Subject: Another Film Bulletin Piece: Spring Break Roadtrip
From: Bob_Chapman@brown.edu (Crazy Bob)
Date: 19 Jun 1998 07:26:09 GMT
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
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
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.
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.