The Robert and Dave Show has been picked up by Comedy Central! It's going to run right after South Park.
In other (completely related) news, I am high on crack cocaine.
3.14.2009
3.12.2009
ANOTHER new Robert and Dave?
Why not? In this economy, we're blowing 'em out the doors! 2 for 1 special! Double your money back guarantee if not satisfied! May cause itching, rash, irritability, increased frequency in urinating, or explosive decompression (in space only).
3.11.2009
Cell Phone Update
The rain falls slowly but steadily across Austin...revenge exacted by the ghost of Charles Bronson, perhaps?
3.10.2009
The Iceman Cometh
It was cold outside, the hard cold of shotgun steel against your cheek, with wind like a broad, flat knife that...had been laying next to the shotgun, wherever it had been, you know, to get so cold. Charles Bronson was sitting on the stoop of one of the rowhouses on the set, lost in a fog of fatigue, steam from his coffee, and the smoke of the day's first cigarette...these 4 a.m. shoots were getting to be too much; he made a mental note to look for scripts that mostly took place in the daytime from now on, or inside maybe.
One of the caterers wandered over and shyly asked him for an autograph. She handed over a Sharpie and an 8X10" glossy that turned out to be a promotional still from "Big House, U.S.A."...Bronson gazed at the youthful face in the picture for a long minute, idly wondering both how this woman had come to be in possession of the print, and what his character's name had been in the picture. He gave up both pursuits at roughly the same instant and signed (as he always did) only his name, in a quaintly elegant and readable script that clashed more grotesquely every day with his craggy and careworn face.
He was tired...tired of being typecast, tired of everyone thinking of him as this old tough bastard who was too famous to be approached, too self-important to be funny. His mind spun back briefly to some of the times they had had on the set of "Big House"...he had always kept most of the crew in stitches, back then; what the hell had happened to him? When was the last time he had done something really CRAZY like that, something that made people realize that he wasn't someone they could just stick labels on?
Bronson stood and stretched his arms above his head, slowly, but inside his emotions were completely awhirl. He let his eyes play around the set, not searching for anything in particular, just sort of casting about. They fell on a prop shovel (leaning in the alley across the street for all the world as if left there by accident) that he would be using in one of the fight scenes this morning against some of the bad guy's henchmen. Jesus, this script...he made a mental note to talk to his agent about this whole macho man bullshit, then abandoned it as inspiration suddenly struck.
Within fifteen seconds, Charles Bronson emerged from the alley with the prop shovel whirling impressively at arms' length. whoosh...whoosh - it sure sounded like a real shovel, and it was definitely having the desired effect on all the nearby members of the crew. Most were standing completely still now, with their mouths agape; a few spoke with a noticeable degree of panic into walkie-talkies or started moving his direction uncertainly.
"I AM THE GREAT CHARLES BRONSON, AND I HAVE HAD ENOUGH OF THIS CRUEL, CRUEL WORLD!!!!!! ROLL FILM, YOU DEMON GODS OF HOLLYWOOD, AND RECORD THE END OF YET ANOTHER LIFE YOU HAVE DESTROYED!" The words just came to him, he wasn't sure from where, but the glee coursing through his veins intensified as the eyes only got wider, the jaws only further dropped open. He stopped the shovel's arc directly in front of his body, lowered its spoonlike end to the ground, and, amidst cries of, "Chuck, for God's sake!!!", hammered it upward with all of his might into a seemingly devastating arc that ended at his own forehead.
Later, in the hospital, the phrase, "That's NOT the prop shovel!!!" slowly wormed its way into his consciousness.
One of the caterers wandered over and shyly asked him for an autograph. She handed over a Sharpie and an 8X10" glossy that turned out to be a promotional still from "Big House, U.S.A."...Bronson gazed at the youthful face in the picture for a long minute, idly wondering both how this woman had come to be in possession of the print, and what his character's name had been in the picture. He gave up both pursuits at roughly the same instant and signed (as he always did) only his name, in a quaintly elegant and readable script that clashed more grotesquely every day with his craggy and careworn face.
