Big Ideas

A list of recent creative dawnings from myself and friends:

Enamatic, a novel. A two parter, the first half is told from the enema's point of view, going in an 'cleaning out all the shit he keeps inside.' The second part is told from the point of view of the colonoscopy, or the 'resolutions' and the acknolwedgement of certain inalienable truths in daily living.

Credit: John, Jeff, and myself.

Would-be memorable line: "I go up people's asses, because that's where they're vulnerable. That's where we're all vulnerable, and that's where we keep our shit. Up our asses. People keep a lot of shit inside. Look at all this shit."

Flashes In The Attic, a film. A veritable "menopause thriller," Flashes was born out of a misunderstanding when Jeff mentioned the film Flowers in the Attic. Comic hilarity ensued, when I imagined an older women being trapped in the attic by her evil step-children while the father is away on business, during menopause. They turn up the heat.

Credit: Jeff, myself.

Would-be memorable line: "But it's so hot up here!"

America Blacks Out, a novel. All of America collectively drinks too much alcohol, passes out, and proceeds to conduct two hours of activity while nobody is aware that any of them are doing anything. These are labeled as the 'phantom hours.' The rest of the world has to explain to America what it did when it finally wakes up.

Credit: Jeff.

Would-be memorable line: "Phantom hours."

"Telepathic Lies", a single. Conceived in the kitchen, Jeff was convinced I was sending 'telepathic lies.' A song was born. It's the only song we can remember making up.

Credit: Jeff, myself.

Coke Cats, a film. Starring Squeaker as the drug-addled kingpin feline of Galesburg's burgeoning coke industry, he runs a drug den with a wacky cast of strung out pussies who peddle the white lady to small neighborhood children.

Credit: Karl, myself.

Would-be memorable line: "The fuck you doin' comin' to the front door? I said the back, nigga. I oughtta shoot yo' ass on the fuckin' lawn."

The National African American League, a club. When Connie questioned "how black" Mariah Carey was, Jeff and I conceived, between fits of disabling laughter, of a league that requires one to submit paperwork confirming "how black" you are.

Credit: Jeff, myself.

Would-be memorable question: "In three sentences or less, please describe how black you are. Please omit the words 'ghetto' and 'bitch.'"