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Category Archives: Story

Strange Request in a Writing Prompt book

This past Xmas, the Missus got me a writing prompt book as a gift.

Given that we had agreed not to exchange Xmas gifts, this resulted in me

A) noticing an extra package for me under the tree and
B) making a mad dash to the store on Xmas Eve to pick up something for her.

This is how the Missus ruins my Xmas every year.

But as the end of February approaches, I have finally overcome the trauma of last-minute Xmas shopping on Xmas Eve and reached a point where I can start using the book. And I’ve decided, unless I have something better to blog here, I will start posting these entries rather than letting this space lie ‘fallow’ for months at a time.

You have been warned.

Since the first page of this book clearly states that no part of the book can be reproduced without permission (I’m paraphrasing here, not flat-out reproducing!), I’m a little reluctant to spell out the prompts. Instead, I will underline the words I’m supposed to use in my narrative…in my narrative. Without further ado, my first exercise!

I went to the carnival to have fun. Instead I sprained my wrist fending off a pickpocket wearing a mask. Hardly inconspicuous. The pickpocket or the sprain.

There were some uncomfortable moments at the first aid station as I flirted with the attractive nurse while my wife and kids looked on, becoming less and less sympathetic towards my predicament.

Things only got worse when the police showed up. The pickpocket was a juvenile, and I’d sprained my wrist while grabbing him, causing the twerp to twirl sideways, fall down against a bike rack, and break his arm.

Apparently this had stirred up a bit of a controversy: a forty-something man breaking a thirteen year old’s bones. The only reason I wasn’t immediately arrested is because the kid fled when the cops showed up. Still, the arrival of the police and the departure of my wife (and kids) left me a little shaken.

However, the nurse was both sympathetic to my plight and receptive to my overtures, so the day wasn’t a total loss. She gave me an apple and instructed me to return in an hour when her shift ended.

I found a bench, had a bite of the apple, and then watched the white flesh turn brown due to oxidation as I waited for the hour to pass. That long, endless hour.

The nurse and I spent a pleasant afternoon walking and talking in the shade of the sassafras trees that ringed the carnival site. But in the end, as I leaned in for a kiss, she pulled away and invited me to join her cult.

Awkward! So I found a piano bar and requested “Particle Man”.*

* I feel I need to address that last sentence, which is itself more than a little awkward. You see, I got so focused on making sure I used all of the prompt words that I forgot that the story was supposed to be about a strange request made at a piano bar. In fact, when I went back to make sure I’d used all the words and discovered this oversight, I wrote underneath the subject the comment “Tots forgot about this!” and then went back and added that last line. You see, I had no choice. I’d literally used every available line on the page, and having written using ink, I could not erase the work to try again.

Strangely enough, the out-of-focus pictures properly show the paper as white, but the in-focus ones cast them as a yellowish pallor.

You see? When I say I left myself a comment in a writing prompt book, I Do. Not. Lie.

We've reached the end, my friend...

And when I say that I ran out of room and had to mash in an awkward last sentence to tie the whole mess together, I Do. Not. Lie. Again.

If you’re interested in the book I’m using, it’s called WRITE THE STORY. I make no endorsement, as I’ve hardly scratched the surface. Though I must admit, the title on Amazon is Write The Story Art Teaching School Kids Adults Class Project Leaning, which is not only awkward but appears to have a typo in it. But the two exercises I’ve done thus far are…writer prompty and have been fun.

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Mon Dieu, ces films sont terrible! [Enjoy, pig-dog English-speaking viewers!]

French films are the only weapon the Federation has that continues to be effective against the Borg.

Why on Earth did I agree to show these French films on the main viewscreen? Unmake it so!

I was watching a French film the other day, and it finally dawned on my why French films are so (in?)famous for having…shall we say, adult content.

They’re boring.

And pretentious.

And just when you reach the point in the film where a sane viewer would say, “Good grief, this movie is boring! And pretentious! I am going to stop watching!” the first naked lady makes an appearance.

“Oh, hang on, this just got interesting,” you think to yourself if other people are in the room, or say aloud if you’re alone.

And if you’re all alone, sitting in a dark room while watching a French movie and talking to yourself, you’re a sick bastard. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.

Freak.

French film directors, realizing their propensity for using their movies to lecture you about topics ranging from existential nihilism to abstract pony-saddling techniques, and not being complete idiots, throw in some racy sexy bits right about the point where most intelligent film-goers (film-goers, because the French don’t make things as crass as movies) would leave the theater with a roll of the eye and a snort of disdain.

