Monday, December 7, 2015

Schizo-Frenetic



Schizo-Frenetic



Dedicated to Shane

Prologue:

“She hold her hand in mine,
Her eyes tell me she’s mine,
She needn’t say much to let me know.
I know she’ll never leave me,
Never try to begrieve me,
It’s what’s inside that makes her beauty show.”
-‘She’s Easy’, from Yesterday’s Children by Yesterday’s Children

Chapter 1: Getting High

A haze drifted through the basement swirling up and around Johnny’s head as he exhaled. Johnny passed the still burning joint to Lucas who inhaled softly and held the smoke in his lungs for a few moments before letting it go, adding to the cloud that was beginning to form above the couch in Johnny’s basement.
Lucas coughed twice and then spoke, “Dude, you have to come out to Colorado now that you’ve graduated.  Legal weed, sexy women, and huge mountains you will love it.”  Lucas took another puff and passed the joint back to Johnny.
“You do make it seem like the Promised Land,” replied Johnny who then inhaled the smoldering cannabis deeply into his lungs.
“That’s because it is,” said Lucas.  “Plus, now that Red moved back up to Oregon, we have a room for you in my house.  You can meet Tyler, he is a kick-ass skier, and Kevin, he is a musician; you’ll fit in perfectly.  I can’t believe you didn’t come out west for college.”
              Johnny took his second puff of the joint and coughed loudly as he exhaled. “What do you guys pay for rent?” he asked before passing the doobie back to Lucas.
“Two thousand, that’s five hundred a month for each of us, plus about fifty bucks a month for utilities and internet.”  Lucas paused to take another hit of the joint that was now halfway done.  “You’ll be able to manage it,” he said in between coughs. Smoke filled the room like a thick fog on the highway.  The joint still burned as ash dropped onto the floor.
“Is it hard to find a job?”
“It’s not too bad, you’ll be able to find something pretty quick.  It may not be something flashy but it will pay.  Maybe if you majored in something besides English you could find something better.”  Lucas gently knocked the excess ash off into the tray and then passed the joint back to Johnny.
“There you go knocking down the English major again,” said Johnny.
“I’m just speaking the truth.”
Johnny took a moment to inhale from the joint before replying, “Well look at how majoring in international studies turned out for you; you work in a hotel.”
“Dude, we’re both liberal arts majors so we are basically in the same boat.  Besides, I like my job at the Hilton, half the time I get paid for doing nothing.”
“You do like doing nothing,” teased Johnny while passing the nearly finished joint back to Lucas for his finals puffs.
“That’s not true!  I like doing lots of things,” Lucas retorted as he accepted the joint then held the roach up to his lips and inhaled deeply the last of the cannabis.  Skiing, partying, dancing, fucking.  I’m out to live life to the fullest.  We only have so much time to be young my man and there is no better place to be young these days than Colorado.”
“You mentioned dancing.  I hear the dance music scene in Denver is off the hook.  Do you go to many shows?”
“We go to all kinds of shows,” responded Lucas as if the question was hardly worth asking. “All year round the shows are fucking awesome in Denver.  There are all kinds of different venues: Red Rocks in the summer, the Convention Center in winter, and small shows at places like the Fillmore. That’s another reason you have to move out there. Just tell your parents that this is what you’re going to do, then do it.”
Things were always that simple with Lucas. If he wanted to do something he just went ahead and did it without pausing to question himself or others. It was simultaneously one of his greatest strengths and weaknesses.  Johnny liked to ask questions, but this was one time that he was sure that Lucas was right.  He needed a change.  He had spent his whole life living on the East coast; growing up in Connecticut, going to school in Boston.  He loved his home but he wanted people who were out there, and he wanted to be near mountains, real Rocky Mountains, not the sort of hills that he would take ski trips to in Vermont.  He needed a change. “Okay,” he said.  “I’m in.  Having a place to live already will cut down on half the trouble of moving. Then, I will just need to find a job.”
“That’s the spirit!” shouted Lucas clapping Johnny on the back.  “You are going to love it!”


