Stuff that's not true (fiction)

Friday, November 07, 2008

Correspondence

Dear Rob—

I think you may have mistakenly grabbed one of my pens. The black one. Would you please return it to me here in my office as soon as possible? I know it’s just a pen, but it has enormous sentimental value to me.

I have a meeting in an hour and need to take notes.

Thanks!
Jim


Jim

A meeting! Good for you! Get back up on the horse, man!

Sadly, I don’t have your pen. I only write using blue ink pens. Black ink is far too harsh for me. Have you looked all over your office? Perhaps underneath one of those stacks of books?

Good luck!
Rob


Rob,
I’ve had that pen for years. Last time I saw it, you had asked to borrow it to write yourself a note to pick up one of your anti-psychotic meds at the pharmacy. You were standing in my doorway, while we discussed your shrewd plan to “monetize” your back catalog of Frankenberry cereal boxes.

Maybe you put it in your sweater vest pocket by accident?

No harm, no foul! But I’d like it back as quickly as you can roll yourself down here.

Thanks.
Jim


Jim,
Ah, yes, that fateful conversation where you slyly chided and aloofly criticized my boyhood collecting proclivities. You know, you really should come up to the house sometime and see all the improvements my “psychotic need to hoard” has achieved after my numerous and insanely successful ebay sales. You could stay for the weekend in the new east wing of the main house.

As to your pen. My only guess is that it may be hiding under one of those teetering towers of paper, books and clutter on your desk.

“Look to thine own house.”

Rob


Rob—
“Look to thine own house”?
Um…
What?
Is that scripture you are trying to quote? I’m sorry, it’s quite difficult to type as I’m laughing so hard at the notion of you over there in your office, scouring sacred and religious texts for an applicable quote. It occurs to me that only you would be so crass and bold as to try and cover your tracks with a divinely inspired quote. Especially since that “incident” with the collection plate at First Presbyterian all those years ago.

Thanks for the comedy, Rob. You crack me up. I needed that.

But if you could simply take a moment to look in your desk drawers for my beloved pen. It’s engraved with my name on the barrel in bold letters and the line “Thanks for all your hard work! —Bill Clinton”. Maybe it slipped down into the drawer where you keep your not-so-secret stash of Stolichnaya?
Jim


J.
As I have explained to you (and the authorities) many times, my hand accidentally jarred the collection plate, knocking it over. It was a simple mistake. Any monies that incidentally landed in the folds of my coat were promptly returned to the rectory. Your clumsy attempt at repartee leaves me feeling even more sorry for you. I had not previously thought that possible.

You are quite welcome for the giggles. I’m sure levity must be in short supply in your life these days, since Rita left the state with her yoga instructor last April. We got a card from her the other day, by the way. She and Haji seem to be doing quite well. She’s pregnant now, had you heard? I guess it wasn’t she who was the infertile one as you had always posited.

I can absolutely understand your continuing reluctance to search your office for your woe begotten pen. The smell alone from the southeast corner is enough to gag even the hardiest of souls. Maybe you should call the Health Department and ask them to send over a team to evacuate the more fetid crevices before you begin a search in earnest?

Ah yes, my “secret stash.” How funny you should bring that up, given all the rumors I’ve heard of late about how your last “sabbatical” wasn’t spent over at the Sorbonne doing “research,” but was at the Promises Rehab facility. I hear they do good work. Shame it didn’t take in your case.

R.


Rob.

I am tired of these games.

You have my pen. I saw you using it as one half of a set of chopsticks in the company cafeteria, while you gluttonously slurped down your Thai noodles last Tuesday.

And my heavens man, they have napkins there! You should look into using those instead of your left sleeve after you shovel food into that gaping maw of yours.

I am sorry it has come to this, but have my pen back to me by the top of the hour, or I’m calling Security. I wonder if they also might be interested in your extra-curricular accounting practices?

Jim


J.

Well, congratulations, James, you have sunk to a new low. I hadn’t thought that possible in this liftime. But you have stretched your wings far and wide in order to glide down to this abysmal low. Petty blackmail threats for what amounts to a useless trinket from a womanizing amoral adulterer.

Did you know that everyone who gave even $5 to the re-election campaign got one of those trinkets you are currently obsessing over?

