Archive for August, 2008

Shame On America Sunday: Housing Edition.

As I said last week, I don’t like to get too serious or too political on my blogs. But the people who are supposed to be serious and political and take on weighty issues are too busy debating… nothing. Fiddling while Rome burns. So until America lives up to its promise and takes care of everyone and makes sure that everyone enjoys basic human dignity and comfort, I am devoting every Sunday to Shame On America Sunday.

I may have erred slightly in taking on Barack Obama in the first Shame On America Sunday, as people thought it was a political attack.

It was not; it was an attack on a rich man who was using money to do rich man things while poor people suffered. My point about Same Ol’ Obama is that he spent millions to have a fancy party for his supporters, while people like the Shaws have to pay for medical care for their kids out of their own pockets.

I stand by that; if Same Ol’ Obama really wanted to make a difference, he’d have invited Ryan and Angie Shaw onto that stage, and promised the world that they and everyone like them, within four years, would never ever have to wonder whether they should take their babies to the doctor or buy them groceries.

But it was not a political attack; Obama at least has a plan to provide health insurance — necessary to secure health care, which is a basic human right on par with “life” and “liberty”– to the country. We’ll see if he can do it. I hope he can.

In the meanwhile, Shame On America Sunday will continue my mission to point out the awful inequities of American life, where for some reason most people (not me) celebrate the rich and enjoy the way the rich waste money while the rest of us must struggle to pay school fees and put food on the table. America is the richest, best country in the history of the world, but it is failing and people are letting it fail, and that should not be.

We should not allow people to have more than they ever need in their life. We should not allow people to thoughtlessly squander, on excessive boorish luxuries, money, spending on one tiny item enough money to support someone for their whole life.

We should, in short, not allow someone like David Saperstein or Susan Saperstein to behave the way David Saperstein and Susan Saperstein do.

David and Susan Saperstein are rich people who want you to know who rich they are; they are rich people who will waste more money in a day than I will make in a year.

Let’s take Susan first: Susan Saperstein was described once, by Vanity Fair — and if you read Vanity Fair you are part of the problem I’m trying to fight — as “probably the world’s No 1 consumer of haute couture and 18th century furniture.” (Source)

As though that were a good thing. For those of you wondering what haute couture is, it means “things that cost more than most people make in a year and which will be worn once, if at all, by a foolish and selfish person.”

Susan Saperstein married a rich man. She didn’t do anything to help him earn that wealth, but she sure knew how to spend it: while they were married Susan (whose name is spelled Suzanne in some reports) owned several horses and would fly to Europe on the couple’s private jet for “shows and fittings.” (Source.) She flew a private jet to Europe to try on clothing.

It seems fitting that she was served with divorce papers on that private jet. It didn’t matter; when she was divorced, she got a staggering sum of money — including an obscenely gauche house that is an insult to anyone who goes to work every day, a house that she put on the market for $125,000,000.

David Saperstein is no better: when he was still living in the $125,000,000 house with his then-wife and the nanny he left her for (according to some reports), he said he and his family were just like anyone else, trying to put bread on the table. That’s not just disingenous; that’s rude to people who really do try to put bread on the table. David Saperstein started out with not much and grew it to a great deal. That’s to his credit. He then not only forgot what he came from, he decided to actively insult the type of people he used to be by claiming that, as someone with a $125,000,000 house, he was “trying” to put bread on the table.

The table that David Saperstein was trying to put bread on was a table located in a 45,000 square foot house. That is roughly twenty times the size of the average house in my community. David Saperstein is so (self) important that he needs 20 times the space you or I do.

That’s a lot of space, you’re thinking, and you’re right. But he needs more, because the $125,000,000 house is not his only house; he also built the “Hummingbird Nest Ranch,” which has 140 acres of extreme disdain for other people and excessive displays of wealth spread across the Simi Valley.

Want to know more about the kinds of tables David Saperstein was just trying to put bread on? I’d like to tell you, but there’s precious little information on the kinds of tables the Sapersteins bought as a furniture-based substitute for just spitting on people; buying furniture is a good substitute for spitting on people because society would frown on them if they actually thumbed their noses at us, but applauds them for garish displays of excess that are the functional equivalent of that. Remember that: physically spitting on people = bad. Metaphorically spitting on people by spending obscene amounts of money = good.


So while we don’t know much about the tables, there are other details you can get about the Sapersteins’ life and how they metaphorically are spitting on you.

One blog describes the $125,000,000 home, incorrectly, as “extravagant” and “sumptuous.” The actual words you are looking for, blogger, is “insulting” and “wasteful.” (We would also have accepted “deserving of a special circle of Hell, if there is justice in the universe.”)

Here are those details:

It has Italian marble walls, Saperstein_mansionFrench limestone floors, gold-embossed leather wall coverings, and gold-leaf crowned moldings, according to the property listing. Rooms include a ballroom with ceiling frescoes, a library with a first-edition book collection, two kitchens and a screening room with seating for 50. A pool house has a full kitchen, a massage room and a gym. Also on the property: a three-bedroom manager’s house, staff quarters for 10, a nine-car garage and a ¾-mile jogging track

(Source.)

I am glad to know that the Sapersteins, whose disdain for the rest of us knows no bounds, did not have to actually walk all the way from their pool house to the main house to get a meal. I would wonder how I survived without a kitchen in my pool house, except that I don’t have a pool house. If I want to swim, I have to go to the community pool or the one at my health club. We take one of the cars from our two-car garage. Sometimes we also drive them to the library, where I check out books. I’m not sure if they are first edition books; I take them to read them, not to flaunt them in people’s faces like the Sapersteins.

Flaunt they do. Do you know why you have marble imported from Italy? So you can say “That marble is imported from Italy.” So that you can be a smug, overspending loser with no concept of value. Marble is marble. Nobody even knows it’s marble, let alone that it’s from Italy, until you tell them, right, David Saperstein? And you do tell them, don’t you, David Saperstein. Jerk.

One person who won’t be touring David Saperstein’s monument to his own lack of concern or compassion about the human race is Debbie Aurelio. Debbie Aurelio lives in Hawaii, a state that I usually use as a synonym for paradise. It’s not paradise for Debbie Aurelio, though. Debbie was trying to refinance her house and got taken by a scam artist. She learned, too late, that she no longer owned her own home.

Debbie’s home shares something in common with David Sapersteins: both houses have a carport. Debbie doesn’t have a massage room, which is too bad because she could probably use a break from the stress of trying to fight to save her house. After realizing that she’d been bamboozled and no longer owned her house, that con artists had the title to her house and her equity, Debbie tried to hire a lawyer.

And failed.

Debbie couldn’t come up with the thousands that lawyers wanted to represent her to try to save their house.

She finally had to turn to her local Legal Aid Society for help; they were able to represent her and have so far kept her from being evicted. They’re suing, but Legal Aid Societies are stretched thin because they rely on funding from the government — the government that is made up of the people, the government of the people, by the people, and for the people– and the government of the people doesn’t give the people much help.

The Legal Aid Society helping Debbie gets annual funding of $810,000 — down 47% since 1992 — from the State. Funding has dropped by more than 1/2 since 1980. So as wealth increases and profits increase and the Gross Domestic Product increases, we the people reduce legal aid to poor people like Debbie.

That $810,000 had to go to handle more than 8000 cases in a single year. That means Legal Aid gets about a hundred bucks a case to handle each claim.

The Sapersteins main house was marketed for $125,000,000. Let’s do some math here. Since nobody should ever have a home worth more than $500,000 (I’ll adjust that for inflation as time goes on) that means the Sapersteins had $124,500,000 in excess money tied up in their home. They were squandering $124,500,000 in money, just sitting on it with their Italian marble and theater and kitchen in their pool house. Sitting on it and believing they were better than you or me, or anyone else.

Debbie had equity of $160,000 in her house at the time of the scam. That means the Sapersteins, had they bought a $500,000 house, could have bought Debbie Aurelio her entire house and given it to her, as a gift, and left themselves with $124,340,000.

They would never have missed the $160,000.

