Danielmedley.com

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

I’ve Been Dabbling

With Sophocles 2007 beta. I’ve used the 2005-2006 beta for a couple of years and have been very happy with it. I’m not exactly sure what the differences are with the 2007 version because I didn’t use the previous versions very much.

Lately I’ve been spending a lot of time working on a script with the 2007 beta and I must say that it’s been great. Of course, I can’t compare it to programs like Final Draft because I don’t feel like forking over 230 bones. The one obvious drawback I do see for Sophocles is the fact that it is PC only, so Mac users are SOL.

I’m about halfway through a first draft and I’ve found the scene, sequence, and step features to by way useful. At first I was thinking that a feature in which you could generate and manipulate scene cards would be handy, but now that I’ve gotten used to using the sequence and step features, I’ve found that I don’t need a scene card feature. That said, I still use the old fashioned real scene cards. I like to sit in bed before falling asleep and experiment; mixing and matching them. When I come across something especially nifty, I simply transfer the idea to Sophocles’s sequence, scene, and step feature.

Anyway, from my admittedly limited experience, I recommend you go download the beta and have a go. 

Come West!

Well, I suppose I should touch base here. After all, I do pay to host this site, right?

The visit with the stepbrother and his family was quite enjoyable. They are planning to move out West and we managed to do a passable job of pointing out the plus side of living in Salt Lake City. Yes, there are plus sides: largest city in the Intermountain West, lowest unemployment rate in the nation, booming economy, one of the healthiest cities in the nation, an education system that although ranks among the lowest in per pupal spending, regularly ranks among the top five in SAT-ACT scores, low crime rate, mountains, desert, and everything in between with the exception of the ocean, family near by--both blood and step--clean, and still reasonable home prices compared to other places they are considering. Hell, you can buy a house here in the Salt Lake valley for $250,000 that would easily put you back at least a cool million in Kalifornia California or the West Coastal region of Oregon. For us it would be a wonderful thing because it’s always pleasant to have people you like close by.

Anyway, we’ll see what happens.

I can see that the one aspect that would take getting used to for someone who has spent most of their life in the North East--Boston--area would be the general culture difference of the Intermountain West. It’s difficult to describe, but there is a difference.

Saturday, April 14, 2007

Beating The Snow Storm Out Of Boston

Tonight, my stepbrother and his Bulgarian babe wife will be coming in from Boston. He’s informed us that they are leaving Boston just before a snowstorm from hell is due to arrive. Although we are certainly having very April-like weather here in the City of Salt—varying from spring to winter in the span of just a few hours—I’m thinking we’ll get lucky with the weather. There is no snow in the immediate forecast.

My stepsister is due in tomorrow. Hopefully we’ll get in at least one evening of good food, drink, and conversation.

My son, the little bilingual bundle of joy, is particularly looking forward to this visit because he will finally be able to meet his cousin, Jean Michael, from Bulgaria. His not related in the blood sense, but I don’t know what else to call him. Step cousin? There is a couple of years difference in their ages, but I’m thinking it’ll still be a bunch of fun.

Anyway, we’ve pulled out the extra beds, blankets, pillows, food, drink, etc and I think we’re ready.

Thursday, March 29, 2007

Looking Forward And Working On It

This morning I read about some big box electronics retailer deciding to fire 3400 of their employees in order to hire cheaper work. It used to be that when people did something abhorrently disgusting on a moral level they would at least try to do it in an underhanded, secretive manner. Not any more. Now, they practically brag about it. “They’re not a charity!” on pundit brayed. I’m certainly no bleeding heart nor am I a socialist, but the concept that big business does not have at least some social responsibility espouses capitalism without conscience which is every bit as destructive as the collectivization villainy in an Ayn Rand novel. When one thinks of the beefy year-end bonus that the CEO of said electronics store will probably receive as a result one cannot help but hope there is a special place in hell waiting for them. If indeed there is a hell, which I’m not so sure of.

Granted, my thinking may be a bit cloudy this morning. After all, I’m working on minimal sleep and winter seems to have returned after a couple of weeks of just enough spring-like weather to force me into a borderline suicidal slump with every falling snowflake. OK, so I’m overstating it. The “suicidal slump” is actually no more than mild irritation, but bitching about shit you can’t change is a particular pleasure of mine when sleep deprived. 

Now I’ve just remembered that my wife and I, along with our little bundle of bilingual joy, will be going on a trip with some friends this summer. We will be spending several days driving along the California coast and visiting that state’s fabled wine country. Suddenly winter’s last gasp doesn’t seem to be the minor irritant that it was just moments ago. Which reminds me, we have discussed creating a travel blog/log of the whole trip and that is something that neither I nor Justin (the taller half of the couple with whom we will be traveling) have done before. I’m thinking it wise to begin educating myself to the ways of travel logs. Car: check. Digital camera: check. Laptop: check. GPS receiver filled with POI’s of wineries: check. Wherewithal: check. Ability: working on it.

