Now… the end of film applause. We certainly need it — although not everyone likes the film and so some additional energy is saved through an absence of applause or by using the energy efficient half-assed golf clap that involves the fingertips of the right hand lightly tapping (or even brushing) the right palm. But wait, Fran asks a brilliant question. “Has anyone ever made a film with pre-recorded applause at the end.” Who said Americans were the special-ed folks of the world? Genius, Krause, pure genius. It makes perfect sense on both ends. It eliminates the need for the audience to waste more energy applauding and the filmmaker doesn’t need to worry about what music to use during their end credits. The post-film applause is often made out of habit more than passion, so why waste your time and energy when the film can do it for you?

This is good. I feel that Schmal, Krause and I have potentially saved and radically altered the future of cinema.

But this doesn’t help me tonight. How the fuck am I going to deal with the inevitable audience betrayal that awaits me? Perhaps I could just remain seated, oblivious to their applause when my name is called. They’d eventually give up. That would show ‘em. Give ‘em a taste of the treason they’ve fed everyone else. Then after they stop, I’d hop to my feet and walk to the stage. Surprised, the audience would be forced to give me an additional pre-award applause. Still… it would probably fall short again before I hit the podium.

What the hell am I going to do? It’s getting closer. My heart thumps like wet flesh on a bare ass. Sweat appears (on my brow). And fuckanutbutt… Drew Carey is in the crowd. I haven’t felt this way since the Yankee game this afternoon when I was FORCED to rise for the seventh inning rendition of God Bless America as americanwingnutpatriots shouted TAKE YOUR HAT OFF all around me. What the fuck is it about the hat, boys? How is removing a piece of cotton made in China from your head — a device that these days is saving you from cancer — a form of respect?

I, of course, refused to sing. I was always told that God Blessed Canada. To sing otherwise would be treason. Still... wasn’t quite as scary as the Japanese businessmen — complete with accents — singing the U.S. anthem. That was damn funny. Forty years ago the Americans and Japanese try to annihilate each other, but when they smell dollar, all is forgiven. Ba ha ha ha. Okay… sorry… not gonna go there. Where was I? Okay… I’m freaking out. I WILL NOT BE ABANDONED LIKE THE OTHERS.

Linda Simensky announces my name. I hear the applause and calmly walk down the aisle. As I hit the stage, I sense the clap collapse. I will not let them leave me. In a flash, I sprint across the stage and reach the podium just as the applause shatters into a smattering of claps (Krause and Schmal, I figure) before falling completely and utterly into silence.

I made it. Relieved, I’m hardly aware of what I’m saying. Too excited to speak. Muttered a few shout outs to the Virgils, joked about pranks and dreamed a dream of a Quincy reunion. For a moment, I felt certain I saw Drew Carey — a man who has seen first hand the very darkness in the souls of whom I speak — give me a proud nod of the head. As if he was saying, “You did it kid, you did it. You showed those Friends-loving bastards whose line it REALLY is.”

Overconfidence envelops me. I strut across the stage, applause swimming in my head. But as soon as I jump off the stage, I feel a slap of silence. BASTARDS. They’ve fucking betrayed me too. Forgotten. My pained eyes look across the rows, but their eyes ignore me and look forward awaiting their next victim. I pass Carey’s row, preying for his sympathy, but he too has gone, feigning fatigue his head is lowered into his hands. GOD DAMN YOU DREW CAREY.

Accompanied by no one, no thing, the walk home is long and lonely. Lapped, clapped and spit, I fall into the shadows of my seat, swallowed by the darkness of yesterday.

Other No Less Disturbing NY moments
O’Connor’s discussion of chocolate milk, blood and puss.
Plympton’s love.
Bob Sheppard
Dilworth standing across from me adorned with neck scarf, Hawaiian shirt and cigar.
Olivia Ward’s brother who despite being awoke by phone at 2:00 am INSTANTLY knew and hummed the Quincy theme.
Pat Smith’s unwavering esteem for Friends.
Urine-drenched hallway in Tribeca.

Chris Robinson is little more than a man. In his spare time he cares for the elderly. www.animationpimp.com.