greypopcorn

 

          As you know, it is not enough for a reader to pick up the little symbols from a page with his eyes ... Once we get those symbols inside our heads and in the proper order, then we must clothe them in gloom or joy or apathy, in love or hate, in anger or peacefulness, or however the author intended them to be clothed. In order to be good readers, we must even recognize irony—which is when a writer says one thing and really means another, contradicting himself in what he believes to be a beguiling cause. — Kurt Vonnegut, Palm Sunday (1981)

Electoral College Opinion

Thank you, veterans. I am one, know many still serving and many more who once served. My thoughts are with you as I write:

I, like most, have been vaguely aware of our Electoral College system since a long-ago High School American History class (about the same time I learned we bought Alaska from the former USSR on the cheap). Since then, I have propped-up my end of several conversations by parroting some long-forgotten opinion-maker who must have decried loud enough for me to take note that: 'our antiquated system smothers the popular vote'. It was an effective way to pretend to have more intelligence than I held title to; everyone sounds more passionate riding a strong negative opinion.

Today I ask: why are so many people (who may not even understand the system, and the reasons behind it) against our electoral college?

The framers of our constitution certainly knew why a nation-wide popular vote was impractical. They were aware that we humans are supremely ignorant people. We (the royal we) are: too easily led; too stupid to be trusted with our own self-preservation; and should never, never, never, be given something as valuable and important as electing a president without oversight. Thus, we elect a group of intelligentsia-esque politicos who, in turn, elect the president and vice president. They provide a much-needed buffer by injecting careful and calm deliberation into the process of selecting the most qualified candidate. (I thank them for their future service every time the phrase 'Palin 2016' leaves the lips of some talking-supermodel-esque-head, whom I watch in HD but hope-dies-a-painful-videotaped-death for even forming the thought.)

The members of the electoral college are nothing more than judges; judging before the new president and vice president take over the Executive Branch of the US government. They are tasked with deciding for us, when we may be too stupid for our own good (please feel free to supplant the word 'stupid' with the word 'religious' as needed).

We (or, at least the Californian-we) needed an 'electoral college buffer' in place, when voting on Proposition 8. If they only had a group of people, smarter than the average stupid-fucknut (feel free: 'stupid-fucknut'/'religious-fucknut') then we would not be witnessing a reversal of civil rights. But...I guess there is a group of intelligentsia in place, isn't there?—and they are called California State Supreme Court Judges. Who will now need to do, after the fact, what the mentally infirm majority of Californian voters were incapable of doing: enforce equality under the law on the majority of stupid-haters who follow without question (the purest definition of 'stupid-belief') a few vaingloriously bigoted stupid-leaders.

Other states, as choc-a-bloc full of stupid-hating fucknuts as they are, will be force-guided away from their bigotry some day too. As will the entire country. Someday we will see a Federal Constitutional Amendment that will force equality in every aspect of 'sexual orientation' including the right of same-sex couples to bind themselves legally in a ceremony (which will last about 50% of the time). And, someday we will elect an openly gay US President.

This prophecy doesn't sound as hollow as it once would; does it?

As a retired member of the US Armed Forces, I served to protect the rights of Americans. Does that sentence require "all" in front of "Americans"? I protected against hatred and bigotry maybe MORE than criminal activity and physical harm. One positive thing: our ever-present 'enemy within' (unforgivably stupid, hate-filled American citizens) are eroding. Slowly. Much too slowly for me at times.

Veterans Day, Proposition 8, gay rights, same-sex marriage, electoral college

Non-Required Reading 2008

The Best American Non-required Reading 2008 by Dave Eggers

My review

rating: 4 of 5 stars

A wonderful collection of articles, graphic shorts, lists, and blog posts, both fiction and non. Although I did not read everything, I greatly enjoyed: Steven King's short (Ayana - Paris Review); George Saunder's article (Bill Clinton, Public Citizen - GQ) informed me; Gene Weingarten's article (Pearl's Before Breakfast - The Washington Post) made me think about stopping and smelling the roses; and the excerpt from the graphic novel The Three Paradoxes by Paul Hornschemeier made me want to read the rest of it.

Previous Reviews

Portland OR — Reasons (#11)

Full Service Gasoline

A dozen rational reasons to enjoy living in Portland, Oregon: Number eleven

Self-service gasoline stations are illegal. In Oregon, all gasoline stations must either be mini- or full-service. At mini-service, they only pump gas. At full, they clean your windshield, check your fluid(s) and tire pressure, if needed. Mini = no tip. Full = tipping is suggested depending on the amount of added service provided (beyond pumping gas). It's wonderful to stay seated, out of the weather, and never get gas on your hands. This law also prevents environmental accidents (from fluid spills) and results in thousands of minimum-wage jobs (Oregon's minimum wage is $7.95).

We are all addicts of fossil fuels in a state of denial. And like so many addicts about to face cold turkey, our leaders are now committing violent crimes to get what little is left of what we are hooked on. — Kurt Vonnegut, A Man Without a Country (2005)

Film Review: W.

This inconsequential film would never have been released if it were not our current president's last daze in office. However, I suspect Oliver Stone knows he is our era's D.W. Griffin, and this film will insidiously become the primary way that our future youth (and our future-future great-grandparents) will view G.W. Bush.

