Mark R. Hunter's Blog, page 36
January 15, 2020
Lost in the Amazon
I noticed recently that if I went to Amazon.com and searched for "Mark R. Hunter", I did not come up first.
In the Kindle store, the first six hits didn't have "Mark R. Hunter" attached to them in any way, and none of them had the word "Mark" at all. In fact, four of them also didn't have the word "Hunter".
Under books, "Mark R Hunter" was the sixteenth match. Realizing I forgot to put in a period, I typed "Mark R. Hunter" ... and came in 19th, right after Operative Thoracic Surgery by Larry R. Kaiser and Glyn Jamieson.
This bothered me.
I suppose it's partially because sales were flat last autumn ... except that Operative Thoracic Surgery ranked at 1,333,795, and doesn't have any connection to my search other than "R". (To compare, The No-Campfire Girls ranked at 1,033,462.)
I understand ranking lower than more popular books of the same name, but this was like searching for George Washington and getting fifty matches for Abraham Lincoln. What bothers me about it is that when I'm talking to someone about my books, I tell them to just search for ... Mark R. Hunter.
On searching for myself on Google I ranked third, but at least the first two matches were a different Mark R. Hunter. I guess now I have to memorize: https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO.
And my memory's not that great.
(In all seriousness, I've done some research, and it seems on Amazon you have about thirty days to make some sells before your book sinks into obscurity, and is afterward ignored by their algorithms. In other words, you have to make sales to be visible, but you have to be visible to make sales.)
https://www.markrhunter.com/
(Another note! This turned into fake news sometime after I wrote it in November, because I'm again the first to come up under a search for my name. I'd imagine it's because since then, we put More Slightly Off the Mark on the market.)
In the Kindle store, the first six hits didn't have "Mark R. Hunter" attached to them in any way, and none of them had the word "Mark" at all. In fact, four of them also didn't have the word "Hunter".
Under books, "Mark R Hunter" was the sixteenth match. Realizing I forgot to put in a period, I typed "Mark R. Hunter" ... and came in 19th, right after Operative Thoracic Surgery by Larry R. Kaiser and Glyn Jamieson.
This bothered me.
I suppose it's partially because sales were flat last autumn ... except that Operative Thoracic Surgery ranked at 1,333,795, and doesn't have any connection to my search other than "R". (To compare, The No-Campfire Girls ranked at 1,033,462.)
I understand ranking lower than more popular books of the same name, but this was like searching for George Washington and getting fifty matches for Abraham Lincoln. What bothers me about it is that when I'm talking to someone about my books, I tell them to just search for ... Mark R. Hunter.
On searching for myself on Google I ranked third, but at least the first two matches were a different Mark R. Hunter. I guess now I have to memorize: https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO.
And my memory's not that great.
(In all seriousness, I've done some research, and it seems on Amazon you have about thirty days to make some sells before your book sinks into obscurity, and is afterward ignored by their algorithms. In other words, you have to make sales to be visible, but you have to be visible to make sales.)
https://www.markrhunter.com/
(Another note! This turned into fake news sometime after I wrote it in November, because I'm again the first to come up under a search for my name. I'd imagine it's because since then, we put More Slightly Off the Mark on the market.)
January 10, 2020
The Good Parts of Being Sick
Yes, yes, I know--how can we come up with anything good about being invaded by nasty little sickness bugs?
Well, it's like this: Everyone around here is getting sick lately, with some respiratory gunk that's not the flu, but makes you wish you had the flu instead. I've had it for about two weeks, which is over the normal amount of time it should take for something to run its course.
But everyone tells me it takes 6-8 weeks for this particular terrorist bug to run its course, and by that I mean it's running over its victims like an Abrams Tank on the American Heroes Channel.
So I can spend two whole months whining about it, or I can seek out a bright side. Do you want to spend eight weeks around someone who only stopped complaining because their lungs were all coughed up?
I didn't think so.
So, here are the good things about being sick:
It's a good excuse to stay inside. "I'm sorry, I can't go out for the annual Midwestern salute to frostbite and chilblains, because this weather already made me sick."
It gives authors more time to write, assuming they can summon the concentration. Granted, there were a few days earlier this week when I physically couldn't lift my laptop, but for writers an illness is like a bone break: Sometimes you get lucky with a leg cast, and other times you have to beg your spouse for help buttoning your shirt. And don't get me started on bathroom runs.
On the days when you're not up for writing, you can work on that pile of unread books that's threatening to tip over one night and give the newspapers a fun headline opportunity: "Literature Lover Smashed by Steinbeck!" If you're an avid reader, you're likely to have more than one stack around the house, leaning threateningly, like the library scene from "Ghostbusters". I polished off a mystery called "Longshot" by Dick Francis, and now know a little more about the world of horse racing.
If you're too sick even to read, this is your chance to watch a little TV. My oldest daughter gifted me with something called Roku, which is apparently a little magic entertainment box from Hogwarts. My wife was able to do something I can't--figure it out--so we decided to try Disney+, because they have total control of, well, everything. As a result we got to watch a show called The Mandalorian, which was amazingly fun even when viewed through a layer of Kleenex.
The dog--well, ours, anyway--actually shows some concern toward you, past whether you're carrying a plate of food, or if you're keeping up with his bathroom schedule. Or, possibly, he kept checking to see if he'd eventually be forced to eat my corpse.
Illness is a great weight loss program, unless you're me. I'm hungry when I'm sick, when I'm well, happy, depressed, or hungry. After losing an amazing five pounds over the holidays, I gained back three during a week on the couch.
But there is one final good thing about being sick: Once word gets around, you don't have to clean the house for visitors. It's a reward for both the introverted and the lazy.
Well, it's like this: Everyone around here is getting sick lately, with some respiratory gunk that's not the flu, but makes you wish you had the flu instead. I've had it for about two weeks, which is over the normal amount of time it should take for something to run its course.
But everyone tells me it takes 6-8 weeks for this particular terrorist bug to run its course, and by that I mean it's running over its victims like an Abrams Tank on the American Heroes Channel.