They in fact could have bought themselves a $500,000 house, and then bought $160,000 houses for 778 Debbie Aurelios. Seven hundred and seventy eight families could have had houses, leaving the Sapersteins living in a house worth a half-million, and with money left over.

The Sapersteins, of course, did not buy 778 families a house. They bought themselves several houses, instead, houses with Italian marble and kitchens in the pool house and guest quarters to invite all their wealthy friends over to enjoy the finer things in life, people they would no doubt invite over and say “See that? It’s Italian marble.”

Debbie Aurelio’s family, in their far more modest house, likes to have people over, too. They had a party for her youngest son to celebrate his first birthday. One of the people who showed up wasn’t invited. He was a sheriff, serving them an eviction notice.

Shame on you, Sapersteins, and Shame on America, for letting you live in a $125,000,000 house while Debbie Saperstein has to take time out from baking a cake for her son on his birthday to be handed an eviction notice. Shame on you.

The Trouble With Roy firmly believes that no adult should be allowed to earn more than $200,000 per year; that a $500,000 house is more than enough for anyone, and that health care is a basic human right. And if you believe otherwise, you are part of the problem.

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up so floating many bells down

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn’t he danced his did

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone’s any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

anyone lived in a pretty how town, e e cummings

With that, the summer is ended and August was Poetry Month. Enjoy these poems one more time as we ease into Fall, and coming in September on Babies! Babies! Pets! Pets!: Sweetie’s Parenting Rules!

Be Glad Your Nose Is On Your Face.

Fishing On the Susquehanna in July

Life, and Death, and Giants

Cradle Song.

“Good And Bad Children.”

Poem of The Child That Went Forth, and Always Goes Forth, Forever and Forever

Life Is Fine

The Subalterns

Rain

June Light.

Bed In Summer

Jabberwocky

Mr. Grumpledump’s Song.

Crabby:

My first book of essays is out! Click here to buy Thinking The Lions, And 117* Other Ways To Look At Life (*Give Or Take)

Or, click here to find out how you can win a free copy!

Since Hannah Moved Away.”

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Their coach’s moustache looks dumb: Countdown to Football Season, Team 20.

When not deciding what is or is not a sport or naming the Olympic Waldo, Nonsportsmanlike Conduct! sometimes engages in actual sports analysis, like this.. Okay, I didn’t do this; The Boy did this; but it appeared first on Nonsportsmanlike Conduct!


Gisele, the NC! good luck charm, notes that we’re really running short on time for this.

Football season is starting up soon and that means continuing The Boy’s Power-Ranking Countdown To Football Season (Still with 100% more Brett Favre speculation) and accelerating the pace, if at all possible.

Today, it’s team 19– and The Boy has placed the Titans at that slot:

Team: The Tennessee Titans
Division: AFC South
Record Last Year: 10-6

NC!’s One-Liner About Them: I have hated the Titans for years because of the Music City Mockery — which took place on my birthday. But with Vince Young there, and time passing, and all… pleh. Who has the energy? I’m not entirely over it, though, so I’ll throw this in: the coach’s moustache looks dumb.

How likely is it, on a scale of 1-10, that Brett Favre will play there this year? (Guest written by Ted Thompson, Packer GM.) 2. The Titans have Vince Young. The smartest possible thing you can do as an NFL GM or Coach is pass over a 3-time league MVP to start a young quarterback that hasn’t yet proven himself in the NFL.

The Boy says: Besides a solid defense the Titans don’t have much else. They didn’t get a wide receiver for Vince, so all they have is a decent running game. Then again,Vince Young didn’t play all that well, anyway. Also, they play in the toughest division in the NFL.


Team 20: Texans.

Team 21: The Cardinals



Directions:

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Or, click here to find out how you can win a free copy!

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Brothers In Harms

Thinking The Lions is about life, only funnier. This appeared there first:
*************

I took this picture this morning on my way into work. Though you can’t tell from the picture, the license plate on this car says “PSLM24.”

Unless the driver was trying to say something about PeaS, I think the plate means “Psalm 24,” which says in part (I looked it up):

Who shall ascend into the hill of the LORD? or who shall stand in his holy place?

He that hath clean hands, and a pure heart; who hath not lifted up his soul unto vanity, nor sworn deceitfully.

It’s lucky for PSLM24 that the Bible says very little about whether or not bad drivers will be ascending into the hill of the LORD, because I snapped this picture after PSLM 24, who was sitting in the bus lane, stuck behind a bus that was letting passengers on, and who, frustrated at that jerked his wheel to the left, squealed his tires, cut off an entire lane of traffic, and gunned his car forward.

Apparently, “he that hath clean hands” can use them to more effectively grip the steering wheel when he also hath roadeth rage.

Driving is much on my mind these days because we are in the throes of teaching The Boy to drive. Or we would be, if The Boy practiced driving, which he doesn’t. So we’re in the throes of wishing The Boy would practice driving so that he could get his driver’s license and also so that he would be a better driver — better in the sense of “paying attention to the road signs and lane markings,” and better in the sense of “not turning suddenly to look at a house just because I stupidly pointed it out to him” and certainly better in the sense of “not pulling into parking spaces at 150 miles per hour.”

Each of those would be an improvement, but it’s likely that The Boy will not hit those marks, because much of his time is taken up with football practice; his high school football team practices far, far more than a pro team does. Yesterday, they practice from 1 p.m. to 7:30, watching film and running plays and then working out. I think that’s overdoing it a little, personally. If I were in charge of the football team, they’d practice about 1 hour a day with Thursdays off because Thursdays during the football season, The Office is on and I like to watch that. Also, if I were the coach, the team would never punt and would throw a lot of Hail Marys, just like I do when I play video football.


The Boy doesn’t just miss practicing driving because of football; he also misses because there are sports on TV, and he apparently suffers from some sort of fear that if he misses a second of sports broadcasting the world will end in a horrible tragedy; that’s the only thing I can surmise from the fervor he has for watching sports.

As a result, The Boy is managing to actually build on the troubles that I experienced when I taught Oldest and Middle how to drive. Middle was the easiest; her main problem was being bossy and knowing far far more than me or anyone in the world, probably because Middle gets along well with her Spanish teacher, and as everyone knows, Spanish teachers are experts on pretty much everything, second in knowledge only to “Some guy at work.”

All those old cartoons where someone climbs to the top of a mountain and consults a hermit who knows all the answers in life? They should be replaced by a guy leaning over a cubicle and asking “Some guy at work” what to do about everything, because all I ever hear is that “some guy at work” said something that is deemed by whoever I’m talking with to be more reliable than whatever it is I’m saying.

That even happens to me in my “job” as a lawyer; I will discuss with clients what to do on their case, applying 3 years of law school and 10+ years of practicing and hours and hours of continuing legal education and reading about the subjects and seminars, and I will tell the client my opinion, and as often as not, the client will say “Some guy at work told me that his case was identical to mine and he got $100,000,000.” At which point I’ll say something like “You’re case is a traffic ticket. You hired me to defend a traffic ticket. How can that result in you getting a hundred million dollars?” But they’ll insist that “some guy at work” told them that.

By the way, since I said all that, I should note that this blog, and probably the entire Internet, is now protected by Attorney-Client privilege, so you must immediately burn that paragraph.

Middle didn’t work at the time I was teaching her to drive, so she had to rely on the wisdom she’d picked up watching Olsen twins movies, and also the teachings of the Spanish teacher, who Middle revered because the Spanish teacher was the only person who correctly diagnosed Middle with having torn a ligament when she hurt her knee. The doctor didn’t think the ligament was torn; the MRI reader didn’t think the ligament was torn, and Sweetie and I weren’t even sure Middle was injured. You have to forgive us for that, though, because Middle is frequently injured, including the time she sprained her hand putting on her shoe because her finger got caught in the shoe as she put it on, and she just kept putting the shoe on and pulling it on until she did something to her hand and she still complains about it. I’m a big enough person and just barely enough of an adult to not say “Did you sprain your mind? Because why didn’t you stop when your finger got caught?

Just barely.

