Chasing the Rabbit: Chapter Sixteen -Through the Looking Glass

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Alice and Meg had spent the better part of an hour trying the many doors throughout the mansions hallways. Several of them proved to be mere decorations that led nowhere or wouldn't even open. A few revealed storage closets with nothing to store. Once in a while they would find a dining area or study containing furniture that seemed to be bolted to the floor and very little they could interact with. Alice had wondered aloud if the place had meant to be a museum, to which Meg had no response.

They hadn't found anything to eat, and after a while they'd forgotten it was the reason they'd gone exploring. A confusion about the mansion's layout had become the more pressing concern, as they found themselves hopelessly lost in the maze of corridors.

Meg reached for the next handle and felt the door give a little. "That one is a façade," Alice told her but Meg ignored the suggestions, throwing all of her weight into it. The portal flung open; a small cloud of dust causing Meg to cough.

"Goodness, Miss Meg! Are you all right?"

"I've breathed worse," said Meg. "Although not by much, considering what dust is."

"My apologies. I was so sure I tried that door already."

"I think we're both pretty turned around." The room had a double bed with drapes, a small dresser with a missing mirror, and a stack of large blocks with letters carved and painted on them. An open window revealed the night sky. "Bedroom," observed Meg.

"Nursery by the looks of it," said Alice. "Who would care for children in a place like this?"

"Doll, there are people who don't care for children in any place."

Meg lingered in the hallway, doing her best to beat the dust out of her hair while Alice scurried inside the room. A quick press on the cushions confirmed that the bed was real. The blocks were permanently fixed in place but the dresser drawers properly slid in and out. This was the only room they'd been in for some time that seemed to serve a function other than appearance.

Alice produced an untouched hairbrush from a top drawer. "Will this help, Miss Meg?"

"Sure, thanks." Meg meandered over to Alice's location, glancing around the nursery, her mind replaying a series of unpleasant things that could conceivably drop down on them from the ceiling. She reached for the brush, but Alice wasn't ready to relinquish it.

"Forgive my impertinence," she explained, "but may I?"

"You want to brush my hair?"

"If it's not a bother. Your hair is so lovely."

Meg shrugged and sat down at the dresser, removing the ribbon that held it in place. "Happy to pawn off the ordeal."

"Thank you. I often brush my sister's hair, and I'm very fond of it."

"The two of you pretty close?"

"Quite." Alice smiled, running the bristles through several feet of auburn. "How long did it take you to grow?"

Meg sighed. "A lifetime or two. Lots and lots of mornings of waking up looking like a gorgon." Alice giggled at the comment, and Meg couldn't help but feel pleased. "You just have the one sister?"

"Oh Heavens no. I have nine brothers and sisters altogether." Alice brushed a few more strokes before becoming distracted by her thoughts. "How odd that I can't remember any of their names."

"It's okay Lilies, I think we're both a few petals shy of a bouquet. I don't even remember if I have siblings. Or children for that matter."

"I certainly hope not. I imagine any child of yours would miss you terribly."

"Wow," said Meg. "I wasn't expecting you to say anything that sweet."

For a few minutes neither of them spoke, with only the sounds of Alice's brushstrokes and the night sky through the open window filling the room.

"You know, I don't think there's anything for us here in the mansion," said Meg. "We should probably leave in the morning. Through this window so we don't get lost in the halls again."

"Agreed." Alice set the brush down on the dresser. "Would you like me to retie the ribbon for you?"

"What I really want is a mirror."

Alice fished around in the drawers. "I imagine the former owner of this dresser may have shared the sentiment." As her logic dictated, she found a well-crafted hand mirror tucked away in the bottommost drawer.

"Lucky guess," said Meg. She took the mirror and stared dumbfounded at her reflection. "You know, I barely recognize myself? I can't even remember the last time I let my hair down."

"It's a pity we're not dreaming, because that makes for such a wonderful metaphor."

Alice's smile was contagious and Meg couldn't help but admire the young girl's unending cleverness. But Meg's sense of delight almost immediately fell away to the harsh truth of what she'd been afraid to admit she believed.

"Alice, there's something we haven't talked about."

Meg's solemnity made Alice tremble a little inside, but she was determined to keep it to herself. "I'm listening."

"I think I know why we keep forgetting things the way we do." Meg searched for an easy way to break the news, but there wasn't one. "We might be dead."

Alice stood quietly. And thought.

And thought.

"That's a perfectly valid possibility," she said at last.

Meg blinked. "Really? That's your reaction? I thought you'd be a bit more broken up about it."

"Perhaps I will be. But right now I'm curious as to why you think so."

"Experience. I know death's superintendent. He's a nasty piece of work. And I've watched many people die. A lot of them try to covet what they know, and it always slips away from them and it's always awful. The worst ones are the ones who don't think they're dead because they'd rather suffer than be wrong."

"So if this is the case, how do we cooperate?"

"I honestly have no idea."

Alice nodded, and without another word put her arms around Meg's shoulders and gently squeezed her.

"Are you crying," asked Meg.

"No. I'm only saying thank you. For being such a good friend. Just in case I don't get another chance."

Meg hugged her back. "Then thank you as well."

They held onto each other for a moment. Then Alice took a step back and resumed her most cherished demeanor where she seemed to be quoting a lecture. "Whenever faced with a problem too big to solve, always break it down into smaller portions in order to invoke progress and alleviate frustration."

Meg smirked. "Did that saying come with lottery numbers on the back?"

"It came with good advice," said Alice, moving back around to the opposite side of Meg's reflection in the hand mirror. "Would you like your hair tied the way it was?"

Meg examined her reflection, weighing a few options before giving Alice an over the shoulder wink. "I don't know. Show me something I haven't seen before."

It took Meg a moment to realize that Alice's expression had changed to one of shock, the young girl involuntarily taking a step backwards. "What's wrong?" she asked, but Alice couldn't speak.

Meg turned her attention to the open window, assuming whatever had spooked Alice would be coming from the outside. In doing so she almost missed spotting the image that had appeared in the hand mirror; a full row of teeth from a dark figure that appeared to be lunging for her. On reflex she dropped the mirror on the dresser and bolted from the chair grabbing Alice and pulling her to the side, against the wall.

Meg surveyed everything from the window to the hall until she was convinced the vision had not been reflected from a threat in the room with them. "You okay Lilies?"

Alice hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath. "That gave me quite a fright."

Meg placed her hand over her own heart. "I think it gave me something else."

The mirror lay face down on the dresser, and Meg tentatively reached for the handle and turned it around to where she could see the glass. It was dark, but a few elements were discernible; rocks, sand, and a couple of spider-like plants that waved back and forth.

"Oh my," said Alice. "If I'm not mistaken, that appears to be the ocean floor. Do you think this mirror is magical?"

Meg flipped it around to the back to examine the workmanship. "It's definitely something."

"Perhaps it reacted to your words. Why don't we have it show us something else?"

"Yeah, hang on. Sometimes these things have limited uses." The carvings were elaborate, but they weren't telling her anything. "Okay, let me think. Show me..." She was about to ask to see Hades but changed her mind. One, she honestly didn't want to see him. Two, she was convinced by now that this wasn't his doing. And three, the huge shadow that engulfed the image of the ocean floor (accompanied by a single white eye) proved to be distracting up until the point that the image dissolved back to Meg's irritated expression. "No, no, no! You stupid piece of-"

"It's all right, Miss Meg. The looking glass may only be able to respond to what you say out loud, and your last words were 'show me'. It's reasonable to conclude it thought you wanted to see yourself again."

"Good thinking," Meg sighed. "Show us that same place again."

As quickly as it had gone, the image was back; momentarily blocked out by the massive tail of the sea creature. "Curious," said Alice. "May I try it?"

Meg happily relinquished the item. "All yours."

"Good evening looking glass. Would you be so kind as to show us the moment Miss Meg and I first met in the meadow?"

The image flickered to a silvery hue, pulsating as if it was trying to do something beyond its capabilities. For a few seconds nothing happened. And then the reflection of Alice in the nursery resumed.

"Maybe it doesn't respond as well to politeness," Meg offered.

"On the contrary. The looking glass seems inclined to appease any request it is given, but it may have limitations. I believe it can only show us things in the present, not memories."

"Can it show us the way out of here?"

"Let's see. Looking glass, can you show us the way out?"

The image twisted around to show them the window that was a few feet away from them.

"Cute," muttered Meg. "You can't tell me that thing isn't being facetious."

Alice's eyebrows perked up. "Did you know that the word 'facetious' is the shortest word to contain all five vowels in order?"

"Um...no, I did not know that but I do now- can I have the mirror back?"

Alice stifled a laugh as she gave up the magical device.

"How do we get out of this whole...place? This world?" Meg asked the mirror. Her reflection did nothing but scowl back at her. Meg rolled her eyes. "Show us the way out of this world." The image struggled with the demand but managed to only accomplish blinking silver again. "I kind of figured you wouldn't be that cooperative."

"Perhaps there's a means to ascertain the reason we're both in this predicament," Alice suggested.

Meg asked the mirror to show them why they were there, which was only met with a blank slate. Where they should go next turned up nothing as well. "Either it's drying up or it has an aversion to being helpful," Meg sneered. "Back to basics then. Show us who's in charge."

