Patrick Whitehurst's Blog, page 30

Bukowski’s puke dive

"Please don't make a dumb-ass theme joint based on me?"
A bar opened this month that celebrates the life of Charles Bukowski. It's called “Barkowski.” They, the owners of the place, claim the 60’s-style “dive bar” will cater to the crazy man’s literary fans. Beer will be seven bucks a can and microwaved White Castle burgers will be five bucks each. A dive by the sounds of it, but not a cheap one, and pretentious too. Nothing like making a buck for nasty food and beer on the back of a man who would probably hate the whole idea of being “themed” in such a way. The so-called dive opened in Santa Monica, Calif., this month.Like others have cried on their respective websites, Buk would never hang there. But it’s not about him. It’s about the people who love him – and all traces of literary coolness. It’s about the experience, such as it will be.The idea of the Santa Monica joint might attract a crapton of hipsters ­– those who’ve read his “Post Office” over and over again, much like they do with Jack Kerouac’s On the Road, J.D. Salinger’s every breath and Hunter S. Thompson’s every noun. While Thompson loved the attention, and sought it for himself whenever and wherever he could, Salinger shunned public interaction to the point it made him even more famous. So what would these authors think of the batshit-crazy crap we-who-are-still-alive do to honor them? My gut tells me they’d flop like goldfish in their graves. Being that it’s Christmas-time, would Dickens (who championed the poor just as Steinbeck and others did) really think himself lucky to be adored by the educated elite of England in today’s world? Would he implore them to learn from his words and act on them? Or would he shrug and start composing a Tweet? The mural found outside the Steinbeck Center in Salinas,
celebrating immigrants and the poor as
depicted in the novels of John Steinbeck.
The center charges admission to enter.Would Steinbeck delight in the Steinbeck Center in Salinas? Would he be proud of his legacy the way his fans are? Perhaps he would, but perhaps not. Perhaps he might hope things would have changed for immigrants by this time, or that understanding for the plight of the destitute and lonely would be greater than it is. After all, nothing but social media is any different. Or, like Dickens, would Steinbeck throw up his arms in defeat and sign a contract with Amazon?Would Salinger be thrilled about the upcoming biopic movie and the online leak of his short precursor story to Catcher in the Rye online from the Manuscripts Division of Firestone Library’s Rare Books and Special Collections Department at Princeton? He’d likely file a lawsuit and continue to pray his readers would simply shut the hell up.Would Norman Mailer appreciate the writer’s colony and all the money being made off his name? Is it sweet to do or simply a moneymaker that benefits the board of directors and their interests and fans of his writing only a little? Who’s to know, but Mailer?And why in the hell make a bar for Bukowski’s fans? They claim it will have all the qualities Buk would love in a shithole, save for the filth of a real dive bar. I think most folks realize, however, that Bukowski would laugh at the whole idea.But it may be just the place for those wacky kids waiting in line for their MFA in creative writing.

Authors on social media. lol.

Except no one does.They say what you post online, what you make of yourself in the digital world, never goes away - and those things can haunt a person for the rest of their boring and meaningless lives.
That's if you don't delete it, and if someone thinks enough of you to screen-grab that shit before you've done so. It happens to star folk. Many of us think we're just like those celebrities, of course, and rarely do we post anything on social media that's interesting for fear it may be used against us, for fear someone might think we're actually human and not some heavenly beacon of metaphysical prowess. We're all entities of blinding awesomeness on our own feeds.

