Episode 18: Message from the Grave

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Note: To read the entire story from the beginning click here.

Jimmy Slick was at his table, just where I’d seen him last, but this time he was dead. I didn’t notice he was dead right away, and no one else in the joint was any wiser, but when I plunked a glass of gin down in front of him and he didn’t react, I knew something was up. Nothing else was amiss; Alice had been in her position outside The Bucket and gave me the all-clear signal as I approached. Jimmy had been alone when he went in, and whoever had done him hadn’t aroused her suspicions.

I sat next to what used to be Jimmy and looked him over, trying not to draw any attention. Cause of death was pretty easy to establish; there was a knife between his shoulder blades, the puncture neat and clean, hardly bleeding at all. An expert job. I got that crawling feeling that someone was right behind me at that moment, ready to do the same to me. When I turned around, however, there was no one there.

I looked around the place to see if anyone had taken an interest in my activities, but all the other people sat at the bar, staring into their drinks, as if the answers to life were to be found there. I leaned forward and put my head near Jimmy’s, as if speaking conspiratorially, while I went through his pockets. A fat wad of cash, a battered switchblade, some small change, driver’s permit, and a key ring with a house key and the key to a Ford.

I almost missed it. One of his hands was clenched tightly shut. With a shudder I pried open his cold fingers to find another key, a smaller one but finely crafted. I didn’t take the time to inspect it then, I just slipped it into my pocket. Somewhere there was a lock it fit into, and it couldn’t be coincidence he was holding it when he died.

I leaned back and looked at Jimmy. He hadn’t wanted to get involved, but I had talked him into it. He’d been a weasel, but an OK guy for that. Now he was dead, and his murder was going to be pinned on me. Just another problem on top of all the others. I tossed back my whiskey. Now I was angry.

Another figure entered the bar. He was dressed like just another Joe but he wasn’t there to drink. He crossed directly to my table and sat. “Did you find anything?” he asked.

“An unusual amount of cash,” I said. “This your work?”

“No, but I know the man who did it.”

“Guy knows his stuff.”

“Yes. He has many talents. How much cash?”

“I didn’t count.”

“Nothing else out of the ordinary?”

I shrugged. “A piece-of-junk blade, some small change, keys—”

The other’s eyes narrowed. “What sort of keys?” Bingo.

I stood. “Check for yourself.” I walked over to the bar and caught the attention of the barman. “A gin and a bourbon for my friends over there,” I said gesturing back to the table. I put some dough on the bartop and started for the door. I looked back and I saw the unblinking eye of a pistol pointed at me from under the table. “See you boys later,” I said, and neatly slid the murder rap onto my new friend.

“Yes, you will,” he said. “Soon.”

I had Jimmy’s address from his driving permit, but I suspected that if whatever the key had been there it wasn’t any longer, and whoever had it could just use a hammer to spring it open. No, the key itself was what mattered, not the lock it opened. Alice was going to have a lot of legwork to do.

I stepped out onto the street, blinking in the sun, cursing the heat, and turned up the avenue.

Alice wasn’t there.

Tune in next time for: Nest of Vipers!

Thanks!

Volunteers needed

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I’m making some minor tweaks to The Monster Within, but as I’m going through it, there’s a place where I think the story loses momentum. It’s difficult for me to judge that, now, however, since I’ve read it about a hundred times. Therefore I would really appreciate two volunteers, one male and one female, who haven’t read the story before, who can read it through and tell me which parts seem slow to them. I would like to address the problems soon (it’s difficult for me to not dive in right now, but if it isn’t broken I shouldn’t be fixing it), so I would prefer test readers who read a lot of books and go through them in days or weeks rather than months.

Having both a male and female reviewer is mostly for my own curiosity — it will be interesting to see where opinions differ.

The “brave soul” reference above is because I’m looking for people to tell me about the parts of the story they didn’t like, and many people are not comfortable telling a creator to his face that their work is flawed. (Of course, you’re also welcome to tell me about the good parts…)

While I’m not asking anyone to sign a nondisclosure agreement, I would appreciate some discretion. There are certain parts of the story I would like to keep under wraps so as not to spoil the story for others. You’ll know what I mean when you read it.

Please email me or leave a message here in the comments if you’re interested.

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Thanks!

