If you're in Oakland (California: non-California Oaklanders need not apply) next Tuesday, October 19, there is a reading celebrating issue 5 of Swill and issue 9 of Monday Night. The reading will be at Cafe Van Kleef, 1621 Telegraph, Oakland, near 19th Street BART, at 7 p.m.
I will be there. I will read. The other Swill readers will be Allison Landa and Warren Lutz. The Monday Night readers will be Marissa Bell Toffoli (nothing against marriage, but I think her name was shorter the last time I had to type it. Although that explanation is a helluva longer than her additional name.), Amber DiPietra, and Della Watson.
I hate to be the one to break the news, but this so-called "cafe" actually has a full liquor license, and while attending the reading, listeners and ignorers alike may imbibe as much alcohol as their server allows. To add further to this sadness, I think it was unanimous among the editors of both magazines that the reading should take place somewhere that serves alcohol. Because, you know, otherwise I'll drink at home.
Another note: I will represent both magazines at the reading. I started Swill because I wanted specific things from a magazine, but I was one of the editors of Monday Night for nine years. I left Monday Night during the editing of the latest issue because I don't have time to read the number of submissions we receive at the two magazines combined. I didn't leave until after we'd decided what to accept for the current issue. I've been a part of Monday Night for nine years and I'm proud of what we've accomplished. I'm also damned glad to be friends with Jessie, who has been one of the editors from the start, and Nana, who joined more recently but feels like she could have been there all along.
So, if you are able to join us, we have a half dozen readers and a full bar. What more could you want? I mean, considering that you could conceivably meet your what more at a full bar.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Different Media, Different Methods
This started as an email to Sean Craven (http://seancraven.blogspot.com/). Thus there are some second person phrasings in here. If you are not Sean and they apply to you, fine. If not, well, I liked the email enough that I didn't feel like editing the damned thing. I have enough editing to do without messing with this.
Was listening to a Gary W. Tallent bass line on a Springsteen live version of Chuck Berry's Back in the USA, and I loved the bass line, but realized, it would have been different if it hadn't followed that particular piano solo. Which to a certain degree is the nature of the bass: it sets things up or it follows them. It's an 'in conjunction with the rest of the band' instrument.
I also realized that there's this weird guitar break in the Springsteen version that probably has nothing to do with the Chuck Berry original but was included in the MC5 version. Which was produced by Jon Landau, who later became Springsteen's manager, probably by the time of the bootleg I was listening to.
Music is such an interdependent activity, while writing and the visual arts lean toward independence. To varying degrees, depending on what input the artist allows. Which, multivariegated artist that you are, has to tap into different parts of your brain, which has to be good for you. While I have chosen a job that requires a large amount of work-related socializing, and after work, except when I specifically seek out friends, I NEED my isolated activities. Different ways of achieving some form of balance.
Not to claim that either of us has achieved our ideal state, but there are other people in the world who either get no isolation or get far too much. Which presumably makes for an imbalance, results of which are fucking fine fodder for story-telling. I think instantly of The Wild Child, a great movie based on an interesting book. A similar story, that of Kasper Hauser, was turned into an interesting play by Peter Handke and another interesting movie (by Werner Herzog, who was a friend of Handke), such fine material that it was a good story in at least four different tellings, although in my opinion only the Truffaut movie was great. (The play was pretty damned close, though.)
I wonder how the medium relates to the tale. The Wild Child, as it's about an isolated character, seems like it would be delivered most accurately as a book, an isolated creation. But the story is not about a boy alone. It is about a boy alone inserted into society, it's about that society's reaction to him and its attempts to either sell him as a freak or to defreak him into being one of us. At least, that's the story Truffaut's movie tells. The other angles I've witnessed may have been as accurate in terms of what they intended, but I did not get the emotional impact. Handke's play is difficult to compare as it is an experimental piece with few words spoken, and I've read it but not seen it.
I think the primary point to be made from this is that the storytelling that worked best had a point to make and made it. You have to know what you're trying to do, and you have to say it. The bass line that follows the piano solo may not have been there the first rehearsal, or the seventh. But the damned song was not complete until THAT was THERE.
Was listening to a Gary W. Tallent bass line on a Springsteen live version of Chuck Berry's Back in the USA, and I loved the bass line, but realized, it would have been different if it hadn't followed that particular piano solo. Which to a certain degree is the nature of the bass: it sets things up or it follows them. It's an 'in conjunction with the rest of the band' instrument.
I also realized that there's this weird guitar break in the Springsteen version that probably has nothing to do with the Chuck Berry original but was included in the MC5 version. Which was produced by Jon Landau, who later became Springsteen's manager, probably by the time of the bootleg I was listening to.
