Dream Review #4 - Zombie Picnic

I was a big-time director filming the final scene of this movie I wrote called Zombie Picnic, which took place at Bath Nature Preserve in Bath, Ohio.

It was a five-minute, unedited pan of the zombie picnic.

Basically, the zombies won and took over the town of Bath. To celebrate, they were, unintentionally, having a picnic and feasting on all of the humans at the nature preserve.

Picture this: Body parts being ripped apart. Blood flying everywhere. Zombies fighting over scraps of human brains. Humans screaming in agony.

Not tooting my own horn, but - with the sunset coming through the lens followed by the colorful flowers, picnic tables, soccer fields and the playground mixed in with the macabre imagery - it was a beautiful shot.

But something always went wrong. Some zombie extra would sneeze. A key actor would accidentally look at the camera. The boom mic would get into the camera shot.

We must have gone through the shot 10 times. And I was staring to get pissed.

In any event, we had one more shot before the sun finally set. I grabbed a megaphone from my assistant and yelled to the cast and crew.

"This is the final fucking shot,"I screamed. "Everyone better be on their A-game on this one or your all fucking fired!"

"YOU UNDERSTAND ME MOTHER FUCKERS!!!" I walked over to the cinematographer and grabbed the camera. "I'm shooting this one."

"ACTION!"

We filmed the five-minute shot to perfection. Every actor hit their cues. The blood spurted at the exact moment I wanted to. Zombies dug their teeth into the mayor's brain on cue. In short, the shot turned out beautifully.

"Cut," I yelled. "Good job everyone. That's a wrap. Go home." Everyone let out a cheer and started to leave the set.

Suddenly, my producer came running over to me.

"We didn't get the shot," he said patting me back. "Sorry."

"What," I screamed. "Why not?"

He pointed down to the camera I had in my hand. But it wasn't a camera at all. It was a severed head with a worm squirting out of one of the eye sockets.

I was filming the final scene with a zombie head.

"Fuck," I said. "Isn't there someway we can hook up wire to its brain so we can get the imagery?"

"I don't think so, sir" My producer siad. "Nothiing like that has been invented yet?"

"Goddammit," I screamed as I threw the severed head into the woods walked over to my trailer and did two lines of coke.

Then I woke up.


Links to my other Dream Reviews:

• Dream Review #1
• Dream Review #2
• Dream Review #3
  

Fear and Loathing in Ohio

This past weekend, we Ohioans finally got a taste of good weather. Mid-60's. Partly sunny skies. Lows in the 40's at night.

Almost perfect.

It's weather I've been waiting for since, oh, November. And it's finally here.

Almost.

I'm sure there will one or two frosty days before the flowers start to bloom, the grass starts to grow and the bugs start to swarm.

However, this past weekend, it was nice to hear the birds. It was nice to have my kids finally out of their five-month prison sentence. It was nice to hear all the old men (including myself) fine-tune their lawnmowers and weedwackers in anticipation of Mowing Season. It was also nice to see my neighbors who, like the rabbits from Watership Down, finally crawled out of their little burrows to forage for food, and beer.

Which brings me to a dreamy revelation...after living in Ohio for 35 years, I've got to get the FUCK out of here.

Don't get me wrong there are plenty of great things about Ohio. Going to BW3 on a Sunday afternoon comes to mind. But, I want to experience this type of sunny weather year round. I want to walk down the street with my shirt off 12 months out of the year all day and all night. I want the homeless people I walk by on the way to work to have six-pack abs and nice brown tans.

I want to move to Puerto Rico.

"Why Puerto Rico?" you ask.

Well, there are a bevy of reasons:

• It's an island in the caribbean.



• It's a semi-autonomous territory of the United States subject to U.S. jurisdiction and sovereignty. (thanks Wikipedia!)



• All you need is an American license to get back and forth to the states.



• It's extremely multicultural, which is great for my kids...and myself. I want to immerse my family in as many different nationalities and cultures I can instead of living in white-bread cracker land.



• The official language is Spanish and English, which bodes extremely well for my whole family picking up two languages.



