Ya’ll might notice a brand new addition to the sidebar. Yup, I’m actually suggesting you go out and buy something.

I get absolutely nothing out of this deal, so don’t worry that I have sold my soul… or even minority shares in a soul-like substance (“Get xOUL®! Now with 50% less existential inertia!”)

Rather, over a hearty meal of eggs, hashbrowns, and enough sausages to build a credible log-cabin model, I tried to explain what the whole purpose of Space Monkey Pants was to my buddy Josh (final diagnosis = time-waster extraordinaire). He quietly mentioned that I could, if I was so inclined and didn’t feel that it was too much of an imposition, possibly mention his two published plays in the hopes that maybe one or two people, out of the three or four of you that come here for anything other than pictures of animals or amusing tales of my own personal mortification, might actually consider purchasing them… before the vodka gin/wine/scotch haze settles over your eyes once again (yes, I’m looking at you, Jenny).

So, gamely trying to be a good friend — and in attempt to counteract the unfortunate karmic backlash of somehow ALWAYS being out playing Ultimate every single time he calls — I promised Josh I would go forth and wield my massive zeitgeist-influencing powers and shill his books.

So.

Josh is my oldest friend. We have known each other since Grade 7. He lets me read his comic books. All valid reasons to support him.

But another valid reason is that his plays are GOOD.

The first play of his that was published is called Halo:

When an image of Jesus appears on the side of a Tim Hortons restaurant in Nately, Nova Scotia, life is forever changed. The town’s inhabitants are challenged to ask difficult questions about faith, life and love with sometimes moving, sometimes hilarious results. Complicating the matter, of course, are the more mundane questions of whether this appearance is a miracle, an accident, or a quite possibly even a hoax.

At the centre of this wickedly entertaining play resides the more existential and personal question of what has happened to our notion of meaning and ethics in the strip-mall culture of concrete and crass competition which has replaced a more pastoral and rural life of care for the earth, the cycle of the seasons and its festivals, and the blessings of renewal in the family. Has religion lost the ability to mediate these two conditions, or did it ever really have that power?

Halo is a brilliant examination of the need to believe and the power of forgiveness.

His second play is Whereverville:

Dragging Newfoundland “kicking and screaming into the 20th century” (a quote attributed to Joey Smallwood), resettlement was a carrot-and-stick approach to depopulating the province’s fishing outports. Communities were encouraged to abandon themselves in exchange for financial aid and the promise of better services in centralized “growth” towns. Between 1954 and 1975, the Federal and Provincial governments brought about the move of over 300 communities and 30,000 people. First and foremost, Whereverville is a work of fiction and its setting, the imaginary community of Loam Bay, does not appear on any map–tellingly, however, neither do many of the 300 communities by which this play was inspired.

Set in a one-room school house during the decisive evening of the community’s vote on whether to stay or leave, Josh MacDonald’s play is an intriguing reversal of and homage to Bertolt Brecht’s The Caucasian Chalk Circle. While in Brecht’s play, the conclusion of the conflict over a community is that “those best able to take care of the land should possess it,” in Whereverville the conclusion is that “those no longer able to take care of the land should leave it.”

In both plays, it is the heart and mind of a young woman bereft of her future on which the action turns. It is Loam Bay’s schoolteacher, Abby Shea, herself “from away,” who holds the deciding vote as she struggles with her own phantom attachment to the community, its citizens and its ghosts of times past, and it is she who must learn that sometimes, in order to keep what we hold most dear, we must give it away–that “nothing lasts.”

So, I implore those of you interested, go forth and purchase some fine examples of Nova Scotian drama.

Final Josh Fun-Fact: Josh was in Titanic. For 38/100th of a second.

And that was Icarus 54.

In order:

• Scene 1
• Scene 2
• Scene 3
• Scene 4
• Scene 5
• Scene 6
• Scene 7

We thank you for your forbearance.

And now, we return you to the varied and intelligent discourse you have come to expect at Space Monkey Pants.

(Ahem.)

POO!

POO! POO! POO!

KITTY-CAT POO!

The stars don’t twinkle out here. There’s no air to distort their light. These stars never end, never stop shining. Never blink. I used to try and make myself imagine the distances between stars in the sky, but I could never twist my mind around the numbers that would end up in my head. They don’t seem far away now. They’re too close. Looming on top of me. Sometimes, if I just look out from the corner of my eye, just a quick look, when I’m not careful, I’ll fall into them — and they’ll be rushing shooting towards me at a million miles a second and I’m flying towards them and before I can do anything VROOM! they’re HERE and I can feel every star piercing my body at the speed of light, like a thousand million needles cold colder than anything running through me, stabbing me all at once… and all flying away from me leaving me alone behind them, with only a million pinpoint scars to show that they were ever here.

