Bathroom Monologue: This Country, Spring 2011

Squabbles over a few billion dollars halt trillions in a budget that nobody has. The government shuts down and no one thinks about the nation it represents.

A Mormon is leading a former Baptist minister as the top candidate to challenge the black president.

Meanwhile, Feminists despise the most famous female candidate.

As Hillary Clinton winds down her career, a young nephew asks, “Can boys be Secretary of State?”

People are more afraid of radioactive milk than unions being busted.

Ayn Rand’s secular propaganda prepares to become a Summer blockbuster, guaranteed to draw enthusiastic Christian audiences.

This nation is bad Science Fiction, and I love B-movies.

Bathroom Monologue: Possible Origins for Him. 12.

To listen to today's story either click the triangle on the left to begin streaming audio or click this text to download the MP3.

He started when there were still a few gaslights on the streets. Probably took inspiration from Prohibition, and he's fought snuff, glue, cocaine, venom, all the way to whatever kids do to themselves today. Nobody asks how he's survived at least seventy years of stab wounds, gun shots, druggings and falls from skyscrapers. You figure, he pals around with aliens and amazons. He's probably picked up STDs stronger than the average human, so of course he's timeless. Many think he's immortal. Many are cowardly and superstitious.

They all ask how I made it this long. Wondering why some do-gooder hasn't snapped my neck. Wondering how, with all the times I've gotten it wrong, or lost control of a dirigible, or just didn't care about malfunctioning detonator - how I lasted these decades.

This one I can answer: I'm not the first of me.

There's been at least three. Me, The Boss, and Grandpa. No telling who preceded Grandpa J. He was good, though. A bit of an anarchist firebug.

“Where's the judge? Is he in this room?”

No, it's a bomb. Kaboom.

“Where's my wife? I hear something in the closet. Janine, is it you?”

No, it's a bomb. Kaboom.

“Where's the bomb? I hear this locker ticking. Let me open and snip the wires.”

No, that's a clock. The actual bomb is under the floorboards. Kaboom.

That sort of humor. One day it blew up in his face. As best we can tell, the only thing that made Grandpa J frown was his inability to blow up The Bat. Tried and failed, tried and failed. Somehow that caped freak kept coming back unsinged. So on this last time he hid the bombs in his own coat and held on. By the range of the blast, he also wired himself up to the surrounding nine buildings. No way to escape that intimate a detonation, you see?

Grandpa J was the one who walked away. Depending on when The Boss was telling it, he lost somewhere in the range of a foot, an arm or two, half or two thirds of his face, either half or all of the flesh on his person, and his entire wardrobe save a pair of boxers with hearts on them. Whatever his state, it was gruesome. And Grandpa J made it seven city blocks out of the smoke, avoiding or murdering police until he came to The Boss's little den.

I wasn't even working for him back then. He was operating in a boarded up row house, giving out free meth and beds, and lacing every fifth dose with his newest concoctions. If everybody's high, nobody cares when one guy freaks out and starts eating the insulation.

Somehow, Grandpa J broke in. He shambled straight into the lab. Made eye contact with The Boss. Shuddered from the strain. Gave one gasp that sounded like a laugh, and took his last pratfall. Thud. Dead.

Mmm. The professionalism.

The Boss saw an opportunity. No more Mr. Third-rate Drug Dealer. No mere mad scientist. All those mind-altering gases he'd worked on? Now fashion them so the kids laugh theirselves to death, or see nightmare clowns, or whatever. A little facepaint, a book of one-liners, and suddenly The Boss had a topflight gimmick. Live-action fan-fiction that the crowd thinks is genuine.

If you go back through the headlines, you'll find that period when The Joker began wearing more black and carrying more conventional guns. Mainstream bullshit. See, he got carried away on the power trip. All that buzz Grandpa J had built up around the brand. The thrill of a single phone call convulsing entire police departments. Superheroes who once upon a time wouldn't even visit the scene of his crimes now racing to head him off.

Simply put, he sucked. He couldn't fight. He couldn't plan more than one twist at a time. He had to hire every goon in the city to cover his ass, to get into fisticuffs for him. Twice I tied up the damned Bat over vats of acid I knew he'd never actually fall into. Some weeks I was in clown costumes. Other weeks, bad imitations of movie stars. I spent half a summer as a chauffeur Buster Keaton, powdering myself into monochrome before speeding the boss away from his latest bank heist.

Bank heists. Grandpa J never would have lowered himself to knocking over banks.

The night with the shark tank was it for me. I guess it looks like they’re smiling if you tilt your head like so and huff paint. The Boss stole that one from Grandpa J – and did it worse. The Bat got loose, like always, and got onto our boat. The Boss fell into the motor. Lost an arm. I was gathering the bits in a net when I saw the Bat throttling him. Hit the freak from behind and dumped him overboard.

He lived. I’m sure he had something in his belt for sharks.

The Boss lived – because of me. I had to beat the Bat just to keep him alive. I was so angry that I slapped him with his own dismembered hand. He didn’t laugh. How dare he not laugh at that? That’s hilarious, right?

He lacked class. I explained this as I jammed his wrist down his throat. I didn’t want his hand, or his coat, or his machine gun. Only took the book of one-liners.

If you go back, there’s this period when the Joker goes neon. Bigger smiles. More musical. More explosions, like Grandpa J would have wanted.

Knew where he was buried. I dug up his skull. Put a honking red nose in the socket and left him on my mantle. Talk to him when I’m lonely. He doesn’t talk back – I’m not crazy. I’m just respectful of my elders.

Bathroom Monologue: R.R. Crossing

Looking through a windshield and a hundred windows rushing by, moving too rapidly to make out any faces. You look for a girl who isn’t looking for you anymore, and catch a glance at someone with her hair color staring at something in her hands. Her phone? Then the train carries her to her Full Ride. Red lights cease flashing and the bars come up. You are now safe to cross the railroad and drive to a permanently quieter house.

Maybe she was on her phone. Maybe she’ll have left a message. Maybe she’s calling you right now while she travels several hundred miles an hour towards dorm rooms, late nights and the lies of boys becoming men.

You check your cell just in case. No message, no hum of the vibration setting.

You press the gas pedal and roll across the tracks. Time to go put the things she missed in boxes. Time enough to catch the news. It would be nice for Lester Holt to announce, “Bright young woman’s train arrives safely. World welcomes her. Promises to retain virginity until Nobel is won.”

What twit said you couldn’t go home again? Didn’t he have a mother who had to? You wonder if he went to university.

Bathroom Monologue: Multi-Function Books

Physical books are unfavorable items. Chapters lack ringtones, you have to turn all those pages, and Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse comes with no free flashlight app. Telling a story, developing new characters and plot devices, commentary on society and the world – "Meh," says the market. "These are single-function devices. I don't want a book that’s only always Shakespeare."

