Guess What Time It Is!!!
FUCK WITH MY ART!
For those of you who are unaware of how this works, click here and start at the bottom.
In a nutshell, I want you to read the following short piece (less than two pages) and do something with it. Rewrite it. Do a drawing. Write a prologue. Continue it. Write an epilogue. Write a song about it. Do a stick-figure rendition. Interpretive dance adaptation. Cook the sandwich featured in the story and take a picture of you eating it.
Ultimately, it doesn't matter what you do, just remix my art using whatever format you want and make it your own.
AUDIENCE PARTICIPATION is all that matters.
Post your results in the comments section, or in your own LJ, but give me a link if you do the latter.
And yeah, I intentionally do these odd and open-ended. Open on BOTH ends...
And now, FWMA:III...
______________________________________________________________
“Hey,” said the redhead as she walked in the door of the divey little diner, “can I get a cup of coffee and a grilled cheese?”
“Sure thing, honey,” Karen smiled, not noticing that the tiny bell that hung in front of the door didn’t ring when her new customer walked in. Instead, she just walked around the counter, past the grill, and grabbed her pad and pen.
The Mexican cook couldn’t have been more than four foot ten. Lucy supposed this gave him a better view of the grill, where he was brushing butter across two pieces of bread. She set down her portfolio on the opposite side of her booth.
“Coffee’s fresh,” said Karen as she poured. “Want me to leave room for cream?”
“Nope,” said Lucy, grabbing the cup as soon as it was full. The waitress looked on in shock as her customer downed all the burning hot liquid in a few massive gulps.
“Can I get a refill?” she asked.
Karen looked at the empty cup, shrugged, and filled the cup again, then set the whole carafe on the table.
“I figure you’re gonna need all that, right honey?”
“You figured right, Karen.”
“What’s yer name, honey?”
“Hang on,” Lucy said and shouted across the café at the cook. “Can you put mustard and pickles on that?”
“Si.”
“Gracias. Oh, and I’m Lucy.”
“What brings you in here at three-thirty in the morning, honey? By now all the drunks have gone home and none of the early-risers are up yet. And why pickles and mustard?” she asked, giving Lucy’s stomach a none-to-subtle glance. “Y’all pregnant?”
“No, that’s just how my dad used to make grilled cheeses when I was growing up. You should try it some time. In fact…Juan Carlos! Make Karen one, too!”
“Si.”
“Well, thanks honey, but I don’t think I’ll like it.”
“I’ll lay down a hundred bucks that says you’ll love it.”
“Oh, I don’t bet.”
“It’s not a bet. If you like it, you get a hundred bucks. If you don’t, you don’t take the money.”
“Ain’t you worried-”
“That you’ll lie? Nobody’s face can lie when eating a grilled cheese with mustard and pickles on it.”
“Suppose you’re right. But why a hundred bucks?”
“Well, I would’ve tipped you a hundred when I leave anyway.”
“What?”
“You’re polite, you weren’t shaken when I slammed my coffee, and you’re pretty cute.”
“Well,” said Karen, adjusting her apron, “that’s really flattering and all, but-”
“I didn’t say I was hitting on you.”
“Oh, I know, I just-”
“Would it bother you if I were?”
“A lesbian?”
“Hitting on you.”
“Wouldn’t that make you-”
“Capable of appreciating a pretty lady? Yes.”
Lucy stared Karen in the eyes, her expression flat.
“Lemme warm up that coffee for you,” said Karen. As she reached for the pot, she paused.
“Do you smell that? Smells like turkey…”
Lucy’s eyes widened and she grabbed Karen’s hand.
“Are you sure you smell turkey? Juan Carlos! ¿Qué huele usted?”
“Turquía, senorita,” he answered, looking around the grill area intently.
“Honey, how’s come you know his name?”
“Karen, I need you and Juan Carlos to get out the back door, now!”
“Honey, you just had too much coffee, I figure. I mean there aint…no…” Her voice trailed off as she looked out the plate glass windows that made up the front of the diner.
“Hell,” said Lucy, not looking up from the her empty cup. “You can’t see out the windows, can you?”
“Honey, why’s there a brick wall built all up against our windows all of a sudden?” she asked and glanced to the side. “And in front of the door, too…”
“Juan Carlos, make yourself a sandwich, too, then come join us over here. Bring booze if you guys have any hidden in here.”
Karen reached across the table and pulled a massive sheet of graph paper from her leather portfolio. She reached in her pocket and brought out a Pelican pen. Licking the tip, she started to write and sketch.
“Now,” she said when Juan Carlos sat down with a stack of grilled cheeses and a half-empty bottle of Butter Shots, “here’s what we’re gonna do…”
Now do your thing, my wonderful little monkeys...
Love,
benjamin
PS - For those of you paranoid about rights, how about we all just agree not to do anything with our stuff without permission? Cool...
PPS - Damn, the formatting on this entry simply DID NOT want to work...
