Denny Crane.

01. How it works: post this in your journal.
02. Friends, enemies, itinerant smartasses (and their writers, too) are then to comment to your post with music that reminds them of you, their relationship with you, or whatever strikes their fancy.
03. Said music is shared via an upload (or a link to lyrics for the connection challenged).
04. When you comment, leave the song title and artist in the subject line, so that if someone else thinks of the same song they'll be spared the agony of sending it to you again. ;)
05. With enough people and enough variety of songs, you should end up with a lovely playlist inspired by those who know you pretty well. Or so you hope.


Lock and load! Or, upload in this case. Denny Crane.

Five days you never had and one day you did.


1. There’s a Norah Jones song playing somewhere about election day, who knows, maybe he's not deranged. She’s hot and he hates to disappoint. Colbert’s already been sworn in, which means there’s no more time to review his note cards – he’ll wing it, he’s gotten elected and no one’s taking this title away. He’s just got to take the oath of office, address the nation – which, he has to remind his vice president is the Crane-Colbert nation, not strictly under Colbert alone. He hates to wound the kid’s ego, but it’s Denny Crane who makes the power plays now. President Denny Crane. He’s going to end the war at some point – today, well tonight specifically, he plans on having sex in the oval office.


2. The couch is uncomfortable. The subject is even worse. Normally he has to lie back and wax nostalgic, but today he can’t do that. He’s starting to become unnerved, thinking that cows are homosexual, so it’s the mad cow’s fault. But, he’s come to the unsettling conclusion that the male-bonding he shares with Alan has crossed the line. He sniffs him, no longer hoping to catch a whiff of Lorraine’s perfume; in fact, he finds himself feeling jealous if he detects any hint of perfume on Alan’s perfectly tailored suit. Alan doesn’t ask for sleepovers anymore; they happen nightly, without question. That’s why he’s come to see the shrink: Denny Crane is in love with Alan Shore.


3. Oh, he’s always been larger than life, but he’s been taken to new heights today. He’s visiting the New York office as the parade couldn’t be moved to Boston. He still doesn’t understand why, but it isn’t bothering him at the moment – he’s got a balcony in every major city of the country, and in the cold November morning, he seated on one in New York. Alan’s there, in his usual seat beside Denny. Stephen is supposed to be there, but he’s running around with his camera crew, trying to catch the best view possible – which, naturally, Denny insists is on the balcony, and besides, he’s got the parade set up on Tivo. But there it is, just after Snoopy and right before Dora the Explorer – the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade proudly unveils the Denny Crane float. It looks like a re-purposed Charlie Brown one, but it doesn’t matter – no one can ever question Denny Crane’s size again.

4. Money supposedly can’t buy happiness, but that’s only if you don’t know how to spend it. He bought himself a spot on Dancing with the Stars. If Mark Cuban can do it, then anyone can. Besides, Denny’s a fantastic dancer. He also made a monetary arrangement to purchase the partner of his choice. It was a hard decision. Kym is hot and Australian – however, he wants to win, and she’s only won in her country. Julianne is hot, but under-aged – it wouldn’t be good for press. Cheryl, however, hot, legal, and reportedly single according to Wikipedia.com. There are other famous people he’ll have to compete with, supposedly. He isn’t really planning on dancing. He’s found a loophole. He’s put enough money into gaining popularity on the internet, but really, all he wants is the satisfaction of the Mirror Ball Trophy. He bought one, which arrived today and is presently seated on his desk. He thinks it’ll go nicely with the Stanley Cup.


5. Denny Crane always knew things would end this way. He’s been preparing for this day for as long as he can remember – which could be since childhood or last week, depending on the mood of the mad cow. Zombies. Apparently the outbreak started in Jersey which didn’t come as much of a surprise; the only good things to come out of Jersey are musicians and Dave Thomas – Denny Crane loves a double-stack. Of course, Dave Thomas is already deceased, and Denny hopes he isn’t one of the bodies revived – everyone’s had enough ghosts of Wendy’s chili to deal with. He and Alan are the only ones still in the office; Alan looks like he’s going to puke again any minute. There’s a plan though – a plan that consists of tickets to some place out of the country, assuming they can get to the private jet. Oh, and they can. Alan’s agreeable at this point since he isn’t keen on dying. The other good thing to come from Jersey was Norman Schwarzkopf, though Denny Crane will never confirm or deny his affiliation. However, there happens to be a tank stored beneath the parking garage. There’s something very bat cave about it, but he’s always wanted a tank in case of any emergency. With guns in hand, he and Alan take the elevator to the bottom floor; from there they take the stairs. Denny proudly shows off his hidden tank. Alan pukes, but that isn’t a surprise either.

