We Are Freaks….

Try this little experiment. Pick a public place, a grocery store, a bar, maybe a mall. Stand there with a clip board and ask random strangers what their favorite lolcat is. Ask them if they know that longcat is looonnnggg. See if they know who Anonymous is locked in battle against.

We have this weird disconnect with the world these days. The internet has provided us with such a detailed method of social interaction and we have formed amazing communities around it. Places where we interact with hundreds, even thousands of people. We spend so much time there, that it’s easy to forget that most of the people around us in real life, well, don’t.

And when we starts saying things like “Jesus Christ, it’s a lion, get in the car”, they just sort of stare at us blankly. It’s a situation I’ve become adjusted to and even enjoy. I like those blank stares. I like being in on the joke, no matter how stupid the joke may be.

And let’s face it, a lot of our internet jokes are really stupid. They become funny through repetition or through absurdity, but they’d never make decent stand up material.

The internet makes us feel like we’re on the cutting edge of a great, societal leap forward. But are we? The outside world seems to be sludging along at the same pace as it always has, full of willful ignorance and uninformed opinions about, well, everything.

I may be sitting at my computer tonight, discussing the role of the femme fatale in classic film noir and how to bring that into a more modern piece without resorting to cliche. However, Bubba and Billy Joe are still drinking a twelve pack of Coors and going out to tip some cows.

Sometimes I wish I could live like a complete hermit, locked away from the real humans walking around out there, limiting my social interactions to you, my internet friends. You are my people…..

What Is Art?

The internet is all abuzz this week about Aliza Shvarts, a Yale student who issued a press release claiming that she artificially inseminated herself, then took various herbs in order to induce a miscarriage. Repeatedly. Yale responded with a release stating that Shvarts was a performance artists, and that her announcement had been the art piece, forcing people across the world into a discussion of what is and what isn’t art. Shvarts has since released another statement claiming that at least portions of her original statement are true.

Which leads me to ask, like many other people across the world, just what defines art?

My initial, instinctive, answer to that is, if someone created it and says that it’s art, it’s art. Tolstoy wrote a whole book on the subject. At one point, he says,

Art begins when one person, with the object of joining another or others to himself in one and the same feeling, expresses that feeling by certain external indications. To take the simplest example: a boy, having experienced, let us say, fear on encountering a wolf, relates that encounter; and, in order to evoke in others the feeling he has experienced, describes himself, his condition before the encounter, the surroundings, the woods, his own lightheartedness, and then the wolf’s appearance, its movements, the distance between himself and the wolf, etc. All this, if only the boy, when telling the story, again experiences the feelings he had lived through and infects the hearers and compels them to feel what the narrator had experienced is art. If even the boy had not seen a wolf but had frequently been afraid of one, and if, wishing to evoke in others the fear he had felt, he invented an encounter with a wolf and recounted it so as to make his hearers share the feelings he experienced when he feared the world, that also would be art. And just in the same way it is art if a man, having experienced either the fear of suffering or the attraction of enjoyment (whether in reality or in imagination) expresses these feelings on canvas or in marble so that others are infected by them. And it is also art if a man feels or imagines to himself feelings of delight, gladness, sorrow, despair, courage, or despondency and the transition from one to another of these feelings, and expresses these feelings by sounds so that the hearers are infected by them and experience them as they were experienced by the composer.

And later simplifies that to say,

To evoke in oneself a feeling one has once experienced, and having evoked it in oneself, then, by means of movements, lines, colors, sounds, or forms expressed in words, so to transmit that feeling that others may experience the same feeling - this is the activity of art.

So by Tolstoy’s definition, we can say that anything that is created, with the intent to convey a feeling or emotion, is art.

The problem lies in who gets to decide if that criteria has been met? The creator or the receiver? The creator knows his or her intent. After all, they did it. The receiver has to judge, something that by definition becomes subjective. How does this judgment take place? What tests can be administered? What lines are drawn here?

And why does it matter?

This is where we reach the slippery slope portion of the argument. You see, when people start talking about defining something as art or not art, it’s usually because they’ve found something calling itself art that they find offensive or objectionable. That something is usually on display somewhere, perhaps in a museum or a university. And it’s protected, because it’s calling itself art. If that label can be stripped from it, then it can be made to go away and offend no more. It’s a form of censorship.

