No One Can Hear You Curse

The last couple years have found me delving more and more into comics.  You see, I’ve never been a fan of super-hero comics.  The DC and Marvel universes are just too daunting: there are so many characters that I could never keep track of them, and the origins of either continuum are so far back that catching up is completely inconceivable.  Being a fan of either would be more of a chore than a hobby.  Super-hero comics become vehicles for the iconography. 

So when I discovered Dark Horse and Vertigo, I was overjoyed.  Here are two publishers where appreciation of story is evident.  Mike Mignola’s Hell-Boy, published by Dark Horse, is extremely gratifying, reminiscent in many ways of Conan, which is also published by Dark Horse (and was, in the 70s and 80s, handled by Marvel, showing that it wasn’t always about super-heroes for them).  Vertigo has such gems as Y: the Last Man and classics like Watchmen and V for Vendetta.  Also worth noting is The Walking Dead from Image.  All these, and far more, have illustrated to me (pun only slightly intended) the versatility of the comic book in telling a story.  It’s a medium that is often under-appreciated. 

Lately, I’ve been buying a lot of single issues.  The Unwritten is a good comic that is still only in singles (also by Vertigo), but the comics that I’ve been particularly excited about are more franchises from Dark Horse: Predator and Aliens.  Aliens has held an interesting story line involving a Synth (or Artificial Person, if you wish) protagonist who is on a mission to rescue a surveyor colony from a xenomorph (alien) infestation—even though the colonists, driven mad by the strange ruins of an ancient city, killed his crewmates.  I was very much enjoying this story. 

Until issue #4. 

You see, this particular story arc was only allotted four issues to be completed.  This is not something I am accustomed to.  I have purchased volume after volume of graphic novels, where many arcs are allowed to carry on as long as their respective momentum will allow.  (Indeed, many volumes are compiled around specific story arcs, and usually contain about six issues.)  I’ve seen the four-issue plan implemented before, and it always seems too constricting to the story.  Such is the case here.

(Turn back if you don’t want the story spoiled.)

The end of issue four sees the protagonist, Mr. Sereda, leading the colonists in search of the last member of the expedition, Andrea.  Andrea is, in a way, Sereda’s salvation.  Rescuing her can redeem him for allowing his crew to die.  He is quite willing to face hordes of monsters to find her and bring her back.  And then, after an ambush by the aliens, Sereda finds Andrea dead, with pretty much no preamble, from a gruesome wound consistent with the alien chest bursters.  Andrea had been previously shown battling the xenomorphs rather effectively.  She’d survived a long time on her own.  And now we find her dead, without having seen how she fell.  It is a shock, which I’m sure was the intent.  However, this is the kind of shock that sets you back on your heels, distancing you from the story.

Following this is a jarring transition: suddenly Sereda and the colonists are on his ship.  They are laying down in the cryosleep chambers, and the ship is achieving escape velocity to leave the planet.  I stared at this page, flipped back and forth through the last few pages.  Then I set the issue down on my lap and thought, “What the hell was that?”

This is, unfortunately, the answer: it was a disappointing end to what had been a satisfying story.  I sincerely hope this will not be the standard.

Technorati Tags: comics,aliens

Ya Know...

Sometimes I'll get hit with this feeling out of the blue: I miss my grandpa. I don't think about him a whole lot anymore, but that's true of all of us who've lost loved ones. Even though you loved that person very dearly, you eventually move on.

That's what made this so poignant. I was at work, and it just popped into my head. I wish Buck were here. Not here at work. You know what I mean. It wasn't anything in particular. Just a sudden, strong feeling.

My favorite story about him is from over twenty years ago. Our street started off as the private drive of one of our neighbors, until it was annexed by the county. Our neighbor, Mickey (yes, Mickey), was trying to put up a gate so no one could use the road. Buck told him that if Mickey put up the gate, Buck would tie it to his truck and pull it down. They start arguing, until Buck picks up a shovel and says, "I think you best get off my lawn."

I miss my grandpa.

Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Market

Okay.  This is a work story.  I don’t especially like telling work stories, certainly not here, but this is funny, so I’ll make an exception.

We had just finished unloading a Frozen/Dairy truck (which entails pulling 2000-pound pallets across the store to one freezer or another), and I’m headed back up to my work area.  When I get there, one of the Assistant Managers, Daniel, is signing off on the Produce checklist.  He asks me if I would mind going back to Grocery Receiving and grabbing a clipboard from Marilyn’s workstation (the Claims/Receiving desk).  It’s the only clipboard back there, he says, with the date 10/19 on it.  Then he says something about crunchy French bread.

I say sure, I’ll go back and get it.  I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with the crunchy French bread.

When I get back to Marilyn’s desk, I have no trouble finding the clipboard.  I don’t see any crunchy bread, French or otherwise, so I ask one of the Support Managers, Fritz, if he knows anything.  He points to the back hall leading to my department.  It’s to the left, he says.  I walk up the hall, keeping my eyes peeled for any crunchy French bread on the left.  I see nothing.  I shrug and keep walking.

When I reach produce, I see no sign of Daniel.  I ask Michael if he had seen where he went.  Michael points past Produce, to Bakery.  So I go to Bakery.  Once again, no sign of Daniel.  So I ask Jerry, who is doing the closing clean-up.  Jerry points over his shoulder.  He went through that door, he says.  I don’t know which direction, just that he went out through that door.

I’m still holding the clipboard, unsure what to do with it.  Should I leave it in Produce in case Daniel comes back?  Or should I page Daniel and ask him what he wants me to do with it?  I have given up on the crunchy French bread.

Finally, I just decide to go back to Grocery Receiving.  If Fritz is still back there, I’ll ask him.  Sure enough, ol’ Fritz is still there.  I hold up the clipboard and tell him Daniel had wanted something done with it, and did he (Fritz) know what that was.  Where is this clipboard supposed to go? 

