AUSHERMAN'S MANY CONTRIBUTIONS TO
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Tuesday, March 7, 2006
| Eleven Scenes that Help Explain Why They Pulled the Plug on M. Night Shyamalan’s Cinematic Adaptation of Life of Pi |
also on this page:
New York Stories
Johnny Cash Died for Your Sins
Around the World
Apologies to Santa Fe
next page: World History MMIX
New York Stories
Johnny Cash Died for Your Sins
Around the World
Apologies to Santa Fe
next page: World History MMIX
by Stephen Ausherman
Blog Alert
A mischievous little dog pulls back the tarpaulin to reveal
that there is no God, only a very bad wizard, who
nonetheless grants wishes for the gimpy zebra, the agitated
orangutan, the heartless hyena, and the cowardly tiger.
A precocious but pensive boy explains that Pi was dead all
along and that the tiger is really Bruce Willis.
When his alter ego, Tyler Durden, renders orangutan fat
into bath soap, Pi decides to shut down Fight Club.
The hyena kills the tiger, but soon discovers it was only a
retarded Adrian Brody in a tiger suit.
At last Pi beaches the lifeboat. There he finds—half buried
in the sand—the Statue of Liberty!
Pi meets a charming old Norseman named Ip (Samuel
Jackson), but the two soon realize that they are equal
opposites and are thus destined to be each other’s nemesis.
Pi tells a third story in which the lifeboat occupants are
represented as gummi bears and marshmallow peeps.
Pi kills the hyena, but soon discovers it was only a
retarded tiger in a hyena suit.
Aliens attack the lifeboat. Pi (Joaquin Phoenix) repels them
with precious drinking water, thus restoring everyone's
faith in God. The rejoicing lasts until they all succumb to
acute dehydration.
The opening scene: A 47-minute diatribe in which Pi's
father (Mel Gibson) somehow pins all of India’s
misfortunes on "those Jews in Bollywood."
that there is no God, only a very bad wizard, who
nonetheless grants wishes for the gimpy zebra, the agitated
orangutan, the heartless hyena, and the cowardly tiger.
A precocious but pensive boy explains that Pi was dead all
along and that the tiger is really Bruce Willis.
When his alter ego, Tyler Durden, renders orangutan fat
into bath soap, Pi decides to shut down Fight Club.
The hyena kills the tiger, but soon discovers it was only a
retarded Adrian Brody in a tiger suit.
At last Pi beaches the lifeboat. There he finds—half buried
in the sand—the Statue of Liberty!
Pi meets a charming old Norseman named Ip (Samuel
Jackson), but the two soon realize that they are equal
opposites and are thus destined to be each other’s nemesis.
Pi tells a third story in which the lifeboat occupants are
represented as gummi bears and marshmallow peeps.
Pi kills the hyena, but soon discovers it was only a
retarded tiger in a hyena suit.
Aliens attack the lifeboat. Pi (Joaquin Phoenix) repels them
with precious drinking water, thus restoring everyone's
faith in God. The rejoicing lasts until they all succumb to
acute dehydration.
The opening scene: A 47-minute diatribe in which Pi's
father (Mel Gibson) somehow pins all of India’s
misfortunes on "those Jews in Bollywood."
This just in from JMSW Editor-in-Chief
Albéric Somoza:
"By now you're wondering:
if Ausherman's works are so great,
why are they not the hottest topic
in every blog and e-zine?
Let me answer that question
with another question,
as wise men are wont to do:
Shut up, why don’t you?"
The blogosphere has yet to take notice,
but at least a few bloggers seem to be
ahead of the curve:
Hollywood is Talking
Bookslut
Maud Newton
PowellsBooks
Amitava Kumar
Albéric Somoza:
"By now you're wondering:
if Ausherman's works are so great,
why are they not the hottest topic
in every blog and e-zine?
Let me answer that question
with another question,
as wise men are wont to do:
Shut up, why don’t you?"