So teaching Middle to drive was an exercise in trying to convince her that whatever the Spanish teacher and her life experience said to her, it’s not acceptable to do 22 miles per hour in a 35 zone. That, at least, was safer than teaching Oldest to drive. Oldest once tailgated another car down a country road, at 65 miles per hour… in the snow. We were literally two feet behind the other car doing over a mile a minute on slushy roads with limited visibility. We weren’t even trying to get anywhere important.

They are a picnic compared to The Boy, who manages to combine a complete lack of driving skills with an utter confidence in his ability to drive, and that is a scary combination. The Boy has only driven a handful of times — maybe 30– but displays an amazing ability to be scornful of other drivers, and have road rage, and tell me I shouldn’t correct him, all the while driving right down the center of a road through a red light.

This was an actual exchange we had:

The Boy: “Can I go right on red?”

Me: “Yes.”

The Boy: Guns the accelerator, goes through the red light and turns right in front of another car.

Me: Clutching the Jesus Handle: “YOU’VE GOT TO STOP FIRST!”

The Boy: “You didn’t say that.”

The Boy also has a habit that Oldest had, too: making good time pulling into a parking spot. I have bad vision and poor depth perception, so I pull into parking spaces really, really slowly because it always looks to me like I’m going to hit one of the cars. The Boy and Oldest have eagle eyes, I guess, because they actually accelerate into the parking space. We were pulling into a space outside church on Sunday, in our giant SUV Durango that we need to haul everyone in our family, and The Boy was driving. He inched through the parking lot until he found a spot, and then gunned the gas, swerving into the spot with millimeters to spare on each side. I almost wet my pants. But we sure saved time — instead of inching in and taking several valuable seconds, The Boy had us in that spot so fast I thought time went backwards.

You would think that I would be used to bad drivers and dangerous driving; I’ve been through this twice before, and also I grew up with my older brother, who was without a doubt the single most dangerous driver ever to be allowed on the road. It was my older brother who taught me to drive stick — by having me ride with him on the 40 minute drive to his work to drop him off, and then getting out of the car and saying “Pick me up at 10 p.m,” leaving me to drive home through rush hour in a stick shift Fiero I’d never driven before. His only instructions prior to that were “Watch what I do.”

I had to drop him off at work because he didn’t have a driver’s license. We were all terrible drivers, me and my brothers, and each of us had our license suspended for some period of time; I lost mine for six months for speeding (so I’m sympathetic to Oldest, but only to a point, because it’s a lot scarier when I’m in the passenger seat). My older brother, though, lost his for decades. He was the poster boy for “Habitual Traffic Offender.” He’ll turn 42 this year and I’m not sure he can get his license back yet.

If there was traffic trouble to be had, Bill (the older brother in question) had it. He didn’t just speed and drive without a license; he drove like a maniac and hit things and raced. He drove our parents’ Grand Prix car into a fire hydrant once, getting it home just before dinner. He didn’t tell Mom that he’d hit a fire hydrant; he just said he’d hit a lamppost or something, and Mom decided that we wouldn’t tell Dad until after dinner so he wouldn’t have his dinner spoiled. We were all eating dinner around the kitchen table, quietly, and my younger brother Matt and I watching Bill for signs of cracking under pressure — but Bill never showed any such signs. He never cracked under pressure and could lie with ease. He called in sick to work once for a week by telling his boss that he’d been in a car accident and was buried in a snowdrift and in a coma. He said he needed a little more time off because he had glass embedded in his forehead as a result of the accident. At another job, he told his boss he had jaundice and couldn’t come in – -and colored himself yellow with a marker to prove it.

So not telling Dad about hitting “a lamppost or something” was easy for him. Until the doorbell rang and Officer Begin (an officer who was more than familiar with our family) asked to speak to my dad.

We sat at the table and listened to the front-door conversation. We could only hear our dad’s part, as he said:

No, my car wasn’t in an accident.”

Pause.

It’s in the garage. You’re crazy.”

Pause.

Fine, take a look at it!

Run, Billy!” whispered my mom. Bill got up and headed out the back door as my dad went to let Officer Begin look at the car in the garage. We heard the door open and heard my dad yell for Mom and Bill to get out there, and then heard my dad say “What do you mean, there’s water all over the road?”

Amazingly, that wasn’t even the worst driving Bill ever did. The worst driving Bill ever did was what he called the “Speed Run.” It’s every bit as maniacal as that sounds.

When we were teens, there were “teen bars,” where you could go and dance and play pool and drink soda and if you were me, you could take up smoking because a cute girl said “Do you smoke?” and you want to impress her so you say “Sure,” and instantly take up smoking, a habit that will take 17 years to quit. If I could go back in time like Michio Kaku claims, among the things I’d do is go see myself that night and say “Idiot! She won’t even talk to you after she gives you the cigarette. And also, your spiky hair looks really stupid.

The teen bar we went to, “Jellybeans,” was about 10 miles away from our house, and could be reached by driving down Highway 16 to get to it, or by driving through a twisting, winding, sloping country road with giant trees all around it, a road that was so narrow that cars looked like they were traveling in only one lane, and also a road that at the time of night we’d drive home on it, about 1 a.m., was covered in dew more often than not.

Whatever part of the frontal lobe Bill is missing regulates driving behavior, because Bill always drove and Bill always picked the country road, and Bill drove along the country road as fast as he possibly could.

You’re probably asking yourself why we let Bill drive, and the reason we let Bill drive is the reason we let Bill do everything Bill does: Because Bill will go stark raving mad insane if you don’t give into him. Bill will go stark raving mad insane if you do give into him, so opposing him is even worse. I babysat for him once, and he was late getting home. During the extra time that I was waiting for him, I did him a favor by picking up his house and taking down his Christmas tree. I did him that favor because it was February and because sitting in his house watching his kids, I could actually hear pine needles dropping. When Bill came home, though, he screamed at me for taking his Christmas tree down.

It’s that kind of behavior that makes you say “Sure, let him drive.”

So Bill drove us to and from Jellybeans, on the twisting road, a drive he called “the Speed Run.” We’d get in the car at the end of the night, me and Bob and Fred and sometimes Matt and Bill, and Bill would start it up and say “We’re going on a Speed Run” and we’d all just sort of brace ourselves.

The “Speed Runs” ended abruptly one night when Bill was racing along doing about 90, I figure, and he hit a slick part of the road and went off onto the shoulder and up a small hill and jumped the car into a ravine. I am not in any sense exaggerating this story: we jumped probably sixty feet, over a large treelike bush into a ravine, where the car came to a rest and we were all, miraculously, alive.

We got out and looked around and made sure we hadn’t ascended into the hill of the LORD or anything, and looked back up at the hill we’d jumped down. It was steep and covered with bushes and small trees and there was no way that we were going to drive back up it.

Lights went on in a house near the hill and a guy came out.

What’s going on?” the man said. Bob and Fred and Matt and I looked at Bill.

We swerved to avoid a deer and went off the road,” Bill said, instantly inventing a deer and a swerve.

There was a pause and the guy said “There wasn’t any deer. I’m calling the cops.”

The police came and a tow truck came and they towed the Grand Prix out of the ravine — it was somehow still able to be driven– and we headed home, about 2 hours late. The car looked, somehow, none the worse for the wear, and Bill had talked us into obstructing the officers by continuing to stick to the deer story and also by saying that he wasn’t driving — he had no license, as usual — so we were headed home under the assumption that the only thing our parents would know was that we were late.

Dad met us at the door; it was about 3 a.m. As he opened the door, he said “Why are you so late?” Bill looked back at Matt and me with a look that said Shut up because you haven’t even seen insane yet and said “We were running late.”

My dad said “The police called.” Dad said that a lot, back then.

Bill didn’t bat an eye. He said “We swerved to hit a deer.”

My dad let us in and sent Bill up to his room. He took me and Matt into the family room and sat us down in separate chairs. I could actually feel Bill’s crazy wrath pressing on me, psychically. He asked us what happened and we tried to stick to Bill’s story as best as we could: deer. Late. Swerve. That’s it, Dad, we swear.

He sent us up to our rooms and got Bill down there. I didn’t watch TV much as a kid, but I recognize now from Sweetie’s years of Law & Order: It’s On All The Time reruns, what he was doing.

