June 12, 2012: Before anything else, I just spotted this new review of my novel "Space Case" at Amazon ... And while I'm blushing -- and only in part because I'm sitting here in my underwear -- I felt YOU -- my loyal fans (such as you are) -- would enjoy hearing what an unprompted "Space Case" purchaser -- someone who actually shelled out money to read my drivel! -- what they had to say about this devilishly unique novel ...
""Space Case" by Jarret Liotta is funny, imaginative and refreshingly creative. I thoroughly enjoyed reading as this delightfully amusing adventure unfolded. Mr. Liotta draws a humorous picture of life here on earth and gives us a matter-of-fact, non-judgemental look at the natural dysfunction that is inherent in human nature. "Space Case" was a quick read that left a smile on my face."
Wow! Is that awesome?! ... And let's be honest, am I not awesome?! ... And while you're considering that, I'll again remind you to buy the f***ing book already, because you know deep in your heart that you ought to buy it, even if it means going without frogurt for a weekend ...
And everyone, even those with the shortest attention span, should really take a minute (and 20 seconds) to not only enjoy my clever, excruciatingly witty youtube promo video for Space Case, but you should -- and yes, here I am shoulding on you! -- forward it around to friends. For the love of god, people, get this ball rolling! You see, I don't have friends that I can forward to. I don't have that luxury! But you do ... So it becomes somehow criminal of you not to use all your powers to get this veritable zeppelin up and off the German runway, so to speak.
Now, next note of business -- I'm embarrassed, in my last Blah-ugh!, to have neglected two of the most important facets of Kolchak and The Night Stalker. 1) How could I forget to mention that the great Richard Matheson wrote the screenplays for the first two movies. This is important because Matheson, whom many of you will solely identify as the author of the startling "The Legend of Hell House," was the original Twilight Zone writer who crafted, among many other brilliant scripts, my very all-time favorite episode "Third From the Sun" (with the great Fritz Weaver and Edward Andrews) ... 2) I don't know how I could be so negligent as to write about The Night Stalker without fervently recognizing the incredible and rather groundbreaking music composed for the first picture, along with the theme, and especially that great whistling part that Kolchak whistles in the series ...
Okay, and since the past is on my mind, driving home today I noted a whole new selection of trees that had been brought down by CL&P and their Westport, CT, assigned assassins, which was depressing. I guess I naively thought my brilliant Blah-ugh! entry of several weeks ago, couple with the great Dan Woog's follow-up, would curb the pointless overkilling of trees that have the audacity to be growing within yards of power lines ... But alas, once again the population proves itself too stupid to listen to me, even though I (like Kolchak) am right again ...
Lastly, major kudos out to the Westport Public Library (and Marta Campbell & Bill Derry especially) -- not only because they were kind enough to host me Wednesday night in what may have been the surprise event of the season -- that is, it certainly surprised me, because I managed to get through an entire hour-long speaking engagement without having to use the bathroom -- but for so much more that they do (the library, I mean, in case you too had forgotten due to my ridiculously incoherent run-on sentence) ... (Has anyone figured out yet that, as a Blah-ugh! writer, I'm much too lazy to bother rereading my sentences as I write them?!) ...
Anyway, the point is that the library purchased "Death Wish 2" on my behalf, and I'm simply giddy about this. The people who work in the video section of the library are just an awesome collection, so to speak, and kind to a fault, as evidenced by how nice they are to me, which clearly demonstrates some mistake on their part. But beyond all that, I'm so magnificently pleased that my request was granted, and promptly, and they replaced a missing gem from their collection and brought a grand wave of joy upon this old and soulless soul. Hurrah! as they say in England. Westport Library is the shits! (as they say in L.A.)
So that's all for tonight, because, believe it or not, I want to put on another "Night Stalker" episode and let my harsh late-night dinner start digesting. It's going to be a sunny day tomorrow and this really makes me sad, because I like rain and the idea of rain ... My neighbor is pressuring me to cut my lawn, and this makes me hate them, but I have to realize that not everyone thinks the way I do, and that makes me hate everyone else ...
Summer is coming, and I hate summer, but it's good because it means fall will eventually come, even if it's after winter, which I like, but sometimes get suspicious of when it's trying to sneak its way past the other seasons ...
NEXT WEEK I'll hopefully be able to offer the quintessential review of "Death Wish 2."
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Carl Kolchak - Great American Hero
June 7, 2012: Carl Kolchak is a true American hero, and even though he's a fictional character, he still means more to me than most of the people I know ... (excepting those who've vehemently supported SPACE CASE, and the thoughtful people who continue plugging my new Youtube video of course!)
Alternately known as The Night Stalker, Kolchak is the abrasive aging reporter who breaks stories involving vampires and other-worldly figures. Originally created by a weak writer named Jeff Rice in a hard-to-read novella, and portrayed by the ever-freckled Darren McGavin (the belligerent, beleagured "Old Man" in the classic film "Christmas Story"), he first appeared in a brilliant 1971/2 TV movie that featured not only the voluptuously vapid Carol Lindley, but Claude Akins and Simon Oakland as well. The subsequent short-lived TV series was supposedly the inspiration for Chris Carter's creation of "The X-Files, and McGavin was honored with a small recurring role on that show before his death (at some point, from something). Also, one of its main writers and story consultants was one David Chase, who went on to create "The Sopranos."
Kolchak the character is many things, but mostly -- for me -- he's the truth-teller that no one wants to believe. He's the voice of reality that everyone wants to silence and ignore. He's the gadfly that people wish would just go away. He's the conscious conscience who passionately fights for not only truth, but the vital need that it be dissemated.
One of the other things that I really like about him is that, despite his slightly crass demeanor, (which in television seems to lend itself to the caricature of an oaf), Carl's also extremely intelligent. W,hile he's intolerant of people in general -- or seems to be -- it's not without reason, because like so many of us, he's surrounded by idiots and individuals whose fear has robbed them of keeping strong convictions.
