Tales of the Tragically Unhip - Volume 1

     As many of you remember (or perhaps you don't as it has been so long since last I posted), I am not made of the same stuff as the younger generations. The stardust and quantum energies that coalesced to form the haunted and ruinous temple that is me are older and more basic than those of the generations that have since been born. Were I to make a real world comparison, I would liken myself to a rotary phone with a ten foot spiral cord that was ever getting tangled to an iPhone 13.

    Evidence of this sad little truth lies in an incident that occurred some months back when I made a trip to Starbucks. Now, I would like to point out that I do not drink coffee. Coffee and I do not play well together, digestively speaking. However, I do love the smell of coffee and I have tried to drink it on many occasions, but the resulting reactions are unpleasant for myself and everyone around me. 

As such, I drink tea. Starbucks is not known for tea.

My family, you see, they drink coffee. They enjoy the fanciful concoctions with names that sound as if they belong in one of my novels. Chocolate flavored coffee or those with flavored creamers seem to delight them the most. And I, being the considerate patriarch, decided one day that I would stop by one of the local Starbucks on my way home just to surprise them with something they enjoyed. I was feeling very proud of myself as I turned into the drive thru lane. I mean, there did seem to be an inordinate number of cars, but it was a Friday just after rush hour so I was still feeling confident in my generosity.

The universe had other ideas.

My turn was soon approaching and I had come within site of the menu board. This is where I should have realized that I was in over my head. Still, undaunted, I stalked the listings like a Hanna Barbera lion in search of my prey. To my compounding confusion, I fond things such as: Cappuccino( I have heard of these from TV and movies), Honey almond milk flat white (ummmm...), Cinnamon Dolce Latte (Sounds...fancy?), Macchiatos (WTF?), Mocha (Chocolate-ish?), Clover Brewed coffees, and these are just the "hot coffee" items! 

Steady on, lad. You can do this.

Right then, it's nearly my turn though the person in front of me seems to be ordering for all of the city and the surrounding counties. More time to decipher these hipster (do people still say that?) runes. Hmmm...mocha. I've heard the wife say that before for...ice cream, maybe? No, something to do with desserts. It means coffee flavored chocolate? Well, I suppose it would be the reverse here. Mocha it is then. 

The surburban-elite-land yacht finally pulled forward taking the far too tight turn like hippopotamus in a sluice. I slunk forward like the coffee Philistine that i am and prepared to order. The speaker crackled on a woman asked me what I would like to order. 

"Two mochas, please" I answered.

"Which kind would you like?" she asked in return.

Which kind? There' s more than one? Bother.

I hurriedly look at the menu trying to see what I had missed. There were really only three options, but my brain latched onto the Frappachino (whatever in God's name that is) menu a glitched. There are at least a dozen varieties of those and so I replied, "Mocha Cookie Crumble."

There was a pause before she replied, "So you want Frappacinos, then?"

Frappaccino? What the hell is that? Oh, bother and damnation! I'm on the wrong menu.

"No, just a mocha please." I said hoping to steer the conversation back to where i thought it should be.

"Sir, which kind would you like?"

At this point, I could feel the judgement from the professional coffee drinkers in line behind me. Their vexation flew forward and piled itself on top my growing anxiety. Steady on, old bean. You can do this.

"Chocolate Cream, then, please"

Another slightly longer pause before she answered. "So you want a cold brew?" 

Cold brew? What...oh, for the love of...wrong damn menu again! Wait, was she laughing?

I could feel the heat rising at the back of my neck and in my cheeks. My ancestors were looking down on me and facepalming in despair at my ineptness. But then just as I was to pull out of the line in shame, I found the right part of the menu.

"Ah, ha!" I exclaimed. "Two reserve mochas, please"

There was definitely laughter in the ranks when she answered. "What size would you like? Tall, Venti, or Grande?"

Venti? Grande? I haven't studied Latin in 25 years. What the ever loving f....

At this point, one of the cars behind me honked its horn followed shortly by another. 

