Author Archives: Kurt Luchs

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, which we happen to regard as a shrine to great 19th century American literature...and to those in academia who haven't a clue as to what it's all about. In his first piece for us Nicolas Sansone shows just how wrong one doctoral candidate can be.

Dinghy Romance

By: Nicolas Sansone

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Dear Herman Melville,

Maybe you’ve felt your ears burning recently. This is because I am composing my dissertation on your emblematic American novel, Moby-Dick. After close-reading your sensual descriptions of nautical apparatus and such interesting seafaring phenomena as ambergris and latent homosexuality, I feel like I understand you better than I understand myself.

In my dissertation, “Melville’s Surging Blowhole,” I discuss the gender politics of your novel. It is my theory that your phallocentrism can be chalked up to your socio-historical context, which includes your experience as a seaman on an all-male whaling boat, the hetero-patriarchal norms of your era, and your sexually ambiguous “friendship” with your contemporary, Nathanial Hawthorne. (You are the better writer, by the way, and Hawthorne didn’t appreciate what he was passing up, but that is simply my opinion, which is informed by my own socio-historical context, which includes my experience of reading Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter with an English teacher, Mrs. Wexler, whose socio-historical context didn’t include a commitment to personal hygiene.)

In short, I argue that the absence of women in your book is due not to underlying misogyny but to your deep yearning to explore the supple contours of virile masculinity with the able hands of a mariner.

This is obvious to anybody with a brain, but, unfortunately, certain professors, whose socio-historical contexts have transformed them into insufferable assholes, are not convinced. Last week, I received initial feedback on my dissertation. I was told that “Melville’s Surging Blowhole” is “a lurid and incoherent misapplication of Queer Theory’s most basic tools” that “reads more like the gushing insinuations of a slobbering fanboy than actual scholarship.” My dissertation advisor wrote, “I can’t help thinking that the cautionary tale of Ahab’s self-destructive pursuit of his white whale might prove instructive to you as you enter your twelfth year in this program. Perhaps it is time to admit defeat. And, on a personal level, I am beginning to worry about your mental and physical health. When have you slept last?”

Ha! Though I can see the laughableness of these comments now, Mr. Melville, when I first received this feedback, I was distraught. So, I left a note for my wife and drove immediately to the only place that could give me solace: your home in Pittsfield, MA, which has today been furnished by the Massachusetts Historical Society with era-appropriate antiques. The leaves were yellow-red and gold-orange, Mount Greylock was a breaching whale on the horizon, and I was transported, Mr. Melville. I was a first mate. I reached out to touch your dining room table, in spite of various placards that warned against such an action, and imagined you there with me. I could feel your ancient breath on my cheek and the pressure of your mizzenmast against my thigh.

O, Mr. Melville! I will not deny that this was extremely moving and that feeling your presence just off my port bow has given me the strength to pursue my goals. I sometimes think about you as I drift to sleep in the evening — and sometimes, when I wake, I know that you have swabbed my decks in the night.

This is my discursive way of saying thank you. When the entire world is against me, I know that I can rely on you. In fact, one might even say I love you. Not in the way I love my wife, of course (don’t get any ideas, mister!), but in a deeper and more transcendent way that only you could possibly comprehend. Thank you for guiding my harpoon, Mr. Melville. Thank you for being my north star.

Deeply yours,

Nicolas A. Sansone, Ph.D. candidate in American Romanticism at the University of Massachusetts-Amherst

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where it's all for one and one for all. No, actually, it's just all for one, as our good friend David Martin explains...

There Is A “Me” In “Team”

By: David Martin

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MEMORANDUM
TO: All staff
FROM: Bill Bidikoff
Senior VP Operations, Northwest Central Region

My purpose in writing today is to outline how each of you can help me to better carry out our regional and company-wide mandates.

I think it goes without saying that there is no “I” in “team.” On the other hand, it should be apparent to all of you that there is a “me” in “team,” albeit backwards and separated by the letter “a.” Furthermore, as far as you’re concerned, that “me” is me.

In short, when I succeed, you succeed. Well, actually I succeed and you probably get to keep your job. But in today’s economy, that should count for success.

Now you’re probably asking yourself, “How can I help our company in general and Bill Bidikoff in particular succeed?” Some of our more senior employees may simply be asking, “How can I get Bill promoted and out of my hair?”

In either case, I think you’ll agree that the primary objective is to help me (and by extension the company) get ahead. And a simple rule of thumb to apply regarding any new initiative is: “Will this help me, and by ‘me’ I mean Bill Bidikoff?”

Say, for example, you have just completed a sales report that highlights increased revenues for the past quarter. Before signing off on the report, review it one final time and consider any ways that you can fit my name into it to ensure that I receive any credit due from senior management.

Likewise, if you’re about to give a presentation to the executive committee about failings in our region’s organizational structure, take a few minutes and make damn sure that my name is mentioned nowhere in the materials. At the same time, feel free to add a few words assigning blame to Joe Conlan, Mary Westin or any of the other regional marketing managers who are competing with me for the VP Sales position.

