Avoid the sake. Avoid the fences with sharp pointed tops. And above all else, never over estimate your skills or underestimate your opponents power. Learn from someone else's mistakes, young Insect-of-Your-Choosing. (The Fly, the Grasshopper, and the Ladybug are taken)
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Sunday, November 8, 2009
The aftermath
Last Saturday I was wondering how to follow up my last post.
How does one segue from the most traumatic experience in the last eighteen years of their life?
How do you go from: "I helped carry my mentor, Granddad, and friend's body out" to "The weather is wonderful out here . . ."
I kept looking at this thing and wondering: "What is the point? Why bother? This cathartic therapy is so insignificant in light of recent events."
But then we had the local memorial service, and I was presented with the perfect close to the volume.
I didn't realise how much I had been affected by Granddad's passing until I noticed that every day after, I felt a little bit better than I did the day before. One week after the event I think that I must have been about ninety percent. Up from about sixty or seventy percent.
Then last Sunday we had the service.
Over the week there had been much debate about whether or not there would be an open casket. Some needless debate had prevented the mortician from performing his task promptly and nature had undauntedly continued on its coarse.
Having seen Granddad, a few short hours after he had passed, and having his image to this moment sealed into my mind, I personally had no desire to see him. Obviously I had no say, other than my opinion, which was never asked for, but freely given at the first opportunity.
I have never understood the need to see a corpse to find closure. I wonder if disbelief prevents people from finding peace and moving on, and so, like Philip, until they actually see the body, they refuse to believe, or accept the stated facts. After all, just because you disagree with a truth, doesn't make it untrue. And the longer that you disagree with truth, the more difficult, and dangerous, it becomes to align yourself with the truth. But I digress.
Please believe me that I have no problem with people who need to see the corpse to find closure. I don't think any less of those persons. I just don't understand. And lack of understanding is not a sin. With some things we have to grow up in order to understand.
So last Sunday they had an open casket. I still had no desire to see the body, but as I am the sound guy I new that there would be no way I could avoid it. So, fortune favors the bold, I went up front, and peered down upon the man that was laid at state in the simple brown casket. It was not Granddad. Sure, the man wore his glasses, but it wasn't him. It looked nothing like him. Nature had seen to that. I think that I breathed a sigh of relief. And now, looking back, I am glad that I looked.
I told some friends that if I was a conspiracist I would have started shouting "Where is he?! What have you done with him?! I know he's not dead! Take me to him now!" We joked that yeah, maybe he was on a secret South Pacific island with JFK, Hoffa, Elvis, and Apostle John.
But he is not. He is now more resplendent than imagination could possibly comprehend.
The service itself was far too long. It took four, wandering, meandering hours to get to the eulogy, which should have been gotten to in an hour.
But then it was too soon. My brothers spoke and I realised, not having spoken with them in depth about Granddad's passing, that they where just as devastated as I had been. And then the pallbearers were called, of which I was one.
I was disappointed that there was no actual carrying of the casket, we simply held the handles and rolled it along on its gurney until we got to the back of the hearse, and then we lifted; a little.
I understand why there was no manual portage, but man, that would have been the icing.
I didn't think I had any tears left. I hadn't cried since the day of his transition. But after they shut the back hatch of the hearse and pulled away, I had to find a quiet place by myself for a few minutes.
Today was the funeral proper. Again it was too long.
I was curious about how I would do. I did just fine. I think that the last nail was sunk with the "clunk" of that Cadillac's back door. And eighteen hundred miles and a sketchy Internet connection probably also helped.
I had been concerned for my father. He had been affected by Granddad's passing harder than I had ever seen anything affect him. After today I was encouraged. He has made it over the hump and is moving onward, upward, and inward. (Don't tell him I said this. He doesn't like fusses.)
So, I think that I am ready to move on now.
How does one segue from the most traumatic experience in the last eighteen years of their life?
How do you go from: "I helped carry my mentor, Granddad, and friend's body out" to "The weather is wonderful out here . . ."
I kept looking at this thing and wondering: "What is the point? Why bother? This cathartic therapy is so insignificant in light of recent events."
But then we had the local memorial service, and I was presented with the perfect close to the volume.
I didn't realise how much I had been affected by Granddad's passing until I noticed that every day after, I felt a little bit better than I did the day before. One week after the event I think that I must have been about ninety percent. Up from about sixty or seventy percent.
Then last Sunday we had the service.
Over the week there had been much debate about whether or not there would be an open casket. Some needless debate had prevented the mortician from performing his task promptly and nature had undauntedly continued on its coarse.
Having seen Granddad, a few short hours after he had passed, and having his image to this moment sealed into my mind, I personally had no desire to see him. Obviously I had no say, other than my opinion, which was never asked for, but freely given at the first opportunity.
I have never understood the need to see a corpse to find closure. I wonder if disbelief prevents people from finding peace and moving on, and so, like Philip, until they actually see the body, they refuse to believe, or accept the stated facts. After all, just because you disagree with a truth, doesn't make it untrue. And the longer that you disagree with truth, the more difficult, and dangerous, it becomes to align yourself with the truth. But I digress.
Please believe me that I have no problem with people who need to see the corpse to find closure. I don't think any less of those persons. I just don't understand. And lack of understanding is not a sin. With some things we have to grow up in order to understand.
So last Sunday they had an open casket. I still had no desire to see the body, but as I am the sound guy I new that there would be no way I could avoid it. So, fortune favors the bold, I went up front, and peered down upon the man that was laid at state in the simple brown casket. It was not Granddad. Sure, the man wore his glasses, but it wasn't him. It looked nothing like him. Nature had seen to that. I think that I breathed a sigh of relief. And now, looking back, I am glad that I looked.
I told some friends that if I was a conspiracist I would have started shouting "Where is he?! What have you done with him?! I know he's not dead! Take me to him now!" We joked that yeah, maybe he was on a secret South Pacific island with JFK, Hoffa, Elvis, and Apostle John.
But he is not. He is now more resplendent than imagination could possibly comprehend.
The service itself was far too long. It took four, wandering, meandering hours to get to the eulogy, which should have been gotten to in an hour.
But then it was too soon. My brothers spoke and I realised, not having spoken with them in depth about Granddad's passing, that they where just as devastated as I had been. And then the pallbearers were called, of which I was one.
I was disappointed that there was no actual carrying of the casket, we simply held the handles and rolled it along on its gurney until we got to the back of the hearse, and then we lifted; a little.
I understand why there was no manual portage, but man, that would have been the icing.
I didn't think I had any tears left. I hadn't cried since the day of his transition. But after they shut the back hatch of the hearse and pulled away, I had to find a quiet place by myself for a few minutes.
Today was the funeral proper. Again it was too long.
I was curious about how I would do. I did just fine. I think that the last nail was sunk with the "clunk" of that Cadillac's back door. And eighteen hundred miles and a sketchy Internet connection probably also helped.
I had been concerned for my father. He had been affected by Granddad's passing harder than I had ever seen anything affect him. After today I was encouraged. He has made it over the hump and is moving onward, upward, and inward. (Don't tell him I said this. He doesn't like fusses.)
So, I think that I am ready to move on now.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
The Smell of Death
I was going to post a comment responding to the comments that I received on the last post.
So please don't think that I'm ignoring anything that was said.
When I replied "WOW" to the comments left it was because I didn't know what else to say and because I did not have the strength nor the desire to wage Holy High Verbal Combat.
But then I got some more sleep and I suddenly found that I did have the strength.
But that was then, and the worm has turned yet again, and that conversation seems too irrelevant in light of yesterdays events.
My Grandad died yesterday. And though he was eighty-seven years of awesome Jamaicaness, and I am decidedly white, he really was my Granddad. While I have fond "playtime" memories of my father's father, Cecil duCille impacted my life more profoundly than any natural Grandparent ever has.
I hope and pray that his fingerprints will ever be visible upon me.
He was the one person in whom I had total and absolute confidence. I have told people that if he told me to jump off of a cliff, I would, (I like to think without hesitation) because I always knew that he actually did have my best interest in mind.
Now please believe me when I say that I was not a blind acolyte, that I was not a Cool-Aid drinking disciple. And do not think for one moment that I was compelled by his will to follow. He always said, like a good General, "This is where I have come from. This is where I am. This is where I am going. This is what we may, will, and probably shall encounter. Follow me as I follow Christ."
When I got the call yesterday morning that he had passed away, I was surprised, but not shocked. It was unanticipated, definitely unexpected. I thought that he would live forever.
And I was a little surprised at my lack of devastation. I remembered when three of my natural Grandparents died and how little it affected me. No crying, just a stranger's dissociated calm. It wasn't callousness, but for two it was a lack of relationship, and for the third it was relief, because of the Hellish ride he had taken and because I knew that he was in a better place and for the first time in his life he was truly happy, and that his tenuous relationship with Christ had finally been sealed, locked into an everlasting bond.
As I was listening to the man on the other end of the phone, and the apparent devastation that Granddad's passing had created in him, I was a little dismayed at my own inner calm. And filled with selfish regret that I hadn't spent more time with him.
I got off the phone and told Belle that I wanted to go to where his body was.
I haven't looked at a corpse in fifteen years. I want to remember people for who they are. They aren't that person in the box. And as a Christian, I know that they have put off mortality for immortality, and that they have left behind the trivial trials of this world.
But for some reason I had to see Grandad.
And I'm glad that I went. As hard as it has turned out.
When I arrived the paramedics where leaving, the new deputy coroner was doing an inordinately thorough job, and the sheriff's deputy was, initially, keeping any and all comers from going down into the plush finished basement where Grandad lived.
After the deputy coroner was finished satisfying her reservations and her check lists, the Sheriff's Deputy came up stairs and with him came a very peculiar odor.
I have always thought that the "smell of death" talked about in books and movies was some spiritual experience, something metaphysical created by the human mind in response to the knowledge that something human is dead nearby.
I am here to attest that it is not. It is real. And though not pleasant, it's not repulsing. Though perhaps the circumstances may affect this perception.
We were granted permission to go down then, and we did.
And I saw him lying on the floor where the paramedics had left him.
He looked small. He looked oddly like a wax statue. And like he was preaching a sermon. His hands were raised slightly and held in a timeless duCille gesture. He had such expressive hands.
And for the first time since I had gotten the call something stirred in my chest.
My mother-in-law, whose house Grandad had been staying in, was crying and all I could think was, "He's not here anymore. And yet he's still here."
I touched his leg: cool, soft, and pliable, and said "God speed Grandad" and sat down on the end of the bed. And I heard him shout, in my head or the Spirit or whatever, like I had heard him shout so many times in so many meetings.
The Klingons have it right: we sit with our dead.
After a short while the coroner was ready to leave, and take Grandad with her. Only one small problem, for her: no one to help carry him out. The sheriff's deputy ushered us all out of basement when it came time to enclose Grandad in the nondescript blue plastic bag. It was like a heavy duty tarp with black nylon straps and a zipper.