Frustrated and in a panic, I replied, "Look, I don't know the words to tell you that I want the chocolate flavored coffee in the large cup!"

There was a longish pause after that before the speaker came on again. Laughter tumbled out in digital buckets. She tried to reply but had to cut off her mic. I didn't wait for her to answer. I just pulled forward to the window and then handed my card to the person at the till. I didn't look at them save for a brief moment when they handed me the drinks. I believe I saw pity in her eyes, but I didn't linger long enough to find out for certain.

I am told that I did indeed get the right coffee drinks, though I think my family may have taken pity on the old man and told me what I wanted to hear. I have not returned to that Starbucks or any other as I am certain the tale of tragically unhip old lion has been spread far and wide. 

Writing Groups!

 

This is a little dated.  I meant to post this a couple of weeks ago.

Our writing group has been meeting online during Stupid Covid.  I think we tried to have a group once--but I've seen a few of these awesome people through this time.

Certainly not often enough.

A couple of weeks ago, we had an in-person workshop, and it was fabulous.  The picture above is from the brewery where some of us wandered after the meeting.

I know I said this previously, but I will say this again: online workshops do not replace the camaraderie and bonds that we build in the writing world.  I think writers have an innate vulnerability, and we need the support, encouragement, and creativity that Zoom cannot replace.

Sitting around a table, discussing the possibilities in a new story, and yes, sometimes sharing a beer make the bonds in writing groups really powerful and so dang interesting.

David Foster Wallace: The future of fiction in the information age

David Foster Wallace.  Listening to him talk about literature is truly interesting.  He tells some great insights and truths.

Neil Gaiman reading at Butler

I've intended to write about the reading at Butler.  Randy, Nick, my mom, and I went to the reading and had a fantastic time.

I have been listening to different videos on Youtube for Gaiman and have been tremendously impressed by his presentation.  Not only does he write well, but also he sells himself well; he is funny, engaging, interesting, and accessible.  He tells stories about being a writer and appeals to his audience.  At times, I felt like he was speaking to an audience of writers, not just readers, which seemed clever.  I  suspect many of his readers are hopeful writers.

Anyway, during his reading at Butler, he read short stories--nothing of his novels.  I liked this.  I'm certain that he could have read from his novels, but not everyone would have been able to engage with all of his novels, so reading his short stories pulled everyone into the tales, and we could experience each of those stories. 

Here is a story, not one that he read that night, but one that I listened to recently.  This story is suspenseful, and the tension does not disappoint--although the ending is a little sad.  And yes, I have cats and love them dearly.

Here is "The Price" by Neil Gaiman.

Writing Advice from Neil Gaiman

Another quick video with Neil Gaiman.  Can you tell I am excited to see him speak?

Neil Gaiman is coming to Butler!

Neil Gaiman is coming to Butler!

Saw this on Youtube a few weeks ago.  A couple of sections of this made me smile.

We--Nick, Randy, and I--are going!  How exciting.

I'll post an update after we hear him speak!

Kafka, Korean Movies, and Spike Lee (Spoiler Alerts)

I am neither an expert on Kafka or on Korean culture or on Spike Lee, so forgive me if my logic is absurd.

Recently, I listened to The Metamorphesis and The Trial.  Usually, I listen to some commentary and some criticism about the books, too.

Thug Notes amuses me.  Here is a quick commentary on The Trial:

Quick thematic overview on Kafka.  Kafka explores punishment.  Early in his writings, he wrote about unreasonable punishment from an authoritarian father, but later in his work, as in The Trial, he writes about punishment from a legal system that is nonsensical and unjust.

Now, I'm about to make an illogical jump to Korean movies.  

I discussed popular Korean movies like The Host with a Korean friend.  He told me that in Korean history, Koreans have felt trapped by chance, invaded by China or Japan simply because of their location, and often pulled into brutal wars.  This history influences Korean culture, being punished by large, outside forces and being unable to control or withstand the punishment.

