This holiday should be bigger than Christmas for me, but it isn't. And I don't know why. Maybe it's because drinking beer reminds me of drinking antifreeze (which I've heard is a terrible idea). It could be that the thought of corned beef triggers my gag reflex, and Celtic music makes my ears bleed. Or perhaps I can blame my old roommate, the leprechaun.
Did I mention that he was just about the worst roommate ever?
It's true. I thought it would be great to have a magical red-headed midget in my house. But he was no fun at all. He took it personally when I called him a midget or a dwarf. He didn't even like the term "little person." He preferred to be described as "wee." But not like, "Whee, this so much much fun!"
More like, "We really have ourselves a problem."
If you've ever seen the movie Single White Female, he was just like the crazy lady played by Jennifer Jason Leigh. Except he was much shorter and wore a fancy green hat. He never washed the dishes. Never took out the trash. Food was always getting stuck in his beard.
It was like he went out of his way to be annoying.
The only reason I ended up living with him was because of the gold. But it wasn't long before I found out that he promised that to everyone. That's why he always needed a place to stay. Once people realized that he wasn't going to lead them to a pot of gold, they sent him packing.
But I cut him some slack. I tolerated his tantrums and his long showers. I put up with his stupid buckle shoes and that sickly albino ferret. Why? Because honestly, I thought it was a test. I thought that everyone else had given up on him too quickly. I was going to be smarter. I was going to stick it out.
I believed that if I could make it through, one day he would give up the goods. He would congratulate me on my magnanimous attitude. Thank me for my patience. Take my finger in his tiny hand and lead me through the woods to a half-buried cache of 24K bricks. And then that would be that.
But he just kept being a jerk. And then his ferret threw up in my suede loafers, and I just lost it. I tossed them both out onto the street and sent all of his tiny green suitcases sailing off the balcony after him. See you later, leprechaun.
Of course, this being Richmond, I could never fully escape my past. I would see the leprechaun around town, and he wouldn't even acknowledge me. Not even a tiny whassup head-nod. If I walked into a restaurant and saw the back of his green bowler hat, I'd go eat somewhere else. He never paid me for the loafers and walked out owing me over $100 in long-distance charges from calls he made to his girlfriend in Puerto Rico.
I even heard from a mutual friend that he was still working the gold angle to pick up women.
So every year on St. Patrick's Day, I stay home. Because I know if I go out, he's going to be there ... drinking and dancing and milking that adorable, wee leprechaun schtick for all it's worth. You can't really blame him. Today of all days, maybe he deserves to be the center of attention. Heck, if I didn't know him, if we didn't have this history, I'd probably be another face in the crowd ... clapping and singing and cheering him on. If I didn't know him, I'd be the first to buy him a tiny green beer.
But I'm not his friend, and I'm not his fan. Honestly, if I run into him, it will be bad. We both still have a lot of pent-up resentment and unfinished emotional business. That's why I stay home every year on March 17.
Because the last thing I want to do is get in a bar fight with a leprechaun on St. Patrick's Day.
It feels wrong to be excited about war. Even if that war is just a make-believe version of a real war made by the same guy who directed Jurassic Park.
That's why I'll be watching on Sunday night when HBO launches the 10-part miniseries The Pacific.
When I was a kid, I loved to play war. My friends and I would run through the woods with plastic weapons in hand, jumping over bushes and rolling in the dry grass. The grassy field behind my house was pocked with grassy craters. We would sprint for the safety of those holes, imagining that the slow, suburban traffic was a parade of enemy tanks. We lobbed invisible grenades and fired shots into the enemy infantrymen. In my imagination they fell instantly, clutching their chests as if they had a sudden, crippling case of heartburn. In my mind they made noises like "Arrggh!" and "Ack!" before falling to the ground and growing angel wings. Death was so innocent.
In high school, I learned that war was not so neat. It was a horrible spawn of evil and greed that chewed its way through history leaving misery, suffering and dead people in its wake. It was a bad thing, not to be celebrated or admired. But the movie machine guns made it look so fun. Violence became a video game. And cable TV was still cranking out archive footage that made the Nazis look like keystone cops with swastikas. The truth of war was still blurry.
I had yet to "get it."
And then came Saving Private Ryan. Watching the opening sequence was like reading for years about how hot coffee was and then sitting down and having someone dump a latte in your lap. I got it. War was chaotic and messy. War was hell. I loved Band of Brothers because it delivered more of the same grit. It was loud and dirty and bloody. Trees splintered. Bullets pierced helmets with a "plink." It was global war on a human scale. It helped me "get it" even more.
But of course, I could only "get it" as much as a non-military, art school grad could "get it." That kid who used to run through the fields mowing down squads of bad guys would like to think he was hardcore enough to hack storming the beach at Normandy. But the man writing today knows better. I've never dodged one bullet, let alone thousands all at once. I've never watched someone get killed beside me or had to step over a dead body to get where I needed to go. I've been lucky that way. Violence has kept its distance.
Watching such realistic dramatizations of war only raises more questions. How did they do that? Could I have done that? How did we ever let things like this happen?
So maybe on Sunday night when I sit down to watch the first episode of The Pacific on HBO, some answers will come. Maybe Spielberg and Hanks have figured out a way to make sense out the nonsense of waging war. Maybe somewhere inside this 10-part miniseries, there will be what Oprah likes to call "an aha moment." Or maybe not.
At least I'll have the flamethrowers.
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.
