Yesterday my wife and I drove down to my dad's house to visit he and my mother and while we were there, took in a movie.  We saw The Men Who Stare At Goats, (TMWSAG for short) and although I can't speak for what everyone else was expecting, I was at least wanting a few laughs.  After all, that's how the movie was billed, if you have been (un?)fortunate enough to have seen the trailer.

This is really not the case.  It's not a case of the movie being billed as something that it is not; my hallmark example in this arena is the Kevin Spacey/Frank Whaley movie Swimming With Sharks, which is billed as a comedy in every video store I've ever seen it in, and the movie is not a comedy in any shape, manner or form.  TMWSAG is lacking in laughs because, quite simply, it is a bad movie.  I know that if I sat down and broke bread with the critics who gave it such glowing reviews--and it should be noted for the record that these people are in the minority--that in all likelihood they would tell me I "didn't get the movie the way it was intended to be experienced" or some other claptrap that implies I am the one at fault for not appreciating what the filmmakers were trying to do.  I respond to this as I always do when I told that I'm not erudite enough to appreciate the subtle nuances of celluloid fuck-fests like this; by pointing out I am a certified genius, and then making a rude noise.

This movie attempts to elicit the majority of its yucks by juxtaposing wildly opposite things, which is a standard of comedic filmmaking.  In this case, it is hippies and the U.S. military.  Any intrinsic comedy in this image usually disappears about the third time it makes its way on screen, and this bell is rung over and over again.  Unfortunately, this has much the opposite effect; instead of chuckling each time Jeff Bridges or George Clooney does something very flower-child in the middle of their olive drag outfitted compatriots, you begin to wonder just exactly how realistic this portrayal is.  Wouldn't somebody step in at some point and tell Bridges that he needed to hack off his two-foot-plus long ponytail?  I mena, really?

It's particularly sad because the casting feels so wrong, and it's not because the actors themselves are bad at their craft.  Jeff Bridges' legendary performance of The Dude in The Big Lebowski feels recycled here, and George Clooney (who was so comedically good in Leatherheads, O Brother Where Art Thou? and Burn After Reading) is trying to make the best out of a bad script.  Kevin Spacey is given virtually nothing to do, and any filmmaker who wastes a talent like that should tarred and feathered.  The main spotlight goes to Ewan MacGregor, who although is a nice, serviceable actor, gets the majority of the non-flashback related screen time and is forced to play straight man to Clooney, whose jokes are unfunny to begin with.  There are also no women in this movie, which has the added effect of making it feel woefully imbalanced.

TMWSAG wants to be a hip, ironic, dark comedy, but without any comedy, it makes it feel like New Age superficial twaddle.  Avoid this film at all costs.  If you have to chew off a limb to escape the cinema turnstiles, I'll loan you a nail file to make your teeth sharper and speed up the God-awful job.  The one saving grace of the nearly two hours if my life that I will never get back is that I saw a preview for next year's horror film The Crazies, a remake of the 1973 George Romero film starring Timothy Olyphant, who was soo good in Deadwood that I gave the awful film Hitman a try on Netflix.  The Crazies looks dark, horrific and thoroughly entertaining.

The Men Who Stare At Goats: it's sad when a preview becomes the saving grace for an entire afternoon.

Okay, so you've heard me trumpeting the greatness of Jim Butcher for the past couple years in this space, and while I love his series The Dresden Files (also available as an alternate universe television show on DVD which aired on the Sci-Fi Channel), I'm even more impressed by his high fantasy series, The Codex Alera.  The story is that Butcher took a bet from one of his pals that he couldn't write a fantasy series which involved Roman soldiers and Pokemon-style monsters, and not only did he succeed, he created the best fantasy series since... um, well, ever.

Now, y'all know that I love a good book, but I also love a great deal as well.  The final book in the six novel series, First Lord's Fury, is going to be released on November 22nd.  If you pre-order this book on Amazon.com, the usual twenty-five dollar or so price has been slashed to an unheard-of low, low price of exactly NINE FUCKING DOLLARS.

