Words, Words, Words

If there’s one thing people know about me, it’s that I’m a writer. This goes all the way back to the fifth grade when I wrote my first short story, a Top Gun fan fiction. I showed it to my dad, and he had notes. Everyone’s a critic.

I have over thirty novels to my name, as well as countless short stories, a well-curated folder of most of my essays and blog entries, as well as a memoir and whatever the fuck “Three Stories in One” is supposed to be. Between “Three Stories in One” and my school newspaper column, writing made me a celebrity in high school. I went to college to learn to write. I moved to New York to become a writer, and while I didn’t become published, I certainly enjoyed the craft.

My marriage was great for me as a writer because she had an idea for a novel (I’d only written short stories so far), she got a lead on a contest I ultimately did pretty well in, and she bullied me into submitting my work. Ten short stories were published in various anthologies, but I got over sixty rejections on a novel I wrote by accident while she was in Namibia.

That basically stopped me from writing until seven years ago, when I entered another season of the contest and decided that I was going to write a novel. I did. And then I wrote the next one. I wrote the novels to write them, and I wasn’t going to kill my self-esteem with dozens more rejection letters. I tried again, submitting my best novel so far, but after thirty-plus rejections, I gave up.

Years later, I saw an ad for a writing service. Among the their many offerings is help (from agents and editors) with writing your query letters and synopses, copyediting for your samples, and help finding the agents and publishers your work is the best match for. I purchased all of these. They found me five agents and five publishers because I didn’t want more than ten rejections. I got nine. The tenth should be publishing me in a few months.

If there’s two things about me that people know, it’s that I’m a writer and a Doctor Who fan from way back. I grew up with Classic Who, where the effects were cheap (but very imaginative), the acting was not Method, and the serials were always one or two episodes too long. Then it got cancelled, and seven years later, there was a movie with flashy effects and motorcycle chases. When that went over like a fart in a car, they rebooted the series nine years later, and it runs to this very day.

I’ve loyally watched all of NuWho (or Who Redux) as they have gone from Doctor to Doctor and showrunner to showrunner. Prior to last year, the latter was Chris Chibnall. It did not go over well. It started going badly before his era even began because the Doctor was going to be played by an icky girl. I defended Chris Chibnall from the Doctor-Who-not-Nurse-Who/Go-Woke-go-broke contingent who were complaining about the writing so they could mask their sexism. However, I wasn’t enjoying the show anymore. When it wasn’t completely forgettable, the mythos was being torn down, and the character was being stripped of everything I loved about them. The problem was indeed the writing. As a writer, I’m not happy to say this.

When a project goes wrong, especially on TV, it’s almost always the writers. And considering how much people complain about the writing, it’s no wonder the studios want to use AIs to do it.

But movie and TV writing is not an art, it’s a science. In a movie, you must, by around page 55, have some kind of conflict. And the audience is so trained to expect this that The Avengers dragged a little in the middle because the epic fight on the Helicarrier took place on page 70. If characters don’t hit their beats like they’re supposed to, people can’t handle it. Look at the reaction to The Last Jedi. I tried writing a pilot, but I couldn’t make it fit into five acts.

Movies have endless script doctors fine-tuning every little thing. A sitcom will have rooms full of writers, fine-tuning every single joke. Producers and studios give their input. Actors love to give their input too, sometimes rewriting their lines. A producer (or a comic book editor) will have an idea, and they’ll make a writer make it happen. The writers everyone is complaining about are a committee, about as far from the process of writing I enjoy.

Don’t get me wrong—I love a good collaboration. Some of my favorite memories are sitting in Shane’s studio, bouncing ideas off of each other and creating a screenplay and a lost screenplay. But that’s not what happens. In movie and TV writing, someone is always reading over your shoulder and telling you they can do it better, unless you’re Neil Gaiman.

