posted: April 8, 2003
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the season of enlightenment, it was season of darkness, it was the hour of wisdom, it was the hour of folly. It was five o'clock in the morning.
Sunday morning, in fact. I could hear my phone screaming like a landlady when the rent was sixty days past-due. I pawed for it through the detritus on my nightstand and coughed a greeting into the receiver.
My partner, Buddy, informed me that a situation was developing and my presence was required. I rolled out of bed and stumbled into some clothes. Something was funny, that's for sure. It was unnaturally dim outside, the world clothed in a hanging darkness like some kind of bad suit. Lousy way to start a day. I dragged my sorry carcass down to the office.
At the office, the foyer was crammed with irate townsfolk, all haggard and bleary, their eyes dark-ringed.
"What's the scoop?" I asked.
"Robbed," the nearest one replied in a husky voice. "Burgled while I slept!"
"Break in?"
"Not a sign of one," Buddy supplied. "Everything just like it was left at bedtime, yet they all have the same story: they were all robbed of an hour. I've been checking it out, and it looks like a nation-wide rash of time-snatchings. It was very well-coordinated."
"They all lost just one hour? Nothing else?"
"Just the one hour, yep."
"Must be a conspiracy of some kind. Anything different anywhere?"
"Well, we got one other mysterious occurrence. Wandering boyfriend. That lady over there," my partner said, pointing across the room.
She was a fresh-faced kid. I walked on over and took a closer look. She was the sort of girl whose smile could light up a whole room, whose mere appearance gives you hope and restores your faith in mankind. When she looked up at me I almost felt like singing and her voice was soft and warm as gentle, morning rain.
"Can you help me?" she asked.
"Well, I hope so. What's the trouble, Miss--?"
"Season, but you can call me Spring, if you like. I-- I can't find my boyfriend. I hope you can help me find him. His name is Stan."
"What's his full name, Spring?"
"Time. Standard Time. He just disappeared this morning."
"Disappeared? You mean he walked out on you?"
"No, I mean he disappeared. We were sitting up late, reading, and I heard some kind of noise, like... well, like clockworks winding up, I guess, and then Stan just vanished."
"What time was it when Stan vanished?"
"It was one-fifty-nine in the morning when I heard the clockwork-noise, but when I looked at the clock again, it said it was three a.m. And there was a stranger in Stan's chair! He had the initials DST embroidered on his jacket pocket."
"Ever seen this guy before?"
"No. He looked a little like Stan, but not the same. After a minute or so, he got up and said he had a lot to do and left. I don't know how he got in the house in the first place. Do you suppose I blacked out for an hour, or something?"
"No, ma'am. I think you lost an hour like all the rest of these good people. Looks like there's a time-snatcher on the loose and it's possible he's snatched your boyfriend, too. Any idea who'd want to do such at thing?"
"I really can't imagine. Stan's one of those steady, straight-forward, predictable kind of guys. Who would want to hurt him?"
"Maybe this DST fella had it in for Stan. Got a picture of your boyfriend?"
Spring nodded and handed me a photo. I tucked it in my pocket, saving Time until I could show it to my partner.
"Can you think of anyone who might be able to tell us more about either man?"
"You might try Stan's father."
"Name?"
"I don't know his first name. We just called him Father Time. He lives in the big clock tower."
I felt a frisson of aphrehension, but I didn't let it show. "We'll jump right on it, Spring. Don't worry."
I rounded up Buddy and we legged it for the clock tower in the middle of town. I handed him the picture I'd gotten from Spring to have a gander at as I filled him in.
"So, what's the set-up?" my partner asked.
"I don't know yet, Buddy, but I've got a bad feeling. It seems that the missing man's father is Old Man Time."
"That old criminal?! Y'think this is all connected with the stolen hours?"
"I'm not sure yet, but I certainly wouldn't put it past that old tyrant. I wish I knew why that ringer changed places with Stan Time, though. That's got to be the key to the whole mystery."
"Well, I guess we should ask the guy, right?"
"Yeah, once we catch up to him."
"Now's our chance, because I'll bet that's him."
I followed Buddy's pointing finger across the street and spotted him right off. He was in front of the Department of Energy building and he looked enough like Stan to fool almost anyone, except for those nice, shiny letters on his jacket: DST.
