(no subject)
I made a link I think. alright clearly no i didn't. but here, why not... tell me how to do a link, h your instructions must have been missing something. I guess I was reading a lot of bukowski, and thinking about the appeal of the unappealing, that it takes a lot of content to turn that around. Hope you like it.
Black.
Warehouse
Open on Charles Bukowski, middle-aged or older, with heavy footfalls crossing a warehouse floor, drinking from a forty ounce bottle of King Cobra malt liquor. He is alone. Drawing a crowbar from his pants, he pries open a reinforced wood crate.
Angled shot from inside crate: We see Bukowski’s face, drawn and serious. He looks with intent inside the crate. Track to over-the-shoulder shot, revealing the contents of the crate to be jugs of farm-fresh milk.
Side Street
Down a dirty Los Angeles side street, Charles ‘depressing’ Bukowski sits smoking on a milk crate surrounded by a massive puddle of rotting, spilt milk. He wears a worn grey shirt and khaki pants, the cuffs skimming the surface of the milk. His boots are an inch thick in the stuff and he drinks from what looks to be a gourd. There is a dangerous light in his eye.
We track to the boots and close up. When he shifts his feet, we see they are caked with curds. A large insect swims directionless near him in the muck. He checks his appointment book and then his watch (the schedule book reads, “May 1st, five of twelve, D. Shipley). High noon and sun light breaks over the rooming houses of the alley. After about 15 seconds, footsteps.
Voice: “Charley, that you?” There is the chirp of an automatic car lock. “What are you doing here? It’s filthy.” He pinches his nose. Shipley is slighter than Bukowski but is also middle-aged. He wears a large unkempt beard and is dressed in a well-made suit.
Bukowski: “Get over here you son of a bitch. Let me tell you what I’ve done, David. Did you know that I’ve worked, many years, doing the sort of shit job you wrote about people doing in your book?”
Shipley, taken aback at the lack of proper introductions, stammers. “Oh, do you mean ‘The Working Poor: Invisible in America’? Really, well I didn’t know that, actually, heh heh”, and he snorts. “Tell me about that Charles.”
Bukowski: “I’ll tell you about it alright, you soul-cocksucker,” and at this, Bukowski hacks up a wad of mucus he had been nursing in his throat. He then takes another drink from the gourd. Some of the drink, which has a violet hue, spills onto his shirt.
Close up on Bukowski: Holding out his own wrinkled hand, Bukowski relieves his congestion into it. Stooping, he cups his palm and holds it to the earth, into the acrid stink, allowing the off-white chunky substance to flow around and to buoy his expectoration to the center of his palm. Had a child been present, they might have made a sickening allusion to Dr. Seuss’ “Green Eggs & Ham”.
Track to a side view of both characters. Bukowski rises quickly and with a smooth motion smears the lime green glob of gook across Shipley’s cheek, nose and mouth. He is all smiles.
Shipley is stunned. He hardly has time to react. “What… ptthpt! Have you gone bananas? Saints alive, Bukowski, what are you-.”
B.: I read it from front to back, Shipley! It’s nothing but you poking your nose into people lives, asking them to describe their misery to you! How many stories did you have to slaver over before you picked the most tragic and moving ones? How many different causes of anguish did you dip your dong in, before trying to compile the most representative collection of American trauma?
Shipley tries to clean his face, only partially successful. Bukowski turns his back to Shipley. Unnoticed by Shipley, Bukowski slides on a pair of brass knuckles.
B.: “It’s like you’re taking naked pictures of their ugly lives. Don’t like it. You’re a dead man.”
Bukowski twists, and cruelly smashes Shipley across the lips. Shipley drops to the ground.
Beat.
S.: “Charles, you don’t understand,” Shipley is spilling blood as he speaks. “I think people need to be told!”
B.: “You mean you think people should get you rich off these sad fucks! Have you ever read my book, Post Office? It’s about a bunch of pretty sad fucks.”
Taking Shipley’s head in his hands, Bukowski lifts it, gingerly at first, then slamming Shipley’s face hard against the pavement, into the dirt, gravel and rotten milk.
B.: “Just the kind you’d write about. And that’s a shit life, right there, isn’t it?” He punches Shipley in the face again. “This is what you did. You went into the muck of this country and tore the blood out of everyone you saw. You told everyone to be ashamed of it, when you never worked a crappy job in your life, you ass-wipe!” The blood flowing from Shipley
S: “Why are you doing this? I’m a writer! I’m a hero!”
We track to Shipley’s upper body. He blinks the contamination out of his eye, suit now ruined.
B: “No you’re not. You’re not. You’re just a cold, parasitic reptile. You’re spoiled, and you’re bloodless, and you didn’t once offer a way out or a way to help. You make a sham of writing. Repeat after me David: I [slam!] - will [slam!] - not [slam!] - condescend!”
Shipley rolls on his back and lies in obvious pain on the ground. He struggles to talk.
S.: “I did my best; I did what I have done all my life. I hope… that I won’t be judged too harshly. I feel so sorry for those people… please… it hurts so much.”
Bukowski stoops again, pats the other man on the belly, and pours some of the gourd-whiskey over the general area of Shipley’s mouth.
B.: “There you go, friend. I understand. Just don’t come my way again, David.”