+

1. He’s holding Alan’s hand. They’ve been here before. If things really went his way, then they’d never be here again. But, he’s waiting for test results and the nervous anticipation is making his stomach ache. He’s stayed active; he’s worked on crossword puzzles daily, starting playing the Wii. Every now and then he challenges Alan to a game of Trivial Pursuit over hot chocolate and smores. He’s going to find a cure for Mad Cow; he’s going to beat it, because he’s Denny Crane, damn it. But the doctor isn’t so reassuring. In fact, he’s something of a smug, cocky bastard which was why Denny choose him in the first place, thinking he’d found a kindred spirit, but now he wishes he’d opted for someone else. Alan will be eager for a second opinion anyway. The doctor says he’s got an eighty percent chance of developing Alzheimer’s within the next six years. But, the doctor also doesn’t believe Denny Crane will still be alive in six years considering he’s seventy-five, drinks and smokes daily. The doctor leaves, and Denny’s still holding Alan’s hand because if he lets go, the reality might sink in.


Muse: Denny Crane
Fandom: Boston Legal
Word Count: 1,004

Impossible


I know a lot of words. Not as many as Alan – but he knows a lot of words that are big and not particularly useful because not everyone can understand him. I bet that’s why he got word salad. I have mad cow because there’s too much genius for the world to handle. Alan got word salad because he uses too many pointless words. It’s funny when you think about it. But, about me and knowing a lot of words. I do know a lot of words. I do crossword puzzles. I have a crossword puzzle dictionary. I know things.

Did you know there’s only a slight difference between impossible and improbable? The difference comes down to doubt – and believe me, I can argue reasonable doubt until, insert some random cliche’ here. I’m Denny Crane; I’m great with the reasonable doubt line of thinking. Example? Angelina Jolie is hot. That’s a fact, can’t argue with facts. I’m Denny Crane – I look great. I could bang Angelina Jolie. We’re both hot, and hot people have sex with each other – also a fact, can’t argue with it. Now, you could say it’s impossible for me to bang Angelina Jolie. But do you know that beyond all reasonable doubt? If Michael Douglas gets to bang Catherine Zeta-Jones, then Denny Crane can have sex with Angelina Jolie. It’s an improbable situation, because you can’t rule out the possibility. You can’t. You can try, and if you go public with it, I’ll send Stephen Colbert with some truthiness – yes, it’s a word, check the dictionary.

But, let’s talk about something that’s actually impossible. Miss America – Reality Check. I didn’t plan to watch it. The tivo is a tricky bastard, it records things it thinks Denny Crane wants to watch. It wasn’t completely wrong – I love programming dedicated to hot women competing against each other. But no, they actually made a reality show to improve Miss America. She doesn’t need improvement. She doesn’t need a brain. She needs to be able to strut her fantastic ass in a swimsuit and have sex with Denny Crane – that’s really all she’s contractually obligated to do, and if she can’t, that’s what the runner-up is for. But, no, they want to make her smarter and more likable – it’s not about likability, it’s about balance while she swishes her hips, struts down the stage, and balances a crown on her head. It wasn’t a successful program. The butch military babe didn’t make it far, but oh, there’s something to be said about a woman who’s hot and can do one-handed push-ups. The typical blonde won, and I’ve already sent her several expensive gifts, including a proposal to be the Lucky #7 Mrs. Denny Crane – the pageant was in Vegas, there’s plenty of wedding chapels to choose from.

On the subject of impossible butch women though, I had an inappropriate dream about sex with Hillary. Yes, as in Clinton, as in democrat, as in against the few ethics I have left. But that dream has inspired me to fix two impossible situations. Ready? Here's a way to solve the election. Everyone vote Republican. It's the American thing to do. As a consolation prize? Make Hillary Miss America, so she has a reason to campaign around the country, pretending to care about people and their problems. Oh, and I'd bang her too - it's a win-win situation for America and Denny Crane. Is it impossible that this will happen? No. It’s questionable, implausible, doubtful – yes, doubtful, because you can’t rule it out beyond all reasonable doubt. Denny Crane.


