Notes
I'm always jotting down notes. In the dark; in the light; in the middle of someone talking to me about something tragic in their lives that I'm really not listening to because, honestly, why would I give a fuck about their third cousin twice removed who was killed by a jealous manatee because the cousin was trying to make sweet, sweet love to an already spoken for manatee?
I take a lot of notes. I don't send myself texts because I don't have a cellphone (I sit next to a phone nine hours a day. If you can't reach me in those nine hours you don't need to speak to me. What emergency would you need me for? I'm not a doctor, lawyer and I'm not going to bail you out of jail). I pull out a pen, note pad, scrap of paper, napkin, lottery slip, pretty much anything papery and write whatever insane idea has crossed my head path.
If you don't believe this transpires I'll have my consigliere and invisible friend Scott (AKA Scooter, AKA Scott) verify,
"Yes, he takes notes all the time and it annoys everyone around him."
Thank you, Scott, for that verification.
"You're welcome. Now get out of my house."
I write for many different mediums so the idea could be a script idea, a greeting card idea, a random bit, a budding joke, a snippet of something I may want to put into a larger piece that, on it's own, makes no sense but, in context, makes so much sense it's ridiculous.
Many of the notes don't see light of day because other projects become more pressing. I leave them in there for the day I have time. I have two or three large envelopes filled with these shreds of paper. Notebooks pages, shards of paper, scribbles on napkins and jotted on remnants of what seems to be material that could be used for notes if you press down hard enough.
And I've looked in these envelopes and I found myself saying things like, "I wonder what I was thinking there?" Or "Can't let my parole officer see that." Or "There's that number of the producer who wanted me to send the script. When was that? Three years ago? I wonder if he's still interested?"
If you looked into the envelopes you'd think they were the manifesto of someone who doesn't quite know the laws of physics apply to him. Or worse. Probably worse. They are nuggets of ideas. A potential thought that needs to be polished, placed in it's correct setting, then sent to the right person who will give me money.
But before that happens there are these notes. If I've done my job correctly I can easily find them in the notepad I have with me. But, more often then not, I'm separated from my notepad because I'm not near my coat, the notepad is across the room with my pants, it's quicker just to rip off a piece of placemat.
But it's not just the context of the notes that most would find odd at best and disturbing at worst. It's the handwriting which I call 'early epileptic' and the fact that I am dyslexic and often, in my haste to get down my mind gem before it evaporates, pay little attention to the laws of spelling they are illegible to your average human. I've actually looked at my own handwritten notes and thought,
"Is that funny or was I in the middle of a mini stoke?"
That's another reason why very few people have actually seen my raw notes. The fact that, if they can read it, the idea that was in my head would frighten them (remember, the idea for a tennis ball filled with cement shot out of a ball cannon - that caused this - began it's life on a piece of paper I pulled out of my back pocket) or causes them to question my sanity. Plus the fact that I use a lot of abbreviation which, to the untrained eye, would render the finest joke a dud.
So I take my notes as they are and reconstruct the fully realized thought from the remnant that I wrote down. This is not a skill most have. I'm not saying all of my notes look as if they were the prototype for the notebook doodling during the opening credits of 'Seven' but even the best of them are quite ugly to the human eye.
All of this came to light the other morning. I was going about my day wondering what I was going to learn about my fellow man when my girlfriend said, "Did you see the note on the dryer?"
My first thought wasn't, "Oh no! She's going to steal that killer birthday card idea and sell it on her own." It was, "Oh no! I did something stupid so she needs to passive aggressively point out my foible."
That's just a joke. What I really thought was, "Aww fuck. What did I do now?"
"No." I respond. "There is no way I'd see a note on the dryer because I wouldn't be looking for such a thing."
"Go see."
I think, "Why don't you just tell me?" But I don't say it because I know she has to make me do the walk of shame. As I approach the dryer I see a torn sheet of paper. That's when I knew it had to be a note from my pants. She goes through my pants before she washes them. Not looking for my notes she goes through the pockets looking for money.
She calls it the idiot tax.
I arrive at the dryer note and see that it's a scribbling of an idea for a parody commercial. Not a great idea but I see where I was going with it. I stuff it into my pocket and walk over to her.
"Thanks."
"You call yourself a writer but what was that?"
"An idea."
"For what?"
"I'm working on a few things for people. Maybe that."
"Does it say what I think it says?"
"Yes, it seems pretty clear to me."
"You might need help."
"I stand by the idea. It's a funny concept."
"I took a picture of it."
"That's a little weird."
"I'll let people see who's weird."
"Why? Do you think you'll embarrass me? I wrote Bug Boy. I've written jokes about the grossest things. What can anyone say about a two second thought that'll get to me?"
"I just think it's weird."
"Not saying it isn't but it's still funny."
"I don't think so."
That's where we ended our discussion. As usual. She's not a fan of my work.
Later that day she tells me she posted my note on her facebook page. I said cool. I went to her page and this is what I saw:
Yes, misspelled but saying, 'CD of celebry farts'.
Now that is funny. You know you'd love to hear Tom Hanks go insane with the methane. Don't lie to me. Sofía Vergara tooting an air parade out of her dumper? You'd laugh until there was potential for you to cut a fart CD.
I read the comments and most were in support of my girlfriends side of, 'Yep, he's a bit touched.' But one of them touched upon an idea that proved there's a little weird out there in everyone.
"I hope it's not going to be scratch and sniff?"
To which I responded, "It is now. Genius!"
