Balls and Walnuts
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Help a fellow blogger
Here’s a link to blogger Hossein Derakhshan, AKA Hoder, an Iranian-born Canadian presently planning a trip back to Iran. He recently posted this plea for help should he be detained, or worse.
I have no idea where this fellow falls on the political spectrum (I haven’t read that far down in his blog) nor do I care. He’s a journalist who speaks his mind and he’s fearful of the price he’ll pay for it. I’m going to follow his progress, and I’ll hope you do the same.
D.
Harris Beach
I had a productive morning. Finished a 1300+ word scene (tough one, too), finished the week’s laundry, drank two cups of coffee. Aaaah.
Also cool: we increased Jake’s dose of propranolol last night and today he felt better. Yippee! He felt well enough that we drove up to Oregon and spent several hours at Harris Beach State Park. Currently in bloom: foxglove, daisies, salmonberry, milkweed. Present year round: pillow moss, horsetail, poison oak. We had a clear blue sky, temp in the high seventies, and a stiff wind.
Nothing of note in the tidepools except hermit crabs, and regular crabs of the I-don’t-need-no-steenking-shell ilk. On the beach, we found lots of desiccated sailors by the sea. Here’s a photo I pilfered from the web:
They’re Cnidarians — related to the man of war, medusae, and jellyfish. There: you’ve met your cool critter of the day. Here’s another link for Velella.
With all the wind and sand, I pretended to be T. E. Lawrence while Jake spent a couple hours building dams and destroying them. When it came time for DBE (deep beach extraction), I steeled myself for the inevitable five-hours-per-mile departure, what with Jake stopping for every hermit crab, every odd rock, and — especially — every running stream of water (more dams, more destruction). My son the hydraulic engineer.
We stopped off at the pet store and bought two land hermit crabs. I’ll get a photo or two up sometime soon. Cute devils. Land hermit crabs are known to swap shells rather promiscuously, all for fun.
We also made it to the library today. I picked up Michael Swanwick’s Jack Faust and Audrey Niffenegger’s The Time Traveler’s Wife. I was tickled to see that they have John Scalzi’s Old Man’s War on the shelf, and shocked to see Cintra Wilson’s Colors Insulting to Nature. And here I thought I was so cool, probably the only person in Del Norte or Curry County who knew of Cintra Wilson. If you’re unfamiliar with her work, Cintra is a razor-sharp humorist — I prefer that to the stuffy ‘social commentarist’ — best known for her articles in Salon. I think she’s gorgeous (check out her gallery), but her home page is way, way over the top. Poor kitty!
D.
A rogue Xavierist is trying to put me down.
For a brief, glorious instant, I topped the charts over at BlogHop, pushing hunky Xavier from his number one spot. I knew it couldn’t last, and I was right.
Some Xavier-loving fanboy has given me an “I hate it!” vote to drop my rating.
Yea, verily, I say unto you: science fiction fans, don’t take this lying down! I don’t want you to counterattack — Xavier has far too many votes for that tactic to be effective. Besides, he’s kind of cute, and if I swung that way I’d spread him on my toast, and from what I’ve read of his blog he’s a good, kind-hearted human being, and far be it from me to suck up to his fans to keep them from nuking me even further because, after all, they’re good, kind-hearted human beings too.
No, I have a simple request. If you haven’t clicked on the green smiley face on the BlogHop icon, please do so. Tell a friend about Shatter and get your friends to vote for me, too. Right now I’m at 91%. Except for that B+ I got in Spanish in 9th grade, and one crummy quarter of organic chem, I’ve never been that low. Save me, my loyal minions. You’re my only hope.
Type A personalities should not be allowed to blog.
D.
Time travel convention a failure? Not for the reasons you think!
In a recent news bit, the journal Science reported on the apparent flop of the May 7 MIT time travel convention (Times up on Time Travel, Science 20 May 2005). Although Dorothy (of Wizard of Oz fame), Bill, and Ted were present, the travelers themselves failed to materialize.
Theoretical physicists Alan Guth and Ed Farhi were on hand as pallbearers to speed time travel to its grave. Guth lectured that wormhole-mediated time travel could only occur at the quantum level, and cosmic strings (the other contender) “could take half the energy of the universe to create”.