Music is such an interdependent activity, while writing and the visual arts lean toward independence. To varying degrees, depending on what input the artist allows. Which, multivariegated artist that you are, has to tap into different parts of your brain, which has to be good for you. While I have chosen a job that requires a large amount of work-related socializing, and after work, except when I specifically seek out friends, I NEED my isolated activities. Different ways of achieving some form of balance.
Not to claim that either of us has achieved our ideal state, but there are other people in the world who either get no isolation or get far too much. Which presumably makes for an imbalance, results of which are fucking fine fodder for story-telling. I think instantly of The Wild Child, a great movie based on an interesting book. A similar story, that of Kasper Hauser, was turned into an interesting play by Peter Handke and another interesting movie (by Werner Herzog, who was a friend of Handke), such fine material that it was a good story in at least four different tellings, although in my opinion only the Truffaut movie was great. (The play was pretty damned close, though.)
I wonder how the medium relates to the tale. The Wild Child, as it's about an isolated character, seems like it would be delivered most accurately as a book, an isolated creation. But the story is not about a boy alone. It is about a boy alone inserted into society, it's about that society's reaction to him and its attempts to either sell him as a freak or to defreak him into being one of us. At least, that's the story Truffaut's movie tells. The other angles I've witnessed may have been as accurate in terms of what they intended, but I did not get the emotional impact. Handke's play is difficult to compare as it is an experimental piece with few words spoken, and I've read it but not seen it.
I think the primary point to be made from this is that the storytelling that worked best had a point to make and made it. You have to know what you're trying to do, and you have to say it. The bass line that follows the piano solo may not have been there the first rehearsal, or the seventh. But the damned song was not complete until THAT was THERE.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Table Assembly Instructions For Aliens
This picture is the complete assembly instructions for an Ikea table. Granted, they leave out that you have to hold the screws with a wrench or something while attaching the table legs, but that's not hard to figure. What's interesting is the apparently gelatinous being at the bottom, and what it is attempting to do. Whatever it is doing, it seems to hurt if you don't put a rug underneath. Also, greater pleasure is derived if one arm is extended, even if that arm does not have a hand. Bracing your arm against the obscure furniture-like item seems to prevent its cracking when you do whatever it is you do to it. I don't know what the being is pressing itself against (or into); it does not remotely resemble the flat table with four legs that these instructions accompany. I would, however, have liked to derive the pleasure from table assembly that this being apparently derived from whatever it did.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
The United States of Oakland
Possibly backdrop for my novel, which is pretty much completed but, uh, needs some backdrop. Anyway, so far this is fiction:
The states were no longer united. Regional interests had become irreconcilable mindsets. Indignation on all sides – secession, once begun, went viral. The federal government tried to hold its military bases, but there were too many in California, some manned by Californians. California broke off on its own, absorbed a few surrounding states, and became The Western Territories. Texas, The Southeast, and The Northeast had large enough armories to form strong groups of their own, especially the Northeast, which held Washington, D.C. The Midwest, however, had primarily agriculture, and insufficient artillery to defend it. It became a battleground, strategically important for the land itself and the people who knew how to work it.
California was its own bloodbath, soldiers and police and gangs, allegiances bought and sold with no national flag to salute. Laws disappeared, it was all a question of power. Murderous alliances formed, composed of allies who did not trust each other. San Francisco tried to co-opt Oakland with money. Oakland responded with explosives and automatic rifles. Oakland controlled Northern California, and they spread across what used to be state lines. They had Las Vegas with them when they hit Los Angeles. They burned it to the ground.
Oakland became capital of The Western Territories. It was run by a coalition of military men, bikers, mobsters, and other politicians. They had many connections and few morals. It took a lot of years, a lot of hits, but the people who ran Oakland weren’t satisfied with controlling The Western Territories. They ordered butchery until they controlled The Midwest, then they hit hard in The Southeast until that was theirs as well. They didn’t have Texas or Detroit yet, but they didn’t really want them. Let those crazy motherfuckers keep killing themselves, that was the word. Pincer The Northeast.
It was bloody, but Oakland was used to that. A lot of people get killed. The difference was, this time Oakland got something out of it. Got to be capital of the newly United States of America.
The states were no longer united. Regional interests had become irreconcilable mindsets. Indignation on all sides – secession, once begun, went viral. The federal government tried to hold its military bases, but there were too many in California, some manned by Californians. California broke off on its own, absorbed a few surrounding states, and became The Western Territories. Texas, The Southeast, and The Northeast had large enough armories to form strong groups of their own, especially the Northeast, which held Washington, D.C. The Midwest, however, had primarily agriculture, and insufficient artillery to defend it. It became a battleground, strategically important for the land itself and the people who knew how to work it.
California was its own bloodbath, soldiers and police and gangs, allegiances bought and sold with no national flag to salute. Laws disappeared, it was all a question of power. Murderous alliances formed, composed of allies who did not trust each other. San Francisco tried to co-opt Oakland with money. Oakland responded with explosives and automatic rifles. Oakland controlled Northern California, and they spread across what used to be state lines. They had Las Vegas with them when they hit Los Angeles. They burned it to the ground.
