I Officially Rock

Finally beat Cowboys From Hell by Pantera today and then afterwards, ’cause I felt the Gods Of Rock smiling down upon me, I went after the remaining two songs, Frankenstein by the Edgar Winter Group and Godzilla by Blue Oyster Cult. Got my battleaxe as proof of my stupidity and sheer stubborness and now I am officially ready to look forward with confidence, to Guitar Hero 2 in November, when the obsession begins all over again with Nirvana, Guns n’ Roses, and The Police!

Holy Crap

Official word from RedOctane, creators of Uber Rock game Guitar Hero, they have announced a new song confirmed to be on the Guitar Hero 2 playlist:

Guns N’ Roses, Sweet Child O’ Mine. Lynrd Skynrd’s Freebird.

Damn, I wanted this game before, I want it twice as much now.

Another Disciple For Satan

In addition to finally getting my PSP back (Withdrawal is now over, I have something to do again on the train) the Sister-In-Law popped by for a visit (Y’know I’m still not used to throwing that term around) and she settled herself down with Guitar Hero and got totally sucked in.

I also made the curious discovery that I play Guitar Hero better when there’s a vacuum going on somewhere in the background. My theory is that the vacuum going off in the background simulates the atmosphere of being a struggling teenage musician that still lives at home and is trying to nail that riff in Symphony of Destruction but must focus out the fact that for all his long hair, drug use and devil worship, he’s still a suburbanite trying to be more interesting than he secretly suspects he isn’t.

However, it was still something of a breakthrough as I can now average about 60% of Cowboys From Hell before getting wiped out by the wicked guitar solo.

The Fluke

I somehow jumped from averaging 10% completion on Cowboys From Hell in Guitar Hero to 80%, but only the one time. I have no explanation for this.

HOLY CRAP

I JUST BEAT BARK AT THE MOON ON THE EXPERT LEVEL OF GUITAR HERO!

!!!!!!!

I’m so happy I could puke. Now all that’s left is finishing up the other less hard songs on Expert (I was an idiot and tackled the hardest song first) and I’ll be able to face Guitar Hero 2 with honor in November.

Thank GOD that’s over.

Now I just have to “5 star” it, which means play it nearly perfectly…

Just In Case You’ve Forgotten:

Robert Smith will save the world.

That is all.

Oh, That 80′s Fever…

In the name of the new novel, it was time for me to get in touch with my childhood and make sure I had my facts straight about which music groups were in existence at the time, and whether they wore clothes like this, or that. It’s one of the weirder aspects of writing a story when you find that you want to plunder your childhood realize that while the imagery is there, the proper chronology and historical perspective isn’t. Like at first I wanted to have some kind of reference to The Cure and possibly a mention of Lovesong only to realize that it wouldn’t be written until 1989, and this particular bit of plot takes place in the year 1983, though that means I still get to mention Lovecats or something. It also means Duran Duran is still in full swing, so maybe I can find a way to stick that in there as well.

The internet is truly frightening in moments like this when I realize that in one afternoon I’ve waded hip deep into subjects like the English countryside, ley lines, crop circles and fairy rings (I settled on fairy rings) and I never had to once go to a filing cabinet and consult the Dewey Decimal system. Having this amount of knowledge just a few keystrokes away is something we all take for granted now, but I’m still amazed at how quickly I came to rely on the ‘net once it exploded. It used to be just hanging out on forums and BBSes, but once the “web” aspect really got going and people had a few years to put… well, whatever they wanted on it, the Internet really became the first and fastest way to find out just about anything about anything.

I think anyone that had a childhood in the 70′s is more or less trapped in the same transitional period I am; old enough to remember the analog era when TVs had dials and knowledge was at the library, but still young enough to have had exposure to the new digital information structure in school. It’s a clean line of demarcation between the previous generation and the new ones that will always take unlimited knowledge and instant access for granted. And it’ll probably warp more than a few minds as the years pass. I mean, the way internet access is getting more and more portable, pretty soon you won’t have ANY excuse not to know something, since it’ll be a Google away and you can get at least passing familiarity with just about any subject on Earth.