I understand the desire to do this. I’m like anyone else. I read an article about some bizarre piece of performance art, like hanging vials of blood from a tree, and I think it’s ridiculous. But I think allowing ourselves to be placed in the position of arbiters as to what is and isn’t art is a dangerous proposition that could eventually lead to the attempted suppression of unpopular ideas.

Think I’m exaggerating? Remember Robert Maplethorpe?

The minute we take it upon ourselves, as viewers/listeners/readers to decide if something is art, we’re giving that same power to other people who might wish to make sure that the things they don’t believe are art remain unseen, unheard or unread. And those people just might be in a position to do something about it.

There are, of course, other ways to define art. Tolstoy is not the sole arbiter on that and neither am I. But the problem exists, no matter how you define it. Who determines if it meets the definition.

I maintain that the only possible answer to that question HAS to be, the artist.

Everyday is A Full Moon On The Interwub

Anyone who has ever used an instant messaging program has probably gotten their share of odd requests and come ons. Many, if not most, pretty high on the offensive scale. I’m not sure why these strange interwub perverts feel the need to show their penises to every stranger that passes by, but they do.

I suspect that girls get many more of these odd requests and propositions than guys do. Most, I suspect, brush the pervs off and try to forget about them.

My friend Elana is a little different. She likes to toy with them and then post transcripts of the results on her LiveJournal. The entries are often hilarious and occasionally enlightening. You should read them.

Well, go on, what are you waiting for….?

The Future of The Past, So To Speak

There’s a kind of story that you just don’t see anymore. Old style science fiction, the kind that sprang not just from visions of the future, but from thoughts and dreams of the past. Elements of the swashbuckler mixed with the great explorer and seasoned with a healthy dose of “imagine if….”.

It was the fiction of my childhood, even though it was already out dated at the time. From John Carter to Flash Gordon, from Professor Challenger to Dan Dare, the greatest escapes were pushed aside by real science and imagination was bottled up by reality. I can still go back to those old treasure and re-live them, many still read just as well to me as they ever did. But to find new adventures, new excitements, that’s rare.

I know of one writer who still inhabits those realms from time to time. Like me, he seems to have grown up on old visions of what the future should have been, and like me, he seems to have had a hard time letting go of those wonderful days.

He’s explored these topics over and over, in books like Ministry of Space and Planetary. His name, of course, is Warren Ellis. And I’ve just heard that he’s going back to that out dated well to bring us back some fresh water. I can’t wait…..

Telling Tales….

Many moons ago, back in the mid to late eighties, a friend of mine was directing a college production of Jesus Christ, Superstar. He invited me to opening night.

Now, this production ends with Christ on the cross, ascending to heaven. They had built a mechanical cross, that would rise slowly and dramatically, up past the curtain line. For opening night, several cages of doves had been hung above that curtain line, and as Christ rose past them, the cages would open and the doves would fly out over the audience.

Lovely idea, really.

But, (and there’s always a “but”, isn’t there?) the day of the show, the actor who was to play Christ was injured in a car accident. Broke a leg, literally. There was, of course, an understudy. This understudy was about fifty pound lighter than the lead.

Some of you can see where this is going.

The mechanical cross was geared somehow to the actor’s weight. Nobody thought about this, so no adjustment was made. At the conclusion of the play, when the appropriate lever was pulled, instead of ascending slowly and gracefully, Christ was shot up like a cannonball, struck a rafter and fell back to the stage in a heap.

The cages opened, but they had been hung too close to the lights. Instead of the planned, beautiful spectacle, fourteen dead doves fell to the stage, several of them, right on top of poor Jesus.

All in all, not the best opening night….

Crosses: An excerpt From a Novel In Progress

I don’t know why I rented the office on Main Street.

When I retired from the force in Baltimore and moved to Northern Michigan it was my intention to live out my life in peace and quiet, but in a little town like Frankfort, having no livelihood seemed somehow decadent . So, I filled out the appropriate forms, took the necessary tests and found myself with a private investigator’s license.

I never really intended to become a working investigator. It was all an elaborate bit of self-deception. Now, when people asked me what I did for a living I could show them my license. Then they’d say something about how it must be interesting and I’d respond that it was mostly boring routine.