And, as I recall during my ever so brief encounter with your obscenely treasured pen, it didn’t write smoothly at all. I can’t for the life of me see why you hold it in such esteem. My normal flowing script was reduced to a shaky line that resembled an epileptic’s EEG or perhaps your scrawl after one of your late night benders.

R.


Robert:

FOR THE LAST TIME, DO NOT CALL ME “JAMES.”

That represents my father and I think of it as my “slave” name.

I expect my pen to back in my hands at the end of the day.

Security is on speed dial.

J.


James.

Your “slave” name. Now I’m having trouble typing again as the waves of laughter cascade over me.

You do remember that you are as white as a lily and born and bred of old WASP-y New England money, don’t you? Surely, your personal delusions haven’t carried you that far down the road to madness, have they?

Rob


Rob.

You should be hearing the bootfalls of Security outside your office door any moment now.

I hope the mace they use on you doesn’t stain your clothes. Though obviously your dry cleaner is a miracle worker, given your horrid grooming habits and poor hand-eye coordination at meal times.

Jim


James:

Good News!

I believe I have found your pen!

It was in the possession of a local transient named “Gilly.” Gilly, though I’m loathe to judge another human being harshly, doesn’t appear to be the most wholesome creature walking the streets these days. It also seems that he’s wiped the pen off as best he could with good old fashioned “spit and polish.” Au natural as it were. And, notwithstanding the difficultly in understanding his rambling mutterings, it’s also possible he believes himself to be a medical professional of some sort and was convinced your pen was a rectal thermometer. You’ll have to check to be sure on that score, though; I think he’s quite mad. Also, don’t be alarmed, he’s kept the pen quite safe and tucked into the folds of his mountainous flaps of sweaty skin.

He should be delivering it in person to your office post-haste.

Good luck at your meeting!

Rob

Thursday, February 14, 2008

I’m Not Really Anti-Valentine’s Day

More dialog from an unfinished novel thing-y. (A different one, wouldn’t you know).


“But you said you loved me! I even have it in writing.”

“Oh. Well, I was just being polite.”

“Polite?! You were just being polite? That’s insane.”

“What? Why? You told me you loved me and I didn’t want to be rude. So I said ‘I love you, too.’ I didn’t want things to be weird between us.”

“Well, congratulations, I don’t think things could be any weirder between us now.”

“You say that like it’s my fault.”

“But what about over dinner at La Torre the other night? We were waiting for the appetizers to come and you raised your glass of Piñot Grigot and said, ‘I love you, Benjamin.’”

“Oh, yeah. That. Couldn’t think of anything to else to say.”

“What?!”

“Neither of us had said anything for a while, so I was feeling kind of uncomfortable. And the restaurant was so quiet. Seemed like a nice thing to say. I guess not.”

“So let me get this straight. You told me that you loved me simply to fill dead air?”

“I’m in radio. We hate dead air. You know that!”

For past year’s Valentine’s Day messages see here and perhaps even here.

Thursday, December 13, 2007

Dialogue

A few lines of dialog I wrote a long time ago, from a short story I never finished. Found on an ancient zip disk. Slightly edited.

“Yes, she definitely wears that shirt a lot. She wears it at least twice a week. You know how I know that she wears it that often? Because that is the shirt with the deep V-neck and, depending on any number of factors such as wind speed, the angle of the sun, barometric pressure and her being RIGHT in front of you, you can ABSOLUTELY see her almost her entire chest. It practically plunges down to her navel and allows easy discernment the brand names of her bras. Bali most days and La Perla if she’s going to a client meeting. Seriously, that shirt should be illegal, that’s how revealing it is. So, you know why I notice that sort of thing and why I can tell you that she wears it at least once a week and that she wore it yesterday? Because I’m a GUY and guys notice things like women’s breasts. We like them. We notice them. We even admire them, though generally we try not to be all creepy about it and stare at them. But if you think I’m not going to notice when they are practically invading my personal space bubble, then you are absolutely off your rocker. Plus, the shirt is a nice green color and it sets off her eyes nicely.”

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Jon’s Report Card circa… A Long Time Ago

I found an old report card from elementary school. And JUST FOR YOU I spent all afternoon transcribing Mrs. Eggelston’s old-school-marm-script comments from the margins. I aim to please.

— Jon is reading well, but his fascination with mucus and, please forgive the term, “mondo-boogers” [his term] has gotten out of hand. Please ask him not to touch the other children’s nostrils.