But a naked lady keeps us in our seats.

Often, just to be safe, these directors will throw in a second naked lady, and, on occasion, as a bone to female and homosexual film-goers, a third, naked, male participant.

Sadly, they almost always ruin what would be perfectly entertaining scenes by having the characters continue to talk.

I find this horribly distracting, especially if they’re talking about pony-saddling techniques while they go at it.

And being French films, muting the volume doesn’t help. Those damned, sanctimonious subtitles are still there, popping up at the bottom of the screen, their silent siren call irresistible to all but the most astigmatic of eyes.

So while there’s a lot of pink bobbing and bouncing on the top three-quarters of the screen, I find myself reading some arrogant dissertation on Man’s inhumanity to Man, and Holy Moly, is that kind of posture possible when non-gymnasts have sex?

So you stick around because the top three-quarters of the screen compels you to, even after the love/lust/orgy/what-the-hell-is-that-pony-doing-here scene has ended.

Because hey, there might be another one of those scenes soon.

There isn’t.

Not soon enough, anyway.

No, instead you have to watch the characters, who are nothing more than annoying, two-dimensional substitutes for metaphors, move around on the screen in such a dull manner that your eyes naturally drift down to read more pedantic crap about how small and insignificant individuals are in the universe. All of this surrounded by the cacophony that is known as the French language.

Give me Esperanto over French any day.

But these directors know their stuff. French film academies must have commissioned thousands of studies involving millions of people, to learn at just what point you need to stick another flagrantly naked people scene into a movie to prevent a mass audience exodus from the theater.

The French term for this type of scene is bébé scandaleusement nu de personnes oh ouais!

I just call it disgusting.

Very watchable disgusting.

Sadly, this hopscotching from one nucleus accumbens-loving scene to another has a terrible cost for the viewer. We think, with each well-framed gyration of bare skin, that we are one moment closer to an exciting filmatic climax, that the infuriatingly smug presentation of the central theme of the film is some form of crude foreplay that serves, in its inept, pleasure-killing manner, only to make us appreciate the naughty bits all that much more.

Much like, as my dad used to say, your lip feels so much better when you pull the needle out of it.

Turns out, that’s not true.

Not even remotely.

So just as your lip continues to hurt like hell after the needle extraction, these scenes are not all the more titillating because they are surrounded by the cinematic messaging equivalent of blunt force trauma. If they were, all French films would end with a bébé scandaleusement nu de personnes oh ouais!

But they don’t. The directors assume after the last sex scene that we are spent and limp in our chairs, unable to resist one final not-even-thinly-veiled homily about whatever idiotic point their movie is supposedly about.

Although watching a pony talk to me about different types of saddle bindings while both I and the pony are in a semi-conscious state is definitely a surreal experience.

Just not one I recommend.

So the directors take advantage of our near-somnambulistic state to hammer home their message. Usually via a drawn-out monologue voice-over while presenting us a car’s-eye-view of someone driving down a long and winding road, the destination unknown and unknowable, the driver of said car unknowing.

When the film gets to this point, I am left not knowing why I sat through the entire movie. I yearn for the ability to travel back in time, not to prevent myself from seeing the movie, but to kill myself before seeing the movie in order to create a paradox that destroys the entire universe, thus protecting alternate universes from this form of visual drivel.

It takes me a few days to get over this feeling and abandon my time-travel development efforts in the basement.

Which is probably in everyone’s self-interest.

I liken this French approach to ending films to a hard, swift kick in the man-globes right after a session of oh-so-fine-lovin’.

Like a French film, I go into it suspecting nothing so dire awaits me, and afterwards I always feel vaguely used, deeply unsatisfied, and in a tremendous amount of crotch pain.

Or as the French call it, douleur de fourche.

Des bâtards!

And now, a word from our sponsor: me! My books are available!
 

The Santa Claus Gang:

The Santa Claus Gang: A Marlowe and the Spacewoman short story

Marlowe and the Spacewoman:

Marlowe and the Spacewoman

Kleencut (FREE!):

So bad it won a Voidy for the next THREE consecutive years (would have been FOUR, but 2012 was a leap year)

 
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Posted by on 15 December 2012 in Angst, Conspiracies Out To Get Me, Story

 

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Do you have a gang problem like I have a gang problem? I didn’t think so.

