Bathroom Monologues Movie Awards

It's almost March 2012, so of course we're all talking about the best movies of 2011. If all the complaining on Twitter is any indication, I'm once again happy to have skipped the Academy Awards. Naturally I disagree with some of the winners. More naturally, I don't understand what some of the categories mean. But nothing shall dissuade me from telling a sizable democratic body of people who devote swaths of their lives to film that their mass conclusions were wrong. So here we go.

The Robbed Award

Going to the movie that got no play last year

and is still on my mind more than whatever won Best Picture

 I Saw the Devil

The Too Little/Too Late Award

Going to the movie I missed by several years,

but have now seen and wish I'd been on the bandwagon for at the time

 Ostrov/Octpob

The Embarrassment Award

Going to the thing that did everything film is supposed to do

better than pretty much all the films did that year

 Portal 2

The Raddest Scene Award

Going to the raddest scene in a motion picture

 

The Reveal and Follow-Up in Scream 4

The Dark Horse Award

Going to the movie that was way better than you all led me to believe it would be

 The Perfect Host

You're Actually All Great At This

Going to the best ensemble in a motion picture or TV show,

since one TV show smoked all the movies this year anyway

 Breaking Bad

The Frank/Nixon Memorial Award

Going to all actors who performed as well or better

than Frank Langella did in Frost/Nixon

 For the fourth year in a row, nobody

The "There's No Such Thing As The Best Movie of the Year" Award

Seeing as there is no such thing as a best movie amidst a field of comedies, dramas, musicals, period pieces, speculative fiction, animation, blockbusters and an international film market we're both not watching enough of as it is, the award that simply goes to whatever movie brought me the closes to both crying and laughing last year

 Paradise Lost 3

 Related: 2010 Awards.

Bathroom Monologue: Nothing Exits, Nothing Gained

Boy goes into the house.

Girl exits the house.

Cops enter the house.

Criminal exits the house.

Victim returns to the house.

Pitiful claims exit the house.

Therapist enters the house.

Corpse exits the house.

Exorcist enters the house.

Nothing exits the house ever again.

“For Sale” sign keeps the house company.

Bathroom Monologue: Godless Ghost

We first saw Dad's ghost the night of his funeral. He wandered the parlor, complaining about coloration and the tone of the priest and Mom's neckline. Mom took it the hardest, which is understandable. We had a priest over the next morning to commit an exorcism, but it didn't take. We had him come for repeats the next two days before it became evident that wasn't working. Mom got some gypsies to hold a seance to no avail. We got a Methodist, and a Unitarian, and even a Rabbi who seemed to think his cigar would help. None of it helped. We had doctor of dark arts flown in from South America, and all we got out of the deal was Dad stamping his feet upstairs, saying he'd never seen the appeal in hardwood. Eventually we ran out of options and resigned to doing nothing about him. Two days later, he'd vanished. No stamping, no ranting. We couldn't figure out why doing nothing had done the trick, until Mom remembered: Dad'd been an atheist.

Bathroom Monologue: On the Deathbed of Carl Rudolph

A man in a brown suit and burgundy tie appeared at the door. He held a tidy briefcase. Rudolph squinted at him from his tangle of plastic tubes and bed sheets.

Brown Suit asked, “Are you Carl Rudolph?”

“You’re late if you want to sue me.” He smiled crookedly. “I’m done with lawyers.”

“This isn’t litigation, Mr. Rudolph.” Brown Suit strode across the hospital room, retrieving a manila envelope from his briefcase. “I’m here on behalf of the estate of Neal Jennings. He left a proviso to deliver this letter on your... well.”

“Jennings did that? What did he want that he didn’t have thirty years ago?”

“I don’t know, sir. No one has read the contents. His will is quite specific.” Brown Suit handed over the envelope. It slid through Rudolph’s arthritic fingers and rested on his chest. He looked at it with half-lidded eyes.

“Did he specify you wear such hideous fashion?”

“In fact, he did.” Brown Suit snapped his briefcase closed. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Rudolph.”

He left Rudolph to watch the envelope rise and fall on his ribs, following his breathing. It was address-side up, made out to him in big, blocky letters.

“So I could read it if my eyes went, Jennings?”

He prodded the envelope. It was several pages thick inside. What on earth had Jennings written?

“The last word. You knew full well I couldn’t rebut you this way.”

What would that word be? More of Jennings’s theosophy? Pleading that it was actually God in the details and that holding hands would solve it all? Urging him to go dunk his head in an Indian river before he died? To donate to some charity that was probably corrupt?

“Or…”

Or they could be pages of remembrance. All the Trotskyist political arguments, and the absinthe that made them worthwhile. The continental train ride to a lecture they skipped out on halfway through. Walking into a London hotel room to ask if they could check out of this bore already, only to find Jennings checking into the maid who would become his second wife.

The women. Goodness, the women. Just thinking about all that collective suppleness stiffened parts of Rudolph that had been medicated numb for weeks.

He pressed the tip of his middle finger on the center of the envelope. It was damnably thick.

Would Jennings have sentimentalized so much about gilded times? What if he had confessions? The rotten investments he’d tried to hide. Rudolph had forgiven him decades ago, but how bitter would it taste to read Jennings apologizing for it now?

Or finally calling Rudolph for plagiarizing him in his second book. Jennings had never exposed him. Would he sue him from the grave and steal the inheritance of his grandchildren?

“They never visit anyway. Still…”

What else was there to reveal?

He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Goodness, I hope he doesn’t come out as gay. We were….”

An acrid pain between his ribs reminded him. Decades ago he could have worried about what was in envelopes, but not anymore. Be it a lawsuit, an answer or love letter, there wasn’t time.

His hands didn’t work like they used to. He peeled open the envelope’s seal with the first knuckles of his index fingers, then shook out the papers onto his chest.

There they were: five in all.

Rudolph lifted the first. He saw no words.

