The Ranting Griffin

Another Tiny Tease!

2012-01-30T21:45:00.000-08:00

A tiny excerpt:

Desperate, Yarvis released his cudgel again, drawing Connab closer with his right arm. He reached around his shorter opponent's back with his left hand, found the blood-soaked knife wounds by feel, and dug fingers in.

I am, as you can probably tell, having fun with it.

2012-01-30T20:24:00.000-08:00

Awesome!

A Small Thing

2012-01-24T21:48:00.000-08:00

Most times, when I write something, I just do it and move on. I force myself to worry about syntax and error correction later. I do this because I know I have to get what I want out and on the page, get it down so I don't lose the thread I am trying to hold onto.

Sometimes you have to go back and tweak it, otherwise nothing makes sense...

Tonight, I had a good little paragraph. It was alright. It served its purpose.

I immediately went back and began playing with it. Some things are important. Critical, even. One such thing, for me, is the feelings I have had on looking at death.

This is the result:

Blonde hair of shoulder length and lively color made a queer halo about a face he didn’t know but would now always remember. He felt an odd satisfaction he didn’t recognize her. Some part of Yarvis was always glad he hadn't known the dead. In his experience, most who were murdered had earned it in some way.

Tell me, does it play?

Motorbikes, Level of Cool, And Zen

2012-01-20T12:57:00.000-08:00

Today was wet, cold, and generally miserable.

I still rode in. I was, for the first time in recent memory, the only bike on the road. I have rain gear, I have good safety equipment, and I rode more cautiously than my usual.

Still, I arrived at work cold, wet and a little wrung out.

What I didn't bring to work was a great, big, ugly wad of angry.

That, my friends, is the single biggest difference for me between riding and driving. In a car, if someone cuts me off or endangers my life, I have to stew on it through traffic, quite possibly close to the driver and vehicle that endangered me. Stew and brood and howl, if angered enough.

There's no getting away from it.

While riding, I might howl, once, then I am past and watching out for the next mouth-breathing moron's attempt to kill us both. It is far better for mood and mind to be able to get it out and give it away, focus on the next thing.

I think that's one of the reasons riding is associated with 'cool'; one cannot hold onto shit that really only hurts the bearer. Instead you have to move to the next thing and do it as best you can. Well, you could, but then you are likely to get hit by the next bad thing while you're head down and polishing your hurt feelings.

I hope I can continue riding and keeping whatever measure I have of cool. Not anywhere near Steve McQueen's level of cool, mind you. But as close as a mere mortal can come:

And Ye Should Ride In His Name

Gelling

2012-01-18T20:26:00.000-08:00

Things are gelling for me on the writing front. I had to remove the self-pity stick from my ass and throw it far, far away, but I am getting things done, finally.

Speaking of which: more to do.

What The Fuck?

2012-01-11T18:22:00.000-08:00

So, those few of you that read me often have clearly been pining for more, as my email inbox is stuffed to overflowing with all the screaming and chest-beating missives begging me for another of those posts that require mind-bleach to remove from consciousness.

Fuck you. This ain't one of those posts.

No, instead I think I will explain why I haven't been producing much of anything creatively. Quite simply: I have been down. Busy with day-jobbery, and down. I have not been writing with anywhere near the speed or frequency I maintain in better times.

Work is going well, for the most part. There are still a great number of people I feel should know better that make the same poor decisions on a daily basis, but that's just my foolish desire people be better. We have had some major adjustments in the court process, many of them requiring a lot of thought and energy to implement and monitor. I am glad of them, but there it is.

As many of you might know, I finished the re-write last year in October, it has gone nowhere, and been seen by no one. There are reasons justifying this, but they don't help me, they only show me how far I am from where I want to be, and lead me to feel somewhat hopeless.

I recently learned that the short story anthology I had a strong chance of being a part of is no more. Not that the work wasn't good enough, but that the house will not be doing the project at all. Disappointing, and not at all in the way I am accustomed to, making it harder to deal with.

So, the excuses have mounted in the last few months.Writing is not easy for me, and when any excuse rears its ugly head, it's sometimes far easier to bow to the excuse than carry on with a difficult passage.

I was finally able to overcome the excuses yesterday, and settle in to some more serious writing. I hope to continue. I need to continue. I also needed the break.

So, here's to getting some writing done.

I Love This Show

2012-01-11T12:29:00.000-08:00

Writing, Damn You!

2012-01-09T22:13:00.000-08:00

An Excerpt from the current WIP:

He listened to the muted sounds of the brothel as he labored. The laughter, both drunken and forced, were as familiar to his ears as the loud gasps, rhythmic grunts, and slap of flesh on flesh. The sounds had often served as his only lullaby.

More Music

2012-01-09T21:01:00.000-08:00

Discovered this last week and have listened to it in both versions a number of times.

I am not sure which version I like more...

The song contains some amazing lyrics I find both haunting and disturbing:

I'm not scared of your stolen power.
See right through it anyhow.

I seek you out and flay you alive.
One more word and you won't survive

And then the dubstep version, which is its own disturbing brand of awesome:

Another Tune For Writing...

2012-01-06T14:30:00.000-08:00

Feelin' It

2012-01-04T12:35:00.000-08:00

Always loved the original, and this version is rockin'...

And once I got past the eye-candy I just had to wonder: what is it he's writing, since this song is a cover and he's known for them too:

Getting Over It...And A Bit Of Rant

2011-12-14T08:54:00.000-08:00

Finally got over the cold, mostly (I hope). So, I got up, didn't call the boss and tell him to mark me sick and dragged my ass to work.

On my cold, cold, ride in I was felling lucky, given that I found a relatively open stretch of lane that didn't require me to split it with cars.

So. There I was blithely thinking about other things at sixty five miles per hour, when the large Ram pick-up truck beside me decided to both: a) change lanes into my lane and, b) fail to signal the movement in any fucking way.

I banked to the right and cracked the throttle completely open. It wasn't enough. I actually had to turn my shoulders sideways to avoid contact with fool. As it was, I felt the shape of the wind change as the prow of the man killing machine swept close enough to strike me. My heart rate went from pleasantly low to dangerously high in second, the organ itself riding up into the back of my throat and squirting copper into my mouth like an adrenaline-induced power-wedgie.

The driver then honked at me.

I mean, I see their point. Look, I was in my lane and minding my own business. Clearly I am a crazed moron; daring, frivolously unconcerned, and completely careless of my life.

Fucker.

Haven't Been Around Much

2011-12-12T21:04:00.000-08:00

I haven't been posting very regularly, I know. I've been sick. I've been tired, and frankly, I haven't had a great deal of readers clamoring for more. Despite this, I have something to say...

Today, something depressing happened:I finished The Wise Man's Fear. The book isn't depressing, my response to it was. I have said before that when I read, I tend to process the work on several levels: story, craft, and a category I call the memorable turn of phrase.

I often cringed as I read The Wise Man's Fear. Not because there was anything wrong or disagreeable about the book, quite the contrary. No, the problem is that when I read, I normally find occasion to think, "I could have said that better, or differently, or using less words." That did not happen, not once, while I read this book. Instead, I marveled at something on nearly every page, muttering about the smooth eloquence of the writing, the storytelling, the world-building, or the character development. I also found the story moving and absorbing in ways I did not expect.

When reading other works, I have often felt it was only a matter of practice and patience before my craft might reach parity with the work in front of me. Not so with Pat Rothfuss. No matter how long I practice, I don't think I shall ever reach that level of eloquence. Not ever. It is pure talent that elevates the book beyond simple hard work.

Depressing.

Yet I will try, in my own fashion, to convey the stories I have to tell.

Ellroy, You The Man

2011-12-08T12:08:00.001-08:00

A Foul-Mouthed, But Interesting Rant...

2011-12-01T11:08:00.001-08:00

He either ignores or is unaware of the american communists and other organizations of the twenties and thirties, but it does not detract from my enjoyment of the rant.

Trek Nation

2011-11-30T19:06:00.001-08:00

Watching the documentary has been most illuminating. I always liked the show, but knew very little of Roddenberry.He was not only a cop, but a sergeant in the LAPD?Wow.And that Martin Luther King was a Trekker who allowed his children to stay up and watch Star Trek?

Isabelle's State Final...The goals.

2011-11-29T18:52:00.001-08:00

These are the goals scored by Diablo FC in our game. You may recall that we were down by 2 at the half. My article was off on a few points, but only slightly.

More music...

2011-11-28T20:39:00.001-08:00

And, in case you were thinking I was only about the digital, these two are true gods of Guitar!

Team Thunder, Champions...

2011-11-22T18:12:00.001-08:00

The final game of Diablo FC’s Under Nine girls began much as the first few games of the season had; with parents groaning, hearts in throat as their children played with every bit of focus and heart it was possible to show. Just as the first few games proved a lesson in what skills were necessary to hold one’s own among such competitive teams, this final looked to prove what was required to be champions.

But before speaking of the game, a little about what was before and behind us on that cold November afternoon: Both sides were were nearly the same in stature, but the SSJ Arsenal team had what appeared to be a greater number of bodies to throw into the match, something that might prove critical if the game went into overtime. With only three girls to sub in, Diablo FC U9 Girls have made do with fewer players than most every team they played in the last year. Made do, and more. They are a team: playing, laughing, pushing through together under the steady guidance of their coaching staff. All the time spent listening to their coaches, all the play, all the practices and games spent on the field under a searing sun or enduring cold winds, all of it was to come down to forty minutes and more of hard, heavily-contested play.

But we must digress, because you haven’t yet had an introduction to the team. So here, a few words about individual elements that made up Diablo FC’s Team Thunder:

Olivia: Don’t blink. Using footwork that is hard to believe from one so young, she’ll blow right past and bang it home.

Evelyn: This young lady is an amazing player, so serene and poised, the power and precision of her kicks must be seen to be believed.

Emma: Smooth, fast, and always ready with the pass or the shot. Always in position and ready to roll it forward.

Kaia: The youngest of the players, and one of the best ball handlers out there, turning on a dime and raking balls to the point the opposition has no idea where it might be from one instant to the next..

Vanessa: Has anyone so tiny ever been so fearless, so tireless, so willing to go the extra mile? Everyone knows when they’ve been playing against Vanessa, especially when they are looking up at her.

Jenny: Smooth power in the defense, feeding the ball where it needs to go with her exceptionally powerful boot. Another of the calm, steady players Thunder was blessed with.

