Translating Film Dialoge To Neil Diamond
'Glengary Glen Ross'
Blake: You got leads. Mitch & Murray paid good money. Get their names to sell them. You can't close the leads you're given, you can't close shit, *you are* shit, hit the bricks pal, and beat it, 'cause you are going *out*.
Shelley Levene: The leads are weak.
Blake: "The leads are weak." The fucking leads are weak? You're weak. I've been in this business fifteen years...
Dave Moss: What's your name?
Blake: Fuck you. That's my name.
[Moss laughs]
Blake: You know why, mister? 'Cause you drove a Hyundai to get here tonight, I drove an eighty thousand dollar BMW. *That's* my name.
Blake: Porcupine popped out a baby. The paper bag men spread cheese
over a bat. Ask a monkey to smile like an astronaut. You can't kookoodoodleydoo, you can't diddleydippitydee, you are diddleydippity, smack the hackysack possum jose, and pass a log, you are fishing in fish that can't see straight.
Shelley Levene: Porcupine has gas.
Blake: "Porcupine has gas." The woowoowoopywowywippywooing porcupine has gas? You're a porcupine. I've been tugging on the hambone of a giraffe since the doctor kicked a goat.
Dave Moss: Who is your color coat?
Blake: Woowoowoopywowywippywoo. That's my color coat.
[Moss laughs]
Blake: Pong is the greatest game on earth. 'Cause you rode on a ferret without any antlers, I drove a green duck with antlers. *That's* my color coat.
Blake: You got leads. Mitch & Murray paid good money. Get their names to sell them. You can't close the leads you're given, you can't close shit, *you are* shit, hit the bricks pal, and beat it, 'cause you are going *out*.
Shelley Levene: The leads are weak.
Blake: "The leads are weak." The fucking leads are weak? You're weak. I've been in this business fifteen years...
Dave Moss: What's your name?
Blake: Fuck you. That's my name.
[Moss laughs]
Blake: You know why, mister? 'Cause you drove a Hyundai to get here tonight, I drove an eighty thousand dollar BMW. *That's* my name.
Blake: Porcupine popped out a baby. The paper bag men spread cheese
over a bat. Ask a monkey to smile like an astronaut. You can't kookoodoodleydoo, you can't diddleydippitydee, you are diddleydippity, smack the hackysack possum jose, and pass a log, you are fishing in fish that can't see straight.
Shelley Levene: Porcupine has gas.
Blake: "Porcupine has gas." The woowoowoopywowywippywooing porcupine has gas? You're a porcupine. I've been tugging on the hambone of a giraffe since the doctor kicked a goat.
Dave Moss: Who is your color coat?
Blake: Woowoowoopywowywippywoo. That's my color coat.
[Moss laughs]
Blake: Pong is the greatest game on earth. 'Cause you rode on a ferret without any antlers, I drove a green duck with antlers. *That's* my color coat.
18 Comments:
Hey Brad, just wanted to tell you I'm working your old job. I work for Osmose now inspecting power polls. I've lost your contact info, so if you could e-mail me that, then that would be swell.
By Benjamin, at 12/12/06 5:44 PM
Outta sight! The crazy thing is, Alan Arkin was Neil's bass player in the day. Woowoowoopywow! Now I picture a showdown between your Diamond and Ferrell's Goulet. Thanks to you and Melissa for the contribution. Hats off to Elizabeth Luttrell...and big love to you both.
By John, at 10/1/07 7:32 PM
Fuck I wish I was drunk. Instead, I, half man, half beast, have been experimenting with the immediate gratifications associated with immediate masturbation.
Immediate masturbation is a system of hasty departure to points of relative privacy, and in no way prolonging the fantastic experiences. Just blow sperm, quick and hard. Warsh up. Say hi to dead relatives as your forehead slowly ceases tingling, as this is no doubt a version of sex magic. That is, if you can shake it every hour.
I can't. But last night, I saw Satan hadning me this violent bouquet of bloody roses pushed in my face like a 1,000 fists of hatred. It wasn't fun. But, I immediately jerked off all over my new, J.Crew pajamas.
Stranger things in this fucking crazy world are happening, of course.
Cum dries ... that or the cat someone gets to it.
Well, I must admit, my thoughts, sober, light-headed for lack of protein perhaps, turn to - you guessed it - philosophy. My brand, anyway, which is l.a.z.y.
Anyway ... hold on. I will have myself a beer. It's almost 1 a.m., my wife's in bed, she's not feeling good; and I do need to get up at a decent hour tomorrow and head to the office to file some articles etc. But lately (don't tell my boss) I've been procrastinating everything, even taking a shit.
