A Racist VERSUS I Hate Gay

A funny thing happened Friday morning.

Friday followed Wednesday by some hours. It usually does. On Wednesday night I was exercising and watching M*A*S*H, and something in Radar’s unacceptance of Colonel Potter’s possible mistress triggered thoughts about how people come accept alternative lifestyles. I started rattling off items on a list a comical bigot might experience, then repeated them in various orders until I had the idea for a narrative. Ever since I left the novel to simmer I’ve been experimenting with any ideas that wander along.

After soaking and letting the tremors subside, I played around with my bigot’s timeline on the page. I soon feared the whole thing was hideously offensive, but it kept me laughing so I finished it. As soon as it was done, I e-mailed several friends in the hopes one would say, “Yes John, this is awful and you shouldn’t post it.” Just one person’s distaste would have convinced me to never publish it.

The height of inconsideration: they all thought it was fine. Three thought it was hilarious. The bastards. Still struck by doubt, I saved the document and decided to sleep on it.

Thursday morning followed Wednesday night (they’re fast companions). I woke to find hundreds of visitors had hit my site overnight for one particular story: “I Hate Gay.” It’s one of only three stories about gay issues I’d ever published in my years of daily writing, this one from back in December. People liked it back then, but it had been dormant for months. There was no reason so many people should suddenly have read it. Having just slept on my fourth-ever story about gay issues, I felt uncanny.

People say I don’t believe in coincidences. This is untrue. I believe too much in them. This is God dressed as the universe dressed as a wolf dressed as my sick Grandma beckoning me to come a little closer. Even after the Wipeout Homophobia on Facebook group took credit for the traffic, I felt uneasy.

Not only were these two stories similar. They were also insultingly different. “I Hate Gay” is raw introspection following a hate crime. “A Racist’s Acceptance” is the goofy tale of un-PC tolerance. The latter might well piss off any well-meaning folks who liked the former. I became petrified that the story was now less opportune than it might ever be.

So I did the capricious and logical thing, and posted it. I do capricious things really early on Thursday mornings. No Grandma Wolves devoured me, but it did strike me strongly enough to blog about it. You’ve got to cut me that much slack; tomorrow’s my birthday. But I am almost interested on any feedback between the two stories.

Bathroom Monologue: A Racist's Acceptance of Gayness Over Time

1. I don’t see them ever. I don’t know if they’re around me. I imagine if they do exist, they don't really make out with each other.
   
   
2. I know some of them are around me, but they don’t make out on top of my desk. When I go home, I imagine they still aren’t making out on top of desks anywhere.
   
   
3. I know some of them are around me, but they don’t make out on top of my desk. However when I go home, I imagine the hot girl ones are making out on top of my desk.
   
   
4. I use the internet to find free videos of the hot girl ones making out, sometimes on desks.
   
   
5. I break down and pay the monthly membership fee to a website with really hot girl ones. I do not tell anybody. However, when a guy in the office is a dick to one of the guy ones, I tell him to shut up because I’m trying to get work done. Guy thanks me. He is Sal. I have to hide the monitor from Sal because I am actually checking the website. I imagine they don’t know that. I still imagine that the guy ones don’t make out on desks anywhere.
   
   
6. Tropical storms are just lame hurricanes. My car skids into a ditch. I spend forever trying to get service on fucking T-Mobile. A guy actually stops and helps. He has really nice hair and his clothes match. Is he one of the guy ones? I don’t know. His most activist bumper sticker is about meat being murder. I like beef. I imagine some of the guy ones like beef.
   
   
7. My car slides into another fucking ditch because these hurricanes don’t know when to stop. I throw my piece of crap T-Mobile into the storm drain that the front tire is lodged in. A truck stops; inside are a guy and girl. They offer to help. The guy has really nice hair and gives off no sexy-vibes at the girl. Is he one of the guy ones, or am I racist? As they winch my car, I ask him. He looks at me like I’m the weird one. It gets awkward from there.
   
   
8. After several months on the paid website, I realize the girl ones and I are on the same team. We have the same enemy: other girls. I go out to a bar with some people, including two people I suspect of being girl ones. They give me pointers. I feel less racist.
   
   
9. I press my luck too hard. I go out to a bar with some people, including two people I suspect of being guy ones. I think I’m being amazingly cool telling them that I understand that I am their prey and feel unthreatened. I think they are amazingly uncool telling me I’m not “their type.” A fistfight may break out. I am informed “racist” does not mean what I think it means.
   
   
10. Somebody is pissed at me. He/she/they makes a drawing of two guy ones making out on my desk, and the picture itself is left on my desk. I figure it’s Sal, because he’s a bitch. I leave a dildo on Sal’s chair. The entire office has to go for “sensitivity training.” It is bullshit. The two who are totally girl ones and I sneak out early to smoke. They mock me ceaselessly over the picture from my desk.
    
    
11. So now some asshole keeps leaving the same picture on my desk every morning. The worst part: it becomes really funny. It winds up on everyone in the office’s desk. Then it winds up on the C.O.O.’s desk. She does not think it is funny. Even though I totally saw Sal sneaking out of her office that morning, I don’t rat on him. He’s just a guy.
    
    
12. Office goes out drinking to celebrate two months without a natural disaster. Some guys are total dicks to our girls. I step in and promptly lose a fistfight. Because that wasn’t embarrassing enough, I also get arrested. Spend night in cell with Sal. He throws up on my jacket and I realize I don’t see him as a guy one anymore. Same for our girls. I just see them all as people now. Well, except for the hot ones. Hot ones automatically default back to “hot girl ones.” I use my new phone to look up if that makes me racist.

Bathroom Monologue: Chess Scares Me

“Chess has always terrified me. It’s not the patriarchic implications. It's not the potential Marxist critique, or all the Pawns rushing to certain death. It's that they aren't really Pawns. They're all tentacles of the player, each with as little against as the Queen. One person dispatches them all, seeking to kill the pieces of the only other person in the chess world. The Bishops. The Rooks. The Knights, so brave and so dumb they only know one letter in the alphabet. They’re dispensable in pursuit of getting to the other person’s King. If the King’s in play, the other person you say down with is alive. The King is the vital spot of the chess organism, and the whole point is to rip the other person apart so you can put his one vital spot in peril. Stopping at Checkmate doesn’t mean anything other than, “You know if I felt like it, the only part of you that matters would be dead.” And it’s as good as dead, because whether or not you knock it over, the game ends. That other person is vanquished. I’d much rather play Halo or Gears of War. They feel much less personal.”

