That Single Individual (Feature Treatment)

"I have just come from a party, where I was the life and soul. Jokes flowed from my mouth; everyone laughed, admired me - but I went away and wanted to shoot myself.” — Søren Kierkegaard

In the mid-1700’s on a rainy winter night an eleven-year old shepherd boy huddles against the frigid cold as he sits on a Jutland heath tending his flock.  In despair and anger he shakes his fist at God, cursing Him for the hard life that’s befallen him.  The son of poor peasants he has known nothing but grinding poverty and hunger.  Later he is sent to live with an uncle in cosmopolitan Copenhagen to receive an apprenticeship.  The bustling port city flourishes as a cultural bright light, and the smart and talented young boy is dazzled by all it has to offer.

We next see Michael Pederson Kirkegaard years later as a highly prosperous and important businessman in Copenhagen.  So prosperous, in fact, that he retires at age forty, having installed himself and his family in a house at the center of Copenhagen’s social, political, and economic life.  But his prosperity haunts him, and a particularly religious man, he even believes his success is God’s way of mocking him for his youthful indiscretion.   The death of his first wife, an obligatory marriage to his pregnant, long-suffering housekeeper, and the death of five of his seven children by her reinforce this belief.  The youngest of these children, Søren  Aabye Kierkegaard, is born on May 5, 1813.
 
From his earliest years, frail, sickly Søren is afflicted with the same religious melancholy as his devout, brooding, and aging father. We see several scenes in which this deep sadness is cultivated by the elder Kierkegaard: instead of allowing the boy out to play, the father walks the boy up and down the living room, pretending they are walking through the vibrant square just outside their front door.  The bustling life of Copenhagen is described to young Søren with such vivid detail that, while his actual experience is severely restricted, his imagination grows and deepens immensely.

Søren also grows up believing that he will not live past his twenty-fourth year because none of his other siblings had yet to do so.  At the same time, young Kierkegaard has a quick and biting wit — he is known at school as ‘the forked tongue’ — and is surrounded at home by Copenhagen’s religious, political, and intellectual elite, with whom his father keeps company.  In addition, the father, like so many first generation nouveau riche, imposes strict peasant economies on the children, which makes them feel lost somewhere between peasantry and urban elite.  These elements, combined with his intellectual genius, creates a young man more playboy than Christian.

In college, as first a theology and then a philosophy major, SK rebels against the strictness of his father’s faith.  Without any pressure to work because of his father’s wealth, Søren spends his days cavorting amongst the young and wealthy of Copenhagen.  So wild is he in these early days, that years later he belives himself to be the father of a product of a drunken night at the local brothel.  Indeed, he never passes a child without wondering if it is his own.  And then, everything changes.

Kierkegaard is still alive at twenty-four.  Then his father dies.  In addition, he meets beautiful, fourteen-year old Regine Olsen, daughter of a wealthy bourgeois family.  He falls in love and after a studied but whirlwind courtship SK asks her to marry him and they become engaged, with SK planning a life as husband and cleric.  He applies himself to his studies, begins publishing, takes his theological examinations, and writes his doctoral dissertation.

However, freedom from his father, love, and the completion of his studies does not satisfy Kierkegaard.  His deep and abiding melancholy is overwhelming.  Also, a mysterious incident takes place which utterly and irrevocably transforms him.  Shortly thereafter, SK breaks his engagement to Regine.  Almost inexplicably, he cannot marry the woman he loves.  “Had I explained myself, I must have initiated her into terrible things, my relationship to my father, his melancholy, the dreadful night which broods in the inmost depths, my wildness, lusts and excesses”.  He returns her engagement ring with a letter:  “Above all, forget him who writes this, forgive a man who, though he may be capable of something, is not capable of making a girl happy.”  Regine, who thought she could cure his melancholy, does not agree to the break, and, with her father’s support, does not relent in her ever-more pitiful efforts to save the relationship.

In order to preserve her reputation, he plays the cad, showing up at plays and social occasions as if she means nothing to him.  His plan works, and society thinks him an irretrievable lout. and a scoundrel who merely toyed with the young innocent’s affections.

And then he flees to Berlin to hear Schellings lectures and hide from the pain of the break.  There he begins writing a work which will later catapult him right into the middle of Danish celebrity and infamy.  He remains in the intellectual capital of Europe for only four months because he finds Schelling to be not a great elucidator of reality but instead a giant bore.  Meanwhile, Regine, although heartbroken, marries another suitor.