Isabelle: Often in at Keeper, she’s got a grip, and doesn’t hesitate to throw herself at the ball. Is that a dance she’s doing?

Natalie: Often in on defense, she’s shy till the ball comes within reach, then it seems to get out of reach of the other team.

Izzie: Another serene player, Izzie joined the team a bit later than the others, but fit right in as a defender, blowing up the opposition’s attempts to score.

Alexa: Another of Team Thunder’s players who play often and well at Keep, Alexa is there for the clutch plays regardless of position.

Jenna: Heart, skills and an awareness of where she’s needed, Jenna has it all.

Coach Miguel: The head coach, Miguel had a plan for the girls from day one, and he followed it. Thunder’s fine finish was the result. No stars, just crisp, accurate passing and hard, tight, team play.

Coach Lynn: Calm and assertive, Coach Lynn supported his head coach and the team, running warm-ups and stepping up to take over seamlessly when Coach Miguel had to drive the many miles between venues to coach his older girl’s team.

Manager Michelle: The coordinator for the team, Michelle was on it, all the time, and generally with a smile. She sacrificed much of her personal time to support Diablo FC and Thunder.

The parents: Suffice to say, none of the girls would have made it to practices, games, or any of the other necessary things without their parents. Beyond that, like our girls, we all got along and, while competitive, we were very good about screaming our support rather than raving in anger at poor calls or cheap shots.

Now you’ve had a brief introduction to the team, it’s time to talk turkey. This was Thunder’s first year as a team. They had a bit of a shaky start, having a hard time for the first few tournaments. Eventually their training and hard practices paid off, as Thunder handily won the league, outperforming the other teams. Then, at the Kick Or Treat Tournament Diablo FC hosted, where the players must wear a costume to play, Thunder went out in full Rock Star fashion; painted faces, dazzling smiles and special uniforms, placing second.

Then it was on to the State Cup Tournament. The first two days were cold, wet Davis days. Team Thunder scored well and often, allowing only two goals the first four games. The semi-final went well, and Thunder rolled on.

Alright, you’ve had your introductions. You’ve heard of their accomplishments, now we can get to the final.

The first twenty minutes were a lesson in why soccer is, at all levels and ages, such challenging sport: despite some questionable calls by one of the refs, several opportunities were created by Diablo FC’s Team Thunder offense, only to have the tiny goal keeper for Arsenal repeatedly crush rising hopes. Midway through the first half, a fine shot by an Arsenal player put them ahead 1-0.

The girls were not phased, and continued to play their best. We took a few more shots, but the Arsenal keeper did her job with style and grace, shutting down several solid attempts.

One of the referees missed a few calls. The parents started to get anxious, rumbling their discontent. The girls soldiered on, unfazed, as if to show us foolish grown-ups, “Hey, it’s all part of the game.”

A few minutes later, a few more poor calls and another ball found its way into the back of Diablo FC’s net. Now the grumbling from the sidelines was louder.

At the half, though, the girls walked off with heads held high. Down 2-0, they remained unbowed.

On the sideline, the tension was palpable. Parents staggering back and forth with wide-eyed, shell-shocked expressions, muttering in their anxiety and fear.

Half time ended with the parent’s still trying to shake their fear.

Thunder rolled onto the field and began to impose their will on Arsenal.

About ten minutes into the twenty minute half, Olivia, charging downfield, ball on a string before her, drew four defenders to try and stop her, so concerned were they at the threat she posed. She executes a sweet little dump pass to Emma, who takes the shot. Keeper deflects it. Emma follows it up, tips it in.

The sidelines explode in cheers and shouts.

For those keeping track, Arsenal’s lead is now halved; a lone, paltry point stands between victory and a tie.

Play resumes at an unforgiving pace that plays to Arsenal’s advantage. With their larger squad, they can substitute nearly an entire line-up at any time.

The play surges back and forth across the field, time running out on us. The tension mounts, minute on minute slipping away.

With but one minute on the clock, Jenny gets the short kick and puts a boot to it, feeding Emma, who dodges, twists and moves, shaking it loose to send it to Evelyn. Evelyn cranks it and delivers a thunderous shot into the back of the net to tie the game.

The next minute passes without a breath being taken by anyone on the sidelines.

Overtime it is. Five minutes or sudden death.The toss is to our advantage, Thunder have the wind behind and the slight slope to speed the ball.

Five minutes of brutally fast play drag on, withe neither side able to put one in. We get a hard shot off, but the Arsenal Keeper stuffs it.

A brief break between five minute overtime halves, and the players are back.

Thunder is noticeably slower now, the long minutes of intense play taking their toll. Arsenal also looks tired, but having more players to play, have a bit more juice.

Arsenal, in it to win it, marches forward and one of them fires a long, high ball. Groans emerge from the sidelines, sure the Keeper can’t get a hand to it. Alexa calmly deflects to her feet then collects it and sends it on.

The minutes bleed by, the parents afraid to close their eyes for fear of missing the game-ending shot.

Instead the game ends in stalemate.

Shoot out.

Each side: five shooters. One tiny keeper, alone.

Evelyn is sent in to do double duty for Thunder. Not only will she shoot, she will tend goal as well. She shoots first, places the ball tidily in one corner.

The Arsenal player steps up, scores.

Fingertips are being gnawed to bloody stumps on the sidelines, and blood pressures spiking to frightening levels. One is forced to wonder, if this is what I am feeling, what must the players?

Emma steps up, misses.

Another Arsenal player slams one in.

Jenny steps up, hammers a powerful shot into the back of the net.

The next Arsenal player fires one on target, but Evelyn puts a stop to it.

Vanessa lines up her shot, takes it. The Arsenal Keeper, at full extension, gets a hand to the ball, slowing it to a crawl. Crawling, Vanessa’s shot still crosses the line for the point.

The next Arsenal player gets up, shoots a hard one toward the corner. Evelyn, stretching, slaps the ball sideways and out.

Izzy, composed and ready, steps to the line. If she scores, it is done. Izzy takes the necessary steps and ends it with a powerful kick. It finds the net.

The girls shriek with glee, the parents roar.

State.

Cup.

Champions!

The culmination of a season, not on one small set of a shoulders, but on a team’s.

Working together at all turns, Diablo FC’s Team Thunder overcame all opposition and produced a magnificent memory for themselves, for their coaches, and for their parents.

Had it gone the other way, it still would have been a season to remember.

Small Rooms With Big Laughs

2011-11-17T12:56:00.001-08:00

Batman And The Joker...

And an even smaller room.

YO! GABA-GABA!

Reality TV I'll Watch

2011-11-16T19:19:00.001-08:00

I am not a fan, generally, of reality TV shows. There is too little reality in most and too much of celebrity based on infamous acting out rather than behaviors that are actually worthy of note.

What I do find myself watching, and watching with the intensity of the predator, is the dreamers. Those that have determined to change something, using their blood, sweat and tears to change the course of their lives.

Two programs that capture the efforts of such people have caught my attention:

Gold Rush, on Discovery Channel:

Six men from Washington go all in to mine for gold in Alaska. Most have lost their jobs or sold businesses off because of the crap economy. So they take their destiny in their own hands and, dreaming, pour their effort into making it in the gold fields of Alaska.

The show follows their efforts, many of which are far less than perfect. Fighting through, regardless of low returns and constant setbacks, they continue to try and carve out their own piece of the American dream.

Knights of Mayhem on National Geographic Channel:

A guy has a dream of going big with his professional Heavy Armor Jousting Troupe. He's a flawed, angry sort who's drive and dream is of the sort that is hard for many to understand. Yet he is possessed of sufficient charisma to draw others in his wake. They all risk life and limb to compete in a deadly sport for little return. There is a high cost of entry and equally high likelihood of injury.

The resonant theme between these shows is that dreaming of a lofty goal is one thing. To then pursue it regardless of cost is one of the defining characteristics of my image of the type of man who changes the world.

I am not that kind of man. I can, and do admire it, however.

An Excerpt From The WIP

2011-11-15T19:52:00.001-08:00

This is the opening for the first chapter for Verron, a young initiate of the Sun God in A Friend To The Watch. His character provides the innocent's perspective for the work...

There came a knocking, heavy and hard, on the thick ferulwood gate of the temple. The sound echoed down high stone passages and returned, a faint mockery of the original, before Verron could unlock from his surprise and move to answer. While not asleep, he had been deep in meditation, and hadn’t heard a thing before the crashing thumps on the gate drew him from contemplation. Throwing the trailing edge of his initiate’s robes over his shoulder, he rose from the prayer mat.

It is coming slowly, but it is coming.

Don't You Ever Think That Athletes Don't Ponder The Big Questions

2011-11-14T16:54:00.001-08:00

This man's post on time and our perception of it is brilliant.

Funny Man

2011-11-14T13:18:00.001-08:00

The Awesome Continues...

2011-11-10T19:26:00.001-08:00

What I Did With My Weekend

2011-11-08T18:43:00.000-08:00

That's my girl in goal, making the save.

More Music

2011-11-04T14:26:00.001-07:00

I remember hearing this the year I graduated from highschool. I've loved it ever since.

More Music To Write To...

2011-11-03T13:06:00.000-07:00

Stumbled upon this rather amazing song and singer...

I feel like I need a martini in hand, smoking jacket and all. Or perhaps an Austin Martin an a tux...

What I Missed

2011-11-02T20:24:00.000-07:00

Isabelle had a tournament, called Kick Or Treat, while I was away at World Fantasy. Players were not allowed on the pitch unless wearing a costume. Her team went with Rock Stars as their shared theme. It must have worked, as they placed second.

DFC 02 | THUNDER 2011 from e3 webmedia on Vimeo.

World Fantasy 2011 Recap

2011-10-31T21:33:00.000-07:00

I was fully intending to post numerous, daily blog updates, but I just could not keep up after that first, epic night:

After my utter, complete failure, I can only, if you will allow it, provide you a few high points:

Hung out with and thoroughly reinforced the fast friendships I have made these last few years, most notably the As-Yet-Unpublished Gentlemen: Alistair Kimble, Rob Hicks. AYUG will be a short-lived organization, I pray.

Tim Akers also made himself readily available to both abuse and amuse me.

Hung out repeatedly and well with Peter V Brett, Lauren Cannon, Jay Franco, and Nancy Lambert, whom I have decided, in my laziness, to dub The Easties. I would call them New Yorkers, but that damn, insanely talented Cannon is from Jersey. That, and they are all far too nice to be truly from New York. I think I might have to check IDs the next time.

