Facebook is killing what's left of my writing

It just occurred to me that back in the heydays of this blog, I did not have a Facebook account. I got on Facebook about four years ago only because I bought into the writer-hype that said if you're a writer then you MUST be fully engaged in social media. It is absolutely imperative. Just think about how you can leverage all of your Facebook friends when it's time to sell your book!

I thought to myself at the time that I could only imagine ever having 50 or so Facebook friends. I mean, who is out there beyond that?

Welp, today I have over 600 Facebook friends.

How is this possible.

Some of them are people I honestly do not know. I have never met them. Some are people I barely knew in high school thirty years ago. Some are people I have only met online. It's a strange world.

But that whole hype thing...that's fodder for another post about the business of publishing a novel which is very dark and pessimistic. Suffice it to say that having several hundred Facebook friends translated into a sales multiplier of about one one-hundreth.

And I know it was because I didn't play the game the way you're supposed to. I know that. I don't want to talk about it right now.

But today Facebook has become my primary source of news and cultural awareness. I mean, how would I have know about the home-wrecker penguin if I hadn't been on Facebook? How would I have a feel for the angst of my friends on the left and the right post-election? It's hard to imagine not being on Facebook now because I would lose touch!

However, on the negative side, there have been many times when I thought I would write about something—many times—when I saw that seventeen people were already blabbing about that topic, and I decided that even if I thought I had something new to say chances are by the time I hit the "publish" button everyone would already have moved on. My post would seem to them the way so many posts seem to me. "For God's sake. Not another blogger talking about that!" And so I don't write anything.

But this election season (all 36 months of it) has just about made me sick to death of Facebook, enough that that muscle-memory reflex of clicking the button, that automatic impulse-response of thinking "I wonder if anyone has posted anything new" has just about run out of gas.

The answer is 99% of the time, "no. no one has posted anything new, and if they did, it's probably not interesting."

I'm coming back to where I was in 2012 before I was persuaded to create an account.

The Big Short should be renamed "Incredulity"

I watched The Big Short last night (again. The first time I may have been enjoying an adult beverage and didn't remember many of the details.)

Now. I have already seen Inside Job and The Queen of Versailles and several Youtube clips explaining the 2008 economic collapse, so I'm pretty clear on how it all happened.

But during the first half of the movie the dominant emotion that captured all the drama was Incredulity. Lots of dropped jaws, stunned gazes, speechless moments, and heads shaken in disbelief. The outrage of the film makers was well portrayed by the actors, and I the viewer vicariously entered their astonishment and outrage at the madness and greed of Wall Street bankers.

The second half of the movie then was a continuous sequence expressed by the phrase, "We are fucked." Really, over and over again. If you were to rename the movie, it could easily be divided in two and renamed according to the main thing being expressed by each half. The Big Short is a pretty good name too. Just saying.

Don't get me wrong. It was a very good movie, and I am as disgusted by the events of 2008 and the lack of accountability to which the big bankers were held in the subsequent years. And of course, I love all the actors in the film. It was all very well done, and perhaps deserving of all of the awards it received.

It just seemed to be very one-dimensional. Yes, there was the subplot regarding the suicide of Mark Baum's brother and Mark's psychological pain in the years that followed. But still I have to say the film was pretty straightforward.

It was almost as if to break up the linearity of an already all-star cast, the director had to employ a few clever and original tricks to keep everyone not only on track with the machinations of Wall Street and the jargon thereof, but well, entertained.

First there was Margot Robbie, arguably the most beautiful woman in Hollywood today. Then there was Anthony Bourdain talking about how CDO's are created, using the metaphor of dumping old seafood into a nice bisque instead of throwing it out. Good stuff, but somewhat obligatory.

I'm not trying to be critical. I am by nature I guess. But one should be able to say these things while also saying it was a very enjoyable movie.

And, I'm trying to keep it innocuous before I start getting really controversial on this blog.

Vale of Tears: The Resurection

Nearly four years ago I abandoned This Vale of Tears thinking it was the work of a period when I did not take writing seriously, which was true.

I have since published a novel and other stories and articles here and there. And with the benefit of four years of publishing and publicizing experience, I have come around to realize that it is also possible to take one's self too seriously. And I also realized that I like the name of this blog, and I cannot think of a better local to resume my blogging efforts.

So I am bringing this blog back to life and planning to start writing content that is more mature and above all is honest, revealing my true heart about things.

One fear that has proved to be a roadblock to my honest writing is that if I am honest about myself, my faith, or my cynicism, I will drive away readers and publishers and agents, and my chance to break into the world of writing will be obstructed by my lack of professionalism.

I now realize that that whole pursuit is 1) probably not going to result in getting some kind of platform or following and 2) not providing me any of the satisfaction that writing is supposed to bring.

So I think I have talked myself into bringing this blog back to life. 

Just know that every post prior to this one is at least four years old, and I have grown a lot in the intervening years. To readers who subscribe and start reading older posts, please forgive my tone and/or lack of skill as a writer.

For new subscribers, welcome to This Vale of Tears.