Tuesday, October 6, 2015

Death After Life

Death After Life
C.W.
            Jason turned onto the highway thinking of nothing but the day to come.  It was Friday night and tomorrow was his son’s sixth birthday.  There would be a party, presents, and a bunch of screaming kids.  His wife would make him clean up the cake that would inevitably be thrown everywhere.  There would be conversations with other parents, and various observations made about how someone’s kid had grown so much since the last time they got together.  His wife would make him participate in inane discussions about peewee sports and the first grade teacher.  It was all a routine at this point, one weekend just like any other.
            In fact, his entire life was a routine at this point.  He worked from eight to five on Monday through Friday.  On Tuesdays, he would get a sandwich from Sammy’s Sammies.  On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays he would go to the gym where he would work out for an hour and fifteen minutes.  He would run on the treadmill for fifteen minutes, lift weights for thirty minutes, and then ride the stationary bike for another thirty minutes.  He was not even sure if ‘ride’ was the correct verb for using a bike that took you nowhere.  Then, there were the weekends.  Kid’s soccer games, birthday parties and animated movies; each event was by now reduced to simple formulas.  By this point his life was not just predictable but seemingly untenable.
            Music drifted through the radio waves; the soothing cool of Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Pagan Baby” emanated throughout the car.  He rolled down the window and let the breeze blow through his hair.  It was a pleasant sixty-five degrees.  The Sun had just set and the Earth was wrapped in its warm afterglow.  He put his foot on the gas and let the car accelerate; the speed of the car catching up with the thoughts racing through his mind.  It was a two-lane highway.  On either side of the road were dense groves of hard Oak trees.  He let his focus drift from the path he was driving to the invigoration he experienced as the notes caressed his eardrum.
            Out in the distance he saw a semi-truck barreling down the oncoming lane.  The truck was black and could not be made out against the darkness, but its headlights shined brightly on the road ahead.  All of a sudden, another pair of headlights appeared in front of him.  This time they were in his lane and they were rapidly coming closer.  By the time he recognized the danger he had only seconds to react.  He turned the wheel to the right and the car careened off the road.  He thrust his foot onto the brake but it was too late.  The trunk of the tree was right in front of him.  He had time for one last thought, “My God, I am not wearing my seat belt.”
The car slammed into the tree, but the oak was thick and took the full force of the blow without breaking.  A sickening crunch could be heard as the front of the car crumpled like a piece of paper.  The glass shattered.  He was thrown forward, the last thing he remembered seeing was the steering wheel flying towards his forehead.  He felt the blow to his head but before his brain could register the pain everything went black, and then there was silence.
            He was unsure how long he was out for.  When he came to he was standing outside the wrecked vehicle.  He felt no pain, he looked fine, and there was no blood on his clothes.  He looked around.  His car was about ten meters off the side of the road.  The front of the car was demolished with the trunk of the tree pressed into the hood practically splitting it in two.  Neither the truck nor the other car had stopped.  Jason was alone.  He wondered how he had ended up outside his car completely unscathed.  He walked over to his car.  When he saw what was inside he had no clue how to react.  There he saw his lifeless body laying limp, with his bloody face smashed into the steering wheel.  He thought he would vomit but he could not.  There was nothing in his body.  He tried to touch his dead body but his hand passed right through.  Jason was smart and his mind rapidly put the pieces together.  He did not try to hide from the inevitable truth.  He was dead.  That was his body in the destroyed car.  He thought about crying but decided against it.  This was real and he had no clue what to do now.  Was he doomed to wander this roadside as a ghost for all eternity?  What about Heaven, or even Hell?
            It was at that moment that he heard a noise in the distance.  It started as a low rumbling that got louder and he heard a horn blow repeatedly.  Then, he saw a solitary light far off down the road.  The light got bigger and brighter as the rumbling darkness approached rapidly along the road.  As it got close, it started to slow down.  It stopped right where Jason’s car had left the road.  Jason averted his eyes from the oppressing brightness of the light and gazed at the monstrosity on the road.  It was a train.  The steam engine was blacker than the darkest night and it pulled wooden cars that looked like they belonged to another century.
            Jason heard the horn blow.  Then a call went out, “All aboard!”  Jason looked around but saw no one else.  He hesitated.  Did he dare board this dark mysterious train from nowhere?  Who knew where it was going or where he would end up?  If he truly was dead, was there anything left to fear.”
            The horn sounded again.  He heard another cry from the train although he could not see who made it, “Last call, all aboard!”
            The engine started to slowly inch forward.  As it began to pick up speed Jason made his decision.  He started to run alongside the train.  The tail end of a car was just about to pass him.  Soon, the train would be moving to fast for him to catch.  He reached out his arms and grabbed the handrails.  He jumped and pulled himself onto the car.  The horn blew a final time.  Jason gazed out at his destroyed car until it was lost in the distance.  He turned towards the car.  The door to the inside was before him.  He had no idea what awaited him on the other side.  He tried the handle and it was unlocked.  Jason pushed the door open and stepped inside.
            The interior of the car was undecorated.  Black wooden seats with a thin velvet cushion flanked the isle, which was covered with short red carpet.  Jason carefully took another step into the car.  He reached out his hand to touch the first seat he came too.  The wood felt solid, it felt real, but how could any of this be real?  He sat in the seat.  It was neither comfortable nor uncomfortable.  The back pain he had dealt with for years was gone.  In fact, nothing in his body hurt.  He felt neither hunger nor thirst.  However, he still had all his sensations.  He could feel the smoothness of the wood as he ran his hand along the seat in front of him.  Did it even matter at this point whether it was real or not?  He was here on the train, although his body was back with his car.  He decided against trying to process everything and looked out the window.  The train was still accelerating.  The trees outside the train turned into a blur and it seemed that the train was passing out of time and space.  Jason had no idea how fast they were travelling.  The train appeared to reach its top speed and when he looked outside he could decipher nothing of the outside world.  All Jason saw was a darkness flying past.
            As he sat, drifting in and out of conscious awareness he wondered about where he was headed and what the future held.  Could he even refer to the future now that he had passed into this other world?  Did the rules of time and space even apply anymore?  Things seemed passably normal on the train, but they did not seem to apply to the train as it flew through the very fabric of reality.
            All of a sudden the door opened at the other end of the car.  A pale old man in a red and blue uniform and white hat walked in.  “Tickets,” he called out as he slowly strolled own the isle.  “Please have your tickets ready.”
            The old man seemed indifferent to the rows of empty seats before him and oblivious to Jason sitting in the back.  He passed by each row as if there were passengers in them.  Jason felt through his empty pockets for a ticket and then wondered at himself.  “Where in the Hell would I have gotten a ticket anyways,” he thought.
