The Village Idiom

Let him down gently. 

(But let him down). 

Attitude is everything. 

It simply cannot be overstated the effect that individual attitude can have on someone. People can be dealt an absolute dream hand in the card game of life, but can thwart any advantage afforded them if they have a persistently negative, self-defeating attitude. 

Adversely, people can be born into abject squalor, but with the right attitude, they can incrementally improve their prospects and status, little by little, by making the most out of every single opportunity granted to them. 

There's the cliché graphic you'll see from time to time that reads: "Someone once told me the definition of Hell: the last day you have on earth, the person you became will meet the person you could have become." 

Why does this have to be "hell"? 

Doesn't anyone improve for the better? 

Surely there is a hypothetical version of yourself that is drinking the collective garbage runoff that accumulates at the bottom of soggy trash cans and scaring children in public by shitting your pants aggressively when they wander too close. 

Of course there's a hypothetical you that's a billionaire philanthropist inventor child brain surgeon, too.

Thus it stands to reason that mathematical distribution makes it likely that we end up dying exactly where we live life: in the middle.

And attitude has everything to do with not dreading whatever condescending version of yourself you're unlikely to confront on your deathbed. Doesn't he have anything better to do than to stand around waiting for me to die so that he can rub his success in my face? How petty. Go cure AIDS, you fucking asshole.

Sure, carpe diem—assert your will, improve every day, be wary of pratfalls and temptation—but through it all, an at least passively positive mental attitude can work wonders in the long run.

To be clear: positive attitude isn't necessarily the same thing as optimism, either.

The Laughing Bed (or) The Avant Garde Aardvark Guard

I've been in long development of a young reader's novel (think: The Phantom Tollbooth mixed with Little Nemo in Slumberland) that, thematically, is about the daunting feeling of being a boy on the precipice of stepping into the absurd world of adulthood. 

Playful, comedic and mostly as interpreted through wordplay and turns-of-phrase. 

The premise is that the boy outgrows his old childhood bed. He needs a "grown-up" bed—and in fact, his parents procure for him an antique bed with Victorian-era aesthetic. When he falls asleep at night, he discovers that his new bed is a Laughing Bed—and it carries him off to an analogous world full of absurd characters. 

The primary guide they meet there, a kind of Virgil to the boy's Dante, is the Avant Garde Aardvark Guard, an absurdly theatrical poet warrior of the Armadillo Armada who leads the charge to bring the boy face to face against this realm's greatest adversary: The Sand Witch. 

In the main, the "book" would lean heavily into the episodic—inspired by what I love so much about Cervantes' Don Quixote—where the boy, the Laughing Bed and the Avant Garde Aardvark Guard confront various characters, items and predicaments along their way.

Examples include: 

• The Lemon Nation (which is facing elimination); 
• Jalapeno Face (who is always 'all up in yo face!'); 
• Mayor Mare; 
• the Tear Duck; 
• the Celery Cellar (where Sully the Celery Seller sells his celery; "buy stalk in celery—it's always sure to grow!"); 
• the Assassin's Assistant; 
• a Lox with golden locks; 
• Dandy Lions; 
• an Escape Goat with the Bleating Heart; 
• Coughing Cake; 
• the Piccadilly Picadillo Peccadillo (a slight offense regarding a minced dish of ground beef and tomato hash that took place at Piccadilly in London); 
• the Road Dent Rodent (who lives in a dent in the road); 
• The Mime Barron of the Barren Mine; 
• a sock puppet named Soan from Earn; 
• Eddie the Spaghetti Yeti; 
• Nick of Time (he doesn't control time—he just manages to do everything right before time runs out); 
• a Meatier Meteor; 
• the Pajamas-on Forest; 
• the Were-House (man by day, warehouse by night), etc. 

It would be an exhausting read, and an even more exhausting write—which is why the concept is in perennial development.

 

The surrealist Avant Garde Aardvark Guard, who, at present, doesn't have a name because he has no need of one.

We've all heard of 'prima donnas', but where have they all gone? I think we can all agree that we now live in a 'post-Madonna' society.

A real conversation overheard in a hospital's ER waiting room: 

"You think you're havin' a bad day? At least you ain't that Kim Jong Un!"

"Why?"

"Ain't you heard? His brand new warship tipped over in dry dock!*" 

"No."

"Yessir!" 

"How?"

[Laughter] "Somebody goofed!"

"He-hee!"

*Hyperlink added by me.

Guess the Brain-Damaged Cow

Game show idea: GUESS THE BRAIN-DAMAGED COW

Concept: "City-folk" contestants are led to a field by a dairy farmer and presented with three cows. One of the three cows is brain-damaged. If the "city folk" contestant can correctly guess which of the three cows is brain-damaged, they win the prize of the week! The degree of the cow's brain damage can vary week-by-week. 

