Subject: Another Film Bulletin Piece: Spring Break Roadtrip

From: Bob_Chapman@brown.edu (Crazy Bob)

Date: 19 Jun 1998 07:26:09 GMT

Newsgroups: alt.slack

 

Those of you who have been following my mad adventures (yes, all two of

you) probably already know that the reason I didn't post much on

alt.slack the last year or so was my search for greener Slack pastures

writing hateful screeds for the Brown Film Bulletin. I just thought I

might post another one "for your approval..."

 

OK, I really just wanted to put up a rant without putting in any effort.

The only thing is, most of the good rants are movie reviews or me

bitching about things in my life that (merely through my bitching about

them causing ripples in the luck plane, PraBob) are no longer

problematic (although, as Fruitbat might be as kind as to inform y'all,

my uberfemme has, as the blues lyric goes, bought a ticket long as my

right arm and hopped on a plane to another hemisphere-- keep thine orbs

skinned, o ye sons of the wise, for a rumination on my life as viewed

through the lens of the classic eighties badfilm "Miracle Mile")

 

I guess later I could put up my review of Microcosmos, the single most

squirtingly offensive thing I wrote since "Pickup Lines for Psychopaths"

 

Aw fuck it... enough bibbling... here 'tis!!!

 

***

 

This is How My Spring Break SHOULD'VE Gone

by CrazyBob

 

11:30 Friday evening the car is filled with gas, comic books, 70 bags of

Tostitos, a small cache of automatic weapons, maps of every state from

Providence to L.A. (along with one of celebrities' homes), and five mix

tapes worth of speed metal and early-80s hardcore (plus one of Frank

Sinatra). I'm full of vim and vinegar and enough phenobarbital,

crystal-meth and Vivarin to kill a horse (an admittedly small horse but

a horse all the same).

 

By noon Saturday we've sown a path of destruction, leaving a trail of

decimated gas station mini-malls, flaming cop-cars and empty Tostito

bags like breadcrumbs to find our way back home. Snarkout is laid out on

the backseat with a gutshot. He's deliriously reciting what he can

remember of the dialogue from that scene in "Resevoir Dogs" (or is it

"City On Fire"?) and Deanz is trying to be an adequate Mr. White while

studying a map and crying out the occasional terse instruction. We've

taken to driving back roads at 99MPH to avoid the roadblocks doubtlessly

set up for us on the highway. I swerve about the road a bit while

reaching down to change the tape and grab a Hostess Snoball out of the

ashtray before Deanz has the chance to put her cigarette out on it. The

car beeps at me and the diagnostic display indicates that my

ten-year-old artifact of German automotive engineering is thirsty.

"Fuck, not again!" "That's OK, it's about my turn to drive again," says

Deanz, "And it's your turn to lay down the cover fire." "OK, I'll look

for a gas station and you make sure we have enough ammo." I stuff the

entire Snoball into my mouth. Snarkout groans something about Kate

Winslet and salt water. "It's OK, buddy," I assure him through a

mouthful of chemical fluff, "we'll get there in time for the Oscars.

We've still got two and a half days."

 

Sunrise arrives Sunday morning. I'm scrawling in my notebook an outline

for my final project for my fiction class. Snarkout is in the backseat

munching on the last of the Tostitos. "Y'know what we should've got?"

"Salsa, yes I know, you've only mentioned it..." Snarkout crumples up

the bag and throws it out the window. I glance at the map and pop twelve

more Vivarin. "You guys think it's safe to get back on the highway yet?"

"Ah, sure. Why not?" "Hey, would you mind trying not to bleed on the

leather?"

 

Monday afternoon. The California border is only two hundred more miles

away. We have to get to the Oscars in time to kill Joel Schumacher.

 

Snarkout is still in the back seat, but I'm beginning to think he should

take a shift driving because I'm seeing five of everything. "Fuck!"

"What is it?" Snarkout is reading Ben Elton's _Popcorn_. "You realize

that all this has been done before?" "Huh?" There's a siren behind us.

"Oh no," says Deanz, "I knew we should've gotten more bullets at that

last minimart." She looks better with her head shaved than I'd expected.

 

"I don't believe you set fire to my comic books." "We had to throw

something at those state troopers." "I don't believe you set fire to my

comic books." "The Oscars, remember? Kate Winslet?" "I don't believe you

burned all my comic books." "Aren't you supposed to be dying painfully?"

"I can't believe you burned all my comic books, Bob. My COMIC BOOKS!"

 

We ran out of cigarettes 14 hours ago and Deanz has started twitching

violently. Looks like it'll have to be me from here on in.

 

We arrive at the Oscars on a column of California State Troopers that

are like the sparks from a rising rocket. The soul-rattling beat of my

blood in my ears is blasted away by the bright lights and empty bombast

of the marquee-studded landscape. It's all so beautiful. The sirens are

gone, the buzzingnoise in my head ceasesmyGODit'sfullofSTARS! The only

sound is that like of a great collosal breathing. The sky opens up

before me like the production number before Billy Crystal's monologue. I

stomp on the gas and ride right straight through it all.

 

thenoise.....mygodthisnoiseis>#x@vc%**~

 

Deanz bums a cigarette from Helen Hunt. The last thing of which I am

even dimly aware is Snarkout melting into the arms of Celine Dion.