Category: Imagination

In Which I Shelve “Sh*theads” so as to not Further Anger My Potential Reader Base

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

Good Morning, Afternoon, Evening or Night fellow Sh… err, fellow denizens of my subjective reality on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence. Note that I stalled before writing “Sh*thead.” There’s a reason for that. A friend of mine informed me the other day that regardless of my ongoing contention about the term “Sh*thead” not being derogatory, it could still be construed as such by one or two people. He suggested a new strategy moving forward: That rather than potentially insult anyone, I should not use the term “Sh*thead” in the immediate future, especially in light of what is presently transpiring. I am, of course, referring to the imminent publication of my first book, ENDWORLD – A Novel.

A quick update on that for those of you reading this that are new to my mind and my world: ENDWORLD – A Novel remains in the capable hands of my chosen designer and formatter (is “formatter” even a word?). I am awaiting the first proofs of both the e-book version and the print version. Once I have them, the potentially laborious process of “tweaking” the design will begin. As much as I’d love to settle on a cover and an interior right away, I know that it’s not feasible. After all, I’ve waited almost 20 years for this moment. I want to do it right. Right?

When I do go “live” with the book I promise that next to me, my wife and my kids y’all will be the first people to know. So sit tight. It’s coming. Hopefully before Memorial Day, just in time for the summer reading season, thus completing the vicious circle that began many, many moons ago one summer in the basement/Periodical Room of a library in Wyncote, Pennsylvania. Back then, all ENDWORLD – A Novel was was an idea and a dream. It evolved into a scene and from there, it evolved into a Prologue, typed on my old 286 computer in Courier Font. If you’ve been following my random musings for a while, you know the rest. Fast forward to this unseasonably warm day in April of 2013 and my dream is close to becoming a reality. There have been a hundred and one people that have inspired me along the way (and that’s no exaggeration, guys), and it would take me a while to list them all. Instead, I’ll let the book’s dedication speak for itself:

This novel is dedicated to my companions. My brethren. My friends. The once and future inspiration behind its conception.

Je t’aime. 

For those of you that have never taken French, “Je t’aime” means “I love you.” Don’t worry: I never took French either. Nor did I take Latin. I was a Spanish guy from high school through college. That didn’t stop me from using both languages and no Spanish in the novel (I never was very good at Spanish, anyway). Someone once taught me how to both say and spell “Je t’aime” and the lesson? It has stuck with me since. I am eternally grateful for that. And to everyone else that has been there along the way. The finished product may be my words, but every one of you had a part in its development. That doesn’t mean I’m going to be dishing out royalties to you. Sh*t, the darn thing has to make money first. As I promised someone on Facebook the other day, if this book launches a writing career, I’ll buy the beer for a while. That said…

Back to Sh*theads. My aforementioned friend and I bantered back and forth a bit about me posting a retraction on my blog, i.e. instead of an Appreciation, an Anti-Appreciation of Sh*theads or something similar. Sadly? I’m not going to do that. The term “Sh*thead” is as much a part of my vernacular at this point as the word “aforementioned.” But I concede that  he has a point, and from the end of this blog forward, I will no longer refer to people, myself included as “Sh*thead.” Note that I wrote “from the end of this blog forward.” Before  I abandon the term indefinitely, I’d like to take a few moments and reflect back over its sordid history, not just on “Random Musings” versions one and two, but pre-“Random Musings,” back when I and my brethren all lived in and around Jenkintown, Pennsylvania and no one lived anyplace else.

It’s difficult to pinpoint when, exactly, I first wrote or said “the world is full of Sh*theads.” My V-D Day ponderance? My Y2K one? Back then, I didn’t consider myself a Sh*thead. I mentioned this before but it bears repeating for the newbies: I used to believe that a Sh*thead was, in essence, a Nine to Fiver. Someone that wakes up at the same time every Monday through Friday, goes to work, takes the same lunch break, goes home and goes to bed. Rinse and repeat.

But then something intriguing happened. I became one. A Nine to Fiver. A Sh*thead. All of those people that I was referring too back in my early 20’s? If I haven’t already I implore your forgiveness, now. It was a weird time for me. A time filled with copious amounts of alcohol, herbal refreshment, feminine banes, dungeons, poems, sleep deprivation and Animal Planet. Not to mention mountains of debt and a black, Dodge Neon Sport commissioned “The Wraith (est. 1998).” I knew not whereof I spoke.

Being a Sh*thead is not a bad thing when you view it in that context. It’s a good thing. It’s normalcy. The fact that I’ve attained any degree of normalcy in my almost 38 year life on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence is still shocking to me. Considering where I was less than 15 years ago and where I am now? Yeah. If you knew me then and you know me now you likely “smell what I’m cookin’.”

I wonder if there are people out there now that look at people like me the same way I used to look at people like me. Me with my graying, fraying hair and the two spots of white in my once-three toned, now four-toned beard. Me, the guy who sits at a desk every Monday through Friday (and every fourth Saturday) from eight to five or five thirty running an office and helping people with their hydraulic and pneumatic needs. I can hear them snickering at me from within a cloying cloud of blue-gray pot smoke. “Look at him,” I can hear them saying in alcohol choked voices, “look at that Sh*thead. Man, I’m never going to be ‘that guy.'”

Guess what, pal? You say that now when you’re sharing an apartment that smells like feces with two of your friends and living off of Ramen Noodles and powdered iced tea. But 10 years… 15 years from now when you’re married with a job, kids, a mortgage, a spare tire around your once-chunky, but now drooping waist and white spots in your beard/gray streaks in your hair? You’ll understand better. Me? Yeah, I’m a Sh*thead. But for the most part, I’m happy with my normal life. I’m happy with my wife, my job, my kids and my house (my spare tire? Not so much though I do think the white spots in my beard make my look distinguished). I haven’t smoked weed in a long, long time and the last time I did? Let’s just say the experience was highly un-enjoyable. I do still drink on occasion, but rarely to excess and I haven’t had a package of Ramen Noodles since roughly 2010. Powdered iced tea, though? Yeah. It and my spare tire go hand-in-hand.

I like normal. Normal is less stressful than Abby-normal. Normal allows me the time to write (or rewrite) a novel and the money to self-publish it. Admittedly, Uncle Sam had a little to do with that last, as well. It was a good 2013 for the Marsh clan. You can call me a Sh*thead if you want but buddy? Once upon a time (’cause all good stories begin as such), I was where you are, thinking the same way that you did. I’d wager many of us were. But now? We’re the end products of sociological evolution on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence. See if you feel the same way when you’re where we are, now. Until then, as Dave Matthews sang, “eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die.” Okay, maybe not “die” but age? Become Nine to Fivers, AKA Sh*theads? Definitely. That is the way of things. The way of the Force. End needless “Star Wars” shout-out.

