BP Kills Gulf, Delays Payments to Residents. Cartoon Villains Everywhere Green With Envy

We haven't heard much about the Gulf of Mexico lately, and what we have heard from BP is a cheery line of 'Well, back to normal!' that is <gasp> slightly less than true.

Vast regions of the Gulf are covered in a thick layer of crude and dead animals.  See for yourself here. But because the damage isn't visible from the top, BP and their best buddy Feinberg have been accused of underestimating the damage and dragging their heels in paying Gulf residents who lost everything in the spill the money these people were promised.

Now, to make matters worse, BP is complaining that Feinberg is being too generous in his meager payouts.  And that's while BP is flooding Washington with lobbyists and paid 'scientists' who are actively working to reduce the official total volume of oil spilled -- because that number directly affects the payouts.

Read about it here.

BP is doing precisely what Exxon did in the wake of the Valdez spill.  They drag their heels, throw legions of lawyers in every direction, and bide their time, knowing their petro-pockets are deeper than any of the plaintiffs'.

It's despicable.  But that's way big business is done.

BP and all the rest will be drilling in the Gulf again, before the summer is out.  And they'll be cutting corners and taking risks and generally acting like boozed-up seventeen year olds with their first taste of whiskey and freedom.

Live and don't learn, that's us.

I'm Looking at You, Italy

Let me start by stressing that I have no strong opinion either way concerning Amanda Knox, the American exchange student who was tried and convicted in Italy of murdering another college student.

Innocent?  Guilty?  I don't know.  I didn't follow the trial and barely noticed the verdict.  My own rule for traveling abroad is this -- don't lick the taxi seats.  Also, don't engage in drug-fueled romps with strangers and knives.

Those simple rules, plus my habit of always traveling under an assumed name after receiving extensive plastic surgery to alter my appearance, has always served me well.

But now I hear that the Italian police are suing Amanda Knox's parents for libel, after they reported mistreatment of their daughter by the cops.

Oh, so convicting their daughter wasn't enough, Italian police?  Now you've got to sue the mortified parents because they dared to insinuate you might have engaged in (gasp) mild police misconduct?

That's just not cool.  You got your verdict.  Justice was presumably served.

Suing Mom and Pop because they acted like parents just smacks of petty spite.

I hope the Knoxes tell you where to shove your libel suit.  Heck, Italian police, maybe you'd like to sue me for libel.  After all, I did just call each and every one of you a doorknob-sucking hacksaw snacker.  I also hinted that it takes six of you to count to four.  Too, your language sounds like a ferret sneezing.

Come and get me.

I'm in Rome right now, at the Hotel della Minerva, under the alias 'Samsonite M. Pennyfathing, Esq.'

I dare you.

Finally -- Anonymous Versus Westboro Baptist

The world is, regrettably, filled with people I don't like.

The offenders are plenty and varied.  People who text in movies.  People who drag jam-packed shopping carts into the 20-or-less line.  People who --

Well, most people, really.

So I'm not a people person.  But even the most touchy-feely huggy-huggy pro-people people must agree that the  members of Westboro Baptist Church are indeed the most repugnant examples of a truly subhuman species of lower primate -- and I wouldn't even give the Westboro bunch that high a rating.

For those of my readers across the water, the Westboro clan is composed of a senile old preacher and his mostly-inbred congregation of knuckle-walking morons.  Now, if this bunch of genetic mistakes kept to their own ragged hovels and only intruded into the lands of men long enough to raid garbage dumps or gaze longingly at dental offices, they'd not be the target of my ire.

But instead of quietly attracting flies in some damp corner of rural Kansas, the Westboro creatures spend their time trotting from funeral to funeral, where they disrupt the proceedings by yelling in their gutteral dialect and waving badly-made signs expressing condemnation of the dead -- right in the faces of the bereaved families.