My mind boggles at the thought of it.

Damn. I’m old.

Neil Is Soooo Cooooool…



I recently picked up a copy of Hanging Out With The Dream King: Conversations With Neil Gaiman And His Collaborators and though I’ve only dug a few interviews into it, I am once again siezed with the wholly irrational impulse to try and figure out exactly how I can go about being Neil Gaiman.



As a writer and as a professional career, Neil is one of those pedastals I look up to now and again and think “Man, that’s what I’d love to shoot for.” To be this supremely talented, affable, no ego, certifiable artistic genius that manages to produce work to be proud of, in multiple mediums and rub shoulders with some really talented and cool people, not just collaborating, but becoming friends.



There’s something quite magical and frightening about the way Neil has come into his own. Personally for me, there’s no doubt as to his talent, what I find bewildering is just how readily it has come to be accepted by others, the timing of it, how he meets the right editors when he’s ready to do a comic, how he meets the right artists when he has a particular project in mind, how he gets the right publishing house 100% behind when it’s time to do a novel, a children’s book, or even a crew for a full blown movie.



Part of its admiration, part of it is envy, part of it is an appreciation for just how difficult any entertainment industry can be to break into, but I am glad–and hugely baffled–at the confluence of circumstance that surrounds Neil and the way his imagination–and by association, Dream, Death, et al–came to a generation that badly needed some kind of myth, some kind of story, some kind of narrative commentary about the human condition… And he gave it to us in the most unlikliest of forms, the burgeoning art of comics, rather than cinema or something.



Damn, I wish I could be Neil Gaiman.



I don’t think I’d much enjoy the fame aspect–and I suspect while he accepts it, he’s not particularly fond of it himself–but I relish that opportunity he has. The ability to exercise that kind of creative control when you know you have the imagination AND the talent to pull it off (Something I have yet to prove to myself, but oh well…) and then know that there are really good people out there willing to jump on and say “What can we do to make this happen?” is an artistic dream. But best of all, I think what I really would like about being Neil Gaiman is knowing that you make a difference somehow to people.



A lot of my friends (Or at least the ones that didn’t think they were too good for comics) have a deep and abiding love for the story of Dream. It’s been many things to them; the first intelligent comic they’ve ever read, a pushing of the genre’s boundaries they never thought possible, an inspiration that drove them to want to be artists or writers, or, perhaps best of all, a story that touched them, stayed with them, and somehow, in some way, maybe made them a better person for the lessons, stories and sheer humanity embedded in the tale. In a funky sort of way, it was the really deep love for the Sandman stories that even made my relationship with my fiance possible, since it was a kind of a signal, a secret handshake amongst readers. It was as if you knew that if someone else loved the Sandman the way you did, then you were both privy to the secret Neil was trying to whisper to everyone.



That’s something that I’d like to aspire to with stories someday. I don’t presume to ever write with the same intelligence and complexity as Neil, but I would love to be able to have the same effect. I would love to sit at a table at some convention after my books had come out and have someone come up to me and be unnecessarily nervous (‘Cause there is NOTHING about me to be nervous about, I’m probably the least intimidating human being on the planet) and try to communicate to me that somehow my stories and my characters reached out to them. The writing touched them. The writing found a quiet spot in their heart and said them “You are not alone, this has been survived through before, and you too shall make it,” and made some kind of difference. Helped them. Or at the very least let them feel not so alone and maybe a little bit more understood for a while.



Is that art?



I dunno, but that’s what I’d really like to do. ‘Cause that’s what Neil did for me.



Now About That Music



Things are starting to move a little faster now, true believers, much to my relief.



