Doctor Who and Steven Moffat

Thanks for clicking on my blog. You're probably here because you're a fan of Doctor Who and prerequisitely have strong opinions about Steven Moffat as the current show runner (and are expecting my take on it will match yours within reasonable margins). We'll as I've already gotten your page view count let me save you a few minutes reading time.

We're lucky to have him.

I'm doing this blog in reaction to the negativity towards that always seems to accompany any discussion of New Who, at least in my circles. I can't remember the last time I read a thread where the phrase "this is why Moffat needs to go" didn't come up.

We're nerds. We're passionate about our stuff. I get that. We're all capable of wonderful things, but it's easy for us to forget what whiny bitches we can be on such a regular basis. It happens with all the fiction beginning with 'Star' and with all the Goku versus Superman debates that have been settled twice (Superman wins. Get over it and go feed the homeless or something.) and Doctor Who is on the current pulse of popularity.

I don't know why people hate on Steven Moffat. He's not perfect, because there's no such thing as a perfect show runner. I'm guessing people hone in on the imperfections and forget to notice the truly wonderful things that he does right. So as a public service, I'm going to point them out in hopes that more of us recognize that it's a fine time to be a Whovian and maybe appreciate Moffat for as long as we still have him.

1. He takes risks

The last thing any of us want is for Dalek stories to become interchangeable. The Doctor needs monsters and crises to tell his stories, but it should never devolve into a monster-of-the-week format, becauase the solution is always 'kill the monster'. That's a warrior's narrative, not a doctor. Moffat excels at "We haven't seen the Doctor in this situation before, so let's do that". As such, our beloved Timelord finds himself in new situations with new ailments to find the appropriate remedy for.

2. He loves what he does

That's a big damn deal with a Doctor Who show runner. The majority of writers from the classic series didn't want to be there. In the current series, there is a genuine love for the show that radiates through the screen. Russell T. Davies had that same love for the series and his efforts resurrected it, and when he was out of stories he stepped down. Moffat was the only writer who really seemed ready to take up the mantle, and as long as he has stories in him, he has my trust. I truly have no idea who could replace him at this point.

3. He's GOOD at what he does.

People accuse Moffat of breaking their hearts on a regular basis. Did you guys forget the emotional hell Davies put us through? Moffat was the "Just this once! Everybody lives!" guy in a universe of tragedy, because that was Davies's strength as a writer; getting you to continue giving a damn after you'd cried yourself to sleep the previous week. Moffat's strength is in the plot's sleight of hand. He's a literary magician, always pulling a clever trick out of a hopeless situation. And better than any other writer I've seen, Moffat has fun using the time travel concepts to his advantage.

4. He still seems to have ideas coming

I want Moffat to leave when his brain is repeating the words "No more", but until then I want him right where he is. Holding stories like Doctor Who and Sherlock together is a massive challenge, and I fear that every writer who is capable of doing that is already doing it. So again, who takes over when he steps down?

Like I said, he's not perfect, but he's brilliant. And brilliance is exactly what we should be hoping for. Moffat carried us through the 50th anniversary, which had to be daunting. You'd think he would have bailed out after that and gotten some sleep, but he's opted to stick around. That's a respectful writer.

So let me close by saying thank you, Mr. Moffat, for all of your talent and energy and for the stamp you've left on our loved-by-generations sci-fi series. And I predict that there will someday be a 19th Doctor story where he encounters an alien race called the Moffats who tend to kill characters, sending their consciousnesses into a stasis whereupon they're only allowed to return to life if they can find a clever enough loophole.

To Gallifrey.

Short Story Week: Day Eight -What I Learned/Caris Runs On

So comes the end of my experimental Short Story Week. To any writers out there, I strongly recommend trying this project out for yourselves. Isaac Asimov wrote ALL THE TIME. It's kind of eye-opening spending a week in his beach house, getting a taste of his schedule. In addition to finally getting a few of the stories I've been carrying around in my head out, I've learned a few things about myself as a writer.

1. I’m not Isaac Asimov. I don’t know how he did what he did, but I have neither the stamina nor the passion to fake the stamina to keep this pace for longer than a ten day period at the most. God bless him.

2. I’m happy to say I’ve still got it, whatever the elusive 'it' is. I can’t say what degree of ‘it’ it is that I have, but whatever child-like passion from the early eighties that drove me to create a fake radio station using my friend’s tape recorder has carried into my forties. Not bad for someone in student loan debt.

3. It was quite freeing not thinking in terms of a word count. I do nanowrimo every year and that word count goal is a double-edged sword, with the unquestionable majority in favor of the positive. I daresay I’d forgotten what it was like to write a story until it was written, as opposed to meeting that coveted range.

4. I was half expecting to see some kind of a theme emerge in my writing. If it has, I haven't figured out what it is. I'm hoping it suggests I have a little versatility in me (and not that I suck at recognizing themes that obviously emerge). Admittedly, I tried to write a horror piece which didn't come together.

5. Can I say how grateful I am to my wife Ginny for reading all of these damned blogs? She has been nothing but nurturing, and if hers is the only feedback I ever get it's more than enough for me to love what I'm doing. You're my rock, honey!

6. Short stories are underrated. Essentially a short story tells the most interesting experience in a character's life. That inherently gives a short story a subtle intensity. For a one shot character like Walter P. Sullivan, his whole life amounted to the misery his appointed position brought on him. He lives and dies as a minor character, all within the context of his story. For a character like the Big Bad Wolf, it's easily implied that he goes on to live a pretty fulfilling life, but he's probably never going to have another day quite as eventful as the one in typeface. Even for a story as undefined as Thinking Inside the Box, whatever that character was will probably never express that sense of enthusiasm to the writer again. Something in the story has to be finite.

Now I wanted to do a story in the Carousel (if you want to know what that is, click here, and may I suggest here, here, here, or here and then here to see it in action) but I discovered that it's really a challenge to transfer ongoing characters into a short story, because it's much harder to find a single event for them that runs from start to finish in a short story's time frame. But I wanted to end the experiment on something cute, and Caris is just the girl to take us out.

Here then is a short story in one single 678 word sentence. Hemmingway wept.

