Read Zombie Spaceship Wasteland Online
Authors: Patton Oswalt
Zombie Spaceship Wasteland
ALSO BY
PATTON OSWALT
NOVELS
The Brannock Doom, Devil’s Brain-Collector Series
The Forgotten Tomb of the Worm-Serpent
The Remembered Citadel of Screeching Victory
The Lost Mage-Pit
The Discovered Witch-Keep
The Falsely Recovered Troll-Bog Memory
The Thane Star-Mind Series
The Nothing Ray
Song of the Cyrus-5 Dream Hunters
Sand-Riders of the Fifth Sigil
Andro-Borg-Bot
Solar Star
Galactic Universe
CHILDREN’S BOOKS
The Candy Van
A Ewe Named Udo Who Does Judo and Other Poems
Everyone Resents
SCRIBNER
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DESIGNED BY ERICH HOBBING
Manufactured in the United States of America
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2010025144
ISBN 978-1-4391-4908-9
ISBN 978-1-4391-5627-8 (ebook)
Credits can be found on p. 193.
For Alice and Michelle
my spaceships away
from the zombie wasteland
She cries black tears!
—Cindy Brady,
The Brady Bunch
“We’re trying to survive a nuclear war here!”
“Yes, but we can do it in style . . .”
—Howard and Marion Cunningham,
Happy Days
There’s nothing in the dark that isn’t there in the light.
—Major Frank Burns,
M*A*S*H
Contents
I Went to an MTV Gifting Suite and All I Got Was This Lousy Awareness of My Own Shallowness
ZOMBIE
SPACESHIP
WASTELAND
In middle school, I started
reading
.
I’d been “reading” since kindergarten. It was dutiful and orderly. Point B followed Point A.
But something happened in middle school—a perfect alignment of parental support and benign neglect. The parental “support” came from keeping me stocked in Beverly Cleary, John Bellairs,
The Great Brain
books, and Daniel Pinkwater. Also
Bridge to Terabithia, The Pushcart War, How to Eat Fried Worms
—and the parallel-universe, one-two mind-crack of
The Bully of Barkham Street
and
A Dog on Barkham Street
.
And then there was the blessed, benign neglect.
The “neglect” grew out of the same “support.” My mom and dad were both busy, working jobs and trying to raise two kids during uncertain times. In the rush of trying to find something new for me to read, they’d grab something off the shelf at Waldenbooks after only glancing at the copy on the back.
Whoever did a lousy job writing copy for books like Richard Brautigan’s
The Hawkline Monster,
H. P. Love-craft’s
At the Mountains of Madness,
Harlan Ellison’s
The
Beast That Shouted Love at the Heart of the World,
and Anthony Burgess’s
A Clockwork Orange
(“It’s about a teenager in the future!” said my mom)—thank you. Thank you thank you
thank you
. You gave me some tangy, roiling stew under the golden crust of the Young Adult literature I was gobbling up.
So yes, I still love Bellairs’s
The House with a Clock in Its Walls,
but I always imagine the two bounty killers from
The Hawkline Monster
in its basement, armed for bear and fucking the Magic Child on a rug. And somewhere beyond John Christopher’s White Mountains are Vic and Blood, hunting for canned food and pussy. And who prowled the outer woods of Terabithia? Yog-Sothoth, that’s who.
It’s a gift and an affliction at the same time—constantly wondering how the mundane world I’m living in (or reading about) links to the darker impulses I’m having (or imagining I have). The gift-affliction followed me (or was it guiding me?) through my teens, in 1980s suburban Virginia. The local TV station still showed
The Wolfman
on Saturday mornings—but I’d already read Gary Brandner’s
The Howling
. So I couldn’t watch Lon Chaney, Jr., lurch around the Scottish countryside without wondering if he craved sex as much as murder. I would recontextualize lines of sitcom dialogue to suit darker needs, the way the Surrealists would obsess over a single title card— “When he crossed the bridge, the shadows came out to meet him”—in the 1922 silent movie
Nosferatu
.
*
Then the local TV station gave way to the early years of cable TV. My parents’ working hours were such that it was impossible to police my viewing habits. Scooby-Doo and his friends unmasked the Sea Demon and found bitter Old Man Trevers, trying to scare people away from his harbor. But they missed, under the dock, the Humanoids from the Deep, raping sunbathers. Did Harriet the Spy and the Boy Who Could Make Himself Disappear run afoul of Abel Ferrara’s Ms. 45, Paul Kersey from
Death Wish,
or the Baseball Furies from Walter Hill’s
The Warriors
?
The Pushcart War
took place on the same New York streets where Travis Bickle piloted his taxi. And it sure was cool how the Great Brain could swindle Parley Benson out of his repeating air rifle by pretending to make a magnetic stick. You know what was better? Knowing that, one state over, the bloody slaughter of
Heaven’s Gate
was swallowing up John Hurt and Christopher Walken.
Maybe that makes my generation unique—the one that remembers
before
MTV and after . . . and then
before
the Internet and after. The generation I see solidifying itself now? They were
born
connected—plopped out into the late nineties, into the land of Everything That Ever Was is Available from Now on. What crass acronym will we slap On the thumb-sore texting multitudes of the twenty-first century? The Waifnos? The Wireds? Anything’s better than “Gen X,” which is what we got. Thanks, Douglas Coupland. We sound like a team of mutant vigilantes with frosted hair and chain wallets. Actually, that’s not completely horrible.
And neither was being “Gen X.” We’ll always cherish the stark, before-and-after culture shift of our adolescence. We had isolation . . . and then access. Drought and then deluge. Three channels and then fifty. CBs and then chat rooms. And our parents didn’t have time, in the beginning, to sift through the “Where is all of this new stimulus coming from?” and decide what was beyond our emotional grasp. Thus, the mishmash. Six-color cartoons, but with an edge of gray and maroon. YA literature laced with sex and violence. A generation gifted with confusion, unease, and then revelation.
Not anymore, I guess. It seems that every TV show, movie, song, and website for the generation following me involves protagonists who’ve been fucking, killing, and cracking wise about fucking and killing since
before
anyone even showed up to watch them. I’m sure that will yield some bizarre new films, books, and music—stuff I can’t even imagine. Doesn’t matter. By the time that comes around, I’ll have long had my consciousness downloaded into a hovering Wolf Husbandry Bot. I’ll glide over the Russian steppes, playing Roxy Music’s
Avalon,
setting the mood for a lusty canine rutting. I don’t care how high my shrink increases my Lexapro dosage—I WANT TO BE A ROBOT THAT HELPS WOLVES HAVE SEX. Otherwise, my parents threw away the money they spent on my college education.
So thank you, Mom and Dad. Thank you, League of Lazy Copywriters. Thank you, reader, for buying this book. I apologize ahead of time for not even trying to aim at Point B, or even starting from Point A. Comedy and terror and autobiography and comics and literature— they’re all the same thing.
To me.
