Tim Burton Made My Favorite Gotham

At the time of this writing, Batman (1989) can be streamed on HBO Max.

I think Christopher Nolan has made my favorite Batman stories period. I have read many of the quintessential stories like the Dark Knight Returns, Killing Joke, Year One, and Hush and I do enjoy them all. I am looking forward to the new film starring Robert Pattison. However, there is a way that Nolan directs that is instantly attractive to me. He always goes for ambitious scope and literary quality, two things that immediately appeal to me in any form of story telling. 

Still, it doesn’t mean that I am a snob to the other iterations. I am even a fan of Joel Schumacker’s films and the 60s television show starring Adam West. The inherent camp value is always a good laugh and I think the power of Batman is in his plasticity. He can be both the grit of his noir influence and be fun lampooning of the inherent absurdity of the superhero genre. 

Growing up, however, I was never fully introduced or familiar with Tim Burton’s take on the caped crusader. I am not really even a Burton fan. I have never really watched Nightmare Before Chrismas in full, only in passing glances while hanging out with friends in high school. I do like Edward Scissorhands and absolutely adore Ed Wood. I think that last film speaks to me, a story about an outsider not welcome in the system and who is forced to forge is own path and unique legacy. In that way, I do admire Burton as an artist, even if his later work are not to my taste. 

Yet, one area that Tim Burton does exceptionally well is in visual and set design. I can instantly recogize a film that he has had a hand in. His love of gothic fantasy is always presented in such beautiful harmony. The medley of urban architecture, dark atmosphere, and fairytale wonder are breathtaking.

These are the qualities that had me entranced with his 1989’s Batman. Watching it for the first time last week — and I mean seriously watching it from start to finish — is nothing short of a tour through a realized urban fantasy. This is a place where steam is always rising from the sewers and smoke is puffing from the rooftop chimneys. Street lights are a harsh, cold white that illuminates the aerosol in the atmosphere. Everything is always in a dream-like haze. 

The buildings are all industrial. Brick and mortar exposed like the notches on a spine. The metal railings and rafters remind me of implants of a crash victim that has survived too much in exchange for too little. It makes for a Gotham that looks truly sick, like a cancer patient whose tragic, yet heroic beauty reminds me so much of My Chemical Romance’s Welcome to the Black Parade. 

Some have commented that Burton’s use of sets rather than locations gives the film a claustrophobic feeling to its detriment. To this, I argue the exact opposite conclusion. Burton’s Gotham is brimming with detail. There are many shots that could be on posters that I would display proudly on my wall. It invokes the strange, evocative emotions from films like Citizen Kane or The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. Some may snub me for the comment since this is Batman we are talking about. Well I snub them back. The pop-art source material makes it for something that gives it an extra layer of the fantastical that I think Burton does beautifully. This is one of the best fantasy cities, topped only by the likes of 1998’s Dark City.

The people in the streets also add to this final layer of pop-art gothic fantasy. The citizen’s of Burton’s Gotham are not like normal people, rather caricatures. The pedestrians gasp and put their hands to their mouth like all good silver age people in distress. The cops don’t take cover in a fire fight. Rather, they take a step forward and start blasting away with cowboy bravado. Joker’s mooks are cartoony henchmen with black masks that cover their eyes and silly laughs. While they are not “realistic”, they are perfectly consistent to the reality of Burton’s world. If Gotham as a physical place is a skeleton, than the citizens of Burton’s Gothan has filled it with cells that perfectly match this otherworldly nature.

This all feeds into the iconography of Batman himself. His suit has the bold yellow oval over the bat symbol embedded in a black rubber suit. The Bat Cave’s stalactites pierce into composition like the mouth of a beast. The Bat Mobile and Jet reject the modern military aesthetic of Nolan and Zach Snyder. Instead, Burton opts for a more comic book appeal. They may not do well for tactical practicality but acheive wonders in making a bold statement. I even enjoy the way the pedals in the Bat Mobile are exposed like a skeleton, symbolic of Batman and his foot hold on the skeletal crypt that is Gotham. 

It is not to say that the movie is perfect. It was created in 1989 after all, an era where superhero conventions in film were uncharted waters. As much as Burton’s individual artistry shines in many areas, there are many places that it doesn’t work, especially today. 

Michael Keaton’s Batman is underrated. I do like that rather than having him being a eccentric playboy, Keaton plays him more like mentally unstable Clark Kent. He is socially awkward and a bit of a nerd. Wayne even wears a set of large glasses here that is probably fashionable in the Metropolis Burton never had a chance to create (see: Burton’s unproduced Superman starring Nicholas Cage). It can be argued that Christian Bale’s Bruce Wayne, as well acted as that role is, always feels like he is hiding something akin to a secret identity. Keaton’s Wayne is different is that what he hides is less of a hero and more of a beast that is constantly being chained. This version of Wayne is a nice contrast to this Batman. I also like that unlike Bale’s performance, Keaton is less growly and more smoothly menacing. The first time he says “I’m Batman”, I get a chill down my spine. 

However, I think the costume fails Keaton from his ability to elevate his role into perfection. It is awkward to move around in and even during the best action moments, there is an inherent disconnect to the way Batman should move smoothly in the shadows. He looks stiff and the end result is too goofy.

Jack Nicholson’s Joker, however, strikes a nice balance between goofy and terrifying. This Joker in many ways is classic and I think there are some lines that are now underappreciated and lost to time. My two favorites are “My face on the one dollar bill” and “He stole my balloons”. 

There are also some cinematography choices that I am not a fan of. Most notably, there are some clumsy crane shots and awkward zooms that make me cringe. This film is best when it is carefully placed at unique angles, invoking Noire and Art Deco films. 

On the music, Danny Elfman’s score is still timeless. That said, I think the use of Prince songs date the movie. Perhaps it makes me young. Some fans might still like those elements and for them, I would never want to take away those elements in the film. Ultimately, it marks the age in which the film was made which is part of what makes this film so special. As it is, this film could never be made today, with it’s use of physical sets and practical effects. I think to strip it of certain elements that I do not like would might also take away the films place in history.

