|  |
 |
| 2008-12-30 15:50 |
| Gone |
| Public |
|
I need to take care of some things, so I won't be posting here for a good long while. If you need to get in touch with me, you can do so by visiting my web site.
Take care, and happy holidays. :)
Post A Comment | Add to Memories | Tell a Friend | Link
|
| 2008-12-10 00:15 |
| Red Bull Gives You Broken Wings |
| Public |
| bizarro, blogfic, ernie, eva, jan, smn, supermeganet, theo, thrailkill, webdrama, webisode |
|
Word has it there's a new SuperMegaNet episode posted over at my Web site: It’s not like you don’t know any better. I mean, you installed the SMN client on your computer. You don’t install a social networking program unless you intend to network, right? Right. So don’t get your panties in a knot when someone new drops by. That’s what’s going through my mind as I materialize in amber268’s bedroom, as she looks at me and screams, drops her hair brush. I’ve brought a box of SnackWell’s with me as a gift, but she doesn’t seem to care as she backs away from her computer and stands holding her towel around herself. It seems I’ve caught her just out of the shower. Read the full post here:
http://www.jessture.com/?p=694 Happy December. :)
Post A Comment | Add to Memories | Tell a Friend | Link
|
| 2008-11-30 18:04 |
| Between the Chapters: An Interview with the SuperMegaNet Cast |
| Public |
| blogfic, ernie, eva, interview, jan, smn, supermeganet, theo, thrailkill, webdrama, webisode |
|
Theo, Ernest, Jan, and Eva. They’re the latest literary darlings to hit the blogosphere, the core of Jesse Gordon’s new SuperMegaNet series—and they’ve taken a few moments out of their busy schedule to talk about SuperMegaNet, jockettes, and life in general. What is SuperMegaNet all about? Theo: Well, a lot of things. Ernest: Good answer. Jan: Yes, very concise. Theo (glaring): Hey, lay off. What I mean is, SMN—that’s short for SuperMegaNet— Ernest: Duh. Theo: —isn’t about any one thing. Sure, there’s the back story about four kids who get tangled up in each other’s lives after installing a beta program on their computer. The first few episodes set this up, but after that it’s kind of more about life in general. The SMN thing is just the springboard on which Jesse presents his ideas regarding life and technology. Ernest: It’s also an excuse to shit on us as much as possible. Eva (nodding): Jesse likes to embarrass his characters. Look at anything he’s done and you’ll find a naked person somewhere along the way—though I suspect he’ll keep us in our undies since we are playing 12-year-olds. Jan, you’ve already had two underwear scenes, correct? Jan: Yes. The first time was when I was downloading into Theo’s room and Ernie decided to prank me. The second was when I was sleeping and Eva kind of spied on me. Was it embarrassing? Jan: Oh, very. In situations like that I just keep reminding myself that it’s fiction. The SMN ensemble has made it through five episodes and one “spacer”. Do you think you’ll make it to ten? Twenty? Ernest: Reader response has been abysmal so far. Clickheads, the last blogfic I worked on, was an instant hit because you knew what it was all about from episode one. The writers did that on purpose—they knew how to get the most out of their online readers’ brief attention spans. SMN is like, “Whatever, whenever.” I think that’s the official tagline, too. Five episodes in and even I’m wondering where the hell it’s going. To be honest, I don’t think we’ll make it past episode six. Jesse is known for not finishing what he starts. But I’m there for him until he calls it quits. And if this thing works out, it could be really cool. Is it safe to say you’re a pessimist? Ernest: I’m a realist. People often mistake that for pessimism. What’s it like being professional characters? Eva: You never know what’s next. One day you might get a call to play a 40-year-old housewife, the next they want you to be a middle-schooler. You have to dye your hair, or you have to gain weight, or lose weight, or regress age-wise—or go forward 20 years. It just depends. Ernest: I did some work for Terry Pratchett years ago, and I’ve become typecast as the fat kid ever since, though sometimes I get to play characters that don’t “wobble,” if you get my drift. Jan, you too have done this sort of thing before, haven’t you? Jan: Yes. I played the part of John in Heroes’ Day. Also by Jesse Gordon. Jan: Yeah. I guess he liked what I did, and so he asked me back for SuperMegaNet. What was Heroes’ Day like? Jan: It was tricky. They wanted me to be sort of the tall, dark, and handsome boy. I had to be smooth, but I had to be uncertain as well. I also had to work out a lot—I had to look like a gymnast. I did a lot of my own stunts, and all of my own accidents (laughs). But I got to kiss the main character, Monica, so it wasn’t all bad. Can you give an insight as to what’s in store for SuperMegaNet 1.6 and beyond? Theo: New characters will be introduced—Jack SQL, for one. He’s a kind of disembodied AI that’s part of the SuperMegaServer. And some leftovers from Heroes’ Day who’ll be playing Eva’s so-called “jockette” friends. Ernest: I hate jockettes. Oh? Ernest: They’re too cocky. All that training and competing—they don’t know how to turn it off when they’re hanging with you at the pizza joint. Theo: Do jockettes even go to pizza joints? Eva: No, they stick to Jamba Juice. Ernest, does your apathy in this area affect your on-page relationship with Eva? Ernest: No. Eva’s a jockette, but she’s cool with us. Summer, her best friend, is the overbearing know-it-all. When will we meet her? Ernest: Never, with any luck. SuperMegaNet deals a lot with cyber life. How computer-savvy are you? Ernest: Theo’s actually a geek, no shit. He’s got this laptop bag he carries around with him. Between blog entries he plays MMORPGs. Jesse decided to use his actual screen name for the series. Which is? Theo: l33t_master. Eva (snickering): He reads a lot of Megatokyo. Jan: He thinks he’s l33t. Do readers have to be l33t in order to “get” SuperMegaNet? Ernest: Not at all. As Theo hinted, it’s really just about four kids growing up together in an unusual way and working through their problems. Theo’s got insomnia issues, and his mother is a tree-hugger—and his dad is Chinese. His mother is Russian. Me, I’m battling with obesity. Eva has a crush on Jan, but he’s clueless. And so forth. Sum up SuperMegaNet in one word. Ernest: Super. Theo: Mega. Eva: Um…net? (laughs) Jan: Damn. You guys took all the cool words.
