Keith Blenman's Blog: This Worthless Life, page 11

A quick thought

I seem to have hit an age where if I cough uncontrollably or really, really hard, I fart. Not all the time. But sometimes. This in itself isn't exactly noteworthy, but it raises a question. What's my body going to do when I cough in another 32 years?

On amateur film making

I was making myself lunch this afternoon and it randomly occurred to me that it's been a long time since I've made a film. I used to make short movies in high school, and if I ever figure out a way to embarrass myself by putting them online, I will definitely post them here. Anyways, I guess it's been about fourteen or fifteen years since I've actually developed a movie. And it's not exactly something I have time to just take up again. I have school. I have two jobs. I'm balls deep in editing my next novel. I don't have time to take up amateur film making while I'm at it. Still, it was a sad thought. Not having time to do the oh so many things that I love. So, while making some nachos, I decided to indulge the feeling. I gave myself three minutes to come up with a story with a definite arc of beginning, middle, and end. There had to be a protagonist and antagonist, along with rising action. There had to be some amount of symbolism, along with a commentary on life. And it had to be at least a little comedic. And I had to film it with my phone before my food was ready.


Here's what I came up with:




 

THE INCREDIBLY DEEP AND PROFOUND KICK IN THE PANTS OF LIFE

 

Starring and directed by

Keith Blenman



On safe driving and saying good-bye.

Some
Keith died the other day.



 



I’m
going off the theory that parallel realities do exist and other versions of
ourselves live lives echoing our own. Maybe they were born a few minutes
earlier. Maybe later. Maybe he made a few different decisions in life. A few
better or a few worse. If he was traveling where I was, when I was, we couldn’t
have been too far off from each other. Maybe our lives were the exact same up
until the point that he clipped his fingernails the other day and I hadn’t. But
we both had to get where we were going. With that moment of time he’d lost, he decided
to drive just a little bit faster. We’ve both taken the bridge from I94 East to
696 West so many times, knew on a typical day he could maintain a speed of 60mph
without breaking and get through just fine.



 



I
slowed down. The snowfall sudden, blinding and the salt trucks hadn’t made
their rounds. Up until that moment, the roads had been just fine. I was going
slower than usual, but not enough. As I rounded the turn, just before the
concrete wall became a guardrail, I lost all control of my Aztek. I turned, my
foot on the break, and the car slid forward.



 



It’s
funny how everything seems to go in slow motion in moments like that. Your
senses heighten just enough to account for the entirety of the moment. At
first, as the car started to spin sideways, I remember thinking how it was odd
the anti-lock brakes weren’t kicking in. I cranked the wheel, trying to divert
my path toward the guardrail. With no success. Somewhere in the back of my
mind, I questioned if there had even been a “Bridge may be icy” sign. Wouldn’t
it have been funny if I was spinning out on the only bridge in Michigan without one?



 



Beneath
me I could see I94 continuing below. I envisioned all the horrible things that
could happen if the guardrail wasn’t strong enough to support my car at this
speed. Would just the front break through? Would I fall over the ledge? If it
did fall, how should I position myself to survive? Would the front hit first
with most of the car’s weight in the engine? Or was the drop far enough for it
that I’d land on the roof and be crushed to death by my own car? What if I
survive the fall but get hit by oncoming traffic? Or what if the guardrail was
strong enough to support the impact and all that happens is I get hit by the
truck coming around the bend behind me?



 



If I
died, I’d never know what grade I got on my last chemistry exam. And that
annoyed me.



 



Somehow,
the Aztek didn’t go straight over. You’d never notice it, but before the
guardrail there’s a small curb on the side of the road. My wheels hit that and
the car ricocheted off. For an instant, I felt saved. But I still wasn’t
slowing down, and the Aztek spun twice as it slid to the other side of the
bridge.



 



I
managed to straighten the car enough so that I was now heading directly for the
other guardrail. I questioned if there was enough time to send a quick mass
text out to everyone I know, telling them I love them. And then another to a
couple of people who may have received the previous text in my panic, but I
really am not all that wild about.



 



“Before
Keith died, he texted me, ‘I love you. …Oh!
But more just think well of you as an able bodied coworker. If I survive, I still don’t want to hang out
or anything.’”



