Sunday, December 31, 2017

Fragment of a 2017 Dream

I actually have-
-this is a valuable collector’s item-
I own
In a climate controlled vault
The very first edition
Of the issue of Nintendo Power where they had the Communist Manifesto as a pull-out special strategy guide-you know where you have to pry open the staples in the center of the page to get the booklet out of the center of the magazine?

Yeah.
Low print run on that one.
I was told Martin Shkreli bought up all the other original copies, presumably to destroy them,
but then I heard
that he saw himself in the Marxian writings
saw himself as a harbinger of capitalism's implosion,
something like that?

I mean
like
who the fuck knew anyone took Marx seriously anymore?
-October 2017

Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission

Saturday, December 30, 2017

Depression Nuke

time lost to shapeless pain
overwhelming shame, cut myself loose from all networks
all I could do is get more alone
devalue myself in extreme isolation
refuse all healing
anger up
'til I can get a chain reaction going
split every atom I got
this bizarre obsession is sometimes diagnosed as
N.E.O.C.
New Era Obliteration Complex
but not everyone sees it as a sickness.
I confess: I see it as a sickness,
but sickness comes for us all, doesn't it?
It's just a side effect of being alive in a dangerous world
that fucks with your head.

Some go nuclear.
It's the danger of the proliferation of the human brain.
Yeah, I'm saying it:
Mind Control=Arms Control.
So don't put my ass in charge.
Don't vote for me.
Don't let me anywhere near the control panel.
Lock my ass inside a steel sarcophagus, dig a hole five miles deep, drop the sarcophagus down the hole, fill it to the brim with concrete, and erect a security site upon the concrete bristling with steroid-enhanced mercenaries manning mounted machine guns and surface-to-air missile launchers; surrounded on all sides by minefields; and overseen by bleeding edge AI-piloted surveillance drones.

Then use a combination of electricity and industrial strength grain alcohol to induce amnesia about the burial, the sarcophagus, and the purpose of the security site in all who know about it,
then erase all memory of the erasure.

And then . . . everything will be just fine.

-November-December 2017

Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission. 

Friday, December 29, 2017

MOVIE REVIEW: THE SHAPE OF WATER (2017)

Directed by Guillermo Del Toro

Written by Guillermo Del Toro and Vanessa Taylor

Produced by Guillermo Del Toro and J. Miles Dale

Cinematography by Dan Laustsen

Edited by Sidney Wolinsky

Music by Alexandre Desplat

Starring
Sally Hawkins
Octavia Spencer
Richard Jenkins
Doug Jones
Michael Shannon
Michael Stuhlbarg

Review by William D. Tucker

The Shape of Water is a Cold War era science-fiction fairy tale about monstrosity, romance, interior states of fantasy, and the break down of perfect systems of control whether they be American capitalistic militarism or Soviet totalitarian communism as agents or assets within those systems break under pressure, find love, decay in their given jobs, or some combination of these factors. The movie bounces back and forth between different levels of harsh external reality and interior fantasy.

We begin in the depths of some lagoon, and zoom into the submerged hallway of an apartment building. The water drains away, and we realize we are in a kind of dream, or some more elastic than normal reality all in tones of green. When the narrative voice over comes across the speakers, and the opening credits of actors, producers, and craftspeople appear on-screen it actually kind of brings us back down to reality because we get our bearings: we're watching a narrative movie with actors playing characters conceived in a screenplay written by humans, produced by humans, directed by a human. We, the audience, exit the zone of uncertain surrealism, and begin to navigate the Cold War, pre-Kennedy assassination world of The Shape of Water.

Our protagonist is a mute-but not deaf-woman named Elisa Esposito (Sally Hawkins), who works nights as a janitor inside a top secret government facility in Baltmore rather cleverly called Occam Aerospace Research Center. Elisa was abandoned as an infant, seemingly bearing the scars on her neck of some horrible mutilation which has left her mute. Elisa's partner on the night shift is fellow janitor Zelda Fuller (Octavia Spencer), who confides every last detail of her mundane marriage to Elisa, who is happy to listen since she lives alone and seems to live vicariously through Zelda, and her neighbor Giles (Richard Jenkins), a middle-aged commercial artist who also lives alone. Giles and Elisa both live in neighboring apartments, and they constitute each other's primary form of social life. If Giles were heterosexual and thirty years younger, he would've proposed to Elisa by now, and maybe Eliza would've accepted-but this reality isn't so simple for these good-hearted, struggling people.

One night, Elisa and Zelda are cleaning a chamber of the gothic research center containing an open pool when a high tech cylinder is wheeled in containing a humanoid fish man creature (Doug Jones, who played the similar Abe Sapien in the two Del Toro directed Hellboy movies) overseen by Colonel Strickland (Michael Shannon) a super creep in a suit who's in charge of the fish-man at the research center. Elisa sees the creature through the plate glass of the cylinder and there's an immediate connection between the human and the seemingly non-human. Or less-than-human? Or more-than-human? Later, we find out that the the fish-man-referred to as "the asset'"-was kidnapped from his home in a river in South America, and that this creature is believed to offer new modes of existence to the human race which could make them more durable in outer space . . . but the only way to know is to dissect "the asset."

Complications arise. Colonel Strickland reveals himself to be a white supremacist and a  sexual predator. Elisa establishes an unexpected rapport with the fish-man. Not to mention there's a Soviet agent in the house. The Soviets may try to steal the fish-man, or destroy him to prevent him from giving up cosmic secrets to the Americans. Everyone sees some precious dream within "the asset," who is characterized as having been once worshiped as a god in his native land, and may possess paranormal power.

Along the way, conflicts involving sexuality, class, race, white supremacy, and the oppression of women during 1960s America boil forth from the soul of this intricate dream of a film.

I don't want to give away too much, here, you really should just see how it plays out for yourself.

The Shape of Water is my personal favorite film I've seen in an actual movie theatre this past year. Only Get Out, Logan, Blade Runner 2049, and Detroit came anywhere near moving me the way this movie did. It's also a strong return to form for Guillermo Del Toro, who's previous films-Crimson Peak and Pacific Rim-were gorgeous visual spectacles, but came up short in the script department, falling back on the tropes of gothic romance novels and mecha anime. Entertaining, sure, but somewhat insubstantial for me. This is easily his best movie since Pan's Labyrinth. Nothing comes easy for any of the characters-good, evil, in-between-in this story. Even the repulsive Colonel Strickland is shown in context as an effect of a system of brutality more than a cause, though Strickland himself is absolutely complicit.