Post A Comment | Add to Memories | Tell a Friend | Link
|
| 2008-11-21 00:29 |
| Sheep, Wolves, and $35 Movie Tickets |
| Public |
| anthology, bizarro, cinemas, class, collection, gold, jeremy, movies, sheep, shipp, stories, theater, theatre, wolves |
|
From the OC Register: 
What do you think? Would you pay extra to be waited on hand and foot while you watch Saw XII? Or is the experience something you and your significant other can replicate at home in front of your wide-screen plasma TV and Blu-ray player? Personally, I’d only give Gold Class a shot if I could take off my shoes and pants…and possibly set up a box fan near my feet. Jeremy Shipp sent me a copy of his new anthology, Sheep and Wolves (I last reviewed Jeremy’s work here). The cover is misleadingly benign. Jeremy loves to gross you out, and he will happily do so if you open this book and read more than the copyright / acknowledgments page. For the most part, the stories are abstract, disjointed, surreal—absurd. It’s part of Raw Dog Screaming’s sinister plot for world domination, one unsuspecting reader at a time. This is not your typical horror, nor is it your typical dark fiction. This is serious mental illness on behalf of Jeremy’s characters: neurosis, hysteria, dementia—rotten people with rotten problems that can only be solved in the most unorthodox ways. People piss themselves, shit themselves, vomit every chance they get. These are physical metaphors for decaying souls trapped in various mutilated worlds. I went down the same road with “Node” (aka: “The Path Between”) and decided it wasn’t something I wanted to repeat. Jeremy, however, has learned to make his characters flourish in the grout. It’s intriguing and it’s disturbing. Overall, Sheep and Wolves left me with an odd taste in my mouth. The whole thing was like a Salad Fingers reel. In fact, I daresay Jeremy Shipp and David Firth should collaborate. It would be one hell of a trip.
|
|
Oh! A new Star Trek trailer has been posted online: 
Analysis: there’s not much to go on but a short collection of sensationalistic clips—and the sneaky feeling that the franchise is trying to compete in the summer action flick arena. This could work. And maybe it can’t. If the lines are brief and disjointed like those in Quantum of Solace, then I will indeed be disappointed (two-thirds of the Star Trek charm is the hefty use of detailed dialog). But I suppose it’s the way things must go. Such is what current audiences have grown “accustomed” to, and that’s what movie execs demand. We live in a post-Revenge of the Sith world, so the pristine, intellectual, slow-build story lines present in the original Star Trek series, Star Trek: The Next Generation, and the first few seasons of Deep Space Nine won’t work unless broken down and spread between flashy action sequences. That being said, I’m still going to be there, front and center, when the thing hits the screen. I have to. Simon Pegg is playing Scotty. And even though it’ll be more Star Wars than Star Trek, I think I’m going to have a good time because I know that no matter how awesome or how abysmal Star Trek: 2009 is, I can always go home afterward and fire up TOS on my DVD player. Fiack yeah.
|
|
Anyone who’s visited my site throughout the years knows that in the mid-1990s I decided to throw my life away and become a fiction writer—all because of Piers Anthony’s Phthor. Anthony’s wild, untamed underworld (ruled by a headstrong kid close to my age at the time) opened the door to the Xanth series, which opened the portal to the Adept series, which…well, you get it. Recently, I stumbled upon an artist (Rezo Kaishauri) who actually managed to depict visually what Anthony’s prose conveyed: 
And Kaishauri doesn’t stick to rendering deviant nudists running around in dank caverns, either. His Web site showcases a hefty body of work, surmised by this quite-appropriate welcome message: Surrealism is not the way you live, act or feel. It’s the way you dream. We, who call ourselves ’surrealists’, are marked by the Lord himself with a slightest touch of insanity. Creative insanity that is, granting the freedom to transform reality, to reach beyond visible, and to display the possibility of impossible. My personal goal, as a surrealist, is to represent the unreality with maximum reality, trying to make you believe in what you see. This is what Salvador Dali did the best.
Indeed, much of Kaishauri’s work has a Dali-esque slant to it, which leads me to believe that while surrealism’s l33t master may have passed on, his pupils are surely and steadily filling the void. I look forward to more.
|
| 2008-11-15 16:05 |
| Like Night and Day |
| Public |
| brush, ca, california, csuf, fire, fires, linda, photos, pics, pictures, smoke, wildfires, yorba |
|
I took these while walking through my neighborhood around 2:00 PM:   
Pretty scary. I saw the firetrucks racing north along Main, towards Yorba Linda. Supposedly the CSUF area is being evacuated…that’s not too far from here. Needless to say, I have my bags ready. :(
Post A Comment | Add to Memories | Tell a Friend | Link
|
| 2008-11-14 17:29 |
| The Ultimate Crunch |
| Public |
| bed, cheese, colossal, colten, commercial, contest, crunch, doritos, dude, guy, krisondra, man, naked, nude, parody, sean, spoof, superbowl, theatre, video, youtube |
|
Post A Comment | Add to Memories | Tell a Friend | Link
A reader asked me about the various inspirations behind Heroes’ Day, and whether or not any of the book’s characters were based on real athletes. Short answer: no. Long answer: sort of. I like writing about underdog heroes, unlikely heroes. Matters of conflicting opinions rather than simple right vs. wrong. Stories like this one, from the Gymblog site, tend to catch my attention: “They kept telling me that nothing was wrong with my foot,” Ivana said. “I knew what was wrong with it, but I wasn’t going to be like ‘I have a fracture in my foot and I’m not gonna train.’” Fong discouraged Ivana from seeking medical treatment. Against his wishes, Ivana’s mother took her to a doctor, who confirmed she had a fractured ankle. With the Olympics looming, Ivana thought she had no choice but to trudge on.
