Just your average Tuesday.

I walked Henry to school today and walked most of the way back home before realizing that I had a wooden hanger hanging from the belt on the back of my coat.  A large, wooden hanger. 

I'm telling you this to illustrate 1) how much of a dork I am and 2) how mentally and physically worn out I still am from yesterday's shoot. I have no idea why I should be this tired, because most of my day yesterday was spent sitting around.  It was too much excitement for me, I guess. I am even more delicate than I believed.  Or my humours are out of whack. A bloodletting is in order!

So! Yesterday was the photo shoot for Wondertime, as I mentioned previously.  Present were Tim and Liz, the lovely and kind art directors from Wondertime, as well as Asger and Lloyd, the infinitely patient photographer and his charming assistant. Henry, Scott, and I were outfitted and posed and fed snacks. And we had so much fun. Draining, life-sapping fun. Here are the photos. If they don't make sense to you, well, you'll have to wait for the May issue of Wondertime to come out. Maybe you should subscribe!  That's an idea I spontaneously had right now. (Please note: I am not receiving kickbacks from Wondertime.)  (Unfortunately.)

<

Here's Henry, getting notes on what his motivation should be. "You're Darth Vader, coming out of the shower." How sweet does he look here? It's kind of killing me. Of course you can't hear him whining about the unbearable weight of the light saber, and the fact that the mask was choking him TO DEATH.

"What are you doing in the bathroom, son?"
"I'M TURNING TO THE DARK SIDE, MOTHER."

Henry was amazing, actually. The mask was heavy, the light saber was heavy, the shirt was chafing him, the fog from the fog machine smelled funny, and it was hard to hear everyone's direction over the sound effects coming from the light saber, but my baby posed for longer than I ever could have anticipated. 

On the other hand, he got to play with incredibly cool light sabers. They're worlds away from the crappy telescoping plastic kind we own. It must be horrible, having us as his parents.

Scott worked until 2:30 a.m. that morning, so he could spend his day pretending to be Luke Skywalker. Did he do it for me? I like to think so.

We tried to include Charlie in a shot or two, but he was being a prima donna about it—only letting us shoot his right profile because that's his signature look, etc. He didn't make the cut. Sorry, dog.

Henry declined the use of the mask for his Ultimate Battle with Obi Wan, so Liz gave him the option of giant movie-star sunglasses and a headband. It doesn't sound like it would work, but it worked well enough. Bonus: Henry didn't throw himself to the ground in mortal agony.

"Can you be a dear and get me a glass of sparkling water? With a little lemon juice? Not a wedge of lemon, dear, I DON'T WANT TO SEE ANY LEMON, just sort of a lemon essence. Wait a minute, is this pulp? I see? That's it, you're fired."

Henry kept asking Scott, "When are you going to fall down and die?" Not for a few years, son, so meanwhile you and your Oedipal struggle best hush up.

I contemplated uploading this to Finslippy yesterday and asking, "Is this a bad sign?" Ha, ha! It's just a fog machine in my oven. DON'T PANIC.

The photographer kept saying that he wanted to make me look "elegant," which I thought was a lovely sentiment, considering that I was wearing cinnamon buns on my head and a pom-pommed bathrobe from Target.

When the shoot was over (seven hours, my friends! SEVEN) Tim and Liz gave Henry not one, but TWO of the light sabers. Was he excited? A LITTLE BIT. I'm still amazed that we got him to sleep, or eat, or stop trying to amputate our limbs for more than two minutes.

So that's our story! Aaaand now I'm going back to bed. Wake me when the issue comes out. Thank you.

Bear with me.

This is what happens when you're posting every day, and you're not doing much of anything but writing and eating, and you're using an old laptop containing ancient documents you haven't seen in years: you find shit, and you think, what the hell, I'm posting it. Like the following, which I probably wrote ten years ago, and I do not fully understand. I was reading Klaus Kinski's autobiography, as I recall, and was amused and unnerved by it. So I began to write a sitcom for him? Hmm. And one that's been dubbed with family-friendly language? Whatever, I'm posting it, I'M POSTING IT. I have nothing else. Without further ado:

Kinski!

Life as a teen can be hard sometimes--popularity, grades, teachers, and all-around "fitting in" are much tougher when you're trying to make it in Sunnyville Junior High.

