James Bailey's Blog, page 6
October 24, 2018
Jason Van Otterloo is ready for the world
Good morning, World!Today is the big day. Yes, it's National Bologna Day. Yay. (Disclaimer: I can't eat bologna or baloney any more. I maxed out as a kid.)
It's also Release Day for The First World Problems of Jason Van Otterloo. Yay! Yes, it's here at last. I know you may not have been counting down like I have been, but we can all enjoy it now just the same. And to properly enjoy it, you might find it handy to actually own a copy of the book. And to that end, here are a few useful links:
Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07JDPQ154
Nook: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-first-world-problems-of-jason-van-otterloo-james-bailey/1129736330?ean=2940161919613
Everything else (Apple, Kobo, more): https://www.books2read.com/b/3L0X7w
October 23, 2018
Casting a wide net--again
Stop me if I've said this before, but I'm done with selling ebooks exclusively on Amazon. I've gone back and forth on this in the past, but the benefits of being Kindle-only have really dried up over the past year. By mid-November, I should have all four of my novels available on all channels.As of today, my third novel, Sorry I Wasn't What You Needed, is no longer Amazon-only. If you do Nook, Kobo, Apple, etc., you can now get it in whatever format you like. Here are a few links:
Nook: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/sorry-i-wasnt-what-you-needed-james-bailey/1122021881?ean=2940156934812
Apple: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/id1439860272
Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/sorry-i-wasn-t-what-you-needed-1
My new book, The First World Problems of Jason Van Otterloo, releases on all platforms tomorrow. And my first two books will be made available around November 14. (Their "exclusive" period ends November 13.)
October 19, 2018
YA fans, meet Jason Van Otterloo
Do you like reading YA? Do you enjoy humor? Are you on a budget? Man, have I got a deal for you.
I'm taking my first step into the YA segment with The First World Problems of Jason Van Otterloo. It's like starting over as far as marketing is concerned. So I'm trying something new this time around. I'm giving away copies. FREE! All I ask in return is a little help spreading the word. If you enjoy the book, tell a friend. Post a review. Share a link on Facebook, Twitter, or whatever social media you use. And if you happen to be in a book club that reads YA, I'll spot you a copy for everyone in the group. (All you have to do is talk them into picking it, which judging by some of the book clubs I've encountered must mean you have a lot of political sway.)
I can see you there thinking, what is this book even about. Well, here's the official "blurb":
Imagine a cross between Nick Hornby's Slam and The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole (please tell me I'm not the only one who has read and loved both of those) and you'll be on the right track. If that sounds like something you'd be up for, drop me a line, either by email (jamesbailey@rochester.rr.com) or on Twitter, and I'll shoot you a link that will let you download the entire book in your preferred ereader format from Book Funnel (no membership required, though you may need to install their app).
Simple, right? Well, what are you waiting for? Let's do this.
I'm taking my first step into the YA segment with The First World Problems of Jason Van Otterloo. It's like starting over as far as marketing is concerned. So I'm trying something new this time around. I'm giving away copies. FREE! All I ask in return is a little help spreading the word. If you enjoy the book, tell a friend. Post a review. Share a link on Facebook, Twitter, or whatever social media you use. And if you happen to be in a book club that reads YA, I'll spot you a copy for everyone in the group. (All you have to do is talk them into picking it, which judging by some of the book clubs I've encountered must mean you have a lot of political sway.)
I can see you there thinking, what is this book even about. Well, here's the official "blurb":
Jason Van Otterloo has been waiting for his parents to grow up for nearly 16 years. It doesn’t seem likely to happen any time soon. While his dad loses his paycheck to the neighborhood poker sharks and his mom cruises the happy hour scene, Jason haunts Seattle's coffee joints and indie cinemas with his best friend and fellow intellectual Drew. The tragicomic accounts of his ill-matched odd jobs, summer fling, and the mysterious and exotic new neighbor lady are detailed in emails to Drew and others. This will be one summer Jason will never forget—try as he might. (Ages 14 and up.)
Imagine a cross between Nick Hornby's Slam and The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole (please tell me I'm not the only one who has read and loved both of those) and you'll be on the right track. If that sounds like something you'd be up for, drop me a line, either by email (jamesbailey@rochester.rr.com) or on Twitter, and I'll shoot you a link that will let you download the entire book in your preferred ereader format from Book Funnel (no membership required, though you may need to install their app).
Simple, right? Well, what are you waiting for? Let's do this.
