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Wednesday
Nov302016

My Deathscribe Failure

Hey nerds. So friends at a theater company called Wildclaw, do this really cool annual contest where they present a program of short horro plays - radio plays, with a live band and Foley artist providing live sound accompaniment, etc. 

Very cool event. This year was the first time I submitted. I'm not really a playwright, and I've never created anything just for audio, so it was a cool challenge.

Mine was not selected, but I had a good time writing it. While I would not regard it as a fully satisfying short play, I believe it's a diverting genre sketch.

It's entitled The Unkindest Cut. Here it is:

The Unkindest Cut

__________________________

SCENE 1

ROSE: A server in a roadside diner. She’d rather been anyplace else, but does

a conscientious job. She might be in her 30s. She does not seem youthful.

DENTON: A calm, violent stranger. He is in his late 30s. Civil, mostly, but

seething.

COOK: Owner/short order cook of roadside diner. Overworked, old, used up.

SOUND: THICK RUBBER GLOVES - LIKE

INDUSTRIAL GRADE YOU’D WEAR

WHEN WORKING WITH SOLVENTS -

TUGGED ONTO HANDS.

SOUND: STEEL TOOLS AND

IMPLEMENTS LAID WITH CARE ONTO A

METAL TRAY.

SOUND: A MAN, GAGGED, AWAKENS

SUDDENLY, TERRIFIED. HIS SCREAMS

ARE MUFFLED BY THE GAG THAT FILLS

HIS MOUTH.

DENTON

A surgeon, where he is freed of the obligation to preserve life, can explore more

fully the limits of his own gifts, and he finds the freedom to pioneer bold

techniques, pure techniques. And even, where he is diligent, something like

artistry.

SOUND: HE TRIGGERS A BONE SAW,

MAN SCREAMS THROUGH GAG.

SOUND: SCREAMS INTENSIFY AS THE

BONE SAW BITES INTO A SCALP AND

SKULL. BONE SAW CYCLES DOWN.

MAN PLEADS THROUGH GAG. SCALP IS

SHUCKED OFF LIKE THE LEAVES FROM

A WET EAR OF CORN. SCREAMS

CRESCENDO AND TRAIL OFF.

TIME HAS PASSED.

SOUND: THE BELL AT THE TOP OF

DINER DOOR DINGS SOFTLY,

SIGNALING THE ARRIVAL OF A

CUSTOMER. SIZZLE OF THE GRILL,

SCRAPING OF UTENSILS, ETC.

ROSE

Evening. Coffee?

DENTON

Please.

ROSE

Need a menu?

DENTON

Nope. Don’t think so. You got chicken-fried steak?

ROSE

Sure.

DENTON

Any good?

ROSE

Not really.

DENTON

What’s good, then?

ROSE

Different place.

DENTON

Kay. Where’s the nearest place?

ROSE

Like eighty miles west. That’s how we stay open. Chicken-fried steak?

DENTON

(Resigned.)

Sure.

SOUND: DENTON SIPS COFFEE, DINER

SOUNDS, LATE NIGHT CHATTER OF A

HANDFUL OF PATRONS.

2.

DENTON

(VO)

A ribbon of road in the dead of night - some patch of nowhere at the edge of

some garbage town. Places like this offer up as many patients as a surgeon can

harvest.

SOUND: A SHARP DING! OF THE BACK

OF A SPATULA SWATTING A BELL.

COOK

Order up.

SOUND: PLATE SLIDES TO A REST ON

COUNTER.

ROSE

Here you go. Enjoy.

DENTON

Will do.

ROSE

Don’t be too sure.

DENTON

(VO)

Not this one, I think. This patch of nowhere would be a poorer parcel of nothing

without her.

ROSE

More coffee?

DENTON

Sure. Thanks.

Time passes.

SOUND: CLEARING AWAY DISHES.

ROSE

We’re about to close up. So if you could settle up the check…

COOK

Yeah, pal. Let’s head out, OK? You don’t gotta go home, but you can’t stay here.

Ha.

3.

