“Clinger said he hadn’t ever visited Polynesian communities, but had ‘seen documentaries, read a couple of books, and read a book on what the Maori symbols mean. I’m so competitive, racing bikes year after year, I felt it falls in line with being a warrior...
‘It’s somewhat of a publicity stunt as well,’ he added. ‘Nobody in the cycling community has a facial tattoo.’”
--David Clinger to Velonews in 2005
‘It’s somewhat of a publicity stunt as well,’ he added. ‘Nobody in the cycling community has a facial tattoo.’”
--David Clinger to Velonews in 2005
The Tempest 2008
A play by David Clinger
(adapted from the original by William Shakespeare)
A play by David Clinger
(adapted from the original by William Shakespeare)
ACT I
A tropical beach. Three figures are lying face-down in the sand. In the background, the shattered fuselage of a jet is half-submerged in the turquoise water. The “Rock & Republic” logo is visible on it. A bunch of wooden crates are also strewn about the beach, also bearing the R&R logo. Suddenly, one of the figures begins to stir.
Tyler Hamilton: Where...where am I? Am I dead? Tugboat! Tugboat, we’re finally together again!
A second figure awakens.
Michael Ball: Dude, that sucked.
The third figure remains still.
Tyler Hamilton: Are we dead, Mr. Ball?
Michael Ball: I don’t know, T-Ham. But if we are this must be heaven. Check it!
Ball points to a group of topless native women who have just emerged from a thicket.
Tyler Hamilton [blushing]: Gosh, Mr. Ball, those ladies don’t have any clothes on.
Michael Ball [leaping to his feet]: They sure don’t. Step aside, there, shorty. The Ball Boy’s gonna show you how to get your game on.
Just then, an army of native men emerge. They are heavily tattooed and are carrying machetes.
Michael Ball [sitting back down again]: Uh-oh.
Tribal Chieftain: [Speaks ominously in his native tongue.]
Michael Ball: Whuh?
Tribal Chieftain: [Repeats himself, slowly and more menacingly.]
The army advances closer, machetes drawn.
Michael Ball: All right, enough of this crap. What do you guys want? Money? Oh, shit, my wallet’s gone. Cheap-ass wallet chain! OK, I know. Pants!
Ball runs to a broken crate, prying it open and pulling out pair after pair of jeans. He runs to the Chieftain and holds a pair up to his face.
Michael Ball: Rock and Republic, baby! These go for like $200 a pair!
The Chieftain stares back blankly.
Michael Ball: Don’t you understand English?!? Pants! P-A-N-T-S. Blue jeans. Dungarees. Metrosexual legwarmers? Douche corsets?!? C’mon, T-Ham, help me here!
Tyler comes to his feet, acting everything he says out in pantomime as he speaks.
Tyler Hamilton: Uh, me Tyler Hamilton. Me ride bike. You big chief of island. Him Michael Ball. Him big chief of bike team. We fly in big iron bird to bike race. Uh, captain of big iron bird get very sick from bad salisbury steak. Him no more can fly big bird. So big chief of bike team make Freddy Rodriguez fly bird. But Freddy no fly good. Him crash big bird just like him crash bike at Redlands. We come in--
One of the native men steps forward wordlessly and decapitates Tyler with his machete.
Michael Ball [dropping to his knees]: Jesus Fuck!
Finally, the third figure in the sand stirs. He struggles to his hands and knees and picks up his head, revealing his magnificently tattooed visage. It’s David Clinger.
David Clinger: Is Botero finished with the bathroom yet?
The natives collectively gasp and drop to their knees, bowing.
Michael Ball: Holy shit, dude. It’s that crap on your face. You must be like a god to them.
David Clinger: Cool. What happened to Tyler? It looks like someone chopped his head off.
ACT II
It is night. David Clinger and Michael Ball are in a hut together, dimly lit by firelight and a soft electronic glow.
Michael Ball: So, like, I still don’t get what’s happening. Didn’t you do any research on these people before you got that permanent mud mask? I know chicks who put more thought into a bikini waxing than you put into your ink.
David Clinger: Hey, no fair. I read an article on Body Modification Ezine, and I’ve seen “Papillon” like four times. Plus, I’m able to get Wikipedia on my iPhone. My best guess is they think I’m a brave warrior or something because of my mask.
Michael Ball: Crazy. Hey, I saw the head guy scoping the sweet-ass tribal band I’ve got around my ankle. I wonder what they think I am.
