On the Olympics

The Olympics: a time for sport and international brotherhood, shot through with rage-inducing international rivalry, has kept our planet from the brink of disaster for literally 30,000 years. Today, in 2012, we, as a people, find ourselves just now getting around to celebrating the 30th anniversary of the first Olympic games, and while at this rate we’ll obviously be doing this crap forever, it is nevertheless a testament to our general delightfulness that we have yet to succumb to the ever-growing pressure to admit defeat and say “Okay, we’ll just wait until everyone’s asleep and then take turns slitting each other’s throats” and instead wake up each morning, look the Four Horsemen in the eye, and announce “No! Today we stand strong in hope and sports! You will not have us today, Plague Horse!” And we keep this up for two whole weeks!

Plus if nothing else it’s funny to watch countries like Burma or whatever only have like two athletes in the whole thing, and they finish 11th and 34th in the same event the day after the opening ceremonies and then go home on a plane made out of wood. “Duh, we are too good at sports!” Yeah, I don’t think so, pal! BA-DOOSH! We just got our tenth gold medal while you asswipes were tying up your bindles! That shit is so classic. But also, there’s brotherhood. In ancient times, the Olympics were held probably in the Coliseum, if not there then the Parthenon, if not there then the Acropolis, and it was a way for the ever-warring Greeks to say “You know what? Let’s just wrestle for a while.” No wars, no battles, no stabbing, just wrestling. Maybe eat some grapes between bouts, tell stories about their main god turning into a fish and raping that one mailman who you never see anymore, and just in general being a bunch of Good-Time Charlies. Later, they would stab their leader an even dozen times and then poison the dude who had the idea and who’d started to think that he’d finally made a couple of friends for once in his life, but when the next Olympics rolled around, one guy would look at another guy and be like “Wrestling?” and the other guy would go “Wrestling” and the ruins of this once massive empire would ring yet again with songs and laughter.

Since then, the Olympics haven’t changed too much. There’s still wrestling, for instance. However, it has moved away from the philosophy of its original slogan, “By Greeks, For Greeks,” and embraced a more global participation. I can’t say it’s fully global, and I suspect that some of the smaller, more backwoods countries still don’t really get a look in, because no thank you, but pretty much any country that matters at least gets to have a couple of archers in there. Or handball, have you seen this one? It’s like soccer without kicking mixed with basketball without dribbling. They have goalies but everybody scores all the time so I don’t know why they bother. The goalies are there for the free plane ticket, I think. But the point is if you’re from a country that doesn’t know how to do anything, as long as you promise not to act like a bunch of dickheads, maybe you could play handball. Don’t worry about winning a gold medal because the Olympics aren’t about that. And if France ends up winning the whole business, just ignore them and think “Hey, I got outside for a little bit.”

This is the attitude we should all take to the Olympics. It’s a time for good-natured horseplay, really, in the form of athletic feats that I’m not always sure make complete logical sense. I mean, I’ve been known to win a game of ping pong from time to time, but Jesus Christ! More like ping POW, you know what I mean? That’s how fast it is. Anyway, even Hitler, even that guy, he hosted the Olympics one year. Known primarily for his crotchety public demeanor and run-ins with the press, Hitler still got swept up in the spirit of Olympic goodwill, and when opening the games that year he gave the following speech:

Good morning, sports fans. What a day! I’ll tell you, as a German (well, Austrian, but don’t tell Goebbels that!) [pause for laughter], but as a German, I don’t think I’ve ever been prouder than I am right now. I look out at the crowd of athletes and supporters and sporting enthusiasts, all of one particular race, except that guy, and I think that this is why I became the Chancellor – to see your smiling faces, ready to play! It’s childlike, this wonderment, this sense of play, and it’s something I think we’d all do good to hold in our hearts even as we move away from these Olympic games on back into our daily lives. Sure this will all be over soon, but there’s no reason we can’t carry the spirit onwards. It’s a spirit of love, it’s a spirit of togetherness, and it’s a spirit of fun. Boy, looking at all you guys, I want to jump down off this balcony and join you. And I certainly would if I hadn’t been forbidden to do so by my doctor, on account of the fact that I only have one ball. Let the games begin! Love, Hitler

If even a sourpuss like Hitler can pour himself a glass of iced tea, kick back, and chant “Go! Go! Go!” for any and all countries and athletes, then my goodness, can’t we all do the same? And can’t we, as Hitler implored us to do, remember the joy we felt for these two brief weeks as we watched completely shaved people swim, and strangely wimpy boxing, and people getting all shit-talky about everything, even fucking fencing for Chrissake, and a bunch of sports that frankly I don’t think even exist at any other time, and can’t we, like Hitler, say “Yes!” to life and fun and peace. Thanks, Hitler. We owe you one.

On History

“History is like a big bowl of soup. What kind of soup? Well, that’s where this analogy gets interesting. You see…” Abraham Lincoln spoke these words to Major Henry Rathbone on April 11, 1865, but before he could finish the thought, John Wilkes Booth shot him in the eye with a crossbow, and escaped from Ford’s Theater on a zipline, never to be heard from again. As “The Grand Inquisitor”, as Lincoln was known across the globe, lay dying, Rathbone grabbed him by the lapels and shook him furiously, shrieking “What kind of soup??? WHAT KIND OF SOUP!?!?!?” Alas, the arrow had destroyed the talking part of Lincoln’s brain, so that his last great speech was lost to the mists of Heaven.

Nevertheless, Lincoln’s point, however unfinished it may be, was well-made. What, finally, is history? Zachary Taylor once claimed “History is not unlike my wife's gingham dress, in that the dress, much like history, as often as not, though by no means continuously, and perhaps not even sporadically, now that I think about it, but essentially my point, which I do believe remains valid despite these newly considered reservations, is that my wife’s gingham dress and history share in common the fact that they both…ACK!” The light shed by Taylor’s brave words may be dim, but I think it is quite clear that both of these great men proved beyond all argument that history is very like a great many things, and it is in the comparing of history to these other things that knowledge, which is precious, is, indeed, gained.

History, as an idea, was invented by the Greeks, or the Romans, one of those. Back then, the belief had been that all the things you remembered happening, including past rulers, wars, economic upheaval, natural disasters, societal change, and scientific advancement, didn’t actually happen, and what you thought had happened were all false memories implanted by sea sprites that lived in your hair so that each soul that was born anew at the rising of the sun every morning would have things to talk about, and so that everyone could pretend to be smart, instead of waking up, looking around and saying “What the fuck???”, after which they would just wander around being scared of dogs and water and throwing sticks at each other. How they could believe this and believe the false memories is unclear, but this paradox is likely the catalyst that led one of them to realize this was all bullshit. Sea sprites living in your hair? Shouldn’t they live in the sea? Get out of here with that nonsense.

This new theory, that things actually happened and if they were big enough they added up to history, was presented one day to Caligula, who wiped his mouth, put down the horned wooden dildo, and demanded that someone bring him whatever paper was back then, and probably also a pot of infant blood, so he could begin writing down all these things, all this…history. When the senate read what Caligula had written, they all looked at each other and scratched the backs of their necks, whistled, and made “Hoo, man” sounds. Some announced that they had a thing they had to be at, while others pretended they couldn’t read. Those who remained tore up Caligula’s pages and went about writing their own history, saying Caligula would never notice because they still had to explain to him what apples were, and they were getting ready to poison him anyway. The resulting work, called the Historica Von Tabular, is the basis of all human knowledge.

