Rewriting the classics to keep them relevant

Scuffy The Vampire Slayer- The original story is about a tugboat who decides that he wants to leave the small confines of his bathtub to venture out into the wider world. Really, it's a story about the grandeur of the American west and the reaffirmation of the rugged individualism personified by American cowboys. Of course, at the end Scuffy is gathered back in to the arms of his original owner because the dream proves to bigger than he can handle.

That story doesn't sell anymore. If Scuffy leaves home it needs to be for a good reason. It's probable that Scuffy is himself turning into a vampire, or had his uncle, a steam ship of good repute killed by a vampire. Therefore, when Scufffy sets out into the reeds and the wild blue yonder it is not to assert himself as an individual, rather, it's to do what all great Americans (Lincoln included) now do, slay vampires.

Goldilocks and the Three Werewolves-The original tale includes some sitting in chairs, eating of porridge, and sleeping in beds. Now, the problem with the bear's response to Goldilocks intrusion into their house is that she gets away with it. Anyone raised in the era of mass bear killings like I've been knows that bears are faster than Cheetahs and can climb trees faster than sloths, which are slow. But anyhow, yeah, bear=death machine. The problem with the story is that these dangerous bears are turned into English house butlers.

The rewrite involves three Werewolfs coming home to discover the same thing. And trust me, by the time they get to the beds they've totally transformed and are stark raving mad. No longer will your children think it okay to break into someone's house and eat their porridge, no, they'll realize that such an intrusion ends up Brother's Grimm style. Aside: it seems better to be a vampire because you can turn other people into vampires while werewolfs seem like they'd be a more reclusive type animal due to gnashing and tearing of all people in their path. Maybe we could tie in some lesson about solipsism. Let it marinate.

The Three Little Zombies-The original story teaches us that it's best to move to the burbs and build your house from bricks and that pigs will eat just about anything. Anyhow, it clearly amounts to a lengthy ad for post WW II America's desire to build some sort of suburban paradise. What you got against sticks old America?

The three little zombies have a much different life. This time around we replace the pigs with zombies. Are kids are going to have to face these existential realities at a sooner point than we ever had to. Let's be honest with them about it. The first zombie builds his house out of some sort of macabre collection of animal body parts and is rounded up and killed by the posse. The second zombie builds his house out of a collection of failed dreams that he had back in his human life, like, maybe he wanted to be an engineer or something, but he didn't have the money to go to a proper school. The posse shoots right through his house built of dreams and nabs him. The third zombie builds his house out of proper stuff, the bodies of all those people that he's eaten. The posse is overwhelmed by the stench and by the existential dilemma of having to fire through friends and neighbors in order to kill something that is, let's be honest here, already dead. They'd all walk away feeling a little ashamed of themselves, and we'd all learn something about our relationships between each other. And then the zombie would eat them.

James and the Giant deficit-All the particulars of the story remain pretty much the same. James has these two horrible aunts who spend most of their time doing derivatives trading and loan swaps. Eventually this causes them to fall into bankruptcy. Then, as a result of the austerity measures that the aunts decide to undergo they start treating James poorly. And, when James says, "Hey, I wasn't the one speculating in the evening on E-trade(so pretty much verbatim the original) every night," his aunts will tell him to be quiet and then say something like, "We'd all be fine if it weren't for this huge deficit." And James, even though he be a child, would point out that it seemed to be missing the real point, which is that the family got into this mess due to the original trading.

Then he wanders out back and finds a Giant deficit. A much bigger deficit than he's ever seen, but once he climbs inside the deficit he finds all of these people inside with different ideas about how to fix the aunt's problems. Some of the people blame socialism, some the deficit itself, which was silly since it was the thing keeping them afloat, and others, the aunt's themselves for speculating and causing the whole damn mess. Eventually, as they are sailing somewhere over the Pacific and on their way to China, James will grow tired of all the wrangling over the problems and decide to become a politician himself. This dream will not come to fruition, and he'll wind up as a depressed bank clerk living in Kansas. I think it captures a lot of what Dahl was after without losing much.

The Very Hungry Caterpillar-We'd take this classic children's tale of a caterpillar overeating and turning into a butterfly and have it become a Japanese horror film with a human caterpillar that is really an allegory about the ills of a right wing government. Oh, I'm hearing word that's already been done. Well, maybe he'll just eat healthier stuff in our version.

Oh The places you won't go-Basically this is book that we're going to distribute to people who don't make much money, people who don't go to Ivy league schools and people with MFA's in creative writing. We'll put in a bunch of pictures of the White House, people in a hot tub in the Hamptons, traveling through Europe, having a live in nanny etc. Because look at what all that agitating about the 99 percent got those people...nothing. The key to happiness is reduced dreams. Hey, there can only be one President every four years, they're always looking for people to scrub toilets.