Production note: While I am no dairy farmer, my suspicion is that the differences between fully and nominally functional cows is nil—and may be difficult to discern, even by experts. Bonus points can be awarded if even the cow farmer is stumped, and a field cognitive test needs to be conducted on the cows to determine their acuity. 

Serialization: As with most game and reality TV shows, winners can be brought back for a "Tournament of Champions" showcase season. As a twist, all of the cows are indeed brain-damaged cows—and the challenge will be for the returning contestants to correctly guess which of the three brain-damaged cows is the most brain-damaged. To provide for additional TV drama, the contestants are free to conduct the field cognitive tests themselves.

Prizes: Obviously, the prizes will be focused on winning bovine byproducts. Steak and milk are the clear top-tier prizes here, but don't lose your cud over other great keepsakes such as emery cloth, gelatin, tallow, oils, rennet, gall, sausage casings, bone meal and more!

Advertising markets include (but are not limited to): McDonald's, Elmer's Glue, Chick-fil-A (their cow mascot "Eat Mor Chikn!" will fit right in during prime time), U.S. armed forces recruitment, Farm Simulator (the game) and the Chicago metropolitan area. Some advertising partnership with the Chicago Bulls basketball team could be advantageous.

It sounds simple—bordering on the absurd—but I've always found it of tremendous personal importance to remember the old adage: "You don't know what you don't know." 

I've tried. You just don't. 

In scanning through ancient family documents, after my entire life of not knowing, I now finally know the name of my great-great paternal grandfather: "Wincenty."

Everything else is completely open to my wild speculation.

The true mark of becoming a timeless icon is if you ruin your name for anyone else's use. 

This isn't an exhaustive list, but some that come to mind:

• Ebenezer
• Adolph
• Hecate
• Elvis
• Macbeth
• Lord Vader
• Genghis
• Judas
• Cleopatra
• Sherlock
• Ursula
• Romeo
• Kramer

Some verboten names have double-notoriety: 

• Homer (Iliad, Simpson) 
• Hannibal (Carthage, Lecter) 
• Napoleon (Bonaparte, Dynamite)

There are also abbreviations, regardless of the actual names involved, that you have to avoid:

• O.J.

Curiously, though, some names you'd think would be totally off limits for religious reasons, but remain in play, especially among specific cultures' most ardent believers: 

• Jesús*
• Mohammad 

*Jesús (OK). Jesus (Not OK).

I thought "Benedict" was out, thanks to America's greatest traitor, Benedict Arnold—but "Arnold" has survived, and "Benedict" appears to be disassociated with the infamous revolutionary general enough to see a comeback. Plus, you can get away with "Benny," without broaching uncomfortable questions about whether or not you're named after the general willing to side with the Crown before his revolutionary brothers and sisters. 

"Karen," too, is a name that feels like it'll have a resurgence again at some point in the not-too-distant future. 

Honorable mention: I always felt bad for St. Thomas. AKA "Doubting" Thomas. What an unfair characterization. 

"Hey, Thomas—remember Jesus?" 

"Yeah." 

"Remember how he was just tortured and literally nailed to a cross outside of town, stabbed, and bled to death?" 

"Kind of hard to forget." 

"He's alive." 

"...Are you sure?"

You can perhaps excuse his need for clarification. 

However, "Thomas" has endured despite his annoying habit for second-guessing.

To conclude this brief overview of unusable names—there's one that hardly qualifies as a name, but it will forever stand out in my memory and never fails to bring a smile to my face. 

I went into a gas station once that was accepting $1 donations for the latest terminal disease. Having $1, I was charitably inclined to get involved. I, too, wish to contribute toward the greater good of my fellow man. At the checkout counter, I was given a Sharpie, and a name tag to fill out with my name.

"______ Donated $1 to Cure Spontaneous Eyeball Explosion (SEE)." 

Looking up, I now noticed all the name tags taped around the store. Hundreds of donors. Maybe thousands. It was touching, actually. There they were: "Scott," "Jeremy," "Penny." Even "Rebecca" forked over some loot for those poor combusti-ball bastards. But then, I saw him (for it had to be a "him".) Right behind the cash register, hanging above the packs of cigarettes, a nametag was on full display, blazoned with the name of one special donor who I will never forget.

"BOOGER Donated $1 to Cure Spontaneous Eyeball Explosion (SEE)."

I've been signing "Booger" on everything that doesn't require my legal name ever since.

I suspect that the cashier who solicited me for my donation that day was, in fact, the original Booger—a title that surely comes with tremendous power and responsibility.