I’m not going to lie: There are days when I miss the carefree lifestyle of my early 20’s. Back when I could rage until three in the AM and still get up two hours later to unload a truck at CVS, 45 minutes away from my little, two bedroom hovel in Jenkintown and thereafter, Northeast Philadelphia. Back when I had the tolerance of an elephant and not that of a dying field mouse. Back when I would take spur of the moment road trips with a friend or two (or four) in my spiffy black, Dodge Neon Sport, “The Wraith.”” Back when ENDWORLD – A Novel was still just ENDWORLD, the main character’s name was not William but Roland and the book itself? It was little more than a Fictional Autobiography that drew heavily upon movies like “The Terminator” and shows like “The Wonder Years” for inspiration. I’ve said this before, too: There are elements of both still in it, even now in it’s completed version, but those elements are no where near as prevalent as they once were. Nothing more than occasional homages to the aspects that originally inspired it. I can see them, and I’m sure a few of the people that read the original draft of the book back then will see them, as well. But for the most part? It’s new. A product of my mid-30 something, now late-30 something mind. Is it improved? Well, guys? That’ll be for you to decide. I’ve still got the original at home in a black binder under lock and key. I could always publish it if the new version tanks.

Will I? Probably not. Doing so would be the equivalent of publishing the first ever short story that I wrote. It would be the equivalent of dusting off, finishing and publishing THE OAKS. Yes, THE OAKS. There’s only one or two people I know now that know about that one. Believe it or not? ENDWORLD was not my first attempt at writing a novel. THE OAKS was. I was 17 or 18 when I began it. It was a story about a guy that dies and wakes up in an old, abandoned retirement community that is populated by ghosts, one of whom–Jerry–resembles Jerry Garcia. I made it about 50 pages in before I realized that all it was was a “Beetlejuice” retread and shelved it.

Shortly thereafter I found myself reorganizing the Periodical Room of a library in Wyncote, Pennsylvania. it was summertime, and I was thinking about my upcoming, yearly vacation in Cape May, New Jersey. I was suddenly struck with a notion: How cool would it be to see someone sunning him or herself on the beach while reading a book with my name on it? As I continued organizing and alphabetizing, a scene began to take shape in my mind and I immediately ran for the old, manual typewriter that I’d been using to type on blue, check out cards. I grabbed an empty one and started. By the time that I was done, the opening words of the final chapter of the original version of ENDWORLD were written. That blue card? It, like my 286 is now lost to history (but not THE OAKS; I still have that one). While it was the beginning of something, it was just that: A beginning.

Writing a book? It’s a lot like life, guys. Both have a beginning: A birth. The older both get the more refined both become. What was once a product of naivete–like trying to describe making love when you’ve never made love before–matures. Grows. Eventually? Something amazing happens. You finish writing your book, and you begin the process of either having it published or self-publishing it. And as you get down to that long awaited moment where you go “live” with your creation? You realize that unlike life which has one beginning and one ending, your book? Contextually it has one of each: One “once upon a time” and one “and they lived happily ever after.” But metaphorically? That moment when you make it available to the world is a second birth. That’s where the two ideas finally diverge from each other. What happens after that should be of no consequence to you. You’re not in this for the money, right? Well, maybe some of you are but for me? It’s never been about that. For me, it’s always been about that second birth. Regardless of ENDWORLD A Novel‘s success or failure, I did it. I got my second birth. At almost 38…

Me. A self-proclaimed Sh*thead. I used to think that Sh*theads never got that chance. Apparently, they do.

And with that? I am officially shelving the term “Sh*thead” until such time as I, my friend and any of my potential reader base offended by it deem it fit to return. Let my close by thanking… who else? All of my fellow once-Sh*theads, a few of whom I hope will buy my book when it becomes available, sometime pre-Memorial Day, 2013, and read it while sunning on a beach somewhere. For me? That would be full circle. A dream come true.

Je t’aime, friends.  

Douglas Adams – An Appreciation

The Madchronicler2 Comments

“I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I need to be.”

(Douglas Adams, So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish)

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There is a little known fact about me that you may or may not know. When most people think of me as a writer, they think of someone who was and still is inspired by authors like Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Clive Barker, Asimov, Tolkien and Robert Jordan (not Brandon Sanderson). Why? Because for years, I have been claiming that they were the authors who most directly inspired me to write.

And they did. They still do, even now. But I’d be lying if I said that they were the only authors who have inspired me. Among the others, in no particular order are Toni Morrison, Alice Walker, Michael Crichton, Anne Rice, Sam Shepard, Tony Kushner, Henry Miller, Jack Kerouac, T. S. Eliot et al. I could continue but in truth? I have no desire to fill this entire blog entry with a list of influences that I may or may not ever measure up to. Note that I said “may.” Anything is possible, right? What can I say? I dream big.

But one author is conspicuously absent from the above list. That author? The late, great Douglas Adams who’s Hitchhiker’s Guide, five book trilogy (yes, I said “five book trilogy”) remains one of my all time favorites. While I find it hard to believe that anyone is unaware of what the f*ck I’m talking about, here’s a quick primer for those of you that don’t: Arthur Dent, the main character,  is an Englishman who is one of two human beings to survive the destruction of the Earth (the second and only other survivor, Tricia McMillian–“Trillian” in the books–travels around the universe with Slartibartfast, a once designer of luxury planets). He escapes with the assistance of Ford Prefect, an alien from a small planet somewhere in the vicinity of Betelgeuse who is a researcher for The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. The Guide is just that: An instruction manual for how to get around the universe on a budget (hint: Make sure you have a good towel). Arthur and Ford go on a myriad of adventures across the universe and through time which I will not itemize herein. If you’d like to know more about them, Marvin the Paranoid Android, Zaphod Beelbebrox, Deep Thought, 42, the Restaurant at the End of the Universe and the time hopping, Chesterfield couch et al, check out the books or ask me for mine. I’d be happy to lend them to you.

I first read the books in college at the urging of my friend Pat (booyakasha, Vato. Respect), and have since read them multiple times, most recently to my firstborn, Cara. It was a part of our nightly routine when she was still a toddler: “Ba Ba,” book(s) and bed. Sadly, Adams passed away in 2001, way before his time and yesterday, 3/11/13 would have been his 61st birthday (shout out to Google for their terrific, Google Doodle honoring him). Last evening, in honor of it, I picked up my dog-eared copy of  Life, the Universe and Everything (Book Three) and started reading. I was immediately re-immersed in the universe that I loved and continue to love so much now, almost two decades after I first read about it.

Too this day, I’ve been unable to determine whether the Hitchhiker’s Guide is a product of Adams’ insanity or genius. If you’ve read any portion of it you understand why. So many of his ideas are so “out there” that it’s hard for me to believe that a sane, or non-substance induced mind could have come up with them. I mean really, I’ve always considered myself pseudo-mad and I can’t come up with anything like what he did. The Impossibility Drive? The SEP (“Someone Else’s Problem”)? Not even when I used to drink heavily and smoke ‘da Chiba. The phrase “often imitated, never duplicated” applies perfectly to him… was, in fact, used by fellow author Neil Gaiman to describe him in the Forward to The Ultimate Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. 

The answer to what it really is is irrelevant. Regardless of what Adams’ original motive for writing the Hitchhiker’s Guide was… whether he actually conceived of the idea one night, drunk in a field while hitchhiking across Europe or he came up with it on the spur of the moment to meet a contractual obligation to the BBC, it has affected and continues to affect others too this day. Everyone has their own reasons.