Hark, I beg you. It may only be The Norton Shakespeare, restricted to the same words on the same pages no matter how many times you scroll over them with your fingers. But observe. It can be placed in front of a door to keep the thing open. Somebody annoyed about the door always being open? With its convenient heft, The Norton Shakespeare makes a convenient bludgeon to resolve most any argument. You may even pick up a few insults from the book’s “single-function” as you discover its new functions. Should you be ousted from the apartment complex for unruly behavior, your can tear up the book and line your clothing with its crumpled pages. As you shudder in the evening chill, you can peek at whatever pages emerge from the fraying ends of your jacket. They are often inspirational, or at least so vacuous you can infer whatever you want into them, making certain whatever you read is uncannily germane to your circumstances. You can’t line your coat with iPhones. Those are the really restrictive devices.

Bathroom Monologues: Ism

Like all religions, Humanism struggled to appeal to new generations. The next generation just so happened to be killer robots.

Reading While Writing

By Mendhak [민다ᄏ] [CC-BY-SA-2.0 (www.creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)],
via Wikimedia Commons

I read capriciously. Some times I want Horror, others long Fantasy, or I’ll binge on history or pop science or anything that makes me laugh. I’m a terrible consumer of books, perpetually borrowing and purchasing more than I’ll read. I had copies of Good Omens and Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency for eight years before actually finishing them. Upon recent reflection, I realized nothing’s gotten in the way of my reading more than writing.

Reading consistently is nigh impossible when I’m working at high volumes, plugging into a novel daily or spurting out short stories every week. I have anecdotal confirmation from other writers in multiple fields that it’s the same for them. You spend so much time producing and criticizing words that your enthusiasm or energy is spent. I write “or energy” because there are times when I hanker for that new Stephen King. Then I pick it up and even his mastery of voice can’t get me through two pages. My mind won’t go. It’s irksome to realize that you are still able to watch a movie, play videogames or have a night with your significant other. More irksome when your significant other finds out you think that's bad.

I ran into a new complication while composing my next novel. When I did read, I was reading less useful things. Yes, Cobra II was an important report – but shouldn’t I be catching up on fiction? Fiction in my genres? Or all those classics that I bought and swore I’d go through? Laurence Sterne can’t read himself. He’s dead.

Triage of reading while in heavy-production periods was too difficult. I could take in a superhero trade paperback, but not Walter Isaacson's Einstein. Simply to get through my pile, I had to cave and let myself read whatever my mind could grab onto. A grown writer was excusing himself, “At least he’s reading.”

If I couldn’t curate individual reading order, I had to triage what was available. My old formula had been to read:

1. One contemporary Speculative Fiction book (since Horror and Fantasy are my primary wheelhouses).

2. One important Speculative Fiction book over ten years old.

3. One piece of classic fiction literature.

4. One book of non-fiction of any stripe I pleased.

5. One trade comic book or miscellaneous publication over one hundred pages.

All in about that order. The first two covered my primary industry, then I plugged into my passions for older books, the style of which always left me ready for thoughtful non-fiction, before closing with comics. Comics are the easiest thing to read – I’ve had English teachers who said they weren’t reading at all. My whole scheme worked so well before I began working so well.

I examined the formula for my new habit. Now I’d only borrow or purchase books like this:

1. Does it have three or more recommendations from friends, peers and/or critics you trust? Should you trust them – have they steered you incorrectly before?

2. Is it popular? Is it selling fast? You need to know more about the marketplace. Remember how embarrassing it was when you thought Toni Morrison was a guy?

3. Is it important Speculative Fiction? You can always know more about the history there.

4. Is it a classic? Is it at least really old? How cheap can we get this thing for? If it’s not in the library or very inexpensive, come back in three months and ask me again.

5. Non-fiction, you say? Is it that fascinating? Wait six months, then ask me again.

6. Is it in the twenty-five cent bin? Okay, you can have it.

That last is why I read four Greek tragedies in a row. Thanks, thrift stores.

The new checklist of priorities made sure I only had specific books available. If I am going to read capriciously, it’ll be from a thoughtful selection. It’s akin to shopping when you’re full, so the wiser choices will be in your cupboard. Sometimes that leaves me scanning the shelves for literary Oreos, but you can only eat what you've got.

If you regard my Goodreads scroll for the last two months, you’ll see that those literary Oreos have still popped in. Comics are allowed in, in moderation. Even the Persepolis and Bone-type comics are easier reading, I respect them as an art-form, and hey. “At least he’s reading.”

Bathroom Monologue: The President is a Foreigner

To listen to the president's address either click the triangle on the left or click this text.

Some of my fellow Americans are concerned that my birth certificate brings my citizenship into question. They fear that a foreigner has usurped the laws and will of our great nation to subvert its government. I can promise to you that I was indeed born on American soil, but I will also confess that the birth certificate you’ve seen is fraudulent.

You see, I was born in Kenya and when I come from, they do not issue birth certificates anymore. Some Americans may be concerned that Kenya is not a state in the present union. To those I say: it will never be. It’s a commonwealth. It was admitted to our great union in twenty-two-eighty-three when we finally gave up that “protectorate” nonsense. That was the same year that Puerto Rico, Turkey and Venus joined the U.S.

I was born three years later at Abraham Lincoln Memorial Hospital in Mombasa, which was firm U.S. soil. In a field trip to the second Dark Ages I fell in love with this rustic, primitive way of life and decided to remain. Manipulating politics with decades of foresight just seemed like the thing to do. This way I could quash burgeoning time traveling projects and prevent any further competition from my own future, leaving this present my own pseudo-democratic playground. Evil? Possibly. But I have done it all as a citizen of the United States of America.

Worst Convention Story at Geektress

Earlier this week I posted my "Worst Convention Experience" story. I've since recorded and sent it to the fine women of Geektress, who included it in their rundown of conventions-gone-wrong stories. The podcast includes tales of inept security, late staff, tornadoes, and of course one fat kid stalking a perfectly nice Maryland couple. You can listen to my oppressive male voice defiling their otherwise feminine utopia by clicking here.

Bathroom Monologue: The Real Sword of Damocles

So there was this Greek suck-up named Damocles who got a free lunch at Dionysius the 2^nd’s barbecue. Damocles saw all the food, cooks, concubines and other assorted suck-ups, and praised Dionysius’s job. Who wouldn’t want this?

Thinking to show Damocles and the court that it’s hard on the streets for a pimp, Dionysius offered to switch places. He’d be the professional hustler suck-up for a day, and Damocles would rule.