Where the Wild Things Aren't-This rewriting would be a change from the traditional story of wild play that Max engages in. In the retelling, the wild things are all in trophy cases and the woods are a parking lot. Max maybe wanders around the parking lot for a while, has a conversation with a bum about the possibility of getting a smoke and maybe global warming and then he goes back to bed. However, on the plus side, not only has he seen a more proper world, he's also gotten to bed earlier. And, like most adults, I know that you never regret going to bed early.

Charlie and the itenerant chocolate factory workers-Listen, I love the rags to riches story of finding the special wrapper and all that. But let's be honest with each other, capitalism is a degrading thing. It's time to teach our kids about the power of the proletariat. Maybe Charlie gets inside and starts talking to some of the Oompa Loompas and discovers they aren't weird crazy people made from magic but just regular joe's working under really crappy conditions that have totally hosed them. Maybe Charlie helps lead a strike and they overthrow Wonka and the workers gain the rights to the factory. Maybe we can do something to change this world instead of just eating chocolate and calling it a day? I always opt for the latter, but I'm hopeful that with the right book our kids can opt for the former.

Cloudy with a chance of Acid Rain-What's that, things that look like meatballs in the sky. Wrong kids. That's the massive cloud that forms when we're about to have some acid rain dropped on us. In this version the kids aren't really excited by the rain, rather, they are kind of terrified. And after the rain stops they'd probably congregate, sign a petition, and head down to Charlie's factory and get the thing shut down, because we all have got to live together in the proletariat not just you, Charlie!

Cinderella-Listen, I just reread Cinderella. I've got no major issues with the beginning plot points. I'm fine with mean step-mothers and sisters and all that. I'm even fine with Cinderella "wanting" to go to the ball. However, when things don't work out for her why does the fairy godmother show up? We want to teach our kids to be a little more self-reliant than that. The only people in this story with gumption are the sisters who hack off toes to try and fit in the shoe. They are the real winners because you' know they'll be successful in the future, hobble and all.

 No. In the retelling Cinderella goes to the ball, but she just observes. She live tweets the thing. Prince, more like a frog #lamest ball of the year. And maybe people start following her tweets during the ball, maybe she's trending by midnight. I'll tell you what, she certainly isn't falling in love and waiting to be carried away. What kind of patriarchal bull-shi is that? No. She goes back home, maybe notices that the prince is following her tweets and does says something mildly flirtatious to reel him in. She is not waiting for a glass slipper though, she is updating facebook to it's complicated and posting pictures of her with mannequins made to look like boyfriends in different poses via Instagram. These kids need to know. Eventually she ends up with the prince or mildly famous, it's all the same in the end, right? Lesson learned.

New Year

I went out walking in the evening. After tea, but before dessert. I left instructions with the maid to start a fire, and to retire to her own quarters after putting together the cake. She has grown so used to me that this sudden act of taking a walk after dinner seemed to her an act of aggression. It is these strange confirmations, the lifting of her eyebrows at this request which confirm how staid my life has become in these autumn years. 

"Do not look so surprised, Miss Thatcher," I told her gruffly. "I have not told you that I intend to run." 

She smiled and helped me into my overcoat, which is a shade too large now for my ever diminishing shoulders. The wind was whipping over the cobbles, hiding behind certain street corners and nipping at my cheeks. On evenings such as this it has been my habit to take a bit of alcohol, a minor bit, and then read over the news. 

The whole city seems changed at this time of night. When the streetlights loom like sentries, pooling light in alcoves amidst the coming dark. I turned down seventh street, passing by houses where people that I used to know had lived. It is strange to me how they can now be so emptied of meaning. I don't know if language is capable of capturing this particular absence. 

I came down the street and was struck by the sound of a piano being played expertly. I quickly, or as quickly as I am now capable moved out of the light and into the shadows, so I could hear the bars of music unobserved. Through a window I glimpsed a woman sitting at the piano, her brow slightly furrowed, as she worked over something by Beethoven. She had long red hair, cropped at her shoulders, framing her heart shaped face. And suddenly I was transported back to another time, years before, when I had stood at a similar window, looking out instead of in while a young woman played the piano. I remember the lights of the Christmas tree, making green and red patterns on the window. I turned from the window, watched the girl at the piano, wanting to say something to her about the patterns of the lights, the patterns of my thoughts, certain little pieces of verisimilitude that added up to something significant. "It is a fine piece," I said instead, and went back to gazing out the window. 

