Beautiful Comedy Storyboards

All right, I’ve definitely done this already, and goodness knows I’m going to do this every time I make a storyboard, but in preparation for Great Scott’s VERY imminent storyboarding, I went through and got out the work I did for Beautiful Comedy.

Just a nice way to get amped up for turning VISUAL chaos into order– in the exact same way I brought the musical tid-bits’es and bobs’es together to begin with. Also, click on them to get the full quality, crumply scans.

Am I the only one that just needs to make a checkmark SOMEWHERE to feel like I'm making progress?

After doing way too many circles and squares... triangles were, like, the cool new idea at the time. *cracks up* WE'RE REVOLUTIONARIES.

As far as the future (har’har) after Great Scott goes, the two remixes I have in-progress are a sequel to Beautiful Comedy called Totally Party, and a remix of A Goofy Movie called Rocksanne. After that… maybe just ONE more that my inner innards are just screaming out to do, but besides that, I really, re-heally need to take a break and do something different. As I always do. My channel is truly a scary and very uncomfortable place to reside if one expects the same thing over and over again.

Also, speaking of looking for the BRAND NEW THANG, I’m going to be doing some… serious motion tracking in this mess.

… Get ready for to see the remix through lots and lots of deLorean windows, panels, and hubcaps.

Prelude to a Lot of Dramatic Readings

All right, it’s time for some dramatic readings of notes I’ve been storing over the years. To start off this week, though, I felt that it’d be more appropriate for me to embarrass myself. I do that all the time, but… eh, to show I’m not doing this simply to be spiteful to any of the authors of these notes, I just wanted to prelude it with me… bearing my silly, silly soul. Special thanks to Amanda for, in all the world, allowing me to heartbarf it out with her.

(Bolded parts are Amanda. Cause she’s one bold kid.)

Baaaha

Okay, I gotta go to bed in a minute

Oh– okee-day! :  )

Okay– before you go, you remember those… notes I found around school that I scanned in a long time ago and was trying to decide whether or not it was okay for me to post them on Yes, ThatAweSomeBlog?

Yes!

I haven’t stopped thinking about them. *snort* I came to the verdict in order to make it right, I’d have to post something equally silly but serious at the same time, to prove I have no ill-will against these notes.

Because I’m just as silly.

Like what?

WELL, I was going to ask if I could say it in chat here. There’s this… ridiculous dream I’ve had since 7th Grade that I think would help to justify me posting them.

Go right ahead!

Heh– okee-day.

NOW, in 7th Grade, I got a ridiculous 3rd party MP3 player by some German company.

I thought it was the most amazing thing I’d ever held in my hands before besides a baby infant child… fetus.

Like, I loved it MORE than if I’d had an iPod.

LOL!

And it saved me from losing my mind on the school bus for the over-one hour commuting to and from school.

Because… all school buses played Jawaiian music. No, not Hawaiian music. Jawaiian. If you don’t know what that is, you’re better off. :  D

I think you told me that a few days ago, that all the school buses played Jawaiian music

LAAAWL– oh, man, am I a broken record?

noooo

WHAT AM I, A CHAIR?!

yes.

BREAKING REFERENCE

Good. :  )

ok sorry continue the story

Okay, so I’d be playing all the normal stuff I have in, like, my favorites and the like on the school bus. Not only that– you know how I act in my lipsync videos?

I do that… in my bus seat.

oh man

Like, no matter what, I do that in my bus seat.

Like, I don’t care if I’m half-asleep or if there’s someone next to me, I’m either exaggeratedly mouthing the words– or I’m beltin’ it.

Everyone on the bus thought I was stark-raving insane.

Oh man :P

… they didn’t ever tell me to stop– but they just thought I was insane. LAWL– if someone told me to stop, I would.

Funny how that works

– But– um, yeah, middle school was a lonely, alonely time.

Yeah, I hated middle school.

Kind of like high school. Except minus 1.

– At any rate, when I was on the bus– and even to this day, when I’d be mouthing the words to a song that meant a lot to me, I’d turn around to the seat next to mine– which was normally empty, anyway– and I’d imagine that there was some girl I’d never seen before there– and, in some inexplicable turn of events– a serendipity doo dah, in fact– she’d be mouthing the same words!

