Glen Hirshberg's Blog, page 7
August 5, 2014
The Jaws Drop
Tuesday Round-up of Everything, Week of 8/5, Post #2:
The Jaws Drop
Spurred by the trailers for--and even more, by the subtitle of-- "Sharknado 2: The Second One" (surely the most enticing subtitle since "Haunting in Connecticut 2: Ghosts of Georgia"), and cajoled by the pleadings of my family ('cause I have that sort of proper family, and it was that sort of summer night), I finally sat down and watched "Sharknado," which had lurked at the bottom of my DVR list for a year.
Jaw-dropper #1: It kinda delivered for us. That is, we were howling from the first five seconds, and we never stopped. Lots of Syfy movies are dumb. Most of them ignore science, or actual human behavior. But THIS! Floods that fill a house--so that, you know, the water can BURST OUT THE WINDOWS (WITH SHARKS IN IT)--onto dry lawn outside, which was somehow NOT flooded at that point...the (amateur) bombing of a tornado...which works...the chainsaw...I mean...
Jaw-dropper #2: "Sharknado" was not the least scientifically accurate movie I saw that day.
Because that's the day my pal--the scientist-screenwriter Neil Ruttenberg --and I took in the Natural Wonder that is "Lucy." In which brain capacity gets broken down into percentages, and treated like levels for a D&D character. "At 20%, you can control your body. At 30%, you can control other people's bodies. At 40%..."
I've already got dibs on "Sharknado 3." I'm already writing it. I've already subtitled it. "The Lucy One."
The Jaws Drop
Spurred by the trailers for--and even more, by the subtitle of-- "Sharknado 2: The Second One" (surely the most enticing subtitle since "Haunting in Connecticut 2: Ghosts of Georgia"), and cajoled by the pleadings of my family ('cause I have that sort of proper family, and it was that sort of summer night), I finally sat down and watched "Sharknado," which had lurked at the bottom of my DVR list for a year.
Jaw-dropper #1: It kinda delivered for us. That is, we were howling from the first five seconds, and we never stopped. Lots of Syfy movies are dumb. Most of them ignore science, or actual human behavior. But THIS! Floods that fill a house--so that, you know, the water can BURST OUT THE WINDOWS (WITH SHARKS IN IT)--onto dry lawn outside, which was somehow NOT flooded at that point...the (amateur) bombing of a tornado...which works...the chainsaw...I mean...
Jaw-dropper #2: "Sharknado" was not the least scientifically accurate movie I saw that day.
Because that's the day my pal--the scientist-screenwriter Neil Ruttenberg --and I took in the Natural Wonder that is "Lucy." In which brain capacity gets broken down into percentages, and treated like levels for a D&D character. "At 20%, you can control your body. At 30%, you can control other people's bodies. At 40%..."
I've already got dibs on "Sharknado 3." I'm already writing it. I've already subtitled it. "The Lucy One."
Sam Lipsyte "The Rock" (in the journal Radio Silence, Issue #1)
Tuesday Round-up of Everything, Week of 8/5, Post #1:
Sam Lipsyte "The Rock" (in the journal Radio Silence, Issue #1)
Without doubt, the find of the week--month? year?--for me is the journal RADIO SILENCE, which celebrates and juxtaposes and recontextualizes literature and rock and roll in light of each other. And then lights both on fire. The only problem I see for this whole endeavor is that the first piece in the first issue may be the last word on this subject. The apotheosis.
Think I'm hyperbolizing? Smashing my keyboard-guitar before the song even starts? Suck on this:
"Rock. It's a dumb word...You could always ascertain what rocked and what didn't. Things rock in the context of what they promise to do and how they betray that. A band cannot hold anything back. It must give everything, and fall short. It's really only one moment, maybe two moments in a show, or a record, that seize you. The rest if procedure. 'That rocked,' you say, and people think you're half-kidding, grasping onto an adolescent, meaning-blasted phrase to express your admiration for a few seconds of electrical noise that vouched for your arrested adolescence. Bullshit. 'To rock,' as opposed to something as infantile as 'rocking out,' is the most severe and adult of enterprises. Most people are too childish to rock."
Whole piece here, for free, if you sign in.
Sign in. This rocks.
