He will cross the state to pick you up when you’ve got nothing left but a hard luck story and your boxers.
She won’t even answer the phone, though the porch light will be on when you drive up.
You are always acutely aware that you’re supposed to do something in their mutual presence, but you’ve never figured out what.
He will forget you blasphemed his Savior two days later.
She will remember you left the toilet seat up two years later.
You are very careful in their bathroom. You once splashed a little water from the sink and made sure to dry it with your shirt to avoid soiling any linens. You noticed her changing the towels five minutes later.
He still reads comic books (Wolverine rules).
She reads James Patterson, but can and will quote Schopenhauer if you piss her off.
You cannot remember what you did to piss her off, but she has seemed pissed off for as long as you’ve known her.
He says she’s got no problem with you.
She says she’s got no problem with you.
You’ve woken up in their guest room multiple times to find the door locked from the outside.
She spends nine hours cooking Thanksgiving supper and talks for two more hours before she lets anybody eat.
He eats Pop Tarts (cherry) straight from the shiny package.
You wonder what the conversations are like after you leave.
He will spend all afternoon in the garage, fixing an engine that works fine. He will claim nothing is wrong.
She will drive to every fertility clinic and seminar possible for an answer.
You wonder if (somehow) she believes you two hanging out is causing this.
She would throw a lamp at you if you asked that.
He’s pretty sure she would, anyway. He’ll be right back – he has to look for the key to this stupid door, but you can climb out through the window if it takes too long.
You wonder, sometimes, how their marriage has lasted.
He gets quiet, but he always does what she asks.
She always buys more of those Pop Tarts.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: To The Door
To listen to today's monologue either click the triangle to the left to begin streaming audio, or click this text to download the MP3. Enjoy me going silly for seventy-one seconds.
A word of warning: what you are about to see cannot happen. It can never have happened. It will not happen. It is nevertheless real. Everything beyond this door is one-hundred-and-one percent true and nothing will change that. But these things do not happen. Every member of tonight’s audience must concede that on any day of the year that everything they will see tonight is impossible. You swear its oath when you get up for work in the morning, and have low-fat lunches, and fall in love, and grow old and turn to dust. There are things that we as a society agree do not happen. It is for the sake of productivity, efficiency, and other fine traits that make men build doors. For your sanity and my liability I insist that you concede that what you are about to see is true and truly not happening. If you cannot concede it, cannot concede without first seeing what cannot lie beyond this door, then I must ask you to take your refund and return to the parking lot. To those who make concessions to what cannot be, though, I invite you: ladies and gentlemen, to the door.
A word of warning: what you are about to see cannot happen. It can never have happened. It will not happen. It is nevertheless real. Everything beyond this door is one-hundred-and-one percent true and nothing will change that. But these things do not happen. Every member of tonight’s audience must concede that on any day of the year that everything they will see tonight is impossible. You swear its oath when you get up for work in the morning, and have low-fat lunches, and fall in love, and grow old and turn to dust. There are things that we as a society agree do not happen. It is for the sake of productivity, efficiency, and other fine traits that make men build doors. For your sanity and my liability I insist that you concede that what you are about to see is true and truly not happening. If you cannot concede it, cannot concede without first seeing what cannot lie beyond this door, then I must ask you to take your refund and return to the parking lot. To those who make concessions to what cannot be, though, I invite you: ladies and gentlemen, to the door.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Gay Marriage in ______
I didn't think gay marriage was plausible before. My mind changed on a recent trip to ___, one of the few states where it is legal. I came adequately prepared, with a diving suit, several tanks of compressed air and dehydrated food. It was cumbersome to walk the streets in that suit, and further cumbersome to see couples happily walking along the streets without such equipment. They were all heterosexual couples, or people so old and dried out that any sex life between them, hetero or homosexual, was a wishful illusion. At first I wondered where the packs of roving gay couples were, but then something else caught my attention.
The roads were freshly paved and most buildings were in good repair. I checked into a corner bookstore to find the new Jimmy Carter and Stephanie Meyer. The Social Network and Let Me In were playing at the movies. It appeared new outside-world products were still travelling into ___. And though I was deprived of smell within the suit, all food served in street-side cafes appeared fresh and unspoiled.
Then a terrifying thing transpired. The helmet disrupted my peripheral vision and, attempting a crosswalk, I was nearly bowled over by a delivery truck. I tumbled to safety in a gutter, where my sleeve snagged a grate. It tore. I clutched at my neck, preparing to choke to death on _____'s tainted atmosphere. My air hissed out, while ____’s air seeped in silently. I closed my eyes and prepared for death.
