IRONY IS A BITCH

So my last big post includes a whole conversation with me and my doctor Fish about what a fucking hypochondriac I am. Twelve hours after posting such post I am stricken with the worst stomach flu/food poisoning of my life. Sunday I am admitted to the hospital and put on a an IV bag full of morphine, dialauded and antibiotics. I was released Tuesday night and have spent the last three days in my bed. Today is the first day I have eaten food that doesn't have bread or jello as its main component.

There is little funny to say on this experience.

Yet.

In lieu of a new post by me, I give you my first guest post--the identity of the author to be found below...

Thank you for your patience.

Management


BROTHER WHERE ART THOU...NOT AT THE RED LOBSTER

As we all know by now, the infinite monkey keeps banker’s hours. It just so happens he works at a bank that is only open every other Thursday, from 3:47 p.m. until 4:14 p.m. The bank has approximately eight customers, all of whom must provide the monkey free meals (sushi) for the opportunity to give the monkey their money. Banking attire is all things with an elastic waistband, formal wear prohibited, and shoes with bright colors and athletic insignia preferred. Banking business may never be conducted more than 2.5 miles from the monkey cage in order to ensure the monkey’s presence, unless special treats will be provided.

In fact, if Harvard Business School were to conduct a case study on the monkey’s productivity, the data would be quite . . . er, informative? Metrics based on Josh’s throughput, yield, and man hours spent watching Tivo compared to the number of units sold would make the U.S. Postal Service look like the General Electric Corporation in comparison.

To my astonishment, however, despite living the motto of “the only things really worth doing in life are those that you should procrastinate from doing,” the infinite monkey has never missed a deadline -- not counting the technical, bureaucratic (and arbitrary according to Josh) deadline set by USC Film School for meeting graduation requirements. More amazing, and important, is during banking hours the infinite monkey is able to produce meta-level quality work and a voice to his writing that is second to none (the definition of none obviously excludes the Koepps, Mamets, and other more successful writers than Josh).

Due to the oppressive working conditions foisted upon the monkey – the very same conditions Cesar Chavez fought for years to eradicate (obviously to no avail) – the infinite monkey must take frequent, but long, respites from the bi-monthly posts on this albatross of his. . . er, I mean blog. But true to the Hollywood work ethic, when one needs a rest from this type of grueling schedule, he just taps his elbow that is exhausted from typing and calls for a relief blogger/guest host.

That is where I come in. I am coming out of the blogosphere bullpen to write a few innings of relief for the big-right handed monkey. During my short stint today, I thought I would type a little chin music by answering two of the most pressing and unanswered questions that have gripped those who read all things monkey.

First, and foremost, how in the world could our beloved infinite monkey risk committing career suicide by limiting his writing opportunities to only those jobs borne out of meetings involving free, high-end fish?

As with most acts that appear on their surface to be dangerously self-destructive, one should peel back a layer (or ten) of the onion to fabricate a rational reason for such conduct. The answer here has its origins in the years when the infinite monkey was but a wee, occasional monkey. During those formative years, there was an event that changed the monkey forever, setting in motion a chain of events that has led to his current understanding that his opposable thumbs are good for two things and two things only: Hitting the key board space bar and providing lower support for the chopstick grip.

I take you back to circa 1981, when the occasional monkey was fourteen years old. His dad came into the monkey’s room early one evening and the conversation went something like this:

Dad: Come on I’m taking you and your brother monkey out to dinner.

Monkey: Nah, I’m really into this book Jaws and am looking forward to my twelfth consecutive dinner of Mac’and Cheese.

Father: It’s a meeting just with the Friedman boys to talk about our future. Let’s go! Put down that book and put your pants back on.

Upon entering the parking lot to the restaurant, the occasional monkey’s primate survival instincts kicked in. He had been able to survive the jungle warfare that raged on the mean streets of Boulder, Colorado during his youth by having a honed awareness of every nuance in his environmental surroundings. He could sense the slightest imbalance in the ecosystem, which would immediately touch off alarms in his mind and scream danger ahead. On this occasion, the monkey’s nostrils’ flared instantaneously, and he started into a high-pitched screech while bouncing up-and-down in the car seat (that seat being the backseat having lost one-hundred-and-two consecutive calls for “FRONT SEAT” to the monkey’s younger brother).

Monkey: DAD, DAD, this is not a Chinese or Mexican food restaurant. What the hell is going on? AAAAAARRRGGGHHH!!!!!

Dad: Don’t worry son, everything is fine.

Monkey: Liar, goddamn liar, it’s a trap!!!! AAAAARRRGGGHHH!!! Run for it brother monkey . . . save yourself!

Having never been there, the restaurant was a breeding ground for all things the monkey did not trust. It was dark, filled with families whose kids were smiling, and the menus had pictures on them. The urinal puck was shaped like a turtle. Monkey needed to confirm his suspicions that his father was up to something and monkey was in grave danger.

Monkey: Dad why are we here? There is only fish on this menu and you always say that ordering fish in a restaurant is wasting an opportunity to taste flavor?

Monkey Brother: Fuck, there is no shrimp cocktail on this fucking menu.

Dad: Don’t worry about the food. I brought you two here to talk.

At this moment the monkey positively knew something potentially life-altering was afoot or his father was a chimera. The monkey’s father proceeded to tell the monkey and the monkey’s brother that he and the boys’ mother were having some rough spots in their marriage, but it had nothing to do with the monkey boys. Monkey’s father went on to say that he was going to sleep away from the house for a short while until things settled down. In an unprecedented sharing of emotion, monkey’s father reassured monkey and monkey’s brother that he loved the monkeys and would always be there for them – no matter what happened. At that moment, he made the monkeys feel the illusion of safety in the face of family tumult and horrific, cheap seafood.

Need I say more? Some of us find security in routine or rituals and others find safety in numbers or creature comforts. Then, there are those of us who feel indestructible shoving spider roll after spider roll down our gullets – FOR FREE! Where would one duel with the devil if one could chose? Nozawa with chopsticks in hand makes as much sense to me as anywhere.

Having answered question number one for all of those who follow the monkey’s slow and plodding movements, I now turn to the second pressing question asked by almost all of the readers (I counted two). Does the infinite monkey indeed have a brother simian? Of course he does. How do I know this to be a fact?

I was there at the Red Lobster -- circa 1981 -- sitting next to my brother, the infinite monkey, searching unsuccessfully for my shrimp cocktail.

Josh feel better . . . Your bro’.