October 13, 2018
Houston, we have a release date
Back in March, on this very blog, I boldly announced my new book, The First World Problems of Jason Van Otterloo, would be "Coming Summer 2018." I figured that gave me a reasonable three month window, three months down the road. Very doable. Or so I thought. Well ... some things just take a little longer than I think they will.But now, at long last, it is ready to see the light of ereaders everywhere. It is formatted, converted, and ready to rock on multiple platforms. We are not going to do the Kindle-only thing this time around. No, we're casting a wide, wide net in the search for readers. Nook, Kobo, Apple, pretty much any ebook retailer, we will be there. The official release date is October 24, but it's already available for pre-order on the following sites:
Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07JDPQ154
Nook: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-first-world-problems-of-jason-van-otterloo-james-bailey/1129736330?ean=2940161919613
Apple: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/id1438917361
Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/the-first-world-problems-of-jason-van-otterloo
July 13, 2018
If it rocks, it rocks, in any language
How much of our love for music is dependant upon being able to sing along? It's a factor, definitely. Critical, undoubtedly, with certain songs or bands where screaming along with the chorus is most of the fun. But what about the bands where you can't make out a lot of the words? What about the "Excuse me while I kiss this guy" anthems? Maybe the words you're chanting are not the same ones they are. What if the folks in the video look just like us, but we can't sing along because it's all Greek to us? Or *insert language here*?I think our brains will try to map it anyway. Guitars and basses and drums know no language. That gets us 70 percent of the way there. Our toes still tap if the beat is right. And we're used to not knowing the lyrics the first few times through a song, anyway. Or more. How many times have you heard "Smells Like Teen Spirit"? How willing are you to bet your life you know all the words, even 25 years after you first heard it?
I listen to a lot of BBC Wales. The English version, as opposed to Radio Cymru. Which is great for catching some Manics, Stereophonics, Catfish and the Bottlemen, etc. That's how I got tuned into a couple of my newer fixes. I've bought more than a handful of CDs I wouldn't have otherwise stumbled across. And then I started following DJs or music critics over there who may dabble in Welsh language artists on the side. (Or maybe the English ones are what they would consider the aside from their viewpoint?) And certain bands seem to show up in my Twitter timeline. In some cases the band name is the only word I recognize, as my Welsh has a long ways to go.
Flip this all around and you might get a feel for how much of the rest of the world falls in love with American and English bands, who tend to break through in nations where English is at best a second language, taught to school kids who learn it better than most of us master our second tongue. Still, how well can they all sing along to "Smells Like Teen Spirit"? Probably even worse than us.
I remember back in the early 90s when I lived, briefly, in Norway. One of the few tv channels would show music videos on a regular basis. There was a band there that covered AC/DC's "Back in Black." I don't remember their name, but I remember them substituting "news" for "noose" in the first verse. "I'm let loose, from the noose, that's kept me hanging about," became "I'm let loose, from the news, that's kept me hanging about." News that keeps you hanging must be pretty suspenseful, I guess. Whereas pretty much any old noose would keep you hanging, if you were the unlucky bastard whose neck happened to have been caught in it.
So maybe the words aren't crucial. Noose, news, guitar, bass, drums, let it rip. And cue me up some Candelas. Please.
June 29, 2018
Critique group jumps very horny shark
On and off over the last several years, I'd been keeping my eye open for a local critique group. In my head, it was a handful of writers who met every month in a bar somewhere and spent a couple of hours sharing feedback on each others' works. We'd each credit the others in the Acknowledgement pages of our novels and move on to the next round of drafts (and draughts). But I never found the secret bulletin board where this group was posted, and it lived only inside my mind.
This past January, I discovered Meetup.com, which for perhaps apparent reasons I had previously dismissed out of hand as a site for finding discreet partners. Turns out it's nothing like Adult Friend Finder, and you can instead discover groups that knit, hike, and even critique each others' writing. However, there were no writers groups that met during non-working hours. So I started my own. Instead of a bar, I scheduled the first meeting in a coffee shop. Five other writers showed up, which surpassed my expectations, as I'd imagined the horrible awkwardness of sitting across the table from one other person, much like a "party" I hosted one night years ago.
We laid out some basic ground rules about how much was reasonable to expect each other to read each month (in the neighborhood of 10-12 pages, double spaced) and what was the best way to share our work (we settled eventually on emailing it around to the group). It was decided that the coffee shop was too loud for us to all hear each other easily, and we searched for a new home, eventually settling on a somewhat centrally located library with reservable rooms.
As the months progressed, we each got a feel for the others' writing styles, abilities, and preferences for feedback. Some didn't want to hear about punctuation and typos, others wanted everything from the missing commas to the lost plots. I learned which of my fellows' work was likely to make for a quick read, and which would need extra effort to work through, and adjusted my approach accordingly.
