The parking spots down in Florida are enormous. I could easily fit a Hummer in one with room to spare. It may well be a concession to the elderly. They remind me of kudzu, at least in their strength in numbers, as well as their omnipresence. Also, I have been eating lunch around five in the afternoon, and the restaurants stuffed with the aged and their families. On the beach, the elderly comprise a significant portion of the beachgoers. In the theater, they come in relative droves to watch "The Hangover." And yes, they carded me, though she said they card anyone under thirty. Small solace.
***
Having felt more comfortable with listening rather than speaking all my life, I have come to know what constitutes a normal response , and when a person is at ease or nervous. Pseudo-empathy and all that jazz. I also know how painfully shy I am. So, understand that when I say the hotel concierge is one of the most painfully awkward people I have ever met, "I ain't just whistlin' Dixie." After letting my raven tresses grow far too luxuriously, I needed a haircut, especially due to the baking Florida weather.
Hers is a fairly unremarkable face, square-jawed, wide face, off-green eyes, hair the color of dirty sand, braces capping nubbins of teeth. I asked her where I could get a haircut, and she told me there was a place down the street, and if I saw the Popeyes, that was too far. After confirming, then she told me the Red Lobster was too soon. There are a lot of chain restaurants down here. I spoke back what she just told
me, and she gave this loud and clipped horse whinny. When I turned to walk away, she called after that the mall was much too far.
In this moment, I could almost smell how desperate she was for me to stay. Awkward cocked smile, toothy grin, her voice quavering. I had to go. Was it cruel? A bit, considering that I could read her so easily. But I'm no saint, and (all together now) I don't like people. The fun part now is seeing her every couple of days, and seeing the washed-out loneliness in her eyes.
Wow, that was depressing.
***
Hangovers, as I understand them, are caused by dehydration shrinking the membrane surrounding the brain. Even if that is not the case, I gave myself a hangover or heat exhaustion on Saturday, evidenced by the headaches.
The bridge was a mile and a half over sapphire-blue water, and it was early. I ran, ran back, simple. Then, I walked to the beach, saw people in the distance, started hiking towards them. Hour later, I am busted. They seemed so much closer. I get a Gatorade and start heading back, ready to pass out. This is why you should think through your actions, kids.
So thirsty. I was out for almost four hours, sunburned the back of my neck, y'all, and had some nice migraine-esque headachery yesterday and today. Damnation.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
Losing Grace
I have sent my prior novel out to the masses for commentary and ranting. Whilst I await its (bruised, bloody) return, I find myself needing to keep on writing, if for no other reason than to stave off the peculiar dreams I have when I do not write. Yes, when I forego writing for extended periods, my dreams take on a surreal (more-so), disturbing flavor. I think it is my subconscious trying to write. So, really, for me, writing protects me from my hopes and fears.
Strange, I know.
I have no idea when I figured that I wanted to write a trilogy of books, but at some point while writing "Saving Grace"/"Officer Redacted," I knew there would be enough for at least a few novels. Plus, it is easier to write another story using the same characters and setting, rather than create an all new world. Hence, the book I have tentatively titled "Losing Grace." By this, the third novel will be tentatively titled "Finding Grace."
Much as how "The Sound and the Fury" was all about Caddie without her being directly in the novel, I like to envision "Saving Grace" as being all about John Roland, though the connection is much more direct. After all, Rollie's entire motivation for investigating is ultimately John Roland. John Roland crops up constantly as Rollie refuses to allow everyone in the novel to let him go, because he cannot let Roland go. On its face, the story is about this dual investigation, both Masker's and Roland's murder, but both lead back to the same man, Robin Flaherty. That is not even an issue, it is evident fairly early on that the murderer is obvious. Once the story concludes, Rollie has purchased peace for John Roland, but only at the cost of upheaving his own world.
The main themes of "Officer Redacted" are duality of nature, and the effect of memory on identity. The duality is throughout, as most of the locations, and many of the people/cartoons, have been repurposed from their original role. A hotel becomes a mental asylum, a theater a police headquarters, an abandoned subway actually an extensive slum for second class citizens. Cartoon characters become mobsters, a children's show host a private investigator, a brilliant cop now a base criminal.
The memory theme is probably more subtle, maybe to the point of not being noticeable. However, what Rollie remembers, he feels makes him what he is. Since no one shares his memories, no one is willing to share in his delusion? belief? that he is Roland reincarnated. Indeed, memories throughout of John Roland paint a faint picture of this man, one that everyone is willing to believe more so than proof in front of them. In the end, I like to think that I hint at the possibility that it is the memories you make, not the ones you inherit, that contribute to who and what you are. In effect, All the characters are responsible for their identities, they shape their own destinies, even Rollie.
Things change between "Officer Redacted" and "Losing Grace." Six months elapse, Rollie takes on a new profession, and a minor character dies due to foul play. It starts at a funeral, very near where "Officer Redacted" began, as they eulogize their fallen comrade, friend, family member. Captain Rackers is that much closer to death, the cancer taking its toll, as cancer tends to do. And she feels the need to find Detective White's murderer, avenge him. And so it is that with a somewhat rude trick, and a bit of guilt, Rackers convinces Rollie to take up his trench coat and gun, and help with the investigation.
"Losing Grace" will be about Captain Rackers, just as "Officer Redacted" concerned itself with John Roland. A middle-aged women in a male-dominated profession, sacrificing the external trappings of femininity to become head of a department of men, now stricken with breast cancer, losing even more of her traditional feminine characteristics, and becoming even colder and withdrawn in an attempt to deal with it. She knows that death will come soon for her, and her last act before she passes on will be to find the cop killer. At the same time, in doing this, she will have been revealed to be all alone, giving up so much to try to do this.
I originally wanted to follow her instead of Rollie throughout the novel, make it even more of a police procedural, the good captain running the department, dealing with bureaucracy and fellow counterparts in different aspects of the city. However, I do not think I could do her justice. I am not a good enough writer to follow from her perspective, in a real manner, and/or I am afraid to try because there are aspects of her that ring too true to events in my life, and I would rather not confront them. Besides, observing at a distance can sometimes reveal so much more, right? Right?
Captain Rackers' journey, and I believe one of the main themes of this story, will be letting go. In her case, it will be letting go of her fear of hurting others, learning to lean on others, learning that it is OK to be strong all the time, but it is also OK to fall into someone's shoulder in the dead of night and whisper all the words you could not say during the day, for fear of exposing them to daylight. It will be letting go of her need to be better, at the cost of who she is. People are not necessarily born cold, they become that way, and it is what Rackers has had to do in order to be respected. In the end, it will be letting go of life, and embracing her mortality. After all, people do not live forever, and sometimes that is a simple, painful lesson to swallow.
For right now, I cannot envision one off the top of my head, but if there is to be a second theme, it would have to be hope. Hope that you can enforce the laws to bring a tenuous peace to the populace, hope that everyone can work together, hope that tomorrow will be a little better than today, which was a little better than yesterday. Hoping that the good in others triumphs over the long term, even should it stumble in the short term. Hope that there will be some sort of resolution.
I have a few pages in a journal, and a head full of ideas. I do not know where I want, or need, this story to go, aside from the fact that I know the man that killed Detective White is a serial killer, starting a string of murders, and that in the end, Rackers will die. And this story could go anywhere from this point. "Officer Redacted" started out as a daydream I had of two men fighting in the belly of a whale, the story of Jonah as reimagined by Michael Bay. The image that inspires this coming story is that of Rollie speaking at Captain Rackers' funeral, dead and dying leaves blowing in the chill winter air.
Maybe "Losing Grace" is a more appropriate title for this story than I initially imagined. After all, just because you lose grace, suffer a loss of faith, does not mean you cannot find it again. Oftentime, I struggle with the concept of K. T. the writer, and wonder why I even try. Then, I sit down and do something like this, and it makes me believe that I might be good enough to pull this off. Who knows? I've had a lot of fun doing this, and hopefully you will have a lot of fun reading it after you buy it in a store.
Strange, I know.
I have no idea when I figured that I wanted to write a trilogy of books, but at some point while writing "Saving Grace"/"Officer Redacted," I knew there would be enough for at least a few novels. Plus, it is easier to write another story using the same characters and setting, rather than create an all new world. Hence, the book I have tentatively titled "Losing Grace." By this, the third novel will be tentatively titled "Finding Grace."
Much as how "The Sound and the Fury" was all about Caddie without her being directly in the novel, I like to envision "Saving Grace" as being all about John Roland, though the connection is much more direct. After all, Rollie's entire motivation for investigating is ultimately John Roland. John Roland crops up constantly as Rollie refuses to allow everyone in the novel to let him go, because he cannot let Roland go. On its face, the story is about this dual investigation, both Masker's and Roland's murder, but both lead back to the same man, Robin Flaherty. That is not even an issue, it is evident fairly early on that the murderer is obvious. Once the story concludes, Rollie has purchased peace for John Roland, but only at the cost of upheaving his own world.