Sam Lipsyte "The Rock" (in the journal Radio Silence, Issue #1)
Without doubt, the find of the week--month? year?--for me is the journal RADIO SILENCE, which celebrates and juxtaposes and recontextualizes literature and rock and roll in light of each other. And then lights both on fire. The only problem I see for this whole endeavor is that the first piece in the first issue may be the last word on this subject. The apotheosis.
Think I'm hyperbolizing? Smashing my keyboard-guitar before the song even starts? Suck on this:
"Rock. It's a dumb word...You could always ascertain what rocked and what didn't. Things rock in the context of what they promise to do and how they betray that. A band cannot hold anything back. It must give everything, and fall short. It's really only one moment, maybe two moments in a show, or a record, that seize you. The rest if procedure. 'That rocked,' you say, and people think you're half-kidding, grasping onto an adolescent, meaning-blasted phrase to express your admiration for a few seconds of electrical noise that vouched for your arrested adolescence. Bullshit. 'To rock,' as opposed to something as infantile as 'rocking out,' is the most severe and adult of enterprises. Most people are too childish to rock."
Whole piece here, for free, if you sign in.
Sign in. This rocks.
August 2, 2014
Epistles from the Road: Radio Silence in San Francisco
Lit out from easily my grimiest hotel of the summer--Berkeley, it's sort of good to see you're still you--to make my usual Moe's Books/Amoeba round late last night. But the Berkeley Amoeba is a shadow, and Telegraph Avenue remains full of people, still awash in college kids and nattily dressed potential-student families and the homeless and clove smoke, and it hasn't exactly gentrified, the energy's still there, it's just missing...I don't know. A sense of collective political unrest or opposition? Art and artists? It's got everything but a reason for being the way it is, now. Or maybe it's just summer.
But right as I was leaving, I found...this.
This exists? This is a thing? I didn't dream this? And...I didn't MAKE this?
Borderlands this afternoon. Then a valedictory Zachary's spinach-and-mushroom stuffed pizza, on my own. Then the last, long drive home. To sit on my patio and read this.
Subscribe to this journal, please. Let's make this one go.
But right as I was leaving, I found...this.
This exists? This is a thing? I didn't dream this? And...I didn't MAKE this?
Borderlands this afternoon. Then a valedictory Zachary's spinach-and-mushroom stuffed pizza, on my own. Then the last, long drive home. To sit on my patio and read this.
Subscribe to this journal, please. Let's make this one go.
August 1, 2014
Year's Best Dark Fantasy
Just arrived: my contributor's copies of Paula Guran's The Year's Best Dark Fantasy & Horror, 2014 Edition antho, which features BOTH Peter Atkins' and my stories from last year's Rolling Darkness Revue (The Imposter's Monocle). My story, "Pride," is the second of my tales featuring the Collector, my vaguely Mysterious Mr. Quin-style central figure--more catalyst than occult detective or even protagonist--and the second straight to appear in one of the major year's best collections. Lots of great stuff in this book, from Nathan Ballingrud, Kit Reed, Dale Bailey, Steve Duffy, Neil Gaiman, Joe R. Lansdale, and more. And Peter Atkins's story may be my favorite single thing he's done, which is saying a serious something, as far as I'm concerned.
July 31, 2014
Arkham Digest Reviews Motherless Child
On the fence about whether you can make it out to Borderlands on Saturday? Here's Justin Steele in Arkham Digest on Motherless Child. Click HERE to be redirected to the site. The review is short, though, so I'm going to repost the whole thing:
Motherless Child by Glen Hirshberg
The past few years I had been well aware of Glen Hirshberg's excellent short fiction thanks to editors such as Ellen Datlow. While at this year's Readercon I was able to attend several great readings, the last of which was Glen Hirshberg reading from his novel-in-progress, The Good Girls, which is a sequel to Motherless Child. Needless to say, the reading blew myself and many others away. My roommate and I couldn't stop talking about it. I NEEDED to read Motherless Child, but unfortunately the dealer's room was sold out of copies. Thankfully, after my plane landed I stopped for dinner, after which I ran into the next door Barnes and Noble to snag a copy. I am glad I did. Glen Hirshberg's vampire novel is one of the best there is. Is it horrific? It sure is, but even more than that it is a story of friendship, and family. The novel is about two young, single mothers, best friends their whole lives. It's about what happens when they meet the Whistler, are changed by him, and go on the run to protect their babies. Glen's vampires are different than others, some typical vampire legends are thrown out of the window (sunlight hurts, but doesn't destroy) in order to focus on other aspects (the hypnotizing, "glamour" effect vampires have on mortals). The story is beautiful, haunting, touching, funny, heartbreaking, and terrifying.
