I woke up this morning to the radiator hissing and the heat the great thing churns out. The living room has a long radiator in it, and that thing can belt out the heat. It was something like 3:30 in the morning. Seeing that the boys were asleep, I snuck outside to the car (noting that my building had finally done something about the bad lighting in the alley -- the are now strong lights shining there during the night hours), and I grabbed the toboggan I'd gotten for B1 -- he'd wanted one since last winter. Hopefully we'll get snow this year. When I bought it at Target, one of the employees quipped "You know we're not getting snow this year, right?" and I said "Probably just because I bought this thing." Anyway, he should be very pleased to get it, and it's big enough for him and his little brother. Good times, if the weather obliges!
I snuck the toboggan into the master closet. The thing is pretty dauntingly long, so I had a bit of inspiration and hid it in one of the garment bags for my suits. The thing actually fit in there! What a perfect hiding place! B1 isn't the type to even think about rooting around, hunting out presents, but even if he were, he'd be unlikely to suss out that hiding place. I was very pleased, since I wanted to get that thing into the apartment without the boys getting wind of it. And they're none the wiser. Christmas Commando operation successful!
Doing a lot of revision and editing on "second" novel (I say "second" because it's not really my second -- it's one of many book drafts, but it's the second one that I've gotten ready to sling out to publishers, so it's my "second"). I can't get my hopes up about it, yet -- I am so luck-averse, but I'll try. It's all I can do.
I was pleased to see that CEMETERY DANCE is still churning out magazines. I may send them a story or two. I have done so in the past, to no avail, but think maybe I'll do that again, see what, if anything, comes of it. Several of the venues I want to send stories to don't accept submissions until January 1, so I'm cooling my heels for the moment for a lot of my pieces.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Movie: 2012
I saw "2012" yesterday, on a whim. It was an odd juxtaposition with "The Road" of the day before, since both serve up apocalypse -- one monochromatic, bleak, and cold; the latter, exuberant and hopeful.
Having no expectations of cinematic excellence with "2012," I wasn't disappointed. I knew critics had panned it, but it hardly matters with a disaster movie like that -- what moral message are you going to get from a movie like that, anyway? It's good to be alive? Family's important? Know the right people? Everybody matters? (easy to say when you're one of the survivors)
It was hokey, had a lot of famous people cameos that felt a bit like "Naked Gun" (oooh, that's supposed to be the Governator! Ooh, there's Queen Elizabeth II!) and so on.
The effects are massive and astounding -- an orgy of mass destruction, annihilation on a grand scale, with little people tumbling into gaping holes in the ground, or being smashed by tsunamis (or by aircraft carriers tumbling -- the symbolism of a black President being killed by the carrier John F. Kennedy was not lost on me, whether Emmerich intended it or not, and I think it was intended, since the carrier broadsides poor, ashy Danny Glover, the name of the carrier visible across the flight deck as it nails Glover).
John Cusack and Amanda Peet don't really gel as a couple, and the kid characters are predictably annoying (the character sketches with them are laughably slight -- the boy has a cell phone! The girl loves wearing hats and apparently diapers because she wets the bed -- something that reappears near the end in an all-time terrible line of dialogue). Woody Harrelson's hippy-dippy deejay loves to eat pickles (that's his character quirk, I guess).
But the characters are entirely beside the point with a movie like this -- the only point is the massive destruction, which gets a bit repetitive as you wade through it. Three airplane near-escapes, lots of waves, tumbling mountains, human dignity (and shame) in the face of certain doom, and so on. I can imagine a grad student doing studies of disaster movies, the evolution of them, the arbiters of virtue and villainy.
A few thematic flourishes rubbed me the wrong way -- several times a kind of tooth-sucking about the futility of modern technology and civilized life in the face of ancient prophecies and crackpot "wisdom." Those little bits happened several times, which was annoying. People might think it, but nobody wants the world to end quite so badly as the crackpots, and few are more disappointed (yet undaunted) when the world fails to end on cue -- the world is bigger than the world's religions, but don't tell that to them (or to Emmerich).
Bizarrely, Africa survives the apocalypse, and appears to be the hope of the survivors, owing to some geological quirk. Not sure the point of that, exactly, except I guess come-uppance for Western Civilization and Africa's turn at bat (I imagine malaria will make very short work of most of the survivors who make landfall there, but it's beside the point of a movie like this).
Still, it does its thing -- massive destruction, the aesthetics of apocalypse, like a gaper's delay in traffic, everybody peeking at the car accident as they go by. Move along, move along -- nothing to see, here.
Having no expectations of cinematic excellence with "2012," I wasn't disappointed. I knew critics had panned it, but it hardly matters with a disaster movie like that -- what moral message are you going to get from a movie like that, anyway? It's good to be alive? Family's important? Know the right people? Everybody matters? (easy to say when you're one of the survivors)
It was hokey, had a lot of famous people cameos that felt a bit like "Naked Gun" (oooh, that's supposed to be the Governator! Ooh, there's Queen Elizabeth II!) and so on.
The effects are massive and astounding -- an orgy of mass destruction, annihilation on a grand scale, with little people tumbling into gaping holes in the ground, or being smashed by tsunamis (or by aircraft carriers tumbling -- the symbolism of a black President being killed by the carrier John F. Kennedy was not lost on me, whether Emmerich intended it or not, and I think it was intended, since the carrier broadsides poor, ashy Danny Glover, the name of the carrier visible across the flight deck as it nails Glover).
John Cusack and Amanda Peet don't really gel as a couple, and the kid characters are predictably annoying (the character sketches with them are laughably slight -- the boy has a cell phone! The girl loves wearing hats and apparently diapers because she wets the bed -- something that reappears near the end in an all-time terrible line of dialogue). Woody Harrelson's hippy-dippy deejay loves to eat pickles (that's his character quirk, I guess).
But the characters are entirely beside the point with a movie like this -- the only point is the massive destruction, which gets a bit repetitive as you wade through it. Three airplane near-escapes, lots of waves, tumbling mountains, human dignity (and shame) in the face of certain doom, and so on. I can imagine a grad student doing studies of disaster movies, the evolution of them, the arbiters of virtue and villainy.
A few thematic flourishes rubbed me the wrong way -- several times a kind of tooth-sucking about the futility of modern technology and civilized life in the face of ancient prophecies and crackpot "wisdom." Those little bits happened several times, which was annoying. People might think it, but nobody wants the world to end quite so badly as the crackpots, and few are more disappointed (yet undaunted) when the world fails to end on cue -- the world is bigger than the world's religions, but don't tell that to them (or to Emmerich).
Bizarrely, Africa survives the apocalypse, and appears to be the hope of the survivors, owing to some geological quirk. Not sure the point of that, exactly, except I guess come-uppance for Western Civilization and Africa's turn at bat (I imagine malaria will make very short work of most of the survivors who make landfall there, but it's beside the point of a movie like this).
Still, it does its thing -- massive destruction, the aesthetics of apocalypse, like a gaper's delay in traffic, everybody peeking at the car accident as they go by. Move along, move along -- nothing to see, here.
Movie: The Road
I saw "The Road" on Thanksgiving Day, which was either the worst day to see it, or the best, depending on what one is thankful for, precisely. It's a grueling, grim, bleak-as-fuck movie that offers two slivers of hope in it, sort of like being a starving man finding a peanut in your pocket, and carefully halving the peanut, eating one half earlier in the day, and saving the other half for later.
I won't throw any spoilers into this, but it's a terribly dark movie, and you know what's going to happen to one of the characters almost from the outset, as Viggo does some "acting" (he's a good enough actor, with a penchant for extreme roles like these, but he telegraphs something early on that is like a pulmonary Morse Code for "DOOM(tm)" in movie terms -- from the first exhalation, you know where that's going to lead).
Both Viggo as The Man and the boy who plays The Boy (who bears an uncanny resemblance to Charlize Theron, who plays his mother) do a good job conveying the dismal nature of their existence -- it's like a concentration camp without walls, a world-gone-foul in some unnamed, unspecified apocalypse that has claimed the world-as-we know it. Everything is dead and/or dying, with trees falling and not an animal to be found in the wild, or so we're led to believe.
The world seems divided between varying shades of survivors -- good, bad, and ugly -- with the ugly being the cannibals and slavers, in no uncertain terms, and the bad being the merely ruthless and/or opportunistic predators and/or scavengers. I put a lot of and/or in the mix because in a world devoid of hope and trust, it's hard to know friend from foe, since everybody's brandishing a knife or a gun, without assurances of who's predator and who is prey.
Viggo's quest for hope in the South, and his pathological concern for his son's security point to how strongly human safety is bound up in solidarity -- that is a curious thing. Only the cannibals and slavers appear to work together -- Viggo is very much a go-it-alone type, and there's some kind of editorial point to be made in this. Maybe The Man is too much of a control freak to be willing to trust anyone else, but three groups of predators are all doing pretty well for themselves (in relative terms) by banding together. I feel that maybe McCarthy and/or the director/screenwriter might be chalking that up to the predatory lifestyle of those groups, but that they are in groups is exactly how and why they succeed. That, and guns. Work together, and Man can prosper in almost any setting -- work alone, and you become something of a hermit and a vagabond. Viggo the Vagabond wending his way through a shattered world.
The Boy offers a strong moral counterpoint to some very questionable decisions and actions by The Man, which is valid and vital, makes the Boy's presence in the world all the more vital and necessary. Despite the bleakness of their life, he maintains the hopeful promise of a better world in his heart. That is one half of the sliver of hope in this movie.