Ivana Hong seems to me (and this has been mentioned elsewhere before) to be something of a fringe athlete, always in the shadows of the other national team members. In that respect, she was a partial inspiration for Monica and Ivana (yes, I kept the name) in Heroes’ Day. I had a whole subplot regarding the apathetic relationship between Ivana Chang and Darren Hades, but it detracted too much from the main plot, and so I took it out—and in doing so I realized that once again an Ivana was being relegated to stand in the shadows. (Sorry for the melodrama, but there is a reason they call me The Great Exaggerator.) Then there’s the whole beaten-to-death, but still rampant issue of coaches over-taxing their athletes. It really is a fine line separating self-motivation from self-deprecation when one’s coach knows how to twist his words just right. The junior elites and level 10s are more likely (repeat: likely) to step back when they reach their carefully-monitored limits than are the Olympians, who have all but surrendered themselves to that basic paradoxical equation: sacrifice the self for the self, and glory can be yours. Ivana Chang left Olympus when she reached her limit; Monica Sardinia stuck it out—but who emerged the stronger individual? Perhaps both characters reached the same goal via different routes? (Flame bait? What flame bait?)
Post A Comment | Add to Memories | Tell a Friend | Link
|
| 2008-11-14 17:26 |
| PervCon 2002 |
| Public |
| abbey, abby, commercial, doritos, jesse, new, ninfa, olympus, pervcam, perverts, yahoo |
|
Me, Ninfa, and Abby, circa 2002. Why do I always look like I’m about to invade the CSUF women’s locker room? And don’t say it’s because of the shirt…or the hair…or the camera aimed at my crotch… crashthesuperbowl.com is hosting its annual Doritos commercial contest. I’m not sure if I’ll do one this year. As usual, I have the ideas, but not the time. Sean would certainly like to bring back the Godchild, but we haven’t seen him in years. Last I heard he was bar-hopping in Arkansas. Check this out: 
Caught this last night. Looks like Yahoo! is toying with a new layout. Or perhaps it’s the layout that’s toying with Yahoo!
Post A Comment | Add to Memories | Tell a Friend | Link
|
| 2008-11-14 17:25 |
| SuperMegaNet 1.5 – The Morning After |
| Public |
| bizarro, blogfic, ernie, eva, jan, smn, supermeganet, theo, thrailkill, webdrama, webisode |
|
It could have been much worse. I mean, being grouped together with three idiotic boys to collaborate on homework assigned by a foul-mouthed, chain-smoking guidance counselor should have resulted in a total disaster. On any other day in any other town, it would have been a skewered reiteration of the obvious fact that the four of us are “gifted” and in dire need of lives. But we’ve beaten the odds. We’ve bypassed all that is awkward and uncomfortable about the First Day of School—and in a way that has completely changed my regard toward computers. I mean, I’ve heard of Moore’s law, I know the power of modern-day computer circuits is increasing exponentially, but a program that can turn people’s webcams into teleportation devices—that’s genius. Inconceivable. As mind-boggling as it was a hundred years ago to imagine that one day entire symphonies would be stored on cheap plastic discs. SuperMegaNet is that next amazing thing. I don’t know how it works, but it does. I was there. In Theo’s home and, later, in Ernie’s…in Jan’s. And now I’m back at school, blinking in the dim, smoky light of Mrs. Thrailkill’s office as she goes over our questionnaires. My ordinary, mediocre life has become a dream within a dream. I don’t think I mind. I don’t think any of us minds. Each of us is tired, swollen from lack of sleep, but nevertheless beaming as we sit and wait. We’ve gotten to know each other by now, and not just because we finished our paper assignment. That came later, once each of us had finally returned home to get what little sleep there was to be had (I actually scribbled in my answers during breakfast). The real assignment lay in the populating of our respective buddy lists. I filled mine with friends from my old school: Susie, Summer, Maria, and Lily. The SMN “invite” feature let me e-mail each of the girls a copy of the installer. Once they got past the “this is a prank, isn’t it?” phase, they added me, too, and set up dates and places where we could meet in person. Theo did the same with several of his friends; Ernie (I know his name is Ernest, but he’s cool with the nickname—and besides, his maturity level is more “Ernie” than “Ernest”) and Jan followed suit. Oh, Jan. I think of him now, tuning out whatever Mrs. Thrailkill is saying as I recall last night. For a moment I’m back in Theo’s bedroom. We’re all dressed down for the night. Sadly, Jan has put a shirt on. I felt so bad when Ernie pulled his pants down, but I enjoyed it, too. I mean, he really looks good all over, and I’m replaying the memory back in my head every chance I get. The whole night Theo’s being really nice to me, probably because I’m the girl. He seems to have some sort of obligation to put me on a pedestal—it’s flattering and annoying, and I find myself mostly ignoring him, mostly watching Jan. I can do this uninterrupted because Theo’s parents respect his privacy—but he’s a boy. I’m my daddy’s little girl, so I’m always being checked on, my dad sticking his head inside my bedroom at regular intervals and asking me, “How’s my little girl?” I always have to pretend I’m doing homework—it’s a hassle, and I wonder how I’m going to manage my SMN time without getting caught. For now I’m allowing the risks. You’d do the same if you were me. At midnight I tell everyone goodnight, and download myself back home. It feels naughty, like I’m swimming naked in a pool full of ice cubes—not that I’ve ever done anything like that before. And not that I’m a prude either. I have nothing against those old people who run the nudist camp down at Moon River. Swimming naked in a pool filled with ice cubes is merely an approximation. I wouldn’t mind if Jan were with me. I can’t believe what I’m about to do. Surely I’m going to get caught. I don’t even know why I’m doing it, sitting here at the computer in my mind’s eye, physically at school but mentally curled up amongst the dozen or so life-sized The Nightmare Before Christmas dolls that fill my bedroom. I’m watching, waiting for Jan to return home. When he does, I totally feel like a voyeur, for he leaves his webcam on as he shimmies out of his clothes and plops himself into bed. I wait for him to fall asleep before clicking “Visit.” At first I think I’m in a large bedroom, but then I realize it’s a living room—Jan’s room is his parents’ living room. He has a futon tucked beside a small desk, with a dresser acting as a makeshift privacy screen (his parents get the bedroom, I’m guessing). I stand very still; my eyes adjust to the darkness, and I can see him laying sprawled between the sheets, his darling bottom clad in lime-green briefs. My