Further, despite his innate frailty, he's forever finding himself in supernatural situations that demand bravery. With morose resolve, he descends into the sewer to slay a swamp monster, crawls into an abandoned car to sew shut the mouth of a dormant zombie, slinks into the Seattle underground in search of a timeless serial killer, and, of course, (as certainly someone must remember), stands his ground against a sword-wielding headless motorcyclist ...
I love Kolchak, and give him significant credit for helping inspire me to become a writer. (Of course, some of you might use the word "blame.") And as I grew and went out into this weird, wild world stuffed with dangerous creeping people who dwell underneath all sorts of physical and spiritual rocks, the example of Carl Kolchak has often reminded me of the value of fighting for a righteous cause, arguing for an unpopular truth, even if all the odds are against you, even if the publications won't print the facts, and even if you're feeling all alone in the world ... again!
When last I checked IMDB.com -- the movie site -- I was happily astounded to see that a remake involving none other than my friend Johnny Depp was in development. It pleased me at the time, but now I'm not so sure. Despite what a grand actor like Johnny might think, there are some things that shouldn't even be touched or any attempts made to expand upon them or replicate their magic. He already made that mistake with Willy Wonka ... Beatles music is another example of that kind of thing ... I'm pretty convinced that Kolchak, The Night Stalker, is another ...
But so goes our stupid world, where the fetid winds of box office projections, egomania, questionable taste and the like all blow up my skirt.
Kudos to all who shared in the original creation of Carl Kolchak, and I pledge my ongoing allegiance to such a vigorous fine figure of truth, justice and the American Way.
Alternately known as The Night Stalker, Kolchak is the abrasive aging reporter who breaks stories involving vampires and other-worldly figures. Originally created by a weak writer named Jeff Rice in a hard-to-read novella, and portrayed by the ever-freckled Darren McGavin (the belligerent, beleagured "Old Man" in the classic film "Christmas Story"), he first appeared in a brilliant 1971/2 TV movie that featured not only the voluptuously vapid Carol Lindley, but Claude Akins and Simon Oakland as well. The subsequent short-lived TV series was supposedly the inspiration for Chris Carter's creation of "The X-Files, and McGavin was honored with a small recurring role on that show before his death (at some point, from something). Also, one of its main writers and story consultants was one David Chase, who went on to create "The Sopranos."
Kolchak the character is many things, but mostly -- for me -- he's the truth-teller that no one wants to believe. He's the voice of reality that everyone wants to silence and ignore. He's the gadfly that people wish would just go away. He's the conscious conscience who passionately fights for not only truth, but the vital need that it be dissemated.
One of the other things that I really like about him is that, despite his slightly crass demeanor, (which in television seems to lend itself to the caricature of an oaf), Carl's also extremely intelligent. W,hile he's intolerant of people in general -- or seems to be -- it's not without reason, because like so many of us, he's surrounded by idiots and individuals whose fear has robbed them of keeping strong convictions.
Further, despite his innate frailty, he's forever finding himself in supernatural situations that demand bravery. With morose resolve, he descends into the sewer to slay a swamp monster, crawls into an abandoned car to sew shut the mouth of a dormant zombie, slinks into the Seattle underground in search of a timeless serial killer, and, of course, (as certainly someone must remember), stands his ground against a sword-wielding headless motorcyclist ...
I love Kolchak, and give him significant credit for helping inspire me to become a writer. (Of course, some of you might use the word "blame.") And as I grew and went out into this weird, wild world stuffed with dangerous creeping people who dwell underneath all sorts of physical and spiritual rocks, the example of Carl Kolchak has often reminded me of the value of fighting for a righteous cause, arguing for an unpopular truth, even if all the odds are against you, even if the publications won't print the facts, and even if you're feeling all alone in the world ... again!
When last I checked IMDB.com -- the movie site -- I was happily astounded to see that a remake involving none other than my friend Johnny Depp was in development. It pleased me at the time, but now I'm not so sure. Despite what a grand actor like Johnny might think, there are some things that shouldn't even be touched or any attempts made to expand upon them or replicate their magic. He already made that mistake with Willy Wonka ... Beatles music is another example of that kind of thing ... I'm pretty convinced that Kolchak, The Night Stalker, is another ...
But so goes our stupid world, where the fetid winds of box office projections, egomania, questionable taste and the like all blow up my skirt.
Kudos to all who shared in the original creation of Carl Kolchak, and I pledge my ongoing allegiance to such a vigorous fine figure of truth, justice and the American Way.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Sociopathic Corporate Madness is Making My Groin Hurt
June 3, 2012: Finally, I want to get to this issue of the Killer Bees, because tonight they're feeling like the perfect metaphor for the new Fear that's gripping me around the ankles, throat and genitals, and all simultaneously ... And wasn't it Anne Sexton who spoke of that "awful rowing toward god?" ... or perhaps that was Dan Woog, referencing those idiots on the Saugatuck River in Westport.
The point is, I'm drowning in the awful visions of corporate domination and one-percent control and private GOP armies and the like, and the Fear has me, like it did in the early '80s when Reagan first came to power and I was sure a nuclear strike was imminent, and that it would be hitting ME in particular ... It's like the Killer Bees, which were poised to attack when I was just a little lad, if you can imagine such a thing, me being all grown up and devilishly handsome and all, but at that time existing on pure Fear, adrenalin, and iced tea ...
But you see the question comes to mind for me: What the hell happened to the Killer Bees anyway?! I mean, I was told they were attacking. We all were! They were allegedly flying north from Mexico, as all dangerous things are wont to do. There were kitcsh TV movies about them, where dopey victims were stung repeatedly beyond recognition and the heroes outran them to the last, but not before stomping a few of the worse ones into pulp ... So where are they now?!
It's interesting, for I remember someone telling me -- some idiot in the never-ending series of idiots I've known -- that "the scientists" -- and that's what he said -- would merely meet the Bees at the border -- the Rio Grande River, I guess -- and they would spray them and solve the whole problem. Such a comforting image it still evokes -- a small group of Gary Larsen-type white-coated nerds shooting a few puffs of gas out over the water with one of those little metal pumping cannisters, and halting dead the rampaging cloud of gangland Bees in an instant ...