So I can spend two whole months whining about it, or I can seek out a bright side. Do you want to spend eight weeks around someone who only stopped complaining because their lungs were all coughed up?
I didn't think so.
So, here are the good things about being sick:
It's a good excuse to stay inside. "I'm sorry, I can't go out for the annual Midwestern salute to frostbite and chilblains, because this weather already made me sick."
It gives authors more time to write, assuming they can summon the concentration. Granted, there were a few days earlier this week when I physically couldn't lift my laptop, but for writers an illness is like a bone break: Sometimes you get lucky with a leg cast, and other times you have to beg your spouse for help buttoning your shirt. And don't get me started on bathroom runs.
On the days when you're not up for writing, you can work on that pile of unread books that's threatening to tip over one night and give the newspapers a fun headline opportunity: "Literature Lover Smashed by Steinbeck!" If you're an avid reader, you're likely to have more than one stack around the house, leaning threateningly, like the library scene from "Ghostbusters". I polished off a mystery called "Longshot" by Dick Francis, and now know a little more about the world of horse racing.
If you're too sick even to read, this is your chance to watch a little TV. My oldest daughter gifted me with something called Roku, which is apparently a little magic entertainment box from Hogwarts. My wife was able to do something I can't--figure it out--so we decided to try Disney+, because they have total control of, well, everything. As a result we got to watch a show called The Mandalorian, which was amazingly fun even when viewed through a layer of Kleenex.
The dog--well, ours, anyway--actually shows some concern toward you, past whether you're carrying a plate of food, or if you're keeping up with his bathroom schedule. Or, possibly, he kept checking to see if he'd eventually be forced to eat my corpse.
Illness is a great weight loss program, unless you're me. I'm hungry when I'm sick, when I'm well, happy, depressed, or hungry. After losing an amazing five pounds over the holidays, I gained back three during a week on the couch.
But there is one final good thing about being sick: Once word gets around, you don't have to clean the house for visitors. It's a reward for both the introverted and the lazy.
January 4, 2020
Book Review: Outlander
You may have heard of Outlander, a little tale of time travel and kilts that spawned, oh, several dozen sequels, and a TV series that's headed into its sixth season. Being a fan of time travel stories, I agreed readily when my wife wanted to watch it, and we quickly became hooked.
Also, I love the Bear McCreary score.
Naturally, that led to reading the book. It's a long book, and I'm told the first novel is the shortest of them.
But it shares with the series a gift for detail, which should satisfy history buffs even as the story rolls along fast enough to keep the casual reader entertained.
Claire Randall is a World War II nurse, reunited with her husband, a history and genealogy buff, at the end of the war. They're vacationing in Scotland when they discover an isolated circle of standing stones, not uncommon in that country. It's the kind of thing you shouldn't visit again right after a group of white-clad women do a spooky dance inside it, but Claire is the curious sort.
Next thing you know, she's right back in a war again, this time between the English and the Scottish ... in 1743. Women are second-hand citizens, Claire has the healing powers of a witch, and there's some guy who looks exactly like her husband threatening her at every turn.
Oh, and then there's James Fraser, that redheaded muscle man in a kilt, who's as close to being the perfect man as the 1700s could produce. From the moment she dresses his wounds ('cause he's an awesome warrior man, don'cha know), fate keeps bringing them together, until she finds herself torn between her past life, which is in the future, and her present life, which is in the past.
Outlander is a slam-bang adventure, a hot (heavily R rated) romance, and a meticulously researched historical novel. I found myself fascinated by the detail: Diana Gabaldon clearly did her due diligence, but doesn't overwhelm the reader with so much detail as to make the story boring. Her characters are well drawn, and there are plenty of twists to go around. Just keep in mind that many of those twists are on the violent side, and on at least one occasion the sexually violent side.
Yes, I plan to read the other novels, although considering the size of my present reading list, I'll probably have the TV series finished, first.
Also, I love the Bear McCreary score.
Naturally, that led to reading the book. It's a long book, and I'm told the first novel is the shortest of them.
But it shares with the series a gift for detail, which should satisfy history buffs even as the story rolls along fast enough to keep the casual reader entertained.
Claire Randall is a World War II nurse, reunited with her husband, a history and genealogy buff, at the end of the war. They're vacationing in Scotland when they discover an isolated circle of standing stones, not uncommon in that country. It's the kind of thing you shouldn't visit again right after a group of white-clad women do a spooky dance inside it, but Claire is the curious sort.
Next thing you know, she's right back in a war again, this time between the English and the Scottish ... in 1743. Women are second-hand citizens, Claire has the healing powers of a witch, and there's some guy who looks exactly like her husband threatening her at every turn.
Oh, and then there's James Fraser, that redheaded muscle man in a kilt, who's as close to being the perfect man as the 1700s could produce. From the moment she dresses his wounds ('cause he's an awesome warrior man, don'cha know), fate keeps bringing them together, until she finds herself torn between her past life, which is in the future, and her present life, which is in the past.
Outlander is a slam-bang adventure, a hot (heavily R rated) romance, and a meticulously researched historical novel. I found myself fascinated by the detail: Diana Gabaldon clearly did her due diligence, but doesn't overwhelm the reader with so much detail as to make the story boring. Her characters are well drawn, and there are plenty of twists to go around. Just keep in mind that many of those twists are on the violent side, and on at least one occasion the sexually violent side.
Yes, I plan to read the other novels, although considering the size of my present reading list, I'll probably have the TV series finished, first.
December 30, 2019
New Year's? Are They Doing That Again?
Oh, yeah, New Years ... we're doing that again this year. And after a century of waiting, we'll be back into the Roaring Twenties, so there's that.
The Teen years? As with the teen years of people, they were kind of a combination of good times and deep suckage. Suckage is a word. Okay, it is now.
Politically, there were U.S. Presidents everybody disliked, although at different times. (And that's all I've got to say about that, so let it go.)
Medically--well, as I write this the doctor told me two days ago that I appeared to have a viral respiratory infection. I'd gone in to have my cholesterol checked. (Oh, and my cholesterol is high again.) It was the Decade of the Sinus Infection (which is also the title of my upcoming post-apocalypse novel), with a kidney stone and a few "procedures" thrown in.