I think the only other Batman film that looks like this is Chrisopher Nolan’s Batman Begins. I remember the Narrows as something reminiscent of this and I quite liked the Gotham of that movie. However, Nolan replaced this aesthetic in the later two films, opting for a more modern look with sleek skyscrapers, wide streets, and a flat plane. It results in a Gotham that is more sterile. While I still love those films more for their characters, drama, and literary quality, Burton’s Gotham is truly something special. If you want a good Batman story, watch those films. If you want to truly transport yourself to Gotham, however, consider returning to this 1989 rendition of the Caped Crusader.

8. Marshmallows

The following is part of a serialized story, Everyone Thinks I Dream of Chocolate. You can find the first chapter here.

Dipped Confectionary was the first thing I learned how to make. It was almost 40 percent of Lou’s inventory and also the easiest to make. If you couldn’t do this, you couldn’t work with the production team. 

The concept was simple enough: dip things in chocolate. This could be as simple as a marshmallow, cookie, or graham cracker. Yet, I quickly learned that even something like this had nuance in the craftsmanship. We didn’t have an assembly line of machines controlled by an army of workers. We had 2 employees stationed at stainless steel tables. 

Still, Dick used to work as a mechanic. His history working with cars and his appreciation of the history of Ford industries resulted in him running the place like a factory. Each of these items had different weights and sizes, therefore a different technique. 

The marshmallow was light. I needed to quickly drown and douse it in the glass bowl full of melted chocolate, then bring it out. It had to stand on the fork, preferably the larger side facing up. I was careful not to have the treat tip onto its side or fall off the fork. While the marshmallow balanced on the metal teeth, I tapped on the fork on the edge of the glass bowl . Each time I did, heavy globs of chocolate would drain back into the bowl, between the teeth of the fork in heavy drops. 

At first, it did remind me of the chocolate waterfalls in Willy Wonka’s Chocolate factory but not for too long. Chocolate wasn’t so much a liquid. It was thicker, less likely to splash than splatter. It was like paint, the way it was thick on any surface, gravity having a harder time to drag it down to the earth. When it did, it didn’t so much slither like rain drops. Rather, it took it’s time in a drawl. It had a personality like southern royalty, taking its sweet time, not stopping or speeding up for anyone or anything.  

It was then that I also learned that chocolate was picky about its lifestyle. If it was a person, it would be the type to retire in a temperate climate, away from the heat and sweat of places like Florida. Such environments gave chocolate a spotty, chalky look. In the industry, they call it blooming. It’s like looking at the sweaty pits of a person living in a swamp. It doesn’t effect the taste, which was still good. However, it wasn’t nice to look at. Lou always said that in her shop, the presentation was always just as important. 

The way it was described to me, blooming was a result of the sugar crystals in the chocolate being inconsistently distributed in its composition. This could be due to a variety of factors, such as moisture in the atmosphere. To combat this, chocolate was heated to the right temperature, which would reset the position of the sugar crystals in chocolate so it was more evenly spaced in its composition. 

You would think that chocolate would do well in colder climates but you would only be half-right. True, a slightly cooler environment kept the chocolate well. We often stuck the trays of dipped confectionery in the fridge or freezer to speed up the drying process. If they stayed in there too long, however, the chocolate is bound to crack. Again, presentation was important. 

I had to keep all of this in mind as I tapped the chocolate off the marshmallow. If I tapped too hard, the marshmallow might tip off the fork, back into the bowl. Tip too softly and I was “taking too much time” as Dick would say. 

Finally, I had to slide the marshmallow on to the tray. During my early days, this was the worst part. It was easy to have the marshmallow tip over, resulting in a frustrating mess of me trying to tip the mellow back over without leaving any marks on the chocolate (again, presentation). My first several trays of marshmallows had as much chocolate on the waxy, baking paper as it did marshmallow. 

Jimmy used to try and help me but of course, he had his own assignments and quotas to meet. To him, I was just the new kid, one who had never worked a “real job”, let alone full-time. It was easy for him to be annoyed so I tried to ask only the most necessary questions. 

Kai, the other full time worker, was also consistently annoyed at my questions. Or so I thought. At the very least, her face was never much for emotive expression. I chalked it up to having to work full-time while raising 4 kids. 

As the weeks and months went by, I got the balance of the marshmallow, right. My original technique involved tapping away the chocolate with rapid, soft taps. Then, like a martial artist learning to control my flow of energy, I learned to do several quick taps that had just the right amount of power without having the marshmallow fly across the room. I learned to use the marshmallows’ natural stickiness as a way to have it stick to the baking paper. This acted as like a piece of sticky tack, softly anchored to the baking sheet as I slowly dragged out the fork underneath. 

I think back on it now and despite my lack of practice in over a year and a half, I think I can still do it. The craftsmanship is baked into me, trained into my muscle memory. How else could I recreate these feelings into words if not for a strong sense of ownership to the craft. This confidence in the description of both the product and technique comes from 2 years of practice. Yet, it wasn’t like that when I first started the production team. I distinctly remember the constant need to scream…

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What I want to accomplish with this Serial…

This week I released the 7th chapter of “Everyone Thinks I Dream of Chocolate.” I have always wanted to take my experience and the original short story and expand it into a novel. The decision to make it into a project for this website, however, I did on a whim. 

I don’t expect this version of the story to end up published in a traditional or even independent form. In a lot of ways, this version of the story is more of a chance to get my ideas down in some way. I am editing everything myself which I would never want to do with anything that I plan to officially publish in any capacity. I am a writer, not an editor. Even if I was, I don’t trust myself enough to edit my own work. There is a reason why movies separate the role of directors and editors. 

If anything, serializing it is a form of practice for me. It is a way to push myself into a habit of writing consistently. I never had that chance in college, often prioritizing school work and social relationships. Despite that, I never devolved into one of those writers who only ever talked about writing. I took plenty of classes in college that gave me opportunities to write my own stories rather than simply criticize the writings of others (often dead). 

Still, I always lacked consistency. Some times, I wrote often. Others, I didn’t write at all. I spent alot of my time exploring other art forms of course, like film but as I get older, I find that writing simply makes the most sense for me. It is the purest form of narrative creation and all others mediums are flashier extensions. 

