Wednesday, June 29, 2011

The Hooded Man

So. I've taken up archery. Why have I done this crazy thing you ask? As part of my campaign, duh. As in "I promise to live up to my namesake, but I will only rob from the rich to give to the poor as your duly elected representative (VOTE FOR ME)." In fact, somebody call the local paper and pitch that as a political cartoon about my campaign. A little caricature of me aiming my bow at a fat cat with an arrow that has "tax reform" written on it's side. Now I just need something catchy to shout to supporters at public appearances. How about "The heart of darkness shall be pierced by my arrows of righteousness! Also, tax reform."

Good thinking, eh? Although it's actually just what I tell people to shut them up when they snicker about how someone like myself would do something so "hick-ish." Shutup, shutup, shutup. I'm a Renaissance man, mofos. I can do it all. The real reasons mostly have to do with archery as a sport. I work part time from home. It sounds great. It isn't. I've got cabin fever BAD and very little money. I wanted a sport that I could do on my time, that I could afford, that wouldn't be unduly hampered by my limp or my weight (the combination of those has wrecked my back and legs) and which is generally non-competitive. The first thought was swimming. I used to love to swim. Never trained so don't expect to see me do those fancy somersault wall kicks, but I can float on my back or tread water for hours, I can dive to the bottom and swim halfway across the lap lanes in one breath, got a decent top speed etc. etc. Or at least, I used to be able to do these things. I haven't really gone in years and there are reasons. The nearest indoor pool is half an hour away and gross and crowded. The town pool is very nice but it's only open three months a year. Only two are good for swimming and even then many days are almost complete losses due to summer showers and how we get kicked out at every rumble, flash or drip. Not to mention, it's very expensive. I considered martial arts, but again, expensive and far away from me, not to mention not to mention that I'm probably not healthy enough to do it. I also wanted to stay away from team and competitive sports for two reasons. One is logistical. I didn't want to have to sync my schedule with other people and play at prescribed times. The other is because people who play competitive sports have the wrong attitude, I think. It's all about stats and winning and improving your game rather than considering how simply playing the game improves you.

Wow, that came out a lot more Buddha than I'd intended. So let me rephrase. It's a simple, mechanical activity that gets me outside, requires my focus, but is also cathartic and consequently, it's a good chance to clear my mind and any exercise I may be getting by pulling the bowstring and chasing after my arrows on the rocky, hilly, crazy terrain has got to be better than what I was doing before.

Oh, and I really was named after Robin Hood. It's a long story. Or at the very least, a stupid one. Suffice to say that as a kid, I didn't like it, but when I learned that my father had been thinking about Frank or Floyd (After Frank James and Pretty Boy Floyd respectively) I was thankful my mother came up with it.

Monday, June 27, 2011

Victoly?

So as many of you may have heard by now, the gay marriage bill was passed in New York making it (if memory serves) the sixth state to allow it. On the one hand, this does feel like a triumph for civil liberties, but at the same time, I feel like it's tragic that it needs to be considered a victory. It never should have been an issue in the first place. And don't think it's escaped my notice, GOP, that you're always wah-wah-wahing about government interference in people's private lives but you conveniently do a 180 whenever your sense of moral superiority is pricked.

On an unrelated note- where have all my readers gone? I was surprised how many people were around for most of this year, but the last couple months have been really dry. Is it me? I took a look back through the archives and if I do say so myself, I'm freakin' hilarious. Then again, sometimes it's hard to tell. Just the other day I was talking with a friend and I slipped one of my VOTE FOR ME paratheticals in there and his response was "Oh, that reminds me. I read your blog. It's pretty cool." Uh, bwuh? He might be one of the few who knows of it, but I never gave him the adress. I think. I mean, I make a point of *not* mixing different aspects of my life if I can avoid it. One reader wanted me to join her writing group once upon a time. I'd have liked to, but too many overlapping issues there, especially once the agency started to represent her. I don't know how to feel about any of that. Should I want people I know to read my blog? Should I want readers to know me personally? Should I get pissed and do a naked jig whilst singing bawdy tavern songs? And are there things man was never meant to know? Or ask, for that matter? Good luck getting the naked jig image out of your head.

Friday, June 24, 2011

General Jacob Gallbladder and the Art of War Finale

“And what would I have to do? Kill somebody?” the boy laughed so loud I could barely even hear Kenny’s response.

“No.” He said with a straight face. “Nothing quite so,” he paused “distasteful.” The crowd stopped laughing and stared at him. He gave them a twisted, humorless grin and looked over them disinterestedly with dead looking eyes. “You need only,” he paused again “cut the legs out from under someone. Interested?”