goodness. The Internet has brought out the worst in me. Here I am standing over an almost-naked boy I’ve just met, and yet I’m not caring as I’m imagining him a man, watching him sleep with his arms around his pillow—I’m wishing he was cuddling with me instead. I have to force myself to look away. Go back home, I tell myself. This isn’t right. I can’t budge, though. In the glow of the computer screen I can make out the murky details of Jan’s space. There are dumbbells on the floor beside his backpack. I move closer to the desk and spot a variety of bodybuilding magazines stacked atop a dozen or so black and white printouts of some naked female bodybuilder named Rivieccio. Ernie had made fun of his affinity for Amazonian women, but I think it’s cute. Jan likes his women strong. I’m strong. Not musclebound, but sturdy. I’d always considered my build an unfortunate side effect of being on the wrestling team, but now… My mind merges itself with the present-tense once again. I look at Theo, Ernie, and Jan through the carcinogenic haze of Thrailkill’s office. Everyone looks like hell. It’s been a long night. I don’t know how we’ve managed to get our assignment done. I glance over Ernie’s shoulder; his list on Jan reads: - Czech
- Poor
- Has a girl’s name
- Likes to bone steroids chicks
- Has a shitty DSL connection
That fat-ass. What does he know? Jan is gorgeous. Sure, he’s frizzy, clothes loose-threaded—even his dollar store dye job has made his hair look orange instead of blond—but he’s still gorgeous. I think I’m in love. I shouldn’t feel like this, should I? I’m only twelve. It’s wrong and it’s right and I don’t know what to make of it. “My ex-husband loved Asia,” Thrailkill snorts, bringing me back into focus. “Loved it so much he decided to marry a flight attendant after one weekend in Shanghai.” She glares at Theo. “But it’s not your fault your favorite band chose such a pretentious name.” The euphoria wears off around lunchtime. Part of it is the fact that I’m really starting to feel the effects of last night’s SMN binge, but mostly it’s the dawning audacity of me being a ninth grader. Everyone else is taller than me. The girls have hips, boobs—and boyfriends. Their clothes are too small. I step into the Boca Linda cafeteria and it’s bare midriffs and butt cracks galore. I’m quite out of place in my jogging suit and sneakers. I feel like an uninvited guest at a masquerade party. Walking past the jocks staging arm-wrestling matches with each other, past the nerds playing Nintendo DS, the theater queens rehearsing their lines, past the Goths counting down the minutes until their next act of self-mutilation, past the svelte California boys wearing the form-fitting “I was fucked over by Prop 8” T-shirts, I find my friends. Theo waves to me, makes room for me to sit. We’re no longer on assignment, but we stick together anyway because we know it’s pointless to try to make friends with the older kids—or to sit alone at opposite ends of the cafeteria while brooding over our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. “We must look like fetuses to the others,” Theo says. With peanut butter smearing his chin, Ernie adds, “Or circus freaks.” Jan rests his head on the tabletop. Behind him, at the next table, a group of shaggy senior boys is giving us a “Who are you supposed to be?” kind of look. “Fuck them,” says Ernie. “Let them smoke their cigarettes and feel each other up between class—we don’t need them. We’ve got SuperMegaNet.” It’s a silly thing to say. Ernie looks like he means it, but I can tell there’s a trace of resentment in his voice. I want to change the subject, talk about my classes, my teachers. It won’t do any good, however. Physically we’re here, but socially we’re not. I’m feeling it through and through. I’ve been asked on numerous occasions if I’m someone’s younger sister, or if I’m lost. When I show off my class schedule, I get a stupid smile in return. I’m cute, they all say. I’m special. “I noticed last night that you all left your webcams on,” I mention after several minutes of quiet eating. “What time did you guys go to sleep?” “Sleep is for the dead,” Ernie says, and pops open a Red Bull. (That’s his lunch: Red Bull—and Doritos.) Theo looks curious. “Did you guys have trouble shutting off your computers, too?” Jan lifts his head, concerned. “Yeah,” says Ernie. “I was too tired to figure it out, though.” He glares at Theo. “Well?” “Well what?” “You’re the geek, aren’t you? What’s wrong with our computers?” Theo looks thoughtful for a moment. “Maybe SuperMegaNet is an ‘always on’ kind of thing. Like how certain games or media players disable your screensaver when you use them.” “Yeah, but this isn’t just disabling our screensavers,” I say, “it’s keeping us from turning our computers off.” “It could be a failsafe.” “How’s that?” asks Ernie. “Well, it’s probably not a good thing to have our computers turn off during a download—or before we’re able to return home.” “So…so we have no more privacy, then?” asks Jan. Theo adjusts his glasses. “Not as long as we’re using SuperMegaNet, I’m guessing.” Jan swallows hard. “You mean…?” “Yes,” says Ernie. “I’m afraid we’ll be seeing a lot more of your lime-green undies.” I laugh, but it’s a forced sound, now that my brain is entertaining the possibilities. Oh, God—what if Theo or Ernie had seen me sneaking into Jan’s room? I study them both from behind my juice box, looking for hints, clues—thankfully Ernie starts talking about himself. “I’m throwing a party,” he announces, emptying the rest of the Doritos bag into his mouth. “You guys are invited. You too, Eva.” I scowl. “When?” asks Jan. “Friday night.” “Your parents are cool with it?” asks Theo. “Or are we going to have to whisper the entire time?” “I live with my grandparents,” says Ernie. “They stay out of my business, I stay out of their medicine cabinet.” “What’s the occasion?” “Nothing special. Just a buddy list party.” “So, that’s…me, Jan, and Eva.” “For your information,” says Ernie, “while you losers slept like little girls—no offense, Eva—I was networking.” Jan asks, “How many buddies do you have?” “213.” “You don’t know 213 people!” Theo exclaims. “No, but after this weekend’s shindig, I’ll be the talk of the town.” I shake my head. “Don’t you think it’s dangerous adding random people to your buddy list—especially now that we know you can’t just turn off your SuperMegaNet connection?” Ernie waves his hand dismissively. “Hey, you’ve got to meet people to make friends. I’m networking. And if worst comes to worst, I can always unplug the fucking power cord.” “I suppose you’re right,” says Theo. “Still…” “Oh, there he goes again with the worrying!” Ernie rolls his eyes and winks at Jan. “Just wait till he’s getting a lap dance from a busty college chick with a thing for bottle-end glasses. Then he’ll understand the true power of the Internet.” What a pig. I want to chide him for being so crude, but I’m too busy scolding myself over last night’s transgression— —I hope to God I haven’t been caught.