Caris Runs On

There was a crisp autumn webbing in the morning air, uncharacteristic of late July (which it was), as I laced up my newly broken in sneakers snugly around my carefully trained dancer’s feet, which were graceful under the pressure of an audience’s evaluation but terribly inconsistent of balance otherwise, and began my unbridled horizontal free-fall through the doorway, across the sidewalk, and onto the familiar pavement which soon dissolved into the streets of strangers with a stride in my footsteps tapping out the rhythm of a veteran percussionist granting the less experienced house instrumentalists a foundation on which to play and explore; and the earliest of unfortunate risers wearily greeted me with a silent wave and a melancholy attached to the knowledge of what undeserved stressors awaited them at the end of their vehicle’s journey across the interstate, and the odd feline who had undoubtedly claimed the better portion of the neighboring blocks as its area of dominance took little more than a passing interest in my approach, when I became aware that a motorized delivery service containing one driver and one passenger (both of whom were being guided by the presumption that their current assignment, to distribute the weekly collection of coupon laden advertisements to anonymous recipients devoid of incentive to peruse through said plastic blanketed media, was better suited for an employee of comparatively less advanced qualification and age than they were), had begun keeping pace with my shoe soles' measurable contact tapping against the granite below me, for reasons I’m better off not taking into speculation (but in the event that the discussion should arise in my absence I’m obliged in expressing that my choice of attire is selected for my own comfort and delight, and factors in no other assessment from any outside source), and individual packages of the aforementioned literary product in possession of said transport was serving its couriers as, what I can only assume to be, an entertaining projectile with my variably personal space and the lone patron of kinetic meditation contained therein as the intended target; for a series of aerial ammunition all bearing the ‘fifty cent off of half a dozen sixty watt light-bulbs’ emblem was marking the pathway I found myself on, and their aim was becoming progressively less humorous (at least in the eyes of the soul attached to the heels in the scope); and it’s with a certain amount of empathic regret I consider the pitiable gentleman tasked with restocking the vendor’s wagon of morning related produce (i.e. apples, strawberries, variously flavored and colored juice-reminiscent liquids in single serving containers) on top of a pile of what can only be described as a previously existing glacier’s worth of ice separated into its individual components (for the purpose of temperature regulation) with which the middle aged man (with whom I was soon to nearly have an encounter) was engaged in refilling his wagon, for a stray paper ballista meant for an area of my anatomy somewhere between my waistline and toes wound up ricocheting off a metallic waste receptacle, impacting his wrist instead, dislodging the utensil he was using to scoop the ice into the wooden cart and spilling it onto the sidewalk where a hapless pedestrian, being preoccupied with his handheld device, reacted on reflex to the sudden lack of friction where his soles no longer held traction and tore off the side of the wagon on his way down while trying to regain his balance, sending the contents previously held within into the street and the path of my pursuers, diverting their vehicle's tires into the side of a nearby station wagon which happened to be parked in the wrong spot (in as much as fate was concerned) leaving me with a sense of satisfaction that I truly should be ashamed of, on par with the knowledge that I didn’t stop to pretend like I didn’t know what had transpired, but my morning jog is a sacred experience to me, and no buffoons with licenses will keep me from it, so I just kept running on.

Short Story Week: Day Seven -The Siren

Ginny encouraged me to include a poem in this week of stories, and I had two long gestating ideas to pull from; The Siren was the one I was more attached to.

From what I understand, most poetry aficionados tend to think of free verse as the superior form of poetry over light verse. I resentfully disagree. I can accept that when free verse is done well, it can capture an emotional atmosphere that most light verse is too anchored in rhyme and meter to achieve.

With that said, I can barely STAND free verse poetry (e.e. cummings excluded). I find it so utterly boring and lazy. Now, I realize that's an overgeneralization, and I don't think I would feel this strongly about it if I hadn't heard and read so much negativity towards poets who carefully piece their syllables together. I guess in my experience, I find rhyming verse significantly harder to do than free verse, and I have yet to read a more beautiful poem than Lewis Carroll's 'The White Knight's Song'.

So ranting aside, my muses demand that my poems rhyme or have a damn good reason not to. What follows is a string of lyrics set to a Loreena McKennitt styled song that only exists in my head (and BOY is it in the foreground).

The Siren

The siren watched the ships above

Their drunken strumming seaward sound

With hopes of spree and majesty

To carry them to shores unbound

Sailing

Unveiling

The rolling waves and dousing graves

Where men have rightly drowned.

She surfaced by the coastal sand

The ripples danced in sunlight's glow

When there she saw a fisherman

And sang, "There's beauty down below

In the place where haven seems.

Would you like a dozen dreams

From the home where lonely currents underlie?"

Swim underwater

Where the grace of few

Sends splashes through the glade

My Maremater

Is embracing you

No need to feel afraid.

Unearthly wonders to behold

And tales are begging to be told

And you can hear eternal voices in the sky.

The siren smiled, a gaze prolong

She offered him a serous hand.

The fisherman ignored the song.

He kept his feet on barren land.

And she sang a soft reprise

To the beating of the seas

"Is the world so full of nectar when it's dry?"

Swim underwater

Where the ground is fane

And the breeze is trickled bliss.

I am the daughter

Of the bounding main.

My promise is my kiss.

I'll keep you safe with Neptune's breath

And let you skim the edge of death

Please trust your fear of siren song has been a lie.

Thirty years, the ebbing tide

Has painted pages on the shore

A young man sets his nets aside

And dreams where beauty sang before

Waiting

And hating

The call of past that couldn't last

And won't come anymore.

Short Story Week: Day Six -The Protagonist

Another shorter piece today (I had a little bit of a scheduling back up). This was a slightly revised version of my first Flash Fiction story from 2008 or 2009, I forget which. I'll admit I was never entirely happy with the result, but it had been a long time since I'd attempted writing short stories so I was in experimental territory.

The Protagonist

It was a dark and stormy night.

Of course it was.

The past three nights have been a dark and stormy night. I don't know what tropical catastrophe is pummeling this side of the planet but it's really hitting hard tonight. It's like the final throes of some congestive disease. And I have to drive through it.

Thank God I know where I'm going. I'd have my fender in somebody's mailbox by now if I couldn't drive this stretch blindfolded. In fact, tonight I am. I can't see more than ten feet ahead every alternate streak of the windshield wipers. At least there are no other cars out here. They all know better. At least I assume there's no one out here. In the maelstrom, I wouldn't be able to see another car if it was made out of a neon sign.

Wait. What's that? Is that a cop? There are flashing lights about fifty yards back. I can't hear a siren. I can't hear anything but rain pounding on the hull of my car. Wow, I can see a lot further behind me than ahead. Maybe I should drive backwards the rest of the way.

Where is the intersection? I'm going thirty miles below the speed limit because I can't see a damn thing except for car fifty-four behind me. What is he doing back there? There's no one out here but me and I'm not speeding. I think he's getting closer. Dude! Where do you think I can pull over? I could be in the oncoming traffic lane for all I know.

That's the bridge. I felt it. And here's my turn off the main stretch. Did I just hit the curb or was that a branch? I don't care. Officer disco lights can have the main road to do whatever he thinks is so important out here. I'm out of the equation. And none too soon either, he was about to rear end me.

At least this portion of the road has no trees to deal with. No branches. I can go a little faster here. There's gravel on both sides of this highway. I'll feel it if my tires leave the road.

He's back? You've got to be kidding me! He can't be trying to pull me over. Maybe he is. They'll pull you over for anything. Speeding, not speeding, having a light out, having a phone, having a dog in the front seat. When they want to give you a citation they'll find something. Maybe I should just stop here and let them go around me. Maybe not. If his vision is as bad as mine he could plow into me.

There's no siren. Just lights. That's not a cop. What is that? Is that a fire engine? Why would a fire engine be out here out here? It's not like anything could be on fire.

Damn it! I missed the curve! Now I'm on that dirt road that isn't really a road and sure as hell isn't dirt anymore! Son of-come on, don't get stuck.

And the fire engine made the turn that I wanted. Thanks for running me off the road! Rescue vehicle jackass!

I'm not familiar with this excuse for a trail. I must be going two miles an hour now. So I should be back to the main stretch by September. Good. El Nino should have cleared up by then.

Damn it! I felt that! I don't want to know what it was, but I think water is getting in through the bottom of the door. This road is turning into a creek. The water level is pretty deep. The engine is screaming at me but I can't help it. I can't stop, or the car will flood.

And my feet are wet. Is that from sweat or is the rain seeping in? If the water touches something electrical in the car can you get electrocuted?

I didn't even notice that the rain had slowed. I can see. A little. Not much. A tiny bit. But at least I know I'm still moving forward. For a second I couldn't tell if the tires were spinning in mud.

