Sad Monsters

by Frank Lesser

  I don’t have to remind you that we must keep our competitive edge. There are Yama Kings in China’s Hell who can gouge out a sinner’s eyes for half what it costs us. If we can’t pull ourselves out of this, we may have to request a bailout, and that could give us a bad name.

  Gremlin Owner’s Manual

  Congratulations! You are the proud owner of a pet mogwai, sure to provide you and your family with hours of adorable fun, as long as you adhere to the following rules, which we are legally obligated to provide to you to absolve YouniquePets.com of any and all liability in the case of, say, a gremlin takeover of your idyllic town.

  Rule No. 1: Never get your mogwai wet.

  Rule No. 2: Keep your mogwai away from bright lights.

  Rule No. 3: Never let him eat after midnight.

  Rule No. 4: Never let him go swimming until at least half an hour after he’s eaten. This is especially important if the pool is filled with water (see Rule No. 1, “Never get your mogwai wet”). Also, make sure that when he ate, it was before midnight (see Rule No. 3, “Never let him eat after midnight”).

  Rule No. 5: Make sure he takes his vitamins, especially if he’s vegetarian and has an iron deficiency. But—mindful of rule No. 3—make sure that when he takes his vitamin, it is before midnight.

  Rule No. 6: Never let him use the salad fork for the entree, especially if it’s late in the evening (again, see Rule No. 3).

  Rule No. 7: Never let him go outside in the cold with wet fur. Of course, if his fur is wet, you’ve blown rule No. 1. Which is really one of the most important ones. Maybe read the first three rules again?

  Rule No. 8: Make sure he wears sunscreen when he goes to the beach. Wait, don’t take him to the beach. It’s near water (Rule No. 1), and it’s also almost always very bright (Rule No. 2).

  Rule No. 9: Backing up a bit—only take him outside if it’s overcast. Of course, that could mean it’s about to rain. Hmm.

  Rule No. 10: I’ll level with you. You can pretty much assume that at some point your mogwai is going to turn into a gremlin (the preferred term for this transition is “germinate” or “engremlin”). Let’s face it, mogwais should really be renamed pre-gremlins. So let’s assume your pet gremlinates—that brings us to Rule No. 10, which is kill your gremlin. This may be tough if you bonded with your pet in the few hours you played with him before you inevitably broke one of the rules.

  Rule No. 11: The easiest way to kill a gremlin is exposure to direct sunlight. Perhaps tell your gremlin he’s won a free time share in a condo in Miami, and when he gets there he’ll find there are no window blinds? Other methods that have anecdotally been proven to work include microwaving your gremlin, blending him in a blender (on any setting higher than frappé), beheading him with a sword, shooting him, blowing him up in a movie theater, luring him into a department store’s water fountain and opening the shades to expose him to daylight, dipping him in cement that then hardens, and releasing a gremlin who’s been genetically crossbred with lightning into a room full of gremlins being sprayed by sprinklers.

  Rule No. 12: Realistically speaking, none of that will prevent a total gremlin takeover, so Rule No. 12, buy a gremlin costume. Gremlins, while mischievous, aren’t very smart, so they won’t notice you’re not a real gremlin. If a gremlin expresses concern about why you’re so much larger than other gremlins, tell him that it’s because you’re standing very close and it is a trick of perspective.

  Rule No. 13: Don’t think your responsibilities are over just because the gremlins have taken over your town. If you get wet, the other gremlins will wonder why you didn’t spawn more gremlins, and this could blow your cover. So Rule No. 13, never get yourself wet.

  Rule No. 14: For the same reason, avoid bright lights.

  Rule No. 15: And if you go swimming—oh, no.

  Rule No. 16: On second thought, just return your gremlin for a refund. It’s store credit only, but we have some delightful zombie Dobermans that we guarantee won’t turn into gremlins.1

  The Roommate of Dorian Gray

  Dear Dorian,

  I know we’ve only been roommates for a month and a half, but I was hoping we could find some time to discuss the decorations in the apartment, specifically the hideous painting you hung in the living room.