And she’d have no idea anyone was watching her, either– and she’d be totally just putting her all into each word– feeling all the sorts of things I feel when I listen to something… feelings I’ve always felt were so foreign to so many other people. People who skim the surface of art and smile and nod and walk off– I’m talking about people that dive headfirst into the canvas with their eyes as wide as shutters– just taking in everything like it’s their first day on Earth all over again–

And I’d be completely stunned to know I’m not that alone in the world– and that one step from being alone and not alone– it was so much smaller a step than I’d ever fathomed– and then finally, she’d turn and be completely shy– because someone saw something in her no one else had really seen or cared much about before.

… but I’d keep singing, until she’d come back in and felt it was absolutely all right– and then we’d end the song together. And we’d smile.

SO YEAH. :  D

…

D’aaaaww

that does sound like a wonderful story to tell : D and a wonderful thing to imagine as well

– Wonderful and totally silly, too. Heh…

Sometimes silly is wonderful

Online Relationships, the Movie

Alex, you made me a very happy manchild seeing that introduction. I couldn’t have started off the week better. And eh, you may never speak on this blawg again, but as long as you stay an awkward dork through and through, we’ll all forgive you. ALL. OF US. … Forgiving Ted might take a little more effort on my part, though. Eh-heh.

Besides that, I’m pretty sure your title for that entry was a reference to LABretto. And you know I can’t get enough of z’at Tartakovsky’s animation sinfoniettas! *waggles finger in contentment* (That doesn’t count in the punishing finger-wag department, mind you.)

All right, this deserves some backstory. In Cultural Anthropology, we watched an… incredibly disturbingly accurate documentary about online gamers called Second Skin.

Here’s my own personal edit of the film.

It made me go so out-of-my-mind, I just had to write a rant[is mantis] about it… and what it means to someone like me…

Someone who’s SO close to being any one of those gangly, slack-jawed subjects.

Two years old, I was opening up folders and dragging anything I could find into the trash. It’s a good thing my mother was well-learned in the art of computer care, or I wouldn’t have much of a computer left. So it is that I have continued to be a Tasmanian devil in this virtualized environment. Obviously, I love my computer to death… but that’s been literalized at points in my life. After having watched Second Skin, it’s become apparent I have to be careful that the computer doesn’t kill me first.

Even without my computer cultivating my outdated tastes and my general artistic passion with its nigh-near infinite capabilities, I would definitely be the weirdo in my society. Every decade has their share of adamant non-conformists, completely independent of current technological happenstances. However, I have found that in my life, as it has been for plenty of other avid users of this box of power, that it has helped me find and connect with other wayward, wonderfully weird individuals a lot quicker. Considering being different means being a minority, it helps to have all the corners of the Earth tied just a little closer to home to explore from here. Chances are I would’ve never found my dearest friends and closest relationships if it wasn’t for the Internet.

However, there’s a big confliction here I really need to make certain: this is not another world, nor should it ever be considered one. Obviously, people can use it to take on a fresh persona made of fragments of their old one—there are liars on the Internet, and these lies can seem genuine enough. But one should never surmise that means that these lies are real, in any form—or at least, any more real than they are in a face-to-face encounter. The Internet only makes it easier to lie—it doesn’t (or at least really shouldn’t) have its own set of rules. I don’t think that I’m friends with these certain people only BECAUSE I’m talking to them over the Internet. In-fact, I find that to be a bit of a hassle. I have had a few very close friends in real life in the past that were very much like my friends on the Internet. It just so happens that there’s more people out there like me than there are in our eensy little marble-island alone. (Go figure.) But if I’d met them in person first, in comparison to over the Internet, I feel we would’ve gotten along the same.

Example: I met with one of my friends, Noah, over the summer of 11^th grade. We’d chatted for about half a year previously, and he was coming to Hawai’i for a wedding. Thusly, our two families arranged to meet up for some video games and amateur filmmaking. After he arrived, there wasn’t a tremendous gap between his persona on the Internet and what he was. For me, it didn’t feel like a first-time hello—it felt more like a welcome back. As far as that experience was concerned, I’d already met Noah—the real Noah—and he’d already met the real me.