Still, I felt obligated to put on a good front, so I went in search of an office. I found the perfect location. An apartment over a flower shop, right across from City Hall. The floor had two apartments and the front one was vacant. It didn’t take much to convince the landlord that I could use it as an office without making any major conversions. Mostly it required simple redecorating. Doors closed off the kitchen area so that it couldn’t be seen by clients, the living room became a waiting room and the bedroom became my office.

It took about a month for me to get it furnished to my needs, which were spartan at best. The waiting room had two couches and a coffee table covered in magazines, mostly current. I’d pick them up at the Frankfort Bookstore, read then in my office and then leave them there. My office had a single oak desk with a computer at one end. I had a nice leather chair behind it and a simple wooden chair in front, for clients. I hadn’t done much decoration, but I did have a large framed photo of Orioles Park in Camden Yards from Baltimore hanging where I could see it comfortably from my desk.

A book shelf in the corner held a bunch of books on Michigan State law, which I might get around to reading someday, along with all of my old crime scene manuals. A small refrigerator held mostly beer and a few microwave sandwiches in case I got hungry. The microwave itself was in the closed off kitchen, where I almost never set foot.

In the first few weeks, I didn’t use the office much. Wednesdays I would pick up any new magazines that interested me and take them back to the office. I’d spend an hour or so flipping through them then I’d lock up. Fridays I walked from my house on Forrest Ave down to the post office and picked up my mail, which I would then take to my office and open. If it was a bill, I dealt with it there. I had taken to leaving my checkbook in the desk drawer. If there were letters, I read them. If they called for an answer, I’d compose one. Usually I was only there for about an hour, and then I locked up and headed for the Mariner Pub.

So it surprised me, when this particular Friday I got a knock at the door. I had been staring at the far wall of my office, under the picture of Camden Yards. It was empty of furniture and I was thinking that it could use a coffee pot. Of course a coffee pot would mean I’d also have to buy a table to place it on and that felt like a large commitment for me , considering I really only drank coffee once or twice a week. I had almost made a decision when the knock caught my ear.

I crossed the waiting room and pulled the front door open. In the hall stood a very serious looking woman. She was probably beautiful, it was hard to tell under the business like clothes and strict makeup. Her suit jacket was tailored well and showed the subtle curve of her waist and her skirt stopped just below the knee, with traditional tan stockings covering what appeared to be shapely calves. Even her dark brown hair was pulled tight in a ball as if to avoid offending her. Her eyes were a pale blue and gave her an other worldly look. It was impossible to tell her age.

“Can I help you?” I asked. I gave her my best smile but it didn’t even crack the frown she was sporting. I wondered if anything could.

“Are you Mr. Kellerman, the detective?” She made it sound like she was asking for something incredibly distasteful. My ex-wife would assert that she was.

“I’m Nicholas Kellerman, please, come in.”

She moved in slowly, taking everything in but careful not to touch anything. I guided her into my office and indicated the wooden chair. She grimaced, but bit her lip and sat down.

“Can I get you anything?”

She nodded. “Coffee, please.”

I stared at the empty wall where my coffee pot should have been. “I don’t suppose you’d settle for an Amstel Light?”

“No, I’m fine. Never mind.”

I crossed behind my desk and took my chair. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. You know me but I don’t know you.”

She shook her head as if I had asked a yes or no question and she was answering in the negative. Then she realized that wouldn’t do so she took a deep breath, folded her hands in her lap and muttered, “I’m Ms. Cafferty.”

“Well, what can I do for you, Ms. Cafferty?”

She glared at me. “Nothing for me, Mr. Kellerman. I represent Mr. Sebastian Richmond.”

I waited for her to go on, but she just sat there looking at me. It occurred to me that Sebastian might be some local big shot, hence her expectations. Still, I’d never heard of him. “So, is there something I can do for Mr. Richmond?”

“I wouldn’t know,” she muttered, “He doesn’t confide his thoughts to me.”

“Do you have any suspicions?”

“It is not my job to have suspicions and even if I did, it would be inappropriate for me to share them.”

I thought about it for a moment. We seemed to be engaged in some strange sort of game and I had to ask just the right questions to get any sort of answers. “Why are you here, Ms. Cafferty?”

