Above is my dog, Iggy, in Scanners mode. He does this at least once every night. Below is my Daredevil action figure behind some Christmas lights. Unlike Clark Griswold's, these little lights twinkle.
A couple pictures I took over the holidays.
Above is my dog, Iggy, in Scanners mode. He does this at least once every night. Below is my Daredevil action figure behind some Christmas lights. Unlike Clark Griswold's, these little lights twinkle.
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Somewhere in TV Land at this very moment, Charlie Brown is contemplating failure. Fat Albert's gang is helping a pregnant woman deliver a baby. The Six Million Dollar Man is showing Horton Budge the Ghost of Christmas Future. Arthur Fonzarelli is hiding in his apartment because he has no family to visit. The Brady Bunch is praying for Mrs. Brady to get her voice back. Boss Hogg is taking gifts to the Duke Boys. Rich Little is laughing like James Mason. Luke, Han and Leia are trying to figure out if they're celebrating Christmas or an extended Thanksgiving. Somewhere out there in TV Land, Frosty is melting. My heart breaks. Thank you, TV Land, for showing me how to celebrate Christmas. And now back to your regularly scheduled programming. Maggot’s Day in Bosstown started like any other. The Bosstown Fudge factory’s purple ramparts shadowed the mephitic rush of Scum River. Rain slicked the shacks along the riverbank and beaded cobwebbed eaves. Mist wreathed silver fingers around pillars and town clock. The gas stations—once doors to Elsewhere—stood deserted. Townspeople stayed in their homes. Children munched on marshmallow fudge, root beer float fudge, peanut butter and jelly fudge, cotton candy fudge. For a limited time, they could request white chocolate fudge with pretzels and candy corns. No dentists worked in Bosstown. The strongest teeth were in the shattered windows of Bosstown Fudge’s forgotten rivals. In the cemetery, the graves whispered. Doors to Elsewhere, ajar. Promise of promotion if you put the time in. Till then you hunkered down and stuffed yourself with the Boss’s yummies. # Charlie sipped coffee at the stainless steel table. The cold sludge tickled his gums. He’d been staring at the blackened pane screening out Scum River for over an hour. The peeling window film in front of him took on the whimsical improvisations of an abstract painting. The instant mix burbled in his gut. A generator kicked on. It thrummed in a low register, then stopped. Charlie tried to work a jingle around the sounds, something cheerful without being absurd, but his mind was as blank as the peeling window film screening out Scum River. Next to his notebook a dried coffee stain ringed a pornographic magazine. Rubbing his overalled belly, Charlie stepped onto the second-floor catwalk. Sometimes he did his best thinking wandering the factory. His steps rang on the steel grating high above the so-called Pit, where the Smellmouths salivated in the dark. Their glandular secretions—which gave the fudge its psychotropic properties—played a scent repertoire from the mouthwatering to the macabre. No one knew if the smells were purposeful or related to some autonomic function. The fetor from below dug at scabbed memories. Charlie was in Smear Alley again, painting sexually suggestive flowers on the wall of the Marquis Club. The Boss could send him back there—or somewhere worse—if he failed to devise a catchy jingle by tonight. The Boss controlled the Smellmouths. And the Smellmouths made the fudge that controlled Bosstown. “Bosstown’s got that Maggot’s Day fuuuudge…” Charlie snapped his fingers and turned back. His subconscious tended to cough up the goods once he stepped away from his notebook. Over his clattering footfalls the Boss droned from the Pit: “Have you come up with the jingle yet, Charlie?” (The voice hinted of doors to Elsewhere) “Have you come up with the jingle yet, Charlie?” Slimy sounds in the darkness. They sounded like wet farts. Charlie halted. Apparently his Muse had prompted him too late: The air grew rank with the stink of his mother’s death last year, a mixture of unswept rooms and rotten fruit as she labored through her death rattle in the bed by her television. (Cancer and television—Doors to Elsewhere) Charlie had pushed the Boss too far. He had been patient, letting Charlie go through the motions the last six months. But Maggot’s Day was the most important day of the year. He wasn’t going to let the festival be ruined by a grieving jingle maker. With mounting intensity he drove into Charlie’s sense memory, conducting the Smellmouths through their cruel, pungent symphony. “The jingle, Charlie…” “I—I have it, Boss. The hook, at least.” “This is your chance to move on. I know it must get lonely up there.” Charlie wiped his eyes. “It does, Boss. Worse than Smear Alley.” “Sing to me.” Charlie sang. # “Bosstown’s got that Maggot’s Day fuuuudge,” fluted from children’s mouths all over Bosstown. Grownups rubbed warmth into achy bones and peered out front doors. Along the riverbank rain-bent shacks sagged in the shadow of the Bosstown Fudge factory. Scum River twisted past the factory’s purple ramparts. On the second floor, on a stainless steel table next to a notebook and a girlie magazine, stood a half-drunk mug with the words ARe wE HAvIng FudGe YeT? A generator kicked on. In the Pit, the darkness sighed. I believe in the message of John Lennon's "Imagine." I also believe in the message of Slipknot's "People = Shit."