The blogosphere has yet to take notice,
but at least a few bloggers seem to be
ahead of the curve:
Hollywood is Talking
Bookslut
Maud Newton
PowellsBooks
Amitava Kumar
November 18th, 2004
New York Stories
| by Stephen Ausherman revised July 2006 original here |
NM2NY-1: In New Mexico the moon glistens as though cut from a frozen
grapefruit. It can be a wedge on the hard lip of the canyon or a rind high above the
mesa, but it is always sharp and crisp as the breath of God.
Here in New York it is murky, as though thawing and leaching into the milky sky.
Everything glows in a gauzy haze. Here the air is so damp it bends the light and I
long for gills to breathe. New Yorkers amaze me because they can live underwater.
I want to take them home with me, just a few, and keep them in my aquarium, but
I'm afraid the ones I’d pick would never get along in the same tank. And they
would most certainly destroy my gentle, crystal-wearing specimens from Santa Fe.
25 305H 2: I have a propensity for getting lost. Whenever it happens, my mind
retrieves the same combination: 25 305H 2. Whether I'm disoriented in a Korean
subway station or astray in a Tanzanian rain forest, the recall is automatic and
calming.
Sometimes I say it out loud: 25 305H 2.
My wife has heard it many times. Lost in a Rocky Mountain blizzard, she finally
asked what it meant. I told her that on July 21, 1977, when I was 10, I got
profoundly lost. It was nighttime in Brooklyn, my first time there, and I could not
find my dad. Forty terrifying minutes passed before I remembered this: 25 305H 2.
It led me straight to him.
My wife wanted to know how that was possible. I made her wait until we found
our way home. There by the fire we checked each other's extremities for frostbite.
Then I showed her, tucked in an old scrapbook, two ticket stubs from a game in
Yankee Stadium on the date in question. She examined them and said it was just
like my father to get such crappy seats.
I nodded, but I couldn't agree, remembering how the very next night he scored
front row seats at what he described as the trendiest theater in Soho. I don't
remember much about the performance, only that the star resembled Ken Berry,
then famous for his starring role in Herbie the Love Bug. He chained himself to a
brick wall and sang Russian folk songs until some clowns marched out and stuffed
his mouth full of fish bones. (I think it was part of the act.)
My wife asked me if they were happy clowns or sad clowns.
They were those European-style clowns, but I don't recall their emotional state.
Funny, that seems like something I wouldn't forget.
NM2NY-2: In On the Road, Kerouac wrote: "We were a band of Arabs coming
to blow up New York." In the same book, he wrote: "In inky darkness we crossed
New Mexico." I think if he'd seen Albuquerque by daylight, he would've wanted to
blow that up, too. Maybe he didn't realize the Manhattan Project was in New
Mexico, not New York (as the name would imply), and that with every bomb
factory it spawned, we could detonate in a far more spectacular fashion than the
Big Apple.
grapefruit. It can be a wedge on the hard lip of the canyon or a rind high above the
mesa, but it is always sharp and crisp as the breath of God.
Here in New York it is murky, as though thawing and leaching into the milky sky.
Everything glows in a gauzy haze. Here the air is so damp it bends the light and I
long for gills to breathe. New Yorkers amaze me because they can live underwater.
I want to take them home with me, just a few, and keep them in my aquarium, but
I'm afraid the ones I’d pick would never get along in the same tank. And they
would most certainly destroy my gentle, crystal-wearing specimens from Santa Fe.
25 305H 2: I have a propensity for getting lost. Whenever it happens, my mind
retrieves the same combination: 25 305H 2. Whether I'm disoriented in a Korean
subway station or astray in a Tanzanian rain forest, the recall is automatic and
calming.
Sometimes I say it out loud: 25 305H 2.
My wife has heard it many times. Lost in a Rocky Mountain blizzard, she finally
asked what it meant. I told her that on July 21, 1977, when I was 10, I got
profoundly lost. It was nighttime in Brooklyn, my first time there, and I could not
find my dad. Forty terrifying minutes passed before I remembered this: 25 305H 2.