Oakland became capital of The Western Territories. It was run by a coalition of military men, bikers, mobsters, and other politicians. They had many connections and few morals. It took a lot of years, a lot of hits, but the people who ran Oakland weren’t satisfied with controlling The Western Territories. They ordered butchery until they controlled The Midwest, then they hit hard in The Southeast until that was theirs as well. They didn’t have Texas or Detroit yet, but they didn’t really want them. Let those crazy motherfuckers keep killing themselves, that was the word. Pincer The Northeast.
It was bloody, but Oakland was used to that. A lot of people get killed. The difference was, this time Oakland got something out of it. Got to be capital of the newly United States of America.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
SWILL 5 COMING SOON
We don't have a table of contents yet, we haven't finished line edits, and we haven't yet responded to all submissions because many of the stories we've accepted are short and may not quite fill an issue. So, in case we come up a few pages short we may accept someone else. However, I have closed the reading period with the expectation that my page estimates are pretty accurate.
Swill 4 may have been our ultimate noir issue. We still love noir, and there is some slated for Swill 5, but our love of plot does not mean that every story must have a monster or a killing. In fact, we've branched out so much in this issue that there are more female writers than male. Which has not been the case in the past. In fact, it was pointed out to me that there were no female writers in either of our last two issues. Which struck me as odd, because cruelty and a sick head are hardly exclusive to males.
So, as we have no idea yet what order the stories will appear in, I'll just list the authors in alphabetical order. Thanks to all, it's been and continues to be a pleasure.
Swill 5 will include new writing by:
Sean Beaudoin
Z.Z. Boone
Sean Craven
Elizabeth Eslami
Chia Evers
Allison Landa
Delphine LeCompte
Warren Lutz
Jasmine Paul
Rob Pierce
Catherine Schaff-Stump
Wendy Sumner-Winter
Swill 4 may have been our ultimate noir issue. We still love noir, and there is some slated for Swill 5, but our love of plot does not mean that every story must have a monster or a killing. In fact, we've branched out so much in this issue that there are more female writers than male. Which has not been the case in the past. In fact, it was pointed out to me that there were no female writers in either of our last two issues. Which struck me as odd, because cruelty and a sick head are hardly exclusive to males.
So, as we have no idea yet what order the stories will appear in, I'll just list the authors in alphabetical order. Thanks to all, it's been and continues to be a pleasure.
Swill 5 will include new writing by:
Sean Beaudoin
Z.Z. Boone
Sean Craven
Elizabeth Eslami
Chia Evers
Allison Landa
Delphine LeCompte
Warren Lutz
Jasmine Paul
Rob Pierce
Catherine Schaff-Stump
Wendy Sumner-Winter
Saturday, February 20, 2010
And here's what I think of public displays of affection
Stop advertising your love
Nobody cares about happiness
Unless it affects their own
So give me some of that
Or get it out of my sight
Cheers, lovebirds,
May you toast yourselves with strychnine.
Nobody cares about happiness
Unless it affects their own
So give me some of that
Or get it out of my sight
Cheers, lovebirds,
May you toast yourselves with strychnine.
Friday, January 22, 2010
I'm Not Here
Well, not enough anyway. I stop in periodically and see numerous posts I'm interested in, then try to read the ones I'm most interested in based on the subject. Because...
I'm rewriting the ending of the novel I've been working on, and I'm editing for two magazines (Swill and Monday Night), the former of which is reading submissions right now (www.swillmagazine.com for guidelines, etc.), the latter having moved on to the editors talking about which submissions we're going to accept.
So far, none of those things are financially profitable. As I have a wife and two kids, there is a whole lot of other time going to a job that generates income and to spending time with family.
Oh, and I'm beginning to suspect my next car repair may involve a shotgun.
I know this doesn't matter to that many people, but to the people who read this blog: hey, that's why I may not have commented on a post that would have interested me had I read it. If you've posted something and want my opinion, let me know. If you're someone who doesn't have my email address, send something to editors@swillmagazine.com and I guarantee I'll look at it. However spammy you may appear.
This thing where life is finite just fucks with my schedule. Off to work on novel, ignoring several recent blog posts that interest me. Cheers all.
I'm rewriting the ending of the novel I've been working on, and I'm editing for two magazines (Swill and Monday Night), the former of which is reading submissions right now (www.swillmagazine.com for guidelines, etc.), the latter having moved on to the editors talking about which submissions we're going to accept.
So far, none of those things are financially profitable. As I have a wife and two kids, there is a whole lot of other time going to a job that generates income and to spending time with family.
Oh, and I'm beginning to suspect my next car repair may involve a shotgun.