Wednesday, March 28, 2007

I’m Trying

I waited at the bus stop in New Meadows for only about 20 minutes before Rob pulled up in his Camaro to pick me up. The sun was low and casting shadows across the mountains in a way that seems to be synonymous for late August in Central Idaho. I threw my duffle bag in the trunk and got in on the passenger side. Rob pointed to a cooler sitting in the back seat saying that he’d picked up a half-rack and some ice. After a twelve hour bus ride from Salt Lake I was more than ready for a cold beer.

The previous June Rob and I had become official graduates of Council High school. The afternoon that we attended our last day of school Rob, Dave, Dennis and I spent the afternoon at Dave’s house in his room listening to Pink Floyd’s The Wall, drinking beer, and contemplating just what the hell we were going to do for the rest of our lives. Regretfully for many young souls freshly out of high school in that part of the country the notion of continuing one’s education at the university level can be a remote concept at best. Rob had spent his life on the family ranch owned by one branch of a somewhat locally storied family and his future seemed to be pretty much mapped out. After having for all intents and purposes ran the ranch since he was big enough to climb onto a horse or tractor he was pretty much planning to stay put, and happily so. Oh, like the rest of us, he still had notions of sowing a few wild oats before he settled in for good, but other than that he had a fairly cogent idea of the direction he was headed.

Dave on the other hand was treading in somewhat more precarious waters. His father was a medical doctor who had, if memory serves me correctly, practiced in Council for some time. Being the goal driven man that he was he had decided to move to Boise for bigger and better things. Consequently he and his wife, David’s mother, divorced. David’s three older brothers were achievers much in the same vein as his father and as such in many ways followed their father’s foot steps into the professional life. David on the other hand had aspirations of making his own way on his own terms contrary to his family name or his father’s notions of what he ought to do. David was the self anointed black sheep of the family, a role that at this time in our lives he seemed to relish.
Dennis had excelled in many ways throughout high school; athletically and in academics, but this was the result of not so much any kind of driven ambition but rather the character he possessed. His father worked in the saw mill and life in Council was something, as far as I can tell, that Dennis had no intentions of ever changing. I don’t know if he ever even contemplated a life beyond that mountain town.

I on the other hand had absolutely no intentions of spending my life in Council. I’d spent the last couple of years of school thinking about the day I would leave. At first I considered pursuing a career in something like journalism, and I actually went through many of the motions to enroll in Boise State University. But I didn’t. Something that in many ways I do regret, but in other ways I realize that I was not nearly focused nor disciplined enough for such an endeavor. Also since the time of my earliest memories I had always loved music. I wanted to play in a band. I remember at the age of 10 or 11 while still living in Riggins starting a band with some other kids. None of us knew how to play any instrument except my fundamental skills at percussion. It didn’t matter. As I got older, after my parents divorced and I ended up back in Council, I put in a lot of effort in the school band program and did well. I loved playing drums and it was at about the age of 14 that I began to eat, sleep, drink and live the drums and playing in a band. A few years later I was invited to play in a local country sometimes country/rock band that taught me well in a lot of ways. It wasn’t too long until I decided I wanted to step away and out, and try to pursue that dream, but that’s a whole other story.

Be that as it may, as the four of us sat in David’s room listening to Pink Floyd and drinking beer I had a somewhat tepid approach to life. I was torn between what I felt I ought to do and what I really wanted to do, and as per one of my great character flaws at that time in my life, when torn between two decisions I opted to do basically nothing. Well, perhaps that’s not entirely accurate. I did opt to do something in that I took up an offer from my mother and step father living in Salt Lake City to come and stay with them over the summer to “see what I might want to do.” Not too long after the Pink Floyd incident I was on my way to Salt Lake City.

The bus bound for Salt Lake City stopped in Boise, and it was there that I met Darlene. Darlene was 32, blonde and pretty. Luck was with me in that it was the unoccupied half of my seat that she decided to sit in. She was on her way back to Phoenix after visiting relatives in Boise. By the time the bus got to Twin Falls I learned that she was from Oklahoma and after getting a degree at some university or another she had married. She and her husband had moved to Phoenix where they started a floral shop. She had, or rather her husband had, dreams of starting up a chain of floral shops that would span from one coast to another.

