Leia

Ah, Princess Leia. But for her "slave girl" costume, nerd girls throughout the universe would not have their go-to costume of choice. Something came to me, however, as I thought about it, having watched "Return of the Jedi" after not having watched it for a very long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away...

1) Leia is the biggest bitch in the cosmos, yes? I mean, that's not even a controversial point. She's a bitch's bitch. Grand Moff Tarkin understood this, which was why he tartly signed her death warrant.

2) So, granted that Leia is a supreme bitch, I ask you this: How'd Jabba get her in that slave girl costume? I mean, they do a screen wipe from the point when Jabba captures her to later, when we see her in the classic slave girl costume, chained to Jabba's throne/sedan chair.

I mean, we know why Jabba did this -- he was basically saying "You may be a bitch, but you're MY bitch, Bitch." (said in Huttese, naturally)

But what I want to know is how Jabba's minions managed to actually get Leia to wear that slave girl outfit, let alone a chain around her neck. Because if there was anybody in the galaxy who could not be made to do something she didn't want to do, it was Leia.

And yet, there she was, sporting that slave girl costume (not that I'm complaining, mind you -- that was one of the formative experiences of my burgeoning adolescent sexuality, Leia in that getup).

All the same, I only wonder how they got her to wear it. I mean, we know why Carrie Fisher wore it -- George Lucas was like "Wear this, we need to show a little skin, maybe, just to show what a dick Jabba is." But, as a character, it's hard to fathom how they got Leia to wear it.

I mean, even if Jabba's henchmen knocked Leia out and dressed her in that, she'd likely have gotten out of that getup the first chance she got, right? But Leia doesn't look roughed up -- rather, she's just lounging on Jabba's sedan chair, biding her time.

We know that Leia doesn't want to be Jabba's slave girl, obviously. But, how did Jabba manage to convince her? I mean, was Jabba a bigger asshole than Leia was a bitch? How'd he pull off the hat trick of getting Leia to be a slave girl? And in no time flat, mind you -- it's not like she'd been his prisoner for a long time; rather, Leia rolls for Jabba in no time.

Clearly, and this comes as no surprise, Jabba is a pimp. And not just any pimp -- Jabba is the greatest pimp in the history of pimpdom. He didn't even have to rough Leia up; we don't see how he did it, but, somehow, Jabba got Leia to don a slave girl costume and a leash, and, apparently, it didn't take much persuading to do so. Not just that, but the habitually mouthy Leia is silent when she's Jabba's bitch. I can't remember her actually saying anything when she's hanging out with Jabba. She just sits there, the shrew apparently tamed by Jabba's pimptacular skills.

Now, maybe Jabba told her to wear it or he'd kill Han. But, that's not very convincing, since Jabba was clearly intending to kill Han regardless of what Leia did. I don't know. It's one of those mysteries of "Star Wars" that one may never solve.

I mean, we're talking about Leia, here -- this is a woman who, rather than give up the Rebellion to Grand Moff Tarkin, risked (and lost) her entire homeworld, killing billions of people -- she's one seriously tough cookie. But Jabba rolls her in no time flat. How? Clearly, the Hutt race have some kind of Master Pimping power that rivals the Force in its awesomeness. It must be something like that. How else to explain it?

"Soon you will learn to appreciate me." 
~Jabba the Hutt, to Leia Organa

Musical

I'm uploading some of my umpteen CDs to my computer. It amuses me, just because CDs were supposed to be THE thing -- I mean, decades ago, I remember when they were trotted out that way. Now, they are effectively obsolete. At some point, CD/DVD players will cease to be, and CDs will vanish as everything becomes MP3 (at least until the next proper storm of energy from the sun blanks out everything electronic -- haha). All the same, it's funny to wade through these old discs. Exene always wanted me to throw them out, said her usual mantra "What's the point?" with anything she didn't value or appreciate. I would say "I am keeping them so I can have an archive of the music I like, in case I need to upload them, or if a computer crashes, etc." She'd just shrug it off, as she did so much. All the same, I've got'em, and am loading them up to my new computer, something I hadn't done for years.

Say what you will about Hole -- their "Live Through This" was a good album for its time (1994 -- now squarely in the confines of "a long time ago"), and the album cover was killer. That picture was so damned perfect -- the snarly-smiled, Heathers-esque beauty pageant winner/prom queen from Hell? Masterful...

Model Leilani Bishop: "I WON! YAY, ME!"

Midnight in Paris, Afternoon in Chicago

So, I enjoyed Woody Allen's latest, "Midnight in Paris." I am neither a fan nor a foe of his movies. I like some of them well enough, others, not so much, but it all kind of balances out. Anyway, I liked the movie, which followed Owen Wilson as Gil, entranced by Paris on the eve of his marriage to Rachel McAdams, yearning to abandon his (apparently highly-successful yet empty) screenwriting career for novel-writing in Paris. One line that had me scoffing a bit, when Gil scoffed about screenwriting being easy, novel-writing was hard -- I've had the opposite experience! To me, a novel is a far easier enterprise than a screenplay (although definitely a more-satisfying one). Gil begins encountering figures from the Parisian past, a feast of luminaries from the Lost Generation era of 1920s Paris, who all interact with him -- it almost seems like a ghost story, except that it's not in any way scary, but the way Gil seamlessly interacts with these figures (and it's a who's who from the era -- Cole Porter, F. Scott Fitzgerald [and Zelda], Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, Picasso, Man Ray, Salvador Dali, etc., etc.), it almost feels like a ghost story.