A native enters carrying a West Papuan penis gourd as well as a grass skirt and a floral bikini top. He hands the penis gourd to Clinger and bows. Then, he hands the grass skirt and the bikini top to Ball. He winks to Ball and exits.
David Clinger: I guess they must think you’re a chick.
Michael Ball: What?!? No way! The Ball is all man. My masculinity transcends all cultural divides.
David Clinger: I’m telling you, they saw that bitch ink of yours and that tan. Plus, you’re wearing girl’s jeans.
Michael Ball: Screw you, Cling Film, R&Rs are unisex.
David Clinger: Whatever. I’m putting on this [quickly glances at the Wikipedia entry on his iPhone] uh, dick stick and heading out there. Clearly they’re going to honor us with some kind of feast. I’ll see you outside.
ACT III
A bonfire is raging and the entire tribe is gathered around it. A pig is roasting on a spit. As Clinger appears everybody starts singing and celebrating. They lead him to a giant bamboo seat of honor. Shortly after this, Michael Ball emerges, looking bashful in his hula skirt and bikini top. He’s being accompanied by a group of the native women who are covering him with floral garlands.
Michael Ball: Uh, hey.
David Clinger [toasting him with a cocktail he’s been sipping out of a coconut]: Looking good, Mikey.
Michael Ball: Shut up.
Suddenly chanting and drumming begins as the Tribal Chieftain arrives. He looks Ball up and down approvingly, grabs his arm, and takes him away. The entire tribe cheers.
Michael Ball: Hey, let me go. Hey! Hey!!!
David Clinger: Wow, crazy. Well, I’m going to take a leak.
Clinger leaves his seat of honor and steps into the foliage, parting some leaves.
David Clinger: Hmmm, that’s odd.
ACT IV
The next morning. David Clinger is reclining poolside at a big resort. He’s got a big straw hat on as well as sunglasses and a thick coating of zinc on his tattooed nose. He’s reading a copy of Men’s Health. Suddenly a bedraggled Michael Ball enters, his grass skirt and bikini top disheveled and askew.
David Clinger: Hey, Mikey! Crazy night. So it turns out we were right next to a resort the whole time. Like literally, right next door. How funny is that?
Michael Ball: Thanks, yeah, I realize that now.
David Clinger: So how was the chief?
Michael Ball: Surprisingly tender.
David Clinger: Cool. Well, pull up some vinyl. Next flight out’s not until 6:00 tonight.
Michael Ball: Yeah, might as well. Hey, you’re not gonna tell anybody about this, are you?
David Clinger: Not to worry. Warrior’s honor.
--THE END
A tropical beach. Three figures are lying face-down in the sand. In the background, the shattered fuselage of a jet is half-submerged in the turquoise water. The “Rock & Republic” logo is visible on it. A bunch of wooden crates are also strewn about the beach, also bearing the R&R logo. Suddenly, one of the figures begins to stir.
Tyler Hamilton: Where...where am I? Am I dead? Tugboat! Tugboat, we’re finally together again!
A second figure awakens.
Michael Ball: Dude, that sucked.
The third figure remains still.
Tyler Hamilton: Are we dead, Mr. Ball?
Michael Ball: I don’t know, T-Ham. But if we are this must be heaven. Check it!
Ball points to a group of topless native women who have just emerged from a thicket.
Tyler Hamilton [blushing]: Gosh, Mr. Ball, those ladies don’t have any clothes on.
Michael Ball [leaping to his feet]: They sure don’t. Step aside, there, shorty. The Ball Boy’s gonna show you how to get your game on.
Just then, an army of native men emerge. They are heavily tattooed and are carrying machetes.
Michael Ball [sitting back down again]: Uh-oh.
Tribal Chieftain: [Speaks ominously in his native tongue.]
Michael Ball: Whuh?
Tribal Chieftain: [Repeats himself, slowly and more menacingly.]
The army advances closer, machetes drawn.
Michael Ball: All right, enough of this crap. What do you guys want? Money? Oh, shit, my wallet’s gone. Cheap-ass wallet chain! OK, I know. Pants!
Ball runs to a broken crate, prying it open and pulling out pair after pair of jeans. He runs to the Chieftain and holds a pair up to his face.
Michael Ball: Rock and Republic, baby! These go for like $200 a pair!
The Chieftain stares back blankly.
Michael Ball: Don’t you understand English?!? Pants! P-A-N-T-S. Blue jeans. Dungarees. Metrosexual legwarmers? Douche corsets?!? C’mon, T-Ham, help me here!
