Powers

It had to happen. I had to try and talk about superpowers. Here are some snippets.

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I think of the first beads of water to bubble up at the bottom of a boiling pot. Imagine that trembling, anxious fear all over your skin. The feeling comes from every pore, pouring out from the surface. Not a deep, gut feeling you feel inside your stomach. But, the pins and needles of blood rushing back to your limbs. Except this is all on fire. I am focusing energy and it is working!

I shaved my arms before trying this. The little ad at the back of Atomic Stories didn't say anything about shaving, but I thought it would help. This book was aimed at kids anyway. I don't remember my own arms from childhood, but they are certainly hairy now. Or used too, before I shaved. I read the rest of the ad for "Enchanted Defense for the Modern Age," but the little preview exercise doesn't tell you what to do with all this energy at the end of my fist. I hear my father in my head who was a technical writer that wrote, mostly, VCR manuals. "Instructions should never assume, son." I wonder what he would have to say about this. About how his pulp magazine actually worked and what to do with this missing information. I imagine lots of blown holes in the wall in mid 60's.

Unlike in the comics, the lights doesn't bulge out from my fist. Instead my arm shines in a shimmering iridescence, a peridot green that gets deeper at my fist. The ad never said anything about colors. There are no pictures at all! "Images are always helpful, son." My dad would rip this ad to shreds.

Neither does it say anything about my arm feeling heavy. Or that the joints of my elbow and knuckles tickle. I press my arm against a desk, it feels that cumbersome. The gypsum boars boils when my arm touches the top. The first layer bubbles up and peels away, exposing the sandy compressed particles of the interior. These then turn molten, burning and glowing like charcoal briquettes. I pull my arm away, but I don't remember the weight.

I drop to the floor and put my fist against the concrete of the basement floor. I hear a tiny "phoom" noise and then the crackle of splinters. The glow is gone, but under my fist I left a concrete divot in the floor. I am tired. Not just the arm, but my whole body. This feels like a gut feeling. Grabbing a softball from some scattered boxes I nestle it in the divot. A snug fit.
"All done, son."

__________________________

Recycling superhero! He exists! R3 gives the vilians something to watch out for. I saw him chasing a purse snatcher downtown. The snatcher had a good head start and R3 wears this sort-of armor made from bottle caps. It looked like the perp would get away, until R3 whipped out today's newspaper and touched it. Then, he somehow brought back all the recycled pulp that went into that. He reversed-recycled an entire paper just by touching it! And considering the Courier is printed on thin newsprint , the issue multiplied ten fold! A column of paper flew out from R3's fist. It shot down Second Street, each sheet leap frogging over the next and rammed straight into the back of the thief! Then R3 grabbed a soda can from his belt and turned into six little throwing stars! They flew fast and pinned the perp to the wooden scaffolding outside the Blue Street bus stop renovation. The local cops were then all over the perp. R3 dissappeared, riding his stack of paper up towards the rooftops. I tell my neighbors to recycle because it keeps our city safe.

___________________

Eh? Just playing. Peace!

Proto-meme

Thanks to Dave's Long Box, I have now participated in my (sort of) first blog meme*! To those not familiar with the blog-o-sphere, memes are little blogging trends that people start and try to spread. It is if I told all my readers to list their five favorite foods on their next post and everyone did it. Then their readers did it and so forth!

Here is my very own Atari 2600 game made with another picture from Sapsucker Woods.


Eat up those phosphorus molecules! Watch those dissolved oxygen levels fall. Goodbye commercial fisheries! WOO!

Peace!

Low-Impact Hike

Last Sunday, Amanda and I went for a sort of walk in the woods at Sapsucker Woods. Most people know Sapsucker woods as the site of the Cornell Lab of Ornithology. I had an internship there once and I was not very good at all. But, I can still enjoy the woods. This whole Finger Lakes area rocks for hiking and we hope that we can do some more before winter comes. Here are some pictures we took and then some musings.
Pollination continues life. We eat pollination and I like to think of the whole process as a sort of visual photosynthesis. There are no complex organelles to understand and formulas to memorize. In fact, the whole process is so inspiring that people condense it into trite little sayings and snippets

"The birds and the bees." and, "The pollen count is high."

I, like anyone who eats, appreciates pollination. However, I can't help but think of it as something much more visceral than sharing. Without knowing about convergent evolution and symbiosis, one might classify it as outright theft. Even rape! You can't see it well in that picture of the honeybee on the golden rod, but those insects often appear covered in the stuff. Their six legs and striped bodies sprinkled with pollen after they have raved in the flowers. Imagine Scrooge McDuck swimming in his money pit and you can see what I am saying.

We like to anthropomorphize bees. We label them busy, industrious, and productive. They are little workers in a factory working for the rarely-seen big boss. We admire their biological work ethic, but does anyone ever think that maybe they outstrip the flowers they harvest. Is their a federal department of pollen conservation amongst hives. A Bee Bureau of Pollen Management? A Bee National Flower Service? Anything?! Vicious little bees! Outstripping the pollen!

Lovely little butterfly. Maybe it's a Monarch, but it could also be a Viceroy Butterfly. We didn't get close enough to see it as it feed on this Joe-Pye Weed flower. Nice blend of colors in this one. The pink-purple of the flower. The living Halloween scheme on the butterfly's wings. And the golden rod nestled in the greenery. I anthropomorphize butterflies to be flitting samplers. The kind of people that go to the mega-supermarket on Saturday afternoon because that is when they give out all the free samples. If they outstrip the pollen then it is more a "tragedy of the commons" situation. One butterfly taking as much because the other one did. Lacking a hive situation, I don't imagine they talk much. They don't have that little "figure eight" dance the bees do to continue their pollen manifest destiny.

Wow, my voice changed a lot during that little set. I write these musings posts in real-time so what starts off serious goes into fable-like characterizations. There might be more of these if we stick to that hiking promise. Peace!

On Second Thought...

I should use Helium with caution. I read the fine print of the user agreement and they keep everything you write. Forever. I (the writer) still retain rights and ownership to whatever I put up there, but by putting anything up on Helium I give them the ability to do pretty much whatever they want with it, except sell. But, if somehow I do make it to the big time then Helium can flood the market with free, electronic copies of my pieces! NOOOOOOO! Of course, that is one HUGE if.

So I think I am going to put up stuff I would eventually want published/further explored up on the blog and anything else up on Helium. I will also continue the usual blog features and any post that needs some pictures. Helium is really a great sight and lots of fun, but got to read that fine print. I never read Blogger's fine print either, so who knows what they can do with such classics as the Co-Op of Justice!

Peace!

Some Updates

Just a quick note. After ignoring about a dozen tempting Google G-Mail ads, I decided to sign up for Helium, the online write and review site. I linked to it in my newly organized links section for future reference as well.

