Reignfall Pt. 3: Back Among the Plebs
October 8, 2009
First, let me apologize for the long gaps between posts. I’m editing a book which has left my eyes and brain bacon sizzly, and I’m only able to focus on things like sports and Real Chance of Love 2 at night. Occasionally I’m able to squeeze in an episode or two of Real World/Road Rules: The Ruins, The Biggest Loser and So You Think You Can Dance, but––
Hmm? Sorry? Did I hear you say something? No? Okay, let’s move along.
Once the Expo opened up its arms to me, I felt alive and free to express my true self and tore through its fabulous layout like a flimsy blouse. Wait, let’s try that again––once I began moving around the many interesting booths at the Festival of Fear end of the floor, the patience I managed to display throughout my long journey was finally rewarded. Among the prized attractions was nightmare photographer Joshua Hoffine’s modest booth that really should have been at least as prominent as the one where you could take photos with a few actors hired to look like none of the characters in “True Blood”. Below, please find one of his latest unpublished works that he rolled out for those who had made the trip.
Josh himself wasn’t there when I stopped by, but I pledged to come back when he was and have him autograph a print. Please check out his blog when you get the chance (a sequence of photos documenting the creation of the shot above is among some of the cool things you’ll find there). Trust me, you won’t be disappointed––which is more than can be said for me an hour or so later, but let’s keep moving, k?
The next order of business was to have a look at the row of celebs set up on stages that made them look a little like judges for an AKC dog show. If this was to make us feel like properly leashed bitches, I’d say for the most part it worked. The majority of the esteemed guests were relatively easy to access, but the line for Bruce Campbell might have been the line to receive properly sterilized hand release such was its length and width. You almost couldn’t make out the row of judges behind it unless you cut through. Among them were Mary “Snap a Pic without Paying for it and Get Sent Out the Air Lock” Mcdonnell , Udo “Yes, I’m Drunk, So What?” Kier, Linda “C’mon, Terminator Was a Hundred Years Ago and I Don’t Believe in Plastic Surgery” Hamilton, Tom “You Know Anyone Else Who’s This Famous for Making People Look like Linda Hamilton” Savini, and lastly, the woman who inaugurated my prepubescent formative years and is therefore responsible for why I’ve traveled all this way, Barbara “I’m Signing as Fast as My Arthritis Will Let Me” Steele.
Erin Grey on planet Prince.
Please, good readers, remember that we here at ScottStories make it a habit of exaggerating the truth for comic benefit. I assure you the luminaries I mentioned above are more than worthy of their elite status for both their bodies of work, and in most cases, their ageless charisma and beauty. To be totally honest, I’ve rarely seen any of the starlets at these conventions look better than they do in person. That includes Erin Grey, Dee Wallace Stone, Linnea Quigley––the list goes on and on. And I must add that, completely separate from their star power, is almost always an inherent star quality that only a few people in this world are lucky enough to possess. Whether this is me being sincere or just a good doggie, I really can’t say. But it’s how I feel, and having breathed their air for approximately one entire month, I believe I speak from an informed position regardless of how fleeting it was.
Sadly, as wonderful and beautiful as Barbara looked, yours truly never got the chance to meet her. This is one instance where the fault is all my own. I did observe her from a satisfyingly stalkery vantage point before approaching and what I saw gave me pause. Ms. Steele was pre-signing photos at a blistering pace and rarely looked up when someone approached. The scene reminded me of one of those carnival freak show exhibits where some shill in front sells the lark and blocks your view as you try to get a good look at the drooling “wonder” behind him. In this case, the shill was a convention volunteer who collected the loot and received you as a potential threat. It’s not always their fault as they’re dealt a lot of responsibility, and in this case, his was to protect the one woman that really deserved her likeness on a denomination of horror currency. So after deciding my title of Mr. August was too lowly to warrant eye contact, I took one last look at the fabulous star of The Mask of Satan, silently wished her well, and went off to find the next bit of royalty on my list: Max Brooks.
Max is the son of Anne Bancroft and Mel Brooks. That alone is enough to warrant a quick “hello”. What makes him worthy of braving hordes of the unwashed is he’s the author of the excellent The Zombie Survival Guide and the utterly stupendous World War Z, the latter being adapted for the screen with plans to be released next year. Earlier this year, I purchased the book at a New York City Borders Book Store where he had recently done a signing, and was fortunate to find a signed copy in a pile of those unsigned and for sale at the regular price. Now, I’m not a rabid autograph hound despite the impression I might be giving here, but Max lifts my authorial spirits. To know that someone of such prestigious stock applies his very prodigious talents to horror––and zombie horror, no less––makes me feel like I’ve got the right planet after all. I suppose you could say he’s an inspiration, so when I learn where his booth is from one of the Rue Morgue staff (who was kind enough to work up a map of the floor for me), my professional bones grow sturdy. It would be no problem navigating the masses to find him at the other end of the expo. No one could explain why he’d been relegated to the comic section, but no matter: I was on a spiritual mission. So, onward I forged, map in hand…
I walked for an HOUR. That’s three-thousand and six-hundred seconds of weaving in and out of lines, scouring booths and dodging supervillains. Alas, Max was nowhere to be found. There wasn’t even a sign for him. I asked a comic book artist where he might be and the guy looked like he wanted to punch me. “Do you know how many people have asked me that in the last ten minutes?” he squeaked. “In the meantime, why don’t you look at my work, some of which can be found under the bag you’ve rested on my very expensive rental table.” I had to admit he had a point, so I looked at his stuff, found it well done, and walked away. As an aside, ever been hit with a pencil? I guess the odds of getting the eraser end are pretty much the same as the pointy end, right? Or is there a technique to assure one or the other? I’m off to experiment but if anyone knows, see “comments” below. Cheers.