The other half, as I saw it, was the presence of a beetle, flying free. They discover it in an empty chewing tobacco container, and the bug flies off for parts unknown. I liked seeing that, since we're to believe the world is dead, and no animals live within it (which feels like a cop-out of sorts, or a narrative convenience -- since wild animals would likely be better able to survive the post-apocalyptic holocaust than man). That beetle, not unlike the sprig of green in "Wall-E" showed to me that all was not lost -- that man may have destroyed his civilization, but the world would, in time, heal and move on, long after we were gone. In the (Cormac) McCarthyite world, even that sliver of hope is better than none at all.
I won't throw any spoilers into this, but it's a terribly dark movie, and you know what's going to happen to one of the characters almost from the outset, as Viggo does some "acting" (he's a good enough actor, with a penchant for extreme roles like these, but he telegraphs something early on that is like a pulmonary Morse Code for "DOOM(tm)" in movie terms -- from the first exhalation, you know where that's going to lead).
Both Viggo as The Man and the boy who plays The Boy (who bears an uncanny resemblance to Charlize Theron, who plays his mother) do a good job conveying the dismal nature of their existence -- it's like a concentration camp without walls, a world-gone-foul in some unnamed, unspecified apocalypse that has claimed the world-as-we know it. Everything is dead and/or dying, with trees falling and not an animal to be found in the wild, or so we're led to believe.
The world seems divided between varying shades of survivors -- good, bad, and ugly -- with the ugly being the cannibals and slavers, in no uncertain terms, and the bad being the merely ruthless and/or opportunistic predators and/or scavengers. I put a lot of and/or in the mix because in a world devoid of hope and trust, it's hard to know friend from foe, since everybody's brandishing a knife or a gun, without assurances of who's predator and who is prey.
Viggo's quest for hope in the South, and his pathological concern for his son's security point to how strongly human safety is bound up in solidarity -- that is a curious thing. Only the cannibals and slavers appear to work together -- Viggo is very much a go-it-alone type, and there's some kind of editorial point to be made in this. Maybe The Man is too much of a control freak to be willing to trust anyone else, but three groups of predators are all doing pretty well for themselves (in relative terms) by banding together. I feel that maybe McCarthy and/or the director/screenwriter might be chalking that up to the predatory lifestyle of those groups, but that they are in groups is exactly how and why they succeed. That, and guns. Work together, and Man can prosper in almost any setting -- work alone, and you become something of a hermit and a vagabond. Viggo the Vagabond wending his way through a shattered world.
The Boy offers a strong moral counterpoint to some very questionable decisions and actions by The Man, which is valid and vital, makes the Boy's presence in the world all the more vital and necessary. Despite the bleakness of their life, he maintains the hopeful promise of a better world in his heart. That is one half of the sliver of hope in this movie.
The other half, as I saw it, was the presence of a beetle, flying free. They discover it in an empty chewing tobacco container, and the bug flies off for parts unknown. I liked seeing that, since we're to believe the world is dead, and no animals live within it (which feels like a cop-out of sorts, or a narrative convenience -- since wild animals would likely be better able to survive the post-apocalyptic holocaust than man). That beetle, not unlike the sprig of green in "Wall-E" showed to me that all was not lost -- that man may have destroyed his civilization, but the world would, in time, heal and move on, long after we were gone. In the (Cormac) McCarthyite world, even that sliver of hope is better than none at all.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Food: The Gemini Bistro
I ate at the Gemini Bistro last night, and really enjoyed it. It's on Lincoln Avenue, and has a lot of dark wood and old-school kind of elegance and ambiance. Everybody's impeccably-attired and the service was tip-top. It classifies itself as an "American bistro" -- which to me means a bistro with fast service, for which I'm grateful, not being one who likes to wait.I had the Prix Fixe menu (served from 5 to 6:30 p.m.), which is three courses for $31 ($49 if you want wine with each course). I opted for the lobster bisque, short-rib ravioli, and German chocolate cake.
The bisque was really tasty, with very tender lobster chunks in it, great color and seasoning. I could have probably had that bisque the whole evening, just with some bread (the bread is served in shiny metal cones with attached butter caddies). Great flavor. I savored it.
The short-rib ravioli was tasty, qualified as a "medium" plate serving (Gemini does small, medium, and large plate servings, depending on the menu item), and while it was maybe a half-dozen round raviolis nicely seasoned and accompanied with shards of aged parmesan, it was enough, I found, to fill me up. The taste was good -- rich and hearty, but also very delicate.
The dessert was beautifully plated -- a three-layer German chocolate cake, a square of reasonable size (in Chicago terms -- everything here is served in bistro portions), and a pretty little dollop of hazelnut ice cream atop a hazelnut fruit spread (I asked the waiter about that, and he told me what it was, but I forgot the fruit that was representing, there), and a sprig of mint. The cake was tasty, if not mind-blowing, but the ice cream was a nice treat, served very cold and it kind of upstaged the cake a bit.
The bar is a nice, long, broad thing, and they do full meal service there, too. I had the best Old-Fashioned I'd ever had in Chicago there -- their "Velvety Old-Fashioned" which was a blend of Maker's Mark, Cointreau, and Bitters, with the requisite mulled cherry and orange wedge garnish. It was fantastic. I often use the Old-Fashioned as my benchmark beverage for a bar, to test their mettle -- not because it's a complicated cocktail, but because it's such a simple one. And I am pleased to say that they nailed it -- strong and flavorful, I had two of them, and had a little trouble putting my jacket on when it was time to leave, and my head was spinning for about an hour after leaving. That is one good cocktail!
I had no complaints about the food or the service -- both were very good. I don't have any complaints at all, really. The Gemini is a nice place -- very Chicago, in its mix of elegance coupled with a lack of pretension. The only discordant notes (and they're minor, truly) were the music -- when I came in, Cream was playing, which just doesn't fit with the decor and overall ambiance of the place. Not that one wants the trademark Smooth Jazz(tm) or whatever, but it just didn't fit with the beauty of the place -- the music changed later, but it still wasn't quite right. Also, the television in the top corner above the bar seemed out of place. Sure, I get it -- a bar with a television -- who doesn't have that? But at the same time, the place seems too sharp for such a common contrivance. Maybe its absence would be felt, but something about the Gemini Bistro, to me, makes it seem a classier place than that.
But those are very minor complaints. I enjoyed the food, loved the cocktail, savored the ambiance, and appreciated the setting. All in all, I'd say it's well worth your time, if you're in the area. A great place for brunch, lunch, and most definitely a place to take a date.
Four out of five stars: * * * *
http://www.geminibistrochicago.com/
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Thanklessgiving
I'm going to take advantage of the current situation to get a lot of writing done over the weekend.
An agent took a pass on one of my books. No big deal, it was, perhaps, a longshot, anyway, but I had to try. I'm putting together another proposal for him, another book I have that is very nearly ready to go (I'll finish that up this weekend). This one may (?) be closer to what he's looking for, and I hope he appreciates that I'm slinging another work his way this soon after corresponding with him on another work. He's a good agent, gets those deals, so that's something I can look forward to, if I luck out and he considers this other proposal.
I need to organize my writing station more -- I have several file boxes for my hard copy, but I need to consolidate, have it in one place, in a cabinet with a lock and key. Something portable, but larger, and more centralized. Just for the sake of organization.
An agent took a pass on one of my books. No big deal, it was, perhaps, a longshot, anyway, but I had to try. I'm putting together another proposal for him, another book I have that is very nearly ready to go (I'll finish that up this weekend). This one may (?) be closer to what he's looking for, and I hope he appreciates that I'm slinging another work his way this soon after corresponding with him on another work. He's a good agent, gets those deals, so that's something I can look forward to, if I luck out and he considers this other proposal.
I need to organize my writing station more -- I have several file boxes for my hard copy, but I need to consolidate, have it in one place, in a cabinet with a lock and key. Something portable, but larger, and more centralized. Just for the sake of organization.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Putting the Horse Before the Cartwright
I have accidentally had a Veronica Cartwright filmfest going, lately. Kinda funny, really. It started with watching "ALIEN" the other day, where she plays the rather emotionally-fraught Lambert (curious bit of trivia -- the shot of her death, when the alien's tail appears to be suggestively snaking oh-so-sinuously between her legs -- that shot was actually of Harry Dean Stanton's feet from an unused bit of footage. The reveal is that Lambert always wore cowboy boots, not sneakers, as is seen in the shot. Plus, if you watch the deleted scenes, you'll see it. So, oddly enough, Ridley Scott, I'm guessing, was looking at the footage and decided to slip that footage in there, and I guess they forgot continuity with the boots or something. Or the desire to have that sort of rape imagery was so strong that they didn't fuss with the details of it). But Scott's choice is kind of curious, really -- it points to them not thinking about the continuity of that until afterward, and, I guess, not being able to reshoot a sequence with Lambert's boots on. In that day of non-CGI movies, directors had to do what they had to do.
Anyway, after that, the other day, I watched "The Birds" -- which has a teenaged Veronica Cartwright in it, doing what she does best: being emotionally fraught! I saw her name in the credits and was like "WTF?! She'd have to be very young in this." And, sure enough, she was. She played the hero's daughter, Cathy. And sure enough, watching it, it's her, alright. The same frail, fragile, cracking-apart-at-the-seams kind of performance.Finally (and this one isn't due, yet, as I ordered it, and it has not yet arrived) is the remake of "Invasion of the Body Snatchers" -- in which Veronica Cartwright plays a role as an emotionally fraught human being who is memorably "outed" in the end.