Hello to my 6 subscribers. Vale of Tears has come to an end. It is sad, but true. I feel I cannot continue with this style of blogging, even though it satisfies some nefarious impulse - the vent unbridled critique upon something I find absurd.

The problem is that I am trying to get established as a real writer. And a blog that just dumps crap out there may not be the way to advance that career.

So I've started a new blog with less vitriol and more of something constructive. You can read it at the link below. And click the "subscribe" button if you want to be on my mailing list.

http://literaryoutpost.wordpress.com

See you over there, no longer anonymous.

Jeffrey M

I read the news today, oh boy

[content critical of transvestitism in Virginia schools deleted]
Poll:  World is a happier place than 2007.  Disagree.  Its getting worse and will continue to do so, even if the economy improves.  Perhaps the poll reflects opinions of “the one percent”.  The truth is, democracy, freedom and humaneness will devolve into anarchy that will be swiftly replaced by a dictatorship.  My prediction for 21st century AD.  Well, Plato said it first.  Sorry kids.
Romney claims to be “severely conservative” which does not sound cheerful.
The most paltry of the culture mavens are in a flurry over celebrity Beyonce’s advertisement for a fashion company that has some racial controversy, or whatever.  Who cares.  WHO CARES???  All of you, just shut up!
Crazy inbred hating-in-Jesus-name church calls off their protest at Powell’s funeral.  Oh good.  One less event where so-called Christians blaspheme and make the church a laughingstock.  One less event where the rest of us are lumped together with a wrong, sickening and illegitimate sect claiming association with the historical Christian church; a day where all of us gossipers, complainers, coveters, blame-shifters and lusters can breathe a sigh of relief that our secret sins were not made the object of some holy war by a band of self-righteous Pharisees who know nothing of grace, God, Jesus, redemption or the Bible.  They are not going to hold up signs that say God Hates Fags and Queers Burn In Hell at the funeral of the tragic situation of the Powell family.  That’s a relief.  It may have had something to do with the 1800 who pledged to picket the church if they went through with their plan.
And finally,
Feds are investigating an alarming, horrifying, barn-burning travesty in which dogs are being made sick by tainted chicken-flavored treats from China.  Go, FDA, go!  And meanwhile.  Watch one or two of the documentaries coming out about how bad a job you are doing.  Maybe in between doggie-snack factory raids.

one memory

I have this memory about my dad, from when I was thirteen or maybe twelve.  I asked him if he would go throw a baseball with me.  We lived in Sydney at the time.  So we went down the street to a park.  It was Balmoral park.  And we threw a ball for a while.

Why do I remember that?  The park was at the bottom of our street in Mosman, New South Wales, Australia.  And I remember that day and that time, like it was some memorable time.  But all we did was walk down to the park, at my suggestion, and throw a ball for a while.  Twenty minutes tops.

It was the same as I would do now.  If one of my kids asked me, I would say, Sure, and would walk down to the end of the street, and would throw the ball, back and forth, for as long as they wanted, and then he would say he’s had enough.  And we would walk back up the hill, to our house half way up, and I would go back to playing the drums, and he would go back to reading the paper with his beer.

From the Journals of Alistair Bugge – an Excerpt

Alistair Bugge is the deranged biographer of Lucy Burden, the arch-villain of the book.

This text is written in a mock deranged, Old English.  Some words are invented.

Three supplicants come to the cave where Lucy Burden, also called Minstrel, lives in exile.  They seek to be partners in wealth and power, but soon learn that they are to be her disciples.  They submit to her lordship and she reveals that she is neither male nor female.  Inside the cave, they find a young man in torment.  The three novices watch from a hiding place as Minstrel does her awful work.

Click here to read an excerpt from my novel project, The Former Hero.

One man’s summary of the political scene

Romney:  One of the very plutocrats that are overthrowing this country.  Mega-rich former CEO making tens of millions annually just on investments, and paying the low 15% interest rate on them.

Gingrich:  former lobbyist (though he denies it), two-timing philandering husband, having affair while leading impeachment trial against Clinton, first Speaker of the House to ever be charged with ethics violations, undisciplined leader-by-chaos with 7-figure line of credit at Tiffany’s.

Perry:  In-your-face Evangelical opportunist, howlingly ignorant loser.

Paul:  Proponent of “Austrian School Economics”, isolationist, calls global warming a hoax.  Some good ideas, but unelectable.

Santorum:  Blown up in media for his opposition to contraception and support for criminalization of all non-traditional-marriage sex acts.  Positions on other issues?  Who cares.

Obama:  Most authentic Christian testimony of the ‘08 race, faithful to his wife, blameless of political scandal.  Attacked in the most unbridled vituperation, not for his behavior, but for his ideas, race and parentage by those who want to protect their hoarded millions.  Pro-entrepreneurship, pro-civil rights, balanced on military, good public speaker.  Not perfect.  Did not keep all his campaign promises.  Unable to succeed against the Tea Party congress.  Thwarted in his efforts to regulate mortgage and investment industry.  But the best candidate in the field at this time.

Kim who?

Am I the only one who finds Kim Kardashian completely forgettable?  A cartoon face generated ex nihilo from the pure white noise of pop culture?  A sock puppet?