 



Except
I didn’t really think that. Mostly I was just trying to regain control of the
car. Some thoughts leaked in though. My family. My friends. I thought about how
my muse had designed the coolest book cover for my upcoming novel, and I really
wanted the world to see it. I thought about how I’d miss out on my brother’s
wedding, and wanted to apologize to a friend if this made me unable to take
over his classes and teach them after he retired. All in little flashes. My
parents. A few friends. An old dog at home and a few really fat cats. I had
just recently started being open with people about my bisexuality, but not my
family yet and- oh god! Do I have any porn on my computer? If I die, please let
nobody find any porn!



 



Yep.
All that and more while fighting the brakes and wondering if I was trying to
turn the car the wrong way. Not to get all sentimental or anything, but it’s
funny how it all sort of snuck its way in there. Like I was preparing myself or
something.



 



I
felt a bump, and the car continued moving forward. For a second I thought I’d
broken through the guardrail and was about to drop down to I94, directly in the
path of an approaching semi.



 



But
I stopped.



 



I
hadn’t hit the guardrail at all. Just the opposite curb. There must have been
some traction on the other side of it because I came to a halt a couple of
inches in front of the guardrail. The brakes finally came through. I was still
on the bridge. Granted, sideways, taking up an entire lane. But stopped. Alive.



 



To
relive everything I actually said during my entire spin out, my final words in
this world were very nearly, “Ahh hell. …Oh shit. Oh shit! Oh shit! OH SHIT!
SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! OH SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! OH FUCKING HELL! SHIT!”



 



But
I did stop. I did survive. At least long enough to look at the oncoming traffic
and brace for impact. One truck passed in the other lane. The rest of the cars
had slowed down and were coming to a stop. I took a deep breath, a sigh of
relief, and yawped to survival with the eloquently chosen phrase, “Jesus
fucking shit.”



 



It’s
a funny thing. Some people would start to cry. Others shake uncontrollably (I
do, but wouldn’t start until later. Not until I was sitting in class and the
adrenaline finally starting waning off). Some people get angry or even violent
from the stress of a situation. And I always laugh. After that near accident, I’d
even go so far as to say I cackled.



 



Not
to get into the whole fragility of life thing, or how mine nearly ended from
either fresh snow or a thin film of ice and perhaps some less than perfect
driving. If anything, I just wonder how it all looked to the other drivers. I’m
sure they were all thinking of what a dumb ass I was, or how I should stay off
the road. We’re never polite in our thoughts to strangers behind the wheel, and
I’m sure I was a source of great annoyance. But it had to look interesting to
those who could see me. Sitting sideways on the bridge, holding up traffic, was
me, laughing my head off.



 



Only
for a moment. It didn’t take me too long to pull back into traffic and lead the
20mph charge along the rest of the bridge and onramp. Then where the speed
limit hit 70pmh, we all continued at a modest 35. And while on that drive, I
remember thinking, “Some other Keith just died there.” In some parallel
reality, the bridge didn’t have the curb, or he was driving a little too fast. He
either went over the bridge, got hit by traffic, or randomly exploded in the
driver’s seat. But I got to go on.



 



Is
it me, or is there something about mild near-death experiences that makes you
feel indestructible for the rest of the day? Or full of life. That sort of
feeling where you just want to conquer a mountain, eat a massive steak, chug a
tall beer, and fuck like a Viking.



 



Yes,
even after cowardly screaming, “Oh shit!” in excessive repetition.



 



Replaying
the spin out in my mind throughout class, I kept thinking of the height of the
bridge, my dumb luck, and just how thrilling it was.



 



At
least until I got home from school.



 



Walking
in the door to my house, all the joy and thrill of life was punched straight
out of me when I saw my dog, Chloe, lying in her bed with her hind leg covered
in her own piss.



