A few nights ago a friend of mine named Claire told me to switch on Nightline because she knew I was doing some research into the Devil for an article. As a horror writer, the Devil is good fodder, but I’ll get into that more in the actual article when I write it.
This particular Nightline dealt with the Republic of the Congo and a few other African nations where pseudo religious potentates, corrupt officials and brainless parents believed their kids were possessed by the Devil and/or witchcraft.
Of course these false priests and crooked politicos make plenty of unpossessed, if not clean, money off of the whole thing by offering fake cures for non-existent maladies. As if profiting on others’ distress wasn’t disgusting enough, idiot parents were dragging perfectly normal kids in to be “exorcised”, often painfully, or worse burning them with cigarettes themselves to cast out the demons, or simply abandoning them in the middle of nowhere. What the hell, I guess, they could just have more young’ins. One little boy who had been left by his father on the side of the road in the middle of the jungle wandered into the “healing” camp and hadn’t eaten in God knows how long. Damned if I didn’t want to just burst into tears seeing this poor child. And throw up. Thank goodness the reporter got him a plate of food (and while I am at it I would like to thank these “republics” for letting millions of dollars worth of donated food and medicine rot on docks or be sold black market instead of going towards their intended use. Jolly good job you bastards are doing. I suppose all those poor children are just cluttering up your land anyway and getting in the way or your drug-running, terrorism, raping, ivory poaching and corpulent lifestyles. I’m very glad to see how far you’ve moved into civilized society.)
One mother was letting her half-dozen plus children scamper around the fake priest’s camp without food or water because she thought they were all possessed. And the dumb bitch was pregnant with yet another child. It was pretty obvious who was possessed in this case, and not by witchcraft but by stupidity, ignorance and plain insanity. Somebody needs to sew this woman’s crotch shut.
When confronted by the reporter (whom I give kudos for not backing off), these fake healers laughed and had the gall to ask for money. And when confronted with the atrocities being suffered by these children, the Powers that Be refused to close these fake churches because “powerful” people sometimes attended.
What the hell is wrong with people? There are a number of problems here, the least of which is what are these kids going to think when—if—they grow up about religion with this kind of “Christianity” as an example? And I am NOT taking shots at Christianity or any religion here. I am condemning these charlatans who hurt and steal in the name of something that is supposed to do good. There are many many wonderful Christian missionaries, as well as from other religions, doing tremendous work, often at the risk of life and limb. But these sons of bitches who masquerade under the name Goodness so they can prey on the innocent—they make me sick.
Yeah, I realize children can be genuine pains in the ass, and often even cruel and destructive if left to their own devices by parents who are experts at plugging A into B but idiots when it comes to dealing with the result of their union. But possessed by the Devil? With the exception of some of my neighborhood kids, I don’t think so. At first I honestly didn’t know which was more disgusting—the fake priests, the brain-dead parents or crooked officials. After some contemplation and calming down, I lean towards despising the parents most because they are the ones responsible for protecting their children, not offering them up to the guilty, not labeling them as demon-inhabited—something that tainted even the “cured” for life. These parents are robbing their children of their childhood and all the truly “magical” things that are supposed to go with it. These kids will never have the chance to be kids, to be cowboys and princesses, to pretend to sail the stars or ride the wind. Their frickin’ dumb ass parents have robbed them of that wonder and So. Much. More. Because if they grown up they will likely have nothing more than a sickly distorted and perverted view of the world. How could they have anything else?
Those parents, fake priests and corrupt officials are the REAL Devils here, not some horned being crawling up from the Underworld. If anyone is possessed, assuming some such thing were possible, it is them.
My heart bleeds for these children. And has utter contempt for their tormentors. May they be damned for their despicable deeds.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
A Bitter Pill
Last night I caught the tail end of a news report proclaiming a recent scientific study stated bitterness may be a mental illness. If it is, it’s all too prevalent in today’s society. I know some very bitter people, and I’m sure y’all do too. It’s hard not to be bitter when everywhere you turn one injustice or another occurs with impunity. Or someone undeserving of success makes millions while the truly talented, such as Poe, die of disease and in poverty.
I know a writer who’s extremely bitter. This despite the fact he’s sold over 20 books, though those books don’t bring in very much money. I can empathize with that, as can most writers, and probably most 9 to 5 workers, who feel they don’t get paid enough for what they do. This writer, however, seemed bitter before writing, and has become even more so as time has gone on. He seems to revel in the passive aggressive snipes at others’ successes, however large or small. His bitterness bleeds through nearly every post, blog or article he writes. It’s sad, yet at the same time can wear on you if you either aren’t yet bitter or are struggling not to become that way.
Does this writer have a mental illness? Is this illness brought about by society? One’s own faulty wiring? Environmental and rearing factors? Can it be cured with some cognitive therapy, assuming the person is capable of realizing they are indeed emotionally ill?
If bitterness becomes a mental illness, does negativism? Cynicism? Is Don Rickles funny or deranged? What defines a mental illness, anyway? Who sets that standard and what average is it judged against?
Maybe happy, well-adjusted people are mentally ill. Maybe positive, hopeful people are messed up.
Sometimes it seems hard to tell just what it real and unreal in today’s world. Which is reality and which is dream. And for too many it’s easy to slip into that which feels the most comfortable for them. Easier to hide from the shadows, all the while being absorbed into them.
I wonder where it will stop. If it will stop. Hmm, maybe that makes me nuts. One thing I am positive of, I grow exceedingly tired of bitter negative people trying to bring others down, then getting angry when they refuse to accept their charcoal-colored reality.
How about you?
I know a writer who’s extremely bitter. This despite the fact he’s sold over 20 books, though those books don’t bring in very much money. I can empathize with that, as can most writers, and probably most 9 to 5 workers, who feel they don’t get paid enough for what they do. This writer, however, seemed bitter before writing, and has become even more so as time has gone on. He seems to revel in the passive aggressive snipes at others’ successes, however large or small. His bitterness bleeds through nearly every post, blog or article he writes. It’s sad, yet at the same time can wear on you if you either aren’t yet bitter or are struggling not to become that way.
Does this writer have a mental illness? Is this illness brought about by society? One’s own faulty wiring? Environmental and rearing factors? Can it be cured with some cognitive therapy, assuming the person is capable of realizing they are indeed emotionally ill?
If bitterness becomes a mental illness, does negativism? Cynicism? Is Don Rickles funny or deranged? What defines a mental illness, anyway? Who sets that standard and what average is it judged against?
Maybe happy, well-adjusted people are mentally ill. Maybe positive, hopeful people are messed up.
Sometimes it seems hard to tell just what it real and unreal in today’s world. Which is reality and which is dream. And for too many it’s easy to slip into that which feels the most comfortable for them. Easier to hide from the shadows, all the while being absorbed into them.
I wonder where it will stop. If it will stop. Hmm, maybe that makes me nuts. One thing I am positive of, I grow exceedingly tired of bitter negative people trying to bring others down, then getting angry when they refuse to accept their charcoal-colored reality.
How about you?
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Rejection Deception
Nobody likes rejection. Authors have an especially difficult time handling it because, even though it’s built into the game, it involves a dismissal of something that is part of our very being—our creativity. You send out a manuscript you’ve spent countless hours honing to perfection, poured your blood, sweat and tears into…only to get it back, sometimes a year later, with a form slip that says: Not for Us. Fed through out mind filter it reads: You suck.
Rejection is hard. And rejection of something you’ve put that much of yourself into is right up there with someone telling you your baby looks like the backside of horse. As authors, we sometime take the rejection as a personal slight, meaning not only is our book no good but maybe we’re no good. Our self-worth is often tied into our creation. It’s not meant that way by the publisher or editor who rejected the work Often it is merely market-driven considerations, at least for their particular company. But it’s hard not to take it personally.
It’s that way in any area of life. Whether you’re asking the girl/guy of your dreams for a first date or applying for that job you feel would be perfect for you.
Over time you can cut down on those rejections, by honing your talents, developing your skills…or buying a small firearm. You know I’m kidding on the last one, right? Er, mostly.
Rejection, however, can be useful, if not pleasant—if we resign ourselves to viewing it in a positive manner. We can let it fuel our drive to succeed, to augment our skills and learn new ones, to sharpen the talents we already have. We can gain experience and learn to cope with a world that commonly does not go our way, instead of letting it make us bitter and frustrated. There will be days, of course, when one particular rejection hurts more than another, or when someone issuing the rejection decides to get personal and take out their pettiness or bad day on you. But you know what? Those types aren’t worth worrying about anyway. Why give them that power over your self-esteem or mood?
Like most authors, I have enough rejection slips I received early on to paper a wall. But I learned from them (if nothing else, where best to hide the, er, bodies…) The one thing you can count on with rejections, however: they make the acceptances, whether it be that first sale or first date, all the sweeter and more appreciated.
Rejection is hard. And rejection of something you’ve put that much of yourself into is right up there with someone telling you your baby looks like the backside of horse. As authors, we sometime take the rejection as a personal slight, meaning not only is our book no good but maybe we’re no good. Our self-worth is often tied into our creation. It’s not meant that way by the publisher or editor who rejected the work Often it is merely market-driven considerations, at least for their particular company. But it’s hard not to take it personally.
It’s that way in any area of life. Whether you’re asking the girl/guy of your dreams for a first date or applying for that job you feel would be perfect for you.
Over time you can cut down on those rejections, by honing your talents, developing your skills…or buying a small firearm. You know I’m kidding on the last one, right? Er, mostly.
Rejection, however, can be useful, if not pleasant—if we resign ourselves to viewing it in a positive manner. We can let it fuel our drive to succeed, to augment our skills and learn new ones, to sharpen the talents we already have. We can gain experience and learn to cope with a world that commonly does not go our way, instead of letting it make us bitter and frustrated. There will be days, of course, when one particular rejection hurts more than another, or when someone issuing the rejection decides to get personal and take out their pettiness or bad day on you. But you know what? Those types aren’t worth worrying about anyway. Why give them that power over your self-esteem or mood?
Like most authors, I have enough rejection slips I received early on to paper a wall. But I learned from them (if nothing else, where best to hide the, er, bodies…) The one thing you can count on with rejections, however: they make the acceptances, whether it be that first sale or first date, all the sweeter and more appreciated.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
A Little Sex Talk...or Not.
Sex is a delicate subject. It’s not really a time you want to hear a lot of laughing, bored sighs or throwing up. And there are just some things you don’t want to ask, during or after sex. Not only can the kill the moment—and let’s face guys, sometimes a moment is all you got—but they’re sure not to get you a return invitation. A little decorum can go a long ways, so heed the advice of those who have gone before…and never gone again…
“You’re HOW old?”
“Hey, do you mind if the monkeys watch?”
“What the hell is THAT thing, anyway?”
“Should I get a rope?”
“Are those real?”
“What do you mean you need to run my credit card numbers?”
“Why are you wearing scuba gear?”
“I thought you said you were a girl!”
“Is an electric carving knife really necessary?”
“There are penalties for early withdrawal, you know…”
“What was your name again?”
