Aftermath

I'm Batman.

The Owl and The Hunchbacked Beggar

Christmas Tree and Christmas Present

[The Wife would like it known that because the economy is what it is, she spent only $2 on costumes this year. Everything else was already lying about the house.]

This is Halloween

How Inspiration Works

It starts with a casual remark to The Wife:

"'Hookers in the desert' is the new 'Skeletons in the closet.'"

Then the ol' train of thought pulls out of the station....

There are probably an awful lot of bodies out there...hookers, hustlers, mob folks, losers who couldn't pay their debts...imagine if THEY ALL CAME BACK AS ZOMBIES AND CONVERGED ON THE CITY FROM WHENCE THEY DEPARTED.

So yes, zombies are played out. And Vegas got zombified in Resident Evil 3 But this would be different. This would be Bruce Campbell funny/creepy...stay with me here:

Bruce is a down on his luck small-time gambler, the sort who haunts what remains of the old, seedy Vegas. The places he goes are tacky, and not in a retro/cool way. He's usually surrounded by Seniors with cups of nickels.

He's up against it. He needs something - still working on what. Naturally, he meets the devil, and they agree to gamble for whatever it is he needs. You know, betting your soul and all that. Bruce, inspired by his desperation, manages to cheat the devil and win. The devil has to pay up, but boy is he angry about it. He decides to make sure Bruce can never enjoy his winnings. So he reanimates all the corpses in the Vegas desert, and they attack this run-down casino full of losers and Senior Citizens. (Naturally, this includes a just-past-her-prime cocktail waitress with a heart of gold...)

Of course, whatever it is Bruce has won from the devil becomes crucial to the group's eventual survival.

The American Shaun of the Dead...

Sigh.

This is Halloween

Today in Porn, Kevin Smith Edition

The NYT is not overly impressed with Zack and Miri Make a Porno:

"Mr. Smith tries, with mixed results, both to rub our faces in the tawdriness and to erase it altogether. The movie wants to insist that pornography is a jolly, innocuous pursuit, but also to take refuge in a sincere, romantic traditionalism that is antithetical to the cynical, often playful sexual ethos of pornography. Mr. Smith is intent on making a love story, which is almost by definition the opposite of the kind of movie Zack and Miri set out to produce."

Ah, the often playful sexual ethos of pornography... Still:

"The gauzy sweetness that envelops the end of the movie is not unwelcome, but not very convincing either. The 'porno' remains unfinished, and so does 'Zack and Miri,' having — like most pornography, interestingly enough — thrown away an imaginative premise to get down to predictable, mechanical business. It’s as if Mr. Smith were a plumber who knocked at your door and then, against all reasonable expectations, insisted on fixing the sink."

Godsbody suspects that Apatow would have found a way to have the couple repudiate their porny ways - "Dammit, why does it feel like this jolly, innocuous pursuit is supposed to mean something?" - but without giving up the funny. It rather sounds like Smith is trying to have his cake and eat it too.

Proof

It happens that I have in my possession a little book called Evidence of Satan in the Modern World, written by the French(?) priest Leon Cristiani in 1961. He spends a good deal of time on accounts of exorcisms, and on the diabolical characteristics of both capitalism and communism. But the very best bit comes on p. 171:

“It is therefore without any particular satisfaction, but without diffidence, that one may declare that there are certain undeniable proofs of the presence of Satan in our contemporary ‘civilisation,’ proofs which few can refuse to admit:

1. The mediocrity of our great media of communication such as the wireless, cinema, and television: not mediocrity in technique or in propaganda, but in the beauty and nobility of their influence on people’s minds;

2. The erotic atmosphere exuded by our novels and plays, in popular songs, in all that can be summed up as ‘show business’;

3. The degradation of modern art, which seems to have lost all feeling for beauty, and to be concerned only with ugliness and obscurity.”

Outstanding. What is the proof of Satan’s presence? Bad art.