Just funny -- I didn't plan on this, but just stumbled into it, as is my way. I think there is a kind of typecasting that can work for you in Hollywood, if you're able to find a workable niche. It certainly worked for Veronica Cartwright. I'm kind of wanting to look at what other movies she's starred in, to see what other roles she's played.
(searches IMDB)
Wow, she's gotten a lot of work -- 120 acting credits to date. April 20 birthday. Taurus? Hahah, figures! English, but grew up in America. Okay. Stuff I've seen...
"The Right Stuff" -- she plays Gus Grissom's wife, Betty. I am sure she was emotionally fraught when she finds out what happened to Gus.
"The Witches of Eastwick" -- she plays Felicia Alden -- I can almost remember that. I vaguely recall an emotionally-fraught woman who is plagued by the witches at some point. Maybe a Bible-thumper? That rings a mental bell with me. Something about her spitting up cherries? Some sympathetic magic?
In "Nip/Tuck" she's Mother Mary Claire -- I'd need to see that episode she was in again, but I'm betting she's some kind of emotionally-fraught nun in that.
Still, she's got a shitload of credits, so good for her, workin' her thing.
Movie: Robots
My boys like the movie, "Robots" -- it's a cute movie, beautifully computer-animated. Really very impressive along those lines. But I watch that movie, which is a perky parable of capitalism and a son finding his way and following his star, and, of course, me being me, my mind spins the story into something dark and dystopian.
I mean, this world resembles our own, but it's populated entirely by machines. Everybody's a robot. Robot dogs, robot birds, robot everything. But they're still doing very human things -- having families, eating "ice cream," going to parties (drinking evocative oil martinis with nuts in them in lieu of olives), frequenting corporate board meetings, and so on. They're machines pretending to be human beings (and they have emotions, too, mind you).
So, I look at it and cynically spin the story -- that this is a world where humanity fully managed to replace itself, having done so in a manner so completely that the machines that replaced us (since there are no organic lifeforms on this world -- even the trees are robots) don't even behave as machines would. They are living machines, and, thus, are imperfect creations, now, or appear to be.
Like why would a robot walk a robotic dog? Why would a robot own a robotic dog? When you think of robots (the word literally meaning "worker" in Czech, I think), volition and free will are not part of the equation. I write a lot about this in stories, one way or another.
You want to walk your dog, you get up and do it. You're doing it because your dog has to take a piss and could use the exercise. Hell, you could use the exercise, too.
But a robot dog owner would have to have been programmed to be a dog owner -- it wouldn't be something it just simply decided to do. And what point would there be to being a robotic dog? At one point, there's a moment when a robot dog tries to pee (?) on a robot fire hydrant -- the robotic hydrant then fights back, repelling the dog. A simple gag, played for kid-laughs.
However, it amuses me along different lines -- if you invent a robot dog, why have the dog need to pee to begin with? That's a biological function, not something a machine needs to do. These robots are busy simulating biological life, across the board. On face value, it's done so children can relate to the pretty robot world. But philosophically, it gets the gears (!) turning in my head, this simulation of life that is inherent in robotics. Man using technology to, in effect, recreate himself mechanically. Robots can't create themselves (at least not initially); they must be created. Once they are created, then they can do something about it, but they must be invented, first, before they can recreate themselves.
Simply put: WHERE are the humans in this world? Robots come from human beings, so where are the people? Did the machines replace humanity (e.g., wipe us out) and then, because we'd programmed them to be like us, just mechanically performed what we would have done? Or are these robots humanity themselves? That is, are they, in effect, the fullest expression of cybernetics, where people migrate themselves from biological to technological, until all trace of the organic is gone? Humanity's presence and absence from the movie is fascinating to me, and is bold. Clearly somebody had to have made these machines, long ago. Unless this is a world that was always mechanical (it's never said what this world is). But illogical contrivances like metal buttons on a robot's "suit" point to an illogical origin to the machines -- e.g., organic. Makers who created these machines in their own image. But where did humanity go? The absence of flesh-and-blood in the movie fascinates me, relative to the machine, since so much fiction with robots depends on the interaction of Man and Machine -- and in this movie, there is no Man, only Machine. The Machines won, and became us. Fascinating!
There are two competing philosophies in the movie -- the Good Guys are about finding yourself and following your dreams; the Bad Guys are about feeling bad about yourself and casting off the old in favor of the new (and, again, the notion of robots with low self-esteem is particularly ripe for exploration). Eventually, the Good Guys best the Bad Guys (of course), although nobody really gets hurt too badly (except for the baddest of the Bad Guys).
Anyway, the movie is light-hearted, is a comedy, but I find a lot of the questions it brings up very curious, compared with a far more self-serious movie like, say, "Wall-E" (which itself has a lot of consumerist criticism in it, but allows for humans in it). Without perhaps intending it, "Robots" is a bolder enterprise, since there simply ARE no humans in it -- just humanlike robots, doing humanlike things.
Check it out if you have the time, and watch it with a philosophical eye, and you'll see what I mean about it, that sense of the uncanny in watching robots interact in a clearly post-human world, yet doing very, very human things.
I mean, this world resembles our own, but it's populated entirely by machines. Everybody's a robot. Robot dogs, robot birds, robot everything. But they're still doing very human things -- having families, eating "ice cream," going to parties (drinking evocative oil martinis with nuts in them in lieu of olives), frequenting corporate board meetings, and so on. They're machines pretending to be human beings (and they have emotions, too, mind you).
So, I look at it and cynically spin the story -- that this is a world where humanity fully managed to replace itself, having done so in a manner so completely that the machines that replaced us (since there are no organic lifeforms on this world -- even the trees are robots) don't even behave as machines would. They are living machines, and, thus, are imperfect creations, now, or appear to be.
Like why would a robot walk a robotic dog? Why would a robot own a robotic dog? When you think of robots (the word literally meaning "worker" in Czech, I think), volition and free will are not part of the equation. I write a lot about this in stories, one way or another.
You want to walk your dog, you get up and do it. You're doing it because your dog has to take a piss and could use the exercise. Hell, you could use the exercise, too.
But a robot dog owner would have to have been programmed to be a dog owner -- it wouldn't be something it just simply decided to do. And what point would there be to being a robotic dog? At one point, there's a moment when a robot dog tries to pee (?) on a robot fire hydrant -- the robotic hydrant then fights back, repelling the dog. A simple gag, played for kid-laughs.
However, it amuses me along different lines -- if you invent a robot dog, why have the dog need to pee to begin with? That's a biological function, not something a machine needs to do. These robots are busy simulating biological life, across the board. On face value, it's done so children can relate to the pretty robot world. But philosophically, it gets the gears (!) turning in my head, this simulation of life that is inherent in robotics. Man using technology to, in effect, recreate himself mechanically. Robots can't create themselves (at least not initially); they must be created. Once they are created, then they can do something about it, but they must be invented, first, before they can recreate themselves.
Simply put: WHERE are the humans in this world? Robots come from human beings, so where are the people? Did the machines replace humanity (e.g., wipe us out) and then, because we'd programmed them to be like us, just mechanically performed what we would have done? Or are these robots humanity themselves? That is, are they, in effect, the fullest expression of cybernetics, where people migrate themselves from biological to technological, until all trace of the organic is gone? Humanity's presence and absence from the movie is fascinating to me, and is bold. Clearly somebody had to have made these machines, long ago. Unless this is a world that was always mechanical (it's never said what this world is). But illogical contrivances like metal buttons on a robot's "suit" point to an illogical origin to the machines -- e.g., organic. Makers who created these machines in their own image. But where did humanity go? The absence of flesh-and-blood in the movie fascinates me, relative to the machine, since so much fiction with robots depends on the interaction of Man and Machine -- and in this movie, there is no Man, only Machine. The Machines won, and became us. Fascinating!
There are two competing philosophies in the movie -- the Good Guys are about finding yourself and following your dreams; the Bad Guys are about feeling bad about yourself and casting off the old in favor of the new (and, again, the notion of robots with low self-esteem is particularly ripe for exploration). Eventually, the Good Guys best the Bad Guys (of course), although nobody really gets hurt too badly (except for the baddest of the Bad Guys).
Anyway, the movie is light-hearted, is a comedy, but I find a lot of the questions it brings up very curious, compared with a far more self-serious movie like, say, "Wall-E" (which itself has a lot of consumerist criticism in it, but allows for humans in it). Without perhaps intending it, "Robots" is a bolder enterprise, since there simply ARE no humans in it -- just humanlike robots, doing humanlike things.
Check it out if you have the time, and watch it with a philosophical eye, and you'll see what I mean about it, that sense of the uncanny in watching robots interact in a clearly post-human world, yet doing very, very human things.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Wrongful Logic
I am going to try to sell a collection of my short stories. A longshot, to be sure, but everything is, where writing is concerned, and I'd like to think that anything will increase my odds. Something really is better than nothing.
The collection will be entitled "Wrongful Logic." I picked 12 of my short stories for it, mostly horror, a little science fiction and literary. A good cross-section of my work:
79,602 words. So, that'd be a decent-sized book.
The challenge will be getting the interest of anybody in the publishing world on that. But it'll be another iron in the proverbial fire, so that'll keep me warm in the coming winter months.
