Up until Friday morning, this post was going to be my review of The Dark Night Rises, as well as some thoughts on this summer's movies. I was looking forward to sharing my thoughts on the movie, whether I liked it or not. Obviously, what happened early Friday out in Aurora, CO changed that.
Yeah, I still went to see the movie yesterday. I wasn't going to let some messed up asshole 1000 miles away change my plans. I was a bit uneasy doing it, even though I went through the probabilities of the situation. The likelihood of a second incident happening during a mid-day matinee showing was low, but I still found myself watching the exit door. I even made sure I'd sit in the seat closest to the door opposite of the exit door. The movie ended up capturing most of my attention, but to say it had my full attention throughout would be an exaggeration.
I love going to the movies, even if I have to drive an hour now to see a film at a decent theater. When I was living in Virginia Beach I ended up watching a movie every year. No matter how nice home theater systems get, they still cannot beat the communal experience of the cinema. The cool air, the big screen, the dark theater. It really is one of my favorite things to do, even when jerks are messing with their phones, or teenagers are wearing too much damn perfume.
I've even gone to a couple midnight showings. Each time was a special experiences, the packed theater giving off an almost electric vibe. When the lights went down on Return of the King, I certainly felt a rush of anticipation, as the long wait was over and all that remained was the movie. I imagine that the crowd that packed into theater 9 at the Century 16 in Aurora felt that same excitement as the trailers finished, and that Warner Brothers logo came up. Unfortunately, one of those moviegoers was actually a sick delusional fuckbag who decided to ruin it all in one minute of gunfire.
One of the people killed was Alex Sullivan. He was celebrating his twenty-seventh birthday watching the movie. Tomorrow wsa going to be his first wedding anniversary. This should have been a jubilant time for him and his family. Instead it will now be a time of mourning.
I love going to the movies for my birthday. When I was a kid it was oftentimes the one time a year I might get to see one in a theater. I love going to see movies on Thanksgiving weekend, and during the week between Christmas and New Years. I love it when the Oscar level films finally show up at our podunk theaters in January and February. From that first tentpole film in early May, through the big Memorial Day weekend release, to that last really big event movie in mid July I really love summer movie season. Heck, I even like the lean September/October and March/April periods, which have exposed me to some of my favorite movies.
During the regular course of life I can get rather tense. Watching DVDs, Blu Ray, or Netflix helps, but it isn't anything like those two or three hours of escape I feel in a theater. Until July 20, 2012 I never thought twice about my safety or ability to relax in a theater. I resent the hell out of this asshole who has made me doubt, even temporarily, my ability to relax in the warm glow of the silver screen.
In the larger picture, my slight inconvenience means absolutely shit. Because of that murderer, 12 families have been absolutely devastated. For the others who were in that theater, some will have physical scars. Many more, however, will have emotional and psychological scars to deal with. I can't imagine they'd likely be able to go to ANY theater, let alone the Century 16.
Frankly, I can't imagine what the victims, their families, and the family of the killer are going through. To act like I do would be disingenuous and self-serving. All I can do is keep them in my thoughts, and hope that they can find some solace and peace in this terrible time.
Over the next few days perhaps we'll get some idea as to why the killer did what he did. Of course, it might be days until the authorities can even get into his apartment, considering how meticulous it has been booby trapped. Supposedly he dyed his hair red and called himself "The Joker". As far as I know this is speculation, as is most everything else beyond his basic information. There already appears to be hoaxes and urban myths spreading, a fact of life in this age of rapid information distribution.
As for the rest of us, I'm sure we won't disappoint The Onion.
Saturday, July 21, 2012
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
500 Word Serials #2: Nature's Splendor (Part One)
It's Baaaaaack. After a long hiatus, I'm bringing back my 500 word serials. Why did it take this long? Well, I don't have a good reason, but I'll give you an excuse instead. Quite frankly, I couldn't think of a good idea, at least until the one for this story popped in there. This is inspired by my trips to Yosemite in 2004, 2009, and this past April, but also any visit I've made to nature. I guarantee the next story will be funnier.*
Josh Amberstone was tired. He wasn’t temporarily tired, in a way that a good night’s sleep would cure. He was just dead exhausted. Exhausted with life, exhausted with people, exhausted with himself.
The train ride from Oakland to the dusty central valley town of Merced had done little to cure that exhaustion. If anything it had made it worse, courtesy of the screaming infant three rows up, and his older brother who spilled the soda and hot dog when the train made a sudden lurch. Josh was glad when his stop was called, and even more so when that family stayed on. They were the problem of Fresno or Bakersfield.
As the train pulled away, Josh sighed, finding a seat to wait for the YARTS (Yosemite Area Regional Transportation System) bus. This would be his gateway to the high Sierra, and the valley known as Yosemite. His friends had suggested the park to him as a good place to relax and recharge. Josh was skeptical, wondering how some rocks, trees, and some waterfalls would help him out. Nevertheless he decided to go, taking a week off from work to fly out to California and visit this place.
I mean, it wasn’t like he hated nature. Far from it, in fact. Every year his parents would rent a cabin near the Smokies in North Carolina. When he was younger, he loved running down the hillside near the cabin, visiting the waterfalls at Deep Creek, and having picnics amid the tall trees of the Smokies. He remembered the view from atop Clingman’s Dome. Most of the time it was too hazy to see beyond 20 miles or so, but that one rare time they went up there after a front moved through, it had been gorgeous. Supposedly they could see Mount Mitchell (the highest point in Appalachians), seventy some miles in the distance. He had been twelve at the time, and the memory stuck with him.