“You’re kidding, right? I thought everybody liked Poodles.”
“Dammit, my husband’s home!”
“Are you dead?”
And last but not least: “Silly Rabbit, tricks are for kids…” Or am I mixing that last one up with something? Meh.
“You’re HOW old?”
“Hey, do you mind if the monkeys watch?”
“What the hell is THAT thing, anyway?”
“Should I get a rope?”
“Are those real?”
“What do you mean you need to run my credit card numbers?”
“Why are you wearing scuba gear?”
“I thought you said you were a girl!”
“Is an electric carving knife really necessary?”
“There are penalties for early withdrawal, you know…”
“What was your name again?”
“You’re kidding, right? I thought everybody liked Poodles.”
“Dammit, my husband’s home!”
“Are you dead?”
And last but not least: “Silly Rabbit, tricks are for kids…” Or am I mixing that last one up with something? Meh.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Mr. Muggles Strikes Back
I’ve been after the little S-O-B for weeks. He’s mocking me now, I’m pretty certain of it. Since I stay up late, and he is apparently nocturnal, he runs out from behind the washing machine in the hallway and peers into my lit office, then scampers back. A couple times I’ve looked up to see him tearing down the hall at hypersonic speed. He thinks it’s funny.
He is bionic, I’m pretty sure. The Sic Million Dollar Mouse. Mr. Muggles.
Now, I’m an animal lover, with the exception of reptiles, and apparently Mr. Muggles is fully aware of this. He thinks he lives here and has the run of the house, which I guess at the moment he does. I have one of those large metal box traps where the little guys can walk in and a small door shuts behind them. There’s air holes and I leave enough food in the trap so they’re pretty satiated by the time I drive them up to a nearby field and relocate them. Just flip open the top and off they bolt. I would not use poison or anything that would hurt them.
But Mr. Muggles isn’t falling for peanuts or cheese. So tonight I am trying peanut butter spread on a wheat cracker. Sooner or later his little gray ass is mine.
He tasks me. All fluffy two inches of him. At least I assume it’s a him. Mr. Muggles might be Miss Muggles. I haven’t been able to get close enough to find out and probably will forgo that distinction. I’m not too sure what kind or kick he is getting out of taunting me, peering in at me with his beady mousy eyes. Oh, and he’s a weird little thing, sorta like a tiny gray kangaroo. Gee, they don’t come that small, do they? There’s been a lot of immigration in Maine lately.
Ah, well. He’s set the bar, now I have to rise to it. Or lower to it, since he is only two inches tall. Mr. Muggles is going down. Him and his squeaky trash talkin’. It’s me or the mouse. Updates to follow…
He is bionic, I’m pretty sure. The Sic Million Dollar Mouse. Mr. Muggles.
Now, I’m an animal lover, with the exception of reptiles, and apparently Mr. Muggles is fully aware of this. He thinks he lives here and has the run of the house, which I guess at the moment he does. I have one of those large metal box traps where the little guys can walk in and a small door shuts behind them. There’s air holes and I leave enough food in the trap so they’re pretty satiated by the time I drive them up to a nearby field and relocate them. Just flip open the top and off they bolt. I would not use poison or anything that would hurt them.
But Mr. Muggles isn’t falling for peanuts or cheese. So tonight I am trying peanut butter spread on a wheat cracker. Sooner or later his little gray ass is mine.
He tasks me. All fluffy two inches of him. At least I assume it’s a him. Mr. Muggles might be Miss Muggles. I haven’t been able to get close enough to find out and probably will forgo that distinction. I’m not too sure what kind or kick he is getting out of taunting me, peering in at me with his beady mousy eyes. Oh, and he’s a weird little thing, sorta like a tiny gray kangaroo. Gee, they don’t come that small, do they? There’s been a lot of immigration in Maine lately.
Ah, well. He’s set the bar, now I have to rise to it. Or lower to it, since he is only two inches tall. Mr. Muggles is going down. Him and his squeaky trash talkin’. It’s me or the mouse. Updates to follow…
Friday, May 22, 2009
Try to Remember...
Sometimes memory is a weird thing. I have trouble remembering my character names and description particulars, or town names in a novel I’m writing, so I use recipe cards of various colors taped to my desk hutch to keep track to keep track.
Yet I clearly remember my first day of kindergarten and the next few months after that, because my family moved from the home town in which I live now to the next one over (which is something I would like to forget). It was a rainy day, gloomy and I recall being scared crapless and wanting to run out of the anteroom in which we had to hang our coats and stow our galoshes attached to the class. I can recall other kids, though their faces have long since turned into featureless blobs, laughing and pushing, obviously not as worried as I was. And the smell of my yellow Macintosh, the scents of construction paper and paste and that weird rubbery glue that came in little bottles with creepy brown-orange rubber tops. And a particular scent of perfume my teacher, Mrs. Regan, wore.
I recall having a pretty big crush on Mrs. Regan. I don’t recall why, or much what she looked like, only that I was smitten with her teacherly charms. Yeah, I got a running start on chicks but at five wasn’t much of a player.
I remember the classroom and a sliding partition dividing it from the adjoining classroom. And I recall my last day there, fear gone, but tears coming because I didn’t want to leave Mrs. Regan. I hope she’s not reading this because she’s probably 80 now and as much as I’m down with cougars I have my limits…
It was a Friday; I recollect that, too. My parents and grandparents, and aunt and uncle all sat in the kitchen of the new house into which we had moved, playing Pokeno and drinking coffee. I remember the scent of the coffee, Hills Bros brand. I remember the red can and the Hills Bros man. I sat in the living room coloring sheets Mrs. Regan had given me, watching the original Star Trek series. The episode was the one where primitive natives worshiped this dragon rock/cave named Vaal (The Apple). Oddly enough it was Friday the 13th.
I am not sure why all this stuck in my head, or why it’s still taking up space there when I need the softdrive room for more important things, like Jennifer Love Hewitt’s bust size, er, I mean, novel writing stuff. And I am not sure why a day that was actually sad for me brings back warm feelings.
But sometimes memory is a weird thing…
Yet I clearly remember my first day of kindergarten and the next few months after that, because my family moved from the home town in which I live now to the next one over (which is something I would like to forget). It was a rainy day, gloomy and I recall being scared crapless and wanting to run out of the anteroom in which we had to hang our coats and stow our galoshes attached to the class. I can recall other kids, though their faces have long since turned into featureless blobs, laughing and pushing, obviously not as worried as I was. And the smell of my yellow Macintosh, the scents of construction paper and paste and that weird rubbery glue that came in little bottles with creepy brown-orange rubber tops. And a particular scent of perfume my teacher, Mrs. Regan, wore.
I recall having a pretty big crush on Mrs. Regan. I don’t recall why, or much what she looked like, only that I was smitten with her teacherly charms. Yeah, I got a running start on chicks but at five wasn’t much of a player.
I remember the classroom and a sliding partition dividing it from the adjoining classroom. And I recall my last day there, fear gone, but tears coming because I didn’t want to leave Mrs. Regan. I hope she’s not reading this because she’s probably 80 now and as much as I’m down with cougars I have my limits…
It was a Friday; I recollect that, too. My parents and grandparents, and aunt and uncle all sat in the kitchen of the new house into which we had moved, playing Pokeno and drinking coffee. I remember the scent of the coffee, Hills Bros brand. I remember the red can and the Hills Bros man. I sat in the living room coloring sheets Mrs. Regan had given me, watching the original Star Trek series. The episode was the one where primitive natives worshiped this dragon rock/cave named Vaal (The Apple). Oddly enough it was Friday the 13th.
I am not sure why all this stuck in my head, or why it’s still taking up space there when I need the softdrive room for more important things, like Jennifer Love Hewitt’s bust size, er, I mean, novel writing stuff. And I am not sure why a day that was actually sad for me brings back warm feelings.
But sometimes memory is a weird thing…
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Biting the Hand
I’ve noticed a handful of writers lately dissing their present or past publisher. I don’t mean making genuine types of complaints, such as they didn’t get their royalties or they were treated poorly. I’m talking about picky stuff mostly, nasty, grousing or even mean-spirited stuff like so and so editor couldn’t tell talent if it came up and bit him/her in the ass. Same goes for people in some other types of jobs, but since I’m a writer that’s what I’ll deal with here.
And they are doing it online, tweeting it on Twitter or on posting it on Myspace or one of the other social networking services. Twitter gets googled. So do a number of the others. So what these people say about their present or past employer goes out public over the web. Do these people think their bosses don’t use computers or google their name every so often? Some even do it intentionally, maybe with some misguided notion it will actually fix the problem. But such is the doodie stepping of passive-aggressiveness. They’d do well to remember that once you step in something it’s often pretty damn hard to scrape it all off. And it leaves a nasty stink.
Right now, if you are a writer and lucky enough to be published you might want to use a little more decorum in what you say. Because there’s a pretty good chance your boss might be reading it. And if it’s a company you have written for in the past, do you think your present editor might not wonder if you are going to do the same thing to him/her should you part ways?
Some people don’t care. I know one writer who blatantly says he does not give a damn who reads what he is saying, whether it’s the company he/she writes for or others. Said writer also grouses about his/her lack of paying jobs for other publishers. Not that there is any correlation there…hell, he/she might just be a tedious read. But why take chances.
Bad-mouthing is unattractive in any form, in my opinion. Usually the mark of insecurity, bitterness or just plain self-importance. Some people just do not know when or how to shut up, or don’t care to. Ok, fine. Keep running your mouths. That may open spots for those writers struggling to get in the door who can work with publishers and show a degree of professionalism and enthusiasm. Enthusiasm doesn’t just translate to the company you work for, but to those around you, as well as yourself. You might inspire someone, or bring them out of their depressive slump with your coattails.
Being stubborn, bitter, mean-mouthed, certainly does not endear writers to any editor or publisher, though I suppose perhaps in their own minds they feel it makes them relevant. But it might be a good idea to take a moment to reconsider because few people are SO talented they can’t be replaced by someone who truly appreciates the opportunity.
Sometimes freedom of speech really is knowing when to shut the hell up.
And they are doing it online, tweeting it on Twitter or on posting it on Myspace or one of the other social networking services. Twitter gets googled. So do a number of the others. So what these people say about their present or past employer goes out public over the web. Do these people think their bosses don’t use computers or google their name every so often? Some even do it intentionally, maybe with some misguided notion it will actually fix the problem. But such is the doodie stepping of passive-aggressiveness. They’d do well to remember that once you step in something it’s often pretty damn hard to scrape it all off. And it leaves a nasty stink.
Right now, if you are a writer and lucky enough to be published you might want to use a little more decorum in what you say. Because there’s a pretty good chance your boss might be reading it. And if it’s a company you have written for in the past, do you think your present editor might not wonder if you are going to do the same thing to him/her should you part ways?
Some people don’t care. I know one writer who blatantly says he does not give a damn who reads what he is saying, whether it’s the company he/she writes for or others. Said writer also grouses about his/her lack of paying jobs for other publishers. Not that there is any correlation there…hell, he/she might just be a tedious read. But why take chances.
