Spotting the References in Jimmy Fallon’s “Joking Bad” Sketch


Almost a year ago I did one of these posts, identifying the references in Conan O’Brien’s brief (but beautiful) Star Wars by Wes Anderson sketch. And now, since I’ll only ever write things about Breaking Bad again, I thought I’d do the same thing for this long, not-quite-as-good (but-still-pretty-darned-good) parody of Jimmy Fallon’s.

As before, watch the above first, because I’m going to make it my business to take all the surprise out of this, write about the jokes until they’re not funny anymore, and basically turn an act of comedy into a text that must be studied until you hate it. Also, as before, I’m sure I missed things…so point them out in the comments below and I’ll add them to the list, give you a credit, and send you a Noiseless Chatter gift basket for playing.

Are you ready? Here we go…

Jimmy Fallon, Joking Bad

The sketch opens with a nice parody of a scene in the pilot episode of Breaking Bad. (It’s called “Pilot” officially, but the DVDs list it as “Breaking Bad.”) Jimmy, just as Walter White before him, sits numb to the bad news he’s being given. For Walter it was the diagnosis of advanced lung cancer…for Jimmy it’s that he’ll no longer be hosting Late Night. The swell of the sound in Jimmy’s head here is perfect.

I actually do want to point out that I kind of don’t like Jimmy Fallon…except when he’s doing things like this. He was terrible on Saturday Night Live and he’s horribly awkward when interacting with guests…but for whatever reason, Late Night With Jimmy Fallon has managed way more great pre-filmed material than I ever would have thought it capable of producing.

ADDITIONAL: Ace commenter Jory Griffis has better eyes than me, and noticed a mustard stain on the man delivering the bad news. Great detail, and great spot Jory!

Joking Bad, Jimmy Fallon

I’m only going to be talking about specific references here, not general nods, which is why I won’t say things like “Jimmy Fallon with a bald cap and glasses and a little beard looks like Walter White.” But, if you must know, Jimmy Fallon with a bald cap and glasses and a little beard looks like Walter White.

The above shot, though, is obviously based on a very iconic shot from the pilot episode, in which Walter, in underpants and a dress shirt, stands waiting for the police to arrive with a gun in his hand. It’s pulling double duty here, though, as that shot is almost as immediately familiar as the show’s logo thanks to its regular usage on DVD packaging and promotional materials.

Jimmy Fallon, Joking Bad

…and speaking of the show’s logo, here’s the requisite reconstruction. The rest of the periodic table seems to be filled with other features of Fallon’s show. I haven’t seen enough of his stuff to know for sure, but I know “Hashtags” fits that context, and obviously “Monologue” does as well. If any huge Fallon fans want to explain them in the comments, be my guest. But then you also have to leave.

Joking Bad, Jimmy Fallon

Walt walking down the street with his jacket open like this looks very familiar to me. I get the feeling it’s happened a lot of times, often with a cell phone pressed to his ear, but just in case it’s something anyone else can pinpoint…have at it.

Joking Bad, Jimmy Fallon

Fallon meets his “Jesse.” I can’t quite make out what he calls him. “Haymarks” maybe? I have no idea who that is, but I’ve read that it’s Steve Higgins, Fallon’s announcer. The scene doesn’t play out much at all like it does in “Pilot,” but the plot point is absolutely the same: Jimmy has the knowledge behind making jokes, Steve has the connections to sell them. They team up, and Jesse never dies on Breaking Bad PLEASE DON’T LET JESSE DIE ON BREAKING BAD

Joking Bad, Jimmy Fallon

This montage (unlike a later one) contains a soundalike I can’t quite identify. For that reason I’m not sure if it’s a reference to any specific “cooking” sequence in the show, though Steve spinning around in his chair is absolutely Jesse from “Pilot.” There’s also a scene of Jesse fooling around with a chair in “I See You,” but that’s a lot less likely to be referenced here.

