I have a serious weakness for Bad Horror Movies - monster movies in particular. I don't much care about a family of cannibalistic rednecks or a chainsaw-wielding psychopath, but give me a shapechanging mutant or a body-infecting alien (or the more traditional ghost, werewolf, zombie, or vampire fare) and I'm in. I love them, and I watch waaaaaaay too many of them.
Sometimes they're low-budget but otherwise well done; sometimes they're just irredeemably awful. A few nights ago I watched Psychlops, which I'd place somewhere in the middle. The plot was essentially a sequel to H.P. Lovecraft's From Beyond, with a small group of friends recovering a machine that allows them to see into other dimensions and states of being.
Hijinks ensue.
The special effects were okay, and the acting was actually fairly decent. The production - scene continuity, in particular - left a lot to be desired, and the plot was a bit disjointed. The dialogue, however, was surprisingly good, and one line stuck with me (in fact, I paused the movie to write it down).
Basically, one of the peripheral characters is a Wiccan. At one point, she slips a necklace (unnoticed) onto the neck of one of the main characters. When the protagonists confront her about it later, she explains: "It's a charm. It's supposed to protect you from your enemies. I don't think there's anything that will protect you from your friends."
As a line, it was perfect for the situation and moment in the movie. But what really struck me about it - as someone who participates in several online communities and is occasionally called upon to offer personal advice - is that it neatly sums up my experience. It's not the people who dislike you who are a problem; it's friends and family who cause the really difficult problems.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Friday, August 6, 2010
Why Vampires Are Traditionally Aristocrats
I know, I know, modern vampires are counterculture rebels or an oppressed (how?) minority; enchanting demigods with just a hint of "bad boy". But back when vampires were something to fear, they were frequently presented as aristocrats. Nowadays, of course, we live in something more like a plutarchy...
...but the metaphor holds up surprisingly well.
I can haz torches and pitchforks, pleaz?
...but the metaphor holds up surprisingly well.
I can haz torches and pitchforks, pleaz?
My Son Knows Me Too Well
Shortly after my alarm went off, while I was still drifting in a state of semi-consciousness, I became aware of a brief giggle and the sound of bare feet pattering across the floor... leaving the room, strangely enough. I responded with my customary wit and poise: "Nguuunnh?"
Then I drifted back off, savoring the precious extra minutes of sleep afforded to me by that blessed invention known as the Snooze Button.
I was awakened again by the sound of footfalls, and this time there were two pairs of feet. The bed shifted as someone put their weight on it. I opened my eyes, and was not surprised to see Firstborn trying to climb up my side of the bed. He jumped over my prone form, and settled beside his mother on the other half of the bed.
The Beautiful Woman counted slowly to three. Then they both leaned and down and shook me, yelling: "Wake up, wake up, wake up!"
I gave the ritual response: "I'm awake, I'm awake, I'm awake." This was not, technically, a lie.
I straightened up and got into a sitting position, and Firstborn settled on top of me for a snuggle. The Beautiful Woman, meanwhile, was rubbing my shoulders and neck. My fondness for the Snooze Button aside, this is a vastly better way to wake up than the alarm clock will ever be.
We were exchanging morning pleasantries - "Sleep well?" "Oh, yes. You?" "Did you have nice dreams?" - when Firstborn asked, "What did you dream about, Daddy?"
"I don't remember," I told him. I really don't; I generally have to wake up more gradually in order to remember my dreams.
The Beautiful Woman was starting to say something when Firstborn - who just turned four back in June - interrupted her. "I know what Daddy dreamed."
We looked at him, and he continued: "Daddy dreamed about zombies."
My wife grinned. I allowed as how that might be the case.
The Beautiful Woman asked our son, "Did you have a zombie dream?"
He shook his head. "No. I don't know how to dream about zombies."
What can I say? He may not know how to dream about zombies, but he knows his father pretty well...
Then I drifted back off, savoring the precious extra minutes of sleep afforded to me by that blessed invention known as the Snooze Button.
I was awakened again by the sound of footfalls, and this time there were two pairs of feet. The bed shifted as someone put their weight on it. I opened my eyes, and was not surprised to see Firstborn trying to climb up my side of the bed. He jumped over my prone form, and settled beside his mother on the other half of the bed.
The Beautiful Woman counted slowly to three. Then they both leaned and down and shook me, yelling: "Wake up, wake up, wake up!"
