Brendan Halpin's Blog, page 9

Fight for Your Right to Write

Nine or ten years ago, when both of our first novels were out, our agent invited both me and Carolyn Parkhurst to a party and dinner.   Carolyn's novel The Dogs of Babel was a bestseller,and I watched in awe as editors lined up to thank her for refusing to blurb their books in such a polite way.  (Really!)

Later, at dinner, Carolyn, who had blurbed my book, Donorboy, I'm just sayin', was kind enough to say some nice things about in person.  I admitted rather sheepishly that I hadn't read her book because dead wife. (Both I and the protagonist of her book had one.) 

"Yeah," Carolyn said, "I struggled with whether I had a right to write that story."  

I had a very eloquent response about the role of an artist, but I fear it got garbled--there was a great deal of wine served with this dinner.  

But here's what I meant to say: of course you have a right to write it.  Because everybody has a right to write whatever the hell they want. Because making stuff up is what artists do.

I see this argument come up a lot on the internet these days: people saying other people don't have a right to tell certain stories, or that thus and such "isn't their story to tell."

You know what is your story to tell?  The story you want to tell.  I thought about listing great works of literature that would never have existed if people had only written what they had personally experienced, but the list is too freaking long.  

You don't get to make the rules about what artists are allowed to do.  This kind of thinking is toxic and anti-art. Now, you can certainly say that they didn't do a good job of it, but they are absolutely allowed to tell whatever story they want.  They can make their main character whoever they want and write whatever secondary characters they want and they can base their story on any event or scenario that sparks their  imagination. And you can like it or not. Because that's your right.  

Just as it's their right to write whatever the hell they want.

YA Fiction and the Likeability Trap

Every day I get these emails from Bookbub in which they feature ebooks that are on sale for cheap. 

One of the categories I subscribe to is YA. I clicked on one of the YA titles a couple of weeks ago and saw that the book had a whole bunch of negative reviews, most of which cited the fact that the characters weren't likeable.

This is a criterion that many people seem to use when reviewing YA books.

And it's not necessarily bad--certainly one of the things that we read for is a certain amount of wish fulfillment.  We read at least in part because we like the imaginary friends we find in books--people who are as competent and smart and together and awesome as we wish we were.

I just don't think this should necessarily be the overriding criterion when you're reviewing a book. Because books are about people. And people screw up. They act selfishly; they don't think about consequences; they let down the people who love them.  And these actions are actually what make people interesting!  And they make for interesting stories! 

It really bothers me to see a book get dinged by a reviewer because you might not want to be best friends with the character. (Or maybe you would in real life, because your best friend isn't perfect.).

I'll give one example of how this has happened to one of my books. In Tessa Masterson Will Go To Prom, Luke, the character whose POV I wrote, acts like a total asshole at the beginning of the book. He betrays his best friend.  If he pisses you off, I've done a good job. He's supposed to. 

And yet some reviewers have cited the fact that Luke is a dick at the beginning as a reason they didn't like the book. 

To each her own, certainly, but I would just say that if you're only going to read books with likeable characters, you are going to miss out on a lot of good books. 

And if likeability continues to be a big criterion that people use when reviewing YA fiction, we're all going to miss out on some cool books because they won't get published.  Some editors will pass on books because the characters are complicated and/or authentic and might not be the greatest imaginary friends.

And then we'll have YA fiction populated entirely by Mary Sues and Jack Ryans (I've seen some suggest that Mary Sue can apply to male characters, but I prefer to call a male character that is an obvious author wish fulfillment a Jack Ryan, and if you've ever read Tom Clancy, you'll know why.).  And that would suck.

Don't Forget to Be Alert

When I was in high school, I had a teacher who served as a mentor for me and for many other students.  

A bunch of us used to eat lunch in her office every day, basking in the adult attention and throwing plenty of adoration her way.  Not in a sexual way, mind you, and as far as I know, that line was never crossed by anybody in that room.

At the time, it seemed normal to me.  

When I got to be an adult and became a teacher myself, I realized it wasn't normal.  It was weird, and not ultimately very healthy for anyone involved. So let me say this in no uncertain terms:

Seeking the adulation of teenagers is not normal healthy adult behavior.

As I mentioned above, my mentor helped me a great deal. It's not like she was evil.

But if you're a teenager in one of these "communities", that focus on an adult seeking and getting lots of adoration from teens, I think it's a good idea to keep this question in the forefront of your mind:

What is the adult getting out of this?

Remember, as noted above, healthy adults do not engage in this kind of behavior. So the adult is probably getting one of these things:

1.) Unhealthy emotional satisfaction.  For whatever reason, this is a person who craves the feeling of being worshiped.  Perhaps it's making up for defecits in their childhood; perhaps their emotional growth was stunted by trauma; perhaps they have an untreated mood disorder or other mental illness.

2.) Money.  

3.) Sex. (This, of course, is a subset of #1).

4.) Some combination of the above.

I  encourage you to check out this blog entry by Barry Lyga, (and, for that matter, to read I Hunt Killers, which is great.)  It's a great example of the way healthy adults who work with and for teens can interact with teens while maintaining appropriate boundaries and about the kinds of things that normal adults keep in mind when interacting with teens.