It is because of the Historica Von Tabular – or HistVoT’bular, as several centuries’ worth of hip and savvy teens have dubbed it – that we have any kind of recorded history, or, for that matter, know that Archimedes had a penis “the mass of which could shatter Olympus itself.” Along the vast amplitude of time, the HistVoT’bular has been updated and expanded with such diligence that any history book you might have seen is not merely a chapter of the HistVoT’bular, extracted for study of a specific topic, but an abridgement of a chapter. The actual, physical HistVoT’bular is now so enormous that noted Norwegian historian Arnkjell Skarstadhagen, one of the few living scholars to have seen the book, said “the book could shatter Valhalla itself. It is very much like Archimedes’ penis in that way.” Currently, it is stored inside a dead volcano, on some secluded and mysterious Asian island. The vault – or bunker, really – where it’s kept is made of an indestructible metal that came from space, and might, some have speculated, actually be sentient. Regardless, Cilia Sumo, the seven-foot-tall Japanese fashion model, nuclear physicist, arms dealer, and, as of last Tuesday, possessor of all the world’s gold, has assured world leaders that the “laughing walls”, which the few contractors who built the vault and survived to tell of it, have spoken of, claiming that the sound of the “alien cackling” that vibrated from the metal slabs melted the insides of many of their colleagues, is just a lot of “silly shenanigans. What’s not so silly is world poverty.” And how can you deny that? Poverty is pretty bad.

So thank you, Cilia Sumo. Without you, the great “soup” of history might forever be nothing but scattered ingredients, hidden on the highest shelves of the universe’s kitchen, the strong fiber of its “gingham” absent from the “dress” that would, without your watchful eye, fall in tatters to the floor of Hades, around the ankles of Ignorance. And so the question remains: What kind of soup is history? The answer is: Delicious.

On Becoming a Superhero

I don’t know about you, but it wasn’t so long ago that I used to wake up in the morning, sit morosely on the side of my bed, and wonder “Why am I not a superhero yet?” The answer, I eventually realized, was a simple one: I wasn’t putting in the work! I was going to bed every night, hoping that by the time the sun rose I’d have turned into Spider-Man. It’s embarrassing to admit now, but I thought that radioactive spiders were everywhere, and, because I do not keep my home clean – I at least did that much – it would only be a matter of time before one found its way in and bit me. From there, it would simply be a matter of determining if my “webslingers” were organic, or if I’d have to make them myself. Given my lazy thinking, I was hoping for the former.
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Then one day, a friend of mine provided me with humbling inspiration, and helped me put my life on the right track. This friend works in a scientific laboratory, and he’s a big Daredevil fan. One day, he was looking at all the jars of science potion they have there, and he took one off the shelf, opened it, and poured the potion into his eyes. And guess what? He’s completely blind now, which means he’s already halfway there.
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Now I know that nobody’s going to just hand me super powers; I’ll have to take them from the cosmos, or the Earth, or the Earth’s oceans, or the Realm of the Eldritch Unknown – whatever is best for me. The best part is that I want to pass on what I’ve learned to you! I want to motivate you to get your own super powers, although if you and I live in the same city, we can’t have the same super powers, unless one of us (you) wants to be a supervillain, in which case you’d better stop reading now, because I’m not going to help anybody do that shit. In fact, I was going to save this for later, but let’s go ahead and get the “supervillain” portion of this essay out of the way now. Okay, I know that some of you are thinking “Hey, if I had a super power – like, say, I could control fire – then I could use it to burn down girls’ locker rooms and banks and so on. Can that hero nonsense! I’m gonna look out for number one, see!?” I believe that it is natural to have these thoughts. But come on, man. Don’t do that.
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Back to the point. The important thing to remember when trying to obtain a super power is this: keep a positive attitude. What you’re trying to do isn’t easy, but there are also lots of different ways to achieve your goal. For instance, there’s the radioactive spider I mentioned at the top. What you need to remember about this method of super power acquisition is that it’s pretty much pure luck. Anybody can get bitten by a spider, but that spider has to bring some pretty serious stuff to the table himself if you’re ever going to get anywhere. Of course, you could buy a spider, and a radiation machine, put the spider into the machine, and then put the spider on your arm and say “Bite my arm.” This can work. If this is where your heart takes you, then Godspeed. But what I’m trying to get at here is that there are alternatives. For instance, you could train to become an astronaut, and when you get launched into space, maybe your ship will pass through a magic cloud. It’s space, so the chances of this happening are pretty good. If NASA rejects your application for any reason, you could always stowaway on their next mission. This kind of pluckiness will serve you well in the future.

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Perhaps you want to take a more practical, hands-on approach to gaining super powers. Maybe the off-chance that there aren’t any magic clouds in space renders that option too uncertain for you. Perhaps, also, you have a great admiration for Matter-Eater Lad, from the Legion of Super Heroes, but the prospect of transforming yourself from a “Regular Joe” to someone who can consume all matter is, while enormously appealing, also quite daunting. “Where,” you must be thinking, “am I to begin?” Well, how about this? Go home and eat a bowl of soup. The next day, try a sandwich. Then you can try to be like one of those guys from the Guinness Book of World Records, who eat bicycles and cars, one tiny piece at a time (I’m pretty sure I saw somebody do that with a plane once). Once you’ve mastered this, see if you can take a bite out of a brick. If you can, then you know what? You did it, buddy. You’re there.
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There’s another option that I’m sure many of you are probably considering, which is the “superhero with no powers” route. This sounds pretty boring to me, but I guess okay, if that’s your thing. If you’d rather have a belt full of shit like marbles, and duct tape that has your name on it, then go to it. When you see me flying over your head with a hot naked girl in my arms, be sure to blow your special whistle at me. But so anyway, if you think you know best, then what you’ll need is some sort of trauma. Everybody has some trauma in their lives – the death of a loved one, the rejection of your poetry and monologues by an ignorant critical “elite” – but if you’re going to use it to shape your superhero persona, you’ll need something special. Your parents will need to be murdered by somebody wearing a snake costume (allowing you to become The Mongoose), or maybe your trauma is something you feel guilty about, like you accidentally killed your best friend in a “watch me swing this axe with my eyes closed” mishap, which would spur you to become The Lumberjack. Or no…who fights lumberjacks? You know what, never mind. This no-super-powers business is really not my thing, so you’re on your own. Good luck!
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As for the rest of you, remember: YOU CAN DO IT! Your quest has an endless number of destinations. Just walk into the ocean and see what happens, or put on a metal hat, go out during an electrical storm, and touch whatever animal happens to pass you by. This is an adventure! Enjoy!
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The Collection Project Film of the Day:
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Remember that scene in Spider-Man 3 (d. Sam Raimi) when the butler tells Harry that he's known for probably about forever that Spider-Man didn't kill Harry's dad, but he kept mum about it for some reason long enough for Harry to become a supervillain? Yeah, I own the movie anyway.

Excerpt

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Another battle lost to the network suits occured in 1980, over at ABC. Dogs of War was the original title for Too Close for Comfort. This was the idea of the late Ted Knight, who viewed the series as his magnum opus. While he had nothing to do with the creation or writing of the show at any time during its run, he felt that calling it Dogs of War would convey a sense of doom and general existential malaise, which he felt was clearly a part of the show’s subtext.

“By definition, subtext is unspoken,” remembers Jm J. Bullock, who played “Monroe” on the series. “And Ted felt that, when he read those early scripts, there was a palpable sense of unease and dread that underlay all the surface shenanigans. In those early days, the show didn’t have any title at all, and Ted believed that by calling the show Dogs of War, that powerful, sub-textual darkness would be brought to the fore. So, for instance, there might be an episode where Ted’s character needed Monroe to help him catch a mouse in the attic, and while we’re up there he finds a bunch of old letters from his wife that seem to indicate she’d once had an affair. After a series of mix-ups, though, it turns out it was just notes for a novel she’d been writing years ago, and which, by the end of the show, Ted has encouraged her to finish. All very pleasant and fun, you know. But when the viewer connects all that fun to a show called Dogs of War, they start to think, ‘Hmm…Vietnam? Racism?’ That title made anything possible.”

To add the dark tone, Knight wanted the show’s opening credits to run accompanied by Barber’s Adagio for Strings. But the network nixed both the music and the title, in the latter case opting for the more generic Too Close for Comfort.

“Ted was crestfallen,” says Bullock. “And the gloating from Nancy Dussault, who’d never liked his ideas, didn’t help matters. When you watch the show now, you can see he’s just going through the motions. For my part, I wanted to do what I could to keep Ted’s vision alive with my performance, but looking back, without Dogs of War as the title, my shrill, circus-freak demeanor just doesn’t work.”