Others have this idea they're sharing noteworthy information when they scamper to their smartphones. PaulWalker, star of the Fast and Furious movie franchise, is a good recent example. The nuclear meltdown in Japan, when it occurred years ago, is another. Social media lights up when someone dies, when something bad happens, and we all become newscasters - the people on our feeds can't get that shit anywhere else but from us. And they need to know how we feel about it. They really do.
Thank God for posters. I may scroll past their breaking news reports, as I seek something of minor relevance, but I appreciate the peanut gallery and its fabulous running commentary. I've even thought about collecting a “best of” list, compiling the dreck – as a reminder of those special days when something terrible happens. With Walker, as an example, I discovered so many of my friends were fans. How come I didn't know that?
And then there are authors. Do they know what they post affects sales, affects interest, and can steer readers away? Or do they not care? When on social media, whether it's to post an image of a half naked stud in a Santa hat, or to vent and cuss about a bad review, should authors not remember their posts reflect the product they hope to sell?
The study of authors on social media is an interesting one. You have some who post philosophical questions, some who tout other authors, post family pictures and gratitude to their readers. Those are typically the big names, the New York Times bestsellers, the ones who had sales prior to the daily vomit of social media.
Then you have mid list and small press authors, self-published authors, and everything in between. They're online all day. Many, I've noticed, are married to someone else who pays the bills, and many post absolutely meaningless nuggets of information every hour. These authors, unlike the New York Times bestsellers, post their word counts, post about their characters, and post to an audience of five people when their new book is coming out, usually speaking to those five as if they were five thousand. “OMG. Big news coming this week. You will all just have to wait!” “Who's ready for my cover reveal? Smiley face emoticon. Oh, and RIP Paul Walker” “Happy dance! Got in 5k today, going to sprint tonight after a shower. Who says being a writer is easy? Lol.”
And who's to say which way is the right way? While I lean toward the gentle serenity of big name authors, the clucking hen house brought by minor authors is fun to read on occasion, like how train wrecks are dandy to capture on video. And it could be I'm missing a vital clue here. Mid list, small press, and self-published authors may do this out of some diabolical marketing scheme I've never heard of. It could be bragging rights and nothing more. It could be a lack of oversight and super-powered, high self esteem.
And what of authors who frequently post on social media with emoticons and acronyms aplenty, failing to even start their sentence with a capital letter? Don't klaxons sound when they type that crap, some kind of internal red alert that tells them they need to set an example? Multiple spelling errors and ruptured sentence structures make other authors cringe when they read it. Occasional ones? We all do that. But seeing a daily news feed of twenty to thirty posts, all with emoticons and “DH” this and “FML” that, makes one wonder what kind of novel these writers produce. Will it be a high school text written out in long form journalism – cheerleader stream of consciousness written in thumb for the New York Review of Books? And, going back to the bestselling authors, one rarely sees a glaring error on their feed.
It could be I am so out of the loop it's not funny. But I am not alone if that's the case. There are plenty of others who scroll through their news feeds with a sense of wonder or profound distress, wondering why writers aren't actually writing anymore.
Am I lost? Am I simply too old? Lol. RIP Paul Walker.

Real food ideas

Quickie din-din eaters.
With so many recipes and meals fluttering about this week for Thanksgiving, media rarely gives utterance to the crap we eat outside of the holiday season. I keep a list of so-so fuel ideas for those nights I can’t think of anything, which is most nights. Thought I would share them.
Dinner ideas: These are typically the ideas I come up with on my own for food ideas. Not having much time at night to spend by the oven, these are my go-to players.Sloppy Joes and Pot:oven-cooked fries (fat or not), possibly with a bit of grated cheese or parmesan on top, Sloppy Joe sauce should be mixed with onions, bell pepper and other veggies cooked into it. Barbecue-flavored sauce is the best, with toasted bun. Ham Din: pan fried ham steaks with boiled broccoli stalks and tops, finished with cheap oven rolls on the side and butter.Mom’s Macaroni: made by boiling shells, then soaked in butter. Grate a block of cheddar and layer atop the macaroni shells, and then bake until cheese starts to brown at the edges.Egg Sal ‘Miches:these are good to eat, but can be really time-consuming, though larger portions can be whipped up that can last days and days.Dogs, Cob, Grill:grilled corn on the cob should be the kind still in the leaves, whatever they call it, and then grilled for some time. Kosher hot dogs are the best, but cheap dogs work in a wallet pinch. Barbecue chips usually go best with it, as do potato buns.Fritili: pretty much says it all, but adding cold diced onions and grated cheese to the top of a bowl of hot chili ringed with Fritos can make this even more awesome, not to mention relatively cheap. Fritos can be replaced with a cheaper brand to save on the cost.Ghetto: boil the noodles, dapple with butter and a dash of parmesan, top with choice of sauce, more parmesan and garlic bread knots. Can feed a lot in a quick amount of time.Platter Night: easy to make, usually purchase a pound of salami slices, havarti or gouda cheese slices that can be cut into quarters, various veggies such as radishes and broccoli tips, Ritz crackers or vegetable crackers and lay it all out on a large cutting board. Blue Cheese or tangy dipping sauce a must.Lunches: easy, sort of healthy, and affordable.Egg salad sandwichesLunchables and snacksCelery and peanut butterPeanut Butter and Jelly sandwichesMicrowave burritosBreakfasts: simple, fast and relatively cheap.OatmealCroissants and banana