The boy Kenny addressed stammered but didn’t say anything intelligible. Kenny’s right arm shot out and his fingers snapped twice loudly before holding out his upturned palm. After a second’s delay, I slapped the paper he’d given me into his hand. He held it up between him and the older boy. I could see that Kenny’s head barely came to the other boy’s belly button. “The pertinent information is in this file. I will see you Monday, if you think you’re up to it.” Kenny grinned again.

The older boy reached out his right hand as if to shake, and began to introduce himself. “I’m Nick,“ he began. Kenny dropped the paper on the ground, twisted on his heel and headed back the way we’d come in, his arms tightly behind his back once more, and no hurry in his steps. I raced to catch up and open the door for him again as we walked out, a hundred pairs of eyes boring holes in our backs.

Around the corner and two blocks down from the school, Kenny’s arms finally dropped to his sides again before he yelped in pain.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” I asked him. Kenny held up his left arm and I could see a pasty white ring circling it.

“I think I broke my wrist.” The voice he squeezed out was so pathetic it almost hurt me to hear it. “God, that was terrifying. What was I thinking? What kind of friend are you that you didn’t even try to stop me?”

“I, uh-,” I stuttered. “I dunno?”

I have no idea what kind of crazy planet Kenny lives on. I’m guessing it’s a nice place to visit, but a terrible place to live.

And that’s definitely going in the euology.

Thursday, June 23, 2011

Interuptions

We're taking a day away from Gallbladder because there are too many interesting things to talk about.

Long time novelist,comic and screen writer Peter David is forming a publishing company of his own with several other authors. Whether or not he writes your kind of book, it's something to think about when NYT best selling authors feel the need to "self publish." Also, an interesting debate going on at his blog over what the books should be priced. In general, I think people undervalue e-books, acting as if all the worth comes from its physical existence rather than the time and effort spent in development. What do you folks think? Anyway, I almost wish David had done this a year ago. He had a decent sized role in my master's thesis regarding new technologies and changes in the balance of power, but back then I was just saying how he'd branched out all over and established himself with lots of different audiences by doing crazy things like writing books for bizarre space opera themed punk rock bands. Now he's taken the next logical step.

Next up, former co-worker and cool person Linda Epstein is blogging regularly now. While of course she can't hold a candle to me in the chuckles department, both the quality and brevity of her posts make me embarassed at my own. She's even got some pretty fun polls of her own. So go read her stuff. Do it. Do it now.

Also, do you guys know about Kickstarter? It's kind of an odd site, but here's the premise. Small companies and start ups and things pitch their product to the world at large, looking to make the money they need to actually put it together. Not that it's donation on the "investor's" part since you'll get something out of it. One of the agency authors, Jeremy Schipp (whose writings are as fun as they are freakin' weird) is having a musical made out of one of his stories, and they're in need of more funding. Check it out, and if you leave anywhere near where it will be performed, "donate" 20 bucks. It'll get you a ticket and if the musical is as good as his books, it'll be worth it.

Finally, Merriam Webster's Word of the Day-
shaggy-dog \shag-ee-DAWG\ adjective
: of, relating to, or being a long-drawn-out circumstantial story concerning an inconsequential happening that impresses the teller as humorous or interesting but the hearer as boring and pointless; also : of, relating to, or being a similar humorous story whose humor lies in the pointlessness or irrelevance of the punch line.

Is this what you guys think of General Gallbladder? Someone speaaaak to meeeeeee.

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

General Jacob Gallbladder and the Art of War Part VIII

As I brushed past him to open the thick metal door for him he muttered something quietly under his breath. I think he said “thank you.” But I’m not really sure.

I stepped out onto the vast unknown blacktop and held the door open for Kenny. He walked out into the bright sunlight with an unusual swagger, and as he passed me I saw that he had his arms behind his back, the middle finger of his right hand wrapped tightly around his left wrist.

Everything around us seemed to stop. Kids stared. I looked around for playground monitors hoping no one would throw us off the school’s grounds. Kenny looked slowly from one side to another, pacing slowly across the open ground. Eventually, he stopped before the biggest kid on the field, and his arms seemed as thick around as the basketball he held in his hands.

“My name is Mr. Wells. This is my associate.” Kenny briefly gestured at me before clasping his arm behind his back again. “We are in the market for some muscle. It occurs to me that you have plenty to spare. How would you like to make a little money?” My mouth nearly dropped. Wearing Kenny’s dorky sweater and khakis was an honest to god mobster in the making.

I looked at the older boys and tried my best not to look nervous. Would they take him seriously? I thought it was more likely that they’d toss us back over the iron fence.

The guy Kenny addressed jammed his basketball against his side and used his free hand to scratch his chin. After a moment the kid smiled, then barked a laugh. The rest of the yard followed suit, twice as loud and three times as malicious as the taunts of our own class.