  I spent a lot of effort tastefully decorating the common spaces. Van Gogh posters don’t just frame themselves! And I’m just not sure my design aesthetic meshes with yours, since yours seems to be centered around a looming portrait of a leering, wrinkled, shriveled old man who bears an unsettling resemblance to you. Maybe you could replace that portrait with something a little more sedate, like, I don’t know, a print of Starry Night? Or perhaps the less classy option of a movie poster (or as you call it, a “nickelodeon broadsheet”)? Or even just a painting of an old man who bears an unsettling resemblance to you who is slightly less leering, wrinkled, and/or shriveled?

  I know I told you to feel free to decorate to make yourself feel more comfortable, but when I come home late at night, I feel like the portrait wants to sexually assault me. Also, while it’s not quite as disturbing, your wall of Victorian pornography is kind of tacky.

  I probably should have talked to you about the portrait earlier, but I didn’t mind when you first put it up. It may just be my imagination, but over the past few weeks the portrait seems to have grown increasingly grotesque, especially after your spring break trip to Cancún. Maybe I’m crazy, but was the man in the portrait always wearing a T-shirt that said “Show me your tetas”?

  And I’m aware you told me the painting has sentimental value, but then you wryly smirked and said, “The pure and simple truth is rarely pure and never simple,” so I have no idea what you actually meant. On a related note, would you mind cutting back on the aphorisms? A couple of times a week is charming, but otherwise I am reminded of this clever saying: When every other sentence out of your mouth is a witticism, I feel like punching you in it.

  I was hoping to talk to you about this in person, but our schedules don’t seem to match up, considering I wake up early to teach public school in East LA and you’re out at clubs till five every morning. Which is totally cool, I totally respect the life path you’ve chosen, although I do find it a bit disturbing that out of the two of us, you hang out with more high school kids.

  That’s probably a subject for a different note—hopefully not one to the police! Seriously, though, I don’t want to know what’s going on with those kids, but whatever it is, can you stop it?

  I’m off-topic. Point is, the picture has to go. It really freaks out my girlfriend whenever she comes over. Oh, and another thing that really freaks her out is when you propose that she engage in a three-way with me and you. I don’t know whether I should be insulted or flattered that you just assumed my tacit agreement.

  Also, is that an opium pipe next to the coffeemaker? I don’t mean to bring up a bigger issue, although I may be forced to address this in a future note, but for the short term, would you mind moving your pipe away from the coffee grinder? I’m sure you don’t appreciate getting coffee in your opium any more than I appreciate your opium contaminating my arabica blend.

  One more thing—is it really necessary to keep that old-fashioned pistol on the coffee table? You claim it’s a purely decorative antique, but I’m pretty sure I was awakened last night by a shot—specifically, a shot from a pistol—followed by a scream, followed by dreadful, terrible silence.

  Anyway, I should really get back to grading these pop quizzes! I don’t mean to cause any trouble, because other than these small nitpicks, you’re a great roommate who always pays his rent on time. Although in the future, could you pay me in something other than nineteenth-century English crowns? It’s tough to find a place to exchange them.

  Oh, I almost forgot—a fop in Victorian dress stopped by while you were out and asked me to give you a note handwritten in calligraphic ink. He implored me not to read it, and of course I didn’t, mostly because I was afraid it would be filled wi
th more plummy aphorisms, but I did accidentally see the first line—something about a “tertiary stage” of a “gentleman’s disease.”

  The note is on top of your waistcoat, which I moved from the sofa to the floor in front of the door to your room. Please do not leave your waistcoats cluttering up the common areas.

  Your roommate, and hopefully someday your friend (but not in a sexual way—please stop asking), Charlie

  Some Gorgons Have All the Luck

  Whoa. Wow. I mean—hi! You must be Medusa. I hope I’m not too early—it looks like you’re still doing your hair. Oh, sorry, I thought those were curlers. No, no, your hair looks great. Very lively. What do you put in it? Ah. Mice.

