Date Night 2000™

With the majority of the missus' free time swallowed up by work, sleep and enduring my worldbuilding rants, we've precious little time to engage in traditional "couple-esque" activities. In this spirit did we institute Date Night 2000™, a monthly initiative to start leaving the apartment, eating non-rice-associated foods and look at things besides our computer screens.

The traditional Date Night ritual includes rolling a d10 and multiplying the result by 5 to determine the budget.

In October, we attended a staged reading of War of the Worlds. In November, we attended a roller derby bout. In December, we splurged on an afternoon of expensive zoo food.

In January, the missus outdid herself with her measely $25 budget, saved a small fortune in secret and took me out to the most magical of evenings.

We started off at Le Petit Chateau, a tiny French restaurant on Lankershim. In a charmingly European fashion, we were thrilled to learn there was no goddamn place to park. Once we got inside, however, the missus set the budget for meals absurdly high, allowing us to indulge in appetizers (escargot), main courses (frog legs and coquilles st. jacques, whatever the fuck that means) and even desert (profiteroles). The restaurant's interior was at once very French and very grandmotherly, the perfect nexus for the missus but, for myself, I couldn't help shaking the notion that the last time someone this Scandinavian was in a place that French, a lotta people got hanged.

Overstaying our welcome at the Chateau somewhat necessitated our scrambling halfway across town, via cars and subways and missed connections, to reach the second half of Date Night 2000™ – a concert here, featuring this guy and, most importantly, headlining this other guy. The previous year, he'd been fortunate enough catch a performance of Anaïs Mitchell, my second favorite musician, at McCabe's Guitar Shop in Santa Monica. Colin Meloy, however, lead singer of The Decemberists, is decidedly my favorite musician and particularly the most talented lyricist known to mankind.

The concert, despite a few weird song choices, was one of those experiences I had to keep reminding myself was actually happening. Decemberist music coats so much of my day-to-day life, his voice so perfectly matched the recordings in my head, it was nearly a disconnect, to realize the person who wrote those songs and who sings those songs was actually standing there, a few hundred feet away.

The "Hank, Eat Your Oatmeal" moment was a particular highlight. The moment a much more recognizable song began – Calamity Song, in this case – I practically had a heart palpitation.

All of this, thanks to the missus and her sneaky ways.

Next month, for posterity, I rolled a budget of $5. Not quite sure how to top this.

You'd Think I'm Like, A Professional Writer Or Something

Whoof did I totally forget to blog tonight. Excuse me while I cheat the post's time stamp something awful. Remind me at some point to blog about being nocturnal.

In an odd bout of productivity, today I edited three chapters of HULL DAMAGE, I wrote a thousand words of GALACTIC MENACE, picked up another potentially paying screenwriter gig and even learned a new word!

amanuensis; which pretty perfectly describes the very kind missus today.

Tomorrow, I expect to lapse in lethargic atrophy.

Bending the Rules

I've, as of this evening, finished showing the missus the first season of Avatar: The Last Airbender.

I now, armed with a bowl of markdown Ralph's-brand spaghetti-os, will attempt to survive one viewing of the allegedly terrible-ass Shymalan adaptation, entirely for the same reason one might attempt Everest or a shuttle launch; for science and mostly lols.

Opinions, certainly negative ones, will soon be shared.

EDIT: So that did not go so well. I will abandon The Last Airbender to the 31:10 mark with "Katara's" revelation that the Waterbending Scroll is "rare!" Let us never speak on these horrors again.

You Should Be Watching

Mind you, I'm only 7 episodes in, but Trigun is the most confusing admixture of great and terrible.

This is not my first attempt to tackle the series. Not an avid fan of anime (barring crowd-pleasers like Bebop and Champloo) it's initial silliness was far too much for me to handle. That, coupled with his tendency to spout Buddy Christ-esque maxims in a badass whisper and how infuriatingly stupid the two insurance girls are, proved too much to swallow.