Bill was down there for an hour or so, while Matt and I layed in our bunk beds and wondered what he was saying.

Then my dad called me down separately.

Billy told me the truth,” he said. “There was no deer.

I was relieved. I said “He was driving really fast and jumped the car off the road; we didn’t have anything to do with it.

He was driving?” my dad asked, and I realized I was sunk. He’d gotten me, and Bill would get me next.

I don’t recall how long we were grounded for, as a result of that one. I do know that I was allowed to use our family car maybe once after that, for my senior prom; Dad probably considered requiring me to put down a security deposit, for which I wouldn’t blame him. Bill went on to bigger and not at all better things, driving-wise — like blowing up the Fiero he’d used to “teach” me to drive stickshift. I didn’t drive with him much after the Speed Run, and not at all after the explosion.

All that should have prepared me for teaching the kids to drive, but as a teenager, the feeling of invulnerability is pretty strong, so I never worried much back then about what would happen. Plus, it was Bill driving; when Bill was driving, we didn’t just fear that the worst would happen. We were utterly certain that the worst would, in fact, happen, and that he’d make us take the blame for it.

Now, though, as an almost-40-year-old, I’m back to fearing the worst will happen, and I no longer feel invulnerable; anyone whose joints pop and creak after a session of “Cloverfield” feels a lot more like Mr. Glass than the Man of Steel. So I sit in the car and hold onto the handle and try to tell The Boy and Middle and Oldest to please watch the road and stop at red lights and I wait and wait for the day they get their license and I can stop the teaching until the next one turns 16… which will be 14 years for the Babies!, but I’m already dreading it.

Related posts:
My brother Matt already made an appearance on here when I visited him on vacation — growing up with Bill apparently taught him not to fear sharks and hurricanes, either.

The Boy may be too busy singing instrumental versions of songs to learn to drive.

Bumblebeez:

Did you know a short horror story of mine, Don’t Eat My Face, will appear in the upcoming anthology “Harvest Hill,” available this fall from Graveside Tales? Go to their site to find out more and order your copy! And don’t forget to read my other horror stories on AfterDark.

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Quantum Murder? The Best Slasher Film.

The Best Of Everything: Our Opinions Are Righter Than Yours: This appeared there first:

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This past weekend, I did more than just point out the money to be spent on Same Ol’ Obama’s party this week could likely provide health care for many many people. I also came up with an insanely great idea, and an insanely stupid idea. Let me recount them for you, and we can then wait in breathless anticipation to see which one will become reality first. (Hint: It will be the stupid one.)

Here’s the good idea: Personal electric cars. Have you seen those “Smart Cars,” little two-seater deals that get a mocha-zillion miles to the gallon? My idea for Personal Electric Cars (which I will resist naming Personal Electric Recreational Vehicles, for acronymically-based reasons) goes them one better: Why not make cars that can hold one person, run on electricity, and have a small trunk compartment, which people could then use to get to and from local destinations without burning up a ton of fossil fuels.

It’s a genius idea. I myself drive mostly by myself. Sweetie doesn’t work, the kids go to school after I have to leave for “work,” nobody in my office lives near me, really and we “work” different hours. So it’s hard for me to carpool. It’s also hard to take the bus, on account of the bus runs only one time per day to our part of the city, and that time is not the same one each day but more of a random stop, which is the way most buses work in my experience; when I was in law school and took the bus everyday, I had to catch the 8:20 bus. To do that, I had to be outside at 7:55, because the bus was sometimes nearly a 1/2 hour early and sometimes up to a 1/2 hour late. In three years, I don’t recall the 8:20 bus ever coming at 8:20.

Where I live now, there’s not any kind of set schedule, and on some days, there’s no bus at all. Apparently, there are a great many holidays celebrated by our local bus. So the bus is out, and I have to take a car to “work,” and that car holds five people and has trunk space, all of which is largely unnecessary for me to get me and my iPod and my lunch to “work.”

I would get a scooter of some sort, except (a) I’m a 6′1″, 230-pound (yes, through the miracle of The Baby Workout I’ve lost weight!) grown man, so riding a scooter is kind of silly, and (b) I live in Wisconsin, where 9 months of the year the temperature is below freezing and where we got over 100 inches of snow last year. In some places, the snow still hasn’t melted, I bet. I can’t ride a scooter to “work” in the middle of January when the wind chill is stuck somewhere between “-14 degrees” and “- are you kidding me? Why in God’s name would grandpa settle here when he emigrated? Was Florida closed?”

So that’s where Personal Electric Cars come in: I’m thinking along these lines: Take a Ford Festiva (one of the greatest cars ever built) and cut it in half; using the driver’s half, put four wheels on there instead of two, seal ‘er up and get rid of the trunk. Now, you’ve got a four-wheeled car (stable) that takes up very little room and has a little seat space for running errands and such, but which would be small enough to run off very little power, provided you’re not looking to go 55 miles an hour or anything?

Why isn’t this a reality yet? I know there have been other ideas for electric cars, but they all suffered from various flaws, flaws like “using too much power” or “being too expensive” or “being lame and weird looking” to “not being invented by me.

So I challenge you, America: Invent the Personal Electric Car, and give one to me as a bonus for having thought it up. I guarantee you it will be a big seller, especially if you have the people who do those adds for Apple do the adds for PECs, too, because that music can sell anything. You’ll sell so much you can easily afford to give one to me.

My other idea, the bad one that will be a reality long before I’m ever cruising around in my Personal Electric Car given to me by the inventor for free, is this:

A trilogy based on the movie “Prom Night.”

We watched the new “Prom Night,” this weekend, Sweetie and I, on DVD. We were watching “Prom Night” because Sweetie likes slasher films, and we were watching it because more or less all Hollywood can do these days is remake old movies.

This Prom Night is not quite a remake of the oldProm Night”, starring Jamie Lee Curtis. (Jamie Lee Curtis must have been more or less the biggest star in the history of the early 1980s, judging by how often she was thrown into a movie.) I know that because Sweetie told me it was true; I never saw the first Prom Night.

In this Prom Night [SPOILER ALERT! BUT, REALLY, IS THERE A PART OF THE PLOT OF THIS MOVIE THAT YOU CANNOT GATHER FROM THE FACT THAT IT'S A SLASHER FILM CALLED 'PROM NIGHT'? THAT SORT OF GIVES IT AWAY, DOESN'T IT? STILL, FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO DIDN'T FIGURE IT ALL OUT YET, SPOILER ALERT] a girl’s family is killed in the first few minutes by a deranged guy, and she sees it all. Then the movie jumps forward three years, to when that girl is now getting ready for her…

wait for it…

Prom Night

…and she’s all better and all over the horrifying deaths of her family except for some dreams in which she imagines the killer, who was a teacher at her school and who was obsesssed with her, has escaped and come back to get her. Her psychiatrist laughs at her and tells her instead to focus on how great prom night will be, and so she does that.

Turns out the psychiatrist was wrong. But you knew that, right?

So here’s what I began thinking. First, Hollywood totally missed it. The first part of the movie takes about 2 minutes, but would in and of itself be a great movie, and I’ve even got a name for it: Teacher’s Pet. So they should have made a movie called that, first, and released it, because that could have been marginally good (as this Prom Night was, actually) and then they could have capitalized on that by releasing this movie as “Teacher’s Pet 2: Prom Night.” (Catchy, right?) Then, after that, they could have another movie in two years or so in which one of the kids from Prom Night goes crazy and kills some more people, and called that one “Teacher’s Pet Three: Reunion”.)

So instead of one throwaway slasher film, you’ve got yourself a franchise here, one that could rival Scream or Friday The 13th Ad Infinitum for slasher-dom immortality, and one which avoids the big problem of all slasher films, which is this:

The killers in slasher films are totally unrealistic.

That’s why I can’t stand slasher films, as a general rule (although, as I said, this one was okay.) The killers in slasher films get drowned and burned and run over and dropped off of skyscrapers and burned some more and go to Hell and into space and get attacked by Freddy Krueger and they walk really slowly but still make it to Colorado where Jamie Lee Curtis now lives, and through it all they just keep on living and they don’t even bleed.