Oh, he says, that goes on Marilyn’s desk.

Ba-dum bum.

Lost and Found

What kinds of things do you usually leave at Wal-Mart? Maybe you leave your pen on the counter. Maybe you forget to pick up a bag as you leave the checkout lane. On a really bad day, maybe you leave your purse or wallet or whatever in the shopping cart. Many, many things you could leave behind. But some things you would remember. For instance, you wouldn't be likely to leave your child, right?

Right?

Your heir, your legacy, your progeny, your scion. The person who decides whether or not you go to the nursing home. You wouldn't leave your helpless, infant child all alone as you LEAVE THE STORE. Would you?

I didn't think so.

But someone did today.

Today, a lone child was found (appropriately/ironically enough) in the Infants department at Wal-Mart. Said infant was taken immediately into custody by management, as the parents were tracked down. Fifteen minutes after the baby was discovered, the family returned to the store. It had taken them THIRTY MINUTES to realize the baby was missing.

The police were called in, and management pulled the security tapes for review. It was determined that the child had been completely alone for fifteen minutes before the entire incident was reported. The family actually left the store not realizing who was missing. Astonishingly, the grandmother was the last one with the child. One can only wonder what seemed so important to her that she abandoned the kid.

The whole time that management and the police were going over the tapes, the family sat outside the office, arguing over who was at fault. "I left him with you!" "Naw, I left him with you!" Finally, there was an official judgement. As the grandmother was the last person to be with the child, she was the one considered legally responsible. So she was carted off to jail. In the meantime, the child was taken from the mother. I'm not sure how custody will be resolved. It seems that this runs in the family, though: the grandmother had, in her time, had several children taken from her due to the same cases of neglect. One of the children was the mother of the very child they abandoned today.

Hey, for some families, it's freckles that get passed down.

More Experimentationalegalismitis

Windows Live updated recently, and it included this Writer program that publishes to all of your blogs.  My understanding is that it can publish to multiple blogs simultaneously.  That’d be cool.

Well, then.

Did something earlier today I never really thought I'd do. Deleted Jen's number from my phone. Since fall of 2000, she'd been one of my closest friends. For the last few years, she was my best friend. After she graduated, I probably called her five times a week. So taking her off my phone is a big deal. I didn't want to, but it's been a year and a half, and she's made no move to get in contact. Seeing her at Katie's graduation cemented the fact that she's not interested in talking to us. And at this point, I'm not sure I really want to talk to her again. Ever. A year and a half of silence is a pretty big "Fuck you", and the feeling's beginning to be mutual.

Only thing is, I can't decide whether this is giving up, or facing facts and moving on.

Hell Yes

An Eventful Week

This past week, I finally upgraded my PC. Now working with 2.4 gigs of RAM, an NVIDIA GeForce 9600GT video card, and a BFG 550 watt power supply. I picked up Sins of a Solar Empire, as it's the game that actually drove me toward the upgrades in the first place. Fun game. You build fleets of star ships and colonize worlds in an effort to build up an empire. You can zoom out to see lightyears of space, or you can zoom in so close that you see the hull panels on an individual ship and hear the drone of its engine.

But what I have been obsessed with since Sunday night is Penny Arcade Adventures: On the Rain-Slick Precipice of Darkness. I've had Episode 1 for over a year now, but haven't been able to play it on my PC. Now that I have the new hardware, however, I've played through both episodes. Started Ep. 1 Sunday night, finished it Monday afternoon. Immediately, I downloaded Ep. 2, and before going to bed, I had gotten to the last stage of the game. I beat the final boss last night. Episode 3 cannot be released soon enough. In the meantime, I'm trying to find another PC game to try. Sins is fun, and I love real-time strategy, but I'm really wanting an action title, preferably a first-person shooter/adventure.

And then there's Trine. Dear Lord, I want to play that.

While at Wal-Mart last night, I heard a tornado siren that had cleverly been concealed in a small child. From thirty feet away, you could still hear the intake of air as the kid drew in the preparatory breath. The scream could strip your soul right out of your body.

As the creature's parents carry it farther into the store, I utter the words "Sweet Jesus" and look to the end of the aisle this hellish promenade had just passed. In doing so, I lock gazes with a thirtyish woman. The widening of her eyes bespeaks her shock and, perhaps, horror. Then, as I turn away, I notice the swell of her belly. I realize she is pregnant, and I think, "Best of luck, lady. You just saw what you have to look forward to."

Notes

This is more for public record. I'm logging some ideas I've been discussing on forums, in reference to a kind of "Barbarians in Space" story:

I was watching too much Star Trek and reading too much Conan the Barbarian.

For the most part, I'm dealing with a cast of characters who prefer close range weapons, and who scrounge together the parts for kinda hodge-podge equipment. I want something like vibroblades as a counterpoint. For me, the tech isn't really all that important. I'm not all that tech-saavy. It's more like an old adventure story. Creating a bunch of new tech gets in the way of that for me.

Things like axes fashioned from obsolete plasma cutters. Warhammers made from old piston hammers, if I can figure out the mechanics. I'm serious about the hodge podge thing. Vibroblades will be expensive, more like war trophies to this crew.

The Dork Knight

Daniel came over to swim for a bit. And by "swim", I mean, we more or less stood around in the pool having increasingly inane conversations. And because I am the mosquito magnet of any group, I'm constantly having to swat the little bastards away from my forehead.

That's a very inconvenient place for mosquitoes to alight.

At a certain point (it's after nine), a bat starts swooping in to scoop up sips of water from the pool. Immediately, we are fascinated by this bat. Daniel entertains notions of catching the bat. I merely beg it to return so I may use it as an emblem to fight crime. This, suprisingly, does not work. Eventually, I am struck by a far more prudent idea:

"Hey! Get back here and catch some of these damn mosquitoes!"

