My imaginary rendition of what a real actor's (initials "R.F.") blog might look like.
AN ACTOR’S BLOG
By Seth Milestone, UK Heartthrob
March 19
Wapping, London
Damn! Vacation over, things all going pear-shaped. Last week I instructed my agent to field letters from the masses whilst I and a young person sunbathed on Gibraltar, but when I arrived home this p.m., the Milestone breakfast room was filled to the rafters with bundles of mail! Is this Ben Moody’s idea of stemming the American tide? Although, truth be told, most of the letters seem to be from the Creditor Contingent.
Apparently Moody and/or his bubble-brained secretary refused to sign for the FedEx shipment of hamsters that I directed to be sent to his office whilst I was on holiday. With regard to his suggestion that I remain at home, languishing like Eleanor of Aquitaine, to wait for FedEx to deliver them to Wapping, I informed him that I jolly well have better things to do, to wit, restructuring and rewording this damned play I am to bring to life a distressing seven days from now.
Luckily, I have teamed up with a spirited drinking chum who has helped me retool Scene 1. Here it is:
THE TALKING CURE
(by somebody)
Adapted by Seth Milestone and Giles Pigment-Brown
Act I, Scene 1
(Alone on stage is hirsute, attractive Carl Jung, arrayed in black trenchcoat, his back to the audience, hands thrust deep into pockets, posed broodingly, rather like an arresting young Broadway Hamlet. Enter from DSL an old man, not attractive in the least. This, evidently, is Sigmund Freud.)
Freud: Ah hah! You there! Jung! I see by my appointment book that I have thirteen consecutive spare hours to chat with you.
(Jung turns dramatically from the shadows to face the audience. He is young [no pun intended!!!], vibrant, and sensuously majestic. His hairline does not recede in the slightest.)
Jung: (darkly mysterious) Hmm.
Freud: (Crosses USR, then DSL, then USR again) I suppose you know that the goal of therapy is to make the unconscious conscious.
Jung: Bah! Your conception of the unconscious, old man, is a cesspool of writhing worms and dead things, a sea of copulating mothers and sons, fathers and daughters, priests and altar boys! I propose, on the other hand, that the unconscious is a sewer, o’erflowing with coiled snakes and inanimate objects, an ocean of fornicating families and pedophiles!
Freud: (scoffing) Why, you are attempting to stand Freudian psychology on its head, young man! These revolutionary precepts will never do.
Jung: I shall test my theories on young Sabine Spielrein, a nubile Russian patient of mine who suffers delusions that her government systematically unleashes pogroms upon the Jews.
Freud: (turns to upstage himself) Frankly, Carl, I think it does.
Jung: Well, maybe you’re right, but I shall test my theories on the delicious wench, nevertheless!
(End of Scene 1)
AN ACTOR’S BLOG
By Seth Milestone, UK Heartthrob
March 19
Wapping, London
Damn! Vacation over, things all going pear-shaped. Last week I instructed my agent to field letters from the masses whilst I and a young person sunbathed on Gibraltar, but when I arrived home this p.m., the Milestone breakfast room was filled to the rafters with bundles of mail! Is this Ben Moody’s idea of stemming the American tide? Although, truth be told, most of the letters seem to be from the Creditor Contingent.
Apparently Moody and/or his bubble-brained secretary refused to sign for the FedEx shipment of hamsters that I directed to be sent to his office whilst I was on holiday. With regard to his suggestion that I remain at home, languishing like Eleanor of Aquitaine, to wait for FedEx to deliver them to Wapping, I informed him that I jolly well have better things to do, to wit, restructuring and rewording this damned play I am to bring to life a distressing seven days from now.
Luckily, I have teamed up with a spirited drinking chum who has helped me retool Scene 1. Here it is:
THE TALKING CURE
(by somebody)
Adapted by Seth Milestone and Giles Pigment-Brown
Act I, Scene 1
(Alone on stage is hirsute, attractive Carl Jung, arrayed in black trenchcoat, his back to the audience, hands thrust deep into pockets, posed broodingly, rather like an arresting young Broadway Hamlet. Enter from DSL an old man, not attractive in the least. This, evidently, is Sigmund Freud.)
Freud: Ah hah! You there! Jung! I see by my appointment book that I have thirteen consecutive spare hours to chat with you.
(Jung turns dramatically from the shadows to face the audience. He is young [no pun intended!!!], vibrant, and sensuously majestic. His hairline does not recede in the slightest.)
Jung: (darkly mysterious) Hmm.
Freud: (Crosses USR, then DSL, then USR again) I suppose you know that the goal of therapy is to make the unconscious conscious.
Jung: Bah! Your conception of the unconscious, old man, is a cesspool of writhing worms and dead things, a sea of copulating mothers and sons, fathers and daughters, priests and altar boys! I propose, on the other hand, that the unconscious is a sewer, o’erflowing with coiled snakes and inanimate objects, an ocean of fornicating families and pedophiles!
Freud: (scoffing) Why, you are attempting to stand Freudian psychology on its head, young man! These revolutionary precepts will never do.
Jung: I shall test my theories on young Sabine Spielrein, a nubile Russian patient of mine who suffers delusions that her government systematically unleashes pogroms upon the Jews.
Freud: (turns to upstage himself) Frankly, Carl, I think it does.
Jung: Well, maybe you’re right, but I shall test my theories on the delicious wench, nevertheless!
(End of Scene 1)