Freud might call that retention, no, no... If I could, the turd would just float across the room and dive into the bowl on its own, perhaps with a little gesture to the crowd. So, it's not retention, it's a willingness to deficate (sp?) just a non-willingness to stand up, walk to the bathroom, pull down my pajamas, squat, grunt and fire.
I want only a quick squeeze of the colonic trigger, anything more means effort.
But, I have been applying jock itch spray to my ass cheeks, which have developed a heat rash due to my refusal to stand. And this is why I nominate myself not only for the Sexiest Man Alive contest sponsored by my wildest dreams, but also Husband of the Year.
Anyway, tonight, while watching old WWII footage, after watching Gangs of New York on Bravo (?) I got to thinking about patterns. This though had been tugging at me all day.
I'm hip to Chaos etc. But in this case, I got to thinnin about an old acid trip I shared with Ben at Chris Hill's house. Man, it was like Bernie Taupin lyrics "crawlin round the basement floor - ah ah ah ah...."
I woke up and Ben and I actually crawled into each other. I don't know if Ben remembers it that way. They say cognitive distortion can produce all kinds of shared, but innacurate memories. Anywho, that's how I remember it.
Then, I asked you: "Did we take acid last night?" And you said, "Yeah, you took everyone's hits."
At that moment, though I'm sure I hid it, I think I cried very hard inside. Not because of my rudeness the night before, I did remember when Chris held out the hits, I thought it would be funny to grab them all and stick them in my mouth and proceed to laugh very hard in all of your faces ... which I did. Deirdra laughed with me. Deirdra laughs with me a lot, and I fucking appreciate that.
Anyway, Ben and I made it to the second story porch, which was kind of an apratment style, shared balcony really, with heavy stucco ramparts etc. (I wish I knew how to describe arcitecture) But when we looked over the side, bliss, beauty, indescribable bearing. The lawn cutters apparently the afternoon before, cut the grass into little octagons, and lined them with neon boundaries spiked little, blossoming spearheads etc.
The way I remember it was as if I was staring at the pattern up close. I remember occasionally looking back at Ben as if he'd turn into some large tit on which I could suddenyl fasten my lips and all my childish longing to simply disappear, so then I'd quickly look back at the pretty lawn.
Now, mornings light began to take away all the blazing neon aspects, and the octagons became a mere assemblage of allied triangles. This was fine, believe me. It meant that I was leaving my silly visual phase and entering into the slimy depths of despair, my special post-acid place since I was 18. Thanks.
But my point, while wathcing WWII footage this evening, someone being jarred like a Proustian "petite Madeline" (sp?) into this old acid trip; add Gangs of New York, the scene where Bill describes how the entirely mangy Five Points owes him kickbacks: the Shebees, the Blind something or others, etc, all cliques; and WWII itself, global ciques; in Gangs, the Irish immigrants getting off the boat to simply get on another boat bound for the south and the Civil War, the arrivals with fresh pine boxes of dead teenagers etc., a Reichian insanity for all to see, and Big Boss Tweed just digging into it; WWII, in Normandy circa 44, going after some hill in the brocage (sp?); senseless in its repeat of the same European Theatre pattern, going backward to WWI, Prussian wars, Napoleon, Charlemange etc., and on and on; little elecrtic octagons illuminated by a mind invented by the pattern, to see the pattern, yet, ONLY HIS PATTERN.
My pattern, a Thing in the nothingness of relativity. A thing in the nothingness of time, save time's impact, which makes every day, the One Day, but nevertheless, lost in the nithingness or impossibility of the moment.
The moment, ha ha! When does it end? And so, if we just jerk off a second, smoke a butt, drink a beer, and think about it: Time is that speck of dust. That is, if there is such thing as time, it is as long as the briefest moment, you see?
Or rather, we might say that it is valid to perceive its emotional length as such, so to speak.
I just saw a show about Da Vinci, he was crying about the ravages of time, like Bukowski's wild horses etc. Who isn't right noe doing that, even kids do it, yet in reverse; they wish for it to pass because to them it is agonizingly long; but the retarded adult male like myself, it goes quicker at every turn of the corner.
A hot dog takes less time ti eat, the mustard that I pour seems to already have been spread; when the TV flips on, it's because a million strange limbs just flicked it on and off in a montage of sick, soul-sucking despair.
