state of the union

Well, this is about how it stands, boys and girls.

I'm wintering in my safehouse in the swiss alps (no, not my parents...) where there's nothing to do but read, write and go to the 24hr gym. Thus I am achieving far greater results in those three areas than I did this fall roaming in wide circles. As my physical health is known to parallel my mental, it looks like I'm doing well in both those regards (and my mind's shoulders are getting broader... I'm broader-minded!) I'm also getting a CDL; I may need a bigger truck someday.

I'm essentially waiting for a sign about where to circle come spring. By that I mean either spilling ink on a map that eerily makes a pentagram around a city, or a response letter. Or a mysterious phone call in the middle of the night that's cut off by gunshots. There's a couple other dreams to pursue too. But this is what I'm taking:

1 practicing mage (willing to teach!) and junior mad scientist-artist and uncanny business-man

1 sublime box truck plus accessories plus used books

3 companion robots, in some form

6 produce-able shows:
SexaConglomoTechCorp Re-presents William Shakespeare's Hamlet (A Comedy) - as seen at UIUC
Pappy's Old-timely Good-fashioned Phonophonetic Extra-grammaticalically Engorged Double-Crappin’ Whoopdedoodooery! - my final load of new sketches, including a one-act Earth vs Santa Claus
10,001 Siberian Nights - the sketch-play of my most anomic shorts
Theater of the Darned - my MST3K-like thing, set in new continuity
Jim Trapp: The Movie - the funniest play I've ever written, funnier
Elvis and the Beatles LIVE from Outer Space (or The King and the Bugs) - surefire hit

1 treatment for a screenplay:
a comedy-horror film, Illinois vs... What the Hell Is That - Oh my God! It's Coming - No! OH MY GOD! No! NO STOP!

3 series concepts:
shorts following SCTC employees in our world,
season one of Kyote (!),
and a sci-fi show I'd describe as Star Trek meets The Office (except not.)

In that order.

EDIT: Earth vs Santa Claus was my last great unfinished full-length, begun way way back in 2003. Finishing it is like writing with another person and the least fun I've had since, well, the last time I tried writing with another person. While charming, I decided I liked it twice as much half as long - so I slashed mercilessly and spliced it into the new Whoopdedoodooery. After which, I am officially out of the sketch comedy business.

Then there's my astonishing true tales of schizophrenia which pretty much demand a memoir and, I think for the visuals alone, a film or documentary which I would insist on calling Jim Trapp: The Movie: The Movie.

Also, purely for fun, I've started my own band - Jim and the Invisible, Intangible Space Dragons Who Can Kill You in Your Dreams (and Who Also Do Not Smell or Make Noise of Any Kind). This actually catches the "generally screwing around" portion of my endeavors, and if you had to categorize it somewhere between Captured by Robots and a Neo-futurist one-man show with a lot of humming.

Then I have two options that require collaborators:

hyperpoop.com - humor, strangeness, and generally a real-world observation center (plus experimentation i.e. where I'd pour my guerilla urges). almost like any student magazine, except driven (as always) by my own demographic and willing to make a little news here and there.

Ma's + Pop's - my fabled novelty/hardware/snack shop ship, adrift since it lost its initial unsinkable location. a small crew and a new course (and courses) and I think it could fill that important niche between hipster coffee shop and fattie diner and fantasy funland. and I need someplace that'd actually let Jim and the Invisible, Intangible Space Dragons play.


Also, in good news I can now afford to get rid of the godaddy ads but added google's, with its wonderful Trapp-themed merchandise ("Trapp candles - for the scent of Trapp!"). It's like adding extra jokes I don't even have to write.

preview: Elvis and the Beatles LIVE from Outer Space

[ELVIS PRESLEY, King of Rock and Roll, sits before his TV but not watching. Over his shoulder, THE COLONEL smokes a cigar. Depending on the size of the production, a few HANGERS-ON may be around. They are waiting.]

Elvis: What time did they say they'd get here?

Colonel: 8.

Elvis: Our time or Liverpool?

Colonel: Your time, Elvis. Always your time.

Elvis: I'm gonna call it "Kidneypool" when they get here. See if they'll correct me. See what they're made of.

Colonel: They're good kids - they've been wanting to pay tribute to the King since their first trip to the States.

Elvis: I heard they've been hanging around with that Bob Dylan...