Motherless Child by Glen Hirshberg
The past few years I had been well aware of Glen Hirshberg's excellent short fiction thanks to editors such as Ellen Datlow. While at this year's Readercon I was able to attend several great readings, the last of which was Glen Hirshberg reading from his novel-in-progress, The Good Girls, which is a sequel to Motherless Child. Needless to say, the reading blew myself and many others away. My roommate and I couldn't stop talking about it. I NEEDED to read Motherless Child, but unfortunately the dealer's room was sold out of copies. Thankfully, after my plane landed I stopped for dinner, after which I ran into the next door Barnes and Noble to snag a copy. I am glad I did. Glen Hirshberg's vampire novel is one of the best there is. Is it horrific? It sure is, but even more than that it is a story of friendship, and family. The novel is about two young, single mothers, best friends their whole lives. It's about what happens when they meet the Whistler, are changed by him, and go on the run to protect their babies. Glen's vampires are different than others, some typical vampire legends are thrown out of the window (sunlight hurts, but doesn't destroy) in order to focus on other aspects (the hypnotizing, "glamour" effect vampires have on mortals). The story is beautiful, haunting, touching, funny, heartbreaking, and terrifying.
July 29, 2014
The Lone Ranger
T.R.U.E., Week of 7/29, Post #3:
The Lone Ranger
Innocence is not always a synonym for stupidity, or even naivete. It doesn't always equate with childhood, or evoke nostalgia. Sometimes innocence is just guileless exuberance. Wide-eyed engagement. Capacity for wonder.
All of which is my fumbling, preemptive run-up to the following question:
What on earth were all of you whining about concerning "The Lone Ranger"?
Ridiculous? Well, yeah, from the incomprehensible (so...Tonto is a living mannequin? Or he came to life? Or the kid dreamed him, complete with dead-bird headdress and old-man wrinkles?) and charming framing story on down. But not more so than your Marvel of choice; just less laden with Sturm und drang, and also more marvelous. No more so than those Hong Kong warriors-on-wires epics so many of you profess to love (and me, too, and this is very nearly as balletic, and probably more coherent).
But in its faithfulness to the origin story, its unabashed sense of justice, this "The Lone Ranger" is every bit as sweet as the much-lauded "The Rocketeer," just less self-conscious. With its cannibal-Butch Cavendish and dragon-breath steam trains, it's as vividly stylized as "Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow," just with less Angelina Jolie and better writing. And except for his casting in the first place, the only thing derogatory about Johnny Depp's performance is...nope, there's nothing derogatory about that performance. I know I'm not supposed to be the one to say. I'm saying it anyway.
Also, when he feels like it, Johnny Depp is the funniest screen comedian of our era. No one else even comes close. The guy is Cary Grant funny. Charlie Chaplin funny.
My parents, and especially my dad, have often referred, glowingly, to the Saturday Morning Serial era, to the kinds of Saturdays those serials triggered with their friends in their neighborhoods. I wasn't there, so I have no idea how closely this movie captures that spirit, assuming that spirit actually existed, isn't an invention of memory, like most remembered spirits. But I'm pretty sure that whatever that feeling was, this is it.
The Lone Ranger
Innocence is not always a synonym for stupidity, or even naivete. It doesn't always equate with childhood, or evoke nostalgia. Sometimes innocence is just guileless exuberance. Wide-eyed engagement. Capacity for wonder.
All of which is my fumbling, preemptive run-up to the following question:
What on earth were all of you whining about concerning "The Lone Ranger"?
Ridiculous? Well, yeah, from the incomprehensible (so...Tonto is a living mannequin? Or he came to life? Or the kid dreamed him, complete with dead-bird headdress and old-man wrinkles?) and charming framing story on down. But not more so than your Marvel of choice; just less laden with Sturm und drang, and also more marvelous. No more so than those Hong Kong warriors-on-wires epics so many of you profess to love (and me, too, and this is very nearly as balletic, and probably more coherent).