Bad-mouthing is unattractive in any form, in my opinion. Usually the mark of insecurity, bitterness or just plain self-importance. Some people just do not know when or how to shut up, or don’t care to. Ok, fine. Keep running your mouths. That may open spots for those writers struggling to get in the door who can work with publishers and show a degree of professionalism and enthusiasm. Enthusiasm doesn’t just translate to the company you work for, but to those around you, as well as yourself. You might inspire someone, or bring them out of their depressive slump with your coattails.
Being stubborn, bitter, mean-mouthed, certainly does not endear writers to any editor or publisher, though I suppose perhaps in their own minds they feel it makes them relevant. But it might be a good idea to take a moment to reconsider because few people are SO talented they can’t be replaced by someone who truly appreciates the opportunity.
Sometimes freedom of speech really is knowing when to shut the hell up.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Well, That Stinks...
Some things I’ve learned recently I really didn’t need to know.
While authors struggle to sell their books, spend hours per day devising new ways to promote their creative works and establish their brand, often making sales and garnering fans at a snail’s pace, apparently some things sell widely and instantly.
I’m talking about things like used socks and shoes.
Oh, yeah, you heard me right. Because while its Sisyphusian business to persuade someone into parting with their hard-earned 15 bucks for hours worth of entertainment, it’s apparently child’s play talking them out of four times that amount for old socks. Smelly socks. The smellier the better.
No, I’m not kidding. I know someone with an eBay store who has sold out of this particular item(s) to the point of having to purchase new ones, wear them about until they reek to the proper degree , then simply post on eBay and rake in the dough.
What. The. Hell?
Apparently there’s a whole fetish thing with smelly socks and shoes (and often it’s men who want smelly female shoes). Some customers have even questioned the cheesy degree of sock fermentation. Oh, yes, it has to be just right and boy that package better just stink to high Heaven when the purchaser opens it.
Please, somebody explain to me why anyone would want such things? What is the turn on? I mean, Jeez, Louise, I spend money on new socks and deodorants just to avoid that freakin’ stench. I don’t like mal-odors. Not in the least. Flowers smell pretty nice. Perfume too. But old socks and shoes embedded with bacteria-laced sweat? Gross. Double gross.
So all you writers and other entrepreneurs out there, you just better resign yourself to the fact we are in the wrong line of business. Spend countless hours creating? No, no, no. Open an Amazon store and sell your stinky old socks instead. Really. Now’s the time to get your foot in the door. Horn in on the profits. Raise a stink. Put your heart and sole into it. Don’t be a heel. Making money this way is a shoe-in.
Ok. I’ll stop now. I have to run out and buy some new socks…
While authors struggle to sell their books, spend hours per day devising new ways to promote their creative works and establish their brand, often making sales and garnering fans at a snail’s pace, apparently some things sell widely and instantly.
I’m talking about things like used socks and shoes.
Oh, yeah, you heard me right. Because while its Sisyphusian business to persuade someone into parting with their hard-earned 15 bucks for hours worth of entertainment, it’s apparently child’s play talking them out of four times that amount for old socks. Smelly socks. The smellier the better.
No, I’m not kidding. I know someone with an eBay store who has sold out of this particular item(s) to the point of having to purchase new ones, wear them about until they reek to the proper degree , then simply post on eBay and rake in the dough.
What. The. Hell?
Apparently there’s a whole fetish thing with smelly socks and shoes (and often it’s men who want smelly female shoes). Some customers have even questioned the cheesy degree of sock fermentation. Oh, yes, it has to be just right and boy that package better just stink to high Heaven when the purchaser opens it.
Please, somebody explain to me why anyone would want such things? What is the turn on? I mean, Jeez, Louise, I spend money on new socks and deodorants just to avoid that freakin’ stench. I don’t like mal-odors. Not in the least. Flowers smell pretty nice. Perfume too. But old socks and shoes embedded with bacteria-laced sweat? Gross. Double gross.
So all you writers and other entrepreneurs out there, you just better resign yourself to the fact we are in the wrong line of business. Spend countless hours creating? No, no, no. Open an Amazon store and sell your stinky old socks instead. Really. Now’s the time to get your foot in the door. Horn in on the profits. Raise a stink. Put your heart and sole into it. Don’t be a heel. Making money this way is a shoe-in.
Ok. I’ll stop now. I have to run out and buy some new socks…
Monday, May 18, 2009
Who Knows What Evil?
Evil.
What is it exactly? As a horror writer, I like the word evil quite a bit, because the genre is pretty much based on it. Monsters are evil—for the most part—serial killers are evil, Barney the Dinosaur is evil…
But is evil something tangible? Is it some living dark entity wielded by an underworld Devil, or merely a word applied to atrocious things the rational human mind cannot cope with or truly understand?
Charles Mansion. Notorious serial killer/cult leader of the late 60s. Wild of eye and vicious of nature. Most would apply the word evil liberally to this man. But is he evil? Did some dark force make him do the things he did? Or is he merely defective, unable to distinguish accepted bad from good, unable to feel remorse or compassion for others? Is he driven to hurt, to kill by actual demons or faulty brain wiring? I should think if some supernatural force controlled the man he would never have been caught, nor would he be sitting in a cell spouting lunatic gibberish whenever interviewed by some reporter. Yet, on the other hand, perhaps that is exactly what Evil wants us to think. Is Evil’s greatest tool the tabloidzation of itself? The scoffing of its power? Does it want us to believe that chemicals, glands, glitchy neuro-transmitters in the brain are responsible? Could we ever truly tell the difference?
Hilter, Pol Pot, Vlad the Impaler—all names that evoke the word evil. No one denies these men, along with many other dictators from the annals of history were tremendously bad people, driven by insane agendas and selfish quests for power. Can we blame it on evil, though? Or corrupt human machinery?
Turn on the news and we see acts of cruelness, inhumanity, greed everyday. The child abuser, the spousal abuser, the sexual predators, terrorists—all fit comfortably within our definitions of evil. Are they all possessed by a force of darkness, something real but as yet undiscovered, or unseen by choice, working surreptitiously through susceptible beings to bring about Hell on earth? Or could it be some sort of virus, like a computer program gone amuck, only instead of affecting hard drives it affects human DNA, corrupts our programming? Is the brain and body mere software, whether fashioned by a creator or not? Could it then possibly be cured if this is the case? Can we catch it by a sneeze if we hang around evil people?
At this point, Evil comes down to our particular belief system, mind filters and life influences. If we were brought up to believe all evil comes from the Devil, then chances are we accept that. If we are atheists we likely believe it’s bad wiring.
Whatever the case, wouldn’t it be nice if it were one day eliminated? Wouldn’t it be nice to simply inject a drug and no more evil?
The likelihood of that is remote, unrealistic many would say. But it’s nice to strive for.
In the meantime, what are your opinions? What is evil? And can good live without it?
What is it exactly? As a horror writer, I like the word evil quite a bit, because the genre is pretty much based on it. Monsters are evil—for the most part—serial killers are evil, Barney the Dinosaur is evil…
But is evil something tangible? Is it some living dark entity wielded by an underworld Devil, or merely a word applied to atrocious things the rational human mind cannot cope with or truly understand?
Charles Mansion. Notorious serial killer/cult leader of the late 60s. Wild of eye and vicious of nature. Most would apply the word evil liberally to this man. But is he evil? Did some dark force make him do the things he did? Or is he merely defective, unable to distinguish accepted bad from good, unable to feel remorse or compassion for others? Is he driven to hurt, to kill by actual demons or faulty brain wiring? I should think if some supernatural force controlled the man he would never have been caught, nor would he be sitting in a cell spouting lunatic gibberish whenever interviewed by some reporter. Yet, on the other hand, perhaps that is exactly what Evil wants us to think. Is Evil’s greatest tool the tabloidzation of itself? The scoffing of its power? Does it want us to believe that chemicals, glands, glitchy neuro-transmitters in the brain are responsible? Could we ever truly tell the difference?
Hilter, Pol Pot, Vlad the Impaler—all names that evoke the word evil. No one denies these men, along with many other dictators from the annals of history were tremendously bad people, driven by insane agendas and selfish quests for power. Can we blame it on evil, though? Or corrupt human machinery?
Turn on the news and we see acts of cruelness, inhumanity, greed everyday. The child abuser, the spousal abuser, the sexual predators, terrorists—all fit comfortably within our definitions of evil. Are they all possessed by a force of darkness, something real but as yet undiscovered, or unseen by choice, working surreptitiously through susceptible beings to bring about Hell on earth? Or could it be some sort of virus, like a computer program gone amuck, only instead of affecting hard drives it affects human DNA, corrupts our programming? Is the brain and body mere software, whether fashioned by a creator or not? Could it then possibly be cured if this is the case? Can we catch it by a sneeze if we hang around evil people?
At this point, Evil comes down to our particular belief system, mind filters and life influences. If we were brought up to believe all evil comes from the Devil, then chances are we accept that. If we are atheists we likely believe it’s bad wiring.
Whatever the case, wouldn’t it be nice if it were one day eliminated? Wouldn’t it be nice to simply inject a drug and no more evil?
The likelihood of that is remote, unrealistic many would say. But it’s nice to strive for.
In the meantime, what are your opinions? What is evil? And can good live without it?
Sunday, May 17, 2009
A Day at the Comics Festival
Today was the inaugural Maine Comics Arts Festival here in southern Maine. Held at the Ocean Gateway Pavilion in Portland, it is the first of its kind in the area. The Festival, put on by Rick Lowell, owner of Casablanca Comics, appeared to be a great success, if the packed room was any indication. The room itself was huge, wall to wall windows, and built over the water, providing an exquisite view of Casco Bay with its various islands, ferries and fishing boats. The day started off fairly gray and drab but the sun peeked out for a brief spell, making the waters spell-binding.
The festival focused on artists and writers, creators, as opposed to the usual flea market atmosphere of many conventions. Tables sold out and represented a dynamic and varied array of Maine comic book artists and writers. There were free comic books, spot drawings, superhero buttons, local soda samples, and myriad panels and events. It was also kid friendly, so I took my ten-year-old niece, who enjoyed getting her comic book signed and picking out superhero buttons.
I got to meet Chris Mills, writer for a number of Moonstone projects, such as Kolchak: The Night Stalker and the editor/writer for the upcoming Captain Midnight prose anthology (in which I have a story, Witch of the Waning Moon), artist Joel Rivers, with whom I did a Students of the Unusual comic book based on my horror short story, Strangler, and a number of other nice folk.
I hope this will be the first of many and I look forward to next years’ Festival.
The festival focused on artists and writers, creators, as opposed to the usual flea market atmosphere of many conventions. Tables sold out and represented a dynamic and varied array of Maine comic book artists and writers. There were free comic books, spot drawings, superhero buttons, local soda samples, and myriad panels and events. It was also kid friendly, so I took my ten-year-old niece, who enjoyed getting her comic book signed and picking out superhero buttons.
