But recovery is slow going. It doesn't help that the rest of life goes on without us. Work and school are indifferent to our aches and pains. The mailman doesn't want to feel our foreheads to see if we're running a fever. He tells us that's against United States Post Office rules.
So we sit weakly in our couch-cushion forts, draped with blankets and surrounded by half-empty beverage glasses. Is that a roll of toilet paper on the coffee table? Yes, but please don't tell anyone what you've seen. This malaise is only temporary. The sickness will move on to higher ground, and the fevers will pass. In the meantime, our little one soaks up all of the Wonder Pets she can stand through her droopy-lidded eyes. In the right light, she looks just like a Nick Nolte mugshot. Except smaller and more adorable.
Me, I prefer to soak my sorrows in over-the-counter cocktails. Hot frothy concoctions or fizzy, foamy highballs. I plan my night around them, really. Prepare them slowly, like Tom Cruise behind the bar in Cocktail. Spinning bottles like a circus performer, lighting things on fire. None of it necessary, but the ritual makes me happy. Makes the medicine taste better.
Then I sit, slunked down like a sand-filled dummy on the edge of the sofa, eating pretzels off of my chest and waiting for the drowsy to come. I watch new shows about ancient history. Footage of the atomic bomb and the last 10 minutes of movies I've already seen. I watch the police track down a serial killer in Oregon (or maybe Utah). And then I smile at Craig Ferguson for a minute or 10 before my head gets too heavy to hold up.
I'm hoping that in the morning one of us will feel better, touched in the night by the Good Fairy of Clear Sinuses. But we'll see. I've left the door open for her. Set out some cookies. I hear she's just crazy about Pecan Sandies. So keep your fingers crossed.
First of all, I have to give it up for the Big Guy. You know who I'm talking about. [Look up to indicate north.] None of this would be possible without him. Thank you, Santa Claus. When I asked for the latest version of the Final Draft screenwriting software, you didn't let me down. You're the greatest. I don't even know how to repay you, but I heard you really like milk and cookies, so I'll probably start there. You deserve it.
Ugh, this thing is super heavy. For REAL! Speaking of deserving things, how great was my screenplay? [Wait for applause.] Right? I mean that thing was so good, and I can hardly believe it only took me seven years to write. There were a lot of people who told me that a love story about two undercover chimpanzee assassins could never be made. But I knew that if I waited long enough, filmmaking technology would catch up with my vision. And you know what, I was right. Everybody else was wrong. So they can suck it. I have an Academy Award now.
I'm in the same room with Stanley Tucci. What's up, Stanley Tucci? [Point and/or wave to Stanley Tucci.]
You know, I would be remiss in accepting this without thanking some very special people that made this moment possible. Let's get serious for a moment. And if you start the music before I'm finished, I'm going to go crazy and punch Robert Pattinson in the mouth. Nobody wants that, so just be cool up there in the control booth. [Pause for laughter and/or awkward silence.] I'm just kidding. I would never hit his face with my fist. But still ... you should probably not start the music while I'm talking, just to be safe.
A screenplay like Monkey See, Monkey Shoot doesn't happen by accident. It takes lots and lots of typing. Hours of thinking about stuff. And even more hours of watching stuff that might not seem related, but actually is. It also takes more love and patience than you can ever imagine. At the end of that process comes the magic. After the magic comes the movie — which was pretty good but not exactly the way I would have done it. But that's not the point. The point is that I did an awesome job, and I did it all by myself.
I was going to thank some people for their help, but I realized that nobody helped me. Nobody except the completely fictional character of Special Agent Bilbo. I made him up with my brilliant imagination, but there were nights when I swore he was in the room with me. On those nights I felt like more of a transcriber than a writer. On those nights, his chimpanzee spirit shined through me. He told me where his story was going, and I followed. I doubt the karaoke sequence that runs alongside the end credits would have come to me on my own. And I know for sure that without his help, the downtown rollerblade chase would have been a disaster.
So thank you, BILBO. Thank YOU. [Wink at Helen Mirren.] And thank YOU. [Look directly into camera.]
And in closing, if I have anything to offer to aspiring writers who are sitting at home crying because they wish they could be me ... it would be listen to the chimpanzee in the room.
I don't care if you can't understand chimpanzee. If you pay attention ... I mean, REALLY pay attention ... you'll know what he's saying. Don't watch his lips. Look into his eyes. Listen to his heart. And then follow your dreams. Follow them fast and follow them hard! JUST GO FOR IT! [Fist pump, spin and then jump up and land in a split.]
