MaryJanice Davidson's Blog, page 6
November 22, 2012
Cranberries Hate Me, And Now I Hate Them
Followers of this blog will know that some sort of food-related disaster almost always strikes me at Thanksgiving. If I was superstitious, and more self-centered, I'd assume the spirit of Thanksgiving is trying to demonstrate how my ancestors stole land they weren't entitled to when not giving Native Americans vermin-infested blankets for house-warming presents. House-warming presents for the homes the natives would eventually lose anyway to the douche bags who coughed on the blankets in the first place.
I know that's not true for a few reasons.
1) Thanksgiving isn't all about me. I'm self-centered, sure, but not pathologically so. I leave that to Betsy! The spirit of Thanksgiving has no reason to target me. (The spirit of Thanksgiving is like the ghost of Christmas past, except with turkeys.)
2) No one in my family made it to this country until the late 19th century/early 20th century. Not only did we never litter highways and make a Native American weep (in this case, a dry-eyed Italian American playing a weeping Native American), we never owned slaves. We couldn't: we not only missed the whole Civil War thing, we were too busy parking our cars on lawns beside our trailers so they could rust for decades, getting occasionally popped for a D&D (Drunk and Disorderly, or as my people called it, "Wednesday Night Fun Time"), and generally being as white trash as it was possible to be. We couldn't have focused all our energies on that and buying slaves while repressing Native Americans. It's exhausting to even think about.
Still, food-related weirdness happens to me on Thanksgiving. Which brings me to all the things we're not supposed to bring up in chat rooms and the like. Most of us know there are topics that are absolutely taboo: religion, abortion, a war (any war), politics, and, of course, canned cranberry sauce vs. homemade.
I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to talk it. Taboos, away! We are strictly canned cranberry people. (We're also strictly Stove Top stuffing people, but that's a whole other thing.) I had never seen a cranberry in the wild until I was in my twenties, and could never have picked one out of a line-up. ("Yeah, the shifty-eyed blackberry next to the little red berry I don't recognize. He stole my purse!") So my first Thanksgiving in New England was a shock. Not one, not two, but three kinds of homemade stuffing...one with sausage and one with oysters. Oysters! Sweet potatoes...without marshmallows! And multiple kinds of cranberry sauce...and not a single one of them looked like a can. Where was the deep red can-shaped wiggling cranberry jelly that made Thanksgiving? What the hell was wrong with these Communist pinko weirdos?
Well, after my nervous breakdown had passed and my sisters-in-law had combed all the non-Stove Top stuffing out of their hair, we managed to settle down and enjoy a weird weird weird Thanksgiving dinner.
Fast forward a few years, Anthony and I were married and living in Minnesota. Knowing he was homesick for a Cape Cod Thanksgiving, I made oyster stuffing. (Would not. Budge. On the cranberry jelly issue.) Which he ate appreciatively, but kindly said that in the future, he preferred my Stove Top version. "It's just...better," he mused. "I can't put my finger on why." I could! He was getting away from his weird weird weird Communist pinko weirdo roots. I was slowly saving him from oyster stuffing and non-can-shaped cranberry sauce!
Fast forward several more years, to yesterday, in fact. We were up at our cabin in Wisconsin, knowing our daughter would leave for college next year, knowing it was inevitable, knowing that even if she visited for Thanksgiving, it wouldn't be the same. We'd also had to smooth some in-law feathers ("we" = my husband; I just sort of watched the e-mail kerfluffle in horrified fascination), and you know it's not a family holiday unless someone's annoyed about something, or someone. All this, weirdly, made me homesick for my husband's Communist pinko weirdo roots. So I did it. I made homemade stuffing for the second time in decades.
And...I made...homemade...cranberry jelly. For the first time in ever.
And it was so, so horrible. Not the taste. The process. Oh God, the process. It took forEVER. And I suspected nothing when I made note of the recipe in the latest Martha Stewart Living. (It wouldn't be the first time that sly bitch tricked me into putting more effort in my cooking.) The recipe was a smooth jelly...a must for our family. If it can't be the can, it's at least got to be smooth and lump-free. This version wasn't just smooth, one of the ingredients was maple syrup. Maple syrup! Super duper New England-ey! And best of all, my parents had given me a copper fish jelly mold a few years ago (I collect copper cookie cutters. And egg cups. I cannot explain why.) so I even had a mold ready to go.
Okay! Ready! I knew I had to make it the night before, since it had to sit and solidify for 8 hours or overnight. Having zero interest in getting up at 8:00 a.m. and making non-can cranberry jelly, the night before it was. And thinks went pretty smoothly until it came time to smush the cranberries.
Ugh, ugh, ugh. I'd bought a potato ricer (another tip from Ms. Stewart...I really think she might have it in for me personally) but it was small...it would only smoosh half a cup of the sauce at a time. And I found out it I squeezed too hard, cranberries went everywhere, which is how I discovered it's really hard to get cranberries out of the hinges of my glasses. Squeeze, squirt, curse. That's how it went. For a long time. And when I'd scrape the squeezins' into a bowl, the parts of the ricer would flip back and forth, so cranberries were everywhere. It was a reply of the Psycho shower scene, complete with red goo and horrified screams. I eventually gave up on the ricer and grabbed my meat tenderizer, which weighs about nine pounds.
"Mom, can I use your laptop?"
"Go away. I mean, yes."
"For how long?"
"Go away. I mean, until after I have my bath."
"When's your bath?"
"When this GODDAMN CRANBERRY JELLY IS IN ITS MOLD IN THE FRIDGE AND IS SHUTTING UP!"
"...are you okay?"
"Yes."
My son kindly came to my aid, and quite liked mashing cranberries with the tenderizer. "This is fun!"
"It's not, but okay."
"I think it's gonna taste really excellent."
"It could be the best thing you ever put in your mouth, but I'm still not making it again." Never before had I appreciated what the cranberry canners must go through! Cranberry canners of America: I am so sorry. Tonight I gave thanks for you.
(You know it's time to take a step back and consider surrender when you're thinking, "You know what I would rather be doing right now? Debating abortion, war, religion, and politics on the Internet.")
Finally, into the greased mold it went. Which is when I noticed the mold was just a bit off-center, so that if I filled it all the way, precious cranberry juice would run out on the counter. After the hour of wringing every drop I could out of 24 ounces of fresh cranberries, I was unwilling to let even a speck go to waste.
"Tony! Come help me."
"Aww." My husband ambled good-naturedly into the kitchen. "I was gonna go lie down and take a nap to prepare for going to bed."
"Come here and help me before I kill all of you all of you all of you!"
Whoosh! There he was. He can move when he wants. "Okay, uh, what are you doing, exactly?"
I explained. We experimented with a few things, and finally realized that if we set the cranberry mold on (ironically) my Martha Stewart magazine and a pot holder, it would remain level and I could get all the juice in. Which is why the turkey, the cranberry jelly, the milk, the vegetables, the pies, and the November 2012 issue of Martha Stewart Living magazine chilled overnight in my fridge.
One last fast-forward, my very appreciative family is sitting down before the spread. "You made homemade stuffing and cranberry jelly?" my daughter asked, impressed.
"Sooo good," my son moaned around a mouthful of...well...everything. "Food coma. Going into food coma now."
"Oh, sweetie." I had based the turkey with apple cider and orange juice, which made the skin crispy and the gravy a bit tangy. "Oh, sweetie" was all my husband could manage.
But they were also apologetic: "I'm sorry, Mom."
"I understand."
"It's just..."
"I know. It's okay. I'm not mad."
"It's just that it's sooooo good," my teenagers groaned, sucking down cranberry jelly like it was mother's milk. Actually, if memory serves, with way more enthusiasm than they ever greeted mother's milk.
"It's so cranberry-ey and maple-ey."
"And it's in the shape of a fish!"
"We're sorry, but it's really fantastic."
"So good."
"I hate to help them gang up on you," my husband sighed, "but it's really really good."
"We'll make it next year," the kids promised. "You won't have to do a thing. Except, uh, the rest of the meal."
I smiled, because the reason I'd gone to the trouble of making it from scratch in the first place was because I was already lonesome for the teen who hadn't left for college yet, and the teen who was showing in a hundred different ways that he, too, was growing up. We'll make it next year was the nicest thing they could have said, and it had nothing to do with never wanting to go near a fresh cranberry again. Because things change, and that's okay, but some things don't, and that's okay, too.
"So save the recipe," they begged, and I had to smile again.
"Don't worry about that," I replied. "The magazine's still in the fridge."
