Saturday, January 01, 2005
The Year in Scary Tech
Defense Tech is running a wrap-up of all their stories on cutting edge ... well, defense tech. From E-bombs to Lasers to drone dogs, it's a cornucopia for a modern-day thriller writer, or anyone who just wants to stay hip to how the Revolution will be brutally put down in the year 2015.
Okay tech-heads ...
Why is the XML button to the right not updating with new posts? Hit it and you just keep getting the same posts that were up when I installed it. Can someone point me to a bit of functioning hml for this?
Dick Clark, like Yasser Arafat ...
... has probably been dead a week. ABC covered it up because they don't want to harsh our Rockin' New Year's buzz.
Seriously, that was weird. We'd gathered with some friends over at Andy Cosby's big-screen-equipped house to have a quiet celebration of Krispy Creme donuts, Guiness and TIVO'd Venture Brothers episodes. (Everyone there has done their fair share of clubbing, and are quite finished. For years I performed every New Year's Eve, and the shine is long gone.)
We finished "Dia de los Dangerous" and switched to broadcast TV literally at the stroke of midnight. It happened to be ABC, so it was Dick's usual turf. Now apparently Clark, who I'm sure is a perfectly pleasant man, is in the hospital. Regis Philbin was filling in. Regis kept going on about "how exciting" this all was, an edge of panic in his voice. He repeated the phrase ad nauseum, like a young Southern bride facing a fat sweaty groom twice her age and trying to convince herself that the wedding night would be fun. He saw his future as New Year's Monkey, and did not dig it.
Thanks to the glory that is TIVO, we could then have our own personal countdown. We zipped back thirty minutes and picked our way through the musical numbers. These were in themselves unremarkable -- except for just how spry Billy Idol looked, and how lifeless and horrible the crowd appeared at the "party." (The party is pre-taped days in advance, by the way. Sorry to burst yet another illusion of spontaneity.) I've had the thrill of shooting "live" performances, so I explained that at the "party" the lights were on full blast, it would be 120 degrees, and there's NO BOOZE, no way, for insurance purposes. Sober, overheated and dancing with tourists to Top 40.
"So," Andy's brother Mark said, "that sounds exactly like hell." I defy Satan to top it.
The point I'm wandering to is that every few minutes, little video "Get Well" cards from celebrities would drop in. "Love you, Dick, and get well" said John Travolta, Jon Bon Jovi, Snoop Dogg, etc. etc. They were nonstop. After every music act, a couple of these would ping out, back into the show, back to "Get Well, Dick" ...
This is horrible on several fronts. First, it points out just how insanely out of touch with reality TV network humans are. A few at the top of the hour, wonderful. I get that. But these were the spine of the show. We, the audience, checked in with well-wishers to Dick Clark more often than cardinals on a Pope with a wet cough. And no matter how long he's been there, TV execs, please be aware not a human being other than Dick's immediate family gives a damn.
This is the NEW YEAR. The story is the NEW YEAR. Only TV humans, the most myopic, "we are the most important industry ever" cabal would be blinkered into thinking that the point of a New Year's Eve special was NOT the progression of the world's peoples from one of the most turbulent, violent years in modern history into the hopeful future, nooooo, the point was their celebrity who hosted the show.
Horribleness the second. Let's for a second say that you, TV human, decide to slice a little time away from your partying for some human warmth. When you're cutting away from the party, you should be doing so with some sort of context, right? What you're essentially saying is "Yes, even in our joy of watching this 19-year-old girl smack her goodies, let us take a moment and reflect on those less fortunate." I'm down with that. That's a veneer of humanity, at least.
But then, as we've seen, we spend the evening reflecting on the health of an industry insider. Guys, no offense, but didn't God just go old school and cause the sea to swallow the earth? There are over a 100,000 dead people and that'll probably triple with disease. Or, closer to home, if you feel the need to play it safe, we've got 140,000 troops sweating their ass off in trucks that the richest, most technologically advanced nation on earth somehow couldn't figure out how to armor. And we spend 15 minutes of every hour WISHING GOOD HEALTH TO DICK FUCKING CLARK?! No, fuck YOU, Pfc. Jenkins, sent looking for WMD's and there were never any but now you're somehow on your third tour of duty, something they didn't even try to pull in Viet-goddam-Nam, fuck you.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not taking some moral high-ground here. I had a gut full of beer and donuts at midnight. I'm not saying we should cancel our little Western world parties. But after a decade working on and off in television, what depresses me is that this wasn't a conscious decision on their part. I wish I could claim that someone at ABC said "Yeah, we could acknowledge the rest of the world, or even that other human beings existed outside the entertainment world, but I don't want to." But no. I assure you, even more terrifyingly ... it never even occured to them.