There are wonderful adults out there, and there are fantastic mentors who can help you. And because adults are people and a lot of people are awful, there are awful adults who will pose as fantastic mentors or gurus or whatever and ultimately just want to exploit you.  If you are vulnerable because of something particularly awful that has happened to you, the awful people can often pick up that and prey on your vulnerability.  They are the worst of the awful people.

I'm not saying you need to be automatically suspicious of anyone trying to help you. But I am saying you should not trust people with your money or your happiness or your body just because they have done some work that you admire.  If you try to give them any of those things and they accept, even a little bit, then they are not to be trusted.  

By all means, seek out adults who understand you and can help you navigate through the crap-filled waters of adolescence.  Just don't forget to be alert.

(Shoutout to Liz Burns, whose tweets on this stuff yesterday (@lizb) inspired me to write this.)

 

 

The Fault in Our Sentimental Bullshit

Just to be clear, I have no specific animus against John Green other than standard professional jealousy and inherent suspicion of people who preside over cults of personality.

And I haven't read The Fault in Our Stars.  If you read to the end, I think you'll understand why.

Yesterday my twitter feed was going nuts with people OMGing about the trailer for the movie of The Fault in Our Stars.  So I figured, what the hell, I'll click over and see what the fuss is about.

Big mistake.  

Now, again, I'm speaking here just about the three-minute trailer and not about the the book, which I haven't read.  It's entirely possible that the shitshow I saw on the trailer is how Hollywood ruined a good book. It's certainly how I ruined my entire day. I watched this and got so pissed off I could barely see straight.

Because it's a lie.

These shiny-faced, pretty young people sparkling in the snow and the beautiful locations and mouthing platitudes about beauty and stuff don't get anywhere near the truth of watching a loved one die of cancer.  

It's not pretty. It's not romantic. You do not gain any beautiful wisdom from it.  Oh yeah, and cancer makes you hideous and wrecks your life before it kills you.  

Here are a few pieces of my truth.  I haven't written most of these things before because they are too painful to even think about.  I am leaving some stuff out because it's too painful to think about. 

A nice lunch out. This is in August, I think. The liver mets are taking their toll on her liver function already, though it will be a few more weeks before she's yellow all over.  We have a great time, and then, outside the Back Bay Station, she vomits into a garbage can for about five minutes while people stare at her.

October. She's yellow from head to toe. She's bald from the last failed chemo. Always thin, she's now skeletal, with all her clothes hanging loosely off of her. She moves slowly and deliberately, like the very old and sick woman she resembles at age 35.

Saturday. She will die on Tuesday.  Sitting in the living room with me and some of her friends, she gets confused. She fades in and out, and when she speaks, she sounds like someone who is very drunk.  The sharpest, quickest-witted of anyone in the room, she's now unable to have a conversation. As the day goes on, she goes under for longer and longer periods of time--not asleep, really, but not able to maintain attention or do much of anything for more than about ten seconds at a time.  She insists on reading our daughter a bedtime story.  She can't make it through a single page of the picture book without pausing for ten, twenty, thirty seconds.  It takes her twenty minutes to read a twelve page book.   It later takes her a similar amount of time to floss her teeth.  She lies down to sleep.  She will never get up again.

Sunday night. I lie wide awake in bed and listen as she moans in her sleep.  The cancer, which is in her liver and her brain and who the hell knows where else because they haven't scanned her since they told us she had six weeks to live, is making it painful for her to be alive.  We have some morphine that the hospice people gave us, and, not knowing what to do, I give her another dose before she's supposed to get it, crushing a pill into applesauce and spooning it into her sleeping mouth. She semi-rouses and asks what the hell I'm doing and swats at my hand.  I give up and she's only gotten a little more morphine. It doesn't help.  She moans in pain for the entirety of her last night at home.

Monday: In the ambulance to the hospice, the paramedics tell me that we don't have a DNR, and if she dies on the road, they are going to be forced to attempt to resucitate her.  Which essentially means they will beat the shit out of someone who's already in pain.  I tell her that she needs to hold on until we get to the hospice. Her breathing is raspy and forced.  We get to the hospice and I tell her she can go ahead and die any time she wants. She hasn't been able to eat for a few days, so it's only urine the nurses have to clean up when they put her into the bed she will die in.

Monday night: 

I go and sit by her bed, listening to her labor for breath. Every once in a while there will be a pause, and I will pray that she'll be allowed to die.  This prayer, like every one for her health I've made through the last 3 years is either ignored by a cruel sadistic thug in charge of the universe or is a stupid naive plea to something that doesn't exist. I prefer to believe the latter.

This doesn't cover all of the horror of this time. My imperfect memory is probably glossing over some of the awful stuff--there are details, even about the events I've sketched out above,that I can't access.  This is a blessing.

None of this stuff caused "feels." It ruined something inside of me forever. Cancer turned a bright and vivacious and fiercely witty young woman into a shambling yellow skeletal horror as it tortured her to death, and before it took her from her family, it took away her dignity, her mobility, her independence, and her mind.  It was cruel. It was ugly. It was so far beyond heartbreaking that I don't even know a word that will do it justice.  And I and our daughter and our families and friends had to watch it happen without being able to do anything about it.  