October 17, 2012
I Contaminate the Chippewa Valley Book Festival
I have the greatest job ever, not least because of all the books. And not just the ones I write. No, I get to travel, too. Incomprehensibly, sometimes people read my books and decide the immature twit who came up with Betsy, Fred, Shiro, King Al, and/or Olive the dog should come and speak at their bookstore/festival/class reunion/VFW conference/funeral. In the past couple of years I've seen San Diego, Melbourne, Gainesville, Orlando, St. Louis, Columbus, Daytona, Omaha, Dallas, Atlanta, Louisville, and Paris. This weekend I'm speaking at the Chippewa Valley Book Festival, which is hosted by another city named and settled by French explorers: Eau Claire, Wisconsin!
The book festival has been going on for over a decade, and I'm psyched to be a part of it. Except for a couple of meals-with-authors events, the speeches, seminars, readings, and the like are free. And needless to say, there will be books everywhere. I'll be speaking at 3:30 p.m. Saturday, and the festival goes through Sunday. For more deets, check out: www.cvbookfest.org, or call 715-839-5004.
By the time the good people running the festival realize asking me to speak was a gross error, I'll have absconded with free books, hotel soap, and all the pudding I can swipe from the buffet. You'd be amazed at how much pudding those little shampoo bottles hold. Mmm...shampoo pudding...
The book festival has been going on for over a decade, and I'm psyched to be a part of it. Except for a couple of meals-with-authors events, the speeches, seminars, readings, and the like are free. And needless to say, there will be books everywhere. I'll be speaking at 3:30 p.m. Saturday, and the festival goes through Sunday. For more deets, check out: www.cvbookfest.org, or call 715-839-5004.
By the time the good people running the festival realize asking me to speak was a gross error, I'll have absconded with free books, hotel soap, and all the pudding I can swipe from the buffet. You'd be amazed at how much pudding those little shampoo bottles hold. Mmm...shampoo pudding...
October 5, 2012
I Spoil Undead and Unsure with Spoilers That are Spoilery
Below is the flap copy for the latest Betsy book, UNDEAD AND UNSURE (June 2013). The good news is, you'll get an idea of the horrors I've planned for Betsy and the gang. The bad news: the copy gives away spoilers from UNDEAD AND UNSTABLE. So read at your own risk! Or don't. Either way: spoileriffic!
Also: spoilery, what with all the spoilers. So if you'd like to have spoilers for lunch, that's great and also, you'll get a serving of spoilers on the side. Mmm...spoilery.
One, two, three, four, get that spoiler off the floor! (Wait. That made NO sense.)
* * *
Gimme an S! Gimme a P! Gimme an O! Gimme an I! Gimme--oh, the hell with this. If you don't know spoilers are coming by now, I wash my hands of you. And my feet, too. Because that sounds like you really mean it. I predict, "I wash my feet of you!" will soon sweep the nation.
* * *
It’s no surprise to Betsy that her trip to Hell with her sister Laura landed them in hot water. Betsy isn’t exactly sorry she killed the Devil but it’s put Laura in a damnable position: assuming the role of Satan (she may not have the training but she looks great in red)—and in charge of billions of souls as she moves up in the world. Or is that down?
But Betsy herself is in an odd new position as well—that of being a responsible monarch suddenly in charge of all things more earth-bound: like her vampire husband Sinclair, who has gone from relieved to ecstatic to downright reckless now that he can tolerate sunlight. And if Sinclair isn’t enough to contend with, Betsy’s best friend Jessica is in her sixth (and hopefully last) trimester. Considering she’s been pregnant for eighteen months, she’s become a veritable encyclopedia of what not to expect when you’re expecting. Oh, the horror…
And speaking of growing pains, Betsy and Sinclair’s adopted little BabyJon is finally starting to walk. And if the increasingly unpredictable toddler is anything like his extended family, precisely where he’s headed is anyone’s guess.
Also: spoilery, what with all the spoilers. So if you'd like to have spoilers for lunch, that's great and also, you'll get a serving of spoilers on the side. Mmm...spoilery.
One, two, three, four, get that spoiler off the floor! (Wait. That made NO sense.)
* * *
Gimme an S! Gimme a P! Gimme an O! Gimme an I! Gimme--oh, the hell with this. If you don't know spoilers are coming by now, I wash my hands of you. And my feet, too. Because that sounds like you really mean it. I predict, "I wash my feet of you!" will soon sweep the nation.
* * *
It’s no surprise to Betsy that her trip to Hell with her sister Laura landed them in hot water. Betsy isn’t exactly sorry she killed the Devil but it’s put Laura in a damnable position: assuming the role of Satan (she may not have the training but she looks great in red)—and in charge of billions of souls as she moves up in the world. Or is that down?
But Betsy herself is in an odd new position as well—that of being a responsible monarch suddenly in charge of all things more earth-bound: like her vampire husband Sinclair, who has gone from relieved to ecstatic to downright reckless now that he can tolerate sunlight. And if Sinclair isn’t enough to contend with, Betsy’s best friend Jessica is in her sixth (and hopefully last) trimester. Considering she’s been pregnant for eighteen months, she’s become a veritable encyclopedia of what not to expect when you’re expecting. Oh, the horror…
And speaking of growing pains, Betsy and Sinclair’s adopted little BabyJon is finally starting to walk. And if the increasingly unpredictable toddler is anything like his extended family, precisely where he’s headed is anyone’s guess.
October 2, 2012
SISTERS IN CRIME Help Me Defile Another Library
For those of you in town for the MN Library Association annual meeting, tomorrow night I'll be in St. Paul at the James J. Hill Reference Library for Killer Cocktails, hosted by Sisters In Crime. I was delighted to be invited for several reasons, chiefly because there's gonna be booze and writers in the same room. Booze and writers! Sounds like the best buddy movie EVER. Oh, and we're also promoting books. Or something. Lots of prizes, lots of giveaways, lots of books, lots of booze. I kind of wish it was happening right now.
More deets from their website: Sisters in Crime will co-sponsor KILLER COCKTAILS at the 2012 Minnesota Library Association annual meeting in Saint Paul. Twin Cities Sisters in Crime members, come schmooze and talk books over cocktails and pizza with librarians from all over our fair state!When: Wednesday, October 3, 2012 @ 6:30 pm
Where: James J. Hill Reference LibraryPLEASE NOTE: THIS IS AN INVITATION-ONLY EVENT FOR MEMBERS OF THE MINNESOTA LIBRARY ASSOCIATION and TWIN CITIES SISTERS IN CRIME.
More gory details here: http://www.twincitysinc.org/event/kil...
More deets from their website: Sisters in Crime will co-sponsor KILLER COCKTAILS at the 2012 Minnesota Library Association annual meeting in Saint Paul. Twin Cities Sisters in Crime members, come schmooze and talk books over cocktails and pizza with librarians from all over our fair state!When: Wednesday, October 3, 2012 @ 6:30 pm
Where: James J. Hill Reference LibraryPLEASE NOTE: THIS IS AN INVITATION-ONLY EVENT FOR MEMBERS OF THE MINNESOTA LIBRARY ASSOCIATION and TWIN CITIES SISTERS IN CRIME.
More gory details here: http://www.twincitysinc.org/event/kil...
September 26, 2012
New cover for UNDEAD AND UNSURE
Got the cover today for book 12 of the UNDEAD series, hitting shelves (physical and virtual) in July 2013. I'm dazzled by the awesomness of it all! (Wait, is there another e in awesomness?) It doesn't hurt that purple is my favorite color. My only suggestion for a possible change would be to de-ruffle her top. But maybe I shouldn't discount the readers who visualize Betsy the Vampire Queen as one third sexy, one third badass, and one third French maid. Heh.
September 15, 2012
I Arrest Jesus Through My Characters
I've been pretty lazy about blogging lately, and rather than apologize I'm going to punish you with another book excerpt. The book excerpts tend to pop up as blogs when a) I'm feeling lazy, and b) when I'm on deadline.
This is from the book I'm just finishing--I've got some last edits and then off it goes to my poor editor, who will have to pretend it's not a godawful mess. But to give you some background, this is a random chapter from YOU AND I, ME AND YOU, the last book in my FBI trilogy. It's not spoiler-ey, but to give some background to those not familiar with the BOFFO books (Bureau Of False Flag Ops), the heroine(s), Cadence Jones, is an FBI agent and a multiple personality. She's tagging along on a routine arrest with two colleagues: Emma Jan Thyme and her partner, George Pinkman. Emma Jan suffers from mirrored misidentification syndrome (when you see your reflection and think it's an actual person following you around trying to kill you) and George is a sociopath. They're taking a break from tracking a serial killer to arrest Jesus Christ.