As for mine? His style of writing–cloaking the problems of the world, nay the universe in absurdity–is something that I’ve tried to do, to an obviously lesser affect in everything from these blog entries to their precursors (“Mental Flatulence”) to their precursors (“Dissertations”). I adapt it to my own, personal issues on my side of the proverbial wormhole of existence, as well. “The world is full of Sh*theads?” “The Feminine Bane of my Early Existence?” I never would have come up with those ideas were it not for The Hitchhiker’s Guide. Adams taught me to not necessarily laugh at the same things that once upon a time (’cause all good stories begin as such) vexed me, but to look at them with a degree of jaded humor. The time I did BLANK to BLANK? I used to obsess over it. After I read The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, though? Well sh*t, guys. I guess if Adams could make light of the destruction of the Earth to make way for a hyperspace bypass–an obvious allegory of how infrastructure has replaced and continues to replace all things pure and traditional in our world–then I could make light of my one or two, misguided attempts to forge a relationship with a woman that really had no interest in me, or a “Biological” that had moved on with his life at mine, my sister’s and my mother’s expense. In short? Douglas Adams not only affected my writing, he affected my mentality. And for that–the ability to laugh at the things that used to bother me–I am eternally grateful.

I’m not entirely sure why I felt the need to write this blog entry, today, save for an inherent desire to express my thoughts on, in my opinion, one of the greatest authors of the 20th Century in lieu of what would have been his 61st Birthday. I guess I figure that over the next few months–if everything goes according to plan–I’m going to be writing a lot about an idea that is very un-Hitchhiker’s Guide-like in both its tone and its scope. I originally conceived of ENDWORLD – A Novel before I’d ever read a word of Book One, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Even now, after its most recent rewrite, ENDWORLD is more King meets Asimov meets Jordan in its tone and scope than Adams. If I ever get to the point that I’m ready to put it out there… out here for you guys to read it, I intend to market it as such to my “Targeted Audience.” But the last thing that I want if I ever do achieve my big, big dream of being not just a published, but a successful author is to be pigeonholed as purely a genre writer. I’d love to write something Hitchhiker’s Guide-like one day. And while I would never aspire to the same heights as Douglas Adams achieved… while I never could achieve the same balance of comedy, satire and narrative flow that he did, I’d very much like to try.

That said, I’m done, albeit somewhat more prematurely than normal. What can I say? Not every blog entry is going to be a rambling rumination on my own personal life, the universe and everything. In closing, I’d like to thank not only Douglas Adams, but Arthur Dent, Ford Prefect, Slartibartfast, Trillian, Zaphod Beeblebrox, Marvin the Paranoid Android and all of the other personalities that inhabit the universe portrayed in the Hitchhiker’s Guide. Reading about them again last night was like reacquainting myself with my old friends. I’d also like to thank my Vato, Pat for lending me his copy of The Ultimate Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy so many, many years ago. My mind hasn’t been the same since. In closing, I’m not going to take the easy way out and say “DON’T PANIC.” Nor am I going to finish with “so long, and thanks for all the fish” though admittedly? Both would work. No. Instead, I’m going to close as I opened: With one of my favorite quotes. This one is actually from the Adams penned Preface to The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. It may be one of, if not the best observances of humanity and the human condition ever. Enjoy!

“Many were increasingly of the opinion that they’d all made a big mistake in coming down from the trees in the first place. And some said that even the trees had been a bad move, and that no one should ever have left the oceans. And then, one Thursday, nearly two thousand years after one man had been nailed to a tree for saying how great it would be to be nice to people for a change, one girl sitting on her own in a small cafe in Rickmansworth suddenly realized what it was that had been going wrong all this time, and she finally knew how the world could be made a good and happy place. This time it was right, it would work, and no one would have to get nailed to anything. Sadly, however, before she could get to a phone to tell anyone about it, a terribly stupid catastrophe occurred, and the idea was lost forever. This is not her story. But it is the story of that terrible stupid catastrophe and some of its consequences.”

(Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy)

A Quick Hit

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

Good evening, fellow Sh*theads. Happy Friday night. I told myself that I’d never do this… Told myself that I wouldn’t be “that blogger.” You know, the one who updates you daily on everything from what he’s eating to what he’s watching on television. I told myself when I started this that I wouldn’t turn “Random Musings” into an online journal. But…

Well, guys? Times change, and I figure that I have enough of a “fan base” at this point to justify it. That said, I had pizza for dinner tonight (cheese, only; it’s a Friday in Lent and I’m a fairly good Christian) and I’m currently watching “Sofia the First” with my three year old. A quick parenthetical aside: “Sofia the First” is a new, Disney princess show on Disney Junior about a young commoner, turned royal by marriage (her mother married the king, Roland). It’s terrific, and very age appropriate for a three year old. I highly recommend it. End aside.

Lest those of you that have been reading “Random Musings” worry that I’ve given up blogging, rest assured: I have not. Quite the contrary, actually. I’ve got a handful of new writing ideas involving everything from a “Friends” movie (I call it “Friends: Ten Years Later”) to a new rumination on parenthood, double ear infections, pink eye and Bronchitis. But I’m knee deep in novel revision mode, currently. I’m putting the finishing touches on what I hope will be my final, pre-publication rewrite of ENDWORLD. It and my daily routine are eating up a good portion of my time, currently. As much as I’d love to maintain this site, there are people that have been waiting almost 20 years for me to finally finish this book and I don’t want to let them down. That said…

I know a few of you reading this are dying to see the extent of this novel… This labor of love that I’ve been writing about for… Well, forever. Rest assured: You will. While I’m not confident in putting the whole book out here for anyone to see just yet (a combination of low self-esteem and my fear that someone will steal my idea), I feel reasonably confident about giving you a taste.

So, for those of you that have been faithfully following “Random Musings” since I started it four years ago, I present to you a little treat. The Prologue of my novel. please read, and hopefully enjoy at your leisure. As for me? I’ma get back to the grind. About 100 pages left to go until I’m finished. I’ll catch you on the flip side, friends. Have a great weekend.

ENDWORLD – A Novel

PROLOGUE – Alone (“Fear in a handful of dust”)

It is difficult to remember when my life had meaning. When you’re 18 and on the run, the only meaning that your life has is surviving from day-to-day. Any other meaning that my life had vanished that gray and hazy morning, afternoon or evening on the beach.

I look out the window of the old, abandoned office and adjoining warehouse within which I have resided indefinitely. The nameless town below rolls silently away down a steep hill. Houses and proprietorships, long since abandoned dot the landscape. About a quarter of a kilometer away, the black-asphalt spine of the Highway stretches endlessly in either direction like a huge, dreaming python, and while I cannot see it directly I know that it is there. I can always sense its presence no matter where I am. I’ve got to admit that it is a pretty sight. Perhaps one of the last in this cursed place. Still, a python can be deadly if you provoke it.

How long have I been here? I honestly don’t know. The interior of what has been my surrogate home is unchanged. Old, abandoned desks sit in the four corners of the main room. Atop them, what appear to be old, non-touch screen computer monitors grown dusty and dim with age, abandoned keyboards, speakers, computer mice, the occasional cup of dried-out pens and broken pencils and on one desk, a calendar grown so ancient with age that I can no longer make out the month, days or even the year written upon it.