I guess that's what happened, because after the 70's I stopped hearing anything about Killer Bees ... Except, just three weeks ago I found a book at the library that's right now, at this very moment, sitting in the other room (probably overdue, actually), and there are probably additional answers there waiting to be realized ...
But you know what? I don't want to know them! I don't want to know anything, except that SPACE CASE is selling and you're going to buy a THIRD copy and will bring a harum of gorgeous women to my speaking engagement this Wednesday night at the Westport Library ... That's all I want to hear about! F*** the Killer Bees and Reagan and the crooked governors ...
But no, my stomach is being wrenched by the new knowledge of widespread corruption and union crushing and proletariat neutering and supreme court stacking and graft, and ongoing corporate malfeasance and chicanery and scum selling lies and scum telling lies and liars lying with straight-faced sociopathic integrity and old fools believing them and young fools as well ... Ouch! It makes my stomach hurt! Ouch! I AM Charlie Brown, you see, and my stomach always hurts ...
But wait! For now I'll quote Robert Plant, who bubbled so specifically in that lovely "The Song Remains the Same" movie rendition of "Stairway to Heaven," "But there's good news! Listen!" Yes! Why not?! Why not good news, for the Killer Bees are away from my radar after all, and all dead and buried at the bottom of the Rio Grande, for all I know ... and that's where one day soon we may find all these malfeasants and supplicating nitwits and schmucks and greedheads after all ... Aren't they just Killer Bees, really, on a demented rampage to keep alive and sting out at anything they THINK threatens them -- a fear-fueled frenzy of sociopathic stupidity ...
Even as we speak, there are probably focused, intelligent scientists in nerdy white lab coats who are developing vaccines for bullshit and marketed media manipulation and stupidity, and they'll be innoculating mankind before I know it ... And these lovely simply honest smart men (and women -- a few hot ones, with horn-rimmed glasses!) will be using their antiquated DDT puffer devises to soundly gas the bloodsucking parasites and heinous stinging bastards ...
They'll wait for them by the side of the River Styx, or some such river, and make it clear to them that they'll never be allowed in to heaven, which is probably here on earth after all ...
And heaven should be a place without sociopaths, Killer Bees or plastic surgery, and we'll all sit together by a quiet springtime stream and read aloud from the Bagvhad Gita, the Tibetan Book of the Dead, and Space Case ...
The point is, I'm drowning in the awful visions of corporate domination and one-percent control and private GOP armies and the like, and the Fear has me, like it did in the early '80s when Reagan first came to power and I was sure a nuclear strike was imminent, and that it would be hitting ME in particular ... It's like the Killer Bees, which were poised to attack when I was just a little lad, if you can imagine such a thing, me being all grown up and devilishly handsome and all, but at that time existing on pure Fear, adrenalin, and iced tea ...
But you see the question comes to mind for me: What the hell happened to the Killer Bees anyway?! I mean, I was told they were attacking. We all were! They were allegedly flying north from Mexico, as all dangerous things are wont to do. There were kitcsh TV movies about them, where dopey victims were stung repeatedly beyond recognition and the heroes outran them to the last, but not before stomping a few of the worse ones into pulp ... So where are they now?!
It's interesting, for I remember someone telling me -- some idiot in the never-ending series of idiots I've known -- that "the scientists" -- and that's what he said -- would merely meet the Bees at the border -- the Rio Grande River, I guess -- and they would spray them and solve the whole problem. Such a comforting image it still evokes -- a small group of Gary Larsen-type white-coated nerds shooting a few puffs of gas out over the water with one of those little metal pumping cannisters, and halting dead the rampaging cloud of gangland Bees in an instant ...
I guess that's what happened, because after the 70's I stopped hearing anything about Killer Bees ... Except, just three weeks ago I found a book at the library that's right now, at this very moment, sitting in the other room (probably overdue, actually), and there are probably additional answers there waiting to be realized ...
But you know what? I don't want to know them! I don't want to know anything, except that SPACE CASE is selling and you're going to buy a THIRD copy and will bring a harum of gorgeous women to my speaking engagement this Wednesday night at the Westport Library ... That's all I want to hear about! F*** the Killer Bees and Reagan and the crooked governors ...
But no, my stomach is being wrenched by the new knowledge of widespread corruption and union crushing and proletariat neutering and supreme court stacking and graft, and ongoing corporate malfeasance and chicanery and scum selling lies and scum telling lies and liars lying with straight-faced sociopathic integrity and old fools believing them and young fools as well ... Ouch! It makes my stomach hurt! Ouch! I AM Charlie Brown, you see, and my stomach always hurts ...
But wait! For now I'll quote Robert Plant, who bubbled so specifically in that lovely "The Song Remains the Same" movie rendition of "Stairway to Heaven," "But there's good news! Listen!" Yes! Why not?! Why not good news, for the Killer Bees are away from my radar after all, and all dead and buried at the bottom of the Rio Grande, for all I know ... and that's where one day soon we may find all these malfeasants and supplicating nitwits and schmucks and greedheads after all ... Aren't they just Killer Bees, really, on a demented rampage to keep alive and sting out at anything they THINK threatens them -- a fear-fueled frenzy of sociopathic stupidity ...
Even as we speak, there are probably focused, intelligent scientists in nerdy white lab coats who are developing vaccines for bullshit and marketed media manipulation and stupidity, and they'll be innoculating mankind before I know it ... And these lovely simply honest smart men (and women -- a few hot ones, with horn-rimmed glasses!) will be using their antiquated DDT puffer devises to soundly gas the bloodsucking parasites and heinous stinging bastards ...
They'll wait for them by the side of the River Styx, or some such river, and make it clear to them that they'll never be allowed in to heaven, which is probably here on earth after all ...
And heaven should be a place without sociopaths, Killer Bees or plastic surgery, and we'll all sit together by a quiet springtime stream and read aloud from the Bagvhad Gita, the Tibetan Book of the Dead, and Space Case ...
Monday, May 28, 2012
Memories of Coleytown Cafeteria Food
May 29, 2012: Before I talk about the Killer Bees, as I've been promising to do (and the Brady Bunch), let me spend a few heartfelt minutes recounting the marvelous memories of the food they used to serve in the cafeteria of my old elementary school.
