Film Analysis

Dumb and Dumber (1994)

OW: Harry and Lloyd have insignificant jobs. Harry cleans dogs and Lloyd is a limo driver. "It's okay. I'm a limo driver!"
Call: Lloyd meets Mrs. Swanson. He falls for her. While watching her leave at the airport, he notices that she forgets her briefcase. "Goodbye my love!!!!!" (Crash).
Refusal: Lloyd brings the briefcase back to Harry. "I'd have to be some kind of lowlife to rooting around in someone else's private property." "Is it locked?" "Yeah, really well too." Harry doesn't want to go to Aspen.
Mentor: Lloyd talks Harry into it. "So I wanna go someplace where we know someone who can pluck us in to he social pipeline." Lloyd breaks down in tears. Harry consoles them. It's like they're both mentoring each other.
Threshold: "You sold my dead bird to a blind kid?" They embark on their journey in the sheepdog. Road trip! They arrive in Park City.
Tests, allies, enemies: They pick up a hitchhiker and accidentally kill him. They think he's a friend, but the audience knows he's the bad guy out to hurt them and recover the briefcase. They meet C-bass in the diner. He hocks on their burger and they stick him with the bill. "Genius, sheer genius. So what happens in the movie? They get away scot free?" "Know. About a half-mile down the road he catches up with them and slits their throats. It was a good one." (Engine roars). They drive 1/6 of the country in the wrong direction. Lloyd trades the sheepdog for a scooter, straight up. They reach Park City, frozen to each other. In Park City, they break open the briefcase and realize it's filled with tons of money.
Approach:
Ordeal:
Reward:
The Road Back:
Resurrection: "Harry. You're alive! And you're a horrible shot."
Return with Elixir:

First Draft of Essay

A Gift I'd Like to Give.

Think of WHAT- will my gift be a tangible gift or an idealistic, abstract gift?
Think of WHO- will my gift be for my father, or my unborn child, or humanity?
Then of course, think of WHY- what would make your gift unique?

Smart Desk- new invention, courtesy of student Billy Musselman
A book
A pet
Freedom
Love
World peace (beauty contest answer)

Poem 3: Love Poem

Envy is a Red Dress

It was ladies' choice and
The girl in the red dress went with
another guy

I went with Destiny.

I couldn't help but stare
at her
looking at him
looking at her
looking at him

so happy
with him

and here I am
alone.
Dancing with Destiny.
She broke my heart
without even knowing my name.

"Hi Kyle," she said.
I couldn't believe it.
I knew that she knew.
Alone with her for only a moment,
a moment
that will last forever.

I returned to my date with Destiny.
She returned
looking at him
looking at her
dancing.

And I kid you not
"Lady in Red" was the song they played.
I'd never seen anyone so beautiful
charming
from across a crowded room
then the song ended.

Crowds of kids walked to their cars
laughing
I wanted to cry

Why couldn't she
be going home with me?

I had to apologize
to Destiny.
It wasn't her fault.

But listen
see this story has a happy ending.
You know that girl?
The one in the red dress
who looked more beautiful than...

Well, we got married.

We laugh about that night
when she first spoke to me
and I fell in love.
And she swears-- that night--
the dress she was wearing
was black.

Poem 2: Life Story

"Convert"

Before you can be married to poetry
you must first
be engaged

I remember a lot of people loved her
I only had a crush

She had a boyfriend
He could be anybody
Eliot, Dylan, or Billy Effing Collins.
I was jealous of them all.

Long story short
At the risk of making the difficult seem transparent
Teaching the kids that true love grows on trees
at first sight
I'll tell you the truth:
I wanted her but she chose me.

We laugh about how we got together
One line
Let us go then,
the times are a-changin'
you and I
sailing alone around the room

She is love is God is poetry is mine.

I Remember

I remember red

I remember the writing on the wall
the writing on the grout
Graffiti never made me laugh so hard

I remember trees
no leaves
Fall seems to last forever.

I remember jammies
thin carpet
The cinderblock walls
I remember being poor
But we were so rich

I remember bed time
night nights
Twinkle twinkle one more time Daddy
a one, a two, a three

I remember the day we moved
Cy was 4. Bo was 2.
I remember their childhood
I hope they do too

Journal Entry

Why I Write (Prompt #3)

I’m not sure who said this, but I will repeat it anyway: Writing is the only thing that when I’m doing it, I don’t feel like I should be doing something else. It wasn’t always this way, however.