At the behest of the missus, herself working her way through the series, I gave it another shot, mainly out of morbid curiosity. On the surface, it's such a Timothy J. Meyer premise. Space western about a dangerous outlaw with a colorful nickname and a bounty higher than heaven on his head, it's side cast populated by grungy bandits and unscrupulous rogues, and the added twist that the protagonist, rather than being a hardcore badass, is actually a doltish buffoon. I mean, come on.

Yet, time and time again, whatever choice I would have made with the show, Trigun makes the opposite. It continues to baffle me. They aren't necessarily poor choices – they're just do damnably different.

I can't honestly say I'm enjoying the show. As a writer, I'm just obsessed with it.

Adventures Abound!

Ocean adventures! The missus and I expedited out to Santa Monica this evening to catch some free grub and splash about in the wintry Pacific Ocean.

Video adventures! Check back at midnight for the next video in a series leading up to the release of the Hull Damage Book Teaser. Midnight! Be here!

Book adventures! Don't read The Somnambulist! There aren't any! Or adventures! Read Conan! There are more adventures!

Dictated, Not Read

The missus has, certainly out of the kindness of her black thorny heart rather than any true obligation, begun recently obliging me to the tune of taking dictation. Not for the blog, mind you - this baby has, thus far, only originated from mine own fingers, but for the errant few chapters of Galactic Menace I've been poking at. (Yeah, I know.)

It sounds sorta decadent (and, truth be told, it feels sorta decadent) but it's been an enormously helpful tool in perfecting and clarifying both dialogue and prose for me. Talking things through, testing the wording right off the press, voicing the characters - I'm probably not alone in this belief, but it helps me put higher quality on the page from the get-go, which may or may not invalidate some need for the editing process. As discussed.

I'd refer to the missus as my filthy assistant, but I'm not entirely sure how well that'd go over.

Donkey Kong, the Totodile

So, I'm playing Pokémon again.

Every now and again, the missus and I will engage in hour races, where we'll each play corresponding games (Red and Blue, Gold and Silver) for X hours and then battle. Usually, this is all a flimsy pretense under which to name all our Pokémon after an eponymous them.

I've obviously done Endless Night before (featuring Odisseus with Surf even!) and apocryphal Lord of the Rings (with Gwaihir, Durin and even fucking Cirdan). The missus' done ASoIaF, characters to specifically annoy my lofty literary standards (Bella Swan, for instance) and she's currently arbitrarily doing Barsoom characters (except for what will eventually be the most badass Tars Tarkas analogue ever.)

In retaliation, I'm, equally as arbitrarily, doing the six most important Kongs, in order of appearance. (Donkey, Diddy, Cranky, Funky, Candy and Dixie.) The big DK is gonna make one ferocious Feraligator.

Unrelatedly, the new piece of evidence is up. Go check it and the website out. Cheers.

John Carter (Of Mars)

The missus and I, having just read (or re-read in her case as she's been a Barsoom fan MUCH longer than I) Burrough's Princess of Mars in time for the premiere, caught a matinee of Stanton's John Carter this afternoon.

Overall, as a piece of fanservice, I liked it. It was close enough to Princess (though the major antagonists evidently originate from Gods, which I haven't yet read) for the diehard canonite in me, with lots of loving references, that I can more or less overlook the necessary plot constraints and changes. I attempt to have more of an open mind to book-to-film adaptations and, as long as the spirit is retained, I'm willing to accept and play along with even drastic plot changes (see Two Towers, which was my favorite of book and film trilogy, despite being the most different from its source material.) So, as a fan of Barsoom, I was more or less pleased with the movie and enjoyed seeing several scenes and characters (Woola, especially) visualized*.

As a screenwriter, I was less than impressed. While it had a few well-structured scenes, particularly in the beginning, as the film progressed it fell into several big, unavoidable blockbuster tropes, including shapeshifting villains, an over-convoluted climax and the messy emergence of surprise morals in the protagonist, previously possessed of few. I do honestly think (as he is in the book) John Carter works best as a dumb old boy from Virgina with a mean right hook and not much more to write home about. Making him a bad boy who speaks Apache and has a dark past in which his village was burnt felt unnecessary.

