[MiSTing] "A Whitman Sampler" (Part 1 of 3)

[gad...@angelfire.com]

A W H I T M A N S A M P L E R
---------------------------------

A MiSTing by Jim Gadfly
gad...@angelfire.com
Published April 24,1999

8======8 8======8 8======8 8======8 8======8 8======8 8======8

[Roll opening images and play theme, season 10.]

...o...2...3...4...5...6...*

[Satellite of Love. Bridge. Tom and Crow are standing behind
the console. Each is holding an open book. Crow is wearing a
large pair of "granny-style" reading glasses on the tip of his beak,
and Tom has a pair of thick-framed brown plastic glasses attached to
his head bubble. There is a third book, rather thick, sitting on the
console off to the side. Crow is in the midst of reading aloud.]

CROW: "...All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells..."

[As Crow reads, Mike wanders into the picture. His steps are
tentative, and he keeps looking around suspiciously.]

CROW: [Continues] "...From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells--"

MIKE: Hey, guys.

CROW: Oh, hey Mike!

TOM: Hey, what's up?

MIKE: Oh, just wondering what you guys were up to.

CROW: Well, Mike, you do know today's date, and the significance
of it?

MIKE: Today's date? April 1st? Yeah, I sure do. [Continues
to look around suspiciously.]

TOM: That's right, it's the first day of National Poetry Month!

MIKE: Yeah, it's the -- huh?

TOM: The first day of National Poetry Month!

CROW: What else were you thinking, Mike?

MIKE: Well, it's also April Fool's Day, you know.

TOM: April Fool's Day?

CROW: Oh, come on, Mike, haven't you out-grown that childish
little tradition?

MIKE: ME? What about you guys? I'm still remembering last
year -- and the jello.

[Crow and Tom snicker for a moment, then quickly force
themselves back to seriousness.]

TOM: Oh, yeah, we're sorry about that, Mike.

CROW: Besides, it all came out eventually.

TOM: Is *that* why you've been on edge all day?

MIKE: Well, yeah, you've got to admit --

CROW: Look, Mike, we're sorry about that horribly
juvenile prank we played on you last year.

TOM: And the year before that.

CROW: Yeah, and -- well, heck, for *all* those years.

TOM: But we've matured in all that time, Mike.

CROW: That's right, we've come to appreciate more
sophisticated pursuits. Such as great poetry.

TOM: Which is why we thought we'd commemorate the
first evening of National Poetry Month with
readings from the masters.

CROW: Yeah. Like this one from Poe. [Resumes
reading] "From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells--"

MIKE: [Still suspicious] So you're not planning any
kind of joke? [He glances down at the book sitting
by itself on the console.]

CROW: No, of course not. Now, where was I? [Resumes
reading] "From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells--"

MIKE: What are you reading, Crow?

CROW: [Stares at Mike for a moment, then] "The Bells."

MIKE: No, I mean -- [Looks over so he can see the book's
title] Ah, _Poe's Poetry_. Very nice. And you,
Tom -- [Looks at his book's cover] _A Treasury
of Dickinson_. Good.

TOM: Yes, she's a wonderful writer. And we pulled out
a book for you, too, Mike.

CROW: Yeah, it's sitting there on the console. Why
don't you pick it up and join us?

MIKE: [Nodding knowingly and grinning in self-satisfaction,
he looks down at the book on the console, but does
not touch it.] Yeah, right. Uh, guys, I couldn't
help but notice that this book doesn't have a title
on its cover.

TOM: So? A lot of old books were like that. You
know what they say about judging books by their
covers --

MIKE: Or its side? That's blank, too.

CROW: Well, it, uh, probably wore off over the years.

TOM: Yeah, it's a very old and rare volume, you should
feel lucky to be able to read from it.

CROW: Just what are you trying to insinuate, anyway,
Mike?

MIKE: [Suppressing a smile] Oh, nothing, but you
know, guys, I've always preferred Dickinson
myself, so if Tom wouldn't mind using this
book while I read his --

TOM: I don't know if that's such a good idea, Mike.

MIKE: Oh, come on, Servo. [Slides the book from Tom's hands.]
Surely you don't mind sharing --

[Mike turns a page over, triggering the door to a hidden
compartment which flies open and sends a spring-loaded "snake"
leaping out of the book at him. Mike gasps in shock and surprise
and drops the book. It apparently lands on his foot since Mike
utters a grunt of pain, grabs one of his feet and begins hopping
around on the other. Tom and Crow laugh hysterically as the
commercial light begins flashing.]

TOM and CROW: [Chanting between laughter] April Fool!
April Fool! April Fool!