Tyler comes to his feet, acting everything he says out in pantomime as he speaks.
Tyler Hamilton: Uh, me Tyler Hamilton. Me ride bike. You big chief of island. Him Michael Ball. Him big chief of bike team. We fly in big iron bird to bike race. Uh, captain of big iron bird get very sick from bad salisbury steak. Him no more can fly big bird. So big chief of bike team make Freddy Rodriguez fly bird. But Freddy no fly good. Him crash big bird just like him crash bike at Redlands. We come in--
One of the native men steps forward wordlessly and decapitates Tyler with his machete.
Michael Ball [dropping to his knees]: Jesus Fuck!
Finally, the third figure in the sand stirs. He struggles to his hands and knees and picks up his head, revealing his magnificently tattooed visage. It’s David Clinger.
David Clinger: Is Botero finished with the bathroom yet?
The natives collectively gasp and drop to their knees, bowing.
Michael Ball: Holy shit, dude. It’s that crap on your face. You must be like a god to them.
David Clinger: Cool. What happened to Tyler? It looks like someone chopped his head off.
ACT II
It is night. David Clinger and Michael Ball are in a hut together, dimly lit by firelight and a soft electronic glow.
Michael Ball: So, like, I still don’t get what’s happening. Didn’t you do any research on these people before you got that permanent mud mask? I know chicks who put more thought into a bikini waxing than you put into your ink.
David Clinger: Hey, no fair. I read an article on Body Modification Ezine, and I’ve seen “Papillon” like four times. Plus, I’m able to get Wikipedia on my iPhone. My best guess is they think I’m a brave warrior or something because of my mask.
Michael Ball: Crazy. Hey, I saw the head guy scoping the sweet-ass tribal band I’ve got around my ankle. I wonder what they think I am.
A native enters carrying a West Papuan penis gourd as well as a grass skirt and a floral bikini top. He hands the penis gourd to Clinger and bows. Then, he hands the grass skirt and the bikini top to Ball. He winks to Ball and exits.
David Clinger: I guess they must think you’re a chick.
Michael Ball: What?!? No way! The Ball is all man. My masculinity transcends all cultural divides.
David Clinger: I’m telling you, they saw that bitch ink of yours and that tan. Plus, you’re wearing girl’s jeans.
Michael Ball: Screw you, Cling Film, R&Rs are unisex.
David Clinger: Whatever. I’m putting on this [quickly glances at the Wikipedia entry on his iPhone] uh, dick stick and heading out there. Clearly they’re going to honor us with some kind of feast. I’ll see you outside.
ACT III
A bonfire is raging and the entire tribe is gathered around it. A pig is roasting on a spit. As Clinger appears everybody starts singing and celebrating. They lead him to a giant bamboo seat of honor. Shortly after this, Michael Ball emerges, looking bashful in his hula skirt and bikini top. He’s being accompanied by a group of the native women who are covering him with floral garlands.
Michael Ball: Uh, hey.
David Clinger [toasting him with a cocktail he’s been sipping out of a coconut]: Looking good, Mikey.
Michael Ball: Shut up.
Suddenly chanting and drumming begins as the Tribal Chieftain arrives. He looks Ball up and down approvingly, grabs his arm, and takes him away. The entire tribe cheers.
Michael Ball: Hey, let me go. Hey! Hey!!!
David Clinger: Wow, crazy. Well, I’m going to take a leak.
Clinger leaves his seat of honor and steps into the foliage, parting some leaves.
David Clinger: Hmmm, that’s odd.
ACT IV
The next morning. David Clinger is reclining poolside at a big resort. He’s got a big straw hat on as well as sunglasses and a thick coating of zinc on his tattooed nose. He’s reading a copy of Men’s Health. Suddenly a bedraggled Michael Ball enters, his grass skirt and bikini top disheveled and askew.
David Clinger: Hey, Mikey! Crazy night. So it turns out we were right next to a resort the whole time. Like literally, right next door. How funny is that?
Michael Ball: Thanks, yeah, I realize that now.
David Clinger: So how was the chief?
Michael Ball: Surprisingly tender.
David Clinger: Cool. Well, pull up some vinyl. Next flight out’s not until 6:00 tonight.
Michael Ball: Yeah, might as well. Hey, you’re not gonna tell anybody about this, are you?
David Clinger: Not to worry. Warrior’s honor.
--THE END