I got to meet Chris Mills, writer for a number of Moonstone projects, such as Kolchak: The Night Stalker and the editor/writer for the upcoming Captain Midnight prose anthology (in which I have a story, Witch of the Waning Moon), artist Joel Rivers, with whom I did a Students of the Unusual comic book based on my horror short story, Strangler, and a number of other nice folk.
I hope this will be the first of many and I look forward to next years’ Festival.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
TV Season Wrap Up
Most of the few TV shows I get to watch wrapped up their seasons this week. It seems the seasons are getting much smaller with new episodes shown sporadically. I remember the days when you got 28 or 32 episodes per season. Now you’re lucky to get 20.
One of the few comedies I watch, Big Bang Theory wrapped up with the guys being sent to conduct research in the Arctic. This show is consistently hilarious and the sad part is I can relate to most of them far too closely, except for the genius part. Plus the hot blonde helps, of course. This episode wasn’t quite as funny as previous shows, but good nonetheless.
Smallville concluded its first season minus Michael Rosenbaum as Lex Luthor and frankly it suffered some without his presence, though there were excellent episodes. However the huge build up over the past weeks leading to the dramatic showdown with Doomsday fell decidedly flat. As Superman fans undoubtedly know, Doomsday killed Superman (temporarily) in the comic book. This Doomsday was also supposed to be all-powerful but the confrontation lasted only a minute and ended with a whimper. There were a number of confusing aspects as well, and the whole thing felt rushed. I have a feeling there will be some rebooting, one of the weaknesses of this show. Don’t get me wrong, I love the show, but the pay off just wasn’t there as wasn’t the case with previous seasons.
Ghost Whisperer ended the season with a better episode after really losing its way for most of the season, but still fell short of the previous seasons’ finales. The whole dead Jim-body jumping thing was a fiasco and Jamie Kennedy is albatross. Adding a baby is another bad direction chocie. Bring back the professor when Gary Unmarried gets cancelled (which is actually a very funny show, but struggling in the ratings) and go back to what made the show a success in the first place—good stories, not formula and gimmick. Still, as long as Jennifer Love Hewitt is doing the show, I’m there.
Medium’s finale was lame. Allison jumps into the body of an old guy, Jeffery Tambor, who I can’t take serious in anything, and mayhem ensues—not. The previous two-parter was far better and should have been the season closer.
Lost’s finale was much better, though things are starting to get a little more obvious leading into next year’s final season. As much I enjoy Lost, I would like to see it wrap things up. I have the feeling there will be some loose ends, but I hope not. This was at least satisfying for most fans, though.
Have yet to watch Bones’ season ender, but have it on tape. However the penultimate episode was not very good and seemed rushed as well.
One of the few comedies I watch, Big Bang Theory wrapped up with the guys being sent to conduct research in the Arctic. This show is consistently hilarious and the sad part is I can relate to most of them far too closely, except for the genius part. Plus the hot blonde helps, of course. This episode wasn’t quite as funny as previous shows, but good nonetheless.
Smallville concluded its first season minus Michael Rosenbaum as Lex Luthor and frankly it suffered some without his presence, though there were excellent episodes. However the huge build up over the past weeks leading to the dramatic showdown with Doomsday fell decidedly flat. As Superman fans undoubtedly know, Doomsday killed Superman (temporarily) in the comic book. This Doomsday was also supposed to be all-powerful but the confrontation lasted only a minute and ended with a whimper. There were a number of confusing aspects as well, and the whole thing felt rushed. I have a feeling there will be some rebooting, one of the weaknesses of this show. Don’t get me wrong, I love the show, but the pay off just wasn’t there as wasn’t the case with previous seasons.
Ghost Whisperer ended the season with a better episode after really losing its way for most of the season, but still fell short of the previous seasons’ finales. The whole dead Jim-body jumping thing was a fiasco and Jamie Kennedy is albatross. Adding a baby is another bad direction chocie. Bring back the professor when Gary Unmarried gets cancelled (which is actually a very funny show, but struggling in the ratings) and go back to what made the show a success in the first place—good stories, not formula and gimmick. Still, as long as Jennifer Love Hewitt is doing the show, I’m there.
Medium’s finale was lame. Allison jumps into the body of an old guy, Jeffery Tambor, who I can’t take serious in anything, and mayhem ensues—not. The previous two-parter was far better and should have been the season closer.
Lost’s finale was much better, though things are starting to get a little more obvious leading into next year’s final season. As much I enjoy Lost, I would like to see it wrap things up. I have the feeling there will be some loose ends, but I hope not. This was at least satisfying for most fans, though.
Have yet to watch Bones’ season ender, but have it on tape. However the penultimate episode was not very good and seemed rushed as well.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Look to the Thighs
Continuing from my previous blog on UFOs, I’d like to segue into alien abduction and Near Death Experiences. What do the two have in common, you might ask? Well, I’ll get to that.
Alien abduction cases usually report a commonality of experience. There’s the feeling of being awake yet unable to move while small men with big, gray, light bulb heads and bulging almond eyes sneak into your room and spirit you away to some sterile space ship chamber filled with pointy medical equipment. And usually gleaming bright lights, coolly efficient and heartless bug-eyed-monsters who like to use huge honking needles to do nasty things to one’s private parts. Ouch.
This has purportedly happened to a fair number of people. I know one woman who claims to have had such an experience but some of her lights aren’t on and those that are are sputtering, so I take her tales with a grain of salt. However, there are a number of intelligent, honest people who believe they have had these experiences. So what’s up with THAT?
Sure, I’ve seen theories of some kind of epileptic episodes, LSD dabbling and mass hypnosis. Maybe that explains some of it.
But the one I like that best—and I am sure somebody had this idea before me—is that it is a like in the days when you had bunny ears for your TV set and occasionally, on nights when conditions were just right, you could pull in a station from hundreds of miles away, as clear as a bell. The experience didn’t usually last more than a few hours and rarely repeated itself. What if our brains are doing this, only tapping into a memory we are genetically programmed to forget?
What memory? Well, when a woman becomes pregnant and her belly starts expanding like a Jiffy Pop container, what happens? Doctors start sticking long pointy things into her stomach. When she gives birth sometimes forceps are used. You gotta wonder if the baby is somehow aware of these things on some level. A feeling of being helpless when being pulled yanked out of a nice warm womb, by men/women with surgical masks and cloth-wrapped heads so that only their eyes show—you have to wonder just how a baby sees that, stores that. I can imagine it’s a pretty scary experience, though I don’t recollect going through it. (I’m pretty sure I just popped out around aged four, when I do recall things.) Then they whack your butt, stick you with sharp things. It all sound suspiciously like alien abduction to me. Or the adult perception of a memory we are not supposed to recall.
Then on the other end of the spectrum…you die. Some who have come back from death, the so-called Near Death Experience, report seeing bright lights, a long tunnel, relatives or whoevers who have passed on. Again it makes one wonder about the memory of a birth. I mean, down the chute out into the bright lights. In proceeding hours, every relative and friend coos over you, slobbers over you…how does an infant perceive that? And at the moment of brain death does that memory get accessed, jumbled into an archetypical scenario? The brain, even the brain of and unborn or in-the-process-of-being-born child is an amazing thing. It records details in astounding definition, if not perception and understanding. These perceptions, like glitch TV signals, suddenly pop in one night, or at time of death, when reception conditions are just right (or just wrong, depending on whether you’re a half-empty or half-full type.)
There are inconstancies, but most of these are fairly easily explained (and I won’t go into them this time). But we just have no idea what the mind can do, and how it can perceive or alter its own reality. Under great stress, the mind seeks a comfort level, and perhaps with experiences that are simply too terrifying to deal with, in the case of the baby, the birth experience and resulting pains, or the death experience, it creates an acceptable emotional Valium. The trouble comes when something changes the status quo, whether briefly or permanently, and terrifying abduction experiences result. In some suggestible individuals perhaps the mere mention of aliens carting away one’s body for weird sexual prodding is enough to trigger it.
Or perhaps there’s something else entirely going on. If so, what? Anyone got any theories?
Alien abduction cases usually report a commonality of experience. There’s the feeling of being awake yet unable to move while small men with big, gray, light bulb heads and bulging almond eyes sneak into your room and spirit you away to some sterile space ship chamber filled with pointy medical equipment. And usually gleaming bright lights, coolly efficient and heartless bug-eyed-monsters who like to use huge honking needles to do nasty things to one’s private parts. Ouch.
This has purportedly happened to a fair number of people. I know one woman who claims to have had such an experience but some of her lights aren’t on and those that are are sputtering, so I take her tales with a grain of salt. However, there are a number of intelligent, honest people who believe they have had these experiences. So what’s up with THAT?
Sure, I’ve seen theories of some kind of epileptic episodes, LSD dabbling and mass hypnosis. Maybe that explains some of it.
But the one I like that best—and I am sure somebody had this idea before me—is that it is a like in the days when you had bunny ears for your TV set and occasionally, on nights when conditions were just right, you could pull in a station from hundreds of miles away, as clear as a bell. The experience didn’t usually last more than a few hours and rarely repeated itself. What if our brains are doing this, only tapping into a memory we are genetically programmed to forget?
What memory? Well, when a woman becomes pregnant and her belly starts expanding like a Jiffy Pop container, what happens? Doctors start sticking long pointy things into her stomach. When she gives birth sometimes forceps are used. You gotta wonder if the baby is somehow aware of these things on some level. A feeling of being helpless when being pulled yanked out of a nice warm womb, by men/women with surgical masks and cloth-wrapped heads so that only their eyes show—you have to wonder just how a baby sees that, stores that. I can imagine it’s a pretty scary experience, though I don’t recollect going through it. (I’m pretty sure I just popped out around aged four, when I do recall things.) Then they whack your butt, stick you with sharp things. It all sound suspiciously like alien abduction to me. Or the adult perception of a memory we are not supposed to recall.
Then on the other end of the spectrum…you die. Some who have come back from death, the so-called Near Death Experience, report seeing bright lights, a long tunnel, relatives or whoevers who have passed on. Again it makes one wonder about the memory of a birth. I mean, down the chute out into the bright lights. In proceeding hours, every relative and friend coos over you, slobbers over you…how does an infant perceive that? And at the moment of brain death does that memory get accessed, jumbled into an archetypical scenario? The brain, even the brain of and unborn or in-the-process-of-being-born child is an amazing thing. It records details in astounding definition, if not perception and understanding. These perceptions, like glitch TV signals, suddenly pop in one night, or at time of death, when reception conditions are just right (or just wrong, depending on whether you’re a half-empty or half-full type.)
There are inconstancies, but most of these are fairly easily explained (and I won’t go into them this time). But we just have no idea what the mind can do, and how it can perceive or alter its own reality. Under great stress, the mind seeks a comfort level, and perhaps with experiences that are simply too terrifying to deal with, in the case of the baby, the birth experience and resulting pains, or the death experience, it creates an acceptable emotional Valium. The trouble comes when something changes the status quo, whether briefly or permanently, and terrifying abduction experiences result. In some suggestible individuals perhaps the mere mention of aliens carting away one’s body for weird sexual prodding is enough to trigger it.