Bathroom Monologue: "How can you be militant non-stamp collector?" -A.C. Grayling

It takes some effort, much as it takes some effort to turn anything you don't do into an annoying hobby. Just imagine.

The first step can be as simple as looking where people get stamps. Whenever you see someone purchasing, applying or even mentioning a stamp, engage in vitriol over what a loathsome thing it is. If you tire of berating hobbyists, you can also harass your local mailman or protest federal funding for the post-office (it's not the primary form of communication and doesn't deserve privilege). There's such an easy thrill from being against something, especially from the safety of not being for anything else, that soon you'll wonder why all the other non-stamp collectors aren't militant.

With the help of bestselling literature you'll find ways to believe that stamp collecting poisons everything. And once you learn to look at the world selectively, you’ll be able to take offense anything stamp-related. Before long you'll establish a dogma against arguments those stamp apologists always use, and you'll be able to bring up counter-arguments before they even finish voicing an opinion. They become less like conversations and more like exhibits of your superiority.

Being right is hard, though. Find a supportive community in the world around you or on the internet. You might think that seeking social solace for non-stamp collecting is psychotic, but you’ll find that after pornography, the internet was invented for hating things (including hating pornography). You'll enjoy countless hours of blogging about how dumb some stamp apologist was in the news today. Seem far-fetched that any group could dig up something every day to take umbrage over? Then you have underestimated the willpower of angry people in groups.

Once you get into it, you'll realize non-stamp collecting is a vast hobby. You can research the neursoscience behind why anybody is dumb enough to like stamps. You can become a stamp historian and cherry-pick resources to prove how stamps have always been a bane to human society. You can embrace futurism and promote e-mail as the righteous and pure way humans will ascend above postage. If you’re feeling uninspired, just go to the comments section of anything on the Huffington Post and go nuts. All this and much more asinine hatred of other people's passions will be available to you through whatever modes of expression you desire: books, blogs, billboards, music, Youtube channels, Twitter feeds, podcasts, documentaries and conventions. Take it far enough and you can start your own non-stamp collecting university. Do it right and you'll make quite a living.

Thankfully, there aren't many militant non-stamp collectors. Anyone like that would be insufferable.

Bathroom Monologue: Full Body-Waxed Stubbornness

“Would it make you feel any better if I shaved my head? Because I'll do it. I mean, not right here. I'll go to the bathroom and do it now if you want, though. Or Hell, sure, I'll do it here on the sofa. Just let me go get my razor. I wish I’d bought an electric – do I have time to buy an electric? I’ll do it just with the Mach-3 if that’s what you want. If it will make you laugh or make you feel more comfortable. I don't mind. Of course it's more suitable for men to go hairless, so maybe that doesn't seem like such a big gesture. What if I go around pantsless? I can shave my crotch, too. That’s less normal for guys. I could do a full-body wax, though then I’ll definitely have to leave the sofa to go buy appropriate materials. I’m just saying, you won’t go bald alone if you don’t want to. Chemo hasn’t got shit on my stubbornness. My pantsless, full body-waxed stubbornness.”

My Big R.A.Q.

Do you have any questions you never ask anybody? Something too impolite? Too esoteric or downright weird?

Ask them to me.

We're a week away from my birthday. On September 4th I'm going to celebrate with my big R.A.Q., the antithesis of a Frequently Asked Questions page. The day will be devoted to Rarely Asked Questions. The R.A.Q. is your questions and my best efforts to answer them.

It starts here. Ask every darned thing you want in the Comments of this post. Ask what Caesar thought Brutus was up to right before the stabbing and why gravity is such a weak force. Ask what I watched on TV last night and how many blows with a pillow it would take to slay a moose. Ask me whatever you never get the gall to ask anyone else.

Bathroom Monologue: Fruit of the Infinitely Tiny Tea Pot

You can only brew it in an infinitely tiny tea pot. The only known pot currently orbits our sun; only the omniscient know for certain who put it there, but rumor says 'Apollo.' You boil it on a stove of solar winds and pour it into the evanescent tea cup. Quantum steam wisps up, bifurcating realities into those where it does billow and those where it doesn't. This strange brew can only be poured in universes where it doesn't exist. If you can ponder that nonsense, then you can bend over the cup, mind the scalding pot, and inhale the divine aroma of God's own private stock. It's not ambrosia or dark matter or the meaning of life; it's the stuff you drink to get up and invent all those things.

Vote for Best of #fridayflash

The #fridayflash community is gathering up a second anthology. While the editors run over submissions, a poll has opened up for the readers' favorite stories. Readers and writers are responsible for every story on the ballot. I had the honor of being nominated for two stories: "Thoughts Down from 40,000 Feet" and "Three Bindle Stiffs."

It says something that they're both comedies. It says something else that 40,000 is as informal as possible, while Bindle Stiffs purposefully includes one hundred obtuse words and phrases. Presently 40,000 is in third place and might have a chance of winning, which is another thrill. The contest also features several very talented writers and friends of mine, including Danielle La Paglia and Karen Schindler.

Regardless of which story is your favorite, please stop by and vote. The whole #fridayflash community thanks you.

Bathroom Monologue: The Titan of Lonesome Road

They got flippant naming their roads in Middle America. Michael hadn’t thought it would be real, but several hundred miles down the interstate his headlights caught the sign and he pulled onto “Lonesome Rd.”

No buildings greeted him and only the first fifteen feet off the interstate were paved. From thereon Lonesome was only dirt and divots. Michael slowed to ten miles an hour, letting his eyes drift closed. He barely needed the sense to tell where the giant was sleeping, though. It was so big that he’d felt it for the last half hour, growing as he got closer. Here it was oppressive, almost like it was in the car. When it got heavy enough, he rolled to a stop.

He wished Yab had warned him deserts got so cold at night. Chill came through the rental’s windows. Michael rested his hands on the heater. It felt like the giant was stirring out there, making the world tremble. He hoped it wouldn’t wake before the rest of Yab’s plan materialized.

Lights flooded the rental. Michael turned to see that it hadn’t been his giant rumbling; it was an eighteen-wheeler. He rolled his window down, wincing at the cold as he stuck his head out.

“Hey!”

“Listen, dude,” the truck driver yelled from inside headlights’ glare, “there’s a big critter sleeping under this road. It’s going to wake up real hungry. You just get back on the interstate and keep going to Nevada. It’ll be a better weekend for you.”

Michael yelled back, “Yab sent you?”

The trucker’s silhouette stiffened, then hustled over to Michael’s car. When he got near Michael could see his vaguely Hispanic face and long, oily hair. He stuck his hand through the window. Michael shook it.

“You’re here for the titan, too?”

Michael nodded. “Yeah.”

