The Apple of My Eye

While Charlie Brown has always had a red head to lust after, I have finally found the cherry-topped girl of my dreams.

She’s beautiful – not in an overly sexual way, but more of a classical beauty as seen in a black and white head shot sort of way. Behind that gorgeous exterior lies a talented woman with a diverse acting range. Sadly, despite all that this red-hair babe has to offer, she is merely a one-hit wonder.

While the phrase is almost always used in reference to musicians, it still applies to the red head from Dumb and Dumber – the one true apple of my eye. Her appearance in the public was so brief, we didn’t even have time to catch her name.

Swim? Swammi?

Perhaps.

Slippy? Slappy?

Could be, but not quite…

Sweson?

Swason?

Close…

Samsonite?

Maybe.

I can never remember; I only knows it starts with an S, a vivacious letter fitting for such a bombshell.

Once the Red Head waved goodbye to Harry at the end of Dumb and Dumber, in a way, she was waving goodbye to her beloved fans as well. If I ever run into her and build up the courage to approach her, I will surely ask her where she’s been all this time. She will probably tell me how movies weren’t really her thing. She tried, but didn’t like it.

Red Head is more focused on avant garde stuff these days, the off-Broadway productions, she would say, somewhat unconvincingly. But my love for this actress would look past the lies and I would see before me the best experimental actor this world has ever seen.

It takes a special actor to gaze upon a snowman with a carrot and two pieces of coal arranged in the form of male genitalia while conveying the confusion not only of her character, but of the whole audience. Red Head was our moral compass in Dumb and Dumber. While Harry and Lloyd were the main characters of the movie, Red Head was our captain. The one character that led us into that wacky world and showed us the way – how to feel and how to react.

When she was disgusted upon hearing news of headless parrots being sold to blind wheelchair-bound kids, we were disgusted too.

When she was taken back by Lloyd complementing her nice set of hooters, we found ourselves taken aback too (but still impressed by the hooters).

And when her eyes bore deep into Harry’s while in that hotel room and she whispered softly in his ear that there was more like a one in a million chance of them getting together, she was speaking those words to us, assuring her fans that there was still a chance that the silver screen would one day turn red, painted from her flowing crimson hair.

Sadly, that day has not come.

I still hold hope that we will one day see the return of Red Head in a role fitting for this glamorous actress; the seductress with the natural red head of hair. I made her imdb.com page my home page, hoping each time I log onto the Internet that I will spot an update to her filmography to include a film that I’ve actually heard of and is being shown in theaters everywhere.

Even though she is a one-hit wonder, TBS, TNT, USA Network and the like owe their ratings bonanza to the Red Head and Dumb and Dumber. Without her and her film, the cable network’s schedule would be a little light on occupied time slots.

While driving at night with the radio turned down, my mind goes straight to Red Head. I imagine us standing by a roaring fire, looking into each other’s eyes. She slowly takes off her shirt and my eyes wander south, only to be interrupted by the headlights of oncoming traffic as I swerve back onto the right side of the yellow line and the memories of our moment drift away. As I focus back on the road ahead, I hope my mind once again mimics the same daydream that Harry had in the movie.

There’s no reasonable explanation for her to exist only in my fantasies and in a one-hit wonder, nor any sign of her cold streak coming to an end. While I’m sure her role in The Chumbscrubber was just as memorable as her cameo in Becker, I will not be satisfied with anything but another starring role fit for a red head.

Most actors who appear in a one-hit wonder soon find themselves type-casted in a similar role, but not so for the Red Head. You couldn’t pin just one role on her. Picture the mountain scene. The Red Head, dressed for winter, darting down the side of a mountain. Her knees bent at a slight angle as she raced down the slope and gracefully turned her hips to come to a stop for a wide angle shot, showing off her Bond babe potential. A poster shot if there was ever one, only interrupted by the realization that her companion’s tongue was stuck on a frosted pole.