Slasher films, though, are supposed to be chilling because they have an ordinary guy go bat-crap crazy and start killing people. When that guy stops being ordinary and starts being able to survive mine collapses and nuclear explosions and Predator, the slasher film stops being a slasher film and starts being a horror movie — but a really crummy horror movie with a killer whose only supernatural power is the ability to loom menacingly and take a bullet to the chest.

Let me add that this Prom Night didn’t have that; the killer in this one didn’t get run into by a dirigible and survive or anything.

That, together with a couple of other good points and the lack of any very preposterous points, made this Prom Night a pretty good slasher film, but not the Best one or anything. For The Best Slasher Film, we have to go back, way back, even before olden times (2002), all the way to that glorious time known as the 80s, a time when slasher films were only just beginning to be overrun by glorified Herman Munster clones who tromped around and survived but were not very scary, before the time when slasher films had to be made with a wink and a smile and a cameo by a Hollywood starlet.

In that time, 1986, slasher films had not yet devolved to the depths that they ultimately would. Jason, for example, had not been to the Moon yet (although in 1986, he would be brought back to life by a lightning bolt striking an iron fence), but the path was clearly marked out for them; it wouldn’t be long before serial killers in slasher films needed to be disintegrated by Fermilab’s particle accelerator just to slow them down–

– That never actually happened in a slasher movie, but it would make a great slasher film — a serial killer stalks young, attractive particle physicists at a college, angry because they rejected his attempts at presenting a Unifield Theory of Everything to them, and laughed at him, and one by one he kills off his competition, until at the end, the second-hottest female physicist (Elizabeth Banks) and the nerdy male physicist student she’s realized she loves (Jonathan Rhys-Meyers) trap him in the particle accelerator and turn it on, blasting him into subatomic particles, and seemingly ending the threat forever…

… until they realize that what they’ve just done is create an infinite number of killers in an infinite number of realities, setting the stage for innumerable sequels.

I’ll call it “Quantum Murder.” Don’t steal my idea!

In 1986, then, while slasher films were getting ready to make the jump from barely-realistic to … well, Jason battling Freddy on the moon, a little movie came out by the name of “April Fool’s Day.” April Fool’s DayThe Best Slasher Film — had a simple idea: [SPOILER ALERT! INVOLVING, YET AGAIN, A PLOT TWIST THAT IS REALLY BROADCAST BY THE FILM'S TITLE.] a bunch of friends would go away for a weekend to have sex and drink, and then get killed one by one, only to realize in the end that it was all a big April Fool’s Day Joke.

By the way, shouldn’t “April Fool’s Day” be “April FoolsDay?” There’s more than one fool, right?

April Fool’s Day” is The Best Slasher Movie for a couple of simple reasons: first, it both uses and makes fun of the ordinary conventions of slasher movies — it’s got all the typical couples and high school studs and hot chicks and trashy chicks and bookworms that are supposed to be the killer, and the remote setting and all, but it was in on the joke already; the characters were not just stereotypes, they were archetypes.

Second, nobody actually died. That’s awesome: a slasher movie in which nobody was slashed. How ironic!

Third, it did all this about twenty years before “Scream” supposedly turned the genre on its head by [SPOILER ALERT THAT IS NOT GIVEN AWAY BY THE TITLE THIS TIME] having characters who know about how horror movies work, and having two killers. “Scream” was revolutionary only to those people who hadn’t seen April Fool’s Day; it wasn’t that big of a deal to those of us who saw both and who thought, of Scream:oh, here’s a second movie that tries to turn slasher film conventions on themselves to keep the audience guessing. Clever, I guess. I’m gonna’ get some popcorn.

(That’s an actual quote, by the way.)

Most slasher movies start out with a pretty good idea (Look at this regular guy who started killing people. Scary, huh?) and make them insanely stupid (This guy now actually has over 722 bullets in him, is missing an arm, and is dependent upon constant electroduction to stay alive… but is still about to get Jamie Lee Curtis!).

April Fool’s Day actually did the opposite: it started with a terrible idea, and made it into a good film. It’s earned a little recognition as The Best Slasher Movie (a title it will hold until Quantum Murder premieres.)


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Army:

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Shame On America Sunday: Barack Obama Edition


I try not to be too political or topical or, frankly, angry, on my blogs. I try that in part because there are people whose job it is to be political and topical, people who pay attention to politics and business and other news that in theory qualifies them to talk about politics and business; I mostly pay attention to what’s on my iPod and comic books.

But I can’t help it; I’ve boiled over and I can’t contain it anymore, and the people whose job it is to be political and topical — the politicians and editorial writers and reporters and other people who are supposed to be doing something good for the world — are fiddling while Rome burns. They are fretting over flag pins and medal counts at the Olympics while the United States of America, the greatest country ever embodying the greatest concepts of the human race– slowly rots from the inside.

And I can’t stand it anymore. I’m tired of just making jokes about mystery writers and pizza while people struggle to pay medical bills and find houses and make ends meet, and I’m especially tired of making jokes about mystery writers and pizza while others suffer at the same exact time as stinking rich selfish people rub all our noses in how stinking rich and selfish they are and help slowly but surely bring about the destruction of the United States of America while also keeping people living in squalor as they engage in foolish, reprehensible behavior.

It is disgusting to me that we live in a country that allows some to squander money and resources and time and not only flaunt it but be celebrated and honored for doing that while others struggle to enjoy what should be basic rights. And I can no longer tolerate it.

So most of the week, I’ll continue doing what I do: In my “work” as a lawyer, I’ll continue to try to help people save their houses and pay their bills and keep their kids. As a writer, I’ll mostly keep making jokes about mystery writers and pizza. But once a week, on Sundays, I am going to publish, on all my blogs, Shame On America Sunday, to highlight the morally decrepit people who should not be honored, who should not be celebrated, who should be scorned and ridiculed; and I will contrast those people-without-souls against the people they are spitting on, the poor, the hungry, the needy.

It may not be much, but it’s what I can do, and I’ll do it.

What has set this off is this week’s highlighted hypocritical loser, Barack Obama.

Allow me to quote from “Money talks at convention,” courtesy of The New York Times, as reprinted in the Wisconsin State Journal on Saturday, August 23, 2008:

When Sen. Barack Obama gives his acceptance speech… on Thursday in Denver… a group of lobbyists and corporate executives will watch the event from plush skyboxes, with catered food and a flowing bar, and a price tag of up to $1 million.


And Obama’s biggest fundraisers will be staying at the Ritz-Carlton. They will be treated to an array of cocktail parties.
….
While Obama has attacked those who ‘have turned our government into a game only they can afford to play,’ the corporate and other special-interest money will be as pervasive as ever at this year’s Democratic convention.

So, “change you can believe in,” or whatever the hypocritical, already-failed Obama administration’s empty slogan is, apparently means “Same old same old.The Democratic National Committee is planning on spending $60 million dollars to throw Obama a coming-out party, and Obama, who speaks on this issue with the forked tongue all politicans have — he’s not “change” of any real sort — is helping to raise that money.

Are you a member of a union? If so, check what benefits you get in case of a strike; odds are they’re pretty low. Then check what benefits Obama gets: He got $500,000 from a union, and had the gall to ask for $500,000 more.

Think teachers are underpaid? Their union doesn’t; instead of helping teachers out, they gave $750,000 to Obama’s big party.

It’s pretty much all of Same Ol’ Obama’s fault, too: he decided to give his speech outdoors, adding $6 million to the cost of the party. So Obama needs six million dollars to have an outdoor photo op. Six million dollars extra so that Obama could stand under a starry sky, spread his arms, give us all that smile, and promise things will be different — while knowing deep down inside that they absolutely will not because he is just another politician lying to us while getting himself rich.

Six million dollars extra to speak outside.

Now, let me introduce you — again — to Ryan and Angie Shaw. My longtime readers know Ryan and Angie Shaw and their two wonderful boys, Mateo and McHale. Mateo and McHale were born conjoined twins and to date have had twenty-five surgeries. They were given a 5% chance of of living and have been beating those odds for over two years.