I’d also like to take this opportunity to stress once again the importance of working together to help me obtain my goals. If you are communicating with my office, I expect you to not only do your job, I also expect you to do mine as well.

Let me give you a helpful example. Ted Nolanson, Director of IT for our region, recently sent me a detailed memo outlining the current problems with our computer security program. Ted described the problem, listed several possible solutions and left the final decision to me.

While Ted’s effort was detailed and workmanlike, it failed on that most basic of criteria, namely how much work will this create for me? What I would have preferred to see from Ted was a single recommendation for action with a plan for giving me the credit for any success and him the blame for any shortcomings.

I think we can all agree that our ultimate objective regarding any corporate policy, objective or decision is to create a win-win situation. And by win-win, I mean a situation where I not only win by not having to expend undue energy but where I also win by looking good to those above me. Remember, let’s all pull together for me.

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel. Just to clarify things, we are NOT your local Chrysler-Plymouth-Kia dealer. And based on what Curtis Edmonds says about them, we don't want to be...

Admit It, Central Jersey Chrysler-Plymouth-Kia, It’s Over

By: Curtis Edmonds

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If we’re being honest with each other, we’ve both known it for a long time. The unanswered phone calls. The missed service appointments. The growing distance between us. We might as well just say we’ve broken up and move on with our lives.

Really, it’s best for both of us.

I am not saying we didn’t have some good times. I remember the first time we met, on the used car lot, when I was in grad school and needed a used Spectra for basic transportation. I thought it was just a one-time fling, but then I got a job and moved to Bridgewater and passed you every day going to work there on Route 22. I thought we could make things work if we kept at it, and if you kept offering free tire rotation every ten thousand miles.

Then I got that bonus, and it was like destiny. You had a like-new Sebring with wire wheels. I had the money for the down payment. That night we spent going over the finances –- you poring over my credit report, me trying to lower your interest rate –- well, I don’t mind saying that I think about it from time to time. I drove off the lot that night, but I kept coming back for oil changes and tune-ups and that thing with the spare-tire sensor that never did get fixed.

Those were happier times.

It’s easy to blame the accident for what happened. I know you wanted to give me that Pacifica as a loaner car. And I shouldn’t have been so upset that you got me the Sedona instead. But when you couldn’t find the replacement bumper, I saw it as a betrayal of trust. It hurt me, deep down, and I don’t think our relationship ever recovered from that.

I said then that I’d never go back, and I meant it, but when you offered me full trade-in value to get that new Charger, I couldn’t resist. I couldn’t stay mad at you, not then.

I thought we were going to be able to patch things up when the recall notice came. That was just the start of it. Then there was the check-engine light, and the passenger seat that came off the rails and made my cousin spill that milkshake everywhere, and it never smelled right after that. I know you did what you could, but it just didn’t feel like enough. You let me down, and I just can’t be with a car dealership that keeps letting me down.

I have a new life now. I moved to Princeton. I bought a new Audi. I’m happy with my choices in life for once. But you keep calling, telling me about your service department specials. About how Kia is offering cash-back on select Optima models. I got three e-mails from you yesterday telling me that I was overdue for a radiator flush.

I know that maintaining our relationship is important to you. And I know you will be there if I ever need a Town and Country, or even if I just want to hang out for a while over a cup of cold waiting-room coffee. But it’s time to admit it. It’s over.

I am not talking to your supervisor. That’s why we had so many problems in the first place. I would come to you with my concerns, and you would have me talk to your supervisor, and he wouldn’t resolve them, either. Do you know how that made me feel? Do you?

A big full-service dealership like you should have no problems finding another customer.

No, I don’t care what kind of satellite navigation package you have in the 300. And I’m not taking a test drive.

Let’s be mature about this. It’s over. Goodbye.

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we will frankly admit to a lingering fear of ghosts, which is exceeded only by our fear of amateur ghost hunters. You know -- people like Tim Cushing.

My Amateur Paranormal Investigations

By: Tim Cushing

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As the somewhat proud owner of the home voted “Most Haunted in the Tri-State Area” for three years running, I have developed an interest in spirituality, as well as a slightly greater interest in the rules and regulations governing disclosure statements, “as-is” home sales and arbitration hearings. The home gives no outward indication of paranormal presence, but the interior mishmash of odd angles, creaky floorboards and “barely there” bloodstains indicate otherwise. There was also some talk of it having a “colorful” history, most of it being various shades of red. It also mysteriously contains a full-stocked library, which any amateur ghost-hunter knows draws vengeful spirits like moths to a flame, or frat boys to a kegger.

It’s an ongoing struggle, filled with open cupboard doors, eerie noises and multiple visits to small claims court. With the invaluable aid of sketchy local spiritualists (in conjunction with an intricate array of candles and incense), I have been able to make contact with five (5) of the many restless souls that wander this house, moping about and generally behaving badly.