To my surprise, I did not die. I lay in the gutter for half an hour before realizing that the atmosphere of ___ was relatively potable to a foreigner. I removed my helmet, though I kept a pair of goggles and a spare oxygen tank just in case. I rested beneath some oak trees. They had turned as orange as any other place in the country. I reflected upon them, and all the other samenesses of this place where gay marriage was legal. Two Hispanics jogged by in sweatpants, one man and one woman, chugging along as though they had no idea that alternative lifestyles were available. They breathed heavily and did not die. They seemed entirely unimpeded. It was then I decided that yes, gay marriage could happen, if only because its occurrence would affect so little else that most natives wouldn’t even notice.
The roads were freshly paved and most buildings were in good repair. I checked into a corner bookstore to find the new Jimmy Carter and Stephanie Meyer. The Social Network and Let Me In were playing at the movies. It appeared new outside-world products were still travelling into ___. And though I was deprived of smell within the suit, all food served in street-side cafes appeared fresh and unspoiled.
Then a terrifying thing transpired. The helmet disrupted my peripheral vision and, attempting a crosswalk, I was nearly bowled over by a delivery truck. I tumbled to safety in a gutter, where my sleeve snagged a grate. It tore. I clutched at my neck, preparing to choke to death on _____'s tainted atmosphere. My air hissed out, while ____’s air seeped in silently. I closed my eyes and prepared for death.
To my surprise, I did not die. I lay in the gutter for half an hour before realizing that the atmosphere of ___ was relatively potable to a foreigner. I removed my helmet, though I kept a pair of goggles and a spare oxygen tank just in case. I rested beneath some oak trees. They had turned as orange as any other place in the country. I reflected upon them, and all the other samenesses of this place where gay marriage was legal. Two Hispanics jogged by in sweatpants, one man and one woman, chugging along as though they had no idea that alternative lifestyles were available. They breathed heavily and did not die. They seemed entirely unimpeded. It was then I decided that yes, gay marriage could happen, if only because its occurrence would affect so little else that most natives wouldn’t even notice.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Burden of Proof
Five hours into the debate the philosophers invented "Burden of Proof." Though records differ, the first draft of the "Burden of Proof" went something like this:
"You prove it!"
"No, you!"
Fifteen motions later, the concept of “Burden of Proof” was established as something like this:
"One party has the burden of providing substantial evidence for the veracity of its position."
However, it took fifty more motions to extract, "and that party is the other side" from their definitions.
The idea was never introduced to find the truth. It's not even mentioned in historical record what the philosophers were debating that night. Truth has very little to do with debates, after all. If there was a truth that could be got at through them, it would be clubbed, caged and wheeled out on stage. One debater would get the blue ribbon and go home cocksure.
Debating then, as now, was about charisma, showmanship, the appearance of logical complexity, and sounding clever. Either side in an elite-level debate could make a convincing argument no matter his side. For government? Look at the evils of corporations in need of regulation, and the abuse of warlords in states without police. Against government? Look at the evils of government that don't regulate themselves properly, and the abuse of power by police. For the rich, against religion, the ancients were smarter, the internet is making us dumber - the skilled debater, then and now, could champion either side and was raised to be able to embrace whatever platform was profitable.
What the philosophers invented that day was a substantial weapon in debate. “Burden of Proof” meant the other side had to prove its case or your side won by default. That day it went much as it does today:
"You've got a position. Prove it beyond my ability to object or you're wrong."
To which the second party replied, as anyone can and usually does in different words:
"By opposing my position you have also taken a position, and since I believe my position I don’t see it as a position at all but merely the truth, and if you do not prove your position beyond my ability to object, then you are wrong by default."
"No, you!" follows shortly thereafter, usually in different words.
On that campus, as today, Burden of Proof didn't matter. It didn't matter if things were unprovable - they hadn't even invented the clock, so couldn't prove what time something happened, and just like today, most events went unfilmed and unwitnessed, and therefore were also next to unprovable. But that Burden of Proof was a great wedge in the mouths of either side. Accuse with it, then dig it in with all your charisma, showmanship and ability to sound clever.
We don't know what those debaters were arguing over. We do know, though, how the audience voted. One hundred and four students of the campus were in the pews that evening. They were compelled to check 'For' or 'Against' the motion of the evening on their way in. 58 were For, 46 were Against. On their way out they were compelled to again check their positions on the matter, in a primitive attempt at polling. The poll found 58 were For, and 46 were Against. This suggests to some that public debates, then as now, were mostly for the entertainment of the already convinced.
Hard to prove it, though.
"You prove it!"
"No, you!"
Fifteen motions later, the concept of “Burden of Proof” was established as something like this:
"One party has the burden of providing substantial evidence for the veracity of its position."
However, it took fifty more motions to extract, "and that party is the other side" from their definitions.
The idea was never introduced to find the truth. It's not even mentioned in historical record what the philosophers were debating that night. Truth has very little to do with debates, after all. If there was a truth that could be got at through them, it would be clubbed, caged and wheeled out on stage. One debater would get the blue ribbon and go home cocksure.