Here’s something to think about: Ryan and Angie Shaw have used up every cent of their insurance. They had insurance coverage and it’s done. They have no more. So they exist on donations and the goodwill of the hospitals and doctors that help them. I don’t know what their medical bills are, but I know when I had back surgery the tab was over $20,000. If they spent just $20,000 per surgery, that’s $500,000 just on the surgeries — that doesn’t count prenatal and postnatal care and physical therapy and braces and checkups and follow-ups and the wheelchairs the boys need.

While I don’t know the exact tab, I’m willing to bet that all of Ryan and Angie Shaw’s bills, every single bit of medical care they and the boys have ever received, could be paid for using just the extra money Same Ol’ Obama wants to get his photo op speech.

This is what Same Ol’ Obama has to say on his website about health care (if you go to his website, you’ll first be hit up for money before you can find out anything about Same Ol’ Obama, whose slogan maybe should be “Pocket Change You Can Send In”) (and no, I won’t link to his website. He doesn’t need my help.)

We now face an opportunity — and an obligation — to turn the page on the failed politics of yesterday’s health care debates

Obama promises to make things better and create new programs. But he is spending our money, money you have paid in union dues and donated to his campaign — to throw himself a party and get a photo op.

How much health care could be paid for with $6 million? How much health care could be bought with Sixty Million Dollars, the amount Barack is going to spend to throw himself a party?

This week, Barack Obama is going to travel to Denver to enjoy a splendid party featuring free-flowing champagne, luxury boxes, limousines, and swanky hotels.

This week, Ryan and Angie Shaw will take their boys in their wheelchairs to a park that is not wheelchair accessible.

Shame on you, Barack Obama. Shame on you.

Skip the clicking on Same Ol’ Obama’s website; instead, donate some money to the Shaws. Send donations to:

The Mateo and McHale Shaw Irrevocable Special-Needs Trust,
c/o Kohler Credit Union,
850 Woodlake Road,
Kohler, Wis., 53044.

And read more on Mateo and McHale by going to Caring Bridge, where you can type “mateoandmchale” into the box to Visit A Caring Bridge Website to see more pictures and the parents’ journal.

The Trouble With Roy firmly believes that access to health care is a universal right, that no adult should be allowed to earn more than $200,000 gross income in a given year, and that the United States of America, as great as it is, can do a lot better.

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Lose Two Belt Sizes While Determining What Is, Or Is NOT, a Merry-Go-Round!

The Best Of Everything doesn’t just determine what’s The Best; sometimes it looks back on previous entries and gives them the once-over. Or twice-over. I guess it would be the twice-over, right? This appeared there first:


Sometimes things that seem like improvements really aren’t. And sometimes they are. I don’t know. It’s Friday and I’m feeling both happy and indecisive.

This summer, I’ve been doing what I call “The Baby Workout,” which is more playing with the Babies! than it is workout, but nevertheless, I will still eventually write a book about it, and will call the book “Lose Two Belt Sizes While Playing With Your Babies!” and I’ll make a million bucks.

Because I did — since June I’m down two belt notches.

That’s neither here nor there. What is here or there is that as part of The Baby Workout, I put the Babies! into their stroller and then walk and jog to a park near us; we live, it seems, in the City of Parks; then I take a break while they play on the playground, then we walk and jog back, then Sweetie gets the defibrillator and re-starts my heart, then I have a bowl of mixed snacks that includes, sometimes, cereal mixed with potato chips. So you can see that the Baby Workout is complicated and has a strict routine.

In those trips to the park, I’ve noticed that there’s even newer kinds of playground equipment out there, playground equipment that either is awesomely cool or mostly lame. The “awesomely cool” kind includes a jungle gym I saw at one park — the park in the subdivision made up of houses that all cost at least $600,000; I guess rich people can get the best playground equipment. In poor neighborhoods, “playground equipment” is limited to a couple of old plastic bags — made up not of metal bars, but tightly strung rope-y kinds of things, all shaped into a pyramid.

At another park, though, I found what has to be the updated Merry Go Round. In February, I bemoaned the loss of the Merry Go Round, a victim of safety concerns and modern parenting. Then, recently, I saw at one of the parks included on the Baby Workout Tour 2008, an ‘updated’ Merry Go Round, consisting of a padded ring that spins if you push it.

You could sit on it, I suppose, if you wanted to. We tried to, and it does spin around and you can keep it going. But it’s too high to sit on comfortably and there’s no real way to hold on — so it fulfills some sort of need, I expect, in the kinds of parents and supervisors who want to pretend that they’re allowing their children to have fun, but not expose them to any actual fun of any sort.

I mean, this is a Merry Go Round:


This
is not:

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Mephistopheles Laughed: Temporary Anne: Famished (Part 4)

AfterDark publishes short horror stories in serial format. This appeared there first:


I did not cower.

I did not bow before it.

I did not cry or scream or yell nooooooooo or do any of those things that someone might when confronted with the essence of evil.

For one, I did not, because I was too amazed at its appearance. It is still, these decades later, hard for me to describe how Mephistopheles appeared. That beam of light held a form, a not-human form. It was not like an angel or like any creature, living or dead. At the moment when I first beheld Mephistopheles, I realized how wrong all along people had been to think that angels or demons would ever look even remotely like men and women. The minions, I knew, looked like nothing we could picture, and that was their horror.

Mephistopheles, too, looked like nothing we could picture and nothing we can describe. It was when I saw it, too, that I realized the ultimate punishment and the ultimate horror of Hell, the purest form of evil destroying the will and spirit of the living, and that was this:

Mephistopheles was beautiful in a realm of infinite ugliness. The one dear, neat, clean, perfect thing in all of Hell would be, for all eternity… the Devil. A damned soul would never see anything but death and torture and disease and rot, and would eventually long for a glimpse of the Prince of Darkness. How perfectly horrifying that was to me, when I realized it, how terrible it was later when I mulled that over: spending an eternity praying to catch one more glimpse of the Devil.

But there was more to it, as there always is in Hell. The second layer of horror is that a soul knows, as I do, as all believe, that God himself is more perfect, more beautiful, more splendid to gaze upon, and upon seeing Mephistopheles, one is aware, as I was then, that the soul will never see God, and that for all the splendor the devil presents, it pales in comparison to what you could have had, had you only been good.

I was then aware of that and while I did not quail before Mephistopheles, I felt my spirit shudder when I realized how far I had sunk and knew that from this day forward, my life– my life, as though I could call it a life, gnawing the bones of drunkards in an alley — would be infinitely worse.

You are mine now,

Mephistopheles told me, from inside that light that I wanted to look and also to never have seen.

You always were mine but you have been crafty and eluded me

Mephistopheles went on, and a portion of the light moved towards me, or the light expanded, so that it came near my face, my crooked broken tattered face that was little more than a skull with scraps of meat clinging to it, with threadbare hair where my luxurious locks had been a century or more before that day.

The light touched me and then I screamed. I shrieked so loudly and so long that when the light withdrew, my scream echoed around the city for minutes. I do not exaggerate.

When the light touched me, it felt like my spirit was dragged through a sieve made of razors. It felt like my lungs were filled with burning oil. My vision exploded into horrible phenomena, sights I cannot now describe without retching. My ears, hollow husks that they were, recorded the howls of Hell in them, and my fingertips touched slime. Every sense I had, and my spirit, too, was befouled and in pain and torn, briefly, from me.

In that one second of Hell, I realized I had only dimly, before that, had any concept how bad my Afterlife would be.

The light stopped touching me, the torture stopped, and while my own screams echoed off buildings back to me, I tried to push back so fiercely that the bones of my spine rubbed up against the tree bark as the skin on my back peeled off.

I think Mephistopheles laughed.

And yet I could not look away.

I will use you now

it told me.

You have been better than my and it used a word that I could not understand but the minions all around me writhed in agonizing glee and I gathered it was talking about the minions and I will use you.Much as I had been doing, I realized.

You will go forth into the world, as you have been.

You will gather souls.

You will bring them to me in Hell.

 

NO

it said.