I used to want to be Joss Whedon (before we found out he was a violent creep) because he had made a brand for himself. He had fans who would watch anything he wrote, even Dollhouse. They picked apart his mythology, they obsessively watched for Easter eggs. I wish someone would do that to my stuff. Yeah, it would be great to have fans. I wish my other twenty-nine novels had readers.

On the other hand, I sit here in my cozy apartment with my swiftly growing cat, living my life with (mostly) peace and contentment. How miserable would I be if I were a professional writer?

If I were a novelist, I would still need a job because authors get paid shit (there’s a finite amount of money for authors, and it’s all going to JK Rowling). If I were a TV writer, I’d have to hustle just to make minimum wage while the studios figured out ways not to pay me, and I’d have to share my inspiration with a crowd and a belligerent showrunner. If I were a movie writer, the screenplay I poured my life into is going to be ripped up and reassembled, so I won’t recognize it.

The Princess Bride is a classic because of the performances and the art direction and costuming and sets, all brought together by Ron Howard, but every single quirk, every single quotable line came from William Goldman. You can’t have a movie, TV show, or comic book without the writing (though the founders of Image Comics gave it their best shot), but people don’t notice unless it’s bad.

I’m living my best life right now. I’m not famous, and maybe that’s okay. I used to feel like I was supposed to have a bestseller for my twentieth high school reunion, but I don’t want to hand over parts of my soul to people who have no respect for me. I’m a writer. I write. And that’s good enough for me.

Regenerational Divide

All my life, I’ve been trying to figure out something about the show I’ve been watching since I was a kid: if Doctor Who is the same person, incarnation after incarnation, how are they so different? Like, for example, it’s not easy to picture Jodie Whittaker as the same person as Jon Pertwee.

A few years prior, I had illustrated all the Doctors up to that point (including Matt Smith, even though we were still firmly in David Tennant territory), in a very cartoony style, so I took that style and reviewed my life, going back twenty-five years. Each year after that, I’ve drawn myself, including the years when I had otherwise quit drawing altogether (you can tell which years those were).

Later, I wrote a screenplay to challenge the question, in which a character based on me met up with four of his younger selves, going back to age nine, and I understood perfectly. Forty-eight-year-old me would not be able to stand a twenty-six-year-old me, and nine-year-old me was a monster. Without further ado, here are twenty-two incarnations of me.

And now, on my forty-eighth birthday, I’m taking care of a cat shortly after my last one passed away, so I guess that makes me a parent.

Enjoy your Sunday! I know I will.

He Was a Good Friend of Mine

I listen to YouTube videos while I work. It helps me focus. About half of my job is waiting for PDFs to download, so I can successfully hear whatever I have on without screwing anything up. I listen to a great many subjects, including true crime and pop culture.

My favorite from the latter is the Professor of Rock, who’s this middle-aged dude in a bowling shirt and a trilby hat, spending twenty minutes educating you on the history of just one song (although he sometimes does an album, sometimes a band). He focuses on the sixties through the nineties and grouses about music these days. If you’re lucky, he’ll tell a touching story about his dad, a rock music fanatic who introduced him to the subject.

Each show begins with the mystery, as the thumbnail and title only drop hints about the subject matter du jour. I mention this because I clicked on a video because the thumbnail said that the singer was inspired by a kid’s cartoon. The title said, “Band swept the world with the most memorable first line in rock history.” I love this show because every song, every album, every band is the greatest of all time. It’s good for the mood.

You may have guessed what today’s song was. I had no clue, even as he set up the mystery, then cut to the clip that was going to reveal the answer. The image now has this sepia tone to it that all photos from the seventies and eighties have. We now see a skinny, shirtless man with flowing, dark brown hair and ox-bow mustache, and he was screaming. Do you know what he was screaming? He was screaming the most memorable first line in rock. He was screaming, “Jeremiah was a bullfrog!”

“Joy to the World,” by Three Dog Night was the bane of my existence. It’s the first thing that comes to mind when most people hear my name. And half of them have to tell me. There were the bullies who taunted me with it, the teachers who were just bein’ goofy, and my customer service clients at every non-office job I’ve worked. So far, no one at my current job has asked me about this song, but something tells me Work Dad is waiting for the right moment.