I saw the moon. It was only a moment but it was there. And it's comforting. Is that ridiculous? Am I decidedly naive to feel better seeing the moon peek through this tsunami? It's probably laughing at me but it's nice to know it's actually taken notice.

Oh good. Lightning now. Thanks for not hitting the- Wow! That was loud! Where is the damn road?

Is that it? I can't tell. I think it's a road, but I don't recognize it. It's got to go somewhere.

Now I have no idea where I am. And I can't see again. No moon. Just rain and lightn- Shit! That was close!

Okay, am I on the road? Am I near a road? It feels like road beneath my tires. It's never felt so good to be on a flat surface; water splashing the underbelly of the car. With God as my witness, I'm never going to drive again.

...

Is that what I think it is?

Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Those damn flashing lights! I can't see! I'm sliding! I'm going to hit! Brakes! Where are the brakes? I can't-

...

It's raining. Inside. The car.

I feel it pouring down my face. Rain and something else.

The lights are still flashing. I can see now. It's an ambulance. Of course it would be an ambulance. I've been run off the road by a damned ambulance.

The rain is almost deafening, pounding, but not quite. It grants me a window to hear final words before the rain puts me to sleep.

A voice.

From inside this mobile emergency unit.

Politely explains.

"Sorry, but we're looking for somebody else."

Short Story Week: Day Five -Every Wolf Has His Day

I don't think an introduction for this story is necessary, so why bother? But if I were to introduce it, I think I'd say something along the lines of "Here it is".

Every Wolf Has His Day

Part One

(Outdoors, on a sunny hillside. The Big Bad Wolf enters and sits down, producing a large red book. Goldilocks scurries past him. She hiccups.)

Wolf: Good morning.

(The girl quickly acknowledges him but continues without saying anything.)

Wolf: Let's see. (He displays the cover of the book to the audience which read The Big Bad Wolf.) I've been wanting to read this. (He opens the book while a family of three bears run past in the same direction as the little girl.) Hey guys!

(One bear responds with a grumble. The little one waves. They all exit.)

Wolf: Okay. (reading) The Big Bad Wolf. By Samuel Marcus Zachary Wentworth IV. (to audience) Wow, some people keep making the same mistakes.

Narrator: (in a voice overhead) Once upon a time...

Wolf: (intrigued by the voice) So, that actually happens. Lost my place already.

Narrator: Once upon a time there was a big bad wolf.

Wolf: (to audience) There really was. I can attest to it. (he starts flipping to the end of the book) I sure hope this has a happy ending.

Narrator: Don't do that.

Wolf: Sorry.

(The Wicked Witch enters, lugging a basket covered in a cloth, hobbling slowly in the direction of the wolf.)

Narrator: The wolf sat on the beautiful countryside, thinking to himself.

Wolf: Oh, that is interesting. I wonder what I'm thinking about. (The witch passes him slowly.) Good morning.

(The witch takes a few steps and stops.)

Witch: What?

Wolf: Nothing. I just said 'Good morning'.

Witch: Are you serious? You just said 'Good morning' to me?

Wolf: Yeah, why? Is it afternoon already?

Witch: You're a disgrace! You know that?

Wolf: What did I do?

Witch: The Big Bad Wolf doesn't sit around reading and telling people 'Good morning'!

Wolf: Well, it's a nice morning. I mean, what would make you happy?

Witch: You're not supposed to make me happy! You're supposed to terrorize and threaten people!

Wolf: I was...about to...come over there and terrorize you.

Witch: Please. You couldn't terrorize a...chipmunk.

Wolf: Why a chipmunk?

Witch: Shut up! I couldn't think of anything.

Wolf: No, watch this! I'm going to be really terrorizing. (he clears his throat) Look out! There's an octopus!

Witch: (after a few moments of not reacting, she pulls an apple out of her basket) See this? It's a poisoned apple.

Wolf: Oh, well you should be careful with that. Don't want anyone to get hurt.

Witch: Yes! I do! That's the point! You have 'Bad' in the middle of your name! What's the matter with you?

Wolf: Oh I can do some bad things all right. I was going to dog-ear all the pages in this book before I returned it.

Witch: (slapping the book away from him) See that hill? There's three pigs over that hill.

Wolf: I think law enforcement deserves more respect...

Witch: REAL PIGS! Go do what you're supposed to do!

Wolf: Alright. (He takes out his cellphone) Fine.

Witch: What are you doing?

Wolf: I'm letting them know I'm coming. (into phone) Listen, you pigs. I'm on my way over. If you get this message before I get there, you can call me back. This is the Big Bad Wolf. See you later.

Narrator: But the Wicked Witch wasn't convinced the wolf would follow through on his claim and she followed him to the hill where the pigs lived.

Wolf: Do you just want to walk together?

Witch: I'm not going with you!

Wolf: (pointing to the narrator's voice) But the-

(The witch storms off. The Big Bad Wolf shrugs and heads in the other direction.)

Part Two

(Outside the house of the three little pigs. The wolf enters.)

Wolf: Okay. Big. Bad. Big and bad.

(He hums a little of the wolf's theme from Peter and the Wolf before knocking on the door. A moment later three pigs appear in the doorway.)

Wolf: Little pigs! Little pigs! Let me in!

Pigs: (exchanging a glance with each other) Sure. It's open.

Wolf: Then I'll huff and I'll- wait, what?

Pigs: Yeah, we got your message. Come on in, we need a fourth player.

Wolf: (giving the audience a puzzled look) Oh. All right then. (he enters the house)

Narrator: It was some time later when mingled curiosity and irritation got the better of the Wicked Witch that she arrived outside the pigs' home to find out what had happened.

(The witch enters, still carrying the basket.)

Witch: (to herself) What is he doing in there?

(A few seconds later, the door to the pigs' house opens and the wolf steps out wearing a plastic Hawaiian lei. There is the sound of merriment coming from inside. The witch's jaw drops.)

Wolf: Thanks a lot guys! I had a great time! See you next week? (General affirmation from inside. The door shuts and the wolf notices the witch.) So you did follow me.

Witch: What's THIS?

Wolf: Oh, I had so much fun in there! Those guys are gr-

Witch: Didn't I tell you to do what you do?

Wolf: Yeah, but I wound up doing this instead. We're getting together again next week if you'd like to-(the witch whacks him on the snout) What was THAT for?

Witch: You are seriously an embarrassment! What part of 'Big Bad' is lost on you?

Wolf: Maybe I don't want to be bad. I'm telling you, you're really missing out.

(Little Red Riding Hood enters, carrying a similar basket to the one the Wicked Witch has.)

Witch: (pointing at Red) You have one shot to redeem yourself. Now do it right!

(Red stops and pulls out a map of the forest.)

Wolf: Okay, fine. How does this one go? (he approached Red and clears his throat.) My, what a big basket you have. (Red looks at him with uncertainty. The wolf looks to the witch.) Is that right? (The witch does a face palm. The wolf turns back to Red.) Do you need help carrying that?

Red: (handing him her basket) Thank you kind sir. I'm Little Red Riding Hood.

Wolf: I'm the Big Bad Wolf. This is my friend, the Wicked Witch-

Witch: ASK ABOUT HER GRANDMOTHER!

Wolf: How is your grandmother doing?

(The witch throws her hands up, dropping her basket and pushes her way between Red and the wolf.)

Witch: What nimbus here is trying to say is you look lost and he can tell you how to get to your grandmother's house.

Wolf: That's true. I know a shortcut-

Witch: No you don't! The mountain path will take you straight to her house.