The core premise of it is this notion of the heart of a romantic is bound in nostalgia for the past, and a yearning for a "golden age," that was, of course, itself, not so golden when it was the present. And, to Allen's credit, Gil does explore this, with his trips to 1920s Paris, finding some of the locals there yearning for La Belle Époque (and, entertainingly, Allen has Gil make a brief trip there with a love interest [Adriana], who herself yearns for that era, and, as they sit for a bit with Lautrec, Gaugin, and Degas [and who appear to long for the era before their own]), and Gil, through his interactions with these characters, comes to value himself as an artist/writer and to ditch his fiancee and live in Paris, where he (at least for the moment) ends up with a (to my eye) rather Mia Farrowesque French babe, to turn his back on his Hollywood life.

So, it was an entertaining movie -- the pile of literary figure cameos woven throughout it do hearken to the incredible confluence of talent that was in 1920s Paris, and Allen lovingly gives them all their due, and the look is perfect, the blending of the past and present on the streets of Paris. Allen's love for this place is palpable in his filming of it, and, as a movie effort, this is one of his best (indeed, I thought "Well, if he dies before making another movie, he can at least be happy that this is his final effort, because it's a great one").

It was kind of a curious thing for me to watch, because I was heavily influenced by Hemingway, Faulkner, and Fitzgerald in my formative writing years, but I am not a nostalgic or sentimental soul, in truth -- I am a romantic who runs contrary to Allen's contention about the nostalgia in the heart of all romantics. Or maybe my nostalgia runs deeper than the 20th century. Hmm. Hadn't thought of that until just now -- I have ruefully thought a time or two that I was built for charging down Highland hillsides with a broadsword in hand or in cavalry charges with a saber flashing. Hah. And I have mourned that the industrial domination of war has robbed it of its historic glory, made it an exercise of logistics. And I've certainly mused ruefully about the incredible music of the 60s, when Rock was in full flower, and how amazing all of those bands were at the time, what an amazing confluence of talent there had been (although I never had a desire to actually live in that era, or in those earlier ages, in truth).

Hmm. Anyhow, I look at those artists not as the towering figures of culture that they became, but as human beings who simply lived and created beauty in their time, and beyond. I feel kinship with them as a fellow creator, and I suppose I do lament the slow death of culture in our age (although it's hard to look at folks living it up in Paris in the 1920s and not think that great, grave shadows were growing over them, too -- I mean, good lord, Fascism, Stalinism, Nazism -- all were awakening then, too).

I mean, I've written more books than Hemingway ever did. None of them are better than his work, but I am still growing and trying -- he had his turn at bat, before he lost his head (and he started strong and grew weaker in time, as alcoholism diluted his talent; I think my arc is going the other way), and now I am taking that swing. Maybe I'll succeed, maybe I'll fail, but I'm at least trying. And in being alive, there is infinite possibility in the here and now. The past is perfect precisely because it is dead -- the story is already written, you know how it ends. The present can challenge and inhibit precisely because of both the limitations imposed by human mortality, and by the infinite possibilities of action. That's never been a problem for me, though, because I am, and have always been, about the present. Learn from the past, sure, but don't be ruled by it. Live in the now, and enjoy the ride.

I can see these characters in Allen's movie and see them as peers to me, legitimately, certainly far more than most. I doubt anybody I shared the theater with has written more fiction than me, or even better fiction than me; that's not bragging -- it's just fact. I've worked very, very hard on my writing for a long time, and I could walk up to Hemingway (or his ghost) and if he drunkenly challenged me to a fistfight (and he does that a few times in the movie -- of course, Gil, being the proxy for Allen, passes on it), I would have totally taken Hemingway up on it, been like "Sure, Sport. Let's go." *KAPOW* What am I supposed to do, NOT want to take up his challenge? What, because he's Hemingway? *KAPOW* Give the man what he wants. Give him a bucket of ice water to wake him back up.

There was a great line from Gertrude Stein (surely Allen speaking through her) about the job of the artist being to not succumb to the dismal present (I'm paraphrasing; it was said far better in the movie), but to rise above it and create something beautiful and eternal. It was a good line. There were lots of good lines in the movie, peppered throughout. Hemingway had a good one when he said that love was the antidote to death, and that only the coward feared to love, or was so hobbled by his fear of death that he was unable to love, and in so doing, was a coward. Something like that. Again, I am only paraphrasing, but it coming from the machismo-soaked, deadpan, overly serious musing of Hemingway, it made me snicker (I have theories about Hemingway, having read his work and thought about it a great deal).

At any rate, it was a good movie, being both entertaining, funny, and thought-provoking. All of the artists in the movie had the benefit of being legends both in their own time, and over the span of time (although, oddly, the cultural ferment of the Lost Generation is lost in this day and age, really, when even reading a book is seen as somehow eccentric or laborious, in this instantaneous, tech-driven age of the perpetual NOW -- their greatness is lost in a world without readers, and they really do become ghosts of a bygone era).