Upon his return, Kierkegaard learns of his love’s marriage and takes it somewhat like a slap in the face.  But he continues work on the pseudonymous authorship he started in Berlin.  He also reprises his role as a social prancer, but only superficially.  When he goes to a play or the opera, he sneaks out after seating to return home and write.  His first pseudonymous work, “Either/Or” includes the “Seducer’s Diary” in which an unrepentant carouser and womanizer seduces and destroys young girls for fun.  As SK works we see a growing intertwining of SK’s fictional and real lives:

A man, Victor Eremita, buys a desk, the kind with many drawers and compartments.  One day, while investigating his new piece of furniture, he stumbles upon a hidden slot.  In it is a jumble of papers written by someone named “A”.  “A”, In turn, claims to have found a mysterious diary about the doomed seduction of an innocent girl by a malevolent Don Juan figure.

The book makes a splash upon its publication.  Everyone wonders after the real identity of the author.  SK is fairly successful at hiding the truth for six pseudonymous works, and then, shortly after he reveals himself, he enters into a bitter feud with the state church and arguably the most prominent Danish paper, The Corsair.

For the rest of his life SK loves Regine, and believes she still loves him.  All his works are devoted to “hiin Enkelte”, “that single individual”, who most believe is Regine.  Once, years after she has married another man, she acknowledges him, briefly nodding to him at church.  When he shortly thereafter requests his former fiancée and he begin again as friends, her husband refuses.

Only two of Michael Pederson’s sons survive him, Søren and Peter Christian.  While Peter adopts the official Christianity of Copenhagen Søren remains staunchly pietistic, and this position  later leads SK into “the Corsair affair.”  Søren Kierkegaard dies alone, almost penniless, in 1855, at forty-five years of age.  He leaves his estate, what little of it there is left, to that single individual, Regine.  She declines it.


***

Gilmore Girls (Series Spec Excerpt)

INT. LUKE’S - LATER - (DAY 3)
Lorelai and Rory are enjoying a late afternoon coffee.  Rory reads Voltaire’s “Candide”.  Lorelai looks through her business class notes.  As LUKE crosses, both girls hold out their coffee cups without looking up or skipping a beat.  He fills their cups.  They sip.  Several other townsfolk are in the diner, including MISS PATTY and TAYLOR, who are sitting together, and KIRK, who sits nearby perusing the menu.
Pages are turned, more sips are taken.  JESS, still miffed about yesterday’s diner fiasco, just wanders around the diner, pretending to look busy.  He passes the girls with a coffee carafe, but when the they hold out their cups once again for refills, they get,
JESS
I would prefer not to.
Jess crosses off and Lorelai and Rory look up, startled.
LORELAI
(looking into her cup)
I smelled the coffee.  I even thought I saw it pass out of the corner of my eye.  But there’s no coffee in my cup.  This does not compute.
RORY
Copy that.  Currently, this is not the best of all possible worlds.
At that moment, Luke crosses, and the girls hold out their cups like little matchstick girls.  Meanwhile, Kirk attempts to flag down Luke (who ignores him in favor of the girls) and then Jess, who holds up a hand and mutters,
JESS
I would prefer not to.
TAYLOR
Young man, you’re going to drive all the customers away and Luke will go out of business.
Taylor realizes this might be an interesting idea.
MISS PATTY
Well, then, he’ll come work for me.  I could use an assistant who can pull off a pair of tights.  So to speak.
Rory still holds out her cup à la David Copperfield.
RORY
May we have some more, Sir?
Luke shakes his head and pours.  Kirk, unable to flag down anyone for an order begins to observe the unfolding conversation.
LORELAI
Mmm, thanks.  Nectar of the gods.  You’re our hero, Luke.
LUKE
Consider the source.  Doesn’t make me feel better.
LORELAI
(re: Jess)
What’s up with him?
LUKE
Oh, he’s miffed because I left him here alone last night with a diner full of cheerleaders.
LORELAI
(sotto to Luke)
Funny, that’d make most boys very, very happy.
We see Jess passing several tables with his coffee carafe.  Kirk raises his finger to order.  Everyone at each of the tables holds out their cups, but Jess merely repeats,
JESS
I would prefer not to.
LUKE
(to Jess)
Look, if you’re not going to do any work around here, why don’t you go to church or something?
JESS
I would prefer not to.
RORY
Aha!
Rory startles Luke, Lorelai, and several patrons.
RORY (CONT’D)
  Bartleby!