She was attentive to my side of the conversation and often referred to me as a “sweet boy.” It wasn’t too long before the dynamics began to change, to subtly cross over into some kind of foreign territory; foreign for me anyway. The more we talked the more she would occasionally reach over and touch my arm or put her hand on my leg. Every time she made contact I had a tickling somewhere between my sternum and my toes. By the time we arrived in Salt Lake City it was well past 11:00 pm and I told Darlene that I was supposed to give my mom a call when I got in, but she insisted that we get something to eat at a hotel across the street from the bus station. She had booked a room for a couple of days in which she planned to wander around the city before continuing to Phoenix. Fine I thought, and soon we were chewing on a couple of burgers.

I don’t know what it is with me, but in many ways I’ve always been exasperatingly naive in the ways of women. I’m not threatened or intimidated mind you, it’s just that often times I fail to notice signals, or perhaps more accurately I ignore them, sometimes at my own peril. Shortly after finishing the burgers Darlene asked if I wanted to come up to the room for a bit. She said it innocently enough, but it seemed to be a signal that even I could understand. The changing of dynamics was not so subtle anymore.

We picked up our bags and headed for the elevator. The whole time my head was swimming. Perhaps I’m overly analytical, but there were about a dozen things I kept weighing in my mind about this whole burgeoning situation. She’s beautiful, but she’s married and everything about this seems somehow disposable. When we got to her room everything remained conversational, and I was almost praying that somehow, someway this situation could turn in such a direction as to alleviate any hard decision making on my part. It’s not the difficult decisions that are the problem. It’s the lingering doubts that almost always follow.

After a few minutes I looked at my watch and noticed it was well after midnight and knew that my mom would most likely start worrying pretty soon. Darlene sat in a chair quietly looking at me for a moment. I walked over to the door and mumbled something about having to make a phone call, and Darlene plunged in with, “Why don’t you stay here with me tonight?”

There it was, all laid out and in the open. It was time for a decision and I had already made it. I told her that I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea. I know it sounds patently absurd in light of me being an 18 year old healthy male, but I did have reasons for my tepid response; a girlfriend back home, Darlene being married, etc. But the largest factor was that hooking up with some babe from nowhere for a spur of the moment tryst was so far from my mind at that point in my life that I was, frankly, unprepared for anything like it.

She looked rather pensive for a moment, and a wan smile touched her face. “You’re probably right,” she said. She lowered her face to her hand and I heard some quiet sniffles.

I felt pretty shitty and walked up to her. I stumbled for words telling her that I was sorry, but as soon as the words came out I immediately knew how offensively condescending I must have sounded. She asked me if it was because she was married. “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe.”

She bailed me out by regaining her composure. “You’re right,” she said. “I don’t know what I was thinking, putting you in this position.” She stood up and gave me a tight hug with her lips pressed against my ear. I suddenly felt more sad than confused. We remained that way for a minute or two before she whispered, “You probably better leave.”

Back at the bus station I called up mom to let her know I’d arrived. She mentioned that it was pretty late and asked me how my trip was. I told her it was uneventful.

After almost three months in Salt Lake City I squandered any opportunity I may have had at seeing what I wanted to do. Instead, I let myself fall into a morass of self loathing and confusion tempered by a bit of homesickness and missing a way of life that I was utterly comfortable with. At that time for me life was a series of all or nothing situations. If I were to leave home to pursue any kind of dream or life, it meant that I was saying goodbye forever to any former life and cutting all ties. There was no notion of being able to visit, to keep in touch. To do so, in my warped way of thinking, would be approaching it half-assed. When I look back on it now I realize how horrendously flawed my thinking was. It’s life in do-or-die mode without hedging your emotional bets. Realizing that one can live a life, pursue a goal and still not abandon all that makes who we are was one of the single most important moments in my life. When it’s all or nothing, nothing can get pretty lonely.

On highway 95 between Tamarack and Council I drank a beer and looked out at the country side. The pines flew by, and I marveled at how I could be so fervently in love with these mountains and Central Idaho yet feel such a strong desire to leave. Rob filled me in on some of the details that I missed while away. He told me of an adventure that he and Dennis had in New Meadows when, in a bout of drunken idiocy, they managed to get into a street-brawl with three equally drunken idiots. Apparently the fight started at the doors of a bar and ended in an alley. He and Dennis had gotten the better of them, but it took Rob a couple of weeks to fully recover. That was one adventure that I was glad that I missed out on.

We got into Council just before sunset and we stopped by Dad’s to drop off my duffle bag. Neither Dad nor my step-mother was home, so I just left the bag on the couch, and Rob and I headed out on the town. We come across Dave driving his little blue Ford Courier pick-up truck and he suggested we combine our beer and “go tear it the fuck up.” Soon all three of us were packed in the Courier, swilling beer and headed North out 95 towards the Y.