“Cool, dude. Meet me in the back.” He shuffled his legs uncomfortably. “Aren’t deserts supposed to be hot?”

Michael grabbed a jacket from the backseat and followed him.

The trailer was open. White track lights illuminated the floor, helping Michael make out the metal oval that took up most of the trailer. It was bolted to the floor. A red LED panel was similarly bolted to the rear side, attached to a crude computer and keyboard.

“Hey, dude.” The trucker rubbed his hands together. “I’m Miguel.”

“Miguel? I’m Michael.”

They looked at each other.

“That’s weird.”

“Kind of.”

Michael gestured at the keyboard.

“So what is this? A bomb?”

“A-bomb, I think.”

“Yab sent a nuclear bomb? You know how to work one of these?”

Miguel stuck his hands in his armpits. “Hell no. All I do is drive.”

“You just drove it here?”

“I drove a truck twelve-hundred miles keeping an eye out for a road that isn’t on my GPS and a guy who was supposed to mark the spot. That’s all Yab asked. Figured whoever was waiting would handle this.”

The trailer lurched, throwing both men to the floor.

Michael braced himself against the wall. “Titan’s waking up.”

“So what do we do?” Miguel asked, looking for a handle and trigger on the casing. “Point and shoot?”

“It’s not a gun. Nuclear bombs destroy cities. We could be killed. Yab isn’t asking that, is he?”

Miguel shook his head. “The titan wakes up and it’ll kill a lot of people, dude. Yab’s sent me after three titans before and he’s never gotten one of my partners hurt. He sent a bomb and a dude to wait for it. There’s got to be a plan. You got codes?”

Michael at the floor. “I’m not a bomb guy.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m a psychic. I found the titan and hung out for whoever came. That’s all Yab asked.”

Miguel frowned. “You supposed to ghost whisper the code?”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“This doesn’t seem like Yab. There must be something. You check your pockets?”

“For nuclear codes?”

Michael checked his jacket– Yab did get clever sometimes – but only found half a pack of gum. He offered it to Miguel.

“Trident?”

The trailer lurched again, this time so badly that the men almost flew into the ceiling. The truck came to a rest at an angle. Michael pulled himself up in front of the panel. It flickered, but it was still on.

“Not funny, dude,” Miguel said from behind him.

They heard tapping behind them. They wheeled to find a white-bearded man in a brown parka standing at the door of the trailer.

“Yab people?” he asked in a Jakob Smirnof accent.

Michael asked, “Yab sent you?”

“Yab sent me, yes,” he nodded. “I am teleporter, yes.”

“You teleport?” Michael asked, then looked at the bomb.

The bearded guy disappeared, then flickered into being next to Michael. He tapped him on the shoulder.

“I am teleporting people, animals, okay?” He pointed to the LED screen. “Not big bombs. You do bomb yourself.”

Miguel looked him over.

“You Russian?”

“Belarusian, okay? I am Mikhael.”

Miguel offered him a hand. Mikhael shook it.

“Sorry I am late, but I am parking ten miles away.”

“Ten miles?”

“You drove here?”

Mikhael nodded like his partners were developmentally challenged.

“I am teleporter, okay? I give you code, I teleport us safe from bomb, we drive rest of way home. It be okay. Okay?”

“Code?” Miguel smiled.

Mikhael produced a piece of translucent orange plastic and handed it to Michael. Paper was folded inside.

“Code is your job, okay?”

Miguel snickered. “Code is your job, dude.”

Michael frowned, snapped the plastic and read. He typed the code on the keyboard. The LED flashed numbers.

1:00.

0:59.

0:58.

Mikhael gripped both men by the shoulders. Miguel crossed himself. Michael rubbed the bridge of his nose. Psychic and bomb guy? Well, at least Yab wasn’t asking him to do PR. That guy was going to have a difficult morning.

Bathroom Monologue: Corners of this Little World

Luna mapped a flat planet.

The North fell in love.

The South rose in lust

East wrestled West for attention.

She fell over the edge.

Remembering Satoshi Kon, 1963-2010

On August 24^th of 2010, Satoshi Kon succumbed to pancreatic cancer. He was 46, and with only four feature films under his belt he was probably my favorite living filmmaker. Most Americans don’t recognize his name. You’re lucky if somebody knows who Hayao Miyazaki is; a second anime director would be pushing it. But Kon was just as much a student of Terry Gilliam as he was of Gundam. There was no one so maddeningly versatile, and certainly not in the anime space. Kon was fascinated with trash and the homeless, wrought dream stories that were actually dreamlike, and brought actual Horror to cartoons.

His most infamous movie is Perfect Blue (1998). Recognition glimmers in the most eyes when I mention it among Kon’s movies. That recognition is typically followed by a tip of the chin and a narrowing of the eyes. Those people are not interested in anymore Kon movies; they presume the rest are like that. They aren’t. He never did another movie like it. Arguably nobody else has, either. It’s animated Psychological Horror. Take a moment to count how many animated Horror movies you’ve ever seen.

Didn’t get beyond the fingers of one hand, right?

Perfect Blue isn’t a slasher. It focuses on a young pop singer who wants to move on with her life. She’s matured and wants to expand as a solo act or an actress. But having grown up as a pre-packaged superstar, she has little direction or self-identity. Her fans turn violent with perceived betrayal. A photographer talks her into a risky photo-shoot. She begins seeing things, perhaps visions of the self she was or wants to be. She gets threats, fumbles for work, and as sleep ebbs, winds up chasing a hallucination of herself down a city street. Then the murders begin.

That photographer? We guessed he was doomed, but we don’t know if she did it. Both the pop star and the audience wonder if she’s so lost that she’s unconsciously active. Maybe the images she’s chasing are the real her, or one of her psychotic fans is doing the dirty work. It’s a stark reflection on celebrity culture and identity within fame. Darren Aronofsky was attached to adapt and remake it for American audiences before Kon passed. He made Black Swan instead, and that movie feels overwhelmingly imitative. It’s downright funny, too, to think that American cinema only now has the guts to try to do what Kon did in cartoons a decade ago.

After the intensity of Perfect Blue, the average audience member figures his next movie would be more Horror. Yet the closest thing is Millennium Actress (2001). That movie follows a two-man documentary team as they explore the life of one of Japan’s most iconic actresses. Her life’s work has spanned most of Japanese cinema. Now in old age and addled by senility, her life story blends with the stories she starred in. So she was a timid schoolgirl, and a woman searching for love in World War II, and an astronaut. As her narrative unfolds, the documentarians are drawn into her delusions, actually taking part in her memories. As opposed to Perfect Blue, this lady has so much sense of self that other people get lost in it.

