Saturday, September 30, 2006
Thursday, September 21, 2006
HAL's Comments While Trapped on a Desert Island, and Your Name Is Dave.
- - - -
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.