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

General Jacob Gallbladder and the Art of War Part VII

Kenny snorted. “You’re just not thinking politically.”

“You’re the doc, doc.” I informed him. When in doubt, brown nose. Motioning for me to follow, Kenny pulled on his backpack, walked out the door, into the street. He stopped at a corner, stopped. Then he turned around. Went back the way we’d just come.

“Shut up.” He said. I had to hold in a laugh. Wrestling to keep it under control kept me pretty well occupied for a while. After that, the pain in my feet kept me occupied.

Since our parents thought we were home sick, we didn’t have any money the subway or anything. It felt like we must have hoofed it half way across the island before Kenny stopped outside a wrought iron gate looking into a foreign playground. Reaching into his pocket, Kenny pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to me.
“Here, hold on to this. And when we go in there, try to act supercilious.”

I blinked.

Kenny Sighed.

I shrugged.

He rolled his eyes.

“Just don’t say anything and follow my lead.”

Kenny marched resolutely down the street and up the steps of the brick building. From the outside it didn’t look so different from our own school. Just over the door, however, was a sign containing the word middle. I swallowed hard. I was about to ask Kenny what he thought he was doing but right then he turned and glowered at me. He put his arms behind his back and curled his lips into a frown. For a second, seeing Kenny angry was very unnerving.

Then I remembered that he’s a skinny little shrimp and my friend besides, but his eyes were still sharp. Gesturing with his head, he walked briskly ahead navigating the corridors to take us to the school’s courtyard. He nodded towards the door. I waited for the door to nod back. It didn’t.

“Astin, get the door.” He said to me.

I looked at him.

He looked at me.

“Why don’t you get the door?”

“You’re not thinking politically.” He informed me.

“Right, right. I have a real problem with that.”

Monday, June 20, 2011

General Jacob Gallbladder and the Art of War part VI

Chapter 2

Sometimes it’s difficult being friends with a poindexter like Kenny. You can be in the same room and in two different worlds at the same time. As we’d agreed the day before, we both decided to take the day off, and after our parents had gone to work Kenny slipped out and joined me at my place. It really didn’t take more than a minute before we wound up in separate corners of the room. On my TV was the next big thing in gaming. In his hands was what seemed a tremendous leap backwards.

“What is that? Chess?”

“No it is not Chess. It’s the Legend of the Sword Song.” He proclaimed proudly.

“Looks like Chess.”

“This is a turn based tactical war simulation set in a rich fantasy world detailing the tragic and quixotic lives of a group of troubadors who try to stop a civil war.”

“So it’s chess. If chess were also a book.” Kenny frowned at my assertion but didn’t disagree. In general, that means he doesn’t have any way to counter your argument.

Which was fine by me because I didn’t want him to know that I had no idea what “quixotic” meant.

Still, let it not be said that Kenny doesn’t handle defeat like a winner though. Years of Gordon’s abuse had accustomed him to it. He sighed as he snapped down the lid of his little handheld system, putting it in standby. “Okay, fine. Whatever. What’s important is that I thought of a solution.”

For a moment, I didn’t even know what he was talking about. If I had, I’d probably have said something smarter than “Huh?”

Kenny slipped his system into a protective case, which he then placed in a larger case, and deposited in a cushioned area inside his backpack. After zipping it all closed he stood and stretched. “About Gordon,” he began “I think we should fight fire with fire.”

“Wouldn’t that just make a bigger fire?”

“That’s the idea.”

“Oh.” I thought about that for a moment but I wasn’t sure how a bigger fire would solve our problem. Or any problem for that matter. Outfitting the fire department with flamethrowers instead of houses sounded like a terrible idea to me. I was half convinced that Kenny would attempt to convince me of some Science Fiction style Nega-Fire, metaphysical wavelength that would stop fires or something equally crazy. “I’m not really sure how that helps us.”

Kenny snorted. “You’re just not thinking politically.”

Friday, June 17, 2011

General Jacob Gallbladder and the Art of War Part V

“Okay. So what does that mean?” I asked him.

“It means I’m sick of eating gallbladder.” He frowns at his now flat second pouch of juice. “Even if it is delicious.”

I search his face for any hint that he’s trying to be funny. All I see is his mournful stare at the empty pouch, as if willpower could refill it. Or perhaps he’s afraid that it will.

“So what does that mean?” I ask him. His brow furls.

“I dunno. Not yet. But we’ll be sick tomorrow. We’ll come up with something.“

Reflexively, I rub the palm of my left hand with my right thumb. The spot where Kenny’s boot had pinched me during our escape was sore, but tough.