A sex object masquerading as a whore?  A purveyor of skanky, fennel-cake New Jersey perfumes?  An idol to herself soliciting worshippers to the new cult of herself?

 I know the name because it’s forced upon me by the grocery store checkout.  I have no idea what she does except blog about herself.  I hear she’s on Leno and Letterman a lot.  I hear she’s one of those people who is famous for being famous.  Just the latest Paris Hilton.  Thankfully, that means her popularity will become passe’ in a year or so.

Supposedly she’s attractive.  I wouldn’t know.  I had to google her to find out what she looks like.  And for the life of me, I CANT REMEMBER HER FACE.  No joke.  The minute I look away, I forget what she looks like!  If I saw her on the street, I wouldn’t recognize her.

Which gives me a certain satisfaction, actually.

I would do anything to make her cry.

Tried iTunes movie rental, gave up

Here is my chance to advise everyone never to use iTunes to watch a movie.

The download took about 45 minutes because the maximum rate that the Apple servers will send to you is about 800 Kb/sec, even if you have a big fat pipe to the internet.

I rented the movie Contagion twice in attempt to watch it.  Both times, the movie crashed during playback and locked my computer.  I had to manually kill the iTunes application to get control of my computer back.

Then when I restarted iTunes, the movie wasn’t there to ‘resume’.  I ended up buying it twice and never finishing.  Not going to do that again.  In fact, this is my first encounter with streaming a movie from something other than Netflix, and it was unsuccessful, and stole my money.

Am I prepared to navigate the customer support system to get my $8 back?   No.

I’ll just wait for the DVD to come in the mail from Netflix.  But if you’ve been wondering about renting from iTunes, I suggest you stay away.  They haven’t figured it out yet.  At least not in my experience.

American products

Wonder why the world hates Americans?

  ‘Lazy’ used to be a bad thing

Doesn’t this just make you want to hurl?

2011

I started 2011 with a standing ovation from my direct supervisor, colleagues, even the president of my company.  I had completed the $12 million project on time and under budget.  I had saved the company, nay, been the instrument to launch it to a new level of prestige in the security industry.  They were giddy with glee.  I went on to manage two other projects successfully – projects that were shockingly poorly planned and handed to me to fix.  Which I did, with dozens of hours of my own personal time.

My oldest son that most of my readers know, Zach, re-embraced his Christian faith after a 2+ year wandering from the faith.  He had also spurned his private school (with much pain to his parents) and enrolled in public school.  And then after only 7 weeks, was happily back in the old private school.  Two wonderful events for me and the family.

There are two equal and opposite catastrophes with which we end 2011.  The company that was hailing my bright ascendant star in January laid me off in October.  It is December 30, and I am nowhere near having a job.

The other catastrophe is in the form of two dogs that we got back in August.  This is no joke – I am actively looking for a new home for them.  Please contact me if you can provide them a home.  We cannot keep them.  They have destroyed so much property, we may never recover.  They are very friendly and sweet.  But everybody has heartbreak over some item they have chewed to bits.  Shoes, electronics, cash.  Our back yard looks like the third circle of hell.  They have chewed up our living room carpet, baseboards, siding.  They have destroyed the fence to the neighbor’s yard.  They are a close second to my losing my job for “worst thing that had happened to our family on 2011” and in the top 10 list for Worst Things Ever.

However, I think Zach coming back to his faith overrules all other events in making this year a “good” year for our family.

Stupid questions writers ask

1. hello?  is this microphone on?
2. Am I a writer?
3. Should I adopt a name that sounds more authorial?  Should I just use my first two initials like J. K. Rowling or C. S. Lewis? 
4. Does drinking really affect my writing as Barton Fink says?  Should I abstain while I write for the sake of my art?
5. Am I really a writer?
6. Maybe I dont need insurance after all.
7. Is there a muse?  Where was she last week when I needed her and turned in her absence to drinking?
8. Does anyone know who I really am, on the inside?
9. What if they find out who I really am, on the inside?!
10. Am I a writer, because I dont feel like a writer.  I feel like a dork wanna-be who occasionally can turn a phrase but really should just settle for quiet desperation and be happy when the end comes because I have too many obligations and everybody knows that you cant make a living as a writer unless you are Danielle Steele or Cormac McCarthy or one of the other twelve writers in the world who lives on the proceeds from their writing, thanks to the Big Book Industry Publishers to whom they sold their souls for $0.75 royalty per copy while the fat cats get rich – oh, not the editors.  No, they get their $64k and pension.  Im talking about the top dogs who moderate Board meetings and give themselves 2.6million bonuses and disappear when the company goes bankrupt and thousands of employees lose their retirement.  for what?  So that rich middle-aged Barbie dolls can have a book to read next summer on the beach at Acapulco or on their husband’s yacht?  Is that what I do?  Because I might as well sell the lower half of my body to a college junior on spring break in Las Vegas because I am not willing to be a whore for The Book Industry.  If that’s what it’s come to, forget it.  I am holding out for the few hundred worldwide who read a book looking for a space to think.  And that’s what a book is – space for a serious man to think.  And that number drops by 17 every year due  to attrition, while 5 more are added.  So that our numbers are dwindling.  in the twilight of our age.  God help us.

