ASVS Headline News

November 01, 2005

Computer Karma

Have you ever had an idea that was so brilliant, you simply had to stop what you were doing and write it down, just to make sure it wouldn't get lost? Or carried it out immediately to make sure it wouldn't be forgotten? Have you ever had something so wonderful that the only way to get it out of your head was to carry it out? Have you ever felt the elation of thinking up something that must be shared?

In short: have you ever become obsessed with something spawned from your own mind?

I've been writing for years now, and sometimes this happens, usually with a chapter or story arc in some part of my work. Recently, I was mentally struck by an entire book. I don't mean I had an idea for a book, that's nothing special. What happened was that out of the ideas one rose up and blossomed and spread so that it was not only an idea, but filled out into all of the components. Every subplot, every character's role, grew into it over the course of a day, and by the time I was ready to sit down the piece had grown to fill every corner of my mind, like some rogue computer program that co-opts the system resources until there's little room for anything else. And when that moment hits, you strike out with zeal, with obsession. You have to get this thing down while it's still there, before it fades like fairy gold in the rising sun. Plus, you've got to get it out of your head!

I try to write five days a week. On a day when I do write, it's at least five hundred words. More often its around fifteen hundred. On a good day, it's three thousand. Once I started on this particular project, I was running at an average of six thousand... and this is during the work week... when I'm working overtime. Because the biggest pain in the ass when you're in this state is that going from mind to page cannot be done fast enough. I would sit down immediately upon arrival at home and begin working, eating at my computer... or simply not eating at all. I didn't even leave to watch Jason Lee in My Name Is Earl, which I never miss, about a guy who discovers karma and decides to make up for all of his mistakes. It's kind of like a Kevin Smith movie without the four letter words and the lesbians. Lee's country tone somehow manages to emphasize the whole point: "Do good things and good things happen. Do bad things and they'll come back to haunt you. It's called karma. My name is Earl."

But alas, there is no time for Earl; words must be flushed from my head. "Write your first draft out by hand first to feel the words," says those stupid creative writing courses. Bullshit! You know how long it takes to write with a pen or pencil compared to a keyboard? Well let me tell you, a keyboard is still not fast enough. Dictation is not fast enough. What is in your mind needs to get out. You need to be able to write at the speed of thought, because that's how quickly the words come together, and if you take too long they may get lost, because there's a press of words coming up behind them. You don't waste thoughts at this point; whatever's there, whatever's ready, it must be let loose. It doesn't matter if you're coming in in the middle of a scene in chapter seven and the ending's not ready; you're not writing any of that stuff, you're writing what you have! You're getting down the bits you have to make room for other stuff later.

So you're going and going and going and going and it's still not fast enough. There isn't enough time! Every obstacle, no matter how small, is as infuriating as that guy in front of you in line who seems to have no idea where he is or why he's there or what kind of transaction he and the clerk are about to engage in. And then finds coupons. For different products. That are expired. And then wants to pay with a check. Ever been in a comparable situation? Now imagine that everything feels that way. I ask that of you so you understand what happened next.

The rough outline was in an Excel spreadsheet, with each part given a numerical value so I could skip around and still keep the pieces organized. But every little obstacle was a pain, including making new empty text documents in the folder to number and then start writing in. Sure, making one only takes, what fifteen to twenty seconds, but add that up over the course of a book, and that's like half an hour lost that could be better spent emptying things out of my head! Action was required.

I started learning Visual Basic back at Oshkosh Truck because, honestly, there was nothing else to do all frickin' day. After four+ years of growth, I've got a great deal of it down cold. So I knew that I could have all those blank text documents made in less than a minute.

Sub aaaaa()
For X = 1 to 60
A="C:\temp\"+Format(X)+".txt"
Open A for output as #1
Write #1,""
Close #1
Next X
End Sub

And voila! It'll make sixty properly numbered blank text documents in the temp folder. Easy as 3.14. I mean, I could tell it not to make the ones that I already have, but it would take longer... and things just aren't going fast enough. That's why I was careless on that third line and left off the "C:\temp\" part of the code, which was why the program didn't make them in the temp folder, it made them in the folder where the Excel file was... the folder where all the previously written parts are.

I am such a careful person with my data. I keep back-ups on floppies, CD's, DVD's, of all my important stuff. If I'm even going to alter an important document, I'll first save an archived version of it in case I need a previous iteration. For Christmas, my present to myself is likely going to be an external back-up drive. But it doesn't matter that you put on your seatbelt every time you get into your car if the one time you don't is the one time you're in an accident. The cold world doesn't care if you slipped up just once, the fact is, you slipped up. And I didn't back up my work; I seriously slipped up.

I didn't even delete them, that's the worst part. I opened them, erased them, saved them, and closed them, all in the fraction of a second. Finding deleted files is actually fairly easy; finding previous iterations of altered files... that's the problem. And there were so many things I almost did that would have helped. I was going to throw them on a floppy, but time was getting away. I was archiving on a CD, but I was running late for work. I was going to roll them all into a document for a word count, but decided it'd be a waste of time that could be spent writing. I was going to write the code to skip those files I'd already made, but wanted to do it the quick way.

As I laid in bed that night, Jason Lee appeared, tipped his hat and said "Do bad things and they'll come back to haunt you. It's called karma. My name is Earl."

And so that leaves off with a fairly big question mark. It wasn't that the work was lost... it was that the words were lost. Like I said, I wrote it to get it out of my head. And it was out, and in my hands, and in my idiocy I killed it. It's not like building a house of cards and the house collapses, you've also lost the deck in the process, and you're not sure you're ever going to find it again!

With little hope I struck out on the path of data recovery, but like I said, they're built around finding deleted files, not altered ones. Failure after grim failure sapped my will to continue with the project... maybe it was best to let the story die. Then, literally my last effort, I found WinHex. It's not a data recovery program, it's a computer forensic tool that scans the data sitting on the hard drive, regardless of structure to it. And that, my friends, is when clean living pays off. I partition my drives, so the area in question was relatively small, and I optimize every partition each month like clockwork. With a couple hours work of sifting over the flotsam of the drive, I was able to reconstruct ninety percent of what I'd lost. If I hadn't done either of those things, odds are I would have either overwritten that data while downloading data recovery programs, or had the data so fragmented that finding it would be impossible. Computer karma swings both ways. The spirit of Jason Lee arrived and gave me a thumbs up: "Do good things and good things happen. My name is Earl."

Posted by Chuck at 07:27 AM | Comments (0)

October 03, 2005

Loungechairs On The Edge Of Forever

There are some things in the world I wish were untrue, and I'm putting aside the obvious. Certainly there is a long list of tragedies and attrocities which could have been prevented. The disaster in New Orleans was predicted, but when Katrina was on the way nobody saw it coming. When the people of China brought a communist government into power, no one saw it was going to lead to the slaughter of millions of Chinese by that same government. And I'm sure I don't have to point out that absolutely no one expected the Spanish Inquisition.