Characters:

Jose: Dark-skinned and long-lashed, Jose is poised on the brink of becoming a "ladies' man." He is loyal to his simple peasant family.

Min: Min's a "brain" who can't wait to rebel in Junior High. Smart, shy, and Asian, she is a girl poised on the brink of womanhood.

Amber: Blond and blue-eyed, Amber's family recently moved to town from Los Angeles. Despite her Californian good looks, Amber's smart and ambitious.

Klaus: A sixty-five-year-old, grotesquely handsome man with a thick German accent, Klaus is unsure of himself and his place at Sunnyville. But with his undeniable charm and colorful take on life, he's sure to make an impact.

INT. CAFETERIA--DAY

(JOSE, MIN, AMBER, and KLAUS are sitting around a TABLE, eating TWINKIES.)

Min: Junior high is great! There's no one to tell you what to eat for breakfast!

Amber: This is a terrible idea, guys--we need nutrition to feed our brains.

Klaus (petulant): My arms are covered in sores and vomit from lying crouched under a vegetable stand all night long. I craved merely a potato for my family. Perhaps some Cheez Nips. But the vegetable man knew I was there and would not leave until my rage caused my distended belly to spew forth its contents.

Jose: Yo, Klaus. That's wack.

Klaus: I will take home this pastry wrapper for my mother to lick. There are remnants of cream filling. Jose, does the way Amber engulfs the Twinkie between her swollen ruby lips not make you want to [hang out with] her?

Jose: Well--

(Klaus throws himself over the table, knocking both he and Amber to the ground. He holds down her squirming body and bites at her t-shirt. Cue laugh track.)

INT. SCHOOL HALLWAY--DAY

JOSE and MIN chat by their lockers. The principal, MR. McMURPHY, approaches.

Mr. McMurphy: Well, well, well. If it isn't Mr. Kinski's friends.

Jose: Aw, Klaus is okay, Mr. M. You just got to know him.

Min: Yeah, you should hear his stories about Fitzcarraldo!

Mr. M.: Well, I don't know...

(Just then the locker behind them slams open and we see Klaus, panting, his shirt torn.)

Mr. M.: Mr. Kinski, what is the MEANING of this?

Klaus (choleric): It was Sheila, that libidinous whore from homeroom. Her creamy [face] is swollen as a horny monkey's testicles and her moist, hairy [hair] was peeking out from underneath her [hat] -- and I knew I had to take her. I didn't know that after I [met] her and her fierce lesbian lover, they would lock me in here. And that's more, they shaved my [legs]! The itching is intensely erotic.

(He shows them area which is blurred out to viewer. )

Mr. M.: Well, I'll give him one thing--he sure is unusual!

(They all laugh loudly except for Klaus, who glares at each of them and finally grabs Min's buttocks, pulling her into the locker with him.)

(Werner Herzog shows up in next episode)

I couldn't be more proud.

Last year I spent a few giddy months writing with a crack team of funny people for The Onion News Network. I left them to pursue my literary ambitions and also because I'm not 25 anymore and couldn't spend all day every day coming up with sketch ideas. Did I rue this decision? A little, yes. There was some drinking. There were some tears.

I have since cleaned myself up and moved on, but look! The Onion News Network is now live, and oh my god, the one bit I wrote for them (okay, co-wrote,sheesh) that will probably ever make it online is actually online today. Oh, I had some others that were brilliant, my friends, BRILLIANT. My favorite was cut because Mad Magazine scooped me. Scooped by Mad! I'm still not over it.

Go see!

Because Peter O’Toole isn’t mocked enough.

Scott: I would say this is bawdy and irreverent. Those are good words. Write those down.

Alice: I’d describe it as a “giddy tour de force.” If I were writing a review.

I’ve got a post up on PBS about Masterpiece Theatre’s “Casanova.” I was originally supposed to also write about “The Deadliest Plane Crash,” also called “You’re Not Anxious Enough, Alice, So Let’s Ramp Up That Plane Phobia of Yours”—but dang it all, my schedule wouldn’t permit me to write about both.

In my previous post, I forgot to add my favorite term ever, used by my friend Jen’s mom: “hang around bang arounds,” referring to the clothes she wears when she’s just, you know. Hanging around. And engaging in gang bangs.

Happy weekend!