The mirror sputtered and went black before revealing a new location; a large room with a row of shelves and box-like objects emitting a kind of light source with which neither Meg nor Alice was familiar. And a shape shifted slowly in front of one of the boxes. The placement of the light made it impossible to make out features other than the outline, but the individual seemed lean of build with a pair of appendages protruding from his or her head.

"Is that Miss Maleficent?" asked Alice?

Meg examined the protrusions as best she could. "I don't think so. She had horns, or a headdress with horns. These look like they have some mobility."

"Like a rabbit?" Alice said proudly.

Meg grumbled. "Yes, possibly like a rabbit. I'll believe anything at this point." She handed the mirror back to Alice without waiting to be asked.

"You'll see," Alice promised. "Looking glass? Would you please show me the face of the rabbit?"

In much the same way the image had rotated when it showed them the open window earlier, the room in the mirror spun around to face the creature directly. But a split second before it could show any facial details, the rabbit ducked down, and dove out of the way when the surveillance tried to refocus. From there, the mirror began chasing the rabbit around the room, with the animal managing to stay just barely out of sight.

"Someone doesn't want to be spotted," said Meg.

"Which means he's also aware that we're looking."

Whatever entertainment they were to derive from the pursuit was cut short by a sharp bang so loud that Alice almost dropped the mirror. "What was that?"

"It came from above!" No confirmation was necessary as the ceiling was clearly lowering. "Someone REALLY doesn't want to be spotted."

Meg and Alice leaned out the window, but between the night sky and the mist surrounding the mansion, they couldn't see more than a few feet below them.

"Miss Meg, we'll be crushed if we stay here!"

"Agreed. Wish me happy landing." Meg slipped out the window and hanged as low as she could before disappearing into the mist. A second later there was the sound of impact somewhere between thud and splash. "Oh gods! It's like marsh!"

"Are you harmed?"

"No, it's just a one story drop," Meg called.

A one story drop didn't sound like much, but every place they'd been in the mansion had a very high ceiling, at first anyway. The one in the nursery was now pressing down on the top of the double bed splintering the posts under its weight. Alice shifted uncomfortably. She was notably shorter than Meg, and the possibility of hurting herself was greater. But the only other possibility was to sprint back to the hallway, and she wouldn't dare risk being alone in a place like this.

"I'm sending down the looking glass Miss Meg!" said Alice, as she dropped it out the window.

"Forget the looking- Ow! Okay, got it! Come on!"

Alice climbed out onto the ledge as the structure swallowed up the nursery behind her.. "I can do this," she tried to assure herself, with no reason to believe her own words.

"I see you Lilies! You're going to be fine."

"I'm frightened, Miss Meg."

"I don't blame you. I promise it's not as bad as it looks from there. Just think happy thoughts and step forward."

Alice swallowed hard. "It's only a story," she whispered.

And then she was falling.


Continue to Chapter Seventeen
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Why the Rock-afire Explosion is the Greatest Cover Band Ever

I'm sure you don't need me to tell you who Chuck E. Cheese is. But unless you were in the right age bracket (i.e. children of the eighties), or were parents of people in the right age bracket, you might not be familiar with a certain diamond of yesteryear in the rock music/pizza parlor industry.

I, as you may know, was a child of the eighties. And I happened to reside a mere six mile drive away from an inimitable social hub known as Showbiz Pizza Place. They served pizza, as you might have intuited. And unlike Godfather's Pizza across the street, which housed a jukebox and a single stand up cabinet of Galaxian, Showbiz had a full on arcade. It was in this hallowed entertainment center that my impressionable hands first manipulated the controls of Crazy Climber, Time Pilot, Pac-Man Plus, and a little known footnote in pop culture called Dragon's Lair.

Arcades of nineteen eighty-something (one maybe?) had yet to be consumed by Skee-Ball and children's birthday parties. They were an adult gathering that happened to have an access point for kids. Showbiz Pizza opened the idea up to multi-generational entertainment. It was advertised to and for kids but it was still very much for the parents as much as the younglings. It was the cool place to go.

So that by itself is pretty much the prototype for Dave & Buster's, but Showbiz had that special something to bring it all together. It had the Rock-afire Explosion.

Let's go back in time. You walk into the seating area where you're meant to gorge on grease and pepperoni, and your eyes are immediately drawn to the proscenium stage in front of you which is flanked by two smaller stages on both sides. The curtains are all down and a suspense is prevalent in the room. The families and dates who have already been in there for some time know better than to strike up conversations about Cartesian Dualism, because something is going to happen. They're waiting for it.

Then a spotlight shines on the smaller curtain to your right, and the melody of a single acoustic guitar strums through the controlled hush. The drape rises to reveal an animatronic brown bear (about the size of an actual bear) lost in his own revelry like a folk singer or youth pastor. "Howdy folks," he giggles, "I'm Billy Bob. That's three B's, two L's, an I, a Y and an O!"

Billy Bob was the alter-ego for Orlando-based engineer Aaron Fechter. Billy Bob Brockali and the rest of the cast, as well as Showbiz's success, were ultimately the result of his creative expression and drive. Joining Billy Bob on his stage was his sidekick (the) Looney Bird, making for a spiritual pre-cursor to Banjo and Kazooie (minus the antagonism). Mirroring them on the left stage was comedy duo Rolfe DeWolfe and Earl Schmerle. Fechter voiced all four of these characters with a versatility that rivaled Frank Oz.

The technical specs behind all of these characters is the stuff of legend. Latex faces covering a complicated series of moving pieces created a seemingly endless variety of expressions, tics, and eyebrow movements. It was the kind of mechanical engineering that made Disney's Country Bear Jamboree look more like a Six Flags knockoff.

But all of the behind the scenes precision was really just a stepping stone to true greatness, which was the characters themselves. And that's what I want to talk about. Here then is what's behind the center stage curtain.

The Band

Let's see. We have a laid back Sun. And always exuberant Moon. A birthday cake wielding spider named Antioch (my latent arachnophobia still hasn't made up its mind about him). A frog that doesn't do anything. And Choo-Choo, the bear cub in the stump perpetually doing his best Whac-A-Mole impression (which Aaron Fechter also invented in 1976). And those are just the background characters.

First up in the main cast is Fatz Geronimo, a silverback gorilla who took inspiration from Lawrence Welk to become a musician. I'll pause now while that sinks in....

Fatz was the front and center keyboardist, and had a booming bass voice courtesy of writer/performer Burt "Sal" Wilson. He was also the most intimidating presence among an otherwise laid back ensemble. Under other circumstances, keeping children from crawling up on the stage between numbers would have been an issue. But Fatz looked like he was capable, and willing, to go all Five Nights at Freddy's on anyone who disrespected the barrier between performers and audience. Kids loved him, but they didn't dare mess with him.

Moving counter-clockwise was Mitzi Mozzarella, the mouse cheerleader. Being the token female member of the band, and the only one who didn't play an instrument, she was naturally relegated to songs and dialogue that required a female voice (originally a shrill falsetto from Aaron Fechter himself). In 1982 she was thankfully recast with Shalisa James, who at the time was eleven years old. With that decision came Mitzi's character development, as she aged along with her voice actress. To date, James is part of the a cappella group Toxic Audio, and is known for her extensive mental lexicon of song lyrics.

Just behind Mitzi is surfer dude Beach Bear, no real name ever given (he strikes me as a Marvin). He started off with a wild cartoony voice (also supplied by Fechter) until guitarist Rick Bailey took over. Bailey's Beach Bear was the unofficial 'fun' of the group. Personalities would clash on stage (and it wouldn't surprise me, off as well), but Beach Bear was the master of defusing tensions before they got started. If Rock-afire ever wanted to do a Mystery Science Theater-styled riff on, I don't know, a Chuck E. Cheese performance, Beach Bear would be the natural choice for the Crow lines.

Finishing out the cast is Dook LaRue, an anthropomorphic dingo drummer. From what I understand, Burt Wilson wrote most of the scripts and original pieces for the band, partitioning Fatz into the proverbial head role of the band. Billy Bob, being a combination Aaron Fechter avatar and Showbiz mascot was the clear heart. But Dook was the no-pun-intended soul of Rock-afire. You know that moment in every Marx Brothers film when Harpo drops his funny shtick and loses himself in his music? That's what happened whenever Dook took lead in a song.

His performer Duke Chauppetta was there at the beginning, before Shalisa James and Rick Bailey, when everybody else sounded like cartoon characters. And it's not to say that the original approach didn't work, but then Dook would croon out "Heartaches". Suddenly you were taken somewhere you hadn't expected to go. He was no longer an animatronic drum dog, he was a real canine musician being vulnerable. I'm sure different people who love the band cite any number of elements as the thing that made it special. And while I had a love of Earl's sarcasm, and a nine-year-old-boy crush on Mitzi, for me it was the credibility Chauppetta brought to his performance.

The Music

I know the eighties were thirty years ago, and thus closer in chronological proximity to what we called "the oldies" than our modern era of processed music, but Rock-afire was an actual education for Generation X. The Beatles, The Beach Boys, The Rolling Stones, and Elvis; all names in rock history I'd heard of but had either never connected with their songs or been introduced to them. Rock-afire changed all that.