The jokes are, of course, written on blue cards with the name of Fallon’s show written on them, which would make them conveniently easy to trace should anyone wish to investigate the illicit activities on display here…

ADDITIONAL: Commenter Ryan identifies the song in the montage as a soundalike for “Dead Fingers Talking,” from Walt and Jesse’s first cook in “Pilot.” Nice ears and ass, Ryan!

Joking Bad, Jimmy Fallon

A janitor enters the room to let them know they need to fumigate, but the writing continues…mirroring Walter’s new scheme as of “Hazard Pay.” It’s also an excuse to get them into the yellow hazmat suits, which I’m fine with.

A soundalike of “Crystal Blue Persuasion” plays now, referencing the cooking / distribution montage from “Gliding Over All.”

Joking Bad, Jimmy Fallon

The pencil’s-eye-view is a great little touch…but now I’m hard pressed to remember when such angles were utilized in Breaking Bad. I know there are lots of examples but nothing’s coming to me so HELP.

ADDITIONAL: Jory Griffis to the rescue again, identifying the angle as a reference to one in “Fly,” when Jesse is scrubbing the machinery in the lab.

Joking Bad, Jimmy Fallon

We’ve seen stacks of blue product on the show many times (especially during the Gus regime) but I think the first time we saw it in the show was “4 Days Out,” where it was also part of a montage.

Joking Bad, Jimmy Fallon

The two clink their beverages and kick back after a job well done, as in “Hazard Pay.” Now that I’m thinking about it, that was one of the last times Walt and Jesse were truly happy in each other’s company. Knowing this show, I’m shocked that it didn’t last forever!!!

Joking Bad, Jimmy Fallon

Colin Quinn sampling the blue stuff mirrors Tuco doing the same in “A No-Rough-Stuff-Type Deal,” and they both, if I’m interpreting their comments correctly, believe the product to be “tight.”

Joking Bad, Jimmy Fallon

Like Hank in “Gliding Over All,” A.D. Miles has an epiphany on the toilet while watching Colin Quinn’s set. Yes, I know the way I wrote that sentence makes it also sound like Hank’s epiphany occurred during a Colin Quinn set, but that’s hilarious to me so I’m leaving it.

I’m not sure what Miles does on Fallon’s show; I’ve seen him in other things, but this sketch makes it seem like he’s a writer for the show or something. Is he? Or did they just bring him in because he can channel Dean Norris pretty incredibly for a guy who looks nothing like him? (And if that’s the case…I’m happy.)

Joking Bad, Jimmy Fallon

On Breaking Bad we’ve seen Skyler write out Walter’s age in bacon twice, on his birthday. But here Fallon is writing something out himself…as Walter did in “Live Free or Die.” Which has led to some speculation that Skyler is dead by that point. I guess we’ll never know. :(

Joking Bad, Jimmy Fallon

Miles asks Jimmy about the initials…just as Hank does Walt in “Bullet Points.” The wardrobe department deserves some recognition for matching the shirts that the investigator wears as well…that’s a great, unnecessary detail.

The “ya got me” moment from that episode is recreated, with a pretty great punchline tacked on. And I really can’t say enough about how great Miles’ “impression” of Norris is. The speech pattern is spot on.

Joking Bad, Jimmy Fallon

The first of a few great cameos. Saul reprises his advice to sell in bulk from “Mandala,” as well as his “I know a guy who knows a guy…” bit, and I can’t tell if it’s genuinely good writing or just an expectedly stellar Odenkirk reading, but this ends up being the biggest laugh of the sketch for me.

Also interesting is that this was shot on the actual set for Saul’s office. (Prove me wrong, internet!) Since the show’s finished shooting the set is probably destroyed, meaning they must have shot Odenkirk’s scene a while back. Or maybe it still exists for the Better Call Saul spinoff. Who knows.

Either way, this shows obvious buy-in from the Breaking Bad folks themselves, which is lovely.