An interview with John Common

At the suggestion of another blog I read, I am going to interview myself as an aspiring writer to try to get at some of the knotty questions about who this guy, John Common, is and what is the nature of his quest as a writer.

Me:  In your last blog post, you revealed that you had started a new book, The Former Hero.  Can you tell us a little bit about it?

John Common:  Sure.  It is similar to the movie Magnolia or Crash in that there are 4 or 5 narrative threads and the action develops from one to the other throughout the book.  One of the threads deals with a man who used to be a superhero, but he has lost his super powers, and is in a hospital trying to figure out how to get them back.  Another thread deals with a honest detective in a corrupt police force – a would-be hero against insurmountable forces.  Another is about a woman who could use a hero – her daughter has been abducted.  All of these characters relate to one another in the book.

Me:  Hm.  Sounds complicated.  Are you sure you can pull this off?

JC:  By no means.  And yes, it is quite complicated.

Me:  Well do you have it all mapped out in your mind, have you outlined it to the finish?

JC:  I have a vague idea of how it will end.  But no idea how Im going to get there.  Im making it up as I go.

Me:  You’ve got some kinda balls, Mister.  Who do you think you are, Dostoyevsky?

JC:  I secretly believe that Im writing under the influence of the Holy Spirit.

Me:  Under the…  You have to excuse me.  You’re starting to creep me out.  You’re basically saying that you are special, that your work is…well, let’s just say it…inspired by God.  Should we add it into our Bibles, right after revelation?  Just staple it in there?

JC:  Well it’s got a lot of vulgaries and blasphemies in it, so I dont think the 2011 version of the Council of Carthage would accept it.

Me:  OK, you bring up a good point.  Are you a Christian?

JC:  Yes, if that’s what you want to call it.

Me:  Well what would you call it?

JC:  Im a seeker of the truth.

Me:  What’s wrong with “Christian”?

JC:  A lot of people who might respond to the truth are turned off by the word “Christian.”  So-called Christians have done much to embitter the very world they want to win against themselves.

Me:  You’re a self-righteous prig.  Alright, so what have Christians done, and what gives you the right to judge them all, and separate yourself from 2000 years of tradition?

JC:  We’re straying from the point here. 

Me:  Alright, so whatever you are, you are some variety of believer in Jesus.

JC:  Yes.

Me:  Then why do you use so much bad language in your writing?

JC:  There are several things to say here.  Firstly, as a writer, you have to be free to write a character as he/she really is.  You wouldn’t write a military drama with the soldiers all avoiding vulgar language.  Just because a Christian writer has a character saying vulgar things doesn’t mean that those words are in the writer’s mouth.  They are in the character’s mouth.  This is one of the mysteries of fictional composition – the characters must take on a somewhat independent existence from the author.  You may say that’s impossible because the character comes 100% from the author.  But therein lies the mystery that Christian non-writers frequently dont get.  Though the writer is responsible for every word the character says, the writer gives the character something of an autonomous existence in his mind.  He lets the character go in his imagination.  And if the character uses a blasphemy in the writer’s imagination, the writer’s obligation is to have the character be true to himself, and let the character speak the blasphemy, even if the writer himself would not say such a thing.

Me:  You realize this sounds like nonsense.  If it comes from your imagination, then you have a filthy imagination.  You can’t get around responsibility for the blasphemy – no matter how you slice it, it comes from you.

JC:  I said it was mysterious.  It is very much like the freewill/predestination debate.

Me:  Or maybe you just have blasphemous words in your imagination and you see a way to say them, so you write them in someone else’s mouth and wash your hands of it.

JC:  What sorts of blasphemies are you talking about?

Me:  Im certainly not going to say them. 

JC:  OK, allow me – God damn, Jesus Christ…what else?  Come to think of it, there aren’t that many.

Me:  The word ‘hell’.

JC:  That’s not a blasphemy.  Jesus said ‘hell’ many times.

Me:  OK, but when you say those other things you take the Lord’s name in vain, a violation of the 3rd commandment.

JC:  Paul said “Jesus Christ.”  And Jude tells of Jesus saying to Satan, “The Lord rebuke you.”  Which is basically the same message as “God damn you.”

Me:  Yes, but Paul and Jesus didn’t say it in a flippant way.  Paul spoke with reverence about Jesus.  And Jesus was speaking truthfully about damning Satan.

JC:  I can’t imagine the intent behind the 3rd commandment to be that no one should ever say one of these two thing flippantly – God damn and Jesus Christ.  Sure, you dont want to go around randomly calling down God’s judgment on people or things.  But what about when it’s appropriate?  What if I said, “Get that goddamn pornography out of this house.”  Would you be offended?

Me:  It would shake me up to hear it, but I guess I couldn’t complain.

JC:  That’s because instead of having the 3rd commandment at heart, we actually have a cultural convention at heart, a habit of polite speech.  It’s in our evangelical air.  You just dont say goddamn.  Ever.  But God’s name isn’t even ‘God’.  God is a noun, like “king” or “Mr. President”.  If someone said, “may the King of England throw you in prison,” we may think it was a rather odd saying.  But we wouldn’t be offended that the King’s name was smeared.  The king’s name is not “King”.  And the king himself would have no cause to be offended.