But such concepts no longer matter in 15:CI.

Three of the four walls surrounding me are covered with accouterments. On one, two framed pictures, one which preaches “Teamwork” and the other, “Excellence.” Another has a yellowing and faded poster of what appears to be a rocket. “Taurus II” it advertises, “Brought to you by Orbital Technologies.” On yet another, a single framed picture that advertises “Leadership.” And on the final wall? A vicious mockery of the world as it once-was: A mural of a forest at dusk, upon it painted trees whose tops extend well beyond the water-stained and cracked drop ceiling over  my head.

I have learned from my experiences, both good and bad, not to rely on time here in Endworld. Every time (no pun intended) that I begin to do so— every time that I try to make sense of such an abstract and outdated concept I realize that the passage of what passes for time here is frighteningly different than one might expect. Everything fades. Everything dies and eventually leaves nothing but the equivalent of a yellowing and faded mural of a forest at dusk if you’re lucky. But in most cases? It leaves nothing but a pile of dust. Here in Endworld? The process once referred to as “time” is elongated. A day lasts ten days. A month lasts 100 months. And a year?

A single year lasts a millennium.

You’re probably wondering who I am. I assure you that that question, and any others that you have will be answered eventually and to the best of my ability. For now, all that I can tell you is that I am alone—the last member of a group of companions who were dedicated to liberating themselves from the totalitarian tyranny of The Administration. I say “the last” not because I am the lone survivor of our group. On the contrary, as far as I know the other surviving members of my group have escaped to a safer place: A place away from the influence of the metal and micro-chip enhanced bastards that sit in judgment over the species that created them and over all of Endworld. No. I say that I am “the last” because I am the one who stayed behind…

However reluctantly.

My gaze drifts back to the lone window, inset within the front door of the place I have come to call my “home.” The sun has almost set and the world is bathed in an eerie, golden-red iridescence. I am reminded of a night seemingly an eternity ago when I embarked on a journey just beyond that same sunset. Then, I was younger physically, figuratively and spiritually. Then, I was unscarred by the sorrow that now hangs like a putrid cloud of hour-old cigarette smoke over my head as I write this. Then, I was as optimistic and naive as any child of 17 whose entire life had been spent within the confines of a small town. Mine was called Jefferson, a tiny borough in the Mid-Western Territory, or MWT for short. Now, though? I sit silently pondering the proverbial road that carried me here, to an old, abandoned office and warehouse in the middle of a crumbling ghost-town sandwiched between a nameless river and the Highway. A place that my companions might have called “The Center of Bumblefuck.”

Darkness is slowly infiltrating the world outside my door and consequently the corners of the office that I nightly bunk down in. I reach into my battered backpack and remove a candle, unfortunately the last of my once-extensive supply. I light it with my trusty Zippo lighter and marvel, as I always do, that after all that has transpired and all that it has endured it continues to light without the benefit of replenishment. My Zippo is as metaphorical of me as the Highway is of Endworld, but more on that later. I place the candle near enough to me so that I can see what I am writing but not near enough to risk the destruction of these last, precious pieces of yellowing paper that I managed to liberate from what must have been the old office supply cabinet in the warehouse.

I glance inside my backpack again and take inventory of my supplies. They are almost depleted. Soon it will be time for me to move on but before I can I must tell you my story, regardless of the likely pain that doing so will cause me. Perhaps when I am gone—and trust me when I tell you that one day soon I will be gone—perhaps when I am gone you can read it, study it… hell, maybe you can even learn something from it. What you do with it is up to you. For the time being, however? I write the following account not to heal the ills of a sick and twisted world: A world of lush forests at dusk grown cold by the emergence of chrome and steel. A world in which a concept like hope is extinct, drowned as all things once youthful and optimistic by the rivers of blood that flow down the distant, eight-lane, asphalt super Highway.

Ever onward, William, a familiar female voice coos in my mind, ever, ever after. I close my eyes against the tightening that embraces my chest and my midsection and I sigh.

No, friends. I write the following account to heal myself.

I won’t begin my tale in the traditional way because as someone wise once told me, the phrase “once upon a time” generally signifies a happy ending. I think that it would be better to begin with…

🙂

Dora the Explorer – A J. J. Abrams Film

The Madchronicler3 Comments

So the word on the street today is that J. J. Abrams–he of the TV shows “Alias,” “Lost” and “Fringe” and the movies “Cloverfield,” “Mission Impossible 3” and “Super 8” among others–is planning to direct the new Star Wars movie–Episode VII–coming out in a few years. For many of the people like myself who endearingly refer to him as “J. J.” and have embraced seemingly everything he has done since popping on to the entertainment scene a little over a decade ago, this news is great news. After all, look at what he did for the Star Trek franchise a few years ago and what he’s hopefully planning on doing with it this year (the sequel, “Star Trek: Into Darkness,” is due out in May). He’s taken once-dry material and made it fresh and new again. Who wouldn’t want him to do that with arguably the most beloved, movie franchise in cinematic history? Something to help us at last wash the dual tastes of Jar Jar Binks and springtime on Naboo out of our collective mouths. Not to mention Anakin/Darth Vader’s primal scream at the end of Episode III. Brrr. I get shivers just thinking about it and they’re not from the bone-chilling cold outside.

In truth? As a lifetime aficionado of everything and anything Star Wars, the only director I’d personally want to handle this daunting task more is Joss Whedon, endearingly referred to by many, including myself, as just “Joss.” But he is otherwise preoccupied with making the Marvel multi-verse completely bad ass right now, so J. J. is, for me, a more-than suitable replacement. He’s arguably one of the two best, young directors in Hollywood presently (the other, Ben Affleck, was apparently vetted for the job but not chosen; s’cool for him, though. Word is he’s been tapped to direct the Justice League movie in a few years which could, conceivably  be equally as bad ass as “The Avengers” if the right superheros are chosen).

But not everyone is as ciked as I am. Por ejemplo: I’ve seen a lot of people who hated J. J.’s reboot of Star Trek online today, trolling the entertainment sites and lamenting the fact that this is happening. The term “Lens Flare”–a filming technique that he has been criticized for overusing–was even trending on Twitter last night after the news was officially announced. Still, most people appear to be cautiously optimistic about it. I guess we’ll all know all in a few years but for now, let the speculation about a story line and a cast begin. Josh Holloway (Sawyer from “Lost”) for Han Solo, anyone? Lord knows if J. J.’s involved, you’re not going to know anything about Episode VII’s plot until it is released.

But this announcement has gotten me to thinking. J. J. has already taken on one beloved franchise. Now, he’s taking on another. Whether or not the Trekkies and the Star Warsies go to war over this remains to be seen (I classify myself as “both” and “neither” at the same time and as for what that means, I have no frackin’ idea). One reviewer classified it as the equivalent of owning Coke and Pepsi with Dr. Pepper (the Mission Impossible franchise) thrown in for good measure and you can imagine what that would do to the fans of both, can’t you? Coke and Pepsi can not be made by the same company! We need to retain some measure of capitalistic competition in this country, people! 