I gave the ritual response: "I'm awake, I'm awake, I'm awake." This was not, technically, a lie.
I straightened up and got into a sitting position, and Firstborn settled on top of me for a snuggle. The Beautiful Woman, meanwhile, was rubbing my shoulders and neck. My fondness for the Snooze Button aside, this is a vastly better way to wake up than the alarm clock will ever be.
We were exchanging morning pleasantries - "Sleep well?" "Oh, yes. You?" "Did you have nice dreams?" - when Firstborn asked, "What did you dream about, Daddy?"
"I don't remember," I told him. I really don't; I generally have to wake up more gradually in order to remember my dreams.
The Beautiful Woman was starting to say something when Firstborn - who just turned four back in June - interrupted her. "I know what Daddy dreamed."
We looked at him, and he continued: "Daddy dreamed about zombies."
My wife grinned. I allowed as how that might be the case.
The Beautiful Woman asked our son, "Did you have a zombie dream?"
He shook his head. "No. I don't know how to dream about zombies."
What can I say? He may not know how to dream about zombies, but he knows his father pretty well...
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Reflections on Consultation
I've seen the Thing In The Well.
It's... "hideous" isn't quite the right word. Strange, certainly. It belongs to one of the races that came to Earth in the distant past and reigned for a time, then fell into decay and passed away. As far as we know, it's the last of its kind. Unlike, say, Oracle, the Thing In The Well is at least recognizable as a living creature, even if its shape and substance are unfamiliar.
I can't tell you where I was, of course, or who was with me. I can tell you that the Well will never be spotted, even by satellite photography, and that the Thing In The Well speaks a passable variant of modern English... despite having throats that aren't really suited for it. I don't know whether it was pleased to have visitors, but it heaved itself up to look over the edge of the well at us and spoke a greeting.
So I explained my dream, and even made a few sketches to explain the... hexagonal... nature of the place where I'd found myself. I told it about the mists that seemed to be life in that place, and the overwhelming black cloud that had pursued me, and the stain that had appeared on my ankle.
The Thing In The Well took my words and my sketches and spent a few minutes... digesting them. I wish I was being less literal than I am.
I looked at my companion, but she just motioned for me to wait. So we stood, and we waited, and the Thing In The Well thought, or remembered, or something. Maybe it was just scratching an itch down where we couldn't see it; I'll never know. Its expression might be easier to read if it had anything resembling eyes. Then again, on that head, maybe not.
Finally, though, it spoke. What it said was, simply: "The place might be-" and it made a sound that I don't think I can reproduce. "I know little about it. How you found your way there; if you were called; these things I do not know." Then it named a ritual that might help, though it couldn't - or wouldn't - say how.
I know more than I did, at least - and I have something else to try, and a new direction for research. This is going to go up late, since I still have to fly back to Texas today. My companion dropped me off at the airport a little early (I'm sure she has a lot of work to do, too, now) so I was able to type this up and have a glass of scotch while I was waiting for my plane. It'll be good to get back home, even with all this still unsettled. I've been missing Claire - I hadn't really realized just how used I've gotten to having her around. Here's hoping for a quick, safe flight...
Late addendum: I'm back! Claire picked me up at the airport, and we stopped for dinner on the way home. Maybe I'll write up my report for the archives tomorrow...
It's... "hideous" isn't quite the right word. Strange, certainly. It belongs to one of the races that came to Earth in the distant past and reigned for a time, then fell into decay and passed away. As far as we know, it's the last of its kind. Unlike, say, Oracle, the Thing In The Well is at least recognizable as a living creature, even if its shape and substance are unfamiliar.
I can't tell you where I was, of course, or who was with me. I can tell you that the Well will never be spotted, even by satellite photography, and that the Thing In The Well speaks a passable variant of modern English... despite having throats that aren't really suited for it. I don't know whether it was pleased to have visitors, but it heaved itself up to look over the edge of the well at us and spoke a greeting.
So I explained my dream, and even made a few sketches to explain the... hexagonal... nature of the place where I'd found myself. I told it about the mists that seemed to be life in that place, and the overwhelming black cloud that had pursued me, and the stain that had appeared on my ankle.
The Thing In The Well took my words and my sketches and spent a few minutes... digesting them. I wish I was being less literal than I am.
I looked at my companion, but she just motioned for me to wait. So we stood, and we waited, and the Thing In The Well thought, or remembered, or something. Maybe it was just scratching an itch down where we couldn't see it; I'll never know. Its expression might be easier to read if it had anything resembling eyes. Then again, on that head, maybe not.