A certain kind of story draws its power from the main character weighing the power of belief in "Imagine" against the evidence of "People = Shit." This is the emotional world I live in. It's why I love stories from "High Plains Drifter" to "The Dark Knight Returns" to "Slaughterhouse Five." The other day at New Seasons I had this great conversation with a man who was amused by my extravagant purchase of an onion. That onion could make the difference between a guy hanging out with friends or shooting up a school. That onion could be the connection. An onion can take you from "Imagine" to "People = Shit" at the speed of a New Seasons conveyor belt. That's how weird the world is. Two passages:
"On and on, my unknown attacker and I rolled violently down the corridor. My pistol that I had gripped so tightly before suddenly escaped my right hand. Madly, I struggled to get the pistol. My limbs ached because of the many attempts I made to dislodge my clinging foe. Finally, I reached it. As my attacker's face neared mine, I pulled the trigger. My attacker fell, rigid as ice. Blood gushed out from where I shot him." -- Charles Austin Muir "I was grading exams one night when I thought I heard a door slam above me. This was followed by three closely spaced thuds that induced a sour feeling in my stomach. I had heard those sounds before, when one of my students had fainted in class. Flashing on the incident, and realizing there was no door upstairs where the noises had come, I rose from my desk and began pacing, tracking the rhythm and course of new movement above me. It was identical to what I had heard upon breaking into the tenement—the sound of a body dragging itself across the floor." -- Charles Austin Muir The first passage is from "To Kill the Colossus," a short story I wrote in fifth grade. The second is from "Thanatos Park," a short story I wrote 31 years later. Originally I was going to blog about how I sometimes re-read pieces from childhood as a writing warm-up. Something about internally hearing my young voice reminds me I actually do improve over time and helps me see what I'm working on in a new way. But looking at both passages just now, I see they are more similar in tone and feel and structure than I thought they'd be. Backfire! Even so, at least I'm still writing about monsters. I'm still writing about what scares me. Now where the hell is my pistol... Warning: This post contains no sharks, Sasquatches, sadomasochists, satirized celebrities, Battle Cats, Reptilians, horny robots, sentient vaginas, voodoo prostitutes, giant tongues, morbidly obese ninjas or gun-toting unicorns. This post may bore you to death. This post may make you wonder what pathetic circumstances might drive a man, a Gen Xer who is usually too busy being mad about something to ponder his quieter obsessions, to switch emotional gears and confess that...
