WARNING: What follows is exceedingly general and perhaps a bit non-PC. I don't care, and neither should you. Au contraire, you should laud me for admitting my ignorance rather than disguising it. Consider this a list of what I don't know about the world (and hope to learn someday).
DISCLAIMER: You'll notice that I said a Californian like me. You can no more judge all Californians to be the same than you can judge all Dubliners or all Tokyoites to be the same. We're a mixed lot. But even among them, I am an outlier. I was born in Northern California, for one thing. I've lived in the capital, the Midwest, the American South, and the Great Plains, so I know a bit more about the rest of America than the average Californian does. My political views don't exactly match up with a lot of other Californians', either. I'm a white middle-class twenty-something, and proud of it.
Ready? Then let's begin:
THE REST OF AMERICA:
OREGON: Best known for portraying that forested planet in The Return of the Jedi. And being mispronounced by Midwesterners and foreigners alike.
WASHINGTON STATE: Coffee. Rain. Pine trees. Killer whales. Reggie Watts. Legal marijuana. Sententious living.
IDAHO: Potatoes.
MONTANA: Looks really good on a postcard.
NEVADA: Vegas, baby. And machine guns. The rest of it's desert. And Reno.
UTAH: Mormons! Who doesn't like Mormons? And saltwater?
ARIZONA: Simply marvelous gun laws. Cacti which are the envy of the civilized world. Gila monsters. Fatuous Nicolas Cage movies. Mountains that look like Indians.
NEW MEXICO: Are the rocks supposed to be red like that?
WYOMING: Fewer people than a single suburb of Los Angeles. Seriously, the antelopes outnumber the humans. Scary thought.
NORTH DAKOTA: I felt like a celebrity there.
SOUTH DAKOTA:Big stone heads. The Black Hills (yeah, baby). Wild Bill Hickok and Calamity Jane.
NEBRASKA: What the guy who thought of the phrase "middle of nowhere" was thinking of.
KANSAS: You're not there anymore, Toto.
OKLAHOMA: Bombs. Musicals. The Dust Bowl. Tornadoes.
TEXAS: If it weren't for them, Mexico would have invaded long ago.
MINNESOTA: So, like, let's go to the lake, eh?
IOWA: The Minnesotans are right. The best thing coming out of Iowa is I-29.
MISSOURI: My dad went to college there. Considers himself more Missourian than Ohioan. They've got an arch. That's the limit of my knowledge.
ARKANSAS: Most direct route between Tennessee and Oklahoma.
LOUISIANA: Bayous, swamps, Cajun food, levies, Mardi Gras, and hurricanes. Especially hurricanes.
WISCONSIN: Cheese.
ILLINOIS: Abraham Lincoln.
INDIANA: No friggin' idea. Maybe basketball?
KENTUCKY: Is the grass really blue, or is that just a figure of speech?
TENNESSEE: Too many mullets for my taste.
MISSISSIPPI: Hard to spell.
ALABAMA: Probably has the most likeable/least unpleasant Southern accent, depending on where you stand on Southern accents.
GEORGIA: Good peaches.
FLORIDA: Can't think of it without thinking of the auto-tuning rapper. Thanks a bunch. Before Flo Rida was a thing, I associated Florida with Scarface, my grandmother's house with the orange trees in the backyard, the one billion percent humidity, and the white-sand beaches.
MICHIGAN: They make cars there, don't they? And awesome music?
OHIO: Hot in summer, rainy in spring, miserable in winter, the most beautiful place on the planet in autumn.
WEST VIRGINIA: Coal. The Civil War. Trout fishing. Caves. Chuck Yeager.
VIRGINIA: This may sound weird, but I can't help but think of Virginia in terms of the famous people who were born there: Ella Fitzgerald, George C. Scott, Sam Houston, Meriwether Lewis and William Clark (yes, that Lewis & Clark), Patrick Henry, Robert E. Lee, Tom Wolfe, Booker T. Washington, Bill "Bojangles" Robinson, and, like, twenty U.S. presidents.
NORTH/SOUTH CAROLINA: What's the difference?
WASHINGTON, D.C.: Crazy homeless people in the streets, crazy people in the government.
MARYLAND: You need to put on some weight, you're too skinny.
DELAWARE: Sounds like a seldom-used word you'd find in a dictionary.
NEW JERSEY: Just as all myths have some basis in fact, the moniker "Armpit of America" must on some level be well-deserved.
CONNECTICUT: Pretty. And filthy rich.
PENNSYLVANIA: The birthplace of liberty and independence. Looks nice in autumn, too.
