Wednesday, December 18, 2002
Best science fiction of the year. Some good parallel universe and alternative history stuff.HOLIDAY BOOK REVIEW / CHILDREN'S BOOKS / SCIENCE FICTION & FANTASY
Village Voice list of favorite books of the year. The Village Voice: Books: Voice Literary Supplement: Top Shelf
Interesting small press. Publishes chapbooks of short fiction. Has a writing contest. Rain Crow Publishing : Rain Crow Magazine
Tuesday, October 08, 2002
Roswell NM - Alien Resistance HQ, UFO Bible stop alien abduction info Site to stop the aliens/demons from taking over.
Institute for Parallel Studies Weird site dealing with parallel world concept. Funny picture gallery.
Wednesday, September 04, 2002
Items found in a woman's trashcan:
used MAC lipstick, color coral red
several kleenex with lips blots
home pregnancy test stick, result negative
hand-written letter torn in very small pieces
three unopened preapproved credit card offers
a receipt for a pair of Ferragamo shoes from Nordstrom's
a card from a florist shop signed, Love, Mark
half of a photograph showing a man about thirty dressed in a polo shirt, background forest, ends of a woman's blond hair are blowing into the frame
an empty carton of Chunky Monkey
used MAC lipstick, color coral red
several kleenex with lips blots
home pregnancy test stick, result negative
hand-written letter torn in very small pieces
three unopened preapproved credit card offers
a receipt for a pair of Ferragamo shoes from Nordstrom's
a card from a florist shop signed, Love, Mark
half of a photograph showing a man about thirty dressed in a polo shirt, background forest, ends of a woman's blond hair are blowing into the frame
an empty carton of Chunky Monkey
Disposing of evidence is legal proof of a guilty mind. David Westerfield's defense for all the cleaning he did that weekend was that he's a "neat freak." There's something suspicious about a man who's a neat freak. Maybe if the guy was in the military you could understand it. All that negative drill-sergeant reinforcement still playing out in his head, but for a guy who was never in the service, neat freak=weirdo. It betrays an inner compulsion to control.
Tuesday, September 03, 2002
Under the heading of "Life is what happens while you're making other plans," Ellis Weiner, although evidently an extreme example, illustrates how having children these days is all about money. Was it always this way? I don't remember people talking about a college fund when I was a kid. The economics of blended two income families with a variety of court orders and ex-spouses lurking in the background would be a good subject for a story.
Ellis Weiner, The New Yorker, September 2, 2002, p 48.
"Now, though, I'm thirty-six, and I have different goals. Paying for my kids' college education. Paying for my kids' high-school education. Paying for my kids' high-school knapsacks, and not only theirs. I want to pay for my stepkids' education and school supplies, too--because, if I don't, my second wife, their mother, will kill me. And I want to pay twenty-seven per cent of the educational expenses of my ex-wife's stepkids, her second husband's kids from his second wife, after his first wife left him to do the things on her "list of life goals," like skydiving nude over all seven continents, and after his second wife, the mother of his kids, joined the Peace Corps to give something back to the community, which in this case turned out to be the community of Lugoji, Romania.
"Now, though, I'm thirty-six, and I have different goals. Paying for my kids' college education. Paying for my kids' high-school education. Paying for my kids' high-school knapsacks, and not only theirs. I want to pay for my stepkids' education and school supplies, too--because, if I don't, my second wife, their mother, will kill me. And I want to pay twenty-seven per cent of the educational expenses of my ex-wife's stepkids, her second husband's kids from his second wife, after his first wife left him to do the things on her "list of life goals," like skydiving nude over all seven continents, and after his second wife, the mother of his kids, joined the Peace Corps to give something back to the community, which in this case turned out to be the community of Lugoji, Romania.