So far, the site has proven to be plenty of fun! It's great to see other people rating your stuff and see your writing climb up the rating ladder in each category. You write about anything and post it to specific channels. So, an example of one channel breakdown is: "Creative Writing>Short Story>Meeting Someone On the Bus." Some of the categories are broad "Mourning" or "Life." Others are damn specific like "Contemporary Britain" or "Talking politics and religion in bars." Some have lots of articles/pieces that mean yours has to really shine to get all the way to the top. Others only have two or three pieces, so you can be the big fish in the small pond. And you can make money, too! Helium gives everyone on the site a cut of their advertising profits (VERY SLOOOOOWLY I must admit. So far I have made one cent.) and you can also try to sell articles to the small publishers that host portals there!

I have put up a lot of the stuff that I already have on the blog up there. Just to get the Helium machine going. But I hope to write a lot more over the next few weeks, both online and in print at the local newspaper. I made it on the front page this week! And above the fold, too! WOO!

Peace!

The (fictional) spice

As I promised, before I went off on my sociological soapbox, here are my thoughts on the final Dune book, written 40-plus years after the original Dune hit the science fiction scene...

But before that, a rap from the guinea pig!
ROLL SPOILERS! ROLL SPOILERS! ROLL SPOILERS!
WE GOT BAD SPOILERS LIKE YOUR MOM!
WE GOT BAD SPOILERS LIKE CARCINOGENS!

Thanks, Dante!

The Dune books played a big role during my first summer in Ithaca. I lived in a basement apartment I rented from this kid and that apartment complex happened to be a creek about one hundred yard from the front door. Of course, it being Ithaca, the creek was just after a sheer drop-off, but some local folks had beat a path down the hill to the river. I would read the Dune books there, usually as close to the creek as possible. Being so close to the water really brought the whole aspect of a desert planet off the page and into my mind.

And there were so many books to read! Six Dune books by the original Frank Herbert and about four used-book venues in town! WOOO!
This was just as Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson started writing their prequel novels, but since I hadn't heard about those yet, I devoured the originals. Like many fans, I felt the original "oomph" of Dune had whittled away by the time Frank Herbert wrote his last book, "Chapterhouse Dune." A cliffhanger ending that seemed to break the fourth wall with having the last page dominated by "the old man" and "the old woman." Weird, but the book still had the original touch of depth and layering.

Many years later, Frank Herbert's son Brian and fellow author Kevin J. Anderson did the now required and created prequels. Then they said they had found secret notes from Frank Herbert and an outline for Dune 7! *

I liked B. Herbert and Anderson's Dune books, but they lacked the multiple layers of the originals. They featured much more action than Frank's versions, but it all seemed too whiz-bang for me. They moved incredibly fast, covering thousands of years in mere pages. One reviewer on Amazon. com said that, "The prequels always felt more like outlines of novels than true novels." That is a smart observation. I remember sitting on that log by the creek and felt as if I were taking forever to read the original Dune books. However, I slammed out this prequel in three days. As a wanna-be writer, I understand how excited one can get to just make a point or show a scene., but it feels like the prequels were written to appeal based not on their inherent themes, but their stylistic choices. I don't consider the original Dune books to be very "hard" science fiction. Herbert rarely explains anything, instead just dazzles us and hints at answers. He was obviously creating books you wanted to fall in love with, something you need to review multiple times for the full effect. The prequels, on the other hand seem to run towards the finish at full speed. The reward isn't that it makes you think, but that it has done the thinking for you and now you better understand the Dune universe. Not through epiphany or Spica Agony, but through plenty of exposition. And when I think something has too much exposition, then you know the narrative has gotten out of hand!

To be fair, I liked that the prequels explained the Butlerian Jihad, where the Fremen came from, where all the Great Houses began and so forth. The prequels have driven "original" fans crazy, but have brought in tons of new readers. Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson should feel proud they continued a legendary series that could have easily been hijacked by vicious nerds ("No, you can't read my Dune book, n00b!**") looking to keep it for themselves. Following in the footsteps of Frank Herbert must prove difficult and they have bravely chosen to inject their own style and thought into the mix, instead of just copying. However, continuing is one thing. Honoring is another.

However, like with every science fiction prequel series (I am looking at you Star Wars!), I don't see fans clamoring for it. Instead our fandom hurts us because we love the series so much that we just have to have those answers in the prequels, even if we weren't asking the questions. The prequels also sandwiched the essential six "core" books between bookends of the entire series being a war against robots. It dilutes the original majesty of Dune when you realize all that drama doesn't matter.

As for Sandworms of Dune II died thousands of years ago because here they are washing away all their , it exemplifies one of the reasons I never resonated with the prequels. Everything inherent about Dune, Arrakis, the sandworms, and the desert only appears here in name. I felt the book literally jumped the shark when the worms ended up on an ocean world! WTF?! Spice making sea-worms! Like my mom would say, "How can they have the SPICE *juts out hip* when they live in the cold ocean!? *swings to salsa music*" I feel that is something B. Herbert and Anderson threw in themselves. I can see the touch of Frank Herbert when Duncan Idaho becomes the ultimate and final Kwisatz Haderach. That explains all his deaths and rebirths through the series, something I felt the original Herbert did on an almost cartoonish level. As for all those other "gholas" (Dune for clone), I feel that was done just to bring back those characters we originally loved. I doesn't matter that Paul, Jessica, Chani and Leto are diminishing their historical importance by fighting robots! Since the clones in the Dune universe can learn the memories of their original self, the concept of cloning carries much more weight then in something like Star Wars. In Frank Herbert's writing, gholas were carefully crafted living machined, designed to spice something up. In the prequels, they pop up so damn often that they remove any sort of importance when a character dies. Same thing happens in comic books and in the Pirates of the Caribbean movies.

Why do we even care anymore? Because we are all fans. Dune spoke to us someway and we enjoyed it enough to keep exploring it I don't hate Sandworms of Dune. I am happy it exists to put a final end to this series. Whether or not it is the end we all wanted depends on the reader. But it's there for all of us to nitpick, whine about and, sometimes, enjoy.

PEACE!


*I just learned that Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson are going to slam out three more Dune prequels! Set in between the original Dune and it's sequel, Dune Messiah. ACK! Give us a break, guys! I am too much of a sucker not to buy them.

** I hate the word "n00b" and all that "gamerz" language. Is Halo, so damn intense that you can't spell the word "owned," instead saying "pwned." Yeah, way to bring video games to the masses kids and free them from decades old stereotypes. Creating your own little secret annoying language. "Oh, but the rappers did it back in the late 70's," you say! Well, they had culture. You have a hack code for Halo 3.

Apples to Apples

This little piece started as a first person narrative, but I don't like writing those pieces because they just feel like glorified personal essays. I feel weird trying to pass off personal essays as straight up-fiction. Just call them creative non-fiction and be done with it! So I added a bit more framing to it and tried to remove my voice from it. I do love apples, though. A lot. That is where the personal comes from.

___________________________________________

Our Town's Apples

My daughter, Janice, writes an article for the local paper. The piece is called, "Talking About Our Town." She didn't come up with the title, but inherited it from the previous writer, a stay at home mother who ran an impromptu antique shop from her garage. Janice is out of town this week, a friend's wedding in Nevada. So I am writing the piece for her, covering the monthly town board meeting.