Dedicating one posting day to a serialized story forces me into consistently write. Even more so, it forces me to ignore the fear of imperfection. I have always wanted to make longer form content like novels or series. However, the long term planning and quality is something that always bogs me down. I have so many novels that I have started and barely made it through the first act. I want everything from start to finish to be perfect. It is much easier to fathom a project that is is 5, 10, or even 40 pages long. 

While I enjoy the nature of short stories, my true passions are in novels. My habit of abandoning these projects ultimately undermines my ability to practice the medium. How can I get better at this medium of longer form narrative if I can’t even see it all the way through? I’m hoping with this schedule, I will have to confront this self imposed obligation I have instilled upon myself. 

The subject itself is also fresh enough that it is still in my mind, yet enough time has passed that I can look at it with a retrospective lens. Having the narrative being based in real life also removes any need of depicting fantasy elements, something that I find to add a layer of difficulty to the overall fiction writing process. The audience already has a context for most of the things I describe so I can focus more on the actual events rather than spending paragraphs describing things. 

It might seem like a small thing but adding fantasy elements always adds scope to a project, resulting in a tower that gets harder and harder to maintain in a stable manner. In addition, there is always the temptation of adding things to a fantastical world, again threatening the stable foundations of a good narrative. By placing all of this in a real context, I can focus on what really matters: the story and characters. 

The amount of content I have also runs about two and a half years worth of experience. Being a work of fiction based on real-life, I am not obligated to recreate reality to a T. I can manipulate the events to make for a better story. I can create composites and amalgamations of real people to protect their identities but also to fit my narrative needs. However, the basis of all of this are very real and to recreate that, at least spiritually, gives me a set of boundaries. It is some what comforting to know that I won’t get lost in the depths of my own fathomless imagination.

Having all of these things based on real things also means that I can simply enjoy the process of writing. I don’t have to think about creating everything from scratch, including the characters, overall story, smaller arcs and narratives, and themes. These things are already there and I have lived them. If anything, I am acting more as an investigative journalist, taking these experiences and documenting them. The fun is that unlike a journalist who is burdened with accuracy and unbiased reporting, I have the privilege of creative freedom and thematic interpretation.

More than anything, I simply want to finish something that takes honest effort and passion over the course of a period of time. If it is messy, fine. In an ideal world, it will technically be my first draft of a novel. Some might find that to be a rather low bar of achievement but many who have been where I am will now how hard it is to reach that bar in the first place. 

I think it is a good project to reach my milestones. If I can do this project, maybe I can eventually reach the knowledge and experience to create from the deepest fathoms of my imagination untethered.

7. The Old Town Mill

The following is part of a serialized story, Everyone Thinks I Dream of Chocolate. You can find the first chapter here.

The Old Town Mill was built around the 1800s as a textile factory. At the time, it was a prospering business. Old photos show the Mill as a prime example of the industrial age ramping up and progressing along with the dawn of the Capitalist Age. After the American Civil War, the world seemed to move on. Textile mills weren’t in as high a demand and the factory closed shop. The area around the town continued to develop, change, and terraform. Yet, the Mill remained. 

Through out the last two centuries, the Mill has survived by constantly repeating cycles of hibernation and reincarnation. Someone would come along with a new business idea that would reawaken the commercial power of the place, only to shut their doors a few years later when the power of novelty had worn off.

At one point it was a circus. There are pictures that hang at the Mill of those times, my favorite being the elephant balancing itself on a ball. The black and white photo is blown up on a giant canvas, representing a time when the Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey could get away with their hardcore carny antics without a mob of vegans picketing the events.

That business folded at some point. Sometime later, the Mill became a Christmas tree factory. It must have done really well because at some point they went from seasonal to year-round production. Perhaps they took inspiration from the old circus days and expanded into a Christmas-themed amusement park of sorts. Kids walked around different rooms made to look like Santa’s Workshop and even had Santas for hire. Of course, you can only keep up seasonal businesses for so long. Even party stores know when to change the decor and this project eventually folded as well.

Some time in the 70’s someone bought the property and decided to convert it into a mall. Why not? It was a bunch of other things before. Why not a mall as well. It was designated as a historical site so there were tax benefits. The land itself was next to a forest with a river and walking trail making it a popular spot already. There was the local town right across the street, small but a potentially loyal customer base.

By the time I arrived at the Old Town Mill, the place was just over 200 years old. Stepping inside, the main entrance, Lou’s Chocolate Shop rested on the edge of the East Wing but the proximity to the entrance made it a sort of unofficial welcome kiosk. It split the two sides of the Old Town Mill like the Korean Border. Like the 38th parallel, using this as a border was messy and inaccurate, but it did the job.

In this way, the mill was something more akin to an indoor city. It was a mall by all definitions with the shops but the aesthetic gave it a different flavor. Regular malls are modern, sleek, prestine, and sterile. Only when you step inside a store do you get any sort of personality. Even then, the theme is often corporate to some level and you can feel the manufactured personality baked into the decor. 

The West Wing was the older side of the mill. It retained much of the industrial origins, with brick walls and steel railings. The ceilings had overhead lamps that managed to maintain a Noir-esque darkness, the bulbs bright enough to light the way while dragging out the shadows hiding behind the corners. Various parts of this wing are sectioned into studios. Walls had been built to divvy up the space and glass windows looked into these spaces. Many of them were personal artists studios or business offices, unopened to the general public. There were some businesses, however. The restaurant, Bull Horn Tavern, had been there since the Mill opened as a mall in the 70’s and the family had a long history with the current owners. Brenda’s Salon as well as Future Fashions were next to each other, across from the Bakery and the Coffee House. 

The East Wing was built in the last century, expanded by the guy who envisioned this place as a Christmas paradise. The ceiling is a wide open space covered in a sun roof glass. There are little lanterns to light your way but the sun is the real provider of light. The floors are made of bright orange wood planks with a glossy finish. Sunlight from above bounces off the floors, illuminating the area from above and below. At night, the bulbs right under the glass roof illuminate making the place look just as bright as it is during the day. Having been meant for Santa’s workshop, there is a cozy, warm feeling about it all. It is as if the space is meant to be in perpetual daylight, a mesmerizing, sepia vibe to contrast the West Wing’s Dashiel Hammond grit. Together, both sides act as wings, one of angelic light and the other of devilish dark, emissaries of a nostalgia for a time that most people alive have long forgotten. 