A high-school freshman told me, recently, that his history teacher showed the film Good Night, and Good Luck to his class when teaching about McCarthyism (I was off by a few years when I predicted this); one of the episodes of the TV mini-series John Adams (when teaching about the early formation of our government and constitution); and one of the episodes of 30 Days (when teaching about tolerance). Is it too much of a leap to suggest Oliver Stone is aware of this trend? This film may be rooted in some truths, but most of the subdued dialogue is fiction, drawn from supposition. I'll bet this film will be shown to the eighth-grade history classes of 2025 (if not much sooner), when teaching about foolishly ignorant US Presidents.

Portland OR — Reasons (#12)

A dozen rational reasons to enjoy living in Portland, Oregon: Number twelve.

In many other states and cities zoning restrictions relegate strip-clubs to industrial areas or push them outside of their city limits. In some places laws prevent either the sale or consumption of alcohol (or both); and most states limit the amount of nudity permitted. None of that is true here. Exotic dance has a attained a ‘protected’ or at least an ‘un-restricted’ status, in Oregon.

Here, there are a large number of venues in most, if not all, suburbs and city neighborhoods. There are no restrictions on alcohol relative to lack-of-undress (full nude + full bar = full house). To top it all off, cover charges are reasonable, and some have excellent restaurants. I feel less like the dirty-old-man-that-I-am when I can walk across a decent parking lot at happy hour, and enter a respectable establishment where a double-sawbuck will get me: dinner, drinks, and a half-dozen disrobed damsels (all of whom get at least a dollar).

A plausible mission of artists is to make people appreciate being alive at least a little bit. — Kurt Vonnegut, Timequake (1997)

Breakfast

digital rendering by veach st glines — 2008

The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven's sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something. — Kurt Vonnegut, A Man Without a Country (2005)

Thank You, Voters

I want to thank those of you who voted, stood in lines, voted for the first time (or first time in a long time). My opinion of my country has improved today. Thank you, again. I haven't smiled this much on a voting day in . . . maybe never.

1511 Days Until . . .?

           On December 21st, 2012, the entire world is supposed to change in a manner that will come to the attention of every single inhabitant—from the most elegant giant squid jetting thru its December feeding-range off the west coast of Australia, to the world’s lowliest of life forms (e.g. this cum-stain).   Most have heard the murmurings; if not, let these murmurs of mine be your first murmurs.  Whether written: 21-12-12 (like most of the world does) or 12-21-12 (like the US does) the symmetry makes it sound like a different shade of Y2K, which always failed to pass the kindergarten End of World Common-sense Test (The world ends on 1 Jan 2000.  Oh...why?   Because of the three zeros.)

          A while ago, some foolish 2012 information blip-blapped across my bookstore surveillance radar—and then the dust jacket brandished several large and interesting weapons of mass destruction, which thwarted my skepticism shield.  So, after reading 2012 Apocalypse: an Investigation into Civilization's End, my interest became bolstered (in a, sort-of, willing-to-pay-a-NOT-nominal-fee-to-see-a-real-live-monster-in-some favorite locale, kind of way).  So, I delved a little deeper and read 2012: The Return of Quetzalcoatl.

          I learned (if I may distill over 400 rambling pages of a famously-drug-addicted author's words into a few paragraphs) there is only one reason to believe life on the earth will change (most authors don't use the word 'end', I suspect it to be Al Capone's Vault-effect driven) on the day of the winter solstice in the year 2012.  That reason is the conjunction of two things:  an ancient Mayan calendar's "prediction" (of sorts) and a astronomical alignment "re-discovered" by modern scientists.  (I would have used the words 'coincidental conjunction' in the last sentence, but I didn't want to use two words beginning with the same two letters together; that, and the word 'coincidental' shades things a bit pessimistically...so I didn't use it).

          The Mayan 'prediction':  The ancient Maya were amazing astronomers and mathematicians; and they were calendar-fuckin-superstars. They knew—twenty-five hundred years ago—about the earth's precession.  Without getting too didactic, the Earth wobbles a little, as it spins.  This wobble takes about 26,000 years to complete one full circuit.  Although it's not difficult to see the earth rotate on it's axis by watching one of the pole stars, observing—even today—that the axial-spot in the night sky makes a small, 26,000-year-long circle is complicated and difficult.

          How the ancient Maya measured, observed, and computed this wobble is not knowable.  (Me, I suspect time-travelers from our future cocked-up and left a telescope connected to a solar-powered laptop.)  What is known is that the ancient Mayans incorporated this 26,000 year "cycle" into one of their calendars.  And, they did not start this calendar on a specific date (like...oh...I don't know...the death of some arbitrary fucknut).  Instead, they began their long calendar at some very distant point (relative to humans as a whole, and the Mayan's specifically) in the past and ended it on ... you got it ... 21 December 2012.  I will repeat, here, at the risk of redundancy, the calendar ends; not the world.  The 22nd of December, 2012, is day numbero uno on the next 26,000-year long calendar.

