From Fascism to Pandemics, Mom Knew Best

 

For those too young to know, "V" was one of the most watched and discussed mini-series of the 1980s. Before Independence Day, this was the first time we witnessed giant mile-long spacecraft arriving over every major city simultaneously. However, instead of reigning death and destruction, they came as friends who needed our help. At least, that was how it seemed. 

In reality, the "Visitors" as they came to be called by the people of Earth, only appeared to be beautiful humanoids. They were, in fact, venom-spitting reptilian beings who saw us as a perfect food source. Not everyone knew this and many were willing to cooperate with what eventually became an allegory for Nazi Germany.

Characters we came to care about had their hearts broken by people they thought they could trust. An underclass comprised of Earth's scientists became the minority that needed to be controlled and censored lest they figure out the Visitors' secret. Soon there was even a youth group of makes in brown shirts acting as assistants to the orange-clad soldiers patrolling the streets. One such character even turns in his own grandfather, a concentration camp survivor.

During one of the times the mini-series was rerun on local TV, my mother and I got into a deep discussion about the people we knew and cared about and how we thought they would react in the same situation. It was a tough conversation because some of those people, individuals we loved, were also ones we knew would turn against us. Mom and I knew we wouldn't cooperate but we also knew we were related to people who would find their comfy lives more alluring than resistance. 

 I think about that conversation often. I wonder how she would have reacted to how COVID revealed so many true natures. I wonder if she would have been disappointed or if she would have just shaken her head in that knowing way she often employed when unpleasant things were confirmed.

It seems as if she was preparing me all those years ago for the moment when people would disappointment me on a level I'd never before experienced. I often think she prepared me too well, as it was nearly impossible for me to feel that way. Having observed the growing self-absorption in the U.S., almost nothing surprises me with the possible exception of lunatics calling medical workers "crisis actors." And that's the one thing "V" never addressed; how bone-chillingly stupid human beings can be.

So many people seem to have learned nothing as they continue coughing from their uncovered mouths into the air and clicking laughing emojis on scientifically vetted articles about viral spread. I think if COVID were an alien race, those of us who still mask up indoors would be targeted like the scientists in "V." If that day comes, I'm ready.

Thanks, Mom~

The Literal-Mindedness of Evangelicalism

 

"Why pay for movies when you can pay me?"

You would think someone who operates exclusively on faith would be able to grasp abstract concepts in lieu of being suffocatingly literal-minded. And while that is, perhaps, true of some true believers out there, it's not true of your typical Evangelical Christian. They don't view anything they believe as metaphorical or representative of some greater, impossible to define truth. They take it all at face value and, even worse, they project that mentality onto the rest of us.

Especially those of us who dare write fiction.

Recently, I saw a video clip of an Evangelical preacher admonishing people for watching horror movies. His bone of contention was that the films somehow convince us that the entities they feature are more powerful than they actually are when all one really needs is Christian faith to essentially stomp these beings into the ground for Jesus. This preacher went on to decry all horror films as an attempt to deceive people from the truth of the Gospel. That's all well and good. He can believe whatever he wants, but what he can't do is speak as an authority on something he clearly knows nothing about.

This certainly wasn't the first time a preacher arrogantly proclaimed his knowledge about the so-called "secular world" and it sadly isn't anywhere near to being the last. It's yet another in a long line of misconceptions uttered by someone who entire existence is informed by magical thinking. It's a fascinating contradiction to be both literal-minded and entirely lacking in logic, but when one's false sense of righteousness is backed up by the bubble they operate within, it is unavoidable. 

"We're lookin' for the guy that called us weak and defeated."

First off, horror is so much more than movies featuring demonic entities of the Judeo-Christian variety. There are several sub-genres, some of which don't include the supernatural at all. Secondly, the preacher's assertion that demons are defeated beings living under our feet is a provincial one at best. Not everyone believes that and not every culture's demons are former uppity angels who got their comeuppance. In some belief systems, angels are indeed equal to their counterparts. Thirdly, the preacher's woeful ignorance of the genre and its history is on full display because he has no idea what traditions are being drawn from. You think he knows about Lovecraft's Ancient Ones or Clive Barker's pleasure/torture vision of Hell? 

Most importantly, he misunderstands (whether intentionally or unintentionally) the entire point of horror, which is to provide much-needed catharsis for the audience watching it. Fear is only a bad thing if it's given more power than it deserves. By proclaiming all fictional horror part of some greater conspiracy to perpetrate a lie about Christian-centric demons, he stands revealed as little more than a peddler of ignorance desperately trying to understand a word that makes little sense to him otherwise. The sad part is there are millions of Americans are not only willing but also happy to follow along.

I can't think of anything more horrifying that that.

Why Your Jive Doesn't Jibe with the True Definition

 

The greatest gift social media has given us is the ability to know just how many people not only don't know what they're talking about more than half the time, but also the fact that they don't even know the correct words to use when they don't. Forget about misspellings, those run rampant these days. And with the absurd rationale that enforcement of good grammar is somehow based in colonialism or that it's a symbol of being old, don't except it to get much better. This post is all about usage.

Some of the ones that really grind my gears:

• All the Sudden
• Few Far and In-Between
• Should of/Would of
• Jive instead of Jibe

That last one is the source of all my pain and suffering, the very origin of all that is empty and wrong in the world and, possibly, the universe and its many multiversal equivalents. I will move on at the risk of indulging in hyperbole.

