Eighteen days, ninety percent to go! That seems like a lot, prob'ly 'cause it's a LOT!! As we work frantically and diligently to try to get folks to believe in this as much as WE do, I thought it'd be cool to show a little example of how a chapter of the novel is transformed into a scene from the opry. Of course, there's no way to ever include EVERYTHING from a book in any form of stage or screen adaptation, but this one comes pretty darned close! And don't forget - you can get a free download of the novel HERE!! This is from the novel: CHAPTER TWO Wilson, Tennessee is a small town of about fourteen thousand located in the Cumberland Valley about a half-hour’s drive east of Nashville. The seat of Wilson County, it has all the charms of a small Southern town – friendly folk, a town square, a single movie theater (although a full two generations have no memory of it having a single screen), and gossip that flies as care-free as the Confederate Flag that waved over the courthouse until almost 1970. While political pressure from Nashville (the threat of withholding money!) brought the flag down, gossip remains unencumbered. Northerners like to imply it’s a Southern thing, but gossip’s been around almost as long as people. If they hadn’t been alone on the planet, surely rumors would’ve flown about a certain couple having pre-marital sex in a certain garden. Egyptians gossiped with hieroglyphics, American Indians with smoke signals, frontiersmen with Pony Express riders. One of the driving forces behind many technological advances – if you really study it - has been not only to more-effectively facilitate the slaughter of our fellow man, but also to facilitate the infliction of more subtle (and far more entertaining) injuries. During the late winter and early spring of 2009 in Wilson, Tennessee, rumor had it that Willard Blevins – “you know, Mack’s boy” – was possessed by a devil in his laptop. Nobody blamed Mack and Elenore for giving the twelve-year-old a gizmo that came pre-loaded with – in addition to all its other apps – a freakin’ entity. They were from a different time, a generation that considered programming the VCR and getting the coffee-maker to brew before you woke up to be all the technical know-how required of someone without a college degree. And there were no degrees in the Blevins family - and none were expected – most likely because the family tree wasn’t exactly overrun with branches. Mack’s father was Elenore’s mother’s cousin, Elenore’s sister’s husband was Mack’s uncle’s cousin’s boy…it didn’t make for a high prospect of a bio-chemist in the family’s future, but it sure made it easy to find an organ donor. Which was infinitely more practical. His father got Willard the laptop mainly for its video games, because, as Mack put it, “the little shit’s always wantin’ to change the goddamned channel from NASCAR.” His son’s aversion to stock-car racing prompted Mack to wonder on occasion if perhaps the boy wasn’t his, but he’d done the bone-dance with Elenore plenty of times, and couldn’t for the life of him imagine anyone else wanting to go through that. It took Willard some time to figure out how to work his new toy. At first, all he could do with it was play Dungeon Hunter, which Mack was relieved to discover at least involved killing. The boy had always been something of a loner – his weight problem attracted derision from his classmates and eliminated most sports as an activity option – and his parents were both happy to see him while away his free hours doing something he seemed to enjoy more than sitting on the couch, bitching about what was on TV. They often heard him in his room, shouting gleefully at the death of another enemy combatant in the sacred land of Gothicus, and, while they couldn’t really comprehend his reports of progress - using words like “Warlord” and “Astromancer” – if it relieved them from seemingly incessant interruptions of watching cars driving around in a circle, they were all for it. About a month earlier, the joyful sounds of villain-killing exaltation had suddenly ceased. After a few hours of silence from the boy’s room, Mack told Elenore he was afraid their son might be burned out. “Goddammit,” he growled. “He’s gonna be back in here bitchin’ about what’s on TV.” Elenore concurred, in the way she’d concurred for years. She silently nodded her head, her eyes glued to the flat-screen. Occasionally she grunted, but mainly reserved such outbursts for family crises. Mack had hoisted himself out of his comfy recliner. It was pretty much the only exercise he got these days, ever since he’d lost a big toe in a drunken bowling accident and got a hefty settlement check. He waddled down the hall to Willard’s closed bedroom door, and was about to walk in when he thought he heard a faint but only vaguely familiar sound from inside the boy’s room. It was not dissimilar to the sound made by squirrels in the attic, but obviously that wasn’t it. A few moments later it dawned on him. He walked back into the living room, a strange expression on his face. “Elenore.” Though the tone of his voice didn’t seem particularly urgent, there was something about it that had pulled his wife’s eyes from the TV screen. “Huh?” Mack paused a moment, almost as if he couldn’t actually commit to words the thought in his head, yet neither could he hold it back. “I think Willard’s in there goddamned typing.” Elenore’s jaw had dropped and rested on her Titanic-sized bosom. “Shut the front door.” This was not only as close as Elenore ever came to swearing, it was also one of her rare complete sentences. “I shit you not. Can’t think of what else it might be.” Elenore’s curiosity, usually a slumbering, dim-witted beast, overcame her aversion to getting off the couch for anything but going to the bathroom, refilling her iced tea, or popping a snack into the microwave. She gripped the padded arm-rest and lumbered to her feet. Mack was almost as mystified by this as he was by the goings-on in their son’s room. “Dang, Elenore, it ain’t even a commercial.” If looks could slap, Mack would’ve been smacked. Without waiting for