s n a p p e r h e a d

Keeper Alert: The Constant Gardner

The Constant Gardener (2005) directed by Fernando Meirelles (City of God, 2002); starring Ralph Fiennes and Rachel Weisz: Snaprating=Keeper, PROBLEM theme (secondary Milieu theme). Fans of suspenseful romantic mysteries will love this wonderfully directed, edited, and acted amalgamation of Tears of the Sun, Beyond Borders, and The Bourne Supremacy.

Counterfeit Paper: A Valuable Teaching Tool

If I were to teach an upper-level college writing class, I’d use this counterfeit book: The Earth Abides, by George R. Stewart, as the foundation for my semester.

Just as secret service agents need real, expertly crafted, counterfeit bills removed from circulation and brought into their classroom to learn how to identify bad paper, every writer needs a counterfeit novel which made it into circulation and received praise. Through deconstruction of this book, I could teach almost everything writers shouldn’t do.

Hundreds of places the author could have ‘shown us’ with suspense, but instead ‘tells us’ with weak boring sentences. For example, this is all we are told about our main character being attacked by a mountain lion:

...In the end there was bad luck, because Ish missed his shot and instead of killing a lion merely raked it across the shoulders, and it charged and mauled him before Ezra could get another shot home. After that he walked with a little limp...

And this, I believe, is the author’s failed attempt at suspense, which results in confusion (I’ve omitted nothing):

...one question, he knew, that they had not yet faced, and now she brought it forward.
“That would be fine!” she said.
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, it would.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You mean you don’t like it for me?”
“Yes. It’s dangerous. There’d be no one else but me, and I wouldn’t be any use.”
“But you can read—all the books.”
“Books!” he laughed a little as he spoke. “The Practical Midwife?"...

The first sentence was probably supposed to read: …and now he brought it forward… But even without the typo, this is not only horrible dialogue (in a book desperately short on dialogue) as well as massive misuse of exclamation points (three times on every page minimum!) but an example of the authors incessant self-censorship and avoidance of certain words and descriptions. He avoids reference to human intercourse, birth, death, pain, anger, hatred, bigotry and bloodshed. In a story detailing a handful of human survivors in 1949 California after a planet-wide plague—avoiding those topics (or glossing over them) becomes a herd of white dinosaurs in the room.

There are thousands of poorly constructed sentences (like this one, which contains a large word-proximity hiccup):

…He began to temporize, just as he used to do when he said that he had a great deal of work to do and so buried himself in a book instead of going to a dance.

Factual errors, which could have been avoided with a small amount of research, are prevalent (here are two):

…batteries with the acid not yet in them...they made the experiment of pouring the acid into a battery…put it into the station-wagon. It worked perfectly… (I guess in 1949, putting battery acid in the battery charged it too!){I comment-learned this is an accurate depiction of mid-20th century batteries.}
…The clock was run, he knew, by electrical impulses which were ordinarily timed at sixty to the minute. Now they must be coming less often… (AC power is 60 pulses per second).

This book contains a main character and dozens of secondary characters we never grow to care about. On almost every page a situation unfolds which could be easily re-written to involve the reader in the action, infuse the character(s) with depth and emotion(s), or add suspense to the plot. Instead, the story centers around an emotionally dead man who preaches to a bland cast of less-than-ordinary idiots about their failure to reach for a fraction of their potential, while he wallows in an uncomfortable rut and never lifts a finger to attain any of his own potential.

Aspiring writers and educators should use this counterfeit paper, available for less than the price of a cup of coffee at used bookstores, as a valuable learning/teaching tool. In a time when there are so many books filled with examples of great writing—it's nice to have something chock-full of such a concentrated and vast range of terrible, boring, writing to weight down the other end of the scale.

{I comment-learned, that opinions are like ...✴... and that many people are adamant theirs smells like daffodils in spring. Mine smells the same as yours; but it's at the top of the ★☆☆☆☆ reviews on Goodreads because it must have passed a thumb test 👍 or three.}

read people who disagree:

Wonderful Comment From Mr Lumpy Dirtball

Improve yer ogling skillz

Yes, it is puerile. I know; it's not—at all—a valuable asset. I'm equally surprised that I was even remotely interested enough to play it several times...until I won....with 10 seconds to spare.
So, I also know you won't want to try it here.