Okay, maybe not. But it got me to thinking anyway: What if J. J. were to take on another, beloved franchise but not a franchise beloved by Geekdom. Rather, a franchise beloved by, say, children? ‘Know which one I’m talking about? The title of this blog entry says it all. Without further adieu, I give you one madman’s speculation on the possibilities inherent in:

Dora the Explorer: A J. J. Abrams Film

The opening shot of the movie is a close up of a blinking, brown eye. The camera pans out and we see our heroine, Dora’s face. It is streaked with dirt and she is laying in a corn field. She is wearing her customary purple, nondescript belly shirt and her equally nondescript orange capri pants, but her sneakers have disappeared (she is still wearing her yellow socks). She sits up and looks around her but the area in which she finds herself is unfamiliar. She honestly can not remember how she ended up there. She stands and calls out to her best friend, Boots, but receives only silence in response.

She again surveys her surroundings. Instinctively, she reaches behind her in an attempt to remove Map from Backpack and get her bearings. With a gasp she realizes that Backpack and, by association, Map are gone. She considers what she should do. In doing so, she realizes that there is a small structure of some sort at the edge of her vision. She squints: It looks like a shack. Why had she not seen it before? She considers it as she starts off in a trot toward it.

Ten feet or so away from the onset of the shack’s ramshackle porch there is a line of what looks like gray ash piled in her path. She pauses before it, looks left and then right and realizes that the ash frames the entire property. Tentatively, she steps over the line but nothing happens. She runs the last of the distance to the porch of the shack, gains it, and raps on the old door that hangs loosely from its hinges outside. A raspy, male voice tells her to “come in” and she does.

She opens the door, and immersed in the shadows that fill the structure’s interior she sees someone or something sitting across from her in a rocking chair. She can not tell much about the figure’s appearance at first: It seems to be made of shadow itself. But slowly it takes shape. She then recognizes the figure that leans forward in to a single beam of light as her friend Benny the Bull.

She asks him what has happened; asks him where her friend Boots is and what has happened to Backpack. Benny informs her that apparently, Swiper’s experiments with Red Matter–a hobby of his when he’s not swiping–backfired and created a singularity which he fell in to. It carried him back in time to the exact day that Dora’s Abuela first gave her Backpack. Seeing an opportunity to improve upon his future self’s situation, Swiper swiped Backpack before the exchange could be made and ran away. He disguised himself, traveled to his childhood foxhole and gave Backpack to his past self. Thereafter, he vanished, never to be heard from again.

Said alteration of the original timeline of Dora’s life set in motion a series of events that caused the new timeline within which she finds herself, a timeline in which Boots and her never became friends and she never received Backpack. Dora the Explorer is, in fact, plain ole’ Dora Vasquez. As for why he is imprisoned within the timeline, as well, Benny is unable–or unwilling, Dora thinks–to provide Dora with a reasonable explanation in the time allotted them. But he assures her multiple times that they are not in Purgatory. 

Dora asks Benny what she needs to do and Benny tells her that she must travel to Swiper’s foxhole and confront him. She must then use the Red Matter–which Swiper still dabbles in–to create her own singularity and travel back in time. Once there, she must either prevent Swiper from swiping Backpack before it can be gifted to her, or she must swipe it back from him after and give it to her younger self. As for which one, the choice is hers, Benny tells her. The end result in both cases, he reasons, is the same. She asks how she’s going to get to Swiper’s foxhole without Map Quarterbacking her through it and Benny gives her a GPS device. He also tells her that she may have to get bloody. Dora tells him that she’s not afraid, and that she’ll do whatever she has to do to restore the original timeline. After all, she tells him, Explorer, not Vasquez IS my middle name. 

Benny advises her that actually, Vasquez always has been her last name and Explorer is more of a title than a last name. Dora thanks Benny for his help and turns to leave. Before she can do so, however, Benny calls to her. She turns back at the door to look at her friend, who warns her that the path to Swiper’s foxhole, even with the assistance of a GPS device is fraught with peril. Dora suspiciously–because she has been wondering about him since she first saw him–asks Benny how he knows this and watches, helplessly, as Benny de-materializes in to a black smoke cloud, wisps around her once, and blows out the door in a flurry of grinding, mechanical clatter.

Dora switches on her GPS device as she exits Benny’s shack but quickly realizes that she has been duped. Benny the Bull’s GPS runs Apple Maps which, she knows, will get her no where near her intended destination. How on Earth will I find my way to Swiper’s foxhole now? She asks herself. At that precise moment, a single engine plane lands on the ground before her and she sees that her friend Isa is flying it. But Isa, Dora quickly realizes, is not her friend in this alternate reality. In fact, Isa’s pilot’s uniform–little more than a set of gray overalls–has what Dora understands is Swiper’s insignia–a mask with two beady eyes peering from within it–upon its lapel. Isa takes Dora in to custody. She binds her hands and feet and puts her in the back of the plane. She then takes off. Well, Dora reasons, I guess this is easier than trying to find my way there without Map or a functional GPS device. 

Some time later, Isa lands her plane next to what looks at first like a towering pile of junk in the shape of a foot. However, Dora quickly realizes (as she is forcibly removed from the plane) that the “junk” is actually the sum total of everything that Swiper has swiped and not used since he first swiped her Backpack years before. Toys and appliances; clothes and Tupperware. Everything and anything that she can think of is represented in the makeshift structure that Swiper has framed his foxhole with. Swiper emerges from within his “castle” to greet Isa and Dora sees it hanging from his shoulders: Backpack.

Backpack! She shouts and tries to rush Swiper but is quickly restrained by a collection of overall-clad, automatic rifle carrying guards with red shirts beneath, wearing masks similar to Swiper’s. Swiper orders them to place her under arrest pending termination. No sooner has he done so then a wormhole opens up directly to Dora’s left and the “over there” version of her steps through, flanked on either side by her friends Tico and the Big, Red Chicken (who are played, respectively, by Michelle Rodriguez and Jorge Garcia). Each is armed with a phaser and they immediately open fire on the guards trying to restrain Dora. They fall quickly, but not before one of them gets a shot off and mortally wounds the Big, Red Chicken (‘like what I did there with the color red, Trekkies?). Swiper flees in to his foot-shaped foxhole, followed closely by Isa. Dora, Dora and Tico pause for a moment to tend to the Big, Red Chicken but it is too late. He has expired.

Come on, Dora says to Dora and Tico, let’s go get Backpack AND some retribution. Dora and Tico agree. Dora takes the Big, Red Chicken’s phaser and follows Dora and Tico in to the foxhole. After a few moments, they corner Swiper and Isa in one of the interior chambers of the foxhole next to the large, sphere of Red Matter that Swiper dabbles in while he’s not swiping. Swiper holds out Backpack in one hand and a turkey baster with a single drop of Red Matter in the other. You want this? He threatens, then come and GET IT! Before Dora, Dora and Tico can react Swiper drops the drop of Red Matter on to the floor before him and a singularity opens up which he and Isa subsequently fall through.