. . . .

Bad dreams.

Stupid dog.

Four hours of sleep.

Fuck.

Get a Grip

A month ago, when we went to Katie's graduation, I ran into one of my comic-shop buddies. It was a surprise, mostly because I had no idea he knew Katie, so I did something I don't normally do. I offered a handshake. And I regretted it. Dude had a dead-fish handshake.

I don't know exactly why, but every time I encounter someone with a limp grip, I feel just a bit dirty.

Anyway, I've been thinking quite a bit about this. Ultimately, I think most people would do well to learn the proper etiquette. Things like,

a) NO LIMP HANDSHAKES! There are a lot of people who judge character by the strength of your grip. I am one of them.

b) Don't overdo it. You don't want to come across as over-bearing. You want a firm grip, enough to let the other person know you're there, but you don't want to crush his or her hand. My general rule is to match the other person's grip.

c) Don't start too far away. With one arm stretched out in front of you, people will wonder when you'll start the goose-step.

d) Don't prolong it. One or two pumps of the arm, if you're old fashioned. Most of the time, though, just grip and release. And definitely don't hold the other person's hand through a conversation. For one thing, it's awkward. For another, people like me will start entertaining notions of chopping off your hand.

e) If you're a man, never--NEVER--offer your hand to a lady. It's presumptuous as hell. Some women don't shake hands. Some do. Always let them initiate it. And if shaking hands with a woman, same rules as before.

Those are just some very basic things. I could go on a bit longer, and there are others who could out-talk me on the subject.

Bet you didn't think a geek could shake hands.

More Fiction for Your . . . Something that Rhymes with Fiction . . .

I've been assaulting all my friends with this little site called Ficly. It's a community based entirely on short-short fiction. Have a story idea that'll use less than 1000 characters? Publish it. See someone else's story and really enjoy it? Write a sequel or prequel. It's a hell of a lot of fun, not to mention incredibly challenging. A thousand characters (including spaces) averages around a couple hundred words.

Here's a couple of stories I posted. Each one is close to the maximum allotted characters.

And yes, I've been on a bit of a sci-fi kick lately. Also, you may find the second one to be kind of a gross out.

Sweeper

May 12,

The ship had been drifting out-system for over a week after the initial mayday. It was one of those messages. The kind that ends in a scream, which itself ends in a gurgle. Our ship, a Sweeper class lovingly called Blood ’N Guts, was deployed. Even outfitted with the new drive, it took us several days.

When we reached it (its ID tag proclaimed it the Accretion), we hailed the crew, got no answer. We hadn’t expected one. Scans showed no life-signs. There were no heat sources, aside from the computer on the bridge. Life-support had automatically shut down when the computer registered its crew was dead. Before hibernating, it changed the distress signal to a warning signal.

The ship still contained atmosphere, so we popped it.

Now we wait. Standard policy is twenty-four hours. We have to let it get nice and cool in there.



Negative Pressure

May 13,

We found the first one in Medical Bay.

Whether patient or experiment, I’ll never know. He—no, it, always it—lay back on a gurney. Straps crossed at forehead, chest, and hip. Padded manacles locked down the hands and feet. It had been a feisty bastard. It craned its head to look at us, and the strap across its forehead peeled back the weakened flesh like a hood, exposing a crosshatch of fine muscle, a patch of yellow skull.

Don’t know how it sensed us. Couldn’t smell us or hear us. Couldn’t even see us—its decaying eyes had ruptured from the vacuum we had admitted to the ship. It opened its mouth, and though there was no air to carry the sound, I swear I could hear the moan.

I raised my pistol and shot it from three feet away. A bolt of plasma erased its face and boiled away everything beneath. It thrashed a bit, but even if it hadn’t been strapped down, the cold had stiffened its joints.

I watched it for a moment, then spoke into my suit’s radio. “Clear, Medical Bay.”

Thank God I'm Not a Poet

Went out with the guys for a few rounds of airsoft. For those not familiar, airsoft is basically paintball, but with 6mm plastic BBs. Eye protection is a must. In warmer months, so is bug spray. We went out to Pokey's grandpa's place, where there are acres of thickets and tall grass--prime places for guerrilla tactics. Of course, guerrilla tactics end up being reduced to crouching in sodden underbrush, mosquito dope making your skin tacky and feverish (mosquitoes still whining in your ears, alighting on the bits of flesh not doused in repellent), and being shot by people you can't see but somehow know exactly where you are. It's muggy, it's dark, your clothes cling damply to your skin, and your legs feel like they're on fire from crouching for so long. Every sound you hear is someone creeping up on you, and you expect to feel the wasp-sting of BBs from the gun of someone almost close enough to touch you. In spite of all this, you are having fun.

Pokey and Kyle shelled out big bucks for high-powered equipment, fully automatic assault rifles that make my little battery-powered automatic look like a cap gun. They pack one helluva punch: I've got bloody welts on my left leg from being shot at almost point-blank range. Through cargo pants. Those two almost always seemed to be on the same team, too. We called them on that.

When it became evident that the rounds were taking too long in the thickets, we decided to move it out to the meadows behind the house. The plan was to do some rounds of capture the flag or king of the hill. Never quite made it to that. After the second round of shooting, we could smell a skunk. Nature's jackass. "Oh, hark! I hear loud noises! It sounds like those Human-Things and their guns. I'll investigate. Oh no! They're big and scary! How could I possibly have known? Should I run away? No, I'll just spray them with my foul secretions. That makes perfect sense!"

None of us got sprayed, but still. What the hell, Skunk? What the hell?