Book Recommendation: Common Nonsense

I can take five minutes of Andy Rooney and not be too bothered by his crotchety befuddlement. These 150+ essays, however, are redundantly crammed with balderdash and misspellings (which made it through spell-check, but were—obviously—never eyeballed). One strikingly obtuse slice of balderdash, which he repeats at least twice: ...more people are alive today than all the people who ever lived..., caused me to become a fact-checker. I found some plausable semi-science by using the keywords: number-of-people-who-have-ever-lived. The results indicated that maybe 100 billion+ have been born in the last 50,000 years. The current world population is less than 6% of the people ever born, Mr Rooney.
These blog-like essays wouldn’t bother me if they were posted in a free web journal (and may even receive my applause) but compile them in a book and I expect editors, fact-checkers, and publishers have earned their percentages. Not true, here.
If someone gives you this book for free (I’m re-gifting mine) stick it next to your toilet. It’s not worth buying, but a couple of the essays will maybe pass the time while you take a dump.

August's 21 thru 31

	aware of th' measure—yea, I did things think o’ yer pleasure—'n cat gut strings tomorrow’s rose pink; Friday may be toooo new for a blazin' visibly different taste certainly I examine—the sound brings wild familiar famine—your voice sings of sorrow pour que; Friday may be toooo true a sound you’d hate to waste restrain celebration—hoop ear rings change th' station—grow punkin wings borrowed foam spray; Friday may be toooo blue for mohawk, shave my face Two fingers in th' pie, Three quail—the sky, Just so ya know why, freckles won’t cry, on Friiiiii-day.
	Children and teenagers are insane. Failing to interpret gray areas when things are not clear-cut right or wrong, a child sees only black and white situations. To stab someone is wrong, to hug them is right; unfortunately people’s indifference registers as punishment because it isn’t praise. Begin the correction process! Tell him, "I’ll never care about anything in your videogame world, ever." And tell her, "Repeating all your melodramatic 'she said’s' bores me." Teach children that the vast majority of their accomplishments fall somewhere between what you ate for lunch and what the DJ talked about during your morning commute.
	Slow blink. A colorful left eye. Iris contracted. Visible toward the bottom of the frame, almost in profile, it focuses up and beyond, over the stark nose’s bridge. Centered above the eye, the fast sloping skin of the nose tapers from the lower-left up to an angular arc of brow. Quite a few dark eyebrow hairs are visible at the top. Above the swoosh of nose is a distant, unfocused, background of bright peacefulness. The eyelid lowers. Slowly. The head descends within the frame. Pauses. A youth-tightened eyelid’s wrinkles, clean and shallow, open to reveal a complete lack of make-up.
	I have difficulty empathizing with anyone who professes to have Coulrophobia. I understand being afraid of heights; fall off a building—you could die. I sympathize with a fear of sharks; even those who eat little fish, because big teeth can maybe mean dead. Spiders? OK, some are poisonous. (Aren’t all these just fear of pain?) But, a fear of clowns...Jesus tap-dancing Christ! If you are incapable of rationally identifying a person wearing makeup and a costume, then you chose your fear, want this phobia, and—like any addict—must be getting something out of your ridiculous, Bozo fear.
	Either you’re the most beautiful-ugly, mouth-breathing, genius on the unpleasant side of the lake, or you’re a raven out of the tarry night: claws firmly gripped in a dead fetus buried in the landfill. You are a killer whale swimming into a pride of sea lions, hunting in the open; I’m ice fishing. Just collecting letters between people attempting to move from internet to phone to meeting—each ending when Durden Tyler tells enough 'truth' to make them avoid being hit by a onrushing VW, like crows fleeing fresh road kill. Two crows fled...care to land on the squirrel?