Dora moves to follow him but Dora and Tico pause. Come ON, Dora shouts, we need to get Backpack back so we can restore the original timeline. But Dora and Tico look at each other and shake their heads. To do so, they tell Dora, would be too much of a risk and could potentially cause the collapse of not just the alternate reality in which they currently are in but “over there,” and all realities. We will wait here for you to return, Dora says to Dora. Tico nods his head and says dios velocidad which translates to God speed. Dora leaps in to the singularity, phaser in hand, and lands a few seconds later…

In the same room. No, Dora realizes, it is not the same. It is brighter and the decor is outdated. I’m in the past! She understands. But which past? She considers, and how far back? She runs out of the room and follows the tunnel which she had come down in the other reality with “over there” Dora and Tico up to the surface. She emerges in to the sunlight. The items that had comprised the foot that had framed Swiper’s foxhole are gone and she can see Swiper and Isa fleeing down the road about 100 feet away from her. She runs after them as fast as she can and finally catches up to them. She orders them to stop and they do so. Swiper turns, Backpack still in hand, and holsd the turkey baster–also still in hand–up to it.

There’s still a little left, Dora, Swiper cautions, one squeeze on Backpack and it’ll cease to exist, which is another way of saying that once again, YOU’RE TOO LATE! Simultaneously, Dora hears something mechanical clanking in the trees to her right. She turns, just in time to see the big, black Benny smoke cloud come roaring out of the woods. It targets Swiper and Isa, swirls around them, picks them up and throws them screaming in to the distance before it stops swirling, and re-materializes in to Benny the Bull on the road before her. Benny holds up his hand and Dora sees Backpack hanging there.

Backpack! She cries and moves to take it, but Benny steps back and holds it away from her. Not so fast, Dora, he says gruffly, I will give this back to you so you can complete your adventure and restore the original timeline but in exchange, I need something. Dora skeptically asks him what he needs and Benny replies, quite simply with your body.

THIS vessel has outlived its usefulness, he tells her. I need a new vessel before it expires and I would like that vessel to be you. So, Dora asks,  you’re not really Benny the Bull? Benny the Bull? The Benny-thing says, no. What I really am is far older and more difficult to explain. Dora tasks him to try her and he replies that he cannot explain it thoroughly in the time allotted them. He assures her once again that they are not in Purgatory, which makes absolutely no sense to Dora since they weren’t even discussing Purgatory, but she dismisses it. She looks longingly at Backpack and thinks of her good friend Boots. After a moment’s consideration, she reluctantly agrees. But only after I give it to past-Dora, return through the singularity and make sure that things have been restored to normal. Benny agrees and gives her Backpack. Benny tells her that he will see her shortly, morphs in to a polar bear and runs off toward Swiper’s foxhole. 

Dora travels the last of the distance to her Abuela’s house and arrives simultaneously with Swiper. Instead of chanting “Swiper no swiping” like she always does she opts, instead, to shoot him with the Big, Red Chicken’s phaser before he can enter and swipe Backpack. It works. She watches, hidden in the bushes with an incapacitated Swiper beside her as her Abuela gives her younger self Backpack. Once satisfied that the exchange has been made, she binds Swiper’s hands and feet with the rope stashed in her version of Backpack, throws him over her shoulder, and runs quickly back to his foxhole.

She arrives to find the singularity promptly closing. She leaps in to it with Swiper in tow, and arrives back where she started. The sphere of Red Matter is gone and “over there” Dora and Tico have vanished. They probably took it with them to protect it, Dora thinks. The singularity closes behind her with a “pop” and she lays Swiper down on the floor  just as he is waking up. She loosens his bonds and informs him that she is going to cut him loose. The alternate version of you and your cronie alt-Isa are trapped forever in the past, and the Red Matter is gone, she informs him, if I so much as SNIFF you doing anything but swiping in the future I’m going to come back here and finish what I COULD HAVE finished before. She holds the phaser up so he can see it, points to the switch–labeled “Stun” and “Kill” which is currently set to “Stun”–and asks him if she is clear. Swiper stands up rubbing his wrists, snaps his fingers together and says, “aww, man,” but he agrees. Dora swings Backpack on to her shoulders and leaves him that way, cowering in his foxhole.

She emerges on to a hillside. There is no foot shaped pile of swiped items around her. Standing a few feet down the hillside are her friends Isa, Tico, the Big Red Chicken and Boots! She shouts his name as she rushes toward and embraces him. Boots embraces her back and asks her what has happened. Dora states that she will explain it to him over a banana and a cup of Abuela’s non-alcoholic Sangria. She reaches behind her and touches Backpack. Backpack says “yum, yum, yum, delicioso!” Map? She asks and hears the familiar refrain of “who’s the guy you need to know when you’ve got someplace to go,” and smiles. She releases Boots, and is about to exclaim that “we did it!” when she hears a mechanical clanking behind her. She turns and watches as the black Smoke Benny cloud re-materializes in to Benny the Bull.

I was wondering when you’d show up, the Benny-thing says, I have fulfilled my promise to you and you DID IT. Lo hicimos! You have completed your adventure. The timeline has been purified. Now, are you ready to fulfill your promise to me? Reluctantly, Dora agrees that she is. Boots inquires about what is going on and Dora turns to him and explains the accord that she reached with Benny while in the past. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, Boots, she states. Boots is saddened, but he understands that any contract, even one between a black smoke thing and his best friend is binding and he reluctantly agrees to let her go. Or the one, he replies and Dora nods. They embrace again, and a few tears are shed. Dora hands Backpack to him and tells him to give it to Diego. It’s time for him to become more than just plain Diego, she says and Boots agrees. Dora says goodbye to Backpack and Map and also embraces Isa, Tico and the Big Red Chicken before she turns back to the Benny-thing and informs it that she is ready. Benny thanks Dora and tells her to close her eyes. The camera zooms in on Dora’s brown eye: The same one it had zoomed in on at the beginning of the movie. And as she closes it, the screen fades to black and the credits role.

The End. 

I’ll concede that it’s more “Lost” than anything else but there are echoes of J. J.’s other shows and movies in it, as well. At least I think there are. Anywhos, that’s my take on how J. J. would treat the Dora the Explorer franchise were he to get his hands on it. There’s the potential for so much more. Whatever the case, please do not mistake this as a portrayal that mocks J. J. Abram’s style. It isn’t. If anything, it is an appreciation of that style. I can’t wait to see what he does with Star Wars. And if he happens to get his hands on this treatment and decides that it resonates with him, this next part is for him. Dear Mister Abrams: I admire your body of work greatly. I think the Lens Flare is an awesome filming technique and do not feel as though you have used it to excess. If you are interested in collaborating on a reinterpretation of “Dora the Explorer” please drop me a line either here or via email (madchronicler@verizon.net). And if you’re not? Well, sir, I wish you all the best in your future endeavors. Sincerely, Frank Marsh, alias (‘like how I did that?) A Big Fan.