— He needs to stop playing the blues harmonica during recess for tips. He is not a 1920s black sharecropper.

— His Math skills are formidable, but I’m worried that he is spending far too much time trying to “telnet” into First National Bank from the Library’s computer.

— While we strive to be as tolerant as possible, we do not understand why he occasionally dresses as a “ninja-pirate-warrior-prince.” He’s very creative with his costumes, but we have a hard time understanding his “pirate talk.” And when he goes into “ninja-stealth-death-mode” and creeps against the wall; he makes the entire class pretend they can’t see him. This is very distracting to the learning environment and I’ve had to warn him about this conduct.

— I’m thrilled with his interest in Civics, but he must stop burning Richard Nixon in effigy. It’s against the fire code to have an open flame in the classroom. Although he does know quite a bit about the Watergate scandal and seems to be able talk forever about President Ford’s pardon of Nixon. Does he watch a lot of news shows?

— His vocabulary is impressive, but what he has suggested in numerous essays is both anatomically impossible and seems like it would be quite painful. Is someone in your family currently a sailor or used to be in the Navy?

— It’s true that February is Black History Month and we should be more sensitive as a culture, but we have to refer to the children by “their slave names” (Jon, Mary, Billy, etc.); it’s very confusing to call him “Shabazz X” just for one month.

— During the Biology section he became physically disturbed during the frog and worm dissections. After grabbing as many samples as he could hold in his little hands, he ran out of the classroom, screaming “You may NOT hurt my pretties! Stay away from them, you visigoths!”

I am very happy to have in in the classroom as he is certainly a lively little fellow. We will have to work on some of these more “disturbing” behaviors as the year progresses.

Thank you.
Linda Egglston

Tuesday, November 06, 2007

A Peek Inside the Writer’s Guild and Producers’ Negotiations

Before the big meeting over the weekend, Ransom Note Typography minions managed to plant a couple high tech microphones on key members of the negotiating teams during the marathon sessions between the Writer’s Guild of America (representing the writers, duh) and the Alliance of Motion Picture & Television Producers (representing the blood sucking, money grubbing studios and producers).

We are not biased in the slightest here at RNT World Headquarters.

The following is a transcript of the tapes we got via FedEx late this afternoon.

Chairs rustling as people begin to sit

Voice 1 (Studio Boss, we presume): Everybody OK? Anyone need a Pellegrino? Latte? Diet Coke?

Voice 2 (writer, we guessed): Yeah, can I get a half-decaf mochachino venti, low foam and extra hot? Really hot. Hotter than the heat of a thousand suns hot, please. Thanks.

Voice 1: Sure thing, Bob. MARCI! Hey, Marci, listen, will you run to the Starbucks down the street and get Alan a cup of jo, with a shot of half and half or something.

Bob: Um, I really wanted half-decaf—

Alan: Bob, I am never going to remember all that crap. Marci, get him a cup of coffee and some of those creamers, will ya? And get me a boysenberry danish, the crumbly kind, three napkins, a fork and two plates, while you’re at it. And get my Blackberry out of my bag and call Jiilian and tell her to cancel the swim class tonight, my psoriasis is acting up this week and the chlorine really does a number on my skin.

Woman’s voice (presumably Marci): You want a coffee with that?

Alan: Oh, Lord, no, I’m already going to be up all night. And the acid just kills my stomach. But pop open one of those Pellegrinos and let it go flat for me. And throw some ice in a glass when you get back. Thanks, hon.

Much throat clearing

Alan: OK, look. We have a problem. You word guys are way too bent out of shape. Seems to us over at AMPTP like you fellows with the typewriters are being a little greedy, don’t you think?.

Bob: Alan, I think we are being more than fair and quite reasonable. Right now we only earn FOUR cents per DVD sold. Less than a nickel per $24.99 DVD! And zilch on internet stuff. We have to be fairly compensated, Alan. And, you also need to recognize that new media falls under our jurisdiction. We have to protect these young kids out there writing on the Internet and all this new media stuff.

Alan: Look, Bob, I understand your position, and I feel for you, but really, you gotta understand, we don’t need you guys as much anymore. You aren’t really in a position of strength here, my friend. Plus, no one is making any money off the Internet. Zippo. Bupkis. Bunch of smelly hippies, stealing our intellectual property is what the Internet is. Trust me, Bob, you don’t want any part of the Internet stuff. We can’t even get that fruity company, what’s their name, again? Marci!