further reply, Mack turned and walked down the hall, Elenore just behind. The couple paused – as side-by-side as logistically possible with two such bodies in the narrow hallway - just outside the closed bedroom door, listening. Unfortunately, the labored breathing of not one but two fat people drowned out whatever faint sounds may have been emanating from the room. “Shhh!” Mack whispered. “’Shhh’ what?” “Stop breathin’!” Elenore back-handed his shoulder, the sound absorbed by Mack’s circus-tent-sized flannel shirt. “You stop breathin’.” With the dual behemoths momentarily completely silent, the only sounds in the house were the faint whirring of the ceiling fan in the living room, barely audible over the TV’s inanity. And the distinctive clickety-clickety-clack of the laptop’s keyboard from behind Willard’s closed door. Mack and Elenore exhaled simultaneously, looking at one another wide-eyed, Elenore surprised, Mack with an “I told you so” expression. “Shut the front door,” Elenore whispered. “You think he’s doing homework?” Mack whispered back. It’s not an easy thing to whisper a responsive grunt, but that’s what Elenore did. Without awaiting further response or encouragement, Mack quickly turned the knob and opened Willard’s door. “Shut the front door,” Elenore said for a third time, and Mack would have thought her incessant yacking nearly intolerable if his attention hadn’t been elsewhere. Willard sat on his twin-sized unmade bed, his pudgy legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. His back rested against the headboard, his computer opened on his lap as his fingers raced across the keyboard, his eyes staring through his dirty-blond stringy bangs at either the opposite wall or nothing at all. Mack and Elenore took all this in in exactly the amount of time it took for the sound waves from the opening of the door (and Elenore’s “Shut the front door”) to reach their son’s dirty ears. His gaze quickly turned their direction. He slammed his laptop shut. “I can’t believe I fucking lost my fucking capo again,” he said. And now, the opry version: Scene 2 Typing sound fades as music rises. LIGHTS UP on a living room, a recliner in front of a large-screen TV, a sofa beside the recliner, a coffee table strewn with magazines and an ashtray at the far end of the sofa, where sits ELENORE, knitting and smoking. MACK enters, holding beer. MACK I like NASCAR (pops top) And beer The only exercise I get is gettin’ it from here… (crosses to sofa, limping) To here. (plops down on sofa) I like NASCAR (picks up remote) Those guys are great (turns up volume, sound of racing) Go straight take a left take a left go straight Take a left take a left go straight Go straight take a left take a left go straight Take a left take a left go straight Sound of racing fades. ELENORE I like knitting, it helps relax my mind I ain’t KIDDING Sometimes it’s the only peace I find Just a needle and some thread And cigarettes and magazines And I’ll be the happiest country girl you never see MACK Go straight take a left take a left go straight Take a left take a left go straight Go straight take a left take a left go straight Take a left take a left go straight I like NASCAR and beer I kinda like to lose myself in anything that ain’t right here Elenore’s like a zombie who only smokes and knits (motions to closed door STAGE RIGHT) And our boy’s less like a zombie Than a little bitch ELENORE Shhh Mack! Willard’ll hear ya! Both look at door. MACK I can’t believe he’s not shrieking at one of his stupid video games ELENORE But you bought him that computer ‘cause he was drivin’ you insane MACK I traded all that whinin’ for “BOOMS” and “KA-POWS” BOTH But he sure is quiet now MACK (back to race) I like NASCAR, and NASCAR likes me Go straight take a left take a left go straight Take a left take a left go…I gotta pee Mack rises and limps to bathroom. He stops at door and looks up, noticing the accompanying MUSIC. He sighs, shakes his head, enters bathroom, closes door. SFX peeing with MUSIC. MACK (from behind door) Really? MUSIC changes. MACK (cont) There ya go. SFX peeing continues, wanes, stops. SFX flush. Mack exits bathroom, looks quizzically at Willard’s door. Limps over, puts his ear to door. Looks up, irritate at the MUSIC volume. MUSIC fades. SFX typing rises. MACK (cont) I know I’ve heard that sound before Like squirrels in the attic But that can’t be it His eyes widen as it dawns on him. MACK (cont) Goddamn it Elenore! I think Willard’s in there goddamn typing! ELENORE (stands, shocked) Shut the front door! That’s not like him at all! MACK I said Goddamn it Elenore! I think our boy’s in there goddamn typing! ELENORE I know, I heard you, I said that’s not like him at all BOTH Not like him at all... Elenore lays down her knitting and crosses to Mack. MACK Well we ain’t real educated, ain’t had too many chances ELENORE Our fam’ly tree ain’t exactly overrun with branches MACK It was one thing when that gizmo was more like a toy BOTH I just don’t know what’s got into our little boy ELENORE Maybe he’s just playin’, pretending that he’s writing MACK I hear what you’re saying, that has to be it ELENORE He’s sure doing it quickly, no way he could have learned Mack looks at the TV, frowns. MACK Dammit, I just missed the part where that guy crashed and burned ELENORE There’s got to be an explanation BOTH Let’s bring this mystery to an end Mack flings open door, LIGHTS UP on WILLARD, sitting in his bed, typing rapidly on a laptop, eyes straight ahead, trance-like. MACK (spoken) Fuck a bird! ELENORE (spoken) Shut the front door! Willard blinks, notices his parents, slams the laptop shut, annoyed. WILLARD I can’t believe I fucking lost my fucking capo again! MACK (spoken) What the fuck’s a capo? LIGHTS DOWN
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The Kickstarter Campaign for the Concept CD "DIARY OF A DEAD GUY - the Country-freakin'-OPERA!!" is officially underway!
Click here for more details, including a couple of FUNNY F***ING VIDEOS!! Ty Hager is a singer-songwriter, novelist, and radio host/producer. Here's his website. ArchivesCategories |