As previously mentioned, I drank more than my share on the pub crawl, though I am still amazed at J&J's stamina.

Chatted for so long with Pat Rothfuss we made him late to his next thing. I have no regret of it.

Had a great time telling stories in the hall (or is more properly called a porch?) to Brent Weeks, Myke Cole, and Peter Orullian as well as other fine writers, editors and publishers whose names I forget (I can only hope they will be able to squeegie some portion of the more foul things free from their minds).

Attended some good panels: the sea battle one with Myke Cole being the one I found most interesting.

I attended and assisted in the founding of the Brothers of Flatulism, something I am confident will become a bright star in the firmament of bullshit Holy Orders for future cons. Jim Minz, Rob Hicks, myself, and Alistair form the First Brothers. Others are sure to follow. I am not sure, but there might be a Brother Dribble whose actual name I failed to get. Bearded fellow, with a brown cassock that used to be white. Chants of I think I can, I think I can, were frequently heard before security descended upon us to end our rites.

Made up the Title that would best suit a particular piece of art if it were to be used for a novel from 'Unclasped' to 'Ready Playa One'.

I also hung out with and disturbed Bill Schafer's peace of mind again, but this time he had with him Yanni, who's scathing glances were almost enough to cow me to near-silence. Almost. I, too bore witness to the badge fascist she complained of.

David Drake and Karen Zimmerman were also present, gracious, and fun.

Ticia Isom, Jeni Faries, and Mark Van Name were, as always, fun, though Mark was suffering from a savage sinus infection for most of the con that would have had me whining constantly, but just made him more taciturn than usual.

Chuck Gannon and I chatted at length, and I came away feeling smarter, as I always seem to when I have opportunity to pick his brain.

I furnished the winning bid for two of Lauren Cannon's pieces. They are awesome, as she is.

Sam Sykes and I had more than a few fun words between us.

I also got to hang with a few of my UFGirlz, Sara McClung and Caroline Valdez-Miller. Karen Hooper was, sadly, not among them.

I managed not to make the noise I was making far to frequently last year. Instead there were many mentions of 'Butter Pat' and 'FINISH HIM!

The best thing about this year, though, was that twice, while feeling down about things, my friends buoyed me, lifted my spirits, and encouraged me.

In short, they were there for me.

Good stuff, that.

Epic Pub Crawl

2011-10-27T00:55:00.000-07:00

Tonight, the first real night of World Fantasy, was a trip. Nay, it was an odyssey approaching beer nirvana. Jim Minz and Jetse De Vries, aka J&J productions, took us on a pub crawl extraordinary. We sampled beers from all the local breweries and generally consumed vast quantities of beverages. We also ate well, and told stories both humorous and fun. My roomie this WFC, Rob Hicks, was also along, observing with me as we mere mortals rode the coat-tails of Titans.

After all was done and drunk, we returned to the hotel grounds for a brief sobering session and longer talk with other guests, many of whom seemed to have arrived while we were pursuing the many fine expressions of the brewers art to be had in the San Diego area.

Tomorrow, hangover permitting, more of same, perhaps with more mere mortals.

All in all, an excellent start to WFC 2011.\

Time

2011-10-21T21:37:00.000-07:00

Things settled a bit more at work and I am feeling more energetic, so I got a good bit of writing done today. This is all to the good, I hope.

I enjoyed writing the scene, which is for A Friend To The Watch. It flowed pretty easily from mind to page... I hope that's not a sign it's shit.

Tomorrow, Isabelle's got a game early, so I am done for the night.

Next week: World Fantasy Convention!

Recent Writing...

2011-10-13T17:00:00.000-07:00

With all the adjustments to how the court is run, things have been inordinately busy at work of late. So much so I have been a bit tired and distracted when I get home, so the blogging has suffered a bit. So, here's what I've been up to...

I have been ideating quite a bit on A Friend To The Watch, and laid down the prologue over the last few days. I continue to tweak it, wanting to get it just right.

You see, seven years ago I had an image enter and refuse to leave my head: A man and a boy are talking over a winter grave, each refusing to understand the other. Both are equally sure they knew the wishes of the dead woman at their feet better than the other.

A year later I started writing A Friend To The Watch. I finished it two years later. My agent shopped it. It failed, a flawed but promising first effort. I put it aside and concentrated on The Last Captain. That's done, and the sequel is also nearing completion, but I can't get the kid and the man over the grave out of my head until I write it...

I am not doing a re-write. At least, not as I understand re-writes. I am not referring at all to the original novel (150,ooo words or so), just using the situations and characters in my head to formulate an entirely new, and hopefully successful tale.

So, to it I go.

Mindgames, Soccer, and Hypercompetitive Pricks

2011-10-10T19:33:00.000-07:00

Sunday morning, The Coolness and I had an early game.

We played well and our team won the game, though not without some drama: one player from each teams was given a red card for fighting. I do not generally approve of such conduct, but this was a bit of a special case.

The player from the opposing team was a bit of a drama queen, trying to make calls for the refs and generally being a hyper-competitive prick. So much so that I shall call him Hypercompetitive.

I don't say that lightly, as I have been called such in the past.

Nay, I have examples: I made a clean save on one of his shots. He took four more paces, ramming me after I'd cleanly collected the ball. It wasn't a hard hit, or even something he should have been called on, it was a simple attempt to intimidate me, get inside my head.

The refs and I recognized it for what it was, and him for what he was.

He apologized in a tone that begged me to look at him and call him a liar.

I grunted, punted, and my teammate scored two passes later.

Because, well, fuck him and such mind games.

I stopped a few more of his shots that half. He was good, just not as good as he thought. They had a female striker who was that good, and she was a complete pain in my ass because of it! I was sure one of her shots was going to miss, and pulled my hand back to avoid giving them a corner. Bang! off the upright and in.

My midfielder, in the second half, got tangled up with Hypercompetitive. My player snatched the ball and, as he turned to run up field, his counterbalancing arm slapped the opposing player across the thigh.

"Aww, come on!" Hypercompetitive screamed, raising an arm like he'd been intentionally slapped on the pee-pee with a lead-weighted hand. The drama was palpable.

The refs ignored it, but my players, being good sports, hesitated. We play for fun, after all.

"No whistle! Play on!" I bellowed. Again, because, fuck Hypercompetive and his mind games.

We moved the ball out.

The next time down, Hypercompetitive blew past my fullback, the same midfielder from the earlier altercation hot on his heels.

I came out, cutting the angle.

Hypercompetitive found the near crease of six inches and sent a sweet shot past me to score. I turned to track the ball, so I missed whatever happened next.

"Dirty playing fuck!" Hypercompetitive screamed, returning my attention to the cock.

My player isn't backing down, shouting at him to calm down and play.

Hyercompetitive keeps it up, howling and beating his chest.

Eventually they are both given red cards and sent off.

He spends his time cheering his teammates and telling them to take shots, much as any team player should.

We score three times more. Them, twice. They had more than ten shots on frame, most from Blonde Striker of doom.

A quick break and Blonde Striker that made life in goal such an adventure is open in the middle. The player with the ball sees a chance though and shoots. I was on it, ready to stuff it. She stabs a foot out, deflecting the shot out of my reach and, thankfully, over the goal.

She collapses, face in hands, "I can't believe I played goalie for the other team" she grouses.

I had it, I could have said or, if I wanted to slip the blade in deeper, Thanks. Instead I helped her to her feet and kept my mouth shut.

Because I might be hyper-competitive, but I try not to be an asshole about it.

After the game, I went and told them both they'd played a good game. Hypercompetitive was gracious, Blonde Striker, not so much.

Ah well, I still had fun. And I hurt less than I did the last two times, despite a few full-extension and fall to the ground saves.

Where They Come From

2011-10-07T10:05:00.000-07:00

My ideas flow forth in rivers, and sometimes my girl has to put a stop to them by plugging my ears with her finger.

She's fast, really fast.

This is the first time I caught her on film:

Another False Quote, This One From Bridge Of The Broken

2011-10-05T22:21:00.000-07:00

“The responsibility far outweighs the opportunity here: no other will ever be the first human to handle or interact with an alien device. The only thing greater would be actual interaction with an alien intelligence. Still, I am aware of how out of my depth I am, I truly am.” -Rupert Troisrivieres, inmate and forced laborer, Ast-Block 19, shortly after discovering the first of the artifacts of the Leos civilization

Today...

2011-10-05T20:26:00.000-07:00

I have had better days at work, but that's just cause there was a massive fight between five large mammals in the hallway outside my courtroom today. I entered the fracas, but only to assist a deputy trying to restrain one participant. Then a drunkard decided to impose himself on the court process. I handled him, as well.

Otherwise, things are a bit intense just now, as the courts and I are reconfiguring to the requirements of new bosses and new policies.

Most of the changes are good. Great, even. I am very hopeful, even a bit excited about things for the first time in a long time. I think I might be able to do it for a while yet. Hopefully long enough to get my feet under me in my heart's desire.

Just so long as no drunken large mammals decide to start fights with me or in the courtroom, I should do well enough.

Umm.... Wow...

2011-10-04T13:10:00.000-07:00

One Day, Lord, one day:

2011-10-03T17:02:00.001-07:00

Changes

2011-09-30T12:13:00.000-07:00

Well, today is the last day I'll have a commissioner sitting in my courtroom. Monday, a judge takes up responsibility for the traffic courts in my county. I am sorry to see people go, and a bit nervous about how things will turn out.

Change, it is in the air.

It might be good, but every change has it's uncomfortable moments.

Here's hoping those moments are few, painless, and pass quickly.

Safety First

2011-09-29T11:51:00.000-07:00

Ah, but sometimes I feel like the man standing at the end, smart enough to know that what's being done is fucking stupid, yet powerless to put a stop to it:

True Words

2011-09-28T12:47:00.000-07:00

At 1:40 into the video, listen up... Truer words are rarely spoken:

Tim Akers pointed me at this artist a few weeks ago. Since then I have become an avid fan. There is a sensibility and thoughtfulness to his work that speaks to me.

Have fun.

I go to write.

Two Things:

2011-09-26T22:10:00.000-07:00

Thing One:

A funny thing happened at work tonight: I tell everyone to shut their phones off. Twenty minutes later and this guy's phone is going off. He's on it, shutting it down before I even look at him.

When I do, he looks at me and says, purse falling out his mouth, "It gets turned on when you bend over."

I shit you not.