Then they asked me and another, with much apologizing, to help.
It was absolutely no problem for me. "Terms of the service" I told them. And it was a great honor for me, if only in some small insignificantly belated way, to take care of the man who had so often taken care of me.
We carried him up the switch back stairs and around the switch back corner out into the garage and onto the waiting gurney. I held Granddad's head, through the impersonal plastic body bag, so that it wouldn't knock on the gurney rail as the deputy coroner pulled him farther down. He really wasn't as small as he had looked lying on that cold basement floor.
"I have it from here" the woman said, and I think that she was ordering me back inside. I didn't go inside, I followed her out onto the driveway, keeping my distance, watching her load Grandad into the back of the one-ton ford van.
It was very nice. Completely unmarked except for the government plates. The back interior was neat, carpeted, and clean. And they had maroon velvet covers to draw, with elastic ends, over the utilitarian body bags. It was nice to see our tax dollars actually doing something decent for a change.
She closed the doors and I gave a two finger salute from my eyebrow to the man who was no longer there.
I went back inside and down to Granddad's room and started to pick up. Shoes where left all over, like a teenagers. So I pulled the stuffed in socks out of them and took them to the closet to put them away.
In the back of the closet a walking stick had fallen down and I picked it up, and began to laugh, because it wasn't just a cane but what can best be described as a "pimp stick." (I would later learn that the "gentleman's walking stick" had been a gift and it was something that "he would never us."
It was a total Lifetime Movie moment. I started out laughing and ended up crying, bitterly, if only briefly, as the words of a song came flooding through my mind: ". . . I guess you got what you wanted, but what about me 'cause Without you I'm not okay And without you I've lost my way . . ."
I found my composure, and some consolation from the Director, and finished the task that I had set for myself and then I left and went heavily through a regular day.
On my way home the melody of a song kept coming to me but I chose rather to just go to bed as soon as I had eaten and showered, and try and forget about the day by burying myself in a good book. It worked until chapter 34, when the hero's father figure contracts a vicious viral bug and withers away and dies. But then later I found some more consolation in the same book, something that I had actually been thinking about earlier in the day:
"If you weren't going to ask me to have my troops break some heads, then why did you ask me here?"
"Not to ask anything of you, my friend. To ask how you're managing. Ord was more to you than an exceptional noncommissioned officer."
I stared out across the city, at the slow-flowing River Marin. "I don't know. How did you manage when your mother died?"
"Badly at first. But they say a son isn't fully realized until his last parent is gone. I suppose that's literally true for an heir to a throne. You lost your parents long ago, but the sergeant major, I think, stepped into that role for you since. Now, Jason, we're both orphans. There's no one to point the way for us. Now it's our job to point the way for others, and the only compass we have is within us." - Robert Buettner, Orphan's Triumph
I no longer have a completely objective compass to turn to when I am completely lost in the fog of this life. It's time to grow beyond that dependency I guess. Dig deeper into Jesus. Find that relationship with Christ that Grandad had. That true friendship that he walked in with the Lord.
There are only two ways that I want to go from this life into the next (if at all):
The first and currently preferred is with my arms full of explosives, hurling myself into the enemy bunker so that my comrads can live. (Of course I am speaking metaphorically.) No greater love, you know?
The second is exactly like Granddad: on my knees praying, in a blaze of spiritual glory. (I'm sure that one day this will become my first choice.)
Today was strange. It was a full, normal, work day and in the late afternoon I had to struggle with the thought that yesterday was all a bad dream.
But I know it wasn't. It was real. Painfully real.
So I'll close now, and leave you with the song that has been keeping me company all day.
So say goodbye 'cause you'll be leaving soon. I know it's hard and I'll be missing you. I know it's time to say goodbye. I know the road has worn you down. You never broke, you always held your ground, but now it's time to say goodbye. And I know we'll meet again. But I wish it'd never end. You don't mean to make me cry but it's so hard to say goodbye. And though you're gone I remember now the time we shared, your words still ring out. You're never far, you're in my heart. Some day we'll meet again, cause that's how the story ends. It's so hard to say goodbye. - Sanctus Real
So please don't think that I'm ignoring anything that was said.
When I replied "WOW" to the comments left it was because I didn't know what else to say and because I did not have the strength nor the desire to wage Holy High Verbal Combat.
But then I got some more sleep and I suddenly found that I did have the strength.
But that was then, and the worm has turned yet again, and that conversation seems too irrelevant in light of yesterdays events.
My Grandad died yesterday. And though he was eighty-seven years of awesome Jamaicaness, and I am decidedly white, he really was my Granddad. While I have fond "playtime" memories of my father's father, Cecil duCille impacted my life more profoundly than any natural Grandparent ever has.
I hope and pray that his fingerprints will ever be visible upon me.
He was the one person in whom I had total and absolute confidence. I have told people that if he told me to jump off of a cliff, I would, (I like to think without hesitation) because I always knew that he actually did have my best interest in mind.
Now please believe me when I say that I was not a blind acolyte, that I was not a Cool-Aid drinking disciple. And do not think for one moment that I was compelled by his will to follow. He always said, like a good General, "This is where I have come from. This is where I am. This is where I am going. This is what we may, will, and probably shall encounter. Follow me as I follow Christ."
When I got the call yesterday morning that he had passed away, I was surprised, but not shocked. It was unanticipated, definitely unexpected. I thought that he would live forever.
And I was a little surprised at my lack of devastation. I remembered when three of my natural Grandparents died and how little it affected me. No crying, just a stranger's dissociated calm. It wasn't callousness, but for two it was a lack of relationship, and for the third it was relief, because of the Hellish ride he had taken and because I knew that he was in a better place and for the first time in his life he was truly happy, and that his tenuous relationship with Christ had finally been sealed, locked into an everlasting bond.
As I was listening to the man on the other end of the phone, and the apparent devastation that Granddad's passing had created in him, I was a little dismayed at my own inner calm. And filled with selfish regret that I hadn't spent more time with him.
I got off the phone and told Belle that I wanted to go to where his body was.
I haven't looked at a corpse in fifteen years. I want to remember people for who they are. They aren't that person in the box. And as a Christian, I know that they have put off mortality for immortality, and that they have left behind the trivial trials of this world.
But for some reason I had to see Grandad.
And I'm glad that I went. As hard as it has turned out.
When I arrived the paramedics where leaving, the new deputy coroner was doing an inordinately thorough job, and the sheriff's deputy was, initially, keeping any and all comers from going down into the plush finished basement where Grandad lived.
After the deputy coroner was finished satisfying her reservations and her check lists, the Sheriff's Deputy came up stairs and with him came a very peculiar odor.
I have always thought that the "smell of death" talked about in books and movies was some spiritual experience, something metaphysical created by the human mind in response to the knowledge that something human is dead nearby.
I am here to attest that it is not. It is real. And though not pleasant, it's not repulsing. Though perhaps the circumstances may affect this perception.
We were granted permission to go down then, and we did.
And I saw him lying on the floor where the paramedics had left him.
He looked small. He looked oddly like a wax statue. And like he was preaching a sermon. His hands were raised slightly and held in a timeless duCille gesture. He had such expressive hands.
And for the first time since I had gotten the call something stirred in my chest.
My mother-in-law, whose house Grandad had been staying in, was crying and all I could think was, "He's not here anymore. And yet he's still here."
I touched his leg: cool, soft, and pliable, and said "God speed Grandad" and sat down on the end of the bed. And I heard him shout, in my head or the Spirit or whatever, like I had heard him shout so many times in so many meetings.
The Klingons have it right: we sit with our dead.
After a short while the coroner was ready to leave, and take Grandad with her. Only one small problem, for her: no one to help carry him out. The sheriff's deputy ushered us all out of basement when it came time to enclose Grandad in the nondescript blue plastic bag. It was like a heavy duty tarp with black nylon straps and a zipper.
Then they asked me and another, with much apologizing, to help.
It was absolutely no problem for me. "Terms of the service" I told them. And it was a great honor for me, if only in some small insignificantly belated way, to take care of the man who had so often taken care of me.
We carried him up the switch back stairs and around the switch back corner out into the garage and onto the waiting gurney. I held Granddad's head, through the impersonal plastic body bag, so that it wouldn't knock on the gurney rail as the deputy coroner pulled him farther down. He really wasn't as small as he had looked lying on that cold basement floor.
"I have it from here" the woman said, and I think that she was ordering me back inside. I didn't go inside, I followed her out onto the driveway, keeping my distance, watching her load Grandad into the back of the one-ton ford van.
It was very nice. Completely unmarked except for the government plates. The back interior was neat, carpeted, and clean. And they had maroon velvet covers to draw, with elastic ends, over the utilitarian body bags. It was nice to see our tax dollars actually doing something decent for a change.
She closed the doors and I gave a two finger salute from my eyebrow to the man who was no longer there.
I went back inside and down to Granddad's room and started to pick up. Shoes where left all over, like a teenagers. So I pulled the stuffed in socks out of them and took them to the closet to put them away.
In the back of the closet a walking stick had fallen down and I picked it up, and began to laugh, because it wasn't just a cane but what can best be described as a "pimp stick." (I would later learn that the "gentleman's walking stick" had been a gift and it was something that "he would never us."
It was a total Lifetime Movie moment. I started out laughing and ended up crying, bitterly, if only briefly, as the words of a song came flooding through my mind: ". . . I guess you got what you wanted, but what about me 'cause Without you I'm not okay And without you I've lost my way . . ."
I found my composure, and some consolation from the Director, and finished the task that I had set for myself and then I left and went heavily through a regular day.
On my way home the melody of a song kept coming to me but I chose rather to just go to bed as soon as I had eaten and showered, and try and forget about the day by burying myself in a good book. It worked until chapter 34, when the hero's father figure contracts a vicious viral bug and withers away and dies. But then later I found some more consolation in the same book, something that I had actually been thinking about earlier in the day:
"If you weren't going to ask me to have my troops break some heads, then why did you ask me here?"
"Not to ask anything of you, my friend. To ask how you're managing. Ord was more to you than an exceptional noncommissioned officer."
I stared out across the city, at the slow-flowing River Marin. "I don't know. How did you manage when your mother died?"
"Badly at first. But they say a son isn't fully realized until his last parent is gone. I suppose that's literally true for an heir to a throne. You lost your parents long ago, but the sergeant major, I think, stepped into that role for you since. Now, Jason, we're both orphans. There's no one to point the way for us. Now it's our job to point the way for others, and the only compass we have is within us." - Robert Buettner, Orphan's Triumph
I no longer have a completely objective compass to turn to when I am completely lost in the fog of this life. It's time to grow beyond that dependency I guess. Dig deeper into Jesus. Find that relationship with Christ that Grandad had. That true friendship that he walked in with the Lord.