- from my upcoming book The Alienation of the Other or Benson?: Sitcom Title Changes and What They Say About America, coming soon from Penguin Press

A Guide to Writing Horror Fiction - Part Two

Before I teach you how to write dialogue, I have to make one change. In Part One of this guide, we settled on the name "Chip Macktin" for our teenage hero. I've been thinking about this, and I've decided that "Macktin" is a stupid name. Have any of you ever heard of that name before? That's not even real, is it? Anyway, I've been kicking around other options, and I thought about maybe "Chip McAfee". Are there two Cs in "McAfee"? Okay, how about "McGonigal"...oh, hell, that's too long. I'm not typing that shit out over and over again. Fuck it. His name's Chip Jones.

Step 3: Writing Dialogue

Dialogue is tricky. What you need to do is capture the blue-collar poetry of everyday human speech, while, at the same time, revealing character and advancing the story. Sounds easy, right? I'm being sarcastic, of course. Obviously, that sounds like a waking nightmare. But before you get too worked up and end up quitting on me, let me offer you a sample of dialogue from my novel The Coldness. The set-up, basically, is that our hero, Jake Struthers, is talking to Wendell Maples, the elderly caretaker of Blackgate Woods, the terrifying mansion Struthers has just inherited. Maples is greeting Jake for the first time.

"Good morning, Mr. Struthers," croaked Maples.

"Good morning, Mr. Maples," Struthers ejected, eyeing the old man with suspicion.

"How are you this morning?" Maples wondered. "I am fine."

"I'm also fine," Struthers agreed, squinting at the old man. "Is this my new home, Blackgate Woods?"

"Indeed it is, Mr. Struthers. Behold it!"

Struthers did. It was big and old and gloomy, with gargoyles and cobwebs on it.

"What kind of a crazy place is this to live in?" he queried. "I work in Manhattan, New York, in a big firm. How am I supposed to drive all the way over here every night when I'm done working? This is crazy!"

Mr. Maples chuckled all weird.

"Ha ha ha," he bellowed. "Your Uncle Luke did not seem to mind it so much! He lived here until he was 88 years old, you know, and enjoyed every day. And every night, as well. Especially...night!"

"My uncle, Luke Seepher, was a crazy old man! He was all rich from buying paintings and then selling them, and also from secret things which I don't even know about. He never lived fast, like I do. I live in Manhattan. I need the juice! I need that wild city feel! When I stop working every day, I go out to bars and clubs. I buy sixty dollar glasses of alcohol and dance to crunk music. Who needs this dusty old place? You should bury this house with my Uncle Luke!"

"Bury it?" Maples asked, his crazy bat-eyebrows going up on his head. "With your uncle?? But your uncle wasn't buried!"

"He wasn't??" Struthers gasped.

"No," Maples grinned. "His body is still right inside Blackgate Wood. In bed. As though he were only...sleeping!!!!!!"

And, scene. When you get a chance, go back and deconstruct that conversation, and take note of how many little character details I've subtly revealed about Jake Struthers: about where he works, what his daily routine is like, what his lifestyle is. Then notice how, with every word, Maples seems to be pushing against Jake, pushing against Jake's very existence! That is dialogue, my friends. And don't think that just because I wrote it that this somehow explains my high praise. Even if I hadn't written that, I'd still think it was fucking awesome.

Also, "Luke Seepher" is supposed to sound like "Lucifer". If you didn't catch that, but felt a chill run through your veins when you read the name, a chill you were unable to explain, well, there's your answer.

Step 4: Scaring the Reader

How does one scare a reader? A reader is basically a big tub of nothing, sitting in a chair with glued-together paper in his hands. You can hardly expect someone like that to have enough blood coursing through them or nerves in their body to feel a headache, let alone the icy clutch of existential dread. So how do you, the horror writer, break through that slab of numbness, into the reader's primitive core?

Easy! You make things jump out from behind other things. Take this scene from The Coldness:

Jake Struthers was on a couch in Blackgate Woods. It was night outside and he was bored. Where was that hot city action?? He didn't know. Wait, no, it was in Manhattan! Not in Blackgate Woods! It was cold in the room and he had a fire going in the fireplace. It crackled like fires in Hell. He stared at the fire, and thought about Hell. Did he believe in Hell?? That was a crazy notion, if ever there was one! But what if?

He got up and went over to the fireplace. The fire danced like demons from Hell. Wait a minute! Demons...Hell...this was crazy! THEN A GHOST JUMPED OUT FROM BEHIND THE COUCH!!!!!!!

Whoa, settle down their, champ! Did something...startle you? Heh heh.

Listen, the point is, scaring the reader is tricky, but if you have the right tools in your toolcase, and then you take out the right tools at the right time and then use them correctly, constructing a solid edifice of fear over which your gentle readers mayn't climb...then you are a horror writer. You will have joined the ranks of Eddie Poe, Steve King, Howie Lovecraft, Art Machen, Clivey Barker, Bobby Aickman, and even...Bill Shakespeare! Also, Chuck Dickens.

So please...take my hand. There's a doorway opening before us! I see no light shining from within, do you? How very strange. It seems more like...darkness is pouring forth. Let us find out what lies beyond. Hold tight! Who knows what terrors we may face!

Behold!!!

A Guide to Writing Horror Fiction - Part One

Whenever I tell someone that, among my many creative pursuits, I write horror fiction, the person who has just breathlessly received this knowledge invariably asks me the following question: "But how? I read horror fiction all the time, and I know I could never write it myself. I mean, vampires?? What the fuck? Who came up with that one? And can I have some of what they were smoking!? Ha ha ha!" I always share in the laughter, because it's a good joke, no matter how many times I've heard it. Vampires are pretty crazy.

After our laughter has subsided, however, I always gently take the person by the wrist, pull them close to me, and say: "You can write horror fiction! Anyone can do it! You only need to do three things: Believe in yourself, form a bond with the darkness in your soul, and follow my rules. Especially that last one. Did you know," I go on to say, "that one of my horror novels, The Coldness, contained a critical blurb on the front cover that read 'Bill R. out-John Sauls John Saul!'? So who better to teach you?" I then ask them to accompany me to my home, where our lessons will begin. This other person, who until that point always seemed terribly interested in what I had to say, will then suddenly act as though teaching them to write horror fiction was my idea, and will say, "Oh, no. No, why would I do that? I don't even know you. I've never even heard of you. The Coldness? Should I have heard of that?" I then say, yes, you should have heard of it, but it hasn't been published yet. "Then where'd the blurb come from?" they ask. Then I'm like, "Who are you, Michiko Kakutani?? Just come over to my house!" Then they say, "No! Let go of my wrist!" So I say, "Then who will teach you? Your mom??" Then he goes, "I will fucking punch your face, if you don't let me go." So I let him go, but not before adding, "You will never out-John Saul John Saul with that attitude. You probably think great horror fiction grows like mushrooms, and you can just put it on a pizza and call it day and sell a million copies. Horror fiction is not like mushrooms, I can assure you of that." "What?" the guy says. "I said that horror fiction and mushrooms are not analagous," I repeat, and he says, "No, I know that. I actually knew that before you told me. You know, I was just talking to you to be polite. The fact is that I don't care."

And then he leaves. Curiously, not one of those people with whom I've had such an encounter has ever published a successful horror story, let alone a novel. Or at least I assume that's the case, but to be honest I rarely, if ever, get their names, so who knows. But the point is that you don't want to be like those assholes, do you? You wouldn't even be reading this if you not only want to be a successful horror writer, but also believed that I was the correct person from whom to seek guidance. And guidance from me you shall have. Let us begin at the beginning.

Step 1: Thinking Up Ideas

The hardest thing about writing horror fiction is finding unique and scary ideas. Sometimes, it seems like it's all been done. Vampires? Been done. Zombies? Been done. Wolfmans? Been done. Your job as a fresh-faced, go-getting writer is to take an old idea and add a new twist to it, make it sing, make it happening, make it now. So how about a vampire rock star?? That's actually already been done, too, and more than once, but still, you're on the right track. Vampires have really been run into the ground (pun most toothsomely intended!), and outside of "vampires who investigate crimes on a moonbase" -- which is my thing, so hands off -- you'd do best to skip them entirely.