He held it closer to his face. No, nothing typed or in Jennings’s chicken scratches. It was blank.

He shuffled through the papers. Every one was blank, back and front. Had Jennings padded it to look ominous, then left no omens?

No. The last page wasn’t blank. There were two lines of text in the very middle. They read:

See you in a minute.

-Jennings

Five Questions About Writing

Some of the most encouraging mail I get is from readers and fellow writers asking about my process. If you’ve read the BM’s for long, you know I hang my writing process out there. I like to share my failures, successes and insights. If everyone was candid about their processes, the whole field would benefit. Recently an aspiring writer sent me five questions in researching artists for her own book. These are the answers I gave her. Please consider fielding these questions on your own blogs.

1. what inspired you to be a writer?

-I loved storytelling from my earliest years, so I was always open to it. The big shift came when I was bedridden with health problems at age 13. There were many long and excruciating nights when reading or listening to audiobooks literally gave me the will to live to morning. The desire to make it to the next page, and to find out what happened next, was vital. A sense of gratitude to the form definitely shaped my desire to become a writer.

2. what is love according to you?

-Love is a lasting condition in one person toward another person, creature or object, recognizable by frequent supportive concerns for their various well-beings, including but not limited to medical, financial, artistic and spiritual well-beings. These concerns can be positive, such as the joy that my sister just got a new job. These concerns must be strong enough to act upon; if you won't do things for others, then you don't love them. Love can be familial, romantic or friendly. Most of my passionate loves have not been erotic, but simply friendship.

3. what are your writings to you?

-They are my beloved creations, little different to me than the world would be to God. I must do right by them, be honest with them, let them play themselves out, and never interfere so much that their experience is compromised. While I write some veins of satire and social commentary, I never let such influences overtake the sanctity of the work itself.

4. how will you define yourself as an artist?

-Experientially. There is too much complexity and emergence in writing copious prose for me to prescribe a singular meaning to all my work, at least at this stage in my career. If there is a summary, it’s that I define myself as I ponder, compose and edit. The prescriptive definitions will always come in second, even when they’d be more convenient.

5. what do you think are the qualities in you which others do not have. and because of which you can write?

-There’s a temptation to say I’m crazy, or goofier than average, and so am more inclined to write jokes about Noah’s Ark and giant plants throwing rooms at people. But really? It’s a couple of decades of critical thinking about, and practice focusing on, how my prose works. Experience sets most forms of expertise apart from the hobbyists and layfolk; I think most people could become just as competent in their own ways if they wrote and read as much and with as much scrutiny. The love of language, of style and structure, and an appreciation for pleasing elements largely came through experience. Most of my other traits influence what and how I write more than that I can write at all. For instance, my neuromuscular syndrome saps my energy, puts me in constant pain, and has limited some of my social interactions, so I look at healthy people as pathetic or crazy. That’s spurred me to write, but is it why I write, or simply why I depict people certain ways? Perhaps my only other significant quality is that I know enough about the world as people see it, and enough about what’s occurred in fiction, to be able to freely express my thoughts in prose in ways that seem creative because I have a certain grip on those two things.

Bathroom Monologue: What God Gave for Lent

“No, that’s not for Me,” said Our Lord. “That’s My son’s gig. I leave it unto him.”

“But why? Everyone else does it.”

“I gave up something for forty days once, but it went so poorly I had to promise not to do it again. No sense in tempting fate.”

“What did you give up?”

The whole of Heaven shook with His chuckle. “Dry land.”

Eight Reasons to Yell at the LA Times, OR, Appropriating Hitler

Yesterday the LA Times ran an editorial about Global Warming. I was fine with that. They'd like schools to teach facts about it correctly. I strongly support that. But a few paragraphs in, I just about lost my mind. I came across one of the worst examples of a bad writing habit, and for any younger writers out there, I want to point this out so you don't repeat it. I'm not singling out the LA Times or these particular authors, though my language may occasionally express how little civility I had left when they invited Hitler to the Global Warming debate.

That is a lie so big that, to quote from "Mein Kampf," 

it would be hard for most people to believe that anyone

"could have the impudence to distort the truth so infamously."

-LA Times Editorial, February 20th

 

1. In the above selection we see that the LA Times Editorial Page quoted Adolph Hitler to support their argument. This fact alone is issue #1. When the author got to, “to quote from Mein Kampf,” an editor should have hit them with a ream of printer paper and asked, “Why?” Why on God-damned earth would you feel compelled “to quote from Mein Kampf” in a Global Warming editorial?

2. In addendum to the pure absurdity of quoting Hitler in support of anything, it must be recognized that they were quoting him on a topic of debate that emerged decades after he died. They were not actually quoting his opinion on Global Warming denialism because, unless he was more successful in the occult than previously believed, he didn’t have one. So they were quoting one of history’s most monstrous leaders out of context.

3. What the Editorial Page mangled was Adolph Hitler’s notion of “The Big Lie.” The articles is actually hyperlinked to the Wikipedia entry for The Big Lie instead of Mein Kampf, despite putting the hyperlink exclusive on the title “Mein Kampf.” This caused a small capillary in my forehead to burst.

4. But beside hyperlinking liberally, there lies the issue of the mangling. “The Big Lie” was supposed to be a fabrication so bold nobody would doubt its veracity, because nobody would believe you’d stray that far from truth. This is a ridiculous stretch in application to Global Warming denialism. Not only do millions of my fellow liberals believe denialists are obviously errant from the truth, but none of the layfolk I’ve ever talked to believed such denial true simply because the claim is so bold it must be true. They believe arguments, propaganda, skewed or incorrect data, and conspiracy theories. If you ask, you’re much more likely to hear, “I just don’t see how people could do that. The planet’s so big.” So what the editorial page was really doing was misquoting Hitler to say, “They’re wrong and we don’t like them.”