NEW YORK: California's biggest competitor in terms of culture and coolness. They've got some pretty country, too; and heck, they even have their own version of the San Andreas Fault. We'll get you yet, you buggers.
RHODE ISLAND: Too small for my Californian mind to encapsulate.
MASSACHUSETTS: Baseball. Football. Clam chowder. Cod. Moby-Dick. Cheers (the TV show).
NEW HAMPSHIRE: The last stop before Maine.
VERMONT: The second-to-last stop before Maine.
MAINE: The last stop before New Brunswick. Also, Stephen King is from there; I do know that much. A lot of his books are set around those parts.
ALASKA: I know as much as everyone else does. Grizzly bears, gold, the Inuit, glaciers, the tallest mountain in North America, savage cold, bush pilots, hunting, cruises, trains, oil, fishing, formerly Russian, real men and real women. Oh, and I'd give my right arm and two or three toes to live there.
HAWAII: Palm trees. White-sand beaches. Turquoise water. Tropical fish. Sunshine. Ukeleles, luaus and leis. Volcanoes. Surfing. Pearl Harbor. The U.S.S. Arizona. Paradise on Earth. California's biggest competitor in terms of fun in the sun and water sports. Not bad if we can take on New York and Hawaii and still compete, eh?
THE REST OF THE WORLD:
MEXICO: Lovely beaches, great food, incredible culture, marvelous natural beauty, and good booze...but a corrupt government and a few too many all-powerful drug cartels. Oh wait, that's California.
CANADA: A dichotomy. On the one hand: nigh-socialism, a Governor General, and a certain amount of cultural snobbery (though that might just be the folks from Toronto). On the other hand: maple syrup, the Yukon, Nova Scotia, the Northwest Territories, British Columbia, Alberta, the Canadian Rockies, ice hockey, Shania Twain, William Shatner, Dan Aykroyd, Kim Cattrall, Stana Katic, Nathan Fillion (whom I hear is from Edmonton), Rick Moranis, Leslie Nielsen, Donald Sutherland, Alexander Graham Bell, Elijah McCoy (the real McCoy), James Howlett (better known as Wolverine), Anne Shirley (a.k.a. Anne of Green Gables), Chris Hadfield (the astronaut), Rush, Barenaked Ladies, Great Big Sea, dinosaurs, Black Velvet whisky, the Devil's Brigade, lentils, Swedish Fish, and some of the friendliest, politest people on the face of the Earth.
BRAZIL: Great barbecue, oddly-named mountains, and the best jungles and parties (and jungle parties) anywhere.
BOLIVIA: Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid got zonked down there, didn't they?
URUGUAY: It's all about the tango.
KENYA: I know Tanzania, Mozambique, and some of the other countries have amazing biodiversity, natural beauty and safaris, but whenever I think "East Africa," my mind just leaps to Kenya. Craters, rhinoceroses, the Serengeti, poaching problems, and now some election brouhaha. And a spectacularJohn Wayne movie.
SOUTH AFRICA: Let's move past the bit with the apartheid and get into Sharlto Copley, J.R.R. Tolkien, Basil Rathbone, Manfred Mann, Candice Swanepoel, and that sweet movie Zulu with Michael Caine. Just please don't mention Dave Mathews. We don't mention Dave Mathews on this blog.
LESOTHO: See RHODE ISLAND above.
EGYPT: Revolutions. Pyramids. Rivers. Desert. Camels. Political turmoil. And they have their own version of The Daily Show.
MOROCCO: I only know where it is 'cause I watch Bogart films.
CROATIA: It gave the world Serious Sam, so it can't be all bad, can it?
RUSSIA: I was born five years before the Berlin Wall fell, but I'd venture to guess that my generation's the first one that doesn't think "Commie bastards" whenever we hear the word "Russia." That doesn't mean I trust Putin or the KGB, but I sure would like to visit the country, ride their trains, drink their vodka, walk over their bridges, and so forth. Oh, and see St. Petersburg in the wintertime.
FRANCE: The other place an aspiring artist or writer might go besides California.
ICELAND: All of the wintry fun of Canada or Alaska with none of the urban sprawl.
ENGLAND: Sorry, did I say Canada was guilty of cultural snobbery?! Though that could just be Londoners. Seriously, some of my best friends are from England. I wouldn't mind retiring to Newcastle someday, having fish and chips down by the quayside, a pint in the Turk's Head, then a walk 'round the priory and a pipe-smoke on the point. Geordies rock.
