Bleeding For Your Art

So I'm 17 years old, playing Bernardo in a production of the musical West Side Story. It's opening night, with a full house (maybe 1500 people).

We get to the Rumble, which is the big fight scene at the end of the first act where my character (who is the analogue to Tybalt in Romeo & Juliet) fights Riff (Mercutio) and is eventually killed by Tony (Romeo).

Here's what's supposed to happen - I berate Tony and start pushing him around, but he won't fight me. Riff jumps forward, throws a stage punch at my face. I fall to the ground, jump up, check my nose for blood, pull my switchblade, and Riff and I start the choreographed fight scene.

Here's what actually happens - I berate Tony and start pushing him around, but he won't fight me. Riff jumps forward, throws a punch at my face. I fall to the ground, jump up, check my nose for blood...

... find blood ...

... find more blood ...

... realize I can't see out of my left eye because it's full of blood ...

... pull my switchblade, and Riff and I start fighting.

Now, I was kickboxing at the time, so I wasn't all that disturbed about having a bloody nose. (White guys tend to bleed a lot.) I was a little concerned about the whole blind-in-the-left-eye thing, but I figured I could worry about it when the fight was over and we went to intermission.

The guy playing Riff, though, had no idea what was going on in my head. All he could see was some dude with blood all over his face waving around a (fake, but still sharp) switchblade. Add that to the fact that he was really skinny (maybe 110 pounds) and that he knew I had the hobby of repeatedly punching and kicking people for fun, and you can guess that the poor guy had no idea if I was going to stick to the choreography or break him over my knee like a twig.

But I stick with the choreography. We go through the whole fight the way we're supposed to, but with one difference -- any time I get near the guys playing the Jets I toss my head and splatter blood all over their fancy costumes. Just for kicks, you know. Those pussy Jets just can't stand the sight of blood.

The good news is, around this time my left eye clears up and I can see again. Ah, the joys of depth perception...

Anyway, we get to the end of the fight. I stab Riff, and he goes down. Tony leaps forward and stabs me; I go down. The general rumble starts, with both sides trying to kill each other (and the Jets trying not to slip in all the blood I had left on their side of the stage).

So now I have about five minutes to lie on stage and play dead while the rest of the scene plays out. I'm in a fetal position on my left side, my head downstage.

I don't know how many of you have had bloody noses, but one of the first things you do is blow out a sharp breath to see how bad it is. I'm expecting either one or both of my nostrils to bubble, so I would know where the damage was.

Instead, I go blind in my left eye again.

Blinking, and starting to get a little concerned, I close that eye and trying snorting out again. I feel a warm splash on the outside of my eyelid, which relieves me that it's not an eye-socket injury. I'm still playing dead, so I can't move my hands to touch my nose, but I tilt my head a little bit so my nose is pointing more toward the ground, and I blow outward again.

A stream of blood squirts from the top of my nose (near where it connects with my left eye socket) and splatters all over the stage. And, I don't know about you, but I don't usually have an opening in my face through which such a stream could emerge.

By this time, the fight scene is winding down and intermission is about to start. I have a widening pool of blood around my head, maybe eight inches across, getting in my hair and filling up my ear. We weren't using a proscenium curtain, so I was just supposed to wait until the lights go out, and then run off stage.

The lights go down and a few grips run on stage to pick me up, having no idea if I was unconscious or what. I'm on my feet before they can get to me. I grab a towel from one of them, say I'm okay, and ask them to mop up the stage.

I go to the dressing rooms, surrounded by a bunch of Sharks who are concerned for my welfare and a bunch of Jets who are pissed about the whole blood-flinging thing. I look in the mirror and see a quarter-inch of bone sticking out of the top of my nose.

Two years of full-contact boxing to my name, and I get my first broken nose in fucking musical theater.

Fuckin' great.

The Best of the Breast

Here at L.C.D. Pabulum & Associates, we strive to bring you the very best analysis of the entertainment cosmos. With that in mind, we felt we couldn't proceed without discussing one of the most important elements in modern cinema.

The breast.