As he stepped down from the throne, he told the guards to leave a sword hanging around to remind Damocles of the responsibilities of office. It was going to be a metaphor or something.

But the second the new ruler Damocles stepped up, he told the courters to cut that crap down. When they got the sword down, he ordered one of them to follow Dionysius around with it. He ordered them to behead the bastard if they could catch him, since that way he could keep these sweet digs. And if they didn’t, well Damocles would get the heck out of Greece. If Dionysius was psychotic enough to leave swords floating over the seat he’d just offered, it wasn’t safe around here.

So the armed courtier stalked Dionysius around his own palace until sunset. He’s hiding behind vases and under the skirts of third-rate hookers, forced to realize if anybody replaces him they could be madmen and the whole territory will go rotten. Look how little time it took Damocles to go bloodthirsty? Playwrights hammed this stuff up something fierce as the great example of politicians fearing that their replacements are going to be incompetent, malicious or worse. I think it’s Cicero that said, "Does not Dionysius seem to have made it sufficiently clear that there can be nothing happy for the person over whom some fear always looms?"

So the sun sets. Damocles is off the throne and already at the docks with the biggest boat he could “commandeer” as temporary ruler, loaded with gold and ladies. He sets sail before comeuppance can come up. Dionysius resumes the throne and his whole regime goes mad tyrannical, to make sure that only his competent self ever rules this poor world.

That’s how I heard it.

Bathroom Monologue: Happiest Man in the World

He exists above zen and above sea level. Like every cynic suggested, the happiest man in the world exists alone, with no contact to disturb him from the way that works. Some will say, and I’ll swear to it, that he’s so tranquil his heart hasn’t beat in the nine years anyone’s known him. He is simply the happiest face you can see.

You want to meet him? He’s up that mountain. No, the one behind it. The very tallest one that still has trees at the apex. You go up its winding path. You disobey the signs and climb seventy feet of sheer rock. There you’ll find a few beer cans and weeds conquering the last successful campsite up there. That’s when you know you’re on your way.

Go through the brush, through the poison ivy. Beware the bear traps hidden beneath years of pine needles – I believe a few are still unsprung. He did not plant these problems, but they’re the closest thing to a trail you’ll find. He’s left no candy wrappers or fire wood. No tent. In the nine years anyone’s known him, he hasn’t even owned a scrap of underwear.

If you wander enough without getting split open or covered in hives, you’ll find an outcropping. A slender tree has split the rocks and is growing right towards the heavens. What you’ll want to do is take a firm hold on this tree and circle around, careful of your footing. If it’s like it was last time I visited you’ll barely have room for your toes. Now you circle on around, sliding your hands up the trunk. You slide them up so you can see the carving.

There it should be. A circle, with two equidistant dots near the top, and a crescent swooping down near the bottom. That’s the smiley face of the happiest man in the world. Hasn’t changed his expression in nine years. Like every cynic suggested, the happiest man in the world isn’t real. He sure is consistent, though.

Bathroom Monologue: Fire!

Later the officer conceded, “I wish I hadn’t arrested him. If I’d paid more attention, I could have helped evacuate. But the law is the law. You can’t yell ‘Fire’ in a crowded theatre.”

Bathroom Monologue: He Who Tests

When did humanity go wrong? With the first monarch. With the first election. When buildings got so tall that if you dropped your hat off the side you'd never see it again. Take your pick.

This is all much easier than you think. Do I miss Him? Yes, yet I am still in the service. I am He Who Tests. I invent nothing. I invite. They seduce themselves to me, every useless, unworthy one of them. I get them by the millions, and every day they do more of my work for me, and think it their own. When they fall? I punish. An eternity of suffering, of torture and knowing that they were wrong. An eternity of knowing I was right. An eternity of suffering and knowing this in the service. I disobeyed once. All this fire and fury is at His command. I will earn my way out of the flames and back into the warmth of the sun, trading a world's souls and climbing its writhing bodies. They earned it by proving me right.

True Stories of John 8: Worst Convention Experience

After struggling with severe health problems for my entire teens, I was eager to go to a convention by myself. Independence, teen angst, nerdery – all those stupid reasons. So I got a train ticket, arranged a hotel room and set off for Otakon in Baltimore.

I departed from the Stamford Train Station in Connecticut. I got there early and descended onto the platforms early. This is a bad idea if you’ve never ridden a rail alone and don’t know which side your train’s arriving on. As one came up, I stopped a passenger and asked, “Is this headed to Maryland?”

In retrospect, the smile and nod he gave me were distinctly the “I don’t speak English” variety. I was too excited to lug my stuff on board, though. Half an hour later the ticket taker informed me that, no, this was not headed to Maryland. It was a Metro North train headed only to New York City. I’d have to get off at Harlem.

Hell no this sheltered, underaged white boy was not getting off at Harlem. I told the car my situation in the hopes to borrow a cell phone and calling home for advice. I even offered to pay cash for the time I’d use. They responded by not making eye contact. I went down some cars and found a phone that would not take coins, but only credit card information you had to speak into it. I still don’t understand how that was supposed to work. Seeing how inept I was, a couple of girls lent me a cell and advice that I actually would need to get off at Grand Central and go across town to Penn Station. I confirmed it with my relatives in Maryland via the phone while hiding from the conductor.

A few firsts ensued. First cab ride alone. First time realizing I’d overpacked. First time in three years my back began to crack, and I realized it might go out on me lugging far too many bags around Grand Central Station. Oh, and first time navigating Grand Central Station. Only getting lost in a city-sized subterranean transit system will teach you just how many pairs of pants you don’t need for a weekend.

It took me at least an hour to find the Amtrak station. I waited in the terminal until my train came up as "BOARDING." On the way down, I confirmed with three strangers and two conductors that this was definitely headed south. I spent the ride trying to keep pressure off my back, one of the spots my syndrome used to flare up the most. My grandmother actually met me at Baltimore’s Penn Station and was very sorry to hear about my incompetence.

We got to the door of my hotel room and Grandma couldn’t figure out the keycard. I put down my bags and swiped it for her. I bent, picked my bags up, arched my back, and something popped. Even she flinched at the sound.

I could not bend anymore. I had to drop my luggage without inspection on the floor and ducked in the bathroom for fifteen minutes. My back had either gone out or this was a wave of spasms; either way, bad. I had to hide this because I was convinced she would make me give up the convention. Priorities, you see.

Suspicious, she insisted we go to dinner. I spent another hour pretending my posture was always this good and no, nothing was wrong, I was just tired.

She spent another hour informing me about the grizzly murders in this city. Baltimore of Maryland, it seemed, was the murder capital of the United States. She begged me not to stay out after dark and not to talk to anyone. I had to stay in groups at all times. Between how addled my brain was from the train trip and the back injury, her ranting pierced my psyche. After she left, I slumped face-first onto my bed.