SCOTLAND: It gave us Scotch whisky, haggis, Robert Burns, Ian Anderson, and some of the world's finest and hardiest soldiers. I think a good many wars would have been lost without a few good Scotsmen.
IRELAND: The setting of another rather good John Wayne movie. If you don't think about the Troubles, you can get lost in the whiskey, the beer, the corned beef and cabbage, the stew, the River Liffey, James Joyce and the wild Irish countryside. Gotta love Chloë Agnew and Liam Neeson, too.
GERMANY: Efficiency. And cake. And philosophy. And awe-inspiring classical music.
SPAIN: Sunshine. And beautiful horses. Architecture to die for. Paella. Soccer. Bulls, and a lot of sports that shouldn't be combined with bulls. And tomato-chucking.
SWITZERLAND: Americans voted it the best place to go if you're trying to escape from a German prison camp. I've heard they make pretty good watches and toys, too.
INDIA: Outsourcing. Overpopulation. Sacred cows. Fascinating religions. Fantastic architecture. Pollution. Garbage in the streets. People pooping in public. The Ganges River, which I wouldn't dunk my worst enemy in.
VIETNAM: The site of a rather nasty and unconventional war. Now home to gorgeous waterfalls, delectable cuisine, a generation of suspiciously blond-haired Vietnamese, and tons of unexploded ordnance.
CHINA: Big. Really big. Filled with people. Controlled by a Communist government. Mao's noggin is everywhere. Still, even though fat guys go topless in public and toddlers poop in the streets, the trains run on time and the countryside is undeniably gorgeous.
JAPAN: My knowledge beforehand was mostly limited to World War II, anime and manga. Now I see the country through the Korean lens, and that colors my perception a bit. It's definitely one of Asia's bright stars, a broad, clean, polite and user-friendly country. But its foreign-relations record is a black mark in its ledger.
SOUTH KOREA: Before I came to live here, I knew the name of the capital and that the country got snow in winter. That's it. Now I know that, despite the bali bali culture that grinds students and salarymen into the ground, Korea has elevated itself from a smoking crater to one of the most prosperous, bright, advanced and innovative nations on the planet. The people, though bound by millennia of tradition and rigid societal and behavioral mores, are some of the most friendly and unconditionally kind folks I've ever encountered.
NORTH KOREA: If you're ever in need of a good laugh, just look up some of their propaganda.
AUSTRALIA: Deserts, mountains, jungles, forests, beaches, great music, good actors, some fantastic sports (and sports players), architectural wonders, storied history, a charming accent and some of the weirdest animals to be found.
NEW ZEALAND: Like some weird mix of England, Iceland, and Hawaii. But it did give us Peter Jackson, Lucy Lawless, Karl Urban and Bruce Spence, and some lovely glaciers.
ANTARCTICA: Snow. Ice. More snow. More ice. Mountains. Volcanoes. Rocks. More snow. More ice. Frigid seas. Storms. Penguins. Blubber. Jules Verne, H.P. Lovecraft, Edgar Allan Poe, and every other adventure or horror writer who ever needed a remote, bleak, barren, ice-blasted place to set a secret base or an eldritch abomination.
Never mind. That's a horrible name. Who cooked that up, anyway?
I realize it's been a long, long while since I did one of these. Last time I was talking about, what, Vonnegut? No, that's right, it was Robert F. Scott and Antarctica and all that jazz.
So, I finished The Escape Orbit. You know, James White's obscure science fiction novel, found in a used bookstore in Lucerne Valley. (Finished it a looooong time ago, in fact. Just didn't have time to blog about it.) Awesome read, really grand. Good sci-fi authors never cease to amaze me with their ability to present a problem (or minor annoyance) whose cause turns out to be so much grander and more sinister than initially suspected. The Escape Orbit, as I've mentioned, concerns a group of human soldiers marooned on a tropical prison planet by their insect-like enemies. The planet is inhabited by monstrous creatures (somewhere between sharks and elephants) who won't hesitate to gore, trample or chomp the unwary. The book's protagonist, Sector Marshal Warren (the planet's highest-ranking officer and newest inmate) arrives and assesses the situation. There are two groups vying for influence among the new arrivals: the settlers, who consist of former military personnel who have abandoned their uniforms and now live peaceful civilian lives in communal villages; and the Escape Committee, a much smaller group of devoted officers who have retained (or manufactured) uniforms, military discipline, and protocol, and who are tirelessly working to effect an escape. Tensions between the two groups are extremely high, nearing open war at several points in the book.
Warren, after some consideration, joins the Escape Committee, along with his staff.
