March 3rd, 2019
Split Prologue
LIGHTS UP on a stage split in two. The left half: a serene, idyllic beach. The right: a living space hidden under sheets of brilliant purple. A young boy sits in the center of this side, wrapped comfortably in the fabrics that cover the room. He's settled in a traditional "Full Lotus" position, eyes shut, breathing soft. A towering podium acts as a barrier between the two scenes. It's covered in headtotoe
in various breeds of political slogans and propaganda all in fervent support of one particular candidate. They all accumulate to nearly block out a great seal stuck onto the front displaying a bald eagle. It proudly grasps at an olive
branch in one talon and a bundle of arrows in the other.
An older gentleman struts onto the beach side. OLD MAN EURO's cleanly cut beard and bald head says "business", yet his disheveled Hawaiian floral shirt and matching cargo pants scream "assaulted tourist". He takes in the virgin air
of the staged shoreline. He carries himself like he knows this is where he should be. Not home exactly, probably not even close, but does it really have to be? With awareness of just how harshly age has whittled his body, he delicately plants himself down onto the sand. He pulls out a dingy ukulele and begins to strum out a few notes. He tries his best to translate the ambiance of the beach into mesmerizing musical form.
Finally, the podium populates. Wouldn't be too off of a guess to infer he's some sort of politician. You wouldn't be able to tell by looking at him, but his face plastered all over all of that propaganda must mean something. Said face seems to resemble that of a child unlucky enough to be the first one to doze off at a sleepover. Sharpie doodles of genitalia, feces, and obscenities carrying no more of a punch than "donkey brain" paint his grimace. This is ANDREW J. SPLITZEN, and this is his inauguration.
SPLITZENAn older gentleman struts onto the beach side. OLD MAN EURO's cleanly cut beard and bald head says "business", yet his disheveled Hawaiian floral shirt and matching cargo pants scream "assaulted tourist". He takes in the virgin air
of the staged shoreline. He carries himself like he knows this is where he should be. Not home exactly, probably not even close, but does it really have to be? With awareness of just how harshly age has whittled his body, he delicately plants himself down onto the sand. He pulls out a dingy ukulele and begins to strum out a few notes. He tries his best to translate the ambiance of the beach into mesmerizing musical form.
Finally, the podium populates. Wouldn't be too off of a guess to infer he's some sort of politician. You wouldn't be able to tell by looking at him, but his face plastered all over all of that propaganda must mean something. Said face seems to resemble that of a child unlucky enough to be the first one to doze off at a sleepover. Sharpie doodles of genitalia, feces, and obscenities carrying no more of a punch than "donkey brain" paint his grimace. This is ANDREW J. SPLITZEN, and this is his inauguration.
Joy.
Splitzen allows a pause for drama's sake, and, unknowingly,
awkwardness' too.
SPLITZEN (cont)
awkwardness' too.
Humility. Purity. Kindness.
Diligence. Temperance. Charity. That's-that's
what's succeeded today. It’s what's triumphed, against
all odds, even.
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