Highbrow Hill

I remember, years ago when I was just starting high school, praying to God, asking Him to please make my life a great big adventure--such that you'd never be able to look at me and say, "Now there goes a perfectly ordinary sort of fellow."

Shelly, Josie, Candie and I (the Official Eventual Chri--Holiday Party Planning Committee) were to meet at Mr. Archibald's house yesterday evening to discuss our ideas for the party entertainment. Josie suddenly took sick so she couldn't go. Then Shelly asked Candie if we really needed her to be there to present our ideas to Mr. Archibald. Candie said no, so Shelly bailed too.

So Candie and I drove together to Highbrow Hill, a suburb of Everycity that the elite call home. Only the very wealthy, the very powerful, or the very famous live on Highbrow Hill. They even have their own police force which patrols the thoroughfares, making sure that the quality folk stay in--and the riff-raff stays out.

We arrived at Mr. Archibald's impressive mini-mansion and went inside. Mr. Archibald seemed even smaller than usual as he stood in the expansive hallway. In fact, everything looked huge except him. You'd think that short people would build miniature houses so they'd feel bigger. But I guess living in a dollhouse wouldn't send a very powerful message to one's neighbors. So the Titanic it is.

I always knew that the people who work for Eventual--really work, not just filing papers and answering phones--made lots of money, but I guess I never realized what that money could do until I experienced the sheer magnificence of this house. Mini-mansion nothing! I'm pretty sure this was an actual mansion. Vaulted ceilings? Check. Huge rooms? Check. Expensive furniture and artwork? Check. Dance studio on the third floor? Check.

Mr. Archibald and his wife quickly pressed us with brimming wine glasses and brie (yes...brie) and Candie and I pitched our new and improved idea for the party entertainment: Eventual employee's letters to Santa. But we added a twist! I decided to appeal to my co-workers' competative natures by turning the whole thing into a game. Candie and I would read the silly letters and they would have to shout out who they thought the letter belonged to.

Mr. Archibald loved it. Candie, slightly tipsy from the chardonnay and excited to have the approval of this usually frightening little man, opened her mouth and regailed Mr. Archibald and his wife with all sorts of stories that she probably shouldn't have told...including the one about how Queen III smuggled four bottles of beer out of last year's Christmas party in the sleeves of her faux fur coat. When Mrs. Archibald said, "Oh, honey, remember when we used to do things like that?" I felt at once that we all might--just might--be kindred spirits.

You see, the Archibalds used to be prima-ballerinas for the New York ballet. No. I'm dead serious. Mr. Archibald went into a ballet class his senior year in college (some Ivy league school that's so elite I haven't even heard of it) in an attempt to capture the affections of a girl he liked. The rest is history.

Mrs. Archibald asked Candie and myself if we would like to stay for dinner. I don't think Candie realized that a free meal was probably the closest thing we were going to get to some kind of actual payment for our services, because she politely declined, saying she had other plans.

"Well," began "Archie", addressing yours truly, "Would you like to stay for dinner? I can take you back to your car later." (I left my car at Candie's apartment so we could ride together.)

"Uhh..." I said. If I left I wouldn't have to endure being at the mercy of my boss and his wife. If I stayed, I might get some inside dope about life in New York and maybe do a little networking.

"Sure, why not?" I said.

And so I sat down to dinner with the Archibalds in their great, grand home on Highbrow Hill.

Their son said maybe two words the entire evening and quickly excused himself. Mrs. Archibald, however, was very chatty and pleasant and kept my wine glass filled at all times.

They told me stories about when they were in the New York ballet and the tours they would go on. They always thought it was funny that people would treat them like stars and let them stay in their huge homes in neighborhoods even more high-class than Highbrow Hill.

"It was fun for a while," said Mrs. Archibald, "But I was always bothered by the fact that we were just staying at these huge homes--that they weren't mine. "

I was about to say to her that that was the whole fun of it; leaving the theatre after a performance and having people point at you and whisper excitedly, being invited to big champagne parties, staying in million-dollar homes--when you know good and well that you're no better than some schlemiel pushing papers on the 42nd floor of some skyscraper somewhere.