... Come on, BitTorrent. Come ooonnnnnn ....
Seriously, that was weird. We'd gathered with some friends over at Andy Cosby's big-screen-equipped house to have a quiet celebration of Krispy Creme donuts, Guiness and TIVO'd Venture Brothers episodes. (Everyone there has done their fair share of clubbing, and are quite finished. For years I performed every New Year's Eve, and the shine is long gone.)
We finished "Dia de los Dangerous" and switched to broadcast TV literally at the stroke of midnight. It happened to be ABC, so it was Dick's usual turf. Now apparently Clark, who I'm sure is a perfectly pleasant man, is in the hospital. Regis Philbin was filling in. Regis kept going on about "how exciting" this all was, an edge of panic in his voice. He repeated the phrase ad nauseum, like a young Southern bride facing a fat sweaty groom twice her age and trying to convince herself that the wedding night would be fun. He saw his future as New Year's Monkey, and did not dig it.
Thanks to the glory that is TIVO, we could then have our own personal countdown. We zipped back thirty minutes and picked our way through the musical numbers. These were in themselves unremarkable -- except for just how spry Billy Idol looked, and how lifeless and horrible the crowd appeared at the "party." (The party is pre-taped days in advance, by the way. Sorry to burst yet another illusion of spontaneity.) I've had the thrill of shooting "live" performances, so I explained that at the "party" the lights were on full blast, it would be 120 degrees, and there's NO BOOZE, no way, for insurance purposes. Sober, overheated and dancing with tourists to Top 40.
"So," Andy's brother Mark said, "that sounds exactly like hell." I defy Satan to top it.
The point I'm wandering to is that every few minutes, little video "Get Well" cards from celebrities would drop in. "Love you, Dick, and get well" said John Travolta, Jon Bon Jovi, Snoop Dogg, etc. etc. They were nonstop. After every music act, a couple of these would ping out, back into the show, back to "Get Well, Dick" ...
This is horrible on several fronts. First, it points out just how insanely out of touch with reality TV network humans are. A few at the top of the hour, wonderful. I get that. But these were the spine of the show. We, the audience, checked in with well-wishers to Dick Clark more often than cardinals on a Pope with a wet cough. And no matter how long he's been there, TV execs, please be aware not a human being other than Dick's immediate family gives a damn.
This is the NEW YEAR. The story is the NEW YEAR. Only TV humans, the most myopic, "we are the most important industry ever" cabal would be blinkered into thinking that the point of a New Year's Eve special was NOT the progression of the world's peoples from one of the most turbulent, violent years in modern history into the hopeful future, nooooo, the point was their celebrity who hosted the show.
Horribleness the second. Let's for a second say that you, TV human, decide to slice a little time away from your partying for some human warmth. When you're cutting away from the party, you should be doing so with some sort of context, right? What you're essentially saying is "Yes, even in our joy of watching this 19-year-old girl smack her goodies, let us take a moment and reflect on those less fortunate." I'm down with that. That's a veneer of humanity, at least.
But then, as we've seen, we spend the evening reflecting on the health of an industry insider. Guys, no offense, but didn't God just go old school and cause the sea to swallow the earth? There are over a 100,000 dead people and that'll probably triple with disease. Or, closer to home, if you feel the need to play it safe, we've got 140,000 troops sweating their ass off in trucks that the richest, most technologically advanced nation on earth somehow couldn't figure out how to armor. And we spend 15 minutes of every hour WISHING GOOD HEALTH TO DICK FUCKING CLARK?! No, fuck YOU, Pfc. Jenkins, sent looking for WMD's and there were never any but now you're somehow on your third tour of duty, something they didn't even try to pull in Viet-goddam-Nam, fuck you.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not taking some moral high-ground here. I had a gut full of beer and donuts at midnight. I'm not saying we should cancel our little Western world parties. But after a decade working on and off in television, what depresses me is that this wasn't a conscious decision on their part. I wish I could claim that someone at ABC said "Yeah, we could acknowledge the rest of the world, or even that other human beings existed outside the entertainment world, but I don't want to." But no. I assure you, even more terrifyingly ... it never even occured to them.
... Come on, BitTorrent. Come ooonnnnnn ....
Wednesday, December 29, 2004
Tsunami Aid
Here's the most complete how-to-help page I can find, over at Command Post. It's worth noting Command Post, ironically, has no centralized structure -- it's a collection of military and intelligence blogs. And from freely distributed information and inspired individuals, you get stuff like this. Pretty great.
Add to the fact that the Amazon.com donation page has already raised over a million bucks on its own, well ... maybe people don't completely suck.
Maybe.
Add to the fact that the Amazon.com donation page has already raised over a million bucks on its own, well ... maybe people don't completely suck.