I settled into one of the steel folding chairs at the back of the room. The town just put new carpet in the building and the room smelled plastic. I didn't notice the man sitting behind me, an older man with a potbelly that hung over his waist, until he cleared his throat. He wore a striped polo shirt tucked into his jeans and a pair of red suspenders. His hair was white, licked into a smooth left side part. "New to town?" he asked.
"Well, no. I have lived hear about five years."
He shrugged then made his lips into a circle. "Oh," he looked at the ceiling. "Well, I've never seen you."
"Well, I've never seen you." I introduced myself. His name was Bob, but even after a cold handshake he still seemed funny. Like he was unconvinced with and of me. "My daughter writes for our town's newspaper. That is why I am hear. I am covering the meeting for her article." I held my notebook and pen.
"Don't read the paper, myself, but I guess if you're new..." Bob's voice trailed off as the side door opened. It was the mayor. Five minutes late.

The conspiracy theory around town was that the mayor showed up to meetings late because he was getting sick of it. And being the mayor of our town must be hard because with only 1,700 people you know everyone. It's one big family. And it's a lot easier to be candid, honest, and angry with your family.

"Let's get this started," said Mayor Valenti taking his seat flanked by Bonnie K., the town clerk. He banged a gavel on the folding table in front of him. "I call this meeting to order." Looking down at his agenda Mayor Valenti said, "Lets talk about our town."

The first few minutes were just pomp and protocol. Approving last meeting's minutes. Reports from various public service commissioners like the police chief, fire chief, and zoning officer. The fire chief, a hefty guy named Jay who looks like he could carry two twenty-foot ladders over each shoulder, gave my first source of material.

"And to conclude, something funny this week. The fire department got a call to Badger Run road to rescue a cat stuck in a tree." He then smiled and someone chuckled from the front row of seats.

Actual cat stuck in a tree! I wrote in the notebook, quickly jotting down the details. A grey tiger tabby named Aurora. Belonging to Jackie McGlot the local aerobics instructor. A poplar tree.

With the reports done, Mayor Valenti opened the floor to public comments. Bob behind me grunted and turned to an older, overweight lady sitting next to him. "Here we go," he whispered to her.

A hand came up from the front row. A knotted hand, smeared with paint and grease. A working hand.

The mayor knew that hand. "The board recognizes Mr. Tom Kell of 137 Invite Lane," he said. The polishing his glasses with the bottom of his t-shirt, Mayor Valenti said, "What have you got for us this month, Tom."

Mr. Kell got up and pulled a bushel of apples from underneath his chair. He passed them down the first line of chairs. "Please, everyone take an apple!" He smiled brightly, revealing yellowed teeth shining among all his farmer's scruffiness. I then realized him as the man people referred to as the local homesteader. Janice had written about him.

"I hope everyone enjoys these apples because they are behind," Tom struggled with opening the flap of a Photopix envelope. "Behind, behind, behind a new endeavor I offer for all the children of our town!" He wrung out the pictures and then flipped through them. "Here I got some pictures, but they are mixed up with some of a hike I just took to the falls."

The apple basket came my way. I grabbed one and held it to the light. "Oooo, yeah that's a good one," said Tom. I then realize he was speaking to me.

'Oh, yeah?" I brought the apple down and cleaned it on my shirt sleeve.

"Yes, sir. A Cox Orange apple. See how the skin looks so mottled and alternates between burgundy and auburn. Reminds me an old leather bound book. And it tastes so complex. Nutty and citrusy, never foamy!"

Never heard of Cox Orange apple, but I was excited. Taking the first bite, I realized Tom wasn't lying, but I could only nod my approval. Someone else spoke up.

"Hey! What kind of apple did I get!" It was a woman's voice.

"Excuse me," interjected Valenti. "Please say your name for the recorder" He motioned to the digital recorded by Bonnie K.

"Oh, sorry," said the woman. "Katie Peterson of 176 Oldfield Road and I just want to know what my apple is." She turned to the whole audience. "No offense," she said smiling.

"Another good one!" Tom scrambled over to her side and held her hands which still clutched the fruit to the light. "An Akane! A Japanese hybrid with cherry pie colored skin and a heavenly pure white flesh. Very bright and sweet. Sunny flavor!"

Over the crunch of apples Valenti asked what the point behind all of this. The town board members nodded in agreement.

"Well, I planted all these apple varieties in my front yard, and created the first ever walking tour of apple diversity for the area! We live in the second largest apple producing state in the country and we know nothing but effervescent Granny Smiths and Red Deliciouses!" Tom stuck out his tongue and faked a gag after saying those words. I scribbled down everything, especially the apple varieties which I hoped to rattle off to Meredith later tonight. She had grown up in Washington state and might help me with the research. "You can see all the trees in those pictures," Tom said stabbing his finger toward the tables up front.

The lady behind me stood up and puffed out her thoughts. She didn't extend any courtesy to the recorder. "Well that is why I am here! I don't want to see these apple trees every morning when I wake up. They are deformed or something, all low to the ground and gnarled. And the flowers attract bees and my grandson is allergic to bees!"

Another voice, young and shrill, came out from the side of the room. "Well maybe if you had a job you wouldn't have to see them all day!"

Then a rumbling din began. The crunch of fruit, throaty laughter of some, annoyed grunts of others, and Valenti slamming his gavel. I made my own noise, scribbling down what was happening in our town.

__________________________________________________

I do love me some apples. Back home, the only apples we had were imports from Washington state. Red Delicious apples and Granny Smiths are anything but good. Horrible, messy things that taste like you bit into a fleshy Alka-Seltzer tablet. While I grew up I hated apples, because back home there were no such thing as good apples. But, now, in New York State, apples are everywhere and they KICK ASS! Of course, you can tell that I am a bit of an apple snob and when I taste apples, I bring out all the language usually reserved for wine, beer and coffee. Even when I worked as a barista, I could have never said something like that description of Cox Orange (They also have a wonderful graininess, like a pear, but not as overwhelming.). If you live anywhere in apple country then I suggest you look at any local U-pick farm and take advantage of the season. I will be the guy scaring kids out from underneath trees at Little Tree Orchards in Newfield.

"My apples, kids! BACK OFF! Don't test me! Don't talk to me, criminal! Or I'll cut you...a piece of this apple!"

Awww......even I can be nice to the kids.

Oh, yeah. What did you think of this little slice-of-life piece?

PEACE!

The Spice!

Around the apartment, we talk a lot about "the spice." Not the food items, but the weird cultural haughtiness that plagues many a Hispanic, particularly, in our case, Puerto Ricans.

Now any familiar reader of the blog will know that I am one crappy Puerto Rican. Mostly because I don't have "the spice," which means I don't think I am better than everyone just because I am Puerto Rican. Oh, it happens...

I don't have to explain anything to you, Mr. Tax Man! I have THE SPICE! *swings hips wildly while at the front door*

*Dancing on top of the boardroom table* Of course I picked the right font for that business report, Mr. Woods. I have THE SPICE!!! Serifs are always better because they move and dance!

*Yelling back at the movie string* Hey, it's OK I yell back! I have THE SPICE! *Indeterminate voice tells speaker to shut up* No, you shut up, honky-gringo! I HAVE THE SPICE! *Dances in chair*

You know how some Hispanic characters on TV shows have to always fucking say everything first in English and then in Spanish? That's the spice, except this time it is Mr. TV Producer telling the actor to ham it up.