“Mr. Richmond is confined to a wheelchair. He couldn’t make his way here even if he so desired.” The look on her face left no doubt that he certainly wouldn’t desire to be here.

“So he’d like me to visit him at his home?”

“Yes, at your earliest opportunity. Say, this afternoon?”

“That sounds like there’s some urgency to it. Are you sure you don’t know why he wants to see me?”

            Her lips tightened. “You’ll have to speak with Mr. Richmond directly.”

“Any idea why he picked me?”

“I believe you are the only private investigator listed in the Benzie County phone book.”

I scratched my head and stared at her some more. I decided she really was attractive in a black widow sort of way. “Where does Mr. Richmond live?”

“2452 Deer Ridge Trail. It’s off Highland Drive on the North Shore of Crystal. Think you can find it?”

I smiled. “I am a trained investigator.”

Ms. Cafferty stood from her chair and was about to leave the room when I asked, “You think the room needs a coffee pot?”

She turned back towards me and gave me a quizzical look. “Why would you ask me that?”

“I’m thinking it needs a coffee pot.” I pointed at the empty wall. “Right over there.”

She stared at me for a minute, then at the wall. “You’d need a table.”

I nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

She lingered a minute longer, then turned and walked out. She seemed insecure to me. Insecure, but smart. It didn’t take her much effort to switch gears. I wasn’t sure if that information would ever prove useful, but I’d always worked on the assumption that knowing too much was better than not knowing enough.

Something in the back of my mind reminded me that it was that assumption that had led to my divorce. Was I better off?

I turned on my computer and went straight to MapQuest. Deer Ridge Trail was indeed off the North Shore of Crystal Lake, but not by far. It was an expensive area. A house up there probably cost at least a million. A million dollar house could lead to a nice size fee. I didn’t really need the money to live on, but if I was going to be extravagant and buy a table for a coffee pot then a sizeable fee couldn’t hurt.

I kicked my feet up on my desk and flipped through my mail. It was mostly junk mail, flyers and credit card offers, but an envelope postmarked Florida caught my eye. There was no return address on it, but I recognized the hand-writing. I hesitated for a moment, but gathered my nerve and opened it. Inside was a note and a photograph. The photo was of a couple in their early forties, sitting on a beach with their dog, a collie, between them. They all looked attractive, they all looked happy. The woman was Marcia, my ex-wife. The guy’s name was Rick. He was a TV reporter. I didn’t know the dog.

I put the photo down and looked at the note. It was from Marcia, of course. She hoped I was doing well. She hoped there were no hard feelings. She wrote that I could come visit her and Rick anytime I liked. She was pregnant, 5 months. She was going to have a child. I saw the word ‘finally’ in there, hidden between the lines. She signed it ‘Best Wishes”. She used to sign her notes “Love, Marcia.” She probably saved that for Rick, now.

I looked at the picture again. She looked good. In fact, she looked better than she had in years. Maybe it was being with me that had made her look worn out and haggard. She didn’t look pregnant, but the picture might not be recent. I wondered about the dog’s name. Probably Lassie or something equally uninventive.

We had owned a little mutt once and she named him Benji, despite my protests.

The picture was making me angry and I wasn’t sure why. I decided I was better off not dwelling on it and headed off for some lunch and a beer at the Mariner.

!!!OMG!!!JENNIFER!!MORRISON!!!WTF??!!

Okay, here’s another picture of the lovely Jennifer Morrison from House, M.D.

Now can somebody please explain to me why I’m suddenly getting hundreds of hits from people searching for her? I think I’ve only ever mentioned her once, when her role in the new Star Trek film was announced. And the hits have only been the last two or three days. Did she make the news somewhere and i missed it?

A Word (or three) From Harlan….

HARLAN ELLISON ON THE WRITERS STRIKE SETTLEMENT

YOU HAVE MY PERMISSION TO RE-POST THIS ANYWHERE:

Creds: got here in 1962, written for just about everybody, won the Writers Guild Award four times for solo work, sat on the WGAw Board twice, worked on negotiating committees, and was out on the picket lines with my NICK COUNTER SLEEPS WITH THE FISHE$$$ sign. You may have heard my name. I am a Union guy, I am a Guild guy, I am loyal. I fuckin’ LOVE the Guild.

And I voted NO on accepting this deal.