At this point, I’ve worked up a savage appetite. Unaware there was a food court accessible via teleportation (or so I assume since it was hidden so well they might have been enriching uranium), I pushed against the tide in search of an exit.
The above photo should give you some impression of what confronted me, but fails to capture the octopussian layout of the Expo center wherein every escalator looks the same and every door leads your sorry ass back to a giant, rampaging Pikachu. I literally found myself outside by accident, as they had closed the way I came in due to something no one could effectively explain. 
Once out in the open downtown Toronto air, I walked a few blocks until I found a bar/restaurant showing the Arsenal game. The place was called The Loose Moose, and its name perfectly described how I felt. Minus the moose part, probably. Although I felt like I could eat one.
Food, beer, and Arsenal FC up 0-1 against Man United: these are things that, if experienced collectively, can make for a powerful, nirvanaesque sensation. In fact, I was in no hurry to return to the madness of the convention despite having achieved exactly zero percent of my goals. But I would soon be introduced to someone who had actually achieved a lower percentage, and he would be the man who’s demo reel I posted earlier. Andy Powell never even got in. His table, paid for and on which he would have surely enthralled his share of conventioneers, remained empty. For all either of us knew, people were being sent there to meet Max Brooks. But due to the expo center being filled to maximum capacity, neither of us would ever find out. To be honest, Andy could have easily been added to my goodness list as he was one entertaining chap with mind-boggling talent. It didn’t even matter that I missed Max, Josh and Barbara or that Arsenal ended up throwing away their lead, I got the opportunity to talk shop and break bread (the yeast, hops and barley kind, mind) with a real professional in a great city and the night was only just beginning. Fair shakes, Toronto, and cheers to you, Mr. Powell.
The only thing left to do was get my ass to the official party of the Rue Morgue Festival of Fear, otherwise known as the Dance of the Deadites. So after dropping off my fliers and throwing a little water on my face, I left the hotel, grabbed a cab, and directed my driver to my destination. You know how you can tell when someone is a really good person just by the vibe he or she exudes? That was my driver. And he certainly went on to prove it. It didn’t matter a whit that he had never heard of Revival Nightclub or that he couldn’t even pronounce it, he was determined to aid me in my travels. So we drove around Toronto for awhile in a nice tour that only occasionally repeated itself, and he made several phone calls to a number of colleagues, each with their own interpretation of the locale. I tried to get him to let me off so that I could grab another cab, but dammit wasn’t he so obsessed with helping me that it almost seemed like he was pretending not to hear. That’s just the way he rolled, I guess. Personally, I felt paying the extra fare for such a regal demonstration of personal responsibility was more than worth it. You can’t buy that kind of karma. Well, actually, here’s hoping you can.
You’ve already seen a video of the band Psychocharger, and that’s pretty much what you got once they let you in and the beers got flowing. What you can’t see, however, is the true, horror-loving atmosphere of everyone there and how sweet the most evil-looking people can be. Udo made an appearance and did his drunken best to add a touch of class to the festivities, and I think I speak for everyone in attendance when I say he was terribly successful. Which is really the best way to describe the entire trip, I think. Did I get what I went there for? To some extent, I could say I did. But as I waited out another flight delay and looked through my various pieces of swag, I realized the reason I love the horror genre and all the wonderfully frightening things that come with it is partially because you rarely ever do. In fact, much of the delight comes from the unexpected and the challenges so often attendant with the experience. I suppose the ultimate question is, “will I go again?”
You know what…I don’t know. But I’ll say this: my Stud of the Month reign may be over, but my love for the world of horror grows stronger and deeper with every effort I make to know it. There might be a lesson in there somewhere. You may choose to look for one or you may not, but like horror’s greatest monsters, chances are one will find you.
And lastly, this is for you Joshua.
Reignfall Pt. 2: Words for My Successor
September 16, 2009
To the man who now wears my studly, satin sash––torture porn director, Eli Roth––I offer the following words of wisdom. You may heed them or you may not, that is your choice. In fact, as Mr. September, no doubt your royal journey will take a much different path––one probably less characterized by swarms of sweaty horror, anime and video game fans all trying to get their pictures taken before their makeup runs into their leotards and their cat tails fall off––but it will be no less rewarding if you meet the many challenges ahead. In an effort to guide you, I will try and share tales of my own experience. In doing so, I can only hope therein lies a studly through-line from which you may tether your wayward soul in times of utter despair. In other words, it’s not easy to be a scary stud for 30-plus days in a row, Eli, so drop the fake blood and pay the fuck attention.
