Doing the Religious Right

Today, many devout Christians demonstrated their piety by putting some soot on their foreheads. Though their intentions may have been noble, the decision to wear the cross is rather half-ashed.¹ Old traditions die hard, I guess. Well, as a public service to those poor, misguided souls, I shall now recount the proper way to truly commemorate Ash Wednesday. It’s really fairly simple:

1. Go to a deserted cabin in the woods.
2. Accidentally summon some demons.
3. Chop off your right hand; replace it with a chainsaw.
4. Go back in time.
5. Accidentally summon more demons.
6. Save the day whilst spouting cheesy 80s sayings.
   

You see, Ash Wednesday isn’t about repenting; it’s about repelling. Repelling the undead hordes. Come get some.


(By the way, you probably celebrated Fat Tuesday wrong, too. Here's what you should have done.)


¹ Yeah, I went there.

I ♥ Mindless Consumerism

For the first 29 Valentine’s Days of my existence, I was single. For the last three years, however, I have been involved in a loving, committed relationship, and as a result, my views on the holiday have not changed one bit. Valentine’s Day is stupid.

Valentine’s Day makes the unattached feel more excluded and more depressed than a Jewish kid on Christmas. Couples already have plenty of opportunities to show their love for each other, such as anniversaries (of their first date, engagement day, wedding day), birthdays, or simply any night they can find a babysitter. Where are the days set aside to celebrate singledom? Bachelor and bachelorette parties come the closest, but the honoree is always someone who’s already in a relationship. A whole separate holiday to make the single people of the world feel worse about themselves is utterly uncalled for.

So, why do we still celebrate it? Why, crass commercialism, of course. In America, Valentine’s Day is the second biggest consumer holiday, behind Christmas. It’s a major boon for the chocolate, flowers, jewelry, wine, and greeting cards industries.¹ After all, why should we go to the trouble to come up with personalized ways to show our love and appreciation, when Wal-Mart can do that for us? Expensive restaurants will be packed tonight, romantic comedies will be screened in theaters and living rooms across the country, and cats and dogs will find extra-scrumptious treats in their food bowls.²

If you are part of a couple, instead of celebrating Valentine’s Day with your wallet, follow your heart. Make something with your own two hands. Do something (clean the house, cook dinner) that shows how much you care. Or better yet, ignore Valentine’s Day entirely. Celebrate the Chinese New Year, which starts today.³ Celebrate the Winter Olympics. Celebrate Lincoln and Washington.

But whatever you do, don’t buy crap just because some animated Cupid told you to. Well, unless he’s a Chinese Olympian named Abe.


¹ Not to mention – thanks to the slew of women who don’t know what to get for their boyfriends/husbands – the makers of Call of Duty 2: Modern Warfare.
² Conversely, the anti-Valentine’s Day crowd will also give a boost to chocolatiers, liquor stores, and the makers of Prozac.
³ Interesting fact: During the last Year of the Tiger, in 1998, Mr. Woods (who is 1/4 Chinese) only won 1 PGA tournament, tied for his lowest total in any year.

Say Again?

After receiving such a great response to my first story a few weeks back (albeit mostly in person, not through the comments section), I’ve decided to share a second one. The other things I’ve written recently for my writing workshop could potentially be reworked into publishable material in the future, but there’s little hope in that regard for a dialogue-only story. Therefore, that’s what you get. Enjoy.

Oh yeah, and beware: Thar be profanity ahead.


“Hi, I’m Detective Dan Ratliff, and I’ll be your good cop for today.”

“You gotta be kiddin me.”

“What? What is it?”

“You actually used the line.”

“I told you I was gonna. You laughed.”

“I didn’t think you was actually gonna use it. I was bein’ polite.”

“And I was supposed to know that how, exactly?”

“We’re here to get answers outta the guy, not make him laugh.”

“I know that, but I thought—”

“He look amused to you?”

“You know you’re supposed to be the bad cop to him, right? Not to me?”

“Does he look amused to you?”

“Well, no, but—”

“That’s cuz he ain’t. Uncomfortable, yeah. Maybe a little angry. But he sure as hell ain’t amused. So can the jokes.”

“Maybe he’s not amused because you interrupted me, Frank, you think of that? Maybe if you let me talk we’d already have everything we need.”

“If you don’t start on him, I will.”

“Fine, fine, no jokes. I promise.”

“Just get to it already. I got lunch with my girl in half an hour.”

“Oh, Brenda? How’s she doin? I haven’t seen her since—”

“Danny!”

“Sorry, sorry. Okay. Now, Jimmy – I can call you Jimmy, can’t I? – we’re gonna ask you a few questions, and it’d be in your best interest if you—”

“Danny.”

“What?!”

