I Have The Pooooowerrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!

Final Fantasy X:

Godhood approacheth.

Sin will fear me.

99,999 points of damage in one hit is worthy of all inhabitants of Spira bowing down to my knees and trembling in fearful worship at my power.

And another thing, strictly for Final Fantasy gaming geeks:

If that Crazy Old Bastard at the monster arena is capable of synthesizing beasties that can annihilate every sentient for a 50 mile radius and make plants regret ever blooming in the first place, how come he just doesn’t take over the world already?

Tidus: DAMN. That’s a big ass monster.

COB: Ayep. It rightly is…

Tidus: What the hell is that?

COB: Arm.

Tidus: All FOUR of ‘em?

COB: Ayep…

Tidus: How much damage does this thing do?

COB: Kills towns when it’s sleepin’. Pretty much wipes out regions when it’s awake. If it gets mad… well, I ain’t ever seen it get mad…

Tidus: Where the fuck did you find this thing?!?

COB: Didn’t find it, ya’ in-bred, ignorint turd, ah MADE it.

Tidus: You made it?!?

COB: Ayep. That ah rightly did…

Tidus: Shit. This thing could kill Sin, the scourge of the land, you Crazy Old Bastard…

COB: Ayep, s’pose it rightly could…

Tidus: Why don’t you just sick it on Sin or something.

COB: Don’t wanna’…

Tidus: Well what do you wanna’?

COB: Ah’ll let you fight him. Fer, say, 8000. Aw heck, ah like the look of you, first brawl’s free…

Tidus: Can I use nukes?

COB: Only if you let me run first…

It’s Official: MOM Is Senile…

Bedtime will not arrive until the Singnet guys come over to inspect our line which has been giving us sporadic internet connection for the last week or so.

In the meantime, I am posting this in the wake of the latest visit to MOM.

MOM is senile. I am sure that is the official diagnosis now. There are many reasons that have led me to this conclusion, but the guiltiest parties are a parade of chronically recurring symptoms that are only worsening with time:

1) Chronic forgetfulness

MOM: What was your name again?

Me: It’s me! Wayne! Don’t you remember? I was just here two weeks ago!

MOM: Really?

Me: Yes! I’ve been coming here for weeks now! Don’t you remember? The application? The delay? Don’t you remember any of it?

MOM: Just tell me what your name is again, and we’ll look into it.

Me: AUGH!

2) Chronic Amazement

Me: I’m telling you, I haven’t gotten any word on the application yet.

MOM: But that’s IMPOSSIBLE! It’s only supposed to take 10 days!

Me: You said that already. Two weeks ago, and two weeks before that, AND before that.

MOM: Wow! Really?!?

Me: Yes.

MOM: REALLY?!? WOW!

Me: AUGH!

3) Chronic Stupidity

Me: Look, I need an extension for this passport again.

MOM: But why?

Me: ‘Cause my two weeks are up.

MOM: But how could that be?

Me: Well, there’s this thing, it’s brand new, just hit the market, it’s called a “linear timestream.” That means that one second passes. Then… another second passes. And another and another! Eventually you have a whole piles of seconds that, when totalled to 60, is called a minute. Sixty of those are called an hour and 24 of those are days. 7 of those are weeks, and two of mine have elapsed, so stamp me.

MOM: But you’ve already got a stamp for extension here.

Me: [Icily] Gee willikers, how ’bout that? Where do you suppose that came from?

MOM: Hey, this is my stamp!

Me: Well stick me in a dress and call me Sally, so it is…

MOM: How come it hasn’t been approved yet?

Me: I was hoping you could answer that.

MOM: Well, we’ll look into it. What was your name again?

Me: AUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGH!!!!!!!!!!!!! KILL ME NOOOOOOOOOOOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The short form of that rant being that yes, the passport has been stamped in utter confusion, and yes, it will be looked into again.

MOM… I don’t know how to tell you this, but you’re old. It’s time. Either go to the retirement home and spend your days mumbling about application forms to the geraniums in the corner, or get someone to take you out into the backyard and put you out of your misery like a well-loved but half-blind, stone-deaf sheepdog well past it’s prime. You can’t dance the Charleston anymore and, by the way, the Germans lost both World Wars so shut up about the Kaiser and that young Adolf troublemaker in Berlin. It’s over. Just deal.