In yet another example of what seems to be a never-ending litany of things that were once, in the past, so much better, and now (because of greed and stupidity, and peripherals thereof) have come to suck shit, I can tell you we had awesome cafeteria food at Coleytown Elementary School in Westport, Connecticut, in the mid-1970s.
For starters, we ate on real plates -- unbreakable pink plastic plates that were washed every day by Herb the Janitor. How insane it is now that, with all our environmental overtures about recycling and all that bullshit, we only use the most disposable things we can in cafeterias and each day the custodians cart off a ton of plastic and styrofoam to the dumpster for god-knows-what stupid reason. (I don't even care what the reason is, even if you say the plastic plates put kids' health at risk, because I still maintain it's stupid and I stand by that, and I would much rather gamble on some kids getting a few cases of chemical poisoning than change my mind about it.)
Perhaps the most memorable lunch was Thursday's meatball grinder. "One or two meatballs," the cafeteria lady always asked each student before filling their grinder roll with the best sweet, saucy stuff you could imagine for the 60-cent price of a little red ticket. (I could never imagine why anyone would answer "One," but I guess some fools did.)
Spaghetti and meat sauce was also great, with a tasty salad and a mountain of pasta as good as you'd get in any family restaurant. (All the food seemed to be hearty and homemade, unlike the pre-prepped crap they pawn off today through the food service companies that inadvertently abuse our schools.)
Another awesome day was Wednesdays, when we often had turkey and mashed potatoes. The mashed were served with an ice cream scoop, and still today, it's hard to imagine anything tasting better. The turkey, which was lovely chunks of meat mixed into a sweet, gooey gravy, was delectable, and the spongy, olive-drab canned green beans were out of this world too (even though I usually didn't eat them).
Hamburgers and hot dogs were great days too, although in fifth grade I developed a reputation because I would literally smother these items with the condiments -- literally enough ketchup, mustard and relish to garnish six, heaped on my dog or hamburger. The cafeteria ladies would get mad at me, but I adamantly stood by my rights, like the little shit I was. (On a parallel note, I'm reminded of my best friend Debbie G. -- I think it was her -- and I making the creative discovery/proclamation some time around first grade that, as boys had hot dogs, what girls had must certainly be called hamburgers.)
Want more amazing? When we got to fifth grade we discovered that, since we were the last class eating, we could ask for seconds, and even thirds. The generous cafeteria ladies would heap enormous additional portions on our plates -- tons of turkey, spaghetti, extra french fries, and multiple ice cream scoops of mashed or, even better, delicious white rice prepared so perfectly sticky and tasty, I never ever since have tasted such a magnificent comforting delicacy.
And yet there was even more to experience than just amazing food. There was drama, entertainment, and mystery. I'll never forget the fearful risk one ran of being served by the woman who had no thumb. Usually she handled the desserts at the end of the line, but if it happened to come about that she was serving, it ended up warranting many minutes of discussion afterward. ("I saw it!" we'd exclaim, recounting the horror of how the skin had grown over the remaining knuckle.)
Most memorable, however, was the most surly lunch lady of them all, who, without fail -- day after day, for five straight years of my elementary experience -- would walk out into the large noisy lunchroom, literally holding up a big spoon like a character from Oliver Twist, and every single day, in a vaguely English voice that also sounded just like Fred Flintstone's mother-in-law, she would declare, "One lunch ticket missin'!"
She'd stand there waving the spoon like a pennant for a breath-holding moment while we all fell silent ... and waited, scared to speak ... until some stupid kid finally stood up and ran over to return the little ticket he'd forgotten to drop in the large, stout tin can with the paper pasted around outside. (It was probably the same kid each day, too.)
Day after day -- every day -- she said this, spoon in hand, every day ... And I've never forgotten the one and only time ever, in fifth grade, when she came out and shocked us all by announcing, "Two lunch tickets missin'!" (It's a moment burned in my memory as deeply as someone perhaps remembers where they were when Kennedy was shot.)
It was a delicious time, literally, and the memory is made all that much better by knowing that my new novel Space Case, which really isn't as new as it used to be, is now available in hard copy at Amazon. Get yours today and take a big bite!
In yet another example of what seems to be a never-ending litany of things that were once, in the past, so much better, and now (because of greed and stupidity, and peripherals thereof) have come to suck shit, I can tell you we had awesome cafeteria food at Coleytown Elementary School in Westport, Connecticut, in the mid-1970s.
For starters, we ate on real plates -- unbreakable pink plastic plates that were washed every day by Herb the Janitor. How insane it is now that, with all our environmental overtures about recycling and all that bullshit, we only use the most disposable things we can in cafeterias and each day the custodians cart off a ton of plastic and styrofoam to the dumpster for god-knows-what stupid reason. (I don't even care what the reason is, even if you say the plastic plates put kids' health at risk, because I still maintain it's stupid and I stand by that, and I would much rather gamble on some kids getting a few cases of chemical poisoning than change my mind about it.)
Perhaps the most memorable lunch was Thursday's meatball grinder. "One or two meatballs," the cafeteria lady always asked each student before filling their grinder roll with the best sweet, saucy stuff you could imagine for the 60-cent price of a little red ticket. (I could never imagine why anyone would answer "One," but I guess some fools did.)
Spaghetti and meat sauce was also great, with a tasty salad and a mountain of pasta as good as you'd get in any family restaurant. (All the food seemed to be hearty and homemade, unlike the pre-prepped crap they pawn off today through the food service companies that inadvertently abuse our schools.)
Another awesome day was Wednesdays, when we often had turkey and mashed potatoes. The mashed were served with an ice cream scoop, and still today, it's hard to imagine anything tasting better. The turkey, which was lovely chunks of meat mixed into a sweet, gooey gravy, was delectable, and the spongy, olive-drab canned green beans were out of this world too (even though I usually didn't eat them).
