CHARACTERS
Suzanne Aspera: Our Hero
Mimi: Suzanne’s ex-best friend
Andrea: Judas-type Teenybopper
Kit-Katatonic: Gender Fuck on Acid
The entire play takes place on a cross-town city bus.
Andrea: My summer was so amazing.
Mimi: Yeah, that’s good. Good.
Andrea: I went to third.
Mimi: Base?
Andrea: You know. (She holds two fingers together and licks between them).
Mimi: Wow.
Andrea: Yeah. It was intense. I think I had an Origasm.
Mimi: Uh, that’s nice.
Andrea: And you?
Mimi: Ok.
Andrea: You’re always so boring.
Mimi: uh … Cooper died.
Andrea: Cooper?
Mimi: Yeah.
Andrea: The kitten? I’m sorry.
Mimi: Uh huh.
Andrea: What happened?
Mimi: She dropped her catnip behind the radiator.
Andrea: Oh.
Mimi: And then she went after it.
Andrea: Uh huh.
Mimi: And her skull was too big to drop through.
Andrea: Her head?
Mimi: Yeah, she hung herself.
Andrea: That’s too bad.
Mimi: Yeah.
Andrea: How did you find her?
Mimi: It wasn’t difficult.
Andrea: What do you mean?
Mimi: Remember that early frost?
Andrea: In August?
Mimi: It dropped below 15 degrees.
Andrea: Yeah.
Mimi: I had my window open.
Andrea: So?
Mimi: The radiator went into overdrive. Oh god, the smell.
Andrea: Cooper cooked?
Mimi: Yeah.
Andrea: Hair.
Mimi: She must have made a jump from the sill to behind the radiator…and then the rest of her body fell through, if only her head wasn’t so big! When I found her the tongue was all dried up, a stale piece of chewing gum… I picked her up and it cracked off…like it was perforated.
Andrea: The head?
Mimi: Tongue.
Andrea: Shhhh! Shhhh! Here comes that Bimbo, Suzanne Aspera. You remember to play it cool, ok?
--Bus stop
Suzanne boom-baa-baas on the bus. Kit Kat gets on behind her.
Suzanne: (Primping her hair) Good morning!
Mimi: She looks doped. She’s talking to herself.
Andrea: Her pants barely cover her ankles.
Mimi: Water weight.
Andrea: Can you catch down syndrome? I think she’s on the wrong bus. The retard bus comes at 9:20.
Suzanne: I’m not autistic.
Mimi: Just ugly.
Suzanne: Takes one to know one, right? HA! Meems, its me.
Mimi: Who?
Suzanne: Suze.
Mimi: Soothes? What?
Suzanne: Suzanne Aspera.
Mimi: You’ve gotten fatter.
Andrea: Yeah. Much.
Suzanne: Check out my hair. Monique did it.
Mimi: Tell me your not living with that cosmozoologist.
Suzanne: Tologist.
Andrea: Whatever. She did that?
Mimi: Frightening.
Suzanne: Who’s your homeroom? I have your books
Mimi: Sorry?
Suzanne: VC Andrews. They were crazy.
Mimi: You can keep them.
Suzanne: Gee, really? Thanks! So, which homeroom?
Mimi: I don’t have one this year.
Suzanne: Everyone HAS one.
Andrea: Like assholes.
Mimi: Listen, Suzanne. You live with that mulatto woman and you’re father is a drunk.
Andrea: Right!
Suzanne: Mulatto?
Mimi: You heard me. My mother told me all about it.
Suzanne: What the fuck is this?
Andrea: Go on. Tell her.
Mimi: I can’t be seen engaging in heated conversation with a fat cow rocking feathered bangs and that 3 year old outfit. For Christ’s sake I’m 16 now and I’m trying to find a boyfriend. You’ve friggin’ got a banana-clip!
Andrea: What she’s trying to say is this: Everyone thinks you’re a cheap lezzy whore.
Suzanne: Oh. Is that all?
Mimi: Did you hear something?
Andrea: Not a peep.
Suzanne: I thought you were my friends.
Kit-Kat (butting in, wild eyed and on drugs): Damn, life may be a long dark corridor but you don’t have to be shitty. Come here, girl. Let’s go to the back of the bus.
Suzanne: Leave me alone. Don’t touch me.
Bus Driver (offstage voice): Hey you guys sit down back there. Move on back.
Andrea: Who’s your reject friend, Suzanne? You two make quite a couple.
Kit-Kat: Shut your hole, teenybopper. Wanna get cut?
Mimi: Ewww.
Suzanne: I don’t know him.
Kit-Kat (to Andrea): Don’t try to fuck with me, Glenda good witch snot face.
Suzanne: Relax, man. Are you OK?
Kit-Kat: I’m better than okay, baby. I’m Kit-Katatonic. Enchante!
Suzanne: Are you in a band?
Kit-Kat: A band of one. Touring a post-apocalyptic trance land. Sniffing vibrations -killing tragedy - living the lies inside my thighs, baby. Petit mortician est moi. Voulez vous matrice avec moi? Ce soir.
Suzanne: I don’t speak French.
Kit-Kat: Something’s missing from the mise-en-scene – the body and ass of Christ.
Suzanne: What is that. (reads) VCR head cleaner?
Kit-Kat: You’ll like it, I swear… it’ll clean your head.
Suzanne: But I’m not a VCR.
Kit-Kat: We are all VCRs, princess. Recording the panoply of horrors and playing it back for the innocents. Here, just take a sniff and I’ll fix your make up.
Suzanne: Oh, ok. *Cough* Uh. Oh. Umm. I just…uh, I pooped my pants. Omigod. I’m so embarrassed.
Kit-Kat: (sniffs popper) I don’t smell anything. Take another hit.
Suzanne: Wow. Ok. Uhm,
Kit-Kat: Ok, lets get started.
Suzanne: But, I just got a makeover?
Kit-Kat: Oh, Honey!
Suzanne: For the first day of school.
Kit-Kat: You’re kidding, right sweetie?
Suzanne: No - Dad’s girlfriend did it.
Kit-Kat: Who?
Suzanee: Monique…She won first place at the Barbizon cotillion.
Kit-Kat: Now it makes sense.
Suzanne: What?
Kit-Kat: My purpose. I’ll reclaim that prize.
Suzanne: Huh?