I think the best way to look at online relationships is like a more efficient (not to mention less costly) method of writing to a penpal. I know of cases in the past where two people have spent their entire lives writing back and forth betwixt each other from across states having only met once or twice in their lives. I deem that to be a truly legitimate relationship, in some regard, just as I deem my friendships and relationships over the Internet. My mom was a big fan of sending letters to people she no longer lived close to in the 80s and somewhere into the 90s. However, the moment e-mail came into prominence, all these letters became exclusively composed on the computer. It’s cheaper, it’s faster… and now, with messaging, it’s the closest thing to instantaneous transference of communication ever before conceived.

It’s not another reality, whether or not people believe it to be separated from the real world at all. (Or at least, it’s just as much a separate reality as a letter, a book, a film, etc.) To deny one’s human existence while on the Internet is to lie to one’s self, and it only makes you frustrated, dejected… not to mention, deluded. Dan B. tried to lose himself in Everquest. He still was there in his little dark corner of the universe the whole time, peeing in a bottle and barely surviving. Dan, as a gaming addict, was suicidal, as was Shawn Woolley. No matter what went on in-game, they could never reside INSIDE the game. I feel that a reality is something one literally lives in. No one can be halfway between realities. To fit this definition, one would be able to leave this mortal soil and go gallivanting into this man-made medieval paradise. But the fact remains that, no matter how much time one devotes to something, it’s still just a thing.

I need to keep it doubtless that my computer is a tool, not a world, or I will be very lost, indeed. I know it’s only a few short steps from where I am to the point where some couples in Second Skin were–barely interacting unless it’s through their keystrokes and mouse clicks. Once again, it’s not ideal that my closest ties are through the Internet. That’s just how it happened, because there are humans out there that I can’t be with here without a little extra mileage. What I want is to be closer. Closer to them all. My internet connection is a tool—like letter stationary cruising along the snail-mail circuit—to keep these, my friends, as close as possible.

Even in the movie, Kevin and Heather over the Everquest servers—they knew, with what little sense they had left that their … love… had to be actualized in person. To get back to the idea of penpal relationships, if one wants to be another’s companion, this cannot be done through… online weddings and daily text-based conversations. Life and love and true commitment is done in this, the one and only reality. (… that we’ve yet to find.) As someone who has recently fallen in love with a truly brilliant, beautiful, breathtaking individual over… fiberoptic connection… these past two-and-a-half years, I know that I could never call this a complete relationship. It would be a lie—to both of us. If I want this truly to be, it’ll take a little more than words… which basically comprises what we have at the moment. And—that’s good! (Understatement.) But it’s not everything. The other half involves making a connection with our eyes and our voices—and actually, physically being with the other. That’s what companionship comes down to—the idea that there’s someone around that unconditionally understands and supports you that is there to share.

I don’t think a reality can be reality without the ability to share the concept of companionship, either. The things that are the most tangible in a real life are the family one is born into, and the family one starts. And neither could ever be tangible through this box of blurry boundaries.

This Place is New; This Place is Huge (A new beginning for Price)

Wow, I’m gone for a couple of months, and this is what happens.
Yeah, that’s right, AWESOME happens.
Look at that banner! That’s a fancy banner right there!
Oh! Oh! Oh! Look at those links! OH EM GEE, those links! All nicely formatted and stuff! Wow!

If you can’t tell, I am the A here on Y, TASB.
I’m known as Alex Price, and I live in a desert. I have many friends, and I’m awkward. I’m really bad at remembering things.

I’ve spent most of my High-school Career with this Blog that Skye and I started 2 years ago.
I have grown alongside this blog, going from an awkward dork to an awkward dork in the top choir at his school, plenty of friends, with plenty of amazing opportunities coming my way.

Every time I come back from a long absence, I always say that I’ll try to post more, a promise which I can never keep. I’ll try to post more, but don’t be surprised if I don’t.  You can, however, go ahead and enjoy all the wonderful content that B and Skye are putting up.