This is a very subjective topic, so we will endeavor to establish some objective criteria: 1) Notoriety of Celebrity, 2) Attractiveness of Celebrity, 3) Attractiveness of the Breasts In Question (BIQs), 4) Use of the BIQs, 5) Duration, 6) Surprise, 7) Rarity, and 8) Impressionability of Audience.

1) NOTORIETY OF CELEBRITY is simply how famous the celebrity is. This is one of the reasons why it's more exciting to see Julia Roberts's nipples than it is to see Shannon Tweed's. (Also see "Rarity" with regard to this particular comparison of actresses.) The value of this criterion may change over time, as a celebrity's notoriety increases or decreases. Seeing Sandra Bullock nude in FIRE ON THE AMAZON or Angelina Jolie nude in GIA is more exciting now that they're famous than it was when those movies were released.

2) ATTRACTIVENESS OF CELEBRITY is one of the reasons why seeing Gina Gershon topless in SHOWGIRLS or Jennifer Connelly topless in, well, most of the movies she's been in, is more fun than seeing Kathy Bates topless in ABOUT SCHMIDT or Emma Thompson topless in WIT.

3) ATTRACTIVENESS OF THE B.I.Q. is a subset of the attractiveness of the celebrity. Some celebrities have very well-shaped breasts, while some ... do not. The factors that come into play in this criterion include:

..... 3a) Heft (compare Jennifer Connelly to Meg Ryan),

..... 3b) Slope (compare Jennifer Connelly to Laura Dern),

..... 3c) Symmetrical nipple placement (compare Jennifer Connelly to Pam Anderson, whose nipples tend to migrate with each operation),

..... 3d) Size of areolae (compare Jennifer Connelly to Thora Birch),

..... 3e) Nipple state and areolae color (It's easier to convince ourselves the celebrities in question are aroused if their nips are perky and their areolae are dark),

..... 3f) Placement on torso ("high-and-tights" (e.g. Naomi Watts) vs. "sweet chariots" (e.g. Catherine Zeta-Jones))

..... 3g) Sway (much can be deduced about firmness based on swaying motion (or lack thereof) during movement),

..... 3h) Body position at time of showing (lying on back, lying on side, sitting, leaning, standing, hanging upside down...)

..... 3i) Plastic surgery (had work done vs. pristine, obvious vs. subtle surgeries, unnaturally tight skin, scar tissue, "Frankenboobs," etc.)

4) USE OF THE B.I.Q.s has to do with the context of the scene when the BIQs are brought out to play. The use of Halle Berry's breasts in SWORDFISH was a damn waste; the use of the same actress's breasts in MONSTER'S BALL was pretty hot (as long as one can mentally wipe Billy-Bob out of the picture).

5) DURATION is how long the breasts are allowed out to play in the fresh air. Some nipple-shots are of the blink-and-you'll-miss-em variety (like Kate Hudson in ALMOST FAMOUS) while others are allowed enough time to delightfully burn their images into our mind's eye (like Shannon Elizabeth in AMERICAN PIE).

6) SURPRISE is when a celebrity shows a breast or two when you weren't expecting it (e.g. Audrey Tautou in DIRTY PRETTY THINGS). This always adds a pleasant little jolt, though it isn't happening as much as it used to, given the massive amounts of marketing and artificially-induced "breast buzz" that's created before a movie is released (this has been happening for some time -- see the marketing-of-the-breast-shot for both Julie Andrews in S.O.B. (1981) and Halle Berry in the aforementioned SWORDFISH (2001)).

7) RARITY is how often it's possible to see that particular celebrity's breasts on screen. This is one of the other reasons why seeing Julia Roberts topless would be more exciting than seeing Shannon Tweed topless. It's a simple issue of supply and demand. The boobalicious shots in THE GIFT and BODY SHOTS are more impressive now than they would be if Katie Holmes or Tara Reid got naked in every movie in which they appeared. Reflecting back to the "breast buzz" example in Surprise, the grosses of SWORDFISH and PROZAC NATION were both helped by leaking that Halle Berry and Christina Ricci were going to do their first ("and maybe last?" is usually implied) topless scenes in those movies.