"Heavy lies the crown upon the royal brow of Booger." 

Tsutomu Yamaguchi survived both the Hiroshima and Nagasaki atomic bombings in World War II. 

In 2010—at the age of 93—Yamaguchi-san died of stomach cancer.

Is he still considered a survivor of the atomic bombs? 

[Similarly]

Black Sabbath front man Ozzy Osbourne once notoriously bit the head off of a bat on stage, allegedly mistaking it as a prop bat during a live performance.

In a damning incrimination against the supposed negative consequences of sex, drugs, alcohol, rock and roll, and rabies, as of this writing, Ozzy regrettably passed away yesterday at the ripe age of 76.

Not bad. But in the final accounting, was it the bat that ultimately did him in?

The Gatsby Trilogy

As a struggling writer and author, I'm always seeking ways to elevate myself in the cultural milieu and get noticed.

After years of searching, I believe I may have discovered my ticket to notoriety. 

A few years ago, some burgeoning author had the novel idea of re-writing Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice as Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. 

As the revised title suggests, it reimagines Pride and Prejudice, but with zombies.

I don't know if this was an improvement on the original. I haven't read either story.

But despite having not read either version, it is notable that I am aware of it.

Say what you will—the author's gambit seems to have worked. Hasty internet research reveals that the author is now worth a reported $3-8 million. 

Granted, I'm not sure what his net worth was prior to Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, but it's a safe bet to think that he may have earned a sizeable monetary increase.

The real trick is identifying the proper classic—and what the corresponding "gimmick" to it should be, though I believe I arrived at the solution fairly quickly by asking myself a series of open-ended, penetrative questions:

• What is the greatest American novel?
• The Great Gatsby.
• What would make it better?
• Hard to say. It's already "great". It's in the title.
• What would make it "greater." 
• If there was a Greater Gatsby.
• But why stop there? 
• Could there be a Greatest Gatsby?

So it seems to me as though ol' F. Scott F. missed out on a Gatsby franchise goldmine! Expand the Gatsby brand into a trilogy—which I aspire to complete, doubtlessly as he would have intended.

You've read The Great Gatsby?

Well, have you read the next book in the series?

The Greater Gatsby?

That's right. Nick meets an even greater Gatsby.

But wait—there's more.

In a cliffhanger ending, both Nick and the "Greater" Gatsby (Kay Gatsby?) discover that there remains, somewhere, The Greatest Gatsby.

It doesn't have to be good. People will pay just to have it on their bookshelves. 

Story Idea: "You Get Everything You Want"

With the rise of brain-computing integration technology, a man agrees to have a computer chip implanted in his head. This helps to monitor his health, maintain a store of crucial information and personal details, and even run routine test functions like sensory improvements, thought optimization, skill development programs, etc.

There is also another program that the brain chip uses less often, but is a feature of the device (for contingency purposes.)

Without warning, and without it being explicitly clear what's happening at first, the man wakes up one day after the best sleep of his life. His dreams were clarifying, restful. When he brushes his teeth, they feel the cleanest they've ever felt. Looking in the mirror, he looks more handsome than he's ever looked. Getting dressed, his clothes fit him better than they ever have. He's off to a tremendous start to what he would've thought was just going to be another average day.

As the day continues, this uncanny trend of luck only increases. All of his punchy little jokes "land," regardless of who hears them. Everywhere he goes, people seem pleased to see him. When walking down the street, the lights change, giving him the green light to proceed without pause or breaking stride. Every woman he encounters seems flirtatiously interested in him. Every peer, colleague or superior remarks on his wit and insight.

And this trend continues. More, and more, and more.

He meets no resistance to any idea he offers. If he entertains a particular option available to him—to accept this promotion, that sexual opportunity, this professional partnership—and becomes bored with it, the other party is only too eager to agree with him and disengage from the relationship without awkwardness or confrontation.

The longer this goes on, the more unsettled he becomes, especially as he is elevated into higher and higher positions of increasing renown. Supervisor. Manager. VP. CEO. Representative. Senator. The Presidency? 

Not overnight—no—but, more importantly, without effort, without qualification, and definitely despite his own ignorance or limitations.

This is when he truly begins to push the limits of what he can get away with.

Bored with success, he begins self-sabotaging himself—engaging in behavior, practices and even crimes that would normally get him removed from these positions of esteem at best, if not outright thrown in prison.

To his amazement, his transgressions are not only shrugged off by a world of inhabitants eager to give him anything and everything he wants; they're met with enthusiasm. No matter his actions, he's met with adulation.