But aside of those kind of unpleasant truths, I'm actually referring to something else, to those true events that would be better served in the realm of human imagination rather than reality. Take feng shui, for example. This is a concept so bizarre, so clearly absurd in its entire concept, that it is almost impossible to imagine that anyone can take it seriously, nevermind shovel huge truckloads of money into it. Feng shui is the science of improving your good fortune through re-arranging your furniture. This makes Terry Pratchett's headology seem possible. It makes Douglas Adams' theory on achieving flight by throwing onesself at the ground and missing seem practical. This is an actual position people have adopted that, side-by-side with fictionalized nonsense, is hard to pick out.

I know my audience (assuming any are still there), so let me remind you of the key point before someone brings up religion. Feng shui is supposed to be a science. There are any number of flakes out their in religion who assert the science of their beliefs, but that's just what they are: the fringe. Every movement has the goofballs who gravitate towards cameras and microphones. Most religions and members of religions know the things they believe in are not scientific... that's why it's called "supernatural" rather than "natural." No one tosses an egg off a roof and tries to quantify the degree to which prayer will impact its, er, impact. If feng shui were a religion, or a matter of taste, or just a fun superstition, that's one thing. But there are people who actually hold to the position that feng shui, that moving your furniture to improve your good fortune, is a quantifiable activity. This is because it's one of those ancient things that came out of China, and therefore must be true. Let's just hope that the ancient Chinese science of foot-binding doesn't become popular again.

Am I picking on the Chinese? No, not really. It's a human culture, and it has flaws like many human cultures do. It's twenty-first century romanticism that wants to see the ancient teachings being more advanced than scientific truths of today. Which kind of makes you wonder about the Chinese people I mentioned at the start of this article. You'd think if anybody would have their furniture aligned for maximum fortune according to Chinese science, it would be people in China.

(As a bit of an aside, I just Googled “feng shui” to make one hundred percent sure I spelled it correctly, and came across the American Feng Shui Institute, “Center in the West that is dedicated to teaching the practice of Feng Shui as a scientific discipline.” Click on the link and right there on the front page is an astrology guide. I was already skeptical when I clicked the link, but damn! That’s like being told that magical crystals can cure you, and when you check with a consultant, are greeted by a witch-doctor.)

That brings me to another thing that I wish was confined strictly to the realm of human imagination, which was a recent appearance at a convention between the irresistible force and the immovable object. I'm now about to bring up Penny Arcade for the second time in this column's history, which is admittedly odd, but what the hell. Gabe and Tycho, creators of that strip, are pretty strong representative of the Generation X smartass. I should know, I see them at the meetings all the time. Funny, but with a bit of a cruel streak; they seem to enjoy it when they have an anemic opponent they can slap around mercilessly. They do not fear authority, as their confrontations with fellow cartoonists have shown. In short, they're a couple of self-confessed assholes.

Now take one Harlan Ellison. A popular opinion is that Ellison is a hotheaded, acerbic personality. I've also heard that he is one of those friends that will stick with you through thick and thicker. I'm just presenting both points of view here, since that's all I have to go by. Depending on who you talk to, he's a wonderful human being or a disturbing, Gollum-like creature. But it's at least agreed he's intelligent and could probably kill a man with a sample of well-refined wit.

Now, think about it: wouldn't it be funny to stick these three up on the same stage at a convention and let nature take its course? Oh, hell yeah! It's easy to imagine the kind of exchanges that would take place as things escalated, with the two Penny Arcaders tag-teaming Ellison, and Ellison holding both back like some verbal ninja. It would be an epic verbal fight. But like many things you know would be funny, you shouldn't actually do it. So, yeah, someone put Gabe and Tycho on the same stage as Ellison, and things happened. So far it's only been from the PA point of view, because let's face it, if I mixed it up with Walter Koenig, he's going to be far less likely than I to bring it up. But even PA's rendition makes the whole affair far less funny then it would seem on paper. It was one of those fights that would have been better served in the imagination.

So ASVSers, maybe we should keep arguing and hope they never do make that movie. The stories we ourselves craft may be better than any studio could ever achieve for real.

Posted by Chuck at 08:07 PM | Comments (0)

September 01, 2005

Obsession

I open my email today, and it's the usual first of the month stuff. Editors, publishers, bill notifications, and naturally today's delivery of junk mail. As a guy who runs a website, I have to give all my junk mail the once over because new people have this tendency of not putting a header on their messages that will convince me it isn't spam. I don't know how many of these I get that wind up getting thrown out for just that reason. My usual method is pretty simple. First I highlight everything new, then I uncheck everything that is not labeled as being spam (believe me, that's a small percentage), then of the remaining highlighted messages I check the email addresses/senders for anything familiar and uncheck that too. That's two shots to pass through this very sophisticated filter.

Today I get an email that barely made it through the filter, from someone I've never heard of and titled "read this." In fact, the message was lucky to survive, as I had clicked on it to delete it, only to see the contents and determine this was actually a letter sent specifically to me. It came within a fraction of a second of hitting the trashcan unread.

What was it, you may ask? Hatemail, believe it or not, related to Captain Janeway. Depending on how you count it, it's my first or second hatemail on the subject. I got one a while ago from someone who told me not to make fun of Janeway because she's extremely sexy, but it was one of those messages where it's really hard to tell if someone was being serious or just pulling my leg. I didn't follow up on that one. I figured either this was some guy pulling a fast one, in which case all he'd do was string me along, or this guy was serious, and further conversation would only lead into a dark and dank place not entirely comforting.

Sexiness was not the subject of this email, however, for this took issue with my entire position on the subject of Janeway and her seven seasons of tormenting and endangering her crew. As was usually the case, it was a damning dismantling of my handiwork, so carefully written they occassionally used a capital letter as a passing nod to grammar.

It has always struck me as being odd that people would send hatemail to something called the "Opinionated Voyager Episode Guide." You think the name would tip people off to the contents.

What struck me about this message, however, wasn't the subject matter so much as it was the timing. One of the worst natural disasters in the United States' history has just hit. Thousands are estimated to be dead, many more are being left homeless. At a time when gasoline prices have been high a major oil producing area has been shut down, meaning not just unpredented high prices for fuel, but potentially devestating economic consequences for the US and the world in this global economy. When gas goes up, even if you don't have a car you're likely affected because the cost of delivering goods increases. Unless you produce everything you use, one way or another it will come around to you, whether it's through an increase in price or a lowering of quality or quantity. So right now we (the US) are facing a difficult obstacle (and, of course, others may be sharing in this; disasters are always striking somewhere, though) with the human tragedy, and beyond that with the national or global ramifications of this.

What better time to rise up and defend the good name of a fictional character!