The stores in the East Wing act as the main “mall.” It has two stories, the vertical escalation further giving the space a feeling of small, condenced city. Walking past the chocolate shop on my left, there was a bear themed gift store, a clock shop, and an art supply store. On my right, There was a book store, a clothing shop, and an artisan gift shop. On the top floor was a game shop, photo studio, and an adventure course office (with a course right out back within the forest). 

It might be odd to view it this way, but I always saw the Old Town Mill as a pocket dimension of sorts. Old Town itself is a nook. People don’t go there unless they have a reason. Many people drive right past it for years before they step into the mall, often telling me they only discovered it on a whim. They tell me it is like them are walking into a time machine. I agree but even more so, I would describe it like a museum that travels from world to world, collecting merchants from the strange corners of human culture. 

The stores inside reflect this nature. Here, you won’t find the modern edge of sleek comfort, pricing, and convenience. The bakery, for example, opens at 6 in the morning and closes at 2pm. Employees get up even earlier, relying on traditional methods rather than the cryo-technology of modern refrigeration to keep all the food preserved straight from a factory. 

All of the stores are owned by small business owners, not corporate suits. Lou’s Shop itself made all their products by hand and we made them right in front of the customers to prove our point. 

None of these stores would survive in a traditional mall. The wouldn’t be able to compete with the steep competition of the corporate owned chains and the resources that allowed them to pay the high rent while providing low costs.

At the Old Town Mill, the businesses had lower rent thanks to the county classifying the location as a historic landmark. It was able to survive in this pocket dimension that was accessible to those who seeked the niche services that the businesses provided. It had a magical quality in the way that its existence was something of an open secret. 

Despite the fantastical description I give the place, the Mill is rather relaxed. On many days, there are seldom any customers. Mostly, you get drifters who act like lost spirits in purgatory. It is as if the Mill has gone into a retirement while maintaining an antique shop as a hobby, leaving behind the industrial spirit to the rest of the worlds. Meanwhile,. 

As a result, the clientele of the place was wild and varied. Most of them are old people who come to the Mill the same way old people go antique shopping (in fact there is an antique shop in the basement of the West Wing). They all held their own stories, came from subcultures that I wouldn’t even know existed unless I talked to them. They came here to this market place to get what they needed before returning to the multiverse, to worlds that I would hear about but never access myself. The Old Town Mill was a way station, an inbetween for people travelling to and from the many social realities that we create through a thing called culture.

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6. I am Surprised by How Much I Remember the Good Times

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Pepe and the Swastika Proves Symbols are Meaningless

The swastika is a story of symbolic corruption. While it is still strongly associated with good meanings in eastern countries and cultures, it is the symbol of ultimate evil in many western cultures. Like a lot of things, the Nazi’s of World War II have done a good job reminding humanity why we can’t have nice things. They rotated this peaceful symbol 45 degrees and then flipped it, a small difference that led to genocide. Despite the thousands of years it has spent in Buddhism and Hinduism as symbol of good luck, it is within the last 100 years that many people look at it with disgust. Thanks Nazis. 

It has sparked some controversy. Many in the east still consider it under it’s traditional context while many western people, especially those who are directly affected by the Holocaust, treat it as a great insult. With two drastically different views, how can there be solidarity. After all, both of these perspectives have their points. Both believe in their arguments. I believe that the talks between Jewish historian, Steven Heller, and Japanese Buddhist Priest, T.K. Nakagaki, are important because despite the fact that they have very different views, they are both fighting on the same side of good against evil. 

So it was interesting to learn that a similar yet opposite evolution happened to another symbol, one that is more rooted in the modern context of the internet. Pepe the Frog was originally created as a non-political meme that was eventually made into a alt-right symbol in 2016 during the height of the Trump presidential campaign. Yet, in 2020, the same symbol was made into one of democracy by the people of Hong Kong. 

I don’t think poor Pepe or the creators had ever thought they would be in the middle of a political and philosophical tug-of-war. Even though the creators have denounced the western alt-right and have stood in solidarity with the protestors of Hong Kong, I can remember when a friend of mine showed me his entire folder of Pepe memes while high off his mind. It seems that the more open a symbol can be to interpretation, the more room there is for serious association. 

It is strange to compare Pepe to the swastika. The frog is a silly internet meme meant to appeal to a generation of silly, bizarre humor. The swastika is an old, historied symbol rooted in both spiritual importance and one of the most important wars in modern history. 

Yet, perhaps Pepe is that important and I am simply unable to see it through the lens of the contemporary. Perhaps, in a thousand years, when our memes become folklore, mythology, and legend, they will tell tales of Pepe. Maybe, they will tell of a God that humans fought over, trying to convince him to either join the fight for good or evil. 

It’s a bit much to think about. Again, from this contemporary lens, it is absolutely absurd. However, time has a way of glorifying or de-emphasizing the importance of things. The intense emotions that we feel for the swastika may become nothing more than casual attitude and Pepe might rise as the most contentious of political and philosophical debates. Much like I am forced to simulate this future reality, these future people will have to do their best to recreate their past, our current present. 

In the grand scheme, where a higher dimensional being views our life like a comic book, all of our thoughts and actions available to them all at once—do they view our actions as meaningful? Is our fight over these symbols and their meanings a reflection of the constant human struggle? Is this a part of the eternal spiritual warfare over the fate of humanity’s soul? 

I don’t have the answers to that question. I just wish that people would stop trying to convince me that racism is cool.

6. I am Surprised by How Much I Remember the Good Times

The following is part of a serialized story, Everyone Thinks I Dream of Chocolate. You can find the first chapter here.

In many ways, I left the job bitter. Sure I was angry with the job itself. Even more than that, I was upset by the larger implications that I saw. The job became a way to view and understand the world. What I saw through that lens disturbed me. It was a job that could make people depressed or even wrathful. It required constant physical constitution and mental fortitude. There were ways to cope, most of them unhealthy. 

