The Chesterton Review. Clever... all the time!

Bon mot. Literally, it translates to “sweet mouth.”

Don’t worry about it—I didn’t know what it meant either. But I had some free time this afternoon between lunch and 5:00, and I did a little etymological research.

The phrase is French, and it dates back to the days before the most recent French revolution. France was totally going to pot back then. The emperors and their ladies were super rich, and they started the fashion of eating only little candies all day. The rest of the country was super poor, though, shit poor, but they still wanted to act like rich people and eat little candies all day. The poor people couldn’t afford candy, and there sure as shit weren’t little candies lying all over the place. But there was something else lying all over the place: goose poop.

See, one of the main reasons for all of France’s revolutions (besides all the rich people making everybody else feel ugly) was the periodic goose infestations. They were everywhere! And nothing drives a poor person crazy like geese getting up in their huts and stuff. The kings always promised to keep the goose population down, but geese are cyclical, and there’s not a lot you can do about it. So now and again the poor people would revolt because of all the geese, and kill some richies.

In this last goose-infested, pre-revolutionary period, the poor people were feeling jealous over the rich people’s constant candy-eating, and they were driven to desperate measures. They ate the only plentiful, approximately candy-sized objects they had (goose poop). It’s sort of like poor people today who wear pieces of car tires instead of Crocs, or snort salt instead of cocaine. It’s all about image.

So they ate the goose poop, because it was practically free, and it made them feel fancy. But obviously they couldn’t call it “goose poop” unless that’s what the rich people called their candies (it wasn’t), so they thought up a term that sounded—to them—cute and classy: bon bon (literally “sweet-sweet”).

But as much as the poor people liked the cultural cachet that came with being seen eating goose poop, the pastime was not without drawbacks. The main issue was a certain rankness of the mouth that accompanied a day of lying in the shade and eating “bon bons.” It made lengthy discussions between habitual bon bon eaters excruciatingly unpleasant, in fact, and so many people limited their conversations to as few words as possible. In another attempt at classing up a behavior by calling it the exact opposite of what it was, these outbursts were dubbed “bon mots.” And yet, for whatever reason, the expression stuck. We still use it today to describe the clever expressions of rich people, or what someone smart enough to have a twitter account wants to say at any given time. Bon mot.

What I’m getting at is that I now have a twitter account. It wasn’t easy, and it’s not cheap, but I was thinking about how it can sometimes literally be months between my diary entries, and how that’s too long for most people to wait for my “sweet mouths.” And so: twitter.com/DandyChesterton

PS—My cell phone is rotary, so please forgive the typos. They’re a small tradeoff for updates from my bathroom. (Or any bathroom!!)

S.D.S.

Where did the month go?

No, really, where did the last month go? Not long after my previous post, I got what I heard the doctors call a “corncussion.” What’s a corncussion? It’s like shaken baby syndrome, but for grown-ups. I’ll tell you what, I’ve never envied a shaken baby any less than I do now. (Except for the shaking, I had always considered that to be a pretty decent gig.)

So… Yes, and no.

Yes, I got it from a fall in the bathtub. And no, I didn’t slip and fall while trying to put something up my, you know, butt. Why does everyone think this? (Ok, not everyone, just my mother.) Only one thing goes up my butt: thermometers. And sometimes I prefer oral thermometers, so it’s not even like thermometers are up there all the time.

It’s a health thing. You have to keep constant tabs on your temperature. Otherwise… who knows what could happen? That’s a mystery I’d rather not be the one to solve.

Who’s to say that the corncussion wasn’t heat-related? I don’t remember what happened, exactly, but it seems more than reasonable that I could have been taking an ice bath to compensate for an unexpected rise in my core temperature. Ice is, of course, the slipperiest element, and I probably stepped on a cube, took a tumble, and, viola, corncussion. If I had been monitoring my temperature more carefully, I probably wouldn’t have had to spend the last three weeks relearning which direction Mario is supposed to run. (To the right.)