The Santa Claus Gang: A Marlowe and the Spacewoman short story

The Santa Claus Gang: The gift that keeps on giving…to me

I’m excited to announce that The Santa Claus Gang, a short story set in the Marlowe and the Spacewoman universe, is now available for sale.

To celebrate, I’ve decided to donate all the proceeds from the sale of The Santa Claus Gang to a charity that is near and dear to my heart.

Me.

That’s right, if you act now, not only do you get a fun short story, but you’re helping to feed a starving author.

A starving author with kids.

Hungry kids.

And a hungry wife who isn’t just hungry, but complaining about not having the lifestyle I promised while wooing her: the glamorous lifestyle of a best-selling author.

I wasn’t a best-selling author then, but I had faith. The Missus knew I wasn’t a best-selling author yet too, but she had faith.

After some cajoling on my part.

But the problem is I’m still not a best-selling author, and I can’t afford the life of luxury I promised my wife. While I still have faith, the Missus’ faith and my hungry kids’ adoring faith is growing thin.

And, as the Missus keeps reminding me, faith isn’t edible.

So I’ve decided the only thing to do, the only way to make ends meet, is to donate all profits from the sale of The Santa Claus Gang to myself.

In addition to food, we recently had to let the nanny go. That’s right, we had to lay off the nanny. Just who will my kids huddle against for warmth during the cold dark nights now that she’s gone?

Cold because I had to shut off the gas to the furnace as a cost-saving measure.

It’s a Greek tragedy, and I’m not just saying that because the Missus has My Big Fat Greek Wedding on the TV right now.

Our tiny yet back-breakingly heavy, non-HD CRT television.

When I think of the paltry childhood memories of sports programming my kids will have, it makes me weep.

Bitter, standard-definition tears. The worst kind of tears.

Due to financial constraints, I am unable to store the books in a proper warehouse, instead stacking them in the corner of my kids’ room. Now the e-book versions don’t take up a lot of room, but the paperbacks are definitely encroaching on the kiddos’ play space.

Not to mention they are terrified of the cover, waking up in the middle of the night screaming about the scary books coming for them.

And without a nanny to huddle against for a false sense of security, how will they not be permanently scarred?

My only hope, our family’s only hope, is to move that merchandise out the door as quickly as possible.

So if you won’t buy the book for my sake, buy it for my kids’ sake. Or the author’s sake.

So, to recap:

  • The Santa Claus Gang is available now
  • All profits go to feeding the author and his family
  • Anything left over after food purchases will be put towards hiring a new nanny (who isn’t as young and voluptuous as the last one, which bothered the Missus for some reason)
  • Buying a paperback version brings my kiddos one step closer to having a safe space to retreat to, which they need when their daddy goes on his drunken benders*
* Proceeds from sales of The Santa Claus Gang will not be used to procure liquor for the author. That’s what the money from Marlowe and the Spacewoman is used for.
 

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The Blog Hop of (Self-Promotional) Shame, or Chain Letter: The Next Generation

My friend and FBI Ten Most Wanted Fugitive #4 (she’ll kill #3 to move up, no doubt) Kit Campbell tagged me to participate in something called a ‘blog hop’.

I’m not sure how you get a blog to hop; I expect it involves a trampoline, a laptop, and a high likelihood of damaging said laptop. Or perhaps dangerously overclocking your computer. Either way, I’m not sure it’s worth the risk. On the other hand, I’m terrified of Kit.

To avoid Kit’s wrath, I must answer some questions about my latest work in progress, then chain letter five other bloggers (hopefully authors, or this whole exercise doesn’t make any sense) with the same task.

I may or may not be on blogging terms with five other authors, so I might end up breaking this chain and dooming all previous participants to bargain-bin obscurity.

So be it. I only hope Kit is merciful because I tried.

Ve vill find out if you are ze naughty or ze nice. Ve haff vays of making you talk!1) What is the working title of your book?

Crap. The first question would be a toughie.

I’m actually struggling with this question right now. The working title is the unworkably horrible Marlowe and the Spacewoman Versus the Santa Claus Gang. I know.

But hey, you can help a struggling artist out, and I can experiment with WordPress’ polling functionality for the first time.

2) Where did the idea for the book come from?

This is a short story set in the Marlowe and the Spacewoman universe. I originally wrote it years ago as a Christmas story that I sent out to friends and family. I recently decided to revisit (and re-write) the story and make it canon. This proved to be a lot of work, as this short was actually written before the Marlowe and the Spacewoman novel and contradicted the novel in many places.

3) What genre does your book fall under?

