I’m in See Magazine this week.

Also in Health:

• How would you like to die?

I’ve still got nothin’. Let me just say, the past week has not been relaxing. Through no damned fault of my own. Oh, sure I tried to find a way to make it my fault, but it turns out it wasn’t.

Anyway, all I have for you at this point is a few random thoughts.

1. I was listening to Bill Bailey’s pub jokes and feeling kind of ashamed that British standards seem so much higher than standards around here, in terms of how smart and challenging a stand-up routine is. Then I listened to Henry Philips doing “What Do You Want Me To Do” and, while I understand having mixed feelings about the guy, that song’s all show-offy and clever. And in multiple languages, which is another Bill Bailey thing–he’ll do whole songs in French or German and just expect you to keep the fuck up. And then I remembered that I’ve heard some very bad British comedians and the Atlantic serves as a bit of a filter in that we’re not seeing the very worst of their amateur night people. Bill Bailey isn’t average, even there.

2. When I was promoting Touch to begin with, my publisher didn’t want me to put a sample of that book up on my site. But I wanted people to know how I wrote and what to expect, so I wrote a short story using a character from Touch, and set in the same fictional world, and I put that on my site as a free sample. It worked. People have told me they bought my book, or agreed to review my book, because of the story. Now that the Touch sequel is finished, I’m thinking to the future. Do I need another short story? I think I’m okay. I can use the same short story to promote Grayling Cross, too. But what about my expanded 3-Day novel? The real bitch of it is that I want to write about my main characters and have them interacting, but they only meet at the beginning of the book and doing anything set after the book would be a bit of a spoiler in that, hey, look–these guys are both still alive. And still talking to each other. So I’m not sure what to do in that regard.

3. The Dread Pirate Clown Shoes was feeling all old school and decided to run a White Wolf tabletop game, of all things. I said, sure, whatever, I’ll play, since it’s in my living room so the effort’s minimal. Anyway, in this particular game, you detemine how attached your character feels to the other player characters by the roll of a die. It’s a tough thing to play, initially, though it gets easier as you get to you know your character and the other characters better. Weird experience. I’m used to doing a lot of stuff along the lines of improv acting and there’s usually… oh, you decide for yourself how your character feels, or you’re told this is your best friend or whatever but you develop a background and figure out where the bonds are and how they work, so you’ve got something work with. This thing where you just roll a die and, hey, you’re real attached to this person but that one, meh… it’s a lot harder. Mind you, there is a rough equivalent in real life, where you like or dislike someone pretty much on sight. But that’s a poorly understood experience, intellectually, and so a tougher one to generate in a game–for me, at least–than the experience of, say, this is your good friend and you’ve been through the following things together, and you share certain interests and traits. I’m sure it’ll come together because, mysteriously, it always seems to. I’m interested in how the process will feel this time.
Current Bedside Reading: Michael Paul Mason, Head Cases: Stories of Brain Injury and Its Aftermath
Commentary: This is a fascinating book, and Mason’s description of being in a sweat lodge makes me both happy and sorry that I didn’t find a good time to participate in one while I was in PA.

My iPod Is Singing: Don’t let the sunshine fool ya.

I’ve just finished expanding my 3-Day novel to full novel length and it’s with some people for review, so I can find out the extent to which I got confused, mixed stuff up, and repeated myself. My guess? A lot, because expanding a finished story is a confusing process, and this book’s format is also a bit tricky, what with the two narrators plus the “excerpts” from another book one of the characters has written. There were many, many opportunities for me to make mistakes and I must have taken at least some of them.

But we’ll see.

I miss Karsten and Innis (the narrators) now. They’re on their way to Dawson City to hang out for awhile, and I want to go with them. It’s funny how you can miss people who supposedly live in your head.

Speaking of my head… I just finished Grayling’s first draft in January this year and I’ve had a lot of freelance (as well as that full-time job thing, where I took on extra work because I am a fool.) Also, I’ve been writing songs for the new album, and I’ve had a sinus infection since mid-April, so I’ve added all that up and I think that’s why I am burned out. Which I totally am. I recognize this feeling from the last time it happened.

I’m trying to keep my head above water at the moment. Do my job. Do my freelance. Do my chores and errands. Meet my obligations. Take my antibiotic and hope it works.

I’m throwing money at problems wherever possible. Not that I’m wealthy by any means, but I do have more cash than energy at the moment. Yes, deliver that to my house, and charge the delivery fee. I’ll just park here and pay the ticket later. I’ll put gas in the car here even though I get a larger discount at the place down the street. Bah. It’s not smart, I know, and it’s wasteful, but I’m just so tired.

I’m feeling guilty because I dropped my diet on Saturday and don’t intend to go back on until next Saturday, but, on the plus side, I’m not very hungry (thanks, Clavulin!), so I’m hoping I won’t do too much damage.