It’s not Horror at all. The old woman is wistful. Her stories are romantic, sometimes bittersweet like when we watch her separate from a fictional lover, or harrowing in escaping wartime Japan. She pursues the same enigmatic man through several movie realities, giving us both a glimpse at the life she wanted and film history itself. We are there live for Japanese cinema’s most famous kiss, for the political struggles of a Kurosawa screenplay, and for a brief instant, an attack by Godzilla. It’s a biography of national film.

My personal favorite Kon movie is Tokyo Godfathers (2003). I don’t know how you sell that movie, unless you’ve already got considerable friends in your industry. Imagine: a comedy about three homeless people, one a transvestite who fashions “herself” the den mother, who find an abandoned baby on Christmas, and while inexplicable miracles blossom around the child, they search for its mother and deliberate on the tragedies that took them from home. It’s a Comedy.

Our transvestite believes God can deliver her a child since He did it for Mary. That’s only trumped when she shows up the next day with the lost infant, and the slackjawed look on a soup worker’s face believing it’s a Christmas miracle. As much as I enjoy shows like Archer and Venture Brothers, they peddle shock with their mature subject matters. All of the jarring content in Tokyo Godfathers feels like it belongs there. It is simply so idiosyncratic a world, right to the moment before the credits roll.

Paprika (2006) wound up being Kon’s final feature film. It has the strongest mass appeal and is the most successful. In it, researchers invent two machines that allow us to enter dreams. One device goes missing, and we pursue the thief through both the real world and the pell-mell dreamscape. Our protagonist is split in two, into the more reserved real woman, and the wilder free spirit that can jump between imagined skyscrapers. Paprika has plenty of crazy dreamworld events, like an army of toys or a psychosexual interrogation. There’s more creativity in its opening credit sequence than in most whole movies you’ll see this year.

But outlandishness isn’t surprising in dream movies. Very few movies actually attempt to feel dreamlike. They simply do weird things and then have somebody wake up. Yet you know almost every nightmare you ever had went nothing like Nightmare On Elm Street. They’re seldom so coherent, consistent or direct.

Paprika offers us something more: some of the most dreamlike moments in cinema history. At one point our heroine is in pursuit and leaps over a guardrail. The camera veers, and suddenly there is no concrete on which to land. She’s now falling through the sky. The first time I saw it, I was jarred in my chair. I’d never seen the betrayal of momentum portrayed like that, though I’d felt it in thousands of nights. I tensed up in my chair, not feeling her descent, but the surprise of finally seeing this sort of thing done on my television. It was the same unusual feeling I’d gotten watching a Psychological Horror anime, and a Comedy about homelessness.

What remains most striking is how irreconcilable the four movies are. The verisimilitude of Paprika’s dream moments could not happen in Tokyo Godfathers. The astonishing humor of Tokyo Godfathers could not happen in Perfect Blue. And Perfect Blue’s identity crisis? Couldn’t last a day in Millennium Actress’s dementia.

His next film was only a third of the way through its shots. “The Dreaming Machine” sounded like an alternate title for Paprika. I was almost disappointed. But the synopsis? In a 2008 interview he said, “It'll be like a "road movie" for robots.”

Well, God damn it. I wanted that. And after an artist you enjoy passes, it’s easy to feel greedy. He should have done more. But Kon took years to get movies right, and get unusual movies through Japan’s systems. A year later, I’m only grateful he gave us those four. It’d be thrilling to create four so dynamic works myself, in any medium.

Bathroom Monologue: Kicking It All

“The notes say his family took out the restraining order the year he began on heroin. Did he begin on heroin?”

“Nobody starts on it. But it was goddamn bane and mistress for two years, yeah.”

“Before he stepped down to meth?”

“From a methadone clinic. Used it to get clean, but it addicted him right up. Lost five teeth. That was an even harder fight for him, because there wasn’t any step-down drug from there.”

“At which point you say he hit the bottle.”

“He had that kind of personality. He went face-first into liquor. Said it was healthier and wouldn’t get him arrested.”

“Until he crashed his car into his own apartment complex?”

“Got evicted and had no car to drive away in. He said sitting on the sidewalk across from a church was what convinced him to try and dry out. At least once it started raining.”

“From beer to caffeine and cigarettes?”

“Those places encourage it. Yeah. But he kicked the cigarettes earlier this year.”

“That is something for that personality. Was he still drinking soda and coffee?”

“Three weeks ago he said he was actually off that, too. Was going ‘raw vegan’ and ridding himself of toxins. I have no idea how a guy could go through all that only to hang himself.”

“Well. What did he have left?”

Bathroom Monologue: Fighting For Myths

Zeus turning into a swan to get laid is a myth. Self-publishing being only for hacks is just a lie.

Maui accidentally catching the islands of Hawaii on a fishing trip is a myth. The overbearing Latina Mami is a stereotype.

Loki tricking Baldur into getting shot to death with mistletoe is a myth. A “free lunch” is usually a ruse.

Hercules fighting an infinite-headed dragon for redemption is a myth. 15% off on your car insurance is a promotional exaggeration.

Isis summoning a golden penis out of a catfish pond is a myth, and an awesome one. Clean coal is not.

Anything the speaker disbelieves is called a myth. This is obnoxious.

Bathroom Monologue: Stop Improving, Please

Click here to hear this indignant rant.

“Stop improving yourself this instant! What were you thinking? I had a static mental image of you as the lazy, drunken shithead who abused me in home room ten years ago. Why are you sobering up? Quit donating to that diabetes charity. And who the fuck said you could be a fireman? Who gave you the right to grow as a person? And especially, to grow into a better person after I was enjoying imagining you living in the gutter forever. Do you know how annoying it is to see someone you hate improve? No, put down the God damned steamed carrots or someday you’ll lose the pot belly. I need you to have a pot belly, asshole. Because I have a bit of one, and I don’t donate to charity, and I gave up on being a fireman when I was twelve and you pulled me off the jungle gym because you were an asshole. And you’re still an asshole! An asshole for taking your shitty self away from me. Can you imagine the distress I’d undergo if one morning I woke up respecting you? Jesus Christ, man. All you think about is other people, when what I need you to do is only think about yourself. Is it that hard?”

Bathroom Monologue: Real Time Recipe

1. Buy two containers of sugar-free vanilla ice cream, because that was her favorite flavor back when she could eat ice cream with abandon. Sit them in the back seat for the half hour drive home from the store.

2. When you get home, grab a lidded pan. Tear out a long sheet of wax paper and line the bottom of the pan, leaving two ends of the sheet sticking out on the sides.