However, as he grew up, nature and Josh had parted ways. He still was in decent shape, playing golf a couple times a week and running five miles about every day. He occasionally strolled through the woods at Forest Park in St. Louis, and often picnicked with his friends there. However, for the most part he had become a citizen of the indoors. When he actually had free time, it was spent with Netflix, his apartment couch, and the contents of his refrigerator.
Around him were other people waiting for the bus. It was an eclectic group. There was a group of retirees, enjoying each other’s company as they reminisced on previous trips to Yosemite. There were a few foreign tourists, mainly Japanese or German in origin. A few of the waiting passengers were IT professionals from Silicon Valley, out for a quick weekend trip to the valley. Obviously there were a couple of hippie wannabes, as well as a couple of earnest looking twentysomethings with well stocked backpacks. In other words, your typical Yosemite crowd.
*Guarantee void in perpetuity throughout the entirety of the Milky Way and any adjacent galaxies.
Josh Amberstone was tired. He wasn’t temporarily tired, in a way that a good night’s sleep would cure. He was just dead exhausted. Exhausted with life, exhausted with people, exhausted with himself.
The train ride from Oakland to the dusty central valley town of Merced had done little to cure that exhaustion. If anything it had made it worse, courtesy of the screaming infant three rows up, and his older brother who spilled the soda and hot dog when the train made a sudden lurch. Josh was glad when his stop was called, and even more so when that family stayed on. They were the problem of Fresno or Bakersfield.
As the train pulled away, Josh sighed, finding a seat to wait for the YARTS (Yosemite Area Regional Transportation System) bus. This would be his gateway to the high Sierra, and the valley known as Yosemite. His friends had suggested the park to him as a good place to relax and recharge. Josh was skeptical, wondering how some rocks, trees, and some waterfalls would help him out. Nevertheless he decided to go, taking a week off from work to fly out to California and visit this place.
I mean, it wasn’t like he hated nature. Far from it, in fact. Every year his parents would rent a cabin near the Smokies in North Carolina. When he was younger, he loved running down the hillside near the cabin, visiting the waterfalls at Deep Creek, and having picnics amid the tall trees of the Smokies. He remembered the view from atop Clingman’s Dome. Most of the time it was too hazy to see beyond 20 miles or so, but that one rare time they went up there after a front moved through, it had been gorgeous. Supposedly they could see Mount Mitchell (the highest point in Appalachians), seventy some miles in the distance. He had been twelve at the time, and the memory stuck with him.
However, as he grew up, nature and Josh had parted ways. He still was in decent shape, playing golf a couple times a week and running five miles about every day. He occasionally strolled through the woods at Forest Park in St. Louis, and often picnicked with his friends there. However, for the most part he had become a citizen of the indoors. When he actually had free time, it was spent with Netflix, his apartment couch, and the contents of his refrigerator.
Around him were other people waiting for the bus. It was an eclectic group. There was a group of retirees, enjoying each other’s company as they reminisced on previous trips to Yosemite. There were a few foreign tourists, mainly Japanese or German in origin. A few of the waiting passengers were IT professionals from Silicon Valley, out for a quick weekend trip to the valley. Obviously there were a couple of hippie wannabes, as well as a couple of earnest looking twentysomethings with well stocked backpacks. In other words, your typical Yosemite crowd.
*Guarantee void in perpetuity throughout the entirety of the Milky Way and any adjacent galaxies.
Friday, June 8, 2012
Politics in my TV: Veep and Parks and Recreation
Holy Crap, has it really been a year since I posted on here? Looks like nobody has exactly missed my screeds. Anyway, I've built up a year's worth of thoughts on all things TV, Movies, and Books, as well as the usual bloviating and story ideas. Expect me to post more frequently from now on, or at least post a few half-assed things about Leslie Knope and Brandon Marshall, and then go quiet for another year.
SPOILER ALERT FOR BOTH PARKS & RECREATION AND VEEP. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.
I like politics. Well, I'm not exactly sure I like politics. Politics is basically a colossal mess of horseshit, interspersed with a few miniscule diamond flakes of transcendent beauty. Even if you or your candidate wins the election, they then have to try to govern. In this day an age trying to govern is like putting out a bunch of fires, as others start more fires around you, or pour gasoline on the existing fires, or parade through the fires setting off fireworks fueled by their petty grievances. If you get one thing accomplished, change one mind on either the campaign trail or while in the clusterfuck that is governing, you can consider it a good day. Frankly, it's wearying just following it all, especially when too often your side seems to be the ones getting burnt. To actually be a part of it would take almost superhuman energy and an preternatural ability to ignore failure. And that's just to tread water.
In much fewer words, politics is a drug I can't quit. Thinking about it consumes far too much time for a sane human being, but I just can't pull myself away from it. Hell, it might get so bad at some point that my fevered thoughts will end up spilling onto the pages over at August Prairie. Because I spend so much time obsessing over this most crucial yet somewhat irrelevant part of everyday American life, you'd think my entertainment choices would be less demanding, less related to politics.
Ha!