          The 're-discovered' astronomical alignment:  On the winter solstice of 2012, the earth will supposedly cross the center of the Milky Way galaxy's galactic plane.  I delved a bit deeper, read Maya Cosmogenesis 2012: The True Meaning of the Maya Calendar End-Date, got brain-bent stuck, and quit delving.  I was attempting to determine how it was possible to measure the earth's crossing (which is actually the entire solar system's crossing) of the exact center of our galactic plane.  Hell, I would have been happy if I could have learned how the exact center of the galactic plane was determined.  I think it may be like Parisians claiming the spot in front of the Notre Dame is the exact center of the world.

          Here's the gist:  picture our solar system as a speck of dirt about 2/3 of the way out from the center of a massive, sunny-side up, egg.  As the sun spirals around the galaxy-center, it oscillates relative to the galactic plane.  Which means, that every million years or less, our speck of dirt moves in an wobbly-arc from the "bottom" of the egg (nearest the skillet), thru the egg white, to the "top" of the egg (where you can see it, and pick it off).   On the winter solstice of 2012, our solar system ends a long arc and begins another...by crossing the galactic center.

          How did the Mayans know of this million-year oscillation (if they did)?  Maybe they picked (our) 22nd of December, 2012, as the first day of their new 26,000-year calendar, for their own bizarre, heart-felt, reasons.  We can never know.  Maybe we are just guilty of ascribing the first synchronistic anomaly that comes along every once in 800,000 years, to their foresight (because we love a good Armageddon story).  If the entire world is going to 'change' in a little over four years, I'm looking forward to it.  Eagerly.  Here! Here! to the day 0.0.0.0.1!

All Saints

digital rendering by veach st glines — 2008

I love your smarts

I want. I have wanted. I will want. I don't really understand why. I rarely have materialistic desires; when I do, I just wait. After many months (or more), if I still think about the item, I buy it. I first wanted this eight years ago. Maybe I'll lose the desire in another couple years. Maybe I'll buy one next year. Maybe I'm a fool.

Death of the Baroque, by Irishwind

death of the baroque by ~irishwind on deviantART

This is a drawing I love by irishwind. I followed her work two years ago, and think she an amazing artist.

I believe artists obtain needed inspiration from the work of better artists than themselves. I hope she will agree to sell me this piece; my studio wall has a spot where it would fit perfectly.

On a totally different note: Did anyone notice the titles of my previous five posts were all anagrams of Veach St Glines?

Chasing Svelte

Chasing is the opposite of repoussé, which is a metalworking technique in which a malleable metal is shaped by hammering from the reverse side. The two are used in conjunction to create a finished piece. While repoussé is used to work on the reverse of the metal to form a raised design on the front, chasing is used to refine the design on the front of the work by sinking the metal. The term chasing is derived from the noun "chase", which refers to a groove, furrow, channel or indentation.

Svelte is an adjective denoting something which is judged to be attractively or gracefully slim by the viewer; slender in figure, or lithe.

But what does all this have to do with films you ask?

Following the premise: as a small part goes, so goes the whole (used to infer — maybe, correctly — that if American banks crumbled, so would our entire country) the current 'Climate of American Civilization And Society' can be measured by examining a microcosm within the CACAS. I am going to examine: film.

First, some back-story: hundreds of films are released every month. Most are 'direct to DVD' (this includes dozens of TV series, both old and new); a small few are wide-released (in thousands of theaters); some receive a limited-release (if they make money, they may later be wide-released). It is important to remember that all of these films employ hundreds-of-thousands (millions, world-wide) of people... from the lowly, ticket-taker at the single-screen, second-run, downtown, art-theater, to the mega-millionaire-family of Pitt-Jolie. Yes. We... who know films, and love them, and know the films-we-love, tend NOT to focus on business and only discuss the art, story, acting, and that ever-elusive quality, which makes good film different from bad movies.

The makers of movie-money are 'chasing svelte' by tooling the final product (in most cases: a ninety-minute one) until they have about a ninety-second slim, attractive, excerpt. This small preview, commonly referred to as a 'trailer' even though they have not followed the feature presentations for 50+ years, is more important than the film to money makers.

In many cases the DVD will make more money, for the producers, studios, and film-makers, than the theatrical release; where distributors, theater franchises, and concession-providers profit most. The trailer needs to fool people into buying tickets and also sell, or rent, the DVD (and let us not forget the video game).

Over the past 30 months I saw hundreds (thousands?) of trailers, and got sucked in by them, causing me to rent — as well as actually pay to sit in theaters and watch — many dozens of terrible movies. My 'good-trailer-terrible-movie' radar is only a 4.9 version and needs an upgrade.

But, thankfully, and most importantly, I saw some incredibly fantastic films. Here are my top twelve, in alphabetical order.

If you have not seen one or more of these, then, see them TODAY... or this weekend (and STOP watching the news . . . he'll either win or we will all die in an inferno of apocalyptic stupidity of a magnitude that will only be entertaining in a can't-turn-away manner; your incessant news watching won't alter the course of anything but your anger . . . only voting will do anyone any good now).

11:14 is a 'who/why dunnit?' suspense film that keeps you guessing and engaged. If you are one of those people who dislikes the gimmick of showing the same few minutes of real time over and over again, just realize this is not some shit like: 'Vantage Point' (one of the many 'good-trailer-bad-movies', I fell victim to).



