Yet another Sunday came where, while I prepared to go to work, I decided instead to take the day off. It’s one great thing about being self-employed. I don’t want to work today? I don’t work today! Of course, the down side to that is I also don’t get paid today.
The moment called for effort to be made on behalf of breakfast, so I fried up some eggs and nuked some bacon and French-pressed some coffee, and it was wonderful. And then I sat down at the computer, played on Facebook for a while, and I decided that some blogging needed to get done.
And it did.
By then it was time for lunch, and I emptied the last of a bag of Perdue Crispy Chicken Strips, which I highly recommend for flavor only, because, nutritionally, I’m sure they’re crap. As I pulled the bag out of the freezer I also decided to pull out the last of the big, thick, expensive (for my budget) rib steaks I had bought back in January. Those would make great lunch items for the coming week! I set them on paper plates to thaw on top of the stove.
I went back to the computer, played some more on Facebook, and I think I blogged some more. Then I did something I haven’t done in far too long: I uncovered the midi keyboard and plugged it in to the computer, fired up Garage Band, and started messing around.
As I’ve mentioned in this blog in the past, I like to fart around by mainly tickling the keys, and if I hear a sound that’s interesting to me, I’ll explore it. If it takes me anywhere, then I’ll record a track in Garage Band, and keep it for posterity, or better, I’ll get truly inspired and make a grand production of it.
And so it was. I heard it, and I started playing with it, and it began to grow legs! The wonderful, amazing, astonishing thing about a truly creative process, no matter how truly talented you are — and, musically, I ain’t that talented — is how time disappears from your consciousness. I think I’ve babbled about that, here, too — the Flow State.
When you’re in flow, you are completely absorbed in the project at hand. Bodily functions seem suspended, as bathroom urges, muscle stiffness from sitting nearly motionless, and eye fatigue don’t interrupt your effort. And time flies. Quickly! When I pulled out the keyboard, it was around 3:00pm. Doubtful that I would hear anything I liked from my own fingers, I figured I’d play for about an hour, and then go watch one of my Netflix selections. However, when I figured I had reached the peak of my musical ability versus the difficulty of the musical dalliance I had created, I looked at the clock: 10:38. ZOINKS! I never even had dinner!
I had a 4:00am Monday morning pickup, so I had to get to bed! I quickly put away the keyboard, shut down Garage Band, and hit the sack.
Monday morning I was up at 2:30. I showered and shaved, and I saw that I had just enough time for a bowl of cereal before I had to leave. I walked to the kitchen, turned on the light... and I was reminded of my dinner plans of the prior evening, not to mention lunches for the coming week. There on top of the stove sat two formerly beautiful rib steaks, long since thawed, and now mostly dried out, ruined, and a waste of about $15.
Who knew that individual creativity could be so damned expensive?
°
Showing posts with label creativity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label creativity. Show all posts
Monday, May 30, 2011
Monday, August 03, 2009
Like Minds
There's an old saying we've probably all heard that claims, "Laughter is the best medicine." While I can't vouch for its medicinal purposes, I can say that it at times can be a tremendous workout, and working out regularly can keep illness at bay. Of course, it has to be real, sustained laughter, not the "therapeutic" kind you force in search of some sense of well-being.
The crux — or crutch, if you will — of most of my humor is the double-entendre. Whether I'm in conversation or just witness to it, my brain is always tuned to the other meanings of words or their sound-alikes and, when the situation is informal and amenable enough to it, I'll make comments to those other meanings. That's making a double-entendre out of innocent or unfortunate phrasing, and I go for the laugh. Unfortunately, since so much of it is of the moment, I rarely remember the things I come up with, and some of them are, to my mind, real gems.
I recently got a laughter workout on a shoot gig. I usually do when I work for this particular producer. His name is Andy, and his employer is a long-time client of my former employer, who booked me a while ago for last week's shoot.
Andy and I worked together for the first time probably back in 2002, and it was way back then that we realized we had synchronous — if not identical — senses of humor. We both fully grasp the concept of the double-entendre and its comic potential, and we bounce our fleeting thoughts off of each other for maximum entertainment value.
A few years ago Andy and I worked together on a shoot in southern California and, on the last day, as we were running late to the airport (I missed my scheduled flight), we passed a restaurant called The Buggy Whip. We both seized on that and turned it into a restaurant with a BDSM (bondage, domination, sadism, and masochism) theme, positing a dominatrix-cum-hostess (perhaps an unfortunate syntax there!!) who seats you when and where she wants to while shaping your behavior with the threat and/or use of a whip, and wait staff who make you beg before you can request — rather than order — your food. We laughed well, but briefly, over that one, and I retained very few of the ideas we broached in the car.
This most recent shoot with Andy was once again in southern California, which makes me think the place imparts to us some kind of cosmic synergy. Monday evening, after being treated to dinner and drinks by the subject of our shoot, Andy and I were driving back to our hotel when, just to keep silence from invading our ride, I did what I often find myself doing and blurted out the name of the cross street at which we paused for a red light.
"Orangewood," I blurted.