My favorite show on television right now is Parks and Recreation. Of the new shows that debuted either last fall or this spring, my favorite by far is Veep. Both deal with politics and government, the former with local government and the latter with Washington. There tones couldn't be more dissimilar, as Parks is rather genuine, while Veep is incredibly cynical. Still, I think both demonstrate very well what an uphill battle it is to get things accomplished in this day and age.
As heartfelt as the victories of Leslie and the rest of the gang in Pawnee are, they weren't easily won. To get that pit filled in, or get the harvest festival off the ground, or win a seat on the town council, Knope had to work hard. She had to suffer the fickle nature of her fellow Pawneeans, a boss who diametrically opposed her agenda, and employees that ranged from apathetic (April) to self-absorbed (Tom) to incompetent (Andy and Jerry). Whether it was an antagonistic or brain-dead media, the glacial pace of a modern bureaucracy, or the anarchy of one Greg Pikitis, she fought through it all. And she did it all with a smile on her face. Not because there was riches or glory in it for her, but because it was her job and because she believes in the town and in the parks.
Sure, the raccoon problem is merely contained and not solved. Eagleton still looks down upon the town, and the budget woes that brought Mr. Traegar and Mr. Wyatt to town are still there. The Parks department will still have to fight for every penny they need, and Tammy #2 and the rest of those dastardly librarians will sit in their stale halls full of books, plotting their next move. As she moves to the City Council, that battle will become tougher, as there will be more mouths to feed, and she will have to make tougher choices. After all, they play with live ammo there. If she isn't careful, the pressures of the job may overwhelm her, and snuff out that enthusiastic love of accomplishment and public service. Eventually Leslie might view getting elected, rather than governing, as her primary occupation.
A few levels of government up and a quarter of the country to the east, the office of Vice President Selina Meyer serves as a cautionary tale for Councilwoman Knope. Throughout Veep there have been hints that at one time Meyer was principled, talented, and effective in her job. Now, as the person one heartbeat away from the most powerful job in the world, she is not exactly effective nor powerful. What fire and drive she might have had has clearly been driven out by the soul-grinding world of Washington politics, made worse by being relegated to a do-nothing position in the current Administration.
To be fair, the Vice Presidency is not an office to which power is naturally given. Sure, there have been powerful veeps like Dick Cheney or Al Gore, but far more often they've been relegated to playing a rather pointless Robin to the President's Batman. To her credit, Meyer does try to get a clean jobs task force started, as well as championing filibuster reform. Unfortunately, the feckless world of Congressional politics renders her first priority toothless, to the point she is basically forced to vote down her pet policy when the Senate ties and she has to exercise one of her few Constitutionally mandated roles.
If that wasn't bad enough, she has to do deal with a sensationalistic media and a staff that often borders on complete incompetency. It is hard to get anything done when you have to spend all of your time dealing with "crises" that dominate the news cycle, especially when the President sends some low-level caveman looking flunky to ride herd on you. It's totally unfair when just dealing with the process and horse-race obsessed media. And that is before you get to their sexist double standard, going overboard to create controversies between the First Lady and the Vice President, or how they would have torn her apart if her pregnancy had been discovered.
Granted, the world of Veep seems much colder, much meaner than Pawnee. Of course, it is the major leagues of politics, while Pawnee is at best a tee-ball league. The main characters, from Chris, Ben, and Ron, on down to April, Andy, and even Jerry seem to like and respect each other. In contrast, outside of Gary and possibly Amy, Selina doesn't really have much in the way of a support structure of friends and co-workers. I suppose it is true that if you want a friend in Washington, you have to get a dog.
In the end I prefer the slightly more optimistic bent of the little show in Pawnee, even though I suspect reality is far closer to the crushing pessimism of Veep's Washington. One of my favorite stories from last season was April's pet adoption fair. In the end only one dog was adopted, while some heartless woman dropped off two additional cats. The event was a failure based upon almost all metrics, as it resulted in a net gain of abandoned animals. April felt justifiably discouraged, and was completely ready to give up. However, Tom convinced her the effort wasn't in vain, as because of her efforts one young girl received a new friend, and one dog received a new home. It wasn't much in the big scheme of things, but to that girl and that dog, it meant everything in the world. Truly it was a good day's work. If every day our leaders and civil servants were so effective, maybe things would be better.
Or at least it would be, if that fucking secret service agent would stop smiling. You better make sure he gets reassigned. Now excuse me, I have to go deal with Yoghurtgate and go vote my conscious, which my staff will help me decide on during the drive over to the Hill. And by the way, make sure NOAA changes the name of that fucking hurricane. Did the President call?
The Part Where I Encourage you to Watch These Shows
Veep is wrapping up its first season on HBO this weekend. If you have HBO, go check it out HBOgo. If you want more political fun by the creator of Veep that makes you laugh because it hurts to cry, check out In the Loop or The Thick of It. Parks and Recreation will return in the fall, and can be viewed on Netflix and Hulu Plus. If you gave up on its weak first season, or have yet to watch it, do so now. I SAID DO IT. There is no reason zombie The Office should have higher ratings than it.
SPOILER ALERT FOR BOTH PARKS & RECREATION AND VEEP. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.
I like politics. Well, I'm not exactly sure I like politics. Politics is basically a colossal mess of horseshit, interspersed with a few miniscule diamond flakes of transcendent beauty. Even if you or your candidate wins the election, they then have to try to govern. In this day an age trying to govern is like putting out a bunch of fires, as others start more fires around you, or pour gasoline on the existing fires, or parade through the fires setting off fireworks fueled by their petty grievances. If you get one thing accomplished, change one mind on either the campaign trail or while in the clusterfuck that is governing, you can consider it a good day. Frankly, it's wearying just following it all, especially when too often your side seems to be the ones getting burnt. To actually be a part of it would take almost superhuman energy and an preternatural ability to ignore failure. And that's just to tread water.