Anne Rice book signing – what really happened

My trophy.
Introverts can make most scenes of chaos feel pretty controlled. And there were plenty of those around, most hardly saying a word to the person sardined beside them in line, busying themselves with their cell phone or reading a book while waiting.
Anne Rice’s fans were cordoned off into alphabetical sections, rather fitting for fans of her writing, fans of bookstores, and whatever.
Those sections snaked around the bookshelves at Changing Hands Bookstore like clogged arteries. Each letter of the alphabet, which went to the letter “R,” but could have gone deeper, consisted of a knot of fans, all carrying heavy stacks of books written by Rice or her son, Christopher – who was also present for the Nov. 14 Tempe, Arizona, signing event.
The first person to report for a particular letter assignation got to hold an eight foot grey PVC pipe with a yellow flag at the top – a slightly embarrassing reward for their prompt attendance. Their letter was scrawled in black marker in the middle of the flag.
The F troop, waiting patiently for autographs
and a chance to say something to Anne Rice.I belonged to the E team. A young woman in front of me carried a stack of what I assumed to be her favorite Anne Rice novels in hardcover, “Queen of the Damned” and “Interview with the Vampire.” Her boyfriend drifted in and out of the crowd carrying a small puppy that clung to him like a shipwrecked sailor holding on to a lifesaver. Behind me were three women, mostly middle-aged, wearing very average clothing – soccer moms, perhaps – and talking about topics related to their book group. They all loved Stephen King, speaking very highly of his latest literary effort “Doctor Sleep,” and commented on many of the books we Es passed by while moving slowly up the snaking line, through the guts of the bookstore to the back where the Rice family sat.
One of the soccer moms slapped my ass on accident while talking about the 50 Shades of Grey parody called “Spank,” an incident she found rather humorous. At the time we were next to a shelf with the Shades trilogy prominently displayed.
All told the line moved slowly, but surely, for an hour and a half – all for a minute of time spent with the creator of The Vampire Chronicles and its star, the Vampire Lestat. And there were rules for us teams, even the F troop behind us (the name I gave them in my head), probably loose rules, but mentioned nonetheless.
Pictures could be taken of, but not with, the Rice family. That didn’t appear to be the case for everyone, as some managed to get that coveted “with” shot, but those were the rules staff at the bookstore told us autograph hounds, not once, but a number of times. Of, but not with.
A picture "of," but not "with,"
author Anne Rice.And while I expected people to be covered in fake blood, dressed like Lestat or other characters; I didn’t see them. And I was likely representative of the median age. There were plenty older than me, lots of older folk really, lots of middle-aged women that would have fit quite nicely into an Agatha Christie festival, and quite a few younger than me. One large, younger woman, I noticed, wore a very revealing black low cut top. Not because it accentuated her jiggling melons, which were as large as the rest of her, but because fangs dripping blood had been drawn on the right boob. Other than this one single vampiric attribute, the fans looked like any Phoenician. More were like me, fans since teenagedom, but so very normal in appearance.
It got hot for the E team after about forty-five long minutes on our feet, as it did for everyone else I bet (even the F troop), and people were getting uncomfortable and restless. But then it was go time, dealing with rushed bookstore staff, answering their questions about how you wanted Anne Rice to sign your book, what you wanted signed, and then someone took the books from you, slid them to the quiet, stoic author, and you were suddenly in her presence. Anne Rice looked up at me with an elegant smile, briefly, before turning her attention to the autograph at hand. I could only imagine how her hand felt by this time.
“This is a big signing,” I muttered. “I’ve never really been to many as big as this.”
And her reply was… something I cannot even remember.
It had to do with small venues and intimate atmospheres being a nice thing.
And then I thanked her and was shuffled out, a security guard/bookstore guy told us to have a good evening, and it was over.
We left the store, ready for our two-hour drive back to Sedona, with inky darkness enveloping the desert. A woman, way back by the entrance, a member of the R squad, ran her eyes at the books in my arm as we bustled off into the night. She smiled wanly, wondering no doubt how long she would be in line, and whether the whole thing would feel worth it in the morning.

