Saturday, November 27, 2010
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Turn Off The Blue Light
Rob Neyer on the Red Sox, a.k.a The Known Universe's Most Important Sports Team, failing to resign Victor Martinez, the ubiquitous V Mart who made this season so entertaining, at least if you were a Tampa Bay Rays baserunner. 4 Years and $50 million dollars, Detroit? For a catcher who can't, uh, catch? As the mighty Spongebob Squarepants once put it, good luck with that.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Something I Could Not Care Less About
..is airport security. Esquire has an excellent post up about the kerfluffle about the full body scanners and the attendant fuss they are creating. As I understand it, if you refuse the full body scan, which apparently makes you look like a naked ghost, you are forced into a full body pat down. All this has brought about all sorts of agita, including videos like that one.
Now, I don't care. I can't even afford to fly a paper plane. And, as the Podfather himself Adam Curry puts it, this is all security theater. It's not preventing anything. From the final paragraph of Esquire's take, about true security- genuine, boots on the ground, knocking on doors law enforcement style security:
"This is how genuine security is created in a free society: through investigation, through self-interest, through civic-mindedness, through individual awareness, and through respect for liberty and the common desire for it. We want as a people to be safe — to live in peace in order that we may pursue our happiness. We work to make it so. It wasn't the TSA that caught the shoe bomber or the underwear bomber. It was us, the passengers. How pathetic that those in charge of our security ignore all that in favor of the alternative: total control."
Now, I don't care. I can't even afford to fly a paper plane. And, as the Podfather himself Adam Curry puts it, this is all security theater. It's not preventing anything. From the final paragraph of Esquire's take, about true security- genuine, boots on the ground, knocking on doors law enforcement style security:
"This is how genuine security is created in a free society: through investigation, through self-interest, through civic-mindedness, through individual awareness, and through respect for liberty and the common desire for it. We want as a people to be safe — to live in peace in order that we may pursue our happiness. We work to make it so. It wasn't the TSA that caught the shoe bomber or the underwear bomber. It was us, the passengers. How pathetic that those in charge of our security ignore all that in favor of the alternative: total control."
Friday, November 19, 2010
Flashback with 52/250: "Disguised"
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Things I Don't Understand, Volume MCMXVII
Why this occupies so much media time in this country. Congratulations, blah blah blah. I'm sure William is a decent guy- at least he went and tried to serve his country and do some good, unlike certain recent leaders of this country. But it is mystifying that this is the lead story on my national morning news shows, all day every day, the fact that the scion of a hereditary royal family has asked someone to be his wife.
Monday, November 15, 2010
So.......I guess I didn't win?- "Available Light"
The fine folks at NPR host a three minute fiction contest, which I learned about after they had already had five rounds of it, where they ask for short stories based on parameters set by a famous author. The current round was hosted by Michael Cunningham, author of the utterly marvelous novel "The Hours". The rules were that you had to start and end with phrases he gave you-"Some people swore that the house was haunted" at the start, and "Nothing was ever the same after that" at the end. (Kind of a Halloween thing.) The story had to be less than 600 words, which, they say, takes about 3 minutes to read aloud- thus, the three minute fiction contest.
So I entered, and I didn't win.
Now, they got 5000 entries, they say, which isn't surprising, and the fact that I didn't win is even less surprising. But one of the rules was that the story couldn't be previously published, so I couldn't publish it here. But I didn't win, so I'm going to call that parameter null and void. And I think this isn't bad, frankly. So here it is- a 600 word story, using the rules set out as shown. Call it "Available Light", yet another title cribbed from Neil Peart. I hope he's not a reader.
“Some people swore that the house was haunted?”, she demanded. “A ghost story? Come ON, Dad.” She was ten years old, but she had already mastered the swooping, mocking tones of a teenager. I had warned her about the indignities of camping- the bugs, the dirt, the animals- all things she could forgo for a weekend with Aunt Jennifer, reading stories to toddlers and changing diapers by day, talking Twilight and painting toenails at night. But she cheerfully agreed to join me, which put us here, next to the lake, night creeping in around us, sitting around a small fire.