But in its faithfulness to the origin story, its unabashed sense of justice, this "The Lone Ranger" is every bit as sweet as the much-lauded "The Rocketeer," just less self-conscious. With its cannibal-Butch Cavendish and dragon-breath steam trains, it's as vividly stylized as "Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow," just with less Angelina Jolie and better writing. And except for his casting in the first place, the only thing derogatory about Johnny Depp's performance is...nope, there's nothing derogatory about that performance. I know I'm not supposed to be the one to say. I'm saying it anyway.
Also, when he feels like it, Johnny Depp is the funniest screen comedian of our era. No one else even comes close. The guy is Cary Grant funny. Charlie Chaplin funny.
My parents, and especially my dad, have often referred, glowingly, to the Saturday Morning Serial era, to the kinds of Saturdays those serials triggered with their friends in their neighborhoods. I wasn't there, so I have no idea how closely this movie captures that spirit, assuming that spirit actually existed, isn't an invention of memory, like most remembered spirits. But I'm pretty sure that whatever that feeling was, this is it.
Howe Gelb-- "Vortexas"
T.R.U.E., Week of 7/29, Post #2:
Howe Gelb-- "Vortexas"
I've always filed Howe Gelb and Giant Sand way back in that deep, deep drawer full of artists I know I'm supposed to like, whom I've been assured I like, who share so many attributes with artists I DO like. If only there was one single memorable melody, one dazzling turn of phrase, preferably both, preferably together...
Listen here -->
I snapped up a promo copy of Howe's 2013 album, THE COINCIDENTALIST, in the 99-cent bins at Freakbeat (still among my favorite bins in Los Angeles). I only grabbed it, honestly, because it was 99 cents. But this opening track surprised me. Made me pull that drawer open wider. There's that Leonard Cohen old-guy groove, first of all, beautifully dusty and creaking, which gets funkier to me with each passing year. And those world-weary, Southwest-metanowhere lyrics: "It used to be much cheaper/to find a love and to keep her/to play guitar and reiterate/or embrace the heat and just hibernate." As wistful and wide-open, almost, as the Flatlanders' mythic, marvelous "Dallas," their farmers dogs that "only bark" and their cold north winds that bite. It really is like the Flatlanders, like Cohen, I thought--think--except, yeah, with no other people in it. Which isn't like Cohen, or the Flatlanders, either, but is like Tuscon, metaphorical Tuscon, "our universe center/used to live there like a renter." Hell, Vortexas could be a genre-name. Beats the hell out of Western Beat, or whatever Jimmie Dale Gilmore is calling it these days (though Gelb's Tuscon still isn't anywhere near as nowhere, or as alluring, as Gilmore's Dallas, his midnight trains).
Good stuff. The real, unreal stuff.
As for the rest of THE COINCIDENTALIST...it's almost as good. I think. That is, I remember it being good. That is, I'm pretty sure I played it all the way through, several times. I didn't MEAN to leave it in that drawer, it's just the drawer was open, and I was cleaning up. and I got distracted, and...
Howe Gelb-- "Vortexas"
I've always filed Howe Gelb and Giant Sand way back in that deep, deep drawer full of artists I know I'm supposed to like, whom I've been assured I like, who share so many attributes with artists I DO like. If only there was one single memorable melody, one dazzling turn of phrase, preferably both, preferably together...
Listen here -->
I snapped up a promo copy of Howe's 2013 album, THE COINCIDENTALIST, in the 99-cent bins at Freakbeat (still among my favorite bins in Los Angeles). I only grabbed it, honestly, because it was 99 cents. But this opening track surprised me. Made me pull that drawer open wider. There's that Leonard Cohen old-guy groove, first of all, beautifully dusty and creaking, which gets funkier to me with each passing year. And those world-weary, Southwest-metanowhere lyrics: "It used to be much cheaper/to find a love and to keep her/to play guitar and reiterate/or embrace the heat and just hibernate." As wistful and wide-open, almost, as the Flatlanders' mythic, marvelous "Dallas," their farmers dogs that "only bark" and their cold north winds that bite. It really is like the Flatlanders, like Cohen, I thought--think--except, yeah, with no other people in it. Which isn't like Cohen, or the Flatlanders, either, but is like Tuscon, metaphorical Tuscon, "our universe center/used to live there like a renter." Hell, Vortexas could be a genre-name. Beats the hell out of Western Beat, or whatever Jimmie Dale Gilmore is calling it these days (though Gelb's Tuscon still isn't anywhere near as nowhere, or as alluring, as Gilmore's Dallas, his midnight trains).