LORELAI
What?
RORY
Bartleby.  He’s been Bartleby-ing everybody.  “I would prefer not to.”  It’s from Melville.
Jess stops next to their table and a small smile escapes. He’s pleased that, as expected, she got it.  Rory smiles back at him.
LORELAI
(to Luke)
Wow, you mean he didn’t quit with “Moby Dick”?
LUKE
Who would?
Kirk, still lurking in the background, observing the four of them together, chimes in.
KIRK
Hey, can I ask you a question?
LUKE
(turning to Kirk)
Other than the one you just asked?
Kirk sits there a beat, not getting it.
KIRK
The way you four are configured, it looks like you’re a couple of couples.  Luke and Lorelai, Rory and Jess.
Now everyone turns to Kirk.
LUKE
No, Kirk, we're just like four people.
(splaying his fingers)
Four discrete people, in a diner.
KIRK
Well, I never claimed you were flagrant or anything.  In fact, now that I think of it, until this moment you’d kept your little secret rather tidily.
LORELAI
Hey Kirk, would you care to build your tower of Babel somewhere else?
KIRK
(ignoring Lorelai)
Hey, you know what else?
(pointing to Luke)
If you were to marry Lorelai, and
(pointing to Jess)
you were to marry Rory — you're a little young yet, but there's time — then let's see.  That would make Luke Rory's stepfather and her brother in-law.  And Lorelai would be Rory's mother and sister in-law.  So far so good.  Now, Luke would be Lorelai's husband and brother in-law — eeeewwwww, incest! 
They all just look at him while he ponders his epiphany.
KIRK (CONT'D)
Now, that’s just obscene.  Good night, people, have you no sense of decency?  I can't be seen with you!
Kirk gets up, throws some money on the table, and hurries off, exiting the diner.  The group looks after him for a beat.  Luke crosses to pick up the money.
LUKE
(in monotone)
Oh Kirk.  Kirk please.  Please come back.
Luke pockets the money.
As Kirk passes by the window we see him looking briefly inside in disgust as he brushes off the cooties from his clothing.
Lorelai goes back to her notes and fresh coffee.  Luke and Jess cross off.  After a moment, Rory gets up and follows Jess, who has moved behind the counter.  As she walks up, he pulls a book out from under the cake display.  It’s Lionel Newton’s “getting right with god”.
RORY
That was funny.
(beat)
What you did, that is.  Not Kirk.
JESS
Yeah, not bad, not bad.
Jess opens his book.
RORY
Would you prefer not to talk to me?
JESS
Nah, I can talk.
Rory considers him a few moments.
RORY
I don’t get you.
JESS
Really?  How’s that?
RORY
Well, first of all, you’re a well-read guy.  Second, certain incidents involving short-term book stealing, chalk body outlines and ravaged snow sculptures attest to your craftiness and deviousness...
JESS
...I’m just a regular Odysseus.
RORY
Third, you seem to be generally smart.
JESS
What’s not to get?  I sound pretty good.
RORY
Despite all that, or maybe because of all that, you do everything you can to undermine any chance of doing well.
JESS
Depends on what you mean by “doing well.”
RORY
Okay, Socrates.  I mean, you purposefully avoid doing well in school — in life — and what will that get you in the end?
JESS
Rory, I don’t have the same goals as you do.  I’m not interested in grades.
RORY
But why not?
JESS
When I read, I read because I want to learn something, think something new, not to get a good grade.  Sure, some people who work hard get good grades, but so do people who cheat.  Really smart people get bad grades because they were sick or because they just didn’t “get it” on time or something.  Grades don’t mean anything.
RORY
But without grades you can’t get into college.
JESS
Has it not occurred to you that I have no plans to go to college?
RORY
How can you not want to go to college?  How are you going to get a good job, a career, have a good life?
JESS
When you study for a test, do you use flash cards, do you memorize?
RORY
(defensive)
Yeah, sure.
JESS
Well, learning is not about memorizing.  When you are face to face with the best writing the world has ever known, do you think the author was writing just hoping you’d use flash cards to memorize plot, names, dates?  You’re supposed to be...transformed.
RORY
(offended)
Yeah, look what it’s done for you.  I think I liked it better when you were Bartleby.
She begins to turn away.
JESS
“You must change your life.”  Rilke.
RORY
(turning back)
“I’ve changed but I’m in pain.” Morrissey.
Rory, frustrated, crosses to Lorelai.
RORY (CONT’D)
(gathering up her books)
Mom, I’m going to meet up with Lane.
LORELAI
(Still reading)
‘Kay.  Have fun.
RORY
(looking back to Jess)
I might need flash cards to tell me how.
Rory exits and Lorelai, confused, glances up momentarily before returning to her paper and coffee.

