Catching Up
Hey, Buddy. It's been awhile since we've talked, so I thought I'd give you a call. You know, just to catch up. Also, I wanted to complain about my boss.
So, how've you been? How's Mark? ... Yeah, that's great. Anyway, my boss has been such a bitch lately. I'm really trying to put up with her shit, but I don't know how much more I can take—
No no, I do want to hear about things with you and Mark. Sorry I interrupted. Please, go on. Uh huh ... Uh huh. Absolutely. That sounds harsh. Mark sounds a lot like my boss, Gail. She’s passive-aggressive too.
In fact, last week, we were on this conference call together, and she kept tapping her coffee cup. As if it was my fault the coffee machine was broken…
Right, right. I know. We were talking about your marriage. But, I was saying I could empathize with you, because my boss has a lot of the same problems Mark has. Like, she can’t figure out the shared calendar, so she makes everyone email—
Okay, yeah. Yeah. If you have to get off the phone, I understand.
Anyway, I’m glad things are getting better with you and Mark. What? They’re not? Oh, that’s rough. Listen, can I call you after this big strategy meeting we’re having tomorrow? I’ll probably need to vent about Gail.
Okay, bye.
My Nose Has Been Stolen!
Holy crap, that old bastard stole my nose! Mom! Mom, are you listening to me? My nose has been stolen, godammit!
No, I will not watch my language! Jesus Christ, this is my nose we're talking about. He stole my nose--my only nose I ever got. Don't you care about your son's nose? Fuck.
Hey! What are you yelling at me for? Look over there; he's still got it poking out between his fingers. Look, he's flaunting it. That dirty goddamn thief. Give me back my nose, you old goat!
Ouch! You're hurting my arm, Mom! Lemme go! Let me at that old piece of shit! If he won't give back my nose, he's gonna get my foot in his ass. You hear that, old man? You give me back my nose if you know what's good for you.
What do you need my nose for? You can find quarters behind ears whenever you want. You're greedy; that's why, you old bag of piss. I don’t know what my grandma sees in you.
Mom, shut up for a second. I'm trying to get my nose back. Whad'ya mean, touch my face? I’m missing my— Hey! There's a nose there … The wily bastard must have switched out noses on me. He’s covering his tracks. Don’t you see? He’s left me with a fake nose. Everything smells funny now.
Listen, you old coot, you give me back my nose or I’ll poke out your fucking eye. Let’s see how you like losing an organ!
Stop trying to placate me with a goddamn Werther’s Original candy! I want my goddamn nose back. Don’t think I’m going to stand for this shit just because I’m five-and-a-half!
You’ll be hearing from my lawyer, Buddy! As soon as I get out of this car seat, you are in for a world of hurt.
The Reducerator
Hello? I say, hello! Down here! Look down here, on the countertop! Can you see me? Yes, me—the tiny man standing on the clipboard. My name is Professor Arnold Ziff. It would seem that my shrinking ray finally works.
I’m so relieved someone has finally come into the lab! As you can see, I've managed to shrink myself to the size of a wine cork, which is marvelously exciting and the culmination of my lifelong research in the field of particle physics. However, because of my current stature, I'm unable to reach the "unshrink" button on my machine. Could you possibly do me the favor of unshrinking me, please?
I'm sorry to put you out. This is very embarrassing, especially as it’s due to my own oversight. It was only after I tested the Electron-Cloud Reducerator that I realized I'd placed the "shrink/unshrink" button at the very top of the device.
You'd think I would have learned a lesson from the many feature films about this very same predicament. However, I am a busy scientist with no time to watch such films.
I attempted to construct a makeshift ladder using chopsticks and scotch tape. But, as you can see, I've become comically entangled in that same tape. Thank goodness you’ve arrived before the laboratory’s pet cat awakens from its nap.
Now, on to the matter of unshrinking me: It’s quite simple. I’ve already used a paperclip lasso to change the machine’s setting to -0.145n with a neutron burst pointed along the q-axis. (That took quite a few attempts, I don’t mind telling you.) And, after a few days of living inside this styrofoam cup hut, I deduced that I could reset the Lorentz force to half its curve by reversing the electromagnet’s polarity.
So, with all that complete, all you need to do to return me to my natural size is press that green button labeled "unshrink."
Although, please be careful, as that the Electron-Cloud Reducerator is likely the greatest invention in the history of man. Anyone who possesses it would surely become an instant billionaire and hailed as a genius around the globe…
I see that you are now stealing the device. That is completely understandable. I simply ask, then, that you not slam the door behind you, as you might wake the…
Well, hello, Mr. Scruffles. You remember Dr. Ziff don’t you? Remember when I was tall and would give you kitty treats? Mr. Scruffles?