 



I
tried to get her to stand, or at least wag her tail. I tried lifting her a bit
to clean her, but she just wouldn’t budge. I called my mother, asking how I
should try to move her. She’s an old dog, and aging quickly over the past six
months. Over the holidays, she started having trouble walking straight and
wouldn’t always keep food down. We were told this was due to an ear infection
dogs get that effects their equilibrium, but over all she was in good health. She
still played. She still wagged her tail. She was still happy when we came home
and thrilled when we’d sit and pet her. She was just old and needed more care.
Of which we were always happy to give. But the feeling was setting in. She wasn’t
even standing to get out of her own urine. She was barely even lifting her
head.



 



My
mother and brother came home from their jobs, and we all sat around her,
petting her, showing her all the love we had to give. Still, hardly any response.




 



…You
guys know the rest of this story, and I’m having a hard time writing it. To
summarize, all three of us were petting her, hugging her, and telling her how
everything was okay, right up until the end. She was put to sleep in the same
room as some of our other pets. A room I’ve grown to hate for that very reason.
It was the last room I saw two of my cats in, Mack and Molly. Our previous dogs
from growing up, Sugar and Corona,
also passed in that room. Any other time I’ve taken a pet to that vet, I always
secretly hope to not have to enter that fucking room.



 



It’s
probably the dumbest thought ever. But As Chloe laid down, the sedative making
her rest before the final injection took her from us, I was looking down at her
and sobbing. My tears were running down onto the lenses of my glasses. The
dumbest through struck me. “Some other Keith in some other world died today. But
this world is taking back my Chloe.” And I would’ve given anything to exchange
places with her. Myself in that accident for her strength to live again.



 



Well,
like I said. You guys know how that story goes. Here I am writing about her. I
cried a lot over the weekend and tried to figure out exactly what to write for
this blog. Sort of my way of saying good-bye. And low and behold, I’ve mostly
written about myself. As for Chloe, she was at least part golden retriever. I
don’t know her exact breed. My mother adopted her while I was in college across
the state. It wasn’t until I moved home a few years ago that she became a part
of my life. I’d been told the first year or so of her life was pretty much
spent living in a cage. My older brother, Mike, found about her through a
friend, and said we’d take her. But the story is that the previous owner just
ignored her all day, kept her in a cage, and wasn’t good about feeding her or
letting her out. Nobody ever said anything about abuse, but when I was visiting
home prior to the move, I noticed that whenever somebody lifted their hand,
Chloe would cower a little. I’d scratch my nose and she’d brace herself to get
hit.



 



She
never did though. Not with my family. I’m allergic to dogs, so it took me quite
a while to warm up to her. After I moved home for school, I was very resistant
to go near her. But a few allergy meds and enough time together under one roof
and eventually I found her sleeping on my bed and greeting me at the door whenever
I’d get home from school or work. She made it difficult to keep my distance. She
liked big stuffed animals, and carried them around like they were her babies. Then
she’d place them at my feet. Sometimes for a game of catch. Sometimes as a
gift.



 



I
suppose I won’t have go too much more into detail. Just go hug your nearest pet
and you’ll know the feeling and the story. The point I’d wanted to make was
simply that a couple of weeks ago, I was sitting on the couch, studying some
all too exciting algebra, and I lifted my hand to pick up my calculator. Chloe
was nestled in next to me, and when she saw my hand go up, she lifted her head
for me to pet her. She didn’t cower or shrink away like she had in her younger
years. She saw my hand and knew that it meant I loved her. So I scratched
behind her ear and rubbed her belly.



 



For
any of my mountain and Viking bullshit, that was significantly better.

Indy Fiction Review: God Particles



God particles, a short story  by John Le is currently available for free on the Amazon Kindle. I picked up a copy and read it over my lunch break at work. So let's find out if it's worth your time and/or hard or gently earned money should the price ever be raised.

 




 

 

I suppose I should start my review in saying that upon finishing the story I wrote the author and asked if English was his second language. My original theory was that a fifteen year old had written it and published it on his parents account, but the included several page biography placed the author as an adult. So that said, the story was unquestionably unedited. Words were frequently missing from sentences. The author spelled maybe as may be. The characters, God and Steve Jobs included, were as underdeveloped as they could be. Why Steve Jobs last name had been changed, I can't be certain. He did tell God that he invented the iPad and was pleased to see they were using them in Heaven. So why not just call him Steve Jobs? Anyways, everything about this screamed amateur rough draft.