Harold Myers
Harold Myers lived a long, full life if his overly long, overly full obituary is anything to go by. He lived to age 88 and was survived by several relatives, none of whom seem interested in visiting. His inability to join the afterlife (already in progress) seems to be based on the irritation that someone is living in his house, leading me to believe that concepts of ownership and personal property are largely unrecognized in the hereafter.

Manifestation:
He has made his presence known by rearranging my guest bedroom (which used to be his), moving furniture around (mostly at night) and misplacing the DVD remote (mostly at night, as well). There are also eerie moments of dislocated bitter sobbing after which I usually find that my DVD collection has been alphabetized/sorted by date.

Resolution:
Performed a séance tracing the history of the house’s ownership back to the point when his soul vacated the premises by dying, followed nearly four days later by his body. This information was greeted with weak orders to “get out” and “pick up some batteries for the DVD remote — AAs, I think.”

I have tentatively agreed to allow him to rearrange his former bedroom once a week, during daylight hours. The remote is to remain in the nightstand drawer. On the plus side, the constant reshuffling of my DVD collection has led me to rediscover films I had forgotten I owned.

Glen Overton
Glen seems to feel that his death was not accidental (despite much evidence to the contrary), but that he was the victim of foul play. Attempts to convince him that drunkenly whipping up recipes from The Anarchist’s Cookbook tends to lead to injuries at best and an “incredible amount of close-range shrapnel wounds*” at worst have fallen on deaf ears. (And a blinded right eye, if the coroner’s report is to be believed.)

*County Coroner’s Report. Also listed: high level of blood toxicity, high level of blood loss and a look of “drunken surprise” on Overton’s face.

Manifestation:
Opening cupboard doors and cereal boxes, often removing key place-setting elements and toy prizes. Occasional chandelier rattling. Unlacing shoes. Impressively crafting a single three-foot high stack utilizing every bowl in the house. Inexplicable chess moves. Night terrors.

Resolution:
I have promised Glen that I will tirelessly pursue his tiresome request to have his “killer” exposed. In practice this means that I head down to the library a few times a week to do some research, which is usually 20 minutes or so of microfiche spinning followed by an hour and a half of checking email, playing solitaire and miscellaneous Facebookery.

While the trips to the library are relaxing and unproductive, the replacement of dishes and re-lacing of shoes tends to get a bit annoying. Plus, every time I go golfing I start to feel a bit like O.J. Simpson.

Markus Koloczek
Markus has several issues that are keeping him from heading off into the afterlife, none of which are aided by his inability to communicate in anything but a mixture of his native language and the repeated opening/closing of doors.

Manifestation:
Doors opening/closing. Some light switch abuse. Cyrillic bloodlike text scrawled on walls/mirrors. Presets on stereo changed randomly. A/C in the winter/heater in the summer. Installation of staircases/doors leading to nowhere.

Resolution:
Despite a séance involving a translator, it’s still unclear as to what Markus wants, thanks to his illiteracy and impenetrable peasant accent. We’re assuming it involves mental trauma stemming from formative experiences with the pack of wolfhounds that raised him. All available evidence suggests Markus should be haunting a cottage in the Balkans but his inability to read a map (or anything else) has led him here. We are currently in talks with various Eastern European families as to the possibility of a foreign exchange student-esque swap.

Jacob Wiessman
Jacob’s haunting is centered around a former tenant’s eviction for non-payment of rent. He seems to feel that harassing current occupants will help him recover enough of the back rent to offset his losses. It has been pointed out that he “can’t take it with him,” but this worn-out cliché has been ignored. Experts are chalking up his recalcitrance to his lifetime in the collections industry.

Manifestation:
Full manifestations are infrequent but tend to give the house the look of a recent break-in, with drawers dumped out and closets emptied, presumably in a search of the safe I don’t have. There are also attempts to post eviction notices and change the locks, both actions that an incorporeal being is woefully under-equipped for.

Resolution:
None. Large checks have been written out to Jacob and left in plain sight. The lack of transportation or a viable checking account continues to hamper Wiessman’s collection efforts. Contact with his next of kin has indicated that they have no interest in pursuing this debt. The spiritualist (now on retainer) has recommended Wiessman haunt the nearest small claims court instead.

Toshiyo
This singularly-named apparition first appeared after a disturbing late-night phone call informing me that I would be dead within a week. I was confused at first as I was unaware that the Country Planning Commission kept such late hours. Apparently my refusal to vacate the premises was holding up construction of a new stadium/themed strip mall and a loophole in their eminent domain policy had allowed them to remove me from legal existence (in 5 to 7 business days). Obviously, my earlier threat of “over my dead body” had been all the permission they needed.

Over the following week, I noticed a tremendous amount of interference on my TV. (The cable company blamed it on “a high amount of sunspot activity.” Perhaps, but they also used this excuse to explain away their technician’s late arrival and six hour nap on my couch.) During a crucial moment of Top Chef, I was alarmed to see a soaking wet waif crawling out of my 46-inch plasma, accompanied by malevolent guttural noises which I took to be signs of gastrointestinal distress.