Take the Beatles. One of the first Rock-afire performances I saw was a Beatles Medley of "You Can't Do That", "All My Loving", and "I Saw Her Standing There", with the lead vocals going from Beach Bear to Billy Bob and then to Dook. In addition to the fact that these three songs flowed into each other so well, they captivated my innocent imagination by their ordering. Beach Bear was clearly being two-timed by the love interest in question, so it made sense that she was cheating on him with Billy Bob. Mitzi was the logical character in the role of the cheating lover, which meant it wasn't really Mitzi herself moving through the band but a fictional character this fictional character was playing for the purpose of the narrative. Billy Bob would be relocating some distance away where he won't realize Mitzi has moved on to Dook. Again, I was nine, and this was the impressively adult story with no happy ending my little brain concocted.

And that's the thing, they didn't hold back. I mean, understandably there was a healthy amount of self censorship which we call 'adaptation'. But take the Elvis classic Little Sister, which barely stays in the confines of innuendo. Dook and Beach Bear don't even bother hiding the nature of the lyrics. I certainly wasn't aware of the sexual nature of the song when I was nine. But I respect the fact that they respected me enough to know that I'd get it when I was ready to. And it may be a bit blasphemous to say, but their version was an improvement over Elvis's. The same can be said for The Beach Boys' Catch a Wave where every complicated chord change is emphasized. Or Billy Bob's delightfully inappropriate homage to Mick Jagger in the Satisfaction Medley; it sounds absurd on paper, but it's a thing of beauty.

I'm of the opinion that rock music hit a plateau in the eighties with the addition of electronica. Since then we've had various styles come and go, but I can't think of a previously unused element that has been introduced to music since the synthesizer (and at this point, if a new element is forthcoming I can't imagine what it might be). But courtesy of Fatz's magic keyboard, Rock-afire was essentially on the cutting edge of music; being an homage to the oldies with an egregious eighties sensibility and a timeless feel on its own all at the same time.

The multi-layered musical elements are best examined in their Christmas shows, which I've mentioned in a couple of previous blogs. Disco Christmas was their showstopper, with every character getting their own song. Most people wouldn't think to include "Jingle Bell Rock", "Blue Christmas", "Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire", and "The Hallelujah Chorus" in the same medley, but it all fits together so seamlessly. 'Inspired' is the only word that accurately sums up the result. The Christmas shows also gave us Billy Bob's unexpectedly tear-jerking In December, Dook's powerful Why Can't Every Day (Be Christmas), and the cast ensemble of Twelve Days of Christmas. The first two, as best as I can tell, are original compositions that sit comfortably alongside the classic rock covers Rock-afire is known for. And Twelve Days is one extended exercise of spotlight stealing from glibber-than-he-looks Beach Bear.

That Certain Special Something

There's an X-factor that separates 'great' fictional characters from the rest of the spectrum. What that is, I don't know. And maybe nobody does. I just know how to recognize the result. It's in the Muppets, the Looney Tunes, Charlie Brown, Batman, Scooby-Doo, Star Wars, and so on. These are characters you feel like you know personally. Maybe we see something of ourselves in them because they're more human than we are, without the needless clutter we seem to pick up as we face the world daily. I would argue that Rock-afire is on that level.

Unfortunately, I don't think their 'greatness' has been fully realized...yet. The future of animatronics is probably not going to be the sole, or best, outlet for them. But nearly forty years later, these animals with instruments have stayed in my head, and in the heads of some very passionate collectors. The lucky few of us who got to see the band perform live were permanently affected by the experience. We knew these characters. We were sure that on our umpteenth visit they were starting to recognize us as well (I swear Dook looked right at me and winked). The Happy Birthday Medley was specifically for us, and the Beatles Happy Birthday was specifically for the adults. And I'm positive we all imagined some sophisticated scenarios that took place once those curtains closed.

Fatz probably had the most active life outside of Showbiz, appearing as a solo act in piano bars, and dating around. Billy Bob was so busy as Showbiz's mascot/figurehead that he wouldn't have had time for much else except laundry. Mitzi seems like the type who would keep her personal life very separate from her professional life, and I imagine she would value normalcy once she was in street clothes. Dook and Beach Bear were likely the closest offstage even if they didn't realize it. I could see them both spending really late nights working on material together, often just crashing in the dressing room, and still never really learning all that much about each other. Rolfe was probably the only one who actively kept an eye out for the next thing, acutely aware of how fleeting fame is.

And unfortunately he'd be right. Like so many stars burning brightly, Rock-afire faded. And it's a real pity, because there's so much life left in the old Looney Bird. One wishes that the Cartoon Network would make an offer to reunite the band and let them tour. And solve mysteries. There's always hope. More viably, there's always the internet. If it's true that nothing ever disappears from the internet then Rock-afire is officially immortal.

And with that, I want to leave you with Rock-afire at its peak, namely their cover of the ENTIRE Abbey Road medley. Every section of the extended track is perfectly assigned to the different characters, with Rick Bailey seamlessly inserting himself into the fray for what may have been the first time, Shalisa James showing off her A-game, and Duke Chauppetta demonstrating how much versatility he had as a singer. Even "Her Majesty" is accurately recreated with the mistimed chord edit. The whole performance is a labor of love, laced with the confidence that the Rock-afire Explosion had nothing to prove to anyone but themselves. And it was our privilege to watch them fly.

2017 Movie Wrap-Up

It's that time of year again! I get to look back on all the movies from this past year that I've seen and give them the one paragraph treatment (some of which deserve it more than others). So let's just jump into it, shall we? We shall.

Movies

The Lego Batman Movie

This may have been my biggest disappointment of the year in terms of how much I thought I would enjoy it versus what I walked away feeling. It was entertaining...enough. I guess. But The Lego Movie set a really high bar for story quality, and this one didn't even match the fun of the Lego Batman Video Game series cut scenes. Two main problems. Will Arnett's Bojack Batman is much funnier as a scene stealer than as the lead. And there's honestly nothing at stake in this movie. The Lego Movie figured it out; horror to a Lego character is being crazy glued permanently to one spot. The destruction of Lego Gotham doesn't mean anything.

Logan

Dear God, I didn't like one single thing about this movie; a sentiment made all the more nerve grating by the fact that everyone in my social circle insists on how great it is. Here's the problem: who do I care about? Wolverine is not a consistently interesting character. In order to crack his shell, he has to be in a fish out of water scenario. In Logan he's in his element, and it's Dark Knight Rises level dreariness. Xavier is waiting around to die, and an obviously bad decision on his part gets an innocent family killed. Laura is completely unsympathetic (that store clerk was only doing his job) and she never needed Logan's help in the first place. I come to the movies to get away from hopelessness, my trending on Facebook feed covers that.

Beauty and the Beast

I've made it no secret that the animated version of this story is not my favorite film, but I wound up quite pleased with the live action remake. The flaws in the original are hammered out to full effect here; the town's idolization of Gaston, the servants' role in their own punishment, a more careful build up of Belle and the Beast's connection, Gaston's more active hand in his own demise. Even Maurice gets a badass upgrade. The songs aren't entirely consistent in quality, but the movie has a lot of life in it. If only Disney would quit with the remakes here.

Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2

The short version: I disliked it less than the first one. I still think the core characters are shallow, and by the end of this second film they've had about as much growth as most get in their first act, but it's still growth. I can't say they got that in their first film. The new characters fare much better. Mantis was a delight. Ego was engaging. Nebula completely won me over, and since she left literally no impression on me in the first film I'm treating her like a new character. I can't really say I felt like my time had been well spent by the end of the movie, but I didn't feel like it was wasted either. I basically watched it because it's part of the MCU, and I didn't mind.

Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Men Tell No Tales

This movie was passable. It also cost between two and three hundred million dollars to make, which is an uncomfortable price tag for passable. It's better than we'd normally expect from the fifth film in a trilogy, but Jack Sparrow honestly ran aground two films ago and there hasn't been anything new to the series to really call us back to sea. Javier Bardem manages to work in some convincing sneers, and Kaya Scodelario could have made a solid protagonist if the script had bothered to favor her. But Geoffrey Rush's Barbossa really deserved better, and it's evident the film is trying to have fun but not actually succeeding.

Wonder Woman

Everything that needs to be said about this film has been said, and it's all true. It's fantastic, and it's my number one film of the year. No, it's not perfect, but it doesn't matter that it's not perfect. What matters is that it's awesome. Now unfortunately I think we're still raving about the fact that a female led superhero film directed by *gasp* a woman director did so well, when we should honestly be well past the point where those things stand out. But if there's one lesson we've learned the hard way from 2017, it's where we are as a society. We need Wonder Woman. And until we invite her into the real world we have her movie to inspire us.

The House

Did I finish watching this movie? Hang on, let me read the synopsis. No, I think we gave up on this one. I imagine on paper this seemed like a good idea; stick Amy Poehler and Will Ferrell in a movie together about a suburban couple who has to run an impromptu casino in order to cover their daughter's college tuition. But sadly they both resort to standard SNL caliber performances which often don't carry through four minute sketches, much less a feature film. And I really wish comedies would stop reaching for that coveted R rating. If you earn it, that's fine. But shock value doesn't equate to laughs, and this movie (the first half anyway) was tepid on both.