Anne Rice book signing – what I think will happen

What I am expecting to see at Changing Hands Bookstore
in Tempe on Thursday.
Having read Rice’s Vampire Chronicles as a teenager in Monterey, remembering a hearse that drove around the Peninsula with “Lestat” on the license plate, I had a pretty good idea of the type of fans to expect at an Anne Rice appearance.
They’d be dark people, full of secret blood cravings and erotic gestures, not smutty or overtly provocative, but graceful and affectionate in a Victorian kind of way. Sexual with a look, not with speech or in dress.
In fact, when I think of an Anne Rice book signing, such as Thursday’s signing in Tempe, I imagine fans dressed to the nines. Nothing skimpy, but lots of lace, lots of historical attire that buttons to the chin. Leather boots with high heels that could stick out of a man’s back should they ever be used to impale the person who cut in front of them at the signing. Maybe a powdered wig or two. Lots of red, red lipstick. Lots of pale white skin. And lots of hoping Rice will take notice and be appropriately impressed.
It’s funny I should expect this, seeing as how I’m a fan of her writing myself, but I don’t dream of blood and living forever. Being that I shop at Goodwill and thrift stores for some of my clothing, it could be called historical attire, though it’s not lacey or Victorian, more like worn in. I picture myself as being different from the crowd, and not in a cool, hipster way. I’m just one of her older readers, middle-aged, growing a food baby in my gut, and worrying about my kids, and I’m one of those fans who very nearly didn’t attend the signing, thinking it was too far away from the house and taking time off from work would be a pain in the ass – total middle-aged thoughts.
I picture her younger fans to be the sort who’d pop for a signing on a school night, who’d have the money to buy up a stack of back copy to be signed, and who’d make an event of it. Younger folk tend to think dressing up would make that event more memorable, more shareable on social media, more worthy of a Vine video or whatever. But I decided I wanted that experience, to see Rice in person, rather than just read interviews or check out a video posted to her Facebook page on occasion. Why shouldn’t I? I’ve read so many of her books, after all, and I geek out on authors more than I do celebrities in film and TV. She played a role in what became my teen years, but I followed her work into my 20s, shied away for a while, and returned again in my 30s, and continue to read her in my 40s.
So I expect to be the only middle-aged dude in regular street clothes – a guy most will mistake for the father of someone in line to get a signed copy. I don’t expect Halloween decorations or dark lighting (I do see pictures on Rice’s Facebook page, so I know it’s not like that), but I do expect some pageantry, some wannabe Goth authors with a holier-than-though sense of worth, lots of black eyeliner and I hope to God I see a powdered wig or two. As I typically attend smaller signings in smaller communities, I’m also expecting an army of these people. It will be a room chock full of introverts tweaking on nervous excitement.
And I’ll be one of them. Only wearing new-to-me clothes and talking about how it’s getting to be past my bedtime.

OUT NOW: Barker returns in 'Monterey Pulp'

'Monterey Pulp' by
Patrick Whitehurst, the second
of the Barker Mysteries.
Barker, the homeless detective of ‘Monterey Noir,’ returns in ‘Monterey Pulp.’

Following hot on the heels of his rescue of Carmel's mayor from the ship Wicked Joe in “Monterey Noir,” Barker once again finds himself in a hot mess of danger and intrigue. Seeking escape from his newfound popularity, the handsome man with no memory of his past, travels deep into the Carmel Highlands - only to find adventure has followed him there.
From an encounter with the disturbing Easter Bunny Man at Pacific Grove's famous Lover's Point to a diabolical plot by the homeless denizens of Deadrent Kingdom, trouble is never very far from Barker and his collection of loyal canines.



Check out the sneak peak below. Click here to order your copy of ‘Monterey Pulp’ for the Amazon Kindle.