Science fiction, with a dash of mystery, a touch of humor, and a hint of the absurd. Also, half a cup of milk and a spoonful of sugar to help the medicine-y bits go down.

4) Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

I could see a young Sigourney Weaver or an old Elle Fanning (with her hair dyed black) playing Nina. But honestly, as long as the actress comes off as vaguely Greek, I don’t care.

Since Marlowe looks like Humphrey Bogart, Bogart would be the perfect casting choice for him, except that actor has been dead for decades. Someone willing to undergo a lot of plastic surgery, I suppose.

House, as always, would be voiced by Stephen Fry. Yes, I know, you hear “House” and “Stephen Fry” and you immediately think I mean “Hugh Laurie”. Well, you’re wrong.

Though Laurie could play Marlowe. Hmm.

5) What is the one two sentence synopsis of your book?

Can Marlowe and Nina stop the redistributionist Santa Claus Gang from stealing the entire stock of the Xmas season’s #1 toy, the Prussian Robot Death Squad Commando Now with Live-Action Grappling Hook!™, saving the poor conglomerate that manufactures it from financial ruin?

Let’s hope so, because remember, corporations are people too.

6) Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

Self-published. Most of the agencies have restraining orders against me, making finding representation difficult.

7) How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

I wrote it something like fifteen years ago, so honestly, I can’t remember. But knowing my approach and writing habits back then, I probably cranked that puppy out in one all-nighter.

Ah, to be young again.

8) What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

I suppose comparing it to Marlowe and the Spacewoman wouldn’t be entirely cricket, would it.

Isidore Haiblum’s Tom Dunjer books come to mind, for those of you who enjoy obscure references.

Douglas Adam’s Hitchhiker’s Guide series.

The missus says the writing reminds her of Terry Pratchett. I can see that, and find it very flattering to boot!

9) Who or what inspired you to write this book?

When I was young and naïve, I started this tradition of writing Christmas stories and making them into mini books I sent out to friends and family in lieu of a card. This was the second or third such story, and I was hard pressed for an idea. I had recently written a short story called Semi-Sentient Soap Scum on the Prowl (which later became the novel Marlowe and the Spacewoman), and decided to write a sequel.

There might have been rum spiked with a suggestion of eggnog involved, but my memory’s a bit hazy.

10) What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

Everyone who does not read this book dies within a week of not reading it. Or will, once I release it. So, does the potential of saving your life pique your interest?

Also, if you hadn’t guessed, this story involves Prussian Robot Death Squad Commandos. With Live-Action Grappling Hooks!™ even. Who can resist that?

And now for the truly unpleasant business of dragging other innocent victims into this hopping menace: Regretfully, I condemn Lisa, Scott, and Tamela. I share all my other author blogging friends with Kit, and she already tagged them, leaving me short two. But she is evil, after all.

(If you’re an author, you have your own blog, I haven’t tagged you above, and you’d like to be tagged, let me know and I’d be happy to grow my authorial army to better rival Kit’s.)

And now, a word from our sponsor: me! My books are available!

Marlowe and the Spacewoman:

Marlowe and the Spacewoman

Kleencut (FREE!):

So bad it won a Voidy for the next THREE consecutive years (would have been FOUR, but 2012 was a leap year)

 

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Don’t Break This Chain Letter, Or I Will Drive Down To Your House And Kill Your Pet Rabbit

I was recently tagged as part of some sort of internet mime or meme or something. Surely my friend was well-meaning, but clearly she has no idea of the gravity of the situation.

I don’t pretend to understand exactly what an internet meme is (presumably some part of the internet’s tubing, maybe washers or something to prevent evil (and porn) from leaking out?), but ever since the tragedy that ensued after I broke that chain letter in grade school, I don’t take any chances.

Please forgive me, Bowling Green, Ohio. I was a skeptical fifth grader! I didn’t understand the consequences!

As part of preventing an apocalyptic outcome of global proportions, I am expected to answer the following questions.

I will do so with all the careful thought and consideration due a questionnaire that could, if answered incorrectly, end all life on Earth (and, most likely, Europa as well, may Arthur C. Clarke rest in peace).

1.) What was the first story you ever wrote? Spare no embarrassing details.

I found a story I wrote in first or second grade in my mom’s memory box a few years ago. As I recall, since I have only the memory of finding the story, not of actually writing it, the story involved a monkey called Super Duper Monkey, and he flew out to an island with a dinosaur on it, and, I think, sharks surrounding it. He carried someone or something to the island or back, I can’t remember, but it had awful hand-drawn illustrations too.