Meanwhile, my co-workers are out running every night because they’ve found what they think is a paunch on their 110 pound selves, so… ah, what can I say? I’m not out running every night. I’m on the basement couch with a laptop trying to finish my freelance and thinking that it’s so goddamned far, going up two flights to bed. This would, I suppose, explain my beached whale status. Hardly a mystery. And what am doing to fix this? Oh, yes. Nothing. So I suppose I can expect it to persist.

Aaaaaanyway.

The goal is become unburned out by the end of this week, so I can get serious about rehearsing songs, polishing/expanding songs, recording rough takes of all my songs, and generally getting my ducks in a row for the three day album recording at the end of August. It may take another week before I’m ready to pour a ton of time and effort into that, though. I guess I’ll see how it goes.

I say all of this by way of a lame excuse for a lame post. I’m sorry, people. I got nothin’ at the moment. I’m hoping, as I say, to improve soon. I had better. I have things to do.

Maybe you can talk it up in the comments and provide some worthwhile content that way.

Current Bedside Reading: Carolyn Jessop, Escape
Commentary: I feel terrible for this woman, and also proud of her. I wish that I didn’t also feel worried about her, but I do. She has come a long way in just a few years, but I think she’s still more credulous than is good for her.

My iPod Is Singing: Nothing he loves is worth pursuing.

I’m gobsmacked by the promotion for the new X-Files movie. It’s one of those things that makes me think, “How the hell is that done?” 

I’m not talking so much about the trailers as about the interviews and the internet buzz. “Oooh!” people are saying. “OOOOH! Mulder and Scully finally kiss!”

On site after site, on one program after another, I’m seeing stills or clips of the interrupted kiss scene from the first X-Files movie, along with discussion of how the characters maintained a “will they or won’t they” sexual tension throughout the program’s nine years. And Now! They Finally! KISS!

Okay, look. I watched the X-Files for the first six seasons and checked back in from time to time for the remaining seasons to see if it was sucking blow, which it was.

I know what I saw, but I don’t just have to rely on my memory. I have recorded evidence of this material.

They kissed during the lame-ass Millenium crossover. In the episode Gillian Anderson wrote, Scully was seen getting dressed in Mulder’s bathroom while he slept in the bed outside the bathroom door. They kissed in the baby’s birth episode, after Scully said she was naming the baby after Mulder’s dad.

In the finale, which I watched all of (god help me, as it also sucked blow), Mulder described Scully’s baby as his son, and also laid a kiss on Scully that no one would call chaste.

I don’t think the baby is Mulder’s son. I expect that kid to have a pack a day habit by the age of five, which is all I have to say about that. But the point is that Mulder thinks it’s his kid and I don’t believe his reasons for thinking that involve a turkey baster.

I’m not saying this because I’m all that invested in those characters. The last three seasons of the series took care of that, believe me.

I’m saying this because… how you do pull off the shit Chris Carter and his minions are pulling off? How does a writer just pretend his characters never did something that they were caught doing on film? What’s more, how do you manage to get the internet to play along?

The assumption of this little game is that there are people who are still invested enough in those characters and their relationship that they will go to the movie to see, at long last, this magical kiss. Wouldn’t you think those would be the same people who’d remember all of the scenes mentioned above?

You could say, “Well, this is a sequel to the other movie and not to the series.” Except it is a sequel to the series, and the other movie was closely tied to what was going on in the series as well.

I know writers of something serial–a TV show, or a series of books, for example–often forget what they’ve already said about characters and make mistakes as a result. Is Archie Goodwin’s mother alive or dead during the early Nero Wolfe series? Depends which book you look at. If people catch that sort of thing at all, they usually decide to either ignore it or fanwank it. No big deal.

But this thing Carter’s doing, I don’t think it’s unintentional. I think he’s rewriting history on purpose. I suppose, if anyone is allowed to do it, he is. This is his fictional world. But it’s weird. I can’t imagine doing it with my own characters.

I can see, maybe, taking something you’ve written and had published or filmed and doing a retake on it where you have the characters make different decisions and change the story direction. That might even be interesting. But just ignoring a bunch of things your characters have done seems weird and a bit uncomfortable to me, especially when you’re making it a major promotional–and emotional–point in your new work.

Has anyone else noticed that this is going on? Am I the only one who finds it weird (and, in fact, the only one who remotely cares?) Do you think it’s Carter’s right to say or suggest that these characters have never so much as kissed when his previous work says otherwise? How far-reaching is a writer’s control over their fictional world… and does that control extend backwards to changing, denying or ignoring what the writer has already released to the public?

Also, seriously, is it just me, or did anyone else expect Scully’s baby to come out of the womb wearing a grey suit and holding a cigarette?