The thing is, I love my name. My parents told me once that they were going to call me Robert, then changed their mind. Can you imagine me as a Robert? I’d be manscaping.

But I think it’s cool that I’m Jeremiah. It suits me. The problem was, it was something I had to endure as a child. I tried changing my name to Jerry (how was that any better?), but I went back to Jeremiah in high school, though occasionally I went by Jerm (to be honest, I didn’t really love it).

In college, a lovely young woman shouted at me, “Dude! You should have been named Eugene!” I agreed and adopted Eugene as a nom de guerre. Obviously, I didn’t change my name, but it became a character in a series of short and long stories, as well as a complete novel. When I was waiting tables, I changed the name on my tag to Eugene, for reasons I’m about to get into.  

I worked weekends on Fridays and Saturdays, known as the Black Friday (and Saturday) of late-night family restaurants. Until the last customer left, we were dealing with drunken monkeys on acid. We had one woman who stuffed feminine hygiene products in her ears, nose, and mouth and ran around, shouting, “I’m Tampon Lady!”

That and 85 percent of the tables had one spokesman who said, “You’re a bullfrog! You know that song?” Or, “Jeremiah was a bullfrog! You know that song?” Or. “Did you know you were a bullfrog? You know that song?” And so on. It got to the point where I just started telling them I didn’t know what they were talking about, and eventually they’d sing. That almost made it worth it. They only ever knew the first line.

Every once in a while, the Professor of Rock sits down with a member or two of the band and has a chat. The guy who wrote the song and the line that hung around my neck like an albatross met with the professor today. Prior to “Joy to the World,” Three Dog Night was making adult contemporary music, but after, they were rock superstars. The first line comes from an obscure cartoon frog who might have been an alcoholic. I don’t know if Jeremiah was the name of the frog, or if they just chose it because it has a great rhythm to it.

At the end of the episode, the Prof lists all the major artists who have done covers, as well as the most memorable TV and movie appearances. I don’t remember any of the ones from “Joy to the World,” though they left out the time Scully sang it to an injured Mulder, which I thought was a shame.

Pop-culture-wise, I don’t see or hear my name a lot. There was a short-lived TV show called Jeremiah, starring Theo from The Cosby Show. In Batman World, the founder of the insane asylum the Joker keeps escaping from is Jeremiah Arkham. He was also coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs. Other than that, you rarely hear my name despite it being unique and pretty good.

I’ve only known a small handful of people in my life named Jeremiah. Most of them go by different names (like JT, as one example). It’s so rare that, whenever I hear “Jeremiah,” they’re most likely talking to me. I got whiplash when at the Laundromat, a three-year-old kid named Jeremiah went on a rampage, and I kept hearing, “Jeremiah, stop it! Jeremiah, sit down!” Same when the couple behind me at the Panera Bread were having a loud conversation about someone named Jeremiah who was not me.

Jeremiah Murphy is a surprisingly popular name. Until it went down recently, jeremiahmurphy.com belonged to a black gospel singer, and jeremiahmurphy.net belonged to an unfunny comedian. Someone on Facebook named Jeremiah Murphy sent me a friend request, and a quick look revealed he was collecting Jeremiah Murphies. He had eight so far. In Indiana, I started getting collection calls for some douchebag named Jeremiah P. Murphy. The reason they kept calling is because, what were the odds of two people named Jeremiah Murphy in the state of Indiana? They were right. There weren’t two Jeremiah Murphies in Indiana. There were three.

I like being Jeremiah. It suits me. It’s got a great rhythm. If I had a different name, I’d use it in a piece of fiction. It would have made a great celebrity name if I had lived my life differently. It’s my name, and it’s perfect.

Just …

I am not a fucking bullfrog, okay? Jesus Christ!

