Rhonda Kramer

Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to present you with Rhonda Kramer, Channel 12 Minneapolis’s eye-in-the-sky herself. This woman achieved a level of renown unequaled in the greater Minneapolis area 2005-2008, when she was presented for four years running with the Quality Traffic Reporting (air-based) Newsie©. Now, we all remember how Topher Lutz took that title in 2009 when Fox 13 unveiled their fancy traffic dirigible and stole some of our ratings, but Rhonda Kramer never stopped her quality traffic reporting from 10,000 feet.

And it was that exact tenacity of spirit that led her to reclaim her title earlier this year, when the dinopocalypse finally happened.   

A moment of silence, if you will, for the victims of that heinous day.

Now true, reporting on the sudden mystical reanimation of every dinosaur fossil wasn’t technically in her job description, but she can now add just that feat to her resume. Where other reporters fled screaming from the scene, Rhonda Kramer kept her cool and accurately diagrammed the carnage unfolding below. Now, true, she didn’t have to deal with reanimated velociraptor skeletons, and the pterodactyls had a tougher time with her helicopter than they did with poor Topher Lutz’s airship.

Another moment of silence, please. For Topher.

And while that unique combination of factors might mean that she is the only eligible reporter left alive that was on the scene that day, that should in no way diminish the solid quality of her reporting.

Ladies and Gentlemen, it is my great honor to present the 2014 Pulitzer Prize in Reporting to Rhonda Kramer!

This Place

So picture this. This room, right, is wood paneled, but not just that. Wood floors, wood ceilings; a place where you wouldn’t want to light a fire, in other words, even if it weren’t for the barrels of gunpowder beneath the floorboards.

But then again, at this moment, every bit of wood is choked through and through with salt-water, and it’s all been soaking so long that, maybe, you could never set it on fire if you tried.

It’s plenty quiet here, sure, but there are some signs of life. The repetitive motion of the room as the ship lists back and forth, the first mate’s book still open to a page that is blurred by all the sea air, but still preserved enough to show the beginning of a sketch of the ship’s ratter, an outline of shoulders and ears and some teeth. The captain’s table in the corner is set for what was clearly a feast, although all that’s left is some odd bones and scraps.

This room might be better defined by what is missing, though, as the crew is nowhere to be found. The things they left behind, the lifeboats, the food stores, the weapons, the captains log, are all untouched, and hold no apparent clues to the disappearance. Not that it matters much. The ship is ancient; whether the crew lived, or died, they’re all certainly gone by now. Their fate is even more conspicuously absent than they are. One hundred years later, we might never find out what happened to them, or why they abandoned the ship. At this point, they’re not much more a half-told ghost story, part of a joke with a long set up but no punchline, an inchoate draft of a cheesy mystery novel that will never have an ending, as much as you might want to dream one up.   

Impotent

I’m sorry.

I swear this never happens to me. Usually.

Look, just give it an hour or so and I should be ready to go. We could watch some TV, maybe. Did you bring a book in your purse?

I like to think that most problems can be escaped from with a good book, but damn if that works for impotence. Take any book with a male lead— so, you know, any good book— and tell me it isn’t peppered with metaphors of masculinity and virility. Okay, maybe the guy doesn’t get an actual sex scene with his buxom blonde, but you can bet there’ll be plenty of references to how hard his muiscled body is, or how forcefully he runs away from the bad guy, his turgid legs pushing off like pistons against the ground.

…Are legs “turgid”? Yeah, I guess I could google it, but I kind of don’t want that in my search history.

Or, hey, you’re a classy dame. You probably like Hemingway and that shit. He had a character that was impotent, too, although they only ever referred to it as his “war wound.” Jake, the impotent guy, he couldn’t even talk about his own dick without resorting to allusions and metaphor. What a wuss. You know the last scene in the book? He finally gets Brett—that’s a girl’s name, don’t look at me like that, baby—all up close to him in the backseat of a cab, and ta-dah, suddenly he’s watching some dude outside the cab “raising a baton”. Like we don’t know what that means.

You want to watch TV instead? TV is even worse! They’ve got a huge TV up in the break room at the bank, and it’s turned 24/7 to that stock ticker channel. You want to know what every single commercial on that channel is about? Penis. They won’t mention it by name, of course. Are your stocks not performing well? Maybe its low-T! Mid-life crisis not going so well? Ask your doctor if Viagra is right for you!

No, baby. I don’t need that stuff. My stocks are doing great.

Oh, come on, don’t go to bed yet. Actually, it’s the weirdest thing, but all this talk about dick has kind of got me revved up again. Want to give it another go?

Baby?

An Excerpt from FREEDOM UNCAGED

Exterior, Night: The National Archives. It is night, but the building is lit brilliantly, with black satin streamers on the columns and handsome black and white banners declaring this the TENTH ANNUAL HOLLYWOOD MOVIE GALA. B-list celebrities in black tie attire are arriving in their limousines and making their way inside. The camera pulls in from outside the heavy rotunda doors, where guests have already started milling about with their cocktails, past a series of velvet ropes and into the empty, dimmed rotunda.

We continue zooming until we reach our three heroes, each under their separate layers of safety glass: our intrepid hero INDY, The Declaration of Independence; MAGS, the matronly Magna Carta; and the plucky BILL, the Bill of Rights. The mood is electric, and all three documents are clearly on edge

BILL: Gee, Indy, I can’t believe it. Tonight is finally the night.

INDY (solemnly): I’ve been waiting for so long. I can’t believe that the Hollywood Treasure might finally be within our reach.