It has made me somewhat resentful of others and, especially, myself. The year and a half since I have been in quarantine I have come to reflect upon it through my writing. A lot of my goals with this is to be uninhibited with these thoughts. Be honest with my anger. Be honest with my hatred.

Then again, this honesty means looking at the good times as well. Why else am I still so hung up about a place that I haven’t been to in over a year? If I am going to continue on with this story, I have to present the rise and fall. Like Henry Hill, I have to remember both the good times and the bad times.

Because the good times were really good. 

I liked that besides scheduling, I didn’t have to worry about Dick calling me after work hours. I often watched Chrissy deal with stupid shit from her work at 11 at night. Her boss was an overworked office rat, constantly pulling her hair out behind the scenes while putting on a nice face for the Women’s Center at the local University. One time, Chrissy got an email about a pizza delivery at 5 in the morning, hours before her workday started. 

I didn’t have to worry about that at the shop. I went in, did my shift, and got out. I didn’t mind the work, either. At least at first. A lot of it was busy work and I usually had a partner on shift. When we were bored, we talked. When we didn’t want to, we didn’t. We had a radio that we used for music. The mall also played music over the intercom.

My weekends were cool, too. It changed every week and I could have whatever day I wanted as long as I worked a weekend shift. It meant I could take a day off in the middle of the week. It was nice to spend a day like that doing errands or sleeping in or catching a matinee at the local theatre. I didn’t mind working a Saturday or Sunday as long as I got the next day off. Most people were either partying or at least hanging out on those days anyway. It meant I could work my ass off until 6pm, then party all night without a care in the world. 

I liked the people I worked with, too. Jimmy and Kai were there when I started but before long, I was the longest working employee there. Soon, Christian came on board and with him Pam who brought along Amir. I even asked Chrissy to help at the shop every once in a while. 

For a kid straight out of school, I had it made. I wasn’t rich by any means. I had friends who had graduated with Comp-Sci degrees. They walked out of school with jobs paying minimum 75k a year. Some of these people even complained, wanting more straight out of school. At the time, I thought they were being a bunch of spoiled brats. Actually, I still do. 

But I’m a writer. What the hell do I know about money. I was making enough to move out, pay my rent, bills, student loans, and still have money left over at the end of every paycheck. What I did with the money was up to me. Again, it wasn’t alot. It was enough to go out with friends, go out with Chrissy, save up for anything I wanted. 

What was most important to me was not the money, but the time to make art. My roommate at the time, Mike, was a Comp-Sci major who was making near six-figures as a 21 year old, fresh out of undergrad. It sounds good until you looked at his face when he came home everyday. He was always tired. He spent his evenings going to the gym, eating dinner, than doing nothing. Sure, he was watching tv or playing video games but it was the equivalent of taking morphine. It was a form of sedation without the appeal or consequences of drugs. It’s comfortable, but not fun. At least, not as much fun as one could have.

I had it good. I still had energy after my 8 hour shifts. I would drive right on over to a friends house and make some art or drive straight home and write a couple of pages of a story. As an ambitious slacker, I wanted to do very little at my job. It didn’t mean being lazy. It meant by the end of the day, I still had time and energy to focus on the things that actually mattered to me. 

These were the good times.

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6. I am Surprised by How Much I Remember the Good Times

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Everyone is Horny and It is Making Me Tired…

I’m not a prude. I’ve been having sex since I was 17 years old and started watching porn and jacking off earlier than most would feel comfortable admitting. I’m not against fetishes and sexual exploration. Like drugs, the topic of sex is tumultuous because no matter what general stance you take with the topic, it can never be fully encapsulated with hyperbole. It is a discussion that requires a deep dive into the nuance of it all. 

At the same time, it is clear that if there isn’t a strict conservatism that has everyone wearing a chastity belt, sex is put on an anarchic display, designed to fetishize anything and everything. In a war between tyrannical puritanism and rule34, I stand somewhere in the middle, tired of everyone’s shit. 

I can’t even blame either side of the spectrum. If we have learned anything in the last several years of the #metoo movements and cancel culture, human beings can be downright irresponsible when it comes to sex. History has shown countless examples of sexual violence and manipulation, especially towards women and children. Despite humanity’s innate understanding that these things are wrong, modern science and mental health research is finally able to give evidence as to why, concrete documents that we can shove in the faces of misogynists, apologists, and the down-right villainous.

Yet, sex is also an inherent biological function. It is a built-in mechanism designed to perpetuate our population to combat extinction. To do this, we have evolved so that the ultimate human drug is programmed into our biology: procreation. Whether you realize it or not, most humans are born to be addicts and when you reach a certain age, that addictive craving manifests along with a plethora of chemicals flooding your body in the form of hormones and activated neurotransmitters. 

Like most people, I started fulfilling this need by jacking off. It was good but it required the aid of pornography or my imagination, the equivalent of heroin cut with laundry detergent and baking soda. When I had sex for the first time, I knew I was getting the good stuff — 100% pure and the way it was intended. Later when I explored fetishes with my partner, it was like I was mixing and ingesting my favorite drugs in a chemical cocktail(pun intended).

That said, I am 25 now. I have been in a committed relationship for almost 8 years now. That’s enough time for someone to think. Growing up with the rise of the internet, I can see how internet pornography has seeped into everything. It has fundamentally put a filter on the world with a subtext. As a writer, I already ride the line between dreams and reality. I think it has made me something of an expert in spotting this veil that covers this world. 

I wish I could say that it is simple as knowing when to turn off that part of your brain and just live your life. Much like a pair of Augmented Reality Goggles, we should be free to put them on and off as we please. 

It isn’t that simple, however. The internet has proven that humans are willing to sexualize any new female actress and character the moment the press release hits the internet. Porn and other sexual content make up the majority of the online content. All of this, while we are still trying to educate humanity on the etiquette of sex. Meanwhile, conservatism refuses to acknowledge such things as anything more than taboo while many of these same hypocritical forces continue to perpetuate vulgar sexual practices behind closed doors.