To be fair, my arrival in Toronto proved a welcome reprieve for my constitution. After suffering hours of delays in Philadelphia, the paparazzi was kind enough to maintain a wide berth, allowing me free passage to the sidewalk shuttle station from where I would depart for my hotel. On time at :05 am (as it was posted on the pole), I boarded the swanky forty-some-seater and enjoyed the scenery as we headed towards The Royal York––after a few stops to pick up some other passengers. Luckily, I was not recognized. Way too tired for that shit.
I found The York splendidly elegant, and at that late hour, peaceful. This was most welcome, as I was low on energy from internalizing a blind rage that had yet to fully dissipate. Straight to my room I went and inside of a half hour, I was sound asleep. The difference between how it felt to be in a king-sized bed as opposed to any of the assorted airport chairs was, to say the least, marked. And I would find the majority of Toronto to be very much like that: patient, gentle and kind––the way we all hope our first relationship experience will turn out until we’re ritually stomped in the bollocks and left to die in a puddle of our own sick. I’ll advise you to keep this in mind.
I awoke verily refreshed, and enjoyed an expensive breakfast at a restaurant under the hotel. Downtown Toronto has as much going on below the streets as it does above. And if you manage a breakfast at the buffet I attended, the same could be said for you. Blame it on the fruit, if you like, but that Canadian bacon tasted dodgy. I meant to ask the couple next to me dressed head-to-toe in Star Wars fan gear what they thought, but the male of the species was working on a joke. His female counterpart didn’t seem to speak the same language, or so I took it to be judging from her “bad eggs” facial expression. I couldn’t hear the joke, so I can’t comment on its level of comedy. However, it might have been she was too concerned with sorting our her many medications which I saw laid out in front of her to listen to Bland Solo, and who could blame her? It was no time for frivolity, and I hope for everyone’s sake that he added that lesson to his obviously limited repertoire along with “how to eviscerate a grouchy Ewok with a double-ended light saber”.
Now, please understand that I kid. And I really don’t intend to be unduly harsh on the average genre geek/fan/stalker. After all, I was one of them before I ascended to my knightly station. Or was I? Perhaps that was what I was about to learn. I knew I loved horror, and have always gotten along with others who shared my taste in popular culture. In fact, I find them to be some of the brightest and friendliest people I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. But something didn’t feel quite right as I entered the Expo Center and took my place in one of the dozen snaking lines, e-ticket print-out clenched safely in hand. For one, many of them were dressed up like characters that I didn’t recognize. Others donned costumes of a vaguely Star Trekkian nature, and a few, as far as I could tell, meant to impersonate asthma inhalers. What in the HELL was happening to my convention?
Folks, when you buy tickets to an event, be sure you fully comprehend as to what they actually pertain before hitting the “send payment” button. Not that learning the Festival of Fear was actually only one small part of a much larger FAN EXPO that included comics, sci-fi, anime and video gaming would have stopped me from attending, but at least I wouldn’t have entered the building expecting to be greeted by a legion of zombies and found this instead.
Whoah-ho, there, buckaroonies! Now, I can make out most of these people, but is that “Bar Code Man” back there standing next to “The Mom Jeans Avenger”? It appears Supergirl doesn’t know who they are either, although her face tells me she may very well have just gotten her period. Perhaps she’s eavesdropping on “Leprechaun Hollywood Agent Man’s” conversation with “Bet You Can’t Guess Where I’ve Stuck My Bluetooth Headset Man” all the way on the left. Look, I like superheros just as much as the next 12 year-old, but I still don’t think there was an age in my development when I would have been excited by “Gerbil Boy” down front there. Especially if he was wearing a shoe on his right hand like this one appears to be. Sorry if I’m being mean, but that doesn’t say “super” on any level to me.
Like it or not, I was going to have to share the cavernous space with birds of another feather. And far be it from me to claim superiority over any of them. There’s a danger in doing that. That’s how you slip hopelessly into that place where the idea of making love to a cardboard cutout of Princess Leia in your parent’s basement seems like a dream too far. Nay, there is room for all in the world of fantasy-blurred-reality, and I was prepared to mingle with the hoi-polloi no matter how snug their utility belts.
It took approximately one full hour to navigate the maze that led into the main room, which is a lot of time to wonder if you’re at the right convention. A few kind souls assured me I was, and I remember feeling something akin to “thankful”. Still, not familiar with waiting, I did a fair amount of fidgeting and took a far more than healthy interest in the bride and groom zombies directly in front of me. Not so much because their costumes were elaborate and clearly painful to withstand––although that much was clearly true––but more because they were about nine and ten years old and their un-constumed parents were pimping their pictures out at a rate of seventy per minute. For the first thirty or so I stepped out of line so as not to be the “bored dick in the back”, but then I stopped bothering. A quick look around the Interweb provided not one example of the little darlings, so perhaps mom and dad haven’t gotten www.embarrassthefuckoutofmykids.net up and running yet. Therefore, allow, if you will, a dramatization.
I'm the batshit insane woman behind the sign caught in a lame "duck-away".
