Waiting on the proofs of your book is an excruciating, aggravating experience. I’ve got a few beta readers who are waiting on a copy, and if memory serves, my previous five copies arrived in under a week. This time around, it’s going on two for two. I’m about to find someone named Lulu and find some way to aggravate them back. Maybe I’ll disagree with everything they say for two minutes, or twice insult their shoes. Bah.

But I can’t stay grumpy for too long. You can’t keep your chin down if you’re looking at the stars, so allow me, if you will, to share:

1) The sWitch placeholder website is up, and there’s a blog (huge thanks to the wonderfully talented Lisa de Araujo for both) where you can bask in the darkward tone of the novel. There will also be character discussions there soon, but of course I can’t say exactly “when”. My proofs have yet to arrive, you see? Anyhow, if you’d like to become a fan, check out the Facebook page and don’t forget to say hello. There may also be cookies in it for you, so you don’t want to miss out.

2) My cooking/reality show Table 42 with Chef Darryl Harmon has a teaser trailer up, and so far response to it has been overwhelmingly positive. Shooting for the first episode will begin on March 24th. I’m excited, and I know my peeps are, too.

3) Teapott Fables has a placeholder site up, and I can tell you the real thing is going to be fantastic. Teddy‘s showed me some sketches, and all I can say is you’ll definitely “fancy a cuppa”.

4) Lastly, or fourthly I guess, I’m planning on adapting HorrorCon for the screen, with further plans to make it myself. I will be working on another book at that time, as well. Somewhere in between, I will slip into a lovely coma.

That’s the lot, I suppose. There’s some music being made, as well, but I’ll hold off on that until I’ve got something for you to hear. In the meantime, have a look at a talented, writer friend named Ryan Chin who we can expect great things from in the not-so-distant future.

…so much might have changed in my life. I might have had a special sash made, and I certainly would have put a photo of me wearing it on my book. The publicity may have seen me pose for similar pictures at various horror conventions and Rue Morgue may have contacted me for a gate-fold spread. What would it have been like to tell Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, that I would happily have tea with her and discuss her playing a role in my next, independent feature? I may never know. Just a few more votes at 2:59 am on February 1st and the world of horror might have groveled like Renfield at my feet.

But alas, it was not to be.

For those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about, I was crowned Pretty Scary‘s “Scary Stud of the Month” for the month of August. At year’s end, the most excellent Heidi Martinuzzi (the owner of the site) entered me into the Scary Stud of 2009 Contest, along with other notables such as Eli Roth, Corin Nemec, and…to be honest, I didn’t recognize the names of the others. But they were all at least as worthy of their Stud of the Month titles as I was, probably more so. But we’re talking about me here, so let’s try and stay focused.

The concept of the contest was for visitors of the site to vote for their favorite Stud. You were only allowed a single vote per person, and each contestant could do whatever they wanted to drive people to the site to vote for them. Thinking it would be fun to win, I sent an email out to about 20 of my friends and colleagues and asked them to vote. I also posted the contest on my Facebook site and decided to let matters settle themselves. I never expected to be in with a shout, and the customary notion of being “honored to be nominated” was more than enough for my ego.

And then, things changed. Most notably, I jumped out in front. Where was this influx of support coming from?, I wondered. Soon, it was clear the contest was to be a two-horse race between myself and a fella by the name of Billy Garberina. I have to admit I’d never heard of Billy nor have I seen any of his movies, but he was clearly interested in winning. In fact, he’d made his Facebook page public and even opened another one just for the contest. He was obviously connected, and being in Los Angeles, had a late-night advantage of three hours on me. Each time I would pull ahead, he would pip me just enough to piss me off. I would have to do something pretty drastic to overtake his fierce determination. So I did. I hired this man…

If you died at the hands of this man, it was probably just business. Probably.

It’s more fair to say he volunteered as I could never afford him, but his name is Carl Norton and he’s my very successful uncle who lives in Houston, Texas. Once a celebrated attorney, he now runs several printing companies and is an expert coin trader. He’s also a very competitive person, as you might have guessed. Kind and caring to those he loves, if you happen to wind up his enemy, you may come to wish you’d never met him. Needless to say but I’m going to say it anyway, I felt my campaign was in very good hands.

