Robbie. We were both 26. It was “Some Enchanted Evening” all over again. On our eight-month anniversary, he bought me the original cast recording of Kwamina and took me to a gang bang—without telling me that I was the one getting banged. Men are such assholes.
Michael. Five years ago. He was a tenor. We spent our first date listening to Götterdämmerung on the radio while we read along from the score (for six hours!). He was obsessed with Grove’s Dictionary of Music and Musicians, so I—with only $247, a T-bill, and a heart made out of oatmeal—promised it to him for Christmas. How was I supposed to know it came in eighteen volumes?! Three months later, he was sitting on a bench in Ocean Park reading “O” when a tall brunet with Armani teeth and a Calvin Klein body sat down next to him. Turned out he was an oboe player. Nobody ever heard from either one of them again.
And as long as I’m being brutally candid, I only wound up teaching American History because I followed a cute ass into the country-and-western section at Barnes & Noble and found out it was attached to an adorably self-conscious Poli-Sci professor who, in retrospect, was probably more anxious to stick a needle in his eye than have coffee with me. Three cappuccinos later, I could already envision myself stretched out on an Eames couch with my head in his lap while we both graded papers—so I applied for a job in the history department at USC. And by the time he’d introduced me to his boy toy—a gym bunny with a Ph.D. (natch)—I already had five classes and a parking space with my name on it. (Not that I ever blamed him for robbing Broadway of its brightest light. My musical comedy ambitions had been short-circuited three years earlier at the still-woundable age of 20, when I auditioned for a campus production of On a Clear Day at the Stop Gap Theatre and discovered quite by accident that my singing voice causes cancer.) Once again I’d chosen to sleep through Obvious Clues 101: the formal handshake instead of a kiss (he’s bashful), his unflagging use of the plural possessive (“our” dog clearly meant the one his parents had bought him when he was six—Spot or Shucks or Barnacle Bill), and the three hickeys barely hidden by his Versace collar (toner cartridge fell on his neck). Also overlooked was the fact that nothing makes my skin crawl like country-and-western music—unless it’s Götterdämmerung.
Okay. One more root canal. But that’s it. Otherwise, people might start thinking I’m a little screwy.
American History 206
Professor Puckett
April 14, 1998
Impressions of the Revolution
by Chuck Navarro
Let’s face it—up until 1750, we were a pain in the ass. But we still asked England to let us colonize a New Land, get some government, and borrow their ships. For what? In the 130 years since Plymouth Rock, we only had three specialties. (a) learning how to eat maize without dropping it all over the floor, (b) setting weird bonfires in Salem, and (c) dying of exposure. Sorry, but I’d have taxated us too.
Example: The ’62 Mets, who didn’t even deserve their uniforms until they got a life and a pennant in ’69. Also Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn playing pirates, the same way we were playing around with being a country when we weren’t one yet.
Travis, what the fuck does Tom Sawyer have to do with the Bill of Rights? If I wanted to take English, I would of.
—Chuck
Impressions of the Revolution
by Gary Petrie
King George knew he had his hands full. Dicking around about taxation and representation and stamps and embargoes is what you do when you’re looking for a reason to paste somebody in the mouth, and it was probably his way of getting the fucking thing over with quick so he could go back to polishing his jewelry. Chances are he was a reasonable person. On the other hand, he never figured he was going to lose either, which maybe makes him a prick after all.
Example: The 1927 Yankees (especially Tony Lazzeri) did the same thing to the American League that the Saratoga boys did to Burgoyne. And for almost all of the same reasons, like the Red Sox and the Redcoats not taking either one of them seriously until it was too late.
Travis:
Dude. Thanks for the B+. Before I took this class I thought that George Washington was a load of crap like Santa Claus and the Seven Dwarfs and other people they make you believe in when you’re too young to know any better. Even with the green picture on the dollar.
But you should lighten up a little. I mean, who really gives a shit about whose ass John Hancock had to kiss to get his name in the middle? You need a boyfriend. If you want me to keep my eyes open for somebody, just say the word.
—Gary
Impressions of the Revolution
by Corey Gambel
The Revolution solved one big problem. Up until then there wasn’t exactly a boom market on social studies books because we hadn’t done anything yet. I mean, if you were a kid who hated school, all you had to do was take American History and you’d be out of there in three days. But all of a sudden there were monuments and things like Concord and Valley Forge and Independence Hall and Old Ironsides. (And by the way. How come Paul Revere was a hero when all he did was run away and cry for help?)
Example: Ebbets Field, which probably had more important landmarks in it than all of the Bunker Hills put together. And they built it practically overnight. Sort of like the thirteen colonies who woke up one morning and there was the Bill of Rights. Baseball got instant history quicker than anybody else ever did—I mean, one box score and suddenly we had stats!
TP:
Not that I thought you were nuts, but this actually makes sense. It’s also the only class I stay awake through.
