By Hillel Aron
By Joseph Tsidulko
By Patrick Range McDonald
By David Futch
By Hillel Aron
By Dennis Romero
By Jill Stewart
By Dennis Romero
“If you’d fuckin’ really swirled it . . .”
“I’ve got to level with you, Dave,” Kyle says. “I’m a little worried about this interview. You haven’t asked any questions.”
“To be honest with you,” Jack says, “I’m a little relieved. I think we’re going for something organic. Just start talking and stuff’s gonna happen.”
“All right,” says Kyle, unconvinced. “You’re the expert.”
“Dude,” says Jack. “Just think of Dave as the Dungeon Master of this Dungeons & Dragons journey we’re taking. He’s like a jazz musician over there. You have to trust him. Let him fuckin’ . . . let him . . .”
“All right,” says Kyle, turning to me. “Let me ask you, then: You were an art major?”
“Yeah. Not at first, but yeah.”
“What did you go in as?”
“Nothing. Lecture notes. I thought I was going to major in Film & Television. I dropped out for a while and went to Lee Strasberg.”
“Me too,” says Jack.
Reminiscing about his days at Lee Strasberg, Jack feels moved to re-create some dorky, low-end Stanislavsky acting exercises.
“I can still, to this day, pretend like I’m holding a hot cup of tea.”
Kyle and I marvel as Jack holds . . . in his hands . . . an imaginary cup of tea!
“Don’t burn the tongue,” I caution.
“The tongue!” Kyle admires Jack’s tongue-dipping, which is not part of the exercise.
“That has come in handy,” says Jack. “And so has this. Guess what this is?” Jack holds and peels an invisible something.
“Banana?” says Kyle.
“It’s the orange,” I say. “Don’t burn your tongue on the orange either. They kick you out for that.”
“Mm-hm,” says Jack, with his mouth full of method-acting fruit.
“Did you do Pain?” I ask, referring to another Stanislavsky classic — the re-creation of a specific past pain.
“No,” says Jack. “I don’t think I got to that level. It didn’t take long for me to realize that it wasn’t gonna be for me.”
Jack again stands, steps away from us, returns to the same spot as before . . .
“Oh, no,” says Kyle.
. . . pulls his pants down and . . .
“Oh, god, no!”
. . . rips another bare-assed fart, similar to the last in timbre and texture, but markedly longer.
“You’re awful,” says Kyle.
“What’s the matter?”
“I . . . I can’t approve of that.”
Jack is incredulous. “Why are you mad? You think you can smell it from over there? Did you smell the last one?”
“I didn’t smell the last one,” says Kyle.
“Did you smell the last one?”
“No,” I say.
“It’s just the little sounds,” says Kyle.
“I can’t believe this,” says Jack. “I can’t believe that you’re pulling that with me, Kage! That you, of all people, would be disgusted.”
“I just . . .”
Jack pulls up his pants and sighs. Kyle heads out to the balcony for a cigarette and some phone calls.
“What questions have people been asking you all day?” I ask Jack. “The people who actually do what I’m supposed to be doing right now?”
“Oh, yeah,” says Jack. “Let’s see.”
Kyle returns from the balcony with a phone still to his ear. He determines that Jack is lecturing me on how to do an interview.
“What you’re supposed to ask,” says Jack, “is how me and Kyle met, what kind of a . . .”
“Forget it, Jack,” Kyle interjects. “It’s no use. Dave’s not gonna do a traditional interview.”
“I’m not trying to make it into one!” says Jack, going big. He tones down, turns back to me. “Kyle’s checked out,” he says. And again, angrily, to Kyle: “Kyle has checked out.”
“I’m checked out,” says Kyle.
“So stay checked out!” says Jack.
Kyle heads back to the balcony.
“Okay,” says Jack, “you’re supposed to ask, How does it feel to be famous? And, Kyle, are you resentful of Jack’s famousness? And then you’re supposed to ask, How did we meet Liam? Then you’re supposed to ask, Where did you get the name Tenacious D? Then you’re supposed to ask, What do you like better — acting or music? Then you’re supposed to ask, What’s next for Tenacious D?”