The main themes of "Officer Redacted" are duality of nature, and the effect of memory on identity. The duality is throughout, as most of the locations, and many of the people/cartoons, have been repurposed from their original role. A hotel becomes a mental asylum, a theater a police headquarters, an abandoned subway actually an extensive slum for second class citizens. Cartoon characters become mobsters, a children's show host a private investigator, a brilliant cop now a base criminal.
The memory theme is probably more subtle, maybe to the point of not being noticeable. However, what Rollie remembers, he feels makes him what he is. Since no one shares his memories, no one is willing to share in his delusion? belief? that he is Roland reincarnated. Indeed, memories throughout of John Roland paint a faint picture of this man, one that everyone is willing to believe more so than proof in front of them. In the end, I like to think that I hint at the possibility that it is the memories you make, not the ones you inherit, that contribute to who and what you are. In effect, All the characters are responsible for their identities, they shape their own destinies, even Rollie.
Things change between "Officer Redacted" and "Losing Grace." Six months elapse, Rollie takes on a new profession, and a minor character dies due to foul play. It starts at a funeral, very near where "Officer Redacted" began, as they eulogize their fallen comrade, friend, family member. Captain Rackers is that much closer to death, the cancer taking its toll, as cancer tends to do. And she feels the need to find Detective White's murderer, avenge him. And so it is that with a somewhat rude trick, and a bit of guilt, Rackers convinces Rollie to take up his trench coat and gun, and help with the investigation.
"Losing Grace" will be about Captain Rackers, just as "Officer Redacted" concerned itself with John Roland. A middle-aged women in a male-dominated profession, sacrificing the external trappings of femininity to become head of a department of men, now stricken with breast cancer, losing even more of her traditional feminine characteristics, and becoming even colder and withdrawn in an attempt to deal with it. She knows that death will come soon for her, and her last act before she passes on will be to find the cop killer. At the same time, in doing this, she will have been revealed to be all alone, giving up so much to try to do this.
I originally wanted to follow her instead of Rollie throughout the novel, make it even more of a police procedural, the good captain running the department, dealing with bureaucracy and fellow counterparts in different aspects of the city. However, I do not think I could do her justice. I am not a good enough writer to follow from her perspective, in a real manner, and/or I am afraid to try because there are aspects of her that ring too true to events in my life, and I would rather not confront them. Besides, observing at a distance can sometimes reveal so much more, right? Right?
Captain Rackers' journey, and I believe one of the main themes of this story, will be letting go. In her case, it will be letting go of her fear of hurting others, learning to lean on others, learning that it is OK to be strong all the time, but it is also OK to fall into someone's shoulder in the dead of night and whisper all the words you could not say during the day, for fear of exposing them to daylight. It will be letting go of her need to be better, at the cost of who she is. People are not necessarily born cold, they become that way, and it is what Rackers has had to do in order to be respected. In the end, it will be letting go of life, and embracing her mortality. After all, people do not live forever, and sometimes that is a simple, painful lesson to swallow.
For right now, I cannot envision one off the top of my head, but if there is to be a second theme, it would have to be hope. Hope that you can enforce the laws to bring a tenuous peace to the populace, hope that everyone can work together, hope that tomorrow will be a little better than today, which was a little better than yesterday. Hoping that the good in others triumphs over the long term, even should it stumble in the short term. Hope that there will be some sort of resolution.
I have a few pages in a journal, and a head full of ideas. I do not know where I want, or need, this story to go, aside from the fact that I know the man that killed Detective White is a serial killer, starting a string of murders, and that in the end, Rackers will die. And this story could go anywhere from this point. "Officer Redacted" started out as a daydream I had of two men fighting in the belly of a whale, the story of Jonah as reimagined by Michael Bay. The image that inspires this coming story is that of Rollie speaking at Captain Rackers' funeral, dead and dying leaves blowing in the chill winter air.
Maybe "Losing Grace" is a more appropriate title for this story than I initially imagined. After all, just because you lose grace, suffer a loss of faith, does not mean you cannot find it again. Oftentime, I struggle with the concept of K. T. the writer, and wonder why I even try. Then, I sit down and do something like this, and it makes me believe that I might be good enough to pull this off. Who knows? I've had a lot of fun doing this, and hopefully you will have a lot of fun reading it after you buy it in a store.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Fire Alarm
It is just after six in the morning, on a Sunday morning, no less. A fire alarm has just gone off in the building, probably twenty minutes prior. My mind is somewhat shot and disoriented, but for you, fearless reader, my need to go back to bed has been trumped by my desire to commemorate this occasion.
I was sleeping, as is my habit at times like these. The building's "fire alert annunciator" blasted three peals, followed by a long whoop. Then, this helpful message from a calm female voice (and my own thoughts at the time in parentheses):
"May I have your attention? (We don't have a choice, get on with it.) A fire has been reported in the building. (My ass, I don't smell anything.) Please proceed to the nearest exit. (There better be a fire, at this rate.)"
I sat up to look at the clock, which probably said ten before six. Note that I have a clock with a gigantic display so I do not need my glasses, but even so, it is still kind of blurry. After a few more moments of debate, and wanting to wring the neck of whomever flipped the switch, I get out of bed.
Darkness reigns in my apartment, as I am sure it must in most of the apartments. I cast about trying to remember where my wallet and keys are, before noting I probably need pants to go outside. Since I am next to the hamper, my cigar-smelling jeans are the closest. On they go, along with a cigar-smelling long sleeved shirt.
I spare a moment to urinate, and also hope I left my glasses in the bathroom. It is always a crapshoot as to where my glasses are these days. I have left them near the kitchen sink, on top of the television, near my laptop, near my work laptop, in the bathtub, in the soap dish, on the toilet, on my nightstand, on the floor in the middle of the living room, in a book, on the dining room table, underneath a pillow. Today, they were on the keyboard, but right next to wallet and keys.
I think that I should probably also grab my phone, but I cannot figure out where it is. Not tethered to the charger, not with wallet and keys. Ah, well, let it burn. At this point, perhaps I should also have grabbed anything else that was irreplaceable. For better or worse, there is really nothing in my apartment that I could not live without. It would suck, but is not a dealbreaker of any sort.
In the stairwell, I feel myself listing to the right. I almost fall into the wall at each flight of stairs. I am exhausted and kind of desperate not to fall down and cause an awful comedy sequence where everyone also falls down the stairs.
Outside, I go to my car and toy with going to the International House of Pancakes. Strangely, the mere thought of going to the International House of Pancakes makes my stomach turn, and I decide to wait and watch the building burn.
There are several people walking their pets, a good a time as any to do so. One young couple has two red and white pet carriers, and no children. At what point do they become the crazy cat couple without kids?
One woman is wrapped in a giant crocheted blanket. (as I typed that, I typed "crotcheted". What the hell kind of blanket is that, a merkin? Could you even wear one of those out in public? Well, you could, but I guess I meant by itself.)
There is a fire truck outside, and another. The firemen stumble out of the truck as if this were any other day on the job, which it probably is. There are no visible flames licking at the building, no smoke coming from anywhere.
A lot of people have gone directly to their cars. Maybe they are going to International House of Pancakes. I wish them well in their endeavor.
A slight drizzle of rain starts soaking us. I am very thankful I put on clothes before coming outside.
People make awkward small talk, made worse by the fact that no one should be woken up on a Sunday morning by alarm klaxons. I stand in the grass and cross my arms, unwilling to say anything to anyone, somewhat afraid that I will flip out on people if they try to talk to me.
The firemen are in their full firefighting regalia. I wonder what their bonus is to fire fighting by wearing the thick cloth. They come out one by one. That is our sign that we can come in.
I get in line. We shuffle back inside. Coherence missed everyone here, at least this early in the morning.
I was sleeping, as is my habit at times like these. The building's "fire alert annunciator" blasted three peals, followed by a long whoop. Then, this helpful message from a calm female voice (and my own thoughts at the time in parentheses):
"May I have your attention? (We don't have a choice, get on with it.) A fire has been reported in the building. (My ass, I don't smell anything.) Please proceed to the nearest exit. (There better be a fire, at this rate.)"
I sat up to look at the clock, which probably said ten before six. Note that I have a clock with a gigantic display so I do not need my glasses, but even so, it is still kind of blurry. After a few more moments of debate, and wanting to wring the neck of whomever flipped the switch, I get out of bed.
Darkness reigns in my apartment, as I am sure it must in most of the apartments. I cast about trying to remember where my wallet and keys are, before noting I probably need pants to go outside. Since I am next to the hamper, my cigar-smelling jeans are the closest. On they go, along with a cigar-smelling long sleeved shirt.
I spare a moment to urinate, and also hope I left my glasses in the bathroom. It is always a crapshoot as to where my glasses are these days. I have left them near the kitchen sink, on top of the television, near my laptop, near my work laptop, in the bathtub, in the soap dish, on the toilet, on my nightstand, on the floor in the middle of the living room, in a book, on the dining room table, underneath a pillow. Today, they were on the keyboard, but right next to wallet and keys.