We blew past the Y and drove on to Fruitvale where we turned around, made a “pit stop” (our lingo for taking a piss), grabbed another beer, and headed back to town. Somewhere by the Mill Creek Road turn-off Dave stunned us by announcing that he’d joined the Army and was due for entry in a couple of months. When Rob asked him why the hell he’d done that, Dave simply replied with, “Because I wanted to,” and that was that. Some ten years later while sitting on a beach in Hawaii watching the sun come up with a model from Mexico City named Norma, who was on her way to Japan after a photo-shoot, I pondered what made the two of us stay up all night talking about our separate lives in such detail. After all we had only met a few hours before. She said she couldn’t speak for me, but she did it because she wanted to. When she asked me why I was smiling I told her that I had just experienced a bit of déjà vu. And that was that.

Just before we drove into town Dave made an abrupt turn into the fair grounds compound and headed directly for the rodeo arena. As luck would have it the gate into the arena was open and with even more luck to the point of absurdity we noticed that someone had been practicing barrel-racing and consequently left the barrels in place. It wasn’t too much longer before we realized that you haven’t lived until you’ve barrel-raced in a Ford Courier.

By the time we finished running the barrels it was nearly dark, and we drove into town to see what was going on. We came across some people sitting in their cars in the parking lot of the Council Valley Market where we were informed of a keg out on Ridge Road. It seemed a bit early to do the keg thing, so we decided to take the scenic route via Pole Creek.

After a couple of hours and several pit stops later we were pulling off Hornet Creek Road and onto Ridge Road. I’m guessing it was sometime around 11:00 pm by now. While I had been in Salt Lake City Dave had spent a couple of hundred bucks on a spiffy new stereo for the Courier and most of the night thus far had been spent listening to Queen so loud that in order to talk we had to shout to the point that my voice was getting horse. We managed to hit a cattle guard on a side-ways slide and put the little Courier up on two wheels for a precarious moment before it slammed back down on all fours. Dave pulled over and we stumbled out laughing and falling into the gravel road. Dave had made the mistake of turning the Courier off. I say mistake because apparently it had a questionable fuel pump and sometimes it wouldn’t start back up unless Dave crawled under the tank and jiggled something around. Sometimes it would start right up, but other times he would have to resort to giving it a little kick. Sometimes, if the Courier didn’t start right back up Dave would get out and kick it some more. Right now it was being overly temperamental and Dave was kicking the shit out of the side of his truck spewing out obscenities that would have made Satan cove his ears. He gave it one last brutal kick with a perfectly timed, “Fuck!” and promptly fell on his ass. By now Rob and I were about to pass out from oxygen depravation due to our inability to stop laughing. Finally, thankfully, the Courier started up and we all climbed in with a fresh beer, and continued the journey to the keg.

By the time we arrived at the keg there were only two forlorn looking people sitting by the fire. We were somewhat stunned at this because normally you could expect twenty or thirty people. I asked where everyone was and was told that Butch G. had taken off in a drunken rage towards town headed the Fruitvale way and he had run off the road. Everyone had left the party to go check out the excitement of Butch G. and his car wreck. Rob asked how long ago it happened.

“Hell, at least an hour ago.”

Since the excitement was apparently back in town, we took a pit stop, grabbed a fresh beer, and continued on down the road following the path that everyone else did.

Dave was driving, Rob sat in the middle and I sat on the passenger side. Throughout the night we had been throwing our empty beer bottles in the back of the Courier. I had just opened another beer, and rolled down the window and had my arm hanging out. August in that part of the country can get pretty chilly at night. Combine that with the fact that Dave was driving fifty plus miles per hour down the gravel road it got cold enough for me to pull my arm back in and roll the window up. Queen’s Another One Bites The Dust was blasting out of Dave’s new stereo. I took a drink of my fresh beer then took another. We rounded a corner with the Courier doing a little bit of a side ways slide and then . . .

Holy shit and everything turned to slow motion.

On the other side of the corner were perhaps 15 people standing in the road. Ruben’s wrecker was parked sideways just beyond the crowd, and beyond the wrecker was a police car. Dave had three choices; take the Courier down off the steep bank to the right, plow through the people, or take it to the left and up the cut-bank and hope for the best. He opted for the cut-bank on the left.

We hit the bank hard and the Courier instantly flipped end ways. At the apex of its upward trajectory it began to roll sideways perpendicular to the road below. Finally after clearing the people and Ruben’s wrecker, we tumbled back down to the road and stopped rolling when the Courier landed on the passenger side and continued sliding down the road. The passenger door window blasted out into my face, and Dave and Rob’s weight were on me. I was watching the gravel road sliding by my face just inches away. I sure as hell didn’t want to get my face, arm, or anything else in a position to get sucked out and mangled between the truck and the road. After an eternity we came to a stop no more than five feet from the front of the police car. I suddenly felt claustrophobic with Dave and Rob lying on me. I instantly formed an absurd visual straight out of a cheesy prime-time detective show where the car bursts into flame.