Dancing ’till Dawn

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I was sitting at the Little Café Near Home, writing, when the message came. There’s some sort of Olympics Thing going on right now, so the TV was on, directly over my head, and the few other patrons were all turned in my direction but not looking at me. The two dogs in the place seemed indifferent to the sports, but were very disappointed that their owners were not allowing them to play. Such is the life of a large dog in a small café.

My phone chimed and when I got to a good stopping point in the prose, I hauled it out to find two messages from Belladonna. “Reserved Stones tickets”, one said; the other read “We’re going out tonight. Wanna come?” I slowly typed out a message to respond to both her texts, left out an important word, and sent my confusing reply, which was supposed to say that I was interested in the Rolling Stones in June but tonight I was working and would not be coming out to play.

Work was going well; I had thought of a very good nuance to the way Hunter is messed up in later chapters of The Monster Within. (Man, I’ll be glad when that book is published so I can get it out of my head.) Except for a brief stint of Internet access at the bowling alley I had been writing for 13 hours, but I wasn’t tired. When it works, you run with it. I was scruffy and wearing the same clothes as the day before. It was after 9 pm when Belladonna and Firenze finally convinced me I should come out. It was, after all, Saturday Night. I figured if they were going to stay out late enough I could scrub down and join them.

Stay out late enough? Hah. They weren’t even going to get started until midnight. The style here is to get to the club district before public transportation shuts down, and party until it starts back up again. So, at a time I would ordinarily be considering sweet slumber, I was heading back out the door. I found the designated place, was soon joined by the ladies, and after answering a few questions (“What do you mean, ‘the evening ended awkwardly and uncertainly’?”) we danced the night away.

It was fun. Toward the end my poor small-talk skills began to show — I’m good at listening but not so good at sustaining a conversation. I’m comfortable with silences; unfortunately the interesting things going on are all inside my head, where they stay.

The evening ended with a walk through silent cobbled streets, snow falling gently around us.

Thanks!

Are We Not Men? We Are Google!

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Some people visit this site on purpose. Go figure. There are more who arrive her by accident, the collision of words sought with words used somewhere in these pages, which now number in the hundreds. Every once in a while I take time out from my busy and productive life to see just what it is that people are looking for, when they wind up here instead. Here is a list of some of the ones that have caught my eye lately. As always, when I don’t want the phrase to distract search engines in the future, I obfuscate key words with spaces.

  • daniel  p o w t e r  bad day notes – here is my parody
  • d o k u r o – c h a n  lyrics – (multiple searches) amazingly, I had exactly what the searcher was looking for. I’m getting multiple hits for this episode daily now; while it doesn’t rival egg frying, it’s big, baby.
  • pipiru piru piru pipiru pi – as above, lyrics and a brief review are here
  • john bevins – he was a good guy
  • mystery family revival band in san angelo – linked to the Homeless Tour category page, where I hope the searcher found my mention of the band in a salaciously titled episode. If the act goes big, I’ll be able to say I saw their first gig.
  • internet access pirate 4×4 – top link, thanks to a fortunate convergence of the stars, but what were they really looking for?
  • baby ocelot – once a classic, now rare. Linked to a page like this one, which referred to a previous google page, which referred to yet another page, before the chain finally reached the “elevator ocelot rutabaga” episode.
  • pirate toast All For Me Grog – linked to the Pirates! category page, where there is much talk of grog, and of the old song.
  • he, too, once lived in Arkady – probably searching for references for one of my favorite paintings in the Louvre, instead came to the Observations category page.
  • lyrics to skippy snackbar jingle – the searcher came to the Bars of the World Tour category page, attracted to an episode about the Herna Snack Bar and to one where I refer to a crazy woman’s friend as Skippy.
  • zoo phonics groveland – came to an old Homeless Tour episode, written the day I wandered the streets of Groveland looking for some toast.
  • MYSTERIOUS SECRET MESSAGE – here
  • hotelsmobile – search came from Malta. linked
  • “eunuch sex” – linked to another google episode
  • what the color of a rose means – as I am a widely respected expert on romance and the ways of a woman’s heart, it’s only natural people would turn here for advice
  • what are the three major forces of life in china? – second only to my legendary romantic prowess is my astonishing knowledge of life in China. Linked to the Politics category, which hasn’t seen much action lately.
  • you cant spell pirate without irate – linked to the Pirates! category page
  • elf breasts – linked to one of my trashier chapter ones.
  • ned’s +albuquerque – I get hits for several bars, and now Ned’s has joined the bunch.
  • “amazon women in the avocado jungle of death” – a surprsingly fun movie (not that it would take much to be surprised), the episode reached is actually one of the first entries from the homeless tour
  • “spreadable meat” – linked to an episode about hockey.
  • scary bloody gorey picture – linked to an episode about books
  • Strč prst skrz krk – It’s the whole no-vowels thing
  • cartoon swearing symbols – linked to the Homeless tour category page
  • “i’ve never told this to anyone else before” – linked to an episode that, while muddled, I happen to like.
  • what makes a bar and grill work – while I have some thoughts about that, Canyon Bar and Grill is probably not the place to emulate – but it has personality.
  • girls american fotbol team – sign me up as cheerleader!
  • “fried chicken embryos” – perpetuating the misnomer in the name of culinary arts
  • celebtrity heart attack victims – a misspelling get me the top match
  • flyer for socks for the homeless – linked to the Homeless Tour category page, naturally, where I discuss socks, flyers, and things like that.
  • czech word nazis pronounce – in general, Czechs aren’t big fans of Nazis.
  • death in Gila Bend – all I saw was a slice of life.
  • TOASTY TENTS – not only connected to a Get-Poor-Quick scheme here, but there was a store called halfbakery selling a product for keeping you toasty in your tent.
  • does jer’s prof want to meet tomorrow at noon – somewhere on the Web the answer must lie! Linked to the Stories category page.
  • joe byrne these things I know – Linked to a page where I discuss Joe’s last gig at Callahan’s before heading out into the big world, in which I barely mention the band.