You will bring me the bodies, whole, with the souls in them. You will gather a body to me, good bodies good souls good people, and when you have them you will drop into Hell and if you leave the body, if the body and the soul are good enough, you will be suffered to leave Hell again.

But

it added

You will not feed.I stared at him. I could not look away.

 

You will not take a morsel from these bodies. They are Mine.I just sat, mutely, contemplating this new way.

 

For so long as you do this, you will not be brought to Hell. Each body you provide me will be longer that you avoid me yourself.It reached out the light again.

____________________________________

 

Break this pact and I will bring you back Myself.

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My first book of essays is out! Click here to buy Thinking The Lions, And 117* Other Ways To Look At Life (*Give Or Take)

Or, click here to find out how you can win a free copy!

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Pretend You’re An Author– Just Don’t Suck At It (The Best Author Who Totally Lost It).

The Best Of Everything: Our Opinions Are Righter Than Yours! published this first…

************************

Pretend you’re an author. Go ahead, get yourself in the mood. Do author-y stuff like… I don’t know. I don’t do any author-y stuff like, so far as I can tell, complain about how hard it is to write and what a chore it is to be a writer.

I don’t get that. Granted, I have not achieved the absolute highest pinnacle of author-y success: having a book (a) published and (b) having that book optioned into a movie that will never be recognized as the book that I wrote but which will make me lots of money, but I do a lot of writing and have had stories published by people who aren’t me.* And in all that time, I’ve never, ever complained that writing is hard because it’s not. It’s not at all. People who are lucky enough to be able to support themselves writing and who complain about what a chore it is are annoying in exactly the same way as people who have a lot of money and tell you “Money doesn’t solve any problems.”

To them — the money people– I say: Yes. Yes, it does. It solves the problem of having no money, for one.

To the writer-complain-y people, I say “Be quiet and spend a day tearing down a shed to get an idea how carpenters live and then tell me how hard it is to come up with motivation for a secondary character in the epilogue of your novel.

So I don’t share with many writers the tendency to complain about how terrible it is to be a writer. I don’t share that tendency with anyone, and I think that’s a good thing, because I think more and more the world is filled with people who try very hard to achieve something only to then turn around and complain about what it is they’ve achieved. Like rock stars, who work their entire lives to have a hit song, and then once they do have a hit song, complain that all anyone wants them to do is play their hit song and then they petulantly refuse to do that for a while only to see their career really, really, suffer, at which point they trot the old hits out again, but it’s too late. (Right, David Bowie?) Or the reality show denizens who complain about cameras following them.

I’m not fooled, by the way; these people don’t really dislike the attention or the fact that people think they’ve got only one hit; they’re trying to gain attention through any means necessary. One way of gaining attention is to write “Space Oddity” and have it be a hit. But when the attention from that fades, you have to somehow keep people talking about you, so you talk to someone who will listen and then say “I’m never playing Space Oddity again! Bollocks! That keeps your fame simmering a little longer. For celebrities and gossiples, on the other hand, complaining about the cameras is their attempt to look less vain and attention-hungry, and also to forestall the day when they’ve got to say something embarrassing about their underwear or a former sex partner to get their name mentioned in the back of “US Magazine” at that part where the magazine prints “outrageous” “quotes” from “celebrities.”

How depressing is your life if you’re so attention hungry that you are reduced to emailing out gossip about how long it’s been since you’ve had a date in hopes that a tabloid will think it’s funny and print it?


While I don’t share the writer-y tendency to complain about how terrible it is to spend a lifetime thinking up things and writing them down and getting paid for it, I do share the writer-y tendency to want to have a best-seller and to also have something that I write made into a movie so that I can have enough money to relax and spend the rest of my life writing other stuff that can be made into a movie, ideally doing so from my luxurious beach house in Hawaii.

I think all writers, if they’re honest, will tell you that’s what they want. Most won’t be honest, but if they were, they’d agree with me. They won’t be honest because to crassly admit, as I do, that you want to make money is, well, crass in their eyes, but I don’t get that. Why is it considered terrible to want to make money being creative but not considered terrible to want to make money as, say, an accountant? Has an accountant or mechanic or aquarium manager ever been accused of selling out? No. But do something “creative” and make money at it, and you’re a sell-out — with one proviso: You’re only a sell-out if you didn’t achieve instant (or seemingly instant) success.

So: Guns and Roses? Not a sell-out because their first major album was a success. Nirvana, the over-rated Bee Gees of the 1990s? Sell out!

It’s not selling out, though, to want to make money. Not even if you deliberately cater to popular tastes to try to make something more popular so you can make some money. Yes, artistic integrity, yes creative control blah blah blah PLEH. There are two ways to make something and make money: First, come up with something so great that the market instantly says Yes! We didn’t know we liked this but we LOVE it! Send more! Examples of that kind of awesomeosity include this blog, Cadbury Creme Eggs, and The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold.

Second, ask yourself: What do people like, and then do that really really well. Like Jerry Seinfeld did with his sitcom for a few years, like McDonald’s does with cheeseburgers, and like Rachael Ray does with being Rachael Ray.

Both are equally valid. I don’t care which you do: both are artistic and both are creative and neither is better than the other. The key point is not, as so many think are you making money, which people equate with selling out. The key point is are you doing this well. Making money isn’t selling out. Sucking at what you do and still making money is selling out.

That’s where today’s author comes in. Patricia Cornwell is what started me on all this musing, because I’ve been struggling through The Orchid Thief which is good but hardly a compelling page-turner, and I was mournfully thinking that there are no good books on the horizon, and I glanced over my wall of books and saw the Kay Scarpetta books that I loved to read so much, loved to read all the way up until I quit reading them because they sucked more and more as it became apparent that Cornwell was actively trying to sell out by not being very good at what she was doing but still making money at it.

Kay Scarpetta, as you might know, is the fictional Virginia medical examiner who struggles to help raise her niece Lucy while investigating, with Marino and some others, ever-more-heinous crimes. (Kay shares more than a few similarities with The Closer, including an FBI boyfriend and being Southern; Cornwell, in between writing what I assume are ever-worse books, may want to check with a lawyer about that.)

I first came across the Kay Scarpetta books when I noticed that the library, on the rack where they sell former-best-sellers for a couple of bucks, had two of the books The Body Farm. Libraries buy dozens of copies of expected best sellers so everyone who wants to can check them out right away and get 7 days to read them before having to bring them back. I can’t stand that. There was a time in my life when I could read a book in 7 days; that time was college. Now, 7 days isn’t enough for me to remember to get the book out of the car and bring it inside and put it on my bedside table.

So I picked up The Body Farm and bought it for $3 and read it, and really liked it. From there on out, I went on a Kay Scarpetta binge, reading book after book about her adventures and getting to know Marino and Lucy and the FBI boyfriend whose name I can’t recall and enjoying Cornwell’s prose and writing style and enjoying the really gruesome mixture of crime-solving and forensics that the books detailed, with minutiae from crime scenes and graphic autopsy descriptions that predated “CSI: Each Episode Seems To Feature That Dominatrix” by quite a few years. (Seriously, Ms. Cornwell: Get your lawyer on the phone!)

When I say I went on a binge, I mean it: I bought back copies of the books, I eagerly awaited each new book about Kay Scarpetta, I read them as quickly as I could. Kay Scarpetta was, for a while, my Harry Potter. (Can I say “Harry Potter” in a blog without getting sued? God, I hope so. I’d better call my lawyer.) The stories were great — and I’m not a mystery or crime-fiction lover, generally. The characters were interesting. I recommended these books to everyone and in between all that, considered how great of a TV show or movie these books would each make.

Then things began to go bad– I think because Patricia Cornwell, too, was thinking what a great movie or TV show these books would make, and then wondering why they weren’t, yet, TV shows or movies, and then began, I assume, trying to make them even more movie-showy or TV- showy. When I first began reading the books, Kay Scarpetta was a fledgling investigator of sorts — a medical examiner who worked with the cops to solve crimes and also cooked gourmet meals.