Joking Bad, Jimmy Fallon

Jimmy heads into the Roots’ vehicle (yes…the R.V.) which is billowing with smoke…just as Walt and Jesse’s R.V. was during cooks. Jimmy then meets Gus, who is exactly what you might expect so I won’t talk about that…

…but I will mention the pink teddy bear behind him. It’s the same teddy bear we saw in the black and white intro sequences to “Seven Thirty-Seven,” “Down,” “Over” and “ABQ.” And I’ve only just recently realized that those episode titles can be read together to explain what happened. Gilligan, you sly shit.

Oddly the teddy bear appears later behind Gus as well, in a different place, so either the Fallon crew just stuck it in the background again to make sure we saw it, or they’ve drawn some kind of connection between it and Gus Fring…which seems incorrect unless I’ve misread something.

The bucket of chicken reads Los Pollos Humanos…the chicken humans? I might be missing something. And the chickens in the picture are people in costumes, holding musical instruments. But they’re white guys so they’re not The Roots. Why am I thinking about this chicken bucket.

ADDITIONAL: Commenter Shawambam not only stole the name I was going to give my first-born son, he pointed me toward a youtube clip of the “chicken band” we see here. Evidently Fallon has these guys in chicken outfits come out and perform songs in the style of guys in chicken outfits. So NOW WE ALL KNOW.

Joking Bad, Jimmy Fallon

Bryan Cranston and Aaron Paul are both in Jimmy’s very disappointed audience. I know this isn’t a direct reference and is just a cameo, but I’m interested by the fact that they aren’t sitting together…presumably because their lines were shot at different times.

I also want to say that Aaron Paul is the only man alive who can pull off a “Boo, bitch.”

Joking Bad, Jimmy Fallon

An irate Cranston throws a pizza at Fallon so perfectly that it’s the second biggest laugh of the entire sketch to me. This is of course a reference to Walter angrily hurling a pizza in “Caballo Sin Nombre.”

And do pizza places actually sell unsliced pizza?

I kind of want one. I’d sit on the couch holding a massive unsliced pizza, just eating it and weeping.

Joking Bad, Jimmy Fallon

You can’t tell from a screen shot (so I bet you’re glad I took a screen shot) but the time-lapse sequence here mirrors similar scene transitions on the show.

This was a shitty part of the article. Ignore it.

Joking Bad, Jimmy Fallon

Gus’ office is 737ABQ, referencing the episodes “Seven Thirty-Seven” and “ABQ,” as well as Albuquerque in general, which is where Breaking Bad is both shot and set.

Jimmy and Gus engage in a vaudeville version of Walt’s “I am the one who knocks” speech from “Cornered,” and there is a note on the board that reads “Better Call Saul,” which is the title of another Breaking Bad episode, as well as Saul Goodman’s slogan.

What else is on the whiteboard? I’m glad you asked…there’s a drawing of a fly. This is a reference to another episode title, “A Drawing of a Fly.”

I have a feeling that the shot of Jimmy walking toward the office with his back to the camera is a reference to a specific scene in the show, but I can’t place it. So do that for me.

ADDITIONAL: The walk is framed identically to one toward the start of “Full Measure,” with the camera following Walt from the same angle as he approaches Gus, Mike and Victor after running over the drug dealers. I figured that out. I did that. I did that without any of you!

Joking Bad, Jimmy Fallon

Gus reads a joke so funny he’ll laugh his ass off, and we cut to the hallway and hear an explosion. As in “Face Off,” Gus steps through the door, adjusts his tie, and the camera circles around to reveal…

…that he’s fine. His face is okay. His ass, however, as he walks away, is indeed missing. And while I wouldn’t say it’s brilliant or anything, I do really like the way they dropped hints to this happening throughout the sketch. It feels like they at least tried to capture the layered narrative approach of Breaking Bad, even for this dumb little comedy whatsit about an exploding butt.

