Your Hate Mail Will Be Graded: A Decade of Whatever, 1998-2008

  Were I to decree that from now on I’d be handling all the finances in the home, first she would laugh at me, and then she’d beat me with an axe handle until I came to my senses. When she first moved in with me, all my bills were on third notices, not because I didn’t have the money, but because I was too lazy to go buy stamps. Bear in mind that at the time I worked right next door to a post office. The idea that I should be trusted with the finances merely because I’m a man is just about the stupidest idea since Crystal Pepsi.

  (I don’t even want to think about what would happen if I suggested to Krissy that she ought to obey me. “Obey” was the one word she specifically had expunged from our wedding vows. To try to impose it on her now, I suspect, would lead to a quick divorce and/or my body being found, bloated and headless, in the creek near our house. And rightly so.)

  However, these sorts of dumb-ass movements outrage me most not for my wife’s sake, who, it should be evident, doesn’t need my protection from crap like this, but for my daughter’s. Every time a book comes out that says to women that they ought to be tying their self-image directly to a man’s pleasure and power, it’s saying that my daughter ought to subjugate herself, sooner or later, to some man’s will. To anyone who would say this, I have this to say: Bite me. My daughter is already delightfully and gloriously headstrong and confident, she’s intelligent and she’s gorgeous. There’s not going to a man alive who deserves to presume to place himself above her, and you can bet that her mother and I are going to teach her to laugh at or break the kneecaps of any man who would suggest such a thing. And to do worse to any woman who suggests it, either.

  FELIX HAS COME

  DOWN IN THE WORLD

  Athena’s latest toy: It’s Felix the Cat, as a golfer. That wouldn’t be as in Tiger Woods, incidentally; by the duds Felix is sporting, we’re talking something along the lines of Bobby Jones era of things. Which is, of course, entirely appropriate for Felix, since he was also something of a 20s phenomenon.

  Most people don’t know this, but the very first image transmitted by television was of Felix—some RCA technicians propped up a statue of the cat in front of a camera and let ‘er rip. Sure, it’s mildly ironic that the first moving pictures on television were of a statue (of an animated cartoon cat, no less), but it just goes to show that history’s defining moments need not be inherently dignified.

  Alas, Felix has come down in the world since the days of hot jazz and bathtub gin. This particular Felix of Athena’s was retrieved out of a coin-operated machine; you know, one of those things with the crane arm—you maneuver the crane arm over the thing you want, press a button, and it drops down and attempts to snag and retrieve the cheaply made object of desire. This particular machine required 50 cents a shot; Krissy shelled out two bucks worth of quarters before snagging Felix by his conveniently enlarged head and negotiating him into the right position for retrieval.

  Krissy then presented Felix to Athena, who, while having no idea who he was or the rich but now somewhat denatured cartoon history he represented, nevertheless was pleased to take possession of yet another goofy-looking stuffed animal. One has to wonder how Felix felt about it. He used to pal around with Bobby Jones, after all. Now he’s being slobbered over, literally, by a kid whose grandparents weren’t even gametes when he was in his heyday. Fame is fleeting.

  Proof of this fact came when I began to sing the theme song to the “Felix the Cat” cartoon show to Athena, and Krissy looked at me as if I had been suddenly possessed by a jingle-writing demon. She had never heard the theme before. Which was sort of sad. This is Felix the Cat, after all. It’s not like we’re talking about one of the true off-brand cartoons here, like Heckle and Jeckle or Possible Possum. Even in his present humiliated state, he should rate some flicker of recognition. Besides, the tune was catchy:

  Felix The Cat! The wonderful, wonderful cat!

  Whenever he gets in a fix, he reaches into his bag of tricks!

  Felix the Cat! The wonderful, wonderful cat!

  You’ll laugh so much your sides will ache, your heart will go pitter pat,

  Watching Felix, the wonderful cat!