I love how these bigheads are so quick to dismiss the endless scope of the future: as if technology 100 years from now will only be a refinement of present-day technology, and theoretical frameworks will only be tweaks on the mess we have today. Folks have ignored the most obvious reasons for the conference’s failure.
Curious? You’ll have to sit through a story, first.
As a twelve-year-old, I decided it takes humans two or three years to forget pain. Hence the usual spread between siblings, and hence the fact that our summer Voyages of the Damned happened at the same interval. My parents, Bostonians transplanted to California, regularly schlepped us across country to visit our cousins, great aunts, great uncles, and my Dad’s mom.
Throughout the 60s, my Dad dreamed of buying a motor home so we could make the trek with all the comforts of home. In 1974, he made it happen: he bought a great big green-and-white 25-foot Harvest. He taught math* at Roosevelt High School in East L.A., so when school wrapped up in June, we were on the road the very next day.
We made it as far as Clinton, Oklahoma, before the beast broke down (for the first time). For the next two weeks, we holed up in a motel while the Harvest sat in someone’s shop, waiting for parts. I’m not sure what my parents did to preserve their sanity (deep irony there, by the way), but all my brother Randy and I could do was hang out by the pool, play cards, and watch TV. Not much else to do.
I think Randy was 19 going on 20 at the time, so whenever he walked, his hormones jangled. You could hear him from a hundred feet away. One day, two girls came to the hotel — oh, they were maybe in their twenties. “Whores,” my mother insisted. But Randy was on the make. He’d made it as far as their motel room when my thin tissue of lies fell apart.
Mom: “Where’s your brother?”
Me: “Out by the pool.”
Mom (looking out the window): “I can see he’s not out by the pool. Where did he go?”
Me: “I don’t know . . . oh, stop! Stop! The pressure is too much to bear. He’s in Room 19 with those whores.”
That’s a paraphrase, naturally. Mom called over to Room 19.
Mom: “Helloooo? Is Randy there? This is his mother. Tell him his little brother has a high fever and we need him to run down to the store to get some aspirin.”
Poor Randy. I can imagine what followed. “Your mother? You told us you were transporting rattlesnakes to the Texas roundup, and that you’d stopped in Clinton to settle a score with those mob bosses who crossed you back in Vegas. Well, our boyfriends are gonna show up in ten minutes, and Clem, he wrestles alligators . . .”
Randy and I used to play cards with a good ol’ Southern boy, a forty-something fella named Dave. He was a dead ringer for Mac Davis, a country-western guy who had his own one-hour variety TV show back then. Remember, “I don’t like spiders and snakes / But I got what it takes to love you”? Yup, that was Mac Davis. During a three-handed game of hearts down by the pool, Dave spied a forty-something gal with no ass and no boobs. But she was a loner, no band on her finger, no guy tagging along, and Dave had all the jangling hormones of my brother but another twenty years worth of finesse. Randy and I watched, slack-jawed, as Dave loped over to her poolside umbrella table, chatted her up for five minutes, and came back to announce success.
“Room 22, seven o’clock,” said Dave. “And forget foreplay. That pump’s already primed.”
Those are my two best stories from that two-week dip into the bolgias. Aside from that, nothing to talk about but the usual pitched battles that were de rigeur for mi familia. But the boredom was the worst thing; I’d brought three SF novels with me (the only one I remember: Frank Herbert’s Hellstrom’s Hive) and had finished all three. And that’s when, out of a mind-numbing not another game of Hearts or another rerun of Gilligan’s Island panic, I conceived of something, a glimmer of hope that would tide me through the next few days.
I would, three days hence, meet up with my future self.
To achieve this, I’d have to remember the precise time and place of the meeting. This became my mantra. The irony of replacing one boring activity with an even more boring activity was, I’m sad to say, lost on my twelve-year-old self.
You can guess the rest. I was a no show; my version of the MIT Time Travel Convention flopped every bit as badly as theirs. Only difference is, I understand why.
Let’s say I wake up tomorrow to discover I’ve inherited a time travel belt (anyone out there remember David Gerrold’s The Man Who Folded Himself ?) Would I use that belt to go back in time and make that meeting? No way. Two reasons:
1) I’ve forgotten the precise time and place of the meeting. I can’t even remember the approximate time and place of the meeting. I had to think mighty hard to come up with “1974, Clinton, Oklahoma”, and I’m only 95% confident of that data.