In high school I decided to join the newspaper staff not as a writer, but as a photographer. I completed my first assignment with enthusiasm. I was going to be the next great photographer.

Apparently I wasn’t paying attention the day they taught us how to load the film in the camera, because the pictures didn’t develop. I was fired as the photographer, but I was already enrolled in the class. So I became a writer. Like many writers, I think the vocation of writing chose me.

So why do I write? A big part of it is ego. I want to seem clever. I want to be talked about. I want to be great. However, writing isn’t the only way to feed the ego. For me, any type of creativity satisfies this craving. Besides writing, I’ve tried performing in an improv group, radio, singing, dancing, acting, directing, and stand-up comedy, just to name a few.

For some reason, though, I always come back to writing. Whether it’s playwriting, screenwriting, newspaper, magazine, internet, sports writing, poetry, lyrics, short stories, blogging, corporate newsletters, or whatever. This is how I choose to create.

It’s more than ego, though. I write to entertain. Since my early childhood, I’ve been a clown. A class clown, a work clown, and now a class clown again. I’m a high school English teacher, but I often wonder if I’m truly an educator or just a low-paid stand-up comedian with summers off.

The bigger question right now in my life is why do I write plays? Why not movies? Poetry? Novels? The answer to this question is still evolving, but here’s what I’ve got so far. Plays are fun. Plays are the conversations that take place at the kids’ table, not the adults’ table—and I hate the conversations that take place at the adults’ table. Plays have a certain spur-of-the-moment, impromptu appeal that no other medium offers. “Here, put on this coat, sit on that chair, you two are fighting over that girl. Ready, go!” I love the audience, sitting in the dark, like they’re part of the performance. I love writing dialogue.

I write for more reasons than I can fill on a page. Reasons that continue to elude me. Reasons that continue to evolve as I get older, as I experience more. I hope it always remains somewhat of a mystery. That’s half the fun.

Impulse 2

B (staring at the menu): When did eggs become so expensive?
G: You make me sick.
B: Don't start on me again. Will you get over it already?
G: Look around you, Billy. Look around you.
(Billy looks around).
B: Yeah, what?
G: It's freakin' freezing outside Billy. It's freezing!
B: Yeah, well, you should've brought a jacket.
G: You should've brought a jacket!
B: I did bring a jacket. And gloves.
G: You should've brought one for me.
B: Why on earth is it my responsibility to bring you a jacket?
G: Because I'm your girlfriend. And I thought you cared about me.
B: Look. I know you have daddy issues, and I am older than you, but-
G: Excuse me. Daddy issues?
B: Yeah.
G: How dare you bring up my father here.
B: Oh I'm sorry, are you only allowed to talk about him with your therapist?
G: You disgust me.
B: Whatever. I don't even care any more.
G: Lower your voice, will you?
B (yelling): I will not lower my voice. I will speak as loud as I want to.
G: Don't cause a scene.
B (yelling): She told me not to cause a scene. I think it's too late for that.
G: That's real mature, Billy. Real mature.
B: Yeah, well. Whatever.
G: Is that all you have to say?
B: That's all I could think of.
G: I can't do this anymore, Billy. I'm leaving.
B: Fine. Get your stuff out of my apartment. You know, it'll be nice to have my bedroom back to myself.
G: No, I wasn't saying I'm moving out, I'm just leaving the restaurant.
B: Oh.
G: Why, do you want me to move out?
B: No. Not unless you want to move out.
G: I don't want to move out.
B: Then I don't want you to move out.
G: Okay then.
(Pause).
B: Look, I'm sorry I didn't bring you a jacket, okay? Do you want to wear mine?
G: No. It doesn't match my outfit. But thank you.

Sketch

Buster

Then the favorite child, the dog, laying quietly, victoriously, staring like a curious toddler with no eyelids, pretending now to be a log, now a newspaper, now a sack of potatoes, while his tongue nearly falls asleep from boredom. He stares and yawns at the TV, no job, as he scratches himself and reminds everyone around him how terrible their life is. Then suddenly he stands up, as if he could read my mind, as if he were finally going to get a job, do something with his life, anything. His confused, wobbly legs struggle to hold his weight up, as awkward as a handshake in the men's room. But he doesn't get dressed, doesn't check the want ads, doesn't answer the phone. Instead he simply turns around in a circle, lays back down, and begins to lick himself. Again.