While living in South Korea, I watched different Korean movies, including The Vengeance Trilogy by director Park Chan-wook.  These movies, while disturbing and not intended for the faint-of-heart, explore a similar theme to Kafka: irrational punishment.  The main characters in these movies fight against horrible, severe punishment, seeking vengeance against cruel punishment.

Old Boy is the second installment of the trilogy from 2003.  

Old Boy Trailer

Here is where the spoiler comes.  

I'm not sure that I can easily or briefly summarize the plot because this is a complex story and because the characters have Korean names.  Basically, a mystery man imprisons the protagonist in a room that is like a hotel room.  The mystery man lets the protagonist out after 15 years but tells the protagonist he must find out why he was punished.  

In the end, the mystery man is someone the protagonist knew in high school.  The protagonist caught the mystery man having sex with his sister and spread rumors around school.  The rumors caused the sister's humiliation and suicide.  The mystery man blames the protagonist for his sister's suicide.

The final, and most horrific blow, is in the final punishment for the protagonist, the mystery man tricks the protagonist into falling in love and having sex with his own grown daughter.

The mystery man/antagonist punishes the protagonist for his own horrible actions--and tricks him into doing the same actions that caused him to loose his sister.  

In the end and through a strange twist of fiction and stretch of willingful suspension of disbelief, the protagonist is hypnotized to forget everything that has happened, choosing to live a happy life with his daughter--presumably, as husband and wife.

These parallels struck me as I was reading Kafka.  Perhaps Park Chan-wook takes this to a different, more graphic level, but the irrationality and brutality of the punishment in Old Boy reminds me of Kafka. 

Here comes Spike Lee.

Spike Lee did a remake of Old Boy in 2013.

Spike Lee's Old Boy

I watched this remake last weekend for the first time.  After watching this, I was disappointed for two reasons.  First, the amazing shots and cinematography from Park Chan-wook's original were duplicated without much originality.  The angles, the color, the camera action, and the sets that made the original so interesting seemed very recognizable in Spike Lee's version.

Second, and again this is another spoiler alert, the ending differed in three significant ways.  The antagonist in the Spike Lee version did not have sex with his sister.  The protagonist caught the antagonist's father having sex with the antagonist's sister.  The movie implies that the father slept with the sister and the antagonist--the antagonist was a victim of incest as well as his sister.  

When the protagonist humiliates the father and sister, the antagonist's father kills the sister, himself, and tries to shoot the antagonist.  The father intended to kill both children (including the antagonist) and himself, but the antagonist lives to fulfill his vengeance. 

And one last, significant deviation: the protagonist chooses to leave his daughter in the end.  He leaves a letter for his daughter saying he will never see her again and she must forget him.

Why are these deviations significant?

In the Park Chan-wook's version, the antagonist punishes the protagonist for something the antagonist himself did wrong.  Certainly, the protagonist spread rumors in both movies, but I believe most people would not consider gossip as harsh as incest.  In Spike Lee's version, the antagonist punishes the protagonist for something his father did wrong--he was a victim of his father's wrongs.

In both movies, the protagonist is just that--the protagonist.  In the beginning of both movies, we see him as foolish and as a bad father, but through his unfair imprisonment and his struggles, we root for him and want him to understand why he has been treated so unfairly.

In the Korean film, the protagonist is punished for the antagonist's wrongs, but he chooses to forget everything and continue a completely new life.  In the American version, the protagonist is punished for someone else's mistakes, but he chooses to leave his previous life and to remember the pain forever.

I'm not sure with which version Kafka would identify?

A Critique--The Castle of Otranto

I have lots of books.  

I'm trying to go through and filter the ones with which I can part and with which I want to read again.

So, I'm rereading some of the books that I may end up on the departure pile.  It's a sad, mournful task, like I'm saying goodbye to old friends, but like I said, I have lots of books.