2) I have no interest in meeting 12-year-0ld Doug. None whatsoever.
In my opinion, those two reasons, writ large, account for the failure of the MIT convention. The conventioneers assumed that a bit of internet press would guarantee some sort of eternal memory of the time and place of the meeting. Does anyone doubt for a moment the fragility of the internet? Or the vulnerability of our knowledge to the crush of centuries? Besides: if a time traveler wanted to announce himself (herself, itself, themselves), why choose a convention of geeks dressed up like Bill and Ted and Dorothy?
Which leads me to the next point: the conventioneers also assumed that our future selves would want to come visit us. This seems like one hell of a leap of faith. When I think about visiting mini-me, I feel apathetic and faintly nauseated. I suspect those future us’s would feel the very same way.
No, there’s only one reason they’d come back. To steal Nazi gold.
D.
*British translation: maths
June 4th to June 9th entries HERE
Thanks to the lovely and talented Robin at Blogger Support for resurrecting my blog. I wish there were a prettier way to merge the pre- and post-epocalypse blog, but hey, this is the best I can do. Cheers, y’all.
D.
PS: I’m not sure why I should save this, but Shatter2 (the sequel that flopped) contains the last six days’ of posts in their natural environment. Aside from posting a little note on Shatter2 to explain its existence, I won’t be adding to it after today.
Yeah, I really can’t think why I should save Shatter2, but I’m loathe to hit that delete button again any time soon.
By the way, if you feel the need to comment on this post, you’ll have to scroll way, way down, to just below the Oops! entry.
Hiccups (June 8, 2005)
The good folks at Blogger Support might bail my ass out yet. Here’s the response I got to my whiny plea:
Hi Doug, Thanks for writing in. We're sorry to hear about the frustration that you've been experiencing with the deletion of the incorrect blog. Please send me the URL of your old, accidently deleted blog, as well as the username and email address associated with this account, and I'll see what I can do about restoring it for you. Sincerely, Robin Blogger Support
And if that fails, Amanda has shown me how to find my cached files on Google. I wonder how long I should give Robin?
Speaking of ‘how long should I give’, I’m still strung out about Continuum Science Fiction. Bill Rupp, Continuum’s editor, accepted two of my stories earlier this year (“All Change” and “Heaven on Earth”). Continuum is a print magazine, so these would be my first stories to be published outside ezine-space. Unfortunately, no word from Mr. Rupp as to when my stories are going to run. No contract, either. After our initial exchange of letters — his acceptance, my “Yippee!” — I waited six weeks before writing again. I sent him an email and waited another four weeks. Nothing. I pinged him again on June 1, and still haven’t heard a thing.
I’m finding this a lot harder to take than rejections.
New purchase: Norman Spinrad’s 1972 novel, The Iron Dream. Premise: imagine an alternate universe in which Adolf Hitler came to New York in 1919, became a comic book illustrator, and later, a science fiction author. The Iron Dream is, in fact, a more palatable title than the book’s real title: LORD OF THE SWASTIKA, a science-fiction novel by Adolf Hitler. Yup! Spinrad has put himself into Hitler’s mindset and written about an ubermensch who must battle against genetic degenerates. Here’s how he introduces the main character, Feric Jaggar:
Finally, there emerged from the cabin of the steamer a figure of startling and unexpected nobility: a tall, powerfully built true human in the prime of manhood. His hair was yellow, his skin was fair, his eyes were blue and brilliant. His musculature, skeletal structure, and carriage were letter-perfect, and his trim blue tunic was clean and in good repair.
The first few pages are rippingly good satire (my wife would say, “Who cares? It’s an easy target.”) I’m 23 pages into it, and I am beginning to wonder if it’s a one-note joke. I’ll let you know.
And now I’m off to help Bare Rump with her diary. Lest you think this is all fun and games, I do have a bit of method behind all this. I have in mind a bona fide blogged novel with a beginning, middle, and end, but one that will also respond to the times. In other words, I don’t know what will happen when Ms. Rump finally meets W., since much will depend on what’s in the news at the time. Meanwhile, I’m having fun thinking up new jokes & making funky photos with Paint Shop Pro.