Personally, it was the decade a car I owned got totaled for the very first time. Sure, it wasn't my fault; but neither is Congress, and I suffered from that, too.
But you know what? Great things happened to me in the Teens. It was, after all, 2011 when my first book was published. I got married to my fabulous wife/editor/cover artist/book designer/co-author/whip cracker, Emily. And we replaced the wrecked car with my very first SUV, which I liked way more than I thought I would, and it has a friggin' computer screen in it, and how cool is that?
Sure, I'll be helpless when the computers take over, but maybe we should give 'em a chance. They can't all be like the local malfunctioning change machine.
So what the heck, I'm going to go with the Roaring Twenties starting just as good as last time, and hopefully not ending as bad as last time.
New Year's resolutions? Nope. I don't do that. Therein lies madness.
However, the doctor has also, on two occasions in the last two months, told me I'm about to die (although it wasn't worded quite that way), so I am taking the occasion to make some mild lifestyle changes.
For instance, did you know it's possible to have a meal without a salt shaker? It's true.
Also, the green stuff your parents used to make you eat? Not a form of torture. Who knew?
I draw the line on calling exercise "fun", but I've learned the ways of distracting myself while walking, so there's that. By the way, audio books would have saved me a lot of falls and bumps on the head when I was younger. Usually the book cushioned the impact.
I can't call them resolutions, because my plans for 2020 are to simply go on with what I was already doing. I have eleven published books, another being looked at by a publisher, two more being shopped around, and still another I'm working on now. If that's not enough to keep me out of trouble, I don't know what is.
What else will I do this coming year? Work to pay bills, write to make money to retire so I can write to pay bills, and keep my wife happy so she doesn't use her sword collection on me, before I've made enough money writing so I can retire and still pay bills.
And before you ask, selling my wife's sword collection is off the table.
http://markrhunter.com/
The Teen years? As with the teen years of people, they were kind of a combination of good times and deep suckage. Suckage is a word. Okay, it is now.
Politically, there were U.S. Presidents everybody disliked, although at different times. (And that's all I've got to say about that, so let it go.)
Medically--well, as I write this the doctor told me two days ago that I appeared to have a viral respiratory infection. I'd gone in to have my cholesterol checked. (Oh, and my cholesterol is high again.) It was the Decade of the Sinus Infection (which is also the title of my upcoming post-apocalypse novel), with a kidney stone and a few "procedures" thrown in.
Personally, it was the decade a car I owned got totaled for the very first time. Sure, it wasn't my fault; but neither is Congress, and I suffered from that, too.
But you know what? Great things happened to me in the Teens. It was, after all, 2011 when my first book was published. I got married to my fabulous wife/editor/cover artist/book designer/co-author/whip cracker, Emily. And we replaced the wrecked car with my very first SUV, which I liked way more than I thought I would, and it has a friggin' computer screen in it, and how cool is that?
Sure, I'll be helpless when the computers take over, but maybe we should give 'em a chance. They can't all be like the local malfunctioning change machine.
So what the heck, I'm going to go with the Roaring Twenties starting just as good as last time, and hopefully not ending as bad as last time.
New Year's resolutions? Nope. I don't do that. Therein lies madness.
However, the doctor has also, on two occasions in the last two months, told me I'm about to die (although it wasn't worded quite that way), so I am taking the occasion to make some mild lifestyle changes.
For instance, did you know it's possible to have a meal without a salt shaker? It's true.
Also, the green stuff your parents used to make you eat? Not a form of torture. Who knew?
I draw the line on calling exercise "fun", but I've learned the ways of distracting myself while walking, so there's that. By the way, audio books would have saved me a lot of falls and bumps on the head when I was younger. Usually the book cushioned the impact.
I can't call them resolutions, because my plans for 2020 are to simply go on with what I was already doing. I have eleven published books, another being looked at by a publisher, two more being shopped around, and still another I'm working on now. If that's not enough to keep me out of trouble, I don't know what is.
What else will I do this coming year? Work to pay bills, write to make money to retire so I can write to pay bills, and keep my wife happy so she doesn't use her sword collection on me, before I've made enough money writing so I can retire and still pay bills.
And before you ask, selling my wife's sword collection is off the table.
http://markrhunter.com/
December 28, 2019
A Writer's Work is Never Done, if All Goes Well
I hit 50,000 words in my latest novel rough draft!
I need to get that thing done, so I can let it cool while I work on my non-fiction project. I'd have them both done by now, if not for all those bills and, on a related note, that pesky full-time job.
But my hands have healed up from the sewer line fiasco, so at least typing isn't painful anymore.
Just for a treat, here's an excerpt from the rough draft of We Love Trouble:
This is from Chapter One of We Love Trouble, which is narrated by an unusual dog named Wulfgar. Victoria Noble has volunteered herself and her husband, to return a horse to the relatives of a girl who was injured in an apparent accident:
We all watched as the SUV receded into the fog, which was thankfully starting to thin. Then Travis turned to Victoria. “Why …?”
“She was wearing the hat.”
I sniffed the hat. She’d been wearing it, for sure.
“See? Wulfgar agrees. If she’d been galloping through the forest, it wouldn’t have worked its way to the back of her head and stayed there. So she sustained those injuries before the fall.”
“Hm.” Taking the hat from her, Travis examined it. “So … a hat trick, and from this you’ve determined foul play might be indicated. Obviously the deputy has no intention of following up on that.”
“We’ve seen his type of cop—he’s a good guy, but no imagination. We have to stick around long enough to make sure justice is served.”
“Hopefully after breakfast is served. Well, we were going to stay in the park, anyway.” Travis kissed the top of her head. “How do we get the horse back to the camp?”
We all looked at the horse. “Hey, you want to go home?” I asked it in horse, which is kind of like zebra, only less guttural.
“Yeah. Home.” Picking up its head, it looked up the road. A sign had just emerged from the thinning mist.
“Son of a gun.” It was a little too far for me to read—I traded my long-distance vision for other senses—but from Travis’ reaction it looked like the entrance was just up the road. “You want to lead him, or should I?”