I am a fan of The Gilmore Girls. You may love the show, you may hate it, you may have never heard of it. I used to make fun of it when it originally played on network TV. I thought Lorelai and Rory should just cut through all the sexual tension and kiss. I suppose I thought it was my man's duty to indulge such musings. But last year -- seven years after the show ended -- I got hooked. In about three months I got through all seven seasons. Late at night I would start wherever I left off on Netflix and power through a few episodes. I can't handle violence or assholery right before bed. I won't watch stressful shows like Breaking Bad. But The Gilmore Girls was my jam. I loved the repartee between Lorelai and Rory. I loved the oddball, peppy little town of Stars Hollow. I wanted to live in Stars Hollow myself. I wanted to Matrix myself into the town square. I wanted to walk the streets among all the happy people zipping by on bikes or on foot. Stars Hollow was end-of-the-line chic, like the town of Willoughby in that episode of The Twilight Zone, only for people who didn't care to jump off trains in a snow storm. Nothing really bad happened in Stars Hollow. As Rory put it, there was no "seedy underbelly" to the town. No one would ever shoot up Miss Patty's dance school or the little social room where people watched movies like Attack of the 50-Foot Woman. The closest thing to a hipster in Stars Hollow was the town troubadour. Months after I finished the show's final season, I wondered if I'd gone through a weird phase. But when I started watching Season One again a few weeks ago, I found I still love The Gilmore Girls. I still want to live in Stars Hollow. I want to be the guy in back of Luke's Diner smiling stupidly at his grilled cheese sandwich while Lorelai and Rory toss off movie references and exchange witty banter at the speed of a Howard Hawks film. Hell, maybe I would jump off a train to live in Stars Hollow. Not sure what that says about me. I'm not like the guy in The Twilight Zone with his horrible wife and his ulcer. Maybe I'm just an imaginary people-person. Maybe I just dig Lauren Graham. The show returns to Netflix with new episodes next year, but that's not why I'm telling you all this. Before The Gilmore Girls, I was obsessed with Perry Mason, the old courtroom drama starring Raymond Burr. I wanted to live in the world of Mason like I wanted to live in the world of the Gilmores. I wanted to alter crime scenes with Mason and Drake like I wanted to boo Taylor Doose at Stars Hollow town-hall meetings. I wanted to swallow the red pill and wake up in Mason's office with a roll of cash and a flimsy excuse for why I didn't kill someone. Instead I tried several times to write about a guy who Matrixes into the Perry Mason show and turns Mason's world into Hell. Finally, late last year, I hit upon a new concept that became my short story, "Party Monster." I wrote the first draft last December between shifts as a seasonal driver helper for UPS. I worked under a wide range of influences, from late-night conversations with a friend to occult rituals to Joseph Campbell to Chuck Palahniuk. "Party Monster" grew from a tale of extreme delusional escapism to one of powerful mystical transformation. A few months later it was accepted by Grey Matter Press for PEELING BACK THE SKIN, a collection of short horror fiction exploring the theme of humans as monsters. I'm excited to share details about the book's upcoming release. Which means I'm kind of on the fence right now about train-jumping for afterlife status in Stars Hollow. Unless, of course, the face of Jesus is served on Luke's grilled cheese sandwiches -- that might be worth it. This story was originally published under a different title in a zombie flash fiction anthology. I liked the idea of a roll call in connection with the living dead, but felt the piece needed improvement. I was looking for more material to read for my first ever public reading a few weeks ago. So I took this out, dusted it off and rewrote it as "Homecoming."
Uncle Vic, 68... shotgun. Grandpa Edward, 82... prostate cancer. Aunt Helen, 90... heart disease. Uncle Pat, 74... cirrhosis of the liver. Uncle Clarence, 86... Alzheimer’s. Dad, 58... log truck, US 20, Milepost 17. Mom, 72, breast cancer. Grandma Sophia, 90... stroke. Aunt Emilia, 91... emphysema. Cousin Domonic, 48... brain tumor. The headstones keep tumbling. More tenants climb from the muddied earth. Some three-hundred of my relatives gather in the warm torrential rain, a family tree rooted in the sludge of centuries. “Brian,” one of them says, weeping toxic tears. Brian — that’s me — 39, lung cancer. Stage 4. Doctors give me eight weeks to a year. Found out days before whatever it is I heard on the news this morning. Whatever it is that makes the dead walk and the living follow in their footsteps. My balance isn’t so good. I slip in the rising water. Hands steady me. Maria, 24… pulmonary embolism. We last kissed fifteen years ago. Her eye and nose cavities drool liquid biohazardous waste onto my tongue. “Some weather we’re having,” I say. “Welcome home,” she says. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The same cannot be said for the dog.