I was standing on the freeway somewhere east of Albuquerque, hoping New Mexico cops didn’t care about hitchhiking on the freeway. In California, you didn’t dare try to thumb on the freeway, the CHP were unforgiving. It was late June, the heat radiating off the tarmac was barely tolerable. The air was clean, except when a huge semi would scream past, belching diesel fumes and nearly knocking me off my feet. It was my third day hitching. The first night I’d spent in Barstow on an onramp with over a dozen other young people. I recall feeling hopeless about ever getting out of there. Any car that would stop would be mobbed by the hippies, some of whom had been there a couple of days. I assumed there was a sort of hierarchy of first come, first served, so I figured it would take me at least a couple of days to get out of there. Luckily, an army guy driving a Bug stopped and asked if anyone had a valid driver’s license. At first, I didn’t even approach the car, figuring someone would get there first, but amazingly, or perhaps not so amazingly, but it was amazing to me at the time, I was the only one there with a valid driver’s license. He was in the service, driving back to Albuquerque, on a suspended license. I took the wheel and put some serious miles behind me.
After a night on the side of the freeway, I got a ride in the back of a pickup full of Boy Scouts, and was dropped off here, in the middle of the desert. Hitchhiking is an exercise in patience, gratitude, and forgiveness, virtues that are difficult to learn at any time in life, but once learned, serve you well forever. One learns a form of patience that doesn’t count the minutes or hours at all. You stand there, arm extended, no one likes to pick up a lazy hitchhiker, and watch the cars and trucks go buy. You don’t hope, because hope creates anticipation and anticipation creates time. You don’t wait for the same reason. You simply stand there, oblivious to time, ignoring it. Patience is born not from the lack of hope, this implies despair, but from hope’s absence. You know that someone will stop; someone always does.
The station wagon, the sixties’ answer to SUVs, came to a screeching halt about thirty yards in front of me. When you’re hitching on the freeway, it’s hard for drivers to notice you, make the decision to stop, and then pull over gracefully. As hitchhiking etiquette required, I trotted up to the car, lugging my backpack. I quickly noted the unsavory look of the two men in the front seat, but gratitude overcame fear, and I climbed into the back seat.
“Where you headed?” the Latino hair-bandana-d tear-tattooed driver asked.
“Minneapolis”
“I can take you as far as Springfield, that’s where Jimmy’s getting off,” indicating the blond long-hair hippie type, I should say very big hippie type sitting in the shotgun position.
Off we went. During the course of that thousand-mile ride, a hitchhiker’s dream, I learned that the Driver, I’m not sure if I ever knew his name, and Jimmy had set out on this trip a few days before, but their car broke down. They returned to L.A., stole another car, robbed a guy and stole his credit cards, and now were on the road again. That night went by slowly. Every mile I waited for the cops to pull us over. The periodic passing of the weed compounded my nervousness. I sat quietly in the back and refused to join in. I was paranoid enough. Texas and Oklahoma didn’t seem like states you wanted to be arrested in for grand theft auto and marijuana possession, especially in 1972.
As the night wore on, I prayed for sleep, but instead I was tortured by ever more vivid fantasies of a red light suddenly illuminating the back of the station wagon. Would the Driver and Jimmy shout, “I’m not going back to the joint.” and make a run for it? This scenario ended in a shootout or a car wreck, the hulking mass of metal slowly spinning over and over until it crashed upside down in a cornfield. As the cops slowly approached with guns drawn, they could only make out a black tire turning slowly in the settling dust.
Or, sporting macho bravado born of many encounters with the law, the Driver would pull over to the side of the road while Jimmy took the baggie, half a lid left, and, while jamming half the unsmoked weed in his mouth, he hands me the rest and says, “Eat.” As the red-neck cop, belly distended over his utility belt, approached the car, I would be munching away like some cow in the field. Now that would be a great “Got milk?” moment.
All scenarios ended with me dead or in jail. I couldn’t decide which would be worse. I hoped the “I was just hitchhiking.” defense would work, but I didn’t think I could count on Jimmy and the Driver to back my story. If they were going to go down, I was too. Some punk who refused their weed wasn’t going to get off while they went off to work on some Oklahoma chain gang. I worried that the fact that my first ride to Barstow had been with Gordon Galewick, an LAPD cop and friend of the family, who had spotted me on the side of the road and took me with his family as they began their vacation. He could corroborate my story, but maybe that’s why he had picked me up. It had been predestined. He was there to save me from this situation, but I could be guaranteed a day or two in some horrible, sweltering jail. Fresh meat, that’s what they would call me.
