Patrick Whitehurst's Blog, page 19

Hey caveperson, where's your ghost?

So why are there no prehistoric ghosts? People report ghosts of family pets every now and again, so why are there no ephemeral T-Rex sightings on Fremont in Seaside, California? Some say there are caveman ghosts, of course, but any discourse on them seems rare. Some say prehistoric ghosts are around, but that spirits “dissolve” after a time, so this is why there aren’t many left. Others say guardian spirits (ghosts in charge of helping other ghosts) guide spirits to their final rest. As this would have happened a long time ago, the ghosts of cavemen have long since been put to rest, hence no restless missing link ghosts for instance. If only there were one. Just one would be enough to answer that simple damn question.

The absence of prehistoric ghosts throws a huge monkey wrench into the theory of ghosts for me. I always thought of ghosts as eternal beings. But to read they can dissolve or be set to rest by other spirits puts a Gothic, old English question mark over the whole thing.  It’s similar to why people fear ghosts… as we are all ghosts when you think about it. Only some of us still have our skin. So why should we be afraid of the ones who don’t have their skin? Let’s all act like millennials in this regard, show an insane amount of self-confidence, and believe we are better than older ghosts. So many of them died before the Internet for God’s sake. We’re talking about a segment of once-alive humanity that didn’t know it was okay to say “you’re welcome” without being thanked first. How can they be scary?

I can be an “entity” if I want to be. Kind of like how depression is only a state of mind, right? My telekinesis damn well better kick in if I become a ghost, because it’s been a disappointment so far. I can barely put one foot in front of the other before 9 a.m.

Not to get too weird, but the idea of phantasmagorical goo makes it quite easy to imagine the idea of time travel as well. With the belief in one should come belief in the other, or any number of things. If a soul can live hundreds of years in anguish, making pots of Hamburger Helper fly off a stove top at dinner because they’re pissed about something, then surely it’s possible to bend time and space. I’m pouring a ton of science, without explaining a lick of it, into the ghost theory. But if they are real, there would be real science to explain it, right? Only no one knows what that science looks like yet. Someone has to write the book before we can read it.

I just hope that book is available on my Kindle. The ghost of the Nook may need to read it.

BOOK REVIEW: The Hunted by Kristy Berridge

Vampires drain a new vein
OR
Don’t judge a blood sucker by its coffin

Vampires are not uncommon in the realm of fiction. They’re not uncommon in the realm of reality either, in a way. Lots of people douse themselves in the lifestyle. Fang implants are a thing. Vampire fiction, therefore, is a genre all its own.

In vampire fiction, dark beings sparkle, they become rock gods, they attend special academies, and so on. Some are monsters, creepy things to be feared and hunted, while others just want to find their one true love and live happily forever after. There’s private eye vamps, doctor vamps, southern vamps, queen vamps and everything in between. You’d think it would get old, but it doesn’t. Even the old Marvel Comics series, Tomb of Dracula, is fun to read.

And some vampire stories suck you in better than others, while others just plain suck.

In Kristy Berridge’s pleasurable novel “The Hunted,” vampires aren’t the only creatures around. There’s the Vanators (werewolves) and a fair share of magic. Not only that, but the novel’s Australian setting and first-person narrative, while not unheard of in vampire fiction, creates a sense of rich creativity that other vampire books lack. Add a flair of sarcasm and you’ve got a damn peppy story.

Here’s a personal aside; I could tell the author had a fun time writing Elena’s story, as that sense of energy and excitement is obvious to the reader. This is never a bad thing.

And like any thrilling tale of vampiric prowess, Berrdige’s novel is the first in a series of stories. If a strong mix of violence and humor sound too good to be true, then you haven’t sampled this mix. Fun, easy, and creative, The Hunted would be a good addition to any blood sucking freak’s gory red library.

Who doesn’t love Millennials?

