I saw a Top Ten Essential Movies list recently on a website far more popular than mine that will remain anonymous because their was asinine. What a weird idea for a list – we believe there are more than ten zombie movies that are essential, but we won’t tell you all of them, just these. But, good news: it inspired my own list of the Top Ten Essential Zombie Movies. Enjoy.
#1) The Night of the Living Dead. Made in 1968, it started the zombie craze. It did not invent zombies; they lurked in lore for centuries beforehand. It was not the first to employ all the tropes; even the vampires in Vincent Price’s Last Man on Earth (1964) were essentially zombies. But George Romero’s indy movie was the first essential one, exploding the zombie concept in popular consciousness. They were farm hands, house wives, businessmen, and even your brother. They were slow, nearly brainless, moved in groups, worked in day and night, and were out to eat us. They were the recent dead and, as revealed in a twist near the end, their condition might spread through bites. They overran our society and infiltrated public places, bringing Horror to Washington D.C and your porch. At first an individual, then a tense group, then two tense cooperating groups struggled to survive the onslaught, trapped in a place and then attempting escape. It is nearly every zombie movie ever made, done in ninety-six minutes.
Not #2) Return of the Living Dead. It added that zombies ate brains, directly responding to Night’s essence. It wasn’t essential for anything more than a running joke.
Not #3 & Not #4) 28 Days Later and the Dawn of the Dead remake (2004) allowing zombies to run also did not change their essence. They responded to the essence, making the threat more imminent. All the essence of 28 Days Later is already in Night of the Living Dead; it innovates from there to be its own movie about the genre creature. Both of these are great zombie movies, quite suitable to a Ten Best list, but not suited to an Essential. These are the kinds of movies you see after the essentials and go, “Damn, things get better.”
It’s not #5, it’s actually #2) The next essential zombie to emerge was also a George Romero joint. His 1978 Dawn of the Dead took the zombie essence and added heavy social consciousness. Zombie + Satire. Night of the Living Dead had some cultural awareness, but it had nothing on Dawn. Dawn of the Dead waded into a mall, wielding montages of consumerism, and in the end arguing that the living were more brutal than the undead. When in Robert Kirkman’s superb comic, The Walking Dead, one character proclaims humans to be the monsters, he’s regurgitating Dawn’s essence. Romero firmly wedged himself into that kind of commentary, which pervaded all of his later zombie movies. He never added to the essence again.
Not #6) Robert Kirkman’s The Walking Dead. It’s Not #6 because it’s both not essential and not a movie. I had to give it a shout out after the previous paragraph. It’s great, though, and the teasers for the AMC TV show look cracking. I have this space to waste because, really, there hasn’t been another essential zombie movie since Dawn of the Dead in 1978. Unless you count…
Not #7) Lucio Fulci’s Zombi 2 was the unofficial sequel to Dawn of the Dead. It was “unofficial” in a “How is this legal?” way. The European director ripped off Romero’s zombies and fed them to another continent of audiences in resplendent color and gore. It is beloved by Horror aficionados. It is also not essential because gore zombie cinema wasn’t new, gore in European cinema wasn’t new, and much to my chagrin, the Shark Vs. Zombie fight did not start a trend. It was a loving sequel to a movie, paying homage and extending elements that already existed. So again there hasn’t been another essential zombie movie since Dawn of the Dead in 1978. Unless you count…
It’s not #8, it’s actually #3) Shaun of the Dead. So Night of the Living Dead gave us nearly everything, and Dawn of the Dead gave us gore and the director’s opinions. But you know there’s something missing from that tally of the zombie essence: humor. That Shark Vs. Zombie fight from Zombi 2 is hilarious. The Return of the Dead movies also desperately tried to parody the zombie. But for a generation there was humor in the zombie zeitgeist that wasn’t reflected in film, that strain of humor that cooks up “zombie plans” and jokes about how easy it would be to outrun these things. They’re undead, they want to eat us, but at any moment you can snicker at how much less threatening these guys are than a wolfman. Shaun of the Dead crystallized that feeling. The semi-nerdy, semi-slacker backwash generation cast reflects the feeling of the modern zombie-loving audience. Zombies are mindless, but the survivors are morons – and morons you’d like to befriend. They have in-jokes, lead the zombies on distracting chases, and even when one of them gets infected, he’s chained up in a shack to be kept around for game night. It’s still easy to take zombies seriously, but there’s a ridiculous dimension to them as well. With these finally embedded in film you get hilarious things like Zombieland and Tokyo Zombie. Oh, what the Hell.
Not #9 & not # 10) Zombieland and Tokyo Zombie. They’re not essential, but they’re fun. They’re also America and Japan’s response to England’s Shaun of the Dead. Zombieland is obsessed with rules, while Tokyo Zombie is obsessed with jujitsu (and that knowing how to flip a guy makes you invulnerable to biting-based opponents). They are their own movies, just like 28 Days Later and Zombi 2. You may even like them better than the essentials. That doesn’t put them on some essential list, though. I enjoy the Spanish [REC] more than most of the essential zombie films and you don’t see it on this list. You won’t, either, because I’ve carelessly run out of slots.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Little White Lies
No, nothing malicious. It was only a little white l--- uh. No. A little non-racial lie. Deceptions entirely devoid of ethnicity or gender. Tiny, minuscule lies with no bias against dwarfism. Tolerant, forward-thinking lies that embrace all people of all creeds. An entirely inoffensive lie with decisive religious neutrality – indeed, a religiously tolerant deception! A lie that cares not for the color of the lips it leaves or earlobes it enters, one that treats men and women equally and without discrimination for how much money they make. A lie, really a fib, that boldly embraces all childhoods and backgrounds, back credit histories and sexual persuasions. It was not the truth, but rest assured, it should have offended no one.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Castlevania Parody, OR, We Love Shelly
Once upon a time where was a barbarian named Belmont. He really hated vampires, like all barbarians do. Barbarians barely wear clothing, so they're very susceptible to vampire bites. This is the same reason most barbarians hate poison ivy.
Belmont looked at all the things vampires were vulnerable against. Sunlight. Holy water. Teen girls who want to show them how to love.
And he said, “Nah, I'll just use a whip.”
The first enemy he encountered was, sadly, not a vampire. It was Frankenstein's Monster.
Belmont said, "Wait, don't you live in Germany?"
The Monster said, "Eh, I was in the Arctic Circle at the end of the book."
"Then why are you in Romania?"
Frankenstein's Monster responded with a jab to the eye. Then they had a climactic boss battle.
The second monster he encountered was a mummy. Belmont worried he’d travelled too far south from his homeland and wound up in Egypt. While he looked outside to check for pyramids, the mummy sucker punched him in his good eye.
Then they had a climactic boss battle.
Afterwards Belmont iced his black eyes and reflected on the scenery. All the street signs were for Castlevania, not Transylvania. And it was pretty weird that the entire city was consumed in castle architecture. His travel book suggested Transylvania was much more modest.
But before he could reflect upon the sites any further, the screen started rising and he had to keep jumping to safety, even though what was three feet below the screen was totally safe flooring. Neither barbarians nor ten-year-olds playing NES understand game design.
When he got to the top of the tower, he encountered the Grim Reaper.
"Wait," said Belmont. "Aren't you several magnitudes of order more powerful than Dracula? What the fuck, man?
The Grim Reaper shrugged.
"Guy's got to have a hobby."
Then they had a climactic boss battle. Afterwards, Belmont was very sad he didn't get to keep the Reaper's sweet scythe. He guess he understood it, though. The Reaper would need it for every ensuing sequel to this wacky series.
Finally Belmont arrived at Dracula's abode. The lord of the vampires was hiding in one room at the very top of the castle, ironically full of windows.
Belmont almost entered to charge him head-on. Then he realized that would be stupid.
Instead he waited for dawn and kicked in the door. Dracula burned to death in seconds.
"That was easy,” he said. He briefly reflected that cheap tricks like this might curse him to perpetually fight this guy in every game for the next decade. That could get old.
He told himself, "At least I'll get a reprieve when they put me in Smash Brothers."
Somewhere the ghost of Nintendo laughed and gave him the finger.
Belmont looked at all the things vampires were vulnerable against. Sunlight. Holy water. Teen girls who want to show them how to love.
And he said, “Nah, I'll just use a whip.”
The first enemy he encountered was, sadly, not a vampire. It was Frankenstein's Monster.
Belmont said, "Wait, don't you live in Germany?"
The Monster said, "Eh, I was in the Arctic Circle at the end of the book."
"Then why are you in Romania?"
Frankenstein's Monster responded with a jab to the eye. Then they had a climactic boss battle.
The second monster he encountered was a mummy. Belmont worried he’d travelled too far south from his homeland and wound up in Egypt. While he looked outside to check for pyramids, the mummy sucker punched him in his good eye.
Then they had a climactic boss battle.
Afterwards Belmont iced his black eyes and reflected on the scenery. All the street signs were for Castlevania, not Transylvania. And it was pretty weird that the entire city was consumed in castle architecture. His travel book suggested Transylvania was much more modest.
But before he could reflect upon the sites any further, the screen started rising and he had to keep jumping to safety, even though what was three feet below the screen was totally safe flooring. Neither barbarians nor ten-year-olds playing NES understand game design.
When he got to the top of the tower, he encountered the Grim Reaper.
"Wait," said Belmont. "Aren't you several magnitudes of order more powerful than Dracula? What the fuck, man?
The Grim Reaper shrugged.
"Guy's got to have a hobby."
Then they had a climactic boss battle. Afterwards, Belmont was very sad he didn't get to keep the Reaper's sweet scythe. He guess he understood it, though. The Reaper would need it for every ensuing sequel to this wacky series.
Finally Belmont arrived at Dracula's abode. The lord of the vampires was hiding in one room at the very top of the castle, ironically full of windows.
Belmont almost entered to charge him head-on. Then he realized that would be stupid.
Instead he waited for dawn and kicked in the door. Dracula burned to death in seconds.
"That was easy,” he said. He briefly reflected that cheap tricks like this might curse him to perpetually fight this guy in every game for the next decade. That could get old.
He told himself, "At least I'll get a reprieve when they put me in Smash Brothers."
Somewhere the ghost of Nintendo laughed and gave him the finger.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Possible Origins For Him. 6.
You can listen to today's story two ways. Click the triangle to the left to begin streaming audio, or click this text to download the MP3. Enjoy!
I was born ugly. Not a cleft pallet or flat nose or some tabloid rack batboy. I gurgled up at my mother and she sobbed. Doctors had to perform so much surgery just to keep me breathing that cosmetics were out of the question. They left my crib in the basement, under a narrow window. I'm told I didn't cry much. I bled instead. They wrapped me in newspapers because the blankets became too unsanitary to wash. I think they were underestimating the washing machine – it was sturdy. I spent a lot of time with it, testing what would break apart or perish tumbling inside. Me, the washer, dryer, and boxes of things they didn't want.
I learned to escape the crib early. They’d forget to feed me some days, and others, a kid gets bored of lying in his own scabs. Scaled down a landslide of National Geographics and Gotham Gazettes. Learned to read from them. Learned where the jugular was from them, too. You never think about how surroundings influence you like that until you realize all those precious papers have gone up in flames with the rest of the house. I’m still a little absentminded like that. I was so afraid to leave home, so afraid everyone else in the world would want me in a basement that I tried not to think about it all. Departure was simple necessity – you can’t stay in town once you’ve locked your parents downstairs and set a fire. I had my little hoodie up the whole ride to the city, to avoid identification, and judgment.
Nobody tells you how hot it is in a city train station. I was used to the cool of underground. There, it was like steam in thin air. My face felt like it was falling apart. I pulled the hoodie down on the escalator and held my breath. A couple glanced at me. An old lady shrieked. I came up to the top and saw this black man playing a guitar. He was jumping around and laughing to solicit change. He saw the couple, and the old lady, and all the people staring at this new act. He looked at me, and his showman smile went away. I know where it went. I caught it between my teeth, and I’ve never let it get away.
