Completed Some Work

Good Lord, a personal triumph.

This is the first work I’ve finished in four years. Three years of writer’s block finally yielded in 2006, and I finally landed with something complete here, at the end of 2007. Death in the Family, which stands at a meager 4800 words, is complete.

“Son, I think it’s time you learned the business.”

“I’m not your son. And don’t spin your scythe like that, it bothers me.”

Death stopped playing with his weapon and shielded his face against the glaring sun. Why he needed the scythe was beyond me. Moreover, it always made me antsy when my godfather played with that thing. He never dropped it, not since I’ve known him, but you can’t be too careful. He’s been known to get a little clumsy after a few glasses of cider.

He expected big things from me. My father probably did too, but then he went and named me Mortimer. I haven’t really forgiven him for that one.

It technically needed to be 5000 to enter into this competition. If it gains enough bulk while editing, I’ll submit it. If not… well, either I’ll keep it for myself or I’ll send it out. It would be shiny to find out if my writing is worth dollars to some people.

EDIT:

To address Elver’s comment: I wrote a retelling of the Grimm Fairytale “Godfather Death.” Take this as you will.

Book Review: Fragile Things

My grandpa sells condoms to sailors
He punctures the tip with a pin
My grandma does back-street abortions
My God how the money rolls in

I shouldn’t find myself surprised by the sex in Gaiman’s work, but I consistently am. In American Gods, the main character’s late wife died with his best friend’s cock in her mouth. You’d think I would be prepared. I guess I envision the English as a pure race that doesn’t breed but springs forth from the ether fully formed. But he lives in America now. Perhaps we dragged him down to our level.

It’s a collection of short stories and poems. I’m not going through the painful task of reviewing each one. If you’re a fan of Gaiman’s work, odds are you’ve already made motions towards this book. If you’re a fan of short stories that nod to Cthulhu and make bedroom eyes at Narnia, you’ll enjoy this collection. I was pleasantly surprised to see an American Gods novella. Other People is likely to stay with me for some time.

Oh, and see that opening sentence? Stick that in your straw, you Latinate assholes, and suck it. Suck it long, and suck it hard.

Shiny Toy Guns

Shiny Toy Guns – Rainy Monday

No, it’s not “I’m sharing my music tastes” Friday. I went to a concert last Saturday, to see the aforementioned band at The Wiltern in Los Angeles.

Two notable quotes of the evening:

1. (On a text message sent to the big screen for public viewing) “All you scene kids have the same damn hair.”
2. (Me, outside) “Jesus Christ, it’s like is every hipster within a fifty mile radius got in line here.”

I’ll just get the opening bands out of the way. I’m trying to be nicer about things these days, so I’ll say the kindest things I could think to say about the bands. War Tapes: Their outfits matched very nicely. Moving Objects: Until the lead singer opened his mouth, the music was awesome.

Bit of history. This band used to be called Dangerous Insects. I know, and I agree: the new name is an upgrade. They changed to Shiny Toy Guns when Carah got on board. When I heard this, I was concerned. Usually when a chick hops on a band she usually (a) can only sing, and poorly, (b) is brought on solely for the eye candy factor, and (c) takes the spotlight away from the other members of the band. I’m pleased to say this isn’t the case with Shiny Toy Guns.

Chad, the one singing the video above, is the lead singer. Carah sings a few songs solo, but when you see them perform, you don’t get the vibe that she is the lead, or that she is taking over the band. Moreover, she contributes by playing bass and synth, depending on the song. When the only videos available were live recordings (I’ve been a fan of them for years now) she would just dance around stupidly. She’s gotten over that. We’re all grateful.

I’m not sure why they selected Le Disko as their first single. While it’s extremely hot industrial/synthpop, it’s a very polarizing song and not a good representative of the band’s actual sound. They are occasionally described as goth. No. They’re synthpop. Synthpop.

Now, for the show. I saw them at The Galaxy two months ago, where they announced, “Come to The Wiltern, we’re going to be playing things from our second album.” Fantastic show. I think Carah was sick because her vocals were weak. Initially I was worried that my expectations of her super-shopped voice were not met. Thankfully, the show at The Wiltern proved me wrong. She sang strongly, and the entire band was solid.

What I appreciate is that all the members are on stage in a row. There’s no tucking the drummer into a corner. Moreover, there are multiple synths that get played simultaneously. I’ll admit, when I saw three synths, I got a little weak in the knees. I have a thing for synthesizers and chiptunes. (If you don’t know what chiptunes are, check out this man. What he has done to Depeche Mode renders him a lesser god.)

But yes. Strong playing across the board. They were more playful during The Galaxy show, with Chad knocking off Mikey’s cymbals and with Jeremy cutting off Chad with the synth. You never actually hear Jeremy’s voice, he speaks through a filter and mashes the keys. Good synths, solid drumming, and strong vocals on Carah’s and Ahab’s part.