The film also suffered from an attempt to over-compensate the female love interest, Dejah Thoris, from the lilting beauty she is in the novel into a hard-fighting, brilliant scientist bombshell. In all honesty, she made Carter, the ubermench from another planet, look a little underwhelming. Her performance was the most redeeming part of her character but, in general, I think she fell too short.

In summary, if you're a fan of Barsoom, see it. If not, probably a pass.

*Tars Tarkas, my favorite character, was pretty severely emasculated as well, what I consider to be the real crying shame of the picture. The book describes him as literally the greatest Barsoomian warrior living, a seventeen foot tall colossus who easily dispatches all who stand before him, whereas the film has him trounced in practically each action sequence, particularly by Tal Hajus, his ancient rival and (at least in the film) noted glutton and pervert. And finally, when Tarkas' moment for glory comes, Carter unnecessarily fills the roll and slaughters the Jeddak himself, as if bringing down a mated pair of white apes less than sixty seconds ago wasn't enough. Cut a Thark a break, man.

All The Live-Long Day*

Follow the red bouncing dot, kids!

I've been working on the maaan-uscript! 
All the live-long day!

Today marked the first of my (hopefully) weekly editing days, in which I, for many, many hours, dissect, prod and otherwise improve HULL DAMAGE for publication this summer. With all this energy spent on the promotional stuff (speaking of which, if you haven't yet, visit www.whoisnemo.com to start the hunt), it's easy to lose sight of the actual content I'm building up to.

That being said, with today's hard work, I've successfully proofed the book's first ten chapters for Draft 4. Next week, probably next Wednesday, I'll attempt chapters 11-20, but we'll see how successful I'll be.

In celebration of editing well done, the missus and I have been tag-teaming this illustrious game, in an effort to defeat all eight worlds and subsequently rescue that motherfucking bimbo who's, as always, in another motherfucking castle.

Wish us luck.

*As a child, I always thought it was illogically "the lim-long day", whatever the hell that means.

Consulting Detective Upholstery, Inc.

I went thrifting this afternoon. I sought an Evil Genius chair. I found a Consulting Detective's chair.

Ten points if you can spot the missus.

I'd now like to open myself up for business as such. If you have mysteries, bring them to me. I'll be bouncing my leg on my knee or perhaps tending my bees until you arrive.

I wish it had claw feet.

Workspace Assemble!

In news that strangely doesn't pertain to space pirates, I finally got a proper desk today. The missus and I have finally secured a bedroom in the apartment I formerly squatted in and today procured a hasty desk from the lovely Candice "The Pitchblend" Han, of the late Pinching Penny publicity campaign.

After some complicated maneuvering including a rather uncomfortable drive from Hollywood to Studio City practically making out with the inside of the windshield, I have a desk and, more importantly, I have pictures.

 Ooookay, maybe I managed to squeeze some space pirate in there someplace.

The workstation, affectionately referred to as SuperDesk, consists of a $7.00 TV tray I purchased from Target months back for use in the living room and the mondo-ass IKEA table Candice was kind enough to lend us.

Aerial photography of my desk and it's manifold contents.

Equipped with (in a very particular order) Nemo wanted posters, sandpaper, spray paint for making laser guns, waterproof tape, a coaster made from a science fiction prop, a cup for pens and pencils, a microphone, medicine, a cup for toy plastic snakes and frogs, a spare toothbrush, a make-up wheel, Donkey Kong, a pile of Stickie Notes, a desk lamp, Maroolchen the stuffed Wookiee, my Kindle, my D&D chest, a bag of crit candy, badass aviator's, Odisseus, the BATMOBILE, graph paper and my D&D binder, a bowl for miscellaneous cords, a bowl for change and keys, 64 crayola, a Batman coloring book, a dinosaur coloring book, a belt and a fucking shotgun.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go eat another rhino turd.

Would You Kindly?

In a similar vein to yesterday's post, I'm a BioShock nut.