And then, zany titles whir past my brain in trite explanation: "stop the world, I want to get off" look, "its' a mad mad mad mad mad world" hey Arnold Stang! You rock! I loved you in The Man with the Golden Arm" Frank Sinatra, Otto Preminger, why do I remember that, it's because I read the video box, it's because I said I'll remember this, it's because I thought it would be neat to remember, it's because Frank's a drummer, it's because he's hooked on heroin, it's because he learns that he can't kick the drug and go right back into the scene if he wants to stay clean, it's because, that dude, I can't remeber his name, the Night Stalker, he's hooked on candy at one time, develops pit for himself and other addicts, but still aims to bust Frank's face etc.
Yummy. But the pattern in all of this, is the pattern that our mom Nature - at least in our minds, minds borne of pattern-making - insisted .. organically, if you will.
The Spinozan mind, let's say, in His infinite wisdom, in His image, or in the only Thing-in-Itself, so to speak, from it fashioned all; and even if God jerked off incessantly to somehow mix it all up, He'd still be left with Thing/Pattern; and all stillborn inside the Eden East, will look on the pattern, through a pattern to see the pattern in Nothingness, or that which in the Garden of Infinity, cares not for every possible quantum speck of meaningless dust jackoff, I.
By John Shannon, at 19/1/07 10:42 PM
The more I read your Glengary Glen Diamond, the more I laugh. Dude, in a word, you're brillant. That's your name! What inspired you? Did you see him live, does he bowdlerize himself like Cosby? I mean, your selection of verbiage rings like Diamond, but for the life of me, I don't know how he sounds except the raspy voice and his acting in The Jazz Singer (1980?) "Papa, don't." Jesus, was Lawrence Olivier his grandpop, fuck me, the guy who tore his shirt, in the Jewish tradition of dismay: "you are not my, son..." etc. Why do I remember dat? But then, you know, I'm slow, but fuck, now that you mention it, the lyrics, that slick delievery, Cherry, Cherry, yes, I'm gettin' it, Cherry Brother Love Traveling Salvation show, beaver monkey's ate the face... You've taught me Diamond, and I thank you.
By John, at 24/1/07 4:51 PM
Hey John - sorry for not replying sooner, I still love you.
I ripped off the Neil Diamond bit from Will Ferrell. I am THAT original.
By brad, at 8/2/07 3:50 PM
Oh my God, has it been since Jan.? No worries, Brad, ditto! Man, I'm completely inconsistent at blogging etc.
Today on Today, "sexual predators." That phrase kills me. A classic dehumanizing package. I picture a leopard, no a Liger!
I've been thinking about a three-prong solution. No. 1 first, we must recognize that anyone with a hard-on for children is deranged. That word I chose is not in the fashion of ridicule, rather in putting things plainly, simplistically to get eventually to the root of the problem.
A screw loose: hard-on for children as opposed to automatic (normal) paternal feelings. There but for the grace of God ... yada. Every one of us "normal" people should first recognize that fact, and so feel very lucky to not be tortured with such an abhorent predisposition.
No. 2 second screw: virtually no super-ego, let's say. These unfortunates can't stop themselves for shame; some work on it maybe, other don't. No. 3 perhaps is a bonafide sociopath, zero to little consciounsness.
Okay, we have are people (not predators) people, humans, human animal, homo sapiens sapiens.
Yes, I believe they can be slapped around a great deal in this world befroe getting help. But afterwards, send them to get help. Let's be careful not to cast them in Daedalus's happy labyrinth of determinism - prongs in hands after demonstrating how by stimulating this region of the brain, this happens, etc. - meanwhile, the Minotaur's breath is just a fly - shooing it away with prescriptions etc. Can we not eventually have an intelligent, caring mental health community. Like Dylan said, "and remember when you're out there---trying to heal the sick ... that you must always first forgive them..." Something like that.
I yearn with bleary-eyed indignance for this world to discover that Reich was right: We are all fucking sick, man. Can't we justSTOP! Stop it, you little worm. Tis I, Super-Nietzsche! (Actually, my friends call me Chad. I don't know. I'm not really Nietzsche, I'm somewhere between Machiavelli and Donald Trump, so call me ... Chad. Why? I don't fucking know. Anyway, we can't succumb to weakness. If we do, we will not be able to hold our slimy vessels up to the light of high standards, IMR (individual moral responsibility) and progress via social Darwinism.
So there's Chad and the big blubbery bleeding heart and his club's band. What an order! ... At first we balked ... no we bunted, then stole first base as I remember Yogi? No, no we balked. Right!