The next thing I knew, it was after six. I hustled outside and to pick up my attendee badge. With my back the way it was, I walked like I was trying to co-opt The Twist.

The line wrapped around the convention center. Twice. It was only overcast when I got there, and only began pouring and thundering after I waited for half an hour. We got soaked. Then we went inside where it was far too air-conditioned, and got the pleasure of being both wet and too cold. Every time I shivered, my back would spasm again. The people in line shied away from me like I was deranged.

I emerged with my badge and barely able to move. I was actually shuffling like a penguin when I realized it was pitch black out. I saw a single guy sleeping on a bench and was instantly convinced this city was out to kill me. I waited for the first couple to walk in the direction of my hotel and followed behind them.

I stayed close enough to ward off invisible muggers, while not too close as to seem annoying. They sped up.

I groaned in pain and kept pace. The couple huddled closer together and went even faster.

I couldn’t believe this. I was going to die out here.

Then the girl of the couple looked back at me. Her eyes were wide with abject terror.

That’s when I realized: I was disheveled from the day, grimacing from my back and effectively chasing this cute little couple. They thought I was a murderer.

I let them get away. When I got back to my hotel room, I laughed until my back popped a second time. I didn’t sleep that night. It hurt too badly, and there was a rave next door. I was half-delirious for most of that convention and could not tell you what I did for most of the weekend. Grandma says I was very happy when she picked me up Sunday afternoon. I went back for several years.

Bathroom Monologue: How the World Really Is

To listen to today's flash either click the triangle on the left to begin streaming audio or click this text to download the MP3.

You maintain at least two extracurriculars a year until you break your leg at Track And Field. You start having heartbreaks as soon as you hit puberty, and you’ve got an afterschool job to start saving for cars by fifteen.

Early Acceptances and Deans’ Lists are goals. Settling and limits are lessons. The pregnancy scare, the Recession from nowhere, and not having a family house to return to are simply facts.

The man who sticks in your life is complicated, yet somehow your relationship is simple. Your pregnancy is smooth (so the doctor says).

Getting up every night to feed the baby is mandatory. So is getting into the Diner by seven. You budget Christmas presents on tips. You draft resumes and calculate mortgage rates on the backs of napkins. You watch social barriers crumble while your tires sink.

You re-learn trigonometry and European history to help him with his homework. These winters are harsher, these summers are hotter, and he won’t wear the same clothes for more than three months in a row. You postpone your OB/GYN to afford his iPhone. You risk you getting axed four times to drive him to the colleges he wants to see.

You do all this so that some Spring Break you can cook his macaroni and cheese while he tells you how the world really is.

Bathroom Haiku: Space Party

spheres spin 'round the star,
it's not a solar system
it's a space party.

Bathroom Monologue: Three Bindle Stiffs

Danielle La Paglia recently linked me to a list of 100 Whimsical Words. I was surprised how many of them I knew and actually used in life but not in fiction. For her birthday I endeavored to write one story using all 100. I'm a week late. Hope it was worth the delay.

There were three bindle stiffs at the docks - let us call them Jackanapes, Factotum and Callipygian, for that is what they were. A homeless threesome, gathered by the loquacious Jackanapes, a louche scofflaw, supercilious about himself and curmudgeon to all other matters.  Factotum was his manservant, as a factotum must be to someone, an aimless ragamuffin with nothing beyond size to his credit. More interesting than this oaf (and more interesting to the oaf) was the bodacious Callipygian, one lady concupiscent and rivaling Factotum as a flibbertigibbet.

Now Jackanapes proposed some minor skullduggery as pertained to the Captain’s Quarters, a local tavern. Within was an ill-gotten goblet, periwinkle festooned with opals and inscriptions of ancient Australian gobbledygook. It simply begged liberation. Liberation into Jackanapes’s possession, of course.

The Beerkeep, once a bold and raffish scalawag, was now pusillanimous and lackadaisical, scarcely lifting his head from the countertop. His wife, let us call her Harridan, was less easily hoodwinked. A cantankerous termagant, heart tainted by broken promises, face tainted by carbuncles of particular effluvium, and given her abstemious nature, not too pleased about living in a bar. The Beerkeep was broken, for if he complained she was no longer a nubile sylph? Well he didn’t have the washboard belly of the swashbuckler she’d married, either.

So our mendacious tatterdemalions infiltrated on Discount Ale Night. Callipygian strutted across the bar and whispered obsequious debauchery into Beerkeep’s good ear. Into the left, she osculated. Broken men are so easily finagled.

Meanwhile Factotum elbowed through the crowd like a willy-nilly whirligig, knocking the pint and the hat from a haberdasher. The haberdasher caterwauled, and Factotum responded with brazen fisticuffs. Our ignoramus spun him widdershins, spilling the gallimaufry from his cup. Gawkers flocked with hullabaloo. The ribaldry instigated such a kerfuffle that even Harridan peered its way. So was the plan: to obfuscate by infidelity or ruckus.

Harridan shrieked for her poltroon husband and barged in to squelch the catawampus, only to be struck by a flailing hat-seller. She was knocked to the floor while the Beerkeep was drooping to the bar top.

Amidst the folderol, Jackanapes slithered behind the bar. He paused an instant to bask in the resplendent chalice – then skedaddled. For you see, his hornswaggle was on four people, not two.

The conspirators didn’t remark Jackanapes’s absquatulating immediately. The Beerkeep was looking for tongue before Callipygian came wise. Poor Callipygian and Factotum looked at each other flabbergasted; neither had prognosticated his exit, nor their own exit strategies. Beerkeep roused and squawked that his spiffy cup was gone, and the crowd doubled in size with accusations of subterfuge. Imbroglio flummoxed our lummox, while Callipygian babbled defensive rigmarole.

Perspicacious Harridan recognized that while they might be in cahoots, it was cockamamie balderdash that they’d carried off the cup. They looked as lugubrious as Harridan on her wedding night, and neither had any goblets bulging underneath his or her corset. Pushing through the ballyhoo she took each by an ear, twisting and demanding explanation. She’d forgive their peccadillo in return for their mastermind. They responded with mumbling and borborygmus.

Malarkey, she accused. Hadn’t they served hortatory to these shenanigans? To play Jackanapes’s factotum for so long and left clueless?

Factotum let out a paroxysm of obloquy. Their original hideout. The docks! With boats to abscond, or as Callipygian hypothesized, merchants to entice. Sooner than Harridan could summon a steed, rambunctious Factotum tossed both ladies over his shoulders and bolted for the seaboard.