I'm going to go to facebook and tell everyone who knew and loved Kirsten not to read this because it will probably unlock their own memories that are so traumatic they cause physical pain and, in my case, nausea. That is what a death from cancer does, not just to the patient, but to everyone who cares about them.  

So, I mean, I guess go enjoy shiny young people being beautiful as they die. I guess I'd just like it if you kept in mind that what you're watching is a thick layer of slick Hollywood bullshit over a vicious, ugly reality.

R. Kelly, The Superbowl, and the Outsourcing of Conscience

I haven't blogged in a while--busy with stuff that actually pays the bills. But I've also been trying to pull a bunch of thoughts together that were occasioned by this article about R. Kelly.  It's difficult to read but, I think, important.  (I did not read the legal complaints because there's only so much real-life horror I can stand.) 

I watched and enjoyed Trapped in the Closet despite knowing that R. Kelly had urinated in a 14-year-old girl's mouth on video. I regret to say that I have also seen some of Roman Polanski's post-rape movies despite knowing that he was a fugitive from justice for sexual offenses against a 13-year-old girl. (Though it was only later that I found out the sickening details of Polanski's crime.)

And I certainly wasn't alone in enjoying (well, that may be a little strong when we're talking about latter-day Polanski--I guess Frantic was kind of okay) this art by terrible people.  

And I think it's important here to distinguish enjoying art by assholes like, say, Jack White, from giving financial support to "monsters" like Polanski and Kelly who use that money to prey on young girls and evade justice. 

I realized that one reason I supported both artists was that I had outsourced my conscience. Well, surely, I thought, Polanski must be okay or Johnny Depp and Harrison Ford and Sigourney Weaver wouldn't make movies with him.  Surely R. Kelly can't be that bad--he's on IFC!

Why the hell was I expecting for-profit corporations or movie stars to be my moral compass?

We all outsource our consciences to one degree or another.  Indeed, there's actually a lot of societal pressure to do so.  In the R. Kelly article, Jim DiRogatis,the reporter who broke the story, talks a little bit about being pretty much the only reporter or music critic who cared about this stuff for years and years, and Jessica Hopper, who conducted the interview, admits to being flippant with him on Twitter when he recently brought this stuff up.

This is, I think, most people's reaction whenever someone asserts their conscience.  God, you're annoying. Why can't you just let it go?

Today on Facebook, a friend of a friend posted this comment: "everyone loves meat. except the vegannoyings."  

Ugh! I know, right?  Why do those assholes remind us that we don't have to support treating animals like objects? Why can't they just go with the flow?

A few months ago, based on stuff I was reading about Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy as well as other factors, I broke up with football.  It's pretty clear to me that professional football players are ruining their brains for our entertainment and a few big paydays.  I don't really want to support that.

If you're ignorant about what football does to its players, just google "NFL  CTE" and read for a while.  And see if that affects your enjoyment of a big hit.  It did for me. 

Lest you think I can barely see you from atop my high horse, I will point out that I am not a vegan. This is because I currently lack the personal strength to give up cheese and eggs.  And I know that I am supporting the abuse of dairy cows and egg-laying hens.  I don't know a lot about where my clothes are made, but I'm gonna go ahead and guess they're made in a poor country by exploited workers making pennies a day and probably working in unsafe conditions.  I'm typing this on a computer probably made under similar conditions.

The way we live is pretty deeply screwed up. Which is why I think we react with annoyance to people who assert their individual conscience. Good God, if I have to start making consumer decisions based on my conscience, I'm going to be paralyzed!  Our entire way of life is a house of cards that depends on denial of the uglier aspects!  

Well, maybe. But I don't think so.  I don't think everyone should go vegetarian or vegan or that everyone needs to boycott the same things that I do.  But I do think that everyone needs to find some way to back their consciences with their wallets. 

Because fundamentally this is the most power we have.  Our society worships and runs on money. As long as there's money to be made, someone will step up and make it, even if what they're doing is evil.  We can't wait for laws or regulations to enforce our consciences; we have a responsibility to do it ourselves.  

And it can make a difference.  The divestment movement of the late 80's hit apartheid in the wallet and was one factor in ending that particular evil. Sea World is panicking right now about Blackfish because they're afraid that the truth about how they operate will hurt their bottom line.

But even if your refusal to buy something  doesn't stop the practice you object to, at least it stops you from being complicit in it.  Circuses might continue to abuse elephants, but if you're not in the seats, you're not paying the salary of the guy who hits the elephants with a big hook to get them to do stupid tricks. 

The way we live is so poisonous that it's probably impossible to do everything.  But that doesn't mean you should do nothing. 

Try voting with your wallet on one thing that matters to you and see how it feels.  And maybe take it easy on other people doing the same thing.

2013: The Year in Tweets

A lot of people say to me, "you post so much great stuff on Twitter! Can you collect your 140-character wit and wisdom?"  A lot of other people say, "Does your narcissism know no bounds?"

Neither of those things are true, (though the second is far more likely) but nevertheless, I've decided to look back on 2013 by looking back on what I was posting on Twitter.  I could only get as far back as January 7th, but that's close enough.  So here we go!

