It’s a Splendisaster
Last night, addled by caffeine, I lay awake trying to carve my novel’s final tableau from the killing fields of Story Space. (One nice thing about Story Space: resurrections are common.) I have no fewer than ten characters converging on one place. Ten named characters. I’m not counting all those giant spiders and killer boars. So it has to be stage-managed without looking stage-managed, inevitable, yet not contrived . . .
No small wonder that my approach to the ending has been asymptotic at best.
For several days, I’ve been meaning to write a glowing review of Dreyer’s No Sugar Added Vanilla Ice Cream. It’s Splendalicious! It’s Splendarific! I’ve gained three pounds in four days!
Maybe . . . I mean, just maybe . . . the Atkins folks are wrong, and calories do matter. Maybe it is a bad idea to douche my esophagus with saturated fat. Maybe I should go back to salads and boiled eggs for dinner.
Do three pounds show on me? You betcha. My son walked in on me last night after I’d taken my shower (we are still working on this ‘knocking on the door’ thing) and informed me that my ass jiggles when I walk. The horror.
Hitchhiker’s Guide opens tonight. If the family is willing, I’m there. A quick scan of the reviews suggests this movie may be a mixed bag, but with Alan Rickman voicing Marvin the Paranoid Android, how bad can it be? Watch this space.
D.
The Littlest Nailhead
I popped over to John Scalzi’s blog this morning to see what he’s been up to. Answer: he’s been busy. Stay away from a guy’s blog for four days and you end up with miles of column inches in your mental to-be-read basket. Anyway, I particularly enjoyed the photo of his daughter wearing a Gothed-out Powder Puff Girls T shirt. The caption is priceless, as is the take no prisoners expression on his daughter’s face. John also posted a link to a comic called Kindergoth, which reminded me: I still have ten bucks over at PayPal (for selling my story Saul the Deserted to Neverary) burning a hole in my electronic pocket. Time to spend it on something morally uplifting, like Kindergoth.
Jake used to be a kindergoth. At four, Nine Inch Nails’ The Fragile was his favorite CD. Soon after, he became enamored with the rest of Reznor’s oeuvre, including Closer. Um . . . especially Closer. Karen and I used to joke about Jake singing this to his k-garten teacher, but the truth is, he’s always had more common sense than that.
After Nine Inch Nails, he branched out into The Cure and Tears for Fears (bunch of poseurs compared to Trent Reznor, but they fake it well). Lately he’s been into Pink Floyd, which, all things considered, is a good deal more upbeat. The Wall is a church picnic compared to The Fragile.
Speaking of churches: thanks to this month’s Harper’s for teaching me the word megachurch. The latest issue features a full scale salvo against the Evangelical movement’s political machine, including a new article by Jeff Sharlet, whose article “Jesus Plus Nothing” provided inspiration for my novel’s Kinist Church.
That’s it for now, folks. Someone with a stuffy nose is bound to show up at my door any minute now.
D.
And you thought Metallica was a head-banger band
Below, you’ll find a picture of Karen’s P. metallica. Note elegant fangs. P. metallica is commonly known as the Gooty Ornamental tarantula, but . . . and this is the stunning part . . . they don’t really come from Gooty! The first specimen was found on a woodpile for a train in Gooty, India, one hundred years ago, and it took close to a hundred years for anyone to figure out where they really came from. A bloke named Hendriks braved Bengal tigers, heavily armed Indian outlaws, and worst of all, the Indian Customs Export Bureau to take seven tarantulas back to Europe. He successfully bred them.
You’re looking at the child of one of those original seven!
Primarily, however, this post is FILLER. I had to do something to push my REAL POST OF THE DAY a bit farther down the page. Formatting issues, folks: scroll down and you’ll see the problem.
If I knew more HTML, *&#$!@ like this wouldn’t happen.
D.
Faith has no anti-meme
Here is an email I received yesterday:
I was listening to your show today (4/23) and your discussion about vampire
bat saliva as an anti-coagulant used as the basis for formulating a new
drug. In disseminating this factual information, you also stated that this
anti-coagulant function in the vampire bat evolved over thousands of years,
which I do not believe to be a fact, but conjecture. Do you know as a
scientific fact that the vampire bat was not created with that ability?
I’m very leery of evolutionists and their theories. Evolution, after all,
is still a theory, and not a proven scientific fact.
Although the theory of evolution may be generally accepted, it is still a
theory.