For those of you who are unaware of how this works, click here and start at the bottom.
In a nutshell, I want you to read the following short piece (less than two pages) and do something with it. Rewrite it. Do a drawing. Write a prologue. Continue it. Write an epilogue. Write a song about it. Do a stick-figure rendition. Interpretive dance adaptation. Cook the sandwich featured in the story and take a picture of you eating it.
Ultimately, it doesn't matter what you do, just remix my art using whatever format you want and make it your own.
AUDIENCE PARTICIPATION is all that matters.
Post your results in the comments section, or in your own LJ, but give me a link if you do the latter.
And yeah, I intentionally do these odd and open-ended. Open on BOTH ends...
And now, FWMA:III...
______________________________________________________________
“Hey,” said the redhead as she walked in the door of the divey little diner, “can I get a cup of coffee and a grilled cheese?”
“Sure thing, honey,” Karen smiled, not noticing that the tiny bell that hung in front of the door didn’t ring when her new customer walked in. Instead, she just walked around the counter, past the grill, and grabbed her pad and pen.
The Mexican cook couldn’t have been more than four foot ten. Lucy supposed this gave him a better view of the grill, where he was brushing butter across two pieces of bread. She set down her portfolio on the opposite side of her booth.
“Coffee’s fresh,” said Karen as she poured. “Want me to leave room for cream?”
“Nope,” said Lucy, grabbing the cup as soon as it was full. The waitress looked on in shock as her customer downed all the burning hot liquid in a few massive gulps.
“Can I get a refill?” she asked.
Karen looked at the empty cup, shrugged, and filled the cup again, then set the whole carafe on the table.
“I figure you’re gonna need all that, right honey?”
“You figured right, Karen.”
“What’s yer name, honey?”
“Hang on,” Lucy said and shouted across the café at the cook. “Can you put mustard and pickles on that?”
“Si.”
“Gracias. Oh, and I’m Lucy.”
“What brings you in here at three-thirty in the morning, honey? By now all the drunks have gone home and none of the early-risers are up yet. And why pickles and mustard?” she asked, giving Lucy’s stomach a none-to-subtle glance. “Y’all pregnant?”
“No, that’s just how my dad used to make grilled cheeses when I was growing up. You should try it some time. In fact…Juan Carlos! Make Karen one, too!”
“Si.”
“Well, thanks honey, but I don’t think I’ll like it.”
“I’ll lay down a hundred bucks that says you’ll love it.”
“Oh, I don’t bet.”
“It’s not a bet. If you like it, you get a hundred bucks. If you don’t, you don’t take the money.”
“Ain’t you worried-”
“That you’ll lie? Nobody’s face can lie when eating a grilled cheese with mustard and pickles on it.”
“Suppose you’re right. But why a hundred bucks?”
“Well, I would’ve tipped you a hundred when I leave anyway.”
“What?”
“You’re polite, you weren’t shaken when I slammed my coffee, and you’re pretty cute.”
“Well,” said Karen, adjusting her apron, “that’s really flattering and all, but-”
“I didn’t say I was hitting on you.”
“Oh, I know, I just-”
“Would it bother you if I were?”
“A lesbian?”
“Hitting on you.”
“Wouldn’t that make you-”
“Capable of appreciating a pretty lady? Yes.”
Lucy stared Karen in the eyes, her expression flat.
“Lemme warm up that coffee for you,” said Karen. As she reached for the pot, she paused.
“Do you smell that? Smells like turkey…”
Lucy’s eyes widened and she grabbed Karen’s hand.
“Are you sure you smell turkey? Juan Carlos! ¿Qué huele usted?”
“Turquía, senorita,” he answered, looking around the grill area intently.
“Honey, how’s come you know his name?”
“Karen, I need you and Juan Carlos to get out the back door, now!”
“Honey, you just had too much coffee, I figure. I mean there aint…no…” Her voice trailed off as she looked out the plate glass windows that made up the front of the diner.
“Hell,” said Lucy, not looking up from the her empty cup. “You can’t see out the windows, can you?”
“Honey, why’s there a brick wall built all up against our windows all of a sudden?” she asked and glanced to the side. “And in front of the door, too…”
“Juan Carlos, make yourself a sandwich, too, then come join us over here. Bring booze if you guys have any hidden in here.”
Karen reached across the table and pulled a massive sheet of graph paper from her leather portfolio. She reached in her pocket and brought out a Pelican pen. Licking the tip, she started to write and sketch.
“Now,” she said when Juan Carlos sat down with a stack of grilled cheeses and a half-empty bottle of Butter Shots, “here’s what we’re gonna do…”
Now do your thing, my wonderful little monkeys...
Love,
benjamin
PS - For those of you paranoid about rights, how about we all just agree not to do anything with our stuff without permission? Cool...
PPS - Damn, the formatting on this entry simply DID NOT want to work...