I know this doesn't matter to that many people, but to the people who read this blog: hey, that's why I may not have commented on a post that would have interested me had I read it. If you've posted something and want my opinion, let me know. If you're someone who doesn't have my email address, send something to editors@swillmagazine.com and I guarantee I'll look at it. However spammy you may appear.
This thing where life is finite just fucks with my schedule. Off to work on novel, ignoring several recent blog posts that interest me. Cheers all.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Went to get a beer in Oakland
Nine o'clock, Sunday night, wanted a beer. I live in Oakland and the nearest good liquor store is a mile away. It's night, it's Oakland, that's a drive.
Two blocks from my house, police cars are blocking the street straight ahead and to my left, the two directions I want to go. A cop on foot is waving a flashlight. Charades with police, my favorite sport. I turn off the car stereo and roll down my window. The cop meanwhile has stepped forward, eager to send my oblivious ass on its way.
"Where do you want me to go?" I ask.
He could speak now but is apparently too deep into his role as a mime. He points, waves the flashlight. I turn my car to the right. "Thank you."
"You betcha," he says, speaking now that I no longer need him to.
I take a left at the next corner, head down the street to the main intersection. Where there are more cops, blocking the road to the left, the one direction I need to go. I take a right, drive four blocks to the next major street, take another right, drive four more blocks until taking one more right puts me on a major street behind all the action, drive four more blocks and take another right that goes half a mile until I'm at the street three blocks from my house where I was initially headed.
From there it's smooth sailing. A left turn and I'm less than a mile from my liquor store.
Knowing all the road blocks, I took a different route on the way back. What a hassle for one beer. Good thing I was already drunk when I started.
Two blocks from my house, police cars are blocking the street straight ahead and to my left, the two directions I want to go. A cop on foot is waving a flashlight. Charades with police, my favorite sport. I turn off the car stereo and roll down my window. The cop meanwhile has stepped forward, eager to send my oblivious ass on its way.
"Where do you want me to go?" I ask.
He could speak now but is apparently too deep into his role as a mime. He points, waves the flashlight. I turn my car to the right. "Thank you."
"You betcha," he says, speaking now that I no longer need him to.
I take a left at the next corner, head down the street to the main intersection. Where there are more cops, blocking the road to the left, the one direction I need to go. I take a right, drive four blocks to the next major street, take another right, drive four more blocks until taking one more right puts me on a major street behind all the action, drive four more blocks and take another right that goes half a mile until I'm at the street three blocks from my house where I was initially headed.
From there it's smooth sailing. A left turn and I'm less than a mile from my liquor store.
Knowing all the road blocks, I took a different route on the way back. What a hassle for one beer. Good thing I was already drunk when I started.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Oh dear, is that black man the President?
I would love to see something about President Barack Obama that doesn't involve race. But Obama isn't the one who initiates race as the context. He is a man who has been given the task of fixing everything broken by his ridiculously inept predecessor. He's trying to choose his battles, because the Bush administration did not leave four years of problems, or even eight. But before Obama can even enter battle he meets flack that has nothing to do with the issues. This may happen with every president, but this is the first time we've elected a black man who is supposed to be our saviour.
It is impractical to try to remove the racial aspects from the attacks against and the defenses of the president. It is absurd to suggest that all these attacks would be taking place if he were white.
I think it's also safe to say that a lot of people would feel worse about being saved by a black man than by being failed by a white man.
It is impractical to try to remove the racial aspects from the attacks against and the defenses of the president. It is absurd to suggest that all these attacks would be taking place if he were white.
I think it's also safe to say that a lot of people would feel worse about being saved by a black man than by being failed by a white man.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Finished First Draft of Novel
And it's soon to be a big budget motion picture near you. I wrote a damn action novel, an attempt to convince myself I could write something straightforward without a million subplots/flashbacks. And in those terms I've succeeded, although it needs some fleshing out and I changed the setting of the last scene while I was writing it so I need to go back and fix that. Tons of things that need fixing, actually, but that's the nature of the beast.
Unlike anything else I've ever written, I assume this will get published once I fix it up. It has film and video game potential - the whole story is basically a first person shooter, then at the end shit blows up. Oh, and there's a love story, which isn't written very well at the moment, but will be tied in neatly when I rewrite. I mean, that's a piece of cake - I have experience with love succeeding and failing. The trick is making all the international espionage play out. And I think I'm pretty close to having that. And there's actually an important but not prominent character who could be the lead in a sequel that would not even be the same type of book.
It's fun writing what I don't know how to write and turning it into what I do know how to write, but turning it because I'm learning how to write more ways.
Unlike anything else I've ever written, I assume this will get published once I fix it up. It has film and video game potential - the whole story is basically a first person shooter, then at the end shit blows up. Oh, and there's a love story, which isn't written very well at the moment, but will be tied in neatly when I rewrite. I mean, that's a piece of cake - I have experience with love succeeding and failing. The trick is making all the international espionage play out. And I think I'm pretty close to having that. And there's actually an important but not prominent character who could be the lead in a sequel that would not even be the same type of book.