Wolf: Yeah, but it's going to take her all the way around-

Witch: (grabbing the wolf's nose) THAT'S THE WAY SHE'S GOING!

Red: Really. It's fine. I don't mind the walk.

Witch: That's good, child. Now run along. These woods can get terribly violent.

(The witch starts to leave, before the wolf calls out to her.)

Wolf: You forgot your basket. (He absently holds up Red's basket. The witch grabs it from him and storms off.) I'm sorry you had to see that. She's been on edge today.

Red: It happens to the best of us.

Wolf: Well, tell your grandmother I said hi.

Red: Aren't you going to be there?

Wolf: (making the connection) Oh! Right! Well, I'll tell her you said hi.

(The wolf runs off, leaving Red to pick up the witch's basket. She notices one of the pigs poking its head out the door to see what was going on.)

Red: Should I be concerned about this?

(The pig shrugs. The action moves to outside Grandmother's house. The wolf enters and checks the name on the mailbox, confirming he's at the right place.)

Wolf: (reading) Grand-mother's-house. (the door to the mailbox falls open and hangs lopsided) Whoops. (the wolf closes it and it falls open again. He struggles with it but manages to click the hinges back in the way they're supposed to be.) There we go.

(The wolf walks over to the house's front door and knocks.)

Granny: Who is it?

Wolf: Big Bad Wolf. (he waits a few moments in silence) Hello?

Granny: Go away.

Wolf: Come on, open the door.

Granny: No!

Wolf: Wait, did I flub this already?

Granny: Go away or I'll call the woodcutter!

Wolf: Come one Granny. Red Riding Hood will be here any minute. You've got to let me in.

(Granny opens the door as far as the chain lock will allow.)

Granny: What is my incentive to let the Big Bad Wolf into my house?

Wolf: You...That's actually a good question. (Granny slams the door.) Oh, right! Um. (in falsetto) It's Red Riding Hood, grandma. (he's answered with silence) Okay. It's not Red Riding Hood. Look, it's been kind of weird day, could you just advance the project for me?

Granny: I'm NOT letting you in.

Wolf: The pigs let me in. We had a great time.

Granny: And then you ate them!

Wolf: I did not! You can call them right now.

Granny: You're the Big Bad Wolf!

Wolf: That's just a name. Were they calling you 'Grandma' when you were in kindergarten? I mean, I fixed your mailbox. (there is no response) You want to play hardball, lady? (he walks away from the door) Where's that ladder?

Narrator: And so the wolf found a ladder and climbed up on top of Grandmother's house.

(Granny steps outside to see what the wolf is doing.)

Granny: You know I have a pot boiling at the bottom of the chimney, right?

Wolf: I'm not looking for the chimney. (a handful of leaves and pine needles lands in front of Granny) I'm going to clear out your storm drain. (several more handfuls are sent downwards) I'll show you how nice I can be.

Granny: Look, you don't have to do this.

Wolf: Nope. Once I start something...

(The scene transitions inside Grandmother's house a little while later. Granny is reading a book. Red Riding Hood enters with the woodcutter.)

Red: ...It was just kind of strange, you know? I mean, we may not need you today but do you mind hanging out for a second just in case?

(The woodcutter nods and steps just offstage. Red Riding Hood walks in the house still carrying the basket.)

Red: Hi Grandm- (she realizes it's actually her grandmother in the house) Grandma? (Granny nods) Where is he?

Granny: He's cleaning out the garage.

Red: Okay? (she sits next to Granny) So what do we do then?

Granny: I don't know. I'm at a loss.

Red: Well, I brought you some goodies. A bunch of cakes, pastries, muffins. (Granny looks in the basket) You know, I never thought about it before but it might not be the best idea to overload an elderly woman on processed sugar.

Granny: (taking out the apple) I'm sure this would be fine.

Red: That's odd. I don't remember packing that.

(Granny bites into the apple as the wolf walks in carrying a feather duster and a cap on his head)

Wolf: I just remembered. I was supposed to tell you Red Riding Hood says hi- (he sees the apple and dives for it) NO!

(The wolf pushes the apple out of Granny's hand and onto the floor, which takes her dentures with it. The dentures start burning as smoke rises from the apple. Nobody moves for a few seconds.)

Wolf: (to Granny) You okay?

(Red Riding Hood throws her arms around her grandmother)

Granny: I'm fine. Thank you.

(The wolf sinks into a chair in relief as the woodcutter runs in with his axe ready.)

Red: No, it's okay! The Big Bad Wolf saved my grandma's life!

Wolf: Do you think we somehow got the baskets mixed up?

(Cut to inside the dwarfs' cottage. The Wicked Witch is frozen in disbelief as Snow White is stuffing her face with Red Riding Hood's treats, managing to mention between gulps how nice it was of the witch to bring her so many desserts.)

Witch: I'm gonna kill him.

Part Three

(Outside in a meadow. An adolescent shepherd boy sits on a fence ignoring the sheep bleating off stage.)

Boy: Wolf! (he snickers to himself) WOLF!

(A few seconds later a farmer carrying a pitchfork runs in and the boy starts laughing.)

Farmer: I swear if you do that one more time you're going in the thrasher!

Milkmaid: (running in) Is it him again?

Farmer: Yeah!

Milkmaid: What is wrong with you?

(A few more townsfolk show up, all equally hostile. They are spouting insults at the shepherd boy and are approaching the consensus to 'get him' when the Big Bad Wolf comes running in from the opposite side.)

Wolf: I got here as fast as I could! What's going on?

Everybody else: WOLF!!!

(A commotion breaks out with a few people panicking and some threatening the wolf. The wolf throws his hands up to regain order.)

Wolf: Guys! This isn't helping! Let's take it back down to about a three and see if we can sort this out. (the crowd calms down a bit) Okay. I'm here because I heard somebody calling for a wolf. Now, it looks like you guys are about to lynch this kid. Is that right?

(Everybody begins talking at once again and the wolf has to settle them back down. Another villager runs in at the last minute wearing a towel.)

Villager: That sounded for real. Hey, there really is a wolf this time!

Wolf: (pointing to the milkmaid) You. What's this about?

Milkmaid: This is the third time today this punk has started yelling "Wolf!" at the top of his lungs and we all come running to help him and he starts laughing like it's a game to him!

Wolf: So does everyone agree that this is the central issue?

(All the villagers respond affirmatively with the anger level rising again. The wolf has to bring it back down once more.)

Wolf: Okay, I get it. I'd be mad too. But remember, he's a kid. He's got some impulsiveness-

Milkmaid: THREE TIMES! (the others agree with the sentiment)

Wolf: I'm not saying it excuses the behavior, but let's at least hear him out. (there's a grumbling that fades to silence, and the wolf turns to the shepherd boy) Have you been stirring up these people? (the shepherd boy refuses to make eye-contact) Come on, work with me a little.

Boy: It was just a joke.

Wolf: Really? It doesn't seem all that funny to me. I mean, maybe you think so but to everybody else, it's kind of mean spirited.

Boy: I just don't see what the big deal is.

Wolf: The big deal is, you're entertaining yourself at their expense. I mean, look at them. They fell for it twice already and they still came running just in case you were really in trouble. (pointing to the one villager) That guy got out of the shower for you. Of course they're mad. Is it honestly worth this to you?

Boy: Do you have any idea how boring it is watching sheep all day?

Wolf: No I don't. But if you really feel that way, why did you become a shepherd?

Boy: I didn't become this! I was told to do it!

Wolf: (nodding) Okay, I think I understand. Have you ever told anyone that you weren't happy?