Young woman’s voice: Marci left to get the danish, sir.

Alan (huge sigh): Fine. What’s your name, hon?

Young woman: Riva, sir.

Alan (rolls eyes): Whatever. What’s the name of the fruit company that sells those little pod-pud things? [sound of fingers snapping] We bought my niece one in pink, remember?

Bob: Apple. Alan, Apple sells the iPod and sells your shows on iTunes. Over the Internet.

Alan: Again. Whatever. Those fruity folks got all huffy and hot and bothered the other day. They don’t like our ideas about pricing. It’s nuts! All I’m saying is that the Internet is full of bandits, Bob. You don’t want any part of that. We don’t even want a part of that, but we have to do something, you know? Holy pants on a bamboo pole, look at the music business, poor bastards. The Internet stole EVERYTHING from them. We aren’t making a plug nickel off the Internet, Bob. You gotta believe me! So I don’t understand why you are making such a fuss about it. Look at this contract proposal of yours, you got a whole section in here called: “Revenue from Internet streaming.” What revenue?! Are you kidding me? I’m dying here with this Internet revenue stuff! Plus, there are thousands of people out there at home in their underwear in the day, writing, just like you clowns from the WGA. I just heard about this blagging stuff the other day. It’s crazy stuff! I had Marci start a blag thing for me. Livepress.com? Wordjournal? Anyway. A zillion and a half monkeys out there, I bet if we put it all in a hopper, some kind of Shakespeare will sift out. So what if it isn’t really the next Hamlet, people don’t really care about quality anymore. You know that! Hell, we just put Harold and Kumar 4 into pre-production. No, let’s stay away from an Internet talk, my friend, that’s rough and felonious territory. A veritable den of thieves.

Bob: Well, we are going to have to address revenue sharing for Internet downloads and streaming at some point. But I’d really like to discuss the criminally low residuals we receive from DVD sales. Now your public statements about the health of your business, combined with the latest 10-K from the SEC, in DVD sales alone, your company made over—

Alan: Bob, I’m going to stop you right there. We can’t really say exactly what we sold. We make a lot of plastic discs, sure, but how much money do we really make off ‘em? Who can say? We send trucks out to Wal-Mart, but it gets really complicated after that. Who knows how many those guys sell! And the financial statements! Come on! Think about it, Bob, you know how mushy and shady those financial statements are. Like Mick Jagger said, “I see a red door, and I want to paint it gray.” Hell, you write fiction for a living, we should get you to take a poke at those statements once in a while.

General laughter around the room.

Alan: Anyway, Bob, we are getting eaten alive by piracy. You’ve seen the news. Right here on our own channel they say it: Billions and billions of dollars of our property flying around the Internet right now and we aren’t seeing any of that action. Trillions, even! Hell, you walk down the street in Manchuria or over there in China and you trip over a stack of bad copies of Rush Hour 3 when you walk out the door. Though really, they were just there to keep the door propped open. What a stinker that was! Who wrote that again, Bob?

Bob (obviously annoyed and testy): I don’t think we are here to discuss the merits of any one movie or show in particular. The industry as a whole is the problem we are trying to address. We need to talk about revenue sharing and residuals and what we, the writers are rightfully owed.

Alan: I’m just asking. No need to get defensive, my boy. I’m sure it was all Ratner’s fault anyway.

Bob (very angry and his voice is squeaky and shaking): Yeah, sure. Fine. Whatever. You know for a fact that the script I delivered to him years ago was better than the drivel they filmed. My name isn’t even anywhere on that script anymore. And you know that.

Silence for a few moments. A couple of throats clear uncomfortably.

Bob: Anyway. We need to come to some conclusion on the matter of DVD sales. The WGA thinks a doubling of the compensatory fees for DVDs with over $1 million in gross sales is more than reasonable.

Alan: Your comedy skills have never been better, Bob. Very sharp! That’s a funny, isn’t it? We should put you on staff for this new Bob Saget vehicle we are throwing together.

Bob: We are totally serious. You are making a mint from DVD sales. We helped create that product. We have the numbers to back that up. We must be remunerated.

Alan: I don’t think you really understand the weak position you are in, Bob.