Howling

The wind keeps howling. I should be asleep, but I'm not ready to sleep, yet.

Exene dropped the boys off earlier today, as she apparently had a hair appointment. I was fine with that, since I always enjoy more time with the boys, and they always have a good time.

B1 and I were talking about reentry vehicles, comparing the classic American conical reentry vehicles to the Soviet-era Vostok spherical ones -- B1 astutely conjectured why the Soviets used spheres, and I explained to him the different approaches of the respective space programs. He loves that stuff. We watched "The Right Stuff" in the wake of that conversation, which is an enjoyable movie, hearkening to a truly bygone age in our society. Amazing, really -- once the space shuttles are grounded, that'll be it for our space program -- in the wake of the endless budget crunch debates, the lopsided tax policy, I can't imagine any programs being funded in the near future, barring some serious shift in national priorities. Like they say in the movie: "No bucks, no Buck Rogers." I remember reading "The Right Stuff," man, I must've been a teenager. It was so long ago. A good book. Tom Wolfe is a good writer, or was one, anyway. Manages a narrative agility bound to a journalistic style.

I'm working on the new SF book; again, momentarily shelved the "contemporary" story just because I wanted to dive right into the SF book sequel while everything was still fresh in my head.

I don't really like talking about my writing; I'm truly the type to write more, and talk about writing less. Plenty of blowhards like to talk about writing, how they could do it if they had the time, or that they have great ideas for stories, but the real truth of it is that they never get around to writing them, because it's hard work, entirely thankless. As I've told someone in the past, it's not called "great idea-having;" it's called "writing." A great idea for a story is not a story.

The same goes with any creative endeavor -- everybody thinks they can do it, but most of them can't. And of the few who actually do it, fewer still are any good at it, and of those few, even fewer are truly great. I think I'm a good writer, but I don't think I'm a great one. Time will tell, if I can ever get those necessary breaks to make it happen. I certainly don't cut myself any slack with my work; I'm easily my toughest critic, and always will be. I trust that instinct. I try to do my best, for what that's worth.

Weatherman

I find that I never complain about the weather. Ever. I like all weather. Weather is fun. Good weather's fun, bad weather is fun. I love storms. I love clear skies. I love cloudy skies. I love windy days. I love still days. Everything. I love it all.

I think about it sometimes because people will complain about the weather, but what's the point of complaining about the weather? It simply is. I love it. It forces one to look at one's environment and react to it, prepare for it. Good thing. If one had perfect weather every day, that'd be boring.

Not saying that I dance out in rainstorms or anything, but I don't complain if I get caught in them, and if they're particularly strong, I dig'em. It's all good.

I just roll with things.

Awakened

I went to sleep earlier, only to wake up when the Cheeseheads in town cheered the Super Bowl win. My computer was off, my television still incommunicado thanks to Comcast, so I had to turn on the computer again to find out, rather than bother friends by trying to find out for sure who had won.

Now I'm awake, have been for a bit or awhile. Reading my book and brooding. I haven't been sleeping terribly well for the past week, owing to that fucking flu (and if you get it, you'll know just what I'm talking about -- it's not the worst flu I've had, but it just sticks with you and nags and nags and nags and nags). Anyway, it makes it hard to focus and get one's feet under you. I think I'm a day or two away from fully rebounding from it, and hopefully I'll be back to being able to sleep properly again.

(break to get a glass of icewater)

There, I'm back. This week, I plan to query some of my books to other agents, sling out a bunch, just shotgun it, see if I can garner any interest. We'll see.

I'm thinking of adapting some more of my short stories into screenplays. I tend to write fairly cinematically, and while, as ever, the screenplay format daunts me, I'd still like to turn a few of the pieces into them -- especially a few of them that would play very well onscreen. Of course, this is even more of a longshot than anything else, but I have the material, so it's just a matter of adapting it and finding homes for it.

Was thinking about unrequited love today, as perhaps part of my monthly musing about Love(tm). Given that, according to a study, 98% of people experience unrequited love in their lives, that might be a worthy aspect of love to go into, although what a dismal graveyard that place is, yes?

It does, however, introduce a word most people don't likely know (at least by name): limerence -- an intense feeling of attachment toward someone (or, I suppose, something). Limerence can be felt as extreme joy or intense despair, depending on whether it is reciprocated or not. Wikipedia nicely sums it up...

Limerence is characterized by intrusive thinking and pronounced sensitivity to external events that reflect the disposition of the limerent object towards the individual. Basically, it is the state of being completely carried away by unreasoned passion or love, even to the point of addictive-type behavior. Usually, one is inspired with an intense passion or admiration for someone. Limerence can be difficult to understand for those who have never experienced it, and it is thus often dismissed by nonlimerents as ridiculous fantasy or a construct of romantic fiction.

What does a soul do in such a situation? Love stories have two limerent souls finding one another, of course, and that gives one the happy ending, the Hollywood Ending -- but an unrequited love is ultimately a tragedy, and can, alternately, be a horror story (one of my favorite horror movies, "May," has an absolutely cringe-inducing plot in it where the title character, the painfully shy and fucking weird May, falls for Adam, this coolio mechanic in her neighborhood, and May tries hard to make it work with her and Adam, only to have it go terribly wrong -- that part of the story is almost more horrific and squirm-inducing than the rest of the movie, which is actually darkly funny throughout -- good little horror movie, if you like horror movies).

