When I am writing on a serious project, there's this pair of voices doing bad vaudeville jokes in the back of my brain.
My conscious mind will be clenched into a fist, trying to squeeze artistic blood from the creative turnip, and meanwhile Shecky and Mo are sniggering from the back row like Beavis and Butthead channeling the The Old Guys in The Muppet Show.
I'm reluctant to even mention this in public, as the three or seven times I've previously described this odd situation to real life friends, I get this look of genuine concern and confusion, like I just happened to say "oh, by the way-- my doc says I have smallpox. Pass the ketchup."
Still, sometimes the annoying bastards say something that makes me laugh (like they did a minute ago, hurling a painfully childish dirty pun at me which I had to write down for possible future use), and at those points I have to turn around inside my head and wave at them to settle down before they get us all into trouble. But still...
Is this strange?
Curious Larger Question: if you were truly and deeply disturbed, would you even be able to notice it? Or would what you call normal only seem odd or abnormal to everyone else and would seem absolutely unremarkable to you?
Talk amongst yourselves. *I* always do.
.
.
.
yours in good mental hygiene B
just another online spittoon
24 April 2006
23 April 2006
mewling into the abyss
Though it might seem hard to believe based upon the double ass-load of verbiage I have dumped herebouts onto this pockmarked side street of the Information Superhighway (and yes, I absolutely intend to be the last person still abusing that metaphor), I remain ambivalent about this entire "blogging" thing. Yeah, there are some blogs which have somehow found some sort of rhythm, a sense of purpose and raison d'etre, but on the whole, most blogs remains glorified diaries thrown open for potential reading by any random half-interested passer-by.
I likely stand as guilty as anyone on this charge — I know I've made more than a few (ahem) slightly self-absorbed posts on this thing, commenting about what I was watching or eating or thinking or digging from my toenails, as if somehow there are crowds of people pacing nervously wondering about these issues.
But still... in those odd moments when I force myself to look inward with any degree of objectivity — any glimmer of honest detached brutal honesty — I realize that most of these blog posts are little more that sad lonely cries in the darkness. For the most part we humans are just six billion hairless monkeys trapped on a damp rock, doing our best to not utterly humiliate ourselves with every thought, word and deed as we stumble through the daily grind. Our curse and crowning glory is that we have the capacity (or perhaps just audacity) to dream of possibly being more. Cattle suffer no delusions of grandeur: they are cows, and they are content to remain cows.
Humans, on the other hand, understand their own pathetic nature, they recognize their own personal irrelevancy in The Big Picture, and, like prima donnas everywhere, they plot and scheme at ways to claim a bigger better part in the production. Some found software empires, ruthlessly dominate the world market in operating systems en route to becoming the world's richest hairless monkey, and then hire a PR flack to help improve your image in the eyes of the other monkeys (in teh end, 99% of all human behavior seems to stem from a child-like desire to be liked).
Others don't have the opportunity, insight, and dumb luck to fall into such situations, so our stabs at likeability are limited to such sad little projects as congressional runs and blogsites.
I just spent the morning strolling randomly among three dozen blogs — some of them from folks I know, the majority from strangers — and I was struck by one common trait among the vast majority of those sites: there sure are a lot of people out there who seem desperate to have someone — anyone — pat them on the back and say "that's interesting." Because I think most of us realize — in those dark private moments when we have only the ugly self-loathing voices screaming at us — that we're not as endlessly fascinating and amusing and insightful and enlightened and informed and interesting as we like to imagine.
But when we hide behind a keyboard, we don't have to confront that. Instead, we can focus on the one or two commenters who offer some sort of crumb of validation, rather than those other 6 billion hairless monkeys who couldn't possibly care less.
Somehow, I find that both heartbreaking and hilarious at the same time.
And as I said, I absolutely confess to being as guilty as anyone on this charge.
.
.
.
B
I likely stand as guilty as anyone on this charge — I know I've made more than a few (ahem) slightly self-absorbed posts on this thing, commenting about what I was watching or eating or thinking or digging from my toenails, as if somehow there are crowds of people pacing nervously wondering about these issues.
But still... in those odd moments when I force myself to look inward with any degree of objectivity — any glimmer of honest detached brutal honesty — I realize that most of these blog posts are little more that sad lonely cries in the darkness. For the most part we humans are just six billion hairless monkeys trapped on a damp rock, doing our best to not utterly humiliate ourselves with every thought, word and deed as we stumble through the daily grind. Our curse and crowning glory is that we have the capacity (or perhaps just audacity) to dream of possibly being more. Cattle suffer no delusions of grandeur: they are cows, and they are content to remain cows.
Humans, on the other hand, understand their own pathetic nature, they recognize their own personal irrelevancy in The Big Picture, and, like prima donnas everywhere, they plot and scheme at ways to claim a bigger better part in the production. Some found software empires, ruthlessly dominate the world market in operating systems en route to becoming the world's richest hairless monkey, and then hire a PR flack to help improve your image in the eyes of the other monkeys (in teh end, 99% of all human behavior seems to stem from a child-like desire to be liked).
Others don't have the opportunity, insight, and dumb luck to fall into such situations, so our stabs at likeability are limited to such sad little projects as congressional runs and blogsites.
I just spent the morning strolling randomly among three dozen blogs — some of them from folks I know, the majority from strangers — and I was struck by one common trait among the vast majority of those sites: there sure are a lot of people out there who seem desperate to have someone — anyone — pat them on the back and say "that's interesting." Because I think most of us realize — in those dark private moments when we have only the ugly self-loathing voices screaming at us — that we're not as endlessly fascinating and amusing and insightful and enlightened and informed and interesting as we like to imagine.
But when we hide behind a keyboard, we don't have to confront that. Instead, we can focus on the one or two commenters who offer some sort of crumb of validation, rather than those other 6 billion hairless monkeys who couldn't possibly care less.
Somehow, I find that both heartbreaking and hilarious at the same time.
And as I said, I absolutely confess to being as guilty as anyone on this charge.
.
.
.