Or perhaps there’s something else entirely going on. If so, what? Anyone got any theories?
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Look to the Skies
I always had a fascination with UFOs, flying saucers as a kid. The thought of beings from other planets visiting us was captivating to me, except for the type that ate your brains or turned you into automatons, of course. As I got older I became more interested in the probabilities of such phenomena, partly because I had an uncle who worked in the field of regressive hypnosis who interviewed abductees and perpetuated the Men in Black business.
I hadn’t paid too much attention to UFOlogy over the past couple years. I think the X-Files might have worn me out on the matter. But the other night I caught a piece of show called UFO Hunters, which I take it is a borrow from Sci Fi Network’s series, Ghost Hunters. I was hoping to be fascinated, enthralled, made a believer. But what I came away with was just how silly most of the “evidence” was and how easily duped a large number of folks can be.
Now, I am certainly NOT saying life does not exist elsewhere in the galaxy. In fact, with the millions of planets yet to be discovered orbiting other stars in far distant galaxies, I think the probability of alien life is extremely high. Perhaps it may even one day be found under the frozen sands of Mars or in the frigid oceans beneath the ice-armored surface of Jupiter’s moon Europa. What becomes more problematic are the tremendous odds of that life having developed the technology to get here. If that technology is even possible. Considering the closest star is some 4 light years away and probably holds no habitual planets, you have to ponder whether the distances are insurmountable. For those unfamiliar with a light year, it is the distance light can travel in a year moving at the speed of 186,000 miles per second. Multiply that times the number of seconds in a year and you can see the problem. This not even taking into account the physics of moving at such speed and what technology would be needed to overcome them, technology perhaps not ever possible. But that’s another discussion.
I am more concerned with what people are mistaking for flying saucers, or being told are alien visitors. I know people who claim to have had abduction experiences. These people I am pretty sure honestly believe they have experienced them. I know people who believe they have seen UFOs. These are not nuts who sit on hilltops waiting for the mothership type folks, either (well, maybe one or two of them are, but they’re on meds now). I don’t think they are lying or making it up…yet not having seen one myself I have a hard time believing they have. Especially after shows where I see faked photos or hoaxsters dragging boards around in fields to create crop circles.
Most of these people I think have mistaken some fairly common things for UFOs. I personally, having been an Astronomy buff in my younger years (and some say constantly lost in space anyway), would never mistake the planet Venus for a flying saucer. You’d be surprised how many do. But it doesn’t zip about like a saucer, it kinda just sits there in the evening or pre dawn sky looking big and bright and pretty. Same with other planets or stars sometimes mistaken for UFOs.
I don’t mistake glowing swamp gas, Big Mac-engorged fireflies or normal civilian aircraft for UFOs, either. Some people do (and too often those folks are sitting out in the wilderness plied with a beer or 12 and liable to see Bigfoot playing a lute.)
That leaves us with the small percentage of cases seen by knowledgeable people, whether everyday folks or scientists, or military men trained to recognize aircraft, et al. What are they seeing?
For the record, I don’t much believe conspiracy theorists, because I have an even bigger problem believing our government can keep any kind of secret. And I don’t like the majority of these UFO pseudo documentaries that can’t seem to find unbiased experts. They are peddling fictions, perpetuating their agendas, whether it be a belief, or quest for cash. The same goes for most ghost or supernatural type investigators who don’t rely on real scientific equipment or background. And as much as I find James Randi a card, he’s as close-minded as the radical believers in the opposite direction.
That leaves us with what’s left, what hasn’t been explained. Tricks of the human psyche? Actual visitors? Time travelers (again something many scientists claim an impossibility, but I have a theory…)? Or back to just everyday stuff misidentified?
I want to see one. I want an alien to knock on my door and say, Hhowdy, I’m Bart from Betelgeuse. I want to be damn certain what it is I am looking at before I claim to see something. But that hasn’t happened. I have doubts it will, despite my overly active fiction writer’s imagination.
What about you? Have you seen a UFO? I mean, one you genuinely believe was from another world and not a military test plane? I’d like to hear your stories.
I hadn’t paid too much attention to UFOlogy over the past couple years. I think the X-Files might have worn me out on the matter. But the other night I caught a piece of show called UFO Hunters, which I take it is a borrow from Sci Fi Network’s series, Ghost Hunters. I was hoping to be fascinated, enthralled, made a believer. But what I came away with was just how silly most of the “evidence” was and how easily duped a large number of folks can be.
Now, I am certainly NOT saying life does not exist elsewhere in the galaxy. In fact, with the millions of planets yet to be discovered orbiting other stars in far distant galaxies, I think the probability of alien life is extremely high. Perhaps it may even one day be found under the frozen sands of Mars or in the frigid oceans beneath the ice-armored surface of Jupiter’s moon Europa. What becomes more problematic are the tremendous odds of that life having developed the technology to get here. If that technology is even possible. Considering the closest star is some 4 light years away and probably holds no habitual planets, you have to ponder whether the distances are insurmountable. For those unfamiliar with a light year, it is the distance light can travel in a year moving at the speed of 186,000 miles per second. Multiply that times the number of seconds in a year and you can see the problem. This not even taking into account the physics of moving at such speed and what technology would be needed to overcome them, technology perhaps not ever possible. But that’s another discussion.
I am more concerned with what people are mistaking for flying saucers, or being told are alien visitors. I know people who claim to have had abduction experiences. These people I am pretty sure honestly believe they have experienced them. I know people who believe they have seen UFOs. These are not nuts who sit on hilltops waiting for the mothership type folks, either (well, maybe one or two of them are, but they’re on meds now). I don’t think they are lying or making it up…yet not having seen one myself I have a hard time believing they have. Especially after shows where I see faked photos or hoaxsters dragging boards around in fields to create crop circles.
Most of these people I think have mistaken some fairly common things for UFOs. I personally, having been an Astronomy buff in my younger years (and some say constantly lost in space anyway), would never mistake the planet Venus for a flying saucer. You’d be surprised how many do. But it doesn’t zip about like a saucer, it kinda just sits there in the evening or pre dawn sky looking big and bright and pretty. Same with other planets or stars sometimes mistaken for UFOs.
I don’t mistake glowing swamp gas, Big Mac-engorged fireflies or normal civilian aircraft for UFOs, either. Some people do (and too often those folks are sitting out in the wilderness plied with a beer or 12 and liable to see Bigfoot playing a lute.)
That leaves us with the small percentage of cases seen by knowledgeable people, whether everyday folks or scientists, or military men trained to recognize aircraft, et al. What are they seeing?
For the record, I don’t much believe conspiracy theorists, because I have an even bigger problem believing our government can keep any kind of secret. And I don’t like the majority of these UFO pseudo documentaries that can’t seem to find unbiased experts. They are peddling fictions, perpetuating their agendas, whether it be a belief, or quest for cash. The same goes for most ghost or supernatural type investigators who don’t rely on real scientific equipment or background. And as much as I find James Randi a card, he’s as close-minded as the radical believers in the opposite direction.
That leaves us with what’s left, what hasn’t been explained. Tricks of the human psyche? Actual visitors? Time travelers (again something many scientists claim an impossibility, but I have a theory…)? Or back to just everyday stuff misidentified?
I want to see one. I want an alien to knock on my door and say, Hhowdy, I’m Bart from Betelgeuse. I want to be damn certain what it is I am looking at before I claim to see something. But that hasn’t happened. I have doubts it will, despite my overly active fiction writer’s imagination.
What about you? Have you seen a UFO? I mean, one you genuinely believe was from another world and not a military test plane? I’d like to hear your stories.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Get Over It
It always amazes me how some people can hold onto things even years later. Petty things or perceived slights, I mean. They hold grudges that can extend a lifetime, often over something they are partially or even fully at fault for. Why? Who does it hurt, but themselves? What good does it do them? Wouldn’t it simply be better to talk out the issue with whomever they have a grievance or move on if it cannot be resolved?
Quite often it is the type of person who revels in snide little digs at others’ reports of success, and who enjoys sowing seeds of dissent by gathering cronies and slanting things to his/her viewpoint with half-truths, untruths or by simply neglecting details that present him/her in a bad light. Little do the cronies know, however, that person is too often also gossiping about them and collecting information in case one of them suddenly becomes enlightened and switches sides. And when the instigator is confronted he/she of course denies and sputters about unfairness and right to free speech, blah blah. Of course, the person goes right back to being passive-aggressive, sometimes even in public forums, leaving little snipes where he/she knows the parties at which the remarks are directed will see them, trying either to bait them into saying something or secretly rubbing hands together in glee when they don’t. Oh, look, so and so didn’t respond because so and so knows I’m right and the world is mine, mine, mine!
Halle-frickin-lujah!
Again, what good does it do? None, to either party. What it in fact does is show what a petty idiot the person doing the sniping is.
I’ve seen enough of this puerile behavior in my personal life as well. Some people waste so much energy looking for ways to get even or have the last word they miss their chances to do something actually productive with their talent or skills. They usually end up perpetually frustrated or even bitter and old, wondering why life crapped all over them when in fact the crapped in their own britches.
To these types I say, let it go. Take a look at both sides and see whether any fault was indeed yours. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe the person or persons you have a grievance with is really a first class asshole. Then fine, walk away, if that’s possible and the person is not bothering you in some way. Find better ways to channel your energy. Do something positive. Or mend fences. I think you’ll have a whole lot less to lose that way.
Quite often it is the type of person who revels in snide little digs at others’ reports of success, and who enjoys sowing seeds of dissent by gathering cronies and slanting things to his/her viewpoint with half-truths, untruths or by simply neglecting details that present him/her in a bad light. Little do the cronies know, however, that person is too often also gossiping about them and collecting information in case one of them suddenly becomes enlightened and switches sides. And when the instigator is confronted he/she of course denies and sputters about unfairness and right to free speech, blah blah. Of course, the person goes right back to being passive-aggressive, sometimes even in public forums, leaving little snipes where he/she knows the parties at which the remarks are directed will see them, trying either to bait them into saying something or secretly rubbing hands together in glee when they don’t. Oh, look, so and so didn’t respond because so and so knows I’m right and the world is mine, mine, mine!
Halle-frickin-lujah!
Again, what good does it do? None, to either party. What it in fact does is show what a petty idiot the person doing the sniping is.
I’ve seen enough of this puerile behavior in my personal life as well. Some people waste so much energy looking for ways to get even or have the last word they miss their chances to do something actually productive with their talent or skills. They usually end up perpetually frustrated or even bitter and old, wondering why life crapped all over them when in fact the crapped in their own britches.
To these types I say, let it go. Take a look at both sides and see whether any fault was indeed yours. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe the person or persons you have a grievance with is really a first class asshole. Then fine, walk away, if that’s possible and the person is not bothering you in some way. Find better ways to channel your energy. Do something positive. Or mend fences. I think you’ll have a whole lot less to lose that way.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
I Now Pronounce You Man & Wife & Wife & Wife
It’s no secret we are going through tough economic times, which is why I advocated my legalizing prostitution plan to help pay down government debt by collecting taxes on these hard-working public servants. But it’s clear we’ll need to do more in the short term because families are having a hard time paying bills and putting food on the table.