Yesterday I finally had a sit down and talked with the music guy that will be involved in the CG series that I still cannot talk about. He immediately scored HUGE brownie points with me by letting me rant about art, sociology, psychology, politics and cultural evolution without ever telling me to shut the hell up. Then he showed me his nice, shiny new music set up and play around with keyboard, which resulted in me tinkering out the opening notes to the Katamari Damacy theme song and then watching him riff off a few jazz and drum samples.



It’s really cool for me because there’s so much here to LEARN.



My normal exposure to the sound side of things in television has been mostly just doing voice-over sessions, and inserting “canned” license free music tracks here and there. This is the first time I’ll be working with a musician to create wholly original new tune-age, and I’m really looking forward to it. My initial perception of how music in film works has been shaped entirely too much by watching DVD extras on how sound tracks are created, and watching films like Almost Famous over and over again, so to actually see how modern musicians do their thing with high tech equipment when you DON’T have access to the London Philharmonic is looking to be quite educational. It helps that I still have some basic background in music (Guess those piano lessons were good for something after all) so I was able to at least communicate at a rudimentary level on his plane of understanding, although the important thing will always be MOOD.



Writing music for narrative television is, like film, an entirely different animal from creating jingle for advertising or creating songs for a straight up vocal/music performance. It is not about showcasing some vocal talent, it is not about layering sound so that you can explode the bass and make the crowd go nuts at the club, this is all about watching the moment on screen and then working with the musician to answer the question, “How, in tonalities and harmonies, can we carry the emotion, or even magnify and sharpen it? How can this music be part of the story? How can the music push the story along?”



It requires a certain way of thinking that I’ve ALWAYS wanted to mess around with, because I’ve always loved what music–when done right–can do for a story as a favorite melody rises up into the aural consciousness becomes this 4/4 time signature that instantly identifies the story, the characters, the feelings the story generates… in a simple collection of sounds.



I’m going to be making mistakes all over the place, that goes without saying, since this is my first time, but I’m looking forward to understanding how those mistakes occurred and what I can do expand my story telling sensibility to include the ear as much as the eye with the CG visuals, or the heart and brain with the characters and story.



Should be frustrating. But fun too.

Mercy For Michael



I am thinking that if I ever had the chance, I would do Michael Jackson the favor of giving him a time machine and allowing him the chance to visit himself on the cusp of his great success to warn him of the fate that awaits him in the years to come…



Young Michael: Wow! Thriller is selling better than I’d ever hoped! I have more money than I know what to do with! I wonder what I should do first? Maybe get a new look? I’ve never been fond of this nose…



[Bright lights flash as a DeLorean car equipped with a flux capaciter breaks through the space time continuum to power slide right in front of young Michael Jackson. Old Michael Jackson steps out, white as a sheet, wearing black clothing, a surgical mask and sunglasses]



Old Michael: Mike, don’t do it! There are so many things you can avoid right NOW if you just listen to me!



YM: SHAM ON! Who are you?!!?!



OM: I’m you from the 21st century!



YM: Get out! You can travel through time?!?



OM: Yeah, a kindly geek who talks about Grand Theft Auto San Andreas all the time gave it to me out of the kindness of his heart. Well, after I gave him 25 million dollars for it.



YM: (In trademark Jackson style) OOOooo! You… I mean WE… have that much money?!?



OM: You know it. We’d have more except that certain mistakes were made. I’m here to warn you so you can avoid the awful destiny we have in store.



YM: What destiny?



Old Michael Jackson pulls off surgical mask to reveal cavity where a nose should be.



YM: AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!! OUR NOSE!! WHERE IS IT??!!?



OM: You know how much we like Diana Ross?



YM: Yeah?



OM: Like her less. A LOT less. You’re Michael Jackson, not Diana Ross. You’ll keep your nose if you remember that.



YM: What about the rest of us?



OM: Don’t ask. Just believe me when I say this… If a plastic surgeon tells you it’s not a good idea to do something, LISTEN TO HIM. Don’t go off and find another plastic surgeon who’ll do the procedure because you threw enough money at him.