3. The ice cream has softened because ice cream is treacherous. Open one container and spoon it into the pan.

4. Take the sugar-free oreos a friend purchased specially online for this. Empty one package into the blender. Chop them up well.

5. Pour the oreos over the ice cream. Spread them out with a spoon to get it even.

6. Open the second ice cream container and spoon it over the oreo layer. Get it relatively smooth. Then loosely wrap the wax paper over it and seal the lid over that. Sealed, it won't absorb any flavors from the freezer. Stick it in the freezer to firm up until she gets here.

7. When she wants a dessert but is in the other room, remove the pan from the freezer. Remove the lid and turn it upside down over a large plate. Apply a little heat to the pan and it will slide out.

8. Peel off the wax paper. Take the rest of your sugar-free oreos and decorate the thing before she gets back. Quicker – she’s coming. You should probably stick some candles in there.

9. Your diabetic friend now has an ice cream cake for her birthday.

Bathroom Monologue: Dear Earth

Dear Earth,

Today we have the miracle of telling you that you are not alone. We cannot say if there is life in the rest of this universe, but there is life in others. You have at least 16,777,216 sister earths out there. We are one of them.

Hello.

The main difference between us is that you are one of 128 earths that does not have an Isayas or a comparable analog. That’s 128 out of 16,777,216 currently accessible parallel earths that have life on them at all.

Our comedians joke that you are an “evil” parallel earth full of mustached versions of us. Most of us don’t see you as an anomaly. You’re not so different from us. After all, in both our earths the mustache represents a mock-evil parallel universe self. And we are all made of stardust; we all evolved from single-celled organisms. We all have two eyes, ears and nostrils; we all have hair on our heads, and many have unwanted hair in other places. 16,777,214 of the earths share the same fascination with dinosaurs, aside from the two where humans co-existed with them and have some understandable prejudices. Like you, we had our caveman, hunter/gatherer and feudal periods. We have two hemispheres, a Europe, an Asia and an Australia. Jesus Christ is important in our Bibles as well. We even called our great leap forward ‘The Enlightenment,’ as your Europeans call theirs.

When you understand our similarities, perhaps you’ll understand how perplexing the absence of Isayas is from your earth. Isayas the Good Heretic was (in our world and most of the 16,777,216) an Islamic king who converted to Christianity. The conversion was loose, retaining his Persian identity and throne, and using his stations to merge the two mega-religions. Being a king during the height of Persia’s scientific exploration, he managed to advance industry in Asia Minor and West Europe. By improving life expectancy and quality of life, and eliminating most governmental and religious disputes by instituting his own intellectual product. Isayas used market forces to create a trans-continental empire across what you see as Europe, the Middle East and Africa. His theocrats used their Islamo-Christian amalgam to mediate with lesser superstitions like the Irish pagans. Within 500 years on nearly every earth, the Isayas kingdom openly traded and had influence in Southern Africa and Asia Proper.

As fond as we are of our culture, few here believe there is an ideal earth. None of our scientists have yet located one. Our own will never outlive its mistreatment of the Outlets – the Americas in your world. They were mistreated or annihilated on nearly every world where they were not the conquerors themselves. But for most earths this is the World War, where you have had least two. Your earth has substantially more governments and inter-governmental conflicts. With that openness of governments, Communism, Autocracy and general xenophobia is greatly exaggerated against the worlds where there is an Isayas- or Isayas-analog revolution.

Perhaps related, your earth also has atypically wide divides between religion, art and science. Like most earths, though, all three of those forces are tied closely to the fourth force of economics. It seems almost universal that where there is intelligent life that you can spread knowledge, belief and opinion through sales.

Our comedians joke that we should exploit that economic opening and treat you like Isayas treated the Pagans. Humor is very important to us – we call it the Seventh Estate. We’ve taken their advice and left one hundred million one-pill cures for HIV in crates along your Sub-Saharan Africa. These we offer to you for free. If you’d like more, we’d be happy to exchange with you.

Another similarity between our earths is that deserts spread. But there is a difference: only your Sahara is experiencing rapid desertification. On 8,388,608 earths, including our own, are nearly out of arable land. Frustrating as it is, we’ve developed inter-dimensional communication before effective terraforming or transplanetary travel. Talking to you is actually cheaper than flying to Venus or Mars, let alone making them habitable. The market moves in mysterious ways.

All 16,777,216 earths we’ve found so far have a nearby Venus and Mars. You’re one of the few that seems serious about living on them.

We hoped another earth would have a terraforming-rich culture, yet of the 16,777,216 examples, none is adept. Curiously, some of your 128 earths have the most advanced space stations. We research space by cheap drones, but you just went there again. While your earth lags behind most of the 128 in deep space travel, it seems your scientists have some of the keenest ideas for terraforming. Many of the 128 treat other planets like campsites, bringing what they need, destroying a little, and leaving their trash behind as they hop to the next. This isn’t sustainable, and 120 of these 128 earths are near or at extinction as a result. Sustainability is the essence of a good market. Many more seem headed for extinction.

So will you work with your transdimensional sisters? There are economic openings to exploit.

Sincerely,
Earth

Bathroom Monologue: A Comedy of Commerces

It began in the computer aisle. Seeing the unfortunate effectiveness of political attack ads, Apple launched its own attack ads at Microsoft computers. Apple’s Mac brand had long struggled to be relevant in the world of laptop and desktop computing. So naturally they hired a fat, sad man to announce “I’m a PC.” A more popular, attractive actor announced, “I’m a Mac.” They played out unfunny vignettes in which Mr. Mac was to appear superior to Mr. PC. By the end of the first year, you wondered if Mr. PC wouldn’t hang himself at the end of the next commercial.

Meanwhile Apple emerged as a powerhouse in handheld devices. No cell was as infamous as their iPhone. And so T-Mobile created its own series of attack ads featuring a pretty girl in a pink dress dismissing someone similar to Apple’s Mr. Mac. Pretty Pink Girl is apparently a T-Mobile. It was the same condescending cherry-picking of features as Mr. PC had once endured.

But Virgin Mobile didn’t appreciate that T-Mobile might be getting a boost off of their parody-parody. They commissioned their own ads, in which a couple of sexy club-goers represent Virgin Mobile customers. The T-Mobile Clubbers blast by her in a simulation of fun life, which apparently no other cell phone users get to have. In their parody-parody-parody, Pretty Pink Girl hates her saccharine existence. Mr. PC awkwardly mills around the club behind her in some form of vestigial insult.