Why they do this is a question best answered by a qualified clinical pathologist who specializes in severe mental disorders.  My own explanation is much simpler, and can be expressed by the equation 'inbreeding + innate stupidity + paranoid delusions = a bunch of complete wankers.'  Yes, there is a religious element to all this, but it's so juvenile and grotesque I won't burden you with a description of it.

They're just stupid hillbillies with an equally stupid agenda.

For years, they've been more or less tolerated, since they are after all the grimy underbelly of Free Speech.  Towns have gotten clever about granting them a space for their 'protest' and then making sure a few thousand actual humans show up and occupy that space before the Westboro primates can coax their aging minivans into town.

Motorcycle gangs and riders even meet the 'protesters.'  The bikers then park in front of the toothless Westboro troglodytes and rev their bikes to drown out their hoots and bellows.

When biker gangs note your activity and proclaim it unacceptable, man, you've really crossed a line.

Well, Westoboro has apparently crossed another line.

They have, reports indicate, provoked the wrath of Anonymous.

Anonymous is the shadowy group of elite hackers who have recently laid numerous high-profile corporate bullies to rest.  VISA, Mastercard, and at least one much-praised internet security company have all fallen prey to Anonymous lately -- and none of them had first cousins for parents.

According to a letter alleged to be from Anonymous, they've had enough of Westboro, and they've issued to them a warning -- crawl back into whatever damp hole you came from, or face the wrath of Anonymous.

The Westboro bunch can be counted on for one thing -- stupidity.  So they'll do the stupid thing, and call Anonymous out.

And then -- well, I'll start popping popcorn, because this will be hilarious.

It's one thing to wave signs at funerals, Westinbred.  But if you think your tinker-toy websites and your private info will remain even remotely intact if Anonymous sets their sights on you, well, you've got another thing coming.

And in my mind, it's a thing long overdue.

Go Anonymous -- FOR THE LULZ!

This Just In: New Markhat Novel Out in October 2011!

It's official -- The Bonnie Bell, a new Markhat novel, has been accepted by Samhain.  The tentative e-book release date is October of this year, with the print release a few months after that.

The Bonnie Bell is an all-new Markhat adventure, not a novella or an anthology of shorts.  I'm really excited about Bonnie Bell.  The whole gang is back, including Mama Hog, Gertriss, Evis, and even Three-leg Cat.

And Darla, of course.  I'd say more about her role in the book but my patient and all-knowing editor threatened to bring out the thumbscrews if I blabbed any plot details early.  So I can't tell you that the name of the book derives from a Rannite wedding ceremony.  No.  That would be telling far too much, and I just won't do it.

So, if you've been wanting more Markhat, you won't need to wait very long.

If you're new to the series, okay, here's the deal.  Markhat, our hero, lives in a world where magic works.  Ogres and Trolls rub shoulders with ghosts and vampires.  Only they don't so much rub shoulders metaphorically as bash heads literally.  This isn't a Tolkienesque world of lyrical Elves and wise old dwarves.  Lyrical Elves wouldn't last their first night in Rannit, Markhat's home town.  And the wise dwarves, if they woke up at all, would wake up shaved, robbed, and doing ten years in the work gangs for vagrancy.

Markhat earns his living as a finder.  Finding became a profession when the Kingdom abruptly won the Troll War and disbanded the Army where they stood, which left half a million soldiers stranded across the Kingdom's vast lands, and their families wondering who lived and who died.

Enter Markhat, former soldier.  He started out finding uncles and fathers and sons for a fee.

Now what he finds is trouble.

Here are the Markhat titles, in some semblance of order:

1) The Cadaver Client
2) Dead Man's Rain
3) The Mister Trophy
(All these available in e-book format from Amazon, or in print all together in the anthology THE MARKHAT FILES)
4) Hold the Dark
(Also available in print as well as e-book format)
5) The Banshee's Walk
(e-book now, in print on June 7 2011)
6) Coming in October: The Bonnie Bell


Look down below this post, toward the bottom of your screen, and I've got links to all these set up already, for your shopping convenience.