This was confirmed moments later as the ghastly tween hurried past me, leaving a trail of wet footprints leading to my bathroom. After the disturbing “growling” had finally died down, I opened the bathroom door to find nothing more than a puddle of static-y water and some overwhelming odors.

Manifestation:
Toshiyo seems to only appear during critical moments of Pay-Per-View events and series premieres, rarely interrupting commercial breaks or C-SPAN. I would assume that my revamped TiVo recording schedule, which has mistaken me for a 21-year-old basement-dwelling otaku, is her attempt to communicate with me. Either that or the periodic static bursts/bathroom runs are simply a matter of lousy sanitation logistics in the afterlife. I have also noticed that turning off the set during a manifestation causes her to hastily re-enter my TV and try for an open restroom elsewhere.

Resolution:
At this point, I have held off on ordering any PPV events, which has led me to miss several MMA tournaments and an even larger number of girls going wild. I have also wedged series premieres into my new anime-heavy recording schedule, time-shifting them away from their debut dates in order to avoid ghastly (and odorous) interruption, and switched to double-roll paper. Also purchased: new Stiffer, new bathroom fan.

While most of this seems hardly conclusive and often gives the appearance that I am scatterbrained and lazy, I feel that this will not be the end of my unwanted visitors. Within the past few days I have been accosted by writing in the condensation on the bathroom mirror (“Out of Mentadent”), felt strange drops in temperature in the uninsulated mudroom and had several videotapes eaten by the suddenly malevolent and ancient VCR.

I would like to continue my studies but have been informed that the county is now the proud owner of the “Most Haunted Stadium/Boutiquery in the Tri-State Area.” As such, I will join my new compatriots (albeit from the other, less pale, side of the pale) in haunting this new complex (construction beginning shortly). With their help, we should be able to cause several disruptions and delays, most of which will be chalked up to “union harassment.”

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we are proud to admit that Mad Men is one of our favorite TV shows and Ozzy Osborne is one of our favorite...er...whatever he is. But it took the talents of first-time contributor Scott Oglesby to bring them together.

Ozzy Osborne’s Diary Of A Mad Man

By: Scott Oglesby

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Sunday May 2
It’s a new week and 1967 is shaping up to be a brilliant year. I’m hoping this will be a huge week for me at the firm. It’s time to show these blokes that I’m hungry, that I’m willing to go further than anybody else in the advertising community.

I took the new girl, Sharon, out last night. I suspect her family has a bit of scratch; the bird seems a little spoiled. She’s bloody gorgeous but is still a little cool towards me so far. I do fancy her quite a bit though. The thrill of the hunt!

Monday May 3
We’re still struggling with the Hamleys’ account. The team, led by Iommi, is leaning towards “The finest toys in the world” slogan with just as pedestrian of a campaign. I absolutely hate it, doesn’t feel right. Toys are exciting and dangerous and we need to incorporate that edge into our advertising. I prefer “Hamleys’ Hystericals” or “Hamleys’ toys: the anti red wagon” or even “The age of Apollyon is upon us, indulge yourself with some toys.” I fear a boardroom showdown if we can’t come to some kind of a consensus.

I’m sick of the way that Iommi, Ward and Butler stick together. They think they’re so “with it” just because they have that silly little band. It’s a bloody herd mentality. I need to get them to accept my individuality.

Tuesday May 4
Ran into a school mate at lunch today. Good old David Wallace. He’s now a partner with Saatchi and Saatchi and was practically begging me to interview for creative director over there. Seems they lost the last one to a bad bit of tail. Bloody gonorrhea! Wound up going nutters. I’m sure that they wouldn’t mind my accounts coming along for the ride, if I jumped ship.

I know one thing; if Iommi keeps being such a nob to me in front of the office, I’ll make that call. It’s nice to have options. Oh Lord of Darkness I hate him sometimes.

I finished my second book of poetry, War Pigs: A Study of Human Nature today. Not like anybody will read it, but it was a rewarding project.

Wednesday May 5
I finished reading Do What Thou Wilt during the tube ride this morning. Aleister Crowley was an interesting bloke. Curious to learn more about him. I started playing around with a poem about his life. I have to admit that since I moved to London, I’m beginning to see the dark side of human nature. It seems to me that we’re all just one bad LSD trip away from utter chaos and savagery.

On the plus side I landed the Tesco account! This should help speed up my request for an increased expense account. Being able to wine and dine potential clients at the London Savoy should help my sales figures considerably.

Thursday May 6
I took Sharon to the pub last night to watch my colleagues make fools of themselves on jam night. I hate to admit it but they weren’t half bad. Sharon seemed to dig the bad boy musician act they put on. Her eyes went all gaga. I have to find a way to get her to look at me like that. (Maybe if I bought her a fancy little dog?) We had a bit of a smoke, and while it seemed to loosen Sharon up, it just made me paranoid. I’ll stick to the booze from now on — that doesn’t seem to do me any harm.