“Lead him?” Victoria already had a foot in a stirrup. “Are you intoxicated, Mr. Noble? I’m riding.”
“Get on,” the horse said, wearily.
Travis didn’t seem so sure, but he stood there with the hat and watched as she mounted. “You know, it’s been a long time since you rode a horse free range, so to speak. You’ve mostly been on trail rides the last couple of years.”
Victoria settled herself in and took the reins. “It’s like riding a bike.”
“Yeah, a bike that giant teeth and iron shoes on its wheels.” Sighing, Travis looked at me. “Wulfie, you want to ride or walk?”
“I’ll stay by the horse and bite him if he hurts Victoria.” Travis didn't understand me, and if the horse heard, he didn't react.
I need to get that thing done, so I can let it cool while I work on my non-fiction project. I'd have them both done by now, if not for all those bills and, on a related note, that pesky full-time job.
But my hands have healed up from the sewer line fiasco, so at least typing isn't painful anymore.
Just for a treat, here's an excerpt from the rough draft of We Love Trouble:
This is from Chapter One of We Love Trouble, which is narrated by an unusual dog named Wulfgar. Victoria Noble has volunteered herself and her husband, to return a horse to the relatives of a girl who was injured in an apparent accident:
We all watched as the SUV receded into the fog, which was thankfully starting to thin. Then Travis turned to Victoria. “Why …?”
“She was wearing the hat.”
I sniffed the hat. She’d been wearing it, for sure.
“See? Wulfgar agrees. If she’d been galloping through the forest, it wouldn’t have worked its way to the back of her head and stayed there. So she sustained those injuries before the fall.”
“Hm.” Taking the hat from her, Travis examined it. “So … a hat trick, and from this you’ve determined foul play might be indicated. Obviously the deputy has no intention of following up on that.”
“We’ve seen his type of cop—he’s a good guy, but no imagination. We have to stick around long enough to make sure justice is served.”
“Hopefully after breakfast is served. Well, we were going to stay in the park, anyway.” Travis kissed the top of her head. “How do we get the horse back to the camp?”
We all looked at the horse. “Hey, you want to go home?” I asked it in horse, which is kind of like zebra, only less guttural.
“Yeah. Home.” Picking up its head, it looked up the road. A sign had just emerged from the thinning mist.
“Son of a gun.” It was a little too far for me to read—I traded my long-distance vision for other senses—but from Travis’ reaction it looked like the entrance was just up the road. “You want to lead him, or should I?”
“Lead him?” Victoria already had a foot in a stirrup. “Are you intoxicated, Mr. Noble? I’m riding.”
“Get on,” the horse said, wearily.
Travis didn’t seem so sure, but he stood there with the hat and watched as she mounted. “You know, it’s been a long time since you rode a horse free range, so to speak. You’ve mostly been on trail rides the last couple of years.”
Victoria settled herself in and took the reins. “It’s like riding a bike.”
“Yeah, a bike that giant teeth and iron shoes on its wheels.” Sighing, Travis looked at me. “Wulfie, you want to ride or walk?”
“I’ll stay by the horse and bite him if he hurts Victoria.” Travis didn't understand me, and if the horse heard, he didn't react.
December 23, 2019
Questioning Christmas Songs
This was first published in my weekly column, way back in 2011. And yet, the songs remain the same.
I was going to do something serious for my Christmas writing this year. It’s a serious time; besides, as I write this there’s a special on Discovery about various disasters that could destroy the world.
Way to get into the holiday spirit, Discovery!
But serious times are when we need to lighten up the most. That’s why all those great movie musicals were popular during the Great Depression; it might also explain the popularity of the TV show Glee, one of the most profoundly unserious shows since Gilligan’s Island, even when it’s dealing with real issues. And that’s a great segue, because Glee does more song and dance numbers than a Congressional hearing, and as it happens I want to talk about Christmas songs.
If you can’t make fun of Christmas songs, what can you make fun of? So let’s take a look at some popular ones:
“Santa Claus is Coming to Town”: I’ve mentioned this song before – I call it “Santa Stalker”. He sees you when you’re sleeping … he knows when you’re awake … he knows when you’ve been bad or good … and he’s coming to town. No doubt he’ll be bringing his equally scary pals, the Boogeyman and the IRS Agent.
“I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus”: Well. At least now we know why he’s coming to town. This is on that unique list of Christmas songs that, when you really pay attention, are the equivalent of an AMC Original Series: suitable for adults only.
“Jingle Bell Rock”: I included this out of historical interest, because it’s one of the first rock and roll Christmas songs. It seems quaint now, but at the time it was probably scandalous to the more traditional fans. If someone’s idea of a modern Christmas song was “The Hallelujah Chorus”, that guitar opening must have been a shock.
“Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow”: See above about adult Christmas songs; this one is basically the story of a guy who’s using bad weather as an excuse to make some time with his stranded companion. Also, it doesn’t actually mention Christmas in any way, which puts it into another category: songs about Christmas that – aren’t.
But at least it’s better than “Baby, It’s Cold Outside”, in which the guy bypasses trying to talk his girl into the sack and spikes her drink, instead. Listen to those lyrics and you’ll get never let someone else mix your drink again.
“This Christmas”: Last Christmas she gave him her heart, and the very next day he gave it away. Wait. He gave her heart away? So … he made her fall in love with someone else? Well, you can understand the singer being a little mixed up, considering she’s spending her Christmas as a heartbroken mess.
“The Twelve Days of Christmas”: This is one of those songs that are so old people don’t really understand what they mean anymore. (See: figgy puddings.) Your true love gave you … maids milking? French hens? Where do you even get lords leaping? Do they have to have union cards?
But of course, the big problem with this one is that it’s twelve days long.
“Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer”: Let me break this song down for you: It’s about a bullied kid with a serious birth defect whose haters decide to like him after it turns out he has a superpower that saves the day. Okay. Why did Stan Lee never turn this into a Marvel comic? Or was Spider-Man enough?