“Take the gag out of his mouth.”

“Mmmmmmpfh!”

“Oh yeah, forgot about that. Here, let me untie that for you. Now, is there anything I can get you? Water? Coke? Double espresso latte?”

“Who the fuck are you guys?! What do you want?!”

“Jeez, Frank, can you believe this guy? No one listens any more. Like I said, I’m Detective Ratliff, this is my associate—”

“Ya ain’t no fuckin cops!”

“What, you think we wear these uniforms for fun? Want me to flash my badge for you? Of course we’re cops.”

“You ain’t fuckin cops, and you ain’t fuckin Ratliff!”

“Oh, I’m not, am I? You illiterate as well as stupid? Right here on the uniform, R-A-T... sure looks like Ratliff to me.”

“Only one cop in town named Ratliff. And I think I know my own brother-in-law.”

“Fuck, Danny.”

“No, it’s okay, I got this.”

“You stole the uniform from his brother-in-law?”

“I didn’t know it was... how could... don’t worry, I got this.”

“I ain’t telling you fuckers shit.”

“For the love of...”

“Oh yeah, you got this. Totally under control.”

“So I take it you’re not going to answer my questions?”

“Fuck you.”

“Well, if that’s how you want to play it, that’s fine by me. Bad cop, do your thing.”

“With pleasure.”

“Wait. Wait! What are you doing?! Let go of—yeeeaaAAGH! Ow! Motherfucker!”

“Feel better now, Frank?”

“Much, thanks.”

“My finger! You... you broke my fuckin finger!”

“And he’ll break much more than that unless you tell us what we want to know.”

“I’m gonna fuckin kill you! You fuck!”

“Scream all you want, Jimmy. The whole block’s vacant. No one can hear you.”

“Hey Danny, ya want me to...?”

“No! No, I’ll talk, I’ll talk. What… what do you want from me? Who the fuck are you guys?”

“No more questions, Jimmy. Seeing how you’re the one tied to the chair, I think we’ll be the ones asking the questions. Now, if you would be so kind as to tell us... where’s the fuckin money?”

It's My Crypt Tonight

Everyone, no matter how tough or how fictional he or she is, has a weakness. For some, it may be a physical weakness or vulnerability. For others, it might be behavioral (e.g. too trusting of others) or something they’re no good at. Or, it could simply be something they’re powerless to resist, such as chocolate, or reality TV.

Achilles’ fatal flaw is legendary: Though the rest of him was impervious to pretty much everything, his heel was surprisingly vulnerable to poisoned arrows. Likewise, everyone knows Superman’s biggest weakness: people whose first and last name both start with the letter L (i.e. Lois Lane, Lana Lang, Lex Luther, Louis L’Amour).

I believe the most amusing discovery of a character’s shortcomings may be from Harold & Kumar Go to White Castle, when Officer Palumbo says, upon being shot: “Bullets! My only weakness! How did you know?”

For easy reference, I’ve compiled a short list of some other famous weaknesses:

Character(s)	Weakness(es)
Adam & Eve	Talking snakes
Green Lantern	Wood. Or the color yellow. Yes, seriously.
Humbert Humbert	Prepubescent girls
James Bond	Has his martinis shaken, which bruises the gin
Keanu Reeves	Emotion; can only convincingly pull off “Whoa.”
King Hippo	Leaves his stomach unguarded when he jabs
King Midas	Greed; everything he touches turns to mufflers
Marty McFly	Being compared to chickens. Or the color yellow.
Pedro Cerrano	Can’t hit a curveball
Pinky & the Brain	Where are they going to find a moose wearing rubber pants at this hour?
Sarah Palin	When mouth opens, words come out
Sherlock Holmes	The loving embrace of the neighborhood opium den
Vampires	Sunlight, garlic, crosses, holy water
Vampires (modern era)	Mopey teenage girls
Wicked Witch of the West	Personal hygiene.1

When it comes to writing, I know many of you liken me to a god, the way my words flow so effortlessly from my pen.² Not that I use a pen. Nor do the words so much flow as they spit and sputter, inconsistently and with great effort, like I’m summoning the dregs from the bottom of a liquid soap dispenser. Nevertheless, many of you put my work up on a pedestal.³

Yet I am not infallible. Last week, in fact, I learned my greatest weakness as a writer: Setting.

I can interject a sentence or two of description here and there to help highlight a scene's location, but anything beyond that and the writing becomes dull and stilted; the story crumbles. My strengths are in the characters, the action, the dialogue. For an exercise on setting for my writing workshop this past week, I tried writing three different stories five different ways, and came out with fifteen different pieces of crap. Each time, although I could picture the setting quite vividly in my own mind, on paper it read like a 6th grade book report. And not a good one.