DOA Extreme Slut Wrestling

Having been suddenly denied my chance to play the Beach Volleyball game, my mind, after a few curious questions from the girlfriend, turned towards other topics that might also be suitable for one-handed videogame playing goodness. The most obvious one was wrestling; combining the ludicrously revealing aesthetic of bikinis and upping it a notch with a healthy dose of raunchiness and sexual/lesbian subtext, with the incredibly tactile combat of wrapping one’s body around another’s body in compromising positions, I’m convinced that if Team Ninja were to seriously pursue this goal, they would rake in the dollars faster than a pole dancer at a stag party.

All the cute/adorable, Amazonian and Cruel Mistress favorites from DOA Extreme Beach Volleyball would find a new audience of pathetic souls like me as they go through the sweaty gyrations of trying to get each other on the floor and submit to defeat. I figure the game could have various modes:

1. Story Championship Title Mode:

Each hottie, with their backstory that no one cares about, is fuelled by various reasonable motivations to vie for title of champeen, such as one of the other wrestlers burned down their house with their entire family in it (Thus, they have no recourse but to go for champ title, it just makes sense, doesn’t it?), they are training to become chief of their ninja clan, or they are dancers who feel they would learn some great moves by winning the tournament. Over a series of gruelling matches with a variety of opponents, the blonde hot chick, the Japanese hot chick, the Scottish hot chick, the Black hot chick, the 80′s Flashdance hot chick with off-shoulder shirt and of course, the leather hot chick, the participants literally wrestle with their own pointless back story motivation and the opponent before them. Because this is Story Mode, cinemas briefly introduce and conclude each match with such stirring exchanges as:

Ninja Chick: You are in my way. I have no quarrel with you, but the hot chick that burned down the house with my entire clan it is somewhere in the final matches and I must get through you to get her. Gomensai.

Scottish Chick: Och, you got such a wee skirt, what kind’a nancy girl arr yuu?

Ninja Chick: SUPER HOT CHICK ULTIMATE SLUT MOVE SCISSOR KICK! HAAAAIII!!!

(Round ends with Ninja Chick enacting finishing move of an Atomic Piledriver using only her thighs)

Scottish Chick: Ach! I canna’ believe it! Ye’ve bested me with yuir slooty ninja she-devil majik!

Ninja Chick: You fought with honor. Here is your breast back.

Scottish Chick: ACH!

2. Mud Wrestling Mode:

Since videogame consoles seem to have mastered particle physics in real time, mud wrestling seems a natural. Two hot chicks literally get down and dirty in the mud pit, slinging wet dirt and sliding all over each other like epileptic snakes at a disco boogaloo. Accompanied by hard driving techno and Gary Numan tracks.

3. Jell-O Mode:

Particle physics with transparent cubes of rainbow goodness! Referee-ed by none other than Bill Cosby himself!

Bill: Ninja slut wins! Hey, hey, hey!

Ninja Chick: I fought with honor, give me a pudding pop.

Bill: Got’cher pudding pop right here… [ZIIIIP]

Ninja Chick: EH?!? NANDAIO?!?

Bill: It’s chocolate, baby. Your favorite.

4. Wet T-Shirt Mode:

Not exactly a wet t-shirt match the whole way through, instead our hot slut wrestlers duke it out in t-shirts that cover their bodies for the most part, with the loser being subjected to the most heinous punishment of getting dunked. The conundrum for game designers will be trying to circumvent the intentional lameness of players who are determined that their girl shall lose the fight and get dunked. Instead of the usual victory pose, they cut to the “defeat cinema” where the POV shot of the water racing towards the girl clearly conveys her Hentai-esque fear of her fate, cutting to a Matrix style slo-mo rotation as the water hits her body and humiliates her by plastering the soaked cotten across her nubile form. 235 possible camera angles are already in position for players to conveniently jump to, with a replay and record mode for those exceptionally “bad” defeats. Perverted Gamers Monthly gives this feature 5 tissue wads out of 5!

5. Cat Fight Mode:

Two opponents square off in cute little full body, nylon/lycra cat suits, complete with tails and ears. Then proceed to beat the living hell out of each other. As the match ensues, the various grabs and holds take large, large chunks of material off the combatants’ bodies, as they meow and claw their way to victory. Special moves gained from the suit include the Super Fuzzy Vibrating Tail attack, and the dreaded Lycra Strangle Hold. If both opponents are rendered completely naked, it’s considered a Double Victory, and the audience wins!