It's fun writing what I don't know how to write and turning it into what I do know how to write, but turning it because I'm learning how to write more ways.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Swill 4 On Sale Now!
Sean wrote an excellent post about the new issue of Swill. As the editor-in-chief of this magazine, I gotta say I'm very proud of our first three issues but issue four is, in the words of Captain Beefheart, "the best batch yet."
There are excerpts from each story, from this issue and each of the previous issues, on the Swill website. The story order for this issue was like a music mix- there was never any question of one story being better than another, the question was always what segued best.
Having decided to open with a noir/horror/science fiction comedy, what type of story follows that best? Thank you John Shirley, a fine opening story and very difficult to label. Which was one of the reasons to open with it; it seemed like any of the other stories could follow it smoothly.
After that the ensuing stories could reasonably be labeled, in order: crime, horror, noir, wacked-out surrealist comedy, noir, fantasy/horror. Out of that batch Craig Hartglass's comic story about a day at the mall with Paul Bowles and Jack Kerouac clearly stood out in terms of "one of these things is not like the others." And we like things that aren't like the others.
We also like the others: W.G. Kelly, Steve Young, Brian Haycock, fine writers who gave us fine stories. Sean and I are also pleased with our own creepy little tales in this issue.
Last night one of the things Sean and I agreed on was that although the new issue is better than the first, the first had a diversity to the types of stories that we would like to have again. Clearly we like certain types of genre writing and see them as literary, but that doesn't mean we dislike mainstream literature. That is, we dislike the boring shit, regardless of genre. Anyway, the website contains my Swill manifestos (they're the back cover text from issues 1 and 2).
The main thing right now: we love this issue, check it out.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Blurry eyed sobriety? Hell, I know a cure for that
ooh look, there was a blank unaddressed email in my "Drafts." guess i was in the middle of saying nothing to no one and got interrupted. now, taking up where i left off...
god, maybe i should send this to everyone. i'm basically waiting for one file from sean then i update the swill website; i could recreate it from the version i have and i will if it's close enough (i have a hardcopy to compare to.) then our big deal issue 4 will be available to our hordes of followers next week; i'm posting July 24 as the release date - that's friday and i'll be mailing out authors' copies saturday.
so freaking tired right now, and i get up early all next week to open the store. which won't, of course, affect me going to writers group at 7:30 tuesday - hell, that tends to energize me, just means i'll be tired wednesday. if i can just make my brain work while i'm tired...
i think the house fire may have something to do with my fatigue. i know it did the night it happened, kind of hard to sleep while wondering if maybe the fire department missed something, even though they have these cool mri cameras that look behind the wood - i've read too much science fiction to have faith in technology. i guess if i read the front part of the newspaper i could have had the same response.
things not to do: don't let your house catch on fire. don't lose your best employee while your second best employee is on vacation (he's not leaving yet and she'll be back before he's gone, and i recommended him for the management job in our company - again, i think it's doing this shit the same week the house catches fire.) oh, and if your house does catch fire, don't let it fuck up any doors so they don't shut right, because then you don't know whether insurance will pick up the tab if you get the door fixed before your claim is processed - basically, i'm making this door workable without knowing what that entails but i pay enough in premiums and they're no doubt going up, i'd better get every fucking penny's worth out of this. also, avoid doing all these things in a shitty economy when you're about to launch a personal project and you want to do everything possible in terms of marketing.
good news is, i have a copy of swill 4 in front of me and it looks fucking great. one fucking typo and it's already been corrected, we print from the corrected file start of next week.
ok, this was going to be a deeply personal email to a close friend of mine but god knows who so we're going with this, all you close personal friends who make your way here. but if you happen to make it past the blog and all the way to my house, the two drink minimum applies only to me, you may leave as much alcohol behind as you like. Cheers!
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Got Home Tonight And Our House Was No Longer On Fire
But I couldn't park on my own block due to the fire trucks. The fire department had the thing out before it did much damage, mostly an outside wall, and a few minutes later they were done being dashing with us and out front giving hats and badges to the neighbor kids.
Thing is, I'd originally gotten home a couple hours before. Susan was home and I hadn't had lunch and was starving and it smelled like the neighbors were starting a barbeque. They have a decent number of them, and it did seem to me it was smelling like coals a long time without there being any smell of meat. But I was tired and didn't take much notice, had to go pick up Nate after awhile.
When Nate and I got back we were almost to our house when I realized I couldn't make it down the block in the car. Nate asked what was going on and I said it was probably one of the elderly people on the block had a heart attack or something. Nate wanted to take a shower right away so he got out and walked while I turned the car around and parked a block away.
It was only when I got close that I saw a fireman walking down from our driveway, and the big truck was angled right at our house. There wasn't any visible smoke but my wife was home alone. We have smoke detectors and a smoke alarm inside, but I walked damn quick to the first fireman I saw, waved my keys and pointed at the house.