I recently reread my old copy of Slaughterhouse Five.  It's falling apart, and I need to turn the crumbling pages as if it's 100 years old, but it's as good as I remember it.  Funny, much of the rhetoric and narrative have been imitated since Kurt Vonnegut wrote this--the narrative within the narrative, the overlapping time, the repetition--but the quality and wit still stand.

But I want to write about a different book: The Castle of Otranto.  I would not have read this if I hadn't had to read this for a wonderful graduate class about the progression of novels of the gothic and romance.  This class mapped the progression of gothic and romance novels from the 1600s to the early 1900s.  Fascinating stuff. 

The Castle of Otranto was in the list.

This is an extraordinary book for several reasons.  First, printed in 1764, this is credited as being as the first gothic novel.

Let me pause here.  The term "gothic" is very problematic, especially in contemporary times, when we think more about Trent Reznor and emo than traditional gothic.  But this novel created the first literary world in charming castles, ancient history, romantic clashes, illusive ghosts, and heroic honor.

Horace Walpole (did I mention he's the one who wrote this?) set the tone and mood and identity and basic foundation for all of gothic literature.

But that's not all.  For the next 100 or so years, most of the gothic novels imitated his basic plot and characters.  His plot is pretty complex in places, but essentially, he introduces a curse and then a beautiful princess, an evil villain, and an unknown prince.  There are some chases and some complications, and then the villain gets punished.

So this is the second point.  Sure, he created the genre, but he also created the plot and basic characters that we see today.

Walpole's plot is pretty tricky for how short it is, but essentially, this is the foundation for so many gothic novels and Disney movies we have seen--the curse, the princess and the prince get together, and the villain gets punished.  Also, his characters are a bit lacking--if not very stereotypical--but again, the volatile villain, innocent princess, and valiant prince are stock characters we meet all the time.  Walpole set this stuff up and created these for the first time.

As a novel from 1764, you can't really sit down to read this like you would sit down to read Dean Koontz or Janet Evanovich.  However, this book offers such a foundational look into the history of the novel and the genre, and we rarely have such a definitive novel as to say, "This novel set the foundation for all other novels like it."

In this case, I think we can.

I'm keeping this one for a few more years.

New stuff to write about

A couple of weeks ago my great uncle passed.  He was 93 years old, but he had been fighting Alzheimer's for several years.

My great uncle Bob is someone I would like to write about, but perhaps this time has passed.  I do not know.  

As a child, I did not understand his life or who he was--he lived on a farm without a television and often had strange kids and quiet people staying with him.  He was gracious and kind when we visited, but he didn't talk much.  We would walk around the farm, and he might point out a combine or plane or tractor, which were foreign to me off the farm.  I loved the kittens and sheep that he might have, but mostly, it was quiet and a little boring on the farm.  Bob traveled a lot when he wasn't farming--all over the world.  This intrigued me, but I sort of thought he was vacationing or something.  

I didn't understand who he was or what he was doing.

As an adult, I didn't see him much, but when I did, I asked him lots of questions.  I learned that he traveled the world teaching farming and agriculture--presumably, not like when I went to college.  I asked him once how many counties he had visited, and he told me it would be easier to count the countries he hadn't seen.  He said this with a laugh.  I believe this is true--once, a few years ago, I sat in front of a world map and listed off the countries, starting in South America, moving to Africa, then Asia, and then finally Europe.  He had been to almost all of them.

The kids that stayed with him, they were foster kids.  In the last years, one has stayed with Bob to help take care of him.  I asked this former foster child now adult how many foster kids stayed with Bob over the years.  He told me it was over 40.  There is a doorframe in the farmhouse with markings all along it, both sides of the wide arch--markings with lines, dates, and names for the different kids.  It's overwhelming to see all the names and dates.

And the strange, quiet people--I do not really remember this very well--one is Jan (pronounced Yahn) from Northern Europe.  He came to Bob to learn farming and learned flying instead.  They have been friends for years.  There were others, I think: quiet foreigners and farmers and previous foster kids.  Some from other parts of the world.