6. The Pole Match Mode:

The combatants face each other down in a ring with no ropes or buckles, only two poles suspended between a disco ball. Utilizing balloons, stiletto heels and fluffy bunny tails and ears, the vicious opponents swing, slide, and thrust themselves from the poles, losing many articles of clothing in the process and occasionally receiving help from the crowd in the form of $20 bills folded like shuriken that they toss at their opponent. When a combatant’s power meter reaches “Full,” a super bonus attack is made available, randomly selected and tossed out by the crowd as either a banana or a ping pong ball that is hurled, cannon-like, at lethal velocities from the genitalia. Should an opponent be finished by this move, a slow motion defeat cinema is shown, followed by the coveted “Me Love You Long Time” victory cinema.

Man, I’m a genius…

It’s My Fault Inc.

Lately it has come to my attention that there is an extremely lucrative and profitable area of the market that has, until now, gone largely ignored and unexploited. That area is Scapegoats.

I don’t know why I never saw this before. But it seems to me that there is a market out there that can be mercilessly exploited because human nature, in all its adorability, never wants to own up to its own fuck ups, and has a desperate need to push the bad karma on someone else to keep the Victim Fiction going. I foresee an agency that operates off the pimp/hooker/escort service business model:

IMF: Good afternoon, It’s My Fault.

Client: Yes, I need a scapegoat this evening.

IMF: Excellent choice sir, have you used our service before?

C: No, this is my first time.

IMF: Then perhaps you should answer some questions ahead of time so that we can better cater our service to you. Would you prefer a male or a female scapegoat?

C: Male.

IMF: Would that be an articulate male, or a strong silent type?

C: Talkative. Very. Oh and contrite and guilty, I want VERY guilt-stricken.

IMF: I see. Any preferences for appearances? Stylish or fashion crime victim?

C: More of an… an artsey type, I guess. Someone that pretends to be substantial.

IMF: Yes, I think I can see where this is headed. Will this be for a single or multiple blame scenario?

C: Um… multiple. I’ve been saving up my issues.

IMF: Thank you sir. I think we have just the man for you. Will this be cash or credit card?

C: Is C.O.D acceptable?

IMF: Yes, it is, but should you decide to cancel your appointment less than a half-hour before commencement, there will be a penalty fee.

C: I understand, that’s fine. Would 9:00 pm tonight be all right?

IMF: You’re in luck sir, we had a cancellation at the White House, so I think our man will be available for you. Thank you for using It’s My Fault. Have a cathartic evening.

[Later, at roughly 9:00 pm...]

C: [Answering the door] Er… come in.

Me: Hey. [Looks around, lets out low whistle of appreciation] Niiiiiice place.

C: Thanks. I have to give it up in three months. Want a drink?

Me: Yeah, thanks, gin and tonic will be fine. Why do you have to give it up?

C: [Pauses as ice tinkles into glass, the only sound in the deadly silence. He comes over and hands the glass] It’s part of the divorce settlement.

Me: Oh. I’m… I’m sorry.

C: WELL YOU SHOULD BE, SHOULDN’T YOU?!? AFTER ALL, YOU TOOK HER AWAY FROM ME, YOU TRAITOROUS FUCK…

Me: [Getting into IMF Mode] God, you’re right… I’m sorry, I… I just couldn’t help it. I was just so jealous of you. I… I wanted to hurt you somehow.

C: I KNEW IT! FUCK I KNEW IT! ALL THOSE PRETTY WORDS, ALL THAT SO CALLED “SUBSTANCE”, ALL THAT TALK ABOUT HOW YOU UNDERSTOOD HER BETTER THAN I DID… WHO CAN LIKE “BEACHES” ANYWAY?!? IT’S A DUMB MOVIE! THIS WASN’T ABOUT HER AT ALL, WAS IT?!? THIS WAS ALL ABOUT GETTING TO ME!!

Me: Yes! Yes, I admit it! I didn’t even love her! I could never love her the way you could love someone, but I felt so small and weak compared to you that I had to do something… I was so jealous of you… It was all I could do… And even though she didn’t deserve your love, you gave it, and I knew I couldn’t exploit your weaknesses, you don’t have any, so… so…

C: You little manipulative prick… You exploited her.

Me: YEEEEEEEEES!! Yes, it’s true! All of it!

C: AND THE JOB TOO?!? YOU GOT ME FIRED?!? I’VE NEVER BEEN AN INCOMPETENT OR NEGLIGENT EXECUTIVE, THAT WAS YOU TOO, WASN’T IT?!?

Me: Yes! It was! I… I forged the documents, I started the rumor mill, I worked up the others against you!