Andy looked down at his lap. "No, mine's usually sort of pink." Typical guy humor, I know.
Feigning mild disgust, I said, "Dude. You just described part of your anatomy to me." And then my own odd phrasing and pronunciation occurred to me, and I repeated, "Anatomy to me."
Displaying perfect timing, Andy sang, "Doot-doooo-dee-doo-doot!" from the Manah Manah song. It took me a second to catch it, but when I did, HOLY CRAP! I hadn't laughed like that in years, and suddenly I was seized in hysteric convulsions. Mind you, I was driving; I can only imagine the look on the police officer's face if we had been pulled over at that moment. He would have had probable cause to search the vehicle for drugs! We laughed for another ten minutes, all the way to the hotel!
Maybe you get it. Maybe you had to be there.
Tuesday was a regular day. We shot several interviews, I shot a half-ton of b-roll. We finished around 5:00, and I debated whether to see my uncle who — so it turns out — lives only a few miles from where we were working, or to hang with Andy for the evening. The next day looked to be fairly light, with a late evening flight home, so I opted to visit Uncle Guido on my way out of town on Wednesday, and to hang with Andy Tuesday night.
We made plans to go see the film The Hangover at a shopping mall theater complex a few miles away, and thought we would take our chances at finding somewhere to eat close to it.
On our way there we saw a sign on a building, obviously a pet- or pet supply store. However, our minds took Pet City the other way, and it became a place where you go to be fondled. We didn't just state our interpretations, we created scenarios in the air, with a man going in to look for some stuff for his dog, but he walks in and is groped by an attractive female employee. He expresses his shock and confusion, and the woman explains what the place is, and then reveals to him a line of men waiting their turn.
We got some good laughs from "Pet City," but further along down the road we drove past a restaurant of the name, "Wok Experience." Nothing came to either of us as far as double entendre is concerned, but I blurted out the image of an unwitting customer entering the place, and a small Asian man running up and clocking the guy with a wok! I spoke as the attackee: "Why did you hit me with a pan?"
Andy countered in a stereotypical Asian accent, "Better than chopstick in eye!"
And we were rolling. Without going into all the details, we created a whole scene that involved more woks to the head (as the standard greeting upon arrival), to hands shoved into hot oil, to warnings about the Asian man's brother's place, "Chopstick Experience," where you get "chopstick in eye," and the Asian's admonition, "You no wanna go there!" We also included free foot binding as Tuesday's special; and Wednesday's special, the hibachi experience. Hmmm. It seems we get a lot of mileage out of the S&M theme....
We didn't have time to eat dinner and catch The Hangover, so we decided to just eat, and then we would catch the late showing of Angels and Demons at a different theater.
We sat at an Italian restaurant, where I actually wrote down some of the ideas spilling out of our heads, and we riffed for two hours on "Wok Experience," certainly convincing our waitress that we were high or certifiably loony. Neither Andy nor I could stop laughing, nor did the ideas and dialogue stop coming to us, which certainly didn't help to stop the laughter. Andy coughed briefly, then lamented, "Aw, now I'm gonna start coughing up crap."
Well, guess what that started?
On our way to the theater we passed some sort of oil-change/auto service place that had a huge neon sign glowing in the night: "Pit Service." I raised my arm and looked at my pit and said, "Can you tell me how long this is going to take? I have to be to work in an hour..."
Andy was gone. I was losing it...and, yes, driving again.
We managed to keep quiet during the film, but were rolling again — mostly with a revisit to "Wok Experience" — on the way back to the hotel.
The next morning I felt hung-over, only without the headache and nausea. I was achy from laughter, the muscles for which had not been engaged so much in years. My sinuses were clogged. I felt exhausted, yet exhilarated. And inspired. I told Andy I wanted to write "Wok Experience" as a scene, a short screenplay. He agreed that I should. After the day's shoots, a few more giddy laughs at lunch, and a visit to my uncle and aunt, I sat at the airport and tapped out a script on my laptop. As with anything I write, I'm not too crazy about how it turned out, but I sent it to Andy, and he thought it hilarious.
I hope someday to make it, or see it made into a film.
Hope with me, won't you?
°
The crux — or crutch, if you will — of most of my humor is the double-entendre. Whether I'm in conversation or just witness to it, my brain is always tuned to the other meanings of words or their sound-alikes and, when the situation is informal and amenable enough to it, I'll make comments to those other meanings. That's making a double-entendre out of innocent or unfortunate phrasing, and I go for the laugh. Unfortunately, since so much of it is of the moment, I rarely remember the things I come up with, and some of them are, to my mind, real gems.
I recently got a laughter workout on a shoot gig. I usually do when I work for this particular producer. His name is Andy, and his employer is a long-time client of my former employer, who booked me a while ago for last week's shoot.
Andy and I worked together for the first time probably back in 2002, and it was way back then that we realized we had synchronous — if not identical — senses of humor. We both fully grasp the concept of the double-entendre and its comic potential, and we bounce our fleeting thoughts off of each other for maximum entertainment value.