Hamburgers and hot dogs were great days too, although in fifth grade I developed a reputation because I would literally smother these items with the condiments -- literally enough ketchup, mustard and relish to garnish six, heaped on my dog or hamburger. The cafeteria ladies would get mad at me, but I adamantly stood by my rights, like the little shit I was. (On a parallel note, I'm reminded of my best friend Debbie G. -- I think it was her -- and I making the creative discovery/proclamation some time around first grade that, as boys had hot dogs, what girls had must certainly be called hamburgers.)
Want more amazing? When we got to fifth grade we discovered that, since we were the last class eating, we could ask for seconds, and even thirds. The generous cafeteria ladies would heap enormous additional portions on our plates -- tons of turkey, spaghetti, extra french fries, and multiple ice cream scoops of mashed or, even better, delicious white rice prepared so perfectly sticky and tasty, I never ever since have tasted such a magnificent comforting delicacy.
And yet there was even more to experience than just amazing food. There was drama, entertainment, and mystery. I'll never forget the fearful risk one ran of being served by the woman who had no thumb. Usually she handled the desserts at the end of the line, but if it happened to come about that she was serving, it ended up warranting many minutes of discussion afterward. ("I saw it!" we'd exclaim, recounting the horror of how the skin had grown over the remaining knuckle.)
Most memorable, however, was the most surly lunch lady of them all, who, without fail -- day after day, for five straight years of my elementary experience -- would walk out into the large noisy lunchroom, literally holding up a big spoon like a character from Oliver Twist, and every single day, in a vaguely English voice that also sounded just like Fred Flintstone's mother-in-law, she would declare, "One lunch ticket missin'!"
She'd stand there waving the spoon like a pennant for a breath-holding moment while we all fell silent ... and waited, scared to speak ... until some stupid kid finally stood up and ran over to return the little ticket he'd forgotten to drop in the large, stout tin can with the paper pasted around outside. (It was probably the same kid each day, too.)
Day after day -- every day -- she said this, spoon in hand, every day ... And I've never forgotten the one and only time ever, in fifth grade, when she came out and shocked us all by announcing, "Two lunch tickets missin'!" (It's a moment burned in my memory as deeply as someone perhaps remembers where they were when Kennedy was shot.)
It was a delicious time, literally, and the memory is made all that much better by knowing that my new novel Space Case, which really isn't as new as it used to be, is now available in hard copy at Amazon. Get yours today and take a big bite!
Sunday, May 20, 2012
The Brady Bunch & Me (and You ... and SPACE CASE)
May 20, 2012: Where do I begin? I'm acutely aware that my film and entertainment-related posts are clearly the most popular, so going forward I've decided to make every effort to please you. (Yes, I know -- it's so unlike me!) Toward that end, I was finally going to offer the second part of the popular "Very Brady" analysis, which you were promised three years ago. (The fact that I'm finally following through demonstrates something, but I'm not entirely sure what ... especially since, by the time this Blah-ugh! entry is over, I may not have even followed through after all ...) For you see, as Marcia Brady was so famously taught to say by Greg in that brilliant episode where she finally gets the date with quarterback Doug Simpson (Big Man on Campus), and therefore has to break her lame date with nebish Charlie, son of the wallpaper guy, who stupidly ties his smelly shoe to the bench and falls over ... "Something suddenly came up!" (or as Marcia says it, "seddinly")
And what came up was my dinner, although not literally. Actually, I am sitting here in my utter fatness at 10:45, so totally enamored with the meal I just ate, that I can't bring myself to focus on the subtleties of Brady trivia and life lessons, for I just can't stop thinking about what a miraculous meal it was ...
Now, if I were to detail what I ate, you'd probably find it a disappointing reason for my elation. And yet, as I sit here reviewing each bite in my gluttonous mind's eye, the perfection was only partially in the ingredients, and moreso in the very timing and overall coming-together of the meal.
Which brings me to share a little-known fact about myself -- little known and probably even less cared about, but these are the pedantic study thoughts writers have and we write them down because we HAVE to ... In short, I employ a kind of symmetrical system in eating my meals. That is, I somehow manage to eat my meals in such a way -- and my god, I do this EVERY TIME, and without conscious effort -- so that by the time they're just about finished, I always have one last little bite of each item on my plate.
In fact, it's actually a kind of remarkable skill, really, and highlights my spatial intelligence, because I always work it out in the waning minutes of my meal without fail. And even halfway before I'm through, my higher space brain has me taking just the right-size bites to keep everything in some kind of weird balance on my plate, so that the last few rounds of fork-fulls will be even ...
I don't think I've ever recounted any of my grosser obsessive-compulsive tendencies, but they're there, and have certainly been flagrant in the past. But how I ended up with this specific habit of eating, I'll never know. I remember having a related discussion with a friend many years ago, which I think was brought up because he ate (and completed eating) each item on his plate before starting the next (and of course I pointed out that this was wrong) ...
Anyway, it was a great meal, and probably made better by the classic Brady episode I watched while consuming -- "Confessions, Confessions," where Peter breaks mom's favorite vase and the others try to cover it up for him so he can still go on his camping trip. "Mom's favorite vase," Greg moans softly. And Bobby, "She always says, 'Don't play ball in the house.'" (One of the things that made that show great was that they pronounced vase with a long A, and "aunt" as "ant," the way it's supposed to be pronounced by normal Americans.
Yes, there are so many Brady-related items I need to go further into. I don't think I ever even touched on the urban legend of Eve Plumb becoming a porn star, the removal of Maureen McCormick's moles, or the fact that you can see the wire when the wall nearly falls on that little girl in Driscoll's toy store ...
But I've also got SPACE CASE news to report, and lots of it. For starters, my June 6 Westport Library appearance is deucedly imminent, and thanks to kind, talented, brave writers like the great Joe Meyers -- always my favorite critic because he often shares my sensible good taste, AND he liked my first movie, or at least pretended to like it in a very sincere way -- publicity will be forthcoming in the CT Post, or maybe the Stamford Advocate ... News-Times? -- I'm hoping the whole gang, as they now appear to all be under the same yoke. (I don't even know when that happened, but, really, I don't even want to know!) Joe is a legendary good man, and it was an honor being interviewed by him (and now let's see if I keep this nauseating praise up here AFTER he publishes the article!) ...