5. It’s saddening that I got to #5 before touching the actual quote. Their line reads as an abysmal, “That is a lie so big that, to quote from "Mein Kampf," it would be hard for most people to believe that anyone "could have the impudence to distort the truth so infamously."” There is no reason that the content of “it would be hard for most people to believe that anyone” should not be contained in the original quote itself, except for shoddy re-contextualization. The result is not only using Hitler as a valid source for social criticism, but doing so in a way that makes it seem like you might be fudging the Furher on this one.

6. We’re deep into the list, but you really must understand that they were quoting Hitler for cred. Mein Kampf is an old famous book. By quoting it, you are saying, “I’ve read old famous things by old famous people, so I am smart.” I know this because I’ve read too many Freshman term papers that tried to do this, though first-year students usually don’t quote a genocidal asshole. If you lack quality of argument and resource, you at least quote Hamlet, The Constitution or The Bible – those old things that a lot of decent people like. Regardless, the needlessness of quoting a decades-old non-contextual source reeks of needy bragging.

7. Needy bragging about Hitler.

8. Of all the articles and books written in support of the theory of Global Warming, and of all the lectures and rants recorded about it, the LA Editorial Page opted for Hitler. Not a sociologist who's studied data on misconceptions and deceptions. Not a climatologist. Not an American politician. Not even a school teacher, about whom the editorial was supposed to be sniping.

I swear I’m normally a nice person, especially about writing snafus. All of the above could have been mistakes, or the product of thinking at 2:00 AM. I’ve certainly faltered like that in the past. But I beg you – journalists, bloggers, aspiring writers – don’t do this if you can possibly catch yourself. It may kill some mildly unhinged person like myself.

Bathroom Monologue: Boris Adapts to Drugs

Boris could adapt to anything his children could select. If they were nature, he was evolution. They whined on about his heart, and the circles under his eyes, and how much he scowled since Yulia passed on. Now his eldest daughter forced him to take sleeping drugs every eight o’clock at night, drugs that had not even existed when he first met her mother. At first, Boris thought he could out-will the drugs, but the dose was calculated for a heavier man, and every night for five nights he dropped like a stone into a bed meant for two. But Boris could adapt, especially so long as these children who were so interested in him only visited at meals. Beginning on the sixth day he stole half a fist of the sleeping drugs, hiding them in a hollowed part of The Cherry Orchard. At half an hour past lunch, he swallowed a dose, then went to his filing cabinet and emptied a random drawer onto the floor. He repeated the task for four afternoons before succeeding in re-filing the papers alphabetically – or that was, before succeeding at this, before passing out from the drug. On the fifth day, he emptied two drawers of the filing cabinet. In a matter of three weeks, Boris could work late into the night even after smiling and accepting the sleeping drug from his caring daughter. It was easier than arguing with her, and Yulia had hated argument.

Bathroom Monologue: Writing Prompt?

Compose a concise argument for why a traditional prenuptial agreement isn't invalidated by a man sleeping with my wife's two sisters. Preferably have your story in line with the New Hampshire state marital laws. Further, preferably include any reputable attorneys you know who operate in southern New Hampshire.

Bathroom Monologue: Die Hard Vs. No Country for Old Men

On a good day:

Die Hard is an awesome movie.

No Country for Old Men is a profoundly well-made movie.

On a bad day:

Die Hard is an awesome movie.

No Country for Old Men can go fuck it self.

When a relative has just died:

No Country for Old Men just seems like a bad idea.

I wish these mourners would get out of my house so I could watch Die Hard.

In an academic setting:

No Country for Old Men is the stripe of movie that’s safe to say I like.

Die Hard is the stripe of movie that, if a professor insults, I’ll immediately hate him.

Regardless:

No Country for Old Men is based on a book it seems like no one has read.

Die Hard is based on a book it seems like no one has read.

Bathroom Monologue: Tempest in a Teapot

Crying for Sugar, he secures his string to the top of the pot and dives in after her. Tides boil against slick porcelain shores. His body is dashed up against every one, but not a single beach supports him. All are stark and sleek, causing him to slide back into the froth. He plunges into the waters, reaching to the very depths of the ocean, his calls for her swallowed soundless. Though breathless, he dives and surfaces over and over, dabbing to the very scorching depths. No matter where he gropes, he cannot find her white form.

He pauses for a moment, allowing his bloated body to bob in the tide. His very essence perspires out through his pores and runs down into the waters, darkening them. Then light spills from overhead. His hideous rival has emerged: The Spoon. It dives more sharply than he can dream, gleefully stirring laps and turning up an even greater undertow. He rides the undertow, praying to find her.

But she cannot be found. Not in this tempest. She has dissipated, as though a ghost now doomed to haunt and sweeten this damnable sea. He knows their fate even before Spoon is cast aside, and their world is turned upside down. They pour forth into a cup. His string sticks to its lip, but he knows there is no escape, nor does he have the heart without Sugar. All he can do is weep and steep.

Eight Lines I Cut From The Novel

A few months ago T.S. Bazelli recommended I compile and share the darlings I cut from my novel. For decades heartless nimrods have recommended authors "kill your darlings." Blogging gives us a little leeway, though, in sending them off to a farm where there are lots of other quotes and space to run and play all day. Below I present to you nine things I regret axing from my current manuscript.

1. Our narrator, on scenery:

“His cell cast dark around him. He sat on the cot,

trouser cuffs rolled up as though dangling his feet in a pond.

It was a nice day in Zhanjee’s imagination.”

2. Our architect, on a place you can't understand:

“The astral plane is ideal. An ideal plane.

A natal plane is more the idea of a plane. An idea plane.

Very stripped down.”

3. Our hero, on deception:

"What's the point of lying if it doesn't make my life better?"

4. A succubus, on humans:

“My sister fancies you. She’s the youngest and
doesn’t understand yet that what looks
like personality is just flavoring.”