"We must get there fast! RAPIDO!"
"Hey there. Where is the milk? LA LECHE!"

I mean all cultures have something like the spice. It's just a warped evolution of being proud of who you are and where you come from. "The spice" is the dividing line between patriotism and nationalism, between respect and idolatry. And while this can all get pretty heavy-handed, I treat the spice like one big joke. I mean its all pretty much bullshit.

As a minority you hear a lot of things. One is that the greater world, every culture, not just white, has certain expectations of you. Most of them are negative and its sad to see that stereotypes still play such a big role today. We want to break those stereotypes and show everyone that things such as intelligence, responsibility, and creativity are human traits, not national traits. However, at the same time you can stray too far from your roots. Too far from "the spice." Then you are a traitor, someone who betrayed your entire cultural nation because your cultural nation has been boiled down to how thick an accent you speak in and whether or how much you love dancing.

Bah! This was supposed to be a bit about the new Dune book. Get it, the spice? That is still to come, but I can't help getting on my soap box when I think about "the spice." As a wannabe writer, this cultural awkwardness is a driving force. A real writer parallel is the wonderful Sherman Alexie who chronicles the identity struggles of Native Americans. Read him, he is wonderful.

Peace!

Movies I Should Have Already Seen Vol 3. #3

I'm back and you know the freaks can't handle it! WOOOOO!

But, of course, you aren't a freak. Right? So you can handle it. Which is good because I don't want the three people that read this to not handle it.

Onward....

Movies I Should Have Already Seen #3

I remember when this movie came out. Yes, I realize how pompous that sounds since Borat is only about a year old, however everyone treated it like the next comedy powerhouse.

Like with Team America: World Police (another movie that needs the "already seen" treatment) I initially stayed away. I didn't know anything about Sacha Baron Cohen or his Borat skit. I thought this movie would just be an ugly excuse to play off xenophobia and stereotypes. Sort of like Eurotrip except without Michelle Tranctenberg in a bikini. The Ithaca in me overtook my movie judging powers* and I quickly turned my nose up at Borat.

Of course, I was wrong.

Now don't think I am too deep into the Borat army. I still don't think the movie is the next comedic watershed. For how much the shock value was billed, I found the funniest part to be pure slapstick that could work in any movie. The whole "NOT" gag, the bear in the ice cream truck, and the asshole neighbor were gold. I can never look at an Ipod Mini again and say, "Everyone knows it for girls!"

And then you just had those Amelia Bedelia moments like the "gypsy" garage sale and the dinner party. Classic.

When the credits rolled, I kept thinking, "Well, what was the big deal?"

The whole experience reminded me about a time Amanda and I were discussing art. In our plush leather chairs in the study we sipped on Lagavulin that our dapper bunny Carson brought while wearing a tuxedo. Dante the Guinea pig played harp atop the antique globe that held our single malt scotch. While we were so refined, I said that comment that no one is supposed to say.

"I just don't get modern art sometimes. What the hell is so important about a Mark Rothko piece?"

Then she brought on an epiphany!

What defines a lot of modern and post modern art and creativity is not so much what they are showing, but how it was made. Hence, the value of a Pollock piece. This same thing applies to Borat. I didn't find the frat boys particularly funny (Anyone who has been to high school and/or college in the past twenty years should have spent plenty of time laughing at guys like that already), but the method was scintillating. Baron Cohen duped hundreds of people into thinking that he was a real reporter from Kazakhstan and then had them verbalize their unhinged opinions. There lies the success and the comedy, the fact that such horrible figures* still exist in America and want to have everyone hear their vitriol. So the main impressions rests in the method itself. That is why it was a big deal. Obviously, I enjoyed it, and I hope that it is for the same reasons the producers of the movie thought it was hilarious. It is a buffoonish movie, appealing to the lowest common denominator, but still able to create huge amounts of discussion. Conversations about race, American image, and sociology.

I am not going to remove myself from this argument. If I would have been walking down the streets of NYC and some mustached man came up to me asking for a kiss, I would probably freak out. And if we were in a more controlled setting, like the Southern dinner party, I would get all tense and awkward at Borat's mannerisms. Just like the people in the movie. If I met a mysterious man from Kazakhstan then I wouldn't know what to say. I don't know anything about the country except:

1) It is a former Soviet republic;
2) It borders the Aral sea; and,
3) I can point it out on a map. Pesky Uzbekistan, too!

Peace!

* If Wikipedia is right, then I don't feel bad for the rodeo owner or the frat boys, but pity the news producer in Mississippi. But, how true is the report?

Summer Movie

I always resist the urge to talk about my movie going experiences. Well, except "The movies I should have already seen, but that's different! There are about one jillion other blogs that do that and an equal amount that seamlessly mix their regular content with these "out of context" posts. While I resist, sometimes I just have to wax methodically about some movie. And that movie is...

TRANSFORMERS!!!!

Yes, that's me as a cartoony Optimus Prime. No, I didn't make it. My lovely gf Amanda made it as she is too amazed by this movie. That is her as Bumblebee. We are about to destroy Wal-Mart because it is the closest thing one can get to Unicron.

I must admit that I was never really a part of the Transformers band wagon. Like a lot of those 80's cartoon shows*, I was just a baby when they were in their first run. I saw the original cartoons as re-runs and only saw fresh versions during the subsequent 1990's~2000's spin-offs. I watched the hell out of Transformers: Beast Wars as a a kid in the mid 90's. And I really wasn't into the toys either. I was much more of a GI Joe fanboy. I do remember having one Transformers action figure that I won at some carnival at my sister's high school. It turned into a fire truck, which for a little boy, epitomized awesome.

I even made fun of the live action movie when I first saw the teaser trailer last year. It looked so dumb, built purely on nostalgia for something that never really had a message except big bucks. But, as usual, I was wrong.

First, the movie was the most fun I have had at the movies in a long ass time. As a summer blockbuster it had to appeal to the lowest common denominator and show some broad appeal, but there was a real sense of wonder. As a Star Wars fanboy, I hear plenty about people having the same sense of wonder at the release of the original movie back in 1977. I am not comparing Transformers to Star Wars, but I know understand what the feeling was and is. Amanda and I have seen the damn thing three times. THREE TIMES! Now we look for Transformers everywhere. The weekend after we saw it the first time, we happened to find ourselves in Trumansburg, NY driving past the Grassroots Music Festival. And there we saw a Pontiac Solstice**. As soon as we saw it, we both said, "Hey, look! It's Jazz!"

Shia LaBeouf, who played the protagonist Sam Witwicky is my new hero. He is a beleivable loser teenager and, well, if you have ever read this blog, I relate to that. And while it had some of the usual Michael Bay holes (What the hell happened to Barricade!?), it was wonderfully slick. The movie had the full support of the military, which made sense because it made me want to sign up! Those guys had all the coolest military toys like dune buggies, gunships, and vertical take-off aircraft. No desk jockeys, defense contractors, or red tape here. Just ass kicking. I was half expecting Tyrese Gibson to scream out "FUCK YEAH" whenever an air strike happened. All the hardware made it seem like a Tom Clancy novel, just with none of the subterfuge and that pesky Jack Ryan. And no soldier dies. Except the Puerto Rican one, of course.