DENTON

(VO)

This one. That. Right there. That is the line that killed you. A cliché - a rehearsedsounding

cliché - mouthed a thousand-thousand times before. A meaningless

placeholder of a thing, the insinuation of sound where none was needed. I will

go to work on this one. Cliché is like ear wax - it accretes inside us, providing

nothing but the dank reminder of our own decay. Making us incrementally more

disgusting, deafening us a bit to world outside us, till our ears are cradling oily

little pools of disease right in our own goddamn heads. Scoop it out, most would

tell you. But it only reasserts itself; it only recolonizes its cave, like a slow, sickly

tide. I say lop off the ear. And butcher the host. Burn the corpse. Salt the earth.

SOUND: INDUSTRIAL DISHWASHER

THRUMMING, SCRAPING OFF FLAT TOP,

ETC. - THE SOUNDS OF A CRAPPY

RESTAURANT SHUTTING DOWN FOR

THE NIGHT.

SOUND: BELL AT TOP OF DOOR DINGS.

ROSE

‘Night.

DENTON

Yes.

SOUND: BELL DINGS, DOOR SWINGS

SHUT, ROSE THROWS DEAD BOLT.

SOUND: CLOSING BLINDS,

RESTOCKING SUGAR PACKETS, ETC.

SOUND: FEW LIGHT TAPS ON GLASS OF

THE FRONT DOOR.

ROSE

(Hollering)

We’re closed!

DENTON

(Through door, speaking loudly.)

No. I know. I was just here? I forgot something.

SOUND: BOLT THROWN OPEN, BELL

DINGS.

4.

ROSE

Right. Hi. I was just breaking down. Didn’t see anything where you were sitting.

DENTON

No. You wouldn’t have. It’s not a thing. And, if we’re getting technical. I guess,

really. I didn’t forget. I’m just back.

SOUND: KITCHEN DOOR SWINGS OPEN

COOK

(Wary.)

What’s this, now?

ROSE

Says he forgot something. That’s not a thing. And he didn’t forget.

COOK

We’re closed up, Mister.

DENTON

Right.

COOK

So… you better…

DENTON

Yes. I will. I am.

(Longish pause.)

ROSE

Did you need…?

DENTON

Nothing. Thank you. You.

COOK

Me?

DENTON

You. You know Hippocrates?

COOK

Wait. What?

5.

DENTON

Hippocrates. Greek. Father, supposedly, of modern medicine. Hippocratic oath?

Heard of the Hippocratic oath?

COOK

Look. Mister --

DENTON

(Interrupting, harsh.)

Have you. Heard of. The Hippocratic oath? Simple question.

ROSE

Sir. We need to --

DENTON

(Interrupting, authoritative.)

No.

(To COOK.)

Answer, please.

COOK

Yeah. I mean I guess so. It’s the thing, the, like, pledge that doctors take. When

they, I don’t know, get sworn in, or whatever.

DENTON

Pretty good. Essentially correct. Bonus round --

ROSE

(Interrupting, trying to assert authority

she knows she does not have.)

Sir. It’s time for you to leave, please.

DENTON

(Calmly.)

No. Bonus round: what is the first principle of the Hippocratic oath?

COOK

What? I don’t know that.

DENTON

Bedrock of all medical intervention. Precursor to any drug…

SOUND: HE LAYS ITEMS ON COUNTER.

6.

DENTON

Or surgical procedure.

ROSE

Whoa. What, what is that shit? Why are…?

DENTON

Syringe. Scalpel.

SOUND: HEAVY METAL IMPLEMENT

HITS COUNTER WITH A CLANG.

DENTON

Rib spreader.

COOK

All right, Mister. That’s enough. I own this place, and I’m asking you to leave.

Right now. Rosie. Call the cops.

SOUND: DEAD BOLT SLAMS HOME.

THEY ARE LOCKED IN.

DENTON

(To ROSE)

Stay where you are. There is to be surgery. You assist, or you go under the

knife.

SOUND: ROSE stifles a sob.

(To COOK)

What. Is the job. Of a surgeon?

COOK

Mister. Your crazy ass seems to believe that tonight it’s your job is to get on my

last nerve. You march out that goddamn door right now. I’m calling the State

Police barracks right now. They will be here in less than six minutes. And they

will haul your nutjob ass into the lockup.

