Transcript

Show Intro

Groovy electronic instrumental music plays underneath.

Julia: 52. Fool Me Twice, Thrice. I’m Julia—a New York Neo-Futurist. While our on-going, ever-changing, late-night show, The Infinite Wrench, is on hold for the foreseeable future, we wanted a place to keep making art for you. And so we’re back with season 2!  

If you’re already a fan of The New York Neo-Futurists, or any of our sibling companies, hi! We can’t wait to make a blood pact with you. If this is totally new to you—welcome to it!

We make art by four rules: We are who we are, we’re doing what we’re doing, we are where we are, and the time is now. Simply put: we tell stories, and those stories are our own. Everything that you hear is actually happening. So if we tell you that we’re flipping a dollar coin, we really acquired a dollar coin somehow and are flipping it. Like I am right now. 

Coin hits a surface and rolls around. 

Um… heads. That’s tails, dang. 

Some of the work in this episode may contain sensitive topics. For more specific content warnings, check the timecodes in the show notes.

All of the plays in this episode have some element of trickery to them. 

Julia: And now, Mike will Run the Numbers!

Michael: Hi, I’m Michael John Improta, a New York Neo-Futurist. 

In this episode we’re bringing you 6 new plays.

This week’s cast is Greg Lakhan, Julia Melfi, Rob Neill, Kyra Sims, Anooj Bhandari, and me, Michael John Improta. 

That brings us to 211 audio experiments on Hit Play. Enjoy!

Music winds down.

Play 1: A Short Guided Meditation With Ya Bwoi (1:50)

Greg: A Short Guided Meditation With Ya Bwoi. GO!

Tinkly meditation music underscore. Greg speaks in a soothing voiceover voice. Sound effects throughout emphasize the words.

Welcome to this guided meditation witcha bwoi, Greg Lakhan.

I invite you to close your eyes, and sit in a comfortable position.

Take a deep brizzity breath my G.

Life is often filled to the brim with too much going on, too much stress, too much stupid fucking bullshit.

The word “bullshit” is distorted and reverberates

For the next couple of minutes, we will let go of all of it. And macarena our way to success and prosperity. Our bodies are odee tense from the hustle. Dummy anxiety. An innate instinct, to hustle hard on these New York City skreets. 

Take a deep breath in. On your exhale I want you to repeat after me, “Fuck all this stupid fucking bullshit.” 

The word “bullshit” is distorted and reverberates

Good. Like the great poet Drake, sometimes we get a little lost in our bags. But much like the birds, these emotions are simply forces of our own creation that we give power to. You ain't gotta do shit tho. Just keep chillin bwoiiiiiii.

Negative and intrusive thoughts can deadass fuck with your vibe, in a never-ending stream of bullshit.

  The word “bullshit” is distorted and reverberates

But these thoughts are wild pussy. 

The word “pussy” is distorted and reverberates

They talk a lot of wild shit, but when it’s time to throw hands, these niggas are nowhere to be found. Don’t waste your time or energy on these pussy ass niggas.

The words “pussy ass niggas” are distorted and reverberate

Just let it rock.

Another deep breath, and repeat after me

“Fuck all this stupid fucking bullshit.”

  The word “bullshit” is distorted and reverberates

Straight booling.

Music fades out.

Play 2: This is the most malicious thing I’ve ever done (4:47)

Julia: This is the most malicious thing I’ve ever done. GO!

In the right ear, the audio from a Cheesecake Factory recipe video plays and is distorted here and there. In the left ear, quietly, fast, Julia speaks the text and is sometimes distorted. 

Julia: Right after my mom died, my Aunt [distort] came to visit. My dad’s sister. We don’t have a relationship. She bursts through the door and yells “It’s okay! I’m here!” I agree that she’s here, but I don’t agree that it’s okay. She continues to take up an inordinate amount of space for any situation, let alone this one. She’s one of those people who simply cannot read the room. Or maybe she does and she takes pleasure in stomping all over the book in bold-faced footsteps. A few nights later, she insists on going to The Cheesecake Factory. This is not a place I want to go, and after she forced me to see Shrek 3 (the worst moviegoing experience, and best nap experience, of my life), I am willing to speak up and decline. Or maybe I go hide in my room until The Cheesecake Factory contingent leaves the house (who knows). When they come back, it’s like this woman has never had a slice of cheesecake before. It’s all she can talk about. Cheesecake, cheesecake, cheesecake. Cheese. Cake. She even brought herself back a single slice in one of those single slice plastic clamshell containers to have the next afternoon as a treat, which I’m sure she thinks she deserves. Please note that she did not bring back cheesecake for anyone but herself. I don’t even like cheesecake that much, and our kitchen counter is piled high with sweets in the way that kitchen counters get full when someone dies, but I still find this odd. I get an idea. Somehow I find a moment when she’s distracted-- there are many people in our house this week, which I alternately love cause I can get lost in the shuffle, and hate because it’s just so loud and full. I go to the pantry and I take her single serving slice clamshell container, lift up the plasticky bag that holds the cheerios in the box of cheerios, and place the single serving slice clamshell container in the bottom of the box. I cover up the single serving clamshell container with the bag of cheerios again, and wait until nightfall. In the middle of the night, I go down to the kitchen, exhume the single serving slice clamshell container and eat the cheesecake with pure vengeance. I don’t even really like cheesecake that much. It’s too suffocating in the mouth. But I shove it in there and enjoy every last, thick, cream-cheesy, dairy-full, cloying, dense, fulsome, cakey, moisture-wicking, sinus-blocking, all consuming bite. Cheesecake, cheesecake, cheesecake. Cheese. Cake. I smile and discard the evidence. I go to bed and do not sleep. In the morning, she is mad. And I am happy. 