And then, this month, I hit something unexpected. And let me preface this by emphasizing I'm not a prudish member of the Moral Majority (which is more of an immoral group in my book, but that's by the by). Someone's character was asked their "how we met" story and delved much more deeply into it than I, or really 99.99999999 percent of earthlings would delve. They met, they drove to a first date, they proceeded to perform elaborate intimate acts for 3-4 pages (single spaced), and somewhere not long after I encountered the breasts like scoops of homemade vanilla ice cream with raisins for nipples, I started skimming. I still saw words like "vagina," "perineum," "penis," "orifice," and so many others I wasn't necessarily hoping to see. Again, not because I'm a prude, but more because, a) if I'm going to read something like that, I'd really rather not be able to picture the author's face who wrote it, and b) it had nothing to do with the rest of the story. It was like a movie with a sex scene thrown in, just for the hell of it. Only they've gone from PG-13 to NC-17 without so much as warning the audience.
The day of our meeting, I kept running through in my mind what I would say when my turn came to share my thoughts. On the one hand, I didn't want to blow anything out of proportion or embarrass anyone. On the other, I felt obligated, as founder of the group, to at least get a feel for the general appetite for such content. And then we met, and ... the author didn't show up. Which wasn't the first time for them. We spent nearly two hours going around the room sharing our thoughts on each others' work, and it came time to pack up and I cleared my throat and asked what everyone thought of the writing sample in question. Turned out only three of the six of us present had received it. The other two were in agreement with me that it was out of bounds. As were the ones who had not received it once they got a peek.
Then it was on me to craft an appropriate email to this author, which I did Wednesday night before heading up for bed. I tried to be sensitive and not make it personal, not knowing what kind of response it would generate. Here's what I came up with:
In my head, there were two possible replies. The first was "Screw you guys, I'll write what I want," which given the individual involved, seemed like the 60 in a 60/40 bet. The 40 side was an apologetic, "Gosh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize everyone else would take it like that." Turns out there was a third possible response. The non-response. Here we are 48-hours later, and I haven't heard anything at all. Maybe that says all that needs to be said. I suspect we won't be seeing any more vanilla ice cream tits. And I think I'm okay with that.
This past January, I discovered Meetup.com, which for perhaps apparent reasons I had previously dismissed out of hand as a site for finding discreet partners. Turns out it's nothing like Adult Friend Finder, and you can instead discover groups that knit, hike, and even critique each others' writing. However, there were no writers groups that met during non-working hours. So I started my own. Instead of a bar, I scheduled the first meeting in a coffee shop. Five other writers showed up, which surpassed my expectations, as I'd imagined the horrible awkwardness of sitting across the table from one other person, much like a "party" I hosted one night years ago.
We laid out some basic ground rules about how much was reasonable to expect each other to read each month (in the neighborhood of 10-12 pages, double spaced) and what was the best way to share our work (we settled eventually on emailing it around to the group). It was decided that the coffee shop was too loud for us to all hear each other easily, and we searched for a new home, eventually settling on a somewhat centrally located library with reservable rooms.
As the months progressed, we each got a feel for the others' writing styles, abilities, and preferences for feedback. Some didn't want to hear about punctuation and typos, others wanted everything from the missing commas to the lost plots. I learned which of my fellows' work was likely to make for a quick read, and which would need extra effort to work through, and adjusted my approach accordingly.
And then, this month, I hit something unexpected. And let me preface this by emphasizing I'm not a prudish member of the Moral Majority (which is more of an immoral group in my book, but that's by the by). Someone's character was asked their "how we met" story and delved much more deeply into it than I, or really 99.99999999 percent of earthlings would delve. They met, they drove to a first date, they proceeded to perform elaborate intimate acts for 3-4 pages (single spaced), and somewhere not long after I encountered the breasts like scoops of homemade vanilla ice cream with raisins for nipples, I started skimming. I still saw words like "vagina," "perineum," "penis," "orifice," and so many others I wasn't necessarily hoping to see. Again, not because I'm a prude, but more because, a) if I'm going to read something like that, I'd really rather not be able to picture the author's face who wrote it, and b) it had nothing to do with the rest of the story. It was like a movie with a sex scene thrown in, just for the hell of it. Only they've gone from PG-13 to NC-17 without so much as warning the audience.
The day of our meeting, I kept running through in my mind what I would say when my turn came to share my thoughts. On the one hand, I didn't want to blow anything out of proportion or embarrass anyone. On the other, I felt obligated, as founder of the group, to at least get a feel for the general appetite for such content. And then we met, and ... the author didn't show up. Which wasn't the first time for them. We spent nearly two hours going around the room sharing our thoughts on each others' work, and it came time to pack up and I cleared my throat and asked what everyone thought of the writing sample in question. Turned out only three of the six of us present had received it. The other two were in agreement with me that it was out of bounds. As were the ones who had not received it once they got a peek.