Current Bedside Reading: Jane Jacobs, the Death and Life of Great American Cities
Commentary: I recommend this book to anyone and everyone. It won’t seem as amazing now as it must have seemed when it first came out, but it’s still full of remarkable comments on the effect of roads, buildings and planning on the lives of city residents.

My iPod Is Singing: “I don’t know if you can cremate someone in a gas fireplace, but I’ll find out.”

Everyone? I thought so.

At the moment, I have an article up at  The Sensual Gourmet Kitchen Diaries blog. The site is run by a friend of mine and is a good source of well-written and comforting talk about excellent food. So is her other food blog, Confessions of a Caramom Addict.

I keep trying to convince this woman that she needs to spend a week in my kitchen cooking come to Edmonton and visit me sometime.

”There are no bad words.”
-George Carlin, 1937-2008

There are still people who are ignorant enough to claim that the use of curse words denotes a paucity of vocabulary and laziness of thought. “It’s just repetitious,” some of them say. “I’m not a prude, but you obviously don’t know any other words.”

Notice that these people take no issue with those who say “gosh” or “heck” or even “effing” ten times an hour. Apparently you’re only demonstrating mental laxity if you use “bad” words.

George Carlin, who died last week, loved language more than any pinched-mouthed Puritan, and used it expertly. He loved all of the approximately quarter-million words in the English language. He didn’t like being told to get on an airplane.

“Fuck you,” he said. “I’m getting in.”

I realize that was (a) a joke and (b) not necessarily correct, but the point is that Carlin thought about such things. I was in a high school English class in Germany, years ago, where the teacher was trying to explain the word “stuff.” I mentioned Carlin’s distinction between “stuff” and “shit” (It’s your stuff, but someone else’s shit.) and the teacher loved it because it helped him get at some of the subtler points of “stuff.” The class discussed it for an hour.

He gave an exceptional lecture on the difference between irony and coincidence. He also explained the difference between a douche and a douchebag, as those terms are applied to people. He was perceptive and intelligent enough to understand that swearing is complex and ordered and filled with layers of meaning.

When I heard someone say “effing” because they don’t want to “drop the f-bomb,” I shudder. Fuck is a tremendously good word. It’s robust and evocative and carries a long history. It pisses me off when people think they’re “better” than fuck, or that they need to shield children and the elderly from hearing it.

Let me tell you something: most of us could only hope to be as good as George Carlin—to be as open and direct, and to speak so well. He earned respect when it comes to language, and he made it clear that fuck was well good enough for him.

So it’s good enough for the rest of us, too.

Current Bedside Reading: Joe Schwarcz, An Apple A Day: The Myths, Misconceptions And Outright Exaggerations About Diet, Nutrition, And The Foods We Eat
Commentary: I should have scanned the chapter on artificial sweeteners to send to anyone who wants to give me a hard time about consuming them. I’ve long suspected the things he had to say in their defense, but it was nice to see the science behind that.

My iPod Is Singing: Pleasure is something you shouldn’t confuse with a time and a place.

Maybe yelling doesn’t help. Maybe it would be better if I were to gently, kindly, explain a few things.

I’m going to try it.

Okay. Deep breaths. I can do this.

I don’t mean to upset anyone, and I can certainly understand the source of the confusion, but “presently” does not mean “currently.” It means “soon.” As in, “The adorable kitten I have sent to you, just because I like you, should arrive presently.” Not, “I am presently a quailtard who doesn’t know what words mean.”

Huh. That didn’t go very well. Let me try again.

Of course, of course, it’s a natural progression in English (and many other languages) for nouns to become verbs and verbs to become nouns. Boys becoming men. Men becoming wolves. Sorry, 30 Rock flashback. Anyway, I guess it’s not wrong for you to say that you have been “progressing” a project… but perhaps you were overreaching in your eagerness to press a word into new service. Also, if I ever see you use “progressing” that way again, I’m going to kick your ass so hard that I’ll be able to shine my shoe through your mouth.

Ah, I meant to say, I may gently point out that your choice was misguided. That’s all.

I know you’re a busy person, because who isn’t? Happily, I’ve found a way in which you can save a little time and energy. When you say “revert”, you don’t have to say “back.” Revert has it covered. If you’re reverting, there is nowhere to go but back. Isn’t that a time-saving relief? I share these things because I care.

Oh, by the way, New York Times? Did you think I wouldn’t see “exited out” in one of your articles? Nice one, Paper of Record. No, don’t try to excuse yourself. Just admit that it’s all over for you and start putting women in bikinis on page three. You’re obviously not up to being a real newspaper anymore and it’s best for everyone if you accept it. Again, I share these things because I care.

There. That went well. I didn’t call anyone a tautology-dropping mush-brained tit. It’s wonderful to know that I can discuss these things with kindness and diplomacy.