There’s a word for all the stuff we do with creative works—all the conversing, retelling, singing, acting out, drawing, and thinking: we call it culture.
A memorable quote from Cory Doctorow’s recent Locus editorial. To paraphrase / skewer the article: culture is copying, copying is our culture. Biologically, we’re designed to make copies of ourselves. Socially, we copy our parents, our family, our friends from day one as we learn the ropes. We cut and paste, we share, we pass the goods along. We did it before VCRs, tape recorders, personal computers, and the Internet, and we’ll do it with or without whatever newfangled technology tumbles down the pipeline. So, the challenge remains the same—making money at making copies—while the technology changes. Charging for physical materials and labor seems logical. But music that expires (DRM)? Flexplay discs that go bad after two days? Seems counterproductive to produce copies that don’t last, that can’t be watched, traded, passed along after the initial shelf life. However, I think this sort of strategy is supplemental. I tried a strategy of my own a while back and found that when I posted unrestricted PDFs of my novels online (for free) my readership increased, as did my paperback sales. I also discovered that copies of The Knack and Stories from the Steel Garden were showing up on P2P networks—with labels like “teen sex” and “nudist boy” attached. I’m not sure if the false advertising has translated into sales or if such keyword searches resulted merely in the usage of my work as fap material. I’m not sure I’m cool with either scenario. At the very least, I’m reminded that I’m dabbling in the arts during a unique period when technology, as pervasive as it has become, has not replaced the creature comforts associated with the printed word. Reading online text is fine for research, news, current events, blogs, and, yes, fap material. When reading for pleasure, though, most of us still prefer wood pulp over pixels, and most of us are still willing to pay for it. Most of us.
Post A Comment | Add to Memories | Tell a Friend | Link
I’ve hated Blu-ray since the beginning. A Yahoo! Tech article by Christopher Null explains some of the reasons why: http://tech.yahoo.com/blogs/null/108657 I like comment no. 5, which is pretty much my bottom line. Blu-ray is simply too expensive at the moment to warrant going out and replacing one’s DVD collection. The big boys are going to have to level out those retail prices—and I don’t mean by raising DVD prices so that the DVD version of Indy 4 sits alongside the Blu-ray version on the store shelf, both priced at a cool $30. To say nothing of the fact that DVD really is “good enough” for most of us. Ever see the Superbit version of The Fifth Element? Disc 1 is dedicated entirely to the movie, while disc 2 contains the extra features. It looks pretty darned good. Or maybe I’ve just become so addicted to YouTube that anything of decent quality looks good to me.
Post A Comment | Add to Memories | Tell a Friend | Link
A Halloween tribute to:
 In hindsight, Douglas probably could have managed perfectly well without Bradbury’s corpse. But, being a writer, Douglas was prone to trying new things—be they merely whimsical or downright wicked—if there was the slightest possibility of elevating his prose to the level of the Master Storyteller himself. The CyberBids ad said just that: “Elevate your prose to the level of the Master Storyteller himself! Ray Bradbury’s corpse, fresh from the October Country, from the dust returned!” A joke, Douglas thought. A gimmick, a waste of time and money—a necessary distraction, for he was at a critical juncture in his novel, a point where plots were coming together and characters were reaching epiphanies. He’d have done anything to get out of such a mess. His debut had taken ten years to write; his editor wanted the follow-up in six months. He scrolled down the web page, examined the sample photo closely. There was Bradbury, combed, coifed, and tuxedoed, resting comfortably in a mahogany casket. The likeness was uncanny, one of the best wax jobs Douglas had ever seen—latex, perhaps. A rendering to put the creature-creators at Spitting Image to shame. Spooky—not my chosen genre, even. Regardless, out came Douglas’ credit card, and into the computer went his personal information. A click later and he was in the system. Starting bid: five-hundred dollars. Douglas waited a while, checking his e-mail, tidying his desk, and taking a walk between bid adjustments. Such was the life he’d made for himself, a thirty-something, ex-social studies teacher, just past his bestselling debut and riding a generous advance for his Next Big Thing. Locus, Booklist, the New York Times—they’d been liberal with their praises. Oprah adored him. America had embraced his brand of heartland narratives, stories to enchant the heart, stir the soul in the way only he knew how—and here he was, puttering about, waiting for a ludicrous novelty, too scared to type another word unless it was authorized by the Master himself. Or, at the very least, by a very good wax likeness. Oh, but he was sure his procrastination would pay off. He knew how his author’s mind worked. Give it a direct task, and it balked. However, much in the way a guitarist may find inspiration simply by picking up the right guitar, so would Douglas be able to banish his writer’s block with the right charm. Which wasn’t to say a Ray Bradbury corpse itself would be of any assistance; it was the idea that mattered. The notion that the Master was somehow there with him in the same room, seeding his thoughts, influencing his keystrokes…that was the real gimmick, and just what he needed. The bidding ended at midnight. Surprisingly, there were very few takers. In fact, most people commented that hocking the Master’s corpse online was in very poor taste—silly netizens! Douglas thought. Don’t they realize it’s a gimmick? A charm? This doppelganger will be my rabbit’s foot, my four leaf clover! And at midnight, he was. The seller was expedient about delivery. In