Mark R. Hunter's Blog, page 94
September 21, 2014
A Poor Choice of Alias
Title: A Poor Choice of Alias
Author: ozma914
Summary: Determined to drive to Indiana and make up with his family, B-list celebrity Ian Grant is barely out of L.A. when he runs into two cops in a diner--and, as is his nature, decides to mess with them. Which might not have been so bad, but this time around the Winchester Brothers chose a very unfortunate pair of fake names.
Rating: PG
Length: 1,600 words
A Poor Choice Of Alias
Could he call it a road trip yet, when he hadn’t even made it out of the city?
Ian Grant pressed his back against the outside of a diner door, desperately signing autographs, if signing autographs was something one could do desperately. He’d managed to gas up the Mustang and pee before the paparazzi found him—the pee part, especially, was a relief. Now, somewhere on the outskirts of L.A. just off the freeway, he’d been found by half a dozen bored photographers and what were probably the only dozen Ian Grant “greatest fans” on this side of the city.
“Yes, thanks, here—love the Mohawk. Who’s it for? How do you spell … ah, Krysanthemum with a K, your mother must be very proud.”
His new adventure had not started off well. He’d had to stop and pick up some toiletries—no way was he going back to face Bethani in that hotel room. The pop star was probably still throwing furniture around to protest the very idea that anyone would dare break up with her before she did it first.
Nobody recognized him at the dollar store. When he realized the Mustang was down to a quarter of a tank, which would certainly not get him to Indiana, he made another stop and was again not recognized. A guy’s luck had to run out, sooner or later.
“Gotta go, sorry—thanks!” Ian managed to squeeze through the door and, much to his surprise, no one followed. The fans were apparently content after he signed napkins, breasts, and the side of one head. The photographers were apparently disappointed that he wasn’t drunk and drag racing Justin Bieber, the cheating little bastard.
Turning in the sudden quiet, Ian took in a diner that Norman Rockwell might have painted. Well, maybe not, but it had the counter and stools, and the line of booths along the window. It also had only two customers, and a woman behind the counter who looked like Betty White with a hangover.
“What’ll you have, Mr. Grant?” She looked completely unimpressed, which Ian appreciated. The two guys in the booth didn’t seem aware he’d even entered.
“Cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate shake, please.” Was that traveling food? Sure it was. Better than baked beans for a long trip in a smallish car.
“You sit right down, and I’ll bring it out for you.”
“Thanks.” Turning, Ian faced the two other customers. “Could have used your help back there.”
Both men looked up in surprise. “Excuse me?” said the tallest, an oak tree of a guy with longish dark hair.
“Come on, I know cops when I see them—aren’t you supposed to protect the public and prevent riots, and stuff? And most of them had to be underage … isn’t there a curfew?”
The two men looked at each other.
“Don’t bother denying it,” Ian continued. “I know cops. I peed on a cop, once.”
The other man tilted his head. “Must have been the highlight of your day.”
“No, that came later. Look, you’re both wearing dark suits that you’d obviously rather not be wearing, which means they’re for work. Those striped ties could only be chosen by men on a limited budget with no fashion sense. Since you don’t appear to be happy to see me, those are definitely guns in your pockets. You, you’re the older one and have a more or less military approved haircut, which means either your boss requires it or you’re too busy to mess with grooming. You, you’re the up and coming rookie, and I’d guess from your longer hair that you’re angling for an undercover job, or working one already.”
Standing back, Ian crossed his arms. “I played Sherlock Holmes in community theater, once.”
They exchanged another glance, then reached into their pockets. Ian watched carefully to make sure they weren’t the pockets that were happy to see him, but they produced ID’s.
“I’m Agent Grant,” the older one said. “This is Agent Charles.”
Say what?
He was still staring at them when hung-over Betty White approached with his food. “Where would you like this, dear?”
For a moment Ian froze, then he waved his hand toward the already occupied table. “Why, right here with my old FBI pals Grant and Charles.”
He hadn’t noticed the materials they’d scattered out on the table, along with half-eaten food. The two men hurriedly closed books and laptop lids and moved notebooks aside, looking none too pleased as Ian sat beside the tall one, so-called “Charles”.
“I’m starving, fellas.” Ian took a sip of the shake, then grabbed the cheeseburger. “Work up an appetite, doing what I do.” He dug into the food.
Good peripheral vision was a wonderful thing, allowing him to see the glance they exchanged. Finally Charles said, “Um … so, what do you do?”
“Drug smuggling, mostly.” He took another bite. “You must eat a lot, Agent Charles—you’re big as a moose.”
Good thing Ian was an actor. He managed not to smile in the silence that followed, until “Grant” cleared his throat. “So—that makes you hungry, huh?”
“Only when I’m sampling. I’ve got a snoot full right now, I gotta tell you.” He giggled. “Oh, and sometimes the hookers are hard to control, and that burns a lot of calories. Much easier when we’re just smuggling terrorists, but it’s a big organization … I do the job they assign me.”
The two men sat in silence.
“Beats the contract killing.”
To their credit, neither looked scared. More … stunned.
“Very stressful, even when the cleanup crew comes in. You always worry you’re going to have to kill witnesses. I mean, you feel bad for those people, you know? “ Ian looked up. “Oh, I forgot to introduce myself: I’m Ian. Ian Grant.”
“Ah … pleased to meet you.” Grant said. “Same name. There’s a coincidence.” Then his eyes suddenly widened. “Wait, Ian Grant the actor?”
“That’s me. I also write and sing a little … I’m like a Renaissance man, only without the class.”
“Hey, I’ve seen some of your movies! I watched you on To Dance With Celebrities, too … can’t believe Alan Rickman beat you.”
“Well, he’s got style, you know?”
Charles’ brow suddenly furrowed, as if he was trying to bring back a memory.
But Grant was still gushing. “I loved Fleshpot Killers—but I have to admit it wasn’t you I was watching most of the time …”
“No—well, you couldn’t, I was killed off in the second reel.”
“Is it true they offered to double your salary if you went full frontal?”
“Yep. Interesting story, that: When I refused, the lead actress decided she didn’t want to go fully Monty either—until they offered her double the pay, then she speed stripped. So the way I see it, I got her a raise.”
“Heh.” Grant grinned. “And she gave me a raise.”
Charles suddenly sat up straight. Thinking Ian couldn’t see him, he gave a quick shake of his head.
The game is up. “Yeah, I couldn’t go all nude—it just wouldn’t sit right with my old man. He’s a famous actor, maybe you’ve heard of him?” He looked toward Charles, who now wore a sheepish expression.
“Your dad?” Grant frowned. “Yeah, big movie star … I can’t remember his first name, though …”
“Charles. Charles … Grant.”
Grant’s face fell. “Oh.”
“Big name. Got an Emmy, two Oscars, three wives …”
“So that’s why you were feeding us that line about being a gangster.”
“Had you going there for a little while, didn’t I?” When they didn’t deny it, Ian poked a French fry in their direction. “Okay, so I was wrong about the cop thing. Let me reintroduce myself: Ian Grant. And you are?”
The two looked at each other, then Grant shrugged. “Dean.”
“Sam”, said the oak.
“And … wait, don’t tell me! Either bounty hunters, or you’re got your own bodies to bury.”
They looked at each other again. Those two looked at each other a lot, didn’t they? But they seemed to share an unspoken bond, like longtime partners, or brothers. “You got us.” Dean raised his hands. “We chase around the country lookin’ for the bad guys.”
Sam nodded. “We’d appreciate it if you kept it to yourself.”
“Not a problem. Besides, I don’t want to embarrass myself by admitting my first guess was wrong, even though my part as Sherlock closed after a week.” Glancing at his watch, Ian bagged up the last few fries and shoved them into his jacket pocket. “This was fun, but I’ve gotta role.”
“Hey, before you go …” Looking embarrassed, Dean grabbed a clean napkin and slid it Ian’s way.
“Well, sure!” Although it seemed egotistical, Ian always carried a pen for cases like this. He scribbled, “To Sam and Dean: May the angels watch over you. Ian Grant”.