Imagine the thrill when I learned that the bride’s dress was, in fact, the mother’s actual wedding dress. “What else are you going to do with it?” she shrieked when asked about it by another giddy attendee in the process of capturing her treasures for the ages. Unfortunately, it was at that point that the dress began to fall apart. The safety pin used to fasten the back seemed to lose its hold, and I immediately began to feel sorry for the little girl. It was only 10 am and already there was a wardrobe malfunction. I started hoping her mother was carrying a change of clothes for her, but alas, I saw nothing of the sort. Poor, half-naked, sticky, little blood-streaked girl, I’m thinking, this could put her off the concept of marriage forever. Oh well, at least the cycle would be broken.
Listen, I really don’t mean to be cruel. Honestly, I don’t. To tell you the truth, I wish my mother and father saw it fit to have this much fun with me when I was a mortified fat kid with no friends. Who knows, maybe I just wasn’t fat and friendless enough? I sure am now!
I’m not fat at all, actually. And okaaaay, either were the kids. Much. Shame on me.
Moving on, I finally got into the main room, weaved my way through the throngs of gamers, comic bookers, anime-ers, picture-taker-ers, and found my planet, my people: the Festival of Fear. It was located at the far end by the Magic the Gathering cafeteria table-style competition arena (a facility that would go criminally underused, I’m sorry to say) and there was much horror goodness on display: t-shirts, masks, posters, jewelry, tattoos, memorabilia, Zombie Jesus graphic novels, corsets, better for worsets, and just about anything you or I could imagine. And as expected, the Rue Morgue booth was interesting and filled with lots of cool and helpful people who acted very interested in my questions and comments. I even made a connection with Burning Effigy Press and I hope to work with them soon. To show my appreciation of their enterprise, I shelled out 25 Canadian for a glow-in-the-dark t-shirt which I’m actually wearing right now. As far as I was concerned, phase one of my Studly domination was complete. I was in, the atmosphere as electric as a PS2 dual shock controller, and there were a few special celebrities I was fixing to meet. I’ll save those stories for next time, but to give you a little taste, imagine braving this…
To get to this…
Only to find…
…well, you get the idea. I leave you with a video of the band that featured at the Rue Morgue “Dance of the Deadites” after party, Psychocharger. Before you watch it, let me tell you about the time when my band kicked into the very dramatic beginning of a Halloween gig with hundreds watching only to have the cheap-ass stage banner we were forced to rig together at the very last minute fall directly on top of our drummer. There is no more uncomfortable silence in the universe, I can assure you. Because you see, Eli, sometimes…well, sometimes things just don’t go exactly like you want them to, and then they kind of do and them’s the memories you get. Until next time, Studdites…
Reignfall: Mr. August Heads to Toronto
September 1, 2009
Now that my reign as Mr. August has technically come to an end, it’s time to reflect on the opportunities it has afforded me to see the world, meet some amazing people, and really make a difference.
As Stud of the Month I got to see how the charmed world works behind the golden curtain. In short, I was better than most of you for thirty-one glorious days where I was fed sugar-coated grapes, fanned with giant, starched thongs, and basically had whatever I wanted brought to me within seconds of my asking. And did I take advantage? You bet your ass, I did.
My first order of business was to seek revenge against all those who said I would never amount to anything. Yes, Walter Hennis, I’m looking at you. Thought you were cool making me cry at the baseball field by stealing my snow cone and dumping it in the trash, didn’t you? Well, when I was Mr. August I ate a different flavored snow cone for each day of the week. You? You went to prison, didn’t you? They got any snow cones in the joint, Walter? Riiiiight, didn’t think so.
Walter wasn’t the only person I exacted revenge against, but the best thing about being a celebrity is that you’re having so much fucking fun, other people––not just those who have wronged you, but everyone–––simply don’t count. Not only that, but doors open to places you’ve never been and that’s where I’d like to concentrate my entry today.
A week or so ago (it’s hard to remember, as the days of wine and roses flew by so fast) I booked a trip to Rue Morgue’s Festival of Fear in Toronto. The plan was to fly out early Friday afternoon (1:15 pm, US Airways) and get into my hotel by no later than four. That would leave me a whole hour to don my studly robes and get over to the festivities that were scheduled to begin around 5 pm. One of the coolest parts of the whole business would involve being able to traverse the couple of blocks to the convention center underground, therefore protected from any inclement weather. This is the kind of privilege I had grown accustomed to enjoying, and what better way to celebrate the last few days of my title than in utter, almost grotesque, opulence.
Friday arrives and it’s nearly time for me to head out of my little seaside town and make the hour or so trip to the Philadelphia airport. Before I can go, however, I need to work out in a show of respect for my exclusive station. No one wants to see a flabby Mr. August, so I humbly oblige. Just as I’m finishing, things begin to grow very dark outside. Then, thunder, followed by an electrical storm the likes I haven’t seen since the beginning of the War of the Worlds remake. Blood-sucking alien beings or not, I’ve got to make my flight so I brave a quick shower (washing all my parts, relax) and finish packing. Ready to go now, I see that the gods of scariness have rightfully granted me reprieve. Now I won’t have to cover myself with my bags as I make my way to the car. It will also be easier to drive, which will do wonders for my stress level.
But the gods, one discovers, are dicks. When I get outside I find that my street is underwater. Having flooded and totaled a car before in this town (a Ford Explorer, no less) I’m a little concerned that my tiny, Toyota Matrix will suffer a similar fate, causing me to miss my flight and denying a rabid, North American fan expo populace the chance to touch my cape. My neighbor Gene, bless his guidance, figures it’s still low tide so I should make it. Only, I should head the wrong way down my one way street (as it’s shorter that way and not as deep) and keep my speed high. I concur, and inside of ten seconds I’m backing into the deluge and revving my engine.