Exhaustedly yours,
D.
posted by Douglas Hoffman at 9:23 PM 5 comments
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
An antediluvian tale
Michael Swanwick
Avon Books, 1992I first encountered Michael Swanwick not through his fiction, but through his website, Michael Swanwick Online, and in particular, his site's lovably churlish unca mike's advice column. If you're not familiar with unca mike, his modus operandi is to encourage questioners to do the worst thing possible for their writing careers, thereby winnowing his competition.Yeah, like he has tsuris competing with other writers.
Here's an exchange he recently shared with his readers:
Dear Gardner:
An rtf file of "The Word That Sings the Scythe" is attached, as
requested. I note that you've had my story for over an hour and you
haven't bought it yet. GET OFF THE POT, DOZOIS!
Cordially, Michael
That evening he wrote back:
Dear Michael,
I like "The Word That Sings the Scythe," and I'll take it.
Sorry for the delay, but I had to have dinner first.
--Gardner
For my non-SF audience, Swanwick is writing to Gardner Dozois, editor of Asimov's Science Fiction (one of the primo bitchin' markets) since 1985.
Okay. So we've established that Michael Swanwick either (A) has an ego the size of Uzbekistan, or (B) has a sadistic sense of humor. I'm leaning towards (B), given some of the other content on his unca mike column.
I bet you're thinking this is going to be a negative review. Not entirely.
Actually, it depresses the hell out of me that Stations of the Tide is out of print. It won a Nebula Award, for cryin' out loud. What do you have to do in this business to stay in print? Here I am thinking, "If only I can manage to get my book published, I'll have a steady flow of income to tide me over into my old age," and then I find out that even if you win a Nebula you STILL don't have it made.
Yes, that's my retirement plan. Write a bestseller and live off the residuals. I play Super Lotto, too.
On to the review.
***
The polar caps of the planet Miranda are about to melt, inundating nearly all land. (We never find out why this happens, or with what periodicity, since Swanwick is a show-don't-tell-if-it-kills-me kind of guy. But that's okay; I read SF, so I can take a lot on faith.) While Miranda's flora and fauna have evolved to cope with this regular deluge, the planet's human inhabitants must be evacuated. Self-styled magician Gregorian has another way out: for a price, he'll transform you into a creature capable of thriving post-deluge.
Our protagonist, the unnamed bureaucrat, comes to Miranda as the representative of a shadowy interplanetary governing body that, through the power of embargo, controls the technology level of individual planets. The bureaucrat's bosses suspect that Gregorian is using stolen, proscribed tech to deliver on his promises. The bureaucrat's job: find Gregorian (before the Jubilee Tides swallow all, naturally) and persuade him to give back the stolen technology.
We see numerous metamorphoses throughout the book; some are tricks, some are not. Early on, we're told (shown, actually -- excuse me!) that Gregorian could have such technology -- i.e., it really exists -- but he could easily be pulling a nasty con on these people, too. Dead marks tell no tales.
It's a given that in a story such as this, the protagonist is going to change. Otherwise, what's the point? Carping on that would be like bitching that a novel is formulaic because it has a plot, and, oh God, why do these novels always have to have plots? (Yes, yes, I know there are exceptions to that rule, too.) I'd like to mention one interesting counter-example: J. M. Coetzee's Waiting for the Barbarians, in which (spoilers!) the protagonist goes through hell and back, yet insists to himself that he has learned nothing at all.
So, yes, the bureaucrat is going to change. What matters, what really matters, is that we buy that change every step of the way. Is the transformation believable, and is it inevitable?
I have to tread carefully to avoid spoilers. Yes, spoilers count, since I think you ought to read this book, if for no other reason than the sex is that good, and Swanwick's writing is, at times, beautiful. (I love the title, Stations of the Tide, merging as it does the stations of the cross with the idea of a natural cycle; and I love the first line, too: The bureaucrat fell from the sky.) I'm also interested in hearing from other readers on this point. (Hey. Pat. You out there?) But here's my gripe:
There comes a time rather late in the story when the bureaucrat must choose between love and duty. His choice will be a clear indication of the changes wrought by the novel's preceding 200 pages. If he chooses one, the story might grind to a halt. If he chooses the other, the plot is advanced. Trouble is, the believable, inevitable choice is the one that stops the plot dead in its tracks -- so, guess what: the bureaucrat does what he needs to do to advance the plot. Some 40 pages later, he's faced with another choice. At this point, his choice swings the other way. It's believable this time, it has the feeling of inevitability, and yet this critical moment is undercut by the fact that I, the reader, am saying, "HEY! WAIT A MINUTE! DIDN'T YOU JUST . . . ?"