When not engrossed in an action scene, Red Head showed the necessary timing and free will needed for physical comedy as seen in her race to the top of the stairs with Harry. Walking up the stairs is not inherently funny, but with the Red Head’s primp posture and short steps, she turned the mundane task into brilliant comedy that brought back memories of vintage Vaudeville with men in hats moving out to piano playing shysters every time it comes on air.

From action to comedy, Red Head was more than capable of performing in a dramatic role as evidence by her concern for a briefcase. With thoughts of a mere inanimate object hovering overhead, she successfully transferred concern over her abducted husband onto a briefcase. The subtle twitch of her forehead when thinking about the location of the missing ransom money conveyed such emotion and displayed such a dramatic flair that if you look closely, you could spot the faint glimmer of Oscar.

Somewhere out there is this nameless, one-hit wonder. Maybe she became a recluse, wanting to avoid the cameras. But that twinkle in her eyes that millions of cinema fans saw when she listened intently as Harry explained his life goal of one day owning a worm store with his best bud Lloyd was enough to have everyone in the audience convinced that she would return some day. After all these years, I still have hope that she will break out of this one-hit wonder shell. While Charlie Brown could never get his red head, I remain steadfast.

Perhaps one day I will be united with my Red Head as she makes a grand return to film. Audiences around the world will flock to the theaters to adore her, leaving me to fight my way through the ticket lines and box office bullies in order to catch a fleeting glimpse of this starlit before her hair begins to gray.

A Hellacious Sense of Style

I recently had the chance to catch up with an old friend.

It’s been awhile, but what was clear at first glance was that with each passing day, she was starting to show her age. Yet the charm and fun that we’ve had in the past kept bringing us back together to the shores of hell. Deep within this inferno was the love of my childhood. Knee-deep in the dead, amongst all the loving memories and tender moments, she sits their fondly.

Installed on my computer.

Doom.

Oh, how I missed thee greatly.

The game was simple in nature. There was no alternate shoot button, no jump button, no crouch button. You didn’t get to pick a character or give him a name. You didn’t select between an easy, medium, or hard difficulty setting. Instead, you selected anything from “Hey, Not Too Rough” to the impossibly delightful “Nightmare.”

There were no special items to be found in the game, just basic health and ammo. What more do you need really?

There was no reload button; simply shoot till empty. Unlike all other games today, there was no cross hair in the middle of the screen indicating where you were aiming. As long as you were shooting in the general direction of the bad guys, the computer assumed that’s who you were trying to shoot and Bang! down goes the imp.

There wasn’t even a boss waiting for you at the end of each level, merely a red Exit sign hanging from the ceiling just above a golden door behind which was a silver button with red and green squares. It was your way out of the world and into the next level.

Despite missing features that have since been taken for granted, what this game had – beyond hours of fun and a high body count – was some of the most magnificent interior design in video gaming history. Never before have my eyes gazed upon the work of one of the world’s most anonymous yet finest interior decorators.

Scattered through the otherwise dingy interiors of Doom were yellow trident lamps to provide a lovely mood lighting for you and your pistol. If the trident lights were a little too pomp for your tastes, some levels were decorated with more conservative emergency lights, which were cute.

As I walked through those halls, my character’s face was constantly looking back at me while I looked at the road ahead for any enemies. The face was not gazing at the interior decoration. It didn’t even verbally communicate with me. The face indicated the type of mood that I should be feeling by mere facial expressions, a feet quite revolutionary for its time.

When I started the game, the face was all serious, with a tough-guy exterior extending deep into those black pupils. But grab that chainsaw? He was all smiles. Have his health fall below 20? He would look at me with those bloody temples, begging to know why I felt compelled to shoot that barrel full of green goo, a green goo that turned out to be highly combustible.

But if only that face could take a moment to stop and look around the large, industrial rooms, I’m sure that face would positively melt.

Not wanting to reinvent geometry, the levels consisted of mostly square rooms.

Green and gray dominated the color palette.