Buddy and I crossed the street and braced the man.
"Would you happen to know a guy named Standard Time?" I asked.
"I might. What's it to you?"
"It seems he went missing this morning and his girl says you were hanging about in his place. What have you got to say to that?"
"Nothing you need to hear. Anything else you want to know?"
"Yeah. You know where Stan Time is, now?"
"I do, but I'm not telling."
"Why not? Y'got something to hide Mr. DST? Maybe you did Time and hid the body."
"Are you accusing me of killing Time?"
"Not just yet, but it certainly looks like you might have Time on your hands."
"I didn't waste Time--he's my own brother!--and I'm getting sick of telling you so. And my interest in Spring Season is none of your business, either. I work for the government and I don't have to tell you anything. If you've got any more you want to say to me, you'd better get a subpoena."
He turned on his heel and marched into the Energy Commission building. I glared after him and thought I'd be glad to serve Time, when I had the chance.
"He said he's Time's brother?" Buddy asked. "Which one do you think he is? It's a big family."
"Can't be Mark, he's still in stir and I hear Justin's been working for some delivery service. C'mon, let's get over to the old man's place before junior can call him up and queer our pitch."
We hotfooted it to the clock tower.
It was a creepy old place from which crafty Old Man Time had conducted his endless rounds of mysterious business for many years.
I rang the bell, but the door opened before I got my finger off the button.
"I've been expecting you. Hurry your butts in here," Old Father Time said. He shuffled off, leaving us to follow in his wake. A spry old codger--if a rude one--Time waited for no man. We loped to catch up.
"We're trying to discover the whereabouts of your son, Stan," I panted.
"Oh, Stan's here."
"We'd like to talk to him, if you don't mind, and we've got a few questions about stolen hours."
"Oh, yes, the hours.... It's amazing the fuss people make over a misplaced hour, when they're so good at wasting them all the rest of the year."
"That's as may be, Mr. Time, but there's still an hour missing from everyone's day and Stan has disappeared. Seems mighty suspicious. Especially since some fella claiming to be another son of yours seems to be trying to take his place."
"Not seems, my dear detective," said Old Man Time, leading us deeper into his lair. "Is. He is taking Stan's place."
"To what end and where is Stan?"
"Why, right here," Father Time replied, yanking a cover off a large box with a demented chuckle. "I guess you could say that Stan Time's still."
It was horrible. Inside the box was Stan Time, frozen solid as a haddock in an icefloe. Clutched to his chest was the stolen hour.
"You monster!" Buddy gasped.
"How could you do such a thing to your own son?" I demanded, appalled.
"Now, now, lads, it wasn't my idea. It was the government that did it," said Old Father Time. "Y'see, back when I was just a poor Irish immigrant named Nick O'Time, I got into a spot of trouble and the government's had my number ever since. They stay out of my way unless they want something, but when they want something, they want something big."
He pulled out a large legal document and told us a hair-raising tale.
It seems that under the "regular guy" appearance, good ol' Standard Time had some wasteful habits which occasionally brought him into conflict with the government's best interests. Knowing it would be useless to try to manage Stan, they approached one of his siblings and cut a deal. The brother would take Stan's place for six months every year and do a little extra work for the Energy Commission, shuffling hours around to give the appearance that the sun was in the sky longer and later than it really was. It was a hell of a scam, but for it to work, Stan and the inconvenient hour had to be hidden from view, frozen and tucked away in suspension until it was safe to let them out again in Autumn. And to make sure that the deal couldn't be queered by any righteously indignant keepers of order like ourselves, they even managed to pass it into law and the scam had been going on since 1918 with hardly anyone the wiser.
"That's the most disgusting thing I've ever heard," I said. "How do they justify stealing an hour from everyone and putting Standard on hold?"
"Well, it is the Law and everyone will get their hour back in six months," said Time, "so I suppose no one is really hurt by it."
I glared at Old Man Time. "How could one of your own children do such a thing? And which one is it?" I wondered.
"You mean you don't know?" Father Time asked. "I know you've seen him. You knew him when you were a kid, I'm sure. Of course, he goes by his full name, now, not just plain 'Day' like he did when he was younger."