Anyway, I guess the whole reason I made this post was to describe the meadow. It was dark, with storm clouds blotting out the stars, but even so I could still see the shape of rolling hills in the darkness. And amidst the shades of black and gray, were thousands of fireflies. Countless points of green light, winking out, returning. Eldritch. Fay and mystical, strange. No wonder people used to believe in fairies. After taking a hit to the shoulder, waiting off to the side for the round to end and the next to start, I would stare out at it. It would have been peaceful, but my system was still churning out adrenaline. A proper poet would have mentioned something about the stars descending to the earth for a night of frolicking in the rain, time spent communing with those who normally look out at them in their cold distance and ponder the strange worlds that circle them and the strange peoples that call those worlds home. Lovers would have marvelled at the simple grace of nature, would have watched the green sparks in each other's eyes.

Instead, I thought it funny that most of nature's beauty and elegance is the result of some one of her creature's trying to get a piece of ass.

And instead of lovers, the fireflies got a loud bunch of irreverent guys who ran and tramped through snarls of high grass and burst through tangles of brier and thorn, covering themselves in mud and scratches, sweating through bug repellent, and hurling curses and taunts along with those plastic BBs.

I like to think we annoyed those fireflies just a bit.

Caution, Ye who Wish

Here's a more recent one. Wrote it a few months ago. Once again, something completely mundane yields to the strange. I laughed the whole time I wrote this, knowing what the very last line would be and hoping I could set it up right. I think I did a pretty good job. I hope you people find it as funny as I do, though that'll make you as weird as me.


Wish I May

She smiled sweetly and shut the door. It was a good door, he thought. A nice, solid door. Fine grain, polished and stained a wonderful, rich brown. Very probably oak. It was the kind of house that would have an oak door. It would not be, he thought, a good idea to kick it.

His own smile— one that had progressed from hope to anxiety, followed by shame, and ultimately replaced by a reluctant (and totally fake) understanding— began to wilt at the edges. He sighed like he would eject his soul, feeling that he had already done so, exposing it for all (or at least one) to see, only to have it waft away in the draft of a closing door.

Bye-bye.

Auf wiedersehen.

Arrivaderci.

Bon voyage, and don’t forget to write.

He realized he was being melodramatic. He didn’t care. He felt like being melodramatic. It was better than anger. Anger would lead to a lot of other useless feelings, like bitterness and resent.

And a broken foot.

He stepped off the front porch and looked up at the sky. The sun was setting. Some would call it lovely. Some, digging deeper, would call it symbolic. He saw a sunset. It was bright and hurt his eyes, and he could imagine it burning away the hazel there, rendering his eyes pale and sightless. He kept looking, not because he thought it would surrender an answer, nor because he craved the blinding pain. He was neither delusional nor a masochist. He did, however, think it made him look introspective and somewhat classy. And perhaps she would look out, see him being classy, and her heart would be swayed.

He chuckled and scratched the back of his head, tousling curly, red hair. Okay. Maybe a little delusional.

As he turned to walk down the street, he saw a glimmer in the sky. A star. He looked around at the rest of the darkening sky. The first star of the night, it seemed. He almost passed it up, but something made him pause.

First star I see tonight, he thought. What the hell.

“I wish,” he said. “I wish I could be the kind of person she would like. That she would want.” He searched for something else to say, but discovered he felt foolish enough as it was.

He started walking.

***

Sun shining in her eyes from the window was all that brought her close enough to wakefulness to hear the knock at the door. It wasn’t quite panicked, but it could get there, given another five minutes or so. She grumbled an “I’m coming” that would never reach the door and checked her reflection to make sure she was decent.

She stumbled through the hallway, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, once again primping before a mirror in the foyer. Though not quite satisfied, she crossed over to the door. The knocking had gotten louder, and not just because of proximity. She jerked the door open and heard a gasp of surprise. She took a small measure of satisfaction in that.

“Yeah, what do you— ” There was not much more to say, as the person on the other side of the door wasn’t at all who she was expecting. Whoever she had been expecting.

The first things she noticed were the eyes. Bright with some of that panic that had begun to show in the intensity of the knocking, but also something in them that smoldered. They were a shade of hazel tending toward green. And something familiar….

The hair came next. The fiercest red this side of Ireland. Curly, almost to the point of ringlets.

And that feeling of familiarity persisted.

The clothes were loose-fitting and obviously belonged to a guy. The pants stayed up only with a helping hand. For all that, they could not completely hide a generous set of curves.

She stared at the girl on the porch and felt her heart quicken.

“Can…can I help you?”

“I gotta tell you,” the girl on the porch said, “I never would’ve pegged you for a lesbian.”

Turtles Have Short Legs

Sarah suggested posting some of my fiction to my blog. Think I might try it. This is a story I wrote about four years ago. It plays with one of my favorite themes: mundane situations suddenly becoming fantastical. Or sometimes just plain strange.

The post's title, by the way, comes from the '70s German punk group, Can. The piano intro is catchy as hell.


Under the Tarp

“Look, all I’m saying is that if you’re sure she’s cheating on you, then dump her.” Brian took a puff on his cigarette, blew smoke out the window. “You’re either the nicest guy I know, or the dumbest.”

“That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“I’m just tryin to figure out why you keep putting up with her shit.” Another puff. Another plume of smoke out the window. “The sex must be fantastic.”

Jared kept his hands on the wheel, his eyes on the interstate before them. About fifty yards ahead, there was a large diesel truck hauling a flat-bed trailer. On the trailer was a large . . . thing. Rectangular prism wrapped in tarp. A very big tarp. Jared thought, No tarps were harmed in the making of this movie, and then shook his head.

“That doesn’t explain why I still put up with your shit,” he said.

Brian thought about that a moment and then nodded his agreement. “Yeah, the sex between us is terrible.”

