This post was conceived somewhere between the second and third episodes of Hell's Kitchen, and born at 1:20 AM PDST
I've been in my pajamas for more than 24 hours. I've spent no time outside of my house, save for when I stuck my head out the back door to call the dog back in. I'm currently putting an outline together for a screenplay/video game idea tentatively titled "The Language of Nightmares." It's about an black man named Thomas Jones-Morrison who develops schizophrenic symptoms shortly before his son goes missing. It'll be everything that Heavy Rain was supposed to be.
I'm also sharpening my knife rather obsessively. There's a fine layer of metal powder on my shirt that shines whenever I turn around to my mini-fridge to pour another Tom Collins. I've nearly sliced my hand twice. I should probably stop.
A thought occurs to me: I am the Ubermensch. How do I defend this thought? I don't have to. I'm the damn Ubermensch. Besides, I don't try to pick apart these sorts of facts. I accept them and roll with it. I'm cool like that.
The printer is whirring. It probably shouldn't be doing that when I don't have anything to print.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Saturday, October 9, 2010
For John...
It is now officially October 9th, 2010. It is also 70 years since the world received a very special man. John Lennon, born to the poverty and terror of a war-torn England, emerged from the dirty shipyards of Liverpool to the national stage as a musician, activist, and the voice of a generation of peace-loving youngsters. He went further than any of his former Beatles bandmates were willing to go in the social, political, and artistic arenas. Sitting somewhere between a rockstar and a guru, he asked for peace and understanding while receiving little himself. Few appreciated his rocker-cum-philosopher position, and he made many enemies among the conservative and prudent. When the world told him to keep quiet, he responded with an emphatic "No," and followed up with an enthusiastic "Up yours!" He was never afraid of a joke, even when it cut straight through the boundaries of prudence, and his comment about the Beatles being more popular than Jesus will live on for its presumption and the inkling of fear that it may have been true. So here's to you, John. We dream right along with you, of a world where people are not shackled by objects or insane ideologies, and where brotherhood and peace may reign. Hail John Lennon!
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Argumentative mormons need not read
Anybody else ever notice that the only thing separating the word "mormon" from "moron" is an extra "m?" Today I've realized that, in practice, the division is even less substantial.
So it's a bright and sun-shiny day on the interwebs when a former friend, but current acquaintance and mormon "science major" decided to challenge my disbelief in his mythic Stalin-in-the-sky. How does he start? "What is your problem with religion?" I chuckled a bit as I replied: "It exists." It continued on something like this:
mor(m)on: god exists, the bible says so, and I have science to prove it, for I am a science major!
Me: Okay, what sort of science?
mor(m)on: Computer science. Did you know that if Earth's orbit was just a quarter-inch closer or farther from the sun, we'd all DIE?!
Me: (shows a diagram of the Habitable zone that the orbit of Earth occupies, with a generous buffer) A quarter-inch on the diagram scales up in real life, you know.
mor(m)on: ...I need to go pick up my sister.
That's right. No bullshit. Welcome to the facts, folks. Maybe next time he'll try and prove his bronze-age ghost using HTML; at least it's something he knows.
So it's a bright and sun-shiny day on the interwebs when a former friend, but current acquaintance and mormon "science major" decided to challenge my disbelief in his mythic Stalin-in-the-sky. How does he start? "What is your problem with religion?" I chuckled a bit as I replied: "It exists." It continued on something like this:
mor(m)on: god exists, the bible says so, and I have science to prove it, for I am a science major!
Me: Okay, what sort of science?
mor(m)on: Computer science. Did you know that if Earth's orbit was just a quarter-inch closer or farther from the sun, we'd all DIE?!
Me: (shows a diagram of the Habitable zone that the orbit of Earth occupies, with a generous buffer) A quarter-inch on the diagram scales up in real life, you know.
mor(m)on: ...I need to go pick up my sister.
That's right. No bullshit. Welcome to the facts, folks. Maybe next time he'll try and prove his bronze-age ghost using HTML; at least it's something he knows.