And I was right. Were it not for his connections across the country and world, I would have floundered helplessly at the bottom of the tank with the other also-rans, feeding off Billy’s carp-scented droppings and tussling over bits of green celebrity algae. But my uncle’s efforts were, to say the last, tireless. When I arrived at work early in the morning, he was already sending me emails with updates on who had voted for me and what they were planning to do to help me get more votes. Keep in mind that Texas is one hour behind New Jersey, but there was nothing “behind” about his methods. Before I knew it, I was reading well-wishes from people whose names I couldn’t hope to pronounce, many of them from China. I was blown away, and the feeling that I needed to now work harder came over me like a tidal wave.

So, I began to visit the various blog forums I frequent asking for help. I sought the support of sports fans and writers alike, even promising editing assistance for one group––a promise I’m still fulfilling and will be for some time. Yet, no matter how large a lead I enjoyed before turning in for the night, by morning we were again neck and neck, with me playing “catch up”. Since the contest lasted the entire month of January, it was more of a marathon than a sprint, and as my uncle and I sought more votes in every nook and cranny we could find, I knew our legs were beginning to tire. Still, we refused to give up, and our busy lives––as demanding as they were and still are––would have to share our strength. Every time it felt too much to fight, the feeling of what it would be like to lose at this point was a far grimmer prospect.

And here’s where I need to pause. There’s a much larger story here, and it needs to be told. You see, my uncle just recently got married to one of the most beautiful people on this planet or any other, and it just so happens she’s been battling ovarian cancer for the last few years. Our entire family really love Shouling (our American spelling of Xaioling), and she returns the favor with every opportunity. It’s unthinkable how such a horrible disease could threaten to take her away from us, and yet, to see her––sorry, “see” isn’t the right word; one can only “behold” Shouling––one wouldn’t be criticized to think that cancer was more a blessing than a curse. She always looks terrific, and her spirit in our company is palpably positive. Shouling is one of those people who seems to be always shining light on those around her. To see her with my uncle is a joy, and their laughter together rarely ceases. It is, in every way, the stuff of great literature. For now, this simple photo will have to do…

Carl and Shouling Norton taking a time out in London.

It is hardly important that I didn’t win the little contest that became something bigger before I knew it. What is important––to me, at least––is how selflessly hard my uncle and Shouling worked so that I might have a shot (okay, I’m sure my uncle had some personal pride invested, but that’s one of the greatest things about him). In between half-day long visits to MD Anderson for Shouling’s check-ups and treatments, and reports ranging from hopeful to disappointing to heart-wrenching, and at times, despair, they kept the love alive not just for each other, but for me. To say I was inspired would barely cover it. In truth––with how it touched my family and all those emails of support from people I most likely will never, ever meet––I was changed.

So, had I won scary stud of the year, I would have been able to reward the efforts of some very special folks with perhaps a page on a blog and maybe even more news of industry interest (I was contacted by a literary manager during the contest who had read my interview on the Pretty-Scary site and to whom I have since sent some of my work). But the lasting affects of having participated would still have outweighed any direct spoils. As I write this, I’m filled with gratitude for all of those who voted for me, in particular my Uncle Carl and Shouling, and all of their friends so far, far away. Thank you, from the bottom of my not-so-scary, and somewhat studly, heart.

One last thing before you go. Please visit the website for The Ovarian Cancer National Alliance and help me return the favor. Any amount will do to help fight this truly scary disease. Finally, today’s inspiration comes from this blind Chinese boy’s rendition of a beautiful Mongolian song. I can’t find out who he is, so if anyone knows his name, I’d love to learn it.

]]> http://scottstories.com/2010/02/05/had-i-won-scary-stud-of-the-year/feed/ 9 scottyus http://scottstories.com/2009/12/22/where-ive-been-2/ http://scottstories.com/2009/12/22/where-ive-been-2/#comments Tue, 22 Dec 2009 18:13:52 +0000 scottyus http://scottstories.com/?p=2144 ]]>

Hello, chaps and chappettes. Time for a year ending thingamapost to placehold my wordpress account before they kick me off for lolligagging. Truth be told––and those of you who know me already know this––I’ve been attacked by many projects at once. Those of you who really know me also know that I tend to check out from the world when embroiled in a number of creative adventures, and I’ve come to find that includes online worlds, as well. Sure, I supply my share of comments in this forum or that blog but when it comes to concentrating on reportage of the more personal variety, I tend to leave it go. The idea overwhelms me a bit, and I’m sure you’ll see why very soon.