Avez-Vous Une Cigarette?
I apologize for the terrible picture quality of the following video. It's one of my first character monologues, and I think it holds up pretty well.
This comes from a 2006 performance at The Hideout in Chicago as part of Funny Ha-Ha, a terrific reading series hosted then and now by my friend Claire Zulkey.
Enjoy.
My Art’s Meaning
Don’t get me wrong—I love being an artist. I love making art. I just wish I had more control over how it’s received. No one seems to understand my art’s deeper, disgusting meaning.
Everybody refers to my paintings as “pretty.” They like the bright colors. They enjoy the soft lines. Can’t they break through the façade to grasp my work’s off-putting and disturbing subtext?
Take for instance this piece titled “Dragonfly Picnic.” Yes, all the insects look chipper in their top hats and parasols. But, do you notice anything about the shapes of the lily pads? How about the look of fear in the ladybug’s eyes? There's clearly a relationship between the dragonflies and the willow tree that frightens the ladybugs. Did none of you study WWI Balkan History? If you did, you’d cringe at my scandalous take on “dragonfly/ladybug” relations.
Or, the piece called “Turtles First Bicycle.” People look at a turtle riding a Victorian-era velocipede and take it at face value. I’ve never once had someone come up to me to talk about the horrifying sexual symbolism, let alone my comments on the class structure of contemporary South Africa. I don’t get it; it’s all right there in plain sight.
Sometimes I wish I could just tell people my art’s deeper, icky meaning. But, that’s not what art is. Art is about the back-and-forth. It’s about an artist challenging the viewer to grapple with inferences and implications.
Yet, somehow, none of the families at this library art fair seem interested in being challenged. One woman bought my piece “Bunny Finds Its Pencil”, saying it matched the green in her daughter’s nursery. I must assume she failed to notice the allusion to the deep psychosocial scars left behind amongst a landmine-ravage Pacific Ring. Nor, did she realize by extension our culture's fetishizing of commercial products made by— Oops, I almost gave to much away.
I don't know. Maybe she did get all that, and she just wants to expose her child to complex, disquieting concepts at an early age. Some people are weird like that.
Dendrochronology
Son, come over here and look at the rings on this tree stump. You can learn a lot about the life of a tree from its rings. Count out from the center, and each ring represents a year.
See here, that darker ring around year 22 means the tree survived a forest fire. And, here, where the rings are so skinny around year 34—that was probably a drought. Or, it could be the tree had just gone through a divorce and was trying to “get back out there.”
Notice how this ring has a pink tinge around year seven? That’s probably when the tree went through a Hello Kitty phase. Everything had to be Hello Kitty. And, here in the teens, where the rings are all banged up—that’s when the tree was getting into fights after school under the bleachers.
Look at this ring around year 13. See how it has a rougher shape and is thicker towards the valley wall? That’s the year the tree’s parents got divorced. That would explain the fights at school. But, this thick ring in the mid twenties. It learned how to love again. It met a nice pine in grad school.
Oh look, around year 29 the rings get super porous and then thin. That means the tree got promoted to Senior Manager. Good for it! I’m sure the tree busted its roots for that.
But, after that the rings get very light at cracked. The tree and the pine were starting to grow apart. That happens. I hate to say it, but I’ve never known things to work out between a birch and a pine. Different priorities.
Ahh, look. Just after its own divorce the tree decided to get artificially pollinated, and it had a sapling. It must have been hard nurturing a bud all on its own. That’s lovely, though.
Look at this ring—the really fibrous one. I’m pretty sure that means the tree met a tall oak at a single parents support group. And, they hit it off. Look how healthy and wide the rings get after that. But, the tree still loved its sapling very much, and it would never choose the oak over its sapling…
Honey, you get that this is a metaphor, right? I’m trying to tell you that Bob and I are getting married.
Crowded Fallout Shelter
Boy, this nuclear fallout shelter got crowded real quick, huh? I guess it's understandable, but geez louise! Everybody must've had the same idea.
That's the thing about a big city. You think you're the only person who knows the secret location of a fallout shelter. But, even if only one in a hundred people also know, that shelter is gonna fill up fast.
I'm not sure why this particular shelter is so popular, though. It has a very distinct old man smell. Maybe nobody else notices it.
But, whatever. Where else are you going to go on a Friday night during a nuclear disaster? Its not like I can be mad folks know about my "special spot." I don't own the place. I think that guy with the shotgun does.
I just wish I had enough room to turn around. I saw a can of chipped beef on the shelf behind me, and I could really go for some chipped beef. I haven't eaten since the sirens went off.