I fled the room, desperately trying not to laugh my ass off.

Thing two:

I finished the re-write on The Last Captain tonight; ahead of the schedule I set two months ago. A good thing, I think.

Two years, two computers, a few cranky nights and a few more even crankier nights, and the 123,ooo words of The Last Captain (Redux) is ready for my first readers.

I am not confident. I am hopeful, but not confident.

Really, I'm just happy to be able to put it aside for a while. I've been working on it for two years. The re-write took just over five months once I found my rhythm and settled in to crank pages.

I get a couple weeks grace, then get feedback from agent and readers. Then, hopefully, I fix what's broke and submit it to publisher #1.

Hopefully they'll get turned on when I bend over.

Pain Can Be Such Pleasure

2011-09-25T18:03:00.000-07:00

In a lot of pain just now.

Twenty-one years ago I played my last soccer game. The family had moved to Switzerland for my last two years of high school. I played just as hard and fast as I had for my Varsity squad in Peoria. I received a yellow card each game. The cards, coupled with the language barrier that prevented me getting to know my teammates, killed my desire to play. Instead I played rugby a few times, thoroughly enjoying it.

But I didn't continue to play rugby when I returned to the States, and never returned to soccer either.
Most of the soccer leagues I might have attempted were a little hard-core for me, as out of shape as I was and with my concern that I not hurt myself, preventing me from working.

Last week The Coolness played in a local coed 30+ league. I watched as her team played their asses off. They had no bench and insufficient bodies to cover all positions.

Regardless, both teams had lots of fun, and had great attitudes.

I was in.

This week, I played goalie for The Coolness' team. I showed up kitted out and ready to play in that position, as last week's goalie had pulled a calf muscle and couldn't play.

As I was warming up, I hear, "Barber."

I look over and it's one of my Academy classmates, who lives south of SF, but comes out to play most weekends. Small world.

Warmed up, I stepped on the field for the first time in 21 years to play a position I don't recall ever playing in a real match. The opposing team had us outnumbered and outclassed, shooting five shots for every opportunity we had. It wasn't a matter of lack of skill: once again we had less than a full squad, and no relief.

I discovered exactly how poor my conditioning is. I am so glad I wasn't playing in a position that might have required me to actually run for extended periods.

I made about twelve saves, a few of which were quite good. My daughter watched the entire game, mostly from a seat behind me in goal, offering encouragement and fetching balls that rocketed past.

I did let four pass me by: Two were simple errors I pray I won't make again. One was a beautifully arranged shot that the player slipped in over my head, and the fourth was a free kick that the ref called but that could have gone either way.

We scored no goals.

The opposing team will certainly remember me. I unintentionally put a player from the other team out with one of my punts. Trying to clear the ball to an open forward, the ball left my foot like a rocket and connected with the guy's face six feet from my foot.

So now, I smell like a mint julip, hurt like I haven't in ages, and am happy as a clam.

I feel so good.

The Sad

2011-09-23T11:35:00.000-07:00

I thought about a lengthy post with my thoughts on the human condition and our failures, as individuals, to address our issues, but decided writing fiction would be better for me than facing the sad reality that people just don't give a shit.

About my thoughts, that is. Hell, many are likely shitting as I write this, so they don't exactly not shit.

I am sure some people give a shit about the pithy topics I raised in that first paragraph. They just don't read my thoughts, and likely wouldn't care if they did.

Assholes.

The Thing

2011-09-22T18:05:00.000-07:00

Always loved the original Thing. Now, I see there is a re-make. Here's hoping it's good.

And then there's The Killer Elite. I am looking forward to old man DeNiro kicking some ass.

Fight Scenes And Fighting Experiences

2011-09-21T08:50:00.000-07:00

Another writer's fine blog post kicked off a few things in my head about writing fictional combats. I have always felt it one of my strengths in writing, but never bothered to delve into why I think that is.

So, here we go:

I have been in more than a few fights as an adult, many of them serious.

The majority were open-hand, or transitioned from weapons, namely impact or aerosol to open hand techniques. Less often, I have gone from open hands to weapons.

I have fought one on one and been part of a rat-pack trying to subdue an individual.

I have had to fight either sex, with instances of females larger and heavier than I am.

I have fought the wounded, the cracked-out, the week-long cocaine-binger, the PCP smokers, the drunkards, the mentally ill, and those that combined a number of the above altered states into a gestalt of mayhem.

I have fought clothed people and very memorably, naked people. Just not at the same time.

I have made people bleed, and been made to bleed. I have sent people to the hospital. I have been sent to the hospital.

So, more often than not, after all the sound and fury was over, I had to write a narrative of the event. It is there that I developed what experience I have narrating combat.

It is difficult to recall events in their proper sequence, especially when those events happen in a highly charged atmosphere of danger and fear. Then add the requirement that I describe what both parties did that led to the conflict and do so in a manner the lay-person can easily understand, and you might be able to see where one could develop some ability with describing combat scenes.

For fiction, all that is left is to make shit up; something that is expressly and entirely forbidden in my day job. So of course, I love to do it in my writing.

A Tiny Excerpt

2011-09-15T21:01:00.000-07:00

Yet one I am quite proud of:

“You could have denied them, if you wanted.”

If you loved.

Another False Quote From The Last Captain

2011-09-13T17:09:00.000-07:00

Yes, another quote from my novel, The Last Captain. This time it is merely the attribution which is false. People who have been with me on the streets or in court might have heard something like this pass my lips:

“Just because the answer I gave is not the answer you want does not, in any way, render my response invalid.” –Matsuki Mikonos, Chair of the Council of Man

This statement is very infrequently followed by the necessary moment of silence required for full digestion of its meaning.

Today, the response was the far more common and immediate permutation of, "But I don't want it that way." This individual went beyond that simple verbal exhibition of hubris and went on the offensive: "They were rude to me there."

"And what did they say?" I asked, knowing the answer.

"That they couldn't help me."

"And that was the truth. May I ask how that is rude?"

"Well, they gave me some paperwork and told me to get out of line, that they couldn't help me until it was done."

"Again, they told you truth and supplied you with the paperwork. I fail to see how that makes them rude. Once you've filled out the paperwork, you'll have done what you can to straighten the situation out."

They left, without thanking me.

I am certain, in my very bones, that this person will tell the next person they talk to that I am rude, too.

To which I would respond, "Your perceptions of my job performance have no bearing on my actual job performance."

Yeah, this:

2011-09-13T16:31:00.000-07:00

Character Soundtracks

2011-09-12T21:42:00.000-07:00

The following are some of the tunes I listen to as I create the horrible situations I put the character's through. Some characters evoke some music, other music evokes some characters for me.

Below is a sample for each of the major characters:

Officer Venkman:

Officer Baptiste:

Rankless Wardlaw:

Captain Schrader:

Prometheus' soundtrack:

Mad Morgan:

Thanks

2011-09-11T15:20:00.000-07:00

A thank you to the families of the victims. We cannot know your pain, we can only thank you for the heroes you loved.

A thank you to those that gave all on this day ten years past, and most especially those whose duty it was to enter the whirlwind and save those who, all unknowing, were in the wrong place when hate thrust its flaming hand into a nation's soul.

Thanks to those that have sacrificed so much in the last ten years, making every effort to assure the freedoms they protect will not die in the flames of religious fanaticism. You have done so much, and continue to do so, for so little.

Thanks to those of you who recognize the heroes today. May you recognize the heroes every day.

After all, they earn it: each and every one, every day they put on uniform and enter the whirlwind on our behalf, to stand between us and harm.

Thanks.

Kickin' It Old School

2011-09-10T17:47:00.001-07:00

In case you thought I was all about the new poop...

Scroobius Pip

2011-09-08T21:52:00.000-07:00

Thanks to Tim Akers for bringing Scroobius Pip to my attention. This is exceptional:

My favorite line:

You see a mousetrap, I see free cheese and a fucking challenge!

The Cutting Room Floor

2011-09-07T19:00:00.000-07:00

As my faithful few know, I am in the midst of a re-write on The Last Captain. I am in the process of shrinking eight major POV characters down to three. That takes a lot of work, much of it feeling akin to sticking one's hand into a spinning bucket of razor blades.

Below is a section I cut in service to the story. Prometheus is one of my favorite characters, and this one of my favorite scenes. It just didn't work from any other perspective, and he does not serve the story as a POV character, at least not for this book.

Anyway, I had to let folk see what I cut. My ego is like that.

I hope you like:

Prometheus checked the lines of his suit as the limousine rolled toward the meet. The warehouse district wouldn’t have been his first choice for the transaction, but he was the outsider here, and had to accommodate his buyer to some degree.

The limo slowed to a walking pace and several men from his security detail hopped from the lead and chase cars. They slowly rolled the last few meters to the meet, his hired men conducting a visual check of the area. Some looked a little less than the professionals he would have preferred for such dealings, but bringing his personal vehicle and driver had been about all he could afford.

He sighed at this obvious sign that he was on his own. The Syndicate wasn’t behind him on this one, leaving him feeling exposed. He understood why and was making moves to improve his situation, but things simply weren’t as easy since the War came to an end. Too much talent trained to mayhem out there working for rival organizations and the authorities actually had time for cases involving base criminals instead of chasing The Perfected. Peace made things harder, and more expensive. The Syndicate had a history almost as long as the Imperium, and Prometheus believed it was tied too closely with that government to avoid the post-war pains they were suffering. He felt, deep in his old bones, that the Imperium was in the process of disintegrating under its own weight, the War accelerating the collapse. The Syndicate was refusing to see it, and looked to go down with the ship.

Prometheus planned to carve out a spot for himself here beyond the core worlds. Keeping his plans quiet from his rivals and cohorts in The Syndicate made it hard to complain to them about being out in the cold. He’d paid for the trip and the goods with his own money. Setting up shop had been expensive, but he now had a solid line into the Governor’s office. That had cost him, but after this sale he’d be able to afford some more tech-savvy guard services. Even if the buyer got stupid, there were others. Finding them would slow Prometheus’ plans a bit, but wouldn’t put an end to them.

The detail was pretty thorough, but without the technology to detect power sources for the more esoteric of the assassin’s weapons or even a sniper in concealment, it was down to the mark one eyeball and the unprofessional muscle he’d hired.

