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Sunday, August 30th, 2009“I feel bad. I kind of feel like…”
No response.
“Don’t fuck with me, you know.”
The only reaction is from the overworked and poorly treated union worker, the air conditioning unit.
The phone rings and his heart stops.
He glances over at his spaceship of a telephone.
“Hello.”
“Hi.”
“Ok, so is this different for you? I mean it’s been trying.”
“Well, it’s been trying. The last few years have been swell though.”
“I want you to write something that hasn’t been seen. Don’t reiterate whatever early sixties cinematic fantasy you’ve been slobbering over for the last decade. You have some quote, amazing, end quote ideas.”
“Well I think that’s wonderful. I mean I feel derided Mary Ann but I’m pleased. Are you offering me another grant?”
“Yes.”
“Ok well that’s incredible, I’m so thrilled and I really want to come through for you.”
“Ok fine James, just be likeable.”
Mary Ann hangs up the phone and we’re left with James and his faulty air conditioning unit.
We now see several weeks go by. James is at his Macintosh computer, which looks more like a spaceship than a computer. He’s writing, he’s crying, he’s brushing his teeth; he’s banging his fist against his front door. His neighbor is yelling at him.
We now see James and Mary Ann sitting at a mom and pops coffee shop. Mary Ann is reading James’s story. She’s laughing, she’s crying, she’s yelling at the waiter.
Now we’re in France, at some sort of cliché film festival. James is sitting dead center at a long, ridiculously over-sized table. Hundreds of thousands of foreign press agentss are sitting facing him dead silent.
“Well, this is my finest piece. I investigated my soul and I allowed it to just happen.”
There is no reaction when then a roaring laughter begins. The Press are laughing so hard they’re crying, then they start hugging each other.
A middle-aged journalist yells out, “Bravo Pig!
We then see inside of James’s mind. He’s normatively asking himself in a timid voice, “Did I make it?”