O.M. God. These creatures of the digital tar pits are humanity’s saviors. They speak differently than the rest of us. They dress differently. They know life hacks. And they shoot Periscope videos of themselves doing it. Like a phoenix dressed in 80s fashion rising from a pile of entitled, home-schooled ashes, Millennials hold a fist full of dollars and aren’t afraid to spend them. Praise them, lavish them with a weird sense of high self-worth, for when combined – like Voltron or Megazord – they are the second coming.
Just knowing how to ‘scope is a feat. For the rest of us, it’s just another social media platform that we might someday explore when time and the non-digital world allows (IRL), but Millennials make the time for these important things. Trump memes won’t post themselves. Millennials make the time to change the business world to suit their personalities. First there were slackers, but Millennials; by God, they’ve turned the slacker life into a series of well-shared LinkedIn articles.
And Millennials share videos of interesting things Generation X-ers scroll right past. That video of the Volvo in the middle of a snowy field being mauled by that giant European backhoe? It’s viral, and obviously staged as so many are, thanks to them. When a video goes viral, as we all know, lots of people watch it and that means… it gets a lot of likes, which means a lot of people see it. And that translates into something. Trusted content? Not really. Something Boomlets are into? Who the hell are they? Do "likes" translate into advertising dollars per impressions? Sure. In a vague, click-bait kind of way. Is it all about money? Always. Even for Millennials, but they’re cool with it, so we should be too. They have money to burn. Everyone says so.
Baby Boomers love them. They’re the new Me Generation, so similar to their free-loving grandparents back in the day, but hip to tech and stuff (they have selfie sticks). And they aren’t afraid to talk about their needs (because we’ve told them they are special), their issues (because we’ve told them they are special), and their Go Fund Me accounts (because they think they’re special). The generations that have come before have put all their hopes for the future, not to mention the task of fixing the present planetary issues, on you. As Millennials are so fond of saying, even when not thanked first, you’re welcome.

The hope of the future hinges on what you post (say) next. 

Pretend you can't pay your bills

The blurb in question.It's like being poor is a conspiracy or something. Let's go undercover and make sure poverty is a real thing! Because maybe the destitute are big, fat liars? They're not “us,” after all, how can we be sure “they” can be trusted?
As if living in fear of nearly everything, from sleeping in your car (if you're lucky enough to have one) to wondering if you have enough Ramen to last til next payday, isn't enough; there's now a book that allows the privileged to read about how craptastic life can be. Yay for them. Or us. Or whoever's side you happen to be on. 
Apparently there are sides.
At least that's what I gleaned after picking up the January 2016 Indie Next List at the local bookstore in Pacific Grove over the weekend. While this post has nothing to do with the book “Nickel and Dimed: On (Not) Getting By in America,” by Barbara Ehrenreich, it has everything to do with the book's absurd listing in the List. Initially, the premise had me interested. That is until I read the description. The short blurb by Kris Kleindienst, Left Bank Books, Saint Louis, MO, is as follows:
“Ehrenreich goes undercover, joining millions of Americans working at minimum wage jobs to see if it is as easy as some contend. She experiences firsthand the below-subsistence, dehumanizing conditions of much hourly wage work, but she also finds the remarkable humanity of the people who make daily life possible for the rest of us.”
And never has a short, pretentious review steered me so far from wanting to read a book before now.There's a silver lining to poverty? Of course there is. Those who've never faced the misery of hunger need that silver lining. It wouldn't be a good read without a kernel of uplifting drivel. Of course for those of “us” who know poverty, there really is no silver lining. Remarkable humanity? Is it surprising that poor people can be nice? Surprising to whom? The rich? The Clintons? To Conservatives? And going undercover to see what want is like? Knowing you can return to a life of iPhones and Netflix, car payments and vacations to Hawaii, or whatever, takes the edge off fearing you might die hungry and alone in cardboard box. You're just pretending, knowing you can drive off in a Lexus when it gets too nasty to handle.
It's the last sentence that stirred my ire the most. The poor make daily life possible for the rest of us? That statement, of course, assumes a great deal. It assumes poor people would never pick up this book and that anyone who might want to read it just needs assurances they will never have to hang their laundry in the backyard or call the food bank to see what time they close. As a reader, as someone who has never been rich and has, on more than one occasion, planned to live in the backseat of a car should the next paycheck go sideways, I don't appreciate being lumped into the “us” category. There is no us and them when it comes to poverty. For some, it's a spouse who thankfully makes a good wage, for others it's parents who help out their middle-aged children, and for others it's an abyss with no safety net.
We are them. They are us. End of story.

Thoughts of thirsty people who did the right thing

Let the tap roar.My brand new-to-me car got a little dirty in the drought, but now I can wash it. The sparkle of diamonds will have nothing on my Volvo after I get done dousing that thing. After all, I got told by California American Water I should pay more because I used less of it during the drought. Might as well get my money’s worth.

And how I missed those long, luxurious showers myself. It’s not just the new car. I remember how the hot water felt like needles on my shoulders, massaging the stress into nothingness, while the bathroom disappeared in a mist of steam. I remember it like it was yesterday, but really it’s been years. It may be just one of a series of long showers, as I plan to get my money’s worth for a good long time, but that first one will be like Christmas morning.