“Blue Christmas”: Only Elvis Presley really pulled off this iconic story of a depressed man who’s miserable all through the holidays. Probably the most down Christmas song ever, with the possible exception of “Christmas Shoes”, a song I can’t listen to all the way through to this day.
“Christmas Dragnet”: Funniest Christmas song ever – at least, if you’re familiar with Jack Webb’s old “Dragnet” TV series. I steal the funniest line of that song for my own purposes whenever I can get away with it … and no, I’m not going to tell you what it is. If you don’t listen to the song, you’ll still believe I thought it up myself.
“Little St. Nick.” It’s actually not a bad song, but the very idea of The Beach Boys singing about a winter holiday … you have to picture them belting it out on a beach, wearing shorts with red and green Hawaiian shirts, surrounded by bikini ladies in Santa hats. Which … now that I think on it, that’s not a bad way to spend Christmas.
“Jingle Bells”: A nice, traditional Christmas song … except when done by the Singing Dogs. Whose bright idea was that, and what’s next? Cats screeching out “Feliz Navidad”?
“Snoopy’s Christmas”: A flying dog engaged in a bloody fight to the death with a vicious World War 1 German ace. Merry Christmas, my friend!
“The Chipmunk Song”: Again, whose bright idea was that? ‘Cause the guy should’ve gotten a medal for spawning an empire that’s cranking out cash to this day. I’m thinking about doing a version of “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” – with helium.
“White Christmas” and “Silent Night”: They tie for being close to the perfect Christmas songs. If you can listen to them without getting teared up and – at least inwardly – singing along, you have no heart. Maybe you gave it away Last Christmas.
“Santa Baby”: Top on the list of inappropriate Christmas songs. To this day, Santa can’t hear any version without having to take a cold shower.
And finally, the single most ridiculous Christmas song ever can only be:
“Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer”.
Nothing says Christmas like a hit and run sleigh driver smearing an elderly lady across the sidewalk. Maybe Snoopy should be hired to bring Santa down?
Makes me wish I hadn’t forgot my medication.
I was going to do something serious for my Christmas writing this year. It’s a serious time; besides, as I write this there’s a special on Discovery about various disasters that could destroy the world.
Way to get into the holiday spirit, Discovery!
But serious times are when we need to lighten up the most. That’s why all those great movie musicals were popular during the Great Depression; it might also explain the popularity of the TV show Glee, one of the most profoundly unserious shows since Gilligan’s Island, even when it’s dealing with real issues. And that’s a great segue, because Glee does more song and dance numbers than a Congressional hearing, and as it happens I want to talk about Christmas songs.
If you can’t make fun of Christmas songs, what can you make fun of? So let’s take a look at some popular ones:
“Santa Claus is Coming to Town”: I’ve mentioned this song before – I call it “Santa Stalker”. He sees you when you’re sleeping … he knows when you’re awake … he knows when you’ve been bad or good … and he’s coming to town. No doubt he’ll be bringing his equally scary pals, the Boogeyman and the IRS Agent.
“I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus”: Well. At least now we know why he’s coming to town. This is on that unique list of Christmas songs that, when you really pay attention, are the equivalent of an AMC Original Series: suitable for adults only.
“Jingle Bell Rock”: I included this out of historical interest, because it’s one of the first rock and roll Christmas songs. It seems quaint now, but at the time it was probably scandalous to the more traditional fans. If someone’s idea of a modern Christmas song was “The Hallelujah Chorus”, that guitar opening must have been a shock.
“Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow”: See above about adult Christmas songs; this one is basically the story of a guy who’s using bad weather as an excuse to make some time with his stranded companion. Also, it doesn’t actually mention Christmas in any way, which puts it into another category: songs about Christmas that – aren’t.
But at least it’s better than “Baby, It’s Cold Outside”, in which the guy bypasses trying to talk his girl into the sack and spikes her drink, instead. Listen to those lyrics and you’ll get never let someone else mix your drink again.
“This Christmas”: Last Christmas she gave him her heart, and the very next day he gave it away. Wait. He gave her heart away? So … he made her fall in love with someone else? Well, you can understand the singer being a little mixed up, considering she’s spending her Christmas as a heartbroken mess.
“The Twelve Days of Christmas”: This is one of those songs that are so old people don’t really understand what they mean anymore. (See: figgy puddings.) Your true love gave you … maids milking? French hens? Where do you even get lords leaping? Do they have to have union cards?
But of course, the big problem with this one is that it’s twelve days long.
“Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer”: Let me break this song down for you: It’s about a bullied kid with a serious birth defect whose haters decide to like him after it turns out he has a superpower that saves the day. Okay. Why did Stan Lee never turn this into a Marvel comic? Or was Spider-Man enough?
“Blue Christmas”: Only Elvis Presley really pulled off this iconic story of a depressed man who’s miserable all through the holidays. Probably the most down Christmas song ever, with the possible exception of “Christmas Shoes”, a song I can’t listen to all the way through to this day.
“Christmas Dragnet”: Funniest Christmas song ever – at least, if you’re familiar with Jack Webb’s old “Dragnet” TV series. I steal the funniest line of that song for my own purposes whenever I can get away with it … and no, I’m not going to tell you what it is. If you don’t listen to the song, you’ll still believe I thought it up myself.
“Little St. Nick.” It’s actually not a bad song, but the very idea of The Beach Boys singing about a winter holiday … you have to picture them belting it out on a beach, wearing shorts with red and green Hawaiian shirts, surrounded by bikini ladies in Santa hats. Which … now that I think on it, that’s not a bad way to spend Christmas.
“Jingle Bells”: A nice, traditional Christmas song … except when done by the Singing Dogs. Whose bright idea was that, and what’s next? Cats screeching out “Feliz Navidad”?
“Snoopy’s Christmas”: A flying dog engaged in a bloody fight to the death with a vicious World War 1 German ace. Merry Christmas, my friend!
“The Chipmunk Song”: Again, whose bright idea was that? ‘Cause the guy should’ve gotten a medal for spawning an empire that’s cranking out cash to this day. I’m thinking about doing a version of “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” – with helium.