Why?
Because he sees a deeper necessity for escape, aside from returning much-needed personnel to the front lines of the war. If the Escape Committee is not taken off the planet, and tensions between them and the settlers are allowed to mount...
Well, I'll let you read the book and see what a brilliant premise White has laid down.
I'd give The Escape Orbit 9/10. I hardly ever give anything a perfect rating, you see. Ordinarily it'd be 10/10. The ending felt a tad rushed. Nah, that's nitpicking. It didn't really. I just don't want to give this thing a perfect 10 in case another novel comes along that really deserves it.
So, on to Herman Melville's galumphing behemoth of a seagoing adventure story: Moby-Dick.
How far have I progressed across this vast ocean of maritime literature since last we spoke?
Not very.
I read the foreword, the etymology section, and got started on the extracts (Melville saw fit to collect a hundred or so quotes regarding whales or great fishes and stuck 'em in the front of the book; pretty neat idea if you have the patience for it).
Then I promptly fell asleep.
Haven't trucked much with the book since then.
Come on. It's huge. Daunting, somehow. It's only fitting that a book about a leviathan would be leviathan-sized, isn't it? Poetic justice, I think they call it. Moby-Dick is just a little bit intimidating, like a literary black hole sitting on my beside table, sucking all thoughts of lighter reading out of my head.
I was unsure how to proceed. Should I knock the smaller items off my "to-read" list, and then tackle the monstrous Moby-Dick? Or should I wrestle with that one first and put the rest of my library on hold? I was perplexed. Neither choice seemed pleasant. Especially since I had attempted to read Moby-Dick before and found it drier than a year-old soda cracker.
But since I finished up with The Science Fiction Hall of Fame, Vol. IIA, which has occupied most of my reading time, I've had an epiphany.
Yes, yes, I know it's two days too early for an epiphany. The Epiphany happened on the sixth of January. But what's two days between you and me?
Here's the big idea.
Since it's the new year and all, and 2011 stretches out bright with promise for 360-plus days, and I've usually got about thirty minutes of free time in the evenings no matter what I'm doing, why don't I try this:
I'll read a chapter of Moby-Dick a day.
(No "dick-a-day" jokes, please.)
One chapter every day, until I finish the dang thing. It'll be quite a span, but it'll keep me from drooling and going all glassy-eyed from trying to read too much at once. I've always wanted to read a book one chapter at a time. You know, get into bed, put on my glasses, take out my bookmark, read a few pages, put the bookmark back in, take my glasses off, turn out the light and go to sleep with a big silly grin on my face. That would be a "novel" way to read books, wouldn't it? (Ho ho ho!) I usually just swallow them whole, gobbling up five chapters at a stretch. Call it an obsessive compulsion. I've never allowed myself time to sit back, relax, take the work one chunk at a time, and mull it over in a leisurely manner.
Well, I'll have plenty of time to mull this over. My edition of Moby-Dick (complete and unabridged, Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.) is 605 pages long and possesses 135 chapters. That means, then, that if I read the first chapter ("Loomings") tonight, and keep the regimen going without fail, then I'll be done sometime in late May.
As my brother so aptly asked, "Are you going to remember what happened at the beginning of the book by the time you get to the end?"
We'll see, bro. We'll see. Only way to find out is to try it. There but for the grace of bookmarks go I.
And if it does work, then I'll do the same thing with Joyce's Ulysses.
If it happens that I tire of Melville's heavy hand and want to take the evening off, then I've got A Clockwork Orange to sustain me. I picked it up at the used bookstore a while back. Heard a lot about it and decided to see what all the fuss was about. Of course I read some background on the work and its author, Anthony Burgess, beforehand. I was...impressed, to say the least. By all accounts this is a controversial book. I was lucky and got my hands on one of the first versions to have the infamous final chapter put back in. (Previous publishers mysteriously decided that it wasn't necessary.) But beyond that, this book apparently has some rather graphic violence in it. Everywhere I researched A Clockwork Orange, the phrase "ultraviolent" kept jumping out at me—even the author's foreword. So I'll read, and probably wince a bit too. I'll update you lot when I finish. Maybe I'll see the movie if I'm feeling charitable towards Hollywood. (Don't hold your breath.)
And now, to finish up, please enjoy one of my very own de-motivational posters! Straight from the heart, folks:
Life's more fun when you own up to having bad taste. Or better yet, glory in it. Indulging in strange or antediluvian books, movies, clothes and décor is one of life's greatest and rarest pleasures. I had a pretty darn good day yesterday, not just because I spent most of it with a special lady, but because I know what I like and am secure enough to partake of it without shame.