* * *
Luckily, Jesus was home.“Agent Thyme!” the son of God said, delighted. He instantly threw the door open wide and stepped back to usher us in. He was shirtless and wearing olive cargo pants. No socks; no shoes. A bold choice in December. Maybe Friday was Jesus’ laundry day. “I knew you were coming. ”'When ye come to appear before me, who hath required this at your hand, to tread my courts?’ You guys want a Pepsi or some hot chocolate or something?”“No, thank you.” Emma Jan checked for mirrors—she’d been to Jesus’ apartment before, so had a good idea of the interior—and came in; George and I were right behind her. “The time has come, Jesus.”“As I also knew. I told you, didn’t I?”“You did,” Emma Jan allowed. “You also told me your ex-wife, Trixie, murdered two of your apostles, dismembered their bodies in her bathtub, then poured lye over the whole mess and sent them...ah...” She pulled out her notebook. “’...howling and bubbling to Hell via the City of Minneapolis’s sewer system.’”Jesus beamed. “Yes, I did tell you that. And much more. No one wants a Pepsi?”“Remind me to steal her notebook,” George muttered in my ear. “I’ve gotta catch up on her reading.”Jesus’ apartment, a studio on Hennepin Avenue, walking distance to BOFFO’s building, in fact, was a case of what you see is what you get. We could see nearly every inch of living space. Emma Jan had had dealings there before, so the three of us were confident we could arrest and detain Jesus without much trouble. “Yes, well, the thing is, Jesus, they’re alive. Your apostles, uh...” Flip, flip through the notebook. “Floyd and Dabney. They’re totally fine. I got done interviewing them and confirming their identities a couple of hours ago.”“Exactly!” Jesus was beaming and—I’m sure it was a coincidence—at that moment a slash of sunlight fell into the apartment from the living room windows, right across his head, lighting up his dark blonde hair and making his almond eyes gleam. “I brought them back to life! Did I not say unto thee, Agent Thyme, ‘Floyd and Dabney are not dead, their sickness will not end in death, for I am the resurrection and the life, so don’t worry about a thing’?”“Anyway, they’re alive, and this isn’t the first time you’ve accused your ex of murders that never happened. Once under oath last month, during your divorce trial.”“They did happen. That skanky Jezebel is killing every bud of mine she can find. ‘The Son quickeneth whom He will.’ So you folks investigating murder can take a few years off. I’ve got this. I’ll just keep bringing ‘em back to life.”“And as we discussed earlier—“ Emma Jan continued with admirable doggedness.“Oh, now it comes!” Jesus said gleefully.“—you called the FBI and knowingly made false statements—”Either that or he’s a loon. Still, Jesus seemed like a nice guy, kind but not arrogant, firm in his convictions but not mega-pissy, secure in his divinity but not judgmental. Kind of how I’d want Jesus to really be, come to think of it. And his apartment was beautiful, all gleaming wood floors and big windows and ferns and futons and quilts. “—which is a crime and punishable by fine and/or imprisonment.” She took a breath. “Which is why we’re here.”“Worry not, Agent Thyme. I shall ask my Father to forgive you, for you know not what you do.”“I do know, actually.” Emma Jan was a tower of patience; it was pretty inspiring. Meanwhile, George was watching the scene like it was a play staged for his benefit, and I was starting to feel a little guilty about throwing Jesus in the clink. “And now we’ve got to place you under arrest.”“Ha! ‘I never knew you, depart from me, you workers of lawlessness.’ And don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.”“Now, Jesus, I know you don’t mean that.”“It’s true,” Jesus admitted. “And even if it wasn’t, it was disrespectful and I’m sorry. ‘He that is without sin among you’, and all that. I want to go. I have things to tell people. All people. I can’t do it from in here.” He looked around his small, neat studio apartment, full of sunshine and cuddly quilts and issues of InStyle and Food Network Magazine. The place smelled like toast. “It’s getting harder to leave.” “I’ll help you. And I’ve found some special people for you to talk to,” she continued gently. “I think they can help you with your work.”“Well then! ‘Straighten up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near’, Agent Thyme. I knew you’d want to hear the good news straight from me.” He glanced at George and me. “Oh, but I’m being rude! Hello. You work with Agent Thyme? I notice you’re not wearing white coats and carrying hypos.” He turned back to her. “I know what ‘special people’ is code for, Agent Thyme. I’m not crazy, but it’s okay if you think I am. ‘The end of all things is at hand; therefore be self-controlled and sober-minded for the sake of your prayers.’”“’Above all, keep loving one another earnestly,” George added, ‘since love covers a multitude of sins.’” He met my gape with a glare. “What? I read.”“I—I—I—“ Shiro’s gonna be so furious to have missed this! “I—George—you—?““Oh, shut up, Cadence.”“Now, now,” Jesus scolded. “Love your neighbor as yourself. Right now, young man.”‘Young man’ was interesting; Jesus didn’t look to be even ten years older than we were, maybe mid-thirties? Wasn’t he 33 when he died on the cross? Uh-oh. Emma Jan had been mentioning the case to us for the last few days; she didn’t know how old he was because he had no birth certificate on file. No nothing on file. Jesus was off the grid.He had blonde hair but almond-shaped eyes. His skin was a beautiful golden brown, and his hair tried to fluff itself into an Afro though it grew past his collar. He was a glorious mix of races, and obviously pretty intelligent. In the right environment, with the right—or wrong—brain chemistry, I could see how he could come to believe he was Jesus returned. I always figured Jesus would get his own reality show in order to put the good word out to the masses, but this was an interesting way to go, too. False statements on purpose? Deliberately bringing down federal heat? Was he trying for federal lock-up without the murder, theft, and/or terrorism that usually led to such accommodations?Who are you?“I am a thief,” he replied, startling me since I was 90% sure I hadn’t said that out loud. “I’m a liar. I am...an inveterate trouble-maker. I’m all of those and none of those. You know, like Mudd on Star Trek. He never tells the truth, so when he said he was lying, the android had a nervous breakdown. One of my favorite eps.”“I don’t know what inveterate means,” I confessed.“Chronic. Incurable.”“Like epilepsy?”“Like diabetes.”“Oh. I didn’t say ‘who are you’ out loud, right? Right.”He smiled at me; I could not recall ever seeing a kinder expression on a human face. “’A sword shall pierce through thy own soul also, that the thoughts of many hearts may be revealed’, my daughter. And you have many hearts. Don’t you?”“Um, okay,” I replied. If not for the smile, I would have decided to get extremely terrified. “Thanks, I guess.”“Fear not for me, my child. My father watcheth over me.” He held out his arms (Christ-like! All he needed was a cross.) and slowly turned until his back was to us.“Whoa.”His entire back, from the nape of his neck all the way to the waistband of his pants, was covered with a tattoo of a stern-yet-loving God, complete with long white robe, long white hair and beard, and kind-yet-stern eyes.“God!” I exclaimed, as weirded out as I was dazzled. It was a beautiful tattoo. And...were God’s eyes following me? It seemed like they were following me. “That’s...God.”“Yup.” “He’s got your back?” George guessed. “He’s absolutely got my back.” “So what’s it like, being insane?” “It’s working for me,” Jesus replied comfortably. “You’re one to talk,” I muttered, but George only shrugged, dazzled.After that there wasn’t much to do but read Jesus his rights and arrest him. He gave us no trouble, as we’d guessed; Jesus was delighted to be persecuted. “Now I can get on with my work,” he sighed happily as the cuffs clicked home.Once the son of God had been safety tucked into the system, George was so exuberant he hugged me, which was as loathsome as I always imagined it would be. “We have the fucking greatest jobs ever!”
This is from the book I'm just finishing--I've got some last edits and then off it goes to my poor editor, who will have to pretend it's not a godawful mess. But to give you some background, this is a random chapter from YOU AND I, ME AND YOU, the last book in my FBI trilogy. It's not spoiler-ey, but to give some background to those not familiar with the BOFFO books (Bureau Of False Flag Ops), the heroine(s), Cadence Jones, is an FBI agent and a multiple personality. She's tagging along on a routine arrest with two colleagues: Emma Jan Thyme and her partner, George Pinkman. Emma Jan suffers from mirrored misidentification syndrome (when you see your reflection and think it's an actual person following you around trying to kill you) and George is a sociopath. They're taking a break from tracking a serial killer to arrest Jesus Christ.