I didn’t get to say any of those things, however. Mr. Archibald noticed that my plate was empty and said abruptly, “Let’s take you back to your car now.” I thanked Mrs. Archibald for a nice evening and followed Mr. Archibald into the garage.

He pointed at the convertible and I got in. We sped out of there as though we were leaving the Batcave. Mr. Archibald made the comment that he was always afraid he was going to run over a jogger in that little car. I laughed nervously. I forgot that, when a driver has short-man syndrome, a car ride is a particularly harrowing experience. We made small talk as Mr. Archibald zoomed to the base of Highbrow Hill. Suddenly, the conversation stopped completely.

"This your car?" Mr. Archibald asked, pointing to a gold one with fuzzy dice. I said that it was and he promptly dumped me off, then sped into the darkness with little more than an impatient “’Night.”

I was still pretty excited about the evening, thinking how fun it would be to tell my friends about my teddibly fashionable dinner with the swells of Everycity (it probably had something to do with the three glasses of chardonnay). But as I thought about the quick and downright cold conclusion to it all, I got a little weirded out. It was just so…odd. Had I done something wrong? Was I really not as charming and funny as I thought I was?

Maybe he just needed to go to the bathroom.

Now's your chance!

Have you ever wanted to write an entertainment for a company Christmas--er--Holiday party?

Well, now's your chance!

Actually, you don't really have to WRITE anything, but ideas would be greatly appreciated. You see...

Mr. Archibald of the 41st floor (also with Eventual) is hosting the Company Christ--er--Holiday Party this year and asked me (me!) being the most dramatical person in the office (along with Candie of 'Agnus of God' fame) to write "an entertainment".

Why do I always say, "Sure! Where's the contract? Let me sign my name in blood!"? Why, oh, WHY can't I say, "In a pig's eye! It's not like you're gonna PAY me to bust my butt so you and your fatcat cronies can get a belly laugh at my expense! Do it yerself, twinkletoes!"

WHY can't I say things like THAT?! WHY? WHY? WHY?

My first (and only) idea was a company roast. But after Candie read my rough draft, she said the black lady humor and Jehovah's Witness jokes were highly offensive and would have to go (personally, I think they're the heart and soul of the whole piece but what do I know?). Then I got to thinking about all the sullen employees up here and it occurred to me that humor--especially of the good-natured nose-tweaking variety--doesn't come easy to them.

So I printed off a copy of the rough draft and cast it into the fireplace. It's back to the drawing board.

Only problem is...

Mr. Archibald wants to see the final product...

TOMORROW NIGHT!

Help, gang! Candie and I have to come up with a great idea or we'll get the axe!

Password Reset

So once a month I have to reset my logon password for my computer here at Eventual Practical Financial Services Corp. Several months ago, I rediscovered a beloved old Nintendo game, 'MegaMan 2'. I thought, hey, that game brings a smile to my face and reminds me, no matter how grim life might become, there will always be fun things like MegaMan 2 to take me away from the rank and file and back to the place where I belong: Super-Happy Fun Land.

So I made 'megaman2' my password.

The next month I decided to go with something like 'MarioKart' or 'LegendofZelda'. But no. My computer would give me an error message and say that those passwords were invalid. So as a last-ditch effort, I entered in MegaMan 3 as my new password.

"Password Accepted. Your new password "megaman3" will expire in 30 days.

Okay. Well, 'MegaMan 3' was a pretty good game. It still brings a smile to my face and sunshine to my heart to think of it. It's a good password.

I got in 15 minutes late this morning after sitting in what the history books will remember as the Traffic Jam of 2005. I turned on my computer and logged on--and got the good old, "It's time to change your password" notice. I had made it to megaman5, despite my best efforts to the contrary. As I'm sure you're ALL aware, the MegaMan series took a serious turn for the worse after MegaMan 3 (there are eight total). Now, every time I logged on to my computer, it wasn't making me happy. It was making me depressed.

It was time for a new password. Something...festive.

How about "Christmas"?

"Password not accepted. Your new password must contain at least 6 characters and be different from your last four passwords."

Uhh... how about "Christmas05"?

"Password not accepted."