The long night passed, and I was finally dropped off in Springfield where Jimmy and I immediately parted company. As I got out of the car, I realized that I forgave them for putting me through this hellish night, after all, they had given me one hell of long ride.
After a night on the side of the freeway, I got a ride in the back of a pickup full of Boy Scouts, and was dropped off here, in the middle of the desert. Hitchhiking is an exercise in patience, gratitude, and forgiveness, virtues that are difficult to learn at any time in life, but once learned, serve you well forever. One learns a form of patience that doesn’t count the minutes or hours at all. You stand there, arm extended, no one likes to pick up a lazy hitchhiker, and watch the cars and trucks go buy. You don’t hope, because hope creates anticipation and anticipation creates time. You don’t wait for the same reason. You simply stand there, oblivious to time, ignoring it. Patience is born not from the lack of hope, this implies despair, but from hope’s absence. You know that someone will stop; someone always does.
The station wagon, the sixties’ answer to SUVs, came to a screeching halt about thirty yards in front of me. When you’re hitching on the freeway, it’s hard for drivers to notice you, make the decision to stop, and then pull over gracefully. As hitchhiking etiquette required, I trotted up to the car, lugging my backpack. I quickly noted the unsavory look of the two men in the front seat, but gratitude overcame fear, and I climbed into the back seat.
“Where you headed?” the Latino hair-bandana-d tear-tattooed driver asked.
“Minneapolis”
“I can take you as far as Springfield, that’s where Jimmy’s getting off,” indicating the blond long-hair hippie type, I should say very big hippie type sitting in the shotgun position.
Off we went. During the course of that thousand-mile ride, a hitchhiker’s dream, I learned that the Driver, I’m not sure if I ever knew his name, and Jimmy had set out on this trip a few days before, but their car broke down. They returned to L.A., stole another car, robbed a guy and stole his credit cards, and now were on the road again. That night went by slowly. Every mile I waited for the cops to pull us over. The periodic passing of the weed compounded my nervousness. I sat quietly in the back and refused to join in. I was paranoid enough. Texas and Oklahoma didn’t seem like states you wanted to be arrested in for grand theft auto and marijuana possession, especially in 1972.
As the night wore on, I prayed for sleep, but instead I was tortured by ever more vivid fantasies of a red light suddenly illuminating the back of the station wagon. Would the Driver and Jimmy shout, “I’m not going back to the joint.” and make a run for it? This scenario ended in a shootout or a car wreck, the hulking mass of metal slowly spinning over and over until it crashed upside down in a cornfield. As the cops slowly approached with guns drawn, they could only make out a black tire turning slowly in the settling dust.
Or, sporting macho bravado born of many encounters with the law, the Driver would pull over to the side of the road while Jimmy took the baggie, half a lid left, and, while jamming half the unsmoked weed in his mouth, he hands me the rest and says, “Eat.” As the red-neck cop, belly distended over his utility belt, approached the car, I would be munching away like some cow in the field. Now that would be a great “Got milk?” moment.
All scenarios ended with me dead or in jail. I couldn’t decide which would be worse. I hoped the “I was just hitchhiking.” defense would work, but I didn’t think I could count on Jimmy and the Driver to back my story. If they were going to go down, I was too. Some punk who refused their weed wasn’t going to get off while they went off to work on some Oklahoma chain gang. I worried that the fact that my first ride to Barstow had been with Gordon Galewick, an LAPD cop and friend of the family, who had spotted me on the side of the road and took me with his family as they began their vacation. He could corroborate my story, but maybe that’s why he had picked me up. It had been predestined. He was there to save me from this situation, but I could be guaranteed a day or two in some horrible, sweltering jail. Fresh meat, that’s what they would call me.
The long night passed, and I was finally dropped off in Springfield where Jimmy and I immediately parted company. As I got out of the car, I realized that I forgave them for putting me through this hellish night, after all, they had given me one hell of long ride.