* * *
Luckily, Jesus was home.“Agent Thyme!” the son of God said, delighted. He instantly threw the door open wide and stepped back to usher us in. He was shirtless and wearing olive cargo pants. No socks; no shoes. A bold choice in December. Maybe Friday was Jesus’ laundry day. “I knew you were coming. ”'When ye come to appear before me, who hath required this at your hand, to tread my courts?’ You guys want a Pepsi or some hot chocolate or something?”“No, thank you.” Emma Jan checked for mirrors—she’d been to Jesus’ apartment before, so had a good idea of the interior—and came in; George and I were right behind her. “The time has come, Jesus.”“As I also knew. I told you, didn’t I?”“You did,” Emma Jan allowed. “You also told me your ex-wife, Trixie, murdered two of your apostles, dismembered their bodies in her bathtub, then poured lye over the whole mess and sent them...ah...” She pulled out her notebook. “’...howling and bubbling to Hell via the City of Minneapolis’s sewer system.’”Jesus beamed. “Yes, I did tell you that. And much more. No one wants a Pepsi?”“Remind me to steal her notebook,” George muttered in my ear. “I’ve gotta catch up on her reading.”Jesus’ apartment, a studio on Hennepin Avenue, walking distance to BOFFO’s building, in fact, was a case of what you see is what you get. We could see nearly every inch of living space. Emma Jan had had dealings there before, so the three of us were confident we could arrest and detain Jesus without much trouble. “Yes, well, the thing is, Jesus, they’re alive. Your apostles, uh...” Flip, flip through the notebook. “Floyd and Dabney. They’re totally fine. I got done interviewing them and confirming their identities a couple of hours ago.”“Exactly!” Jesus was beaming and—I’m sure it was a coincidence—at that moment a slash of sunlight fell into the apartment from the living room windows, right across his head, lighting up his dark blonde hair and making his almond eyes gleam. “I brought them back to life! Did I not say unto thee, Agent Thyme, ‘Floyd and Dabney are not dead, their sickness will not end in death, for I am the resurrection and the life, so don’t worry about a thing’?”“Anyway, they’re alive, and this isn’t the first time you’ve accused your ex of murders that never happened. Once under oath last month, during your divorce trial.”“They did happen. That skanky Jezebel is killing every bud of mine she can find. ‘The Son quickeneth whom He will.’ So you folks investigating murder can take a few years off. I’ve got this. I’ll just keep bringing ‘em back to life.”“And as we discussed earlier—“ Emma Jan continued with admirable doggedness.“Oh, now it comes!” Jesus said gleefully.“—you called the FBI and knowingly made false statements—”Either that or he’s a loon. Still, Jesus seemed like a nice guy, kind but not arrogant, firm in his convictions but not mega-pissy, secure in his divinity but not judgmental. Kind of how I’d want Jesus to really be, come to think of it. And his apartment was beautiful, all gleaming wood floors and big windows and ferns and futons and quilts. “—which is a crime and punishable by fine and/or imprisonment.” She took a breath. “Which is why we’re here.”“Worry not, Agent Thyme. I shall ask my Father to forgive you, for you know not what you do.”“I do know, actually.” Emma Jan was a tower of patience; it was pretty inspiring. Meanwhile, George was watching the scene like it was a play staged for his benefit, and I was starting to feel a little guilty about throwing Jesus in the clink. “And now we’ve got to place you under arrest.”“Ha! ‘I never knew you, depart from me, you workers of lawlessness.’ And don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.”“Now, Jesus, I know you don’t mean that.”“It’s true,” Jesus admitted. “And even if it wasn’t, it was disrespectful and I’m sorry. ‘He that is without sin among you’, and all that. I want to go. I have things to tell people. All people. I can’t do it from in here.” He looked around his small, neat studio apartment, full of sunshine and cuddly quilts and issues of InStyle and Food Network Magazine. The place smelled like toast. “It’s getting harder to leave.” “I’ll help you. And I’ve found some special people for you to talk to,” she continued gently. “I think they can help you with your work.”“Well then! ‘Straighten up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near’, Agent Thyme. I knew you’d want to hear the good news straight from me.” He glanced at George and me. “Oh, but I’m being rude! Hello. You work with Agent Thyme? I notice you’re not wearing white coats and carrying hypos.” He turned back to her. “I know what ‘special people’ is code for, Agent Thyme. I’m not crazy, but it’s okay if you think I am. ‘The end of all things is at hand; therefore be self-controlled and sober-minded for the sake of your prayers.’”“’Above all, keep loving one another earnestly,” George added, ‘since love covers a multitude of sins.’” He met my gape with a glare. “What? I read.”“I—I—I—“ Shiro’s gonna be so furious to have missed this! “I—George—you—?““Oh, shut up, Cadence.”“Now, now,” Jesus scolded. “Love your neighbor as yourself. Right now, young man.”‘Young man’ was interesting; Jesus didn’t look to be even ten years older than we were, maybe mid-thirties? Wasn’t he 33 when he died on the cross? Uh-oh. Emma Jan had been mentioning the case to us for the last few days; she didn’t know how old he was because he had no birth certificate on file. No nothing on file. Jesus was off the grid.He had blonde hair but almond-shaped eyes. His skin was a beautiful golden brown, and his hair tried to fluff itself into an Afro though it grew past his collar. He was a glorious mix of races, and obviously pretty intelligent. In the right environment, with the right—or wrong—brain chemistry, I could see how he could come to believe he was Jesus returned. I always figured Jesus would get his own reality show in order to put the good word out to the masses, but this was an interesting way to go, too. False statements on purpose? Deliberately bringing down federal heat? Was he trying for federal lock-up without the murder, theft, and/or terrorism that usually led to such accommodations?Who are you?“I am a thief,” he replied, startling me since I was 90% sure I hadn’t said that out loud. “I’m a liar. I am...an inveterate trouble-maker. I’m all of those and none of those. You know, like Mudd on Star Trek. He never tells the truth, so when he said he was lying, the android had a nervous breakdown. One of my favorite eps.”“I don’t know what inveterate means,” I confessed.“Chronic. Incurable.”“Like epilepsy?”“Like diabetes.”“Oh. I didn’t say ‘who are you’ out loud, right? Right.”He smiled at me; I could not recall ever seeing a kinder expression on a human face. “’A sword shall pierce through thy own soul also, that the thoughts of many hearts may be revealed’, my daughter. And you have many hearts. Don’t you?”“Um, okay,” I replied. If not for the smile, I would have decided to get extremely terrified. “Thanks, I guess.”“Fear not for me, my child. My father watcheth over me.” He held out his arms (Christ-like! All he needed was a cross.) and slowly turned until his back was to us.“Whoa.”His entire back, from the nape of his neck all the way to the waistband of his pants, was covered with a tattoo of a stern-yet-loving God, complete with long white robe, long white hair and beard, and kind-yet-stern eyes.“God!” I exclaimed, as weirded out as I was dazzled. It was a beautiful tattoo. And...were God’s eyes following me? It seemed like they were following me. “That’s...God.”“Yup.” “He’s got your back?” George guessed. “He’s absolutely got my back.” “So what’s it like, being insane?” “It’s working for me,” Jesus replied comfortably. “You’re one to talk,” I muttered, but George only shrugged, dazzled.After that there wasn’t much to do but read Jesus his rights and arrest him. He gave us no trouble, as we’d guessed; Jesus was delighted to be persecuted. “Now I can get on with my work,” he sighed happily as the cuffs clicked home.Once the son of God had been safety tucked into the system, George was so exuberant he hugged me, which was as loathsome as I always imagined it would be. “We have the fucking greatest jobs ever!”
August 28, 2012
New Chapter From UNDEAD AND UNDERWATER
Thought I'd post the first chapter from the novella INLANDER from my upcoming paranormal anthology. This is Lara Wyndham's first Change (she's a werewolf we've seen as a child in a couple of the UNDEAD books) where she meets Jack Gardner (Derik and Sara's son from DERIK'S BANE). It takes place 25 years in the future, after the horror of the Kardashian riots. This story was especially fun because we not only see Lara as an adult, we get to see what Betsy and Fred the mermaid are up to a quarter of a century from now. Enjoy! Or, you know. Not.