B
21 April 2006
five things that work
Turns out I got meme-tagged again. This time it was by Pooks over at Planet Pooks, who picked me to carry on the Things That Work meme.
Simply put, I'm supposed to list some things -- mundane, largely -- that just work great. Nothing Earth-shakingly epic or impressive here -- just some everyday items I like for their simple unspectacular ability to Do Their Job Well.
So... here's my list of Five Things That Just Work:
Mac OSX 10.4 (Tiger)
As amazing as this next statement is going to sound to some people, it's absolute truth: "I have never worked on a Windows computer." My family started buying Macs back in 1985, when we used (ahem) "an educational discount of debatable appropriateness" to purchase a pair of Mac Plus boxes for use in the family business. I started writing and doodling on graphics then, and I've been all-Mac only-Mac ever since. The iMac I am banging on even now is my fourth Mac, and in the house right now we have seven total Macs. And in all my years of working on Macs, I have never -- NEVER -- been as absolutely satisfied and blown away by an OS like I am by "Tiger" (Mac OSX 10.4).
Tiger is stunningly beautiful. Blazing fast. Damned near bulletproof in terms of virus and worm attacks. And, best of all, it's as rock-solid a software product as I can imagine in this day and age. In the year or so I've been running it 24/7, I have had zero system crashes. None. Nada. Zip. In fact, the ONLY crashes of ANY sort I have had in that time have been with MS Exploder. I have since jumped to Apple Safari 2.0 and have been almost as pleased there as with Tiger itself.
Add a new printer? Just plug it into the USB port and start printing. Now drivers, no installation, no thought needed. It's as simple as attaching a hose to a spigot.
Need to find a file? Use Spotlight, the amazing built-in universal search utility, to near-instantly search for anything on your machine using basically any sort of search you can dream up.
Thanks to Tiger, I wake up every day knowing that I'll be able to work WITH my computer without any need to work ON my computer.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Pentel Pilot G2 Gel pens
I love writing on a computer: the ability to save multiple versions of the same file, and then edit and tweak each a little differently to then see which really works best... the ability to cut and paste entire scenes and chapters and acts between different projects... the ability to have somebody (or something) else sweep up the grammatical mess left as my verbal trailride rumbles by... it's all just too "suh-weet", to put it into Napoleonic phraseology (Dynamite -- not Bonaparte). But still, there's nothing quite like the tactile joy of actually putting ink on actual paper.
And for that, this year I have become a huge fan of the G2 gel pens. They're cheap -- around a buck fifty at Target -- but they write smooth as silk and just feel good when writing. I always have packs of both the black and the red laying around: black for scribbling notes in my faux-Moleskine style notepads, and red for marking up hard copy of screenplays ('m one of those twisted farts who feels a sick rush when he opens one of his own drafts to find it splattered in so much crimson that surely a pig was gutted on those pages).
No, the G2 is no Mont Blanc gold-nibbed "Bentley of writing instruments." Rather, it's more like a Honda Civic: inexpensive, not overly trendy or fancy to look at, but good luck in finding a more dependable, better bang for the buck option. Try one -- it won't cost much, and you might wind up with a new favorite cheap pen. I did.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Berol Black Warrior pencils
Yeah, smooth-writing pens are great, but I still have a deep affection for the subtlety and caveman-level simplicity of a good old graphite pencil. At least, so long as that pencil is a Black Warrior. Plain old "yellow pencils" can make lines on paper (usually...), but for my tastes, the Black Warrior flows where other pencils scratch. It's a little larger in the barrel (which suits my none-too-dainty maulers just fine), has a great soft pink rubber eraser (critical must-have feature for any decent pencil), a great soft extra-dark lead (supposedly made using a mixture of carbon black and graphite), and, best of all, is made of honest-to-Georgia Pacific red cedar, which means you can always bring the tip near your nose, inhale deeply, and know that in at least a few far-flung corners of Creation, some things remain Right and True. There are some scents which just make you warm and happy inside, and for me that list includes the smell of a well-oiled ball glove, a home-grown tomato, and a freshly sharpened Black Warrior pencil.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Shiner Dunkleweizen beer
I've been a Shiner man since before I was a man. I'm from a Czech family, which means (among other things) "beer is normal and good." I can clearly recall sipping beer from my parents and grandparents from age 4 and 5. No, I wasn't helping kill off a sixer while in grade school, but beer was as normal a part of everyday life as any other food product. And back in those days Shiner beer ("Premium" and "Bock" both) were still among the cheap beers in Texas. The fact that the stuff tasted like 4-dollar beer but cost like 2-dollar beer was likely a big part of the reason it was always around my tightfisted Granpa's place. So I've been drinking Shiner Bock for several decades.
But in recent years Shiner has expanded and upscaled itself into a premium regional brewery. Basically, that means they sell the same damned good beer but charge 6 bucks for a six pack rather than 3, and smile all the way to the bank. One cool result of this newly-improved profitability has been an expansion of the Shiner line, with lots of very cool beers coming on in limited or regional availability. Among those is Shiner Dunkleweizen (previously known for a while as Shiner WInter Ale). It's a dark wheat beer, but much like Shiner Bock, it doesn't have that heavy feel that dark beer usually does. It's a little bit sweet, but with a nice hoppy bitterness on the finish that keeps the taste from becoming cloying.
I've not yet found it in any restaurants, and I don't venture to serious beer pubs often enough to think about looking for this one beer, but I know I find it at my local market, and I know that I find it in my own fridge whenever I feel like kicking back at the end of a hard week. Are there better beers in the world? Hell, probably. I'm sure there are some tweed-wearing bearded collegiate types who'll explain with patience that that are 17 better beers in the world, or that all true beer fans recognize "Chateau Foofidoo" from Tierra del Bite Me as the world's finest brew. You know what, perfessor? You just go right ahead and go get yourself one of them fancy pants beers. I'm doing just fine with what i got.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Schick Mach III disposable razors
I hate shaving. In a perfect world, my facial hair would snap off at a length of 1/8 inch and I would continually sport a slightly scraggly "I don't care" look without any effort whatsoever. But ours is not a perfect world, and if I don't shave at least once or twice a week I very quickly start looking like member of the traveling cast for The Dan Haggerty Experience. My northern European genes have blessed me with that peculiar follicularity which make my forearms and legs look like an orangutan, enables me to grow a beard in 8 days but which keeps my chest largely smooth and shiny. I have to shave, or I look really ragged.