I was born ugly. Not a cleft pallet or flat nose or some tabloid rack batboy. I gurgled up at my mother and she sobbed. Doctors had to perform so much surgery just to keep me breathing that cosmetics were out of the question. They left my crib in the basement, under a narrow window. I'm told I didn't cry much. I bled instead. They wrapped me in newspapers because the blankets became too unsanitary to wash. I think they were underestimating the washing machine – it was sturdy. I spent a lot of time with it, testing what would break apart or perish tumbling inside. Me, the washer, dryer, and boxes of things they didn't want.
I learned to escape the crib early. They’d forget to feed me some days, and others, a kid gets bored of lying in his own scabs. Scaled down a landslide of National Geographics and Gotham Gazettes. Learned to read from them. Learned where the jugular was from them, too. You never think about how surroundings influence you like that until you realize all those precious papers have gone up in flames with the rest of the house. I’m still a little absentminded like that. I was so afraid to leave home, so afraid everyone else in the world would want me in a basement that I tried not to think about it all. Departure was simple necessity – you can’t stay in town once you’ve locked your parents downstairs and set a fire. I had my little hoodie up the whole ride to the city, to avoid identification, and judgment.
Nobody tells you how hot it is in a city train station. I was used to the cool of underground. There, it was like steam in thin air. My face felt like it was falling apart. I pulled the hoodie down on the escalator and held my breath. A couple glanced at me. An old lady shrieked. I came up to the top and saw this black man playing a guitar. He was jumping around and laughing to solicit change. He saw the couple, and the old lady, and all the people staring at this new act. He looked at me, and his showman smile went away. I know where it went. I caught it between my teeth, and I’ve never let it get away.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Eight Questions
This week Anthony Venutolo tagged me with eight questions. Below are my answers.
1. If you could have any superpower, what would you have? Why?
Hulk powers. Oh my God, Hulk powers! Get angry, destroy everything, solve everything with thoughtless brute force. I don't know why Banner is sad all the time. I would gladly trade all my intellect for the ability to kick a bridge over for traffic being too slow.
2. Who is your style icon?
Eudora Welty. She’d write whatever style she pleased. Which is my way of weaseling out of having a style icon, because there isn’t one iconic style I cherish over all others.
I hope you mean writing-wise. Clothing-wise? Let’s got with the Hulk again. Tattered purple pants. Very macho.
3. What is your favorite quote?
It changes routinely. At present it’s from Aaron Sorkin’s Sports Night, put into the mouth of Isaac Jaffe:
"If you're dumb, surround yourself with smart people. And if you're smart, surround yourself with smart people who disagree with you."
Sorkin is unparalleled for quotability in modern TV and film.
4. What is the best compliment you've ever received?
In high school I was sent to a writing conference at this Community College. This felt huge for me, and I loved all the panels I attended. The last was a workshop with an author of Holocaust memoirs. I brought two things: a gratuitously violent action story, and a love poem to my imaginary girlfriend. When it was my turn, I suddenly realized there was no way I could read something violent in front of this man. So I pulled out the poem. When I looked up from the page every girl in the room was looking at me, which was very unusual at the time (still is), and the author smiled at me.
“You should share that with her,” he said.
He looked so knowing, so sure of himself and happy at this little writer boy in front of him. None of them had an inkling she wasn’t real and judging me invasively, if approvingly. That’s probably the best compliment I’ve ever gotten.
5. What playlist/CD is in your CD player/iPod right now?
In the car it's Lettuce's "Outta Here" and "Rage!" Two of the very few albums I listen to in their entirety. I’m a terrible song miner.
On the computer I've been listening to every version of the theme from Jon Carpenter's Halloween I can find. Tyler Bates did some great tinkering on it. It’s that time of year.
6. Are you a night owl or a morning person?
Natural night owl. Even as a kid I loved New Years Eve and being allowed to stay up late into the night. I wrote most of my first novel after dark. Trying to force myself into becoming an early riser, just because it's more convenient to be on civilization's clock.
7. Do you prefer dogs or cats?
Cats. They are on average smaller and thus take less time to bury.
8. What is the meaning behind your blog name?
It’s the creation story for this place. Back in college I was afraid I was losing my creative drive by focusing so acutely on assigned topics. So whenever I got up from the textbook or computer to use the bathroom, I’d improvise a monologue related to anything other than what I was working on. If I’m studying 1800s American politics, then it can be about orcs and dishware. If I’m studying Kafka, then it can be about the Three Stooges. I’d keep it up until I returned to the computer. Bathroom Monologues. Sometimes I’d type them up and IM them to friends. That’s the tradition I uphold here at the writing desk, while working on short stories and novels.
In keeping with the game, I'll now pass these questions on to Karen Schindler. Tag!
1. If you could have any superpower, what would you have? Why?
Hulk powers. Oh my God, Hulk powers! Get angry, destroy everything, solve everything with thoughtless brute force. I don't know why Banner is sad all the time. I would gladly trade all my intellect for the ability to kick a bridge over for traffic being too slow.
2. Who is your style icon?
Eudora Welty. She’d write whatever style she pleased. Which is my way of weaseling out of having a style icon, because there isn’t one iconic style I cherish over all others.
I hope you mean writing-wise. Clothing-wise? Let’s got with the Hulk again. Tattered purple pants. Very macho.
3. What is your favorite quote?
It changes routinely. At present it’s from Aaron Sorkin’s Sports Night, put into the mouth of Isaac Jaffe:
"If you're dumb, surround yourself with smart people. And if you're smart, surround yourself with smart people who disagree with you."
Sorkin is unparalleled for quotability in modern TV and film.
4. What is the best compliment you've ever received?
In high school I was sent to a writing conference at this Community College. This felt huge for me, and I loved all the panels I attended. The last was a workshop with an author of Holocaust memoirs. I brought two things: a gratuitously violent action story, and a love poem to my imaginary girlfriend. When it was my turn, I suddenly realized there was no way I could read something violent in front of this man. So I pulled out the poem. When I looked up from the page every girl in the room was looking at me, which was very unusual at the time (still is), and the author smiled at me.
“You should share that with her,” he said.
He looked so knowing, so sure of himself and happy at this little writer boy in front of him. None of them had an inkling she wasn’t real and judging me invasively, if approvingly. That’s probably the best compliment I’ve ever gotten.
5. What playlist/CD is in your CD player/iPod right now?
In the car it's Lettuce's "Outta Here" and "Rage!" Two of the very few albums I listen to in their entirety. I’m a terrible song miner.
On the computer I've been listening to every version of the theme from Jon Carpenter's Halloween I can find. Tyler Bates did some great tinkering on it. It’s that time of year.
6. Are you a night owl or a morning person?
Natural night owl. Even as a kid I loved New Years Eve and being allowed to stay up late into the night. I wrote most of my first novel after dark. Trying to force myself into becoming an early riser, just because it's more convenient to be on civilization's clock.
7. Do you prefer dogs or cats?
Cats. They are on average smaller and thus take less time to bury.
8. What is the meaning behind your blog name?
It’s the creation story for this place. Back in college I was afraid I was losing my creative drive by focusing so acutely on assigned topics. So whenever I got up from the textbook or computer to use the bathroom, I’d improvise a monologue related to anything other than what I was working on. If I’m studying 1800s American politics, then it can be about orcs and dishware. If I’m studying Kafka, then it can be about the Three Stooges. I’d keep it up until I returned to the computer. Bathroom Monologues. Sometimes I’d type them up and IM them to friends. That’s the tradition I uphold here at the writing desk, while working on short stories and novels.
In keeping with the game, I'll now pass these questions on to Karen Schindler. Tag!
Friday, October 8, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Ghost Dancer
“Come on!” Anne called, waving her sister over. “Lawrence’s sweethearting with a ghost.”
Patricia and Anne crept under his window. They hid behind the shadow of his flatscreen monitor. Outside it was pitch black, contrasting against his lit bedroom.
All he had were the computer and the bed, but you’d look at Lawrence no matter what else was around. He was 6’4” at 17 years old, and puberty still hadn’t given him enough fat or muscle to carry the height. He was a scrawny giant, with long legs and fingers. A human scarecrow. There was something wrong with his right knee, such that he couldn’t help but walk awkward. It was like God left a KICK-ME sign on his back.
But there was something more to look at tonight. His bed was pushed to one corner, leaving the floor empty. He stood the straightest they’d ever seen him, hands extended in front of him, holding nothing. One was low, where a woman’s hip might be, while the other was high, as though on a shoulder. His bad leg led him two steps here, then pivoting and taking two steps there.
Anne canted her head. “I think he’s waltzing with her.”
Patricia looked from Lawrence to Anne and back again, like this would share whatever the other two were seeing.
“Waltzing with who? I think he’s going mad.”
“No.” Anne rested her elbows on the windowsill, watching Lawrence dreamily. “He’s dancing with a ghost girl.”
Patricia scrunched up her forehead. “There’s nobody there.”
“Dunce, she’s transcendent.” Anne waggled her nose in the air, glorying in this bit of vocabulary. “Can’t you see her gown? It’s frilly, like Nana’s curtains. He keeps almost stepping on it.”
Patricia focused on her brother’s feet. They shuffled deliberately – either he was neurotic, or was trying to avoid somebody’s feet. She glanced up and saw his lips moving.
“Is he whispering to himself?”
“Poor Lawrence.” Anne sighed at the sky. It was nighttime in Heaven. “He was so lonely that he found a girl from beyond the grave.”
“That’s crazy.” Patricia pushed her. “Crazy’s what he’s doing. Dancing all alone.”
Lawrence looked at the window and both of them ducked behind the monitor. They were grateful that Dad had gotten him a widescreen for Christmas. The two girls stayed down, not even breathing for fear it would give them away. When the window didn’t clatter open, the sisters peered at each other.
Patricia pinched Anne on the shoulder. “Tell me you didn’t really see anyone.”
“I did, too.” Anne sucked her lips inward, turning her mouth into an angry line. “She’s ravishing. I’m happy for him.”
“There’s nobody there. Come on.”
They rose just high enough for their eyes to peek over the sill. Lawrence was still dancing in an ugly square with his invisible bride. His hands were stable, even if his right leg kept trembling for position. He was definitely mouthing something.
“I’m looking,” said Anne. “I see the prettiest girl in the world. She’s got blonde hair, braided like Mom won’t let me do mine. And her eyes are like the moon. I think he’s talking to her.”
“He’s talking to himself. Besides, ghosts wouldn’t look like that. They’re dead.”
“Well what do they look like?”
Patricia folded her arms. “Like nothing.”
“If you don’t see anything, and ghosts look like nothing, then how isn’t she a ghost?”
Patricia was a year older, but that only made her eleven. It didn’t give her a good answer. She watched the nothing-girl in her brother’s arms. The absence of a bosom pressed to his chest, and the absence of legs matching his steps. The nothingness that hesitated just as long as his bad knee did, matching his strides and following his lead. Even if she wasn’t there, she was more elegant than he was. It was nice for him to get such a dance partner.
She squeezed her eyes closed.
“Maybe I’m crazier than he is.”
She opened them to find Anne glaring at her with pure ethereal intensity. It was like Anne saw ghosts in her now.
“Don’t you call him crazy. He found love.”
“I’ll call you crazy. And so what?” she said with the conviction of the convert. “You think he’s got a ghost girlfriend. Either he’s gone mad or gone wizard.”
“Necromancy? Oh, that’s unnatural. I thought maybe she came to him.” Anne’s fire was doused. Her eyes blinked and flickered in worry. “What are we going to do with him?”
“Maybe we can ask to meet her, and talk it out.”
