Richard McGowan's Blog: Smashed-Rat-On-Press - Posts Tagged "weasel"

Q: Oh, I see Goodreads has a new Author Q/A feature. Can I ask you a question?

A: Yes, you may ask only one question, and you already blew it... But I'm feeling jovial today, so I'll grant you one more question.

Q: Do you really answer all your own questions?

A: No. I have a team of little rodents who scurry around the place looking up details in a gigantic encyclopedia of all knowledge. They take turns at the reception window and answer questions on a first-in-last-out basis so the earlier you ask, the behinder you'll be. Especially when we're busy.

Q: How soon will I get an answer?

A: One moment please while we connect your call...

Back in 2012, a couple of weeks before the end of the world (as the Maya long count was about to roll over), a casual conversation with my muse led to a little rant, which I reproduce below, along with a pointer to a PDF file that I dashed off as an example of the phenomenon described below. The significance of this seed will be evident to those who have read Ice Skating in Hell with Molls, the book that eventually blossomed from this exercise in writing "the detective novel of the future"...

Have you noticed that in modern films, nearly every computer is an Apple®, with the logo clearly visible no matter what the actors are doing? Cereal boxes are always displayed with their labels clearly in-frame. Cans of soda pop are never just generic stuff, but are handled so the labels are always recognizable? That's called product placement. It's a symptom of very serious, ultimately fatal, degenerative disease in modern society.

The post-modern novel, like the average Hollywood film of today, will be a low-brow, pandering piece of schlock that is a mere vehicle for advertising. Product placement will be the key to success, because the novel will no longer be about telling stories, entertaining or educating users, or even (ho hum) providing a mirror in which humanity can ponder existence. The post-modern novel will be about selling space to advertisers, in the most direct way possible. A modest example should suffice as a beacon to light the way... toward ice skating in hell with molls.

Read the *POOF!* and you'll get the drift.

This blog posting will self destruct before Halloween.

Last night I dreamed that some tiny aliens came down and landed their miniature spacecraft in my front yard. Two of them clambered up to the porch and knocked on the bottom of my door. They were so small I had to crouch while talking to them. They asked me if people on Earth needed any help.

I said, "No, thank you, not today."

They wanted to leave an advertising flyer and began telling me all about a fabulous housing development they're planning on Mars, but I couldn't read it. As I handed it back, I assured them, "Housing won't be necessary on Mars. Humans will never get there."

The tall one tapped a glowing device and said, "Uh huh."

The short one asked, "Anything else we can do for you?"

I shrugged, but then tried to explain the gesture.

The tall one said, "Uh huh," and decisively tapped its device again.

As the aliens prepared to leave, "Look," I said. "Humans aren't worth the bother. If you come back in a few thousand years, we'll totally be extinct. Whatever is left over then might welcome some assistance, because we're kind of leaving a mess."

"Uh huh," the tall one repeated, with another tap on its device.

They looked at one another and chatted alienly for a moment.

"How excellent," the tall one said. "The cockroaches told us you would cooperate."

I asked, "What do you mean by that?"

"Never mind," said the short one. "We'll be back."