Despite his assessment of the quality of his guards, Prometheus knew the motorcade made an impression on the buyer as they came to a stop in front of the warehouse. The doors were open, but a local-built luxury off road vehicle blocked most of the entrance. Gilles tried to look like the alpha lounging among his wolves, but only succeeded in looking like another mean mutt in a mangy pack of dogs. Gilles had obviously climbed from street-level talent. The local man’s lip curled in a sneer most likely meant to show his men contempt for the older man’s attention to security. The four men with him were visibly armed and, in Prometheus’ experienced opinion, trying too hard to look dangerous.

Something troubled the old man as he put his hand to the limo door. Borges stopped and looked up at Gilles, then at the street. There was nothing but the sneer on Gilles’ face to indicate what he was thinking. The street looked clean, but Prometheus hadn’t lived to his age by ignoring his intuition.

Balanced against his need to make the sale, safety took a slight hit. Extemporizing, he popped the door and waved Gilles over without getting out.

Prometheus waited for Gilles to decide whether he wanted to get into the car. Greed was a bitch, and Gilles took only a beat or two to decide he wanted the goods. He voted with his feet, walking forward.

“Have a seat, and we can get to it,” Prometheus said.

“What’s up, don’t wanna to get your pretty shoes dirty in the local mud?” Gilles asked, local accent softening the vowels.

Prometheus just stared.

After a moment the local got into the limo. Gilles wore some scent that made Prometheus’ nose twitch in irritation as the younger man sat. Prometheus noted the local making a conscious effort to leave the door open.

“You have the money?” Prometheus asked.

Gilles hitched a thumb at the vehicle blocking the warehouse door, “I do.”

Trying not to sigh, Prometheus pulled the thin case from inside his vest, “Your product. Get your money over here and get your product.”

“Right,” Gilles got out and raised his hand.

The shielded window separating the back of the limo from the front was suddenly painted red with the driver’s blood and brains, the hardened material starring as the round finally stopped. A heartbeat later Prometheus heard the shot through the open door. He twitched, the complex muscle movement triggering a number of responses, both in his body and the cortex linked to the car. Adrenaline made his mouth taste of iron and the world slowed down as store-bought nerves prepared for fight or flight. Acting on his escape command, the open door of the limo tried to snap closed.

Gilles didn’t do the smart thing, instead trying to hold the door open as the cortex began to maneuver the car away from the curb. More gunshots rang out, his security detail and the locals exchanging fire. The hydraulic system for the door wasn’t quite powerful enough to close with Gilles’ bulk holding it open. Pinned in the door, he started to shout as the vehicle began to drive off, whether in pain or fear, Prometheus didn’t care.

Prometheus lowered himself below the window level as another penetrator round slammed through the driver’s compartment. Thankfully, the round slowed enough to become trapped in the clear armored partition again. Several lighter rounds, fired by one side or another in the firefight, pattered against the armored skin of the passenger side near Gilles, failing to penetrate.

Gilles struggled to get in as Prometheus pulled an oddly-shaped pistol from a shoulder rig. He armed and pointed it at Gilles just as the man maneuvered himself into the back seat. The weapon discharged with a Thup! of compressed air as the door snapped closed behind him. Gilles shouted with more surprise than pain as the fat projectile thumped into his chest like a heavy punch. The real pain came a second later when the round activated on contact with his body armor. The catalysts carried in the round reacted with the polymer and ceramic matrix of the armor, the resulting heat of the reaction boring a fist-sized hole in the armor and a centimeters-deep crater in Gilles’ chest.

Prometheus felt the heat across the passenger compartment as the local man slumped lifeless to the floor. Smoke curling from his mouth and chest.

The sniper hit the limo again as it rounded the corner. This time the shot came through the rear driver’s side window shattered the partition and disappeared into the rich upholstery next to Gilles’ corpse. Prometheus prayed the sniper kept trying for him instead of disabling the car. Not that the in-wheel four motor design was easy to stop with a few shots, but it could be done. The battery packs were fairly vulnerable.

Prometheus cursed as the sniper seemed to read his mind. The heavy vehicle juddered as a round entered the rear and interrupted some vital process.

A second later an internal siren blatted, indicating a major system failure in the cortex driving the vehicle. More smoke, smelling of things that should not burn, belched from the vents.

Bad sign. Prometheus thought, holstering the borer.

Thinking the sniper was more likely to shoot anyone coming out the driver’s side, Prometheus climbed around Gilles’ still-smoldering corpse and put his hand to the handle. Thankfully, the cortex was still able to recognize his hand, and popped the door open. The limo was slowing already, only making about thirty or forty kay. Still fast enough to break bones or a skull and easily fast enough to stun and render him incapable of evading further.

Best make sure it isn’t my skull then, Prometheus thought.

He singed his hands grabbing Gilles by the still-hot lapels of his armored jacket. With a powerful surge of the finest muscles money could buy, he heaved Gilles and himself out the door. The corpse and the old man hit the pavement with a thud. The ground snatched the corpse-sled from under Prometheus almost immediately, but not before the dead man absorbed a good deal of the force of the impact.

The sky rolled into view, followed closely by the pavement, then the sky again. Prometheus sucked in a breath, regretted it as something in his chest complained. He got to one knee despite the pain, started to move. More gunfire from around the corner, followed closely by the high whine of over-stressed motors.

The chase car from his security detail came into view, hurtling past the intersection to slam into the base of pillar supporting a billboard on the far corner of the intersection.

The pillar cracked off the base, coming to rest on its broken support a few meters from the base before slowly toppling forward. Prometheus saw a man toss a long rifle aside and scramble to jump from the falling billboard. The billboard came down atop the sniper and the vehicle that had destroyed it, crushing the driver’s side and the sniper beneath.

One of Prometheus’ men exited the passenger side of the vehicle, raised his weapon and squeezed off a few rounds back toward the warehouse. No return fire came his way as he cleared the rear of the vehicle and smoothly crossed to the far side of the street, weapon at high ready.

Prometheus pulled the borer again, watching closely. If Gilles’ men were down and the man had been truly stupid, or merely indecisive, the money might just be in the warehouse or in the big, flashy all terrain vehicle he’d come from. Besides, a ride would get him out of here faster.

Cautiously approaching the corner, Prometheus almost took a few rounds from his own hyper-alert guard. The man’s lips moved in a silent curse before he returned his attention to the bullet-riddled vehicles and open warehouse doors.

The security man finished slicing the pie, firing a quick flurry of shots into the warehouse from across the street. Someone screamed and there was a clatter like a dropped weapon.

Slick. Professional. I take back what I was thinking about the locals, he thought as he watched the other man work, Now if I could just remember his name.

A siren could be heard in the distance as Prometheus’ man retreated behind one of the pillars of the overpass and re-loaded.

Once the man, whose name would still not come to him, had his weapon up and trained on the door again, Prometheus began to advance. Doing a little slicing of the pie himself, he moved counterclockwise and in so that he could reveal as much as possible of the warehouse interior and as little of himself to anyone inside before approaching. It was a tricky maneuver since he didn’t want to cut off his man’s line of sight or make himself a target before he caught sight of any opposition. He moved as smoothly and fast as possible, trying to remember everything he’d ever been taught way too long ago and still remain loose enough to respond accurately.

A few breathless moments later and he’d determined that there were no longer any live targets in the vehicles or warehouse.

“Police coming.”

Prometheus nearly jumped out of his skin as the man spoke. He hadn’t even heard his approach.

Recovering, he punched his chin at Gilles’ truck, “Let’s see if that abomination is working.”

“Yes, sir.”

Vytas! Vytas is his fucking name, Prometheus finally recalled as the man hopped into the driver’s seat and started the truck. Armored, the big utility vehicle was relatively unmarked by the firefight, but loud as hell. Some kind of internal combustion engine and a modified exhaust combined to make the thing snort like a demon.

The limo would be hard to replace, but Prometheus was more than happy to have survived. Tomorrow was another day, and another deal. Given the quality of the victims, Prometheus even dared hope for a moment that law enforcement would write this one off without too much thought.

Ready To Begin, I'm Ready To Begin

2011-09-06T16:11:00.000-07:00

Writing as fast and well as I can, so you'll just have to groove to what I am:

Still More Music To Write To:

2011-09-04T15:09:00.000-07:00

That's right, more:

2011-09-02T20:13:00.000-07:00

Getting back to A Friend to The Watch has been percolating in the back of my brain...and when I see things like this, it adds to the juice.

Now, to finish The Last Captain.

About Partners, and The Last Captain

2011-09-01T21:43:00.000-07:00

I've had a few partners, some for a few months, others for a few years. The relationship is always intense, and when it's good, can make even the worst work entertaining at the least and insanely fun at best.

I tried to capture some of that in a few places in The Last Captain. Here is something I hope worked:

“True,” Venkman said as he sat in the driver’s seat.

Baptiste followed suit. The bending required by the act of sitting sent a foul belch gurgling up and out.

“Damn,” Venkman said, eyes tearing.

Baptiste smacked his lips, “Yeah. Tasty.”

“You hungry?” Venkman asked when the air had cleared.

His gut churned at the thought, “Not really, my stomach’s still a bit rough from the beers.” Actually, it’s more likely the sobz I took to kill the alcohol, but that’s just splitting hairs.

“Well, let’s get me something to eat. You know how hunger messes with my cherub-like demeanor.”

Baptiste snorted, “Sure.”

“Then we go see your brother.”

“Damn, you really want me off my feed, don’t you?”

“More for me that way.”

"Fucker."

"Yup."

Sometimes, Something is So Bad, It's Freakin' AWESOMESAUCE!

2011-08-31T21:15:00.000-07:00

This is one of those times:

And...More music to write to

2011-08-30T07:41:00.001-07:00

Don't bother me, I'm writing here. I am...

More Writing Music

2011-08-29T17:48:00.001-07:00

Another False Quote From The Last Captain:

2011-08-28T19:13:00.000-07:00

“We found we’d woke from a long age of waste and self-aggrandizing hypocrisy, and started to look around for something useful to apply our effort, our minds, our very identity to. We found a worthy place for all and all found worthy endeavor in the establishment of the Council of Man.” -From The Founding, a biography of Silas Chui-Ling by Eileen Castaneda

The Cleverest Music Video I Have Ever Seen

2011-08-26T20:14:00.000-07:00

Watch it all the way to the end. I love the way the director plays with the watcher's expectations.

Loud Pipes

2011-08-25T20:03:00.001-07:00

Ownership And Good Customer Service

2011-08-25T13:01:00.000-07:00

About a month ago, I went in to my credit union to take care of some business and see where I was with a loan. I had paid it in full the previous paycheck. I was quite happy about that. Working with the teller, I then re-allocated the cash that had been going toward that loan to other places.