Egg Fryers have shown a surge in popularity again lately (I suspect that episodes like this one actually make Google think that my blog is more important, because there are so many links to it.), as well as violent anime searchers, and the steady flow of people wanting to read about particular bars. I’m trying to come up with a system so the comments get indexed by Google as well.

Thanks!

A night on the town.

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I have long thought it would be fun to go to a bar with a vast whiskey collection, throw down credit card, and have a knowledgeable bartender pour me a Tour of Scotland, providing wee sips of a wide variety of single malts and telling me about each one. Last night I came close.

There is a bar here in Prague, a copy of one in New York, apparently, called Books and Bar. Or was it Bar and Books? In any case, it is a bar, and shelves of books (mostly in German for some reason, and obviously not meant to be read) adorn one of the walls. It is more upscale than the places I usually find myself, but sometimes it’s fun to pretend I’m sophisticated, and since we had invited Belladonna to join us, it seemed like a good time to try a place that Soup Boy had been encouraging me to visit anyway. Soup Boy (storyboarder for Pirates and now my roommate) had invited some of his friends out as well, but only Little John was free. So we set out for the city center, hoping that Belladonna would also bring friends.

Another acquaintance of Soup Boy, who we will call Hole, spotted us entering the establishment and came in to say hi. We chatted a bit and then he went off to work out. The Boy and I sat, and soon after Belladonna arrived with two friends in tow, fellow med students. Conversation was pleasant and unforced, and when Little John arrived, adding his limitless energy to the affair, things were going quite nicely.

I ordered a flight of Whiskey – six small glasses of the good stuff. (I paid extra for the very, very good stuff, that cash from being an extra burning a hole in my pocket.) As I slowly made my way around the islands and the highlands I appreciated the variety of different flavors, how each achieved a different balance of Earth (peat), Air (vapors), Fire (alcohol’s ‘bite’), and Water (smoothness). Truly the booze of the gods, and I was hitchhiking through the pantheon.

Sometime while I was enjoying my travels Hole returned. Belladonna knew him, and did not like him—not at all. In a cascading guilt by association Soup Boy was demoted a few notches, and I took a hit as well. (This just after she had started to recover from learning my age. I am rather older than she thought—Firenze, bless her sweet heart, guessed I was 29—and Belladonna has about her an air of maturity that made me think she was older.)

A note about Little John. I’ve only met him a couple of times, but I’ve seen how his exuberance can really keep a gathering lively. There is a danger, though, that someone else can turn his power to the Dark Side, and that is what happened when Hole showed up. I don’t think Firenze was aware of the crude humor being directed at her, not at first anyway, but the evening’s vibe, which had survived a couple of bumps, was now deteriorating rapidly. A change of venue was called for.