three days’ time the crate arrived on Douglas’ doorstep, with a set of simple instructions tucked in with the packing slip: Store in a cool, dry place. Inside, Bradbury was unbelievably lifelike, poised, poignant—even in death. Douglas was a bachelor, so there was no trouble making room for Bradbury’s casket. He set up the whole kitten caboodle in his kitchen, beside the front window. He moved his desk so that it was perpendicular with the casket. Then, arranging about his workspace a variety of writerly trinkets, how-to books, and brainstorming tools, he set himself in front of his computer, waited for it to boot up. He hadn’t written a single sentence in three days—but what did it matter? The Master had arrived. What will I get? Douglas wondered, gazing at Bradbury’s form. A whiff of Dandelion Wine? An echo of Something Wicked This Way Comes? A Martian? Great Grandmère? Any number of possibilities awaited Douglas’ fingertips; he almost couldn’t wait for his word processor to load—and when it did, he launched himself into a two-thousand-word-long block of fragmented sentences, mislaid ideas, extraneous cul-de-sacs merely serving to increase his novel’s file size by several kilobytes, but not actually adding any substance to the novel itself. Three o’clock. Outside, the schoolchildren were bounding off their buses, trading their backpacks and textbooks for jump ropes and scooters. In two hours’ time the working men and women would be coming home, their long days behind them. Douglas’ workday had come and gone without result. He sat for a while, tumbling a novelty Writer’s Block—a plastic cube filled with water and containing several dozen random words printed on miniature pyramids—in his hands. Beside him, Bradbury’s corpse waited, unmoving, unprotesting, even when a housefly decided to peruse the landscape of his forehead. At long last, Douglas pulled his chair up beside the casket, and addressed Bradbury directly: “All right. This isn’t working. Out with it—how did you dodge the artistic noose? How did you lay at ease the expectations of all the readers and critics and agents and editors who waited impatiently for your next book? Your next masterwork?” Of course, Douglas hardly expected an answer—and he certainly didn’t expect the corpse to suddenly sit upright. Which it did. Bradbury blinked at Douglas. Douglas blinked at Bradbury. “Well?” asked Bradbury. “Are we to gaze into each other’s eyes until one of us swoons?” Grasping the sides of the casket, he lifted himself up and out, smoothed the front of his tuxedo. He took one look around the kitchen before fixing Douglas with a stare. “What would your name be?” “Douglas,” answered Douglas. “D-Douglas Nickleby.” “Douglas,” said Bradbury. “How appropriate. And how is it that I’m standing here talking to you when I should be…” He trailed off, paid the casket a cursory glance. “I…I bought you at an auction,” explained Douglas. “Bought me?” “Yes. You see, I’m a writer—a novelist—and, er, I’m also what you might call an aficionado of writer’s memorabilia.” Douglas began shuffling things about on his desktop. “See here? John Updike’s stapler. And here, a replica of William Faulkner’s Remington—unusable, unfortunately, but what a thing to have! You can find all sorts of goodies at CyberBids. Anything to keep the creative juices flowing, you know?” Bradbury frowned, waving the persistent housefly away. “And this web site of yours, they make a lucrative business of selling people from their graves?” Douglas blanched. “But…but you’re not real. You can’t be.” “I could say the same of you.” “I mean…you’re a trinket, a gimmick—a collectible to help inspire!” Bradbury scowled, glanced at the desk, the computer, the typewriter, the piles of notebooks and sharpened pencils. “So, I’m to be your Rumpelstiltskin? Your lucky charm? Ha!” He walked over to Douglas, leaned his arm on the man’s shoulder. “Well, then! How’s this? Is anything sinking in?” He moved to sit on Douglas’ lap. “How about now?” Douglas certainly couldn’t write with a dead man on his lap. He told Bradbury so. But Bradbury was already onto other matters, peeking into notebooks, browsing Douglas’ computer. “Look here, with all your fancy equipment, your word processing software, your brainstorming trinkets, online encyclopedias, laser printer, reams of paper just waiting to be filled—you’ve barely touched any of it!” Douglas hung his head. “I’m afraid my debut success has given me an acute case of writer’s block.” “Writer’s block? Bah! I’ve never heard a more blatant excuse!” “I-I suppose you’ve got your tricks?” “Just write, boy! Don’t think—editors are thinkers, critics are thinkers. They think so damned much that they give up their novelist dreams for the privilege of wringing storm clouds over everyone else’s stories but never penning their own. Just write!” “B-but what about publisher expectations, bottom lines? My image hangs on every word.” The housefly continued to molest Bradbury. “Are you trying to tell stories or look pretty?” “Why, tell stories, of course, b-but Ray—Mr. Bradbury, surely you understand how much things have changed since you started out. Authors aren’t developed over time anymore. If you don’t get enough m-market penetration, if you’re n-not getting enough books into your readers’ hands, if you don’t stumble onto that m-magic formula early enough in your career—” “I’ve heard enough,” said Bradbury, and started for the door. “Where are you going?” Douglas asked, jumping from his chair. “Out! Away!” “B-but I’m in the middle of a novel!” Douglas called. “You can’t leave!” Bradbury did just that, slamming the door behind him. Good riddance, Douglas thought, only now realizing that he was trembling from head to toe. Dead authors don’t make very good house guests anyway. Shaken considerably, he went upstairs and retired to his bedroom for a late afternoon nap. Holding himself, tossing and turning, he considered the rational possibilities, the irrational, too. A nervous breakdown caused by stress? Overwork? Trying to milk the ideas from his stubborn brain too hard, too