And he showed us the paper. It was the law and by god it was true. There was the culprit's name: it was Daylight Saving Time. And there was nothing we could do about it.
I hate Daylight Saving Time. It just seems like such a dumb idea, shuffling hours around to give the appearance that the day is longer than it really is. Want more hours in the day? Invent time travel. But, y'know... whatever floats the Gov's boat is what we're going to get. Whoopee.... (Insert sound of wet Bronx cheer, here).
posted: April 17, 2003
Before I get started, here, let me warn you that this may be offensive. On purpose. If I make you squirm and make you mad, I fully expect to be vilified and called onto figurative carpets for it, but I'm going to do it anyway. If you are offended by "dirty words" or by the concepts behind them, don't read any farther. If you are under the age of 18, I take no responsibility for your reading this--you have been warned--and if you are over the age of 18, I take even less. I have my blindfold and I'll be reporting to the nearest wall right after I'm done, here, so, if you go ahead and read this and then want to shoot me (virtually, that is; actual, physical damage I take profound exception to) you know where to find me.
Here we go. (The rolling of eyes may now commence.)
....
Replacing the vowels in "dirty" words with asterisks always seems disingenuous and coy, to me. I know some of my friends and acquaintances who do this will now be annoyed with me, but, sorry, that's the breaks. Really, what is the substantive difference between H*ll and Hell? Yes, it might be "hall" or "hull" or "hill" but context quickly informs anyone with more sophistication than an eight-year-old that the phrase "you can go to H*ll!" is not directing the subject into the hallway, nor to the nearest hill and if they are being directed to the hull, that's rather interesting, but unlikely.
Not to mention the fact that no one knows how to pronounce "*". The use of "*" does not make a "naughty" word any less naughty or any less known. An asterisk is not a vizard mask for dirty words, which lets them pass unknown in polite society, like seventeenth-century Covent Garden whores. It's just a place-saver which changes the pronunciation and the word not at all. In speaking, you can't say "*ssh*l*!" You either have to come up with a good non-dirty euphemism (and that can be loads of fun, more about which, below) or go ahead and say "asshole!"
If you really must hide the fact that you're swearing in print, the injection of nonsense symbols seems more apt and less coy as it allows the reader a full range of imagination as to what, precisely, you may have said, leaving the foulness of the remark up to their own filthy little minds (or not so filthy, if the reader doesn't happen to be me.) Besides, @&$#%&$@#!! looks much more dreadful. (I blame it on the hash marks: they're just so pointy!)
Let us be clear: f*ck is still a colloquialism for sexual intercourse whether you put the asterisk in or not. The substitution of the vowel didn't change the word's meaning one bit. It just allowed the writer to pretend they weren't saying "fuck". "Sh*t" means excrement just as much as "shit" does and "d*mn" is still "damn".
Now, that seems particularly coy, since I don't find "damn", of itself, to be a naughty word. It's a perfectly good word which anyone should be able to use in polite, educated company in phrases like "if we follow this course we damn ourselves to History" or "all sinners are damned". I mean, what's wrong with that? Is there a better way of saying "to condemn; to censure; to doom to punishment in the future world; to consign to perdition; to curse..."? Of course there isn't! That's what the word means for the gods' sakes!
Words do not merely have meaning; they have weight, they have impact, they have color. They are the coin of the realm of communication and ideas. No idea is, of itself, bad, just as a word is "bad" only where we give it context, which is why we must recognize and give due honor to their power.
Now, I understand that, particularly here in ether-land, many people are concerned about presenting a "family" face, of not offending or exposing children and others to inappropriate ideas. I don't see how an idea can be inappropriate, only the action upon or presentation of it, but some people feel we need to be protected, or protect others, so, they censor in those places where they have control. That's entirely up to them, but where communication is the issue and the exploration of ideas is the point, censorship is particularly inappropriate, itself.
It is not possible to discuss certain topics without the risk of giving offense, nor is it possible to completely avoid the use of concept-related words without sounding either coy or euphemistic to the point of the ridiculous.