I'm already at work on the next one (working title is Brown River Queen).

But for the moment, let me bask in the glory of another sale to Samhain.

<pause>

Oh yeah.  Feels good.

But now it's back to work!

8th Oxford Film Festival Roundup

I know, I know, the Film Festival ended Sunday and serious bloggers pounded out their entries while the films were still fresh in their memories.

Well, how many of those smug smart-asses had a parachuting accident Sunday afternoon, huh?  Or crashed their Formula 1 race car into a fuel storage facility?

Not bloody many.  So I feel well vindicated for my tardiness, which matters of national security prevent me from explaining in detail.

I mentioned a film called Pillow earlier, as being my favorite at the mid-way point of the festival.

Pillow kept its place, and as far as I'm concerned, it was the best film shown at the Festival.

Taking second and third places are Worst in Show and The Happy Poet.  


Before I talk about why I liked Pillow, Worst in Show, and The Happy Poet so much, let me talk about a few things I didn't like.  I'm not going to mention any names -- just some general trends and traits that ruined quite a few other films for me, this year.

I'm a horror movie buff.  I love being frightened by a movie, although that seldom happens.

But people -- if you're going to be scary, be freaking scary.  And to be scary, you're going to have to be a bit faster on your feet than I am.  If you're making a movie about a man who has obviously been attacked by a vampire, and who we all bloody well know is turning into a vampire, don't expect us to be surprised, shocked, or even mildly amused when the newly-minted vampire chows down on the psychologist he summoned to his home in the middle of the night.

Really.  I saw that coming 15 seconds into the movie.  When it happened, I was almost dozing.

And I know I promised not to name names, but I'm looking at you here, Happy Face. Decent production values.  Good acting.  It seemed, at least, to be going somewhere.

But that movie fooled me, by thinking it had a beginning, a middle, and an end.  It didn't.  People drove to the middle of nowhere and engaged in a bit of impromptu facial surgery.  Yes?  that's it?  It's over?

Mm-hmm.  Nice try.  So did we run out of money or lose the last ten pages of the script?

No matter.  I don't care.

So, for next year, let's try and scare Frank, okay?  Make him jump, just a little.

Keep him awake at the very least.

But back to the good stuff.

I think I described Pillow as 'deliciously cruel.'  And it was.  I did not see that ending coming.  Or the middle. Or the beginning.  I think that's why I'm so enamored with this little gem -- it was new.  This wasn't a rehash of an old Twilight Zone episode, or a weak adaptation of Faulkner.  This was written by somebody who has lived in the South more than long enough to know its stories, its people, its mythology.

And not just that.  They know how the South looks, how it feels, how it makes you sweat, how the sun can beat down on you long enough and hard enough to make the grim fantastic perfectly plausible.

Southern Gothic is a well-traveled road.  I've tried my hand at it myself (The Powerful Bad Luck of DD Dupree).  Pillow takes you places Oh Brother Where Art Thou feared to tread, and it does it in a fraction of the time.

See Pillow.  


Worst in Show is a documentary about ugly dogs and the people who love them.  I'm a sucker for dogs -- ugly, pretty, big, small.  Of course, the real story behind Worst in Show is the people, who sometimes become the sort of obsessive monsters you normally see on Toddlers and Tiaras.  Not that I watch that.  Seriously, I'd rather watch American Idol, and that requires a gun to my head and a warning shot in the knee every time somebody cranks up an old Whitney Houston tune.

But Worst in Show was genuinely funny.  It's hard not to like the rare people who will champion ugliness without because they recognize beauty within.

Finally, The Happy Poet.  This was a full-length film, fiction, about a dude-speaking hipster who opens a vegetarian food stand in a park.  His home-made food is good.  His business sense is nonexistent -- and his delivery guy is using the stand as a cover for his own thriving weed trade.

The poor Happy Poet knows none of this, of course.  He thinks people are really into his eggless egg salad, because, dude, it's got, like, basil.