In the end, I didn’t allocate enough to the account that funds are withdrawn from to cover the motorcycle loan. I only learned this today when I had a call from the loan officer at my credit union. She politely informed me I had not made a timely payment.

I was surprised, to say the least. I had funds in another account sufficient to cover the gap, but I found myself getting angry a mistake had been made.

Then I took a deep breath.

It was me that had signed off and approved the allocation. This was not a complex problem requiring an accountant to figure out, so there was no blaming an expert for failing to explain to me that I would fall short in the one account. It was, therefore, my mistake.

I went to the credit union to correct my error, and ended up with the same teller who had helped me the last time. She apologized sincerely and profusely for the error. I told her that it was me that had signed off on the allocation, and should have realized the mistake. I went on to tell her she had nothing to apologize for.

She repeated her apology.

I smiled, “Wasn’t your fault.”

Then we fixed it.

Fixing it, perhaps, took longer than it would have if I were doing it myself and didn’t have to check to make sure everyone was on the same page. Ultimately, though, I was very happy that her customer service skills were more than a match for my sense of ownership.

Recognizing my own hand in things is one of the hardest things I do as a man, a father, and a citizen. It is not objectively rewarding, but man, does owning my shit make it easier to sleep at night.

Want Versus Need

2011-08-24T12:31:00.000-07:00

I think the following is the greatest, most scathing indictment of modern society it is possible to make:

Apple is the most valuable company in the world.

Not because of something negative done by the corporation, but because they simply (and very effectively) build things we want. Very little of Apple's business derives from fulfilling an actual need. Again, I do not hold this against the corporation or their shareholders. Indeed, I own several Apple products myself. Further, I am sure technological developments begun by Apple have made life easier for many.

No, I hold it against our society.

Do we really need all our entertainments with us at all times? Do we need to be connected to everyone, all the time? Do we need to have all our favorite shows available?

No, we want those things.

When people become confused between wanting and needing something, they tend to make terrible mistakes in judgement. I am thinking in terms of the housing market collapse and subsequent financial ruin heaped upon so many. People didn't need their home value to soar, they needed a roof over their heads. Instead, I wanted and with many others sharing from the same smoking bong of self-destruction, refinanced and nearly lost my home.

People don't need a new car every few years, and they certainly don't need a massive SUV to shuttle their lone child between soccer practice and their X's place. They want that big shiny piece of shit so they can show their X how wonderful they are getting on without them.

We don't need arguments about who did what, when. We need solutions to the problems at hand. Unfortunately, people want the easy. They want the answer which requires little thought and, on first glance, most conforms to their views of how the world should be. As a result, our political systems shudder and shake, making no movement toward the sanity we need. Instead they crash drunkenly toward a consensus of the stupid, self-involved, and narcissistic.

We need to perceive the difference between our wants and our needs, or drown in our own shit.

No one wants to be responsible for pulling us out of this. If it goes on long enough, no one will need us any longer.

And we will be there, lying in our shit; weighed, measured, and found wanting.

WorldCon Roundup

2011-08-22T15:01:00.000-07:00

The Con was quite interesting, and I attended more than one excellent panel. I did get to have some very interesting conversations with some very wise and discerning folks with rather large names in the industry. I hung out with some friends old and some friends new, generally having a very good time. My T-Shirts drew a few chuckles, as ever.

Some caveats though:

a) some fans are rude.
b) the convention center was too damn far from the hotel(s)
c) some fans are fucking terribly rude.
d) there was no central lounge or bar to hang out in after events
e) Christ Jesus but some fan are thoughtless, terribly rude, and aggressively odiferous.

I believe I will stick to WFC until I have a few books under my belt.

WorldCon Day Uno Part Uno d'Deaux

2011-08-17T12:25:00.000-07:00

So, I woke this morning at two forty five. I could not, due to a mixture of excitement and moonlight, get back to sleep. I tried for an hour, then said fuck it and got moving. I left the house before four, hoping to avoid any traffic on the way to Reno. It worked damn well. I rolled into town before traffic got too bad here, even.

Then, I had to wait for registration to open. Then for the hall to open, then for the events to begin.

John Scalzi was kind enough to let me sit and hang with him and a few friends, one of whom happened to be Cory Doctorow. The conversation was fascinating. I wish I had been more awake, that I might have absorbed more. It is not often I can listen while two of the more popular and scintillating minds converse about matters important to them.

I then saw George RR Martin, managed my SQUEEEE reflex, said hello and got a pleasant nod and hello in return.

Now, I am waiting for my wingman.

I am still waiting for the hotel to give me my room, as I can't check in until after three. I think I will nap for a bit when I do. Hopefully I will be sharper after a bit more rest.

Oh, and I had nearly forgotten how fucking annoying the sound of slot machines can be.

Word of The Day: Proselytize

2011-08-12T17:04:00.000-07:00

It appears I am on a P word kick. I have been converted, apparently.

Word of the Day: Puerile

2011-08-11T13:04:00.000-07:00

Yeah, cause I can be that way on occasion.

Another False Quote From The Last Captain

2011-08-10T22:03:00.001-07:00

“Find me an enemy, that I might come to grips with him,
and kill him,
and go home from this war,
and forget,
and be forgotten,
forevermore.”

-Tomas Bitterwahl, Twenty-Fifth Century poet laureate of Sol’s asteroid belt

A Man; The Very Definition Of

2011-08-10T12:18:00.000-07:00

Recent events in England, and more specifically, Birmingham, lead me to make this post:

Three men, trying to secure the livelihood of their community, were run down by someone in a car. The youngest of the men was a young South Asian named Haroon Jahan. That someone so young was doing his best to protect the interests of his family and community indicates a strong character.

"Today we stand here to plead with all the youth to remain calm, for our community to stand united," Tariq Jahan, the young man's father, is quoted as having said, "This is not a race issue. The family has received messages of sympathy and support from all parts of the community — all races, all faiths and backgrounds."

Then he told the angry youths who appeared to desire some street justice, to "grow up" and go home.

I cannot imagine the agony the man must feel at the death of his son and the other two men who were with him, yet Jahan retained the presence of mind to not only urge others to calm, but to stand up to those that would not listen.

But then, it stands to reason: he had already imparted such values and strength to his son. Why else would a young man be defending against, rather than participating in, such lawlessness as is going on in England now.

What his father said to people after is nothing short of the very definition of a strong, honorable man doing right by those that depend on him. A man rises after being knocked down. A man thinks beyond himself and his hurts to those of his family and community. It is abundantly clear to me that not only is Tariq Jahan a man, but that he had already imparted those qualities to his son. This, I believe, is the most important task of a father and the greatest measure of his legacy.

My heart goes out to his family and to him.

The Last Captain Re-Write: Full Steam Ahead Part Deux

2011-08-09T16:19:00.000-07:00

The following was re-written from the original, the POV changed from that of the Captain to Officer Baptiste. The madman's control is fleeting, and due to a break down in the conditioning the Imperium provides its flight crews.

I think it works. Tell me what you think:

For a wonder, the trio found the Broken quite quickly. Unfortunately, Morgan was still out.

“We have lots of things to do. We had lots of fine things to see. What the fuck, Bap?” Morgan raved as the officer helped him to his feet.

“You couldn’t tell me where you were, Morgan,” Baptiste replied.

“That’s cause Morgan ain’t in, copper!”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Venkman asked.

Like I fucking know. Baptiste shook his head, jaw working.

“Copper. Very old Earther expression. Could be based on a copper badge worn by early law enforcement. Could be an acronym of Civilian Officer, Patrol. Bastardized further to copper. Also; a black and white moving picture expression used by gangsters when talking to police,” the Captain supplied.

Baptiste chuckled, glancing over his shoulder at her, “Um, thanks for the data stream, Captain.”

He saw Venkman’s face twist. With all the scars it was hard to tell if he was about to laugh or spit.

“Jack-boots suit you better than a critic’s chair, honey,” Morgan said, voice sweet.

“Morgan,” Baptiste warned.

Morgan giggled, still looking at Schrader, “I just call it like I see it, IMP.”

“How-“ the Captain's brows rose in surprise.

“Just ‘cause we crazy don’t make us stupid, baby!” Morgan said, voice rising an octave.

Baptiste shook his head again, sighed, “He does that sometimes. Sees shit he shouldn’t be able to. One of his uses.”

“Who is this "he" you keep talkin’ ‘bout? All we see is weeee!” the Broken said, expression clouding with anger and flailing his arms in bizarre fashion.

Not going to get anywhere unless I can bring him down a bit. “Sure, Morgan. Be cool. Focus on me.”

Morgan did as he was told, folding skinny arms around his torso, mimicking Baptiste’s stance. The almost perfect imitation was spoiled by the pieces of refuse jutting from his unruly hair.

“Morgan, when you gonna come back around and help me out?” Baptiste asked after a moment’s calm.

The Broken suddenly looked on the verge of a good cry, “We work and work for you, and all you do is abuse us.” He pointed past Baptiste at Venkman, tears falling from his eyes in fat drops that streaked the film of dirt on his cheeks, “He’s not what he tries to be. He’s not you and me. Not us. We’re not us.”

Venkman shook his head, turned, and walked back to the car, disgust evident in every line of his posture. Morgan slumped back to the pavement with a high laugh as Venkman dropped into the car and closed the door.

Schrader, trying to help, cut off Morgan’s view of Venkman by stepping up beside Baptiste.

Baptiste knelt in front of the informant, keeping his gun side away, he urged Morgan to return, “Not so, Morgan. Come back. Kick those voices back in their corners and come talk to me.”

The effort the Broken expended trying to regain control of his faculties was impressive. He screwed his eyes shut, jaw clenched so tight that sweat popped up on his scalp.

His eyes popped open, the whites showing. Finally, Morgan gave a keening whine, almost too high to hear, and sucked in a breath. The pupils rolled into view a second later, fixed on Baptiste, steadied. “I’m tryin’, Bap, but they are so loud.”

“You’re doing good, Morgan.”

“We- I lost him in Starfall. Outside Smoker’s place…”

“Smoker’s, are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“You lost him in Smoker’s?”

“No, he went in, then came out, took a cab. I’m not fast enough,” Morgan’s voice cracked and his expression slid to the verge of maniacal before he continued, “Never been fast enough to catch a car.”

“How long?”