C: YOU SET THAT SECRETARY UP TO SEDUCE ME IN THE COPY ROOM, DIDN’T YOU?!?

Me: Oh God, you know about that too… I told her-

C: Him.

Me: [Blinking rapidly] It was a HE?

C: [Nods]

Me: [Shrugging]… YEEEEEEES!! I TOLD HIM TO MAKE YOU LOOK AS BAD AS POSSIBLE! I WANTED TO HURT YOU FOR BEING SO MUCH MORE SUCCESSFUL THAN ME! [Gets on knees and heaves shoulders up and down] I TOLD HIM ABOUT YOUR FONDNESS FOR SLIM-

C: Fat.

Me: -WHATEVER! BODIES, AND HOW IT WOULD DESTROY YOUR REPUTATION IN THE OFFICE AND FINALLY BRING YOU THE RUIN THAT YOU NEVER DESERVED BUT THAT I WANTED BECAUSE I WAS PETTY AND JEALOUS! IT’S TRUE, ALL OF IT! IT WAS ME, ME, MEEEEEEEEEEEEE!! OH GOD I’M SORRY!

C: [Rolling up sleeves] And now I’m going to kick your sorry ass… for ruining everythi-

Me: [Standing up and getting brusque and buisness-like] Hold it.

C: [Blinking] Huh?

Me: While physical violence is included in our list of services, there’s an extra charge, depending on the severity. What would you be looking at in court for something like this?

C: Um… Assault and Battery?

Me: Hm… That’ll be an extra $2,000.

C: I don’t have the cash on me.

Me: [Whipping out electronic wireless credit card reader] Do you have Visa or Mastercard?

C: [Pulls out Visa]

Me: [Scans and confirms] Right. Where were we? Oh yeah, NOOOOOO!!! PLEAAAAAAAAAASE!!!

C: This is sweet SWEET justice you little shit…

Me: Aigh! Argh! Oh! The pain! The pain I deserve for doing this! The- HEY! WHAT THE FUCK??!!

C: What?

Me: This is “It’s My Fault”, not “It’s My Ass”. You want that, call a gay escort service.

C: Sorry. Got a little carried away.

Me: Try not to do it in my pants, okay? I’m professional for God’s sake. CHRIST…

C: Sorry. Anyway.

Me: Right. ARGH! OH HOW I DESERVE THIS! IT’S MY FAULT! IT’S ALL MY FAUUUUUUULT…

A Procrastinatin’ We Will Go…

Does anyone else who writes have this problem?

You know how the story is going to end. You even know how you’re going to write it. And yet when it comes down to sitting down and writing, you’re lucky to get a sentence out every half hour despite the fact that it’s sitting in your brain, all ready to spooge on the page.

The unicorn story is giving me that problem. Despite the fact that it’s more or less “written” in my head, it’s refusing to come out, like a baby that had a preview of how bad life could get and has decided to stay in the womb and is digging in with both hands, refusing to come out and get spanked, screaming “No! I don’t wanna’!”

I hate these difficult children.

Whatever Happened To That Guy?

While walking around on the street today, somehow the topic of Lazarus came up. It got me to thinking, “Hey, when Jesus ressurrected that guy, did he remember to put a timer on him, or is the poor bastard condemned to eternal life?”

I pretty much see the conversation going something like this

Lazarus: You fucker. You rat fuck, son of a bitch.

Jesus: What?!?

L: You know what, don’t you? Don’t pretend to get all confused with me, you know exactly what I’m talking about!

J: What? No, really, what are you talking about?

L: Look, J.C., you’re a nice guy. At least I thought you were, but you’ve really gone the absolute limit with this. What’s wrong with this picture?

J: I don’t know.

L: Let’s start slowly. It’s the end of the world, right?

J: Right.

L: And here’s this big rapture thing, taking all the souls up to heaven, right?

J: Right.

L: And as promised, this is taking place thousands of years after you’ve been nailed, right?

J: Right.

L: So don’t you think that it’s just a little bit funny that I’m sitting here? Talking to you? STILL ALIVE?!?

J: [Thinks about it for a second] Oh. Ooooooh…

L: EXACTLY, YOU SANCTIMONIUS DORK! When they said you were supposed to be the son of God they failed to mention you were the slow one! YOU FORGOT TO MAKE IT POSSIBLE FOR ME TO DIE WHEN YOU BROUGHT ME BACK, YOU IDIOT!