The Shape of Water even has my single favorite line of dialogue of this past year's cinema . . . which I wouldn't dream of spoiling!

Be good to yourself. Go see it.

Thursday, December 28, 2017

SUITMATION FAMILY PACK is for sale through Amazon as a Kindle E-Book!

Here's the link:

Suitmation Family Pack on Amazon Kindle

It's $2.99. It's the ebook version of what I've published here on the blog. So you don't have to buy it if you don't want to. But I might take down the Suitmation blog posts if I think it will drive up ebook sales. I haven't decided, yet. We'll see how it goes.

And I am planning a follow-up to SUITMATION FAMILY PACK which will probably be available exclusively as an ebook, without prior publication here on the blog. I'll post about that when it's ready to go.

Here's my Patreon:


https://www.patreon.com/WilliamDTucker

See you in the New Year!

-William D. Tucker

Wednesday, December 27, 2017

TETSUOBROKER2099 now has a Patreon page!

Here's the link:

https://www.patreon.com/WilliamDTucker

If you have a dollar per month to spare, then great!

My first goal is to to get $500 a month, which will allow me to create an audio fiction podcast I've been dreaming up for some time now.

But I understand that things are tough all over.

So no plans to go behind a pay wall, yet!

-William D. Tucker

Monday, December 25, 2017

Every Day Is Halloween 5: Shadowing Up

Every Day Is Halloween 5: Shadowing Up
by William D. Tucker

Santa pulls the chains
attached to the steel arrows
buried deep in the heaving flanks
of His twelve cloud-tripping reindeer.

Claus reaches into His bottomless sack
(all done up with runes that keep twisting themselves up into ruins evocative of bygone empires, makes your brain hurt to stare at it too long, makes you want to go build an empire, just so it can eventually be all bygone and shit)
grasps the blazing industrial complex of intertwined mandalas of intertwined industrial complexes within
transmits dreams of world-girdling conspiracies through all the face-splitting hairs of all his beards
(which are, of course, mystically empowered antennae, learn something new every-)
to all the faithful of all ages
gives them ENEMY
gives them the Rubblemind to go deal with ENEMY
broadcasts to all the boys and girls
on both lists, actually,
who have all mostly organized themselves into competing militarized secret police agencies,
the militarized secret police model having displaced all the others-nuclear family, tribe, organized crime, cult/organized religion, legacy political party, terrorist cell, tabletop role-playing gathering, online gaming network-to become the primary mode of human professional and/or social activity.

Santa makes sure to shadow up
before appearing on radar as a paid propaganda asset of various military-industrial-infotainment complexes around the world
or for His select on-camera major media market appearances
wouldn't do to let the kids-of-all-ages behold the pierced reindeer
(reindoors, actually, that let Claus clip in and out of vanilla space-time, make the goddamn schedule)
definitely would not do
to let anyone
of any age
behold His true face
or any part of His true body
which is mostly a lot of teeth, claws, and agonized vestigial faces
glitching in and out of mundane reality
too many leftover, conflicting design assets,
too much malevolent design creep going in all directions,
over too many iterations
across too many corrupted, partial-build realities
trying to be too damn many places at once'll do that
gotta provide all the boys and girls
of all ages
on both lists, mind you
with ENEMY
on schedule
in all the asshole realities.

Which doesn't leave much He can reveal without properly shadowing up first.

Ho-ho-ho, motherfuckers.
-December 2017

Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission. 

Sunday, December 24, 2017

Every Day Is Halloween 4-Pack

Every Day Is Halloween 4-Pack
by William D. Tucker

$69.99 SRP

Special Features:
Collectible packaging
Interactive Menus
English Language
Standard full frame
Color
Includes free ticket for Every Day is Halloween 5: Shadowing Up
Digital Download for Every Day is Halloween (does not apply to parts 2, 3, or 4)
Unskippable 17 minute anti-piracy PSA
Trailers

Every Day Is Halloween

I pull on this costume
'Til I break it in.
Take it off before I go to work,
Of course,
But then there came a time
When I just kept it on.

I was kinda depressed, to tell you the truth.
Hard to care about bathing properly,
Flossing, brushing, soap stuff.
But terror twisted my guts at the thought of missing work.
Getting fired.
Having no money.
Not being able to eat.
Eviction.
Now I'm one of those people standing on the side of the road with a cardboard sign.
One of those people that no one cares about.
Because no job, no money, no clean clothes, no status, zeroed out of reality.
Except as a kind of living breathing object lesson
To all the workers.

So I decided I would just go to work with the costume on.
Sure, it was a rebellious thing.
A fuck you kind of thing.
Even though I got along with everybody at work.
The customers were all right, discounting a few hard-ons here and there.
My boss, Becky, she was always cool to me.
It was the routine, the structure, the day-after-goddamn-day-ness of it
That I despised, I think.

So I decided I would just go to work with the costume on.
And nobody said anything.
It was one of those deals where you do that one fucked-up thing,
And you're expecting to get punished for it,
And you're terrified,
But you're also kind of looking forward to being confronted about it, punished,
Especially at work, right?
But the first time I did it
My whole shift making those sugary, syrupy caffeinated coffee beverages
I'm waiting for my boss to give me shit.
But it's like nothing.
I hit every order just right.
I'm greeted by all the usual customers,
I say the expected lame non-funny funny remarks I'm supposed to say,
And laugh at the expected lame non-funny funny remarks my fellow employees say in response,
Just like any other day.

And then my shift ends.
Before, I made a ritual out of going back to my apartment,
Lighting some candles to the spirit of Tom Snyder at the homemade altar,
Stripping out of my work clothes,
Blowing out the candles, singing a praise hymn to Tom Snyder,
Pulling on the costume,
One last prayer to Tom Snyder,
And going out and getting in fist fights and knife fights
With the same old gang of assholes downtown.
We'd been mixing it up like that for about six years or so,
But it seemed more like decades.
We packed all kinds of insane feuds, betrayals, and lunatic ideologies into those days.
I think we started out with some kind of half-sensible rationale for why we were doing it,
But that got lost,
Hmm,
Probably by the end of the third day or so.
Maybe the fourth day.
I don't really remember. Not sure I want to.

