Sunday Night: A Prose Translation

*I'd like to introduce a ballad into the set-list of the blog. It's an oldie, a prose translation assigned in a Poetry class I took in a different lifetime. The inspiration is a poem by an incredible author named Raymond Carver. His cigarette has long been snuffed, but his smoke continues to rise from the ashtray.

From writing I have learned to battle the tedium of a Sunday Night. I catch stale things and make them scream, dragging them into the light. I prefer it when inspiration finds me, but I can also bend it to my will.

The rain splatters lazily against the window, tapping a cadence like a jazz drummer fighting sedation.

Defeated on the couch, I watch the cinder of my cigarette expand to a flimsy length. Not ten feet from this couch rests an old ceramic ashtray atop a dusty nightstand. For a second, I glare at it, my fingers spread open—beckoning—arm outstretched, channeling in vain a Jedi’s telekinetic retrieval trick. On Sunday nights, anything outside of an arms-length away makes you desperate for superhuman powers. The shackles of comfort.

Overhead, the floorboards vibrate in my daughter’s room, muffling the crunch coming from her stereo. Every last wooden squeak piques my paranoia.

I consider the gray mini-van ticking in the driveway, its siding paneled like an Irish living room, and that coveted red Ferrari idling somewhere past the next horizon.

I’m jarred from that thought by noise in the noise. It’s the sound of a glass stacked at the top of a fragile mound in the sink. Ice cubes and impaled olives weigh it down. It shrieks its way to the base of the pyramid. Glasses scatter like bowling pins. My wife backpedals, grinning impishly. She holds an unsteady finger to her lips and whispers “sshh” to no one in particular. 

So there. It’s all useful in some way. Nothing is trivial. I’m grateful for this. I need all these things to fill the void.

Bad Luck

In an effort to console me, a psychiatrist once told me that much of what I consider flaws trace back to mere bad luck. I've been medically diagnosed with bad luck and I still play poker on a weekly basis, which is about as reckless and foolish as a trapeze artist diagnosed with vertigo insisting he doesn't need a net.

I said to the doctor: “To hell with your diagnosis. I'm gonna beat the odds, man!”

Raising an eyebrow, he said, “Oh, yeah? Fifty bucks says you don't.”

“You're on, Dr. Fucker!” I said, and dug for my wallet.

And so we rolled a game of dice on the plush carpet in his office. I rolled five straight snake-eyes that he matched by rattling off sevens—astoundingly with just one die on three occasions.

Fondling his newly won wad of cash, he chuckled snidely. But once he detected my fuming and dejected disposition, his devilish grin straightened—somewhere between reproach and compassion—and he said to me...

“There. Now do you see the adverse consequences of your compulsive behavior?”
My face colored like a bloody clown shoe, I pried my tightly pinched lips apart to mutter a simple response.

“No.”

The doctor's hands collided elatedly.

“Great! Double or nothing, then, chump. You game?”

I screamed: “Make it triple or nothing, asshole!”

Vampire Fight

*Note on the picture above: This may appear to be a fight between a bear and a vampire, but the vampire on the left is merely wearing a bear costume. The other vampire's bulging right forearm is obstructing your view of the zipper.

Months ago I watched the TNT original movie “The Librarian: Curse of the Judas Chalice.” It was shortly after Thanksgiving, I believe, which gave me an excuse to watch lame television with my parents.

“The Librarian” depicts the science-fiction adventures of a witty scholar who vacations in New Orleans where he encounters a plot-line that's basically “Indiana Jones” meets “The Da Vinci Code,” with a special effects-budget funded by quarters raided from a ski-ball machine at the Planet Hollywood location in Atlanta. The main character, played by E.R. alum Noah Wyle, shares the wry cleverness of Indiana Jones, but unlike Indy, he lacks prowess in both hand-to-hand and whip-to-sword combat. The doctor turned librarian relies on a seductive French vampire chick to save him from the attacks of ex-KGB henchmen. Whereas Indy's punches resounded like the THWACKS of propeller blades when a helicopter crashes sideways into the ocean, the Librarian couldn't punch his way through a paper bag.

Comparisons to Robert Langdon from “The Da Vinci Code” would only slow the momentum of this essay, and besides, the case could be made that the Librarian is a more appealing hero than his counterpart, the Harvard-educated symbologist with greasy-skunk hair.