It was a three-layer day with the furnace out and I was drunk. Keanu Reeves started it. Several of his movies were on Netflix. I’d brought home a six-pack, and whenever Keanu said “Whoa,” or spoke in an English accent I swallowed some brew. I was bulging with clothes like a homeless man in a cold snap. Drinking like that, like a wino in my freezing living room, seemed like a good idea. I even wore fingerless gloves. JoAnne wasn’t into it. She had one beer. Halfway through Johnny Mnemonic she dozed off under a comforter and two afghans. It was a three-layer day, like I said. Under the pile of blankets, Iggy twitched. I was the only one awake at this point. The game went downhill fast once I put on Star Trek. I’d run out of beer and switched to vodka soda. I drank every time Mr. Spock said, “Illogical.” I drank every time Scotty said, “I can’t do it, Captain.” I drank every time Dr. McCoy said, “Damn it, Jim.” I drank every time a Red Shirt went down. I counted at least five Red Shirt deaths. I ran out of soda and vodka. Poking the dog through the blankets, I said, “Do you want to go to bed?” I said, “Bed, Iggy, do you want to go to bed?” My wife sat up, groaned, and peeled the blankets off him. Iggy stared at me like he didn’t think I was serious. He turned eleven this year. I let him out to go potty, then my wife went potty and then I went potty. I don’t remember going upstairs, but I do remember Iggy settling at the head of the bed between us. I turned on my side and spooned him. Then I smelled something like a match being lit. I switched on the light. I went to the dresser by the foot of the bed and paced like a nervous smoker. I said, “Fuck, that smells.” I said, “What the fuck,” and kicked a sock lying on the floor. “It’s not that bad,” JoAnne said. “Oh, it’s bad,” I said. “Then stop sniffing it.” “It smells like burnt diapers.” “Ha.” “It smells like rotten eggs, bad pork and peanut butter.” “It’s not that bad, Jim.” “It smells like scorched earth.” “Save it for your story, Mr. Writer.” “Iggy,” I said. “Dude, what the fuck?” Iggy blinked at me. His ears were back. Our dog looked like a sea lion. “It’s because you feed me the same stuff.” It was my turn to blink. “Lamb,” Iggy said. “You always give me the lamb flavor. Twice a day. Don’t you know dogs can become allergic to something if you feed them the same thing every day? It happens to people, too.” He enunciated in a finicky way that sounded almost like an English accent. Way better than Keanu’s. “Whoa,” I said. “Whoa is right,” he said. I threw up in my mouth a little. Pacing the floor felt like walking in a canoe and now that I’d stopped the room caught up with me. The smell didn’t help, though it had eased up some. “Try the seafood flavor,” Iggy said. “And more raw food. It’s better for my digestion. Even my poops will be smaller.” “Okay.” “It’s not like your farts don’t stink.” “Okay.” I felt better now. I picked up one of JoAnne’s shirts lying on the floor. Judging by the layer of dog hair on it it had been there a while. At the corner of the bed where Iggy got down in the mornings. The collar smelled like corn chips. It’s a well-known fact that dogs smell like corn chips. “I’m sorry,” I said. In the tumult of smells I hadn’t realized how cold I was until I got back in bed and pulled the covers over me. Iggy crawled under the covers and nestled between JoAnne’s legs. I heard the muffled sound of him breathe in through his nose and then blow the air out of the corner of his mouth. Whenever he does this I like to press my fingers to his cheek and feel it puff on the out-breath. I stared at the ceiling. I got up, grabbed the shirt that smelled like corn chips and put it next to my pillow. I switched off the light. I listened to JoAnne snore. I listened to Iggy snore. I closed my eyes and felt the room spin around their snoring. I fell into a whirling darkness that smelled of corn chips and burnt diapers and rotten eggs and bad pork and peanut butter and scorched earth and beer and vodka and soda. I had an idea. “Come on, Iggy. Say it.” Sometimes he did, if I bribed him with a treat. I groped around the nightstand and found some kibble. “Please. Say it.” I held the kibble under the covers. “Say, ‘Damn it, Jim.'” “Lamb.” “No, say, ‘Damn it, Jim.’ You know, like Dr. Mc—” “Because of you I refuse to have lamb now.” “But it’s all we have.” He breathed in through his nose. I threw the covers back and reached down to touch his cheek, but he beat me on the out-breath. Like I said, it was a three-layer day. Layers get between you, like walls do. -- For the Ig-Meister, who puts up no walls. Last year around this time I was getting ready to work for UPS. They hire lots of people to help drivers during the holiday season. It's hard work.