So up until that day,
I had my ritual.
Knew exactly what I was going to do with myself every moment of every day.
But that day
I already had my costume on,
So I didn't need to even go inside my apartment.
I just went straight downtown,
Muttered some quick prayers and a mini-hymn to Tom Snyder under my breath,
And immediately jumped on some dude I'd punched and kicked and stabbed a thousand times before.
Only this time
My beloved target
Was possessed of preternatural strength,
And beat the holy glowing feces out of me a thousand ways to Sunday.
One of the best times I ever had.

So I just kept coming back to work with my costume on.
Didn't bathe, either.
Stopped sleeping.
Lost my faith in Tom Snyder.
Just go to work,
Then go straight to the usual mayhem downtown.
Kept wearing it
'Til it was glued to my body by the filth.
'Til it grew into me, me into it.
Like the rope of the swing and the tree it's tied around.

Although it was hard to tell,
At first,
Because I was hallucinating like crazy from sleep deprivation,
The appearance and apparel of the customers
And my fellow employees
Began to subtly change.
A store-bought movie slasher mask here.
Some wild eyebrow makeup there.
And check out the finely carved and lacquered wooden Japanese demon mask on this one.
People started coming in with plastic swords, plastic AK-47s, and plastic pirate hook hands.

And then people started coming in with real steel katanas, live ammo AK-47s, and sharpened hook hands.
And that one guy with the fine wooden demon mask?
He came in one day with arcane energies crackling from his scaly body,
A wildly darting three foot tongue with its own face,
Which bore a striking resemblance to Edogawa Rampo
Declaiming mysterious verses in some lost language,
And a bouquet of perverted "tentacles" manifesting from his nether regions.

My manager tumbled in, seemingly carried by a strong breeze,
With wavy, razor sharp filaments extruding from every pore on her body.
I thought she was some kind of overgrown plant-seed-carrier-thing,
But then she started a fight with the weird dude in the traditional Mephistopheles costume from Gounod's perennially underrated opera Faust,
Flaying the Tempter down to his oddly poignant skeleton,
And that's when I realized that things had taken a turn.

Everybody began brawling with everybody.
Fangs.
Claws.
Projectile spines.
Unexpectedly pugilistic eyeballs popping in and out of muscular sockets.
Lightning bolts arcing from wizened fingertips.
Fire breath.
Antennae emitting psychedelic death rays.
A huge muscular dinosaur tail knocking a pack of rotting zombies through a plate glass window.
A coked-up bootlegger in a pinstriped suit thumb-wrestling a half-unicorn, half-Richard Nixon whatsit.
A Buddhist centaur lighting its horse half on fire to protest the Vietnam war,
While the human half threw a Molotov cocktail at a police car. Better late than never, I guess.
All the cops got in on the action, too, most of 'em stripped down to their bare asses.
I guess they were all rebelling against the costume, not sure.

In the midst of all this chaos,
Which started with a slow build of about a week,
And then sparked off into a little over a year long riot,
I found myself,
At first,
Exhilarated,
But then,
And this is the part where I know I'm going to disappoint some folks,
But I kinda just
Shut down.
But not.
See, I had all the sugary slushy caffeinated drinks memorized for most of the customers,
Including the times of day when each one was likely to come in,
I even had the other baristas' routines memorized, more or less,
So while this mythological clusterfuck was roiling around me
I started to obsessively make the caffeinated specialty beverages,
And set them at the pick up counter,
Announcing each one with perfect enunciation,
"Mocha blend tiramisu turtle soup Americano with 16 shots at the bar,"
Which was rather impressive for me
Because I've had kind of muddled enunciation all my life.
People have always had trouble understanding me all my life.
Not anymore.
Now there was no more ambiguity.
Only clarity.
Only perfectly hand-crafted coffee beverages.
In a never ending stream.
For all time.
In an ever-growing pile.
From floor to ceiling.
Through the ceiling.
ForFuckingEver.

Okay, not forever.
I exaggerate.
But that was the feeling.
As mythological beasts from legend, comic books, literature, and cinema
Slaughtered each other all around me,
As the air vibrated with a pulsing minimalist synth score,
As I became splattered with suspect fluids,
Even on those occasions when I was temporarily conscripted into the infernal army
Of this or that BDSM attired wannabe god-CEO of agony,
Or this or that sentient outsized globally recognized candy bar brand with dreams of inhaling all the gas on Jupiter just to get wicked high,
I would still perfectly pantomime fulfilling the orders
Of all the customers
From that increasingly distant time
That I so dearly hated.
And now so dearly missed, wanted, needed.
Like I said,
I shut down.
But not really.

How can I put it?
It's like if every day is Halloween . . . I don't even know.
I mean,
My life was kind of insane before,
And now it's even more insane,
And there's more insanity on the road ahead, right?
That's not how things are supposed to be.
Things are supposed to start normal,
And then go crazy.
Or you start out crazy,
And then you get your shit stabilized,
Start exercising, eating properly, get on a proper sleep schedule, take the right pills,
Right?
I mean,
I didn't come up with this shit.
This is how things were always presented to me.
You start on one side of the line or the other,
And then you work your way to the other side.
You're either playing the getting over game,
Or the hedonist self-destruction game.
Unless you're born on the right side of the line,
The one that has all the money,
In which case, okay, stasis would make sense,
So, uh, I dunno. I really don't have any clue.

So,
Like,
The universal mythological clusterfuck riot scene went on for about a year,
A little over a year,
And then people started to come down from it.
They started going into their old job routines in pantomime.
Like what I was doing with my barista gig after I stopped taking off the costume,
But I guess, like, I was ahead of the curve?
I dunno.
I mean, I've always been a kind of trendsetter.
Going back to when I was a teenager.
I'd find out about some band that no one heard of, and then I'd tell everybody about it,
Or some movie or some comic book.
And then people would be into that new thing.
And I was fashionable.
I wore pretty cool clothes.
People wanted to dress like me.
Even the teachers.
Even the coaches.
I tell that to people now,
And they think I'm joking.
But it's true.
I set trends.
So maybe now with all this crazy costume shit . . . I don't even know.
So,
Maybe,
That's what was going on with me my whole life?
It's totally nuts,
And like I said, I stopped sleeping. Maybe I'm not seeing what I'm seeing.
Even though I see everything with perfect clarity, especially now.