“White Christmas” and “Silent Night”: They tie for being close to the perfect Christmas songs. If you can listen to them without getting teared up and – at least inwardly – singing along, you have no heart. Maybe you gave it away Last Christmas.
“Santa Baby”: Top on the list of inappropriate Christmas songs. To this day, Santa can’t hear any version without having to take a cold shower.
And finally, the single most ridiculous Christmas song ever can only be:
“Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer”.
Nothing says Christmas like a hit and run sleigh driver smearing an elderly lady across the sidewalk. Maybe Snoopy should be hired to bring Santa down?
Makes me wish I hadn’t forgot my medication.
December 22, 2019
movie review: Star Wars: Episode IX - The Rise of Skywalker
On her birthday, my wife suggested we go see the new Star Wars movie.
And now you know why I married her.
So, how much do you want to know about Star Wars: Episode IX - The Rise of Skywalker? I think I'm going to go spoiler free, because that will make this much, much shorter. First of all, if you hate fan service, forget it. (Fan service has different meanings. In this case I'm going with when movie makers put something into the flick that's not necessary to the story, but is just put in to make the fans happy.
I love fan service. I mean, I'm a fan, and I want to be happy. My writing instructors would be horrified ("Remove anything that's not story!"), but what the hey.
When you're dealing with the ninth movie in a series, it's hard not to have fan service. As we begin there's been so much history, even with the newer characters, not to mention characters like Leia Organa (Carrie Fisher's last movie appearance. I promised I wouldn't cry ... *sob*)
As we open two of the big three Star Wars characters have died--um, surely you're not worried about spoilers from the last movie, right? The one left is Leia, who we don't see all that much of for obvious reasons, but all three of them loom large in the story as their friends discover a new threat that's way, WAY bigger than the First Order they've been battling against. There's not a lot of infighting among our heroes this time (but plenty of welcome bantering) as they try to track down and neutralize the new threat, while Rei trains under Leia's direction to become a Jedi.
And that's about all I'm going to say about the plot, other than that at the end, it revolves around the conflict between Rei and Kylo Ren, as well as within them. It involves the reappearance of a lot of old friends, some of which are expected and others very surprising. We even get a few new characters, who manage to fit in as best they can.
And there you have the biggest problem with Star Wars: Episode IX - The Rise of Skywalker: There are so many characters, and so many strings to tie up (although they mostly do get resolved), that it's hard for everyone to get enough screen time. The movie's well over two hours, but I wonder if it wouldn't have been better stretched into a TV miniseries--or if that would give us too many endings and goodbyes, as with the last Lord of the Rings movie.
There were a couple of spellbinding moments from the trailers that turn out disappointing, as the actual moments come and go without much development past what we already saw. There are also those who will see similarities between this movie and Return of the Jedi, and they're not wrong.
Just the same ... wow.
There's a great mix of action, plot, and character--heavy on the action, but after all, the word "wars" is in the title. We get solid acting, awesome effects even by modern standards, a good score, and although we never get the answers we sought about Snoke, this movie's villain has an actual history and connection with our heroes. You may cheer a little, and maybe even shed a tear. I did.
My score
Entertainment Value: 4 out of 4 M&Ms. Okay, maybe not the brown ones, but if you fall asleep at this movie, get checked for narcolepsy.
Oscar Potential: 3 out of 4 M&Ms. You know, if they took out the space and laser swords and set this plot and these characters into some historical adventure, they're be raking in the statues.
And now you know why I married her.
So, how much do you want to know about Star Wars: Episode IX - The Rise of Skywalker? I think I'm going to go spoiler free, because that will make this much, much shorter. First of all, if you hate fan service, forget it. (Fan service has different meanings. In this case I'm going with when movie makers put something into the flick that's not necessary to the story, but is just put in to make the fans happy.
I love fan service. I mean, I'm a fan, and I want to be happy. My writing instructors would be horrified ("Remove anything that's not story!"), but what the hey.
When you're dealing with the ninth movie in a series, it's hard not to have fan service. As we begin there's been so much history, even with the newer characters, not to mention characters like Leia Organa (Carrie Fisher's last movie appearance. I promised I wouldn't cry ... *sob*)
As we open two of the big three Star Wars characters have died--um, surely you're not worried about spoilers from the last movie, right? The one left is Leia, who we don't see all that much of for obvious reasons, but all three of them loom large in the story as their friends discover a new threat that's way, WAY bigger than the First Order they've been battling against. There's not a lot of infighting among our heroes this time (but plenty of welcome bantering) as they try to track down and neutralize the new threat, while Rei trains under Leia's direction to become a Jedi.
And that's about all I'm going to say about the plot, other than that at the end, it revolves around the conflict between Rei and Kylo Ren, as well as within them. It involves the reappearance of a lot of old friends, some of which are expected and others very surprising. We even get a few new characters, who manage to fit in as best they can.
And there you have the biggest problem with Star Wars: Episode IX - The Rise of Skywalker: There are so many characters, and so many strings to tie up (although they mostly do get resolved), that it's hard for everyone to get enough screen time. The movie's well over two hours, but I wonder if it wouldn't have been better stretched into a TV miniseries--or if that would give us too many endings and goodbyes, as with the last Lord of the Rings movie.
There were a couple of spellbinding moments from the trailers that turn out disappointing, as the actual moments come and go without much development past what we already saw. There are also those who will see similarities between this movie and Return of the Jedi, and they're not wrong.
Just the same ... wow.
There's a great mix of action, plot, and character--heavy on the action, but after all, the word "wars" is in the title. We get solid acting, awesome effects even by modern standards, a good score, and although we never get the answers we sought about Snoke, this movie's villain has an actual history and connection with our heroes. You may cheer a little, and maybe even shed a tear. I did.
My score
Entertainment Value: 4 out of 4 M&Ms. Okay, maybe not the brown ones, but if you fall asleep at this movie, get checked for narcolepsy.
Oscar Potential: 3 out of 4 M&Ms. You know, if they took out the space and laser swords and set this plot and these characters into some historical adventure, they're be raking in the statues.
December 18, 2019
I Hear the Blurbing of a Newborn Book
As you probably know from the previous cover reveal, we've birthed a new book, and I didn't even take an epidural.