“Tell me a real story. Tell me how you met Mom,” she said, her innocent face paining me in the jumpy light. With Carolyn dying before she turned 2, my daughter didn’t know her mother as anything more than a framed picture, so she hungered constantly for stories of her as a breathing, feeling adult instead of the spectral presence she was.
“That old thing? I’ve told you that before.” I knew why she wanted to hear it again-it was like a World Series announcer telling a story that seasoned fans had heard before- you knew it already, but you listened for the smooth curves and the satisfying ending anyway. You wanted the rhythms of it more than the meanings of the actual words.
“I know,” she said dreamily, “tell it again.” After her phone died, then mine did, we resorted to swimming, sunning ourselves on the rocks, reading, talking, and just breathing in the crisp air and listening to the thousand small noises that made up the quiet of outdoors. She had been writing furiously in her notebook while I cooked- perhaps a scrap of poetry, or a story, or a letter to a friend. Do kids write letters any more? Probably not.
I told her the story-my sweeping run into the post office, not looking where I was going, headed for the outgoing mail slot, the solid hip check I gave her mother, sending us both sprawling-the apologies, laughter, and conversation that led to coffee, and then dinner, and a sudden rush into romance, and a tiny wedding, and within a year, the red, screaming, wide eyed gift of her birth. I told her of the late night feedings we would have in bed together, falling asleep with her with neither of us watching “Monday Night Football” when her mother worked the night shift. I told her of the hurricane of work and obligation that robbed us of sleep, but we undertook joyfully, goggle eyed with the wonderment of new life. I told her of her mother’s tangled hair, soft brown eyes, proud smile, warm laugh, and tender heart.
I didn’t tell her of the soreness that became pain. The pain that became one doctor, and then another, and another. I didn’t tell her of words like biopsy and malignancy and radiation, of her beginning to walk when her mother no longer could. I didn’t tell her of long afternoons walking hospital corridors carrying her, and later urging her to color in the corner of the room as her mother slept fitfully. I didn’t tell her of the black fits of rage that brought me to near tears as I drove her home alone. I didn’t tell her how she had lost her mother, but I had lost my only friend.
“Then she got sick?”, she asked.
“Yeah,” I told her, “Nothing was ever the same again after that.”
So I entered, and I didn't win.
Now, they got 5000 entries, they say, which isn't surprising, and the fact that I didn't win is even less surprising. But one of the rules was that the story couldn't be previously published, so I couldn't publish it here. But I didn't win, so I'm going to call that parameter null and void. And I think this isn't bad, frankly. So here it is- a 600 word story, using the rules set out as shown. Call it "Available Light", yet another title cribbed from Neil Peart. I hope he's not a reader.
“Some people swore that the house was haunted?”, she demanded. “A ghost story? Come ON, Dad.” She was ten years old, but she had already mastered the swooping, mocking tones of a teenager. I had warned her about the indignities of camping- the bugs, the dirt, the animals- all things she could forgo for a weekend with Aunt Jennifer, reading stories to toddlers and changing diapers by day, talking Twilight and painting toenails at night. But she cheerfully agreed to join me, which put us here, next to the lake, night creeping in around us, sitting around a small fire.
“Tell me a real story. Tell me how you met Mom,” she said, her innocent face paining me in the jumpy light. With Carolyn dying before she turned 2, my daughter didn’t know her mother as anything more than a framed picture, so she hungered constantly for stories of her as a breathing, feeling adult instead of the spectral presence she was.
“That old thing? I’ve told you that before.” I knew why she wanted to hear it again-it was like a World Series announcer telling a story that seasoned fans had heard before- you knew it already, but you listened for the smooth curves and the satisfying ending anyway. You wanted the rhythms of it more than the meanings of the actual words.
“I know,” she said dreamily, “tell it again.” After her phone died, then mine did, we resorted to swimming, sunning ourselves on the rocks, reading, talking, and just breathing in the crisp air and listening to the thousand small noises that made up the quiet of outdoors. She had been writing furiously in her notebook while I cooked- perhaps a scrap of poetry, or a story, or a letter to a friend. Do kids write letters any more? Probably not.