Get me . . . the fuck . . . out of here.

Luckily the front windshield had blown out offering us a quick exit. Dave was first and Rob was next. He used the side of my face for leverage to lift him self through the window, and then reached in and pulled me out. I stood in amazement noticing that I was still holding on to my beer. Just before the corner I took two drinks from it, and now I noticed that I hadn’t spilled one drop. Not one drop.
I stood looking at the bottle in a hazy stupor until it was suddenly ripped from my hand and tossed over the bank into the darkness. The beer bottles that had accumulated in the back of the Courier had scattered all over the road. Several of the people that were standing there quickly gathered them up and tossed them over the bank. Soon we were surrounded by people who could hardly believe what they had just witnessed. “Jesus Christ!” someone said. “That’s the best show I’ve seen in my life!”

I felt some pain in my ribs and a little blood trickled down the side of my head from the glass. Dave was muttering something about what a complete fucking dumb-ass he was. Rob was asking if anyone had a beer. Dick M. come running up, “Dude! Did you hear that Butch crashed his truck?”

I looked at Dick with mock amazement, “No shit?”

Johnny F., the deputy who belonged to the car whose headlights illuminated the totaled Courier which lay in a crumpled heap came running up. “Jesus!” he said. “You damned kids have a keg, and you think it gives you the right to Goddamn kill yourselves!”

After Ruben pulled Butch’s truck up the bank and onto the road he up-righted the now dead Courier. It was a safe bet to assume that the night was pretty much over. I’m not sure how Rob and Dave got home. I got a ride from Ruben’s daughter who was helping him collect money by accumulating the crashed cars of drunken idiots out driving. She drove me to her house and ministered a little first aid on my head and fed me a cup of coffee. She made the observation that I and my friends were some of the craziest knuckleheads she was likely to ever meet. I couldn’t very well argue with that, so I took a drink of the coffee instead.

When the coffee was finished she drove me to my Dad’s house and I quietly went to bed. The next morning when I woke up, Dad and my stepmother were sitting at the table eating breakfast. Dad said he figured I was home since he noticed my duffle bag sitting on the couch. He then noted that I looked like I had been shit on, rode hard and put away wet.

“We got a little carried away and had a little accident,” I said.

“I know that,” Dad said, “but are you okay?” Word gets around fast in a small town.

“Yeah, I’m okay.”

Dad slid a plate of eggs and bacon to me. “Are you ever going to stop being stupid?”

“I’m trying,” I said.

Friday, March 16, 2007

Plagiarism On A Grand Scale

I remember reading about Joyce Hatto some years ago and receiving a measure of inspiration by the notion that an average, some would’ve even said lackluster, pianist in her seventies would exit this life leaving behind a library of recordings that appeared would go down in history. Joyce Hatto, it appeared, had more than secured her legacy in a grand, almost too good to be true manner.

There was one catch, however. It was too good to be true.

...her career was already in decline when she was diagnosed with cancer in 1972. She retired to a village near Cambridge with her recording-engineer husband, William Barrington-Coupe, and a fine old Steinway that Rachmaninoff himself had used for prewar recitals in Britain.

Then, one of the strangest turns in the history of classical music. Starting in 1989, Joyce Hatto began recording CDs for a small record label run by her husband.

Beginning with Liszt, she went back to cover Bach, all of the Mozart sonatas and continued with a complete Beethoven sonata set. Then on to Schubert and Schumann, Chopin and Liszt. She played Messiaen. She tossed off Prokofiev sonatas (all nine) with incredible virtuosity. In total she recorded over 120 CDs — including many of the most difficult piano pieces ever written, played with breathtaking speed and accuracy.

I suppose suspicion should have been raised by this:

She gave to the music a developed although oddly changeable personality. She could do Schubert in one style, and then present Prokofiev almost as though she was a new person playing a different piano. It seemed an astonishing, chameleon-like artistic ability.

And, finally, there is this:

Jeremy Distler, slid Joyce Hatto’s CD of Liszt’s Transcendental Etudes into his computer. His iTunes library, linked to a catalogue of about four million CDs, immediately identified it as a recording by the Hungarian virtuoso Laszlo Simon.

Since then, further analysis by both professional sound engineers and piano recording enthusiasts across the globe has pushed toward the same conclusion: the entire Joyce Hatto oeuvre recorded from 1989 on appears to be stolen from the CDs of other pianists.