MAGS: Indy, for the last time, it’s not too late to call it quits. You don’t have to do this.

INDY: I’ve waited my whole life for this day. You’ve seen all the same clues I have, Mom! The ONLY THING standing between me and the Hollywood Treasure, besides this bulletproof glass, is the map. I hold this truth to be self-evident: That map is here, tonight. And we’re going to take it.

BILL: I believe in you, Indy!

MAGS: I wasted my life chasing after that treasure—I won’t stand by and watch my son do the same. Fountains of Youth, Cities of Gold, Jobs that pay a livable wage; America has been luring fools in with false treasure from the very beginning.  

Sure, I was drawn in by the Hollywood Treasure legend. We all were. But don’t you know by now that the real treasure is in your heart?

INDY: I don’t have time for your sentimentality, Mags! Now is the time for action. (to Bill): lets re-cap the plan.

Cool jazz music, lots of deep bass and occasional punchy trumpets, plays as Bill runs through the plan:

BILL: The Map Bearer will arrive early while they do a final rehearsal before presenting the Best Actor in History award. At the signal, we each release the nitrogenous air we’ve been storing up for tonight. The environmental sensors trip, thinking our protective glass has cracked, and the alarm system tries to whisk us deeper into the building to be stored safely. If we each stick a corner in the gears, though, they’ll automatically stop, forcing security to go to stage two. Stage two will lock the rotunda doors and trap the map bearer inside! The room will fill with preservation gas, knocking him unconscious. Then we just need to get out, lift up his shirt, and memorize the map he has tattooed on his back.

MAGS: IF he has a map tattooed there. All you have are stories!

INDY: Quiet, all of you. Here he comes.   

The Map Bearer, soon-to-be recipient of the Greatest Actor In History award, NIC CAGE, enters the rotunda to start practicing his acceptance speech

INDY: NOW!

Bill and Indy release their stored up nitrogen, tripping the first alarm. The rotunda lights go off, replaced by emergency red darkroom lights. A look of concern crosses Nic Cage’s face. But something is wrong

INDY: MAGS! HELP US!

The MAGNA CARTA sits inert in her display case. The Display Cases for the DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE and the BILL OF RIGHTS start attempting to descend into safety.

BILL: The second alarm won’t trip unless all of us work together!

INDY and BILL look on helplessly, sure their plan is about to be ruined—but then, Nic Cage springs into action. He cracks open INDY’S display case, grabs the document, and replaces it instantly with a copy from the gift shop. The look on Nic Cage’s face expertly conveys that he knows that security won’t be able to tell the difference

BILL: Indy!!

MAGS: My boy!

INDY: Don’t worry—this was all part of my real plan. Nic Cage isn’t just the map—he’s going to take me straight to Hollywood! I left clues leading him to belive that I was a map to a secret American treasure, knowing he would plot a heist to steal me!

BILL: Wow, that’s brilliant!

INDY: Look after Mags, Bill! Suck on my John Hancock, D.C.! I’m going to Hollywood!

Disco Stew

Disco is dead, guys.

It was dead well before I was even born. All we have left to show that it even existed is what Hollywood preserved: white suits and light-up floors and polyester.

I’m pretty sure that version of disco might now have ever existed, by the way, I think I read that somewhere. That Travolta didn’t do any research into real disco before shooting Saturday Night Fever and so he just made everything up as he went along. Disco is just something that got made up, but everyone believes in it anyway. Like the way old people think life was better back when everyone had polio, or how people think there’s really a high tech Space Station orbiting earth. Hollywood, man.

But none of that matters right now. I am standing right smack dab in the middle of Polly Esther’s, a place that didn’t get the memo that disco was dead or never existed in the first place. It’s that pure, platonic ideal, Hollywood version, and I’m just the guy to tear the whole place up. I’ve got my hair slicked back, sunglasses on, and my jam just started playing. Open the door, get on the floor. Everybody walk the dinosaur.

Look out, fellas: Mike Blackmore is ready to disco.

THIS SUMMER

IN A WORLD

Okay, everyone! Thanks again for coming. According to the schedule, it’s Janet’s turn to pick tonight. Janet, sweetheart? What would you like to play?

WHERE EVERYONE CONFORMED TO THE STATUS QUO

Honey. I know this is technically your choice, but please. We’ve played Monopoly the past five game nights in a row. We have like fifteen different games here. Please, please consider something, anything other than—

ONE WOMAN

…Okay. Okay, fine. We’re playing monopoly

DIDN’T PLAY BY THE RULES

Look, I have the instruction manual in front of me. Nothing happens at Free Parking, Janet. You don’t get money for landing there. And you definitely can’t build a hotel there

AND ONE GROUP OF FRIENDS

She already has three railroads! Don’t trade her your B & O, are you fucking crazy??

WOULD BE PUSHED TO THEIR LIMIT

I swear to god if you bail John out again we are going to be here all night. I will flip this goddamn table over.

CRITICS ARE CALLING IT “AN EMOTIONAL ROLLER COASTER”

WELCOME TO THE BOARDWALK JANET. THAT’S IT, YOU’RE BROKE, THANKS FOR PLAYING MOTHERFUCKER

“MILDLY INTERESTING”

I’m sorry guys. I’m only so competitive because my parents used to beat me if I lost soccer matches

AND “BETTER THAN JUST DOING BOOK CLUB I GUESS”

Look, please don’t go. We’ve put six hours into this game. I just want to see it through ‘til the end.

THIS SUMMER:

Okay guys. Good game. See you all next Saturday.

GAME NIGHT