Drop Frame

On Comstock Avenue: A Scene for Two Actresses and a Man with Reverse Telepathic Abilities

30 October 2005

[The sound of heavy footsteps on wood]

[Tapping on a microphone]

Ehem.

[Feedback. It dissipates]

Ladies and gentlemen, our blog today will be written from the perspective of a man sitting by himself on a crowded bus.

Thank you.

[Heavy footsteps on wood]

-~-

inspired by true events

-~-

God, this is fucking ridiculous. I’ve got a paper due at five. Hate this bus. Takes so long to get home. 15 minutes. 15 minutes to home. Five deadline. It’s... I should really get the battery in my watch changed. Can’t believe I haven’t done that yet. Watch is so much easier then reaching into my pocket to get out my cell phone. 4:12, shit. I’ve got a paper to do, then I should clean my room. Or I could play video games. Yeah, video games would be nice. I could play my next football game. That would be nice. Take my mind of schoolwork for awhile. For an hour. Takes an hour to play a football game. I could play Alabama. I like the numbers on their helmets.

But if I play one, I’ll want to play two. That’s two hours. It’s... 4:13. Two hours from 4:13, that’s after six. 6:13. No... shit. I’ve got my paper to write. Paper due at five. Then I can play video games. No, then I can clean my room and reward myself by playing a video game. But only one, because by then, I’ll have that meeting to go to... Shit.

Girl behind his Left Ear [very faint in his mind, practically a whisper]:
...y’know? I mean who does she think she is? 4 pages? That’s, like, what? 1000 words? 10,000? By Monday? I’ve got shit to do this weekend, I don’t want to waste my time writing a stupid paper...

Okay, three football games. When I get home, I’ll finish my paper and email it in. Then I can play no more than three football games. I’m getting bored with it anyway, right?

Girl behind his Right Ear [ibid]:
...to be a good journalist, you have to write this stuff. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Maybe you should just write the first...

Four. Four football games... No. Fuck it. Maybe I should just go home and jerk off. That’d be a lot easier.

Girl behind his Left Ear:
I don’t know what to do, [name has been removed to protect the innocent]. I don’t want to write this stuff. This is not what I came to this school to write about. Profiles, yippee!

-~-

Editor’s note: this poor girl did actually say "yippee" at this point. It ain’t no lie.

-~-

...Profiles, yippee! You know, I want to write about shit that matters. I want...

God, this girl is annoying.

Girl behind his Left Ear [loudly, taking all of his attention]:
...like, what if I don’t get hired because, like, my teacher’s screwing me with this pansy crap. Y’know? [strained laughter] I mean, how’m I gonna get a job with this?

With what? You haven’t written it yet.

Girl behind his Right Ear:
You need to find something you want to write about.

Girl behind Left Ear:
Right. That’s, like... nothing [fuller laughter].

She laughs so much I don’t think she has a central nervous system.

Girl behind Right Ear:
You should be a food critic.

Critic? I want to be a critic. This idiot can’t be a critic.

Girl behind Left Ear:
Yeah, that’s easier said than done.

Damn skippy.

Girl behind Left Ear:
But yeah, I could do that. I could eat stuff I didn't like, then write about it and not have to actually do anything about it.

WHAT?

[the sound of alarm bells ringing – or, for that matter, alarms ringing]

Are you serious? You think that’s what the job is about? To bitch. To not like anything. Jesus, what a lonely life: the critic who doesn’t like anything he criticizes. What a bitch.

Where does she get off with that critics not doing anything thing? Seriously, the whole point of the job is to do something. A do something job: you say, ‘hey, that worked, nice job. Nice idea.’ Like that short story by that guy... about the grandfather with the advertising chip in his boots, taking his grandson around. ‘America.’ ‘What a good idea, let’s go get a beer.’ That story. Good story. Who wrote that? What was his name?

Forget about it.

It’s a guide: ‘that worked, that didn’t. Do the one that worked.’ It isn’t just putting x’s or stars on everything. It’s a dual medium: artist and critic. The artist creates and expands, moves in new directions. Critic guides and directs, gives the new directions shape and context.

Shit, that sounded good. I should blog about that. What did I just say? Shape and contacts. Right? Shit. No, critic v. the idea of the critic hating everything. That’s right.

I don’t hate everything. I’m not a critic yet, but I don’t hate all. I just have high expectations. Yeah, that’s what I should tell that girl. Oh, she got off the bus already. Well, that’s what a critic is, damn it. High expectations. That’s good.

That’s what I want to be.

I think...

There are . Leave your own response by clicking here.