I suppose in hindsight it should hardly come as a surprise that she never played a lick on any of the recordings, at least not on any that have been scrutinized so far. This leads me to ponder a number of things, one of which is, what drives people to carry on with artistic fraud on such a gargantuan scale? That’s not to say that any amount of fraud is acceptable, but this type of fraud on such a scale is almost assuredly going to be found out. The other notion that I pondered is the fact that, by and large, we all want to believe a good story, especially one of such apparent inspiration. I mean really; an elderly pianist diagnosed with cancer and spends the twilight of her life accomplishing the impossible, leaving behind a legacy to last through the ages.

Now that we know of the fraud, I wonder about the motive behind it. One has to wonder just what the hell she was thinking. However, in the end, none of it matters because after all, she was simply a fake, a lecherous fraud of the worst kind who prayed upon the most base of human nature of simply wanting to believe.

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

Late Night Snacking

This morning my father informed me that the neighbor’s dog managed to bull its way into the chicken pen and summarily slaughter every one of poor creatures. I wouldn’t go so far as to refer to the chickens as “my parent’s beloved chickens,” but I would say that the situation borders on tragic. My stepmother lamented the fact that the chickens not only provided tasty eggs, kept the insects down, and caused snakes to give the place a wide birth, but they were also kind of nice to just have around. In fact they’d been around for years.

A few weeks earlier, a couple of the chickens had been mauled to death by the same dog and Dad had visited the owners of the beast to inform them of its criminal behavior. Actually, in all reality, the dog was just doing what dogs do, the human half of the equation being the actual criminal element. The response that Dad received was primarily one of indifference.

I think this conversation with my parents is what has caused me to not be able to sleep. Initially, I went to bed early and settled down with a book. Feeling restless I got up, went down stairs and pilfered the refrigerator looking for something, but not knowing what. I settled for a strawberry yogurt and a handful of cashews. I then went back up to bed and pulled out some of my stories with a plan of doing some editing and notating problem areas. Nothing like reading my own stuff to put me in that slumberous mode. But even that didn’t seem to help, so an hour later I came back down and resorted to food once again. My choices were somewhat limited: left over Chinese food from last night, or breaded baked tilapia. Since I had already worked on the shrimp fried rice earlier this evening, I settled for the tilapia. I briefly thought of preparing some tea, but then pushed that out of my mind.

After the murderous rampage inflicted upon the chickens that left not a single one alive, my dad kept one of the poor deceased birds to use for bait. He put it in the now vacant chicken coop the night before last and lay in wait with shotgun in hand. Keep in mind that the old man is in his seventies and an all-nighter in March in Central Idaho is a cold proposition. Anyway, the killer dog—a large breed mix of some type—paid a visit at around 4:30 am, entered the coop for the dead chicken and made its exit. He didn’t get too far, but I’ll spare you the bloody details. One of the reasons that this is upsetting for me is that I know that Dad hated killing that dog for what is essentially the recalcitrance of the dog’s owners. My dad cared more about that dog than its owners, and he is the one that ended up having to shoot it.

Looking at the empty plate that once held the baked tilapia, I’m wishing for something else to eat that I can’t quite put my thumb on. I think it wise that I settle for a glass of water and go back to bed. Perhaps I’ll give the editing another try.

Friday, March 09, 2007

It Strikes Me

To spend most of a day scouring search engines using your name (both of them) and web site as a search phrase and then coming back to a post dozens of times over the past two days to see if anything more has been commented upon strikes me as a bit obsessive.

Perhaps it’s time to give it a rest and move on?

I’m just saying.

As Banal As Love

Last night Jim Harrison revealed that Salt Lake City’s stop on his book tour was one of three planned and that this would be his last junket to promote a book. He seemed a bit frail to me in some respects and I felt it a privilege to be there watching a man who I consider to be an American national literary treasure. He read some passages from his newest book along with a couple of poems. It was quite a pleasure, really.

At one point he made mention of human geography, the study of the spatial distribution of human activity on the Earth’s surface. Paraphrasing, he said that the reasons of human distribution could range from economics to something as banal as love.

This was amusing to me. Those of you who know me well would understand. 

Stereo Types

Some of the most literate people I’ve ever known where those found in small hamlets and villages throughout the Rocky Mountain West before the advent of satellite TV. I remember as a child, while with my father, visiting a sheep herder in the remote wilds of Central Idaho and being astounded at the number of books that he had stashed away in every available space inside of his little camp wagon. He had books ranging from Louis L’Amour to Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey along with various other works from the likes of Oscar Wilde, Mark Twain, and even Wordsworth. This is not all together uncommon among the old timers of the area.

Because of the solitary, almost monkish existence of many of these people who wrangled cattle, herded sheep, fixed the fences, and rode the range, they had a literary understanding that I believe rivals that of many Ivy League literati types. Literature after all is quite organic. Someone spending an inordinate amount of time alone, embedded in the natural world is going to be in a position to deeply ponder what is read in a unique way. Keep in mind that many of these people had very little in the way of formal education.