The last line of the video is audible: “oh my gosh, the cheesecake is so rich, so good, it tastes just like Cheesecake Factory. 

Play 3: oh what what was that about oh everlane and such (7:24)

Rob: oh what what was that about oh everlane and such. GO!

Greg makes a noise: clattering and bouncing. Dial tone warped underscore throughout

Greg: That was it

Rob:  Ok. Got it

Greg: oh, boyoboyoboy

Rob:  Whoa. Yeah. Ok. So. It was something that is kind of soft and squishy?

Greg:  How are you, Rob?

Rob:  I am pretty good actually. Ready for the weekend. You?

Greg:  I am glad that you’re good, glad that you’re ready for the weekend. I am chilling. No worries here.

Rob:  Nice. Was it like plastic wrap?

Greg:  It was a die.

Rob:  It was. Thank god. 

Greg:  Thanks to all the gods.

Rob: Yeah. I’m beginning to think that there are a good number of gods somewhere. But they’re not always listening. 

Greg: Yeah, I mean that makes sense. There is a kind of, there is a lot to be listening to! Kind of like how you were listening to me make that sound earlier. 

Same noise. 

If you saw it you would understand

Rob:  We are not exactly in the same place right now

Greg:  exactly

Rob:  exactly

Greg:  You are at home

Rob:  I am 

Greg: I am not. I am here

Rob: Near that sound

Greg: Yup. You ever heard of Everlane?

Rob:  Everlane 

Greg:  Not a place exactly 

Rob:  It doesn’t exist
Greg:  right, it's more of a feeling or state

Rob:  Mhmmm.

Greg:  Go with me here. You’ve ridden a bike

Rob:  Of course.

Greg:  Ok. great. So hang on, if you. Wait. Close your eyes.

Rob:  You wouldn't know.

Greg:  Close em.

Rob:  Closed.

Greg:  Solid. So you are on a bike. It’s a simple bike that you like. Picture it in the color of-

Rob:  Purple.

Greg:  Yes, a purple bike, and you’re pedaling about a small town.

Rob:  I’m gonna pick one.

Greg:  Sure you are.

Rob:  I have.

Greg:  Great. It is a small town in the country.

Rob:  In the mountains

Greg: Mountains are grand.

Rob:  I like to think of myself as fit. So I can handle biking around a small mountain town.

Greg:  Ah. Yes. So there you are pedaling-

Rob:  Pedaling my purple bike about town

Greg:  Yes. Pedaling about and looking 

Rob:  Pedaling uphill and down, and looking like a boss! Amped and I-

Greg:  You-

Rob:  I have a basket full of bread. The most amazing bread--you can smell how good from blocks away.  And everyone in this small mountain town, they love me, me biking about town, on my magical purple bike, and everyone, everyone wants me to bring them the bread. The best bread in all the mountains! And I am so so SO... look at me! I am. I am Everlane!

Greg:  Well, that’s.

Rob:  Where I went.

Greg:  That is an Everlane.

Rob:  I emphatically like the Everlane I found.

Greg:  what if I told you that this whole time I hadn’t been breathing?

Rob:  I’m not sure I believe you. What if I told you that I kind of want to move to Australia? 

Greg: Well, what if I told you that I made a short song from this coffee mug and my whiteboard marker?

Rob: Greg, I want you to play that song

Greg makes percussion music with the mug and marker. 

Greg: Swag. 

Rob: Solid. 

Various sounds from the play recur. “Everlane everlane everlane. Swag.” 

Play 4: Sexcapade (11:47)

Kyra: Sexcapade. GO!

Frantic film noiresque underscore music

Kyra: Y’all remember Honesty Box? The app on 2010 Facebook that let you send anonymous messages to your friends? Otherwise known as the worst idea of all time? Well, I’ve got a story about that. One that could have been lost to the mists of time all too easily. Luckily, I still have my Livejournal. 