Dean’s eyebrow rose as he studied the message, then he carefully laid the napkin on his notebook. “Thanks, man. You got any new movies coming up? Hopefully with that same actress?”
“Maybe.” Standing, Ian waved to hung-over Betty White. “If the trip I’m going on doesn’t work out, I need to be back in three weeks for meetings on a series of books they’re trying to turn into a movie. Have you heard of the Supernatural series?”
Dean began choking. “Sorry—ach—went down the wrong tube.”
“We’ve heard of it,” Sam said with a weak smile.
“Well, I don’t know too much about the property, but we’ll see how it works out. See ya, fellas.”
Ian wanted to get to his car and be on the road before Sam and Dean realized he’d stiffed them for his check. He quickened the pace when he heard a raised voice, just as he reached the Mustang:
“Son of a bitch!”
Author: ozma914
Summary: Determined to drive to Indiana and make up with his family, B-list celebrity Ian Grant is barely out of L.A. when he runs into two cops in a diner--and, as is his nature, decides to mess with them. Which might not have been so bad, but this time around the Winchester Brothers chose a very unfortunate pair of fake names.
Rating: PG
Length: 1,600 words
A Poor Choice Of Alias
Could he call it a road trip yet, when he hadn’t even made it out of the city?
Ian Grant pressed his back against the outside of a diner door, desperately signing autographs, if signing autographs was something one could do desperately. He’d managed to gas up the Mustang and pee before the paparazzi found him—the pee part, especially, was a relief. Now, somewhere on the outskirts of L.A. just off the freeway, he’d been found by half a dozen bored photographers and what were probably the only dozen Ian Grant “greatest fans” on this side of the city.
“Yes, thanks, here—love the Mohawk. Who’s it for? How do you spell … ah, Krysanthemum with a K, your mother must be very proud.”
His new adventure had not started off well. He’d had to stop and pick up some toiletries—no way was he going back to face Bethani in that hotel room. The pop star was probably still throwing furniture around to protest the very idea that anyone would dare break up with her before she did it first.
Nobody recognized him at the dollar store. When he realized the Mustang was down to a quarter of a tank, which would certainly not get him to Indiana, he made another stop and was again not recognized. A guy’s luck had to run out, sooner or later.
“Gotta go, sorry—thanks!” Ian managed to squeeze through the door and, much to his surprise, no one followed. The fans were apparently content after he signed napkins, breasts, and the side of one head. The photographers were apparently disappointed that he wasn’t drunk and drag racing Justin Bieber, the cheating little bastard.
Turning in the sudden quiet, Ian took in a diner that Norman Rockwell might have painted. Well, maybe not, but it had the counter and stools, and the line of booths along the window. It also had only two customers, and a woman behind the counter who looked like Betty White with a hangover.
“What’ll you have, Mr. Grant?” She looked completely unimpressed, which Ian appreciated. The two guys in the booth didn’t seem aware he’d even entered.
“Cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate shake, please.” Was that traveling food? Sure it was. Better than baked beans for a long trip in a smallish car.
“You sit right down, and I’ll bring it out for you.”
“Thanks.” Turning, Ian faced the two other customers. “Could have used your help back there.”
Both men looked up in surprise. “Excuse me?” said the tallest, an oak tree of a guy with longish dark hair.
“Come on, I know cops when I see them—aren’t you supposed to protect the public and prevent riots, and stuff? And most of them had to be underage … isn’t there a curfew?”
The two men looked at each other.
“Don’t bother denying it,” Ian continued. “I know cops. I peed on a cop, once.”
The other man tilted his head. “Must have been the highlight of your day.”
“No, that came later. Look, you’re both wearing dark suits that you’d obviously rather not be wearing, which means they’re for work. Those striped ties could only be chosen by men on a limited budget with no fashion sense. Since you don’t appear to be happy to see me, those are definitely guns in your pockets. You, you’re the older one and have a more or less military approved haircut, which means either your boss requires it or you’re too busy to mess with grooming. You, you’re the up and coming rookie, and I’d guess from your longer hair that you’re angling for an undercover job, or working one already.”
Standing back, Ian crossed his arms. “I played Sherlock Holmes in community theater, once.”
They exchanged another glance, then reached into their pockets. Ian watched carefully to make sure they weren’t the pockets that were happy to see him, but they produced ID’s.
“I’m Agent Grant,” the older one said. “This is Agent Charles.”
Say what?
He was still staring at them when hung-over Betty White approached with his food. “Where would you like this, dear?”
For a moment Ian froze, then he waved his hand toward the already occupied table. “Why, right here with my old FBI pals Grant and Charles.”
He hadn’t noticed the materials they’d scattered out on the table, along with half-eaten food. The two men hurriedly closed books and laptop lids and moved notebooks aside, looking none too pleased as Ian sat beside the tall one, so-called “Charles”.
“I’m starving, fellas.” Ian took a sip of the shake, then grabbed the cheeseburger. “Work up an appetite, doing what I do.” He dug into the food.
Good peripheral vision was a wonderful thing, allowing him to see the glance they exchanged. Finally Charles said, “Um … so, what do you do?”
“Drug smuggling, mostly.” He took another bite. “You must eat a lot, Agent Charles—you’re big as a moose.”
Good thing Ian was an actor. He managed not to smile in the silence that followed, until “Grant” cleared his throat. “So—that makes you hungry, huh?”
“Only when I’m sampling. I’ve got a snoot full right now, I gotta tell you.” He giggled. “Oh, and sometimes the hookers are hard to control, and that burns a lot of calories. Much easier when we’re just smuggling terrorists, but it’s a big organization … I do the job they assign me.”
The two men sat in silence.
“Beats the contract killing.”
To their credit, neither looked scared. More … stunned.
“Very stressful, even when the cleanup crew comes in. You always worry you’re going to have to kill witnesses. I mean, you feel bad for those people, you know? “ Ian looked up. “Oh, I forgot to introduce myself: I’m Ian. Ian Grant.”
“Ah … pleased to meet you.” Grant said. “Same name. There’s a coincidence.” Then his eyes suddenly widened. “Wait, Ian Grant the actor?”
“That’s me. I also write and sing a little … I’m like a Renaissance man, only without the class.”
“Hey, I’ve seen some of your movies! I watched you on To Dance With Celebrities, too … can’t believe Alan Rickman beat you.”
“Well, he’s got style, you know?”
Charles’ brow suddenly furrowed, as if he was trying to bring back a memory.
But Grant was still gushing. “I loved Fleshpot Killers—but I have to admit it wasn’t you I was watching most of the time …”
“No—well, you couldn’t, I was killed off in the second reel.”
“Is it true they offered to double your salary if you went full frontal?”
“Yep. Interesting story, that: When I refused, the lead actress decided she didn’t want to go fully Monty either—until they offered her double the pay, then she speed stripped. So the way I see it, I got her a raise.”
“Heh.” Grant grinned. “And she gave me a raise.”
Charles suddenly sat up straight. Thinking Ian couldn’t see him, he gave a quick shake of his head.
The game is up. “Yeah, I couldn’t go all nude—it just wouldn’t sit right with my old man. He’s a famous actor, maybe you’ve heard of him?” He looked toward Charles, who now wore a sheepish expression.
“Your dad?” Grant frowned. “Yeah, big movie star … I can’t remember his first name, though …”
“Charles. Charles … Grant.”
Grant’s face fell. “Oh.”
“Big name. Got an Emmy, two Oscars, three wives …”
“So that’s why you were feeding us that line about being a gangster.”
“Had you going there for a little while, didn’t I?” When they didn’t deny it, Ian poked a French fry in their direction. “Okay, so I was wrong about the cop thing. Let me reintroduce myself: Ian Grant. And you are?”
The two looked at each other, then Grant shrugged. “Dean.”
“Sam”, said the oak.
“And … wait, don’t tell me! Either bounty hunters, or you’re got your own bodies to bury.”
They looked at each other again. Those two looked at each other a lot, didn’t they? But they seemed to share an unspoken bond, like longtime partners, or brothers. “You got us.” Dean raised his hands. “We chase around the country lookin’ for the bad guys.”