Covers eyes.

I CAN make them twinkle though. If I just close my eyes, concentrate, and push the stars out to where they’re supposed to be, far away, behind air and clouds, where I can barely get a glimmer of what they really are. And if I try even harder, if I really grab my fucking brain and take it there, suddenly… oh god… I’m back there, by the fire, with you, and I can see so many thousands of them, peeking out at me, and I can see the Big Dipper over there — Can you see it? And there’s what looks to be the brightest star in the sky, that has to be Venus… or is that it? I can’t tell. Where? That’s it? You sure? Oh!… all so far away, giving us this huge tiny taste of forever.

Uncovers eyes. Turns on terminal.

Remember that camping trip we went on when you were ten? I think about that all the time. I think that was the closest to “perfectness” that I’ve ever been. Everything about that trip was just so… RIGHT. The weather, the hot dogs, all of it was cool. But really, it was that one night, the night by the fire, that did it for me. Ha! I still think Mum let us sleep by the fire so she and Dad could have sex. We must have stayed up to at least three. Just you, me, the fire, and the biggest twinkliest sky I’ve ever seen.

Do you think about that night, squirt? Do you ever wonder how the hell we got from there… to here? I mean, how is it possible to see those… perfect stars, to be a part of them, and end up here? End up there?

I don’t mind being out here. Really. I don’t. It’s a whole lot better than being down there with all the flatfoots. Life on Earth ain’t all that hot nowadays. Life on Earth. That sounds SO sci-fi.

Ten billion people. Remember when the estimates were for EIGHTEEN billion?

‘Course, a world wide pandemic is sorta hard to predict.

Up here though, life’s rosy! What do I really have to worry about? Food, water, shelter, all the basic elements of survival, not a problem! I don’t exactly have to deal with a high level of stress “on the job”. What else do I have to worry about? My love life? Ha!

And.

My risk of infection is non-existent.

Just my luck.

Mum always said you were the lucky kid. “Lucky”. You were always falling out of trees or off the monkey bars. I’d've broken every bone in my body if I fell as much as you did. But you’d always jump right up, all smiles and proud to hell of yourself. At most you’d have a scrape on your knee or something, and then you’d be off screaming to Mum to kiss it better. You had no idea how scared we were, did you? That’s the story of your life, isn’t it? You were always doing things that you should’ve had no chance in hell of surviving, and somehow, everytime, you’d come out the other side. SMILING. In school, at home, even when you and me used to play catch. You’d dive after these balls that were MILES out of your reach, THROWING yourself at these balls, and you’d CATCH them! You could do it all.

I keep waiting for you to jump up now. I’m fine! Don’t worry! It’s nothing! Can I climb up again, huh? Can I?

You know, I’d take you up that tree again, squirt. Anytime. I’d give you a boost, since you still can’t reach, and I’d jump up after you, chasing you, up up and around the trunk, I’m gonna get you! and you’re climbing faster and higher and I’ve almost got you and… BAM!… the sun hits me as I clear the top and you’re there and I’m there and we’re sitting at the very top, swaying in the wind and I don’t know why but you’re laughing, laughing so hard these tears are streaming down your face and you’re making these little hiccup noises and you look so funny that I start to laugh, laughing at you laughing at me. If I could I’d throw you on my back squirt, and I’d jump higher and harder than anybody has ever jumped before and we’d fly — OH YEAH! — me and you we’d soar into the sky and into the sun, and we could laugh like that FOREVER.

I… want you… to know… that whatever happens to me… whether I die up here… or if nobody ever comes to take me back… that none of it… really… matters. Not really. Because what happened — what IS happening — to you — is worse than anything that they…

If I could take your sickness… I would.

I miss you squirt. It’s… been a while. Listen. I know you’re… disappointed with me, but that why I’m here. I made a mistake and I’m… I’m paying for it. Just a note would…

I’d like to hear your voice.

Take care kid. Wear your mittens. I love you. All that shit.

Icarus 54 out.

Eating paste out of tube.

Damn.

I miss TOAST!! The texture of toast. The feel of it giving way under my teeth. The crust pushing against the sides of my cheek. The melted butter coming off on the roof of my mouth and then BAM! the taste hits my tongue. And CHEWING. Taking that hard crusty piece of bread and chomping it, crunching it, MASTICATING it into a wad of juicy dough, and then feeling it drop oh so slowly down my throat, one more sacrifice to the great Stomach God. All Hail!!