Across the Universe may be the best musical ever put on film. One prerequisite: you need to be familiar with, and not-dislike, Beatle's songs (Note: not-disliking is different than liking, in this case). The songs weave into the plot, small snippits of Beatle-lyrics jump out of the dialogue, and the whole thing is capped off by some great cameos by Salma Hayek, Eddie Izzard, Bono, and Joe Cocker.



an inconvenient truth, a documentary by Al Gore, is the only documentary that made it to this list (and I watch quite a few). If you want to learn some of the specific reasons scientists know the earth is warming because of things we've done and are doing, watch. If you already know everything because FOX news tells you about all the things the bible leaves out, don't watch.



Brick is the most unusual mix of 'young love' meets 'Sam Spade'. Joseph Gordon-Levitt can almost do no wrong in my book (and his character, here, is no exception). The dialogue requires your complete attention; not a film to watch while anything else could distract you (a friend told me it helped when she watched it with subtitles because of the constant, fast-original, slang).



Cashback is about a sketch/painter-artist (so I may be biased to include it here). It also contains dry 'British' humor and pretty naked women (two other things, which may cause me to give it preferential treatment). It has a subplot that centers around a science-fictionesque ability of the main character . . . and an SF trailer can suck me in better than most. So — with all that aside — how can this be a great film? It just is.


Children of Men is Clive Owen at his absolute best. If there is a better representation of the 'ever-weary-reluctant hero' character I have not seen it. This strong futuristic-SF/road film should be at the top of your to-see list (or your to-see again list if you've watched all of these).




Hard Candy, a small-budget revenge-film that doesn't get off-message and delivers in a chilling, thrilling way, shows that Ellen Page (Juno) has always been able to pick a great role (and was always able to nail her performance).




No Country For Old Men is the best drama on the list. If you haven't already seen this film you must not be a film-watcher; maybe you don't watch films recommended by others, or shun films that have won awards. If so . . .there are some funny things over on U-Tube, whyn't you go check 'em out? Right now. Yea, now.



Old Boy will shock and enthrall those who don't mind subtitles (it's Korean). It was released in '05, but I didn't see it until '07. If you do any research on it, you'll have the plot-twist(s) spoiled and then it won't be a mystery, will it? Not for squeamish viewers. Strangely, this is the only subtitled film that made this list of must-see's. Since my taste runs heavily foreign (maybe as much as 30%) I'm surprised only one made my list.


Shortbus is the best quasi-porn-esque film I've ever seen. John Cameron Mitchell (Hedwig and the Angry Inch) wrote and directed this sex-story, included funny dialogue, a real plot, found good-to-OK actors and actresses, and actually got it distributed (limited release) in theaters. If you have always hated porn films (except the parts between the fast-forward's) this is for you. If you are homophobic this is not for you.


Southland Tales, one film I've, now, put on my see-again list. Mostly, because I'm certain I'd get more out of the second viewing. An SF-mystery-thriller that is confusing and a half-dark funny; it's the one you'll love or hate, understand or quit watching (with a "WTF did I just see?"). If you have to pee or if you are hungry when you watch this, you will lose the spider-silk-thread of plot. Requires 10 times more concentration than Children of Men.


Wristcutters, a love story contains a funny, one-of-a-kind plot about what the ever-after holds for suicides. This film was almost beat-out by 'Wall-E'; but because it made me laugh-out-loud, contained some sharp dialogue, and actually made me think... it stuck in my head more than the animated, cute, SF film.

The Calves Sing

I found this wonderfully warm puppy in the window of a consignment store. I haggled, bought, built a light-box with rope-lights & piano-hinge...and now have this 3' x 2' night-light above my bed.

Nightless Cave

The 'raise-the-alarm and spread-the-panic' machines have been consistent and loud enough, that I suspect most people have already heard that the US economy is a huge, smelly, loaf of a turd, and that it's — presently — circling the toilet-bowl (I'm paraphrasing).

The Question Of the Month, seems to be: "Who Flushed?" There are many fingers being pointed. I suspect two groups of individuals hope nobody bothers to look for fingerprints on the flusher handle: House-Flippers and House-Floppers.
You may be a flipper, you probably know one, you certainly watched a TV program (or six) that showed it being done. Amazingly, every show contains a false-stress/fabricated-time-line, constantly-shoddy craftsmanship, and a: "just get it good enough for the TV camera," mentality.

The flipper premise: Buy an old Piece-O-Shite house (Pour). Spend a little to make it attractive to buyers during their brief walk-thru (White-Wash). Sell it for tens of thousands over cost (Rinse). Repeat.

The House-Floppers bought (new, old, recently-flipped, and fixer-upper) homes, with the intention to 'flop' in them for a couple of years and then sell to make a profit. You may be a flopper stuck in a home you wanted to sell, you probably know a few, you certainly live near a dozen foreclosed houses or condos that were previously owned by twelve of 'em.

The flopper premise: Obtain an interest-only loan for a couple years at a low, variable, interest rate on a house that is...maybe-probably...double what you then-knew and now-know you could actually afford. Live in it (and maybe fix it up). Before 24-months lapse (when the loan jumps to its normal interest-plus-principle and the interest rate adjusts to a variable one), sell for more than you paid. Repeat.