Joking Bad, Jimmy Fallon

Miles interrogates a Hector Salamanca-like figure, in what is a reference to a similar interrogation of the invalid in either “Bit By a Dead Bee” or “Face Off.” Behind Miles is a Lilly of the Valley, and since somebody stole some pot from me this morning I am now positive that Walter White used that type of plant to poison a kid.

Joking Bad, Jimmy Fallon

The sketch ends with a reveal of our Hector surrogate, which doubles as the only funny thing Jay Leno’s done in approximately 45 years.

So! What did I miss?

Review: “To’hajiilee,” Breaking Bad season 5, episode 13

To'hajiilee, Breaking Bad

One of the things I loved about the British version of The Office was its willingness to admit that however realistic it would have liked to appear — and however “actually real” it was within the show’s own universe — every episode was, necessarily, a fabrication. It’s all summed up in a great speech by Tim, in which he invites the camera crew to come back in a few years and check on him then. An ending isn’t an ending unless you choose to see it that way. The cameras stop rolling, the credits come up…but these people still go on with their lives.

That was Tim’s point. Maybe it looks tragic now, but come back later and things might look great. Sure enough, the cameras came back later and things looked great…but that wasn’t an ending either.

An “ending” is just a dividing line. A boundary. It’s a structural necessity because nothing can go on forever. We can drop it at a moment of triumph, or we can drop it at a moment of sadness. But whatever we do, wherever we put it, it’s a choice. And it’s a choice that informs our reading of everything that came before.

When we end on a downbeat, we feel as though everything we’ve just seen was the prelude to a fall. When we end on an upbeat, we know we’ve been building toward a crowning moment of glory.

The ending is important. Not to the characters, who will continue with their fictional lives long after we’ve stopped paying attention, but to us, as an audience. Because we want what we’ve experienced to have meaning. And, for better or for worse, we turn to the ending to help us find it. We also, unfortunately, end up oversimplifying the work as a whole. The ending matters…but it shouldn’t be all that matters.

I’ve always been fascinated by this. Hypothetically, if we had a story that followed, say 50 years of prosperity in a man’s life followed by a shorter time frame, a final two years or so, in which he was broke, unloved, and homeless…if he went from riding high to dying in the streets…we’d read that as a tragedy. On the other hand, if we had a story that followed 50 years of a man living as a bum, without a penny to his name, and he suddenly found himself flush with cash and living a life of luxury for the final couple of years of his life, we’d see that as triumph.

Why? Because of the ending.

In neither case does the bulk of the story matter*…it’s the ending. It doesn’t matter that 50 years were spent high on the hog and only two in the gutter…we focus on the gutter, because that’s where it ended. We view stories in terms of trajectory, rather than in terms of “time spent in any given situation.” We don’t measure…we follow. We want the characters we like to end high and the characters we dislike to fall low. How much time, energy or effort it takes to get them there is secondary; we want to know where they end up.

Endings have always been a strong point of Breaking Bad, with just about every one of them falling perfectly to serve as dividing lines on both sides: as an endcap to one chapter, and as an equally effective starting point for the next. When handled correctly — as this show almost unfailingly has handled them — they illustrate Tim’s point: you can break this off whenever you like, but things keep going. Things keep happening. Maybe you’ll tune in next week and maybe there won’t be a next week…but an ending isn’t really an ending.

At least twice during “To’hajiilee,” the idea of endings weighed heavily on my mind…and that’s not counting the episode’s actual ending, which is unquestionably seductive enough to attract all of our focus away from whatever machinations and manipulations it took to get us there. If I were to ask you right now to tell me the first thing that comes to mind about this episode, would you have any answer other than the gunfight?

I doubt it. Even though “Rabid Dog” left us smacking our lips for a week wondering what Jesse’s plan was, that’s not what we remember most when we finally see it fulfilled. Because suddenly that ending, which was so important to us, means a lot less when compared against a newer ending.

Jesse’s plan? Who gives a shit. This is where we are now.