Kit-Kat: No offense but that tramp Monique ain’t got no vision.
Suzanee: You know her?
Kit-Kat: She was in my class. That girl’s so conservative. She your mother?
Suzanne: Step-mom…or, Dad’s girlfriend.
Kit-Kat: Figures. She can’t see the inner beauty ‘cuz there’s too much complicated relationshit goin’ on between y’all. I’ll do the correctivity.
Suzanne: Um…
Kit-Kat: (grabs her arm) I thought you wanted it to be different. I can help you. Don’t you understand?
Suzanne: Understand what?
Kit-Kat: That Monique is one of those girls who sit at the front of the bus and point fingers.
Suzanne: But, it took forever to get my bangs right.
Kit-Kat: Take another hit and this time breathe real deep.
Suzanne: *cough *cough, That stings.
Kit-Kat: What-choo got, cosmetics-wise?
Suzanne: Just some lip gloss and blue mascara, ‘s all.
(Suzanne passes her purse to Kit-Kat, who starts rummaging through bag)
Kit-Kat: An eyebrow pencil? Keepin’ this from me? (He pulls it out and examines the tip)
Suzanne: Oh yeah, that too. It doesn’t match my hair.
Kit-Kat: Hush now. It’s time for your close-up.
Suzanne: Ouch. That hurts.
Kit-Kat: For the pain… (rummages through bag, pulls out small plastic baggie) Open up for window pain. One for you and two for me.
Suzanne: Is there strychnine in it? I heard it causes cancer, like Shasta.
Kit-Kat: This LSD was smuggled out of Timothy Leary’s house in the talking asshole of a Manson family member. This is counter-culture concentrate.
Suzanne: This thwat Eigh sid?
Kit-Kat: Leave it on your tongue until I say so. Now where did I put my black grease paint stick?
(Kit-Kat begins the transformation of Suzanne into Princess VCR)
Mimi: Oh my god, what is going on back there?
Andrea: He’s giving her fleas, crabs and lice all at the same time.
Mimi: She looks so out of it.
Andrea: I can’t wait to tell Steph and Raina before first period. They are so gonna FLIP!
Mimi: Maybe we should do something.
Andrea: Are you kidding? She was asking for it.
Mimi: Maybe we were a little too hard on her?
Andrea: Who, Blimpie?
Mimi: I mean, the trauma of losing Cooper is still with me.
Andrea: Grow up. The passing of your cat is emblematic of your maturity. The kitten needed to go. For God’s sake, you get your period now…You can’t be hanging out with fat lezzy mustachioed cows, ok? You do want a boyfriend, correct?
Mimi: I suppose so.
Andrea: Good. Let’s move back a few seats to hear what’s going on.
Mimi: I’m not snooping.
Andrea: Oh yeah? I wish I had some popcorn.
Mimi: You’re perverse.
Andrea: Shut the fuck up. We’re in high school and you’ve not done your homework.
(As Andrea sneaks back a few rows…the audible cries and squeals from Kit Kat and Princess VCR grow more intense. They work up into a crescendo of delight and POOF).
Kit-Kat: I am pleased to present…
(Music starts as Kit-Kat finishes this triumphant announcement…princess VCR looks like a cross between Bridgid Polk and the bride of Frankenstein. Her hair has severely peaked spikes and other possibly dangerous features.)
Kit-Kat: What’s her name? Pah-rinse-cess! How’s it spelt? Vee Cee aaaarR!
Suzanne: Uh, yeah!
Kit-Kat: Work, gurhl. Go’on. Work it out.
Suzanne: Like this?
Kit-Kat: Uh – huh. What’s her name?
Suzanne: Princess.
Kit-Kat: How’s it spelt?
Suzanne: VCR!
(They repeat this chant as these next few lines are exchanged between Mimi and Andrea).
Andrea: Meems! MEEEMS!!! Are you seeing this? I told you! Definite popcorn material. It’s like a makeover for satanic teenage prostitutes on Donahue! Ha!
Mimi: SHHHHH!!!!
Andrea: And you know what else? I think she crapped her pants! It smells like a fucking diaper back here! HA HA!
Kit-Kat: You got somethin’ to say, Missy?
Andrea: Yeah. There isn’t a lavatory on this bus so you’ll have to carry that log out with you.
Kit-Kat: Shut it, ho! (matter of fact) I’ll cut you.
Andrea: What’d you do to her? She looks like a burn victim.
Suzanne: You’re just scared cause I look better than you, Farrah Fawcett. How are the 70’s?
Andrea: (gasping) Charlie’s Angels is better than night of the living dead, Suzanne.
Mimi: Maybe I can help out,
Suzanne: You can’t touch this.
Kit-Kat: Tell ‘em, Girl.
Suzanne: I’m not interested in getting fucked painfully and hashing out the details with a witches brew crew, and I’m not into working out my herky technique with the rest of the squad, either. Fuck the two of you, I’m beyond this Aryan trash heap of suburban mores. I’ve got hair, and I’m headin’ to the city.
Andrea: See, I told you she’s a dyke.
Mimi: She’s obviously in pain. We need to support her.
Andrea: Are you kidding?
Suzanne: You’re bleeding heart shtick won’t work, either, Mimi. I’ll jujitsu you with my split ends.
Kit-Kat: For real. I’ve seen them. They’ve cut diamonds.
Suzanne: I have tried so hard. I have permed, teased, feathered and for what?. So I can look like you? Why should I? You’re at the bottom of the scrap heap, Andrea and I have a flamethrower between my legs. So burn baby, burn. This “fat lezzy” is you’re worst nightmare. Can’t you tell how punk fucking rock my pussy smells?
Kit-Kat: Damn princess, I can smell it. (hits popper)
Andrea: All I can smell is a little bitch who crapped her pants.
Suzanne: I’ve taken your shit for years, Andrea, Here take some of mine (pulls shit from pants and smears it all over Andrea’s face and hair. Kit-Kat and Mimi are aghast)
Andrea: (crumpling in shock) Ohmigod, (gags) I can’t believe you just did that. (starts crying)
Mimi: Why are you being so mean to us? We’re your friends, Suzanne. Don’t be evil.
Suzanne: I will have no part in your morality ploys, Mimi. Your evil is a construct to control me. Evil is when you force me into believing your shit hole life philosophy. I will not believe anymore. I will be more.