And thanks to all the slick advertising, now I want the damn 2009 Camaro featured in the movie. I understand the idea of the military-entertainmnet-industrial complex, but I am not made of stone, damn it!

Peace!


*If any show was 80's it had to be Transformers. An entire show and mythology based exclusively on toys. Big money, no whammy!

**I don;t know why a Pontiac Solstice happened to be at Grassroots. When I think hippie, zydeco music fests, I think sports cars.

Stand by for action!

I write plenty of pieces that I can describe as "verbal still life's." Something about a deer sitting underneath our porch. Something about a stream in mid-April thaw. These little pieces have very little action in them and that is because action is hard to do. I remember hearing some interview with Quentin Tarantino about Kill Bill and how action is one of the hardest genres to do. It is very easy to slip into the excessive and gratuitous. How does one toe this line? Well, I don't know. Here are some brief little action snippets I whipped up during my lunch break at work.

• As "Double F" Steff asked me to go get her some iced tea, I flicked out the scrape from beneath my nails. I shuffled into the kitchen and poured a highball glass for the patient. The ice cubes snapped out of their tray and nestled into the soft bend of the glass. The glass hissed as liquid poured into the cracks between the cubes. I brought her the glass, still crackling, feeding the patient liquid spark storm.

• The cop's billy club flew by my head all whirly-twirly. I ducked, then throwing myself into a puddle on the alley floor. Stale coffee from a crushed cup swirled into my nostrils. Bhutes runs at me, jerking the cop's gun out of the belt holster. He struggled with the leather snap, gritting his teeth and pumping his hand up and down. He said something between his teeth before I heard the loud pop. I slammed back into the coffee-water, seeing Bhutes fall to a knee with his hand still around the trapped pistol.

• Vinnie had a dream last night where he imagined his pet guinea pig, Santiago, driving his sister's Power Wheels Jeep around the cul-de-sac. He imitated Santiago's voice, while I whipped up eggs for breakfast."And, he went....BEEP! BEEP! Who has got the key's to the jeep!"I imagined the guinea pig perking up its nose, holding his white streaks to the sky. I inserted, "VROOM!"

Eh? Peace!

Moving Water

Here is a little something something I imagined while reading a biography of Mark Twain entitled, well, Mark Twain. I have gone on about water before, and here is some more of it.

____________________________

Trying to decipher the language of moving water, I lost my watch. The frayed nylon strap seemed to react at the slightest moisture and snapped off. It fell to the river bottom in a falling leaf motion. First through the shallow layer of blue and then into the sooty auburn of the middle layer. It slid into a cloudier shade of brown, lost into the bottom even though it had not hit the end.
I cursed. "Well, Goddammit!" My tongue pressed against the back of my teeth. I gritted through another noise, a whirring grunt.
"Hey!" said Captain Dale from behind the plexiglass at the wheel. "Language, OK?" He turned his head back and smiled to the passengers behind him. He shrugged and they smiled.
Dale gives the throttle a tiny push and inches the boat further down river. The soft eddies around the hull spun faster until the spun themselves into mild jets of foamy water. They squeezed out from underneath the hull, down the side of the boat, and back into the river.
"OK, folks," said Dale into the scratchy microphone. "We are almost near the ocean, so look for those changes in scenery and life. Look for the mangrove trees with the spider legs."
Everyone turns their heads around, except for Dale who keeps looking forward to the horizon. I look towards the bottom, hoping moving water swirls my watch to the surface.

_____________________________

Peace!

Co-op of Justice #1

I realized that I had not written anything about the COOP OF JUSTICE since those initial line-up posts. So here is a little something, something.

Now, before we start, I hate doing this because it shows you are a weak storyteller. But, dammit, I am also not afraid to admit that!

Please understand this is all in jest and in good fun. So, I am sorry Dryden, but someone had to get the shaft. I mean, why do all these stories happen there?! As someone said on Craigslist, in defense of Dryden, "Crazy people live everywhere." Well, true, but, the damage has already been done. I'm not saying Dryden is the county's version of the Wild West, but if I am going to send my crime fighting team somewhere in Tompkins County, well, then, I only got a few options. Besides, this story is set on The Commons.

Onward...

_______________________

The July heat comes off from the cement surface of The Commons. I stay in my half-crouch atop the Bank of America building, eight stories above all the perps and civvies. The whole team is off in Dryden, because, well, it's Dryden and something is always happening there. Sitting here in the sun, I realize I have hung around those kids too long. Made me soft always having to bring Flutter always back to reality or keep Clancy from blasting into the Common Council meetings during each public comments section.

It feels nice to work alone. To have the entire heart of a great Central New York city under your care. I give back to this community every time we bring in a perp to Pete or Lauren, sometimes both. Just for the hell of it. I give back every time I teach the kids on the team something about a back-alley switchback or that Crazy Ivan I pulled in a commandeered IPD cruiser. I give back to the community every time that....

A SCREAM!

From down below, I hear a tussle in the Bernie Milton Pavilion. It's hot, but it's still early morning. To early for the goth-skater punks and the hackey-sack kids. I took one of those hackey-sacks in the solar plexuses once. I was getting over the flu and the kid caught me off guard. Flutter later told me the best hacky-sacks have small beads. They handle better. That one must have been a small-bead one. I still took the perp, even though Dawn had to pop in with her shape shifting at the end. It was a lesson for both of us.

I jump off from my half-crouch and unfurl the cable line from my belt. I swing it into the locust trees in front of me and send three dozen Starlings flying away in fear. I feel the rope. Nice and tight, around a heavy branch. Then I fly.

The IPD SWAT does some repelling from the building every year for Christmas. One of the guys dresses up like Santa Claus and scoots down delivering presents to kids. I got no problem with kids. Did a bunch of work with Make a Wish and GIAC. It's the "scooting" I hate. It's a quick drop from the building and since it's morning I don't have dodge the lunch time crowd under the trees.

I hit the Commons running and hear some whispers from behind me.
"Captain Gorges!"
"I thought he was only an urban legend!"
"Someone call the paper! NOW!"
I ignore them. I hope I don't appear callous, but I see the trouble. She isn't hard to miss.

FG-1000 has the tourist couple cornered. That android from Elmira has been ravaging the city since 1989. Screaming and yelling, she has all the time to complain and intimidate. I always found Dr. E's evil creating ingenious. Using the city's progressive label against it. She's everywhere. Every rally. Every pow-wow. Every discussion group and drum circle. FG-1000 is there. My portfolio for the IJ has dozens of pictures of her. She is usually holding a cardboard sign.

The android's voice carries clear and strong. It's a bit raspy, probably from lack of maintenance. The FG-1000 can't operate any vehicle besides a bike. And Dr. E knows never to show up in Tompkins County since "the incident."