Me:  Ah, but haven’t you called upon his office, his kingship, to serve your private little annoyance?  If you said, “May the King send this stale pizza into eternal prison,” you have summoned his office and his severe judgment against something as trivial as pizza.

JC:  Dont you think the king himself would find such a thing humorous?

Me:  We can’t know what the king might find amusing, and it is safer to err on the side of caution.

JC:  No, it is not safer.  That’s the way the Pharisees lived, by creating a legal code to safely ensure they didn’t cross any lines of the law.  God was not pleased with that.  He is more honored when we use our minds and mouths intentionally.  If a thing like pornography deserves to be damned, then we should say it:  God damn pornography!

Me:  Ok, but what if your character says “Shut your god damn mouth?”  That is clearly summoning God’s office as Almighty God for a trivial matter.

JC:  Not if the words someone spoke truly should be damned by God.  And even if they were trivial, they may be true to the character, and therefore should be said, or run the risk of being false.  And if they are false, they are bad art.  And if they are bad art, they are ugly.  And since God is the author of beauty, it would contrary to the essence of God’s beauty to have a profane character speak in a way that is false to this character.  It would be tantamount to calling good evil and evil good.

Me:  Im going to have to think about this for a while.

An Excerpt from “The Former Hero”

This is an excerpt from my current novel project.  To those with more traditional sensibilities, mainly my mother, I warn that this book contains vulgarities and deity references often considered blasphemous.

A little context.  Mary’s daughter has been abducted and her husband has left. The city government is corrupt and police force was unhelpful.  She goes berserk and attempts suicide.  Taming her emotions with anti-depressants, she hits the road to look for some way of finding her daughter.  She hitched a ride with a guy on a motorcycle and drove to town.  She then spent the night in a homeless shelter.  On waking unmedicated, she cannot cope and again attempts suicide while waiting for more pills to kick in.  Through the veneer of suppressed emotions, she goes on. . .

When she stepped out through the thick metal doors at the front of the shelter, the streets were wet and dirty, and cold moist air gusted through the streets of the city. She hefted the duffel bag across her shoulder and shoved a free hand into a pocket and began walking, walking just to be walking, only trying to keep on the leeward side of buildings as she walked, but with no other direction or purpose. The previous night's rain had been enough to make the discarded newspapers and coffee cups soggy and the general grit and soot stick to the dumpsters and parking meters and leaves, but not enough to give the sort of the bath that the streets needed.

She found herself walking in a circle, around the block, and finally back in the direction she'd come the previous night, toward the diner. She slowed her pace and glanced into the front window at the patrons, huddled over their coffees in the half-light of the overcast morning. There were no policemen and no men in the eastern hats. The same fat motorcycle she'd ridden on last night was parked on the street in front, and there at a booth in a corner was the rider who had helped her.

He had a bandana tied around his skull and his tattered denim jacket was pulled close around his neck. He looked like he hadn't slept well, and he stirred cream and sugar into his cup mindlessly, a plate of uneaten toast to the side. When she stood beside his table, he looked up and gave a long sigh.

“Oh, for fuck's sake.”

She slowly slid into the booth across from him. He stirred his coffee. “I see you made it through the night.”

She nodded.

“I'm fresh out of cigarettes.”

“I'll buy you some more.”

“That's great. So. You need another ride somewhere?”

She thought, not really sure of what she wanted, not sure why she sat down, not sure what he could do for her. She simply gravitated to a familiar face. Still recovering her senses, she could not think of anything to say to break into his morning solitude.

“How are you doing?” She felt stupid.

He nodded to say he was fine. “Didn't find your family yet?”

“No,” she rasped. They sat in awkward silence. She reached into her bag and took out the flask and took a long drink. She handed the flask to him and, before he could make a comment about the hour of the morning and her substantial pre-breakfast nip or his own preference for coffee before 10am, she spluttered out “Mary...my name.”

He took the flask and held it there looking at her.

“Mary. That your real name?”

At least he was talking to her. She met his eyes. “It is now.”

A waitress appeared and asked for her order while noticing him with the flask between his thumb and forefinger. He looked away and shook his head.

“Coffee,” Mary said.

“Cream?”

“No.

“Anything to eat?

“A hard-boiled egg.”

“You sir?”

“I'm fine thank you.”

The waitress left. Mary pulled her hair around her neck like a hood and folded her hands between her thighs. He pushed the flask back to her.

“Look. Mary. I hope you know there's nothing I can do for you. I'm just a guy. I ride around. I work a job when I need a little money. Then I quit and spend it all on whiskey and pussy. And poker. When it comes to locating a misplaced family I’m about as useless as a hatfull of broken assholes.”

“I'll pay you.”

“To do what?” He looked at her as if she had just said she was from the future.

What could she say? to drive me around, to be my bodyguard, to get things for me? She shivered. “To stay.”

“Look. I’m not sure I ready to start going steady. We just met.”

“That's not what I meant.”

“I told you. I’m not exactly a safe person to run around with.”