Then it was on me to craft an appropriate email to this author, which I did Wednesday night before heading up for bed. I tried to be sensitive and not make it personal, not knowing what kind of response it would generate. Here's what I came up with:
Author,
We never really laid down any rules regarding content for the group. I can't say it occurred to me that we needed them. However, the consensus tonight was that [character]'s how-we-met story was well over whatever line we would have set had we set one. I hope you can understand that extremely descriptive sex scenes are not what most of the group is looking to critique. Please keep this in mind for future submissions.
Thanks,
James
In my head, there were two possible replies. The first was "Screw you guys, I'll write what I want," which given the individual involved, seemed like the 60 in a 60/40 bet. The 40 side was an apologetic, "Gosh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize everyone else would take it like that." Turns out there was a third possible response. The non-response. Here we are 48-hours later, and I haven't heard anything at all. Maybe that says all that needs to be said. I suspect we won't be seeing any more vanilla ice cream tits. And I think I'm okay with that.
April 19, 2018
Hillsborough haunts pages of Danny Rhodes' novel Fan
Over spring break we took a family trip to Washington, D.C. It's been years since I'd been there, and I'd never stayed in the city before or visited for more than a day at a time. This time we did four nights in the Embassy Row neighborhood near Dupont Circle. Nice neighborhood, and if my feet hadn't been so tired from walking all day every day I would have liked to have explored Massachusetts Avenue a little more and seen more of the embassy buildings from various countries.I did find time to visit a book shop a couple of blocks from our hotel, called Second Story Books. Which is on street level, not the second story, but it sold used books, hence the name. I could have spent hours in there scanning the shelves, but unfortunately didn't have that much time. So I bee-lined for the fiction shelves and netted a couple of Richard Russo novels (Straight Man and Mohawk). And then another book caught my eye. Fan by Danny Rhodes. I don't remember where, but I read something about it in the not too distant past, just enough for that "hey, I've heard of this" lightbulb to click on when I saw it. It's a novel about a rabid Nottingham Forest fan whose life is changed after witnessing the Hillsborough tragedy from the other side of the pitch.
Finchy lives with what could be classified as PTSD for the next 15 years, escaping from his hometown in Nottinghamshire down to London to start over but never really forgetting or coming to terms with what he saw. Shortly after former Forest legend Brian Clough's death knocks him off balance, Finch receives a call from one of his old football buddies informing him another of their friends has killed himself. His personal and professional lives both spiraling out of control, Finch returns home to attend the funeral. Only he can't deal with the funeral and doesn't go. He simultaneously battles emotional fallout from his current relationship and one from the past, one that fell apart immediately post-Hillsborough and one that never properly formed because of its lingering impact.
It's a dark story, with quite possibly more f-bombs per page than any I've ever read. Not that they're not warranted. Finchy's dealing with some truly fucked-up shit.
I started reading it the last night we were in D.C., and finished fittingly on April 15, the 29th anniversary of Hillsborough. I have a feeling it will be one of those books that sticks with me for a long time. I'm glad I found it, especially because it's not a book I'd be likely to stumble across just anywhere. It was printed in England and has a sticker on the back with the name of a U.S. distributor. I'm sure I could have found a copy online, but finding it the way I did in Second Story Books will make it a nice souvenir of the trip.
March 23, 2018
Coming Summer 2018
It's been three years since I released Sorry I Wasn't What You Needed. Three long years. What the heck have I been doing all that time?Following a brief break and a series of false starts that resulted in a collection of abandoned Chapter 1s, I settled on a new story, which turned into two books, and may eventually result in a third (fourth, fifth?). My goal is to release the first, entitled The First World Problems of Jason Van Otterloo, this summer. Jason is 15, going on 16, and still waiting for his parents to grow up. The story is set in 2003 and told entirely through online exchanges with friends. I'll describe it as The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole meets Nick Hornby's Slam. (Not sure what the Venn diagram of readers for that combo looks like. Anyone else in the intersection with me?)
I'm currently on the nth round of revisions, with at least one more pass to come. I'm still toying with releasing both books together, but the longer things drag out, the more I rethink that.
If you'd like to be the first to know when they are available, please sign up for my email list. I promise, I do not spam. I only send messages when I have something significant to announce (which as you might guess from the fact it's been three years since the last book came out, isn't all that often).
In the meantime, if you want a taste of what's to come, here's the first ~2,000 words of The First World Problems of Jason Van Otterloo. (It's not divided into chapters, which should make sense once you read it.)