I think that I should probably also grab my phone, but I cannot figure out where it is. Not tethered to the charger, not with wallet and keys. Ah, well, let it burn. At this point, perhaps I should also have grabbed anything else that was irreplaceable. For better or worse, there is really nothing in my apartment that I could not live without. It would suck, but is not a dealbreaker of any sort.
In the stairwell, I feel myself listing to the right. I almost fall into the wall at each flight of stairs. I am exhausted and kind of desperate not to fall down and cause an awful comedy sequence where everyone also falls down the stairs.
Outside, I go to my car and toy with going to the International House of Pancakes. Strangely, the mere thought of going to the International House of Pancakes makes my stomach turn, and I decide to wait and watch the building burn.
There are several people walking their pets, a good a time as any to do so. One young couple has two red and white pet carriers, and no children. At what point do they become the crazy cat couple without kids?
One woman is wrapped in a giant crocheted blanket. (as I typed that, I typed "crotcheted". What the hell kind of blanket is that, a merkin? Could you even wear one of those out in public? Well, you could, but I guess I meant by itself.)
There is a fire truck outside, and another. The firemen stumble out of the truck as if this were any other day on the job, which it probably is. There are no visible flames licking at the building, no smoke coming from anywhere.
A lot of people have gone directly to their cars. Maybe they are going to International House of Pancakes. I wish them well in their endeavor.
A slight drizzle of rain starts soaking us. I am very thankful I put on clothes before coming outside.
People make awkward small talk, made worse by the fact that no one should be woken up on a Sunday morning by alarm klaxons. I stand in the grass and cross my arms, unwilling to say anything to anyone, somewhat afraid that I will flip out on people if they try to talk to me.
The firemen are in their full firefighting regalia. I wonder what their bonus is to fire fighting by wearing the thick cloth. They come out one by one. That is our sign that we can come in.
I get in line. We shuffle back inside. Coherence missed everyone here, at least this early in the morning.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
April Fooled
The joke is on me, when I think about it. I got everyone, but most of all, I got myself.
For April first, I posted a simple statement to my Gtalk status message and on Twitter. I would be doing pro bono work in Maryland during weekends for the next few months. I had multiple people congratulating me and asking me what exactly I would be doing. To date, only W.T. has not questioned it, but he is so filled with cynicism, I am hardly surprised. Even C.S. a few weeks later asked me what was up with that message, and expressed hopefulness I would be practicing law.
And therein lies the joke, not that I fooled people, but that they were utterly willing to believe that I would practice law. I have failed. Despite my best efforts to convince the masses I will never do this, as soon as I give a hint that I would practice law, they believe me.
(This is an appropriate time to digress and mention that, for all that people disbelieve me, this they accept? Tarnation.)
And maybe it is because I keep doing the unexpected, or at least go against the norm, and I've had such a strange arc to my life, that makes me think it would make a good situation comedy. I could redeem the mass of Asian-America and hopefully scrub the memory of All-American Girl from our collective memory, or fuck it up even more and completely guarantee no Asian-American will ever have a starring role on a situation comedy in America, ever again.
That April Fool's joke, plus a fair amount of contemplation, reminded me of who I was supposed to be at this point. It is half past ten at night as I type this, and I am just randomly typing on this blog. I often swear that I was supposed to be working on my second novel, teaching at a third-rate college during the day, raising a family, at this point in my life. At the same time, I could be toiling away at some mid-sized firm, wallowing in tedium and motions, writing memoranda to partners that I easily could have reduced to a page, but have to make fifteen pages in case someone has the foresight to check, which they will not.
I sport salt and pepper hair, going prematurely grey at twenty-eight. My stress tic is in full swing, sometimes going for thirty, forty seconds at a time. I probably look even younger, though more haunted, due to the poor eating habits, lack of sleep, and lack of laugh lines around my eyes.
I gave up video games a long time ago. Same with reading for leisure. The last thing I would want to do is more reading. I get enough of that at work. Besides, I am too busy trying desperately to keep my relationship with one of my fellow associates from going down the toilet. After all, we are both stressed, and what with the way the economy is going, all it would take is for one of us to get laid off. The other would probably cut ties pretty quickly, just to keep sanity afloat.
I work in a nice enough building in Baltimore. There's a guy on the street I see every morning on the way into the office. I used to throw him some change. Now I just don't care. I keep my head down, and my earphones loud. Probably Linkin Park.
It is not all bad. The support staff are remarkably understanding. They tolerate me because I still know enough to not piss them off. The partners treat me as fungible. My work is acceptable, or so they tell me, regardless of whether it is or not. To them, I could be one of any of the associates, and really, all they see me as now is ballast, ready to cast off to keep the rest of the firm above water.
About the only thing I take joy in is getting published in legal periodicals. Somehow, I've hit a nice streak and have been published in some minor journals over the past year. Maybe that, more than anything, keeps me employed. At the same time, I throw myself into these articles, researching them mercilessly, touching them up constantly, pondering the correct wording of a phrase. It is not much, but for now, it is what I have, and really, since I will be published again within the next couple of weeks, it will be something I have to look forward to. One of the few things.
I imagine him, right now, verging near eleven at night, still in the office, staring into his monitor, putting together the last few cites for another article, or wrapping up a memo, re-reading a case to make sure it applies. Maybe he is answering partner and client emails that he did not have time to get to during the day. Whatever he is going, I see him reaching into his drawer, taking a sip of bourbon, and smiling as he thinks about his April Fool's joke, where he posted that he had accepted a position as a technical writer, effective immediately, and everyone believed that he was quitting.
For April first, I posted a simple statement to my Gtalk status message and on Twitter. I would be doing pro bono work in Maryland during weekends for the next few months. I had multiple people congratulating me and asking me what exactly I would be doing. To date, only W.T. has not questioned it, but he is so filled with cynicism, I am hardly surprised. Even C.S. a few weeks later asked me what was up with that message, and expressed hopefulness I would be practicing law.
And therein lies the joke, not that I fooled people, but that they were utterly willing to believe that I would practice law. I have failed. Despite my best efforts to convince the masses I will never do this, as soon as I give a hint that I would practice law, they believe me.
(This is an appropriate time to digress and mention that, for all that people disbelieve me, this they accept? Tarnation.)
And maybe it is because I keep doing the unexpected, or at least go against the norm, and I've had such a strange arc to my life, that makes me think it would make a good situation comedy. I could redeem the mass of Asian-America and hopefully scrub the memory of All-American Girl from our collective memory, or fuck it up even more and completely guarantee no Asian-American will ever have a starring role on a situation comedy in America, ever again.
That April Fool's joke, plus a fair amount of contemplation, reminded me of who I was supposed to be at this point. It is half past ten at night as I type this, and I am just randomly typing on this blog. I often swear that I was supposed to be working on my second novel, teaching at a third-rate college during the day, raising a family, at this point in my life. At the same time, I could be toiling away at some mid-sized firm, wallowing in tedium and motions, writing memoranda to partners that I easily could have reduced to a page, but have to make fifteen pages in case someone has the foresight to check, which they will not.
I sport salt and pepper hair, going prematurely grey at twenty-eight. My stress tic is in full swing, sometimes going for thirty, forty seconds at a time. I probably look even younger, though more haunted, due to the poor eating habits, lack of sleep, and lack of laugh lines around my eyes.
I gave up video games a long time ago. Same with reading for leisure. The last thing I would want to do is more reading. I get enough of that at work. Besides, I am too busy trying desperately to keep my relationship with one of my fellow associates from going down the toilet. After all, we are both stressed, and what with the way the economy is going, all it would take is for one of us to get laid off. The other would probably cut ties pretty quickly, just to keep sanity afloat.
I work in a nice enough building in Baltimore. There's a guy on the street I see every morning on the way into the office. I used to throw him some change. Now I just don't care. I keep my head down, and my earphones loud. Probably Linkin Park.
It is not all bad. The support staff are remarkably understanding. They tolerate me because I still know enough to not piss them off. The partners treat me as fungible. My work is acceptable, or so they tell me, regardless of whether it is or not. To them, I could be one of any of the associates, and really, all they see me as now is ballast, ready to cast off to keep the rest of the firm above water.
About the only thing I take joy in is getting published in legal periodicals. Somehow, I've hit a nice streak and have been published in some minor journals over the past year. Maybe that, more than anything, keeps me employed. At the same time, I throw myself into these articles, researching them mercilessly, touching them up constantly, pondering the correct wording of a phrase. It is not much, but for now, it is what I have, and really, since I will be published again within the next couple of weeks, it will be something I have to look forward to. One of the few things.
I imagine him, right now, verging near eleven at night, still in the office, staring into his monitor, putting together the last few cites for another article, or wrapping up a memo, re-reading a case to make sure it applies. Maybe he is answering partner and client emails that he did not have time to get to during the day. Whatever he is going, I see him reaching into his drawer, taking a sip of bourbon, and smiling as he thinks about his April Fool's joke, where he posted that he had accepted a position as a technical writer, effective immediately, and everyone believed that he was quitting.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Priority One
It's been about a month, so I guess that means it's time for another blog post.
As I read that statement, it strikes me just how half-assed the following words will be. I'll type for about fifteen minutes or so, give it a semi-glance for typographical errors, then hit the "Publish Post" button and be done with it. It'll be good enough, but it won't be mind-blowingly great.