  Of course, looking at theme song now, you can see the decline of Felix’s popularity all over it. The cartoon show was from the 60s, after all, long after Felix’s heyday—his fame had dimmed enough that he had to downshift to the grind of episodic television, not unlike Bette Midler, Geena Davis, and the Sheens, pere et fils. This wasn’t a glamor shot at the beginning of the TV era; it was a numbing slog through 60s Saturday morning TV.

  And it shows. Notice how they oversell his quality; not just a wonderful cat, but a wonderful wonderful cat, the phrase repeated twice in the space of three lines. Notice also the guarantee of constant gut-busting hilarity that even someone like the Marx Brothers couldn’t fill on such a demanding schedule—not to mention that phrased another way, the fourth line seems more like a warning than a promise of entertainment: NOTICE: Continued use of this cartoon will induce cramping and cardiac arrythmia. Yeah, give me some of that.

  Let’s face it, the TV show was a desperation stab at a turnaround. And that was 40 years ago. Now he’s being fished out of a vending machine. If it’s any consolation to Felix, Athena really seems to like him. He’s still got it! Even if “it” has been consigned to the Plexiglas walls of a carnie attraction. It’s still show business. He’s still got an appreciative audience—it’s just a lot smaller. And more apt to chew on his plush little head. Bobby Jones never did that.

  THE DICTATOR

  OF WRITING

  ANNOUNCES HIS

  DECREES, PART 1

  Certain events of the past few days have convinced me that most of writerdom has trouble finding its own ass without a claque of workshop buddies to comment on the journey (“I like the way you used your hands to search, but did you really need to use the flashlight?”). So in the interest of all writers, who I feel crave strong, confident demogoguery, I have staged a coup, and am now The Beloved and Inspirational Forward-Thinking and Righteous Leader Amongst the Scribes, or, more colloquially, The Dictator of Writing. Having “remaindered” all those who oppose me (or, even worse, sidelined them into SFWA board slots), I am now ready to issue decrees, which all writers must henceforth follow, on penalty of death and/or being eternally blue-pencilled by the sort of officiously tone-deaf copy editor who ate the Chicago Manual of Style when she was 14 and has been barfing it up ever since.

  The decrees!

  1. By Order of the Dictator of Writing, No Writer Will Be Allowed To Write Professionally Without Having First Taken a Remedial Business Course. Because, damn, people. You folks don’t have a lick of sense about that whole “money” thing. Just as writers can write about anything as long as it’s not what they’re supposed to be writing, so can they spend their money on anything, as long as it’s not what they’re supposed to be spending it on (like, you know, bills and rent and taxes and food). Of course, it’s not just you. Dostoevsky spent all his money gambling; F. Scott Fitzgerald drank a lot of his (he had help from Zelda) and was in the habit of asking for loans from his agent, which is clearly a trick I need to try. However, just because Dostoevsky and Fitzgerald pissed away their money doesn’t mean the rest of you get to—at least we got Crime and Punishment and The Great Gatsby out of them.

  So: Remedial business courses for the lot of you. You will learn how to manage your money, by God. You will learn how to budget. You will learn how to stretch your income so that you don’t end up eying the cat for its protein value during the final days of the month. You will learn how keep a ledger of accounts receivable, so you’ll know just who is screwing you out of your money and for how long they’ve been doing it. You will learn the tax code, so you can pay your quarterlies on time and you can be clear on what’s a business expense and what is not. You will learn how to save, damn you, so that when life hands you that inevitable surprise gut punch that costs two grand, you don’t have to pawn your children. And for the love of Christ,
you will learn that just because you have a $10,000 credit limit on that plastic rectangle of evil what resides in your wallet, it doesn’t mean you have to spend it.

  You say you don’t need remedial business courses? Great! How much credit card debt do you have? How long have you been waiting for that money to come in? How many minutes per pound do you think Frisky the Cat needs in the oven at 375 degrees? And on what notice is your electric bill?

  Hmmmm. Well, see. This is why you need a Dictator of Writing.