As I meandered through the straight halls, I would occasionally stumble upon a room with blue walls painted to look like a giant circuit board. If I were not inundated with soldier after soldier, I may have had a better chance to sense the cold feeling in the room. It was low lit, with the ceiling lights blinking on and off casting rigid shadows on the wall. The contrast between the wall and the shadows exhibited enough personality to provide warmth in this otherwise cold room. It was the kind of place I’m sure you could invite other Doom commandos to to share a cup of tea and reminisce about past slaughters.

For the most part, the rooms were basic in their shape and layout, with a minimal amount of clutter. Before you think these rooms were boring with no tables and no boxes, remember, it was all part of the minimalist design. To help break up some of the monotony, there would be a decadent corpse sprawled on the ground, completely decayed as indicated by the pixelated-blotches of red outlining the body.

One of the most difficult parts of the interior decorator’s job was the unique challenge of evaluating a green wall, then painting a small section with hints of silver. It had to be unnoticed, but still have a strong enough accent to indicate that wonders beyond your wildest dream – perhaps a med kit? – lay behind the wall. This wall had to be detailed to perfection while a rude imp hurled fireballs in the interior decorator’s direction.

Thankfully, Doom portrayed something all other games have missed and that is there is no loyalty amongst crooks and thieves. While the imp hurled flames, a pink pig-man with Tyrannosaurus Rex-sized arms would come along and eat it only to get shot by a shotgun wielding soldier. That is the genius of this interior decorator who managed to complement the colors of the world with the characters that inhabited it, knowing full well that they’ll all end up dead anyways.

Long before women were swooning over the fact that he went to Jared’s, eyes fell upon the exquisite placement of red buttons and silver levers and hearts a-fluttered over the possibility of which door may open or elevator would rise, opening new places to explore and wonders to behold.

That red key glowing in the distance? It. Took. My. Breathe.

Away.

I’m sure the interior decorator was faced with a deadline crashing upon him faster than he could strategically place the blue shoulder pads on the tall pillar to provide just a hint of color to an otherwise brown room. If not for the magical keystroke of I-D-D-Q-D, the interior decorator may not have been able to finish. But with his eyes glassed over white, the fireballs and green slime had no affect on his health as he dotted a wall with just a hint of blood. For added spice, he surrounded it with blue vials of health, a design decision so obvious that most people would try to place an army green box of ammo nearby that just wouldn’t fit. Not like those blue health vials. That’s what makes a good interior decorator.

For you snotty suburbanites out there who think they invented feng shui, head to the Phobos Lab level. A little ways down from where you spawn, take a right and notice the placement of the rocket launcher in relation to the half wall that looks out over a pool of green slime. You may have to mow down the invisible piggies to get a good look, but once you do, I think you’ll recognize the design element.

When I got reacquainted with Doom, I had to pause for the briefest of moments before I took my first step by pressing down on the UP arrow key.

As I gazed upon the terrace found in the first level – upon which was some green armor. Score! – I couldn’t help but think that this is why HG TV exists. It’s the interior blue pool next to the courtyard that kept me shaking my head, wondering why this interior decorator has not gotten his proper due. His vision and sense of style brought this world together and brought me closer to the game of Doom where my heart beat rapidly and my blood boiled steadily. It was either the clean lines of the area that caused my physical reaction or it was a result of the horned beast’s radioactive fireballs; it’s hard to tell sometimes.

As much as I would have liked to continue admiring all of the nuances in the design, sometimes in life, you have to put aesthetic tastes aside and start gunning down some demonic mofo’s. As I looked over those demon’s heads, I could spot the exit sign.

Those exit doors had an intricate weave of gold on the front. To create this elaborate door, the interior designer didn’t just possess a steady hand and keen eye. It took some serious balls to take the focal point of the room and indent it as opposed to placing the door flush with the wall, which was the common thing to do at the time. It was risks like this that won over my admiration. To take such a key component of a room and push it back…oh bravo, my friend.

Bravo.

A Call to Arms

Growing up, much of my time was spent in a school cafeteria. Most of it was spent eating lunch during the school day, a sometimes edible treat to help give my mind a break. But when the school closed for the weekend and the night sky blanketed the city, the cafeteria turned into the hottest night club in town.