The point is, SPACE CASE is growing, like a fungus, and if you haven't read it yet, you're a shitheel and no friend of mine! But I'm only saying that to encourage you to buy a copy, because not everyone has a Kindle or a Nook ... and so the really, REALLY great news is that Amazon is now offering -- Yes, I can HARDLY believe it myself -- a HARD COPY of SPACE CASE -- available for everyone, be they black or white or colored, to paraphrase Woody Allen ...
Here is the link: SPACE CASE in hard cover, with new cover ... but I would encourage you to wait 48 hours before ordering, because I'm resubmitting a new file with fewer typos ...
That said, let's remember to talk MORE about the Bradys in the next outing of the Blah-ugh! And I've got to go off about this weird John Wayne movie I stumbled on that's downright creepy -- "Big Jim McClain" ...
And could someone please remind about the Killer Bees? ...
And what came up was my dinner, although not literally. Actually, I am sitting here in my utter fatness at 10:45, so totally enamored with the meal I just ate, that I can't bring myself to focus on the subtleties of Brady trivia and life lessons, for I just can't stop thinking about what a miraculous meal it was ...
Now, if I were to detail what I ate, you'd probably find it a disappointing reason for my elation. And yet, as I sit here reviewing each bite in my gluttonous mind's eye, the perfection was only partially in the ingredients, and moreso in the very timing and overall coming-together of the meal.
Which brings me to share a little-known fact about myself -- little known and probably even less cared about, but these are the pedantic study thoughts writers have and we write them down because we HAVE to ... In short, I employ a kind of symmetrical system in eating my meals. That is, I somehow manage to eat my meals in such a way -- and my god, I do this EVERY TIME, and without conscious effort -- so that by the time they're just about finished, I always have one last little bite of each item on my plate.
In fact, it's actually a kind of remarkable skill, really, and highlights my spatial intelligence, because I always work it out in the waning minutes of my meal without fail. And even halfway before I'm through, my higher space brain has me taking just the right-size bites to keep everything in some kind of weird balance on my plate, so that the last few rounds of fork-fulls will be even ...
I don't think I've ever recounted any of my grosser obsessive-compulsive tendencies, but they're there, and have certainly been flagrant in the past. But how I ended up with this specific habit of eating, I'll never know. I remember having a related discussion with a friend many years ago, which I think was brought up because he ate (and completed eating) each item on his plate before starting the next (and of course I pointed out that this was wrong) ...
Anyway, it was a great meal, and probably made better by the classic Brady episode I watched while consuming -- "Confessions, Confessions," where Peter breaks mom's favorite vase and the others try to cover it up for him so he can still go on his camping trip. "Mom's favorite vase," Greg moans softly. And Bobby, "She always says, 'Don't play ball in the house.'" (One of the things that made that show great was that they pronounced vase with a long A, and "aunt" as "ant," the way it's supposed to be pronounced by normal Americans.
Yes, there are so many Brady-related items I need to go further into. I don't think I ever even touched on the urban legend of Eve Plumb becoming a porn star, the removal of Maureen McCormick's moles, or the fact that you can see the wire when the wall nearly falls on that little girl in Driscoll's toy store ...
But I've also got SPACE CASE news to report, and lots of it. For starters, my June 6 Westport Library appearance is deucedly imminent, and thanks to kind, talented, brave writers like the great Joe Meyers -- always my favorite critic because he often shares my sensible good taste, AND he liked my first movie, or at least pretended to like it in a very sincere way -- publicity will be forthcoming in the CT Post, or maybe the Stamford Advocate ... News-Times? -- I'm hoping the whole gang, as they now appear to all be under the same yoke. (I don't even know when that happened, but, really, I don't even want to know!) Joe is a legendary good man, and it was an honor being interviewed by him (and now let's see if I keep this nauseating praise up here AFTER he publishes the article!) ...
The point is, SPACE CASE is growing, like a fungus, and if you haven't read it yet, you're a shitheel and no friend of mine! But I'm only saying that to encourage you to buy a copy, because not everyone has a Kindle or a Nook ... and so the really, REALLY great news is that Amazon is now offering -- Yes, I can HARDLY believe it myself -- a HARD COPY of SPACE CASE -- available for everyone, be they black or white or colored, to paraphrase Woody Allen ...
Here is the link: SPACE CASE in hard cover, with new cover ... but I would encourage you to wait 48 hours before ordering, because I'm resubmitting a new file with fewer typos ...
That said, let's remember to talk MORE about the Bradys in the next outing of the Blah-ugh! And I've got to go off about this weird John Wayne movie I stumbled on that's downright creepy -- "Big Jim McClain" ...
And could someone please remind about the Killer Bees? ...
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Write Makes Right, and Dan Woog ... and SPACE CASE
May 10, 2012: There are so many things to talk about, I'm afraid the Killer Bees may have to wait another week ... Big news for SPACE CASE fans (and avoiders)! ...
To begin with, when you're doing one of these entries, don't hit the tab button, because your cursor will somehow just disappear and it could be hours before you find it again. This time I was lucky, but next time I may not be ...
I'm very happy to report that my recent Blah-ugh!, which extoled (or extolled -- I'm not sure which it was now) the virtue of trees and chastized the heinous greed-centered practices of Connecticut Light & Power, may have done some little good to spread awareness and motivate change after all. (Please keep in mind that I'm telling you this not so much to brag -- although there is that element -- but to demonstrate my still-remaining potential to eventually show some worth, contrary to what some people -- (people like EJ and my wife) -- might otherwise think.) ...
Now where was I? You see, people think it's easy for me to write those intricate run-on sentences, but it's not, especially late at night, when I'm nauseous from overeating mangos and cream ...