Bob: What are you talking about, Alan? I think our position has never been stronger. We create. You film and sell. We should get some of that money. Seems pretty simple and strong to me.

Alan: But I don’t think you understand. We don’t need you anymore! Look at what happened last time you keyboard jockeys got your panties in a wad. Remember that, back in the 80s? You were out for days! Weeks! Who missed you? No one, really. Sure, Letterman was annoyed, but he’s always pissed about something. Dave is Dave, nothing you can do about that. And what did we do while you guys were out there parading around L.A. with your signs and tinny megaphones, Bob? I’ll tell you what we did. We got smart. We went out and made reality shows. Reality! Non-fiction. No writers, baby! No made up stories, just real folks, eating worms and setting fire to their cousins on TV. Sure it’s crap, but it’s dirt cheap to make. Hire a couple snot-nosed camera crews, hell, Union people even. Hire a couple kids to follow that blonde bimbo, what her name? Annie Nicky Smith? The plump one, you know who I mean. Died a couple years ago. Marci! What was the blond’s name? Anyway, hire a few college kids to follow her around with a microphone and a Canon or put a bunch of cameras in Ozzy Milbourne’s house and you know what you have? A hit! H-I-T, hit, baby! You think we can’t keep doing that? The public eats that stuff for breakfast, Bob. Sure, we’ll throw you and the critics a bone once in a while and make The Wire and 24 and The Office and what not, but the future is Reality, Reality, Reality! Plus, the internet! It’s gonna be great! You ever see those YouTurn videos? Like that one with the dog and the skateboard? Stupid as hell, but people love to watch that crap. Marci! What’s the name of that one thing? That thing with the girl? HornyGirl12? LonelyChicken44? Whatever. That one thing with the girl. We bought that for a song. Marci! Where is she? That stuff doesn’t even need writers, my friend. It writes itself. MARCI!

Marci (running and panting): Sorry, sir, the boysenberry danishes weren’t very crumbly, so they are making a new batch. I got you a strawberry cruller. Here’s your cocoa, Mr. Johnson.

Bob: Cocoa? But I asked for coffee?

Marci: They were out. Sorry.

At that point in the tapes, the sound faded and we don’t really know what happened in the meeting. But we do know that the writers are probably getting screwed with their pants on.

Fight the Power.

Favorite Entries

If you are new around here, the following entries have been reasonably well received. You might want to peruse these.

• Help Wanted
• From the Office of Mis-directed Email
• A Word from the Small Person in the House
• RNT Product Review: Chocolate Mix Skittles Left Me Sterile!
• Jon’s Report Card circa… A Long Time Ago
• Dear Gratuitously Naked Conversationalist at the Gym:
• A Peek Inside the Writer’s Guild and Producers’ Negotiations
• We Regret the Error
• Letters from a Homeowner to His General Contractor
• What I Did There
• Hermaphrodite Administrative Assistants and Receptionists Need Not Apply
• Giving Me an IM Account Was Obviously a Huge Mistake
• Official Ransom Note Typography Vista vs. Mac OS X Shootout
• I Need a Real Hobby
• Beat Down
• Big Fat Lies
• True Love
• Now MY Ovaries Hurt
• Don’t Get Her Started
• Disturbing Trend
• Had to do it
• Mooshy stuff
• Ransom Note Typography End User License Agreement “EULA”
• Diva-licious!
• Just so we’re clear
• PETA may have a point

Holy Crap! Look at all this STUFF down here. It's awesome!

 

Really, I'm glad you made it down here. Almost no one ever comes down here. I'm like in a freaking dungeon down here. I get lonely. But not you. YOU made it all the way to the end of the page. For this I think I've a little crush on you. I don't know, is "love" to strong a word to use in this situation? Well, if it's not "love," then it's very strong "like." I'm totally in like with you for coming down here. You are awesome. Please love me back! I know, I know, I shouldn't be all needy, it's not attractive at all, but you don't know how it is to be stuck down here. Who scrolls all the way to the end of a page anymore these days? Anyway, thanks for shedding some light down here in the depths. I appreciate it. Shoot me an email and I'll send you a dollar, OK?

©2005-2008 Jon B. Deal All Rights Reserved. I'm not kidding around here, I know people who know other people who would be willing to beat you up or similarly infringe on your rights, should you happen to infringe on my rights.