Monday, November 13, 2006
The Horse's Mouth
Press L for Loser.
Put up a beautiful blog, attempted to copy and paste from Outlook Express, pressed V instead of C--and lost the whole note in cyberspace.
When will this old Luddite ever learn Word, so he doesn' lose?
As well. It was time for an intermission in THE FIRE IN BRADFORD, the play I'm putting up.
But what the hell had I blogged about? I do recall it was in fact about an intermission. Is there Memory left in my head?
I have in fact been hit so often over the head in bar fights and auto accidents that I am surprised these days to remember anything at all, but lets see if we can remember what in tarnation we had put up.
Sure do feel like "Prince Violent", a parody of Prince Valiant in old MAD Magazine, where faced with danger, Prince Violent picks up bow, drops bow, picks up quiver, drops quiver, drops chainmail pants!
Ah, well, let's see now.
The blog was about a blocked playwright. I had made the playwright into a character. I had put him in a story:
"Nobody knows why, but instances of insanity were upon the country. In an Orthodox church preists were given
to destroying communion wafers, Rabbis taking up Islam, and parliaments of Canada would set special days to pray for rain.
"A blocked playwright entered his psychiatrist's office singing an old Fifties Doublemint jingle, "Double your pleasure, doubble your fun with Doublemint, Doublemint, Doublemint Gum"
He also said he sucked the sweat off horses.
"Himmel!" gasped the startled Viennese psychiatrist. "You suck the sweat of horses? You are the schwans-zuger?"
The playwright, who had a couple of languages, yelled, "Did you just call me a co.....ucker?"
"Nein, nein,nicht, never,"soothed the psychatrist. "How long have you been sucking the sweat off horses?"
"It's more of a metaphor, really," the young playwright explained."It's just a mode I got into, a kind of Tyrette's syndrome.
I'm stuck at writing my play and I end up reciting entire passages from Equus and other well known plays. Same thing when I'm on the keyboard.
Psychiatrist (under his breath): That's because you haven't got a creative bone in your body, aschloch.
Patient: What was that?
Psychatrist: Nichtwar. So how long have you been unconsciously plagiarizing?
"Since I wrote in an intermission to my work in progress.
"Ah, you are such a dumkopf," said the psychiatrist.
"That's why I'm here, " sighed the young playwright.
Psychiatrist (giggling a bit) What you need is a good horse tranquillizer, hey.
"Does it matter if they're tranquillized?"
Psychiatrist: Is there a horse in your head? Horse's heads. You plagiarising the Godfather now?
Patient: You sure you didn't get that diploma from a Kellog's box?
Psychiatrist: You're the guy who's reciting "Double your pleasure, double your fun."
Patient: Look, doctor, I am a blocked playwright. A blocked artist. You guys should take a course in creative writing.
Psychiarist: I have. Ever since we found out what we did to Hemingway.
"Keep away from shotguns."
There is a long pause. The psychiatrist is writing something. He gives the note to the young playwright.
Patient: What''s this.
Psychiatrist: It's a book title.
Patient: But it's one of my own books!
Psychiatrist: From your previous visits, it became plain to me that you were using one of your own novels as a template for your play. You weren't stuck. You had just lost the fershlugginer book.
Patient: Is that what I'd been doing? Rewriting my novel into a play?
Psychiiatrist: Yes, aschloch.
Patient: What did you say?
Psychiarist: Something anatomical.
Patient: Omigod. Does this mean that all I have to do is refer back to my source, my own novel.
There is the great Aha moment. The patient is cured of his problem and his mental block."That's wonderful, Doctor
How much do I owe you?"
Psychiatrist: Seventy housand dollars.
Patient: You got it.
Psychiatrist: Come back Tuesday. You are clazy. Like roon."
Ah well, that was pretty well the point of my blog.
And now it's intermission time. Intermission until I find that book so I can go on with my play, THE FIRE IN BRADFORD.
Ich bin ein sneaky bastard, no?