The banks were to blame for making this type of loan an option (but I don't believe there were any big-bad loan officers coercing buyers; individual greed was sufficient).

When circumstances made re-selling for profit impossible — for flipper and flopper alike — hundreds of thousands of people were forced to bankrupt their 'Flipper LLC', and/or have their flop foreclosed out from under them. In every case, these homes now belong to banks. And will be re-sold, in the future, for much less than what they previously sold for. This is their 'NEW value'. Since the banks can't sell any of these homes for the previously jacked-up flippers' and floppers' price(s), they will take losses on all those mortgages, which could force them out of business (buying high and selling low is NEVER good business). The government — obviously — can't allow all our banks to fold. Thus, the bail-out.

Vet. single . . . cash

I (we) chose to move to Portland, Oregon, three months ago, on not much more than: gut-instincts, a hope that serendipitous events of yesteryear were precursors not coincidence, and the urgent desire to flee the southwest. This last reason was the strongest.

In '06, chance and circumstances caused us to set ourselves adrift from employment in: Payson, Arizona—where our personal belongings stagnated, along with my creativity. The mean age of the residents in this forested, mountain town were people who were eligible for social security (I'd use the term average age, but it fails to engender the words: vacuous and ill-tempered). This is not to imply that most northern-Arizona elderly are all... ...well, yes it is.

Because, if most Walmart shoes fit most people, and most people will shop at a Walmart if a store is close, then the statement most vacuous and ill-tempered people wear cheap shoes is indubitably correct. Or have I missed a step in my logic?

I suspect, somewhere in the back of my foolishness, that there is something catching in them-there Arizona hills. The only outward sign of being body-snatched was silver hair. As my temples began to turn, I cried, "We need to flee!"

Now, as a citizen of the pacific northwest, I find Portland mentally comfortable for the likes of me. I may have traded-in some sunshine for rain, but it was a small price to get my creativity back.

On the heels of that preamble...I read an article in a Portland newspaper, which surmised that the local homeless population were possibly all members of some collective organization (like in Fritz Lang's film: M). The author said he would be more willing to provide a donation of money if he knew the scruffy guy at the stop light was not part of an organization. This idiot surmised the existence of: vans, schedules, time-clocks, supervisors, and treasury clerks. He figured it was acceptable to give the "vet" (his quotes, meaning he doubted the claim; ...oh, it's such an effective ruse) a sandwich or a bottle of water, but money would certainly only be fueling some addiction. And, he heard there were instances where "beggars" lived in nice homes with families/automobiles (...and two cats in the yard...) and that they "could be making more than the rest of us poor working slobs".

According to the hack's article, the guy holding the cardboard sign at the underpass was either:

• a hobo-first-class cog, in the big Collective Union of Panhandlers (CUP).
• a deceitful addict.
• a wealthy scam artist.

I'm not going to claim anything the "journalist" wrote was untrue, just that everything he said drew no conclusions and made no important observations (nor am I addressing—or attempting to make light of—homelessness or poke fun at pan-handlers).

Someone who asks passers-by for handouts, bothers me because:

• Their temerity and lack of embarrassment, when asking for money, embarrasses me.
• They ask for money in exchange for nothing (I don't think kids should be given an 'allowance', but paying for routine household chores is OK in my book).
• They anger me just like: telemarketers, door to door salesmen, and public-cellphone-shouters do, by disregarding my personal space and intruding into my non-verbally communicated (but clearly understood by society) desire to not interact.

My solution:

• I proactively put a dollar in the hat, or the instrument case, of every street performer I walk past (or the equivalent in foreign currency, outside the US).
• If they take a break, talk to the fuck-tard next to them, or tune strings as I pass, I keep my money (no matter, I heard their music upon approach).
• The music must be performed or sung live, and if they beg (or have someone else) I give nothing.

I think if everyone paid a small amount to street-performers and none to beggars, then eventually the message would spread. Just like, obviously, the word has spread that all recognized CUP members in good standing utilize: corrugated cardboard, black-felt tip marker and poor grammar—no matter if they are a member of the 'honest, self-deprecating' chapter; the 'pity-me' chapter; or the 'most uniquely bizarre' chapter.

When I said I was not going to poke fun a pan-handlers I lied.

Scathing Elves

Am I the only person who prefers an 'American translation' when reading British authors? This is only a book-reading issue. I prefer foreign films in their native languages and have no problem with subtitles—even those of obvious British origin. I also don't have a complaint with any other creative medium or form of communication (e.g. music, theater, poetry, graphic novels, or television programs).

However, when I am engrossed in a book, my brain trips and stumbles every time it crosses a British term. It's not like I can't decipher the meanings. I know if the character is 'going on holiday' she is taking a vacation; that his 'trainers' are running shoes; and that if he is 'going to the loo (or WC)', he's going to the toilet (or restroom). But every time I read the British words, my brain stumbles and it slows down. Then, I recognize I'm reading. Effectively, I exit the story for a brief moment and become aware of the page, the paragraph, the sentence, and my eye moving over words. It may be only a second, sometimes less, but it's enough to ruin a pleasant read if it happens three times a page.