She was happy she’d been born during the worst winter Massachusetts had seen in decades—since 1994, the old-timers claimed. It wasn’t an absolute, but a cub’s first Change usually happened around their birthday. Which meant that in the thrill and passion and danger and chaos of her first Change, she didn’t have to worry about running into any of the 3.3 million tourists who flocked to Cape Cod in the summer and fall. Tourists didn’t have much interest in Massachusetts in mid-January, even the ferociously rude ones. More clams for meeeeeee, she thought gleefully, digging so hard the sand flew ten feet and hit hard enough to scratch glass (if there had been a glass sheet in the middle of the beach in the middle of January). The moon was full and soared above her, fat and white. The wind whistled off the Atlantic and chilled her, but not as much as it would have if she was down there in her tender pink skin and her pale hairless hands and her pale hairless feet. She wasn’t! So that was good! There was a time for hairless hands and a time for efficient strong paws and this was paw time. Excited beyond words (literally), Lara dug and dug for her dinner, the hole already so big if she wasn’t careful she’d slip on shifting sand and topple into it. She was not known for her grace, on four feet or two. Wouldn’t that be a funny thing for her Pack mates to see! Here is your future alpha-leader, the one whose hairy-butt is sticking out of that hole. Ha! Even if she didn’t get her teeth on the clams, in the clams, the act of hunting for her dinner was intoxicating. She would decide when and what to eat! Not Mother! She would decide if it was clams or rabbit or both or neither! Not Mother! She would blow off erosion concerns and decide how many holes to dig on the beach! Not the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution! She was thirteen; she wasn’t a baby-cub anymore. Those decisions should be hers, but her mother was sooooo stubborn. She was even stubborn about being stubborn. Double-stubborn!She can’t even Change she’ll never Change but Mother decides? It’s wrong-bad.But that was awful; worse, it was disloyal and mean. Her mother hadn’t been born to the Pack, but that was okay. She and Lara’s father had met on an elevator, and conceived Lara on that elevator, and that was okay; that was life in the big city. Her mother was the alpha female and thus the full fat moon of Lara’s days, if not her nights, and that was...sorta okay. Lara would owe Mother respect all the days she was the alpha female, and all the days after, when Lara herself was. And she wouldn’t be for years and years and years and years and years and it would be years-long it would be years-forever before she would lose her. Thoughts for thinking later. So many smells. Salt and wet and grass and rot and fish and cold and wood and a thousand others, each one begging to be followed to its source, each one calling her like chimes bringing her to church. She would keep digging for supper. No, she would run down the dead fish up the beach. No, she would dig. No, she would flush rabbits from the deep green lake of grass. No, she would dig. Why was she digging again? Oh. Supper-food. A seagull who thought he had dibs swooped above her and dove, then pulled up at the last instant. He soared above her and dove again, all the time scolding, scolding. Lara lunged straight up and her teeth snapped shut a bare inch from the gull’s left leg, startling it in mid call: Khee-khee-kheeaa—kheeaaaawwwwppp! Almost got you, gull-bird! More of that if you get too close! Might get you next time, might! Why was I digging—oh. Right. There had never been a more wonderful night in the history of forever.She was a lucky, lucky cub. She lived in a magnificent stone castle with a red roof, a castle with a mile of grass in front and a bazillion miles of the Atlantic behind. There were hundreds of windows she could peek out of, windows so big and wide that no matter how little she was, she could stretch up and peek out: at two, at four, at five, at seven, at ten, at twelve, now.It had many outdoor rooms where she and her Pack could eat or rest or eat, and even cook in the rooms and then eat in them, outdoor rooms protected from all but the yuckiest elements, outdoor rooms—She knew that was wrong; groped for the right word. She remembered almost everything on four legs that she’d experienced on two, but interpreted the events differently. So it took her a few seconds for the association to—porch! The castle had many porches. And three little oceans inside. Pools! If she couldn’t be in her wolf form all the time, it was nice to have a castle to run amok in the rest of the month. And the castle was stuffed with people, generations of relatives and friends and friends of friends; the Pack always tried to live together if territory would tolerate the numbers. Solitary living was death-pain for them.Then she saw him, and was glad. She wasn’t sure why watching the Inlander watch her made the night even better. They weren’t friends; they didn’t know each other except to nod hello. They couldn’t: his litter was made up of people who chose to live far from the bulk of the Pack; she didn’t know how they bore it. He’d know who she was, of course, but the poor cub couldn’t Change. Horrid legacy from the witch. Not his fault, but the other cubs disagreed. On wonderful wonderful nights like this he could only watch; never join. It was a sad, unlucky thing. She was sorry for him, but glad for herself. All her good luck—the castle, the rank, the Change—made his bad luck—his Inlander luck—seem worse. She was selfish enough to be glad it wasn’t her, and sorry enough that it was him.She was glad he was there now. She thought she’d want to go through her first Change alone, and until that moment she had. But being able to share the experience, even for a few moments, made it better. Did you see I almost got that noisy-stupid-smelly gull? Do you see how wide and wonderful-deep my hole is? She felt they knew each other, she and this neighbor she rarely saw and did not know. They stared at each other across the beach for a second-hour-year-eternity, and then he raised a hand to her and continued on his way, and she went back to digging for her supper. The clam was so sweet and delicious she didn’t mind the sand in her teeth.
She was happy she’d been born during the worst winter Massachusetts had seen in decades—since 1994, the old-timers claimed. It wasn’t an absolute, but a cub’s first Change usually happened around their birthday. Which meant that in the thrill and passion and danger and chaos of her first Change, she didn’t have to worry about running into any of the 3.3 million tourists who flocked to Cape Cod in the summer and fall. Tourists didn’t have much interest in Massachusetts in mid-January, even the ferociously rude ones. More clams for meeeeeee, she thought gleefully, digging so hard the sand flew ten feet and hit hard enough to scratch glass (if there had been a glass sheet in the middle of the beach in the middle of January). The moon was full and soared above her, fat and white. The wind whistled off the Atlantic and chilled her, but not as much as it would have if she was down there in her tender pink skin and her pale hairless hands and her pale hairless feet. She wasn’t! So that was good! There was a time for hairless hands and a time for efficient strong paws and this was paw time. Excited beyond words (literally), Lara dug and dug for her dinner, the hole already so big if she wasn’t careful she’d slip on shifting sand and topple into it. She was not known for her grace, on four feet or two. Wouldn’t that be a funny thing for her Pack mates to see! Here is your future alpha-leader, the one whose hairy-butt is sticking out of that hole. Ha! Even if she didn’t get her teeth on the clams, in the clams, the act of hunting for her dinner was intoxicating. She would decide when and what to eat! Not Mother! She would decide if it was clams or rabbit or both or neither! Not Mother! She would blow off erosion concerns and decide how many holes to dig on the beach! Not the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution! She was thirteen; she wasn’t a baby-cub anymore. Those decisions should be hers, but her mother was sooooo stubborn. She was even stubborn about being stubborn. Double-stubborn!She can’t even Change she’ll never Change but Mother decides? It’s wrong-bad.But that was awful; worse, it was disloyal and mean. Her mother hadn’t been born to the Pack, but that was okay. She and Lara’s father had met on an elevator, and conceived Lara on that elevator, and that was okay; that was life in the big city. Her mother was the alpha female and thus the full fat moon of Lara’s days, if not her nights, and that was...sorta okay. Lara would owe Mother respect all the days she was the alpha female, and all the days after, when Lara herself was. And she wouldn’t be for years and years and years and years and years and it would be years-long it would be years-forever before she would lose her. Thoughts for thinking later. So many smells. Salt and wet and grass and rot and fish and cold and wood and a thousand others, each one begging to be followed to its source, each one calling her like chimes bringing her to church. She would keep digging for supper. No, she would run down the dead fish up the beach. No, she would dig. No, she would flush rabbits from the deep green lake of grass. No, she would dig. Why was she digging again? Oh. Supper-food. A seagull who thought he had dibs swooped above her and dove, then pulled up at the last instant. He soared above her and dove again, all the time scolding, scolding. Lara lunged straight up and her teeth snapped shut a bare inch from the gull’s left leg, startling it in mid call: Khee-khee-kheeaa—kheeaaaawwwwppp! Almost got you, gull-bird! More of that if you get too close! Might get you next time, might! Why was I digging—oh. Right. There had never been a more wonderful night in the history of forever.She was a lucky, lucky cub. She lived in a magnificent stone castle with a red roof, a castle with a mile of grass in front and a bazillion miles of the Atlantic behind. There were hundreds of windows she could peek out of, windows so big and wide that no matter how little she was, she could stretch up and peek out: at two, at four, at five, at seven, at ten, at twelve, now.It had many outdoor rooms where she and her Pack could eat or rest or eat, and even cook in the rooms and then eat in them, outdoor rooms protected from all but the yuckiest elements, outdoor rooms—She knew that was wrong; groped for the right word. She remembered almost everything on four legs that she’d experienced on two, but interpreted the events differently. So it took her a few seconds for the association to—porch! The castle had many porches. And three little oceans inside. Pools! If she couldn’t be in her wolf form all the time, it was nice to have a castle to run amok in the rest of the month. And the castle was stuffed with people, generations of relatives and friends and friends of friends; the Pack always tried to live together if territory would tolerate the numbers. Solitary living was death-pain for them.Then she saw him, and was glad. She wasn’t sure why watching the Inlander watch her made the night even better. They weren’t friends; they didn’t know each other except to nod hello. They couldn’t: his litter was made up of people who chose to live far from the bulk of the Pack; she didn’t know how they bore it. He’d know who she was, of course, but the poor cub couldn’t Change. Horrid legacy from the witch. Not his fault, but the other cubs disagreed. On wonderful wonderful nights like this he could only watch; never join. It was a sad, unlucky thing. She was sorry for him, but glad for herself. All her good luck—the castle, the rank, the Change—made his bad luck—his Inlander luck—seem worse. She was selfish enough to be glad it wasn’t her, and sorry enough that it was him.She was glad he was there now. She thought she’d want to go through her first Change alone, and until that moment she had. But being able to share the experience, even for a few moments, made it better. Did you see I almost got that noisy-stupid-smelly gull? Do you see how wide and wonderful-deep my hole is? She felt they knew each other, she and this neighbor she rarely saw and did not know. They stared at each other across the beach for a second-hour-year-eternity, and then he raised a hand to her and continued on his way, and she went back to digging for her supper. The clam was so sweet and delicious she didn’t mind the sand in her teeth.