Now Jackanapes possessed a foible of confidence. At safe distance, he gallivanted and lollygagged, whistling orotund tunes and regarding the foofraw of his ill-gotten doohickey. What fortunes flagitious life afforded.

So taken was he by his own hijinks that he was tackled higgledy-piggledy from behind. Two ladies and one ex-factotum began beating him about the head and shoulders. They were at loggerheads immediately, and at the fusty hoosegow ten minutes later, one man incarcerated on two counts of “jiggery-pokery and maleficence,” and a farrago of lesser charges. He was left with no cups or opals, only a two-bit pettifogger to hear his hokum. So was his comeuppance.

Harridan’s comeuppance came up at auction for the stupid cup. Proceeds went to her own copacetic hodgepodge of a juice bar and a dance parlor. Her star dancer took in a wealth of tips, and they were both generous to the hulking (if dull) bouncer. She hired her own husband two months later as Juicekeep, after her competition put him out of business. There may be a word for that sort of thing, but I don’t know it.

Bathroom Monologue: UseTech

Observe the latest in UseTech User Technology. Each user is genetically modified to have hands precisely broad enough to make use of every key and button on your interface, whether you have an old-model keyboard or a micro-touchscreen. Their eyes are similarly genetically attuned for your lightsource, and they are given a minimum of 10,000 hours of posture training to sit an appropriate distance from the screen. The latest model User possesses independent self-updating “biological drivers,” capable of diagnosing any issue in your system, and recognizing that most of them are actually user errors. An additional 10,000 hours of training are undergone to prevent them from punching you when something goes wrong. UseTech promises a user experience so smooth, you’ll almost think the user is operating you!

Bathroom Art Challenge 2: The Girl With No Shoes

In February I posted about a little girl I saw at the Pharmacy. I invited anyone to draw what they saw reading my description. Like every Bathroom Art Challenge, all mediums were open: crayons, markers, pencils, paints, inks, renders, even posed photography. Four people stepped up. Here is their work:

Danielle La Paglia, drawing with highlighters

Jemma Mayer, drawing with her Tablet

Monica Marier, drawing with pencils and very expensive markers

Tony Noland, drawing with pencils

Three of them saw her from behind, while Monica caught the look on her face. It's interesting to see how different people played with it. Please give our artists a round of applause!

And if you'd like to try your art, anyone who submits a new picture of The Girl by tonight will be added to this post. Just hit me up at bathroomDOTmonologuesATgmailDOT.com.

What Kind of Writer Are You?

1. Departing your train, you hear some people mention a “Doctorow.” You think of:
a) E.L. Doctorow, author of City of God.
b) Cory Doctorow, author of For The Win.
c) the medical profession.

2. You hear one of the same people claim that abbreviations don’t need vowels to be valid forms of communication. You:
a) wonder idly if this is about the Queen’s English Society.
b) barge in to argue that prescriptivism must die.
c) leave these people and hope you never accidentally overhear them talking again.

3. On your way off the platform you overhear another couple. One says he feels cheated when writers don’t use chapter titles. You:
a) can’t remember the last book you read that had chapter titles.
b) can’t remember the last book you read that didn’t have chapter titles, and realize you may read too much children’s fiction.
c) are amazed to find four literate people this far away from a library.

4) The man who feels cheated by lack of chapter titles pulls out his iPad to show how books should be formatted. The ladyfriend demurs; she misses feel of pages turning in her hands. You:
a) bought an e-reader ages ago. Deforestation for paper books only supports an archaic reading method, and they’re unfashionable single-use devices. Who wants a thing that only ever has Shakespeare in it?
b) haven’t bought an e-reader because of the eye strain and the power generation for its batteries doesn’t seem more environmentally friendly than paper books.
c) haven’t bought one because you can’t afford it. Okay, you can afford it, but would rather spend several hundred dollars or something else. Perhaps rent.

5) The man accuses his ladyfriend of “always being like this.” They fall into a hushed fight that’s clearly not about literature. You leave them at the stairs, still thinking about readers and writers. Are other people’s opinions like yours? Maybe you could formulate a quiz. To demarcate the choices, you’d use:
a) numbers.
b) letters.
c) you recognize that nearly all polling software only has tick boxes and requires no manual demarcation.

Imagine His Face, OR, "Can't we have one nice moment?"

"No.

"No?

"Yes?

"Yes!

"...No.

"No?

"No.

"No.

"...Yes."

Bathroom Monologue: Five-Man Killer

There is an audio edition of today's monologue. To listen either click the triangle on the left to begin streaming or click this text to download the MP3.

A five-man killer. All these people look at my like some legend, some badass that will save them. But I’m not. I didn’t sign up for the army; I was drafted, and shoved into the front line. There was nowhere to run with the legion on either side and behind me. I’m not brave. I keep waking up hearing men that aren't there crying to go home. I can’t do this. Don’t expect things from me, alright?

The first two. They came in waves. In rows of shoddy plate. The first guy in their first row ran forward and stumbled. He slipped in the mud. The guy to his right must have been his friend, because he stopped like to help him. Sword still in his left hand, he tried to lift him with his right. It wasn't enough, and they struggled. I got my man in the neck and jabbed his friend through the eye and into the brain. Felt brain-deep, anyway.

The third guy was so excited that he fell over their bodies charging me. He got tangled up in their limbs. Looked like they were holding him, begging him not to do this. They weren't. They were dead. I got him where the helmet ends, right above the collar. Some of his blood got into my mouth. I felt the warmth, the wetness, but not the taste.

Was going to throw up as the next in line approached. Yeah, my fourth? Took an arrow to the ear. Sailed in and took it away. You never think that an ear can leave a person that easily; they're so present on everybody your whole life. Then an arrow comes by. While he was clutching for it, I got him in the other ear. Some legionnaire around me was laughing about it.

Those arrows coming down? They were coming from behind us. They were ours. Archers were shooting too short. I backed up. Forced the line behind me to retreat a little, because if our arrows were coming in that tight, I didn't want to take one in the back. The enemy didn’t know what I was doing. Tried to close in, but I had lines of soldiers on my left and right. My guys closed in on their protrusion. I’m told I killed the fifth man, the frontrunner that charged. I don’t remember it. I remember some other guy jumping on him with a battle axe when I was still five paces away. That was my fifth man. "Five-man killer."

A five-man killer. I don’t know. I just want to not wake up for a while.

Bathroom Monologue: Guys & Logs

They were doing Guys And Dolls that Spring, and rehearsal always went  over. That left Jeff late for Mathematics at least twice a week. Mr. Crabtree left the door open and didn't say a word, always letting him creep into the back of the room. Yet before the end of every class, Mr. Crabtree would draw a new logarithm on the blackboard and "randomly" select Jeff to come up and solve it. After three weeks, he finally stayed after class and asked, "Why do you keep making me do them?" "As an actor," his teacher said, "I thought you could handle a mono-log."