Debating then, as now, was about charisma, showmanship, the appearance of logical complexity, and sounding clever. Either side in an elite-level debate could make a convincing argument no matter his side. For government? Look at the evils of corporations in need of regulation, and the abuse of warlords in states without police. Against government? Look at the evils of government that don't regulate themselves properly, and the abuse of power by police. For the rich, against religion, the ancients were smarter, the internet is making us dumber - the skilled debater, then and now, could champion either side and was raised to be able to embrace whatever platform was profitable.
What the philosophers invented that day was a substantial weapon in debate. “Burden of Proof” meant the other side had to prove its case or your side won by default. That day it went much as it does today:
"You've got a position. Prove it beyond my ability to object or you're wrong."
To which the second party replied, as anyone can and usually does in different words:
"By opposing my position you have also taken a position, and since I believe my position I don’t see it as a position at all but merely the truth, and if you do not prove your position beyond my ability to object, then you are wrong by default."
"No, you!" follows shortly thereafter, usually in different words.
On that campus, as today, Burden of Proof didn't matter. It didn't matter if things were unprovable - they hadn't even invented the clock, so couldn't prove what time something happened, and just like today, most events went unfilmed and unwitnessed, and therefore were also next to unprovable. But that Burden of Proof was a great wedge in the mouths of either side. Accuse with it, then dig it in with all your charisma, showmanship and ability to sound clever.
We don't know what those debaters were arguing over. We do know, though, how the audience voted. One hundred and four students of the campus were in the pews that evening. They were compelled to check 'For' or 'Against' the motion of the evening on their way in. 58 were For, 46 were Against. On their way out they were compelled to again check their positions on the matter, in a primitive attempt at polling. The poll found 58 were For, and 46 were Against. This suggests to some that public debates, then as now, were mostly for the entertainment of the already convinced.
Hard to prove it, though.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: The Last Man and His Mother
There is an audio edition of this story. Click the triangle on the left to listen to the stream, or click this text to download the MP3.
The last man on earth sat alone in his room. There was a knock at the door.
"Freddy, supper's ready."
"Mom! I'm writing!"
"Okay honey. I'll leave it in the fridge."
He was the last man on earth. The one and only
"Do you need some Pepto?"
"Mom!"
"Okay, okay!"
The last man on earth held his head in his hands. No one understood him.
The last man on earth sat alone in his room. There was a knock at the door.
"Freddy, supper's ready."
"Mom! I'm writing!"
"Okay honey. I'll leave it in the fridge."
He was the last man on earth. The one and only
"Do you need some Pepto?"
"Mom!"
"Okay, okay!"
The last man on earth held his head in his hands. No one understood him.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Loving the Dead
Wesley was not the popular kind of necrophiliac. The popular kind of actress was the one who slept around and flashed her cleavage on magazine covers. There were hundreds of heads of state around the world, and yet the world only recognized a couple war-makers. Uninformed stereotyping harmed his passion. Wesley never touched a corpse improperly. He touched them with care, embalming, smoothing wrinkles and dabbing around their eyes with industrial make-up. There was no sexual intercourse. It would get him fired, and that wouldn't be love. That would be rape. He was a lover of the dead, there to ready them for that last encounter with their families. They didn't need a one-night stand with some stranger at the mortuary. They needed support. Sometimes supportive undergarments, but usually just a man who could take care of them. They'd all forgotten how to tie a Windsor. He'd do it around his own neck before slipping it around theirs. Pulling the knot tight was the most intimate he got with them. They deserved more than a clip-on, and he never left a bruise. That was love.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Possible Origins for Him. 5.
There's an audio version of today's story. To listen either click the triangle to the left for the stream, or click this text to download the MP3.
It was to impress a girl. Blonde, with glasses and a white coat buttoned all the way up to her chin. A fetish of mine, hard to explain. I’d have been head over heels even if I hadn’t been restrained in the position. She was the newest therapist to try building a career on curing me. So I told her.
I was born to a lower middle class family. Mother died in childbirth. Dad held it against me. I tried time and time again to get him to laugh, but he wouldn’t crack a smile. He’d only crack me across the mouth. This famous grin of mine? His handiwork after I tried to run away and join the circus.
It was all lies. I don’t remember the first thing about my childhood. Considering all the chemicals I’ve inhaled and blows I’ve taken to the head, is that really a surprise? I just had green hair and turned it into an easy gimmick. But this girl wanted rhyme and reason, and I wanted her.
We traded answers in the style of Silence of the Lambs. She asked where I learned chemistry, and I asked why Karl was the funniest Marx brother. My questions were to get her to laugh – let her hair down. She was so uptight, so driven by career that she’d forgotten how to have fun. I actually invented the first squirting flower to get a rise from her. The second one, I used to melt the lock of my cell.