I won't spoil the ending for you, because it's sweet and funny.

I'd also be remiss if I failed to mention a funny little Western entitled The Hanging of Big Todd Wade. Half of Oxford had bit parts in it, and the gag was really funny.  I hope the gang submits it at other festivals, where I'm sure it would do very well.

That's my take on the 8th Annual Oxford Film Festival!  There's some amazing talent out there.  I had a blast watching the fruits of their labors, and I can't wait for next year!

Dispatches From the 8th Annual Oxford Film Festival

I was out past ten o'clock last night.  If you knew my habits, which are generally those of any 80-something retiree, you'd know that was news.

Oxford is holding its annual film festival this weekend.  We managed to catch several indie films, and while I don't have time to talk about them all, one does stand out.

It's a short called Pillow.  It contains less than a dozen words of dialog, all spoken by a character who never appears onscreen.  It's a twisted little tale -- devoted but dimwitted sons, monstrous mother, and a quest for a pillow as soft (literally) as an angel's wing, set in a nameless corner of the Depression-era South.  Deliciously cruel and inventive.

The documentary 'Mississippi Innocence' is easily the most powerful factual entry in the festival.  It's the heartbreaking true story of police and judicial incompetence in present-day Noxubee County, and the years-long struggle by the Innocence Project to set two blameless men free after they were railroaded by courts eager for a conviction, never mind the facts.

More later!  

The Unwriting Life

It is said that Tragedy is most often found on the heels of Triumph.

Nah.  I made that up, just now.  But it should be said, because in my experience it's true.

Take my triumphant completion of The Bonnie Bell, for instance.  I crowed about it in these very pages.  I even named a blog after the word count, which in retrospect wasn't a very smart thing to do, because that very word count came quickly back to haunt me.

The Bonnie Bell weighed in at a somewhat overfed 128,000 words.  Now, there's nothing inherently wrong with a novel being 128,000 words long.

Unless one's publisher has a firm 120,000 word upper length limit.

Oops.

So eight thousand words had to go.

I've known a few writers who would have balked at the very idea of cutting 8K out of a finished novel.  What of my vision, they would cry.  What of my artistic integrity?  What of my soul?

What of my bank account, quoth I.

I'm not one of those artsy guys.  If eight thousand words have to go, they have to go.

So I began the process I call unwriting.

Writing is easy.  You put words together so they bring the movie in your head to life.

Unwriting is harder.  You want to keep the scenes intact.  You want the flavor, the mood, the feeling of the words to remain intact.

But you've got to go into the text and make words disappear.  And you've got to do that without ruining the images and feelings they evoke.

It's like playing Jenga.  You've got a precarious, leaning tower of words.  Each word touches the others.  Removing even one is tricky.

Removing eight thousand is tricky indeed.

But that's what I get paid for.  And even my ego recognizes that if words I wrote can be removed without harming the work, then they should be removed, because they aren't vital.  And if they aren't vital, then they're just loafing around, and that's no way to write a novel.

So I'm unwriting.  Reading the thing aloud, listening for awkwardness.  Slashing when I hear it.  Tightening.  Tweaking.  Surgically removing dead tissue.

When I'm done, The Bonnie Bell will be leaner, meaner, faster, stronger.  And better. Much better.

It's back to the delete key for me.  I think it snowed earlier.  White cold stuff, that's snow, right?

No matter.  Back to unwriting!

Requiem

Like most writers, I've worked some unusual jobs.

Back in the 1980s -- yeah, I was of working age back then, but if any of you kids write in asking if I ever met Lincoln or what we did before radio, I'll drive to your house and smack you in the noggin -- I did shift work.  Graveyard shifts, mostly.

I met some fascinating people doing that.  There was Tom Yancy, who went on to become a Washington journalist.  Worked the White House Press Corps.  Tom commanded the quickest wit I've ever encountered, but he was kind soul and a hard worker.