Maybe my computer has a Christ-blocker on it. How about "Holiday05"?

"Password not accepted."

Good grief! I suppose you want me to put in "megaman6", the WORST game in the entire MegaMan series! When I think of that game it brings to my mind thoughts of wasted potential, mind-numbing tedium, and dreams gone wrong!

"Password accepted. Your new password "megaman6" will expire in 30 days."

I tell you, the machines are taking over...

Last night at dinner...

Mom: (to me) It's good your sister can go out there and be salt in the darkness.

Dad: (baffled) It's "light".

Mom: (unphased) I know. But she's salt.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

South Cackalackee

Well, folks, I've left the arms of Everycity and gone on to spend my Thanksgiving vacation in that happiest of places, South Cackalackee. We went to the Piggly Wiggly and saw where they were selling fatback and chicken legs. No, seriously. Chicken legs. Talons and all. At the deli. Umm...

Ew.

I'll do my best to update every now and then, but I'll save my really profound thoughts for when I get back to Everycity.

Oh, and congratulations on Queen III for getting fired and having the second worst Monday the 21st of all my close friends! Huzzah!

Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad...

Okay gang, I'm troubled. I've had three "bad days" in as many weeks! That never happens to me! I've never been the sort who, at the end of the day as I'm drifting off to sleep, takes a big metaphorical rubber stamp and brands it as BAD. I mean, it just wouldn't do to suggest an entire day has been a waste because one or two not-so-great things happened to you.

But when it's a barrage?

Am I becoming more negative? Or have these days really and truly just been stinkers? Personally, this was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. I mean, it's one of those days where you wake up and somehow everything--everything is uphill from where you're currently standing. And I have it on very good authority that I'm not the only one who felt this way about Monday, November 21st, 2005.

A triptych. Click on your favorite for some quick inspiration!

Best Morning Ever?

So I sauntered my way in to work at 9:00 this morning and soon found myself in a slight panic as I looked at the company calendar and saw that I was supposed to be here at 8:15 to cover the front desk for Candie. About a month ago somebody mentioned it to me and, stoopid me, I forgot! I hope I don't get fired.

On the way to work this morning, I took part in a Brake Party. That's when you're driving along at a nice clip and suddenly everybody in front of you slams on their brakes at exactly the same time. One could look at it in a negative light and say something like "[Expletive]! Why did everybody suddenly slam on their brakes?!" but I opted instead to burst into song. For some reason, everybody hitting the brakes all at once like that made me feel like I was at some kind of fun party. All those bright red lights...

This is how the Brake Party song goes:

Brake Paaarty!
It's a Brake Paaarty!
STOP!
Brake Paaarty!
We're stoppin' at the (clap!) Brake Paaarty!

Oh, expletive! I just got a phone call that the supply order for the 41st floor was delivered to the 49th floor AGAIN! This is intolerable! Or...maybe it's a...

Supply Paaarty!
It's a Supply Paaarty!
WRONG FLOOR!
Supply Paaarty!
We're on the wrong floor at the (clap!) Supply Paaarty!

Man's Inhumanity to Man

[Forky's note 11/17/05: Today's post was going to be a photo-essay about man's inhumanity to man. However, the pictures filled me with such sorrow that I swapped them out for shots of baby animals instead. Enjoy!]

Happy Wednesday!

Howdy gang! I was going to post something about man's inhumanity to man this morning, but I thought this was a lot more fun. Enjoy!

I Wake Up in the Mornin' Feelin' Fine...

My alarm clock went off a little earlier this morning. Candie, the main receptionist, is taking the day off and they asked me to cover the front desk for her. No problem.

Only I wasn't counting on waking up feeling as lousy and as exhausted as I can remember feeling since, well, this time last year.

When the cold north wind begins a'blowin', that can only mean one thing for me: Allergies. Really bad allergies. But not just of the runny nose variety. We're talking about the kind that sucks the very marrow from your bones and plays tiddlywinks on your brains.

The fact that yesterday may have been the most hectic and stressful day I've experienced since working here on the 42nd Floor probably didn't help too much either. Oh yeah--and the audition last night.

