I don’t think it’s customary for guys to go together unless they’re gay.”
“But we can be the exception to the rule” exclaimed Mikey with pleading eyes, “There always has to be an exception!”
“Sorry, dude.”
“Damn it.” The next day, Mike asked out his female best friend and she said yes. Sunshines were in bloom, and lollipops were in the air again. Mikey had a tuxedo all set, the limo, pretty much everything. There was only one problem, and his teachers and classmates knew it. He hadn’t contracted Senioritis yet. Now for some of us who give some sort of a damn, what is Senioritis? Well, until Mikey, it was only a legend, a myth. Supposedly, those who contracted Senioritis lose all sense of reality and appear to be in a distorted reality where grades don’t matter. Where attendance issues are just a slap on the wrist. Where caring about school goes to die. What Mikey and his cohorts failed to realize was that Prom was a school-sponsored event and the minute Mikey stepped into the increasingly gorgeous ballroom, his ambitions to enjoy Prom disappeared. One more joke before I sign off for tonight: His date(beloved friend) started shaking him furiously, telling him to “Dance! Mike! Just one dance!” as Mikey thought, “Hmm, that pearl necklace is really excessive compared to the rest of the getup”.
Thank you very much.    

Summer=Chicken Plate

During 10th grade, hidden far away from the critics of the world, I made my first recording about ‘my’ sitcom, The Presenters, with a story about how Harold was having difficulty relating to his son, Hal. He tries to remedy this by mentioning all of the girls in Hal’s life, expecting some kind of reaction. It became an obsession of mine and every single Monday, I would go back to my hiding space, located at the edge of the school, and let my ideas flutter away in the form of an awkward teenager’s constant ramblings. I’ve only told five people about the recordings, and probably won’t let others know about it since my voice is an acquired taste. Shortly after making the story recordings, I embarked on a journey even I wasn’t sure I wanted to take: to explain the machinations, the fascinations, and the folly of my mind. How the great essayists of our time could take the same journey and survive still impresses me. For 22 episodes, I became the question and the answer to all random thoughts. It’s something I’d like to share with everyone in a different way. Seriously, you can’t listen to a person’s terrible accents for twenty minutes even if you tried. Summer will be over soon and I couldn’t think of a better way to commemorate this upcoming event than with the transcript of when I pontificated on the meaning of summer. It was a year ago, summer had just began, and an 11th grade-going-into-12th grade boy sat quietly in his room, waiting for his thoughts to arrange themselves correctly...

...This is the special summer edition. (taps on the window three times) Thought the window was open. This is the special summer edition, where I’m going to talk about how excellent it is now summer. But, I’m not sure what else can come out. If anything. I know that it has been a few weeks since the last one* but that’s just because I’ve been occupied with my own, um, with my own...purposes. Bu, not purposes. I’ve been occupied  with my own, um...I’ve been...busy. Simple enough. Okay, well, to start with...it’s summer. The temperature is going to get warmer,  people are going to get...warmer, uh(nervous laugh), it’s just that time, it’s a transition from...let’s say a tight-packed piece of meat to something that’s been cooked for a couple of minutes and is going to get ready to be served. Somewhere in the, uh, nice, fancy restaurant. Summer is the time where we’re sitting on that plate, in that nice, fancy restaurant, contemplating all the mistakes we have made but not caring because we are about to get eaten. I think that’s the best way I, we can describe summer. At least, one of the non-poetic ways that I’ve come up with.

Now this makes more sense.

The Fifteenth One

Originally typed in 12th grade. 

Typed on a late night, on my touch screen cell phone, a quick, little story about a young boy and a young girl. On record, I've admitted to hating stories like this, but this story is still really charming in its simplicity and length. Call it a little bonus for the weekend.

She watches me from across the hallway. The school has to become more on top of such coincidences happening. It could scare the hell out of somebody. I raise my pencil slowly and shake it. She smiles. She knows…or someone just told a joke and she didn’t think it was very funny. I’ve seen her in other places, that theory is definitely viable. That could potentially be a problem. People call me funny, she might not want that. She could be a serious person who wants someone to fulfill her purposes. She’s always wearing dark clothing, she doesn’t want to reveal anything or let something slip. Unfortunately for her, I am fully aware she is a girl, a beautiful one at that. Wait. She’s writing something. What time is it? OOH! Class is over! She’s coming this way! This is too much to bear! What could she have written? Oh, the possibilities! Paper’s in my hand. Let’s take a look.
“You’re creepy.”
She was the one who smiled.

A Polychromed Sequence

Originally typed on October 4, 2009. Completed on August 23, 2011.