I asked a few people about this and learned not everyone has this problem. I suspect one reason is reading speed. I don't read graphic novels or poetry fast and, therefore, don't stumble on "translations". But, if I become absorbed in a story, I am unaware of my surroundings and lose track of the passage of time (until our hero takes a torch out of her pocket and shines it down into the empty lift-shaft, illuminating a clutch of elves glaring into the light).

Are any British writers re-edited for US Markets (you ask, scathingly)? Yes. The Harry Potter books. They went too far when they changed the title of the first book (from Philosopher's Stone, to Sorcerer's Stone) but that's on the author for allowing it.

The following example (of a jarring British text) is excerpted from pages 133-134 of Steven Hall's novel The Raw Shark Texts (my proposed US-version immediately follows):

I found him by following the flex. The flex from the standing lamp connected to an orange extension lead which connected to a white extension lead which connected to another orange extension lead...

I found him by following the electric cord. The cord from the floor lamp connected to an orange extension cord which connected to a white extension cord which connected to another orange extension cord...

On a slightly different, but similar, note. If a story has been transliterated from another roman (or latin)-based language (e.g. Spanish, German) why are proper nouns not translated? Each time this happens, the same 'hiccup' occurs: I'm jarred out of the story (because I'm being reminded, "Hey, this is a translation. This is not the language of the author.") For obvious reasons, this is never an issue with semantic/phonetic transcriptions of cyrillic or other non-roman-based alphabets.

Year one of my sabbatical

          In March of 06 my paramour Pam, and I, quit work and began a rambling shuffle of job-searching (for her) and camping journey (for us).

          A medium-good memory from that spring:  We were sitting in camp chairs, near the shore of Utah's Sevier River, just after waking (not much energy yet).  The fire was beginning to make warm water for our coffee.  We were facing each other.   Pam's back was to a scrub-bush and tree covered slope.  Movement caught my eye.  I looked up.   A red tailed hawk shot down over-through the brush and trees in a spitting-arc, toward us.

          It opened its wings WIDE in a braking motion.  As it's talons slowly (not slowly at all, this whole thing lasted three-four seconds) reached out from it's body to begin to land on the top of Pam's head....I began to react.  (Oh, how—now—I wish I'd the temerity to remain motionless.)  An intake of breath preceded my facial muscles beginning to squinch (the expression which usually precludes the word 'eww').  My shoulders began to hunch a little and I started to raise my hand (I think, maybe, I was going to point...?)  The hawk's eye-line shifted up from the top of Pam's head (isn't it shit-cream crazy how the incredible eyeball-brain-combo works? This movement of Mister Hawk's head lasted...well...maybe four-tenths of a second, and registered in my head as what it really was: the hawk's recognition of a mistake it was in the extremely rapid process of making.)

          It then saw me...moving.  It's force-trajectory had brought it three feet from Pam.  So close, the talons were no longer visible—blocked from my view by Pam's wonderfully pillow-tousled hair. Pam's sleep-addled brain correctly interpreted my movements as the beginning of a reaction to something I was seeing—and she started to turn.  The hawk's head snapped to the side, and (...exit stage left...) with a burst of wind from it's four-foot wingspan it darted away, out of sight.   My sight.  Pam never saw a feather.  The only proof she had/has, that I didn't make it all up, was/is: she heard the pop-burst of wind, which caused her to duck.

          Every time I retell the story she says, "You would have loved it if that hawk actually landed on me."  I can only reply, "True.  It is, currently, only a medium-good story.  For it to have become a great campfire story, the hawk and you would both have had to lose your collective shit."

          Fall of 06 we began an almost 12,000 mile looping-trek across the US; Arizona to Virgina, up to Maine, further up through Canada, and down through Glacier National Park, Yellowstone, and the Grand Tetons, back to Arizona.  This was also a combined job-hunt/once-in-a-lifetime chance to see-the-sights.  No job landed.  Many sights seen.

          One (of many) notable moments occurred after many weeks in a cramped car, guest rooms, cheap hotels, and camps:  We stopped for the night at Lake Saranac in upstate New York and rented a cottage for one evening (a splurge).  Our hopes were on easing the tensions of our proximity-overload.  We basked in front of a roaring fireplace; soaked in a highly-effective hot tub; ate in a kitchen where Pam made one of our favorite meals; and....received some cat love.  We were missing ours.   A cabin cat showed up, came in, and snuggled.  To top off the night—we took a canoe out and paddled into the moonlight with the shore lights gleaming off the water.

(to be continued?)

Return!

Hello? I am in the process of returning to the mix. This feels like the right time for me to try. Although only a small part of me is peeking out,

more of me will be coming back ... soon.

I, actually, continued to peruse my favorite bloggers over the last two and a half years. At one point Davecat called me on it, but I diligently remained a mute specter.

It has been 30+ months since I turned this canvas to the wall, and much has changed since the Spring of '06 (details should, soon, be a-trickling), but I have continued to follow and love:

Boobs, Injuries, and Dr. Pepper;
Safe-T-Inspector and Arthbard (nee: Safe T Inspector);
Little Black Duck (nee: The Diner at Penda's Relm);
The Seventh Notebook (nee: Laughing Sky);
and Shouting to Hear the Echoes.