In much fewer words, politics is a drug I can't quit. Thinking about it consumes far too much time for a sane human being, but I just can't pull myself away from it. Hell, it might get so bad at some point that my fevered thoughts will end up spilling onto the pages over at August Prairie. Because I spend so much time obsessing over this most crucial yet somewhat irrelevant part of everyday American life, you'd think my entertainment choices would be less demanding, less related to politics.
Ha!
My favorite show on television right now is Parks and Recreation. Of the new shows that debuted either last fall or this spring, my favorite by far is Veep. Both deal with politics and government, the former with local government and the latter with Washington. There tones couldn't be more dissimilar, as Parks is rather genuine, while Veep is incredibly cynical. Still, I think both demonstrate very well what an uphill battle it is to get things accomplished in this day and age.
As heartfelt as the victories of Leslie and the rest of the gang in Pawnee are, they weren't easily won. To get that pit filled in, or get the harvest festival off the ground, or win a seat on the town council, Knope had to work hard. She had to suffer the fickle nature of her fellow Pawneeans, a boss who diametrically opposed her agenda, and employees that ranged from apathetic (April) to self-absorbed (Tom) to incompetent (Andy and Jerry). Whether it was an antagonistic or brain-dead media, the glacial pace of a modern bureaucracy, or the anarchy of one Greg Pikitis, she fought through it all. And she did it all with a smile on her face. Not because there was riches or glory in it for her, but because it was her job and because she believes in the town and in the parks.
Sure, the raccoon problem is merely contained and not solved. Eagleton still looks down upon the town, and the budget woes that brought Mr. Traegar and Mr. Wyatt to town are still there. The Parks department will still have to fight for every penny they need, and Tammy #2 and the rest of those dastardly librarians will sit in their stale halls full of books, plotting their next move. As she moves to the City Council, that battle will become tougher, as there will be more mouths to feed, and she will have to make tougher choices. After all, they play with live ammo there. If she isn't careful, the pressures of the job may overwhelm her, and snuff out that enthusiastic love of accomplishment and public service. Eventually Leslie might view getting elected, rather than governing, as her primary occupation.
A few levels of government up and a quarter of the country to the east, the office of Vice President Selina Meyer serves as a cautionary tale for Councilwoman Knope. Throughout Veep there have been hints that at one time Meyer was principled, talented, and effective in her job. Now, as the person one heartbeat away from the most powerful job in the world, she is not exactly effective nor powerful. What fire and drive she might have had has clearly been driven out by the soul-grinding world of Washington politics, made worse by being relegated to a do-nothing position in the current Administration.
To be fair, the Vice Presidency is not an office to which power is naturally given. Sure, there have been powerful veeps like Dick Cheney or Al Gore, but far more often they've been relegated to playing a rather pointless Robin to the President's Batman. To her credit, Meyer does try to get a clean jobs task force started, as well as championing filibuster reform. Unfortunately, the feckless world of Congressional politics renders her first priority toothless, to the point she is basically forced to vote down her pet policy when the Senate ties and she has to exercise one of her few Constitutionally mandated roles.
If that wasn't bad enough, she has to do deal with a sensationalistic media and a staff that often borders on complete incompetency. It is hard to get anything done when you have to spend all of your time dealing with "crises" that dominate the news cycle, especially when the President sends some low-level caveman looking flunky to ride herd on you. It's totally unfair when just dealing with the process and horse-race obsessed media. And that is before you get to their sexist double standard, going overboard to create controversies between the First Lady and the Vice President, or how they would have torn her apart if her pregnancy had been discovered.
Granted, the world of Veep seems much colder, much meaner than Pawnee. Of course, it is the major leagues of politics, while Pawnee is at best a tee-ball league. The main characters, from Chris, Ben, and Ron, on down to April, Andy, and even Jerry seem to like and respect each other. In contrast, outside of Gary and possibly Amy, Selina doesn't really have much in the way of a support structure of friends and co-workers. I suppose it is true that if you want a friend in Washington, you have to get a dog.
In the end I prefer the slightly more optimistic bent of the little show in Pawnee, even though I suspect reality is far closer to the crushing pessimism of Veep's Washington. One of my favorite stories from last season was April's pet adoption fair. In the end only one dog was adopted, while some heartless woman dropped off two additional cats. The event was a failure based upon almost all metrics, as it resulted in a net gain of abandoned animals. April felt justifiably discouraged, and was completely ready to give up. However, Tom convinced her the effort wasn't in vain, as because of her efforts one young girl received a new friend, and one dog received a new home. It wasn't much in the big scheme of things, but to that girl and that dog, it meant everything in the world. Truly it was a good day's work. If every day our leaders and civil servants were so effective, maybe things would be better.
Or at least it would be, if that fucking secret service agent would stop smiling. You better make sure he gets reassigned. Now excuse me, I have to go deal with Yoghurtgate and go vote my conscious, which my staff will help me decide on during the drive over to the Hill. And by the way, make sure NOAA changes the name of that fucking hurricane. Did the President call?