The last assignment for the poetry unit in 11th grade creative writing class. My teacher noted about how the result to transforming the original text into a poem  more resembled a story rather than a poem. Makes sense now that I think about it because poetry is really complicated to consider and some people are naturally poets, others are...well, what can you call us? Storyteller is too vague. Anyway, the following was my failed attempt at poetry and my successful attempt at a short story. A quick note about the original: we were told to close our eyes and write down whatever thought came to mind without explaining it or changing it. If you notice how grammatically incorrect the original is, you'll see quite a bit of mistakes. But that's what I wrote and that's what I'm posting. Revised is mainly what this post is about. The story is an unusual one but refreshingly unusual. The reason I'm posting it is that while I'm in college, things have an added significance and everything matters, somehow. This post harkens back to the experimental timeframe of 11th grade where anything made sense under a certain context. It may not in this story for some people, but if it does, you're in for a treat.  

Original
Good morning. I see the bird in the sky.
The white is trying to win over the black.
It sees the eye inside my eye. Its opposite
color damn the mind. Lots of pressure have been
placed on my eyeballs. Many colors are flying, zooming
across the page. The colors are smiling at me. I try to
understand what they saaaay…Does this make any sense?
What am trying to do What is the purpose of these colors. What

Revised
The sky is showing off a beautiful ruby-sage combination,
mocking him with it across his field of view. The aggravated man
hurls his briefcase and breaks off the handle, his hands glowing
with a purple imprint. He strokes every flabby part of his face, waiting
for nature to take control it. His body becomes magnetized to the grass, and he has
no need to reverse the effect. His failures decide to leave the case,
one by one, single-file, to become next week’s trash. Horrible images
plague his mind, cold, heartless images want nothing else but
his suffering. His only haven is himself.
The world becomes half-covered in complete black, then full.
A second goes by, then a few more. Hold on...
A red being is plucked from the ground. Then a yellow, and a blue.
The general keeps plucking till almost every possible color is at his control.
He energetically lifts his hands and his soldiers follow the command.
At the other side, the general’s nemesis, plucks out her own
warriors. It’s very easy, she sees a shadow of herself, grabs it, and makes it
tangible. No thought process or special technique needed.
An entire army created under 27 seconds.
She lowers her hands, bows her head, and sits with crossed legs.
The assault begins.
As a rainbow floats across enemy lines, a sharper whip of shadows
slices it in two. A torrent of color splashes onto the ground,
soaks into the grassy fields. The droplets levitate upwards
and attach themselves to the shadow troops, sending out a surge of electrical
punishment, illuminating the grass to colors on a neon sign.
Her emotions are a mystery, as she can express nothing.
Fists clenched, one index finger in each hand is let go, falling carelessly
To the ground. The digits spiral like a DNA strand, drilling into Mother Nature’s
brown flesh and traveling at an incredible rate. The general turns back to his soldiers
and describes his fears. The digits fly out, under his feet,
like a geyser, and self-destruct. The impact instantly
destroys almost all in its proximity.
About 200 meters, to be exact. Instead, it gives the general a sinister shade of red.
A splash of it, across his body. He is uninjured, but his soul has changed.
Confidence expels the general’s fears, and quickly, his troops regroup, and with
one swift motion, pointed fingers, the troops are emblazoned with red.
Her fingers shoot back up to her hands. Her troops watch with pause.
She swings her head back, strands of hair spreading out in all directions.
Each strand attaches to the arms of the shadow troops, forming a powerful
Blade. The general’s troops, without pause, charge toward the shadows.
The general stares out towards his opponent and smirks with arrogance.
In a panic, the shadows explode, attaching themselves onto the red troops.
The resilient warriors try to remove the sticky blackness from their bodies.
All the while, the confident general steps onto the battlefield, and approaches his
Nemesis. She looks up for a moment, then returns to her calm stasis.
The general makes his first expression, one of homicidal excitement. The troops stop fighting, confused by the change in events. Without notice, the general grabs the leader’s head and holds it tightly. His arms lose their fluid appearance and
become physical bars of matter. She remains still. Quickly, streams of black sprinkle from her face. Her head shrinks in size until resembling a child’s. The general squeezes harder. Her head recedes into her body. The general loses his grip and collapses into her body. A wave of black splashes across the field. The black spreads until every single corner of the screen is black.
Half of the world is covered with black. Then none.
The man feels his face, then looks around. Only the natural
shadows of the world are present.
Suddenly, he panics and searches for his briefcase. All of his frustration leads him
to a single sheet of paper, hanging carefully on a branch. He notices that it’s a page from his briefcase. At once,  many brilliant ideas come to his mind,
all that would suit the page perfectly. The man giggles with joy,
And tries to grab the sheet and get to work. He forgets about how
short he is compared to the tree. For an hour, he effortfully leaps
without promise towards the branch, touching it only with his fingertips.   
The sheet slips right through the branch and flies aimlessly towards the horizon.

P112-A Trip With Mr. Hanks

Harold goes on a bus trip and winds up sitting next to his favorite actor, Tom Hanks and they have a long conversation about their lives.