Well, I was told right away that the fire was out and no one was hurt. Apparently a neighbor had seen the smoke outside, called the fire department and knocked on our door in case anyone was home. Thank you, Eve. Thank you, Oakland Fire Station # 8.
Apparently the fire was started by a smoldering cigarette butt in a planter pot on our back deck. I told Susan, it would be safer if she drank instead of smoked.
Thing is, I'd originally gotten home a couple hours before. Susan was home and I hadn't had lunch and was starving and it smelled like the neighbors were starting a barbeque. They have a decent number of them, and it did seem to me it was smelling like coals a long time without there being any smell of meat. But I was tired and didn't take much notice, had to go pick up Nate after awhile.
When Nate and I got back we were almost to our house when I realized I couldn't make it down the block in the car. Nate asked what was going on and I said it was probably one of the elderly people on the block had a heart attack or something. Nate wanted to take a shower right away so he got out and walked while I turned the car around and parked a block away.
It was only when I got close that I saw a fireman walking down from our driveway, and the big truck was angled right at our house. There wasn't any visible smoke but my wife was home alone. We have smoke detectors and a smoke alarm inside, but I walked damn quick to the first fireman I saw, waved my keys and pointed at the house.
Well, I was told right away that the fire was out and no one was hurt. Apparently a neighbor had seen the smoke outside, called the fire department and knocked on our door in case anyone was home. Thank you, Eve. Thank you, Oakland Fire Station # 8.
Apparently the fire was started by a smoldering cigarette butt in a planter pot on our back deck. I told Susan, it would be safer if she drank instead of smoked.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
How To Feed The Child Molesters
To each other, of course.
So, my new thought is, we catch all the pedophiles, don't feed them for a few days, and give them pictures of each other both as adults and as children then truck them all into an outdoor stadium and leave them a few days without supervision. Just armed security outside so no one slips out for more easily purchased meat.
Eat up, boys. Afterward, the janitors would receive combat pay.
So, my new thought is, we catch all the pedophiles, don't feed them for a few days, and give them pictures of each other both as adults and as children then truck them all into an outdoor stadium and leave them a few days without supervision. Just armed security outside so no one slips out for more easily purchased meat.
Eat up, boys. Afterward, the janitors would receive combat pay.
Can O' Worms, or, I See Your Guilt and Double It
I felt good that I felt bad about the guy with the missing leg, but I felt bad that I felt good about it.
Guilty without being charged, your honor – I’d done nothing to cause the man’s condition, nor had anyone suggested I had. It was a ‘there but for the grace of God’ moment except I don’t believe in God, although I suppose if there were one, he she or it would be quite graceful. I on the other hand had felt self-congratulatory for what should have been a normal sympathetic reaction.
I couldn’t just feel sorry, I had to feel good that I felt sorry. And I couldn’t even stop there, my ego had to scream for more attention so it could blame me for feeling good.
Sometimes my brain is like a ball of dirt rolling down a mountain of shit until the ball is as vast as the mountain had been. There aren’t flies big enough to eat me away.
No wonder I drink. Flush this down. But the guilt never washes away, it just gets pushed out of reach. And what do I have to feel guilty about? Oh lord oh lord oh lord (the egotistical atheist replaces prayer with talking to himself.) It’s not as though there’s any pleasure I feel like I deserve.
Just that I want it. With a lack of satisfaction guaranteed. That is, I will feel consummate pleasure while the pleasure is being consummated, or until it has been consumed, but when it is done there is nothing left. The act itself, whether sex or drinking, may at its conclusion leave me with a momentary sense of well-being, but that moment passes and is soon replaced by pain or absence. Which leaves me needing more at a time when I can’t have it.
Guilty without being charged, your honor – I’d done nothing to cause the man’s condition, nor had anyone suggested I had. It was a ‘there but for the grace of God’ moment except I don’t believe in God, although I suppose if there were one, he she or it would be quite graceful. I on the other hand had felt self-congratulatory for what should have been a normal sympathetic reaction.
I couldn’t just feel sorry, I had to feel good that I felt sorry. And I couldn’t even stop there, my ego had to scream for more attention so it could blame me for feeling good.
Sometimes my brain is like a ball of dirt rolling down a mountain of shit until the ball is as vast as the mountain had been. There aren’t flies big enough to eat me away.
No wonder I drink. Flush this down. But the guilt never washes away, it just gets pushed out of reach. And what do I have to feel guilty about? Oh lord oh lord oh lord (the egotistical atheist replaces prayer with talking to himself.) It’s not as though there’s any pleasure I feel like I deserve.