5. Humans on the succubae:

“They’re not whores.

Whores do good work for good money.”

6. Our narrator, again, on opportunity:

“The monsters didn’t pay him attention,
and he appreciated that.

It gave him time to worry without being seen as worrying.”

7. Our hero, again, on nightmarish beasts:

“Were there barking blue chickens in general population,

or is that food?”

8. Unknown, delivering the hardest of the cut lines, because you could argue it's the central theme of the whole book:

“Living up to my lies has made me a better person.”

There are my eight darlings, lying on the chopping block. I don't have the heart to admit the full chapters and subplots that were axed along the way - yet, anyway. Please feel free to share some of your own murdered darlings in the Comments.

Bathroom Monologue: Half Price Drinks Never Hurt So Bad

I knew I was a phase as soon as I caught Janice at cocktail hour with her ex-husband.

Romances I Actually Like

In celebration of Valentine's Day, and in retaliation for having to read Pride & Prejudice, I've meditated upon those fictional couples I actually like. There have been a lot of questions as to what romances get me. Smut or formulaic romances seldom do, but I'm not made of stone.

Adam & Eve from Mark Twain’s
The Diaries of Adam and Eve

In unusual move for Twain, what began as a rampant satire (in this case of Biblical literalism) matured into a complex and vital relationship. I often joke about how Adam’s first record of Eve is, “I wish it would stop talking.” But just as memorable is his pathos upon losing her late in life. It is one of the funniest examples of the now-tired Men Vs. Women humor.

Nor was Twain the first to harness the couple’s potential; my favorite part of Milton’s Paradise Lost is Adam deciding to eat the forbidden fruit because eternity without Eve isn’t worth it, and he would rather suffer damnation.

 

Rose & Bernard from Lost

Give me the choice and I’ll always sit next to the older couple. Lovers in their sixities have a dramatically greater chance of knowing each other’s hang-ups, griefs and defenses. Couples in their tweens, in fiction and non-fiction, have the wearisome habit of not getting their shit together. Lost features a couple who actually met later in life, who already know how love can fail and intimacy can hurt, and who connect in a little more reserved, but regardless more mature way. I will take the fallout from Bernard’s marriage proposal over any RomCom model-turned-star bending the knee. They have faith in each other’s absence, can see through each other’s immediate anxieties, and have the necessary perspective to endure and help each other. Even when they go into typical romantic conflict (every couple in TV has to), their resolutions are adorable.
 

Joker & Harley Quinn

It is one of the most dysfunctional romances ever created, and is my unabashed favorite. It is not just an abusive relationship: this vibrant woman is in love with the worst person alive. You could expect nothing other than for him to be awful; he’s murdered hundreds just to mess with a billionaire dressed as a bat. I have a huge soft spot for unconditional love, and this is the most extreme case of testing whether unconditional love can and should last – and it does so with unnerving cheer. That Quinn is so assertive in all other matters, willing to deck police officers and superheroes for questioning her man, is a good wrinkle. A better one is how Joker responds when she turns on him, like the time she almost shot his head off.

Carl & Ellie from Up

The second cartoon pair on the list is also the most affecting short I’ve ever seen. Up’s six-minute silent film approach displayed a mastery over film that few directors with casts of living actors possess. It also displayed the tropes of life: of desires postponed, intimate knowledge of another, and the inevitable loss of age. As someone who has not cried at a movie since he was 13, I give this the greatest accolade I can: it almost choked me up.

Mickey & Mallory from Natural Born Killers

There is no warehouse large enough to contain all the movies in which one lover “needs” another. It is in this one where the stakes most validate that need. They may be the only ones who can bring each other any peace in a world that otherwise seems to harm them, and they’re both so damaged they can’t reason their way to constructive lives. If the film reflected reality more I might reject it, but as the notion of two such damaged people, they draw utter sympathy and I actually root for them to carve their way through America. Typing this reminds me that I’ve yet to watch Bonnie & Clyde. That’s probably happening soon.

 

Medullina Camilla and Claudius

from Robert Graves’s I, Claudius

I’m sharing this last one to deliberately embarrass myself. Camilla has a bit role in the novel, appearing a little simpleminded, but uncommonly sweet to the disability-riddled Claudius. The pretty girl who was seemingly too good for this cripple reminded me a lot of my girlfriend at the time. I remember being excited to tell my girlfriend about her, and even a little excited for the fight after I would sideways call her simpleminded. Unfortunately I kept reading, and a few pages later Camilla was assassinated. By the time she got home, I didn’t want to talk about the book anymore. It’s good, though.

So there you go: six romances I actually endorse. Have any recommendations for me?

Bathroom Monologue: Thank You, Lita

Thank you for having a hoarse voice. It’s a little husky, only faintly raspy, like at one distant day you were a heavy smoker. I know you never were. And thank you for raising that voice, and for the way it makes men prickle. Other men. It just makes me think of Peppermint Patty.

Thank you for having legs that are simply too long. I don’t even like legs; mine have never been any good to me. That you never know what to do with them when we go to sleep is a source of constant comfort. Also, constant knees to the groin. I will not thank you for those.

Thank you for loving to clean. I like a tidy space, but I’ve never met someone who paid that much attention to a single window pane. You make me get out of my chair, even when my spine is acting up, to play my part in the fight against grime. And thank you for pandering, and for knowing, and for leaning on my shoulders until I sit back down. We both know when I have to stop, but you’re the only one who does something about it.

Thank you for dragging my bad knee to the dance hall. Thank you for the placating words in your dolorous tone. Thank you for looking at the only man in the dance hall who’s taller than you like you’re ten years old and he’s a milkshake. Thank you for taking my permission to dance with him for the rest of the night while I sit with a pack of ice, doodling elevator shoes on my napkin.