Finally, though, it spoke. What it said was, simply: "The place might be-" and it made a sound that I don't think I can reproduce. "I know little about it. How you found your way there; if you were called; these things I do not know." Then it named a ritual that might help, though it couldn't - or wouldn't - say how.
I know more than I did, at least - and I have something else to try, and a new direction for research. This is going to go up late, since I still have to fly back to Texas today. My companion dropped me off at the airport a little early (I'm sure she has a lot of work to do, too, now) so I was able to type this up and have a glass of scotch while I was waiting for my plane. It'll be good to get back home, even with all this still unsettled. I've been missing Claire - I hadn't really realized just how used I've gotten to having her around. Here's hoping for a quick, safe flight...
Late addendum: I'm back! Claire picked me up at the airport, and we stopped for dinner on the way home. Maybe I'll write up my report for the archives tomorrow...
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Hysteria as a National Pastime
Opinion article by Tim Rutten:
"If you reengage the American media after a month out of the country, as I've done this week, it's hard not to conclude that hysteria is now the dominant characteristic of our politics and civic conversation."
For me, the money quote is down at the bottom of page 2:
"Back in the early 1970s — an era whose tumult we yet may come to regard as benign — social scientists here and in Britain coined the term "moral panic" to describe what can happen when groups of people are seized by an exaggerated fear that other people or communal forces threaten their values or way of life. The scholars described those who promoted the panic's spread as "moral entrepreneurs" — a term that takes on a deep resonance when you consider the commentators and politicians who have attached themselves, and their interests, to the "tea party" and its attendant movements.
"In the midst of moral panic, inchoate indignation stands in for reason; accusation and denunciation supplant dialogue and argument; history and facts are rendered malleable, merely adjuncts of the moral entrepreneur's — or should we say provocateur's — rhetorical will. As we now also see, a self-interested mass media with an economic stake in the theatricality of raised and angry voices can transmit moral panic like a pathogen.
"Looking around the United States in the summer of 2010, hysterical moral panic seems an apt description of our fevered political condition."
I recently commented that I don't really care whether or not other people watch television; my decision not to watch is personal, rather than ideological. That's still true, but I would like to encourage people to unplug themselves from the panic factories.
Edited to add: Just to be clear, I'm not talking about television in general; "panic factories" is a refence to the sort programming which is specifically designed to make people panic about things in the real world. News shows are pretty bad about this ("Could your kids be in danger because of this common household item? Tune in at eight to find out...") and I suspect that a fair chunk of talk/opinion shows are as well. There's some portion of the population whose churches are panic factories, and there's plenty of people whose friends are as well.
Basically, if something or someone spends most of their time telling you things that make you worried or scared, it's time to stop listening to them. A well-placed (and truthful) warning is one thing; a constant litany of reasons to panic is another. I'm talking about the American news media in particular, but I think it's good general advice.
"If you reengage the American media after a month out of the country, as I've done this week, it's hard not to conclude that hysteria is now the dominant characteristic of our politics and civic conversation."
For me, the money quote is down at the bottom of page 2:
"Back in the early 1970s — an era whose tumult we yet may come to regard as benign — social scientists here and in Britain coined the term "moral panic" to describe what can happen when groups of people are seized by an exaggerated fear that other people or communal forces threaten their values or way of life. The scholars described those who promoted the panic's spread as "moral entrepreneurs" — a term that takes on a deep resonance when you consider the commentators and politicians who have attached themselves, and their interests, to the "tea party" and its attendant movements.
"In the midst of moral panic, inchoate indignation stands in for reason; accusation and denunciation supplant dialogue and argument; history and facts are rendered malleable, merely adjuncts of the moral entrepreneur's — or should we say provocateur's — rhetorical will. As we now also see, a self-interested mass media with an economic stake in the theatricality of raised and angry voices can transmit moral panic like a pathogen.
"Looking around the United States in the summer of 2010, hysterical moral panic seems an apt description of our fevered political condition."
I recently commented that I don't really care whether or not other people watch television; my decision not to watch is personal, rather than ideological. That's still true, but I would like to encourage people to unplug themselves from the panic factories.
