Wasted Space

a  screenplay by

Charles Bukowski and R. Douglas Burns

c/o Mirimax

Part 1

A1

Establishing Shot:

Space Station, the rotating wheel type like in 2001: A Space Odyssey, but this one is shabby and stained, like someone one has had a cosmic shit on it.

Text over: “There is a place in the heart that
will never be filled
a space
and even during the
best moments
and
the greatest times
times…”

A2

Int. Night. A smoky low-life bar. It’s like any mother-fuckin’ skid row bars anywhere, except this fucking low-life bar has a big quartz port window to the left and we see deep space and stars.  The camera pans around the room, a bit wobbly and as if from a tunnel, and we realize we are seeing this particular mother-fuckin’ skid row bar from the eyes of someone really stewed.

 A2

Angle On. Well sort of an Angle on, for we’re now standing at the edge of the bar checking out the other drinkers. I say sort of because there’s no transition from the entrance to the end of the bar, and I’m guessing the viewpoint character blacked out for few moments. What-the-fuck-ever, here we are at the end of the bar.

A3

Pan. We move closer and notice the smoke is coming from an overhead vent. A broken fucking piece of duct work is spewing the shit out like ecto-plasmic diarrhea. The bartender, who happens to be a robotic, pays it no attention.  It may not even be operational. The threesome at the bar are hunched over their drinks or their hookahs.

A4

Music comes on, a slow grind, reminiscent of Bad to the Bone, and a spotlight comes on to reveal a pole dancer in the background. While the rest of the bar and its patrons have obviously seen better days, the dancer is young, healthy and gorgeous. She has elaborate tattoos. She is a fucking goddess!

Zoom to dancer’s butt.

V.O.  (Mumbling, slurred voice, and we realize it’s the voice of our drunken POV.) Hmm, what a great ass. World-class, in fact.

There’s a power flicker at this point, and the dancer flizzes out of existence, broken fucking pixels, and then back in. We realize that she’s merely a projection, hologram

V.O. (Still mumbling) That’s all right baby. I’ve loved women who were less real than you.

CB and RDB: want more. If your read, we’ll write it — from the grave even!

Patch, the farting cat

Going through my old files and found this picture of ‘Patch.’ The cat  would routinely come sit on my lap, cut the most horrible fart, and then look up at me as if it were my bad. He was the model for Stinker, the save-the-day cat in Unselfish Gene.