My Addled Brain

The results for the 2008 Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest have been posted. For those not in the know (and really, how could you not know? I’m ashamed to admit you read my blog. Probably not as much as you’re ashamed to admit you read it, though), the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest is a yearly event where writers are asked to come up with the worst first line possible to a story that will never be written.

This is in honor of Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, who’s 1830 novel Paul Clifford begins with this immortal line:

“It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents–except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.”

Yes, that’s where the “It was a dark and stormy night” writer’s gag originated from, for those of you who were aware that at one point, Peanuts was not only funny, but clever and subversive. But I digress.

The BLFC chose their winner for this year, a rather ribald number that goes something like this:

“Theirs was a New York love, a checkered taxi ride burning rubber, and like the city their passion was open 24/7, steam rising from their bodies like slick streets exhaling warm, moist, white breath through manhole covers stamped ‘Forged by DeLaney Bros., Piscataway, N.J.’”

My favorite, however, is the runner up:

“Hmm . . .” thought Abigail as she gazed languidly from the veranda past the bright white patio to the cerulean sea beyond, where dolphins played and seagulls sang, where splashing surf sounded like the tintinnabulation of a thousand tiny bells, where great gray whales bellowed and the sunlight sparkled off the myriad of sequins on the flyfish’s bow ties, “time to get my meds checked.”

In the spirit of this year’s BLFC, I’ve decided to slap one together myself - hope you like it.

The light poured through the slats in the blinds, filtered through the dust and grime of the windows, pouring into the small office like a fine Port wine left out opened for three weeks: moldy, grey, and with a hint of cedar, cinnamon, and applesauce; “Just the way I like my day-care centers,” he thought to himself.

There is no doubt about it - my wife has Olympic Fever. (Symptoms of Olympic Fever include watching sports until 2am and occasional screaming at the television). Apparently she’s always been this way, obsessively watching riveting events like Air Pistol and weightlifting. In a previous life she was a personal trainer, so I can understand her enthusiasm for people performing at the peak of human physical condition. However, until our main television gets fixed, my personal television viewing options are, well…limited.

I’m actually not really complaining here - without her, I would have missed that insane swimming relay Sunday night, and that was sports drama at it’s finest. But I’ve never been huge on the Games myself, which I suppose would have been my loss this year. At least my wife can obsess over something relatively healthy.

Unlike some people.

The scene in question is from Tropic Thunder, which as anyone who has known me for oh, thirty seconds can tell you, looks to be right up my alley. It’s an absurd look at Hollywood. Absurdist comedy, which has been brought back to America via the full power of Will Ferrell’s marketability as a genuinely insane person, roots itself in pushing boundaries, taking risks, and occasionally making audiences uncomfortable. Don’t believe me? Let’s go with an example from the Man of the Hour, Mr. Stiller. For those of you who saw Meet The Parents, how many of you can honestly say you watched that entire movie and didn’t feel uncomfortable at least once? I spent half that movie alternately laughing and wanting to crawl under my chair.

This movie looks to be no different - in addition to Stiller playing an actor who once starred in a movie called Simple Jack (which formerly had a parody movie website before being pulled by Dreamworks a couple days ago), Robert Downey Jr. (no relation to Morton) plays an actor who, in order to properly play a role, dyes his skin black and acts like a black man ALL THE TIME. Anyone who can look at the roles in this movie and think that anyone watching will either take these people seriously, or find them to be in any way, shape, or form sympathetic must be delusional. Or, they don’t have much faith in people being able to separate reality from fantasy.

It’s idiocy at it’s finest. The people raising this fuss, who number among them the director of the Special Olympics and several disabled rights groups, are not only calling for a boycott - they’ve put together a list of demands. Now who’s being retarded?

I’m not denying there’s a very real plight involving those who have developmental challenges. As a soon to be father, I am delving into a great unknown with my as-yet-unborn boy. My only hopes for him are for his health - but if my child should encounter issues such developmental issues, I genuinely hope I will be able to handle it with the strength and the grace of parents around the world who help their children every day.

But God forbid I should lose my sense of humor as a result.