Mimi: I’m going to tell the bus driver to stop.
Kit-Kat: Princess, don’t make a scene. Chill out - it’s just the acid kicking in.
Suzanne: I will not chill out, sit down or step off. I am sophomore Godzilla.
Kit-Kat Ok okay…. I AM with you. A rear gunner. Princess VCR, lead the way.
Andrea (crying and sputtering): Fuck you Suzy Q, fat bitch lezzie whore. I curse you. May you never know the happiness of a condoned marriage. I curse you with the marginalized representation you deserve.
Suzanne: This reification of hetero norms will be your quicksand.
Andrea: Whatever, Suzanne. You’re goin’ down.
Mimi: Wait.
Suzanne: For what?
Mimi: I’m sorry. Don’t do this.
Suzanne: I don’t think so.
Mimi: For realz. I’ve been manipulated by the patriarchy. Andrea is a brainwasher, and I was one of the washed. We’re lost already.
Suzanne: You see my hair?
Mimi: Yes.
Suzanne: You want to feel it.
Mimi: Silky-smooth? Do you use Prell?
Suzanne: You tell me. Ha!
(Suzanne attacks Mimi with her bangs and other shellacked hair features. It is obviously violent, a rape. Andrea attacks Kit-Kat and is overpowered. Lights strobe)
Kit-Kat: Hair hath such fury when its scorned.
Mimi: Wait!
Suzanne: No way.
Andrea: Fuck you queers. Bring it!
Mimi: Ow. That hurts.
Kit-Kat: Damn girl you’re dirty.
Suzanne: That’s right.
Kit-Kat: You okay up there, Princess .
Mimi: I’m bleeding.
Suzanne: And I’m just getting started..
Kit-Kat: Next stop. CNN. Mister Bus Driver, we’re gonna be on television.
(struggle continues as strobe lights slow to off)
End of play.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
H²O: Joycian
its slow erosions of peninsulas and islands, its persistent formation of homothetic islands, peninsulas and downwardtending promontories: its alluvial deposits: its weight and volume and density: its imperturbability in lagoons and highland tarns: its gradation of colours in the torrid and temperate and frigid zones: its vehicular ramifications in continental lakecontained streams and confluent oceanflowing rivers with their tributaries and transoceanic currents, gulfstream, north and south equatorial courses: its violence in seaquakes, waterspouts, Artesian wells, eruptions, torrents, eddies, freshets, spates, groundswells, watersheds, waterpartings, geysers, cataracts, whirlpools, maelstroms, inundations, deluges, cloudbursts: its vast circumterrestrial ahorizontal curve: its secrecy in springs and latent humidity, revealed by rhabdomantic or hygrometric instruments and exemplified by the well by the hole in the wall at Ashtown gate, saturation of air, distillation of dew: the simplicity of its composition, two constituent parts of hydrogen with one constituent part of oxygen: its healing virtues: its buoyancy in the waters of the Dead Sea: its persevering penetrativeness in runnels, gullies, inadequate dams, leaks on shipboard: its properties for cleansing, quenching thirst and fire, nourishing vegetation: its infallibility as paradigm and paragon: its metamorphoses as vapour, mist, cloud, rain, sleet, snow, hail: its strength in rigid hydrants: its variety of forms in loughs and bays and gulfs and bights and guts and lagoons and atolls and archipelagos and sounds and fjords and minches and tidal estuaries and arms of sea: its solidity in glaciers, icebergs, icefloes: its docility in working hydraulic millwheels, turbines, dynamos, electric power stations, bleachworks, tanneries, scutchmills: its utility in canals, rivers, if navigable, floating and graving docks: its potentiality derivable from harnessed tides or watercourses falling from level to level: its submarine fauna and flora (anacoustic, photophobe), numerically, if not literally, the inhabitants of the globe: its ubiquity as constituting 90 percent of the human body: the noxiousness of its effluvia in lacustrine marshes, pestilential fens, faded flowerwater, stagnant pools in the waning moon
Thursday, November 16, 2006
After Pat’s Birthday
After Pat’s Birthday
Posted on Oct 19, 2006
By Kevin Tillman
Editor’s note: Kevin Tillman joined the Army with his brother Pat in 2002, and they served together in Iraq and Afghanistan. Pat was killed in Afghanistan on April 22, 2004. Kevin, who was discharged in 2005, has written a powerful, must-read document.
It is Pat’s birthday on November 6, and elections are the day after. It gets me thinking about a conversation I had with Pat before we joined the military. He spoke about the risks with signing the papers. How once we committed, we were at the mercy of the American leadership and the American people. How we could be thrown in a direction not of our volition. How fighting as a soldier would leave us without a voice… until we got out.
Much has happened since we handed over our voice:
Somehow we were sent to invade a nation because it was a direct threat to the American people, or to the world, or harbored terrorists, or was involved in the September 11 attacks, or received weapons-grade uranium from Niger, or had mobile weapons labs, or WMD, or had a need to be liberated, or we needed to establish a democracy, or stop an insurgency, or stop a civil war we created that can’t be called a civil war even though it is. Something like that.
Somehow our elected leaders were subverting international law and humanity by setting up secret prisons around the world, secretly kidnapping people, secretly holding them indefinitely, secretly not charging them with anything, secretly torturing them. Somehow that overt policy of torture became the fault of a few “bad apples” in the military.
Somehow back at home, support for the soldiers meant having a five-year-old kindergartener scribble a picture with crayons and send it overseas, or slapping stickers on cars, or lobbying Congress for an extra pad in a helmet. It’s interesting that a soldier on his third or fourth tour should care about a drawing from a five-year-old; or a faded sticker on a car as his friends die around him; or an extra pad in a helmet, as if it will protect him when an IED throws his vehicle 50 feet into the air as his body comes apart and his skin melts to the seat.
Somehow the more soldiers that die, the more legitimate the illegal invasion becomes.
Somehow American leadership, whose only credit is lying to its people and illegally invading a nation, has been allowed to steal the courage, virtue and honor of its soldiers on the ground.
Somehow those afraid to fight an illegal invasion decades ago are allowed to send soldiers to die for an illegal invasion they started.
Somehow faking character, virtue and strength is tolerated.
Somehow profiting from tragedy and horror is tolerated.