I told her the story-my sweeping run into the post office, not looking where I was going, headed for the outgoing mail slot, the solid hip check I gave her mother, sending us both sprawling-the apologies, laughter, and conversation that led to coffee, and then dinner, and a sudden rush into romance, and a tiny wedding, and within a year, the red, screaming, wide eyed gift of her birth. I told her of the late night feedings we would have in bed together, falling asleep with her with neither of us watching “Monday Night Football” when her mother worked the night shift. I told her of the hurricane of work and obligation that robbed us of sleep, but we undertook joyfully, goggle eyed with the wonderment of new life. I told her of her mother’s tangled hair, soft brown eyes, proud smile, warm laugh, and tender heart.
I didn’t tell her of the soreness that became pain. The pain that became one doctor, and then another, and another. I didn’t tell her of words like biopsy and malignancy and radiation, of her beginning to walk when her mother no longer could. I didn’t tell her of long afternoons walking hospital corridors carrying her, and later urging her to color in the corner of the room as her mother slept fitfully. I didn’t tell her of the black fits of rage that brought me to near tears as I drove her home alone. I didn’t tell her how she had lost her mother, but I had lost my only friend.
“Then she got sick?”, she asked.
“Yeah,” I told her, “Nothing was ever the same again after that.”
Saturday, November 13, 2010
100 Word Challenge: Service Time
9 out of 10 dentists surveyed recommend the 100 Word Challenge for their patients who engage in online literary challenges. This week's word is pleasure, and my entry is called "Service Time"
“My pleasure,” she said. It was the corporate line, drilled into them when they were trained. Just say it, regardless of whether you mean it, and after a few slipups, she incorporated it into her patois. “Number 4 Meal with Fries and a Sprite? Certainly. My pleasure.” Over and over again, for hour upon undercompensated hour. Pleasure was something to hoard, to be won, not a prize to be handed out to every caller. She sighed, careful not to let the mic pick it up. “Welcome to Chick Fil A, may I take your order?”, she asked with false cheeriness.
“My pleasure,” she said. It was the corporate line, drilled into them when they were trained. Just say it, regardless of whether you mean it, and after a few slipups, she incorporated it into her patois. “Number 4 Meal with Fries and a Sprite? Certainly. My pleasure.” Over and over again, for hour upon undercompensated hour. Pleasure was something to hoard, to be won, not a prize to be handed out to every caller. She sighed, careful not to let the mic pick it up. “Welcome to Chick Fil A, may I take your order?”, she asked with false cheeriness.
Friday, November 12, 2010
I managed to not mess up! Uh, hooray? "No Returns"
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
A quick quote, before I go back to my writing
" 'You're awfully good. If I didn't love you for anything else I'd love you for decisions.'
'They're easy to make when you haven't seen how too many of them can turn out.' "
-Hemingway, "The Garden of Eden"
'They're easy to make when you haven't seen how too many of them can turn out.' "
-Hemingway, "The Garden of Eden"
Monday, November 08, 2010
If I Could Be Anyone, At Any Time In Recorded History...
I might be Duff McKagan (the blond who isn't the drummer) on the day this video was made.
Sunday, November 07, 2010
Can a Flash be A Flash Without Me? Apparently.
The 52/250 Flash is up here this week, the theme being "Least Favorite". You should go read it. However, my work is NOT there, only because, I assume, I forgot to send it in.
Sigh.
So here it is, "Least Favorite", NOT part of the 52/250 Flash, because I'm dumb.
“Oh, great,” Natalia said under her breath. “Bacon.”
Of all the food products she dealt with behind the sandwich counter, bacon was by far her least favorite. It just looked wrong, with its marbled surface, all dried up but somehow still greasy, looking like a dog treat. Sure, she was a vegetarian, too - one of a group of idealistic high school freshmen who tried it as a weight loss method and social protest, she was the only one who found it easy to maintain as the years went by - but the bacon here was just gross.