Let me establish this if this isn’t clear yet: I love sex and I am not here to put down anyone’s sexual desires. I’m just stating the truth. This drug built into our biology is both a blessing of the ultimate high and potential curse of illness and societal hardship. We have come far in science that allows us to limit unwanted pregnancies and STDs. For the first time in history, we do not have to worry so much about the real, life-altering consequences of sex. We can simply enjoy getting off. 

It’s everything else that upsets me. I see humans, both men and women, making stupid remarks and poor decisions based on these desires. I have seen people talk about a potential partner like they are hunting animals or exchanging goods and services. I have seen people hurt another’s feelings by sleeping with them and the discarding them. I have heard he-said-she-said stories used to attack each other for petty reasons, revealing intimate facts like propaganda in the shallowest of wars. I have heard stories of seemingly nice people committing atrocious acts that I am not sure one can ever come back from.

I watch some of my friends play the dating game. I don’t know for sure if dating has gotten easier or worse since dating apps have been popularized. I do know that it has become much more explicitly a game. This gamification of the process unnerves me. It has either made my friends lose confidence to the point of giving up or gain too much confidence that they use people like sex dolls. 

Meanwhile, I find out that half of my favorite artists are being outed as terrible people or having committed terrible acts of sexual violence and grooming. I can’t enjoy somethings without finding a justification beyond the separation between artist and art. Despite, my advocation for a world without Intellectual Property…it still makes me sad. It makes it hard to thank someone for good art when they have raped people. 

Because of all this, I gave up watching porn this year. I have heard too many things about the way many of these online porn sites and the industry operates. Without going too deep into the topic, I just found it to be for the best. I don’t judge anyone for continuing to watch it or champion those who also abstain. We are living in a world where prescriptions have run out and heroin is cheap.

Regardless of everything I have said, I don’t even really blame anyone for any of this. I too am a human being, prone to this physical and psychological addiction that I have no plans of giving up. It is my favorite drug and I plan to keep getting off until my dick don’t work. Even then, I plan to buy a new one. Still, it should not be this hard to enjoy something I love. 

5. First Day pt.3

The following is part of a serialized story, Everyone Thinks I Dream of Chocolate. You can find the first chapter here.

After that first order, I was swept by a current of people’s needs and desires. My body felt drawn towards a cycle: writing orders down, ringing them up, and taking the list to the kitchen. 

Old couples. Nuclear families. Mobs of teenagers with loud personalities. Each experience blended together. I can’t remember each interaction or even specific moments of each interaction. What I do remember are the frenetic energy and the emotional high. I was not myself. By wearing that burgundy apron, I was a part of the establishment. Like a battery-powered by a crank, I continued to rotate an infinite revolution. 

Often, my body was forced out of the standard, 3 step cycle for a number of reasons. Dick needed me to take an order out to customers. Becky needed to help a customer in the chocolate shop and needed me to take the next sandwich order. A customer needed help with extra utensils or a refill. These detours were all part of the flow, however. It was all part of the rhythm.

Help a customer. Take down an order. Bring it to Dick. Someone needs a Refill. That person didn’t get their drink. A child spilled their drink. No problem. Smile and get it done. 

Most people were pleasant. I smiled as wide as I could and often it brought out the best in people. That cherry sweet tone I carried was sickly, sedating, and medicating. I watched them eat their grilled cheese and wash it down with Coke. Like my tone, the food had the power to make them comfortably numb. 

Some were not as happy. A mother came up to me asked for a second refill. Unlike a fast-food chain like McDonald’s, this mom-and-pop store didn’t have massive corporate deals or bank vaults filled with money to justify the legal overdose of sugar and caffeine to the American population. I didn’t say that, of course. Most people don’t like to be reminded that we are a nation that has permanently fucked the global human diet. 

Instead, I said, “I’m sorry, ma’am. We only allow one refill.”

“What?” her tone was shrill. It pierced my ears and caused the corners of my smile to twitch. I am proud to say that my smile held. “If I had known that, I wouldn’t have bought the soda in the first place.”

We both know this is a lie. Well, at least I do. I am not a fat shamer. I am sure that there are 400-pound beauty’s out there. In some of my dreams, I am sure that I am diving into every part of them, allowing their bodies to drown me in flesh and pleasure. No, it was everything else about her that gave away her illness. Her skin sagged in every single place. It was especially prevalent in her arms and face. She needed a scooter to move around. I can hear the engine whined in pathetic agony. I thought I could hear the gears grinding, reflective of the owner’s lack of care and attention to her own body. Her eyes were angry but they simply made me sad. 

“Is there anything else I can get you?” I said. 

“I guess I will buy another drink. 

And before I knew it, it was 4 pm. The last customer left the eatery. Dick came out of the kitchen, wiping his face with a damp paper towel. Becky grabbed a wooden stool and sat down. I went to do the same. 

“What are you doing?” Dick asked. His voice was incredulous as if I had done something I obviously shouldn’t have.”

“Taking a seat.” 

“There’s still work to do.”

“Oh. Sorry. I just saw her and…”

“Well, she’s pregnant, isn’t she?”

I looked at Becky and at her stomach. I’ve been conditioned since I was 6 to not assume anything about people. My mom was haunted by an incident in my youth when we were invited to a neighbors house. They were Indian and it wouldn’t be until I was about 20 that I would become properly introduced to South Asian Cuisine. The spices clung to the air in the house like a proud tradition. Of course, the first words out of my ignorant, six-year-old mouth was that the house smelled “terrible.” 

My mom still brings it up today. She has managed to turn my own past into a sort of boogeyman, a fable that ends with a message of warning. I don’t think that is what she intended but I don’t mind. The story is objectively a nightmare. It makes it hard to say anything without considering the potential consequences, the likes which range from unforgivable shame all the way to nuclear war. Even with this consideration, things would still slip through my mental filter, resulting in unforgivable shame and inner turmoil (a feeling close to nuclear war). 

But today, I merely congratulated her. Innocent enough, I thought.

“How far along is she?”

“She’s about halfway there,” Becky said. “I can feel her kicking now.”

“Yeah, and when it’s out, I’m sure you can’t wait to leave us,” Dick said. The tone was both mocking and jocking. It was a shaken cocktail that was both well and ill-natured. The resulting flavor was confusing, like a beer with . A short silence with uncertain faces from Becky and myself. 