Muse: Denny Crane
Fandom: Boston Legal
Word Count: 597

"To be great is to be misunderstood." - R.W. Emerson


The majority of Denny’s personal life choices ended up becoming misunderstood matters. He was well accustomed to this, long before the purchase of his boat. He had considered a yacht, as most self-absorbed, overly wealthy men tend to purchase yachts for social endeavors. However, a yacht would be foolish – a yacht would definitely lead to a party with a lot of young socialites, and Denny would end up arrested for some form of sexual solicitation – he felt certain that if a bathroom faux pas could incite a trial, then certainly a situation filled with young women wouldn’t bode well for him. And so, after hours of perusing the internet and speaking briefly with his not-son – as, Donny did happen to know something of boats since his actual father did work aboard a cranberry bog, and Donny is determined to fit into the cookie-cutter mold of his paternal gene pool – Denny Crane purchased a boat.

He didn’t pop the cork of a bottle of champagne to christen his boat. Instead, he toasted to it with his customary glass of scotch. He and Alan were seated comfortably at the helm of the ship; it was the closest thing to balcony a ship could provide. Denny did, however, have to lie in order to get Alan aboard the boat. It’s a known fact amongst the few that Alan holds dear – meaning, Denny, really – that Alan tends to be pansy and thereby gets sick at any moment out of the norm. Naturally, Alan would be the time to suffer from seasickness. Denny had assured him the boat would stay docked. It’s not as if their newly acquired positions in the Coast Guard made them ship captain’s or anything – no, it was rather that Denny was surprisingly adept at winning friends and influencing people, without having read the book, but rather by seducing women in positions of power, both literally and figuratively. If the Mad Cow patrol was only giving him approximately six years to live, then damn it all, he was going to live indeed.

Alan appeared rather certain that he might be the one to die first when the boat initially lurched across the Boston harbor; in fact, it wouldn’t be long before he went into a historical reenactment of the Boston Tea Party, only he’d be tossing his cookies instead of tea. Denny came prepared with the magical white tablets of Dramamine to cure the motion sickness. He didn’t bother to read the side effects as he was certain the main one would be Alan whining. At least Alan wouldn’t be stable enough to stand atop his usual soapbox – that was certainly ten points Denny deserved to award himself. He toasted the ship with scotch in one hand, cigar in the other. Alan toasted the boat with his hand shaking, yet somehow still holding his glass of water, and a white tablet working its way down and around the lump in his throat. “To the S.S. Schmidt,” Alan said wearily.

“Do you even know what it stands for?” Denny said, not bothering to remove the cigar from his mouth until Alan managed to shake his head in either a no or dizzy state. “It’s not for the woman or the position. It’s an acronym. S.C.H.M.I.D.T. – Sexually Charged Heroes Mischievously Inspire Dramatic Travels. Colbert came up with it. He thought it was witty. We’re picking him up in New York.” And at this Alan blanched. “We’re sailing to New York?”

“Don’t worry; you took your medicine. You won’t feel a thing.” And Denny paused for a moment of rare self-reflection. “Don’t take that to a gay place. We won that trial. I’m straight as an arrow, sailing aboard a boat in-” He didn’t really know where he was going with that, but he stopped nonetheless as he noticed Alan’s eyelids drooping to a close. “Damn side effects. Should’ve read the bottle. Alright, in we go.” Somehow, he awkwardly managed to help Alan to his feet and into the inside of the boat – it was similar to a yacht, in fact, he might have actually purchased a yacht but persuaded certain people to make the registration and receipt state boat for his own purposes. If the paper says it’s a boat, then it must be a boat. Regardless, the inside was plush, decorated in Denny’s usual self-loving taste with pictures of himself everywhere, and his initials adorned every possible surface.

Alan wandered sleepily to the bed. They’d grown accustomed to sharing a bed in a purely platonic sense as Denny would forever insist that his relationship with Alan was in no way sexually charged. However, when he started to leave to go back to the helm, Alan’s sleepy, panicked eyes did actually strike some variety of nerve that he would later deny. The boat would be fine for now, he assumed – he hadn’t really bothered to do much research about the actual mechanics of it. He got into bed and rolled his eyes when Alan instinctively curled closer, mumbling something about the S.S. Schmidt liking him about as much as its namesake. “That’s why she can only be handled by Captain Denny Crane,” he said, but his comment fell on deaf ears as Alan had already fallen into a contented sleep.


ooc: because alan_shore put thoughts in my head.