  2. By Order of the Dictator of Writing, Undergraduate Creative Writing Programs are Abolished. Really, what a waste of your parents’ $37,000 a year. Take a couple of writing courses, if you must (make sure one of them teaches you all the grammar you flaked out on in high school). You can even major in English, if you really want to. But shunting yourself into a writing program at an age where you don’t know a single damn thing about life is a fine way to make sure you’re never anything more than someone who is clever with words. We’ve got enough of those, thank you kindly. So no more of that. Learn something else, why don’t you. Something you can bring to the table when you start writing, so what you’re writing has something else going for it besides the vacuum-packed pedantry of a creative writing education. Or, heavens forfend, learn something useful and practical, so that you don’t actually have to starve while you’re giving writing a go once you get out of college. Related to this:

  3. By Order of the Dictator of Writing, Every Person Intending to Get an MFA in Any Sort of Writing Must First Spend Three Years in The Real World, Hopefully Doing Something Noble and Selfless. Like, I don’t know, teaching. Or forestry service. Or the military or Peace Corps. Or taking housecats out for refreshing walks in the countryside. You know. Anything. (Except working in a coffee shop. Just what the world needs: Another barrista who writes.) By doing anything else but writing, you will open up your brain to the needs and concerns of other people and things, because, among other things, empathy will make you a better writer, and it will also make you a whole lot less insufferable. Also all that craft you’re learning won’t mean a damn thing if the only sort of life experience you can model is the life of an MFA grad, since among other things, most of one’s audience isn’t going to be down with that. “His struggles in a setting of academic privilege are eerily like my own!” Well, yes, if all you’re doing is writing for other MFA grads. Otherwise, not so much. Which reminds me:

  4. By Order of the Dictator of Writing, Writing to Impress Other Writers is Punishable by Death. Honestly. You want to impress another writer with your emanations, set a pot of chili between you and then lock the door. Aside from that, think of the poor reader, who just wants to be entertained, and does not know or care that you are trying to impress that fellow writer whom you loathe, or want to get into the pants of, or both. Won’t you please give a thought to the readers? Especially when death is on the line?

  Perhaps to enforce this sentiment, and to cut down the number of needless deaths among writers, we should institute a program like the following:

  SCENE: A writer’s garret: WRITER is hammering out immortal prose. There is a knock on the DOOR.

  WRITER (opening the door to find a large, burly man in the doorway): Who are you?

  JOE: I am Joe, sent to you by the Dictator of Writing to help you in your task. I am a reader of average intelligence. Is that your latest work in your hand?

  WRITER: Why yes, yes, it is.

  JOE: Will you read it to me?

  WRITER: Well, it’s a work in progress.

  JOE: Of course. I understand completely.

  WRITER (clears throat): “I blanketed myself with wrath incarnadine—”

  JOE punches WRITER in the gut. WRITER falls to the FLOOR.

  WRITER (gasping and writhing): Why did you do that?

  JOE: I didn’t follow that sentence. And when that happens, I am authorized to beat you.

  WRITER: Let me fix it. (WRITER crawls to DESK, grabs a PEN, and makes an EDIT)

  JOE: What does it say now?

  WRITER: “I got mad.”

  JOE kicks WRITER in the TESTICLES. WRITER collapses.

  JOE: Now you’re just being condescending.

  5. By Order of the Dictator of Writing, All Writers Must Be Editors For At Least One Year. Because then you will understand why editors suggest changes: To save writers from themselves. Yes, I know it is hard to believe that your perfect prose can be improved upon a single jot, but once you’ve done heroic and dramatic rescues of other writers’ unfortunate prose pileups, you will at least have an inkling of why those editorial types do what they do.

  Also, a good solid twelve months of having to slog through a slush pile will serve to tighten up your own work, because every time something you do reminds you of some piece of crap you found marinating in the slush pile, your brain will actually revulse and your fingers will spasm in the phalangical equivalent of a gag reflex, and you’ll find some other way to make your point, one that, incidentally, won’t cause some poor bastard editor pain somewhere down the line. And that’s good for you.

  The Dictator of Writing is now bored with issuing decrees! More will come at a future time, when he has angrily stewed some more! Now go! And bask in my glorious rule!