“You can’t ask to meet your brother’s ghost girlfriend.” Anne shook her head so rapidly it almost gave away their location. “It might break the spell.”
“Or get you committed.”
Lawrence’s great shadow approached the window. This time they darted away altogether, not wanting to be caught by his phantom lover or whatever virus was eating his brain stem. They hid under the porch and prayed he wasn’t an evil wizard now.
“One, two, three,” he repeated to himself. “One, two, three.”
He didn’t even notice them. Lawrence bent over the monitor and clicked a Related Video, starting up the next Waltz practice on Youtube. He’d get this eventually. He was glad nobody ever saw him practice this. He couldn’t imagine what it looked like.
Patricia and Anne crept under his window. They hid behind the shadow of his flatscreen monitor. Outside it was pitch black, contrasting against his lit bedroom.
All he had were the computer and the bed, but you’d look at Lawrence no matter what else was around. He was 6’4” at 17 years old, and puberty still hadn’t given him enough fat or muscle to carry the height. He was a scrawny giant, with long legs and fingers. A human scarecrow. There was something wrong with his right knee, such that he couldn’t help but walk awkward. It was like God left a KICK-ME sign on his back.
But there was something more to look at tonight. His bed was pushed to one corner, leaving the floor empty. He stood the straightest they’d ever seen him, hands extended in front of him, holding nothing. One was low, where a woman’s hip might be, while the other was high, as though on a shoulder. His bad leg led him two steps here, then pivoting and taking two steps there.
Anne canted her head. “I think he’s waltzing with her.”
Patricia looked from Lawrence to Anne and back again, like this would share whatever the other two were seeing.
“Waltzing with who? I think he’s going mad.”
“No.” Anne rested her elbows on the windowsill, watching Lawrence dreamily. “He’s dancing with a ghost girl.”
Patricia scrunched up her forehead. “There’s nobody there.”
“Dunce, she’s transcendent.” Anne waggled her nose in the air, glorying in this bit of vocabulary. “Can’t you see her gown? It’s frilly, like Nana’s curtains. He keeps almost stepping on it.”
Patricia focused on her brother’s feet. They shuffled deliberately – either he was neurotic, or was trying to avoid somebody’s feet. She glanced up and saw his lips moving.
“Is he whispering to himself?”
“Poor Lawrence.” Anne sighed at the sky. It was nighttime in Heaven. “He was so lonely that he found a girl from beyond the grave.”
“That’s crazy.” Patricia pushed her. “Crazy’s what he’s doing. Dancing all alone.”
Lawrence looked at the window and both of them ducked behind the monitor. They were grateful that Dad had gotten him a widescreen for Christmas. The two girls stayed down, not even breathing for fear it would give them away. When the window didn’t clatter open, the sisters peered at each other.
Patricia pinched Anne on the shoulder. “Tell me you didn’t really see anyone.”
“I did, too.” Anne sucked her lips inward, turning her mouth into an angry line. “She’s ravishing. I’m happy for him.”
“There’s nobody there. Come on.”
They rose just high enough for their eyes to peek over the sill. Lawrence was still dancing in an ugly square with his invisible bride. His hands were stable, even if his right leg kept trembling for position. He was definitely mouthing something.
“I’m looking,” said Anne. “I see the prettiest girl in the world. She’s got blonde hair, braided like Mom won’t let me do mine. And her eyes are like the moon. I think he’s talking to her.”
“He’s talking to himself. Besides, ghosts wouldn’t look like that. They’re dead.”
“Well what do they look like?”
Patricia folded her arms. “Like nothing.”
“If you don’t see anything, and ghosts look like nothing, then how isn’t she a ghost?”
Patricia was a year older, but that only made her eleven. It didn’t give her a good answer. She watched the nothing-girl in her brother’s arms. The absence of a bosom pressed to his chest, and the absence of legs matching his steps. The nothingness that hesitated just as long as his bad knee did, matching his strides and following his lead. Even if she wasn’t there, she was more elegant than he was. It was nice for him to get such a dance partner.
She squeezed her eyes closed.
“Maybe I’m crazier than he is.”
She opened them to find Anne glaring at her with pure ethereal intensity. It was like Anne saw ghosts in her now.
“Don’t you call him crazy. He found love.”
“I’ll call you crazy. And so what?” she said with the conviction of the convert. “You think he’s got a ghost girlfriend. Either he’s gone mad or gone wizard.”
“Necromancy? Oh, that’s unnatural. I thought maybe she came to him.” Anne’s fire was doused. Her eyes blinked and flickered in worry. “What are we going to do with him?”
“Maybe we can ask to meet her, and talk it out.”
“You can’t ask to meet your brother’s ghost girlfriend.” Anne shook her head so rapidly it almost gave away their location. “It might break the spell.”
“Or get you committed.”
Lawrence’s great shadow approached the window. This time they darted away altogether, not wanting to be caught by his phantom lover or whatever virus was eating his brain stem. They hid under the porch and prayed he wasn’t an evil wizard now.
“One, two, three,” he repeated to himself. “One, two, three.”
He didn’t even notice them. Lawrence bent over the monitor and clicked a Related Video, starting up the next Waltz practice on Youtube. He’d get this eventually. He was glad nobody ever saw him practice this. He couldn’t imagine what it looked like.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: The Grudges
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Good Thomas
Even if you had an opinion on where he should go, you had to concede that Good Thomas was in a tough situation. His best friend of twenty-eight years and his mother dying in the same week, and the funerals scheduled for the same day. The woman who had given him life and all those morals, versus the childhood friend who grew up to answer every time he was stranded somewhere and needed a ride, including all three midnight calls from the middle of Nowhere, Oklahoma.
But while you’d sympathize to his face, everyone still judged him for which service he attended. His sisters were furious, while Charlotte’s sisters were gracious and listened to all his lamentations about how sweet she’d been. Locals gossiped that this confirmed it, the old it, the it of a secret affair between the two. Him kneeling and whispering to the casket didn’t help matters.
Well maybe Good Thomas’s mother wasn’t actually dead, a cousin suggested. One phone call disproved that. Charlotte’s mother stewed on it, not approving of such disrespect from a son to the woman who had given him life. She seemed nearly as angry at him as she was broken up about the loss of her daughter, and refused to see him. When he brought over a drink for her, she batted his hand and he deferred right out of the church.
Twenty minutes later one of Charlotte’s sisters caught him waiting by the roadside, calling a cab. He reckoned he’d fly north and catch the end of services back home. She asked why he’d come anyway.
“Why come at all? Why not just pay respects to your mother?”
“These were the two most important women in my life,” he said. “Summons came the same hour. I got no break over this, and it came down to one thing: if they were both alive, what would they want? Charlotte would have told me to go to my mother's funeral. Mother would have demanded I stay at hers.”
“Of course she’d want you to go to your mom’s. So why didn’t you?”
“Because that speaks to their characters. Charlotte being the more giving of the two, she deserved my attendance more. And if that’s unacceptable to my mother, I don’t really have to explain it to her."
Charlotte’s sister didn’t agree. When she repeated it, they didn’t become much more agreeable, though thought it was funny. The kind of humor Charlotte would have laughed at. They had to wonder if it wasn’t a joke he’d made up to whisper at her casket, and kept it instead of saying why he really came. They couldn’t know – only three people really could guess, and two were dead, and the third was in the air flying to New York.
But while you’d sympathize to his face, everyone still judged him for which service he attended. His sisters were furious, while Charlotte’s sisters were gracious and listened to all his lamentations about how sweet she’d been. Locals gossiped that this confirmed it, the old it, the it of a secret affair between the two. Him kneeling and whispering to the casket didn’t help matters.
Well maybe Good Thomas’s mother wasn’t actually dead, a cousin suggested. One phone call disproved that. Charlotte’s mother stewed on it, not approving of such disrespect from a son to the woman who had given him life. She seemed nearly as angry at him as she was broken up about the loss of her daughter, and refused to see him. When he brought over a drink for her, she batted his hand and he deferred right out of the church.
Twenty minutes later one of Charlotte’s sisters caught him waiting by the roadside, calling a cab. He reckoned he’d fly north and catch the end of services back home. She asked why he’d come anyway.
“Why come at all? Why not just pay respects to your mother?”
“These were the two most important women in my life,” he said. “Summons came the same hour. I got no break over this, and it came down to one thing: if they were both alive, what would they want? Charlotte would have told me to go to my mother's funeral. Mother would have demanded I stay at hers.”
“Of course she’d want you to go to your mom’s. So why didn’t you?”
“Because that speaks to their characters. Charlotte being the more giving of the two, she deserved my attendance more. And if that’s unacceptable to my mother, I don’t really have to explain it to her."
Charlotte’s sister didn’t agree. When she repeated it, they didn’t become much more agreeable, though thought it was funny. The kind of humor Charlotte would have laughed at. They had to wonder if it wasn’t a joke he’d made up to whisper at her casket, and kept it instead of saying why he really came. They couldn’t know – only three people really could guess, and two were dead, and the third was in the air flying to New York.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: A Decent Candidate
There is an audio edition of this monologue. To listen either click the triangle at the left to stream it or click this text to download the MP3.
I am informed you are only hiring intellectuals for the position. I wish you to reconsider. An intellectual is a poor model as an educator because he is required to deceive. He is charged with only presenting to you how he is competent, and further charged with convincing you that this is all he is. He is constantly sure, even though any idiot can tell you no man is competent in all trades. I will have you know that the candidate from Yale, however confident he appeared in your interview, spent ten minutes looking for his car keys after exiting this room. Now I have twenty-two years experience with Latin American Literature, and we can have very long conversations about the ramifications of politics on Miguel Angel Asturias, or vice versa. Other candidates can host similar conversations. Yet I will admit to you these things: that if I sleep less than six hours a night I forget the year; that I have an inexorable fear of headache medicine, believing some former administration patented the chemicals for brainspying; and that I pathologically misspell “restaurant.” I admit my insecurities as well as my ignorances; in the upcoming field questions, I will likely know nine of ten things you ask, but in the classroom would tell the student to look up the tenth. I am not an intellectual and have no desire to become one. I am too honest. The foolish man acts like he knows everything, the wise man pretends he knows nothing, and the decent man would like to share the few things he’s been fortunate enough to learn.
I am informed you are only hiring intellectuals for the position. I wish you to reconsider. An intellectual is a poor model as an educator because he is required to deceive. He is charged with only presenting to you how he is competent, and further charged with convincing you that this is all he is. He is constantly sure, even though any idiot can tell you no man is competent in all trades. I will have you know that the candidate from Yale, however confident he appeared in your interview, spent ten minutes looking for his car keys after exiting this room. Now I have twenty-two years experience with Latin American Literature, and we can have very long conversations about the ramifications of politics on Miguel Angel Asturias, or vice versa. Other candidates can host similar conversations. Yet I will admit to you these things: that if I sleep less than six hours a night I forget the year; that I have an inexorable fear of headache medicine, believing some former administration patented the chemicals for brainspying; and that I pathologically misspell “restaurant.” I admit my insecurities as well as my ignorances; in the upcoming field questions, I will likely know nine of ten things you ask, but in the classroom would tell the student to look up the tenth. I am not an intellectual and have no desire to become one. I am too honest. The foolish man acts like he knows everything, the wise man pretends he knows nothing, and the decent man would like to share the few things he’s been fortunate enough to learn.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Is there a High Road?
[The bar hums as people mill out. Some patrons search for their debit cards, while most grumble about how terrible tonight’s open mic was. DARKLOSS VON ALUCARDIA SOULRIPPER sits in the middle of the usual booth, dressed tonight in a trendy fishnet shirt. DARKLOSS is writing on a yellow legal pad. GARY sits to DARKLOSS’s right, wearing a designer t-shirt and jeans that are designed to look like no thought went into them. SAMID sits to GARY’S right, wearing a designer t-shirt and jeans that are designed to look like no thought went into them and give them impression he likes trendy music. AESLING THE SUCCUBUS sits to DARKLOSS’s left wearing one of the flowing white harem dresses from a DRACULA REMAKE that she got for surprisingly little on eBay.]