Fangs for the Ride

I have to tell you about this movie I just saw. It’s called V for Vengeance, and it’s about adopted sisters, two vampires and one finding a cure for vampirism. On the poster, one of the sisters is holding a crossbow, which she never does in the movie. I had put it on to have something in the background while I tinkered with my latest work of art, but Oscar set up camp on my arm, so I had to watch it.

I really enjoyed this movie. One of the sisters is armed with a stake made out of the same kind of tree the cross was made out of. They call it the Jesus Stake. She had the Jesus Stake because she called dibs when it was brought out. There is a government agency called the Federal Vampire Corps.

I don’t love this movie because it’s good. I don’t love it because it’s so bad it’s good. I love it because it tries so hard. For example, a hilarious philosophical debate about eternal life goes on between an impeccably groomed man who likes to shout and a young woman in a baby tee, and short-shorts, using words like elucidate.

The death scenes, of which there’s a spectacular one (well, more than one) near the end of the movie, are on par with Paul Reubens on the movie Buffy the Vampire Slayer. It wasn’t supposed to be hilarious.

The writing is not very good, but it follows the formula. The character you’re expecting to betray the good guys betrays the good guys. One of the sisters is falling for the Judas, but their romance is awkward motel sex, so you can’t really buy it. The dialogue is … fine? I guess. It’s influenced by Joss Whedon, but without the pop culture references.

Speaking of the writing, this movie has Chekov’s switchblade boot. You figure out pretty quickly when the lethal footwear will come in handy. You may not expect any twists, but they come up with an even dumber use for them that you really don’t see coming. Of course, this is used to kill the bad guy. (If you’ve seen this kind of movie before, I’m not spoiling anything.)

On the other hand, the actor who plays the lead is actually really good. Her character is a vampire who drinks too much alcohol and gazes contemplatively into the distance when she’s not killing perverts on the highway. The actor (whose name I didn’t get) portrays her with sass and joie de vivre, and she’s a real bright spot.

Most of the actors aren’t that great, but Graham Greene’s in it. The fight choreography is choppy and raw, but quite good. For budget reasons, they didn’t use their vampire powers much, but when they did, they were cool and different.

I guess what I liked about this movie is that it could have been good with a budget, even the script, the weakest part. I don’t recommend it because it isn’t good, but I had a good time.

That Crazy Witchcraft

My ex-wife is a card-carrying witch. She fancies herself a hedge witch, which means a solitary, standing between her village and the outside world like a hedge. She taught me a lot about magic, and while I don’t believe in it (though I made every effort to), I was fascinated by the lore.

When we were together, we had been working on a book. It was her idea, but I took the characters, added some more detail, and told the story. The novel has two interludes to tell you what happened while they attended a small, Midwestern, liberal arts college like no one I know.

Something I learned about witchcraft or paganism from my ex was that witches had an affinity for one of the elements (air, fire, water, or earth), and that each of the elements has a corresponding color. I did drawings like these before ten years ago, and I wanted to update them for fun. This is most of the 2014 collection:

This is what I just did:

First, we have Jin Harima, a phonomancer, which means sound, preferably music, powers his magic.

This is Regina de Costa, the Secret Princess of the United States, run away from home.

Susan Young is a track star from Gary, Indiana. She’s not really into all this witchy stuff, but she is endlessly fascinated by Regina and will do anything she says.

And finally, Victor Huber, a farmboy and Regina’s protégé.

I haven’t really thought about them since I published their novel three years ago, but this was a nice trip down memory lane.

The Wrath of Gods

According to a philosopher named Giambattista Vico, there are three ages of mankind. In order, they are the age of gods, the age of heroes, and the age of men. I wanted to use this, in reverse order as a framework for three action comics that I would create. The first would be a grounded vigilante story, the second one a straight-up superhero epic, and the third one would bring the first two together in a unified vision of mythology (i.e. all the gods we know from legend are based on the same five beings).