Ciao

Difficult Index - pen/ink - 2001

I have--finally--come to terms with my non-writing and non-creativeness. Because my time, schedule, art, and mindset has red-shifted one step towards my past and skip-jumped over 'love to, want to do' into 'would like to accomplish this year' (combined with a sickness that has all but kept me in bed for almost a full month now) I have decided to turn this canvas to the wall.
I may return; I may not. My desire/urge to create constantly, mentally, crashes into my definite inability and causes significant stressors. Therefore, I close this creative outlet for an indefinite period.
Thanks to all who helped me through the previous sixteen months of blogging; I miss you all. Good-bye.

Shirtblog

They claim to send a meta crawler into your entire site, select words from your blog that you use, and will print it on a shirt of your choosing.

This is the preview for snapperhead:

Not A Post

This non-post, is merely to whisper that 'rumors of my death are exaggerated' and affirm that I still have a blogging pulse. I still read all your stuff (even the not so funny stuff about 27"; the wonderful news about BOUND and being published in it; the great news about the 1st film audition; or the right-on post about 'introverted and not being a loser') but I'm rarely commenting to save time since...as some of you may know...to attempt to post at all when using a hand-cranking dial-up modem that is so slow it can take minutes to build one page, well, that's just not gonna happen much. Improvements are on the horizon. New computer with Wi-Fi and all the cable modem/router that I can eat.

Until then. Know that I read (and really believe SafeT is a deranged hairball just waiting to be vurped back down to the planet Urfmaqlia)... that I miss the writing and DigRends as I had it a couple months ago,...and plan to have it back. Eventually/soon/notsoonenough.

Arrrrgh!

I've still not connected. Feck (to borrow a phraze from davecat) I hate not having a computer set-up. I suspect it will still be weeks until the boxes are unpacked and I am settled and the internet is up. THIS SABBATICAL IS TOO LONG AND I MISS BLOGGING (but I certainly can't write and create with the pub lick peeping over my shoulder).

Until I get settled, know that I miss you all.

Flux

Although my respite is over, I am now without proper internet access. I find that I'm not one who easily creates digital renderings or writes in an internet cafe setting. Also, I don't usually write diary entries, because explaining my cat's cuteness or complaining about my absolutely fucked new haircut, just doesn't seem to be my cuppa (which--of course--doesn't mean I don't want the chuckle reading about you and yours).

So. Here I sit with my back to the public, writing a "what I did over winter solstice" piece.

Between the last day I wrote (15 Dec) and today (4 Jan) I accomplished the following:
- rented a 20' x 8' x 8.5' POD-type container.
- emptied a 1600sqft house (with help from my paramour with the 2-person lift shit).
- loaded POD from floor to roof, wall-to-door. Solid. Should have gotten the 24'. I asked for the 24' but the salesman said a 20' would be more than enough for the small house we have. That fuck should have taken my extra 45$ and shut up.
- cleaned said house, painted a couple walls, manicured lawn and garden and pool (this sentence makes it all sound so quick and easy...it should be 4 pages long...it should contain many words like back-breaking and heavy, and difficult, and fraught-with-complications which were unforseen [which is redundant because are any complications forseen, ever?] and so forth until the sheer weight of the words makes the reader tired).
- loaded, compacted, and prepped for transport my 5th wheel RV.
- had same towed out of the Sonoran Desert and into the forest. It had 40# of pressure in all six tires; should have had 80#. So I convinced the dude (who looked like Dennis Hopper) to pull into a truck stop to get air. At 50 cents for 3 minutes of air--over $1 per tire, a total of $7.50, and 40 minutes later--with the skin pulled away from under two finger nails, I got all 6 tires full. The only way it could have been harder, is if I pumped the tires with a hand-pump.
- began work as 'handyman veach' (10$/hr) at a quaint motel in the forested mountains, where my paramour is now the manager.
- set-up the 5th wheel and prepped for winter use.

All our shit is still in the front yard, in that POD. The apartment is still being rennovated, painted, recarpeted and re-everythinged. My bike is buried in the pile so I can't ride. My back and legs are sore. My fingers are dry and chapped. And I couldn't be happier. I go to sleep every night with a smile on my face and in my heart. I am no longer going to have 115 degree summer heat. I might get to hike in the snow this month or next. I will golf in the forest soon.

I wish to thank all who wrote or sent e-cards over the solstice season. I had hoped to jump back into posting with a vengence, but that will have to wait until I can get unpacked and seated at my own keyboard. Nonetheless. I am back.