Related to the "levels of love" I was nattering on about earlier is precisely that -- what do you do if you love someone more than they love you? That seems like a recipe for emotional disaster. Of course, SEINFELD parodied it comically with George Costanza obsessing about a woman who clearly didn't like him, was actually repulsed by him -- he said something like "She just hates me so much, it's irresistible." Which, of course, is just the situation George would find himself in. It's funny because it's painful, because George is such a twisted, fucked-up guy, of course, he'd dig that.

Anyway, as a Romantic, I don't like to think about unrequited love, obviously -- true love should win, true love deserves to win, so when it doesn't, or isn't shared, or whether someone's deluded and thinks they knew true love only to find it turning to ashes in their mouth, it's painful to think about. But it exists, for sure, and is definitely a part of the equation, even if it's the dark side of the coin flip. And it's surely part and parcel of the notion of the "Hopeless Romantic" -- and, so, I suppose I should dwell on it a bit. Consider this just a preview; gotta brood on it awhile. Well, it's tomorrow, now, so I guess I'll go to sleep!

Loveless

Sorry, had to use the cover of "Loveless" for this one. What do you do when love goes south for you? That's a tough call, because, if you're any kind of optimist, there's always the hope that things'll get better; whereas if you're mostly a pessimist, you might not even recognize a good thing when you have it. But as an optimist, I ran into that difficulty with Exene -- I truly loved her, and I think she loved my love for her more than anything else. I mean, I think she enjoyed my sense of humor and sense of fun and my imagination and my loyalty -- those added up to an aggregate that equaled "Love" in her eyes.

But my relationship with her took a real toll on me, and revealed a major challenge one risks in love -- that you can love somebody who is not terribly good for you (or even good to you). That's something I still think about, and what it means. I mean, with Exene, my love for her was gradually belt-sanded into resentment of her, anger at the lack of reciprocity and partnership, until I burned out. What had been a true love (as near as I understood the term at that time) eroded away in the face of the reality of my situation with her.

Eventually, I just was going through the motions, without my heart in it. I can say without equivocation that I definitely fell out of love with Exene. I am happier now without her than I ever was with her -- and this was after months (and perhaps even years, when I think back on it) of agonizing soul-searching. But that's something of a rule of thumb measure of love -- are you happier without your Love than you were with them?

What do you do when you love someone you're not compatible with? It's a harder question than one can know, and maybe it's a luxury people enjoy in this world that was immaterial in past generations. Then again, marriage and love are not synonymous -- the Victorians really saddled the bucking bronco of romantic love to the draft horse of marriage, and much of that problem plagues people today, like expecting that One Person to be The One, or unrealistic expectations of that person, that relationship. For some folks, they might stick it out, or, because they're loving, they look the other way when confronted with the things that hurt them in a relationship. Or maybe they split when they realize that what they have to offer isn't what the other person wants or values (and/or they realize that the other person offers them nothing and gives them nothing but grief).

If you really love someone, you forgive them for their faults, and if you don't, you won't -- rather, those faults will just nag at you and probably magnify in time until it's all you see. What do you do if you forgive someone for those faults because you love them, even though you recognize that those faults are likely to come back to haunt you again and again? I think people make that kind of Faustian bargain all the time, whether trying to change somebody for the better, or to heal them, or appeal to their better nature, when that nature may not be there to begin with.

It's a pragmatic thing to consider, so it doesn't come naturally to me, but how someone makes you feel and how they treat you are factors in the overall process. But the optimistic and romantic part of me thinks that one should forgive, too. That capacity to love carries within it the necessity of forgiveness, and the hope and promise that true love brings.

Just as trust and appreciation and hope are integral to true love, so is forgiveness. The first three are like fertilizer for love, they make love possible, whereas the latter is something that lets love endure through hardship; it's kind of a defense mechanism for love. But what can you forgive, and what is unforgivable?

That's something I think about (and here is where my atheism comes into it -- Limoncello said I was the most spiritual atheist she knew, and she's a believer) -- that nature of forgiveness. If you still love someone, you can forgive them; without that love, you can't. But it is the capacity to forgive that lets love through -- it's a chicken/egg kind of paradox, in some ways. If somebody is vindictive, they're not going to be able to forgive, and that is a love-killer. If you are forgiving by nature, then you can still feel love, even through adversity.

It's labyrinthine. It highlights the curious power of love and forgiveness, how inextricably they are tied -- if you love, you forgive; if you are forgiving, you will be loving -- I don't think it's possible to be loving and vindictive, because the latter requires grinding love under an iron-shod boot.

1 Corinthians puts it well: 

“Love is always patient and kind; it is never jealous, love is never boastful or conceited; it is never rude or selfish; it does not take offense, and is not resentful. Love takes no pleasure in other people’s sins but delights in the truth; it is always ready to excuse, to trust, to hope, and to endure whatever comes. Love does not come to an end.”