Bathroom Monologue: Lucky Four Leaf Clover

Waylon checked the security cams. Still nobody in the building. He’d beat them all here. Maybe it was his lucky day. He leaned both palms onto the lip of the briefcase. It bent, but the clasps refused to meet.

“Oh, come on.”

He yanked it open and pulled out the top stack of bearer bonds. Those could travel in his pockets – most people didn’t even know what they were. If anyone at the airport got nosy, he’d give them one. That’d shut them up.

Wadding the bonds and stuffing them in his pockets, Waylon circled the office. His screen blinked to alert him that reformatting had finished. He shoved the flashdrive into his breast pocket, then stepped to the opposing filing cabinet. The picture frame crackled under of his polished shoe.

“Cambodian. French. Brazilian.” He finished flicking through the second drawer. Nope, everything had gone to the shredder or his briefcase. But he’d had to check, because the guilty always forgot something, and damned if Waylon was going to become a member of the club of examples.

A bottle of lighter fluid waited in the third drawer. The reminder to light the trash can. He took it and made the last sweep of the room.

The rest of his desk? The monitor. Keyboard. Newton’s Cradle. He’d buy a new one. There was his wife’s photograph. He could buy a new one of those, too.

“Like you weren’t intending the same, Charlene,” he said, tapping the glass from the bottom of his shoe. “You’ll only be angry I beat you here.”

Then he saw a fleck of green on the windowsill. He approached, fingers sweeping over his briefcase. What was that? A flower? He didn’t keep plants in here.

It was a clover, and damned if it didn’t have four leaves. He touched it in disbelief. Whatever adhered it to the pane released and it fell across his palm. He held it by the stem, looking down on it and the ten stories below. He tensed his thumb and made the leaves twirl.

“My lucky day.”

He turned to toss it in his briefcase and missed the flash. The instant it left his fingers, Waylon’s window cracked. He dropped the clover, and life dropped him. He fell, one hand gracing for briefcase, the other at the sucking wound in his lung.

The four leaf clover landed on top of the bonds and deeds. It had been good luck - for the man who’d left it.

NYSEG Vs. Us Vs. NYSEG, Part 2 of 2

It all began Sunday night. To read the first half of this article, please click here.

The canopy before new rains washed in.

WEDNESDAY, March 9

At 8:00 AM the NYSEG was still promising power by 10:00 AM. Just two hours. It also informed that only 74 homes in the immediate area were without power, out of 3100 homes in all the Mechanicville Division “Most customers” were expected to have power back “sometime today.”

That was a pleasant surprise. Trucks must have come at night to fix so many lines. At least the ice was melting. It was between 30-40 degrees Fahrenheit outside, cold enough to be uncomfortable, but warm enough to work easier.

10:00 passed with no lights flickering. At 11:00, I called and got an actual operator. She claimed we were supposed to have it back by now and should expect it "any time now." I bided my time clearing up the deck. All the frozen food I’d bagged out there had warmed and spoiled.

I called again at noon. An automated voice told me "5:00 PM."

Mom was still enthused by the news of so many in the area getting power. Her back had improved from two days of rest I convinced her to get out of here for a little while. We drove to get a fresh hot lunch somewhere, picked up some non-perishables, and hit the local fire department. They had no updates about what was delaying NYSEG so badly; the worst of the storm’s wreckage had been cleared. The man I spoke to was operating on NYSEG’s phone updates.

As we drove home, I saw my first NYSEG trucks. Their drivers were all parked on the sides of the road, none active in work. It was like they were shutting down before nightfall. When we returned to a cold home for the fourth night now, I nearly asked to circle back and ask the truckers what was going on. But at that point I was too sick to drive, and Mom was too tired.

We settled in and dialed up. NYSEG’s automated voice informed us that 2,600 homes were now without power. A far cry from the "most" of the 3,100 that were supposed to expect it that morning. We might expect power by 12:00 PM.

I didn’t believe it. We’d seen utility workers locking up their vehicles for the night. They weren’t going to work in the frost. But what options did we have? Risk on roads that were now going to freeze over and pay for a hotel, only to have the power here come back tonight or tomorrow? Even if they’d lied about their intentions to give us back power on Monday and Tuesday, how much longer could NYSEG possibly take?

One of my neighbors bombarded NYSEG with calls. She pushed through until she found an operator and learned that NYSEG thought nobody lived on our roads in the winter. How our winter electricity bills would have born this out, I don't know. My neighbor insisted that yes, people did live here. She was calling from here. We’d made claims of outages from these houses. The operator promised to do something about it.

 Neighbor's property from my lawn, two fallen trees clearly visible.

THURSDAY, March 10

They did something about it. The next morning the automated message reported that 584 people in our immediate vicinity were without power. Not 74 like yesterday. No explanation, just that we were 584 out of 1,700 remaining homes without power.

The revelation that they’d learned these households were actually important made the change more suspicious. When I drove to pick up more water at noon, I didn't see any new damage. The same lines that had been down two days ago were still lying there, including those on the major roads.

I got a better look at the damage on my road. One wire dangled four feet from the ground, leading into the lawn of my next door neighbor. Two trees had fallen, taking out the phone and power lines. Everything was splayed in the mud and remaining snow. You couldn't miss it.

Photo of the dangling wire.

Flashing yellow lights passed our house at noon. One of my neighbors ran out to catch the truck. I arrived in time to hear him relaying an anecdote; five miles away, on a road with power, my neighbor had seen four trucks parked working on a single dark house. The NYSEG guy had no explanation, but was personable. We explained the situation in plain view of the dangling wire and house with downed trees. The NYSEG guy called local units. Cherrypickers pulled up to the opposite end of our road.

Before he departed, I asked the NYSEG man, "Are they going to restore power right here?"

"Oh yeah," he said.

I pointed at the ground under our feet. I'm not a master of communication under the best of circumstances.

"Right here? You're not leaving until you do?"

"Oh yeah."

Mom watched them saw bad tree limbs from our steps. I let them work and went back to reading. They drove off without coming down the road. Mom had only seen cherrypickers and assumed power trucks would be on the way. An hour later, that seemed less likely.

We called NYSEG and were told to expect it back at 3:00 PM.

At 3:00, we'd now have power back by 11:00. But how could those guys have done the work at the end of our road, knowing what was wrong down here, and not have fixed it? If they weren’t allowed to, why hadn’t anyone dispatched for guys that could?

We decided to get out. We hit the library, ate a rare meal out, and saw The King's Speech at a second-run theatre. We killed time, unable to stay out as late as 11:00, but killing a few dark hours before we returned home.