J: But, but… I was just trying to help…

L: Help? HELP?!? Like you were trying to help the apostles?!? Do you know what happened after you kicked off? They took that whole “You will be a fisher of men” thing to the next level and opened up a gay bar! When they were martyred, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John’s crucifixes spelled YMCA! Mary Magdalene started up a hair fetish brothel! AND I’VE PAID ALIMONY TO 638 WIVES! Do you have any idea what it’s like to be told “You’ve got cancer,” and realize you’ll have to live with that lump under your armpit FOREVER?!? And how, HOW, I ask you, was it “helping” me when my own relatives put out a bounty on my head to get at my will, a bounty that has persisted for TWELVE GENERATIONS. Every time I visit my relatives I have to bring a mine detector and kevlar vest! YOUUUUUUU SUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!!!!

Vice City Is My Bitch

Yep, after neglecting the girlfriend for days on end running guns, running drugs, running people over, Vice City is at long last my town. Once again, my obsessive compulsive gaming disorder just wouldn’t let me walk away from the game without getting 100% completion, an act of supreme tediousness, but with large, LARGE payoffs, like the AH-64 attack helicopter, or the Rhino tank. It was a good game. One of the best I’ve played in years. I get on my knees and worship at Rockstar’s feet, for a game like this shall not soon grace a console again.

Which means that it’s time to start working on other things.

No, not games.

There’s the question of employment. I suppose I’ll have to schmooze off friends (Are you reading this, people?) or troll through the magazines once more and churn out turgid reviews for Cleo and Her World. Sigh… it’s a living, I suppose.

Me: So, tell me why you prefer to have your armpits unshaven.

Militant Lesbian: IT’S A STATEMENT AGAINST THE FASCIST, PATRIARCHAL REPRESSION FOISTED UPON US BY THE GENETIC DEFECT KNOWN AS MAN!!

Me: Couldn’t get a date for the highschool prom, huh?

ML: FUCK OFF!

This sort of thing will never appear in my author’s bio.

And of course, there’s the ACTUAL writing.

The third novel Suzy & The Shifters (Originally the first novel was going to be titled that, but then my agent and the publisher both had misgivings, as they felt it sounded like a cheesy 50′s band and I said, “YEAH! COOL ISN’T IT?!?” And they began to seriously question my credibility, thus we have Shift for novel one. Suzy & The Shifters works better as an anthology title anyway, since it is about Suzy and her various shifter friends) is still waiting for completion. I’m in no big hurry, because novels one and two have yet to see the light of day, but I’m pretty sure it’ll come to pass eventually, and I can stop being an obnoxious, pretentious wannabe novelist and be a pretentious, obnoxious novelist. The Suzy unicorn short story is nearly done. The Jen serial killer story has more or less written itself in my head. The Canadian Anthology open spaces has rejected my Suzy story, but they said they liked the way I write, so they’re breaking their own rules and asking for a third submission, since the submission date has been extended to April. Since they liked Jen so much, I guess I’ll just crank out the Jen serial killer story (SOMEONE! HELP ME! I SUCK AT TITLES!) and give them that. In other writerly news, Flashquake.com, the website that publishes stories of 1,000 words or less, has told me that they’re considering Famine & Pestilence Go To Dinner and to sit tight for the final result. Anyone who hasn’t read it, just e-mail me and I’ll send you a file, since I think I’d get in trouble with them AND my agent if I start posting stories here.

Ah, and then there’s Nowhere…

This is going to be fun. The first issue is nearly done. I have to wait for the girlfriend to finish up her four issue mini-series with an American Indy comics company, but once that’s done, she’ll pencil issue one, possibly do the cover, and then we’ll shop it around to the various publishers and see if there’s any interest. I sure hope this doesn’t turn into one of those things where the comic comes out before the novels do. Then EVERYONE would accuse me of pulling a Gaiman to a ridiculous degree. I think it’ll be a fun title. We’ve got two Elf brothers, one a super-cool assassin type by the name of Fenoril, and his younger sibling Judas, who is sarcastic, video-game and geek-movie obsessed spellcaster (Remind you of anyone you know? Of cooooooourse nooooot…) who’s ultimate battle cry when conjuring up fireballs is either “SO THERE!” or “Shooooryuken!”