There are only two ways that I want to go from this life into the next (if at all):
The first and currently preferred is with my arms full of explosives, hurling myself into the enemy bunker so that my comrads can live. (Of course I am speaking metaphorically.) No greater love, you know?
The second is exactly like Granddad: on my knees praying, in a blaze of spiritual glory. (I'm sure that one day this will become my first choice.)
Today was strange. It was a full, normal, work day and in the late afternoon I had to struggle with the thought that yesterday was all a bad dream.
But I know it wasn't. It was real. Painfully real.
So I'll close now, and leave you with the song that has been keeping me company all day.
So say goodbye 'cause you'll be leaving soon. I know it's hard and I'll be missing you. I know it's time to say goodbye. I know the road has worn you down. You never broke, you always held your ground, but now it's time to say goodbye. And I know we'll meet again. But I wish it'd never end. You don't mean to make me cry but it's so hard to say goodbye. And though you're gone I remember now the time we shared, your words still ring out. You're never far, you're in my heart. Some day we'll meet again, cause that's how the story ends. It's so hard to say goodbye. - Sanctus Real
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
The Cold Truth
As many of you have doubtlessly observed, the Great IncompleteOne has been reticent to join the rest of the world in the broader scene of "social networking."
I've always thought: What's the point in telling people that I'm brushing my teeth, or going to the store, or going to the beach, or coming home from the beach, or my mood is "mine" or some such other nonsense?
Then I saw something just now that perfectly articulates what I never took the time to fully think through.
What?
Yeah. Though I have never been interested in Social Networking I have also never taken the
time to fully identify why. It just didn't interest me.
And when I say that I am not interested in S.N. I mean that completely. Not only do I not post the goings on of my life every five minutes, I don't waste my time by following the mundane happenings of the entire world.
I have MUCH better and MUCH funner ways of wasting time.
But as I said, I just saw something that says exactly what I have always thought, and more, and I encourage you to allow, your curiosity to lead you down the link, and your objective higher brain to seriously consider what is being said.
http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/26184891/#33273484
I've always thought: What's the point in telling people that I'm brushing my teeth, or going to the store, or going to the beach, or coming home from the beach, or my mood is "mine" or some such other nonsense?
Then I saw something just now that perfectly articulates what I never took the time to fully think through.
What?
Yeah. Though I have never been interested in Social Networking I have also never taken the
time to fully identify why. It just didn't interest me.
And when I say that I am not interested in S.N. I mean that completely. Not only do I not post the goings on of my life every five minutes, I don't waste my time by following the mundane happenings of the entire world.
I have MUCH better and MUCH funner ways of wasting time.
But as I said, I just saw something that says exactly what I have always thought, and more, and I encourage you to allow, your curiosity to lead you down the link, and your objective higher brain to seriously consider what is being said.
http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/26184891/#33273484
Sunday, October 4, 2009
I AM HERE! Where are you?
I didn't plan on taking the summer off. It just sort of happened.
In May, Belle and I got notice from our Laird's son that we needed to be out by August first. After eight years in that run down little hovel, we had to move on. Of course it was naturally daunting but bearable as it wasn't completely unexpected.
We knew that this was going to be our last summer at the old house, but we never really expected to leave. We kinda hoped that our landlord would say "Yeah, sure Tyson, lets fix this dive up."
After all, it was all we had known. (The year in the one bedroom apartment is barely a memory) My entire family (save one) was within a one block radius, Belle's best friend was three blocks away. How could we leave? I mean, my girls had grown up there, two of the three were born on the living room floor. The older ones where just starting to play with the back yard neighbor kids (and the neighbor kids were actually WANTING to pay with my kids.)
OH JOY! And how could we walk away from this?
Easy. Especially when we didn't have a choice. Okay, it wasn't easy; at least not at first.
But more on that later.
I just wanted to drop a few quick lines and let everyone know that, I AM HERE! And judging from sight meter, some of you have been checking up on me, my own small little mind says "Oh, maybe they miss me!" (Think Giselle's voice)
Well, that's it for now. I am bleary eyed, and it's only ten (and that is p.m. for those who were wondering if I had stayed up all night. Not tonight, only just the last week.)
Hopefully this is me saying "I'M BACK, BAAAAABYYYYY!"
In May, Belle and I got notice from our Laird's son that we needed to be out by August first. After eight years in that run down little hovel, we had to move on. Of course it was naturally daunting but bearable as it wasn't completely unexpected.
We knew that this was going to be our last summer at the old house, but we never really expected to leave. We kinda hoped that our landlord would say "Yeah, sure Tyson, lets fix this dive up."
After all, it was all we had known. (The year in the one bedroom apartment is barely a memory) My entire family (save one) was within a one block radius, Belle's best friend was three blocks away. How could we leave? I mean, my girls had grown up there, two of the three were born on the living room floor. The older ones where just starting to play with the back yard neighbor kids (and the neighbor kids were actually WANTING to pay with my kids.)
OH JOY! And how could we walk away from this?
Easy. Especially when we didn't have a choice. Okay, it wasn't easy; at least not at first.
But more on that later.
I just wanted to drop a few quick lines and let everyone know that, I AM HERE! And judging from sight meter, some of you have been checking up on me, my own small little mind says "Oh, maybe they miss me!" (Think Giselle's voice)
Well, that's it for now. I am bleary eyed, and it's only ten (and that is p.m. for those who were wondering if I had stayed up all night. Not tonight, only just the last week.)
Hopefully this is me saying "I'M BACK, BAAAAABYYYYY!"
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Whupped
I am here to confess that for the first time, that I can remember, in my life I have been soundly thrashed by a book.
I was doing some research recently and I sellected two books from the library from a particular "Universe."
Many years ago, like ten, I had attempted to read some books from this Universe for two reasons: one, I love the universe that has been created and two I was curious to see what some of my friends loved so much about them.
The universe that was created was this awesome blend of super advanced technology and old west rough and tumble swagger. My favorite two things melded together in an awesome package. So I read a couple of books, four, maybe five, I'm sure that it wasn't six, all by different authors, all taking place in this created Universe and I came up with one sound conclusion: they were all stupid. Some of the foundational ideas where good, but the delivery was ineffectual and without error they all took the same in-universe cliched turn.
So I stopped reading books from that part of the gallaxy, until recently.
As I was saying, I was doing research.
The first book was based on a recent video game so understandably the author had contraints that he had to work within, but he didn't quite pull it off, especially as at the end the hero dies, albeit to save his comrads, but nontheless ingloriously, and with a cliched bang.
The second book . . .I only made it to page 77. From the very begining I was having moments where I thought that the author was channeling Clive Cussler. This new author was a pedantic hack who was in love with the sound of his own voice and fifteen letter words. I can understand the sporadic use of unknown words, like coriacious, but to use great big obscure words from a foreign, forgotten dialect of Ancient English every other sentance is a bit over-whelming. And then his story was virtually a patch quilt of other people's literary inventions from the same Universe; from great master warriors being easily killed by cannon fodder pawn-like foot soldiers and robots on quests and criminal syndicate henchmen striving to rise in the ranks of their orginizations and the scourge of the Galaxy searching for one specific individual . . . . . . . . .I could continue but my blood pressure is rising.
If it weren't for Belle, I would probly be shouting at the book right now like I did with Clive Cussler. I am glad that she encouraged me to put it down. There's nothing wrong with NOT reading a lousy story. I am not any less of a man.
I was doing some research recently and I sellected two books from the library from a particular "Universe."
Many years ago, like ten, I had attempted to read some books from this Universe for two reasons: one, I love the universe that has been created and two I was curious to see what some of my friends loved so much about them.
The universe that was created was this awesome blend of super advanced technology and old west rough and tumble swagger. My favorite two things melded together in an awesome package. So I read a couple of books, four, maybe five, I'm sure that it wasn't six, all by different authors, all taking place in this created Universe and I came up with one sound conclusion: they were all stupid. Some of the foundational ideas where good, but the delivery was ineffectual and without error they all took the same in-universe cliched turn.
So I stopped reading books from that part of the gallaxy, until recently.
As I was saying, I was doing research.
The first book was based on a recent video game so understandably the author had contraints that he had to work within, but he didn't quite pull it off, especially as at the end the hero dies, albeit to save his comrads, but nontheless ingloriously, and with a cliched bang.
The second book . . .I only made it to page 77. From the very begining I was having moments where I thought that the author was channeling Clive Cussler. This new author was a pedantic hack who was in love with the sound of his own voice and fifteen letter words. I can understand the sporadic use of unknown words, like coriacious, but to use great big obscure words from a foreign, forgotten dialect of Ancient English every other sentance is a bit over-whelming. And then his story was virtually a patch quilt of other people's literary inventions from the same Universe; from great master warriors being easily killed by cannon fodder pawn-like foot soldiers and robots on quests and criminal syndicate henchmen striving to rise in the ranks of their orginizations and the scourge of the Galaxy searching for one specific individual . . . . . . . . .I could continue but my blood pressure is rising.
If it weren't for Belle, I would probly be shouting at the book right now like I did with Clive Cussler. I am glad that she encouraged me to put it down. There's nothing wrong with NOT reading a lousy story. I am not any less of a man.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Frustration, Concluded
Now I said that I had learned something from this ultimately frustrating experience. And I suppose that nothing is a waste if something is learned of it.
What I learned is that High Fantasy is the cheapest, easiest, most unimaginative form of fiction in existence.
What brings me to this conclusion?
William Goldman says, essentially, that a writers main objective is to write himself into a corner, into a box that he can’t easily get out of. Because it is then that you become truly creative. You are forced to wade through the clichés and the contrivances in order to reach the creatively original solution to your dilemma.
High Fantasy operates outside of any such limitation. Got a problem? Just us magic. There is a spell for everything. Insurmountable odds? Don’t worry, a dragon will swoop out of the sky for no logical reason and deliver you. Fortunately there is no spell to make an author a better writer, or a dragon to bear him to the land of GloriousInspiration.
The other thing that I noticed was how much fantasy has been influenced by The Lord of the Rings. Now don’t get me wrong. I love The Lord of the Rings. And infact have been thinking on a LOTR inspired story for some time. What I am talking about are the storys that range from pure knockoffs, to what this work is. Not a pure copy, but containing enough similar points as to be obvious: like the assimilation of a company of heroes to combat a similar number of adversaries; the "dragon crown" with the power to rule over the world, much like the "one ring" in LOTR; a man who was "raised" by the elves; etc. ad infinitum.
I wonder how Tolkien feels about this. I wonder if he would be happy for inspiring people to create similar works of fancy, or if he would be appalled by the monster that has come into existence in his wake.
My final quip has to do with titles. Mainly, what Mr. Stackpole titled his books. Or perhaps, what the Publishers titled his books.