"There's enough sorrow in the world, isn't there, without trying to invent it."
E.M.Forster, A Room With A View.


In six years, I might be in the early stages of Alzheimer’s disease. The doctor doesn’t think I live to see the result of another six years as I drink and smoke daily – sometimes twice daily. But, tomorrow I could get shot by some wacko – do you know how many times I’ve been at gunpoint, because I don’t. Or, I could finish off my walk on earth after serving the Coast Guard for ten or so years. No one knows what tomorrow brings. And, there are plenty of things I’ve seen and done that no one believes, even when I have photographic evidence, so really, I could have already lost it – this whole thing could’ve been a dream, and who can really prove otherwise?

Delusions or not, it’s been a good ride for Denny Crane. And, I do mean ride literally, because I go down most phone books and produce a lengthy list of women I’ve slept with – though, it’s the unlisted one’s that were the real spitfires. I’ve been arrested more times than I can account for – most of them were unfair, but they weren’t so bad once Alan was getting thrown in there too. Don’t take that to a homosexual place though. Alan and I bond as men – heterosexual men – and sometimes that means we have sleepovers in my bed and eat popcorn, smores, watch movies, whatever. So what if we’re a couple of flamingos who have special time on my balcony? It only directly affects Alan and me, and we haven’t complained – which is impressive for Alan because he makes a sport out of getting on his soapbox to bitch, and yet he manages to get laid.

It’s been a good life. A lot of sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll, like any good life should have. There’s been a lot of cigars, a lot of scotch, and a lot of women. I’ve won Oscar’s Emmy’s, Tammy’s. I’ve held the Stanley Cup, which my name damn well should’ve been on, and we’re working on that. I’ve been on TV with Larry King, Gracie Jane, Stephen Colbert, and some other people who’s name don’t matter enough to me to remember them. Can you really complain? Sure, you can. If I’ve learned anything from Alan, it’s that you can damn well bitch about anything. And if the bitching doesn’t work, then you find a loop hole, which is why we are proud members of the Coast Guard – the other branches of the military didn’t want us, despite my prior years of service and Alan’s… well, whatever Alan brings to the military other than a lawsuit. But, I could absolutely complain about the prospects of my life ending within the next six years. I could whine, bitch, and moan – quite possibly get pity sex from Shirley, if I’m really lucky, she tends to fall for me in vulnerable moments, and that might get her out of Carl’s sack for good. I could make a big stink about it. Hell, Alan would sue the doctor if I let him. But, I’ve got nothing to complain about.

No, really, I’ve got nothing to complain about. The few things that are kind of a piss off – well, those are between me and whoever’s up there listening to the old guy down here with mad cow. It’s been a good life. I’ve got my name all over this building – the door, the letterhead, most of the lips of the female interns. People shudder in the courtroom when they hear my name; women say my name while they shudder. I’ve had Shirley in moments – and I really believe she was the one, but she’s happy, and I prefer her that way, so I’m not fighting at this moment, but check back later on that front. And, I have a best friend who makes all this seem worth it, because as long as I’ve got him to share the next six years with and whatever comes after, then it’ll be alright in the final chapter of Denny Crane.

Let me first go ahead and apologize in advance if you see this post pop up a couple of times. I'm posting it in my character journals. I don't have too many, but for people like alan_shore & mr_colbert, they'll have to scroll a lot! :)

Well, I've been on hiatus, and I just haven't been able to post here yet. And, by here, I mean my muse journals. It's been a weird month. I was in a very bad car accident on December 11th. My car is completely totaled, and I've been recuperating. I'm very lucky in that I didn't break anything - I had some nasty bruises and walking has been a tad painful, but I'm about 99% better.

So? I'm in the process of getting everyone caught up. I'm planning to get topics written this week and come off hiatus. It's a work in progress. If I've missed anything really neat? Or, if there's something you need one of my characters for? Comment or shoot an email to senshi[dot]saturn[at]gmail[dot]com (or to my personal email, if you have it).