Darkloss: What about romantic relationships? [He does not look up when asking this question.]
Samid: Highroad? Anything to do with the differences between the genders.
Gary: Lowroad? Talk about anything to do with sex.
Aesling: Say ‘fucking.’ Anything to do with ‘fucking.’ It’ll demean them more.
Darkloss: [Reading as he writes] Lowroad: anything to do with fucking.
[DARKLOSS writes all of this down, including his next question. He appears to be taking dictation of the entire conversation.]
Samid: Do you have a race, ethnicity or nationality?
Gary: I’ve got this. Lowroad: make fun of those who are not your race, ethnicity or nationality. And highroad? Make fun of yours.
Aesling: Is “You Might be a Redneck If” highbrow? I think both roads are pretty dumb here.
Samid: It’s highroad. The alternative is a white guy saying, “You Might be Hispanic If.”
Aesling: I guess you’re not going to find Hegel in stand-up.
[THE PLANET PLUTO orbits over to the table. Though it is an oblate spheroid, it has a designer t-shirt tacked to its equator, one that still has the discount tag attached. It pauses to listen.]
Pluto: What are we doing here?
Aesling: We’re making a how-to list on stand-up comedy.
Gary: The really obvious, generic stuff that fills up almost all of it.
Pluto: You guys saw? That chick sucked tonight.
Aesling: Shut up. We already did the difference between the genders.
Samid: Just had a child? Lowroad: talk about taking care of it for the first time and how this blows your mind, overwhelms you or whatever.
Darkloss: Highroad? Act like it’s just a nuisance or doesn’t matter. Cool-Dad it.
[DARKLOSS resumes writing. PLUTO wedges into the booth next to AESLING and across from SAMID.]
Gary: Do you smoke? Low road: bitch about not being able to smoke anywhere you want.
Samid: What’s highroad?
Pluto: Anecdotes about when you were high?
Samid: Making fun of yourself is a played but viable topic.
Gary: Make fun of yourself. Low road: your habits, job, relationships…
[There is an awkward silence.]
Aesling: The problem with this is the absence of a high road.
Darkloss: I’m putting it down tentatively.
Pluto: What about current events and politics?
Gary: Oh, Samid and I got this one while the open mic comedians were on. Lowroad? He, she, they or it is some variation of “dumb” or “mean.”
Samid: Highroad? Same as the low road, but sound angrier.
Gary: It’s only a perceived highroad.
Samid: But they’re all only perceived highroad, and we think seeming angry might even transcend stand-up. You can go from Lenny Bruce milking indignation all the way to Noam Chomsky being the world’s most quoted intellectual.
Gary: We also did pop culture.
Samid: Have you seen a movie, TV show, book, website, piece of technology and/or celebrity lately?
Gary: It’s actually all low road. Just slander it. This thing’s fans are dumb. It’s dumb. Reading is boring. Nothing on TV is ever good. Too many kids on Facebook. I’m on Facebook and it’s annoying.
Pluto: [To AESLING.] They’re like a tag team.
[AESLING does not appear interested in PLUTO’s advances.]
Aesling: I think there’s highroad here.
Gary: What?
Aesling: Admit you revel in that stuff. Bill Hicks only ripped on Cops after he confessed to watching it all the time. Everything’s dumb and you love it. That’s class.
Samid: For the classless.
Darkloss: If we’re doing Hicks, what about religion?
Aesling: Religion has to be in there. Not only is it the most popular topic, but stand-up comedy has become religion for atheists. They get to stand on an elevated platform above a paying congregation that comes to listen to what they want to hear, cheers at the pauses and gets thrown out of the building if they disagree too much.
Gary: Hey.
Samid: I like it. Instead of communion wine, there’s a two-drink minimum. Lowroad? Point out something implausible that happened in the Bible. It’s amazing how many guys think they’re the first to say Noah’s Ark couldn’t happen. That was clever, when Mark Twain did it in 1910.
Pluto: What’s highroad? Pointing out something shitty that a Christian did?
Aesling: I’m uncomfortable with the highroad being the eighteen thousandth pedophile priest joke.
Samid: We could say the high road is an original thought.
Darkloss: [Reading as he writes] Highroad: Sam Kinison.
[When everyone turns on him, he pulls the paper towards himself]
Darkloss: I have the pen. Fuck you. He made fun of his beliefs. That’s balls, that’s highroad.
Aesling: I’m pretty sure he didn’t believe all—
Samid: This can’t go for all religions. Islam does not get the same treatment as Christianity.
Gary: Because we’ve never heard of it before and we’re afraid you’ll blow us up.
Samid: That right there? The lowroad.
Darkloss: [Not looking up from the pad.] There we go. Islam. Lowroad? Essentially anything Gary has to say.
Samid: While highroad is pointing out that not all Muslims are terrorists, then making a bunch of jokes relating to terrorism anyway.
Aesling: And their mistreatment of women.
Samid: I’m picking up the check, dammit.
Aesling: I was actually talking about Gary and Aryana. Or are we still not talking about them?
[Gary looks down. There is another awkward silence. One that will lasts several months until the next time one of these Strange Company things happens again.]
Darkloss: What about romantic relationships? [He does not look up when asking this question.]
Samid: Highroad? Anything to do with the differences between the genders.
Gary: Lowroad? Talk about anything to do with sex.
Aesling: Say ‘fucking.’ Anything to do with ‘fucking.’ It’ll demean them more.
Darkloss: [Reading as he writes] Lowroad: anything to do with fucking.
[DARKLOSS writes all of this down, including his next question. He appears to be taking dictation of the entire conversation.]
Samid: Do you have a race, ethnicity or nationality?
Gary: I’ve got this. Lowroad: make fun of those who are not your race, ethnicity or nationality. And highroad? Make fun of yours.
Aesling: Is “You Might be a Redneck If” highbrow? I think both roads are pretty dumb here.
Samid: It’s highroad. The alternative is a white guy saying, “You Might be Hispanic If.”
Aesling: I guess you’re not going to find Hegel in stand-up.
[THE PLANET PLUTO orbits over to the table. Though it is an oblate spheroid, it has a designer t-shirt tacked to its equator, one that still has the discount tag attached. It pauses to listen.]
Pluto: What are we doing here?
Aesling: We’re making a how-to list on stand-up comedy.
Gary: The really obvious, generic stuff that fills up almost all of it.
Pluto: You guys saw? That chick sucked tonight.
Aesling: Shut up. We already did the difference between the genders.
Samid: Just had a child? Lowroad: talk about taking care of it for the first time and how this blows your mind, overwhelms you or whatever.
Darkloss: Highroad? Act like it’s just a nuisance or doesn’t matter. Cool-Dad it.
[DARKLOSS resumes writing. PLUTO wedges into the booth next to AESLING and across from SAMID.]
Gary: Do you smoke? Low road: bitch about not being able to smoke anywhere you want.
Samid: What’s highroad?
Pluto: Anecdotes about when you were high?
Samid: Making fun of yourself is a played but viable topic.
Gary: Make fun of yourself. Low road: your habits, job, relationships…
[There is an awkward silence.]
Aesling: The problem with this is the absence of a high road.
Darkloss: I’m putting it down tentatively.
Pluto: What about current events and politics?
Gary: Oh, Samid and I got this one while the open mic comedians were on. Lowroad? He, she, they or it is some variation of “dumb” or “mean.”
Samid: Highroad? Same as the low road, but sound angrier.
Gary: It’s only a perceived highroad.
Samid: But they’re all only perceived highroad, and we think seeming angry might even transcend stand-up. You can go from Lenny Bruce milking indignation all the way to Noam Chomsky being the world’s most quoted intellectual.
Gary: We also did pop culture.
Samid: Have you seen a movie, TV show, book, website, piece of technology and/or celebrity lately?
Gary: It’s actually all low road. Just slander it. This thing’s fans are dumb. It’s dumb. Reading is boring. Nothing on TV is ever good. Too many kids on Facebook. I’m on Facebook and it’s annoying.
Pluto: [To AESLING.] They’re like a tag team.
[AESLING does not appear interested in PLUTO’s advances.]
Aesling: I think there’s highroad here.
Gary: What?
Aesling: Admit you revel in that stuff. Bill Hicks only ripped on Cops after he confessed to watching it all the time. Everything’s dumb and you love it. That’s class.
Samid: For the classless.
Darkloss: If we’re doing Hicks, what about religion?
Aesling: Religion has to be in there. Not only is it the most popular topic, but stand-up comedy has become religion for atheists. They get to stand on an elevated platform above a paying congregation that comes to listen to what they want to hear, cheers at the pauses and gets thrown out of the building if they disagree too much.
Gary: Hey.
Samid: I like it. Instead of communion wine, there’s a two-drink minimum. Lowroad? Point out something implausible that happened in the Bible. It’s amazing how many guys think they’re the first to say Noah’s Ark couldn’t happen. That was clever, when Mark Twain did it in 1910.
Pluto: What’s highroad? Pointing out something shitty that a Christian did?
Aesling: I’m uncomfortable with the highroad being the eighteen thousandth pedophile priest joke.
Samid: We could say the high road is an original thought.
Darkloss: [Reading as he writes] Highroad: Sam Kinison.
[When everyone turns on him, he pulls the paper towards himself]
Darkloss: I have the pen. Fuck you. He made fun of his beliefs. That’s balls, that’s highroad.
Aesling: I’m pretty sure he didn’t believe all—
Samid: This can’t go for all religions. Islam does not get the same treatment as Christianity.
Gary: Because we’ve never heard of it before and we’re afraid you’ll blow us up.
Samid: That right there? The lowroad.
Darkloss: [Not looking up from the pad.] There we go. Islam. Lowroad? Essentially anything Gary has to say.
Samid: While highroad is pointing out that not all Muslims are terrorists, then making a bunch of jokes relating to terrorism anyway.
Aesling: And their mistreatment of women.
Samid: I’m picking up the check, dammit.
Aesling: I was actually talking about Gary and Aryana. Or are we still not talking about them?
[Gary looks down. There is another awkward silence. One that will lasts several months until the next time one of these Strange Company things happens again.]
Monday, September 27, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Possible Origins For Him. 3. (Re-Upload)
Some folks had trouble listening to this monologue originally. I've re-uploaded it. To listen you can either click the triangle on the left to stream it or click this text to download the MP3. Please let me know if it works for you.
So you want to know who I really am. Everybody does. But I’ll let you in on it, and just you. Ever heard of a guy named "Elvis Presley?"
I know what you're saying. "Not another theory about how the Joker is Elvis!"
Sorry. It's all true. The charisma. The fabulous taste in wardrobe. Before I appointed myself court jester, I was The King.
At first getting crowds to go wild was enough, but eventually a guy tires of shaking his hips. Less of a slap and more of tickle man, I was. Nobody really got me, so I ate. Out of boredom, depression, a cadaver – you know, what you do when you have too much money and not enough friends. I was under the influence – twenty peanut-butter-cheeseburgers a day, not an illegal substance at the time – when a tour manager said I had to turn it around and mentioned this radical weight loss surgery. I figured, what the Hell? I’m barely conscious anyway!
Turns out a heavy guy who loses all that fat is left with a lot of spare tissue, and they tried to trim me up. It also turns out that back-alley plastic surgery in the 1970’s was not the most efficient or sanitary affair. The blood loss destroyed my complexion and my smile was irrevocably altered.
When I saw what the doctors had done to me, well. I ain't nothing but a hound dog.