Meanwhile, Apple, T-Mobile and Virgin Mobile created one of the most antagonistic and unentertaining series of commercials in the world, rivaling the obnoxious natures of the political attack ads that inspired them. Old Spice dominated the entertaining commercial business thanks to the charismatic and shirtless Old Spice Guy. So they decided to defend commercial breaks by launching a series of attack ads where Old Spice Guy ceaselessly outwitted Mr. Mac, Pretty Pink Girl and the T-Mobile Clubbers.

Hearing that Old Spice Guy is vying to play Luke Cage in a Marvel Comics movie, Warner Brothers and DC Comics launched their attack ad. In this ad, Old Spice Guy was a dumpy only man in a towel, while Superman was ridiculously toned and witty. The advertisement accentuated how much cooler and edgier his Man of Steel movie would be than whatever they called Old Spice Guy’s thing. Mr. PC appeared in one ad to lend Old Spice Guy a straight razor, with the implication that these two mascots had taken up cutting themselves.

The Catholic Church took offense at Warner Brothers’ ad. This was not so much because of the suicide jokes, but because Superman is a nigh-omnipotent role model, and Catholics have their own brand of that product. So they did an ad where a dumpy man in a blue spandex costume announced, “I’m a DC.”

As to be expected, the second religion showed up in an ad a bunch of politicians jumped on it without checking what it was. It’s uncertain which Republican ran the first attack ad against the Catholic Church, but they probably didn’t know they were doing it. The first Democrat to attack the Republican’s attack ad probably did know what he was doing. It escalated to the point where Senators were paying for Superbowl ads to defend theology as glibly as humanly possible. It was the single unfunniest Superbowl ever. The NFL even took out an attack ad against its own advertiser’s attack ads, screened after the final play of the game. In it, a stuffy white man announced, “I’m a Republican.” Then a second stuffy white man announced, “I’m a Democrat.” Then Terry Tate tackled the crap out of both of them.

It was a debacle, but at least it got us Campaign Finance Reform for all attack ads. Suddenly Apple was sued for spending too much on “first degree being-annoying,” and several counts of “inciting further annoying bullshit.” It’s unclear how the laws will hold up in appellate courts. Rumor has it that lobbyists are raising funds to let the State Supreme Court’s dissenting opinion be broadcast in the form of a strawman attack ad.

Bathroom Monologue: 6000 Players at Level 0

“There was a complex equation for people’s levels in the game. It tabulated how many people you killed, how many times you killed each of them, modifying scores based on headshots and eviscerations, while also tabulating how often you healed a partner or sacrificed yourself, modifying scores based on speed and ludicrous valor. It followed your weapon usage, route varieties, team coordination, and even assigned a specific score for how many keywords you used in voice chat. To give players additional incentive, the sole programmer summed up the entire score, then multiplied it by your level number. It was poorly thought through, but he got his girlfriend at the time and was distracted. So distracted that he didn’t get any of the player e-mails that everyone started at Level 0, and thereby couldn’t level up. Whatever you scored wound up multiplied by 0. At the end of the year and the relationship, he logged in to find six thousand players still at Level 0. One player was at Level 999. That one player was Captain James Tiberius Kirk.”

Essay: Are People Designed to be Unhappy?

The television presents an interview with a mother in Syria. She claims to have lost two children to famine and national catastrophe. An infant appears almost lifeless in her arms. Existence is so brutal that they are living among terrorists who the mother believes could kill her at any time. But this is where the food is.

A few friends share a link on Facebook. It’s an interview with Darcus Howe in London, someone BBC’s Fiona Armstrong introduces as a broadcaster. He’s a black man with a vaguely Middle Eastern accent. To me, he looks very tired. He derides England’s police system for abusing the young. While he won’t explicitly condone the rioting and massive property damage, his vitriol is for the government that shot an armed young man.

Not five minutes later, I’m sent another video. Neil deGrasse Tyson, an astrophysicist I hold in high regard, rants on NASA’s budget cuts. He is in what looks like an expensive suit, sitting as one of three guests in an air conditioned studio with an audience that applauds at every pause he grants. To me, he looks very well groomed. He is irate that we aren’t going to the moon anymore. How dare we say it’s too expensive to afford “the only thing that gives people something to dream about tomorrow.”

I watch all three interviews in the same hour. They transpired in the same week. Lumped together, they are irreconcilable. My mind stretches for a simple explanation as to how someone like Dr. Tyson can be unhappy at all, let alone demand space travel when earth-children are starving. It seems insane that Dr. Tyson should say going to the moon is the sole source of hope against the backdrop of global emergencies. You can’t possibly think that Syrian mother or British broadcaster are dreaming of space travel tonight.

But if I’d only been reading astronomy and cosmology, how would I feel? Dr. Tyson and Mr. Howe don’t live in Syria. They see very little of it, and like most people on the planet, think very little of it. When it comes up it’s grave, but then it goes back down. They see and think as little of it as I do. It’s a damning epiphany.

In the next few hours I’m furious with my ISP for sending the wrong brand of router. I have to plug into it to access my high speed internet; there’s no wifi. That’s what preoccupies me. Something small that’s close preoccupies so much more easily than something enormous that’s distant. For Dr. Tyson, who spends so much time on the sky, the moon is closer than Syria.

Is it the condition of humans to always adjust to our circumstances and find something in them that displeases? Is that what makes millionaires go into debt over buying still more yachts? Is that what makes modern atheists compare themselves to African American civil rights pioneers? In their videos, Dr. Tyson appears absolutely as angry as Mr. Howe. I think back to Otakon in Maryland, and to the many miserable-looking people I saw in the hallways of a cartoon convention. And if I prowl Youtube, I’ll find tweens filming themselves in tears over their parents not buying them the latest Apple gadget. This is what preoccupies them.

It’s not a matter of seeking the thing that makes them unhappy. It seems as though people find these things on instinct. Was the evolutionary imperative to constantly seek out threats so strong that we have to be this way? It feels like it shouldn’t be. I’ve observed my behavior and modified for the positive before. But tomorrow, and next week, and next year, what will preoccupy me? How far away will the worst place in the world be?

Launching a Podcast

Consumed debuts this week. It's a podcast by three media consumers: myself, actor Nat Sylva and computer programmer Max Cantor. We're constantly reading, watching and playing, and gather to discuss what's stuck with us as we've consumed. After finding the proper mics, reliable recording programs and a ridiculously self-destructive pilot, we recorded our first proper episode. You can listen to it for free on the site.


My offerings are Harlan Ellison's Strange Wine and the Full Metal Alchemist: Brotherhood series. Max and Nat bring in Scrubs, the PC game Terraria, and two Westerns. Any feedback is welcome. Since comments aren't open on the Consumed site yet, feel free to comment here. We hope to record the second episode next week.