Now, of course, the Bible's all about God-lovin', versus people-lovin' (I mean, sure "love one another" and such, but above it all, God hovers and hogs the spotlight), but as an atheist, I can look at what it said about that God-lovin' and apply it to this world. The above is a nice invocation of true love, the idealized love we see expressed in the pop culture (or used to, anyway -- is love passé these days?) It's kind of funny -- to the Christian, God is Love; but to the heathen Romantic, Love is God -- bahah! It's how I can look at that line above and think of it with real-world love, instead of with spiritual love.

I suppose one could spin the above around and find what love isn't that way: "Non-love is always impatient and unkind; it is always jealous, non-love is always boastful and conceited; it is always rude and selfish; it takes offense and is resentful. Non-love takes pleasure in other people's sins and delights in lies; it is never ready to excuse, to trust, to hope, and won't endure whatever comes. Non-love ends."

• Impatient
• Unkind
• Jealous
• Boastful
• Conceited
• Rude
• Selfish
• Vindictive
• Resentful
• Wicked
• Dishonest
• Unforgiving
• Mistrustful
• Hopeless
• Transitory

It's kind of funny to see it that way -- I resisted calling it "hatred" -- which is habitually expressed as the opposite of love, because it's not quite right, here. But I'm contrasting true love with what, exactly? Non-love, which isn't the same as hatred or indifference. Non-love is when you think someone loves you (or when you think you love someone) but you're wrong about it.

But seeing it as a list above, it's amusing -- how can one possibly love with that much emotional pollution choking their spirit? And if a relationship (or an individual) is riven with those things, how can it possibly be love? How can they even feel love, or recognize love if they even run across it?

Forgiveness is the last bastion of love, I guess. If you can't forgive, you can't love. But, on the bright side, if you can forgive, you can love.

And away we go...

So much for 2010. A curious year for me, really. Quiet, compared with the turbulent 2008, and the dreadful 2009. 2010 began as a stalemate, transitioned to something better. Kind of odd, the passage of these past few years, relative to the long slog of the years before them.

I'm ready for you, 2011. Bring it!

Wow.

It's amazing that the year's almost over. What a year it's been, too. I'm thinking 2011 will be a much better year, across the board. I'm certainly working to make it so.

It's around 41 degrees right now. That's also kind of amazing, since we're nearly into January. WTF?!

B1's 9th birthday is coming up, too. I got him some great presents. I'm excited for him to get them, as I think he'll dig'em.

Fast Forward

I can't believe November's nearly over. After that last six months kind of grinding along, this month has been hurtling toward conclusion. Man.

There hasn't been too much of interest that's jumped out at me, or that I've remembered enough to post and blog about of late. Part of the battening down of autumn, I guess. My boys keep asking whether Santa's dropped off gifts, yet, and I'm like "It's not even Thanksgiving yet, Guys; there's no tree up, either! It's too early!" But each day, they ask.

I'm sending a book query packet to a publisher today. I'm tightly targeting it to a particular publishing house, hoping they'll at least give me the benefit of a doubt. We'll see how it goes.

I'm going to have three books I'm a'pimping to publishers this year, if I can find suitable homes for them. Always the big IF in the mix. But I have to try, have to persist.

Chimpanic

I was talking with a coworker yesterday,  and we got on the topic of chimpanzees, how scary-violent they can be, which led to much chuckling and laughing about just how horrible that is, like When Chimps Go Bad. I said that I could handle fighting zombies, but if a chimp ran at me, I'd take a swan-dive out the nearest window, because chimps do things like tear your face off and rip your limbs apart and beat you with them like you're a bongo drum. Victims of man v. chimp never, ever come out of it without horrible injuries. The combination of aggression and the biomechanics that make them terribly strong make them downright scary.

Of course, looking up "chimp violence" on YouTube gets me this...

Ricky Gervais on Chimp Violence

But seriously, chimps will fuck you up -- or, at the very least, are totally capable of doing so. I joked to my coworker "Any belief in a just, sane, and orderly universe goes immediately out the window when you've got a chimp literally ripping your face off -- one minute you're thinking 'I should get pizza for dinner tonight, maybe' and the next minute you're like 'AUUUGH! You tore off my face!!'" And chimps really WILL rip your face off. It makes a shark bite seem almost genteel and courtly by comparison.

I think it's kind of a variation on the "Uncanny Valley" that comes up with AI -- a shark bite you can relate to, because it's this big maw taking a hunk out of you, sufficiently monstrous and alien to be terrifying, but at least contextually logical; but a chimp tearing your face off is perhaps more unnerving, because it's using hands that are similar to yours, only much, much stronger and worse; and also, you might actually be unfortunate enough to survive it. And further, if a shark takes a bite out of you, odds are it thought you were a fish or a seal or a sea lion -- a case of mistaken identity. But lord knows what the chimp is thinking when it decides to rip off your face. Maybe it didn't like the shirt you were wearing, or the color, or you had a mustache (or didn't have a mustache), or you ate an English muffin for breakfast, and that pissed it off. There are any number of ineffable, incomprehensible reasons why a chimp might go off on you.

So, if you have a friend who has a "pet chimp" -- word to the wise: LOSE that friend. Find another friend. Then you won't even have to worry about getting a face and limb transplant.

Trunk Monkey

Really, Trunk Ape, but, you know....

Falling

I can't believe Fall is nearly here; I'm really fairly floored by that -- summer came and went so quickly.