Boy: (softly) No.

Wolf: Well, is there something you'd rather be doing instead? (the shepherd boy stares at the ground) Come on. I find that people do a job better if they like doing it. You really don't have anything to lose-

Boy: I want to be a marine biologist.

Wolf: (taking a moment) Okay that's good. It's a little out of my area of expertise. (turning to the crowd) What do you guys think? I don't have a solution but can we at least agree to keep talking about this some more? (everyone nods in agreement) Great! I think we're all in a good place right now.

(The Wicked Witch runs in, pointing at the wolf furiously.)

Witch: YOU!

Wolf: I can explain-

Witch: I am going to skin your fur and wear it!

Boy: (to the Big Bad Wolf) Run for it!

Farmer: Let's get her!

Witch: What the-

(The Big Bad Wolf runs off while the villagers proceed to beat up the Wicked Witch.)

 

Witch: I swear I'm gonna- (the rest of her sentence is muffled out)

 

(The scene transitions into a late afternoon setting, where the Big Bad Wolf, Goldilocks and the bears are seated in a circle having been talking for some time. Goldilocks hiccups.)

 

Wolf: So we're all cool then? (the bears all nod in agreement while Goldilocks hiccups again) Everybody satisfied with the compromise?

 

(The bears nod again followed by another hiccup. The wolf suddenly lunges at Goldilocks startling everybody. She freezes momentarily, then lets out a sigh of relief as her hiccups have been cured. She leans in to give the wolf a squeeze as the meeting breaks up.)

 

Wolf: Okay sweetie, you run on home before it gets dark. Remember, next weekend. Bears versus pigs! The practical one's quiet but I think he can count cards. (they all start moving away) Man! I'm on a roll today!

 

(Everyone but the wolf leaves. He notices the figure of the Wicked Witch sitting with her back to him in front of a stream.)

Narrator: And the moral of the story-

 

Wolf: (gently cutting the narrator off) Not now. (he approaches the witch from behind, but she refuses to acknowledge him) Rough day? (he sits next to her) You know, I give pretty good neck rubs-

 

Witch: Don't you touch me!

 

(They stare into the stream for a few seconds without speaking.)

 

Wolf: Do you know the old proverb "Remove the rocks and the river loses its song"? It's one of my favorites. Whenever I sit by a creek or river or anything with running water, it pops into my head. I used to think the rocks were the troubles life gave you, and the song represented how you got around them, and maybe that's what it's supposed to mean. But sometimes I think, maybe we're the rocks. You know? Like, some rocks are so small all they ever do is get pushed around by the current. And then there's the really big ones, firmly in the ground and still reaching through the surface. I always thought, those are the rocks that make the song. But the constant current slowly whittles away at those rocks. They gradually get smaller. Finally, they can't hold onto their spot anymore. And it becomes a slightly different song.

 

Witch: Is there a point that your insipid prattling is bound for?

 

Wolf: Not really. I just find when the river changes course it's better to roll with it.

 

Witch: You know I want you dead. Right?

 

Wolf: Yeah. But that's today. (he gets up) Come on. I'll walk you home.

(The Wicked Witch shoots the Big Bad Wolf a look but ultimately gives up on protesting. They wander down the trail together.)

THE END

Short Story Week: Day Four -The CORE of PSD

This one came from my graduate school years. So many of my assignments in Library School required me to read and summarize academic articles, and after about the ninth one I began to wonder if the people who wrote the articles actually WANTED to write them. I honestly got the sense that they were deliberately overloading their prose with large words just to make it all sound important.

As a result, I came up with my own library themed academic article, which I never worked up the brass to try sneaking into a reputable journal.

The CORE of PSD

The role of the Proliferate System Designer in the history of the Great Information Superconductor is often met with nearly as much disdain as the superconductor itself. The PSD is a collection of thoroughly minded individuals, whose sole purpose did in fact originate with the noblest of intentions, i.e. to analyze a living system, comprehend it, and provide a plan for simplification and efficient functionality.

To date, the collective has yet to demonstrate any results of that third goal. And claims of either of the first two goals’ success remain inconclusive, as there is nobody who isn't part of the collective capable of analyzing and/or comprehending the collective’s analyses and/or comprehensions. As such, the value of the Proliferate System Designers remains ambiguous. The effect on the other hand is quite concrete, and one need and/or dare look no further than humanity's entrance into (what we laughably refer to as) the information age.

Since the birth of cognitive thought, there has been an unquestionable inclination towards mental overload, probably. From the moment communication was granted ease of access to a variety of outlets (penmanship, typeface, audio recording, tattoo parlors) the potential for information overload reared its stupid, stupid head.

When it comes to the isolated overload of the individual, known colloquially as 'intellectual noise' (at least in this publication) the remedy is as simple as a few weeks of bedrest combined with healthy doses of raw opium. But in the case of the freaking system; a complex web of individuals each believing themselves to be the sole exception, the information overload leaves a financial, social, and emotional impact on the system as a whole.

The fundamental problem, as it were (or was, I can never keep that straight), is the circular reasoning behind recorded history. Once something is written down, its 'having been written down' also becomes a measurable fact. And when a system begins recording its own process of recording, the already subjective sense of assigning value to information becomes irrelevant. For an illustration of the global threat one need not look further than the 2011 abstract The Intranational War on Moroncy; in fact not much further than the title.

The potential for overload was first recorded in the early 1970’s when the Archives of Congress demanded a simplification of all the material available. Enter the Proliferate Systems Designers, who created the RPIR (Response Program in Response; that’s what they called it) to begin the arduous process of going through all available records. Which they recorded. To say the least about the results, one would have to have shut up decades ago, and even then it wouldn't have mattered.

As it became clear over the next three years that the complexity of intellectual noise was worsening, the Proliferate System Designers pretended to place confidence in the idea of an expansive Council on Redundancy Elimination (or CORE as it came to be forgotten) to sort through the mess; made up of a hearing committee, which did exactly what it sounded like, a Magistrate to oversee stuff, and all votes being decided by an eleven seat entity called the board of chairs, because Proliferate System Designers aren’t very creative.

On March 8th 1976, the first joint session between the board of chairs and the hearing committee was held in the Louis Isaac Memorial Atrium, whoever that was. Walter P. Simmons was appointed behind his back to the position of Magistrate. Two days later, Magistrate Simmons received his first notice for suspension having not shown up for two days worth of meetings, the irony being lost on the entire council.

There was a call to remove Magistrate Simmons from his position, presumably from him. The board of chairs voted it down with a margin of eight to three. Thus with no speaker on the floor, and nothing for the hearing committee to hear, the rest of the meeting continued about as well as you’d imagine. Of note was the committee member who pantomimed a request to end the meeting early which was voted down by the board with a margin of six to five.

By August of 1976, fifteen meetings had been held in silence when Magistrate Simmons made a surprise appearance at the atrium to submit his letter of resignation. The board voted against it with a margin of nine to three, the extra vote being from the atrium’s bookkeeper who had just poked her head in to say hi. Self-evidence suggested that the council’s model was ineffective, and Magistrate Simmons called for a restructuring, which was voted down by the board with a margin of six to one; by then four members had nodded off. Simmons then called for the board of chairs to shove itself, which was unanimously voted down by a margin of one member’s finger.