Spider-Man: Homecoming

I have to address the inescapable. Since the dawn of the age of superhero movies, this is their third freaking time trying to get this character off the ground. It's unfair, but that shadow looms over Tom Holland. With that said, this is probably the best Spider-Man movie to date in terms of balance, pacing, emotions, action, characters, and plot. The highs of the past might peak a little higher, but the lows- you know, I'll just let you fill in the end of that thought. In addition to effectively integrating Spidey into the MCU, the movie has an inspired use of Michael Keaton to crack their villain problem. You have a good thing going, please don't screw it up again. Um, one quick question though. Who the hell has been asking for a Venom movie?

Atomic Blonde

This is another one I only got halfway through before losing interest. I mean, yeah, it's an action movie with action in it, but it fails to overcome the fundamental issue with any movie about a spy who's not James Bond. Spies aren't inherently likable. It's a competent spy movie, a bit paint by numbers. I guess the big selling point is that it's a woman in the role that's usually a men only club. Charlize Theron plays the role with all the coldness you'd expect from a real spy, which makes her, you know, kind of boring. Believable yes. But like I say, the movie didn't keep me engaged. We certainly need action heroines, but invulnerability doesn't read as character. May I suggest looking to Geena Davis in The Long Kiss Goodnight for an example of a badass you can root for?

Logan Lucky

The previews promised something they didn't deliver on. It looked like we were going to get a caper comedy. Instead we got a caper...what do you call a drama that doesn't really have drama? Just a movie? That exists? We have a caper that exists. It had some good elements. It's always nice when Channing Tatum gives a performance that- well, gives a performance. Adam Driver clearly has a range on him that we haven't seen the full extent of. And Daniel Craig looks like he's having a blast, probably happy to finally have a recognizable role besides that one Stormtrooper that Rey put the whammy on. But overall this movie started at the pace of a casual mosey, and then stayed there. Not a bad movie, but I'm pretty sure I've flipped through more exciting atlases.

Goodbye Christopher Robin

A story, by its nature, isn't primarily concerned with relaying information. It's concerned with telling you something. Hence the challenge with any story based on real events; inevitably accuracy and narrative are going to come into conflict with each other. While I can't authoritatively say this movie is accurate, my guess is that it's probably the case since narrative took so many hits. It seemed like every other scene the film introduced a new element that I was more interested in following than the primary arc, and never got to. Performances were strong. Margot Robbie is clearly going to have a long career. But in the end it was almost like the film version of a well written term paper; solid but not necessarily anything to say. Therefore I wouldn't know who to recommend it to.

Thor: Ragnarok

Tony Stark was the character who breathed a new dignity and gravitas into superhero films, which is why he led off the whole seventeen film and counting MCU. But Thor was the character they had to get absolutely right in order to have any sort of staying power, namely because he skirts the line into preposterousness. Lucky for us that Chris Hemsworth went into acting. Even then, it's been a slow multi-film process to get at his character. But by Ragnarok, we're convinced Hemsworth is Thor, and we've seen what he can do. This is the movie that truly let's us see who he is at his core. It turns out he's noble, and funny, and vulnerable, and able to hold his own against notorious upstagers like Tom Hiddleston and Jeff Goldblum. As for the movie, it comes together more episodic than single thread. But the ride is so much fun you don't mind so much.

Murder on the Orient Express

So how do you remake a classic mystery that damn near everyone already knows the ending to? Simple really, you treat it like a really good drama. This is the strength of Kenneth Branagh's direction; the same guy who gave us Dead Again, which I never get tired of re-watching. As usual the story is about the murder, but this version is equally about the way it affects the great Hercule Poirot and his black and white view on crime. Unlike a typical detective story, our sleuth is clearly changed by the end of his summation. It's unfortunate that not everyone in the all-star cast has enough opportunity to strut their talent, but the older cast members have proven themselves dozens of times over. And they're kind enough to let Daisy Ridley, Josh Gad, and Leslie Odom Jr. demonstrate their staying power. Oh by the way, Michelle Titania Eris Sukie Ridgemont Catwoman Mindy Simmons Pfeiffer still has not peaked as an actress. At this point, it's quite possible she never will.

Justice League

I kind of liked Batman Five Superman. Sure the Martha thing was silly, but I think people have been unnecessarily harsh on it overall. With that said, I thought Justice League was even better. Perhaps not where we want it to be (truthfully, we're fans, we don't know what we want) but the franchise is moving in the right direction. Steppenwolf was decent enough, and at least a step above the majority of Marvel's Phase One and Two villains. The Flash, Aquaman, and Cyborg were all a lot more likable than I was expecting. And Henry Cavill finally owned his role as Superman. My past criticisms about Zack Snyder still hold, but out of all the working directors in Hollywood I think I've seen the most growth from him. There were a lot more good things here than bad. So listen nerds, quit being bullies. We're better than this.

The Disaster Artist

I'm assuming you've experienced Tommy Wiseau's The Room; if not, I can't help you in this one paragraph review of a different film. So let me skip to James Franco. I'm happy to be wrong about this, but Franco strikes me as one of the cool kids. I don't mean that as a compliment, just a categorization from someone who grew up as anything but. For whatever reason, Franco seems like a cool kid who has a bizarre attraction to being a misfit. It would explain his draw to completely-detached-from-reality Wiseau. But unlike Franco's past attempts to infiltrate the world of misfits, he does a thorough job here. It's inevitable that The Disaster Artist gets compared to Ed Wood, a similar concept about a passionate director with limited-to-no talent and the fruit of their labors. Whereas Wood's problem was that he was best suited for radio drama (a flavor that translated poorly to film), Wiseau's obstacle is a chronic lack of understanding human behavior. This film about a film succeeds in humanizing Wiseau in a way the man himself never could. Early buzz is that the film is an Oscar contender, and I quite agree; James Franco may very well have earned a director's nomination. But for acting, that accolade goes squarely to his brother James for his portrayal of actor Greg Sestero, the audience surrogate caught between Tommy's world and our own. And kudos to the ending. While Ed Wood was kind enough to omit the part where people treated the director as a joke in favor of a fabricated happy ending, The Disaster Artist embraces the reactions as a vital element to what makes the bad movie something so special.

Star Wars: The Last Jedi

I loved it. Are there flaws? Yes. Do they matter? Honestly no, not to me. There were some things that could have been handled better (Laura Dern's character, Finn's sidequest, where the hell Lando is), and the sequel trilogy still hasn't given us that ONE iconic lightsaber battle on par with Darth Maul and "No, I AM your father", but this movie did everything a Star Wars movie needs to. It advanced it's own arc, challenged the overall mythology, and showed us a few things we hadn't seen before. I think at this point Rey has proven herself every bit as much iconic as my childhood action figures. Right now, this movie has edged out A New Hope as my second favorite Star Wars film. I'll need a few months to decide how exactly it compares to Empire.

Jumanji: Welcome to the Jungle

Ginny and I went this morning to an early showing, and it was the perfect movie to end a really horrible year on. Even better than the premise and the funny lines, the characters were legitimately likable. The jock, the nerd, the princess, and the bookworm (Scooby-Doo minus the dog) get trapped in a sentient video game that just wants friends; kind of like a Tron version of The Breakfast Club. The bulk of the fun in any body switching movie is watching the actors pull off the multiple layers of credibility. The Rock's charm as a Hollywood star is his refusal to take himself seriously, but he's quite adamant about treating the high school kid inhabiting him with respect. Kevin Hart is clearly in his element, and Jack Black has been waiting his whole career to play a teenage girl. But it's Karen Gillan who really shows off her range, always presenting both the Lara Croft expy and the terrified girl inside her simultaneously. In the end I found myself wishing to spend more time with the characters outside of their game. But less is more and the movie is best left sequel-free; the short but sweet jewel of the Jaguar's Eye that it is. Jumanji!

The Ghosts of Christmas Specials

Ebenezer Scrooge! You suck! Just thought I'd drop by to remind you. I mean, yeah, you've changed your miserly ways, built a few hospitals, supported the local humane society and all that jazz, but you still suck! And why? Well, I'll tell you.

You see, you have forsaken Christmas once again by embracing it too much. I know that doesn't make any sense, stop looking at me like that! I'm talking about sacrificing quality for quantity. Have you looked at the Christmas specials in your Netflix cue? What on earth have you been watching? Saccharine, that's what. Flimsy plots that barely tie together acapella renditions of "Jingle Bell Rock", people throwing their careers away for a single kiss in the snow, and 101 ways to derail Santa's whole racket with one poorly timed appearance at the North Pole (haven't we all just wandered in there?). These aren't Christmas specials. These are Christmas mundanes.

So that's why I'm here, to warn you that you need to cut that out if you really want to save your soul or something. And with that in mind, I've taken the liberty of assembling the usual lot. Tonight you will be visited by three specials that did it right. Listen to them. Watch them. Do what they say. Or your chain, which I forgot to mention earlier, will be longer than mine. What chain is that, you ask? It's the one where you make ten copies of this letter and send them anonymously to strangers so you can experience good luck, and if you don't you'll single handedly ruin everything! Yep. Global warming is all on you. Merry Christmas!