What I can say with certainty is this: I was a talentless hack in second grade.

2.) What’s your favorite nonfiction topic to read about?

Toss up between Astronomy and technology news. I wanted to be an astronaut when I was a kid, but given the path I ended up traveling down, and my non-Adonis physique, the only way I’ll get into space now is if I’m an  expert on some awesome piece of technology that is our only hope against the alien fleet / giant asteroid / gamma ray burst / dwarf star heading towards Earth. So, Astronomy and tech news.

By the way, is any of the above doom related to the internet chain meme? Because if so, I can help. Just get me on the next Soyuz launch.

3.) How much research do you feel like you need to do before you start a new story?

This is tricky. I always start out wanting to do a ton of research, but then I get bogged down in the details, or discover that my premise is absolute rubbish, or I’m pretty sure my sources are wrong and I’ll look like a fool. Case in point, I once wrote a play set in the 1950s, so I spent an inordinate amount of time researching Stalin and the Red Scare and nuclear testing during that time, and ended up writing a play about aliens who talked like 1920s gangsters.

The director forced me to heavily redact the script before performing the play. The 1920s alien gangsters did not make the cut.

I’m still haunted by this.

4.) Writing challenges (ala Nanowrimo) – useful, or merely stress-inducing?

Lately, the only thing that gets me writing. If I don’t have a challenge, I can’t justify to myself (or the missus) why I should spend all my free time in the man cave writing rather than feeding my children and changing their poopy diapers.

Recently, though, the missus has started insisting on the challenges being more life-threatening than cerebral. I goofed and left her one too many poopy diaper to change.

5.) Why do you write your main genre?

I’ve always loved sci-fi, and I wrote a lot of short stories in that genre when I was younger. I think I just sort of fell into the ‘write what you wish you could be doing’ camp.

I didn’t expect to find myself writing humor, though. Didn’t even think I could. That play I mentioned earlier? Supposed to be a comedy. It might have been amusing, but I don’t think I’d lived and seen enough back then to be consistently funny. Now that I’ve done it though, I love the world and the characters too much to give them up.

6.) What genre/author/book do you secretly love but would never admit to in polite conversation?

Twilight Saga. Awesome books. I can only dream to write at that level of quality.

Not.

I can’t think of anything I’m ashamed of loving. If it’s good enough to love, I will embrace it openly. For example, Pride and Prejudice. Awesome book. Not exactly a manly sort of admission to make, but it’s fun and clever and a pleasure to read. Even if Jane Austen’s editor did re-write all the dialog. 🙂

OK, maybe I won’t admit to enjoying the fanfic that ships Flo from the Progressive car insurance ads with Mayhem from the Allstate car insurance ads, but clearly no one would ever admit to that. It’s acknowledging on a primal level just how screwed up an individual you are to read it, let alone write it.

7.) What’s your favorite movie-adaptation of a book?

Can’t say I have a favorite. Books and movies are entirely different animals, so it’s hard to come up with a movie that does a book justice. That said, I’ve always loved 2001: A Space Odyssey. The book was written by Arthur C. Clarke at Stanley Kubrick’s request – it was a true collaboration. The book is still better, and frankly, while visually stunning, the movie makes no sense unless you’ve read the book. But still, I will stop and watch the movie if I come across it while channel surfing.

Is that close enough to favorite?

8.) What is your favorite type of cephalopod?

Cuttlefish. They can hypnotize you by cycling the color of their skin. It’s awesome. All hail the Hypno-Cuttlefish!

9.) What is your writing tool of choice?

Typing on a computer. Faster than anything else. Voice recognition is cool, but too slow for me and I only use it when I must.

I LOVE fountain pens, the gleam of the still-wet ink on paper, and will use one occasionally, but like most of my romances, simply not practical.

10.) What are your feelings about the proper usage of whom?

If you correct me on who/whom, you best be doing it from a great distance.

Actually, I’m a bit of a stickler for grammar, but my knowledge of the rules of grammar is not always up to the task. Also, I tend to ignore rules I think are stupid, like commas ALWAYS having to be inside the quote. Sometimes they shouldn’t be, so I don’t follow the rule.

It is possible, given what I just said, that I’m not using the word ‘stickler’ correctly.

I remember in third or fourth grade, when I first learned of the word ‘whom’, I turned in a homework assignment where I used it as often as I could. It came back covered in red, every single ‘whom’ crossed out and ‘who’ written above it.