So part two of the recovery platform will encompass those families who need a concrete solution benefiting all involved.
That’s right, we need to legalize polygamy. Yep, you heard it here first, folks. Well maybe not first but I’m pretty sure it’s in the top one-thousand somewhere.
Now, I am NOT talking about the creepy polygamy stuff that those cult people like to engage in, you know, marrying 12-year old gals, all of whom look like they have had more than their fair share of interbreeding going on in the family tree. No, no, no. that’d be just weird. I’m speaking of the practical kind, maybe adding an extra wife or three. Let’s face it, traditional marriage is passé anyway, right? Half of them end in divorce and maybe another 25 percent of those that don’t should. It’s the—what the hell century is it anyway? Oh, yeah, 21st. Should we hold to outmoded values and silly little rituals? Nah, fuggetaboutit.
Having multiple wives would bring in extra proceeds for local offices and businesses because of more marriage license fees, greater spending at stores, party shops, halls and hotels, liquor sales and even right back to the aforementioned hookers for bachelor parties. Everybody benefits. All spouses could work, bring in revenue, and variety would reduce the divorce rate. Women could share the housework.
Oh, and before anybody asks, no, this plan would simply not work with multiple husbands. I mean, really, how many wives want five guys sitting on the couch watching football, burping, farting, stuffing their faces and jamming their hands down their pants? Come on, ladies, it’s hard enough to get one guy to take out the trash, do you really want to add a couple more hubbies to that?
There are a few drawbacks, of course, and I’m thinking some kind of confidentiality agreement would need to be signed between wives, because, well, you know how they gossip about weenie size and all. And a bit on extra expenditure on Viagra, birth control and something for chafing. And anniversaries are going to be a bitch. Holidays and birthdays, too. As well as the overall proliferation in Elvis imitators. But overall I think the plan is sound.
Ah, yes, I see the economy growing already. I’m sure with this plan there’s even more room for expansion and a rise in benefits as nights go by. Yeah, yeah, I’m pretty sure this is going to work.
So part two of the recovery platform will encompass those families who need a concrete solution benefiting all involved.
That’s right, we need to legalize polygamy. Yep, you heard it here first, folks. Well maybe not first but I’m pretty sure it’s in the top one-thousand somewhere.
Now, I am NOT talking about the creepy polygamy stuff that those cult people like to engage in, you know, marrying 12-year old gals, all of whom look like they have had more than their fair share of interbreeding going on in the family tree. No, no, no. that’d be just weird. I’m speaking of the practical kind, maybe adding an extra wife or three. Let’s face it, traditional marriage is passé anyway, right? Half of them end in divorce and maybe another 25 percent of those that don’t should. It’s the—what the hell century is it anyway? Oh, yeah, 21st. Should we hold to outmoded values and silly little rituals? Nah, fuggetaboutit.
Having multiple wives would bring in extra proceeds for local offices and businesses because of more marriage license fees, greater spending at stores, party shops, halls and hotels, liquor sales and even right back to the aforementioned hookers for bachelor parties. Everybody benefits. All spouses could work, bring in revenue, and variety would reduce the divorce rate. Women could share the housework.
Oh, and before anybody asks, no, this plan would simply not work with multiple husbands. I mean, really, how many wives want five guys sitting on the couch watching football, burping, farting, stuffing their faces and jamming their hands down their pants? Come on, ladies, it’s hard enough to get one guy to take out the trash, do you really want to add a couple more hubbies to that?
There are a few drawbacks, of course, and I’m thinking some kind of confidentiality agreement would need to be signed between wives, because, well, you know how they gossip about weenie size and all. And a bit on extra expenditure on Viagra, birth control and something for chafing. And anniversaries are going to be a bitch. Holidays and birthdays, too. As well as the overall proliferation in Elvis imitators. But overall I think the plan is sound.
Ah, yes, I see the economy growing already. I’m sure with this plan there’s even more room for expansion and a rise in benefits as nights go by. Yeah, yeah, I’m pretty sure this is going to work.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Luck of the Drew
I have to say I am overjoyed to see Drew Peterson’s smug ass being hauled away in handcuffs and police finally charging him with the death of his third wife. This all occurring while his fourth is still missing. I’d like to say I am surprised that this idiot is joking about overdue library books as they haul him into jail, but I’m not. I have expoerienced the type firsthand. They just don’t get it. Everything is a joke to them. They don’t merely have a screw loose—they have a whole bottle of them rattling around. O.J. was cut from the same cloth. They think they are invincible somehow, untouchable by the law. But they aren’t. They’re just evil men. Rat bastards. Wastes of skin.
What makes it worse in this case is the guy was a cop, a person entrusted to protect the innocent, not butcher them. And like O.J. the guy has children. That’s good, isn’t it? Why not ruin more lives, train future serial killers or totally emotionally devastate them to the point where they can never have a normal life or relationship?
Then there are the wives and wives-to-be, whom I understand even less. Stacey Peterson, who has vanished, provided an alibi for Drew in the “drowning” death of wife three, then married him. Apparently his past history raised no red flags with her and she lied to protect him. And now he’s gotten engaged to potential wife four, who knows his history, knows his fourth wife is missing. What is going on with these women? What makes them cling to men like that? What does this guy have that makes these women fall for their lies or what do these women lack within themselves that make them believe it?
I wish I knew. But I hope this guy gets exactly what he deserves before he can hurt anyone else. It’s a pity the lives he’s already destroyed cannot be brought back. I would hope he thinks it’s still equally as funny when he’s in a jail with other killers and rapists who take shine to him and torture him the way he did his murdered wives. But who am I kidding? He’ll probably be given a plush solitary cell, isolated from the rest of the crims and presented with internet access so he can locate wife number six just in case he ever gets out of jail, or is at least granted conjugal visits.
But at least he’s been charged. I can only hope more of his ilk meet the same fate, and worse.
Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord. Well, it’s about time the Lord started sharing…
What makes it worse in this case is the guy was a cop, a person entrusted to protect the innocent, not butcher them. And like O.J. the guy has children. That’s good, isn’t it? Why not ruin more lives, train future serial killers or totally emotionally devastate them to the point where they can never have a normal life or relationship?
Then there are the wives and wives-to-be, whom I understand even less. Stacey Peterson, who has vanished, provided an alibi for Drew in the “drowning” death of wife three, then married him. Apparently his past history raised no red flags with her and she lied to protect him. And now he’s gotten engaged to potential wife four, who knows his history, knows his fourth wife is missing. What is going on with these women? What makes them cling to men like that? What does this guy have that makes these women fall for their lies or what do these women lack within themselves that make them believe it?
I wish I knew. But I hope this guy gets exactly what he deserves before he can hurt anyone else. It’s a pity the lives he’s already destroyed cannot be brought back. I would hope he thinks it’s still equally as funny when he’s in a jail with other killers and rapists who take shine to him and torture him the way he did his murdered wives. But who am I kidding? He’ll probably be given a plush solitary cell, isolated from the rest of the crims and presented with internet access so he can locate wife number six just in case he ever gets out of jail, or is at least granted conjugal visits.
But at least he’s been charged. I can only hope more of his ilk meet the same fate, and worse.
Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord. Well, it’s about time the Lord started sharing…
Friday, May 08, 2009
Good Neighbors
Why do some folks feel such a compelling need to stick their noses in others’ business? Neighbors are great for this. Especially when it comes to things you have in your windows or on your lawn. Just what business is it of theirs, anyway? I mean aside from something obscene if I want to have a statue of Jennifer Love Hewitt carved out of SPAM in my front yard, then by gum I damn well will. (Though it won’t be there long given the raccoon population in the area…)
Yet some folks just love to bitch about how the pink flamingoes, tacky as they may be, are ruining the aesthetic quality of the neighborhood. This despite the fact they have a wheelless car propped on blocks in their driveway or an “I’ve Got an Honor Student in Ask-Me-if-I-Give-a-Damn High School” sticker on their ugly little Yugo.
And sometimes it’s really petty little things, like a hedge that just happens to be encroaching .0000058 inches across their imaginary yard boundary.
Well, ya know what? I don’t much care for you running your lawnmower at eight o’clock in the freakin’ morning or thinkin’ that caterwauling jamboree you have every Friday at your house passes for gospel singing. But I don’t go crying to the lawn gnome police. I don’t spend time with my ugly mug glued to the window with a 35mm just waiting to snap that incriminating pic (and if y’all keep doin’ it you’ll get a pic all right and the words “Kiss My” will be tattooed right across it). And I don’t let my mini Bubba with his water rifle run around in the yard in his droopy undies like he’s some kind of redneck Rambo. He grunts too. Loud. And smells funny. But do I report him to the “I let my kid eat like a friggin’ pig” authorities? No, no, no, no, no. I don’t even zap the little pecker anymore since you stuck that Don’t Taser Bubba sticker across his mile-wide ass.
So mind your own business. Quit complaining about everything and get a life. Live and let live, as long as it is not disgusting or dangerous (yeah, yeah, I know, disgusting is in the eye of the beholder and beholdin’ Bubba is pushing the limits...) Play in your own yard. Snap all the pics of Bubba eating grub worms you want. Use the wide angle lens.
It occurs to me I could probably write a blog about parents who let their little retards, er, I mean, kids run wild, but I’ll save that for another day. Right now I have to go make sure I fed my keyboard bagpipe setting through the fuzz in my electric guitar amp and aimed the speaker at the neighbor’s house. I’m sure a dose of fuzzpipes will enliven their evening. And hopefully scare the living hell outta Bubba…
Yet some folks just love to bitch about how the pink flamingoes, tacky as they may be, are ruining the aesthetic quality of the neighborhood. This despite the fact they have a wheelless car propped on blocks in their driveway or an “I’ve Got an Honor Student in Ask-Me-if-I-Give-a-Damn High School” sticker on their ugly little Yugo.
And sometimes it’s really petty little things, like a hedge that just happens to be encroaching .0000058 inches across their imaginary yard boundary.
Well, ya know what? I don’t much care for you running your lawnmower at eight o’clock in the freakin’ morning or thinkin’ that caterwauling jamboree you have every Friday at your house passes for gospel singing. But I don’t go crying to the lawn gnome police. I don’t spend time with my ugly mug glued to the window with a 35mm just waiting to snap that incriminating pic (and if y’all keep doin’ it you’ll get a pic all right and the words “Kiss My” will be tattooed right across it). And I don’t let my mini Bubba with his water rifle run around in the yard in his droopy undies like he’s some kind of redneck Rambo. He grunts too. Loud. And smells funny. But do I report him to the “I let my kid eat like a friggin’ pig” authorities? No, no, no, no, no. I don’t even zap the little pecker anymore since you stuck that Don’t Taser Bubba sticker across his mile-wide ass.