I repeat: nine fucking dollars.  For a hardcover book that's probably going to be better than any other one you read this year.  If you pass on this deal, do not pass Go and collect your two hundred dollars.  Instead, receive a kick in the ass.

Now go get the first five novels, read those, pre-order the final one at a whopping discount, read the climax of the best damn fantasy series to ever come down the pike, and then, and only then, you may thank me.

Good stuff should always be shared.  Now go and do likewise.

The word count at the end of today on Dead of Winter was 12,323 words.  Not too bad.  I am beating the per-day average of 1,667 words by about a 2-1 margin, and the fair Bebe has served as an excellent nemesis to compete against.  I feel good about the way the plot is unfolding, and I am enjoying the banter between my characters.  So far, it's been a major change of pace from last year.  In 2008, I was writing a doctoral thesis.  This year, it's an actual novel.

My Steve McNair jersey should be here in a few days, since it shipped today via priority USPS and is only coming from Los Angeles.  I may have to make a photo post where I lay out all my jerseys; the collection is pretty extensive.  Another item I am waiting for is my upgrade copy to Windows 7 (provided free via Dell for those ordering within a certain time frame), so I can dump Vista and its annoying constant stream of pop-ups asking me if I am sure I really want to run a program, upgrade a driver or in general do anything at all.  Vista is all right, I suppose, but I am definitely looking forward to increased stability and wringing some more drops of horsepower out of Nemesis.

Oh, and I had a BSOD with the Alienware after installing a new set of display drivers, so thank God for Windows Restore Point software.  Whew.

Got a few more days left on vacation, and it's been rather restful this week.

Night, all.

I watched for a week and it all came crashing down tonight.  I bought another sports jersey.  Steve McNair Tenneessee Titans #9.  Price in store:  $220.00.  My price:  $39.95.

Thank you, Ebay.  And thank you to my wife for putting up with my addiction.

Word count right now on Dead of Winter is 7,784.  I'm having a glass of $60 per bottle wine to help my wife celebrate that one of her crappy co-workers got the axe today; my nickname for her was "The Emperess."  I am enjoying The Proposal with my man Ryan Reynolds, and the reboot of V comes on tonight.

Wow, occasional tooth pain aside, this vacation is going well.  How's your end of the 'verse today?

So today I finished the prologue chapter of Dead of Winter and also started the first chapter as well.  I finished pretty close to 5,000 words, and I got a lot of football watching done, plus I showed up for a taping of Good Morning Sacramento at 8:30 or so this morning.  You can see the story they ran on our group at this link, and I am the one in the red and white flannel shirt and the ponytail.  Plus, they used Nemesis for the starting point of the video, so I had a good hitch of pride there.  All in all, today was a good day.

Going to a write-in tomorrow and I'll play some Dan Patrick while chewing into the book.  All in all, a good start.

If anybody ever decided to make me this, they would instantly be promoted to Head of The Internet.

Here's a hotlinked pic:



(drool)

Some people have been after me for a while now to post some original music, so here's one. Hopefully after the new year I will be able to use my new equipment to have a fully mixed MP3 with drums and bass, but for now, here's the bare-bones rhythm riffs. My wife did the taping and the composition is original and copyrighted so please, play if you like, but don't steal.

This one's for you, Elizabeth.

I've been asked by some people what the plot is for this year's edition of National Novel Writing Month.  Here's the sales pitch:

A grisly murder in Lake Tahoe draws the attention of a fledgling paranormal investigation team working on behalf of private interests and the United States government.  The previous incarnation of the group met an unearthly fate at the hands of unknown gathering dark forces, and now it appears the team is in over their heads as the mystery darkens and the body count rises.  Will the team even be able to save their own souls, much less those of the people they have sworn to defend?

That's the cover letter response.  The pat answer I give people is that Dead of Winter is "part The X-Files, part Ghostbusters and part CSI... and deadly business."  It's got ghosts, demons, serial killers, ritual torture, police procedure, skulduggery, smokescreens and general hellraising.

So yeah, that's my newest project.

Oh, and the laptop?  It's apparently going to arrive on Friday.  This Friday.

Life's good, my devoted peeps.  Life's good.

Jesus, almost a month since updating?  Really?