The Secretary of Something We’ll Figure it Out Later, who up until that point had been keeping track of the minutes by hatch marks, took it upon himself to collocate what he felt were the council’s primary inefficiencies. The full documentation of which would eventually appear in Gormon’s Annotated Anthology of Unabridged Footnotes Index, now available on ebook and ASMR. According to Professor R. G. Labrador, in his introduction on page ninety-three, an early draft of the document found its way into possession of the Commission on Inefficiency Negation (or COIN, just because).

Based on this commission’s advice which nobody asked for, the Council on Redundancy Elimination agreed to host the Proliferate System Designers Convention of 1978, which attracted the top minds in the field of information analysis, as well as the slightly less than top minds, several hundred who overestimated themselves, and some of their friends. The convention proved to be such a success for everyone not in attendance that a second one was fast-tracked, and then delayed three years, to become Also the Proliferate Systems Designers Convention of 1978 of 1981.

As morbid fascination with PSD-Con reached a global audience, the Commission on Inefficiency Negation, now the special guest of its own convention, was relegated into using the same space as the Council on Redundancy Elimination. A decision that nobody will admit to was made to rename both entities as the Commission on Eliminating Redundant Council Inefficiency of Negation as it was the only way to combine both COIN and CORE into a single eight letter word. Unfortunately that word was COERCION, and the task of reversing the decision became the primary goal of the Proliferate System Designers Conventions of 1982 through 2005.

By 2006, the expenditure of the convention seemed to have outlasted its practicality. This, combined with an increase in publically inappropriate Melvil Dewey cosplayers, prompted a proposition to expunge Proliferate System Designers, and everything they ever stood for, wrote, or made eye-contact with from the council’s ipseity; and yes, that's a word Grammarly. The proposition was deposited in front of the board of chairs via brick and subsequently disacknowledged with a margin of nine point three to one stick and a used banana peel.

In fact in 1983, history records the only time the board of chairs ever voted yes. Due to copier malfunction the daily agenda had been printed backwards; the meeting opening with the farewell address followed by those opposed and then in favor before the situation was rectified. Had they managed to go ten measly seconds longer the unpresented motion surely would have carried.

In 2007, the future of the Council on Redundancy Elimination was brought into question when Magistrate Walter P. Simmons shot himself in the head during the November meeting’s welcome and announcements. A motion was put forth to have him removed from his position which the board voted on; the results of which were never recorded, but provoked the hearing committee into taking action to overturn the board physically. The Magistrate’s final act was carried on the floor, then off it.

Two months later he was dug up for the appeal and reinstated. The temporary Magistrate, who had been acting as temporary Magistrate, and quite well, proposed that the board of chairs be disbanded permanently, although nobody bothered to call for a vote. They got one anyway. It was shot down with a margin of a hundred million billion and seven to three. In response, the council stenographer called for a vote ensuring the board be allowed to continue to vote, which they voted against, leaving the council in a legal conundrum.

As of this writing, the Council on Redundancy Elimination remains in a state of flux. The Proliferate System Designers have filed for a sixty-five thousand dollar government grant to scrap the whole system and start over. The Archives of Congress has offered them seventy thousand not to, but they're holding out for eighty-five.

Short Story Week: Day Three -Thinking Inside the Box

This was from day one of my second nanowrimo back in 2008. I had no idea what I was going to write, so I just let a character voice happen. I wound up liking this passage, but I honestly don't know what to do with it. So it's here instead.

As a little bonus today (since this one is so short) I was going through all my notes and stumbled across a silly anecdote about a dancer who was attempting to break a world record, in duration, by performing a Mobius Striptease. On the plus side she was able to perform it publicly, since even though she was constantly disrobing she was never actually exposing herself. And logically, the record could never be broken, once set. The downside of course was that the record technically COULDN'T be set.

I think that's probably a story best left without an ending. 

Thinking Inside the Box

I love walking into an empty room for the first time. There's nothing but potential. It can be a maze, a dungeon, a tomb, a prison, or a sanctuary. Yes! A sanctuary! I KNOW that was a sentence fragment. Do you want to check spelling as well? You're not looking at the room. Look at it!

You don't see a sanctuary? Then what do you see? I know you see nothing. What did I just say? I said the room was empty. Look at what isn't in the room. NOT ME! The room! What would you put in it?

Me? I wouldn't put anything in it. I love an empty room. Except I love being in an empty room. So I wouldn't put anything in it except for me.

Okay. I'm in the room now, so stop looking at me. Look at what isn't in the room. That means anything but me. What potential does this room hold for you? What belongs in this room? How about a rug? That would be pleasurable to lay on. To lie on.

Stop correcting my sentences! And look at the room! Forget the rug. What else can we put in the room? How about boxes? Empty boxes. I love empty boxes! They have nothing but potential. You can crawl into an empty box and it becomes your sanctuary. You can change the world from inside a box. You can put a whole world in a box. In the room.

Suppose the room is a box. Better yet, suppose the room is inside a box. It's like a box inside another box. Now what if they're the same box, and you climb out of the box only to find yourself still inside the box. Now what if you continued climbing outward only to find another room? Another box? And another? Are you trapped forever, or are you merely in the process of a perpetual escape?

Then what if you went the other way? Would you be hiding forever or would you be searching for that ever elusive treasure? The heart of all boxes. The center of all rooms.

What would be the point? It's the journey! Damn it! It's not how far you get, it's how you get there. It's why you get there. It's if you get there. And of course you get there, because you're already there. But because getting where you are is a struggle, that gives it meaning. All meaning has a struggle. If there's no struggle, there's no meaning.

But if you want it easy, then the room is empty.

It stays empty.

You're not listening.


I hate you.

Short Story Week: Day Two -A Glass of Wine

This story is a fairly recent idea. I tried writing it two years ago for the Hoover Library's Flash Fiction Night, but I kept losing interest when writing the description sections. So today I decided to do it entirely in dialogue format. I'm much happier with the result.

A Glass of Wine

"You sent for me, Your Majesty?"

"I did, Lord Moulton. Thank you for such a prompt response."

"How could I resist being Her Majesty's first audience? An honor indeed."

"Quite."

"It was a lovely coronation. The finest since Queen Augustina herself."

"Your seventh, I believe?"

"Sadly, yes. I never fully expressed my condolences for your father. He was a wise man."

"That he was. Unfortunately, someone was wiser."

"The Royal Family has many enemies."

"Lord Moulton, may I confide in you?"

"Of course."

"I am frightened."

"Even royal blood is prone to humanity, although it should never be witnessed in the courtyard."

"Agreed. I'm considering appointing a liaison to make appearances in my place."

"Far be it from me to question Her Majesty's decrees..."

"I did not summon you here for you to hold your tongue. I'm aware you believe me inexperienced and unfit to rule. And in the shadow of my father's passing, I feel the true weight of your words."

"So my counsel then?"

"Would you care for a glass of wine, Lord Moulton?"

"Allow me, Your Majesty."

"No, I insist. My father used to say 'All great journeys begin with a glass of wine'."

"The Gentle Rose is one of the finest blends in the known world. A perfect beginning."

"The bottle is a gift. One I've been apprehensive to open."

"As you should be, Your Majesty. But that particular bottle is a 1238 vintage, which I can personally vouch for. I have one in my case at home."

"Lord Moulton, as late as six months ago your opinion of me was untethered. You thought me whimsical. And, what was it?"

"Naive. Yes. A lovely trait for a child. But those who sit on the throne must be willing to do terrible things. Innocence is the first of many sacrifices."

"But when my father was killed, your opinion changed?"

"I withheld my opinion out of respect."

"You also became very supportive of my reign. One might question such a change in stance."