MIKE: We'll be right back -- as soon as I get back from the
infirmary. [Exits -- limping -- from picture.]

[Tom and Crow's laughter dies down to a dwindling chuckle as they
watch Mike leave.]

TOM: [Quietly] You think that Mike suspects what we've prepared
for him in the infirmary?

CROW: [Quietly] Naah, the poor sot hasn't a clue.

[Tom and Crow giggle knowingly.]

[Break for commercials.]

[When we return from commercials, Mike, Tom and Crow are all back
behind the bridge console. Mike is no longer hopping or limping.
But he is now wet, as if a bucket of water has been dumped over
his head. He looks annoyed. Crow and Tom are in the last dregs
of another laughing spree. They are no longer wearing their
glasses or holding books, although the lone book on the console
is still there.]

MIKE: [Dryly] Gee, I'm glad I was able to provide you all with
an evening's amusement.

TOM: [Cheerily] Hey, Mike, you know you should always be careful
when entering a room on April 1st when the door is already
partially open. You never know *what* might be propped
on top of it!

CROW: Yeah, you should feel lucky that that bedpan only had
*water* in it!

[Crow and Tom burst out laughing again as Mike purses his lips
and nods.]

MIKE: Yes, very cute, guys. And nice misdirection on that book
thing. I thought for sure when I opened *this* book--

[Mike looks down at and opens the cover to the book on the console.
When he does so, a small pie flies upward, striking Mike in the face
and leaving it spattered with whipped cream. Tom and Crow burst out
in yet another torrent of laughter.]

CROW: [Gasping between laughs] If there's one thing we learned from
_The Princess Bride_, it's to keep all the possibilities covered!

TOM: Kinda like Mike's face!

[Tom and Crow continue laughing as Mike slowly clears whipped cream
from his eyes with his fingers and reluctantly nods his acknowledgment
of being had. The mads light begins flashing.]

MIKE: [Sighs] This should just about round out a perfect night.
[He hits the light.]

TOM: Aren't you going to clean up first, Mike?

CROW: You're not afraid of being embarrassed?

MIKE: [Suddenly tranquil] I'm beyond that now.

[Castle Forrester. In the background we see a dining hall, with a
long rectangular table in the center of it. To either side of the
table are seated some 40 or so men and women in a variety of formal
and semi-formal outfits from various times in history over the past
400 years. Everyone is holding wine glasses, some partially filled,
some fully filled. There are several conversations taking place
around the table, at the far end of which sits a man with white hair
and beard, dressed in a brown, late 19th century suit. Not far behind
him, along the back wall, are the double-doors to the kitchen.]

[Pearl steps into the foreground and faces us. She is wearing a formal
evening gown and heavy but not overly gaudy makeup, and her hair has
been styled into a respectable updo.]

PEARL: [Speaking softly] Hey, guys -- [Notices Mike's face] Oh, cute
Bill Gates impression, Nelson. Anyway, it seems that I've
discovered another little idiosyncrasy about living in Castle
Forrester. It appears that each seventh year, during the first
night of National Poetry Month, this is the meeting place of the
Dead Poets Society. I mean the REAL Dead poets Society --

[Pearl stops talking as there is the sound of a glass being tapped
followed by a general "shushing" from around the table. When things
quiet down, one of the guests stands up and lifts his glass toward
the man at the far end and speaks.]

SPEAKER: I give you Walt Whitman. He is America. His crudity
is an exceeding great stench but it is America. He is
a hollow place in the rock that echoes with his time.
He does "chant the crucial stage" and he is the "voice
triumphant." He is disgusting. He is an exceedingly
nauseating pill, but he accomplishes his mission.

[The various guests laugh, raise their glasses and drink, including
the man at the far end, who apparently *is* Walt Whitman.]

WALT: [Holding his own glass up toward the speaker]
Ah, Ezra Pound, a man who was always full of wit. Or at least
something that rhymes with it.

[There is even more laughter as Pearl turns back towards us
with a look of irritation and shakes her head.]

[SoL. Mike is just finishing wiping the pie off his face with a rag.]

CROW: Wow! Look at that! I see Shakespeare, and Coleridge, and
Emerson --

TOM: And over there's Byron and the Shelleys sitting together!

MIKE: Man, Mrs. Krautmeyer would love this!

CROW: Yeah, Mrs. Kr-- huh?

TOM: Who the blazes is Mrs. Krautmeyer?

MIKE: She was my tenth grade English teacher. Older lady, kind of
scrawny, gray hair up in a bun, but boy did she love poetry!
What an inspiration! She really turned us on to some of the
classic transcendentalists and especially the romantics and --
[Notices Tom and Crow looking at him oddly] What?

