Terminator, The Musical

Animation Script -2012

RAMBO MAN, extremely macho with a gun.  He is in a maze-like place. Outdoors. Climbing fire escape. Running through alleys. Audience thinks we are doing a Rambo movie.

RAMBO MAN sees a gate. A heavy door. RAMBO MAN opens gate RAMBO MAN runs into a room, shuts/ locks/ barricades the door. RAMBO MAN has to put down his gun down to secure this door. CAMERA SHOT from in front of RAMBO MAN. Behind him ceiling explodes. STALKER falls from the ceiling. STALKER has machine gun trained on unarmed RAMBO MAN..

“Why? Why didn’t you call?

Ah. Well. See.

(Visual – RAMBO MAN dressed up as his relatives as they are referred to)


I really really wanted to.
But there was nothing I could do.
My cousin on my father’s side
Convinced my brother my mother died.
My father had that cousin shot
But Auntie said that he was not
The one that lied and made us cry
So I gave blood so he wouldn’t die.


(lowering his gun)
Who wouldn’t die?


…………………………….The guy
Who didn’t lie.


(aiming gun back on RAMBO MAN)
……………………………..Nice try.


And I’ve been away!
Domestic violence is so down
I had to freelance out of town
I hunted thieves in Asian lands
Then captured sheiks in the Arab sands
An instigation in Brazil
Assassinations I must keep still.
So many miles I did traverse
And next week (oh my god) even worse!


Stop it man!
You son of a bitch
You promised romance
You sack full of shit
Get ready to dance
You lying Rambo
Eat my Ammo

STALKER shoots at the RAMBO MAN’s feet and RAMBO MAN tap dances ala Ann Miller.
(Bullets sounds, explosions in rhythm of the song)

RAMBO MAN ends with a Jackie Chan leap at STALKER. RAMBO MAN and STALKER struggle. RAMBO MAN subdues the STALKER.

RAMBO MAN (to camera)
I hate Match.com.

The End.


Temporary Tattoo

published 2005

I couldn’t decide which tattoo to get. Hot tropics temptress? Heart crucified on a thorn? Perhaps the leering skull.

“Get ‘MOM’,” suggested Jamella, my friend from undergrad days and today my mate at the AIDS soup kitchen information table. At this Gay Pride street fair, there was a temporary tattoo booth next to us.

“Jamella. My tattoo must excite the natives.”

“All right, then ‘DADDY.’”

Jamella was not to be trusted. She doesn’t fully appreciate my outer beauty. She has even, on occasion, sabotaged it. Our sophomore year, she permed my hair leaving me a frizzy, blond six-foot lollipop. I realized I would have to wait for Tony. He would know the right tattoo. He appreciates my outer beauty.

As people began to line up at the tattoo booth, other revelers celebrated on this narrow side street of New York City. The drag queen “talent” booth and the music vendor across the street competed for aural supremacy. Multi-pierced lesbians, gay Gap couples, and shirtless singles checked out politically correct merchandise, erotic edibles, and each other. Bands of toned clones platooned forward, tanned and chatty. Many revelers wore buttons, badges, even bumper stickers on protruding body parts to show that they shared my purported sexuality. Alleged because there hadn’t been any proof in weeks, but last night Tony had called; soon there’d be fresh proof.

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“I just drove cross country in my dead lover’s clothes,” says the black-haired, cleft-chinned sheepherder from Ithaca.

“Oh,” I answer, because what else do you say? Especially on a Saturday night with your best jeans on. I was leaning on a pillar at a Manhattan gay two-stepping dance in the fall of ’98, because I was in a bad way for some body contact. I was searching for a cosmopolitan cowboy to corral with my fine dance styling; instead this upstate gentleman farmer who had chatted me up a few months ago, corners me.

“Yes,” he responds, even though I hadn’t asked a question, “I had his ashes and showed them to the waitresses at the greasy spoons. Pictures too.”

“You didn’t get killed in Wyoming?” I ask, while trying to recall his name.

“No. Actually people kept their distance,” he answers which was probably true. With his GQ profile, he is an attractive man but he had a Betty Boop voice and an agenda.

“How’s your farm? And your sheep?” I ask, remembering we had talked mutton before. I’d raised sheep in 4-H during my rural youth, climaxing with a grand champion wether at the Sioux Empire Fair.

“Sold or in the freezer. And this Tuesday I’m resigning from the garden club. They’ll miss my brunches. Eggs Benedict on fine china.”

I pat him – Jeff I think ­– on the arm, then answer. “They will cry buckets.”

Dolly’s song ends. Clint Black comes on. The sheepherder sways then asks, “Dance with me please? You’ll have to lead. I’m too emotional to lead.”

He’s over six foot two, but I lead, peeking around his shoulders. We didn’t hit any pillars two-stepping around the slightly sticky floor, so I lead him into one of my smooth dance moves.

“Oh,” he says enjoying an inside loop turn, “that’s right. You’re a good dancer.”

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How To Start A Garden

In the summer of ’00, Janice started a garden. She began small, a geranium on the kitchen windowsill. Not your most exotic plant, but Janice didn’t need unique, she wanted blooms. She had found a lipstick case in the rear of their hatchback, a place where you could stretch out, if you needed to, or if you wanted to. Janice feared it belonged to Louise, her husband’s very exciting, very brilliant, and, let’s face it, very young co-worker.

Janice bought a hose, a hand tiller and a flat of petunias the day her husband bought a cell phone “for work”. Gardening –was so refreshing. How wonderful the earth smelled! How the bees buzzing by, the butterflies flashing unexpected patterns, and the dirt clinging to fingers made the day alive, made life vibrant. How the cell phone, whose number she was never given, inspired the stabbing into innocent Mother Earth. How that unclaimed lipstick tube inspired grass-clump shot-putting– a sport she surprisingly excelled at.

She got out the potash the evening she saw the calls received on her husband’s new cell phone — quite by accident, all those buttons! — and wrote down the only number received on this “work” phone. The next morning when Janice dialed and Louise answered, Janice purchased picket fencing in Range Red– a striking color choice as it reverberated against the Navajo white of their Neo-classical home.

Janice retrieved a hat and an old shirt, making sure neither of them were ever her husband’s, from the to-be-donated box. She planted her annuals in earnest: pansies, poppies, morning glories, zinnias, and marigolds. She worked farmer’s hours with her patchwork plantings and applied sunscreen liberally– no matter how this garden ended, she was not going to freckle!

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Other writings included musicals, one-acts and full-length plays.