Mystery Science Theater 3000: Santa Claus Conquers the Martians

To start with, this episode is very funny. Every MST episode has some good laughs, but occasionally you get one that strikes the right balance of having a bad movie that's intriguingly watchable on its own paired with a running commentary that's pretty damn solid from start to finish. Martians is one of those gems that you can show to a non-MST fan and at the very least get them to understand why people rave about the show (even if you don't convert them).

But what really makes this episode stand out is the flavor of the host segments. If you don't know, MST is a show identified by its biting sarcasm. Sentiment isn't really a concept that has any room in the intentional cheapness of production and the team's refusal to take anything about itself seriously. Even when Joel Hodgson left the show, or either time the series ended, you never really felt anything about the characters. You weren't meant to. The show was wit, not heart.

Which is why Martians is unique to the show. Somewhere between Crow's Christmas wish that he gets to decide who lives and dies and Tom Servo's suggestion that Santa was killed in Viet Nam, Joel pauses to reflect on whether or not they've become so jaded that the spirit of Christmas has been lost to them. And then Gypsy (good luck getting that name in the final script today) silently presents a manager scene with no facetiousness and no punch line, before going to commercial. It's quick, and they don't big deal out of it, but it may be the most poignant acknowledgement of Christ since Linus recited the Gospel of Luke.

To the best of my understanding, the MST veterans are predominantly Christian. I am as well. Perhaps you aren't, and I'm not remotely bothered by that. But if you celebrate something around the time of the cold and the shortening of days, I do hope it has a meaning for you. Whatever it may be. Even if you don't know what that meaning is, I hope you get to experience it some time this season. The Grinch never figured out exactly what Christmas meant, but simply accepting the possibility of a meaning was enough for him to feel a joy he hadn't felt before. And for MST, a mere moment of reflection among an hour and a half of one-liners speaks volumes.

The Bells of Fraggle Rock

How about a Christmas special that never mentions Christmas (if you factor out the wraparound segments)? Fraggle Rock was a brilliant show that set out to end war, and would damn near succeed if world leaders would take the time to listen to their inner songs. Gobo is the most level-headed of the Fraggles, approaching things like magic with a certain scientific mindset that he developed purely on his own accord.

As the Festival of the Bells approaches, Gobo finds himself experiencing a crisis of faith that he can't quite describe as such. Being the only Fraggle who can't accept the story behind the festival at face value, he declares that he'll be able to prove the existence of the Great Bell; something that he thinks will restore the festival's significance that has slipped away from him.

The takeaway is ultimately left ambiguous. Does he become a believer again? Does he accept comfort in the story as metaphor? And who exactly is this particular story meant to reach? I wonder what would happen if an agnostic told this story to a group of children. Which elements would be emphasized?

Christmas can be a frustrating time for people prone to wanting spiritual answers. My experiences with most churches is that if a conversation about doubt is even permitted to begin, it's cut off by a traditional non-answer like "Well, you just have to have faith," which appeases the one who was never comfortable with the question in the first place while pushing away the one who's asking.

The bottom line here: some people simply cannot do things the easy way, their inner song dictates they try to observe the invisible. From a purely goal-driven perspective, the pursuit is futile. But experience teaches the lessons it has, not the ones you expect it to have. And that feeling we refer to as 'the Christmas spirit' only pokes its head in when we stop listening to our own voices and just hear what's around us.

The reason it's fun to ride in a one horse open sleigh is because you're fully invested in the journey as you're experiencing it. The Christmas party at the home of Farmer Gray will happen when it does. For now, just jingle. And commit to doing it all the way.

ALF's Christmas Special

It's probably nothing more than coincidence that all three of these specials involve puppetry. Although if there really is anything to it, I guess I would argue that puppets are inherently more human than human. They have no poker faces or repressing workplace etiquette. Ulterior motives don't exist unless they show up in the character's voice or mannerisms. In that regard, a puppet will naturally be more honest than any of us will. And I guess that makes them the ideal catalysts for Christmas tales of any sort of emotional weight.

So ALF. Some people may not know; he was a brown puppet alien character from an eighties sitcom of the same name (it stands for Alien Life Form). After crash landing on earth he winds up in the care of the Tanner family, trying to find ways to integrate himself into daily life without being discovered by the government.

In the Christmas special, ALF pushes the Tanners about as close to their breaking point as his performer allegedly did in real life to the production team, and they order him out of the cabin they're staying at for the holidays. The alien gets stuck in the back of the cabin owner's truck, which is full of toys destined for a children's hospital. ALF soon finds himself posing as a Christmas toy to a little girl named Tiffany.

He intentionally blows his own cover sooner than you'd expect and asks her for help getting out of the hospital so he can return to the Tanners. It's kind of a tear jerking moment, because Tiffany was clearly bonding with what she thought was a stuffed animal for her to keep. But not to worry. That moment gets completely overshadowed by the kick in the gut you receive when you find out she's also terminally ill, and this is going to be her last Christmas.

Not kidding here. Tiny Tim undoubtedly got cured and grew up to be a key activist in the fight against starvation. Tiffany gets no Christmas miracle here in this eighties sitcom. In the end, the Tanner's come to spend Christmas with her in the hospital, and that's nice enough. But the episode makes it clear that she's not going to live. It aired thirty years and five days ago, and I'm still about to lose it just thinking about her.

Luckily we have a much needed bit of ALF-ish hijinks when the furball gets stuck in an elevator with a pregnant woman and has to deliver her baby himself (which is apparently not that hard to figure out, if television is to be believed). It's a welcomed palette cleanser and a return to Christmas special form, as the normally selfish ALF gets to be the guardian angel for a stranger in need. And it makes the episode's Act III mood swing feel all the more like a drop kick when ALF witnesses the aforementioned cabin owner one step away from committing suicide. What the f**k happened in 1987 to take us down this road?

Christmas comes at a time when our side of the world is literally heading into a dark place (or technically, just as we're coming out of it). It's odd to me that Christmas specials rarely go as dark as this one does. Many people hurt during the holidays, and because of the reflective nature of winter that pain seems to make itself known in different ways. Contrary to popular belief, the suicide rate is actually at a low point around Christmas (April being the high), but it certainly doesn't mean the pain isn't there.

We all carry things that hurt, and the older I get the more I notice what kind of stress the holidays put on us. It's like, bringing joy to the world is such a gritty determination for us that we easily lose sight of how to experience it. Maybe what we should be doing instead is granting ourselves some time to mourn. Every one of us had at least one connection last Christmas that we no longer have now. I wonder what would happen if we allowed ourselves a chance to be sad, instead of trying so hard to be happy. Maybe, just maybe, the Christmas spirit is something we need, not something we can make or buy or binge watch.

Merry Christmas, and may God bless us every one.

How to Fail at Humor -A Survival Primer

Claiming something isn't funny is a difficult claim to support, especially when people are laughing. Concepts regarding humor are ambiguous at best. As the world changes, or the people in it change, humor adapts. There are many jokes which are mean spirited, offensive, and/or damaging that still make certain groups laugh in certain situations. So for me to call said "joke" unfunny is only partially correct. It's unfunny to me, and possibly to anyone with a basic understanding of human integrity. But there are always going to be assholes who laugh at inappropriate things, some of whom make very comfortable salaries doing so. That's a topic beyond the scope of my ability as a blogger.

Instead, I'm here to discuss the merits of joke telling; the inner rhythm and timing that makes a joke succeed or fail. Everyone has a sense of humor, but not everyone can tell a joke. I've known many people who are convinced they have great senses of humor because they've found a small panel of humor buttons to push repeatedly. And yes, they may be getting laughs from their peers, but they still fail at humor. My goal is to explain why. To you who are reading this, I hope you come away with a new appreciation for the complexity that is humor, or at the very least confirmation of what you've already figured out.

Let's look at some examples of failure.

1. "That's what she said".

May as well start with the most obvious one. This is the commoners version of "The Aristocrats", with its punch line that brings nothing to a joke that has already run its course. You know the ritual. Literally anything that can be taken as a sexual innuendo, something as simple as "This is hard!", is followed by a near automatic response of "That's what she said."

First of all, the joke doesn't even work on its own; you have to have already heard it to get it, otherwise you're looking around the room trying to figure out which 'she' is being quoted. But the heart of the problem is that this joke requires absolutely nothing out of the person who says it. No cleverness. No creativity. It's merely a line said on cue, like the person who says "Who's there" after being given the traditional "Knock knock" setup. I mentioned earlier the concept of pushing a button. Humor requires effort. There's no effort in pushing a button. But the "that's what she said" joke tellers are trying to take undeserved credit, as if it's unexpected that the doorbell keeps ringing every time they press the buzzer.