Throughout “To’hajiilee” I kept expecting those credits to hit like a gunshot. Back of the head. No pain. But, as Uncle Jack knows, and Winston Smith before him, it doesn’t work if you’re expecting it. The time has to be right. And that’s why the episode didn’t end with Walt speeding away to save his money.

And that’s why the episode didn’t end with Walt cowering behind a boulder.

And that’s why the episode didn’t end with Walt in handcuffs.

And that’s why the episode didn’t end with Walt frantically trying to call off a hit.

That’s why the episode ended with a gunfight. A gunfight that at this very moment — this moment, frozen in time — can go either way. But the next episode’s in the can…it already has gone one way. It’s already happened. We’re behind. There’s an answer, but for another week we’re left only with a question.

And it’s a question that informs everything that came before it. Will we re-watch “To’hajiilee” through the filter of Jesse’s plan, or through the filter of screaming gunfire? Will we hear Hank’s phone conversation with Marie as the relief that his investigation is over, or as the last thing he says to her before an undoubtedly fatal shootout?

There’s a kind of cheapness involved when you break an episode at the peak of its action. It feels unfair…but I’m not sure “To’hajiilee” is unfair. I’m sure it feels that way…but it does seem also like the best possible ending; it says a lot about what came before, and it gives us a hell of a starting point for the next chapter.

What does it say about the episode? Well, I’d love to hear what you think…but for me, the way the entire hour unfolded felt a lot like what Kurt Vonnegut described in Walter Jr.’s favorite book, Breakfast of Champions. There Vonnegut discusses what it’s like to control characters as you write for them…you don’t just force them to do things; you guide their movements. You can “control” them in the sense that you are pulling their strings…but they’re long strings, elastic, with a lot of slack, and while you can ultimately get them wherever they need to be, there’s a lot that they can do on their own along the way…and they might be things you don’t expect.

That’s what “To’hajiilee” was about. Both Walt and Hank are at odds, but they’re not at direct odds. They’re both acting through intermediaries. Jessie, Andrea, Brock, Gomez, Huell, Uncle Jack…to some extent Skyler and Marie. Saul. These are people trapped in a game much larger than them, being played by two opponents who don’t care how many pawns they lose if it can inch them closer to victory.

But it’s not quite that direct. They can only guide their pieces. They can only suggest courses of action, and hope that they follow. Because when Walt tugs on that string, something happens. And there might be too much slack to get it to stop. The same thing happened to poor Hank when he pulled his own string by having Gomez cuff Walter.

Uncle Jack to the rescue.

I think Breaking Bad earned this ending, as much as I’d actually like to say that it didn’t. I’d like to say that it was a cheap way to get us to tune in next week. I’d like to say that it was manipulative and artificial.

But in reality, it wasn’t. The ending is earned, because the story could actually end here.

It doesn’t, and we know that, but it could.

We wouldn’t have to know who wins. It wouldn’t matter. What would matter is how it informed the story that came before. And it would have to be a story of long-term manipulation and the impossibility of total control, of how innocent lives are used in the greater service of a reward that ends up unclaimed and under ground, of how the smallest decisions add up to the largest, most devastating consequence.

In short, it’d have to be the story that Breaking Bad has already been telling for five seasons.

It works. And we’re going to focus on the ending, as we should.

But we shouldn’t focus on it as the question of who wins…we should focus on it as the answer: it doesn’t actually matter.

—–
* At least, not unless the artist makes it matter. I’m discussing writing here in a very general sense, and certainly you (and I) would be able to provide countless counter-examples. But I think it’s still worth thinking about. When we reach the end of The Great Gatsby, do we think “Well, the guy at least got to have those awesome parties for so long”? When we reach the end of Of Mice and Men, do we think “At least for all those years, they had each other”? Or, in the context of this show…what do we remember about Old Yeller? Just about everything we read or watch or listen to gets filtered through its own ending. We award the final moments with a sense of paramount importance by default…and I’ve always found that interesting.