Sometimes, just sometimes, people really show just how obsessed with something they are. I think that, when the fresh dead have yet to be buried, the living are left without four walls and a roof to call their own, and when economic disaster may loom, it may be time to stop obsessing for a moment on satirical pieces on make believe characters. For the first time in a long while, I think the words "Get a life" may really need to be spoken.

Posted by Chuck at 10:34 PM | Comments (0)

July 08, 2005

I love the smell of down in the morning...

(Note: Chuck’s on vacation this month, so ASVS Headline News is proud to present some Best Of columns, drawing on Chuck’s many years of success with our fine publication.)

[Column originally published August 1, 2003]

Well, I had a confrontation with a female co-worker today. It wasn’t anything I had done specifically, she was just quite pleased with a bit of scientific news that’s come out recently. Apparently some scientists think that the days of the Y-chromosome are numbered, and that eventually men will cease. Apparently she was quite enthralled by this, and felt like sharing the good news.

“If there were no more men, there’d be no more wars,” she told me gleefully. Well, I admit I just stood there. It wasn’t that I was in shock; far from it, I had any of a thousand things I could say. No, the problem was that I was not sure what an acceptable response was. You have to be careful in the twenty-first century what you say, especially in an office environment. You say the wrong thing to someone and suddenly there’s an office feud over paper clips and your boss winds up having to do something to satisfy the higher-ups that things are running smoothly. This means, inevitably, team-building exercises. They’re called “team-building exercises” because “psychological torture” is harder to spell and doesn’t have a hyphen, the business man’s friend. My like or dislike for my co-workers has no bearing on my job performance at all, because it’s my job I actually hate. All team-building would do would give me a chance to tell my co-workers how much I hate coming into work every day.

They tell me there’s no “I” in team. I agree, and I would like to remain out of it.

But I’m getting off the subject. How does one respond to a stereotypical view of one’s gender, and it is a stereotype. I can’t speak for my reader’s, but I’ve never caused a police action, troop movement, deployment, peeling of potato, or digging of a latrine, never mind a war. Admittedly I have nuked many a city in Civilization III, but I draw the line at constructing my own atomic weaponry in real life. For one thing, it’s too much like work. I have as much of an impact on international conflict as I do on the overall quality of breastfeeding in the world. But saying that didn’t seem entirely appropriate.

If one followed that train of thought to its logical conclusion, then reality takes on a twisted view. After all, just because all the men are gone doesn’t mean that the women in the United States are going to get along with the women in Japan. After all, they might be wearing the same thing we had already picked out just to be a complete bitch. What happens then? Will the military machine move? No, don’t be silly; women run the world! There will be no war! No, but we will not let such an affront go unchallenged! No, the special forces will be sent in, parachuting over Japan in bras and panties, equipped with the latest in anti-personnel pillow technology. Pink, brassiere-like parachutes will open as they descend to meet the enemy in the streets for a furious exchange of fluffy blows until downy feathers line the streets of Tokyo, only to lead to a massive street-to-street tickle-fight. Then the victors will subject the losers to the spankings they so richly deserve.

Hollywood, if you’re listening, I have a script idea for you: “40DD Over Tokyo”

Of course, this is the image that passes through my head when the all female world is presented, but I dare not give voice to it. It would be an unforgivable sin to do so. You don’t pander to the basest stereotypes about women, you cretinous troglodyte! To disgusting project that image onto all women is shameful. How typically male. Now quit starting a war and get some filing done.

Of course, one must acknowledge that men are in control of the government as a whole, but women voted to enter wars, women help design and build the weapons, women sign up to fly the planes, and women who refuse to be pandered to have pushed hard to take their place alongside men in the armed forces... not that they like war of course. If they had their way, they’d be making a bunt cake.

Why is it as a male I’m automatically attached to such items as war, but I’m not attached to something like, say, the moon landing? Only men have ever walked on the moon, yet no one ever gleefully says “If there were no men we’d have no space program! No satellite system for tracking storms and maintaining communication around the world and examining distant stars about the details of the wondrous universe we live in.” No, no one every throws comments about that at me. Instead we talk about someone like Amelia Eirhart, who was a famous explorer and then got hopelessly lost and wound up on an episode of Voyager... not the stuff explorer legends are made of. But I will not hold that up as a failing of female explorers, not by a long shot. Many a male explorer has failed in their efforts. Look at Ponce de Leon, a big failure. This guy went looking for the Fountain of Youth, and all he did was discover Florida. Come to think of it, there’s a bit of irony in looking for the Fountain of Youth and discovering the future retirement center of the continent. It’s certainly funnier then getting into a pissing contest with Captain Janeway.

Anyway, men, women, can we just forget about trying to blame each other for who wants to kill who? Can we not think about our common ground instead of giving in to petty stereotypes? Besides, I have Leonardo’s Workshop and am *this* close to a quantum bomb, so I think we’d all better just get along.

Posted by Chuck at 11:16 PM | Comments (0)

June 27, 2005

Quake Marshal - In Color!

(Note: Chuck’s on vacation this month, so ASVS Headline News is proud to present some Best Of columns, drawing on Chuck’s many years of success with our fine publication.)

[Column originally published March 19, 2005]

I've given up discussing politics in a serious manner, and I have the Internet to thank for removing that shackle from my ankle. Part of the reason is, being a moderate, I tend to get jumped by both sides of the issue in a sort of "if you're not with us your against us mentality." For example, on gun control, I'm not on the side of people who want to take everyone's guns away, even those used for hunting or necessary for home defense, used by people trained in their proper use, safety, and the responsibility that comes with it. On the other side, I'm also not in favor of handing guns over to a guy with one revolving eyeball and a tendency to stutter when he sees a picture of a machine gun. So, it's not that I'm wishy-washy on issues that I'm a moderate, it's that the two extremes are so extreme that they wind up leaving me stranded in the middle, a target for both sides, even the ones without guns.

The other part is that I'm tired of being told that I'm responsible for all the bad things in the universe. I'm white, male, American, heterosexual, Christian, and I don't live in a large city. As a result, everything bad that happens to anybody has been indirectly caused by me; I can't get out of bed in the morning without oppressing someone, and if I stay in bed it's because I'm stereotypically lazy. I just can't win. Even if I killed myself I'd be lambasted for denying the rain forests much needed carbon dioxide. If I came up for a cure for death, I'd be criticized for putting funeral homes out of business. So I don't bother going out onto the internet and trying to have rational discussions with people using a dedicated T1 line who are telling me that all technology is destroying the planet. I can't do it any more. Not only is it asking me to empty the ocean with a teaspoon, there's a hole in the bottom of it, and nearby protestors are holding up signs saying "Forks Have Always Been Good Enough For Us!"