January :

While I slept, awesome people took my kickstarter over the halfway point!

I have to log off any social network where people are talking approvingly of quackery. I just can't be civil about that.

Did I mention how much fun I had playing Shadowrun last night? An absolute shit ton.

Oscar nominations almost never include comedy and action, the 2 genres Hollywood is best at.

Listening to "pick up the pieces" and thinking it must've taken balls of steel to start a funk band in Dundee in the early 70's. Respect.

Because I'm incredibly proud of it, I will mention again that my wife & I walked down the aisle to "Walk, Don't Run."

I root for anybody who's still doing their thing after years & years, but that new Bowie song is godawful.

I wonder why whenever someone of note commits suicide, people want to talk about everything but depression.

If I ever have to testify, I'm going to insist on being sworn in on a copy of Funkadelic's One Nation Under a Groove.

"Do you promise the funk, the whole funk, nothin' but the funk?" the bailiff will ask. I will reply in the affirmative.

This is why the proper use of commas is important: RT @lizzwinstead: BROOKLYN REPRESENTS BITCHES!!!

Advice for authors: follow the #pubtip hashtag to find editors and agents willing to mock you on Twitter!

Motherfuckers need to end these soccer practices on time.

February:

Saddened to hear of the death of the Troggs' Reg Presley. Our friends played "Wild Thing" and "Love is All Around" at our wedding...

Lock up the cats! Saw a coyote on my street in JP this morning.

My ideal Marvel team: Volstagg, Beta Ray Bill, Man Thing.

Lapsang Souchang: the only tea you can drink and feel like a badass.

Between Mumford & Sons and Dropkick Murphys, ripping off the Pogues is big business. Wish Shane McGowan would barf on all those bitches.

As if the #Grammys didn't suck enough, Miracle Whip just tweeted at me. Like I don't even deserve a tweet from real mayonnaise.

Fun. This year's Starland Vocal Band. #grammys

Vegetarian PSA: Chinese black vinegar is a perfect vegetarian substitute for Worcestershire sauce.

If I had time and money, I'd write the book for a 69 Love Songs musical.

Dear American craft brewers: I love you, but "Scotch Ale" is not a thing. Special, Heavy, 70/-, 80/-, okay. There is no "Scotch Ale."

Listening to London Calling and it still makes my jaw drop. I don't think it's got any competition for best rock and roll album ever.

Prestige afforded teachers is directly proportional to the age of their students; should be inversely proportional.

So a former student friended me. Her first post in my timeline is vibrator-related. I feel unclean.

March:

Sorry to hear of Bonnie Franklin's death. Sorry to see stupid battle metaphor whenever someone dies of cancer.

Fuck your TED talk. And everybody's.

O, Brian Ferry, I would do the strand if you only told me how! It's not enough to exhort me to action! I need instructions!

Penny Lane just came on the radio, and I'm reminded of Jimmy Osmond singing it on Fame. Worst thing I ever saw on TV.

Rich people getting their feelings hurt is not a pressing social justice issue.

Just saw a guy buying prepackaged salads at CVS and it made me as sad as a convenience store keno parlor.

Being Robin is like being Spinal Tap's drummer. How long till one chokes on someone else's vomit?

I once wrote a book where a guy argues that it's all downhill for the Who after Tommy. That guy was right.

Is Red Rose pizza worth going to Springfield for? Hell no, but it makes having to be in Springfield less painful.

Recipe for my new sriracha salad dressing! Ingredients: sriracha. Squirt on salad. Repeat.

Seriously. When is the United States going to join the civilized nations of the world and build naptime into the work day?

So it's come to this: watching zit-popping videos on youtube on a Saturday night.

Tip for fellow soccer parents: when a player hits the ball well with his/her head, do not bellow, "good head! "

Watching Les Miserables. Gavroche don't give a shit!

April:

I was going to blog about the Night Shade Books thing, but I think I can do it in 2 tweets: 1. I'm not signing. Bad deal.

2. I hate how they always try to make it personal. "we're good guys who don't know what we're doing!" True but irrelevant to business.

Ran Great Marvel game for 4 teens. Black Panther castrated a gorilla.

Halpin's law of bike commuting: "Thou shalt not fuck/With a bus or truck."

Margaret Thatcher died. So I guess Elvis Costello's got some dirt-trampin' to do!

 My son's history teacher showed Beach Blanket Bingo in class to honor Annette. Wish I could say I disapprove.

Guess I picked the wrong week to stop sniffing glue...

Bike ride home was surreal. Lots of runners in blankets looking stunned.

Your prayers for Boston and two bucks will get us a cup of coffee. I'd rather have the coffee.

This just in: something, or possibly nothing, is happening.

Starting to hear traffic sounds. I think Boston is gonna call bullshit on this lockdown by lunch.

Breaking: daughter is doing a 1-woman version of Les Miserables. We have been in the house too long.

Anyone who questions the greatness of Wham's "Freedom" simply knows nothing about pop music.

Thirty years after Quiet Riot's daring expose, most Americans still don't have adequate metal health coverage.

