Isaac Marion's Blog, page 8

Send Me Stuff

Hey friends. I recently got a P.O Box, which is similar to a normal household mailbox except that it's at the Post Office instead of my house, so anyone interested in murdering, raping, and/or pillaging me will find themselves murdering, raping, and/or pillaging the Post Office staff instead. Surprise!



The reason I'm telling you this is that having a P.O Box allows me to open my doors to FANDOM! Is there anything you've always wanted to send to me? Love letters? Hate letters? Anthrax-laced letters? Letters laced with newer, hipper, less cliche disease powders?

N00d pix?

Severed toes?

Books or other memorabilia which you feel would somehow gain value from having the initials of a heating-duct-installer-turned-debut-novelist Sharpied onto them?



Send all these things and more here:














PO Box 70565

Seattle, WA 98127







IMPORTANT NOTES!




Anything you want returned to you MUST  come with a self-addressed, pre-postaged return mailer to send it back in. Also, I'm sorry, but  I can only ship things within the US , as international shipping requires a whole lengthy process of customs forms and waiting in line and every time I go through it costs me 1 day of my lifespan. My apologies to all the beautiful people living in all the mysterious shadowlands outside America.




Thanks friends. I look forward to reading your letters, signing your books, eating your home-baked cupcakes, masturbating to your n00dz, and being injured by your mail-bombs.




-Isaac

EVEN WARMER

The most common question people ask me about Warm Bodies is, "When is the sequel?" I've been hearing that question for over two years now, and it's a strange one. Why would people assume I'm writing a sequel? The vast majority of books don't have sequels. Do they figure that because I wrote a book about zombies, I must be a crass commercialist who wants to stretch out his one hit as long as possible? Cash in and milk the teat dry? I thought about all the writers who have influenced me--people like Cormac McCarthy, Douglas Coupland, Kurt Vonnegut, Chuck Palahniuk, Kazuo Ishiguro, David Mitchell, Dave Eggers, Joseph Heller, J.D Salinger, Charlie Kaufman, Jeanette Winterson, Jonathan Lethem, Chris Adrian, Stephen King--and noted that King is the only one who ever wrote a sequel. And even he only did it twice in a 50-book career.



Clearly, there is something uncool about writing sequels. None of the writers whose careers I hope to emulate have done it--in serious literary circles, it just isn't done.



The thing is, I am writing a sequel.



I can see the reactions now: some smiles, some furrowed brows, some eye-rolls. People have urged me not get stuck in a rut, to move on and explore new territory, because as the above-mentioned Jeanette Winterson put it, "Sequels are for when a writer runs out of ideas."



I have not run out of ideas. I have more ideas than I'll ever be able to write, three of which already have their first chapter written. But as much as I'm pawing the ground to dive into those stories, here's why I'm staying in R and Julie's world a little longer: their story isn't finished.



I wrote Warm Bodies having only the faintest hope that it would ever see publication. I never dreamed that I'd have the opportunity to continue the story in another book, so I tried to make it self-contained. But in my head, I still went ahead and created a big, complex world full of history and mystery and people and monsters and strange things in-between, all moving toward something only hinted at in Warm Bodies' brisk 256 pages. Those pages end with hope on the horizon, but the world that R, Julie, M, Nora, Rosso, and Perry inhabit is still very dark, very wild, and not even close to "saved."



I love that world. I love those people, and I want to show you what happens to them. So I'm writing another book about them. Another book-and-a-half, actually...but I'll explain that later. For now, just trust that I have a story to tell and a reason to tell it, and I'll try my best not to ruin everything.



I love you people. Thanks for being alive.



-Isaac

Jack

When is Jack in the Box going to delve into the nature and origins of the creature they call “Jack”? His wife is human, but his son is…like him. So whatever Jack is, we know he can pass on his traits to his offspring, which would make him a biological life form. But the improbability of that head—no functional mouth or sensory organs—combined with the way his voice is distant and muffled suggests a man locked inside a giant plastic helmet, ala The Man in the Iron Mask. And his son? Could Jack have inflicted the same imprisonment on his son at birth as some kind of twisted stamp of paternity, knowing it's the only way he'll ever find another human being who can relate with him? What about his wife? Is she his prisoner too? Or is he hers?

Art Show!

Back in 2003 A.D, when I was a frustrated, 21-year-old starving artist struggling to figure out who I was and what I was doing with my post-cult life, I was invited to do an art show at Western Washington University's gallery. In addition to my paintings, some of which you can see on this blog, I created a video installation which was projected on a wall and, in my opinion, really tied the room together.