From: Jason Van OtterlooTo: Andrew DierSent: June 21, 2003, 7:43 p.m.Subject: Why me?Drew, man, wish you weren’t in Cali right now. I really need to get the hell out of here. They never let up anymore. Janice just launched a spoon rest at Rob, the one I made in pottery class with the duck painted on it. Somehow he caught it. It’s a miracle he even saw it coming. He’s been out in the garage bingeing all afternoon. Typical Saturday, except this time I have nowhere to go. If your sister hadn’t stayed home I’d break into your house just to get some peace.They try to send each other messages through me, but I don’t pass most of them on. Grow up, already, morons. For real. Not a great advertisement for getting married. I’m going to stay a bachelor and just live in a little apartment somewhere above a coffee house. I found a new one in Greenwood we can try when you get back called the Perky Mug. Not as pretentious as that one last week. That chick was an 11 on the bitch-o-meter, for sure. Like no one’s ever asked her if their beans are fair trade before. Whatever.Let me know what the Chico scene is like. If I have to deal with much more of this I might hop a Greyhound and meet you down on the beach. Later.
From: Andrew DierTo: Jason Van OtterlooSent: June 21, 2003, 9:06 p.m.Subject: RE: Why me?Which beach would that be? We’re three hours from the ocean. There’s a creek about a mile from my grandma’s that you can throw rocks in from the overpass. Will that do you?Sorry about your parents. Anything good playing at the Grand Illusion tomorrow? You could probably go for the matinee and camp out until closing. Terry wouldn’t care. Might not even notice.
From: Jason Van OtterlooTo: Andrew DierSent: June 21, 2003, 9:21 p.m.Subject: RE: Why me?No can do on the Grand Illusion. They’re doing the Grease double feature again. Once was already once too many for me. I might cruise down to the U-District or something. Somewhere not here, for sure. And it’s worse now than before, if that’s even humanly possible. They’ve gone quiet so I can’t even keep track of where they are. I like to know, so I can stay out of their way. Last I saw of Rob, he was camped out on the back deck, building a wall out of empty beer cans. Janice was into the ice wine on the couch, watching Ocean’s Eleven for the 400th time. They’re probably both passed out by now.
From: Jason Van OtterlooTo: Andrew DierSent: June 21, 2003, 9:44 p.m.Subject: RE: Why me?Update: At least one of them’s awake. And if I really heard what I think I just heard, they just redecorated the bathroom with their stomach. I am not cleaning it up this time. Forget it. Why can’t I have normal parents like everyone else?I’m thinking of finding a job and saving up so I can move out.
From: Jason Van OtterlooTo: Michael BeardSent: June 22, 2003, 5:51 p.m.Subject: JobMike, I’ve been thinking about it and I’d be up for that landscaping job if you guys still need someone. Can you let me know ASAP? I’m kind of desperate to earn some dough.Say Hi to Aunt Rosie, for me, btw. I think she called earlier today, but Dad was working in the garage and Mom was out.Thanks, Jason
From: Jason Van OtterlooTo: Andrew DierSent: June 22, 2003, 6:08 p.m.Subject: BrutalIt was Janice rocking the bowl last night. Quelle surprise. Her hair was crusted with spitup this morning at breakfast. Well, if you can call 11:30 breakfast. She rolled into the kitchen in her flannel robe and yellow slippers, clutching her head and mumbling about Saint Monica. That was my first clue she was hungover. She only gets religious when the room starts to spin on her. Well, maybe I should say it was my second clue. Any time she sleeps past 11 I figure she’s snoozing one off. And then the vomit in her hair is a bit of a giveaway. So third clue, maybe? Whatever. She goes from promising God she’ll never drink again to cursing at the coffee machine midsentence. She would have smashed the carafe if I hadn’t pointed out she never poured any water into the top. She guzzles two mugs, then leaves the room, pukes again in the downstairs bathroom—without closing the door—then comes back and pours another cup and lights a cigarette. In the house! That was my cue to depart. I was halfway down the street before I remembered I didn’t have any money on me. Doubled back, swiped a 20 from her purse, and left again.Speaking of drunks and derelicts, the bus stop was absolutely teeming with them. I stood half a block down until I saw the bus coming. I sat up front near the driver in one of the sideways seats, hoping no one else would sit nearby, but just my luck some old lady with bulging pants like she had a diaper on sat right next to me, even though there was another seat open right across the aisle. She smelled like urine, too, but more like cat urine than human. Probably some of both, I bet. I got off at the first U-District stop and walked the rest of the way just to get some fresh air. On the way, I ordered a wrap from that Japanese-Greek fusion truck. Total fail. The olives and the fish clashed horribly. And cilantro? Where does that even fit in? It’s like they were just clearing out leftover ingredients over the weekend.I spent most of the afternoon browsing books and records. Bought a slightly battered copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenanceand a couple of old Bowie singles on vinyl. On the bus home I found an AA brochure. Serendipity? I left it on the kitchen counter. Maybe one of them will take the hint.I emailed my cousin Mike about a landscaping gig with him for the summer. He makes pretty good scratch. That would be sweet.Oh, hey, I saw a poster outside The Varsity for An American Werewolf in London. It’s playing Friday night at 9:05. Can I assume we’re going?