I was pleased to renew some library books online -- I love that, the march of progress. Yet it's weird to see the library, now -- the books, largely unread, endless rows and floors, and one floor a corner of the floor, filled with computers with Internet hookups, packed with people. Like a hive. Books are old media. I love books, but it's so apparent how retro they are, more so in the library. At the rate our country's going, public libraries themselves may be gone in a generation -- combination of lack of funding and literacy, a toxic brew. I love books, but it did make me sad to see the unattended shelves full of books. Lost monuments. Ten years ago, there would have been a flurry of activity, but now, silent rows, a wealth of untouched ideas, lost worlds. Books are becoming a boutique industry.

I'm not melancholy at the moment; just reflective, thinking about things.

It's quiet tonight, and cooling off. The city seems quiet -- the battening down of the hatches, the passing of summer into our brief Autumn. Chicago's Fall is not a long one, compared with other places I've lived. The leaves all but leap off the trees.

B2 wants to be Bumblebee for Halloween -- the original TRANSFORMERS Bumblebee, which he loves. I think it's cute how much he loves that. B1 hasn't decided, yet.

B2 played soccer Saturday, in driving rain (they didn't cancel practice!) English coaches, great accents, loved that. B2 did a great job -- it's early, yet, and he's young, but his natural athleticism is remarkable: quick, strong, dextrous, competitive. I can already tell he's going to be one of those kids who'll be able to compete in anything he tries out for. He's a natural.

B1 never was -- not for T-ball, not for soccer. Oh, he gamely got out there and did it, but he's not a natural athlete by any means, and the intricacies of competition leave him sort of spinning his wheels a bit. I empathize with that -- I'll encourage him to be active in what he has a knack for, and what he enjoys. I don't have any conceptions of what he should be except happy and loved and accepted.

All the same, it's still remarkable that his baby brother is the natural, except in one area: rhythm. B1 has a natural sense of rhythm that pops up in unexpected moments. It's almost like because he doesn't have to think about it, he attains that measure of grace in movement that is lost to him in other activities. While B2 would be a natural musician in the sense of having dexterity and a diva-like sense of himself, I think B1 might have a knack at the deeper game, if I can encourage him to challenge himself and apply himself to things.

Failing that, martial arts and/or swimming would be good for B1 -- active, but not quite so team-based. Where his natural inclinations can come into play and he can excel in his own way.

Both boys are so smart, they crackle with intelligence. It makes me happy to see that, because they're going to need it in this world they'll eventually inherit.

Maggie Q & A

I haven't decided what I think about Maggie Q, yet. There's a bit of cognitive dissonance with her half-Asian look -- like she's equidistant between her Polish, Irish, and Vietnamese heritage, giving her an oddly hybrid appearance that makes it hard to properly evaluate. She's good-looking...kinda. Hot, and yet, confusing....

Summer's End

Amazing that summer's nearly over, truly. You wouldn't know it from the heat and humidity, but there it is. Looking at my calendar, there are 123 days left in 2010. Another year, blazing by.

Good Fathers and Bad Dads

I'm not going to blog about my father, except to say that there is a world of difference between fathers and dads; any man can be a father, but not every man can be a dad, and he was never my dad. In my view, a dad is someone who loves you unconditionally and unreservedly, is kind, caring, honest, gentle, compassionate, empathic, emotionally accessible, and protective, and supports you emotionally and spiritually, encourages you and heartens you. Take away those things, and all you have is a father, not a dad. I know the difference, because he was the former, and not the latter. Ideally, a father is a dad, and that's what all fathers should aspire to; most think the one automatically gets them in the club, and that's why I think there are so many bad dads out there. I think mine wrestled with so much stuff coiled up inside him that he could never healthily relate to the world around him (which is likely why he had, what, four or five marriages under his belt?)

And the same dichotomy can be applied to mothers and moms, along similar lines. Parenthood is a challenging enterprise, when contrasted with simply having kids. Having kids is comparatively easy, and humans have been doing it for awhile, now. But raising them is the real challenge, and not everybody's cut out for it. I know my father certainly wasn't.

The one good thing I drew from my time with him as my "dad" was that it taught me across the board how NOT to be a dad -- I used him as a counter example, and have excelled at parenting by simply not being like him, or asking myself "What would HE have done? Okay, I won't do that." And it's worked out very well for me. My boys adore me, and I am there for them, whatever they need, and I hope that the good example I offer them as a dad will translate in their own successful lives, and on, and on, down the line, for their kids, and their kids' kids, and so on. In my view, life throws enough at you without having a bad parent in the mix to make things that much harder.

My father, 1933-2010. Onward and upward.

Zzzzzzzzz

I had insomnia this morning -- work-stress was waking me up, around 3:30 a.m. I couldn't go back to sleep, so, as I usually do when insomnia hits, I just do stuff. In this case, laundry. I got that done in the wee hours, and managed maybe another 25 minutes of sleep between loads. Still, not enough sleep. Gruh.

This morning's going to be crazy-busy. There's a conversion to XML going on, and our IT people have fallen behind on that, so, I'm having to lend a hand to get the wheels of (publishing) industry rolling again. The Editorial Commando strikes again. I'd rather not, but I was "asked" to do so, and so, I add that IT workload to my manuscript mountain range on my desk. I figure I can give them an hour of my day, and hopefully get their stuff done (odds are it'll be an hour of my day, each day, for the next four months. So, that adds up! My success in this endeavor is invariably my doom -- I'll be "rewarded" with more of that stuff, once I demonstrate that it can be effectively done.)