Throttling my third medical attendee, I realized this was what I’d been missing. Not just making them squeal from the stage, but getting down there and laying on some hands. The transition into a new life wasn’t hard; half my impostors looked more like me than I did, and the screams of my new audience were so much more interesting. Let me tell you, singing Jail House Rock in Arkham Asylum is an experience to die for. Or at least get maimed on an operation table for.
This sort of thing's not that unusual, really. One of the Robins used to be James Dean. Get me a cheeseburger and a crowbar, and I'll tell you which.
So you want to know who I really am. Everybody does. But I’ll let you in on it, and just you. Ever heard of a guy named "Elvis Presley?"
I know what you're saying. "Not another theory about how the Joker is Elvis!"
Sorry. It's all true. The charisma. The fabulous taste in wardrobe. Before I appointed myself court jester, I was The King.
At first getting crowds to go wild was enough, but eventually a guy tires of shaking his hips. Less of a slap and more of tickle man, I was. Nobody really got me, so I ate. Out of boredom, depression, a cadaver – you know, what you do when you have too much money and not enough friends. I was under the influence – twenty peanut-butter-cheeseburgers a day, not an illegal substance at the time – when a tour manager said I had to turn it around and mentioned this radical weight loss surgery. I figured, what the Hell? I’m barely conscious anyway!
Turns out a heavy guy who loses all that fat is left with a lot of spare tissue, and they tried to trim me up. It also turns out that back-alley plastic surgery in the 1970’s was not the most efficient or sanitary affair. The blood loss destroyed my complexion and my smile was irrevocably altered.
When I saw what the doctors had done to me, well. I ain't nothing but a hound dog.
Throttling my third medical attendee, I realized this was what I’d been missing. Not just making them squeal from the stage, but getting down there and laying on some hands. The transition into a new life wasn’t hard; half my impostors looked more like me than I did, and the screams of my new audience were so much more interesting. Let me tell you, singing Jail House Rock in Arkham Asylum is an experience to die for. Or at least get maimed on an operation table for.
This sort of thing's not that unusual, really. One of the Robins used to be James Dean. Get me a cheeseburger and a crowbar, and I'll tell you which.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Possible Origins For Him. 4.
You can listen to this monologue by clicking the triangle on the left to stream it or clicking this text to download the MP3. I got completely carried away with this recording, but decided not to do it over. Hope you like it.
“I feel so bad for you people. You’ve broken my jaw twice. My knees? Three times. I can dislocate both shoulders at will thanks to you. It still hurts, but it doesn’t matter like it used to. You think that nightstick scares me? A cattle prod? What are you going to do that you haven’t done so many times that it’s numb? You poor people. You’re gonna-- you’re still afraid of being bitten. You’re afraid of a razor on your neck! Puncture you and you squeal. But you could sink your canines into my larynx and I’d giggle. You sad tall people are still so scared of suffering. You’re going to die, you know? You’re going to suffer. I’m not going to tell you the combination and in fifteen minutes, this place will flood with gas. It in invades neuroreceptors, making them fire irrationally until the brain chokes on its own warning messages. The internet tells me it’s one of the worst ways to die. I feel so badly for you, because you’re scared of that.”
“I feel so bad for you people. You’ve broken my jaw twice. My knees? Three times. I can dislocate both shoulders at will thanks to you. It still hurts, but it doesn’t matter like it used to. You think that nightstick scares me? A cattle prod? What are you going to do that you haven’t done so many times that it’s numb? You poor people. You’re gonna-- you’re still afraid of being bitten. You’re afraid of a razor on your neck! Puncture you and you squeal. But you could sink your canines into my larynx and I’d giggle. You sad tall people are still so scared of suffering. You’re going to die, you know? You’re going to suffer. I’m not going to tell you the combination and in fifteen minutes, this place will flood with gas. It in invades neuroreceptors, making them fire irrationally until the brain chokes on its own warning messages. The internet tells me it’s one of the worst ways to die. I feel so badly for you, because you’re scared of that.”
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Two Publications, One Proposal
I have three announcements for you today. Two are published stories that you can read right now, and the third is to do something together.
Story the First: Many of you have already seen the Best of #Fridayflash Volume 1 anthology. It took Jon Strother a long time to put it together, so perhaps it's fitting it took me a long time to plug it. It happens to feature my favorite fake news story, "No Militaries in the Gay." This one follows the decree by U.S. law that war is no longer allowed wherever there are gay people, so as to avoid exposing soldiers to uncomfortable environments.
Story the Second: "To Each His Own Triceratops" was accepted into the Dog Days of Summer Anthology from NOT. The collection requested short-shorts about Summer, so I gave them one about that summer the dinosaurs came back. I'm sure you remember that one. Traffic was terrible. This e-chapbook is free to view.
And that Proposal? Earlier this year I experimented with comics. I can't draw very well - it's a combination of a lack of natural talent and a nerve imbalance that makes it excruciatingly painful to use a brush, pencil, etc. for any significant period of time. I'd write the comic scripts and Max Cantor drew them. I'd like to start this up again, but without a routine artist. Instead, anybody who'd like to try their hand is welcome. Leave a Comment on this post, hit me up on Facebook, or e-mail bathroom DOT monologues AT gmail DOT com. I have a few scripts ready, ranging from a single panel about selling ice to Eskimos to seven panels about paranormal law enforcement. I'm hoping we can have some fun with this experiment.
And thanks to everyone for stopping by.
Story the First: Many of you have already seen the Best of #Fridayflash Volume 1 anthology. It took Jon Strother a long time to put it together, so perhaps it's fitting it took me a long time to plug it. It happens to feature my favorite fake news story, "No Militaries in the Gay." This one follows the decree by U.S. law that war is no longer allowed wherever there are gay people, so as to avoid exposing soldiers to uncomfortable environments.
Story the Second: "To Each His Own Triceratops" was accepted into the Dog Days of Summer Anthology from NOT. The collection requested short-shorts about Summer, so I gave them one about that summer the dinosaurs came back. I'm sure you remember that one. Traffic was terrible. This e-chapbook is free to view.
And that Proposal? Earlier this year I experimented with comics. I can't draw very well - it's a combination of a lack of natural talent and a nerve imbalance that makes it excruciatingly painful to use a brush, pencil, etc. for any significant period of time. I'd write the comic scripts and Max Cantor drew them. I'd like to start this up again, but without a routine artist. Instead, anybody who'd like to try their hand is welcome. Leave a Comment on this post, hit me up on Facebook, or e-mail bathroom DOT monologues AT gmail DOT com. I have a few scripts ready, ranging from a single panel about selling ice to Eskimos to seven panels about paranormal law enforcement. I'm hoping we can have some fun with this experiment.
And thanks to everyone for stopping by.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Highlights of Another Life
Born.
Suckled.
First steps.
Running (So healthy!).
Sleeping on his own.
Sleeping outside.
First lesson (Stop standing up like a person).
First fight.
First victory (Good boy!).
Fifth victory (You got so big!).
First loss.
First surgery.
Sixth victory (He's not the same).
Fifth loss.
First failed euthanasia.
Escape (Why go after him?).
Join wolves for first time.
Kill alpha male (Rur?).
First deer hunt.
Fifth deer hunt.
First human hunt (What's that outside?).
See girl naked for first time (Ahhhh!).
Figure out pants.
Interrupt child bloodsport for first time (Ahhhh!).
Evade police.
Find parents.
Have long talk.
First cannibalism (Just take your father!).
Get caught.
States witness deal (This will exonerate you for...).
First time on TV.
First book deal (Please don't eat your ghostwriter).
Fifth cannibalism.
Career slump.
First failed run for public office.
Learn English language.
Read unauthorized biography.
Tenth cannibalism.
Escape to Europe (This is ridiculous!).
Become sex symbol.
Join wolves for second time.
Don't kill alpha male.
Suckled.
First steps.
Running (So healthy!).
Sleeping on his own.
Sleeping outside.
First lesson (Stop standing up like a person).
First fight.
First victory (Good boy!).
Fifth victory (You got so big!).
First loss.
First surgery.
Sixth victory (He's not the same).
Fifth loss.
First failed euthanasia.
Escape (Why go after him?).
Join wolves for first time.
Kill alpha male (Rur?).
First deer hunt.
Fifth deer hunt.
First human hunt (What's that outside?).
See girl naked for first time (Ahhhh!).
Figure out pants.
Interrupt child bloodsport for first time (Ahhhh!).
Evade police.
Find parents.
Have long talk.
First cannibalism (Just take your father!).
Get caught.
States witness deal (This will exonerate you for...).
First time on TV.
First book deal (Please don't eat your ghostwriter).
Fifth cannibalism.
Career slump.
First failed run for public office.
Learn English language.
Read unauthorized biography.
Tenth cannibalism.
Escape to Europe (This is ridiculous!).
Become sex symbol.
Join wolves for second time.
Don't kill alpha male.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Overweight smoker, 93, outlives third doctor
Franz K. Thurber is 93, not an uncommon age for this era in science, but certainly uncommon for a man with his diet. Since 1924 Mr. Thurber has had a steady intake of bacon, ham, raw eggs, potato bread and butter, with beef every Sunday, only breaking for war rationing. The biggest change to his diet was the addition of three beers a day after he turned 17.
Born at a low birth weight, little Franz concerned his mother, who hired a wet nurse to force-feed him. "To bring me up to stock," as Mr. Thurber now quotes her, adoringly. "Soon as I could eat grub, she was heaping things on my plate, and I never disappointed."
According to county medical records, Mr. Thurber hasn't weighed less than 260 pounds since the Great Depression. Today, tipping the scales at 281 pounds, Mr. Thurber espouses the same beliefs that have been driving his doctors batty since the 1950's. "I seen the time when eggs was good for ya, and bad, and good again. Bread went from a staple to a no-no. I still don't know what the **** a calorie is."
What's puzzled M.D.'s most about Mr. Thurber's case is that despite his weight and high cholesterol, he is in perfect health. "Heck, I ain't even had a cold since Eisenhower was in office," Mr. Thurber jokes. He's maintained such great shape despite poor diet and little exercise (he boasts that he only does ten sit-ups a week, and only to prove to his beer gut that he can).
"This ain't the life for everyone," Thurber states sagely in his recliner, "but I just saw my third doctor drop dead. They mean well, saved me from polio, but everyone's body is their own. Mine doesn't work the same as yours. You gotta know the ins and outs of the body you got. I know mine. If'n I went all no-carbs and vegan, I'd probably be lying next to those docs in a week."
Born at a low birth weight, little Franz concerned his mother, who hired a wet nurse to force-feed him. "To bring me up to stock," as Mr. Thurber now quotes her, adoringly. "Soon as I could eat grub, she was heaping things on my plate, and I never disappointed."
According to county medical records, Mr. Thurber hasn't weighed less than 260 pounds since the Great Depression. Today, tipping the scales at 281 pounds, Mr. Thurber espouses the same beliefs that have been driving his doctors batty since the 1950's. "I seen the time when eggs was good for ya, and bad, and good again. Bread went from a staple to a no-no. I still don't know what the **** a calorie is."
What's puzzled M.D.'s most about Mr. Thurber's case is that despite his weight and high cholesterol, he is in perfect health. "Heck, I ain't even had a cold since Eisenhower was in office," Mr. Thurber jokes. He's maintained such great shape despite poor diet and little exercise (he boasts that he only does ten sit-ups a week, and only to prove to his beer gut that he can).
"This ain't the life for everyone," Thurber states sagely in his recliner, "but I just saw my third doctor drop dead. They mean well, saved me from polio, but everyone's body is their own. Mine doesn't work the same as yours. You gotta know the ins and outs of the body you got. I know mine. If'n I went all no-carbs and vegan, I'd probably be lying next to those docs in a week."
