Shows like “Cheers” and “Family Ties” were staples in my home. I grew up with their characters. I formed opinions based on their messages. I learned humor from their punch lines (which, I’m afraid, is still painfully obvious). Now, thanks to Netflix and channels like the Hub, it feels great to relive my early years with Alex P. Keaton, Norm, and that dumb airplane mechanic from Wings.
Recently, Netflix added yet another historic title to its list of instantly viewable titles, the 1998 series Sports Night. I should point out here that for this show the word “historic” means mid 20′s for me. Although I knew nothing about sports, I loved this show. It’s pacing and its humor were very different than anything else. It was way ahead of its time. And I have to admit, I kind of had a thing for Felicity Huffman. But that’s another post for another time . . . or not.
Sadly, the show ended when its writer Aaron Sorkin decided to concentrate on some other show that would probably never be a hit. What was it? Oh, that’s right, “The West Wing”. Cable tried to pick up “Sports Night,” but all the deals included Sorkin as a writer, which he declined.
But now, thanks to those really nice people at Netflix (who are still promising to bring me instant Mad Men in July), I can now watch all the “Sports Night” I want. And I will, thank you very much.
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The folks at fictionwriting.about.com continue to issue their monthly writing challenges. In November, the challenge was to pick one of our favorite classics, observe the initial setting, then reset the scene. The trick was to consider a drastically different setting and see how it changed our characters. My submission with short preface is below . . .
In chapter one of Huckleberry Finn, Twain paints his setting less through description and more through inner dialogue and conflict. But what we principally understand is that Huck’s current setting is NOT where he wants to be. We learn that he and Tom are two suddenly-rich kids rebelling against a life they did not want. We are given one brief section where Huck describes the scene outside his window, a setting he truly desires. As he ventures out into this setting (in response to Tom’s call) he experiences a very bad omen and worries what will happen next.
I tried out a very different setting, making necessary adjustments for certain characters and events. But I also tried to mirror the chapter as closely as possible.
Adjusting
The name is Huckleberry. And unless you process parking tickets for the Department of Motor Vehicles, you’ve probably never heard of me. You may know my friend, Tom, especially if you’re female. But you’re more likely to have seen our commercials. You know the ones for Clemens Jewelers? “Gold. Make her heart bling!” Yep. That was our line. It was the single largest campaign in Thatcher Advertising’s history. Tom and I signed it, shaped it, and turned it into a household phenomenon. It’s what we do. We’re the best, and I don’t lie about things like that. Well, mostly I don’t. I AM in advertising.
We banked some serious cash on the Clemens account. Back in the day, we would have celebrated by renting a yacht, heading south, and blowing the whole thing on margaritas, senoritas, and any other kind of “itas” that looked like fun. But those days are history since we both decided to act like adults (for once) and put a little bling on the ring fingers of two special ladies. Now, we spend each day staring into our deep fried lunches, counting the days until our lives will change forever, and trying to remember exactly what we were thinking.
Not that I’m unhappy. It’s just a matter of . . . adjusting. I fell in love with Wendy Douglas the first time I saw her. Well, it was actually the second time. I was drunk the first time, and I don’t remember much about that. But since that second time, I was smitten. Within months, she had a ring, and I had a future. And that’s when the problems started. Apparently, beer is not only habit forming – shock – but also full of carbohydrates. And who wants a fat husband? This explains why all of my favorite fried foods are also now contraband. Cigarettes are disgusting carcinogens that I’m no longer allowed to have – even in my own apartment. And today I find out she’s plotting to buy a minivan which she no doubt hopes to drive to a quaint little suburban prison cell with brick on all four sides. This is of course where she’ll serve me and our two point five children wheat-grass and acai berries every night for dinner. Like I said, I’m adjusting.
And to make matters worse, she has this sister. What a mistake her parents made when they conceived that human being. The woman hates me. And the feeling is mutual.
Thank God I have the city. It’s the one place I still understand. The smell of hot dog stands, the symphony of noisy cars, the pulse of millions of people pounding the pavement, it’s like a drug. When Wendy and her Sister from the Crypt start digging my grave, this is where I find peace.