TOM: Oh, nothing, Mike, nothing.

CROW: We're glad this triggered such a -- happy memory for you.

MIKE: Yeah, well, anyway, you sure are lucky, Mrs. Forrester!

[CF]

PEARL: Lucky, hell! It turns out, to make a long story short, that
there's some weird Forrester family curse where the castle's
residents have to play host to these dead-beats' get-togethers.
Tonight they've decided to do a roast-and-toast honoring Walt
Whitman --

[Bobo steps into the picture beside Pearl. He is wearing a
floppy chef's hat and apron, and carrying a large platter.]

BOBO: How does this look, Lawgiver?

[He raises the platter lid to reveal a large beef roast with several
slices of toasted bread laid around its base.]

PEARL: You idiot! It's not that kind of "roast-and-toast!"
We're roasting Walt Whitman tonight!

BOBO: [Aghast] Roasting WHITMAN?! [Looks at the platter]
We're going to need a bigger plate!

PEARL: No, no, no! I don't mean literally --

[Pearl is cut short by another round of glass-tapping and "shushing."
Another man rises and offers a toast.]

SPEAKER: To Walt. He is neither afraid of being slangy nor
of being dull; nor, let me add, of being ridiculous.
The result is the most surprising compound of plain
grandeur, sentimental affection, and downright
nonsense.

[More laughter from around the table.]

WALT: Good old Bob Stevenson, a fellow not afraid to speak his mind,
a man who indeed has nothing to ... hide.

[Some more laughter -- most of it forced now, with a few groans -- is
heard as Pearl rolls her eyes and turns back to Bobo.]

PEARL: Just carve and serve the roast beast you have there.

BOBO: Yes, ma'am! [Exits to the side of picture.]

PEARL: [Turning toward other side of picture and calling] Hey, Brain
Guy! I think they're starting to need refills for their
champagne. But first I --

[Pearl stops short as Observer enters the picture. He is dressed as a
waiter except for his purple cowl, which is tucked neatly beneath his
collar. He is holding his brain tray in one hand with a bottle of
champagne tucked under the same arm. His face is a mask of barely
restrained aggravation. Atop his pallid head sits a raven.]

PEARL: Just what the hell do you think you're doing with that bird?

OBSERVER: Nothing, Madam. This -- creature -- arrived with that odd
looking gentleman with the mustache. For some inexplicable
reason it has chosen the top of my head as a perch.

PEARL: Well, get rid of it!

OBSERVER: I've *tried*, Madam, but -- here, let me show you. [Waves
his free hand at the raven] Begone, foul fowl! Shoo! Fly!

RAVEN: Bwaaak! Nevermore! [Bites one of Observer's fingers.]

OBSERVER: Ouch! Agh! [Shrugs toward Pearl in gesture of futility.]

PEARL: Well -- why don't you just use your brain-power-thingy against it?

OBSERVER: I've tried that, too, Madam. Unfortunately, it seems my powers
don't work against netherworld denizens such as this.

PEARL: What a pity. Anyway, I've still got some use for you besides
being a dumb waiter. [She turns to us] Oh, Mike, lest you and
your R2D2 wannabes feel excluded, I'm going to send you a couple
of Mr. Whitman's poems from _Leaves of Grass_, one a racy little
number called "A Woman Waits for Me" where he mixes sex with some
sorta national symbolism, and the other a social rant entitled
"Respondez!" Brain Guy?

OBSERVER: Yes, Madam?

PEARL: Roast 'em.

OBSERVER: Yes, Madam.

[Observer looks at us and jerks his head about as "brain noise" plays.
Upset by the sudden motion, the raven begins skwaking.]

RAVEN: Bwaaaaaak! Nevermore! [Whistles.]

OBSERVER: [To raven] Oh, shut up!

[SoL]

[Alarms blare and lights flash.]

ALL: Ahhhh! WE'VE GOT POETRY SIIIIIIIIIGN!!!

*...6...5...4...3...2...o...

[Theater. Mike enters, carrying Tom, followed by Crow. Mike
sits and places Tom in the seat to his left as Crow sits to
Mike's right.]

MIKE: I don't know, fellas. I kinda liked Whitman, I don't know
if I can riff the guy.
CROW: Well, don't worry about it, Mike.
TOM: Yeah, we'll get started and you can jump in when you
feel comfortable.
MIKE: Okay, but remember, be kind. And don't take *everything*
literally. As I recall, Walt could be -- candid -- about
sexual expression, but he also used a lot of symbology.
Especially in regards to America and democracy.
TOM: Okay, Mike, we'll keep that in mind.
CROW: Yeah, you can trust us.