Then there’s the popculture junkie/amazon Cheryl, who learned everything about the world of man through cable television (When she gets angry, she screams “Kaneeeeedaaaaaaaa!!”) and C, the vampire chick who prefers taking her blood in ice, 7-11 style with the paper cup and protective plastic lid on top, straw included. I think it’s going to be utterly deranged since we already deranged Scottish bands with songs like The Bitch From Ipanema (Opening lines, “Tall and tanned and young and lovely, that BITCH from Ipanema she dumped me, and when she told me we’re done, I went and screamed Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh!”) the infamous One Dollar Man, a deranged Chinese merchant (“I sell you good gun! One dollar only! No find gun like this for one dollar, but you, I sell you, one dollar! Buy gun, stupid white man, I sell cheap!”) and Spanky the Ouija Monkey (“Spank me or I’ll kill you.”). Oh and a clone of Jesus running around, hooking up with frat parties and break dancing on the pool or cheating at chugging contests by changing the beer to water as he drinks it.

“Chug, chug, chug! Jeeesus! Jeeesus! Jeeesus! GO!”

The arc of the story has more or less been figured out. In a perfect world, we’d tell the entire story in about 100 issues or so, with three major arcs. We’ll see whether we can make this happen or not.

Oh well… anybody looking for freelance work?

Run Forest! Ruuuuuuuuuuuuuun!

Inspired by a conversation I just had with the girlfriend over coffee:

I remember from the very first moment I heard those immortal words, “Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna’ get,” that it was just dead plain wrong.

The real saying should be, “Life is like a box chocolates. You get a little map inside that marks out each flavor and where it’s located in the box, along with a complete listing of ingredients and the address of the manufacturer for customer inquiries.”

Which got me to thinking: If you had to take that famous line and stick it in other movies or give it to other celebrities, what would end up happening?

Seinfeld:

Jerry: Chocolates in boxes… I mean.. what’s up with that?

George W. Bush

George: The presence of chocolates in Korea represents a clear threat to the Asian region. And that is why we must mobilize to invade Iraq as quickly as possible.

Star Trek:

Spock: I find the comparison of life to a box of chocolates to be highly illogical, Captain.

Arnold How Do You Spell His Name:

Arnie: Liife is liik a bahx ahf tem-min-nah-tors. Nooo! Way-te! Ah can do dis! Mr. Cam-rahn, please, gif me anah-der chaance! One more tay-ke, pleaaaase!

Rocky:

Stallone: Life is like boxing chocolates. I am da law! Adriaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan!!!

Marlon Brando:

Marlon: hamshgm box shmofl exmemuffle chocolates zmplf… No one understaaaaaaaaaands!! Arrrgh! (Begins to cry and pound fist into ground)

(Followed by a $20 million cheque and an Oscar nomination)

Rebel Without A Cause:

Dean: These chocolates are tearing me apaaaaaaaaaaaaaaart!

Star Wars:

Yoda: Like a box of chocolates, life is. But beware the dark chocolate…

Luke: Is the dark chocolate more delicious?

Yoda: Delicious? Thicker, creamier, yes. But not more delicious. Yeeeeeees, mm… yess….

The Matrix:

Morpheus: Unfortunately, no one can be told what the box of chocolates are. They have to eat them for themselves.

Neo: Whoa. Sweet…

Lord Of The Rings:

Elrond: The box of chocolates must be cast into the fires of Mount Doom. Mr. Anderson.

Frodo: My name… is Frodo!

(Okay, that last one was two jokes. Sue me…)

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…

The ‘Net Is Creepy…

And here I was thinking that only friends I had announced this to would be commenting on the blog when it was only hours old. Imagine my surprise when I check it out and find other people have left comments too. Which begs the question, “How the heck did you guys find out about it?”

Not that I’m mad or anything, but slightly amazed that something in its infancy was able to attract the attention of total strangers. For the kind commentor that signed off as “Dildo Bugger”, thank you for the website address, that was priceless. And yes, I too have read Bored Of The Rings. I’m still trying to figure out a way to sneak in that line “Would thee kiss me in the dark baby,” somewhere into a story one of these days…

What I Didn’t Do Today

Go to a meeting I was supposed to.

Apologies to my friend Amelia whom I have yet to call.

Some kind of production meeting for which I was supposed to play camera man for a day on a project she needs help on. The meeting was set for the completely insane hour of 11 am. Which doesn’t strike most people as insane, except most people don’t have an average bed time of 8 am in the morning. I’m going to sheepishly call her and apologize, except that she probably already knows the reason; I lay down, told myself I was just going to take a nap, set the alarm, and solidly managed to sleep through it.