August 3, 2012
I Force Crime Upon My Readers
It's been weeks since I blogged; I apologize. It's been pretty quiet around here: Hammock hasn't been lurking behind the bear box, waiting to whisk me away to his lair, or eat me. Or whisk me then kill me. King Al and his consort visited for a few days, but my passive-aggressive campaign to drive him insane failed (I should have put it into action while he was actually sane), my little sister turned 40 (which was pretty inconsiderate of her, frankly) and I've been on deadline with UNDEAD AND UNDERWATER, my upcoming paranormal anthology. Below is the prologue for my novella about an aggravated super hero who fights crime by night, and by afternoon, and by lunch break, and sometimes by morning commute: SUPER, GIRL!
UNDEAD AND UNDERWATER will be unleashed in the spring, 2013. Never say you weren't warned.
* * *
As John Doe dived out of the bullet path—or where a bullet would go if he lingered—he had time to wonder: when did my life turn into a John Woo movie? Or a Road Runner cartoon? When my burglar parents named me John Doe so I’d have an automatic alias? This is all their fault: yes.It really did start out simply. Crime ran in his family, and marijuana is a gateway drug. How else to explain how he’d gone from amiable sleepy pot user to emaciated stressed pseudo-ruthless cokehead dealer? It was once again trendy to blame the parents for everything from bleeding ulcers to a life of crime, but he never had a chance.Dad: “There’s no point in trying to have a normal life. Rather than work hard and then throw it all away with reckless behavior, throw it all away while you’re still young. It’s the American dream!”Mom: “Also, we don’t think you’re smart enough for college.”High school guidance counselor: “Smart’s not the issue. You seem to have been genetically programmed for a life of crime. I wash my hands of you. And also any prospects I once had of making a name for myself in this field.”Okay, maybe going from occasional pot use to dealing coke was inevitable, but bullets flying past my nose? Sirens shrilling in the background? What is this, the 80s? How am I a cocaine dealer running from the St. Paul police? The only way this could get more terrible is if SHE shows up. He groaned silently, then began to wriggle further around the corner for more cover. And me without my pastel blazer and artfully mussed hair. Oh, the humanity! He sulked while he wormed his way to safety; as if all this wasn’t bad enough, most of the building was under construction, which meant traffic had been a bitch. He’d been told there was only one security guy at that hour, which was true. He was told the guard in question was a retired cop too pudgy and Minnesota-nice to pull his weapon, which was the opposite of true. He’d barely crossed the threshold into the coffee shop when the guy reached. I just have that kind of face, he acknowledged in despair. His gaze was naturally shifty. He had a tendency to pull in his shoulders when talking, as if awaiting a bullet, which happened a lot. Everybody had bullets. He didn’t walk, he scuttled. And, completing the genetic treason of his criminally-minded family, he had beady eyes: small, dark, squinty. He had looked like he was up to something in the crib, for God’s sake.Still: it took brass ones to turn one’s back on generations of family tradition. John Doe’s were made of fool’s gold, not brass. Ah, terrible analogy. Fool’s gold? Maybe you should stop thinking about your balls and find an exit.“Ah, very nice,” someone said behind him.John Doe flopped over on his back like a startled turtle. A turtle in the middle of committing several misdemeanors and at least two felonies. “Where’d you come from?”“The coffee shop next door.” The woman was looking down at him from a great height (at least to his perspective—he was five foot three) with an odd expression. It took him a moment to figure it out, because he was expecting fear or shock to show in her eyes and on her face, and that wasn’t happening. There were the crooks and there were the cops and there was everyone else. Everyone else either a) never noticed something was wrong, b) did notice and didn’t care, or c) noticed and were scared. The ones who noticed and didn’t care never engaged.So he needed a few seconds to name the expression. Annoyed, he decided. Like nearly walking through a cross-fire between an angry Minnesota-nice security guard and a convicted felon was going to inconvenience her. And let her coffee get cold; he saw she was holding a cardboard drink tray, with two steaming drinks in it. Yep: she didn’t want her coffee to get cold. Well, he was sorry, but he was going to have to inconvenience her. It wasn’t his fault. His parents had willfully named him John Doe. They never even apologized!“Listen, I need a—“ Meat shield? No; it wouldn’t do to freak her out more than she (probably) was. “—a hostage. Just to get off the block.” And out of the city. And then possibly the country. It was summer in Australia, right? He’d always wanted to see the Sydney Opera House. “I won’t hurt you. Unless the cops make me kill you. Hurt you! If the cops make me hurt you. Is what I meant.”“You are going to make me tardy, which I loathe.” She sounded pissy, not afraid. Which was...good? Hysterical hostages made everything harder. And noisier. “Inconsiderate thieving asshole,” she added.Asshole?She was striking—perhaps that was throwing him off. Tall, as he’d noted, with pale skin and small, close-set dark eyes. Not a blemish on her face, because the beauty mark hardly counted as a defect. Her hair was deep brown and a foil for the rest of her, like the color of the rich soil of a flower bed after it rained. “So, you know.” He climbed to his feet, one hand brushing his knees (the John Woo-esque dive through the doorway had shredded his chinos, and why didn’t they ever put that in the movies?) and the other on the piece-of-shit .38 his Gram-gram had given him for his bar mitzvah. “Oh I can’t believe my wittle baby is all growed up! Give Grammy some yum-yum kisses and then we’ll go shoot your gunny-gun!”Jeez, Gram, you couldn’t give me one of your ex husband’s decentguns? I was thirteen! I deserved a Desert Eagle at the least!“So, I’m sure you’ve watched TV so you know the drill.”“Stop now. Surrender. If your inept shenanigans do not make me much later I’ll try to refrain from beating you to death.”“Try?”“Try,” she repeated in a voice so icy he actually shivered despite the rivers of sweat in his armpits. Then she added something that was stranger than this already strange chat: “You haven’t left me a note, have you?”So sad to run into a drunk, and at this time of the morning. Society is the Titanic after the iceberg. He took a breath. “Listen, you’re not in charge here. I’m the one with the gunny-gun.” Ah, hell. Even from the grave you humiliate me, Grammy. “So you just get over here and then we’ll take a quick—what are you doing?”She had popped the top of the first steaming drink with her thumb, upended the thing, and sucked it down in three monster swallows. He winced and rubbed his throat in unconscious sympathy. Then she did the same with the second drink.“Hey, take it easy! Look, there’s no need to give yourself third degree throat burns just to avoid me taking...you...hostage...buh...nnnnhh?” Words failed him. Words had failed him because she was now eating the empty coffee cups—yes, she was biting off pieces of cup and chewing and gulping them down, and now she was—was she?—yes! Now she was eating the cardboard drink holder. And washing it down with the handful of nails she must have picked up at the construction site. She was gulping them down—three inch nails!—like they were gummy worms. “Oh my God! It’s you! You’re—““Do not,” she warned with a mouthful of casing nails.“—It Girl!”“Never say I didn’t warn you,” she said, and launched herself at him.
UNDEAD AND UNDERWATER will be unleashed in the spring, 2013. Never say you weren't warned.