It's difficult criticizing a book that promises to teach me things that will make my orgasms last longer. But, there you have it: Stations of the Tide falls short of classic status, in my opinion, because it fails the inevitability test. In a book about magic and illusion, I could see the puppeteer's strings.
Inevitability is on my mind a lot lately. As I wrap up my novel, I find myself fretting over whether I have frogwalked my characters to the finish line, or whether they've done what they really really truly would have done.
D.
PS: Have you been checking out Bare Rump's Diary? Give the ol' girl some feedback when you get the chance. She has read a great many romance novels, by the way, so if you need to ask her for advice on love, I'm sure she'll be all legs.
posted by Douglas Hoffman at 8:31 PM 4 comments
A link to some of the lost blog entries.
You'll find:
Because Maureen asked for really bad angst-ridden poetry
(Confessions of a Teenage Angstwolf)
Violet survived her squeezing
(Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory: where are they now?)
I think I can, I think I can
(My student dream; memories of Carmela)
If I can figure out how Amanda did it, I'll post more, and update the list here. Thank you, Amanda!
D.
posted by Douglas Hoffman at 6:30 PM 4 comments
Monday, June 06, 2005
An SF market you won't see listed on Ralan.com
In 1999, with the millenium approaching, Nature began running a weekly feature called Futures. Come 2001, Nature stopped publishing new stories, but they recently started up again. They're all one-page offerings, tasty bites from an assemblage of authors whose names read like the SF equivalent of Ultimate Baseball: Arthur C. Clarke, Bruce Sterling, Joe Haldeman, Norman Spinrad, Gregory Benford, Vonda McIntyre . . .
Hey, I never said it would be easy for me to get published in Nature.
Here are a few recent stories that you won't regret reading.
Last Man Standing by Xaviera Young (17 March 2005)
After the Y virus eliminates half of the world's population, we are left with "A planet with no more moonlight strolls, not really." Poignant contemplation of a world without men.
Heartwired by Joe Haldeman (24 March 2005)
Designer psychopharmaceuticals for the perfect 25th wedding anniversary. (Does anyone do the future of love as well as Haldeman?)
New Hope for the Dead by David Langford (26 May 2005)
Electronic afterlifes (afterlives?) aren't all they're cracked up to be. This one is funny as hell. Come to think of it, Langford has come up with a mighty interesting take on hell.
Meat by Paul McAuley (5 May 2005)
Disgruntled tissue culture biologists have become meatleggers in this creepily believable tale of the future perversions of fame. "These days, you aren't a hardcore tru-fan unless you've partaken of the flesh of your hero."
Ivory Tower by Bruce Sterling (7 April 2005)
Who needs college? Blogging self-educated physicists band together to form their own academy.
Now for the bad news:
1. If you're not a Nature subscriber, you'll have to become one to read Futures. (If you're fortunate, your local library subscribes to Nature.) It ain't cheap.
2. I've tried and failed to find submission guidelines for Futures. I suspect this gig is by invitation only.
#2 merely pushes the dream back one step. First, I need to become the kind of author who rubs shoulders with the likes of Haldeman or Sterling . . .
D.
PS: Only four more votes on BlogHop and I'll get listed with the big boys. If you haven't already experienced the pleasure of clicking (it helps if you let your finger circle ever so slowly on the mouse button a few hundred times before clicking -- and a little Astroglide helps, too), go over to the right margin and look for the colorful BlogHop icon. Click on the GREEN SMILEY-FACED BUTTON. I don't want to have to threaten you with my Virgin Mary matzoh square. You know I'll do it.
*Hmm. Hard to call leaving Texas an epiphany.
posted by Douglas Hoffman at 7:53 PM 2 comments
Sunday, June 05, 2005
September 13, 1975
Anyway, he didn't want just any Battlebots tapes. Season Two, it had to be Season Two. Naturally, the Season Two tapes were at the bottom of the bottom-most box labeled Jake's Toys (at least the labeling was correct!) Meanwhile, I snuffled around in the dust until I found my old diaries, all six volumes of them. I'm going to reprint the first page of the first volume here, because it's funny, in the hopeless pathetic way anything written by a thirteen-year-0ld boy is funny. Here goes.