Still, despite this personal moratorium on such material, there are some aspects of it I feel are universally extreme enough that I can comment on them without too much problem. One is the latest remark from the tin foil hat brigade which says we have an earthquake making weapon (as seen in the documentary film The Core) that we used on Iran when they started rattling their nuclear saber. The proof is that we tested it in the Indian Ocean and caused the tsunami that led to such devastation. I'm not sure which amazes me more: that they'll come up with an idea that even Art Bell would find paranoid, or that they'll attach the deaths of thousands of people to their crackpot theory. If such a weapon were to ever exist, though, I would stay out of California the next time Michael Moore makes a movie; I have a feeling there's gonna be a 9.0 around that time.

While the earthquake machine may not necessarily have caused the problem, some people aren't taking any chances. You might remember that, in the wake of the tsunami, Americans joined in with several other countries in donating food, money, and materials to aid in the relief efforts in these disaster areas, so it's completely understandable why lawsuits are being brought against the US because of it (for certain small values of "understandable"). Apparently there's a group of lawyers who are alleging that the US and Thailand knew about the tsunami beforehand but did nothing to tell people about it. I haven't read why they think this was our fault, but it's probably for the usual reasons. I also fail to see any real motivation in it either. I mean, was Bush sitting in the Oval Office surrounded by stacks and stacks of life insurance policies he'd taken out on the residents of southern Asia? "Woohoo! I'm telling you, Dick, this'll be a real windfall!"

"Actually, Mr. President, I'm concerned people might find out we know about this tsunami."

"Don't worry; if that happens, I'll just declare marshal law." At this point Bush would don a black cowboy hat, little silver star, and begin galloping around the Oval Office."

"Um, Mr. President, I think you mean 'martial law' and-"

"Gid-dy-up gid-dy-up get along little doggies..."

"-and even then I don't see how that would help."

"Of course it'll help! Who's the marshal around here, huh? Me!"

Things have only gotten uglier since. Our soldiers shot up the Italians car, and they're upset that it was done on purpose. Ridiculous. We wouldn't deliberately fire on the Italians. That's what the earthquake machine's for.

Posted by Chuck at 06:18 PM | Comments (0)

June 17, 2005

And then, Kevin Bacon walks in....

I was a fan of the Producers long before it ever went on stage, back when it was a forgotten piece of early Mel Brooks filmmaking. I own both the VHS and DVD versions of the film, in fact. Why, you may ask, is that the case? Is it the over-the-top performance of Zero Mostel? No. Is it the giggle-spawning nervousness of Gene Wilder? No. Is it the overall hilarious performance of Kenneth Mars? No, but it sure as hell doesn’t hurt. No, the reason for it all can be summed up in three little words:

Springtime for Hitler

This opening musical number has to be without a doubt one of the most hilarious pieces it’s ever been my privilege to witness. It’s a multi-faceted piece of satire that is a monument to bad taste in terms of substance and subject matter. New mathematics would need to be invented to describe the directions Brooks took this bit. I mean, the Swastika-shaped kickline, the tap dancing, the glorious decorations of Nazi banners in the background as if they somehow weren’t the symbol of evil itself. And the lyrics... “Springtime for Hitler and Germany/Winter for Poland and France/Springtime for Hitler and Germany/Now Germans go into your dance!” I once caught myself singing it under my breath at a Magic tournament; all I can say is that I’m grateful someone else had saw the picture, or they’d likely have strangled me there (Magic players have very strong hands, which comes from having to shuffle constantly and, let’s face it, not having girlfriends. Many a Magic player has had to tap a few basic lands, if you know what I mean.).

So why bring this up now? Producers? Good show but old news, Chuck. Well, the thing is, Mel Brooks has really kindled in me a kind of love affair with really bad over-the-top musicals (you can look at my rendition of Pr0n: How Al Gore Invented The Internet to see that). Long have I wished for something that could hope to raise even a candle to the majesty of Springtime for Hitler. At last, I think my search has reached its end.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you: Casablanca!

And not just a stage production of the Humphrey Bogart classic, no-no. This is a musical version! Plus... it has tap dancing! Tap dancing Ilsa and Rick Blaine! Tap dancing Renault! Dare I even wish it... tap dancing Nazis!

I would walk over broken glass to watch tap dancing Nazis.

Bringing this little bit of insanity into the world is China Arts And Entertainment Group and Time Warner. This would be the same Time Warner that thinks Bugs Bunny needs to go to the Xtreme (as the word is misspelled across the world; dropping the “e” off is about as rebellious an act as refusing to stop wearing white after Labor Day). An Xtreme Bugs Bunny would probably perfectly round out this entire production.

The production has just finished its premiere in Beijing and is now beginning a trip to foreign shores, rather like the Chinese Army I suppose, and probably just as welcome. When it comes to bad entertainment ideas, making a musical out of a successful work in another medium is at the top of the list. I mean, it’s practically cliché. It’s an Xtreme cliché, if you will. Sometimes bad ideas just seem to emerge so suddenly, shockingly, into the light it makes you wonder if there are forces of evil deliberately behind all this. This could easily be an Austin Powers subplot when you get right down to it. So, is Time Warner hoping to follow in the Mel Brooks-inspired plan of making more money with a flop than they can with a hit? It’s possible. I’m pretty sure Rick Berman has already proven the viability of this plot.

Of course, I don’t want to seem like I’m signaling out China and the creators of Casablanca for ridicule. The United States, still hanging on to the multi-billion dollar success of James Cameron’s Titanic is now home to a musical version of Titanic. I have a feeling Old Scratch himself was involved with this one. Where will the madness stop, I ask you? Perhaps no one can answer it. All I can do is quote another all-time great musical adaptation:

I hate every ape I see
From Chimpan-a to Chimpanzee
No you’ll never make a monkey out of me.....

Posted by Chuck at 06:28 PM | Comments (1)

June 10, 2005

The Emperor Has No Face

Apparently there’s a-feuding going on in the community of on-line comic artists, and if you’re wondering what the hell I’m talking about, I’d venture you’re in the majority. I’ve only heard about it myself after a bit of a public war of essays between Scott McCloud and Penny Arcade’s Tycho, and having read both, I feel confident in saying that more people likely care about the speed of hyperdrive versus warp than this particular fight. Not that I hold any ill will towards these two; I’ve been reading Penny Arcade for years, and I own a copy of Understanding Comics. But in truth, this is not the most fascinating of topics to an outsider such as myself, and likely my brief introduction into it will be the end of the matter. Good luck to all parties involved, but I’ll just stick with reading the final product, since it seems the comic scene bears some resemblance to Bismark’s view of politics and sausage.

So, why would I bring up this point, you may ask. Because it touched in part onto something that has related to my years of involvement in my small Internet community. Some of the heat in this squabble has come from discussions of appearance, and a sort of fighting fire with fire seems to have taken place. Admittedly, the picture which started it all (an actual photograph that I would have sworn was from a Hollywood fake because it so plays the stereotype of the Internet nerd) wasn’t the most flattering, and pictures can also present really awful, awful views of someone at times. So it’s obvious why caricatures of the type involved in this mess could lead to some righteous indignation, or at least some sacrosanct indignation. The face put on us can have a powerful influence on how people look at us.