Anyway: “The Librarian” climaxes with an airborne tussle between Mademoiselle Vampire and Prince Vlad Dracula in a New Orleans bayou; all the while the Librarian is busy twiddling his thumbs, shin-deep in a hurricane-ravaged puddle of his own urine. As the vampires grappled with each other, vanishing and then reappearing twenty feet in the air and exchanging supernaturally charged punches, my brain was inundated with consternated questions about the nature of a vampire fight.

When two vampires are engaged in battle, are they determined to sink their teeth into their rival's throat, or to plunge a stake into the other's heart? Vampires kill by chomping throats, but they are killed by a stake through the heart. The paradoxical question is: When vampires fight, are they driven by their instinct for killing, or driven by the instinct to kill their opponent? Are they concerned with the only way they know how to slay, or are they concerned with the only way to slay their opponent? For my money, a Vampire Fight is a real mind-fuck of a stalemate.

***

"Vampire Fight" is one of 40 comedic essays included in my book. If you'd like to order a copy of "There Will be Blog," I'm cool with that.

www.xlibris.com/NickOlig.html

Introduction to "Butcher Shop"

“I've been reading a lot of scripts lately. You know, it's a lot cheaper than going to the movies.”

Those are the words of Troy McClure, the vain and callow B-movie star from that cartoon program that has been the centerpiece of far too many of the conversations I've participated in.*

The canary-skinned star of Leper in the Backfield was right: Scripts are indeed cheaper than movies. The first draft of “Craine & Bloom's” was written for a Cinema Production class I took in college. As the shooting date approached, doubts crept in that the story was too long and elaborate to fit into the limited amount of shooting time my group was allotted. I decided to write a different script for filming, one that would be simpler, more manageable, and neophyte-friendly.

Plan B for the big Cinema Production project was a disaster called “Monster in the Attic.” It was made all the more disappointing by the absence of both a monster and an attic. The plot could be described in one of two ways. 1. A dopey heavy metal musician writes and performs a song about his roommate and his girlfriend being terrorized by a savage critter in her apartment. 2. Never mind.

I sang a Capella for a solid minute wearing a shaggy wig and a black Pantera shirt. The lyrics, which are familiar to about one-third of the people who occasionally visit Fistpumps, are as follows:

I don't mean to create panic/ And I'd hate to start some static
But there's fear in my heart/ 'Cause there's a monster in the attic
Monster in the attic/ You'll lose control of your bladder
Monster in the attic/ We've got knives but it doesn't matter
Monster in the attic/ It's come to feast on your soul
Monster in the attic/ Could be a cat, but I think it's a troll
Good gracious, it sounds Hellacious**/ Its breeding ground is so spacious
Could be a wolverine or maybe a demon/ One thing you know: that creature ain't leavin'
Monster in the attic/ You're gonna crap your pants
Monster in the attic/ You wanna kill it but you can't
Monster in the attic/ Its teeth can bite through steel
Monster in the attic/ Your wounds will never heal

Don't get me wrong: I'm proud of the lyrics to “Monster in the Attic.” It's just that I realize the short film experience would've been much less excruciating had I simply read the lyrics in front of the camera and quit while I was ahead. No characters, dialogue, or script necessary.

In Cinema Production class I wrote a script for a bad short film that never should have been produced and a (potentially) good short film that should have been produced but wasn't. Most people blog to feel like less of a failure (or outcast), and I'm no different. Enjoy the footnotes, and then “Craine & Bloom's Exotic Butcher Shop.”

*Every time a writer ends a sentence with a preposition, the ghost of Ernest Hemingway shoots another hole in his skull.

**For the longest time, I thought “hellacious” was an actual word, that it was an acceptable synonym for the adjective “hellish.” How long have I been shitting myself on this matter? It's not surprising that “hellacious” isn't printed in the dictionary because I'm pretty sure I was introduced to the word by a pro-wrestling announcer on TV. As in: "What a HELLACIOUS Tombstone Piledriver!"