  Clara told me so much about you. She said you have a great smile, and she wasn’t lying, although I have to say she was omitting other more distinguishing characteristics. Hey, no one’s perfect—I’ve got crowded lower teeth. No, they’re not crowded because my mouth is full of snakes.

  That’s a beautiful sequined dress. Oh, I see. Scales.

  Well, that’s an awfully nice invitation—I’d love to come in and take a look at some disturbingly realistic sculptures of your ex-boyfriends—but I’m afraid that might make us late for our reservation at the Olive Garden.

  The service is surprisingly slow tonight. I guess it didn’t help that the first waiter accidentally looked directly at you and turned to stone. But let’s not let that ruin our evening. The breadsticks aren’t the only thing that’s unlimited—so are the possibilities!

  You know, when you smile, so do the snakes. It’s cute.

  I don’t know what it is, but there’s something about you . . . Maybe it’s just that I know I’m not supposed to look at you directly, so then of course I want to look at you directly. It’s human nature to want what we can’t have. It’s like how you say you hate your hair—but I bet if you had non-snake hair, you’d wish you had snake hair.

  So, tell me more about yourself. Clara told me she met you at Barnard while she was studying Classics. Oh, she just heard about you in one of her classes.

  You know, I probably wouldn’t say this if we weren’t already two carafes into the house red, but I was a bit surprised when Clara set me up on this blind date. Maybe she didn’t tell you, but we used to date. In fact, we almost got engaged, but then I freaked out and ran. Oh, guys have tried that with you, too, but they never get very far? What a charmingly cryptic thing to say!

  Clara was pretty sore at me for a while—she once even tried to run me over with her car. But enough about Clara. I’m just glad that not only doesn’t she want to kill me anymore, she’s even setting me up on dates with great girls like you.

  Hmm? Oh, I meant a great girl. Not “girls,” plural. No, there’s no one else, Medusa. No, I’m not lying to you. I think you know the reason why I won’t look you in the eyes when I tell you that.

  What’s that rattling sound? Oh, your bangs would like some tiramisu. Here, I’ll jiggle the plate so they think it’s still alive.

  Okay, full disclosure, I’m getting coffee next Tuesday with a siren. But it’s not a date. She’s pursuing a music career, and Clara thought I should hear her demo tape.

  Come on, Medusa, let me get the check. Yes, I’m aware that everyone else in the restaurant is stone now and we could just walk out without paying, but the morally correct thing would be to leave enough money to cover the bill, along with a generous tip to make up for the turning-everybody-to-stone incident.

  You’re right, it never would have happened if they hadn’t all stared at you when you dropped your coffee cup. And yeah, that one guy who clapped sarcastically kind of deserved it. But you can’t live your life without respecting other people’s feelings and also their desire to move. Well, of course you don’t hear any complaints; statues don’t talk.

  No, that wasn’t a reference to your ex. Look, I know it can be tough to get over someone when you see reminders of them all around your house, but if it bothers you that much, maybe you should move the statue into your basement.

  I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. Oh, no, are you crying? Seriously, are you crying? I can’t tell because I can’t look at your eyes.

  Well, here we are. I had a great time, Medusa. I’d love to stick around, but I’ve got a lot of work to do in the morning and I need to not be made of stone to do it. But we should totally do this again sometime, ideally over the phone. I’ll call you.

  Fine, one kiss, but I’m only doing it to cheer up your curls.

  Well, personally I don’t think it’s all that strange to keep your eyes closed when you’re kissing someone. But if you insist . . .

  Oh, wait, I forg—

  The New York Art Show Massacre

  [The following article appeared in the June 2007 issue of Design and Pretension Monthly, which in keeping with that issue’s “Outsider Art” theme was published exclusively on yellowing newspapers in a recluse’s attic in Omaha.]

  The latest sensation shocking the art world is the Shadow Skinner, a self-taught installation artist and nocturnal cave dweller whose recontextualizations of the partially eaten human form are nearly as unique as the flesh-stripping claws his ancestors’ hands evolved into.