***
DATA: BOUGHT SATURDAY, SEP. 13, 1975 52 cents
VOLUME I First Quarter, First Semester, 9th Grade
Sept. 13:
I bought this notebook with the grand hope of keeping a day-by-day account of my high school years, and perhaps college as well. (That day-by-day thing got dumped mighty quick. The next two entries are from September 16 and September 19. Good God, what kept me busy back then? Nowadays, I work a full time job as a doc, and I still manage to blog daily. What was I doing back then?) I admit that I have future fame in mind which will make these 'diaries' valuable, but the reason that I prefer is that I can show this to my kid(s). (Even then I had the grace to feel at least a little bit sheepish about my lust for fame. Thank heavens I'm not screwed up like that anymore -- so egocentric, so, so hungry for power and adulation. By the way, it has come to my attention that some of you have not yet voted on my blog. All you need to do is click on the green smiley-faced cube at the far left of the bloghop.com icon. That's over in the right margin -- see it? Yesssss. Remember, this blog is essential to my plans for world domination. Click on the green smiley-face. Click now. Get your friends to click, too -- tell them how much fun it is to click. Goooood.)
But first, a brief autobiography. (When and where I was born, what schools I attended, who my favorite teachers were, yatta yatta yatta.) I won't give any crap about my family because I don't think I'll forget that too fast. (Ain't that the truth. Okay . . . more stuff about school . . . then:)
That, I hope, will be the only line of crap in this whole bit. Why do I say that? Because I feel that such an oration is insincere, and thus is crap.
(But hey, I just edited out all the crap, so all that comes through is the sincere stuff. And a thirteen-year-old boy is nothing if not sincere. Especially when he's jerking off.)
***
Oh, that's right. That's what I was doing in my spare time.
D.
posted by Douglas Hoffman at 11:25 AM 8 comments
Saturday, June 04, 2005
Hope the ol' gal is worth it.
posted by Douglas Hoffman at 11:43 PM 5 comments
Guess it could have been worse.
Here's how it happened. (I will always share my stupidity with you, my loyal readers, because I have no pride. Or is it, I have no shame? I always get those two mixed up.) I wanted to start a second blog. Never mind what; you'll find that out soon enough. I set it up on the same account as this one, and discovered too late that my pic & 'about me' info gets carried over to every new blog I create. Well, I didn't want that. My new blog would represent a whole new identity. New pic, new 'about me'. I mean, that was the whole point. So I decided to delete the new blog, hop over to a different internet account profile, and start a new blog from there.
The problem came at the 'delete the new blog' step. I had the wrong blog selected.
Don't try this at home.
This looks permanent. If any of you know this to be otherwise, please let me know. For now, I'll content myself with thinking about the massive volume of written material -- PUBLISHED written material -- which disappears every day. Books go out of print; old pages turn to dust. It was a blog, Hoffman, not the Library of Alexandria.
I'm still here. I ain't going anywhere. Drop me a note so I can start building up my blog links again.
D.
posted by Douglas Hoffman at 9:00 PM 6 comments
Oops.
posted by Douglas Hoffman at 8:50 PM 0 comments
September 13, 1975
My son and I went up to our house in Harbor today (the one that is unlivable, since we’re mid-remodel) because Jake was jonesing for his old Battlebots videotapes. This meant we had to dig through every last dusty box labeled ‘Jake’s Toys’ until at last we found the one with his videotapes; of course, his Battlebots tapes were at the bottom.
I took the opportunity to pick up my old diaries. Because it’s funny (funny in an I’ll never be able to show myself in cyberspace again kinda way), here’s the first page of the first volume, reprinted as is.
DATA: BOUGHT SATURDAY, SEP. 13, 1975 52 CENTS
VOLUME I. First Quarter, First Semester, 9th Grade.
Sept. 13:
I bought this notebook with the grand hope of keeping a day-by-day account of my high school years, and perhaps college as well. I admit that I have future fame in mind which will make these ‘diaries’ valuable, but the reason that I prefer is that I can show this to my kid(s).