Looking forward to this new start,
Price

“There’s So Much To Say…”

In Creative Writing, our teacher would constantly say that you couldn’t write about characters that aren’t you. Her example was that as a Hawaiian, you should write about people that were born here– rather than… quote-on-quote “green-skinned aliens from Mars”.

It frustrated me, as it still does, because I’m all about characters. Why write in a whole cast that basically registers as nothing but you? Maybe one or two could pass, but– the real art of writing has a great deal to do with empathy–and hopefully, as one’s skill develops, you’ll be able to understand and relate to more people’s inner workings. In a way, it’s less that pencil-and-paper or ink-and-pen or keyboard-and-computer are mediums when it comes to this technique– and more that we, as writers, are mediums for the voices of the characters. Certainly, they are all an EXTENSION of me, in as much as ALL humans are extensions of each other. I feel that the best writer can simply understand a wider range of emotions felt on a wider range of human experience.

I’m striving for that.

And yet, the most ironic– or just plain sad– part is how little human experience I have accumulated. I am my camcorder. I take what I see INTO me–but how much do I actually LEARN is my question. I think experience should lead to lessons. But… in as much as an editor (which is part of what I am) can interpret what one SEES SAYS, I want to jam it into my head what all I’ve seen and done SAYS to me. Honestly, I know what the message reads. “Skye, you’ve done well preserving what it is that makes you so different. You are never to lose sight of that. But, for crying out loud, do things when people tell you to. Take upon yourself a little more responsibility–and accountability. Know your limits as a person living here under the absolute, unquestionable guidelines of reality. And, even moreso, have a general idea of what’s going on around you–and where you are.“

One day, I picked up my sister Sara from school back in 9th Grade. I literally pulled her through a red traffic light. And she knew that. I didn’t. Who should’ve known better?

One day, a 12th Grade Video Production-friend of mine by the name of Zach drove me home from school at night… and asked me for directions to my house. I tried to tell him, and we got horribly, horribly lost– and by the time I told Zach to call my parents, it took up 20 minutes to get back in the right place. Not only that, but… and this stings the most… when we reached my house, with my parents in-front of it waiting for me to get there and EVERYTHING, I passed it.

What business do I have trying to interpret other peoples’ lives when, at the moment, I don’t seem to truly interpret the simple facts of what’s around me every day? Oh, sure, I see the sunlight and the moonlight just fine. I see shadows and reflections. I see the way that the pavement shudders under the gritty, crackling heat. I see the way that the clouds slowly, ever so slowly change form as they take a round across the open panoramic dome of the blue above. I take special care to notice there’s always something strange people haven’t yet noticed going on on the ceiling. I look at bathroom tile tesselations and redraw the designs in my head– or sometimes, the strange Pollock-like aberrations will cause me to see faces in them. Yes, I see faces in the walls. But with all that looking– all that wide-eyed camcorder zoom-in-zoom-outs, how much have I learnt?

I have learnt that I’m desperately trying to connect these synapses up here. I have learnt most of what I know second-hand. And the stuff I haven’t learnt second-hand… I am still in the very midst of learning still. I know college is supposed to be all about learning, but I wanted to inculcate just a few real lessons into the back of my head first. Because I feel behind–constantly. I just want to know enough to first support myself… so then I can get to what really matters, as far as living a life goes: supporting others.

I’m striving for that.

And I guess what’s happening at the same time as my… strife is a case of parallel structure.

I’m grateful, grateful, grateful to have someone to relate to and hold onto and communicate–and commune, on a personal, unfathomably real level. Someone who’s striving in every thing, too.

The only thing that stinks about parallel structure is the fact that the two lines tend never to touch.

And the world knowledge I don’t have drones: “That’s almost true, Skye. But in-fact, they never do. Absolutely no exceptions.“

And me, having not learned a thing yet, will continue to reach out to my parallel constellation, hoping to be the sole exception to the absolute void of exceptions– out there in the open, empty space I’m determined to shout out in.

I will change a little bit of what I am,

and I will change a little bit of the world.

So I Can Love Him 4Ever – Chapter One

This is a beautiful heart-wrenching story that Skye and I have started writing.

It is called So I Can Love Him 4Ever and our pen name is Rayvenne Chestnut Rose. Who is also the main character. Enjoy.