On their left passed a long black smudge that culminated in a great coil of rubber. The shed skin of the elusive roadsnake. The diesel was a little closer now. Loose edges of the tarp flapped and tugged at the thing it was covering. Jared only felt half attached to reality. For some reason, the faded-purple of the interstate’s pavement made him feel like he was in a story. Maybe something about rangers, hobbits, and vagabond wizards. Only for him, there was no ring to destroy, no quest to complete. It was nothing but the Dead Marshes, baby, and his version of Sam sometimes seemed more akin to Gollum, hold the Sméagol.

Jared shrugged, tapped out a rhythmless pattern on the wheel, and said, “I don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?”

He shifted in his seat and wiggled his foot around to try to shake some of the tension in his shins. He wished he had cruise control.

“I don’t know. You know, if she’s cheating. Or how I’m supposed to find out. Just generally what in the bloody hell I’m supposed to do.”

Brian took a last drag on his cig and flicked the butt out of the car. He rolled up the window. “Well, I think this is a nice start.”

“What is?”

“Actually talking about it instead of keeping your friggin lip buttoned like you usually do. Vent. Call her names. Like, say she’s a bitch.”

“What?”

“C’mon, say it.”

Jared watched another shred of tire go past.

“Saaay it.”

“All right! She’s a bitch.”

“There. Feel better?”

“Not exactly.”

“Now why is she a bitch?”

“What?”

“You called her a bitch. Now tell me why?”

Jared sighed. “Do you have a point?”

“My point is to stop worrying about it. You are young, my friend. You are nearing the prime of your life. There’s plenty of time left. Anyway, it’s not like you were going to marry her.”

Jared didn’t answer. After a moment, Brian looked at him, stricken. “Oh God, don’t tell me you were going to marry her!”

“What?” Jared felt actual surprise. “No!”

Brian calmed a little but still looked wary. “You swear that’s true? There’s no ring hidden away in your desk drawer, is there?”

“No, Brian. I wasn’t going to marry her.”

As if he hadn’t heard him: “Because if there is, then so help me, I will jump out of this car right now!”

“I swear, marriage was never the intent.”

“All right,” Brian said. He shifted to an easier position and took his hand off the door handle. Jared had never seen it go there in the first place. He realized he wasn’t so sure that Brian wouldn’t have jumped out.

He shook his head. Best not to think about it. Ahead, the diesel was closer. The tarp continued to flap and beat. It bulged weirdly in the wind.

“It was just, you know, the average boy-girl relationship. Go to the movies, go to dinner, someplace. Go back to the apartment, fool around.”

“You guys do it?”

“Couple times,” Jared said. “But it was like that was all it’d ever amount to. A little fun, a little pleasure, a little sex. I never felt really intimate with her. I really think that we were just in the right place at the right time, and eventually we would wind down, it would stop working, and we’d say, I don’t know . . . see ya later.”

“So you’re saying there was no real emotional attachment between you.”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“Pansy.”

“I thought that was coming.”

“And yet you blundered into it just the same.”

“Bite me.”

“And when you heard she was cheating,” Brian said, “you didn’t confront her because . . . .”

“Because there was no emotional attachment.”

“Right.”

“I guess I wasn’t really mad at her. Disappointed maybe, but not all that mad. So I decided to wait. See if it’s true.”

“Good plan, I guess,” Brian said, rolling down the window with one hand, pulling out a half-crumpled pack of Marlboro Lights with the other. “Don’t lay into her until you know for sure.”

“Yeah. Makes it easier for both of us.”

“Nice guy.”

“You know, I hear they finish last.”

“He who laughs last, laughs best.”

“That doesn’t quite fit.”

“The sentiment’s the same,” Brian said. He puffed a cigarette into ignition, then put pack and lighter away.

“You’re gonna kill yourself with those,” Jared said.

“Gotta die of something,” Brian said.

Ahead, the diesel was only ten yards away. The tarp was bulging severely, too much for the wind to be the cause. Like something was pushing out.

Something bony and white punched through one side of the tarp and unzipped it top to bottom. The ragged edges flapped. The top bulged more than ever and began to split. Whatever was pushing it out retracted for a moment and then slammed upward again. The bulge was slighter than before, but permanent. There was a bang of metal that Jared and Brian could hear over the wake rolling off the car.

“What the hell!” Brian said.

Jared didn’t say anything.

There was another of those impossibly loud bangs and the bulge became more pronounced. A steel bar, horribly distended, peeked through the split in the tarp. With one more bang, a groan and a wrench, the bar gave way to the monstrous force assailing it. Something big and dark erupted out and leaped clear of what could only be a cage.

The only thing Jared could think to do was slam on the brakes. The car swerved, fishtailed, and threatened to spin out, but Jared kept it in control long enough to come to a complete stop. When the car had stopped rolling, he raked his fingers across the seatbelt release, threw open the door, and jumped out onto the interstate. A minute later, Brian was beside him. His cigarette dangled from his bottom lip.

“Shit!” he said.

“What the hell—”

“Shit!” Brian said again.

Ahead, now almost a quarter mile away, the diesel began to slow down, the driver having finally noticed that something might have gone a bit wrong. Neither Jared nor Brian noticed, nor even cared, about the diesel. They were all eyes for the thing that was flying away. It was fast. Already, it was little more than a vague shape very far away. It was, however, still close enough for them to see the spirited little somersault it did, as well as the gout of flame it trumpeted into the sky, as if in celebration of its newfound freedom.

Jared shook his head. “Is that a—”

“Don’t say it,” Brian said.

“I don’t believe it.”

“Shit!” Brian said a third time.

A moment of silence. And then:

“I think it really is. It’s a—”

“Don’t say it.”

Expanded Blogging

Trying out linked blogging accounts. Signed up for an account at TypePad to see if it would be possible to get a bit more spread out with this blog.