Because, for this effort, for this forum, "good enough" really is just good enough. I don't want to spend hours upon hours agonizing over the format and context and substance and all that. Not even if this blog were my job would I do that (well, in that case, maybe). The amount of effort I am willing to expend to get this down on paper is not that much.
It's a matter of prioritizing, which is why I shifted to the once a month schedule. The format, substance, etc. of this blog just don't rank as high on my list as they once did. I sometimes question if it ever ranked very highly on the list, and it must have, because for about a six month period, I had a hell of a lot of posts.
You look at what people spend time on, and it's almost crazy. Some people spend hours putting together the perfect outfit that they're going to wear out, because they want to look just perfect, they want to convey an image, a persona, of perfection. Some people like me throw on some clothes and try not to put the underwear outside of the pants.
We constantly complain that we never have enough time to do everything that we want to, and a big part of that is just priorities, though no small part is the stresses of our society. Think about all the time you waste watching television. I'm guilty, I'm probably upwards of twenty-hours a week. Considering that the week is one hundred and sixty-eight hours, that twenty hours is a hell of a time commitment to something that is not necessarily so worthwhile. For me, that twenty hours is probably three or four more books a week.
I probably need fifty-six hours of sleep a week, and probably get forty to forty-five hours in. That's a whole extra night's worth of sleep that I'm missing out on, which could be covered if I watched that much less television. I always wonder why the going is so slow with my novel, and I could easily apply some of that time to that.
Of course, in order to live "a better life", other sacrifices must be made. Having one less avenue of conversation with Society At Large. Not knowing what's going on with the stories. Justifying the monthly expenditure for television if it isn't being watched. And so on and so forth.
Television's apparently a very high priority in my life, intentionally or unintentionally, mostly because in primal terms, it maximizes return for minimal effort. I sit there and flick a switch, and mind is entertained for hours. Even reading requires that you move your eyes across the page. Sleeping means you actually have to listen to your body and go to sleep when you're tired. I sort of wish I could cut all the stuff out of my life that doesn't benefit it, reprioritize in order to make myself "A Better Person". but again, that reeks of effort, and effort is hard.
Even right now, as I'm nodding off typing this, I think about how much I got done today, even though I was on vacation, just by stepping away from my apartment, i.e. my television, and not hooking my computer up to the internet (and the internet itself is a deadlier time sink, even as we're all so much more reliant on it than ever, but that's probably best saved for another discussion.). I set my priorities for the day, and I got so much done, it was ridiculous.
I guess there is one useful thing about television, in that it lets my mind shut off. No need to think or concentrate or worry or feel or anything. Just watch the pretty little people on the screen do their pretty little dances, and wait for the credits to roll. Plain and simple. Still, I hear tell meditation accomplishes much the same effect, and lets you grow cool facial hair in the process, so.
As I read that statement, it strikes me just how half-assed the following words will be. I'll type for about fifteen minutes or so, give it a semi-glance for typographical errors, then hit the "Publish Post" button and be done with it. It'll be good enough, but it won't be mind-blowingly great.
Because, for this effort, for this forum, "good enough" really is just good enough. I don't want to spend hours upon hours agonizing over the format and context and substance and all that. Not even if this blog were my job would I do that (well, in that case, maybe). The amount of effort I am willing to expend to get this down on paper is not that much.
It's a matter of prioritizing, which is why I shifted to the once a month schedule. The format, substance, etc. of this blog just don't rank as high on my list as they once did. I sometimes question if it ever ranked very highly on the list, and it must have, because for about a six month period, I had a hell of a lot of posts.
You look at what people spend time on, and it's almost crazy. Some people spend hours putting together the perfect outfit that they're going to wear out, because they want to look just perfect, they want to convey an image, a persona, of perfection. Some people like me throw on some clothes and try not to put the underwear outside of the pants.
We constantly complain that we never have enough time to do everything that we want to, and a big part of that is just priorities, though no small part is the stresses of our society. Think about all the time you waste watching television. I'm guilty, I'm probably upwards of twenty-hours a week. Considering that the week is one hundred and sixty-eight hours, that twenty hours is a hell of a time commitment to something that is not necessarily so worthwhile. For me, that twenty hours is probably three or four more books a week.
I probably need fifty-six hours of sleep a week, and probably get forty to forty-five hours in. That's a whole extra night's worth of sleep that I'm missing out on, which could be covered if I watched that much less television. I always wonder why the going is so slow with my novel, and I could easily apply some of that time to that.
Of course, in order to live "a better life", other sacrifices must be made. Having one less avenue of conversation with Society At Large. Not knowing what's going on with the stories. Justifying the monthly expenditure for television if it isn't being watched. And so on and so forth.
Television's apparently a very high priority in my life, intentionally or unintentionally, mostly because in primal terms, it maximizes return for minimal effort. I sit there and flick a switch, and mind is entertained for hours. Even reading requires that you move your eyes across the page. Sleeping means you actually have to listen to your body and go to sleep when you're tired. I sort of wish I could cut all the stuff out of my life that doesn't benefit it, reprioritize in order to make myself "A Better Person". but again, that reeks of effort, and effort is hard.
Even right now, as I'm nodding off typing this, I think about how much I got done today, even though I was on vacation, just by stepping away from my apartment, i.e. my television, and not hooking my computer up to the internet (and the internet itself is a deadlier time sink, even as we're all so much more reliant on it than ever, but that's probably best saved for another discussion.). I set my priorities for the day, and I got so much done, it was ridiculous.
I guess there is one useful thing about television, in that it lets my mind shut off. No need to think or concentrate or worry or feel or anything. Just watch the pretty little people on the screen do their pretty little dances, and wait for the credits to roll. Plain and simple. Still, I hear tell meditation accomplishes much the same effect, and lets you grow cool facial hair in the process, so.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Thematic Discussion
When people ask me what my novel's about, I tell them to think of Who Framed Roger Rabbit crossed with The Big Sleep. This is pretty accurate, seeing as how noir inspiration surges throughout Who Framed Roger Rabbit, and I'm writing a noir-inspired story about a cartoon detective come to life and investigating a murder. And, generally, when people hear it, they nod and say "OK," and we move on. I think that there's something about the way I dismiss it that almost forces the other person to move on. Not that I don't want to talk about it, it's just that I don't know how to talk about it.
"Let me tell you about this crazy dream I had, except I have been awake, it has lasted for over two years, and it's not a dream. But, boy, is it crazy." It definitely feels very related to unconscious hallucinations, except I control it. Every once in a while, I get completely lost in it. I'm sure if I'm still writing when my mind starts to go, it will be very horrifying.
But what, really, is this story about? Ultimately, it's the story of me trying to write a story, except you're seeing the highly polished end version, in the end. Seeing as how I've been working on it for so long, I do have a few ideas about it, and I'm not sure whether these would come across better than my pat response.
It's about memory and identity, and how the two are intertwined, yet separate. It's how our souls are like birds nests, all similar, yet strikingly different, our memories the twigs and leaves that go into the nest, the occasional eggs those brilliant dreams that we try to hold onto, and just can't. We are who we are because of what we remember, so what happens when we start losing our memory? Do we consequently fade away, or do we persist in the face of an eroding life?
It's about self-discovery, about finding yourself by not trying to find yourself (very zen, I know). The protagonist is investigating a murder, this much is true, and the story leads up to the resolution of this act, but that is not the main point of the story. The murder is just a vehicle to carry the reader through the protagonist's realization of himself, as he shifts from belief to ignorance and belief again, and how he decides to react to finding himself.
It's about acceptance, acceptance of who you are, and who everyone thinks you are. You can deny it, but in the end, you are who you are. No matter how you try to couch it, you can't outrun your own skin.
It's about standing up for what you believe in, doing what you need to, even if no one else wants you to. The story leads our protagonist into very compromising positions just because he's trying to uphold the law and find justice, even when those two are at cross-purposes.
It's about duality, how there are at least two sides to every story, every person, everything. How nothing is ever as it seems, and no one single viewpoint is ever correct. It feels like almost every major character in this story, every major location, every major anecdote, comes out differently to different people, and neither is correct, and both are correct. Negative capability, baby.
It's about irrational bias, and how we can't escape it, no matter what we try. Even with enlightenment, people will find a way to hate each other. That's just the way we are. Of course, on the flip side, it implies that people will find a way to love each other, though I'm not sure that actually comes out in the story.
It's about eighty thousand words.
And, in the end, it's about hope. You hold out hope because there's going to be an answer. You hold out hope because you believe what you're doing is right, even when everyone knows it's wrong, and tells you so. You hold out hope because you will be happy again. You hold out hope because if you give up, that's boring, and we need more excitement. You hold out hope.
"Let me tell you about this crazy dream I had, except I have been awake, it has lasted for over two years, and it's not a dream. But, boy, is it crazy." It definitely feels very related to unconscious hallucinations, except I control it. Every once in a while, I get completely lost in it. I'm sure if I'm still writing when my mind starts to go, it will be very horrifying.