Proposed white guy facial hair rules: 1) handlebar mustache only if you are actually a carnival strongman.

2) Moses beard only if you are in the process of or have just finished leading your people through the desert.

I love our British friends, but the way they say "derby" and "clerk" is stupid and wrong.

No one is ever going to scan your QR code.

May:

Well hey! I got "invited" to advertise on Twitter! Is there an open bar? Will there be cake?

Just got spam comment on defunct horror movie blog that amounted to "lousvitton bag f'tagn! ia! ia!"

"It's all been downhill since The Fat Boys."--me, lecturing my class on the state of hip hop.

I'm really sick of the phrase "baby bump." I prefer "visual confirmation of sexual congress."

Kid, doing history hw: "what's a duchy?" Me: "it's something you pass pon de left hand side."

Beautiful bike ride home, marred only by me swearing at a goose.

Man, there's just not enough time in the day to mock everything that's annoying.

Son just texted "launch" instead of "lunch." He wouldn't get the Far Out Space Nuts implications, but maybe someone out in twitterland will.

Why has history forgotten that it's "Frankie Say," not "Frankie Says?"

X's best producer has died. I think he used to be in a band of his own, too.

Grownup achievement ulocked! Did not laugh aloud when I overheard gym trainer say, "Have you done snatches before?"

June:

Tired after late Shadowrun last night. But I killed a guy with another guy's disembodied head, so it's worth it.

When I was a kid we used to mock the Soviets for their creepy fetishization of their military and their domestic spying. Joke's on us!

Spotted at the gym: man standing in front of mirror blowdrying his rich carpet of chest and armpit hair. You can't make this stuff up.

Just told my family to "kick out the jams, motherfuckers!" All jams sadly remain in place.

I try not to be a pill about English Teacher stuff, but the phrase "Iced Hot Chocolate" fills me with rage.

the 2 people i know who embraced quackery most enthusiastically (in 1 case fatally) were both trained scientists. weird.

You know how drivers feel about cyclists? That's how cyclists feel about runners.

Rode my bike along South Boston beaches today. My skin ached sympathetically at the sad sight of people of Irish descent trying to tan.

I'ma let you finish, but Massachusetts has had equal marriage for nine years! For nine years!

problem: one of the songs most consistently in my brain and leaking out of my mouth is Prince's "P Control."

July:

Sometimes you see old things that seemed really weird at the time & now seem tame; Twin Peaks is not like that.

vege, mar, bat. I like all the mites.

People who smoke a lot of weed think their hobby is much more interesting to the rest of the world than it actually is.

Whenever people say they want government to "run like a business," I like to direct them to the Verizon website.

Just had to explain a Snuffy Smith reference to my coworkers. Now I'm off to meet Elviney at the gossip fence.

Ah, summer. That magical time when you can spit some cherry pits into a bowl, forget it for an hour, and EMPIRE OF THE FRUIT FLIES!

It makes me happy any time my work gets compared to The Breakfast Club.

Still chuckling over last night's M&M game. Giant poo monster. Piranhaconda. A chicken cannon. This game had it all.

August:

A fan writes, "I have been listening to the Kinks, Squeeze, and KISS to try to connect with Hank & Liana." Our work here is done.

I'm not an ally. Tiresome people always make rules for allies. I'm just a guy who thinks all people should be treated decently.

The boy is mocking Sting's solo work by asking, "is this a skin flute solo?" So proud.

Many of my facebook friends' posts boil down to, "I'm quite wealthy. " No posts like that from my broke ass.

Coffee on my front porch in the morning is one of my favorite things. Suck it, brown paper packages tied up with string!

I want to write a book about a white guy who's surprised that black guys don't want to be his sidekick like they always are on TV.

"Mmm-Bop" just came on, and someone in this house said, "hell yeah! This is my fuckin' jam!"

It occurs to me that there is probably a decent "E. Bloom's Taxonomy" joke to be made, and that there are about 5 people who would get it.

My football fantasy is that football players aren't crippled and demented for our amusement! Who's got that fantasy league going?

Apparently a young woman danced suggestively on MTV last night! what's the world coming to?

Another review where I'm accused of ripping off a book I haven't read.

One of my offspring: "That's the thing about people. They just need to fuck off!" So proud right now.

September:

Spirited Away is simply one of the best movies ever made. And it meant a lot to me at a very difficult time. Thanks, Miyazaki.

Cincinnatians will get this: I always thought it was "living in a pony keg & giving off sparks." #turnaroundbrighteyes

Every time I hear "Fame", I speak the Debbie Allen TV monologue over the guitar solo.

Most writing errors are spelling, punctuation, or usage errors. "Bad grammar" is a misnomer.

My dog's butt: Satan's softserve machine.

Reviews of the Sam Adams brewery tour call my neighborhood sketchy. Only people here that scare me are drunk bros coming off the tour

"Guess you know me well, I don't like winter." --lyric by Prince, who lives in Minneapolis.

I like to imagine Jeff Lynne's 80's production pitch: "I mean, it's gonna sound a LOT like 'Don't Bring Me Down.' That's cool, right?'"

Well, you do get some funny looks in the office when you obey Morris Day's command in your headphones to "Do the Bird."