[Knock. Knock. Elvis bounds to the door, answers. Outside, teenage fans scream.]

Elvis: Hey! Come on in, fellas!

[JOHN, PAUL, GEORGE, RINGO enter followed by BRIAN. They are subdued, respectful though perhaps slightly stoned - George the most-so. He shakes their hands.]

John: Thank you.

Paul: It's a pleasure to meet you.

George: An honor.

Ringo: Where could I find the loo?

Elvis: Down the hall, second door to the left.

Brian: Thanks for having us. The boys have been hoping to meet Elvis for a long time.

Colonel: Glad we could arrange it. We hope you did not have too much trouble getting here from the airport. I said no publicity but you know how these things get out...

John: Oh, not much trouble, Colonel, and all worth it.

Elvis: Well, make yourselves at home, guys! Must've been a long trip.

Paul: Thank you.
John: Don't mind if I do.
George: He's an excellent host.

Paul: Oh my God.

[Stops. The other Beatles step into him.]

Paul: He’s got colour [“col-our”] television!

[They oogle it.]

Colonel: Over here, it's called color. It's the latest thing.

John: Don't oogle it, boys...

George: Color...

[They regain their composure and sit - Elvis in his easy chair, The Beatles on the floor in a semi-circle - looking up at him, slightly awed. Occasionally one sneaks a glance at the TV, equally awed.]

Colonel: Well...

[Throats clear. Everyone seems to look to someone else to say something.]

[Flush. Ringo re-joins them.]

Elvis: Everything to your liking?

Ringo: It had so much more water than in England. I felt like I could go swimming.

[Elvis kind of nods and they are once again enveloped in awkwardness.]

Elvis: So you boys are from Kidneypool?

John: Liverpool.

Ringo: And thereabouts.

Elvis: Hmm.

[Moment.]

Brian: The boys have always been big fans of your work, Elvis.

John: Without Elvis, there'd be no Beatles.

[All murmur agreement...]

Elvis: That's a good point.

[Screeching back to awkward silence.]

Paul: So is it specially built?

Elvis: Excuse me?

Paul: The TV.

Elvis: Assembly line. American-made.

Ringo: Gorgeous.

[Moments.]

George: (hiccups)

Ringo: God bless you.

[Half-moment.]

Elvis: (puncturing atmosphere) Say, if you guys ain't got nothing to say to me, I might as well as go to bed.

[All laugh, a little... and then a little too much.]

John: It's a bit intimidating, meeting the King.

Paul: We are English.

Elvis: Aw, heck, guys. I'm no different than you. It doesn't matter how many records we've put on the charts - it's about the same thing.

John: The music.

Elvis: No, John, that’s a tautology.

John: Oh…

Elvis: It’s about love. It’s all you need.

Paul: I’m going to write that down…

Elvis: I’ll show you. Priscilla, get in here!

[Priscella enters, in purple dress and beehive hair. She stands stiffly like a Barbie.]

Elvis: Beatles, this is my wife.

Ringo: Gorgeous.

Elvis: You fellas keep producing songs and maybe someday you'll get a beautiful gal like this.

Priscilla: (somewhat drugged) I'm married to Elvis.

Elvis: Who knows, you might even get a color TV.

John: You really think so, Elvis?

Elvis: ...Do I think so, Colonel?

Colonel: Hell, yeah!

Elvis: Hell, yeah! Go ahead, shake her hand.

[They shake her limp hand.]

Elvis: Alright, let her go back to putting on her make-up. C'mon, I got a couple guitars - let's jam.

[Elvis gets out his guitars.]

Colonel: You a gambling man, Brian?

Brian: You have to be in this business, Colonel.

Colonel: I've got a roulette table, let's take it for a spin...

[They exit.]

Elvis: Now, how does that one song of yours go... "Peggy Sue, Peggy Sue..."

John: Ah, that was Buddy Holly.

Elvis: Well, how ‘bout some Chuck Berry…

[They tune the guitars a bit, start to strum. Ringo awkwardly drums his fingers.]

John: Oh, sorry, Ringo. No drums.

Ringo: It's okay. I can hear them in my mind.

Elvis: We can all hear them, Ringo.

George: So Elvis, that's a beautiful front lawn you have...

Elvis: Well, thank you, George.

George: So... you like grass?

[Paul elbows him.]