Thank you, Hollywood! I'll see you here next year. Because if you people thought Monkey See, Monkey Shoot was good ... oh, boy, you're really going to love this idea I have about lobsters.
Idea 1 — Just a Taste
"Hey, honey, the first season of The Wire is available at HBO OnDemand. We never did watch it when it first came on. What say we start it at the beginning and see how we like it? You know, just sample a few episodes. Get a little taste. What's the worst that can happen?"
—MeIt turns out that the worst that can happen is that it takes about 20 minutes for you to fall in love with The Wire, and then you can't stop watching even though you have to work in the morning.
It turns out that the worst is that you go to sleep thinking about The Wire and wake up thinking about The Wire, and you can't wait to get home and put your kids to bed so you can continue to watch The Wire. It turns out that watching The Wire is almost exactly like smoking the crack or shooting the dope that they sell on The Wire. You don't use a pipe or a needle, but after a few hours you run the risk of overdosing and waking up looking like Bubbles. Or maybe The Wire is more like The Most Delicious Sandwich in the World. When faced with The Most Delicious Sandwich in the World, how can you ever hope to be satisified with only one bite? You can't. You have to eat the whole sandwich. With both hands. And unfortunately, this particular Most Delicious Sandwich in the World has five seasons of about 13 episodes each, making it about as daunting as one of those enormous party subs that you order for Super Bowl parties. Oh, well. Pass the mustard and hold all my calls.
Idea 2 — America's Unfunniest Videos
We took the girls to the Byrd for The Princess and the Frog. It was not horrible. I'm not ashamed to admit that I even unironically tapped my feet.
Since it was an early show, we were home in time to park ourselves comfortably on the sofas. The littlest one went down quick. Downstairs, I settled in between My Lovely Wife and Little Miss Twelve, who were both preoccupied with laptop card games. I was awarded charge of the remote.
My wife's only request: tiptoe around shows with swear words until the tween goes to bed. I settled on the History Channel. World War II in HD. The episode about the liberation of the Nazi concentration camps.
Educational. Informative. And absolutely horrifying. Did I mention it was in color and HD?
Since I was the only one paying attention while the others were shielded in the bluey glow of their computers, I figured it was OK. It really wasn't. Not even a little bit. I kept it on for a while thinking that "this was something that happened, this was important." Man's inhumanity to man. "Never forget" and all that.
My brain said: As someone studying world history, Little Miss Twelve should probably get a glimpse of what war actually does to people, right? I mean, they made her get a copy of Howard Zinn's book. She's going to learn the awful truths about the world ... sooner or later. Why not sooner?
Commercials for logger shows and disinfectant wipes gave everyone a break from the world's worst home movies. I silently asked myself if watching the show was a bad idea or a good idea. My wife answered me out loud, so I changed the channel to something called BATHtastic!
Idea 3 — Giving a Monkey a Gun
He asked to see it, and so I showed it to him.
I wouldn't let him touch it, even though he wanted to hold it. I said, "You look with your eyes, not with your fingers." But he kept insisting, said he just wanted to feel the weight of it. I said, "It feels heavy. That's all you need to know." Then he pouted. Stuck his bottom lip way out and folded his arms in a huff. It kind of got to me, so I let him hold it.
"One minute," I said. "Then give it back."
Of course he took off immediately, right out the back door, and I haven't seen him since yesterday. I know, I'm an idiot. I should know better. I DO know better. The worst part is that I should have seen this coming from a mile away when he showed up at my house wearing sneakers.
Let me get this straight, you're saying that parenthood is the toughest job I'll ever love?
Because, if that's what you're saying ... you should stop saying it.
Really. Knock it off. I get enough of that from antidepressant and yogurt commercials. The promos for your new series Parenthood make me want to jam juice-box straws into my eyes (if I can figure out how to get the wrapper off). What you're doing is peddling Parenting Porn. It's disgusting and I want no part of it.
I'm not blaming you for starting it. I'm just asking you to stop it.
Modern American parents are horrible people, and we don't deserve our own show. Especially one that paints us as loving — yet quirky and flawed — sculptors of young minds. Your show is full of wistful parental glances, bedtime pillow heart-to-hearts and passionate monologues on what's best for the wee self-esteem of our children.
I thought my only job was to get them to look both ways before they cross the street and cough into the crook of their elbow. I had no idea we were supposed to repair the psychological damage of our ancestors and fill our kids' heads with the same micromanaging paranoia that keeps me up at night. That sounds like a lot of work.