Years later now, it is hard to imagine that I was that boy in the window. And, as I listen to the music rise from the depths of the shadows, a thief as sure as any other. I thought that I should get back to Miss Thatcher. She'd be missing me on this night more than most. The awful reminder of the places we used to haunt, the people that we used to be. Of course, I realized as I straightened up and walked briskly through the cold that I'd never stood at a window against the frosted glass listening to a girl play piano. It was yet another thing I'd invented to pass these slowly moving days. And perhaps, in some other world, there was another version of me that was remembering that window, those red tresses, and perhaps these convergences in time happen for a reason, to remind us that not everything is lost to the passage of time. 

These are the foolish thoughts of an old man in need of tea. I think it is the last time that I'll walk after dark. 

Les Miserables or how many times it made me cry

I feel like the best way to describe my experience of this movie is through a song. Anyhow, I had the video uploaded, Youtube was buzzing with twitters, when suddenly, I realized that I can't sing worth a damn, so I'd just be stuck with the blunt instrument of prose. I think I mean bland more than blunt, which winds up sounding vaguely threatening. The ineffectual(?) effete(?) kind of old-fashioned instrument of prose.

I saw the musical a number of years ago in Chicago. I left the theater mostly unimpressed/singing, "Master of the House" at a volume on the street that I think it's fair to say that the fine people of Chicago probably felt compelled to join in. They didn't, but I think they wanted to. Anyhow, I fell asleep midway through, was confused about who people were, Fantine sounds like a delicious cheese for a cracker but apparently she does other things as well. Also, Eponine. Didn't remember her at all. The point is, it made very little impact on me because people were singing, which is hard to listen to in less it is a karaoke bar and you're in a group with the people singing, who probably sound only slightly worse than Russell Crowe. Zing. 

Anyhow, the list: 

Number of times I cried during Les Miserables and who did it: 

1 Valjean Arrested, Valjean Forgiven- Is the Bishop of Digne going to forgive you and give you the rest of the candle sticks and melt my cynics heart right off the bat? But, he took from you. He stole. Oh you're purchasing back his eternal soul. 

2 Fantine singing "I Dreamed a Dream," why are you singing about all your dreams being crushed. You've got some hope girl. Things are going to change. What? You're dying of TB? Well, you had a good run, sing it girl! 

3 Eponine singing "On My Own" Oh, what's that, your never quite boyfriend just fell in love with some other girl on the drop of a hat, your parents are awful, and now it's raining. This could be terrible. Or  you could make it beautiful Eponine. Thank you for making it beautiful. 

4 The cast singing "One Day More" Hey look it's just everyone in the known world gathering together to sing  in some sort of four part harmony about having some more time. Here heartstrings, have a tug. 

5  Eponine and Marius singing "A Little Fall of Rain." Did you make me fall in love with you by singing in the rain, Eponine, just to take to the streets to get shot? Why would you do that to me? This hurts. Wait, does Marius love you? I guess he doesn't, but he kind of does. This is all just very sad. 

6 Company singing "Do You Hear the People Sing." Yes. I do hear the people sing, but sometime it's hard to focus through the tears Les Miserables. I mean. I'm about to have to walk out of a lit theater with people in the car with me. Why do you have to do that with the people all singing and waving flags and our hearts lifting? 

Doubles

We waited in the half-dark of an early winter evening. The light is that specific shade of green that it goes this time of year when pressed through city lights. All the pretty people I used to know are living in other cities under other names. I press my face against the window. Outside, snow isn't even bothering to fall.

This is all just a set up to tell you something else. It was strange that night, to feel so distant from everywhere and everything, riding the train uptown after work in the pitch black, where you can only make out bits of neon. I wasn't expecting to run into anyone I knew because I don't know anyone anymore. I make a habit of keeping silent on the train, trying to disappear into myself.

That's why it was so strange to see myself reading the newspaper two rows up. I recognized myself immediately, which is strange, because I'm often confounded by what I see in the mirror. What was strange was how calm I seemed, flicking the pages of the Wall Street Journal as if they had meaning. I wanted to approach, but I seemed engrossed in the seemingly random configuration of numbers and figures that passes for financial markets throughout the world.

I wasn't sure what to make of this slippage in time, of a different me traveling on that same train to some other destination. I hear you reader. Shouldn't I have assumed that some sort of time travel had been discovered, or, that I was going completely insane? I assumed neither, and I'd like to point out that you'd have likely done the same. For, once seeing oneself in the body of flesh, of checking every angle in the available reflection of mirrors, eventually becomes as real as the sun rising, or the light of a far away star--something like abstractions given flesh, clothed now in the light of reality. The strange part, I came to realize on that long ride home, is the existence, or seeming existence of all the people I'd known before--my first grade teacher, the homeless man I gave a quarter to in the spring of the year 2001, the owner of a Springer Spaniel who smelled of cigarette ash. And what to make of all the people that had passed out of my memory altogether? Could they be said to be, in any sense, real anymore?