None of you have likely ever seen my face.

I’ve had six years over at ASVS, made friends, made enemies, told jokes, flamed away. I’ve got a section on the FAQ, a section on the Fanfic Archive, and an open invitation to write here. I feel that’s pretty good for a man who, in fact, has very little actual evidence to prove his own physical existence. I could be a head in a jar ala Futurama for all you know, or a Turin test gone horribly, horribly wrong. In point of fact, there’s nothing you can really substantiate about me without a whole lot of digging, and even then, you’re assuming the name I’ve been using is my real one. It gives me the opportunity to fabricate the details of my life, although I don’t. I leave that to the likes of pedophiles, bored teenagers, and Stewart at SDI (assuming I’m not being redundant here).

The result of this is that the face constructed is one you, the reader, puts there, rather than the one caused by genetic twists, environmental development, and the time Evil Kneebler hit me with that lump of wood. Some clues may give things away; the picture of my Borg children and my Germanic name indicate I’m likely Caucasian, but for the most part, you can color in the details as you see fit. Go ahead, I don’t mind.

This is a matter that relates to an approach I have to writing, which is that there are times when a character needs to not have a face. When you’re writing science fiction, it’s usually good to clarify that that shouldn’t be taken literally. In my serial, Galactic Revolutions, I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to deliberately avoid describing many prominent characters for exactly this reason. Like myself, you don’t have much to go on, a name, some possible hints to size and such, but for the most part the person reading gets to fill it in. Is Dr. Lacrosse black or white? Bald? Chubby? What’s the racial background of the incompetent Emperor? Decide for yourself.

It was in Penny Arcade where the artist Gabe, during his proposal to his girlfriend, wrote: “As an artist I have been convinced of the inadequacies of the written language when it comes to the descriptions of feelings or emotions.” Perhaps. As a writer, I’ve felt that brush and paint are inadequate tools for showing the way the world should be. The world of Galactic Revolutions is a flawed one, but what I consider ideal about it is that you can see and judge the people of the world based solely upon the words they say, the things they do, the thoughts the think, the dreams they aspire to. There’s nothing else you’re given.

There are some things that only words can do.

Posted by Chuck at 07:05 PM | Comments (0)

June 03, 2005

The Star Wars Paradox

I was four years old at the time, younger then than my own children are now. I can’t remember the specifics, just the flashes and montages that make up such early memories when viewed from the distant country of adulthood. But I can remember being excited, and frightened, and laughing, and cowering. I remember that everything was real as far as I was concerned, and that this truly was the story of the struggle between good and evil as it occurred long, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away. My parents, God bless ‘em, bought me some of the merchandise. I remember I had a Darth Vader folder; I would sometimes wonder, as I looked at the picture and the glowing pink lightsaber whether if you hit the blue button instead of the red one on his chest if he’d switch from evil to good. It turned out to be slightly more involved than that. My parents bought me some of the action figures; they were three dollars a piece, back when candy bars were a quarter. My father had injured his back on the job and been laid off, yet still they would sometimes shell out a few dollars to buy me some of those little toys. They also bought me a book of the movie, with photos, including some I didn’t remember from the film. I could be wrong, but I believe the book was the size of a small coffee table. As I said, I was four, but I was already learning to read and worked at trying to read the Star Wars book. It was, of course, too hard even for a determined boy like myself, but I did enjoy the pictures, especially the page where Darth Vader’s funny-looking TIE lay at the bottom of the page away from the rest of the picture, knocked loose just like in the movie.

I got to know the name of the creator of that story: George Lucas. Lucas has managed to simultaneously earn the love and hate of many of his own fans over the years, most of the latter stemming from the special edition revisions and the prequel films. I have never felt a great deal of negative emotion regarding either of those topics. I’m not an apologist; I will not say that Jar Jar Binks was a clever addition to the saga. I will not force myself to say that the beaky Sarlaac is an improvement when it’s obviously so silly. I will not say that Jake Lloyd gave a good performing. But I’m not mad about these things, and I never was. It’s just a movie.

Just a movie? What would that four year old boy say if he heard me dismiss the film in such a manner?

The answer is that he’d say what I’m saying, because that boy is me, just with 700% more life experience than he had. And in that time, I’ve discovered that what Star Wars did wasn’t just open a door to a wonderful universe for two hours, but rather a door to an entire genre that existed in film and television and those books that I was struggling so hard to understand. Lucas introduced me to science fiction, and I’ve stuck with it throughout those years. And over time, science fiction opened an interest into science fact. I’ve grown up, and Lucas helped influence how I grew, even though he’s never heard of me. So if that’s the case, why is it “just a movie?” Because having had that life experience to enjoy science fiction in its various forms, I can recognize it for what it is. It will always have a special place for me, naturally, but I’m not going to pretend that it’s something it isn’t.

I’m not speaking to others about how they should feel; it’s not my place. Nor would I think to criticize those whose love for the original films has led to outrage at the perceived intrusion of this new material into the original, although some take this to ridiculous conclusions (I’m not referring to those who just want their films as they originally were; I’m talking about those that wish Lucas were dead so that someone else could do things right).

George Lucas had a profound impact on my life. I can’t find it in myself to be angry with him over something as trivial as a film. What I have now is larger and more personal than any story anyone could ever tell. So whatever he does with it now, for good or ill, he gave me what I needed when I needed it, and that is a gift too great to quibble over who the hell fired first anyway. But George, if you’re reading this, I do have one last question: was I right about the blue button?

Posted by Chuck at 06:04 PM | Comments (0)

May 27, 2005

TV, and the Jerks Who Make and Hate It

I would like to propose Chuck’s Theorem on the Measure of Society: In any society, the amount of basic human needs being provided, degree of safety, freedom, and overall happiness are directly related to the number of people who bitch about everything else.

I’m convinced there is now, in fact, a movement for everything. There is nothing so trivial that someone won’t revolve their life around it, and in fact go so far as to make demands about how it affects the lives of others. In fact, the more unimportant something is, the louder people seem to want to shout.

Let’s start with the recent anti-TV group. The who what? you may be wondering. Yes, there’s a movement opposed to the proliferation of television in our society. There is, as often is found, some merit in their position. I personally watch very little actual television these days, spending most of my times in front of the television with either DVD’s and video games. What television I personally watch usually can be taken from the four basic TV food groups.

Adult Animation is my first category, although that doesn’t mean some of the really high quality anime coming in involving tentacles and Sailor Moon-looking girls. I’m talking about the late Futurama, the dying SeaLab 2021, the zombified Family Guy, and the Methuselah-like Simpsons, what could broadly be thought of as “the only things that are actually funny on TV.” I’ll also lump Most Extreme Elimination Challenge into this because, even though it doesn’t use animation, it’s still dubbed like animation, and it is hysterically funny.