From: Andrew DierTo: Jason Van OtterlooSent: June 22, 2003, 10:33 p.m.Subject: RE: BrutalAs I have not yet mastered time travel, I regret to inform you you’re on your own Friday night. We’re not leaving until Saturday.Nice haul on the Bowie. We passed a promising looking record shop on the way back from dinner tonight, out by the college. At least, it had a huge Buzzcocks poster in the window, which seems like a good sign. I’m going to hitch a ride with my grandpa Tuesday when he goes in. He only teaches one class a week during the summer.
From: Jason Van OtterlooTo: Andrew DierSent: June 22, 2003, 10:59 p.m.Subject: RE: BrutalSaturday? Why did I think you guys were coming back on Thursday? Didn’t you say you were staying six days at your Grandma’s? I’m going to have to hit up Bick and see if I can escape over there for a bit. His mom kind of wigs me out, though. I get the feeling she doesn’t like me, like somehow I’m a corrupting influence on her angelic son. If she ever found out what he did in the cafeteria she might not hold him in such high esteem. Then again, she’d probably blame me for suggesting it. I never thought he’d actually do it. Once Ranjit offered him $20 there was no talking him out of it.Stop the presses: Janice made dinner tonight. If you can count boiling pierogies as cooking. She looked slightly more alive by then. She’d at least showered the barf out of her hair. When I walked into the kitchen she handed me the AA brochure and laughed. “Your father won’t go for it. He already belongs to a group. It’s called Alcoholics Unanimous. He’s meeting his sponsor right now down at Donovan’s.” That’s the neighbor over around the corner with the Duster that’s been up on cinder blocks in the front yard since we were in 5th grade. Rob spends way too much time over there. And money. They play cards for cash. He came home last Saturday flashing a big wad of ones and fives like he had just hit the Mega Millions. What a pathetic loser.
From: Michael BeardTo: Jason Van OtterlooSent: June 23, 6:25 p.m.Subject: RE: JobSure. We can find something for U. We’re down a man anyway. We leave at 7:00, so B there no later. It’s just behind the Spud across from the ball fields at Green Lake. Know it?
From: Jason Van OtterlooTo: Michael BeardSent: June 23, 2003, 6:46 p.m.Subject: RE: JobThanks, Mike. Really appreciate it. Can I hit you up for a ride tomorrow? I could ride my bike, but I’ll probably have to get up at 5:30 to get there by 7. That’s kind of a haul and there are a couple of monster hills on the way.
From: Michael BeardTo: Jason Van OtterlooSent: June 23, 7:12 p.m.Subject: RE: JobSorry. I got 2 go in early and change the belt on the big rider. Ur on ur own.
From: Jason Van OtterlooTo: Michael BeardSent: June 23, 2003, 7:21 p.m.Subject: RE: JobNo worries. I totally understand. Oh well, it will get me in shape, at least.
From: Jason Van OtterlooTo: Andrew DierSent: June 23, 2003, 7:35 p.m.Subject: Working stiffHey, I got that job. I start tomorrow morning. I have to be down by Green Lake by 7:00. Hoping maybe Mike can give me a lift sometimes, but tomorrow I’m riding my bike. I’m going to sock every penny away. I figure if I can earn $5,000 over the next two summers I can move out for my last year of high school. My cousin Tina rents a basement apartment from a family in Ballard. She only pays $350 a month and has a separate entrance and a reserved parking spot in the driveway. That would be perfect.
From: Andrew DierTo: Jason Van OtterlooSent: June 23, 2003, 9:36 p.m.Subject: RE: Working stiffYou’re a maniac. Might want to start pedaling now. That’s a long ride. What will you be doing, anyway, assuming you survive the commute?
From: Jason Van OtterlooTo: Andrew DierSent: June 23, 2003, 9:59 p.m.Subject: RE: Working stiffIt’s not much farther than going down to the U-District. Shouldn’t be too horrible. I can do almost half of it on the trail.And not really sure exactly what I’ll be doing. Mike didn’t say. I think mowing lawns and weeding and maybe some raking. I mean, how much can there really be to it? I’ve seen Rob do it all before. Never seemed that complicated.
From: Andrew DierTo: Jason Van OtterlooSent: June 23, 2003, 11:21 p.m.Subject: RE: Working stiffDon’t take this the wrong way, because your yard is totally acceptable, and there are way more important things in this world than a well-manicured lawn, but no one would hire a landscaper to give their yard the Rob treatment. People hire landscapers to make their house look like a country club. Have fun with that.