fast? None of it was comforting, and so Douglas stayed in bed, away from the kitchen, the casket, and, worse yet, the empty computer screen. At sunset, he was roused by the most terrible raucous coming from downstairs. Someone was banging on the front door. Douglas howled a mental plea, Please, God, don’t let it be who I think it is! He went downstairs, sidled up to the window beside the door, and peeked outside, out where, under the ash tree, boys, dogs, stumbled and swayed in time-lapse flickers—and there, standing motionless under his own private little raincloud, the beggar from O’Connell Bridge, with his darkened glasses, with his concertina, his once-decadent baritone erupting at odds with the distant cacophony of an approaching carnival. And shuffling near the front gate, an old man with an erection tenting the front of his robe as he tried vainly to escape a gaggle of ladies. Above: buzzards, circling. In the middle of it all, Ray Bradbury standing on Douglas’ doorstep and looking quite the worse for wear. Douglas opened the door. “What have you done to me, boy?” Bradbury demanded. “I…I,” started Douglas, babbling. “It…you were a wax figure! I never m-meant to resurrect you—” “This isn’t a resurrection, it’s a devilish abscess festering with all that was once dear to me!” Indeed, every time Douglas blinked, the yard seemed to become filled with more and more characters—but these were ghosts, shadows, literary zombies forced into being by some unholy magic. What the neighbors must think! Douglas peered nervously up and down the street. Bradbury pushed his way inside, limped into the kitchen, where he sat himself in a chair. He was little more than a ghost now, his face sunken, pale, his white hair translucent—and there were more than a few insects beginning to stake out prime real estate in the folds of his flesh. “Writers,” he said, “are the only people who, at any given moment, would rather be scrubbing out the inside of their bathtubs—and you’ve gone so far as to raise the dead!” Outside, a woman screamed; from somewhere nearby a shadow cleared its throat. “I’m sorry,” Douglas said. “I-I wish I knew what’s happening.” “I’ll tell you what’s happening!” Bradbury exclaimed, pointing an accusing finger at Douglas. “I have been robbed of my final reprieve, and now, with no place to go, all that I was is accumulating about you like so much soot!” Douglas thought about it: the dead, everything a person once was, body and soul, decomposing, dissolving—ashes to ashes, dust to dust. His CyberBids purchase had interrupted the natural way of things, had clogged the cosmic drain. Somehow it needed to be unclogged. “Well?” grunted Bradbury after a moment. “Don’t just stand there, boy. Do something!” Douglas nodded, the inevitable dawning on him. With misbegotten memories echoing in the hallways, with undead characters piling up outside his door, with the living ghost of Ray Bradbury giving him the mother of all dirty looks, he sat at his computer, opened a blank file, and started writing an altogether different kind of story.
Post A Comment | Add to Memories | Tell a Friend | Link
|
| 2008-11-14 17:19 |
| SuperMegaNet 1.4a – Tips for 2:00 A.M. |
| Public |
| bizarro, blogfic, ernie, eva, jan, smn, supermeganet, theo, thrailkill, webdrama, webisode |
|
Sleep deprivation. Yummy. It’s 2:00 in the morning and I’m laying sprawled on my bed. But I’m also sitting in a chair at the center of my bedroom. There are images flickering between the shadows, sounds echoing between my ears. I think I’m asleep…or else I’m hallucinating. Maybe a little of both. Someone—Ernest’s afterimage, perhaps—is putting on a record, which is strange because I don’t own a turntable. “You Can Do Magic,” by America, starts playing. I try to say, “Quit touching my stuff, Ernest.” Instead, it comes out, “Quee touth mm sluh, Unsth.” Ernest crouches beside me, gives me a wet willy. “I told you to call me Ernie.” Damn it. He’s getting crumbs on my floor. I can see them now as they dance across the room. I want to clean them up, but I can’t budge. I’m certain now that I’m not yet fully asleep but caught in that purgatory of the mind that often accompanies insomnia. I get like this often. I’ve always had trouble falling asleep. Two-thirds of any given night is usually spent staving off much-needed REM. In effect, I’m power-napping, but not actually sleeping. It’s pissing me off. Why can’t I just take sleeping pills? Oh, that’s right, they’re not natural. My mom’s already had this discussion with me. She’s a homeopath. Herbs, aromatherapy, and acupuncture are her tools of the trade. She’s been practicing natural on me for twelve years and the best she can come up with for insomnia is cognitive behavioral therapy. CBT. Learning the hard way. I sigh. It’s just like a finger puzzle, I tell myself: the harder I try to sleep, the more agitated I become. But if I let the imagery distract me from trying to fall asleep, if I concentrate on not concentrating…well, you see why I sometimes wish I could pop some pills and be done with it. Tricky stuff. For now, I convince myself I’m watching a movie. The chair beneath me reshapes itself into a plush recliner; the furniture in my room has been fitted with wheels—everything is flat as cardboard, like cheap props in a high school play. My things are wheeled away, replaced with Ernie’s things: bed, dresser, numerous shelves stacked with Maxim magazines, bottle caps, baseball cards, Carl’s Jr. plastic tickets, movie theater stubs. On the floor: forgotten underwear, socks, potato chip bags, candy wrappers, and, ironically, a copy of the Little Hercules Hollywood Workout for Kids DVD. I laugh, remembering how funny it was the first time I saw it. “You know darn well,” Ernie lip-syncs angrily, “when you cast your spell you will get your way…” Jan and Eva look at each other and shrug. They step out of the way, for the invisible stagehands are at it again. Ernie’s room is wheeled away, everything replaced with hanging tinsel. My clothes are pulled off; I’m lifted out of my seat and dangled in