I swivel around in the chair and grab my trusty Nurf basketball. Seven years I’ve been in this office. Seven years I’ve been getting nothing but net from the tiny hoop behind my door. Just when I think maybe I’m losing it, maybe the edge is getting dull, I put up two points and smile, because I know that everything’s gonna be alright.
Today, I could use some reassurance. So I aim, I shoot, I . . . miss? Are you kidding me? The ball rebounds off the door and rolls over to my feet. But I barely notice. I just stare at a net I didn’t even reach. This is bad, really bad. I never miss. I know some people don’t believe in omens and superstition. But this can’t be good. I’m less than thirty days away from the rest of my life as Ward Clever and I MISS? I light a cigarette and sit still like death, contemplating the potential for catastrophe.
“Mr. Finn?” The intercom beckons. “Mr. Sawyer is here to see you.” I don’t answer. “Mr. Finn?” Finally, the voice brings me back to Earth.
“Oh, hey Becky. Yeah, sure. Send him in.”
The door swings open, concealing the empty hoop behind it. But I still stare at it. Tom looks at me, then to the door, then back at me.
“Dude, you look like you just saw a ghost.” Tom closes the door behind him. The hoop returns. “Hey, snap out of it. We’ve got just a few weeks left to live the rest of our lives. So check it out.” Tom drops a stack of paper on my desk. “I’ve been doing a little research online. Man, have I got a plan for you.”
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A really short story, actually more of a soliloquy, this is just a brief look at the silly justifications each of us make about our fears and shortcomings. How often do we pick that one thing about ourselves that we hate and pin all our failures on it? We say, “If I could just change this one thing, everything else would be different.”
Well, meet Purvis, the guy who’s name says it all.
What’s In A Name
This place is pretty well packed tonight. The lights are low, and the music is loud, which is good. Loud music means less talking. Talking is bad, because it requires introductions. And introductions mean I have to say it. “Hi, my name is Purvis.”
Yep, Purvis. I know what you’re thinking. “What kind of name is that?” I know, right? The first thing people use to size you up, the way they remember you, the key to the very door into your soul, and my parents choose Purvis. Really?
I guess I could understand it if I were named for some legendary ancestor like a General Purvis Augustus, leader of Allied Forces on some beach in Normandy. Or maybe a Reverend Purvis Leonidas, fearless missionary taking God to naked natives up and down the Amazon. But alas, there are no such heroes in my family tree.
I used to wonder if maybe I was named for that FBI guy who nabbed Dillinger. Turns out Purvis was actually the name of the gardener who worked for my grandmother. He sculpted topiaries of Bible characters. Apparently, his juniper Jesus was so lifelike that people would come from miles around to pray to it. And here I am, a testament to his horticultural moxy.
Hey, there’s that group of girls from HR down the hall. They already know my name, I think. I could just skip the whole introduction part. Oh wait. There’s those guys from Sales. OK, never mind. I’ll let them have a chance. They probably all have really cool names anyway. Some of them probably even have great nicknames too. I always envied guys with great nicknames. My friend Nathan Canasta played football. His number was 50. So “Five Oh” became his name for the rest of high school. Richard Barefoot was Native American, the only Native American we knew. So we called him “Chief.”
So why couldn’t I get one of those names? I was cool. Right? I knew things. I did stuff. But nothing ever stuck. I used to write names on my notebooks to try them out. I wrote “Big Show” and then “Full House,” but I’m just over five feet tall and 120 pounds with my Sunday shoes on. I also considered “Lefty” and “John Deere,” but I’m right handed, and I’ve never actually seen a tractor in real life. In the end, I’m just a tragically vanilla, homogeneous human being with absolutely no distinguishing characteristics save one . . . the name “Purvis.”
Look who just sat down at the other end of the bar. That’s the girl I saw last week, the one with the curly hair. I can’t tell in here, but I think she might be hot. Then again, it’s really dark. I might chance it and walk over. But what would I say?
“Excuse me, would you like some nuts?” No, that won’t work.