Recreation of Mr. August's escape from town by the Stud of the Month Players (I'm the donkey, Gene's the naked black man, and let's just call the boy "urgency").
I gun it, spraying plumes of oily saltwater on the curious plebs dangling from the nearby hotel, and head into the turn. I make it, but not before I nail a curb with my tire (which later, I would discover, will require my purchasing a new one). Once on the main road out of town, I find myself stuck behind a slow-moving van. Nothing a little laying on of the horn won’t fix, and before I know it, I’m on my way over the bridge and into an epic, Mr. Augustian destiny.
However, destiny, in case you weren’t following along, is organized by the gods. Those are the dicks, remember? If you do, then you won’t be surprised to learn that when I arrive at check-in after parking my car in the long-term garage, I’m told that my flight is canceled. What’s worse, there are no other flights until the following morning. Come to find after some wrangling and a little luck, the person “assisting” me has fucked it all up and there is, in fact, a flight that evening. She books it, fucks that up, too, and after some running between terminals, the greater airline employment union manage to get me a single, fucking seat. Good people, I often despair at the failures I am forced to accept that define our stage of evolution as a species––racism, sexism, dickism––but nowhere can there be found more depth in human FAIL than at an airport. It is an ideal barometer for where we’re going and and let me tell you it’s somewhere in the outskirts of Cleveland and we’re getting there late.
Anyhow, seeing that my flight is at 7:40 which means I will miss the start of the convention, all that’s left to do is read for about three hours in a freezing cold airport foyer until I can check my bags, which can only be done four hours prior to when the flight is scheduled. Philadelphia airport, in case you weren’t aware, has no shops or eateries outside of security check-in, so unless you’ve brought your own, you’re stuck shivering and watching very wet people come in and out, all making the same kinds of errors in judgment that we’ve come to identify with being a human at an airpot. These are not circumstances in which I, Mr. August, have signed up for nor expected to have to withstand. But you don’t get a studly title by being a wuss, so I persevere. Three Steven King short stories later, my bags are checked and I’m putting my shoes back on. I’ll skip the part where, trying to find my belt, my pants fell down and I was bare-assed for about three seconds. Suffice it to say, it was as close to an act of terrorism as any I’ve ever committed. Although, I’m willing to bet my ass was in the 99 percentile of the people there.
Ass now covered, I head to my gate and discover that the flight has been delayed to 9:00. That means I’ll likely miss any night life I might have been able to explore in downtown Toronto, but there’s little I can do about it. Just as there was little I could do about the flight being delayed to 10:00 an hour or so later. So, at this point I’m about $30 down (thanks airport chicken sandwich and two beers price setters!) and I can barely see. Airports blind me. I’m not exactly sure why, but I think it has to do with the air-conditioning, the mix of perfumes and B.O., and the way things are all so far away until they’re right in your face. Your eye is so fatigued from focusing every other second, that it eventually just says, “Here, use this blurry setting. I’m fucking fatigued”. And like that, the eye becomes an airport employee and just gives you what it can and there’s fuck all you can do about it.
Just when I’m beginning to think my reign will end before Senator Ted Kennedy’s funeral is over, an actual, bona fide airplane shows up at the gate. And it looks to be in one piece! Hurrah! Woot! Yay! GET OUT OF MY WAY!!! I board, we take off, and I’m on my way to the great white north. Stay tuned as there’s more stud-of-the-month news next entry. To whet your appetite a bit, enjoy the demo reel of a brilliant animator fella I met in downtown Toronto at a place called The Loose Moose. More on him next time.
Pretty Scary, VERY Funny…
August 4, 2009
Huge THANKS go out to Heidi Martinuzzi, blog vixen extraordinaire behind the horror site Pretty Scary, for featuring me as Scary Stud of the Month for August. She’s hot and hilarious in equal measure, so if you have a few minutes, go check out her site and give her props. She prefers the bloody and frightening variety, but you may just want to keep them at the accolade level.
In other news, CAA rejected my query for Shelf Life without looking at it because they can’t legally do that sort of thing. Which means I need an agent to get an agent. Seriously, writing the screenplay and/or book is by far the easiest part of this business. Speaking of, I’ve sort of changed my mind about Square One and The Cull. I now see them as two books in a series of three. More on that later.
Thanks again, Heidi. Oh, and I hope my “fame” is extended a few days into September or you’ll be hearing from my agent. When I get one.
And the winner is…
July 20, 2009
…THE CULL! It’s the sci-fi thriller with horror elements that involves a draconian plan to maintain the population of an overcrowded biodome city and how that affects a group of young friends during a night on the town. If you’ve been following, you’ll see I’ve made some small changes to the idea. For one, I’ve added “with horror elements” because it does have them and I want those readers of horror added to the list. The other change is from “depopulate” to “maintain the population”. The former suggests some form of genocide, which is well off the mark. The latter refers to a more dystopian worldview that is driven by need, which allows for that all important moral rub.