I’ll probably read less thanks to all this water I pay to use. I won’t have time to sit around. The cost of books will shoot up as a result, which will somehow raise my Netflix bill. I may eat less too, especially after I make a new pool in the backyard. Swimming will cause me to lose weight, hence an increase in my grocery bill. I’ll fill water bottles, more than I need, and walk to the coffee shop instead of driving my diamond-clean car. That will bring up gas prices. Thanks to my walking shoes, the cost of slippers will skyrocket.

And the puppies will be so clean and downy soft, but first they’ll be nice and muddy thanks to the bog I plan to make out back with my once-dried up garden hose. The puppies have never known what it’s like to play in water bogs from a running hose. Most dogs don’t, at least not since the early 1980s. But mine will. I’m paying for it after all.

Thanks for the drought, Mother Nature, or whoever you are. And thank you, Cal Am, for making us wish we’d never conserved.

On weight and necessity - typewriter love

Its weight is the first thing you notice. It’s not ashamed of it. Not looking to be sleek or refined. It’s a workhorse, full of metal and grit, and the typewriter knows it. You wouldn’t want it any other way. 
Like a boulder tumbling through the river of time, your typewriter is a reminder of necessity’s keen mind, when anything built and sold carried weight and therefore had meaning. There’s nothing plastic here, nothing disposable, only solid ability.
Spheres of influence count for nothing here. With a typewriter there is only the physical act. Connectivity, social, and mobile spheres hit the metal bars like waves smashing against concrete pillars. The lifeforms they breed return to their fluid realm, unable to find influence here.
Fingers caress the keys, circling their edges and indentations, and find conductivity. There the words will spill forth, from organic matter to solid machine. This holy union bridges the mind to a single purpose, channeling energy into action, strategically aimed, to a single outcome of universal possibilities. Here you’ll find no mental noise to interrupt that purpose, nothing to distract the union, and nothing to sway your attention. There is noise, talking to be had with your typewriter, but you know it cannot, will not, chirp, beep or tweet at you.
The sound chatters. It clunks, it grinds and zips and scrolls. It’s the sound of ribbon, of paper, of metal and spirit. It’s the solitary sound of my will, my intention, and nothing more. 

(Piece written for Digital Gentry: the Social Media Museum Experiment's Facebook page where I am guest curating for the month of January)

On hold with the IRS

Dainty canned piano music plays in my left ear courtesy of the Internal Revenue Service and their help line.
“Our representatives are still helping other customers. Please continue to hold.”
I should have been counting how many times they said it.
The piano music isn't enough to make me fall asleep, but it tries. Did the person who wrote that ditty, and digitized it with his computer, know it would be heard by people tired of being on hold? That it would be the music people wanted to claw their eyes out while listening to? He probably got a fat check for making it. That's what I imagine. He's off on some island somewhere the tax man can't reach him. Maybe he's with the high-pitched woman who tells us to continue to hold? I can see them on a white beach sipping martinis and holding hands.
I click over to Facebook before the fantasy gets pornographic. A musician and a woman who does voice work for the Internal Revenue Service? That combination has "dirty-nasty" written all over it. Best go to social media and not use my mind. But before I can see any meaningless cat pictures or infographics of political dick measuring, I get a text and have to put the IRS on speakerphone. That guy-who-now-lives-on-an-island's canned music sounds even grosser on speaker. The dog on the chair behind me sighs. She's not thrilled about the music, but likes that I'm forced to sit here and wait.
The text reminds me I have other things to do. Of course I do. Everyone does. But the IRS takes precedent. They buttoned me up nicely a couple of years ago, but now have no record anything was ever buttoned up – ever infinity. Those records are gone. So let's drop everything because a government institution, which can ruin a person's life, can't keep their shit straight.
“Our representatives are still helping other customers. Please continue to hold.”
Luckily the music man and voice-over woman have offshore accounts, I imagine. They took their payday and bailed on the broken system that pretends it's always right. Of course they are. They have the authority to say that. Judging by how many times voice-over woman has stepped on the music man's tune, I'd say they're short-staffed. When you're short-staffed nothing gets done right.
I picture the music man to be a scrawny white guy with long white hair and a clean-shaven face. He probably wears Ray-Ban eyeglass that tint in the sunlight. Right now he's naked on that island. So is the voice-over woman. She's humming his latest tune while planting kisses on his bare chest. He's trying to figure out how to work her signature catch phrase into the tune. It's cute. They're playing role reversal without even thinking about it.
He tries to mimic her voice. “Our representatives are still helping other customers. Please continue to hold.” And now they're both singing it.