Maybe.
The Exorcist in 30 seconds. With Bunnies.
Along with a half-dozen other movies. Thanks to Mark Waid. Added to the Webcomics section, and can be found here.
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
And while you're at Amazon ...
... You'd be wise to start reading Stephen Fry also. Actor, comedian, and oooohhh, a couple books that would be anyone else's total career. They've got quite a range on them, so here's a quick look (through my own biased lens) at how a few stack up.
Personally, I'd start with The Hippopotamus. I can say without reservation it's one of the finest reflections on the nature of faith and the value of skepticism ever written. It's also funny as hell. Filthy, insightful ... just, damn. This is going to sound weird, but I think the protagonist, Ted Wallace, is Spider Jerusalems' big, fat gayish drunken great-uncle. Read it and see.
The Liar is his first novel. It's a big, rambling bastard, with all sorts of meta-narrative tricks rippling through it. Sometimes a bit too clever for its own good, but in those cases you just have to stand back and marvel at the big brain at work here. Part roman a clef, part (intentional, I think) riff on Kingsley Amis' Lucky Jim.
Making History is his alternative history book. Very smart in spots, some nice twists -- what makes it work is that the high concept is basically just a tool Fry uses to tell an interesting story about self-discovery and love. Hard core science fiction fans might feel a little "been-there, done-that", and I can't argue with them. It hasn't held up for me, I'm afraid.
Moab is my Washpot is Fry's autobiography. A lot of what goes on in here has to be viewed through the lens of The Liar ... or vice versa. What Fry does here is really hang a series of sickly funny essays and observations on the coatrack of his life, from teenage runaway to prison to Cambridge University. Somehow, he makes that very unique little trip relatable to teenage angst everywhere.
Revenge is Fry's take on The Count of Monte Cristo. He changes style radically in the center of the book, and I like it. A fine read -- it hasn't had a chance to sit with me like the others have, so I can't fall behind it as passionately as I can The Hippopotamus. We'll see how I feel in a year, on the reread.
Now go spend the gift certificates you got.
Personally, I'd start with The Hippopotamus. I can say without reservation it's one of the finest reflections on the nature of faith and the value of skepticism ever written. It's also funny as hell. Filthy, insightful ... just, damn. This is going to sound weird, but I think the protagonist, Ted Wallace, is Spider Jerusalems' big, fat gayish drunken great-uncle. Read it and see.
The Liar is his first novel. It's a big, rambling bastard, with all sorts of meta-narrative tricks rippling through it. Sometimes a bit too clever for its own good, but in those cases you just have to stand back and marvel at the big brain at work here. Part roman a clef, part (intentional, I think) riff on Kingsley Amis' Lucky Jim.
Making History is his alternative history book. Very smart in spots, some nice twists -- what makes it work is that the high concept is basically just a tool Fry uses to tell an interesting story about self-discovery and love. Hard core science fiction fans might feel a little "been-there, done-that", and I can't argue with them. It hasn't held up for me, I'm afraid.
Moab is my Washpot is Fry's autobiography. A lot of what goes on in here has to be viewed through the lens of The Liar ... or vice versa. What Fry does here is really hang a series of sickly funny essays and observations on the coatrack of his life, from teenage runaway to prison to Cambridge University. Somehow, he makes that very unique little trip relatable to teenage angst everywhere.
Revenge is Fry's take on The Count of Monte Cristo. He changes style radically in the center of the book, and I like it. A fine read -- it hasn't had a chance to sit with me like the others have, so I can't fall behind it as passionately as I can The Hippopotamus. We'll see how I feel in a year, on the reread.
Now go spend the gift certificates you got.
The book you haven't read.
On his Bad Signal mailing list, Warren Ellis mentioned that someone had pointed him at the American TV show House for an example of a "bastard" protagonist. Warren, predictably, appreciated the effort but found it lacking. This is because in American TV, "bastards" are mean to little children. In Warren Ellis' world, "bastards" beat little children to death, with parts of other little children.
I have a positively girlish fan-love for Hugh Laurie, so much so I passed up the chance to visit the set of the show when a friend was directing. I knew that if I met him I'd wind up making an ass of myself. I'm still enough of a geek fanboy to find some people cooler than the rest of us, and to choke accordingly. My voice cracked like a 12-year-old's on my first phone call to Michelle Forbes.
My appreciation of Laurie is not, however, becasue of his acting. Or his stellar writing on A Bit of Fry and Laurie, the sketch show he and Stephen Fry did back in the late '80's.