Kidding! It doesn't work that way, although sometimes it seems like it. Certainly gestation takes forever.
Print and website presence to come, but you can already pick up this infant book on Kindle:
https://www.amazon.com/Mark-R-Hunter/...
But don't you want to know what you're getting? Okay, here's the blurb I wrote for the book I wrote about columns I wrote, and no wonder my fingers are tired. It's being added for sale in various places that you can bet I'll talk about, at least all through Christmas season.
Who would have thought the turn of the last Century would one day be ancient history?
In More Slightly Off the Mark, Why I Hate Cats, and Other Lies, former newspaper columnist Mark R. Hunter went back to collect his humor pieces from 2000 and 2001—the earliest ones to be put on a computer. In DOS format ... on a floppy disk.
The amount of change in just twenty years resulted in Hunter completely rewriting the columns, and inserting his present self (and his dog, Beowulf, through pictures) into the work—mostly to make fun of his younger self. Along the way Mark riffs on everything from history to health, vacations, holidays, housework, and of course technology. And weather. Because everyone talks about that.
In a more serious section Hunter also tackles the 9/11 attacks … because those were the times we lived in.
Some of the chapters include:
Advice From the Clueless
I Ran Out of Excuses to Write About Excuses
When Bad Cities Happen to Good People
Civil War, Summer Vacation—Same Thing
I Just Can’t Stand Intolerant People
The Next Big Step in Medical Disasters
And, of course: Age Ain’t Nothin’ But a Number, But It’s a Really Lousy Number
Mark R. Hunter’s humor column was published in newspapers for twenty-five years, and he notes there’s little than can be done to stop him from collecting more of them in the future … although state and federal laws are pending.
Mark R. Hunter lives in small town Indiana with his wife/editor/book designer/cover artist/supervisor Emily, their dog Beowulf, and a cowardly ball python named Lucius. Mark thinks he's a Hufflepuff, but keeps testing Slytherin.
Kidding! It doesn't work that way, although sometimes it seems like it. Certainly gestation takes forever.
Print and website presence to come, but you can already pick up this infant book on Kindle:
https://www.amazon.com/Mark-R-Hunter/...
But don't you want to know what you're getting? Okay, here's the blurb I wrote for the book I wrote about columns I wrote, and no wonder my fingers are tired. It's being added for sale in various places that you can bet I'll talk about, at least all through Christmas season.
Who would have thought the turn of the last Century would one day be ancient history?
In More Slightly Off the Mark, Why I Hate Cats, and Other Lies, former newspaper columnist Mark R. Hunter went back to collect his humor pieces from 2000 and 2001—the earliest ones to be put on a computer. In DOS format ... on a floppy disk.
The amount of change in just twenty years resulted in Hunter completely rewriting the columns, and inserting his present self (and his dog, Beowulf, through pictures) into the work—mostly to make fun of his younger self. Along the way Mark riffs on everything from history to health, vacations, holidays, housework, and of course technology. And weather. Because everyone talks about that.
In a more serious section Hunter also tackles the 9/11 attacks … because those were the times we lived in.
Some of the chapters include:
Advice From the Clueless
I Ran Out of Excuses to Write About Excuses
When Bad Cities Happen to Good People
Civil War, Summer Vacation—Same Thing
I Just Can’t Stand Intolerant People
The Next Big Step in Medical Disasters
And, of course: Age Ain’t Nothin’ But a Number, But It’s a Really Lousy Number
Mark R. Hunter’s humor column was published in newspapers for twenty-five years, and he notes there’s little than can be done to stop him from collecting more of them in the future … although state and federal laws are pending.
Mark R. Hunter lives in small town Indiana with his wife/editor/book designer/cover artist/supervisor Emily, their dog Beowulf, and a cowardly ball python named Lucius. Mark thinks he's a Hufflepuff, but keeps testing Slytherin.
December 16, 2019
Sewer Routing Uncovers New Form of Torture
(Note: I just spent another weekend going through this all over again. It's a good thing I wrote this blog before that, because I've lost all sense of humor since then.)
There came a certain point the other day, when I dropped to the ground in exhaustion and told my wife, "I don't think I can do this."
Get your mind out of the gutter. Or maybe not, since I'm talking about routing out a sewer line.
You may call it a sewer snake, or a router, or go with the trademarked Roto Rooter, but any way you look at it, it's a crap job. Despite my well-known lack of mechanical ability, I've used routers numerous times, back when roots were growing in my sewer. (By the way, the stuff you flush down that's called "root killer" is really, I suspect, root fertilizer.) But several years ago a true professional came in, put a giant trench in my back yard, and replaced the old ceramic sewer line with brand new, professional grade plastic. I've had no problem since.
Until last weekend.
And it always happens on a weekend, in order to maximize your troubles. Emily and I were preparing for an author appearance, and I headed to the basement for a folding table. There it was: two pools of water over the lowermost drains.
Indoor swimming pools are only fun if you can control what kind of water goes with them.
Ah, but now the good news: While replacing the line, the pro guy put in something called a cleanout, and its purpose is to give you a place to put in the snake/router/out-of-control-metal-tentacle-monster if you need to clear a blockage.
The router I rented weighed six thousand pounds, but it was way easier using it outside than trying to work it through a drain in the basement. I put fifty feet of writhing, hand-smashing sewer snake into the line. It did absolutely nothing.
Which is pretty much standard with my home maintenance jobs.
So, Emily and I hoisted the whole 6,000 pound unit down the outside stairs to the basement where, no matter how much I tried, the snake wouldn't fit into the hole. ("That's what he said." I know you're thinking it.) Then we hoisted the whole 6,000 pound unit back up the basement stairs and into the back of our SUV.
Have you ever heard a car scream? It's not pretty.
But the place I rented it from (Doc's Hardware, downtown Albion), traded me a smaller unit for no extra charge. That one, with maybe a bit of effort, did go into the basement drain. After about twenty-five feet of pretending I was my house's doctor giving it a colonoscopy (now it knows how I feel), the router bit came out with a substantial amount of yuck clinging to it.