CRAINE & BLOOM'S EXOTIC BUTCHER SHOP

FADE IN:

INT. CRAINE'S BUTCHER SHOP – BREAK ROOM

A thin haze of smoke hovers in the small and dimly lit break room. JONAS CRAINE slowly brings a cigarette to his lips with his unsteady left hand. His right hand is stashed deep inside his pocket, burrowing as usual. He gazes at the floor with eye muscles that scrunch tirelessly. Craine is in his mid-40s and he wears the expression of an elderly matador.

A metallic CLANG can be heard off-screen, sounding in five-second intervals. Craine is neither comforted nor bothered by the noise; he merely expects it.

Five seconds pass without a clang. After ten seconds he becomes perturbed and checks the watch on his left hand. Before fifteen seconds he groans, snuffs his cigarette, and hurries through the swinging door. His rushed movements are unnatural; his body moves as if it is confined in a cast of paper mache.

INT. FRONT COUNTER

Slump-shouldered and weary, SCOTT BELDEN stands parallel to the counter, gazing at a butcher knife with a hint of resentment. He shakes his head side-to-side as Craine approaches from behind.

CRAINE: I don't hear any knife-dropping, Scott.
SCOTT: Look, Mr. Craine, can we please just talk this over? I mean--
CRAINE: No, we can't. You know my policy. Every new employee must start his shift with ten
solid minutes of knife-dropping reps.

Scott turns around to face his employer.

SCOTT: It's just...I'm not sure if this is really necessary. I've worked here for over a month and...
CRAINE: It's necessary. Young men such as yourself do reckless things. You need to be cautious. Now drop that knife and don't try to grab it 'til it's lying on the counter.

For a quick beat Scott is torn between compliance and rationale. His cry for rationale prevails, and with exasperation he says...

SCOTT: I've never had the urge to catch a falling knife. Even before I started working here I knew it was a bad idea. I could be doing something more productive like...
CRAINE: Scott.
SCOTT: And when a customer spots me doing this routine I feel like such a—
CRAINE: Scott.
SCOTT: One of my ex-girlfriends came in here once and she snickered at me. I mean, it's just common sense, you know. Who tries to catch a falling knife? Only a total...idiot would—

Like a fiery drill sergeant, Craine lunges to confront Scott. He unleashes his right hand from his pocket and points his finger in Scott's face.

CRAINE: You watch your god-damn mouth, smart-ass!

The butcher's hand trembles. His pinkie is severed at the joint, wrapped in gauze. Scott sees it for the first time. His eyes bulge in bewilderment and he backpedals a few inches. Craine is almost as perplexed by the sight. He considers his severed right pinkie a monstrosity not to be shared with others. With a rare surge of emotion, he tucks his hand back into his pocket and turns away.

CRAINE: Scott, I didn't mean to...

Scott's mind races with possibilities. Still reeling, he gulps and shakes his head.

SCOTT: No, look, Mr. Craine...I'm the one who should be sorry—
CRAINE: I didn't apologize. I just didn't want you to see that.
A pause. A refrigerator buzzes loudly. For a long time the men remain silent.
SCOTT: It's not a big deal. I just didn't know about it.

He inches toward Craine and drops a knife on the counter by the register. Remember that.

SCOTT: (cont'd) You know what, I can do the knife-dropping routine for as long as you want. Everyday. Until you think I'm...ready. I mean, I'm grateful for this job and you're the boss, so if you want me to--
CRAINE: Scott, have you ever seen the movie Cocktail?
SCOTT: What?
CRAINE: The movie Cocktail, starring Tom Cruise. Have you seen it?
SCOTT: Yeah, I think so. He plays a bartender in that one, right?
CRAINE: Yes. Cocktail came out 20 years ago. That was back when I co-owned this shop with a man named Dexter Bloom. We were best friends.
(Beat.)
Business was slow before Cocktail hit theaters—even slower than it is now. Dexter saw the movie. He gave it thumbs-up, and it gave him an idea. Crazy idea. He kept talking my ear off about it. Business couldn't get much worse, so I figured, what the hell? Jesus, listen to me reminisce. I hate reminiscing. Scott, you should never heed the advice of a man who hopes like hell that he's wrong, but if you want to know the cold truths bitter old men keep to themselves...it's no use reminiscing about the best days of your life. Because once that train of thought fades away, you remember what happened that brought on the shit.