DENTON

Call if you must.

SOUND: DIALING.

COOK

Ringing. You’re gonna wanna make tracks, pal.

7.

SOUND: FAINT, FAINT RINGING, TINY,

DESPONDENT. RINGS FOR A WHILE.

DENTON

Still ringing, is it? I think you find, Mr… Proprietor. That the State police barracks

- ugly brick building - squat, like strip-mall chiropractor, or something? Six and

four-tenths miles south on I-80.

ROSE

(Dreading)

Yeah…

It’s empty.

SOUND: TINNY, FAINT RINGING.

HANDSET REPLACED IN CRADLE.

ROSE

What… whattayou mean “empty”? There’s like eight guys on duty down there.

DENTON

Verb tense.

ROSE

What?

DENTON

Verb tense. Eight guys, technically, are down there. Nobody is on duty. The

commander there. Big fella. Ruddy face. Hendricks, I think? Bushy blond

mustache, yeah? Here it is.

SOUND: AN UPPER LIP, CONTAINING

HENDRICKS’ MUSTACHE, LANDS WITH

A SQUELCHING SPLAT ON THE

COUNTER. ROSE SCREAMS.

ROSE

Is, is that Danny’s MUSTACHE?

DENTON

Right, yes. Obviously. Wait. “Danny” - that’s Hendricks, yeah? Then, yeah.

That’s his. (Catching himself, amused.) Was. Verb tense.

8.

SOUND: ROSE COLLAPSES INTO A

SEAT, SOBBING.

DENTON

(To ROSE) Yeah. OK. Let it out. Where was I? Oh. Right. (To COOK) What is the

JOB of a surgeon?

COOK

(Placating, wary, wanting to say

alive.)

To, to heal?

DENTON

Good. OK. To heal. He heals by what means?

COOK

He… cuts.

RIGHT you are. He cuts. And what does the surgeon cut? He cuts away the

unnecessary; he removes the unwanted. In order for the host to carry on, he

slices away the unclean, he carves out the… affliction. The rot. The sickened

and malformed and useless.

(Pause.)

DENTON

That. Is What I’m here to do.

(To ROSE)

Will you assist? Or will you be the subject to a procedure, as well?

ROSE

(Choking back sob)

Just… let us go. Let us both go.

DENTON

(Calmly, as to a child)

Assistant? Or patient?

COOK

Rosie, you don’t have to --

DENTON

(Interrupting)

Assistant. Or patient. There is no third way.

9.

ROSE

I can’t… don’t…

DENTON

Decide. Now.

SOUND: DENTON ADVANCES ON HER,

SLOWLY DRAWING A LARGE AND

MENACING KNIFE FROM A LEATHER

SHEATH.

DENTON

There is no clearer border. In all the world. Than the edge of a knife.

(Pause)

ROSE

(To COOK)

I am so, so… sorry.

COOK

Rosie

ROSE

Sorry.

COOK

No.

DENTON

Good. Administer the chloroform.

SOUND: DENTON PRODUCES GAUZE,

BOTTLE, POURS LIQUID ON GAUZE.

DENTON

(To ROSE)

Don’t breathe deeply near this gauze.

(To COOK)

You. Remain still. You will not want to be conscious for this. The chloroform is a

mercy.

SOUND: COOK CRIES SOFTLY.

SOUND: ROSE PRESSES GAUZE TO

COOK’S FACE. HE SLUMPS OVER.

10.

DENTON

Rose. ROSE. Open your eyes. Do not look away. To assist a surgeon, you must

remain sharp-eyed and fully present.

SOUND: DENTON’S BAG, HEAVY WITH

METAL IMPLEMENTS, COMES TO REST

ON THE COUNTER. HE PULLS A STEEL

TRAY OUT.

DENTON

Lay these tools on the tray, please. In neat rows.

SOUND: ROSE, SOBBING, REMOVES

IMPLEMENTS FROM BAG, LAYS THEM

WITH CARE ON THE TRAY.

SOUND: DENTON HEFTS COOK’S LIMP

BODY, LAYS IT ON COUNTER.