What I would recommend for you is to start with something more mysterious. Let's just spitball something here. Let's say your story takes place somewhere in the Midwest, some rural communty in Nebraska or something. Okay, now let's say that it's Halloween. And your teenage hero, Chip, has a tough family life, because his dad drinks all the time, and his mom got killed by a plane crash. Chip wants to go out trick-or-treating, just like a normal 17 year-old boy, and he's got his favorite costume, which is Dracula, because all teenagers thing Dracula is "cool beans", but his dad is all drunk, so instead of trick-or-treating, Chip has to go the local market store and buy his dad some alcohol medicine. Otherwise, he might die. So he's driving out to the market store, and an old homeless farmer jumps out into the road, and Chip runs right over him. Chip goes to him, and just before he dies, the farmer says, "In exactly one year you will all die!" Then the old man dies, and his body turns into thousands of ants which then fly away (Note: When you describe the ants flying away, be sure to put in something about them flying "into the night sky" or "into the night air". We're trying to set a mood, after all).

After that, I think you should be off an running.

Step 2: Creating Characters

I won't lie to you: this part is hard as balls. Fortunately for you, as you can see above, you're almost halfway there as far as Chip goes. You already know that Chip has a father who drinks nothing but alcohol, and that Chip wants to be Dracula for Halloween. If you flesh him out too much more than this, then you might be accused of "over-boiling the soup". But you still have to ask yourself: Who is Chip? Who does Chip want to be? What does Chip care about? What clothes does Chip wear?

You can get most of this out of the way in one paragraph, but remember, in horror fiction, as with all fiction, good writing is king. You have to be able to make your reader live your story, and see through the eyes of your characters, and the one tool you have is that wondrous and frightening old mistress we call Words. I just made up an old saying: "If you can't bring it, then you better not sing it." And that's exactly what I'm trying to tell you. Our language has all these words, just sitting there, waiting for you to use them, but you better choose them wisely. If you want to use the word "pentacle", but accidentally use "pendulum", then fuck you, because that's your problem, not mine.

So you're introducing Chip. Here's the wrong way to do that:

Chip loved school and wore nice clothes most times. He also like to watch TV and eat hot dogs, too. Do you know what kind of music he liked? Rock and roll! He loved to dance to it. His friends thought he was crazy! Another thing he liked was girls, but he was also sad because the one girl he liked was dating with the Football Quarterback. And remember from before that his dad drank booze.

Congratulations. You just made Chip a pussy. Now here's the right way to introduce him:

Chip hated school and his teachers. He wore jeans that matched his taste in rock and roll music. You would never catch him dancing though, because he thought it was for pussies, except if you danced, that was okay with him. Chip didn't judge people like everybody else in Nebraska. He liked girls but was sad because the one girl he liked, whose name was Tammy [Note: I gave the girl a name this time. You must always remember to name your characters], was in love with the Football Running Back [Note: I changed him to a running back. Making him a QB is too obvious, and you must always avoid cliche', or you should avoid it as often as it is practical to do so]. He liked to watch TV and eat hot dogs, too.

Voila. Clean, precise language, that nevertheless evokes for the reader a complete and living human being. Take the stage, Chip! The spotlight is ready for you!

Oh, shit, you should also give him a last name. Maybe "Mackey". Chip Mackey? Does that sound okay? Or "Macktin". Chip Macktin. Chip Macktin. That sounds pretty good. Chip Macktin.

All right, take the stage, Chip Macktin! The spotlight is ready for you!

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Next: Dialogue and How to Scare the Reader

Science Experiment

According to an Onion AV Club headline, at this year's Toronto Film Festival, Diablo Cody, screenwriter for Juno and the new horror film Jennifer's Body, "Throws Gasoline on the Juno Backlash". It's been a long time since I've taken chemistry, but I'm pretty sure that's the branch of science that flammable liquids, and throwing one thing onto another thing, falls under, and I've never heard anything about gasoline reacting badly with backlashes, or vice versa. I've never even heard of backlashes reacting in any way with anything, unless you count reverse-backlashes, which no scientist worth the title would ever do.

But still, I figured this is the Onion AV Club we're talking about here. They're the serious ones, not the jokey, fakey news one. So I thought, well, maybe I don't fully understand what backlashes are. I don't even know how you go about acquiring one. This would be a problem, because I just now, or about three minutes ago, decided to conduct a science experiment. What I would like to do is get myself a can of gasoline, and a backlash (or perhaps a jar of backlash -- truly, I'm at sea here) and throw the gasoline on the backlash, and see what happens. But since I can't do that, I have to do the next best thing which is obviously to hop on over to Google Image, download the first picture of gasoline I can find, and then type in the word "backlash", take the first picture I get from that search, and see what kind of reaction might reasonably follow, were I able to physically combine the actual things represented by the images.

And so. First, "gasoline":

Okay, perfect. We all know that gasoline is a flammable liquid that sometimes comes out of pumps, so this image matches our understanding of that word. Plus, the dollar sign spelled out by the leaking gasoline really makes you think about things, such as gas prices, and those knuckleheads in Congress.

Next, "backlash":

Oh my dear sweet Christ. Oh my dear sweet Christ. If I'd really done this experiment, I would be dead as fuck. No wonder they don't just sell sacks of backlash at the local 7-Eleven. It can kill you and/or be used to make meth. Which regulatory committee is responsible of keeping this stuff out the hands of irresponsible boneheads such as myself? The FDA? The CDC? Whoever it is, thank you. You saved my life today. Now, when I go outside, the birds smell sweeter, the air tastes fresher, or more fresh, whichever, and the car horns and loud, swearing human voices sound like the lightest of piano concertos. I'm finally really living.

The Greatest Film I've Never Made

Some time ago, I was reading an article -- well, I skimmed it, really, but the gist could not have been clearer -- about the writer Raymond Carver and the stormy relationship he had with his editor, Gordon Lish. Apparently, Carver had a particular vision about his stories: what they should be about, which words should be in them, and so on. In that sense, I suppose, he was a real ball-breaker, but what my cursory perusal of the article made abundantly clear was that Carver was a true artist who cared about his work, and "put in the hours", much as I do with my monologues. The problem was that his editor, Gordon Lish, believed that he knew better than Raymond Carver what the final stories should look like, and Lish, in fact, forced his own aesthetic viewpoint into Carver's work. So Carver would turn in a story -- let's do this hypothetically, and say that the story is about a fat drunk guy who gets fired from the meat factory, and on his way home from getting fired he sees a pelican eating some garbage -- and Lish would look at it and say, "No, Raymond, this story doesn't work. The guy shouldn't be fat, and instead of a pelican eating garbage, it should be a crocodile in a baby pool." And then he'd say, "Also, what's with all the words? You use way too many." So it was like that movie about the composer, where the child molester tells the guy from Animal House that he plays the piano too much. As a result, many critics and scholars now wonder who really wrote these stories that have Carver's name on them.
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I got so mad reading this article, because the artist is the one who calls the shots about his own art. You don't go up to a painter and say, "Don't paint a dragon, paint a tree. And lose the blue." If you came into my artist's studio spouting that noise, I'd tell you where you could go and stick it, Chester. The fact that Carver didn't, and lived a life of torment as a result, indicated to me that a really good movie could probably be made from this story. The film would be a biopic, which means you're halfway there, and it would give me the opportunity to explore the creative process in a creative piece. Buddy, did that get my juices flowing. So I wrote a script, which I called One More Thing, which is the title of one of the most disputed stories to come out of the Carver/Lish partnership. I even lined up my cast, at least mentally. I wanted Jeff Bridges to play Carver (or "Ray", as I've come to think of him -- I lived inside his heart for so long, after all); Laura Linney to play Tess, Ray's wife; John Malkovich to play Tobias Wolff, fellow writer and friend to Ray; and Frank Langella to play the diabolical Gordon Lish.