On January 12, 2010, I alerted my Livejournal readers about the following Honesty Box entry:

Anooj: [altered distorted] “I think you're painfully gorgeous! I think you're ridiculously cute! I also think you're so fucking sexy that the next time we're alone together I won't be able to resist your charms. Your eyes. Your voice. Your lips. Your scent. Your intoxicating curves. It's easy to see why I want you so bad my teeth hurt just thinking about you.”

Kyra: The message, ahem, went on to elaborate further. I was 23, dumb, and intensely flattered. I soon figured out that I could reply to Honesty Box messages. 

Kyra: [altered distorted] “I am incredibly flattered by this- please tell me who you are, I would really like to know. Who knows, you may actually get what you want out of doing so. ;)”

Kyra: What followed was a flurry of highly charged sexual messages.  We moved over to e-mail- he made an e-mail address just for the occasion: [distorted] bigdaddybendover@yahoo.com. Wow, was I dumb at 23.

Anooj: [altered distorted] “As I pinched and circled the one nipple with a now saliva-slickened set of fingers, I'd bend down a bit and suck the other into my mouth. It would slip between my lips and I'd massage it with them before nibbling on the puffed-out rivet of tit-flesh.”

Music stops. Kyra laughs. 

Kyra: Okay but author’s note though, “Puffed out rivulet of tit-flesh?” When I was going back and rereading these messages, I laughed out loud when I got to that part. 

Music fades back in.

I would occasionally update my Livejournal friends of the escapades, and they responded with excitement, curiosity, and, from one wise friend, fear. 

Distorted voice: “I think that's scary, Kyra. Who do you know who uses the evil wink emoticon? It's also someone who you have been alone with previously.”

Kyra: I think I have that friend to thank for the tactic I soon took--continuing to enjoy the exchange, while slowly narrowing down who it could be. 

Kyra: [altered distorted] “Mmm, I enjoyed that very much, thank you. ;) So you said “next time we’re alone together” - am I to infer from this that we have been alone together before? Has anything ever happened between us?” 

Anooj: [altered distorted] “We DID share a few moments together.  During some, we were alone. Others, we shared with a handful of people. I enjoyed the time we shared alone and always feel foolish for not acting upon the burgeoning urges your magnetic presence elicited in me. Sheepish emoticon.”

Kyra: He should have felt foolish indeed, because with each horny confession he left me clue after clue until I knew that not only was he someone I knew fairly well, he was also reading my livejournal. After another post to my friends saying I was close to figuring it out, bigdaddybendover deleted his e-mail address and sent me a farewell on Honesty Box:

Anooj: [altered distorted] “It was fun while it lasted. Thanks for sharing the fantasies with me.” 

Kyra: Little did big daddy know, I had him right where I wanted him. I wrote one more incendiary post about it on my livejournal: 

Kyra: [altered distorted] “due to my amateur sleuthing skills, and some interesting things that happened around the same time as all of this, I'm about 99.99% sure I know who it is. If he grows the balls to own up to it sometime soon I'll keep his secret, otherwise I won't be responsible for my actions.”

Kyra: He immediately flooded my inbox and text messages with tearful apologies. Thing was, I hadn’t really known who he was, I only knew just enough to do a good bluff. Imagine my horror when I learned that the incredibly graphic conversations in which I’d been engaging were with a former boss, and a married one at that. He had a lot to be sorry for. 

Anooj: [altered distorted] “I wanted to remain anonymous because I didn’t want to hurt/change our friendship. Also, as you surely know, I didn't want any of this to spill over into my "real life" and affect the love of my life. I don't want to hurt her or make her think she can't trust me. I've never cheated on her and don't ever plan on ever doing so. 

The apology fades to inaudible levels and continues under the following lines. 

Kyra: The apology goes on and on. He seemed truly contrite at the time. But then two weeks later he slipped back in my inbox, curious about if our last in-person encounter, the one that had apparently sparked his fantasies, had meant anything to me. I didn’t remember the encounter. I didn’t respond. He’s divorced now. 

At the time this was all happening, I was still living in a headspace that involved being in constant fear of being the other woman. I saw “the other woman” in my family’s front yard, once when I was 8. But that’s a longer story. Now I’m a bit more zen about the whole thing. I won’t knowingly aid someone in cheating, but if someone’s gonna cheat, they’re gonna cheat. 

These memories used to make me feel so powerful, so clever, like I’d gotten one over on the man. Now it just makes me sad. I shouldn’t have had to be powerful, or clever, in that context. I should have just been able to be 23. 

Music swells and then fades out. 

Play 5: Two Tales of One Sweatshirt (18:09)

Anooj: Two Tales of One Sweatshirt. GO!