XOXO
Nic

cross-posted to: lovely_damage, most_amazing, katie_lloyd, dontcallmekitty & blurbinprogress

Control


He likes to think he's in control. It's the idea that keeps him quiet - well, quiet is a relative term; quiet, only in the sense of few protests and rare demonstrations. He doesn't recall the last time he was truly in control. Paul's always made the rules; Shirley's enforced them, to the letter. Then Carl was brought in, like a hired gun with a bucket of red paint ready to make a target on the head of Denny Crane. But, he believes he's in control - at least, that's what he makes sure to tell everyone as he gestures to point out his name, first on the letterhead.

Control. It's a funny word. He tries to only use it for things like crossword puzzles - things where it's merely a word, not a statement of being. There was a time when he held power in his hand - courtrooms were his playground, and he never played nice with the other kids, unless you count leaving them both devestated and awestruck as nice. Denny Crane thinks he was nice; he feels it was perfectly charitable to step on the little people because it left them touched by Denny Crane.

The office has his name displayed all around in bold lettering. The courtrooms of Boston still echo his footsteps. But, control? That's something he lost a long time ago. It wasn't something he willingly gave up. It's not a thing he can look back on a pinpoint that exact date and time that it was stolen from his grasp. But, control is something no longer held by Denny Crane, though in reality, he isn't certain of when he ever truly held it at all.

Intrigue


Denny Crane: The Man, The Legend, The Intrigue

It’s a working title for my autobiography that I’m making the interns write. It’s part of new employee orientation – initiation, really, but don’t tell the kids! I’ve decided that I should start documenting the important points of my life – it’s for education, they need a textbook in order to have a course about Denny Crane. It’s difficult to narrow it down to the important things – we have seventeen chapters, all about the first year of my life. Just wait until we get to adolescence. There’s always more to write about once sex is involved – and no, female viewers, sex is not the enemy. At this rate, it’s going to be a very long series. It will absolutely out-sell that Harry Potter kid. He’s a democratic twerp anyway. Don’t ask how I know. Genius can’t be explained – until you read my autobiographical book series.

I’m worried about detailing everything though. It might inspire the youth of America to be undefeated like me. That would lessen my image, unless they all gave me credit. I should look into copyrighting my undefeated status. I could collect royalties. If I wasn’t already filthy rich, then it would be genius. Although, I could use the royalties to buy Nimmo Bay. That’s always something to consider. I need a vacation. I’m starting to get writer’s block. I blame the Mad Cow. I was thinking of having bite marks on some of the pages, implying that the Mad Cow was hungry. But, that would take up valuable space – pages are money. Also, I have to make sure the interns working on my book aren’t fat – I don’t want to spread the obesity disease in the distribution of my book or soil the pages with bits of Twinkie.

I need to do some additional research – well, the interns need to – before we get to the marriage chapters and the Shirley chapters. I have to check back into the assorted divorce papers, make sure I can document all of it, unrestrained. I also have to make sure Shirley can’t fire me – which, she can’t because my name is first on the door, Sack confirmed it, but it’s always nice to check with her, make her think she holds the balls of the office, something like that. Alan will also be in the book, in completely heterosexual way, with detailed accounts of our sleepovers in order to clear up any homosexual rumors – he’s the democrat who might be into that sort of thing, Denny Crane, as the republican, is opposed, but I do love him. Yes, I said it. If you have a problem with it, then send it to Crane, Poole, & Schmidt, attention Carl Sack. Heh, Denny Crane.

Talk about something you lost.

I don’t know when I lost her. She’s the one. I know that much. I love Shirley. Ignore the fact that I’ve been married plenty of times after her – in fact, I’ve never been married to her, and maybe that says something, maybe I marry the ones that aren’t the one. But, I’d marry her, in a heartbeat, if she’d let me – hell, I’d marry her if she wouldn’t let me, but that would be complicated.

But, now she’s hitting the sack with Sack – as in Carl Sack, as in the one who is supposed to stay in New York and leave Boston to me, Denny Crane! When did that happen? She’s been here, under my very watchful eye, and somewhere along the way she thinks she might have fallen in love – or, at least into the sack – with Sack. Alan saw it coming, but then, he’s a pansy, democratic pervert who sometimes reverts to speaking in tongues, which sort of turns Lorraine on. I caught them together – Shirley and Carl, I mean. Alan’s business is just that – Alan’s business, shared only with me, the balcony, and occasionally the elevator. But, Shirley, she says she’s happy. Whatever.