Download Consumed episode one.

Bathroom Monologue: Kamikaze Pilots Are Unethical

“Never had respect for them, and was always grateful they were on the other side. Not grateful for those that hit our carriers, but you’re never grateful for any loss of life. You’re grateful for less loss of life, and that’s what kamikazes promise you. See, to be a kamikaze you’ve got to be able to kill yourself. Right? That means losing the value on your own life, and that simply can’t be done without compromising your overall judgment. A pilot is a selfish animal that wants to fly safely above the fight. He doesn’t blow himself up sanely. The mindset can be linked to hallucinations and generally self-destructive behavior. The results are in our data: kamikazes are less likely to hit their target than modern missiles, and take up a whole aircraft with them. So a kamikaze is giving up the value of his own life and the value of his performance. He's breaking his ethical duties to the military and nation. A very good thing to have as an enemy, if you’re on guard. We always are, as we appreciate our lives. Will take theirs, too, if they’re so keen to get rid of them.”

Bathroom Monologue: And They're The Snappiest Dressers

Mine is the model family. My wife hasn't sagged a millimeter in twelve years. I can't remember a time when we weren't at the breakfast table, savoring that same toast. Maggie's always got a joke, one hand in the air for gesticulatory illustration. Our kids are always smiling. Every morning, midday and night, Bart is steadfast over his Math homework. You'd think Maggie's wisecracking would shake him, but he never complains. Nobody in this family complains. Some days it's trying to live with only three walls, and a third made of glass - but privacy's overrated when you've got such a family to show off.

Bathroom Monologue: Dear Child

Dear Child,

   The life you're going to lead is not what we wanted for you. Please, at least believe that your mother loved you with all her heart. I’ve only got this one letter to convince you.

   Your mother wanted children her whole life. She talked about having them on our first date. That sort of thing scared off most men – lucky me, for being patient. She kept legal pads all around the apartment jotting down names that were holy, professions of power, favorite colors and recipes you could share. You were going to be her life.

   Flora. Your mother’s name was Flora.

   Flora grew very sick. Complications arose with cysts in her ovaries. We were given the choice to abort you at a low percent chance of her survival, or risk birth and a lower percent chance of either of you surviving. She was hellbent for the latter until she came up with a third option.

   I didn't even believe in pacts and curses. She talked me into it, because as much as I was ready to love you, she was my life. In the middle of a night, she summoned this thing into a bedroom. It poured out of her eyes and she collapsed on the carpet, leaving me to make terms with the thing. I was just afraid for her life. I'd never even imagined this sort of thing, so I clung to just two things: that you both survive. It’s my fault. I should have paid more attention to his terms.

    You were born five weeks later. There was a lot of blood. I had to wait this infuriating distance from the operating room. I prayed. I prayed to the demon that she’d live. And she did. She even got to hold you. I wish you could remember that.

   Flora died of an infection two days later. The doctors didn’t know how to treat it; it hit her brain too fast. Her father pushed me to sue, thinking some of the equipment wasn't sterile.

   I was trying to make up my mind over what it was when the demon returned. He had followed the contract, you see? You both survived the birth, and now he wanted his payment. He claimed you.

   Hurt can make you do very stupid things. If you do anything in your life, don’t follow hurt to action. You need to understand that because there will be a lot of it in your life, and you can't let it make you foul up.

   I was in a world of it. I copied your mother's ritual in the middle of a night and summoned another demon. One that eats others. I gave her whatever she wanted to find and swallow him. She even let me watch. I enjoyed it until I threw up. The original demon, he cursed me. It didn't matter. He wasn't going to follow up on anything, and I don't rightly care if something comes for me tonight.

   My demon took its price. You. And I knew it. Somewhere inside my anger and bile, I knew you were what she'd take. But there was no saving you. There was only not letting him have you, even if it meant putting you in the hands of another.

   Your father is a very stupid man. I don't know what happens to you. If you grow up hating me, or wanting to kill me, I'll deserve it. Come in the middle of the night if you ever get free. But please, know that your mother loved you so much.

   Your father,

              Roderick

Notes to My Younger Self

Year One: Stop crying.

Year Two: You can't read. You're an idiot. This is normal for your age. But stop crying.

Year Three: All those things you like? Keep liking them. But could you get your parents to buy a second one of all of them, and put them in a box in the attic? Because that stuff will pay for college in twenty years.

Year Six: Crying in a department store didn't get you your way, did it? Jesus Christ.

Year Eight: It's convenient this is your favorite number. Have you put much thought into it? In a year, your favorite will be behind you. Let this soul-crushing revelation open your eyes to the terrors of temporal existence. Eight is going to leave you.

Year Nine: The children around you were born idiots. They didn't even know how to shit properly for years. Please, for all that is holy, ignore what they like and dislike. They are all still idiots. Whenever you hesitate over something, ask yourself, "Do I dislike this thing, or do I want the approval of people who dislike it?" The second answer is always wrong until it starts interfering with getting a job. You don't have to get a job for a long time.

Year Eleven: Do not read until after you're diagnosed with asthma. Okay. Ready? Ready? Good. Asthma is actually not fatal. All that crying? The adults thought you were an idiot because you are. Also, you grow up into a huge douchebag who enjoys his own errors. You've got a lot of amusement ahead of you.

Year Thirteen: Whatever you do, don't go to the doctor or hospital in November.

Year Fourteen: You did. It wasn't in your control. You actually didn't want to go, and that's going to stick in a fetid irrational part of your brain for the rest of your malpracticed life. You've got a lot of suffering ahead of you. Real suffering, not this trivia you've overreacted to so far. I want you to know it's entirely worth it. If I told you why, that'd ruin living. But I will advise to lighten up as soon as possible.

Year Fifteen: So that guy who wrote to you from the future last year seems like a lying asshole, right? Well he's not much of a liar. He is, however, someone you would absolutely hate. Horror of Horrors, he's convinced God isn't out to get you. He's way too cheery, helpful, almost shameless in the things he'll admit. Cartoons you won't tell your brother you watch? He goes to conventions about them.

Year Seventeen: You've got a lot on your hands. No bombs for you. Just, if you could read G.K. Chesterton and Shirley Jackson now, you'll be smarter.

Year Nineteen: Please leave your dorm room more often.

Year Twenty-One: Worst Valentine's Day ever, right? Wait, has that happened yet? Uh. Yeah, no, Lauren's great. She doesn't... wait, I'll be back in a year.

Year Twenty-Two: Did I screw up the time/space thing there? I don't know what I'm doing here. How about you write your past self? I'm kind of busy catching up on the novels we were always postponing.