• And most importantly, it enjoys an average temperature of 82.4 degrees throughout the year, which will significantly cut down on my t-shirt purchases.

Now many of you are probably thinking, "Dude, you'd ditch your family and friends to go live in Puerto Rico?"

For five-plus years in paradise? Hell yeah! Look, unless you're a Buddhist, we only go-around once on this Earth. All our clocks are ticking. And don't think just because you're young, this equation doesn't count for you. You never know when you're going to croak? Go ahead and ask Patrick Swayze. Or Biggy Smalls. Or even Tupac

When I'm lying on my death bed, I want to have no regrets. I want to believe that I did everything I possibly wanted do in this life. (Within reason of course.)

So, my question back to you is 'Why The Fuck Not?'

And if you really truly miss me, you can come visit anytime you want - passport free! I can guarantee you that the scenery and temperatures during winter would be a lot better than in Northeast Ohio.

Now when I have this conversation with other people. Some idiot always pipes up and says "I don't know if I could do it, man. I enjoy the seasons too much."

I'm calling bullshit on that. Besides a couple days of skiing at Holiday Valley, the winter sucks. Either it's snowing in Cleveland (which turns a rank shade of brown in two days), raining in Columbus and completely cloudy everywhere else.

Our autumn has been reduced to, basically, early October to the end of November before we segue into Winter. And our Spring has been reduced to a couple weeks in May, which then turns into a hot and humid summer. Which, I should admit, isn't half bad especially when you live by a big body of water such as Lake Erie.

That said, for the five years I'm away, I'll use my vacation time to come up to Ohio during the whole month of October (or at least three weeks). That way, I've captured the fall foilage, enjoyed a couple Ohio State Buckeyes football games and gotten in touch with family and friends too afraid to come visit me. Then, I'll hop aboard a jet and head back to my homeland before Jack Frost nips at my asthmatic lungs.

My only hesitation? I was under the impression that if you took your pet to Puerto Rico, it would have to be quarantined and examined for 30 days before being released. According to the USDA, if your pet has all its shots, he can hop right off the plane and start chasing lizards.

Sign me up for a one-way ticket to paradise!

Now all I have to do is get this credit card debt paid off and start making some money.

Hmmmm. Maybe I'll write a book.

In Search Of a Warm Easter In Ohio.

Not sure if I'm totally believing all of Al Gore's rhetoric, but when it comes to Easter, I'm thinking there's some sort of global warming conspiracy going on.

When I was a little lad, I remember waking up on Easter Sunday to green grass, bright sun, colorful tulips blooming in the garden and a warm breeze ruffling through my bowl cut hair.

Some people may say that I'm crazy and this memory was something that I couldn't have possibly experienced in Ohio.

But, I asked my brother, my family and I even talked various friends and co-workers around my age (35). And all of them concur, the Ohio Easters of my youth were a lot different than the Easters we're witnessing nowadays.

Our Easters now consist of cold winds, muddy ground, gray skies, steel clouds and perhaps a flurry or two.

You would think we were celebrating Jesus' Birth rather than his Resurrection.

Well according to an article I found in The Athens News Courier, this year we can toss Al Gore out of the equation all together.

As it turns out, this is the second-earliest Easter....ever.

This year's Easter is March 23. The earliest Easter can be observed is March 22, which last occurred in 1818. According to the article, the next time Easter will be this early will be in 2228.

So, in five or six years, perhaps my kids will be hunting easter eggs outside in shorts and t-shirts rather than snowpants, galoshes and ski caps.

If Al Gore has anything to say about it, they will.

Thoughts on last night's BCS Championship.

Well, although I'll probably be looking for a new OSU hat sometime in the near future despite the loss. For now, the brown OSU hat stays on top of my head as a reminder of the past two BCS championship games.

Here are a couple thoughts concerning the Bucks 38-24 Bashing in the Bayou (in glorious copywriter bullet points, of course):

• As soon as Wells ran back the first touchdown to go up 7-0, my first response was "Uh, oh. I've got a bad feeling about this." I kid you not.


• As soon as the score was 10-0, everyone at The Winking Lizard in Peninsula started laughing and having a good ol' time like the Buckeyes already won the championship. I remember looking around thinking "What is wrong with you people?"