But what, really, is this story about? Ultimately, it's the story of me trying to write a story, except you're seeing the highly polished end version, in the end. Seeing as how I've been working on it for so long, I do have a few ideas about it, and I'm not sure whether these would come across better than my pat response.
It's about memory and identity, and how the two are intertwined, yet separate. It's how our souls are like birds nests, all similar, yet strikingly different, our memories the twigs and leaves that go into the nest, the occasional eggs those brilliant dreams that we try to hold onto, and just can't. We are who we are because of what we remember, so what happens when we start losing our memory? Do we consequently fade away, or do we persist in the face of an eroding life?
It's about self-discovery, about finding yourself by not trying to find yourself (very zen, I know). The protagonist is investigating a murder, this much is true, and the story leads up to the resolution of this act, but that is not the main point of the story. The murder is just a vehicle to carry the reader through the protagonist's realization of himself, as he shifts from belief to ignorance and belief again, and how he decides to react to finding himself.
It's about acceptance, acceptance of who you are, and who everyone thinks you are. You can deny it, but in the end, you are who you are. No matter how you try to couch it, you can't outrun your own skin.
It's about standing up for what you believe in, doing what you need to, even if no one else wants you to. The story leads our protagonist into very compromising positions just because he's trying to uphold the law and find justice, even when those two are at cross-purposes.
It's about duality, how there are at least two sides to every story, every person, everything. How nothing is ever as it seems, and no one single viewpoint is ever correct. It feels like almost every major character in this story, every major location, every major anecdote, comes out differently to different people, and neither is correct, and both are correct. Negative capability, baby.
It's about irrational bias, and how we can't escape it, no matter what we try. Even with enlightenment, people will find a way to hate each other. That's just the way we are. Of course, on the flip side, it implies that people will find a way to love each other, though I'm not sure that actually comes out in the story.
It's about eighty thousand words.
And, in the end, it's about hope. You hold out hope because there's going to be an answer. You hold out hope because you believe what you're doing is right, even when everyone knows it's wrong, and tells you so. You hold out hope because you will be happy again. You hold out hope because if you give up, that's boring, and we need more excitement. You hold out hope.
Sunday, February 08, 2009
Infrequent Communication
As of late, to assist with my general writing endeavor (endeavour?), I've taken on the burden of a journal. Please note that I call it a journal because diary is far too sissy, even though the thing is probably much closer to a diary than a journal. You know what they say, that if it quacks like a duck and walks like a duck, it's a diary.
Every so often, before I write another entry or two, I'll flip through and attempt to read some of the earlier entries. This is quite difficult, as my handwriting has declined over the years. In addition, sometimes I'll make entries when I'm falling asleep. Thus, my thought process, which seemed clear and logical while caught in the throes of impending slumber, are actually nonsensical and confusing upon second look. Still, many of the entries are things that I probably could/should put on this blog.
And herein lies the problem. I value my privacy, and I am somewhat loathe to share myself with the anonymous internet masses, even though I've hewed towards anonymity here. Just thinking about some of the more personal things I've written about makes me cringe, not necessarily that I wrote them, but more that they're out there for anyone to read, and anyone that has enough brain power and pencil lead to connect the dots would be able to trace it back to me.
As our networking technologies grow ever more advanced and our web of communication is drawn tighter, it is both easier and harder to not only preserve our identity, but also to keep our personal information from becoming public. Note that we all have to be ever-vigilant should the too-real specter of identity fraud spirit away our virtual/banking self. Also, we have to (though we often don't) operate under the simple assumption that if we put it on the internet, it is going to get out. At the same time, I have relative freedom to write whatever I want under this pseudonym, and so long as no one posts a comment that will trace it back to me, I'm OK.
(This is where some smartass posts personal information in a comment.)
Technology has always driven our society. Train schedules forcing people into a more regimented schedule. The printing press and the Gutenberg Bible spreading literacy to the masses. Metal smelting making more feasible a quick and bloody death for your neighbor. So it is with the internet and cell phones, where now we are no longer ever out of touch with anyone for too long. It makes the concept of pen pals almost laughable. Why wait for weeks for a several page response, when you can e-mail them a few paragraphs, text them, reply on Twitter?
It all continues to cheapen information. Not that more accessible, cheaper information is a bad thing. Perhaps I should count myself among the Luddites infesting every generation, swearing that new technological discovery X will ruin society. Humanity adapts. It's what we do. As transmission of information gets cheaper and quicker, we have less need to spend vast amounts of time in a block in order to communicate. I can break out the phone and text someone a couple of sentences just like that.
Of course, the flip side is that, as our communicae become shorter, more electronic, more divorced from personal interaction, we actually do convey less information. Could we be at the point where an innovation actually makes it harder to really communicate? Telegraphs convey words without inflection, or even punctuation, though they weren't the primary form of interaction. Phones at least carried inflection and intonation, and when tethered to the wall, were only usable when at home. You still had to leave the phone behind. There are probably people now for whom the predominant communication method doesn't allow for body language. They may type and convey more than previous generations, but do they actually say more, do they express more?
To sort of bring the jagged circle all the way round, I do not update this blog very often. If I did, most of the entries would consist of pap and fluff, space fillers just to prove that I could post something. My mind doesn't work that way. I work more long form, getting semi-obsessed over an idea, worming it around in my brain until it burrows out in some fashion. It's why I prefer writing novels to more short-form writing. It's why when I finally do post these days, it comes spewing forth instead of trickling out. It also allows me to resume my emotional distance, to ponder carefully and let an overall mood command, rather than the tempestuous fluctuations of the day-to-day living (and good lord, am I wearing black makeup and cutting myself so I can feel something? That was pretty melodramatic).
Every so often, before I write another entry or two, I'll flip through and attempt to read some of the earlier entries. This is quite difficult, as my handwriting has declined over the years. In addition, sometimes I'll make entries when I'm falling asleep. Thus, my thought process, which seemed clear and logical while caught in the throes of impending slumber, are actually nonsensical and confusing upon second look. Still, many of the entries are things that I probably could/should put on this blog.
And herein lies the problem. I value my privacy, and I am somewhat loathe to share myself with the anonymous internet masses, even though I've hewed towards anonymity here. Just thinking about some of the more personal things I've written about makes me cringe, not necessarily that I wrote them, but more that they're out there for anyone to read, and anyone that has enough brain power and pencil lead to connect the dots would be able to trace it back to me.
As our networking technologies grow ever more advanced and our web of communication is drawn tighter, it is both easier and harder to not only preserve our identity, but also to keep our personal information from becoming public. Note that we all have to be ever-vigilant should the too-real specter of identity fraud spirit away our virtual/banking self. Also, we have to (though we often don't) operate under the simple assumption that if we put it on the internet, it is going to get out. At the same time, I have relative freedom to write whatever I want under this pseudonym, and so long as no one posts a comment that will trace it back to me, I'm OK.
(This is where some smartass posts personal information in a comment.)
Technology has always driven our society. Train schedules forcing people into a more regimented schedule. The printing press and the Gutenberg Bible spreading literacy to the masses. Metal smelting making more feasible a quick and bloody death for your neighbor. So it is with the internet and cell phones, where now we are no longer ever out of touch with anyone for too long. It makes the concept of pen pals almost laughable. Why wait for weeks for a several page response, when you can e-mail them a few paragraphs, text them, reply on Twitter?
It all continues to cheapen information. Not that more accessible, cheaper information is a bad thing. Perhaps I should count myself among the Luddites infesting every generation, swearing that new technological discovery X will ruin society. Humanity adapts. It's what we do. As transmission of information gets cheaper and quicker, we have less need to spend vast amounts of time in a block in order to communicate. I can break out the phone and text someone a couple of sentences just like that.
Of course, the flip side is that, as our communicae become shorter, more electronic, more divorced from personal interaction, we actually do convey less information. Could we be at the point where an innovation actually makes it harder to really communicate? Telegraphs convey words without inflection, or even punctuation, though they weren't the primary form of interaction. Phones at least carried inflection and intonation, and when tethered to the wall, were only usable when at home. You still had to leave the phone behind. There are probably people now for whom the predominant communication method doesn't allow for body language. They may type and convey more than previous generations, but do they actually say more, do they express more?
To sort of bring the jagged circle all the way round, I do not update this blog very often. If I did, most of the entries would consist of pap and fluff, space fillers just to prove that I could post something. My mind doesn't work that way. I work more long form, getting semi-obsessed over an idea, worming it around in my brain until it burrows out in some fashion. It's why I prefer writing novels to more short-form writing. It's why when I finally do post these days, it comes spewing forth instead of trickling out. It also allows me to resume my emotional distance, to ponder carefully and let an overall mood command, rather than the tempestuous fluctuations of the day-to-day living (and good lord, am I wearing black makeup and cutting myself so I can feel something? That was pretty melodramatic).
Saturday, January 03, 2009
Sudden Victory
The National Football League's overtime rules strike many as antiquated, ridiculous, unfair. Currently, after four quarters, if both teams are tied, the game moves to sudden death (though our politically correct society amends it to sudden victory). After an initial coin toss, where the visiting team calls while in mid-air, the first score wins the game. Note that both teams are not guaranteed a chance to go on offense. Also, note that a field goal is enough to guarantee a victory.