The collection will be entitled "Wrongful Logic." I picked 12 of my short stories for it, mostly horror, a little science fiction and literary. A good cross-section of my work:
- Bait
- Chosen
- Maenad
- A Monsters Sleeps Inside Me
- White Meat
- Entropy's Vestal Virgin
- Pigeon Man
- Airlock
- The Atomic Baby
- Mermaid's Smile
- The Shape
- Living With Syn
79,602 words. So, that'd be a decent-sized book.
The challenge will be getting the interest of anybody in the publishing world on that. But it'll be another iron in the proverbial fire, so that'll keep me warm in the coming winter months.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Querulous
I sent another query out. This one directly to a publisher. I'm sure nothing'll come of it, but I have to try, anyway.
Albedo 1
Looks like Issue 37 of ALBEDO 1 is finally available for the reading public. My second-place Aeon Award-winning short story, "Aegis," is in there, if you're jonesing for some kickass fiction...
http://www.albedo1.com/
There are some reviews out there for my short story, "Rotgut," which was in Issue 36 of ALBEDO 1. Here are a couple I found. First, from Colin Harvey...
Definitely give ALBEDO 1 a look, if you get the chance.
http://www.albedo1.com/
There are some reviews out there for my short story, "Rotgut," which was in Issue 36 of ALBEDO 1. Here are a couple I found. First, from Colin Harvey...
"D. T. Neal's 'Rotgut' takes the theme of alien infestation to its furthest extreme, and maybe beyond. A terrific story."Also, from Stephen Hunt's SF Crowsnest...
'Rotgut' by DT Neal was a rather frightening story. A man explodes on the train and infects everyone with a strange alien parasite. We know the man in the story is doomed from the start but we follow his progress, analytically from a microbiologist's point of view, to witness the parasite take hold of his body. I've read many stories in the past before about parasites, including 'Invasion Of The Body Snatchers', that have always been from the perspective of an observer. Neal gets right inside the host to realistically let you know what's happening. Chilling to say the least!Finally, from Tangent...
“Rotgut” by D.T. Neal is weird. A man on a train blows up. No, he’s not a terrorist, he’s been infected or infested. I can’t say a whole lot more without spoiling the story, and I don’t want to do that. I liked it, in a morbid sort of way.So, that's nice, although I'm very curious how people receive "Aegis." I think it's one of my best short stories to date.
Definitely give ALBEDO 1 a look, if you get the chance.
This and that
1424 words this morning for "Old Hickory." It's coming along very nicely. I think I'm about two-thirds of the way there with it. A short story. I think it'll be a sure bet to be published, just because of the nature of the tale. May need a bit of revision when I'm done with it, but that's all part of the dance, yes? Heh.
Oh, another story idea came to me yesterday. Here's the title, so it doesn't get lost (I always put my ideas down on paper slips, but sometimes I launder them or whatever. This way, they're at least likelier not to get lost)...
I'm pleased that my idea factory in my head seems to be humming along. I was preoccupied in 2008 with a lot of things, and was wrapping up one of my books, which ate up a lot of attention. I'm just pleased to "take a break" with a batch of short stories for 2009. I enjoy short stories as much as I enjoy novel-writing. It's a very different discipline, demands clean, lean prose; there's precious little fat to trim in them, not so much wiggle room. I like that.
Not that I don't enjoy a good wiggle, mind you, but in fiction, clean and lean is the way to go -- lush descriptions, but economy still rules the roost. Every word must matter. Not quite as much as with poetry, but nearly so.
I may take to writing longhand during lunch. I'll just drop down to the cafe and write down there, tune everybody out. Lately, Bossie has been coming by brandishing lists and what-not, taking advantage of me being at my desk (usually) during lunch, so I figure if I'm not there, am down in the cafe writing, I gain the benefit of an extra half-hour of writing time AND the benefit of not getting bothered by Bossie.
Oh, another story idea came to me yesterday. Here's the title, so it doesn't get lost (I always put my ideas down on paper slips, but sometimes I launder them or whatever. This way, they're at least likelier not to get lost)...
- It Takes One To Know One
I'm pleased that my idea factory in my head seems to be humming along. I was preoccupied in 2008 with a lot of things, and was wrapping up one of my books, which ate up a lot of attention. I'm just pleased to "take a break" with a batch of short stories for 2009. I enjoy short stories as much as I enjoy novel-writing. It's a very different discipline, demands clean, lean prose; there's precious little fat to trim in them, not so much wiggle room. I like that.
Not that I don't enjoy a good wiggle, mind you, but in fiction, clean and lean is the way to go -- lush descriptions, but economy still rules the roost. Every word must matter. Not quite as much as with poetry, but nearly so.
I may take to writing longhand during lunch. I'll just drop down to the cafe and write down there, tune everybody out. Lately, Bossie has been coming by brandishing lists and what-not, taking advantage of me being at my desk (usually) during lunch, so I figure if I'm not there, am down in the cafe writing, I gain the benefit of an extra half-hour of writing time AND the benefit of not getting bothered by Bossie.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Bobbing, Weaving
I should be sleeping. But one of the boys was sick, so I was taking care of that. Poor little guy. He's sleeping, now, but I'm awake. Or half-awake, anyway.
Watched "Nip/Tuck" last night. Glad they brought Julia back -- her absence was keenly felt. The show isn't nearly where it was in the first three seasons, in terms of everything. The writing is thinner, and that bugs me. I can always tell when something's been written well, versus somebody just going through the motions -- thinly-plotted contrivances and what-not. I can just see it. But Julia was integral to the dynamic of the show, so hopefully her return will up it a little.
Same thing with "It's Always Sunny..." -- it has not found The Funny so much this season, unfortunately. All too often, when comedy writers come up short, they opt for The Zany when they should be finding The Funny. For a lot of people, Zany IS Funny -- but they're not the same. The Funny doesn't have to be Zany -- it wins you over on its own merits, whereas Zany -- well, it's the comedic equivalent of blood and gore in lieu of terror or horror. It's what a writer of comedy reaches for when they are coming up short, are out of ideas. "Arrested Development" did it by the end of the second season. Lord knows when "The Office" (US) did it. But all comedy shows do it when they lose sight of The Funny, lose that vital edge. Once lost, it's often hard to rediscover -- it's like trying to explain a joke to somebody, the punchline is invariably lost on the listener, or they'll politely say "That's funny."
No, it's not. If you have to say it's funny, it's not funny. The Funny finds you; if you have to find The Funny, you're screwed. It's the Zen of The Funny, The Tao of Laughter. And so far, I've been very disappointed with this season's "It's Always Sunny...." -- I really, really, hope they find The Funny again. Fingers crossed.
Speaking of crossed fingers, I spent much of last night jotting down contact information for publishing my book. I found about a dozen potential homes for it, so now I have to work on those pitches and see if anybody has an iota's interest in it. They should; it's a good book. But it's very hard to pitch a book as a complete outsider -- I needed a pedigree, like coming from an Ivy League school, or having gone to the Writer's Workshop, or be related to a publishing czar -- an in-road like that really helps. All I have on my side is talent and persistence -- I just need that opportunity, need to make that opportunity, and a fistful of luck. So, we'll see how it goes.
Watched "Nip/Tuck" last night. Glad they brought Julia back -- her absence was keenly felt. The show isn't nearly where it was in the first three seasons, in terms of everything. The writing is thinner, and that bugs me. I can always tell when something's been written well, versus somebody just going through the motions -- thinly-plotted contrivances and what-not. I can just see it. But Julia was integral to the dynamic of the show, so hopefully her return will up it a little.
Same thing with "It's Always Sunny..." -- it has not found The Funny so much this season, unfortunately. All too often, when comedy writers come up short, they opt for The Zany when they should be finding The Funny. For a lot of people, Zany IS Funny -- but they're not the same. The Funny doesn't have to be Zany -- it wins you over on its own merits, whereas Zany -- well, it's the comedic equivalent of blood and gore in lieu of terror or horror. It's what a writer of comedy reaches for when they are coming up short, are out of ideas. "Arrested Development" did it by the end of the second season. Lord knows when "The Office" (US) did it. But all comedy shows do it when they lose sight of The Funny, lose that vital edge. Once lost, it's often hard to rediscover -- it's like trying to explain a joke to somebody, the punchline is invariably lost on the listener, or they'll politely say "That's funny."
No, it's not. If you have to say it's funny, it's not funny. The Funny finds you; if you have to find The Funny, you're screwed. It's the Zen of The Funny, The Tao of Laughter. And so far, I've been very disappointed with this season's "It's Always Sunny...." -- I really, really, hope they find The Funny again. Fingers crossed.
Speaking of crossed fingers, I spent much of last night jotting down contact information for publishing my book. I found about a dozen potential homes for it, so now I have to work on those pitches and see if anybody has an iota's interest in it. They should; it's a good book. But it's very hard to pitch a book as a complete outsider -- I needed a pedigree, like coming from an Ivy League school, or having gone to the Writer's Workshop, or be related to a publishing czar -- an in-road like that really helps. All I have on my side is talent and persistence -- I just need that opportunity, need to make that opportunity, and a fistful of luck. So, we'll see how it goes.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Bric-a-brackish
I sent "Spare Tire" to WEIRD TALES. We'll see how quickly they reject it. I also sent "Living With Syn" to the NEW YORKER. That's a total longshot, sure to be rejected, but I wanted to at least give it a try. It may be useful for me to note submissions in this blog, so I can keep track of them. I have a database at home, but with the computer migration thing (e.g., moving from a PC to a Mac), I haven't moved things over -- many things, including all of my writing, are on the old PC, including the database, etc. Soooo, we'll see. As long as I have my jump drive, I'm good. Have jump drive, will travel.