Hard work builds calluses.
*****************************************
So that's the end of the first chapter of General Jacob Gallbladder and the Art of War. Thoughts? Was the vocabulary and tone appropriate for a ten year old audience? Do my characters sound too old? Was the pacing appropriate for target audience? Would the humor amuse them? I plan to have every chapter open and close with related observations; did it work for you? Tell meeeeeeeeeee.

Thursday, June 16, 2011

General Jacob Gallbladder and the Art of War Part IV

He plunged the straw into his own pouch and drained it before I’d even managed to slip my straw into the tiny hole. I was still trying to hold it comfortably without accidentally squirting it on myself when he opened another.

“Give it a rest, buddy. This stuff will kill you.”

“And what would life be without artificially flavored sugar water?” he asked.

“You have a problem.” I informed him.

“I can quit anytime I want to.” He drained his second pouch slowly, looking off into the distance. “But I’ve been thinking.” I considered insisting that I didn’t believe that he of all people would ever dare think, but held it in. He was in one of his moods, see. And there’s just people you don’t interrupt. You don’t interrupt a doctor during surgery nor an actor on stage. If you think those lead to disaster, you’ve never interrupted Kenny while he was brooding.

“Let me tell you a story,” he says, his face hard “about the warlords of ancient China and the ferocious General Jacob Gallbladder.” I couldn’t help it. I laughed. Wouldn’t you? How can anyone tell a story about a man named Gallbladder with a straight face? “What’s funny?” I wasn’t sure if he was angry, sarcastic or curious he said it in such a deadpan voice.

“Um. Nothing. Continue.” I tried to match his voice and hope he wouldn’t notice the slight smile forming at the edges of my lips.

“Gallbladder was not his real name. I just don’t remember the real name. Listen, it doesn’t matter.”

“So why are you telling me the story then?” I thought it was a fair question.

“The name. The name doesn’t matter. Look, do you want to hear the story or not?” Now he was glowering, pure and simple. His brood had been interrupted and there would be no peace until whatever terrible idea that had formed in his mind clawed its way out through his mouth.

“Yes. Of course I do.” I’m a very bad liar. Fortunately, Kenny isn’t picky. His only other friends were a brick wall named Eduardo and a tennis ball named Travis.

“Good. So, this General-“

“Gallbladder be his name.”

“He fought a real uphill battle. Outnumbered ten to one. He lost, obviously. But the enemy forces were so impressed they took him prisoner. They kept him in nice quarters, made him comfortable, offered him any food that he wanted, hoping he’d serve them. But instead he asked to be served gallbladder for every meal.“

“Ew. Where did you hear this story?” I asked.

“I dunno. I read it somewhere I guess. Anyway, the gallbladder would remind him of the bitter taste of defeat. He never let that hatred go and eventually he escaped, rejoined with more troops and routed his former captors.”

I frowned. I was never as fond of all the morbid stuff as Kenny. To him, life was Zero-sum. You win or you lose. And I know I may not be as smart, but it seems to me like everybody loses in the end, so there’s no need to fight each other every step of the way. Might as well keep things pleasant. Maybe that sort of sentimental bent is more appropriate among lawyers and soldiers than the schoolyard, but I really felt that if we all put our hearts into it, we’d get along just fine.

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

General Jacob Gallbladder and the Art of War III

Just in time, the door cracked open. I slipped inside and slammed it shut, ignoring Gordon’s screams of frustration and the way he brutalized the door. Gasping for breath, I saw Kenny sink to the floor, shaking. I tried to help him up but he waved me off as he pulled out his asthma inhaler. You can always say this for Kenny. He had the reflexes of a rabbit, the grace of a gazelle, and the lungs of a fifty year old chain smoker.

After a moment of silence, I offered Kenny my hand. He took it and I pulled him back to his feet. As we headed back to our classroom early, seeking sanctuary, I planned out my strategy.

“I’m thinking that I’ll be very sick for the next few days.” I told him. Kenny looked at me as if I’d sprouted fangs. “You might want to do the same.”

For a moment we walked in silence and then Kenny looked up at me again. “This is totally going into the eulogy, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is!”

“Jeez.” He said, heaving a big, fake sigh. “My funeral sounds like more fun every day. Shame I won’t be there.”

“On the contrary, little buddy. You’ll be the guest of honor.”

“Well, we’ve survived one more day.” He said.

“And we’ve got a plan that could keep us breathing until early next week.” I pointed out.

“Now there’s something to celebrate. Come on, I’ll buy you a drink. You want fruit punch or tropical fruit punch?” This was becoming a bit of a habit, actually. It had gotten to the point where pounding back flavored corn syrup had become not only a reward, but a ritual. Each emptied pouch of juice was a badge of honor. Like a scar on a soldier.

“I’m thinking cherry, actually.”