Automatic response humor is never funny. Here are a couple of non-innuendo examples that come to mind. One, you've just told an actual joke. It may not be a particularly funny one, but it's recognizable as a joke with at least a minimal amount of effort behind it. Someone in your audience responds, not with a laugh or even a groan, but by deadpanning the onomatopoeic phrase "ba dum tsss". They're only acknowledging they get that you've told a joke, but clearly don't find it funny enough to give you a real reaction and are trying to one-up you by implying your joke wasn't funny. (A justifiable exception here is when someone accidentally tells a joke without realizing it, and the "ba dum tsss" draws attention to it. Inclusiveness is the key).

A second example is a misuse of riff humor in daily life. Picture this: you and your passenger have just gotten out of your car. Doors shut. Lock. Keys still in the ignition. A spoonful of stress wells up in you and spills out of your mouth. "Damn it!" you mutter. "Janet," your passenger responds. Now all you can think about is your tightening fingers around the throat of someone who, until that moment, had been dear to you. Mystery Science Theater 3000 gets a pass on this, as they write around nine hundred jokes for an hour and a half; even the lame ones are acceptable. And (this is the point) the movie isn't in that moment with them. It can't respond to the needling or ill-timed thoughtlessness.

Automatic response humor is thoughtless. "That's what she said" is the worst offender because it combines thoughtlessness with the easiest, most obvious joke in the adult lexicon, "Gur! That could have been taken more than one way! Huh huh!" I encourage everyone, the next time one of your co-workers responds to anything with "that's what she said," to outwardly fly off the handle. "What?! WHO said that? That is inappropriate workplace conversation! I want names! Of everyone who has ever undermined this company's integrity!" Yes, you'll look like a dumbass, but it's worth it to smother out this monster.

2. "That sounds like a personal problem. That's all I'm saying."

This is practically the same situation, although personal problems range from sexual to psychological. So I can at least grant that it's a step up from "that's what she said" in versatility. I knew a girl who I'm going to call Fred, because that's obviously not her real name. This whole phrase became Fred's mantra in group conversations. Being around her was the equivalent of being at a taping of Full House with a guaranteed reaction from the audience. It didn't matter what the set up was, anything could sound like a personal problem to her. "My throat's sore, I'm having trouble swallowing," and "I can't make change for a dollar," are on two very different points of the logistics spectrum, but either one could be followed by "that sounds like a personal problem" *laugh track* "that's all I'm saying" *precisely same laugh track*.

Two things going on here, and I'm going to work backwards through them. "That's all I'm saying" has no meaning. Fred just wanted twice the laughter for one joke, and she knew she could get it by cueing the audience. "That sounds like a personal problem" as I mentioned is similar to "that's what she said". But there's a subtle difference.

"That's what she said" is the mantra of people who have never tried to understand humor, i.e. people who aren't, and never will, be funny. "That sounds like a personal problem" is an actual joke. It's not a good one. In fact, it's an incredibly lazy one. But it is a joke. And it illustrates a curious phenomenon in the spectrum of humor, namely how the way an audience perceives the jokester has an effect on their reception of the joke.

Fred was the 'funny friend', and it took her a certain amount of Monty Python recitations and spotlight hogging to achieve that status. And having been established as the 'funny friend', Fred no longer had to try so hard to get laughs. Fred was well liked. You were used to laughing when she spoke, so in essence all she had to do was cue you. "That sounds like a personal problem" was your cue. It's effective in certain circles, and it's dreadfully lazy.

I haven't seen Fred in at least a decade, so for all I know she may still be getting laughs with the minimal effort. But I expect she at least has encountered a higher class of humor on more than one occasion, made up of people who notice immediately that she's not bringing her A-game. That group only gives courtesy laughs to children. Adults who deal out the "that sounds like a personal problem" card are met with blank stares. If you've ever tried doing standup, that reaction is worse than being heckled. It's eerie. Especially coming from people who understand humor better than you. When you get those looks (and you'll intuitively know) take them seriously. That's your crossroads. You need to decide if you're going to swim with the bigger fish or go back to the comfort of your little pond. But the bottom line is, you're failing.

3. "You're very punny! You deserve a 'round' of applause."

One of my college school mates only knew these two jokes, and they were told often, and always in succession. The 'round' of applause (if I need to point it out) was accompanied by the visual aid of golf clapping in a longitudinal air circle. Get it? Of course you do, because you're not three.

Generally speaking, puns are not funny. Now if you knew me in my teenaged years, you would be correct in screaming "hypocrite" at me right now. I was all about puns in high school and college. Hell, it was the only way I knew how to connect most of the time. Were they funny? Generally no. Did anyone ever think to mention that to me? Oh, you bet! Ask yourself if it stopped me. Go on. You know the answer.

Here's my defense of puns. It's not about being funny or not, it's about a phase. Particularly in adolescence when you're figuring out who you're going to be for the rest of your life, your awful pun phase is the wax on/wax off exercise that trains you to do real karate down the road. You're learning a skillset without realizing it.

One, you're experiencing what it feels like to lose your audience. Watch any late night comedian, you'll catch them at a moment where they lose their audience. But they have a whole arsenal of ways to dance back into the hotspot. Every single one of them got that skill through years of failing.

Two, you're training your brain to think like a comedy writer. If I say "there was a meltdown at the plant", you're automatically processing the alternate definitions of the words in the sentence to see if there's a surreal way of putting them together (instead of asking if everyone got out all right, you horrible person). Wordplay is the stew mix of comedy. Too much of it may give off the wrong flavor, but it's an indispensable ingredient.

And three, you will eventually get one that lands. Your audience (and if you're still doing puns, 'audience' means peers) who normally takes joy in chastising you like Charlie Brown's classmates are suddenly covering their mouths and turning their eyes away so as to deny that this one time you said something that was actually funny. On purpose. You're cooler than they are.

This is the moment when one of them plays an egregiously amateur move by trying to connect with your hard work by calling you 'punny' and topping it with their handography. Um, no. You're not funny. And the fact that I was just now, doesn't grant you the privilege of riding my coattails. You're only emphasizing the fact that you will never pull off what I just did. Because you haven't failed as many times as I have.

4. The exclamation point

Let's just start with an example. Pretend I'm submitting my author's bio for The Carousel, because I'm sure by now that book is more than fifteen percent done. "I was partially inspired to write the book in 2008 while working at the library, regularly walking past rows of fiction authors and thinking how amazing it would be to have my name among them. At that point I only got a few chapters in before temporarily shelving the project. If there's one thing I learned at the library, it's how to shelve!"

*sigh* It's okay, you can grind your teeth. I know I am.

To be fair, written humor has two immediate disadvantages to the more familiar spoken format. You have no control over timing, and no inflexions. From that perspective, I understand why people try on the exclamation point for punch line 'punch'. So much of humor is nuance, and the typed word is sorely limited. I don't think there's a really good solution forthcoming.

Here's the thing though, let's examine the Muppets. The Muppets are really funny. And they're really emotional. And with few exceptions, their expressions are limited to mouth closed and mouth open. Jim Henson himself always warned incoming writers that the puppets could do about ten percent of what they needed to do, but they managed to overcome those obstacles. With a certain amount of creativity, solutions present themselves. Maybe not all-purpose solutions, but there are usually ways to work up an arsenal of workarounds.

Hopefully in this blog I've made you smile at least once. Assuming so (I have such a high opinion of myself), then that at least proves it's possible to crack the challenges of the written word. And if I haven't connected with you, why don't you do a Google search for Jack Handey? That should get the point across.

Not every joke works in every format. You can't really 'tell' a sight gag. Likewise, I'm sure you've read many a children's joke book containing such attempted zingers like "Q: What's the best time to go to the dentist? A: Two thirty (tooth hurty)". The fact that the joke requires a parenthetical explanation only emphasizes the incompatibility of the outlet.

In the case of the exclamation point, it only draws attention to the lack of 'punch' in the punch line. Now I'm not talking about dialogue, where characters are raising their voices for whatever reason; exclamation points are often vital in conveying that nuance. But in cases where you personally are the omniscient narrator, your exclamation points for comedic support turn you into Fozzie Bear, and your reader into Statler and/or Waldorf. Don't do that to yourself.

5. Anything on Saturday Night Live that has been said more than once

Ah, catch-phrase humor. I think every successful comedy writer has a tolerate/mostly hate relationship with this concept. Here's what happens. Comedy writers go to work for the establishment, because it keeps them off the street. In SNL's case, that establishment is NBC. By its nature, comedy is anti-establishment. And by their nature, successful members of the establishment got that way by having literally no understanding of what makes a joke work. To the executives, if people are quoting their show it means they're watching, which in turn means the show is succeeding. So the memo comes down to the comedy writers "Insert more catch phrase humor". And the writers begin their decade-long love affair with cocaine. By the time "Well isn't that special" and "I love it! I love it! I love it!" reach the audience, they're dead weight.

Now to be fair, a lot of the experience of laughter is social. If I start a "cheeseburger, cheeseburger" chant and people join in, I've activated a temporary community. We've all seen that sketch, and we're agreeing that we liked it for whatever reason. I'm not hurting anybody per se, but I'm also not being humorous.

Now let's look at the class clown. I've never known a class clown who was actually funny. They were always good at convincing the class that they were, but the truth is they weren't. There was no cleverness, no wit, not even any sense of timing. They were just loud. Their whole shtick was disruption, and everything in their catalog was a combination of obvious dirty humor and a parroting back of verbal memes from whatever happened to be popular at the time. They got laughs, certainly. But they never got respect. And never will.