So mind your own business. Quit complaining about everything and get a life. Live and let live, as long as it is not disgusting or dangerous (yeah, yeah, I know, disgusting is in the eye of the beholder and beholdin’ Bubba is pushing the limits...) Play in your own yard. Snap all the pics of Bubba eating grub worms you want. Use the wide angle lens.
It occurs to me I could probably write a blog about parents who let their little retards, er, I mean, kids run wild, but I’ll save that for another day. Right now I have to go make sure I fed my keyboard bagpipe setting through the fuzz in my electric guitar amp and aimed the speaker at the neighbor’s house. I’m sure a dose of fuzzpipes will enliven their evening. And hopefully scare the living hell outta Bubba…
Thursday, May 07, 2009
Take It Off, Take It All Off
So provocative photos of current Miss America Carrie Prejean have popped up on the internet. Now, I am not going to wade into the political debate over her views on same sex marriage, her right to have and express those views, and the opposite side’s right to have and express theirs. I have my own opinions, but they aren’t the focus of this, er, piece. I won’t even dwell on how much it irritates the living crap out of me that when some people or groups don’t agree with another’s viewpoints they launch smear campaigns against the person instead of having the balls to debate the issues. Politicians are way too good at that and quite honestly it disgusts me when it is irrelevant to the topic at hand. Attack the messenger not the message syndrome. It’s certainly much easier to do that than to actually consider the notion their own viewpoint might be wrong.
What I am tired of is the puritanical stick an awful lot of people seem to have stuck up their unexposed ass. Some folks—hypocritically in many cases and maliciously in others because she doesn’t agree with their views—want her title stripped, pardon the expression. Because she posed for some modeling photos she can’t possibly be any kind of role model for young women or little misses or have a brain, agree or disagree with her position. The same folks who usually have no problem letting their daughters watch Katie Perry of Brit Spears’ videos, or listen to songs that call young women bitches. Often the same folks who secretly watch porn videos or surf the internet for the very nude photos they are publicly professing to scorn.
Apparently Miss Prejean posed for modeling pics topless, but covered her naughty nips and merely presented her back to the camera, just like a thousand other modeling ads you see in every women’s fashion mag or men’s eye candy ‘zine everyday. She posed when she was 17.
So what? Three words to these people who throw fits at the sight of a bare boob or nekkid bum:
Get. Over. It.
Don’t you have anything better to do? A hobby perhaps (um, like spending time with your porn collection?) Why do you give a damn? Why does being naked suddenly make somebody unworthy of a title or a menace to society and propriety? Shouldn’t that be based on their brain, what they are saying and how they are living their lives in the way they treat others? Care for others? Don’t steal, kill or molest donkeys? Why are we so uptight about a little flesh? It’s perfectly cute when you are a toddler running around naked on the beach. Oh, yeah, then it’s “Oh my, isn’t that just the cutest thing?” But do it when you are older and people are suddenly offended and shouting for the censure police, or, as with the beach town in which I live, the real police, who rush to the scene, observe the offending lady for about half an hour just to make sure she really is topless, then make the arrest.
This woman was not filmed up close and personal with her legs in stirrups and did not appear on the Hustler site. She did a modeling shoot. Now, if she needs to be removed because she lied on her application if asked specially have your tatas ever appeared in their full glory in a magazine or on the internet, well, then that’s a different debate. But we really need to stop wasting time worrying about bare bodies and move onto the things that do need monitoring, like extreme graphic violence in children’s games and the rights of ducks to bear arms (and I am not talking about letting your 12 year old watch naughty stuff; I am going on the assumption that as a parent you have at least some level of common sense in setting guideless as to what’s age appropriate given your personal boundaries. However, as I will get to in a moment, that’s often not the case.) Kids don’t usually even care about naked bodies until we Victorian age-addled adults make them aware that once you’ve passed the magical age of five or six it’s “dirty.”
I just don’t get why this is even a problem. Beyond the fact it’s being used at a weapon against her because obviously some small-minded petty individual(s) was looking for it.
Ok, everyone knows, or should—that common sense thing again too many folks don’t seemed blessed with—you don’t attend church in a bra and panties. Though if that were the case I might attend a lot more than I do. Hmmm, wait, naked church services…maybe that’s an idea. I can see the slogan now: We clothe our flock in Faith…and nothing else.
But I am tired of folks raising a stink whenever a boob appears on TV or some girl has naughty photos surface. I am tired of the hypocrisy of it. As a nation are we so terrified of sexuality? It sure seems that way. Toplessness on public beaches in Europe doesn’t raise an, um, eye. Here? Apparently the whole moral infrastructure would collapse.
Leave the girl alone. Disagree with her views, debate them, whatever. And if you don’t want a woman who has posed without clothing, then background check your contestants the moment they sign the release and don’t wait until have the barn door’s open. But most of all just get a life and focus on doing something about something about issues a hell of a lot more important than naked people.
On a related note, the common sense thing. Recently two 13-year olds got the extremely bright notion of sending naked pictures of themselves via their cell phones to their friends. No one is saying this isn’t dumb, but they are 13-year-olds and they’re not known for their inability to do stupid things. And as an aside, speaking of common sense, parents do your kids really need cell phones at that age, especially ones with digital camera ability when you just know they are going to get some idiotic notion to use them for a purpose other than whatever the one in which you intended when buying them one?
But I digress. Apparently authorities want to slap a sex offender charge on these girls, one that would get them jail time and put them on national registries for sex crimes. What the hell? Have they lost their minds? Two girls did something dumb. Take their phones away, ground them, suspend them from school for a week or worse make them mandatorily attend extra schooling all summer, twist their Barbies’ heads off, but for God’s sake don’t stick them on a sex offender list. Man, if I got put on some heinous list for every bone-headed move I made at that age I’d be sitting in a cell with some guy named Bubba who has an unnatural penchant for soap on a rope. That’s what teens do: Screw up. So parents, teach them not to screw up, spend more time guiding them. Get them a chastity belt, whatever. But don’t charge them with a crime of that magnitude. Are you crazy? You’ll only spoil their chance of competing for Miss America one day…
Now, does anyone know where, hypothetically, one would find those Miss America pics anyway?
What I am tired of is the puritanical stick an awful lot of people seem to have stuck up their unexposed ass. Some folks—hypocritically in many cases and maliciously in others because she doesn’t agree with their views—want her title stripped, pardon the expression. Because she posed for some modeling photos she can’t possibly be any kind of role model for young women or little misses or have a brain, agree or disagree with her position. The same folks who usually have no problem letting their daughters watch Katie Perry of Brit Spears’ videos, or listen to songs that call young women bitches. Often the same folks who secretly watch porn videos or surf the internet for the very nude photos they are publicly professing to scorn.
Apparently Miss Prejean posed for modeling pics topless, but covered her naughty nips and merely presented her back to the camera, just like a thousand other modeling ads you see in every women’s fashion mag or men’s eye candy ‘zine everyday. She posed when she was 17.
So what? Three words to these people who throw fits at the sight of a bare boob or nekkid bum:
Get. Over. It.
Don’t you have anything better to do? A hobby perhaps (um, like spending time with your porn collection?) Why do you give a damn? Why does being naked suddenly make somebody unworthy of a title or a menace to society and propriety? Shouldn’t that be based on their brain, what they are saying and how they are living their lives in the way they treat others? Care for others? Don’t steal, kill or molest donkeys? Why are we so uptight about a little flesh? It’s perfectly cute when you are a toddler running around naked on the beach. Oh, yeah, then it’s “Oh my, isn’t that just the cutest thing?” But do it when you are older and people are suddenly offended and shouting for the censure police, or, as with the beach town in which I live, the real police, who rush to the scene, observe the offending lady for about half an hour just to make sure she really is topless, then make the arrest.
This woman was not filmed up close and personal with her legs in stirrups and did not appear on the Hustler site. She did a modeling shoot. Now, if she needs to be removed because she lied on her application if asked specially have your tatas ever appeared in their full glory in a magazine or on the internet, well, then that’s a different debate. But we really need to stop wasting time worrying about bare bodies and move onto the things that do need monitoring, like extreme graphic violence in children’s games and the rights of ducks to bear arms (and I am not talking about letting your 12 year old watch naughty stuff; I am going on the assumption that as a parent you have at least some level of common sense in setting guideless as to what’s age appropriate given your personal boundaries. However, as I will get to in a moment, that’s often not the case.) Kids don’t usually even care about naked bodies until we Victorian age-addled adults make them aware that once you’ve passed the magical age of five or six it’s “dirty.”
I just don’t get why this is even a problem. Beyond the fact it’s being used at a weapon against her because obviously some small-minded petty individual(s) was looking for it.
Ok, everyone knows, or should—that common sense thing again too many folks don’t seemed blessed with—you don’t attend church in a bra and panties. Though if that were the case I might attend a lot more than I do. Hmmm, wait, naked church services…maybe that’s an idea. I can see the slogan now: We clothe our flock in Faith…and nothing else.
But I am tired of folks raising a stink whenever a boob appears on TV or some girl has naughty photos surface. I am tired of the hypocrisy of it. As a nation are we so terrified of sexuality? It sure seems that way. Toplessness on public beaches in Europe doesn’t raise an, um, eye. Here? Apparently the whole moral infrastructure would collapse.
Leave the girl alone. Disagree with her views, debate them, whatever. And if you don’t want a woman who has posed without clothing, then background check your contestants the moment they sign the release and don’t wait until have the barn door’s open. But most of all just get a life and focus on doing something about something about issues a hell of a lot more important than naked people.
On a related note, the common sense thing. Recently two 13-year olds got the extremely bright notion of sending naked pictures of themselves via their cell phones to their friends. No one is saying this isn’t dumb, but they are 13-year-olds and they’re not known for their inability to do stupid things. And as an aside, speaking of common sense, parents do your kids really need cell phones at that age, especially ones with digital camera ability when you just know they are going to get some idiotic notion to use them for a purpose other than whatever the one in which you intended when buying them one?
But I digress. Apparently authorities want to slap a sex offender charge on these girls, one that would get them jail time and put them on national registries for sex crimes. What the hell? Have they lost their minds? Two girls did something dumb. Take their phones away, ground them, suspend them from school for a week or worse make them mandatorily attend extra schooling all summer, twist their Barbies’ heads off, but for God’s sake don’t stick them on a sex offender list. Man, if I got put on some heinous list for every bone-headed move I made at that age I’d be sitting in a cell with some guy named Bubba who has an unnatural penchant for soap on a rope. That’s what teens do: Screw up. So parents, teach them not to screw up, spend more time guiding them. Get them a chastity belt, whatever. But don’t charge them with a crime of that magnitude. Are you crazy? You’ll only spoil their chance of competing for Miss America one day…
Now, does anyone know where, hypothetically, one would find those Miss America pics anyway?