It led me straight to him.
My wife wanted to know how that was possible. I made her wait until we found
our way home. There by the fire we checked each other's extremities for frostbite.
Then I showed her, tucked in an old scrapbook, two ticket stubs from a game in
Yankee Stadium on the date in question. She examined them and said it was just
like my father to get such crappy seats.
I nodded, but I couldn't agree, remembering how the very next night he scored
front row seats at what he described as the trendiest theater in Soho. I don't
remember much about the performance, only that the star resembled Ken Berry,
then famous for his starring role in Herbie the Love Bug. He chained himself to a
brick wall and sang Russian folk songs until some clowns marched out and stuffed
his mouth full of fish bones. (I think it was part of the act.)
My wife asked me if they were happy clowns or sad clowns.
They were those European-style clowns, but I don't recall their emotional state.
Funny, that seems like something I wouldn't forget.
NM2NY-2: In On the Road, Kerouac wrote: "We were a band of Arabs coming
to blow up New York." In the same book, he wrote: "In inky darkness we crossed
New Mexico." I think if he'd seen Albuquerque by daylight, he would've wanted to
blow that up, too. Maybe he didn't realize the Manhattan Project was in New
Mexico, not New York (as the name would imply), and that with every bomb
factory it spawned, we could detonate in a far more spectacular fashion than the
Big Apple.
May 10, 2004
The Ausherman Stories
by Stephen Ausherman
Johnny Cash Died for Your Sins
He dressed like a villain, all in black. Some say he was Liberace's evil twin. And
some might say he catered to criminals, way he played for them at that Tennessee
prison. Thieves, murderers, rapists, he glorified them all, made each and every
one of them sexier than Cool Hand Luke.
He sang like a psychopath, especially when he sang about shooting up cocaine
and shooting down his woman. He sang that in "Cocaine Blues" and the audience
cheered. Then he sang about shooting a man in Reno just to watch him die. And
in his song about Delia, the woman he wanted to marry, he sang about tying her
to a chair and shooting her with a machine gun.
But I'm here to tell you none of that matters, because he's dead now. And what's
more, he died for your sins. Your sins, my sins, all our damn sins.
I know because I saw the sign. Out on Highway 491, what used to be Highway
666, about halfway between Cortez and Shiprock, there's a sign nailed to a
stump of what used to be a utility pole. There's a sign there on Indian land and it
says: JC DIED FOR YOUR SINS.
And lord knows, everybody knows, highway signs on Indian land don't tell lies.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Around the World
I aimed my rifle at the globe and fired a round into Sacramento. The exit wound
destroyed France. I fired again, this time into Dallas. The bullet took out Israel
and with it a good chunk of Egypt. I know it's a matter of simple geometry, a
straight line intersecting a sphere, but I'm thinking now maybe I'll postpone my
plans for digging a hole to China.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Apologies to Santa Fe
We were wrong about Santa Fe. First, it was wrong to tell your children that the
adobe bricks in their homes are actually the enlarged livers of the alcoholic
pioneers who settled this land with the sole intention of legally wedding their
nieces. Adobe bricks are made of mud. Everybody knows that.
Santa Fe has much to contribute to the world of art. We recognize that now, and
freely admit your artists often employ more than coyote stencils and turquoise
beads when creating their crafts. And no, retarded adolescents with sparkles and
macaroni and paste couldn't necessarily make anything more valuable than the
work displayed in Santa Fe's chic galleries.
We also relish in the nouveau fusion cuisine of Santa Fe, your sashimi paninis with
loads of cilantro, and your gorgonzola burritos with hollandaise sauce. To say
they taste like something extracted from a Frenchman's ass was quite an
exaggeration. And your bastardized Eastern Philosophies, packaged and resold
as New Age Religion, it's all good. We're not saying we're ready to convert, just
that we understand the appeal. Crystals are pretty, as are names like Starlight and
Moonbeam and Gyra, and even Stone Eagle.