There were at least a dozen trucks, all dark and parked for the night along the roads. Some sat under the street lights, which were back on. My chest swelled as we circled around the lake. There were house lights all around it. Homes at the bottom of our hill wet lit.

"Can it be?' Mom asked.

We turned onto our road. Our house was pitch black.

I swore my way to the phone. The automated system said power had been restored to this residence at 1:00 PM.

1:00 PM? 1:00 PM today?

At 3:00 PM, two hours after that, the system had recognized we didn't have power, and we'd logged again that we didn't. Somehow, someone had missed that all the way into 8:00 PM at night.

We called again in disbelief and kept hitting buttons until we reached an operator. That conversation went poorly. Rather than describe it, allow me to impart advice: if someone ever calls your company and says your system has been lying to them for five straight nights about when power would be restored, and that they would have found a way to get out of here if you'd told them Monday morning that power likely wouldn't be back for that long, do not ever respond, "Those were only estimates." Even if “Monday afternoon” sounded like an estimate on Monday morning, come Thursday night that news will not stop the caller from screaming from their freezing living room.

FRIDAY, March 11

Friday morning's message said we'd have power back by 10 PM and that all customers were expected to have power back. “10:00 PM” now sounded like code for “not today.”

I dragged myself into the car and scouted around the lake for any trucks. I would flag them down and talk to the men on the ground myself. If I had to, I'd beg them to follow me. Except the only two I could find were empty.

Actually, there was no road work ahead.

They were parked on the same stretch of road, flashing lights on and cones set up. They were empty and nobody was around. I rolled down my window and hollered to no response. At 7:50 AM, nobody was on the scene. When I doubled back at 8:20, the trucks were still unattended. There was a third further up the road, also with no driver.

Took photos of the empty cabs, in case anyone later claimed they were on site.

Maybe there was a good explanation. At the moment, I was furious, and that anger kicked through my already exhausted system. By the time I got back, I was shaking and had trouble keeping my head up. I slumped in front of the propane heater. Mom went out on her own shift.

She found some trucks and said the guys on the ground were not in communication with NYSEG. They were not feeding headquarters information and had no idea where NYSEG was creating its restoration estimates from. They wouldn't give names, and I wouldn't publish them if I had them for risk of retaliation against them. None of them had heard all power would be back today; they all expected to be back tomorrow.

One truck followed her back. Mom and I drove down as chaperones to make sure they saw all the downed wires. We circled the area and saw dozens of trucks, not all working on our hill, but at least in our area. Within another half hour, a crew rumbled down our road. They had no explanation for why Thursday's crew hadn't fixed things.

They worked diligently for the better part of an hour. We stirred when they started to leave. Power was not back. We actually got in the car and followed them to the intersection.

"Aren't we done there?" asked one guy.

"Yeah," said his partner.

"No you're not," I insisted. “It’s still dark back there.”

"Aren't we done there?" the guy asked again.

"Yeah," the partner said again. "Just needs to energize for an hour."

At which point, I laughed.

An hour and a half later, the water boiler roared to life. Lights flipped on downstairs, in the basement, and one in my room. A reminder that the power was back.

Everything had spoiled. Frozen chicken, beef, meatballs - what we hadn't cooked had gone off in the thaw. It had been cold enough to chill us, but five hours at a time, warm enough to ruin food. We began cleaning up strewn plates and packing propane gear. We relished in the returning electric heat. It was just in time for the forecast. Tomorrow, it was supposed to snow.



UPDATE: On March 18th I received a call from NYSEG. The operator wanted to apologize for the inconvenience and said the company was working on improving its responses and communications. This was a week after power was restored, but a day after I posted the story about it. They had read this and dug up my number to respond. 

NYSEG Vs. Us Vs. NYSEG, Part 1 of 2

SUNDAY, March 6

Nobody anticipated how bad the storm would be. Sunday morning I heard we’d get heavy rain, turning into perhaps an inch of snow around midnight. After this winter, that didn’t sound bad. In hindsight, the local authorities and NYSEG likely thought the same.

The winds grew heavier after dark. I could hear branches snapping and torrential rain pelting my windows. The power went out for the first time at about 9:30. I sat in the dark for less than ten minutes before everything popped back on. When it went out for the second time, I shut down my computer and simply went to bed.

MONDAY, March 7

I woke to the sounds of chainsaws. The lights were still off. It was so cold that I put on several layers of clothing just to head downstairs. My neighbor Rick and four other men were buzzing fallen trees near the road outside my house. It turned out that the rains had loosened tree roots, then froze to the branches as the temperature dropped. Between the weight of the ice and the high winds, trees fell into the road and froze to the pavement. It had all ended as an ice storm, so that while our winter snows had melted, they froze back into craggy ice. Only the biggest truck could four-wheel its way up our road. I couldn't even walk it.

This birch was straight upright on Saturday.

We phoned NYSEG. Their automated system informed me that at least 7,600 homes in the “Mechanicville Division” were without power, including 944 in my immediate area. This was much worse than anyone had expected, but at least if so many people were reporting outages then NYSEG would now know to send extra crews. I was surprised when the recording said we’d have power back by that afternoon.

Two years ago I was stranded powerless in an ice storm here and it had been over three days before they got around to our hill. Maybe NYSEG had drawn up a more efficient plan to counter that.

With the chill coming through our walls, I got to work. I pulled out a propane stove to make coffee and cocoa. As the freezer thawed, I put new bags in the garbage cans and filled them with all our goods, then deposited them in the snow banks on our deck. When the living room hit meat locker temperatures, I dug out my old fat-pants and put those on over my existing layers.

When the power didn’t come back that afternoon, I called again. Now the system said 11:00 PM, which was still admirably fast. I got out candles and readied dinner. I made tacos on the propane stove by flashlight. Just like the pioneers, I joked.

I went to bed early, leaving one light switch on to alert when we got power back.

TUESDAY, March 8

Instead of electric lights, I woke up to the sun shining between my curtains. We didn't have power. I dialed with my gloves on and learned that there were at least 6800 without power that Tuesday morning, including 944 in my area. The lack of progress was odd. Why would they have expected us to have power back yesterday if they’d done so little that not one house was back online?

Our branch of roads has its share of problems. One neighbor at the end of my road has sleep apnea and relies on a machine to get through the night. On our adjoining road lives a woman who is dying of cancer. I have myriad health problems, including a neuromuscular syndrome that intensifies in pain with the more stress I endure. Soaking in a bath is one of the few effective ways to reduce my muscle spasms. Already my right hand was trembling. I can only imagine what being without power was like for my neighbors.