This fellow was kind enough to let me use this email, so I won’t be mean. After all, he’s not the first person to confuse me with alternative medicine guru Dr. Ronald Hoffman, nor can he help having the wrong idea about evolution. He’s not alone: according to the Gallup folks, one third of Americans consider evolution to be ‘one of many theories’, ‘not supported by evidence’. (One third do think evolution is backed by evidence, and one third stated they didn’t know enough about it to have an opinion. Yay, US educational system!!)
As a former scientist (can I call myself that? Or should I say, ‘former scientist wannabe’?), I have a reasonably thorough knowledge of the nitty gritty details of evolution; I understand both the arguments Creationists use, and the proofs debunking those specious arguments. This format is far too limited to even scratch the surface. Besides, Mark Isaak’s Talk Origins Archive has a stunningly exhaustive index of Creationist arguments and their rebuttals. (Regarding the one third of Americans who don’t believe there is any empirical evidence backing the theory of evolution, see this page at the Talk Origins Archive for the exhaustive response.)
HOWEVER. As a writer, I’m captivated by the letter-writer’s use of the word theory. You see, scientists are saddled with a word whose common meaning is very nearly the antithesis of its proper scientific meaning. To the common man, just about any half-poached idea can warrant the label of theory. I have a theory that Brittney Spears is actually Orlando Bloom, cleverly disguised. See? All it takes to hatch this sort of theory is an imagination, and not a particularly good one at that.
But to a scientist, a theory is far more than a random brain fart. Wikipedia has a somewhat vague discussion of ‘theory’. The best bit of this discussion: a theory is a model of reality. A good theory explains aspects of our world, solar system, universe; a good theory enables us to make testable predictions regarding features of nature we have not yet investigated. A scientific theory is therefore not a hunch, guess, or hypothesis, as these are not generalizable to other aspects of nature. (My theory of Brittney Spears’ true identity does not enable me to make predictions as to Michael Jackson’s species.) Nor do scientific theories have an equal footing with religion, faith, or philosophy. Apples and origins, kids. Apples and origins.
Is evolution a good theory? When it comes to the natural sciences, evolution has been an unparalleled success. It’s a stupendous theory. That makes it somewhat less solid than real numbers and somewhat more solid than matter.
Not that this will have any power whatsoever over the Creationists, for they possess something far more adamantine than the theory of evolution: they have faith. Faith is the arch-meme, the mega mind virus that trumps all others. Reason has no clout with faith. You might as well treat colon cancer with black coffee enemas.
D.
Penile Collagen Injection for the Masses
It’s true. Women phone me from all over the country, ask my advice, and then write articles about what I say. They get published in various womens’ magazines with babes like Cameron Diaz on the cover. Just buy the May edition of Marie Claire and see for yourself (I’ve been quoted in Cosmo, too.). So that you don’t have to trouble yourself with Cameron’s “secret passions” or the article “SEX with strangers (the naughty trend YOU need to know)”, go straight to page 201 and listen to yours truly holding forth on the subject of acid reflux.
Whatever you do, don’t turn the page, or you might see a very tasteful black-and-white photograph of a blonde knockout being orally pleasured by . . . oh, I dunno . . . someone with dark hair. Maybe it’s her husband. Yeah, that’s it.
The article (spoilers! spoilers!) is about vaginal rejuvenation surgery and G-spot collagen injection. This last bit caught my attention. Get this: it costs $1800 and is supposed to improve orgasm. And it lasts about three months before the collagen is absorbed.
Waves of ozone spilled from my dizzily cranking flywheels. G-spot collage injection? I once injected collagen into a woman’s lips to make them more Julia-Robertsy, so why not? While we’re at it, we* could advocate clitoral collagen injection for women whose men are permanently lost at sea. (Where, honey? Where? Damn. Thought I had it that time.) Or penile collagen injections: semi-permanently ribbed for her pleasure.
Tweaked white women like Jocelyne Wildenstein get plastic surgery to look like lions. Southern California parents want their pre-teen daughters to have breast implants to hurry along their modeling career (sorry, no link for that — I’d have to sift through too many kiddie porn sites, and I’m not that twisted). Some guys are getting horns and whiskers surgically implanted. And then there’s Michael Jackson. And so I ask you: why the hell not?
I have an answer, but before I share it with you, take a look at this blog, wherein writer Katie attributes all of this to . . . SATAN!
Why say no to G-spot collagen injection? Simple good sense: there’s no track record. Wait for the double blind trials, people.
Why say no to the Jocelyne Wildensteins and Michael Jacksons of the world? Because they’re in piss poor taste, that’s why. I mean . . . look at them. Come on.
By the way, there are no such things as ‘penile collagen injection’ or ‘clitoral collagen injection’. I did an advanced search on Google and it just ain’t there. Thank heavens.