I’ll work at it. Eventually, my descriptions of settings may become passable and enhance the other aspects of my writing. But the important thing is that I’m now fully aware of my weakness. Thus, until I get this chink in my armor buffed out, you likely won’t catch me writing any long, descriptive passages.

In other words, I’ll be keeping my Achilles’ heel far, far away from your poisonous arrows.


¹ That’s what happens when you can’t bathe and you surround yourself with monkeys.
² Some of you, on the other hand, liken me to lichen.
³ Up there, no one can read it.

Super Bol Recap

In the days leading up to Super Bowl XLIV,¹ I was astonished by the sheer number of people who had absolutely no idea how the event got started. Everyone assumes it’s a wholly American tradition. Yet, like so many of our movies and television shows, it is nothing but a bastardization of something another country came up with first.

Manute Bol is best remembered as being the tallest person ever to play in the NBA.² Although he sent most of his earnings back to his native Sudan, he was a hero to his people long before he ever stepped foot on American soil. In January 1966, at the tender age of 3 years, 3 months (and the height of 5 feet, 6 inches), Manute “Super” Bol kicked in the winning goal to defeat Morocco and win the coveted NAFTA (North African Football Tournament Association) Cup. Within weeks, the Sudanese government had decreed “Super Bol Sunday” a national holiday.

We Americans are quick to grasp onto anything that’s popular without actually grasping what it is. And that is why, one year later, the Super Bowl was born. Inexplicably, the game caught on, despite it being entirely the wrong sort of football, and despite its name having gained an extra letter along the way.³

Because Sudan follows the Islamic calendar, Super Bol Sunday falls on a different weekend every year. In homage to its predecessor, the NFL’s Super Bowl also keeps to this schedule. Apart from their names, this is the only thing that ties the two days together.

By the way, Manute’s timely goal in ’66 and his abnormal height aren’t the only reasons Sudan continues to honor him every year. At the age of 2, he saved his father from an oncoming locomotive. By 5, he could breathe fire and see through walls. He would’ve won Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest at the age of 16, except as a handicap he was forced to devour foot-long franks. He can leap locomotives in a single bound and is more powerful than a speeding Bullet.⁴ In 2002, he pummeled a sentient Refrigerator into submission to ensure that the machines couldn’t enslave the human race.

The Super Bowl’s nice and all, but now that you know the truth, I’d like you to do something for me. Every year, when some ancient rock band takes the stage for the halftime show, raise a glass to Manute “Super” Bol, the man who started it all.

No, he can't fly. He's just that tall.

¹ a.k.a. Super Bowl: Extra-Large Intravenous edition.
² Technically, Gheorghe Mureşan was also 7’7”, but technically, no one cares.
³ Historians attribute this to our nation’s British ancestry, as well as our “bigger is better” mentality. After all, if Brits can insert a single superfluous ‘u’ into words (such as in color or parlor), surely we can double that.
⁴ His Washington Bullets teammate, Muggsy Bogues. All 136 lbs of him.

Say What?

What do you do if you can’t decide between two story ideas for a writing workshop? Well, if you’re me, you write both of them, and then, after hours of deliberation (and a half-dozen commas in one sentence), pick which one to use. I opted for the story that I felt had more "literary merit." What does that mean? Well, dear readers, it means that I shall now regale you with the sillier, and possibly more entertaining, of the two. Enjoy.


“So, what’s the assignment?”

“Write a scene completely in dialogue.”

“That’s easy.”

“Without using speech tags.”

“What, you mean that he said, she said bullshit?”

“Yeah.”

“Piece of cake.”

“What do you mean, ‘piece of cake?’ It’s harder than you think.”

“No it’s not. Just have two characters talk back and forth. It’s so simple. I bet you won’t even have to give ‘em names.”

“I’m not gonna do that. I’m trying to challenge myself. It should have at least three characters.”

“Alright, put Melvin in. That’ll make three.”

“I’m not putting Melvin in my story.”

“Wait, why am I gonna be in his story?”

“Because, Melvin, he needs three characters. And you’re the most interesting character we know.”

“I’m not putting Melvin in my story.”

“Why not? Who’s better? You could have him spout some of his geekiest lines, while we make fun of his greasy hair. Or his orthopedic shoes.”

“What makes you think I’d ever write about us in the first place?”

“Can I be a warlock?”

“Because we’re awesome. Well, at least, I am. And with Melvin in there, you’ll seem pretty cool by comparison.”

“I think I’d make a really kick-ass warlock. I could have a goatee and carry a huge battle axe and control all the peasant women with my dark magicks.”

“I’m not writing about us. There should be an intriguing situation with compelling characters, which is definitely not us.”

“Well, it’s not you.”

