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Category Archives: Original writing
What’s wrong with this picture?
I recently bought something at a store (you remember “stores”, don’tya?) that I hadn’t done business with before. By the time I got home with the product, I had already received several emails from the company hawking more stuff. Naturally, I clicked on the unsubscribe button. What’s the response I get?
Why is it that when I buy something, the charge is applied before I put my credit card back in my wallet? But when I try to unsubscribe – a completely electronic transaction – it takes 7 to 10 days??? I’ve done unsubscribes that said it would take 4-6 weeks! Yikes! The whole stinking internet was built in less time!
It’s not just “stores.” At least one tech-savvy company whose name I won’t reveal had the same problem:
Must be “switch flipper syndrome.” Or maybe they’re trying to save money by using slower, less expensive electrons.
Then there are those companies that force you to call to cancel their services (again, not mentioning names, V*****n) or even “opt out” of some mailing list they put you on that you never wanted in the first (or second) place. That’s also a completely automated process, but they want you on the phone to try to either talk you out of leaving or sell you more. How many people end up doing both? Probably more than a few. These people are trained to be persistent, nay, relentless in hounding their soon-to-be-former-customers. I guess they have nothing to lose. They already lost ya.
New MPAA ratings suggestions
The MPAA ratings for movies are woefully inadequate. Yes, they tell you something about the “moral” content of a movie. For example, if your middle-schooler wants to see a movie of non-stop violence and mayhem, no problem. If he or she wants to see an important documentary about social ills that happens to include more than two F-bombs, that’s verboten. Makes perfect sense, huh?
But what about those of us who have no children to helicopter around but who care about other types of content? Have no fear! I’ll prime the pump with a few suggestions:
This is a movie populated by idiots doing idiotic things. It could be teenagers opening doors in buildings where serial killers are known to be. (This concept was lampooned most effectively in a hysterical Geico commercial.) Romantic comedies are also prone to this moronic behavior. If they just told the truth at the beginning, none of the misunderstandings would happen. And the movie would never have been made. That’s called “win-win.”
You’ve seen them. Movies so bad, you wonder what now-unemployed producer gave this beast the green light? They have no positive qualities but someone shelled out several (sometimes hundreds) millions of dollars to get it made. You spend the entire movie asking yourself, “Who thought this was a good idea?” (q.v. “Mortdecai“)
By the end of one of these things, your scalp is bleeding because you spent the whole time scratching it. Instead of asking, “What did you think?” you ask, “What happened?” Let me say up front that I like some of these movies. Some I like a lot. This label could be applied to “2001”, as well as most films by Terrence Malick or Wes Anderson. After all, it’s good to have something to talk about after a movie other than the headache you got from the extreme volume and non-stop light show of special effects. Some so labeled, however, are simply self-indulgent nonsense. The poster child for this category is David Lynch’s “Eraserhead.” More prominently and more recently I’d add the interminable “Interstellar.”
The worst kind of movie. This is the equivalent of the current NC-17. Except these should be labeled, “no one over or under the age of 17 will be admitted.” Some of the aforementioned movies could also carry this caveat, but the most renowned recent example is “Boyhood.”
Do you have any labels you’d like to add?
[Congratulate me for not shamelessly promoting my new book.]
“A Slippery Land”
It’s finally done. My first book, a novel about Haiti, is available for sale in paperback or Kindle edition. Here’s the cover:
For the sake of completeness, here’s the back cover:
I’ve been working on this book in one form or another for more than four years. It started out as a screenplay, one that finished in the top 5% in the world’s most prestigious screenplay competition. Some of the judges’ comments included: “Strongly, clearly, confidently, and dramatically written… Settings are vividly brought to life… There is a heartbreaking authenticity to this.”
The story follows the life of a Haitian girl over six years, beginning with the nightmare of the 2010 earthquake. Her life becomes a series of trials common to many Haitians. How she faces those difficulties reflects on the resilience and strength of the Haitian people.
The book’s title comes from a painfully appropriate Haitian Creole proverb: “Lavi se tè glise“, which translates to the English: “Life is a slippery land.”
While a fictional tale, “A Slippery Land” carries a lot of truth. It incorporates many actual events I’ve seen or experienced and observations I’ve made while visiting the country and getting to know its people over the last 15 years.
Please consider buying a copy and letting me know what you think. The book is suitable for a wide audience, including Young Adult – even though it has no vampires, zombies, or mean girls, though Haiti could qualify as a dystopian society – or anyone who enjoys reading and learning about other cultures. It should be particularly good for book clubs because there’s plenty to discuss about our perceptions of Haiti and the third world.
You can see and purchase the paperback or Kindle edition through my Amazon author page here.
Thank you for reading.
I am the NTRA
It’s been accurately observed that toy guns are more rigorously regulated than the real thing. I for one think this is an abomination for our country. It’s time to end the madness.
