What follows is evidenced in 2 parts. Part 1 – above: the rejection letter (see above) and part 2 – the rebuttal letter (see below). A cursory reading of stated materials may inform one of a biased opinion but a more meticulous reading of evidence 1 and 2 may lead one to gaining a better approximation of what makes for an acceptable admission, a healthy education and what constitutes for good modern story telling and the role of film in current day society. In any event evidence parts 1 and part 2 may even shed light on the state of mind and physical whereabouts of Cyrano himself, who left this rebuttal letter on our desk before storming out not having been seen or heard of since yesterday afternoon. You be the judge…
Editor in Chief.
Columbia University Handsome Boy Movie School
305 Dodge Hall, MC1803
New York, NY
Dear Handsome Boy Film School,
The denial letter; I can’t say that I am shocked. I don’t really get shocked anymore. Things happen, and I find myself avoiding the dwelling in hopes of convincing myself that in dwelling, I will just be wasting more time on a non-issue. Then I will go watch pornography for the next five hours in hopes that someone will call and tell me there is a check for ten thousand dollars in my mailbox. Sometimes this actually happens, and some guy in Nigeria will then ask me to wire him a “finders fee.” Oh, those Nigerian money laundering scams get me every time! You wouldn’t want this quack in your Handsome Boy Film School. No, that would have been a terrible, terrible idea. I can see the headlines now: “Fiend Turns Film School Into Beastiality Pornography Headquarters!” Cameras would have to be sent back to the factories for high powered steaming, the lights would forever project the silencing of the lambs and that midget horse- oh what a specific fetish! If only we had the budget for that Killer Whale– my remake of the Jungle Book would have won an Adult Film Award! I’m sure of it!
I am suddenly reminded of the last time I boxed. It was during the spring break of my sophomore year In college. I stayed on campus while all of my friends went to Cancun and visited the typical debaucheries and Chlamydia infested spring break destinations. For three months I lived in this mental zone of murder and pain as I put in some last minute work before my New York Golden Gloves semi-final match. I took the train down to Jerome Boxing Club and Morris Park where the Philipino and the Dominican I had already defeated slumped their heads in knowing that I had not only beaten them, but also felt it necessary to come and train at their gym after doing so. It was a tremendously disrespectful move. Admittedly, I am an asshole, but at the time, I thought Ali would have done the same. Now, I’m not so sure. He was much more forward thinking in his preparation and such a great boxer that he now sounds like that hunk of shit that came out of the chamber in “The Fly Part II.”
You know, when the guy went through the time machine with the dog…Please accept my apology for the illogical comparison, but I have not gone to film school. As a result, when faced with describing cinema, I sound like I have Parkinson’s. In Columbia’s Handsome Boy Film School I found my cure for the disorder, but the elixir costs $120,000, and your health insurance will not accept me for fear of a testicular elephantitis relapse. You know how you guys get about pre-existing conditions…
Back to the violence…I just didn’t really care anymore. When taken out of context, this tournament of murder felt entirely meaningless. The mere existence of the sport had me questioning why I was not an observer of slave massacre as opposed to that of participator. Everyone else had so much more to lose, and when looking down at myself I saw an over educated white kid from Georgetown with nothing to gain except for a gold chain worth less than my handmade dress shoes.
On the opposite end of the ring stood “Chocky,” the only person I had really gotten to know along this long and drawn out test of savagery (The tournament lasts several months). So there I was, staring at this Dominican pitbull who had refused sex with his wife for the last 6 months in hopes of winning the golden gloves, in hopes of turning professional, in hopes of making a career out of boxing. He told me that he frequently urinated semen and the night before he had contemplated eating his son in hopes that raw baby would improve his eye sight, helping him to avoid my long, whip-like jabs.
Three rounds deep, my nose was bleeding profusely. Yet, I was somehow ahead on the score cards. My one-eyed trainer (maybe that was another mistake?) Al Artola clotted my bloody nose and threw me back out there. “Two minutes from the Garden!” We danced with each other for 30 seconds, but there was no longer that hop in my step. It was as if I had realized boxing to “James Brown’s Greatest Hits” could only do so much for this white man’s dance skills. Maybe I should have abstained from sex and eaten a baby? My vision was hazy, and all that I could hear was the mob’s cheering for Chocky to eat my heart before his eminent semen implosion.
My legs were gone, pints of blood that had dripped from my nose had dyed my yellow tank top murky brown. And here was this beast coming at me with what sounded like an entire country behind him -five hundred Puerto Ricans screaming for the demise of yours truly. I always went to my fights alone, and to this day I still wonder if a team of rabid, spandex wearing Tony Montana’s cheering for me would have made things any better. Although, a bag pipe on the other hand…In any case, I didn’t box to impress other people. I boxed for myself. But in that moment, I was no longer impressed.
They say that a man on PCP can lift a pregnant woman from underneath a car, that a chicken can remain sexually active for 2 minutes after decapitation and that a woman had sex with 850 men in one sitting (I have the video to prove it). Adrenaline is quite a drug! Unfortunately, it was as if my last vial of adrena-rock was empty, and I was searching underneath the couch cushions, only to find some stale Doritos and toe clippings. I jabbed to keep him away from me. Survival! Out of gas and puttering to the station, his stutter step and overhand right felt like a Mack Truck coming through my perfectly symmetrical face-
With victory in plain sight, my heart fell right out like a transmission on the starting block. I lost.