I don't know WHAT came over me at that audition. I mean, I nailed the monologues and felt very confident. I guess I was feeling that swirly feeling of fatigue though. You know. Your eyelids feel impossibly heavy so you kind of overcompensate and open your eyes REALLY wide to keep from falling asleep on your feet. The director asked at one point if I was comfortable doing stage combat and maybe some falls because the character is killed at one point.

"Sure!" I said. "Just as long as it's not real!"

A hush fell over the little audition room.

I wanted so badly to say, "Wow. That joke was really lame, wasn't it?"

So I woke up in the mornin' feelin' not-quite-as-fine-as-I'd-like-to-be-in-fact-I'd-really-like-to-call-in-sick-today.

But no--I'm the breadwinner in my apartment, so rise I must, once again, to the 42nd Floor.

I got here feeling about three times as sleepy as usual. I misjudged the morning traffic (there wasn't any--go fig) so I got in at a few minutes to 8, even though I wasn't due in until 8:15.

I was standing at the receptionist desk turning on the computer when Consuela stepped off the elevator. She looked up at me and took a half-step backwards.

Consuela: Wh-what are you doing here?

Me: What?

Consuela: You're not supposed to be here until 8:15!

Me: Oh, yeah, well...

Consuela: Is everything okay? I can't believe you'd be here this early.

Me: (thinking "Oh, I know! I'll be silly/charming and do that half-asleep 'it's way too early in the morning for me to be functioning' thing! That one's always good for a laugh!) Mmm huuwhaaahuuuh...

Consuela: (freezes) Wh...at's going on here?

Me: (Holy crap! She's not laughing! Oh, well, if I keep doing it, she'll figure out that I'm just being silly...) Ooohh,y'knowwww... it'swaaaaaay tooo eeeeearly

Consuela: (deep concern with a hint of panic) Oh my gosh--are you okay?!

Me: (Okay, she really doesn't get it. Drop the act, Forky. Snap out of it quickly and she'll realize that you were just trying to be funny) Yeah, I'm fine.

Consuela: (dead serious) What's wrong with you?

Me: (Sweet Jebus! Calm her down, Forky!) Oh! Oh, nothing, Consuela. I was just acting. You know: To be or not to be. Ha ha...

Consuela: Oh my gosh--I was gonna say. You really scared me for a second.

Me: Wow...I really didn't think I'd get that reaction.

Consuela: (still confused, still slightly panicked) What are you doing here so early?

Me: (Okay, now I'm confused) I'm due in at 8:15. It's 8:00 now.

Consuela: I know! Candie never gets in this early.

Me: (Holy carp--this woman is off her nut) Oh, you know. I just misjudged the morning traffic. There wasn't a whole lot this morning.

Consuela: (breathing a sigh of relief) Oh. Whew. Okay.

Me: (turning my head slightly and mouthing "Good God!")

Consuela: (suddenly laughing) Ha ha! You really ARE an actor!

Me: (stunned, confused, reaching for the scissors)

***

Sorry guys. Apparently someone swapped out my daily vitamins for Honest McGee's Long-Lasting Stupid Pills: Guaranteed to trip up your tongue, make improvisation impossible, cause the most seasoned comedian to be as un-funny as a heart attack, and grow hair even on a billiard ball!

Holy Carp!

Is anybody else having a totally psycho Monday?

Gaaaa!

"It was Beauty killed the Beast..."

Thanks to everyone who came out and made the King Kong Viewing Party so much fun! We should do another one! But what would the theme be?

The chilled King Kong dropping was delicious!

Bongo-riffic!

Kong slays another dinosaur!

Mmm! Banana!

Retro fun!

In Other News...

As many of you know, I'm "pulling an Annie" right now, which means I've decided that I'm somehow responsible for all the problems facing the world right now and the only way to make things right is for me to run away.

I was on my way here when I received a frantic phone call from Queen III.

Apparently, the Fox TV execs have decided to finally pull the plug on the best TV show since 'Seinfeld', our dearly beloved 'Arrested Development'.