7) IMPRESSIONABILITY OF AUDIENCE is totally subjective, but it should be considered when weighing the relative merits of one's personal nip-list. Heterosexual men will typically be more enthralled by nippleage than heterosexual women. TEENAGE hetero men are particularly impressionable. That's why any particular nipple shot you saw whilst in the first stages of puberty will probably still rate high on your list of all-time best. (Mr. Pabulum himself has said he fondly recalls the soft-core scene at the end of KENTUCKY FRIED MOVIE. Tara Strohmeier, where are you now?)

So there you have it. Seven important criteria by which to judge the Best of the Breast.

We are pleased to have been able to offer this service. Now, if you will excuse us, we have some movies to rent.

"Shit, Piss, Fuck, Cunt, Asshole, Cock Sucker, Mother Fucker, and Ass Hole"

Your government at work...

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108th CONGRESS

1st Session

H. R. 3687 To amend section 1464 of title 18, United States Code, to provide for the punishment of certain profane broadcasts, and for other purposes.

IN THE HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES

December 8, 2003 Mr. OSE (for himself and Mr. SMITH of Texas) introduced the following bill; which was referred to the Committee on the Judiciary

A BILL

To amend section 1464 of title 18, United States Code, to provide for the punishment of certain profane broadcasts, and for other purposes.

Be it enacted by the Senate and House of Representatives of the United States of America in Congress assembled, That section 1464 of title 18, United States Code, is amended--

(1) by inserting `(a)' before `Whoever'; and

(2) by adding at the end the following:

`(b) As used in this section, the term `profane', used with respect to language, includes the words `shit', `piss', `fuck', `cunt', `asshole', and the phrases `cock sucker', `mother fucker', and `ass hole', compound use (including hyphenated compounds) of such words and phrases with each other or with other words or phrases, and other grammatical forms of such words and phrases (including verb, adjective, gerund, participle, and infinitive forms).'.

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So that's the new list, my entertainment-industry friends. If you use the words shit, piss, fuck, cunt, asshole, cock sucker, mother fucker or ass hole in your work, watch out. Your duly-elected representatives are going to come to your house and wash your mouth out with soap.

(Interesting that asshole & ass hole are apparently so vile and profane that they basically get mentioned twice. I wonder if motherfucker is jealous? )

(Also interesting that these arbiters of language use such atrocious punctuation in drafting their bills...)

Cotton Balls

Only a few of the neighborhood kids showed up for my eighth birthday party, and even then it was mostly because my parents asked their parents to make sure they came. My parents, my mom especially, were outgoing, friendly people who would have dinner parties and barbecues for all of their friends on the block. I, on the other hand, was a clumsy, not-quite-fat smartmouth with barely any social skills and fewer friends. My only skill, which I practiced as much as I could for lack of any other skills or hobbies, was annoying people. If you had an insecurity or a hot-button, I could find it, whether you were six, sixteen, or sixty. And boy would I push that button. I craved attention and the only way I knew how to get attention was to get a rise out of people. I was a little shit.

About a week before, I had overheard my mom on the phone with one of the other moms on the block, telling her to please try to get her son Paul to come. She tried selling the party by telling her about the food and drinks, and the party games. She implied that they would just have to show up for an hour or so, eat some cake, drink some punch, play a game or two, and they could take off. The whole family was invited so the parents could all have some fun too, and she wouldn’t get stuck with me all day. I know she meant well, and I don’t harbor any anger toward her, because she and my dad had been totally unprepared by anything in Doctor Spock, totally unprepared to deal with a child like me.

So the day of the party, about six kids and their parents showed up. I was suddenly the center of attention, and because it was the only way I knew how to deal with it, I annoyed the shit out of anyone who got within speaking distance of me. Finally, to forestall the impending lynching, my mom suggested we play a game.

She had read of a fun party game where you blindfold the player and sit him or her at a table. On the table in front of the player are two bowls, one empty, one filled with cotton balls. The player is given a teaspoon and has a certain amount of time to spoon the cotton balls from one bowl to the other. At the end of the time limit, the balls are counted and then put back in the first bowl, ready for the next player. After everyone has had their turn, the person who transferred the most balls is the winner.