DENTON

Let’s begin. ROSE. Open your eyes. I won’t tell you again. Put these on.

SOUND: ROSE AND DENTON PULL ON

HEAVY RUBBER GLOVES.

SOUND: IMPLEMENT SLID OFF OF TRAY.

DENTON

Take these. Cut the shirt off him. We need to see what we’re doing.

SOUND: SURGICAL SHEARS SLICE

THROUGH COOK’S SHIRT. ROSE

MOANS SOFTLY, AND, FINISHED, SETS

SHEARS ON TRAY.

DENTON

I know you don’t wish to watch this, Rose. Hand me that scalpel, please. But

believe me when I tell you: listening will be far tougher on you. When you listen

to a cut, and do not follow the blade with your eyes, the sound of it grows and

grows, expanding to fill every nook of your skull and fold of your brain. Observe,

now. Eyes closed for this first cut, Rose.

SOUND: ROSE SNIFFS, BREATH

CATCHING.

11.

DENTON

That’s right. Here we go.

SOUND: AN EXQUISITELY SHARP KNIFE

BREACHES THE SKIN ON CHEST OF

THE UNCONSCIOUS COOK. FAINTLY AT

FIRST, BUT GROWING IN VOLUME AND

DENSITY, THE SOUND COMES TO FILL

THE WORLD - A MOIST, HUNGRILY

SLURPING PATH FROM COLLAR BONE

TO PELVIS WITH SOME SCRAPING AND

SNAGGING ON THE BONE BELOW.

BLOOD POOLS UNDER COOK’S BODY,

SPREADS ACROSS THE COUNTER,

SPATTERS THE FLOOR.

DENTON

Good. Eyes open. Let’s get to work. Hand me the chisel and mallet, please. We

need to get through this sternum.

SOUND: WHILE ROSE GASPS,

GAGGING, STEEL MALLET STRIKES

STEEL HANDLE OF CHISEL. AND AGAIN.

AND AGAIN.

END OF PLAY

12.

Monday
Nov282016

Satire in the Time of Swastikas

Patton Oswalt posted a really thoughtful thing about the role of "bog-standard show biz jealousy" as being a component of the current fractious nature of our post-election world. He cites Clive James' analysis of how the Nazis rounded up cabaret entertainers IMMEDIATELY - both to contain their influence, but also out of envy. The post is HERE, and lays out with greater nuance this joyless aspect of intolerance - give it read.

Good comedy has at its core the aim of brain-jostling - cognitive dissonance is part of the idiom of capturiing laughter. It relies on the ability of a listener/reader to track multiple goals, and to make fine-grained assessments of them all through a bit, or story, or essay. For instance, if I write a[nother] thing about masturbating tearfully, I am relying upon your ability to recognize that the ACTUAL subject is not the literal fact of my tearfully beating off, as I so often do. I am expecting, without stating so explicitly (to do so would pop the bubble of "magic," "magic," here meaning something like "fart jokes = philosophy"), that you will have the requisite acuity and nimbleness to make an educated guess at what my sob-spanking is meant to signify.

As a consumer of comedy, therefore, you must have a measure of cognitive flexibilty (not like yoga-instructor, but like, say, paunchy suburban dad attempting in vain to touch his toes) in order to be able to mine my bit about weepin'-n'-tuggin' for all its rich depth. I am imparting to you, in the well-crafted depiction of the semen and tears pooling at my feet, the sensitivity to appreciate that what my actual goal is might be to lay bare the condition of desperation that might lead to the creation of a vignette involving such well-salted socks. I am trusting that you believe me to be smart enough to not be wasting my goddamn life agonizing over how best to convey blubbering self-pleasure, and that the frankly quite upsetting picture I paint for you might in fact be a stand-in for something else. And I further hope, as I feverishly revise my tableau about weepy pud-pulling, that you will stick with this piece, however upsetting you may find it, because you wish to learn what, if anything, I have to convey about the aforementioned condition of desperation.

You are also permitted a fleeting self-administred chuck on the chin for being "in on the joke," for being savvy and wised-up enough to get what's REALLY happening. Don't dwell. Don't Fresh Air's Terry Gross-NPR-overexplain-the-whole-fucking-thing-thereby-destroying-for-all-time-what-once-was-amusing-about-it. Just enjoy your moment. Quietly. Internally.