Oh. Chad decided to dress as a cross between Isaac Brock in his video for Dashboard and Sergeant Pepper. I had to text a friend because I couldn’t remember Ahab’s name (the captain from Moby Dick) and I wanted to be witty at the appropriate moment. Thankfully, I was.

Connection

Over the past weekend I read half of Fragile Things, and I was surprised by something. There was a story in there that I could have sworn I’d heard before. Then I remembered that yes, indeed, I had.

Forbidden Brides of the Faceless Slaves in the Secret House of the Night of Dread Desire. The story is, as one can assume, a satire on Gothic, Poe-driven writing.

The first few words had me set the book down and consult a friend. I handed him the book. “Does this sound familiar to you?”

“Holy hell, yeah. Didn’t Neil Gaiman read this at that thing we went to?”

“At San Jose State, yeah. I think this was it.”

My memory keeps that night, sometime in 2003 I think, as a cloud of vapors. Maybe it was 2004. I remember wearing short sleeves, so it had to be warm. We ate at Pizza My Heart. A friend who couldn’t hold a camera failed to take my picture with Gaiman. I don’t need photographic evidence of that day. I know it happened. What I need evidence of is something that I was almost certain he said, prior to reading this story to an auditorium full of lit-hags and Vasquez-wannabes.

I think he said this was one of the first stories he shopped around. It got rejected. And not just a kind rejection. A “Never Show This To Anyone If You Have A Soul, Lock This In Your Most Secret Place” rejection.

I’m sure he’s polished up the story since then, as it did indeed get published, and while editors are wrong, they’re usually not that far off the mark. Even if the writing was horrible, the crux of the story had to be there, and it was fantastic. He was kind enough – or forgetful enough – not to name the particular entity that critiqued his writing. But the story had an auditorium full of people on the floor laughing, and even before I got a hold of Fragile Things, that story and Crazy Hair stuck firmly in my mind. The book didn’t remind me what I had seen; it confirmed that it wasn’t a dream.

It’s another one of those “Famous Author Faced Rejection, You Can Too!” stories. But I watched it happen. I don’t care for the success story. Those are a dime a dozen. I love that brief connection I felt.

I love when people are human.

Eisley

Eisley – Memories

This is a band I found when I went to see Coldplay at the Shoreline in 2002. They opened, and at that time didn’t even have a full CD out, far as I could tell. I was obviously intrigued by the Star Wars reference, and continued to be intrigued with the great, sweet vocals and mellow-indie-pop flair.

I was pleasantly surprised recently when going to see Mute Math. Eisley opened. It was like getting two awesome bands for the price of one. And if you ever get the chance to see Mute Math live, do so. They put on a fantastic show. Extremely energetic. With circuit bending.

But I Am Le Tired

I feel sick today. Something that has been tottering around in my veins all week has settled in my chest. I’m in my office wearing jeans, boots, long-sleeve shirt with a wife beater underneath, peacoat, wrapped up in a blanket, drinking Rooibos tea. And I’m still cold. I’m not coughing but I have the distinct feeling that I’m drowning. I clear my throat subtly so no one sends me home from work.

I only have five hours of sick leave accrued. I’m not in the mood to blow them over a bit of congestion.

The story that I mentioned previously, which I have titled Death in the Family, is nearly done. I still have to add things and tweak things before I set down and sincerely edit. Even though it doesn’t fit the contest’s requirements, I’m glad of where it went. I did aim for funny, but it’s hard for me to stay that way. Anything funny, I turn serious. Conversely, anything serious, I turn funny. I guess I have only one style of writing, and that is “piss-poor dramady.”

I’m worried the reference to Camus may come off as too pretentious. I just like Camus. Maybe that makes me pretentious.

Good Lord This Is Terrifying

I put words out there for other people to say. Fiction words. For critical commentary.

Lord help me. I’m about to be devoured.

I Wrote This In the Air

The following is a blog post I hand-wrote while flying from Orange County (SNA) to San Jose (SJC). I was in town for a family dinner as well as to see the Radio City Christmas Spectacular Featuring The Rockettes. What follows is unedited, unproof’d, unadulturated me at my most tired, and therefore most angry. At least, most incomprehensible.

I’m pretty sure the airport was busy behind me. The coffee (double small sugar-free vanilla soy latte) hadn’t kicked in yet so these things are hard to gauge. My sardine seat faces the tarmack and it’s dark. I beat the sun at its own game. Just doesn’t seem right.

Thinking over the weekend I’m trying to figure out a story to share. I’ve conquered half of Fragile Things, and Gaiman is right: not everything is story-shaped.