He was tired...tired of being typecast, tired of everyone thinking of him as this old tough bastard who was too famous to be approached, too self-important to be funny. His mind spun back briefly to some of the times they had had on the set of "Big House"...he had always kept most of the crew in stitches, back then; what the hell had happened to him? When was the last time he had done something really CRAZY like that, something that made people realize that he wasn't someone they could just stick labels on?
Bronson stood and stretched his arms above his head, slowly, but inside his emotions were completely awhirl. He let his eyes play around the set, not searching for anything in particular, just sort of casting about. They fell on a prop shovel (leaning in the alley across the street for all the world as if left there by accident) that he would be using in one of the fight scenes this morning against some of the bad guy's henchmen. Jesus, this script...he made a mental note to talk to his agent about this whole macho man bullshit, then abandoned it as inspiration suddenly struck.
Within fifteen seconds, Charles Bronson emerged from the alley with the prop shovel whirling impressively at arms' length. whoosh...whoosh - it sure sounded like a real shovel, and it was definitely having the desired effect on all the nearby members of the crew. Most were standing completely still now, with their mouths agape; a few spoke with a noticeable degree of panic into walkie-talkies or started moving his direction uncertainly.
"I AM THE GREAT CHARLES BRONSON, AND I HAVE HAD ENOUGH OF THIS CRUEL, CRUEL WORLD!!!!!! ROLL FILM, YOU DEMON GODS OF HOLLYWOOD, AND RECORD THE END OF YET ANOTHER LIFE YOU HAVE DESTROYED!" The words just came to him, he wasn't sure from where, but the glee coursing through his veins intensified as the eyes only got wider, the jaws only further dropped open. He stopped the shovel's arc directly in front of his body, lowered its spoonlike end to the ground, and, amidst cries of, "Chuck, for God's sake!!!", hammered it upward with all of his might into a seemingly devastating arc that ended at his own forehead.
Later, in the hospital, the phrase, "That's NOT the prop shovel!!!" slowly wormed its way into his consciousness.
2.25.2009
Splat
It was just like thousands of other videos on the web...a gangly teenage boy surfing on the front of what could only be his parents' car. As the car approaches the cameraman, you can see the boy realize in an instant that he has irretrievably lost his balance, his eyes seeming to preemptively glass over as his body anticipates the shock that awaits it.
For the next second is all too predictable. As the boy attempts to launch himself into the grass of the front yard he's currently passing, as he braces for the impact to his torso with both elbows and forearms drawn up instinctively, as one lower leg fails to clear the curb with a sound that can scarcely be tolerated even when heard at such a low bitrate and having been recorded on a camera phone; you can't look, but it's far too late to look away.
Then, of course, the camera swings wildly for a moment (also instinctive), and shocked snorts turn to aborted hysterical barks turn to "holy SHIT, dude!" and the running toward the figure that at last lies still, perhaps still conscious to scream or perhaps face down and motionless in the grass that still looks so impossibly soft for a landing.
One presumes that the boy has become inured to the horror of the video, watching it again and again until it's just Joe Theisman being hit by Lawrence Taylor...failing to align in pixellated form with the sensory overload that (if he is lucky) his brain failed to record with any clarity as the moment itself took place. Even on YouTube, it seems, there is never one single version of the truth.
For the next second is all too predictable. As the boy attempts to launch himself into the grass of the front yard he's currently passing, as he braces for the impact to his torso with both elbows and forearms drawn up instinctively, as one lower leg fails to clear the curb with a sound that can scarcely be tolerated even when heard at such a low bitrate and having been recorded on a camera phone; you can't look, but it's far too late to look away.
Then, of course, the camera swings wildly for a moment (also instinctive), and shocked snorts turn to aborted hysterical barks turn to "holy SHIT, dude!" and the running toward the figure that at last lies still, perhaps still conscious to scream or perhaps face down and motionless in the grass that still looks so impossibly soft for a landing.
