Everyone has a plan unitl they get hit. My last fifteen minutes.
The concept behind this little project of mine was simple. Occasional semi-factual accounts of my recent past, to-wit: my last fifteen minutes. Unfortunately, my previous fifteen minutes is pretty much the same as any randomly selected fifteen minutes of my life since my son was born: a combination, in no particular order, of sleep, baby, work and fantasies regarding sleep. It's all a very good time, and very sweet, but it's not the tone I'm lookoing for. Before my son's arrival, I promised myself that I wouldn't write anything here unless I had something to say that wasn't either sentimental or cliche. It turns out this pretty much eliminates everything having to do with babies. So, in breaking what I'm certain is only the first of a series of promises regarding my son, I need a new plan. So, I'm going freestyle. Well, that didn't take long.
Acting Class
It turns out that spending time with the boy has given me the opportunity to work on some thespian exercises. The following is directly from the script of Pretty In Pink, the John Hughes film about a plucky girl in thrift store clothes who falls in love with a boy fron the country club set. In this scene, a young James Spader is playing a rich, good-looking, self-centered and arrogent, but secretly insecure, leader of the rich kids. Andrew McCarthy is playing Andrew McCarthy. Spader, who is upset that McCarthy is dating a girl from the other side of the tracks, is telling McCarthy that their friendship is in jeopardy. [For maximum effect, you can watch it here, at the 4:30 mark.]
As the scene opens, my one-month-old son is laying on couch in a onesie; he has just been fed, and he's looking out at me with those half-closed drugged-out eyes of a heroin addict who just scored a fix (or like Andrew McCarthy in most of the scenes in this movie). I'm sitting in a chair across the living room wearing an oxford with the first four buttons undone, holding a spit rag.
Me/Spader: I've seen your mother go to work on you, Blane. It's vicious. When Bill and Joyce finish with you, you won't know whether to shit or go sailing. [getting up out of my chair] Listen, I'm getting really bored with this conversation, Blane. If you want your little piece of low-grade ass, fine, take it. But if you do, you're not gonna have a friend.
My son/McCarthy: [moving his arms around until he holds them above his head, signalling a touchdown] La!
Me/Spader: Yeah, that's right. If you wanna make the choice, go ahead. I personally wouldn't trash a friendship over it, but I'm old-fashioned, so...
My son/McCarthy: [spitting up white formula through his mouth and nose like the android Ash at the end of Alien]
Me/Spader: [tossing the spit rag onto my son's lap] Why don't you take a shower? You look like shit.
And . . . scene. The kid is a natural.
The concept behind this little project of mine was simple. Occasional semi-factual accounts of my recent past, to-wit: my last fifteen minutes. Unfortunately, my previous fifteen minutes is pretty much the same as any randomly selected fifteen minutes of my life since my son was born: a combination, in no particular order, of sleep, baby, work and fantasies regarding sleep. It's all a very good time, and very sweet, but it's not the tone I'm lookoing for. Before my son's arrival, I promised myself that I wouldn't write anything here unless I had something to say that wasn't either sentimental or cliche. It turns out this pretty much eliminates everything having to do with babies. So, in breaking what I'm certain is only the first of a series of promises regarding my son, I need a new plan. So, I'm going freestyle. Well, that didn't take long.
Acting Class
It turns out that spending time with the boy has given me the opportunity to work on some thespian exercises. The following is directly from the script of Pretty In Pink, the John Hughes film about a plucky girl in thrift store clothes who falls in love with a boy fron the country club set. In this scene, a young James Spader is playing a rich, good-looking, self-centered and arrogent, but secretly insecure, leader of the rich kids. Andrew McCarthy is playing Andrew McCarthy. Spader, who is upset that McCarthy is dating a girl from the other side of the tracks, is telling McCarthy that their friendship is in jeopardy. [For maximum effect, you can watch it here, at the 4:30 mark.]
As the scene opens, my one-month-old son is laying on couch in a onesie; he has just been fed, and he's looking out at me with those half-closed drugged-out eyes of a heroin addict who just scored a fix (or like Andrew McCarthy in most of the scenes in this movie). I'm sitting in a chair across the living room wearing an oxford with the first four buttons undone, holding a spit rag.
Me/Spader: I've seen your mother go to work on you, Blane. It's vicious. When Bill and Joyce finish with you, you won't know whether to shit or go sailing. [getting up out of my chair] Listen, I'm getting really bored with this conversation, Blane. If you want your little piece of low-grade ass, fine, take it. But if you do, you're not gonna have a friend.
My son/McCarthy: [moving his arms around until he holds them above his head, signalling a touchdown] La!
Me/Spader: Yeah, that's right. If you wanna make the choice, go ahead. I personally wouldn't trash a friendship over it, but I'm old-fashioned, so...
My son/McCarthy: [spitting up white formula through his mouth and nose like the android Ash at the end of Alien]
Me/Spader: [tossing the spit rag onto my son's lap] Why don't you take a shower? You look like shit.
And . . . scene. The kid is a natural.