Review: “Rabid Dog,” Breaking Bad season 5, episode 12

Rabid Dog, Breaking Bad

As much as I want to like “Rabid Dog,” there’s a structural problem I have with it, a serious one, and I’m finding it difficult to move past that. See, Breaking Bad has always, until this point at least, been written and edited to suit an hour-long time slot. With commercial breaks factored in that gives us around 45 minutes per episode, and by and large the show has worked very well to make the most of its time.

But, for whatever reason, Vince Gilligan and his team decided this late in the game that “Rabid Dog” would be only 11 minutes long. And that’s a problem. By short-changing us on a full episode this close to the end, Breaking Bad has cheated its audience. And while “Rabid Dog” does a lot of things right, it’s difficult to…

…hold on. Wait. I just checked and the episode was indeed about as long as any other.

My apologies. It only felt like it was 11 minutes long, and seemed so convincingly short that I actually said the word “No…!” when the credits faded in.

Yes, those first two paragraphs are just a hilarious joke. “Rabid Dog” continues the season 5 back-half tradition of every episode being significantly better than the already great episode that came before. I loved “Rabid Dog.” It managed, somehow, to be so packed with plot developments and artful narrative stalling, yet still felt incredibly short. That’s what happens when every second of your episode is used to its fullest potential; you get the whole chapter, but it’s still not enough.

For starters, before we even get into anything that happened here, I want to take a moment to appreciate the framework of “Rabid Dog.” The episode begins as a Walt story, which unfolds in a straight-forward manner, looking neither to the left nor the right, until suddenly we snap right back to where the episode began…and this time it’s a Jesse story*.

The paths converge toward the end of the episode, giving us a genuinely effective sense of impending clash. While the twin narratives do inform each other and fill in the gaps that we need in order to know exactly what happened, the point at which they come together is graceless by design, and dangerously so. The clean ending that we could have had is butchered by circumstance. A whole universe of “What if…” is born, and immediately dissolves before our eyes. First Walt and then Jesse are pulled along by the strings of fate, toward what could have been — whatever shape it would take — a full and complete resolution.

For better or for worse both Jesse and Walt are given more time to ponder the kind of ending they want this story to have.

Part of me — and I don’t mean this negatively — wondered if the structure of “Rabid Dog” wasn’t born in the edit, with someone getting the legitimately bright idea, in post-production, to split the two narratives and follow them both in isolation rather than cutting between them. I wondered this simply because Breaking Bad hasn’t really employed story-telling trickery like this before. It’s never needed to. I’d argue that it still doesn’t need to.

But the more I think about it, the more I feel that “Rabid Dog” does need this. Walt is in isolation, with Skyler his only source of potential guidance. And Jesse is also in isolation, with Hank his only source of potential guidance. Neither of them want to take advice from these people…but neither of them have anybody else anymore. Cutting between the two would have worked just fine, I think, but by separating them completely we become privy, at least to some extent, to how that isolation feels. And what it means. Both Walt and Jesse are sleeping in strange beds. They’re cut off from the worlds they knew, and still don’t know what world they’ll know next. They’re stuck.

Then there’s also the glorious reveal that Walt arrived with his handgun literally seconds too late to see Hank and Jesse pulling away from his house. That’s something that can’t have been born in the edit; that’s great planning. If only Walt had trimmed down his stammering bullshit about the Coke machine last week…another universe of “What If…”

I guess if I did have anything to complain about here, it would be a very minor gripe that, suddenly, Steve Gomez knows that Walt’s Heisenberg and that’s that. In one episode he doesn’t know anything, in this episode he knows everything. That’s a conversation that I would have really liked to hear, especially since we’ve spent three episodes dancing around the fact that Hank couldn’t tell anybody.

Now he can. And did. And we didn’t see it and oh well I guess.

Again, though, that’s nothing major…just a step that I really didn’t expect to see skipped.