It sounds so much easier than it was. I'm not just talking about the pushing and pulling, and the invention of new curse words. To get the router bit in I had to lay on the floor, stick my hand into the drain, and physically force it around a bend in the pipe. Yeah. You know what was in that drain? Yes. Yes it was.
This is why, during our after action review, Emily poured two gallons of peroxide and then three gallons of alcohol on my hand. You see, so much skin had been skinned (thus the term) that, had it been broken (as at one point I thought it had), the doctors could have examined my bones without doing x-rays. Emily was, quite rightly, concerned about infection. (I mean, we do know where it's been.) She was also rightly concerned about the neighbors calling 911 after all the screaming, but I suppose they're used to me by now.
I felt like I was victim #3 on an episode of Game of Thrones.
(Note: We need to buy more peroxide and alcohol, and maybe drinking alcohol, too.)
I don't remember at what point I told Emily that I wasn't sure I could do this. It was fairly early in the process, and I think it has a lot to do with the fact that I'm in my fifties, and last time I routed a sewer line I was in my forties. I don't feel any different--except for when I try something like this.
But we did do it, and it took less than twenty-four hours. (Note: The first time.) As of this moment, only two days later, I can flex my hand again, the scrape on my abdomen has stopped oozing, and I can use my arms as long as I don't lift them over the level of the scrape on my abdomen.
I'm going to call that a win.
There came a certain point the other day, when I dropped to the ground in exhaustion and told my wife, "I don't think I can do this."
Get your mind out of the gutter. Or maybe not, since I'm talking about routing out a sewer line.
You may call it a sewer snake, or a router, or go with the trademarked Roto Rooter, but any way you look at it, it's a crap job. Despite my well-known lack of mechanical ability, I've used routers numerous times, back when roots were growing in my sewer. (By the way, the stuff you flush down that's called "root killer" is really, I suspect, root fertilizer.) But several years ago a true professional came in, put a giant trench in my back yard, and replaced the old ceramic sewer line with brand new, professional grade plastic. I've had no problem since.
Until last weekend.
And it always happens on a weekend, in order to maximize your troubles. Emily and I were preparing for an author appearance, and I headed to the basement for a folding table. There it was: two pools of water over the lowermost drains.
Indoor swimming pools are only fun if you can control what kind of water goes with them.
Ah, but now the good news: While replacing the line, the pro guy put in something called a cleanout, and its purpose is to give you a place to put in the snake/router/out-of-control-metal-tentacle-monster if you need to clear a blockage.
The router I rented weighed six thousand pounds, but it was way easier using it outside than trying to work it through a drain in the basement. I put fifty feet of writhing, hand-smashing sewer snake into the line. It did absolutely nothing.
Which is pretty much standard with my home maintenance jobs.
So, Emily and I hoisted the whole 6,000 pound unit down the outside stairs to the basement where, no matter how much I tried, the snake wouldn't fit into the hole. ("That's what he said." I know you're thinking it.) Then we hoisted the whole 6,000 pound unit back up the basement stairs and into the back of our SUV.
Have you ever heard a car scream? It's not pretty.
But the place I rented it from (Doc's Hardware, downtown Albion), traded me a smaller unit for no extra charge. That one, with maybe a bit of effort, did go into the basement drain. After about twenty-five feet of pretending I was my house's doctor giving it a colonoscopy (now it knows how I feel), the router bit came out with a substantial amount of yuck clinging to it.
It sounds so much easier than it was. I'm not just talking about the pushing and pulling, and the invention of new curse words. To get the router bit in I had to lay on the floor, stick my hand into the drain, and physically force it around a bend in the pipe. Yeah. You know what was in that drain? Yes. Yes it was.
This is why, during our after action review, Emily poured two gallons of peroxide and then three gallons of alcohol on my hand. You see, so much skin had been skinned (thus the term) that, had it been broken (as at one point I thought it had), the doctors could have examined my bones without doing x-rays. Emily was, quite rightly, concerned about infection. (I mean, we do know where it's been.) She was also rightly concerned about the neighbors calling 911 after all the screaming, but I suppose they're used to me by now.
I felt like I was victim #3 on an episode of Game of Thrones.
(Note: We need to buy more peroxide and alcohol, and maybe drinking alcohol, too.)
I don't remember at what point I told Emily that I wasn't sure I could do this. It was fairly early in the process, and I think it has a lot to do with the fact that I'm in my fifties, and last time I routed a sewer line I was in my forties. I don't feel any different--except for when I try something like this.
But we did do it, and it took less than twenty-four hours. (Note: The first time.) As of this moment, only two days later, I can flex my hand again, the scrape on my abdomen has stopped oozing, and I can use my arms as long as I don't lift them over the level of the scrape on my abdomen.
I'm going to call that a win.
December 13, 2019
Profiled on Humor Outcasts
Humor Outcasts is featuring me! As a humorist! Which makes sense, because they're a humor site! Writers shouldn't use too many exclamation points!
https://humoroutcasts.com/2019/meet-w...
Thanks to Donna Cavanagh, who's found so many outcast humorists and given them a home. The world needs humor now more than ever, and people seem to appreciate it--and yet, editors and publishers seem to have no interest in it, anymore. So Donna set up the website and a partner publishing company, and you could do way worse than to check them out! I mean, out.
Remember, every time a funny story is ignored, mimes eat a humorist. Don't feed the mimes.
And don't forget to find us on our website: http://markrhunter.com/books.html
Or on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
Or Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/%22M...
Along with many other e-book platforms.
https://humoroutcasts.com/2019/meet-w...
Thanks to Donna Cavanagh, who's found so many outcast humorists and given them a home. The world needs humor now more than ever, and people seem to appreciate it--and yet, editors and publishers seem to have no interest in it, anymore. So Donna set up the website and a partner publishing company, and you could do way worse than to check them out! I mean, out.
Remember, every time a funny story is ignored, mimes eat a humorist. Don't feed the mimes.
And don't forget to find us on our website: http://markrhunter.com/books.html
Or on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
Or Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/%22M...
Along with many other e-book platforms.