And I hate shaving. I have very coarse hair and whiskers, so I'm prone to stubble unless I use some serious pressure on the blade, and when I do that I'm prone to razor burn on my neck, as well as ingrown hairs, and it's all just nasty, and why do you people keep doubting that perhaps I have good damned reason for saying how I hate to shave.
But given that I MUST shave, I was pretty thrilled when I got a free trial in the mail one day from Schick: a free Extreme III triple head flexing pivoting razor with lubricating strips. Hell, it might have GPS, built in ice maker, and balloons for the kiddies for all I know. It seems like a serious hunk of technology for something meant just to denude my cheeks.
But damn if the thing doesn't kick serious butt. The blades are sharp, STAY sharp (even after cutting the wiry horsehair that grows from my body), and somehow all that triple blade and lubricating and pivoting and flexing work together to give me a shave that has so far not given me a single nick, burn, or ingrown hair in more than a year's worth of shaving. Yeah, yeah, they cost a bit more than the mega-pack of store brand disposable twin blade razors, but we are talking facial surgery, folks, so perhaps "splurging" an extra buck or two is not so much an expense as it is an investment, or insurance. However you rationalize it, these things work and work well.
But I still hate shaving.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
HP Laserjet 1012 printer
I'm a writer, which means that I need people to read my words. With a computer, that means either I have to send a file to someone, or I have to output to paper. And given that I also much prefer to do my own personal editing of manuscripts in hard copy form rather than on a screen (red ink doesn't stick to my monitor so well, plus it's a pain to drag the iMac around to hotel rooms and campsites and swim practices and such), I like to have a dependable fuss-free black and white printer.
For that, I adore my trusty Hewlet Packard LaserJet model 1012. Now discontinued, this little puppy has never given me a moment of grief. I plugged it in on day one, started printing, and have never consulted the manual even once. When it ran out of toner after 6000 or pages, I popped open the door, lifted out the cartridge, dropped in a new one, closed the door... bingo bango the little beast went back to printing without pause or complaint. Quiet. Fast. Affordable. Dependable. Small. It's easily my favorite ever non-Apple hardware purchase.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
And there ya go. Five Things That Work.
I'm not going to bother formally tagging specific people, because let's be honest: nobody reads this damned blog anyway (my autobiography is tentatively titled "I, Pariah"), but if by some twist of fate or spiteful act of the Almighty you find yourself washed up on my virtual shore and now feel some urge to carry forward this meme, then knock yourself out, cha-cha. But don't expect a cookie or a pat on the head from me.
I'm too busy with more serious work.
Like complaining.
.
.
.
B
Simply put, I'm supposed to list some things -- mundane, largely -- that just work great. Nothing Earth-shakingly epic or impressive here -- just some everyday items I like for their simple unspectacular ability to Do Their Job Well.
So... here's my list of Five Things That Just Work:
Mac OSX 10.4 (Tiger)
As amazing as this next statement is going to sound to some people, it's absolute truth: "I have never worked on a Windows computer." My family started buying Macs back in 1985, when we used (ahem) "an educational discount of debatable appropriateness" to purchase a pair of Mac Plus boxes for use in the family business. I started writing and doodling on graphics then, and I've been all-Mac only-Mac ever since. The iMac I am banging on even now is my fourth Mac, and in the house right now we have seven total Macs. And in all my years of working on Macs, I have never -- NEVER -- been as absolutely satisfied and blown away by an OS like I am by "Tiger" (Mac OSX 10.4).
Tiger is stunningly beautiful. Blazing fast. Damned near bulletproof in terms of virus and worm attacks. And, best of all, it's as rock-solid a software product as I can imagine in this day and age. In the year or so I've been running it 24/7, I have had zero system crashes. None. Nada. Zip. In fact, the ONLY crashes of ANY sort I have had in that time have been with MS Exploder. I have since jumped to Apple Safari 2.0 and have been almost as pleased there as with Tiger itself.
Add a new printer? Just plug it into the USB port and start printing. Now drivers, no installation, no thought needed. It's as simple as attaching a hose to a spigot.
Need to find a file? Use Spotlight, the amazing built-in universal search utility, to near-instantly search for anything on your machine using basically any sort of search you can dream up.
Thanks to Tiger, I wake up every day knowing that I'll be able to work WITH my computer without any need to work ON my computer.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Pentel Pilot G2 Gel pens
I love writing on a computer: the ability to save multiple versions of the same file, and then edit and tweak each a little differently to then see which really works best... the ability to cut and paste entire scenes and chapters and acts between different projects... the ability to have somebody (or something) else sweep up the grammatical mess left as my verbal trailride rumbles by... it's all just too "suh-weet", to put it into Napoleonic phraseology (Dynamite -- not Bonaparte). But still, there's nothing quite like the tactile joy of actually putting ink on actual paper.
And for that, this year I have become a huge fan of the G2 gel pens. They're cheap -- around a buck fifty at Target -- but they write smooth as silk and just feel good when writing. I always have packs of both the black and the red laying around: black for scribbling notes in my faux-Moleskine style notepads, and red for marking up hard copy of screenplays ('m one of those twisted farts who feels a sick rush when he opens one of his own drafts to find it splattered in so much crimson that surely a pig was gutted on those pages).