“You did?”

“Yesterday. I told you I'd done bad things. You seem like a nice person and all...”

“But you told me you weren't going to do anything to me.”

“That was yesterday.”

“All bets off today, then?”

He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I got no cause to hurt you. No plans. I’m just saying, I'm a man. Not a nice man. And I think you could probably find a better...chauffeur, or whatever. Detective. Case worker.”

She leaned against the table. “Look. Jack. I'll call you Jack since you hadn't told me your name yet. I understand men. I'll throw in the benefits if that's what you want. But I got nobody. You said yourself you had more to be afraid of from me than I did from you.”

“That's not really working in your favor.”

“I promise I wont hurt you.”

“Thank God. That's very reassuring.”

“What have you got, some business lunch to get to? Stay with me a few days, til I can find something out. Then you can go about your business.”

“Suppose we do find your husband. Then what.”

“Then you can help me kill him.”

“Not if I'm already dead.”

“It's not really him I’m looking for.”

“Your daughter?”

“She was abducted.”

“Maybe he took her.”

“Maybe.”

The coffee and hard-boiled egg were set down in front of her. She took a sip and started to peel the egg. Then she cut it in half and salted it and took a bite. He watched her fiddle with the egg and drank his coffee, thinking about the husband and the girl, convinced that this would not end well, seeing no hope of finding an abducted girl and no desire whatsoever of finding the husband who had abandoned his family.

“This ain't my line of work. That's it. I'm sorry I can't help you.”

“What is your line of work, exactly?”

“ Shit. Arc welding if you must know,” he shouted. “It ain't being some hero saving lost children and rescuing damsels in distress.”

“I'll get you the things you want, and payment too. Not much I can do about your poker hand though. Starting right now, if you want a better breakfast than that. Ma'am, could I get a menu...”

“No, stop. I don't want anything to eat. I want you to stop being such a crazy bitch and come to reality.”

“You don't have to be a hero. Just stay with me. Give me a ride to a few places. Be my guard dog, you know? So I’m not such an easy target. I'll pay for all your gas. You can just sit and watch. I want to find a certain man, this detective guy McCarthy. I was told he might help. Two hundred dollars a day, and all expenses paid.”

“This is fucking nuts.”

“This is a paying job to do shit.”

“I make two hundred and fifty welding fucking I-beams and shit together all day.”

“Two fifty then.”

“Christ almighty.”

“I'll take that as a yes.”

bullying solution

So, if you’re listening to one particular narrative in our culture, you’ll hear a new social problem.  Apparently it has led to a number of suicides, which in spite of what I have to say below, I do care about.

I was in a public school recently.  Decking every single wall like a bill-postered wall in a London ghetto are signs denouncing, not drugs, not teen pregnancy, not rebellion, not evil

not blood-thirsty video games, not gangs, not binge drinking, not cuttings, tattoos, body piercings, implants, not bulimia/anorexia, not tanning,

not racism/sexism/ageism, not over-eating, not masturbating, not skipping school, not failing to do your homework, not polluting the environment,

not water-boarding, not pole-dancing, not transcendental meditation, not cock fighting. 

But bullying.

Friends, is there any real difference between bullying and natural selection?  Ironically, the same public schools that are fighting to teach evolution, fighting in some cases against anti-evolutional cultural forces, are also denying the real world evidence of that biological megatrend in their own context.  Natural Selection, in which they trust, could be happening unhindered, if they would simply let it.  Validation of science classroom dogma under their very noses.

There are a few kids, fewer say, that the number of people killed by shark attacks, who have committed suicide in the wake of a bullying incident.  Who knows.  Perhaps they were bullied for months, years.  It may have been a 24-hour-a-day situation.  It may have involved the Internet.  And these helpless victims, did they do anything about it?  No.  Fight back?  Oh, they tried.  After nobly walking away the first few times, they engaged in a scuffle or two, perhaps left some nail scratches in an arm, or a juice stain on a blouse.  But it didn’t end.  Until, it ended for real.

Of course, we all can imagine that feeling, perhaps we remember it too well from when we were 13:  “I’ll just KILL myself.  Ha!  Then they’ll feel bad.”  Yes, well, that is some epoch-making logic there, friends.  I’ll be dead, but then they’ll be really sorry.  And the winner of that little standoff is….?

So, my favorite American state, New Jersey, has enacted a zero-tolerance bullying policy.  Counselors are brought in from around the world.  1-800 hotlines are established.  Lectures in the school amphitheater are scheduled, with MANDATORY attendance, or by-golly, we will kick your ass if you dont attend.  And give me your lunch money.

So.  On one hand, we have Natural Selection, a process striving manfully to do it’s job, to thin the herd, to improve the gene pool.  And on the other hand we have the Bible-literalist-Creationist-inspired, “nobody should ever have to bleh, bleh, bleh.”

Once again, we are in a smackdown between faith and science.  Only this one seems to have no thoughtful resolution based on dispassionate consideration of the facts as they relate to one’s <scrunch nose> Wirld-vyoo.  Secularists upholding values of compassion, friendship and community, and me the Christian, wondering what ever happened to Survival of the Fittest?