But things started to get back to, like, fake normal.
No one was bathing. No one was sleeping anymore.
Those who had undergone full-on transformations into mythic and supernatural beings
They didn't really change back.
But they acted like they were back in the old human rut.
My co-worker Ben,
He became this human-shaped thing made entirely out of toes
That was constantly emitting a pre-recorded stream of audio clips of speeches by George W. Bush,
And he didn't change back,
But he went back to slinging those coffee beverages just like in days of old.

My boss, she was still that overgrown plant-seed-carrier whatsit,
She still smoked weed in her Honda every lunch break,
Still a pretty cool boss.

Sidney, the girl who biked to work, still loved to talk about her mission trips to South America,
Even though she was now a difficult to pin down blur of scintillating lights and arcane symbols.

We had all been transformed.

We all had our Time of Fun.

And now we were back to work.

Except there were no more coffee beans, latte mix, or shots to shoot.
Most of the paper cups had been eaten by the naked cops,
And the freaky tentacle rape beast had eaten all the metal objects in the store,
Including all the coffee making machines and assorted equipment.
But the team went into action in pantomime.

Even the customers,
Who had all ritually burned their cash in praise of Psychopathic Deities and Insurgent Barsoomian Spirits,
Who had all offered up their credit and debit cards as sacrifice to the ghost of Tom Snyder,
He of the nonstop witty patter and the perpetually burning cigarette held between middle and forefinger,
Even the customers kept on coming in,
Playing their parts with an exquisite mixture of Chekhovian subtlety and violent, alienating  theatrical gestures of embodiment worthy of Bertolt Brecht,
All of us,
Workers and consumers alike
Possessed with the obsessive yet mindful pantomime of mindless commerce.
Exhausting,
But way better than the real thing ever was,
Or ever could have been.
For we are all now in a Transcendent Rut.

William Blake is really pleased with all this, by the way.
I've been speaking to him
Underneath a collective of regular customers
Who have willed themselves into the shape of a Cubist Sequoia
And he said this was exactly what he was getting at.
But I think he's just being polite.
Not sure. Not sure I want to be sure.
-October 2014

Every Day Is Halloween 2

Sequel
slash the budget
dump it in some film school grad's lap
command and control functions stay with the producer

Maximize marketing budget
optimize gore
optimize tits
optimize confusing, pseudo-arty shaky-cam bullshit
optimize shouting
optimize piss' n'shit grim'n'gritty color palette
optimize bogus "true story" websites

Economize talent
shoot in an anti-union right-to-work state
hire actors with low Q-ratings
for low pay
work them like pack animals

Strangely,
there's always money for 3-D post-conversion

If it's a hit,
crank out another one,
same formula

If it bombs,
write it down,
dodge some taxes

It isn't art,
nor is it truly entertainment,
but it's a healthy living
for the New Era Corporate Citizen.
-September-October 2015


Every Day Is Halloween 3: living skeleton actor fuck 

role puts flesh, blood, guts on this frame
not to mention tumors,  scars, bad thoughts, eureka insights,
mercy, sadism, self-sacrifice, greed, ambition, romance;

build each persona up from micro-replicators
into complex thoughts, interlocking processes of pattern recognition,
various esoteric mental exercises culled from misreadings of Stanislavski and Grotowski,
irrational desires, fears, obsessions, joys;

book the gig
fill me up
live in the moment
'til it got heavy
with burdens of reputation
now he's just repeating the same old shtick
fuzzy stretch where I didn't shoot after 4:30pm for about five years
'cause I was stinking shitfaced
but it made me more of a cult fave in the years to come
I'm slurring lines on camera,
always seated, slightly listing to one side,
visible use of body double when standing and shot from behind
obvious ADR by anonymous voice over artist
since lips and tongue were only capable of blotto-talk
the voice is one thing and then another
sad at the time
YouTube clipjob comedy gold in this New Era.

online parodies resurrected me
for stunt casting, for the new wave of self-aware exploitation flicks.
a lot of work,
a lot of love from all over the world
festival and con bookings
I go even if it's on my dime
depends on the size of the marketing budget
but I'll go just for the feeling
nothing like this was ever supposed to be in my future
what a racket,  you know?

my latest job
is a dipshit detective
gets his head cut off by a psycho lumberjack
they didn't even do a proper cast of my head
the wig
from behind
kinda looks like my hair
but they do it old school when they put my head through a hole in the set floor
and have me silently work my mouth like a freshly decapitated fish head,
it's actually an homage to a previous death scene I played
in the 1980s
one of the Italian Mad Max knockoffs
I did three or four of those back in the day
current crop of directors go crazy cramming in callbacks,
scenes from the past,
b-movies constitute their own reality, history, liturgy

I have this weird dream:
I strip it all down to the bone.
not even rehearsal clothes, like in my repertory theatre days,
not even the bare skin, like in my experimental protest theatre period.
no skin, blood, guts, eyes, brains, lips, tongue,
just the skeleton
all pinned and jointed together,
suspended from an ornate carved rack,
polished and lacquered to a piercing sheen.
you crank up the air conditioning,
put the script in front of the vent,
words lift off the page,
whisper'n'rage through my ribcage.

Something that stripped down-well, they could slather on some CG if that's too pure of a hit.
Make me into a transforming talking car or some shit.
-July 2015-October 2016


Every Day Is Halloween 4: All-Purpose Stabulation/Squibulation Person

A god-the God?-answers the sweaty, gross prayers of some degenerate aspiring filmmaker, most likely some jerk-off film school graduate ... 

And some god-the God?-spake . . .

saying . . .