 

That said, the author replied to my enquiry, and appreciates my concern for the lack of editing. So much that he asked if I was also into editing because it had only been worked over by his Indian friends and he was worried there may be a problem with translation. He said he's also looking to get a killer review from a big time author, and an edited version will eventually release, but writing is just his hobby so he put this out to see what people think.

 

That said, I think it's terrible.

On Gun Rights

The main problem in tweaking the second amendment is that the people who want it to stay the same are armed. Those who were thinking of changing it are not.

Snowboarders on the tube

So I have the X-Games on while studying for my math exam.



"What? But, Keith! You never watch sports! How can you have something like that on TV?"



I don't watch many league sports. The Red Wings... And little else. But when it comes to The Olympics or The X-Games, well... I just saw a guy ski down a hill, flip a bazillion times in the air, crash, and roll down the mountain in an explosion of snow. I think a more reasonable question is how you guys can watch golf.

Bonnie Before The Casting Call

I
answered some questions in a writer’s forum recently about my latest book. “If
your latest book was a movie, who would direct? Who would star as the lead
characters? What song would play during the ending credits?” My answers went as
such:





 Bonnie Before The Brain Implants

available on Amazon.com



“Who would direct?”



 The Coen Brothers would be the
perfect choice to direct. I think Rian Johnson or JJ Abrams would both have
very unique takes on the story as well, but The Coens have a knack for oddities
like this.







“Who would star as the lead
characters?”



Bonnie Neman: Emma
Stone or Taylor Swift. The character is a brilliant young woman who's mother
forced her into beauty pageants for just about her entire life. The result is
that she's dedicated herself to science and discovery, to obsessively prove
herself as more than a smile on a stage.



Javier Costello: Adrien Brody would actually bring a lot to the character
with all his little expressions and mannerisms. He's a scientist at the end of
his rope, forced by his corprose bosses into the impossible task of designing a
shrink ray. His story is that of a man in a rut, and I'm reminded of Brody in The
Brothers Bloom.




Douglas Houser: Tom
Cruise, Matthew Fox, or Jim Caviezel. The character is a self obsessed, care
free administrator type. He needs to be smooth, slimy, and have a killer smile.
Cruise would be an easy first choice, but the other two could be interesting in
the part.




Gerald Hume: James
Earl Jones, Ian McKellen, or Patrick Stewart would all be perfect for the part.
The character is the president of what is essentially this sci-fi geek's dream
playland, and the character needs that fatherly, soothing voice. Also, on film his
voice has to be just as exciting as when you when you discover exactly what
Hume is...



 



“What song would play during the ending credits?”

 



 

At least that's a good first choice. But all of these would be fun too:

 



 



 



 

Heeeeey Konami!

Just a random thought during homework. Why isn't the Ninja Turtles arcade game available for the iPhone? And who can the masses get a hold of to make this happen?



It's important.

A poem from writing workshop

Tonight's prompt in writing workshop was to watch this video and write something based off of it.









Here's what I came up with. Feel free to add your own in the comments:



     Pushing away only makes them stick

     Flies on hanging paper


     Wings buzzing

     Memories vibrating through the strip

     stinging like a slow drop of rain

     as it trickles beneath your armor

     carving between slumped shoulders

     where you can’t reach it

     because you should’ve stood up straight

     instead of always turning your back.

Indy book review: SPACE JUNK by Ryan Thomas

Another
free book I discovered from the Kindleboards, an online forum for independent
authors, readers, and Kindle owners alike. Since I made the purchase, its price
has been hiked to ninety-nine cents. So let’s see if your dollar is worth it:







 



Story



 



Space Junk is a short story about… very
little. It opens with Chuck reflecting briefly on a conversation he had at a
high school reunion with an old friend who became a best selling author. After
he gets home, he tells his wife that he wants to quit work and become a
bestselling author over a not so thought out six month period. Naturally his
wife says that sounds like a great idea, and the story that follows maintains the
same level of lighthearted amateurism you’d expect from an early college level
creative writing class. The characters are shallow. The writing is formal and
heavily structured. To take a line from the second page. When Chuck’s twelve
year old daughter arrives home from school, Chuck asks in a tone I took as
robotic, “Why are you home from school at this time?”