No, the G2 is no Mont Blanc gold-nibbed "Bentley of writing instruments." Rather, it's more like a Honda Civic: inexpensive, not overly trendy or fancy to look at, but good luck in finding a more dependable, better bang for the buck option. Try one -- it won't cost much, and you might wind up with a new favorite cheap pen. I did.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Berol Black Warrior pencils
Yeah, smooth-writing pens are great, but I still have a deep affection for the subtlety and caveman-level simplicity of a good old graphite pencil. At least, so long as that pencil is a Black Warrior. Plain old "yellow pencils" can make lines on paper (usually...), but for my tastes, the Black Warrior flows where other pencils scratch. It's a little larger in the barrel (which suits my none-too-dainty maulers just fine), has a great soft pink rubber eraser (critical must-have feature for any decent pencil), a great soft extra-dark lead (supposedly made using a mixture of carbon black and graphite), and, best of all, is made of honest-to-Georgia Pacific red cedar, which means you can always bring the tip near your nose, inhale deeply, and know that in at least a few far-flung corners of Creation, some things remain Right and True. There are some scents which just make you warm and happy inside, and for me that list includes the smell of a well-oiled ball glove, a home-grown tomato, and a freshly sharpened Black Warrior pencil.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Shiner Dunkleweizen beer
I've been a Shiner man since before I was a man. I'm from a Czech family, which means (among other things) "beer is normal and good." I can clearly recall sipping beer from my parents and grandparents from age 4 and 5. No, I wasn't helping kill off a sixer while in grade school, but beer was as normal a part of everyday life as any other food product. And back in those days Shiner beer ("Premium" and "Bock" both) were still among the cheap beers in Texas. The fact that the stuff tasted like 4-dollar beer but cost like 2-dollar beer was likely a big part of the reason it was always around my tightfisted Granpa's place. So I've been drinking Shiner Bock for several decades.
But in recent years Shiner has expanded and upscaled itself into a premium regional brewery. Basically, that means they sell the same damned good beer but charge 6 bucks for a six pack rather than 3, and smile all the way to the bank. One cool result of this newly-improved profitability has been an expansion of the Shiner line, with lots of very cool beers coming on in limited or regional availability. Among those is Shiner Dunkleweizen (previously known for a while as Shiner WInter Ale). It's a dark wheat beer, but much like Shiner Bock, it doesn't have that heavy feel that dark beer usually does. It's a little bit sweet, but with a nice hoppy bitterness on the finish that keeps the taste from becoming cloying.
I've not yet found it in any restaurants, and I don't venture to serious beer pubs often enough to think about looking for this one beer, but I know I find it at my local market, and I know that I find it in my own fridge whenever I feel like kicking back at the end of a hard week. Are there better beers in the world? Hell, probably. I'm sure there are some tweed-wearing bearded collegiate types who'll explain with patience that that are 17 better beers in the world, or that all true beer fans recognize "Chateau Foofidoo" from Tierra del Bite Me as the world's finest brew. You know what, perfessor? You just go right ahead and go get yourself one of them fancy pants beers. I'm doing just fine with what i got.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Schick Mach III disposable razors
I hate shaving. In a perfect world, my facial hair would snap off at a length of 1/8 inch and I would continually sport a slightly scraggly "I don't care" look without any effort whatsoever. But ours is not a perfect world, and if I don't shave at least once or twice a week I very quickly start looking like member of the traveling cast for The Dan Haggerty Experience. My northern European genes have blessed me with that peculiar follicularity which make my forearms and legs look like an orangutan, enables me to grow a beard in 8 days but which keeps my chest largely smooth and shiny. I have to shave, or I look really ragged.
And I hate shaving. I have very coarse hair and whiskers, so I'm prone to stubble unless I use some serious pressure on the blade, and when I do that I'm prone to razor burn on my neck, as well as ingrown hairs, and it's all just nasty, and why do you people keep doubting that perhaps I have good damned reason for saying how I hate to shave.
But given that I MUST shave, I was pretty thrilled when I got a free trial in the mail one day from Schick: a free Extreme III triple head flexing pivoting razor with lubricating strips. Hell, it might have GPS, built in ice maker, and balloons for the kiddies for all I know. It seems like a serious hunk of technology for something meant just to denude my cheeks.
But damn if the thing doesn't kick serious butt. The blades are sharp, STAY sharp (even after cutting the wiry horsehair that grows from my body), and somehow all that triple blade and lubricating and pivoting and flexing work together to give me a shave that has so far not given me a single nick, burn, or ingrown hair in more than a year's worth of shaving. Yeah, yeah, they cost a bit more than the mega-pack of store brand disposable twin blade razors, but we are talking facial surgery, folks, so perhaps "splurging" an extra buck or two is not so much an expense as it is an investment, or insurance. However you rationalize it, these things work and work well.
But I still hate shaving.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
HP Laserjet 1012 printer
I'm a writer, which means that I need people to read my words. With a computer, that means either I have to send a file to someone, or I have to output to paper. And given that I also much prefer to do my own personal editing of manuscripts in hard copy form rather than on a screen (red ink doesn't stick to my monitor so well, plus it's a pain to drag the iMac around to hotel rooms and campsites and swim practices and such), I like to have a dependable fuss-free black and white printer.
For that, I adore my trusty Hewlet Packard LaserJet model 1012. Now discontinued, this little puppy has never given me a moment of grief. I plugged it in on day one, started printing, and have never consulted the manual even once. When it ran out of toner after 6000 or pages, I popped open the door, lifted out the cartridge, dropped in a new one, closed the door... bingo bango the little beast went back to printing without pause or complaint. Quiet. Fast. Affordable. Dependable. Small. It's easily my favorite ever non-Apple hardware purchase.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
And there ya go. Five Things That Work.
I'm not going to bother formally tagging specific people, because let's be honest: nobody reads this damned blog anyway (my autobiography is tentatively titled "I, Pariah"), but if by some twist of fate or spiteful act of the Almighty you find yourself washed up on my virtual shore and now feel some urge to carry forward this meme, then knock yourself out, cha-cha. But don't expect a cookie or a pat on the head from me.
I'm too busy with more serious work.
Like complaining.
.
.
.
B
19 April 2006
of coffee and canucks
On Tuesday I met Lawrence (aka "Laurie"), aka "Webs," aka "the Guy With that 101 Blog" for almost two hours of face-time. Webs is Canadian but otherwise a decent-enough fellow. Turns out his mom lives approximately next door (10 miles away) here in bee-yootiful westside Houston adjacent, so when he found I was in this neck of the prairie, he dropped me an email and said "so... yawanna?"