You Got Old, Charlie Brown

The Madchronicler3 Comments

Call me crazy, kids (I’ve never denied that I’m not), but I’ve wondered for years what happened to the Peanuts Gang after they grew up. I know I’m not the only one. A few years back, an unauthorized parody of this exact topic played to packed, independent theaters around the country. It was called “Dog Sees God: Confessions of a Teenage Blockhead” and while I never saw it, I read enough about it to come to grips with the fact that my idea wasn’t entirely original. What idea of mine is? If you’re interested in reading more about “Dog Sees God,” you can link and check out its Wikipedia entry here. I’m not going to lie: It’s pretty ingenious.

Yet to some extent, my idea still was. Consider: “Dog Sees God” imagines Charlie Brown (known as “CB” in the play) and his buddies as angst-ridden teenagers dealing with the sh*t that teenagers deal with nowadays: Drug use, suicide, sex, et cetera and et ecetera. Pick your poison. Contrary to this, my idea imagined them as grown ups, preparing to return for their 20 year high school reunion. It was meant to portray them as adults dealing with adult problems like employment or lack thereof, marriages, kids, et cetera and et cetera, and while I’d likely never write a full-form treatment of this idea for fear that the Schultz Estate would come after me for copyright infringement, I feel that I can muse a little, here on my blog, about the possibilities.

I’m going to call this “You Got Old, Charlie Brown” as a homage to the television specials and movies that we all know and love. A quick parenthetical aside before I begin, though: “A Charlie Brown Christmas” has been and will forever remain the greatest of the Peanuts’ specials, IMO. “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown” and “A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving” are tied for a distant second. I’d love to hear your thoughts on that topic as well but for now? I give you the character listing and treatment for “You Got Old, Charlie Brown,” a new, Peanuts parody by me:

Charlie Brown: Historically (and per Wikipedia, which should never be questioned for accuracy, sarcasm fully intended), Charlie Brown, while the main character of the comic strip, is a shining example of the “great, American un-success story” (citation not needed). When I look at him and I picture him in his 30’s, do you know what or rather, who I picture? Yep. Me. That said, in my version of the post-comic strip, post-television special and movie reality of the Peanuts Gang, Charlie Brown graduated from high school with honors and has a BA in English from an accredited, state university. He works in low level management for a small, privately held company that deals in… say… winches. He is happily married to the nameless, Little Red-Haired Girl from his childhood (go, Chuck!). They have two kids and live in a three bedroom, two bathroom house with a finished basement in the suburbs of the city of Schultzville. He’s a loving husband and father and a responsible employee but he’s not entirely satisfied with his life. His dream is to make his living as a writer, but he’s never been published despite a handful of half-hearted attempts. He’s good at it… people have told him so, but he suffers from a lack of confidence. The genre that he writes in primarily is horror. Chuck is haunted by something but no one–friend, family or shrink–has been able to determine what said something is. That “something,” which I will not reveal herein, is integral to his character arc in the story. What I will reveal is that he is the catalyst around which the entire story revolves. He is the one that is tasked with planning the reunion. And yes, he is still the “master” of…

Snoopy: Okay, so realistically? Even if Snoopy had been a puppy during the comic strip he’d still be over 20 years old (I figure Chuck is 37 now and he was 12 or so in the comics which would make Snoopy… calculating… 24). I don’t know of a single dog that has lived past 20 years so at some point, the original Snoopy must have passed away. Rest in peace, World War I Flying Ace. We’ll say that this Snoopy is 10 and was adopted by Chuck and the Little Red-Haired Girl shortly after they were married. Snoopy II, while also a Beagle,  is no where near as intriguing a pooch as his predecessor was. In fact, he’s kind of a dufus. he lounges around a lot, licks his balls, begs for food and et cetera, et cetera. In short? He’s a typical dog who, in recent years, has developed a bit of a bladder control issue. Yes, Snoopy II occasionally piddles on the carpet. The one thing that seems to fascinate him out of his leisurely stupor? The Little Red-Haired Girl’s pet bird named…

Woodstock: A little known fact about the Peanuts Gang: Woodstock, Snoopy I’s best friend, was actually the Little Red-Haired Girl’s pet bird (a presumption, but if I’m taking one or two liberties with this idea, why not that?). One day when she and, by association, they all were younger Woodstock flew the coup, never to be seen from again until he happened upon Snoopy I’s dog house and the two became BFFs. But wait, you may be asking yourself, why didn’t the Little Red-Haired Girl recognize Woodstock when she saw him hanging out with Snoopy? The answer to that is simple: She never did. As far as I know, the Little Red-Haired Girl was never seen in the comic strip or in the specials/movies, her existence merely inferred, much like that of the adults in the Peanuts Gang’s subjective universe by dialogue about her and the “wah, wah, wah, wah” sound of a voice on the other end of a phone call or out of frame. At some point between the end of the comic strip and the present, the Little Red-Haired Girl bought another bird and named it “Woodstock,” i.e. Woodstock II. Same scenario as with Snoopy, different species. ‘Nuff said. Moving on… 

Sally Brown: So, I figure that if Charlie Brown was approximately 12 during the Peanuts Gang’s heyday, his sister Sally was about three years younger than him, making her… calculating… nine. Sally didn’t exactly have the same kind of successes in school growing up that her brother did. Her educational life mirrored his up until she got in to high school. Once there, she became one of the “popular” girls. She partied a lot, had a number of boyfriends and though she was never considered easy or the s-word, she had a bit of a reputation. “She was kissed a lot” as some might say. She graduated from high school in the 50th percentile of her class, and went to a local community college where she lasted four semesters. Thereafter, she left school and took a job as a cashier for her local retail pharmacy. She lived at home, and worked her way up the corporate ladder until she was promoted to Store Manager at 25 years young, right around the same time that her brother and the Little Red-Haired Girl were getting married and adopting Snoopy II. Subsequent years since saw her getting her own place, and transferring from store to store with a reputation as someone who would bust her ass to clean up a “project store,” no matter what the cost. At the time that “You Got Old, Charlie Brown” begins, Sally is 34 and is working in the highest volume store in her district. She is training to be a District Manager, and has been told that she is next in line for promotion once a position opens up. I repeat: Once a position opens up. She’s been waiting for one to do so for almost five years. One more thing: Sally’s career does not allow her time for any sort of long term relationship or family, which means…

Linus Van Pelt: Chuck’s best friend growing up did pretty well for himself early on. He graduated high school with the same honors as his friend and went to the same college as him. They graduated together, still tight, but while Charlie Brown’s degree was in English, Linus’ was in Philosophy. Due to an unfortunate accident that occurred when he was 19 involving a UPS truck after a 48 hour long cram session for an exam on Freud, he won a large settlement and has been living off of the money since. It afforded him the capital to pay for graduate school and, eventually, a PhD in Philosophy. Linus currently teaches at the university level, incidentally at the same community college that Sally Brown dropped out of a few decades previous. He is married to a lover-ly woman named Patty who is not the same Patty from the early days of the comic strip (and should not be confused with Peppermint Patty) and is still very close with his lifelong best buddy, Charlie Brown. Lately, however, Linus’ home situation has been a bit tenuous. Patty has seemed less interested in the things she used to be interested in, i.e. going out, having sex, et cetera and et cetera. Linus has not yet been able to determine the “why” behind it despite his impressive intellect but he has confided in Chuck that he is concerned and seeking security. Let me repeat that: Security. One person he has not confided in is…