The camera follows his wistful, solemn gaze up toward the ceiling.

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. CRAINE & BLOOM'S EXOTIC BUTCHER SHOP – FRONT COUNTER

The caption reads “1989.” In the foreground, a youthful and vibrant Craine carves up a thick slice of ham. A nearby stereo blares AC/DC. Craine bobs his head to the upbeat rhythm, not quite in-time but without a hint of self-consciousness. His fluid movements contrast the body language of the middle-aged man he will become. Like most young people, Craine lacks the foresight to picture himself 20 years from now.

DEXTER BLOOM operates the cash register. His smirk reveals a gleam of jack-o-lantern mischief. His movements coincide with the rhythm of the music. He has a habit of cocking his head to the side and delicately scraping his teeth with his tongue. Bloom is a womanizer who plays it with indifference until the moment to pounce arises. And he always knows exactly when to pounce.

A female patron by the name of JOLENE approaches the counter. Judging by her sleek evening gown—which accentuates her taut and desirable figure—you'd think she was attending a stylish nightclub without a date. She comes to Craine & Bloom's not so much to order meat but instead to participate in a game bursting with nervous anticipation that nobody quite knows exactly how to play.

BLOOM: Welcome to Craine & Bloom's Exotic Butcher Shop, miss Jolene. Tell us how to serve you.
JOLENE: Dexter, I'm simply dying for a half-pound bag of Virginia ham. Would you do the honor?

Bloom smirks.

BLOOM: Let's sharpen that blade, Craine.

In one deft motion, he unfastens his belt, yanks it by the buckle and twirls it like a lasso above his head.

Their lovely customer laughs giddily.

Knife in hand, Craine jaunts over, trying to conceal his anxious longing for Jolene. Bloom stretches the belt tightly as his friend drags the blade against it. When the blade has been sufficiently sharpened, Craine drifts toward Jolene and Bloom strides over to the back counter.

CRAINE: Hello, Jolene. I hope you don't mind me saying this, but of all the pretty faces we see at this place, yours is probably--
BLOOM: The lady doesn't have all day, Craine.

On cue, Craine tosses the knife over his shoulder with the frivolity of a Harlem Globetrotter lobbing an alley-oop. Jolene shrieks, but her terror doesn't last long.
Bloom snatches the handle of the blade with nonchalant showmanship, grins, and tends to the ham.
Jolene is a striking display of feminine ambivalence—all at once angered, relieved, and enamored.

JOLENE: You two have some...nerve. Do you know that?
CRAINE: No need to worry. We've practiced that trick and awful-lot.

Within seconds Bloom has carved the ham and zipped it up in a plastic bag. He tosses the order to his friend.

BLOOM: Look alive, Craine. And, this time, don't forget to charge the pretty-faced miss Jolene.

Craine half-glares backward, then begins to total Jolene's order on the register.

JOLENE: Oh, not so fast. Additionally, I am also just dying for some...

She tilts her head sideways and locks into Craine's gaze, dabbling in an offbeat manner of eye-contact. She searches her mind, without success, for another type of meat.

JOLENE: Some more Virginia ham, please.

She smiles and twists the bottom strands of her shoulder-length hair.

BLOOM: Fair enough. Craine, what do you say we do this order in “Spectacular Fashion”?
CRAINE: “Spectacular Fashion” is too risky.
BLOOM: Now is the perfect time for “Spectacular Fashion.”

His cool gaze darts at Jolene and then returns to Craine.

CRAINE: We've only done “Spectacular Fashion” a few times, and that was with plastic knives.
BLOOM: Well, you can't carve up a ham with plastic knives, now can you?
Bloom steps toward the register and places the knife on the counter. Most of the sharp end hangs above the floor.

Craine looks at Jolene. Her lips pucker inward and she offers a lemony smile. She is intrigued but offers no hint of persuasion. Craine sighs deeply.

CRAINE: Another half-pound bag of Virginia ham. This one in... “Spectacular Fashion.”

Jolene's puckered smile reveals pearly teeth. Bloom sidles up parallel to the counter, three feet away from the knife. He bends his knees in sort of a karate pose and waits stolidly for the signal from Craine.