Well, right now we're fostering three kittens that we're attempting to find homes for... I think this will come out as a positive push on the great wheel of karma for me, and I suspect that it's already beginning to pay positive dividends.  Why, you ask?  Two reasons:

1)  My three literary torpedoes are still in the water, running hot and true, and have yet to be turned away from their prospective targets.

2)  OMG MY NEW LAPTOP WILL ARRIVE ON MONDAY!11!1!!!!1!11

I've been using the same Dell Inspiron 6000 since about March 2004 and while I love it it to death and have done a lot of quality writing (he prayed devoutly) on its keys, time marches on and does with with a particularly heavy tread over electronics.  I occasionally get the dreaded BSOD (Blue Screen Of Death), the DVD-ROM drive does not always wish to eject discs and most distressingly, the sound is completely kaput.  Not even headphones will work, my devoted peeps.  In the last few months, I have gotten to experience a silent world via my Inspiron and... and quite honestly, it sucks.

Enter Nemesis.



It's an Alienware laptop, which means that not only is it dreadfully expensive, it will also play Doom 3 at speeds and graphic resolutions that previously I could only pray bitterly for.  I love Doom 3.  Loooooooove it, but unfortunately it requires more oomph than my wife's laptop can provide.  The new model will have this in spades (drool), plus Microsoft Office (sweet), a sturdy-as-fuck alumnium chassis (hell yes) and glowing red backlit keys (positively deadly).  Yes, it is aptly named.  Nemesis, goddess of divine retribution.  Oh, and with a Blu-ray DVD player.

It's my Christmas present, but I don't have to wait to open it up; it will be here in time for my vacation and therefore for National Novel Writing Month.  When it was ordered, the build date was scheduled around the end of the month, something which past experience has taught us is usually off by about two weeks at the least.

This time, the time lapse is in our favor.

What's good in your life lately?

I know I said this space would next feature what else happened during our weekend, but I have a different report instead:

Another torpedo is in the water.  The Phoenix Initiative has been submitted.  That makes three novels--The Phoenix Initiative, Salvation and The Final Nine--that are now in the submission mix all at the same time.

Hell's bells, a good carpet bombing has to hit something sooner or later, right?  ;)

I had Friday off from work because Lady Jade and I were going to head down to Concord and spend the weekend with Mad Evil Chris.  Among the events that would take place were a baseball game (Oakland A's versus the Cleveland Indians), my cherry-popping at the hands of the video game Guitar Hero, and probably a decent amount of alcohol abuse.  Hey, maybe even the Oakland Raiders would win a game!

Getting Friday off was a smart move, in theory.  It was a premeditated maneuver, one that would allow us to fit in a lot of extracurricular activities in addition to the drive down to the Bay Area.  However, the will of the universe hates to be challenged, so I present with an alternately heavy and head-shaking heart, a special edition of Ups And Downs:

( This Is Where The Butt-Whippings Start )

So the tale of the tape in the doctor's office has revealed a very interesting factoid about myself: despite being an avowed horror movie fan, a dedicated follower of the Oakland Raiders and not having killed my in-laws yet, I have been diagnosed with a "weak stomach."

You'd think the Raider thing alone would prove I have a gut of cast-iron, wouldn't you?  Well, you'd be wrong.  What I actually have is a slow digestive tract, and I got to find this out by going to my local Kaiser branch and eating irradiated scrambled eggs, whereupon their progress of lack thereof were then tracked through my digestive tract for the next two hours.  In case you were wondering, the eggs were horrible.  Not even cafeteria eggs... lab eggs.  Most likely some kind of experiment gone awry.  The substandard speed with which they traveled through told them that they were dealing with a person whose stomach just doesn't run at the speed it should.

What does this mean in practical terms?  Well, several things.  First of all, I should be eating several small meals throughout the course of the day rather than two whopper meals the way normal Americans do.  This is actually a blessing in disguise, because eating in this way actually speeds up the metabolism of your body, making it much easier to lose weight.

Incidentally, since we're on that disagreeable subject... 209 pounds.  Seriously.  That is so fucking far from being okay that I can't even really begin to wrap my head around it all.  Being 5;9" and 209 pounds is unacceptable.  Totally unacceptable.