This guy, the hero in the second book and one of the heroes of the third, is a demi-god. He has super-strength, so he wears a metal suit (and pants because he would look ridiculous in a onesie), and he gets around by leaping (the funky boots keep him from smashing the street when he lands).

When I developed him in the late nineties, early aughts, there were no gay superheroes, and that would have made him unique. His nationality is Mexican-American, which wasn’t necessarily unique back then, but it was definitely rare.

Unfortunately, all of the writing I did with the character was lost because Newcastle kept sitting on my laptop twenty years ago. The first image I did this week, using the black, white, and red style. The second I did in 2003, when I became more sure of my skill.

An All Hallows Eve That Will Live in Infamy

To explain to you what went wrong on Halloween night, 2003, I have to tell you about Satanicide.

If you’re an educated Satanicide fan, at some point you have had this conversation in your head: “Doesn’t –icide mean to kill? Killing Satan? They’re on God’s side? Or are they just that stupid?” You never learn the answer to that question because the band in question rocked your face off. Satanicide was a Spinal Tap style of band, i.e. comedy, but can actually rock out.

Front man, the voice, Devlin Mayhem, was played by Dale. Devlin represented hard, biker rock. His chaps even had flame-detailing on them because Dale’s girlfriend (now wife) is amazing at that kind of thing.

Aleister Cradley, played by Phil, is a glam rocker, complete with teased hair and spandex tights. Part of his joke is that he’s an f-word but doesn’t know it. In the Satanicide movie, Aleister moons over Devlin while their cover of “My Heart Will Go On” plays in the background. I thought it was funny. Other people might not. This will get me into trouble during the Halloween in question.

Satanicide goes through a lot of bassists, and their replacements are always relatives of the first one, Baron von Goaten. None of the von Goatens could speak English, and, mentally, they weren’t operating on the same world as the rest of us. Last I checked, they all wore masks to hide their Frankenstein hideousness from the world. I’m pretty sure the second Baron was my contemporary. He might have been the first. His name was Jake, and he was the sweetest guy. The von Goaten clan represents European metal, which is some weird, scary shit.

English punk was represented by Sloth Vader. One minute, he was tearing some shit up in London, and then he wakes up in a dumpster in New Jersey, so he joined a band. Griff, the English guy behind Sloth, was a big guy. He loped along like a bear. So when I tell you he routinely did stage dives on top of me, you won’t question my commitment to taking one for the band.

I first saw them because Beth invited me to a show. She did that within five minutes of meeting me, before she even asked me for my name, if I remember correctly. Since that initial concert, I don’t think I missed more than one show during my last two years in New York. Beth’s boyfriend was Dale, so we had the inside scoop. I even recommended a fragment of a song that Devlin sang at one of their concerts (“P is for pussy, that’s good enough for me!”)  

In 2003, Beth thought that it would be funny if, on Halloween, Steve and I dressed as Devlin and Aleister, respectively, and go to a Satanicide show. I thought it was a brilliant idea, but my execution was loathesome and half-assed. I wore a curly wig when Phil’s was straight. I couldn’t find exciting tights, so I wore these pants that looked like a cheetah-print pajama bottom. I wore makeup like a drag queen, thanks to Beth. Steve’s costume was on point. We were a terrible mismatch.

Right before we left Steve’s apartment to go to the bar, we had to decide if we were going to eat something for dinner or do vodka shots. We didn’t have time for both. We chose vodka shots. Later at the bar, before the concert, we did shots again, more than once. We watched the show with beers in our hands. After the show, I had a Jack and Coke.

It was in that state that I encountered Moby. That Moby. He went to high school with Beth and Steve. I called him a homophobic slur. The reason I did was because juvenile gay jokes were part of the Satanicide experience. However, this did not endear me to him. Next, I encountered Ed Helms, who was a very, very loosely defined neighbor of Dale. Ed Helms is a cool guy. On the street you will recognize him as Ed Helms, but he looks completely different than the dork that is his brand.