“From over there you looked pretty, so I just wanted to come over and make sure you weren’t really ugly close up.” No, better let that one go too.
If I only had a name like Fred or Ralph or something. Then I could just say “Hi, I’m Fred or Ralph or something.”
I guess I could use my middle name, Arthur. Or maybe just Art. But then again, art is what you hang on a wall or make in preschool with macaroni and Elmer’s Glue. And I certainly can’t shorten my first name. “Purv.” Nope, I don’t think so. One time I considered combining a short version of my first and middle names. But then I thought it through. “Purv Art.” Are you kidding me? Mom, Dad, how much do you hate me?
“What’ll it be tonight, kid?” That’s the bartender. I think his name is Stan, or maybe Dan.
“O’Dules.”
“Right.”
Dan’s a nice guy. He works a lot. Always here when I come in.
“Hey Dan, you got a nickname?”
“Yeah. It’s Stan.”
“Oh, right. Sorry.”
Hey, when did Jackson come in? “Hey! Jackson, my man! What’s up? Huh? Oh, yeah. Sure. Well, I’ll just be over here. Keep it real, man.”
Jackson runs the sandwich cart on the corner by the office. Now Jackson, that’s a real name. Like “action,” only Jackson. That guy’s gonna go places with a name like that.
But not me. I’m just gonna sit here at this bar and watch all these well-named individuals go about their happy lives while I waste away in the intoxicating wash of Near Beer. Just me, the Purv-meister. The Purvinator. Potent. Powerful. Purvilicious.
I’ve got to get a new name.
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I doubt anyone has ever done this, but I’m pretty sure you could draw a line from geek to nerd to freak as a continuum of increasing intelligence and decreasing social aptitude. Me? I’m good with people.
And so it is my interest in – not my understanding of – most things tech that keeps me in the geek column. This is why I listened when Leo Laporte of This Week in Tech recommended the Millennium Trilogy by Steig Larsson as a great read for geeks who like a good story. He also bragged on the incredible narration of Simon Vance in the audiobook release. Well, twist my arm.
So when my monthly Audible credit rolled around, I dove into the world of the Swedish underground with book one, The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo. At the same time, I discovered the Swedish film adaptation available on Netflix for instant viewing. Normally I would read the book first, then catch the movie. In this case, I’m glad I broke protocol.
The movie was excellent. The casting was spot on in my opinion having now completed the novel. The story was followed with fidelity on everything critical to the plot. There were a few variations, but that kept it interesting for me.
The plot and sub plots get a little complicated only because they take a long time to develop as one story. The movie condenses this of course. So having seen the movie helped me keep it all straight. (Remember, I’m good with people.)
Story aside, the book was interesting for a number of reasons. I’m one of those dumb Americans who thinks the whole world is just like me. So it was intriguing to watch the Swedish (perhaps simply European) way of life become a character. Dialogue (even post-translation) as well as attitudes about social structure, sex, and professional ethics, all had a distinctly different flavor than a book by Patterson, Turrow, or Clancey.
Also interesting to me was the picture of Stockholm with this seedy underbelly of corruption and crime. Not once did anyone yodel from a mountaintop. No one even yelled “ricola!”
But I can see why these novels are so popular. I’m interested to see what happens to the American film adaptation, rumored for a 2012 release. Early indications peg Natalie Portman for the lead, with the typical leading guys on the short list too (Pitt, Clooney, yada, yada).
Next up for me is The Girl Who Played With Fire. Can’t wait.
NB: These books center on characters with pretty liberal morals. Scenes are graphic and situations can be uncomfortable. Just saying, don’t buy it for your 12 year old daughter.
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Dr. Bellows wore plaid shirts without fail. I remember this because the shape of his round belly played tragic games with the stripes in the pattern. The result was something like latitude and longitude markings on a lumpy globe that orbited the room at least twice during each class. I had decided from the first day that I would not learn much from Dr. Bellows. After all, I was a national finalist in one of the most competitive speech contests in the country. This was a “gimme” class. I needed an easy “A” to make up for the dismal prospects offered by “Dr. Pass-Me-If-You-Can” in Music History.