I spent this afternoon roaming Hamleys and allowing my mind to absorb the vibe. Bought a few gag gifts for laughs. On the tube ride back I saw a tramp stab a drunk with a broken tennis racket. Gave me an idea for a poem: “Crazy Train.” Something metaphorical about going off the rails of life.

Big pitch meeting tomorrow with the Hamleys’ people. The bad news is that they’re sending Brighton and Engle, a notoriously tough duo. The worse news is that we still can’t find any common ground on this thing. Might be a rough one.

Friday May 7
I killed it today! Absolutely killed it! Picture the scene; Iommi, and his pet sycophant, Ward, are trying to sell their boring, vanilla slogan to Brighton, who is not buying, when, out of nowhere, I chew a Hamleys’ blood capsule, pull a plastic but realistic looking vampire bat out of my suit pocket and proceed to bite off its head then spit the head and a healthy pool of blood onto the polished, mahogany boardroom table. I even began gagging to really sell it. Blew their doors off. The Hamleys’ boys, Iommi, Ward, our art people, the stenographer, everyone, was simply aghast. You could’ve heard a pin drop. As they were struggling to regain their composure, I adeptly sprang into a quick spiel about how “THIS was MY Hamleys.” Three seconds later and Brighton and Engle were laughing maniacally over it. They kindly but firmly shot Iommi down and asked what Ozzy had in mind. I easily sold them on Hamleys’ Hystericals.

There is a new star exploding into supernova status in the advertising stratosphere and its name is Osborne!

Saturday May 8
Iommi invited Sharon and me out for a drink last night and we all got along famously. It was quite an eventful night. I ended up drunkenly reading/singing my poetry and they were both impressed with the content and floored (Sharon’s word!) by my voice as well. Who knew I could sing? He actually wants me to go with him to Birmingham to play a paid gig next weekend.

Sharon was appropriately turned on and spent the night.

Now I’m a mad man, a poet, a musician and a lover. I am iron man!

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel. Just because we are leading lives of quiet desperation is no reason that you should do so as well. Be of good cheer. And you can start by reading the latest from Marianne Hess. NOTE: There is a swell new literary humor magazine called Kugelmass, edited by Big Jewel contributor David Holub and featuring our own editor Kurt Luchs. It is print-only so you can't see it unless you get the hard copy. Order by clicking on the link at the right-hand side of this page under our Blogroll.

Henry David Thoreau On Mars

By: Marianne Hess

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I have lived most of my life in the Martian colony of Concord, having come from Earth as a lad when my surrogate parents sent me away for what they claimed would be two weeks at space camp. It is my home. However, I have been feeling restless of late. I believe it is time I left the colony and became more intimate with Martian nature.

Many factors figure in my decision. Chiefly, the mindsets of my fellow colonists. Every day, they grow increasingly fixated on material possessions, as if owning one more spacesuit or oxygen tank will somehow make them happy. I envision a Mars devoid of life-sustaining paraphernalia, and even shuttles and rockets and water-processing plants. All these things merely prevent us from living simple and thus happy lives close to the rocky, barren terrain and scarily bottomless pits that Mother Mars has so willingly provided.

Besides the usual accusations of feeble-mindedness, many colonists have taken to accusing me of laziness. I do not consider myself lazy, but lacking a desire to work for what I do not believe. Growing beans? Yes, but not for an entire colony. My fellow citizens of Concord, especially the traumatized orphan children left here after World War III obliterated much of Earth, should have to feed themselves. Instead, I seek to trek across some bone-dry crater or desiccated flood plain and grow my own damn beans. Mother Mars has provided .03 percent water vapor in our beautiful vomit-pink sky for this very purpose.

Other colonists have accused me of outright negligence. Sure, the overseers have assigned me the job of mending our roofs. And sure, I could finally fix that hole in Sector 9E, thus preventing us all from slowly suffocating to death and/or succumbing to severe frostbite. But would I be content? I daresay my quiet desperation would still haunt me, if not in a more clear-headed and warm-bodied way.

Solitude is my only cure. How I long to stand alone and unsuited on some infertile mountaintop, staring up into the thin, carbon-dioxide-based atmosphere, the 150-mile-per-hour high-altitude wind gusts pressing gently against my cheek, pointy rocks whizzing by me like nature’s bullets. Up there with the ethereal dust — its rusty ambrosia filling my lungs and exfoliating my skin like acid — I believe I will ultimately come to appreciate life.

Therefore, I must leave, despite pleas from every citizen that I stay lest I somehow kill us all. Worthless gossip, all of it! Whether I open the airlock and let in a squall of toxic air and dust that will clog the filtration system is my own business. It is a vainly idle mind that finds fault in another, especially when all those idle minds should be concentrating on fixing that hole in Sector 9E, because it doesn’t look good.