We Know All Problem in Your Sexual Life

It's that you're OLD! HURRY UP! Have some more sex before you DIE!

Good morning, Internet! Thanks for the reminder of my impending mortality!

Today in Porn, Godspy Edition

Brian Pessaro has a new essay up. It's brief, just the way the Internet likes it. Sample line:

"You don’t just put down a 19-year porn addiction like yesterday’s newspaper and walk away from it."

Unless?

Better than the Original?

Local kids The Wrong Trousers take on The Postal Service:

Four is Five

Artfully Overt

Andrew McNabb is a Catholic scribbler who has actually taken the trouble to, you know, hone his craft and get himself published in a few literary journals. Now, his efforts have been rewarded: Warren Machine Books is publishing a book of his stories, The Body of This. (The publisher has been kind enough to provide a sample.)

To celebrate, he is launching a crusade against the hated windmill. Er, I mean, he's starting a Catholic Press, Leoness Books:

"Attention Writers & Readers!

Leoness Books is a newly formed small press specializing in LiteraryCatholic Writing. Leoness has been created due to the dearth of publishing opportunities for Catholic writers whose work can be described as "Literary, yet artfully overt." Leoness is seeking book-length fiction (both novels and story collections) and narrative non-fiction submissions for their Leoness Book Award, and short stories for their Best Catholic Short Stories, 2010 edition.

Leoness Books is also seeking dedicated readers who are tired of the syrupy genre fiction that Christian publishers attempt to pass off as "real life," who are put off by the poorly written Apocalyptic novels that misrepresent Bible teaching, and disheartened by the plethora of literary options for nearly every subset of humanity, except for devout Catholics seeking quality literature inspired by faith. There are several ways to become involved and ensure Leoness Books' success. PLEASE ADD YOUR NAME TO OUR MAILING LIST (mailinglist@LeonessBooks.com) SO THAT WE CAN PROVE TO OUR INVESTORS THAT READERS ARE INTERESTED IN CATHOLIC LITERARY WRITING. We won't overwhelm you with e-mail, and we won't sell your address. Please visit www.LeonessBooks.com for more information."

In honor of McNabb's endeavor, Godsbody herewith presents the opening scene from The Cloister, a novel that will most likely never be finished.

DALLAS (AP) – Richard Johnson, spokesman for the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops, announced today that the Church would adopt a “one-strike” policy with regard to all newly reported cases of sexual misconduct among its clergy. Speaking at a press conference after the final closed-door session of the bishops comprising the USCCB’s Office for the Protection of Children, Johnson said, “all new cases will be turned over immediately to local law enforcement offices for investigation.”


PREFACE

“My God.”

The bishop sagged in his chair. Above him, on the office wall, Christ hung on the cross, the unpolished wood of the corpus crisscrossed everywhere by rivulets of red-brown blood. (The crucifix, which made the bishop uncomfortable, had come from Our Lady of Sorrows, a South County church whose congregation had lightened in complexion and softened in sensibilities as the San Diego suburbs swelled forth from Eastlake.)

Before him, on the desk, a black and white police photo showed Father Bryan Dwyer arranged in a gruesome mockery of his Savior. His pale and fleshy body stripped down to his briefs, his wrists lashed to the bars of his cell door with ragged strips of his prison uniform, he hung, lifeless, his gnarled toes a few inches from the ground. The blood gleamed black in the photo as it slithered forth from the tiny cuts in his forehead, from the gash in his side, from the piercings in his hands and feet, and from a host of tiny cuts around his shoulders. The bishop didn’t want to guess as to the state of the priest’s back and buttocks.

The Chancellor let a moment pass in silence as he stood on the other side of the desk. Then he spoke. “The coroner says he might’ve hung there for five or six hours before he died. The wounds, bloody as they appear, were superficial. He asphyxiated.”

“Six hours,” winced the bishop. “And nobody heard or saw anything? No guards? No inmates?”