It was wrong to refer to your fair city as Santa Fea, the ugly saint. In truth, it's no
uglier than, say, Disney's Frontierland or Taco Bell.
Pancho Villa is dead. There, we said it. We accept that now. And we admit he
never instructed us to take up machetes and clear out the Palace of the
Governors. In fact, if he could talk to us today, he'd probably tell us to buy an
SUV, in particular the Hyundai Santa Fe. No one should ever suggest it's a car
for men who lost their testicles in a quilting accident. Hyundai's Santa Fe is for
anyone, regardless of how they lost their balls.
And so we withdraw our petition to relocate Santa Fe all its good citizens to the
Peruvian Andes, where the strong can survive on the frozen carcasses of the
weak. Upon reflection, that seems unreasonable.
He dressed like a villain, all in black. Some say he was Liberace's evil twin. And
some might say he catered to criminals, way he played for them at that Tennessee
prison. Thieves, murderers, rapists, he glorified them all, made each and every
one of them sexier than Cool Hand Luke.
He sang like a psychopath, especially when he sang about shooting up cocaine
and shooting down his woman. He sang that in "Cocaine Blues" and the audience
cheered. Then he sang about shooting a man in Reno just to watch him die. And
in his song about Delia, the woman he wanted to marry, he sang about tying her
to a chair and shooting her with a machine gun.
But I'm here to tell you none of that matters, because he's dead now. And what's
more, he died for your sins. Your sins, my sins, all our damn sins.
I know because I saw the sign. Out on Highway 491, what used to be Highway
666, about halfway between Cortez and Shiprock, there's a sign nailed to a
stump of what used to be a utility pole. There's a sign there on Indian land and it
says: JC DIED FOR YOUR SINS.
And lord knows, everybody knows, highway signs on Indian land don't tell lies.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Around the World
I aimed my rifle at the globe and fired a round into Sacramento. The exit wound
destroyed France. I fired again, this time into Dallas. The bullet took out Israel
and with it a good chunk of Egypt. I know it's a matter of simple geometry, a
straight line intersecting a sphere, but I'm thinking now maybe I'll postpone my
plans for digging a hole to China.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Apologies to Santa Fe
We were wrong about Santa Fe. First, it was wrong to tell your children that the
adobe bricks in their homes are actually the enlarged livers of the alcoholic
pioneers who settled this land with the sole intention of legally wedding their
nieces. Adobe bricks are made of mud. Everybody knows that.
Santa Fe has much to contribute to the world of art. We recognize that now, and
freely admit your artists often employ more than coyote stencils and turquoise
beads when creating their crafts. And no, retarded adolescents with sparkles and
macaroni and paste couldn't necessarily make anything more valuable than the
work displayed in Santa Fe's chic galleries.
We also relish in the nouveau fusion cuisine of Santa Fe, your sashimi paninis with
loads of cilantro, and your gorgonzola burritos with hollandaise sauce. To say
they taste like something extracted from a Frenchman's ass was quite an
exaggeration. And your bastardized Eastern Philosophies, packaged and resold
as New Age Religion, it's all good. We're not saying we're ready to convert, just
that we understand the appeal. Crystals are pretty, as are names like Starlight and
Moonbeam and Gyra, and even Stone Eagle.
It was wrong to refer to your fair city as Santa Fea, the ugly saint. In truth, it's no
uglier than, say, Disney's Frontierland or Taco Bell.
Pancho Villa is dead. There, we said it. We accept that now. And we admit he
never instructed us to take up machetes and clear out the Palace of the
Governors. In fact, if he could talk to us today, he'd probably tell us to buy an
SUV, in particular the Hyundai Santa Fe. No one should ever suggest it's a car
for men who lost their testicles in a quilting accident. Hyundai's Santa Fe is for
anyone, regardless of how they lost their balls.
And so we withdraw our petition to relocate Santa Fe all its good citizens to the
Peruvian Andes, where the strong can survive on the frozen carcasses of the
weak. Upon reflection, that seems unreasonable.
