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. 

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

Accident on Freeman Ave.

Originally typed in 8th grade.
 
This is the beginning of my creative writing career, and the very first time I was able to express myself without censoring my thoughts. Also, it was the final project for my 8th grade creative writing class. Since this was my most enjoyable project of the year, it did take a while to realize the story is severely flawed and incomplete. The story has an interesting plot, but it moves quickly and never feels complete. I remember a generous ovation the first time I presented the story to the class, but for an eighth grade story, it is depressing and overly dark and paints a picture towards how my first year was in a new school. Even with a story like this, it still has to be acknowledged as an important first step in my exploration of a new idea, and as life shows, every mistake is a step forward. Inappropriate content ahead. Read with caution.

Part 1

Everything is black. I don’t hear a noise. I guess no one else is here. I take off the sheets and try to walk. I fall straight to the floor. My back is really killing me, my feet feel like mush, and my spine seems as fragile as glass. Damn. That annoying ring tone is playing again. It seems like forever till I grab the cell phone from the table. I accidentally push some ornaments and they fall on the floor and break on impact, the water splashing on my fingers. I check whose calling me and at that moment, I lose my breath. I frantically crawl to the kitchen, open the refrigerator door, and gulp down a bottle of water. I check who it is again and find out it was from my friend Elizabeth. It was a text message that read, “GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE! WE NEED TO TALK!” If Elizabeth doesn’t use the landline phone, I can tell it’s not good news. It feels like forever till I can finally stand up and walk normally. Forgetting that I actually have a car, I toddle to Elizabeth’s house while negative thoughts are pouring into my mind. Why does she want to see me? Why is she infuriated? Why in hell did she use the word ass? Walking nervously to the front door, I touch the doorbell and get an unexpected reaction. She opens the door and I become aware of her eyes filled with tears, runny nose, quivering mouth, she held tissues tightly in her hands, and says, “Curt’s dead!”

For a reason I can’t explain, I accidentally say, “whose dead?”

“That’s not funny!” she yells while wiping away her tears. “You know what I’m talking about, JOHN!” She’s right about one thing. I do know Curt but I don’t know why she’s yelling. Curt, a quarterback for the high school, known as a jock, always had a huge ego, and my best friend. He always acted like an ass at our high school years but we had been friends since preschool, always shared laughs and told ourselves inappropriate things at sleepovers. Yeah, nothing would keep our friendship apart…or so I thought. The day I thought as hell turned out to be more than that…it’s also death. “Do you remember that accident, John?”

“Don’t remind me about that day, damn it!”

“He was your best friend and you killed him because of your carelessness!”

“Now wait just a-“I stumbled back and sat on the couch by the wall. Killed Curt? Why the hell is she saying that I killed Curt? “That’s crazy talk! I wasn’t anywhere near Curt when-“

“Well you could’ve at least stopped him before he did the last decision of his life. You didn’t think at all of what could’ve happened and…” she went on and on and on for minutes but it felt like forever, the most painful torture I could ever get.

“Okay, I’ve had enough of this! I’m getting the hell out of here!” I leapt off the couch, stormed towards the door and flung the door open.

“You step out of my house and I’m calling the cops. Then you’ll become a runaway and your life will become so screwed up that you’ll want to commit suicide!” Those words flew into my eardrums, became transmitted into my brain, and chilled the rest of my body. But I still grabbed the door handle and slammed the door shut. I start running for my life and wondered if she was bluffing but I didn’t want to take any chances. I immediately reach home and turn off all the lights. By this time, I’m breathless and fall to the floor. Can’t believe this. Of all the crappiest things that ever happened to me, this is the whole shitload. Things have happened and I can’t change it. But I still remember that accident clear as day and maybe I can reveal whose fault it truly is.

Part 2

A normal, cloudless afternoon, students from campus with vehicles would drive away to hang out with their girlfriends, or go to the movies, or whatever the hell they would do after school. I, on the other hand, would just drive home and type on the laptop for hours and hours and hours, thinking that I’ve wasted my entire life. Then there’s Freeman Ave, a crosswalk which gave me frozen nerves, every time. I had a certain feeling that sometime, at that very crosswalk, chaos would strike. And strike it did. Kurt was driving next to me in a Honda Accord, in shimmering jade. I drove a Volkswagen Buggy, in unembellished red. By the millions of times he was beeping that horn, I could tell that he wanted to race. No damn way was I gonna risk my neck in an insipid stunt as that so I drove away, trying to lose him. Unfortunately, I had just “started” the race so he tried to catch up. I couldn’t take this any longer so I called him on my cell phone and screamed the F-bomb in his ears. He knew that I wasn’t kidding so he said fuck back at me, told me he was gonna find some other sucker to race, and then hung up. Curt began screaming towards random people to race and they either called him drunk or a mentally retarded ass. One person reluctantly agreed and the race was on. This would be his fatal mistake. I drove behind them, in case anything happened. It was an intense race with twists, turns, and nearby runovers. Ironically, the next street coming was Freeman Ave. Curt was in the lead. He didn’t look at the traffic lights. From our side, it turned red so the other side just became green. The cars kept driving even though Curt was in full view. I jumped out of my car before someone rammed into it. The other guy smashed Curt’s car from behind and pushed it forward. Curt’s car was instantly crashed from the left and began spiraling when another car smashed it from the front. People began dialing their cell phones and calling for help. When his car began to spiral, I just ran away from the scene and hoped that he was okay. I had fainted while running and then everything went blank. The last thing I remember is the wailing of ambulances.

My god…the worst thing that could’ve happened but I survived and he didn’t. And it’s my entire fault. Had I’ve told him not to insane enough or imprudent enough to race in the hazardous, urban city he would still be alive right now, enjoying popularity, acting like a big ass big shot, and snapping twigs while playing football. I grab my skull tightly and massage my brain to think clearly; what do I do, should I accept his death, should I move on, should I…cry? A big boom disables my concentration and suddenly the door flies off. It’s smashed into the wall and breaks into pieces instantaneously. That bitch did call the police and wants me to pay for my crime. Another option pops into my head and I choose it immediately as it came: Run. I climb from the floor and rush to the bathroom. Bullets are instantly fired and destroy everything in sight. I nudge the window open, inch by inch and leap out. It’s a painful landing as I fall on some razor-sharp, bristly bushes. I wait for a while and quickly rush under the sewers. One sniff and I start coughing like hell. The odors of dead animals, shit and urine from all over the city mix with the sea green, chocolate-imitating liquid all in one ostentatious aroma. Well, are you happy now, you bitch?! I’m a runaway from a murder which is believed to be my entire fault, police are chasing me day in and day out, and you’re dead, Curt! Form loss of blood, smashed bones, shards of broken glass piercing your skin, I don’t know how it happened but you’re dead…and very soon, when the cops find me, I’ll find you so we can do that race that you wanted, no matter how long it is.