The colonists have expressed their disdain in other ways as well. A dozen or so have followed up my assertion that I wish to live simply with a scoff and the retort that I will be lucky to simply live. Then they have either smacked me in the head, claiming to knock sense into me, or threatened to toss me in the grain thresher. Colonists of the gentler variety have said, “But it is folly to venture so far from our advanced medical facility.” They would be right. Due to such fears, these colonists would never dare leave Concord without a spacesuit, citing instant asphyxiation. However, I say the greatest folly is to allow fear to control your life. I do not even mind traveling out of range of the Medivac Rovers, not just because I have confidence that Mother Mars will provide, but because those rovers look eerily human and will probably turn against their creators someday.

Despite the closed-mindedness that surrounds me, I refuse to sacrifice my individualism. And so, on some sunny, -80 degree sol, I will leave this fickle, man-made place and stroll across the miles and miles of sand dunes outside. After that, I will find some placid dried-up lake bed in which to bathe and drink. By it, I shall build myself a cabin out of rock, and grow my own rock garden. I see in this God’s plan. He says to me, “Here is a rock. Use it as you will. And there is a…rock. Also use it as you will. And that one over there. A billion rocks. See? I provide rocks. And strange hematite blueberry things.” God is great.

Every day, I will hike and engage in silent contemplation. As I scrutinize the interminably tedious vistas and contemplate the miracle embodied in the possible traces of ancient microbial life, I will come to understand many truths unknowable to the simple-minded bio-engineers and astrophysicists who populate the colony. Eventually, I will realize that humanity is one with Martian nature. For instance, we expire into dust, just as the dust here causes us to expire. Surely, there will be more realizations, but I cannot think of any now, while still confined inside this terribly artificial micro-Earth.

I can only hope that my feelings have been laid bare in this essay. If not, perhaps they can best be described with an anecdote: Once, a long time ago, there was a wise man on the moon. His fellow astronauts said, “We have such a great view of the Heavens.” But the wise man was sorrowful. “I see no Heavens,” he said, “just the translation of them in this pesky helmet.” So he removed the helmet and saw clearly. There is still a monument to him on the moon today.

If any truth is extracted from this essay, let it be this: It is okay to march to the beat of a different drummer. But there are no drummers on Mars, and I find that very perplexing.

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, which we like to think of as being based on a true story, or at least a story with a certain amount of truthiness. And here is Whitney Collins to make all of our fondest cinematic wishes come true. NOTE: There is a swell new literary humor magazine called Kugelmass, edited by Big Jewel contributor David Holub and featuring our own editor Kurt Luchs. It is print-only so you can't see it unless you get the hard copy. Order by clicking on the link at the right-hand side of this page.

Movies Based On True Stories

By: Whitney Collins

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The Runway’s End
A traveling salesman gets snowed in at the Kansas City airport. He does not meet his soul mate at the Terminal D bar. He does not overcome years of crippling self-hatred by loudly berating the ticket agent. And he does not encounter a gay politician in the men’s room. He does, however, end up staying at the airport’s Courtyard by Marriott, where he eats an old bagel for dinner and watches the last half of Law & Order before finding a pubic hair in the ice bucket. The next morning, he wakes up with a crick in his neck, then flies back to his flat-chested wife in Greensboro.

Ollie and Friskers
Ollie the French bulldog and Friskers the tabby cat get accidently left behind when their owners move. The pets begin a long journey home by navigating forests, torrential downpours, and junkyards. Friskers loses a leg to a coyote. Ollie gets Lyme disease. And even though they end up dying slowly and sadly from exposure, when people see them trotting along in the Interstate’s median, they do imagine Friskers being voiced by Dakota Fanning and Ollie by Tim Allen.

Here Come the Zombies
At 5:05 a.m. on a Sunday, after lots of red wine the night before, a disheveled mother makes waffles for her toddler, while her husband eats a handful of Rolaids before passing out, face down, in the sports section.

My Crazy Bridesmaid
A nutjob bridesmaid ruins a wedding by making a pass at the groom and wearing shoes that are decidedly fuchsia and NOT salmon. It would be nice if a heartfelt toast made up for everything in the end, or if a dazzling wedding gift was given as a peace offering. But the whole time she’s on her honeymoon, the bride just ends up yammering on and on about how much she totally hates the bridesmaid, forcing the groom to pretty much drink his way through St. Croix and wonder what the hell he’s just done with the rest of his life.

Greasy Days
This documentary follows several dozen people and their fast food eating habits over the course of a few months. None of them gets heart disease or food poisoning, and most of them don’t eat out all that often, but when they do, 51 percent prefer chicken to beef even if the chicken is fried because it just sort of seems healthier. Also, a few people sometimes eat in their cars so they can listen to The Clark Howard Show.

My Reliable Love
At a 25th high school reunion, a divorced woman marches straight past her sophomore year boyfriend, straight past the nerd who ended up cute, and straight past the former quarterback, and directly to the veggie tray where she sees, with much delight, that the ranch dip is Hidden Valley brand.