I remember when we were young, when she’d lay her head on my shoulder, and I’d sing to her. That’s when life was good. I don’t know when that changed, or even why. It did though. Somehow I lost her, and I can’t tell you when or why it happened. I can’t even sit on the balcony and wax nostalgic about the downfall of Denny and Shirley. It just happened, and I don’t know when I lost her.

Hmph. This is an example of why I shouldn't spend the afternoon watching Law & Order re-runs in my office.

Denny Crane's balls. Undefeated. Even by mace.

And mr_colbert, don't make me wrestle you for Shirley. Just ask Alan.

Denny Crane.

In response to the overwhelming load of questions regarding whether or not I plan to run for the Republican nomination in 08...

( I bring you this. )

You've woken up as the opposite sex this morning... now what?


It started as a dream, perhaps. The last thing you clearly recall was that glass of red wine you had before bed. You don’t often drink wine – at least, not with company. Wine is one of those things that remains tucked away in the dusty corners of the pantry, until certain lines of thinking are crossed and need to be muddled to a more comfortable state. Most things can be managed by a glass of scotch – most being the operative word.

You don’t think of her as often as you once did, but every so often, thoughts of your mother drift into your thoughts. She died when you were a boy – an ironic assessment at the moment. You were young – around ten. You’re seventy-five now, and sixty-five years have passed without your mother’s touch. She was beautiful – at least, in your memory, though you doubt seriously a photograph could contradict. She had long waves of chestnut hair and tiny, curved lips like a Madame Alexander doll – which, you only know the name of because she had a small collection of them, and your father often pointed out the striking similarity.

She died in childbirth. That’s a fact often forgotten, but then it’s best that way. With your father dead and no other important relatives to speak of, there’s been no need to discuss such details of your history. You cover the sad facts with more interesting ones – like, your own assortment of wives and calamities. But, your mother died in childbirth when you were ten. She had longed for a little girl – one to spoil and pamper, to dress up like one of her dolls. You were difficult enough, and though she loved you, she would have loved your sister more.

The details escape you – you wonder if that’s because you were ten when it happened and thus the details were left out, or if instead the supposed Mad Cow buried the details of that day into a deeper part of your mind that no longer functions. You know that your mother died in childbirth, and your sister was born dead. It was a tragedy – enough to make your father so cold, cold enough in fact to disown you for legal antics not so many years later. It seemed as if everyone forgot you then – overlooking you to instead be sure your father was alright, as he was the lawyer of the family and thereby the one with the money.

You dream of your sister sometimes – this feisty girl with chestnut hair and fire in her eyes – and wonder what she might have been. You imagine she might have been alive now, at sixty-five. She might have gone through as many husbands as you’ve had wives – or perhaps she would’ve been a docile creature, like your mother, content to stay with her husband and child. And, it’s along this line of thinking when you begin to blame that glass of red wine you had before bed.

When you woke up today – just, an ordinary day, nothing particularly important or special – you weren’t yourself. You were merely a spectator in someone else’s body – a feminine one, to be precise. You’re petite – that’s the first thing you notice as you slip out of bed, because it’s more of a slide as you hit the floor with the arches of your feet. Your hair is nearly auburn, tumbling around in messy waves. You’re still in your pajamas – the button-up ones with your initials on the cuffs – but they hang off of your curves. You look in the mirror and after the initial shock of realizing you’ve turned into a woman, you take note of the subtle features that mark you as a member of the Crane line – those high cheek bones, the curve of the jaw, the prominent nose, the fire in the eyes. Clearly you aren’t the age she would’ve been now – unless she aged remarkably – but rather at her peek, what she could’ve been.

Oh, of course, you’ve had thoughts such as these – especially when you were young and the pain was still ripe – but you can’t recall ever experiencing any of the thoughts so vividly. This ghostly image of a sister seems to have overtaken you, and you wonder who you should call first – the doctor or Alan. You touch a hand to your newly feminine cheek, and you know this is how she would’ve looked and that no one would have even harmed her. You retreat back to your bed though, because even the Mad Cow doesn’t give you delusions such as this. Freud or some other old creep would have a field day with this course of events, and you find yourself suddenly worried. You slip under the covers, determined to drift back into whatever dream your unnamed sister was conjured from and vow to never speak of this day. But, you can’t help but wonder what it might have sounded like, just once, and so you utter in her voice, “Denny Crane.”