Next up would be education, although I define this rather broadly. Mythbusters teaches you all kinds of important facts, like exactly how much insect spray it takes to launch a man out of cannon. Historical programs and stuff on astronomy is always good, like Nova used to do in the 80’s back before it was all about environmental disasters and such. Not that I approve of environmental disasters, of course, but there’s got to be more to science than irradiated tubeworms... unless we’re talking giant mutant tubeworms attacking Tokyo, which is always educational and fun. Lately I’ve also taken to home improvement stuff on Home & Garden channel because I just bought a house and I’m looking for ways to spend money on breaking it. Nature documentaries I definitely avoid, except for spiders and sometimes sharks, which have become very popular to some people.

Corollary: A society’s prosperity can be measured by the degree to which its members are willing to go to protect animals that will kill and eat them without a second thought.

Detective shows, although this I have to kind of clarify. Law & Order is good, but the twelve or so spin-off programs just don’t seem to be as good. I just can’t get into CSI; I know I’m sorry, but it’s just me. Law & Order shows a police station that’s dirty and old and generally used, whereas CSI just shows me a lab you could eat off of. Monk is another good detective program, thanks a great deal to its solid cast of actors. And crazy people. You can’t get enough crazy people on TV.

The fourth category is crap, which contains all the stuff I’m willing to watch because I’m waiting for my wife to remember which foot her left shoe goes on. This includes things like World’s Wildest Police Videos, which are great mostly because of the overexcited announcer trying to bring variety to the mundane. Also fitting in here is Judge Judy, a court show about an older woman who like to yell at people. Mostly I’ll sit through it if one of the litigants is wearing a very tight sweater.

Now, admittedly, this has run quite long, but take note of what isn’t there. No sitcoms. No reality shows. No American Idol. No news magazines. The problem for me is that most of this stuff just isn’t really worth watching, and so I don’t. In fact, one of the greatest frustrations for me is that good stuff is constantly dying. Remember the Lone Gunmen spin-off? Superb! The live action Tick? Killed without being given a chance. Tremors: The Series, which had the misfortune of taking the time spot of Farscape, earning it ire from sci-fi fans, then doomed by the network because they thought airing the episodes out of order and confusing the hell out of the audience would somehow increase ratings (freaky coincidence: two out of these three guest-starred Armin Shimmerman, Quark from DS9). That’s gone... f**king Scare Tactics is still alive and well. Joey is still on the air. Fear Factor is still running. I’d rather pop in a movie or find some other entertainment if that’s what I’m in the mood for than watch some idiot eat a pile of walking sticks for money. So, I’m not opposed to the general principle of the anti-TV movement.

But of course, what’s a movement if you don’t have a bunch of self-righteous assholes who want to control other people’s lives?

Corollary #2: The more mundane the movement, the more ridiculous the antics of the participants.

A new device has been created to turn other people’s TV’s off. It’s called (get ready for some seriously creative naming here) TV-B-Gone. What it does is shuts off all televisions within a 45 foot radius; just the perfect thing for that asshole who’s constantly on the go. They’re planning to unleash it on TV’s in public places to help people wake up and realize there’s a whole world out there, and it’s high time you get out there and... spend it turning other people’s TV’s off.

Before some member of this brigade launches into some diatribe about how I’m some tool for the corporate establishment, let me reiterate that I watch little TV. What I listed above is what I will watch if I watch anything, but I don’t watch TV every day. Sometimes I don’t watch TV for weeks (really!). I spend a great deal of my time with my children, and writing, and reading, and relaxing with friends and family over a game or some idle conversation, or talking with my on-line friends, or helping my wife switch her shoes the right way ‘round. The TV is there for when I want it, and only then; I don’t follow its schedule. So I hope those people planning on pulling this will understand where I’m coming from when I say: Please knock this shit off.

If there’s more to life than TV, then there sure as hell is more to life than turning other people’s TV’s off.

Posted by Chuck at 12:04 PM | Comments (0)

May 21, 2005

Argument of the Sith

I'd like to present you with my interpretation of Star Wars Episode III as seen through the eyes of the title Sith characters, whom the film was about. This contains spoilers in much the same sense that a McDonald's hamburger contains beef.

[On board the command ship, Anakin has Dooku at his mercy]
Palpatine: Good work Anakin! Kill him.
Dooku: Ha-wah?
Palpatine: Kill him now.
Anakin: Obi-Wan wouldn’t like it.
Dooku: That’s right, he wouldn’t.
Palpatine: Tell me, when did Count Dooku the wise exchange reason for madness?
Dooku: Huh? I don’t-
Anakin: Less chat, more splat. [cuts Dooku’s head off]
Palpatine: Good! Good work.
Anakin: I shouldn’t have done that, it’s not the Jedi way. *sigh* But that’s all water under the bridge now ain’t it? Anything to drink around here?

[Later, at the performance]
Palpatine: Let me tell you the story of an old Sith who had the power to control the midichlorians in a person and use it to extend their life.
Anakin: I was with you until “story.”
Palpatine: He used the dark side to control the midichlorians and could then-
Anakin: Huh?
Palpatine: -help stop them from dying.
Anakin: I don’t get it.
Palpatine: He can save people from dying by manipulating the midichlorians in their body.
Anakin: Okay, um, it was like, really easy to cheat in the Force Theory class... I could write the answers on the back of my hand and stuff. I also worked more on the practice. So, are you saying people have chlorophyll in them, and the Sith can make it minty to keep them alive?
Palpatine: Maybe I can glue Dooku’s head back on....
Anakin: Just, can you help me out with this one?
Palpatine: He can stop people from dying.
Anakin: Ohhhhhh!!!!
Palpatine: Good, got it?
Anakin: Sure. I’ve heard of guys like that before, they’re called “doctors.”
Palpatine: Just watch the giant silicone breast implant, there’s a good boy.

[Anakin disarms Mace Windu so Palpatine can kill him]
Anakin: What have I done?!!!
Palpatine: You’ve fulfilled your destiny.
Anakin: I mean, I helped you kill Master Windu! Obi-Wan’s gonna be pissed!
Palpatine: Listen to me... the Force is strong in you! You will be a powerful Sith!
Anakin: I can’t become a Sith! Obi-Wan’ll be pissed!
Palpatine: Listen, together we can use our power to end this conflict and prevent civil war.
Anakin: Oh, okay. Maybe that’ll stop Obi-Wan from getting too pissed.
Palpatine: Anakin, every single Jedi, including Obi-Wan, is now an enemy of the Republic.
Anakin: Even Obi-Wan?
Palpatine: Yes, that’s why I mentioned him by name-
Anakin: He’s gonna be pissed...
Palpatine: Because I know getting through to you can be a little hard.