The most reasonably priced DJ was set up near the stand where the little paper cups of Jell-O used to jiggle during lunch. Strobe lights were stationed on either side of the two main speakers.

The place was packed; the music was bumping – absolutely bumping, I say – and undoubtedly the boy’s bathroom was victimized by some vandal.

While out on the dance floor, there was not a hipper, cooler dance move that a person could pull off than “raising the roof.” The choreography was brilliant in its simplicity. Simply extend your arms out to the side; bend your elbows at 90 degrees; open your palms to the sky and move your arms up and down, thus raising the roof and anything else above you, including the industrial air conditioning unit.

Back when Dré and Snoop rolled straight out of Compton and into our hearts, “raising the roof” actually meant something. It was the ultimate status symbol for the youth of America and their love of structurally sound architecture. Over the years, the dance move escaped the darken school cafeterias and spread like an irony-laced wild fire, straight into the suburbs. Little old ladies who could barely lift a spoonful of soup – let alone lift the roof of a gazebo – could be seen raising the roof while playing mahjong.

When someone is looking to bust out a brief, impromptu dance move, they usually rely on raising the roof. They would never get the same, full elbow extension that we did back in the day. Instead, they would do more of a “placing a box on a high shelf” type of maneuver. Now, more than ever, “raising the roof” has been relegated as the go-to move for comedic dancing. Drew Carey has become a master of this. People like this are mere posers who got trapped below the glass ceiling. With minimal head room, the only way for the haters to escape was to take our beloved treasure and turn it into another Macarena. There are now a whole generation of kids who don’t know what it means to raise the roof with sincerity in their souls.

Before the bingo junkies and witless comedians came about, “raising the roof” was more than just a dance move. Moving our arms up and down in unison was something special to us. We didn’t gather in low-lit cafeterias, stepping over the day’s Salisbury steak stains on the floor, for nothing. (Friday’s Salisbury steak stains were usually Monday’s beef tips over noodles.) There was a roof above us and it must be raised to the beats of Diddy and Biggie and Tupacky.

Throughout history, the roof has played an important role in music. There’s the controversial pro-arson song proclaiming the roof to be on fire. Perhaps after previous generations destroyed the roof, Generations X and Y convened to rebuild the roof, thus leading the way towards raising the roof.

Limp Bizkit has performed many a concert on the roof, presumably to provide easy access to a ledge to all those who got sucked into buying Chocolate Starfish and the Hot Dog Flavored Water to jump off of (I don’t care if you did it all for the nookie; you can just take that cookie of yours and stick it in your yeah, you get the picture).

After having our dance move stolen from us and belittled by the masses, it is time to take it back. Gather in your converted cafeterias and downtown night spots! Raise the roof with pride! If your palms get sweaty and you fear that you may lose a grip on the roof, count on your fellow roofers to help share the load. By working as one, we can strip away the sarcasm and expose the ironic roof raisers while sharing in the idea that we will not be crushed by the weight of the world! By once again raising the roof, our uplifting dance move can help show that despite all the troubles that may come to cloud our hopes and dreams, the sky is still clear and blue. Those hopes and dreams are obtainable anytime we gather in a group to knock down walls and raise the roof.

United, our arms shall once again raise up towards the roof and beyond.

Role Playing

While I’m not technically a certified movie agent – like I’m “technically” not certified a “doctor” even though that poor man with the internal bleeding problem thought I was – I do have some very important advice for all aspiring actors that have stumbled across this wee site.

When you start off in a career in acting, it’s probably wise to take any role that comes your way.

In the competitive world of the silver screen, opportunity rarely stops by once you get past the high school stage productions and local theater art houses. With so many unemployed actors and very few available jobs, you never know where your big break will come from. It could be in a Shakespearean play or a part in a television commercial. It could be as insignificant as “man walking down street” with a whole 10 seconds of screen time. It doesn’t matter, because it’s a start to hopefully bigger things to come.