Thank you for knowing about all the big Horror movies before I do, and for checking the midnight screenings, and for driving, and sometimes for paying, and when I need it, sometimes for letting me pay. Thank you most of all for digging little pink crescents into my forearm midnight premiere after midnight premiere. It’s a small price to pay to defend you against haunted houses.

Those fingernails. Thank you for unconsciously picking at your cuticles, punishing them for being uneven, and getting so frustrated while simultaneously glassy-eyed and unaware. And when I put my hands over yours, thank you for stopping. Thank you for letting me stop you. I wish it wasn’t a part of me, but I’m eternally grateful that you let me know I’m not alone in all my little imperfections.

Bathroom Monologue: Modern World Besieged

Imagine J.D. Salinger getting turned down because he’s uncomfortable doing promotion.

Imagine Mary Shelly getting rejected from agent after agent because Frankenstein is too unlike what’s on the market.

Imagine Virginia and Leonard Woolf creating their own e-pub platform to support their nutty books.

Imagine The Great Gatsby getting buried in the Kindle Rankings shuffle, leaving Fitzgerald to drink off the disappointment. The book bloggers seemed enthusiastic, so why didn’t it take off?

Imagine Arthur Miller having to settle for whatever actors he could find on Craigslist.

Imagine a web forum as robust as the Oulipo.

Imagine if Maxwell Perkins blogged. Imagine if his publisher ordered him to blog, to tweet and run Facebook, even if he needed the hours to work with Wolfe at the blackboard.

Imagine Roald Dahl targeted for writing YA that’s too dark and depressing.

Imagine the Library of Alexandria with a cloud drive. It’s another world, ugly and gorgeous.

Bathroom Monologue: Paying Villains

More people anticipated the economic collapse than expected. For instance, The Silent Friends group hacked the accounts of Lehman Brothers and plundered millions of dollars two years out from the mortgage-backed securities scandal. They were considered hacktivists or general net-terrorists for decades afterward, unable to be caught, and after the collapse, no one much wanted to catch them anyway. It wasn’t until the 2040’s when the money from those hacked accounts reappeared, in the forms of electronic deposits to the grandchildren of brokerage employees who’d been screwed out of retirement funds. All came addressed from The Silent Friends, with the explanation that their elders hadn’t know what they were doing. It paid for quite a few educations.

Bathroom Monologue: Making Her

It’s too early. Go back to sleep.

Stand up. Come on, stand up.

Walk to Mommy.

You’re too old for diapers. Big girls use the potty.

Say, “Thank you.”

It’s 8:00. Time to go to this school.

Wear these skirts. They’re just like Mommy’s.

Who wears that anymore? Micros are in.

Didn’t I tell you to wear your new skirts? Why can’t you be grateful?

You dress like an old woman. What are you, a conformist?

Lighten up.

Stand up for yourself.

Do you really want to graduate a virgin?

Turn your essays in Friday.

Fold this laundry.

Love this man.

A part-time job never hurt anybody. Just ‘till my unemployment kicks in.

Can you pick up beer?

Can’t you get out of bed without making so much noise?

Is there anything that doesn’t make you nauseous?

Fill out these. Sign here.

It’s not like I asked for a kid. Maybe in a few years, but not now, right?

Make sure you take these twice a day.

Where are you going?

Breathe like this.

Why don’t you return my calls?

Why don’t you return your mother’s calls? She’s scared witless for you.

Push.

Would you like to hold him?

Are you alright, ma’am? I was asking if you’d like to hold him.

“It’s a boy?”

Yes. Would you like to hold him? I swear, he’s all cleaned up.

“…Yes, I think I would.”

Some people are waiting outside. Should I let them in?

“No. Let them wait a while longer. I have some stuff to figure out.”

Now I Get a Liebster Award

Last week Joshua "Judge Whisky" Londero bestowed the Libester Blog Award upon my person. He said it was the least he could do after I'd entertained him for so long, which is one of the more flattering things anybody's said to me in quite a while. I'd like to thank him both for the compliment and the award.

I'm a little disappointed that this one doesn't come with fun rules like "admit seven embarrassing things about yourself" or "post a picture of you and the sharpest object in your house." However, it does prescribe passing itself on to folks who, presumably, you like. The description goes:

The Liebster Blog Award originated in Germany

(Liebster means “favourite” or “dearest” in German)

In accepting this award, the recipient agrees to:
1. Show your thanks to the blogger who gave you the award by linking back to them.
2. Reveal your top 5 picks for the award and let them know.
3. Post the award on your blog.
4. Bask in the love from the most supportive people in the blogosphere.
5. And, lastly – have fun and spread the karma!

I think my recipients posting pictures of themselves with the sharpest object in their homes would fit the definition of me "having fun." Regardless, I'm only command to pass it on, and since I didn't pass on my recent redundant awards, I'll dust off my Bookmarks for this one. Here goes.


1. Mark Kerstetter's The Bricoleur is the first blog that came to mind. Mark is in the process of figuring out what e-book project he'll take, and the blog is a great jumping-off point for content, as he's shared essays, thoughts on literature, poetry, stories and photos there. He is one of the most candid essayists I know.

2. Holt Right There has one of my favorite titles on the internet. It's run by young Jack Holt, who writes some of the weirder stuff I consume weekly, including occasional flash fiction based on movie titles (like "Shark Knight").

3. Inkstained is the blog of TS Bazelli, one of my beta readers. She's had a couple of very strong running features, including the current international bestiary "Creature Compendium." I'd never heard of The Church Grim before, had you?

4. Tim Van Sant is one fine man, and a pillar of the #fridayflash community. He writes at the OTOH, and creates a lot of the riskier and cheekier stories in the community. A stand-up guy.


5. Lastly, I bestow the Liebster upon Cathy Webster of Life on the Muskoka River. She's had a rough time lately between eye surgery and a lack of junk food. Presently she's been running a "letters from friends" event that's quite pleasant, and features at least one of the above writers.