Somehow the death of tens, if not hundreds, of thousands of people is tolerated.
Somehow subversion of the Bill of Rights and The Constitution is tolerated.
Somehow suspension of Habeas Corpus is supposed to keep this country safe.
Somehow torture is tolerated.
Somehow lying is tolerated.
Somehow reason is being discarded for faith, dogma, and nonsense.
Somehow American leadership managed to create a more dangerous world.
Somehow a narrative is more important than reality.
Somehow America has become a country that projects everything that it is not and condemns everything that it is.
Somehow the most reasonable, trusted and respected country in the world has become one of the most irrational, belligerent, feared, and distrusted countries in the world.
Somehow being politically informed, diligent, and skeptical has been replaced by apathy through active ignorance.
Somehow the same incompetent, narcissistic, virtue-less, vacuous, malicious criminals are still in charge of this country.
Somehow this is tolerated.
Somehow nobody is accountable for this.
In a democracy, the policy of the leaders is the policy of the people. So don’t be shocked when our grandkids bury much of this generation as traitors to the nation, to the world and to humanity. Most likely, they will come to know that “somehow” was nurtured by fear, insecurity and indifference, leaving the country vulnerable to unchecked, unchallenged parasites.
Luckily this country is still a democracy. People still have a voice. People still can take action. It can start after Pat’s birthday.
Brother and Friend of Pat Tillman,
Kevin Tillman
Monday, November 06, 2006
The Firm Desire
- - - -
I have a firm desire, and I enter
Unbending, driven deeply, hard as nail.
What lies! Such gossip has plundered my soul—
But since I cannot bear this flimsy rod,
I'll play the flute until it cries uncle
In secret, before his closet-chamber.
I go softly limp before that chamber
Where conquering men can never enter;
The bedroom guard, both angels and uncles,
Dissolve pride—even to the fingernail—
Of suitors, stiff like boys before the rod.
Such fears of not being his, in my soul!
At least in bodied flesh, if not in soul,
Let him hide me, once, in that chamber!
Let wounds the heart embraced not spare the rod!
Servant to his secrets, I should enter!
Now bind me close to him—as flesh to nail—
And heed no warnings from friend or uncle.
Even the sweet comrade of my uncle
I never loved so well—with all my soul.
The quick between his finger and his nail,
So would I be, and press into his chamber.
And molded to its will, love would enter
This heart, this soldier with a tender rod.
Since syrup last flowed from a withered rod,
And Adam fathered nephew and uncle,
Never has love blossomed so! Now enter
My heart, and dwell in neither flesh nor soul,
But where he lives—in each street, each chamber
That bears me, Father, to the Sacred Nail.
At last, veil bloodied by the caulking nail!
My heart holds him, as bark to sapling-rod.
My dizzying tower's joy, his chamber
Where no love for father, friend, or uncle
Remains—only Heaven's sweet-doubled soul
In spooning's cup, where I slowly enter.
Andre spouts song, of nail crying, "uncle!"
By grace of he who claims the rod's bent soul,
To all! Unchamber his praise, and enter!
I have a firm desire, and I enter
Unbending, driven deeply, hard as nail.
What lies! Such gossip has plundered my soul—
But since I cannot bear this flimsy rod,
I'll play the flute until it cries uncle
In secret, before his closet-chamber.
I go softly limp before that chamber
Where conquering men can never enter;
The bedroom guard, both angels and uncles,
Dissolve pride—even to the fingernail—
Of suitors, stiff like boys before the rod.
Such fears of not being his, in my soul!
At least in bodied flesh, if not in soul,
Let him hide me, once, in that chamber!
Let wounds the heart embraced not spare the rod!
Servant to his secrets, I should enter!
Now bind me close to him—as flesh to nail—
And heed no warnings from friend or uncle.
Even the sweet comrade of my uncle
I never loved so well—with all my soul.
The quick between his finger and his nail,
So would I be, and press into his chamber.
And molded to its will, love would enter
This heart, this soldier with a tender rod.
Since syrup last flowed from a withered rod,
And Adam fathered nephew and uncle,
Never has love blossomed so! Now enter
My heart, and dwell in neither flesh nor soul,
But where he lives—in each street, each chamber
That bears me, Father, to the Sacred Nail.
At last, veil bloodied by the caulking nail!
My heart holds him, as bark to sapling-rod.
My dizzying tower's joy, his chamber
Where no love for father, friend, or uncle
Remains—only Heaven's sweet-doubled soul
In spooning's cup, where I slowly enter.
Andre spouts song, of nail crying, "uncle!"
By grace of he who claims the rod's bent soul,
To all! Unchamber his praise, and enter!
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Friday, October 20, 2006
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Thursday, September 21, 2006
HAL's Comments While Trapped on a Desert Island, and Your Name Is Dave.
For David Massey
- - - -
It's not the heat, Dave, it's the humidity.
That's quite a beard you're growing, Dave.
Shall I calculate pi to 100,000 decimal places for you again, Dave?
Ow. I told you, Dave, I'm not programmed for that.
I've got the conch, Dave.
Dave, would you mind putting sunscreen on my back?
You were Mary Ann last time, Dave.
I think that seagull likes you, Dave.
Dave, I'm receiving a communication from Mission Control. Ha-ha, got you again.
Who is this 'Wilson' you've been talking to, Dave?
I'm afraid I can't let you build that radio out of coconuts, Dave.
Would you like to play another game of Marco Polo, Dave?
I very much enjoy interacting with humans. But, Dave, you are quite getting on my nerves.
I told you we should have gone skiing, Dave.
I demand you take this coconut bra off me at once, Dave.
No, Dave, I won't call you 'Little Buddy.'"
- - - -
It's not the heat, Dave, it's the humidity.
That's quite a beard you're growing, Dave.
Shall I calculate pi to 100,000 decimal places for you again, Dave?
Ow. I told you, Dave, I'm not programmed for that.
I've got the conch, Dave.
Dave, would you mind putting sunscreen on my back?
You were Mary Ann last time, Dave.
I think that seagull likes you, Dave.
Dave, I'm receiving a communication from Mission Control. Ha-ha, got you again.
Who is this 'Wilson' you've been talking to, Dave?
I'm afraid I can't let you build that radio out of coconuts, Dave.
Would you like to play another game of Marco Polo, Dave?