I just recently unearthed the DVD of this video, and I wanted to share it with you folks. It's crude stuff, and very lo-fi video quality, having been created on late-90s software and moved carelessly back and forth between many file formats and I believe at one point, run through a VCR? For some reason? But somehow it still holds a fascination for me, and if you're a really die-hard fan of my writing and art styles and also very patient, you might find some pleasure in it.

APPLE CARE

I just had a truly astounding experience with Apple tech support.



I called with a Mac OS question; I won't bore you with the details. I had been scouring the internet for hours trying to find answers to this question, wasn't finding anything, so I finally resorted to calling in. I had never talked to Apple tech support before, but I naturally assumed that I would be speaking to a highly trained expert on Apple products who would know the ins and outs of all the software and be able to quickly direct my ignorant layman ass to the answers.











But it turns out--I'm still trying to wrap my head around this--their tech support is just a guy.















It's literally just...a guy. A regular guy like me, who doesn't know any more about Apple products than I do, digging through websites and public forums for tips from other regular guys!



He has no special training. There's no Apple Knowledge Cube for him to consult. It's just him and I on the phone, scouring the internet, finding the answers TOGETHER.



Isn't that wondrous?







This was our conversation, lightly paraphrased:







ME: Here's what I'm trying to do... [I explain my problem]



GUY: Ok, I have no idea what you're talking about but I'll be happy to help you with it. Let me just look up whatever you just said on Google...



ME: Wait...Google? Don't you like...know stuff?



GUY: Ok, I found something. I'm sending you a link to this article called [how to do something completely unrelated to my problem]



ME: Well, that doesn't really sound like it's related to my problem but you're an expert...right?



GUY: Now, follow all the steps listed in this article from some random dude's blog that I just found on the internet, essentially hacking Mac OS and reprogramming it from scratch.



ME: Wow, this is really complicated for a feature described as "automatic" on the big bright Apple homepage. Ok, I'll try it... Ok, that didn't work. And also, this doesn't seem to be related to the problem I described at all.



GUY: Really? Are you sure?



ME: Yeah, it says right in the title. It's...totally something else.



GUY: Really? Darn! (he really says "darn") Sorry I made you learn Pascal and reprogram the OS for nothing. Well, let me just browse a few more Tumblr posts from 2008 for information...



ME: Hey, is there maybe like a Mac OS expert I could talk to who would already know how to do this through actual knowledge and expertise? Like, in his actual brain?



GUY: (sounding hurt) Well...yes, I guess I could patch you through to a senior representative...



ME: Yes! Senior sounds good. Do that please, thanks.





[He puts me on hold to speak to the senior representative. After about 5 minutes, he comes back on]





GUY: Hey, while I was waiting for the senior rep, I found something new that might solve the problem...



ME: Oh really? Well that's great.



GUY: Yeah, so try this. Go ahead and [do the exact same process he just had me do.]



ME: Wait, I'm...are you serious? That's the exact thing we just did...



HIM: It is? Are you sure you [did the thing I totally just did]?



ME: Yeah, I...I can't tell if you're being serious right now. But that's the exact process I just went through, step by step, live on the phone with you.



HIM: Really? Darn! (he really says this) Ok, well let me put you back on hold.





[Finally, the Senior Representative answers. He sounds sharp and competent. I feel like my ordeal might finally be over.]





SENIOR: Hi, what seems to be the problem?



ME: [I explain what I'm trying to do]



SENIOR: Oh, that's not a problem, that's just how the OS works. There's no way you can do what you're trying to do, despite all the ads for the OS that totally, explicitly say you can do what you're trying to do.



ME: Really?



SENIOR: I'm afraid so. Also, fuck you.



ME: Darn...

Zombies Young and Old

A lot of you folks have been complaining about how "clean" Nicholas Hoult looks as R the zombie in the upcoming genre-bending horroromcom "Warm Bodies". You point to pictures of R's grey, veiny, black-lipped visage and declare "This is not what a zombie looks like!" You then point to pictures of oozing, desiccated lumps of maggoty flesh and declare, "This is what a zombie looks like!"









"THIS!"














"NOT THIS!"




I think you may be confused about how decomposition works. In order to help you understand this process, I'd like you to do a little experiment with me. Are you ready? Okay.



First, kill yourself.



Now, look in the mirror. Are your lips rotted completely off? Do you have yellow pus seeping out of your eye sockets? Are you missing the lower half of your body?



No. You still look pretty normal, right?



Ok, now wait a week and look again.



Are your guts pouring out of your stomach yet? Or are you just looking a little pale? If you're a handsome young Englishman with excellent bone structure, perhaps you look a little like Nicholas Hoult in the upcoming satirical zombie drama, "Warm Bodies". Lucky you!