“He was in for less than an hour, I thi-”

“How long ago?” the Captain interrupted.

Fuck! Baptiste thought as he saw Morgan’s control slipping away.

Morgan’s gaze flicked to Schrader. He watched as she looked into his eyes, watched the shadow of madness press in and cover the light of reason.

He was close enough to see the goosebumps spread across her skin as a part of her felt that madness reaching out.

“We see wonders, and unders! We love your look, lady. Want some lovin’?” Morgan muttered, breaking eye contact.

Schrader sucked in a breath.

Yeah, feels like someone kicked the stool out from under you, don’t it? Baptiste thought, standing up.

“Damn. Sorry,” Schrader said, blinking. “That was all my fault.”

Damn straight it was. Shit, now there’ll be no getting Morgan back for a few hours, at least.

“You didn’t know,” he said.

“Still, my mistake.”

Baptiste shrugged, trying to keep his disappointment from showing. “I’m not sure why he can talk to me but can’t keep it together with others. Venkman always sets him off.”

Morgan started tittering to himself, picking up a piece of refuse from the alley floor and snuffling in it, “Ahh… the aroma of the end times!”

“Anything we can do for him?”

“A blowjob would be nice!” Morgan put in, cringing as Baptiste raised a hand in anger.

Schrader touched Baptiste's arm. “No harm done, officer. I’ve heard much worse.”

“Yes, and we’ll pour out our poison on you, making you fit to meet the Almighty, come-burpin’ gutter whore!”

Schrader laughed. “Wow, that’s quite the mouth you have on you.”

Baptiste shook his head again. Sometimes it was better to let the ranting go on than try and stop him.

Morgan tittered. “You get it, don’t you?” he asked, voice pitched low, deep and creepily sexy.

“I suppose I do, Morgan.” She shook her head and asked Baptiste, “So. Do we know where this Smoker lives?”

Baptiste nodded, “Stuart Bouccanier. The Smoker, yes.” 

She sighed, looked down at Morgan. The Broken had resumed sniffing something from the alley floor. “Right, good to meet you, Morgan.”

Baptiste glanced at her. Sharp. Most don’t realize madmen actually remember just as much as the sane, they just can’t always get to it in timely or understandable fashion. And as my mother always says, “Being polite costs nothing.” He stood up. “See you soon, Morgan. Thanks for the information.”

Morgan’s mad eyes glared up at him behind a cage of filthy hands, “Fuck you, copper!”

Baptiste shook his head, “Right.”

Word of The Day: Diminution

2011-08-09T16:01:00.000-07:00

As in: Each day that passes here, I feel the diminution of my soul.

Word of the (Yester) Day: Pander

2011-08-09T15:58:00.001-07:00

Not sure why this didn't post the first time. But a well, there it is.

Dr Efficient, the Love Guru

2011-08-05T13:19:00.000-07:00

Please check this out. It is not only funny, it also educates those of us who might be a little ignorant about how divergent the wiring in men and women is.

Word of The Day: Trepanning

2011-08-05T12:31:00.000-07:00

It also has no synonyms.

Word of The Day: promulgated

2011-08-04T19:29:00.000-07:00

That's it: Promulgated....

Can you feel the genesis, the love, the wit?

I am now thinking...

2011-08-03T17:54:00.001-07:00

I might do a cop word of the month...

Nah, I'll probably get in trouble.

Word of The Day

2011-08-03T17:29:00.001-07:00

Yeomanry.

That's all.

So you’re MAD about something on the Internet…

2011-08-03T13:26:00.000-07:00

So you’re MAD about something on the Internet…

Conversation of the Week

2011-08-02T18:39:00.001-07:00

"How do you get down?"
"Well, I like to listen to Battleflag, but that's just me."
He snorts. "I mean, downstairs.
I gesture at the elevators, "Those elevators."
"They looked closed."
I answer slowly, "The doors are, until an elevator arrives."
He snorts again, shaking his head,"Fuck, I sounded stupid."
I sail on, my work being done.

Word of The Day: Pudenda

2011-08-02T09:41:00.001-07:00

Since yesterday's inauguration of my Word of The Day posts was so resoundingly successful, it continues:

Pudenda

Word of The Day: Crapulous

2011-08-01T17:07:00.001-07:00

I am thinking of creating a word of the day to post and then allow my hordes of readers to comment on...

No, I am going to do it, starting now.

So here is one of my favorite words, and one I have felt like several times in my past:

Crapulous.

To Reno I Go...

2011-07-28T18:17:00.000-07:00

In two weeks I head to the armpit of the nation, Reno NV! I lived there for about a year, made a few good friends, and happily left it for Northern California.

What draws me back to that which I name the festering crotch of the nation's arm and torso?

The World SF Convention, AKA Renovation.

Mike Resnick convinced me I must attend. Alistair Kimble will also be in attendance. As will Mark Van Name, John Scalzi, and a number of other names and luminaries of the industry (some of whom I have even been known to call friend).

It will be my first World SF and I do so look forward to a weekend of indulging my geek and basking in awe of the talent I know will be there.

If you are going, please add a comment below, and I will hunt you down.

If you ain't, well, that green-eyed monster I see behind you will just have to keep you company!

An End

2011-07-27T12:35:00.000-07:00

So, last weekend I was running my Greedy Little Bastards campaign with a number of friends. As a life-long GM, I am pretty good at running a fair and fun night, else I would have no one willing to play in my particular sandbox.

That being said, I lost patience with one of the players and barked out a warning that I was tired, worked very hard to run a game all the players could enjoy, and that effort required respect, so please just comply with my ruling. After the below events, I checked in with the other players and the consensus appears that my ruling did not seem to warrant argument from the player.

I do not wish to detract from the fact that I shouldn't have shouted. That was improper and I regret it.

The player quit, then sent text after text to me for the next four hours, telling me my motives for treating him inappropriately. At the end, he told me that he was removing me from all his social media. I told him I felt that was a shame, that making such decisions at 0330 in the AM might lead to regret.

I regret his action. I regret losing my temper and shouting. Twenty-eight years seems a long time to simply toss in the dustbin over a disagreement regarding a game.

I have a number of buts I might place in here, but such would detract from what I am apologizing for.

I hope that there will come a day when we might say something like this to one another and to others:

OH DAMN!

2011-07-26T19:06:00.000-07:00

I can't wait to see this shit:

The Atmosphere

2011-07-21T12:00:00.000-07:00

Most everyone I work with in the courts have received notice they are being laid off. The senior clerk and I look to be the only ones in the courtroom who will remain. Me, because I am under a different agency, her because she has twenty-five years experience.

Needless to say, the mood grows dark.

Some of My Recent Re-Write Work on The Last Captain

2011-07-16T23:24:00.000-07:00

Venkman covered Baptiste as the younger man approached the loading area of the warehouse, shotgun ready. No movement, either from the street or the yawning opening of the loading bay.

Something electronic was arcing under the downed sign, creating flickering, intermittent light. Shadows danced despite the optics of his helmet, giving new life to the dead and distracting Venkman as he searched for threats. Forcing his gaze from the illusion of movement, Venkman focused on the areas his partner could not see in his approach.

Baptiste smoothly advanced about five more steps and knelt in the cover of the metal upright of the large roll-up door. Venkman saw his point of aim scanning across his front.

Clear! Baptiste signaled after a moment.

Before moving, Venkman gave a moment’s attention to his helmet systems as they updated. The perimeter was almost complete, with just the southern approaches uncovered.

Good enough.

Venkman advanced as quietly as his kit would allow. Four bodies lay on the road surface, none breathing. Lots of thick head-blood.

“Perimeter is almost set,” he murmured, drawing abreast of Baptiste.

Baptiste nodded.

Venkman pressed on, rounding the corner and entering the building at a fast, even clip.
The loading bay was darker than the street. Venkman’s helmet optics quickly adapted, supplying him with crisp images.

Two more dead men lay on either side of the opening, about a large vehicle’s width apart, their heads popped open by small arms fire. A third body lay a little beyond the first on the right.

No one standing or armed.

Venkman continued his circuit, hearing Baptiste adjust position to cover the inside of the building from the door. The move left Baptiste unable to observe what was happening on to his left rear.

Not safe, having your ass in the wind like that. Got to make this quick.

The big officer kept moving, quickly approaching the thin walls separating the loading area from the warehouse proper and glancing inside.

He looked back at Baptiste, signaling: Clear. Hold.

Baptiste’s response was a shift of his point of aim back to the street.

Venkman was collapsing on the door when a bubbling-wet cough drew him up short. He flicked his gaze to his left and saw a gout of blood spatter upward from the mouth of the man furthest from the entrance.

Damn.

Venkman keyed his mic. “Got one breathing, sort of. Moving to render aid. Man is down inside the warehouse at my twenty.”

“Dispatch copies.”

“3D6D copies. Holding.” Baptiste, acknowledging.

Venkman hustled over, slinging the long gun and reaching for the medpad clipped to his harness. The stricken man lay still, eyes rolled up and part of his skull open to air. Thick, heavily-oxygenated blood seeped through the gangster’s long hair from the right side of his forehead back to above the ear.

Venkman went to one knee and looked for someplace to apply the medpad. The things weren’t generally intended for head injuries, as the technology was meant to prevent free bleeding, something that could be preferable to the clotting and swelling that was likely to result if a head wound was sealed prematurely.

Fuck it. Not like he’s breathing all that regular anyway. Any swelling should be less of a problem with half his brain dished out. He gingerly placed the medpad over the wound and activated it.

A steady amber LED appeared. Venkman tripped his mic again. “Victim is not breathing regularly. Single wound, looks like bullet entry and exit. Three centimeters along the right side of the forehead to just above the ear. Applied the medpad.”

“Dispatch copies. Starting countdown.” If the medpad didn’t show a green LED in the next minute, indicating the miniature cortex believed itself capable of saving the gangster’s life, Venkman could move on.

Never see the gangsters hanging with their supposed blood brothers for this, do I? No, it’s the cops and medics get to hold their breath and see if the dying will pull through. The thugs scatter like cockroaches with the light on, despite all the shit they talk about loyalty to the grave.

The light never came green. The kid didn’t breath again.

Damn it.

“No further life signs, medpad is amber. Moving.”

“Copy.”

Venkman took up a position on the far side of the entrance, covering the rest of the street.

“Covering.”

“Moving.”

If I Had Powers Of The Mind, Things Would Be A Bit Different 'Round Here.