A long time ago, I went on a trip with my mom and little brother. Well, it was actually two years ago, but with the many events going on, it feels like a lot of time has gone by. We went to El Salvador, my parents' native country, and had spent two weeks with my grandmother and her family. We waited patiently for the bus that would take us to San Salvador where my uncle and his wife, Raquel, live. The buses were long, packed with people of little diversity since we were in El Salvador, and yet had much personality. There were some people selling tamales and pupusas, others selling life insurance. My brother's brilliant idea of bringing his PSP for entertainment backfired when he mistakenly assumed he could stay awake in a moving, flat tunnel. With no camera, the only thing I could use to amuse myself was my own mind. And here is where we'll begin.

THE OPENING: The screen turns on and the HBO logo is buzzing with TV snow. A slow hum plays as "Original Programming" appears under HBO. The screen goes black. The Presenters' logo lights up all of a sudden, cued by the theme song, the big band theme from Woody Allen's Sleeper. Some of the letters turn off/flicker on and off as the theme song plays for a few seconds. The logo is made up of carnival lights, similar to the logo for Boardwalk Empire. 

Harold's car has been impounded after he mistakenly parkes his car in a handicap zone. Since he was in a hurry, he couldn't notice the faint blue paint had mixed in with the asphalt, and that some vandals has destroyed the handicap sign. For transportation, he decides to take the greyhound bus to take him all the way to Arizona to meet some investors. Harold has little confidence in strangers, and packs his supplies to make sure he doesn't interrupt the natural flow of things on the greyhound bus. He finds his seat, plops in his earphones, puts on his sunglasses and college hat, and doses off. His dream consists of an old-style rocking chair and some (Sprite)water filled to the top. He rocks back and forth a few times until he falls off his chair and lands on a bed of spikes.

"AAAAAAHHHHHH!!!"
"Hey, man, what's your problem?!"
"Uh…nothing. Oh, my god."
"What is it?"
"Are you…Tom Hanks?"
"Well, at the moment, I'm the guy who's drenched in his busmate's sweat."
"Oh! I'm, terribly sorry! My perspiration system has been faulty most of my life. The slightest moment of discomfort will cause the dam to break."
"That's…interesting."

Though the conversation begins well, Harold eventually gets to a problem when he asks Tom what his favorite genre of music is.

"Rap music, Harold."
"…what?"

First commercial break.

Since Harold has never come across a situation like this, he is unaware of how to respond to his favorite actor. For a minute, he begins ranting about how flawed Rap is compared to other song styles. The argument leads to Harold childishly berating Tom and his “ridiculous taste in crap.” After trying to convince Tom, Harold pushes Tom off the seat and tells him he's going to the bathroom. Tom tells him to have fun. Harold pushes a little girl, who has waited a long time, out of the way and slams the door shut. Sitting on the toilet, Harold looks around at every detail in the bathroom, counts the amount of toilet paper left, the bolts and screws, and begins piecing together his apology to Tom. Harold steps out of the bathroom and looks at Tom's head, now wearing his "invisible" hat. The little girl steps on Harold's foot and waltzes into the bathroom. Harold walks up to Tom's seat.

"Hey. Hey."
"Do you have something to say to me?"
"Uh, I might've taken my appreciation for goo- t,t,tasteful music a little too seriously and…have decided to keep an open mind about things. To tell you the truth, I've never heard of Run-DMC, or Tupac, or The Furious Five. And, I'm sorry."
"Do you mean that?"
"Yes, I do, wholeheartedly."
"You may take your seat."
"Thank you."

Once the moment passes, Harold and Tom Hanks begin to enjoy their company, almost too much as the bus driver forces them to leave the bus for making a distracting ruckus. While Harold listens to his command and steps off the bus, Tom insists on staying until the bus driver kicks him out. Tom drops face-first onto the desert floor. The bus takes off.

"Hey, you can't do that to me! I'm Tom Hanks!!!"
"Let it go, man."

As the bus recedes into the horizon, an irate Tom and a calm Harold walk together in the desert, just as they pass a sign: "Arizona-1 mile".

The problem with any episode that directly involves a celebrity is that the star cannot be enough to hold the episode together and that his presence has to make sense in the show's world. My excuse for Harold meeting Tom is that Tom is my favorite actor, and much like the South Park creators only caring about their favorite actress being on their show, the same rule applies to me. My guest list of stars would be Tom, Larry David, John Lasseter, other Pixar directors, and the Seinfeld cast. Perhaps its a bit limited but those are the rules. The show as a whole is carried by the regular cast and the occasional minor characters. It's a luxury that many animated shows don't take advantage of. Another problem is that the episode is entirely experimental in its concept, harkening back to the 'show about nothing' basis established in famous Seinfeld episodes The Parking Garage and The Chinese Restaurant, in that the whole episode revolves around the conversation with Tom Hanks and Harold. This episode would be an effort in trying to entertain the audience but also in writing dialogue that Tom would agree to say. If I could write one version of the conversation and have it approved by Tom, it would be quite an accomplishment. Above all, this episode would be the oddball of the season but in a risk-taking and enjoyable way.