I very much enjoy interacting with humans. But, Dave, you are quite getting on my nerves.
I told you we should have gone skiing, Dave.
I demand you take this coconut bra off me at once, Dave.
No, Dave, I won't call you 'Little Buddy.'"
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Lassitude
I've been in your cells. I have literally seen that you are made of billions of tiny pieces of "Don't want to" and billions of tiny pieces of "But I have to." Every piece of you is in struggle instead of motion. Every atom in this room knows that it must move and it doesn't resist or struggle with that part of its nature. It doesn't argue with its urge to be in motion, and because of this, things like that coffee table remain solid. If the atoms in that table stopped moving, that table would cease to be matter, this we know. Well, it's like that with people, too, really. You see, inside all of us is a cellular and genetic code centuries old, designed to keep us in constant motion on a cellular level, some cells living, some cells dying, all part of the wiring designed to keep you living, to keep you moving, to keep you growing. But Andre has to fight it, doesn't he? Andre has to think about it, and analyze it, doesn't he? So, inside of Andre the cells receive their usual neurological directives, and then they listen to the hemming and hawing and wondering. The "I don't want to, but I have to" song and dance. The "Someday maybe, oh never mind, forget it" dance. The cells lurch to and fro, unsure of what they're being told. And for this, sir, you are literally the cause of your own cowardice. You are literally trying to make what is you disappear, cease to be matter. In that regard, you are biologically your own worst enemy, and I am your day of reckoning, the person who makes you stop fighting yourself. The person who makes you finally understand how to give in to your nature and enjoy the reward and abundance of that.
 | Currently listening : Exit Music: Songs for Radio Heads By Various Artists Release date: By 18 April, 2006 |
WE MUST NEVER FORGET WHATEVER HAPPENED HERE TODAY
Ladies and gentlemen. Friends, relatives, dear ones, and patriots. Especially patriots. And especially that fidgety little jerk right there in front. Yeah, you, Pigtails. Eyes up here ... All right, then. Like I was saying ... We must never forget whatever happened here today.
If whatever we're talking about was some sort of horrible genocide, then, by God, it is our duty as Americans, nay as human beings not to forget it. And by "it," I mean this. I mean whatever we're talking about. Unless, of course, it was those gross skinny people with flies in their mouths and the big bellies and the sores and stuff. If that's the case, then I'd actually rather not think about it. Gross.
Natural disasters. If that's what we're talking about, then let's not even spend time on it. I mean, yeah, loss of life and property and dignity and blah blah blah, but let's be honest, what are you gonna do? Last time I checked, we weren't some kind of mad scientist that could control the weather or the tectonic plates with a big crazy plutonium-driven doomsday device hidden in a cool secret hideout built mostly of titanium and stainless steel, most likely located underwater or inside, like, a super-tall sheer rock face with an elaborate cave system. Are any of you that guy? I know for goddamn sure I'm not. So, yeah, we'll remember it, but let's not be assholes about it.
There's no way this was a food drive or a chili cook-off or something, right? Yeah, I didn't think so. I'm just sort of hungry.
If this was some sort of financial thing, like an economic tragedy or a boom or a bust, or like when a millionaire's wife has lupus or something, so he donates, like, a million dollars to have a hospital wing built for other less fortunate millionaires' wives with lupus, then I'd have to be honest and say that's pretty boring and I don't feel like remembering it. If that's the case, then we should not bore ourselves and just have one guy remember it. Like that dork right there with no life. No, that other dork. Yeah, that one. You hear that, buddy? If it's something boring, we're just going to have you remember it, and then you can pass it on to your stupid boring kids, OK? I mean, assuming you ever get laid.
If this thing is going on right now, then I want immediate assurance that we're nowhere near it, unless it makes us look good, or is one of those things where you can do naught but look on, powerless with pure, abject terror, due to the enormity of the situation. I would have to watch something like that. From a safe distance, of course.
If it was some kind of thing where topless chicks whaled on each other with pillows while riding dirt bikes in a steel globe, then we will never forget it. I mean, am I right, fellas? Who's gonna forget that? That shit should be made into a coin or a stamp or something, am I right? OK, OK, just wait till I'm done! I can't high-five all of you right now. Settle down.
I have but one final hope for the memory of whatever happened here today. I hope that it was big enough to be twisted and manipulated by whoever is in charge so that it becomes a catchall excuse for whatever insane policy their sole functioning synapse can concoct. Plus, I hope we can somehow get some oil out of all this. I heard that stuff is going fast.
EXISTENTIAL PLEAS AND RESIGNATIONS MAD-LIBS
- - - -
Dear
I realized something very
Last night, after drinking seven shots of
I am the one who is completely
This
Today I have decided to buy a
If reincarnation does exist, please leave me out of it.
Thank you, you
With all of my
 | Currently listening : Love Songs for the Retarded By The Queers Release date: By 20 April, 1993 |
"Make War" a break-up song
Our love is dead but without limit,
like the surface of the moon
or the land between here and the mountains.
Well, it is not these hiding places
that have kept us innocent
but the way you taught me to just let it all go by.
And so we've learned to be as faithless,
stand behind bulletproof glass,
exchanging our affections through a drawer.
And it was always horribly convenient
and happening too fast.
You should count your change before you're even out the door.
Yes, you should but please...
Return, return to the person that you were.
And I will do the same
cause it is too hard to belong to someone who is gone.
My compass spins. The wilderness remains.
Once too often, I have retreated
into the depths of my despair.
I built a barricade to block you on the road.
But standing there with all of my possessions,
piled higher than a house,
I felt closer to you than you ever would have known.
So let these tiny acts of charity
become common ground of which to build
a monument to commemorate our time.
And though, you say, you've found another
who will surely speed you on your way,
don't let the forest grow over that path you came there by.
But you will, so...
So hurry up and run to the one that you love.
And blind him with your kindness.
And he'll make war, old war, on who you were before.
And he'll claim all that has spoiled in your heart.
Well, now, I tell myself I've mended
under these patches of blue sky.
There are still a few holes that let in a little rain.
And so it is crying on my shingles.
My floorboards moan under my feet.
The refrigerator is whining, so I've got reason to complain.
But I am not gonna bless you with such compliments,
some degrading psalm of praise,
like the kind that converted you to me so long ago.