This has the effect of shrinking the field for overtime. Assume that the team starts on their own twenty-yard line. Rather than having to drive eighty yards for a touchdown, they only need fifty or so to have a fair chance at kicking a field goal, converting, and winning. There are plenty of teams that move the ball well in the middle of the field, then bog down in the red zone. Whether it is an anemic offense, or a defense that grows stouter the closer you get to the end zone, this changes your strategy, removes some pressure from the offense, increases it from the defense.
Contrast with the college football overtime rules (of which I am not so intimately familiar with). Each team will get at least one offensive possession. You start at the opponent's twenty-five yard line and have four downs to score. It is possible to pick up first downs. After each pair of offensive possessions, if the score is still tied, you move on to another overtime period. After two such overtime periods, if a team scores a touchdown, it is forced to attempt a two point conversion after a touchdown, as opposed to the traditional kick/point after touchdown. It creates some interesting wrinkles, but the most important part to everyone is that both teams get a chance to get the ball on offense.
I just watched the overtime period of the Colts and Chargers wild card playoff game, and the Chargers won on a touchdown by Darren Sproles. The Colts called the coin flip incorrectly, the Chargers took the ball on offense, and proceeded to score. In this case, they went for the touchdown, and they were also aided by a Colts defensive meltdown, as well as the referees being somewhat penalty flag happy. Still, you wonder what would have happened if the Colts could have gone back on offense. Peyton Manning had his helmet on during the latter half of the drive, as if anticipating the opportunity to carve up the Chargers defense. Alas, it was not meant to be.
The theory is that no one will change the overtime rules until an overtime game occurs during the AFC Championship game, NFC Championship game, or Super Bowl, and a team wins on their first offensive possession. As it stands, we have (relatively) plenty of overtime games that end on that first offensive possession, and oftentime, what really peeves people is that the game is won on the field goal. There are several popular ideas for amending overtime, such as forcing each team to get an offensive possession.
Looking at it, and especially after that game, I didn't have a problem so much with the Chargers winning on a touchdown; they at least went the length of the field. However, I could see that causing problems for others. An idea I've not read/heard before is a minimum required score for overtime. Therefore, I would like to propose (because I am so close with the rulesmakers in the National Football League) the following:
1. Each team gets at least one overtime possession.
2. In order to win, a team must have scored at least seven points in overtime.
3. If after the initial overtime possessions, if neither team has won, continue play until one team has scored seven points.
4. If the first overtime quarter expires, take an intermission and continue with a second overtime quarter. Repeat as necessary.
Is it perfect? No, but I've been thinking about this for a while now. Seven points is almost a given if you score a touchdown, and also requires that you score three field goals if you go that route. If a team gets the ball first, and kicks the field goal, the opposing team gets the ball, and they can go for a tie, or get the touchdown and end the game right there. There are still situations where teams would potentially trade field goals until the team that had first offensive overtime possession would win. However, both teams had plenty of chances to score touchdowns.
The advantage of this, it removes the increased power conferred upon field goals in overtime. I'm not disrespecting the kicking game, just noting that kicking to score is vastly different in nature from scoring via run/pass. It more closely reflects the game itself, even though there is now a new point total that must be met. Also, it would force a resolution on regular season games. There's nothing wrong with ties when your sample set is big, but we are talking about sixteen games per team per regular season here. Let them play it out, let them do their thing.
In the end, none of this will happen. The NFL is partly successful because of its conservatism. If you know what to expect, it's easier to accept. Note that this doesn't take into account the fact that many players don't know the minutiae of the rule book, but that's somewhat off topic. The key is to add some fairness to games, and the method I write about seems as close as any other to doing so.
This has the effect of shrinking the field for overtime. Assume that the team starts on their own twenty-yard line. Rather than having to drive eighty yards for a touchdown, they only need fifty or so to have a fair chance at kicking a field goal, converting, and winning. There are plenty of teams that move the ball well in the middle of the field, then bog down in the red zone. Whether it is an anemic offense, or a defense that grows stouter the closer you get to the end zone, this changes your strategy, removes some pressure from the offense, increases it from the defense.
Contrast with the college football overtime rules (of which I am not so intimately familiar with). Each team will get at least one offensive possession. You start at the opponent's twenty-five yard line and have four downs to score. It is possible to pick up first downs. After each pair of offensive possessions, if the score is still tied, you move on to another overtime period. After two such overtime periods, if a team scores a touchdown, it is forced to attempt a two point conversion after a touchdown, as opposed to the traditional kick/point after touchdown. It creates some interesting wrinkles, but the most important part to everyone is that both teams get a chance to get the ball on offense.
I just watched the overtime period of the Colts and Chargers wild card playoff game, and the Chargers won on a touchdown by Darren Sproles. The Colts called the coin flip incorrectly, the Chargers took the ball on offense, and proceeded to score. In this case, they went for the touchdown, and they were also aided by a Colts defensive meltdown, as well as the referees being somewhat penalty flag happy. Still, you wonder what would have happened if the Colts could have gone back on offense. Peyton Manning had his helmet on during the latter half of the drive, as if anticipating the opportunity to carve up the Chargers defense. Alas, it was not meant to be.
The theory is that no one will change the overtime rules until an overtime game occurs during the AFC Championship game, NFC Championship game, or Super Bowl, and a team wins on their first offensive possession. As it stands, we have (relatively) plenty of overtime games that end on that first offensive possession, and oftentime, what really peeves people is that the game is won on the field goal. There are several popular ideas for amending overtime, such as forcing each team to get an offensive possession.
Looking at it, and especially after that game, I didn't have a problem so much with the Chargers winning on a touchdown; they at least went the length of the field. However, I could see that causing problems for others. An idea I've not read/heard before is a minimum required score for overtime. Therefore, I would like to propose (because I am so close with the rulesmakers in the National Football League) the following:
1. Each team gets at least one overtime possession.
2. In order to win, a team must have scored at least seven points in overtime.
3. If after the initial overtime possessions, if neither team has won, continue play until one team has scored seven points.
4. If the first overtime quarter expires, take an intermission and continue with a second overtime quarter. Repeat as necessary.
Is it perfect? No, but I've been thinking about this for a while now. Seven points is almost a given if you score a touchdown, and also requires that you score three field goals if you go that route. If a team gets the ball first, and kicks the field goal, the opposing team gets the ball, and they can go for a tie, or get the touchdown and end the game right there. There are still situations where teams would potentially trade field goals until the team that had first offensive overtime possession would win. However, both teams had plenty of chances to score touchdowns.
The advantage of this, it removes the increased power conferred upon field goals in overtime. I'm not disrespecting the kicking game, just noting that kicking to score is vastly different in nature from scoring via run/pass. It more closely reflects the game itself, even though there is now a new point total that must be met. Also, it would force a resolution on regular season games. There's nothing wrong with ties when your sample set is big, but we are talking about sixteen games per team per regular season here. Let them play it out, let them do their thing.
In the end, none of this will happen. The NFL is partly successful because of its conservatism. If you know what to expect, it's easier to accept. Note that this doesn't take into account the fact that many players don't know the minutiae of the rule book, but that's somewhat off topic. The key is to add some fairness to games, and the method I write about seems as close as any other to doing so.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Deconstructing Mork
The Sci-Fi Channel aired a Mork and Mindy marathon on Friday, and seeing as how I spent most of the day catching up on lost sleep and eating Thanksgiving leftovers, I left the television tuned to that and spent most of the day drifting in and out of a tryptophan-induced semi-coma. So, please take everything I'm about to write with a grain of salt.
I'd forgotten how much I liked the show as a kid. Since my memories are hazy, and since it aired around the time I was born, either I watched it as a babe, or viewed recently aired reruns. There was something that I probably couldn't understand back then, about how Mork was so manic, so crazy, and everyone else around him more or less took it in stride. Still, it was hilarious, and even though I probably didn't get most of the jokes, it was still worth watching.
Of course, this show could never happen today. One episode revolved around a kidnapper trying to sell Mork a baby. After seeing him go gaga over another woman's child, this kidnapper, smooth enough to cross interstate boundaries with a stolen child, proceeds to follow Mork all over the place, then try to traffic a human child for ten thousand dollars, to a man who appears to be at least mildly mentally incapacitated. The late seventies/early eighties were such an innocent time.
I think that's the key to when someone eventually remakes Mork and Mindy. You can leave Mork as almost exactly the same naive, ridiculous character, but everyone around him has to more reflect our darker, post-modern times. Thus, I've spent much of the past day pondering this.
We'd call it "Melinda", I'm thinking, to distinguish it from its forebear, yet leave enough of a connection to the original. Hire an up-and-coming improv comedian with a slight drug problem as Mork. For the female lead, I'd like to see a goth-type girl, early twenties, heroin-chic, with a haunted look in her eyes. The character, Melinda McConnell, would have already had a psychotic break or two in her life. She hates the name "Mindy", but everyone calls her that, especially the new guy in the halfway house, whom she only knows as "Mark" initially.