D.
*’We’ in the sense of ‘extended medical community’, naturally. As an ENT, if I stray below your collarbones with anything other than a stethoscope, stop me.
So that’s why no one’s leaving comments!
Before I forget, thanks to Crystal for posting this very nice bio of Philip K. Dick on her blog today. PKD, uneven though his oeuvre might be, nevertheless left us with The Man in the High Castle, a highly atypical take on the what-would-have-happened-if-the-Nazis-won-the-war scenario, and a wealth of other thoughtful and thought-provoking novels, many of which had their plots wiped clean to become vehicles for trash actors like Arnold the Schwarz and Tom Cruise (who, I’ll have you know, is even shorter than I am). My personal favorite: PKD’s Valis trilogy , a one-of-a-kind fusion of SF with Gnosticism. (And how, I wonder, might the last 2000 years have played out, had the Gnostics gained the upper hand? I wonder if PKD ever considered writing that one.) Something happened to Dick — was it a dream? A drug-induced hallucination? I don’t know, but he turned it into three novels.
And thanks to Debi for pointing out that folks needed a blog to post comments here. Has to do with the settings, dearest. I had it on some sort of bloggers-only setting, but that’s been changed. Now, anyone and their uncle can leave comments. Here that? You have no excuse. (No, Debi, not you. And sorry, again, that I turned you into a double bloggerer. How I love that word . . . bloggerer.)
Note to the non-blog-savvy: click on ‘Archives’ to pull up the full list of April posts.
D.
PS Good writing day. 1250 words, and I finished the chapter. I feel good about it, with reservations.
PPS Chief reservation: I might feel awful about it. Haven’t made up my mind yet.
We be jammin’
Today, I worked on the novel until just after noon, extending one scene and finishing a second, particularly difficult one. 1500 words in all, which makes this an above-average writing day. I also managed to get down to the gym (four times this week!) AND did a bunch of shopping up in Oregon.
Dinner tonight: spanakopita and bastilla. Gotta use all that phyllo dough; it turns to dust in the fridge.
Thanks to Crystal for turning me on to Apple iTunes. I’ve stayed away from music downloads for years; as an author-wannabe, I’ve had no desire to violate another artist’s copyright. (Hey, did you catch that? Another.) But iTunes is LEGAL. A buck a track, and they give you some nifty software for free. Here’s my first CD, a big 80s / big 90s compilation:
Blue Monday – New Order
It’s a Mug’s Game – Soft Cell
Mirror In the Bathroom – The English Beat
How Soon Is Now? – t.A.T.u.
Heroes – David Bowie
Cities in Dust – Siouxsie and The Banshees
Fire and Ice – Pat Benatar
Gone Daddy Gone – Violent Femmes
Tears of a Clown – The English Beat
Hand in Glove – The Smiths
Sex Dwarf – Soft Cell
Precious – Pretenders
Pretty In Pink – The Psychedelic Furs
Mirror In the Bathroom – The English Beat
Behind The Wheel – Depeche Mode
Blister in the Sun – Violent Femmes
Yes, I burned Mirror in the Bathroom twice. It’s that good.
Are there some omissions here? A few. No B52s, Boomtown Rats, or Madness. No Clash (intentionally — I got tired of them in the dorms), no Talking Heads, no Chicago. (Hee hee. Just wanted to see if you were paying attention.) Next time around, I’ll leave out Bowie’s Heroes. Good song, but it just doesn’t fit.
Now, Crystal, I ask you: looking at a list like this, don’t you feel a bit like my facilitator?
For the folks: relatively more recent photo of Jake below. This picture is only four years old.
Cheers, kids.
D.
Name that automatic weapon.
Who says research isn’t necessary for soft science fiction? At the moment, I’m working on my novel (okay, technically I’m goofing off) , and I need to know what to call the name label on the breast of a military uniform. Surely they’re not called appliqués. So far, I’ve settled unhappily on calling it a label. But my Google search led me to these grinning, realistic-but-fake-gun-toting Cimmerians here.
What, you ask, is a Cimmerian? As best I can tell, they’re fun-loving Americans who like to hammer each other with paintballs, except these paintballs are tiny enough that they don’t sting. They dress in full military gear and they use weapons that (the website reassures me) are indistinguishable from the real thing.
No snide comments from this quarter. Seems to me, if their weapons are indistinguishable from the real thing, they might take live rounds just as well as micro paintballs.
Reminds me of a story from my indentured servitude in the Kedes Lab. Our lovely dishwasher once put us in line by relating that she’d purchased an ouzi by mail order. It was a bee-you-tiful gun, she said, but so difficult to put together. Still, she’d managed . . .