The Part Where I Encourage you to Watch These Shows
Veep is wrapping up its first season on HBO this weekend. If you have HBO, go check it out HBOgo. If you want more political fun by the creator of Veep that makes you laugh because it hurts to cry, check out In the Loop or The Thick of It. Parks and Recreation will return in the fall, and can be viewed on Netflix and Hulu Plus. If you gave up on its weak first season, or have yet to watch it, do so now. I SAID DO IT. There is no reason zombie The Office should have higher ratings than it.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
The Blogger, Part Four
Part One | Part Two | Part Three
“So what are you writing today, “ said the old man, “the latest Tolkein wanna-be? A political thriller set during the Polk administration? Some bullshit coming of age story about a manchild and the manic pixie dream girl who completes him? God, it isn’t some story about space people and their relationship to Bob Dylan, is it?”
“No, nothing nearly that ambitious. Just blogging about movies, the outdoors, things I do.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“Well, it just feels inessential, rather boring. So I went to a festival, ate some greasy sweet food, played a couple games, and listened to some music. So what, who cares what I have to say? So either I try to attach a higher purpose to the event, or go the other way and try to diminish it, hiding it in a sea of non sequiturs and The Simpsons references. The second approach, while sometimes fun, more often results in the disaster my current post is.”
“I see. Y’know what I fucking think? If something is worth writing about, give it the respect it deserves. Otherwise, leave it alone, or twat abo--”
“Tweet, it’s called tweeting”
“What the fuck ever, like I care. The point is if you are writing about real events, you should give them the respect they deserve. Sit for a few hours, think over possible angles, actually put some effort into it, for christ sake. Who knows, maybe you’ll find a new way to look at the event, something that might be interesting.”
“Wait, you think I should work at it? Why would I want to write if I had to put effort into it?”
“Ha-ha, fuckwit.”
“No, I get it, I do tend to just slap the crap up without taking time to think it through. Thanks for the help”
“My pleasure, my good man, “ said a familiar voice. It took him a second, but he realized it was his own voice that had replied.
“What the hell is going on?”
“I’m afraid you decided to disappear into your own ass, worrying about that dreadful blog post. To get yourself some perspective, you needed to create a false reality.”
“But why the crusty foul-mouthed old man?”
“Because that old fart represented authenticity to you. Had he shown up looking like Isaac Newton or Kate Winslet, you wouldn’t have bought your vision.”
“Why am I speaking to myself in the second person?”
“Because speaking in the first person sounds fucking insane. OK, now that the wisdom has been imparted, you feel free to remove your head from your ass.”
“SNRRAAKKmmmmmmm, “ said Bertram as he lifted his head from his desk. He looked around, saw he was back in his house, and that he must have dreamed the entire thing. He stood up and stretched. On the computer screen was his awful draft post. With a couple clicks he erased it. Picking up a pen and pad of paper, he went outside to start over, his head assuredly no longer up his ass.
“So what are you writing today, “ said the old man, “the latest Tolkein wanna-be? A political thriller set during the Polk administration? Some bullshit coming of age story about a manchild and the manic pixie dream girl who completes him? God, it isn’t some story about space people and their relationship to Bob Dylan, is it?”
“No, nothing nearly that ambitious. Just blogging about movies, the outdoors, things I do.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“Well, it just feels inessential, rather boring. So I went to a festival, ate some greasy sweet food, played a couple games, and listened to some music. So what, who cares what I have to say? So either I try to attach a higher purpose to the event, or go the other way and try to diminish it, hiding it in a sea of non sequiturs and The Simpsons references. The second approach, while sometimes fun, more often results in the disaster my current post is.”
“I see. Y’know what I fucking think? If something is worth writing about, give it the respect it deserves. Otherwise, leave it alone, or twat abo--”
“Tweet, it’s called tweeting”
“What the fuck ever, like I care. The point is if you are writing about real events, you should give them the respect they deserve. Sit for a few hours, think over possible angles, actually put some effort into it, for christ sake. Who knows, maybe you’ll find a new way to look at the event, something that might be interesting.”
“Wait, you think I should work at it? Why would I want to write if I had to put effort into it?”
“Ha-ha, fuckwit.”
“No, I get it, I do tend to just slap the crap up without taking time to think it through. Thanks for the help”
“My pleasure, my good man, “ said a familiar voice. It took him a second, but he realized it was his own voice that had replied.
“What the hell is going on?”
“I’m afraid you decided to disappear into your own ass, worrying about that dreadful blog post. To get yourself some perspective, you needed to create a false reality.”
“But why the crusty foul-mouthed old man?”
“Because that old fart represented authenticity to you. Had he shown up looking like Isaac Newton or Kate Winslet, you wouldn’t have bought your vision.”
“Why am I speaking to myself in the second person?”
“Because speaking in the first person sounds fucking insane. OK, now that the wisdom has been imparted, you feel free to remove your head from your ass.”
“SNRRAAKKmmmmmmm, “ said Bertram as he lifted his head from his desk. He looked around, saw he was back in his house, and that he must have dreamed the entire thing. He stood up and stretched. On the computer screen was his awful draft post. With a couple clicks he erased it. Picking up a pen and pad of paper, he went outside to start over, his head assuredly no longer up his ass.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
The Blogger, Part Three
Part One | Part Two
Bertram sheepishly walked across the road, not turning around to acknowledge the driver until he reached the other side.