“I’ll still come and visit,” Becky said. 

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Dick said. “Mouse, go clean the eatery. It’s filthy.”

“Sure.”

Even after sweeping several times during the lunch rush, the mess was impressive. I made my way from table to table, making sure to catch any dust, food, or bits in my path. I moved chairs out of my way, trying to get into every little crack that I could.

While I did, my body had set itself into a certain motion, letting my mind wander. I had similar experiences on treadmills and exercise bikes. While my body swept trash and debris, my mind let me explore an island. There, I was a martial arts treasure hunter. I searched for a Mcguffin through a wild jungle. 

Those details weren’t as important as the power fantasy of leaping from treetop to treetop. I could perform complicated and theatrical movements, blocking anything that came my way. Guns did nothing, bullets flew past me in cinematic bullet time. For some reason, I could strike a tree with my fingertips, like they were old-school matches I could striked anywhere. The action would produce lightning from my fingertips that created a trail of plasmic currents. I pointed toward my foes and they exploded in glorified ultra-violence. 

And of course, there was a pretty girl to swoon after me. Why? Because humans are perpetually horny.

“Mouse!”

I looked up. Dick came out from the kitchen. 

“When you are done sweeping, take out the trash will ya?

“Yep. You got it.”

It was close to closing time anyway. After it was all put away, Dick took me into the back. His office was located past the kitchen, in a hallway next to the freezer. It was cramped. Barely enough space for a chair. Yet, Dick fit perfectly in his seat, like a marble statue waiting to be carved out by a sculptor. 

He opened his safe with a combination and started counting out some money, then wrote something on a piece of paper.

“How do you like it here?”

“I like it a lot,” I said and meant it. 

“Yeah, I think you’ll work out just fine here. Are you still good for weekends?”

“Sure. I just need a couple of days heads up.”

“Can you do Saturday and Sunday, next week?”

“Let me check my schedule. I can let you know by Tuesday?”

He passed me my pay. I had worked several jobs in my life but never once had I been paid in

cash. After taxes, it was about $80. Considering that I had also gotten a normal job during the week, anything I made here was for fun. I was 21-years-old. I had Saturday night to myself. I had friends to see and booze to drink, all paid for with simple 8-hour shift.

“Sure,” I said.

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4. First Day pt.2

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6. I am Surprised by How Much I Remember the Good Times

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Covid-19 Has Proven I Can Live Happy as a Vegetable

Yesterday, I skipped out on a concert. It was a show in D.C. for Green Day, Fall Out Boy, and Wheezer. They were never my favorite bands, despite a enthusiastic phase during my middle and high school years. This interest has and continues to exponentially drop the older I get. I bought these tickets 2 years ago—a solid year before the pandemic was in full swing. Of course, there were opportunities to get a refund. Like most of the pandemic, these processes were also poorly timed and inconvenient. 

Sophie and I made the judgement not to go. We gave our tickets away to our friend Sully, who also had tickets and decided not to let the money go to waste. He ended up giving the tickets away and spent the concert not with me, but with a father and daughter who were waiting by the entrance for free tickets. Good for them. I hope they had fun. As for me, I spent my Sunday reading One Piece.

Based on Sophie’s snapchat feed, the experience was poorly handled. Despite plenty of space, concert-goers were strangely sardined in various sections. Entire sections were empty while other sections had people packed together way too close. On top of that, someone from Fallout Boy contracted Covid, so their set was cancelled. The concert organizers gave people two hours to get a refund.

I also had a family trip planned for the end of the month. My mother, father, sister, and I have a tradition of getting a hotel in North Myrtle Beach, North Carolina. Away from the busier south side that contains the boardwalk, these trips usually involve eating, illegally drinking out of a metal thermos on the beach, and sitting in a hot tub. It’s a perfect week of doing and thinking very little, a nice contrast from a usual life of doing and thinking too much and too often. 

My mother, being in the healthcare industry, decided to cancel this trip last minute, due to the rising number of Covid cases, especially in the southern United States. Instead, she decided to take a chance on a 3 day trip to Niagara Falls. She says that the numbers are not as high in the northern United States and the activities we will be partaking in are less risky. 

I’m not upset or disappointed. It’s a been a bad year for high expectations and all things considered, this set back isn’t even close to minor. Last time I went to Niagara Falls, I was six years old and I can barely remember the sites. I hear it is supposed to be nice. 

Still, I think about all the things I said no to this year. How many parties I declined, offers to hang out. I think about how many times people promised we would be safe but still saying no because it all seemed like a hassle to me. I think about how many times, I have heard people denouncing the actions of others regarding pandemic etiquette than proceed to go to a large social gathering. 

Then, I think about all of the Covid-deniers who puff out their chest in pride over their refusal to listen to the government, logic, reason, and the world’s collective cry for help. I’m sure that Rorshach from the Watchmen would be proud, just as much as I am sure Alan Moore is tired of the collective human race. Like Mr. Moore and Dr. Manhattan, I too have become tired of this world. 

I spent the last year living like a hermit. I caught up on my list of books, movies, and video games that I have had on my back log for a long time. I spent some time trying to rework my diet. I became more active by taking up dancing. Most importantly, I started writing again—more than I ever thought I would or could post-undergrad. 

Unlike most people, I feel as if the pandemic was simply my chance to withdraw from a world that I have become exhausted from. I find that I like this isolation. Watching it all through social media, I saw people getting angry and petty about things that don’t matter. It was, and still is, a time of political strife and social unrest. I found my solace in contributing to nothing and no one but myself. The world was burning around me but it was ok because I finally bought a VR headset. I may have stopped using social media but I still found I way to please Mark Zuckerburg’s eternal conquest to sell my digital soul by buying an Oculus. Everyone wins, I guess.

But I can’t keep living like this, right? I have to go back out there at some point. Earlier in the summer, I did start trying to assimilate. The numbers looked good and the Delta variant was still a faraway threat here in the East Coast USA. I wasn’t going to concerts or massive parties. But I did see friends and we hung out without limiting ourselves to the outdoors. Sophie and I have even been in restaurants. I was even considering going out to get a part-time job to pad out my savings. 