Ah, yes!: The scoundrels at CL&P and Dan Woog ... No, no! Don't lump them together, for Dan is a noble soul -- the brains behind the notorious Westport-based blog called 06880, or Danwoog06880 -- something like that; it seems to keep changing. Anyway, Dan was -- once again -- kind enough to lend his ever-strengthening forum to one of my hissyfits -- this time this tree business. And now, thanks to his exposure (and nerve in even being associated with me on so many occasions), the tides of malicious tree destruction -- which is, after all, such a stupid brand of destruction -- may be getting assuaged, or at least curbed ... And while a good deal of credit should also go to my lovely neighbor, who took the time to rant and call the tree warden -- although not necessarily in that order -- there's a good chance she won't be reading this, so I'll emphasize that it was MY work that really broke things open. (My god, several people even called me the Lorax after Dan's piece was out, while usually they just say, "Hey asshole!")
Which reminds me that I was thinking of this terrific line in the movie Die Hard II, where Bruce Willis tells the great John Amos, "I thought you were an asshole?" and Amos replies, "Oh, I'm an asshole alright, but I'm YOUR KIND of asshole!"
This makes a lot of sense to me. (My god, is there ANYTHING that action/adventures movies CAN'T teach us?!) But now that I think of it, it made a lot more sense earlier, when I had some point in bringing it up relating to this woman who brings her dog to poop in the graveyard down the street from me ...
But I can tell you this: this whole experience has me thinking I should start using my Blah-ugh! forum for good instead of evil. And this in turn gets me to wonder what other wrongs around me I should focus my virulent energies in trying to make right. Probably it would be a campaign aimed at restricting dogs, or dog owners, who generally drive me crazy and let their dogs poop everywhere. I'm not sure Dan would support this effort, but he doesn't know everything. I don't think he has a dog, but for all I know his blog is sponsored by dog-related industries and, therefore, he may shy away from confronting certain dog-related topics because of politics and corruption. I'm surprised at Dan! I've always admired his work, especially when he writes about me, and while he's not quite the clever wordsmith I am -- I'm actually pretty sure at this point that no one is -- he's probably a much better reporter, and so I would hope he could maintain his objectivity where things like dog poop are concerned.
And that's a good transition to mention my novel SPACE CASE, which I believe Dan is reading and wholeheartedly enjoying at this very moment! Believe it or not, it is now available in hard copy at Amazon! (I can't even believe it, and I worked like a dog getting it up, if you'll forgive the awkward dirtiness of that image ...) Of course, I have to kudos my friend Tom Hughes for his tireless work in creating a new cover, and while I supplied the cartoons, he supplied the resentments and it all just melded beautifully ... So there is no longer an excuse for you NOT to read this book, except for the fact that you may despite my work. But if that's the case, you shouldn't even be reading this, and I suggest you go over to Dan's blog and bother him ...
Alright, we'll try and get to those Killer Bees next time ... Meanwhile, think about saving a tree while you're having a hard copy of SPACE CASE shipped to your house. You won't regret it, at least until it arrives ...
To begin with, when you're doing one of these entries, don't hit the tab button, because your cursor will somehow just disappear and it could be hours before you find it again. This time I was lucky, but next time I may not be ...
I'm very happy to report that my recent Blah-ugh!, which extoled (or extolled -- I'm not sure which it was now) the virtue of trees and chastized the heinous greed-centered practices of Connecticut Light & Power, may have done some little good to spread awareness and motivate change after all. (Please keep in mind that I'm telling you this not so much to brag -- although there is that element -- but to demonstrate my still-remaining potential to eventually show some worth, contrary to what some people -- (people like EJ and my wife) -- might otherwise think.) ...
Now where was I? You see, people think it's easy for me to write those intricate run-on sentences, but it's not, especially late at night, when I'm nauseous from overeating mangos and cream ...
Ah, yes!: The scoundrels at CL&P and Dan Woog ... No, no! Don't lump them together, for Dan is a noble soul -- the brains behind the notorious Westport-based blog called 06880, or Danwoog06880 -- something like that; it seems to keep changing. Anyway, Dan was -- once again -- kind enough to lend his ever-strengthening forum to one of my hissyfits -- this time this tree business. And now, thanks to his exposure (and nerve in even being associated with me on so many occasions), the tides of malicious tree destruction -- which is, after all, such a stupid brand of destruction -- may be getting assuaged, or at least curbed ... And while a good deal of credit should also go to my lovely neighbor, who took the time to rant and call the tree warden -- although not necessarily in that order -- there's a good chance she won't be reading this, so I'll emphasize that it was MY work that really broke things open. (My god, several people even called me the Lorax after Dan's piece was out, while usually they just say, "Hey asshole!")
Which reminds me that I was thinking of this terrific line in the movie Die Hard II, where Bruce Willis tells the great John Amos, "I thought you were an asshole?" and Amos replies, "Oh, I'm an asshole alright, but I'm YOUR KIND of asshole!"
This makes a lot of sense to me. (My god, is there ANYTHING that action/adventures movies CAN'T teach us?!) But now that I think of it, it made a lot more sense earlier, when I had some point in bringing it up relating to this woman who brings her dog to poop in the graveyard down the street from me ...
But I can tell you this: this whole experience has me thinking I should start using my Blah-ugh! forum for good instead of evil. And this in turn gets me to wonder what other wrongs around me I should focus my virulent energies in trying to make right. Probably it would be a campaign aimed at restricting dogs, or dog owners, who generally drive me crazy and let their dogs poop everywhere. I'm not sure Dan would support this effort, but he doesn't know everything. I don't think he has a dog, but for all I know his blog is sponsored by dog-related industries and, therefore, he may shy away from confronting certain dog-related topics because of politics and corruption. I'm surprised at Dan! I've always admired his work, especially when he writes about me, and while he's not quite the clever wordsmith I am -- I'm actually pretty sure at this point that no one is -- he's probably a much better reporter, and so I would hope he could maintain his objectivity where things like dog poop are concerned.
And that's a good transition to mention my novel SPACE CASE, which I believe Dan is reading and wholeheartedly enjoying at this very moment! Believe it or not, it is now available in hard copy at Amazon! (I can't even believe it, and I worked like a dog getting it up, if you'll forgive the awkward dirtiness of that image ...) Of course, I have to kudos my friend Tom Hughes for his tireless work in creating a new cover, and while I supplied the cartoons, he supplied the resentments and it all just melded beautifully ... So there is no longer an excuse for you NOT to read this book, except for the fact that you may despite my work. But if that's the case, you shouldn't even be reading this, and I suggest you go over to Dan's blog and bother him ...