“Sorry, man, “ said Bertram. It was at this point he really took a look at the vehicle that had also made he day really bad. It was an old Dodge pickup, with a noisy engine, a pock-marked windshield, and more rust than paint on its body.
The driver of the truck wasn’t in much better shape. He was an old man with a long white beard and unkempt, greasy hair. He was wearing a dirty tank top, and was missing some teeth. He looked like many of the down-on-their-luck old men in the area, except for eyes betrayed a sense of fiery intelligence.
“Well, just stay out of god damn fuckin’ road next time, jackass.”
Bertram looked like he was going to add something, but instead just turned and headed down the sidewalk next to the side street. As far as he was concerned, this was all he would be seeing of that disheveled, foul-mouthed old man. And his shitty truck.
Unfortunately, fate and that old man disagreed with Bertram. Before he had made it a block up the side street, the old fart was back.
“What the hell was so god damn important that it would take priority over watching where you were fuckin’ going? Having troubles with a girl? Money issues?”
“None of your damn business, sir, but no, neither of those.”
“Sheeeit, you weren’t having writing troubles, were you. Please don’t fuckin’ say that.”
“Well, yeah, somewhat.”
“Damnit, its always with the fuckin god-damn writing troubles. You must be the fourth ‘writer’ I’ve almost killed this week. Sheeeit, fucking writing problems.”
Bertram could tell this guy had experience with writing, other than an abnormally high level of near accidents with them. Judging by how the old man had said the word “writer” he didn’t sound like a fan of them and their craft.
“Look, buddy, I know a bit about the writing game. I’ve got some time and gas to kill, hop in and we can work out your problem.”
Bertram could smell the interior of the cab, and it wasn’t pleasant. It smelled like a mixture of cheap beer, stale cigarettes, and old man BO. He wasn’t quite sure if this guy was even sober, let alone if he was sane. A reasonable person would be expected to decline the offer of help.
On most occasions Bertram was a sensible man. He rarely spoke up, rarely took the road less traveled. He paid his bills and his taxes, and didn’t complain if his food was poorly cooked. However, every once in a while, Bertram would turn off that switch in his brain that prevented taking stupid risks, and would just go with it. It’s how he had ended up self employed, how he had ended up in this small town on the eastern edge of Illinois. Sometimes you just gotta go with it.
“Why the hell not?”
To be continued...
Bertram sheepishly walked across the road, not turning around to acknowledge the driver until he reached the other side.
“Sorry, man, “ said Bertram. It was at this point he really took a look at the vehicle that had also made he day really bad. It was an old Dodge pickup, with a noisy engine, a pock-marked windshield, and more rust than paint on its body.
The driver of the truck wasn’t in much better shape. He was an old man with a long white beard and unkempt, greasy hair. He was wearing a dirty tank top, and was missing some teeth. He looked like many of the down-on-their-luck old men in the area, except for eyes betrayed a sense of fiery intelligence.
“Well, just stay out of god damn fuckin’ road next time, jackass.”
Bertram looked like he was going to add something, but instead just turned and headed down the sidewalk next to the side street. As far as he was concerned, this was all he would be seeing of that disheveled, foul-mouthed old man. And his shitty truck.
Unfortunately, fate and that old man disagreed with Bertram. Before he had made it a block up the side street, the old fart was back.
“What the hell was so god damn important that it would take priority over watching where you were fuckin’ going? Having troubles with a girl? Money issues?”
“None of your damn business, sir, but no, neither of those.”
“Sheeeit, you weren’t having writing troubles, were you. Please don’t fuckin’ say that.”
“Well, yeah, somewhat.”
“Damnit, its always with the fuckin god-damn writing troubles. You must be the fourth ‘writer’ I’ve almost killed this week. Sheeeit, fucking writing problems.”
Bertram could tell this guy had experience with writing, other than an abnormally high level of near accidents with them. Judging by how the old man had said the word “writer” he didn’t sound like a fan of them and their craft.
“Look, buddy, I know a bit about the writing game. I’ve got some time and gas to kill, hop in and we can work out your problem.”
Bertram could smell the interior of the cab, and it wasn’t pleasant. It smelled like a mixture of cheap beer, stale cigarettes, and old man BO. He wasn’t quite sure if this guy was even sober, let alone if he was sane. A reasonable person would be expected to decline the offer of help.
On most occasions Bertram was a sensible man. He rarely spoke up, rarely took the road less traveled. He paid his bills and his taxes, and didn’t complain if his food was poorly cooked. However, every once in a while, Bertram would turn off that switch in his brain that prevented taking stupid risks, and would just go with it. It’s how he had ended up self employed, how he had ended up in this small town on the eastern edge of Illinois. Sometimes you just gotta go with it.
“Why the hell not?”
To be continued...
Thursday, March 10, 2011
The Blogger, Part Two
To read part one, click here.
Stuck In Lodi Again...
When Bertram was growing up, he always thought that song referred to Lodi, Indiana, as in the front-man of the “Twin Cities” of Lodi-Silverwood. As he grew up, he thought he most likely referred to Lodi, California. Having driven through the Indiana Lodi several times, and the California one once, he was certain neither place was somewhere he’d want to be.
What Lodi the song referred to was irrelevant, as far as he was concerned. To him, the tone of the song mattered more. It represented being stuck in place as time moved forward, unable to progress, unable to figure things out. Above all it meant Bertram wasn’t sure what to do, how to rectify his current situation.