Why I am always right
I don't really know why, but I usually am. I've come to accept this, and it's probably not a bad idea to do so yourself. I don't question it, but it seems to be a fact. I will be more than happy to take control of your life for your benefit, and I promise that I will not make any more than 25% of your financial decisions with me in mind. If you would like to begin letting me improve your life by completely controlling it, just send me a direct message via Twitter @Beardman88 and I will immediately issue you your first pre-made decision. If I do not immediately respond, don't do anything. It's not that I haven't made a decision for you; I simply have decided not to have you do anything at that particular moment. Get comfortable when you make your last decision to have me make all your decisions. I may decide not to have you do anything for a while, and I wouldn't want you deciding anything on your own. That could be dangerous.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Update: A friend in need
I think I've found out the time it takes to start referring to someone in the past-tense. It's about an hour or two after you realize that they're gonna be gone for a very long time. I mean they're not dead, but it seems almost like they are. I know they certainly wish they were. It just gets even more real when you think about the whole process. Starting by imagining what thoughts ran through that person's head when they decided to make the stupid impulsive decision to place themselves in peril. They run from home to their final destination hoping to find some fun, only to be faced with the greatest mistake of their lives. They run mad with regret when they realize what they had done back to their home to find some shred of comfort, only to be scooped up by the hand of authority.
And now, they languish in the cells of Sutter County Jail. A friend, a brother, but ultimately a maker of bad decisions. I'll visit every chance I can, but I do hope I can have his Xbox.
And now, they languish in the cells of Sutter County Jail. A friend, a brother, but ultimately a maker of bad decisions. I'll visit every chance I can, but I do hope I can have his Xbox.
The writing process
While everybody finds different ways to produce meaningful pieces of writing, I find that there is a fairly common and time-tested method that works consistently.
1. Find a writing medium. A word processing program is an excellent choice. If you don't have a computer, you're probably too poor to waste your time being a writer.
2. Gather thoughts about a subject or event you find intriguing, like when your best friend stole your woman or the car that drove by your house full of screaming drunken frat boys and killed the neighbors cat. Broad subjects like cultural relativity or meaning should be avoided, as somebody has already written about them better than you could.
3. Discard stupid thoughts. This is a step that many aspiring writers have trouble with, and may take days/years.
4. Type out a basic story outline. An example might look like: Boy is killed by car-> Drunken father hunts down man responsible -> Finds out hot prostitute killed boy -> Tries to kill her, but falls in love -> [At this point, up to ten consecutive pages will be devoted to describing various acts of love-making] -> Prostitute bears man a child -> Child is killed -> Lather, rinse, repeat.
5. Start writing your story. It doesn't matter at which point you start writing, you can just go back and write the rest. You are going to go back and write it, right? Right...?
6. Completely procrastinate of going back to fill in beginning of story.
7. Forget major plot points/character details/spellings of common words.
8. Drink heavily. What, you haven't seen the statistics regarding career writers and cirrhosis incidence?
9. Destroy computer in a fit of drunken rage, move to backup medium. Golf pencils and paper bags are a popular choice at this stage.
10. Repeat step 8. Be sure to bury your face in your hands so that you don't drip snot and tears on your paper bags, you sissy.
11. Turn 40. You've just met the first qualification for having any commercial success as a writer.
12. Establish a presence online. Start up an account on Fictionpress to test-drive your target audience. Languish as traffic trickles in and your pieces get lost amid hundreds of fan-fictions written by twelve-year-olds with little knowledge of how a thesaurus works.
13. Repeat steps 8 and 10. You may be noticing a pattern here.
14. Get an interview with a successful literary agent. Try not to cry when he laughs you out of his office; they feed off of human misery.
15. Get an interview with a less-successful literary agent. You'll know he's the one for you when he says he's willing to "settle for less."
16. Watch as the individuality of your book gets stripped off to its vanilla core to satisfy mass-market demands. Don't worry; you can always release the removed parts onto the forum of some website hidden in the darkest corners of the internet. Or onto Fictionpress. Flip a coin.
At this point you'll encounter one of two paths:
A: Achieve marketability. Book sales are happening. Publisher asks for another. Start the whole process over again and try to ignore the world calling you a hack as your soul melts into the void.
Or...
B. Book fails, publisher tells you to bugger off and sells the remaining stock at a fraction of the price. Start the whole process over again and try to ignore the world telling you that you suck (even though there is a strong possibility that you do) as your soul melts into the void.
17. Repeat steps 8, 10, and 13. You may be running out of booze at this point. If I were you, I'd get some more.
1. Find a writing medium. A word processing program is an excellent choice. If you don't have a computer, you're probably too poor to waste your time being a writer.