Alright, we'll try and get to those Killer Bees next time ... Meanwhile, think about saving a tree while you're having a hard copy of SPACE CASE shipped to your house. You won't regret it, at least until it arrives ...
Saturday, May 5, 2012
The Dead & Me
May 5, 2012: I planned on doing a post about the Killer Bees, but then I saw this dead body on I-95 and I thought it might make a better Blah-ugh! (And yes, Space Case is still available ...)
Apparently this poor wretch jumped off the overpass just minutes before I got there, getting hit by three cars before settling in to his demise. Of course, I'm grateful I didn't hit him -- and would have, had I left a few moments earlier -- but as I zipped along in the left lane, I still almost ran over him, because he was lying half in the edge of the road. (His arm was severely twisted under his body, while his torn shirt showed a smattering of blood ... but I didn't get a terribly close look at him, and I didn't feel like stopping to study.)
The oddest part was seeing a body there with no police lights signifying the event. It was dark and the vehicles -- four of them -- were pulled over yards and yards past him. A few people were standing about there, dumbstruck, talking -- one man appeared to be smiling maniacally -- but no one was going near the guy. It was surreal, almost as if they didn't know he was there, or he were a squirrel ...
Of course, the event brought up memories of the time I found a dead woman on the way to work. She was just lying in her driveway, having had an asthma attack after a brisk walk that freezing morning. Her asthma inhaler was lying on the ground next to her, and her gloves were off and to the side. I was bleary-eyed as I traveled this back road in Redding, Connecticut, and I went yards and yards past the driveway before it fully registered that I'd just passed a woman lying there ...
After pulling over and running back, I found her there seemingly frozen. Her eyes were open and her mouth snarled in that gruesome rictus of death. (I finally have a reason to use the word "rictus" in an essay and I can't remember if I'm spelling it right.) I shook her and said, "Hey, lady!" (I didn't know what the hell else to do; it didn't even occur to me to do mouth-to-mouth resuscitation (and probably because I never would have had the nerve anyway!)) Anyway, by the time some other people pulled over, we all agreed she was dead and there was nothing left for us to do ...
My last death-related story -- at least to date -- involves the tour of the dead body I took with my doctor friend, which I recounted sparingly (yet exquisitely) in my now-famous Fray magazine article. I'll hope you enjoy it, if you haven't already ...
On another note, it may be time for me to relocate my Blah-ugh! As every company, business, software program, television show will do, this site -- which has been so good to me, I guess -- has decided to change everything for no good reason. (I'm reminded of the time Hunter Thompson told me, "If it works, don't fix it.") And now I'm struggling to get this stupid thing out and over the airwaves, and I don't feel like struggling.
Unfortunately, if I were to finally decide to create and maintain my own site, it would doubtless require more work, and I just don't know if I'm up to it ... And on still another note (EJ), it may be time for you to finally buy Space Case -- that book I wrote that no one is taking the time to write 20-word reviews for on Amazon (excepting blessed Kathy & Eric -- both of whom have the good taste I expect my Blah-ugh! readers to possess).
NEXT WEEK (or sooner): I really AM going to talk about Killer Bees ...
Apparently this poor wretch jumped off the overpass just minutes before I got there, getting hit by three cars before settling in to his demise. Of course, I'm grateful I didn't hit him -- and would have, had I left a few moments earlier -- but as I zipped along in the left lane, I still almost ran over him, because he was lying half in the edge of the road. (His arm was severely twisted under his body, while his torn shirt showed a smattering of blood ... but I didn't get a terribly close look at him, and I didn't feel like stopping to study.)
The oddest part was seeing a body there with no police lights signifying the event. It was dark and the vehicles -- four of them -- were pulled over yards and yards past him. A few people were standing about there, dumbstruck, talking -- one man appeared to be smiling maniacally -- but no one was going near the guy. It was surreal, almost as if they didn't know he was there, or he were a squirrel ...
Of course, the event brought up memories of the time I found a dead woman on the way to work. She was just lying in her driveway, having had an asthma attack after a brisk walk that freezing morning. Her asthma inhaler was lying on the ground next to her, and her gloves were off and to the side. I was bleary-eyed as I traveled this back road in Redding, Connecticut, and I went yards and yards past the driveway before it fully registered that I'd just passed a woman lying there ...
After pulling over and running back, I found her there seemingly frozen. Her eyes were open and her mouth snarled in that gruesome rictus of death. (I finally have a reason to use the word "rictus" in an essay and I can't remember if I'm spelling it right.) I shook her and said, "Hey, lady!" (I didn't know what the hell else to do; it didn't even occur to me to do mouth-to-mouth resuscitation (and probably because I never would have had the nerve anyway!)) Anyway, by the time some other people pulled over, we all agreed she was dead and there was nothing left for us to do ...
My last death-related story -- at least to date -- involves the tour of the dead body I took with my doctor friend, which I recounted sparingly (yet exquisitely) in my now-famous Fray magazine article. I'll hope you enjoy it, if you haven't already ...
On another note, it may be time for me to relocate my Blah-ugh! As every company, business, software program, television show will do, this site -- which has been so good to me, I guess -- has decided to change everything for no good reason. (I'm reminded of the time Hunter Thompson told me, "If it works, don't fix it.") And now I'm struggling to get this stupid thing out and over the airwaves, and I don't feel like struggling.
Unfortunately, if I were to finally decide to create and maintain my own site, it would doubtless require more work, and I just don't know if I'm up to it ... And on still another note (EJ), it may be time for you to finally buy Space Case -- that book I wrote that no one is taking the time to write 20-word reviews for on Amazon (excepting blessed Kathy & Eric -- both of whom have the good taste I expect my Blah-ugh! readers to possess).
NEXT WEEK (or sooner): I really AM going to talk about Killer Bees ...
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