November's 21 thru 30

back-forward to this story's previous 1000 words

back-forward to this story's beginning

	After three seconds it stops. Just like on the pier: I have no sense of touch. Need to leave! Watching each of my movements with care, I board an empty elevator. All feeling returns as I cross the lobby. Finally! Other than a man in a blue smock approaching, there is no hubbub. He says, “Mijnheer...?” I stop. “Umm, Lorber.” He hands me a paperback-sized screen and says, “de vorm seven-aught-eight-four-two-four, double-three.” I read, declare myself a non-compensated suicide facilitator, and sign with a stylus. I hand the computer back and walk out the front doors. One-sleeve’s husk is gone.
	Guess I should think of him as Fred Lindquist; his name, on the form. I watch two men in protective clothing with tanks on their backs rinse the pavement. I use the V-Sat, wait, and get in when the car arrives. Circling the block, I remove the pistol from under the front seat and zip it into an inside jacket pocket. The biohazard-men are gone when I pick up Holly. “Did you hear the alarm earlier?” she asks. “Yes.” “The briefer told us it’s to warn pedestrians that someone is jumping off the roof. They get a couple a day.”
	I say, “tell me about it,” and watch her beautiful profile as she talks. Mission is, now, almost fleshed-out. …web-word spreads about ‘new-best’ everything: woman-in-red to visit, methods, places for a last meal... How to best utilize a question? …compensation for lost revenue if an establishment temporarily becomes a ‘lemming cliff’… Ohura interrupts: construction – 32-kilometer detour – or select manual.. “Manual,” I reply. “What?” Ish’s last expression (of ‘unbranded carrier’ fear)—crosses Holly’s face. “You ever control a sled?” “Yes. Dan Ryan during Chicago rush hour.” I say as the accelerator presses my foot and steering responds to my fingertips.
	“Oh,” she says, relaxing and turning her attention to the in-dash screen. “I forget you’re American.” Maneuvering irregular roadway sections bordering a site containing several building-top cranes, I indicate with my chin, “unfamiliar with this.” “The epicenter, I think,” she replies. “I’ve got our kiosk results, but don’t read until you’re off manual.” Once available, I return to handicap automatic. Glancing toward the screen, Holly’s body posture grabs my attention. She kisses me; soft lips with a flick of tongue. I kiss back. Honeysuckle fills my nose and a left eye as green as a four-leaf clover fills my vision.
	After reading our negative results—which reflects Joe has not been tested since arriving two years ago, all but confirming his virginity—the car stops and we escape the drizzle under an awning. “Never been to this part of town, where are we headed?” she asks. “A few blocks east of the Internationaal Instituut…ahh, over there.” I point across the street at a pedestrian walkway. We hold hands. In the afternoon, with no reflected blaze of artificial lights, the massive mirror-and-chrome block looks less imposing. Holly chooses the pizza and beer joint—Best of Both Worlds—with no coaching.
	While selecting a table, an intoxicated, mustachioed-man—shorter than me by a few inches, lighter by a few kilos, and younger by several hundred years—bolts from the back and almost knocks us down. To prevent the collision, I hip-check him into an empty table, spilling most of my beer. As he climbs upright, I estimate the placement of a nonfatal windpipe-crushing blow. In gutter-French he stammers, “Feckin bitch-all-worthless highn’-mighty, dre-serve to die. Filth-cunt!” Spittle froths in the corners of his mouth. Silently, two waiters manhandle him away while a third apologetically brings me a fresh drink. Holly pales.
	“Just a drunk and he is gone,” I say. With strong shock behind her eyes and over-filling her voice, she says, “we dated. Martin-something. Haven’t seen him in years. Never did anything ‘cause he always refused a joint test and, instead, showed me dodgy private print-outs.” Her coincidence not mine. Nonetheless, I nudge the pistol. After four beers and a pizza, Holly appears relaxed. We dance a few songs. During Neunundneunzig Luftballoons the lights grow blurry streamers. Maybe just the beer? Colors fade away. No such luck. Vision closes in; disappears to gray. I pull her close and slow dance.
	I savor soft kisses through two more songs. Did I overlook a signal? A waiter or busboy? Slipping Holly my wallet, I tell her to pay and meet me out front. By memory, I work my way to the WC. Empty. I piss and wash without interruption. Through a side service door, I sidle in the direction of crowd noises. At the corner, near knee height, I hear the squeak of someone twist-molding a balloon and muttering in French: ‘fuck-cunt-fuck-cunt’. I smell honeysuckle. With the barrel in contact with a sweaty mustachioed skull, the retort is muffled to door-slam proportions.
	My vision snaps into focus on a crimson splash of hair-brains on the silver building. I pick up my wallet and help Holly to her feet. Choking, she stumbles over Martin-something’s torso. I lead us through the crowd. Lösch’s guidance about Gendarmerie abilities causes me to cross the street and, after two blocks, wait for a bus-train where Holly vomits in a trash receptacle. After fifteen minutes, we get off and she gasps through tears, “you saved me, Joe.” I shush, hold her, and stroke her hair while waiting in a turnout for the car. It begins to rain. Hard.
	After instructing Ohura I say, “if you can, I would like to know more.” I hug her and stare through the windshield. She whispers, “he was waiting. Flying one-ought-five or something, not just drunk. I said he confused me with someone else. Then I ran. He grabbed me. I could see the shadows of people passing; none helped.” “Was he a carrier?” One down. “Wrong skin and he’d be dead already; maybe, hiding his identity? I mistakenly heard, ‘mighty oak’s never confused,’ but it was really: ‘Marty Oak’. Before—he was Ballard. I remember now.” Oak, in Spanish, is Roble.

To Be Continued (maybe, someday)