A little research on the fan sites will reveal that the details are all rather vague...that maybe they're just pulling it for the fall...maybe they're trying to shop it around to different cable channels...nobody really knows. But rest soundly, dear readers. Fox has ordered 13 episodes for season three, which means, if nobody else picks the show up, the writers can still write a good series finalé.

Oh, and if you don't know what 'Arrested Development' is, then you have no idea why everyone in Everycity is CRAZY to get their hands on a Bluth Frozen Banana that will be available for consumption at the King Kong Viewing Party tomorrow night. Do yourself a favor and go to Blockbuster and rent 'Arrested Development Season One'. You'll be awfully glad you did.

Speaking of the King Kong Viewing Party, if you haven't confirmed yet, either by emailing me or by RSVPing here on the 42nd Floor, you need to do so now! I need to know how many bananas to buy! Er--I mean--I'm getting back in this boxcar. I'm running away! Not throwing a fun party! Yeah!

Bratty Annie

Candie, our receptionist, is starring in a local college production of Agnus of God (the misspelling is the director's. Personally, I find it charming). You know. It's the show about the nun who says she has immaculately conceived and then proceeds to give herself an abortion so the other nuns won't figure out she's been shtupping the alter boy. I asked her (Candie) this morning if she was having fun with the show. Of course, she's not.

Surprise, surprise! I mean, it's Agnus of God [sic] for goodness' sake! In all honesty, I guess I really didn't need to ask.

Anyway, then she hands me my paycheck and explains that the direct-deposit went through at midnight of last night because some big cheese in Othercity was afraid that, because tomorrow is Veteran's Day, the paychecks might not go through. Of course, that made me happy. It's always nice to get money. And horde it away. Like a chipmunk in the fall. Like how they do. With nuts. You know.

So the paycheck was a nice little boost to what has been an otherwise draining morning. Don't ax me why, but when I logged on to my trusty news website this morning, I sort of felt like slashing my wrists.

I'm serious guys. I've had it with psycho religious zealots. I don't care who you are or which religious book you read, please! Stop acting crazy!

It's a wacko world out there. There are people who think that bobbed hair and bare ankles on girls are abominations, that those who celebrate Christmas are apostates, that drinking booze makes you the moral equivalent of your average prostitute, that people who break the Law of Moses deserve to be put to death immediately, that laughter and happiness are wicked fleshly indulgences, and that any little bad thing that happens is the wrath of God/Allah pouring forth to consume us all in a fiery tempest of divine rage.

It gets worse, folks. There are also people out there who think Shrek is a good movie. These people are a danger to themselves and others and must be stopped.

Somehow, Candie and I got talking about the production of Annie Warbucks--the official sequel to the beloved musical, Annie--I was in several years ago. I was summing up the plot for her when something occurred to me.

Okay, I'm pretty sure everybody agrees that Little Orphan Annie is one of the great optimists of the world, second only to Pollyanna. Pollyanna, however, didn't have a hit song. Just Haley Mills (...even though I guess young Miss Mills' captivating, gut-wrenching performance that can reduce even the most hardened criminal into a bawling babe has to count for something).

But what does Annie--this great optimist whose story spans two hit musicals, comic books, lunchboxes and a handful of direct-to-video spinoffs--what does Annie do when the going really gets tough? I'll give you a hint: she doesn't slap a smile on her face and sing about how things are gonna be okay--and she does it with almost alarming consistency.

Give up?

She RUNS AWAY!

Trust. If something goes afoul in Annie's world, give her a little while to think things through. Inevitably, she'll come to the conclusion that whatever's gone wrong must be her fault and the only way to make things right is to run away.

Now, normally I'd be inclined to pick apart this kid's twisted logic and ask you, dear reader, how on earth such a little pest could endear herself to so many people simply by making a nuisance of herself, scaring her guardians to death, then saying in the final scene that she always believed everything would turn out okay and bursting into song.

But not today.

No. I'm feeling generous today. In fact, I'm going to "Pull an Annie" myself.

I've decided that all the crap that's going on in the world today must be because of something I've done. And I'm running away.

Despite their good intentions, crazy religious zealots like Carrie's Mom don't make the world a better place. They just make it scary.

Party News!

KING KONG VIEWING PARTY UPDATE!