            When the old man finally got to Jason he stared at him blankly and said, “Your ticket please sir.”
            Jason responded, “I don’t have a ticket.”
            “You don’t have a ticket?” asked the old geezer.
            “No I do not.  I don’t know where I would have gotten one.”
            “Tickets are sold at the station.”
            “Well I got on back on the road through the woods when the train stopped.”
            “I see sir.  May I ask why you boarded the train without a ticket?”
            “Well I heard someone call out ‘All Aboard’.”
            “Hmmm, and you thought they were speaking to you.”
            “I didn’t see who else they could be talking to.”
            “And are you happy with your decision.”
            “What decision, you mean to board the train.”
            “Yes sir, are you glad that you got on.”
            “That depends on where it takes me.”
            “I see, well this presents a slight problem.  Since you don’t have a ticket I’m going to have to ask you to get out at the next stop.”
            “Ok, where is that.”
            “It is at the end of the line sir.”  With that said the old man departed through the back of the car.
            After awhile Jason felt the train begin to slow down.  He was suddenly able to pick out individual trees from the blur that was passing him outside the train.  Eventually, the train came to a stop.  The horn sounded deafeningly twice.  He remembered, what the old man said about this being the end of the line.  He looked outside the train and saw a dense pine forest.  Everything was dark except for a solitary lamppost standing outside.  At the edge of the illumination Jason could barely make out the beginning of a path that lead through the forest.
            Jason gathered his courage and steadied his heart.  He got up out of his seat and walked to the back of the car.  The outside air felt damp and cool against his skin.  He stepped off the steps to the car and onto the lonely platform.  He heard the engine’s whistle sound again.  Suddenly, a dense mist floated through which Jason could not penetrate with his eyes.  A breeze then came and blew the fog away.  When he could see again, the train was gone.  Jason was left standing alone on the platform under the lamppost.  He stared at the path leading into the woods.  He looked around and saw that the forest surrounded him completely.  There was no other road to take.
            “Well, there’s nothing for it,” he said to himself.  With that, he started up the path into the darkness.
            The forest floor was covered with fallen leaves and pine needles.  As Jason left the light of the lamppost behind him he noticed something glowing both sides of the path.  He looked closer and saw that about every foot along the path there was a glowing mushroom.  The fungi provided just enough illumination to outline the trail through the depths of the forest.  He continued along the path deeper into the darkness.
            It was neither hot nor cold in the woods.  The air was still without a hint of any breeze. Pine needles brushed across his face as he trod along the path.  As Jason walked along he began to notice a stench.  It stank of rotting fruit and mold.  At times it was so pungent that he could barely breathe.  He tried inhaling through his mouth but the result of this was that he was able to taste the decay that was so abundant in these woods.  The canopy formed by the trees was so thick that not a hint of starlight was able to pierce it.  Or perhaps, he thought, there were no stars to be seen in this world.  He listened carefully as he walked but the forest was silent.  All that could be heard was his footsteps crunching on fallen needles.
            As Jason strolled through the woods time seemed to disappear. He noticed that he was still wearing his watch and the backlight still worked.  However, it was stopped on 06:23.  That must have been the time of the crash.  With the backlight from his watch he was able to examine on of the ferns that brushed his face.  It was like that of no other tree he had seen on Earth.  The fern was black with edges as sharp as a scalpel.  He cut himself as he ran his fingers along it.  The underbrush was equally uninviting.  It mostly consisted of some strange species of bush that was pricklier than a cactus.  Instead of green the bushes were blood red.  Any thought of deviating from the mushroom path was pushed out of his mind after this examination.
              Although he walked what seemed to be a great distance his legs did not seem to tire.  Eventually, despite all the silence in the forest he began to believe he was not alone.  The hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up and goose bumps were raised on his arm.   Out of nowhere a fierce wind came blustering behind him.  Leaves and branches shook around him.  In the howling of the wind he heard voices; screams and moans.  He quickened his pace to a jog as he struggled to keep to the path.
            Suddenly, he thought he could make out the call of some fell beast in the wind.  It was like the howl of a wolf mixed with the roar of a lion.  The screams were drowned out by the noise it made.  It grew rapidly grew louder.  Whatever it was it was getting closer.  He did not know what would happen if he died in this reality, but he was not eager to find out.  Things could always get worse.  Jason began to sprint along the path.
            Jason found that although he ran as fast as he could, he was not out of breath.  Finally, he came to a clearing.  A river flowed through it.  Standing on the bank he saw that the river was approximately ten meters across.  The river did not look deep.  He was about to step into it when his gaze caught something beneath the surface of the water.  It was a human faced, dead and decayed.  The mouth was open agape as if it were locked in a final scream.  He stared out into the river and saw that it was filled with these haunting spirits.  He dared not enter the river and become trapped like them.
            The cry of the forest beast rang out again as the wind blew.  It was so loud now that he could barely hear his own thinking.  It was close now.  He had to cross the river.  He looked to his right and saw that a large tree had fallen across the river.  It was the only way.
            Jason climbed up onto the tree.  He began to slowly walk cross the river.  It was slippery with moss and spray from the rapids.  Branches blocked his path as he struggled to maintain his balance.  He had no idea what kind of hell awaited him were he to fall into the swirling torrent below.  Could it be worse then falling victim to the beast that stalked the forest behind him?  Was all of this just his imagination?  Questions without answers threatened to distract him as he inched along the fallen tree trunk.
            Just as he was over the middle of the river he heard the sound of wood snapping.  Immediately his left foot punched through the rotten wood.  He was just about to fall into the river when his right hand caught a thick branch jutting out from the trunk.  He struggled to find a hold for his left hand to pull himself back onto the trunk.  It was too slippery for him to regain his footing so he crawled the remaining distance to the far shore.
            When he reached the far shore he was no longer in the forest.  The howling of the beast in the wind came to a halt.  He stood up and gazed back at the other shore.  In the darkness of the trees he could make out what appeared to be one large eye glowing in the underbrush.  He met the creature’s stare.  Their eyes gaze became locked on one another in a battle of wills.  Suddenly, the hateful glowing eye disappeared.  He breathed a sigh of relief.
            The clearing on this side of the river stretched out before Jason filled with tall grass that stood up to his waist.  There were no longer any mushrooms to illuminate his path but a few stars shown brightly enough for him to see.  Oddly enough, he noticed that the moon was absent. However, he supposed, that made perfect sense if he was no longer on Earth.  He began to walk through the open field, heading in the opposite direction from where he came and the forest with its beast.  Eventually, he noticed a solitary light in the distance.  As he got closer it appeared to be shining brighter than a star from a window in a house.  The house stood on top of a small hill in the center of the clearing.  The house was a decrepit old wooden structure that appeared to be close to collapse.  The house was about a hundred meters off.   There was no other light in this world to guide him so he headed straight for it.