***

“It's All in the Play, Socrates Gives Up” (Short Play)

Setting:  Athens, Greece, approximately 390 B.C.E.  A young man steps off the dirt road and carefully gathers his toga up above his knees so as not to snag the material on the surrounding bushes.  With great delicacy, he makes his way through the brush and trees to a clearing.  An old man sits cross-legged against a tree, eyes closed in concentration.  Behind him a river flows slow and deep.  The young man catches sight of him and waves his arms wildly about, calling out to the old man.

PLATO: Hey, Socrates!  Finally.  Am I glad I found you — I never thought I'd see you out in this stick of the neck.  Anyway, I have a problem and I need to talk.  Got a minute?
    [The disgruntled old man opens one bug eye but otherwise makes no move.]

PLATO: Socrates?

SOCRATES: In the immortal words of Greta Garbo, 'go avay, I vant to be alone.'  You wouldn’t be looking to pester me if I was Heraclitus, now would you?  Make like a river and flow.  Shoo.  I’m through talking.  It’s not worth it.  Besides, [he opens the other eye and spreads his arms wide gesturing at his surroundings] I’m having a field day out here, it’s really quite nice.  I’m all in clover, so scram, beat it!

PLATO: Clover?  What, are you a cow?  Come on, Socrates, hay is for piglets, get my draft?  What could you possibly be doing way out here in this arm of the woods?  I just don’t get it, if anyone’s always been in the fat of things it’s you.  What takes?

SOCRATES: Don’t make fun of my appearance.  I have a glandular problem and it’s not funny.  Bug off!

PLATO: My dear fellow, I could never offend you intentionally.  Don’t get your earlobes in a knot.  I come to you, as always, seeking knowledge.  Please, let us have a dialogue.  I’m sure it will make you feel better.  Go ahead, put your thinking sandals on and question me.  Oh, wait, sorry, I forgot you prefer to go around buck barefoot.  Well, whatever, [he bends forward and offers the old man a hand.]  Here, get off your rocker.  We can talk as we walk back to the city.  What do you say?

SOCRATES: [Slapping at the young man’s hand.]  I say go away!  If you’re gonna talk the talk you gotta walk the walk, and I will have no part of walking and talking!  Not anymore.  I won’t go back, you hear me, I won’t!  You can’t make me!  Now, for the last time, go away!

PLATO: Oh, dearest Socrates, you mustn’t do this.  Please, Athens needs you.  Don’t call it an afternoon, don’t give us the cold elbow, don’t leave us high and dizzy, don’t leave us out in the nude, don’t cut your nose off to spite your toe, don’t —”

SOCRATES: Enough!
    [The young man collapses dramatically to his knees at this explosion in front of Socrates like a fallen angel, a tiny yelp hiccupping from his throat as he hits the dirt.  He rolls onto his hips, tenderly cupping scraped knees, gently blowing away the imbedded particles of dirt.]
You little ferret.  I’m tired of you following me around all day, writing down what I say on those blasted wax tablets and then twisting my words around.  You make Cubic Zirconia out of diamonds!  Away with you.  I’ve had enough chit chat, enough petty arguments to last me a lifetime.  Who needs Truth when you can get by on your looks?  When you can even be rewarded for it with public adulation and money?  I’m done being a lone, misunderstood voice in the wilderness.  There comes a time in a man’s life when he says enough’s enough — Kenny Rogers was right, ‘you got to know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em, know when to walk away, know when to run.’  Well, that time has come for me.  I’ve hit the skids.  I’m cashing in my chips.  I played the wrong horse.  Checkmate.  The money is down the drain.  I’m not going to keep chasing a corpse.  I’ve had my Waterloo.  Kiss this puppy good-bye.  Say good-nite, Gracie.  Hasta la vista, baby.  Toodles.  Sayonara.  Au revoir.  Ciao.  Buh-bye.”

PLATO: Oh, Socrates, I know it’s been hard on you, I know.  I know it’s not easy to spend a lifetime seeking knowledge by questioning people only to be left with a nasty run in your hose.  I know it’s not all fish and chips but you can’t drop out of the chicken race now.  Blame us for being stupid, but you!  You’re the one who’s got eyes in the back of your rear!  You’re the one who’s got his feet planted firmly in the quicksand!  You’re the one who’s nose we like to pick!  Don’t you get it?!  [Plato sighs in exasperation.]  Come on, Soc, get off the cross.  Somebody else needs the two-by-four.