I shopped the script around, along with the cast list, and after a few weeks I started hearing things like "This is slander" and "Much of what you wrote here didn't happen" and "Gordon Lish is going to sue you until you die, and you'll have it coming" blah blah blah. Whatever, Status Quo! Keep making your status quo movies with your status quo budgets and your status quo actors and your status quo test screenings! I don't give a shit that Gordon Lish doesn't want me to tell the truth (the metaphorical nature of my take on the truth is irrelevant). So I decided I was going to make the movie myself, guerrilla-style, and I started off by trying to get Jeff Bridges' phone number. He wasn't listed, so I gave up.

What I'm left with is a script, a brilliant script, that explores the nature of art, addiction, love, and evil. It may go forever unfilmed, but that doesn't mean it shouldn't be enjoyed and loved by the discerning public. It turns out that a blog is not the ideal place to publish an entire 180-page script, but I can publish certain excerpts, carefully chosen to give you a sense of the story's rich texture. So, Dear Reader, take my hand, and let me lead you, once again, into the House of My Art...

We begin, as all such stories must begin, with Faust falling to the wiles of Mephistopheles...

(RAYMOND CARVER, TESS GALLAGHER, TOBIAS WOLFF, and GORDON LISH are at a cocktail party. CARVER and WOLFF are against a wall, away from the rest of party. CARVER is drinking seltzer.)

CARVER: I really hate these things.

WOLFF: It's as if all the posers within a hundred miles all congregate in one room to get blasted and act like they're the next Ernest Hemingway. Why do we let ourselves get roped into coming to these all the time?

CARVER: I don't know.

WOLFF: Okay, how did we end up at this one?

CARVER: Tonight is Gordon's night. He says it's for me, to sort of, I don't know, present me to the local literary community.

WOLFF: Let me tell you something, Ray: Gordon doesn't do anything for anybody other than Gordon.

CARVER: That's what Tess always tells me.

WOLFF: You should listen to Tess. Hey, how's the new story coming?

CARVER: Oh, I'm stuck. I don't know, you know, I have the husband just about to walk out on the wife, but I know that I have so much more to say beyond that, but I'm having trouble saying it. I'm having trouble...paring it down.

WOLFF: That's where you were last time I looked at it. Ray, you have to move forward with this. This could be your best story yet. You can't let it go!

CARVER: I'm not letting it go, Toby. I'm just...I'm just trying to find the ending.

(LISH and TESS are at the buffet table, loading up their plates. TESS seems to wish she were somewhere else.)

LISH: Good evening, darling! I almost didn't see you there. I'm so pleased you could make it!

TESS: Good evening, Gordon. I couldn't let Raymond come here by himself. That wouldn't be very wifely of me, would it?

LISH: Oh, Tess! Always the protector! Raymond is so lucky to have you.

TESS: That's interesting. I think you're lucky to have Raymond.

LISH: Oh? Well, I would hardly disagree with that. He's an extraordinary writer, and I feel more than just lucky to be his editor, I feel privileged. Still, I can't help but wonder what would compel you to say so.

RAYMOND: Because it's true.

LISH: (pause) Then we agree. How marvelous.

TESS: Would you excuse me, Gordon?

LISH: Of course...

(CARVER and WOLFF are still standing against the wall.)

WOLFF: If you need help with the story, Ray, you know that all you have to do is ask me.

CARVER: I know, Toby, but you know I don't work that way. If my name's gonna be on it, it's gotta be my words.

WOLFF: (laughing) Ray, I think you misunderstand how much I'm willing to help you! (pause) Say, I think that's old Dick Ford over there, talking to Tess! I haven't seen him in ages! I'm gonna go say hello. Want to come along?

CARVER: Naw, I'm gonna stay here. I'll catch up with ol' Dick before we leave.

WOLFF: Suit yourself.

(WOLFF departs. LISH approaches, carrying two tumblers full of whiskey.)

LISH: Raymond, my dear boy! You're behaving like a shy young child! Come out and join the populace!

CARVER: Gordon, you know this isn't my kind of scene. I mean, I really appreciate it, but--

LISH: Of course, I understand, Raymond. I don't want to force you into anything you neither enjoy or approve of.

CARVER: I didn't say I didn't approve...

LISH: Never mind, never mind. Here, I've brought you a drink.

CARVER: Oh, uh, thanks, Gordon, but no. I really shouldn't. You know I have a bit of a problem.

LISH: Oh, not a bit of it, my lad! Tonight is your night, after all! You should be allowed a little indulgence!

CARVER: If Tess saw me --

LISH: Then we won't let her see you. Come to my study, and we can enjoy our drinks in peace. Besides, it will give us a chance to discuss how you're coming along with your new story...

* * * *

It's probably here that I should break in and say, okay, no, I'm not aware of the existence of any evidence that Gordon Lish fed Carver's alcoholism. I made it up! Happy now, you legal vultures!? God, if Shakespeare were alive to see what you people were doing to me, he'd throw up on your shoes. On all of your shoes!
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* * * *

(LISH enters his home. His WIFE is sitting in an easy chair, reading a book.)

LISH: Hello, my love.

MRS. LISH: Hello, dear. How was your day?

LISH: Oh, it went well enough, I suppose. I must say, I feel awfully tired.

MRS. LISH: Would you like to nap before supper?

LISH: No. No, in fact, I think I shall work on my book.

MRS. LISH: Oh, wonderful, dear! I'll be sure to keep things quiet around here.

LISH: Thank you. Just knock when supper is ready.

(LISH goes upstairs to his study. He sits down in front of his typewriter. For a moment, he is motionless. Then he begins typing. After a while, however, he angrily rips the paper from the typewriter, crumples it up, and throws it against the wall. He sits staring out the window for several moments.)

* * * *

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I'd like to point out that nobody who turned my script down, and who told me that what I was doing was morally and ethically wrong, gave me an ounce of credit for the above scene. Who among you didn't feel your heart break for Lish when you discovered that his monstrous wickedness was driven by his own thwarted desire to write? Monsters are never self-made, you know. I bet Stalin found high school to be pretty rough-sledding, for instance. And yet everyone who read this script only focused on the "slander". Paddy Chayefsky wouldn't cross the street to piss on those guys even if they wanted him to!

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* * * *

(RAYMOND CARVER is getting ready to leave his house. He has a bunch of papers under one arm. It's morning. TESS GALLAGHER enters the room just before he can leave.)

TESS: Are you going out? It's so early!

CARVER: Yeah, I'm going to see Gordon.

TESS: Oh...are you going to talk to him about your stories? (Pause) Because that's what they are, Ray. They're your stories.

CARVER: I know that. Don't you think I know that? But Gordon thinks he knows how to make them better.

TESS: What does Gordon know about anything? He's an editor! He's a pencil-pusher and a corporate toady. He's not an artist! His job is to stand in your way.

CARVER: Tess, I have to listen to him! How else am I going to get these stories published? How else can I get them out there, where they need to be, where people can read them??

TESS: But why do you want people to read them if they're not your stories?

CARVER: They're still mine...they're still my ideas.

TESS: An idea isn't a story! I'm tired of seeing you crumble, Ray! That's not the man I married! The man I married fights for his work, and he fights for art, and he fights for himself!

(Long pause)

CARVER: Maybe, Tessy. I'll try. Maybe you're right. Gordon's ideas...they're just... some of them just don't make any sense.

TESS: Then you have to stop him.

CARVER: Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do.

(CARVER turns, opens the door, and turns back to TESS.)

CARVER: Hey, Tess? One more thing...

TESS: What is it, baby?

CARVER: I love you.

* * * *

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My work is pretty much always about love, and our need to find it, and things like that.

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* * * *

(CARVER and LISH are at LISH's kitchen table. Mugs of coffee sit in front of each of them. In front of LISH there is also a half-empty pint of whiskey. It is late...)

LISH: Now, Raymond, do you see here, where I'm pointing? This passage, right here.