On the plus side, while unconscious I had a wonderful dream about one huge rabbit with one huge eye (and one normal eye, but the big one was really the attention-getter.) The dream was thin on plot, but I think it could easily be fleshed out into a film, or at least one of those one-man plays.

Too late for an Oscar nomination?

I wrote a fancy proposal for a fancy movie. Now, I know the movie hasn't been made yet, and most of the nominations for Academy awards have already been given out, but I've got my fingers crossed for a last minute nod. It hasn't reached enough of an audience yet that I feel like I should necessarily expect an award... but I think all the people who worked on the project (me) are due for some recognition.

Find it here, at Paper Darts magazine.

Wish I had Twitter!! X-)

Watching "Dunston Checks In" again. Just getting to the part where Dunston bites that golden retriever on the face so hard that it has to be put to sleep. (Spoiler alert!!!)

Top/Potter, Harry/Gun

Heyo, all! This one has been stewing around in my head for a while. My real stews don’t turn out very well, if I’m being perfectly honest, but I have a good feeling about this one. If it were a real stew, it would be rich, tangy, and brown. (Brown isn’t particularly appetizing, I know, but it’s the appropriate color for stews.) Also, this slash/stew wouldn’t be poisonous. That might seem like a given to most of you, but, trust me, it’s not.

Anyway, a couple weeks ago I was sitting in my closet, watching a film from a then-little-known producer by the name of Jerry Bruckhimer. The movie was about a troubled and short young man with dark, tousled hair. This boy had rare and exceptional abilities, and was accepted into an exclusive school for other special children like him.

At the school, the lad made a sidekick out of an oafish bootlick, formed a curiously asexual relationship with a very clever girl, and found an enemy… and then a friend in a blue-eyed, blond haired classmate. And, of course, he ultimately excelled at the unusual academy.

I’m talking about Harry Potter, right?

No! But, see, that’s what I thought too! It turns out that I was high as a kite from a Freon leak (my neighbor’s vintage refrigerator vents right into my closet) and I had actually been watching Top Gun all night.

But the mix up got me thinking: if I could so easily get these two films confused… maybe they were really meant to be mixed up. Mashed up. Slashed up!

And so, without further ado, I give you…

Top Potter/Harry Gun

The men’s locker room at the Navy’s elite Fighter Weapons School. The room is empty, the showers temporarily dry and free from concealing clouds of steam.

The doors open, and a crowd of boisterous young men jostle and shove their way into the locker room. Many of the young men wear the FWS’s standard-issue sport jeans, the official volleyball wear of the school. For they have indeed been playing volleyball, in a much anticipated intermural match with Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The Hogwarts students have been graciously allowed to use the FSW’s locker room, and still flushed with the excitement and sportsmanship of the afternoon’s match, the cadets are happy to share their space.

The Hogwarts students have lost the game. It was a close game, close enough that they very well could have won if luck had gone their way, but the defeat is a stinging one nonetheless. Hogwarts boys are used to getting what they want, and these boys wanted to win. They shuffle into the locker room, their shoulders slumped in their sleeveless sport robes. The last two to come in are the captain and co-captain of the team, and they can’t help but feel responsible for the team’s loss. They are, naturally, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. (Respectively. Ron knows the only reason he is co-captain is because of his famous and athletic friend.)

Ron: Mother-fu…

Harry: Ron! You’re a co-captain! Act like it for once.

Ron: Ah, sorry, mate. I just… I just…

Harry: I know. It’s the worst. But without the losses, the victories would mean nothing.

Ron sighs.

Ron: If you say so, mate.

Ron slouches onto a bench and bends down to struggle with his shoes. He has never gotten the hang of laces. He stays at it for several seconds.

Ron: Ah, Harry, mate…

Harry looks down to see the tangle Ron has made of his laces.

Harry: No problem, Ronno.