Had an idea this morning for a new story:
If WEIRD TALES rejects "Spare Tire," I'm going to send them "The Atomic Baby" and see how they handle that, assuming it falls beneath their word requirements (<10,000 words for unqueried fiction). And if that falls, I'll send them "Living with Syn." And so on. They don't like multiple submissions, so I have to wait for responses before sending another. The usual dance.
I want to wrap up "Wash, Spin, Rinse, Shoot, Repeat" this weekend, if at all possible.
Had an idea this morning for a new story:
- Deuce
If WEIRD TALES rejects "Spare Tire," I'm going to send them "The Atomic Baby" and see how they handle that, assuming it falls beneath their word requirements (<10,000 words for unqueried fiction). And if that falls, I'll send them "Living with Syn." And so on. They don't like multiple submissions, so I have to wait for responses before sending another. The usual dance.
I want to wrap up "Wash, Spin, Rinse, Shoot, Repeat" this weekend, if at all possible.
Make Your Own Luck, Inc.
I have got my feet under me again, and am going to spring at the publishing industry and sink my teeth into its leg, and hold on until the end of my days. Just been doing some research, and it got me all fired up. It's hard to wrestle with the ardent apathy of the industry and not have it sink into you a bit, but I'm back on my feet, and am swan-diving back into the fray. I always get extra-busy in the Fall and Winter, anyway.
One great thing about Chicago is the long winters -- people complain about them, but to me, long winters = Good Writing Weather. It's why there are far more great Russian writers versus great Hawaiian writers. Bad weather makes for great writing, because: a) you're indoors, and b) you need something to get your mind off the bad weather. Both situations are extraordinarily conducive to writing a lot, and the more you write, the better you become (ideally).
So, the descent into the short Fall and the long Winter that is Chicago ignites my spirit, gets me in full writerly mode -- I write year 'round, of course, but in terms of the business of writing, that kicks up for me during this time, since I need to find homes for things I've written in the Spring and Summer.
It's all very cyclical. ; )
One great thing about Chicago is the long winters -- people complain about them, but to me, long winters = Good Writing Weather. It's why there are far more great Russian writers versus great Hawaiian writers. Bad weather makes for great writing, because: a) you're indoors, and b) you need something to get your mind off the bad weather. Both situations are extraordinarily conducive to writing a lot, and the more you write, the better you become (ideally).
So, the descent into the short Fall and the long Winter that is Chicago ignites my spirit, gets me in full writerly mode -- I write year 'round, of course, but in terms of the business of writing, that kicks up for me during this time, since I need to find homes for things I've written in the Spring and Summer.
It's all very cyclical. ; )
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Street Music
One thing I like in Chicago, during the blustery, wintery-windy times, particularly in Fall and Winter proper, is how the wind can make street signs sing. Basically, any of those hollow-bore metal poles that support things like "No Parking" signs and what-not -- when the winds are strong enough, they become like giant flutes, and will carry the sound, resonating up and down them, like how you can make a beer bottle sing, only this is galvanized metal being played, not glass.
Now, it requires a pretty strong wind to do it, but when you pass several of them, all sounding at once, it's neat -- this ghostly city song played, a duet between Man's works and Nature's whims. A chorus of banshees. Usually the poles dance a little, too, buffeted by the winds. It would be fun to find one of the reliably windy areas and put a tape recorder there to capture the sound, although without the poles for context, it's probably not quite the same.
Now, it requires a pretty strong wind to do it, but when you pass several of them, all sounding at once, it's neat -- this ghostly city song played, a duet between Man's works and Nature's whims. A chorus of banshees. Usually the poles dance a little, too, buffeted by the winds. It would be fun to find one of the reliably windy areas and put a tape recorder there to capture the sound, although without the poles for context, it's probably not quite the same.
Leaden Skies
Music: "A Passing Feeling," Elliott Smith
Love that song. Most of Elliott Smith's stuff I find I like. A shame he snuffed himself, since he had talent to spare, a great synthesis of songwriting and lyricism. I always hear the Beatles a lot in his sound, like their late era. Perfect music for the leaden wannabe winter skies over the city today.
I never complain about the weather -- to me, any weather is wonderful. There are joys and horrors in all things, and I don't whine about weather. I snapped a photograph of an old building in my neighborhood. It was perfectly framed by the overcast skies and the clawing branches of the leafless trees around it.
My headphones (which I wear nearly all day at work, when at my desk, playing music), catch the static electricity when I move my feet, and make little hissing sounds and popping noises if I deliberately move my feet about on the old workaday carpet here in Bizarroworld.
I'm going to bundle various short stories into a collection and try to pitch that to some agents. Figure might as well have a couple of things going out at the same time, by way of big projects. I've got more than enough stories for a sizable collection, and individually, the stories seem to not be catching the interest of what few venues there are for my fiction, so maybe compiled they'll have some appeal. Have to try, right?
Love that song. Most of Elliott Smith's stuff I find I like. A shame he snuffed himself, since he had talent to spare, a great synthesis of songwriting and lyricism. I always hear the Beatles a lot in his sound, like their late era. Perfect music for the leaden wannabe winter skies over the city today.
I never complain about the weather -- to me, any weather is wonderful. There are joys and horrors in all things, and I don't whine about weather. I snapped a photograph of an old building in my neighborhood. It was perfectly framed by the overcast skies and the clawing branches of the leafless trees around it.
My headphones (which I wear nearly all day at work, when at my desk, playing music), catch the static electricity when I move my feet, and make little hissing sounds and popping noises if I deliberately move my feet about on the old workaday carpet here in Bizarroworld.
I'm going to bundle various short stories into a collection and try to pitch that to some agents. Figure might as well have a couple of things going out at the same time, by way of big projects. I've got more than enough stories for a sizable collection, and individually, the stories seem to not be catching the interest of what few venues there are for my fiction, so maybe compiled they'll have some appeal. Have to try, right?
Monday, November 16, 2009
Movie: ALIEN
I watched "Alien" on DVD the other night. I haven't watched that movie in a very long time. Of course, the scares associated with it are long faded, so I just watch it out of appreciation of Ridley Scott's former cinematic skill as a director (I say "former" because I think he's sold out a bit over the last decade or so). The movie holds up well, still looks futuristic, it's nice seeing those various actors younger, and the alien's monstrous as ever.
One amusement for me was how the lifeboat shuttle only can take three crewpeople -- this on a ship that has seven people aboard. That little details amused me. It's a space freighter capable of lugging 20 million tons of ore, and the Company puts one lifeboat aboard that can only handle three crew? That little detail speaks volumes about the Company's priorities, where the crew is concerned.
That's something I explore in some of my own SF stories -- a kind of "fuck you" attitude toward its astronauts on the part of the sponsoring agency. I like that sardonic flavor of it, versus the old-school "Men In SPAAAAAAACE" grandiosity of the 50s and 60s. I like the idea of the poor bastards being hurled into space and screwed over by the people who are ostensibly there to help them -- I explore that in my story, "Mission Control."
Anyway, I liked that little detail, along with the ship's computer, Mother, being all but nice and kind to her "children" among the crew. The mission's a setup from the outset, the Nostromo is intended to pick up the alien organism from the get-go. And I loved the voice for Mother (which you only hear on the auto-destruct sequence, as she counts down her own death with machinelike precision -- that moment always resonates powerfully with me. I like that detail, since it is just so inhuman and haunting). The voice for Mother isn't the typical sexy female computer voice, but rather, it's the carping, officious tone of a mean old matron -- you can just hear it. Again, Scott's attention to detail back then was wonderful, and yielded rich rewards.
Further, the age of the crew is a nice touch -- nobody's really young aboard the Nostromo. That is a great detail, this sense of mortality and age among a weary, worn crew. It wouldn't have worked if everybody was young and strong and pretty.
Also, I love how most of the crew smokes. In the close confines of a space ship (even a gigantic ore freighter), where oxygen is, at least in theory, at a premium, having them smoke was great.
One amusement for me was how the lifeboat shuttle only can take three crewpeople -- this on a ship that has seven people aboard. That little details amused me. It's a space freighter capable of lugging 20 million tons of ore, and the Company puts one lifeboat aboard that can only handle three crew? That little detail speaks volumes about the Company's priorities, where the crew is concerned.
That's something I explore in some of my own SF stories -- a kind of "fuck you" attitude toward its astronauts on the part of the sponsoring agency. I like that sardonic flavor of it, versus the old-school "Men In SPAAAAAAACE" grandiosity of the 50s and 60s. I like the idea of the poor bastards being hurled into space and screwed over by the people who are ostensibly there to help them -- I explore that in my story, "Mission Control."
Anyway, I liked that little detail, along with the ship's computer, Mother, being all but nice and kind to her "children" among the crew. The mission's a setup from the outset, the Nostromo is intended to pick up the alien organism from the get-go. And I loved the voice for Mother (which you only hear on the auto-destruct sequence, as she counts down her own death with machinelike precision -- that moment always resonates powerfully with me. I like that detail, since it is just so inhuman and haunting). The voice for Mother isn't the typical sexy female computer voice, but rather, it's the carping, officious tone of a mean old matron -- you can just hear it. Again, Scott's attention to detail back then was wonderful, and yielded rich rewards.
Further, the age of the crew is a nice touch -- nobody's really young aboard the Nostromo. That is a great detail, this sense of mortality and age among a weary, worn crew. It wouldn't have worked if everybody was young and strong and pretty.