• 83 penalty yards for Ohio State including a roughing the punter penalty for a first down. Yikes.


• What's up with the defense? Why can't they wrap up and tackle opponents?


• 31 unanswered points? Can someone explain how that happens against the nation's No. 1 defense?


• LSU's secondary looked awesome. LSU's defense looked awesome.


• On offense, whenever the Tiger's were looking at third and long, I thought to myself, "They're going to get a first down." And they did. Every. Single. Time.


• Why is it as soon as Ohio State is behind one touchdown, it seems like the entire Buckeyes game plan gets thrown out the window?


• Where's Ricky Dudley when you need him? LSU tight-end Richard Dickson caught two TD passes. What's up with that?


• Just like last year, I can't believe I actually watched the whole freaking game waiting, hoping, thinking the Bucks were going to turn it around. Blech.


• I think Ohio State needs to shelve Youngstown State and Kent State and schedule at least two very big non-conference games a year to prepare for a possible conference title and championship run. If they don't win the two biggies, then at least they'll know they're not good enough to make it to the big game.


• I wonder what the Rose Bowl against USC would've been like?


• I wonder if West Virginia would have done the same thing to us had they beat Pittsburgh?
  
  To add insult to injury I came across this very unflattering Ohio State commentary by ESPN regular Pat Forde on ESPN.com today.
  
  

  All I can say is YEEEEEOUCH!

Run To The Hills

My family moved to Bath, Ohio, in the Spring of 2007.

It's a small country town about 15 miles out of Akron. There are no cell-phone towers, no commercial eateries, no McDonalds and no strip shopping centers. All in all, it's a fairly quiet town with a great view of the stars every single night.

And, if you can dodge cars speeding 70 MPH through the countryside, it’s also runner’s paradise.

From the Cuyahoga Falls National Park to the Bath Nature Preserve to a local track at Revere High School (for night runs) and O'Neill Woods, the place is virtually designed for cross-country runners.

But what gets me really, really excited about running in Bath ... are the hills.

Ask any track and field/cross country runner and they'll tell you that If you want to lose weight, get conditioned and gain endurance, you should incorporate hills into your weekly running regimen.

Althought I have no facts to back this up, it's been said that former Chicago Bears running back Walter Payton ran steps and hills as his primary workout. Sure, he's dead. But, before meeting his make, he broke a ton of records in the NFL. So, I say if it's good enough for a Hall of Fame running back, it's good enough for me.

I finally got to head out onto the open highway and tackle my first Bath hill in March of 2007.

After lacing up my Asics running shoes, taking a shot of my inhaler and stretching, I walked out of my driveway and hit the pavement with full gusto.

About 100 yards into my run I careened a half-mile downhill. I then proceeded to run a half-mile on a paved road to Moore's Chapel cemetery. I proceeded to run the 1/4-mile loop of the cemetary - all the while being cheered on by Bath's previous living - then I hightailed it back home.

All in all, I was about a mile and a half away from the crib. Three miles in all.

However, stopping me from a fresh glass of water, and an after-run beer, was the initial 1/2 mile hill I had so effortlessly ran down.

As I approached the 70-degree hill, I slowed my jog, took a deep breath.

Like an extra from the movie Braveheart, I let out a battle scream and attacked the hill like a man possessed. Huffing and puffing. Huffing and puffing. I felt like the little engine that could. Chugga. Chugga. Chugga. Chugga. "I think I can. I think I can. I think I can."

More importantly, I could feel the blubber in my stomach pound back and forth and virtually burn away with each foot-stomp to the ground.

My breathing deepened. My legs started to burn. I was fatigued. I was almost to the top.

I stopped.

Hill - 1
Eimer - 0

I just got my ass kicked by a hill.

Breathing like a porno star after a two-hour sex session, I walked the rest of the way. However, as punishment to myself for not succeeding, I added another half-mile to my run at the top. It was a win-win situation. Or, depending on how you look at it, a lose-lose situation.

Barring a nuclear bomb leveling Bath - I knew that damn, dirty hill was going to be there tomorrow. And the next day. And the next. So, sooner or later, I knew I was going to kick its ass. And I've done that on multiple occasions.