2011-07-15T14:42:00.000-07:00

"I'm late, do something 'bout it. I need to know what you've already told everyone else. Repeat it just for me, I was sexting my mistress while you were talking."

Done, I glare.

Veins pop out in the asshat's neck as the air is cut off first. Hands begin to wave as the fool realizes the depth of his stupid. His mouth begins to gape even as his face turns purple. Impressive, the way the strings of snot braid themselves on the way from nose to ground.

A moment more and the limbs grow weak, the target staggers, cow-stupid eyes pleading.

Still I glare, forcing the issue to its inevitable, conclusion.

With a strangled sigh, the fight is won. A last few moments of legs drumming against the floor, then a puff of sulphur-yellow smoke dribbles from the ears.

I take a sip of water, "Anyone else want to ask stupid questions that have already been answered?"

Oddments of Soul, Part Two of Two

2011-07-07T22:49:00.000-07:00

Alright, so The Coolness, Kid and I leave the wondrous pizza place for the Hotel. We walked a different route than the one we'd taken to Old Town Pizza, and came across some ironic food-stall placement.

I had to get a photo, and left The Coolness and kid to get the following shot:

Yes, the further stall is "Smokin' Pig" while the nearer serves 'Arabic Food'. I could taste the irony.

As I walked to the crosswalk, a dark-haired woman stuck her head out the window of her silver SUV and called to me, "Do you work for the San Francisco Police Department Traffic Court?"

"Perhaps," I said, caught completely flat-footed.

"You are, aren't you. We both," she gestured at her male passenger, "got completely bogus tickets there."

"That's odd," I answered, trying for nonchalant. I was five hundred miles from where I work, in civilian dress, unarmed and wondering where the fuck this was going to go.

"Completely bogus," she repeated as the light changed and she turned onto the road in front of me. I heard her and her passengers braying laughter as they drove off. I waited a full minute before returning to my family.

Now I know many of you will think that I am missing the point; that this was one of those serendipitous moments, an odd happening that should cause wonder, not seem ominous.

I do feel that sense of wonder.

Tainted with dread.

The thing is, I didn't even issue either of the asshats tickets. I just told them, as a part of a large group, to keep their mouths shut and turn off cell phones.

They didn't stand out for me, though I vaguely remember a pair of people being found guilty, one after the other, for some infraction I don't recall (I do think they made the same argument and expected different results, if my very vague recollection serves.).

Now, some of you will know that I have arrested and enjoyed arresting more than a few murderers and other violent criminals. Many will, as a result of their sentences, see the light of day again.

This evening's events send a chill down my back, given that if this woman and her partner-in-infractions was motivated enough to recognize me in completely different circumstances, at least a month in the past and many hundreds of miles from the events that led her into contact with me, what does that say of a murderer or hardened criminal? Surely such people will be more motivated and have an actual reason to look for me, not to mention have more opportunity to study my face and mannerisms as I testify in their cases.

Such people are accustomed to doing harm to others, to attacking those that denied them something. Such people have a long time to think about what wrongs they feel have been done them, and by whom.

And if I am with my family when one has an opportunity, what then?

The woman had about fifteen seconds. That's a long, long time for someone with the ability and desire to wreak a little mayhem.

Fuck me what an oddly horrible thought to entertain on what was an otherwise great day.

Oddments Of Soul Part One of Two

2011-07-07T22:11:00.000-07:00

Today we began our return from Seattle. We stopped in Portland and checked in at a nice hotel for the night.

Hungry, we set out for a Thai place suggested by the concierge as close to the hotel, good, and relatively inexpensive. I say set out because the Coolness picked up a brochure on the way out of the hotel. Within it's slick folds she found the description of "Old Town Pizza" wherein, it was said, was the most haunted of pizza places. The Coolness, she was sold immediately (little known uncool thing about The Coolness: she's a total ghost geek).

I had been hankering for some Thai, so I was a bit disappointed, but Isabelle lit up at the mention of pizza as she hadn't when asked if she wanted Thai.

Case closed.

We covered the ten short blocks of historic Portland in good time, Isabelle enjoying the freedom to walk after nearly three hours spent in the car, her parents the atmosphere of a town we have not visited before. Still, I was a bit nervous of the many street bums, but they proved much more polite than those of San Francisco.

We entered the restaurant and Isabelle immediately said, "Smells good."

Damn good.

We stood at the pizza-ordering counter and watched the chefs work while we decided what we wanted on our pizzas. I looked at the menu and discovered all the toppings of The Griffin, as my friends call the following:

Pesto base (not tomato sauce)
Italian sausage
peperoncinnis

Now, this is a specialty pizza that I concocted for myself at Rocco's Pizzeria in Walnut Creek, an excellent pizzeria. I have thoroughly enjoyed it there, so much so that I have ordered it for friends that don't mind a bit of spice in their food. It was them, not me, that named the pizza after me (they have ordered it many times since).

The Coolness and kid had a plain cheese.

A brief wait, then began THE GLORY!

I have had many pizzas in many different styles, in many different cities. I love the shit.

This was truly very close to a religious experience, and I don't go to church. Every bite was a pleasure: the sausage is made on site and has an excellent balance of heat and fennel, the pesto was glorious, the crust awesome and the overall experience was of pure enjoyment.

God, that was awesome.

Isabelle and The Coolness also enjoyed their pizza. Alas, none of the staff working that evening had experienced any run-ins with the supernatural entities that supposedly haunt the place from the 19th century, angry with being shanghaied by creative shipping magnates and their bosuns.

We told the bearded gent that had taken our order that we had a complaint. I could see him tense, and quickly told him, "I don't know that I will ever be able to equal that pizza. It was a wonder."

He smiled and laughed.

I told him I was serious.

He laughed some more.

We walked out. I, for one, miserable that I am unlikely to ever experience such bliss again.

Outside, and off duty, was one of the chefs we had seen working.

I thanked him as well, hiding my bitterness. He was gracious and asked that we spread the word. We promised we would.

So I wrote this.

This is OUTSTANDING!

2011-06-30T21:07:00.000-07:00

Too funny! Thanks to Peter V Brett, (Who Wrote Red Sonja: Blue) for bringing to my attention.

More Music To Write To

2011-06-30T18:20:00.001-07:00

Or just check out the eye candy.

No really, just check out the eye candy.

The Last Captain Re-Write: Full Steam Ahead

2011-06-30T12:34:00.000-07:00

“Venkman, want to hit the clubs tonight?” Baptiste asked as he stomped into his boots.

“If you want, Bap.”

“Don’t sound so enthusiastic.”

“Just thinking you might want to take it slow, kinda ease into it.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Baptiste asked.

Venkman laughed, “Of course. The LT has you assigned to the six car and I’m in the five, so the bosses shouldn’t have a problem letting us have a few minutes out on investigation. Especially early in the night.”

“I don’t know if the dealer will be out and working early.”

Venkman shrugged. “Might have to wait until tomorrow night, then.”

“Unless we just go straight to the source.”

Venkman closed his locker and looked his partner in the eye. “Prometheus?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know, that’s pretty deep water, especially when we don’t know that Luc gets his shit from Prometheus’ crew.”

“Yes, it is.” Baptiste shrugged, “Fuck it. Was just a thought.”

Venkman tossed his head. “If we get a chance to talk to him, I won’t say no. I just don’t think we go straight at him, not just yet.”

Baptiste nodded, connected his star to his uniform and closed his locker. “We’ll just see what we see, then.”

Venkman led the way downstairs.

Line up started smoothly, the usual roll-call and series of summons to court.

Then Lieutenant Devereaux decided to address the troops. Not Baptiste’s favorite butter bar, Devereaux’s nasal voice and pristine uniform annoyed most hard-charging street cops. “Tonight, Officer Baptistes returns to us after injury at the hands of a one of our regulars. Bid him welcome back.”

The eight men and three women of the line-up gave him a cheer and a few thumps on the back.

“Just remember, just remember… Alright, settle down folks! Just let Officer Baptiste’s injury remind you all that what we do is dangerous work.”

We? When was the last time you took a door, asshat?

“Don’t take any unnecessary chances out there, please.”

I might respect you and your advice if you had more than a year of street time instead of minimum time in grade to apply for the next promotion. Climber.

“Would you like to add anything, Jean?”

Oh, now we’re on a first name basis? Cunt.

Venkman read Baptiste’s face, nudged him.

“Yes. Don’t get shot. It stings.”

The line-up dissolved into laughter, except for Devereaux, who looked like he’d swallowed something sideways.

Choke on it.

More Music To Write To.

2011-06-29T21:07:00.000-07:00

The video is something to watch, as well.

Battleflag

2011-06-26T17:00:00.000-07:00

This song gets the blood going.

So does the video, though for different reasons.

Immediacy

2011-06-26T16:41:00.000-07:00

As my faithful few know, I have been doing the re-write on The Last Captain. I had some great input I have tried to put into practice. I think it's working quite nicely.

I had a ton of POV characters in the draft I sent off to Baen. In my hubris, I thought I had given each of these POV characters a significant voice all their own, all within sections as short as five hundred or less words. The sections followed one another at a very rapid clip, requiring the reader to switch horses with great frequency.

As it turns out, I am not a virtuoso, just a cat trying to break in.

So.

I am hacking the number of POV characters down to three, and giving each a chapter before moving to the next POV character. I hope to cut down on reader whiplash by doing this, as well as go a little deeper with each character as I do so.

That latter bit was also part of the input I had from my reader, who wanted to feel more of the internal strife between the controlled behavior of the officers and their actual internal emotion and thoughts (See any of my Inner Gorilla posts for what I am talking about.).

All this requires some new material, but not as much as I had feared, given that I know where everyone stands, and what is going on. Now to convey that in a more efficient and, hopefully, visceral manner.

Plenty of time to learn to be that virtuoso.

And to practice I go.

Fartknockers

2011-06-22T19:43:00.000-07:00

The private sector has been hosing many people I know.

Now, the public sector is about to get a royal kick in the nards. I don't believe that they will be laying police in my city off anytime soon, but the clerks I work with are facing a layoff of 41% of the staff.

41%?

Them's some apocalyptic numbers.

Because the cuts will start with the junior folks, these aren't the faceless cogs in the machine, these are the helpful ones, the guys who haven't been in their jobs so long that they don't give a fuck. These are the ones with young families who got their shit straight to get a steady job so they could do right by their loved ones.

Now, through stupidity not their own, they are likely going to lose their jobs.

Fuckin' bullshit.