Is there anyone in your life who you feel is exceptionally wise? Who & how did you meet this person?


According to a quiz at Fandango.com (and, I do enjoy those paper-bag puppets; I want one, of myself), I should be Luke Skywalker for Halloween. Denny Crane. Luke Skywalker. It's got a ring to it. Is a good ring? Hell if I know. Ask Alan. I like the idea of Flamingo Reprise. Not the point. There's still time to debate the costume choice for the usual Crane, Poole, & Schmidt office party which, Carl is not invited to. Still, Mr. Skywalker has got me thinking. Shock. Awe. Denny Crane. I know.

I've been thinking though of a Star Wars theme for the Halloween party. Alan can be Han Solo... which means Shirley can not & will not be Princess Leia - I vote for that new, hot, British thing, or the random chick that Alan is in heat for not the judge, she's crazy for babies. But just think? Either one - or, both, even - of those ladies in that hot Return of the Jedi outfit? Mmm. Denny Crane. Shirley could be Mara Jade from the novels. Yes, Denny Crane reads. Carl can be Darth Vader because he can't get any action with Shirley while in a plastic suit. It suits him. Clarence can be Lando. Jerry can be Jar-Jar Binks Obi-Wan he head-butted Carl, thereby he can be a Master Jedi.

Oh, and Paul is Yoda. We've been friends sort of for years - though he's quick to deny that in certain social settings. He's very wise - he's always able to write a pre-nup at the drop of a hat, even though he knows I probably won't agree to sign it. The one time he took a hiatus from the office, I thought we would go down in flames - well, I'd be in Nimmo Bay with Alan, if he stays in his bed and everyone else would be in flames. Denny Crane. He's a mastermind though - have you seen the way he's got everyone in this office - aside from Alan and myself, naturally - wrapped around his pinky finger? Genius. Absolute genius. Except when he tries to tell me that guns and hookers are not appropriate for the office. Then, he's Jabba the Hutt, played not by someone wise but by some nerd I met a convention when I was twelve. Oh, but Jabba... that's an idea for Carl.


Muse: Denny Crane
Fandom: Boston Legal

"The true magic of this broken world lay in the ability of the things it contained to vanish, to become so thoroughly lost, that they might never have existed in the first place."

The beauty of mental impairment - the supposed case of Mad Cow disease - was his ability to become so thoroughly lost in his own mind. He often drifted while seated comfortably in his over-stuffed office chair with his feet propped on the desk. He floated through memories - some real, some fabricated - and sometimes tried to stay there.

Oh, sure, there were frequent haunts in the deeper parts of his brain - memories of his undefeated escapades, but the places where he found himself completely lost were the quiet places - the ones with the innocence of untainted childhood, before he was the undefeated Denny Crane. No, then he was just Denny - a polite, but awkwardly shy boy with glimmers of his future genius.

In non-drifting moments, the child is hidden, tucked beneath layers of rumored, diseased brain - so well hidden that no one believes Denny Crane was, in fact, a child. No, they seem to believe he has always been an adult, despite the obvious improbability of that assessment. But, beneath it all, he is still a child, wide-eyed and oblivious to the evils in the world.

You've temporarily turned into a child -- what do you do?

Denny Crane always knew this day would come. He finds himself saying that a lot lately, which nearly everyone chalks up to a symptom of old age. But, he knows things. He won't go as far as to call himself a psychic, because they're all fakes and phonies, funded by the democratic party. But there are a few things that Denny Crane simply knows without reason or explanation - like, that the world will be over-run with zombies. No one ever believes him, but he has no doubt in the validity of his thoughts. He's had previous theories come true. He knew Harry Potter would live to see 7/22/07 despite the t-shirts and rumors. He knew that Colbert kid from The Daily Show would get his own show when all he was known for was his occasional segment of This Week in God. He knew his sort of son Eric and his little friends would get addicted to World of Warcraft, level solely by killing wild boars, and defeat the evil player who had taken over the realms. Oh, yes. Denny Crane knows a lot of things.