Anyway, on to point number two of my new health plan, which is that the last meal of the night I eat should be something both fairly easy to digest and should also give my stomach a nice coating to fight off stomach acid.  What's the meal of choice?  CEREAL!  Yes, I have slogged through all I have gone through so I can chow down like a little kid.  While we're being honest, though, I have to admit that once again, this is actually fairly okay.  See, I happen to really like cereal, it's a very cost-effective meal and I get to have a desert as well.  Vanilla almond Special K followed up by Cocoa Krispies equals YUM.  So once again, not too bad.

Point three sucks, though.  Carbonation is bad, so that means... nighttime beer is a no-no.  Nooooooooo!  What will I do without my beer, that thing which usually keeps me from murdering my in-laws?

Well, I'm not a wi-no... I'm a wi-yes!  Wine has no carbonation, less of an acid content than hard liquor and goes well with cheese.  It's also tasty and gives a nice, mellow buzz, so there you go.

I'll let you know how my health plan goes but thus far, after two days I have had zero bad spells whereas before I had three out of four nights with the night pukes.  I guess something must be working.

Peace.

I promised a picture of Hera, and now it has been delivered.

She is sweet.  Definitely a Daddy's Girl.

Last night I went to be about 9:30 PM or so; an hour later, I was yarking my guts into the Porcelain Throne.  That's right, the return of the dreaded Night Pukes strikes again.  Once that was done I weaved my way back to bed and fell into a sodden sleep...

...which was not interrupted at the God-awful hour of 5:00 AM by the alarm clock.  See, I had set the alarm for that time, but mistakenly had calibrated it for PM rather than AM.  So when I stared blearily at the time of 5:32 AM, I immediately realized that with a checkout time on my bus of not a second later than 6:04 AM, I was going to need to grow a rocket between my ass cheeks in order to get to work on time.

Thankfully the coffee was already brewed up and I was able to get to work on time, but I felt awful all morning.  I'm not going to my second half and am in fact going to see my doctor about this, because this problem was supposed to be handled and when I described how I was feeling, I was asked a serfies of questions that I have never been posed before and quite frankly worried me.  Things like, "Have you recently had an organ transplant?" and "Are you currently undergoing chemotherapy?"

Gulp.

Oh, and I also got shot down again on the submission front, so booooooo to that as well.

Basically, today blows.  I hope it's going better for you.

UPDATE:  Uh-oh.  This may be more serious than I thought.  Not to go all TMI here, but the solidity of what I threw up (it was like barfing out an old Dungeons & Dragons gelatinous cube monster) and the fact that it only seems to happen at night may mean that my stomach is not digesting at the rate it should.  It could also have something to do with my liver.  When I went to the doctor today, I had some blood drawn for analysis at the lab, which in itself is a highly unamusing process.  Lurking in the future is eating irradiated food and seeing how long it takes to leave various parts of my digestive system.  Not as painful, but potentially more ominous for what it may reveal.

Man, this is not good.  Not at all.

Lady Jade and I have been married for six years as of today.  I love you, honey.  Thank you for the best years of my life.

On another note entirely, Mad Evil Chris and I have renewed our annual bet concerning our respective NFL teams, the St. Louis Rams for him, the Oakland Raiders for myself.  Whoever has their team finish with a better record (the "winner") will then get from their opponent (henceforth referred to as "the loser, loser, loser") the spoils of war, which in this case is a large box of TGI Friday's Buffalo Wings and a six-pack of whatever beer they desire.

I use quotation marks around the appellations of "winner" and "the loser, loser, loser" because of the tiebreaking formula used.  Both of us predicted what our team's final record is going to be; in the event of a tie by our franchises, the winner will be determined by who was closer to their team's final record.  We picked as follows:

CHRIS:  says the St. Louis Rams will finish with a 4-12 record.

JESSE:  says the Oakland Raiders will finish with a 5-11 record.

So actually, going with the amount of faith we seem to have in our teams, there doesn't seem to be any winners this year.