My reasons are good, and they are plentiful; Patric Verrone will be saddened by what I am about to say; long-time friends will shake their heads; but this I say without equivocation…

THEY BEAT US LIKE A YELLOW DOG. IT IS A SHIT DEAL. We finally got a timorous generation that has never had to strike, to get their asses out there, and we had to put up with the usual cowardly spineless babbling horse’s asses who kept mumbling “lessgo bac’ta work” over and over, as if it would make them one iota a better writer. But after months on the line, and them finally bouncing that pus-sucking dipthong Nick Counter, we rushed headlong into a shabby, scabrous, underfed shovelfulla shit clutched to the affections of toss-in-the-towel summer soldiers trembling before the Awe of the Alliance.

My Guild did what it did in 1988. It trembled and sold us out. It gave away the EXACT co-terminus expiration date with SAG for some bullshit short-line substitute; it got us no more control of our words; it sneak-abandoned the animator and reality beanfield hands before anyone even forced it on them; it made nice so no one would think we were meanies; it let the Alliance play us like the village idiot. The WGAw folded like a Texaco Road Map from back in the day.

And I am ashamed of this Guild, as I was when Shavelson was the prexy, and we wasted our efforts and lost out on technology that we had to strike for THIS time. 17 days of streaming tv!!!????? Geezus, you bleating wimps, why not just turn over your old granny for gang-rape?

You deserve all the opprobrium you get. While this nutty festschrift of demented pleasure at being allowed to go back to work in the rice paddy is filling your cowardly hearts with joy and relief that the grips and the staff at the Ivy and street sweepers won’t be saying nasty shit behind your back, remember this:

You are their bitches. They outslugged you, outthought you, outmaneuvered you; and in the end you ripped off your pants, painted yer asses blue, and said yes sir, may I have another.

Please excuse my temerity. I’m just a sad old man who has fallen among Quislings, Turncoats, Hacks and Cowards.

I must go now to whoops. My gorge has become buoyant.

Respectfully, Yr. Pal, Harlan Ellison

And Now Steve Is Gone

I’ve been dreading this all day, this entry. I don’t want to write these words. Even though I’ve seen the news all over the net, it isn’t entirely real yet, not to me. Not the way it will be when I post this entry.

I woke this morning and my first thought was about death. Yesterday, I had woken to the news of Roy Scheider’s death. It was an unnerving experience and I didn’t want to turn on the computer today, fearful of the news it might bring. I told myself that I was being ridiculous and fired the old beast up.

A post from Warren Ellis broke the news. Steve Gerber had passed away.

Many of you won’t have known who Steve was. Unlike the larger cults of celebrity, the comic world has kept largely to itself, its stars never gracing the tabloids or the entertainment news. But in the four color world, Steve was a giant among men.

He created Howard The Duck, which would earn him a place in comic history all on its own. But his work was much broader and deeper than that. At Marvel he did amazing work on Ghost Rider, Man Thing, The Defenders, and Omega The Unknown. He created Stewart The Rat, Destroyer Duck, Nevada and the infamous Void Indigo. He was currently writing Dr. Fate over at DC Comics. He was an incredibly talented writer with a unique way of looking at the world. His work was an inspiration and a blueprint to a whole generation of writers.

As a child in the 70’s, Howard The Duck was my first exposure to political satire. It left an indelible impression upon me, helping to shape my taste, my world view and later my writing. Many of my friends consider me to be a bit too biting in my humor at times, too caustic. For that, they can thank Steve as well. Howard’s voice is forever in the back of my mind.

I never met Steve Gerber, yet I feel like I’ve lost a close, personal friend. That was the magic of Steve’s work.

Good night, Steve. You are missed.

Rest In Peace, Roy

I woke this morning to the new that Roy Scheider had passed away at the age of 75.

Best known for his role in Jaws, Scheider’s career spanned 5 decades and dozens of memorable performances. He was one of my favorite actors growing up, alongside James Garner and Paul Newman. I, for one, will miss him greatly.

Below is a list of some of my favorite Roy Scheider films. If you haven’t seen them, maybe you’ll give them a try.

The French Connection

The Seven-Ups

Jaws

Marathon Man

Sorcerer

All That Jazz

Still of The Night

Blue Thunder

2010

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