Edited to add: Just to be clear, I'm not talking about television in general; "panic factories" is a refence to the sort programming which is specifically designed to make people panic about things in the real world. News shows are pretty bad about this ("Could your kids be in danger because of this common household item? Tune in at eight to find out...") and I suspect that a fair chunk of talk/opinion shows are as well. There's some portion of the population whose churches are panic factories, and there's plenty of people whose friends are as well.
Basically, if something or someone spends most of their time telling you things that make you worried or scared, it's time to stop listening to them. A well-placed (and truthful) warning is one thing; a constant litany of reasons to panic is another. I'm talking about the American news media in particular, but I think it's good general advice.
Parenting Journal: Crazy Summer
I've just finished the latest entry in the Book of Parenting. It's not the most cheerful or amusing thing I've ever written - no great tragedies, but we've all been sick and as a result July was a looooooong month - so feel free to skip down to the pictures and videos at the bottom. And hey, if reading about my experiences as a parent just isn't your cup of tea, that's cool, too.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Expanding My Repertoire
That's right, I've decided to try my hand at a movie script. Behold:
INT. BUILDING - DAY
LARRY MARTIN (mid-thirties) lean, holding baseball bat in one hand, parts blinds and looks out through dirty window. Room behind him is dim. Several other figures wait amid weapons and camping equipment.
TONY BRIGHAM (late twenties) leans shotgun against wall and kneels down to start rolling up a sleeping bag.
SHELLY MARTIN (early thirties) looks up, panicked.
TOM BILLINGS stirs. He is sitting on the edge of a table. He is in his late forties, portly, dressed in the ragged remains of a suit. His tie hangs loose around his neck.
SEAN KEEGAN (late teens / early twenties,) enters, expression tense. He gestures sharply, then points down. In his other hand, he holds a boar spear.
KAYLEEN GREY (early / mid teens) straightens, watching him.
Kayleen Grey starts gathering cans from the table where Tom Billings is sitting.
Okay, so, I've decided to branch out. Most - nearly all - of my writing is some sort of prose, and most of the time, I'm fine with that. Recently, though, I decided that it was time to try something new. And, since I love you all so much, I thought I'd give you a sneak peak at my new project. Yes, it's a film script; and yes, it's a horror movie. Nobody who actually knows me should be surprised by that. I've even mocked up a movie poster for it. And so, without further ado, my next project:
INT. BUILDING - DAY
LARRY MARTIN (mid-thirties) lean, holding baseball bat in one hand, parts blinds and looks out through dirty window. Room behind him is dim. Several other figures wait amid weapons and camping equipment.
LARRY MARTIN
They're still out there. (pause) I think there's more of them.
TONY BRIGHAM (late twenties) leans shotgun against wall and kneels down to start rolling up a sleeping bag.
TONY BRIGHAM
We need to go. Those barricades won't hold forever.
SHELLY MARTIN (early thirties) looks up, panicked.
SHELLY MARTIN
Go where? Those things are everywhere.
TONY BRIGHAM
They know we're here. They'll find a way in.
SHELLY MARTIN
How? How do they know? How do they keep finding us?
LARRY MARTIN
Smell? Sound? Sight? It doesn't matter. Tony's right. We need to keep moving.
TOM BILLINGS stirs. He is sitting on the edge of a table. He is in his late forties, portly, dressed in the ragged remains of a suit. His tie hangs loose around his neck.
TOM BILLINGS
Well, you're right about one thing. It doesn't matter. This is a judgement from God. He has poured out His wrath upon us.
TONY BRIGHAM
Brother, if you'd known anything about God's Wrath, you'd've had an ark already built.
SEAN KEEGAN (late teens / early twenties,) enters, expression tense. He gestures sharply, then points down. In his other hand, he holds a boar spear.
KAYLEEN GREY (early / mid teens) straightens, watching him.
KAYLEEN GREY
They're in the building.
Kayleen Grey starts gathering cans from the table where Tom Billings is sitting.
LARRY MARTIN
Get to the roof. Don't use the guns unless you have to. We'll block the door and wait. When it gets dark, we can cross to the next building and make our way down.
Okay, so, I've decided to branch out. Most - nearly all - of my writing is some sort of prose, and most of the time, I'm fine with that. Recently, though, I decided that it was time to try something new. And, since I love you all so much, I thought I'd give you a sneak peak at my new project. Yes, it's a film script; and yes, it's a horror movie. Nobody who actually knows me should be surprised by that. I've even mocked up a movie poster for it. And so, without further ado, my next project:
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