[We can rebuild him... we have the vinyl]
Palpatine: Lord Vader... can you hear me?
Vader: Yes master. Where’s Padme? Is she all right?
Palpatine: It seems that in your anger you killed her.
Vader: What?! No!
Palpatine: Oh yes, as far as you know.
Vader: That can’t be, she was alive!
Palpatine: No she was dead, you gullible deep-fried bastard.
Vader: NOOOOO!!!!!
Palpatine: “Minty chlorophyll.”
Dooku’s Head: Can you build me a new body too, master?
Palpatine: No, if you can’t beat this idiot, you don’t deserve a body.
Vader: NOOOOOO!!!!!

Posted by Chuck at 08:26 PM | Comments (3)

March 28, 2005

Headgames On The Stairs

Picture a stairwell about five feet wide, just the right size for one person to go up and another go down without having to get out of each other's way. There's a landing at each floor and halfway in between each floor. At the floor there are two doors to exit the stairway; if you are on the stairway, the left door is propped open. There's a man with a gun there. No, I'm just kidding about that last part. It's a woman. No, it's not, there's no gun, just what should sound like a rather typical stairwell that most people have encountered dozens, perhaps hundreds of times. So, why is it people seem to have trouble with the simple, ancient process of using the stairs?

Two weeks ago, I've got my hands full and walk through the open door to the stairwell, only to find two men walking up the stairs side-by-side. Now, maybe I'm alone in thinking that the stairs were designed for one side to walk up and one to go down simultaneously; I've not actually taken a course in stair management. So I walk to the top of the stairs so I can go down, but neither one seems inclined to shift out of the way so that someone can pass them. Why is a mystery to me. They're not talking, which would at least make this somewhat understandable; we are accustomed to walking side-by-side with people when we're walking and talking. Maybe they were in love, and this was the only way they felt comfortable expressing it in public.

So, seeing that they weren't going to take the hint, I backed up off the landing to the open doorway, in case they were continuing to go up. Now, up until then I could dismiss this as simply not-thinking, but this next bit truly surprised me. They reach the top of the stairs and stand there, looking at me. Then I realize they want me to move out of the doorway to exit the stairwell. Let me point out again: there is a door right next to me they can walk through. It's not locked, there's nothing that says you can't open it, and what's more, it's on their right, which in America is the side you should be on anyway. Even more surprising is it’s actually closer to them than the door I’m standing in. But rather than walk through this door, they stand there until I, getting a little tired with all the stuff I'm carrying, move myself and my burden out of the doorway so that they can walk through without having to do something so reprehensible as touching a door.

I noted this behavior mentally as something to think about, because it seemed so bizarre. Well, apparently that was a mistake, because it happened once again. Two women this time, talking this time, except they were walking up in a slightly staggered pattern, so that one could probably easily have slipped behind the other if someone were coming, except the one in the lead was on the left rather than the right. In this case, slipping over to the left side quick enough for the pass seemed too risky (again, hands full). So I back up again to the open door... and again, they would rather stand there and wait for me to move out of the way rather than touch the door.

Now, we have here two instances of the same behavior, different genders, different actions, but same exact refusal to open the door. Since there was nothing physically preventing them from opening the door, the reason has to solely exist in the minds of these four people. Was it because of the door? Was a shut door an obstacle in and of itself, something they couldn't think of opening if it was at all possible to avoid? Or was it, in fact, me? Was it a conscious or subconscious desire to demonstrate some kind of dominance over me by forcing me to step aside for them? To call upon my psychology courses from college, was it a psychological blindspot preventing them from considering the door, or was this, to quote Freud, "people acting like a couple of asshats?"

As I contemplated this on my trip down the stairs, I encounter a second group, two women walking side-by-side in conversation. This time there was nowhere for me to go, so I stopped. They stopped. It was a standoff. I could see them trying to wrap their minds around this serious dilemma; clearly they couldn't ask me to travel up to the previous landing and stand out of their way so that they might continue unimpeded. And yet, to stand aside for this guy... I mean, he's nobody! He's got to be nobody, or he wouldn't be walking alone on the stairwell! You stand aside for a nobody, it's a sign of weakness, and others will pounce. By lunchtime people will be stealing the furniture out of your cubicle. Your male co-workers will call you "doll" and maybe grab at your ass while the female ones will shun you for knuckling under. The tension was high, either choice spelled disaster, yet the situation must be faced. Throw in a time-traveling space Nazi and it could have been an episode of Enterprise.

Eventually, the woman in front of me stepped back and behind her colleague, the conversation terminated in mid-sentence. I got the same vibe you get off Cobra Commander as he promises he'll be back with a new and better plan, even though you've won this day. They continued up the stairs in total silence, as if on their way to a funeral. It wasn't my concern, I have real things to worry about, rather than the headgames of other people on the stairs.

I should really think of just taking the elevator.

Posted by Chuck at 06:55 PM | Comments (1)

March 21, 2005

Dawn of the Cheeseheads

At last comes the anniversary of the release of the remake of the classic horror flick (...carry the one...), Dawn of the Dead. The re-make, set in my home state of Wisconsin, is an update on the orignal with a few variations. The story is of the recently dead returning to life and attacking the living in an attempt to consume their flesh. Of course, a little suspension of disbelief is involved. It has a black police officer in Wisconsin.

Kidding!

It's wonderful, of course, that Hollywood chose to set a movie like this in Wisconsin, and to not paint the residents as yokels; there's a Hollywood law that requires that if a film isn't set in a few certain American locations, the locals must be inbred hicks who speak with Southern accents... even if it's in Washington). However, the film runs into some trouble because, in their efforts to avoid the stereotyping, they seem to have disregarded the setting entirely. Let me offer a parallel with a typical film form of recreation: surfing. It's easy to dismiss this bit of fun, when you're from an area where it's impossible to surf, as the domain of blond-haired doofuses, so films often show businessmen, engineers, etc, participating to show that this stereotype isn't the case. Fine, I'll believe it. So why is it, then, that films can't show other things in such a light? Why is it only rednecks who hunt and fish for the most part, when in reality people of varying incomes and educations do it in real life? I only bring it up because of some of the deficiencies of plot that come up. You see, odds are if you pick a male Wisconsinite at random, they would have at least one of the following: gun (for hunting), boat (for fishing), SUV/Pick-up (for hauling and off-roading), or ATV, dirtbike, or snowmobile (for off-roading too). Odds are you may have several of them, and this is the key part, even if you live in a major city. For certain key weekends, the roads are jammed with people of all backgrounds, including differences of race, gender, income, etc, heading to the best places for hunting, fishing, boating, etc. It's a cultural part of the state in the same way that standing on a piece of fiberglass in the ocean is a cultural part of California.

Now, I bring this up because it speaks a bit to some of the plot points of the film. For one thing, not one person in the film has a rifle/shotgun for hunting. Poppycock. That many people, there should be, at absolute minimum, three. But the major issue is the rich jerk and his yacht that's the key to the escape. Folks, even my brother has his own boat, and this guy has to write out a check to pay for a pack of cigarettes. Granted, it's no yacht, but why does it have to be? You're not talking about the ocean here, you're talking a lake, and even if you don't own a boat, there are boats all over the place with "for sale" signs up that, can be used (and I'm not talking about row boats, just so you understand). Saying you own a boat in Wisconsin is like saying you own skis if you live in Colorado, or an umbrella if you live in Seattle, or a politician if you live in New York.