Four episodes down in the final batch, and four to go. Skyler wants Walt to kill Jesse, and Hank is prepared to get Jesse killed in service of his own agenda. The scene, by the way, in which Hank reveals to Gomez that he couldn’t care less what happens to Jesse was perfect. I like that as easy as it would be right now to turn Hank into a paragon of virtue — and as much as we’d like to see him that way as an audience — the show is making sure that we still can’t root for him without reservation. There is no good guy left on the show…at least not truly good. Just different degrees of bad…and different kinds of bad…for different reasons. Shades within shades.

I wish I had more to say about “Rabid Dog,” but there’s almost nothing to do apart from list the things that I loved. Like Jesse unsure of whether Marie was Hank’s wife. Saul’s only, but absolutely classic, scene in the car. Skyler’s “What’s one more?” rationalization. The pump malfunction. The little girl hugging her daddy.

I would have loved to have heard that conversation between Walt and Jesse on the bench. The one we were promised, and the one we all wanted.

But Jesse stops before he gets there. He has another idea. Hank — and we — are frustrated. That’s what we needed to happen.

Don’t worry, Jesse assures Hank, speaking for the writing staff. He, and they, have something better in mind.

And I, for one, believe them.

I just hope the next episode is a full 45 minutes.

—–
* Is there any other show in the world, by the way, that achieves such tension even when nothing is happening? Walt combing the house with his gun is just a gigantic mislead, and not even a surprising one, but the entire sequence is tight as a fist. Thinking back, the show has had a lot of moments like this — the twins sitting on Walt’s bed come instantly to mind — and they’re all incredible. How many shows can successfully make nothing feel like a heart attack?

What is Detective Fiction?

Detective Fiction, Philip J Reed

Here’s something some of you don’t know about me: a few years ago, I finished a novel. It was called Afterbirth: The Comedy of Miscarriage, and it was around seven years in the making. That was a long time to spend with one project, and, as you might expect, I was substantially invested in it. I still am.

It was — and I guess is — the autobiography of a sperm. Our single-celled hero narrates the circumstances around him, the generations of couplings and false-starts and abandonments that culminate in his fertilizing off an egg…and eventual miscarriage. Needless to say he’s rather bitter, and much of the fun of writing this book had to do with the narrative perspective. What would have been, on its own, a story of a young man who does something foolish with a younger girl, suddenly became this massive, epic sprawl…simply because that moment, that night, that one bad decision — and the bad decisions that led up to it, and the bad decisions that followed from it — formed, for this narrator, his entire experience of life. The smallest thing was now the only thing. Everything was reconfigured and filtered through a unique and cynical perspective.

It was literary, it was jarring, it was dark. It was also unmarketable.

Because here’s something you do know about me: I’m a nobody.

Getting agents and publishers interested in this deliberately shifty, chronological scramble of loss and dissolution — hinging (though not explicitly so) on an act of statutory rape — was a tough sell. If I had a name…a name that people recognized…a name that people cared about or wanted to care about…it would have been another story. At least potentially. As it stood, it wasn’t the kind of gamble any agent or publisher in their right mind would have made.

I believe in the book. I’ve spent enough time with it and gotten enough glowing feedback on it that I know it’s very good, and that a certain type of reader would absolutely love it. But I don’t begrude anyone for not wanting to publish it. Why would they?

So I decided about three years ago on a course of action: I would write something that was marketable.

Why? So that I could market it. And hopefully get it published. And even more helpfully develop myself as a name people recognized, cared about, or wanted to care about. I’m not surprised at all that a literary mindscrew by a literal nobody faced nothing but rejection. But what if that literary mindscrew had some pedigree behind it?

I decided to write a pastiche of the detective fiction genre. This wasn’t for any particular reason except that “pastiche of the detective fiction genre,” as vague as that description is, still lights up some very clear expectations. It’s more marketable simply because there’s so much I don’t have to market. You hear that description and you immediately know the kinds of things to expect. You may not know the particular melody, but you sure as hell know the key it’ll be played in. And you, phantom agent, phantom publisher, will know from that alone whether it’s something that would interest you at all.