The background of the screen turns dark blue and soft, relaxing
music starts playing -- the type you might hear at a Borders or
Barnes and Noble bookstore. Text starts scrolling up the screen
in white, elegant, cursive letters.]

>A Woman Waits for Me

CROW: Yep, she's standing there waiting, watching the clock,
tapping her foot, and holding a rolling pin.

>
> A WOMAN waits for me--she contains all, nothing is lacking,

TOM: She's a complete set unto herself.

> Yet all were lacking, if sex were lacking,

CROW: Whoa! Walt gets right to the point, doesn't he?
TOM: Man, when it comes to fooling around, he doesn't fool around.

> or if the moisture of the
> right man were lacking.

TOM: Yep, that Old Spice does it every time.

>
> Sex contains all,

CROW: Gee, that's kind of a broad statement.

> Bodies, Souls, meanings, proofs,

TOM: But here's an itemization for the anal retentive types.

> purities, delicacies,

CROW: I prefer the creamy and chewy types myself.

> results,
> promulgations,

TOM: Pomegranates --

> Songs, commands, health, pride, the maternal mystery,

CROW: Hey, there's an idea -- Maternal Mystery Theater 4000,
a spin-off for the fairer sex.

> the seminal
> milk;

TOM: Is that whole or two percent?

> All hopes, benefactions, bestowals,

CROW: Oh, no, Walt's into bestowality!

> All the passions, loves, beauties, delights of the earth,

TOM: What delights?
CROW: [With Brooklyn accent] De ones you turn on at night in decar.

> All the governments, judges, gods, follow'd persons of the earth,

CROW: "follow'd persons of the earth"?
TOM: They must be those leaders who don't qualify in the government,
judge, or god categories.

> These are contain'd in sex, as parts of itself, and justifications of
> itself.
>

CROW: [As Walt] There. Did I miss anything? No? Good.
TOM: I'd wager this is one of President Clinton's favorite poems.
Walt gives a laundry list to rival the State of the Union,
and everything revolves around sex with de facto self
justification.
MIKE: Okay, fun's fun, fellas, but did you understand what
Walt was trying to say?
CROW: Yeah. He likes sex.
TOM: Right.
MIKE: Oh, come on, you guys aren't getting into the proper spirit
of this thing! You're acting like a couple of ten-year olds.
CROW: Well, Mike, if you count from the year we were created
until this year, then we *are* ten years old.
TOM: Or, if you count the time we spent at the edge of the universe,
we're over 500, which makes us dirty old men.
CROW: Either way, we're entitled!
MIKE: But it doesn't seem right -- Walt deserves better than --
TOM: Mike, Walt's DEAD, his troubles are OVER. Lighten up!
MIKE: Well -- I don't know --
CROW: Mike, we *know* Whitman's a great poet and all that.
Think of what we're doing as a weird sort of tribute --
kinda like a roast, like they're doing at the castle.
TOM: Yeah, Mike, just because you like the Rutles doesn't mean
you're being disloyal to the Beatles. You should really
just relax and give it a shot!
MIKE: Well -- okay -- I'll try --

> Without shame the man I like knows and avows the deliciousness of his
> sex, 10
> Without shame the woman I like knows and avows hers.

TOM: Why, those shameless hussies and -- Mike, what's a male "hussy"?
MIKE: Uhhh -- a politician?
CROW: That's more like it, Mike! Not great, and a little sexist,
but not totally bad.
TOM: Now, didn't that feel good?
MIKE: Well -- yes it did, actually.

>
> Now I will dismiss myself from impassive women,

MIKE: And they probably won't say anything -- being impassive and all --
TOM: At-a-boy, Mike! Now you're warming up!
MIKE: Say, this is kinda fun.

> I will go stay with her who waits for me, and with those women that
> are warm-blooded and sufficient for me;

MIKE: So I'll stay away from the _Lair of the White Worm_. Get it?
'Cause that was a movie about snake women and stuff --
you know, cold-blooded?
TOM: Oh, ah, yeah, I see --
CROW: Uh, Mike, take it easy and try not to reach quite so far next
time. We've still got a ways to go.
MIKE: [Sarcastically] Oh, thanks a lot, guys.
TOM: It's called "tough love", my friend.

> I see that they understand me, and do not deny me;
> I see that they are worthy of me--I will be the robust husband of
> those women.

CROW: Ah, Walt the Mormon.
TOM: No, the Mormons don't do polygamy any more.
CROW: They don't? Rats! And I was gonna convert.