Sure. Why not. So Starbucks again hosted my ass as I met an onliner live and in the flesh. It can sometimes be a bit awkward to meet a cyber-aquaintance for the first time -- "what if they aren't as interesting as they seem in text form?" ... "what if he tries to Amway me?"... "what turns out to be some sort of Canadian?"... -- but I'm still riding a nice lucky streak on that count, as Lawrence (or Lawrie or Webs or whatever I'm supposed to call him) seemed completely normal (well, aside from the Canadianism... and the fact that he's a RICE grad and therefore likely collects 9-digit prime numbers as a relaxing hobby... ).
As it turns out, we have a strange bit of synchronicity going: both of us are obsessed with getting some run for our scripts about specific true but obscure tales of WW2 era fighter pilots. So, we're both "plane guys," which likely marks us as a special type of nerd as surely as if we'd shown up in full Maximillian jousting armor or letter-perfect Starfleet uniforms. Still... given that I don't live in LA where hobnobbing with serious screenwriters is a ho-hum "did it twice while picking produce at the market" sort of everyday experience, it's always invigorating to spend a little time talking with anyone who understands what the hell you mean when you groan about "Second Act Difficulties" or "Readers Who Just Don't Get It" or "How Much It Sucks To See Huge Wads Of Cash Going To Everyone Except You." Good times. I'll likely throw my Fighter Pilot Scrript at him, and he'll likely do the same, and we'll both smile and quietly hate the other for doing something better than we thought to do it ourselves.
Such is life
.
.
.
still hoping for some lucky lightnin' to strike B
PS -- edited on 4/20 to fix stuff
Sure. Why not. So Starbucks again hosted my ass as I met an onliner live and in the flesh. It can sometimes be a bit awkward to meet a cyber-aquaintance for the first time -- "what if they aren't as interesting as they seem in text form?" ... "what if he tries to Amway me?"... "what turns out to be some sort of Canadian?"... -- but I'm still riding a nice lucky streak on that count, as Lawrence (or Lawrie or Webs or whatever I'm supposed to call him) seemed completely normal (well, aside from the Canadianism... and the fact that he's a RICE grad and therefore likely collects 9-digit prime numbers as a relaxing hobby... ).
As it turns out, we have a strange bit of synchronicity going: both of us are obsessed with getting some run for our scripts about specific true but obscure tales of WW2 era fighter pilots. So, we're both "plane guys," which likely marks us as a special type of nerd as surely as if we'd shown up in full Maximillian jousting armor or letter-perfect Starfleet uniforms. Still... given that I don't live in LA where hobnobbing with serious screenwriters is a ho-hum "did it twice while picking produce at the market" sort of everyday experience, it's always invigorating to spend a little time talking with anyone who understands what the hell you mean when you groan about "Second Act Difficulties" or "Readers Who Just Don't Get It" or "How Much It Sucks To See Huge Wads Of Cash Going To Everyone Except You." Good times. I'll likely throw my Fighter Pilot Scrript at him, and he'll likely do the same, and we'll both smile and quietly hate the other for doing something better than we thought to do it ourselves.
Such is life
.
.
.
still hoping for some lucky lightnin' to strike B
PS -- edited on 4/20 to fix stuff
13 April 2006
"what type of writer should you be?"
Found a cool link to one of those odd web quiz things where you answer five or seven questions and are then given the answer to "Which Punky Brewster Episode Are You?" or "Which Brand of Upright Freezer Are You?"
Critical need-to-know stuff.
This one (from blogthings.com) is a little less esoteric and more on-point for the sorts likely to be lurking on my site rather than assembling verbiage of their own:
"What Type Of Writer Are You?"
Since I only have about FIVE pressing writing projects looming in incomplete form over my bumpy noggin, with deadlines to the left and deadlines to the right and deadlines right up the middle as well, of course I figured it was a good time to take some online quizzes and then blog about them, cuz, ya know, that's what we writer-types do: we sit around and lament that the world refuses to recognize our brilliance even while we refuse to be brilliant on any sort of regular or commerically useful basis.
Now, I half expected this damned fool quiz to come back and tell me that I was uniquely suited to writing fortune cookies or the little messages printed on Valentine candy hearts ("EAT ME"), but instead, what I got was a nice dash of cold water — a long hard stare from the Universe that left me with no real smart-ass retort to throw out as a smoke-screen.
Damn. Alright, already — I'll get back to work.
.
.
.
rebuked by the gods yet again B
Critical need-to-know stuff.
This one (from blogthings.com) is a little less esoteric and more on-point for the sorts likely to be lurking on my site rather than assembling verbiage of their own:
"What Type Of Writer Are You?"
Since I only have about FIVE pressing writing projects looming in incomplete form over my bumpy noggin, with deadlines to the left and deadlines to the right and deadlines right up the middle as well, of course I figured it was a good time to take some online quizzes and then blog about them, cuz, ya know, that's what we writer-types do: we sit around and lament that the world refuses to recognize our brilliance even while we refuse to be brilliant on any sort of regular or commerically useful basis.
Now, I half expected this damned fool quiz to come back and tell me that I was uniquely suited to writing fortune cookies or the little messages printed on Valentine candy hearts ("EAT ME"), but instead, what I got was a nice dash of cold water — a long hard stare from the Universe that left me with no real smart-ass retort to throw out as a smoke-screen.
| You Should Be a Film Writer |
 You don't just create compelling stories, you see them as clearly as a movie in your mind. You have a knack for details and dialogue. You can really make a character come to life. Chances are, you enjoy creating all types of stories. The joy is in the storytelling. And nothing would please you more than millions of people seeing your story on the big screen! |
Damn. Alright, already — I'll get back to work.
.
.
.
rebuked by the gods yet again B
11 April 2006
weird scenes inside the goldmine
Ya know, at some point it really becomes redundant to keep thinking of every odd week as "odd," as it seems increasingly likely that "odd" is just my particular brand of "normal."