So we went to another place new to me, called M1, where the seating, inconvenient for large groups, led to me having a very pleasant conversation with Firenze, Soup Boy chatting with Belladonna, and Little John and Hole hovering and getting bored. They eventually left, and the mood recovered, but the evening ended somewhat awkwardly and uncertainly. It was, overall, a lot of fun, and it’s (almost) always nice to get out and meet new people. Hopefully we’ll be able to hang out again sometime.

Thanks!

Programming note

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Oh, hey, by the way, I’m on the cover over at Piker Press this week for a rather silly story I could swear I posted here a while back, but now I just can’t find it. This version is improved in any case.

At least, I think I’m there – I can’t load the page right now.

On the subject of getting published, I had a letter waiting for me when I got home last night. It was a slip from a large paying magazine, rejecting a story. The note was brief and said (in only slightly friendlier language) “We rejected you story either because it was stale, sloppy, or (most likely) it just plain sucked. Or there might have been another reason.” Obviously in my case it couldn’t possibly have been any of the three stated cases – I suspect it was just too long for a first-timer.

Yeah, too long. That’s it.

So let it be known far and wide that Realms of Fantasy magazine was the first paying market to reject a story by Jerry Seeger. Old Town will have to find a home somewhere else.

Thanks!

Day two as an extra

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NOTE: You should read day one, below, first.

Soup Boy and I arrived at the location (Florida) on a morning slightly warmer than the previous had been (freezing rain rather than snow) and breezed through wardrobe and makeup to arrive on set at 6:45 am. Almost immediately we were hauled down the stairs to where the shooting was to take place. We were waiting in the wings while most of the other extras took up the positions they had held at the end of the previous day. Since we hadn’t been in the shot the day before we just stayed out of the way and watched the proceedings.

All at once, while Soup Boy was using his camera to take an (illegal) picture, one of the AD’s pointed at him and gestured. The Boy was hauled into the scene to stand reading a plaque.

And stand. And stand. It seemed that every shot had that plaque in the background, so it was not until after noon that he was liberated from that spot.

I, however, had different fortunes. I wasn’t in that shot at all, but the next shot required several people to pass between the camera and the main action. (Extras who are behind the action are called background, while those in front are foreground.) A pretty czech assistant named Marta (but not really) tapped me and a few other people to be her elite foreground team for the morning, so that shots of the same action would have (at least vaguely) some continuity as far as who is in front of it. The final edit will be composed of slices so small that evan though I’m walking right past a fight to the death between good and evil, I might not show up on the screen.

“If anyone tries to use you, tell them you’re with me,” Marta said. She was pretty cool, and even when other nerves were getting frayed with the complexity of the foreground action she kept on smiling. She liked the fact I’d do what I was told, when told, and that I didn’t talk. That got me into positions where I was close to the actors and directors, because it was easy for them to pretend I wasn’t there.

So the star of this here show, James of James and the Giant Explosive Device, for all the controversy that surrounded his selection, is a pretty good guy. Easygoing, friendly, and competent. He hit his marks and apologized when he made a mistake. The guy who played the Bad Guy was also a character. Overall, despite some frustration (at one point the entire shot had to be reconfigured because the track for the camera didn’t leave room for the foreground extras, and at other times extras would simply not shut up when asked), the vibe on set was positive and professional.

Once they moved to a different angle, I was released from Marta’s Elite Foreground Team, and she tapped Soup Boy to become part of her new Elite Background Team, and he was finally able to at least walk while the action was taking place. Finally I was finished in the background, walking back to the same object I had first been shot near the day before, this time escorting a pretty girl who had also mastered the art of shutting up on set. We hardly spoke a word, but she kept going too slow and messing up the crossing patterns of all the carefully orchestrated extras, which got me chided.

Soup Boy’s feet were recruited for another shot, and we were done for the day. We sat about until released (overtime, baby!), but the extras wranglers passed us over, looking for less used-up faces. Our agent came out to the location and paid us cash money on the spot.

The day was long, and tiring, and cold, but in the end I had fun. I took the computer in on day two, and the day ended with Soup Boy and I sitting next to each other in the big extra staging hall, Apple logos glowing, The Boy editing video while I wrote. Zoltan the Bald Serbian (I actually called him ‘Zoltan’ to his face once – oops!) thought it was great. We definitely stood out, I’ll tell you that.