Craine stretches and strains his lips in all directions to conceal the fact that they are quavering. He clears his throat, sniffs his nose like a cocaine addict, and at last, nods his head.
With that, Bloom jack-knifes his leg as high as he can without pulling a hamstring, shifts his foot a few inches closer to the counter, and drops it down swiftly on the blade.

CLOSE-UP on Craine, whose eyes bulge in trepidation. His arm reaches above him where the camera can't see. A ghastly slashing noise is heard and his bulging eyes expand to maximum capacity. He bellows a scream in bold, capital letters, followed by a dozen exclamation marks.
Shouts of panic and concerned tremors are heard from Bloom and Jolene. The camera drifts upward slowly, catatonic and unwilling to absorb the gruesome sight.

JOLENE (off-screen): Oh, God no! Jonas, are you all right?
CRAINE (O.S.): My PINKY!
BLOOM (O.S.): Jesus, I don't believe this. Put some pressure on it, man. Wrap it tight and we'll call an ambulance. Here, let me help.
CRAINE (O.S.): Get the hell away from me!
JOLENE (O.S.): He's right, Jonas. Please, just let us...
CRAINE (O.S.): Shut up! The both of you, just...go away and let me bleed in peace. Let me bleed in “Spectacular Fashion!”

INT. CRAINE BUTCHER SHOP – FRONT COUNTER

The camera descends on Craine's middle-aged face. He is emotionally weary, but in his eyes there is a dim flash of catharsis.

CRAINE: Bloom and I haven't worked together since. I fired him and told him to take his “Exotic” shenanigans with him. We haven't spoken for almost two decades now.
SCOTT: Wow. Two decades. And what about Jol--
CRAINE: No.

A customer walks through the entrance. The man used to smirk because he thought only fools took life seriously. Now he smirks with humility at the realization that he was mistaken. He has not lost hope, however. The man's name is of course Dexter Bloom. He stands just past the threshold and gazes down. Not knowing what to do next, he thumbs the gray stubble of his chin.
It's all too much for Craine.

CRAINE: Get out.
BLOOM: Almost twenty years apart. I don't blame you for mistaking me for a hobo.
CRAINE: Don't bullshit me, Bloom. Just get out.
BLOOM: I can't do that, Craine, and I'll tell you why. I don't have too many friends out there. I don't have much of a life, either. Things have been rotten for me, and I think you can relate. I just figured...it could only do me some good to shoot the shit with my friend.
CRAINE: We're not friends. Please leave.

Bloom again lowers his gaze and bobs his head in a somber rhythm. His sorrow does not have a short memory, but he wants to convince his friend otherwise.

BLOOM: That one hurt, Craine. Even so, I'm gonna back there and shake your hand. If there's a conflict of interest, so be it.

With youthful pep, he hops over the counter. His right foot almost comes down on the blade of a knife that points like the needle of a compass toward Scott.

CRAINE: Bloom, if you take one step closer, I swear to God, I'm going to--
SCOTT: Now, just settle down, Mr. Craine.
Bloom takes a step forward.
BLOOM: Listen to the kid.

Craine yanks his right hand from his pocket and thrusts it savagely into Bloom's chest. The wayward friend reels backward, flailing his arms. As he falls to his butt, his hand comes down on the blade. The knife is launched end-over-end in a perilous arc.

CLOSE-UP on Scott, paralyzed by gaping consternation and a flash of terror. The camera zoom targets his face, which glimmers from the revolving glint cast by the blade. Another bloody catastrophe seems imminent in Craine's Butcher Shop, until a hand snatches the twirling projectile by the handle.

The hand belongs to belongs to Craine, naturally. He has not been emboldened by his act of heroism. His trembling lips, quavering hands, and dreadful expression convey the plight of a man who has accidentally locked himself in a freezer.

BLOOM: Jesus, kid, are you—you're okay, right? I'm sorry about that. It was just...

Craine's demeanor thaws enough to permit him a few words.

CRAINE: It was an accident. No harm done.

He inspects his right hand, strains with some success in steadying his nerves, and marvels at how tightly he can clutch the knife's handle with just three fingers and a thumb.

CRAINE: No real harm done.

For a few silent seconds, Bloom grins with unspoken bliss.

BLOOM: That was a helluva snag, Craine.
CRAINE: Thank you, Bloom. Thank you.