Elvis: Well, at least it's not just dirt... that's what I always say...

John: There's a song in that.

Paul: "The grass... at least it's not just dirt..."

George: "It grows so high..."

Elvis: "But I.... keep it... mowed..."

John: "Then watch colour TV..."

Paul: Drum solo!

[Ringo goes mad with his fingers. All laugh.]

Elvis: (laughing) Hey, you guys are -

[SUDDENLY - strange lights flash over the stage along with a strange eerie sound. Everyone is frozen. GREY ALIENS, short and big-eyed, scramble in, chirping in their own language. One has a clipboard and points at each musician, as though going through a checklist. The aliens hold and point long antennae with one hand, then wiggle the fingers of their other - like puppeteers; Elvis and the Beatles move stiffly, as though remote-controlled robots. A few stumbles and the aliens move them out...]

preview: Earth vs Santa Claus: Requiem [Edit]

[Black.]

VOICEOVER:
It started with a child’s letter. Christina McPfieffer, age 6, and already showing signs of the talent that would someday win her a Pulitzer Prize, wrote her annual letter to Santa Claus, telling him that she had been so very, very good that year and wanted from the kind old sir but one thing, and one thing only. An incredible thing, the sort that couldn’t really fit into a bag and be stuffed down a chimney, but something she desperately wanted anyway – something, in fact, she needed, if she ever wanted to sleep better at night. Something not just for her, but something Santa could bring every child alive in every nation. What Christina McPfieffer, age 6, wanted… was world peace.
In all his long years, Santa had never received such a letter – impeccable penmanship, skillful use of first-grade level grammar, sparkly purple crayon… And he also knew that Christina McPfieffer had… indeed… been very, very good that year.
So, just as the first rays of what promised to be a glorious Christmas morning broke across the world, a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer made its final stop at a large white house in Washington, D.C…. and this time, it stayed… for a long winter chat…

[A living room with Christmas decorations, but old and worn. A tired TRENT and unnaturally perky FAYE and RAYE are seated as TIMMY unwraps his morning’s presents.]

Trent: (v.o) My first memory of Christmas is also my first memory of my mother. I remember myself sprawled out on the living room floor, senses absorbed in the bangs and zips of some cartoon, when the scent of cinnamon reached up past the snot in my nose, pulled my body up and through the doorway to the cramped kitchen of our one bedroom apartment, over cracked and missing tiles to find a sheet of snickerdoodles on the table, a bag of flour spilt on the floor, and just past them… my mother in her favorite powdered blue dress, with her head turned to the side and resting gently in the oven.

Timmy: (unwrapping) Oh WOW! A Tommy Tankgun Action Blaster-Arm!

Faye: Do you like it?

Timmy: Are you kidding? It’s better than sugar!

Trent: (v.o) My second memory is of one of the small men, stepping away from the others as they filled the candy-cane stripped body bag, handing me a chocolate piece wrapped in gold foil, then patting my head before helping himself to a snickerdoodle and getting back to his business.

Timmy: Look at me, I’m Tommy Tankgun! “You can’t beat the convenience of the blaster-arm… with other weapons you have to stop, pick them up, maybe even load them or turn off some kind of safety… but with the Blaster-Arm, it’s just there, waiting, ready to blast anything. The Blaster-Arm ™: for when you’re serious about blasting. (Suddenly starts jumping around) POW! POW! Everything die!”

Faye: Oh! Doesn’t he sound just like the commercial?

Raye: He could work with the advertising elves!

Timmy: Yeah! I’m going to be in the commercials someday! “POW! POW! I blew up your spleen!” Thanks Aunt Faye! Thanks Aunt Raye!

Trent: (v.o) I don’t have many other memories of my childhood beyond that. Mostly, it’s all a blur of red and green.

Raye: Do you like yours, Trent?

Trent: (v.o) And sweaters. I remember each one of the sweaters.

Raye: Trent? I said, do you like yours?

Trent: You got me a sweater.

Trent: I hate sweaters.

Faye: You don’t like it?

Trent: No.

Raye: It’s your colors though.

Trent: No. It’s not. My colors are black and grey. Like the true heart of this world. Like my soul.

Faye: It… brings out your eyes.