I sent out a query for a different book of mine, in hopes that the agent I sent it to would be amenable to it. We'll see. I truly can't get my hopes up, but it's a good fit for the agent, so we'll see if he goes for it or not. My bet's on not, but one has to try, regardless.

Totally wiped today. Sleep-debt's a bitch. I will try to make it up over the weekend, although we'll see how it goes. I'm invariably the first responder with the boys, so they'll wake up like at 6:30 and be like "Daddy!"

Saw at the Ralph Lauren Rugby store the other day, the obligatory nippled mannequins -- male and female, sportin' the nips. Now, I ask you the aesthetic behind that. Can you imagine the people in charge of the window displays, saying "We need nippled mannequins. Perkily nippled mannequins." I mean, they're mannequins, so realism is kind of beside the point (so to speak) -- nobody's going to look at them and think "OMG! Those people are statues!" They're mannequins. So, why give'em nipples? There's some psycho-sexual undercurrent at work with them, right? Show chick mannequins in bikini tops with perky nipples? Oh, how risqué, Ralphie boy! What sly and elegant subversion! (sarcasm)

Busin' etc.

The bus ride home was packed with amusements; lots of material I soaked up like a sponge. Totally got a short story out of the raw material. Just jotted notes to create it. A literary story, nothing genre.

I had a kind of epiphany today -- namely, that nobody sets out to write a Literary story -- that the whole "Literary" idea is bullshit. There are simply stories that stand the test of time, and those that don't. And the ones that survive become "Literature" -- regardless of their origins. Yesterday's "Genre" fiction become today's "Literature" and tomorrow's "Classics." Not all, naturally. Most vanish, but I think that's really how it happens.

Which is why the so-called "Literary" shit so many acolytes of the NYC Litfic industry churn out are just so bankrupt artistically -- exercises in pointlessness. Things that Litfic types sneer at -- you know, ephemera like "plot" -- are what make stories stories. And these colorless waifs, these paragons of Litfic, they work strenuously to write evocatively about ultimately nothing.

I mean, Stephen King wrote horror fiction, yes? And he was hugely popular in his day, of course, while the Litfic types generally shunned him. By his own admission, he wrote "salami" -- he admired writers like Joyce Carol Oates, among others. However, isn't it likely that some (certainly not all) of his books will stand the test of time? Already he's become a kind of literary elder statesman, earning some grudging plaudits from the avatars of good literary taste. Perhaps belatedly, or perhaps it's a bowing to the inevitable, I'm not sure. I mean, I read King as a teen, and stopped reading him after high school, but what's the separate King from, say, Robert Louis Stevenson or Jules Verne, except the span of time? It will be impossible to discuss fiction in the 20th Century without referring to Stephen King.

Then again, maybe people will have all but stopped reading in a century, and we won't be discussing literature at all.

I saw a "Manga Explains Physics" book at the bookstore -- basically a comic book explaining physics. The initial amusement factor if it hit me straightaway, like "Funny!" but then I thought "Wow. Maybe this is how ALL books will look in another 20 years. Maybe it'll all be a comic book."

Yikes.

Whensday

I woke up this morning momentarily disoriented, unsure what day it was. For a moment, I thought it was the weekend. Then I walked my mind through the days and realized where I was: Wednesday.

Today is a good day, I think. I signed the lease for the apartment -- just my name on it. My place! MINE! The new lease kicks in on October 1. Yippee! And it's about $40 less than my rent has been on the place, so how great is that? It rocks. Happy Dave!

It's humid as hell. I think it'll storm today.

While waiting for the bus this morning, I was amused at the automotive calvalcade -- life in the LP: a dozen BMWs cruising by, a handful of Audis, some Mercedes, a Porsche, some Lexuses (or is that "Lexi?" Hah). All the wealthies going their merry way, while I waited for my bus.

I'm looking forward to finding work in the Loop again. Then I can take the bus, the train, can bicycle, or even walk, if I wanted to. I love those kind of transportation options. I love living in the LP. It's a pricey neighborhood, but it's a great neighborhood, too.

*eyeroll*

It's funny to think about the origins of the eyeroll (and the eyebrow raise). Or I think it is, anyway. Like somebody rolls their eyes at you (not that anybody has -- at least not in recent memory) -- anyway, you instantly understand what they're communicating, right? Nobody sees an eyeroll without understanding the meaning behind it.

So, how'd that evolve? It's clearly a facial mannerism, and is tied to emotions, so it is some kind of behavior that evolved over time, useful for communicating, what, scorn? Contempt? Exasperation? Useful information to convey for a social animal, so the efficacy of the eyeroll can't be questioned, although how precisely it arose fascinates me.

Like the smile has been studied pretty heavily in primates as a sign of non-aggression. Again, it operates on such a basic level that we react to it pretty instinctively. And the eyeroll does the same thing, in terms of that instinctive power it possesses.