Of course, respect might not be necessary for you to make a comfortable living doing cheap jokes as obnoxiously as possible; I'm sure Hollywood is always on the hunt for the next Jim Carrey. But my gut tells me that here in the age of Youtube with its leveled playing field, you're really going to accomplish nothing by being lazy with your humor.

Nobody can teach you how to be funny. Part of it is an X factor that simply wires your brain to think like an adult child. The rest comes from a lot of trial and error, blank stares, and projectile soda cans. But my best advice, if you're interested in nurturing your natural talent, is figure out what isn't funny and don't do that. It should be enough to keep you pointed in the right direction, assuming you're somebody who cares enough to want to experience legitimate humor.

I think that's the key, caring. Caring enough to risk not being funny, in exchange for a deeper connection to that world of "I was really funny today!". Laziness is never funny. Desperation is never funny. Vulgarity is rarely funny, and considering how common it is, I'd encourage you to steer away from it entirely in favor of something fresh. Always try to be better. Comedy is fleeting, and the moment you feel like you've made it is when it soars off without you.

To paraphrase the old inspirational quote, shoot for the moon. Even if you miss you'll wind up in the cold vacuum of space, frozen and suffocating. And if you can survive that, you've got what it takes to handle comedy.

Doctor Who: What Would You Do if You Were Steven Moffat?

The Doctor Who Christmas Episode Twice Upon a Time is right around the corner, and with it we bid farewell to Peter Capaldi's Twelfth Doctor as he regenerates into Jodie Whittaker. We'll also see the return of Pearl Mackie as Bill for one last hurrah, and quite possibly an appearance by Jenna Coleman. Moreover, as has been teased, David Bradley will be appearing as William Hartnell's First Doctor in one final multi-Doctor story before Moffat slips quietly out of the show runner's chair.

I'm sure it's going to be a warm, tear inducing goodbye for all, and ultimately give us exactly what we'd expect from such a sendoff, right?

Except...

This is Steven Moffat we're talking about. Mr. Misdirection himself. The man who practically reinvented the 'there is literally no way out of this- but PSYCHE! You forgot about the pack of chewing gum didn't you? Oh you gullible fools!' trope *name needs revision*. You don't really think he's going to go quietly do you?

Moffat has his flaws as a writer, but you have to admit he's ambitious. And I can't really think of another Doctor Who writer who has demonstrated having so much fun with the timey-wimey elements of the show. This is likely his swan song, and you know he's going to put his stamp on it. That one last go round that he's been saving since everybody lived, just that once.

So it's not 'if' but 'what'. What rug is he going to yank out from under us? Well, in an attempt to answer this question, let's examine what said Moffat-ism has to accomplish.

1. The tools of the trade

One rule Moffat has always abided by is fair game. Like Agatha Christie (usually) he'll give you all the pieces you need in advance. It's only as the plot unfolds that he's showing you how to put them together, but it's all laid out very early. And knowing something as crucial as the First Doctor's appearance months ago, it means the twist is staring us in the face.

2. A clean slate

I don't know what goes on behind the scenes, but Doctor Who writers at least convey a professional respect for each other. With Chris Chibnall taking the reins, it would be keeping with Moffat's character to leave the office in work ready shape. No major dangling plot threads, or dead ends to back out of. Writers tend to clean up their messes when they know they're vacating their workspaces.

3. Writer's revenge

With that said, the one collective voice I'm sure Moffat has gotten sick of listening to is the fan base. There's no pleasing us. I'm sure Moffat's main advice to Chibnall is "take their whining and petitions against you as a sign that they're still paying attention, but don't ever expect praise or gratitude from the selfish bastards". Meaning, as considerate at Moffat will inevitably be to Chibnall, we deserve no such kindness. And as this is his last chance to really piss us off, you know he's going to really throw it in our faces.

4. Mythology

Moffat knows the history of the show at least as well as any of us do, so when we cry "But what about-" he knows. He's already thought about it.

So what then does that leave us with? One of the biggest continuity issues right now is the character of the Valeyard. If you don't know, or need a refresher, the Valeyard was a villain in the Sixth Doctor's final season; the huge reveal that he was a future incarnation of the Doctor (kind of between his Twelfth and Thirteenth incarnation. It's complicated).

So on the one hand, we have Capaldi's Twelfth Doctor on the cusp of regenerating into Whittaker's Thirteenth Doctor, which seems like a now or never point to address this loose end. On the other hand, what number regeneration are we really on? Between the War Doctor and Ten using a full regeneration to create Ten-light, are we actually moving into Fifteen? And it's also not clear what the Time Lords granted Eleven when they allowed him to regenerate into Twelve. Was it a whole new cycle? Does that mean Capaldi is the new First Doctor?

We're not going to get anywhere trying to untangle that series of knots, so let's focus on Moffat instead. He could easily say "Well, you know what? The Valeyard got erased because of a butterfly wizard. Get over it," and he wouldn't be outside the realm of sanity in doing so. But remember in the Moffat penned episode The Name of the Doctor, the Valeyard was name dropped as something that's still canon. So even Moffat acknowledges that there's a continuity issue.

I don't think the Valeyard is going to make an appearance in Twice Upon a Time because it's too big of a deal to tackle in one episode, and I'm sure Moffat wants to leave it up to Chibnall whether or not to address it at all. As part of the "Clean slate" directive, we need to treat the Valeyard's position between the Twelfth and Thirteenth incarnations intact, as well as pushing it as far away as possible to deal with now or deal with later as the current or future show runner deems necessary. What do we do?

*Fake Spoilers Ahead*

This is my best guess, trying to imagine the most Moffat-y thing Moffat could do as he takes his final bow. The Valeyard's goal was to steal the Sixth Doctor's remaining regenerations. From the Valeyard's perspective, those regenerations had already happened. So it's been established that a Time Lord actually has the ability to go back really screw around with the timeline. What wasn't established was how this would happen. It's assumed the high council would have removed Six's regeneration by force.

River Song voluntarily gave up all of her regenerative energy to save Eleven. So it's also been established that one has a certain amount of choice in the matter.

Now what is our situation in Twice Upon a Time? Calpaldi's Twelfth Doctor on the verge of regenerating and Bradley's First Doctor on the verge of regenerating. What if they swapped regeneration cycles? Capaldi regenerates into Patrick Troughton's Second Doctor closing the circle, freeing the First Doctor to regenerate into Jodie Whittaker, who will become the new Second Doctor. Wouldn't that be the biggest clean slate Moffat could give Chibnall while infuriating the fan base who are already infamous for hacking Moffat's Wikipedia page and filling it up with the sentence "Steven Moffat is ruining Doctor Who"?

I'm calling it now. And if I'm right, I expect a K9 Mark V on my doorstep come New Year's. I'm sure Baxter will be thrilled with the companion.

Home is Where the Dogs Are -A Thanksgiving Gathering

November. The month of neglect. That introspective middle child between the rebellious drama queen of October and the always-on-the-honor-roll-perfectly-straight-teeth-mom's-favorite-princess December. I'm not bitter. I'm a Scorpio. Scorpios don't get bitter. We get passive-aggressively pleasant.

It's not just that my birthday falls in the month of undertow between the all inclusive party of Halloween and the huge production of Christmas, it's that I'm perpetually tied to Thanksgiving, the holiday that literally nobody looks forward to. It's all the work of Christmas without the payoff, no specialized soundtracks, lights, or Doctor Who specials to look forward to. Thanksgiving is a time of family; a statement likely to inspire one to reach for the Advil prior to the dress shoes.

But in the interest of togetherness, and the fact that all my creative energy is going to nanowrimo at the moment I thought it might be nice to present a tribute to all of my siblings throughout my life, conveyed here through a metaphorical spread beyond the mortality of time. Let's meet the dogs.

Now forewarning: as we all discovered in kindergarten through the collective trauma imposed on us by teachers, librarians, writers, and publishers, the dogs always die. Here is no exception. This is real life. When you own a dog, you accept the harsh reality that you are most likely going to outlive the creature. As all but two of my furry family are no longer of this earth, this blog is invariably going to have to mention a few deaths. But my goal here isn't to be morbid (that was last month). Instead I'm hoping to provide them with a little internet immortality. Hang on, somebody's scratching at the door.


The Big Three

Now when I say big, you have to factor in that I was an infant. Bill, Marcus, and Alexis were the three dogs born before me. It was like growing up around horses.

Bill was the oldest, and unfortunately I don't know that much about him. He was a large hound, possibly a mix breed with a little bit of German Shepherd in him. He might have been my mom's first dog, and he was absolutely sweet to everybody. As tolerant as he was of me, he could have been a therapy dog. I don't think he and I ever technically lived in the same house as we were in an apartment with strict pet rules and my grandparents were only about ten miles away. I'm not sure when or why he died, I just remember one day we went for a visit and Bill was no longer there. I was too young to really feel the sense of loss. So Bill was like that older brother who was in college.