Just a few new bits of information for you. A party date has been decided: This Saturday, the 12th. Doors will open at 7:30pm. We'll get the movie started around 8:15 or whenever everybody shows up. Bear in mind that I do live in an apartment building so start telling yourself now, "I will enjoy the King Kong Viewing Party, but I will also respect the good people who live in the building with Forky by keeping myself from getting too rambunctious." Repeat this a dozen times in place of your evening prayers and we should be good to go.

In addition, a new bit entertainment has just been added to the roster. Old school Donkey Kong from the 1980s will be available for play before the movie viewing. Whoever sets the high score will win something! Something swell!

Now...who's coming to the KING KONG VIEWING PARTY? A-dub and I need to know how many Bluth Frozen Bananas to make! Sign up here! Now!

It's coming...

No, wait--it's here!

The loyal readers of the 42nd Floor are hereby invited to my place this weekend for the one and only...

KING KONG VIEWING PARTY!

What it is: Before Peter Jackson looses his new bigger-louder-faster-hairier King Kong remake on the world, let's go back in time to 1933 and watch the original!

Where it is: My place! Don't know where it is? Email me!

When it is: That's still up in the air. Friday the 11th or Saturday the 12th. Vote for your favorite day now! The weekend is almost upon us! (If you can't make it this weekend, be sure to post something like "Next weekend, PLEASE!")

Why it is: Because! Everybody loves a giant ape!

Who it is: Duh! King Kong! And if you're reading this, you're (probably) invited!

Wherefore it is: That's just a fancy way of asking "Why it is" again. And I already answered that one!

Other stuff you should know: It'll be more fun than a barrel of monkeys! Not only will there be a big, hairy movie to watch, there will also be more bananas than you'll know what to do with! Eat dinner before you come...but save room for dessert!

Menu:

Bluth Frozen Bananas

Tried and True 'Nana Puddin' with 'Nilla Wafers

Jungle-themed drinks (or bring your own!)

Entertainment:

1933's King Kong to be followed by every monkey's favorite bongo rhythm game, Donkey Konga!

Be sure to vote for your favorite party day! Let's get it on like [King] Kong!

One Day More...

Speaking of Chr--Holidaymas...

There was once a time in my life when Christmas felt really really special. Every year I could feel it coming...like a great big choo-choo train made out of candy canes. It was great. I loved it.

Then I graduated from college and I no longer had the month of December off.

No, now I have a normal job. I work on the 42nd Floor. And since Christmas falls on a Sunday this year, the only day off we get is Monday the 26th. Of course, I'll be using some of my vacation days, but good grief! What kind of vacation is that? Where's the five-week winter break?

As a result, in the last couple of years, Christmas has come and gone without it ever really feeling like Christmas.

This year, I'm determined to make it feel like Christmas.

You: But Forky, it's not even Thanksgiving yet!

Hang Thanksgiving! I want Christmas!

You: Could you please stop calling it that? That word makes me feel uncomfortable and left out.

What would you like me to say?

You: Oh, something inoffensive like...Winter.

Chipmunk: Excuse me.

You: Yes, little Chipmunk?

Chipmunk: I find that name offensive.

Forky: You do?

Chipmunk: Of course I do. Do you think I'm going to be sitting in my hollow tree having a party all Winter long? No! I'll be lucky if I even survive. Please find a different name for your celebratory season of death.

Forky: Look, you, what do you want us to do? Cancel Christmas?

You: DON'T USE THAT WORD! I feel uncomfortable and left out!

Forky: Uhh...Winter?

Chipmunk: I don't want to die!

Forky: Uhh........

(You and Chipmunk look at Forky expectantly)

Forky: Season?

???: Sacre bleu! Death to zee infadel!

You: Who are you?

Ali Cordon Bleu: Je m'applle Ali Cordon Bleu! And je proteste your usage of zat word!

Forky: What word? "Season"?

Ali Cordon Bleu: Zut alors! What are you trying to du? Start anozer riotte?

Forky: You mean "riot"?

Ali Cordon Bleu: Zat is what I said, you idiotte!

Chipmunk: Are you one of those rioting French Muslims?

You: (Is there any other kind?)