Okay, now wait about a month. Your hair should be starting to fall out by now and you probably have some nasty stuff happening on your skin. Are you starting to look a little more like a "REAL" zombie now? A zombie that's been a zombie for a very long time? Good! You just demonstrated some of the different stages of human decomposition. It's a shame you aren't imbued with the unknown mystical forces that cause a corpse to get up and continue living, because then maybe you'd be a little better preserved and possibly even handsome. But oh well! At least you learned something.





.

GOOD KISSERS

I wonder how it is that people develop such wildly different kissing styles. Some people open their mouths wide like a Moray eel and swallow your whole face—lips, chin, nose and all. Some people thrust their tongue down your throat like they wish it was a penis. Some people keep their lips firmly sealed and push hard against your face like a mannequin, smashing your lips against your teeth and forcing you to pull back to avoid bloodshed. And some people balance it all perfectly and move and dance around your mouth and inside it and touch nerves against nerves just enough to set off sparks without drowning them. You can spend hours on first base with these people. You can leave without ever getting past their clothes and still walk home wearing the grin of the just-fucked.



Why is it that some people learn this and some don’t? One might think it’s a matter of experience, but I’ve known 17-year-olds who kiss like oiled sex and 36-year-olds who kiss like cold beef. Even more intriguing: everyone I’ve known who’s bad at kissing is also not very good at living. Bitterness, phobias, deep-seated traumas and mental distortions, underdeveloped personalities. Science says we evolved kissing as a way to read the health of our mates through their smells and tastes. Could the style of the kissing itself, the passion and grace or lack thereof, be an expression of the soul’s health in the same way the smells and tastes are an expression the body’s?

PASTOR WORLEY, HOMOSEXUALITY, AND LOOKING THE OTHER WAY

Somewhere in North Carolina, a Christian pastor preached that he would like to see homosexuals rounded up and put in cages.



It's no surprise that this caused some controversy, but really, why is this so shocking? Are we all not well aware of the mainstream Christian view on homosexuality? If this has gotten a little hazy and obfuscated in recent years, let's review:






Leviticus 20:13
"If a man practices homosexuality, having sex with another man as with a woman, both men have committed a detestable act. They must both be put to death, for they are guilty of a capital offense."





Romans 1:26-27
Even the women turned against the natural way to have sex and instead indulged in sex with each other. And the men, instead of having normal sexual relations with women, burned with lust for each other. Men did shameful things with other men, and as a result of this sin, they suffered within themselves the penalty they deserved.




1 Corinthians 6:9-11
Don't you realize that those who do wrong will not inherit the Kingdom of God? Don't fool yourselves. Those who indulge in sexual sin, or who worship idols, or commit adultery, or are male prostitutes, or practice homosexuality, or are thieves, or greedy people, or drunkards, or are abusive, or cheat people-none of these will inherit the Kingdom of God. 




1 Timothy 1:8-10
Now we know that the law is good, if one uses it lawfully, understanding this, that the law is not laid down for the just but for the lawless and disobedient, for the ungodly and sinners, for the unholy and profane, for those who strike their fathers and mothers, for murderers, the sexually immoral, men who practice homosexuality, enslavers, liars, perjurers, and whatever else is contrary to sound doctrine.








That there is the Bible, folks. The Word of God and ultimate moral authority for Christians, the lens by which they are commanded to view the world. And that's not just the crazy Old Testament that no one really listens to anymore, that's the Apostle Paul, author of the majority of Christian doctrine, just preachin' the gospel and givin' it to us straight.




So, it's pretty clear what the official Christian stance is, right? How could these verses possibly be misconstrued? They're not subtle. These are not translation issues. Homosexuality is a sin, placed in the same sentence as murder. And God hates sin, so therefore God hates everything homosexuals do in their romantic lives, from flirty smiles to anal penetration to loving, committed relationships.




Right?




Right?




Okay.




So why is there such an uproar over Pastor Charles Worley's comments? Isn't he just dramatically articulating the very same view that most pastors are silently thinking? Yes, his is an extreme expression of this view and very few Christians would approve of his choice of words, but what's the practical difference? It comes from the exact same belief: that being gay is wrong, and God hates it. Outside the murky waters of Lutheran and Episcopalian churches, which are officially supportive but internally conflicted, most Christian churches officially believe homosexuality is a sin. So who cares if they aren't always expressing it loudly or offensively? It's the thought that counts, right?




If anything, I respect pastors like Worley more for actually embracing the full implications of their belief system instead of trying to brush aside their brand's harsher aspects in order to appeal to a wider audience. I absolutely disagree with him, I absolutely think he's a chieftain of a backward, primitive tribe, but at least he's not nervously avoiding the stance his religion actually, officially, takes.