Also, I love how most of the crew smokes. In the close confines of a space ship (even a gigantic ore freighter), where oxygen is, at least in theory, at a premium, having them smoke was great.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Scene: Shoplifters of the World
I was waiting in line at CVS, a long line, since they only had two registers going, behind this cute young thing buying herself a knee brace, and I heard a commotion behind us in the store. Apparently some guy had been caught stealing eyeliner, and was being confronted by someone -- this sharp-voiced Latina. I wasn't sure if she was an in-store Loss Prevention type or what, but she confronted the guy about the eyeliners, told him to empty his pockets. We're all turned in line to watch this fracas, and the guy, who looks to be perhaps Latin, himself, or Italian, or some other olive-complected soul, with a heavy black coat, a ball cap, and a black goatee-type beard, walks slowly out of the store, with the woman on his heels, telling him the cops were coming, and that she got a good look at him. She was on a cell phone at the time.
The babe ahead of me looked at me like "Huh?" (I could see she had braces on her teeth, which was a nice accompaniment to the knee brace she was getting) and I just said "Busted."
Nobody stopped the guy from leaving the store, although the Loss Prevention people (?) kept after him, watched him slowly walk down Armitage, busy trying to be inconspicuous. After purchasing my stuff, I went to the curb and last saw him near the Irish bar down the way, the River Shannon.
Meantime, I wondered: Eyeliner??
The babe ahead of me looked at me like "Huh?" (I could see she had braces on her teeth, which was a nice accompaniment to the knee brace she was getting) and I just said "Busted."
Nobody stopped the guy from leaving the store, although the Loss Prevention people (?) kept after him, watched him slowly walk down Armitage, busy trying to be inconspicuous. After purchasing my stuff, I went to the curb and last saw him near the Irish bar down the way, the River Shannon.
Meantime, I wondered: Eyeliner??
Scene: Furry
The other day, on the bus ride home, I saw a gay guy clearly out cruising. It amused me, because he was pretty old, but was ogling everybody who boarded, looking for play. That, and his outfit. Oh, my. First, he was balding at the top of his head -- so, he had that bit of a tonsure going, but that didn't stop him from zazzing up his gunmetal gray-silver hair with some product, so he had it spiked up ahead of the tonsure, which was an odd image if you saw him from anything but head-on.
He was wearing some pointy-toed shoes (maybe calf boots? I can't actually remember that), and some fashionable jeans. But the real cornerstone of his ensemble was his fur coat -- waist-length, not a long fur coat, but a brown fur coat -- beaver? Not sure. It was clearly the centerpiece of his get-up, accentuated with some shiny rings. The grizzled rooster hair and that fur coat, oh, man -- priceless! I wanted to photograph him for the sake of fashionable disaster posterity -- a sartorial Hindenberg, he was, and yet he carried it off with a flinty-eyed, hard-won kind of swishy dignity, I suppose: he didn't pretend to be anything but exactly what he was, and he was so clearly out for whatever he could hope to get that night.
Quite a look he had going, like some European sexual tourist run amok. He got off in the Gold Coast, for parts unknown.
He was wearing some pointy-toed shoes (maybe calf boots? I can't actually remember that), and some fashionable jeans. But the real cornerstone of his ensemble was his fur coat -- waist-length, not a long fur coat, but a brown fur coat -- beaver? Not sure. It was clearly the centerpiece of his get-up, accentuated with some shiny rings. The grizzled rooster hair and that fur coat, oh, man -- priceless! I wanted to photograph him for the sake of fashionable disaster posterity -- a sartorial Hindenberg, he was, and yet he carried it off with a flinty-eyed, hard-won kind of swishy dignity, I suppose: he didn't pretend to be anything but exactly what he was, and he was so clearly out for whatever he could hope to get that night.
Quite a look he had going, like some European sexual tourist run amok. He got off in the Gold Coast, for parts unknown.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Scene: Grrl Freitag
I was writing on the bus, on the way to the HP, and a hipster chick sat next to me, dug out her copy of the New Yorker and briefly read it, before popping on some headphones and chilling out. She was average height, black hair, slightly sallow complexion, assiduously plucked eyebrows, black knitted beret, black leather jacket, black skinny jeans, melon-colored socks and black Keds-style canvas sneakers. She had a big turquoise ring on her left middle finger that was two triangular pieces of turquoise pointing toward each other, off-center, like two ships passing by. The overall ring was fairly big. She had a worn, dusky silver-toned messenger bag with "FREITAG" as the label, which amused me, made me want to snap a picture of her -- especially with the whole black ensemble going, except for the nerdy socks. I would have liked if her name was "Tuesday" -- that would've been perfect, seeing Tuesday with her Freitag bag on a Thursday morning.
She sipped at her coffee, kept stealing glances at my notebook while I was writing. Normally it bugs me if people are trying to read over my shoulder (HATE that), but my handwriting is nearly incomprehensible, so I doubt she could read much. Reminds me of when I used to take the South Shore train line, and a couple of teenaged girls marveled at my handwriting, watching me write in a notebook, and one said "What LANGUAGE is that?" in that nasally teenaged way of talking, and I told her it was English, and she asked to see it, and I showed her, and she said "Dude, that writing should be a font!"
Details about Grrl Freitag, let's see... her hair was a brown-black shag, from what I could see, since she had on that beret. The eyebrows stood out to me, just because she'd definitely worked them over a bit -- just short of the point of being too much, in my view, with my whole eyebrow thing. Her upper lip was utterly hairless (a good thing in my view, and if her eyebrows got that kind of attention, no doubt the mustache had no chance!) -- I bring up the upper lip only because she kept nursing her coffee, kept venturing tentative little sips, because obviously it was hot, so it was this kind of dance with her lips perched atop the white Starbucks coffee lid, a beverage tango. With the sun streaming in, her face had turned to gold, which showed a lot of detail, the steam rising from the cup.
That's about it. She loped off the bus, and I kept writing.
She sipped at her coffee, kept stealing glances at my notebook while I was writing. Normally it bugs me if people are trying to read over my shoulder (HATE that), but my handwriting is nearly incomprehensible, so I doubt she could read much. Reminds me of when I used to take the South Shore train line, and a couple of teenaged girls marveled at my handwriting, watching me write in a notebook, and one said "What LANGUAGE is that?" in that nasally teenaged way of talking, and I told her it was English, and she asked to see it, and I showed her, and she said "Dude, that writing should be a font!"
Details about Grrl Freitag, let's see... her hair was a brown-black shag, from what I could see, since she had on that beret. The eyebrows stood out to me, just because she'd definitely worked them over a bit -- just short of the point of being too much, in my view, with my whole eyebrow thing. Her upper lip was utterly hairless (a good thing in my view, and if her eyebrows got that kind of attention, no doubt the mustache had no chance!) -- I bring up the upper lip only because she kept nursing her coffee, kept venturing tentative little sips, because obviously it was hot, so it was this kind of dance with her lips perched atop the white Starbucks coffee lid, a beverage tango. With the sun streaming in, her face had turned to gold, which showed a lot of detail, the steam rising from the cup.
That's about it. She loped off the bus, and I kept writing.
Yessssss
I worked on "Wash, Spin, Rinse..." all morning. It's hot. It's humming along very nicely. It is very much in the spirit of Richard Matheson, one of my influences -- it's my own thing, in my own style, but somebody who likes Matheson would find a lot to like in this story.
It tickles me, writing longhand again. While I don't write as quickly as I type, I like being able to write at will. Of course, with a laptop, I get the best of both worlds, so that just puts a laptop at the top of my to-get list.
But anyway, the story's humming along beautifully. I should be able to bang this one out and then delve back into the PC at home and wrap up the ones I'd mentioned the other day.
It tickles me, writing longhand again. While I don't write as quickly as I type, I like being able to write at will. Of course, with a laptop, I get the best of both worlds, so that just puts a laptop at the top of my to-get list.
But anyway, the story's humming along beautifully. I should be able to bang this one out and then delve back into the PC at home and wrap up the ones I'd mentioned the other day.
Writerly
I started working on "Wash, Spin, Rinse..." yesterday, on the bus ride home. Writing longhand, as is my lot for the moment, until I can afford another laptop. It's going to be an interesting story, I think. The voice of the character flew out of me, male protagonist, snarky, sarcastic, cynical -- sound like anybody you know?
I know I was going to wait on it, but the character's voice started going and I just had to take dictation, get it down. I have these fab Papermate pens I bought at the store the other week -- they're click-pens with black and white patterns on them. Love the patterns and the black and white. Just kinda Mod, I think. I may have to buy a few more packs of them, just to have, before they disappear.
I know I was going to read "The Road," but I paused in favor of an "American Gothic" anthology compiled by Joyce Carol Oates. That's keeping me entertained at the moment, keeps a shade of Halloween alive well past the holiday itself.
I know I was going to wait on it, but the character's voice started going and I just had to take dictation, get it down. I have these fab Papermate pens I bought at the store the other week -- they're click-pens with black and white patterns on them. Love the patterns and the black and white. Just kinda Mod, I think. I may have to buy a few more packs of them, just to have, before they disappear.
I know I was going to read "The Road," but I paused in favor of an "American Gothic" anthology compiled by Joyce Carol Oates. That's keeping me entertained at the moment, keeps a shade of Halloween alive well past the holiday itself.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Not On My Hands
I find when confronted with Halloween-hued Peanut M&Ms (said hues being: black, orange, purple, and chartreuse), I selectively eat the purples and the oranges, getting them out of the way, saving the black and chartreuse ones for last. There are only two left, now, in my little dish: one black, one chartreuse. Those colors, together, look lovely to me. Wicked, like a witch's kiss.