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
May is Western Month
Oater fans have good reason to celebrate this month because May is Western month. The event, and another ongoing feature, Wild West Mondays, is the brainchild of writer/actor/all around swell guy Gary Dobbs, who runs The Tainted Archive Blogsite ( http://tainted-archive.blogspot.com ) Gary, some may know or recollect from my earlier Dark Bits interview, has gained fame in Dr. Who and Torchwood, and, a life-long western fan, most recently turned his considerable skills to writing Black Horse Westerns under the name Jack Martin. His debut novel, The Tarnished Star, has become the largest pre-selling western in the publisher’s, Robert Hale, Ltd., history in fact and his blog is always fascinating and continually updated. All this month at Tainted Archive, Gary is featuring a wealth of new material each day on some aspect of the Wild West, including my guest blog on The Lone Ranger ( http://tainted-archive.blogspot.com/2009/05/wild-west-monday-guest-blogger-howard.html ) and an upcoming interview with yours truly.
Along with Gary’s blog there are a number of other sites taking up the reins and spreading the word about westerns. Writer Joanne Walpole, whose debut western Long Shadows under the name Terry James is due shortly, is also featuring Western month on her blog ( http://joannewalpole.blogspot.com ). Listen to her read excerpts (in a very sexy British voice) from her book, and even espouse about the delicacy of black pudding, or blood sausage! Her blog is always entertaining.
Another veteran Black Horse Western writer, IJ Parnham with an equally—I’m told by the female members of my audience—sexy Scottish accent, features all the latest news and points of interest in the Black Horse world on his Black Horse Express Blog ( http://blackhorseexpress.blogspot.com ) and insights into western writing and other subjects on his personal blog, The Culbin Trail ( http://ijparnham.blogspot.com ). As well, Ian manages the Black Horse Express website, the online western magazine for the Black Horse Express Yahoogroup (which you can join on my own western page at http://www.howardhopkins.com/western-books.htm )
There are a number of other fine sites, many of which can be accessed directly from the Black Horse blog, so take some time and mosey around. And while you’re at it think about picking up a Black Horse western. Amazon is now carrying many of the new releases (including my latest, Coyote Deadly by Lance Howard) and The Book Depository (http://www.bookdepository.co.uk/) now offers Black Horse Westerns with free world wide postage included.
Along with Gary’s blog there are a number of other sites taking up the reins and spreading the word about westerns. Writer Joanne Walpole, whose debut western Long Shadows under the name Terry James is due shortly, is also featuring Western month on her blog ( http://joannewalpole.blogspot.com ). Listen to her read excerpts (in a very sexy British voice) from her book, and even espouse about the delicacy of black pudding, or blood sausage! Her blog is always entertaining.
Another veteran Black Horse Western writer, IJ Parnham with an equally—I’m told by the female members of my audience—sexy Scottish accent, features all the latest news and points of interest in the Black Horse world on his Black Horse Express Blog ( http://blackhorseexpress.blogspot.com ) and insights into western writing and other subjects on his personal blog, The Culbin Trail ( http://ijparnham.blogspot.com ). As well, Ian manages the Black Horse Express website, the online western magazine for the Black Horse Express Yahoogroup (which you can join on my own western page at http://www.howardhopkins.com/western-books.htm )
There are a number of other fine sites, many of which can be accessed directly from the Black Horse blog, so take some time and mosey around. And while you’re at it think about picking up a Black Horse western. Amazon is now carrying many of the new releases (including my latest, Coyote Deadly by Lance Howard) and The Book Depository (http://www.bookdepository.co.uk/) now offers Black Horse Westerns with free world wide postage included.
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
Crash Writing Dummies
I decided to experiment with the writing of my new western this time. Change things up a little. After writing 31 Black Horse Westerns to date, I thought it might be fun to step out of my comfort zone.
Really wasn’t.
Normally, I outline very loosely before starting. Sometimes a chapter might consist of no more than one sentence, something to the effect of, “Hero rides into town.” I don’t exactly know how that will happen but my muse better put out by the time I sit at the keyboard and start a-clickity clackin’. Other chapters might just be a direction, a few lines of dialog, etc. Rarely do I go into too much detail because I probably wouldn’t want to write the book if I did. I also use colored index cards to keep track of character traits, names and names of towns. I tape them all to the hutch front of the desk while I write.
This time I thought, ok, let’s be spontaneous. Let’s just sit our ever-flattening butt in the chair and punch the gas. Or spur the horse, as the case may be. No plot, no character or town names. Nothing. Except for a germ of an idea , which amounted to “A mysterious figure from a man’s past starts systematically taking his life apart.” I didn’t even have a title and still am not sure of it.
I also have occasions where I marathon write. I glue my fanny to the seat for 10-12 hours—and I am getting waaaay too old for that—and just keep going, getting up only for the necessary breaks so I don’t have to disinfect my chair. So today I finished the first draft, after marathon writing for four days. Would have been three but for writing a few blogs and too much excitement during National Female Breast Appreciation Day.
It will take me weeks to recover, because doing it that way, for me, is physically and emotionally exhausting. I had no idea where the story was going to go, but it pretty much started telling itself after I got into it.
Turned out there was no fun involved whatsoever. It was more like giving brith. And trying to keep the details in memory for an entire book was daunting because I have the short term recall of a squirrel. My fingers are cramped, as is just about every other part of my body. I need to learn to type with my toes and save some wear and tear on the knuckles. Or hire skilled monkeys, who might be able to write the book better than I anyhow.
I discovered I much prefer having some idea of where I am going when I start a book, though it often changes. Seat of your pants writing is tough, especially if you hit a sticking point you hadn’t planned on.
But it was interesting. Exhausting, but interesting. I’ll have plenty of work to do since I substituted the word “Blank” for people’s names and town names just to keep the prose flowing. But I am hoping when I go back to edit the tale I will see an energy there. Or perhaps I’ll need to go hire that monkey after all.
At any rate, don’t try this at home unless you are a trained professional. Or a masochist.
Really wasn’t.
Normally, I outline very loosely before starting. Sometimes a chapter might consist of no more than one sentence, something to the effect of, “Hero rides into town.” I don’t exactly know how that will happen but my muse better put out by the time I sit at the keyboard and start a-clickity clackin’. Other chapters might just be a direction, a few lines of dialog, etc. Rarely do I go into too much detail because I probably wouldn’t want to write the book if I did. I also use colored index cards to keep track of character traits, names and names of towns. I tape them all to the hutch front of the desk while I write.
This time I thought, ok, let’s be spontaneous. Let’s just sit our ever-flattening butt in the chair and punch the gas. Or spur the horse, as the case may be. No plot, no character or town names. Nothing. Except for a germ of an idea , which amounted to “A mysterious figure from a man’s past starts systematically taking his life apart.” I didn’t even have a title and still am not sure of it.
I also have occasions where I marathon write. I glue my fanny to the seat for 10-12 hours—and I am getting waaaay too old for that—and just keep going, getting up only for the necessary breaks so I don’t have to disinfect my chair. So today I finished the first draft, after marathon writing for four days. Would have been three but for writing a few blogs and too much excitement during National Female Breast Appreciation Day.
It will take me weeks to recover, because doing it that way, for me, is physically and emotionally exhausting. I had no idea where the story was going to go, but it pretty much started telling itself after I got into it.
Turned out there was no fun involved whatsoever. It was more like giving brith. And trying to keep the details in memory for an entire book was daunting because I have the short term recall of a squirrel. My fingers are cramped, as is just about every other part of my body. I need to learn to type with my toes and save some wear and tear on the knuckles. Or hire skilled monkeys, who might be able to write the book better than I anyhow.
I discovered I much prefer having some idea of where I am going when I start a book, though it often changes. Seat of your pants writing is tough, especially if you hit a sticking point you hadn’t planned on.
But it was interesting. Exhausting, but interesting. I’ll have plenty of work to do since I substituted the word “Blank” for people’s names and town names just to keep the prose flowing. But I am hoping when I go back to edit the tale I will see an energy there. Or perhaps I’ll need to go hire that monkey after all.
At any rate, don’t try this at home unless you are a trained professional. Or a masochist.
Sunday, May 03, 2009
Dare to Bare
So a friend tells me that Monday May 4 is National Female Breast Appreciation Day. I probably don’t have to tell you how excited I am to learn of this uplifting holiday. I mean, for me everyday is sort of National Female Breast Appreciation Day, but I’d never dreamed there was an actual day set aside for it. It’s sort of like finding a real Leprechaun in your box of Lucky Charms. And even more magically delicious.
I am wondering how to celebrate this holiday. Do I need beads like on Mardi Gras? Is there a peak hour or celebration to express our appreciation for this mammantous time? Are there boobie songs to sing to get us in the spirit…like I would need anything to get me in the spirit for something like this anyway. I am already planning on being reincarnated as a bra. A big one. Hmmm, let’s see how about, Ain’t no Mountain High Enough…or maybe The Impossible Dream…
Hmm. Perhaps on this day it is perfectly fine to appreciate openly a well-shaped front porch. Or four. Can we stare on this day? I mean, stare more than usual. Maybe we should have a Bring a Topless Friend to Work Day to go with it. Can we make sure they are nice and firm, the way we frisk melons at the supermarket? I have a feeling, no, that will still get you arrested for being a masher. Or at the very least slapped silly and sworn at.
So what CAN we do? Make a pilgrimage to Hooters? Punk Hugh Hefner? Cut peep holes in gym shower room walls? Um, never mind that last one. Any suggestions? And why doesn’t Victoria’s Secret and Frederick’s of Hollywood make a big D deal out of this? Seems like a pretty good promo opportunity. The possibilities are simply titillating and they should milk it for all it’s worth. Certainly this day needs more exposure.
Well, I for one and going to sit back and observe this fine day. Make the breast of it. I think it’s going to be my favorite holiday, right before Halloween and Christmas; certainly the candy is much better.
Speaking of which, does Reese’s make Peanut Butter Boobs?
I am wondering how to celebrate this holiday. Do I need beads like on Mardi Gras? Is there a peak hour or celebration to express our appreciation for this mammantous time? Are there boobie songs to sing to get us in the spirit…like I would need anything to get me in the spirit for something like this anyway. I am already planning on being reincarnated as a bra. A big one. Hmmm, let’s see how about, Ain’t no Mountain High Enough…or maybe The Impossible Dream…
Hmm. Perhaps on this day it is perfectly fine to appreciate openly a well-shaped front porch. Or four. Can we stare on this day? I mean, stare more than usual. Maybe we should have a Bring a Topless Friend to Work Day to go with it. Can we make sure they are nice and firm, the way we frisk melons at the supermarket? I have a feeling, no, that will still get you arrested for being a masher. Or at the very least slapped silly and sworn at.
So what CAN we do? Make a pilgrimage to Hooters? Punk Hugh Hefner? Cut peep holes in gym shower room walls? Um, never mind that last one. Any suggestions? And why doesn’t Victoria’s Secret and Frederick’s of Hollywood make a big D deal out of this? Seems like a pretty good promo opportunity. The possibilities are simply titillating and they should milk it for all it’s worth. Certainly this day needs more exposure.
Well, I for one and going to sit back and observe this fine day. Make the breast of it. I think it’s going to be my favorite holiday, right before Halloween and Christmas; certainly the candy is much better.
Speaking of which, does Reese’s make Peanut Butter Boobs?
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