I had a blast. Especially on Christmas Eve. My favorite memory was when this girl maybe eleven or twelve years old opened the door. She was blonde and had braces and you could tell she was going to be pretty. But at the moment she was just cute goggling over the toaster-sized box I held out. She said, "Thank you," in a whispery voice that would have made Philip Marlowe die and go to detective heaven in the YA version of The Big Sleep. I still see it through a sort of Instagram cotton-candy filter, this pajama-clad girl in the glow of the Christmas lights around the door grinning over a theoretical toaster oven. That was my Charlie Brown epiphany in a set of braces, the summary of what it means to have any sort of tradition where a brown box can transform into something as wondrous as the Northern Lights. I know it's sappy, but all those hours of pounding up and down stairs in the rain, nibbling on candy and hoping my knee would hold up dissolved into a moment of satisfaction that made it even better when, at the end of the shift, my driver pulled over and we stared at the empty shelves in the bowels of the truck. It was a little past six o'clock. "What the fuck," he said. He couldn't believe it. He'd never used a helper before and this was the first time in years he'd finished on Christmas Eve that early. Another gift. I'm passing up UPS to make more money freelancing this December. But for the next five weeks when I see UPS trucks flying through the neighborhood, I'll be thinking, What. The. Fuck. So I'm dropping a dream post here. Usually I scroll past people's dream posts because they don't feel like news to me. I want to know what you're eating, damn it, not what you're dreaming. Anyway, here goes. A couple nights ago I dreamed I was going to my dad's funeral. He died in 2001. He had his funeral. But whatever, it's cool. I had about twenty minutes to kill so I stepped out of the church. I hopped on a kid's bike and pedaled up Nehalem Street toward 13th Avenue. The sun was shining. I felt Zen. Except for this little feeling of frustration at the center, like a dill pickle slice in a meat roll-up. The bike was so low I had to hold my Chucks in dorsiflexion to keep my toes off the asphalt. I returned the bike and walked over to the parish hall. A few people stood around, talking. I was in my tux (apparently there was a hipster dress code) feeling kind of fly, doing whatever. But next thing I knew it was five minutes before I had to be in the vestibule ready to proceed with dad's ashes toward the altar in front of hundreds of people to whom I would eventually, if dream followed history, speak some words of remembrance. I rushed over. The funny thing is I wasn't sad, just a little burned out. I'd already done my mom's funeral a few months ago. I'd had to be on for it, like a sales rep has to be on, hustling because I wanted people to go to the reception where I had a video presentation prepared. This is true. Hurrying off to dad's funeral meant I had to be on again and I didn't want to be. Damn it, dad. How many times do people have to die in our family? Not a weird dream, not even eventful. Not even emotional. I think I'm just tired of funerals. But -- something tells me, I won't say why -- I have a feeling they're not tired of me yet. I'm hoping like Ice-T said, to die harder than Bruce Willis. But not everyone I know seems to want that for themselves. And on that cryptic note, Happy Friday. May you attend no funerals this weekend. On further reflection that's a crappy way to end a post. Here's a song that should make you feel good: |
AuthorWriter of dark and weird-ass fiction. Keeper of weird-ass dogs. Archives
December 2018
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