The two most important attractants, after word of mouth referral, are Title and Cover. The title and cover of a book are what draws the reader in. They are what makes you stop and look closer. And in this case, it was both that got me started. The art on the first two books was very good, the third not so much, and the titles where a complete misleading dissapointment
First, there is Fortress Draconis. Now, the name promises an adventure at a fortress called Draconis. But none really ever happened. Oh, the companions do briefly visit said fortress, and one of the secondary characters does wander around in the fortress for a little while, but it never gets enough action to truly warrant the title.
And the second, When Dragon’s Rage just seemed like an outright lie. One gets the image of dragons fighting constantly from page to page while riders on their backs hurl spears and swing swords and axes at each other. When in fact, the actual dragon fights take place over the span of probably three pages. Again, not that I was looking forward to mythical, magical creatures brawling through my imagination, I felt robbed.
And the final installment, The Grand Crusade, while filled with lots of technical stuff (to the point of boring me), when the two "new" leads weren’t pining over each other or lamenting the loss of the Norington, was, as I said earlier, anything but grand. And there was no actual crusade. There was no pressing into the enemies country to conquer and expell. In fact, it was really the Evil Chytrine who was Crusading, and the Southern countries were simply marshaling against her. Now it’s possible that The Grand Crusade was really referencing Chytrine’s endevors, but I do not believe that, nor was there anything in the work to suggest it.
Now, I’m not saying that the title of books should be lifted dirrectly from the pages of the work; but it can’t be so abstract that you can’t tie the two together.
The title of these books where the exact oposite of the title of the second most boring mystery that I have ever read: A Safe Place for Dying. Catchy isn’t it? Intriguing, right? That’s why I picked it up. And, in keeping with it’s title, it is about a series of explosions that take place in a very exclusive, very secure, gated community. Unfortunately, I solved the mystery half way through and made myself finish it. But it’s a great title.
At the start of this monster I said that I was interested in finding out what made the current top listed authors great, and I am beginnning to wonder if it is just depravity calling to depravity. Birds of a feather, that sort of thing.
Now you might be wondering: why don’t you just read the other works by authors that you have tried and know are true?
If you are an avid reader you already know the answer: there is only just so much of the same author that you can take before you need a break. And I KNOW that tallent isn’t dead. I know that there are more writers out there writing in the classic, logical, precise, elloquent styles of the 19th/early 20th century masters.
I’m just trying to find them.
As always: Let ‘em rip!
What I learned is that High Fantasy is the cheapest, easiest, most unimaginative form of fiction in existence.
What brings me to this conclusion?
William Goldman says, essentially, that a writers main objective is to write himself into a corner, into a box that he can’t easily get out of. Because it is then that you become truly creative. You are forced to wade through the clichés and the contrivances in order to reach the creatively original solution to your dilemma.
High Fantasy operates outside of any such limitation. Got a problem? Just us magic. There is a spell for everything. Insurmountable odds? Don’t worry, a dragon will swoop out of the sky for no logical reason and deliver you. Fortunately there is no spell to make an author a better writer, or a dragon to bear him to the land of GloriousInspiration.
The other thing that I noticed was how much fantasy has been influenced by The Lord of the Rings. Now don’t get me wrong. I love The Lord of the Rings. And infact have been thinking on a LOTR inspired story for some time. What I am talking about are the storys that range from pure knockoffs, to what this work is. Not a pure copy, but containing enough similar points as to be obvious: like the assimilation of a company of heroes to combat a similar number of adversaries; the "dragon crown" with the power to rule over the world, much like the "one ring" in LOTR; a man who was "raised" by the elves; etc. ad infinitum.
I wonder how Tolkien feels about this. I wonder if he would be happy for inspiring people to create similar works of fancy, or if he would be appalled by the monster that has come into existence in his wake.
My final quip has to do with titles. Mainly, what Mr. Stackpole titled his books. Or perhaps, what the Publishers titled his books.
The two most important attractants, after word of mouth referral, are Title and Cover. The title and cover of a book are what draws the reader in. They are what makes you stop and look closer. And in this case, it was both that got me started. The art on the first two books was very good, the third not so much, and the titles where a complete misleading dissapointment
First, there is Fortress Draconis. Now, the name promises an adventure at a fortress called Draconis. But none really ever happened. Oh, the companions do briefly visit said fortress, and one of the secondary characters does wander around in the fortress for a little while, but it never gets enough action to truly warrant the title.
And the second, When Dragon’s Rage just seemed like an outright lie. One gets the image of dragons fighting constantly from page to page while riders on their backs hurl spears and swing swords and axes at each other. When in fact, the actual dragon fights take place over the span of probably three pages. Again, not that I was looking forward to mythical, magical creatures brawling through my imagination, I felt robbed.
And the final installment, The Grand Crusade, while filled with lots of technical stuff (to the point of boring me), when the two "new" leads weren’t pining over each other or lamenting the loss of the Norington, was, as I said earlier, anything but grand. And there was no actual crusade. There was no pressing into the enemies country to conquer and expell. In fact, it was really the Evil Chytrine who was Crusading, and the Southern countries were simply marshaling against her. Now it’s possible that The Grand Crusade was really referencing Chytrine’s endevors, but I do not believe that, nor was there anything in the work to suggest it.
Now, I’m not saying that the title of books should be lifted dirrectly from the pages of the work; but it can’t be so abstract that you can’t tie the two together.
The title of these books where the exact oposite of the title of the second most boring mystery that I have ever read: A Safe Place for Dying. Catchy isn’t it? Intriguing, right? That’s why I picked it up. And, in keeping with it’s title, it is about a series of explosions that take place in a very exclusive, very secure, gated community. Unfortunately, I solved the mystery half way through and made myself finish it. But it’s a great title.
At the start of this monster I said that I was interested in finding out what made the current top listed authors great, and I am beginnning to wonder if it is just depravity calling to depravity. Birds of a feather, that sort of thing.
Now you might be wondering: why don’t you just read the other works by authors that you have tried and know are true?
If you are an avid reader you already know the answer: there is only just so much of the same author that you can take before you need a break. And I KNOW that tallent isn’t dead. I know that there are more writers out there writing in the classic, logical, precise, elloquent styles of the 19th/early 20th century masters.
I’m just trying to find them.
As always: Let ‘em rip!
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Frustration, Part 8
Now I said that Stackpole’s story was intriguing. And it was. At it’s core, its skeleton, it was a great idea. But the flesh was flabby and the clothing was horrendous.
My main complaint is the treatment of his initial main protagonist. Here is this fifteen year old boy living in the slums, aspiring to be the greatest thief ever, but not likely to reach sixteen. Who gets plucked out of this environment and given a crash course in life, that some would pay for, by two vaunted and fearsome warriors. The truly dynamic character of Will starts out as this callous child who cares for no one, and slowly turns into a young man, beginning to understand that there are bigger things at stake in life than the next heist. He begins to live adventures that he could never have dreamed about in his wildest imagination. He goes from being nothing, to being responsible for the well being of many men who have pledged their live to his service. But in the middle of his development he gets cut off. And instead of metamorphosing into a rounded, new man, he is turned into a lump of animated stone. Literally. I never got to see the fulfillment of Will’s character development
Now, I understand that Stackpole didn’t write his books specifically for me. I also understand that there are a great many things in this world that I will not agree with and that will disappoint me. So don’t worry, I’m not Pollyanna
But THERE ARE some basic fundamentals to story writing.
All storytelling is Conflict and Resolution. A story without conflict is boring.
The Resolution of the Conflict must be proportionate to, if not greater than the Conflict.
In order to be engaging, a story must contain Dynamic characters.
Heroic characters in a story MUST be dynamic.
Dynamic, at its simplest means "change." And the vehicle of change is Conflict. It is in Conflict that the nature of the character is revealed.
And the character of Will was being exposed, scrubbed, and recreated. And after nine hundred pages, I was left with two supporting characters that could only ever be described as static. And they became Stackpole’s new focus.
I am left to surmise that the then late forty, almost fifty year old author became bored with the fifteen year old main character; the strongest character of the entire bunch, and instead preferred to focus on the forty year old Crow and his twenty-five year old contrived wife.
Hmmmmm..
For my part, I wasn’t interested in the moral perturbations and subsequent meandering of two flat, static characters.
" ‘But I’m old enough to be your father . . .’
‘Yes, but love knows no age . . .’
‘Oh, you are so right, my love’ he admitted passionately, as tears welled up in his eyes and flowed down his cheeks into his white beard."
Think I’m exaggerating? Feel free to find out for yourself.
To be continued . . .
My main complaint is the treatment of his initial main protagonist. Here is this fifteen year old boy living in the slums, aspiring to be the greatest thief ever, but not likely to reach sixteen. Who gets plucked out of this environment and given a crash course in life, that some would pay for, by two vaunted and fearsome warriors. The truly dynamic character of Will starts out as this callous child who cares for no one, and slowly turns into a young man, beginning to understand that there are bigger things at stake in life than the next heist. He begins to live adventures that he could never have dreamed about in his wildest imagination. He goes from being nothing, to being responsible for the well being of many men who have pledged their live to his service. But in the middle of his development he gets cut off. And instead of metamorphosing into a rounded, new man, he is turned into a lump of animated stone. Literally. I never got to see the fulfillment of Will’s character development
Now, I understand that Stackpole didn’t write his books specifically for me. I also understand that there are a great many things in this world that I will not agree with and that will disappoint me. So don’t worry, I’m not Pollyanna
But THERE ARE some basic fundamentals to story writing.
All storytelling is Conflict and Resolution. A story without conflict is boring.
The Resolution of the Conflict must be proportionate to, if not greater than the Conflict.
In order to be engaging, a story must contain Dynamic characters.
Heroic characters in a story MUST be dynamic.
Dynamic, at its simplest means "change." And the vehicle of change is Conflict. It is in Conflict that the nature of the character is revealed.
And the character of Will was being exposed, scrubbed, and recreated. And after nine hundred pages, I was left with two supporting characters that could only ever be described as static. And they became Stackpole’s new focus.
I am left to surmise that the then late forty, almost fifty year old author became bored with the fifteen year old main character; the strongest character of the entire bunch, and instead preferred to focus on the forty year old Crow and his twenty-five year old contrived wife.
Hmmmmm..
For my part, I wasn’t interested in the moral perturbations and subsequent meandering of two flat, static characters.
" ‘But I’m old enough to be your father . . .’
‘Yes, but love knows no age . . .’
‘Oh, you are so right, my love’ he admitted passionately, as tears welled up in his eyes and flowed down his cheeks into his white beard."
Think I’m exaggerating? Feel free to find out for yourself.
To be continued . . .
Friday, April 3, 2009
Frustration, Part 7
So now you know the general points. Let’s now discuss the important points.
Now, as I read the first book, there was a storm developing in the back of my mind. Something was bothering me and it took probably two thirds of the first book before I realized what the problems were.