Scene

Two men driving down a dark highway in the rain.

Brad: This is a good song.
Driver: What?
(Silence.)
Brad: I said-
Driver: What did you say?
Brad: I said this was a good song.
Driver: Do you want me to turn it off?
Brad: No, no. I like it. I was just saying it's a good song. You don't have to turn it off.
(Silence.)
Brad: Unless you want to turn it off.
Driver: What?
Brad: You can turn it off if you want to, I don't care.
Driver: I like this song.
Brad: Yeah. Yeah, me too. You should turn it up.
Driver: But then we can't talk.
Brad: Right. Right. That's a good point.
(Silence.)
Brad: So did you grow up around here?
Driver: I don't even know where we are.
Brad: We're in Beaver, I think. Yeah, there's a sign right there. Beaver.
Driver: Yeah, I grew up right around here.
Brad: That's cool.
(Silence.)
Brad: This is a nice car. Buying or leasing?
Driver: We don't have to talk.
Brad: Yeah. Yeah, we don't have to talk. Who says we have to talk?
(Silence.)
Brad: Maybe I'll just turn up the radio-
Driver: What are you doing?
Brad: I was just going to turn up the radio.
Driver: I thought we talked about that already.
Brad: Oh yeah. Right. I forgot.
(Silence.)
Driver: I like to write poetry.
Brad: Yeah? Really?
Driver: Would you like to hear one of my poems?
Brad: Yeah. I would really- That would be nice.
Driver: Ooh baby, baby. It is a wild world. It's hard to get by just upon a smile girl. Ooh baby, baby. It is a wild world. I'll always remember you like a child, girl.
Brad: That's Cat Stevens, right?
Driver: Excuse me?
Brad: No, maybe-
(Silence.)
Brad: Never mind. I don't know- Never mind.
Driver: I wrote it for my daughter.
Brad: Really? You have a daughter?
Driver: Yeah, I have a daughter. Her name's Cat.

First Page

The Man Who Died Laughing

My brother Harold's a jerk. Don't get me wrong, I love him. But if we weren't related, I doubt I'd ever talk to him. That's what makes this so difficult. See, I just got a call from my mom this morning. Harold's dead.

I remember when we were little, probably 8 or 9. He was a year younger than me, but he always acted older. We were sitting around the house, bored. He picked up the phone, dialed a number, and hung up. I asked who it was and he just laughed. A few minutes later, the doorbell rang. Two cops stood at the doorstep, scared me to death. They said a 9-1-1 call was made. Harold was nowhere to be found. I realized I was a target of another one of his pranks. I don't remember laughing.

Of course I'm going to the funeral. I just don't know what I'm going to say.

Intro

I'm a lover, not a fighter. But I'm not a reader, I'm a writer.

It was Stephen King who convinced me of the importance of reading. It wasn't to gain knowledge, or to get smarter, or to attain a deeper sense of culture. It was to become a better writer. I never looked at it that way before. So now I read as a writer...and it's changed everything.

In high school I wrote for the school paper. Humorous top ten lists and sports features. Nothing serious. Not until college did I dare to take risks as a writer. Then I actually began to look at myself as a writer. There was still one problem, though. I wanted to be a writer, but I hadn't actually written anything.

It's much easier to want to be something than to actually be something. I suffered from this affliction for years. In the winter of 2003, I changed my mind. I sat down and wrote. I entered two writing contests and won them both. I finally started to believe. I was, am, and always will be a writer.

I thought writing would bring me riches and fame. Not yet. Since my early success, I've dealt with my share of rejection. It's only made me stronger, better, more determined.

Now I teach writing. I encourage young people to take risks as writers and dare to be great. Don't get me wrong. I still write. But I'm patient. As Rilke said,

• There is here no measuring with time, no year matters, and ten years are nothing. Being an artist means, not reckoning and counting, but ripening like the tree which does not force its sap and stands confident in the storms of Spring without the fear that after them may come no Summer. It does come. I learn it daily, learn it with pain to which I am grateful.

I sleep well knowing I spend my days doing something I love. And now I'm writing this post, while at the same time modeling for my students what I want them to do.

Talk about killing two birds with one click of the mouse.