My own father is an example of this. Having dropped out of school in the seventh grade during the Depression to work for the family, he is certainly not what you would call educated. He has lived a hard, often solitary, life of ranching and logging. Even so, he is very well read and is capable of carrying on a conversation of remarkable lucidity on a huge variety of subjects. Very much on par with anyone you are likely to meet. Of course it’s not unusual for the stereo type to be at odds with the reality. I’ve seen this many times, most people have.

Some years ago I was on plane making a final approach into Warsaw. People were already out of their seats and jockeying for position which lead to the flight attendants walking down the aisles imploring everyone to sit down and, once again, stash their carryon luggage. I remember an elderly woman with amazingly sparkling eyes sitting next to me, clutching her bag and acting as if she were warming up for a sprint. When the plane finally touched down, the passengers broke out in applause then headed for the exits. All the while, the plane was still speeding down the runway.  At the time the applause was startling to me. My knowledge of Polish was limited to the signs above the restrooms and the word “kava” for coffee. I wondered if perhaps there was something near catastrophic going on of which I was not aware. Think about it; people in a fever-pitch hurry to get off of a plane and then breaking out in applause when it finally landed. In the states—and most of Western Europe for that matter—you will not see people clambering to position themselves. Usually, they will not even unlatch their seatbelts until the plane is at a complete stop, and the exiting process is quite calm. The point I’m making is that the stereo type is that Americans are always in a hurry and verge on rudeness in demonstrating their impatience. Generally speaking, Americans will go out of their way to exercise politeness and, with the exception of waiting to get inside of Wal-Mart to take part in a day-after-Thanksgiving sale, are remarkably unhurried while establishing a line.

Speaking of breaking out into applause when an airplane lands, as far as I know this appears to be a uniquely European thing. The first time that my wife—who is European—flew within the states, she almost broke out in applause on a plane full of Americans when it landed. When my mother-in-law visited last Fall from Europe, my wife informed her that Americans don’t applaud as if begging for an encore when the plan lands. The thought being that my wife could prevent her mother from experiencing any undo embarrassment, the type of which my wife had almost subjected herself to. Her mother was surprised that Americans don’t applaud upon landing. Her reply was, “Ungrateful Americans” to which my reply was a immense amusement and the acknowledgment that she could very well have a point. 

Thursday, March 08, 2007

300

I must admit that although the reviews are mixed, I do have an urge to check out 300. I mean, look at the pic. Any movie still-photo showing a bunch of Spartan warriors standing in front of a mountain of bodies can't be all bad, can it? Also, I'm wondering, did they hit up every Golds Gym in the country for their extras?

The Battle of Thermopylae has always been of interest to me. After all, many historians view the battle as the pivotal moment in Western civilization.

And with a mountain of dead bodies, one wonders how you can go wrong.

And Speaking Of Jim Harrison

I’ve read all of his works with the exception of The Summer He Didn’t Die, and Returning To Earth. Also, I haven’t read any of his poetry, but I’m talking novels and novellas. I think the collections in The Woman Lit By fireflies and Legends Of The Fall are my favorites.

I know that novellas seem to be anathema in the publishing world, but in many ways I prefer them to larger works. With our busy schedules and busy lives, the novella is a bite-sized chunk of literary goodness that one can read in a couple of sittings--lunch hours or bus rides. Jim Harrison is the master of the novella.

I’m just saying. 

Wednesday, March 07, 2007

Jim Harrison In The House

Well, sort of. He will be at a local book store tomorrow to do a reading and signing of his new book. Thanks, Justin, for the tip. Jim Harrison is one of my favorite authors and I’m going to be there for certain to witness the one-eyed madman personally.

James Kosub/Sam Hawken Is A Real Keeper

I almost forgot about 1018 Press but when the owner posted a comment to this post--also, refer to this post--I just have to respond. You will notice that Sam, whose real name is James Kosub, has blocked the link from my site to 1018. Typical. This is the behavior that sparked this whole thing to begin with. See, James doesn’t get along well with criticism, even if it’s delivered in a civil and friendly manner. In fact if anyone links to his sites with ANY criticism, he blocks the link.

Anyway, his comment goes:

Daniel, I’m sorry to hear that you’ve taken a dislike to something on the forum, though I should point out that accusing some of intellectual dishonesty and outsized ego without evidence is pure troll behavior.

Please note that this is a comment to a post over two months old. See, James looked at his stats today and followed the link back to here. Also, note that I’ve made a total of, perhaps, five or six posts to the 1018 forum in the few months that I was active. Hardly trollish behavior. In fact, I’d go so far as to opine that his digging up old news as it were to be rather trollish.