It's Tuesday, and this week truly *is* odd, but not because of anything that is going on, but rather for all that isn't.
Among my many NON-issues this week:
• I am NOT coaching baseball every single night of the week as I was last week. This week the league is on sabbatical for Easter Break (a week? when did this tradition take root?), so I have no baseball. None. Suddenly I feel like Inigo at the end of The Princess Bride — I've been in the coaching game for so long, now that it's on break for a week, I dunno what to do with my life.
• I'm NOT planning, packing, or running a Cub Scout campout for 70 people. This past weekend I was the ring-leader for an ass-grabbingly spectacular sideshow on the gar-strewn shores of Lake Somerville (between Burton and Snook, for those scoring along at home...), and while that went far better than I'd feared it might at one point, it was still a brain-numbingly exhausting exercise.
• I'm NOT working on any PTA-related projects like half-scale Dutch Barn facades for 2nd grade musicals, or 6-lane Matchbox racetracks for the carnival, or 4x14 collage/mural/art things for the hallways, or brochures/flyers/ads/posters/yearbook designs for the publications committee.
• I'm NOT trekking to any friend's house or property to help build a patio or clear land or refinish cabinets or install tile flooring.
Instead, what i am doing — or, what I'm supposed to be doing, ought to be doing, damned well need to be doing — is working in the final tweaks for LILYA my damned war epic screenplay that I hope to send in for contest season.
What I need to be doing is working out the new modified outline for the Still Untitled RomCom that I'd HOPED to have ready for contest season (but almost surely won't) and which I'd HOPED to have ready by Christmas to send to a producer buddy in LA (but surely didn't).
What I need to be doing is finalizing the outline to a weird "spaghetti western-and-[something]" piece which a good friend (a cool and serious director type) has described as a totally cool concept which we hope to develop into something he can possibly shoot this fall as a low-low budget feature.
What I need to be doing is finishing the long-overdue notes I owe a buddy on her new English-styled rom-com thingie which she has already subbed to contests when she got tired of waiting for these damned notes I need to finish.
What I need to do is lock my ass in the chair, my hands on the keyboard, and my nose toward the screen, and write.
So what *am* I doing?
Blogging.
Yeah, that's gonna fuckin' do me a lot of good.
OK. Enough screwing around. Time once again to get frosty and kick copious ass.
.
.
.
B
It's Tuesday, and this week truly *is* odd, but not because of anything that is going on, but rather for all that isn't.
Among my many NON-issues this week:
• I am NOT coaching baseball every single night of the week as I was last week. This week the league is on sabbatical for Easter Break (a week? when did this tradition take root?), so I have no baseball. None. Suddenly I feel like Inigo at the end of The Princess Bride — I've been in the coaching game for so long, now that it's on break for a week, I dunno what to do with my life.
• I'm NOT planning, packing, or running a Cub Scout campout for 70 people. This past weekend I was the ring-leader for an ass-grabbingly spectacular sideshow on the gar-strewn shores of Lake Somerville (between Burton and Snook, for those scoring along at home...), and while that went far better than I'd feared it might at one point, it was still a brain-numbingly exhausting exercise.
• I'm NOT working on any PTA-related projects like half-scale Dutch Barn facades for 2nd grade musicals, or 6-lane Matchbox racetracks for the carnival, or 4x14 collage/mural/art things for the hallways, or brochures/flyers/ads/posters/yearbook designs for the publications committee.
• I'm NOT trekking to any friend's house or property to help build a patio or clear land or refinish cabinets or install tile flooring.
Instead, what i am doing — or, what I'm supposed to be doing, ought to be doing, damned well need to be doing — is working in the final tweaks for LILYA my damned war epic screenplay that I hope to send in for contest season.
What I need to be doing is working out the new modified outline for the Still Untitled RomCom that I'd HOPED to have ready for contest season (but almost surely won't) and which I'd HOPED to have ready by Christmas to send to a producer buddy in LA (but surely didn't).
What I need to be doing is finalizing the outline to a weird "spaghetti western-and-[something]" piece which a good friend (a cool and serious director type) has described as a totally cool concept which we hope to develop into something he can possibly shoot this fall as a low-low budget feature.
What I need to be doing is finishing the long-overdue notes I owe a buddy on her new English-styled rom-com thingie which she has already subbed to contests when she got tired of waiting for these damned notes I need to finish.
What I need to do is lock my ass in the chair, my hands on the keyboard, and my nose toward the screen, and write.
So what *am* I doing?
Blogging.
Yeah, that's gonna fuckin' do me a lot of good.
OK. Enough screwing around. Time once again to get frosty and kick copious ass.
.
.
.
B
05 April 2006
meme: your first ten verbs
Back in college (a point in time which more and more often these days is starting to feel like 'When dinosaurs ruled the Earth...") I took some creative writing courses. Some people hated them—the vicious bloodletting every Monday night as a new pair of people would bring in stories for everyone ELSE in the group to tear apart like sharks in a herd of slow-swimming seals was a bit too intense for some members of the purple prose brigade—but I absolutely loved every soul-crushing moment.
And I also learned some stuff.
One of the cool exercises we tried was simple yet effective: the prof told us to bring in our last submitted piece. Then, in class he had us read the first ten verbs in the piece, and he wrote them down on the board under each of our names. What was amazing was to see—to plainly unmistakably see—just how passive and tentative some people were, and just how much action and power and movement and life other people were putting into their stories.
I was reminded of this exercise by a semi-related post by someone in a private office over at Zoetrope. That writer—a proven pro who knows what he's talking about—was talking about finding a verb to define the scene as a whole, and then checking to see if the scenes were properly active and forceful. While that's a valid and potentially valid exercise, it sounds like work, and I am allergic to work. (Yes, I have a note from a doctor. Bite me.)
So I decided just to start my own damned meme:
The exercise is intended to help you more clearly notice when your writing is passive and lackluster. In most cases (there are always exceptions) it's usually best to start strong and maintain momentum. If you look up and realize that you have a lot of "is" and "waits" and "sits" and "lays" as opening verbs, you might wanna give your opening a kick in the pants. Maybe.