"The wake of tragedy reveals much about a person's character. Even to one's self. Occasionally, one such as yourself grows into the crown. Far be it from me to stand in the way."

"And what think you of me now? Still naive?"

"You're very young. Idealistic. Your father's assassin has been apprehended and you still allow him to draw breath in his prison."

"I have unanswered questions."

"Answers are often the second sacrifice. The crown calls to action."

"And that call is mine alone."

"To unanswered questions then."

"Lord Moulton, what would you do, were you in my position?"

"I'd drink from my goblet. The Gentle Rose is quite divine."

"The man in jail. He maintains his innocence."

"Of course he does. People lie. Especially to the crown. It's a game, your majesty. Your longevity depends on your skill. And how quickly you learn to play."

"Games are not something I find myself aligned with."

"Then I suggest you find someone who is. And appoint that man to be your Royal Liaison."

"That man? Someone such as yourself, Lord Moulton?"

"I would. It's best for everyone. There's no shame. Why not in ten days you make your appointment. I could open my bottle of 1238 Gentle Rose and we can raise a glass of wine to a great journey together."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible, Lord Moulton. This is your bottle of 1238 Gentle Rose."

"..."

"I see."

"..."

"I was saving this for you."

"..."

 "I've misjudged you. A pity really. Perhaps my approach was a miscalculation."

"An alliance between us could never have lasted."

"I suppose not. But what a wonderful, short journey it could have been. Will you still be looking for a liaison then?"

"No. I feel I may grow quite fond of my speaking appearances."

"I respectfully retract my previous comments, Your Majesty. You're ready. And the throne will suit you."

"Please know that your words are gratefully received. I'll not forget them."

"Well if you're not going to drink yours, there's no sense in wasting the vintage."

"Indeed."

"To your longevity, My Queen."

"And to your memory."

Short Story Week: Day One -A Current Event

I thought I would try an experiment this week. I have about a hundred handwritten pages that I've torn out of various school notebooks of mine over the years; mostly random thoughts or general complaining about whatever was going on in my life. But occasionally I find the beginning of a story nestled in there. Sometimes it's a paragraph long. Sometimes it's a sentence fragment. But it seemed like it might be a fun challenge to take this week and dust one of them off every day and turn it into a flash fiction piece.

So here is Day One's story.

A Current Event

On the continent of Stalacia there exists a river which separates the neighboring countries of Warlock and Efreet. Many years ago, these two nations had a very uncomfortable tolerance of each other. They weren't at war, but one could clearly feel the rising tension of both nations, perhaps because of simple proximity.

The river which ran between them was the Thresh, one of the more unique rivers on all of Stalacia. Owing to the type of sediments the current carried and dissolved, the Thresh was entirely purple. The color was entirely harmless, except that it was impossible to see while swimming across. And the Thresh's current was strong and swift. No human alive had ever been able to enter the purple water without being swept off their feet.

One day, a traveler came upon Thresh from the side of Warlock. The traveler had been advised that there were two markers at the end of a Warlock trail leading to the edge of Thresh which were matched on the opposite side on Efreet's land. The two nations could never have agreed to build a bridge, but this particular crossing spot had a legend. For anyone who entered the river and swam straight and true, the Goddess would see them reach the other markers. The traveler was assured that many messengers and missionaries has confirmed this to be true.

Thinking little of the legend, the traveler stepped casually into the purple water; presuming that this just happened to be a spot where the current was still. With no warning, traveler discovered the current was very much in full force and was quick to pull any careless foot down into its depths. The traveler thrashed about blindly in a panic and spent the next few minutes regaining sanctuary on the banks of Warlock, about half a mile south of the marker.

After a weary hike back to the trail, the traveler had decided the legend was nothing more than collective nonsense. Crossing the Thresh was necessary, but it would invariably also require an extensive stroll back to the trail on Efreet's side. The traveler accepted the inevitable and stepped in the purple water again and disappeared under the surface, this time with the conviction to swim as steadily as possible so as to alleviate the great distance on the other side as much as possible.

About a minute later, the traveler emerged from the Thresh, and was surprised to find the Efreet markers at arm's length. Perplexed, the traveler turned to look back at the Warlock side. True enough. The legend had been correct. Despite the wicked current, the traveler had in fact reached the markers directly across the river.

Well, curiosity took hold of the traveler. Despite better judgment, the traveler dipped into the Efreet side of the Thresh, intentionally getting swept into the current, and emerged a few minutes later without crossing. And there the truth became clear. The traveler was about a half mile hike north of the markers on Efreet. The Thresh's current flowed both ways.

The traveler scurried back to the markers, reinvigorated with the thrill of discovery and eager to share it with the first soul available. But upon arriving at the trail, the traveler found a heated argument was taking place between a native of Warlock on one side of the Thresh and a native of Efreet on the other. They were sneering and barking about why each should be allowed to cross first and why the other one should wait. One threatened to meet the other halfway and drown him in the sediments, while the other vowed to beat the first into unconsciousness and let the current carry him into the Saffron Sea. Then in unison, both opponents entered the Thresh and began their underwater charge.

As expected, each emerged on the opposite side of the river, having never met in the middle. Thinking quickly, the traveler feigned amazement. "By the Goddess! She must think equally of your nations to allow both its inhabitants to pass through each other unharmed!"

Both natives were too confused to continue the argument or challenge the traveler's interpretation, and they both went off in their separate directions. Over the next few days, the account of the strange occurrence spread through both Warlock and Efreet. Within a month it spawned several similar but unique tales. And it's difficult to say what exactly creates a change in two countries' perceptions of each other; but three generations later, the Traveler's Bridge was built between Warlock and Efreet.

Disney's Underrated Classic: A Goofy Movie

There are people who honestly don't think the character of Goofy is funny. I don't trust them.

Disney has produced an impressive VIP lineup, but none of them are quite as amorphously defined as Dippy Dawg's successor. Goofy can do anything the situation requires; be it bursting into vaudeville melodrama, getting into a fistfight with a dresser drawer, taking a boulder to the head, or playing every male and female character onscreen at the same time.

One of my favorite memories working at Disney involved Goofy. A friend of mine was portraying the character, and it wasn't feasible for him to do his set at main street, get out of costume, walk to Toon Town, get back INTO costume and do his next set. So he just wore the whole costume backstage and at the bus stop. So I was sitting next to him, having a random conversation, when the Traditions class rolled up (New hirees and their first day). And I thought to myself, "Their first impression of being a Disney cast member was seeing ME...chilling with my buddy Goofy". I still smile today.

At his core, Goofy is a metaphor. He's that basic human sense of accomplishment, even if the small victory he achieves is nowhere near his original goal. He has a delight and an optimism that is simply undefeatable. The world is always more complex than his brain is capable of processing, but those tiny moments of clarity never fail to provoke a comforting "Uh-Hyuk" out of him.

Therefore, it was a true stroke of genius for the team at Disney MovieToons (the company notorious for beating up our childhood with *favorite Disney memory* II and III direct-to-trashbin) to place Goofy in an unwinnable situation where there are personal consequences for him. 1995's A Goofy Movie explores the the period where Goofy's son Max has entered his adolescence and is dealing with the hormonal changes that make every perception feel like life or death, and his father the villain by virtue of proximity.

It's a pretty bold premise for Disney. The 1990's made for a cynical decade. This was the period of films like Reality Bites, and Clerks. Of course this was also Disney itself was experiencing its animated renaissance, partly from adults who desperately needed a sense of whimsy. Neither Mickey nor Donald could have held up in this situation because Mickey doesn't work unless he's able to fix the problem, and you can't fix cynicism. And Donald would have just yelled at it. No, it was Goofy and all of his endurance that made him the correct gladiator to send in.