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: All Chemistry
Old piping. Illegal paint. Scrap metal. Get whatever lead you can onto this boat by Friday.
On Friday it will ship down south to a man in a country. The man doesn't so much care how harmful lead can be, only that it's a very useful material. He will not pay us directly.
However on Saturday morning, this man will sign the wrong form. Several truck loads of medical supplies will go to displacement camps along the border. The nuns and doctors will appreciate it greatly.
This man will not "catch" his mistake until Monday morning. By then, the medical supplies will be so dispersed as to be irretrievable. Also by then we will have won the heart of another certain man, this one in the cartels.
By Monday at noon, if this other certain man's heart is won, more cargo will begin shipping north again. Mainly foodstuffs.
On Wednesday morning, if cargo is flowing properly, our friends in the most northerly depot will nestle a special crate in with the foodstuffs. The cartel doesn't even know this crate exists, nor does our man in the government. We will keep it that way.
The crate will arrive here that Thursday. For every pound of lead you give me, you can have a pound of what is in that crate. And like that, we'll turn lead into gold.
On Friday it will ship down south to a man in a country. The man doesn't so much care how harmful lead can be, only that it's a very useful material. He will not pay us directly.
However on Saturday morning, this man will sign the wrong form. Several truck loads of medical supplies will go to displacement camps along the border. The nuns and doctors will appreciate it greatly.
This man will not "catch" his mistake until Monday morning. By then, the medical supplies will be so dispersed as to be irretrievable. Also by then we will have won the heart of another certain man, this one in the cartels.
By Monday at noon, if this other certain man's heart is won, more cargo will begin shipping north again. Mainly foodstuffs.
On Wednesday morning, if cargo is flowing properly, our friends in the most northerly depot will nestle a special crate in with the foodstuffs. The cartel doesn't even know this crate exists, nor does our man in the government. We will keep it that way.
The crate will arrive here that Thursday. For every pound of lead you give me, you can have a pound of what is in that crate. And like that, we'll turn lead into gold.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Green Witch, CT
In the latest exaggeration of their anti-Paganism, today Salem dumped Greenwich, Connecticut into the ocean. It turns out the landmass, which was home to over 62,000 Americans, does not float.
"That means it wasn't a witch," says a Salem representative. "But it's not our fault. They put a homonym right in the name."
A few hundred people survived the dousing, but Salem residents beat them with sticks to keep them in the water until they drowned. "We could not risk the buoyant witches casting hexes on us once they got ashore. People who float serve the devil."
Anyone who was out of town for the weekend is warned to stay clear both of Connecticut and the boroughs surrounding Hell, Michigan. The Salem representatives would not say what their plans were for it, "but I'd go to New Haven instead if I were you."
"That means it wasn't a witch," says a Salem representative. "But it's not our fault. They put a homonym right in the name."
A few hundred people survived the dousing, but Salem residents beat them with sticks to keep them in the water until they drowned. "We could not risk the buoyant witches casting hexes on us once they got ashore. People who float serve the devil."
Anyone who was out of town for the weekend is warned to stay clear both of Connecticut and the boroughs surrounding Hell, Michigan. The Salem representatives would not say what their plans were for it, "but I'd go to New Haven instead if I were you."
Monday, September 20, 2010
Illiterary Analysis of Don Quixote
[This is a slightly touched up version of my review of Don Quixote for Goodreads. I'm posting it because I've never written another like it and, frankly, I think it's funny. Allow me to save you the time of reading a 1000-page classic with one blog post - or guilt you into reading a 1000-page classic, which is just as good.]
Day 1: Here goes nothing. Here come 1,000 pages of translated text.
The opening was insufferably cheeky and the origins of Quixote are slower to unravel than a heroic anime. Still, I see promise here, and the reputation earns it a couple hundred pages before I pass a strong judgment.
Day 2: Couldn't help but notice the dope wearing ill-fitting armor, his sidekick riding an ass, and the party attacking wind mills all occurred within the first two chapters. Those are also all the famous parts of the novel. I wonder how many people in human history made it to page 50.
Day 3: Passing through chapter three, Quixote is really growing on me despite Cervantes's narrative. Cervantes comes across as very bitter and far less clever than he thinks he is in the frequent literary and cultural criticisms, making Quixote's naive and insane positivity downright refreshing. I'll be interested to see if Cervantes does anything with this, but he's got me sympathizing with, and heck, downright rooting for the irresponsible, senile knight.
Day 6: I'm told Cervantes took up the hyper-critical narrator to make a second point - beyond satirizing chivalry and parodying chivalric literature, he wants me to sympathize with Quixote. That is a deep and admirable goal, though I'm too thick-headed to have realized it on my own. It would have been particularly hard to realize recently since the caustic narrative has been dormant for fifty pages – not that I’m complaining.
Though it's at least part because of my modern bias, the bigoted references to Africans and Islam are bothering me.
The feelings of anime are stronger. Many of the chapters are completely unrelated to the plot and feel like filler episodes, the main chapters are highly episodic, most everything centers around an interesting titular character, and the cast is even growing in little spurts and contained revelations the way they do in Japanese TV. If it wasn't for Cervantes's sense of humor being so similar to (if more polite than) Geoffrey Chaucer's, and the stuffiness of the writing, I'd sooner put this one the anime DVD shelf than the classic book shelf.
Day 7: Climbed through all of "The Impertinent Curiosity" today, a three-chapter digression that told another "novel" all on its own. Perhaps it's in part due to the translation, but this is insufferably overwritten, with so much needless language and euphemism that I couldn't tell if Cervantes intended homosexual innuendo in the first chapter, and from then on, had no idea when characters were supposed to have actual erotic or romantic attraction to anyone. Despite that, the three-chapter section is a great argument against picking apart the things you love ('lest you aren't able to put them back together).
Day 11: I'm deep into Book 2. The dialogue is sharper (though still very dated), a lot of the cleverness is executed more subtly, and Sancho (that's the sidekick) and Quixote seem to actually expand as characters. No, they don't grow or change, but dimensions are finally coming out of them. A nice development some 600 pages in. Quixote is finally exiting that insufferable phase of senility where everything he does is stupid and the characters or narrator stand around to remind us how stupid it is. He's actually getting things right now and then, suggesting he must be more complex than the fool Cervantes's narrator often drew him to be. He recognizes good poetry (even though the narrator disagrees with his judgment), is able to discuss philosophy with sound judgment, and actually stands up to defend a case of real but forbidden love, rather than, say, a delusion of two cucumbers that he thinks are lovers. This makes him much more interpretable and interesting, just as the stories in the picaresque are becoming more interesting, as deception is used for more amiable ends than selfishness, pride or greed. Deception is quickly replacing mistakes as the main theme. The cast loves taking advantage of the Don.
Oh, and the introduction to Book 2 is interesting as it stands as a 400-year-old example of metafiction, with the characters discussing the real-life forged "sequel" to the original book and Cervantes's true work. It also stands out as a 400-year-old example of metafiction being insufferably cheeky. How much the old ones predicted.
Day 15: The apocryphal chapter was tremendous. Don Quixote visiting a holy site, descending into it beyond anyone's line of sight, and falling asleep. Not getting knocked out, not passing unconscious, but Cervantes specifically says he is asleep. Then he returns with a story of rich visions no one could improvise, leaving us to wonder if he is lying, if his delusion deepened in the cave, or if Quixote, who has been developing to show more real intelligence lately, really saw some of this. Cervantes’s narrator is so preoccupied with slamming Quixote that it's easy to dismiss the possibility that Quixote really any of it. The potential for this book, if it were to have him legitimately experience something unbelievable, would be an amazing development. Cervantes is much more likely to take the easy way out, have it be fake, and make this all the thousandth skeptical joke at Quixote's expense.
The prophetic ape was also amusing, but after that the novel has spiraled down into the worst streak of thinly-veiled criticism. Sancho's bitching is insufferable. The meeting with another knight's party was similarly cloying. All the cleverness is gone. At this point in the book, did we really need Sancho to give us yet another monologue on how dumb his master is? This better be a trick setting up some further development of Quixote as semi-reliable or some other twist.
Day 22: I went out of town for a week and decided to leave this at home. I took Haruki Murakami and Mitch Albom books with me instead, to test those authors. Couldn't put up with the awful redundancy and unhumorous comedy during what was supposed to be a vacation. After a week-long breather I find Cervantes's Book 2 is still nearly unbearable. It seems that every new situation is quirky or curious in some way that feels not novel in the least after several hundred pages of other quirky and curious conflicts, and the stories consist mostly of characters talking about how weird or difficult something is.
Making Sancho governor was a neat idea. His court sessions have a nice inverted-Solomon quality about them, though his deliberations are subpar satire for 700+ pages into a classic. The highlight of today's reading was Quixote's letter of advice, for its extremely quotable and thought-provoking lines, such as "Be thou a father to the virtuous, and a stepfather to the wicked." That’s good stuff.
In all the years I've had professors and writers praise this book to me I've never heard them mention any of these anecdotes. I’m left guessing that even they never really finished the book.
Day 24: Rounding the final bend here. Sancho and Quixote are somehow back out on the road together again, running into people who are alternately impressed or cynical towards Quixote's wackiness. They complain about the fake second book again. Quixote defends some woman's honor through zany romanticism again. Was Cervantes paid by the page? The highlight (by far) is Quixote's criticism of various saints, going from bold to absurd. The lowlight is the talking statue that is, shockingly, a fake.
Did Cervantes really go nowhere with this massive tome? I liked the idea of a narrator so cruel that you sympathized with a character who was out of his mind. But it’s still brazenly biased against him. The narrator hasn’t changed his mind, Quixote is still a dope and the stories are still constructed to mock him. I don’t see how the theory of meta-sympathy holds up. Anybody who really turned against the narrator in favor of Quixote would have quit this book long ago since it’s clear he’s never going to get a fair shake.
A book about what a fair shake would be for Quixote would be more interesting. What he believes in isn’t real, so that can’t happen. You can’t perpetuate his fantasies forever because they’re unwieldy. What is justice for this guy?
Day 26: Finally done. Cervantes really bore a grudge against the guy who wrote the fake Quixote sequel, but his last riffs against him (won't spoil them) were by far the funniest. I imagine the last twenty pages are cause for more college essays than the preceeding nine hundred and eighty, but it’s still a copout. It almost feels like Cervantes didn’t mean it to be the final word (figuratively, though obviously it is literally). Quixote's suddenly sane, renounces everything he did and becomes bitter? There's a good reason his company "had no doubt whatever that some new craze had taken possession of him."
I realize it was a custom of crazy older stories to use cheap tricks. Moll Flanders has the conversion on the very last page so Defoe could get away with his antics in the body of the novel. Frankenstein has the “a letter from this guy about a thing he heard” gimmick so you won’t think Shelley is crazy. But that disingenuous distance is more cloying as the end to a 1,000-page book. There is so much space for plot here that builds to no real climax. It is, once again, less like great literature and more like generic anime, in that it had its premise and drew it out for so damned long that it lost any of its savor.
Still, I’m glad I read this, because this makes me the only man alive who has. Prove me wrong.
Day 1: Here goes nothing. Here come 1,000 pages of translated text.
The opening was insufferably cheeky and the origins of Quixote are slower to unravel than a heroic anime. Still, I see promise here, and the reputation earns it a couple hundred pages before I pass a strong judgment.
Day 2: Couldn't help but notice the dope wearing ill-fitting armor, his sidekick riding an ass, and the party attacking wind mills all occurred within the first two chapters. Those are also all the famous parts of the novel. I wonder how many people in human history made it to page 50.
Day 3: Passing through chapter three, Quixote is really growing on me despite Cervantes's narrative. Cervantes comes across as very bitter and far less clever than he thinks he is in the frequent literary and cultural criticisms, making Quixote's naive and insane positivity downright refreshing. I'll be interested to see if Cervantes does anything with this, but he's got me sympathizing with, and heck, downright rooting for the irresponsible, senile knight.