Mark, who prefers "Mork", has been in and out of halfway houses and mental asylums for the past few years, and now he's in the room above Melinda. At first, she's just trying to get through a day, when she notices abnormally strange behavior (even for the home) from Mark, including talking to eggs, resuscitating ants, and other behavior that doesn't track with normal human behavior. Everyone else sees a man with the mental capacity of a child, but only she sees someone with the curiosity of a child.
Over time, as she gets to know Mork, Melinda starts to question whether or not he really is of this world. At the same time, she starts to wonder if she's having another break. The bulk of the show would involve her trying not only to help Mork assimilate into society, to become accepted, but also herself trying to readjust and find her way again. Further complicating matters, everyone perceives Mork to be "off", and it wears on Melinda, having to deal with this child in a grown man's body.
(It is strange watching all those shows, especially with multiple references to Peter Pan. Keep in mind that Williams starred in "Hook", a deconstruction of the Peter Pan mythos, and "Jack", a movie about a boy with some derivative of progeria, a ten-year old in a forty-year old's body. Robin Williams either never grew up, or cocaine really is a hell of a drug.)
As a dark throwback, and this would have to be done carefully, or scrapped altogether, Mindy would be sitting in a metal chair, in an empty room, talking to the camera. Mork's voice, or that of an invisible psychiatrist, would be asking her questions about her latest memories, and she would be desperately trying to figure out whether or not it was real, or worthwhile. Hell, as long as we're dreaming, let's get Pam Dawber and Robin Williams to do these scenes, as a sort of "twenty years into the future" deal.
The first season would culminate with a visit from Mork to the sanitarium where Melinda's now kept. It would be either a finale or a segue into the next season, where the two of them start reminiscing about the good times, and where it all went wrong.
I'd forgotten how much I liked the show as a kid. Since my memories are hazy, and since it aired around the time I was born, either I watched it as a babe, or viewed recently aired reruns. There was something that I probably couldn't understand back then, about how Mork was so manic, so crazy, and everyone else around him more or less took it in stride. Still, it was hilarious, and even though I probably didn't get most of the jokes, it was still worth watching.
Of course, this show could never happen today. One episode revolved around a kidnapper trying to sell Mork a baby. After seeing him go gaga over another woman's child, this kidnapper, smooth enough to cross interstate boundaries with a stolen child, proceeds to follow Mork all over the place, then try to traffic a human child for ten thousand dollars, to a man who appears to be at least mildly mentally incapacitated. The late seventies/early eighties were such an innocent time.
I think that's the key to when someone eventually remakes Mork and Mindy. You can leave Mork as almost exactly the same naive, ridiculous character, but everyone around him has to more reflect our darker, post-modern times. Thus, I've spent much of the past day pondering this.
We'd call it "Melinda", I'm thinking, to distinguish it from its forebear, yet leave enough of a connection to the original. Hire an up-and-coming improv comedian with a slight drug problem as Mork. For the female lead, I'd like to see a goth-type girl, early twenties, heroin-chic, with a haunted look in her eyes. The character, Melinda McConnell, would have already had a psychotic break or two in her life. She hates the name "Mindy", but everyone calls her that, especially the new guy in the halfway house, whom she only knows as "Mark" initially.
Mark, who prefers "Mork", has been in and out of halfway houses and mental asylums for the past few years, and now he's in the room above Melinda. At first, she's just trying to get through a day, when she notices abnormally strange behavior (even for the home) from Mark, including talking to eggs, resuscitating ants, and other behavior that doesn't track with normal human behavior. Everyone else sees a man with the mental capacity of a child, but only she sees someone with the curiosity of a child.
Over time, as she gets to know Mork, Melinda starts to question whether or not he really is of this world. At the same time, she starts to wonder if she's having another break. The bulk of the show would involve her trying not only to help Mork assimilate into society, to become accepted, but also herself trying to readjust and find her way again. Further complicating matters, everyone perceives Mork to be "off", and it wears on Melinda, having to deal with this child in a grown man's body.
(It is strange watching all those shows, especially with multiple references to Peter Pan. Keep in mind that Williams starred in "Hook", a deconstruction of the Peter Pan mythos, and "Jack", a movie about a boy with some derivative of progeria, a ten-year old in a forty-year old's body. Robin Williams either never grew up, or cocaine really is a hell of a drug.)
As a dark throwback, and this would have to be done carefully, or scrapped altogether, Mindy would be sitting in a metal chair, in an empty room, talking to the camera. Mork's voice, or that of an invisible psychiatrist, would be asking her questions about her latest memories, and she would be desperately trying to figure out whether or not it was real, or worthwhile. Hell, as long as we're dreaming, let's get Pam Dawber and Robin Williams to do these scenes, as a sort of "twenty years into the future" deal.
The first season would culminate with a visit from Mork to the sanitarium where Melinda's now kept. It would be either a finale or a segue into the next season, where the two of them start reminiscing about the good times, and where it all went wrong.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Birthday Boy
About that hiatus? I half-lied.
Congrats D.C. and M.C., and happy birthday to S.C., June 13, 2008!
Congrats D.C. and M.C., and happy birthday to S.C., June 13, 2008!
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Random Scribbling
Things are about to get busy at work, so I'm going on hiatus again. Well, that and I've been half-assing this for the longest time.
***
Some leftover text from my novel that didn't fit in anywhere right now. Some of it is good, some of it is not. Most of it doesn't even really apply to the story proper. Maybe it will fit somewhere later.
***
sometimes, when you’re about to pass out, you just gotta hold on to something familiar.
***
When you wake up and you haven’t opened your eyes, everything seems that dark grey, even during the brightest day.
***
The problem with answers was that he wanted the solid, unambiguous answers, like what you’d get with a mathematical equation. And though our universe is based on these mathematical equations, there’s an emergent diversity that leads to complexity. As a result, there are few, if any, simple answers. Thus, none of the answers he would get would satisfy his craving.
***
“We have to become greater than the sum of our parts.”
“Seven, then.”
“What?”
“Two arms, two legs, one head, one torso, that’s six. So, we have to become seven.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I guess you’re right. We have fingers and toes, ears and noses. Give me a second while I count.”
***
You have to hurt before you can empathize. That’s why children are so cruel. They’re the prize of their parents, and now little, if any, pain. That’s why rich kids are such pains in the ass, because the’ve never hurt. Of course, you go too far, and people just hurt too much, and don’t care about how other people feel, they’ve hurt too much themselves.
***
remember when you fought because you thought you were right? Because you thought you were doing good? Then you got older, and realized you were fighting more to prevent yourself from going crazy, by realizing there was nothing special about your life.
***
Some leftover text from my novel that didn't fit in anywhere right now. Some of it is good, some of it is not. Most of it doesn't even really apply to the story proper. Maybe it will fit somewhere later.
***
sometimes, when you’re about to pass out, you just gotta hold on to something familiar.
***
When you wake up and you haven’t opened your eyes, everything seems that dark grey, even during the brightest day.
***
The problem with answers was that he wanted the solid, unambiguous answers, like what you’d get with a mathematical equation. And though our universe is based on these mathematical equations, there’s an emergent diversity that leads to complexity. As a result, there are few, if any, simple answers. Thus, none of the answers he would get would satisfy his craving.
***
“We have to become greater than the sum of our parts.”
“Seven, then.”
“What?”
“Two arms, two legs, one head, one torso, that’s six. So, we have to become seven.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I guess you’re right. We have fingers and toes, ears and noses. Give me a second while I count.”
***
You have to hurt before you can empathize. That’s why children are so cruel. They’re the prize of their parents, and now little, if any, pain. That’s why rich kids are such pains in the ass, because the’ve never hurt. Of course, you go too far, and people just hurt too much, and don’t care about how other people feel, they’ve hurt too much themselves.
***
remember when you fought because you thought you were right? Because you thought you were doing good? Then you got older, and realized you were fighting more to prevent yourself from going crazy, by realizing there was nothing special about your life.
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Mecha Approach
Let's say walking robots did ... walk ... the earth. What would I pilot? I'd need a "light" mech (if such a thing can be classified as light), under forty tons. It would need a lot of speed, and modified jump jets to act as a speed boost while running.
I'd need an advanced sensor suite and electronic countermeasures, as well as chaff and flares, so I'd have a better idea of what was coming, and be able to dodge it. The cockpit would also be kitted out with some truly advanced targeting systems and information layouts.
Weapon-wise, I'd need mostly long-range weapons. Twin light missile racks, to explode on impact, in case I needed a close range desperation attack. As for pecking, either some sort of sniper rifle/rail gun, or twinned long distance lasers if I needed to engage.
I'd need an advanced sensor suite and electronic countermeasures, as well as chaff and flares, so I'd have a better idea of what was coming, and be able to dodge it. The cockpit would also be kitted out with some truly advanced targeting systems and information layouts.
Weapon-wise, I'd need mostly long-range weapons. Twin light missile racks, to explode on impact, in case I needed a close range desperation attack. As for pecking, either some sort of sniper rifle/rail gun, or twinned long distance lasers if I needed to engage.