While the kernel of his story was intriguing, and some what original, Stackpole didn't give enough detail where it counted. While he would spend sentence after sentence on the description of a characters clothing, it took me seven hundred pages to fully realize that Resolute, the elf that kidnapped Will way back in the beginning, wore his hair in a tall, spiked mohawk. The bad guys, in my imagination, where a kinda colored blur. The grunt soldiers were this kinda black dog/monkey/cat shape and the evil "lieutenants" where a kinda bird like white shape. And it was like that with many things.
The other problem was his voice. How he wrote, was convoluted. It was like being told to go stand on the X and being shown into a room where there was a giant path painted in white on the floor, ever spiraling towards the X at the center and the only thing that prevented me from crossing all the white lines and gaining the X in three simple strides where the instructions: please stay on the path.
Pointless.
Frustrating.
Another problem was his relentless repetition. It drives me to distraction when an author repeats himself, repeatedly (ha!) And I don’t mean the sharing of information between characters within the dialogue. Understandably, if Joe didn’t see what Frank saw, then Joe has to learn of it somehow. I am referencing when the author repeats himself in the narrative, with stenographic detail, time after time after time. I don’t need to be told five times that Slim is six feet four inches tall, and covered in three hundred pounds of finely chiseled muscles (by way of example). I’m smarter than that. And if I’m not, I CAN always look back.
And the third thing that bothered me, was that the series was portrayed as medieval. But no one behaved midieval-esque. Now, I know what you’re asking: How do YOU know what medieval behavior is like? Where you alive back then? Do you have a time machine Mr. No-Published Critic? Do you go back and perform clandestine StarTrekian studies of primitive cultures?
No. But I do know this: they didn’t behave like people do now. A fifteen year old in, say, 1200 was half way to the grave. If it was a girl, she was probably married off. If it was a boy, he was probably looking pretty seriously at getting married and in either case they not only had the ability to function as adults, but many times where expected to. Not so in Stackpole's universe. Teenagers acted like modern spoiled rich kids. Even the characters that were supposed to be hundreds of years old, didn’t behave like it.
To be continued . . .
Now, as I read the first book, there was a storm developing in the back of my mind. Something was bothering me and it took probably two thirds of the first book before I realized what the problems were.
While the kernel of his story was intriguing, and some what original, Stackpole didn't give enough detail where it counted. While he would spend sentence after sentence on the description of a characters clothing, it took me seven hundred pages to fully realize that Resolute, the elf that kidnapped Will way back in the beginning, wore his hair in a tall, spiked mohawk. The bad guys, in my imagination, where a kinda colored blur. The grunt soldiers were this kinda black dog/monkey/cat shape and the evil "lieutenants" where a kinda bird like white shape. And it was like that with many things.
The other problem was his voice. How he wrote, was convoluted. It was like being told to go stand on the X and being shown into a room where there was a giant path painted in white on the floor, ever spiraling towards the X at the center and the only thing that prevented me from crossing all the white lines and gaining the X in three simple strides where the instructions: please stay on the path.
Pointless.
Frustrating.
Another problem was his relentless repetition. It drives me to distraction when an author repeats himself, repeatedly (ha!) And I don’t mean the sharing of information between characters within the dialogue. Understandably, if Joe didn’t see what Frank saw, then Joe has to learn of it somehow. I am referencing when the author repeats himself in the narrative, with stenographic detail, time after time after time. I don’t need to be told five times that Slim is six feet four inches tall, and covered in three hundred pounds of finely chiseled muscles (by way of example). I’m smarter than that. And if I’m not, I CAN always look back.
And the third thing that bothered me, was that the series was portrayed as medieval. But no one behaved midieval-esque. Now, I know what you’re asking: How do YOU know what medieval behavior is like? Where you alive back then? Do you have a time machine Mr. No-Published Critic? Do you go back and perform clandestine StarTrekian studies of primitive cultures?
No. But I do know this: they didn’t behave like people do now. A fifteen year old in, say, 1200 was half way to the grave. If it was a girl, she was probably married off. If it was a boy, he was probably looking pretty seriously at getting married and in either case they not only had the ability to function as adults, but many times where expected to. Not so in Stackpole's universe. Teenagers acted like modern spoiled rich kids. Even the characters that were supposed to be hundreds of years old, didn’t behave like it.
To be continued . . .
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Frustration, Part 6
Yes, that’s right. Will Norrington, the Scourge of Evil, the Bane of Wickedness Incarnate dies after nine hundred pages of adventuring.
And that is the end of book two. Will dies, leaving his companions dumb struck.
The End.
Or rather "Next book coming soon; I know, I know, Write faster"
So, I didn’t panic. I knew it was going to be a trilogy before I started the second book. I even read the back of the third book to see if it actually belonged to the trilogy, so I knew Will was going to die from page one of book two. I just didn’t know anything about the scenery on the drive there.
But I did know this: I was reading a fantasy.
I finished Book Two thinking, "Okay. They killed him. I knew that was coming. But he has dragon blood in him. He’ll come back some how. Stacky will bring him back some how. Lets find out how."
So, I went to the library and procured The Grand Crusade. And discovered it to be anything but.
The focus of the story was told mainly from that Princess that you’ll remember I could have taken or left, the Golden Wolf (I now remember that her name is Alyx, but I won’t call her that) and Crow.
For half the book they are lamenting the loss of Will the Norrington. Wondering what they are going to do, and doing what ever they have to.
For half the book I am waiting for the return of Will, the one that got me hooked some one thousand pages earlier. For half the book I am waiting for him return and say, "Here I am! Lets go kill the NorWitch!"
And finally, after dragging through two hundred, three hundred pages of Stackpole’s increasingly grating voice (more on that to come) I am finally told that Will’s not dead, he’s just waiting for some of his companions to find him.
Finally. At last.
So some set off to do just that, while others go off to fight in high combat.
Of course I am interested only in the rediscovery of my hero, Will the Nimble, King of the Dims, the Norrington.
And what do I discover? Stackpole has turned him into an enraged golem. At first I think that it really is a golem, in the pure Jewish sense of it being a cocoon, and that Will is incubating within the fire eyed stone monster. Or some such other High Fantasy nonsense. After all, he has dragon blood in him, and, and . . .
Wrong.
Will never does return. He never gets paired with the beautiful Lady Snowflake Isaura, who, though Evil Chytrine’s heir, helps to overthrow her.
Chytrine is killed and the various companions go on to be big muckity-mucks throughout the varied kingdoms. And what is left of Will, or rather what I am supposed to believe is left of Will, goes off into the Far North to relentlessly eradicate the remains of Chytrine’s army.
The End.
I felt so cheated. Robbed. Hood winked. For nine hundred pages I had been following the truly dynamic character that I first discovered hanging from a rope in a rainstorm, waiting to break into the room of the badest dude in the Dims.
And what do I get instead? Some forty-something, scar covered, white haired man named Crow crying like a little girl with a Princess that I found as intriguing a package of steel wool.
I want my money back! Oh, wait . . .
Thank goodness for libraries.
I want my time back! I want my emotional investment back! Oh, well, I didn’t really get in to it that much. In fact, I pretty much had to force myself to finish the last book.
So now you know the general points. Let’s now discuss the important points.
To be continued . . .
And that is the end of book two. Will dies, leaving his companions dumb struck.
The End.
Or rather "Next book coming soon; I know, I know, Write faster"
So, I didn’t panic. I knew it was going to be a trilogy before I started the second book. I even read the back of the third book to see if it actually belonged to the trilogy, so I knew Will was going to die from page one of book two. I just didn’t know anything about the scenery on the drive there.
But I did know this: I was reading a fantasy.
I finished Book Two thinking, "Okay. They killed him. I knew that was coming. But he has dragon blood in him. He’ll come back some how. Stacky will bring him back some how. Lets find out how."
So, I went to the library and procured The Grand Crusade. And discovered it to be anything but.
The focus of the story was told mainly from that Princess that you’ll remember I could have taken or left, the Golden Wolf (I now remember that her name is Alyx, but I won’t call her that) and Crow.
For half the book they are lamenting the loss of Will the Norrington. Wondering what they are going to do, and doing what ever they have to.
For half the book I am waiting for the return of Will, the one that got me hooked some one thousand pages earlier. For half the book I am waiting for him return and say, "Here I am! Lets go kill the NorWitch!"
And finally, after dragging through two hundred, three hundred pages of Stackpole’s increasingly grating voice (more on that to come) I am finally told that Will’s not dead, he’s just waiting for some of his companions to find him.
Finally. At last.
So some set off to do just that, while others go off to fight in high combat.
Of course I am interested only in the rediscovery of my hero, Will the Nimble, King of the Dims, the Norrington.
And what do I discover? Stackpole has turned him into an enraged golem. At first I think that it really is a golem, in the pure Jewish sense of it being a cocoon, and that Will is incubating within the fire eyed stone monster. Or some such other High Fantasy nonsense. After all, he has dragon blood in him, and, and . . .
Wrong.
Will never does return. He never gets paired with the beautiful Lady Snowflake Isaura, who, though Evil Chytrine’s heir, helps to overthrow her.
Chytrine is killed and the various companions go on to be big muckity-mucks throughout the varied kingdoms. And what is left of Will, or rather what I am supposed to believe is left of Will, goes off into the Far North to relentlessly eradicate the remains of Chytrine’s army.
The End.
I felt so cheated. Robbed. Hood winked. For nine hundred pages I had been following the truly dynamic character that I first discovered hanging from a rope in a rainstorm, waiting to break into the room of the badest dude in the Dims.
And what do I get instead? Some forty-something, scar covered, white haired man named Crow crying like a little girl with a Princess that I found as intriguing a package of steel wool.
I want my money back! Oh, wait . . .
Thank goodness for libraries.
I want my time back! I want my emotional investment back! Oh, well, I didn’t really get in to it that much. In fact, I pretty much had to force myself to finish the last book.
So now you know the general points. Let’s now discuss the important points.
To be continued . . .
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
The Key to Understanding the Opposition
"While in the short run the once-victimized may need to be deterred in their anger from harming the United States or themselves, in the long run their legitimate grievances must be addressed through a variety of concessions, apologies, or dialogues in order to promote the general peace. That a Hugo Chávez calls Americans "gringos," or Brazil's President Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva blames "white, blue-eyed" bankers for the financial mess, or that state-run Palestinian papers refer to Jews as "pigs and apes," or that the Iranian president serially claims the Holocaust is a concoction of Zionists, is all an unfortunate rhetoric of the oppressed (in the same way Reverend Wright once referred to Italians as "garlic noses"), brought on by colonization and exploitation, rather than proof that a large portion of the world beyond our shores is run by racist -and rather loony- people." - Victor David Hanson
This article, President Obama’s First 70 Days is a MUST read.