That’s why I’m announcing the creation of the NTRA: the National Toy Rifle Association to send the message to the Buster-Brown-booted thugs:
Keep your hands off my toy guns!
Adults aren’t the only ones protected by the 2nd amendment. The right to arm toddlers shall not be infringed.
Just because some wimpy, timid housewife told her little boy, “You’ll shoot your eye out”, are we going to live in fear? No! If she’d listened to little Ralphie, her home wouldn’t have been overrun by Black Bart and his gang, known communist sympathizers.
If we give up our toy guns, the terrorists win. Who’s going to defend America then? No matter that a paintball or cap gun won’t do much to protect us from missiles and nuclear devices. This is a matter of principle!
Remember: If they take away your water gun today, they’ll take away your water tomorrow! Super Soakers don’t soak people, people soak people. If you want to keep people dry, we need MORE water guns, not fewer.
It’s time to say “enough is enough”. For those of us who can stand up, it’s time to stand up for our rights. The rest of us will just sit and fuss.
You can have my toy gun when you pry it from my stinky, poopy diaper.
Our Christmas Letter
[This is a virtual repeat of a post I made to LITL (my other blog) a couple years ago. Time constraints force me to steal from myself. I hope I don’t get caught by me.]
Well, it’s been a whole year since our last Christmas letter. It seems like no more than twelve months. How time flies! We hope your holiday season is filled with great memories, lots of fruitcakes, and few incidents with law enforcement.
Although we haven’t seen many of you in the past year or even the past decade, we just knew you’d want to hear all about our family. It’s been a busy year, which is why we haven’t visited or written or called any of you.
Once you read what we’ve been up to, you’ll understand. We sure do!
Billy is our big boy, having just turned 46. We love having him back at home after his dishonorable discharge from the Merchant Marines last May. His telemarketing job selling pharmaceuticals has been going fine. He works so hard, making calls into the wee hours. Don’t be surprised if you hear from him some night!
Bobby, now 45, is doing great! His parole officer has nothing but good things to say about him. The ankle bracelet – which he wears around his neck just for fun (what a hoot!) – is due to come off any month now, depending on the next hearing. Another good sign: He’s thinking of starting his own religion! He’s always been the most spiritual member of the clan.
Bonny (our surprise!) is 8 already. Hard to believe it’s been eight years since she came into this world in the middle of a monster truck rally. (In one of life’s fun coincidences, that’s where she was conceived!) She’s really sprouted since last year. At 5’10”, she’s able to play youth hockey with the older kids. All those “vitamins” (supplied by Billy) have really paid off. She’s also taking belly dancing lessons and is active in local politics. As you can tell, she keeps us on our toes!
Dad is still unemployed after the fish and bait shop went belly-up six years ago, but he keeps himself plenty busy in the garage with his little projects. We still aren’t sure what he’s up to out there but as long as he’s occupied, we’re all happy. Also, as long as the wind is blowing in the right direction, we don’t get the smells or smoke in the house as much. The great thing is that the most interesting people are always coming by to visit him. One gentleman with an eye patch and kerchief (Bonny calls him our pirate friend!) drops in daily, carrying the same worn valise. He must be a very good friend.
Mom passes her time keeping house, playing cards with her friends, and adding to her collection of vodka bottles. It’s amazing the variety and quantity of bottles out there and she’s always looking for more!
Have a great Holiday Season. Never forget the reason we celebrate: so we can fill our homes with junk that will break down by this time next year. Then we can start it all over again! Woohoo!
All our love…
Rating comedy
In my previous post, I asked the rhetorical question:
Is anyone in Hollywood doing ROI for laughs?
Since it’s clear the answer is a resounding no, I’m going to help the cause. Why curse the darkness when there are candles and matches aplenty at hand? Herewith, my method for gauging comedic value. Although I’m speaking of movies here, there’s no reason my system couldn’t be used for any comic medium, including, but not limited to, plays, audio recordings, stand-up comedy routines, and political advertising.
So how do we judge comedy? Let me introduce Rick’s First Law of Amusement Appraisal, to wit, “If people laugh, it’s funny. If they don’t, it ain’t.” It really is that simple. It’s a wonder Einstein didn’t stumble on this.
So now that we have the theoretical groundwork laid, how do we go about implementing a measurement technology? If you know your movies, you’ll realize that a similar process has already been developed and deployed, but for a different emotional response. Think “Monsters, Inc.” but with laughter instead of screams. That’s right, we have Pixar create a device for measuring response to humor rather than fear. Hey, they’ve already figured out how to make consistently good and popular films. This should be a breeze… if Disney doesn’t screw it up.
In fact, I’ll give them a head start by quantifying a selection of laughter responses. I can imagine assigning to each a point score.
- Hah! A simple laugh is good, worth a point.