Now Marcus was my mom's protector. He was a black and white hound who lived until I was eleven, and it was only in those last few years that he could even stand me. I was growled at on a daily basis and bitten countless times. Strangely, it never deterred me from wanting to bond with him. Marcus was a watchful protector, and I daresay I looked up to him. Whenever I got sick, which was quite a lot, Marcus admitted that he cared about me. It was just when I had energy that he enjoyed taking me down a few notches.

And then Alexis, or Lecky. A weird fuzzy combination of poodle and sheepdog, my parents got Lecky from the pound because they thought Marcus needed another dog to keep him company. Marcus wanted nothing to do with her, but she certainly got attached to him. Lecky, or Dumb Dora as my grandmother called her, had a simple mindset. All food within grasp was for eating, people's faces were for licking, window blinds were for destroying, and leaves were gifts. Any time we came back to the house, Lecky would find a leaf from outside to present as a welcome home token.

So as the three of them have arrived in the same car, I'm going to have Marcus take over in the kitchen where he can be left alone. I'll keep Lecky away from the food and have her create the centerpiece for the table while Bill and I lay out the tablecloth and silverware.


The Middle Mob

My mom had a history of collecting the animals that nobody else wanted, or were equipped to handle. It started with Tassy, a cocker spaniel from next door, whose former family underestimated her ability to claw through the walls of the washroom. We secured Tassy when she was still a hyperactive puppy, and as our first dog who was younger than me, we spent a lot of time roughhousing. Out of all the dogs we had, Tassy was the most centrally placed, having interacted with seven other dogs throughout her life. She was the new kid with Marcus and Lecky, naturally assuming the place of canine matriarch for the next batch (Alexander, Wolfgang, Boone, and Sarah).

I'm going to talk about Wolfie first in this bunch to kind of cover the death issue at the same time. As I mentioned, Marcus died when I was eleven, and that was my first experience with death that really resonated. He got old, his body began shutting down, and a few days later he died. It can't get much more natural than that, but it's still terrible. Soon thereafter Lecky started to deteriorate, possibly affected by the fact that she missed her older brother. Her death was a bit slower, but still reasonably 'acceptable'.

Wolfie on the other hand died when he was three. He had a genetic condition which was described to us as having a very poor immunity system. In the short time he was with us, he was an active dog. Very playful. And also having many of Marcus's physical features and Bill's personality. But then one day he got sick with what seemed like a simple infection. And even though w knew about his condition, we all felt blindsided when his body couldn't fight it off. I think my mom took it the hardest. Wolfie was the kind of dog who would try so hard to stay awake, just because he wanted to see what you were doing, and you could watch his head slowly sink into your lap as he drifted off to sleep. His death was one that just felt wrong.

But his wasn't the worst. That honor belonged to Tassy, who I honestly thought was going to live forever. She was old by the time I was in college, and every time I came home I thought it might be the last time I'd see her, so I'd give her an extra warm goodbye. Then I graduated and moved back home. And a few years went by. And Tassy was still alive. And it's with a certain amount of regret I have to say that she introduced me to the most amoral side of myself. You see, in that period of about five years, Tassy began decaying. Her eyesight went. Then senility set in. She'd sleep the whole day and bark the whole night. Nobody could sleep. And she smelled of urine. I don't know what the right thing to do was, but my mom absolutely would not put Tassy to sleep, and by the time she finally died on her own I'd been driven too insane to feel anything about it.

But let's remember Tassy for her best, not her worst. We brought in a new puppy named Alexander shortly after Marcus went. Lander was a terrier who looked a lot like Toto from The Wizard of Oz, although a lot more high strung. Lecky didn't take to him, but she wasn't around much longer. But Tassy did. The two of them were so funny together. Lander had the advantage of agility, but Tassy learned tactics, like knocking him off the couch with her body.

Lander was adorable as a puppy, but he became a little shit once he was full grown. If he grabbed something, he would not let go. He would never back down from a conflict, no matter how out weighted he was. And the vets wouldn't see him unless we got a muzzle on him ourselves. Wolfie came and went during Lander's tenure, and while they could play tug-of-war just fine, Lander expressed no loss once Wolfie was gone.

Around this time, Boone was a neglected dog from our next door neighbors on the other side of us. I don't know what she was, she had some lab in her but she was almost as small as Alexander. Her name was technically 'Boo', and I have no idea why we didn't change it. I added the 'ne' to her name because I refused to call her by an interjection. Boone was terrified of displeasing us. She'd roughhouse with Alexander, but not us. Once he was trying to get away from her but she had his tail in her mouth. He turned around and snapped at her, and she was so startled she bumped her little head on the wall. Boone was determined not to bite us, but if you gave her a treat you might wind up bleeding a little. She'd feel awful about it, but there was no self control for her when it came to food.

And then there was Sarah, who was like a miniature Bill. She was a stray that someone brought to our church and we wound up taking her. Sarah was the first dog who I honestly felt was mine. We bonded quickly. We played. I'd take her for car rides. If she got her toenails caught in something she knew to come to me. yeah, sometimes she would bully Boone, nobody's perfect, but she was the one I really felt responsible for.

So this group shows up for Thanksgiving at roughly (ruffly, ha ha) the same time. I send Bill out to set up the croquet wickets in the backyard so they can get a game going. Alexander is competitive as always, but Boone is better at the game than he is. Wolfie is just out there to have fun, and he and Bill figure out how much they have in common. Tassy and Sarah come in the house. And since I know Tassy and Marcus get along pretty well I ask her to go see if he needs any help in the kitchen. Lecky is whimpering about eating, so I have Sarah help me with cheese, cracker, and olive tray, moving it outside for the masses. Sarah makes sure that nobody wolfs down too much. We're only waiting on one more car.


The Young Ones

It was difficult to figure out where the dividing line for the next wave of dogs was, but in the end I decided on the arrival of Bela the Dalmatian as the transition. One, he was freaking huge, which meant simply placing our sandwiches on the counter didn't mean lunch was out of reach of the beasts. And two, Bela was the first dog who outlived my mom, the primary force in why I had so many canine siblings (I was probably the reason I never had a human one).

Bela (named after Lugosi, not Swan) was utterly neglected by his former owners. When we went to pick him up, he just climbed into the minivan with no love lost at all. We could have been dropping him off at the bus station for all he knew. But we got him home, and he became acclimated to the other dogs, quickly developing his high strung/problem solving personality. Bela was almost as big as me, and it took me about three months to convince the little moose that I outranked him. He had a sense of humor. One day I was laying on the couch with a sinus headache, but Bela decided that my time would be better spent in an argument with him. Bela was on his back on the rug, right near where my hand was, squirming around like dogs do, and occasionally brushing against my fingers. As I was resigned to ignore him, it didn't occur to me that he was deliberately trying to annoy me. Then he quite adamantly rubbed against my hand and sprang to his feet an arm's length away. And waited. When I didn't react, he bounded from where he stood, planting his paws right in my stomach, and scurried down the hall to the soundtrack of much profanity from my voice.

The next one was Serena, a Jack Russell Terrier, and a virtual beacon of energy. I came home one day and she was just there; this tiny little thing with her big fuzzy face eyes. My first thought was of horror. "Bela is going to kill her!" I told my mom. But she was convinced otherwise and it turned out that Bela registered immediately how fragile she was. Serena took to him straight away, placing her paws on his front shoulders and licking him in the face, while he gave me this look of 'what the hell have you brought into this family'. But they got close very quickly and had a tendency to wear each other out. So a win all around.

Willow came next. She was a golden retriever, and had a kind of maternal sensibility about her. She could tell when you were upset, and she would express her concern as respectfully as possible. She'd come sit next to you and be available whenever you needed something soft to pet. And if a few minutes went by without you reacting, the paw would come up and touch your hand or leg, whatever was available. You couldn't help but love her.

The last one was Peanut, another Jack Russell Terrier and the only dog to enter the fold after my mom had died. My father has made it clear that she'll be the last dog he owns, which means she's permanently the baby. She's like a little sheep with a wolf face, and a few weeks ago my father brought her for a visit and the three of us got to go to the drive in. She was really well behaved.

So by the time this pack pulls up all in the same car, with Bela driving and Serena demanding that she be allowed the passenger seat over Willow, the turkey is ready. There's a stampede to the kitchen, and I have to run interference to get everybody over to the table. "We're not eating until you're all seated!" I shout over a dozen voices.

It takes me a while to settle the commotion down, but I finally get all the dogs in front of their respective name plates, with an empty one between Alexis and Bela. "First off," I say, "I want you all to meet my little one." I bring out our miniature dachshund. "This is Baxter. Ginny and I adopted him, and he's our pride and joy." I then go around the table and introduce all the animals who came before him, each one of whom had a profound impact on the person I became in one way or another. I insist we take a moment to honor the woman who brought us all together, our mother. May she rest in peace when she's finally ready. But until then, may she always find the next roller coaster, explore the next museum, and save the next dog.

I have Willow say grace before serving (as Alexis and Boone would certainly not wait for the all clear), and I take a moment to cherish my whole family. Bill, Marcus, Alexis, Tassy, Alexander, Wolfie, Boone, Sarah, Bela, Serena, Willow, Peanut, and Baxter. Four and a half decades of one pack. You'll all be remembered until there's no longer a need.

Let's eat!