[Old Michael Jackson sneezes. His ear falls off. He casually reaches down and affixes it to his head, the sound of velcro heard in the air.]



OM: Just trust me on this, okay?



[Young Michael Jackson nods stunned]



YM: What else?



OM: You know Elvis’ kid?



YM: Lisa? She’s GREAT! WE LOVE LISA!



OM: Not after the divorce you won’t. She’ll break you. Believe me, she’ll BREAK you. Oh and you know those sleep overs you have with guys? You know how you always wished the sleep overs could be with more folks, and how it would be really nice to have some kids over?



[Young Michael nods cautiously. Old Michael produces a Playstation Portable that plays some of the court video footage where his on the witness stand]



YM: What’s this?!?



OM: Trial. Seems playtime with the kiddes gets us into some legal hotwater. It gets ugly.



YM: Uglier than you?



OM: [Frowning] This is YOU, you know, so laugh it up…



[Young Michael Jackson looks about to burst into tears, his lower lip trembling]



YM: What about monkeys? Are monkeys still okay?



OM: Yeah, monkeys are okay, but you’re gonna’ get punched out by one [He stops to rub his nose in bitter remembrance than remembers he doesn't have one anymore]



YM: Geez, this sounds pretty bad… Does ANYTHING good happen?



OM: Like the Beatles yet?



YM: No.



OM: You will. That’ll pay off pretty well when you buy their songs….



YM: I can’t do that! They own it, it would be wrong to take something they made!



OM: When you talk to Bill Gates, he’ll change your mind about that.



YM: Liz Taylor protect me…



OM: I’d give up on the Liz stuff too. The shrine? It won’t do you any good. And neither will she.



YM: This is TERRIBLE!



OM: That’s what I’m saying! Forget about this future and beat it! It’s just a thriller night! All those girls, they’re not your lovers, they’re just the girls who think that you are the one, but the kids are not your sons.



YM: Hey, you’re ripping me off!



OM: Everyone will, young Padawan. Big, big pieces…



YM: What’s a Padawan?



OM: You’ll see…

On Musical Muses

Before I begin, for the curious, here are links to Big Bill’s and Neil-O’s websites/blogs respectively. They’re real easy:

Home of Big Bill

Secret Home of Neil-O!

That last post about Tori Amos just kind set me off. For those of you who don’t maniacally follow such things (That would be anyone with a Real Life) there’s this story (The details of which I am about to garble) about how Tori Amos–she of the freakishly lyrical and unearthly music–and Neil Gaiman–he of hauntingly original narrative–met and became friends.

Apparently Neil was already beginning to gain some attention for the work he was doing on The Sandman. Tori was just putting her first album–Little Earthquakes–together. One day, while Tori was in LA, she had a friend come over to crash, and said friend brought along The Doll’s House, the second storyline in The Sandman narrative arcs. Tori read it, was utterly entranced by it, and it was just one of the little things that wound through her head as she went on to create her album, ending with her making a reference to the Dream King, and hanging out with Neil. This very same friend took a tape with a copy of the album on him to a convention where he actually met Gaiman. He placed Tori’s number on the tape and Neil took it home to give it a listen. The next thing you know, he’s giving Tori a call, they’re becoming fast friends, and one of the weirder, more talented writers on the planet is chillin’ in da hood with one of the weirder, more talented musicians.

Every time I think of that story, all I can come up with is, “Is that cool or what?”

So this is me putting out a global-wide announcement:

I too want a hip, talented musician friend just on the cusp of fame!

Think of it! We’ll be able to conduct one of those knowing, in-joke laden interviews where people think it’s so cool we’re buddies!

We can name drop!

We can cover for each other’s procrastination in the name of artistic integrity that those bastards in marketing Will Never Understand!

WE CAN PLAY TEKKEN OR DOA EXTREME BEACH VOLLEYBALL TOGETHER!

Just don’t expect me to play bass guitar for your band. I’m Filipino, but I ain’t that Filipino…