So why has The Cull won out? Well, for starters it’s a book that I have a very clear idea about, so it may be more ready than the others. It’s also more widely marketable with crossover genre appeal and a young “cast”. The concept also deals with some hot-button issues such as immigration, class distinction, climate change and even abortion––albeit devoid of any tiresome religious context. In the various characters’ journeys there are plots that involve disenfranchisement and a sense of hopelessness that I think will extend to a younger demographic, but told within a framework that appeals to an older, possibly more sophisticated audience, as well. In short, I think an agent will know how to sell it.
The reason I had been holding off on starting it was because I did see the story as perfect for a screenplay, and projects for the screen favor my chances of representation. But I decided that the budget was too high, which left me at least as far out in the cold as I am anyway. Therefore, it stood to reason that I should choose the medium that can best tell the story in the way I want to tell it. So, having just completed a screenplay I’m proud of and presently querying, a return to prose seemed a healthy change of pace. Not that I haven’t been writing my short stories, but it’s been a while since I’ve completed sWitch (which is still working its way around the dark, query universe) and I wanted to get back to novels before I forgot how to write them.
That’s all the news for now. Stick around for progress and excerpts and feel free to contact me with any questions you may have about writing and the process of starting a writing career. I may still be climbing the hill, but I bet I can show you a few rocks and branches not to grab and maybe a few that will hold.
And now, you’re perspective video of the week and what I like to call “Full Contact Free Speech”.
Yours Weirdly,
July 13, 2009
Weird Tales is an American fantasy and horror pulp fiction mag that’s been around, on and off, since 1923 and has published a wide array of successful authors from H.P. Lovecraft to Brian Lumley. Here’s hoping I can add my name to that list, as I’ve sent off my short story submission to their magazine today. They’re rarely open, so you have to catch them when you can. And if my modern Jekyll and Hyde inspired tale tickles their fancy, I’d say I was in some excellent company.
Now I’m tasked with choosing between two new book ideas as sWitch remains out on query. One, titled The Cull, is a sci-fi thriller that involves a draconian plan to depopulate a gravely overcrowded biodome city and how that affects a group of young friends during a night out on the town. Yes, I want the entire, full-length novel to take place in one evening. I’ve not seen it done very often, so the challenge appeals.
The other, titled Square One, involves a race of robots in the extreme future who discover the DNA of man. It sparks a great deal of political and spiritual controversy as many in this society don’t believe man to ever have existed, let alone be responsible for their creation. When humans are bred into this world, they cause quite a stir and introduce some harmful as well as beautiful elements into what is a very efficient and peaceful, if slightly cool and drab society. Think Jurassic Park meets Planet of the Apes meets Asminov on a bender.
I’ve other ideas that I’m just not ready to begin yet as they require more extensive research––a historical novel set in bohemian Paris at the turn of the 20th Century called The Unveiling and something of a modern take on gangster life (set in the world of NYC fashion) called Ganster Lean. More to come on those soon. For now, let’s have a laugh at The Wiggles. Sometimes, when life’s got you down, you just have to point your finger and sing about fruit salad.
Where I’ve Been
July 6, 2009
Well, I’d like to say I was on safari or in some exotic locale like one of Jupiter’s moons, but in truth I’ve been working. Very hard. In a way you can say I’ve been many places in my head, and to be honest it’s not a bad way to travel. For one, you don’t really need any new clothes. There’s no need for innoculations or translating gadgetry of any sort, either. You are allowed only a certain amount of baggage, however, so you need to pack intelligently––or unintelligently, I suppose, as long as its funny.
Which is a perfect segue to talk about my most recently completed screenplay titled Shelf Life. Instead of just explaining what it’s about––and since I’m finding it nary impossible to stop working––let’s make this an exercise with results I can actually use. I’m going to try a few loglines and y’all tell me which one you think sounds the best.
Okay, first one:
When tragedy strikes the young lead singer of fledgling hardcore band Dead Jester, its aging members begin to drop like flies––leaving lead guitarist and perpetual wheel-spinner Scott “The Kid” Gianoffrio to make a huge life decision: patch things up with his fiance and grow up, or hang on to his pipe dream until it takes him under for good. When the bitter girlfriend of the dead singer begins to pester his existence, a new choice emerges: allow her noxious personality to finish him off, or open his mind to what could be his last chance to shine.
Not too bad. But as far as loglines are concerned, they’re the only thing Hollywood doesn’t like to be too long. Another go:
Aging rocker Scott “The Kid” Gianoffrio watches his dream and fiance slip away after the young, lead singer of his band is tragicially killed. Will the dead singer’s blameful and bitter ex drive him over the edge forever, or could she possibly be the key for one last shot at the stage?
Okay, it can’t get much shorter than that, can it?
When an aging rocker loses his lead singer, his life and dreams go into the toilet. Will the singer’s bitter ex flush him away, or could she prove to be his rocking salvation?
That one discards a lot of info that may not sell the heart of the story, which if I’m being honest, is more of a romantic comedy than the hilarious send-up of garage bands that I intended it to be. As you can see, these things can be tweaked to appeal to different market mindsets, and the daunting reality is that, whatever decision you make, that’s the one that sticks forever. You get one shot at an agent per project, so it’s best to choose your pitch––and where you send it––very carefully.