* * *
As John Doe dived out of the bullet path—or where a bullet would go if he lingered—he had time to wonder: when did my life turn into a John Woo movie? Or a Road Runner cartoon? When my burglar parents named me John Doe so I’d have an automatic alias? This is all their fault: yes.It really did start out simply. Crime ran in his family, and marijuana is a gateway drug. How else to explain how he’d gone from amiable sleepy pot user to emaciated stressed pseudo-ruthless cokehead dealer? It was once again trendy to blame the parents for everything from bleeding ulcers to a life of crime, but he never had a chance.Dad: “There’s no point in trying to have a normal life. Rather than work hard and then throw it all away with reckless behavior, throw it all away while you’re still young. It’s the American dream!”Mom: “Also, we don’t think you’re smart enough for college.”High school guidance counselor: “Smart’s not the issue. You seem to have been genetically programmed for a life of crime. I wash my hands of you. And also any prospects I once had of making a name for myself in this field.”Okay, maybe going from occasional pot use to dealing coke was inevitable, but bullets flying past my nose? Sirens shrilling in the background? What is this, the 80s? How am I a cocaine dealer running from the St. Paul police? The only way this could get more terrible is if SHE shows up. He groaned silently, then began to wriggle further around the corner for more cover. And me without my pastel blazer and artfully mussed hair. Oh, the humanity! He sulked while he wormed his way to safety; as if all this wasn’t bad enough, most of the building was under construction, which meant traffic had been a bitch. He’d been told there was only one security guy at that hour, which was true. He was told the guard in question was a retired cop too pudgy and Minnesota-nice to pull his weapon, which was the opposite of true. He’d barely crossed the threshold into the coffee shop when the guy reached. I just have that kind of face, he acknowledged in despair. His gaze was naturally shifty. He had a tendency to pull in his shoulders when talking, as if awaiting a bullet, which happened a lot. Everybody had bullets. He didn’t walk, he scuttled. And, completing the genetic treason of his criminally-minded family, he had beady eyes: small, dark, squinty. He had looked like he was up to something in the crib, for God’s sake.Still: it took brass ones to turn one’s back on generations of family tradition. John Doe’s were made of fool’s gold, not brass. Ah, terrible analogy. Fool’s gold? Maybe you should stop thinking about your balls and find an exit.“Ah, very nice,” someone said behind him.John Doe flopped over on his back like a startled turtle. A turtle in the middle of committing several misdemeanors and at least two felonies. “Where’d you come from?”“The coffee shop next door.” The woman was looking down at him from a great height (at least to his perspective—he was five foot three) with an odd expression. It took him a moment to figure it out, because he was expecting fear or shock to show in her eyes and on her face, and that wasn’t happening. There were the crooks and there were the cops and there was everyone else. Everyone else either a) never noticed something was wrong, b) did notice and didn’t care, or c) noticed and were scared. The ones who noticed and didn’t care never engaged.So he needed a few seconds to name the expression. Annoyed, he decided. Like nearly walking through a cross-fire between an angry Minnesota-nice security guard and a convicted felon was going to inconvenience her. And let her coffee get cold; he saw she was holding a cardboard drink tray, with two steaming drinks in it. Yep: she didn’t want her coffee to get cold. Well, he was sorry, but he was going to have to inconvenience her. It wasn’t his fault. His parents had willfully named him John Doe. They never even apologized!“Listen, I need a—“ Meat shield? No; it wouldn’t do to freak her out more than she (probably) was. “—a hostage. Just to get off the block.” And out of the city. And then possibly the country. It was summer in Australia, right? He’d always wanted to see the Sydney Opera House. “I won’t hurt you. Unless the cops make me kill you. Hurt you! If the cops make me hurt you. Is what I meant.”“You are going to make me tardy, which I loathe.” She sounded pissy, not afraid. Which was...good? Hysterical hostages made everything harder. And noisier. “Inconsiderate thieving asshole,” she added.Asshole?She was striking—perhaps that was throwing him off. Tall, as he’d noted, with pale skin and small, close-set dark eyes. Not a blemish on her face, because the beauty mark hardly counted as a defect. Her hair was deep brown and a foil for the rest of her, like the color of the rich soil of a flower bed after it rained. “So, you know.” He climbed to his feet, one hand brushing his knees (the John Woo-esque dive through the doorway had shredded his chinos, and why didn’t they ever put that in the movies?) and the other on the piece-of-shit .38 his Gram-gram had given him for his bar mitzvah. “Oh I can’t believe my wittle baby is all growed up! Give Grammy some yum-yum kisses and then we’ll go shoot your gunny-gun!”Jeez, Gram, you couldn’t give me one of your ex husband’s decentguns? I was thirteen! I deserved a Desert Eagle at the least!“So, I’m sure you’ve watched TV so you know the drill.”“Stop now. Surrender. If your inept shenanigans do not make me much later I’ll try to refrain from beating you to death.”“Try?”“Try,” she repeated in a voice so icy he actually shivered despite the rivers of sweat in his armpits. Then she added something that was stranger than this already strange chat: “You haven’t left me a note, have you?”So sad to run into a drunk, and at this time of the morning. Society is the Titanic after the iceberg. He took a breath. “Listen, you’re not in charge here. I’m the one with the gunny-gun.” Ah, hell. Even from the grave you humiliate me, Grammy. “So you just get over here and then we’ll take a quick—what are you doing?”She had popped the top of the first steaming drink with her thumb, upended the thing, and sucked it down in three monster swallows. He winced and rubbed his throat in unconscious sympathy. Then she did the same with the second drink.“Hey, take it easy! Look, there’s no need to give yourself third degree throat burns just to avoid me taking...you...hostage...buh...nnnnhh?” Words failed him. Words had failed him because she was now eating the empty coffee cups—yes, she was biting off pieces of cup and chewing and gulping them down, and now she was—was she?—yes! Now she was eating the cardboard drink holder. And washing it down with the handful of nails she must have picked up at the construction site. She was gulping them down—three inch nails!—like they were gummy worms. “Oh my God! It’s you! You’re—““Do not,” she warned with a mouthful of casing nails.“—It Girl!”“Never say I didn’t warn you,” she said, and launched herself at him.
June 29, 2012
I Bitch About Pixar's BRAVE
My daughter and I saw BRAVE last night, Pixar's latest about Merida, a teenage princess trapped in the role her mother wants for Merida, as opposed to the role Merida wants for Merida. Or, as her father, King Fergus, puts it, "I don't want to get married! I want to stay single and let my hair flow in the wind as I ride through the glen firing arrows into the sunset." Hey, everyone should have a goal.
Some of the critics have been a little pissy about BRAVE, which surprised me. Pixar's movies tend to be a 90-minute serving of gorgeous animation and terrific writing, case in point FINDING NEMO, MONSTERS, INC., TOY STORY, THE INCREDIBLES, WALL-E, UP, etc. But despite this terrific track record, I kept hearing disquieting things about BRAVE'S lead. "Unlikeable" was the kindest comment. So we went, but I warned my daughter and we both decided to try to keep an open mind and enjoy the flick and even if it sucked rocks, we'd gotten out of the house and now had an excuse to hit DQ on the way home and so it wasn't ever gonna be all bad.
We liked it. A lot. As my daughter explained to the DQ guy making her chocolate dipped cone, "BRAVE was no FINDING NEMO, but it wasn't CARS, either. It's right in the middle. In a good way!"
But even though we thought it was great, those pissy critics were right. Princess Merida is selfish. She lacks empathy for anyone, especially her mom. She's spoiled. She doesn't listen. She blames others for situations she created. She doesn't take responsibility. She's...a teenage girl.
I have one, you know. A teenage girl. (See above, chatting up the DQ guy while waiting for her cone.) And she is the joy of my life and I would die for her or kill for her and sometimes I fantasize about chaining her to the washing machine until she gets all the dirty clothes off her closet floor and through the laundry and back onto hangers. ("No wire hangers!" No, just kidding; I'm not that bad.) I can love her with all I have and still dream about holding her Kindle for hostage until she trembles and obeys because she's...a teenage girl.
Aw, no. No. Come on. Really, critics? Is that what the problem is? You guys are having a tough time with a teenage girl as the lead in a Pixar flick?
Let's talk about another selfish overindulged brat with no empathy for the parent who would gladly die for him. (Yeah, Nemo, you finned brat, I'm hitting your buzzer.) This kid (minnow?) ignored his father's advice, then ignored his father's command to not touch something designed, built, and operated by THE MOST RAPACIOUS PREDATORS THIS PLANET HAS EVER SEEN. (No, not the barracuda that ate his mom and all his siblings WHILE HIS FATHER WAS UNCONSCIOUS FROM HEAD TRAUMA.) Dentists, of course. I'm talking about dentists.
Call Marlin crazy and over-protective, but he was all about trying to keep his last living child safe, but the bound-for-sushi brat didn't give a shit; instead he was all, sure, most of my family was wiped out but hey, that happened before I was born and it's in the past so drop dead, Dad, I wanna learn Mr. Ray's song about the zones, the zones, the zones.