Funky underscore

Anooj: I’m wearing a purple adidas tie dye sweatshirt and there’s two possible stories of how I got it, one of these might be false, and one of them might be true, and both of them might be false, and both might be true, and you can’t even see me so who knows if I’m even wearing it in the first place. Or if it exists at all. 

Story one involves the fact that I have always kinda wanted to be a thief, but really a harmless thief or a Robinhood thief preferably the latter but beggars can’t be choosy and there’s a man in the west village who used to send me shirtless pics with cartoon animals stuck to him, mostly hedgehogs and porcupines and I’m not gonna lie it kinda won me over, and the first time we hung out he wore this purple sweatshirt in his apartment that was adorned with tons of purple lights, the apartment not the sweatshirt, because he loves his plants and likes to keep them warm. And then the plotting began, the constant thinking, the constant questioning of how do I make this purple sweatshirt tie dye sweatshirt mine. And so I did it, I went over one day and snuggled up with one eye winked open until I snatched it up while he was asleep and made it mine and now I can’t hang out with this guy ever again because I have something that he knows is his and I know is mine and I get a little odd when I wear it out because who knows what will happen if he sees me in his sweatshirt but maybe he’ll find it endearing and invite me over again to potentially steal something else. Or to just be friends. 

Story two involves the fact that when I know I want to buy something I usually sit on the idea for months before buying it and since deciding I would spend some money on this sweatshirt it’s been two years of online searches every three months for this out of stock purple tie dye adidas sweatshirt and it just happened that a few weeks ago it finally popped up on ebay, just one single size left before they fully ran out. Ebay, can you believe it, ebay! And I bought it and when it arrived I took it out of its box really afraid that it wouldn’t fit but when I did, it was like a glove or a glass shoe or the color purple tie dye when you know that you’re supposed to be wearing it and now I have this sweatshirt. One of these stories might be true and the other might be false, and I may have a sweatshirt that’s purple and tie dye and from adidas, and I may be a thief and I may be an online shopper when the time is right but I also might be a liar or a truth teller or I may be wearing everything or absolutely nothing at all.

Music plays out   

Play 6: A song for my visitors that they won't comprehend (20:11)

Michael: A song for my visitors that they won't comprehend. GO!

Piano begins. 

Michael: [spoken] This is a song I wrote for some visitors I’ve been having. They won’t comprehend this song because they don’t understand human speech… or like the concept of music… but maybe they’ll understand my tone. So listen close, mice. This song’s for you. Fuckers. 

Orchestrated music swell. This is a fully produced song!

Michael: [sung]

I wish you would understand

To stay off my frying pan

I don’t want to set these traps

But I’d like my kitchen back 

So get wise and run away

And live for another day.

I’m giving you all this chance

or we’ll have to dance this dance

Run away little mousies run away

Run away and get gone please run away

Run away little devils run away

Run away and get out of my life

You’re getting too smart for me

avoiding your destiny

I’ve set over 7 traps

But my kitchens still filled with craps

There’s only one thing left to do

a creature designed just for you

I’ve run all out of pity

Maybe I’ll have to get a kitty

And he’ll hunt you down and kill you

and bring your lifeless body

to the corner of my bed

as a token of his love for me

and then I’ll take your little carcass

and I’ll impale it on a pen

and display it at the doorway

as a warning for your kith and kin

to stay the fuck out of my kitchen

and stay the fuck out of my life

and to stop shitting on my cast iron pan

and stop shitting on the floor

and stop shitting on my oven

and stop shitting on my life

I really do not want to kill you

but you’re leaving me no choice

Cuz you’re shitting everywhere shitting everywhere stop shitting everywhere why are you shitting everywhere… how is there so much shit in your tiny little bodies? Stop shitting everywhere!!!!

Run away little mousies run away

Run away and get gone please run away

Run away poor devils run away

Run away and get out of my life

Get out of my life

Stop shitting on all my things, please and thank you. 

Music plays out

Show Outro

Bouncy electronic instrumental music plays underneath.

Julia: Thanks for Hitting Play and then listening to Hit Play. If you liked what you heard, subscribe to the show, tell a friend, and leave a review on your listening app of choice! If you want to support the New York Neo-Futurists in other ways, consider making a donation at nynf.org, or by joining our Patreon–Patreon.com/NYNF. 

This episode featured work by: Greg Lakhan, Julia Melfi, Rob Neill, Kyra Sims, Anooj Bhandari, and Michael John Improta, featuring other musical friends.

This episode was conducted by me, Julia Melfi. Our brand new logo was designed by Gabriel Drozdov and our sound is designed by Anthony Sertel Dean. Hit Play is produced by Anthony Sertel Dean and Léah Miller. Take Care!

Music fades out!