That Lesbian Heroine Thang

After consulting the experts (Read, talking to my friends who have actually gotten books into a bookstore) it looks like Artistic Integrity wins out over desperation to get another publishing credit. Most of my Lit. Friends seem to agree; walk away. I guess that’s what I’ll do, since, to be honest, I wasn’t really sure how I’d get a girl as mean-spirited as Jen to suddenly soften up and say “You have the most delicate eyes…”

Not to say that I’m not above crassness however. I’ll submit another short story instead. That one already has a lesbian in it, so it should be just fine. Mercenary tendencies, thy name is Shoeless…

More Lit Stuff For The Scholars

In the future, when I am a mind-numbingly famous writer and people read this blog faithfully and interviews start popping up, and people come up to me with their hands trembling around my books and stutter, “Y-y-you’re so c-c-cool!” (To which the only generous reply is, “Yes. Yes I am.”) one question that will inevitably crop up is “Who are your influences?”

They are, in order of appearance:

Stephen King

Yes, it was inevitable the younger generation of writers would be influenced by someone with that monstrous a presence on the current scene. Most people would be horrified to think that I am firmly convinced he may very well occupy a position in lit history not unlike The Bard, William Shakespeare. The similarities are too eerie. They were regarded by their contemporaries as peddlers of pop-culture junk to the masses, were thought to have no literary value in their time, were highly regarded by said masses, and in the end, it was the people, not the critics who spoke and made them so frighteningly popular. That is not to say that either Shakespeare or King were at the height of literary skill, or represented the very best writing their generation had to offer, but they were a voice for people of the time.

Why King

He taught me about one big thing: Characterization.

It’s like this. As a kid, when I was reading other stories, ESPECIALLY horror novels, the one thing I noticed was this repeating pattern for plot: You’d have some guy, Joe, walking around in the woods. Then a monster would jump out and kill him. You’d go “Ah!” And that was it. Big scare, now it’s over.

Here’s how King did it. He introduced you to Joe as a kid. He showed you how Joe broke his little finger trying to rescue his dog from the ditch and how it never worked again properly after that. He showed you how Joe gave up on college to help his mom with the mortgage when dad died. He showed you how Joe met and married a great girl, only to lose both her and their daughter during childbirth. He showed you how Joe refused to be beaten down by life, how generous and hopeful he was. How no matter how bad things got, he always found time to care. He made you like Joe. He made you want to be his best friend and go out for drinks with him.

THEN the monster jumps out of the woods and kills him. And instead of going “AHHH!” You’re screaming, “NOOOOO!!! NOT JOOOOOOOOOOOEEEE!!!”

For a kid who’s only just learning the subtleties of writing, that’s a pretty big lesson to learn.

William Gibson

Hey, would I even BE here blogging and would you even be here reading if it weren’t for this guy and that crazy ass notion he whipped up in the 80′s called “Cyberspace”?

See, this guy, this guy right here… HE’S the reason I decided to become a writer in the first place. It all started with his collection of short stories, Burning Chrome, that I came across in the library at the oh-so-malleable age of 14. After I devoured that came Neuromancer, then Count Zero, Mona Lisa Overdrive, Virtual Light and all the others. The man made such a huge impact on me that one day, when he came down to Edmonton, to the Greenwoode bookstore to do a signing for Virtual Light back in the early 90′s, I was that nervous schmuck who came up to him with trembling hands, my dog eared copy of Burning Chrome tightly gripped, and stuttered “Y-y-you’re so c-c-c-cool!” Actually, it was even more embarrassing than that, I told him, “You’re the reason I became a writer!” and practically threw myself prostate on the ground. He politely tolerated me, which I am profoundly thankful for.

Why Gibson

Style. Pure, freakin’ style.

“The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel.”

Up until Gibson came along, I’d had this notion in my head that science fiction (A la Heinlen, Clarke, Asimov, etc, etc…) was all about two things: Plot and Ideas. You had these intricate, wonderful plots that were built around really mindblowing ideas and/or technology about the future. You didn’t necessarily care about the characters, and most of the time, you didn’t care what they said or did either, but you walked away with this big mess in your head about the future of humanity, or where this particular technology was going, stuff like that. Gibson changed all that for me. His language was amazing. There was this nasty, vicious, elegant shaping of words that was so incredibly 80′s you could practically hear the hum of blue neon coming from the words and see the Nagel paintings on the walls. The paragraphs were short, but the description was incredibly dense. I had no idea that genre fiction could actually be this beautiful until he came along, and after that, it wasn’t too long before I started thinking, “Damn, I wanna do that.”