Year Twenty-Three: Write more novels, you lazy tool.

5 Musicians Who Made Me a Better Writer

Music is the one art-form I’ve resisted learning much about. It’s part of a long-term personal study to test if ignorance really is bliss, but it’s also because purely unconscious reactions to music are so helpful to my writing process. If tracks can elicit or sustain strong emotions for me, I have a much easier time writing the related plots out. Today I’d like to share five musical influences that have made much of my current novel possible.

1. Hans Zimmer

When the six-armed homunculus stood atop the prison, swatting pteradactyls from the sky and out into the monsoon, Hans Zimmer was there.

Nobody does bombastic music quite like Zimmer. He’s so good at the “big” sounds that I just assume soundtracks like Lord of the Rings belong to him. But fine, he didn’t compose “Minas Morgul.” The Dark Knight and Inception soundtracks have stuck with me longer for writing anyway. I keenly remember sitting in the theatre for Inception and thinking, “I need this track. I can put this on and finish that vampire story as soon as I get home.” And a week later, it worked like a charm.

Along the way he’s also had temporary hits with me – soundtracks that helped for a few months. A League of Their Own, The Last Samurai, Sherlock Holmes and Pirates of the Caribbean all have their catchy bits. I’d do jumping jacks if Zimmer scored any film adaptation of my books. Partially because that would mean it’s a big budget movie and I might hit the bestsellers list thanks to it.

In case you’re wondering, the homunculus fight song was “The Dream is Collapsing.”

2. Igor Stravinsky and those other Amazing Old Fellas

I’m uncultured. I first heard Stravinsky mentioned on the now-defunct Games For Windows podcast, when Shawn Elliot asked if videogames would ever have their Igor Stravinsky, the game designer who was great at everything he tried.

“Bullshit,” I told my speakers.

Then I listened to Stravinsky’s work. While not every arrangement stirred me, he had an astounding batting record. I played his discography and discarded plot ideas. I composed arguments set to “Duo Concertant for Violin and Piano- IV. Gigue” – The way one beat of violins ends and another picks up/I can hear where one person stops and the other picks up in bickering.

And just like that, there was a chase scene to “Moderato alla breve” from Symphony in C. At least two dramatic reveals came from “Allegro moderato” from Symphony In E Flat.

He doesn’t have the one great theme that I keep going back to like other classical composers. Even in revisions, when I have to walk around thinking over a problem, I’ve gone to “In A Major, Op. 92- 2nd Movement- Allegretto” from Beethoven’s 7^th. I adore Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture and am always trying to get fightscenes to work with it. Probably my all-time most inspiring song is Ode to Joy. I’m a sucker for the immutable greats. But Stravinsky’s work has somehow served as more versatile inspiration. I go to each symphony and movement less frequently, but the overall body is an inspirational toolkit.

3. Akira Yamaoka and Silent Hill

Akira Yamaoka is quite possibly the most talented sound designer I’ve ever witnessed. He composed the soundtracks for the Silent Hill videogames up until and including the Homecoming installment, and provided the score for the first Hollywood adaptation. He composed tracks to draw eeriness from a foggy screen, the somberness of sitting at the bedside of a dying lover, and terror from being chased by a giant wielding a meat cleaver. Part of his charm is an unmatched ear for ambient sound, and a similarly unmatched talent for blending it with traditional instruments, so that a guitar and the screeching of a steel door harmonize, as do static and a cello. Industrial sounds are as natural as any instruments, so that once you’re used to his style, there’s no novelty. This is just the way the music expresses itself.

Just as the Horror games benefitted from association with masterful music, the music has since taken on the benefits of association with that series. But I don’t write ripoffs of Silent Hill to this music. I summon it for frantic scenes, or ominous, or even serene ones. As creepy as Silent Hill gets, Yamaoka imbued it with some of the most tranquil songs I’ve ever heard to reaffirm places where you were safe. I’ve probably listened to the most hours of his music, both while writing and not.

My record is nine straight hours of one tiny track, “Silent Heaven,” looping as I wrote, went to bed, woke up the next morning and kept going to a breakthrough. Something in that track completely synched with this malicious disembodied voice I was writing into a character’s head. I’ve never had another experience like it. I presume the dorm mate downstairs hadn’t, either.

4. Ed Harrison

I have been trying to track this guy down. I think he’s got a tiny network on LinkedIn. He composed NeoTokyo, a soundtrack for an indy mod of Valve’s Half-Life. So he didn’t make a videogame soundtrack; he made the soundtrack for a fan-made spinoff. And it’s incredible. The music tops Bladerunner for noir and futurepunk feel. If he somehow reads this, please shake your own hand. You’ve got two, after all.

The album quickly became another toolbox for me. Songs latched onto and abetted particular instances of plot.

Walking the halls of the prison lost in thought? “Tachi.”

Encountering an alien creature larger than anything on this planet? “Out.”

Discovering the one room of people who not only need his help, but deserve it? “Beacon.”

Recently revising those scenes in the novel I’m left thinking, “It wouldn’t have come out this way without that song.”

5. God is an Astronaut

Being so uncultured, I don’t listen to many full albums. I just pull the songs I like and junk the rest. God is an Astronaut is a rare exception; I’ll pop in one full album and let it go. The music is so carefully constructed that the tracks move elegantly into one another, at least elegantly against each other. There’s nothing jarring about writing to All Is Violent, All Is Bright.

I sheepishly admit that if that album does go to a wildly different place at the end, I haven’t noticed. By the end I’ll have gone where I wanted in the prose. More times than with any other band or composer, I’ll finish a short story or chapter and realize the music ended a long time ago. God is an Astronaut delivers me into emotions that I can’t pull up on my own, but I can sustain. It’s like kite launching.

And if I surface from unfinished fiction, I’ve had great luck with hitting PLAY again and closing the deal. Enormous thanks to friend and podcastmate Max Cantor for introducing me to them.

So this is the music that’s meant the most to my writing in recent years. Please let me know what works for you. I'm always curious to expand my influences.

Bathroom Monologue: Law of Conservation of Magic, OR, Hotel Bathroom Monologue

"Science says energy cannot be created or destroyed, but science will do anything for money, including break the law. It will, for instance, determine which locales have the highest density of elfish genes in the human population. Demographics and genetics will narrow it further. Once you purchase the appropriate children, social science will help you break their spirits and breed them. Traditional magic will keep your tower invisible and unnoticed. Their spare energy will fuel the spell. The bulk of their energy, though? Yours at the click of a button, wherever and whenever you please. 4G grand wizardry, energy created, dispensed and crowd-sourced by modern science."