Despite the desperation you may be feeling as an unemployed actor….I would probably pass on the genital herpes role.

The potential typecasting from the genital herpes gig is just not worth it. This isn’t the type of role that you can easily live down either. In fact, some even say there is no cure for this role and that it’s a permanent stain on your imdb.com filmography.

The more I think about it, not a lot of scripts are being written with the genital herpes lady in mind. At least none that I’m aware of. Trust me when I say, the genital herpes role is probably just a one shot deal anyways which, ironically, is probably how some people got genital herpes to begin with.

From what I have seen, despite the unglamorous and somewhat embarrassing nature of the role, there appears to be more than enough people willing to accept being part of these commercials. I see the commercials everyday. Personally, I think they are a bit overplayed. Yet every television season, some new pill comes along with a new commercial. And somewhere out there, an actor is holding the script, thinking about the fame and fortune that is surely to follow. Behind that actor is a greedy agent, trying to sell the aspiring thespian the motto: Genital Herpes, the Springboard to the Stars!!!

Not only are there actors accepting these roles, but these commercials must also have directors, producers, set designers, costume designers, and even casting directors. I suspect that being a casting director for an STD commercial might be one of the more bizarre and depressing jobs in show business.

Sitting on a coach in a small room, you can watch unknown after unknown step into the room and proclaim how they are having a genital herpes outbreak at that very moment, yet you can’t tell, can you?

After taking some notes, the casting director gets to look an aspiring actor in the eye and say, “I’m sorry, but genital herpes is not for you.” It takes a special casting director to say that with such sincerity. Not everyone can act as if that’s a bad thing. Then again, not everyone can act. It doesn’t matter if it’s a commercial or a television show. Somehow, bad movies are still being made. Either no one is reading the scripts or they just don’t care.

It’s a movie. People watch movies. This can lead to more movies! A flawed logic if there ever was one.

Probably no genre has seen more bad movies made then the horror genre, the genre with such a clear defined set of clichés. People chuckle when they see that the black guy is the first person killed. And they joke afterwards if the black guy somehow manages to make it through the whole movie.

“I didn’t see that coming,” they say.

Despite the cliché, it’s still a reliable device used by many script writers. When receiving the scary movie script, does the African American actor look at the script and think, “Geez, I hope I’m not the black guy.” It doesn’t bode well for him considering he only received the first nine pages of the script.

He would be wise to car pool to the set with the two young actors scheduled to have sex in the woods (perhaps a career in television commercials awaits the lovebirds?). Their stay on set shouldn’t last too long either.

If they want, they can probably get Val Kilmer to drive the car home, whose script we can only assume got lost in the mail. I can just picture Mr. Kilmer’s agent, trying to convince his client that the only chance to revive his once promising career is to hope it burns when he pees.

Salvation Delivered at 3:00 AM

Nobody likes sitting around at home while the rest of the town is out having the time of their life. But there is not a more powerful antidote against this sad realization than late night television on the local channels.

For whatever reason, more often than not, these shows revolve around religion. The format is quite simple. Some guy gives a lecture, occasionally alluding to a Bible passage. Once he’s had his sales pitch say, they take some phone calls. After the callers shower the host with praise, the audience is treated to veiled pleas for money. So veiled, in fact, that one show offers a telephone number for the viewers to call “to plant a seed.” If one was half in the bag, they would assume they are watching a show about botany and not God.

I’m sure if you ask, they’ll even let you plant two seeds.

As ridiculous as the premise, I can’t help but watch. Boredom plays a part. There is also the strong desire to know how it ends (ideally with the Apocalypse. Think of the ratings!).

Sitting directly in front of a camera was a woman with too much intent on her face, too focused on the caller. She hung onto every word the caller spoke.

By her side was Save By The Bell’s very own Principle Belding.

Maybe not the Principle Belding, but perhaps a very good impersonator. Anytime you can tap into the vast wealth and talent of the Save By the Bell franchise, you know you have a high quality program on your hands. If they could find away to get Zach or even A.C. Slater to make an appearance, they would have all the gardeners and seeds planted they could ever ask for.