Scarred me for life.

11.) What are you doing to bring yourself closer to your writing goals?

Trying to get my ‘brand’ out there with a blog. Finally gave up on traditional publication for my first novel, since trad publishing doesn’t seem to view absurdist noir thriller sci-fi satire as commercial enough, and self-published it. Became addicted to twitter (seriously, ask the missus!).

I’m not sure how that last item is supposed to help me, but I’ve been assured by other writers addicted to twitter that it does.

 
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Posted by on 21 March 2012 in Conspiracies Out To Get Me, Life, Story

 

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Stop Treating Me Like An Idiot, Mainstream Television!

Yes, there were beautiful women in it.

Yes, I was mostly naked.

These two lines are extremely handy for starting blog posts that I don’t want friends, family, or, frankly, anyone who has seen me, reading. They see those first two lines, and assuming they don’t fall to the floor gibbering in primal horror while curling up into the fetal position, immediately take a pass on reading further.

Quite handy.

Oh sure, the next line, if I were being honest and they were still reading, would be:

No, I didn’t have any fun.

I’m talking about a dream I once had. I was hosting a bunch of people in my home: ex-girlfriends, beautiful women on twitter who I’ve never physically met before, and female strangers who were also pleasant to look at.

They couldn’t give a rat’s ass about me, even in my own damned dream. And how does this dream that started with so much potential wrap up?

With me. In bed. With a male friend and his male acquaintance.

Platonically, mind you. If I’m not having any of the funny stuff with the ladies in my dream, I sure as all heck am not having any of the funny stuff with the guys in the dream either.

I think the worst part of the dream is that I am so physically inadequate that none of the women in it noticed I wore a wide-open bathrobe and nothing else.

No admiration.

No shock.

Not even horror.

Blake Shelton Naked (not)

"Because remember, underneath our clothes, we're all ... naked!"

Yes, not even horror. Impressive physique or dreadful physique, at least that gets you noted. You register on whatever the female equivalent of the male attractiveness Richter scale is called. The Bradley Cooper Threshold? The Clooney Displacement? The Shelton Naked Scale?

(At last! A legitimate reason to use ‘Blake Shelton naked’ as a tag on this blog! Suck it, Blake Shelton fans!)

And I, in my own freakin’ dream, don’t register at all with these women. Not so much as a blip.

Humiliations galore.

Well, one of them did come to me and ask that I fix a leaky faucet.

I have leaky faucets at home, and this fact has managed to creep into every single dream I have. My sleeping life is like my waking life – an unmitigated horror of bad plumbing.

Naturally, when I wake up from this recurring dream, I am depressed.

Morose.

Adrift.

And like many unnoticed, alienated men, I turn to the one thing that might just cheer me up.

No, not the wife and kiddos. I said cheer me up!

No, not killing hookers. That’s even more depressing.

And a little creepy.

Not to mention, not something easy to do when one is feeling lethargic. At least, not if you don’t want to get caught.

Just a bad idea all around.

So yes, I turn to the only other alternative.

Television.

Oh, what a disappointment that turns out to be. Every time.

Which is why I think we need a television viewers Bill of Rights.

Plane passengers get one, right?

Consumers get one, yes?

Public utility rate payers are afforded this protection in some locales, correct?

Grover Norquist foisted one upon all the Republicans, didn’t he?

So why not TV viewers?

Therefore, without further ado, I present to you, dear readers, my TV Viewers Bill of Rights:

1) When you start a show, finish it. Don’t do a half-ass job of promoting it, then cancel it just as the fan base becomes rabid. You’ll piss off a lot of people and get a ton of hate mail.

2) If you broadcast a show on your network, and then do cancel it before all story arcs are resolved, you will make the resolution of those story lines known, either with a press release or a spin-off graphic novel or by going on The Ellen Show and announcing them.

Just don’t do it on Oprah. I don’t get OWN.

Unless it turns out the mark on the amnesic main character is an angelic glyph and his amazing intelligence came about because he was dead and in Heaven before coming back. That’s just lame and I’d prefer you keep it to yourself.

3) On a related note, if you start a sub-plot, and your show doesn’t get canceled, finish the damned sub-plot. Don’t have one of your main characters take his girlfriend into the future and then leave her there while he goes back to actually prevent that future from happening. Or if you do, at least explain why he couldn’t be bothered to go get her. Or even mention her again.