Lucy Van Pelt: Linus’ sister graduated high school and graduated college with degrees in International Business and Finance (with a Minor in Japanese). She has been a Wall Street power broker for the last 15 years for various firms and is known throughout the business community as the meanest, bitchiest, uncompromising monster since Gordon Gecko. She’s even been investigated once or twice for her business dealings but as of the beginning of “You Got Old, Charlie Brown,” she has not yet been convicted. She was recently featured in an article in Forbes as one of the Top 25 most powerful women in the business community, as much for her reputation as for her collection of pant suits, which numbers in the thousands. She has a phone attached to her ear 24/7 and is remembered by many of her “friends” as having left her wedding to take a business call. But unlike Sally, she is married. In fact, she is married to…

Shermy: Shermy, who disappeared quite early from the comic strip, went on to become the star quarterback of the Peanuts Gang’s high school football team and was accepted to Alabama University on a full scholarship. Sadly, he ruptured his Achilles in the first game that he ever played there as the starting quarterback and his career ended. He graduated with an Associates Degree in Restaurant Management and encountered Lucy one night, a few years later when she had a meeting with a client at the restaurant he was a line cook at. He recognized her but she didn’t recognize him. After her meeting went awry due to her constantly taking phone calls from other clients, Shermy came out to check on her. Lucy asked him if he had any weed and he informed her that he did. Lucy then asked him if he liked to f*ck and he informed her that he did. They were married six weeks later. He has been miserable since, but the sex is good, the “herbal refreshment” is top notch, and he doesn’t have to work anymore. He spends his days (and many nights) at home, tending to their two poodles and is a self-admitted HGTV addict. Unlike…

Peppermint Patty: The woman who had a crush on Charlie Brown growing up never got to be with him despite her incessant advances toward him. She graduated high school and went far away to college, for she wanted to be as distant from Chuck and her old life as she could be. Once there, she quickly embraced experimentation and “found” herself, i.e. she came out of the closet on the last day of the second semester of her Freshman year. Incidentally, she came out over the phone to her best friend…

Marcie: Marcie, upon hearing that Peppermint Patty was a lesbian, found the courage to admit to the truth that she had known but had never admitted to for years. Within minutes of when Peppermint Patty told her, she conceded the same and further informed Peppermint Patty that she had been in love with her since they had been pre-teens together. While this admission initially caught Peppermint Patty completely off guard, she realized that she too had harbored feelings for Marcie for quite some time, but had been using her obsession with Charlie Brown, along with her Ike Turner-esque treatment of her friend to disguise said fact. She–Peppermint Patty–returned home a few days later and has been with Marcie since. They traveled to and entered a Civil Union in Massachusetts as soon as it was legalized. They adopted a young Nambian child whom they named Franklin and have a Pit Bull named Rerun. They work together as the co-chairs of a state certified day care center, and while Marcie no longer calls Peppermint Patty “sir,” she has been known to let her wife’s surname slip in times of intense passion.

Almost done guys. If you stuck it out this far thank you. This has been fun, albeit somewhat blasphemous to traditionalists, I’m sure. Another quick, parenthetical aside: I know that there are other Peanuts Gang members that I am not including in my ensemble, but these are the ones that I put the most thought in to. I’m trying to include as many names as you can see but I may leave out a few. That said…

Schroeder: Schroeder was always my favorite Peanut, and I see no other outcome for him then the obvious: Classical Pianist. Schroeder did not need to go to college because by the time he was 16, he was considered the best, young pianist in the world. He released his first album of Beethoven covers, played with the Boston Philharmonic at 18 and was quickly playing concerts to packed halls across the world. He is credited with bringing a rock star’s sensibility to classical music and making it “cool” again. The show that he put on at the Sydney Opera House when he was 21 is still regarded by many as the greatest piano concert ever and holds the record for the largest attendance there ever. He currently lives in the Pacific Palisades where he is married to a supermodel and spends his days writing music and his nights being a philanthropist. He has given millions to charities around the world in an attempt to keep the Arts relevant in education. On a side note, Schroeder also has compiled the world’s largest collection of musical memorabilia. Among the pieces he is most proud of are one of Bach’s original harpsichords and a gold Lame (pronounced “la-may”) vest that was once worn by Liberace. Sadly, he was a great deal more fortunate than…

Pig Pen: Poor, poor Pig Pen. He never quite “got it.” He never made it through high school. He dropped out and worked for a while as a drive through cashier at the local Wendy’s. Eventually, he lost his job due to repeated complaints by the customers and fellow employees of his poor, borderline horrific personal hygiene. The Peanuts Gang attempted an intervention at his 16th birthday party but they were unsuccessful. As soon as he was confronted he broke in to hysterics and started screaming that it was “his life” before he disappeared in to the night, many thought never to be seen or heard from again. Until, a few years later, when he rose to unexpected prominence for saving a five year old child’s life on a subway platform in Manhattan. The child had wandered off from his parents and was meandering beyond the yellow line. Pig Pen was sitting in the corner of the subway terminal eating a crust of bread when he saw this, along with the lollipop the boy carried in his hand. Whether he saw the train that was bearing down on the platform as well is open to debate. Pig Pen instinctively stood and made his way quickly toward the child. He managed to get a hold of the back of his jacket sleeve and pull him back simultaneously with the train pulling in to the station. Had he not intervened, the boy would have been decapitated. The heroic act was captured on surveillance video and Pig Pen, once found, was toasted as “a true hero” by the mayor of New York. He was awarded, among other things, a key to the city and a cashier’s check for $10,000.00 to help him get his life in order. Sadly, Pig Pen pawned the key for $15.00 and a bottle of Vermouth and gambled/whored the $10,000.00 away within a month. His last known place of residence was the homeless shelter on 46th Street where, despite a full bank of working shower stalls in the bathroom, he continually refuses to bathe to this day. Why? Yet another mystery of “You Got Old, Charlie Brown.”

And that, my friends? That’s all I’ve got character wise. As for the plot? Sadly, I don’t think that I can reveal much of it. My agent/co-worker has advised me that to do so would be the same thing as opening myself up to an influx of lawsuits. Maybe by the grace of God this character treatment will one day make it in to the hands of the executors of the Schultz Estate. Mayhap they will read it and say, “wow. What a great idea!” For their benefit, I will give you this. The opening of “You Got Old, Charlie Brown.”

Charlie Brown stared longingly in to the drooping, brown eyes of his best friend, Snoopy. “Say something,” he pleaded, “DO something. Anything, boy? Anything at all?” Sadly, Snoopy did not oblige. His tail wagged once, then twice, and his floppy, black ears perked up for a moment before once again falling still. Simultaneously, Chuck heard something emanating from near Snoopy’s rear end. It sounded like water running. Unmistakable. He realized what was happening but knew that it was already too late. The f*cking dog had once again “piddled” on the sectional in his Man Cave. 

“Oh good grief,” he muttered and sighed as he stood up, muted the game that was playing on the 42 inch LED television across from him, and called for his wife’s assistance. 

To be continued?