By the end of the semester, I had managed to pass Music History (through much prayer and fasting). It was instead Speech 101 that presented the biggest challenge. In the end, it was Dr. Bellows, a walking globe with headlight-sized horn-rims and a hair cut reminiscant of Nicholas from “Eight is Enough” who almost failed me, and in doing so taught me perhaps one of the most important lessons of my young adult life.
The speech was on the business of song writing. Being a music business major, material on the subject was plentiful. The delivery was artful, if I do say so myself. It had humor. It had drama. It earned me a standing ovation. Excuse me while I move to the head of the class. That’s right. State Public Speaking Champion coming through. Yes, it’s a gift. No, I’m not sure autographs are appropriate right now. Perhaps after class.
Now, I’m being silly. I actually only gave one autograph after class, and that one just basically committed me to bring something salty to the next Band Social. Shortly thereafter, I made my way to Dr. Bellows, who was seated on his axis at the rear of the room. I had yet to receive his certain praise, and I swelled at the prospect. What wonderful words might he use to describe my eloquence, my mastery of the oratory? Perhaps he would even ask me to teach the class next week while he took some time off for that long overdue visit to the barbershop.
“Mr. Abbott.” He beckoned me forward. “Have a seat Mr. Abbott.” Wow, this was gonna take some time. I must have been better than I thought.
“Brilliant speech, Mr. Abbott.”
“Thank you, sir.” I said, waiting, hoping for more.
“You’re clearly the best speaker in the class.”
“Thank you, sir.” Man, I love that part.
“I almost hate to fail you on this speech.”
My mind hit the rewind button. For a moment, I thought he said “fail.” No, he must have said, “hail,” as in “hail you as the magnificent speaker you are.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Mr. Abbott. You can’t BS a BS’er. Your delivery was wonderful. But no one cared, because you said nothing. I actually know less now that I did before I heard you speak. Your reliance on rhetoric is alarming.”
The gaping whole that was my mouth invited all manner of flying things to enter at will.
“Next time, Mr. Abbott, I want you to remember one thing. How you speak will mean nothing unless you actually have something to say.”
I turned 34 the other day. And like my age, real life has descended upon me like Sitting Bull on Custard. Yet as I reflect upon the sweet chaos that is my world, I have started seeing things I’ve never seen before. I hear sounds I’ve never heard before. I feel weights I’ve never felt before. And from all of this I am learning (thanks to Dr. Bellows) how to say things I’ve never said before. I have finally stopped obsessing over how I speak. I have finally started focusing on what I say.
And to my surprise, I really do have something to say.
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By now you might have heard Toby Keith’s new single, “Love Me If You Can.”
I’m not sure anyone has ever written a song that so completely encapsulates who I am and what I would have wanted to say if I could write like that. This is an incredible song and one that warrants a quick read, regardless of your musical tastes.
Love Me If You Can (Wallin/Wiseman)
Toby Keith
Sometimes think that war is necessary
Every night I pray for peace on earth
I hand out my dollars to the homeless
But believe that every able soul should work
My father gave me my shotgun
That I’ll hand down, to my son
Try to teach him everything it means
I’m a man of my convictions
Call me wrong, call me right
But I bring my better angels to every fight
You may not like where I’m going
But you sure know where I stand
Hate me if you want to, love me if you can
I stand by my right to speak freely
But I worry about what kids learn on TV
And before all of the bedlam turn to angry words and hate
Sometimes we should just agree to disagree
And I believe that Jesus
Looks down here and sees us
And if you asked him he would say
I’m a man of my convictions
Call me wrong, call me right
But I bring my better angels to every fight
You may not like where I’m going
But you sure know where I stand
Hate me if you want to, love me if you can
Well said.
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Sadly, the show ended when its writer Aaron Sorkin decided to concentrate on some other show that would probably never be a hit. What was it? Oh, that’s right, “The West Wing”. Cable tried to pick up “Sports Night,” but all the deals included Sorkin as a writer, which he declined.