Sam nodded. “We’d appreciate it if you kept it to yourself.”
“Not a problem. Besides, I don’t want to embarrass myself by admitting my first guess was wrong, even though my part as Sherlock closed after a week.” Glancing at his watch, Ian bagged up the last few fries and shoved them into his jacket pocket. “This was fun, but I’ve gotta role.”
“Hey, before you go …” Looking embarrassed, Dean grabbed a clean napkin and slid it Ian’s way.
“Well, sure!” Although it seemed egotistical, Ian always carried a pen for cases like this. He scribbled, “To Sam and Dean: May the angels watch over you. Ian Grant”.
Dean’s eyebrow rose as he studied the message, then he carefully laid the napkin on his notebook. “Thanks, man. You got any new movies coming up? Hopefully with that same actress?”
“Maybe.” Standing, Ian waved to hung-over Betty White. “If the trip I’m going on doesn’t work out, I need to be back in three weeks for meetings on a series of books they’re trying to turn into a movie. Have you heard of the Supernatural series?”
Dean began choking. “Sorry—ach—went down the wrong tube.”
“We’ve heard of it,” Sam said with a weak smile.
“Well, I don’t know too much about the property, but we’ll see how it works out. See ya, fellas.”
Ian wanted to get to his car and be on the road before Sam and Dean realized he’d stiffed them for his check. He quickened the pace when he heard a raised voice, just as he reached the Mustang:
“Son of a bitch!”
September 19, 2014
Frozen Feasting At Fall Festivals
SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK
This time of year, as leaves turn to glorious multicolor, steamy hot days of summer vanish, and autumn decorations go up, I can often be found … crying.
But it seems everyone else can be found at harvest festivals.
Harvest fests, as you might imagine, are annual celebrations that take place around the time of the harvest. Makes sense. This would be the harvest of food crops, you understand, not the biannual politician harvest that’s often rotten, anyway.
Ancient people celebrated the harvest every year because they didn’t like starvation. That was pretty much it. Why else celebrate fall? Did the hunter/gatherers look at each other and say, “Oh, look! The sun is disappearing—we might freeze to death again this year. Let’s party!”
They did not.
But possibly the only thing worse than freezing to death is freezing to death while hungry. They were happy to wrest a few grains away from the bugs and birds, so they could fill the storehouses with boxes of Pre-Ricestoric Crispies and Frosted By Next Month Flakes.
“Good news, honey—we won’t have to eat the kids this year.”
“Oh, good. Now, about that vacation trip across the land bridge …”
My home town has a harvest fest in mid-September, and at first glance that doesn’t seem to make sense. Remember, Thanksgiving was originally about being thankful for the harvest, and that’s in November. Unless you’re in Canada, in which case it’s earlier and more polite. (“Do you mind terribly if we take your land and give you smallpox? Thank you so much.”)
At second glance, harvest festivals in Europe often took place near the Harvest Moon, which is indeed near the autumn equinox, which this year is September 22nd. I know, because for me it’s a day of mourning. It marks that time of year when we get those aforementioned beautiful colors, apple cider, hay rides, cursing over faulty thirty year old home heating systems, covering your entire home with plastic, sobbing into your heating bills …
Where was I?
So, it’s not unusual at all for harvest fests to come at the same time as Albion’s, which this year is September 20th and 21st. I’m okay with that, because there’s at least a chance that the weather will still be warm enough to actually want to go outside to a harvest fest. By the time Thanksgiving rolls around, you know you’re going to be having your holiday indoors, and that you should have your snow boots ready, just in case.
You know what’s a crazy holiday? Halloween.
“Hey, there’s frost on the pumpkin—literally! Let’s dress up in costumes that we’ll have to hide under winter coats, then go running around the neighborhood until we’re so cold we have to pour the hot chocolate over our hands so we can thaw them enough to open the candy!”
Talk about a transition period. I still don’t understand why these controversial sexy adult Halloween costumes ever got popular outside of southern California. “Ooh, your pasty-white skin and uncontrollable shivering are so hot! I mean, not literally hot …”
The local harvest fests generally come before that, but after the August days when you can’t walk in the streets because your shoes melt. They also give us a chance to spend a weekend ignoring that storm of hot wind-blown bull scat, otherwise known as election season. But there’s one problem I always had with September harvests fests:
Did anyone ask the harvesters?
Places like England, where harvest festivals date back to pagan times, have shorter growing seasons, so maybe the harvest was over by then. But here in Indiana, there are still a lot of crops in the field at that point. I mean, Albion’s Harvest Fest has a corn maze. This requires corn.
Corn crops have to stay up for some time, to provide cover for deer as they lie in wait to jump out in front of innocent cars. Now, I’ve never been a farmer, because I don’t like to work hard. And I’ll grant you, there’s no time of the year when there’s no work for farmers to do. But if we’re going to celebrate a harvest, shouldn’t there be a harvest, first?
Maybe this is a break time, giving them a chance to celebrate what they already picked, and rest up for the harvesting to come. Maybe the corn isn’t ready, and they’ve already finished picking from the apple, cake, and lunchbox trees.
What? I told you I’m not a farmer. Maybe the lunchboxes grow underground.
This time of year, as leaves turn to glorious multicolor, steamy hot days of summer vanish, and autumn decorations go up, I can often be found … crying.
But it seems everyone else can be found at harvest festivals.
Harvest fests, as you might imagine, are annual celebrations that take place around the time of the harvest. Makes sense. This would be the harvest of food crops, you understand, not the biannual politician harvest that’s often rotten, anyway.
Ancient people celebrated the harvest every year because they didn’t like starvation. That was pretty much it. Why else celebrate fall? Did the hunter/gatherers look at each other and say, “Oh, look! The sun is disappearing—we might freeze to death again this year. Let’s party!”
They did not.
But possibly the only thing worse than freezing to death is freezing to death while hungry. They were happy to wrest a few grains away from the bugs and birds, so they could fill the storehouses with boxes of Pre-Ricestoric Crispies and Frosted By Next Month Flakes.
“Good news, honey—we won’t have to eat the kids this year.”
“Oh, good. Now, about that vacation trip across the land bridge …”
My home town has a harvest fest in mid-September, and at first glance that doesn’t seem to make sense. Remember, Thanksgiving was originally about being thankful for the harvest, and that’s in November. Unless you’re in Canada, in which case it’s earlier and more polite. (“Do you mind terribly if we take your land and give you smallpox? Thank you so much.”)
At second glance, harvest festivals in Europe often took place near the Harvest Moon, which is indeed near the autumn equinox, which this year is September 22nd. I know, because for me it’s a day of mourning. It marks that time of year when we get those aforementioned beautiful colors, apple cider, hay rides, cursing over faulty thirty year old home heating systems, covering your entire home with plastic, sobbing into your heating bills …
Where was I?
So, it’s not unusual at all for harvest fests to come at the same time as Albion’s, which this year is September 20th and 21st. I’m okay with that, because there’s at least a chance that the weather will still be warm enough to actually want to go outside to a harvest fest. By the time Thanksgiving rolls around, you know you’re going to be having your holiday indoors, and that you should have your snow boots ready, just in case.
You know what’s a crazy holiday? Halloween.
“Hey, there’s frost on the pumpkin—literally! Let’s dress up in costumes that we’ll have to hide under winter coats, then go running around the neighborhood until we’re so cold we have to pour the hot chocolate over our hands so we can thaw them enough to open the candy!”
Talk about a transition period. I still don’t understand why these controversial sexy adult Halloween costumes ever got popular outside of southern California. “Ooh, your pasty-white skin and uncontrollable shivering are so hot! I mean, not literally hot …”
The local harvest fests generally come before that, but after the August days when you can’t walk in the streets because your shoes melt. They also give us a chance to spend a weekend ignoring that storm of hot wind-blown bull scat, otherwise known as election season. But there’s one problem I always had with September harvests fests:
Did anyone ask the harvesters?