Do you think anybody might get tired of the crampedness and leave before the nuclear holocaust is over? Probably not. People tend to be stubborn about this kind of stuff.
Anyway, I had an idea to help pass the time while we're down here: a sing-along. Everybody likes a sing-along. Hey, everybody! Who wants to have a sing-along? Maybe Sweet Caroline? Nobody? I guess they can't hear me over the weeping. DOES ANYBODY WANT TO SING SOME NEIL DIAMOND? A SING-ALONG? NOBODY? Yikes, tough crowd.
...
Man, I can't believe I got stuck in the lame fallout shelter. Bunch of wet blankets, if you ask me. I am not looking forward to spending the next few years of Armagedon with you mopes. For real.
“Busted” at The Moth
"Busted"
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In honor of the Real Characters storytelling show I'm putting up tonight (and every first Thursday of the month) at Ochi's Lounge, here's an audio clip of one of my Moth StorySLAM performances.
Unlike almost everything else on this blog, this story is completely true. Still funny, though. Don't worry; I wouldn't subject you to one of my sad stories. That's what I pay my therapist for.
The theme for the night was "Busted," and I'm grateful to fellow storyteller Luke Davin for recording it from the back.
The Evil Dr. Hypnotic
Your dastardly plan will never succeed, Dr. Hypnotic! I don’t care if you do have me tied up in your evil lair. You’ll never destroy Metro City! Not while I’m… a… chicken. Bawk b’kawk!
Wait a minute! No! Your hypno-powers won’t work on me. I’ve trained my whole life to do battle against evil doers. My mind is a steel… drum… There are steel drums on this beach. Ooh, piña coladas. Don’t mind if I do.
Aarrgh! Must… resist! Mustn’t look at… spinning spiral of hypno-evil. But, it’s so… mesmerizing. And, I am indeed getting sleepy. Very sleepy.
Dr. Hypnotic, you fiend! Can’t you see you’ve gone mad? Does nothing remain of mild-mannered psychologist, Leo Silverberg? Something of him must have survived the tragic, accidental death of your wife during a hypnosis session intended to curb her craving for cigarettes. Also, the toxic waste spill at her funeral that fused a swinging pocket watch to your hand.
I swear, when I break free of these chains that are also snakes… Hey! Chains can’t also be snakes! I must be hypnotized. Why, there aren’t any chains at all. So, I’ll just stand up and punch you in the face. Like this.
There. Done and done. Dr. Hypnotic’s wicked plans have been foiled once again, and Metro City has been saved by me, The Masked Defender.
Yes, thank you for that congratulatory thumbs up, baby elephant standing atop a mountain... Huh... I wonder if I'm still hypnotized. Well, shoot.
Delicious Popsicles
Listen, if it were up to me, everybody would have popsicles.
But, it’s not up to me; it’s up to your mother. I was given strict instructions as your babysitter—no popsicles for the kids. But, that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy my popsicle.
Don’t look at me that way. Rules are rules. Without rules, it’s chaos. You’re too young to understand, being ages 3 and 5, but one day you will. Whoops, my popsicle is dripping! Let me just get that … mmm, delicious.
I wish I could give you popsicles. I do. Especially because there are tons in the freezer. Seriously, your mom must have gone to Costco. But, she gave explicit instructions. “Do not give Madden or Quinn any popsicles. It will ruin their dinner.” And, I refuse to ruin dinner by giving you yummy grape popsicles like the one I am eating right now.
Pouting isn’t going to get you anywhere, Quinn. In fact, it makes me less likely to sneak you a popsicle against your mother’s wishes. Which I could totally do. But, I won’t. Even though I could. Because I’m the adult.
As an adult, I am not bound by the “no popsicle” rule. See? That’s why I can break open this second popsicle for myself. But, you guys are children—children who aren’t allowed to have popsicles. It’s a fine but important distinction, and I am truly sorry that it exists.
One day, you’ll thank me. Some day in the distant future. Maybe a swelteringly hot day, like today. You’ll say, “Andy, thank you for refusing to give us popsicles—no matter how hard we begged. It taught us an important lesson.” I’m not sure what that lesson is, but then again, I’m not the one in charge. Your mom is.
Ouch, this second popsicle is giving me a cold headache. Do you kids ever get those? They’re the worst. I’m gonna have to throw away the rest of this sweet, tasty popsicle. You probably shouldn’t watch while I … open up the trashcan … and done. No more popsicle. It’s a shame. So delicious.
Anyway, who up for starting dinner? Let’s see what’s in the cabinet. Ooh, I hope you guys like lentil and barley soup!