UPDATE

In retrospect, it's not what I thought it would be. Switching back to the old template

Gotta Love Those Rabbits

My co-worker, Gary, and I have come up with a new phrase pertaining to our ability to pull off the impossible while fixing huge messes at work. That phrase is "pull a rabbit out of your ass." Because, really. Pulling a live rabbit out of that particular cavity would be far more miraculous than simply extracting one from a hat.

If a problem was particularly difficult, you'd say something to the effect of, "Well, I was able to pull out a couple of rabbits." And if it's been a rough day? "Where were you, man? We could've used a few more ass-rabbits."

All of this is a roundabout way of providing context to my Quote of the Day. Because if I just posted it in its regular spot, it wouldn't make a damn bit of sense.

Ahem.

"Desperate times call for ass-rabbits."

Instead of "desperate measures", you see. I might get that copyrighted.

Good 'n' Evil

Sarah recommended A Spell for Chameleon, one of the Xanth books by Piers Anthony. I'd looked at the title before, when I was into fantasy, but it always seemed too silly. Strangely, now that my tastes have matured, I appreciate silly. I mean. A blanket tree? The Gap Chasm? "Oh no, earthquake! Oh, wait, no. It's just the invisible giant." This is gold.

I've enjoyed seeing Bink progress from naive villager to a more seasoned traveller. The only problem is he is still a bit of a goody-two-shoes. He's a good guy. I get that. He's selfless and loyal. Okay, commendable. That doesn't make him interesting, though. Chameleon is more intriguing, and she spends one-third of her existence as a beautiful airhead. She's a good person, as well. She's loyal to a greater cause, and she keeps public welfare firmly in mind. However, she is also shrewd and clever (in her ugly phase, at least). She's tricksy, precious, oh yes, very tricksy.

But so far, Trent is the star of the show. The Evil Magician, who was exiled twenty years ago as a traitor and usurper of the throne, is by far my favorite character. For a villain, he is quite honorable. He learned long ago that loyalty to his followers would be reciprocated. Moreover, if he made his word his bond, he could trust the same from his men. Though he is accused of being a loathesome despot, he exhibits none of that behavior.

The title of Magician means he has a great power. His particular power is that of Transformation. He can turn any living creature, be it plant or animal, into any other living creature. This became his MO. Any man who opposed him was transformed into something that could not oppose him. That's properly villainous, isn't it? He makes no defense or excuse for his actions. He considered it necessary toward his cause. And yet, when in danger of being devoured by a sea serpent, he is reluctant to transform it, if even temporarily. It is merely doing what comes natural, he reasons, and it is not right for man to come into its demesne and impose his will.

So he is a man of ethics. But he's still right dastardly, wot? He wants to take control of the throne and rule Xanth. And yet, he shows concern for Xanth. He worries that insulation from the outside world will result only in stagnation and the ultimate fall of Xanth. His quest for domination can just as easily become a mission to depose a failing government and to save a land from a king who has lost much of his power and all of his sense. All that separates him from the role of Hero is the limit of action he is willing to take. Will he commit any atrocity to succeed? No. He demonstrates a mindset that the end does not justify the means. But will he go beyond the Heroic "comfort zone". He willingly--even amusedly--accepts the mantle of Villain, as it suits his ultimate purpose as Savior.

This isn't a defense, nor is it a treatise to propose Trent's inherent goodness. He is an antagonist, make no mistake of that. Though allying himself with Bink and Chameleon, he plainly states that, at any future meeting, all bets are off, and if they hinder him, he will dispose of them as he has countless others.

This is just to show that Trent is, by far, the most complex and interesting character in the novel. Though he is the villain, he is incredibly sympathetic. Or maybe, it's not in spite of his supposed villainy, but because of it.

Sometimes, it's the bad guy that makes the story so good.

A Shameless Geek am I

Time to put on your nerd hat. Grab the asthma inhaler, insert the pocket protector, and put on the tape-wrapped horned-rim glasses. For the uninitiated, who for some reason God only knows is still reading: grab a smock or apron. Better yet, a raincoat. We're about to spill a lot of geek all over the place.

Right now, my beef is Star Wars games. Specifically, how the Force is portrayed.

Seriously, folks. Not too late to back out. Still with me? God help you.

Okay. Any Star Wars nut such as I knows what the Force is: an energy field created by life; it binds everything in existence, linking it so that one who properly understands the Force is able to utilize a kinship with the rest of the universe and influence it in direct or indirect ways. We try to ignore that shite about midichlorians (dammit, George!).

Those who were adept in the Force were sometimes known as sorcerers or witches, due to the mystery of the powers bestowed upon them. Someone sufficiently attuned with the Force would seem to be able to manipulate the world at the most base level, that of raw energy. The most simple application would be to physically move or affect matter: the ability to telekinetically lift objects; swat projectiles out of the air; or even accelerate one's own movement, resulting in lightning fast reflexes and towering leaps. They were granted precognition of varying magnitude: some could predict the enemy's next move, while some could foresee the outcome of a war. They were better able to master their own physiology and chemistry. They could read minds and implant suggestions or even imperatives.

My point? The Force--and the abilities it imparted--was inherently unquantifiable. There was no measuring, no categorization--except for that fine line between Light and Dark.

And yet, in the games, Force abilities are very carefully labeled and assigned. Requirements are applied to both player and character. Light and Dark powers are very specifically delineated. A Jedi can use Force Push, Force Speed, Mind Trick. A Sith can use Force Lightning and Force Grip (choking and crushing).

Yes, I understand that they are just video games. And video games require that elements be quantifiable. Buttons have to be mapped, and combos have to be assigned. Left Trigger + B Button must result in Force Power I, while Left Trigger + Y Button must yield Force Power II. I see it, I get it. I just don't like it. Having to abide by a specific moves list of powers robs me of the potential I felt while watching the movies and reading the books. It is simply too confining.