We went shooting in the morning. We had a Beretta semi-automatic, a .22-caliber Ruger target pistol, a big .45 M1911, and the pièce de résistance, an 1873 Colt single-action Army revolver. It's one of my father's reproduction cowboy firearms, and has served both of us well in many a competition. It's a surreal thing, just to see it and hold it: polished walnut grips, case-hardened frame, barrel and cylinder cold black steel, grit personified. It's a piece of history, this gun. Nothing satisfies the scholarly mind or itchy fingers like loading a few massive .45 slugs into it, spinning the cylinder flippantly, and driving six giant holes through a paper bulls-eye.
Some people are too caught up in your modern, plastic firearms like Glocks and M-16s. They don't appreciate the worth of a classic six-shooter. But I do.
Then we went to the Old 247 Café and laid waste to the cheeseburger special. Burger, fries, and a medium Coke for $4.60 apiece. Where else in the country can you still find that kind of deal? And it was delicious, let me tell you. Diets and veggie burgers and protein shakes can go hang themselves. There's no denying the decadence of a good old-fashioned hamburger, packed with lettuce, tomatoes and pickles and dripping ketchup, mustard and mayonnaise onto the grease-bound fries.
But the spiritual center of the Postman's brand of arcana—the place where I really let my horrible taste and singular cravings run loose—is the used book store.
I found a science fiction novel by some guy I've never heard of (James White), called The Escape Orbit. It's about a bunch of human prisoners-of-war who, taken captive by the instectoid race humanity has warred with for 60 years, get dumped on a wild planet filled with carnivorous alien monsters.
How cool is that?
Yeah, yeah, I know. It's not Twain or Brontë or Dostoevsky. But it's fun, all right? I don't care if people say I have questionable taste in books. I don't care if Dad rolled his eyes when I excitedly explained the book's premise. I think it's neat. I mean, come on: if I liked (the original) Clash of the Titans, where you've got a bunch of guys fighting fantastic monsters with swords and bows...well, shoot! How is this any different? The monsters just happen to be giant green elephants with six legs, two trunks and shark teeth.
I've delved into the first chapter already, and I must say that White does an excellent job of not clogging up the beginning with too much description or background. He just gets the story started, introduces some of the characters, and lets the context seep in where it seems logical. I need to work on that. I stand to learn a lot from this novel, especially since there's quite a few monster-fighting scenes in my own series. I could probably use some tutoring on how to do them properly. Just to make sure they keep the tension going and don't drag on endlessly, you know?
Now let's see, what else do I have to report? Did I ever render a verdict on The Reivers (William Faulkner)? I don't think I did. I also haven't told you much about Race to the Pole (Sir Ranulph Fiennes). I finished it. And I've started in on my cousin's Western romance novel, Blue Mist Rising. So let me give you the skinny on those three and then we'll be all caught up on our monthly book reviews.
THE REIVERS: In 1905 Mississippi, half-breed Indian Boon steals his boss's new car and, in the company of Ned, the family's giggly black retainer, and Lucius, the boss's eleven-year-old grandson, embarks on a long-haul joyride to Memphis, Tennessee, getting into all kinds of messes along the way.
I liked the book. Faulkner is one hell of a yarn-spinner, and manages to create an entire world, filled with characters of every stamp, and scrapes and plot-twists of every conceivable caliber. Despite using some admirably long sentences and an incredible amount of parentheticals, he doesn't waste a single word. The scenery is rich, the humor ribald, the voice matter-of-fact, the tone bleak and weary at times, wistful and almost jovial at others. I got the sense that Faulkner, in his declining years, and having witnessed the brutalities and absurdities of human existence and the hypocrisy, grandstanding, bombast and foolishness that accompany them, wrote this book to show all of it up. The author was rueful of men's idiosyncratic idiocy, and yet still able to jibe about it, probably because he realized that no one can honestly expect people not to behave like animals. At times his author's voice suggests a learned species of resigned acceptance. The trials and trammels of humanity in the modern age—greed, bigotry, mendacity, pettiness, fear, corruption, anger, and lust—are lambasted in this novel, often to humorous effect. Lucius, the eleven-year-old protagonist, begins as a naïve chump, and loses quite a bit of innocence over the course of the book. In the end, he comes to understand the basic principles of rape, extortion, whoring, horse-racing, horse-trading, misuse of power, political corruption, theft, dishonesty, and sexual exploitation, and even, to an advanced degree, the reason behind them. (And in only three days to boot!)