Six months ago he had quit his software development job at Illinois Business Solutions so he could focus on his own projects. Although he had kept his bills paid by freelancing and consulting work, his passion project had yet to take off. As good of a programmer as he was, he always would rather be writing instead. He wasn’t sure if he actually enjoyed it, or if the lifestyle of “research trips” and the possibility of sleeping late were the bigger draws.
He had named his blog WhimmiWazzle, and had hoped it would be a mixture of fiction, eccentric posts about happenings in the area, and occasionally earnest essays about subjects ranging from Abe Lincoln to bringing high-speed rail to Central Illinois. So far he had written a few posts about his favorite Coen Brothers and Pixar films, and how much he dislked the latest explosionarama by Michael Bay. He had made a few visits to places like Forest Glen, the Carnegie Library in Ridge Farm, and the Vermilion County Museum. The first two visits had ended up as marginally coherent posts read by his sister, a few of his friends, and his parents. The last had never resulted in anything worth posting. He got as far as trying to write the post as a homage to the Gettysburg Address, but never was satisfied with it.
So day after day, he rarely sat down to actually write. He’d read profusely, from novels and short stories to memoirs and large books about the English Civil War or the revolutions of 1848. If he wasn’t reading, he was watching his library of movies and TV shows. He rationalized this by saying it was “research”, but mostly he just enjoyed it. And if it was research, he didn’t apply it very well, as that latest monstrosity showed.
“How do I fix that piece of shit,” Bertram muttered under his breath. “It’s clearly not salvageable in its current form, but maybe there are a few ideas that can still wor--”
(HONKHONKHONKHONKSCREEEECCCHHHH!KA-THUNK!)
The sound of the car stopping broke Bertram’s trance. Now aware of his surroundings again, he realized that he was the reason the car had stopped, just a couple inches away.
“WHAT THE FUCK, MAN! WATCH WHERE YOU ARE GOING!”
To be continued...
Stuck In Lodi Again...
When Bertram was growing up, he always thought that song referred to Lodi, Indiana, as in the front-man of the “Twin Cities” of Lodi-Silverwood. As he grew up, he thought he most likely referred to Lodi, California. Having driven through the Indiana Lodi several times, and the California one once, he was certain neither place was somewhere he’d want to be.
What Lodi the song referred to was irrelevant, as far as he was concerned. To him, the tone of the song mattered more. It represented being stuck in place as time moved forward, unable to progress, unable to figure things out. Above all it meant Bertram wasn’t sure what to do, how to rectify his current situation.
Six months ago he had quit his software development job at Illinois Business Solutions so he could focus on his own projects. Although he had kept his bills paid by freelancing and consulting work, his passion project had yet to take off. As good of a programmer as he was, he always would rather be writing instead. He wasn’t sure if he actually enjoyed it, or if the lifestyle of “research trips” and the possibility of sleeping late were the bigger draws.
He had named his blog WhimmiWazzle, and had hoped it would be a mixture of fiction, eccentric posts about happenings in the area, and occasionally earnest essays about subjects ranging from Abe Lincoln to bringing high-speed rail to Central Illinois. So far he had written a few posts about his favorite Coen Brothers and Pixar films, and how much he dislked the latest explosionarama by Michael Bay. He had made a few visits to places like Forest Glen, the Carnegie Library in Ridge Farm, and the Vermilion County Museum. The first two visits had ended up as marginally coherent posts read by his sister, a few of his friends, and his parents. The last had never resulted in anything worth posting. He got as far as trying to write the post as a homage to the Gettysburg Address, but never was satisfied with it.
So day after day, he rarely sat down to actually write. He’d read profusely, from novels and short stories to memoirs and large books about the English Civil War or the revolutions of 1848. If he wasn’t reading, he was watching his library of movies and TV shows. He rationalized this by saying it was “research”, but mostly he just enjoyed it. And if it was research, he didn’t apply it very well, as that latest monstrosity showed.
“How do I fix that piece of shit,” Bertram muttered under his breath. “It’s clearly not salvageable in its current form, but maybe there are a few ideas that can still wor--”
(HONKHONKHONKHONKSCREEEECCCHHHH!KA-THUNK!)
The sound of the car stopping broke Bertram’s trance. Now aware of his surroundings again, he realized that he was the reason the car had stopped, just a couple inches away.
“WHAT THE FUCK, MAN! WATCH WHERE YOU ARE GOING!”
To be continued...
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Chocolate Frosted Sugar Serials
Note: In an effort to pretend like I can actually write, I've decided to begin a feature on this blog titled "500 Word Serials". I intend it as a homage to the old days when stories were published in periodicals and newspapers, even if they ended up later in a longer format. I have chosen 500 words because it suits the medium, and because my original ideas of 100 and 200 words seemed too short. Before I begin with the first story, I want to offer a content advisory, as this feature is rated "R" for naughty language, adult situations, aspirations to pretentiousness, and severe mountain goat instigated violence. If you work at a regressive place, are too fragile for severe winning, or just like reading bowdlerized material, please contact me and I will replace the offending language with appropriate euphemisms. And then I will laugh at you behind your back. Sorry, it's the code I live by.
Please note: all typos, grammatical errors, and incoherent plot details are purely unintentional. Unless they improve the story, than it was my intention all along. Now sit back and enjoy my first story, titled The Blogger. I know, completely unexpected, right?