“You’re a mad man, Astin. You’ll be howling at the moon one day soon, but let’s see what I’ve got stashed away in my locker.”

Kenny’s locker was really just one of the small wooden cubbies lining the halls stacked three high, but he’d somehow managed to create a locking door for his, making it unique amongst the endless rows of identical boxes. How he got permission from the school to install it is anybody’s guess. All he ever says is that if kids had money, he’d make a fortune selling the thing to other kids with valuables to protect.

Valuables like the glossy silver pouch he handed me with a grin. “Drink up, son,” he said affecting a sort of John Wayne cowboy voice “you earned it.”

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

General Jacob Gallbladder and the Art of War Part II

“Fine. How would you like me to knock you senseless?” I think Paul was as surprised as I was at Gordon’s newfound flexibility. Kenny didn’t blink an eye. Instead he shot his tongue out, curled it up and touched the tip of his nose. “So what’s the challenge?” he asked again.

“That was.” Said Kenny.

“What was?” Asked Gordon.

“That.” Said Kenny.

“I don’t get it.” Paul told me.

“Me either.” I informed him, sighing as I realized that our confusion over my friend’s antics might have been the only thing we had in common.

“What is the challenge?” Gordon roared.

“Touching your nose with your tongue!” Kenny’s response was less a roar than a very loud squeak.

“This is stupid.” Paul said.

“Well, he did already agree to the terms.” I reminded him.

Gordon shook with rage, but Paul whispered something to him and he slumped slightly. The crowd around us murmured. Sighing, Gordon straightened back up. “Okay. First I’ll beat you at this, and then I’ll smack you one for wasting my time. Agreed?”
“Certainly.” Kenny beamed, all smiles. Gordon stuck out his tongue. He folded it. And he gagged. Turning away he spat out the mucus he’d accidentally picked out while Paul thumped him on the back. Smiling, I turned to congratulate my friend for having out wiled Gordon Wiles yet again, and saw him sprinting madly for the other end of the yard, the pounding of his sneakers on the blacktop muffled by the laughter all around us.

Groaning, I took off after him, with only a tiny head start before Gordon recovered. With my heart pounding in my ears I saw Kenny head for the South Wing. It was escape route 3-A. The Playground entrance to the South Wing can only be opened from the inside. Catching up to Kenny, I stuck my hands out without a word and vaulted him up to the small, slightly opened window above and beside the door. His boots bit uncomfortably into my palms, but I ignored it.

Only a little twig like Kenny could slip through that window, which is what makes it such a great plan. On the other hand, it takes time for him to get through, slip down, exit the class he falls into, open the door for me and close it behind us. We had actually agreed never to use this route. 1-B tended to be the most reliable. Maybe even 2-A in a pinch. Unfortunately, it had been the only method open to us because of the crowd that had gathered to watch us get smashed into jelly.

Monday, June 13, 2011

General Jacob Gallbladder and the Art of War I

Just to let you all know, for the next two weeks, it's a post every day as I post the early part of a Middle Grade novel I began writing as an experiment. As always, feedback of any kind is appreciated and I hope you enjoy the Art of War.
****************************************************************************
They say that hard work builds calluses. Or at least, that’s what Kenny would always tell me. I suppose he’d be in a position to know. He’s a Library that walks like a man. A bitter, jumpy, paranoid library I suppose. But this is no place for mercy or weakness. This is recess. And only the strong will survive.

“Very well,” Kenny grimaced, “I accept your challenge provided that you give me the courtesy of choosing the means by which we shall duel.” Like all great men, Kenny was far beyond comprehension most of the time, especially to someone like Gordon Wiles.

Gordon was a year older than we were and easily a foot taller. He’s big as a hill and about as sharp. Inhaling sharply against the cold November air in fear of losing the snot it took him so little effort to make, Gordon turned to his chief man-at-arms, a gangly kid named Paul and asked what the heck Kenny was talking about.

Paul didn’t know. Neither did Billy, George, Timmy, John, Robert, Bert, Billy, Gene, Jane, Joan, Helen, Kelly, Samantha, Thomas, Kate, Christie or any of the other fifth graders watching the daily shakedown. Or if they knew, they didn’t say anything. They all just looked on in excitement, safe in the knowledge that they weren’t today’s target. They must have figured everything would be okay as long as they didn’t call attention to themselves. Hadn’t they ever heard of survivor’s guilt?

“Ah, allow me to elucidate. You wish to prove your physical superiority in regards to my own, correct?” Kenny asked. Paul looked at me. I shrugged. Gordon sucked more mucus back into his nose. “I ask only that I be given the choice of means through which you will prove how much greater than myself you undoubtedly are.”