The door swings open once more to reveal Jolene. She removes her Jackie-O sunglasses to reveal a few wrinkles at the height of both cheekbones, skinny trenches that middle-age has dug into her soft flesh. But these wrinkles make eye contact all the more imperative and profound; a mere inches above these tiny imperfections she has to offer the same dazzling green eyes that always brought to Craine's mind the image of a sour-apple sucker held up to the sun. She approaches the counter.

Craine manages a timorous laugh and fidgets at the sight of her. He glares at Bloom, who shrugs pleasantly.

BLOOM: I told you I don't have too many friends out there, so you can't blame a guy for revisiting his past when he gets lonely. Miss Jolene is really more of an old acquaintance, though. It's a shame: she never dug me the way she dug you.

Jolene smiles and summons a display of youthful adoration.

JOLENE: Digs might be a more appropriate verb than dug. It seems we're all in the habit of referring to things in the past tense.

Timid but not ashamed, Craine returns her smile.

JOLENE: Say, by any chance, are you two open for business?
SCOTT: Actually, we stopped serving customers a few minutes ago, ma'am.
BLOOM: She was talking to me and Craine, kid. You really know how to ruin a moment, don't you?
CRAINE: Ease up, Bloom.
(To Scott) It's only 5:02. There are exceptions to virtually every rule, my boy. You can hit the road early today.

Scott nods and departs quickly. As he darts past Jolene on his way out the door, she covers her mouth to conceal her snickering.

Craine smiles at the blade and sets it on the counter before turning to his friend.

CRAINE: As for the two of us, it seems our work is not yet finished.

He offers his right hand with steady assurance. Bloom blinks away tears as the two men shake hands.

FADE OUT:

Musings on Ghouls

Originally printed in the Advance-Titan, this is an oldie, as evidenced by the reference to Donald Rumsfeld as the current Secretary of Defense. Do I need to get with the times? No, I simply need to write more original material.

Halloween season is upon us, which means spooky tales of apparitions and bloodsuckers will be told with greater regularity and deeper resonance. As far as I’m concerned, the prospect of spending a night in a haunted house is about one-hundredth as terrifying as never obtaining Social Security—living until the age of 110 and working fulltime until 108.

Ghosts don’t scare me and I’ll tell you why: you never read about a ghost hijacking a plane and crashing it into a building. Ghosts are melodramatic and harmless. When’s the last time you heard of a ghost bombing an abortion clinic or kidnapping a local girl?

While visiting the supposedly haunted house of a friend a few years back, I wandered from room to room belligerently taunting the ghosts, trying to ferret out the elusive spirits with insults. For twenty minutes or so, I walked around talking shit to thin air, but my teasing didn’t cause any paranormal retaliation. Finally, while pacing back and forth in the laundry room, obnoxiously muttering about how much it must suck to be trapped in limbo between mortality and the afterlife, my shoelaces were somehow untied with a forceful tug.

Did that instance frighten me into feeling stern reverence for ghosts? Hell no! Having untied shoelaces is a minor inconvenience; it’s not scary in the slightest. I can just picture that rascally ghoul rubbing his hands diabolically, sneering and, saying to himself, “Heh. That ought to show him.” What’s next? Is this sissified spirit going to flick my ear or steal one of my chocolate chip cookies? (Sarcastic shudder.)

Those of you who are deathly terrified of ghosts can’t deny that actual LIVING people are responsible for an overwhelming majority of the world’s wars, genocides, murders, rapes, stabbings, suicide bombings, hate crimes, thefts, child molestations, vicious beatings, vehicular manslaughters, arsons, callous insults, tittie twisters, closing-elevator-door snubs, vandalisms, plagiarisms, jay-walkings and “Now That’s What I Call Music!” It’s the living that freak me out. If you’re looking for a horrifying Halloween outfit, leave your Casper sheet at home and dress up like North Korean dictator Kim Jong Il or Ryan Seacrest.

