JOSH (18, scrawny, terrible posture) enters with a bowl of popcorn. He sits on the couch next to HALEY (17, overweight but confident).
Josh: “So what is this movie called? A Walk to Remember?”
Haley: “Josh, wait. There’s something I have to get off my chest.”
Josh: “Your bra?” {then} “Ha ha ha…I was just…kidding. What? Why are you giving me that face?”
Haley: “It hurts me to say this, especially because I’m Mormon.”
Josh: {taking her hand} “It’s okay.”
Haley: “I’ve been…screwing around.”
Josh: “Oh.”
Haley: “A lot.”
Josh: “Okay.”
Haley: “Like…a lot a lot.”
Josh is silent, then takes his hands away.
Haley: “Do you think I’m a bad person?”
Josh: “I mean…you have your needs, I guess, and if those needs require dealing with one or two penises a night –”
Haley: “Or more.”
Josh: “Or more? Really?! Jesus Chr –”
Haley: “Josh!”
Josh: “Sorry. Good…heavens.”
An awkward beat.
Haley: “Do you think I’ll still go to Heaven?”
Josh: “I guess as long as you’re not drinking coffee, right?”
Haley: “Aww.” {She kisses Josh on the nose.} “I wish you could come to Heaven with me; but, you know…Jewish and all.”
Josh: “Yeah.”
Haley: “Anyway, cool beans.”
One thing I hate about being male is the nicknames we give each other, like –
Male: “What up, cock face?”
Josh: “Hey –” {registering} “You think I have a cock face? …That hurts.”
No matter what retaliatory name I come back with, it never works. I’m like –
Josh: “Not much……vag breath.” {Realizing} “Dammit, that one’s sort of a compliment.”
I know these names are supposed to show closeness or camaraderie, but they just hurt my feelings. They turn an otherwise neutral or friendly conversation sour –
Man 1: “How’s your day going…cum stain?”
Man 2: “How goes the job hunt…penis nose?”
Royal Brit: “With whom shall you be attending the royal ball…testicle lips?”
* * *
My old Vietnamese roommate tried to do this, too — but he never understood American humor. I’d come home like –
– I think I’m gonna go bald soon and either way I’m screwed. My dad’s side of the family balds on top, and my mom’s side of the family balds in a pattern…that reads, “Thug Life.”
– When I’m bored, I like writing letters to people that don’t exist — my perfect woman, my unborn son, God.
– Sometimes prison seems like a good option: free room and board, a chance to read the entire Western cannon, no 9 – 5, time to get in better shape, no need to cook, and I’m sure there’s at least one person in there who would want to have sex with me.
– You know your life sucks when you connect with characters in Judy Blume novels, like –
You: {sigh} “I was a fourth grade nothing.”
– True happiness is like a mayfly. It can’t exist for more than a day. Sometimes it only exists for a few minutes…and even then, a lot of people own fly swatters.
– I see all of these people “live tweeting” their reactions to a movie or an event. I sort of had an urge to do that, too, but I’m not sure how receptive people would be if I live tweeted my insecurities.
– I’m way behind the times. I just figured out how to get jiggy with it.
– Asking a girl to the prom was hard. It was always –
Girl: “Oh, May fifteenth? I’m gonna be ill that day.”
Josh: “But it’s three months away.”
Girl: “Yeah, just don’t touch me. You’ll get virgin all over me.”
– This is a “Yo Momma” joke I’ve been working on: “Man, your momma’s so fat, …it’s sad. She needs help. Real talk. Get her in to Weight Watchers.”
– You know why so many Jews go into film? We hear, “The key to storytelling is making your characters suffer,” and we think, “Easy. I’ll write an autobiography.”
According to wikipedia.org, the “phrasal template word game” Mad Libs was invented by Leonard Stern and Roger Price in 1953 when they decided one night to replace the nouns, adjectives, and verbs of some rather dull stories with the words “penis,” “booger-faced,” and “farted.”
* * *
I’m sure there was one classy household where a well-mannered child filled in the “adjective” blank with the word “lugubrious”; but in my house, the Mad Libs stories were always scatological and sexual — because when you’re seven-years-old, feces and fucking are funny.
Hell, when you’re thirty-seven-years-old, you’re still laughing about them.
Seventy-seven? It’s a different story, but that’s because it’s harder for you to — anyway, let’s not get on a poop and penis tangent.
* * *
When my mom moved houses a while back, I found a box filled with Mad Libs that I had completed as a child. I perused a few, wondering if any of these stories could help spark an idea for a hilarious, yet touching four-quadrant screenplay. However, in the middle of reading the one about the Armenian (nationality) mailman (occupation) who saved the world from mass pee-pee (noun), I found a book of Mad Libs I did not recall filling out…
Religious Mad Libs.
Taking bits from The Bible, this collection asked the reader to fill in the sacred text with his or her own verbs, adjectives, and nouns. Surely this seemed like a terrible idea. What offensive, blasphemous things might some ignorant child write in the blanks?