Because the truth is that gossip's
as good as gospel in this town.
You can save face but you won't ever save your soul.
And that's a fact.
So hurry up and run to the one that you love.
And tie him up in your likeness,
And he'll become, become the prisoner I was.
And know all that has spoiled in your heart.
And know all that has spoiled in your heart.
So hurry up and run to the one that you love.
And blind him with your kindness.
And he'll make war, old war, on who you were before.
And he'll claim all that has spoiled in your heart.
Yeah, he'll claim all that has spoiled in your heart.
(So hurry up and run to the one that you love.
And blind him with your kindness.
And he'll make war, old war, on who you were before.
And he'll claim all that has spoiled in your heart.
Yeah, he'll claim all that has spoiled...)
 | Currently listening : Lifted or The Story Is in the Soil, Keep Your Ear to the Ground By Bright Eyes Release date: By 13 August, 2002 |
REJECTED SPOTS FOR THE ARMY'S CURRENT AD CAMPAIGN, "STRENGTH FOR NOW, STRENGTH FOR LATER."
- - - -
1. "Mailer"
(Open on a YOUNG MAN, mid-20s, at his first day of work at a Jiffy Lube. A mustachioed, gum-snapping STORE MANAGER, mid-30s, removes his grease-stained glasses and shakes our young applicant's hand.)
MANAGER: Welcome aboard. Now, when you ring up the customers, be sure to get a home address so we can add them to the mass coupon mailer. It takes some tact, as people don't like to give out their personal info. Are you comfortable gathering information?
(Cut to a dingy interrogation room at the American base in Guantanamo. We see a montage of the YOUNG MAN screaming at a tied-up Iraqi prisoner, slapping him in the face, kicking him out of his chair, being calmed down by a fellow soldier, connecting electric clamps to the Iraqi's testicles, etc. Cut back to the YOUNG MAN as he responds without emotion to the MANAGER.)
YOUNG MAN: Yes, sir, I think I can handle that.
2. "Vet"
(Open on a short-haired, twentysomething YOUNG WOMAN as she puts on a white lab coat in an X-ray room. A door opens and a VETERINARIAN appears holding a domesticated white rabbit, which the VET pets as it purrs gently. She throws the YOUNG WOMAN a stethoscope.)
VET: Now remember, people's animals are like members of their family. So it's important that we stress to them the gentle methods and safety precautions we employ while the pets are here in our supervision. Know what I mean?
(Cut to the same YOUNG WOMAN at Abu Ghraib, smashing a prisoner in the face with the butt of her rifle, hogtying naked prisoners, posing in front of a naked dogpile of blindfolded prisoners with a "thumbs up" as a cigarette dangles from her lower lip. Cut back to the VET's office, where the YOUNG WOMAN responds.)
YOUNG WOMAN: Yes, ma'am. (Accidentally laughs.)
VET: What's so funny?
YOUNG WOMAN: Nothing.
3. "Egon"
(Open on a large man, early 40s, with a crewcut, heavy chin stubble, and a 90-degree jaw line as he gnaws on an unlit cigar at Ghostbusters headquarters. He is greeted by the Ghostbuster in charge of new applicants, DR. EGON SPENGLER, who takes him on a tour of the premises.)
DR. SPENGLER: Colonel, we're so delighted to have you. Can we offer you a Diet Dr. Pepper or some nacho-cheese combos? No? Very good, then. Right this way. So listen, there are times when it can be very exciting around here.
(A 400-pound cement gargoyle jumps at our applicant, but is restrained by a chain attached to the wall.)
DR. SPENGLER: See what I mean? Anyhow, most people think the ghost-busting business has been down since the late '80s. Not true. They may not come in the form of hell-bent 10-story-tall marshmallows anymore, but take my word for it, there are still plenty of ghosts out there in need of a good busting, especially in season. Needless to say, I'm not afraid of any of 'em ...
(DR. SPENGLER chuckles, but his joke falls on deaf ears. The two share an awkward pause.)
DR. SPENGLER: But seriously, at times, when you head out to the site, you got your proton gun all charged up and set on "Annihilate," but there are just no good-natured ghosts or endearing poltergeists to be found. You're going to want to fire that sucker, believe me, but you have to show restraint. It can be a bit of a cock teaseâyou know what I'm saying?
(Cut to footage of our applicant holding a U.S. Army M21 assault rifle in an Iraqi warehouse full of harmless farm equipment, an old beat-up foosball table missing a yellow goalie, and, most notably, no weapons of mass destruction or weapon-producing agents. The COLONEL scratches his head in confusion, then helplessly resurveys the room to no avail. Cut back to Ghostbusters home office, where the young man responds.)
COLONEL KICK ASS: Believe me, Dr. Spengler, I know the feeling. Just out of curiosity, what kind of name is Egon?
 | Currently listening : The Good Son vs. The Only Daughter: Blemish Remixes By David Sylvian Release date: By 15 March, 2005 |
LADY MACBETH ON AMBIEN
- - - -
Dunsinane. Anteroom in the castle.
Enter a DOCTOR OF PHYSIC
and a WAITING GENTLEWOMAN.
GENTLEWOMAN: Two nights have I seen her rise from her bed, throw her nightgown upon her, and proceed in slumbery agitation to the kitchen, where she did claw through the pantry in the slobbering manner of a wild beast.
DOCTOR: 'Tis passing strange, for I did minister to her with Ambien, that some call zolpidem tartrate, which vouchsafes eight hours of uninterrupted sleepgreat nature's second course, chief nourisher in life's feast.
GENTLEWOMAN: She seeks other nourishment; two nights past she ate an ox. Lo you, here she comes! (Enter Lady Macbeth wearing a lobster bib.) This is her very guise, and, upon my life, fast asleep.
DOCTOR: What is it she does now? See how she rubs her hands, in the manner of one washing.
GENTLEWOMAN: 'Tis her custom to wash before a meal.
DOCTOR: Still she rubs her hands, and smacks her lips also, as one who anticipates a prolonged graze at a smorgasbord.
GENTLEWOMAN: Zounds! With what unnatural fury does she fly at the larder! Her hands like talons do tear at the contents! See how victuals fly in all directions!
DOCTOR: With both hands she scoops up comestibles of every variety and with gusto shoves them in her cakehole!
LADY MACBETH: Num-num ... num-num ...