This article, President Obama’s First 70 Days is a MUST read.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Frustration, Part 5
As a Christian who believes that the life is in the blood and believes in the Power of the Blood of Jesus Christ, I thought it was rather interesting that in the midst of all this written darkness, and believe me it was, would be a pinpoint of light. Here is a character that has been prophesied to be the downfall of evil incarnate who discovers a powerful weapon in his blood. I don’t believe in coincidence. And I don’t believe that Mr. Stackpole even knew what he stumbled upon and then promptly forgot. Because Will never used this new found ability again, nor did he or his comrades explore what other capabilities he might have come back from the brink with.
After this conflict they arrive at Sayce’s country and capital city, and begin to pitch in to resist the Evil Chytrine.
Now remember, the book is skipping all around to multiple characters that I have varying degree’s of care for: from intriguing to pointless. And also remember that, at the heart of the story, there is this crown that has been broken into many pieces.
At Sayce’s city it is discovered that one of the side characters has a piece of the Dragon Crown. I of course know this already as I have been forced to follow along in order to get back to Will. So Will and some of his comrades set out to intercept the side character, which leads to the second of only three scenes in the entire one thousand three hundred pages that I even care about.
Unfortunately, again, Stackpole failed to optimize on it.
In the scene, the rag tag band of men who have assemble around Will have all taken to wearing black masks. All but Crow, who, for his failures twenty-five years earlier, doesn’t feel that he is worthy to wear a mask. Finally, Crow’s formerly estranged brother, another character that was thankfully not granted his own perspective, and Will convince Crow to don the ubiquitous Dread Pirate Roberts mask (sorry, I couldn’t help myself.) Will, who is Crow’s rightful Lord, lays his hand on his shoulder and gives him a new name. Saying something to the effect that Tarrant Hawkings, Crow’s real name, is dead and that Keyden’s Crow is now alive and ennobled.
And then Will should have turned and, viewing the entire band of men that surround him and their various liveries and their unanimous black masks, said, "From this day on, we shall no more be many different soldiers from different countries. But we shall be one people, we shall be known as Keyden’s Raiders!" To which Crow would promptly interject before anyone else could huzzah "No My Lord. We shall be Norrington’s Marauders!" (because that was Will’s last name) to which the entire group would have burst into cacophonous huzzahs. But none of that happened.
And of course, I understand, it’s not my story. I’m just saying.
To make this long story short, so that I can get on to the last book of the three and to the point of my frustration, Will and his group meet up with the above mentioned additional character, another Prince, who is carrying a piece of the desired crown. And at this point a dragon comes onto the scene and begins to eat them for lunch. Literally. The good guys get thinned down, but in the process, one of Will’s companions, a character that was always with Will but I had to be reminded existed, who is an amnesiac, turns out to be a dragon. Apparently taking human form for the first time was so traumatic that it caused him to lose his memory and took getting roasted like an apple by another dragon to wake him from his amnesia. This character was so unnoticed that I had to look back to figure out who it was. "Who? What? What just happened?"
This Companion Dragon beats the bad dragon and the bad guys that have been hounding the good guys and then takes Will and his closest companions, and the piece of the vaunted dragon crown to the hall of the dragons. A very, very, hot, lava filled cave. It is a sort of bazaar, preternatural sauna.
In the dragon’s pad, all of the original companions are reunited. And Will discovers that he has Dragon blood flowing in his veins. For the first time since he was almost killed, he is warm.
The dragon’s hold a congress. And like all good congresses, nothing is decided. Not only is nothing decided, but one of Evil Chytrine’s Lieutenants is given a seat at the table. The individual dragon’s are left to make up their own minds about who they will fight for. While, as a whole, the dragon’s remain neutral.
The companions also learn that the stones set in the dragon crown are actually the true, physical essence of a dragon, their souls if you will. And if they are destroyed, then the dragon that they belong to will also die.
So the bad guy gets one of these dragon true stones and throws the stone into the lava. Or at least attempts too. But Will, without thinking, leaps after it, nimble thief that he is, grabs it and flings it to one of his companions, before promptly bursting into flaming ash.
Again I was scratching my head (my scalp was very tender after this read) because I remembered that the amnesiac dragon, of just a few pages before, while in human form, was encased in lava and that was what "woke him up." But throwing their "true stones" into lava would kill them? Huh? It seems to me that that would be the safest place for them: at the bottom of a lake of lava where no-one could ever get them.
And
Yes, that’s right. Will Norrington, the Scourge of Evil, the Bane of Wickedness Incarnate dies after nine hundred pages of adventuring.
And that is the end of book two. Will dies, leaving his companions dumb struck.
The End.
Or rather "Next book coming soon; I know, I know, Write faster"
To be continued . . .
After this conflict they arrive at Sayce’s country and capital city, and begin to pitch in to resist the Evil Chytrine.
Now remember, the book is skipping all around to multiple characters that I have varying degree’s of care for: from intriguing to pointless. And also remember that, at the heart of the story, there is this crown that has been broken into many pieces.
At Sayce’s city it is discovered that one of the side characters has a piece of the Dragon Crown. I of course know this already as I have been forced to follow along in order to get back to Will. So Will and some of his comrades set out to intercept the side character, which leads to the second of only three scenes in the entire one thousand three hundred pages that I even care about.
Unfortunately, again, Stackpole failed to optimize on it.
In the scene, the rag tag band of men who have assemble around Will have all taken to wearing black masks. All but Crow, who, for his failures twenty-five years earlier, doesn’t feel that he is worthy to wear a mask. Finally, Crow’s formerly estranged brother, another character that was thankfully not granted his own perspective, and Will convince Crow to don the ubiquitous Dread Pirate Roberts mask (sorry, I couldn’t help myself.) Will, who is Crow’s rightful Lord, lays his hand on his shoulder and gives him a new name. Saying something to the effect that Tarrant Hawkings, Crow’s real name, is dead and that Keyden’s Crow is now alive and ennobled.
And then Will should have turned and, viewing the entire band of men that surround him and their various liveries and their unanimous black masks, said, "From this day on, we shall no more be many different soldiers from different countries. But we shall be one people, we shall be known as Keyden’s Raiders!" To which Crow would promptly interject before anyone else could huzzah "No My Lord. We shall be Norrington’s Marauders!" (because that was Will’s last name) to which the entire group would have burst into cacophonous huzzahs. But none of that happened.
And of course, I understand, it’s not my story. I’m just saying.
To make this long story short, so that I can get on to the last book of the three and to the point of my frustration, Will and his group meet up with the above mentioned additional character, another Prince, who is carrying a piece of the desired crown. And at this point a dragon comes onto the scene and begins to eat them for lunch. Literally. The good guys get thinned down, but in the process, one of Will’s companions, a character that was always with Will but I had to be reminded existed, who is an amnesiac, turns out to be a dragon. Apparently taking human form for the first time was so traumatic that it caused him to lose his memory and took getting roasted like an apple by another dragon to wake him from his amnesia. This character was so unnoticed that I had to look back to figure out who it was. "Who? What? What just happened?"
This Companion Dragon beats the bad dragon and the bad guys that have been hounding the good guys and then takes Will and his closest companions, and the piece of the vaunted dragon crown to the hall of the dragons. A very, very, hot, lava filled cave. It is a sort of bazaar, preternatural sauna.
In the dragon’s pad, all of the original companions are reunited. And Will discovers that he has Dragon blood flowing in his veins. For the first time since he was almost killed, he is warm.
The dragon’s hold a congress. And like all good congresses, nothing is decided. Not only is nothing decided, but one of Evil Chytrine’s Lieutenants is given a seat at the table. The individual dragon’s are left to make up their own minds about who they will fight for. While, as a whole, the dragon’s remain neutral.
The companions also learn that the stones set in the dragon crown are actually the true, physical essence of a dragon, their souls if you will. And if they are destroyed, then the dragon that they belong to will also die.
So the bad guy gets one of these dragon true stones and throws the stone into the lava. Or at least attempts too. But Will, without thinking, leaps after it, nimble thief that he is, grabs it and flings it to one of his companions, before promptly bursting into flaming ash.
Again I was scratching my head (my scalp was very tender after this read) because I remembered that the amnesiac dragon, of just a few pages before, while in human form, was encased in lava and that was what "woke him up." But throwing their "true stones" into lava would kill them? Huh? It seems to me that that would be the safest place for them: at the bottom of a lake of lava where no-one could ever get them.
And
Yes, that’s right. Will Norrington, the Scourge of Evil, the Bane of Wickedness Incarnate dies after nine hundred pages of adventuring.
And that is the end of book two. Will dies, leaving his companions dumb struck.
The End.
Or rather "Next book coming soon; I know, I know, Write faster"
To be continued . . .
Saturday, March 28, 2009
URGENT! URGENT! URGENT!
Friends! Bloggers! Compatriots! Lend me your eyes!
Today is the return of Earth Hour. We have been admonished, encouraged, Nay I say, Ordered to "Vote Earth" tonight at 8:30 local time, wherever we are, by turning off all of our lights and electrical components for an hour, to reduce the drain upon great Gaia's loving bosom
Stand fast with me my fellow lovers of freedom! My fellow lovers of man and lovers of the mandate to "be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it: and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth"!
Draw your swords with me, my brothers, my sisters! Link your shields in mine! Let the spears of righteous truth be set at array! Let us push back against the onslaught of fascist liberal tyranny!
Tonight, at 8 p.m. local time, turn every light you own on. Activate every electric device you posses. And do not stop in your resistance of stupidity until 10 p.m.
In this fashion we shall show the world, the enemy that here, they shall find no sheep, but men! Hold the line, my brothers, my sisters! Like the mighty Spartans and their faithful servants, we too can hold back the millions of public stupidity!
Vote for man! Vote against the promulgators of violence! Vote for the stewardly dominion of the wild and unruly earth!
Today is the return of Earth Hour. We have been admonished, encouraged, Nay I say, Ordered to "Vote Earth" tonight at 8:30 local time, wherever we are, by turning off all of our lights and electrical components for an hour, to reduce the drain upon great Gaia's loving bosom
Stand fast with me my fellow lovers of freedom! My fellow lovers of man and lovers of the mandate to "be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it: and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth"!
Draw your swords with me, my brothers, my sisters! Link your shields in mine! Let the spears of righteous truth be set at array! Let us push back against the onslaught of fascist liberal tyranny!
Tonight, at 8 p.m. local time, turn every light you own on. Activate every electric device you posses. And do not stop in your resistance of stupidity until 10 p.m.
In this fashion we shall show the world, the enemy that here, they shall find no sheep, but men! Hold the line, my brothers, my sisters! Like the mighty Spartans and their faithful servants, we too can hold back the millions of public stupidity!
Vote for man! Vote against the promulgators of violence! Vote for the stewardly dominion of the wild and unruly earth!
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Frustration, Part 4
So, I ran quickly to said library and plucked the sequel off of the shelf and dove in.
When Dragons Rage was pretty much more of the same.
Stackpole created another character for us to view the world through: the heir of the Evil Chytrine, Isuara, or something like that.