CARVER: I see it, Gordon, but I don't understand...

LISH: Raymond, please. Just listen for a moment. (Reading) "It was all simply too painful for her. This person, this man, this wretched being had swept through her life like an angry, drunken hurricane and destroyed her youth and happiness. It was time for her to make him pack away his clothes and leave. And while he was at it, she would make him pack away his love."

CARVER: I know my own words, Gordon. What I don't understand is what you're getting at. Are you telling me you don't like my writing?

LISH: Of course not, my dear boy. I am simply trying to be your editor. And I believe there is a better way to say this.

CARVER: How can there be a better way to say it? What I wrote is what Maxine is feeling. There's only one way to write that, and that's what I've done. I've let Maxine speak for herself.

LISH: Ah. Oh, Raymond. You are a romantic, aren't you?

CARVER: No. I'm a writer.

LISH: Don't take offense, Raymond. I meant it as a compliment. I find it all terribly charming.

CARVER: Has anyone ever told you that you're incredibly patronizing?

LISH: (pause) Yes, Raymond. As a matter of fact, they have. It is one of my many character flaws, and the one I'd most like to change. Allow me to apologize. Do you accept?

CARVER: (pause) Why don't you just give me some idea of how you think that passage can be improved?

LISH: Very well. Would you like another drink first?

CARVER: (long pause) Just a little.

LISH: (after pouring a healthy dose of whiskey into CARVER's mug) Now, before I give you my suggestions, I feel that I should explain to you how I've arrived at this idea. In Maxine, I believe you have created one of the great heroines of American literature. I truly believe that, Raymond. She is a strong and simple person, someone whose life has repeatedly disappointed her, but who hasn't let that grind her down. She is a woman who stands up to life, if you will. She fights life. And, damn it, Raymond, she is determined to win!

CARVER: (taking a drink) I'm...I'm gratified to here you say that, Gordon. That's who Maxine is to me, as well. You said that you think she is one of American literature's greatest heroines...I'm not prepared to accept that compliment. But in a way, when I was writing this story, I thought of Maxine as America. She has hopes, you know? Dreams. She was optimistic, once, just like the rest of us. But she's seen one bad thing after another, and she doesn't know if she wants to be optimistic anymore. But she wants to dream about it...

LISH: Yes, Raymond, yes! I entirely agree. But there's something else about Maxine, something I've already mentioned. She's simple, Raymond. Like America, she's simple. And I believe her thoughts and feelings should be expressed in a like manner. As you've written her here, in this passage, she's...she's complex. I mean, she is terribly thoughtful, Raymond. Wonderfully thoughtful, even. But is that appropriate?

CARVER: Well...I don't know. What did you have in mind?

LISH: (producing a sheet of paper) Here. Last night, I rewrote the passage we've been discussing.

CARVER: (reading) "He made his way into the bedroom and took one of her suitcases from the closet." (Long pause) Is...is this it?

LISH: Yes. Simple, to the point. And, if I may allow myself a boastful moment, beautiful.

CARVER: But it's not even about Maxine anymore. This says "he". This is about LD.

LISH: Well, yes. I thought perhaps seeing events from his point of view might be an interesting perspective.

CARVER: But the story is about Maxine!

LISH: Raymond, just think about it for a moment...

CARVER: And my words! Where are my words!? They're all gone! You've taken them all, and you've, you've...you've raped them!

LISH: Raymond, please...!

CARVER: You've raped them, Gordon. You've raped them and sent them away. You gave them five bucks to be quiet, and you sent them home!!!

(CARVER jumps up from his seat, knocking over the whiskey, which spills all over LISH's rewrite. LISH quickly grabs the page and begins to dab at it with a handkerchief.)

LISH: Perhaps you've had too much to drink.

CARVER: Have I? It's your whiskey!

LISH: I don't know what you mean...

CARVER: Just forget it, Gordon. Forget the whiskey. Where are my words? I want my words back!!

LISH: Your words, Raymond, are right here on the table, and you're welcome to them. Take them home with you. I will be quite happy to be rid of them.

CARVER: And what about the story?

LISH: What about it?

CARVER: What gets published, Gordon?? Whose story gets published?? Maxine's, or LD's??

LISH: (long pause) The story that will be published will be the correct one.

CARVER (pause) I see. And whose name will be on this correct story, Gordon?

LISH: Why, my dear boy, your name, of course. You're the author.

CARVER: If I'm the author, then why do I feel so much like the victim?

LISH: (getting all his papers in order) Because you're dramatic, Raymond. And because you can't see past the end of your own nose. These are failings common to your type.

CARVER: My type??

LISH: Yes. Now I'm going to have to ask you to leave. You've upset me to the point where I wonder if shall be able to get any sleep at all tonight, and I have an early morning tomorrow. I trust you'll be able to drive yourself home, even in your condition. Lord knows you've done it before.

CARVER: (long pause) This isn't over, Gordon.

LISH: That's where you're wrong, my dear boy. This is over...

CARVER: No, Gordon. No. Tess was right.

LISH: Oh, of course...the wife makes her presence known at last.

CARVER: These are my stories, Gordon! This is my life, my work. How can you have a say in me, in who I am!?

LISH: My dear boy, I'm doing it for the good of these stories, and you know that as well as I. The text is what is important.

CARVER: For the good of the stories, or for the good of your reputation? What is this really about?

LISH: I've told you, Raymond. This is about art.

CARVER: But it's my art! I wrote these stories! They have my name on them! I am Raymond Carver!

LISH: ...Are you sure?

* * * *

And thus do both men walk together into Hell... Either that's from Dante, or I just made it up myself, but either way I think you'll agree that this script is plumming the kinds of depths that Ray and Gandhi only wished they'd had the stones to plum. But these are the kinds of scripts getting rejected, ladies and gentlemen, and all lovers of the Purity of Art. The middle-of-the-roaders and the go-alongers win again, and we're left to face the cold night...alone.

On Insects

Insects are terrifying creatures. Or so they appear. Throughout recorded history, when faced with any species of insect at all, men -- and especially girls -- have regarded these tiny creatures with abject horror and maniacal violence. Why is this? Freud would say that it's because men and women regard insects as their own malevolent genitals, sprung from our collective ids, or "superegos", and bent on exposing our homosexuality to our parents. But this is only part of the truth, the other part being that insects are often pretty wicked looking. Personally, I find it disgusting that eight or nine years, depending, into this new millenium, mankind still judges the animal kingdom by its appearance, and it is my hope that, today, I can change our perceptions of the insect world. I want to turn our terror and disgust into joy and delight, our stomping and crushing into hugs and laughter. And I've studied all this shit, too, so if anybody can pull that off, it's me.

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Insects can be separated into three broad types. Those are Ants (which includes ants, beetles, earthworms, and millipedes); Scorpions (which includes scorpions, snakes, and alligators); and Flies (which includes all flying insects, such as bats, and all the beetles that don't count as ants). Each of these types contribute something positive to our daily lives. Ants, for example, eat all our grass. Scorpions keep the natives at bay, and provide poison for our spear- and arrow-tips. Flies gives our hard-working scientists and engineers ideas for future individual flight packs. Think about how you might one day be able to buzz your way to work like the care-free housefly, and the next time you go to squash one, I think you might find yourself thinking twice. Also, bees are flies, and bees give us honey. Honey is great. It's so good.

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Now, let us look at each type of insect. First, Ants. Ants are the kings, literally, of the Ant family, and there are three main kinds. The most famous and best kind of ant is the Black Ant, pictured below:

Black ants are the wisest of all insects, teaching all their minions how to hunt and fish, build homes and plant crops, even to carry items that weigh 1400 hundred times their own weight, which is hard to do, if you've never tried it. Think of it like this: You weigh one pound, okay? Now try to pick up a refrigerator that weighs 1400 pounds. That'll mess you up. And yet black ants can do it like it's nothing. Do you have any AAA batteries lying around? Go pick one of those up. See how easy that was? Okay, a black ant would find it just as easy to pick up something that weighed 1400 times that, or right around there, anyway. And yet we crush them under our boots every day!