  THE

  SPECKLESS SKY

  Yesterday, where I live, the sky was perfect: A huge blue inverted bowl, set on top a horizon of trees and rolling hills, and the only things in it were birds and the sun and half a moon. This is notable for two reasons. The first is that my view of the sky is largely unimpeded; from most points on my property, if I wanted to, I could see clear into Indiana. That’s a lot of sky to have nothing in. The second is that my property is directly below one of the major flight paths into Dayton International Airport (to say nothing of Wright-Patterson Air Force Base). Combine these two factors and you’ll understand why on most days, my sky is never without a plane in it and usually two, and sometimes as many as four or five, punctuating the sky like silvery hyphens.

  This is not entirely unusual in my experience. When I lived in Virginia, I lived less than five miles from Dulles International Airport; again, there was never not a plane in the sky. Before that I lived in large to medium-large metropolitan areas—LA, Chicago, Fresno—where again planes were a permanent feature in the urban sky. Nor do I think my experience is notable or unusual. At any one moment, there are typically three to four thousand commercial planes in the skies above the continental United States. Given a reasonable amount of sky to observe, nearly anyone anywhere in the States will spot a plane sooner rather than later. And if you don’t see a plane, wait five minutes. One will pop over the horizon, contrails of ice crystals agitating behind it.

  Not yesterday. For the first time in my memory, the sky was absent contrails and the steady, implacable progress of airplanes as they crossed the sky, heading from one faraway place to another place equally distant. For the first time I could remember, I saw the sky of my ancestors, the sky of every human but the last three or four generations preceding my own—unimproved by human technology, absent a human presence, unmarred by the human tendency to take the sublime simplicity of nature and yoke it to his own mundane needs. Horizon to horizon, not a thing in the sky but blue, birds and a sun that was only now accepting the end of summer with good and cheerful grace.

  Ironically, the thing one really notices about an empty sky is the absence of sound. As frequently as we see airplanes, we hear them even more so; my daughter, who loves to watch planes traverse, knows to look up to see a plane not because she’s caught a glimpse of it in the corner of her eye, but because she hears it move—the hollow cavitation of a jet engine, the sound lagging behind the aircraft as if inexpertly dubbed by a bored sound technician. Listen sometime and you’ll hear the plane that’s above, behind or in front of you in the sky. You hear it so often you don’t hear it any more. Planes create the white noise of a mobile society. Standing in my yard, I was overwhelmed by not hearing the planes.

  Event
ually you get over the idea of not having your sky echo back at you, and you just stare and stare, your eyes looking for the flying machines that aren’t there, since you know that even though you won’t find any, it’s still not normal not to see any at all. I thought that surely my daughter, who (remember) loves planes, would notice that there weren’t any in the sky. But she didn’t. She was more interested in putting her basketball through her toddler-sized hoop. But then, she’s two and a half years old. She doesn’t know how exceptional a sky like this was. She doesn’t know how very unlikely it is that there will ever be another sky like this, another day like this.

  Nighttime eventually fell, and I went out into my yard again. The half-moon set before the sun and wouldn’t rise again until well after I went to sleep; the sky was dark and stars were splayed carelessly across it. My wife came out with me, and I showed her the sights: Mars, not as bright as he was earlier in the summer, but still clear and red, an angry horsefly on the constellation Pegasus. Scorpio floated nearby, pincers pointing in the direction into which the sun and moon had fled.

  My wife asked me to find the Big Dipper, so we cruised north, and I pointed it out, noting the fact that the Big Dipper is not a constellation at all, but merely an asterism, a smaller chunk of the larger constellation of Ursa Major. We followed the Dipper’s guiding stars north again, to Polaris, the star which never sets. Across it all spilled the Milky Way, the cloud of stardust and just plain old dust, a mottled glow that hints at the majesty at the core of our galaxy. It’s hard to turn away from a glorious night sky like that. But I did, to go back inside, put my daughter to bed, and reimmerse myself in the horror that was the price of this priceless, speckless sky.