Over the course of the novels, Kay advanced in her life and her romance and things changed for her, and she developed some new skills or old skills were revealed. I recall that she was, in one book, an expert SCUBA diver; I’m not sure if she had been one before, but suddenly, she was. That’s fine, I thought. Add some new skill sets, make the story work, etc. I wasn’t sure why the Chief Medical Examiner would need to be an expert SCUBA diver, but it’s not like it was out of the realm of possibility.

That kind of thing continued, though, and advanced ever more quickly and bafflingly. By the last book I ever read about Kay Scarpetta, Cornwell — I don’t remember which one it was exactly, but it might as well have been called Kay Scarpetta: SuperHero — Kay could, by my memory, cook awesome meals while dissecting two or three corpses at once, underwater, using only a gun that she had become an expert marksman with. I’m being pretty serious about that; there was no skill that Kay Scarpetta might need that she did not suddenly have. If the killer had, in that last book, escaped in a space shuttle, Kay Scarpetta would likely have been able to cobble together her own spacesuit and jet pack and catch him by calculating, in her head, orbital velocities necessary to do so. Or maybe she’d have just found one of the Guardians’ rings of power; I don’t know.

I’m not being facetious: The one lasting memory I have of the series, right now, is this:

Kay Scarpetta fighting terrorists while flying a helicopter, solo, around a nuclear power plant.

Which is all great if you’re trying to make “Live Free or Dissect Corpses” but is not so great if you’re a character in a series which was beloved for the very-realistic and human and believable way it depicted fantastic crimes.

Here’s what’s really sad about that: I read probably five or six of these books before that scene, five or six books of many hundreds of pages about Kay Scarpetta and her mysteries, and the only thing I clearly recall, from all of that, is Kay fighting heli-terrorists. That’s how damaging that ridiculous finale was: it utterly wiped away my memories of every single thing that had gone before it.

That scene would have made Michael Bay salivate (he’s probably trying to order the book off Amazon right now), but it’s not that I’m against Michael Bay-esque movies with lots of explosions and things. What I’m against is taking a perfectly good series of books with great characters and stories and writing, and turning them into Michael Bay movies in what I presume is a desperate attempt to get these books made into movies or TV shows…

… and I’m against doing that badly. The writing in the books, so good for so long, turned bad. Cornwell still had (has? I don’t know — I stopped reading anything she wrote) talent, but that talent had been thrown out the window, because it takes more to write a good book than just knowing your way around a synecdoche. It takes an understanding of where your characters fit in the world you’ve created, and keeping them grounded in the world you’ve created, staying true to your vision and making sure that everyone is still done really well. That’s the key to not selling out.

If Patricia Cornwell wanted to write books about superwomen who can fly a helicopter right into the main control center of a nuclear power plant with one hand while shooting a gun with the other, all the while keeping an eye on the gourmet picnic she had packed in the back, she had every right to do so. But crudely turning the perfectly good Kay Scarpetta into that person was the wrong way to do it; it took something good and turned it bad, and did so (I assume, again) because it was easier and more profitable to suddenly make Kay Scarpetta a superhero than it was to begin a whole new series and begin from scratch.

That’s selling out.

So go read the early Kay Scarpetta books and as you read them, marvel at the talent that was Patricia Cornwell, The Best Author Who Totally Lost It.

Just stop reading them when you get to the point where Kay begins flying around the world to turn back time to save Marino.

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The Olympic Waldo

Nonsportsmanlike Conduct! is the AlwaysMostlyRight sports blog for people who love sports but hate sports blogs. This appeared there first:
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I’m pretty sure the Olympics are over… or over as far as anyone is concerned. As The Boy pointed out the other day, once Michael Phelps was done swimming, the Olympics were over.

He was right; the Olympics, supposedly the world’s biggest stage or something, is all about one person, each and every time. We gather all the countries in the world together (which is kind of pointless because we then spend our time talking only about the two or three countries that really count) and get 1000s of athletes in the same city and hold what appear to be billions of events (events which this time are actually held in the future, because of the International Date Line) and all that pomp and spectacle and grandeur and elaborate production numbers that crush the souls of little Chinese girls boils down to this:

Here’s a guy (or girl) who will be the only person you’ll hear about for the next two weeks.

In 2008, that’s Michael Phelps. Nobody else in Beijing matters. Not that little singer girl; not the beach volleyball player who tried to get the President to slap her butt for some reason, not the interchangeable gymnasts that either are robbing the U.S. or getting robbed, depending on which one you’re talking about. It’s just Michael Phelps.

That’s how the Olympics works: Pick a guy or girl and run with him/her to sell the story. That’s why we had that “Tomato” guy who was a snowboarder, and we had the Italian skier whose nickname had something to do with bombing, and the speedskater who kept falling down, and the other speedskater with the weird name: Apollo Anton Ohno or something, and we had Carl Lewis and Kerri Strug and Mary Lou Retton and Mark Spitz and Bruce Jenner and so on all the way back to Jesse Owens. Each Olympics features one person to focus on, and everyone else at the Olympics is a supporting character.

Don’t believe me? Name another member of the girls’ gymnastic team that Kerri Strug was on. Unless you are one of those other girls, you can’t do it. And even if you can, did any of those girls get mentioned on King of the Hill?

The Olympics always focuses on one person: I’m not sure why it works that way, but it does. I have some theories on why it is, though, theories I’ll share:

The Olympics, as I’ve pointed out before, aren’t that big of a deal anymore. 20 years ago, the Olympics happened every four years, period. There were no cable shows highlighting world championships and touting the US Basketball “Redeem Team” or any of that. But since then, the Olympic People and the TV networks made the decision to hold the Olympics seemingly every other month; since they’re held on alternating years now, the Olympics aren’t as rare as they used to be. Add to that the proliferation of sports coverage and cable and Internet and satellite, and pre-Olympic qualifiers and almost-Olympic kind-of-sporting events like the World’s Cup are on all the time, making it seem like there’s always an Olympics.

Since there’s always an Olympics, we’ve got to find a way to differentiate them, and that way is to pick out an athlete to focus on, kind of like when “What Used To Be A Really Big Football Game On Monday Night But Is Now Not Such A Big Deal Because It’s On ESPN Instead of a Network” [formerly "Monday Night Football"] picks out a random special teamer to interview because the game is being played between Houston and Arizona and nobody cares. Picking out Michael Phelps helps separate this round of the Olympics from the other Continuous Olympics.

A second theory is this: The Olympics are boring. They really are. They really are. I watched Phelps’ two races — for golds 7 and 8 — and found them exciting only because they were to tie and break the records. Beyond that, swimming is god-awful boring. I know because I also watched a few races leading up to the Phelps races, and they were tedious. It’s probably exciting for the swimmers but to me it’s just a bunch of people swimming.

So to exciten things up a bit, the TV people have to come up with human interest stories; media people do this all the time, finding a local interest or some sort of grabber. Ever see a story in your local paper about a hurricane or earthquake somewhere else in the world? Odds are, it begins with “Local resident survives Florida tropical storm” or something similar; that’s because people read news that affects them, that they can relate to. Some far-off tropical storm doesn’t affect you; but a far-off tropical storm that nearly killed a Lake Delton, Wisconsin man affects people in Lake Delton.

The Phelps Phenomenon (nice, huh? I coined that) works the same way: It personalizes the Olympics. Instead of 73,522 athletes from 38 different countries and one principality competing in 1562 events, it’s Michael Phelps, the kid from Maryland, out to get 8 golds. The Olympics have too many faces; boiling them down to one face makes people pay attention and gives them something to focus on.

The Olympics, seen that way, is like a “Where’s Waldo?” of sporting events. If the “Where’s Waldo” books had just been drawings of crowds, nobody would have ever bought them. But make people look for Waldo in those pictures, and they go nuts. The Olympics always have a Waldo; the Olympics need a Waldo, and in Michael Phelps, they found it.

That’s what I thought about the Olympics before, and after, and maybe during (assuming they’re still going on without Waldo Phelps.) I also thought this, which nobody can answer for me: Why does the Chinese team have the name of their country written on their jackets in English? Doesn’t that mean they can’t read their own team jackets? Do other countries have their team names written in English, too? Why?

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