Where to begin

My son is just passed seven and has some interest in Star Wars. Not the movie, but the whole culture, as one might become curious about Catholicism or football.  It seeps into the seven-year-old world without an invite, so now he wants to watch the movies.

But in what order?  That is a tricky question.  Episode 4 A New Hope launched the franchise and, for many, changed the world a little bit.  Episode 1 The Phantom Menace is where the saga starts.  I figured we should begin at the beginning . . . forgetting everything I’ve learned about story telling. 

Stories rarely depend on chronology.  Why something is important - what gives an event or comment or glance meaning - may derive from the past.  It might also come from the future or even spring from things the characters will never know no matter how long they survive.  Great stories frequently start in the middle, with necessary details backfilled or foreshadowed.  Beowulf, Hamlet, Casablanca – we enter in medias res and the stories are better because of it.

I loaded the Phantom disc.  About 45 minutes in, Max started playing Lego.  “This is a little boring,” he said.  And (sigh) he was sadly, sadly right.  Can’t imagine what he’d say about church or the line of scrimmage.

Above the Sixfold

I’m trying out Sixfold, starting today. It’s an online magazine, edited by the contributing writers. We are now each reviewing each other’s short stories and poems, ranking them and deciding what goes into the next issue . . . by committee.

 I know, I know, “committee” is a four-letter word. Of course, there is wisdom in crowds. Every couple of years, American Idol produces a recording star. Unlike corporate committees, there will not be a whole lot of personal exchange. Participants will never actually meet. It’s more like elections in those countries with 12 political parties. Like Israel. No problems, there, right?

 The real problem might not be the committee itself, but the fact that it’s made up of writers. When I read I’m either jealous that the author is better than me or angry that the hack is wasting my time. I can only hope the other gregarious loners, perched before their devices late at night, in coffee shops, basements, the common room at the clinic or a book-lined study with crackling fire, under the gaze of a bronze raven are more mature than myself. I hope they can rise above internal, instinctive competitive drives and, after careful consideration, realize my story kicks ass.

Scavenger Novel

I have found a story – and kind of novel, really – with no title and no author, chopped up and hidden on the Internet.  The first chapter was stashed here on my blog.  The others are Easter Egged into other sites.  The clues as to where seem to be in the text itself.

I’ve decided not to purge the hack from my site.  I’m curious.  If you peek at the first chapter you might see why.  

Pink Guns

I don’t want to blow away the Second Amendment like a cantaloupe from 20 yards.  Really.  Guns are valuable and save lives.  Like fire extinguishers and life rafts and all kinds of other paraphernalia we don’t, as a people, fetishize.  The problem is guns are cool.  Not just what they can do and the power the project, they’re just cool.  A Triumph Bonneville is cool.  A TAG Heuer Carrera is cool.  A Walther PPK .380 is cool.  A DeWalt cordless drill is not particularly cool.  The firearm – a necessary tool – should be more like the drill and less like the motorcycle.  All guns should be hot pink.

Not National Geographic yellow, safety orange or even lime green (too racy).  They should be a grossly bright, over-stated, emasculating pink.  Some of the mystique would dissipate in the glow.  It shouldn’t really matter what color your tool is anyway.  A tool should be purposeful, not a life-style choice, bauble or proof-of-rank. 

Mandating that all guns sold to civilians in the U.S. be, and remain, hot pink wouldn’t erode any right to bear arms.  Yes, hunting might become slightly more difficult.  I don’t know.  The orange vests didn’t seem to give the deer legs up.  Turkey? I’m doubting the camouflage helps that much.  They’re wily. 

I don’t doubt fewer guns would mean fewer gun-related deaths in this country.  There would be fewer guns if they had the panache of bubble gum.

The NFTA

I like this TV spot very much. So here it is. http://youtu.be/wb82UCbRMSg

Sequester the right way

I don’t give two lumps about Congress’s current threats to hurt everyone but themselves.  Like most reality shows, this one has played out, becoming more unwatchable as it becomes more desperate.   What I do care about is the abuse of language.  For the vast majority of people, sequestering is the tucking away of a jury.  There is no other meaning.  To use the word for the general public in any other way is misdirection.  Because this ain’t a magic show in Vegas, that means the misdirection is a con.

Calling sever budget cuts a sequestration both elevates the action – it sounds so official – and obfuscates the impact.  The law should have ben called “Blind Cuts” or the “Mindless Cuts” which would help people better understand the stakes.

As would limiting the use of the word “politics”.  The connotations of the word have become muddied over the years.  It’s become a derogatory term, when in fact, it is necessary, but misunderstood.  If we were to call our elected officials “Compromisers” or better yet “Dealers” maybe everyone would remember what they are supposed to be doing.  They are not supposed to freeze, committed, unwavering on whatever stance they’ve chosen.  We could program iPhones with pat answers and send them to Washington if that’s all it took.

No, as a people we’ve decided to send a group of humans to our capital for the purpose of resolving issues too tough fix themselves.  To decided things.  You know, like a jury.  Sequestered until there is an outcome.

Maybe that’s the answer.  Maybe we should use ‘sequester’ the way most of us understand:  No one leaves that big dome until we’ve got a working government.

A laser upgrade

Laser eye surgery does not give your eyes any kind of energy projection abilities.  I can’t burn holes in books just by staring.  I know because I’ve tried.  This is a great disappointment to me.  I thought a corrective procedure might actually correct that fact that I don’t have any super powers.  I could really use some.  For good, of course.  I would never think of using my powers to swipe a Lichtenstein, even just one, from a Russian oil tsar who couldn’t possibly appreciate it.  Anyway . . .

I had surgery on my eyes last Friday.  Today is the first day I can really stand looking at the computer long enough to write anything.  My eyes were too yucky for a lasik. I had advanced surface ablation.  Instead of cutting a flap and my eyes and lifting them like a hatches, I had the surface of my eyes erased.  They did a chemical peel, which I got to watch because it happened right on my eyes with the lids propped open.  Then they shot lasers into the open pupils, fixed whatever was wrong and told me to stay calm until the surface grows back. 

This is not as painful as it might sound.  Pain is not the correct word.  The experience is like sunburn on your eyeballs.  A tight, sandy agitation that, emanating from your eyes, stays in the forefront of your mind.  My loving wife got me a Jim Butcher audio book.  That helped more than anything.  It put my eyes on the back burner. 

No, the only pain is in knowing that I will not any time soon light a woman’s cigarette with a glance or pop the tires of my pursuers, looking back over my shoulder and winking.