Harry crouches next to Ron, and concentrates on the knotted laces. He’s amazed that Ron could have created such a mess with only two strings and no magic. His prescription goggles have become fogged in the warming locker room, and he pulls them from his eyes.

Ron: They make you look like Scotty Pippin.

Harry: What?

Ron: Your goggles. They make you look like Scotty Pippin. It’s a good look on you.

Harry: Thanks, mate, but I know what they make me look like: a git.

Ron: No! Harry, I’d never…

Harry: Don’t worry about it. I know.

Harry stands up and gives Ron’s bare shoulder a firm squeeze.

Harry: There you go. Laces sorted out. Why don’t you hit the showers? The next game will be better. I know it.

Ron: Yeah. We’ll beat these retards yet!

Harry: I wish you wouldn’t use that word. But… (Harry grins) Yeah, we will.

Ron ambles off towards the showers, his mood already lifting. Harry wishes he could be so carefree. He stretches, and scratches his temple with his wand.

A voice comes from behind him: Nice moves out there, Potter.

Harry whirls around, his wand at the ready, prepared to face the shriveling sarcasm of the Malfoy. But it’s not Malfoy that stands in front of him.

Harry: Who…?

But then he places the young man in his memory. He is Maverick, the captain of the FWS team. The boy, in many respects, looks like a stockier, more muscular version of Harry. Harry sees so much of himself in the other captain’s eyes, he half expects to see a vivid, zigzag scar on his forehead. But his brow is smooth and unmarked. A mischievous grin crawls across his mouth and creases his eyes.

Harry relaxes, and sits on the bench to untie his own shoes.

Harry: Er… Maverick. Thanks. But not quite nice enough, I guess, huh?

Maverick thrusts a jean-clad leg up on the bench, and rests an elbow on his knee.

Maverick: Ha ha! Nah. Just bad luck. Plus, the Iceman was in rare form today.

Harry: “The Iceman”?

Maverick: The cool customer with the highlights in his hair and the chip on his shoulder.

Harry: Ha. Practice that one?

Maverick’s grin widens.

Maverick: You know it. Maverick’s a real asshole, but he sure can play ball.

Harry: Yeah… I’ve got one a lot like that.

Maverick: The ginger?

Harry: Ron? No, Ron’s a puppy dog. Well, a puppy dog who can’t be trusted with matches, but you see what I’m saying. I’m talking about Malfoy.

Maverick: The golden snake with the killer spike?

Harry: That’s the one. “Golden snake”—that about sums it up, I suppose. Malfoy… sometimes I just want to break his little neck. And sometimes…

Maverick: Yeah. But that’s captainship for you. It’s not what people think it is.

Harry: No, it’s not. It’s… stressful.

Maverick: You said it. It just builds up, right up here.

Maverick places his thick hands on Harry’s shoulders. Maverick is right. The muscles in his shoulders are tense, and as knotted as Weasley’s pathetic shoes.

Harry: Yeah, right up there.

Maverick squeezes Harry’s shoulders, kneading the tight muscles.

Maverick: You just have to let the game in, you know? The action, the movement… Let the game lead you, and you’ll lead your boys just fine.

Harry: Yeah, I forget that sometimes. Say, I don’t suppose you’ve ever played quidditch…

Ron calls excitedly from the other side of the locker room: Harry! Mate, they have some sort of tub full of hot water, like a… a… a hot-tub. You can get in it!

Harry reaches back to give Maverick a pat on the bicep.

Harry: I better go check on him. Last time he went in the lake by himself, he almost drowned. From eating mud.

Maverick gives Harry’s shoulders one last squeeze, tight and strong.

Maverick: Ha. You should have seen Goose. Until next time, Potter.

Harry: Yeah. Until next time. Oh, and Maverick?

Maverick: Yeah?

Harry, with a wink: Watch your back at the next match. I’ll be gunning for you, bud.

Maverick: Ha ha! I don’t doubt it!

Maverick flashes a grin, and gives Harry the thumbs-up. The curtain falls.