My current open project is a period drama about a WW2 flyer over Stalingrad. Here are my first ten verbs from that piece:
Overall, not as bad as I was afraid it might be when I first decided to try this goofy trick.
What about you?
Just for the sake of crass self-promotion, I'm tagging three people to specifically answer this and carry the meme out to the scribosphere:
.
.
.
active voice B
And I also learned some stuff.
One of the cool exercises we tried was simple yet effective: the prof told us to bring in our last submitted piece. Then, in class he had us read the first ten verbs in the piece, and he wrote them down on the board under each of our names. What was amazing was to see—to plainly unmistakably see—just how passive and tentative some people were, and just how much action and power and movement and life other people were putting into their stories.
I was reminded of this exercise by a semi-related post by someone in a private office over at Zoetrope. That writer—a proven pro who knows what he's talking about—was talking about finding a verb to define the scene as a whole, and then checking to see if the scenes were properly active and forceful. While that's a valid and potentially valid exercise, it sounds like work, and I am allergic to work. (Yes, I have a note from a doctor. Bite me.)
So I decided just to start my own damned meme:
MEME: YOUR FIRST TEN VERBS:
What are the first ten verbs in whatever project you are now or were most recently writing?
The exercise is intended to help you more clearly notice when your writing is passive and lackluster. In most cases (there are always exceptions) it's usually best to start strong and maintain momentum. If you look up and realize that you have a lot of "is" and "waits" and "sits" and "lays" as opening verbs, you might wanna give your opening a kick in the pants. Maybe.
My current open project is a period drama about a WW2 flyer over Stalingrad. Here are my first ten verbs from that piece:
1. roars
2. rises
3. falls
4. climbs
5. watches
6. strolls
7. studies
8. nods
9. screams
10. stirs
Overall, not as bad as I was afraid it might be when I first decided to try this goofy trick.
What about you?
Just for the sake of crass self-promotion, I'm tagging three people to specifically answer this and carry the meme out to the scribosphere:
Warren ("The Screenwriting Life")
Scott ("Alligators In A Helicopter")
--and--
Adam ("One Slack Martian")
.
.
.
active voice B
02 April 2006
an open letter to the species
Dear humankind:
I’ve just spent a half hour surfing through (well, “past”) a few dozen random blogs, and I’ve come to a few conclusions, most all of which I know are 1) sure to improve the world, and 2) anticipated with great excitement wordwide.
[Yes, kids—that was “irony.” Look for it in writing of every qualitative grade here online. In the online realm, irony is a sign of intelligence. Pre-pubescent sarcasm is the hallmark of world class wit. Bored detachment is evidence of heartfelt concern. Blasé world-weary exhaustion and pompous contempt are proof positive of worldliness and total commitment. “Bite me.”]
Now, I understand and accept the potential hypocrisy of ragging on self-involved blogs by posting on a self-involved blog. I am guilty like you on that score. We all suck, and we all deserve a knee to the groin for our pathetic onanistic auto-fellation here on these blogs. But seriously—what the hell is going on out there?
Are there really that many Portuguese speakers online? When I follow the random link thingy on my blogger page, I’m always surprised at how many Portugueezers I bump onto (and what IS the preferred good naturedly dismissive term for a Portuguese person? “Lis-bunnies”? “Portos”? Help me, people...). Yeah, yeah, I know there are a lot of folks in Brazil, and a lot of them speak Portuguese, but there’s a lot more people in India, and so far I’ve not bumpd into many sites written in Hindi.
Is anyone truly thinking that the world gives half a crap about your political treatises and manifestos? I blame The Daily Show and Dennis Miller for this sad situation. Gravy sucking lumps of inconsequentiality sit at home on reclining sectionals, remote control in one hand and a tube of Pringle’s in the other and guffaw as some smart alecky host busts on some political story while a humorously ill-timed photo of some leader shines over their shoulder. High-larious. And surely the world needs even MORE pillow-sharp commentary from someone who’s crowning political achievement was once coming in a close second in the election for Student Council Sergeant-At-Arms a decade ago at Jethro T. Sumpbucket High School in Pisswater, Kentucky. I’m not suggesting that anyone doesn’t have a right to an opinion, but come on, gang: if you’re going to avail yourself of that right, then it’s just plain old fashioned good manner to not waste our time by serving up the verbal equivalent of warm drool. “George W. Bush is so STUPID!!!!!!” is not exactly up there with Swift’s A Modest Proposal, know what I mean? Linking to Bill O’Reilly’s site and copy-pasting some cute line from William F. Buckley doesn’t exactly mean that you get automatic credit for understanding anything. I’m increasingly of the opinion that anyone who feels a need to post their political notions online ought be barred from doing so. If we as a nation find that we are somehow “one opinion short” of the load of BS needed to form a workable meme, we’ll get in touch with you,. ‘Til then, stick to talking about your cat, or your loneliness, or some stuff you bought at Wal Mart. Thanks.
When did we as a culture jump the shark and become a nation of Reality Show rejects? Lord. When I surf around, I am stunned by how many sluts, hoes, crackheads, food court gangstas and general non-categorized dipshits I see hell-bent on not just exhibiting their stupidity, but absolutely crowing about it at the top of their lungs. Dean Vernon Wormer once told us ”Fat, drunk, and stupid is no way to go through life, son.” But apparently “buff, drunk and stupid” works just fine. At least, if you swing through MySpace that’s sure the message you’ll hear. Most females looks like they are hoping to land a guest shot on Girls Gone Wild, while most males look like they are at an open casting call for “The Marky Mark Story.” Most confusing. Whenever I go to Target or The Gap, I see lots of pants and shirts being offered for sale, yet if online profiles are to be believed precious little of that clothing is being purchased and worn. And don’t think I’m some pious old fuddy duddy—I like half-naked beautiful hotties as much as any middle-aged father of four needs to (actually, more than he needs to, but it’s not a problem—I can control it. I swear, your honor...)—but gimme a slight freakin’ break... if EVERYONE out there living La Vida Loca and dancing naked in slow motion mosh pits like that god-awful Matrix sequel, then just who exactly is holding the handle on our Hell-bound handbasket? The Spicoli-sounding granola-munching Birkenstockers and/or the Young Republican Hitler Youth WASPs? The blobby gray middle-roaders religiously watching American Idol while munching on a homemade Chex mix of Paxil, Dexatrim, and Viagra? And we wonder why our government seems like a mess? Morons to the left of me, morons to the right....