Their time at last has come....
Their time at last has come....
Idea Man
I was surging last night, just had a ton of ideas. I kept jotting them down on a slip of paper, which I kept on me all night, just in case more came (they did). Love when I'm on the creative upswing, surfing the waves of my subconscious. Stories I have to finish...
Of course, I have to repeat the process of pimping stories out to markets, which is proving a little more difficult. I may bundle a baker's dozen of my short stories as an anthology and see if I can get any agency's interest for those.
Speaking of that, I sent out another query for the book. Fingers crossed. I really, really hope something clicks for this one.
- Smartbomb
- Vista
- Old Hickory
- Deadline
- Wash, Spin, Rinse, Shoot, Repeat
- Statuesque
Of course, I have to repeat the process of pimping stories out to markets, which is proving a little more difficult. I may bundle a baker's dozen of my short stories as an anthology and see if I can get any agency's interest for those.
Speaking of that, I sent out another query for the book. Fingers crossed. I really, really hope something clicks for this one.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Scene: Poke-Poke-POKE!
I didn't recognize Muttonchops McGee when he first got on the bus. Actually, I think I almost recognized him, but couldn't quite place him -- red-haired guy with an Edwardian kind of visage to him -- somehow, familiar. I realized once he sat down that it was Muttonchops McGee, but he'd shaved off his signature 'chops. It was his thing. He was a regular feature on the Hyde Park bus. He'd habitually grow his hipster hair out very big, would have these massive muttonchops going, and then at some arbitrary point in the year, he'd get shorn like a sheep and would repeat the process all over again.
Today he looked almost respectable in his blue jeans (holes in the pockets that may have gone all the way through the jeans, not sure), well-worn white canvas sneakers with black laces, a suitably autumnal sweater and an oxford shirt, and a windbreaker. He boarded the bus with his characteristics stone-faced and drowsy bearing, and I would have ignored him but for one thing: he had a woman with him. Girlfriend? Lover? Both?
Bride of Muttonchops McGee was smartly attired -- brown herringbone jacket, navy blue knee skirt, zebra pantyhose, shiny black ballet flats. She was pretty in a bitch-mouthed kind of way -- blue eyes, thick brown hair in a shoulder-lengthed shaggy cut that was tousled just so. Not bedheaded, but just city breeze-blown, or something. Her nose was prominent, eyebrows sculpted, expression someplace between weary and contemptuous. The perfect bookend for Muttonchops McGee.
I watched them while I half-read my Hawthorne ("The Man of Adamant;" and I have to say that while Hawthorne in youth was my broccoli-and-medicine, I have come to strongly admire him over the years, his work and boldness to stick a thumb in the eye of the Puritan morality -- maybe the rise of the fundamentalists makes it extra-satisfying, and that Hawthorne had the courage to call out their hypocrisy way back then. Very bold. Bravo!) -- anyway, the couple dozed in their seats, both of them, side-by-side, their heads bobbing. Muttonchops McGee looking grave even in half-slumber, and his babe's expression not much changing. I noticed she had headphones leading to her bag, a black iPod or equivalent MP3 player of similarly slender and sleek design. She had a claddagh ring of silver on her left middle finger. Maybe that meant they were fuckbuddies? Not sure the code of the claddagh, only know that it's a fun word to say.
On and on the bus went, their heads like gyroscopes, tracking the passage of the vehicle toward the HP. Sometimes one of them would half-awaken, only to drowse off again. Eventually, she laid her head on his shoulder, and he did not react.
Finally, reaching the University campus proper, she basically woke up, her expression not much changed from what it was when she was dozing, and Muttonchops McGee just stay there, eyes shut. Then she poked him in the ribs with an elbow: Poke.
No reaction. Poke-poke.
I could see her eyes on him, head turned.
Poke-poke-poke.
McGee did not acknowledge, did not react.
Poke-pooooooooooooooooooooke.
That last one a long poke, like an extended Morse Code poke rendering, the telegraph operator leaning on the switch awhile. McGee finally opened his eyes, looked at her in annoyance, then leaned a bit away so he was out of range of her elbow.
She smiled to herself, resumed poking. Although the poking was surely annoying, it made me smile, the playful way she was trying to wakeup her douchebag boyfriend. She continued, not realizing I'd noticed this whole little exchange:
Poke. Poke-poke. Poke. Poke. Poke-poke-poke-poke.
McGee did not stir. Then the bus reached their stop, and she got up and walked past him, and McGee opened his eyes and got up, and the two of them walked out, her slightly ahead of him, not reacting overmuch, and then he caught up with her, was talking. My bus went on its way, leaving them behind.
Today he looked almost respectable in his blue jeans (holes in the pockets that may have gone all the way through the jeans, not sure), well-worn white canvas sneakers with black laces, a suitably autumnal sweater and an oxford shirt, and a windbreaker. He boarded the bus with his characteristics stone-faced and drowsy bearing, and I would have ignored him but for one thing: he had a woman with him. Girlfriend? Lover? Both?
Bride of Muttonchops McGee was smartly attired -- brown herringbone jacket, navy blue knee skirt, zebra pantyhose, shiny black ballet flats. She was pretty in a bitch-mouthed kind of way -- blue eyes, thick brown hair in a shoulder-lengthed shaggy cut that was tousled just so. Not bedheaded, but just city breeze-blown, or something. Her nose was prominent, eyebrows sculpted, expression someplace between weary and contemptuous. The perfect bookend for Muttonchops McGee.
I watched them while I half-read my Hawthorne ("The Man of Adamant;" and I have to say that while Hawthorne in youth was my broccoli-and-medicine, I have come to strongly admire him over the years, his work and boldness to stick a thumb in the eye of the Puritan morality -- maybe the rise of the fundamentalists makes it extra-satisfying, and that Hawthorne had the courage to call out their hypocrisy way back then. Very bold. Bravo!) -- anyway, the couple dozed in their seats, both of them, side-by-side, their heads bobbing. Muttonchops McGee looking grave even in half-slumber, and his babe's expression not much changing. I noticed she had headphones leading to her bag, a black iPod or equivalent MP3 player of similarly slender and sleek design. She had a claddagh ring of silver on her left middle finger. Maybe that meant they were fuckbuddies? Not sure the code of the claddagh, only know that it's a fun word to say.
On and on the bus went, their heads like gyroscopes, tracking the passage of the vehicle toward the HP. Sometimes one of them would half-awaken, only to drowse off again. Eventually, she laid her head on his shoulder, and he did not react.
Finally, reaching the University campus proper, she basically woke up, her expression not much changed from what it was when she was dozing, and Muttonchops McGee just stay there, eyes shut. Then she poked him in the ribs with an elbow: Poke.
No reaction. Poke-poke.
I could see her eyes on him, head turned.
Poke-poke-poke.
McGee did not acknowledge, did not react.
Poke-pooooooooooooooooooooke.
That last one a long poke, like an extended Morse Code poke rendering, the telegraph operator leaning on the switch awhile. McGee finally opened his eyes, looked at her in annoyance, then leaned a bit away so he was out of range of her elbow.
She smiled to herself, resumed poking. Although the poking was surely annoying, it made me smile, the playful way she was trying to wakeup her douchebag boyfriend. She continued, not realizing I'd noticed this whole little exchange:
Poke. Poke-poke. Poke. Poke. Poke-poke-poke-poke.
McGee did not stir. Then the bus reached their stop, and she got up and walked past him, and McGee opened his eyes and got up, and the two of them walked out, her slightly ahead of him, not reacting overmuch, and then he caught up with her, was talking. My bus went on its way, leaving them behind.
Scene It
Alright, here's how it goes: a title with "FICTION:" on it is exactly what it says it is. Whereas, a title with "SCENE:" on it is something I've seen that I'm recounting. Get it?
Counting
1092 words. Not bad for the underside of an hour, although just a sliver compared with what I used to be able to turn out, with time and space (e.g., a 1.5-hour commute each way -- that was the time of 5 to 6000 word a day. God, I loved that).
With time and space, I can go and go and go. During my glorious time of unemployment in 1999 (I can't remember how long -- maybe three months?) I'd write hours daily, uninterrupted. I loved that. That was when I knew that's what I wanted to be. Christ, hard to believe that was ten years ago -- what a difference 29 to 39 makes. When you're 29, you're still in the most-favorable demographic, the 18 to 34 age group, the "youth market" -- but when you're 39, you're halfway to being forgotten, at least to the lame marketeers that slice up the populace into audience demographics.
Gen X is screwed, relative to earlier generations, because we have beans for earning power -- in the past, you turned 39 and you were entering your peak earning years. I'm sure that's true for some, but for most of us, it's just not there (at least going the conventional 925 Grinder route).
Now, however, fewer and fewer of us "make it" by this age. So many of my peers depend heavily on their folks to float them, one way or another. God help you if you don't have that to fall back on.
It's very warm in the apartment this morning; the radiators are hissing and I'm sweating. Steam heat is great, but it does tend to make a place like a sauna, if you can't get the valves just right. At the moment, that seems to be the case.
With time and space, I can go and go and go. During my glorious time of unemployment in 1999 (I can't remember how long -- maybe three months?) I'd write hours daily, uninterrupted. I loved that. That was when I knew that's what I wanted to be. Christ, hard to believe that was ten years ago -- what a difference 29 to 39 makes. When you're 29, you're still in the most-favorable demographic, the 18 to 34 age group, the "youth market" -- but when you're 39, you're halfway to being forgotten, at least to the lame marketeers that slice up the populace into audience demographics.