If you're willing to inject a virus into the computer graphics pipeline

while wearing DIY prosthetics makeup
of a monstrous being you spent a month of Tuesdays cooking up inside your brain
must be an original
no cosplay allowed

AND

you agree to shoot using only film and 100% analog editing equipment and techniques
no sound,
must be black and white

AND

you light one of the letters of the Hollywood sign on fire-any letter, so long as it burns

then
you will be blessed
with an All-Purpose Stabulation/Squibulation Person
a kind of ersatz human from another plane of existence
(e.g. a recent theatre school graduate)
who has been completely neutralized, stripped of all individuality by advanced acting techniques
who you will be permitted to use as you see fit
in your artsy-fartsy black and white shot-on-actual-film movie

typically,
end-users stab and/or shoot these neutrals after imbuing them with the identity of their choice of fantasy target
(identity induction protocols/procedures are included in an accompanying instruction booklet found inside a kangaroo-ish skin pocket in the abdomen)
it could be
man, woman, child
someone you knew in life,
someone powerful,
someone evil,
someone innocent,
mom,
dad,
an ex,
someone you imagine,
even a fictional character,
I mean
vengeance fantasies are stupifyingly common among aspiring filmmakers these days.

BUT
you don't have to go down that road
you could cultivate your neutral into a real human being
befriend them
nurture them
set them free
even if that almost never happens-you could do that shit
you really could
you could break that mold into tiny pieces
but the odds will most likely exert a crushing power over your pittance of "free will,"
and you will run to type
and make some kind of an arty fucking snuff film
as per usual
as per the norm
just another angry little shit with a camera,
aaaand
a head full of power/domination fantasies
nothing special

but go ahead and prove my ass wrong
wrong as Richard Nixon
I would be very amused by that
amused AF
-October 2017

Copyright 2014, 2015, 2016, and 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission. 

Tuesday, October 31, 2017

Every Day Is Halloween 4: All-Purpose Stabulation/Squibulation Person

Every Day Is Halloween 4: All-Purpose Stabulation/Squibulation Person
by William D. Tucker

A god-the God?-answers the sweaty, gross prayers of some degenerate aspiring filmmaker, most likely some jerk-off film school graduate ... 

And some god-the God?-spake . . .

saying . . .

If you're willing to inject a virus into the computer graphics pipeline

while wearing DIY prosthetics makeup
of a monstrous being you spent a month of Tuesdays cooking up inside your brain
must be an original
no cosplay allowed

AND

you agree to shoot using only film and 100% analog editing equipment and techniques
no sound,
must be black and white

AND

you light one of the letters of the Hollywood sign on fire-any letter, so long as it burns

then
you will be blessed
with an All-Purpose Stabulation/Squibulation Person
a kind of ersatz human from another plane of existence
(e.g. a recent theatre school graduate)
who has been completely neutralized, stripped of all individuality by advanced acting techniques
who you will be permitted to use as you see fit
in your artsy-fartsy black and white shot-on-actual-film movie

typically,
end-users stab and/or shoot these neutrals after imbuing them with the identity of their choice of fantasy target
(identity induction protocols/procedures are included in an accompanying instruction booklet found inside a kangaroo-ish skin pocket in the abdomen)
it could be
man, woman, child
someone you knew in life,
someone powerful,
someone evil,
someone innocent,
mom,
dad,
an ex,
someone you imagine,
even a fictional character,
I mean
vengeance fantasies are stupifyingly common among aspiring filmmakers these days.

BUT
you don't have to go down that road
you could cultivate your neutral into a real human being
befriend them
nurture them
set them free
even if that almost never happens-you could do that shit
you really could
you could break that mold into tiny pieces
but the odds will most likely exert a crushing power over your pittance of "free will,"
and you will run to type
and make some kind of an arty fucking snuff film
as per usual
as per the norm
just another angry little shit with a camera,
aaaand
a head full of power/domination fantasies
nothing special

but go ahead and prove my ass wrong
wrong as Richard Nixon
I would be very amused by that
amused AF
-October 2017

Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission. 

Sunday, October 29, 2017

Every Day Is Halloween 3-Pack

Every Day Is Halloween 3-Pack
by William D. Tucker

$59.99 SRP

Special Features:
Collectible packaging
Interactive Menus
English Language
Standard full frame
Color
Includes free ticket for Every Day is Halloween 4: All-Purpose Stabulation/Squibulation Person
Digital Download for Every Day is Halloween (does not apply to parts 2 or 3)
Unskippable 17 minute anti-piracy PSA
Trailers


Every Day Is Halloween

I pull on this costume
'Til I break it in.
Take it off before I go to work,
Of course,
But then there came a time
When I just kept it on.

I was kinda depressed, to tell you the truth.
Hard to care about bathing properly,
Flossing, brushing, soap stuff.
But terror twisted my guts at the thought of missing work.
Getting fired.
Having no money.
Not being able to eat.
Eviction.
Now I'm one of those people standing on the side of the road with a cardboard sign.
One of those people that no one cares about.
Because no job, no money, no clean clothes, no status, zeroed out of reality.
Except as a kind of living breathing object lesson
To all the workers.

So I decided I would just go to work with the costume on.
Sure, it was a rebellious thing.
A fuck you kind of thing.
Even though I got along with everybody at work.
The customers were all right, discounting a few hard-ons here and there.
My boss, Becky, she was always cool to me.
It was the routine, the structure, the day-after-goddamn-day-ness of it
That I despised, I think.

So I decided I would just go to work with the costume on.
And nobody said anything.
It was one of those deals where you do that one fucked-up thing,
And you're expecting to get punished for it,
And you're terrified,
But you're also kind of looking forward to being confronted about it, punished,
Especially at work, right?
But the first time I did it
My whole shift making those sugary, syrupy caffeinated coffee beverages
I'm waiting for my boss to give me shit.
But it's like nothing.
I hit every order just right.
I'm greeted by all the usual customers,
I say the expected lame non-funny funny remarks I'm supposed to say,
And laugh at the expected lame non-funny funny remarks my fellow employees say in response,
Just like any other day.

And then my shift ends.
Before, I made a ritual out of going back to my apartment,
Lighting some candles to the spirit of Tom Snyder at the homemade altar,
Stripping out of my work clothes,
Blowing out the candles, singing a praise hymn to Tom Snyder,
Pulling on the costume,
One last prayer to Tom Snyder,
And going out and getting in fist fights and knife fights
With the same old gang of assholes downtown.
We'd been mixing it up like that for about six years or so,
But it seemed more like decades.
We packed all kinds of insane feuds, betrayals, and lunatic ideologies into those days.
I think we started out with some kind of half-sensible rationale for why we were doing it,
But that got lost,
Hmm,
Probably by the end of the third day or so.
Maybe the fourth day.
I don't really remember. Not sure I want to.