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Melee Approach
In a pinch, if I ever needed it, my weapons of choice would be a short crowbar and a hammer, with a Leatherman tool as the backup. The main reason for this is because I actually own all three of these things, and they are all within arm's reach as I type this.
K.C. gave me a great idea for the approach: tear out the throat with the crowbar, then smash the head with the hammer. Or, in the alternative, I could bust out with mad carpentry skills. Who doesn't need a credenza in eight hours?
Of course, note this is all moot should mecha combat take over our society. In such an event, I become a mechanic, and carry around a pipe wrench and screwdriver. I stay in the repair bays and become the crotchety, well-respected mechanic who alternates between trash talk and subtle advice.
K.C. gave me a great idea for the approach: tear out the throat with the crowbar, then smash the head with the hammer. Or, in the alternative, I could bust out with mad carpentry skills. Who doesn't need a credenza in eight hours?
Of course, note this is all moot should mecha combat take over our society. In such an event, I become a mechanic, and carry around a pipe wrench and screwdriver. I stay in the repair bays and become the crotchety, well-respected mechanic who alternates between trash talk and subtle advice.
Monday, June 02, 2008
Picture Time
L.C. mentioned that my Gtalk icon needs to be changed, because I've never been that happy. And maybe this is true for the most part, but when that pic was taken, I was having a great time.
What does it say about me that I don't often have a big goofy grin on my face like that (which some people have interpreted as maniacal)? What does it say that I was playing football, and probably getting knocked around?
I probably am lying a bit, and need a new pic, but I also subscribe to the Amish (Pennsylvania Dutch?) belief that pictures steal your soul. There really aren't that many pics of me, though maybe I should throw up the pic of myself when I graduated from school?
What does it say about me that I don't often have a big goofy grin on my face like that (which some people have interpreted as maniacal)? What does it say that I was playing football, and probably getting knocked around?
I probably am lying a bit, and need a new pic, but I also subscribe to the Amish (Pennsylvania Dutch?) belief that pictures steal your soul. There really aren't that many pics of me, though maybe I should throw up the pic of myself when I graduated from school?
Sunday, June 01, 2008
Random Running
Twenty-two minutes, forty-nine seconds for three miles. I think I ran each mile at the following: seven minutes, twenty seconds; seven minutes, fifty seconds; seven minutes, forty seconds. Yay incremental progress.
I need a rabbit when I run. There's just something about being able to chase someone down from behind that does it for me. Whenever there's a lot of people, I find myself just chasing down the next, and the next, and the next.
Just got a new pair of shoes because I'd worn a hole through the canvas of my old shoes with my toes. It was getting kind of uncomfortable when I'd start running on the balls of my feet, and my toes would slam against that hole.
I need a rabbit when I run. There's just something about being able to chase someone down from behind that does it for me. Whenever there's a lot of people, I find myself just chasing down the next, and the next, and the next.
Just got a new pair of shoes because I'd worn a hole through the canvas of my old shoes with my toes. It was getting kind of uncomfortable when I'd start running on the balls of my feet, and my toes would slam against that hole.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Book Burned
Z.M. asked me about my novel, and internally I started freaking out. Didn't realize I'd feel that way, but I did. It's still like me baring my soul, even though it's just a story. It's just a story, it's just a story.
It's not just a story. It's potentially a validation of my existence. It's a tangible reminder of all my dreams, and a bulwark against the culmination of all my fears. It's a focus for my creativity. It's right now one of the few things, living and not, I actually give a damn about.
Damn it, I think it's a great story, I really do. I'm not going to pretend to be modest, it does have it's flaws, but I think it's an engaging world, interesting premise, and "realistic" characters (yes, they need to be more consistent in their motivations and mannerisms, but I'm getting there). Still, sometimes (most of the time) I'm not sure how to react, or if I can relate how I feel about it to other people. It makes me want to get another undergrad degree in English, just so I can be around people again that understand this, how it drives you crazy, how it consumes your waking moments, how you think it's crap, but keep doing it because else-wise, you'd die.
It's not just a story. It's potentially a validation of my existence. It's a tangible reminder of all my dreams, and a bulwark against the culmination of all my fears. It's a focus for my creativity. It's right now one of the few things, living and not, I actually give a damn about.
Damn it, I think it's a great story, I really do. I'm not going to pretend to be modest, it does have it's flaws, but I think it's an engaging world, interesting premise, and "realistic" characters (yes, they need to be more consistent in their motivations and mannerisms, but I'm getting there). Still, sometimes (most of the time) I'm not sure how to react, or if I can relate how I feel about it to other people. It makes me want to get another undergrad degree in English, just so I can be around people again that understand this, how it drives you crazy, how it consumes your waking moments, how you think it's crap, but keep doing it because else-wise, you'd die.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Scattered Rambling
Lie to me, tell me it's all gonna be OK. Sing those stupid nonsense songs that came out of nowhere in your mind. Hold me till the sun rises.
***
You have to hurt before you can empathize. Otherwise, you're just going through the motions without the underlying feeling.
***
People that bike in the middle of the street, I should just run over them. No, it doesn't matter if you pull your shirt down or not, I'm staring at your ass because your spandex shorts are old and ripped because your ass is too fat, not because you're sexually enrapturing.
***
I went clothes shopping on my own because I had to. This growing up shit is weird.
***
I expect too much of people. The standards need to be lowered.
***
You have to hurt before you can empathize. Otherwise, you're just going through the motions without the underlying feeling.
***
People that bike in the middle of the street, I should just run over them. No, it doesn't matter if you pull your shirt down or not, I'm staring at your ass because your spandex shorts are old and ripped because your ass is too fat, not because you're sexually enrapturing.
***
I went clothes shopping on my own because I had to. This growing up shit is weird.
***
I expect too much of people. The standards need to be lowered.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Warcraft Addiction
It feels like much of my life is going to involve the struggle against starting World of Warcraft, again. It's such a time commitment. If I could get by on four hours of sleep a night, I would devote the extra four hours to World of Warcraft. But as it stands, I just don't have that sort of time. Would that there was a way to play the game without sinking so much time and energy into it, or if I could directly translate my efforts into something tangible.
It's not like I don't want to play. I do, badly sometimes. It's fairly simple, fairly straightforward. I know the basics, and I can play it fairly well. K.C. told me that J.L. recommended that I get back in, get power-leveled to maximum level, and go nuts. I actually toyed with talent builds for a little while, dreaming of What Might Be.
Of course, Wrath of the Lich King has to come out soon, and spell inscription is going to be one of the new features. That excites me, the ability to mod your spells. Damn, that is outright enticing. But, I just can't do it. I dare not do it, do I. Argh. Rest assured, if I did do it, I would not mention it in this space.
It's not like I don't want to play. I do, badly sometimes. It's fairly simple, fairly straightforward. I know the basics, and I can play it fairly well. K.C. told me that J.L. recommended that I get back in, get power-leveled to maximum level, and go nuts. I actually toyed with talent builds for a little while, dreaming of What Might Be.
Of course, Wrath of the Lich King has to come out soon, and spell inscription is going to be one of the new features. That excites me, the ability to mod your spells. Damn, that is outright enticing. But, I just can't do it. I dare not do it, do I. Argh. Rest assured, if I did do it, I would not mention it in this space.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Animal Run
Yes. One is correct. I've also rocked number fifteen enough times that if you didn't realize I do that, you've probably been on the receiving end of it.
***
I went running, and there was a dead trout in the middle of the trail today. Yes, a fish. It couldn't have dropped from a great height, because it was still intact. So, the next question, who would drop a fish on a trail? Or, even worse, are the fish coming out of the water and coming for us? Damn them.
A few days past, a ladybug attached itself to my shirt while I was running. The thing just would not come off, no matter how fast I ran, though I didn't try to flick it. A good fifteen minutes it stuck to me. Why? I don't know. Maybe it liked me?
***
I went running, and there was a dead trout in the middle of the trail today. Yes, a fish. It couldn't have dropped from a great height, because it was still intact. So, the next question, who would drop a fish on a trail? Or, even worse, are the fish coming out of the water and coming for us? Damn them.
A few days past, a ladybug attached itself to my shirt while I was running. The thing just would not come off, no matter how fast I ran, though I didn't try to flick it. A good fifteen minutes it stuck to me. Why? I don't know. Maybe it liked me?
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Japanese Television
Human Tetris. There's a version of this coming to America. Brilliant.
Ninja Warrior. This is so hard, every time someone beats the entire course, they remake it even harder. You have to watch people keep failing to get how hard this is.
Start a laugh, get a paddlin'. From the Simpsons, not entirely accurate, but from a Japanese game show host: "In the West, gameshows reward knowledge. Ours punish ignorance."
Ninja Warrior. This is so hard, every time someone beats the entire course, they remake it even harder. You have to watch people keep failing to get how hard this is.
Start a laugh, get a paddlin'. From the Simpsons, not entirely accurate, but from a Japanese game show host: "In the West, gameshows reward knowledge. Ours punish ignorance."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)