Showing posts with label Shakespeare. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Shakespeare. Show all posts

Friday, May 11, 2007

Recycling Center: Fist City Edition

In case you missed it, here's the essay I read on Fist City last night. Of course, the best option is still to subscribe to the podcast, and listen to my mellifluous voice as I read it to you--because, really, who has the time in this busy modern world to read something for yourself? I come in at about the 45 minute mark of the show (actually the 1:45 mark on the podcast, since Fist City shares its 2-hour slot with The Rev Clempson Show). Not that you shouldn't listen to the rest of the show, as it contains much Elliott Kalan and Brock Mahan hilarity, with a guest appearance by Eric "War of the Worlds" Zuckerman.

But for those of you who read blogs, yet fear podcasts (a small minority, to be sure), here's what I read:

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Thanks, Brock and Elliott—I’m here to discuss what is probably the most significant literary find of the last two hundred years, and, since you’ve assured me that this radio show is broadcast directly into the homes of all the Nobel Prize committee members, at least insomuch as they all probably have Internet connections, I’ve decided to unveil it here.

I have discovered a lost folio of Shakespeare, what I like to call the Director’s Cut With Alternate Endings Folio, or the “Caesar Stabbed First” Folio. It contains several surprising variations on his well-known plays, apparently the result of extensive focus testing with Globe Theatre audiences; budgetary constraints; and the ever-present danger of execution at the hand of Lord Wessex, as played by Colin Firth.

Many of the alternate versions are quite shocking. For instance, in this version of Hamlet, after everyone has apparently died, it is revealed that all the events of the play had merely been a charade set up by Hamlet’s uncle Claudius, in an attempt to cheer him up and get him to act less, quote, “Danish.” Then Rosencrantz comes in and gives Hamlet a shirt, which reads, “I wast drugged and left for dead in Elsinore, and all I received in return wast this inferior tunic,” with a logo on the back, reading “The Goodnight Sweet Prince Tour, 1502.” Similar tunics were available from Globe Theatre hot dog vendors, who, incidentally, sold real canines cooked over a spit. Apparently, this ending was insisted on by Shakespeare’s producer who, after seeing the lousy receipts for Titus Andronicus, decided that family audiences wouldn’t pay to see bloodbaths.

Or consider the original ending to The Tempest, in which the title character (The Tempest) returns to seek revenge against Ariel by throwing a series of CGI cows at her (CGI meaning, of course, Cow Gaffer Invented -- the chief carpenter apparently rigged up some pretty convincing paper mache cows). Or an early King Lear, all about a dirty old man who spends the play leering at his three daughters, a concept that was only abandoned when Christopher Marlowe told Shakespeare that he found it, “a little thin.”

Additionally, the folio contains some revealing commentary, apparently from a scholar contemporary to Shakespeare. For instance, one tidbit about “the problem plays” – so named because they have the problem of not being as good as the rest of his plays – it turns out that they’re a little uneven because they were originally just one big play, composed over a poppy-fueled long weekend, the original title being, Measure Measures All That Troilus Well for Cressida before Winter’s End, and the Tale of the Well Merchant, Timon of Athens, of Venice. It was an 18-hour mess.

And that’s not even getting into the lost plays that I found in this folio. Like Love’s Labor Won – that’s basically just wall-to-wall hardcore sex. 13th Night, where Malvolio returns wearing a rugby mask to slaughter the other characters while they’re vacationing at Camp Loch Ness, and the sequel to As You Like It, called Whatever You Want which was the first choose your own adventure play.

Oddly, I found this folio while cleaning out my garage, in a box labeled “Stuff That Didn’t Come from England,” and the paper it’s printed on has a watermark reading “Ben Franklin Bond” which would seem to date it post-Shakespeare’s lifetime by a significant margin, but I’m certain this find is genuine—so certain that I’m willing to split half of my aforementioned Nobel Prize monies with any expert that agrees with me… wink wink Harold Bloom. Anyway, the folio’s for sale, so if you’re interested, call up the studio. I’d prefer to sell to a museum, of course, but I’ll listen to anyone with cash money. Oh, yeah, no fatties.

Brock? Elliot?

Tuesday, August 09, 2005

Some Old Comedy

Hey. Since the Jest site is being rejiggered, and--at least for now--no longer holds any archived pieces (and a lot of my stuff was never put online in the first place), I'm gonna, over the next couple of days, post some of the things I wrote for them up here.

As far as I've been able to ascertain, I retain the rights to do this (at least with stuff that was published more than six months ago) as long as I make it clear that this material was originally published in Jest. Which it was. Jest, Jest, Jest! Contractual obligation filled! Plus, when the new Jest website is up, I'll let you guys know, and you can see all-new material from yours truly.

But for now, let's start off by revisiting my very first work for that publication, the piece that first brought me to the attention of then-editor Ritch Duncan:

Variations on Four Themes by Shakespeare

Sonnet 18
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
You lack the pungent aroma of barbecue
but are much less likely to cause skin cancer

Shall I compare thee to a blood-fattened tick?
Thou art less likely to give me lyme disease,
but I think your deodorant is giving me a rash

Shall I compère for thee at the open mic night?
Write me some salty dialogue and perhaps I shall.

Shall I compare thee to the most beautiful woman in the world?
Are you sure? Don’t say I didn’t warn thee.

Sonnet 130
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
nor like the moon, neither;
nor like coffee-grounds in their discarded filter.
Also, they do not resemble limpid pools of half-melted butter,
and they are nothing like those of Don Knotts

My mistress’ breasts are not unlike two huge balloons, or perchance two smaller offshoots of a much larger balloon, such as one might find on balloons depicting Mickey Mouse

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun.
They are not a swirling mass of hydrogen and helium;
nor are they 93 million miles away, preferring, as they do, to rest in her eye sockets;
nor by any stretch of the imagination would one call them life-giving,
although they are a nice shade of greeny-gray.

Sonnet 71
No longer mourn for me when I am dead.
Instead, agonize about how you should have been nicer to me when I was alive.

Sonnet 30
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
and I think once more,
I should have made a pass at Sally Ann Chambers that one time in middle school

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past.
Picking up Swann’s Way
I reflect: Seven volumes is too much.
And I wait, in vain,
for the movie