"WHY DID YOU LEAVE YOUR WATER BOTTLES OUT IN THE SUN!?" The FG-1000 screams this to the tourist couple. The couple cowers in a corner of the pavilion, a Dasani bottle at their feet and in the sun. From their clothes, I can tell they are financially well, but don't want to show it. Some smart khaki shorts and polo shirts. Teva sandals over their feet. The husband has a ratty Boston College cap. The wife's polo is the BC colors. Probably some folks passing through looking at Cornell or the wineries. FG-1000's perfect prey.

"DON'T YOU KNOW WATER BOTTLES IN THE SUN CAUSES CARCINOGENS!?" She continues. "INSANE! MADNESS! PEOPLE!"

The wife speaks up. "Hey, why don't you mind your own business!?"

Bad idea. The FG-1000 is inflamed. "WHAT!? I LIVED IN THIS TOWN FOR 18 YEARS!"

Luckily, she can't see me in her state. I unfurl an escrima stick from my side holsters. Never had to use it against her, but then again, she has next to nothing in hand-to-hand training.

"Hey!" I scream. "Leave the nice folks alone, FG."

"WHAT!? YOU!? I DESERVE YOUR JOB! I SERVE ITHACA BEST. CORNELL DID THIS TO US. THEY BRING THE CRIMES WITH THE STUDENT'S DRUGS!"

She swings at me with her yellow bike helmet. This is a first. Dr. E. must have sent new protocols to her. However, she swings from the shoulder. Swings hard and clumsy. I dodge it easily. However, she keeps on coming. "ALL YOUR BASE ARE BELONG TO US!"

I duck another helmet swipe, bending forward as I were picking up some change. Unsnapping the strap for my shield, I whip the old girl onto my wrists. The helmet strikes the face of the shield. A low thud fills the air around us. "NO STUDENTS ON COMMON COUNCIL!"

My shield is made of recycled-ceramics pulled from discarded terracotta pots and treated to be high-impact machine grade. It then has a thin layer of recovered plastic, designed to be ablative and diffuse the impact. I really wanted a shield made of metal, but some folks at Greenstar got a wind of it and protested. Some kid from IC was at the presentation, listing off air pollutants saved by going with the ceramics. They won. I deal.

FG-1000 follows through with her swipe and I come up to slap the helmet out of her hands. I just tap it, using the same strength I would if I were yawning. Just with a bit more grace. my shield just taps her in the chin, but it sends her reeling. FG-1000 is pear-shaped, a design I always assumed was poor. What did she keep down there? Speakers. She wobbles before hitting the pavement.

I turn to the tourist couple, who blast down the Commons Bank Alley. The wife turns her head back and smiles at me. Gives me a wave. The husband just pulls her farther away and closer to her car.

In the meantime, FG-1000 waddles away down the Commons. I am always surprised how fast she actually moves on those legs. A kid comes up to me and asks for my autograph.

"Are you really Captain Gorges?!"

I see FG-1000 jump on her bike. It's parked where the Commons Bug uses to be. They got rid of them when they made me. I kind of missed them today. She pedals away, but she screams, "NO MOPEDS IN CITY PARKING LOTS!"

But I also hear the kid say, "Excuse me, but are you really him?"

"Yeah," I say, grabbing his pen. I sign the autograph, "Captain Gorges. Giving back to the city."

________________________________

Peace!

Nerds with swords

While I am talking about books that I am currently reading...

A few months back, I picked up a copy of Neal Stephenson's Snow Crash. I got the book at one the area's (I don't remember if it was Trumansburg's or the county's) Friends of the Library book sale and all I could surmise from reading the back cover was that the book was cyberpunk.

I am not a huge fan of cyberpunk. The whole-grungy hacker culture thing just never did it for me. In theory, I could train really hard and become something like Paul Atreides from Dune or even Spiderman. But the whole hacking thing just felt so dense and foreign. Reading something like Neuromancer, or any other cyberpunk, I felt like I was the idiot being hacked and not the guy being saved. Call me a sucker, but I want to like my heroes. Even my anti-heroes need to have a sense of picaresque nobility. Like Huck Finn. Or Captain Malcolm Reynolds!

However, I am pleasantly surprised by Snow Crash. I like the cyberpunk concept (Hell, actually reality) that corporations will control everything. However, I don't think these concepts would do it in the Shinra or Umbrella way. They would be Walmart.

I like how Snowcrash also creates political/municipal divisions. Everything is deregulated and privatized. Cities are actually little city-states composed of self-enclosed suburbs called burbclaves. Each has there own police and laws. I like that Snowcrash has female characters that aren't ninja sexpots. I even dig the hero a bit, who has the clever name of Hiro Protagonist. He seems like what a real hacker would be like, some guy with mad skills that can never use them. Instead he delivers pizza.

Of course, he does have samurai swords, because it wouldn't be cyberpunk if you didn't give the guys some swords. And inexplicable training as to how to use them.

I might be the only nerd out there saying this, but I don't like swords. There used to be a time when I reached for this low-hanging nerd fruit and slapped swords on folks. Ever read that story I have on her called Temperature. I once submitted it for a class project and even admitted to the professor that I only stuck the sword in there because I had just finished reading the original Dune books and were pretty crysknife'd out!

If you are writing some Arthurian legend then go crazy with the swords. Hell, I'll help. The pointy end goes in the other guy. But, unless it's that, you go to try really hard to get those swords in there. Star Wars did it. So did Dune. Cyberpunk, well, I guess not so much, but I ain't no cyberpunk scholar.

Peace!

Rediscovering Writers

The other day I picked up Bret Easton Ellis' Glamorama. Ellis is one of my favorite writers, and I believe Glamorama (Glam) best exemplifies that.

The books combines both the Ellis of American Psycho(AP) and the Ellis of the Less than Zero (LTZ). American Psycho is one of my favorite books because of the sheer weight of all the description. The colors of everyone's clothes, the makeup of the food they are eating, and the brand names of every shower product. Here is a sample of the writing. For setup purposes, the protagonist, Patrick Bateman, is getting ready to got out on date at a posh Manhattan restaurant.

"I worked out heavily at the gym after leaving the office today, but the tension has returned, so I do ninety abdominal crunches, a hundred and fifty push-ups, and then I run in place for twenty minutes while listening to the new Huey Lewis CD. I take a hot shower and then afterwards use a new facial scrub by Caswell-Massey and a body wash by Greune, then a boday moisturizer by Lubriderm and a Neutrogena facial cream. I debate between two outfits. One is a wool-crepe suit by Bill Robinson I bought at Saks with this cotton jacquard shirt from Charivari and an Armani tie. Or a wool and cashmere sport coat with a blue plaid, a cotton shirt and pleated wool trousers by Alexander Julian, with a polka-dot silk tie."

Of course, then there is the sheer action. For those of you that haven't read AP, the violence in it is sheer pornographic. It is the first book to ever make me un-comfortable and is certainly not for the faint of heart. Particularly vicious scenes, with a gruesome obsession of violence against women and animals. I won't include a sample of any of those snippets, but you can find some descriptions online and can always read reviews. The movie is, surprisingly, an excellent interpretation of the book.