Now, none of the above are technically obligated to photograph themselves with particularly sharp objects. I will say, though, that whomever poses with the sharpest object will win something special in my heart.

EDIT: This is actually open to all my readers and fellow writers. Snap a photo with the sharpest thing in your house. If enough people do it, we might run a formal competition.

Bathroom Monologue: Yesterday was a Holiday

"Yes, yesterday was a holiday for the Red Brigadiers. It was the day marking when the Risen Man inducted his first ministers in the Sunset Cliffs. That's why today is a holiday.

"Today marks when the Risen Man's first ministers embarked and disseminated from the Sunset Cliffs and through the archipelago, to spread his words. We're keen on spreading his news. So yes, yesterday was a holiday, and today is a holiday, and tomorrow the Red Brigadiers may observe another.

"Tomorrow marks the signing of the armistice with the Munenori. You remember that treaty? You bastards broke it five seasons ago - or it will have been five seasons ago, in about eight more days. That'll be a holiday, too, to memorialize those lost in the horrific slaughter. The day after will also be a holiday, commemorating how badly we spanked the Munenori in the Battle of the Flattenings.

"We celebrate that one with copious alcohol, because at dawn the following day begins a three-day fast commemorating the Risen Man's teachings of tolerance - or 'temperance,' if you're orthodox like my mother.

"You've got to have caught on by now: every day is a holiday for us. It's a benefit to having a religion with history. We are blessed with such heritage that any day that needs taking off, or introspection, or particular care, shall be. This way a Red Brigadier is always rested well enough to do good work, and thereby add another holiday and still more tradition to our annals, so that when the known history fades, it may be replaced by what we now do. Like in two days, when the Munenori storm these trenches again? My kids will celebrate how heroically we kicked their teeth in by taking the afternoon off."

On My Beta Readers

I’ve just finished reading the last beta reader’s manuscript on The House That Nobody Built. It was the longest, with over 1.700 comments, and by the end I taped an envelope with the page numbers of each chapter to my computer tower. I crossed them off to encourage myself to continue.

Using six beta readers drew surprise from most of the authors I know. Most only used a couple. Two concerned friends kindly e-mailed me saying they thought more would be too much work for me, and they feared I’d overwhelm myself. After a month of self-imposed deadlines and legitimately fearing for my eyesight, I’m glad I stuck with my six. Here’s why.

470-odd pages look better when broken down.

My six covered more ranges of experience. I get multiple men, multiple women, multiple ethnicities and regions represented. Some were writers and novelists, at least one works in a related craft, and two were simply passionate Genre readers. The professional zoologist knew things my linguist-nut friend didn't, and vice versa.

The bigger the population, the easier it was to discern whether something was actually functional or problematic. One of six beta readers hating a joke was not so bad, but if he’d been one of two, I’d have an exaggerated sense of the importance.

As Stephen King covered in his On Writing, having more betas also let opposing opinions go up against each other. If 1/6 was terrified by a scene and another 1/6 thought it was trite, with the others being neutral, then the tie can go to the runner.

Alternatively, as was usually my approach, I could e-mail the two outliers and find out more about the nature of their reactions, using the answers from one to form probing questions for the other, and figure out broader functionality. With only a couple betas, I’d have less of a chance of catching these instances, and at least three times during the crit such ping-ponging seriously helped balance the plot.

There were smaller boons, too. Only the third beta reader to turn in her copy noticed the following typo.

Click to resolve Blogspot's awful resolution issues!

One typo’s not so much, but only one of the six pointed out that people were eating the carcass of what had previously been identified as a poisonous creature. Only one caught a reference to Douglas Adams, and had the guts to say it was too bald and, as a fellow fan, it should go. And while I enjoyed their specialties, just as important were their ignorances; what people didn’t know or misbelieved about typical con-men or prisons had to be compensated for every bit as much as my errors.

Then there were the consensuses. When the death of one character left 3/6 readers deeply afraid for the safety of the rest of the cast, I knew I was on to something. That case was particularly relieving because of how hard it’d been for me to kill that character in the first place. There were many reasons for it to happen and I’ll likely write about it another time – but in this case, the reader pool’s reactions let me know the hard choice was the right choice. As much as I trust certain individuals, one out of two people can’t convince the way a majority of a pool can.

This is not disembodied data or focus-tested art. I know these beta readers personally or professionally, trust them, and have corresponded after they turned in their copies. I’m not looking to score 73% approval for a fight scene; I’m comparing human reactions on the page and checking in-depth as to how folks differ in experiencing my work. It may be that I’m too artsy for pure scientism. Whatever you call this, it’s the process that’s yielded my best work in the past. It’s the one I’ve got to rely on now, as I strive to produce the best thing I’ve ever written. Like I tell you every time, my beloved readers, I will not put this out unless it’s worth your time. I’m very grateful to these six for helping me get this far, as I will be to the theta readers next.

Bathroom Monologue: Deceptions of Love

"When did I stop popping breath mints before we kissed? When did you stop shaving your legs, and start picking your teeth with your pinky nail like that? Tonight I sat down next to you and didn't even think to suck in my gut. When did we become... ourselves? Ourselves in front of each other? We're not pretending so we can impress each other anymore. Last night, I used your toothbrush because I simply didn't care. I shouldn't feel okay telling you that. I should be terrified you'd catch on. The same way you should be terrified that I'll realize you don't actually like football. I saw you rolling your eyes last night. Two years ago, you would have gouged them out sooner than let me catch that. We're starting to be honest with each other, and it's indecent. It's sick. What did you do to make me love you so much that I didn't mind being unimpressive around you?"

Bathroom Monologue: Can't Beat Them Audio Redux

To hear Nat Sylva narrate today's monologue, click here.

"Two years he’s turned us out of the playoffs. Their training camp looks even sharper this year. You’re going to have to do something more than trade for a draft pick. And I’ve got something to think about. Something to keep in your pocket, in your office safe. Something you should burn before November, whether or not we do it.