And here I am. Nearly, anyway.

Neil Gaiman

Death, Dream, Delirium.

I know SO many people who have at least been marginally touched by Gaiman and what he did for comic books. Again, he broke the mold. No more tights. No more endless plots. There were Narrative arcs. Characterization. NO TIGHTS. Here were people we could care about that had immense personal problems as well as crises that rocked the cosmic pillars of existence’s foundation. Gaiman took us to hell, to the places between worlds, he made death your best friend, dream the angtsy poet he should be, and he wrapped it all up with an explosive endgame narrative that left most readers, in the great King tradition, screaming “NOOOOOOOOOO!!!! NOT MORPHEUS!!!!”

Why Gaiman

I was already starting to get my writing legs under me when I discovered Sandman in university, thanks to my friend Karen Chow (She of the endless wit), and I was a bit worried that my weird, genre-blending stuff wasn’t going to fly.

Then I read Gaiman, and felt much, much better.

If there’s one thing he taught me, it’s that anything really is possible in fiction. His stories went everywhere and yet, within the context of the story, made sense. He tackled huge ideas, but somehow always brought it back to the personal level. He tackled new ideas (Or at least ones that hadn’t been touched in a while) with his revisionist takes on myth and legend, and mostly he just did the one thing that the comics industry had completely failed to recognize up to that point; the kids who read comics were STILL reading comics, but they weren’t kids anymore. And Gaiman treated them that way.

I still go back to the tights stuff every once in a while to see if there’s been any change. Largely there hasn’t, except that maybe anime and manga are starting to have an influence on the art work, but these days, when it comes to comics, I prefer stuff like Alan Moore, Garth Ennis, Neil Gaiman and Frank Miller. Those guys are all doing the interesting stuff, and I’ve probably ripped them off on more than one occasion.

My Fantasy Blog Friendship

As stated in the very first post, this Blog was started largely out of a lame attempt to imitate my idols, William Gibson and Neil Gaiman. Neil has been blogging for quite some time and developed an incredibly loyal following, some of whom have never even read his books, but are just fascinated by his musings alone. Recently, (I found this out on Neil’s blog) William Gibson has started his own. It turns out that they actually know each other. When Gibson was coming into his own, he went over to England and was interviewed by Gaiman, who was still struggling at the time.

This of course, set off this massive fantasy in my head. It goes something like this.

Gib: Hey Wayne, I read your blog! I’m really flattered by all the nice things you said about me.

Me: You’re so cool!

Gai: Yeah Wayne, me too! Sorry I didn’t respond to your post in my blog, it got lost, the cat ate it, and I left it in my other pants. But I’ve been reading your blog, and I’ve decided I want to be your new best friend!

Me: You’re so cool!

Gib: Me too! In fact, I want you to call me “Big Bill”! No one else can call me “Big Bill”, you and YOU alone are allowed to call me this. Even my wife and kids don’t have that privilige.

Me: You’re so cool!

Gai: And you can call me “Neil-O!” It’s my secret name! Why don’t you come and have some drinks with us? I’m bringing Tori Amos along, and she wants to write a song for you. She says “Hi,” by the way.

Me: She’s so cool!

Gib: And I’ll be bringing Douglas Coupland along with me. He wants to base a character off you, because you typify the current generation of needlessly geeky, angst-ridden, introspective, annoying, pseudo-intellectuals!

Me: He’s so cool!

Gib & Gai: WE’LL BE YOUR BESTEST FRIENDS FOREVER AND EVER!

Me: This is so cool!

Porn Of The Rings

Hey, has anybody done this yet?

I keep thinking there’s just way, WAY too much fodder here. Enough to make Tolkien roll over in his grave and give Peter Jackson a sufficiently large heart attack to put him in one. There are too many examples to cite for the porn possibilities but to name a few off the top of my head:

In the Shire:

Gandalf: He is seeking it, Frodo. Seeking it with every fiber of his being.

Frodo: What’s your hand seeking in my pants? That’s not my pocket, y’know…

Upon encountering Galadriel at the pool in Lothlorien:

Frodo: What will I see?

Galadriel: My amazing hooters!

(Throws herself into pool and stands up to reveal she wears no bra, then begins to strip)

Bao-chika-bao-bao… (written equivalent of porno wa-wa guitar music)

In The Two Towers:

ANYTIME Gollum says “My Precious” he’s staring at his crotch…