Novels –– I’ve completed what really feels like a polished edit for sWitch. I’ve queried it around, gotten some positive feedback and some garden-variety rejections. Next up: get it to print so I can send it around in its complete form (I think of it as an art piece of sorts, so it has to be framed) and create a website for it. I’m thinking of using social networks to create a naughty buzz. I feel I’ve written something the likes of which you’re not likely to find at your local bookstore, and I’ve decided to make that an asset rather than an obstacle. You don’t get the chance to review your own work in a query, and to be honest it’s not really my style. Still, I’d like to take this opportunity to say that sWitch is challenging, smart, fun, scary and not afraid to push all of your dirty buttons. Who knows, if it becomes cultishly popular in the next year, maybe I’ll work up an illustrated coffee table version that will offend and delight your guests in equal measure. Or perhaps I’ll edit a trailer for the outrageous film it’s begging to be. My ultimate dream is for people to throw “sWitch Parties” where everyone dresses like a suburban square save a few sexy, paganistic touches and dances to lounge music while eating pentagram cookies. Can you dig it, man? Anyway, also coming soon is Square One –– a science fiction novel about the rediscovery of humankind by our own cybernetic creations centering on the most unlikely love story of all time against an all-too-familiar sounding rebellion. Notes are being taken with the first chapter not far off in the horizon.

Screenplays –– I’m still querying Shelf Life and am considering a few fledgling filmmakers to send it to. I’ve given some thought to making this one, as well. Since becoming pretty handy with my relatively new Canon XH A1s digital video camera, the idea to shoot something for a festival has greatly appealed. I write like a filmmaker, so why not take the next step? Ditto for Welcome to Cydonia, which needs making in a bad way. Cape May is still waiting, and you don’t keep an old girl like that waiting for long.

Other writing projects –– my animated vignette The Ballade of Haunted Hill will hopefully be completed sometime early in the new year thanks to the extraordinary efforts of my wonderfully talented collaborateur and sometime tea lady Teodora Parvanova (Soon to be Teodora Jones, which is probably the coolest name since Cleopatra Jones). She and I are also working on an animated TV series that we’ll be entering into a European animation contest. The story is based on an old Bulgarian Fable of sorts about an incorrigible young boy who finds his heart after losing his head in hell and it’s pretty rad in an Alice in Wonderland kind of way. And if you’re wondering, yes, finally getting my big break with an animated TV series after collaborating with a Bulgarian animator I met over the Internet by answering her “ad” for a writer is exactly how I envisioned my career path to go. All kidding aside, Teddy’s a delightful gem with a bright future and it’s been educational and fun to work with her. Whatever comes of our projects, I’m already proud as punch to have created what we have and hope to continue our partnership long into the future.

Music –– because there’s still a little time left between working, eating and sleeping, in addition to gigging and embarking on various projects with my band Surrounded By Idiots I’ve been putting my solo acoustic act together and am available for hire come the new year. It’s been an embarrassing amount of fun to get serious about––not only writing new songs and finding my identity as an acoustic artist––but honing my guitar skills. Most of my weekend is taken up playing and rehearsing and if you’re interested in learning more, head to my website and check out my artist list (which is constantly growing).

TV/Web Productions –– for the past few months I’ve been developing a cooking/reality show called “Table 42 with Chef Darryl Harmon” that takes place at The Water Works Restaurant in Philadelphia. Chef creates special dishes for a lucky couple who have been selected to dine at the famous “Table 42″ where over 300 wedding proposals have taken place as well as all sorts of other special moments. For more info on that, check out the website and look us up on Facebook. Shooting is scheduled to begin next month and we’re hoping to host a premier party at The Water Works for Valentine’s Day. Forks and fingers crossed we’re able to pull it off. So watch all spaces and keep an eye on your HDTV sets, as the table is set for us to be there, too.

And that, folks, is all the time I can afford to give you. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you, it just means you’re a few pegs down the list. Hey, at least you’re on the list, you ungrateful, time-stealing, bas–just keeding. Allow me to leave you with one of the most beautiful folk guitar performances I have ever seen and a song I hope to include in my repertoire. Ladies and gentlemen, Jesse Winchester singing Sham-A-Ling-Dong-Ding on Elvis Costello’s excellent Sundance Channel series “Spectacle“.

I agree, Neko. Have the best damn holiday ever, everyone. Peace to you all.

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.

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…

]]> http://scottstories.com/2009/09/16/reignfall-pt-2-a-few-words-for-my-successor/feed/ 2 scottyus http://scottstories.com/2009/09/01/reignfall-mr-august-heads-to-toronto/ http://scottstories.com/2009/09/01/reignfall-mr-august-heads-to-toronto/#comments Tue, 01 Sep 2009 15:13:35 +0000 scottyus http://scottstories.com/?p=2017 ]]>
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.

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.

…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”.

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.

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.