“What the fuck, momatoes?”
“It’s from The Simpsons Allie, but perhaps you’re too young to remember that reference.”
Bertram was talking to his best friend of many years over the phone. He had written a draft of a blog entry, and had sent it to her to peruse before he posted it. Most of the time, she usually passed it back with a few scant recommendations. Unfortunately, this was a bad one.
“I’m three months younger than you, moran. We watched that episode together, Homer became a rogue food critic. Where the reference is from isn’t the problem, it’s the relevance.”
“Of course it’s relevant. The booths at the festival were red. Like momatoes.”
“IT WAS THE FUCKING STRAWBERRY FESTIVAL! And even if it wasn’t, your post would still be a rambling, incoherent mess. Its nothing but disconnected rants about stale shortbread, the origins of World War I, and how disappointing Jar Jar Binks was.”
“You can’t deny he was a poor substitute for Chew--”
“THE AWFUL MONSTER JAR JAR BINKS IS NOT THE ISSUE HERE! God, Bert, I’ve seen better writing than this from you. This wouldn’t be entertaining to anyone, other than those who love laughing at the insane.”
Bertram almost offered a response, but thought better of it. He looked at the screen of his laptop, the draft post still up on the screen. Just hours ago, he thought it had been an irreverent piece of “gonzo journalism” about the Salinetown Strawberry Festival. Now, he wasn’t sure if it qualified as English.
“Also, what was the deal with randomly inserting ‘Screw Fredritch’ throughout the post? I’m guessing it was another reference to that episode of The Simpsons. Of course, changing the name from Flanders to Fredritch makes you look like you have a vendetta against some random person.”
“Alright, alright, I’ll make some changes. Jeez, you don’t have to rub it in. It’s just a fucking blog that no one reads.”
“Sorry, Bert, but you’re a better writer than that. Criticising your work emphatically was the best way to get through to you. I’m sure your next draft will be better. I know being a child of the 80’s means you can’t take a shit without making a pop-culture reference, but there are better ways. More Community, less late period Family Guy. Just a bit mo--”
Allie’s voice grew softer and more muffled as she talked to someone else. The muffles grew louder and more contentious, and Bertram knew she’d be hanging up soon.
“Sorry, Bert, but I’ve gotta go. Some bullshit went down with the latest release. I don’t know, code went out that shouldn’t have. God, I hate this place sometimes. Fix it up a bit, and let me see it again. This time, a bit more fun, and a bit less insane.”
“Got it, less with the insanity. Have fun with your clusterfuck there.”
Bert hung up the phone and closed his laptop. The post would be fixed, but right now was walkabout time.
Please note: all typos, grammatical errors, and incoherent plot details are purely unintentional. Unless they improve the story, than it was my intention all along. Now sit back and enjoy my first story, titled The Blogger. I know, completely unexpected, right?
“What the fuck, momatoes?”
“It’s from The Simpsons Allie, but perhaps you’re too young to remember that reference.”
Bertram was talking to his best friend of many years over the phone. He had written a draft of a blog entry, and had sent it to her to peruse before he posted it. Most of the time, she usually passed it back with a few scant recommendations. Unfortunately, this was a bad one.
“I’m three months younger than you, moran. We watched that episode together, Homer became a rogue food critic. Where the reference is from isn’t the problem, it’s the relevance.”
“Of course it’s relevant. The booths at the festival were red. Like momatoes.”
“IT WAS THE FUCKING STRAWBERRY FESTIVAL! And even if it wasn’t, your post would still be a rambling, incoherent mess. Its nothing but disconnected rants about stale shortbread, the origins of World War I, and how disappointing Jar Jar Binks was.”
“You can’t deny he was a poor substitute for Chew--”
“THE AWFUL MONSTER JAR JAR BINKS IS NOT THE ISSUE HERE! God, Bert, I’ve seen better writing than this from you. This wouldn’t be entertaining to anyone, other than those who love laughing at the insane.”
Bertram almost offered a response, but thought better of it. He looked at the screen of his laptop, the draft post still up on the screen. Just hours ago, he thought it had been an irreverent piece of “gonzo journalism” about the Salinetown Strawberry Festival. Now, he wasn’t sure if it qualified as English.
“Also, what was the deal with randomly inserting ‘Screw Fredritch’ throughout the post? I’m guessing it was another reference to that episode of The Simpsons. Of course, changing the name from Flanders to Fredritch makes you look like you have a vendetta against some random person.”
“Alright, alright, I’ll make some changes. Jeez, you don’t have to rub it in. It’s just a fucking blog that no one reads.”
“Sorry, Bert, but you’re a better writer than that. Criticising your work emphatically was the best way to get through to you. I’m sure your next draft will be better. I know being a child of the 80’s means you can’t take a shit without making a pop-culture reference, but there are better ways. More Community, less late period Family Guy. Just a bit mo--”
Allie’s voice grew softer and more muffled as she talked to someone else. The muffles grew louder and more contentious, and Bertram knew she’d be hanging up soon.
“Sorry, Bert, but I’ve gotta go. Some bullshit went down with the latest release. I don’t know, code went out that shouldn’t have. God, I hate this place sometimes. Fix it up a bit, and let me see it again. This time, a bit more fun, and a bit less insane.”
“Got it, less with the insanity. Have fun with your clusterfuck there.”
Bert hung up the phone and closed his laptop. The post would be fixed, but right now was walkabout time.
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