Day 6: I'm told Cervantes took up the hyper-critical narrator to make a second point - beyond satirizing chivalry and parodying chivalric literature, he wants me to sympathize with Quixote. That is a deep and admirable goal, though I'm too thick-headed to have realized it on my own. It would have been particularly hard to realize recently since the caustic narrative has been dormant for fifty pages – not that I’m complaining.
Though it's at least part because of my modern bias, the bigoted references to Africans and Islam are bothering me.
The feelings of anime are stronger. Many of the chapters are completely unrelated to the plot and feel like filler episodes, the main chapters are highly episodic, most everything centers around an interesting titular character, and the cast is even growing in little spurts and contained revelations the way they do in Japanese TV. If it wasn't for Cervantes's sense of humor being so similar to (if more polite than) Geoffrey Chaucer's, and the stuffiness of the writing, I'd sooner put this one the anime DVD shelf than the classic book shelf.
Day 7: Climbed through all of "The Impertinent Curiosity" today, a three-chapter digression that told another "novel" all on its own. Perhaps it's in part due to the translation, but this is insufferably overwritten, with so much needless language and euphemism that I couldn't tell if Cervantes intended homosexual innuendo in the first chapter, and from then on, had no idea when characters were supposed to have actual erotic or romantic attraction to anyone. Despite that, the three-chapter section is a great argument against picking apart the things you love ('lest you aren't able to put them back together).
Day 11: I'm deep into Book 2. The dialogue is sharper (though still very dated), a lot of the cleverness is executed more subtly, and Sancho (that's the sidekick) and Quixote seem to actually expand as characters. No, they don't grow or change, but dimensions are finally coming out of them. A nice development some 600 pages in. Quixote is finally exiting that insufferable phase of senility where everything he does is stupid and the characters or narrator stand around to remind us how stupid it is. He's actually getting things right now and then, suggesting he must be more complex than the fool Cervantes's narrator often drew him to be. He recognizes good poetry (even though the narrator disagrees with his judgment), is able to discuss philosophy with sound judgment, and actually stands up to defend a case of real but forbidden love, rather than, say, a delusion of two cucumbers that he thinks are lovers. This makes him much more interpretable and interesting, just as the stories in the picaresque are becoming more interesting, as deception is used for more amiable ends than selfishness, pride or greed. Deception is quickly replacing mistakes as the main theme. The cast loves taking advantage of the Don.
Oh, and the introduction to Book 2 is interesting as it stands as a 400-year-old example of metafiction, with the characters discussing the real-life forged "sequel" to the original book and Cervantes's true work. It also stands out as a 400-year-old example of metafiction being insufferably cheeky. How much the old ones predicted.
Day 15: The apocryphal chapter was tremendous. Don Quixote visiting a holy site, descending into it beyond anyone's line of sight, and falling asleep. Not getting knocked out, not passing unconscious, but Cervantes specifically says he is asleep. Then he returns with a story of rich visions no one could improvise, leaving us to wonder if he is lying, if his delusion deepened in the cave, or if Quixote, who has been developing to show more real intelligence lately, really saw some of this. Cervantes’s narrator is so preoccupied with slamming Quixote that it's easy to dismiss the possibility that Quixote really any of it. The potential for this book, if it were to have him legitimately experience something unbelievable, would be an amazing development. Cervantes is much more likely to take the easy way out, have it be fake, and make this all the thousandth skeptical joke at Quixote's expense.
The prophetic ape was also amusing, but after that the novel has spiraled down into the worst streak of thinly-veiled criticism. Sancho's bitching is insufferable. The meeting with another knight's party was similarly cloying. All the cleverness is gone. At this point in the book, did we really need Sancho to give us yet another monologue on how dumb his master is? This better be a trick setting up some further development of Quixote as semi-reliable or some other twist.
Day 22: I went out of town for a week and decided to leave this at home. I took Haruki Murakami and Mitch Albom books with me instead, to test those authors. Couldn't put up with the awful redundancy and unhumorous comedy during what was supposed to be a vacation. After a week-long breather I find Cervantes's Book 2 is still nearly unbearable. It seems that every new situation is quirky or curious in some way that feels not novel in the least after several hundred pages of other quirky and curious conflicts, and the stories consist mostly of characters talking about how weird or difficult something is.
Making Sancho governor was a neat idea. His court sessions have a nice inverted-Solomon quality about them, though his deliberations are subpar satire for 700+ pages into a classic. The highlight of today's reading was Quixote's letter of advice, for its extremely quotable and thought-provoking lines, such as "Be thou a father to the virtuous, and a stepfather to the wicked." That’s good stuff.
In all the years I've had professors and writers praise this book to me I've never heard them mention any of these anecdotes. I’m left guessing that even they never really finished the book.
Day 24: Rounding the final bend here. Sancho and Quixote are somehow back out on the road together again, running into people who are alternately impressed or cynical towards Quixote's wackiness. They complain about the fake second book again. Quixote defends some woman's honor through zany romanticism again. Was Cervantes paid by the page? The highlight (by far) is Quixote's criticism of various saints, going from bold to absurd. The lowlight is the talking statue that is, shockingly, a fake.
Did Cervantes really go nowhere with this massive tome? I liked the idea of a narrator so cruel that you sympathized with a character who was out of his mind. But it’s still brazenly biased against him. The narrator hasn’t changed his mind, Quixote is still a dope and the stories are still constructed to mock him. I don’t see how the theory of meta-sympathy holds up. Anybody who really turned against the narrator in favor of Quixote would have quit this book long ago since it’s clear he’s never going to get a fair shake.
A book about what a fair shake would be for Quixote would be more interesting. What he believes in isn’t real, so that can’t happen. You can’t perpetuate his fantasies forever because they’re unwieldy. What is justice for this guy?
Day 26: Finally done. Cervantes really bore a grudge against the guy who wrote the fake Quixote sequel, but his last riffs against him (won't spoil them) were by far the funniest. I imagine the last twenty pages are cause for more college essays than the preceeding nine hundred and eighty, but it’s still a copout. It almost feels like Cervantes didn’t mean it to be the final word (figuratively, though obviously it is literally). Quixote's suddenly sane, renounces everything he did and becomes bitter? There's a good reason his company "had no doubt whatever that some new craze had taken possession of him."
I realize it was a custom of crazy older stories to use cheap tricks. Moll Flanders has the conversion on the very last page so Defoe could get away with his antics in the body of the novel. Frankenstein has the “a letter from this guy about a thing he heard” gimmick so you won’t think Shelley is crazy. But that disingenuous distance is more cloying as the end to a 1,000-page book. There is so much space for plot here that builds to no real climax. It is, once again, less like great literature and more like generic anime, in that it had its premise and drew it out for so damned long that it lost any of its savor.
Still, I’m glad I read this, because this makes me the only man alive who has. Prove me wrong.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: He’s got the patience for it
There is an audio edition of today's monologue. To listen either click the triangle to the left to begin streaming, or click this text to download the MP3.
He’s been down here many times. Not this particular hole, but holes this deep, and deeper. His greatest talent is falling.
Birds or bugs circle overhead. His depth perception is shot and he can’t tell. He closes his eyes, not minding.
So his spine won’t let him sit up. So his arms might be broken. So his toes won’t curl on cue. He breathes once every ten seconds and sweats this not at all. He can wait, because his greatest talent is falling, or having fallen. Patience lets him get up when he can.
Did someone throw him in this hole? Then in a week he’ll rise, thirsty as sin. The only urge that gets to him in these times is thirst. He’ll drink his fill from a cool pitcher, waiting in that pusher’s dark living room. He’ll make things even. They’ll fall together. And when he’s ready, he’ll get up.
For now he has fits of shakes. For now it feels like steam is trying to escape through his pores. It might be shock or infection. It will pass. It always does.
If this next time he passes instead of the immobility? Then he’ll have out-waited pain itself. He’ll fall into whatever lies after life, and when he’s ready, he’ll get back up again. He’s got the patience for it.
He’s been down here many times. Not this particular hole, but holes this deep, and deeper. His greatest talent is falling.
Birds or bugs circle overhead. His depth perception is shot and he can’t tell. He closes his eyes, not minding.
So his spine won’t let him sit up. So his arms might be broken. So his toes won’t curl on cue. He breathes once every ten seconds and sweats this not at all. He can wait, because his greatest talent is falling, or having fallen. Patience lets him get up when he can.
Did someone throw him in this hole? Then in a week he’ll rise, thirsty as sin. The only urge that gets to him in these times is thirst. He’ll drink his fill from a cool pitcher, waiting in that pusher’s dark living room. He’ll make things even. They’ll fall together. And when he’s ready, he’ll get up.
For now he has fits of shakes. For now it feels like steam is trying to escape through his pores. It might be shock or infection. It will pass. It always does.
If this next time he passes instead of the immobility? Then he’ll have out-waited pain itself. He’ll fall into whatever lies after life, and when he’s ready, he’ll get back up again. He’s got the patience for it.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Monologue for a chipper Ian McKellan sitting on a picnic table
“Every scientist I’ve ever met believed in intelligent design. No decently observant man can deny it. It’s more a feature of the world than natural selection these days. Look around you for examples.
“See how the trees frame this park? How the flowers compliment the pines in color and fullness? The lawn kept an inch and a half high?
“How about my phone? Tiny. Network accessible miles from town. Complexity explicable only by a designer, and a designer who gets up on stage to sell you new things every year.
“Did you catch the Westminster Dog Show last night? All of those dogs, winners and losers, was the result of strenuous breeding for traits their masters wanted.
“From landscaping to calculators to poodles, intelligent design is everywhere. I gather we avoid the term out of modesty – we’re kind of incompetent designers, what with all the extinctions and oil spills. Maybe ‘well-meaning design,’ or, ‘decent-effort design.’ ‘I’m-sure-somebody-wanted-something-out-of-this design.’ Intelligence is in most of this. Misplaced, misused and misunderstood, as it likely is, but it’s affecting things.”
“See how the trees frame this park? How the flowers compliment the pines in color and fullness? The lawn kept an inch and a half high?
“How about my phone? Tiny. Network accessible miles from town. Complexity explicable only by a designer, and a designer who gets up on stage to sell you new things every year.
“Did you catch the Westminster Dog Show last night? All of those dogs, winners and losers, was the result of strenuous breeding for traits their masters wanted.
“From landscaping to calculators to poodles, intelligent design is everywhere. I gather we avoid the term out of modesty – we’re kind of incompetent designers, what with all the extinctions and oil spills. Maybe ‘well-meaning design,’ or, ‘decent-effort design.’ ‘I’m-sure-somebody-wanted-something-out-of-this design.’ Intelligence is in most of this. Misplaced, misused and misunderstood, as it likely is, but it’s affecting things.”
Friday, September 17, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Shark Café
I'm at the Shark Cafe like every Monday morning. It was a long night, so I'm pounding Double Hammerheads while the yuppies sip Maco and Great White Chocolate. Great White Chocolate? Like that's even shark anymore. They might as well sell candies here - but of course, they do. Gummybears and jellyfish are right next to the dried shark fin. Some days you wonder if shark has gone too populist.
Just when I’m thinking darkly of Shark Café, along rambles a good reason to support them. Wearing only flip-flops, jeans and Mardi Gras beads (in August) comes a man, swinging his arms in the ASL sign for “Shark Cruelty.”
“Shark is murder! Shark is murder!”
A couple of businessmen pick up their laptops and cups and leave for the subway. The others leave the open-air part, heading into the safety of the glassed-in part of the Shark Café. I could never drink in there. Smells like an aquarium.
“Give it a rest,” I call. “Shark’s no worse than Seacow or Whale Oil Refineries.”