Humor, when it's well-wrought, is seldom about just one thing. It dwells in ambiguity. 

Not so the swastika. The swastika is a rigidly inflexible symbol. It's the paunchy suburban dad above, after he's torqued his spine on the Slip-n-Slide - couch-bound, swearing under his breath, infantile.

In terms of rendering a swastika, it is roughly comparable to writing a capital "A" - straight lines, arranged simply. It is a rudimentary job, drawing a swastika; a job within reach of even the most enfeebled, the most cognitively compromised. 

Often, whether due to being rushed (lotta parks and bus benches to cover, after all) or, one hopes, pangs of guilt/suspicion that one is wrong to add this symbol anyplace, it is botched pretty badly.

Given the unadorned nature of the thing, and given how frequently this super-simple symbol is butchered by the very dipshits that seek to celebrate its use and advance its cause, it is impossible to avoid the conclusion that the folks inclined to use swastikas are irretrievable simpletons and therefore ill-equipped to handle the brain-jostling that comedy seeks to do. To jostle such brains is like sending a single grape ricocheting around inside a tumble dryer - it is not merely that such brains are small in size, it is that they are easily bruised. And when bruised, they send their hosts rampaging. 

So what are we, the purveyors of Lacrymal Monkeyspank lit, to do? Are we to shelve our cosseted and hard-won works of dolorous self-gratification? Is the collective capacity for cognition not equal to the task of grapping with the nuances of our tear-streaked spooge-spatter? Are we to abandon our life's work for want of the nimbleness required to enjoy it?

I for one, will not. They can take my exhaustive descriptions of weep-wanking when they pry them out of my cold, dead (from exhaustion and, one presumes, dehydration) hands.

I will just take responsibility for the fact that - if I am to traffic in layered accounts of sad self-consolation, as indeed I continue to - then I must also be prepared to offer my unvarnished, unlayered, unambiguous assertion that swastikas and what they signify are some fucked up shit, and I do not wish to see either them, or, more importantly, the warped and infirm world view that they are meant to express, in my world.

So, swastika-makers: cut the shit, you guys.

Fans of stratified accounts of sordid self-stimulation, we shall return to those momentarily - that smarty party will rage on in just a bit.

But for the un-nimble among us, the inelastic and plodding, who are fucking shit up for the rest of us:

Do.

Not. 

Put.

Swastikas.

Anyplace. 

For any purpose.

At any time.

Thanks a bunch.

You may experience it as an act of defiance that arising from your mounting desperation. But for us, all we see is that our path is slicked by your tears and ejaculate. Which is gross.

Tuesday
Nov222016

Reviewing the Subtext, Episode 3

I will go out on a limb and declare it flatly: Jews are people. I married a Jew. She is undeniably and complexly human.
This vid is making the social media rounds:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sz7A_hbDvjI
And I don't wish to add to the teetering stack of think pieces about Media Complicity in Perpetuating and Legitimizing a White Supremicist Message. Nor do I wish to wish to add a voice to chorus calling for Trump to denounce.
I want to talk. About how fucking smiley everybody in this clip is.
I want to talk about how we have been conditioned for generations to expect that Serious Ideas will drizzle like fucking dew drops from well-glossed lips and blinding white teeth of the growing ranks of the Nonthreatening and Conventionally Attractive. Which I get - I'm as shallow as anybody. I'd rather look at Pretty People than a Buncha Uggos.
Here's the thing. Sometimes, TV, SOMETIMES - ideas are SO fucking important that the coverage of them warrants suspension of the Botox Principles that typically govern such things. Sometimes, TV, SOMETIMES, when you're covering, say, the encroachment of hate groups into the Very Fucking Highest Corridors of Fucking Power in the Goddamn World, that should MAYBE be sobering enough that your presentational style could maybe do with an adjustment, namely that you don't have to chew our fucking food for us. Sometimes, TV, SOMETIMES, what is wanted is for there to be NO SOFTENING WHATSOEVER, what is wanted is for a shell-shocked and and stung-looking human stare dead into camera and joylessly confide that the Era of of Snuggle News just drew to a fucking close, because there is a motherfucking Nazi just down the fucking hall from the Oval fucking Office.
Friday
Nov182016

Reviewing the Subtext, Episode 2

I hate emojis.