One presumes that the boy has become inured to the horror of the video, watching it again and again until it's just Joe Theisman being hit by Lawrence Taylor...failing to align in pixellated form with the sensory overload that (if he is lucky) his brain failed to record with any clarity as the moment itself took place. Even on YouTube, it seems, there is never one single version of the truth.
1.29.2009
poetry corner
wOOt!!! More poetry from Stacey? She must be ON FIRE or really bored and dragging out old stuff. Enjoy?
Paths and Furrows
Going into winter I have nothing.
Nothing has been dried, stored, salted away
in any way made safe.
Autumn's sun takes on a paler light
The golden fields will be plowed under, soon
grey under the grey moon.
One could easily die in winter.
Say she breathes between us
you and I
the morning as her blanket
her body a bridge connecting two distant sides
her small warmth thawing this cold bed.
or her body a wedge
widening this distance
as with every needy belly cry
I mark the difference between you and I
scarred and husk-hollow
I will still give her more
tethered in this relentless bond
while you could decide, any day
to walk away.
if I could see our future
read our image in the stars
if I could lay out the cards
(empress tower lovers fool)
if I knew I could do this thing I would
but I can only see our past
the cooling, always cooling
the icing over
the slow march into the fading sunlight
and the long, brutal winter coming on.
How's that for depressing? I love me some depressing poetry w/a semi-feminist bent! I had a hard time not titling this "Hollah!" because I was thinking "hollow"... and I have a terrible time being serious w/ my titles. I actually got docked from an A to a B one time on a history/politics paper for my goofy title, I swear. It's hard for me to restrain myself.
Paths and Furrows
Going into winter I have nothing.
Nothing has been dried, stored, salted away
in any way made safe.
Autumn's sun takes on a paler light
The golden fields will be plowed under, soon
grey under the grey moon.
One could easily die in winter.
Say she breathes between us
you and I
the morning as her blanket
her body a bridge connecting two distant sides
her small warmth thawing this cold bed.
or her body a wedge
widening this distance
as with every needy belly cry
I mark the difference between you and I
scarred and husk-hollow
I will still give her more
tethered in this relentless bond
while you could decide, any day
to walk away.
if I could see our future
read our image in the stars
if I could lay out the cards
(empress tower lovers fool)
if I knew I could do this thing I would
but I can only see our past
the cooling, always cooling
the icing over
the slow march into the fading sunlight
and the long, brutal winter coming on.
How's that for depressing? I love me some depressing poetry w/a semi-feminist bent! I had a hard time not titling this "Hollah!" because I was thinking "hollow"... and I have a terrible time being serious w/ my titles. I actually got docked from an A to a B one time on a history/politics paper for my goofy title, I swear. It's hard for me to restrain myself.
1.14.2009
poetry corner
Hey! It's been way too long since I've posted anything so I decided to stop messing w/ this poem and just post it already!
CAT
Once worshiped, you have fallen a step below
these clumsy gods of hairless flesh and aching bones.
Stolen from the desert lands, the burning sands
you ran with perfect grace
captured to the traps, the laps of men.
The song of your purr is a siren call
that holds the promise of softness
but there lies a certain anger in your eyes
your eyes reflect the light you salvage from the night
even in the darkness shining.
Into this darkness you have always slipped away
into the shadow beyond the campfire's glow
into the cobbled streets of rotting cities
between the rafters of countless barns you slide
slide into the suburban night
sliding so quickly, so surely, with a flick of the tail
into wildness.
CAT
Once worshiped, you have fallen a step below
these clumsy gods of hairless flesh and aching bones.
Stolen from the desert lands, the burning sands
you ran with perfect grace
captured to the traps, the laps of men.
The song of your purr is a siren call
that holds the promise of softness
but there lies a certain anger in your eyes
your eyes reflect the light you salvage from the night
even in the darkness shining.
Into this darkness you have always slipped away
into the shadow beyond the campfire's glow
into the cobbled streets of rotting cities
between the rafters of countless barns you slide
slide into the suburban night
sliding so quickly, so surely, with a flick of the tail
into wildness.
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