I say, let the wimpy kids learn to MAN UP.  Let the bullies do what they have done since cave man times.  Challenge the wimps.  Spur the runts to either make it in this tough world, or fall to the fickle hand of consumption, distemper, or winter.  A little butt kicking at school, and they’re ready to commit self-immolation?  Good grief.  Maybe Daddy didn’t do his job at home when little Reginald was growing up – teach that boy some self-respect…no, just plain BALLS.  Defend thyself, or feel the sting of my blade.

How about going and punching that bully in the nose?  How about school hallway posters that say “Kick a bully’s ass today!”  “Show a bully you got a pair!”  “Stomp dat bitch what’s given you dookie!” 

What’s wrong with that?  What if that bully insulted your mother?  Would you just wither like a lily in the noonday sun?  No!  Go and fight.  Defend your mother’s honor!  Protect your sister from jerks and their cat-calls.  Since when did niceness overrule all civilization?  This attitude led Hilter to power in 1933!

Sorry you didn’t reach your dream, but what were you thinking?

There are probably more than a few like me who have to wade through chest-deep apathy to think for a moment about Diana Nyad, the 61-year-old woman who yesterday tried and failed to swim from Cuba to Florida. And when those like me look up from our busy lives at this ever so fleeting spectacle, and when we hear the details of the story, we are gripped with piercing awareness of the sheer underwhelming nature of the whole thing.

In short, she’s 61, has shoulder trouble, and a lifelong condition of asthma, and she’s attempting to swim 100+ miles.  She did make it half way before rough seas, acute shoulder pain and nausea led her to call it off.

I think it is interesting to note that she had kayaks with shark-deterring sonar padding around her, and a boat carrying medics and family members drifting alongside.  What a production.  The hook was that she was doing it WITHOUT a shark cage as other’s have attempted.  ooooh.  drama.

If she had made it, we would all say, “Wow.  That’s really something,” and instantly forget about it.  She seems like a nice lady and all.  “The swim was in me,” she said. 

The swim.  Im not sure what that means, since apparently it wasn’t.  One wonders, did she practice this first before buying the equipment, enlisting over 30 supporters, overcoming international bureaucratic obstacles, calling press conferences, and gathering her family in Cuba for the trip across to Florida? 

She reportedly swam 12 hours a day for two years to prepare.  But did she try swimming 103 miles at some other, convenient location, where after 50 miles she would have presumably remembered that she has asthma?  That she failed 28 years ago (that’s right, attempted and failed at 33)?  That’s she’s fodder for AARP?  Might she then have decided to age more gracefully, accepted her mortality, spent more time with her family, and avoided the tens of thousands of wasted dollars to appear on international television as the not-very-surprising, crestfallen Icarus that we all now know her to be?

So now anyone who has run a marathon thinks I’m the biggest jerk for saying this.  But I say, Fraah!  Why must we know about these things?  These are awful, tumultuous, apocalyptic times.  We might as well see her denouement as a metaphor for the nosedive that western culture is currently in. 

What?  Forget anything so lofty as culture.  We are all in a socio-politico-econo-religio-psycho-ecologico-hyper nosedive.

That’s what really bothers me about this already-forgotten average person.  There’s just too much else to think about right now.  Go away, ridiculous people.

I wrote this yesterday, but didn’t post it. Her story already seems a million years old!  The stock market!  The Middle East!  The election!  The bunnies!  the bunnies!  The bunnies!

10 reasons it’s worth it to pay the extra $20 when considering a hotel

1. Broken things never fixed.  Examples:  the shower curtain – it’s one of those curved-out kind, but it’s been pulled down and the mounts in the sheetrock ripped out of the walls.  What’s going to happen when I take a shower?  The soap shelf in the fiberglass shower insert is smashed off, the interior wall exposed.  Gouges in faux wood furniture.
2. Color theme:  No joke.  Lime green, Buddhist orange and several shades of black.  Three random, non-matching, non-related Garden Ridge surplus pictures on the wall.  Carpet is utterly hideous, like something from Grendel’s lair.  Antique gold finished lamps and fixtures.  Eeeww-r
3. No coffee machine in the room.  Ok, I can live without.
4. Floor tile in the bathroom shows that the room is actually a trapezoid.
5. The desk and chair, which I use every time I have to travel:  uncomfortable, not really made to sit and do work.  Vinyl.  Sharp edges. Undersized.
6. Slow unsecured internet.  Am I sharing this wide open, 9600-baud internet connection with the trailer homes across the street?
7. Hallway smells like a blend of bleach and asparagus pee. 
8. Ever tried drinking bourbon from a styrofoam cup?
9. Clock radio from 1974
10. Continental breakfast of Fruit Loops, bruised bananas, and bagels.  Froufrou coffee.
11. Toilet paper made of recycled Ethiopian burlap

Computer Funk

There are a couple of things I do by habit when I sit down at my computer, which is several times per day.  1) check to see if I have any new emails  2) look at the headlines at MSNBC or CNN.  The problem with checking email is that I almost never get any.  On my home email account I only receive things I have subscribed to, which includes various newsletters, the Word of the Day and Quote of the Day, from which I reap little gems like this:

All God's children are not beautiful. Most of God'schildren are, in fact, barely presentable. 
   -- Fran Lebowitz

I dont get interesting email at home, and at work 80% of emails are bearers of complaints, billing errors, and new rules.  And advertisements of course.