Trent: No, it doesn’t. My eyes have sunken in too deep to ever be “brought out.” They’ve been pushed there, after a lifetime of constant bombardment from the omni-present glimmer of tinsel and garish window displays, and pulled there too, sucked by the vacuum created inside me when my heart failed to grow.

[Pause.]

Raye: It’s pre-shrunk!

Trent: Then it’s perfect for your minds.

Faye: But isn’t the design just darling?

(Pause.)

Timmy: “POW! POW! Right through your groin!”

Trent: Listen to me, I’ve gotten a sweater every Christmas for the last eight weeks. That’s 56 darling designs!

Raye: Well, everyone needs sweaters, what with all the snow we’ve been having.

Trent: It’s 95 degrees out!

Faye: (Laughing nervously) Oh… you silly! With all the snow… it can’t be more than 32 out there!

Raye: Of course! Just check the thermometer outside.

Trent: The snow’s fake and that little red line is painted on!

Raye: That’s just how thermometers work!

Trent: That’s just how bullshit works!

Raye: You’re ruining Christmas! Let’s all calm down and listen to some music, yes?

Trent: No!

[She opens a card and a small, stilted recording starts.]

TAPE: (slowly, hypnotically) Deck the halls... with boughs of holly...

Faye/Raye/Timmy: (zombied) Fa la la la la. La la la la.

Trent: (Covers ear.) “In-a gotta da vitta, baby... don’t you know that you want to, maybe...”

[Trent pushes them aside and picks up his coat.]

Tape: ‘Tis the season… to be jolly…

Faye/Raye/Timmy: (zombied) Fa la la la la. La la la la.

[He throws the card off and they snap to normal, as if nothing had happened.]

Faye: Trent? Where are you going? We haven’t had Mrs. Buttercreamy’s ™ Extra Pumpkin Pie with Artificial RealCream!

Trent: I’m going out. Don’t wait up.

Raye: We won’t save you any!

[Trent gives her one more look… withering!]

Trent: (v.o) We’re all living under the tree now. But some of us want to see the sky.

Timmy: “POW! POW! I burned off your face!”

Trent: Get out of my –

[Air raid siren goes off.]

Trent: No!

Timmy: It’s time for a musical number!

Faye: Oh, how wonderful! Someone must have re-discovered the true meaning of Christmas!

Raye: Outside, quick!

[They walk through a door. More people – sad, sluggish people dripping in sweaters – gather. A nervous TONY FELD approaches, followed nonchalantly by PANTONE.]

Feld: Trent! Trent, my lines – I, I can’t remember my lines…

Trent: Come on, Tony, pull yourself together…

Pantone: Yeah, don’t sweat it, Tony – whoops, too late.

[In the distance we hear the tinkling of bells. In a march-step.]

Pantone: “And I heard the bells on Christmas Day… the tintinnabulation of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells…”

Feld: Shut. Up.

[The bells grow louder and louder…]

Feld: “’Tis the most joyous occasion, for… chicken and a raisin?” No. “the most joyous season for…”

Trent: “Firebombs and acts of treason.”

Feld: What?

Trent: Nothing.

Pantone: They’re here.

[A squad of elves enters. They’re dressed in traditional elf garb, albeit with candy-cane stripped machine guns and little bells on the grenades strapped across their chests. With them is a blank-looking man in his pajamas.]

ELF CAPTAIN: (salutes, then in a cheery, helium-pitched voice) Merry Christmas!

Crowd: (Weakly) Merry Christmas…

Elf Captain: Fill your hearts with joy and mirth – for its Christmas Day across the Earth!
Toss away your dour and gloom – in this season of love, there is no room!
Now, everyone, if you’ll just take your places, we’ll bring a smile to all your faces!

[The crowd seems hesitant. The Elf Captain lets off a couple of shots.]

Elf Captain: Move it, turd-holes!

[The crowd organizes and the blank man is prodded into place. An aggressively happy song begins to play and Timmy bursts forward…]

Blank: (drugged) Excuse me… child… What day… what day…

Timmy: Uh… why, it’s Christmas!

Blank: Now… understand… Christmas!

Timmy: …Hooray! Hey everyone! It’s Christmas! It’s Christmas!
(Singing)
Oh, it’s a great time for Christmas!
And we all have got our wish!

Chorus:
For peace and prosperity, trust the elves won’t miss!

[An elf cocks his gun.]

Faye:
For a world where everyone’s safe, we just need more forceful love!