The first third of the book involves the trial of Crow and the contrivances to set him at liberty. And while Stackpole’s solution to this dilemma was not unimaginative, if felt forced. Like an easy out. I felt the solutions where decent, but I couldn’t help but think that there must have been a better, cleaner way. It was like a puzzle worth two dollars being sold for ten cents.
Basically, the afore mentioned Golden Wolf, a princess in her own right, with the help of her friends, fakes a marriage with Crow, a man who held her in his arms when she was a baby. This "marriage" elevates Crow from vassal to noble and therefore warrants him another trial, as he had been tried and convicted in abstention. At this point I scratched my head: "This is a medieval-esque world and they try their accused in abstention?" But that’s beside the point. Now, I don’t particularly have a problem with age gap relationships but this solution, as I said above, felt contrived. It was like Stackpole needed a way to get Crow off the hook quickly and pair his Affirmative Action character up with someone.
During the trial, Will is poisoned by a bad guy; one of Evil Chytrine’s lieutenants. But he is then saved by Evil Chytrine’s heir and a dragon in human form (not Evil Chytrine’s heir). The Heir wasn’t really responsible for her actions nor did she know that Will was her mother’s nemesis, and we don’t find out about the dragon until the end of the book.
So Will comes back from the brink; only different. He finds that he is perpetually cold. And something else. And then the trial comes to an end. And just as Crow is being set at liberty, a new character enters. Only this one is (in hind sight) refreshingly different: we never get to see the world through her eyes. Thank goodness. This new character has come for Will, so that he and his comrades can liberate her country from the Scourge From the North, the Evil Chytrine.
A couple chapters after Stackpole created Isaura I began to see that she and Will would be paired up. Or at least, I thought that they should be. But then entered Sayce, the previously mentioned new character. She was described as a red headed beauty. So Isaura, who Will never really met, did not stand a chance.
So the comrades set off to liberate Sayce’s country. Along the way they encounter the enemy and that something-else-different-about-Will is exposed. It seems that he has developed the incredible ability to make commands that must be obeyed.
In the only moving part of the entire thriteen hundred page story, Sayce is knocked down in a fight and Will, who has been injured and is bleeding all over the place, leaps to her defense. He stands over her unconscious body and shouts to the enemy:
BY MY BLOOD, YOU WILL NOT PASS! Lo and behold, anywhere that Will’s blood has fallen, the enemy cannot get through. So he starts splattering his blood all over the place, effectively, temporarily holding off the assault. Long enough to gather up the fallen damsel and beat a hasty retreat so that his comrades can regroup and set about the annihilation of their enemies.
As a Christian who believes that the life is in the blood and believes in the Power of the Blood of Jesus Christ, I thought it was rather interesting that in the midst of all this written darkness, and believe me it was, would be a pinpoint of light. Here is a character that has been prophesied to be the downfall of evil incarnate who discovers a powerful weapon in his blood. I don’t believe in coincidence. And I don’t believe that Mr. Stackpole even knew what he stumbled upon and then promptly forgot. Because Will never used this new found ability again, nor did he or his comrades explore what other capabilities he might have come back from the brink with.
To be continued . . .
When Dragons Rage was pretty much more of the same.
Stackpole created another character for us to view the world through: the heir of the Evil Chytrine, Isuara, or something like that.
The first third of the book involves the trial of Crow and the contrivances to set him at liberty. And while Stackpole’s solution to this dilemma was not unimaginative, if felt forced. Like an easy out. I felt the solutions where decent, but I couldn’t help but think that there must have been a better, cleaner way. It was like a puzzle worth two dollars being sold for ten cents.
Basically, the afore mentioned Golden Wolf, a princess in her own right, with the help of her friends, fakes a marriage with Crow, a man who held her in his arms when she was a baby. This "marriage" elevates Crow from vassal to noble and therefore warrants him another trial, as he had been tried and convicted in abstention. At this point I scratched my head: "This is a medieval-esque world and they try their accused in abstention?" But that’s beside the point. Now, I don’t particularly have a problem with age gap relationships but this solution, as I said above, felt contrived. It was like Stackpole needed a way to get Crow off the hook quickly and pair his Affirmative Action character up with someone.
During the trial, Will is poisoned by a bad guy; one of Evil Chytrine’s lieutenants. But he is then saved by Evil Chytrine’s heir and a dragon in human form (not Evil Chytrine’s heir). The Heir wasn’t really responsible for her actions nor did she know that Will was her mother’s nemesis, and we don’t find out about the dragon until the end of the book.
So Will comes back from the brink; only different. He finds that he is perpetually cold. And something else. And then the trial comes to an end. And just as Crow is being set at liberty, a new character enters. Only this one is (in hind sight) refreshingly different: we never get to see the world through her eyes. Thank goodness. This new character has come for Will, so that he and his comrades can liberate her country from the Scourge From the North, the Evil Chytrine.
A couple chapters after Stackpole created Isaura I began to see that she and Will would be paired up. Or at least, I thought that they should be. But then entered Sayce, the previously mentioned new character. She was described as a red headed beauty. So Isaura, who Will never really met, did not stand a chance.
So the comrades set off to liberate Sayce’s country. Along the way they encounter the enemy and that something-else-different-about-Will is exposed. It seems that he has developed the incredible ability to make commands that must be obeyed.
In the only moving part of the entire thriteen hundred page story, Sayce is knocked down in a fight and Will, who has been injured and is bleeding all over the place, leaps to her defense. He stands over her unconscious body and shouts to the enemy:
BY MY BLOOD, YOU WILL NOT PASS! Lo and behold, anywhere that Will’s blood has fallen, the enemy cannot get through. So he starts splattering his blood all over the place, effectively, temporarily holding off the assault. Long enough to gather up the fallen damsel and beat a hasty retreat so that his comrades can regroup and set about the annihilation of their enemies.
As a Christian who believes that the life is in the blood and believes in the Power of the Blood of Jesus Christ, I thought it was rather interesting that in the midst of all this written darkness, and believe me it was, would be a pinpoint of light. Here is a character that has been prophesied to be the downfall of evil incarnate who discovers a powerful weapon in his blood. I don’t believe in coincidence. And I don’t believe that Mr. Stackpole even knew what he stumbled upon and then promptly forgot. Because Will never used this new found ability again, nor did he or his comrades explore what other capabilities he might have come back from the brink with.
To be continued . . .
Monday, March 23, 2009
Frustration, Part 3
But it didn't stop there. More characters were created and given their own chapters, their own perspectives. So that Will, the character that had drawn me in, lost even more storytelling time. At the back of my mind, while I am reading about so-and-so, I was wondering "When are we going to get back to the story?" It was like commercials interrupting my favorite show.
Stackpole’s constant shifting of perspective, chapter after chapter, got to the point where I would skip ahead until I found the chapter that picked up where the last one left off. One time it was five or six chapters. Of course I did go back after that current conflict was resolved to my satisfaction.
I have never been the type of person who starts a book by reading the last chapter first. Therefore I did not know that Fortress Draconis was only Book One of Three until about seven-eighths of the way through, when it became obvious that there was no way that Stackpole could wrap everything up satisfactorily.
My philosophy is that there is as much joy in the journey, as in the destination. Sometimes even more. (Like a road-trip with good buddies to a lackluster beach with no reef and flat waves.) Unfortunately, stories are not exactly, dirrectly comparable to real life experiances. That’s why we have them. To satisfy some vicarious desire that we have. The ending of a story can either ruin the journey, or redeem it.
So Will travels through out the realm, slowly maturing as he goes. Rallying together some of the other main characters that I have mentioned above. He meets the Azure Spider and finds out that the thief is nothing to be idolized. He travels, towards the end of the story, to Fortress Draconis, for which the book is named, only to leave it promptly before it gets blown to little bits. And the book ends with Keyden’s Crow, who has become a father figure to Will, being arrested and led away for being a traitor to his home country. A grisly death awaits him. Or does it? We don’t know. Why? Because he left us hanging!
The end.
Or rather, Stackpole saying something like "Next book coming soon; I know, I know, Write faster." Literally.
Thank goodness that this series was published 01-03. Or my current opinion would be even lower. I hate cliffhanger endings in books and movies. Cliffhanger endings are a dishonest, cheap, and unethical means to fleecing "fans." Entertainments that employ this gimmick are created for the sole purpose of making money and should not be patronized, and in fact, are worthy of a silent boycott. I think that cliffhangers belong at the end of chapters to keep you turning and at the end of TV episodes to get you to tune in next week. But not when you have to wait an entire year and then spend seven to twenty-five bucks to get strung along for another two hours or four hundred and fifty pages.
That said, thank goodness for libraries.
So, I ran quickly to said library and plucked the sequel off of the shelf and dove in.
When Dragons Rage was pretty much more of the same.
To be continued . . .
Stackpole’s constant shifting of perspective, chapter after chapter, got to the point where I would skip ahead until I found the chapter that picked up where the last one left off. One time it was five or six chapters. Of course I did go back after that current conflict was resolved to my satisfaction.
I have never been the type of person who starts a book by reading the last chapter first. Therefore I did not know that Fortress Draconis was only Book One of Three until about seven-eighths of the way through, when it became obvious that there was no way that Stackpole could wrap everything up satisfactorily.
My philosophy is that there is as much joy in the journey, as in the destination. Sometimes even more. (Like a road-trip with good buddies to a lackluster beach with no reef and flat waves.) Unfortunately, stories are not exactly, dirrectly comparable to real life experiances. That’s why we have them. To satisfy some vicarious desire that we have. The ending of a story can either ruin the journey, or redeem it.
So Will travels through out the realm, slowly maturing as he goes. Rallying together some of the other main characters that I have mentioned above. He meets the Azure Spider and finds out that the thief is nothing to be idolized. He travels, towards the end of the story, to Fortress Draconis, for which the book is named, only to leave it promptly before it gets blown to little bits. And the book ends with Keyden’s Crow, who has become a father figure to Will, being arrested and led away for being a traitor to his home country. A grisly death awaits him. Or does it? We don’t know. Why? Because he left us hanging!
The end.
Or rather, Stackpole saying something like "Next book coming soon; I know, I know, Write faster." Literally.
Thank goodness that this series was published 01-03. Or my current opinion would be even lower. I hate cliffhanger endings in books and movies. Cliffhanger endings are a dishonest, cheap, and unethical means to fleecing "fans." Entertainments that employ this gimmick are created for the sole purpose of making money and should not be patronized, and in fact, are worthy of a silent boycott. I think that cliffhangers belong at the end of chapters to keep you turning and at the end of TV episodes to get you to tune in next week. But not when you have to wait an entire year and then spend seven to twenty-five bucks to get strung along for another two hours or four hundred and fifty pages.
That said, thank goodness for libraries.
So, I ran quickly to said library and plucked the sequel off of the shelf and dove in.
When Dragons Rage was pretty much more of the same.
To be continued . . .