Ali Cordon Bleu: I 'eard zat, You! You'll find eet tres difficile to laugh once I plunge zee scimitar of Allah into your fat Americaine belly! Americans! Pshaw!

Forky: Look, all we're trying to do is find a name for Chr--Wint--Seas--Holiday.

Ali Cordon Bleu: And what is so "holee" about zees day? Everybody knows it eez zee Feast of Babylon!

Forky: They do?

Ali Cordon Bleu: Of course! And God will pour out 'is judgement on zee nations zat celebrate such such an abomination!

Forky: Wow! You sound just like a staunch Southern Baptist!

Ali Cordon Bleu: We are not so different, zee Souzern Baptists and I.

Forky: Okay, well, I think we can all agree on simply calling it what it is... the Feast of Babylon.

???: Hold it!

Chipmunk: What now?

Leavenworth: My name is Zedakiah Leavenworth and I'm offended!

You: But you're Jewish. You don't even celebrate the Feast of Babylon.

Leavenworth: No, but how do you suppose I'll feel when I open my mailbox and have a stack of Babylon Cards waiting for me? Offended, that's what! And left out!

Forky: I guess you could always just throw the Babylon cards away.

Ali Cordon Bleu: 'e 'as a point.

Leavenworth: You want to know what I say? I say, CANCEL the Feast of Babylon!

All: Cancel the Feast of Babylon??

Forky: But...but think about the children! The children who, on Babylon Eve, will wait up all night for Santa Tammuz to bring them presents! You can't deny them a little joy in this mixed up world of ours, can you?

Leavenworth: I--I--

Forky: Please...

Leavenworth: Well, I--

Ali Cordon Bleu: Wait a minute...'e is Jewish? I find zee mere existence of your people to be offensive.

Leavenworth: (sarcastic) Oh. Okay. Well I guess we'll all just go kill ourselves so you won't have to feel offended.

Ali Cordon Bleu: You really mean it? I mean, you really really mean it?

Leavenworth: No, you nit-wit!

Ali Cordon Bleu: Vous dare to mock moi!

Leavenworth: How can I not? Look at you! You're a rioting French Muslim!

Ali Cordon Bleu: Vous will pay dearly for your words! I will cut off your hand and cook it up au flambé!

Forky: Wait, guys! Stop! It's Christmas!

All: Don't use that word!

Moral of the story: The French had it comin'.

Week 45

For those of you who haven't been following along, this is officially the beginning of work week 45. Do you know why that's such a big deal? Because there are only 52 work weeks in the year. So let's count how many weeks are left in 2005, shall we? Let's see here...

One (counting this week, of course)

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Can you believe that? In two weeks it will be Thanksgiving. And then it will be Christmas--er--Holidaymas. Sorry. You can't say "Xmas" on the 42nd Floor. There are too many people who might be offended or feel left out. So bear that in mind as you prepare to celebrate the Feast of Babylon (or FoB, as the kids have taken to calling it).

More Good News

Guess who's back!

Good News!

I thought it was going to be a perfectly ordinary Thursday morning...when what should I find in my inbox but an email from a dear old friend of mine, A.J. Werner!

Here's what A.J. had to say:


Hello, dear friend on the sidewalks of Life,

I hope this message finds you well. I am so sorry I've been out of touch. I've been traveling all over this great big country of ours absorbing new life experiences of which to write about. Mr. Bubbles, my kitty companion, is in good health and has helped me in many a writing project. My sister is still locked in jail, however. It's thoughts like those that make the tears of my heart pour fourth.

I understand my Sidewalk Monologues were of great help to you during your college career. A little bird told me the entire story and it has imspired me to take up the quill once again. I saw your bolg and I'm thinking of starting one myself. Any assistance would be appreciated. There's nothing more I desire than to be of some help to any people who are ever struggling in the dark parts of life. I will be in touch.

Yours for always and always,

A.J. Werner

P.S. Here’s the beginning of a new monologue I’m working on. Perhaps you could post it on your bolg and send me critiques.