CHAPTER 1 TERROR IN THE HIGHLANDS
In the dream, Chuck found himself floating alone on a giant block of ice.  The waters around him bubbled and spit, melting the ice more and more, for a volcanic eruption beneath him continued to spew its molten contents despite his desperate prayers that it would end.  He clawed his way atop the ice block's pinnacle, hoping a passing ship would spy his plight and come to his aid.  He was, after all, a greatly respected member of the Peninsula, editor of one of the most widely-read weekly newspapers in town, and carried with him more money than any respectable reward-seeker would want or need.  His gratitude would more than fatten their wallets, if only they'd save him!  The ice block continued to melt.
Sleeping at the edge of his tent, Chuck Potachi squirmed and writhed in silent terror.  Had he woken at that moment, the middle-aged editor would have realized how the ice block and volcanic turmoil mirrored, in a way, his tumultuous real life.  Chuck kept dreaming, however, finding himself closer and closer to the terrifying, boiling sea atop his ever-thinning chunk of ice.  The campsite remained silent as the grave.
* * * *
A week ago, Barker set off for the peace and solitude offered by the Carmel Highlands and its wealthy supply of nature.  Wild boars scurried about in the dead of night, as did the deer, raccoons and skunks.  Their footsteps and chattering mouths served to remind him of their dominion over the region while he dozed under his fort of old tree branches and dead leaves. 
During the daylight hours he watched the comings and goings of squirrels as they frolicked and scampered about near his campsite.  Closing his eyes to the birds singing in the trees above him, Barker allowed their symphonies to lull him into oblivion.He napped under the sun, added twigs and leaves to his small fort, and ran aimlessly through the forest with his five dogs, who accompanied him on his journey.  When food became necessary, Barker set out on the hunt with his pack.  Laying in wait long enough usually afforded the muscular man one kind of meal or another.  Often, he'd settle for the many wild berries that grew in the Carmel Highlands.  'Monterey Noir' by Patrick
Whitehurst. The first of
Barker Mysteries.
The dogs, ranging from Zero the tiny white Shih-Tzu, to the large Rottweiler named Dangler, fended for themselves if Barker's choices for the evening's repast fell short of their desires.  They were as at home in the forest as Barker himself, running like deer alongside their human companion when the whim struck them.  They would often journey through the dense forest, leaping over boulders and chasing down crows, until exhaustion forced them to rest.
His arrival on this particular camping expedition stemmed from his involvement in a kidnapping over a week ago.  Due to his association with a friend who'd been shot, and Barker's subsequent rescue of the mayor of Carmel, he became a local celebrity.Barker, not one to appreciate public scrutiny, opted to leave the city until the appreciation for his efforts faded.  He knew that it was only a matter of time before the media and those who pay attention to it forgot his deeds and turned their interests elsewhere.  He'd return to Monterey then.
As a homeless man, Barker felt it odd to be the center of so much attention.  He preferred to dwell in obscurity.  His dogs, he knew, preferred their free-roaming lifestyle as well, and did not wish to be hampered down by too much attention.
Monterey Pulp is published by Deerstalker Editions. Visit Patrick Whitehurst’s Amazon.com author page here.

They don’t like it; so you can’t read it

If this guy wouldn’t read it, don’t self-publish it. 
It could be the whole thing started from a certain type of e-book, or maybe a handful of them, that steer erotic themes into territories they shouldn’t tread. Moral questions were asked, someone with a sense of civic duty wrote a scathing news story, as if the concept of questionable erotic literature were anything new, and the businesses selling the immoral books sat up in their chairs and acted surprised. But those immoral books, questionable in nature, dealing with underage sex, beastiality and other taboos in a way that might not have made it seem wrong; they were not the only ones to feel the wholesome swat of digital moral justice that resulted from the recent Kernel news story. The fine line between immoral erotica and good old-fashioned smut is suddenly quite thin indeed.
With terms such as “dangerously close” and others, the Kernel piece (which they called investigative journalism) in essence accuses indie publishers and self-published authors of nearly crossing what is already a line blurred by individual taste and morality – much like forming an opinion of someone based on the books you see in their home, which in and of itself is “dangerous.”
Where it was once a cause for celebration, thanks to the bombastic, droll Fifty Shades of Grey, that erotica had finally found mainstream acceptance, it is just as suddenly thrown back into the puritanical gallows for being completely unacceptable.
What is unacceptable, of course, is how the sweep of the digital broom leaves big name publishers out of harm’s way, how it leaves celebrated erotic literature safe and untarnished, Lolita (about an underage girl) and even, one could argue, Fifty Shades itself – about a confused young coed after all, and based from fan fiction taken from a teen series and stripped into graphic sexual situations. But there’s a movie being made from that one, and headlines in the news about who is being chosen to portray the character of Grey.
While these headlines titillate, the stories that birth characters just like Grey’s are being deleted from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Kobo; anywhere people can find a good steamy, slutty tale with little effort. And it isn’t simply the immoral ones that test the tastes of readers, but all the slutty books produced from small press publishers and self-published authors – at least those that fit the parameters of certain keyword searches. They are all threatened, all under the suddenly moral gaze of giant online retailers. It isn’t just the ebooks about incest and rape on the virtual chopping block, it is all erotica according to some – an entire genre of written words could soon vanish.
And that is indeed what will occur should the sweep continue, should Amazon and other online giants, many of which have become leaders in the publishing world (putting many small presses out of business in the process) pick and choose with keyword searches alone. There are immoral books out there, ones that push the boundaries of tastefulness, but if they are the first to fall, they will not be the last. Books selling a particular religious belief may come next, books on marksmanship, books on homeopathic medicine.
And if they fall, to be fair, so should the big publishers and their boundary-pushing books.
Links on the issue at hand:
http://www.the-digital-reader.com/2013/10/13/amazon-bn-whsmith-now/#.Ul2VVUbCTiE
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/technology-24491723
http://www.onthemedia.org/story/amazon-incest-porn/
http://www.kernelmag.com/features/report/exclusive/5961/how-amazon-cashes-in-on-kindle-filth/#