Into the Danger Zone
A young man goes off to war and his girlfriend pines for him daily. That is, until she starts working at the Tat Shack and falls for a guy named Rico. The soldier doesn’t have any battle scenes, but he does take up dipping Skoal. After about 6 months, he realizes that his love-hate relationship with the desert is actually more hate.

Something’s Going On
In a regular suburban house — a house that looks just like any other — a family is besieged by terror when they start hearing strange sounds and misplacing small valuables. Then they find out their iguana has a cold and that the Molly Maids are common thieves.

Search for the Milky Way
A kid dressed as an astronaut raids his sister’s Halloween candy.

Wall Street III
A banker gets laid off but it’s okay because he really likes cupcakes and is pretty decent at baking and there’s kind of a cupcake craze going on these days anyway.

One of God’s Children
Deep in the slums of Bombay, there’s a boy who knows nothing about game show trivia. But he will bite off your ear for a teaspoon of couscous.

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where our favorite visualization is the one in which our good friend Jeff Dutre brings us another fresh bit of fun.

Ineffective Guided Visualizations

By: Jeff Dutre

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WARM WATER

Sit comfortably in your chair. Close your eyes. Take two or three deep breaths. Relax your body. Start with your feet. Imagine they are floating in a warm pool of water. Feel the water rise to your knees. Nervous tension disappears as the warmth rises. Relaxation continues up your legs to your waist. Take more deep breaths. Let the soothing water rise to your chest. You might notice your body becoming heavier, as the warmth spreads up your arms to your shoulders. Your neck and jaw muscles loosen as the water covers your chin. Take deep, slow, cleansing breaths until you are completely submerged. Now thrash your arms wildly and scream for a lifeguard.

THE FOREST

You’re deep in the forest. See the patterns of shadow and light on the forest floor as the sun shines through the treetops.

(Wait, what’s that noise? Is that Bobby? How did Bobby get in here? How did he get past the baby gate?? Honey, will you get Bobby out of here? How the hell am I supposed to do my guided visualizations with a toddler staggering around in here? Phew! What a stink! Will someone please put a fresh diaper on this kid? I’d like to know who had the bright idea to switch him from applesauce to Vienna sausage snacks, because it sure as hell wasn’t me.)

Okay, where were we? Oh yes, the forest. Take a deep breath. Smell the earth, the leaves, the fresh pine. All the worries and cares of civilization are far behind you. Gentle birdsong floats through the air, filling you with reverence for all God’s creatures. Except for that rabid fisher over there. It walks towards you, its gait unsteady, its red eyes unfocused, white foam dripping from its teeth. How far is it back to the car?

SUNLIGHT MEDITATION

Close your eyes. Now picture yourself in a safe, beautiful place outdoors. Feel the heat of the sun as it warms your skin. It soothes every muscle, tendon and nerve…

(BANG! What the hell was that? Did Bobby knock something over? Will someone please put that kid in his playpen before he wrecks the house? Lisa, put your little brother in his playpen, will you please? And take that army man away from him before he chokes to death! Who the hell gave him army men to play with?)

Okay, deep breath. Sunlight. Profound relaxation replaces all the tension in your body. Soak up the sun like a sponge – a tan sponge that grows more tanned with each passing moment as cosmic radiation awakens your skin cells, allowing them to shed their inhibitions and multiply uncontrollably. Now visualize the phone number of a good dermatologist.

TRAFFIC

Relax and imagine you are seated comfortably behind the wheel of your car. Traffic has slowed to almost a standstill. You are late for work again. You tap the gas pedal with your right foot, then apply the brakes, then tap the gas pedal, then apply the brakes. Inhale deeply and smell the fumes of the car in front of you. Its driver apparently possesses neither the funds nor the inclination to perform necessary repairs to its exhaust system. Now notice the colors around you: the deep blue of the morning sky, the rich black of the highway, the bright orange of the traffic cones blocking your way, the soft yellow of a blinking sign: “Single Lane Ahead — Expect Delays.” Let your muscles relax. Now listen. Don’t turn around. Do you hear something from the back seat? The wet, sickening sound of a diseased animal licking its foaming chops? Check your rear view mirror. It’s the rabid fisher.

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we are always quick to offer an apology. Not as quick as new contributor Mel Stefaniuk, though. NOTE: We'd like to take this opportunity to recommend you check out the weekly ruminations about the joys of living abroad by our copy editor David Jaggard, in his column "David Jaggard on Paris Update." Just click on the link with that name under our blogroll on the right-hand side of this page.

An Apology For My Concussion-Induced Behavior

By: Mel Stefaniuk

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I know I’m not usually quick to admit a mistake but I really feel as if I owe you all an apology for my behavior at last week’s pitch meeting. U-571 2: U-572 was not a good idea, I realize that now, and the belligerent and violent way I continued to defend it was inappropriate. I had been in an accident the previous night — the “B” from a Barnes & Noble sign fell on my head when I was leaving the store — and as we all realize now, I was clearly suffering from a severe concussion.