Pantone:
For a world without war, we feed the hawks to the dove!

Chorus:
Now it’s a world… of… Christmas!
We all… love… Christmas!

[Feld steps center. He opens his mouth… and kind of searches it with his tongue for the words…]

Chorus:
We all… love… Christmas....

[Feld is still looking…]

Chorus:
We really love… Christmas…

Feld: (hesitant)
It’s the most… joyous love…
That’s why we decorate the Christmas… tub…

[The Captain motions, Elves move in…]

Feld:
And as long as you’ve been good
Santa will bring you… decorative wood…

[Feld is dragged off quickly…]

Feld: NOOO!

[They pull Feld around the corner as Timmy steps in.]

Timmy: (big finish)
Oh, we ALL… LOVE…

[Gunshots.]

Chorus:
CHRISTMAS!

[blackout]

Worst. Porn. Ever.

Happy 2008, Internet!

Just remembering I had a blog here... and I started thinking to myself "when was the last time I even tried to offend propriety?" I've decided to start my new year off right. So, propriety, if you're out there - this one's for you.

.........................


There are few crimes against men so vile, so inconceivable, and so, honestly now, completely unnecessary as that of creating and releasing bad pornography. This is the story of one of these crimes, and one of its victims.

First, understand my stance on smut – pornography is key to the continued survival of the human race. The underlying purpose of staring at images (moving or still) of, among other parts, women’s surgically-enlarged tits does not stop at mere titillation, but through this mere titillation, fine films such as “The Interplanetary Gangbang Squad Lands on Uranus” aid men in the certain natural, healthy behaviors that keep our testicles from exploding. And fight prostate cancer. And maintain the world’s geopolitical stability.

For, without ejaculation, the hormonal effects of testosterone must and will be violently released by other means. Most of the great wars of our past were directly linked to madness caused by the pent-up sexual aggression of world leaders:

Hitler? Penis too small for sperm to escape.
Napolean? Masturbation addict (you remember the portraits right? Got it on a string up his shirt.)
W. Bush? Can't accept his own fetish for towels.

Listen, sexual partners come and go.

[small cough]

Yes, sexual partners come and go. But porn accumulates.

This is extremely important.

The offending scene: a man and a woman and a man, a woman, and a woman – high-class partygoers at a poolside – go at it. A blonde, with the forthrightness of the people who do this sort of thing, lifts up the dress of another blonde and politely goes down on her, even as the another blonde gives to the unzipped gentlemen standing above her as good as she receives. A brunette watches them intently for a few moments, realizes what a marvelous idea the blonde has had, and reaches down her date’s pants to see what she might bring up.

All well and good. Then the camera moves in.

Now for those who've spent years watching porn (as in, if you actually added up all the time), and have developed an instinctive critical faculty, even while all their blood rushes gleefully towards their genitalia could stand this sacriliege - to suddenly obscure the grace and beauty of this scene by given us a foreshot that fills the screen with ONE GIANT MAN-BUTTCHECK. Several moments after I can't stand it anymore, the camera mercifully jumps back - into a tree, half a soccer field away, as we peer down through the branches like a voyeuristic squirrel. It was as if the director, another damnable auteur, consciously choose to craft a scene with this thinking:

"Hmm... I dunno, how about alternating between the POV of the piece of lint hanging just off that guy's ass and... Yes, that tree on the other lot! Like it's a statement on how deep down mankind's not so different from the squirrels, who have really good eyes..."

Having taken a few moments to completely counter the purpose of pornography, hope glimmers again upon the tip: the blonde gets up.... Yeah, baby – gonna take it all off, then take it all on....

"Have fun," she says.

Then leaves. Oh, yeah, hot stuff, you’re gonna - wait.

[Pause. Scroll back...]

“Have fun,” she says. Then leaves.

She leaves.

She leaves.

Yes. Yes, they will have fun. You were having fun. You initiated the fun. And... and... you were the hot one. Oh... fuck.

Yeah, you heard me, lady - fuck. Fuck! Come back and fuck!

I could barely get off.

.

Special Bonus Offensiveness:
Erotica for the First-Grade Reading Level

See dick.
See vagina.
See dick inside vagina.
See dick not so far inside vagina.
See dick far into vagina.
Go back and forth, dick.

Next week: Erotic Haiku