Always have. Likely always will.

Most people who learn of this blistering hatred take it as one further data point on the growing spreadsheet entitled Dial It Down, Grandpa: Belknap As Cantankerous Bystander. And true, I have been an irascible old man since I was a pre-teen. But this is mostly because the world and its inhabitants are exasperating and stupid. And selfish. And rude. And whiny. And mostly quite awful.

But even taking into account my Ear-Hair-and-Back-Pain worldview, I think I have a legitimate beef – one that has to do with imprecision. Language is at best an imperfect tool, one that demands of its user careful thought and lots of trial-and-error in order to convey some approximation of the ideas that incite us to speak. Language is time-intensive to use, and resource-intensive to process. Language is iterative – it demands of us that we shape and winnow until we arrive at the version that is least wrong, or that is most proximal to correct in its encapsulation of our ideas and impulses. In sum, language is effortful – it makes demands of us.

Not so emojis. The Artist Formerly Known as Emoticons requires only that the visual cortex of our brains functions at some minimal level.

Koalas as most of us know, eat exclusively eucalyptus leaves. As a food source, there are extraordinarily low in nutrients, and extremely difficult to digest. Baby koalas lack the capacity to ferment the chewed-up leaf-mush in their guts, so were they to eat the only food with which they have painted themselves into an evolutionary corner, they would be poisoned and die. So they eat pap from its mother. Pap, for those who don’t know, is essentially a phlegm-wad of partially digested eucalyptus leaves that the baby gets from its mom’s ass.

That’s what emojis are. They are the content equivalent of a runny ass-nugget that you are attempting to feed to me. For which I am not hungry. And for which my digestive system is too advanced to need. Yet still you keep leaving them for me. They are gross and extraneous. Please stop.

The use of emojis represents the abdication of the ongoing struggle for meaning inherent in the use of words – in using emojis, you are in effect lying down like a lotus-eater, blowing a smoke ring that begins losing its shape immediately.

Which I understand. I’m as lazy as anybody. I am lured by the siren song of just becoming a pool of putty-colored pudding and heeding the call of inactivity for all time, just powering down Funyuns and staring unblinking at screens. And I further understand that not everybody is equipped for or suited to grappling with words – not many among us gravitate toward this imperfect tool for problem solving. I further understand that we are all of us busy and besieged and that emojis frequently function as a kind of Hand Print on the Cave Wall meant to indicate something like “yes, I saw that you posted this milestone/event/thing, and I offer this brief acknowledgement.”

And lastly, I recognize that much of what we encounter on social media is quite tiny in scale, and does not warrant any kind of elaborate response. For this, I have a strategy: say nothing. If an idea or observation is tiny, what – aside from imagined social pressure or a misplaced sense of decency – is compelling you to provide any response?

Think back if you can to that moment where Twitter turned a little crappier. I’m not talking about trolling, or any of the shitty USES of Twitter, I mean Twitter itself. I believe that moment was when they abandoned the Star (“Favorite”) for the Heart (“Like”) – this I think represented a further slackening of the platform. Stars have edges, and points; like language, when it is used well. Hearts are bulbous and swollen; like language, when it is abused. “Favorite” can connote an attachment that is conceptual and even intellectual; “Like” is soppy and emotional. Also, the iconography is wrong – the Heart is universally recognized as a symbol for “Love,” so there is a mismatch in intensity – “Like” is mild, shading toward noncommittal; “Love” is urgent and consuming, shading toward the enduring.

Likewise, when Facebook, that cesspit of misused language, expanded its palette of emojis from the single “Like” Thumb Up to include the “Love” Heart (at which they best Twitter, at least, in this Derby of Simpleton Communications), the “Haha,” whom if I could I would punch in the throat, the “Wow,” who is clearly dumb as a bag of socks, “Sad,” who is a gutless little punk, and “Angry,” who is at most mildly irritated, they escalated the abdication of Attempting Precision in Communications by creating the impression that they have refined and increased the capacity of the lazy to express themselves. Which is like saying that the calf that is permitted to select the veal-fattening pen in which it will spend its short life knows freedom.