She looked over her slim glasses to try and see who ordered the bacon-filled sandwich. It was probably him, seeing a middle aged fat guy with a grizzled goatee staring at her. You need less bacon and more sit ups, she thought, then made a mental note to add that to her notebook. It might work well in her novel.
She hated her glasses, they made her look geeky. She longed for contacts, but she didn’t even bother to mention it- she sensed what her mother could and couldn’t afford, and had stopped asking.
She made the sandwich mechanically, just another sandwich, hour upon endless hour. She had become someone who just existed, not her favorite way to be. She finished, called out the sandwich’s number, and the hefty guy came forward immediately and took it from her.
“Thanks,” he said, and smiled. His eyes were wrinkled, but kind.
Sigh.
So here it is, "Least Favorite", NOT part of the 52/250 Flash, because I'm dumb.
“Oh, great,” Natalia said under her breath. “Bacon.”
Of all the food products she dealt with behind the sandwich counter, bacon was by far her least favorite. It just looked wrong, with its marbled surface, all dried up but somehow still greasy, looking like a dog treat. Sure, she was a vegetarian, too - one of a group of idealistic high school freshmen who tried it as a weight loss method and social protest, she was the only one who found it easy to maintain as the years went by - but the bacon here was just gross.
She looked over her slim glasses to try and see who ordered the bacon-filled sandwich. It was probably him, seeing a middle aged fat guy with a grizzled goatee staring at her. You need less bacon and more sit ups, she thought, then made a mental note to add that to her notebook. It might work well in her novel.
She hated her glasses, they made her look geeky. She longed for contacts, but she didn’t even bother to mention it- she sensed what her mother could and couldn’t afford, and had stopped asking.
She made the sandwich mechanically, just another sandwich, hour upon endless hour. She had become someone who just existed, not her favorite way to be. She finished, called out the sandwich’s number, and the hefty guy came forward immediately and took it from her.
“Thanks,” he said, and smiled. His eyes were wrinkled, but kind.
Thursday, November 04, 2010
100 Word Challenge: Show Me Something
The 100 Word Challenge resides here, and could save you 15% on your car insurance. The word this week is "harsh", and my story is called "Show Me Something"
Her track suit was tight, electric blue, and it glowed where the sun hit it. She was blonde, of indeterminate age, and standing very close to me.
“What would you say, sir, “ she said with a posh British accent, “if I told you this all natural cleanser would get a coffee stain off of your shirt in 15 seconds, and if it didn’t, I’d give you 50 American dollars? All natural, no harsh abrasives, no scrubbing.”
She peered at me, her pale blue eyes searching me out, looking at my Dodgers t shirt and my eyes.
“Go ahead,” I said.
Her track suit was tight, electric blue, and it glowed where the sun hit it. She was blonde, of indeterminate age, and standing very close to me.
“What would you say, sir, “ she said with a posh British accent, “if I told you this all natural cleanser would get a coffee stain off of your shirt in 15 seconds, and if it didn’t, I’d give you 50 American dollars? All natural, no harsh abrasives, no scrubbing.”
She peered at me, her pale blue eyes searching me out, looking at my Dodgers t shirt and my eyes.
“Go ahead,” I said.
One hopes Mr. Larson's estate got PAID
Macy's is now running a commercial featuring one of the songs from "Rent", a musical that I have a positively unhealthy fondness for. I am trying to remember James Hetfield's dictum that, if I'm going to accuse someone of selling out, I should at least have had an offer made for something of mine first. (Implying that it's a little easier to sell out if someone is willing to make you set for life-it would be hard to turn down that kind of money.) So I will leave it with the wish that Macy's took care of the composer's family. (Jonathan Larson, the composer, died before the show opened on Broadway.)
And if you haven't seen "Rent", by all means please do so. It's marvelous.
Wednesday, November 03, 2010
NaNoWriMo: It's Everywhere You Want To Be
Current Word Count: 3906
Goal for Today: 5000
This is thrilling, isn't it?
Goal for Today: 5000
This is thrilling, isn't it?
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