“And God urinated on (verb, past tense) them, and God said unto them, ‘Be gassy (adjective), and fart (verb), and replenish the bum hole (noun), and poop (verb) it: and have dominion over the boobies (noun, plural) of the sea, and over the penises (noun, plural) of the air, and over every living booger (noun) that moveth upon the Bill Clinton (noun).” And God said, ‘Shit, son! (exclamation). I have given you every problem (noun) bearing misery (noun), which is upon the brain (body part) of all the human beings (noun plural), and every conscious, feeling entity (noun), which is the fruit of a poisonous tree (noun) yielding seed: to you it shall have to make up (verb) for meat.
“‘And to every depressed person (noun) of the earth, and to every existentially lost creature (noun) of the air, and to every hopeless soul (noun) that creepeth upon this painful and confusing planet Earth (place), wherein there is life, I have given every man (noun) blue (color) feelings (noun) for meat: and it was inconsiderate (adjective).’
“And God saw everything that he had made, and Goddamnit! (exclamation), it was very insufficient (adjective).”
* * *
You think that’s bad, you should see what I did with Mad Libs: Martin Luther King Jr. edition.
When I worked as an intern for a management company, I was asked to spend one day driving Rihanna to and from different meetings in L.A. It went something like this –
INT. HONDA CIVIC – DAY
JOSH LEHRMAN (21, sweating like crazy) drives pop star RIHANNA down Hollywood Blvd. She stares out the window, then –
Rihanna: “I’m hungry.”
Josh: “Wanna drive through Jack in the Box?”
Rihanna: “Jack in the Box? Cracker, their food has salmonella.”
Josh: {singing} “…ella, ella, eh, eh, eh…”
You know how a man might say, “Talk dirty to me” to a girl he’s with?
I’ve never been into that. Personally, I find that the hottest thing is when I feel like I’m lucky to be with the girl. That’s why I prefer telling a girl, “Talk down to me.”
The more she condescends, the better –
Girl: “You don’t deserve me.”
Josh: “Oh, yeah, girl… I don’t. I really don’t.”
Girl: “You’re not attractive or confident enough to be seen with me in public.”
Josh: “Ughhh… More. Keep it up.”
Girl: “Josh, seriously, why are you taking off your clothes? I’m breaking up with you.”
Josh: “YES! DON’T STOP! THIS IS SO HOT!!!”
Last June, I attended a gay pride event in — where else? — West Hollywood, CA. I’ll admit, I attend such events frequently — not because I believe that gays deserve sociopolitical equality (although I DO), but because gay men love me, and I eat up the attention.
The day began with an introduction to all of my roommate’s gay friends. My roommate referred to me as “the lone straight man,” to which everyone responded –
Gay guy: “Really? You’re straight? Really?”
Josh: “Why do I seem gay?”
Gay guy: “Because when we talk, you look me in the eyes.”
Josh: “Where else would I look? Your dick?”
Gay guy: {flirtatiously} “For starters…”
* * *
First, we explored a tent where a man with electrically charged sex toys asked if he could rub one up and down my body and through my hair. I responded the way any self-respecting gentleman would –
Josh: “As long as it’s sterilized.”
We then passed on the hepatitis vaccinations, took a picture with one of the actors from the program Chico’s Angels, and spoke to a man who had written a book about penis envy. He told me –
Author: “I saw Whoopie Goldberg on Oprah and she said to write a book about something you’re obsessed with; so, I thought, ‘I’ll write a book about my penis.’”
He explained the many ways to deal with having a small dick, the top two choices being (1) become gay and (2) marry a man in prison. They seemed to be very limited options to me, and I asked if he had heard the phrase about the importance of “the motion in the ocean.” Off of his confusion, I left, but not before pitching a few more chapter ideas for the second edition: measure with the metric system, lose weight to make it appear bigger, and only have sex with Asian women.
From there, I met a woman at a booth who offered me a gay phone book. I asked her –
Josh: “Don’t you want to be in the regular phone book?”
– and she shook her head, as if to say, “Silly straight guy…you just don’t get it.”
Finally, we played a couple of gay-themed carnival games, such as “Ring-A-Pinga,” a ring toss set-up in which the player was to throw the ring around one of several inflated balloon cocks. The three guys I played with had no luck. I won on the first try.
Gay guy: “Really? You’re straight? Really?”
* * *
About two hours in, we all took a break to head to a local bar. Here, I learned what it feels like to be a woman as I let men buy me drinks, knowing full well that it wasn’t going any further than that. Unfortunately, I also proved to be a woman in my drink choices, as I was the only guy ordering “gay” drinks. Even my flamboyant waiter called me a “fag.”
It didn’t help my masculinity when I displayed great affection for the gay bar’s music.
Josh: “Oh, I love Robyn!”
Gay guy: “Really? You’re straight? Really?”
* * *
The day ended in a shirtless parade down the street set to techno music. Listening to my new friends discuss the pecuniary problems they were having with clients at the office while watching others parade down Santa Monica Blvd. in Halloween costumes, I felt a strong disconnect.
The event offered free porn, the chance to ride a stripper pole, and exotic thongs with cute slogans for your dong like, “Slippery when wet,” or “Suck on this,” or “I visited Salt Lake City and all I got was this magic Mormon underwear.” It felt like a highly sexualized circus.