This is, as you may imagine, a traumatic process. Faulkner demonstrates his brilliance in both analyzing the human condition and translating it into words when he writes that Lucius, "having no receptacle" to put these new and confusing experiences in, and not having the maturity or wisdom to muster up some perspective, nearly breaks down with horror and chagrin as his worldview is assaulted. But with precocious rationality, Lucius refuses to let himself be corrupted completely, even if he willingly abetted the original sin (the theft of his grandfather's car and the start of the trip to Memphis) and many that followed. He takes in the unpleasantness he's witnessed, absorbs it without allowing it to consume him. (Of course, the cup does brim over at times; but whose doesn't?)
Lucius's character serves as a sort of everyman, with whom the audience can identify and learn: we may observe depravity, and even partake of it, but we must never fall wholly victim to it. With good reasoning and a little maturity, we may process the information and be on guard against temptation. Failing this, we risk being lampooned as a minor character in a Faulkner novel.
RACE TO THE POLE: Renowned polar explorer and O.B.E. recipient Ranulph Fiennes, the first man to transect Antarctica on foot (and who also ran seven marathons on seven continents in seven days) takes pen in hand to debunk the myths and pernicious rumors surrounding Robert F. Scott's second and final expedition to the South Pole in 1912.This was also quite an interesting read. According to Sir Fiennes, Scott has been infamously and unfairly treated by the critics and the history books. Many of the mistakes that were made during the fatal endeavor (Scott and four companions died of starvation and exposure on the way back from the Pole, to which Roald Amundsen had beaten them by over a month) were the result of ignorance and circumstance, Fiennes alleges. For example, 1912 turned out to be the worst year possible for such work. It was the most freakishly cold summer in decades, according to data collected by the expedition itself and latter-day meteorologists. Being the first expeditionary force to push so far into the Antarctic wastes, Scott and his party also suffered from a profound lack of knowledge about conditions, particularly where nutrition was concerned: Fiennes's research reveals that neither Scott nor his men were consuming enough calories to keep them going, leading to a gradual loss of stamina, body fat and muscle mass, which eventually resulted in hypothermia and exhaustion.
Sir Fiennes also hoists the English flag above Scott's icy grave, insisting that the only reason Amundsen made the pole first was his inherent sneakiness. He deceived the world, fooling both Norway and England into believing he was making a push for the North Pole, changed plans at the last second, bought up all the best Greenland sled dogs, rushed southward, and mounted his own expedition in opposition to Scott's. Since Scott's work was scientific in nature and Amundsen's was not, the Norwegian was able to make far better time and devote every ounce of energy to movement instead of data-collection. This may seem like fair play in the modern age, but in the old days Amundsen's actions were nothing short of barbaric. The English were hopping mad. Even Norway disowned him in embarrassment. Nonetheless, Amundsen rose to eternal glory as the first man to reach the South Pole.
If you want an interesting and well-written treatise on Antarctic exploration, scientific diligence, and the limits of human endurance (plus an engaging account of both of Scott's harrowing polar expeditions), pick up this book. It's got everything: killer whale attacks, breaking ice floes, wooden sailing ships, ferocious storms, hellish blizzards, deadly cliffhangers, and enough seal-blubber soup to choke a sled dog.
BLUE MIST RISING: Romance novelist (and my own second cousin) Jacqueline Franklin spins an erotic tale of danger, romance, and intrigue as Grady, a half-Indian gunslinger, returns to his Arizona hometown to save his lady-love Kaylee from the clutches of his mean and ugly arch-nemesis Dade.
I haven't read much of this yet, and (if you've read even half of this blog post) you know that I'm not much into romance novels. But Cousin Jax did me a great service by reading my manuscript, which, as a fledgling piece of science and historical fiction, must've been as repulsive to her as erotic romance novels are to me. But I'm going to finish it. And I must say, Jax sets a scene pretty well. Two chapters in and we've already been introduced to all the major players and their wants, desires, and dislikes. I'll let you know more when I've read more.
So that's what's on my plate right now, The Escape Orbit and Blue Mist Rising. And what am I going to read when I get through with these? You remember that special girl I mentioned earlier? Well, she has lent me a book. That book is Moby-Dick. Yes, the massive Melville classic. That's right, folks. I'm going into the breach again. Another attempt to scale the mountain will soon be under way. Let's see if I can get through the whole thing this time. I knocked off twenty chapters a few years ago and then completely ran out of steam. Melville is a pretty dry writer, even if the stuff he wrote about would make the average person pee their pants.