Mark, you were the first one I turned on. You started snickering when I explained the new U-571 would be about a “hot-ass speedboat that dishes out its own brand of nautical justice” and I was out of line when I started slapping the top of your head as if it were a drum in retaliation. As musically sound as the rhythm I got from your head may have been, and I’ve been told by others in the room that the beat was reminiscent of Face Value-era Phil Collins, there’s just no excuse I can give that could ever justify my actions. You were right: not only is making a sequel to an obscure submarine movie an awful idea, inexplicably changing the water vessel in question from a sub to a speedboat is mindbogglingly stupid.

Judy…oh Judy, to you I’m not sure what I can do to make up for what I said. Let me simply address every one of those ridiculous remarks I made directly:

1. Your brake lines haven’t been cut.
2. I’m not really going to give you a cake with dynamite candles for your birthday.
3. It wouldn’t be physically possible for me to actually drop a volcano onto your house.
4. There’s no such demon as Hazmalak, and even if there was, I wouldn’t know how to summon him.
5. You don’t smell like Rowdy Roddy Piper after a wrestling match.

Rick: all I can say is that those clothes are never going to be clean again so burn them. IMMEDIATELY. Then you must seal those ashes in a metal canister and bury them as deep into sanctified ground as humanly possible. After that, all we can do is pray that they’re never discovered.

And Walter, you’re the one I owe the biggest apology to. You were the only one who listened patiently as I ranted and raved about a speedboat becoming sentient and opening a detective agency and yet I still hoisted you up from your chair and flung you through the window of that 17th floor office. It wasn’t so wrong that it was right like I later stated to the police when arrested, it was just plain wrong. If and when you wake up from your coma I hope we can look back at this incident and laugh, unless the sense of humor part of your brain really has been permanently damaged like the neurologist has implied it was.

So that’s it, all my cards are on the table and now I can only sit here and let time heal all the wounds that I have opened. I’m a changed man from this experience — I am far humbler and I no longer walk under excessively large store signs — and I hope you all can accept the new me and we can work together once again. I’ve recently started kicking around the idea for a little movie called Dockin’ It!: Amistad 2 and who knows, maybe someday you’ll allow me back onto your hollowed grounds to pitch it.

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R.I.P.

By: Trevor Macomber

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What can you say about Uncle Jed that hasn’t been said before?

Okay, yes, that probably hasn’t been said before, Phil, but I was speaking rhetorically. What I was trying to get at is that Jed was a lot of things to a lot of people. Devoted father, dutiful husband, admired brother, faithful friend, consummate Rubik’s Cube enthusiast — he was all these things, and yet none of these things. Not even the Rubik’s Cube enthusiast. But that didn’t stop us from loving him. There was just something about Jed that put a smile on your face, whether it was his seemingly infinite collection of used celebrity Kleenex, or the casual way he flipped you the bird every time you asked him to pass the salt.

Yeah, ol’ Jed certainly had a rare sense of humor, but beneath that jocular exterior also lay a kind of genius. As many of you know, Jed was the sort of guy who could fix almost anything, from your car, to your computer, to your flamboyant nephew. Granted, it was usually Jed who broke these things in the first place (nephew included), but his inspired solutions were often nothing short of brilliant — and even legal, much of the time. You all remember cousin Gerald’s toupee? Ha ha, say it with me now: “AHHHHHH! OH MY GOD!! IT BURNS, IT BURNS!!!!!!!”

But there was more to Jed than just jokes and gin, and I would be remiss if I didn’t touch upon his warm heart, his compassionate nature, and his gently racist worldview. A peaceful man when he was sober, it could truly be said that Jed would never hurt a fly — unless that fly was slightly different from him in some superficial way beyond its control. But then, that’s Jed for you.

Of course, you’ve all heard the tales of heroism from his days fighting the Vietcong, how he once carried a wounded comrade through two miles of heavy sniper fire, only to discover that they had walked in exactly the wrong direction and had to travel four miles the other way to exit enemy territory. Private Benson may not have survived the return trip, but you can bet that Jed did his best to make his last few moments nearly tolerable.

Beyond Jed’s willingness to risk his life for his fellow soldier was his willingness to lay it down outright, as in the time he threw himself onto a live grenade to save an entire squadron from certain decimation. This act would ultimately earn Jed the Medal of Valor, even though the grenade in question turned out to be nothing more than an avocado that had rolled off a table in the mess hall. “Guess that’s why the uniform’s green!” Jed always joked after relating that particular chestnut.

Yes, Jed was something all right — something you couldn’t quite put a finger on and probably wouldn’t care to. But he’s gone now, and the world seems a little less interesting for it. A little less bright. A little more predictable. Yes, a world without Uncle Jed doesn’t quite seem possible.

…So, who’s up for Steak ‘n Shake? My treat!

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