The Today Show with Matt Lauer and shows like him, Later with Lauer on Acid (after Conan, let's say) Lauer and Roker by the Urinal Under Baltimore (which comes on at 4:15 a.m. every other Wednesday.) Regis and Cracky fill-in. That's where the producers behind morning shows takes turns deficating tarry swirls into a plastic Shedd's Spread container, wire it and hook it up for cable broadcast. Somehow what's missing is a Trickster with the power of the Beast to fuck this mania of Fear for Children's Safety up its squeaky, virgin asshole. But I too have yet to arrive at a concretized solution.
One thought crost mmind: anti-vigilism, to a degree. In Florida, is you think your life is threatened, you can legally blow someone's head off. That's a bothersome law to say the least; but if applied to a parent in fear for his child's safety???? why not? You see, that way, I wouldn't have to worry about my Bill of Rights eroding under the weight of the oral majority. (Those holy-rollers who check for cameras at the foot of the bed before demanding another donkey punch.) Though some, when watching Robert Duvall's performance in A Handmaid's Tale, wail: Bravo, now THAT, my lovely wife, is how we should FUCK! Though, the only thing I'd add is a poster of Ryan Seacrest above your head ... if that's okay? Wait, why am I asking you, take that! And that, foul wench. You married a Promise Keeper from Fresno, don't ya know. And I promised my father-in-law to learn you the lessons of Eden, bitch!
Anyway: main point: can't we actually help/heal the sick? Or do we have to hunt them down with bloodhounds and bugels on shows like Today?
By John Shannon, at 14/3/07 7:41 AM
But wait, Lonely Hearts Club Band, you are suggesting the dystopian imposition of good, a worse evil to be sure SEE Orwell etc.
I know, I know, and speakin of Orwell, here I am at his barn, seeking to overthrow the management. In doing so, very conveniently overlooking that I, pig, haven't, as they have, stepped up to the plate.
It worries me ... to borrow a phrase from Chief Dan George. But, my heart soars like a hawk with the thought of a better day for all. Yes, I am, indeed, one of those creatures who forgive everything.
[but you don't have children, yet]
True. But I would be amendable, like I said, to a parent killing someone with his bare hands, who hurt or tried to hurt his kids. Why not? What's worng with that? Seriously. If anyone tried to hurt my kids, that I am planning to have some day. I would not think twice. Dead. Quick, and nothing personal. Is this evil. Well the holy set would thump that vengeance is mine bullshit, which has zero foundation. Fuck waiting, let's be practical.
This, however, is seemingly, if not a blantant turnabout. One one hand, I advocate healing the sick, on the other, demolishing the sick. Here's where I have to give air to the bloodhounds and bugels and the entire Animal Farm aristocracy, the system etc.
We - a pronoun I wince when I use (thank you, Ayn) are caught between these two sympathies.
But, I overlook the obvious one, a kinder more practical one, that's already in play, the very system I ridicule. The legal system. But if I go there, I must somehow recognize the wisdom of the masses. And now, I'm really lost, because my Jesus/hero complex must bring us out of bondage and into the Promised Land. Therefore, I gravitate toward Reich etc. I want to be a healer and discoverer. And, like the medieval discoveres, if I find I haven't "discovered lands which have hitherto hath never been seen by mine eyes, I will enslave the lot and burn there fields - same erection, I suppose!
What a pickle: there needs a solution, but where? in what interstice?
A-ha, in the interstice of sublime originality and creativity. But therein, I lost my immaturuity, my trickster advantage. the one John Stewart gets to emply on the Daily Show: the anarchists ridicule without solution. No ... that's the easy route that all budding Carlins desire etc.
No, sir. The solution to Bill of Rights vs. fear-mongers is complex and requires a modern day DeCartes. I think, therefore I solve. But, how do you think? Answer: in great laborious detail. Therefore, "I am" not going to do shit about it. Pass the remote and let's watch Idol.
(Secretly, we belive in we. The factory assemblage of progress. This problem will go away one way or another: death; Orwellian Rm. 101/The Bushes; scientific discovery; etc.
Philosophers and flakes like myself always get themselves all worked up before the dawn. We thrive inthe darkest alleys of conundrum. But remember in Saving Private Ryan, how each one of the soldiers made oaths about Ryan's qualifications etc: "he better invent a new lightbulb..." "Earn it..."
So, there ya go. we like to think that we each bring something to the table; and, ironically, (though this Ryan did not create a long-lasting lightbulb) he, in this assemblage of parts, was unique/invaluable etc. I think of William Bramley's formula that is echoed in new age writings on down to the ancients when the Brotherhood was perhaps, pure, if we want to explore Bramley etc.