March 9, 2018
Discoverability and pure dumb luck
As an indie author, I have a soft spot for indie artists generally. I particularly love to discover a new band that hasn't broken big (yet). I've found bands on Twitter, sometimes from a tweet recommending them (Rizzle Kicks, H/T to James Corden), and sometimes via direct contact from the band itself (Lux Lisbon). Discoverability has always been the key to an artist's success, but discoverability is so different now to what it was a generation ago. Musicians can find an audience halfway across the world without trekking there in a broken-down van to play a crowd of 20 people. Sometimes purely by accident.
My son is 8 and into music. If you drew a Venn diagram of what we like, there'd be a reasonable sweet spot in the middle. Most of those songs are ones I've introduced him to, despite his initial reluctance to give anything I like a chance. From AC/DC to Trombone Shorty to Snow Patrol, he has added a fair number of my tracks to his mp3 player and/or Spotify list. It doesn't often flow the other way, though. He gets a lot of his music from whatever they play on Dude Perfect, which mostly all sounds the same to me, bland synthesized music and cliched lyrics that play well behind footage of morons performing trick shots.
My usual response when he asks if I like one of his songs is, "well, it's okay," or "which NTAC is this?" if he seems in a good enough mood to take a jibe. (NTAC = No Talent Ass Clown, courtesy of Michael Bolton in the movie Office Space.) But halfway through "Found Out" I was congratulating him on finding something good. We listened to a couple more Derrival tracks, then googled the band to learn they hail from Vancouver, B.C., and just recently released their debut album. And here's one of the great things about new bands: They usually make their songs freely available for anyone to listen to, because they need as much exposure as possible. So we listened. And listened. And then bought the album (in digital format only, because they don't seem to make physical CDs, because only old people like me buy them anymore).
I can't quite put my finger on what band(s) Derrival reminds me of. There's a little bit of an 80s vibe at time (Level 42, maybe?) and at others I'm searching my brain for more current comps and never quite coming up with the right one. I want to say they sound like one or a couple of the bands featured on the old Paste Magazine CDs (which were a great way to discover new bands), but I still can't narrow it down beyond that. It's catchy as hell and very listenable, though, and I can't seem to stop playing it. So there's a victory for serendipitous discovery. And one I'll remember a long time as a band my son discovered for me.
My son is 8 and into music. If you drew a Venn diagram of what we like, there'd be a reasonable sweet spot in the middle. Most of those songs are ones I've introduced him to, despite his initial reluctance to give anything I like a chance. From AC/DC to Trombone Shorty to Snow Patrol, he has added a fair number of my tracks to his mp3 player and/or Spotify list. It doesn't often flow the other way, though. He gets a lot of his music from whatever they play on Dude Perfect, which mostly all sounds the same to me, bland synthesized music and cliched lyrics that play well behind footage of morons performing trick shots.
My usual response when he asks if I like one of his songs is, "well, it's okay," or "which NTAC is this?" if he seems in a good enough mood to take a jibe. (NTAC = No Talent Ass Clown, courtesy of Michael Bolton in the movie Office Space.) But halfway through "Found Out" I was congratulating him on finding something good. We listened to a couple more Derrival tracks, then googled the band to learn they hail from Vancouver, B.C., and just recently released their debut album. And here's one of the great things about new bands: They usually make their songs freely available for anyone to listen to, because they need as much exposure as possible. So we listened. And listened. And then bought the album (in digital format only, because they don't seem to make physical CDs, because only old people like me buy them anymore).
I can't quite put my finger on what band(s) Derrival reminds me of. There's a little bit of an 80s vibe at time (Level 42, maybe?) and at others I'm searching my brain for more current comps and never quite coming up with the right one. I want to say they sound like one or a couple of the bands featured on the old Paste Magazine CDs (which were a great way to discover new bands), but I still can't narrow it down beyond that. It's catchy as hell and very listenable, though, and I can't seem to stop playing it. So there's a victory for serendipitous discovery. And one I'll remember a long time as a band my son discovered for me.
February 21, 2018
Parkland survivors offer hope that something might finally change
A lot can change in a week.
Seven days ago, 17 lives were needlessly lost in the horrific shooting in Parkland, Fla. My first awareness of it came via Twitter, before any details were available. Another school shooting. The all-too-familiar depression and hopelessness that washes over me during these incidents struck me harder and harder as information was reported. Many injured ... multiple fatalities ... more than 10 deaths ... then, finally, 17 dead. And eventually a grim sense of relief that the count had finally stopped going up.
Happy Valentine's Day.
I had taken the afternoon off to buy and prep a steak for our traditional Valentine's cookout. But by the time my wife got home from work I didn't feel much like celebrating anything. It felt wrong to be grilling--to be doing anything I enjoyed--with such a tragedy for all intents still unfolding, knowing so many families were being irrevocably torn apart. I felt more like crying than anything else. But I put my best face on, partially because I still don't want to talk about things like this in front of my son. He's 8. He shouldn't have to know these kinds of things happen.