He’s right when he says without evidence simply because he deleted the evidence. No worries though, I’ll tell it like it happened. On the 1018 forum, James Kosub posted a little missive that pointed to some bogus news release stating that the Bush administration was baring National Park Service employees from stating the real age of the Grand Canyon. I thought it rather interesting, but found out that it was false. I pointed this out in a friendly manner and used it as an attempted jumping point to a discussion about how people with an ideological bent--both left and right--can be duped into believing false information from both sides. I also pointed out examples of those on the right doing this. I find it an interesting topic in and of its self. Anyway, James didn’t like it. He took it personally and attacked me on his forum. I thought it rather bizarre behavior, and was quite shocked really. Though judging by the number of e-mails that I received from those pointing out that this is nothing new for James Kosub, I shouldn’t be shocked. 

So, I private messaged James Kosub and apologized for somehow setting him off. There was no reply. His response was then to, on the same post, attack me some more and then close the post so that I could not respond. Now, that’s some intellectual honesty there, James. During this whole time I received several e-mails from people who had experience with James Kosub informing me that this was his typical “control freak” behavior.

Anyway, I was rather shocked at the outright absurdity of it all and posted a couple of posts about it--I link to both of them up top--stopped going to the 1018 Press forums, and forgot about it. That was over two months ago and now James Kosub found the posts and he left the comment and blocked links to 1018 Press from this site.

James, I do accuse you of intellectual dishonesty. I’ll also add intellectual cowardice as well.

James Kosub continued with:

Further, posting such baseless attacks after receiving a rejection isn’t a great way to improve your own reputation.  Editors and publishers in the small-press realm do communicate with one another.

I’m assuming that this veiled threat is in response to my posting on this blog:

He replied with a snide, childish remark fueled by ego rather than common sense, and within three minutes, yes three minutes I got an e-mail rejection for the piece I had sent in.

Coincidence? Perhaps. In fact, I’m going to go on the record with it was coincidence.

Oh, James Kosub, I’m sure editors and publisher in the small press realm do communicate with each other, but I’m sure you’re not part of that circle. Even if you are, I still wouldn’t change a thing. You have your own rep to worry about. Oh yeah.

Friday, March 02, 2007

Sci-Fi And The Post Apocalypse

I like some science fiction, but I’m not what you would call a huge fan. I’m very particular about the science fiction that I read. I’m not particularly fond of the space faring variety, with aliens and colonial empires spread throughout the galaxy, warp drive, and what-not. I can’t explain it, but for the most part I just can’t get into it.

Of the science fiction books that I do find myself being attracted to, they are mostly post apocalyptic/ apocalyptic. Things like Lucifer’s Hammer, The Rift, and the stunning Earth Abides. I suppose the pattern here is stories of survival during great change and upheaval. For me, humanity struggling to survive is the ultimate drama and always makes for a good story. Plus, these types of stories seem quite plausible, perhaps even probable. I’m more able to wrap my head around them because of this; at least much more than I am concerning stories about colonial galactic empires and bars full of aliens. 

Notice that I didn’t include The Stand in my examples of apocalyptic stories. It’s because I didn’t really care for it. I know, all of you Stephen King fans are falling out of your chairs right now. I did enjoy the story up until the mystical, good vs evil aspect was introduced. It was at that point that it faltered for me.

I will admit some hypocrisy here because I do find alien invasion stories of an apocalyptic nature quite entertaining. For example, Footfall I believe is a great story. Keep in mind that the aliens that invade took thousands of years to get here because they didn’t have a warp drive switch to throw and they were still firmly grounded in the laws of physics as they are understood presently. Also, in this story, it all goes back to the human drama.

I’ve noticed that often times, the theme of post apocalyptic stories are about attempting to rebuild civilization. In Earth Abides, that is the protagonists main drive although ultimately he settles for something less. That theme is present in Eternity Road as well with humanity trying to rediscover the secrets of the Ancients (we being the Ancients).  That theme is revisited in the Deathlands series of books as well only with a super dose of testosterone (as far as I can tell from only reading the first book of the series).

One of the best post apocalyptic books to visit the rebuilding civilization theme is The Postman. The book is great, but by all means avoid the film version of it. For what Kevin Costner did to that book, he should have been taken out back behind the woodshed.

One of my very favorite books of the post apocalyptic genre does not contain characters who are trying to rebuild what once was. In Through Darkest America we see an America several hundred years after an unnamed apocalypse that doesn’t give two cents about what was. This is a world transformed and beating its own path, no matter how disturbing and dark that past may be. This book is amazingly epic in scale at only 256 pages. Why some Hollywood type hasn’t made this book into a mini-series for HBO or Show Time is beyond me.