  The late critic Langhorne Fenestre was an early champion of the Shadow Skinner’s work, heralding him as the leader of a new artistic movement he termed “post-cannibalism.” “The Shadow Skinner upends preconceived notions of ownership by forcing us to ask ourselves, ‘Who owns a femur?’ ” said Mr. Fenestre, shortly before sitting for a portrait made from his own endocrine system.

  Fellow performance artist Natto Hiroshima is equally impressed. “Skinner is addressing the relationship of art to consumption,” she told me recently at an underground drowning party in Chelsea. “His work brings up a lot of interesting questions, such as, ‘Dear God, what is this thing? Is it stalking me? Can anyone hear me?’ ”

  The Shadow Skinner is an elusive interview subject, as he is capable of disappearing just when you think you’ve finally cornered him, only to reappear behind you, hissing; so instead I sat down with his exclusive art agent, Wilhelm Seluice. Mr. Seluice, the owner of the Seluice Gallery, previously the Kreutzfeldt-Murmel-Seluice Gallery, discovered the Shadow Skinner while camping in a remote area of the Appalachians with his former co-owners.

  “The first night we set up our tents, we realized something was watching us,” Mr. Seluice recalled over lamb-tinis at the fashionably untrendy New Zealand–themed bar Little Beau Sheep. “Jakob, rest his soul, started freaking out, so naturally he was the first one the Skinner picked off.”

  He paused, and stirred his drink with his cutlet swizzle. “Before long Madeleine and I came across the cabin of an elderly Shawnee shaman who gave us a curated overview of the Shadow Skinner’s early work, which utilized the innovative medium of summer campers and stranded travelers. The old man told us to flee, but then the layman rarely understands the complexities of modern art. People often think, ‘My sociopathic five-year-old could do that.’ ”

  Mr. Seluice continued his tale while laying out canvas on his gallery floor in anticipation of the Shadow Skinner’s upcoming performance/feeding. The resulting Jackson Pollock–like splatterings will likely fetch upward of six figures.

  “Madeleine disappeared while attempting to photograph his site-specific feeding grounds,” he said, drizzling the canvas with an undercoating of ram’s blood dressing, the artist’s favorite, “and long story short, after I stumbled into the Shadow Skinner’s lair in an unexplored cave system and saw the shockingly original installation piece he had fashioned out of the remains of my late associates, I approached the Skinner and offered to be his exclusive seller in New York. Once he determined he didn’t find my scent appetizing, he agreed.”

  The Shadow Skinner’s triumphant rise hasn’t been without its setbacks. A month ago he went into a dormant phase, although he came out of it with a new vision for his performance art, as well as newly developed eyes better suited to gallery lighting.

/>   Mr. Seluice elaborated. “Since he emerged from both his literal and figurative cocoons, there’s been a new vitality to his work. He’s been going through artist’s assistants like they were candy.”

  As always, when confronted with works of such startling originality, some people react with fear. Currently there are half a dozen legal cases against the Shadow Skinner and the Seluice Gallery for such so-called offenses as obscenity and crimes against humanity. But Mr. Seluice isn’t worried. “We’ll beat these philistines. The uproar is no different from what Hugo Mallomar faced in the eighties when he created his man-made famines in Sub-Saharan Africa.”

  I asked Mr. Seluice about the Shadow Skinner’s upcoming trial in the wrongful death of Guggenheim patron Margaret Hastings during his performance piece The Artist Is Presently Digesting.

  He paused while nailing shut the gallery’s only exit. “Clearly, the artist’s intent wasn’t to devour Ms. Hastings—the concept of that piece was defining the liminal space between subject and spectator. Furthermore, we plan to argue that it’s only the viewer’s interpretation that Ms. Hastings was cannibalized, considering the Shadow Skinner is so different from us genetically that he may be a different species.”

  Mr. Seluice dismissed the prosecution’s distinction of willing versus unwilling participation as pedantic nitpicking. “It’s the same thing as the subject of a photograph saying he didn’t want to be photographed. Aboriginals claim the photographer stole their soul; Ms. Hastings’s relatives claim the Shadow Skinner stole her skin, ribcage, and if the legends of his soul-capturing capabilities are to be believed, also her soul.”