Do trendsumers make coolness gross?

Jesus... enough.Everything cool right now is repulsive to me. Mustaches? Where did that come from? I didn’t cozy up to them in the 70s, never dug them in 1920s photographs, nor do I get all giggly when I get pulled over for something lame by a mustached patrol officer.

I drive the limit, obey traffic laws, but if a brake light goes out I get nailed right off the bat. The burly officer who stops me, the guy who sleeps with a rulebook under his flat pillow, remembers the law well, but couldn’t think himself out of a cardboard box without it.
He sports a repulsive mustache, thick and bushy and powerful, which is how I know he’s the ignorant type. Those without those mustaches don’t fit the description. These days there are 'staches on kids and dogs to make us laugh, fake ones sold everywhere to make us laugh, and everyone is taking selfies of themselves wearing one. 
Maybe it’s not so much the mustaches as it is the rampant attraction so many have to anything they think is trendy and hip – whatever it takes to feel relevant – to the point I yearn to hide from the world, or throw up on myself, or a smelly combo of the two. Actually it’s the mustaches. Enough with them. They’re hideous and remind me of diseasey porn stars who stalk and belittle the female gender. Luckily, the populace will move on to the next (equally unoriginal) trend as fast as they swaggered through the “duck lips” phase.
It’s only a matter of time when actual lemmings, those cute little bastards, are the new craze.
Overdoing anything, to the point of abdominal pains, is the hallmark of a trend. Tattoos are, sadly, a case in point. Soccer moms have them now, trust fund babies get them, police officers get them, and politicians get them. Sailors probably still do, as do convicts, but now it’s no different than buying shoes or putting a political bumper sticker on the ass of your electric car. Everyone is doing it. It’s been “over cooled” to the point that I consider them no more artistic than the 2013 Snookie tupperware collection at Target. They no longer surprise me, impress me, or instill any emotion in me at all. They are simply there, and will mark an entire generation with idiocy before too long.
Way to play the trends...Tattoos, thank to their inky price tags, are a sign of affluence and status – much like Apple products were a few years back. Where they once indicated a highly personal, street-level connection with someone or something deeply meaningful, now local tattooists may as well shop their needles next to Starbucks at Safeway.
Of course there are those who were tattooed long before the current trend, and many longtime, true tattoo artists who are now enjoying the fruits of their labor thanks to the recent boom. More power to them. And kudos to those who ignore the trendiness and continue to be tatted up out of their love for the art. It’s just harder to enjoy it now.
So what’s next in the trend vacuum?
I’d go with a return to grunge as the next vulgar look for trendsumers. Flannel shirts and long hair will have a sickening comeback in no time. Rock bands, some good, and most crap, will vomit their familiar angst onto the Top 40 charts once again.
And there will be a massive effort, as always, to spend craptons of money to look as poor as the rock stars and hipsters do.