Since I’m his only audience the guy stomps up to me. His ponch pokes the velvet rope that denotes where Shark Café’s seating area stops and the public sidewalk begins.
"Do you know how many dolphins die so you can get half-off on that shark?"
"None. Shark Cafe has been free of dolphin labor since the 90's. If you owned a TV you’d know that."
His Mardi Gras beads and gut swing over the velvet rope. He does not take a seat. “I donated my TV to a family of dolphins that were delocated by your supposedly harmless shark farms! Sharks never do that to people. They’re moral creatures.”
“Oh come on. If you’ve ever gone deep sea diving you’ve seen their Human Cafés. They pay out the nose for Upper Middleclass blends.”
"Shark is murder!"
"A morning without shark is murder," I say, and illustrate with a long pull. There's a little whipped fish on my upper lip. I leave it there and beam at the protestor. He takes a swing at me, an openhanded haymaker. I duck and he only catches the top of my head. It feels like a fish has just swum over my scalp.
All the same I back further into the velvet-roped area. He doesn’t pursue – doesn’t want to be mistaken for a customer at a place like this. For the first time I take a good look at him. His dull skin suggests a distinct lack of Omega-3’s and Asian sex – the two key symptoms of shark deficiency.
“When’s the last time you had a cup, buddy?”
“Shark is murder!”
“If I give you five bucks do you promise to spend it here?”
“Shark is murder!”
I roll my eyes, then notice another eye rolling in my cup. A shark eye. Oh, it looks succulent. But it’s full of necessary nutrients. I take the tall cup and leave it on the table closest to the protestor.
“Listen, guy. I’m going to leave this here. No telling what happens to it.”
Before he chant another slogan, I turn and head inside. I’ll order something else – something less intense. I come back out with a Cinnamon Twist Sandshark. The protestor and the Double Hammerhead are gone.
And they say no good is done in the city.
Just when I’m thinking darkly of Shark Café, along rambles a good reason to support them. Wearing only flip-flops, jeans and Mardi Gras beads (in August) comes a man, swinging his arms in the ASL sign for “Shark Cruelty.”
“Shark is murder! Shark is murder!”
A couple of businessmen pick up their laptops and cups and leave for the subway. The others leave the open-air part, heading into the safety of the glassed-in part of the Shark Café. I could never drink in there. Smells like an aquarium.
“Give it a rest,” I call. “Shark’s no worse than Seacow or Whale Oil Refineries.”
Since I’m his only audience the guy stomps up to me. His ponch pokes the velvet rope that denotes where Shark Café’s seating area stops and the public sidewalk begins.
"Do you know how many dolphins die so you can get half-off on that shark?"
"None. Shark Cafe has been free of dolphin labor since the 90's. If you owned a TV you’d know that."
His Mardi Gras beads and gut swing over the velvet rope. He does not take a seat. “I donated my TV to a family of dolphins that were delocated by your supposedly harmless shark farms! Sharks never do that to people. They’re moral creatures.”
“Oh come on. If you’ve ever gone deep sea diving you’ve seen their Human Cafés. They pay out the nose for Upper Middleclass blends.”
"Shark is murder!"
"A morning without shark is murder," I say, and illustrate with a long pull. There's a little whipped fish on my upper lip. I leave it there and beam at the protestor. He takes a swing at me, an openhanded haymaker. I duck and he only catches the top of my head. It feels like a fish has just swum over my scalp.
All the same I back further into the velvet-roped area. He doesn’t pursue – doesn’t want to be mistaken for a customer at a place like this. For the first time I take a good look at him. His dull skin suggests a distinct lack of Omega-3’s and Asian sex – the two key symptoms of shark deficiency.
“When’s the last time you had a cup, buddy?”
“Shark is murder!”
“If I give you five bucks do you promise to spend it here?”
“Shark is murder!”
I roll my eyes, then notice another eye rolling in my cup. A shark eye. Oh, it looks succulent. But it’s full of necessary nutrients. I take the tall cup and leave it on the table closest to the protestor.
“Listen, guy. I’m going to leave this here. No telling what happens to it.”
Before he chant another slogan, I turn and head inside. I’ll order something else – something less intense. I come back out with a Cinnamon Twist Sandshark. The protestor and the Double Hammerhead are gone.
And they say no good is done in the city.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Riverbrook Station
Riverbrook never had a station before so they had to improvise as it went along. They used confident bidders, domestic steel and concrete to erect a long platform. They screened all their conductors thoroughly, even though the railway provided them. They made the right deals with Amtrak and some stations to the north to assure reliable service.
And then on opening day a little boy leaned over the platform to watch the train come. His mother was preoccupied with The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. The boy did not pull back soon enough – which is to say, he didn’t pulled back at all. It was a miracle he wasn’t killed. He was thrown thirty yards and was distinctly unaware of any miracles when he landed in poison sumac.
It was a horrible thing for Riverbrook. They apologized, made settlements and cleaned. They mourned, even though the boy was alive and from out of town.
Riverbrook put down bumpy yellow plastic to guide people away from the edge of the platform thereafter.
Plenty of people came to take the next train. They had lives. They rushed aboard, and teenage vacationer fell in the gap between the platform and the door. It took half an hour to get her leg free.
They wrote along the yellow bumpy plastic for people to “MIND THE GAP.” The station manager announced the same for the PA before every train.
Apparently this one girl from Florida missed the message and didn’t hear him. She was busy on her cell. She explained such as the station crew pried her knee from the gap.
So for the next day the station manager wandered the platform, explaining that some people had troubles boarding and to be very careful. Elderly patrons appreciated the attention, but some of the younger ones thought he was crazy and disregarded the message. One of them was threatening to sue twenty minutes later when he fell in all the way to the waist.
So the station manager and every free person on staff wandered the platform afterwards, making certain every single person had a thorough lecture on how to board a train. No one was allowed to board before they had all been lectured. It held up the rail schedule terribly. It also took so long that people who had been lectured grew impatient, missed some crucial step in the instructions, and three people stumbled into the gap that afternoon.
Conductors were ordered to carry everyone onto the train, as passengers clearly couldn’t be trusted with this kind of responsibility. But as Wesley Morgan carried his third passenger on board his back went out and he staggered backwards through the door. You can guess where his left foot went. He was the most pleasant of the gap-victims, though; he was looking forward to suing someone, and possibly retiring early.
The Riverbrook Station saw so many accidents that they were still unsafe by the time particle teleporters were introduced. The station manager happily handed over the keys to a physicist. He babbled warnings about queuing order how a size ten shoe can pass through a three inch space. The physicist shrugged him off and invited his first passenger. That was the first time any teleporter commuter ever lost a foot.
And then on opening day a little boy leaned over the platform to watch the train come. His mother was preoccupied with The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. The boy did not pull back soon enough – which is to say, he didn’t pulled back at all. It was a miracle he wasn’t killed. He was thrown thirty yards and was distinctly unaware of any miracles when he landed in poison sumac.
It was a horrible thing for Riverbrook. They apologized, made settlements and cleaned. They mourned, even though the boy was alive and from out of town.
Riverbrook put down bumpy yellow plastic to guide people away from the edge of the platform thereafter.
Plenty of people came to take the next train. They had lives. They rushed aboard, and teenage vacationer fell in the gap between the platform and the door. It took half an hour to get her leg free.
They wrote along the yellow bumpy plastic for people to “MIND THE GAP.” The station manager announced the same for the PA before every train.
Apparently this one girl from Florida missed the message and didn’t hear him. She was busy on her cell. She explained such as the station crew pried her knee from the gap.
So for the next day the station manager wandered the platform, explaining that some people had troubles boarding and to be very careful. Elderly patrons appreciated the attention, but some of the younger ones thought he was crazy and disregarded the message. One of them was threatening to sue twenty minutes later when he fell in all the way to the waist.
So the station manager and every free person on staff wandered the platform afterwards, making certain every single person had a thorough lecture on how to board a train. No one was allowed to board before they had all been lectured. It held up the rail schedule terribly. It also took so long that people who had been lectured grew impatient, missed some crucial step in the instructions, and three people stumbled into the gap that afternoon.
Conductors were ordered to carry everyone onto the train, as passengers clearly couldn’t be trusted with this kind of responsibility. But as Wesley Morgan carried his third passenger on board his back went out and he staggered backwards through the door. You can guess where his left foot went. He was the most pleasant of the gap-victims, though; he was looking forward to suing someone, and possibly retiring early.
The Riverbrook Station saw so many accidents that they were still unsafe by the time particle teleporters were introduced. The station manager happily handed over the keys to a physicist. He babbled warnings about queuing order how a size ten shoe can pass through a three inch space. The physicist shrugged him off and invited his first passenger. That was the first time any teleporter commuter ever lost a foot.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: True Stories of John, 3 – He’ll Be an Engineer
Mom had to take Little John to multiple elementary schools. She had to find the right one, because he was very temperamental around new people. This one Elementary School seemed promising, with its wide open playground and a sweet kindergarten teacher.
The four-year gibbered at her about Smurfs and Godzilla for a few minutes before going to explore the toy section. Sitting beneath a brightly lit window he began to play with plastic blocks. They were like Legos, only much larger.
Mom and the kindergarten teacher talked about his sensitivity to loud noises and issues with other children. Despite being described as clingy, Little John didn't bother them. He kept stacking the blocks, building a narrow triangle until it was nearly as tall as he was.
The teacher admired it and said to Mom, "Maybe he'll be an engineer some day."
Little John admired his work. Then he put up his hands like claws, roared and toppled the block structure.
There was a silence between the adults while Little John looked up at them for approval.
Decades later, watching Lilo and Stitch, he would feel like Disney had plagiarized him somehow.
The four-year gibbered at her about Smurfs and Godzilla for a few minutes before going to explore the toy section. Sitting beneath a brightly lit window he began to play with plastic blocks. They were like Legos, only much larger.
Mom and the kindergarten teacher talked about his sensitivity to loud noises and issues with other children. Despite being described as clingy, Little John didn't bother them. He kept stacking the blocks, building a narrow triangle until it was nearly as tall as he was.
The teacher admired it and said to Mom, "Maybe he'll be an engineer some day."
Little John admired his work. Then he put up his hands like claws, roared and toppled the block structure.
There was a silence between the adults while Little John looked up at them for approval.
Decades later, watching Lilo and Stitch, he would feel like Disney had plagiarized him somehow.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Issue With Sunlight
I've been pondering your subjects' issue with sunlight. Being nocturnal makes little sense to me as an answer. The sun is a star. At night there are thousands of stars in the sky, visible only by the light they shone towards earth eons ago. While that is low-intensity starlight, the moon is also only visible because it catches and reflects sunlight. Solar illumination is quite present at night.
There are three ways we can process this.
The first is to observe epidermal tissue of vampires at the cellular level to see if it decomposes any faster under moonlight than in pitch blackness, and from there extrapolate a theory of intensity of radiation and its effects on vampire tissue. This theory will have to explain how vampires exhibit no weakness or sickness on a full moon bright enough to plainly see by.
The second is to postulate a psychosomatic disorder in which your subjects are so afraid of the sun that whatever they consciously associate with it poses a hazard. We then have to assume a psychosis is causing them to combust.
The third is to accept that we are biologists and these are magical monsters.
There are three ways we can process this.
The first is to observe epidermal tissue of vampires at the cellular level to see if it decomposes any faster under moonlight than in pitch blackness, and from there extrapolate a theory of intensity of radiation and its effects on vampire tissue. This theory will have to explain how vampires exhibit no weakness or sickness on a full moon bright enough to plainly see by.
The second is to postulate a psychosomatic disorder in which your subjects are so afraid of the sun that whatever they consciously associate with it poses a hazard. We then have to assume a psychosis is causing them to combust.
The third is to accept that we are biologists and these are magical monsters.
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