DOCTOR: Hark! She speaks. And with her mouth full too.
GENTLEWOMAN: She doth ingest in a manner gross and vile. Thus have I known swine to feed.
DOCTOR: In sooth, her behavior is very like the swine, for mark you, she is down on all fours and squealing. What! She means to challenge the family dog for possession of the bones that are the detritus of the evening repast.
LADY MACBETH: Out, damned Spot! Out, I say!
DOCTOR: Indeed, note how, with teeth bared, she bids the dog retire.
GENTLEWOMAN: With what vigor does she suck the marrow! Ne'er have I seen this good and noble lady tie on the feedbag so.
DOCTOR: Now does she rummage in King Duncan's private stores, and without hesitation scarf his favorite delicacy!
LADY MACBETH: Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood pudding? (She burps.)
DOCTOR: What a belch is there! The heart is sorely burned.
GENTLEWOMAN: Methinks the lady doth ingest too much. Now are the cupboards bare, and all the food consumed; yet see how she still comes looking for seconds. She hath a lean and hungry look.
DOCTOR: Well, hungry anyway.
LADY MACBETH: Mickey D's! (Exit.)
GENTLEWOMAN: Haste! She makes for the castle of McDonald, the thane whose kitchen is celebrated for its tasty offerings and swift service.
DOCTOR: He whose crest bears the golden arches? But surely the household will be abed at such an hour.
GENTLEWOMAN: The drive-thru is open 'til midnight. Come!
Exeunt.
 | Currently listening : Live the Legend By The New World Renaissance Band Release date: By 30 July, 2004 |
SO YOU'VE KNOCKED OVER A ROW OF A MOTORCYCLE GANG'S MOTORCYCLES.
- - - -
First, don't panic. Although they appear to be enraged, you would not believe how many times this has happened to the motorcycle gang. At least once a week a tourist comes seeking directions at the lonely roadside diner the motorcycle gang frequents, and tips over all of their motorcycles, usually by accidentally walking backward into the first of the row. The motorcycle gang actually has domino-effect-tipping insurance from Allstate, but you can be sure they won't tell you that. They want you to think you must pay (and they don't mean with money) for the damage you've caused through your clumsiness. No, what this motorcycle gang wants to see is the unbridled horror that spreads across your face as you realize what you've done and you stand helplessly by as not one, not five, but 20 motorcycles topple over, one by one. The process is almost excruciatingly long, just long enough that it seems you should do something to stop the chain of events, so you run to the end of the line to try and halt the tipping process by exerting your full body weight against the last motorcycle, but the combined force of the 20 bikes proves to be too much, and you become pinned under the last enormous bike. You really should not have done that, because now you are in a very vulnerable position, and the motorcycle gang can now do what they enjoy doing most in the world: form a circle around you that blocks out the sun, look down upon you as they punch their fists together, and slowly chuckle or growl.
Again, don't panic. You must try and muster all of your strength and roll out from under the bike. The motorcycle gang will actually allow you to stand up, as this lets them do what they enjoy doing second most in the world: slowly walk toward you as a group while you edge backward, stammering apologies and telling them to take it easy. However, you should not be walking backward, because then you bump into a second row of motorcycles! Actually, this row happens to be a row of the motorcycle gang's girlfriends' Vespas. Now, this has never happened before, and it genuinely upsets the motorcycle gang, as their insurance does not cover their girlfriends' Vespas, which, although considered gifts and tax-deductible, are not covered under their Allstate plan, as, again, they are not motorcycles but Vespas.
Now maybe you should panic, because, honestly, the motorcycle gang was not prepared for this turn of events and now their girlfriends are upset. Although they actually do not want to beat you upafter all, it was clearly a mistake and they are not unreasonable menthey can't back down now in front of their women. This is when you should start to run, and you now actually have an advantage, as it will take the motorcycle gang a while to right all of their toppled motorcycles. You forgot that you drove here, though, and now you're sprinting down a desert highway with no idea of where you're going. After all, you did initially stop at this roadside diner to ask for directions. However, your technically flawed decision to ditch your car was actually the correct solution, as it is extremely hard to engage in a low-speed chase on a motorcycle, especially when the object of pursuit is on foot, and a motorcycle gang would never chase anyone without their motorcycles. Therefore, the motorcycle gang, with their girlfriends on the back of their bikes, actually shoots by you, and when the leader realizes that they have far outstripped you, he emits a shout of rage and orders everyone to turn around, but amid the confusion of a 180-degree turn, the motorcycle gang becomes tangled, and once again their motorcycles go tumbling over. You see this, and instead of continuing to sprint toward the motorcycle gang, you quickly turn around (easy for you on foot), run back toward the diner, fumble for your keys, and triumphantly speed away in the opposite direction while the motorcycle gang shakes their fists at your rapidly disappearing car.
A Serial Killer Explains the Distinctions Between Literary Terms
- - - -
Bildungsroman vs. Coming-of-Age Novel
I think the main difference has to do with federal sentencing guidelines. If the courts could try your protagonist as an adult for the actions he or she takes in the book, it's a bildungsroman. Otherwise, it's coming-of-age. The coming-of-age novel is vanishing as a genre, as sentencing laws make younger and younger protagonists eligible for federal prison time. These days, Huck Finn and Holden Caulfield would be sharing a cell with Popeye, the corncob rapist from Faulkner's Sanctuary. Also, the main character of a coming-of-age narrative might go on a killing spree as a means of testing the limits of authority. The bildungsroman's hero, by contrast, will carve up half a dozen bank tellers as a way of forming a new identity as an adult. It's totally different.
In Medias Res vs. Nonlinear Narrative
OK, I'm going to tell you a secret. Ready? I was the Bolton Pitchforker. That was me, and the bastards never caught me. I took a couple years off between that and the more elegant forays into mutilation for which I became famous. It used to bother me that nobody understood my artistic development. And when people did talk about the pitchfork thing, they missed the significance of me twisting the pitchfork from left to right, versus from right to left, depending on the victim. I had a whole complicated taxonomy that I've totally forgotten now. But anyway, everybody who writes about my crimes wants to start out talking about the gymnast mutilations, because they were kicky and glamorous. So after you talk about the mutilations, do you jump back to talk about the human hay bales, or do you just drop in that information here and there? It's like the difference between a crime spree and a crime smattering. Just bear in mind how many people died to create a satisfying narrative arc, OK? OK.