AAHH!! I want flavours!! The salt off a handful of potato chips, stinging my tongue, needing that big bubbly pop to clear the way for the next onslaught of grease and cholesterol. The soft battle between sweet and bitter as a square of dark chocolate melts to nothing on my tongue… OOoohhHH… OH! Peanut butter and jam!! Sticky, juicy, salty, sweet — OH YES! And — and… the pain of a bowl of suicide chili, spoonful after spoonful, ripping my throat to shreds OOHH GOD! It hurts and I take another bite and then another and I won’t stop my eyes are tearing sweat’s popping out my pores and IT TASTES SO GOOD!!!

Holds up tube.

One tube. Three hundred and fifty three grams. Three times a day. Every nutrient, vitamin, protein, fibre and whatnot the human body needs to survive, packed into one basic food “unit”. Very efficient. Very easy to produce. The station’s processor creates it out of the elements in the asteriod itself. And my own body waste.

Take a bowl of macaroni. Dump it into a blender. Blend it until it reaches the consistency of bread dough. Then, if you know how, take what minute flavour it has in it and SUCK it out. Then put just a little bit of brown coloring in it, just enough to remind yourself that, Yes, my own feces have gone into this. Oh, and don’t forget to put in that one magical ingredient that gives it the same glorious aftertaste that you would get from swallowing an aspirin dry. Jam it into an empty tube of toothpaste. And ENJOY!

Continues eating out of tube.

Sometimes, when it’s really late… and I’m scared to go to sleep… I try and imagine I’m in one of those old time prisons, a real penitentiary. I picture it all around me, cement and iron and cold steel, row after row of cells, each cell holding shadowy men, all you can see of them are these scarred, tattooed arms hanging out the bars and the red coal glow of the occasional cigarette. Stale tobacco and the stench of old sweat pulls at my nose. I can hear it ALL. The sounds, coming from from every direction, these brutal conversations passing from cage to cage, the taunting and the insults — Come on PIGEON come on be my pigeon say yes come on say yes you STUPID LITTLE TURD!!, the sound of bars rattling and closing — CLANG tink tinktinktink TUNK!, the guards stamping their boots as they go from cell to cell, barking at prisoners — kunk… kunk… kunk… kunk… kunk… kunk… kunk… I said WAKE UP!!, the almost silent “huh huh huh huh huh huh huh huh huh” from the pair in the next cell. And the whispers, floating silently through the whole place — pssspsss pssspssss pssssss psssss pssss psssssssssssss…..

And I can see me in the middle of this. Unshaven. Hair greased back. Smoking. I’m a CON-VICT. And I look cool, tough, laid back, almost suicidally calm. I’m the king of this castle. It’s my domain. You want something, I’m your man. You gotta problem, I’m the solution. I’m never getting out of here, but that’s… OK. Because out there, the world is long long ago dead. I am alive. Caged, beaten, in Death’s eye at every turn, but I am ALIVE.

A guard stops at my cell-

Hey. Duke.

(That’s what they call me. “Duke”.)

Hey. Duke. Time to move.

I take a looonngg, slow drag on my cigarette. Then, I raise my head a bit, just a bit, so I can stare at him through my half closed eyes-

I ain’t quite ready at this par-tic-u-lar moment. Why don’t you get back to me later? Okay… “pal”?

I can feel this crackle of pain as he smashs my fingers into the bars with his billy club.

AAA! CHRIST! You dumb SHIT!

He throws open my door and shoves me into the far wall. I can hear the sound of boots pounding as the other guards run to my cell. They start to work me over. My world dissolves into flashes of pain and force. I can feel the butt end of a club smash into my jaw — AAAW! — loosening teeth. Boots — HUH! — crash into my legs and stomach. Their slobber flies out of their slack mouths onto my face. Uunnnnnnhhhhh… I feel a wave of sick fall over me as a heel grinds into my crotch. The whole time they wear these ugly rotten teeth smiles… Eventually it’s over. I’m nothing but a mass of pulp on the floor. But as they leave, I raise my head, and with my swollen, half closed eyes, I stare each of those bastards down and they know, oh they know, that they can’t beat me. I can never be beaten.

I don’t quite have that same self image here.

I don’t have ANY self image here. I couldn’t tell you for certain what I look like now, all of me at once.

Holds up tiny mirror.

Just TRY and take a look at your whole body in one of these. I can only catch parts of me at once and then I have to try and piece the different images together in my head. Patchworkman.

But I guess it really doesn’t matter what it look like. Who am I going to impress?