I don't especially have time to blog as I'm currently borrowing the game, console and even the monitor to play it on from my roommates sos the missus might view it. (I'd let her play, but she claims zero desire in playing first-person-shooters.) This is my third time through and I'm continually amazed at how much fucking story they cram into one little game. The worldbuilding's unparalleled, the storytelling is multi-layered and the presentation, with the radio messages and audio logs and unspoken scenes stumbled across, are prime. Pimps only, if you will.

As I said. No time to blog. Little Sisters to rescue.

What A Gas!

I'm afraid I've little to blarg* about this evening, as the missus and I have spent many, many hours preparing for and moving into our new accommodations.

BUT

The previous day, we (the missus and I) visited the Los Angeles Zoo, as recompense for a bygone argument. As a zoo connoisseur (the Como, the Minnesota, the Fargo, the Duluth, the Cheyenne Mountain, the Denver, the San Diego, the Barcelona and the London), I was extremely pleased with the selection and variety found within; a whole troop of gorillas (with many internal politics to memorize in future visits), orangutans, chimpanzees, gibbons and other non-ape animals. We're looking to become members, the missus and I, considering the location, the somewhat steep admission price and the frequency with which we'll want to return.

Anyway, no time to talk, I have an extremely heavy steamer trunk to cart up four floors.

*blog

Travelogue

SUNDAY
The Plan: Depart LAX at 4:50 pm, land in Missoula, MT at 8:20 pm, meet the missus at the airport, meet, greet and crash at the residence of her Aunt Nina.
What Actually Happened: Delayed in LAX four extra hours, tossed an insufficient meal voucher for $8, eat the world's most disproportionately expensive cheese pizza, dawdle on the tarmac for forty-five minutes, land in Missoula at 12:50 am, meet the missus at the airport, crash at the cat-piss smelling residence of her Aunt Nina.

MONDAY 
The Plan: Depart Missoula by car at 8:00 am, drive through the majority of Montana, a portion of Idaho and a small portion of Utah, stop for Subway lunch someplace, check into La Quinta in Orem, Utah by 5:00 pm, chill the fuck out.
What Actually Happened: Depart Missoula by car at 10:30 am, eat an extra nutritious breakfast of nachos at the local Sinclair station, drive through the majority of Montana and a portion of Idaho, devour a meatball sandwich from Subway in Idaho Falls, drive through a small portion of Utah, read some juicy new Scott Lynch short story, miss the appropriate exit in Orem, get re-directed from trio of drunk women in a Shell Station, check into the hotel, devour some mushroom pizza, sleep the contended sleep of the well-traveled.

TUESDAY 
The Plan: Depart Orem by 8:00 am, drive through the majority of Utah, a tiny portion of Arizona, a portion of Nevada and the majority of California, stop for Subway someplace, navigate the treacherous streets of Los Angeles, arrive at Archstone, celebrate.
What Actually Happened: Depart Orem by 10:30 am, drive through the majority of Utah, rock out a singalong of The Hazards of Love through the appropriately pseudo-taiga of southern Utah, stop for Subway in Cedar City, Utah, drive through a tiny portion of Arizona, rock out a singalong of Hadestown through the gorgeously badass Virgin River Canyon, pit stop in Vegas' Chinatown for a stretcher, get stranded in Baker, California, home of Alien Brand Jerky and the worst fucking on-ramp in the history of transpor-fucking-tation, watch the sun set over Zzyzx, finish our subs in Barstow, press onward to Los Angeles, listen to Tom Waits as we arrive at Archstone, celebrate.

Timothy J. Timetravelguy

Yesterday.

If you're reading this, I'm from the past.

As you may have gleaned, I'm embarking on a cross-country voyage, the final stage of my long-running master plan to move the missus out to the territories with me. First, I fly to Missoula, Montana. There, I meet the ladyfriend. From there, we begin a two-day roadtrip across Montana, Idaho, Utah, Arizona, Nevada and California, with nothing but Kindle, Ortok, tunes and all her fucking stuff.

I will not be bringing Gideon so I thought ahead and did all my blogging in advance.

So, this counts. As a blog entry. Despite the fact that it's entirely disclaimer.