(Bolded parts are parts that were written by Skye.)

Chapter One

I sat on top of my bed staring at the phone on my nightstand. He promised he’d call me, and I was hoping he hadn’t forgotten. I brushed a strand of chestnut brown hair away from my smooth slightly-tanned face and behind my ear that had five piercings in it.

My phone was blue.

“Rayvenne?” he’d say. Or at least, I hoped he’d say that. If he called me someone else’s name, that’d be kind of messed up. Since we’ve been going out for three years. One for every book. And now it’s the fourth year. And my phone was blue.

And I’d turn him down flat, with that cold tone to my voice. “No, Hunter, we’re through. I saw you kiss my best friend, I saw what you did. I am over you.” And then I’d slam my blue phone down back on the table, and that would make him want me even more.

I was an expert at this masquerade, you see. On the thirty-second date we had together, we watched a movie called Phantom of the Opera together on Netflix on Demand in his stately ghetto mansion. In-between sucking face, I managed to make out (while making out) that one of the songs was called Masquerade.

He told me to stop telling him the song titles and to start giving him more oral. I smacked him across the face.

But oh man, was he irresistible. That chiseled chin and those rugged features, that six-pack he had, that tan, oiled skin. I loved it when he took off his shirt to run across a wide open field at midnight to destroy his enemy–the other man who wanted me.

I also loved when the other man who wanted me took off his shirt to run across a wide open field at midnight to destroy his enemy–my lover. But I don’t want to talk about it.

I knew that Hunter would remember that time I was momentarily distracted from Hunter’s naturally pre-oiled bod and understand that my masquerade was a clever reference to the film called The Phantom of the Opera. I was the clever one in the relationship. He’d know I was fooling, but he’d play along. And probably try to kill himself or something for a while.

But the phone never rang that night. And I was mad. He would pay for doing this to me–for making me think about him calling me all day and all night and then never doing anything. I’d show him. I thought about throwing myself out of the window. That would show him. But I didn’t, because I didn’t want all of those creepy investigators investigating my body–ewwww.

And anyway, I figured I’d break everyone’s heart if I died. How many people are in love with me again? So I decided that instead, I would just write him a hate e-mail on the internet. And I would be sure to include the masquerade reference.

But as I opened up to compose the beautiful, lyrical, condescending, heart-felt hate e-mail at bluephone@gmail.com, I realized that I had been oh so wrong all along. Hunter HADN’T forgotten me– he said he’d leave a message on my blue phone, and he had! Hunter was clever. Still not as clever as me, though.

I opened it up, and with a sigh of relief at being completely word for word what was already in my fantasies, the message read, “Rayvenne? Are you interested in being my girlfriend? Again?

P.S. I’m growing a goatee. On my chest.”

My heart pounded out of my chest and my face grew hot. I knew he still loved me! I typed up a response.

“thx but no thx–dont think i havent 4gotten what happened between you and nicole!!! you can go drop dead 4 all i care, i dont want anything to do with you and ur stupid chest goatee!”

I hit enter. That felt better. But then I thought about his chest and how sexy it would look with a goatee on it. I wanted to suck his face again.

I immediately went to composing another message, with more sincerity– but still the same amount of tact: “omgosh just kidign!!! u no im ur baby infant child fetus luv. and i will be 4ever. mebbe evun so i can luv u 4ever.”

All I heard from the bedroom next door, where Hunter was texting from, was a deafeningly sick gunshot.

It sounded like BAOMBFIOHOEIMIUBUYXOITHIOEHJIMIE ITHW(UEUIRM HUIMHUIBMSIBSHawyou’rekindofcuteMUEBUYEBMphbbft.

Samuel Jackson, Michael Jackson, Milk Chocolate

I intended on animating this dream a few months ago, but– hey, the fact that I was filming Would I? didn’t stop me from posting the script here, did it?

Here were some preliminary sketches, I did, at any rate:

Has Sam actually ever played a father before? He'd be one seriously rad dad.

Listen to him, baby. That's all you gotta do.

Click on them for higher definition, if you so wish. And now, the dream they correlate with.