I've made my dental appointment for Friday, October 30th, at 8 in the morning.  This is the one where I will be having four, count 'em, FOUR wisdom teeth extracted.  I'm a little conflicted for the following reasons:

PRO:  Since I scheduled so far in advance, I was able to get the Friday that I start my vacation as my date with the oral surgeon.  This means that my plan of having it done while off work so I won't take it out on the public or be unable to drive is an unqualified success.  It also means that since I will having it done so early in the morning, I will have very little time to be terrified before going under the sleep gas.  Hopefully I wake up, be groggier, go to Folsom, and then be even groggier for the rest of the day.  By Tuesday, I should be pretty much myself again and possibly even able to eat solid food once again.

CON:  I am volunteering for very invasive oral surgery, which makes me feel like the biggest masochist of all time.

Sometimes being an adult blows.

I'm in the middle of The Wait right now; I capitalize the first letter of each word of that label so I can give it the due it deserves.  The Wait is when an aspiring author (or an established one) sends in a query/proposal/manuscript to a publisher/agent, and then embarks on a lengthy period of time where they try to not think about what they have done.  I submitted about two and a half weeks ago; therefore, I am once again embroiled in The Wait.

It is what it is.

Incidentally, established authors have this happen to them as well.  While chatting one time with rachelcaine , I was astounded to find out that she had recently sent off a proposal to a publisher, and was now waiting on pins and needles to find out what the verdict was going to be.  I am not trying to sound mean when I say this, so please don't intepret it that way... but in a way it did my soul a tremendous amount of good to know that even somebody who has almost two dozen novels in the bookstore under their belt isn't immune to this sort of literary teeth-grinding.  I told her this, and we laughed about how odd the universe can be.

The process of The Wait is one that on some level, you never get used to.  Take it from me, kids; I've been in this racket for nearly two decades now and I still get the butterflies, inflated hopes and heaviness in the pit of my stomach caused from this process every single time (and not just every time, but every single fucking time!) I do this literary throwing of a dart at the Yellow Pages.  I have tried a multitude of different methods to distract my brain from turning over the possibilities and nothing works.  Like Bill Parcells said, it is what it is.

In order to do this career choice, you have to have to possess the ability of doublethink.  As those of us who read George Orwell's 1984 know, doublethink is the ability to hold two equally opposite views in complete balance, believing them both at the same time.  Now the rest of y'all know it, too.  See, you really do learn something new every day.  In this instance, the process of doublethink allows the nascent author to hold the following viewpoints right up near the front of their gray matter:

1)  I am sending this off and I know it is going to be accepted;

2)  I am sending this off and I know it is going to be rejected.

The sad part is, you need to have both of these philosophies and you need to balance them accordingly.  You have to have both yin and yang.  If you start thinking only that you're going to succeed, every form letter rejection and invitation to find a new career path is going to burn like hydrochloric acid.  On the other hand, calm belief in doom will eventually result in pulling a Sylvia Plath in some way or another.  You may not literally stick your head in the oven, but you'll stop submitting and then possibly writing as well, which pretty much adds up to the same thing when consulting the (not-so) grand scorecard.

It's a tough series of downs, but you have to play the hand you're dealt.

Good thoughts to you and yours.

Well, I've registered for the 2010 San Francisco Writer's Conference.  I perused the list of agents and agencies who will be in attendance and found, much to my mixed delight and discomfiture, there were three agents of the twenty or so in attendance who I had previously contacted and was--of course--rejected by.

At the very least, it settles any lingering doubts I might have had that everybody was going to be a bunch of nobodies.

Still waiting to hear back on a submission of Salvation I tossed out two weeks ago.

Other than that, life is a holding pattern.  Peace.

We have rescued a kitten.

Her name is Hera.

Pics to follow.

The trailer for the new and updated version of the science fiction classic miniseries V premiered at Comic-Con.  It has already been scrutinized as having an anti-Obama message and is also being touted as a program that, much like Battlestar Galactica, is sure to become a favorite of neoconservatives everywhere.

(slow burn)

You know, I would for once like something to come out with a depth to it that is more than mud puddle-deep and not have its alleged hidden symbolism assigned to one political camp or the other.  That would just be fucking super.