Places like England, where harvest festivals date back to pagan times, have shorter growing seasons, so maybe the harvest was over by then. But here in Indiana, there are still a lot of crops in the field at that point. I mean, Albion’s Harvest Fest has a corn maze. This requires corn.
Corn crops have to stay up for some time, to provide cover for deer as they lie in wait to jump out in front of innocent cars. Now, I’ve never been a farmer, because I don’t like to work hard. And I’ll grant you, there’s no time of the year when there’s no work for farmers to do. But if we’re going to celebrate a harvest, shouldn’t there be a harvest, first?
Maybe this is a break time, giving them a chance to celebrate what they already picked, and rest up for the harvesting to come. Maybe the corn isn’t ready, and they’ve already finished picking from the apple, cake, and lunchbox trees.
What? I told you I’m not a farmer. Maybe the lunchboxes grow underground.
September 16, 2014
Ian Grant rocks ... no, wrecks an interview with DM Yates
DM Yates interviews the titular character from “The Notorious Ian Grant” … and things quickly spiral out of control:
http://dmyates.weebly.com/blog/interv...
“How about you, me, and my publicist go off and make beautiful money together?”
“She (Ian’s sister) lost her best sunglasses in a volcano. A volcano. I lost my best sunglasses in a bar fight with Shia LaBeouf.”
http://dmyates.weebly.com/blog/interv...
“How about you, me, and my publicist go off and make beautiful money together?”
“She (Ian’s sister) lost her best sunglasses in a volcano. A volcano. I lost my best sunglasses in a bar fight with Shia LaBeouf.”
September 14, 2014
Book Review: "The Unicorn's Daughter"
My review of “The Unicorn’s Daughter”, by Norma Beishir:
http://www.amazon.com/review/R1BI1HW2...
“Jaime is a headstrong journalist, and an orphan … or so she’s told.”
http://www.amazon.com/review/R1BI1HW2...
“Jaime is a headstrong journalist, and an orphan … or so she’s told.”
September 13, 2014
fanfiction crossover: Tony Stark & Ian Grant in "Party Crasher"
As I mentioned earlier, I’m going to post a new story every week or so about Ian Grant’s journey to Indiana, where the events of The Notorious Ian Grant take place. The first one I posted some time ago, and it records the moment he made that life-changing decision:
http://markrhunter.blogspot.com/2011/...
This one actually takes place a short time before that. Ian, in keeping to his reputation, crashes a party—but not just anyone’s party. It may be he’s there for more than living it up … but either way, he’s about to meet his match in Tony Stark.
Title: Party Crasher
Author: ozma914
Summary: Tony Stark's parties often attract characters. Sometimes they're not invited ... and sometimes they don't even know why they came.
Rating: PG
Length: 1,900 words
PARTY CRASHER
“Sir, someone is climbing the cliff below the house.”
Over the years – especially the last few – Tony Stark had seen so much that he often thought he'd seen it all. Just as often, he was proven wrong. “Climbing—the cliff? This cliff?” He gestured toward the overhang railing, which almost made his martini spill. He stilled his hand just in time, preventing that tragedy.
The voice of Jarvis, which should have sounded unemotional considering Jarvis was a computer, held an edge of surprise. “Yes, sir. A small boat dropped off a male subject, who is now working his way up the cliff face.”
“Huh.” There was a time when Stark would have found that amusing. Well, he still did … but these days he had to consider the possibility of a bad guy, in the city-destroying sense of the word. “Any idea who it is? It's not Agent Coulson, is it? He might wrinkle that suit.”
“Running facial recognition software. He does happen to be wearing a dark suit.”
“Oh, great—it is Coulson.”
Stark glanced back into his home. Various starlets and captains of industry jockeyed for the best place to be seen, or lined up for drinks, while the DJ set up his equipment. He glimpsed Pepper Potts edging through the crowd, a foul look on her face. He did tell her there'd be a party tonight. Didn't he?
“Sir, the intruder is one Ian Grant. IMDB lists him as an actor and author ...”
“Never heard of him.”
“He also had one hit record, a novelty song called 'An Apple Byte Causes Mac Attack'.”
“Oh, yeah. I hated that song.” With a few quick strides Stark stood at the railing, but he couldn't look over far enough to see the cliff. “How's he doing?”
“Fair, with the help of climbing gear. I've accessed police records: Mr. Grant is a somewhat notorious party animal, with a history of complaints involving such misdemeanors as drunk and disorderly, reckless driving, the occasional trespass and, ahem, somewhat inappropriate public displays of affection. A few actual arrests, one conviction for public intoxication. Your kind of fellow.”
“Hey!”
“Shall I take the standard actions?”
Standard actions? No one had ever climbed the cliff before. Why would this guy …?
Stark looked back toward the house. Wet bar, loud music, women. Beyond that, guards at the entrance to his driveway. Could it be? Would anyone be that crazy? He turned toward the horizon, and saw the July sun had another couple of hours before setting. “No. Let him come on up … I'm curious.”
“How fortunate you're not a cat.”
Stark took a remote earplug from his pocket and put it on, so he’d hear Jarvis’ updates over the sound of the party. When he turned to go back inside, he found himself face to face with a blond haired beauty whose looks were marred by a deep frown. “Pepper! Hey, beautiful.”
“So. You're having a party tonight?”
Oh, boy.
#
It took less time than Stark thought before Jarvis called him back outside, just as Ian Grant climbed over the railing. Ian picked an area by the side of the house, where he wouldn't be faced with the underside of the home's overhang. It was probably no coincidence that from there his entrance would be invisible to anyone inside.
Ian took a moment to smooth the wrinkles from his dark suit, dust off the suit and his black sneakers, and smooth out his shaggy mane of dark brown hair.
Then he turned, took one step, and found himself face to face with Tony Stark.
Tony held out one of the two martinis he carried. “You must be thirsty.”
To his credit, it took Ian only a moment to adjust. Then he took the martini with a nod, and sipped. “Finest kind, as Hawkeye would say.”
Stark tilted his head. “I don't think Hawkeye drinks.”
“Oh, sorry. I meant Hawkeye Pierce, from 'M*A*S*H'.” Ian glanced past Stark toward the increasingly noisy party.
“Yeah, that Hawkeye drinks. So … hi. I'm Tony Stark.”
“Ian Grant. I had an invitation.”
“Was there something wrong with the road?”
“I usually dress casual ... It must have gotten lost in my other pants.”
“The ones you left behind when you had to flee the Playboy mansion in a rush, or the ones you flung into the crowd at that One Direction concert?” Jarvis was a font of information.
“They invited me onto the stage ...”
“I'm a little curious as to why you felt my party was important enough to risk your neck climbing a cliff.”
“Well, you throw the best parties. Or so they say.” Ian sipped the martini again. He had a steady hand, and clear eyes. “Also, since I don't drink and drive I had to get a ride here, and the only one available was my friend's boat.”
“Good call.” Clearly, Ian Grant got by on charm, looks, and luck. “And good climb. I'll have someone pick up that climbing gear you left below the house.”
“Oh, thanks.” Ian didn't appear the least bit perturbed about being caught, and Stark had a feeling the young actor knew full well his story was a cobbled together mess.
Wait … Grant? Stark studied the other man more closely. Yes, there was a resemblance: The same square jaw, the same flinty, fearless gaze. “You're Charles Grant's son.”
For the first time since arriving, uncertainty flashed across Ian's face. “Well, I'm one of his sons …”
“You wrote that tell-all book about your old man.” Stark felt his face redden, and wasn't sure why. He hadn't gotten along with his own father, after all. On the other hand, he never sold their dirty laundry for $16.95 at Barnes and Noble.
“Yeah.” Ian cast his gaze down into his half-empty drink. “My other two books were better. And more … balanced.”
“That was … were you drunk?”
“No.” Now Ian looked back up at Tony. “Well, not most of the time—it took me six months to churn that thing out. Usually I was just mad.”
Howard Stark would have been a little older than Charles Grant, if he'd survived. Stark shook his head. “Look, I've got daddy issues too, but you did a real hatchet job on him. He must have been an awful father.”