In his death, I do not want his life and story to go away, but in the last years, his memories have been slipping away.  I hope and pray to have the chance to write about him, perhaps through his foster kids and friends.  

His is a story I hope to tell.

Introducing... Alfred Stifsim!

 I haven't posted in a minute, but here I am, posting to market a fellow writer!

One of our writers at the Writer's Center and in the fiction group is launching his first novel, Wild Salvation.

I am honored and excited to say that we workshopped this last year.  While I do not normally read Western novels, the plot and characters in this novel pulled me in quickly.  The descriptions are fantastic, and I wish I could attend the book launch: It’s Friday, February 4th from 6-10 pm at Howl + Hide and Wild’s in Fountain Square (a leather and barber shop) in Indy.

I'm excited to hear all about this and get my (signed?) copy!  Hopefully, more to come on this!

Farewell to Facebook

 So here's what happened.

About six weeks ago, I was getting repetitive messages from my Facebook Instant Messager.  Random stuff, but mostly, the messages were job applications, from job positions for secretaries, airline repair persons, waitstaff, and a few other messages asking for information from applicants.  "Send applicantion materials," or "Contact Joe for more information," or similar messages.  The messages would get responses ("What information do you need?" "What kind of experience are you looking for?" etc.), as if these were group chats.

On a few days, I would get a dozen or more texts.

Obviously, I was puzzled. 

My husband even removed my Facebook Messenger from my phone because it was getting annoying.

The first few days, I ignored it.  Dumb move.  I thought this was prompted from some job sites I had visited.

The following weekend, I got onto my Facebook page and explored a bit.  The contact email and phone number were not mine.  I tried to reset my password, but I could not because the email and phone number were not mine--the reset code was sent to a different phone number.  Luckily, I was still logged in.  I found a place to report that my account had been compromised.

A few more days went by, I could not log into Facebook at all.  I did some Googling about Facebook and about the best I could do was to send Facebook messages that my account had been hacked.  Turns out, Facebook has no resources or customer service.  I couldn't contact Facebook at all.  And I am not the first person to go through this.

A week or so later, I searched Facebook help pages, checked my account, and found that my account is disabled.

Funny, when I travelled abroad, I used Facebook to communicate and to share stories with family, but now, I do not use Facebook beyond sharing much beyond sharing Fiction Forge posts.  When I saw that my account was disabled, I felt relief.  I think I have only one regret: some people from my high school have contacted me for reunions.  I haven't gone to one, but I may not know about the next one.

I'm glad to be off Facebook.  

I haven't been on Facebook in over a month, and I do not miss it.  

And now for some "news" from the Onion about Facebook:

One more oldie (a little out-dated from 2011), just because this one makes me laugh:

Online Writing Groups--A New Kind of Body Language

 Perhaps I am a little sensitive to body language and personal space.  I actually took a psychology class on the Psychology of Space--personal space, body language indicators, and other body language extensions--and I learned about lots of interesting things that I had sensed before taking the class.  This was many, many years ago, so I have forgotten the terminology and facts with this, but the ideas and implications have stuck with me.  Fascinating stuff.

Body language comes in lots of different forms--eye contact, personal space, hand gestures, and body posture for a few.  

I want to give several examples from our face-to-face writing group.

New comers may seem more withdrawn into their personal space--you know, arms crossed, weak eye contact--but over time, they can become more relaxed and comfortable.  Their body posture reflects this.

Some group members are highly respected and valued.  When they are speaking, the members generally stop, listen, and make eye contact.  When Tom talks, everyone listens.  When Kristen gives a critique, we are paying attention.  When Randy is talking, we are ready to laugh.

Group members that talk too much or do not contribute as much to the group do not receive the same response to the group.  In the past--I am thinking of two past members who workshopped their novels and did not spend much time on reviews and then stopped attending when their novel was finished--the group generally recognized the lack of reciprocation.  The body language would be more shut off, personal space would not be open, and body posture would close off when these people spoke.  As awful as this is, I was less likely to pay attention when these members were talking then when Tom or Kristen or Randy are talking.