Gen X is screwed, relative to earlier generations, because we have beans for earning power -- in the past, you turned 39 and you were entering your peak earning years. I'm sure that's true for some, but for most of us, it's just not there (at least going the conventional 925 Grinder route).
Now, however, fewer and fewer of us "make it" by this age. So many of my peers depend heavily on their folks to float them, one way or another. God help you if you don't have that to fall back on.
It's very warm in the apartment this morning; the radiators are hissing and I'm sweating. Steam heat is great, but it does tend to make a place like a sauna, if you can't get the valves just right. At the moment, that seems to be the case.
Working
I'm working on the short story this morning. I have to use the old computer; well, I suppose I could use the iMac, but all of my writing is on the old Dell, so I use that, just to keep all of my work in one place. Having that old, slow computer after being used to the speedy Apple is sort of like having a bag of unpeeled carrots in the fridge -- you want to eat'em, but somehow peeling them seems like sooooo much work. So, I make a big deal about turning the thing on and hearing the old processor grrrrrrrind to life, wait forever for MS Word to open.
It's nearly there, nearly ready....
It's nearly there, nearly ready....
Sunday, November 8, 2009
House of Leaves
I HATE "House of Leaves." I've read that book off and on for the better part of a year, and I hate it. Just to be extra-wanky, I'm doing what they did throughout that book, which is color the word "house" blue every fucking time it would show up in the text. Ooooh, are you scared, yet?!
Look, the book became a bestseller, has some kind of cult status associated with it, but the fact is, it's a shit sandwich of a novel. I've found it almost impossible to get through, with all the nonsense addenda the writer threw around the core of the story.
I'm not going to summarize it. If you want a good haunted house story, check out "The House Next Door" by Anne Rivers Siddons. That's worth your time, and is more scary than anything in "House of Leaves."
If, however, you love, I dunno, "Ulysses" and want to feel like you're not just reading a book, but experiencing it, then by all means read "House of Leaves" and blabbity-blah.
It was a debut novel, okay, I get it. An audacious debut, but in my opinion, for all the wrong reasons. This book is editor bait! I can just see some jaded New York editor reading the manuscript and going "HOLY SHIT! I've never seen anybody do THIS before with a novel."
And there's a reason: it's a gimmick.
Of course, now you're wondering what's incensed me so about it, right? Now you'll want to read the fucking book, see what I'm talking about. Go ahead, if you want. Fool that I am, I think a writer has an unspoken covenant with their reader, to take them on a trip worth taking. And this book subverts that covenant -- it is the literary equivalent of a one-man band, with the jackass standing there with a bass drum on his back, cymbals on his knees, a trombone in one hand, a harmonica necklace, a kazoo in the corner of his mouth, and a trumpet in his other hand. He can make a lot of noise with it, might even be able to make a little music with it, but I look at something like that and think "Why not just play one instrument REALLY well, instead of trying to impress us with all the fucking shit you can do? You look like a jackass, you are a jackass, move along, wankbag."
The book is bullshit. And it's just exactly the grade of bullshit that there are douchebags out there who will cleave to it and revere the book in a totemic kind of way, as an art object. It's the kind of book that a writer can get away with once -- because it is a fucking gimmicky contrivance -- you can't make a career out of that, unless you want to be a one-hit wonder.
So fuck you, "House of Leaves." Fuck you very much.
Look, the book became a bestseller, has some kind of cult status associated with it, but the fact is, it's a shit sandwich of a novel. I've found it almost impossible to get through, with all the nonsense addenda the writer threw around the core of the story.
I'm not going to summarize it. If you want a good haunted house story, check out "The House Next Door" by Anne Rivers Siddons. That's worth your time, and is more scary than anything in "House of Leaves."
If, however, you love, I dunno, "Ulysses" and want to feel like you're not just reading a book, but experiencing it, then by all means read "House of Leaves" and blabbity-blah.
It was a debut novel, okay, I get it. An audacious debut, but in my opinion, for all the wrong reasons. This book is editor bait! I can just see some jaded New York editor reading the manuscript and going "HOLY SHIT! I've never seen anybody do THIS before with a novel."
And there's a reason: it's a gimmick.
Of course, now you're wondering what's incensed me so about it, right? Now you'll want to read the fucking book, see what I'm talking about. Go ahead, if you want. Fool that I am, I think a writer has an unspoken covenant with their reader, to take them on a trip worth taking. And this book subverts that covenant -- it is the literary equivalent of a one-man band, with the jackass standing there with a bass drum on his back, cymbals on his knees, a trombone in one hand, a harmonica necklace, a kazoo in the corner of his mouth, and a trumpet in his other hand. He can make a lot of noise with it, might even be able to make a little music with it, but I look at something like that and think "Why not just play one instrument REALLY well, instead of trying to impress us with all the fucking shit you can do? You look like a jackass, you are a jackass, move along, wankbag."
The book is bullshit. And it's just exactly the grade of bullshit that there are douchebags out there who will cleave to it and revere the book in a totemic kind of way, as an art object. It's the kind of book that a writer can get away with once -- because it is a fucking gimmicky contrivance -- you can't make a career out of that, unless you want to be a one-hit wonder.
So fuck you, "House of Leaves." Fuck you very much.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Weather or not
Pretty autumn day, great weather, although very windy, as it usually is in Chicago this time of year. But all of the sun made it nice.
I'm a bit sleep-deprived. Had a surreal dream last night where I had acquired a Sly & the Family Stone picture holder, one of those multiple-frame holders, and this one was festooned with silver glitter and other brightness, and had pictures of Sly featured. I remember in the dream thinking that was pretty great, touting it as the funkiest frame, ever. And it came with a bonus Sly lapel pin.
What a goofy dream...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QBIA7hZE0l0
I'm a bit sleep-deprived. Had a surreal dream last night where I had acquired a Sly & the Family Stone picture holder, one of those multiple-frame holders, and this one was festooned with silver glitter and other brightness, and had pictures of Sly featured. I remember in the dream thinking that was pretty great, touting it as the funkiest frame, ever. And it came with a bonus Sly lapel pin.
What a goofy dream...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QBIA7hZE0l0
Guilt by Association
I swear, The Association might be the most evil band in pop music history. It's bad enough that they did "Cherish" (among other smash hits of mawkish sunshine pop) but they also did this one...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TXN7wkSRVZg
I am so going to write a scene in a story where something absolutely horrifying and/or terrible happens to a character while that song is playing. It simply must be done.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TXN7wkSRVZg
I am so going to write a scene in a story where something absolutely horrifying and/or terrible happens to a character while that song is playing. It simply must be done.
Friday, November 6, 2009
See?
Toldja I'd be back.
I'm working on several stories right now, long and short. Short story of the moment is either horror or perhaps black comedy. I'm hoping to get that done in a week or so. Long fiction is alternately real-world ('adult contemporary' -- is that the bogus term for it?) or perhaps horror. Maybe a bit of both.
Also, I'm going to throw a few stories the New Yorker's way. Why not? I haven't done that in awhile. Keep'em entertained.
It's a challenge being noticed when you're in Flyover Country (e.g., that vast expanse of land between New York and LA). Sue me, I live in the Midwest, in Chicago.
I'm not doing National Novel-Writing Month this year, after having played a few times at that in previous years, completing books in a month's time. It's doable, and I've done it, and while it's fun having a kind of deadline gnawing at your leg a bit, I have nothing to prove where that is concerned, so I'm not doing NaNoWriMo this year, and never will again.
I'll move at my usual choo-choo train locomotive pace, racing along, banging out words, and hopefully folks will read them.
If you're really nice, I'll even put some of those stories here, although I haven't decided what, yet, will go here. You'll know. I'll preface the subject line with "Fiction:" so there's no uncertainty.
And if you try to steal my story, I'll take your thumbs, simple as that.
I'm working on several stories right now, long and short. Short story of the moment is either horror or perhaps black comedy. I'm hoping to get that done in a week or so. Long fiction is alternately real-world ('adult contemporary' -- is that the bogus term for it?) or perhaps horror. Maybe a bit of both.
Also, I'm going to throw a few stories the New Yorker's way. Why not? I haven't done that in awhile. Keep'em entertained.
It's a challenge being noticed when you're in Flyover Country (e.g., that vast expanse of land between New York and LA). Sue me, I live in the Midwest, in Chicago.
I'm not doing National Novel-Writing Month this year, after having played a few times at that in previous years, completing books in a month's time. It's doable, and I've done it, and while it's fun having a kind of deadline gnawing at your leg a bit, I have nothing to prove where that is concerned, so I'm not doing NaNoWriMo this year, and never will again.
I'll move at my usual choo-choo train locomotive pace, racing along, banging out words, and hopefully folks will read them.
If you're really nice, I'll even put some of those stories here, although I haven't decided what, yet, will go here. You'll know. I'll preface the subject line with "Fiction:" so there's no uncertainty.
And if you try to steal my story, I'll take your thumbs, simple as that.
Something Wicked This Way Comes
Using "wicked" in the old-school way, like "Damn, that was totally wicked, Dude!" Like "gnarly" only more so. More to come....
"We're fools whether we dance or not, so we might as well dance."
--Japanese Proverb
"We're fools whether we dance or not, so we might as well dance."
--Japanese Proverb
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