4) You will monitor twitter while your show is airing. Across time zones. Your lawyers will use the Digital Millennium Copyright Act and any other douchey legal tools at hand to force all live-tweeters to Cease and Desist. The DMCA is a crap law, but we ought to get some good out of it.

5) Never, ever, EVER have something really bad and shocking happen, something cataclysmic that guarantees astronomical season finale ratings and has people talking at the water cooler for the duration of the rerun period, only to have it end up being a freakin’ dream. You do something bad ass, own it. If you don’t have the writing cojones (or ovaries) to write yourself out of it after the fact, don’t freakin’ do it to begin with.

6) Don’t swear up and down for the first four years of your show that the characters are not in Purgatory, are in fact alive, and all the events they are experiencing are real, only to actually kill them off and have them in Purgatory for the last season. That is beyond stupid, moron, and if you do end up doing it, please get lost.

7) For the love of all that is good, so-so, average, neutral, ambiguous, and even evil, do not have characters who fight end said fight with a passionate kiss and a tumble in bed/on the kitchen table/under the desk at work/in the Men’s Room stall at Grand Central Station.

That crap is totally cliché.

8) Don’t replace a character with another actor. If you have to, don’t pretend it didn’t happen. Samantha really should have been wondering why her husband was suddenly slightly less effeminate, and, oh yeah, A COMPLETELY DIFFERENT PERSON!

And ya know what? My kids are still curled up underneath their cribs, blubbering on and on about what happened to Marina. God dammit, Nick Jr., you’re supposed to be all about the kids!

Jesus Christ, How Many Actors????

How do you plan to top eleven actors? Hire a TWELFTH?

Don’t even get me started about Doctor Who. They’re on their ELEVENTH actor playing the title role. Hello, the British pound is worth more than the dollar! You can afford to give your star a raise to keep him!

Come on! It’s not like you spent the money on special effects! At least, not for the first twenty-five years!

9) Finally, and most important, don’t insult the viewer’s intelligence. Some of us actually are smart, and can figure stuff out without being hit over the head with it. Try challenging us, make us work for the entertainment. We’ll be more vested in the show if you do. And if you’re worried about the stupid people, don’t. Just keep hiring sexy men and women in tight clothes to hold their attention.

But please, choose sexy men and women in tight clothes who can also act.

Feel free to print this out, sign it, get your kids and neighbors and pets to sign it, and then send it to:

Wil Wheaton
c/o NBC Universal
Quality Assurance Division
30 Rockefeller Plaza
New York, NY 10112

Because NBC, through Wil Wheaton, is responsible for all TV shows. The illusion of other networks and foreign programming? All a vast conspiracy. But that’s the subject of a future blog post.

Now don’t any of you suggest a Blog Readers Bill of Rights. I can’t live up to those sorts of standards.

And now, a word from our sponsor: me!
 
My book, (the edited) Marlowe and the Spacewoman, is out!
 

Marlowe and the SpacewomanClick here to learn more or order a copy!

 
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Posted by on 20 March 2012 in Life, Other Blogs, Story

 

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Fanfic is DESTROYING America! (Sam/Dean/JWatson/SHolmes/HPotter/HDresden)

Sam wiped the lamb’s blood mixed with demon’s blood from the silver knife and looked at Dean, whose breath heaved with the recent exertion of killing the monster. But when Dean looked in Sam’s eyes, he realized he was ready, nay, needed a little more…exertion.

Harry Dresden ran his withered, burnt hand across his bare, sweat-glistening chest, and glared at them from the other side of the prone demon body. “Please, you two, get a room.” A thoughtful expression came over his smoldering, lonely eyes. “Unless you’re willing to share…with me.”

The boy wizard leapt up in the air, his wand already at half-staff. “Me too!  Me too!” shouted Harry Potter. He waved his wand and shouted, “Snuggigus Fantasticus Sexicus!” and a plush king-sized bed appeared in the room of the abandoned old cabin. The four heroes fell into it at once, their clothes seemingly falling away as they tumbled into one another.

“Oh, I love you my sweet!”

“No, I love you more my shmoopy boopy toopy!”

“Wait, who are you talking to?”

“Not possible, Harry dearest! I love you the mostest. Just look at me when I look at you! No, look lower!”

“So you weren’t talking to me, you cold, heartless bastard. That makes me want you more! MOAR!”

“I see the game is afoot,” the young, modern-day Sherlock intoned as he burst into the cabin, followed a moment later by the erstwhile John Watson.