Now, after a summer of tackling the hills of Bath, I make it to the top about 85% of the time. Not too bad considering my runs have been limited to about 2-3 miles every other day.

As I brace for a winter of 'not-alot-of-running' due to two kids under two years old, nasty Northeast Ohio weather and Day Light Savings Time, I expect I'll have a similar experience next Spring.

But you can count on me to be in tip-top thong shape before the pools open on Memorial Day 2008.

The Mystery of The Turd

From birth to four-years old, I really have no memories . None. Zip. Nada. Nothing.

It was either science-fiction author Isaac Asimov or comic book artist John Byrne who claimed to remember being born. He even gave a detailed description of the operating room, people in the room, the colors of the wall and what exactly transpired after he came out of the womb.

Pretty crazy. I'm not really sure if that's the norm or not. But, I can't remember a single thing, until 1976 when I started kindergarten at Hilltop Elementary School on Colerain Pike.

In fact, I can remember this one Kinder-story like it just happened yesterday:

It was recess and I was hanging out with my classmates on the playground. I really wouldn’t call them friends yet because I barely knew them. (And what the hell would we talk about anyway? Probably jibberish.)

Anyhow, this one kid - Russell - started dancing around and holding his butt. "I gotta go." he screamed to no one in particular. Then, without warning, he unbuttoned his cord pants, pulled them down around his ankles and plopped out a turd right on the playground cement.

The kids around him started laughing. I was pretty shocked. I looked around for teachers. They didn’t notice. Even so, I got nervous.

Suddenly one of the giggling kids, Jason, went over to the turd, picked it up and dropped it into an open classroom window. Not our kindergarten classroom, mind you. But a grown-up classroom on the other side of the school. First Grade.

All the kids scattered like they just threw a grenade into a foxhole. I took off as well. (I wasn't stupid). But, for the remainder of recess, I just stared intently at the turd window. "Did I do something wrong?" my guilt-ridden mind asked myself over and over as the recess bell rang and we entered the building.

It was music time and we were getting ready to sing a hearty rendition of BINGO. When, all of a sudden, Hilltop's first-grade teacher burst into the room. This old bag of bones looked like she passed up on retirement and was heading straight to death. She wore these nylon stockings that would roll down her boney ankles. And she would always wear those 1950’s housemother dresses you see on Leave it To Beaver or The Andy Griffith Show. They were pastel green and always dirty. It looked like she hand-washed all of her clothes.

But right at the moment, I wasn't focusing on our first-grade teacher's dress habits. The thing that caught my attention on this particular day was the sloppy, brown turd dangling in her hand. It was Russell's turd.

And she wasn't holding it with a paper towel or a rag? No, that would be too sanitary. Instead, she held the turd in her bare hand for all the world to see

"Who did this? Who threw this into my classroom?" She screamed at the top of her lungs as she waved the brown bomb into the air like the Statue of Liberty. I noticed the brown turd juice running down her fingers.

A couple kids in the class started to cry. I thought I was going to barf.

My heart started racing. I remember thinking. "I know I was there. And I remember Russell taking a dump. But maybe, I made it all up? Maybe, in fact, I did the dirty doody."

Her eyes locked with mine. "You!" she screamed. "I saw you standing outside the window, did you do this?" Spit was flying. And her hair was bobbing in the wind as she thrust the turd within inches of my face.

I gave her a "Who me?" look. Shook my head and began to scan the room for Russell and Jason. They were looking straight ahead with the most innocent look on their faces. The bastards. How could they be so cool, calm and collected at a time like this?

"Can we please talk about this in the hall," our kindergarten teacher, Ms. Barrisford, said to the first-grade teacher as she grabbed her by the arm and escorted her out of the classroom.

Before she exited the room, the first-grade teacher extended her hand and dropped Russell's juicy turd into the metal trash container next to the door.

It landed with a KABLOMB! that echoed throughout the halls.

When the door slammed, all the other kid’s giggled…even Russell and Jason. I breathed a sigh of relief. The mystery of the turd would remain unsolved.

That is, until now.