I felt a little cheap when I started writing it, because I wasn’t writing from the heart. I was writing something to sell…I wasn’t writing to express myself. I was writing something good, or at least I hoped I was, but it was a very different feeling from Afterbirth, which came from the heart in all kinds of ways. Afterbirth was born of my love of deep and confounding literature, of my darkest social and romantic and emotional fears, of my fascination with fate and circularity and patterning. Detective Fiction was born of my desire to be a published author. It was a very different thing.

And so I wrote, and I read. I researched the genre enough — just enough — to become familiar with how this type of story had to work. I read James M. Cain. I read Dashiell Hammet. I read Raymond Chandler. And I was amazed at just how good these books were. As much as we look back on hard-boiled detective fiction as a sort of ropey escapism, there’s actually a good amount of poetry in there…particularly in the case of Chandler, whose conflicted love for his own hero Philip Marlowe bleeds through the characterization in such unexpected and beautiful ways. I was impressed…but I was just writing a parody. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want it to get too good…that’s what ruined Afterbirth.

Detective Fiction was the story of Billy Passwater, who in the summer of his 29th year decides to become a private detective. Billy has no certification, no training, and no desire to take any of this seriously. But he has a pretty sweet fedora, and that’s a good enough start.

It was fun to write that much. I set it in south Florida, because I was familiar with the area and I thought the overtly tourist-friendly facade would make for a nice contrast to the noir-inspired elements of the book. It was a fun and immediate contrast that, I think, ended up informing the book in lots of ways I didn’t expect.

But at about the halfway point, something happened. A chapter more or less wrote itself without me. I had slid the pieces into place — as the author I kind of had to, but beyond that I can’t take any conscious credit — and the next thing I knew, we were off in a whole other direction. This happened at what is now the midpoint of the book…central in so many senses of that word.

And that’s when I realized who Billy was. Or, rather, when he showed me who he was. That, yes, he may have started as a sort of blank character I could force through the meat-grinder of familiar tropes and hallmarks so that we could all have a good laugh…but once I saw who he was I had an entirely different book on my hands, and most of the time I’ve spent writing Detective Fiction has been re-writing Detective Fiction. Because from that moment on, I knew things about him that I didn’t know before. He was an ugly character. These elements of the genre that I carried over shaped a very different type of hero in this new context. I was writing for a clown…but the moment I saw him without his makeup on, I recognized him as a criminal. It would still be a comedy, but with a different kind of punchline.

Despite my resistance, I had written a good book after all.

What I have now is a 258 page novel that’s still a pastiche of the detective fiction genre. However it’s also the story of delusion, of stubborn refusal, of accountability and passive cruelty and make believe and the refusal to grow up.

And I love it.

And it’s still — dare I speak so soon? — marketable.

It’s in the hands of my trusty group of proofreaders now. They’ll read it and they’ll give me feedback and I’ll take that into account and I’ll give it another rewrite bearing their comments in mind.

And after that I’m going to solicit agents again…and this time I’ll have something of much greater interest to them.

It’s a straight-forward narrative. It’s full of clues and cues and red-herrings. It starts in one place, and ends up somewhere else. It has a single protagonist with a clear objective.

It’s also got blackmail. And comedy. And murder. And sex. And palm trees. And a baseball bat covered in blood and fur. And some more sex. And karaoke.

Oh, and he solves a mystery at some point. Doesn’t he? He tries to anyway. And I sure hope he does, because otherwise I don’t know who will…

It’s something I can sell. And while I’m still ashamed of the fact that that was my primary objective in writing it, creating a great work of straight-forward genre fiction was my objective in re-writing it.

I hope I’ve succeeded. Because I really like it. And I think you will too.

With any luck, you’ll get to read it one day.

Keep your fingers crossed. Even the best manuscript needs a lot of luck.

And after my proofreaders get through with it, I will have the best manuscript.

We can do this.