After all that, I sent Belladonna a message (I mentioned her, right? She missed the second day because she had an exam—in neurosurgery) saying that I would be too tired to go out, so how about tomorrow night? The answer: Yes.

Thanks!

I’m ready for my closeup, Mr. DeMille!

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I’ve signed a non-disclosure agreement with a company called Casino Royale Productions, so I am not at liberty to discuss details of the film, James and the Giant Explosive Device, where today I served as an extra. I am, however, at liberty to discuss the life of a movie extra. And what a life is is!

It was dark when the alarm clock went off at 4:50 this morning, brutally yanking me from the lingering warmth of the land of Nod. Alarm clocks are infernal items that I have managed to almost, but not quite, purge from my life. When I get up, it’s because I want to. I was looking forward to this day, however, so it was with only a moderate amount of cursing that I shuffled through the darkness to the shower. Half an hour later Soup Boy and I were waiting in the darkest before the dawn, wet snow gently falling, waiting for a cab.

The Taxi was the first to make tracks down our quiet street, but at more than one house older men were already diligently at work clearing the sidewalks. Now that’s crazy.

The shoot was in a secure location at the top of a hill not too far away. It is not a place easily accessible by vehicles at the best of times, and the taxi could not even begin the ascent before wheels spun and we slid gently back down. Soup and I got out and started climbing. We had been instructed to find a man we will call Zoltan the Bald Serbian when we got there, and he would tell us what to do. We drifted, aimless, confused, semi-literate, but no Zoltan the Bald Serbian was to be found. We were not the only ones looking for him, but no one knew where he was. We were directed to a tent to wait for him.

Many of the tents were cold and dark. The heaters would start up, the lights would flicker to reluctant life, and then everything would shut down again, to the anguished cries of the crews trying to prepare for the day. Zoltan the Bald Serbian, we finally overheard, was stuck in a taxi somewhere. Now, I’m not calling the man a liar, but in the time it took him to get there, he could have walked from almost anywhere in Prague.

So, before Zoltan the Bald Serbian even showed up, we were advised to head for wardrobe, then makeup, then breakfast, and worry about the rest later. Which is what we did. I changed into shorts, a tropical print shirt, and shoes with no socks, and struck back out into the bitter cold, looking like a flasher huddled under my trench coat. “You must be cold,” a lot of people said. At the time I was doing all right. Makeup added some color to my Pragueified complexion, giving me a sunburn, more or less. The makeup crew was English, so the idea of being brown from the sun was likely foreign to them. Breakfast was plentiful and edible, and then it was up to the set. At some point Soup Boy spotted Zoltan the Bald Serbian.

In the big marble building, boomy and chilly despite the fierce gas-powered heaters roaring away, we were herded around for a bit, down some stairs and into the chamber that housed the set. I will not describe the set, not only because of the confidentiality agreement, but also because I’m lazy, and it would take a lot of words to convey. I found myself standing next to what I call “Dead man Beating a Dead Horse” (that is not the official title). There were probably a couple hundred of us extras, maybe more, and we were instructed in the correct milling around techniques. A few rehearsals, and then we stood around while they got ready for the actual shot.

All that milling practice, hundreds of people working to perfect the milling while assistant directors rushed about with specific milling instructions, was for less than a second of film time as the camera turned from the multitude to the key characters. Or so I’m told. Then the characters do some acting and stuff; the actual shot lasts perhaps ten seconds. Of course those roaring heaters were not running, and the chamber was rapidly cooling off. Why do all those Miami residents have gooseflesh? Yes, it got downright chilly. The cold was nothing compared to the boredom; we finally had a keeper after two hours.

Soup Boy and I, separated during the first shot by aesthetically-inclined assistants who didn’t like the violent reaction between the very different floral patterns of our shirts, drifted back together while the lighting and cameras were being reconfigured for the next shot. At one point another assistant, a swift and competent British guy who had been trying to load the shot with people who looked Floridian, snatched us from our appointed stations to move us closer to the action.