Play Vivaldi’s first spring concerto from The Four Seasons. We hear sounds of Shipley moaning as we follow Bukowski away from scene, walking toward the LA sunset, exultant.
Black.
Warehouse
Open on Charles Bukowski, middle-aged or older, with heavy footfalls crossing a warehouse floor, drinking from a forty ounce bottle of King Cobra malt liquor. He is alone. Drawing a crowbar from his pants, he pries open a reinforced wood crate.
Angled shot from inside crate: We see Bukowski’s face, drawn and serious. He looks with intent inside the crate. Track to over-the-shoulder shot, revealing the contents of the crate to be jugs of farm-fresh milk.
Side Street
Down a dirty Los Angeles side street, Charles ‘depressing’ Bukowski sits smoking on a milk crate surrounded by a massive puddle of rotting, spilt milk. He wears a worn grey shirt and khaki pants, the cuffs skimming the surface of the milk. His boots are an inch thick in the stuff and he drinks from what looks to be a gourd. There is a dangerous light in his eye.
We track to the boots and close up. When he shifts his feet, we see they are caked with curds. A large insect swims directionless near him in the muck. He checks his appointment book and then his watch (the schedule book reads, “May 1st, five of twelve, D. Shipley). High noon and sun light breaks over the rooming houses of the alley. After about 15 seconds, footsteps.
Voice: “Charley, that you?” There is the chirp of an automatic car lock. “What are you doing here? It’s filthy.” He pinches his nose. Shipley is slighter than Bukowski but is also middle-aged. He wears a large unkempt beard and is dressed in a well-made suit.
Bukowski: “Get over here you son of a bitch. Let me tell you what I’ve done, David. Did you know that I’ve worked, many years, doing the sort of shit job you wrote about people doing in your book?”
Shipley, taken aback at the lack of proper introductions, stammers. “Oh, do you mean ‘The Working Poor: Invisible in America’? Really, well I didn’t know that, actually, heh heh”, and he snorts. “Tell me about that Charles.”
Bukowski: “I’ll tell you about it alright, you soul-cocksucker,” and at this, Bukowski hacks up a wad of mucus he had been nursing in his throat. He then takes another drink from the gourd. Some of the drink, which has a violet hue, spills onto his shirt.
Close up on Bukowski: Holding out his own wrinkled hand, Bukowski relieves his congestion into it. Stooping, he cups his palm and holds it to the earth, into the acrid stink, allowing the off-white chunky substance to flow around and to buoy his expectoration to the center of his palm. Had a child been present, they might have made a sickening allusion to Dr. Seuss’ “Green Eggs & Ham”.
Track to a side view of both characters. Bukowski rises quickly and with a smooth motion smears the lime green glob of gook across Shipley’s cheek, nose and mouth. He is all smiles.
Shipley is stunned. He hardly has time to react. “What… ptthpt! Have you gone bananas? Saints alive, Bukowski, what are you-.”
B.: I read it from front to back, Shipley! It’s nothing but you poking your nose into people lives, asking them to describe their misery to you! How many stories did you have to slaver over before you picked the most tragic and moving ones? How many different causes of anguish did you dip your dong in, before trying to compile the most representative collection of American trauma?
Shipley tries to clean his face, only partially successful. Bukowski turns his back to Shipley. Unnoticed by Shipley, Bukowski slides on a pair of brass knuckles.
B.: “It’s like you’re taking naked pictures of their ugly lives. Don’t like it. You’re a dead man.”
Bukowski twists, and cruelly smashes Shipley across the lips. Shipley drops to the ground.
Beat.
S.: “Charles, you don’t understand,” Shipley is spilling blood as he speaks. “I think people need to be told!”
B.: “You mean you think people should get you rich off these sad fucks! Have you ever read my book, Post Office? It’s about a bunch of pretty sad fucks.”
Taking Shipley’s head in his hands, Bukowski lifts it, gingerly at first, then slamming Shipley’s face hard against the pavement, into the dirt, gravel and rotten milk.
B.: “Just the kind you’d write about. And that’s a shit life, right there, isn’t it?” He punches Shipley in the face again. “This is what you did. You went into the muck of this country and tore the blood out of everyone you saw. You told everyone to be ashamed of it, when you never worked a crappy job in your life, you ass-wipe!” The blood flowing from Shipley
S: “Why are you doing this? I’m a writer! I’m a hero!”
We track to Shipley’s upper body. He blinks the contamination out of his eye, suit now ruined.
B: “No you’re not. You’re not. You’re just a cold, parasitic reptile. You’re spoiled, and you’re bloodless, and you didn’t once offer a way out or a way to help. You make a sham of writing. Repeat after me David: I [slam!] - will [slam!] - not [slam!] - condescend!”
Shipley rolls on his back and lies in obvious pain on the ground. He struggles to talk.
S.: “I did my best; I did what I have done all my life. I hope… that I won’t be judged too harshly. I feel so sorry for those people… please… it hurts so much.”
Bukowski stoops again, pats the other man on the belly, and pours some of the gourd-whiskey over the general area of Shipley’s mouth.
B.: “There you go, friend. I understand. Just don’t come my way again, David.”
Play Vivaldi’s first spring concerto from The Four Seasons. We hear sounds of Shipley moaning as we follow Bukowski away from scene, walking toward the LA sunset, exultant.