We didn't worry about mass shootings back when I was in school. In our day the freakabilly nightmare was nuclear holocaust. I have some vague recollection we were meant to hide under our desks, though I don't remember ever actually having a drill to practice doing so. I remember kids talking about the movie The Day After when it aired on TV back in 1983. I didn't watch it. I can't remember why. Maybe I just didn't want to think about it in that much detail. It was bad enough as some vague notion that we'd all be wiped out. But that's all it was, was a vague notion. It wasn't real. It never happened.
And then came Columbine in 1999, and school tragedies became very, very real. And they've come along at ever-accelerating rates over the past two decades, so the intervals between are only ever long enough for the hopeless, helpless feeling to recede but never disappear. And every time a mass shooting rips a community apart, be it in a school, a movie theater, a church, a concert, or a night club, the hopeless helplessness floods in again. There's nothing we can do. We have accepted this. If we couldn't pass any reforms after the sickening slaughter at Sandy Hook, we never will.
And then I saw that Emma Gonzalez speech, and for the first time I felt a flicker of hope. And over the past few days that has grown. Sure the NRA still owns the Republican party, but they've been put on alert. These kids don't give a shit how much money the gun lobby pumps into the campaign coffers. They are ready to change history. Kids are like that. Tell them they can't do something, and they'll do it just to piss you off.
The thoughts-and-prayers politicians who ignored the pleas of the Sandy Hook families won't be able to do so this time around. Their bullshit, condescending, dismissive "this isn't the time to talk about it" rhetoric isn't washing with these kids. Emma and Co. ain't having it.
They have time and they have passion, and when you combine the two, things start to happen. Things start to change.
I'm realistic enough to know there will be other horrific incidents. But maybe, just maybe, we can start to stretch the intervals back out, to the point these are not such regular headlines. It feels today that this might not be too much to hope for. Seven days ago it did. A lot can change in a week.
Seven days ago, 17 lives were needlessly lost in the horrific shooting in Parkland, Fla. My first awareness of it came via Twitter, before any details were available. Another school shooting. The all-too-familiar depression and hopelessness that washes over me during these incidents struck me harder and harder as information was reported. Many injured ... multiple fatalities ... more than 10 deaths ... then, finally, 17 dead. And eventually a grim sense of relief that the count had finally stopped going up.
Happy Valentine's Day.
I had taken the afternoon off to buy and prep a steak for our traditional Valentine's cookout. But by the time my wife got home from work I didn't feel much like celebrating anything. It felt wrong to be grilling--to be doing anything I enjoyed--with such a tragedy for all intents still unfolding, knowing so many families were being irrevocably torn apart. I felt more like crying than anything else. But I put my best face on, partially because I still don't want to talk about things like this in front of my son. He's 8. He shouldn't have to know these kinds of things happen.
We didn't worry about mass shootings back when I was in school. In our day the freakabilly nightmare was nuclear holocaust. I have some vague recollection we were meant to hide under our desks, though I don't remember ever actually having a drill to practice doing so. I remember kids talking about the movie The Day After when it aired on TV back in 1983. I didn't watch it. I can't remember why. Maybe I just didn't want to think about it in that much detail. It was bad enough as some vague notion that we'd all be wiped out. But that's all it was, was a vague notion. It wasn't real. It never happened.
And then came Columbine in 1999, and school tragedies became very, very real. And they've come along at ever-accelerating rates over the past two decades, so the intervals between are only ever long enough for the hopeless, helpless feeling to recede but never disappear. And every time a mass shooting rips a community apart, be it in a school, a movie theater, a church, a concert, or a night club, the hopeless helplessness floods in again. There's nothing we can do. We have accepted this. If we couldn't pass any reforms after the sickening slaughter at Sandy Hook, we never will.
And then I saw that Emma Gonzalez speech, and for the first time I felt a flicker of hope. And over the past few days that has grown. Sure the NRA still owns the Republican party, but they've been put on alert. These kids don't give a shit how much money the gun lobby pumps into the campaign coffers. They are ready to change history. Kids are like that. Tell them they can't do something, and they'll do it just to piss you off.
The thoughts-and-prayers politicians who ignored the pleas of the Sandy Hook families won't be able to do so this time around. Their bullshit, condescending, dismissive "this isn't the time to talk about it" rhetoric isn't washing with these kids. Emma and Co. ain't having it.
They have time and they have passion, and when you combine the two, things start to happen. Things start to change.
I'm realistic enough to know there will be other horrific incidents. But maybe, just maybe, we can start to stretch the intervals back out, to the point these are not such regular headlines. It feels today that this might not be too much to hope for. Seven days ago it did. A lot can change in a week.