He predicted this day as well, which is why he's had a child-sized suit hanging in the closet of his office for nearly three years now. Everything had seemed perfectly normal when he stepped into the Crane, Poole, & Schmidt building - except for the above-average heat, but he didn't care about that because he had air conditioning. But, the moment he closed the door to his private office, he found himself standing in a pile that was once his suit. Anyone else would have gone into a frenzied state of panic, but not Denny Crane. He merely stepped out of the adult-sized clothes and walked over to the closet. He stood on his tiptoes and opened the door; he found a suit hanging on a rod just his height and grinned at what a genius he just so happened to be. He got dressed quickly and reached into a box on the floor then gave a pretentious sort of smirk. He had a holster custom-made for his child-sized self whenever this day should come, complete with two water guns. Oh, it was a good day to be Denny Crane - but, he felt that way every day.

He ran over to his desk and climbed into the chair. He filled his water pistols with the bottle of water that was seated on a coaster. He snorted and threw the coaster across the room like a frisbee. Once he was locked and loaded, he tossed the empty water bottle into the trash can across the room and awarded himself five points. He reached into the top drawer of the desk - the one he never used - and found a box of crayons and a small stack of coloring books. He sat contentedly at his desk and waited for one of his panicked co-workers to barge into his office - or, for Alan, who would love the plan he was formulating for re-decorating Shirley's office with toilet paper. He was so content in fact, that he uttered with a hint of a lisp, "Denny Crane."

Write two letters: One to someone you hurt and the other to someone who hurt you.


Dad,

I'm not sorry. You always thought I should be, but I never was and never will be. You disapproved of my courtroom theatrics, while I've shaped them into a legacy. I'm undefeated. I'm Denny Crane. But, I was also your son, and that was never good enough. You're the only thing that ever defeated me. It may not have shown through in the courtroom, but you were well on your way to breaking me.

I was there for the end, you know. You were smiling, and that's how we knew you were too far gone to be saved. That's how we knew it was time to let the morphine drip. You were smiling at me, something you hadn't done since I was a child. Even with Alzheimer's - with that disease eating away at your brain - you didn't want me.

I've built a career around my name. I have a legacy. The Republican party calls me. Larry King and I do lunch - and sometimes trade suspenders. I've held the Stanley Cup - and, possibly dropped it off my balcony which has yet to be proven in a court of law. I've had an amazing life that you were not a part of it. I'm not sorry, but you should be.

Denny Crane



Alan,

You ate the last smore.

That hurt me.

Will you make more?

Denny Crane


Muse: Denny Crane
Fandom: Boston Legal

It's your moment of triumph! Where are you and what are you doing?


Oh, Mr. Crane, when haven't you been triumphant?

You're Denny Crane. That's a fact you wouldn't dare let anyone forget. You're the one and only. Undefeated. Eccentric. Republican. Flamingo. You still strike a mixture of fear and awe any time you deem it necessary to grace a courtroom with your presence.

You look back on your career. It's difficult, isn't it, to isolate one moment, to pick out that one shining glimmer of triumph. There are so many, how can you choose?

But, perhaps, this should be the moment, Denny. This one, where your supposed case of mad cow disease is quiet, when there's not an accidental shotgun blast in your office. This one - this moment of quiet reflection where you can clearly remember both your name and your legacy.

Oh, this is a proud, yet quiet, moment of triumph indeed for you, Denny Crane.

Tell me a secret.

The legacy is almost over. This is a secret - one that everyone thinks they know, but don't. The other partners have been wanting me to step down for years. Shirley and Paul keep me on a tight leash, quietly hoping I'll have enough glimmers of my former genius to keep us in business. But the legacy's end isn't far away, no matter how hard I fight.

Life is a simple thing at heart. You're born. You live, you grow, you get old, and you die. I'm old. It doesn't matter how young at heart I might be; I'm old, and Botox injections and trips to the spa can only reverse the effects of time, not the age I've reached. I'm something of an elder now, but I'm not treated like one. I'm the crazy old man at the top of building who keeps guns in his desk and drinks on his balcony. But, I'm still Denny Crane - the definition of the term has changed with age, but it's still me, in moments.

Legacy's don't seem to age. They stay young forever - always glamorous and gleaming, oblivious to real facts at hand. A legacy is known for that moment in life that something was great. My moment has passed. I have moments of my previous moment - little pauses where the genius of the undefeated Denny Crane comes out to defend his title then vanishes like a cowardly Democrat, marring my image. Though my star may be fading, the legacy that was Denny Crane still lives on. The secret is that the light behind the legacy is growing dim.