            When Jason got closer his eyes examined the building.  It was three stories tall and the light he saw was in the highest room.  Broken shingles surrounded gaping holes in the roof.  The house was painted a hollow white that was faded and chipping.  He came around to the backside of the house where there was a porch.  On the porch was an old wooden rocking chair on it where an old black woman with translucent white hair sat.
            Jason approached the woman.  Her gaze was distant, staring straight out to the end of the clearing.  She seemed not to notice his arrival one bit.  He decided to speak.  “Excuse me,” Jason said.  She either ignored him or could not hear him.  “Excuse me, ma’am,” he repeated.  He walked up to her to see if she was alive.  She was breathing, he could see her chest rise and fall.  He reached out his hand and touched hers.
            Suddenly, her face turned and her eyes looked right through his.  “Boy, you best get your hand off of me if you know what’s best for you.”
            He immediately retracted his hand.  “I’m sorry, “ said Jason.  “Where am I?”
            “What do you mean ‘where are you’?  You’re right here,” she retorted.
            “Yes, but if you’ll humor me, where is here?”
            “Humor you, you humor me, not knowing where you are and everything.  What kind of man walks around not knowing where he is?”
            “So you do know where we are.”
            “Oh I know where I am.  I’m sitting right here on this porch.  The question is where are you?”
            “I’m standing on the porch,” Jason responded.
            “Well there you go, you answered your own question.  Congratulations on your discovery.  Is there anything else you’d like to know?”
            Jason paused before asking his next question.  “Is this your house?”
            “My house, what do you mean my house?”
            “Do you own it?”
            “Would it mean anything to you if I did?”
            Jason thought about that for a moment.  What would ownership mean in this world anyways?  What did it even mean when he was alive?  “I suppose it wouldn’t after all,” he answered.
            “So again what do you mean my house?”
            “Never mind, do you live here.”
            “I’m not sure living would be the best word to describe it.  I sit here on this porch and I wait.”
            “Wait for what?”
            “Why I wait for lost souls like you.  They come by every once in awhile.”
            “What do you do when they find you?”
               “I tell them what they need to hear.”
            “What’s inside the house?”
            “Do you need me to tell you what’s inside?”
            “Well I suppose I could look for myself.”
            “Then honey, that’s what I think you should do.”  With that said the old woman returned her gaze to the field.
            Jason walked over to the wooden door.  He tried the handle and it was unlocked.  He pushed and the door creaked loudly as it slowly swung open.  He entered a kitchen.  Pots and pans sat useless in stacks in the sink.  Empty place settings lay forgotten on the table. Who left these dishes here?  Was it the old woman?  Did someone else live here?  There was not a morsel of food in sight. He searched through drawers.  He found paper and pens.  Then, he found something of use, a Zippo lighter.  He shook it and found that it was filled with liquid.  He flicked on the flame and watched as it lit the room up with a warm orange afterglow.  The walls were the same dull white as the exterior of the house.  There was no art, not a hint of decoration, or of life. He walked over to the sink.  He turned on the faucet and a dark red liquid came spewing out.  He turned off the faucet and looked at the now blood spattered dishes.
            The glow from his lighter showed him over to another door.   He pushed it open and stepped into the adjacent room.  A couch sat in the middle covered with plastic wrapping, as did a lounge chair.  There was an old radio sitting on the far wall.  He went over to it and turned it on.  The radio hummed to life and the sorry notes of “It’s Not Unusual” drifted through the airwaves.  He tried to adjust the tuning but the dial was locked in place.  He tried to turn it off but the radio stayed on.  He tried to turn down the volume but no matter which direction he turned the dial the volume increased.  He stopped before the music became unbearable.
            Jason walked out the door into the entryway.  This room contained the only artwork he had seen in the house; two marble gargoyles at the bottom of a staircase.  Across the room he saw another door.  He decided to check that room first.  He walked over to it an opened the door.  He entered a bedroom.  The duvet was red and the pillows were black.  The walls were the same white as the rest of the house.  A dresser sat with empty drawers.  A bookshelf stood along the wall.  On this bookshelf were three paperback books.  The first was a copy of Dante’s Inferno.  Next, was Milton’s Paradise Lost.  The final book was Blake’s The Marriage of Heaven and Hell.  Next, to the bed was a nightstand.  There was a lamp on it but when he tried the switch it would not turn on.  He opened up the drawer in the nightstand.  Inside was a knife.  The blade appeared to be silver (for all Jason knew) and was six inches long.  The handle was solid ivory.  It came in a black leather sheathe.  Jason took it from the drawer and put it in the pocket of his suit pants.
            Jason returned to the entryway.  The staircase wound its way across the room to the upper floors.  Jason started up the stairs.  At the first landing there was a painting.  It was a portrait of a withered old man.  He was sitting in a wicker rocking chair that Jason recognized as the chair on which the old woman now sat outside.  The man’s eyes followed Jason as he moved past.  He continued up to the second landing.  On this landing there was another painting.  In this painting there was an old wooden house on a hill in a field.  A light showed brightly from a room on the top floor.  It was a painting of this house.  Jason could even make out the tiny shape of the old woman rocking back and forth on the porch.  He continued up to a third landing.  The stairs seemed to continue up without end.  He passed another landing, then another, each with its own painting.  He looked up and he could see the ceiling, but every time he came to one landing there was another.
            Finally, Jason stopped.  The stairs would go on forever he decided.  There had to be another way to reach the room where the light came from.  He realized he did not have any reason to search for the light other than that it was the brightest thing he had seen since dying.  He looked at the painting on this landing.  It was a painting of hallway in a home.  It was huge and stretched up from the floor.  It almost appeared to be an actual hallway.  Jason touched it.  He felt the painting and it was real.  The wall behind it was real.  Without much thought Jason took out the knife.  He reached up and methodically cut the painting out of its frame.  When he finished, the painting fell to the ground, and the actual hallway stretched out before him.
            Jason stepped through the frame and into the hallway.  At the other end of the hallway was a white wooden door.  Light shone out from underneath it.  He walked up to it and took a deep breath.  He opened the door and stepped into a brilliant white light.  He took another step and shielded his eyes.  In the middle of the floor was radiant pearl the size of a marble, it’s light was as beautiful as it was mesmerizing.  Jason stepped closer to it.  The light began to swallow him up.  He reached out his hand for the pearl.  Inching his fingers closer until his hand finally grasped it.  As he did so the whiteness of the light engulfed Jason entirely and he was once again deported out of time and space; tossed through an endless white void.

