The Culture Bunker
by William Ham
illustration by Dave Coscia
Boy, if I had a penny for every time some stranger on the street came up and asked just what it took to come up with this column every month, I’d almost have enough to go halfsies on a gumball. Strange as it may seem, these pieces don’t spring full-blown from my forehead like that mythological thing jumping out of the head of that ancient dude. I have 1500-2000 words to come up with every month, and it would be innately remiss of myself to permeate the allotted accommodation of monographic spatiality with a panoply of overweening verbiage merely to devise a semblance of cerebrality every twelfth of an annum. No, writing this column requires round-the-clock research, lengthy transcontinental bus rides, and an expense account that makes the federal deficit look like the combined domestic box-office receipts for Striptease. Observe the complete rundown of the work required to complete an average Culture Bunker:
Day 1. First day after publication of previous issue. Awoke at 3:30 pm (rising early being the best way to get a leg up on the day). Checked mail – no letter from the Pulitzer committee yet (though after my brilliant piece on the election, “Geez, This Dole Guy’s Old, Huh?”, it’s only a matter of time), but I did get a response from the Governor’s office concerning my suggestion that handicapped parking spots should be made accessible to people who merely walk kind of faggy. Decided not to read entire letter; figured I sussed the overall tenor from the salutation, “Dear Sociopathic Scumbag.” Turned in at 4:00 (mustn’t overexert myself; I had a cold last December).
Day 2. Slept.
Day 3. Awoke at 5:15 pm. Had breakfast (scrambled eggs/toast/broiled mealworms/coffee). Began work on column. Carved two support beams before remembering that I wasn’t a carpenter. Resolved to give sander, plane, saws and 101 Ways To Reattach A Finger Joint book to the underprivileged and begin writing tomorrow.
Day 4. Awoke at 88:88. Discovered that the power had gone out during the night. Decided it was a bad omen and resolved not to write that day. Weighed other options carefully. Went back to sleep.
Day 5. Awoke, got paper. Headline: “CRAZED HOMELESS MAN GOES ON RAMPAGE WITH SANDER, PLANE, SAWS AND TIME/LIFE HOME-SURGERY BOOK; CUTS POWERLINES ALL OVER CITY BEFORE TAKING OWN LIFE.” What a sick world. Sat at table, alternately brooding creatively and moping imaginatively. Roused from artistic depression by frantic phone call. Jumped up, bolted from house.
Later That Day. Returned to house. Put on pants. Left again.
Later Still That Day. Arrived at Name Withheld’s house, greeted by five mutual friends and two close enemies. “Thanks for coming,” one said. “It’s gotten really bad. First, he has his name changed to that stupid anonymous synonym, now this. This intervention’s his only chance for survival.”
“Wait. That’s what this is? I thought you said ‘interpretive dance recital’!” I pulled the box off my head and threw my oversized gloves to the ground. “Damn those portable phones!”
“Shhh,” somebody said. “He’s coming.”
“Hey!” somebody else said. “You’d better clean that up before Name Withheld gets here. God, in front of company like that. Disgusting.”
“Sorry,” still somebody else said. “Those oversized gloves got me excited. Anybody got a Wet-Nap?”
In all the hubbub, nobody noticed Name Withheld enter. He tugged at his butterfly collar nervously. “Wh-what’s going on here?”
“We have to talk, Name. We’re all very concerned about you. We were hoping it was only a phase but… this ’70s retro thing is getting out of control.”
Name stamped his earth shoe-shod feet angrily. “Whatchoo talkin’ ’bout? I don’t have a problem. I can quit quoting the Eagles any time I want!”
It went on like this for a couple of hours – reminding Name about how his job had suffered (he was demoted after he gave his supervisor noogies and told him to “sit on it”), how none of his friends recognized him anymore (mostly due to the muttonchops), etc. Finally bit the bullet (God, but those things taste nasty) and told Name about my own retroaddiction. I had told very few people (and even fewer ocelots) about it, but I poured my heart out that night – the four-Nehru-jacket-a-day habit, how I sold all my belongings in order to purchase every existing copy of the Tony DeFranco and the DeFranco Family album – finally, they had to call in a professional de-retrogrammer who pulled me from my stupor by showing me a picture of what Joan Collins looks like without makeup. (That’s why they call it tough love, people.)
Name paused thoughtfully, then looked straight at me with tears in his eyes. I’ll never forget what he then said:
“Do I know you?”
“Isn’t this 668 Gelded Boulevard?”
“No, it’s 667 Gelded Boulevard. The emergency interpretive dance recital is across the street.”
“Oops. Sorry.”
Walked down the driveway, hearing the muffled but unmistakable sound of a WIN button being thrown in anger; thought, you know, this might make a good topic for my column this m… nahhh. Arrived at recital just in time to identify the bodies. Then went home; had a codeine-laced Bosco; slept.
Day 7. Other obligations call. Received a package from Fulcourt Press containing advance copies of books I am to write laudatory blurbs for (an easy task that helps pay for my nascent Hair Replacement for Cats business – this writing thing’s a nice lark, but I will never forsake my true calling). Picked up each, skimmed through them quickly, smelled each carefully (the only way to truly suss out the essence of a book – I’m presently lobbying to have all major novels available in both audio book and eau de toilette formats), wrote blurbs:
“The Expense Account of Monte Christo combines heroism, tragedy, and tax statements with a panache that would give Victor Hugo large, drippy sores up and down his back.”