So up until that day,
I had my ritual.
Knew exactly what I was going to do with myself every moment of every day.
But that day
I already had my costume on,
So I didn't need to even go inside my apartment.
I just went straight downtown,
Muttered some quick prayers and a mini-hymn to Tom Snyder under my breath,
And immediately jumped on some dude I'd punched and kicked and stabbed a thousand times before.
Only this time
My beloved target
Was possessed of preternatural strength,
And beat the holy glowing feces out of me a thousand ways to Sunday.
One of the best times I ever had.

So I just kept coming back to work with my costume on.
Didn't bathe, either.
Stopped sleeping.
Lost my faith in Tom Snyder.
Just go to work,
Then go straight to the usual mayhem downtown.
Kept wearing it
'Til it was glued to my body by the filth.
'Til it grew into me, me into it.
Like the rope of the swing and the tree it's tied around.

Although it was hard to tell,
At first,
Because I was hallucinating like crazy from sleep deprivation,
The appearance and apparel of the customers
And my fellow employees
Began to subtly change.
A store-bought movie slasher mask here.
Some wild eyebrow makeup there.
And check out the finely carved and lacquered wooden Japanese demon mask on this one.
People started coming in with plastic swords, plastic AK-47s, and plastic pirate hook hands.

And then people started coming in with real steel katanas, live ammo AK-47s, and sharpened hook hands.
And that one guy with the fine wooden demon mask?
He came in one day with arcane energies crackling from his scaly body,
A wildly darting three foot tongue with its own face,
Which bore a striking resemblance to Edogawa Rampo
Declaiming mysterious verses in some lost language,
And a bouquet of perverted "tentacles" manifesting from his nether regions.

My manager tumbled in, seemingly carried by a strong breeze,
With wavy, razor sharp filaments extruding from every pore on her body.
I thought she was some kind of overgrown plant-seed-carrier-thing,
But then she started a fight with the weird dude in the traditional Mephistopheles costume from Gounod's perennially underrated opera Faust,
Flaying the Tempter down to his oddly poignant skeleton,
And that's when I realized that things had taken a turn.

Everybody began brawling with everybody.
Fangs.
Claws.
Projectile spines.
Unexpectedly pugilistic eyeballs popping in and out of muscular sockets.
Lightning bolts arcing from wizened fingertips.
Fire breath.
Antennae emitting psychedelic death rays.
A huge muscular dinosaur tail knocking a pack of rotting zombies through a plate glass window.
A coked-up bootlegger in a pinstriped suit thumb-wrestling a half-unicorn, half-Richard Nixon whatsit.
A Buddhist centaur lighting its horse half on fire to protest the Vietnam war,
While the human half threw a Molotov cocktail at a police car. Better late than never, I guess.
All the cops got in on the action, too, most of 'em stripped down to their bare asses.
I guess they were all rebelling against the costume, not sure.

In the midst of all this chaos,
Which started with a slow build of about a week,
And then sparked off into a little over a year long riot,
I found myself,
At first,
Exhilarated,
But then,
And this is the part where I know I'm going to disappoint some folks,
But I kinda just
Shut down.
But not.
See, I had all the sugary slushy caffeinated drinks memorized for most of the customers,
Including the times of day when each one was likely to come in,
I even had the other baristas' routines memorized, more or less,
So while this mythological clusterfuck was roiling around me
I started to obsessively make the caffeinated specialty beverages,
And set them at the pick up counter,
Announcing each one with perfect enunciation,
"Mocha blend tiramisu turtle soup Americano with 16 shots at the bar,"
Which was rather impressive for me
Because I've had kind of muddled enunciation all my life.
People have always had trouble understanding me all my life.
Not anymore.
Now there was no more ambiguity.
Only clarity.
Only perfectly hand-crafted coffee beverages.
In a never ending stream.
For all time.
In an ever-growing pile.
From floor to ceiling.
Through the ceiling.
ForFuckingEver.

Okay, not forever.
I exaggerate.
But that was the feeling.
As mythological beasts from legend, comic books, literature, and cinema
Slaughtered each other all around me,
As the air vibrated with a pulsing minimalist synth score,
As I became splattered with suspect fluids,
Even on those occasions when I was temporarily conscripted into the infernal army
Of this or that BDSM attired wannabe god-CEO of agony,
Or this or that sentient outsized globally recognized candy bar brand with dreams of inhaling all the gas on Jupiter just to get wicked high,
I would still perfectly pantomime fulfilling the orders
Of all the customers
From that increasingly distant time
That I so dearly hated.
And now so dearly missed, wanted, needed.
Like I said,
I shut down.
But not really.

How can I put it?
It's like if every day is Halloween . . . I don't even know.
I mean,
My life was kind of insane before,
And now it's even more insane,
And there's more insanity on the road ahead, right?
That's not how things are supposed to be.
Things are supposed to start normal,
And then go crazy.
Or you start out crazy,
And then you get your shit stabilized,
Start exercising, eating properly, get on a proper sleep schedule, take the right pills,
Right?
I mean,
I didn't come up with this shit.
This is how things were always presented to me.
You start on one side of the line or the other,
And then you work your way to the other side.
You're either playing the getting over game,
Or the hedonist self-destruction game.
Unless you're born on the right side of the line,
The one that has all the money,
In which case, okay, stasis would make sense,
So, uh, I dunno. I really don't have any clue.

So,
Like,
The universal mythological clusterfuck riot scene went on for about a year,
A little over a year,
And then people started to come down from it.
They started going into their old job routines in pantomime.
Like what I was doing with my barista gig after I stopped taking off the costume,
But I guess, like, I was ahead of the curve?
I dunno.
I mean, I've always been a kind of trendsetter.
Going back to when I was a teenager.
I'd find out about some band that no one heard of, and then I'd tell everybody about it,
Or some movie or some comic book.
And then people would be into that new thing.
And I was fashionable.
I wore pretty cool clothes.
People wanted to dress like me.
Even the teachers.
Even the coaches.
I tell that to people now,
And they think I'm joking.
But it's true.
I set trends.
So maybe now with all this crazy costume shit . . . I don't even know.
So,
Maybe,
That's what was going on with me my whole life?
It's totally nuts,
And like I said, I stopped sleeping. Maybe I'm not seeing what I'm seeing.
Even though I see everything with perfect clarity, especially now.