Lately, I’ve been driving a little too fast. I look down at the speedometer and realize that for the last several miles I’ve been going 85. What’s odd is that you can drive for long stretches here in San Diego at 85 and not feel that you are going significantly faster than others. Of course, I’m usually in the fast lane when I’m barreling along, but sometimes I find myself weaving around other, saner drivers and can end up in the second or third lanes. No matter how fast you go, though, you will always find someone coming up on your rear going faster. As these true speed freaks zoom around me I try to calculate their speed, 95? 100? Why would anybody drive that fast, I wonder, but others are probably asking the same about me.
The last ticket I got, years go now, was for going 80 in a 70. I was chatting away with my daughter and didn’t notice the CHP car clocking me in my rear view. After enduring the absurdity of an online “traffic school,” I started using my cruise control to avoid this situation in the future. Make one decision, 70, and sit back and relax. Safer and more relaxing, this is somehow less satisfying than taking control and moving ahead at breakneck speed. You might think it’s because I’m driving a big land boat, a Cadillac STS with 300 horsepower, but I used to drive this fast in my clunky Toyota Corolla. Cruise control is exasperating anyway because no matter what speed you set it for or what lane you drive in there is always someone driving slower than you. You have to tap the brake to stop the cruise control, sending drivers behind you into apoplexy, or use the “coast” feature to slow yourself down. The problem with the “coast” feature is that it resets your speed, so after you get around the Sunday driver (a forgotten term), you have to reset it back to 70. Tapping the brake is better.
Online traffic school is a great innovation for those of us who want to avoid the utter boredom of sitting all day in a classroom. You can even skip the text and go straight to the tests, which aren’t any harder than the ones the DMV uses to renew your license. I know the safe rules of the road, but I just don’t feel right unless I’m going fast.
The last ticket I got, years go now, was for going 80 in a 70. I was chatting away with my daughter and didn’t notice the CHP car clocking me in my rear view. After enduring the absurdity of an online “traffic school,” I started using my cruise control to avoid this situation in the future. Make one decision, 70, and sit back and relax. Safer and more relaxing, this is somehow less satisfying than taking control and moving ahead at breakneck speed. You might think it’s because I’m driving a big land boat, a Cadillac STS with 300 horsepower, but I used to drive this fast in my clunky Toyota Corolla. Cruise control is exasperating anyway because no matter what speed you set it for or what lane you drive in there is always someone driving slower than you. You have to tap the brake to stop the cruise control, sending drivers behind you into apoplexy, or use the “coast” feature to slow yourself down. The problem with the “coast” feature is that it resets your speed, so after you get around the Sunday driver (a forgotten term), you have to reset it back to 70. Tapping the brake is better.
Online traffic school is a great innovation for those of us who want to avoid the utter boredom of sitting all day in a classroom. You can even skip the text and go straight to the tests, which aren’t any harder than the ones the DMV uses to renew your license. I know the safe rules of the road, but I just don’t feel right unless I’m going fast.
The most attractive female character in a film of recent memory was Enid (Thora Birch) in Ghost World. My friend, Robert Garrick, just wrote and confirmed this, so it has gone from my opinion to solid fact.
Monday, August 26, 2002
Changed name to "Apospasmata" because I had plagiarized Bill's blog unconsciously. I now understand how that happens. Apospasmata means "selections," but it literally means "things broken off something else." I like it because it has the word "spasm" in it. Reminds me of when we were kids and used to call each other "spaz." This meant approximately the same thing as "nerd" does today. It specifically applied to the lack of prowess that we nonathletic types had at sports. The polite term then was "uncoordinated." I don't hear this much lately either.
WordLab is a really good blog on words. Today I had to go to a meeting to pick a drug brand name. It's unbelievable the millions spent on this kind of thing. And to think we could have saved it all just by using WordLab's Drug-o-Matic
Good discussion of Alice Munro and the question of story length. Alice Munro: The Short Answer - Alex Keegan - Eclectica Magazine v2n5
Friday, August 16, 2002
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