I’m not sure what the moral of this story is. If I had to guess, I would say that I am so unafraid of losing that maybe, just maybe, I never win or lose? What is a competition when either option feels the same. Either way, the mob is satisfied, so what’s the difference? Quite possibly the real moral came later that evening as I walked down Bathgate Avenue in the Bronx and came across this team of thugs robbing a Mexican delivery man. Had all of those years of training actually lead up to that one moment of dodging box cutters and crushing faces? Karma- I’ve sure had my fare share, but nothing was worse than running into yours truly, the Capitol City Cobra on that April evening in the Bronx. Yes, the vigilante competes in the darkness, while the mob is fast asleep. He does it out of necessity. There is nothing for him to gain except for the spontaneous combustion!
The last time we spoke, I believe that I was describing to you my experience at the inauguration. I immediately felt an overwhelming sense of regret in having revealed to you all at the Handsome Boy Movie School that I had gone to the Obama-Fest while under the Iron curtain of some of the greatest LSD I have ever gotten my hands on. In retrospect, maybe you thought it was a bad idea to admit someone so foolish into your Handsome Boy Film School? Surely, no great artist would think of experiencing such a profound moment under such a cloud of hallucinogens. I beg to differ…Surrounded by 4 million people, nobody would walk onto the reflecting pool as I realized that worse case scenario, the reflecting pool was only one foot deep! That’s when the ice skating began! If you can imagine being surrounded by 4 million people and having the entire ice covered reflecting pool to yourself. It was pretty amazing. Sounds like a movie to me! Although, I wonder if I was impeding upon Obama’s self reflection? Either way, I could see how this set off some alarms…as if you went into a sudden panic, wondering if you would be opening the floodgates for this savage to turn Columbia’s Handsome Boy Film School into the world’s greatest porno factory? This was my plan all along, and I would like to paint a picture of how different things would have been if I had gained acceptance into the halls of your Ivy League establishment! I won’t go into too much detail, but here is the opening scene of the movie they would have made in memory of my attendance at Handsome Boy Movie School.
Int. Handsome Boy Movie School-Night?
A violated BABY ELEPHANT crosses screen. We see elephant for 2, maybe 3 frames. In those 3 frames, we realize that the entire Handsome Boy Movie School has become overrun by nouveau riche asshole film students from some suburb of Denver, Colorado. It is the post apocolypse- like never seen before on film, the scene is like Donnie Darko meets Citizen Kane with a splash of Apocolypse Now and a cumshot of Lawrence of Arabia.
CYRANO DE BULGERAC enters screen. He is wearing a designer loin cloth a la “Gossip Girl” ep. 2. He is insane yet really sane at the same time. This combination of sanity and insanity have in fact driven him to the brink of insanity. He looks at camera, and we realize that camera is through POV of BABY GIRAFFE who is hiding behind the Vault holding the worlds last 500 copies of the schools greatest film ever made- Mr. and Mrs. Smith. CYRANO DE BULGERAC hears breathing of Baby Giraffe. CYRANO DE BULGERAC’S neck snaps as his head quickly turns towards BABY GIRAFFE. CYRANO DE BULGERAC begins singing in a sadistic tone as he walks towards the vault.
CYRANO DE BULGERAC
I don’t want to grow up. I’m a Toys ‘R’ Us kid. No
Planes no trains no video games. I don’t want to grow
Up. Cuz if I did. I wouldn’t be a..
CYRANO DE BULGERAC grabs camera. Camera is turned around as the CYRANO DE BULGERAC violates yet another young animal in the ongoing massacre and bestiality porno epicenter that is Columbia University Handsome Boy Movie School. Fade to Black. Credits, blah, Written, starring, directed, key gripped by Nouveau Denver Suburb Asshole.
Don’t feel obligated in any way to answer this letter. I just wanted to thank you for your patience and let you know that you did a wise thing when you “denied my application.” I’m truly not sure whether or not I would have accepted the invitation if given the opportunity or burned it alongside my precious 250 gigabyte hard drive (jam packed with bestiality porn) as the Animal Cops and Discovery Channel Film crew stormed my Brooklyn apartment. No, but really, I have no idea. 120,000$ is a hefty sum to shell out in hopes of being the director of Mr. and Mrs. Smith Part V.
As for that woman in charge of admissions- while her job is most likely restricted to signing denial letters, I can only imagine she has found her calling– The cancerous scab on my face would have had an easier time getting laid in the “Rest Ezee” Truck Stop along the Chapalapee Expressway…so I can imagine her satisfaction in rejecting people all day…let alone cashing my $175 check. If I had put as much time into my Guam ambassadorship application as I had put into my Handsome Boy Film School application, I would currently be seaside, lighting nuclear missiles, laughing at pygmy Guamians while sipping on Mai Tais.
Unfortunately, I am now going to have to go with my backup school- The Michael Bay Film Academy. All that I had to do to get into his fine establishment was write a 1 minute movie scene starring Chris Rock that takes place inside my anus. If you can imagine, it was much easier than writing a film treatment, a feature film, a personal essay, an extended scene, getting numerous recommendations from powerful people, and all of the other tasks that were necessary to waste a couple of more redwoods.
Cyrano de Bulgerac
Some Brooklyn Shithole
Brooklyn, NY 11222
P.S. For $175 I would appreciate you re-sending my denial letter on “unused” paper. I know the economy is tight, but for the hefty price of $120,000 per student and for the countless other chumps who shelled out $175, I can only imagine your budget sufficient enough to allow for my denial letter to not have a second denial on the back of it! I was going to frame the fucking thing, but I fear it will be too confusing. When people read it they are forced to turn their heads upside down like a parrot and read it all over again. Cut down another redwood and let’s make it happen!
P.P.S. I am confident that by next year I will have the necessary skills to be accepted into your school. I just bought the worlds largest bottle of vasoline, and I am currently trapping flies, counting the moments until the next application year.