Much closer. After some figuring and a bit of practice, the shot started with yours truly and Soup Boy moving one direction around an object while the camera moved behind the object, tracking us as the Interesting People came into view. They packed in the extras to fill the frame; It was not easy to get us all through that little zone, but here’s the cool part: every time they adjusted something, they made sure that “The Lads” (Soup Boy and I) kept doing the same thing, because it was working so well. After each take they would talk to other actors, extras, cameramen, and whatnot, then turn to us and say, “You Lads were perfect.” (OK, sure, it wasn’t that challenging—really damn easy, to be honest—and a couple of times we weren’t perfect, but it still felt pretty cool.) The entire shot depended on the speed I set moving through. No, not rocket science, not at all, but responsibility, and when things got crowded at the end of the shot Soup Boy and I had to be low-grade acrobats as well. It was easily the most enjoyable part of the day. (At least, as far as shooting was concerned; there’s also the lovely and talented Belladonna…)

It is likely that Soup Boy and I will be quite easily spotted on the Big Screen. Unless the shot doesn’t fit right, or unless the first part of the shot has to be cut to keep the flow (even then, the German Guy and the Killer both come very close to us as the Boy and I inspect the odd, vaguely disturbing object), or unless I’m obscured by the object the whole time, or unless…

On the other hand, in that shot we were quite obviously moving in the direction opposite that of the main characters. So, as the action proceeded through the setting, our reappearance would have been jarring. Bottom line, there was no more work for us this day. Not that anyone said, “Right Lads, looking ahead, I’d say you’re done.” At eleven thirty we left the set, never to return, but we were not released to go home until seven in the evening. Zoltan the Bald Serbian was nowhere to be found to tell us what the deal would be the next day, so we had to ask around among extras working for other agencies. We go back tomorrow, and there’s no guarantee they will be able to use us, ever. With gutsy performances filled with Raw Truth as ours were, well, the moviegoing public is just not ready for more than a few seconds of us. I can accept that.

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Thanks!

Half-stories

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I once heard an Inspirational Speech, given by a man who stood to profit from my labor. He had a good point, though. Everyone has ideas. Most people start things. Less than half make it halfway, and a tiny percent finish what they started. There is no place that is more true than in writing. It is easy to start a story, and damn hard to finish.

The other day I woke with the feeling I had a few stories languishing—thoughts with very strong beginnings, some even with middles, just waiting for an end. I did some housecleaning and found five stories more or less finished that I know could be better, five others I put in the newly-created ‘active’ pile, and some fifteen in the back burner folder. Most of those are good starts: excellent settings, fine prose, no destination.

And there, perhaps, is the difference between a beginning and an ending. Not that all prose must have a capital-p purpose, but it should have a direction. In the beginning was the word, and at the end was the period. Beyond the end is The Moment, the pause that as a writer you can only hope for, when the reader hesitates, still in the story, not yet ready to give up that world. All those images, characters, and whatnot are in the quest of delivering that one most rapturous pause, the finest hour, when the story is over but the narrative continues in the reader’s own language. We don’t write to last, we write to linger.

So, I have a collection of beginnings now. Many of them are pretty damn good, if I do say so myself. I read them and smile at my own prose, my own creativity (how did I ever come up with that?). Only problem is, a beginning isn’t worth the paper it’s wiped on.

When I chose this life, I had the Inspirational Speech in mind. I came to the game confident that I would be a finisher. I’m not done yet.

The episode is over. There’s nothing to see here. Move along.

Thoughts on the theme:

The first girl I was ever in love with—not just a crush but really live-or-die in love with, consumed. the girl who burned her way through my thoughts, the girl who tormented me even as I tormented her, the girl with the power to destroy me—I guarantee she’s more beautiful now that she was then (and she was mighty damn beautiful back then)—she was not a finisher. I knew that, but that’s not why we didn’t work out. We broke up because I was a dork. But in the end, I like to tell myself, we were doomed anyway, because she was a dabbler, a dilettante, not a finisher.

I wonder where she is, now. Probably much closer to finishing something than I am.

I think you never get completely over that first love. You will never match that hopeless mad passion again. You will never have the innocence of not having failed. You only have one shot at purity. Ever after, you are fallen, and the love you feel will have a peer. The next affair will, perhaps, surpass, but never again will there be pure, unmeasured, love. When you feel that giddy euphoria, you will remember that you have felt it before.

Meanwhile, Robert Jordan is a giant in the fantasy fiction world. Damn near a dozen books in, he has yet to write an ending, even though anyone with an IQ greater than six who has been willing to hang with The Series That Will Not Die already knows exactly what will happen. Robert Jordan sucks. Stop buying his books until he comes up with an ending for once in his life, and cuts his page count in half.