“Heh.” Ian drained the Martini, then carefully set the glass on the railing. “No. Well, not always. Mostly he wasn't anything, but that's how it goes in show biz.” He rested his arms on the rail, and gazed out toward the ocean.
“And you've been drunk ever since.” As if Tony Stark could lecture anyone on drinking. Tony also leaned against the railing, in time to see Ian's challenging expression.
“And you haven't been?”
Stark stiffened.
“I didn't climb up come here for the party. Not just the party.”
I should have seen that coming. Nobody scales hundreds of feet up a cliff wall just for a free wet bar. “If you think we’ll bond over how awful our fathers were—“
“No, not that. I've considered changing my name a thousand times. To make it on my own, to avoid being connected … and lately, to keep from embarrassing them, which I didn't used to care about. But it's too late for that, now.”
Them?
“Mr. Stark--”
“Call me Tony. All the trespassers do.”
“Tony, you're a drunk.”
“Call me Mr. Stark.”
“But you've got all this.” Ian waved his arm, to take in the house, the workshop beneath, the helicopter pad, swimming pool, crowds of admirers swilling Stark's booze. “This didn't all come from Howard Stark's millions. He sure didn't fund that costume you fly around in. Is it just because you're a genius that you run around with generals and senators and Pepper Potts—really hot, by the way—or is it luck, or are you a member of the Illuminati?”
Stark looked down. His martini glass was still half full. He set it on the rail too, then stepped back and crossed his arms. “What do you live in?”
“A hotel room, at the moment. I got kicked out of my apartment after the cow incident.”
Stark felt his eyebrows go up.
“Well, I couldn't let it stay outside. A cow alone at night, in L.A.? Wouldn't last an hour.”
“Right. Let me ask you something: Do you enjoy what you're doing?”
“Enjoy?” Ian looked confused, but Stark suspected it was an act.
“Yeah. B-movies, cheap books, picking up women at clubs?”
“That last part's not so bad.” Ian held a hand up as Stark started to protest. “I like the work, and even the celebrity stuff. But I don't like this feeling that I'm not going anywhere with it, or accomplishing anything. I'm not a bad entertainer; I'm not a great entertainer; I'm average.” He leaned against the railing, his eyes clouded as if he'd just come to a realization.
It would have been so much more fun to trade zingers all night, but that could get exhausting even for Stark. “Grant, if I accomplish anything, it's because I love what I do. Invent stuff, tinker—even be super heroic-ish. Usually I don't drink until the work is done … and then it's to celebrate, not to dull the pain.” Well, not anymore. But why undermine the lesson by muddying his point?
“You think I'm dulling the pain.” Ian didn't look as if he was arguing.
“I can't answer that. I'm just an inventor who got talent and luck.”
“Yeah, well ...” After a moment Ian blew out a long breath. “You know, I'm not in the party mood, after all. I think I'm off my game tonight.” He glanced toward the end of the railing, where he'd climbed onto the deck.
Yeah, you already said you didn't come for the party. “I don't think you need to go down that way. Unless it's some kind of college initiation.”
“Oh, I got kicked out of college.”
“Do tell.”
“Couldn't let those poor strippers wander around in the cold all night, could I?”
“Talk about wildlife.” Stark jerked his thumb toward the house. “I'll arrange a ride home for you. Just wait here.”
“Sure. Thanks.” Ian turned back toward the railing. He looked, oddly, less happy and more relaxed than when he first came up. As if he’d made a decision.
As he worked his way through the party, Stark heard Jarvis on the earbud. “Sir, your somewhat manic grin tells me you might be planning something that will require a later cleanup.”
“Maybe.” He headed downstairs. “Tell Pepper I'm taking a quick ride in the suit, and I'll get everyone cleared out when I get back.”
“A ride in the suit, sir?”
“Yep.” Stark's smile got even wider. “Ian Grant seems to want to spread his wings and try new things. Well, I'm going to give him a ride home he'll never forget.”
http://markrhunter.blogspot.com/2011/...
This one actually takes place a short time before that. Ian, in keeping to his reputation, crashes a party—but not just anyone’s party. It may be he’s there for more than living it up … but either way, he’s about to meet his match in Tony Stark.
Title: Party Crasher
Author: ozma914
Summary: Tony Stark's parties often attract characters. Sometimes they're not invited ... and sometimes they don't even know why they came.
Rating: PG
Length: 1,900 words
PARTY CRASHER
“Sir, someone is climbing the cliff below the house.”
Over the years – especially the last few – Tony Stark had seen so much that he often thought he'd seen it all. Just as often, he was proven wrong. “Climbing—the cliff? This cliff?” He gestured toward the overhang railing, which almost made his martini spill. He stilled his hand just in time, preventing that tragedy.
The voice of Jarvis, which should have sounded unemotional considering Jarvis was a computer, held an edge of surprise. “Yes, sir. A small boat dropped off a male subject, who is now working his way up the cliff face.”
“Huh.” There was a time when Stark would have found that amusing. Well, he still did … but these days he had to consider the possibility of a bad guy, in the city-destroying sense of the word. “Any idea who it is? It's not Agent Coulson, is it? He might wrinkle that suit.”
“Running facial recognition software. He does happen to be wearing a dark suit.”
“Oh, great—it is Coulson.”
Stark glanced back into his home. Various starlets and captains of industry jockeyed for the best place to be seen, or lined up for drinks, while the DJ set up his equipment. He glimpsed Pepper Potts edging through the crowd, a foul look on her face. He did tell her there'd be a party tonight. Didn't he?
“Sir, the intruder is one Ian Grant. IMDB lists him as an actor and author ...”
“Never heard of him.”
“He also had one hit record, a novelty song called 'An Apple Byte Causes Mac Attack'.”
“Oh, yeah. I hated that song.” With a few quick strides Stark stood at the railing, but he couldn't look over far enough to see the cliff. “How's he doing?”
“Fair, with the help of climbing gear. I've accessed police records: Mr. Grant is a somewhat notorious party animal, with a history of complaints involving such misdemeanors as drunk and disorderly, reckless driving, the occasional trespass and, ahem, somewhat inappropriate public displays of affection. A few actual arrests, one conviction for public intoxication. Your kind of fellow.”
“Hey!”
“Shall I take the standard actions?”
Standard actions? No one had ever climbed the cliff before. Why would this guy …?
Stark looked back toward the house. Wet bar, loud music, women. Beyond that, guards at the entrance to his driveway. Could it be? Would anyone be that crazy? He turned toward the horizon, and saw the July sun had another couple of hours before setting. “No. Let him come on up … I'm curious.”
“How fortunate you're not a cat.”
Stark took a remote earplug from his pocket and put it on, so he’d hear Jarvis’ updates over the sound of the party. When he turned to go back inside, he found himself face to face with a blond haired beauty whose looks were marred by a deep frown. “Pepper! Hey, beautiful.”
“So. You're having a party tonight?”
Oh, boy.
#
It took less time than Stark thought before Jarvis called him back outside, just as Ian Grant climbed over the railing. Ian picked an area by the side of the house, where he wouldn't be faced with the underside of the home's overhang. It was probably no coincidence that from there his entrance would be invisible to anyone inside.
Ian took a moment to smooth the wrinkles from his dark suit, dust off the suit and his black sneakers, and smooth out his shaggy mane of dark brown hair.
Then he turned, took one step, and found himself face to face with Tony Stark.
Tony held out one of the two martinis he carried. “You must be thirsty.”
To his credit, it took Ian only a moment to adjust. Then he took the martini with a nod, and sipped. “Finest kind, as Hawkeye would say.”
Stark tilted his head. “I don't think Hawkeye drinks.”
“Oh, sorry. I meant Hawkeye Pierce, from 'M*A*S*H'.” Ian glanced past Stark toward the increasingly noisy party.
“Yeah, that Hawkeye drinks. So … hi. I'm Tony Stark.”
“Ian Grant. I had an invitation.”
“Was there something wrong with the road?”
“I usually dress casual ... It must have gotten lost in my other pants.”
“The ones you left behind when you had to flee the Playboy mansion in a rush, or the ones you flung into the crowd at that One Direction concert?” Jarvis was a font of information.