	I’m glad your money pit is still making you both happy (a gouging contractor is a learning experience — much like a kitchen ghost). I can’t recall the space over your garage; in fact, envisioning where the door will be installed, for the room you’re making, is not possible. Left-top of the stairs, I draw a blank. To the right of your beautiful wooden staircase I picture: guest room, hallway around it, and your bedroom; but my neurons failed to save images to the left. Funny, I recall your entire Brady Bunch house including bomb-shelter, loud walls, and mandatory nose icicles.
	Puffy writing—riddled with phrases skittering tangentially along the periphery of the direct object, blurring a sentence’s focus, (interesting, at times, in an esoteric rhetorician’s way) and intentionally luring the reader away from the message that eventually, hopefully, every sentence reaches—stymies objective thought, enjoyable reading, and informative communication. Like a ladle-full of recently consumed alphabet soup vomited in your lap, it can be tolerated and forgiven...once. A continuous and never-ending torrent of vomit in your lap becomes inexcusable after a very short period. Say, five seconds...maybe ten at the outside. Puffy writing is bad writing. Nuff said.
	Stranded in Maine while her husband was at sea in submarines, she had no friends and didn’t ask anyone how to care for you. Her family thought she was a fool to marry and get pregnant, so they didn’t talk. She thought you could survive on formula, so that’s all she fed you until you were almost a year. You cried and cried; she gave you bottle after bottle. You never stopped crying. She was a strongly stupid woman. Your first checkup, the doctor said: "He should have been on solid food for months". Now it’s labeled under 'cradle scars'.
	"The feces created when ignorance eats too much blind devotion" — is the best label I can compose for a wedding without a prenuptial agreement. Still insist on going ahead without one? Please be kind enough to remember my scorn once you stop referring to each other by unbearably cute, food-based nicknames and half of your earnings, as well as a sizeable chunk of your future pension, becomes sole property of the third party — formerly known as: sweet cakes. Yes, it is as unromantic as applying pre-sex foam and condoms; but even Herpes doesn’t take 25% out of every pre-death dollar.
	“If someone took money out of my wallet without permission — what should I do: punish him, or give him a second chance?” “Ummm...” I could almost hear his confabulation slamming against the damned-if-I-do and fucked-if-I-don’t. I almost laughed. “Doesn’t matter, now. You just admitted to it.” “No, I...” “It would be immeasurably stupid to blame your brother. After failing the question, don’t compound it by lying.” “But, I...” “The only words that might improve your position are: ‘sorry for taking your money and I won’t do it again.’ “Sorry for taking the money. I won’t do it ever again.”
	Self-awareness is anchored on a full container’s ability to pre-decide how it’s eventual empty self should be disposed. Some opt to become vulture shit. Others choose reduction to ash. Many are pickled, packed, and wrapped in lead-lined concrete before being buried below the frost. The decision is, ultimately, the only act of importance. Since every container’s actual choice matters less than the color of it’s undergarments and quality of it’s last dessert — I wish to become fish food. Weight my container and sink it deep. If cost is prohibitive: cremate, and drop the urn in any available ocean or sea.