>
> They are not one jot less than I am,

TOM: Yeah, not one whit, man.

> They are tann'd in the face by shining suns and blowing winds,

MIKE: These must be California girls.
TOM: There you go, Mike! That's better!
CROW: Now you're getting your grove back!
MIKE: [Shyly] Gee, thanks.

> Their flesh has the old divine suppleness and strength,

CROW: They undergo epidermal workouts.

> They know how to swim, row, ride, wrestle, shoot, run, strike,
> retreat, advance, resist, defend themselves,
> They are ultimate in their own right--

TOM: They must belong to the Xena fan club!
CROW: Or Buffy.

> they are calm, clear, well-
> possess'd of themselves. 20

MIKE: As opposed to Linda Blair --

>
> I draw you close to me, you women!

CROW: I am a magnet, and you are steel.

> I cannot let you go,

TOM: I spilt Krazy Glue on my hands.

> I would do you good,

MIKE: I am full of vitamins and minerals.

> I am for you, and you are for me, not only for our own sake, but for
> others' sakes;

CROW: Yes, we *must* think of the others.

> Envelop'd in you sleep greater heroes and bards,
> They refuse to awake at the touch of any man but me.

TOM: [Yawns, then groggily] Hey, is that Whitman? I ain't
talkin' to nobody but Whitman --

>
> It is I, you women--I make my way,

MIKE: [Bad Sinatra impression] I make myyyyyy wayyyyyyyyyy --
TOM: [Whispering] Mike -- Mike, please -- don't sing.

> I am stern, acrid, large, undissuadable--but I love you,

CROW: Ah, Rush Limbaugh's pick-up line.

> I do not hurt you any more than is necessary for you,

TOM: Whoa! I think Walt's starting to work on 5 to 10 here --
CROW: You know, that disclaimer didn't work for Marv Albert.
TOM: Hey, Albert categorically denied those charges.
MIKE: Yeah, he -- huh?
TOM: Well, that's what he *said*.

> I pour the stuff to start sons and daughters fit for These States--I
> press with slow rude muscle,

MIKE: Uhhh -- Does it seem to anybody else like it's starting to get
warm in here?
CROW: Kinda reminds you of Mrs. Krumpmeyer, eh Mike?
MIKE: Oh, God -- Crow, that's SICK!

> I brace myself effectually--I listen to no entreaties, 30

CROW: So to Walt, "No" means "Yes."

> I dare not withdraw till I deposit what has so long accumulated
> within me.

TOM: So -- uh -- I guess it's been a while since Walt's got any?

>
> Through you I drain the pent-up rivers of myself,

CROW: Uh, yeah, Tom, I get that feeling too.

> In you I wrap a thousand onward years,
> On you I graft the grafts of the best-beloved of me and America,

MIKE: See! I told you, this is part allegory for America and
democracy!
TOM: [Humoring him] Sure, Mike, sure.
CROW: Whatever you say.
MIKE: [Sullenly] Well it is.

> The drops I distil upon you shall grow fierce and athletic girls,

TOM: Who'll get their own TV shows on independent networks --

> new
> artists, musicians, and singers,

CROW: My God, Walt's spawning the whole Lilith tour!

> The babes I beget upon you are to beget babes in their turn,

MIKE: Until we eventually get to the babes of _Baywatch_.

> I shall demand perfect men and women out of my love-spendings,

TOM: Well, if he *is* talking about America, would *he* be disappointed.

> I shall expect them to interpenetrate with others, as I and you
> interpenetrate now,

CROW: Wait a minute -- INTERpenetrate? But how would a woman --
I mean, the anatomy --
MIKE: I think this is one stanza we'd best just leave alone.

> I shall count on the fruits of the gushing showers of them, as I
> count on the fruits of the gushing showers I give now,

TOM: I can't tell if Walt needs a gardener or a plumber.

> I shall look for loving crops from the birth, life, death,
> immortality, I plant so lovingly now. 40

MIKE: Awww, that's sweet. See, now aren't you sorry we made fun of
the poem?
CROW: Hummmmm -- nope.
TOM: Me neither.
MIKE: Philistines.

>
>
>
>Whitman, Walt.

TOM: [As Alan Arkin from _The Russians Are Coming_] Whitman Walt?
Any relation to Whittaker Walt?

> 1900. Leaves of Grass.

CROW: 1900 leaves of grass? They had to count them all?
TOM: Now they know how many leaves it takes to fill the Albert Hall.
MIKE: Come on, fellas, it's obviously time to take a break.

[Mike Picks up Tom and they and Crow exit the theater.]

[Break for commercials.]

To be continued...

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