I may very well forget what I called these people about by the time someone gets on the line. One thing's for sure. This blog will be posted by the time I have to open my mouth and figure it out.

Abe Lincoln at Star Wars: The Force Awakens

Spoiler Alert! Do not read if you have not seen Star Wars: The Force AwakensIf you do not care, keep on keeping onLincoln kept his hat on. Not sure why. It’s not like we were going to have our pictures taken or anything. If anything, people would think he was an actor on his way to a local theater production. They probably turned up their noses to that kind of thing. If he were Titanic Leo, they’d be on him like flies on fecal matter, but this is local theater we’re talking about.  Abraham liked the look. He knew it screamed his name. No one really copied his style after he’d been assassinated, so it was all him.

But that hat would cheese people off in the row behind us.

They came to see if J.J. could pull off a new Star Wars movie – as in making something we’d all like, non-fans, monster fans, women, men, transexuals, Republicans, Democrats, Muppets, kids, dogs and cats. So many waited like hungry zombies to see if he’d fail, so many thinking it couldn’t possibly live up to the hype, to the sickening level of abject fervor, and were ready to devour those responsible with one out of place sentence – to digitally shame them for the rest of their natural lives – and if they came back from the dead like Abe did, for eternity - or as long as online
fanboy trolling stays a thing - one or the other.

The tall former president leaned forward in his seat and snatched the popcorn as the lights dimmed. “As I was saying, Patrick. Being a writer, whether in the world of journalism or fiction, means you must teach humanity how it can grow, how it can be better than it was yesterday.”

“The hell it does.”

“Show your readers the true path to wisdom,” he said.

“The movie’s starting.”

“Yeah, shut the hell up,” someone said a few rows below us.

I looked behind us to make sure no one had their view blocked. Thankfully the seat was empty. Lincoln stuffed his mouth with popcorn, but kept speaking.

Bits of yellow popcorn jumped out of his mouth. “Wisdom can be found in any man, but most don’t know to look for it. A writer must teach these things.”

I couldn’t think of anything clever to say, but I kept thinking about how I love Six Million Dollar Man novelizations and read those more often than I did Strayed or Angelou. “Writers are no smarter than anyone else. Dumber probably. You’re not supposed to talk during a movie. I saw this on opening night remember. It’s a cool movie. Take your damn hat off and enjoy it.”

“This is why you can afford to listen to me, Patrick. You’ve seen this movie.”

I began to wonder why Lemmy from Motorhead, or Kubrick, or even Rowdy Roddy didn’t show up at my front door. It had to be Lincoln. The same dude from a row down shushed the sixteenth president before I could.

Abe continued. “You’ve seen this Star Wars. You already know Han Solo dies at the end.”

“Are you serious?” The man from a row down again. This time he was on his feet. Anger surged through his tall, muscular body. The evening deteriorated from there into a bloody mess of sneers, foul language, split lips and white hot pain. Security, police, rage and the realization that theaters and Abraham Lincoln do not mix. Spoilers trump wisdom. Experience can make you bleed. And humanity can grow backward. One thing I know for sure?

Abe punched first.

Not sure how I feel about it

Esalen Institute on the California coast in Big Sur.I know I am excited. I know I think about it every single day. I know I can’t wait. At the same time, I fear it will go by so fast that it'll be over before I know it.  Or it will be so alien to how I think I’ll leave with no real idea of what happened.  Or I will disagree with everyone or feel like a fish out of water. I suppose I just don’t know how to feel about it. But I can’t wait to go.
I’m talking about my first writers retreat – an unbelievable gift from Natalia for the holidays. I was given the choice of attending a writers conference, a retreat, or something similar that might add to my repertoire as a writer. After checking dates, costs, what was happening in the writing world where and when, I settled on The Writer’s Journey: Crafting Personal Stories that are Vivid, Compelling and True with the fascinating and well-traveled writer Laura Davis. This weekend workshop, located at the Esalen Institute in Big Sur, takes off April 8, 2016, and is so close to our house in Seaside I can drive there in no time. Being that it’s Esalen, with views of the roaring Pacific Ocean and healing hot springs (not to mention the presence of literary ghosts in Henry Miller, Hunter S. Thompson and Jack Kerouac to name a few), I’m also looking at the outing as a short respite from the world and a chance to meet Laura and others who love the written word.
Normally, retreats are the sort of thing I could never afford and, at the cost of such things, I would question whether they're worthwhile. I’ve often wondered how writers, historically poor, can afford such diversions. Isn’t their time better spent writing? Would it benefit my writing if I went? Like forever? Shouldn’t that money go to an outstanding debt or my empty retirement? Or maybe a new computer or two?
Me and my not-so-gently-used copy of
Natalie Goldberg's famous book.But this is where I let go and allow my desire for knowledge to override my common sense. I have never done this sort of thing before and I have been writing for a long time. I want to know what a retreat is like. I want the experience. I could love it so much I’ll yearn to return. I could come away with reasons to never return. One thing is for sure. I will never know unless I go.  
And I do plan to follow up on this blog with a post-retreat entry.
The Laura Davis/Esalen retreat includes meditation and personal exploration, and includes a mandatory reading of Natalie Goldberg’s book Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within. I don’t meditate except when I’m trying to remember what I was supposed to do next on my to-do list. I’ve never thought my inner writer shackled to anything except my own time limitations. But I am excited nonetheless, maybe because I’ve never done these things, maybe because the idea of exploring my inner voice from a new perspective has me uncomfortable, or maybe I feel like I will be pretending (in glorious Big Sur of all places) to be something I’m not: affluent, metaphysical, interesting, privileged, etc.,