I sat down at the bar and ordered another drink. After I finished it, I swear there was an earthquake, and I fell off the stool. Immediately, I was escorted out of the bar. I ran into Beth and Steve outside, having a cigarette, and we all agreed to call it a night. Beth went off on her own adventure while Steve took me home and put me on his couch.

That’s where I proceeded to puke all night, like young Regan on The Exorcist. That was not the worst part. The worst part is that I tried to cover it up.

Steve missed this because he went out alone after he’d dropped me off. Later, he described himself as kind of a zombie, but one with a single-minded focus on eating a slice of Ray’s Pizza. When he arrived at the storefront, he lurched up to the counter and somehow ordered a slice, which they brought to him lickety split. As he was walking away, tasting victory in the mozzarella and sweet tomato sauce, he noticed the long line he had just cut in front of.

Beth went to sleep on the sidewalk somewhere.

I don’t know what happened to Moby.

Steve and I never spoke of how I befouled his couch.

While Beth agrees that the night was pretty horrible, she can’t stop talking about it. She treats it like it’s a warning tale for the youths.

I had a hangover for days. I didn’t quit drinking until 2007, but when I was coming up with reasons to stop, Halloween 2003 was Exhibit A.

Chuck Norris, but with Kittens instead of Guns

I was chatting with my friend Lisa, and she said, “I want to see Chuck Norris, but with kittens instead of guns.” This was a trap, and I fell for it. Immediately, I started looking up Chuck Norris pictures, and when she Photoshopped what she had in mind (it was a terrible Photoshop), I said, “Thank you for bringing this to me instead of going to an AI.” She said, “I hate AI so much.” This was the ethical (and fun) way of entering a prompt and getting an image out of it. So here he is, Chuck Norris, but with kittens instead of guns, as well as proof I did it (thumbnail, pencils, backgrounds, paints).

I’m Sorry, Who?

It was going to begin with an exciting pre-credits sequence, and then the title, and then a candy-striper named Andrea in 1999 New York City, looking at a patient’s chart. He’s covered in third-degree burns with a body temperature of 61 degrees Fahrenheit, but he’s not dead. Included on the chart is a note that the patient has a strange heart murmur that creates the illusion of a double-pulse. There’s just one problem: the patient in the bed is a petite, Arabic-looking woman with no burns on her whatsoever. However, when Andrea touches her, her skin is deathly cold, and she has a double-heartbeat. The only conclusion she can reach is that they are the same person. The patient wakes up, looks at her hands, and, speaking in an Irish accent, quizzes Andrea on her own appearance, particularly worried about the size of her nose. She recognizes Andrea from “that coffee house in Lincoln, Nebraska, with the on-the-nose name.” “You mean The Coffee House?” But the only remotely British person she ever met there was a dude with a buzz-cut and an awesome leather jacket. Suddenly, a monster would attack, and the woman would introduce herself as the Doctor. Later, they would head for row of porta-potties, and the Doctor leads her to a really classy, wooden one labeled “Police Box.” When Andrea enters, she sees it’s bigger in the inside than it is on the outside, and her reaction is, “Whoa. Cool outhouse.”

Thus begins “The Tyranny of Occam’s Razor,” the first of my Doctor Who fanfics. I had an overarching plot in mind, which would bring them to America more often than usual, and the monsters would be based on American folklore, including a wendigo, a herd of melonheads, and the men in black. There would be no sonic screwdriver. (As a lifelong Doctor Who fan, I kind of loathe the sonic screwdriver.) I have lot of great gags (“What did your sonic screwdriver do?” “Loosen screws, pick locks, scan things, disrupts a Cyberman’s breathing apparatus, like a regular screwdriver, I reckon.” Also, Andrea, as an American, calls them “Darleks.”) I have done tons of art of the characters, and I even made a logo. I’m going to continue to draw and paint them, but I’m not going to write it anymore.