Also: The Road Warrior influenced more videos than any other movie.

Playing Cardhunter, and am almost as invested in Gary's progress with the pizza girl as with my game.

Les Miserables: the tale of a nation so poor it can only afford one police officer.

All respect to Howlin' Wolf and Koko Taylor, but I'm not letting a guy called Razor-Totin' Jim anywhere near my Wang Dang Doodle.

October:

It's time to retire breast cancer awareness month. We're all aware. Put more $ into research. And stop with the pink.

Still can't listen to "Once in a Lifetime" without chopping at my forearm. Same as it ever was...

Resolved: "Told you bout our kid, now he's married to Mabel" is the clunkiest line in pop music history. Prove me wrong!

kid: "I got a ton more homework to do." Me: (turnin' up the Halen) "you got a ton more ROCKIN' to do!"

"I can't believe how quickly this belt I got for 10 bucks at Marshall's is wearing out!"--me, unironically, pretty much daily.

Fun fact: you can sing the verses to "Hotel California" to the tune of "O Little town of Bethlehem." You're welcome.

Class traitor: I no longer listen to NPR. I find the relentless politeness annoying.

Oh look. Rich white people are mad at the New York Times again. To the barricades.

Lordi > Lorde.

Saw another reviewer surprised/appalled by profanity in my writing. What the fucking fuck.

90's rock is almost perfectly mediocre. Which is probably why it dominates commercial radio.

Has anyone taken a Khan academy class? Without looking skyward and bellowing "Khaaaaaan!?"

When you judge other people's grief, you sound like an asshole. I've cracked jokes at every funeral I've ever attended. Keep taking selfies.

DO YOU THINK YOU COULD GET OFF JOHN GREEN'S DICK FOR LIKE FIVE MINUTES AND BUY ONE OF MY BOOKS??

November:

I am happy for you. But that ultrasound picture is creepy as fuck.

I will say this for the otherwise horrible experience of losing loved ones: it gives you perspective about losing other stuff.

Blah blah tenuous connection to something else that's happening buy my book.

Hate all the kids movies with a dead mom, but love Suicidal Tendencies' "Mommy." I'm freakin Fanny Dooley over here.

Ah, the annual "you picked _that_ book on your best-of list and not mine?" ritual starts for most authors.

Pro tip: don't try to argue nuances with someone who doesn't believe in them.

Cycling through the Rorschach blots on the google doodle and going "Bird. Necronomicon. Bird. Necronomicon...."

Pressure drop sounds like a good thing, but then pressure gonna drop on you sounds unpleasant.

If you talk about privilege without considering class, you just don't understand this country at all.

It seems like Reiki practitioner is a pretty easy and legal grift.

Thank you, students, for unintentionally dirty sentences that liven up the paper correcting process.

December:

Please tell me that a religious studies major has authored a Jay-Z parody called "95 Theses."

I don't care about your year-end best-of list. I don't need some list-maker's validation for my--OH GOD, PLEASE PUT MY BOOK ON A LIST!

Cashiers seem to appreciate it when I bag my own groceries. They don't seem to appreciate my singing "Ain't Too Proud to Bag" while I do it.

Why, restaurants, why? Why always with the PDF menu? I don't want a PDF of your menu!

There are a few comedians who don't follow back but who I follow anyway. Everybody else can get over themselves.

Fun fact gleaned from noises in my attic: squirrels reach peak horniness between 3 and 3:30 AM

Boston, because I love you enough to tell you the hard truths: Aerosmith was never really that good.

"This book is not exactly the book I might have written." --about 75% of goodreads reviews.

 

 

 

My Favorite Reads of 2013

It's time again for my year-end best-of reading roundup!  As usual,  I don't read a whole lot of brand new releases, so a bunch of these are not books that were published in 2013; they're just books I read in 2013.  Rather than pick an arbitrary number, I'm just going to list all the books I gave 5-star reviews to on Goodreads, presented in the order in which I read them.

 

The Dead and Buried by Kim Harrington:

I tore through this page-turning mystery in no time. It's a compelling read, but the insights into grief and family dynamics really set it apart. The supernatural elements are that much more believable because the natural elements are grounded in reality. Definitely a fun mystery, but with additional depths that made it extra satisfying for me.

Break My Heart 1,000 Times by Daniel Waters:

This book completely knocked me out. A really interesting twist on the ghost story that is dark, compelling, ultimately hopeful, and at times painfully honest about grief. I kept putting it down because I wanted to savor it and then picking it up again because I had to know what happened. Oh yeah--it's also beautifully written and full of three-dimensional, believable characters.

I hope that readers who like horror novels but don't usually read YA will find this because it is an exceptional horror novel. 

I Hunt Killers by Barry Lyga:

An incredibly compelling story I couldn't put down, and a cool twist on the universal problem of trying to figure out how much of your identity you get from your parents and how much you get to create yourself. Also, I did not spot the twist coming a mile away, which I always appreciate. Suspenseful and thoughtful. My only real quibble is with Connie--while I see why Jazz likes her, I'm not sure why she likes him. She's just a little bit too perfect. But as I said, this is a small thing in what is otherwise a terrific and very suspenseful book.