I call it “By the Side of the Seaside”

Sally: I sell seashells by the seashore, but I’m almost never actually really there. I live in Minnesota where there is no seashore. There are some lakes here and there—they call us the Land of A Thousand Lakes, actually, and you’d be surprised at the sorts of things that wash up on the lake shore. Once, I was walking along the side of the lake when

That’s all I’ve written so far.

For those of you who don’t know about Ms. Werner, she was of great assistance to me during a particularly trying period while I was in an acting class at Everycity U. A ridiculous acting teacher (of the ilk that asks you to sizzle like bacon and “be more orange”) asked us to present monologues to the class so he could make them more surreal. With A.J.’s help, I found the perfect monologue.

Since then she’s been sort of latter-day Mary Poppins, who swoops in just when you need her to set things right. Those of you who have never met her are in for a real treat. I’ll keep you all posted on the status of her bolg.

One Swell Word

You'll want to use this word as soon as you know what it means! I promise!

On My Own...

Uh oh. It looks like the French are trying to reinact the barricade scene from Les Miserables...AGAIN! They don't seem to 'get' that the more organized, more heavily armed law enforcement will always overpower the rabble. And kill them every time. Empty chairs at empty tables, anyone? And think of all the Eponines who are going to throw themselves in front of their Mariuses and die for unrequited love!

Ah, Eponine. Now there's an interesting character if ever there was one. Everybody loves her and hates Cosette. Why? Oh, that's easy. Because Cosette has all her dreams come true. She's pretty, she has a secret fortune thanks to her protective and studly adoptive daddy, Jean Valjean. She's kind, she's virtuous, she's pure and innocent. Generally speaking, she's Less Miserable than anyone else in the book.

Meanwhile, Eponine took a swan dive off the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. She's got nasty parents, not a dime to her name, maybe like two teeth in her nasty mouth, has serious codependency issues and tries WAY too hard to get Marius to like her. She lies, she steals, she throws hissy-fits, and stalks the man she's obsessed with. Generally speaking, she's the Most Miserable of anybody else in the book. Save for maybe Fantine. But who cares about her, right? She wasn't in love with a hot young stud who didn't love her back.

But all the girls like Eponine more than Cosette (or "That [expletive] Cosette" as someone from my high school days remembered her). Let's break it down. Let's say you're in the middle of the French Revolution. You don't have a toothbrush. You don't have make-up. You don't have clothes. You live in filth. You're destitute.

You'll probably look a lot less like this:

Eponine's hot!

and a lot more like this:

Eponine's not!

But give toothless, nasty Eponine a song like 'On My Own' and suddenly every girl in every high school show choir across America not only wants to be Eponine...she thinks she is Eponine. You know the type. They're the ones who made the Jekyll and Hyde such a hit. They look around their high school and purposely develop impossible crushes on the star quarterback just so they can wander around outside in the middle of the night and sing "On my own...pretending he's besaaaaahde muuuueeeeee..."

Fortunately for Broadway, they've figured out that unrequited high school-style romance is a goldmine. Wicked was in serious trouble until they started marketing the show to teeny-boppers. Now it's a huge hit. And the secret to the show's success? Not one unrequited love song...but an entire score of 'em! Everybody's running/flying around the stage singing ballads about how nobody loves them. And audiences pay out the nose to see it every time.

I'm tellin' ya, fill a show with a bunch of girls who love guys who don't love them back and you'll have a hit on your hands. And you can take that to the bank.

Hellzahoppin'!

The good readers of the 42nd Floor have spoken! It was a long and fierce battle and, at times, it appeared that Christmas, a.k.a. the Feast of Babylon, would emerge triumphant. But in the end, Easter, a.k.a. the Feast of Ishtar, pulled through, scoring a whopping 12 votes and winning itself the coveted title of "Most Evil Holiday" or, as we like to call it up here on Floor 42, "Most Evil Hell-iday"!

And is it any surprise? Though considered by many to be the most Christian of all the holidays on the calendar, a little investigative research will tell you that it's also the most pagan! Talk about irony!

So celebrate it if you must, but remember, if you do, you'll pay! You'll pay in hell!

Dia de los Muertos

"When there's no more room in hell, the dead will walk the earth."

-the Black Dude from Dawn of the Dead