The converse is not exactly true for the online groups because the video chats attempt to create a sense of "meeting."  But the meeting does not really work to read how others are responding to each other.

In an online writing group, eye contact is not obvious.  A writer might appear to be looking at me, but they might be just looking at their screen/word doc/self video.  Body posture and hand gestures are limited, too, because we can only see a small window of their body.  Personal space and body posture are very limited because most writers are posed to see their computers in the best position possible.

And of course, sometimes, writers may use a photo or image to hide their video.  This hides all body language.

Perhaps I sound old-fashioned, but the face-to-face writing groups allow for a plethora of body language that helps us to understand each other and our reactions within the group.  Even if we do not understand body language directly or have all the vocabulary to explain this, I think we all sense this.

Happy Dance for a Weary World

It's been a long and frightful road to here hasn't it, my friends? Such a crooked and snarled path we have had to tread these past two years and more.  

"India Reports New Record Death Toll as Indian G7 Delegation Self-Isolates in London"

Grasping roots and seemingly impassible bramble thickets set in our way at almost every turn such that there little else to do save to brave the thorns and move forward. 

"Anti-Asian Hate Crimes Reported in NY, SF as New Study Shows Surge in Crimes Against AAPI People"

Now, here we stand, bloody and scarred at what we hope to be the end of this the trial of our generation. 

"Chauvin Lawyer Files Motion for New Trial as AG Seeks Harsher Sentence for Murder of George Floyd"

But the end seems elusive...ever moving just out of grasp. 

"Community Demands Answers After Black LGBTQ Teenager Mikayla Miller Found Dead in April"

Doom scrolling through any news feed will leave you to fall to the path and cover your head against the encroaching wilds.

"“New Normal” for U.S. Climate Is Hotter and Wetter, According to New NOAA Data"

And yet...

As I flick through the incessant rain of news and stories pretending to be news, a small thing appeared on my screen. At first, I thought little of it. It was just a man in the Yukon with another vlog to peddle. It seemed of little relevance against the backdrop of such serious and weighty matters bracketed the little video. 

But then, he appeared again. A different video this time, but still just of him. It was just that. A video of this man...dancing...in the frozen Yukon. 

This time I watched.  His name is Gurdeep Pandher and he dances the Bhangra on the shares of Lake Laberge. 

"5-Year-old is a Neighborhood Hero For Drawing Colorful Messages of Hope on Her House During Lockdown" 

I remember smiling as this 6'+ trunk of a man gamboled on the frozen lake.    

"India’s Richest Man Retools Factories to Provide FREE Oxygen to 1 in 10 COVID Patients Across Country"

It turns out the Bhangra is a Punjabi dance of joy and positivity.

"Watch NASA Mars Helicopter Make Aviation History: The First Powered, Controlled Flight on Another Planet"

So here, in the middle of the dross and dregs of my news feed is this Indian man dancing his happy dance at the top of the world.

"‘The Manta’ Sailing Vessel is Designed to Feed on Plastic Waste for Power–While Cleaning Oceans"

Other videos followed. Videos with him dancing with other people from the region. First Nation peoples dancing their traditional dances along with him. Irish dances high stepping in time with the swing and sway of his choreography. Bagpipers, even, bleating out a traditional tune as Gurdeep danced his dance of joy.

"Sister Makes Video For the Classmates of Her Brother With Autism Who is Starting First Grade – And it’s Adorably Helpful"

The videos were more than just a bit of entertainment. There was a purity to it that quieted something in me. 

"Believed to Be Solitary, Male Sperm Whales Actually Hang With the Boys – In Friendships That Can Last Years"

A purity of joy that allowed me to pause my doom scrolling and look beyond the existential dread.

 

"Spontaneous Spirit of Humanity Takes Center Stage Around Erupting Iceland Volcano"

Maybe...just maybe...life is about a little bit more.