Look, I know that variety is the spice of life. I accept that people have divergent tastes and opinions and dreams and hopes and fears and fantasies. I celebrate the fact that we live in an age when so many fascinating personalities (again: “irony”) can so easily bump virtual uglies through fat-pipe connections. I’m sure we as a species are tremendously served by the ability of mainstream Americans to use the most amazing communication medium yet developed just to say things like “U L00K HOT” and “ROFLMAO!!!!” Future generations will no doubt look back at this specific moment in time and say “gosh I miss those great old days of yesteryear...”
Uh huh. Sure.
And I’m a little teapot, short and stout.
Sincerely,
.
.
.
confused concerned conflated B
I’ve just spent a half hour surfing through (well, “past”) a few dozen random blogs, and I’ve come to a few conclusions, most all of which I know are 1) sure to improve the world, and 2) anticipated with great excitement wordwide.
[Yes, kids—that was “irony.” Look for it in writing of every qualitative grade here online. In the online realm, irony is a sign of intelligence. Pre-pubescent sarcasm is the hallmark of world class wit. Bored detachment is evidence of heartfelt concern. Blasé world-weary exhaustion and pompous contempt are proof positive of worldliness and total commitment. “Bite me.”]
Now, I understand and accept the potential hypocrisy of ragging on self-involved blogs by posting on a self-involved blog. I am guilty like you on that score. We all suck, and we all deserve a knee to the groin for our pathetic onanistic auto-fellation here on these blogs. But seriously—what the hell is going on out there?
Are there really that many Portuguese speakers online? When I follow the random link thingy on my blogger page, I’m always surprised at how many Portugueezers I bump onto (and what IS the preferred good naturedly dismissive term for a Portuguese person? “Lis-bunnies”? “Portos”? Help me, people...). Yeah, yeah, I know there are a lot of folks in Brazil, and a lot of them speak Portuguese, but there’s a lot more people in India, and so far I’ve not bumpd into many sites written in Hindi.
Is anyone truly thinking that the world gives half a crap about your political treatises and manifestos? I blame The Daily Show and Dennis Miller for this sad situation. Gravy sucking lumps of inconsequentiality sit at home on reclining sectionals, remote control in one hand and a tube of Pringle’s in the other and guffaw as some smart alecky host busts on some political story while a humorously ill-timed photo of some leader shines over their shoulder. High-larious. And surely the world needs even MORE pillow-sharp commentary from someone who’s crowning political achievement was once coming in a close second in the election for Student Council Sergeant-At-Arms a decade ago at Jethro T. Sumpbucket High School in Pisswater, Kentucky. I’m not suggesting that anyone doesn’t have a right to an opinion, but come on, gang: if you’re going to avail yourself of that right, then it’s just plain old fashioned good manner to not waste our time by serving up the verbal equivalent of warm drool. “George W. Bush is so STUPID!!!!!!” is not exactly up there with Swift’s A Modest Proposal, know what I mean? Linking to Bill O’Reilly’s site and copy-pasting some cute line from William F. Buckley doesn’t exactly mean that you get automatic credit for understanding anything. I’m increasingly of the opinion that anyone who feels a need to post their political notions online ought be barred from doing so. If we as a nation find that we are somehow “one opinion short” of the load of BS needed to form a workable meme, we’ll get in touch with you,. ‘Til then, stick to talking about your cat, or your loneliness, or some stuff you bought at Wal Mart. Thanks.
When did we as a culture jump the shark and become a nation of Reality Show rejects? Lord. When I surf around, I am stunned by how many sluts, hoes, crackheads, food court gangstas and general non-categorized dipshits I see hell-bent on not just exhibiting their stupidity, but absolutely crowing about it at the top of their lungs. Dean Vernon Wormer once told us ”Fat, drunk, and stupid is no way to go through life, son.” But apparently “buff, drunk and stupid” works just fine. At least, if you swing through MySpace that’s sure the message you’ll hear. Most females looks like they are hoping to land a guest shot on Girls Gone Wild, while most males look like they are at an open casting call for “The Marky Mark Story.” Most confusing. Whenever I go to Target or The Gap, I see lots of pants and shirts being offered for sale, yet if online profiles are to be believed precious little of that clothing is being purchased and worn. And don’t think I’m some pious old fuddy duddy—I like half-naked beautiful hotties as much as any middle-aged father of four needs to (actually, more than he needs to, but it’s not a problem—I can control it. I swear, your honor...)—but gimme a slight freakin’ break... if EVERYONE out there living La Vida Loca and dancing naked in slow motion mosh pits like that god-awful Matrix sequel, then just who exactly is holding the handle on our Hell-bound handbasket? The Spicoli-sounding granola-munching Birkenstockers and/or the Young Republican Hitler Youth WASPs? The blobby gray middle-roaders religiously watching American Idol while munching on a homemade Chex mix of Paxil, Dexatrim, and Viagra? And we wonder why our government seems like a mess? Morons to the left of me, morons to the right....
Look, I know that variety is the spice of life. I accept that people have divergent tastes and opinions and dreams and hopes and fears and fantasies. I celebrate the fact that we live in an age when so many fascinating personalities (again: “irony”) can so easily bump virtual uglies through fat-pipe connections. I’m sure we as a species are tremendously served by the ability of mainstream Americans to use the most amazing communication medium yet developed just to say things like “U L00K HOT” and “ROFLMAO!!!!” Future generations will no doubt look back at this specific moment in time and say “gosh I miss those great old days of yesteryear...”
Uh huh. Sure.
And I’m a little teapot, short and stout.
Sincerely,
.
.
.
confused concerned conflated B
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