“Once in a great while, a novel comes along that truly shows the meat-packing industry for what it is. It hasn’t happened yet, so I’ll continue reading If Charlemagne Owned A Jeep until it does.”
“I couldn’t put Heather Has Two Mommies and a Turkey Baster They Call Dad down. I mean that literally – there was some kind of sticky stuff on the cover and it’s been epoxied to my right hand ever since.”
Finished. It is, in all humility, undoubtedly the best writing ever done in the history of mankind with the possible exception of Fabio’s autobiography (think Plato’s Republic with better pectorals). So pleased am I by the work I’ve done that it calls for a celebration.
Decided to kick out the jams, forcibly eject the preserves, and party the best way I know how.
Days 8-12. Slept.
Day 13. Awoke groggy, disoriented, and with breath reminiscent of New Jersey (minus Passaic – I’ll never allow myself to get that out of control), yet refreshed. Time to get to work. Unlike most writers, I prefer to begin with a title and then tailor the piece to fit. Once a title is devised, the rest of the piece flows like the synchronicitous menstruation of an entire cell block of a women’s prison. Sat at my table and ruminated. Suddenly had revelation. Consulted dictionary, discovered that “ruminate” does not mean “to pour overproof rum all over one’s naked body and squeal like a barnyard animal.” Realized why I keep getting banished from the library. Decided to think about title instead. All the good ones had already been used – “Good Night, Sweet Artist Formerly Known As Prince,” “It Takes A Village To Bleach My Shirts,” “Yo! Read This Motherfucking Column, Motherfucker!” That last one I was particularly proud of, although my editors at Modern Catholicism soon had second thoughts about the “full creative control” clause in my contract. Resolved not to rest until I figured out title.
Day 14. No entry.
Day 15. No entry.
Day 16. Good God! Where did my elbows go?
Day 17. Did it. True to my word, went 96 hours with no sleep and only a peanut butter and petroleum jelly sandwich for sustenance. Minor side effects – dry mouth, slight nausea, tendency to hallucinate the Three Graces appearing in my kitchen, performing an impromptu rendition of “Love Is A Battlefield” and doing several unnatural acts with the can of squeezable goat cheese in my fridge – but otherwise elated. Came up with a title that’s simple, evocative, even somewhat sexually stimulating if the way my writing desk has begun to tilt upwards is any indication. May I say it is my masterpiece.
I call it “The Culture Bunker.”
Don’t ask how it came to me. Even the artist himself is sometimes blind to the ministrations of the muse, although the fact that I used as the title for my last nineteen columns may have something to do with it. Now I can begin writing. But first, I’ll have to buy my cats back from the six-headed Viking in my bathtub using the magic beans Elroy, the Enchanted Produce Salesman gave me yesterday. A writer’s life is not an easy one.
Day 18. Awakened by a call from the Features Editor at News ‘n’ Stuff. He thinks my investigative piece, “Who Killed Spiro Agnew?,” has promise, but cited a few minor liabilities: The prose could use a little tightening in places, I shift between the first and third person too often, and Agnew isn’t dead yet. Said he’d probably run it anyway.
As for the column, I’ve winnowed down the list of possible topics to two: “101 More Ways To Insulate Your Home Using Only Expired Yogurt” and “The Word ‘Syzygy’ Repeated 1500-2000 Times To Fill Space.” And they said I was in a creative slump.
Day 19. Awakened by clock radio. Before managing to sedate it with a chloroform-soaked napkin, it told me that a man had been fatally injured by falling from his twelve-inch platform shoes and catching his astrological chain and gold coke spoon on a barbed-wire fence. His cries for help were muffled when his Framptonesque hairdo caught in his mouth and served as a gag. Didn’t mention his name but I’m sure it was Name. Wept for shame, then called my agent with a lucrative PSA concept: “RETRO KILLS.” I envision billboards, radio/TV spots, and the sonorous tones of Joe Piscopo saying: “The time to stop retro in your community is now, not 1976. Remember, ‘grease’ is not the word.” My agent was very enthusiastic; Fed-Exed him $75,000 to put the spots into production immediately. Such was my excitement that I couldn’t concentrate on my column and soon fell asleep from the exhaustion brought on by my creative fervor. The three Xanaxsicles I ate probably helped too.
Day 20. Awoke in a cold sweat. Wait – I don’t have an agent. Who was that guy?
Days 21-25. Creative impotence; feelings of inadequacy; occasional bouts of giggling.
Day 26. Less than a week to go before press time. Scott called with one of his typical gentle reminders – “finish the fucking piece or we cut off another finger,” I believe he said – which, as always, provided the impetus to get to work. A marathon writing job is in order.
Day 27. Winded; ankles hurt; writing barely legible. Will keep writing and marathons separate from now on.
Day 28. Writing going well. Inspiration bursting from me like pus from a livid cyst (to paraphrase Yeats).
Day 29. Writing going even better; Marburger’s advice (“use the other end of the pen”) has proven most helpful.
Day 30. Twenty-four hours to press and the column is finally finished. A brilliant, intellectually unassailable, endlessly jocular piece of writing that will likely stand tall among my very finest works.
Day 31. In a fit of pique, burned the column and replaced it with some journalesque horseshit interspersed with bits pasted in from an old Mad Libs game. “(exclamation),” I said (adverb), “this writing (noun) sure makes me wanna (verb) a (noun).”