However, unlike a weaker writer, unlike me, Ellis never uses the exposition as a crutch. He combines it with his satirical sense to lampoon the yuppy 80's culture of getting rich and looking good while doing it. Of course, I am biased. Ellis received numerous death threats and negative reviews when AP came out in the early 90's. I see everything as Ellis does through the fan lense, which means, everything is satirical, everything attacks our celebrity culture.

Then there is the Ellis of LTZ and all the other :going nowhere" kids. Descriptions are actually very low key here, but Ellis never fails to portray these characters as empty or unlikable. He satirizes the yuppy culture, the LA nihilism, and the selfishness not through violence, but through portrayal. He makes airheads scary, because, well, they really are.

When I finish Glamorama, I would have read every Ellis book yet. Makes sense. In Glamorama, Ellis paints every aspect of posh Manhattan celebrity culture brightly, but never fills it in. Maybe the empty, pretty boy model protagonist will learn something by the end of the book, which would be the ultimate attack on celebrity culture. That it can grow and change. Like we are all supposed to do.


Before I go, I must say that I adore the covers that Vintage Contemporaries puts out for the recent runs of Ellis' books. The hazy, empty image of a city or bed over a white background. There are no people in these shots, which adds to the haunting feelings. We expect someone to be in the bed or milling about in the city, but they are hollow. Vintage recently put out a new printing of The Informers, a collection of Ellis short stories. It is a personal favorite, and I, unfortunately, could not find a picture. However, imagine the LTZ cover pictured except its a creepy metallic gray and the picture is a hotel pool with lounge chairs and striped beach umbrellas. Incredibly evocative for an Ellis book about several LA kids back from college on break.


Peace!

First Time

Off-topic post. Comic books for everyone! Regular posts to return soon.

To the left! To the left! All these SPOILERS are coming in a blog to the left!

Please don't judge me for quoting Beyonce.

SPOILERS AWAY!

The last Wednesday of the month is one of my favorite days out of the whole 30-something day cycle. All my favorite comics come out on the last Wednesday and since I only buy five comics a month, due to budgetary reasons, the last Wednesday pretty much defines my monthly comics experience.

Today was an excellent Wednesday, on most counts. Daredevil and Iron Fist, at the hands of Ed Brubaker, were wonderful. I can't wait for Daredevil #100 in August! It's triple-friggin-sized! My first 100! WOO!

However, I also got another first today. My first, "WHY!?" moment.

This sucks.....


WHY!?

For those of you that didn't realize that was just a digital picture on my kitchen counter top, Kyle Rayner, my favorite Green Lantern, metamorphized into the evil Parallax. The same Parallax that a decade ago drove many a Hal Jordan fan raving mad. Superman went out in a blaze of glory. GL's become monsters. BAH! I guess it goes with the space cop thing.

I understand that this, the whole evil thing, must happen. Even a character like Kyle Rayner, who is only about thirteen years old, becomes stale without change. The initial "Whiz-bang" of a hero fades away if the only problems he/she faces is the "villain of the month." It's what defines the "modern age" of comics, and what sometimes can destroy it. Again, I refer to the original Parallax shenanigans. If you go too edgy, then you eventually fall off.

Kyle recently became a near god in the "Ion" storyline, and now he has fallen. It makes sense. I enjoy superhero comics where the good guy actually wins. I don't mind how we get there and I don't mind Pyrrhic victories, but I like for characters to come out on top. DC will probably kill off Kyle Rayner, which makes for another comic first for me. As a nerd, it feels like I'm growing up. And I'M FREAKING OUT!!!!!

Hopefully SallyP will get her thoughts up about the Sinestro Corps War soon and I can calm down a bit. Until then....FREAKING OUT!

Peace!

Underneath

The past few days in Ithaca have ranged in the mid-90's and everyone, everything, is seeking relief. A young white-tail deer doe has taken refuge under our porch. Well, actually, under the house's porch. Amanda and I live in the bottom half of a house split into two apartments. The porch belongs to the upstairs tenant, but we get the best view of everything under the weathered planks.

Living in a converted basement isn't bad at all. During the summer, that first blast of air from the apartment feels good. Compared to the outside temperature, for a few minutes, it feels like we have air-conditioning. My skin gets that same tingling feeling I remember from sitting next to an air-conditioner after getting wet in the rain. In this heat, it feels wonderful.

Of course, then there is the deer. It comes and goes throughout the day, even though the few plants that grow around the porch's edge show plenty of deer damage. She would never have to leave, it seems, except for the necessary exercise. In our sheltered suburban environment, she has found another layer of security. Imagine the ecological equivalent of tucking the end of your blanket under your feet.

As environmental studies majors, we were taught to hate deer. They are pesky generalist species that over-graze the few ecosystems left around development. They endanger people (and themselves) by blasting through roadways and backyards. They munch away on hobbies and livelihoods. I called a u-pick strawberry farm last Sunday and the outgoing message on the lady's answering machine went, "I had a lot of deer damage this year. They took most of the fruit." She suggested going to another farm.
Deer, however, are native animals, which we first decimated and now brought back. All those flowers are not. Like the rabbit, we share a love-hate relationship with them. A creature we venerate though movies and Romantic imagery, but still hunt.
Observing the porch deer, I understand how people can fall in love with the creatures. She twitches her ears, searching for sounds in the neighborhood. I studied her snout from the kitchen window. She appears equine from my angle and whoever challenged the nobility of a horse? Her fur there starts bristly white and then changes into the warm browns of her body. Reminds me of my dog's own nose. Her own snout looked snowy around her wet nose. The deer's mouth lines run clean across her entire face and up towards the eyes.

I have never looked much into a deer's eyes. Folks say plenty about human eyes, and even cat and hawk's eyes. All those eyes have nice layers of pupil and iris, each with its own colors. and while deer certainly have a pupil and iris, all one sees is black.

How expressive those black eyes can be! The eyes shine with different lusters and inkiness, giving the entire surface a slick surface and mottled underside. I have observed the same wonder in my pet's eyes. How the rabbit will expand or shut his eyes or the guinea pig will bat the reflective sheen of his. In the scientific sense, black absorbs all colors, but does not reflect them. It keeps all those molecules and dancing photons, letting the deer express that energy through muscle and movement.

Peace!

Surf and Turf

One of my favorite books, and favorite writers, is J. Robert Lennon's Pieces for the Left Hand*. It is a neat little read, made up of snippets focusing on life in one medium Upstate town. Lennon has a few books out chronicling several fake little towns in New York. They are all based on places right here in CNY. The first book I ever read by him, Mailman, featured the town of Nestor, NY. Nestor is pretty much a carbon-copy of Ithaca. And a nice scintillating copy of it! Filled with all the zanniness that gives you enough material to both love and hate the place. He was recently in the news for creating a fictonal Aurora, NY and writing about how one famous resident has bought up much of the local real estate, in an attempt to create an ideal "dollhouse" look.

I find Lennon's work gorgeous and find it invigorating that he lives in the area. He is a wonderful satirist, cutting, yet never sardonic. You don't need to take a step back and say, "Well, he is being satirical, right there," with Lennon. It all just makes sense.