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Red ants are often believed to be the natural enemy of the black ant, and in some ways that's true. Before I explain why, let's take a look at a red ant:

As you can see, red ants spend a lot of time around beautiful garden flowers, and, frankly, black ants wouldn't mind a little of that action themselves. So why not just do so, you might be asking, if black ants are the kings of insects? Because, hey, Einstein? How is a black ant supposed to blend in with beautiful flowers? How many black flowers have you seen? Not too many, I'll bet. But red flowers are all over the place, aren't they? So red ants can scamper amongst them as they please, while the black ants have to sit in the goddamn dirt, saying "You know what? Fuck those guys. Flowers are dumb." Sometimes this sort of denial works, but just as often it doesn't, and on those days, jealousy reigns, which in turn leads to those red ant/black ant fights you used to see in your backyard when you were a kid. That shit was nuts. At the time, you probably wondered what in the world red ants and black ants could possibly find to fight about. But now, thanks to me, you know that it's because of flowers.

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Next we have blue ants, seen below:
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In all honesty, you really probably should steer clear of blue ants. Those are some really bad motherfuckers. And if you see one -- and God, those things are everywhere these days! -- do not try to step on it. Being cast into the deepest caverns of Hell would feel like sinking into a warm bath in comparison to what that blue ant would do to you.

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On the other hand, every insect in the Scorpion category would make an excellent pet, should you ever wish to take your life in that direction. Humans who keep scorpions as pets are often looked down on as freaks, "weirdos", losers, terrifying loners, the kind of guy who puts up websites that claim that Stephen King is the one who shot John Lennon. And that's all true, as often as not, but why blame the scorpion? Look at him:

Isn't he beautiful? He's like a poisonous, scurrying little box of crayons. And his poison, so called, actually isn't poison at all, but a natural antibiotic that can be used to treat any number of infections. You don't even have to kill the scorpion to get it -- if he sees that you're not feeling well, he'll offer it to you. But actually, that particular type of scorpion is extinct. Most other scorpions really are pretty nasty, and I wouldn't get within ten feet of one if you paid me twenty dollars.

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Finally, we have Flies. Most humans consider flies, and other such creatures, to be the most aggravating of all insects. They fly around your food, bite you when you're outside, get all up in your face...but they mean nothing by any of that behavior, and most times they're pretty embarrassed about how everything went down. If we only shared a common language, we'd probably develop a pretty emotionally and intellectually satisfying relationship with them. As it happens, scientists, God bless 'em, are working right now to try and manipulate the vocal chords of humans, and the auditory senses and sensory communication capacity of flies, so that this beautiful dream can one day become a reality. We might be there right now, if it weren't for a tragic, yet fascinating, setback. About a week ago, a scientist named Dr. Leonard Barclay (pictured below) isolated himself in a Science Chamber with a lone housefly.

Dr. Barclay surrounded himself with lab equipment and potions -- everything he thought he might need to communicate with the fly. The potion (which was green) was intended, upon Dr. Barclay's consumption of it, to act as a conductor between one kind of lab equipment and Dr. Barclay, but unfortunately, like most science potions, it was full of sugar, and just as the scientist was lifting the beaker to his lips, the fly dove in.If the potion hadn't worked, there probably wouldn't have been a problem. The US government would have been down one housefly, but that's about it. Unfortunately, science once again "succeeded", and disaster enveloped Dr. Barclay in its icy cloak.

Needless to say, as soon as Dr. Barclay's colleagues could get their hands on a flamethrower, they burned him to ashes, because who wants that thing running around. But the potion works, which is the bright side of this whole deal. We are one step closer to being able to talk to flies. Thank you, Dr. Barclay.
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So ends tonight's lesson on our insect friends. I hope you've learned as much as I've tried to teach you. If you take away nothing else from this, please remember one thing: insects are beautiful. As beautiful as the hottest, most beautiful woman. But the thing is, insects aren't going to make you buy them dinner first! Right, fellahs? No, but seriously, don't kill insects if you can possibly avoid it. I mean, come on.

Fiction...or FACT??

After watching Incident at Loch Ness over the weekend, I thought I might indulge in one of my favorite hobbies: going on-line and finding pictures of real ghosts and monsters. Sure, the government and probably also NASA tries to keep the proof of the existence of such creatures hidden from the public, but there are scores of ghost and/or Sasquatch hunters out there who struggle every day to get the truth out there (here). They do more before noon than you probably did all last Sunday, you lazy fuckers. So to begin.

Much is made by people who I would label "doubters" or "haters" or even "haterzz" that the entire length and depth of Loch Ness has been searched, and no ghost has ever been found. Well, okay, but what about the Loch Ness Monster??? He's the whole point, you lying idiots! And here he is, even!

And look at him getting ready to eat a fish! That's so cute! Although Nessie is pretty dangerous, too, so be careful the next time you're in Scotland.

The ghosts that aren't being found in the waters of Loch Ness can actually be found everywhere else in the world. All you have to do is look, and be sensitive to their presence, or have mind powers, or have top-of-the-line ghosting technology, like these fellows:

These guys are doing important work, and they're doing it on TV, but the thing I find so admirable about them is that they have day jobs...as plumbers!! For Roto-Rooter, I think. And they've both made it crystal clear that if the ghost hunting money should ever dry up, they'll just go on being plumbers, smooth as you please, because they're just regular joes, like you and me. I bet they'd keep hunting ghosts for free, too, because that's just how they are.

Speaking of which, here's a ghost:

See it? How does NASA think they can keep this stuff from us? It's going to get out there anyway, you stupid astronauts. Maybe if you worked more closely and openly with the public, you would find even more ghosts, and your plan to construct an all-ghost space colony on Saturn will be realized far sooner than you dared hope.

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Also, gnomes are real. For a long time, even I didn't believe gnomes were real, and I believe in unicorns, but lately they've been coming out of the woodwork (probably literally, because they're gnomes, and gnomes live in wood -- cabinets and hutches and trees and so forth). Here's one:

What's interesting about this guy -- who I have named "Simon Leafgood" -- is that he's clearly aware that a Man is nearby, attempting to capture his image in some way, and yet he appears unafraid. Have we infringed on their home so thoroughly that they have become acclimated to us? It's like when you go to a big city, and the squirrels will practically walk right up to you, like "Hey. Is that popcorn? What does ice cream taste like? I'm a squirrel, by the way."

Simon Leafgood certainly seems friendly enough, at least, but I fear that our ruthless industrial spread has angered some in the gnome community, and there may come a time when we will have to atone, or face the rope. Look at this:

That gnome is pissed! If that still doesn't give you a chilling enough picture of our future, then check out this video, from whence the above image came. They're out for blood, people. Human blood. And God knows that NASA isn't going to help us when the gnomes rise up. I don't know who can help us, but presumably, somewhere out there, there's some kind of Chosen One, a teenager probably, who maybe has an amulet he can use. Fingers crossed, anyhow.

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I Have Been Interviewed

Dennis Cozzalio isn't the only esteemed blogger to have been interviewed recently. I, too, sat down not long ago with a journalist to tell my story -- and it's about damn time, but never mind -- of maturity and art and creation and wisdom. I was more than happy to do this, but the interviewer doesn't have a website, or a magazine, or a newsletter, and said that he just wanted to do this for the "hell of it". I said, okay, then can I put the interview up on my blog? As it's been three months and I haven't heard back, I'm going to take that as a "yes". So enjoy!

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How did you get started writing? How did you begin?

How did I begin…what an interesting question. Well, I’ll tell you how I began: I picked up a pen. And I put that pen to paper.

Why?

Why not? [Laughs] No, I’m only joking. I did it because of a mixture of things. Anger. Anger at the world and its governments. Also love for people. And also because some dreams deserve to be shared, and I believed that I dreamed such dreams. For instance, my first short story was about a robot who learned how to cry. When that image came to me, of a big metal robot with lightbulb eyes, and a, like a grate for a mouth, and from one of those lightbulb eyes there fell a single tear…well, what could I do? Keep it to myself? That would have been a criminal act.