Since I’ve been making comics or sketching full-time, I haven’t had much inspiration to write. I quit in the middle of a lesbian romance, the seventh book in my YA series, a from-the-ground-up revision of my assassin-that-doesn’t-use-guns-or-martial-arts novel, and the Nth Doctor Adventures short stories. I’ve decided I’m going to box up Who. I loved the concept, I loved my Doctor, I loved her companion, I loved the loose plots, I loved the fan service (one of the pre-credit scenes features a couple being rescued by the Eleventh Doctor, and I think I really nailed his voice), I loved coming up with descriptions of the TARDIS noise (someone driving a power drill through a bucket of fruitcake, an accordion in a dishwasher, a flock of geese flying through a cloud of helium, etc.) but the stories are not good. I made it through three-and-a-half of them, and I just ran out of steam.

I think I’m going through phases. Eight years ago, I was a voracious reader. Five years ago, I was a writer. A year ago, I was transitioning, and now I’m almost exclusively artist. I can still write, but only about a page or two at a time. (I’ve illustrated up to page 5 of MortalMan, and I only have 9 written.) I might go back to being a writer again, who knows? But while I still pull out Exile Book 7: The Unkindness of Raven, The Principles of Magnetism, or The Sass in Assassin and tinker at them, I think I’m going to leave the Nth Doctor Adventures in storage for now. Doctor Who, after Newcastle, is the love of my life, and I’m going to give them all the attention they deserve.

In the meantime, as I mentioned above, I’m going to keep illustrating the Doctor and Andrea. The Doctor is in a a necktie again, and Andrea has access to infinite outfits in the TARDIS, so she decides that, if she’s exploring the universe, she should at least wear a suit.

I’m the Exact Amount of Sexy for This Song

So I can’t use the lyrics to “I’m too Sexy” in my book. I tried. The publisher told me it could potentially cost thousands of dollars (for fifteen words; yay capitalism!). The first version is almost perfect because it captures that moment when you realize, “I’m going to have to listen to this again.” The second version is lame, so I’m not going to do it. The third version is what I’m going with.

Original Version
Because, just as she was trying to make sense of a geometry problem, the jukebox went off. A deep voice, almost comically so, said, “I’m too sexy for my love; too sexy for my love; love’s going to leave me.” Her head slammed down onto her book. Had they seriously not updated the jukebox for ten years, but when this song came out, they thought, this was the one? This was the music they wanted everyone to associate with their family restaurant?

The What-I’m-Not-Going-to-Do Version
Because, just as she was trying to make sense of a geometry problem, the jukebox went off. A deep voice, almost comically so, said the opening lyrics to “I’m too Sexy” by Right Said Fred. Her head slammed down onto her book. Had they seriously not updated the jukebox for ten years, but when this song came out, they thought, this was the one? This was the music they wanted everyone to associate with their family restaurant?

Final Version
Because, just as she was trying to make sense of a geometry problem, the jukebox went off. An aria, with a voice as deep as the bowels of hell, heralded a first-person ballad she had come to know of a man whose sexiness exceeds the tolerance of his love, his car, his cat, your party, several cosmopolitan cities, and his shirt, the latter of which actually causes him pain. Her head slammed down on her book. Had they seriously not updated the jukebox for ten years, but when this song came out, they thought, this was the one? This was the music they wanted everyone to associate with their family restaurant? “I’m Too Sexy?” Really?

Conclusion
This whole ordeal reminds me of the original Cybermen from Doctor Who. The women who designed their costume had something like fifty dollars, so she bought a vacuum cleaner and some floodlights and constructed one of the most iconic bad guys in science fiction TV. Nowadays, if you want something onscreen, you throw millions of dollars at some keyboard jockeys, and they make it happen. Before CGI, you had to work within existing space with limits, and they did some amazing things. Think about how much better A New Hope looks like next to Rise of Skywalker. Being limited ultimately gave me a chance to describe how dumb that song is without using any of the lyrics, and the result is better than I’d originally written it.

(Special thanks to Donna Martinez who helped me brainstorm this approach. Someone, I won’t say who, has earned a space on my acknowledgements page.)