—CG
Impressions of the Revolution
by Doug Hatten
So we get our independence and then we can’t figure out what to do with it. Know what it reminds me of? Being a teenager and practically breaking apart at the seams to get out of the house for good. Until it happens. Then you spend all of your time in your old bedroom, staring at your football trophies and waiting for Mom to finish doing your laundry. Nothing’s scarier than being on your own for the first time. That’s why it took us more than a year to find a Constitution. We hadn’t grown up after all, and we needed to do it fast.
Example: The 1908 Cubbies. Without a doubt. They were just these confused kids who won the World Series, and they didn’t even know how the hell they got there. And once they thought they’d figured it out, they never got there again.
Trav, do I really have to take History 304 to find out about Carlton Fisk and the Cuban Missile Crisis? Couldn’t you just give us a hint and save me four units?
—Doug
Impressions of the Revolution
by Tony Norris
Know what England’s problem was? They were kicking the wrong country, that’s what. Suppose you were somebody’s asshole father who drank all night and spent the rest of the day beating the shit out of your kid. Then all of a sudden they make the little brat Chief of Police. Guess what? You’re screwed. And what really poked England in the nuts was figuring out too late that if they’d stopped us earlier, we never would have learned how to say no.
Example: John McGraw’s New York Giants. Any year’ll do. The Yankees may have been a better team, but nobody knew how to say “fuck you” to the people in charge better than Mr. McGraw. Even Alexander Hamilton didn’t.
Hey Trav,
When I first got in this course, I didn’t want a pervert teaching me. Now I don’t mind.
—Tony
Impressions of the Revolution
by Ray Sorren
What Revolution? We got our independence the day we set sail for Massachusetts. Everybody knew that except the King. What did he think all the shouting was about?! Duh. Okay, maybe we were a little over the top, but so what? We got to dress up like Indians and dump a thousand crates of tea into the harbor, and when that was over we put on uniforms and loaded up muskets and saluted a lot and if anybody’s thinking “batter up,” no wonder.
Example: Rookie Tom Seaver, who looked like he was 12. Until h
e threw his first fastball. Suddenly the rest of the league figured out in a hurry that they’d just stepped into a bucket of shit. The same thing King George must have thought when he heard about John Paul Jones.
Travis—
If you straighten out the erasers one more time, I’m going to break your fucking fingers. Get laid, man.
—Ray
UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
UNIVERSITY PARK • LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA 90007
Doheny Library
Faculty Research Request
DATE: April 16, 1998
FROM: Travis Puckett
DEPARTMENT: History
BUILDING/ROOM: VKC/223
MATERIALS NEEDED
All periodicals referencing shortstop Dickey Pearce around 1860. And could you find out if he came from the South?
SPECIAL INSTRUCTIONS
Julian: Try to wear the blue shirt tomorrow. The one that makes your eyes twinkle.
Here’s the stuff you wanted on Dickey Pearce. From what I can make out, he had a so-so swing and a hot ass. And how should I know if he came from the South? What do I look like—his lover?
Come on, Sexy. Want to help me prove the link between the Brooklyn Atlantics and Reconstruction?
Travis, I’m 28. I go to circuit parties. I judge people by only two criteria: hot and buff. My life revolves around the pec deck and my mirror. I once spent an entire paycheck on a pair of underpants from Italy. Can you spell “shallow”?
FROM THE JOURNAL OF
Travis Puckett
THE PUCKETT/DUBOISE DEBATES
TRAVIS:
I can’t believe I called him Sexy.
GORDO:
That’s it? You should have written “Take off your clothes.” What’s this guy’s name?
TRAVIS:
It’s Julian. He always grins at me when he gives me microfiche.
GORDO:
Major event. T, wake up. Next month you’re going to be 38 and you still don’t have anybody to kick your butt or buy you a pizza or get naked with.
TRAVIS:
What about Rick?
GORDO:
Rick who?
TRAVIS:
Rick from the Internet. We talk on the phone and he sends me e-mail.
GORDO:
Ever boink him?
TRAVIS:
No. He lives in Vegas.
GORDO:
Nice town. You can fuck a whore but you can’t make a U-turn.
There are only two reasons I let Gordo move in with me: (1) I know I can trust him to keep his hands off my original cast recording of Illya Darling; and (2) over the last two decades, I’ve gotten used to the smell.
When he first decided to gamble on California twelve years ago, he was one of ten million waiters-with-screenplays residing tentatively in the City of Angels—albeit, with one foot out the door. But he got lucky on both fronts: Jerry’s Deli hired him to manage the takeout counter, which meant that we were able to live the high life for eighteen months on smoked salmon, Kosher brisket, and noodle kugel; and somebody at Universal actually bought Cellarful of Blood from him, seeing it as a vehicle for Bruce Willis and Mel Gibson. Instead, after four years in development, it premiered as an offbeat love story called One Special Summer, starring Gwyneth Paltrow and Emma Thompson, set in turn-of-the-century Kensington. Gordo’s name was nowhere to be found on the credits, but the $750,000 in underhanded option extensions had long before cleared the Bank of America. (“At least when they fuck you, it doesn’t hurt.”) Since then, he’s found something of a home at Universal: his grisly but historically accurate Murder at Tomahawk Ridge—after it had been “polished” by the director—was retitled He Loves, She Loves with Sandra Bullock and Ben Affleck, and set domestic box office records for a romantic comedy; while the dopey but genuinely funny Honolulu Honeymoon (released as Stalked at Midnight) established new industry standards for the slasher film—despite the fact that the script was attributed to thirty-four different screenwriters, none of whom was Gordo.