I ask what's worse? Embracing a religion full of repugnant beliefs and acting on them with sincere conviction? Or embracing a religion full of repugnant beliefs and politely pretending they aren't there?
















Note: I write this from the perspective of someone who was born and raised in Christianity, attended church twice a week in a variety of denominations, read the Bible cover-to-cover dozens of times, was a pastor's son and a pastor's brother-in-law, served as a worship leader, wrote worship songs, and didn't break away from any of this until I was 21. I know of what I speak.

Giant Living Room

Hey friends, tomorrow at 8:00 I'll be joining the famous Sean Nelson (singer of Harvey Danger) the infamous John Roderick (singer of The Long Winters, Seattle Weekly columnist, Twitter star) and writer/poets Mark Baumgarten and Elaina Ellis for a unique storytelling party at the Fremont Abbey. There will be lively readings, witty banter, comfortable couches, and beery beer.



http://strangertickets.com/events/4889439/giant-living-room

A LIST OF BAD THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO ME TODAY

I have been experiencing a bit of the writer's block recently, so I decided to hop in my trusty 1977 GMC Motorhome and get out of town for a few days. Somewhere nice and remote where I can write undisturbed by all those invitations to parties and offers of deep, rewarding friendship that don't actually happen but the prospects of which still distract me. I decided the perfect place was a tiny mountain town called Winthrop, and I would drive there first thing in the morning.



Here's how reality unfolded for me:





1. I drive from Seattle to my hometown of Mt Vernon where the RV is parked on a friend's lawn. I discover that the friend's lawn is extremely soft, and the RV is hopelessly mired in the mud lurking under the grass. I spend literally an hour rocking back and forth, wedging things under the tires, spewing mud into the air and tracking it all over my carpets until I'm finally able to find a shovel and dig little slopes behind the tires so I can escape the pits the tires have dug. (sorry, friend's yard...)



2. It's now around noon, but I'm finally on the road to Winthrop! Huzzah! Yet something is puzzling me. Every time I try to put my destination into my phone or GPS, it gives me an insane detour route that brings the trip length from 1 hour to 5 hours. Assuming the GPS is just buggin', I continue on my way. But no. I am a man and the GPS is a machine, and I must learn to submit to its superior wisdom. The major highway that leads through the mountains to Winthrop is CLOSED. Just...closed. Like closed-for-the-season closed. Like just-go-somewhere-else closed. Like fuck-you closed.



3. So...I guess I'm not going to Winthrop. Need to make a plan B. I head West. I had planned on a weekend embedded in the comforting embrace of the deep mountains, but instead I find myself on a ferry over the Puget Sound--the OPPOSITE of being in the mountains. I eventually make my way to Port Gamble, a tiny little blip of civilization in the middle of a lot of open highway. It'll do! I decide to stop there but...hmm...there is literally nowhere to stop. No hotels, no RV parks, not even a couple residential streets on which to park my ass. (which is what I usually do when RV traveling.) It's getting dark now.



4. I keep driving, hoping to have better luck in the next town. I drive 15 minutes to the next town. It has nothing. I turn around, hoping to look a little harder and maybe find a hidden parking spot, but mostly just needing something to eat. All I've eaten all day is approximately 18 crackers. I'm starving. I saw a BBQ restaurant in Port Gamble. I'll go there. I go there. I park in their gravel parking lot. I approach the entrance.



5. There's a hand-written sign on the window that says SOLD OUT.



6. I go in and approach a waitress.

7. "What does sold out mean?"

8. "It means we're sold out."

9. "Of what? Like, the special or something?"

10. "Of food. All the food."

11. "So...this restaurant just doesn't serve food anymore? At 8:00pm on a Friday night?"

12. "Correct."



13. I leave in a huff. I try to pull out of the gravel parking lot. There is soft mud under the gravel. I'm stuck.



15. A few furious minutes later I've managed to free myself from the quicksand parking lot, leaving two deep, squishy ravines running through it. That'll teach this restaurant to run out of the sole reason they exist.



16. Ok ok. I'll go back into the "downtown" area to that place I saw earlier called BISTRO BY NIGHT. It looked pretty hoppin' when I passed it 20 minutes ago--



17. BOOM. CLOSED. 8:30 FRIDAY NIGHT. FUCK YOU, TRAVELER.



18. Ok fuck you Port Gamble. I'm parking right here in the middle of your touristy little waterfront street. I will accept your ticket. I will ignore your sheriff's knock on my window. I will sit here and eat my 19th-35th cracker for dinner and write a gripping log of my travails. A travailogue, if you will.



19. But...new personal record for most fails in a single day? It was all worth it.