Gordon understood that one. Anything appealing to his ego would find a way to penetrate his thick skull and make its way into his slow moving mind. Gordon smiled slowly but said nothing. “No, I think I’d rather just smack you one.” At that point, I was just about ready to bolt, but there was nowhere to go as long as Gordon was in arm’s reach.

“Surely you can’t be afraid that I might be able to beat you?” Kenny asked, seemingly oblivious to the way Gordon’s lip twitched in anger. In all the time I’d known him, I’d never seen him act so bravely. Then again, he generally dismissed courage as the delusion of those with no survival instincts. Whatever that’s supposed to mean.

Gordon breathed in through his nose hard again and cracked his knuckles. “Don’t be such a coward,” Kenny told him. As Gordon drew back his fist, I began to arrange my thoughts.

Kenny Clark was a good man. And although I’ve never seen anyone so smart be so incredibly dumb, he will be missed greatly by his loving Iguana Igor, his mother Lily, and Ms. Jenkins, our second grade teacher.

I knew that as his best and his only friend, it would be my responsibility to give his eulogy.

Friday, June 10, 2011

Follow Through

So, after my last post, a reader suggested I google Miniature Cats. Way too many things came up, so I decided not to really look. Instead, I tried a second search for Paracat. Here's what I found.



You know, it's kind of depressing. No joke I make, no matter how bizarre or insignificant has been done about a million times better somewhere else. So, I really want to hate the creators of that photo, but I can't. They've got a whole damn menagerie like that. The modern, photoshop equivalent of one of those old traveling curio circuses comprised mostly of "rare and exotic animals." If they'd been clever, they might have made their own paracats, but they were boring and unbelievable. Photoshop is REAL, mofos. Check it out. The whole site is actually pretty interesting, though nothing else is as awesome as that. They're apparently a web design group, but some of the articles up there are of interest to people in any way connected with publishing. Unfortunately, they don't update often. And oooh, look, an article about Seth Godin. Man, I was talking about that six months before they were. Keynote speaker at last year's IBPA, don'tcha know. And I know he's had devoted followers since ten years before I knew he existed, but whatever. You took Paracat away from me. I'm a desperate man.

On the other half of Wednesday's post, there are things to say too. You know, when I sit down and write these things (usually right after getting up from less than four hours of sleep) I don't really know what the fuck I'm talking about, nor am I really considering what will get people's attention. Which is probably fine since I can never find a pattern after the fact for which posts get a lot of views or comments. Sometimes though, even though not many people comment and even when there are a moderate number of views, it will suddenly have this big impact on the queries we get at the agency. Yesterday was such a day. Gay lit up the ass. Er, so to speak. I was actually more entertained by something my mother said about it.

It seems that she answered the phone the other day to an automated survey. It annoyed her from the get go, but because it was a "public service" survey, they've been calling and leaving messages every day for weeks so she broke down and decided to do the damn thing so they'd go away. The whole thing consisted of two questions. "Are you registered to vote in New York?" and "do you believe marriage should only be between a man and a woman?" When she said no to the latter, they simply repeated the question. She said no again and they lectured her, so she hung up and came to bitch to me about the methodlogical flaws in their survey. It was very much a "No shit" moment for me, but it genuinely surprised and upset her. Frankly, she doesn't even care about the issue, she just hates the die-hard anti-gay crowd for making a mountain out of a mole hill. It's a disturbing reminder that not everyone grew up close to NYC. So maybe they don't get it. Help me spread the good word, folks.

EQUALITY THROUGH APATHY.

Also, while I'm talking in caps: VOTE FOR ME. You can trust me as a politician because I'm so boring, long-winded, unintelligent, out of touch and ugly (all the great traits of modern leaders BUT MORESO) that no amount of power would be sufficient to make a sex scandal possible.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

The Fatman in Briefs: Theme Months

Every damn time I turn around, there’s another theme month. Last month was zombie awareness. Apparently June is both LGBT pride month (hasn’t there been at least one already this year?) and Adopt-a-cat month. Seriously. Adopt a cat. Why does everybody get a theme month but me? When is fat white middle class suburbanite month?

Well, whatever. In honor of these themes, I present to you my opinion on the subjects. And of course, my opinion is the be all and end all and I’m sure you care.

So first, gay people. Such a big explosive issue. Just mentioning the word is an instant ticket straight into the zeitgeist, ain’t it? But listen, I’m a New Yorker. We practice equality and tolerance in the strictest, most absolute way anywhere in the world. By not caring at all. Let me define New Yorker: A New Yorker is one who walks into H&R Block with a stack of papers up to the ceiling, sits down with an accountant who turns out to be a blue skinned, nine foot tall, puppy eating, uranium shitting venutian and doesn’t blink an eye unless that Venutian happens to be a very bad accountant. In short, I think it’s kind of gross, but it ain’t my ass. So do whatever floats your boat, folks. And feel free to insert jokes here about “mast heads” and “poop decks” and “salty sea men.” If it’s really clever, you can pretend I said it.