2. Gather thoughts about a subject or event you find intriguing, like when your best friend stole your woman or the car that drove by your house full of screaming drunken frat boys and killed the neighbors cat. Broad subjects like cultural relativity or meaning should be avoided, as somebody has already written about them better than you could.
3. Discard stupid thoughts. This is a step that many aspiring writers have trouble with, and may take days/years.
4. Type out a basic story outline. An example might look like: Boy is killed by car-> Drunken father hunts down man responsible -> Finds out hot prostitute killed boy -> Tries to kill her, but falls in love -> [At this point, up to ten consecutive pages will be devoted to describing various acts of love-making] -> Prostitute bears man a child -> Child is killed -> Lather, rinse, repeat.
5. Start writing your story. It doesn't matter at which point you start writing, you can just go back and write the rest. You are going to go back and write it, right? Right...?
6. Completely procrastinate of going back to fill in beginning of story.
7. Forget major plot points/character details/spellings of common words.
8. Drink heavily. What, you haven't seen the statistics regarding career writers and cirrhosis incidence?
9. Destroy computer in a fit of drunken rage, move to backup medium. Golf pencils and paper bags are a popular choice at this stage.
10. Repeat step 8. Be sure to bury your face in your hands so that you don't drip snot and tears on your paper bags, you sissy.
11. Turn 40. You've just met the first qualification for having any commercial success as a writer.
12. Establish a presence online. Start up an account on Fictionpress to test-drive your target audience. Languish as traffic trickles in and your pieces get lost amid hundreds of fan-fictions written by twelve-year-olds with little knowledge of how a thesaurus works.
13. Repeat steps 8 and 10. You may be noticing a pattern here.
14. Get an interview with a successful literary agent. Try not to cry when he laughs you out of his office; they feed off of human misery.
15. Get an interview with a less-successful literary agent. You'll know he's the one for you when he says he's willing to "settle for less."
16. Watch as the individuality of your book gets stripped off to its vanilla core to satisfy mass-market demands. Don't worry; you can always release the removed parts onto the forum of some website hidden in the darkest corners of the internet. Or onto Fictionpress. Flip a coin.
At this point you'll encounter one of two paths:
A: Achieve marketability. Book sales are happening. Publisher asks for another. Start the whole process over again and try to ignore the world calling you a hack as your soul melts into the void.
Or...
B. Book fails, publisher tells you to bugger off and sells the remaining stock at a fraction of the price. Start the whole process over again and try to ignore the world telling you that you suck (even though there is a strong possibility that you do) as your soul melts into the void.
17. Repeat steps 8, 10, and 13. You may be running out of booze at this point. If I were you, I'd get some more.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
A friend in need
I want you to imagine your most helpless moment. That point in your life when everything just seemed like it would burn away, leaving little else than specks of carbon. When you started eying the medicine cabinet nervously, taking inventory of your options. This is bottom. This is where everything you tried so hard to create dies. With your face pressed hard against the cold, rocky bottom of reality, your reach out your hand, fishing a dark sea for a sign of hope.
Today, I was reached out to. But I couldn't do anything.
Let me tell you a little story. A really short one, don't worry. A friend of mine has a weakness. Their weakness is a craving for two things; one socially acceptable, and the other strictly forbidden. Their cravings were satiated in the worst possible way, and once they had taken a step back and realized what they had done, they called me. I was working when the call came. I thought they were only calling to say that they couldn't play Halo tonight, so I ignored them until my break. The call went to voicemail.
A moment later, a text message popped up. "FUCKING EMERGENCY!!! CALL ME NOW!!!!" was the better part of the message. I decided to take my break earlier than planned. I called them back as soon as I stepped into the back room, seating myself carefully for possible bad news to come. You see, I was concerned that a mutual friend, who's had some emotional instability issues, may have finally done the unthinkable. Instead I hear them sobbing pitifully into the receiver, telling me about a stupid mistake that turned into a terrible offense between sharp gasps and muttering that their life was over.
In a different story, this is where I'd happily describe how I rushed in to save the day; first berating them for their stupidity, then throwing them back up on the horse that we might solve the problem together. That won't be happening this time. We can't simply talk our way out of this one. There is no-one to appease, no-one to whom we can plead or beg. This is now a matter of whether or not authority will crash down upon them or dismiss them entirely. Neither of us knows just what will happen, and that scares them more than anything.