You see, the difficult part of this whole thing is that you’re blindfolded, right? You can’t see the cotton balls, which are light enough that you can’t tell whether or not there’s actually a ball on your spoon during the transfer. We watched the first couple of kids try the game, laughing at them when they dropped a ball in mid-transfer without realizing it, or when they went through the whole motion without actually having a ball on their spoon.

Finally it was my turn to play this fascinating game. I sat at the table, blindfolded, and started moving balls. Only I was really good at it. Every time I would dip my spoon, I would come up with a ball. I would slowly and gracefully move the spoon across the foot of distance between the bowls, and deposit the cotton ball in its desired receptacle. After twenty seconds of stunned silence from the crowd, I had moved eleven cotton balls, not dropping one. The current record for a whole minute was four successful transfers.

This is the part I need you to believe: I WAS NOT CHEATING. I couldn’t see through or under my blindfold, I couldn’t feel the cotton ball on the spoon, nothing. It was just blind luck, or maybe the fact that I knew it would really piss everyone off if I was good at a game at my own goddamn birthday party. The murmurs from the crowd were not of appreciation for my skill, but rather of disbelief and anger over the fact that I was obviously cheating.

Paul’s dad Tim was there. He was a big blond beer-drinking guy with a mustache who liked sports and cars. I had nothing in common with him. He decided he was going to prove that I was cheating. Then they could all laugh at me and have an excuse to leave early. He decided he would throw a punch at my face, pulling the punch right before it would hit me. I would jerk back in reflex, which would prove I could really see, right?

Unfortunately, he had had a few beers earlier that afternoon and his eye-hand coordination wasn’t really up to snuff. He hit me. Hard. Remember, I couldn’t really see, so I was in placid mid-transfer of a cotton ball when a grown man punched me in my eight-year-old face.

I flew backward in my chair, landing square on my back. This knocked the air out of me, so I couldn’t quite manage to scream as I felt blood roll down my cheeks back to my ears. I heard some faint gasps of shock, but they were quickly followed by barely-repressed giggles. Apparently Tim had indicated to the others what his plan was ahead of time, so they were less mad at him as they would have been had he just hauled off and socked me for no reason whatsoever. My mom and dad bent down to help me up, and as they took the blindfold off I just caught the last hints of the smiles they were trying to hide. You see, it was tragic, but it was funny too.

And I never got my prize for winning the game. But at least we had plenty of cotton balls there to stuff up my nose.

Urine Trouble If You Work Here

Much of the legitimate work I do for Mr. Pabulum takes place in his offices at a major movie studio. After the terrorist attacks of 9/11/01, we got word from the Feeb that, now that a major symbol of the nation's financial imperialism had been destroyed, the probable next target would be a major symbol of the nation's cultural imperialism.

Which means us. Hollyweird. Using tits and explosions to seduce the world's youth away from the path of righteousness.

So they built big walls and concrete car-bomb shunters, and for a while the $7/hour security guards used to look under our cars with gigantic versions of those mirrors that dentists use to look at the back of your teeth.

Anyway, that's not the point of the bad urine pun in the title of this post. Just giving you some backstory.

Where was I? Oh.

To get to my car at the end of yet another day manufacturing entertaining pap for the indiscriminate audiences of the world, I have to go down a small stairwell in the back corner of the parking garage.

And there are puddles of dried and drying urine in there.

Now, I'm no shrinking violet with an overactive nose and a strict sense of cleanliness. I used to live in a fraternity house. I used to work in a mortuary. Hell, I've been to Venice. So it's not the smell to which I object.

It's the safety issue that concerns me.

I imagine the stairwell in question has become a public urinal for some homeless people in the vicinity of the studio. That's cool - when you gotta get rid of some Mad Dog 20/20, you gotta get rid of some Mad Dog 20/20. Better there than in front of some impressionable young crack whore turning tricks in an alley across the way.

But if homeless people (drunk on cheap booze, bladders full of acrid piss) can make their way onto the studio lot, what's to stop the fanatics (drunk on self-righteous indignation, suitcases full of C4) from doing the same?

I only hope they don't bump into the bums when they come. Piss and bombs shouldn't mix.

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