Good stuff. The real, unreal stuff.
As for the rest of THE COINCIDENTALIST...it's almost as good. I think. That is, I remember it being good. That is, I'm pretty sure I played it all the way through, several times. I didn't MEAN to leave it in that drawer, it's just the drawer was open, and I was cleaning up. and I got distracted, and...
Last Tango with Last Tango
T.R.U.E. (Tuesday Round-up of Everything), Week of 7/29. Post #1:
"Last Tango in Halifax," Season Two
The concept was always a little thin, a little pandering, a little does-anyone-at-the-BBC-actually-WATCH-television-or-go-outside: November-December romance between two one-time teen lovers who find each other again, six decades later, on Facebook.
But watching Derek Jacobi and Ann Reid and especially Nicola Walker doing their understated things, getting trapped in rainstorms in haunted old inns, mucking out sheep stalls, making do, making love, getting through...like, "Downton," in the end, it was easy to excuse. Easy to fall into. Hard not to like.
I've now watched half of Season Two, and--sadly, predictably--find that it's no longer hard. Having married off Derek and Ann, creator/writer Sally Wainwright begins casting about for some other justification for continuing the show, and decides on the Anything I Can Think Of school of plot development. The first 150 minutes of this year have brought us, let's see: an unwanted teen pregnancy (with a previously unmentioned girflriend); financial crises at two separate houses; Caroline's lesbian lover deciding to move in; Caroline's lover announcing she wants a baby...by sperm donor...which she will have by making love with an old flame...who's going to drop by during the happy couple's forthcoming birthday weekend away; revelations of an abortion from 30 years ago that will poison a relationship now; the teen mom running away; Caroline's oily ex-husband (more on him and his oil below) getting dropped by his publisher, having nowhere to go, and so moving in on the Nicola Walker character, who, yeah, makes poor decisions with men, and who deserves better, fairer treatment than this show wants to give her. And then there's the resurrection of the useless suicide-or-murder plot that almost ruined Season One. Oh, and I forgot the anaphylactic shock bit. All without varying that essential, lightweight tone. There's no comedy, here. No release. No actual characters, just situations. It's soap-opera slurry, with absolutely nothing at stake.
And then there's Tony Gardner playing Rupert Graves playing one of Rupert's trademark sleazebags.
You know how, on "Chopped," every now and then a contestant will grab the truffle oil out of the pantry, and we'll all scream, "No, NO!" at the screen, because we know the judges HATE truffle oil, always feel it overpowers everything else? The Gardner-Rupert character has become the BBC drama equivalent of truffle oil. They keep reaching for it. They keep sprinkling liberally over their dramas. We keep screaming. "NO!"
Too late...
"Last Tango in Halifax," Season Two
The concept was always a little thin, a little pandering, a little does-anyone-at-the-BBC-actually-WATCH-television-or-go-outside: November-December romance between two one-time teen lovers who find each other again, six decades later, on Facebook.
But watching Derek Jacobi and Ann Reid and especially Nicola Walker doing their understated things, getting trapped in rainstorms in haunted old inns, mucking out sheep stalls, making do, making love, getting through...like, "Downton," in the end, it was easy to excuse. Easy to fall into. Hard not to like.
I've now watched half of Season Two, and--sadly, predictably--find that it's no longer hard. Having married off Derek and Ann, creator/writer Sally Wainwright begins casting about for some other justification for continuing the show, and decides on the Anything I Can Think Of school of plot development. The first 150 minutes of this year have brought us, let's see: an unwanted teen pregnancy (with a previously unmentioned girflriend); financial crises at two separate houses; Caroline's lesbian lover deciding to move in; Caroline's lover announcing she wants a baby...by sperm donor...which she will have by making love with an old flame...who's going to drop by during the happy couple's forthcoming birthday weekend away; revelations of an abortion from 30 years ago that will poison a relationship now; the teen mom running away; Caroline's oily ex-husband (more on him and his oil below) getting dropped by his publisher, having nowhere to go, and so moving in on the Nicola Walker character, who, yeah, makes poor decisions with men, and who deserves better, fairer treatment than this show wants to give her. And then there's the resurrection of the useless suicide-or-murder plot that almost ruined Season One. Oh, and I forgot the anaphylactic shock bit. All without varying that essential, lightweight tone. There's no comedy, here. No release. No actual characters, just situations. It's soap-opera slurry, with absolutely nothing at stake.