Purchase the novella now at www.lulu.com.

Saturday, October 3, 2015

The Raid


The Raid
Purchase the epic poem, Dylan, inspired by The Raid from www.Lulu.com.
            The room was quiet when Dylan walked in at 14:59.  The walls were bare reflecting the oppressively Spartan nature of the room.  A screen was pulled down across the far wall and a projector hummed where it hung from the ceiling.  Rows of chairs sat empty.  The three other members of his team were sitting near the front and two officers stood by the screen.  Dylan walked through the isle and took a seat with his team.  The Colonel gazed silently at Dylan, he then nodded to the Captain and suddenly a photo flickered onto the screen.  It was satellite imagery of a luxury yacht.
            The Captain addressed the room, “Gentlemen thank you for arriving promptly on such short notice.  You have been called here because of a hostage situation that has rapidly developed in the harbor.  What you are looking at here is a photo taken by satellite of the Santa Cristo, a luxury yacht owned by a man named Dennis Miller.”  The screen changed to a driver’s license photo captioned Dennis Miller.
            The Captain continued, “This morning the Coast Guard noticed the Santa Cristo sitting idle near a shipping lane.  A Coast Guard vessel attempted to reach the Santa Cristo over the radio.  When no response was received a zodiac was launched to inspect the Santa Cristo.  As the zodiac approached the starboard side of the Santa Cristo it came under heavy small arms fire and was forced to retreat.  Petty Officer Ryan Wilson was severely wounded in the altercation.  The Coast Guard attempted to communicate with the Santa Cristo a second time over the radio.  It was after this that a man and a woman were paraded onto the deck by two armed men.  The man, who we believe to be Dennis Miller, was shot in the head and his body dumped over board.  The woman, whose identity is currently unknown, was led back inside and has not been seen since.  A radio call then went out from the Santa Cristo to the Coast Guard demanding that fuel be delivered to the Santa Cristo by unarmed men in a zodiac by 18:00 or they would kill the woman.  A Coast Guard Cutter has been deployed to the scene.  You members of Alpha Team have been called in to perform an amphibious assault on the Santa Cristo terminate the threat and rescue any hostages.”
            The Colonel then began to speak, “For this mission you will utilize the Submersible Delivery Vehicle.  The SDV will carry a four-man team underwater and re-surface at the starboard side of the Santa Cristo.  Two team members will swim under the Santa Cristo and board from the stern.  These two will then commence with the assault on the Yacht’s bridge.  One operator will board from the starboard side to provide support.  The final team member will remain with the SDV to guard the extraction point.  Once the threat has been neutralized and the hostage secured the team will load the hostage onto the SDV and return to the Cutter.  Alex and Mark will perform the assault, Dylan you will provide support, and Dean you will stay with the SDV.  Remember, we have an unknown number of bad guys, two have been confirmed but there could be more.  One of them is carrying a Kalashnikov so we know they mean business.  Remember to stay alert and make sure that the element of surprise is on our side not theirs.  Are there any questions?”
            Dylan looked at his fellow team members are saw the grim look of determination on their gaunt faces.  He swallowed hard attempting to somehow fill his heart with courage by the action.  The team returned their gaze to the Colonel who was as unreadable as an ancient text.  The Colonel carried on, “The chopper departs to the Coast Guard Cutter at 16:30 and go time is set for 17:15.  Good luck gentlemen.”  Having finished, the Colonel turned and left the room leaving Alex, Mark, Dylan, and Dean to prepare for the mission.
            Dylan walked into the staging room sailing the satellite photo of the Santa Cristo through his mind.  There are two entrances to the bridge, one on the starboard side and one on the port.  One of the two pirates that had been seen on deck was now guarding the stern of the ship.  Alex and Mark would board from the stern, take out the guard, and assault the Bridge from the port side.  Dylan would board from the starboard side and secure the starboard hatch to the bridge.  The entrance to the living quarters was in the stern. That left the other known pirate about on the bridge with the female hostage.  There were so many unknowns with this mission.  No one new how or why armed men had taken hostages on the Santa Cristo, but they had, and Alpha Team had been called in, come what may.
            Dylan began to methodically put on his dive suit and body armor.  He watched his teammates did the same.  Each man was left to his own thoughts throughout the quiet routine.  They were professionals.  This was what they were paid to do.  This was what they were born to do.  Now each man needed this time to gather his thoughts and focus his energies on the task ahead.  Dylan began to assemble the gear on his vest checking each item off in his mental list.  His training had prepared him for this.  He would be ready this day.
            Alex pulled the lid off the crate carrying the weapons.  Dylan walked over and pulled out a Heckler and Koch MP-5.  He cleared the chamber and loaded a magazine.  He grabbed a silencer and slowly screwed it onto the barrel of the gun.  At his hip hung a 9mm and his dive knife, always at the ready.  Extra ammunition was in his vest and on his belt.  His wet suit felt warm and smooth along his skin, his body armor was tight around his chest.  He carried his weapon and gear and followed his team out the door.  They marched straight to the helipad where the Blackhawk was waiting, rotors spinning, waiting to take off.  Dylan threw his gear on board and then climbed on himself.  The rotors began to spin faster.  He felt a shot of adrenaline course through his body.  The helicopter lifted off and began to fly its course over the softly crashing harbor waves.
            The blueness of the sea always entranced Dylan.  Out here in the helicopter the deep blue sea met the heavenly blue sky with the most delicate of touches.  The thumping of the rotor blades forced power into Dylan’s heart.   His body coursed with chemicals and anticipation.  His focus pushed everything not critical to the mission out of his mind.  Dive with the SDV and approach the Santa Cristo.  Board the starboard side of the yacht.  Secure the hatch to the bridge.  Support the rest of Alpha Team as becomes necessary.
            The Blackhawk approached the Coast Guard Cutter from the Southeast.  It carefully descended onto the deck.  As the rotors began to wind down Dylan and his team exited the helicopter.  They were directed to the stern of the Cutter where the SDV was being readied.  Alpha Team approached the SDV with a stern grace that reflected the mission at hand and the special abilities that had selected them for it.  They began to put on their dive gear, checking their masks and their re-breathers.
            Finally, it was time.  One by one Alpha Team slipped into the ocean.  First went Dean then Alex, Mark, and finally Dylan.  Dylan grabbed the handholds on the starboard side of the SDV.  Dean took the controls at the rear.  The SDV began to slowly dive into the ocean.
            They dove down with the SDV to a depth of fifteen meters.  Then, they started the motor to propel them swiftly through the water to the Santa Cristo.  Travelling at a speed of ten knots it would take them fifteen minutes to reach the yacht. Dylan took steady breaths through his re-breather.  He focused on each inhalation and exhalation in turn to keep calm.
            As they closed in on the Santa Cristo the SDV began to slowly rise.  It broke the surface of the ocean just as they reached the starboard side of the ship.  It now appeared to be just a zodiac floating alongside the yacht.  The starboard side of the ship was devoid of movement.  Alex and Mark dove again and swam under the ship to its stern.  Dylan counted to thirty while they did this.  When he was done, he swam up next to the ship then kicked himself up out of the water.  At the apex of his upward travel he reached out and grabbed the side of the yacht.  It was at that time that he heard Mark say, “Tango Down,” over the radio.  He pulled himself up and onboard the ship.  He was now on the Santa Christo and the silence was deafening.
Dylan walked slowly along the side of the ship, carefully pointing his weapon before him as he listened for any hint of a threat.  When he reached the hatch to the bridge he knelt down.  He waited to give Alex and Mark the chance to commence with the assault.
At that moment, the hatch opened before him.  Half a second later the barrel of an AK-47 appeared on the other side of the hatch.  Time slowed down for Dylan.  He raised his submachine gun.  The barrel continued to emerge, then the magazine, and finally the hands holding it.  Dylan pointed his weapon.  Suddenly, a head appeared.  Recognition swept over the man’s face just as Dylan lined his sights up on it.  He let go of his breath and squeezed the trigger.  Dylan felt the fire spit from the barrel although the silencer kept him from hearing the force of it.  Blood spurted from the face in front of him and the body fell to the deck.  Dylan called into the radio, “Tango Down.”
He heard shouting from the other side of the ship.  Over the radio he heard Alex say, “Dylan, if you can get over to the port side of the ship do it, we need your help.”
Dylan quickly took in his surroundings.  It appeared that he could climb on top of the roof of the bridge.  He immediately decided that this would be his course of action.  He took a deep breath than leaped up and grabbed the roof.  He pulled himself up onto the roof.  Once there, he slowly moved to the port side.  When he got near the edge he looked down and saw the situation.  A man was standing on the deck holding a woman and pointing a pistol at her head.  Alex and Mark stood closer to the stern pointing their weapons at him trying to draw a bead.  Dylan saw instantly that neither of them could get a clean shot with the pirate using the human shield.
Dylan knelt down and pointed his weapon.  He once again focused intently on each breath as he lined up his sights with the man’s head.  He had the shot, now he waited.  A moment passed with no definite time for Dylan.  Then, all of a sudden, the change happened that Dylan was waiting for.  The man took his aim off the woman and began to turn the pistol towards Alex.  At that moment, Dylan took the shot.
The silenced weapon spat out the lead in wicked streak.  Dylan saw the bullet enter the top of the man’s head.  Blood and brains sprayed the ship.  The body crumpled lifelessly as the woman screamed.  Alex ran forward and grabbed the woman.  Mark cleared the bridge and found no one else.  Dylan kept watch over the team as they moved the woman to the starboard side and loaded her onto the SDV.  When everyone else was onboard the SDV, Dylan left his post on top of the Santa Cristo and joined them.  The SDV sped off skipping along the surface of the waves to the cutter.  It was not until they were on board the cutter that emotion returned to Dylan and the reality of what he had done set in.
Once they returned to shore, Dylan sat with his team taking off his gear.  Dean then came over to him with the satellite phone.  “Mr. Bookkeeper wants to talk with you,” he said to Dylan.
Dylan took the phone.  “Hello Mr. Bookkeeper.”
“Hello Dylan,” said the dry raspy voice.  “You are being re-assigned to Bravo Team.”
“Yes Mr. Bookkeeper, I understand,” replied Dylan.
“And Dylan, Charlie Team is interested.
“Roger that Mr. Bookkeeper.”