For whatever reason, many people tend to automatically turn unfamiliar words into familiar ones based on fascinatingly obtuse biases. For instance, "Few and Far Between" may make sense to those of us who possess a literary bent, but those who do not look at and see a phrase that looks incorrect. The term refers to something that rarely occurs. To add "in-between" is to create a phrase that no longer means that but sounds more like a description of physical location. To be fair, I'm not convinced that the people misusing the term don't also believe the latter meaning is the one that applies. The same is true for "Jive" vs. "Jibe."

According to the Chicago Tribune, "Jive means either a type of music or loose, meaningless chatter. Jibe means to be in accord; agree. To confuse matters, jibe also means to shift your sail from one side of the vessel to the other (sometimes spelled gybe). And gibe, which means to make taunting, heckling remarks, can also be spelled jibe."

So, if you're using "jive" to mean something doesn't go along with your beliefs or those of someone else, stop it. You look uneducated. 

I had someone who moderates a page on scientific accuracy argue with me about this. Discounting the inherent superiority analytical types feel when dealing with creative people, this is an individual who appears learned and to be a good researcher. Yet in this case, where language is often regarded as secondary to opinion, they relied on a single source and then tried to spin the incorrect usage itself. When that failed, they tried to say the original wrong definition was correct. No amount of proof seemed to sway them.

On second thought, if you wanna use "jive" to mean what it doesn't mean, have at it. Just try not to vote. Or Procreate. Or work with the public. Or run for office. 

Or become a pet owner.

It just wouldn't jive with what makes a well-rounded person~

Excerpt from "2012/21," the First-Draft-Completed-Editing-in-Progress-Novel

This is not where I truly belong. This is a nightmare of epic proportions, the kind of bad dream brought on by late night drinking and total despondency. 

The smell is the first thing to hit me, followed by the sight of bodies stacked as high as the eye can see. I shouldn’t be able to smell anything in this state and I for damn sure shouldn’t be able to handle such a smell without gagging. That means I’m being allowed to experience the stench of death and decay without becoming overpowered. Unlike me, the living walk around in those yellow containment suits you see in movies when there’s been some type of outbreak. 

Somewhere not too far away, somebody cries. It is impossible to tell the sex or age of the person because the despair they express transcends any of that. The grief stretches throughout the street as refrigerated trucks are loaded with body after body. The loaders aren’t even using gurneys, they’re just grabbing the dead people from both ends and tossing them inside the truck into the storage beds like sacks of wheat.

Someone yells, “Christ, Craig! This one’s still alive!”

I can’t see who said this or who they are talking about, but the flurry of activity points to one of the trucks further down the line. 

“What the fuck, Craig?” a female voice says. “How many times do I need to tell you to check them before you shuck them?”

Craig utters a sheepish, “Sorry.” 

That’s the last thing I hear before the scene shifts to what appears to be the outside of a hospital where, if I’m not mistaken, a group of angry people are brandishing protest signs and yelling at medical staff. What could these people have possibly done to incur such rage?

“Fucking crisis actor!” the big guy in the red baseball cap nearest me says, spit flying from his mouth.

The woman in scrubs standing like a statue before him wears a surgical mask and says nothing as he keeps accusing her of lying to the American people and calling her a pedophile.

Where the hell did that come from?

None of the medical folks are reacting to the angry men screaming in their faces like demented toddlers. It’s probably the bravest thing I’ve ever seen, except I don’t know what the hell is going on.

Where is my guide? I don’t care how hideous it is, I would welcome its presence right now. It would be far less nightmarish than what I’m witnessing from my fellow human beings. 

I decide to walk on, past the unmoving medical staff, past the angry, mostly unmasked protestors, past the news crews who are obviously eating all this shit up. I need sanity, peace, something that makes sense. I find the exact opposite on the next block.

Pamphlet-waving, saliva-spewing men and women beckoning all of us who pass by to come hear what they have to say. Most of them want us to sign their petitions for this group or against that group or for no group at all. They have markedly different beliefs but they all somehow sound the same. This whole scene feels less like reality and more like metaphor, but there’s a gritty realism to the whole affair that stubbornly keeps me from dismissing it as such.

Ignoring the shouting would-be activists, I glance to my right and stop dead in my tracks. On the side of an abandoned brick building, somebody has painted, in giant red letters: THE MAYANS WERE WRONG!

It’s all too much. I don’t feel myself hit anything when I pass out, but everything goes black

 

Excerpt from "This Evil Sky" a Novel-in-Progress

 Sleep does not come easy for a killer with a conscience. In fact, it remains ever elusive following a job. The more successful the job, the less likely there will be sleep. Alan is no exception to this rule, which is the only reason he isn’t rudely awakened by the pounding on his door. Throwing on a bathrobe and grabbing a nearby pistol, he walks to the front door of his apartment and stands off to the side as he gazes through the peephole. 

Wonderful. 

He opens it and breathes a heavy sigh.

Detective Moran. To what do I owe the displeasure?

The detective sneers and looks Alan up and down. Still awake, huh?

I’m a light sleeper.

Moran nods and asks if he can come in. Alan tells him he can, but may he?

Moran sneers again, his bearded face a mask of annoyance. How about we cut the crap?

(Shrugging) Fine. Let me just open my robe up nice and wide.

(Face contorted) Excuse you?

Well, if you’re gonna bust my balls as usual, I might as well grant total access.