William Gibson finally got off his ass and wrote a good book. If only they had forgotten to print the last chapter. In the business world they call it ‘selling past the close’; here I will call it ‘writing past the end’. He should learn from the Japanese so prevalent in his stories. He should recall Neuromancer. Still, it’s his best book in a long time. Cayce Pollard is my kind of hero. Gibson, however, seems to be suffering from the same malady I have (elevation by association?) – good setups, a search for a conclusion. I, however (elevation against a straw man?) don’t try to publish my stories with weak endings. To be fair, it’s easy for me to talk, down here, about one of my favorite writers. The dude’s pretty good. Effinger’s better, but he’s dead.

I watched an anime series recently – I won’t name it because I don’t want to spoil it for you – but at the end I just sat for quite a while. “Dang,” I said, more than once. “Wow.” I took a few deep breaths. This series was made for Japanese television and there is no way it would ever have been made in the US. It ended with two people dying, one literally, the other figuratively, sacrifices to something evil they had unwittingly supported, helpless, linked by a pair of tears and infinite regret, both meeting the most horrible fate they can imagine. Only one has the luxury of death; the other has a job to do. It was an ending, the death of all we had known before, but it was also a beginning. That’s fair, as long as there is that moment of reflection. For me, that moment stretched for hours.

Speaking of James Bond, the bad guy lying in a pool of blood is not an ending, even if his laboratory of evil (LOE) explodes.

In a crossover meditation, Mission Impossible, the television series, despite the constraint that each episode was a complete and interchangeable story, managed to come up with some of the best endings ever on television. No blood, just the bad guy having a moment when he knows he is well and truly screwed.

So where are we? So many stories undertold, overtold, retold, better left untold. Unfinished. My job is to chase down a couple of those endings, wrassle them to the dirt, and make them work for a living.

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Thanks!

A trip to wardrobe

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Now that I’ve been called in to save the production of Casino Royale, I’ve got a lot on my plate. Today, it was a trip out to the studio to visit the costuming department. “Bring any Florida clothes you might have,” the casting agent said in a much more confusing fashion. Soup Boy and I packed up a bunch of stuff (Pretty much all the clothes I brought from San Diego), and after an hour and half commute to the studio, twenty minutes trying to find the right place, and fifteen minutes with very appreciative wardrobe people who very much appreciated all the stuff we had brought, I was wearing pretty much what I wore every day for fifteen years in San Diego, except with shoes.

An hour and half back home, and the work day was done. Whew!

Thanks!

Happy Ought-to Ought-to Day

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Today is dedicated to getting something done that you ought to do. I used my ought-to ought-to day to finally get a monthly pass for the transportation system, which involved getting a photo taken. This is to enable the other ought-to: getting out more.

How ’bout you?

Thanks!

Call me Bond. James Bond.

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It all started innocently a few hours ago. I had returned from the Internet store, where Otakar and I had accomplished almost (but not quite) nothing. I was telling Soup Boy that the bowling alley (our Internet lifeline) was closed today. It turns out it’s the owner’s names day. Sure, what the heck, close the place when I haven’t read email in three days.

So Soup Boy had hoisted his trusty mobile phone to find out just whose names day it was, thinking if it was a common one it might explain why Český Telecom was also closed for business, more or less. Can’t fight the names days. Shouldn’t try.

Before his fingers did their nimble dance over his phone, however, he got a message. He read it, chuckled, and asked me, “You want to be an extra in the James Bond movie?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Then right now send a message to this number,” he said.

Having no time to think, I could not stop myself from acting. I sent the message. In a couple of minutes I got a response. “Can you come in for photos soon? Now?”

My best is none too good, and I was not looking my best. I bought two hours to do what I could for my appearance. Soup Boy gave me directions, and off I went. I found the place thanks to Soup Boy’s unerring directions (remind me to tell you some day about how directions are given in this town), and I was early. The agent… Hmm… let’s call her Athena… was in a state. My being early didn’t help, but I sat quietly and opened my book. There was another guy there for the same reason, and when she realized she had two birds to kill she gave us some paperwork and took us in to be photographed.