Wednesday, June 10, 2015

A New Image of Comedy

Schizo-Analysis and It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Dayman:
Dayman, aah-aahh-aaahhh, Fighter of the Nightman, aah-aahh-aaahhh, Champion of the Sun, You’re a master of karate and friendship for everyone, Dayman, aah-aah-aaahhh, Daaaymaaaannn…’

– Dayman, by Charlie Day as Charlie Kelly

Removing Structure from the image of thought:
            In envisioning their philosophical method, Deleuze and Guittari faced one over-arching plane of immanence that could summarize the whole of their intent for the project that they invested such great amounts of time and effort into.  This goal, if one calls it that, was to challenge the very structure within which we pertain to think about thought; challenging the framework that had culminated in the ‘End of Philosophy’ in the Hegelian and Heideggerian schools, and to establish what might be termed a ‘new image of thought.’  This ‘new image of thought’ would force a completely re-imagining of how we comprehend our reality - now a ‘plane of immanence’ - and how we answer the question ‘what is philosophy’.  This new image of thought would additionally require a new groundwork to replace the hierarchy-establishing and depth-seeking systems dominating philosophical-thought in the modern era.  These related methods were the approaches advanced in Marxism, Freud’s Psychoanalysis, and structuralism, such as the system outlined by Heidegger.  Deleuze and Guittari saw these theories as the result of the culmination of philosophy in Hegel’s ‘end of philosophy’.  Hegel’s system of incorporating negation as applied to the identity-difference relationship had allowed him absorb any critique into his philosophy.  Every new attempt in philosophy, moreover, seemed inevitably bound to simply repeat Hegel’s philosophy.
            Hegel’s ever-so-powerful tool for making this ‘truth’ was the dialectic.  The dialectic established that the identity of a subject-statement was the result of the negation of propositions; x is y, and x is not y.  According to Deleuze, this image of thought searched for truth in the ‘depths’ because it believed that there existed a true identity of difference.  This was the culmination of Plato’s search for the ‘forms’ started thousands of years ago at the dawning of western civilization.  This has led western philosophy and theology to forever seek out truth in the answers to questions of ‘being’.  However, Deleuze says that all philosophers and philosophies that take this approach fall victim to ‘subjectification’.  They favor ‘being’ over ‘becoming’; what is actual in contrast to what is potential.
            Marxism, Freudian psychoanalysis, and structuralist semiotics all make this same mistake.  Each of these systems assumes various substructures subsume every construct.  The identity of reality was thus hidden in the difference between the visible structure and its underlying sub-structure.  This method of thought constitutes the basic approach of ‘structuralism’.  Marxism takes the Hegelian approach to the dialectic and applies it to socio-economic concerns.  It establishes the existence of the lofty ‘super-structure’ and contrasts it with the underlying ‘base’ or infrastructure.  Freud proclaimed the dialectic created by the ‘conscious’ in opposition to the ‘subconscious’.  Structuralism in semiotics sees language through the lenses of the signifier and the signified.  True meaning is established through the difference between the signifying word and the signified-subject.  Each of these philosophies makes an unwarranted subjectification where they evaluate the sub-structure of depths as being prior to the witnessed structure.
            Thus, while Marxism, Freudianism, and Structuralism have formed much of the groundwork of modern thinking, abandoning the dialectic will require entirely new foundations to be dug in order to establish a new image of thought.  The new philosophy would rest on the notions of ‘surface’, ‘sense’ and ‘nonsense’.  Instead of the dialectic and negation at a molecular level, the new image of thought would see structure as resonating through the molar repetition of differences.  Deleuze and Guittari began to see existence as constructed through the multiplicity of rhizomes and called this new approach, rhizomatics.  A good model of this strategy of thinking comes from the post-modern quantum theory for atomic structures; elements exist molecularly as the result of the differences in structuring of atomic particles repeated billions of times.  Multiplicty, the existence of several planes and the abandonment of a determinable center, would now be key, as opposed to negation in the Hegelian school of thought.  Rather than analyzing the inner-workings and depths of the psyche, they seek to map out desire.  Schizophrenics could be said to occupy at the surface of their desire, perceiving everything in terms of their will and infinite becoming.  In light of this, Deleuze and Guittari advance ‘schizo-analysis’ as the future-way to understanding the mind.
A New Image of Comedy:
            Penetrating what Deleuze is attempting to communicate with these concepts of ‘surface’ and the ‘logic of ‘sense’ requires understanding how ‘nonsense’ manufactures sense.  The consequences of a new image of thought extend far beyond debates on structuralism in classrooms and into every area of thought, communication, and culture.  The philosophy of Deleuze is clearly rhizomatically related to iconic developments in popular culture of Deleuze’s era and in the time since.  There may be no better endeavor with which to apply schizo-analysis, than to that gallant tradition of destruction of nobility in carefully constructed thought; well-timed comedy.
Humor exists, according to Deleuze, in order to quickly deterritorialize the barest of presuppositions.   Humor, thus, is a very definite function of the war machine.  Yet, comedy has for long instead been derived from what Deleuze calls ‘Socratic irony’.  True humor has always evaded this form of comedy, however.  This is because the sense of humor demands the rapid destruction of absurdity. Deleuze comments that, “By same movement with which language falls from the height and depths then plunges below, we must be led back to the surface where there is no longer anything to denote or even to signify, but where pure sense is produced.” (Deleuze, 136) This is often most effectively performed through the embracement and projection of the absurd, of nonsense.  Irony however establishes the co-existence of two contradictory meanings, leading to a resentful sarcasm that favors the underlying intent.  Deleuze describes classical irony as, “The instance which assures the coextensiveness of being and of the individual within the world of representation.” (Deleuze, 138) Well into the twentieth-century, comedy seemed to fall into the same structuralist traps as Marxism and Freudianism.  Youth-culture movements such as the ‘hipsters’ favored being ironic over literal.  However, this form of territorializing comedy would never last.  By the twenty-first century a term had emerged for a new cultural direction; post-irony.  In order to define such a pop-culture based term there is only one conceivable source of definition, the user-contribution based UrbanDictionary.Com.  Urban Dictionary defines ‘post-ironic’ as, “When one's ironic appreciation of something becomes genuine, usually due to either prolonged exposure or the enjoyment derived from how amusingly terrible it is.”  Deleuze himself has very specific complaints about comedy derived from irony.  He writes that, “What all the figures of irony have in common is that they confine the singularity within the limits of the individual or the person.  Thus, irony only in appearance assumes the role of a vagabond.” (Deleuze, 139)  In simpler terms, irony is never funny because it focuses what it calls ‘absurd’ within boundaries it has set to derive a measure of truth.  It cannot be funny because it ignores the potential of the individual’s desire, rather than embracing it as a way of destroying absurdity.  Irony is only hypocrisy then.
            Hence, the concept of the ‘post-ironic’ would seem to strike the heart of the sense of humor.  After all, what is funny is always being simultaneously being laughed at and with.  Thus, true comedy would favor no subjectification.  Jokes would not be constructed through the contrasting of the ‘real’ world within an ideal one as is the case with jokes based purely in irony. Deleuze summarizes how to be funny as such, “What is required is humor, as opposed to the Socratic irony or to the technique of the ascent.” (Deleuze, 135)  Through nonsense the comedy would rapidly generate a sense of destroying the absurdities proclaimed all around as truth or logic.  The characters would thus need to be appropriately schizoid; living presently, occupying the surface, and perceiving desire as one intense flow.  They would approach issues nomadalogically, letting their lines of flight guide them along their planes of immanence.  Humor is referred to as an adventure by Deleuze, and indeed it is, he summarizes, “This adventure of humor, this two-fold dismissal of height and depth to the advantage of the surface is,…, the adventure of the Stoic sage.” (Deleuze, 136)  Thus, comedians embody what could be deemed a post-modern embracement of Stoicism, accepting and confronting the chaosmos in its absurd entirety without resentment.
The great Steve Martin once pined, “Chaos in the midst of chaos isn't funny, but chaos in the midst of order is.”  Mr. Martin thus grasped that in order to be funny comedy must affirm the chaosmos by showing how chaos emerges from order in everyday life.  Any attempt to search for depth, height, or the illusion of progress would ultimately be doomed to absurdity.  Deleuze expands that, “There is a difficult relation, which rejects the false Platonic duality of the essence and the example.  This exercise, which consists in substituting designations, monstratinos, consumptions, and pure destructions for significations…” (Deleuze,136) These destructive elements would spread the most refreshing elements of the war machine throughout the living rooms of Comcast customers everywhere.  Only such a comedy, imagined from these lines, would be truly funny. Perhaps, no show on American television has a better grasp of this, and schizo-comedy in general, than It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia, created by Rob McElhenney, Glenn Howerton, and Charlie Day.

The Gang Gives Frank an Intervention:

Charlie:  “Dude man what is going on with you man, you’ve been going off the deep end lately?”
Mac: “Really Stepping up the Insanity Frank”
Frank: “I’m trying to push myself see how far I can go.”
Dennis: “ I feel like you’ve been standing on the edge of a cliff for a while now, I say, ‘hop off.’”
- From ‘The Gang Gives Frank an Intervention, It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia


            In the momentous episode of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, ‘The Gang Gives Frank an Intervention’, the gang, a group consisting of three male and 1 female thirty-year olds who run a bar, seek urgent assistance for their nomadic patriach, Frank Reynolds, a drug-addled former robber-baron, played by Danny Devito.  Frank has enough money and few enough morals that he is able to live out his glory days perfectly nomadically.  He is always experimenting with his limits, trying to map out new territories for himself. Frank understands becoming, living within the realm of his possibilities.
            Eventually, however, the Gang comes to the conclusion that some new ‘event’ is required to re-territorialize Frank’s life.  However, they struggle to communicate their special needs for an intervention to the therapist attempting to assist them.  She asks them for information to help her ‘understand’ Frank’s problem.  “What’s Frank struggling with the most?”  The Gang, who understands that Frank’s problem is beyond comprehension, gives her a reply that is completely at the surface, only reflecting what they see as the main problem along Frank’s plane of immanence.  Dennis responds to the therapist, “Well he is trying to bang our aunt.” (which is true, as now she and Frank are both widows).
            The therapist, like most therapists, struggles to see the situation without evaluating the problem as lying with drugs and alcohol.  She states, “These things normally have more to do with drugs and alcohol.”  The Gang however, realizes that drugs and alcohol are not the cause of Frank’s problem they are however related to it at the surface, which they are trying to map out.  Charlie summarizes for the therapist, “Drugs and alcohol are rolled into what we’re talking about.”
            The therapist tries to gain an understanding of the situation, but at the end of their conversation she can only say, “You know? I do offer group therapy.”
The Gang is absolutely bewildered by this, responding, “What is this?  Did you try to intervene on us?”  The therapist politely reflects upon what they have been discussing, “With All Due Respect, you’re talking about bringing guns to an intervention, and you’re drinking wine out of a soda can.”
The therapist immediately begins to search for depth in the Gangs comments and actions, seeing problems with how they live at every turn.  She cannot understand that the live at the surface.  The Gang however can see the situation in no other way.  There thoughts have already followed their lines of flight to wine-filled soda can.  Dennis interjects, “You’re drinking out’ve that can?”  This leads Dee and Charlie to map out Frank’s other qualities.  Dee responds, “Yeah you like that… he’s a smart man.” Charlie agrees, “You stole Frank’s idea… he’s got good ideas… but I do I think she just tried to intervention on us.”  This leads the gang back to the plane of immanence currently facing them with the therapist and intervention.  Dennis refuses to allow the therapist to territorialize for them like that, casting her aside with, “I do think she tried to intervene on us… I think you’ve lost control of the room here.”
            Later on, the Gang takes the initiative to initiate the intervention according to their desire.  They decide to map out their desire by writing letters to Frank explaining the various ways in which his addiction has injured them.  Charlie, being illiterate, dictates to Dennis, posing this revealing question for Frank; “When was the last time we played night-crawlers together Frank?”  Dennis can’t help but ask, “Okay, what is that?”  Charlie explains to him that, “It’s no big deal… it’s what it sounds like.”
            At this time however, Dennis can no longer resist the line of flight pulling him towards greater discovery. Dennis claims, “Yeah, but now you’ve said it, and I can’t move past it… What it sounds like is that you two crawl around together at night… like worms.” This new line of flight was begun by the event that Dennis cannot move past; night-crawlers.  Perhaps Dennis desires explore a similar becoming-animal to the surface mapped by Charlie and Frank in their apartment games. 
            The time for the intervention approaches, and the Gang has realized that they may not know if what they are doing is a good idea.  This leads them to ask the therapist to return to help them however, as Dee surmises, “I’m guessing from that look on your face you wouldn’t have lured him [Frank] down here with a fire.”  The therapist continues to resist deterritorializing from the normal boundaries within which she acts and thinks, commenting, “Yeah.  And I wouldn’t have an intervention at a bar either.”  Sweet Dee can only reply, “Well, look lady, all mistakes we made on our own, so it’s a good thing that you’re here.”
Suddenly Frank bursts into the room waving his pistol high in the air.  Filled with the passion of the war-machine and ready to face the destructive and deterritorializing force of the fire he yells, “Where’s the Goddamn fire?”  However, the Gang quickly descends upon him frantically trying to wrestle the firearm away from Frank while shouting, “Intervention!  Intervention… Intervention! Woooooop!   You’re trapped!  You’re trapped… you’re trapped!  Woooooooop! Gotcha! Gotcha!”
Frank confused about where the lines of flight are leading from this event asks, “What’s going?”  Dennis’s reply summarizes the Gang’s mapping out of surface of the event very plainly for them.  He drunkenly proclaims, “You sit down so we can tell you what an asshole you’ve been!” while Dee adds “We’re gonna get all in your face and point out your faults!”
Frank, however, in true schizophrenic fashion, transforms the event so that at the surface, which Frank most definitely occupies, becomes something according to his desire; “A Roast?!”  “I’ve always wanted to be roasted!”

Series on the Intervention:

Charlie: “Why do we never play night-crawlers anymore?”
Frank: “I don’t know Charlie?”
Dee: “What is that?”
Dennis: “It’s a game where they crawl around at night like worms.”
Charlie“I never said that.”
Frank: “Yeah, well that’s what it is.”
Charlie: “Intervention! Intervention! Is nothing private Frank?”
-From ‘The Gang Gives Frank an Intervention, It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia

“Intervention!  Intervention… You can’t be banging Gail the snail!” shout Dennis and Dee at a new event interrupting their plane of immanence and directing their lines of flight away from the previous events.  This new event was the intervention of the gangs other member Mac.  He replies with, “What are you interventioning on me for… Donna just reminds me so much of your mom which was you know like the best sex I ever had.”
            Suddenly Frank shouts “Intervention!  Intervention!  You banged my dead wife?”
 The Gang’s line of flight has been rapidly deterritorialized by the intervention of another event; Mac’s past affair with Frank’s now deceased wife.  The word, ‘intervention’, has come to have an entirely different sense as it is used by the Gang in comparison to what normal semiotics would interpret it to signify.  The Gang may just as well substitute the word ‘event’ for intervention and say that they are staging an event rather than giving an intervention.  All they are really looking to do is create a moment of aggression in order cause a detteritorialization.  This event causes them to remap their plane of immanence and to redraw their lines of flight according to their desire.  Thus, by screaming, “Intervention!” in someone’s face, the Gang have discovered a method in which they can create an event allowing them to exist at the surface.  By shouting they draw attention to the present moment, the line of flight that have brought them there, and the plane of immanence facing them.
It is obvious how the characters within the show make use of the word to keep themselves and others at the surface, but it was the writers of the show that are the real engines of comedy.  By always keeping their characters at the surface – usually through on-screen intoxication – the producers of the show have also found a way to continually and rapidly deterritorialize their show for the audience.  The show is less written filled with jokes rather than it is determined by the schizophrenic interruptions of its cast.  This prevents the audience from attempting to create territories for the show.  Such territorialization might allow them to extract meaning from the show, but there is none to be had.  It is entirely at the surface, and must be watched as such.  Anyone who cannot do this will not enjoy the humor in the show.  It is not a show for state-thinkers.
Mac: “Well she was alive at the time? Did you not know that?”
Frank: “No…”
Charlie: “It’s cool man.  Intervention… Intervention.”
-From ‘the Gang Gives Frank an Intervention, It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia


The Nightman Cometh:
Charlie: “doo deedee doo deedee doo, some other musical stuff!”
Mac: “What’cha doing buddy?”
Charlie: “I wrote a musical”
-From ‘The Nightman Cometh’, It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia

And with that completely nonsensical opening, begins a new tale of superheroes, Princesses, monsters, and villains.  There will be bravery and there will be mischief.  And true to form, the paradigm episode of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia’s fourth season, ‘The Nightman Cometh’ is completely devoid of depth whatsoever.  It is a pure schizophrenic episode.  The coming of the Nightman could indeed be seen as an event within the context of the show in the true Deluzian sense of the term.  It was this coming that served as the major focal event around which the show’s most schizoid character, Charlie Kelly, organizes his plane of immanence.  The writing of his musical was an act borne solely out of desire.
            The gang responds to Charlie’s statement with their usual astoundment.  Dennis asks, “What?  Why?”  Sweet Dee even proclaims to Charlie that, “Nobody writes a musical without a reason.  That makes no sense.”  However, this search for ‘reason’ betrays Dennis and Dee’s common miscomprehension of the term sense.  Sense is not produced through formal logic in statement.  Things do not need a reason to make sense.  In fact, having a reason for action is inherently a search for depth, thus keeping the actor from acting on the surface of their desire. “But who verses?  Who are we doing this verses?” Mac asks.  Neither Mac, nor the rest of the Gang, can apprehend the situation through any mechanism other than the dialectic.  They see everything in terms of negation; their actions continually expect and enforce a displacement of the other.  Charlie understands this, however the others do not.  To their questions, Charlie’s only response is a mere,  “Okay, well, this guy did.”
            Dee later has additional struggles with interpreting the ‘meaning’ of the performance.  She asks Charlie in frustration, “Charlie… What the hell is this play about?  However, she inevitably fails in her quest to do so, because she cannot envision the drama without conceiving of a substructure to it, the words and lyrics must imply some deeper meaning.  Sweet Dee continues, “I’m a Princess who lives in a coffeeshop?  Why am I in love with a little boy?”  Charlie tries to calm Dee by answering, “You’re in love with a young man.”  However, Dee cannot understand yet how a boy becomes a man – by the end of the episode, everyone will – she claims, “You wrote boy… the audience is going to think I’m a child molester.”   Sweet Deandra can only see the subject boy as signifiying a little boy, and her intents as signifiying to commit statutory rape, as if her performance of a character in a play would cause people to seek a molesting-depth in the nonsensical song she is supposed to sing.  Dee continues to impede the progress of the play, “Charlie, are you goddamn Kidding me?  You’re wanting me to say I want to make love to a tiny, little, baby boy!”
Charlie has soon had enough of Dee’s problems, later saying that he will “Smack the face out of your face!”  Charlie, again by far the most schizophrenic character, knows that the drama he has written has no meaning – after all, Charlie is illiterate.  The words are only reflective of his desires, which are discovered later in the episode.  Charlie argues with Deandra, reiterating, “I’ve explained this to you.  It’s a metaphor.”
Dee, however, can still not abandon her search for deeper meaning, questioning him, “I’m not convinced you know what that word means.”
Series on Trolls:
Frank: “You’ve gotta pay the troll toll, to get into this boy’s hole, you’ve gotta pay the troll toll to get in, you’ve gotta…”
Charlie: “Okay, stop, stop.  Good rhythm, I like the enthusiasm.  It sounds like you’re saying ‘boy’s hole’, and its clearly ‘soul’.”
-from ‘the Nightman Cometh’, It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia

            Dee’s confusion over the play’s obvious lack of meaning is shared by the rest of the cast.  The Gang’s perennial attempts to search for symbols within the work continue to forcefully territorialize it.  Mac presents the issue as, “Charlie, can I bring something up?  I think we have to be very careful about how we do the rape seen.”  The Gang misreads the schizoid play like Freudian psychoanalysis misreads the schizophrenic mind, favoring the depth to form a hierarchy.  Charlie point blankly responds that, “There’s no rape seen.”  Mac, who plays the character of the Nightman while Dennis play the part of the little boy to become Dayman, continues with, “Well sure… I pay the troll-toll, then I rape Dennis.”
Words and their meanings have a very different function in the schizophrenic mind of Charlie.  Charlie attempts to explain the very different concepts embodied by the words he uses, telling Mac that, “No, you do not rape him… you become him…. Let me walk you guys through this….  Once he gets near you, you have to sense him, suddenly you sense him!”  The meaning in the language that Charlie uses is based on his desire rather than on words functioning as symbols for a signified something.  The fact that the audience gets the ‘sense’ of rape from this scene underscores the inherent aggression and violence in becoming.  The Nightman approaches the sleeping boy from behind, turning away from the face and betraying the trust of the boy.  However, by doing so the Nightman initiates an event of becoming, which forever changes the little boy.  This event actually leads the boy on the path to fulfillment by forcing him to become a man, finally allowing him to follow his line of flight.
            Hence, the event of the coming of the Nightman leads the boy to a profound affirmation of his own manliness.  He gains the strength to confront the troll that has dominated and territorialized every aspect of his plane of immanence.  The troll demands, “Come over here and scratch my itchy-witchy toesy-woesies… I control you!”  However, the coming of the Nightman has brought something the despot-troll did not expect, for the boy has not emerged as Nightman, but as Dayman, his polar opposite.  The boy now makes his declaration of manliness, “You control nothing.  I am not you’re slave anymore, and I am not a boy!  I am not a man… I am… the Dayman!”  There is not a dialectic established between the Nightman and the Dayman, the identity of ‘the boy’ – which reflects Charlie – is not determined by the negation of the two.  Rather Charlie’s identity can only be understood through Charlie’s desire to become ‘Dayman’ as he has shaped his plane of immanence entirely in response to the event of the coming of the Nightman.
Becoming the Charlie Day-man:
Princess: “You have defeated the evil that was here.  You once were a boy but now you’re a man and I am in love with you.”
-From The Nightman Cometh, It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia

            Throughout It’s Always Sunny there is one character that embodies the new image of comedy in its fullest sense.  That event is Charlie Kelly, who goes by the first name of the actor who plays him, Charlie Day.  Psychoanalysists would most likely kill to get Charlie Kelly onto their plush velvet sofas.  Throughout the course of several seasons the It’s Always Sunny audience comes to learn that Charlie’s mother was – and actually still is – a prostitute who commonly has relations with his Uncle.  It also becomes quite evident however, that this Uncle molested Charlie multiple times when he was a child, quite possibly with the knowledge of his mother.  Psychoanalysis will never be able to correctly understand the impact these abuses had on Charlie however because the do not map out the his schizophrenic desires that have arisen in response.
            Only schizo-analysis can begin to bring revelation about this character and the nonsensical musical he produces.  His drama, ‘The Nightman Cometh’, contains no symbolism and no deeper structure underlies it.  Only understanding it at its surface can bring clarity.  The search for depth leads the Gang to look for meaning under the surface sense of the plays songs and lines, causing them to see molestation everywhere within it.  Now obviously audiences – although in multi-season long dramatic irony, not the Gang – make the obvious connection between the abuses Charlie suffered in childhood and the Dayman’s conflict with the troll and Nightman.  However, psychoanalysis offers no further understanding because it does not see how the play is in response to Charlie’s desire, not his response to being molested years ago.
            A the very end of the musical, after the choir has finished the last refrain of Dayman, Charlie Kelly emerges in a brilliant yellow Producer’s suit to sing one final song.  In this song he affirms his past, but also his becoming into something new.  He reveals that the play was not reactive, but an active force of his desire.  What Charlie desires, is that Coffee-shop Princess singing about little boys performed by Sweet Dee.  The real Coffee shop waitress is however sitting in the audience, for Charlie had agreed to stop stalking her on the condition that she come watch the musical.  He reveals to the entire audience that the entire play was only the instrument of his desire for her.
“I was that little boy, that little baby-boy was me, I once was a boy, but now I am a man, I fought the Nightman, lived as Dayman, now I’m here to ask for your hand, so if you want to marry, will you marry me?”
-from ‘The Nightman Cometh’, It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia


            Obviously her reply is a firm and resolute, “No!”  The Charlie Kelly of Philadelphia may have failed his audience, however Charlie Day, the writer and actor, has provided real audiences with the perfect summary of schizoid desire, all in within one twenty-two minute episode.  His comprehension of how to keep a character at the surface, of how to communicate a character’s desire, is strongly reminiscent of another legend of American comedy with the same name, Charlie Chaplin.  These geniuses keep their audiences from penetrating the surface of their show, relying on nonsense to produce sense for their watchers.  This is as Deleuze explains, “In all these respects, the surface is the transcendental field itself, and the locus of sense and expression.” (Deleuze, 125) Thus, they are able to create a world of continual and violent deterriotrializiation that is quite simply very funny.  As Deleuze writes about humor in The Logic of Sense, “The important thing is to do it quickly: to find quickly something to designate, to eat, or to break, which would replace the signification (the Idea) that you have been invited to look for.  All the faster and better since there is no resemblance between what one points out and what one has been asked.” (Deleuze, 135)  Charlie Day and the rest of the Gang from It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia understand that humor functions in this way, providing them with a finely honed comedic sense allowing them to turn the most ordinary and meaningless of themes into absurdly revealing situational comedy.  They possess what Deleuze refers to as an ‘odd inspiration’ — that, “one know how to ‘descend.’” (Deleuze, 135)  This is the new image of comedy.