SOCRATES: Why you little...  If I thought I could teach, I’d teach you a lesson!   Impertinent little boy, I’d like to put you to bed this instant!

PLATO: Oh, Socrates, how happy you’ve made me!  I thought you’d never ask!  I mean, we’ve always aspired to a love beyond the flesh — I must say, I’m quite taken aback.  Really, there’s a time and a place for everything, dearest...how about here and now?  It’s quiet, no one’s around.  And romantic, too with all the flowers and trees and quiet river nearby...

SOCRATES: Hey, hey, cool it, Don Juan.  You really need to work on your metaphors.  Maybe you should try studying analogies.  Allegories, even.

PLATO: Sorry.  It’s just that I have these fantasies and sometimes I get carried away.  I get lost in your potbellied eyeballs.  Oh, how I wish you weren’t such a cold cut!  But I guess I do need to work on getting my soul in order, it feels so chopped up!  Three parts, even.  Who knew?  That’s why I need you, Socrates.  Please don’t leave me!  Not now, anyway.
    Listen.  I’m working on this idea and I could really use your input.  Besides, did you even tell your wife, poor long-suffering Xanthippe, that you are hiding out in the woods?  If you stay out here you’re not only failing to provide for your family but you’re also abandoning your wife and children.  You’re pulling the plug right out from under them!

SOCRATES: Oh, gimme a break.  She’s a horse, she can pull her weight.  And those kids! — little good for nothing rug rats.  They’ve already got that ‘poor little children of a big star’ syndrome.  Well, infamous personality, at least.  The eldest’s been in rehab twice already.  Lightweight.  Besides, living in the city’s just going to get me into more trouble anyway.  I got the tiger by the tail with all my dialectics.  I’m heading for an execution if I’m not careful.  I’m telling ya, I’m between Scylla and Charybdis, and I don’t even like these people!

PLATO: Shush, Master, there’s no way anybody’s going to execute you.  Never happen.  You’re the guy everybody hates to love.  I mean, heck, with you six inches under what would they do to amuse themselves?  Antigone’s been there already — so passé.  But all that’s beside the point, really.
[Plato snaps his fingers at a sudden recollection.]
My gods!  Have you completely forgotten the Oreo at New Delhi?!

SOCRATES: The wha — huh?!

PLATO: The Oreo.  It said no one is wiser than you.  You haven’t exhausted your search for someone wiser than yourself, have you?  I don’t think so.  Look, quit crying in your Corona and come home where you belong.
[Plato swats at bugs buzzing around his face and those around Socrates, but Socrates slaps Plato’s hand away.]
Jeez, the gnats are horrible out here, they’re worse than gadflys.  No wonder we don’t get out to the ‘burbs very often.  How annoying!
    Anyway, whaddya say, huh, Soc?  Come on back to the old polis?  Tell you what.  Remember I just mentioned that I’ve got an idea I need your help on?  Well, if my latest problem doesn’t intrigue you then I’ll just take a short walk on a long pier.  Deal?  But don’t let any more weeds grow under your toga — which, by the way, has a whole load of grass stains on it.  [Plato kneels down to dab the end of Socrates’ toga on his tongue, and rubs on a grass stain.]  You know, a little club soda’ll get those right out.

SOCRATES: [Absentmindedly glances at the young man’s handiwork and slowly begins stroking his beard.]
Well, you’re right about the Oracle.  It’s just that sometimes it gets so tiring to ask and ask and never really feel like I’m getting anywhere.  It’s all Greek to them.  Between you and me, though, it really is sort of fun to show them up in public.
    Nonetheless, it does hurt to see such a general lack of concern for one’s soul, for pursuit of the truth.  It really gets me down after a while — tomato, tomahtoe, potato, potahtoe, you know? 

PLATO: [Shaking his head knowingly.]
I know, I know, I’ve seen it, remember?  It’s like the dumb leading the stupid.

SOCRATES: All right then, boy, let’s hear this problem of yours.  Out with it and then we’ll see if I can face going back to the city.  But I’ll warn you, I fear the Greeks even when they bear gifts.