(Sidebar: before I found out why some people were down on BRAVE, I really had no problem with Nemo and his borderline-sociopathic antics. But once I started thinking about it...thanks for nothing, critics! I hate thinking and you made me do it!) Anyway, Nemo blows off his PTSD-laden dad and not only puts himself in direct mortal danger, but also his father, numerous innocent bystanders, and Ellen Degeneres. This resulted in, among other things, exploding mines which would have sunk any ships in the vicinity, at least one child assaulted by Willem DaFoe, a health care worker's livelihood being threatened, a whale accidentally aspirating a clownfish and Ellen Degeneres, an addict in a twelve-step program relapsing, and a trawler breaking, which meant all sorts of fishermen and their families would miss a few meals until they found the money to fix the trawler. Which could only happen if goddamned Nemo does what he's told for a pleasant change and go home with his dad, who was further traumatized when he THOUGHT NEMO WAS DEAD. (In Nemo's defense, all the above cured Ellen Degeneres's anterograde amnesia. But at what cost, people? But at what cost????)
So, Nemo: selfish? Check. Unlikeable? Check. Doesn't listen? Uh-huh. No empathy for a parent? Yep. Won't take responsibility for own actions? Yep, yep, yep to the nth. But when the movie came out, was anybody griping about what an entitled jerk Nemo was? Or were we all sobbing into our stale popcorn as we sat through the movie a third time while furtively downloading Bobby Darin's Beyond The Sea? Yup. I plead guilty.
So that's what it is, and I won't deny I'm disappointed. Also, here's a fun fact! BRAVE was gonna be directed by the first female director to work for Pixar. Until she got fired. And replaced by a man. But the important thing is that Pixar tried for equality in a lame and half-assed way before giving it up as a bad business. But that's a rant for another day. Bottom line: it's fine for degenerate fish to endanger their lives and the lives of their family and friends, but not girls from Scotland. I...don't get it. But then, I'm hungry and it's hard to think when I'm hungry. So I think tonight, for dinner...sushi.
That oughta clear my head.
Some of the critics have been a little pissy about BRAVE, which surprised me. Pixar's movies tend to be a 90-minute serving of gorgeous animation and terrific writing, case in point FINDING NEMO, MONSTERS, INC., TOY STORY, THE INCREDIBLES, WALL-E, UP, etc. But despite this terrific track record, I kept hearing disquieting things about BRAVE'S lead. "Unlikeable" was the kindest comment. So we went, but I warned my daughter and we both decided to try to keep an open mind and enjoy the flick and even if it sucked rocks, we'd gotten out of the house and now had an excuse to hit DQ on the way home and so it wasn't ever gonna be all bad.
We liked it. A lot. As my daughter explained to the DQ guy making her chocolate dipped cone, "BRAVE was no FINDING NEMO, but it wasn't CARS, either. It's right in the middle. In a good way!"
But even though we thought it was great, those pissy critics were right. Princess Merida is selfish. She lacks empathy for anyone, especially her mom. She's spoiled. She doesn't listen. She blames others for situations she created. She doesn't take responsibility. She's...a teenage girl.
I have one, you know. A teenage girl. (See above, chatting up the DQ guy while waiting for her cone.) And she is the joy of my life and I would die for her or kill for her and sometimes I fantasize about chaining her to the washing machine until she gets all the dirty clothes off her closet floor and through the laundry and back onto hangers. ("No wire hangers!" No, just kidding; I'm not that bad.) I can love her with all I have and still dream about holding her Kindle for hostage until she trembles and obeys because she's...a teenage girl.
Aw, no. No. Come on. Really, critics? Is that what the problem is? You guys are having a tough time with a teenage girl as the lead in a Pixar flick?
Let's talk about another selfish overindulged brat with no empathy for the parent who would gladly die for him. (Yeah, Nemo, you finned brat, I'm hitting your buzzer.) This kid (minnow?) ignored his father's advice, then ignored his father's command to not touch something designed, built, and operated by THE MOST RAPACIOUS PREDATORS THIS PLANET HAS EVER SEEN. (No, not the barracuda that ate his mom and all his siblings WHILE HIS FATHER WAS UNCONSCIOUS FROM HEAD TRAUMA.) Dentists, of course. I'm talking about dentists.
Call Marlin crazy and over-protective, but he was all about trying to keep his last living child safe, but the bound-for-sushi brat didn't give a shit; instead he was all, sure, most of my family was wiped out but hey, that happened before I was born and it's in the past so drop dead, Dad, I wanna learn Mr. Ray's song about the zones, the zones, the zones.
(Sidebar: before I found out why some people were down on BRAVE, I really had no problem with Nemo and his borderline-sociopathic antics. But once I started thinking about it...thanks for nothing, critics! I hate thinking and you made me do it!) Anyway, Nemo blows off his PTSD-laden dad and not only puts himself in direct mortal danger, but also his father, numerous innocent bystanders, and Ellen Degeneres. This resulted in, among other things, exploding mines which would have sunk any ships in the vicinity, at least one child assaulted by Willem DaFoe, a health care worker's livelihood being threatened, a whale accidentally aspirating a clownfish and Ellen Degeneres, an addict in a twelve-step program relapsing, and a trawler breaking, which meant all sorts of fishermen and their families would miss a few meals until they found the money to fix the trawler. Which could only happen if goddamned Nemo does what he's told for a pleasant change and go home with his dad, who was further traumatized when he THOUGHT NEMO WAS DEAD. (In Nemo's defense, all the above cured Ellen Degeneres's anterograde amnesia. But at what cost, people? But at what cost????)
So, Nemo: selfish? Check. Unlikeable? Check. Doesn't listen? Uh-huh. No empathy for a parent? Yep. Won't take responsibility for own actions? Yep, yep, yep to the nth. But when the movie came out, was anybody griping about what an entitled jerk Nemo was? Or were we all sobbing into our stale popcorn as we sat through the movie a third time while furtively downloading Bobby Darin's Beyond The Sea? Yup. I plead guilty.
So that's what it is, and I won't deny I'm disappointed. Also, here's a fun fact! BRAVE was gonna be directed by the first female director to work for Pixar. Until she got fired. And replaced by a man. But the important thing is that Pixar tried for equality in a lame and half-assed way before giving it up as a bad business. But that's a rant for another day. Bottom line: it's fine for degenerate fish to endanger their lives and the lives of their family and friends, but not girls from Scotland. I...don't get it. But then, I'm hungry and it's hard to think when I'm hungry. So I think tonight, for dinner...sushi.
That oughta clear my head.
June 17, 2012
Tennessee Joins The List...
...of states that invited me over. Like if states had slumber parties, Tennessee is the state where the cool mom stocks the fridge with Coke and chocolate Zingers and lets all the teenagers have at it. And I am the kid who drinks all the Coke and accidentally leaves Zinger-stains on quite a bit of the furniture. Sure, Tennessee was all, won't you come to our beautiful state, which we are counting on you not to despoil? And I was all, aw, Tennessee, I know you mean well but it's not a good idea. C'mon: chocolate Zingers! I'm only human, for God's sake.
Anyhoo, I'll be at the first-ever ROMFEST in Gatlinburg, TN, where readers and writers can meet same, mingle with editors and agents, seize the chance to get out of the basement and wear some clean clothes for once, and actually socialize instead of practising for a later life of being a shut-in. Um, it's possible I'm projecting on other attendees. Also, I'd never hang out in our basement. Our house was built in 1860. You know how some people read the age of trees by the rings in the trunks? You can read the age of our house by the rings on all the spiderwebs. Crumbling cement walls, flickering lighting, appliances that mysteriously (and suddenly) rumble to life before dying out with a wheeze, a teenage boy facing the corner like that poor bastard at the end of The Blair Witch Project...I just never, never go down there.
But I digress! I'm the breakfast speaker at, I dunno, sometime around breakfast on June 21st. After which I'll avoid being cornered by all the innocents horrified at my over-sharing by hanging out in the Lodge's bitchin' indoor lagoon. Yay, me!
For more information:
http://www.romfest.com/
I'll regale y'all if I return. When. WHEN I return, is what I meant. Yeah.
Anyhoo, I'll be at the first-ever ROMFEST in Gatlinburg, TN, where readers and writers can meet same, mingle with editors and agents, seize the chance to get out of the basement and wear some clean clothes for once, and actually socialize instead of practising for a later life of being a shut-in. Um, it's possible I'm projecting on other attendees. Also, I'd never hang out in our basement. Our house was built in 1860. You know how some people read the age of trees by the rings in the trunks? You can read the age of our house by the rings on all the spiderwebs. Crumbling cement walls, flickering lighting, appliances that mysteriously (and suddenly) rumble to life before dying out with a wheeze, a teenage boy facing the corner like that poor bastard at the end of The Blair Witch Project...I just never, never go down there.
But I digress! I'm the breakfast speaker at, I dunno, sometime around breakfast on June 21st. After which I'll avoid being cornered by all the innocents horrified at my over-sharing by hanging out in the Lodge's bitchin' indoor lagoon. Yay, me!
For more information:
http://www.romfest.com/
I'll regale y'all if I return. When. WHEN I return, is what I meant. Yeah.