Just that I want it. With a lack of satisfaction guaranteed. That is, I will feel consummate pleasure while the pleasure is being consummated, or until it has been consumed, but when it is done there is nothing left. The act itself, whether sex or drinking, may at its conclusion leave me with a momentary sense of well-being, but that moment passes and is soon replaced by pain or absence. Which leaves me needing more at a time when I can’t have it.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Thoughts About the film Being There
It's been awhile since I've seen it, but the movie Being There returns to my thoughts fairly often. What's written here contains spoilers and assumes the reader has seen the movie. It brings up some subjects peripheral to the movie itself that I think are interesting, but hey, it's a great movie, people should see it regardless.
The thing about the character Chance in Being There is not that he is a Christ figure, as implied in the film, but that he is like a Christ figure compared to the rest of us. Our intellectual and political icons (icons meaning the ones who’ve been publicized thus heard of) do not necessarily take the time to consider issues any more deeply than does Chance, and may rely on the quick “briefings” provided by television rather than the more time intensive articles printed in newspapers. The difference is that Chance admits to being molded by pop culture, (well, not in so many words, because he can only talk about what he understands, which is virtually nothing), which is of course what makes him adored by the masses: he seems to be one of us, but because he is seen as someone of importance each of his simple words is extrapolated into something of greater import.
Much of the story is about metaphors and symbolism: everything Chance says about the garden is treated as a metaphor (especially for the economy), and the story becomes about not what actually occurs but about how it is interpreted, both by the masses and by those in power. Chance is not Christ by any means—he is a fucking idiot, and if he is our Savior we are most likely doomed. But here Kosinski takes his stab at religion in general, for its inflating of conceivably inconsequential figures into Godlike ones–we know that Chance is not godly, but as he is treated that way he is eventually portrayed that way.
Is Kosinski then suggesting that those treated as Gods may eventually grow into such? Or, as a child who survived the holocaust and the megalomania that led to it, is his suggestion instead that people will believe anything and are fully capable of seeing any moron as God? The sheer cynicism of this would be easy to accept if not for the fact that Chance’s grand messianic moment occurs without an audience. It may instead be a moment in which a man, who by luck has been perceived to possess far greater attributes than he actually does, continues to not acknowledge the greatness that is an aspect of himself. And that lack of acknowledgement is a large part of what makes him admirable; his wisdom may be specific and not applicable to the rest of his life, but what really makes it wisdom is that it does not color his view of himself. Indeed, he seems to have no view of himself.
To a large degree this is a story about a man without ego dropped into a world rife with ego, and how that world embraces this stranger. Of course, they are embracing him because they are assuming things about him that are untrue, they see areas in which he is inept as areas in which he is superior, because they do not understand him to such an extreme that they fail to see how little there is to understand. And there is almost no doubt that there is something wishful to this aspect of the general concept: Kosinski was no mainstream socializer, was prone to hiding under tables at dinner parties.
Kosinski also knew a great deal about how fortuitous chance could be – he was supposed to be an overnight guest at the home of Roman Polanski and Sharon Tate the night that Tate was murdered, but his flight missed its connection (of course, that story is according to Kosinski, who reputedly lied about virtually everything, more concerned with a good story than with what really happened. As Kosinski has been accused of plagiarizing the bulk of his work, it’s possible that this happened to someone else and it’s their story, but for my purposes it’s more useful if in this instance Kosinski told the truth.)
And if Kosinski was a plagiarist, perhaps there is a connection between him and the character Chance – a man who is lauded for things he has not done. Except, of course, this theory doesn’t work if Kosinski actually wrote Being There.
The thing about the character Chance in Being There is not that he is a Christ figure, as implied in the film, but that he is like a Christ figure compared to the rest of us. Our intellectual and political icons (icons meaning the ones who’ve been publicized thus heard of) do not necessarily take the time to consider issues any more deeply than does Chance, and may rely on the quick “briefings” provided by television rather than the more time intensive articles printed in newspapers. The difference is that Chance admits to being molded by pop culture, (well, not in so many words, because he can only talk about what he understands, which is virtually nothing), which is of course what makes him adored by the masses: he seems to be one of us, but because he is seen as someone of importance each of his simple words is extrapolated into something of greater import.
Much of the story is about metaphors and symbolism: everything Chance says about the garden is treated as a metaphor (especially for the economy), and the story becomes about not what actually occurs but about how it is interpreted, both by the masses and by those in power. Chance is not Christ by any means—he is a fucking idiot, and if he is our Savior we are most likely doomed. But here Kosinski takes his stab at religion in general, for its inflating of conceivably inconsequential figures into Godlike ones–we know that Chance is not godly, but as he is treated that way he is eventually portrayed that way.