- A snort is the next level of laughter. A good snort, depending on volume and duration, could net two or three points. A bonus would be allotted if mucus were involved.
- Salivary discharge is also worthy of an increased score.
- Like any other laugh that involves bodily fluids, peeing one’s pants is a major coup in the humor department. Point allotment could be affected, however, by age and gender of the subject.
- “I laughed till I cried” isn’t just an expression, it’s an apt description of a truly impressive fit of hilarity. Score up to a dozen bonus points in this case.
- In some instances of uncontrollable merriment, it’s not unusual for the subject’s ability to breath to be suspended temporarily. This is rare enough to warrant a huge award of points. A problem arises when this condition lasts too long, resulting in…
- Death. Laughing unto death is the ultimate funny. However, surely even Hollywood producers can see the down side of this result: No repeat ticket sales, the bread and butter of the blockbuster. Therefore, if this level is reached, all points are lost and the movie must be rewritten, preferably by the writer of “Mortdecai” to ensure the humor is completely wrung out of the script.
There are probably more variations to consider. Dick van Dyke (as the character Bert) delineates a fine variety as he sings, “I Love to Laugh” in “Mary Poppins”.
There. I’ve given the PTB (Powers That Be) a ripping head start. A little due diligence on their part will spare us any future debacles of the “Mortdecai” variety.
You’re welcome.
Note to subscribers to this blog: I apologize for an errant post I generated last week as the result of not carefully reading instructions about how to create a WordPress home page. The good news is that the page was eventually created, although it still has a ways to go before I can call it complete. Feel free to check out the current revision here. I hope it’s worth the hassle of the superfluous notification.
The Night I Woke Up (part 5)
[I’m going into this post on the assumption that it will be the final installment of TNIWU. That could be the reason this entry is a day late: to increase the tension and keep you on the edge of your collective seats. Would that it were true. The fact is that I was swept up in the details of yesterday like a leaf in a dust devil. Further, although ready to continue the story in the morning, I decided to wait until the mists of evening fell. Far more conducive to conjuring the mood of this tale, wouldn’t you agree?]
It was true. The person, beast, or thing on the other side of the wall was moving once more. To my overwhelming relief, the steps I heard now were receding. They followed the same direct path they’d taken to reach the window, but in reverse. It was moving back to its lair or den or craft or bog hidden in the swampy woodlands bordering my aunt’s back lawn.
As each impression sounded on the debris-strewn grass, it felt as if one after another leaden blanket were lifted off my prone body. I lay there just the same, still as stone. There was no chance I was going to make any kind of movement as long as there was even a slight chance I could be seen in that glaring chamber.
The steps continued toward the woods until I could hear them no more. Gradually, the silence faded, once more yielding to the sounds of nature: croaking frogs, screeching insects, and the wind disturbing the fronds of the palm trees scattered around the yard.
Surely, it was gone. Surely, I was safe.
Other than the possibility of a cramp in my stiffened legs, there was no reason to rush my escape. What were a few more minutes when I’d spent… How long? I’ll never know. It mattered little. The adage, “better safe than sorry” was never more applicable nor more real. So I waited, until…
With all the courage available to an admittedly wimpy pre-teen, I didn’t so much get out of the tub as I did slither. As I made my way over the edge, no part of my body left the surface. I was nearly one with the fixture. I continued my low profile slide to the floor and across the grimy tile.
When I hit the door across the room, decision time was upon me. Getting through that door would unquestionably require my hand to rise up to the knob, putting that part of me in an exposed position. The alternative would be to lie on the floor until dawn. The choice was not as easily made as it would seem. In what to my mind was possibly the most courageous exploit of my brief existence, I reached up to the door knob.
As excruciatingly slow as the entire experience had passed, that much quicker were my next set of actions. In order to limit my vulnerability, the time it took me to grab the knob, turn it, open the door, close it, turn off the light (no more advertising my presence to the world of the unknown), scurry down the hall, jump in bed, and cover myself with a blanket, was probably less than two or three seconds. Fear is a powerful accelerator. It isn’t, however, conducive to a good night’s sleep.
Thus the active portion of my adventure ended. And thus began a night of wakefulness followed by years of disturbing thoughts, hidden fears, and self-inflicted silence. It was at least a decade before I could dredge up the courage to recount this nightmare to others. By that point, in my 20’s, there was nothing to fear about reliving the experience. I was an adult, after all, and the events of that infernal night were far off in both time and distance. No residual effects of a night of terror could interfere with my more mature life.
At least, that’s the theory.
~ the end ~
The Night I Woke Up (part 4)
[People have been asking me where this is going and how long they have to wait to find out. Well, I know where it’s going – I lived it, after all – but the length of that road is as unknown to me as it is to my readers. There’s no GPS to help us along the way this time. We’re feeling our way in the dark through uncharted territories of memory.]