Anyway, I mentioned Lennon, because the following piece is something in the spirit of Pieces for the Left Hand. Just a quick little anecdote that could be a part of something big. I don't have the patience for writing full lenght fiction. I just realized that. But maybe I can whip up a nice little chap book with a dozen or so interconnected stories. Here is my story in the same vein as Pieces and with a little of those quick George Saunders sentences. I just finished In Persuasion Nation. Amazing book, and another amazing local resource.

__________________________________

After Vacation

By Garik Charneco

I saw it in the paper after we got home. The lobster story. In the "Odds and Ends" section. I was in the kitchen catching up on all the back papers the delivery boy had stacked on our porch. I gave Ryan, my son, the little subscription hold slip to drop off before we left. I enjoyed a nice week at the beach, knowing all the stove elements were off, the windows were locked, and the paper wouldn't come. But, the papers came.
I found it fun. To read through all those papers and catch up on the past week's news. I stacked them into a neat little pile on the kitchen table, a little dossier for me on our town.
And there was the story. The lobster story.

The headline read, "Park officials baffled by lobster release."

I had seen the exodus! I had seen the story! Ryan and I were throwing around the Frisbee and he heaved it over the dune grass. My first fears were that it landed in the water or bonked some poor person laying behind the grass. However, I heard no splashes or curses.
"Hey," I said to the boy. "Go get it. The one that lost it has to get it!" Those were the rules between me and my father and they would be the same between Ryan and I. But, Ryan, just shrugged.
"You got get it," he said pulling his cap down over his eyes. "You're closer."
I should had said something. I should have made a lecture, right there. About responsibility and Frisbee tradition, hut, it was vacation. I let it slide, and what a wonderful thing, because I had seen the news!

Ryan had heaved the Frisbee well beyond the dune grass and almost to the edge of a low cliff! There I saw it, the story. Below the cliff, I saw a dozen people squatting in the water next to boxes. All the boxes looked like coolers, made of styrofoam and thick. And there were some beach towels thrown around the sheltered beach. Looked like a picnic to me, at first. But, then, I saw all those lobsters coming out! I almost dropped the Frisbee, I was so surprised. Even from up on the cliff, I made out the lobsters. They looked black and mottled, especially in the shallows, but their spindly legs still kicked. The people there lured them out of the boxes. I heard lots of "C'mon's!" and "Yay's!" I didn't know what to make of the whole thing, so I just left.

I must had left before the lifeguards got there, accompanied by a ranger. The paper read, "When initially confronted, the liberators, as they referred to themselves, all produced receipts indicating they had bought the lobsters from local markets and restaurants."
Then a quote from a meat counter man and another from a restaurant manager. All their lobsters had disappeared into the sea.

The paper went on. "Dozens of live lobsters milled around the shallows at the east end, exploring the warm waters with their antennas. Park officials felt the freed lobsters would have a good chance at surviving in the wild due to existing fishing spots in the area. However, they discouraged others from copying the liberators actions, citing safety concerns."

I had only seen, maybe, seven black shapes in the water when I got the Frisbee. But the paper said over forty lobsters were freed. I imagined all those lobsters, pouring over one another in the same waters my family splashed. All their legs and eyes whirring through the sand and out into the sea. I should have gone down. Called Ryan and Marie, and even the baby for it would be irresponsible to leave her in her beach travel crib. Would have made even more of the vacation.

_______________________________

Any thoughts? I find the image of a dozen freed lobsters just clawing their way out to sea very moving and colorful**. I would be much more comfortable with it through a creative non-fiction lens. You know, pretend I am actually there. I'll try that for a final piece. Peace!



* Unfortunately, Pieces for the Left Hand, is only for sale in the UK. Makes no friggin' sense. If interested, you can buy it through Amazon UK or, if you live in Ithaca, can snag a copy at the Bookery 2 book store.

** While the ethics of freeing lobsters that one legally purchased are pretty clear, I am still fuzzy about how the animals will really take it. Releasing a domesticated cow into the wild, might not be the smartest thing, because that animal is no wild bovine. No bison, yak, or musk ox. I might not know anything but the feed lot! However, can a lobster go back to the wild? Some folks think so. In any case, makes for fascinating imagery, no? And for a crazy fish tale. Might try it sometime, if I lived by the sea.

Round-Up

I am back to the blog. Nothing really special to report. The trip to Ohio was lovely, as usual and I am plugging away at the new job. Even though I work in a law office that specializes in estate planning, wills, real estate, and such, I can't help but imagine being some plucky paralegal in the offices of Matt Murdock, wondering why all our clients seem to be gorgeous women or murderers.

Fan-boy feelings aside, it would probably be no fun to be Matt Murdock's paralegal. If I wasn't messing up the order of the Braille dots, a hitman would be throwing ninja stars at me from across the street.

Other jobs are going well. The coffee shop things keeps a going and my paper offered me to be the replacement film critic for the summer! But, then they found someone else who, you know, actually knew what they were talking about. Too bad. I was ready to convince my editor to let review the upcoming Transformers film for the paper. What a geek dream that would be!

"Optimus Prime has never looked better, leaving his boxy 80's looks for Bay inspired techno-militarism!" Well, I haven't actually seen the movie yet, so of course that line sounded bad, but, come on, the geekiness would have been astonishing!

Actual writing to follow later. Peace!

Hello, Charlotte

Speaking of nature...

________________

A Spider

By Garik Charneco

We live in the bottom half of a house split in two. We live in a basement. And every summer it fills up with creatures, mostly small. I caught a spider the other day, while getting the apartment ready for my sister's arrival. The nieces and nephew would not find the spider pleasing, probably even terrifying. Maybe the boy would delight in it, as little boys are supposed to, but I was never drawn to creepy crawlies. I imagined my nephew to be the same.

I pressed a plastic container against the ceiling and scooped her into the bowl. I didn't seal the lid, but left it haphazardly over the container. Too heavy for her to lift, but loose enough for me to watch.

I referred to the spider as a "her," because the back end, the thorax, glistened in a gray marble. It has a gelatinous shimmer to it and a purple veiny lattice work all around it. I envisioned her being pregnant, it being spring and all. Her legs were long, daddy-long legs long, but the field guide left over from college did not differentiate much in long-legged spiders. I had to pick from Eastern Daddy-Long Legs or Brown Daddy-Long Legs. All the other spiders in that section were woolly monsters with barbels and sharp hairs. Spider nothing like I have ever encountered, or would like to, in the apartment. Spiders nothing like her

She didn't seem like any of the long legs. From her midsection, her legs came away in neat little segments. Each joint between the segments had a pair of black bands around it, like old tube socks from gym class. She had a single black dot on the top of her midsection and nibbly thimble shaped head with a mess of shiny eyes. She performed tricks in the plastic, almost seemingly hanging from nothing in the middle of the bowl. Other times she pogoed on one leg, but, mostly, she probed at the sides and the lid.

I let her go into the container garden we keep outside the front door. I dropped her into some basil that had been gnawed on by insects unknown. As she scampered away, eight legs over one another, a moth flew into the house as if it knew the predator was gone.

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Peace!