Read Everything That Dunks Must Converge

Read Everything That Dunks Must Converge
by Bryan Harvey

Truth & lies in Pixar's 'The Good Dinosaur'

Truth & lies in Pixar's 'The Good Dinosaur'
by Bryan Harvey

A world of child soldiers & cowboys

A world of child soldiers & cowboys
by Bryan Harvey

To their own devices: Pablo Larrain's 'The Club'

To their own devices: Pablo Larrain's 'The Club'
by Bryan Harvey

"Two on the Aisle": Busted Brackets

March 22, 2010

From time to time, we tend to use Ed Hopper paintings as a magnifying glass for studying the ins and outs of the NBA, and, with March Madness in full gear, the NBA becomes a fan of the drama much like the rest of us.



The red carpet isn't so much rolled out as it is just there, along with a velvet curtain, golden ropes, and electric candles.  The glass fixtures tremble in moments of applause, giving the illusion of a breeze in an otherwise stuffy atmosphere.  

The usher, Verne Lundquist, opens the door with a white glove.  His bald head reflects the fake flames like fireflies over an oil slick.  His sweat is a feverish one, like his tuxedo is a jungle, or he were Tweedle Dee nervous and guilt-ridden from having just swallowed his brother Dum.  He is hopelessly tongue-tied: "Which is it you want, a seat, or a chair?  You can have a chair without having a seat."

The patrons ignore him, show him their ticket stubs, and follow the toad at a safe distance, avoiding warts, and, in this manner, Mr. David Kahn and his mistress Ms. Kiki Vandeweghe make their way down the theatre's aisle, to the second row, on the end, ready to exit in case the play turned out to be underwhelming.  

Kahn looks around the theatre, twitching his head like a bird inside its cage: "You probably should have had the usher take your shawl.  I'm already starting to sweat."

"You know I always keep it close.  I find these performances perfectly fleeting and unsubstantial.  I truly applaud very little, for, so often, they've led me to believe that Sean Williams, Kerry Kittles, and Tim Thomas were actually more than they are, which is really quite impossible."  Mr. Kahn hated when Ms. Kiki got like this; philosophical ramblings were utter nonsense to him.  He despised them.  He did not want actors or actresses.  He wanted sled dogs: humanity exposed to the elements.  He wanted something as true as Ricky Rubio, his mockingbird, to be behind that curtain.  In fact, he squinted his eyes trying to peer through the thick layers of velvet, trying to see through the suspense, but all that happened was a dizziness, forcing Mr. Kahn to take a seat sooner than he would like; after all, these March show times always slipped into April, which is a long time to play the role of bystander.  

"Ladies and Gentlemen," croaked Lundquist to a near empty auditorium.  "Ladies and Gentlemen, it seems our Caesar's been done in before his time.  Actually, our Caesar was done in before he was Caesar.  You see Sharon Collins was to play Caesar.  He's been prepping for the role for quite some time, and it appears his preparation was all actualization.  You see, he has a dagger in his back.  Done in by Bill Self, not himself."

"Usher, are you saying what I think you're saying," yelled Mr. Kahn, squinting again, looking for the corpse, a bloody robe, something of proof.  

"Yes, I'm saying what you think I'm saying, if what you think I'm saying is that you can now enjoy The Tragedy of Julius Caesar without the Caesar.  It really should be a much happier affair.  After all, now there's no betrayal."

"No betrayal...a man, as you say, is lying in a dressing room with a knife in his back," chirped Mr. Kahn, exasperated.  

"Well, we have yet to learn the perpetrator of that crime...be it man or panther or some other form of cat...but I can guarantee that The Tragedy of Julius Caesar with no Caesar will be much happier because now Brutus has no dilemma."  

And, at this, Ms. Kiki was forced to speak up, "But who is Brutus without a Julius?"

To which, Lundquist responded, "Why Brutus is our very own John Wall.  Very talented he is."

"Why this isn't a play at all?" Mr. Kahn groaned, pulling Kiki up the aisle by her wrist.  He was no longer squinting.  

"Wait, wait, I'm sure a Marc Antony will arise," called Lundquist, seeing his audience lost to the murder of a more familiar narrative.  He went onto plead with them, "It might even be better this way, like not knowing the ending."

"Awww, screw 'em," cat called a Muppet of a man from the balcony. "They don't know a raven from a writing desk."  

"Yes, Mr. Bird, they do not, but you have a keen eye for that sort of thing."  Lundquist really was a groveling toad.  

"That's cause I live this shit, and I hear Evan Turner can't dribble, much less dance."  

2 comments:

Iceman, AD said...

This is excellent. Somewhere in the lobby John Scheyer is selling popcorn from a rusted machine.

March 22, 2010 at 11:21 PM
Teach said...

I hope he gets tetanus...just joking...Scheyer with lockjaw would be horrifying...imagine the faces he would make

March 26, 2010 at 8:09 PM

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