But things started to get back to, like, fake normal.
No one was bathing. No one was sleeping anymore.
Those who had undergone full-on transformations into mythic and supernatural beings
They didn't really change back.
But they acted like they were back in the old human rut.
My co-worker Ben,
He became this human-shaped thing made entirely out of toes
That was constantly emitting a pre-recorded stream of audio clips of speeches by George W. Bush,
And he didn't change back,
But he went back to slinging those coffee beverages just like in days of old.

My boss, she was still that overgrown plant-seed-carrier whatsit,
She still smoked weed in her Honda every lunch break,
Still a pretty cool boss.

Sidney, the girl who biked to work, still loved to talk about her mission trips to South America,
Even though she was now a difficult to pin down blur of scintillating lights and arcane symbols.

We had all been transformed.

We all had our Time of Fun.

And now we were back to work.

Except there were no more coffee beans, latte mix, or shots to shoot.
Most of the paper cups had been eaten by the naked cops,
And the freaky tentacle rape beast had eaten all the metal objects in the store,
Including all the coffee making machines and assorted equipment.
But the team went into action in pantomime.

Even the customers,
Who had all ritually burned their cash in praise of Psychopathic Deities and Insurgent Barsoomian Spirits,
Who had all offered up their credit and debit cards as sacrifice to the ghost of Tom Snyder,
He of the nonstop witty patter and the perpetually burning cigarette held between middle and forefinger,
Even the customers kept on coming in,
Playing their parts with an exquisite mixture of Chekhovian subtlety and violent, alienating  theatrical gestures of embodiment worthy of Bertolt Brecht,
All of us,
Workers and consumers alike
Possessed with the obsessive yet mindful pantomime of mindless commerce.
Exhausting,
But way better than the real thing ever was,
Or ever could have been.
For we are all now in a Transcendent Rut.

William Blake is really pleased with all this, by the way.
I've been speaking to him
Underneath a collective of regular customers
Who have willed themselves into the shape of a Cubist Sequoia
And he said this was exactly what he was getting at.
But I think he's just being polite.
Not sure. Not sure I want to be sure.
-October 2014

Every Day Is Halloween 2

Sequel
slash the budget
dump it in some film school grad's lap
command and control functions stay with the producer

Maximize marketing budget
optimize gore
optimize tits
optimize confusing, pseudo-arty shaky-cam bullshit
optimize shouting
optimize piss' n'shit grim'n'gritty color palette
optimize bogus "true story" websites

Economize talent
shoot in an anti-union right-to-work state
hire actors with low Q-ratings
for low pay
work them like pack animals

Strangely,
there's always money for 3-D post-conversion

If it's a hit,
crank out another one,
same formula

If it bombs,
write it down,
dodge some taxes

It isn't art,
nor is it truly entertainment,
but it's a healthy living
for the New Era Corporate Citizen.
-September-October 2015


Every Day Is Halloween 3: living skeleton actor fuck 

role puts flesh, blood, guts on this frame
not to mention tumors,  scars, bad thoughts, eureka insights,
mercy, sadism, self-sacrifice, greed, ambition, romance;

build each persona up from micro-replicators
into complex thoughts, interlocking processes of pattern recognition,
various esoteric mental exercises culled from misreadings of Stanislavski and Grotowski,
irrational desires, fears, obsessions, joys;

book the gig
fill me up
live in the moment
'til it got heavy
with burdens of reputation
now he's just repeating the same old shtick
fuzzy stretch where I didn't shoot after 4:30pm for about five years
'cause I was stinking shitfaced
but it made me more of a cult fave in the years to come
I'm slurring lines on camera,
always seated, slightly listing to one side,
visible use of body double when standing and shot from behind
obvious ADR by anonymous voice over artist
since lips and tongue were only capable of blotto-talk
the voice is one thing and then another
sad at the time
YouTube clipjob comedy gold in this New Era.

online parodies resurrected me
for stunt casting, for the new wave of self-aware exploitation flicks.
a lot of work,
a lot of love from all over the world
festival and con bookings
I go even if it's on my dime
depends on the size of the marketing budget
but I'll go just for the feeling
nothing like this was ever supposed to be in my future
what a racket,  you know?

my latest job
is a dipshit detective
gets his head cut off by a psycho lumberjack
they didn't even do a proper cast of my head
the wig
from behind
kinda looks like my hair
but they do it old school when they put my head through a hole in the set floor
and have me silently work my mouth like a freshly decapitated fish head,
it's actually an homage to a previous death scene I played
in the 1980s
one of the Italian Mad Max knockoffs
I did three or four of those back in the day
current crop of directors go crazy cramming in callbacks,
scenes from the past,
b-movies constitute their own reality, history, liturgy

I have this weird dream:
I strip it all down to the bone.
not even rehearsal clothes, like in my repertory theatre days,
not even the bare skin, like in my experimental protest theatre period.
no skin, blood, guts, eyes, brains, lips, tongue,
just the skeleton
all pinned and jointed together,
suspended from an ornate carved rack,
polished and lacquered to a piercing sheen.
you crank up the air conditioning,
put the script in front of the vent,
words lift off the page,
whisper'n'rage through my ribcage.

Something that stripped down-well, they could slather on some CG if that's too pure of a hit.
Make me into a transforming talking car or some shit.
-July 2015-October 2016

Copyright 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

Thursday, September 21, 2017

Pet Names Shouted Between Totalitarian Lovers

Pet Names Shouted Between Totalitarian Lovers
by William D. Tucker 

Rocket Man

this is the pet name shouted between totalitarian lovers
daring one another
to shoot first
to bust the annihilating nut
to burn up all the little people
the shitizens
as a global sacrifice
to their greater love

...um...
could we maybe get these two on Dr. Phil, work their shit out?
preferably
BE-FUCKING-FORE
the impending obliteration of human civilization by nuclear weapons?

just a suggestion
from a mere shitizen
-September 2017

Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission. 