"I know a woman at an escort service. She's not from here or their town. I think she’s from Baton Rouge. We met once. She's… frightening in how persuasive she gets.

“We can hire her through an intermediary who will have no direct connections to you or our team.

"Now, if he's too good a few weeks into the season, we call an innocuous disposable cell. She'll single him out at a club. Get him alone. He's already had so many indiscretions that he practically has this coming. He’s had so many that whatever she claims, people will suspect. ESPN will discuss. Blogs will believe. The bruising will be artificial. The photographs convincing. The distractions? Perpetual. Even if her suit folds, he will miss at least one game against us. In all likelihood, he'll miss the season and wind up on a crap team next year, possibly in the other conference.

"It will cost us less than any of our defensive linemen make. Her life will be pulled apart by media and she won't care, because she doesn’t like her life. You wouldn’t agree to this if you did. With this money, she can make another one somewhere she likes better than Baton Rouge. And we hamstring the biggest team in our division.

"It's a thing you can do."

Bathroom Monologue: Generations of Windows

Two generations ago, they spent all day cleaning windows to afford bread.

A generation ago, they cutely joked, “I don’t do windows.”

The current generation doesn’t know that windows are something you clean.

Bathroom Monologue: Shakespeare and a Ziplock Bag

 

They sat together with the lights off for half an hour before either of them spoke. Prewitt kept a towel over his face for good measure, left hand securing a Ziplock bag of ice cubes over his knee. Castle didn’t have any war wounds like that, but he couldn’t stand up from his chair. It creaked under his bulk.

“I need something slower,” Prewitt told him from under the towel. “I can’t keep up.”

“Yeah?” Castle gave a one-note laugh. “Like what?”

“I was thinking about stabbing you in the back.”

“That’s nice of you.”

“I mean like Shakespeare.”

“Shakespeare didn’t stab anybody in the back.”

“We’ll start as best friends, see.” Prewitt unironically raised his hands in front of his covered face, drawing thumbs and forefingers into the shape of a picture frame. “We’ve already run together before. That time The Dragon tried to throw you off the roof, I ran in and helped save you.”

“I said ‘Thank you,’ right?”

Prewitt would not be deterred. One hand raised the towel so he could look his best-friend-slash-victim in the eyes. “Every week we’ll have some girls come out with us. We’ll be a team, and you do half the work, and I do the other half. After a few weeks, we find a girl you really like. You pretty much fall in love with her. We phase out the other valets, and she’s your one-and-only.”

“Why would any man turn this down?”

“But you’re all shy. After a month, every time we appear, she’s leaning towards me. I get grabby and possessive. Some weeks you work alone with her and me outside, and I’m clearly hitting on her. You can’t tell her how you feel, so you tell me to back off. It doesn’t matter if we win or lose, because what’s going on between us is more interesting.”

“I would like to win more.”

“Maybe that’s your frustration, right? Because you keep losing, even when we’re teaming together, and I’m always walking off with your girl. And you snap and toss me to the ground, maybe even sock me one.” Prewitt punched the end of his towel, letting it flap in defeat. “And I seem all devastated because I didn’t know you cared that much.”

“We should talk more. Communication is important in relationships.”

“The next week, I’m all business. We win for sure. We win three weeks in a row, the pay days are huge, and you’re telling me if we take gold, then you’re going to tell her how you feel. I’m all excited for you.”

“Except you’re not.”

“Except I’m not!” Prewitt slapped his bag of ice, then jolted from the realization of pain. His voice calmed as he laid both hands over the bag, massaging himself with cold. “We go to a title match, and we fight hard, and you come from behind, and you’re about to win, and I stab you right in the back.”

Castle made fists of his gnarled hands. “I swear vengeance. Like Shakespeare.”

“You bet your ass you do. But that valet you’re sweet on comes out with both of us. She has such a hard time choosing sides. One week she’s with me, the next with you, and she asks you not to hurt me too bad. Then when we finally fight, she trips you. Costs you the fight. You’re heartbroken. You leave wrestling forever.”

“Forever?” Castle scoffed and moved to sit up, except his back was still locked up. He grunted in horrid pain.

“For a couple months while you rest your sciatica. I drum up as much hatred as I can as the jerk who stabbed his friend in the back and stole his girl. Wrestle all lazy since I’m a scumbag bad guy. Maybe take a title. When you’re ready?”

“I come back and chase you,” Castle said to the ceiling, unable to adjust and face his nemesis this instant. “I’m going to rip your head off for what you did to me.”

Prewitt leaned over, one hand on his Ziplock bag, the other searching until he clasped Castle’s. They shook. It was guaranteed money and it would only cost them their friendship.

Bathroom Monologue: Introducing Wartsinol

It’s done. The missus has brought your little bundle of joy into the world, and you’ve driven them home. Now the joys of parenting wear on you: the crying without cause, the shrieks for feeding at 2:00 AM, and the vomiting on suits that cost you two weeks salary. Gradually you’ve realized that, as adorable as your mother thinks her new grandchild is, this thing is loud, lumpy, and largely ungrateful.

But there’s help. There’s Wartsinol. By affecting the brain’s dopamine and oxytocin centers, twice-daily Wartsinol will force you into loving this thing that shares your genetic code. In just three weeks you won’t mind driving the store for the second time in one day because it keeps spitting up strained peas. You’ll be happy, and so will your family. Your wife wants you to love it. If you’ve put up a good act, your parents already think you do. But think about your parents. Think about your cold, distant father, five hours late to pick you up from softball practice, and you’ll reckon that Wartsinol will make the world better.