The other guy went first. He was taller, more fit, and had screen experience, but we weren’t competing. No, Athena just needed every breathing soul she could round up, photograph, and send to the producer. She took a few shots of the other guy, giving him direction like “OK, now turn to the side, look this way, and give me an impish smile.” As I filled out my paperwork I practiced a few impish smiles.

Then it was my turn. I stood up straight and looked into the camera, wishing I had the same latitude as on my previous modeling gig. “Take off your glasses,” Athena said. “Smile a bit. Lean forward a little. Now look mean.” Mean? Mean? I started to adjust myself into a mean attitude but I was far from finished when she said, “Great. Lemme see what I’ve got.” I could tell she didn’t think she had much, but wasn’t hoping to get any more. (Or at least, didn’t think it was worth the time to try.)

I left, confident that Dr. No would never have to face me down, but what the hell. “We’ll tell you in the next forty-eight hours,” Athena said.

A few minutes ago, I got a message. I’m needed to meet with wardrobe tomorrow. I should bring clothes that look like I’m from Florida if I have them. The list started with silk suits (uh, yeah, right) but got down into my range, but my Rusty’s Surf Shop shirt won’t play. (No logos).

Two day’s work, rent covered for the month. Not bad. And if I see Dr. No, I’m gonna wax his ass.

Thanks!

Next they’ll change its name to some wacky symbol

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I just learned that the official name of the country of Macedonia is “The Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia”.

Thanks!

What are things coming to?

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No doubt about it, the young in the Czech Republic have not adopted all their parents’ ways of life.

After extensive research and a year of off-and-on procrastination, I decided which Internet service to get in my house. (I’ve been spending way too much time in the bowling alley lately, and the media empire has been suffering.) So after comparing numbers and features and gotchas it came time to figure out how to go about ordering the service. With some help from Soup Boy I looked over the Web site for a contact number. Nada. I mean, why would a telecommunications company ever want to do business over the phone.

What was listed was a bunch of addresses for retail outlet stores. One was listed on Starostrašnicka (translates to “Old Horrible Place”). Since I live in neighborhood of Horrible Place I figured that street couldn’t be far away.

I was right. It turns out I was on that very street and didn’t even know it. I left the bowling alley and half a block down was the store. What could be simpler? Of course, that was on Saturday, so it was closed.

I went back today and this is where things got decidedly un-czech. I walked into the Eurotel outlet, and after determining that his English was better than my Czech (no surprise there), He proceeded to provide friendly, efficient, and courteous service. He answered all my questions, and went through the paperwork and found all the information I would need to provide, so when I came back with a final decision we could take care of everything.

Kafka would be disoriented in that place, to say the least. That last bit, the proactive bit where he anticipated trouble and forestalled it, that is something you’re not often going to find coming from someone who sits behind a counter in this country, a land of bureaucratic line-standing and catch-22’s.

I have noticed, on the whole, that the younger generation here is much more service-oriented than those who lived under the communists, where service was almost a dirty word, and making extra work was considered patriotic. In this case, I’m glad to see the old ways dying.

Thanks!

Wow

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I’m sitting at the Cheap Beer Place, my first time in this august establishment for a few months. As I write this I’m listening to a woman sing “When the saints come marching in”, slowly, in Czech, to the accompaniment of a single synthesizer. That in itself, is enough to warp one’s sense of reality.

At the table in front of me, her back to me, is a woman with a she-mullet. Curly hair towers over her head, and is pulled back behind her ears. I’m pretty sure this was a big style in the ’80’s. I can’t think of any specific actresses or pop stars, but I know I’ve seen the she-mullet before. It’s still not flattering.

There’s a guy punching numbers into the juke box now. He seems ordinary enough. In his non-number-punching hand is a plastic bag with a single roll and a tub of potted meat. This man came prepared.

So now, presumably, the songs he requested are beginning to play. Wow. It’s some sort of children’s choir, accompanied by electric bass and countless people whistling. Oh, and now an electric piano. Thank god, it’s fading out, giving way to We Are The Champions. Sing it, Freddie.

Time passes, the music changes. Now I think I’m listening to Blink-sto osmdesat dva (182, in czech). There’s no mistaking the rhythm, and the accordion is subtle.

***

Never did finish explaining what was so dang surreal about that day – the following day I had a fever and I now have recollections of conversations that could not have actually happened. I’m better now, but I won’t be able to finish the above episode today, either.

Thanks!