Now it turns out that if you shackle my hands so I can’t strangle a girl, I’m charming. More charming when you think I once tore dad’s trousers during a prat fall. More charming when you hear he broke my nose for it. More charming when you see some hulking hero drag me in, my bones broken and him as grim as the reaper. I’m still grappling with Daddy. Get it?
I didn’t. Went straight over my head. When I escaped I hammed up the humor. Defacing all America’s tuna. Blimps that sprayed psychotropic laughing gas over football stadiums. And I let myself get caught. Twice, then three times. Why? So that I could go back to her.
The third time? She slapped him! She held me in her arms and ordered the guards to kick him out or arrest him. She didn’t care how many people I’d killed that weekend. And with my bloodied cheek cozied up to her chest, I didn’t either.
Fools fall in love. Dead men hit the ground. We were the type to just keep falling. We had sessions while I was still in traction – physically incapable of harming her. What a joke. I’m comparing this to my first pie in the face, and she’s laughing so hard she has to take off her glasses. I got her to take ‘em off, and let me tell you, if there’s one thing that strikes me harder than a blonde in glasses, it’s one who takes them off and dabs at the corners of her eyes like she isn’t sitting the ICU with a sociopath.
Such a girl, woman, lady, doctor, is not the sort of person an asylum wants working on my sort of case. They relieved her that afternoon. I heard her yelling in the parking lot. Everybody did.
I think only I heard her coming back that night, though. She’d developed this bounce in her step during our relationship, something only the doctor and patient would recognize. I also recognize the beeping of an armed bomb. She blew open the wall to the ICU and busted me out. Had a wheel chair, an escape car, and a grenade launcher. That’s a keeper.
I’ve kept it up ever since. The comedy because it’s fun, and the Daddy thing because, well, it’s the story of how we met. You want to know the truth? She is my origin.
Unless I’m only telling you this to get on your good side. You look nice today.
It was to impress a girl. Blonde, with glasses and a white coat buttoned all the way up to her chin. A fetish of mine, hard to explain. I’d have been head over heels even if I hadn’t been restrained in the position. She was the newest therapist to try building a career on curing me. So I told her.
I was born to a lower middle class family. Mother died in childbirth. Dad held it against me. I tried time and time again to get him to laugh, but he wouldn’t crack a smile. He’d only crack me across the mouth. This famous grin of mine? His handiwork after I tried to run away and join the circus.
It was all lies. I don’t remember the first thing about my childhood. Considering all the chemicals I’ve inhaled and blows I’ve taken to the head, is that really a surprise? I just had green hair and turned it into an easy gimmick. But this girl wanted rhyme and reason, and I wanted her.
We traded answers in the style of Silence of the Lambs. She asked where I learned chemistry, and I asked why Karl was the funniest Marx brother. My questions were to get her to laugh – let her hair down. She was so uptight, so driven by career that she’d forgotten how to have fun. I actually invented the first squirting flower to get a rise from her. The second one, I used to melt the lock of my cell.
Now it turns out that if you shackle my hands so I can’t strangle a girl, I’m charming. More charming when you think I once tore dad’s trousers during a prat fall. More charming when you hear he broke my nose for it. More charming when you see some hulking hero drag me in, my bones broken and him as grim as the reaper. I’m still grappling with Daddy. Get it?
I didn’t. Went straight over my head. When I escaped I hammed up the humor. Defacing all America’s tuna. Blimps that sprayed psychotropic laughing gas over football stadiums. And I let myself get caught. Twice, then three times. Why? So that I could go back to her.
The third time? She slapped him! She held me in her arms and ordered the guards to kick him out or arrest him. She didn’t care how many people I’d killed that weekend. And with my bloodied cheek cozied up to her chest, I didn’t either.
Fools fall in love. Dead men hit the ground. We were the type to just keep falling. We had sessions while I was still in traction – physically incapable of harming her. What a joke. I’m comparing this to my first pie in the face, and she’s laughing so hard she has to take off her glasses. I got her to take ‘em off, and let me tell you, if there’s one thing that strikes me harder than a blonde in glasses, it’s one who takes them off and dabs at the corners of her eyes like she isn’t sitting the ICU with a sociopath.
Such a girl, woman, lady, doctor, is not the sort of person an asylum wants working on my sort of case. They relieved her that afternoon. I heard her yelling in the parking lot. Everybody did.
I think only I heard her coming back that night, though. She’d developed this bounce in her step during our relationship, something only the doctor and patient would recognize. I also recognize the beeping of an armed bomb. She blew open the wall to the ICU and busted me out. Had a wheel chair, an escape car, and a grenade launcher. That’s a keeper.
I’ve kept it up ever since. The comedy because it’s fun, and the Daddy thing because, well, it’s the story of how we met. You want to know the truth? She is my origin.
Unless I’m only telling you this to get on your good side. You look nice today.
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