English Majors Have the Best Conversations

I'll prattle on for a bit, though what I really want to do right now is have a sit with my old friend Travis McGee, courtesy of the magnificent John D. MacDonald. I've been too long from the stories of the great gallumphing knight-errant. It is a grave disservice on my part, and for that I'm ashamed.

What I'm about to relate is a conversation I had with John, a co-worker of mine.

Me: See, if I was going to start a B-vitamin regimen, it would be those tablets that have about 8000% the daily dose.

John: Wouldn't that much fry your brain?

Me: No, B-vitamins aren't toxic. You can take as many as you want.

John: So what are they, just a bunch of bees?

Me: They're actually distilled from all the Bs people use. They just float out there until someone grabs them and condenses them down into vitamins. That's how they make vitamins. From all the letters people use.

John: So they're used?

Me: They're recycled, so it's okay. It's good, actually. Keeps the air clear. That's actually what causes global warming. It's not carbon emissions, it's from all the letters that don't get distilled into vitamins and just float out there. Because we don't have any vitamins after K. Think about it. That's also why vitamin E is in everything. E is the most used letter in the English language.

John: And carbon's not the problem, 'cause carbon starts with a K.

Me: Well, a C. But C's good, it gets used. So yeah, carbon's not the problem. Just all those letters. And talking about global warming doesn't help. I mean, all those letters, like G, L, W, and N, they don't get used. No vitamins for them. So they just float out there. They make it worse.

I'll stop there and spare you. But yeah. I made all that up, on the spot. I was proud of myself. And no, there were no chemical influences. That's just a typical conversation with John. It's like you start off peeling an orange, then you realize you're actually filleting a fish.

And then things just get weird.

"For a brick, he flies pretty good!"

Got Halo Wars about a week-and-a-half ago from Gamefly. Played some skirmishes, made sure to cover both UNSC and the Covenant. And I had a lot of fun. The mechanics are great: very simple and compatible with a 360 controller (only makes sense, as it was designed specifically for the 360). I didn't play it as much as I would've liked, so I didn't really get good at the controls. As such, I will keep my issues to a minimum: if there was a way I could deselect specific units, I never found it (there very well could have been; I had no manual to look to for reference). Ditto with sending detachments. If I have enemy tanks approaching, and I simply want to send just my anti-vehicle units, I would like something more specific than "all units" or "local units". Often times, I felt like I was sending far too many units toward an engagement.

And now to something else. I'm tired of the word "units".

I got a decent ways into the campaign, as well. I was really digging the story. The characters were starting to shape up very well, too. I could already tell there was probably some history between Forge and Anders. My only real issue with the story was that Serina did not seem as engaging a character. And she cannot be excused for being an artificial intelligence: Cortana, the AI from the original series, was one of the strongest personalities in the games.

Aside from that, I did have a problem with the gameplay, one that was significant enough that it sometimes had me turning off my console. That would be the save mechanic. Progress is saved automatically at the end of each level, and the player is given the option to save mid-gameplay. That's it. If you remember to save frequently, that's no problem. But guess who tends to forget that? Yup, moi. An auto-save function would have been fantastic. There are enough objectives in each level that installing a checkpoint after each one would have been a real godsend. To be honest, I'm keeping track of enough things as is. I have scouts to monitor, outbound units I have to keep an eye on, a base and resources to manage, new structures to build, new troops to train, new vehicles to manufacture, enemies to engage. The list goes on. Is it too much to ask that the game gives me a break with saving progress automatically?

Despite that, I kept returning to the game. Regardless of any shortcomings, it's still outrageously fun. And my favorite aspect of the whole game is seeing the Spartans in their prime. During one mission, I had nine (nine!) Spartans at my command. And what did I do with those nine Spartans? Why, attacked the enemy base, of course. I cycled up two MAC (magnetically accelerated cannon) rounds to take out the energy shield around the Covenant citadel, and then I let my entire army at them. I lost everything except the Spartans. Tough bastards, they. At one point, curious to see how the fight was going, I scrolled around the battlefield. I saw one Spartan getting attacked from behind by a twelve-foot-tall Hunter. The Spartan paused, turned around, and blasted the Hunter away. Then he returned to firing on the Covenant base.

I love those guys.

Good game. I heartily recommend it.

Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes

I was finally able to go see Watchmen. I will go ahead and say that it was faithful to the comic, more importantly, to the spirit of the comic. The casting was great: Billy Crudup (Osterman/Doc Manhattan), Patrick Wilson (Dreiberg/Nite Owl II), Malin Ackerman (Juspeczyk/Silk Specter II), Matthew Goode (Veidt/Ozymandias) and especially Jackie Earle Haley (Kovacs/Rorschach), among others. Did I mention Jackie Earle Haley? I did? Okay, great.

Great movie. Wonderful movie. Brilliant movie. Zack Snyder deserves his own sovereign nation for this.

Even better than how faithful they were able to remain, was where they decided to make the cuts. The Black Freighter is out. Thank God. As a writer, I was able to appreciate how the comic-within-a-comic provided an analog to the main story, how the hopelessness and despair were supposed to set the mood for the approaching doom of nuclear holocaust. As a reader, however, it bored the hell out of me. I wanted to get on with it, back to the characters I love.

Also changed is the ending. Those who've read the comic know that Adrian Veidt's plan is to bring the US and USSR governments together against a perceived mutual enemy, in the form of an alien invasion (and if you haven't read the comic, shame on you). Personally, I always felt this ending was sprung on the reader. It didn't have enough setup, and too much of it had to be explained by Veidt at the end for it to make sense. Almost like Moore was saying, "Oh yeah. I forgot to tell you, but this was going on, too."