“My god, Holmes,” ejaculated Watson, “there are four naked men in that bed!”

“Your powers of observation fail you yet again, my dear John,” said Holmes, languishing atop the other men. “There are five naked men in this bed, and I predict that before this sentence is over there will be si- Ah, I see I deduced correctly.”

“Oh shut up and kiss me,” said John, his hungry mouth finding Sherlock’s and kissing it hungrily. “I’m ravenous for your love, old man.”

“I don’t think Mycroft would approve,” mumbled Sherlock between gasps of sheer pleasure. “He hates when I start without him.”

“Rick! Rick! Where are you!”

“Minmei!” shouted all six men at once. “What are you doing standing there when you can be here in bed, naked, with the rest of us?”

“Oh my,” said Mr. Sulu, beaming into the cabin, sword swinging, just in time to join the festivities.

Fanfic is destroying America. And I’m not talking about the paper-thin plots, the laughable sex scenes masquerading as character development, or the wanton intellectual property theft that fanfic represents.

I’m talking about England reclaiming us.

“Wha?” ask the naive Americans out there reading this. (“Who cares?” ask the nonchalant Canadians out there reading this.)

Fanfic is undergoing a British invasion. Doctor Who, Torchwood (which is practically fanfic in its raw form anyway), Sherlock (modern AND gaslight), Harry Potter(/Snape – eew!). The fanfic sites are being overwhelmed by the British newcomers. These ‘illegal immigrants’, as it were, are robbing American fanfic stories of valuable slots on the fanfic sites.

Even our old enemy, Japanese anime, is contemplating an alliance of convenience (no-strings-attached-allies-with-benefits?) to thrust off the new threat.

How do I know this? How did I detect this saucy, saucy threat?

I looked at the numbers (all from a prominent fanfic website on the net (ahem) I refuse to name because it employs so many non-American fanfics).

Greatest American Hero: 119 (Yes, the pinnacle of American greatness, the Greatest America Hero, has only 119 stories.)

Harry Effin’ Potter: 542,277 (And I’m not kidding about the effin’ part. Holy crap, remind me to never send my kids to a British boarding brothel school!)

Knight Rider: 52 (52!!!! Come on! It’s KNIGHT RIDER AND MADE OF AWESOME! KITT/Michael fanfic practically WRITES ITSELF!!!!)

Sherlock: 4509

Buck Rogers: 3 (3!!!!!!!! You can’t get MORE AMERICAN than Buck Rogers (and we all want MOAR MOAR MOAR Buck!))

Clearly the Americans are under threat from our supposed allies across the pond. The slimy limeys are taking over, and we, in our highly aroused and distracted state, are allowing them.

It’s a damn shame.

If you’re American (or if you’re Canadian but think Americans are awesome, as we are), it is your patriotic duty to stop whatever it is you’re doing right now and write a fanfic based on an American book/movie/TV series. Unless you were already in the process of doing just that, in which case, in the name of all that is holy, DON’T STOP!

Need some ideas?

Puff the Magic Dragon is woefully under-represented in the genre. Where else can you find a more American folklore opportunity?

Tom Sawyer/Huck Finn/Jumping Frog of Calaveras County. Freaky deaky!

Any characters created by Tom Wolfe or Tom Clancy. (And how about created by Wolfe AND Clancy? Tasty tasty.)

CNN is still American. Why limit ourselves to fiction? In this war on Britain, let’s draft ourselves some (American) fannonfic. Mmm, Anderson Cooper/Bernard Shaw. Yummy.

So yes, help us stop the British fanfic menace. And once we put the Brits down, we can start worrying about those cheap Chinese import fanfics. We can’t compete with their lower cost knock-offs, but we can erect a proud, tall barrier by using more and bigger penises in our fanfic.

And if you’re worried that plot will take up too much space, crowding out the giant genitalia, don’t. Plot in fanfic is like use of a condom in fanfic – totally unnecessary and rarely seen.

And once we have a perfect world of American fanfic devoid of plot or meaningful character development, free for our impressionable youth and adults to read, people will come to expect less of loftier works, such as books you buy online and at the bookstore or peruse at the library. Those can be devoid of depth and meaning too.

That’s when we’ll know we’ve won.

And now, a word from our sponsor: me!

Marlowe and the SpacewomanClick here to check out my forthcoming book, Marlowe and the Spacewoman, coming out January 9th, 2012 (Balloon Ascension Day)!

 
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Posted by on 24 August 2011 in Fanfic, Other Blogs, Story

 

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