The Isle of Blood by Rick Yancey:

Damn. This is one hell of a book. It is perhaps a little bit less of a rollicking adventure than the previous two, but it's an even deeper look into the characters, especially Will Henry, who undergoes some pretty significant changes in the course of the novel. 

As before, the language is cool, the plot is involving, the grossness is gross (glad to see the word "suppurating" make yet another appearance), and the worst monsters are the ones we see in the mirror. 

Another tour de freakin' force I really wish I'd written. 

Read the ebook, which had format problems that would embarrass a self-publisher and are just inexcusable from a major publisher.

Sea Change by S.M. Wheeler:

I won an ARC from tor.com. Bargain! 
This is a dark, weird book that is unlike anything else I've read. I think the closest I can come to a comparison is some of the short fiction of Caitlin Kiernan. I stayed up late finishing it, and I love me some sleep. In the end, this is a book about love and friendship that raises a lot of thorny moral questions it doesn't answer. It's immersive while you're reading it and gives you a lot to chew on afterward. So, yeah, basically it's brilliant. But not necessarily for everyone. Which leads me to my only critique of this book: the marketing.
My wife spotted me reading this from across the room and said, "are you reading Eat Pray Love?" kind of derisively. So there's problem number one. Then there's the blurb, above. When I got to "in Octavius' many arms.." I nearly didn't open the book. It sounds like some cheeseball beauty and the beast love story, and while it's about love, it also features skinless witches and undead tailors and a particularly gruesome and transformative encounter with a troll. I applaud Tor for taking a chance on this book, but I'm really afraid that the promotion is going to backfire. Trying to make this look like the fantasy Eat Pray Love is going to turn off readers who would love this book, and the book itself is far too weird for people who think they're getting a gentle love story.
But the book is fantastic, and as long as you're okay with the skinless witches and grusome troll encounters and such, I highly recommend it.

The Twenty-Year Death by Ariel S. Winter:

I feel like a gimmick is only gimmicky if it doesn't work. If that makes sense. So doing three short novels in the style of three different crime novelists turns out in this case to work brilliantly. I haven't read Simenon, so I have no idea how close the first part is to his work, but as for the Chandler and the Thompson, I thought Winter did a great job of capturing the feel of those writers without ever straying into parody, which is, I think, a huge danger of taking on a Chandler-style novel. Each part stands on its own as a top-notch crime novel, and tracing two characters through all three is especially satisfying. 

Great stuff and highly recommended to anyone who likes crime fiction.

The Long Drunk by Eric Coyote:

A homeless alcoholic tries to solve a murder to collect reward money and save his dog. What results is a crime novel that stands up next to Charlie Huston's Hank Thompson trilogy. Which is to say, it's an involving and consistently surprising story, and it also manages to sneak in some social commentary and philosophy along the way. Highly recommended for fans of crime fiction.

Books of Blood 1 by Clive Barker:

Well, I finally understand why Clive Barker is a big deal. I tried to read Weaveworld way back when but couldn't get into it; I read his Hollywood ghost story/satire, Coldheart Canyon, which was godawful; and I always thought Hellraiser was overrated and Nightbreed was laughable. So why the hell does everybody treat Clive Barker like a big deal? Well, now I understand. I think horror always works best in the short form, and these horror stories are as good as any I've ever read. Yeah. Any. Required reading for horror fans, and I'm embarrassed that it took me this long to get to them.

Johnny Cash: The Life by Robert Hilburn:

Shelve it right next to Guralnick's Elvis biographies on your "Best Music Biographies Ever" shelf. Hilburn walks a very fine line (get it?)--he never glosses over the damage Cash did with his addiction and his infidelity, but neither does he revel in these details in a prurient way. And best of all, he really keeps the focus on the music. So many music biographies focus on either the life or the art,but Hilburn does a fantastic job of weaving both together and giving us what feels like a full and authentic portrait of Cash the musician and Cash the man. Essential.

Dark Triumph by Robin LaFevers:

Not posting my review becuse it's rife with spoilers.  This is the rare sequel that is better than the first one, which I also read this year and which was good but not as good as this one.  If you want to read my spoilerific review, you can find it here.

 

Honorable Mentions: (I gave these books 4 stars on Goodreads)

The Choir Boats by Daniel A. Rabuzzi

Swallowing a Donkey's Eye by Paul Tremblay

The Black Dahlia by James Ellroy

Don't Turn Around by Michelle Gagnon

This City of Shadows by Melissa Griffin

A King of Infinite Space by Tyler Dilts

Grave Mercy by Robin LaFevers

 

 

Happy Birthday Little Richard!

Nelson Mandela died today. And I am totally in support of all of the wonderful things being said about him.  

Except for this: he can't hear you.  I've long maintained that after they die is a really shitty time to tell someone how awesome you think they are. I know Mandela received plenty of accolades while alive, but still. 

So, with all due respect to Nelson Mandela, who was a giant who walked the earth, I think it's also appropriate to praise one of the greats who is still with us.

Little Richard is 81 years old today. 

He and Jerry Lee Lewis and Chuck Berry are pretty much the last of the great rock and roll pioneers who are still with us.