“Nobody; not a thing.”

“How many is that?” asked the bishop, who knew them all by name, but couldn’t bring himself to go over the list in his mind and make the count.

“Seven.”

“They weren’t kidding about one-strike, were they?”

The Chancellor suppressed his response, and said only, “Your Grace?”

“Seven murders and no convictions. Hell, no charges. They barely even pretend to investigate, and nobody seems to care.”

“Sex offenders have always been targets in prison, Your Grace, and there’s a great deal of resentment. They’re priests. Or at least, they were.” He hesitated as he spoke; he didn’t imagine he was imparting any sort of new information, and feared the bishop might catch the note of weariness in his voice. Because the Chancellor was weary, weary of the whole sordid business, and after seven of these executions, he was finding it difficult to feel the requisite shock and horror, to summon up the outrage that would dispel his weariness and rouse him to stand with his superior. He was finding it difficult to condemn the murders, and difficult to sympathize with the victims. And in his weariness, he let slip a sentence he had long kept restrained. Regret kicked in before he had finished the last syllable.

“People are suggesting that it was no more than they deserved.”

The bishop raised an incredulous eyebrow. “Use every man according to his dessert, and who should ‘scape whipping?” he replied, but his tone was too snappish to convey Shakespearean wit. He had little patience for talk about retribution. “We’re in the mercy business” was a phrase often on his lips. Still, he couldn’t help but think of Saint Peter, who had asked to be crucified upside down, because he was unworthy to die in the manner of Our Lord. If Peter was unworthy, what did that make Dwyer? But whoever causes one of these little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him to have a great millstone fastened ‘round his neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea.

He paused, assessing the man on the other side of the desk, trying to decide if the Chancellor was absolutely trustworthy, pained by the fact that such considerations were even necessary. After a moment, he decided to bet on the side of ecclesial loyalty and solidarity. They were two of the great reasons the Church had gotten into this mess; now, he was counting on them to help in Her rehabilitation. He spoke, his tone gone warm and a touch conspiratorial: “Sit down, Robert. I’ve been doing a bit of digging in the archives, and there’s something I’d like to show you.”

*****

Now go get on the man's mailing list!

Let's Go to the Mall!

I'm pretty sure I managed to keep First Son from noticing the "I F*ck on the First Date" t-shirt on the young gentleman next to us at the Horton Plaza Ben & Jerry's last night. (Yes, yes - had I been a man of any fortitude, I would have asked the fellow, "Yes, but does anyone f*ck you?") What I did not manage to keep him from noticing was the poster for Saw V:



"Dad - Saw five? They made a fifth one?"

"Yes, son. And as long as they keep making money, they'll keep making more of them."

"But doesn't a series have to be really good to get five movies?"

(I held my tongue and did not mention his beloved Star Wars. Nor did I mention The Land Before Time.)


"No, son, it just has to make money. People have a bloodthirsty streak. They like to see other people get hurt. So these movies keep getting made."

(Cue protests about the subtler messages of the Saw series. But even if I grant them, there is still that significant element of watching others suffer.)

Later:

"Dad, I think I'm going to make a hat that has a sign coming out of the top that says, 'God is present everywhere.'"

"That's a very interesting idea, son. What inspired you to do that?"

"Well, that way, I could let people know without having to go around telling them all the time, which might make them think I was weird."

"That's a good point. But still - having a sign sticking out of your hat might lead people to the same conclusion. Maybe just a t-shirt."

"Good idea, Dad."

(See how I neatly brought it back 'round to the t-shirt theme?)

We have video.

Photo Sharing - Video Sharing - Photo Printing - Photo Books

Mom and Dad Walking Toward the Side Entrance of My Unspeakably Beautiful Hometown Church

The Cardboard Boat Race, Round Three

Astonishingly, the Long Boat not only lasted into the third heat, but even had sufficient integrity to carry First and Second Son and Ernesto's First and Second Son. And win.

Many, many thanks to Ernesto's Wife, who took these photos.

The Cardboard Boat Race, Round Two

First and Second Sons took over the Long Boat, and paddled it to victory in the second heat.

The Cardboard Boat Race, Round One, Part Two

A shot of Second Son furiously paddling his own canoe. He hit a snag getting his boat into the water, and had to play catch-up.

The Cardboard Boat Race, Round One

That's First Son on the far right, his boat having immediately capsized. He's trying to swim for it, boat in tow. To his left is the Longboat. It was originally designed for four, but First Daughter and her friend opted out, so it's manned by only Third Son (in back), and his friend. To their left are the winners of the first heat, the First and Second sons of FOG Ernesto. The triangle at the base of the photo is the prow of Second Son's canoe.

New Dappled Things

Is here. And, per usual, JOB the Wisconsin Poet is busy at work.... (And yes, that last link carries with it a gentle nudge to subscribe.) I also got a kick out of J.B. Toner's Drinking with Lucifer:

“Well, Mick, what's this stuff called again—Bushmills?
It's very good, but I've had better yet:
The scarlet ale of Aztec altars wet,
The absinthe of an abdicated will,
The mead of churning spilth from poison mills,
The wine of groaning thralldom's tortured sweat,
The black milk of despair from souls of jet,
Sweet seas of tears that drown the looming hills.”
“Well, Nick, mine's not an educated tongue;
I don't know much of vintages or years,
Nor whether your brew's better than my own—
But Bushmill's drunk in bars where songs are sung
In fellowship, and if you feed on tears,
The odds are that you're going to drink alone.”

(Image: St. Luke Painting Mary by Milo Duke.)

Fireproof

I saw a movie!

A Good Man is Hard to Find

But a good reader is not! (Yes, I'm taking the cheesy way out. And making a bad play on words in the process.) The Wisconsin Poet has put down his pen and taken up his voice again over at Catholic Radio International. Go thou and listen.

What is the Sound of My Childhood Being Raped and Pillaged?

How 'bout this: "Disney Prepares to Use its Marketing Magic to Bring Back the Muppets."

Whaddya bet they come up with something a little like Frankenstein's monster - made up of parts that used to be alive, that bears characteristics of the living, but is, horrifyingly, completely bereft of soul?

Oh, maybe I'm just a grumpy pessimist. A Statler. A Waldorf. Or maybe not:

"The wisecracking, irreverent Muppets (a combination of puppets and marionettes) also don’t fit that neatly in the Disney culture, as they differ from most of the company’s bedrock characters in two big ways: Kermit and coterie were primarily created to entertain adults, and they live in the real world. Henson was so insistent that they stand apart from his “Sesame Street” creations in personality and tone that he (misleadingly) titled the 1975 pilot that would boost their careers “The Muppet Show: Sex and Violence.” Undeterred, Disney expects the Muppets to expand their fan base beyond nostalgic older generations to the age group between 6 and 12 that has powered 'Hannah Montana' and 'High School Musical' into international blockbusters."

We shall, as they say, see.

Patron of Writers?

I had a painting restored!

Here's your problem.

If you find More's saintliness hard to stomach, Mr. New York Times Theater Critic, maybe it's because you're not seeing the whole picture. More's real opposite in the play isn't Cromwell, it's the Common Man - WHOM THEY ELIMINATED FROM THE REVIVAL. (It's not easy being both grammatical and emphatic.) Viz:

Common Man: I'm breathing ... Are you breathing too? ...It's nice, isn't it? It isn't difficult to keep alive, friends - just don't make trouble - or if you must make trouble, make the sort of trouble that's expected. Well, I don't need to tell you that. Good night. If we should bump into one another, recognize me.

They couldn't very well feature him in the film, but to cut him from the stage? Why?

Religulous

I saw a movie!