Cats: I love cats. There’s only one thing I’d want to do to make them even better. It’s a dream I’ve had since I was a wee tot. Or more accurately, since I was in highschool. If I had Photoshop, I’d whip up a sample image to show you how wonderful it could be, but suffice to say, I hope to one day miniaturize cats and teach them to stand on your shoulder like a bird. I will call these “Paracats.” See, it sounds like “parakeet.” But it’s not. It’s a cat. That goes meow. But stands on your shoulder. Think about it. Are you thinking about it? Good.

Monday, June 6, 2011

The Sacred Nature of Print

Frequently in this business, I run into people (even really cool and generally very sensible people) who seem to have fallen for the idea that books are essentially sacred, somehow better or more meaningful that any other medium or activity. These people might be aghast to know that very few book professionals would agree with them. Is S&S Sorry about the gobs of money involved in Jodi Picoult movies? I guarantee you they are not. Is TOR crying itself to sleep at night because according to its own site, it has as many big best sellers with licensed novels based off the Halo games as with the works of Robert Jordan or Orson Scott Card? I doubt it. Have I mentioned that I interned at one of those places and know several people at the other? I'm an academic, you know. Liberal arts, no less. Trained to see the interconnectedness of seemingly disparate disciplines. The same applies the creation of media in three main ways.

1. Connection between the individual stories and creators involved.
2. The way one medium can put another in perspective
3. The personal benefit to any creator of media who draws on a wide experience of different kinds of stories and formats.

Unfortunately, I can't go into great detail about 3. It's something relatively personal. I could ramble for enormous tracts of time about bizarre convergences and divergences, similarities and dissimilarities between Author X and Author Y or I could babble about Gilgamesh and it's connection to the biblical story of Noah and the Ark, or for that matter, compare the bible to other religious texts. I could, but my insights are my insights. You need your own and right now, all I'm interested in is convincing you that if you're a "books are sacred" type that you WILL have new insights if you broaden your scope. As for points one and two, here are some examples.

Just yesterday, I got a query at the agency that stands out as being interesting. Something the author said amused me. She was very earnest, but kind of flustered. I can appreciate the sentiment. Since she didn't include her sample, I sent her a pretty generic note asking for the first twenty, but appended a couple of sentences and jokes to personalize it, hoping to put her at her ease. Turns out, this particular aspiring author is a veteran voice actress in Magical Girl anime. I was always more of a Giant Robot kind of guy, but that's still pretty damn cool. She sent the sample but I haven't gotten to read it yet. I hope it's good. Why? Cross promotion mofos! It's a wonderful thing. She can pitch her book at Comicon and discuss her anime at Book Expo, doubly so if the Manga (Japanese graphic novel) it was based on has been released stateside. That reminds me, if you're planning to be involved with anything remotely related to media of any kind and you live within a hundred miles of NYC, you might as well memorize the floor plans for the Javits center since both of the aforementioed conventions (and many, many others) take place there. It's like your home away from home.

Over the weekend, I decided to re-read Starship Titanic and Road to Mars. Starship Titanic is the book of the game, of the throw away joke from Douglas Adams' Life the Universe and Everything which is itself a book in a series that began life as a radio drama. Terry Jones, that is, the guy from Monty Python who was always either naked or a woman, wound up writing the book after going in to play the voice of a parrot in the game and realized Adams' was too busy to write the novel fast enough for a simultaneous release, which his publishers demanded (CROSS PROMOTION, MOFOS). Road to Mars is a meatier, wholly original book that also happens to take place in space and involves tragedy that surrounds a luxury liner and was written by Eric Idle, as in the guy from Monty Python who was always singing. It's an interesting comparison. I offer again a comparitive review of the two, but the point is that they're part of a wider, if somewhat aimless study. Even within the miniature realm of Pythonology, you'd still have cause to compare Jones and Idle elsewhere. For example, Jones was the man with the plan behind Meideval Lives, an Honest to God Documentary mini-series that bears the unique honor of being the only documentary to ever make me laugh, while Idle was the mastermind who created The Rutles, the world's funniest "mockumentary" parodying the Beatles.

So, on to point two. By now you're probably losing interest. I'm a windbag. I know, trust me, I know. Even I'd be bored of me by now. I've been rambling too long already, so I'll save personal notations for how one medium can put another in perspective for a later date. Suffice to say that just recently, I shot juice out my nose when I saw a skit by The Whitest Kids U' Know (as in, possibly the funniest sketch comedy TV show since Monty Python) which, as I'm sure you'll all notice, is jab at Sue Grafton specifically, and theme crime dramas in general.