“They invited me onto the stage ...”
“I'm a little curious as to why you felt my party was important enough to risk your neck climbing a cliff.”
“Well, you throw the best parties. Or so they say.” Ian sipped the martini again. He had a steady hand, and clear eyes. “Also, since I don't drink and drive I had to get a ride here, and the only one available was my friend's boat.”
“Good call.” Clearly, Ian Grant got by on charm, looks, and luck. “And good climb. I'll have someone pick up that climbing gear you left below the house.”
“Oh, thanks.” Ian didn't appear the least bit perturbed about being caught, and Stark had a feeling the young actor knew full well his story was a cobbled together mess.
Wait … Grant? Stark studied the other man more closely. Yes, there was a resemblance: The same square jaw, the same flinty, fearless gaze. “You're Charles Grant's son.”
For the first time since arriving, uncertainty flashed across Ian's face. “Well, I'm one of his sons …”
“You wrote that tell-all book about your old man.” Stark felt his face redden, and wasn't sure why. He hadn't gotten along with his own father, after all. On the other hand, he never sold their dirty laundry for $16.95 at Barnes and Noble.
“Yeah.” Ian cast his gaze down into his half-empty drink. “My other two books were better. And more … balanced.”
“That was … were you drunk?”
“No.” Now Ian looked back up at Tony. “Well, not most of the time—it took me six months to churn that thing out. Usually I was just mad.”
Howard Stark would have been a little older than Charles Grant, if he'd survived. Stark shook his head. “Look, I've got daddy issues too, but you did a real hatchet job on him. He must have been an awful father.”
“Heh.” Ian drained the Martini, then carefully set the glass on the railing. “No. Well, not always. Mostly he wasn't anything, but that's how it goes in show biz.” He rested his arms on the rail, and gazed out toward the ocean.
“And you've been drunk ever since.” As if Tony Stark could lecture anyone on drinking. Tony also leaned against the railing, in time to see Ian's challenging expression.
“And you haven't been?”
Stark stiffened.
“I didn't climb up come here for the party. Not just the party.”
I should have seen that coming. Nobody scales hundreds of feet up a cliff wall just for a free wet bar. “If you think we’ll bond over how awful our fathers were—“
“No, not that. I've considered changing my name a thousand times. To make it on my own, to avoid being connected … and lately, to keep from embarrassing them, which I didn't used to care about. But it's too late for that, now.”
Them?
“Mr. Stark--”
“Call me Tony. All the trespassers do.”
“Tony, you're a drunk.”
“Call me Mr. Stark.”
“But you've got all this.” Ian waved his arm, to take in the house, the workshop beneath, the helicopter pad, swimming pool, crowds of admirers swilling Stark's booze. “This didn't all come from Howard Stark's millions. He sure didn't fund that costume you fly around in. Is it just because you're a genius that you run around with generals and senators and Pepper Potts—really hot, by the way—or is it luck, or are you a member of the Illuminati?”
Stark looked down. His martini glass was still half full. He set it on the rail too, then stepped back and crossed his arms. “What do you live in?”
“A hotel room, at the moment. I got kicked out of my apartment after the cow incident.”
Stark felt his eyebrows go up.
“Well, I couldn't let it stay outside. A cow alone at night, in L.A.? Wouldn't last an hour.”
“Right. Let me ask you something: Do you enjoy what you're doing?”
“Enjoy?” Ian looked confused, but Stark suspected it was an act.
“Yeah. B-movies, cheap books, picking up women at clubs?”
“That last part's not so bad.” Ian held a hand up as Stark started to protest. “I like the work, and even the celebrity stuff. But I don't like this feeling that I'm not going anywhere with it, or accomplishing anything. I'm not a bad entertainer; I'm not a great entertainer; I'm average.” He leaned against the railing, his eyes clouded as if he'd just come to a realization.
It would have been so much more fun to trade zingers all night, but that could get exhausting even for Stark. “Grant, if I accomplish anything, it's because I love what I do. Invent stuff, tinker—even be super heroic-ish. Usually I don't drink until the work is done … and then it's to celebrate, not to dull the pain.” Well, not anymore. But why undermine the lesson by muddying his point?
“You think I'm dulling the pain.” Ian didn't look as if he was arguing.
“I can't answer that. I'm just an inventor who got talent and luck.”
“Yeah, well ...” After a moment Ian blew out a long breath. “You know, I'm not in the party mood, after all. I think I'm off my game tonight.” He glanced toward the end of the railing, where he'd climbed onto the deck.
Yeah, you already said you didn't come for the party. “I don't think you need to go down that way. Unless it's some kind of college initiation.”
“Oh, I got kicked out of college.”
“Do tell.”
“Couldn't let those poor strippers wander around in the cold all night, could I?”
“Talk about wildlife.” Stark jerked his thumb toward the house. “I'll arrange a ride home for you. Just wait here.”
“Sure. Thanks.” Ian turned back toward the railing. He looked, oddly, less happy and more relaxed than when he first came up. As if he’d made a decision.
As he worked his way through the party, Stark heard Jarvis on the earbud. “Sir, your somewhat manic grin tells me you might be planning something that will require a later cleanup.”
“Maybe.” He headed downstairs. “Tell Pepper I'm taking a quick ride in the suit, and I'll get everyone cleared out when I get back.”
“A ride in the suit, sir?”
“Yep.” Stark's smile got even wider. “Ian Grant seems to want to spread his wings and try new things. Well, I'm going to give him a ride home he'll never forget.”
September 10, 2014
Making Fun Of Terrorists (And Other Bad Ideas)
SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK
I made a promise that I would attempt to go back to humor when I wrote my September 11th column. The reasoning: This is a humor column.
Still, it’s hard to forget that we’re at war.
Ha, see what I did there? I made a joke already! Lots of people have forgotten we’re at war. Extremists are cutting a swath across the Arab world, gaining power by the second and threatening pretty much everyone, yet we’ve somehow managed to convince ourselves that it has nothing to do with the rest of the world. If Americans had this much self-denial in other areas, we’d all be well within our body mass index goals. And I’d be off the M&M’s.
Still, it occurs to me that humor is needed during bad times, even more than during good times. Over in Iraq, the ISIS people hold a weekly comic open mike night, every Wednesday at seven if they’re not busy beheading infidels.
On a related note, if you go on the comedy stage over there, I suggest you be well rehearsed. Believe me; it’s not a good idea to bomb.
Anyway, I was thinking maybe I could start making fun of the Muslim extremists who want to convert or kill every human being on the planet, because how funny is that? Plenty of room for belly laughs, there.
The key is that, so far as I can tell, extremists have absolutely no sense of humor. At least, not about themselves. Sure, they think blowing up New Jersey is hysterical, and who doesn’t? But make one joke about airdropping a pig farm on Tehran, and they go hog wild. So I’m thinking I could do my part in this war by poking fun at them until they get so mad they make a mistake, like accidentally touching the red wire to the blue wire during terrorist training camp.
It’s hard to come up with original material. The bad guys change, but the jokes remain the same. Here’s one I’ve heard dozens of times, with different characters each time:
Hitler and Göring are standing atop the Berlin radio tower. Hitler says he wants to do something to put a smile on Berliners’ faces. So Göring says: ‘Why don’t you jump?’
I didn’t make that up: It’s an actual WWII era joke, maybe the first version of that one. The newer versions are usually in an airplane, though. I know what you’re thinking: “What are they doing on a radio tower?” I don’t know … counting swastikas? Don’t ask questions, it’s a joke.
See, it’s funny and tasteless for the same reasons: Hitler was really evil. By the same token, it’s okay to make jokes about extremists, who in the case of this particular war happen to be Muslim. It is not okay to make jokes about Muslim moderates, because they don’t want to kill everyone and take over the world. The good news is, according to a Muslim website, 93% of Muslims are not extremists. The bad news is, 7% of a billion people is … let’s see …
A lot of people.
Actually, if my calculator is correct, that’s a mere 70 million extremists. For comparison, over the course of all of WWII the German military recruited a whole 18 million, so not to worry. Of course, the Germans had the support of the Italians. Sort of.