So, we all just do our jobs; including the jobs left to philosophers who have proven themselves to be of that ilk somehow (though, pathetically this someone points to the modern college degree system etc.) What better? I don't now - and to be true to the truth, without ridiculing managemnet as I am prone to do, vainglory etc. All that the philosoper needs is hard, honset, honest hard work, the one thing so far I haven't been willing to do.
Actually, I'm working. Not here on the Blog. Not to say I'm not at least sharing heartfelt ramblings etc. I'm working at it. But not on the sexual deviant question. WE must choose our battles and on this I plead the assemblage, if you will. Someone will fix this right? Or do I think that talking about it here may make some type of impact? I don't know.
By John Shannon, at 14/3/07 8:16 AM
Do I see the light a the end of Anthony Burgess's? Where lil' Alex gets to eat with his mouth open and looks forward to another Biblical rape scene?
YES!!!!
He must have struck it, Mr. Burgess. The inventive Mr. Burgess.
That way, there is no imposition of "good." The syzygy rolls on and like all good Hindus, perhaps I can strip myself of the maya. Let it roll. Shiva will come to the rescue, much like the fantasies of apocalyptics worldwide.
Someone is playing a violin outside my window. This is either happening in suburbia, or I am losing my mind. Unaccompanied, it is the most blissful, wonderful sound I've heard. Live, it contains all the fumbles of pitch. It is happening across the way. I am not crazy.
I hate to say it, but sometimes the world seems right on. Or, I may have to admit, that as much as I fantasize about healing it, the world, in its inifnite wisdom - though hard core in its brutal truths - is right on.
Burgess simply let it in, did he not. Put his fiction a few decades in advnace of what was alreay happening. Happy pills etc., and onto the Borg. After all - he seems to come to realize - what is it to be human, if not emeshed in enteranl struggle - so, take struggle away and what do you have, a field of fucking wheat; Eden with ignorant monkey Adam/Eve.
Or was Bramley correct in thinking that perhaps we're all too used to this ubiquitous struggle. When, in truth, we're being played like his example of 15th century, Machiavellian Italy etc.?
Seems outlandish, but I am not one to shy from the outlandish simply because it panics my newly refined and collegiate sensibilities, after being duly dubbed, "Good Sir of Harvard"
Yes, my disdain continues...
The fingers point back to my own weaknessess or unfortunate misdiagnoses, etc. lask of patience, intellect, good teachers? I don't fucking know. A System! Yes, one must follow the system, painstakingly, with kegs of beer as waves on which one surfs to the glory of modernity.
I however, jumped off and rolled around in filth for years with pigs whom I have likened to bear my witness, on this, another tricky day, another sad day of reckoning in the mud, under the awful sun, my patriarchnemesisappolo and his fruits! I'll take a ripe pomegranate and say: I'll stick my dick in the mashed potatoes!
Anyway, in A Clockwork Orange, the sun and drizzle are one, which, as a beaten child grows into police brutality, as Burgess points out, or as Alex is only a mirror image of all society's ills, including those of his complacent and sickeningly weak, provokingly weak parents, i.e. society, the weaker parts that a troubled boy loves to stab like Christ in His holy sides; (though we have destroyed already the validity of the Trickster) youth, nevertheless, must do its job and stick Tradition up the ass of the fiddler on the fucking roof!
By John Shannon, at 14/3/07 8:54 AM
testing
By John Shannon, at 14/3/07 10:21 AM
testing
By John Shannon, at 14/3/07 10:26 AM
testing
By John Shannon, at 14/3/07 10:41 AM
Happy Saint Patrick's Day to you and yours. May you catch glimpse of the Wild Potato on the horizon. It's like the Great Pump-kin and comes out after too much Guinness. It's a beastly looking thing, with a hundred eyes, all gnarled and blotchy, blocks out the moon.
By John Shannon, at 14/3/07 11:00 AM
yes
By John Shannon, at 14/3/07 11:03 AM
testing
By John Shannon, at 17/3/07 12:28 AM
testing
By John Shannon, at 17/3/07 12:29 AM
dUde. Duuuude. Dude?
Dude.
brad
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By John Shannon, at 8/8/07 8:03 PM
This site is sadly dead b/c I screwed up something. But new sites are fun & my new site isn't that fun. But what the hell - check it out:
http://oliviadrab.typepad.com/robots/
By Anonymous, at 21/8/07 10:13 AM
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