That’s all for now. I’ve got other stuff stored up for other entries, so check back. Lastly, your perspective video of the week. Maybe it’s just me, but every time I watch it I feel calm and strangely innocent. Enjoy.
The Man Cracks Down
May 15, 2009
I’m feeling a little heavy. I’ve had precious little time to write (or blog) and it’s as if all the pressing stuff in my existence––real or imagined––has been piling up on my back. Writing often shucks it away, like a thick molting, and I desperately need to shed some skin. Perhaps the weight of the weather is also a factor. From the sky has dropped all manner of water and seed. Pollen covers every exterior surface like Martian effluvium. The trees, heavy with water from the constant rains, sag in suffering, their branches swollen and cracked in places. I wonder if the trees have been furloughed like the rest of us? The impressive oak out my window most surely has taken a hit on its 401k by the way it frowns at me. Hey, tree, at least you’re still growing.
There was held a serious meeting of the employees of my company to discuss the gravity of the seriousness of the grave situation that we and most of the country is seriously in. It’s forced me to spend every minute in every department trying to get us to the point where we’re at least bailing as much water as we’re taking on. I’m losing. We’re losing. But we’re still bailing. And this situation has robbed me of that extra energy and time that I’ve put to good authorly use in the past. I chip away now with a dog paddle work ethic, never getting too far but keeping my head where the air is. I try not to think about money. I don’t want it to direct my efforts.
But I never quit. I don’t know how. I did, once, when I was young and confused about what it all meant, but not now. I’m not as cool as Cool Hand Luke but I’m always good for a smile and a swing. A part of me likes this, I discover. I like the boot on my back. It’s a test. I may lose, but the fight is good. To fight is good. It cuts the fat, leans the muscle, sharpens the wit, and sometimes, if you’re not careful, hardens the heart. But better to set a lock than be raided by an unfeeling malaise. Just keep the key handy.
So picture me, not on my knees, but with back muscles rippling. Ideas lift me, as well. And where once I carved out time to idle, I will write. And it will be better for it. Because what we cannot have, what we must guard against above all, is a failure to communicate. That would be the end of us all.
Perspective time, kiddies. Let’s never forget the lessons of the late, great #37.
Sole Searching…
April 24, 2009
Before you slap your hand to your forehead in response to what I’m sure you think is a horrible fish pun, allow me to set your mind at ease: okay, it is a horrible pun, but it’s not about fish.
Feel better!
Excellent. Actually, the title of this entry refers to the week I’ve spent alone at my company while the other employees––and the founder and president––enjoy themselves in sunny, Orlando Florida. I’ve been, at varying times, head administrator, web master, IT tech, accountant, client rep, grounds keeper and cat wrangler (of seven cats, all of which live next door and require at least two different feeding regimens). And I’ve done all of this, until today, in the pouring rain. I’ve put out fires (metaphorically) and bowls of water and food (literally) with equal determination, and not once have I had my silence interrupted by anything other than a phone (about ten times per day over the course of a nine-hour period) or the ministrations of one hungry feline or another. I have to say, I got quite a bit accomplished, including a healthy portion of my screenplay and approximately two-thirds of a new short story.
But there have been other developments, as well. For one, I’ve felt…relaxed. I know you’re thinking to yourself, “well, duh”, but there have been anxious moments that never really felt out of my control. I’m not sure if it had to do with the lack of an infiltrating din playing on my nerves, or the non-issue of dealing with the anxieties of others, but ladies and gentleman, I feel more at peace at work than ever.
That’s not to say I don’t still have things I’m dealing with in my life like we all do, I just don’t have anything in the way of my absorbing them and working them out. See, this is different than a vacation. I’m at work, but yet, I’m alone (as I’ve said, don’t worry I’m getting to the point). How many of us ever get the chance to do something like this? This is a first for me. I’ve come in alone on the weekends, but never during the week while matters were most definitely at hand. And viewing the company from the varied perspectives I have has really taught me, not just about the jobs others do, but about myself. It’s been fairly enlightening at times, and at others, just kind of cool.
This brings me to my final, abiding thought about the entire business: the danger the current global economic situation has put us in, and what we stand to lose. Thirty years this year this company has been around, helping people realize their dreams and taking employees from dorky college grads to mother and fathers and homeowners and such. My father built this place with his bare hands pretty much, and it grew with the help of folks that started out as faces and skill-sets who soon became members of a family. Many of them I’ve know since I was ten years-old. Now, like everywhere else, we come in every day wondering what more we can do short of growing money on a tree.
We’re still alive in this little woods, and we’re going to fight with everything we’ve got to stay that way. There are a few tricks up our sleeves, yet, even if those sleeves are looking a little linty and threadbare. But what do we stand to lose if it all goes down? More than simply a collection of individuals and the livelihoods on which they’ve grown to depend, we stand to lose a family. Not just close friends who can keep in touch on Facebook, but the kind that make each other miserable five days a week and can look to each other and say “thanks” on an almost daily basis. I’m sure there are lots of others like us, too.
And if I’m being honest, I’d be afraid to unleash a few of these people onto the world. Some of us are a little bit scary. 