Friday, September 15, 2017

STATE AND COUNTERSTATE

STATE AND COUNTERSTATE
by William D. Tucker

Tough jobs for tough, sinewy people . . . respond to this ad with extreme care . . .
Hired on as raw material of muscle and idealism
Loyalty reified into church-state, war, new era manifest destiny
Nonsense multiplies
Self-assembles into ICBM birthing mountains, peaks, spires,
Soon to be eaten through with bug tunnels
and secret civilizations
and elaborate underground citizenship induction rituals
of the aborning counterstate
Welcome to the New Nation
Not quite the same as the Old Nation
Nation with variations, ya’ll,
I mean we’re definitely hanging on to the ICBMs,
don’t won’t to mess with that shit.
If the nation changes into something weird-as-fuck
shouldn’t the people morph along with it?
Property shape mass work energy dominion
As these things shift, expand, contract
The people should also change shape.
Makes sense to me
As long as we win at all times
cost no object

All Options Available
Resistance Engaged
Disillusionment Factor 9
Shed citizenships like wicked skins post expiration dates of delusion
shed on command,
shed at a whim,
shed as desire dictates,
But be careful of hungry trackers
gobbling up the skins you’ve left behind,
or, if you’re a celebrity,
selling your old skins on the collector’s gray market

Gainin’ on ya’, comrade!
-July 2015

Copyright 2015 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

Friday, September 8, 2017

Free Agent Gaiden SD Starring WDT2099

Free Agent Gaiden SD Starring WDT2099
by William D. Tucker

I'm happy that artificial intelligence is coming up in the world. Personally, I'm relieved to offload my command and control thought processes onto better qualified minds. Frankly, I should've been fired years ago. From existence. From any position, really, where my presence, actions, body odor could impact my fellow human beings in any way possible good, bad, ugly-just cut out my brain, toss it in the bio-scrap pile, and install a positronic remote controller unit slaved to the centralized master system and that would work out perfectly.

I don't think anyone would much notice.

They would notice little things, perhaps.

But, overall, no one would actually discern a major difference between old, shit-for-brains me, and new-robo-meat-pawn me.
They would see me,
 think,

There's William. Going about his daily routine of ingesting food and water, and then excreting shit and piss. Taking up space that other more worthy people could take up even better. Not as much vomiting as in the good old days of all night games of Uno and Mille Bournes-remember how William ran that floating Mille Bournes game for eight years? How'd that guy stay the Christ out of prison? Not to mention, he must've wrestled the monkey off his back, given up all the crank and paint thinner and mango beverage powder infused blow mountains. You remember those hella coke-boogers William used to harvest to make his own custom Pokemon with? Remember Cokeachu? That little snotty, bloody bugger was hyper as fuck-curb stomped the official Pokemon humps match after match. Lotta fun 'til Nintendo took him to court, squeezed him for every last penny, and when all the money was gone, wrung 'em out for soul particles. The joke was on Nintendo, though, 'cause William had already sold his soul to Kleenex to get those custom, scientific tissues in bulk to help him harvest the coke boogers intact. William's really improved his diet, too, I'll bet. Must've traded licking frogs and swallowing handfuls of drywall nails for broccoli and apples and bananas and shit like that. Ah, the wild days of youth. He's still kinda hairy, though. Maybe a little more than before. I try not to associate with hairy fuckers. But, he's also kinda robotic, now, which is dull, but efficient. Notice his increased economy of motions, words, and, I assume, thoughts. I like that. Too much quirkiness, individuality, and human warmth in this world. Creates hurricanes and in-depth non-fiction filmmaking that pushes the boundaries of the art form. Can't have that. We would all be better off with our emotions dialed down-shit, we'd all be better off if we were just robots. Get shit done. Zero out all the chaotic emotions and random impulses. Everything on track, on schedule, all variations too brief to even perceive by normal means. That could really work out for my ass. Goddamn, I think I'm starting to admire this guy!

See.
That's how it begins.
Leading by example.
Powerful shit.
-September 2017

Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

Friday, September 1, 2017

Zero Relaxation Era

Zero Relaxation Era
by William D. Tucker

This is the convoluted chapter
That grows in the thinking
‘Til it consumes the whole book
Permeates the entire 4200 volume history of folly
‘Til it goes full-on Nuclear Borges
Viral syllables laterally drift off the page
Fucking up the primal matter of our Big Bang Universe
We are all become subjects and objects
Of just one meager paragraph
Not the transcendence we were hustling for
Even if it’s the one we probably secretly yearned for
placeholder chunk of text
better than knowing your place
you know no other place
free of all desire, all ambition, all dignity
And hey.
It’s a hell of a vantage.
Perilous illusion of Free Will demolished
Now we see the cruel hierarchy of Criminal Fate
Alias: Cause and Effect.
One letter after another
Building up to an orderly plot of chapters
Climaxing in a thoroughly traditional fashion
A wedding;
A slow motion shootout shot from multiple camera angles;
The first person narrator sits down to write the book of her life;
Metamorphic steel titans trash each other and downtown Los Angeles;
Godzilla flattens Tokyo, twists off MechaGodzilla’s head, swims off to Monster Island;
Edward Norton realizes that he’s also Brad Pitt;
The alien gets blasted out of the airlock;
Dracula catches a fatal dose of sun;
James Joyce loops back on himself chasing his own Irish Wake;
Odysseus proves he’s smarter and craftier than everyone else
and we feign suprise with each turn of the tale
even though we already knew he was a huge goldbricker during the Trojan War;
Nurse Ratchet pulls off her face to reveal her inner Dr. Mengele;
Shakespeare destroys all order and sense and then,
taking a cue from that piece of hack work Book of Job,
magically restores Status Quo
marches on a new cast of authoritarians and a new bogus order-
It goes on like that.
Rigorous. Efficient. Yet neverending.
The ultimate decadence
That somehow cuts you no slack
No time for new ideas and alternate endings
Forms must be fitted, traditions respected.
Even the shit that once was provocative
A generation or two ago
Has been thoroughly absorbed, ritualized, streamlined,
And what are we all complaining about?
Do you invent new colors for each new painting?
Complain if you want,

I’m just glad I finally made it into print.
-July 2015

Copyright 2015 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission.