Living in a horror movie, one day at a time

Eight months ago

Bullshit, I thought. No way. I've prepared for this. There is no way this could happen.

But there it was, plain as day, staring me in the face. Not literally in the face. Figuratively in the face. If it was staring at me in the face, I'd have horked up my lunch by then.

Then there's the pathetic fallacy, given the word "staring". Mouse shit can't stare. It has no eyes. I has no nose, mouth, ears. It just sits and performs the verb to be. It is. It has no functions. It is the result of a function. Of a cheeky little bullshit mouse running around a kitchen countertop, shitting its merry away around my toaster, dishes, frying pans...it skips and jumps and pirouettes using its ass as the worst pez dispenser in the world. 2 years of my living in one place, brought to pieces within 30 seconds.

It wasn't just the mouse shit on my counter that gave me pause.

It was the evidence that it had come and gone, and would come back.

There in the corner, where the counter was flush against my stove, was a bottle of cooking oil. The label had been partially scratched off. Little flakes of the label were gathered in front of the bottle in an almost ritualistic fashion. It had tried to claw its way into the bottle. It had left an offering of paper and grease, at the doorstep of Ma Canola. It wasn't cute. It wasn't a gift.

It was a message.

If there is a mouse god up there - sitting atop a throne made purely out of peanut butter, making little noises as he is attended to by tiny squeaky concubines tend to his every whim - he is the John Carpenter of human home infestation. As we all know, some of the best horror fiction (whether film or prose) thrives on atmosphere. Actually seeing Rosemary's baby is never the point. The point is the allusion to the fact that she may or may not be Beelzebub's baby mama (spoiler alert: she totally does. They didn't call it Rosemary's "Unfortunate" Fall Down Some Stairs While Her Husband Looked On), with evidence pointing towards either the affirmative or the contrary throughout the movie. The Turn of the Screw may be a slightly overrated short story with an ending that at least spurred the invention of Child Services, but the story keeps the reader on edge constantly. The payoff for successful horror or suspense usually isn't seeing the monster itself, but the little traces of the monster the reader or viewer sees along the way. This is crucial, for when we actually see the monster, the payoff is greater.

I had a small, furry, disease carrying monster in my apartment that I wouldn't be able to see because it's too quick, knows corners of the building I'll never see, and whose poop can kill.

Killer poop. It doesn't help that the poop looks like charred rice. Easily picked up by a sponge. Transferred to a plate. Food also transferred to a plate. Soon enough, you're dead, and there's a mouse having a belly laugh over your bloated corpse as his kids use your eyesockets as washtubs.

Washington DC and Virginia trip

I would post the "greatest hits" of the photos from my recent DC trip...but much like any old maid aunt in your family with far too many cats at her disposal, I'd like to regale you with ALL vacation photos. Enjoy!

...in which I hopefully conclude the previous diatribe on pop culture badasses

Part 1

The fictional "badass" from the 20th century, carrying forward to the 21st, is a shiny upgrade of the classic Byronic hero; you could go so far as to say that the anti-hero archetype created by Byron is not mutually exclusive to the badass of today. All the signs are there - moody, anti-establishment, cynical, vaguely sexual - I could either be describing Snake Pliskin or your last work supervisor. You know the one I mean. Ol' Handsy.

We may deride action oriented anime for presenting over-exaggerated exploits of anti-heroes, but American film has been equally guilty of presenting such characters too. The interesting phenomenon nowadays is how the over-the-top silliness of stoic badasses from 20 or 30 years ago is looping back into current film. Except now, we're not entirely sure if the Michael Bay-ism of anti-heroes in modern fiction is meant as a cheeky homage to the naive bombast of the 1980s, or is it over the top just for the sake of it?

Did Crank 2 really happen? Are The Darkness a real band? Who knows.

I'm hesitant to use the term "protagonist" when speaking of badasses, because the two can be mutually exclusive. A badass could be the "hero", an ancilliary character who may only be seen briefly, or the true badass could be the villain instead. No matter which character occupies this storytelling space, you have to admit there is something oddly inhuman about typical badasses. You could even say he or she is a non-human, removed from humanity by a degree the writer deems interesting enough for the story (or their own personal projections). He or she keeps a Vulcan level of reserve on their emotion and even when they do let emotions slip, it's usually quickly followed by someone getting shot or exploded via thought; almost like an apology on behalf of the writer for a moment of wussyness. They have shattered, distant or dead families. They get shot or stabbed but keep coming back like stubbly, cigar smoking zombies. A night of heavy drinking doesn't leave them with the emotional and physical resolve of a baked potato; if anything it just makes them angrier and even better at killing you. They have odd sauna etiquette (2:10 onwards).

My pores are going to be so open while I beat the shit out of you.

Maybe that's just it: the almost alien just-off-center nature of fictional badasses make their stories appealing to people. Either someone wants to live through that ridiculousness or the post-human roadshow is too entertaining to leave alone, you just have to see what they do next. What is even more bizarre is that badasses are around us in real life, and get movies based on them, a distillation process which makes them a lot more glamorous.

What is with the obsession with a central character who is cartoonishly strong and resilient? I can see how it can be easy - in real life or fiction - to lay all your trust in one person, or a group of people for that matter. Either that, or we just enjoy living vicariously. A badass is a surrogate for our unrealized fantasies and aspirations, whom we can live through without all the consequences his or her actions bring. How much red tape does MI-6 have to go through to smooth over all the property damage and paternity suits Bond leaves in his wake? There's no way Bruce Wayne and Lucius Fox by themselves manage to get all that gear configured for use; as noted in The Dark Knight, someone's going to notice when a jet's gone missing from Waynetech. But the point isn't to ask "What happens afterwards?" The point is to enjoy the ride as it's en media res and imagine yourself in the place of the protagonist. There is a beginning, a middle, not necessarily an end. Even if there's Ragnarok, your hero is still slated to come back and repeat all the stories again and again.