So we bought a townhouse in Santa Monica with two bedrooms, an eat-in kitchen, and a clear-cut set of rules: I get the top floor, he gets the bottom, and a verbal visa is required to cross the border. That way he’s not threatened by my Lysol and I’m not confronted with the all-female “I’m Auditioning for the Future Ex-Mrs. Gordo” parties he can afford to throw twice a month—particularly when he’s in one of his fetish moods (e.g., pierced navels and green pubic hair). But that’s never held him back from stepping in as my voice of reason:
TRAVIS:
Which sounds better—“Travis and Julian” or “Julian and Travis”?
GORDO:
Did I ever tell you about Kyle?
Which is where he usually fixes me up with any number of studio deadbeats presently harassing him for free rewrites, free options, or coke money. It’s a relatively easy procedure—when he can’t get them off the phone, he has them call me instead. Know what’s worse? I go out with them! (Gordo never considers compatibility an issue. The way he figures it, as long as we both have dicks it ought to work.) I once did dinner with a development creature who refused to sleep with me because I didn’t have enough of an edge. Apparently, he thought I was a pitch meeting. Then he picked up somebody in the men’s room and left me with the check. But I got even. I don’t go to movies any more. Especially his.
“Kyle and Travis.” Actually, that sounds kind of cute.
* * *
TRAVIS PUCKETT’S BOYFRIEND CHECKLIST
Name: Kyle
Duration: 55 minutes
Occupation: Film Agent
Where we met: Gordo’s half of the living room
BEGINNER LEVEL
___ Can say “I love you”
___ Isn’t hiding another boyfriend
___ Thinks kissing is sexy
___ Has a glowy smile
___ Is at least marginally sensitive
___ Will probably remember my name the next morning
INTERMEDIATE LEVEL
___ Can say “I love you” without my saying it first
___ Likes me enough to tell me I’m special
___ Trusts me enough to tell me I’m wrong
___ Always lets me pick the first fortune cookie
___ Teases me when I need it but knows when to stop
___ Pursues making me laugh as a hobby
___ Pretends to like the same things I do even when he doesn’t
___ Misses me when we’re apart
___ Isn’t afraid to fight with me
___ Allows me to drive him crazy
___ Would rather do nothing with me than something by himself
___ Can fall asleep in my lap while I work—and still call it a date
TOP-OF-THE-LINE LEVEL
___ Can say “I love you” with his eyes
___ Never lies (except to spare my feelings)
___ Doesn’t worry about losing me because he knows he can’t
___ Forgets there was a time when we didn’t know each other
___ Kisses me for no good reason
___ Celebrates my faults
___ Sighs when I hold him
___ Knows all the lyrics to Flora, The Red Menace (optional)
Strong Points:
Not applicable
Shortcomings:
He’s alive.
Comments:
Kill Gordo.
* * *
ARGOSY ENTERTAINMENT
Literary Representatives
LOS ANGELES
NEW YORK
TORONTO
LONDON
Mr. Gordon Duboise
100 Bay Street
Santa Monica, California 90405
Re: Representation Agreement
Dear Gordon:
As you are aware, Universal is still waiting for your draft, which is now two months overdue. I attempted to placate them with The Potato People, but they already have an Irish famine picture in development.
Then
this morning I received from you the first nineteen pages of Hell in Harlem. You’re joking, right? Perhaps you didn’t understand me. They’re looking for a love story. A whole one.
Gordon, it might be a good idea for you to seek more appropriate representation elsewhere.
You have three weeks to change my mind. Govern yourself accordingly.
Very truly yours,
Henry A. Duboise
FROM THE DESK OF
Gordon Duboise
Pop:
This is a love story. It’s about an interracial marriage. And since when did Universal start reading scripts? You should have slapped a new title page on Code Name Shapiro and sold it to them again.
ARGOSY ENTERTAINMENT
Literary Representatives
LOS ANGELES
NEW YORK
TORONTO
LONDON
Don’t press your luck, Gordon. Just because they bought it three times already doesn’t mean you can turn it into a cottage industry.
And what do you know from interracial? Until you were eight years old you thought that black people came from employment agencies.
Gordon, please. I’m an old man. I gave you love. I gave you a home. I gave you all the support you ever needed.
FROM THE DESK OF
Gordon Duboise
Bullshit. You divorced my mother and sent me to boarding school.