Honestly Ron, I'm just tired of watching shows with grown-ups who say things like, "As hard as you think being a parent is ... double it." That may be true, but it also sounds whiny. Especially coming from a bunch of angsty, upper-middle-class so-and-sos. When it comes from the mouths of people like That Guy from Six Feet Under and That Lady from The Gilmore Girls? Double it.
I'm also tired of the "large, colorful and imperfect" family thing. I'm sick of watching the "absurd journey of being a parent" play out on my television. I don't care about the Scrappy Single Mom with the rebellious teenage daughter. Or the Awkward Boy who bites and doesn't play baseball so good. And you really get me steamed when you have two dudes getting weepy-eyed talking about what it means to be a father.
I understand what you're trying to do, which is tell the story of the human condition by focusing on the misadventures of one family. We're supposed to see ourselves in them and therefore feel connected to the grand human experiment that spans infinite space and time. You also want us to laugh when Dax Shepard has to clean up vomit (as long he dry-heaves, you can count me in).
But do you think that if you throw a bunch of grown-ups and kids together, add some Coldplay-flavored songs and Craig T. Nelson that you're going to make me feel more human? I don't. I just feel dirty.
You see, this whole happy-yet-imperfect-journey-known-as-parenthood trope has reached epidemic proportions in the last decade. In the years after you made the Parenthood movie, corporations have figured out that the "headaches, heartaches and joy" of raising kids is marketing gold. They use it to make us buy peanut butter and cell phones and drugs that help Grandpa remember Grandma's first name. They use it because it works.
But it's stopped working on me. I won't be watching your new show ... but if you make another Cocoon movie, I'll be all over that.
Nicola Dove/HBO photo.
Ebert still writes film reviews for the Chicago Sun-Times, but his poignant blog and constant presence on Twitter have drawn thousands of new fans ... myself included. It's worth a read, especially if you like to get your critical deconstruction of romantic comedies and lengthy essays on God and mortality all in one place."... now everything he says must be written, either first on his laptop and funneled through speakers or, as he usually prefers, on some kind of paper. His new life is lived through Times New Roman and chicken scratch. So many words, so much writing — it's like a kind of explosion is taking place on the second floor of his brownstone. It's not the food or the drink he worries about anymore — I went thru a period when I obsessed about root beer + Steak + Shake malts, he writes on a blue Post-it note — but how many more words he can get out in the time he has left. In this living room, lined with thousands more books, words are the single most valuable thing in the world. They are gold bricks. Here idle chatter doesn't exist; that would be like lighting cigars with hundred-dollar bills. Here there are only sentences and paragraphs divided by section breaks. Every word has meaning."
2) BOB — I was never much of a Dylan fan. It wasn't that I disliked the guy, most of the songs I heard were just fine. Maybe I was intimidated by the fact that his body of work spanned decades, and catching up would be an uphill battle. Then again, I could blame the awful noise he made with the Traveling Wilburys. Or the fact that I mostly knew him as a mumbly old hermit.
But none of that matters now. I wouldn't call myself a born-again Bob Dylan fan, but reading Chronicles: Volume One, his breezy, stream-of-consciousness memoir, has given me new respect for the man. His book flows like poetry and reveals the simple guy behind the artist inside the icon. He's like a riddle of a soft burrito wrapped inside a crispy enigma shell. He contains multitudes, and his book is a narrative catalog of those multitudes. It bounces from thought to thought, full of history lessons and philosophy and humor. There are gaps of years between chapters and slow, thoughtful scenes that drag on forever.
It's a good read. If you haven't read it, you should. Now if you'll excuse me, I have about 4,800 songs to download from iTunes ...
3. KARL — His name is Karl Pilkington, and he has a "head like a f*****g orange." You can learn all about him by watching The Ricky Gervais Show on HBO tonight at 9 p.m., followed by Funny or Die Presents, previously discussed here. (You can also catch the complete first episode of Gervais' new show on YouTube.)
4. MY BABY isn't much of a baby anymore. She's 3 and she has learned how to slowly drive me insane by demanding late-night diaper changes and refills of milk. I used to be able to keep her inside her bedroom by donning a Darth Vader mask, the toy helmet with the electronic breathing sound effects. But even that doesn't seem to work anymore. I ask her to stop her whiny crying because she sounds like a wounded moose and you know what a wounded moose attracts, right? "No. What?" Hungry bear.
That seems to work. For now ...