PLATO: Oh, Dearest, you don’t know how happy you’ve made me.  You like me.  Right now, you really, really like me!  I promise you, Socrates, you won’t be disappointed.  I can see it now: soon you’ll be back in the streets talking chicken, speaking your eye, baring your moles, getting down to brass buttons, and discussing smoldering questions with socialites, politicians, priests and generals.  You’ll be back in the pot, shooting from the waist, feeling full of grapes!  Oh somebody stop me I’m breaking into rhyme!
    Now, here’s the situation.  I’ve been thinking about moving away from the whole definition thing.  You know, ‘what is virtue, what is piety.’  Stuff like that.  It gets people in a whole language snare that’s really tough to get out of.  Confusing, to say the least and we don’t want a lot of that now, do we.  I’m just taking rationality a bit further, here, and leaning more toward metaphysics.  It’s open-ended, a whole different can of slugs.  It also provides a lot of hope, you know.  Giving people another reality, a better, more real reality than this one is a real motivator.  And it’s a reality of ideas, so everyone can participate, right?  [Plato’s lower lip begins to tremble at this thought and his eyes well up with tears.]  I guess that’s what it comes down to for me.  I’m just a people person.
    By the way, I’m also moving forward with a fantastic idea for an ideal society...  One big, happy family with our own demiurge.  Just thinking about it gives me warm feelies...
    But now, here’s the problem.  It’s a political one, mainly.  I’m going to have to make a tear from the earlier line of thought, though I’d really like it to be more of a, uh, what is it called?

SOCRATES: Segue.

PLATO:  Right, gangway.  I don’t want to step on your face or anything, Socrates, but I feel really positive about this thing.  I couldn’t have come this far without you, anyway, and I just wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t talk to you first.  I don’t want to be a dashboard driver and I don’t want to give you the short skirt, or the low fedora, but that’s what’ll happen if I don’t chirp up now.  The writing’s on the window, really.  We’re running out of ways to find the definitions we’ve been looking for, and your interlocutors are running out of patience.  That last talk with Callicles and Glaucon was really the straw that burst the Camel’s bladder.  And you don’t even want to know what Thrasymachus is thinking.  I mean, you don’t want to go there.
    Anyway, it’s time we began to present them with something they can really dig their nails into.  We won’t be sacrificing the search for truth, we’ll just be presenting our findings to hour, as it were.  I know it needs work — we’ve got to flesh out the entrails and all — but it’d really be a feather in our briefs.  What do you think?

SOCRATES: [Quiet for a few moments, and then a beatific look spreads across his face and he snaps forward.]
You know, kid, I like the general idea of what you have to say.  You've got chutzpah, moxie, gumption, all that jazz.  Maybe we can work together again.  Yeah, this is just what I need.  A fresh start.  Then everybody’ll stop yammering about me corrupting the youth and worshipping false gods, yadda, yadda.
    Oooh, I know, I’ll call this guy I know in Crete.  Plastic surgeon.  Does great work.  He’s so good you can’t even tell — I’ll be beautiful.  Everyone will love me, or at least want to be like me — heck, if they don’t care for their souls they might as well admire my face!
    After surgery I could get an agent and publicist and be on Gamma! Entertainment Television.  I’ll be famous for being famous — if you’re not famous you’re not anybody, right?  And if you’re not anybody you’re not worth anything, do I lie?  — those syllogisms really work.
    Anyhoo, later on, when some tabloid photographer sells pictures of me in an illicit sexual act to Bath House Leisure I’ll take ‘em to court.  In the midst of the ensuing publicity I’ll pose for Greekboy which will get me a foot in the door for a recurring role on Mediterranean Watch.  Eventually I can parlay all my coverage into a mini-series which will showcase my real interest in serious drama — maybe I can sign Aristophanes to do the teleplay, give it a little light, you know, because that Sophocles gets terribly depressing.  Oh, this is so delicious I just can’t stand it!  Hmph, no such thing as voluntary wrongdoing.  What was I thinking?
    O.K. Kid, I’ll do it.  I gotta tell you, you’re really the best friend a guy could have.  No one can hold a flashlight to you. ‘Fish of a feather school together,’ as they say.  Come on, Plato, what do you say we slap the road?

PLATO: Yeah, let’s blow this ice cream truck!

SOCRATES: Hey, maybe we can stop by the Oreo on the way.  I wanna know whose ass I’m going to snare this week.
    [The two men lock arms and began skipping off across the field.  From a distance their laughter and song can  be faintly made out.]

PLATO and SOCRATES in unison: Wherever we go, whatever we do, we’re gonna go through it, together.  Through thick and through thin, all out or all in, and whether it’s win, place or show, with you for me and me for you, we’ll muddle through whatever we do, together, wherever we go!... 
    Honey, everything’s coming up tulips!

***