But first, a brief autobiography. I was born ***, in the Pasadena Hospital. I won’t give any crap about my family because I don’t think I’ll forget that too fast. I went to the Emperor Elementary School in which my favorite teacher was Don Agatep, who taught science. Then I went to Oak Avenue Junior High in which my favorite teacher was Bud Camfield, who taught Social Studies. Throughout Oak I maintained a 4.0 grade average academically. I am about to attend Temple City High School.
That, I hope, will be the only line of crap in this whole bit. Why do I say that? Because I feel that such an oration is insincere, and thus crap.
***
What strikes me the most is how different I am now. For example, nowadays, I’m much less egocentric and fame-obsessed. By the way, it has come to my attention that some of you have yet to vote on my blog. Just look at the colorful gizmo on the right margin (Rate me on BlogHop.com!) The green square with the smiley face is the correct button to press. Once I get 15 votes, BlogHop will give my site exposure on their home page, assuming you all have clicked on the correct square. That’s the far left square, the green one with the smiley face. Click on it. Click now. I’ll still be here when you get back. And get all your friends to click, too. Clicking is fun.
Thank you. Old timers here will recall that this blog is an integral part of my plan to rule the world. Don’t make me pull out my matzoh square with the Virgin Mary on it. I’ll do it, too.
D.
*** Partly, I’m paranoid over identity theft; partly, I wanted to steal Steve Martin’s line: I was born the child of poor black sharecroppers . . .
I think I can, I think I can
I had a student dream last night. You know the one: you’re late for the final, can’t remember where it was supposed to be held, forgot to cram for it anyway, and when you finally get there you’re naked, the proctor is your great aunt Helen in a black corset (with red trim), and she intends to punish you severely, young man if you haven’t brought three sharpened #2 pencils —
Well, maybe not that dream.
My all-time favorite student dream: after racing around trying to find the final, I get there an hour late. The first question is
1. Tamarind is to homily as espresso is to
A) 2.01
B) 5,134
C) 0
D) pi
E) all of the above
and the rest of the questions make no sense at all.
If I remember my Freudian bullshit correctly, and I doubt that I do, student dreams are an indicator of performance anxiety. So here’s my analysis. Karen isn’t getting pregnant any time soon. I’ve already done my tough surgical cases for the week. The only ‘performance’ I have to be anxious about is my novel.
Tomorrow, I start righting my second-to-the-last chapter. You need a sense of scale. This mother is going to be at least 270,000 words when it is finished. I have five major POV (point of view — although I think most of you out there are either writers or writer-wannabes like me, and knew that already) characters, three almost-major POV characters, and two characters who are important enough to require a bit of time in the big climax. I’m wrapping up a trilogy. This is my Battle for Gondor (if I’m mangling that, forgive me; I like Lord of the Rings, but I’m not a big enough fanboy to remember the details).
So far, I have thirteen scenes mapped out. It’ll have to be twelve or fourteen, since I’m superstitious about thirteen*. After I finish a-bloggin’, I’ll reread all my notes and do what I always do before starting a new chapter — I’ll sleep on it. Here’s hoping I’ll have better dreams tonight.
D.
*I dated a girl in college who wore a gold necklace — a ’13’ — her grandmother had given her. Gran was a Northern Italian witch, Carmela told me, and the villagers burned her workbook after she died. Carmela had recurring dreams that she was a young virgin living in ancient Greece. The girl in the dream aged along with real-time Carmela.
My Catholic almost-girlfriend Carmela told me (repeatedly) that her father would kill her if she got pregnant. She left to my imagination what he would do to me. How Carmela would get pregnant is still something of a Catholic mystery to me, since we never even kissed.
We didn’t last long. Nevertheless, I think of her fondly.
So how’s this for brilliant?
A moment ago, I installed the ‘blog hop’ rating gizmo. It’s over on the right margin, just below the links to other blogs. I clicked randomly on it to see if it worked, and what do I do? I give myself a ‘This blog sucks’ rating. Now my GPA anxiety is kicking in.
D.