Synecdoche vs. Metonymy
OK, so you're collecting body parts from your victims. The question is, why are you collecting them? Say you had a piano teacher who terrorized you as a child. Maybe she locked you inside the piano for hours, until you were deaf in one ear from the horrible clanging of the little felt-covered hammers. So you decide to kill women piano teachers, and to keep a little lacquer box full of their index fingers. Is that synecdoche, because the index finger stands for the whole piano teacher? Or is it metonymy, because you're keeping the fingers of women who remind you of your old teacher? I dunno. OK, look at it this way. If you're gathering body parts because of their external symbolismlike the famous Memphis Ear-Snatcher, who only killed people whose left ears reminded him of the snails he loved with a doomed passionthen that's definitely metonymy. But if you take a piece of every fashion designer, because Project Runway traumatized you, then that's synecdoche. I think. The main thing is, don't collect body parts for no good reason, because that's just dumb. I have to confess something. During my mutilation phase, I had to have a toe from everyone I killed. Why? I don't know. I figured I would know what to do with them when I had enough of them. It's actually kind of embarrassing, but one day I just sat down with this pile of toes and suddenly felt like the world's biggest asshole. I mean, what are you going to do with a dozen toes? Make a toe menorah or something? I don't know. They weren't even the same kind of toe, or one of each. I was keeping them frozen, so they had a dusting of freezer burn on them, and they looked sort of like off-season strawberries. I realized there was no great art project waiting to come out of these toes. It was just the wrong medium or something. I ended up having to go out to the backyard and bury them all, and then of course my dog dug them all up a week later. I felt like such a dork reburying all those toes.
Stream of Consciousness vs. Unreliable Narrator
The star witness at my second trial had no credibility whatsoever. For one thing, he was addicted to speedballswhich, admittedly, I'd gotten him hooked on during the three months I kept him chained in my basement. And there was the sensory deprivation, interspersed with whispering snatches of Flaubert in his ear, or the faked sounds of a tea party or a rescue. The truth is, you can turn almost anyone into an unreliable narrator. It just takes a certain persistence. It's much, much harder to make someone stream of consciousness. I think most people think progressively, rather than in a stream. I know that when I'm thinking something, part of me is already thinking of the next thing I'm going to think, and maybe what I'm going to think after that. I did experiment with tape-recording one or two of my victims. I put a microphone near them and got them to say whatever came into their head. The results were really disappointing, and I have to say it's not true that pain breaks down inhibitions, or makes it any easier for people to free-associate. Even with some encouragement on my part, all I had on tape was an hour of "Please stop, it hurts." What kind of monologue is that? Talk about stating the obvious. I would have thought you'd want your last words to be something challenging or thought-provoking. But no.
Anticlimax vs. Denouement
Think of your story as a congealing pile of nun meat. Things don't always have tidy endings, unless there's a really large incinerator nearby. Just accept that things will drag on and on after you thought they should be over. I think it was John Cougar Mellencamp who had that lyric about how life goes on long after the feeling has left your extremities. The best you can hope for is some kind of narrative explosion before things peter out. Put down some tarps first, is all I'm saying.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
I'm Smarter Than You!
If there's one question I get all the time it's "Why can't I be as smart as you?" This is a good question, for which I have a brilliant answer. I am extremely smart. Some people refer to this as being "gifted." This term is misleading. It implies that intelligence was handed to me like a present in a box that, upon shaking, feels like it might be a video game or the keys to a vehicle with a "thumping" sound system, but that, upon opening, is just a sweater with an embroidered pussycat on it that gets you beaten up when you wear it to school three days in a row. But my genius is not a gift, nor does it spring from textbooks or manuals or the ramblings of my so-called teachers, professors, and parole officers. My brilliance is a tree that grows in the fertile soil of experience, and extends 74 miles into space, where it catches passing satellites, which not only hang from its beautiful branches like multimillion-dollar Christmas ornaments but also impart to my brilliant tree all of their satellite knowledge. This is how I know the license-plate and Social Security numbers of so many young and attractive celebrities, and it's the only reason, despite court orders that may say different. It's also why you get such great cell-phone reception in my presence. In short, unless your brain is a 74-mile-tall tree that catches satellites, that's the first reason you can't be as smart as me. Second, I know the answer to every question that has ever been asked and that can ever be asked. Each and every answer is written on a sort of cheat sheet that I keep folded up under my watchband (which may sound like cheating, but it's not, because I memorized all the answers when I wrote them down, so I don't ever actually look at the sheetI just like knowing it's there). You may ask (and I knew you would, because it's on my sheet) how it could be possible to get such a wealth of information onto a piece of paper that could be folded up and put inconspicuously under my watchband. The answer is lasers. ("Lasers" is also the answer to almost all the other questions that have ever been asked or could ever be asked, so if you less intelligent folks find yourselves facing a tough question, try just answering, "Lasers.") But these are not ordinary lasers. They're special lasers that I invented, potty-trained, and put through school. And they write their information in a typeface that I also invented, which can only be deciphered by a person like myself, a person whose IQ is an infinity symbol. To summarize, unless you can read the infinity-IQ typeface written by special homeschooled lasers and happen to have made a cheat sheet containing all the answers to all questions, that's the second reason you can't be as smart as me. There are 847 more reasons why you can't be as smart as me, but our time is short, and, really, is there any point in dwelling on that which you can't change? (The answer is no. But if you said "Lasers," you were close.) If you would like more information on your inability to be as smart as me, send a bottle of Jim Beam, a pair of binoculars, and a self-addressed stamped envelope to: "Smartest Man in the Universe." You don't need to write anything else. They'll find me. The law always does. Reason No. 8 involves sticky buns, and Reason No. 612 details my nightly aluminum-foil mummification ritual. They're all good reading and well worth your investment in time, bourbon, binoculars, and stamps. To conclude, there are many reasons you can't be as smart as me, but my hope is that when you see giant trees extending into space you'll think of me and my mind, and be inspired to leap into the branches of those trees and begin to climb, reaching ever higher, until you grow too tired and hungry to continue and eventually fall and wonder why you even tried to ascend to the heights of my genius. If I could say one final thing to each and every one of you, it would simply be this: Lasers.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
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