A few years ago Andy and I worked together on a shoot in southern California and, on the last day, as we were running late to the airport (I missed my scheduled flight), we passed a restaurant called The Buggy Whip. We both seized on that and turned it into a restaurant with a BDSM (bondage, domination, sadism, and masochism) theme, positing a dominatrix-cum-hostess (perhaps an unfortunate syntax there!!) who seats you when and where she wants to while shaping your behavior with the threat and/or use of a whip, and wait staff who make you beg before you can request — rather than order — your food. We laughed well, but briefly, over that one, and I retained very few of the ideas we broached in the car.
This most recent shoot with Andy was once again in southern California, which makes me think the place imparts to us some kind of cosmic synergy. Monday evening, after being treated to dinner and drinks by the subject of our shoot, Andy and I were driving back to our hotel when, just to keep silence from invading our ride, I did what I often find myself doing and blurted out the name of the cross street at which we paused for a red light.
"Orangewood," I blurted.
Andy looked down at his lap. "No, mine's usually sort of pink." Typical guy humor, I know.
Feigning mild disgust, I said, "Dude. You just described part of your anatomy to me." And then my own odd phrasing and pronunciation occurred to me, and I repeated, "Anatomy to me."
Displaying perfect timing, Andy sang, "Doot-doooo-dee-doo-doot!" from the Manah Manah song. It took me a second to catch it, but when I did, HOLY CRAP! I hadn't laughed like that in years, and suddenly I was seized in hysteric convulsions. Mind you, I was driving; I can only imagine the look on the police officer's face if we had been pulled over at that moment. He would have had probable cause to search the vehicle for drugs! We laughed for another ten minutes, all the way to the hotel!
Maybe you get it. Maybe you had to be there.
Tuesday was a regular day. We shot several interviews, I shot a half-ton of b-roll. We finished around 5:00, and I debated whether to see my uncle who — so it turns out — lives only a few miles from where we were working, or to hang with Andy for the evening. The next day looked to be fairly light, with a late evening flight home, so I opted to visit Uncle Guido on my way out of town on Wednesday, and to hang with Andy Tuesday night.
We made plans to go see the film The Hangover at a shopping mall theater complex a few miles away, and thought we would take our chances at finding somewhere to eat close to it.
On our way there we saw a sign on a building, obviously a pet- or pet supply store. However, our minds took Pet City the other way, and it became a place where you go to be fondled. We didn't just state our interpretations, we created scenarios in the air, with a man going in to look for some stuff for his dog, but he walks in and is groped by an attractive female employee. He expresses his shock and confusion, and the woman explains what the place is, and then reveals to him a line of men waiting their turn.
We got some good laughs from "Pet City," but further along down the road we drove past a restaurant of the name, "Wok Experience." Nothing came to either of us as far as double entendre is concerned, but I blurted out the image of an unwitting customer entering the place, and a small Asian man running up and clocking the guy with a wok! I spoke as the attackee: "Why did you hit me with a pan?"
Andy countered in a stereotypical Asian accent, "Better than chopstick in eye!"
And we were rolling. Without going into all the details, we created a whole scene that involved more woks to the head (as the standard greeting upon arrival), to hands shoved into hot oil, to warnings about the Asian man's brother's place, "Chopstick Experience," where you get "chopstick in eye," and the Asian's admonition, "You no wanna go there!" We also included free foot binding as Tuesday's special; and Wednesday's special, the hibachi experience. Hmmm. It seems we get a lot of mileage out of the S&M theme....
We didn't have time to eat dinner and catch The Hangover, so we decided to just eat, and then we would catch the late showing of Angels and Demons at a different theater.
We sat at an Italian restaurant, where I actually wrote down some of the ideas spilling out of our heads, and we riffed for two hours on "Wok Experience," certainly convincing our waitress that we were high or certifiably loony. Neither Andy nor I could stop laughing, nor did the ideas and dialogue stop coming to us, which certainly didn't help to stop the laughter. Andy coughed briefly, then lamented, "Aw, now I'm gonna start coughing up crap."
Well, guess what that started?
On our way to the theater we passed some sort of oil-change/auto service place that had a huge neon sign glowing in the night: "Pit Service." I raised my arm and looked at my pit and said, "Can you tell me how long this is going to take? I have to be to work in an hour..."
Andy was gone. I was losing it...and, yes, driving again.
We managed to keep quiet during the film, but were rolling again — mostly with a revisit to "Wok Experience" — on the way back to the hotel.
The next morning I felt hung-over, only without the headache and nausea. I was achy from laughter, the muscles for which had not been engaged so much in years. My sinuses were clogged. I felt exhausted, yet exhilarated. And inspired. I told Andy I wanted to write "Wok Experience" as a scene, a short screenplay. He agreed that I should. After the day's shoots, a few more giddy laughs at lunch, and a visit to my uncle and aunt, I sat at the airport and tapped out a script on my laptop. As with anything I write, I'm not too crazy about how it turned out, but I sent it to Andy, and he thought it hilarious.
I hope someday to make it, or see it made into a film.
Hope with me, won't you?
°
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