My dreams have always been particularly surreal and… inventive with storytelling devices. They often go on impressive, thorough, spontaneous tangents and story arcs that I wish that I had been so keen as to come up with myself consciously! But that doesn’t mean I can’t claim them as my own ideas. Oh-HO, no. Plagiarizing the subconscious is a device AAAAAALL [pronounced more like “owl”] amateur writers take advantage of!

…

Including Stephenie Meyer. I really don’t know what that says about her subconscious.

But I DO have a pret-ty good grasp on my own! *wrenches down with my hands and makes a loud creaking noise*

This tangent began with me traipsing into my high-school lunchroom, brushing past the A/C console positioned directly above the entrance. I heard the whirring hum and tinny, metallic clatter of the dish racks circulating, absent of any trays left upon them from prior lunch times. I had obviously entered AFTER school hours. Not a single, solitary lunchroom faculty member was in the spacious dining hall. I continued to walk forward, and noticed that the chocolate milk dispensers were still filled. However, all the cups had been wheeled off to the storage room for the day. I figured there must be SOME still clattering about in the back room, and I mean, when you find yourself inexplicably drawn to a high-school lunchroom, why not indulge yourself in some 1% fat, 99% sugarbobbed dairy liquid?

But to my astonishment (I know, I shouldn’t be surprised—this is MY dream.), there was a kid back there. A kid with a trembling boy soprano, a charmingly sheepish grin, and an inconspicuous giganto-fro… a kid with an almost too innocent air to be loitering around in an empty lunchroom.

I tried not to pay him too much mind. I waved hello to him, to which he said, “Haaaaiii~”. I found a mug. In-fact, I found quite a few. I was surprised at exactly how many mugs were stacked in the back. And they were all filled to the bloomin’ brim with milk-of-cacao and placed one on top of each other, in a rather precarious manner. I tried not to think much of it, either. I found the nearest empty mug and nabbed it swiftly, in a hurry to get away from any and all afroed cherubs and pretentious stacks of beverages.

The boy gave me an enormous, nervous stare-down as I grabbed the mug. He said, between nervous giggles, “Hey, hey, hold up. Whatchoo think you’re doing, man?” To which I responded with a, “Just… getting some chocolate milk.” He gave me this tense glare for a couple moments more, then finally got out, “Ahhh, rrrright. You do that.”

And I DID do that!

It was subliiiiiaaaame.

BUT—as I spun around, mug in hand, Samuel Jackson was suddenly in-front of me, behind the afro cherub, with both clenched fists at the ready. It was then that I realized that this cherub was MICHAEL JACKSON. And SAMUEL was his REAL. FATHER.

*dramatic fanfare*

Sam’s eyes bored into mine with a violent, painful intensity, as he realized I had figured a little out. “I’m sorry, son, but you know too much.” He declared. “We can’t have any jeopardizing our nation-wide chocolate milk heist.”

I hadn’t figured out THAT much.

BUT NO MATTER. I did the only thing I could, knowing what little I did. As Sir Jackson approached to assault, I leaped and pinned down Michael to the floor with a foot. He belted out a plaintive and rather pleasant sounding “HOOOOOOO!” as he struggled underneath. Samuel, being the caring father he is, is thrown off-guard by paternal care and concern! I jump straight over Mick-elle and go bounding towards the door. As I am being tightly pursued by the Jacksons, Sammyboy yells out self-esteem boosters.

“Skye, you’re a great guy with enviable talents and you have a lot going for you!” He proclaimed. “I regret I shall have to kill you so no one is the wiser!”

“Michael, you have the voice of a nightingale, I apologize for stepping on you– and Samuel, you’re just plain AWESOME!” I responded. “And because of this, I forgive you for everything. Even schemes against highschoolers’ daily intake of calcium.”

And for some reason, instead of having to run up a whole flight of stairs, the door led straight out to the parking lot, where my parents were waiting by our car. And for some other reason, they were a Spanish couple. And for some other reason, so was I. Not a Spanish couple. Just Spanish.

And apparently, I had a recently published New York Times-bestselling autobiography on my single Spanish life, which my parents were congratulating me about as I was sprinting in their direction.

And then hopefully I, my Spanish parents, and Samuel and Michael Jackson all lived happily ever after.