Is Kosinski then suggesting that those treated as Gods may eventually grow into such? Or, as a child who survived the holocaust and the megalomania that led to it, is his suggestion instead that people will believe anything and are fully capable of seeing any moron as God? The sheer cynicism of this would be easy to accept if not for the fact that Chance’s grand messianic moment occurs without an audience. It may instead be a moment in which a man, who by luck has been perceived to possess far greater attributes than he actually does, continues to not acknowledge the greatness that is an aspect of himself. And that lack of acknowledgement is a large part of what makes him admirable; his wisdom may be specific and not applicable to the rest of his life, but what really makes it wisdom is that it does not color his view of himself. Indeed, he seems to have no view of himself.
To a large degree this is a story about a man without ego dropped into a world rife with ego, and how that world embraces this stranger. Of course, they are embracing him because they are assuming things about him that are untrue, they see areas in which he is inept as areas in which he is superior, because they do not understand him to such an extreme that they fail to see how little there is to understand. And there is almost no doubt that there is something wishful to this aspect of the general concept: Kosinski was no mainstream socializer, was prone to hiding under tables at dinner parties.
Kosinski also knew a great deal about how fortuitous chance could be – he was supposed to be an overnight guest at the home of Roman Polanski and Sharon Tate the night that Tate was murdered, but his flight missed its connection (of course, that story is according to Kosinski, who reputedly lied about virtually everything, more concerned with a good story than with what really happened. As Kosinski has been accused of plagiarizing the bulk of his work, it’s possible that this happened to someone else and it’s their story, but for my purposes it’s more useful if in this instance Kosinski told the truth.)
And if Kosinski was a plagiarist, perhaps there is a connection between him and the character Chance – a man who is lauded for things he has not done. Except, of course, this theory doesn’t work if Kosinski actually wrote Being There.
Monday, June 29, 2009
OF COURSE Language Is A Virus
And some like to spread it more than others. Writers are nothing but a bunch of verbal sluts. Open those pages wide, I'm diving in.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Neal Stephenson Needs An Editor
I'm reading "Snow Crash, " and for the most part really enjoying it, but I'm on page 430 of a 470 page edition and I'm pissed off. "Lay" instead of "lie" three different times so far, one of the instances in what is supposed to be a quotation from centuries ago, before this was a common grammatical mistake. Particularly odd is that the book is written in the present tense, so the only word written in the past tense in these sections is a word that is meant to be in the present tense.
I'm reading a Bantam Dell edition, a division of Random House. Um, no one proofreads this shit? I'm an editor, and there's no fucking way in hell this would get past me. It's not Stephenson's fault that he makes a common grammatical error (although I suspect he could use some grammar review, he's a good enough writer that I can see where his time would go other places.)
In terms of editing, it's not really as big a problem as the long sections where he rambles about Babel, backstory that seems to have been thrown inadvertently to the forefront (file that shit under 'research,' Neal, you have a really good story that you keep interrupting with this tedium, including quotes from George Steiner, whose own writing on this subject is far more interesting not only than your own but than the excerpts you quote.)
Ok, I was really enjoying this novel and should probably finish reading it, but god can I edit the next one? Because apparently no one edited this.
I'm reading a Bantam Dell edition, a division of Random House. Um, no one proofreads this shit? I'm an editor, and there's no fucking way in hell this would get past me. It's not Stephenson's fault that he makes a common grammatical error (although I suspect he could use some grammar review, he's a good enough writer that I can see where his time would go other places.)
In terms of editing, it's not really as big a problem as the long sections where he rambles about Babel, backstory that seems to have been thrown inadvertently to the forefront (file that shit under 'research,' Neal, you have a really good story that you keep interrupting with this tedium, including quotes from George Steiner, whose own writing on this subject is far more interesting not only than your own but than the excerpts you quote.)
Ok, I was really enjoying this novel and should probably finish reading it, but god can I edit the next one? Because apparently no one edited this.
Friday, June 19, 2009
My Summer Fling
Ok, I've done the mid-life crisis thing before, but that's the great thing about the MLC - I don't know when I'll die, so I have to keep having one crisis after another to ensure that one of them is actually mid-life. So, although I'm happily married, in the interests of fulfilling this great western tradition/cliche, I must be perpetually infatuated with some attractive young woman and a car I can't afford. The car of the moment is a Bentley GT, which differs from my current car, a 1995 Maxima, in just a few ways: it goes from zero to sixty in about 4 seconds, topping out around 198 mph (the Maxima tends to start rattling a little at about 75, would probably explode at about 140, so god knows what it would do at 198), and the passenger side front door of the Bentley will open, whereas the one on my Maxima awaits the availability of a used part before I can even afford that option. And no, I haven't looked into the cost of the Bentley, but in this economy with my income I'm sure an affordable monthly rate could be worked out that would keep me in eternal Hell no more than a few days a week. And they have booze there, right?
Speaking of which, although I'm happily married, summer approaches and I find it hard to keep my hands off this little lady.
Screw it, I'm putting her in my mouth.
Speaking of which, although I'm happily married, summer approaches and I find it hard to keep my hands off this little lady.
Screw it, I'm putting her in my mouth.
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