If you haven't seen the movie, here's the quick version. Max likes this girl at school named Roxanne. In a desperate attempt to get her attention he shows out at school, which works but also gets him in trouble with the principal. The principal chews Goofy out over the phone for not raising his son correctly, which instills the Goof with a sense of real stress. His solution? To drag Max on a cross country vacation to go fishing, which Max (and I) would rather eat nails than agree to. This requires Max to back out of his first date with Roxanne which he covers with a lie, claiming his father is taking him to a televised rock concert in L.A. and that he's going to join the singer Powerline on stage for the final number.

The chemistry between Max and Roxanne is fantastic considering how little screen time it gets. It's the first of several important elements which ground the cartoon into credibility. The second is the two leads, Max and Goofy. As the audience, we can see both sides with both arrays of character flaws, and the emotional tension approaches uncomfortable levels.

Then they get to Lester's Possum Park, which is the second best scene in the movie. It starts off freaking hysterical, with Disney doing an almost Simpsons-styled satire on their own theme park attractions. And then it ends in heartbreak when Max rejects every effort Goofy makes to bond with him. The final image of the scene involves Goofy's car running over the possum hat that Max has thrown out the window (looking suspiciously like a real dead possum). It's not clear where the line between tragedy and dark comedy is, but the tire tracks are certainly skirting it.

That's Act I. Act II gives us the suspenseful moment when Max changes the route on Goofy's map sending them to L.A. instead of their fishing destination. Of course he temporarily dodges the bullet when Goofy straight up gives him the map to act as navigator, and the new responsibility causes them to become closer. But then they cross paths with Pete.

Pete (aka Pegleg/Pistol Pete) honestly deserves a blog all to himself. His anthropomorphic base-animal has gone from cat to bulldog, with possible bear thrown in for a while. There was a time when his character was being simultaneously used by rival animation companies, courtesy of the whole Oswald the Lucky Rabbit fiasco. But whenever a Disney story needs a bully antagonist, Pete is your guy. Here, he represents the proverbial bad father.

Pete's presence in A Goofy Movie is limited to just a handful of scenes, but his effect resonates through the entire film. It was the combined voices of Pete and Max's principal that convinced Goofy there was a problem in the first place, but whereas the principal is just being a little overdramatic, Pete has a multi-layered agenda. On the one hand, his goal is to always keep Goofy a peg below himself, like a true bully. But beyond that initial motivator there's an actual heart to him. Pete actually believes he's helping Goofy. It just might be the character's best performance to date.

The best scene in the movie is the hot tub scene that closes out Act II. It's nothing more than a conversation between Goofy and Pete and it's done without any background music (a bit of a rarity in Western Animation). Pete reveals to Goofy that his son has changed the map route and been lying to him. And for the first time in the movie Goofy stands up to him and says "I don't believe you." It's an intense moment, because Goofy's nature is to take everyone at their word. And it's made all the more painful by the fact that (for once) Pete is right. Cue Goofy's breaking point.

From here we go fully into Joseph Campbell territory, albeit Disney-fied. The 'death of the father' trope metaphorically happens at a waterfall sequence where Goofy in unable to rescue his son but Max is able to rescue his father using a skill he learned on the trip. In the end, Goofy gets what he hoped for, even if it wasn't what he set out to do. Max accomplishes exactly what he said he would do but, through his father's encouragement, faces the reality that it was a lie. That's some pretty adult material for a movie with the name 'Goofy' in the title.

Goofy's first appearance was in 1932. It amazes me that a sixty-three year old character can still be given room to develop. This movie continues to evoke the tears in me whenever I watch it, not because of the sadness, but because of the depth. Is it perfect? Of course not. I was kind of expecting there to be more humor in it than there was. But who cares, when there's so much that's even better? The quality of A Goofy Movie is sadly overlooked, but I still maintain this is a true gem.

Well, that's my review, but I want to close out this week with a tribute to Goofy's calling card, the Goofy Holler. You have to have heard it before as it's as famous as the Wilhelm Scream. The Goofy Holler made its debut in the 1941 short The Art of Skiing. Man, they got some mileage out of it for that cartoon. Recorded (and I assume created) by yodeller Hannes Schroll, the affectionate "Yaaaaa-hoo-hoo-hoo-hooey" has become iconic. Now in some instances I feel the Goofy Holler is used incorrectly. He's called it out when running from a bull and riding on an out of control carriage. It's best meant to be a falling thing. So here are my top five examples of the Goofy Holler.

5. A Goofy Movie (1995 film)

See the above review. The holler happened three times in the movie, during the title screen, subtly on the roller coaster, and at at the end when the car finally explodes. The best use in this movie was the first. The words "A Movie" appear with all of their cinematic dignity only to be undermined by "Yaaaaa-hoo-hoo-hoo-hooey" and the word "Goofy" drops into place signifying exactly what kind of mood we should be in. And then the colors fill the screen.

4. You Can Always Be Number One (1983 video)

This insanely passionate ABBA inspired (and possibly plagiarized) song appeared on the album Mickey Mouse Splashdance. You can find the song online, but I haven't found the music video for it anywhere, which was made up of clips from Goofy's sport related cartoons. In the video, the Goofy Holler appeared twice during the same bridge. It's the second one that matters because it fits the timing of the music perfectly. I don't know why it wasn't on the album version, but...memories.

3. The Prince and the Pauper (1990 short film)

This film was both wonderful and not. Meaning, the production team had a lot of great ideas and not enough space for them to fit into a measly 24 minutes; Donald Duck in particular is a casualty of run-time. But Goofy gets to steal just about the whole film, and his peak is the Goofy Holler that comes before you're expecting it. Goofy has just realized the Mickey he thinks he knows is actually the prince, and swears to protect him. By getting thrown out of a window. It's a really awesome break in the rising tension.

2. Hot Lead and Cold Feet (1978 film)

In the seventies, Disney started sneaking the Goofy Holler into several of its live-action movies. This comedy western, starring Jim Dale in three different roles, was the best use of it. Dale's primary character is Eli, an innocent preacher who gets roped into a complicated race through the mountains with his twin brother for his inheritance. The first leg of the race involves locomotives, and Eli's gets sabotaged into veering off track through an Indian reservation (that wouldn't fly today) and eventually off a cliff. Based on his character's demeanor and the over-his-head situation he's in, the Goofy Holler could not have been more appropriate.

1. Three for Breakfast (1948 short)

It's so weird. The only Disney short on this list doesn't actually have Goofy in it. Three for Breakfast is a Donald Duck/Chip and Dale short where the trio come into conflict over Donald's pancakes. When an accidental rubber cement spill creates an impossibly elastic pancake, the opposing sides engage in a carefully structured tug-of-war, which culminates in Donald's side wrapping the pancake around every piece of furniture in his house and popping up on the roof where the chipmunks are refusing to let go of their side. Dale greases Donald's feet with butter, and the potential energy that has been built up turns kinetic. Donald gets the "Oh crap" facial expression and disappears off the roof. Goofy Holler.

This is why I think it's the best use of the sound effect. There is the tension which escalates beyond reason. There is the turning point. And then there's the beat right before all hell breaks loose. It's in that beat where the Goofy Holler excels. That's what the whole yell is about. "I have just lost control of my situation at the worst possible time and there's nothing I can do except take the impact".

And it happens on a fall.