           



A list of
alternatives to that line:



“Why are you home early?”
“You’re home early.”
“Shouldn’t you be in school?”
“Why the hell aren’t you at school?”
“Why aren’t you in school there, missy?”




 



Dialogue never quite comes off as natural and the result is a
distinct lack of personality from anyone. At least, none more than shown in the
opening four lines. Regrettably, these lines are a list of the four main
characters. Chuck, his wife, their two children, and all of their ages. And
none of them develop too far beyond that defining number.



Over all, the story is just a series of quant conversations
between Chuck and his other family members. Of those, the only interesting ones
come from the twelve year old daughter, who over the course of the story starts
a band, is friends with a girl who punches out an actor from Star Wars fame, and dabbles in feminism
and puberty. The one genuinely great moment in the story comes from the
daughter announcing one of two names for her new punk band. We Stomp on Butterflies. The
conversation that follows the announcement goes on to another flat joke or two,
but I applaud Thomas for coming up with the name.



I know. I’m weak. But there’s something hilariously adorable
about the idea of a twelve year old Joan Jett rocking out on stage.



But getting back to the review, you may have perked up at the
mention of a Star Wars character
getting punched out. The story is actually full of not-quite-right Star Wars
references. The wife role plays with Chuck, calling herself Leia and him Hans. No,
that’s not a typo. Hans. With an S. And
she grabs his lightsaber. Not his blaster (which is more hilarious by name
alone). His lightsaber.



            Not that I’m the biggest Star Wars
fan, and I should probably be rambling on a bit more over the fact that the
wife’s only real role in the story is that she’s a sex object who role plays at
Princess Leia, but if you’re going to reference something as globally obsessed
over as Star Wars, at least double
check the spelling of the character’s name. And given that our protagonist,
Chuck, is supposed to be writing a science fiction story and claims that
science fiction is in his blood, I’d like to know the author has done his
homework beyond Star Wars. Granted,
there’s a major plot point and a couple of jokes based around that franchise in
particular, but when you advertise a story as a glimpse into the depraved mind
of a science fiction author, I want to think there’s some weight behind that
statement.



            The story as a whole is floaty. From
that tone, it commits a cardinal sin I absolutely do not want to see in any
fiction, indy or otherwise. All of the conflicts within the story are more or
less mentioned. A book gets plagiarized. Two lines later, problem solved. Chuck
becomes an author, develops a drinking problem, and has recovered from his mild
bout with alcoholism within the span two pages. Zero impact on the family. The
character development is… I’m going to go with passive. The only purpose it serves is a couple of one-liners in
dialogue. And I wouldn’t mention it except that it’s one of the stories huge
missed opportunities. This could have been a wickedly dark comedy of a man who
dreams of success, falls into alcoholism, puts his family through hardships,
and when it seems he’s finally about to get his moment, it turns out he’s been plagiarizing
or writing crappy fan fiction all along. If the author really took the time to
develop his idea, he could have had something. As is, events happen, the story
plods along, and eventually… it stops.



 



Editing



 



Overall
the formatting on the Kindle was good. Along with Hans Solo, I did catch a few typos. But for the most part the editing, spelling, and format
was up to par with other indy writers.



 



Price



 



Well,
it was free when I purchased it. Ninety-nine cents is the lowest price available
to Kindle authors, so when not being given a free promotion, that’s what you
can expect. Honestly, even at free, I’m having a hard time recommending the
story.



 



Overall



 



Space Junk could have been a good story.
If presented in a writing workshop I’d go on and on about its potential. There
were some light laughs throughout, and the misadventures of the daughter are
generally comical and a definite highlight. But as a published piece, there are
a lot of flaws to consider. The underdeveloped characters, clunky use of
language, lack of layers, and absence of any real conflict make it difficult to
recommend. At its best the story reads like a poorly written tale of a man
writing bad fiction. That could’ve been hilarious had it been the intention. But
even if it was the case, I never got the sense the author was disciplined enough in his
craft to make it work. One star out of five.