No, he wrote The Gun Seller. You haven't read it. Find it. Get it. Read the best spy-spoof-NOT-a-spoof written since the 60's. The violence crackles, the action scenes are incredibly well choreographed, the political insights are insightful (particularly for the time it was written), the dialogue -- both internal and external - laugh out loud funny. The back half of it winds up in an odd place, but by then you're far past caring. If I could craft a hero half as charming as Thomas Lang I'd claim the win, just bloody quit and go back to bartending.
I have a positively girlish fan-love for Hugh Laurie, so much so I passed up the chance to visit the set of the show when a friend was directing. I knew that if I met him I'd wind up making an ass of myself. I'm still enough of a geek fanboy to find some people cooler than the rest of us, and to choke accordingly. My voice cracked like a 12-year-old's on my first phone call to Michelle Forbes.
My appreciation of Laurie is not, however, becasue of his acting. Or his stellar writing on A Bit of Fry and Laurie, the sketch show he and Stephen Fry did back in the late '80's.
No, he wrote The Gun Seller. You haven't read it. Find it. Get it. Read the best spy-spoof-NOT-a-spoof written since the 60's. The violence crackles, the action scenes are incredibly well choreographed, the political insights are insightful (particularly for the time it was written), the dialogue -- both internal and external - laugh out loud funny. The back half of it winds up in an odd place, but by then you're far past caring. If I could craft a hero half as charming as Thomas Lang I'd claim the win, just bloody quit and go back to bartending.
Monday, December 27, 2004
For you creepy Treo fanatics
Added an XML button over in the sidebar, using ATOM for a sitefeed for newsreaders.
Wow, that actually sounded like I know what I'm doing. I don't.
Anyone versed in the wonders of newsreaders, feel free to tell me I'm screwing up. I've got a membership over at Feedburner to try RSS but don't have the time to muck with it right now. Busy rewriting the big Autobot/Decepticon battle high over the city of --
-- Psych.
Wow, that actually sounded like I know what I'm doing. I don't.
Anyone versed in the wonders of newsreaders, feel free to tell me I'm screwing up. I've got a membership over at Feedburner to try RSS but don't have the time to muck with it right now. Busy rewriting the big Autobot/Decepticon battle high over the city of --
-- Psych.
Writing Life
Some friends have pointed out that although I am occasionally amusing, the only thing that makes me interesting at parties is that I'm a working screenwriter. If I have any value on this vast cyberplain of narcissism, it's as a window into a world a fair number of humans would like to live in.
Taking the point, I'm going to start posts about the process of writing for a living. Not about the lifestyle, spiritual satisfaction, "Where I get my ideas", that crap. Day in, day out, if you write for a living, you fill pages. One just doesn't vomit up a story and allow the world to bathe in its genius (sorry, message-board boys, not how it works). Storytelling is a job. And no, I'm not saying scriptwriting is, I'm saying storytelling itself is a bone-breaking, grinding goddam job. The best job in the world, the only job I know of where you can make yourself cry because somehow the little imaginary man on the page did something you weren't expecting, but a JOB. Jobs have techniques, tools, problems and solutions.
And then, beyond just managing to craft a narrative that even makes sense, each medium has its own little quirks. Scripts themselves are like sonnets -- infinite variety (and quality) all within a quite formalized structure.
This will be a light blogging week, as I'm in the final sprint on the Transformers first draft. After that, though, I'll try to bang out at least two posts a week on some aspect of the art and science of writing for a living. Even if you believe there's no one right way to tell a story, you need certain tools to tell it your way. I'll show you how my particular toolbox works.
If I hear back from Nick over at CHUD, we'll begin by excerpting an article I wrote for their magazine MOVIE INSIDER on adaptation.
Taking the point, I'm going to start posts about the process of writing for a living. Not about the lifestyle, spiritual satisfaction, "Where I get my ideas", that crap. Day in, day out, if you write for a living, you fill pages. One just doesn't vomit up a story and allow the world to bathe in its genius (sorry, message-board boys, not how it works). Storytelling is a job. And no, I'm not saying scriptwriting is, I'm saying storytelling itself is a bone-breaking, grinding goddam job. The best job in the world, the only job I know of where you can make yourself cry because somehow the little imaginary man on the page did something you weren't expecting, but a JOB. Jobs have techniques, tools, problems and solutions.
And then, beyond just managing to craft a narrative that even makes sense, each medium has its own little quirks. Scripts themselves are like sonnets -- infinite variety (and quality) all within a quite formalized structure.
This will be a light blogging week, as I'm in the final sprint on the Transformers first draft. After that, though, I'll try to bang out at least two posts a week on some aspect of the art and science of writing for a living. Even if you believe there's no one right way to tell a story, you need certain tools to tell it your way. I'll show you how my particular toolbox works.
If I hear back from Nick over at CHUD, we'll begin by excerpting an article I wrote for their magazine MOVIE INSIDER on adaptation.
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