Okay, perspective time. This video needs no introduction whatsoever, but when has that stopped me? Rarely, has a piece of art ever revealed its themes in such a bold and enduring way as the video you’re about to behold. So dim the lights, crank up your speakers, and hold on––for I give you a tale of olde so timeless, it continues to speak for all of us in this, our modern age. Such is its depth of understanding of the human spirit, and so forth.
Ladies and gentleman, I give you…Queenie in Trouble.
Other Things I’ve Seen
April 17, 2009
I saw a wild turkey walk across the street on the way in to work today. They’re everywhere. I think they might be the most intelligent species on the planet. Think about it: turkeys are smart to start, so the wild ones must be so finely attuned to the world that they could probably do your taxes if they didn’t decide to instead expose a loophole in the Constitution proving that filing income tax was unlawful. And then they’d eat your tie and take your wallet. I once saw a flock of them surrounded a hunter’s jeep on the side of the road, while said hunter was probably in the woods trying to track them down. Awesome creatures, wild turkeys, and they even like to take the piss.
I saw a huge bill for “fixing” my heater from the people at Conover Swanson and nothing is really fixed. It’s the last time I call on them, actually. Not just because they charge $100 per half-hour. Every time I ask them to do something, they forget half of it. So I have to call them again. Then they say they’ll call me back, and they never do. And when I call them back to tell them about it, they are so dim-witted and soft-spoken it’s like they raise rabbits in the back or something. They’re the Lennies of the world, Conover Swanson and their ilk.
I saw myself file a government complaint against the duplicitous filth at IMAGECAVE.COM. I was more thorough than a colonoscope, more dogged than a burrowing owl, and more laced with malice than a wild turkey coming upon a jeep on the side of the road. I will not stop until I blacklist this couple’s every online venture in the past, present and future. And when the world is entirely digital, they’ll be left out to scavenge for sandwich crusts on the side of the road. They might even devolve, and develop heavy brows and a sloping gait. Yes, I will not stop until they rediscover fire.
I saw my face on Facebook and several blogs that I frequent for the thousandth time and decided to grab my phone and take a new picture. You know that technique, where you stretch your arm out, point the phone at yourself, and try to look natural. For some reason I held the phone high in the air, so I’m looking up. I have no idea why I did this. Luckily, the photo was usable on the first try, as I couldn’t see me trying it more than twice. The best part about it is I look completely ridiculous in a friendly G way. I’ve confused a few people, as well, which has made the effort worth it, and I no longer have to see the same photo of me for at least a little while. I give the lifespan of this new photo about three weeks. It’s far too obnoxious to last much longer than that.
I saw Rufus Wainright on Elvis Costello’s show “Spectacle” (Sundance Channel) and it was a decent follow up to the Police segment from the week before. Rufus could never trump The Police for me, but the guy’s got deceptively powerful pipes and I love his piano playing style. I heard the song “Vibrate” for what felt like the first time and it’s another addition to a long list of his hauntingly camp confections that would make Mike Tyson weep before putting him to sleep, thumb in mouth, clutching a blankie. And Elvis has gotten so grizzled and fat, he made Rufus, resplendently casual in his white pants and blazer, look like Tatum O’Neal circa Little Darlings. Come to think, Elvis could have been a big, wild Tom in a little bowlers hat. Love him no matter how big he gets, though. Go on, E, pack ‘em on.
I saw myself reach page 64 of my new screenplay about a group of friends and the aging garage band that keeps them together, called Shelf Life. To be fair, I should have been further along but life and work and other nuisances got in the way. It’s going well, and I just completed probably one of the most emotionally authentic scenes I’ve ever written. Each word of dialog took an age to get on the page; about the same amount of time it would probably take to bring up the courage to say it. I find it takes about 50-some pages to breathe enough life into a script to where it begins to go ahead of you and pull you along. Novels are similar, but they don’t have the same kind of breathless pace that a screenplay has. You hear about people writing scripts in three days or a week. Rarely do you hear the same about a novel, unless you’re two and the novel is called “Potty Time” and each page consists of exactly one squiggly crayon mark. But who are we to judge?
And finally, I saw the lights come on in the condo across the way. It’s the first time I’ve seen that warm glow since Dorothy passed. She was my neighbor for about ten years, and she and her husband Jack had become sort of surrogate grandparents to me. Jack was a hard-ass, ex-Navy man who loved to bust my balls, and Dorothy had a laugh like a murder of crows. He used to like his Johnny walker until the diabetes set in, and she used to love her walk until she went blind in one eye. Everyone kind of expected Jack to go first, since his memory had begun to fail with certain speed in the last couple of years, but as it turns out, he was just outrunning his past. Dorothy was left in his wake when she suddenly fell ill one night and never woke up. It was her heart, they said. Now, I wonder if old Jack knows me well enough to break ‘em. They say he still asks for her, so I guess not. Anyway, I like to think it was her in there last night, as I didn’t see any cars in the parking lot. Maybe she had unfinished business. Makes me wonder if there really is any other kind.
I realize this was something of a make-weight entry, so in keeping with the outre tone, I figure I’d let Rufus take us into the weekend. Here he is singing “Vibrate” on Elvis’ show. Elvis, unfortunately, isn’t with him. He had to leave the building in order for the cameras to get a clear shot of the performance. Nah, just kidding. Enjoy the weekend, folks.