Little Richard's influence on rock and roll, and therefore popular culture, has been enormous. You can see his influence in every shiny, outrageous performer from James Brown to Elton John to Prince to Lady Gaga.  You can hear his influence in Paul McCartney's "Woo!" and Zeppelin's "Rock and Roll" and just about every rock and roll song you've ever listened to. 

Like Chuck Berry, Little Richard helped break down racial barriers in music.

But Little Richard's greatness doesn't just lie in his influence; it's in his music, which rocks and swings and brings more energy and passion than about ninety percent of what came after him.  Here are three of my favorites:

"Keep A-Knockin'" (Zeppelin stole the intro to this for their "Rock and Roll.")

 

The Girl Can't Help It, from the film of the same name which starred Mariska Hargitay's Mom:

 

And now, here's that real solid man of rock and roll, Little Richard, and Long Tall Sally:

 

Thanks, Little Richard, for helping create rock and roll, for the costumes and the hair and for being awesome.  Happy Birthday!

 

Shonen Knife Top 5

Thinking about a deep and depressing topic, but first, let's have some fun!  These are my top five Shonen Knife songs.  If you don't know Shonen Knife, I am happy to be able to correct that deficiency in your musical knowledge. If you do know Shonen Knife, I look forward to some vigorous disagreement!  Here we go!

 

Number 5:  I Wanna Eat Cookies

Here the knife address one of their usual themes: food.  What I dig about this, though, is how they forsake their usual Ramones-y song structure in favor of a nice lil' slab o' Sabbath-esque metal.  About cookies. (The kickass solo comes at 2:43...)

 

Number 4: Making Plans for Bison

The song that really started it all for me.  "He has a right to live though  he's ill-shaped." (Note: this is an incredibly shitty video even by the standards of 1986.  But kind of charmingly terrible. )

 

3.Top of the World.  For me, a great cover version sounds like the band covering the song wrote it.  That's why Johnny Cash and the Ramones are the best cover artists ever.  But the knife makes a bid for #3 with this, the standout track from an otherwise predictably mediocre Carpenters tribute album.

 

2. Buttercup (I'm a Super Girl).  A song I have great sentimental attachment to. (Read all about it here!) (or maybe don't because this chapter reads pretty mawkish to me 12 years later) , but also really the perfect match of band and subject matter (in this case, the titular  sullen, violent, and awesome Powerpuff girl)

 

1.Ramones Forever.  I mean, of course I'm gonna pick a song about ths is that it is a sincere and unironic tribute to the greatest rock and roll band ever. I actually find it quite moving: 

 

 

If you've enjoyed this, please go buy some music by this excellent band.  Fun! Fun! Fun! and Supergroup are good places to start.

On Meeting Judy Blume

So last Sunday night, I met Judy Blume.  

I was at a reception for the NCTE ALAN conference along with a bunch of English teachers and writers, and I was as starstruck as I've ever been in my life when Judy Blume came up to me and extended her hand for me to shake.  

Our conversation lasted probably less than 30 seconds, and she was incredibly kind and gracious with my fanboying.  I got the sense that she might have preferred an actual conversation instead of me telling her how grateful I am for her work, but I figured I had one shot at this and if I didn't express my gratitude, I would probably regret it forever.  

So I thanked her for her work and for being one of the people who essentially created YA literature as we now know it.  

I walked away and felt this surge ofa particular emotion that I've only felt a couple of times in my life.  And no disrespect to Judy Blume (ever!), but I realized that the other times I felt this way I was in the presence of inanimate objects. 

Here's one: 

That is Sara Carter's autoharp in the Country Music Hall of Fame. The Carter Family's music meant a great deal to me for a short and horrible period in my life (read all about it here!), and seeing an instrument that was used to make some of that music was pretty overwhelming.  Here's the next one:

That's the bass that Paul Simenon was breaking in the London Calling cover photo. It's on display at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.  London Calling is probably my favorite album ever, and I had that image hanging on my wall through all of my college years. Same deal: seeing it in person was a surprisingly emotional experience for me.

Now obviously Judy Blume is a person and not a musical instrument, and so I've been trying to figure out what it is that she has in common with these instruments.  

Here's what I think it is: like the bass and the autoharp, before I met her in person, Judy Blume was pretty much an idea to me.  She existed in the realm of legends. Seeing her in person was not moving because I was so close to a legend; it was because for me, there's something remarkable about seeing that someone who made legendary art is just a person like me. I mean, I knew this on an intellectual level, but apparently experiencing it is a very different thing.  It's just like, yeah, I knew the Carter Family were playing instruments on those records, and I knew that was a real bass that Paul Simenon smashed, but that's a very different thing from seeing them right next to you.

Here's my takeaway: every single one of your icons and idols is fundamentally just a human being.  Whatever it is that allows people to create something that moves you to your core is not a superpower; it's a thing that people can do. People like you and me. 

This, I think, is what caused me to get all choked up on all of these occasions. We humans are capable of all kinds of horrors, and we almost always fall short of what we want to be and what others expect of us, but we all have the ability to tap into something transcendant.  

And that is a fact that is so beautiful it literally almost made me cry.