Like an ape with a bone: my rant on technology

The difference between a Tycho Monolith and a Kindle Fire? They may look the same, but only one works in a reliable, albeit creepy, fashion. It’s funny that, in my effort to read Arthur C. Clarke’s “3001 – The Final Odyssey” on my Kindle Fire, a novel where reliance on technology is tantamount to the success of human exploration, I find I can’t trust my Fire to keep a charge.
The Fire is a year old – a gift to myself at 40. It’s a wonderful device when it works the way Amazon says it will. And it does follow the guidelines plotted out on the Kindle Fire seller’s page – especially for the first six months. Now it runs sluggy, blinks often, and to top all else, won’t charge correctly, if at all.
I have the number to wait for tech support; I have the ability to order and wait for a replacement, message boards and the like for what little assistance they provide - all the tools available for a problem tech support and message boards never have answers to.
What I don’t have is access to the digital science fiction novel I wanted to read tonight. This reason, more than any other, lends credence to the argument that print books will never die. They won’t, so long as glitchy tech remains the only constant in an ever-evolving electronic world. And glitchy tech isn’t going anywhere. The opposite seems to be the future in fact, as goober batteries, distracted charging connectors, drooping backlights, and horrific operating systems seem to be getting more and more problematic with every new gadget slapped on the virtual shelf. These days products should come with a “this one might work” warranty.
In the future, technology is
reliable. In the present, reading is
glitchy at best.You can’t trust the technology, but you can always read a print book – even by candlelight should the power blink off. I first read “2001 A Space Odyssey” and “2010 Odyssey Two” in print. I finally got around to “2061 Odyssey Three” on my Fire. It was around this time the charger got loose and I had to jiggle it carefully just to make a connection for the charge. But it still worked, so I held on in the hopes it wouldn’t get worse. Then the damn thing got worse. And now, when I want a quiet night of reading, holding my tea in one hand and the Fire in the other, with nicely pressed sweat pants and perfect slippers on my feet (akin to the hypnotic Kindle ads), I find myself wishing I’d purchased the print version of Clarke’s final tale in the series, maybe from a used bookstore if I can find one.
Dave Bowman likely read his books from a screen while Frank Poole slurped on his lunch beside him. But that technology could be trusted to work reliably when needed, to a point.
Hal did screw them over like a red-eyed cycloptic Terminator. But the basics of their craft were reliable.
In reality, the way it works these days, I would be scared to death were I nestled inside The Discovery – not because of the Tycho Monolith or the Europans, but because I can’t rely on a simply tablet when I want to read a book. Why in God’s name would I trust a rocketship?
The original "2001" published in 1968, in an era when appliances were built to last lifetimes: refrigerators, televisions, and more were forged for long-term use. Repair men were employed to work on whatever issue developed over time, but the appliances were built to last. These days they’re built to be thrown away – such is our disposable culture – and disposable means you’ll be frustrated as hell in about a year.
I can’t help but wonder; what would Hal do? He’d buy a book with pages.

I have a ghost inside me

Never think you are more powerful.
The sinister thumping in the middle of the night comes without warning. The darkness is all you see when you open your eyes – you hear something being dragged across the living room floor, as if a madman in black were hauling the bloody stumps of his victims to the kitchen - while you lay all cozy and warm four feet away on the other side of the wall.
You hear the chair in the kitchen slide over the linoleum floor, followed seconds later by a quiet sobbing. A dead man can weep for his loss, his untimely death, as easily as I can weep for what I've lost while still pumping blood within my rib cage.
But that sobbing, haunting as it is in a park at the height of a noonday sun, chills you all the more while half asleep in your inky black bedroom.
But my ghost, shackled still by blood and flesh, is stronger. You can take your sobbing and cry your ass back to the fucking pit. Put my chair back as you found it, else my spirit will leave my body long enough to tear your ephemeral form into phantasmagorical string cheese. Clean my floor from your disease-ridden presence, or my ghost will rain hell upon you. Cease the noise or my ghost will twist you into a truly terrifying mess of pathetic human refuse.
Your house is haunted, you say? It's haunted by you. You who sit and weep for love lost and never found again, you who fear the living, you who fear the limbless, impotent spirit – your spirit is merely caged with a ticket to poltergeist city waiting in the wings.
Be warned, spirits.
The entity within me is ready for war. Bring your thumps, your moans at midnight, at your own peril.