And the problem with reading the headlines should be fairly obvious.  But today, I am especially hostile toward all the news sources’ combined glee at reporting to the world about a particular traffic jam in Los Angeles.  As if this were something new, as if we all didn’t get stuck in traffic jams from time to time.  But if LA has highway repairs, we interrupt the budget talks.  What is this – traffic jams of the rich and famous?  A reality TV show is in the making right now, bet on it.

And accompanying my hostility at this journalistic solecism, this breech of reporting judgment, this insult to the rest of the disinterested nations, this insinuation that the fruitcakes in California are beset with burdens too great to be borne and the rest of us should pay attention, to add injury to insult is the unimpressive, not humorous, little word someone invented for the event - ‘carmageddon’.  Ha ha.   Yes, someone was just too clever when they thought of that one.


So, a big highway in LA is getting some repairs, and the residents are panicking like the arrival of a Blue Letter in the Hudsucker Proxy while the rest of the world is adding another reason to avoid Los Angeles to their long lists, and the hopelessly myopic news community is pooping out clever little attention grabbers, comparing traffic delays of LA commuters to the eschatological battle between the forces of evil gathered together in the Valley of Meggido against the Jesus Christ returned to earth for final judgment of all nations.

Just an ordinary day.

Thoughts on those filthy Yankees

I just finished watching the Academy nominee film The Fighter.  You know what my first thoughts are?
Northeastern culture – New Jersey, Massachusetts, and those states like them – is the SCUM OF THE EARTH.  Lower than the remotest Asian, African or Eskimo culture.  A distance of EPOCHS behind the Australian Aborigines.  Centuries behind Sumerian civilization, even tribal cultures.  Trailing far behind, say, the Incans in art, speech, literature, cooking, dress….but excelling ALL THE GLOBE in application of hair products and self-congratulatory, head-bobbling, palm-upraised, what-did-I-say?, you-talkin-to-me?, ham-tongued, never left the 50’s, gangsta hip-hop, dancing with the stars, American Idol wanna-be, fennel cake eating, chest pounding, cleavage showing, gaudy flamboyant colored, arched eyebrow’d, teeth-bleaching, artificial-leather sporting, fat-concealing, slimy warmed-over Sicilian stepchild outcasts!
Starting with their simian, guttural, sleazy accent.  Why is it that whenever you want a character that sounds sleazy, you bring in someone from New Jersey?  “Yo!  Bitch, where’s my hot pocket?  I woirk all day installin’ window tint, and all you gah fuh me is a bowl of frickin’ apple jacks?  Whad izzit aroun’ hea?”
Why is Jersey Shore such a spectacle?  One comedian said it best:  when I want to feel good about myself, I watch Jersey Shore.  It’s like watching National Geographic.  Those people are from an island in an undiscovered ocean.
…and moving on to their general filthy appearance…
…their obsession with the lowest levels of commercialism…
…their ugliness.  Dang!  Those people are so ugly!
My next thought is that I probably shouldn’t be blogging at this hour immediately after watching a movie. 
But Jiminy Christmas!  What a bunch of losers!  What a slimy, manipulative, self-serving, Neanderthal bunch of apes! 
[deep breath]  Ok.  Wait.  I’m sure they’re not all that way.  I…   I was hasty.  No, there are probably some very descent people there.  There.   Up there.  Way up there, in NEW JERSEY!!  In the septic tank of America, the vortex of social decline!  Fraah!  I need to take a shower!  I feel as if I’m about to start saying, “ya know?” after every sentence.  Ya know?  Hey.  Mickey.  Come on.  Im ya brother, right?  Mickey?  Hey come on.  What?  Ya gonna treat ya family this way?  Hey?  Come on.  Mickey?
[sanity restored.]
I would like to humbly request at this point that some director of films, some Ingmar Bergman or Cecil B. Demille of the modern theatre, an artiste, someone with a venue, someone who can tell a story, make us break out in joyous song…
with all haste, make a new film.  A movie that will redeem that far away repugnant land…
someone with means to produce a movie, yes, a celluloid rendition, a motion picture that would help me…
…just…a film, a receptacle of cinematographic artistry, sensitive, enlightened, human,
Sir, I need you to help me.  You see, right now, I hate everyone in that land.  I can think nothing but the worst kinds of thoughts about them.  And I know that is not tr…
…that is probably not true. 
It could be.  But it’s probably not.  And with a nice redeeming movie about noble deeds…involving a rescued virgin, perhaps a grail…
transpiring in our country’s founding lands… You see, I dont want to despise them, I really dont.  But I need your help – make a film that will restore my…OUR faith in those little states.  Those tiny, little, highly influential states, up there.
They are so awful.  Please show me a narrative, in film, yes, a narrative that will show them in all their gentleness, eloquence and magnanimity.  In their quest for knowledge, hungering after wisdom, eschewing fashion and the praise of men.  Lest I hate them forever.