I don’t follow this theory some people have that any Muslim is a bad Muslim. For one thing, I have Muslim friends, and any friend of mine is automatically a good person. For another thing, I’m a Christian—and I’m a way different person from those evil morons at Westboro Baptist, who go around picketing funerals and telling everyone they’re going to Hell for watching “Jersey Shores”.
Having said that, I should point out that you are going to hell if you watch “Jersey Shores”. At least, if you watch more than two episodes.
Not wanting to offend moderate Muslims led me to give up my original plan: to paint a giant caricature of Muhammad wearing Groucho glasses on the side of my house. Well, that, and the neighbors’ latest petition.
The more I read about it, the more I realize the extremists over there don’t know any more about Islam than Fred Phelps and his hysterical followers knew about Christianity. Can all religions, and the non-religious, live in peace together? Sure we can … as long as a group isn’t strapping bombs to their kids and sending them into shops full of other kids because they think it will get them 72 virgins. How many virgins do you need, anyway?
By the way, the specific idea 72 virgins for suicide bombers is a myth. We don’t need to make up crazy things about extremists—they’re doing just fine all by themselves. And if you’re thinking of blowing yourself up anyway, I’d point out that there’s no guarantee the virgins are female, or even human. Maybe half are male computer geeks, and the rest are hamsters. You could spend all eternity picking up hamster droppings and Doctor Pepper cans.
The point is, when a group of people decide they’re going to convert the whole world to their way of thinking, or blow it up, you can’t just ignore them. Next thing you know they’re on Main Street, burning your joke books and your whole collection of Pauly Shore movies.
Oh, wait! I just had a brilliant idea. Get information about terrorists by torturing prisoners of war with … Pauly Shore movies!
After that we may still not admit we’re at war—but they’ll sure know it.
I made a promise that I would attempt to go back to humor when I wrote my September 11th column. The reasoning: This is a humor column.
Still, it’s hard to forget that we’re at war.
Ha, see what I did there? I made a joke already! Lots of people have forgotten we’re at war. Extremists are cutting a swath across the Arab world, gaining power by the second and threatening pretty much everyone, yet we’ve somehow managed to convince ourselves that it has nothing to do with the rest of the world. If Americans had this much self-denial in other areas, we’d all be well within our body mass index goals. And I’d be off the M&M’s.
Still, it occurs to me that humor is needed during bad times, even more than during good times. Over in Iraq, the ISIS people hold a weekly comic open mike night, every Wednesday at seven if they’re not busy beheading infidels.
On a related note, if you go on the comedy stage over there, I suggest you be well rehearsed. Believe me; it’s not a good idea to bomb.
Anyway, I was thinking maybe I could start making fun of the Muslim extremists who want to convert or kill every human being on the planet, because how funny is that? Plenty of room for belly laughs, there.
The key is that, so far as I can tell, extremists have absolutely no sense of humor. At least, not about themselves. Sure, they think blowing up New Jersey is hysterical, and who doesn’t? But make one joke about airdropping a pig farm on Tehran, and they go hog wild. So I’m thinking I could do my part in this war by poking fun at them until they get so mad they make a mistake, like accidentally touching the red wire to the blue wire during terrorist training camp.
It’s hard to come up with original material. The bad guys change, but the jokes remain the same. Here’s one I’ve heard dozens of times, with different characters each time:
Hitler and Göring are standing atop the Berlin radio tower. Hitler says he wants to do something to put a smile on Berliners’ faces. So Göring says: ‘Why don’t you jump?’
I didn’t make that up: It’s an actual WWII era joke, maybe the first version of that one. The newer versions are usually in an airplane, though. I know what you’re thinking: “What are they doing on a radio tower?” I don’t know … counting swastikas? Don’t ask questions, it’s a joke.
See, it’s funny and tasteless for the same reasons: Hitler was really evil. By the same token, it’s okay to make jokes about extremists, who in the case of this particular war happen to be Muslim. It is not okay to make jokes about Muslim moderates, because they don’t want to kill everyone and take over the world. The good news is, according to a Muslim website, 93% of Muslims are not extremists. The bad news is, 7% of a billion people is … let’s see …
A lot of people.
Actually, if my calculator is correct, that’s a mere 70 million extremists. For comparison, over the course of all of WWII the German military recruited a whole 18 million, so not to worry. Of course, the Germans had the support of the Italians. Sort of.
I don’t follow this theory some people have that any Muslim is a bad Muslim. For one thing, I have Muslim friends, and any friend of mine is automatically a good person. For another thing, I’m a Christian—and I’m a way different person from those evil morons at Westboro Baptist, who go around picketing funerals and telling everyone they’re going to Hell for watching “Jersey Shores”.
Having said that, I should point out that you are going to hell if you watch “Jersey Shores”. At least, if you watch more than two episodes.
Not wanting to offend moderate Muslims led me to give up my original plan: to paint a giant caricature of Muhammad wearing Groucho glasses on the side of my house. Well, that, and the neighbors’ latest petition.
The more I read about it, the more I realize the extremists over there don’t know any more about Islam than Fred Phelps and his hysterical followers knew about Christianity. Can all religions, and the non-religious, live in peace together? Sure we can … as long as a group isn’t strapping bombs to their kids and sending them into shops full of other kids because they think it will get them 72 virgins. How many virgins do you need, anyway?
By the way, the specific idea 72 virgins for suicide bombers is a myth. We don’t need to make up crazy things about extremists—they’re doing just fine all by themselves. And if you’re thinking of blowing yourself up anyway, I’d point out that there’s no guarantee the virgins are female, or even human. Maybe half are male computer geeks, and the rest are hamsters. You could spend all eternity picking up hamster droppings and Doctor Pepper cans.
The point is, when a group of people decide they’re going to convert the whole world to their way of thinking, or blow it up, you can’t just ignore them. Next thing you know they’re on Main Street, burning your joke books and your whole collection of Pauly Shore movies.
Oh, wait! I just had a brilliant idea. Get information about terrorists by torturing prisoners of war with … Pauly Shore movies!
After that we may still not admit we’re at war—but they’ll sure know it.
September 9, 2014
Ian Grant: Cuff him and book him
It looks like the print version of The Notorious Ian Grant is for sale on Amazon.com; shouldn't be too much longer before I have my shipment in, and can begin selling them through www.markrhunter.com.
Meanwhile, I'm awaiting word back from a publisher about a new project; fingers crossed!
Meanwhile, I'm awaiting word back from a publisher about a new project; fingers crossed!
September 4, 2014
The Notorious Unknown Release Date
SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK
People may think I brag too much about having written five books (some people think I don’t brag enough, but they’re other writers). If I do, there are two good reasons: First, hey—I wrote five books. It takes some effort, even to write a bad one.
Writing a good one is harder, of course. What I don’t often mention is that I didn’t write five books—I’ve finished lots more. The others are the bad ones. In the business they’re called “trunk books”, because that’s where they need to stay. Other occupations would call such a thing “training”.
The other reason I brag about them is because I want to sell them. I want to sell them so I can write more, which I guess makes writing a kind of addiction.
More and more, publishers ask authors for a business plan, along with their book submission. It’s pretty much what you think it is: a written plan for how you’ll help promote and sell your stories once they’re published.
The problem is, most authors are horrible business people. Have you ever heard the term “starving artist”? I rest my case.
I came up with a business plan for a submission, back in August of 2013. I told the editor of Whiskey Creek Press that I had a heavy presence in social media, which isn’t exactly unusual these days. I also pointed out that The Notorious Ian Grant had a built-in audience, since it was a sequel. Also, I explained, I was a really nice guy, and almost everyone liked me.
I had no idea if any of that was true, but this is advertising. I must have said it right, because they offered me a contract in October. It was the first time I ever liked October.
In January I got paperwork with a confirmation, and WCP announced a release date of October, 2014. Then I really liked October, as I began planning a book launch.
Unknown to me, my wife began planning a book launch party, for September. Meanwhile, I began searching for ideas to bring attention to the book.