Friday, June 3, 2011

The Middle Path

Have you guys ever heard of a show called "The Middleman"? I'm guessing no. It only got signed for 13 episodes, of which only 12 were ever made, and this was several years ago. I don't watch all that much TV. In fact, I watch none when it airs. Through the miracle of Netflix I'm beggining to understand why- the best stuff gets buried. It's given crummy time slots, moved around, canceled quick, no promotion. I could ramble for hours about why TV studios aren't wholly wrong to do this and why I think it' still short sighted of them, but I won't. I'm not even going to discuss the middleman itself in any further detail than that it's a top tier spy/super hero spoof that aired on ABC around 2007 or 2008, the same time as such other quickly canceled shows as Better off Ted and Pushing Daisies. I guess someone on staff had some balls. I'm guessing they don't anymore. I wonder whether they willingly handed them in for a paycheck or if they were removed. Either way, what I really wanted to talk about today isn't the show or the business side of the media industry. I just wanted to talk about the opening theme. "My plan is sheer elegance in its simplicity." That's what all the Middlemen villains claim of their ludicrously elaborate plots. Personally, I'm a fan of both silliness and minimalism. Tell me you don't think this opening succeeds with flying colors.



Two colors specifically. Just yellow and black. The song is catchy and has the easiest lyrics in the world to remember. Only two characters appear, and only three credits are given, every one of which is also used as a design element. Pretty undeniable what the show would be like from the opening, too. And while we're on the subject of colors, Javier Grillo-Marxwhatzit, you may color me impressed. I'll have to add the graphic novels it's based on to my reading list. And it moves surprisingly far up the ladder since it wouldn't be availible on the e-reader I haven't got, but which I could potentially own and which has, to date, more or less caused me to stop buying print books entirely.

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

Et tu, blogger?

Blogger has really been acting up on me recently. On Internet explorer, it lets me sign in and post and stuff, but won't let me respond to comments readers are making, which is driving me nuts. Even basic functionality is weird. For whatever reason, I have to click "publish post" and then hit enter. Clicking just ain't enough. So I tried using Firefox. Firefox won't even let me sign in. Keeps babbling about how I need to enable cookies. So I checked. They're enabled. Hear that, Firefox? I'm an enabler. Hell, they were enabled by default. So stop your bitching and just let me in.

Anyway, seems I'm not the only one bothered by the way things are named in SF and Fantasy. And although I didn't see it as a problem when I read Ender's Shadow, I guess from reader comments that the Call of the Earth series is neither the first nor last time Orson Scott Card himself is guilty of this particular crime. Which sucks, really. I know I've said it before, but SF and Fantasy tend to be over-written, derivative, in-bred books designed to be difficult for "outsiders" to pick up under any circumstances and be difficult even for genre lovers unless you follow the entire series from the start, which is hard to do since it becomes incredibly difficult to find niche backlist books. You always see the same ones. Oh good. Books two and six. Why never one or three-through-five? Shutup. Stop asking questions. Well, e-books can potentially change all that so I guess I'll stop harping on it for a second.

With all this said, I enjoyed Card anyway (and he was a very big name once upon a time). What was different? Mostly his characters. They're distinct. In light fantasy etc. it wouldn't be a surprise but in the serious stuff, characters tend to get lost in the sheer size of the cast, or because they play the archetype to the hilt. The book I was talking about didn't even read like a genre book. The entire story happens over a matter of days. The great journey is still ahead of the characters. Everything in the book was interpersonal drama and politics. My favorite character was actually that dude with the inprounouncable name- Vozmuzholnoy Vozmuzhno (Written from memory...did I get it right?). He's this very clever, extremely ambitious, ruthless general bent on revenge against the "imperator" who claims to be the embodiment of God who destroyed Vozwhatever's tribe. Everything he says is true, but twisted around deliciously. He's very good at manipulating people. Pick your game, he'll still beat you at it. If somehow you think that very smart, even gentlemanly bloodthirsty warmongers don't make for stories I find fun, you obviously haven't been reading this blog for very long. Voz also isn't that different from Bean from the Ender's Game books and the focus of Ender's Shadow. Bean is pretty much why that book was great. A cold, ultra brilliant little kid who knows perfectly well he's the smartest person ever, but who accepts being second in command because he knows no one wants to see him lead and who, at the same time, is just a little kid looking desperately for a place to belong.

Anyway, while I'm on the subject of SF etc. would you folks like to see a sort of book-battle-review between pythons? Specifically, it'd be Eric Idle's Road to Mars vs. Terry Jones' novelization of Douglas Adams' Starship Titanic. Anyone interested?