Family inquired over my employment, my apartment, my cat Gravy. No one bothers to ask past the details I share. When you practise telling lies for sixteen years, you learn a thing or two about the truth.

I’m twenty-four today. Today, specifically. Eleven thirty-five in the morning. Just in time for lunch. I’ve been writing since I was eight years old. Sixteen years. When I was in elementary school, they swore up and down I’d be in ‘The Humanities.’ A great writer or journalist. They missed the mark. Kindergarten had me pegged as a physicist. They too missed the mark, but not as sharply.

I was in a rush this morning. I knew it would happen. I hate mornings. Those advertizements for the Navy, “We do more before 9am than most people do all day,” ensured I would never join our military forces. Wake me up gently. I am a bear.

Toiletries were ready to be thrown in my bag post-ablutions. Breakfast apple on the counter. Dress shirt and jeans laid out for work. But I forgot my socks. No clean socks laid out. No matched up pairs in the drawer. I swore, quietly. My mother was putting around in the other room and I didn’t have it in me to deal with the ‘unbecoming behaviour’ speech.

(I would like to add a brief caveat to my spelling. Somewhere early in my education, I had a teacher from India educated in an English private school. She taught me the geometry of words. It wasn’t until I was fourteen that I was told I spelled ‘behaviour’ wrong.)

My socks are mismatched. One sock rests just above my ankle, blue, with what I believe is the Tommy Hilfigger logo on it. The other stretches to mid-calf and has Jack’o'Lanters on it. At that moment I figured it didn’t matter. Nobody would see my socks. They would be in shoes all day, topped with jeans. It would be my secret.

I entered the security line at 5:50 this morning, stifling yawns, doing what I could not to kill the security guard to my left for the caffeine under his finger nails. I engaged the woman behind me in converstaion. She had a pouch around her neck that held her boarding pass and identification. I told her it was clever. She told me she got it at the airport. We talked.

It was here that I realized my situation.

“Please remove your shoes and place them on the tray.”

Damnit.

I surreptitiously took fof my shoes. Surreptitious only because I managed not to fall over. Only half the line noticed my commanding display. Lack of sleep wreaks havoc on me, and balance is one of the many faculties that suffer. I tossed the shoes with my coat and bric-a-brac, and tried to hide my mismatched feet under my jeans. Straight cut is a fail for this.

The woman looked down at my feet and smiled. “One of those mornings, huh?”

I smiled back. Yeah, I told her. Something like that.

She tilted her head and gave me what I assumed was a sympathetic look. “Don’t worry. We all have those days.”

I thanked her.

“Happy Birthday.”

Book Review: Wicked

Good Lord, I wish I had read this book sooner. It was thrust into my hands with a ferverent “READ OR DIE” and since my life is going along fairly well at the moment, I decided to read.

There are three kinds of books in my world:

1. Books that are so horrible that I have to put them down. My eyes are bad enough. No need to add to the strain.
2. Books that are so captivating that I can’t put them down, despite how much I would like to. This becomes a problem while driving. I will let you decide whether I read while driving or just rush home staring longingly at the dog-eared pages sitting in the passenger seat.
3. Books that are so emotionally evocative and wonderful that I have to put them down.

Wicked fell in the third category. I don’t cry at books, but I’m secure enough in myself to admit I was a touch verklemped at the end. At the end of every section I had to set the book down and walk away for a few days, to let what had occurred absorb into my feeble flesh. To plow through this book would have been an insult to the responses it brought about in its humble yet floral manner.

I could use big words about this book, but I’ll refrain. I could summarize, but summaries exist. You know the general story. All I’m going to be able to say here is that if you haven’t read this book, change that.

If you’re no stranger to philosophy, a good deal of the concepts gone over here will be fairly blatant to you. However, just because you never even learned how to spell ‘Plato’ correctly, you won’t be left behind. I appreciated Maguire’s ability to balance the treatment so that those who lack the background don’t feel lost, whereas those who are very well acquainted with it are not insulted.

The only thing I really wanted to have was an innocent look at the Wizard throughout the book. I always have a hard time believing in horrible despots (despite what history has revealed time and again). I also find it more interesting when two opposing sides believe their cause is genuinely good and righteous; especially when it is. But that’s really my only qualm with the book, and I think that’s an exceptional track record.

Whatever. I’m so cold my fingers are clumbsy and my code isn’t playing nice. Go read this damn book. I’m picking up Son of a Witch next (soon as I finish off Fragile Things).

Band of Horses

Band of Horses – The Funeral

I know they have a new album, and a new single to go with it, but this was the song that hooked me a year and a half ago on this band. So damnit, you’re getting this. The new single – Is There a Ghost? – is a great song, don’t get me wrong. But the haunting opening and vaguely keening harmonies of The Funeral really hook me.