It could be we all merely pretend. Do it long enough and you’re an expert, right?

Whitehurst's Top 5 Reads of 2015

So many books and no time to nerd out.Less than one book a month; that was all I could muster in ’15. I very nearly cleared twelve, so I was close. Had I finished that bad ass Six Million Dollar Man book I would have made it, but alas. In 2015 I read eleven books, ranging from Mack Bolan Executioner novels to the California Naturalist Handbook. The Whitehurst Top 5 Reads of 2015, however, show a bit of appreciation for only two categories: Science Fiction and Fantasy, and two Monterey icons: Steinbeck and Miller.

A Portal in Time by Claire Fullerton
There’s a slight theme to my top five picks this year. Many of them take place in, or mention, areas in Monterey County along the California coast. Fullerton’s romantic time travel story feeds into my love of science fiction and fantasy and is set in the charming city of Carmel by the Sea. The novel tells the story of Anna and Valeria (two women from different points in time) and how they came to fall in love with the respective men in their lives. You’ll have to read it for the time portal part!
Check out the book here.

A Devil in Paradise by Henry Miller
There’s nothing like a little Henry Miller to brighten one’s day. A Devil in Paradise focuses on one of Miller’s more colorful buds, who comes to visit the Miller family in lush Big Sur, and ends up being something of a massive pain in the ass. Such fun to read, likely because I can picture the area so well in my head, but also because I love the idea of living in seclusion, and furiously eschewing company in the process. As always, it takes a warmed-up “reading engine” to get the tempo of Miller’s style, but it’s always worth it.
Check out the book here.

Star Wars Aftermath by Chuck Wendig
The Battle of Endor is over, Darth Vader is cooked into a molten pile, and the world hates/loves Ewoks, but the Empire hasn’t gone away completely. The year 2015 will go down as a big one for Star Wars fans thanks to the Force Awakens (part of the reason for Aftermath’s release in the literary world no doubt). Wendig’s novel follows Wedge Antilles and other side characters from Star Wars canon on an exciting adventure of their own. For non-readers of Science Fiction, this is a simple-to-get Star Wars books. For Science Fiction fans; it’s a great addition to the universe of Jedi Knights, Wookies and people who have “a bad feeling about this.” Wendig writes in a nonchalant, almost humorous style. His Twitter feed, something I rarely read, actually led me to look past the negative reviews of his book and make my own decision – something I am glad I did.
Find the book here.

Beacon 23 by Hugh Howey
This book was originally released in serial format. Five separate chapters popped up one after another – all forming a quirky, offbeat story of a man stationed to a lonely outpost in space named (you guessed it) Beacon 23. One thing after another happens to this station keeper, some quite funny (the rock!), actually very funny (I can’t remember the last time I laughed out loud while reading before this book). Recommended for anyone who likes Science Fiction that spends a lot of time in someone’s head.
Find the book here.

John Steinbeck: Centennial Reflections by American Writers edited by Susan Shillinglaw
This work counts as the shortest read in the bunch, but full of color. The book, edited by Susan Shillinglaw, offers views of literary icon John Steinbeck and Monterey, from writers of all flavors. Contributors include Peter Benchley, Mary Higgins Clark, Harper Lee, Ursula K. Le Guin, Norman Mailer and Tom Robbins just to name a few. Even if you hate J.S., read the book to see what these other fine writers thought.
More information on the book can be found here.