And then there's Tony Gardner playing Rupert Graves playing one of Rupert's trademark sleazebags.
You know how, on "Chopped," every now and then a contestant will grab the truffle oil out of the pantry, and we'll all scream, "No, NO!" at the screen, because we know the judges HATE truffle oil, always feel it overpowers everything else? The Gardner-Rupert character has become the BBC drama equivalent of truffle oil. They keep reaching for it. They keep sprinkling liberally over their dramas. We keep screaming. "NO!"
Too late...
July 25, 2014
San Diego Comic-Con
The Art of Fear at Comic-Con
Comic-Con bound, to moderate this puppy, alongside these gifted people: Mira Grant (Parasite), G. Michael Hopf (The New World Series), Katherine Howe (Conversion), April Genevieve Tucholke (Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea), Brenna Yovanoff (Fiendish), and James Rollins (The 6th Extinction).
Room 8 2:30-3:30
Signing afterward from 4-5. Come find me.
Comic-Con bound, to moderate this puppy, alongside these gifted people: Mira Grant (Parasite), G. Michael Hopf (The New World Series), Katherine Howe (Conversion), April Genevieve Tucholke (Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea), Brenna Yovanoff (Fiendish), and James Rollins (The 6th Extinction).
Room 8 2:30-3:30
Signing afterward from 4-5. Come find me.
July 23, 2014
Coming Home
Final Motherless Child East/Midwest Tour Stats:
Read to: I don't know, maybe 400 people?
Sold: didn't keep track. Decent number of books. Would have sold more if there had actually BEEN books at Readercon or in Toronto. But it's a long game...
Met: At least thirty people I did not previously know (at least not personally) who will add color and kindness and stories and new light to my life.
Reconnected: With approximately ten people who already add all of the above to my life, and whom I haven't seen in way too long.
Wrote: Every single day. In hotels. In a train station. In a coffee shop.
Spent: It's a good sign, right, that I typed this word intending to comment on the six sweet days with my son, walking everywhere, talking when he felt like talking, presenting obscure tomes to each other, inventing personal Monty Python skits, communing with fishes and horror writers. And only then realized the word could also apply to the money.
I suppose I could also comment on the money. That line would read: Less than I could have. More than I'm comfortable with. Enough that I'll notice. Not enough that I'd trade one second of these days to get it back.
Bottom line: Met people. Got Sid time. Read stories. Listened to stories. Walked cities. Made friends. Remade friends. Saw the Tigers. Ate nanaimos. Ate cheese curds. Wrote to within 10 pages of the end of Good Girls . Missed my wife and my girl. Lived hard. Lived well. Went home grateful.
Read to: I don't know, maybe 400 people?
Sold: didn't keep track. Decent number of books. Would have sold more if there had actually BEEN books at Readercon or in Toronto. But it's a long game...
Met: At least thirty people I did not previously know (at least not personally) who will add color and kindness and stories and new light to my life.
Reconnected: With approximately ten people who already add all of the above to my life, and whom I haven't seen in way too long.
Wrote: Every single day. In hotels. In a train station. In a coffee shop.
Spent: It's a good sign, right, that I typed this word intending to comment on the six sweet days with my son, walking everywhere, talking when he felt like talking, presenting obscure tomes to each other, inventing personal Monty Python skits, communing with fishes and horror writers. And only then realized the word could also apply to the money.
I suppose I could also comment on the money. That line would read: Less than I could have. More than I'm comfortable with. Enough that I'll notice. Not enough that I'd trade one second of these days to get it back.
Bottom line: Met people. Got Sid time. Read stories. Listened to stories. Walked cities. Made friends. Remade friends. Saw the Tigers. Ate nanaimos. Ate cheese curds. Wrote to within 10 pages of the end of Good Girls . Missed my wife and my girl. Lived hard. Lived well. Went home grateful.