Back in the single icon “Like” days of Facebook, it was admittedly an imperfect system – much was demanded of that white man’s hand and the cuff from which it extends. “Like” gets thorny, after all, when you’re offering up a response to a friend’s complex post – if somebody throws up “Fantastic to see that Jeff Sessions, with his abundant qualifications, has been nominated for Attorney General – the Republic remains strong” – a statement that can ONLY be sensible if the person posting it does so with withering sarcasm – then you might look like a halfwit for giving it a “Like,” running the risk in so doing of seeming to endorse and agree with an idea that by any rational measure is fully insane and completely indefensible. In this case, “Like” means something more like “I Acknowledge Your Withering Sarcasm, And Endorse Your Intent Without, Obviously, Lending Any Credence to Folly and Madness of the Content of Your Post.”

In the world of the single emoji, there were times when we were required to refine and expand upon our “Like” to more closely approximate what we meant in using it. Now, with no-nose little stand-ins for our feelings on any matter. It may seem like I overstate things when I express the belief that this incremental abdication on our part does not merely increase the proportion of ass-pap we let into our diet, but it renders us less and less willing – and as an eventual consequence less and less ABLE – to express with precision what it is that we believe, what it is we find objectionable, what it is we aspire to.

Another of the koala’s evolutionary quirks is that it has no adaptive response to the wear on its teeth that chewing for a lifetime on fibrous eucalyptus leaves causes. Some animals have multiple sets of molars that migrate forward to replace those that get ground down; some animals have chisel-teeth that never stop growing, so that as material gets abraded off, it is replenished. The koala has one set of teeth, a set that goes unreplaced and unrejuvenated – when the koala’s teeth wear out, it starves to death.

Don’t be like the koala. Don’t begin life eating poop wads. Don’t end life unable to feed yourself to drop out of a tree.

Saturday
Nov122016

Some Jack London-Level Shit.

I knew this guy. Outdoorsy type of guy – into hunting, ice fishing, that kind of thing. He was out snowmobiling one time. He’s on his own, out in the woods – the CANADIAN woods, so not like some punk-ass Forest Preserve. This is before cell phones. He’s out in the powdery hush, all by himself, tearing around, having a great time.

Guy takes a jump, over this fallen tree, but his angle is off and he rolls midair.

Snowmobile lands on top of him. His leg is busted. Compound fracture – his snapped-off femur is poking out the front of his snowsuit.

A fucking spear. Of his own bone. Is jabbing out of a bloody hole in his leg.

And he is miles from anyplace. His Ski-Doo is totaled – one its treads is shredded, so he is not riding that thing to safety.

So his choices are narrowed to exactly two option:

 

  1. Die in the snow. From shock, or hypothermia, or blood loss.
  2. Haul himself out of the woods. With his arms. Like a wounded crab.

 

Which is what he did. He scooched himself out of the woods. He planted his hands and dragged his ass for almost three miles. It had been dark for hours by the time he got help.

I believe I do not exaggerate when I say that this is where we are right now. I don’t just mean those of us on the political Left. I mean all of us.

I believe that we have – through our own deliberate actions – landed ourselves in a snow bank with a pike of our own bone protruding from our leg. We are hobbled. We are bloodied. We are nauseated and dizzy. We bit our tongue pretty bad and maybe cracked a tooth.

We are hurt. Badly. Dangerously. Lethally, maybe.

We sit, rattled and cold, in this snow bank, a claw of bone testing the air above our leg.

And we are presented with a stark choice:

 

  1. Die in the snow in the woods.
  2. Haul ourselves to safety.

 

I feel as though we are too dazed, still, to have made our decision.

But this much I know: when you are injured and cannot walk, to remain where you are, in the snow, is to die.

My dad killed himself in 1986. As a consequence, I have always held a pretty dim view of suicide prevention and its prospects for success.