I know, this must sound odd, this tale of pitiable affairs appearing in a place that champions disdain for your fellow man. I think it's fitting; the untold story is how our friends had told the one at fault that this could very well happen if will and sense were not employed. Stupidity is the word. Plain, bare-assed stupidity is the root cause of all my friend's woes. Had they not decided that this wouldn't be the time they got in trouble, none of this would have come to pass. Life isn't some cheesy movie, where the situation can be resolved with a sudden twist of fate, a one liner, and a hearty laugh as the heroes walk off arms-on-shoulders towards a bright new day. No, life is a fucking Quentin Tarantino movie; nobody gets away clean.
If more people could fathom that, we would probably have a more stable society. Laws may not be just, but is it worth it to break them before we can remake them?
As I sat down to start writing this post, I noticed that I still hadn't checked my voicemail. I waited for it to start, trying to ignore what I thought was some sort of strange radio interference. Then I saw that the voicemail was playing, and the sound, likened to a dying animal, were the cries of confused terror from my friend. I couldn't bear to listen to the entire sixty seconds, but by the time I pushed the stop button, I knew what it sounded like, being at the bottom of that pit. I hope that voicemail isn't the last thing I hear from my friend, along with an awkward and lengthy discussion of legal matters and prison life. I don't know yet what will become of my friend. I hope that nothing truly disastrous happens, but I do hope that justice is done, and more so that justice is just.
Today, I was reached out to. But I couldn't do anything.
Let me tell you a little story. A really short one, don't worry. A friend of mine has a weakness. Their weakness is a craving for two things; one socially acceptable, and the other strictly forbidden. Their cravings were satiated in the worst possible way, and once they had taken a step back and realized what they had done, they called me. I was working when the call came. I thought they were only calling to say that they couldn't play Halo tonight, so I ignored them until my break. The call went to voicemail.
A moment later, a text message popped up. "FUCKING EMERGENCY!!! CALL ME NOW!!!!" was the better part of the message. I decided to take my break earlier than planned. I called them back as soon as I stepped into the back room, seating myself carefully for possible bad news to come. You see, I was concerned that a mutual friend, who's had some emotional instability issues, may have finally done the unthinkable. Instead I hear them sobbing pitifully into the receiver, telling me about a stupid mistake that turned into a terrible offense between sharp gasps and muttering that their life was over.
In a different story, this is where I'd happily describe how I rushed in to save the day; first berating them for their stupidity, then throwing them back up on the horse that we might solve the problem together. That won't be happening this time. We can't simply talk our way out of this one. There is no-one to appease, no-one to whom we can plead or beg. This is now a matter of whether or not authority will crash down upon them or dismiss them entirely. Neither of us knows just what will happen, and that scares them more than anything.
I know, this must sound odd, this tale of pitiable affairs appearing in a place that champions disdain for your fellow man. I think it's fitting; the untold story is how our friends had told the one at fault that this could very well happen if will and sense were not employed. Stupidity is the word. Plain, bare-assed stupidity is the root cause of all my friend's woes. Had they not decided that this wouldn't be the time they got in trouble, none of this would have come to pass. Life isn't some cheesy movie, where the situation can be resolved with a sudden twist of fate, a one liner, and a hearty laugh as the heroes walk off arms-on-shoulders towards a bright new day. No, life is a fucking Quentin Tarantino movie; nobody gets away clean.
If more people could fathom that, we would probably have a more stable society. Laws may not be just, but is it worth it to break them before we can remake them?
As I sat down to start writing this post, I noticed that I still hadn't checked my voicemail. I waited for it to start, trying to ignore what I thought was some sort of strange radio interference. Then I saw that the voicemail was playing, and the sound, likened to a dying animal, were the cries of confused terror from my friend. I couldn't bear to listen to the entire sixty seconds, but by the time I pushed the stop button, I knew what it sounded like, being at the bottom of that pit. I hope that voicemail isn't the last thing I hear from my friend, along with an awkward and lengthy discussion of legal matters and prison life. I don't know yet what will become of my friend. I hope that nothing truly disastrous happens, but I do hope that justice is done, and more so that justice is just.
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