But with everything getting worse again, I am withdrawing once more. I can wait. I’ve done it for a year and a half. What is another year in the face of a lifetime. 

By the time, this is all over, however, will I want to return? Sure I miss restaurants, movie theatres, concerts, and music festivals. I don’t miss the constant fear of a virus that exists like a phantom looming over every person. I miss going out with friends without a care. I don’t miss the fear of random hostility due to race relations and political discourse. I don’t miss the constant stress leading to petty barberism. 

My friend asked me to go to Banoroo this year. 

“We could work a food stand,” he said. “The trip will basically pay for itself.”

The line-up looks amazing. I miss music festivals. It would be a nice change of pace from everything that I have dealt with this year. 

And yet, I can’t bring myself to go. This plague, a phantom illness that I cannot see, smell, or touch, is still out there. Many people have said that at some point, Covid will be like the flu. It will simply be a part of our lives and we will have a vaccine that helps maintain it. People will still die from it but it will be so normal that we will find other reasons to panic and be petty to one another.

One day, I am going to have to choose between going back out there and risking the phantom for the chance at adventure or staying home. 

Right now, I choose to stay home.

4. First Day pt.2

The following is part of a serialized story, Everyone Thinks I Dream of Chocolate. You can find the first chapter here.

Becky helped me learn the ropes in the first hour. I had never worked in a restaurant setting before so certain things were not immediately obvious. Don’t touch food with your bare hands. Wash your hands constantly. Don’t scratch or touch yourself, especially your face. 

Other things were more obvious. Smile and give pleasant greetings. Make sure to keep certain things stocked. If you see someone in the other store or need to go to the bathroom, let the other person know. If you see someone waiting at the other store, tell them that someone will be right with them. 

Just as Becky was finishing up the protocol for refunds, a customer stepped up to the counter. I checked the wooden clock above the soda machine. It read 12:23. Lunch had started. 

Becky gave me a nod and I stepped forward. I gave her a smile and without meaning to, my tone elevated a pitch or two higher. 

“Welcome,” I said. “How can I help you?”

She was an elderly lady with large glasses. The lenses magnifying her eyes. Along with her hunch and sparse white hair, she had the appearance of a goblin. I didn’t say that of course because many would find that rude. Most people don’t appreciate being compared to goblins, ghouls, and especially trolls. 

However, She did have a nice smile. She looked up at me with a kindness that reminded me of a comfortable, cozy home with upholstered chairs, tea, knitting set off to the side, and maybe a John Grisham novel. 

“What exactly do you serve here?” she asked. Her voice had a slight gravel tone, from years of use. It was calm, however. Again, comforting.

“We serve grilled cheese, ma’am,” I said. 

“Oh, that sounds nice. How much?”

“4.99.”

“Oh my. For a grilled cheese?”

“Yes Ma’am”

“Well, as long as it is good.”

She took a while to take out her cash but I didn’t mind. It was only noon and I still had 5 hours to kill. She counted her bills, one by one. Then, she took out a coin purse, her hands shaking as her brittle fingers unlatched the metal clips. She counted out each coin, picked them all up, then poured them into my hands.

“Thank you so much,” I said. Again, how the hell was that high-pitched tone coming from my throat. 

I counted the money. Perfect change. I dropped them into the register. 

“You can take a seat,” Becky said. “We will bring it all out to you.”

“Thank you so much, dear.”

As the old lady went into the eatery, taking each step slowly and gingerly, Becky took the order slip (again a sticky note) and took it to the kitchen. She placed it on the counter and yelled, 

“Classic, straight up,” she said. 

Dick hobbled out of the back, where he already had a loaf of bread and a container of sliced cheese in his hands.

“God damn it,” he said. “Here we go.” 

Even, in the diviest of kitchens, I had always imagined a certain level of elegance when it comes to cooking. I am reminded of the open kitchens that certain breakfast diners have. The chefs are exposed to the customers through a hole in the wall. Their sweat glistens among the smoke that rises from the black stovetop. They have a tired, casual way of carrying themselves, flipping eggs, pancakes, and omelets. It might come off as relaxed or even lazy, but really it is a tired, mechanical practice. 

Dick did not have this grace. He ripped apart bags of bread as a child ripped apart presents on Christmas. He slapped the sandwiches together like a soldier reloaded a rifle. Each movement was distinct and tactile. The sounds he made with the knife and spatula against the cutting board and sandwich press were like the magazine slapping against gun-metal. 

And he cursed. Alot. Old Town was an old mill that was repurposed into a mall. Even with renovations, there were signs that the place wasn’t really designed for its current purpose. One of these signs was that the walls of the kitchen did not completely enclose around themselves. The walls started on the ground but did not touch the ceiling. The Ceiling went up about eight or nine feet but hung there, like a gated fence separating countries rather than an honest to god wall separating rooms. 

Becky and I looked at each other. She gave me a look as we heard his angry grunts with the occasional word that we could make out. She gave me a crooked smile. Luckily the lady was old. Her hearing was probably shot. She was focused on some paintings that were hanging on the walls. 

When Dick was done, he came out of the other entries in the back of the kitchen. This door led directly into the eatery. He walked up to the old lady. 

“Here you are, hon,” he said. 

“Thank you, dear,” she said. She looked down at the plate. “Oh, can I get some extra napkins?”

“Go get it yourself!” 

As I watched from the cash register, I didn’t know if I should have laughed or not. I looked at Becky for permission. She gave me a shrug. 

The lady was obviously taken aback. A silence hung in the air. Then, it was broken by Dick letting out a hearty laugh. 

“I’m just joking, hon. Let me get that for ya.”

I watched him return to the kitchen. I think my jaw was still hanging limp when I saw a couple walk up to the counter. 

I got myself together and started taking their order. Then, a man in a suit came up. Becky took out her sticky-note pad from her apron pocket and went up to him with a greeting. Then, a family came up into the line. By the time I finished taking the couple’s order, two more people joined the line and I saw someone walk into the chocolate shop. 

The lunch rush had officially started.

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3. First Day pt.1

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5. First Day pt.3

[Table of Contents]