It just amuses me to think of some primordial cavewoman looking at her caveman beau and thinking "CHRIST, what a fucktard." and she rolls her eyes. And, yes, I do think the first eyeroll was done by a woman. Moments like that just amuse me -- I'd enjoy being a time traveler and seeing esoterica like that.

The raised eyebrow likely has a similar provenance, but it communicates a more complicated kind of facial cue -- alternately ironic, flirty, mocking, amused, bemused, intrigued -- complex emotions in that simple gesture. And what fascinates me most about the raised eyebrow (and I think I've blogged about this before), anyway, is that some people can't do that at all. Some people can do the right eyebrow (me; cocking that eyebrow as I write this), some can do the left, some can do both, and some can do neither.

So, how the hell did that get passed on (or not), and why can some people do it, and some people are unable to? I mean, it just intrigues me. Like imagine this scenario...

URK: Gronk, have you tended the sheep?
GRONK: Yes, Urk, I have.

Simple exchange, no? And then let's try it with an eyebrow raised...

URK: Gronk, have you tended the sheep?
GRONK (raises eyebrow): Yes, Urk, I have.

or

GRONK: Yes, Urk, I have (raises eyebrow).

See? Nuance and mystery and complication and irony are thrown into the mix. What's Gronk up to? Is Gronk slyly mocking Urk in some way? Is Gronk up to something?

Somehow, evolutionarily, eyebrow-raising conferred some kind of edge to the people who have it (although I'm unsure of the actual numbers of people capable of doing it, and the distribution of right-, left-, and both-raised eyebrows). We'll have to wait until some swell at Harvard does this study and earns plaudits for it, but I'm here wondering it right fucking now, dammit!

Maybe the raised eyebrow was capable of angering one's enemies into doing something foolhardy. Or maybe the comic nature of it made one more desirable to one's prospective partners.

Certainly, however, the people who can raise both eyebrows look downright diabolical, having an almost impish bearing.

Exene can't really move either of her eyebrows -- unsurprising, really -- she's not one to be ironic or bemused about anything, particularly. In fact, the rheumo commented that her face wasn't nearly as lined as a woman of her age should be (she does have crow's feet, but that's about it), and he was concerned about that, relative to her overal condition, checked her face to see if there was swelling or whatever, drawing it out. The truth is that her face isn't overly wrinkled because she doesn't express much in the way of emotion. Duh! Heart of stone, face of stone. Her default expression is neutral and empty; not an animated face by any means. Anyway, she's one of the non-eyebrow raisers.

I am intrigued at how some people can do it, and when that mutation (?) or adaptation (?) proliferated in the human population.

ASHRAM: (raises eyebrow) The yaks are plentiful here, my brother.
AVRIM: A bit too plentiful, perhaps? (raises eyebrow)
RIA: Whatever are we to do? (rolls eyes)

Have you rolled your eyes, yet? Seriously, next time you do it, just think about the long evolutionary road that (or the eyebrow raise) took to get to you, and imagine your ancestors tapping into that emotional well with that arsenal of expressions.

Gabby Crabby

Today's a lovely, properly summery day. I went to Subway (again -- two days in a row!) to snag some lunch, and walked across campus, soaking up the silence and the sound of the breeze, and city summer sounds in general. Just a pretty day. A good hand-holding day, although I didn't see anybody doing that; it's what I'd have done -- held hands and wolfen glances.

There are a LOT of pregnant women in the city, I've noticed. And it's not my doing, in case you wondered! But I swear, there are just tons of them. I haven't kept track, but I must've seen nearly 50 very pregnant women in the last month. Almost bums me out, because it means those kids are going to be what, Cancers? The world definitely doesn't need more Cancerians. At the Asylum, where I work, I've worked with more Cancerians than any other sign -- like at least 10 -- I guess editing appeals to Cancerian natures, somehow.

An abortive date-n-dalliance with a Cancerian when I was 19 is what led me to Exene. I could go on a total screed about Cancerians -- the pretensions and affectations, the phoniness, the self-righteousness, the superficiality, the endless whining about abso-fucking-lutely everything -- but I won't. I remember being bummed out to find that Mary Stuart Masterson, my adolescent celebrity crush (who, goddamn her, also paved the road to Exene because Exene superficially resembled Watts back in the day -- anyway, SHE is a Cancerian, too. I'm way past my crush on Masterson, but I look back on her and think "Huh. I thought you were alright, Mary Stuart Masterson, but you're a Cancer. So, you're likely NOT alright."). My older stepsister's a Cancer, too. Don't get me started on her.

Anyway, this baby boom I'm observing around the city, I keep thinking "Great. A whole crop of Cancerians. Just what this world needs." And if you're a Cancerian and you're reading this, and are put off by it, well, so much the better -- I've given you something to whine about for today. Just because it would annoy a Cancerian, I'll put this below in honor of them...

I will give you one prop to feed your vanity: you photograph well. I've yet to see a Cancerian who isn't reasonably photogenic. I suspect their innate tendency to pose their way through life makes them natural photographic subjects. They have the Art of the Pose down. Artifice is like breathing for them.

Well, I finished my sandwich (Tuscan Chicken Melt with provolone, on Italian, with lettuce, green peppers, black olives, cucumber slices, red onions, black pepper, oregano, and their Tuscan chicken dressing. I got it toasted), so I guess I'll go back to work.