I sat there and watched the Principle Belding look-a-like sit uncomfortably in a chair, more interested in finding new angles to cross his legs than what the caller had to say. On the line was a woman named Bambi – whose mother met her unfortunate demise in a drive-by hunting accident - telling a heart breaking story of overcoming illness alongside her husband, who overcame a totally different illness, only to come back to health to try to sell her house, which may or may not have been ill at the time. She didn’t say.

The sale fell through and she was left devastated…until a new buyer came along and purchased the home above the asking price! Hallelujah!

An absolute miracle!

It even caused Principle Belding to pause slightly before shifting his cup two inches to the left.

The phone call led to the startling conclusion that God is a major player in the real estate market. It’s right there in the Bible. In Genesis. In Exodus. In Ecclesiastes.

It was clear as day in the Book of Job, the Book of Tim, Dick, and Harry, and most if not all of the New Testament. No word yet if this is a buyer’s or seller’s market. However, according to the seed planters, this is certainly a deity’s market, one ruled from the heavens.

And no matter how absurd or over the top things got, I was fixated on the television. When I changed the channel, it was only to find something a bit more amateurish. I soon discovered that if the people aren’t trying to sell you God, then they are trying to sell you Michael Jordan in all of his bobbly head goodness.

In college, I developed an unhealthy obsession with the Golden Sports Collectible program, starring a man who could only pronounce opportunity by replacing the ‘t’ with an ‘l’…oppurtunily.

The more amped up he got, the more pronounced the mispronunciations got. Mention a Jeff Gordon rookie card – presumably taken outside a DMV in Charlotte for his Sweet 16 party when he was just a freckled-faced road rager – and the Golden Sports guy would go on a rampage, dropping Ts and adding Is and alienating grammar fans everywhere.

“We have a great lot of some of the greatest drivers in..the…history…of Nascar. Dale Earnhardt, Tony Stewart right here, Chuck the U-haul guy and, yes, even Jeff Gordon. Hurry quickly YOU CAN’T MISS THIS GREAT OPPURTUNILY!”

I never once considered buying anything. My God, what would I do with twenty boxes of Donruss tennis cards? I still got a couple packs of Fleer cards I haven’t gotten around to opening yet. I was tempted to obtain the complete set of the greatest servers in tennis history in the famed “Serving up Balls” special edition collector’s set, which was consequently banned in 6 states after their release. As interesting as having a complete set of “Serving up Balls” cards sounded though, I’m just not sure what I would do with them (Editor’s note: That’s what she said. Hey-ho!).

The Golden Sports Collectible Show didn’t just sell cards. Oh, no. This was a very professional operation here. They weren’t awarded the 3:00 AM timeslot because of their baseball cards alone. They also had game-worn jerseys, autographed balls and photographs, toys, special editions, limited editions, and ultra editions.

None of which interested me.

It was the sales pitch that was more amusing than what was actually up for sale. Part of my unconsumerism is due to my apprehension about spending (ONLY) $467.99 on a Topps Keith Hernandez defect card. In this rare misprint, Keith Hernandez is looking into the camera sans mustache. It was a one-of-a-kind card, but not one for me. I prefer “The Rejuvenator!” to have a full head of ungrayed hair, thank you very much.

Despite having my wallet safely tucked away, watching the Golden Sports Collectible show was something to do as was watching God being pitched in an infomercial.

But as Principle Belding preaches about God and His role in home equity loans, a part of me can’t help but think what else it out there. There has to be something to do. Shouldn’t I be a productive member of society? I could at least plant a seed.

Okay, maybe not be that productive. But there is certainly more to life than what is on the glowing television screen. I reach for the remote to turn off the TV, when I notice a teaser about an upcoming selection of Pavel Bure autographed statuettes for only $99 a piece.

$99.00!!!!

I put the remote down and eased back in my chair because this was an opportunily too good to pass up.