Getting local people interested seemed easy. The book’s set mostly here in Noble County, just as Storm Chaser was, with some other scenes in the Fort Wayne area. We would revisit the fictional town of Hurricane, and add fun stuff like car chases, fires, explosions, bad guys, and puns. I brought in a new character (hint: His name is Ian Grant) who I thought carried the story with a great sense of fun.
By late July, with increasing anticipation, I began planning. There would be a cover reveal, a press release, maybe some flyers. Maybe I’d rent a billboard, or have the title tattooed to my back and go around shirtless. I began working on a series of short stories featuring Ian, which would follow him on his road trip from California to the book’s opening near Albion. As we got closer to October, I’d contact some people about book signings and displays, and make arrangements for the print version to come out near the same time. There would be problems if the release should be delayed for some reason, but overall it was a great plan.
You know what happens when I plan things.
As I mentioned in an earlier column, once in a while I check the internet to see how my sales are doing. On August 16th I went on my Amazon author’s page (I have an author’s page!) There were all my books, plus the one I had a humor piece printed in: Storm Chaser; My Funny Valentine; Storm Chaser Shorts; Smoky Days and Sleepless Nights; The No-Campfire Girls; The Notorious Ian Grant … wow. Five books of my own, plus …
Wait.
What?
I looked again. Yep, there it was for sale as an e-book. My book, the one being released in October. Next October. It had come out on August Fourteenth, a Thursday. It was now Saturday.
I went over to the Barnes and Noble website. There it was, released on Friday. There was my cover, unannounced by me.
I went over to my publisher’s website. There it was.
$3.99 as an e-book, a buck less than what Storm Chaser was selling for. This should have made me very happy, as it might mean more sales, but for the moment I was too stunned to think about it.
I’d never imagined that it might come out early. No cover reveal! No big buildup! No airplane with a banner flying behind it! No sneaking the title into a Presidential speech! And once my wife found out, she had to fess up to the book launch party plan.
I suppose the mix-up was related to my publisher being bought out by a larger company, Start Publishing. After some wailing and gnashing of teeth, which takes more skill than you might imagine, I realized it wasn’t really so bad. The book could have been delayed until February, the month from the depths of Hell. The contract could have been canceled altogether. I might never have been contracted at all.
Instead, I still have the comic capers of B-list celebrity (and need I say notorious) Ian Grant, running riot over northeast Indiana. It’s kind of hard to complain about that. (Come to think of it, showing up early is exactly the kind of thing he’d do.)
Plus, once arrangements are made for the print version to come out, I get a chance to publicize it all over again. Definitely a good news/bad news kind of thing.
I won’t even try to predict when that will be.
People may think I brag too much about having written five books (some people think I don’t brag enough, but they’re other writers). If I do, there are two good reasons: First, hey—I wrote five books. It takes some effort, even to write a bad one.
Writing a good one is harder, of course. What I don’t often mention is that I didn’t write five books—I’ve finished lots more. The others are the bad ones. In the business they’re called “trunk books”, because that’s where they need to stay. Other occupations would call such a thing “training”.
The other reason I brag about them is because I want to sell them. I want to sell them so I can write more, which I guess makes writing a kind of addiction.
More and more, publishers ask authors for a business plan, along with their book submission. It’s pretty much what you think it is: a written plan for how you’ll help promote and sell your stories once they’re published.
The problem is, most authors are horrible business people. Have you ever heard the term “starving artist”? I rest my case.
I came up with a business plan for a submission, back in August of 2013. I told the editor of Whiskey Creek Press that I had a heavy presence in social media, which isn’t exactly unusual these days. I also pointed out that The Notorious Ian Grant had a built-in audience, since it was a sequel. Also, I explained, I was a really nice guy, and almost everyone liked me.
I had no idea if any of that was true, but this is advertising. I must have said it right, because they offered me a contract in October. It was the first time I ever liked October.
In January I got paperwork with a confirmation, and WCP announced a release date of October, 2014. Then I really liked October, as I began planning a book launch.
Unknown to me, my wife began planning a book launch party, for September. Meanwhile, I began searching for ideas to bring attention to the book.
Getting local people interested seemed easy. The book’s set mostly here in Noble County, just as Storm Chaser was, with some other scenes in the Fort Wayne area. We would revisit the fictional town of Hurricane, and add fun stuff like car chases, fires, explosions, bad guys, and puns. I brought in a new character (hint: His name is Ian Grant) who I thought carried the story with a great sense of fun.
By late July, with increasing anticipation, I began planning. There would be a cover reveal, a press release, maybe some flyers. Maybe I’d rent a billboard, or have the title tattooed to my back and go around shirtless. I began working on a series of short stories featuring Ian, which would follow him on his road trip from California to the book’s opening near Albion. As we got closer to October, I’d contact some people about book signings and displays, and make arrangements for the print version to come out near the same time. There would be problems if the release should be delayed for some reason, but overall it was a great plan.
You know what happens when I plan things.
As I mentioned in an earlier column, once in a while I check the internet to see how my sales are doing. On August 16th I went on my Amazon author’s page (I have an author’s page!) There were all my books, plus the one I had a humor piece printed in: Storm Chaser; My Funny Valentine; Storm Chaser Shorts; Smoky Days and Sleepless Nights; The No-Campfire Girls; The Notorious Ian Grant … wow. Five books of my own, plus …
Wait.
What?
I looked again. Yep, there it was for sale as an e-book. My book, the one being released in October. Next October. It had come out on August Fourteenth, a Thursday. It was now Saturday.
I went over to the Barnes and Noble website. There it was, released on Friday. There was my cover, unannounced by me.
I went over to my publisher’s website. There it was.
$3.99 as an e-book, a buck less than what Storm Chaser was selling for. This should have made me very happy, as it might mean more sales, but for the moment I was too stunned to think about it.
I’d never imagined that it might come out early. No cover reveal! No big buildup! No airplane with a banner flying behind it! No sneaking the title into a Presidential speech! And once my wife found out, she had to fess up to the book launch party plan.
I suppose the mix-up was related to my publisher being bought out by a larger company, Start Publishing. After some wailing and gnashing of teeth, which takes more skill than you might imagine, I realized it wasn’t really so bad. The book could have been delayed until February, the month from the depths of Hell. The contract could have been canceled altogether. I might never have been contracted at all.
Instead, I still have the comic capers of B-list celebrity (and need I say notorious) Ian Grant, running riot over northeast Indiana. It’s kind of hard to complain about that. (Come to think of it, showing up early is exactly the kind of thing he’d do.)
Plus, once arrangements are made for the print version to come out, I get a chance to publicize it all over again. Definitely a good news/bad news kind of thing.
I won’t even try to predict when that will be.
September 3, 2014
Guest blogging: a glimpse of Ian Grant's past
Want to know why I went funny with “The Notorious Ian Grant”, and uncover a little of Ian’s notorious background? Then step over to my guest blog at Jana Denardo’s LiveJournal:
http://jana-denardo.livejournal.com/1...
complete with snippet, bio, and ordering info, but especially silliness.
http://jana-denardo.livejournal.com/1...
complete with snippet, bio, and ordering info, but especially silliness.
September 2, 2014
Ian Grant gets printed
I just ordered 50 print copies of "The Notorious Ian Grant". Naturally I'd rather everyone buy from me or my website, since I get a bit more of the money that way, but it should be available in print form soon on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and WhiskeyCreekPress.com.
The retail price is $16.99, which surprised me. Yes, I think it's worth the read, and it's a good quality printing, but I'd hoped it would be priced lower than "Storm Chaser". I can't change my publisher's price, but maybe some kind of deal is in order ... a discount on one of my other books for people who buy this one, for instance. I'll have to think that one over before it arrives ...
The retail price is $16.99, which surprised me. Yes, I think it's worth the read, and it's a good quality printing, but I'd hoped it would be priced lower than "Storm Chaser". I can't change my publisher's price, but maybe some kind of deal is in order ... a discount on one of my other books for people who buy this one, for instance. I'll have to think that one over before it arrives ...