And that, as I'm sure you've already deduced, is how I figured out why there would be two of me riding that lonely train home in the dark of the night. For surely this version of me, this slightly odd replica, existed in order that no one should slip from my memory. Certainly, it seemed obvious to me, he was keeping the boy who picked his nose in the second grade in mind. And another version of me was living somewhere out east, thinking about the tall boy that I taught how to play basketball in fifth grade, and still someone else to remember the bent head of a dead bird lying in a pillow of browned needles, and another, remembering the exact length of the comet's tail as it traveled across the bit of the universe that we could see from the hood of a car, and still another, brooding over the spidery veins in her forearm as the tip of my finger arced along her smooth flesh, and a last one, sitting on a train car, not knowing a damn thing about the world, just trying to remain conscious long enough to take the short bus ride home.

Four Days

Everyone I know was asking about the children. "The children are fine," I'd tell them, smoking a cigarette to pass the time. "They're wonderful."

A series of beautiful things happened to me while traveling that summer. I'm not interested in going into detail,  and you're not interested in listening. The watery images of buildings floated in the reflection of the sky. I could see Notre Dame from across that same water, the very image of Hugo. How could he have written so many pages? Did he do nothing else? This is perhaps what it was like to be a learned man before the age of television and the internet. But, as you see, I've already forgotten what I was writing you about.

The seminal thing, which they don't always tell you, is to forget. It was the best advice I ever received. It was delivered to me over brunch in a Belgian restaurant downtown. The waiter had a pencil thin mustache and the accent of god only knows where. "It is best to forget," my uncle told me. He was drunk by then, as usual, but I too his words to heart and have not forgotten them since.

"I don't like the look of things," she said, gesturing towards the sky.

"I do," he answered, stepping out into the street.

"And do you expect me to follow you then?" she asked.

"It would show the sort of trust in me that I'd always hoped you'd have."

"But that would be a mistake."

"Probably," he answered as she followed him into the light rain. 

Be Drunk

By Charles Baudelaire

You have to be always drunk. That's all there is to it--it's the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk.
 But on what? Wine, poetry, or virtue--as you wish. But be drunk.
And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again, drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is singing, everything that is speaking...ask what time it is, and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: "It is time to be drunk! So as not to be martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, poetry, or virtue as you wish." 

Some early thoughts

On putting a two year old to bed.

S: I close the door from the inside, so she can't just get up and wander around.

M: I close the door from the outside. Then I go downstairs and pour myself a scotch. After a while, either the knocking diminishes, or I knock back enough so that I can't hear it. I feel like it's basically two sides of the same coin. 


Other things

I'd forgotten how useless it can be to lack milk ducts. I'm walking around with this semi-squealing, (he's really quite good) child wondering how I can help him, and then I realize that he has only one desire: milk. And I feel helpless and philosophical, and wonder what it would be like to live with so strong a desire for one thing. 



On parenting two and taken from a conversation with a friend about the difficulty of explaining a new sibling to a toddler. "It's like they start to realize how annoying it can be to have someone in the house who cries all the time, yet the fail to grasp the irony of that." 

The Renaissance 

I'd also forgotten how having a newborn child is like constantly living in the Renaissance. This is primarily because Julian and I sit around talking about the rise of humanism and about how best to grind lenses for viewing the moon, however, since he's a few days old we have to take frequent breaks because he needs to nap about 18 hours a day. Anyhow, the other fact is that your bedroom suddenly turns into an Italian art exhibition with mother Mary taking care of her newborn infant. Then I go downstairs and demand a joust with Sadie, which usually ends with me putting on some Carly Rae Jeppsen and having a dance off instead, because you have to be flexibly as a parent, and that means you don't always get an honest joust when you'd like one. 

On Parenting in General

It's easier than it looks. I'd encourage everyone to adopt my kids. I jest. I was trying to get lil S ready for bed a couple of weeks ago when she decided that she wanted to take her diaper off. I allowed it, but I told her that anytime we have our diaper off it is required that we sit on the toilet. She dutifully sat on the toilet for a while before sprinting into our bedroom and trying to jump on the bed for what I can only assume would be a giant pee. However, I coaxed her back to bed, reminding her that if our pants are off we need to be on the toilet. It's a good rule of thumb. 

Anyhow, the day passes by, and, as I'm getting her ready for bed I got off to do a few things and when I come back into her room she's naked again. "Sadie," I said, "what did I tell you about being naked." At which point she pulled a palm-sized toilet out from underneath her that she'd taken from her doll house. I couldn't argue with the logic, but I wasn't sure my message had sunk in. This is parenting.