Good for me.

Current Bedside Reading: Kurt Busiek and Brent Eric Anderson, Astro City: Confession

Commentary: A little predictable, but enjoyable anyway. Astro City is usually a warm and cozy experience for me, even when the material isn’t happy.

My iPod Is Singing: “That chicken scratch proved to be unreadable, the determining factor in who gets the pitch to control the tides.”

Oh, blog comment spammers… why do you force me to consider adding perfectly innocent words to my moderation list? I know hentai had to go on the list. I had no problem putting Viagra there. But Bolivia? What if someone wants to talk about Caporales, or land-locked nations? And what of these words, which have done nothing to deserve blacklisting?

dog
cat
horse
mother
father
son
daughter
family
galleries
pictures
video
cheerleader
russian
asian
prescription

What if someone wants to talk about a Russian mother and daughter visting an art gallery? An Asian man picking up an antibiotic prescription for his dog? A father and son taking pictures of the family cat? A video of two cheerleaders having sex with a horse?

Spammers make everything dirty.

Current Bedside Reading: Grant Morrison and J.G. Jones, Final Crisis (1 of 7)
Commentary: I didn’t read most of Countdown, so it’s an understatement to say that I’m missing something. But Morrison does have my attention, even if I am confused.

My iPod Is Singing: “It will be too late by the time we learn what these cryptic symbols mean.”

This is fairly disgusting.

For those who couldn’t follow the above link, it’s the story of one Bruce Cameron, an utter waste of proteins and minerals who recently plead guilty to embezzling hundreds of thousands of dollars from Saskatchewan’s Wheatland Library system. Bruce did his embezzling while serving as the Wheatland’s executive director.

You may be thinking, “That’s pretty low, embezzling from a library.” Yes, it is. But, unless you know about the Wheatland system, you don’t know the half of it.

You see, in Saskatchewan, the cities have their own libraries. By “the cities” I mean Saskatoon and Regina, but also some smaller centers. Prince Albert, for example, and Moose Jaw. Larger cities have multiple branches, and universities or colleges with their own libraries.

Small towns in Saskatchewan, on the other hand, have the Wheatland Library.

The Wheatland has over forty branches across the province. These branches are housed wherever they can find space. They’re in town halls and rail stations and ice rinks. I know of one that’s tucked into a gas station. They are small and poor, but dedicated to ensuring that communities have access to library materials. If you tell them you want a specific book, it probably won’t be on the shelves… but they will do their damnedest to get a copy for you, usually through an interlibrary loan.

Tiny little libraries crammed into one room of a rec center or into the corner of a gas station, next to the sunflower seeds. This is what Bruce Cameron stole from. “Pretty low” doesn’t begin to cover it.

Reports vary as to whether ol’ Brucey has admitted to taking the entire nine hundred thousand dollars the Wheatland says he stole, or whether he’s only admitting to the half million he has now repaid.

Either way, the Wheatland Library claims Bruce took nearly a million dollars, and Bruce has only paid back five hundred thousand. He did this, by the way, because a lawyer made him do it. Not because he felt bad.

If the Wheatland is telling the truth–and, let’s face it, we’re putting their word up against the word of a guy who stole hundreds of thousands of dollars from a fucking library–Bruce still owes around four hundred thousands dollars.

It’s been suggested that Bruce may not have the money, having spent it on, I don’t know, big crates of arrogance and self-pity. If this is true, we need to look at ways in which the Wheatland Library system can recover its cash. I propose selling Bruce Cameron’s organs.

I know, I know, I’m not normally a fan of capital punishment. But, as the American government likes to say about torture, this isn’t about punishment. This is about the Wheatland’s money, which is not his money. I think the most important question we can ask when it comes to Bruce Cameron is, how much can we get for his liver?

Media reports from India and Russia put organs in the following ballparks: $5,000 for corneas, $20,000 for kidneys, $40,000 for livers, $50,000 for lungs and around $60,000 for a heart, which Bruce may or may not have. Add it up, with two corneas, two kidneys, and two lungs, and it’s around a quarter of a million dollars, which still falls far short of what Bruce owes, but is more than the Wheatland will get any other way.

He’s being sentenced this August, and I hope the judge sees things my way. The Wheatland has books to buy.

Current Bedside Reading: Warren Ellis and Salvador Larroca, newuniversal

Commentary: Warren, Warren, Warren. You can write better than this. I know you can. The awkward info dumping… the contrived conversations… all of this hurts me. I also think Transmetropolitan is overrated, but you’ve written the Authority and Planetary and Global Frequency. You don’t have to suck.

My iPod Is Singing: “It’s gonna be weird. I’m getting out of the car in an alley. I’ve got the whole family behind me. Everybody’s crying. I’m holding an urn and a douche bottle.”