Maybe it was true. Maybe it wasn’t. We didn’t bitch to her much, after that.
D.
The Hunger
No, not Tony Scott’s moody Deneuve-Bowie-Sarandon vampire flick, but rather, the pit-of-the-soul carb craving only two years of Atkins Diet induction can spawn. That’s right, I’ve never made it out of induction. Oh, would I love to make it out of induction.
Six months ago I overcame 20+ years of lassitude and joined a local gym. I reasoned that if I increased my activity level, I’d be able to eat more carbs. But then something interesting happened: I discovered that I’m a mesomorph trapped in an endomorph’s body. Or, as I learned this evening on bodybuilderpro.com, I am Sylvester Stallone trapped in Roseanne Barr’s body. Yo.
I began trimming off inches, replacing fat with muscle. This was all well and good — I have a nice, hard tukhas now — but it galls me that I can’t get my weight below 160. Indeed, as of this writing, I’m having a devil of a time cracking 165. I think I could tolerate this number if my stomach would flatten . . . but it won’t! Damn me, I can feel that washboard lurking in there, that six-pack yearning to be free, but I’m told by the gym jocks I’ll have to starve and dehydrate to really get that definition.
I’ve been shooting for a Body-Mass Index of 25. That’s 155 lbs for me. It ain’t gonna happen. The few times I’ve made it to 159 (thanks to food poisoning, stomach flu, that sort of thing), I’ve binged my way back to 163. I caught a recent news item that the Feds are going to loosen these guidelines, thereby creating far fewer obese people in the United States, but I can’t seem to find the exact stats. What BMI do I shoot for now? If they raise the bar to 27, I’M LEAN!
This is the stuff I think about as I do my 45 minutes on the elliptical trainer, trying not to look at the 90 lb woman next to me who could kick my ass in two seconds. (Her boyfriend was working out, too. “Hey, Ron! This guy’s bugging me. Horm* him for me, will ya?” Well, maybe three seconds.) Because I’m not assertive around guys who could bench press me, I never gripe about the music (Jurassic rock today . . . AC/DC, Aerosmith, etc.) or change the TV (Seinfeld of all things). On the drive home, I put on an old Cowboy Junkies CD and let Margo Timmins’ satin voice mellow me out. I’m okay now.
Atkins dinner for me tonight: a four-egg omelet, five strips of bacon, and two pieces of low carb toast. Handful of dried cranberries and a stinkyfart bar (love those sugar alcohols) for dessert. I made pesto for Karen and Jake, so I can’t eat that, and I’m sick of salads. But I’m not complaining. (What, you thought I was complaining?)
I’m keeping the weight off.
I can see my wiener when I go pee.
Some things are important.
D.
*Hormed: a verb cherished by all of us old enough to remember Rogue:
. . . . I @ .
. . . . . I I .
. . . . . . . .
Translation: you are about to get hormed by a quartet of Intellect Devourers. “Your mind reels from the Intellect Devourer’s ego whip.” Ah, the good old days: when it took imagination to enjoy a computer game.
World of Warcraft ate my brain.
Surgery day for yours truly here at St. Mammon Community Hospital. This means I hustled my butt out of bed at 7, skipped my coffee, and got into the hospital by 7:20. When will I learn that it’s okay to get in a few minutes later and not skip the coffee?
For a few months now I’ve had trouble working on the novel at night. I’ve been productive on the weekends, but my evening writing has slowed to a crawl. (Oddly enough, though, I wrote “Troll Lover” mostly at night.) This annoying problem coincided with our purchase of Blizzard’s World of Warcraft. I doubt this is coincidental.
WoW is an MMORPG, in case you were wondering; however, if you know what an MMORPG is, you surely don’t need to be told that World of Warcraft is one of ’em. (Okay, okay. My parents are reading this. MMORPG = massive multiplayer online role-playing game. Doesn’t that help loads?) My preferred character is She Witch, a rogue troll, but occasionally I slum with the Alliance in my other guise: Scyther, a Night Elf huntress. When you play in the Night Elves’ realm, WoW plays this dippy music that is PLAINLY a rip-off of the incidental music used in Lord of the Rings whenever those dippy elves are on screen. I’ve tried to make Scyther as butch as possible, but that’s a tough gig when you’re an elf.
Need I mention that we bought this game for my son?
Tonight the muse is as dry as a baby-powdered ass. I’m outa here. Gotta go collect mushrooms or chop off a paladin’s head . . . some damned thing.
D.