I called a local handyman for help with the road. The ice on the road was melted too low for his plow to scrape, but he brought a mixture of salt and sand. He shoveled the mixture over my driveway and up the road, moving a few inches at a time. As he tossed shovelfuls, he relayed his experience. The ice storm had knocked over trees and telephones polls, sheering some clean through. He described a local thoroughfare as looking "like a bomb went off." He'd only lost power for a night, but people in his network said the branch roads, like this one, might not see electricity for a week. I thanked him, paid and told him to stay warm, and headed for the phone.

Now the system said we'd have power back by 11:00 PM tonight. That didn't instill confidence. But Mom didn't want to leave the covers; her back hurt and it felt safer under the blankets. After assuring her I wouldn't be gone long, I went to test the roads.

Our area is full of woodlands, and every tree out there was encased in ice. They looked like bark bones under diamond skin. Many were dismembered, thousands of branches littering the roads. It got stranger when I crossed the flooded zones; it was cold enough for still water to freeze, but the ground tables had filled up on Sunday, leaving several areas overrun. Roads alternated between clean, tracks of ice, and flowing streams.

Geese discussing global warming in what is normally a field.

The Red Cross set up a warming station at the local high school. A police officer smirked at me as I came through the doors in all my layers and thermal hood, as though to say, "I know what you're here for." Everyone was cordial. They had bottled water, coffee and bagged snacks. The rep who helped me offered whatever I needed and even went to the back to scrounge leftover soup from their lunch. She recommended I return with my family tonight, since they were closing up tomorrow at 8 AM. I asked if that was when the power was expected. She got nervous and insisted that she didn't know anything.

I checked for news at the library. It was a worldly thing to do. Also, it was heated.

Reports conflicted. Some people were saying the crisis was already over - likely some of the thousand people who had it restored, or had never lost it. There were more estimates about when all the ice would melt than there were for NYSEG finishing the job.

I also browsed the national news, curious to see if we were being covered. The top story was that Obama was considering military intervention in Libya, which I immediately conceded was more prescient than this. Scrolling down I saw ensuing stories about Charlie Sheen and Mike Huckabee's opinion of Natalie Portman. Nothing about thousands of people without power in freezing weather.

Parking lot of the warming shelter.

The roads weren’t reliable enough to stay out too long, and my syndrome was picking up.  I passed three downed wires on the way, including one sparking in a large puddle. There were no NYSEG trucks on these roads. Not a single cherrypicker or electric utility van.

At 5:00 PM NYSEG’s automated voice estimated our area would see power by 10 AM Wednesday morning. We still had 944 people in our area without electricity, out of 4,900 homes. I slept in my jacket.


Click here to continue to Part 2.

Bathroom Monologue: Disrespect for Unhappiness

“Of course I'm going to make fun of you for being unhappy. You're always unhappy. Today it's the flu, tomorrow it's a boyfriend, next Thursday it's hating your job, two Thursdays from now it's not having a job since you quit, and three Thursdays from now we’ll be within spitting distance of a holiday that will find some way to depress you. I like you. Honestly do. It's why I'm letting you sleep on my sofa and use up so much of my toothpaste. But if unhappiness is always going to be in my living room, then I'm going to make fun of it. The things that're temporary, that I don't understand and am afraid of, can get some special handling. Not permanent fixtures. Death, taxes, my stepmother nagging and you bitching are constants, and constants do not receive constant seriousness. They must comply to the fundamental rule: if it's normal, then it gets dripped on, lost in the stack, and made fun of whenever I damn well please. You want me to take your sadness with greater gravity? Then make it rarer. Much, much rarer.”

Bathroom Monologue: Contagious Condition

"One bite. One scratch. Some have contracted the disease just by breathing in the same room. A cultural culture. Whether it's body fluids or airborne, transformation takes hold within seconds. The hunger claims you at least three times a day, and the thirst is even more frequent. The infected move in packs, congregating to feed, amongst other things. One assumes they will hunt together when necessary, though at this stage in the world, food is so plentiful that they seldom have to fight for it. You can recognize them by their listless walk, the range of fatigues and concerns in their eyes, and their inclination towards any sort of gadget. Place an iPhone in the middle of the sidewalk and take cover; in less than an hour one of them will wander off with it. They will shamble around poking it like mindless zombies. They are not zombies, though. The life expectancy is longer, with many making it to ninety years. Also unlike zombies they will spend most of those years keenly nervous over things that will shorten their lives. Nothing they do will actually save them. The human condition is one hundred percent terminal."

"Corners of this Little World" at 5x5

This week Angel Zapata launched 5x5, an e-zine dedicated to stories of five sentences in length, each only five words long. The issue includes work by Michael Solender, Laura Eno and Erin Cole. I’m flattered to be included, contributing “Corners of this Little World.”

The story’s too short to summarize. You can go read it in under a minute, or take in the entire issue in a few. The whole thing is free to read at this link.

Angel cribbed from my site’s bio, leaving me with a hilarious credit under the story.

Bathroom Monologue: End

Ouroboros finished her meal.

Bathroom Monologue: My Space Plane

My space plane would have no leaks. The hull would be brand new, up to code, and spotless. Three robots would be attached to the exterior, polishing the hull at all times, humming admiration for its glory into the airless void.

My space plane would have no angry women. On my space plane, all the women would have at least minored in Advanced Engineering and would be able to rig the jets so we'd get there on time. They would have too many functions for them to all be crowded into the cockpit, second-guessing and decrying, "It's a lost cause."

My space plane has no shifty cooks who constantly talk about mutiny in Portuguese. If there was such a man on my space plane, he would not be in the cockpit. Why would such a cook be in the cockpit? He would be where he belongs: in the airshaft. On my space plane, the airshaft would be opening right now. A robot would pause, lift its polishing rag, and wave it as the former cook decompressed.

My space plane would not be under attack. Certainly it would not be outnumbered six-to-one. Its destination would not possibly already be overrun. Its destination would be a beach. A powder-white beach with no angry women screaming what a moron I am in my ear. If, for whatever reason, our visibility were reduced to zero when the viewing screens were shorted by the enemy arrays, the women would certainly not yell even louder in that same ear.

My space plane would positively never have its hull breached by enemy lasers. It would be enemy-laser-proofed. And if it somehow was breached, that single laser would not miss an entire room of annoying people and somehow hit me in the thigh.

When we arrived at our destination, my space plane would hover nine millimeters above the surf, at the request of the robots. The robots would know how stupid a space plane looks with sand on its butt. And as I disembarked, my all-female engineering corps would follow, stripping down to starfleet-approved bikinis, asking me what the old life was like. And I'd make something outlandish up. Something like this. Yes, on my space plane, this is all a dumb hypothetical that isn't happening.

I wish I was on my space plane.