Enough about ghosts; they don’t deserve an entire column’s worth of material. Let’s move on to vampires. Something about vampires just doesn’t add up to me. Given the fact that they don’t appear in reflective surfaces, isn’t it strange that they’re all so primly groomed and presentable? Without a mirror to use for reference, you’d think they’d all be slovenly doofs with boogers in their noses and bits of jugular stuck between their teeth. Instead of handsome men like Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt, contemporary depictions of vampires should resemble bedraggled misfits like Tim Burton and mug shot Nick Nolte—people who obviously haven’t dared to look at their reflection in years. Self-reflection is at the core of vanity, and vampires completely defy that.
A brief overview of ghouls just wouldn’t be complete without mentioning zombies. The living dead rank as my favorite breed of supernatural monsters, due in large part to my affinity with the film “Shaun of the Dead,” the video game “Resident Evil,” and my radiantly pale bare chest. (As a cost-effective alternative to lighthouses, my blindingly pallid pectorals could serve as a luminous beacon to ships gone astray on the high seas.)

To disrupt the stifling tedium of everyday life, I would heartily welcome a zombie infestation. True, destruction and casualties would be unavoidable, but let’s be realistic, when has humanity avoided destruction and casualties for longer than eight seconds?

I am neither exceptionally brave nor patriotic, but I’d sign up for the Army if the U.S. were involved in a war with a nation of zombies. Because in that unlikely scenario, you know you’re fighting for the right side. Murdering a sleuth of foreign people believed to be a threat to our ideals and lifestyles is likely to cause some nagging moral confliction, maybe even a hint of remorse. But there’s none of that limp-wristed, theatre-major ambivalence when it comes to zombies! They are intellectually stagnant, ghastly carnivores with no capacity for morality.
Suppose someone dear to you, such as your sibling, significant other or drug dealer, abruptly converted from Christianity to Islam, or perhaps decided to reject democracy in favor of communism. You’d probably feel bamboozled and disquieted, possibly even hostile, but would you resort to homicide? I doubt it. If, on the other hand, a loved one, such as your sibling, significant other, or drug dealer, converted from humanity to zombiehood, you’d be a cowardly fool not to bash their skull with the nearest dough roller you can find.

A crusade against a throng of staggering zombies is just what this nation needs to soothe the dissention that threatens to divides us. It would also mark the first time since World War II that we’ve engaged in warfare with beings even whiter than us.

For once, I’d love to be a part of the widespread jingoism that grips America in times of war. Think of the possibilities. Country singer Toby Keith would top the charts for twelve weeks with his infectious ditty, “Only Good Zombie is a Decapitated One.” FOX News would air crudely superimposed photos of zombies burning American flags and effigies of Bill O’Reilly, Colonel Sanders and Mr. T. and Conservatives and liberals alike would malign Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld for evoking Benedict Arnold and switching his allegiance to the side of the undead. In this strange, hypothetical scenario, we’d tell ourselves we should’ve known something was amiss when he started devouring Chris Matthews at a press conference. But considering the pundit had just rudely pointed that the majority of our troops are being armed with cracked Wiffle-ball bats, we just smiled and mused, “Same Old Rummy.”

Oh, and speaking of certain members of the administration, they are also much scarier than ghosts.

Blue Tooth Confusion

*This one goes out to my pals in the Intro to Comedy Writing Class at the Second City in Chicago. Lisa, Phillip, Grant, Natasha, John, Scott, Mike, Chad, Courtney, Aaron, Kelly, Rebecca, and the elusive Elliot. Fate worse than death awaits me if I forgot anyone. Hope to return to Chicago, with the court case settled and my brain chemicals re-balanced. Someday, I can only hope, my level of appreciation will not be the most profound in hindsight.

“BLUE TOOTH CONFUSION”
10/4/08

CAST
John – 30s, Graphics Designer
Drake – 30s, Stockbroker
Dolores – 50s, Homeless Woman

(Two men face the crowd. Drake is
a smug yuppie clad in a suit and
tie. John is dressed casually. He
stares forward with an expression
of aloof dread.)

DISEMBODIED VOICE
This is a purple line train to Linden.

DRAKE
Hey, do you know who won the Cubs game?

JOHN
No clue. I’m sorry, but I don’t follow baseball.

DRAKE
I wasn’t talking to you, bro.

JOHN
Oh. My mistake.

DRAKE
Yeah.

(Beat.)