A crime against art?

No, a literal crime. This would have been a legal issue, I believe. There is a law in the books against withholding beauty from mankind. I think that’s in there somewhere, but I’ll admit I haven’t studied law in ages! [Laughs]

Still, who would know? How could you have been caught?

I would have turned myself in.

I see. So did you ever publish that story? I confess that I’m not familiar with it. What was it called, by the way?

It was called O, And Daylight Does Break on This Metal Man, which is a line from a poem I’d written just a few hours previously. No, I never did publish it, but not from a lack of trying. I sent it off to Ploughshares and The New Yorker, and I never heard a thing. Also, at the time, I was convinced there was a short fiction magazine called Dragynfyre, and I sent it off to them, as well, but it turns out they didn’t exist. Maybe that was a band. Was that a band?

I don’t know.

Well, anyway. So the story didn’t get published, but do you know what I did?

What?

I persevered.

Moving on from your early years, I just wanted to ask you: over the past decade or so, your work has tackled a number of sensitive, topical issues, such as racism, modern imperialism, government misdeeds, war and poverty. Why do you stress the political in your work so strongly?

Because if not me, who? No one is talking about these issues. When I get on the internet every morning, do you know what sites I’m looking at? Youtube! Or celebrity gossip sites! Trash, in other words! Where’s the good, hard news, the investigative reporting? Where are the liberal bloggers trying to pull down the curtains to reveal that Oz is just another flying monkey? They simply don’t exist. So I had to step in, because as somebody once said, “Art is a cudgel.” And I am that cudgel.

You once said – not in an interview, but actually in a PS at the end of one of your stories – that your job as an artist is to ask questions. What did you mean by that?

Let me answer your question this way: as an artist, I wear many hats. I am a monologuist, and I am a horrorist, and, at my most political, I am an ambiguist. Because the important thing is not to answer questions, but to ask them. Especially if the question has never been asked before, which none of mine have been. Answering questions is easy, asking them is hard. Once a question is asked, you have something to answer. If the question has never been asked, what do you have? A black void of ignorance.

So if answering the questions is easy, do you have answers to the questions you’ve asked in your work?

No.

What are you working on now?

Well, I have several more monologues in the works. One is about an old minority man who is upset about health care. It’s called Poor Man, Heal Thyself. Then I have a new horror novel that I’m putting the finishing touches on, and I think this one is going to be particularly interesting. Imagine, if you’re able, a town out in the Midwest somewhere, that is being overrun by old demons from the past, and the reason there are demons is because of something the town elders once did, some black secret which has since been covered up by all the adults over the years. And guess who alone has the power to defeat these demons? Go on, guess.

I don’t know.

The children!

How is it that children are powerful enough to defeat these demons?

Because of innocence.

I see. Does the novel have a title?

Yes, it’s going to be called The Deading.

That’s magnificent.

Thank you.

On Bags

The immense historical and social importance of the invention of the conveyance device we now know as the "bag" cannot possibly be overstated, so I don't know why anybody would even bother trying. You'll only look like a fool if you do. I was talking to this one guy not too long ago, and he said, "You know what I think? That bags aren't that big a deal. Think about it: who needs them, after all?" My outrage was such that I contemplated striking him about the face, but I knew that he was a surgeon, and needed his eyes to see. Were it not for his choice of profession, I would have blinded him with my fists.

And I would have had historical fact on the side of my physical aggression. Consider: the first bag, as we now know them, was mass produced in 1943 by Uncle Grampa's Item Holders, Inc. Prior to this, human beings had to carry around everything they wished to take with them in their bare hands, like monkeys. In 1942, the number of items dropped by people walking to and from the grocery store, bank, or neighborhood clothier had skyrocketed. The entire hardware store industry was on the brink of collapse, because potential buyers would look at the vast array of shovels, hammers, plows and various other heavy items, and just say "Fuck it. I'm not carrying that shit home."

Similarily, the war effort was failing, probably because you just can't store or transport ammunition in boxes. It simply doesn't work. Boxes are cube-shaped, so the bullets would be packed like sardines in orderly rows. However, bullets, much like fine wine, need to breathe in order to be effective, and you're just not going to get that with a box. Our soldiers would be over there in Germany, with a Ratzi lined up in their sites, and when he pulled the trigger what would he get? A whistling sound and a puff of smoke in his face! Embarrassing, to say the least. Luckily, our boys were also armed with knives, but an absence of well-aired ammunition still slowed things down considerably.

Then one day, in early 1943, a man named Daniel P. Roosevelt-Lindbergh (no relation to either) was carrying a box of marmalade to his car (which were so rickety and badly made in those days that they would often collapse under the weight of even an empty box, which, in fairness, were made of scrap iron salvaged from sunken U-boats), and he thought, "This is such bullshit. I gotta throw out my back for goddamn marmalade? I don't even like marmalade! Jam has that shit beat all to hell!" So he angrily, but with a sense of purpose, threw the box off of a nearby cliff, took his car off its kick-stand, lit his engine from a book of matches, unfolded the steering wheel, and "drove" home. All the while, holding on to that sense of purpose he'd felt before, because Daniel Roosevelt-Lindbergh had some inventing to do.

What he invented was the "bag". Initially dubbed the "Roosevelt-Lindbergh Cloth-Woven Hold-All", Roosevelt-Lindbergh's prototype was basically just a bunch curtains that he'd nailed together. When he showed it to his wife, he said, "Honeybear, you'll never have to use your hands again, other than to carry this thing I just made." Upon hearing the news, Mrs. Roosevelt-Lindbergh wept openly and without shame.

After weeks of successful field-testing, Roosevelt-Lindbergh realized that he'd actually invented something, so he took his "hold-all" to the headquarters of Uncle Grampa's Item Holders (who previously focused their attention on manufacturing the much-hated box, tweezers, and those claw-dealies you use to move logs in the fireplace. "Log-movers", I guess). Bringing with him a variety of canned goods in order to show Uncle Grampa's marketing team how the hold-all worked, Roosevelt-Lindbergh's presentation was an immense success. The people at Uncle Grampa were so taken with the invention, in fact, that they offered Roosevelt-Lindbergh a one-time payment of a handful of dried peas for the rights to manufacture, produce and sell the hold-all. Upon receiving this offer, Roosevelt-Lindbergh is said to have asked, "Is that pretty good? I mean, is that a lot to get paid for something like this?" To which the head of Uncle Grampa's acquisition team replied, "It's so much that I'm probably going to get fired just for offering it to you." "Then I accept!" cried Roosevelt-Lindbergh, grabbing the dried peas and fleeing the building.

One of the first things the Uncle Grampa marketing team realized was that "Roosevelt-Lindbergh's Cloth-Woven Hold-All" was a shit name, and they promptly went about thinking up a better one. After kicking around a few ideas, on a whim someone took out a dictionary and looked up the word "bag". Reading the definition -- "a flexible container with a single opening" -- they all collectively realized that they had all just literally made history.

Posters went up across the country proclaiming the bag as "A Terrific New World-Wide Sensation!!" and "An Astonishing New Item, Available for Purchase!!" One of the most famous and popular ads went directly to the heart of our nation's involvement in World War II (and helped turn the tide of the conflict towards an Allied victory). It featured a young red-headed boy with freckles carrying a giant bag full of war bonds. Lurking behind the bushes are Tojo and Hitler, their faces etched with fear and anger. The ad copy says: "Would You Like to Help Defeat the Axis Menace? YOU CAN!! Carry a Bag with You!!"

And so we now live in a world where bags are plentiful, and those miserable fucking boxes are all but forgotten. Old women can now carry their perfume and Boggle games and thousands of cigarettes with them easily, without fear that they will lose a single item along their journey. Young children can effortlessly transport their Football Cards and swimming whistles. Even insane homeless people have a place to store their tin foil and imaginary pets. So thank you, Daniel P. Roosevelt-Lindbergh, for the better world you have made for us. And knowing what you accomplished, I bet those dried peas tasted extra sweet.