Violet survived her squeezing
If you were to ask me, “How could anyone hope to improve on Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory”, I wouldn’t say, “Have Tim Burton direct the remake.” But hey, that’s a great idea. I’m a Tim Burton fan, although I must say his latter day movies have never quite matched the promise of Frankenweenie. And I wouldn’t say, “Cast Johnny Depp in the role of Willy Wonka,” even though that’s a great idea, too. I remember Depp from his 21 Jump Street days. He was just another pretty face. Who ever thought he had an edge? And yet, unlike wussie twenty-somethings like Matt Damon or Josh Hartnett, Depp has consistently chosen meaty (and dangerous) roles. To name a few: Dead Man; The Ninth Gate; Once Upon a Time in Mexico. (And then there’s Pirates of the Caribbean, proof that no one bats a thousand.)
No: I would say, “Kill off all the Oompa-Loompas.”
Me hates the Oompa-Loompas. There’s something deeply offensive about beating the viewer about the head and shoulders with a message, any message. Guess director Mel Stuart felt it essential that every last two-year-old get it.
But on to the point of today’s blog: where are they now? I am happy to report than none of the Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory kids ended badly. Hey, not all child stars follow the same paths as Danny Bonaduce, Dana Plato, or Todd Bridges. Take me, for example —
Oh. That’s another story.
Here’s the run-down.
Michael Bollner (Augustus Gloop) is a tax accountant in Munich.
Paris Themmen (Mike Teevee) works as a business manager for Disney. He had an uncredited roll in The Big Lebowski.
Denise Nickerson (Violet Beauregarde) gave up acting in 1978 and became a nurse. Her acting career is also notable for her involvement in a musical production of Nabokov’s Lolita.
Julie Dawn Cole (Veruca ‘I want it NOW’ Salt) is the only one of the five who is still in the biz. Julie is my personal favorite. A quick IMDB run reveals she has been very busy in the TV world.
And (drum roll) . . .
Peter Ostrum (Chuckie himself) is a farm animal vet in Upstate New York. Here’s his full story.
Tim Burton’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory opens this July. Yippee!
D.
Because Maureen asked for really bad angst-ridden poetry
I’ve decided I would make one rippingly good homosexual. I’m obsessed with my body; I cook like there’s no tomorrow; I cry at the end of every episode of Dead Like Me; I think Winona Ryder is hot. (Wait. No. That would make me a lesbian.) My high school girlfriend once called me ‘one of the girls’ and, now that I think about it, she’s never taken it back.
There’s just that one picky little detail. You know, the one about having sex with men. Like, eeee-ew. Is that strictly necessary?
Anyway, for Maureen, I’ve posted a poem today. Read it and see if you don’t agree that I am a total bitch. Here’s the set-up:
Third year of med school: that’s when it starts to get tough. You take call with the big boys and girls; you’re actually expected to do some thinking on your own; the hours are long and you’re beginning to wonder if maybe, just maybe, this isn’t all a big mistake. Unfortunately, you get used to it, and learn to ignore that inner voice.
Bad turned to worse when our med school newspaper began running whiffy poetry written by a sensitive, angst-riddled soul* who regularly opened a vein for our benefit. His metier: the cryptic rhyme scheme, the mangled metaphor, the trite simile, the archaic contraction. His chief gripe: not being able to spend enough quality time with his loved ones.
Perhaps I should have been more sympathetic. Instead, I decided to shut him down.
I was a Teenage Angstwolf
Mistah Donahue — he dead.
Oh faithful collie at my feet
Do not ask me why I weep
For I might tell you, and you must sleep;
Sometimes it hurts to feel so deep.
Spring is the cruellest month, sigh;
Winds whisper the throbbing question, why
The swollen hopes of huddled masses,
Hardened hearts, and real tough classes.
In a dream, I asked the Deity why
She told me
“Everything I tell you is a lie
Including this.”
Her saffron robes were the color
Of Existential Panic.
A toast to my colleagues, Sturm und Drang,
Angst and Ennui, that noble gang
Though only geists, their spirits sang,
They never forgot for whom the tolled bell rang.
(Bonus points if you can name the kid.)
Post script: my poem worked. Mr. Sensitive’s Rod McKuen-aspirin’ days were over.
Next up on the book review list: an oldie but (if the first two chapters are any indication) a goodie. Hint: Nebula Award Winner; chief influences, Carlos Castaneda & Joseph Conrad. Pat, no fair guessing, since you recommended this one to me.
*I forget his name, but he’s undoubtedly one of those HMO docs who is on the phone all day telling other docs how to practice shitty medicine, then goes home and whines to his family about how rough his life is.