But since we are all of us plowed into the same fucking snow bank, and since all our fucking noses are stinging from the smell of spilt gasoline, it is not fucking suicide that your inaction represents – it is murder suicide.

If you have concluded – understandably – that you wish to remain still and permit death from shock or the cold to overtake you, I can appreciate your position. I can. It’s rational, even, in its way.

But your inactivity also consigns me to death. And my children. Because my arms are BARELY equal to the grueling job of dragging myself to safety and my kids to safety. My wife and I will be dragging till our shoulders are burning in pain. 

And that effort MAY be enough. If we persist, and get lucky. We MAY be able to summon the strength to drag ourselves out of these darkening woods.

Unless. You find yourself too defeated to contribute to the dragging. It is conceivable that we can drag ourselves. There is no way we can drag you, too. Your shock and disbelief – I understand these entirely & feel them myself. My wife feels them. And so do my children.

But shock and disbelief also are feeling luxurious, to me. Shock and disbelief and the release of death that they bring in their wake – these are a GUARANTEE that we perish. All of us. All of us on the political Left. All of us on the Right. All of us who are apolitical. All of us.

And maybe you’re like: “It’s different now. We’re not like your friend. We have cell phones. We can call and get rescued.” We’re in the middle of the woods. No bars, no signal. To wait for a chopper to airlift us out is to die.

And maybe you’re like: “Hang on. This shard of bone won this snowmobile ride fair and square. Maybe we should give him a chance.” The shard of fucking bone has been telling you straight up for two goddamn years – “If you place your trust in me, I will bring you gangrene and death,” and now that’s what we’re getting.

And maybe you’re like: “Whatever, man – you’re a white male. What possible difference can this make to you? You’ll stay safe.” NO ONE IS SAFE. Am I white? Yes. Am I male? Yes. But I am also left of fucking Trotsky, and am as lippy as I can get. The fact that I will follow you up the fucking chimney does not matter – my skin and my genitals will delay this, not prevent it. The sequencing of how we each perish doesn’t mean squat because we will all fucking perish.

And maybe you’re like: “Dude. Your metaphor has really gotten away from you, here – you’re kind of all over the place.”

Which is fair. But it is also true that we are STUCK IN A FUCKING METAPHOR THAT HAS SPUN OUT OF CONTROL. A dense thicket of badly constructed metaphor.

But here’s the problem. As I attempt in vain to tamp down the fucking dry heaves that have been plaguing me since Tuesday night; and as I gaze into the eyes of my trans son who is old enough to understand with appalling clarity that half his fucking countrymen have deemed him unworthy and unequal; and as I have watched my social media feeds get clogged with reports of all forms of intolerant bullshit LESS THAN A FUCKING WEEK AFTER THE FUCKING ELECTION, MONTHS AWAY, STILL, FROM INAUGURATION – the situation is so fucked and so various in the ways that it is fucked, and will require so much to un-fuck it that it cannot be contained in a single fucking metaphor.

But I stand by the essence of it:

It is WE who drove ourselves out into these woods.

It is WE who gunned the motor and didn’t stick the landing and got our fucking leg crushed.

And it is WE who can either stare down at the femur sticking out of fucking leg and wait to die, or we can for fuck’s sake start dragging ourselves toward town. Speaking for myself: I have no fucking intention of getting claimed by the cold or the wolves or the shock. Fuck this femur. And fuck this hypothermia. And fuck this leg wound that is fizzing with infection. I’d sooner cut my own leg off and eat it than to succumb to this idiocy. I’d sooner dine on nothing but cannibal flank steaks from now until the midterms than lay down and die for this.

I get it. I do. It’s fucking easier to lay back and watch the fog of your breath get carried away by the cold wind. It is seductive, watching your blood bubbling around the baffling lance-tip of your bone. There is an allure to the looming embrace of oblivion.

And it may well be that the effort it costs us to drag ourselves out of these backwoods will come to nothing. Maybe we’ll give it our all, and still we will die. Maybe the expanse of these trees and the bitterness of this cold will prove too much for us. Maybe our wound is too cruel and our will is too weak.

But. Even it’s futile, even if it’s pointless, even if my arms give out by the time I can get out of these godforsaken woods, I will by god die crawling.