A Quick and Dirty IQ Test

August's 11 thru 20

	I am not a very warm and loving person. I sometimes wish knowing this was enough to jump-start the hearth and make me gregarious, extroverted, and charismatic. Instead, I look at this person who I am, and feel contentment with what I see. I am not unhappy with this me. I enjoy being alone with hours of solitude. I write, edit, and plan future stories — all for me. I also read to expand my knowledge about, largely, useless and trivial things (to those who are not planning to incorporate it into a plot at some time, if the occasion arises).
	In more complicated times of simplicity our intelligentsia claimed we (on a flat earth) were infected with pox because of our sins. People traveled among us and struck themselves. Chanting about crimes against their deity, they scarred their skin, got paid, and headed to the next village to reopen their backs for some dinner. Were your distant relatives the soon to be survivors who merely watched, or were your great-grand-parents(x5) flagellants? Neither may have been foolishly pious — both may have been capitalizing on the plague by watching, or working in, a traveling road show; reality television for the middle ages.
	I hate consumer-oriented gifts. I’m a bad gift receiver. If you never sent me another tangible item, I would not think less of you, I’d think more of you: I’d say—with confidence—you understand my reasons for not exchanging gifts and being less of a consumer. The best gift I ever got was a hand-made drawing. My mother is the same. I sent her seven DVDs to show her sick and injured neighbors and whatnot. I got a curt, "no-thanks for all the junk mail I’m going to get because of this unwanted gift." I have been taught well.
	I stared at the large window in the back wall as I entered. The view was amazing. Wood flooring and all-weather furniture lent the room an open-to-nature feel. I walked to the corner of the window and bent down. The frame met with the metal bulkhead cleanly; no visible depth. A window made of azlocrilic would need a two-inch thick frame. "Something wrong?" Derek asked from behind me. Either Derek assumed anyone who could pull their focus away from the view must have discovered something wrong, or, the view was exacerbating some phobia of his. "It’s a screen." I said.
	"See?" My voice and legs raised me from the floor. We were now eye-level. "Yes. Not all secrets are to be kept." His mocking tone and threatening eyes coagulated his desire to see me kneeling or prostate. Never a convincing beggar or worshipper, I—instead—inhaled and jutted out my chest. "Did you expect to be alone in achieving your fulfillment?" "No." He started. His accusing finger poised before my nose. "But operating from your own rulebook, my sweet, brings about some nasty consequences." He leaned close. His attempt at imposing intimidation almost made me smirk. "Fear isn’t a tool."
	Shelby blinked. One dollar would have been fine. Perhaps he'd hoped to win one hundred dollars, tops. He could have gotten away with that, sure. But, as he sat fixed in his father's recliner, Lay's Potato Chip crumbs strewn from his skinny thighs to the corner of his limp lips, his right hand still clutching that shiny little card, he knew that he'd won much more than a C-note. The funny man on the small, glowing, screen repeated the winning numbers: "01-25-15-31-03-19-37." Shelby sat in stunned silence as the announcer signed off and commercials flashed before his widening eyes. Jackpot.
	Yesterday. Twenty-one years ago. Assigned to the 1st Battalion, 31st Infantry (Mechanized), from Camp Howze, Korea; living and working in a GP Large tent, located adjacent the DMZ on Camp Liberty Bell. Our patrol engaged one of theirs last week. Although no American was seriously wounded, we’re all on edge. The intelligent mosquitoes are insidious. A commo guy shot himself thru the head. He didn’t die. Our camo-nets provide a small amount of shade, but we’re still cooked by the heat of the sand. My son, whom I named after the James Bond author, was born. Yesterday. Twenty-one years ago.
	Design the perfect breast using only foodstuffs: First, take half of a Florida grapefruit; one that is just a slight bit larger than your average orange, would be preferred. Then take a miniature vanilla wafer; the ones which are about the size of a quarter...just a smooth little cookie...and place it slightly higher than the equatorial center of the fruit, towards the top of it — glued to the wall — so when you see it from straight on, it looks up at you. Finally, stick one of those little pink sour-sweet Smartie candies in the middle of that cookie.
	Not only breach but breach cesarean, I refused to turn around and start the dive. I must have grown accustomed to living in those warm confines for nine and a half months and lost all intention of standing on my head until the doctors figured out what I’d already discovered: there was no way I was getting my big ass through that little opening. So, I waited for them to come in and get me. Oh Yea. Two weeks late and never did a headstand. I was, and still am, an obstinate fuck (and have never liked being upside down).
	Unfortunately many people (parents are people first) do not accept things outside their radar. The same people who scorn television hatred—done to strangers by strangers—hurt their families and members of their communities with the exact same hatred. An Amish family cuts their children off like dead branches because they never returned after rumschpringe; a Jewish mother tears her clothing because a goy impregnated her daughter; parents excommunicate their son because his sexual orientation differs from theirs...in all cases, the reasons can be distilled down to: fear of the ‘unknown’ and the ‘different’ beyond the ring of firelight.