“And I have to figure out how I’m going to insert little details about the setting and characters into the dialogue, to help set the scene. And also—hold on. Melvin, did you say ‘battle axe?’ Warlocks don’t carry battle axes.”

“But I’d be a really, really strong warlock. My mother was a witch, my father a troll.”

“Actually, I’ve met Melvin’s parents. That makes sense. But about the detail thing, that’s easy. I can, for instance, apologize for knocking your stupid girly drink to the floor...”

“Hey!”

“...and then ask you to grab me another beer while you’re in the kitchen getting a roll of paper towels from behind that large pile of unwashed dishes.”

“That statement’s a little awkward.”

“Yeah, but it’d get the job done.”

“And that better not stain the carpet, that’s all I’m saying. The landlord will have a fit, and I’ll lose half my security deposit.”

“Aw, you poor baby. Then you’d better hurry back quickly; the red is spreading. And hey, are you sure you want to be a writer, if you can’t figure any of this stuff out on your own?”

“Maybe it’d be a magic battle axe, forged in the depths of Al Jamuhn by Gaarlok the Malevolent.”

“Are you still on that? He’s not putting you in his story. And for God’s sake, shut off that damn movie already. You’re barely watching it.”

“What, My Dinner with Andre? It’s a great movie. It’s got Wallace Shawn.”

“It sucks. All they’re doing is talking. They’re not doing anything.”

“Damn it, the stain’s not coming out.”

“I mean, one of them should pull a gun or something. Then we’d have some action.”

“See? You’ve just contradicted yourself. And you’re gonna owe me for this carpet.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t get the red out.”

“Not the damn carpet. The contradiction. When did I contradict myself?”

“Just now. Any story about us would be nothing but us sitting around talking, which you’ve just said is boring. Clearly, I have no choice but to choose another topic entirely.”

“What are you talking about? First off, no story can be boring if I’m in it. Secondly, there’s a difference between a story where nothing happens and a story about nothing. Seinfeld was about nothing, and it was the most popular show on TV for nine seasons.”

“Stop arguing for this. I’m not going to write a story where we do nothing but talk for two and a half pages.”

“But it’d be so easy. You wouldn’t even have to make anything up. Hell, you could even use this conversation.”

“This one? No way.”

“C’mon, it’d be fun.”

“Especially if I’m a warlock. With a battle axe.”

“Look, it’s not happening. That’s that. If you think it’s such a great idea, you do it.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

For the First Time Ever

Five months ago today I plummeted into a ravine, prompting me to start this blog. Though I had been working on a novel for over two years by that point, for the first time ever I began to share my writing.¹ The novel has since gone through long periods of neglect,² but I enjoy the feedback I get from the blog. I like knowing that my words are entertaining (and/or completely nonplussing) people.

A couple weeks ago, I decided to take it one step further. With helpful prodding from my friend Jen — the same Jen, I might add, who got me started on my novel in the first place — I joined a writing class. It’s held online, with one assignment per week, and everyone in the class provides feedback on each others’ stories. It, too, keeps me from my novel, but for the first time ever, my writing is finally getting constructive criticism. I thought my work might garner harsher critiques, but so far it’s all been pretty helpful, both in terms of the writing and the ego boost.

The first assignment wasn’t too difficult, but this past week’s was mighty challenging: to write a scene between two people in love, without dialogue, that demonstrated their love through action rather than telling. I had all these great ideas for wicked little tales, but couldn’t manage to both “show, not tell” and go without dialogue. I would have figured out how eventually, but before I did, I came up with a way to challenge myself even further. And that is how I simultaneously, with one exercise:

• wrote a serious story, without any humor or a twist ending, for the first time ever;
• adapted part of someone else’s life for use in a story, for the first time ever;
• wrote a story in the present tense, for the first time ever; and
• amazed even myself with my descriptive imagery. For the first time ever.

I know I still have a long way to go. In general, my physical descriptions are weak, I use adverbs and the passive voice too often, and I certainly tell more than I show. This class will hopefully change that. Little by little, I’ll chip away the flaws in my writing until I’m left holding a literary masterpiece.

That, or a giant pile of flaws.


¹ Okay, that’s just an outright lie on my part. I had a web site between 1997-2001, and at least 103 people visited. How do I know this? I know this because that’s how many people commented in my guestbook. Remember back when sites still had guestbooks? Or when they received awards from other random sites? Mine got 22 awards in its first year of existence, including the “Cow Patrol Top 10” and “The Fishing Pier Award of Excellence.” I even had one of those lame counters at the bottom of the home page, which… wait, what was I talking about again? Oh yeah... For the second time ever, I began to share my writing.
² The current drought stands at 34 days. (And counting...)