Not that I actually have anything against ridiculous euphemisms, much less truly elegant ones. I think they're lovely. I encourage them, since they will, inevitably, cause the reader or listener to pay a great deal more attention, perking up their ears and possibly their eyebrows, too, to say "What was that you said? Did you really say 'armadillo'?" "Is 'vermiscious nodlick' a real word?" "Did you call me a bleach-brained ninnyhammer?" If nothing else, you've kept them guessing, maybe even thinking. Most likely, laughing as well. (And it's so much harder for people to smack you a good one when they are giggling.)
But the clever turn of euphemism, like the maturity not to spew profanity in the manner a shore-leave sailor reverse-swallowing six months of seawater and cheek-by-jowl accommodations, is a skill usually acquired with time and exposure to something other than the sun, schoolwork, drudgery, low companions and alcohol. Ya gotta be old enough for the novelty of biological functions to have worn off.
At the moment, I participate in a writer's forum. It's young and small and has an abundance of young and inexperienced writers (mostly teenagers). In an effort to keep the forum "friendly," the owner has full auto-censorship turned on and discourages contention in discussion or the use of explicit sexual reference, violence, abusive language or inappropriate subject matter. While I understand the desire to "keep it clean" in an arena where a site-operator can very easily find herself under attack from total strangers, as a writer, I'm a little offended at being so restricted.
Writing is often a contentious and iconoclastic, even threatening endeavor, full of rather insane people saying, discussing and doing shocking, weird, frightening and "inappropriate" things. In maturing as writers, it's necessary to give full vent to language, ideas and expression, even when it is offensive. Especially in working with young and developing writers (and I'm still developing, myself, honestly, though I'm only young in some contexts), it is vital that we allow ourselves and others to tread that ugly, contentious, offensive, taboo, or threatening ground and be able to discuss it openly, simply and honestly. We cannot grow if we do not. And that means speaking the speech--to befoul Shakespeare (poor lad)--and using the right word.
If that means saying "damn" or "fuck" or even my personal most-offensive word "motherfucker", then we need to say that. If we find that we need to talk about sex, or violence, then we should and we should use language which is appropriate to that discussion.
I'm not advocating that we should all be swearing until the air is an unbreathable blue with filthy words and the atmosphere resonates thick as well-set Jell-O with offense. Quite the opposite. Sometimes--most of the time, I hazard--the use of foul words is inane, pointless or merely insulting. And far too ubiquitous.
Overuse of such startling, violent words cheapens their effect. But when it is the right word to say, a character or a writer or anyone ought to be able to say "cocksucker" or "nigger" or "shit" with the same alacrity and precision as saying "murderer" or "lover" or "trash". Words should be used appropriately. If you use an offensive or politically-loaded word like "kike" you had better have a damned good reason for it (unless you are using it, as Chaucer did, to mean "kick" or "gaze upon", then go to, but prepare to be misunderstood.) If you, like a foul-mouthed child, use it only because you can, or for the pure offense of it, you deserve what you're going to get. Care for your words and for the effect they have, good and bad.
Self-censorship should be used to restrain us from abuse of the language and ideas, to constrain us to be more creative, precise, powerful and evocative, not just to "play nice." I love to see people be playful, creative and evocative with language. It's delightful to read a passage or hear a speech which evokes emotion and passion without using a single "questionable" word. It's a rare challenge to produce a passage about sex or violence or any uncomfortable or taboo subject without resort to short, sharp Anglo-Saxon words, but we should chose our expression with care, not simply slam the door on the discussion.
We should not shy from discussion of or writing about hard, uncomfortable, controversial or taboo topics. We can only understand them when we apply our minds to them and open them for discussion, but we should do so with consideration and poise. We should raise the value of our words by spending them wisely, not cheapen them by tossing verbal firecrackers until everyone is deaf to them. We are in danger of becoming a society of milquetoast nihilists who who cannot be roused to care about anything because nothing has any value to hurt or shock us anymore, either because it is common as dirt, or because it has been euphemized to bland, colorless pap. God Damn it!
....
There, now, I'm done. I'll just pause a moment to smoke a cigarette.... I don't smoke, but, it's traditional, I hear, so why not?
Nah, smoking's too foul even in virtual life to start now. (See, I knew I had one more group I could offend....)
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