I'll let you know how it goes. Until then...stay tuned.
I'm reading a book called Race to the Pole by Sir Ranulph Fiennes. It's the last word on Robert F. Scott's ill-fated second expedition to the Antarctic. Scott and four companions made the South Pole, only to find they'd been beaten to the punch by the dastardly and deceitful Roald Amundsen. To add insult to injury, all five of them died on the way back to Ross Island and their ship, the Terra Nova. (That means "new land" in Latin, doncha know.)
Reading about people dying in the middle of a wasteland (and ships getting stuck in ice) has made me think a lot about my own situation. I'd love to be off on my next adventure, giving Indiana Jones a run for his money, plumbing unexplored territory and discovering new lands. But I'm a bit stuck. There's a few things to finish, and some money to save; then I can go. In the meantime, I'm stuck in the pack ice. I'm working my way out of it with patience and tact, but it still seems like I'm in the slump of my life here.
And as a very intelligent man once wrote, "un-slumping yourself is not easily done."
But it seems that, after a full year of stagnation, during which I have accomplished practically nothing (except for finishing a novel, becoming a travel writer, acquiring a bartender's certificate and nearly polishing off a pilot's license), things are finally about to pick up.
There've been a few new developments. I'm taking some proactive steps to improve my situation (and hasten my eventual departure from said slump). There've been a few other things that have happened of their own accord, too, which stand to shake things up around here in the coming weeks.
Let's begin with the latest:
Dawg (Boss #3), lately returned from Colombia, has informed us that the Reno Air Races are coming up in mid-September.
And we're all invited.
I'm going to the air races.
Stop a moment and consider what that means to me. You know how plane-crazy I am. I'm not the most die-hard enthusiast you'll meet, and I could be doing a lot more to familiarize myself with the mechanics of engines and the principles of flight. I'm not yet a professional aviator.
But I do like airplanes, as you've probably guessed. I go absolutely nuts when I smell a warbird in the vicinity. And there's a great many civil aircraft that can make me go ga-ga as well. Air races are the province of some of the fastest, most nimble, most sporty airplanes in existence, moreover. And I'll be going to one of the most well-known and prestigious races of them all, the last bastion of the world's fastest motor sport. The Reno Air Races (formally known as the National Championship Air Races) includes the Unlimited class of aircraft, which apparently "consists almost entirely of both modified and stock World War II aircraft [which] routinely reach speeds in excess of 400 miles per hour." Some of these beasts (like September Fury, pictured above) look like they were plucked right from TaleSpin or a comic book about air pirates.
Hot. Diggity. DAMN.
I was about eight years old the last time I was involved with anything resembling a race. The vehicles were seven inches long, 2¾ inches wide, weighed no more than five ounces, and were made of pinewood.
Reno is going to be an absolute blast.
Go ahead and turn green, suckers.
Moving on...
More about what I'm doing to un-slump myself: my father recently informed me (in a nonchalant sort of way) that I have a mutual fund sitting in the pipeline. It was created soon after my birth and has endured nearly 24 years of stock market ups and downs. It's not enough to retire on, certainly, but it'll take care of the urgent things on my to-do-before-I-go-to-Spain-or-Australia list: namely, car repairs and pilot's licensing.
I think I'm going to use it for car repairs. Those could potentially cost more than $700, which is the amount I've budgeted for finishing my pilot's license. I'll knock off new shocks, new tires, new brakes and new coolant with my mutual fund and use my next paycheck to kill off the pilot's license.
And then, ladies and gentlemen...there will be nothing holding me here. I can gallivant off to a far corner of the globe, or procure any decent radio job in the Western United States and finally move out of my parents' house.
I'll let you know what I decide. This should all be resolved within the month. As of September 1, 2010, you shall be privy to the doings of Postman, the pilot (and owner of an upgraded 1995 Jeep Cherokee).
If you want to hear some writing updates, here they are:
My good buddy Nick, whom I met in college, a student of animation and visual design, who is currently working for a private animation studio near Orlando, Florida (and, with any luck, will soon be moving to Blue Sky Animation, the folks who brought you Despicable Me)...
Well, he got in touch with me a few weeks ago. We'd been in and out of contact since graduation, but never routinely. Out of the blue he dropped me a line. Prior to this, I'd talked with him at length about my novel idea, and he was very intrigued. So intrigued, in fact, that he asked me to send him some stuff and he'd draw up some sketches and pictures.
Awesome.
I'd been stressing about finding an artist for my comic book, worrying myself sick over procuring one that I could rely on and work well with. And then BAM, an old friend whom I know and trust offers me his services, which I already know to be top-flight.
Sometimes I get so lucky I feel almost ashamed.
Anyway, not much had come of that arrangement, but Nick and I renewed the promise over the phone. That was the purpose of his call, in fact. That, and to catch up. He's a good guy. He's had some hard times out there in Florida. One of the studios he was working for got shut down for want of money, which was a pity, because Nick really enjoyed what he was doing there. He's been getting by with freelancing and semi-regular work for Campus Crusade for Christ. He's been offered a half-year contract with CRU, and he's taken 'em up on it for the time being. But he's sent out applications to a half-dozen other studios, and has his eye on the aforementioned Blue Sky.
In the meantime, he said he had time to illustrate my stuff! So I said, "Heck yes! I'll send you some character bios and outlines right away."
And so I did. Nick and I are meeting every Monday evening now on Skype to exchange ideas and material (and catch up with each other's lives). It's incredible. Feels like the dream is coming alive, seeing my characters and settings leap into vibrant existence, born of Nick's pencils and pens and agile mind. His work is more than I could have hoped for. We have slightly different visions of the world I'm creating, of course, but that's what our meetings are for: to hash out those disparities and come to mutual agreement, exchange thoughts on character and detail, and just build the series from the ground up.
We're just doing it for fun, of course; neither of us is anywhere near being ready to find an outlet for this yet. Heck, I haven't even gotten the novel published (though my novelist cousin is finished reading it, and is sending it to me next week; she wrote in her e-mail "GOOD JOB!" I think she liked it!).
But when we are ready to go public with this...well, shoot. We'll have the groundwork laid already.
One last thing. My first science fiction novelette is pretty much edited. I'm handing it over to a friend tomorrow to proof, and then I'm [gulp] sending it to Fantasy & Science Fiction magazine, double-spaced, formatted and numbered, with a self-addressed stamped envelope and my little fingers crossed.
I should have lots of news for you in two weeks...stay tuned.
P.S. You know, I worry about these posts. Sometimes I think I'm going to bore you guys to tears with all of this crap. The doubts, the obstacles, the struggles, the triumphs, the baby steps forward. Posts like this grate on my nerves sometimes. Jeez, aren't there enough people in the world who are going to make me feel insecure without me making myself feel that way? I'm not a whiner, I'm a winner! C'mon, Postman, buck up!
But remember, I'm reading about Robert F. Scott. And in Race to the Pole, I learned that for all his brilliance, tact, courage, stamina, and fortitude, Scott was about as insecure as I am. He constantly blamed himself for making stupid mistakes, not doing enough to correct his personal flaws, his inherent lack of willpower, his physical frailty (he couldn't stand the sight of blood), and failing to live up to his personal standards. He got on his own case even when others praised him. After he'd accomplished a great deal, Scott still fell into depressed moods, feeling inferior to those around him. Even the fortune-teller could see that this maudlin melancholy was part of Scott's personality.
So now all of a sudden I don't feel so bad about waxing pathetic all the time.
If one of the most famous explorers in history got away with it, what's to stop me?
That's right, folks. I have successfully mixed, poured, shaken, stirred, blended, and garnished my way through the School of Hooch. Passed the final practical exam today. Phase I of my Tripartite Plan for Total World Domination is complete.
It was relatively simple. I drove down to Riverside this morning, studied up on a few drinks I was uncertain about (the kir royale, champagne cocktail and blow job foremost among them). Then Tanya gave me the test, and I passed it. Perfectly. Not a single mistake.
I didn't call out the cherry garnish for the Mai Tai, but that was because Tanya had already ordered the next drink, and she didn't dock me for it.
This was my third try, but what the heck? I'm finished, and that's what matters, right?
Then I got me some training on the POS system, using the school's computer in the corner of the room. I familiarized myself with the intricacies of charging people money for their poison, and then suddenly I was done. Tanya printed me out my certificate of completion, and I left the school with my head spinning and my heart singing.
Next Monday, I'll be going in at 9:30 with my résumé in hand to see about getting placed with a job at a bar somewhere. Needless to say, I sang along with Van Halen's "Everybody Wants Some" especially loudly on the way back up the I-15 this evening. There remains but to finish getting my pilot's license, and get my novel published. Then I'll have accomplished almost everything I wanted to do in my lower twenties....well, except for obtaining my commercial pilot's license, that is. And going to Antarctica. And singing in a barbershop quartet. And getting laid in the back of a Camaro. But I'll get around to those eventually.