There are side-effects. Mild rash and aching joints are the most common. Not so bad, right? Other side effects include drowsiness, loss of appetite and intestinal lesions, but those happen with everything, so settle down. The worst thing, which I’m paid to tell you in a calm voice, is that twice-daily Wartsinol may cause heart disorders. But I’m not going to say it in a calm voice. I’m going to tell you straight-up that it’s been linked to fewer heart disorders than the fast food you cave into weekly. Also, one in two hundred subjects went sterile, which would disconcert other men, but this little bundle of joy wasn’t entirely planned either, was it, champ? So it’s less of a “side effect” than a “bonus.”

Twice-daily Wartsinol. Think about it.

Bathroom Monologue: My Last Three Nights

Update: I’ll break at Charlie Rose. I should probably check the blogs then anyway. Writing a novel is making me a bad internet buddy.

Update: I'll break at midnight. It’s too late to drop into a Rose interview anyway.

Update: 12:30? How can it be 12:30 when I'm behind? I'll just go to bed at 1:00. Let’s see how much I can get done.

Update: How have I only finished five pages? Jesus. I'll go to bed at 2:00. Just an hour. And hour of solid effort and this chapter will be perfect.

Update: 2:10 is pretty much 2:00.

Update: I can do 2:30.

Update: My eyes are now too bleary to read a clock.

#National Novel Reading Month Ends

Today ends the first #NaNoReMo. This month we congregated on Twitter and blogs to read those classic books we’ve been putting off. If you’re like me then you’re perpetually discovering additional vacancies in your canon. My entry was the suitably famous Jane Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.

My reading is a tale of hubris. It began with me asking a ladyfriend if I should, and her saying I’d hate it, and me saying I was more open-minded than that. So I asked my readers if I should read this or Mikhael Bulgakov’s Master & Margarita. They responded, generally, that Pride & Prejudice was great but that I’d hate it, and I responded that I was more open-minded than that.

Three hundred pages of telling an English classic to “Shut up” later, I’m still trying to blame others. I’ve been told that this is great literature and that I’m crass; that this is ChickLit and I’m unfair; that Austen was a rebel and that I’m a chauvinist; and that I can sleep on the sofa. If you’re clever enough, you can still troll me on Twitter about this book. Theresa Sanchez, I’m looking at you.

In part I read it to prove that I can enjoy Romances. There are even photos somewhere of me getting very emotional at the end of a movie that I’m not going to publicly admit I watched. Mark Twain’s Adam and Eve, Jonathan Swift’s Celia, and my disturbing soft spot for Joker and Harley. The point is, I’m not made of stone. Jane Austen’s narrative progress was. I even made up for the incident by jumping through Ursula K. LeGuin’s A Wizard of Earthsea last week, which is an utter delight.

So what did you learn from your classic? Did you finish it? You’ve still got a few hours.

Edit: and fine, if you guess the movie in the Comments, I’ll admit it.

Bathroom Monologue: Mummy Elaborated

The agent adjusted his cufflinks and looked the mummy over again.

“You won’t do anything about the bandages? Not even around the face? People connect more when they see faces.”

The mummy loosened his head wrappings. They unraveled and revealed strands of dry flesh, which constricted into a frown.

“I don’t have much of a face as it is. Without these wrappings I’m… just a zombie.”

The agent tilted his head.

“Aren’t you?”

“I’m royalty,” replied the mummy, wrapping his head back up.

“That is a problem.”

“You’re not kidding. I didn’t stuff a pyramid with jewels and scented oils to go shambling with a gas jockey who got bit on the neck.”

“No, I mean democracy is in fashion today. Royalty is going out of style where it isn’t photogenic. Have you considered running for office instead of holding onto your kinghood?”

“Nobody would vote for me. My religious values are thousand years out of touch and I’m not even a naturalized citizen of any of the easily scared countries.”

The agent looked out the window. If he squinted, the casino across the street could be a pyramid.

“And you don’t want to go back home?”

“I think being a monster in a country where blood pressure and playing too many videogames are serious problems will be easier on me, at least as I start back up again.”

“There are terrible things to be scared of in this country, you know.”

“Every country has things to be scared of, but I’m a luxury fear. I need a luxury market.”

The agent sighed.

“I just don’t think we can re-launch you this year as an undead product. Vampires are sexy. Pretty faces, no bandages, and they move faster. And you don’t want to get into the shambling market. Zombies have overflowed so badly that some of them are running now. It is not the same world it used to be.”

The mummy tugged at his bandages.

“Democracy changes things. That’s why I hoped it would die in Athens.”

“It’s a tough business.”

The mummy looked out the window for a while, staring at the casino. Then he perked.

“All those zombies? Do they have a president yet?”

Bathroom Monologue: Americans Hate Science

Americans hate science. This is why there are mandatory Science classes in public school. This is why Mythbusters attracts so many viewers. This is why Scientific American has lasted decades. This is why millions of hours are spent on American computers editing Wikipedia entries on Biology and Physics.

This is why the 'M' in 'M.I.T.' stands for “Massachusetts.” This is why Harvard, Berkley and Yale yield so many keen minds. This is why millions of people watch the TED Talks and the lectures of Walter Lewin. This is why President Obama does photo ops with Francis Collins. This is why Stephen Hawking is a rockstar and Albert Einstein is on motivational posters.

Americans hate science. That is why so many houses have electricity and so many kids whine for cell phones. This is why Apple products have created a glossy white cult. This is why Americans drive so many combustion engines and emit so many terabytes per second. This is why some kid somewhere can’t wait for her first campus visit, or her first experiment with live corrosives, or for the next Symphony of Science song to finish downloading. Because of science, she doesn’t have to wait long. She pays for that science. Her people pay billions per year for that science. Her people have been paying for a long time, for crushing Polio, and for putting boots on the moon, and for cartography of the human brain.

I don’t know when “Americans” became “other people.” As an American who was excited for the LHC, who would pay higher taxes to help NASA, who has many friends and a sister in the sciences, and who wonders at both inner and outer space, I don’t much appreciate it.