Pies and misdemeanors.
A parody sketch, written at UCB.
FADE IN: Medium close-up of WOODY ALLEN at his current age, looking directly at the camera, doing a comedy monologue. He is wearing a ratty T-shirt. The background is blank.
WOODY: There’s an old joke. Uh, I think it was Rita Rudner who, uh, once said: “I don’t plan to grow old gracefully. I plan to have face-lifts until my ears meet.”
That’s basically how I feel too — at his moment in my life. The world is filled with grumpy, unsexy old men and I just joined the grumpy old man club even though I hate that club.
There’s this, uh, other old joke, which originates with Karl Marx, I think, who passed it on to Hegel, who influenced Derrida as he was writing his most pretentious theoretical work: “On Jargon-ology”, who passed it on, uh, to me.
I am paraphrasing, but it goes something like this: uh, “I want you to feel sorry for me. I want you to like me. But you never will because my self-deprecating humor confuses you until you can’t distinguish self-deprecation from seriousness from wanna-be art-house nonsense.” That joke really summarizes the entirety of my life up until this point.
Amy, my 9 year old girlfriend, just broke up with me. And I can’t seem to comprehend the bigger picture. I’m still trying to figure out why her mother pulled her away from me in that mall and screamed “Pervert! I thought you were the best comedic director of all time, but now I see that you are just some crusty old man who hangs out at malls. Stay away from my child.”
Life is hard. Then you die.
EXT. LOS FELIZ.
Young parents and couples window-shop, hipsters try on vintage clothing, music snobs argue with record store owners, and yuppies talking too loudly on cellphones eat at cafes.
INT. HOUSE OF PIES.
Everyone is smiling. A waitress takes an order with a pen and pad in hand, a waiter carries a tray filled with pie slices toward a booth, a bus-person brings coffee to an eager couple at a table, the owner hands a man his change at the cash register.
WOODY (voiceover): “Chapter one. He adored the House of Pies. He dreamed of eating every meal there. Breakfast, lunch and dinner. And for every meal he would have pie.” Uh, no, make that: “He — he…glorified the House of Pies.” Wait, actually, let me change that around.
A young woman smiles as she hands her menu to a waitress.
WOODY (CONT’D): “If the House of Pies were a beautiful prepubescent woman — a real stunner who would never be attracted to him in real life — he would have been infatuated with it.
He envisioned himself eating at the House of Pies for every meal. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Whatever the season, any time was pie-time.” Wait, no, scratch that. Let me have one more re-do. No, shut up. I get one more chance. “He romanticized pie. It was a metaphor for his life at that moment in time. Each piece had a different flavor, each one brought back a different memory from his youth.”
Wait, too preachy. Let me try again: “He loved pie.” Nah, too corny. Wait, wait — “
Woody Allen is sitting in a booth at the House of Pies.
WAITRESS: Sir, can I take your order? What kind of pie would you like today?
WOODY: It was at that moment that he saw her.
WAITRESS (confused): Sir, are you talking to me? Or…
WOODY (staring past her): She was lovely and sweet…and she was asking me what kind of pie I wanted. I idolized the waitresses in this town. To me, the House of Pies was a black and white movie…”
Waitress looks confused and walks away.
Woody Allen continues to babble to himself. The other diner patrons begin to turn around and stare at him. He doesn’t notice them staring.