We used to tune an AM radio to New Orleans radio talk shows while we burst and decollated all the computer-printed forms we generated during the night.  Most of the programs featured preachers -- not the cadaverous, monotonous lot we have around here, but flamboyant New Orleans late-night radio preachers to whom saving souls was a distant second in priority to selling their Hoodoo Bags and Magic Money Hands.

Those nights I spent running endless reams of paper through hungry bursters and listening to Tom critique charlatan hoodoo men were absolute comedy gold.  Of course, I didn't know that then.  I held it to be the worst sort of drudgery.  I was a man, you understand, bound for bigger and better things.

Fast forward a decade or two.

Tom passed a few years ago, far too soon.  He'd known he'd die young.  He even talked about dying, all those nights ago.  I wish he'd been wrong.

And today, I got the news that another of us is gone.  I won't say her name.  The incident which led to her death is all over the news, but they haven't released any names, and I won't either.

She was a nice person.  We all liked her.  And though she was very different from the rest of us misfits, she  laughed with us, worked with us, drank bad coffee and talked the night away with us.

The bursters are gone.  The AM radio too.  That whole room is silent now, and empty.

So, to the valiant members of the dreaded Third Shift, I lift my glass in salute.  Both of you left this world far too soon.

You will be missed.

Live From New York...

If you grew up in the US during the 70s, 80s, or 90s, then you're familiar with the TV show 'Saturday Night Live.'

Back in the day, SNL was the best thing on TV.  Akroyd.  Murray.  Murphy.  Belushi.  And the list of names goes on.

Yeah, the show today isn't what it was, although it does have its moments -- my favorite bits are usually the Andy Samburg digital shorts and the opening.  Hearing someone shout 'Live from New York, it's Saturday Night!' is something I've been hearing for lo these many years.  At the end of a long hard week, it's reassuring, on some primal level -- yeah, the world may be falling apart around me, but all that can wait.

It's time for SNL.

This Saturday's guest host was Dana Carvey, former cast member (86 thru 93, I think).  His characters are some of my favorites.  He did Church Chat, Hans and Franz, and of course, Garth from Wayne's World.

The Church Lady and Wayne's World, complete with a cameo by Mike Myers, were featured in Saturday's show.  I loved seeing the bits again -- until I realized just how many years have passed since they were fresh and new.

Can I really be that freaking old?

Surely there's been some mistake.

But while I check my records in a doomed attempt to establish my current age at 27, here's a link for you to enjoy.  It's my favorite Andy Samburg digital short.  Enjoy!

Andy Samburg's 'Gonna be a Great Day' video

Get Yours At Off Square Books

And now for a bit of shameless self-promotion!  My latest print book, THE MARKHAT FILES, has hit the shelves at Off Square Books in Oxford.  Here's a pick of the cover -- oh, and note that 2 copies of my other printed Markhat novel, HOLD THE DARK, are right beside it:

The Markhat Files

So, if you live in or near Oxford and you've been waiting for the book to hit the stands, they've hit! And remember, for each copy of THE MARKHAT FILES sold, an angel gets a puppy.  Or maybe it's a kitten.  Either way it's cute and fluffy and its got big trusting eyes and you feel a sudden irresistible compulsion to buy this book right now yes right now go go go...

So hit up Off Square Books and make a huge scene when you buy the book.  Really.  Run up to the shelf, grab the book with both hands, then scream "I have been looking for this book for ages AAAAAAAAGH here it is AAAAAGH MY LIFE IS COMPLETE!" before throwing wads of cash at the confused clerk and then charging out into traffic on the Square.  

Let's make this an event.

So, to recap -- THE MARKHAT FILES, Off Square Books, 662-236-2828, open 9:00 AM till 7:00 PM Monday through Thursday, 9:00 AM till 8:00 PM on Fridays and Saturdays, noon till five on Sundays, give me a call and I'll drive you myself if you'll buy a few books!