Instead, Veidt setting up Dr. Manhattan to take the blame for the destruction of half of New York seemed the better way to go. It works with the elements at hand, rather than roping in a tenuous subplot that had been cast out to the reader several issues ago.

Not everyone agrees with me on the last one, but that's the beauty of literature. You don't have to.

My only regret is that I only just read the comic last year. So many people have lived with Watchmen for years, and I've only been really aware of it for one or two. I feel like there's so much I'm missing out on: even though I love the movie, it is not the epic for me that it is for the people who read the comic years ago.

I'm not touching on all the topics I want to, mostly because other people have talked about it. I just wanted to throw in my two-cents. I'd also recomment slipping over to PVPonline, and checking out what Scott Kurtz had to say. And while you're there, go back a few strips and check out his Ombudsmen arc. It's an homage to Watchmen and syndicated comics. Dude's got a lot of talent.

Oh, and did I mention Jackie Earle Haley is awesome? Okay, good. Just making sure.

Experimentalationalism

I enjoy writing stories. Even though it's been hard for me for the last few years (trouble staying focused and whatnot), or maybe because of it, I cherish those moments when I'm able to immerse myself in creating something.

Sometimes, though, I daydream about different ways of writing. In the past year, I have come to really respect the graphic novel as a wonderful vehicle for story, thanks in large part to comics like Watchmen, Y, Cairo, and the new Conan series. I would love to try out this medium. I even have an artist friend who is incredibly talented. He denies the consistency of style, however, to participate.

Bastard.

Ha, I kid. I still intend to rope him into this project, one way or another. In the meantime, I've been considering other media. I'm a big fan of the epistolary novel, when it's done right. (For those who are not hopeless English Lit nerds, an epistolary novel is a story told by the exchange of letters between characters.) Clarissa and Pamela by Samuel Richardson are good examples. Bram Stoker's Dracula also qualifies, though it is formatted as journal entries, as well as letters.

The concept of the fictional journal isn't new by any means, though it is one I haven't had much experience with. I guess you could argue that a first-person narrative is inherently journal based. I've certainly written many of those. But a traditional journal format is something I'm just now fiddling with. I'm even writing it in a Moleskine journal to help me keep in perspective; my wandering attention needs all the help it can get.

Even more than that, I've been wondering about Twitter. If you cast your eyes to starboard, you'll see I'm on Twitter, so I know how that works. Now, I'm aware that fictional accounts already exist. People regularly post as characters such as Darth Vader, Indiana Jones, and Bender from Futurama. What I've been entertaining is a notion of an adventure story, completely told via Twitter. I would have to find a way to justify his using the application, as well as the internet connection this would require, but I think that's the easy part. There would be other problems. Would consequences arise from this? Would such an account be considered fraudulent? Would someone in an authoritative role take the posts seriously, thereby causing an embarrassing international incident?

Actually, that last one would be worth it.

Indulge me

Just wanted to post screenshots from Prince of Persia.

The Elika close up isn't for the reasons you think.

...

...

Okay, it's totally for the reasons you think.

Of Persian Monarchs

Rented Prince of Persia for the 360. Holy damn, is it fun. And pretty! The art style utilizes bright colors and cel-shading, which give the game an almost storybook feel. I love the characters, the voice acting is surprisingly good, although the story isn't the most original (magical prison tree--anyone remember Fern Gully?).

I'm enjoying the gameplay. I can see where people joke about the controls (press A to play game), but there's enough of a timing element to the different stunts (i.e., slide-and-jump, swing-and-jump, wall-run, ceiling-run, grapple) that I'm rather glad I don't have to memorize a bunch of different buttons.

As for the complaint that you can't lose: really, who gives a shit? I certainly don't. For me, challenge and fun enjoy a certain overlapping exclusivity. I'm not necessarily having fun every time I feel challenged. In an event when you would normally fall to your death, you are saved at the last minute by Elika. Likewise, if you are struck down by an enemy, Elika intervenes, and you are pulled out of harm's way. There are plenty of other games I can point out where, upon death, you are returned to the nearest checkpoint. (Hell, in Zelda games, if you fall into a chasm, you are returned to the edge of the precipice, minus part of a heart.) There isn't really much of a difference here. You just don't have to wait on a checkpoint to load. And in cases where Elika saves you from an enemy, there is a consequence--the enemy is returned to full health. Just as though you had died and were starting the fight over.

It's a great game, and I endorse it whole-heartedly. I very much enjoy the 360 version, and I hear the PS3 version looks even better.

Unintelligible Grunt

Ngah.

Roofers came this morning to, well, work on the roof. We had some damage from the big freeze that came through a few weeks ago; lots of limbs came down all over our yard.

But anyway, they got here around eight o'clock this morning. After that point, I couldn't sleep anymore. Now, before you start accusing me of being a lazy ass, I work second shift. I don't get home until eleven o'clock, usually don't get to sleep until three or so. So I have to sleep til about late morning.

They've been dragging aluminum sheeting up and down all morning, making loud rackets. During a few of the louder ones, I stuffed my head under my pillow and hoped it was one of them falling off the roof.

But I suppose that's wrong. Is that wrong?

Nanu-nanu!

Yet another journal (not blog, I'll not dignify that word with use) that I shall probably abandon. But, oh the fun we shall have 'til then!

....well, maybe not.

Um.

Ah, yes! Introductions.

I'm a college grad seeking the next step. I've a BA in English, which means I'll usually post with some form of eloquence (especially after a beer or two--go figure). However, because of my immense fondness for contrasts, I may have the penchant--nay, propensity--for interspersing my loquacious diatribes with words such as "shit" and "fuck".

Just saying, fair warning.

Um. I'm bored now. I'll talk more, later.