DRAKE
Hey, what’s the forecast for tonight? The crew and I want to grill some dogs on the roof and I gotta know if Old Man God is gonna piss on the party...
Hello?

JOHN
It’s supposed to rain—yeah. I tuned into the Weather Channel this morning and apparently there’s, like, a seventy-percent chance—

DRAKE
Hold on a second, babe. Some guy at the train stop is squawking in my ear.
(He glowers at John.)

JOHN
...I’m confused. You keep saying you’re not talking to me, but there’s nobody else around, and you don’t have a cell phone, either.

(Drake turns his head and points.)

DRAKE

I’m fitted with a Bluetooth, Einstein. My woman is at home surfing the Net. I get constant news updates thanks to this gadget.

JOHN
What gadget? I don’t see anything in your ear.

DRAKE
That’s because it’s a Camo-tooth.

JOHN
Camo-tooth?

DRAKE
That’s what I said. Camo-tooth is the latest upgrade in high-dollar-comm. Blends in perfectly with the color of your inner ear so you look like a normal person, not some dumb-ass listening to a piece of shrapnel. You should buy one if you’re not too poor.

JOHN
Hmmm. It seems like a neat device, but I try to be careful about splurging on luxury items. They don’t always bring people happiness, you know. Plus, and no offense, but I think Bluetooths are kind of silly.

DRAKE
Blow me.

JOHN
What? How dare you talk to me that way!

DRAKE
Chill. I was talking to my girlfriend. She finished giving me all the updates I asked for and then she asked if there was anything else she could do. I tuned you out after you said, “Hmmm.” What were you saying?

JOHN
Never mind.

(Dolores, a bedraggled homeless
woman, enters the scene and
flanks John. She is wearing a
newspaper diaper.)

DOLORES
That shifty doctor stole all my estrogen!

DRAKE
What does that matter?

DOLORES
Why, because it’s the most precious of all the lady juices; that’s why it matters!

DRAKE
Huh? This doesn’t concern you, lady. My woman said she has a headache. That’s a pretty sorry excuse for b.j. denial.

(Beat.)

DOLORES

Rats are stubborn about accepting direction. The stupid varmints ruined my production of The Nutcratcker.

JOHN

Clever title.

DOLORES
Nobody asked you. I’ve got a blue tooth in my ear.
(She removes a tooth from her
ear; it is colored blue.)
It ripped out of my mouth while I was trying to bite through a bike lock. The filament in there keeps me connected to my Blog on the information speedway.

JOHN
Good God. How did you get a blue tooth?

DRAKE
Scamming gullible investors has afforded me lots of cool stuff.

JOHN
Not you. Her.

DOLORES
For the last eight months I’ve subsisted on blueberry Pixie sticks.

DRAKE
Hey toots, I need to know how my stocks are doing.

DOLORES
Well, lucky for you, I got access to all the latest stock market updates.

JOHN
He was talking to his girlfriend.

DRAKE
The hell I was. This homeless woman is wearing a copy of today’s edition of the Tribune.

DOLORES
Stocks are printed on my right buttock.

(Drake nods and leans in to
inspect her backside.)

DRAKE
All right! Micronetics rose 28% today.

(He gives Dolores a high-five.)

JOHN
Why didn’t you ask your girlfriend for that information?

DRAKE
We broke up. I guess she dumped me. Said some nonsense about psychological abuse. Life moves fast. I’m a free man now. It’s time to play the field. You bring good luck, homeless woman, and I dig the way you talk.

(Overcome with emotion,

Dolores begins sniffling
with joy.)

DOLORES
It’s been so long since a man has given me a compliment. Thank you.

DRAKE
Stop crying!

DOLORES
(offended)
What?!

DRAKE
Oh, not you, baby. My ex-girlfriend is still on the line. She’s crying, saying she wants to get back together, but she’s just a part of my past—I swear.

DISEMBODIED VOICE
This is a brown line train to Kimball.

JOHN
I’ll see you two later. The train is calling me.

(He exits the scene.)

DOLORES
Who needs the brown line when we can take the blue line together?

(She produces a blue Pixie
Stick and empties it out
above their frantically
probing tongues and lips.)

DRAKE
Delicious. Hey, did that guy really think the train was calling him?

DOLORES
I think so. What a nut-job!

(Blackout.)