But where the issue of local color really comes into play is in the special features section. There's an interesting fake news account of the descent into madness as the situation worsens and worsens. It has a cameo appearance by Earl from the Joe Schmo Show declaring martial law, which was hysterical to me. The news man really delivers a, shall we say, um, bad, yes, bad is the word I'm looking for, performance. He starts out by announcing that what had originally been reported as a race riot in Madison was actually an error. No kidding. If you told someone here that there's either a race riot in Madison or the bodies of the recently dead are returning to life and feasting on the living, they'd ask how recently you were talking. After that they'd ask you if you were allowed to hunt the recently dead for sport, and if you needed a license. Unfortunately, that would create a severe dilemma, because there's a firm belief in eating your kill, and that could get seriously ugly since Jeffrey Dahmer's no longer around to help us Wisconsinites out on this one. But getting back, a race riot in Madison? Anything after that is mundane, including man-eating zombies. That, in fact, should have been how it was handled. "What was originally considered a race riot has actually been revealed to merely be an outbreak of living dead. Residents are advised to collect beer and tags from the corner bait shop."

I will say, all joking aside, that while Wisconisin isn't the melting pot of the world, there's a large number of what is called in the media "minority races." Largely we don't think about it much here because, first off, you're so bundled up in the arctic winds blowing out of Canada you couldn't tell if someone next to you was a Wookiee, nevermind a different race. Second, you are far more likely to suffer from prejudice over your football team than over anything so mundane as where you or your ancestors came from. You can come from any nation on Earth, visibly sporting types of diseases scientists haven't gotten around to naming, that's okay so long as you like the green and gold. But if you come from Minnesota in your f**king Vikings jersey with it's f**king purple and white colors, why the hell don't you and your kind just go back where you came from! We don't need your type around here, trying to take our jobs so you can get money to buy more of your purple and white f**king Vikings shit. It's against the natural order....

Anyway, the fake news report also included a short speech by the president which cracked me up, because it included the famous Roosevelt quote: "The only thing we have to fear is fear itself." So, we don't have to fear being eaten in our beds by mindless zombies? Whew, what a load off that is!

Still, as far as zombie movies go, this satisfied me, and despite some of the bits that got a chuckle, the special features were quite good as well. So, if you want to see a mob of crazed people in cheesehats attacking, but don't much care for football, check out Dawn of the Dead.

Posted by Chuck at 10:01 PM | Comments (0)

March 15, 2005

Non-Blogging Assholes

So I’m sitting around, casually sorting through the collection of emails I have, which I enjoy dividing into boobs, all anal, really all anal, just a little anal, virus protection, spyware protection, fraud protection, anal protection, and stuff from Nigeria before I toss it all unread into the waste bin, when I notice a letter from Phil. I pause, then I take a moment to assess the possibilities for what the letter contained. Finally, one hand held protectively over my anus, I open the mail. With relief I see it’s just a friendly letter that’s not asking me for money or, for that matter, showing me a money shot.

That’s really all I ask of my email, you know? To not have to see someone’s ass.

Phil asks me to write for his website, which I immediately consider because, having known him for several years on ASVS, I know he a) follows through on stuff, and b) is one of the small number of people I’ve met on the net that’s actually funny. But one thing struck me in his letter that solidified the deal, and I hope he doesn’t mind me including it, because I am.

“I’m not looking for it to become a blog.”

Sold!

So why, you may ask, was that so damn important? Do I have something against blogging? Am I an anti-blogger? A blogger-flogger, if you will? Certainly not! But it’s something I want nothing to do with. To follow the point from earlier: I’m not opposed to anal sex; I’m just opposed to it going on with me being involved in some way, whether as casual observer or participant. I have certain views when it comes to my anus and to the anus, anuses, or ani (depending on your preferred spelling of the plural) of other people, which is that I hope not to view them, or involve the intimate interaction of them. Other people and their anuses are free to go about their own business, however, with my blessings, provided their business isn’t doing their business in my yard.

Likewise, I have no interest in blogging.

Why not? you may be asking, to which I can only respond: this is a computer screen, it can’t talk back. However, anticipating your question, I’ll answer it by saying that a blog strikes me as being a creative black hole, sucking the witticism out of you by demanding that you be interesting every single day. I’m not that interesting of a person, or not in that quantity, or even in the appropriate medium. I can have a good chuckle at the idea of redubbing all the clone troopers, Jango, and Boba Fett with the voice of Ray Romana (“No, Debra, I don’t want to go out to Vader’s ship. Caaaause... he always makes me stand next to the guys with the freaky heads, and I hate that. And then I have go out in the garbage and the ship gets all dirty...”) but what use is that in a blog?

What’s more, a lot of people use a blog as kind a storage place for their thoughts and feelings about things. The thing of it is, most people’s thought are about as interesting as the currency activity of the Albanian lek. That’s why I want people to understand my feelings about blogs, because it’s very easy to be offended when someone is mocking it, because they’re mocking the sum total of your life, of your existence, of what you feel is important. How can you not take that personally? But I would be a complete hypocrite if I flip around the internet and say to myself “This guy could be hired out to masochists who’ve become bored with whips,” only to start a blog myself and tell you about my feelings on Margery and how she’s a total bitch because she like so totally kissed the bosses ass today I like just couldn’t stand it I wanted to scream.

So I’m not going to.

Besides, I just read an article about all kinds of people getting fired from their jobs because of their blogging, usually because they comment on their work. I don’t know the details, nor do I care, frankly. Maybe they were being dicks, maybe their bosses were being dicks, all I know is, I want to be very wary of dicks, especially given my concern about my anus and all.

So, what is this, if not a blog? Well, as I see it, there are four reasons people come on the internet. One is to shop, two is to discuss things with people, three is to find information, and lastly is to be entertained. This last point is what this column will be about. It’s not a promise that it will always be entertaining, but it will always try. Maybe it will be about my thought, but only if I think they might be entertaining. Maybe it will be about my experiences, but only if I think they’re entertaining. If I go to the dentist and get a root canal, I won’t tell you I did and then say it hurt, because you don’t need me to say the obvious and call it entertainment, but I’m sure you’d like me to say the obvious in an entertaining way. To me, that’s the key point missing from many blogs.

What do I think is entertainment then? Well, in the weeks ahead I’ll talk to you about the psyche of people on staircases, the first major zombie movie set here in Wisconsin, and earthquake weaponry. It may also involve George Bush wearing a funny hat. In other words, a very broad scope of things. But it will not contain blogs and it will not contain anuses.

Just me. A non-blogging asshole.

Posted by Chuck at 11:51 PM | Comments (1)