mid-air so that my bare torso is at the mercy of the tinsel (which reaches easily from ceiling to floor). I realize this is supposed to be a mock-up of what it was like uploading into Jan’s room. It tickles so much and for so long that I think I’m going to die, but eventually it fades, the tinsel is removed, and the backdrop is replaced with a small living room. There’s a futon, desk, and dresser arranged as a makeshift partition in one corner. Thankfully, my clothing has been replaced just as Ernie and the others appear alongside me. “Fucking poor people,” Ernie says, lifting an entire cheesecake to his lips and nibbling vigorously. “Talk about saving the worst for last.” Okay, so I’m pretty sure the cheesecake is an exaggeration. The scattered female bodybuilder pics cluttering Jan’s desktop, however, aren’t. “Dude,” I say, holding up a half-wrinkled black and white print-out and reading the caption. “Who’s Annie Rivieccio?” “Give me that!” Jan cries, yanking the sheet from my hand. Ernie snorts, spewing graham cracker crust onto Jan’s computer monitor. “Wow. Creepy, but cost-effective jack-off material.” Jan is lobster-red. Hastily filing his musclebound beauties away, he clears his throat and says, “Can we please stick to the assignment?” “Relax. This is all fact-gathering—hey, look, everyone! Jan’s a closet jock!” Ernie struggles to lift one of Jan’s dumbbells, but gives up when his arm falls off. I know I’m dreaming, so I laugh hysterically. “That’s not nice,” Eva says, slapping my shoulder. She bends over to help Ernie re-attach his arm. As she does so, her skimpier-than-they-actually-were gym shorts ride up just enough to catch my attention, and I suddenly discover my own burgeoning affinity for the female posterior. I have to look away, lest my eyes pop out of their sockets. A barrage of adjectives floods my mind: cute, perky, perfect, apple bottom, honey buns, and so forth. Luckily my brain has relaxed to the point where shifting from thought to thought isn’t a problem. I blink once, find that I’m standing over my bathroom sink and brushing my teeth. Everyone else has called it a night—well, everyone but Ernie, who’s uploaded himself behind my back and who’s now standing behind me in his bathrobe. He wants to know if he can borrow some toothpaste. I shoo him away, sending him back home and turning off my computer. I make a mental note to upload into his house tomorrow and replace his box of SnackWell’s with a bag of fresh carrots. Or, better yet, I’ll sneak over and mess with his SMN settings so that the next time he uploads he’ll be all pixelated, like Jan. No! Even better, I’ll replace his Maxim collection with issues of my mom’s Cooking Light… And that’s how I fall asleep this crazy, crazy morning: thinking up things to do to unsuspecting friends who are but a click away. Cognitive behavioral therapy—it works.
Post A Comment | Add to Memories | Tell a Friend | Link
A bit of wit from the XKCD site: 
There are several things going on at the moment behind the scenes, not the least of which is SuperMegaNet 1.5. With luck I’ll have it up by the end of the week. Until then, stay calm, breathe deep, and remember to make sure none of your friends are carrying a camera if you ever get stuck in a shopping cart.  
I just realized the e-book links listed in the Freebies section were incorrect. Here are the real URLs (ie, the free stuff didn’t disappear, it was merely misplaced): Good thing I’m always at my computer.  
|
| 2008-11-14 17:16 |
| A More Appropriate Jessture |
| Public |
| commercials, day, design, gordon, gymnast, gymnastics, heroes, johnson, layout, shawn, shonsta, theme, update |
|
This is where I’m supposed to gush about the new site design and all that good stuff, but quite frankly, it’s not even noon and already the thermometers have hit the 100° mark. So, instead I’ll spew out some random goodness to take up space / bandwidth. As you can see, my home page has once again been rearranged. That brings us to version 7.0 or so, based on “Disciple,” by Regis. Most of my entries have been migrated successfully. My blog is 99.9% intact, and you can now post comments at the bottom of each page (you can even use your own avatar, if you go to Gravatar.com). Besides that, I’ve been leading the typically quiet writer’s life. Write, edit, mail, etc. I’ve learned a few things while doing Heroes’ Day, though. For starters, according to a reader, there are things Shawn Johnson can do that would break my neck: 
I’ve also learned that for the last eight years I’ve been using ’til as a shortened form of until when the preferred form is actually till. Stupid English language. Moving on: I’ve learned that no one “gets” the Heroes’ Day commercials we put out last month—although it’s unanimous that seeing Ernesto subdued by an airborne paperback is pure gold: Oh, and just because I timed the release of Heroes’ Day to coincide with this year’s Olympic Games doesn’t mean I was able to successfully steal Beijing’s thunder. Like much of my work, the book has been selling one or two copies a week. So, it’s a slow and steady burn…sort of like the pilot light on a gas stove. Holy freakin’ Gawd, The Knack was full of typos. Why didn’t anyone tell me it’s “whoa” and not “woah”? In any case, you’ll notice the 2004 Lulu edition is now out of print. I’m working on a new version, ala Time Chaser: Special Edition, with a better handle on my prose. Hopefully there’ll be some new cover artwork, too. Which reminds me: anyone out there interested in doing a cover for me? I’d be ever so delighted to hear from you. That’s it for now. Have fun with the new layout, and drop me a line if you’re feeling amorous…or if you have that $50 you owe me.
Post A Comment | Add to Memories | Tell a Friend | Link
|
| 2008-11-14 17:13 |
| Conflict in a World Without War |
| Public |
| book, day, girl, gordon, gymnast, gymnastics, heroes, jesse, monica, nau, novel, olympics, paperback, patriot, sardinia |
|
The new book, Heroes’ Day, is out: 
|
|
|
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
jointstereotype's journal