It’s not uncommon to hear someone speak glibly about a few moments feeling as if they were hours. We’re wise not to buy into such claims. Any imaginary extension of the time-space continuum is invariably a gross exaggeration. Whether they’re spent in a dentist chair or at a job interview, a minute is a minute and an hour is an hour.
Not so in a bathtub, evidently.
The time I spent cowering in that fixture might have been no more than two minutes, but it could have been hours. Time had truly lost meaning for me. The only concept I understood in those moments was terror.
The sound of raspy breathing wheezed through the open jalousie window above me. If I had reached my arm up, I could have touched it, but that was the last thing I would have done. A more immediate, if unrealistic, desire was to somehow slip between the porcelain and cast iron of the tub. Instead, I made myself as low profile as the film left by the previous bather.
What was there, standing, squatting, or otherwise looming on the other side of that wall? No imagination is more active than that of a young boy and mine was in overdrive. With plenty of time to dwell on my peril and more than enough fear to fuel the flame, all manner of evil tidings occupied my thoughts. An escaped convict? An alligator that had somehow acquired the ability to scale a wall? Why stop with known creatures? It could have been some mythical juvenile-eating beast that had caught the scent of fresh meat. Giant irradiated arachnids, dinosaurs, and aliens weren’t too far flung for my phobias.
To be honest, I was totally ignorant of the fauna of the east coast of Florida, as I was of most things that didn’t affect me directly. Such is the self-obsession of the average pre-teen boy and I was no exception. In this case, it might have done further harm as my imagination roamed far beyond the limits of local wildlife. Bears, lions, dingoes, and wolves might not have been native to the area, but they freely ranged in my mind.
I fully expected an arm or a claw or a fang to come crashing through that window, showering my puny body with glass before it was pierced and carried away by the nameless and faceless monster.
The breathing continued. Otherwise, the silence of the house and the outside world continued. The light in the bathroom only seemed to grow brighter, my vulnerability more intense. I was aware of my own trembling. How long can a boy hold his breath?
Then another step.
Crunch…
The Night I Woke Up (Part 3)
[They say (correctly) that writing is rewriting. The current exercise is reinforcing that precept in a most humbling manner as I dash off this stream-of-consciousness true story from my youth. I’m already inclined to change much of it, including the title, were I given the chance. But I don’t have the chance. That’s part of the excitement of this challenge. What I write is what you and I get, for better or worse. So now we continue into the unknown and unchanged…
When last we saw our intrepid prepubescent protagonist (me), he was standing alone, “shaking the dew off the lily” (as Donald Miller so colorfully put it) in a bright white box in the middle of the dark, unfriendly world of Florida swampland. As we left him, he was hearing the sound of footsteps coming from outside the bathroom window.]
Without question, what I was hearing were footsteps. There was no mistaking the rhythmic sounds of the crunching of yard debris underfoot. Worse, those sounds were most assuredly coming from outside. The house itself was completely devoid of movement and sound. As exposed as I was, I didn’t want to so much as twitch. But I had to. Those steps were getting louder and, by an inference even my underdeveloped mind could make, closer.
Crunch… crunch… crunch…
To minimize movement and draw less attention to myself, I dropped straight to the soiled tile floor in front of the toilet. The footsteps, seemingly drawn inexorably to the only light within a quarter mile or so – the bathroom window through which I was on display for all to see – continued without changing stride. Only the volume changed, increasing as the footfalls drew nearer.
Crunch… crunch… crunch…
My only hope was that I hadn’t been seen yet. Crouching on the floor in plain sight of the window above the bathtub on the opposite side of the room, I wouldn’t be out of view for long. The footsteps not only continued, they were without question following a beeline path to the little aquarium of light in which I dwelt. I’d soon be on display once more.
Crunch… crunch… crunch…
I pondered my next move. I could simply reach up, open the door, and sneak back to the relative safety of my guest bed. In retrospect, that might very well have been the prudent choice. Instead, pursuing a strategy that is best filed under the heading of, “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” I slunk across the floor and into the bathtub. By cowering there, I would be out of the line of sight of anyone or anything looking in that window, which was now directly above me.
Crunch… crunch… crunch…
There I sat trying to merge with the cast iron of the tub. The footsteps continued relentlessly and mercilessly toward that window, as if whatever was making them sensed my presence there. They grew louder and louder and closer and closer until at last …crunch… they ceased. They could go no further. They had reached the exterior side of the wall at which I crouched.
I was separated by a few inches of flimsy shingles and sheathing from something that for unknown reasons had emerged from the murky blackness behind my aunt’s house and pounded a path dead straight toward the room in which I was exposed. Shivering with fear, I listened. The living sounds of night were gone, the insects possibly as frightened as I was.
I heard nothing… except the labored breathing coming through the open window a couple of feet above my head.
To be continued…
Scribbling in the Sand 