The bar…felt like a bar.
I guess my main point is, I’m torn.
I support gay rights and gay people, but part of me believes that, if the end goal is acceptance or further equality, gays are going about this in the wrong way. They shouldn’t be marching down the block in Jabba the Slut costumes; they should be putting up PowerPoint presentations like –
Gay guy: “As you’ll see in slide one, science suggests that being gay is as much of a choice as being black — and you don’t prevent them from marrying, do you?” {then} “Furthermore, DON’T MOST OF YOU PEOPLE THINK MARRIAGE SUCKS? I mean, c’mon…”
I wanted to remind the marchers that passersby didn’t see the gays in the bar; they only saw the “unusual” behavior holding up traffic — and by putting this loud performance on display, they were further segregating themselves from the community at large.
But the other part of me thinks it’s my problem. After all, this was a gay pride event — not a gay change your mind about us event. It was an expression of culture — and, like any culture, being gay is comprised of multiple facets. Just as W. E. B. Du Bois described the “double consciousness” of the black community, I’m sure the gay community experiences the same psychosocial division. Their sense of identity must feel split between their professional selves and their “gay” selves — and our request that they act more “normal” can only contribute negatively.
* * *
My friends at the bar didn’t seem like sex obsessed, flamboyant divas; they seemed like intelligent, kind, and shockingly boring people. Did they become sex obsessed, flamboyant divas when they were in the event? Sure. So did everyone. I’m telling you, some Robyn songs, you just can’t help it.
I’ve gotten into this bad habit of lying about poor phone reception in order to get off of calls. I’m always like –
Josh: {on the phone} “Really? Uh huh? And then she said that to you? That is irritating. Yeah, just like your mother.” {checks watch} “Hey, are you there? Hello? I think you’re breaking up. I’m gonna go.”
My girlfriend’s on the other end, like –
Girlfriend: “I can hear you fine.”
Josh: “Really? Must be these tunnels I’m driving through.”
My friend walks in the room –
Friend: “Hey man, can you come downstairs for a minute?”
Girlfriend: “Josh, you’re clearly in a house.”
Josh: “No, I’m just in a two story car — bus. Two-story bus.”
Girlfriend: “We’re on video chat.”
Josh: “Oh, right.”
When I was in middle school, everything was “gay” –
“Oh, we gotta wear these P.E. clothes? That’s gay.”
“We gotta do math homework? That’s gay.”
“Dude, you’re dating that hot girl? You’re gay.”
But it’s 2011 and it’s time to come up with a less hateful phrase.
I know a lot of people don’t use the term maliciously, but it’s still a group of people. How would you feel if someone walked around going, “Ech! That is so black people!”
(I’m assuming here that all of my readers are African-American, by the way.)
So here’s my pitch: let’s think of some other things EVERYBODY dislikes and we’ll all agree to start using that term instead. For example –
– “That is so taxes.”
– “That is so in-laws.”
– “That is so blue balls.”
Personally, I was going to recommend, “That is so Aunt Audrey,” but I realized that might be a little specific.
Feel free to throw out your own suggestions below.
I went to a Q&A the other night with my friend Courtney. It was one of those, “Come ask successful film directors interesting questions, like, ‘How can I copy your success?’ and ‘If you tell me a story about your initial struggles, will I feel better about my current state of failure?’ and ‘How many times do I need to blow you in order to get a p.a. position?’”
I have a problem with these events. (Clearly.) They always feel so self-congratulatory and one-sided. I mean, where is the Q&A with the directors who were told they couldn’t make it and didn’t? I don’t need to hear how these successful people stumbled onto fame and fortune; I need to hear how the non-successful people failed so that I can benefit from their mistakes.
The whole time, I had an urge to grab the mic and ask non-film questions, like –
Josh: “Yeah, I have a question…” {ahem} “…Debra…if you’re a doctor and you can kill one healthy patient to save five unhealthy ones, do you do it?”
Debra (director 1): “Um…yeah, I guess so.”
Josh: “Oh, really? Because those five are Nazis; so, way to go.” {then} “This question is for Todd. Todd, between you and I, who do you like the least up there?” {then} “You can just mouth it to me, if you want.” {then} “What was that? Lisa? Figures.”
Turn to the person next to me –
Josh: “This question is for Courtney. Courtney, what’s your least favorite ethnic group?”
Courtney: {stands up} “Wow. I was not prepared to answer this.” {immediately} “Armenians.”
Josh: “This question is for me. If you could be any animal, what would you be and why?” {immediately} “Sea otter. Obviously. They murder their food and still look adorable. Who doesn’t want that?”
I’d ask questions I could easily google –
Josh: “This question is for Lisa. Lisa, what does the word ‘lugubrious’ mean?” {then} “No, Todd. This question is for Lisa — not you. Give me a minute and I’ll ask you about the economic crisis.”
* * *
But, of course, I didn’t do any of that — because I’m a pussy. And I need a p.a. position.
Still, the next time I go to one of these events, I think I’ll just grab the mic and say –
Josh: “Help me.”
Moderator: “Um, ‘Help me’ is not a question, Sir.”
Josh: “Well, it’s obviously the subtext.”