And there's no escape. Every sycophant, mistress, underling, protégé or colleague seeks him out to appease his every wish. And when they're confronted about how unlikely their reaction is, they'll only agree.

The man rises to the absolute pinnacle of earthly power, despite himself—in a kind of "hell" of riches and excess. It is also clear that he is not aging, never gets sick, and others only appear to age or become ill to make him feel superior. All of them—women, his children, business partners, political colleagues—freely invite him to replace them with a younger woman, new offspring, more capable collaborators, happily and without even the slightest hint of jealousy or regret. 

And it's torture.

It's amazing how quickly he began suspecting that what is happening to him is not real. Even in the beginning, on his first day in this new life, he'd wonder—jokingly at first—whether or not this is really happening.

"I won the lottery. Again. For the second time. I bought a ticket as a joke, after winning last week."

But still, he'll allow himself to be re-convinced of the farce over and over again, getting embroiled in the "reality" of his next pursuit—no matter how inane or unlikely it would seem to his "past self". 

Colonize distant planets? He'll do it. But when he gets bored and wants to go back to Earth, he'll do that too. And when it all goes perfectly according to plan, without any hiccups, stalls or even a question from anyone about any of his choices on how to go about doing it—he'll waver between being convinced his life is a lie, or throw himself into another fantasy.

"I ask you: What can be expected of man since he is being endowed with strange qualities? Shower upon him every earthly blessing, drown him in a sea of happiness, so that nothing but bubbles of bliss can be seen on the surface; give him economic prosperity, such that he should have nothing else to do but sleep, eat cakes, and busy himself with the continuation of his species, and even then out of sheer ingratitude, sheer spite, man would play you some nasty trick. He would even risk his cakes and would deliberately desire the most fatal rubbish, the most uneconomical absurdity, simply to introduce into all this positive good sense his fatal fantastic element." —Fyodor Dostoevsky

Eventually, he will remember the "Neuralink" chip he had installed in his brain. Eventually, he'll connect-the-dots and wonder if it's the source of his hellscape. 

With nothing outside of his ability to control or own, he'll look into the company that installed the chip in his brain and uncover the possibility that what he has entered into is a Comatose Simulation. He has either died, gone comatose, or had some other brain injury that slipped his backed-up consciousness into a simulated scenario to preserve his "mind" until he can wake up, be cured, or—resurrected? 

Is his real body ill, comatose, or dead? 

And naturally, he will throw himself even deeper into excess without restraint—going deeper and deeper into appeasing his endless thirst for vice until, as a novelty to break up the mundanity of avarice—he tries putting his powers to good use.

Then, one day, without warning, and without it being explicitly clear what's happening at first, the man wakes up after the worst sleep of his life. 

His dreams were horrific, nightmarish. 

When he brushes his teeth, he is grotesquely aware of his foul morning breath. 

Looking in the mirror, he looks haggard and tired. 

Getting dressed, his clothes are wearing away in the seams. Little holes. 

He's off to a rough start to what he would've thought was just going to be another average day. 

Two Studies I May Not Remember Correctly

I may not have this completely right, but I believe hearing once about a sociological study gauging others' perception of an individual subject's mastery of a skill.

In the study, they (who are "they," after all?) had a panel of observers watch two people undertaking the same task. I forget what task, specifically, but let's say shooting a basketball into a hoop.

One candidate performed the task optimally, but while appearing as though they were trying very hard to do so.

The other candidate performed the task suboptimally, but while appearing as though they were performing the task effortlessly.

If I recall correctly, the study's observers overwhelmingly believed that the second candidate was the more skilled of the two, even though the first candidate did quantifiably perform the task better. 

Perceived effortlessness contributes toward a façade of excellence and success.

This may be why some people give the advice: "Don't try so hard." 

I may not have this completely right, but I believe hearing about another social study where observers watched as a subject jumped on a bed until the bed broke, and were asked to describe to the study's researchers what occurred. 

The observers spoke different languages.

The results showed that observers who came from a Western language background attributed "blame" to the subject who jumped.

"The bed broke when the man jumped on it." 

By comparison, observers who came from an Eastern language background attributed "blame" to the object jumped upon.

"The man jumped on the bed until it broke." 

Two wrongs don't make a right.

Two evens don't make an odd.

In fact, two odds don't even make an odd.

Actually, it takes an even and an odd to make an odd.

Which feels like it shouldn't be right, but it is.

If that's the case, shouldn't there be more evens than odds?

What would be the odds of that being true?

Yet, against the odds, evens and odds turn out to be even.

That, too, seems odd.

But if it's so odd, maybe it evens out in the end.

And two rights take you back to the way you were going,

(If you were trying to go left.)

Think of how adorable two pissed off brawling butterflies would be.