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Frustration, Part 2
Continued from Frustration, Part 1
Even as I write, some part of me hesitates in being perfectly frank. Perhaps it's my conscience protesting my participation in "bad literature" or I am embarrased of what my very good friend's mom will think about me. But the truth is, I am not ashamed of having read the story. I actually learned something productive.
My motivation for picking up this particular series stems from a recent interested in the "big name authors." I am curious to see what makes them so popular. And so far, I have been unanimously disappointed with the big name authors.
But we are discussing Stackpole. And specifically the last three books of the DragonCrown War Cycle. (Say that three times fast.) As the title describes, the story is ultimately about a crown that has been created, and subsequently broken into pieces, to control dragons and the quest of the main antagonist to gather the dispersed pieces and reassemble them so that she can burn the world off and free the original adversaries of the dragons. [The dragons are depicted as sentient, extremely long lived (think millennia) creatures. And actually have very little time in the series.]
But I am getting ahead of myself.
The first book [actually the second in the cycle but the first that I read ( I didn't, nor do I plan on reading the first)] opens with the introduction of the main protagonist, Will. A fifteen year old thief who is pulling the biggest heist of his life on the toughest thug in the Dims, the main slum of what could be described as the America of Stackpole's created world. His entire life's ambition is to become the greatest thief ever, better than even the most notorious thief of them all, the Azure Spider.
However, his heist goes South and he is discovered by said thug and subsequently pursued through the slums. Ultimately he is cornered and as the thug is demanding the return of his stolen goods, young Will is rescued by a man and an elf with an odd name. Not what you think. It's Resolute. But is he really rescued? Will is beginning to think not.
Sound interesting? That's why I picked it up and allowed it to suck me in.
It turns out that Keyden's Crow, the man, and Resolute are basically kidnapping young Will. But no worries; Will is the orphaned son of a dead prostitute who has been raised by Fagan. No, that's not the man's name but that is obviously who Stackpole patterned the character after. I don't remember what the name is but he takes in orphans and teaches them to steal, among other things, and when they get too old to control, he "sends them away." And we all know what that means. Though we never actually meet "Fagan" and it is never expressly said, we get the impression that Will is soon to be "sent away" and Will, on some level knows this, as he is planning his big heist to please "Fagan" with his haul.
Again, no worries, because, remember, Will is being kidnapped.
The man and the elf turn out to be battle hardened warriors engaged in a two man campaign against the Evil Northern Empire Aurolan, or something like that, seeking the Chosen, Prophesied One who will defeat the Evil Chytrine. And they think that Will might just be that person.
My biggest disappointment came when several chapters in, Stackpole changed the view of the narrative from that of Will to a, at the time, seemingly secondary character. The previous chapter ended with Will and his kidnappers-lately-turned-mentors escaping into the wilds. The whole point of a chapter ending with a cliff hanger is to keep you hooked, keep you turning pages. I turned the page and discovered, not a gentle fan to keep the fire of my interest alive, but a cold wall of water. I was confronted with the perspective of the Golden Wolf. And I was left wondering, "Who is this woman and why should I care about her?" And the truth is, I never came to care about her. She was this Wonder Woman of a character who issued nonsensical orders and seemed to be created solely for the purpose of fulfilling some affirmative action requirement. Her adoptive sister, who hardly got any time in the entire series, captured my attention much more than the chapters and chapters of the Golden Wolf. I could have cared less if Stackpole had killed her off.
But it didn't stop there. More characters were created and given their own chapters, their own perspectives. So that Will, the character that had drawn me in, lost even more storytelling time. At the back of my mind, while I am reading about so-and-so, I was wondering "When are we going to get back to the story?" It was like commercials interrupting my favorite show.
To be continued . . .
Even as I write, some part of me hesitates in being perfectly frank. Perhaps it's my conscience protesting my participation in "bad literature" or I am embarrased of what my very good friend's mom will think about me. But the truth is, I am not ashamed of having read the story. I actually learned something productive.
My motivation for picking up this particular series stems from a recent interested in the "big name authors." I am curious to see what makes them so popular. And so far, I have been unanimously disappointed with the big name authors.
But we are discussing Stackpole. And specifically the last three books of the DragonCrown War Cycle. (Say that three times fast.) As the title describes, the story is ultimately about a crown that has been created, and subsequently broken into pieces, to control dragons and the quest of the main antagonist to gather the dispersed pieces and reassemble them so that she can burn the world off and free the original adversaries of the dragons. [The dragons are depicted as sentient, extremely long lived (think millennia) creatures. And actually have very little time in the series.]
But I am getting ahead of myself.
The first book [actually the second in the cycle but the first that I read ( I didn't, nor do I plan on reading the first)] opens with the introduction of the main protagonist, Will. A fifteen year old thief who is pulling the biggest heist of his life on the toughest thug in the Dims, the main slum of what could be described as the America of Stackpole's created world. His entire life's ambition is to become the greatest thief ever, better than even the most notorious thief of them all, the Azure Spider.
However, his heist goes South and he is discovered by said thug and subsequently pursued through the slums. Ultimately he is cornered and as the thug is demanding the return of his stolen goods, young Will is rescued by a man and an elf with an odd name. Not what you think. It's Resolute. But is he really rescued? Will is beginning to think not.
Sound interesting? That's why I picked it up and allowed it to suck me in.
It turns out that Keyden's Crow, the man, and Resolute are basically kidnapping young Will. But no worries; Will is the orphaned son of a dead prostitute who has been raised by Fagan. No, that's not the man's name but that is obviously who Stackpole patterned the character after. I don't remember what the name is but he takes in orphans and teaches them to steal, among other things, and when they get too old to control, he "sends them away." And we all know what that means. Though we never actually meet "Fagan" and it is never expressly said, we get the impression that Will is soon to be "sent away" and Will, on some level knows this, as he is planning his big heist to please "Fagan" with his haul.
Again, no worries, because, remember, Will is being kidnapped.
The man and the elf turn out to be battle hardened warriors engaged in a two man campaign against the Evil Northern Empire Aurolan, or something like that, seeking the Chosen, Prophesied One who will defeat the Evil Chytrine. And they think that Will might just be that person.
My biggest disappointment came when several chapters in, Stackpole changed the view of the narrative from that of Will to a, at the time, seemingly secondary character. The previous chapter ended with Will and his kidnappers-lately-turned-mentors escaping into the wilds. The whole point of a chapter ending with a cliff hanger is to keep you hooked, keep you turning pages. I turned the page and discovered, not a gentle fan to keep the fire of my interest alive, but a cold wall of water. I was confronted with the perspective of the Golden Wolf. And I was left wondering, "Who is this woman and why should I care about her?" And the truth is, I never came to care about her. She was this Wonder Woman of a character who issued nonsensical orders and seemed to be created solely for the purpose of fulfilling some affirmative action requirement. Her adoptive sister, who hardly got any time in the entire series, captured my attention much more than the chapters and chapters of the Golden Wolf. I could have cared less if Stackpole had killed her off.
But it didn't stop there. More characters were created and given their own chapters, their own perspectives. So that Will, the character that had drawn me in, lost even more storytelling time. At the back of my mind, while I am reading about so-and-so, I was wondering "When are we going to get back to the story?" It was like commercials interrupting my favorite show.
To be continued . . .
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Frustration, Part 1
I am beginning to understand how James Fennimore Cooper and C.S. Lewis and the Inklings felt.
The first is reported to have thrown a book across the room in disgust, exclaiming to his wife that he could write a better novel than the one that he had just finished. She, of course, as all good little wives do, challenged him to do it then. Which he did. And apparently he wasn't wrong, because he became one of the greatest novelists of his time. Perhaps you've heard of The Last of the Mohicans? I read many of his books as a teenager, and loved them, despite the fact that you can skip entire chapters and not miss a thing. He is rather verbose. And loves expounding upon the glories of a single blade of grass.
C.S. Lewis and his associates where disappointed in the lack of modern literature that they could enjoy. So they decided that, if nothing else, they could wright what they liked and pass it around among themselves. One of the funniest stories that I have heard about their meetings was when Tolkein began to read some of his completed work in his deep, monotone voice, another associate said " . . . No! Not more elves!"
What has brought me to this current point of frustration? I'm glad you asked.
I can count on one hand how much Fantasy I have read in twenty-five years, and on two fingers how much High Fantasy. My current disposition comes after 1300 pages of wasted time spent on a Stackpole trilogy.
It started out Innocent enough: with a good cover, and an intriguing title: Fortress Draconis.
Now, I knew Stackpole was a fantasy writer and as a rule, I don't read Fantasy or encourage the reading of Fantasy. Much less High Fantasy. There's that whole, "thou shalt not suffer a witch to live" thing. The realization and conviction that I have about witchcraft is that its practice is diametrically apposed to Christ and his teachings.
Never-the-less, I was curious. (I know, I know, "what killed the cat?") So I grabbed the book and began reading right there in the library isle. And it intrigued me. I did not encounter any foul language and as I skimmed through the book I didn't encounter any, shall we say, unbecoming behavior, or sorcery. So I took it home. And the story itself drew me in.
It wasn't long, however, before I encountered what my casual inspection had missed: the demons, and then the witches.
Even as I write, some part of me hesitates in being perfectly frank. Perhaps it's my conscience protesting my participation in "bad literature" or I am embarrassed of what my very good friends mom will think about me. But the truth is, I am not ashamed of having read the story. I actually learned something productive.
to be continued . . .
The first is reported to have thrown a book across the room in disgust, exclaiming to his wife that he could write a better novel than the one that he had just finished. She, of course, as all good little wives do, challenged him to do it then. Which he did. And apparently he wasn't wrong, because he became one of the greatest novelists of his time. Perhaps you've heard of The Last of the Mohicans? I read many of his books as a teenager, and loved them, despite the fact that you can skip entire chapters and not miss a thing. He is rather verbose. And loves expounding upon the glories of a single blade of grass.
C.S. Lewis and his associates where disappointed in the lack of modern literature that they could enjoy. So they decided that, if nothing else, they could wright what they liked and pass it around among themselves. One of the funniest stories that I have heard about their meetings was when Tolkein began to read some of his completed work in his deep, monotone voice, another associate said " . . . No! Not more elves!"
What has brought me to this current point of frustration? I'm glad you asked.
I can count on one hand how much Fantasy I have read in twenty-five years, and on two fingers how much High Fantasy. My current disposition comes after 1300 pages of wasted time spent on a Stackpole trilogy.
It started out Innocent enough: with a good cover, and an intriguing title: Fortress Draconis.
Now, I knew Stackpole was a fantasy writer and as a rule, I don't read Fantasy or encourage the reading of Fantasy. Much less High Fantasy. There's that whole, "thou shalt not suffer a witch to live" thing. The realization and conviction that I have about witchcraft is that its practice is diametrically apposed to Christ and his teachings.
Never-the-less, I was curious. (I know, I know, "what killed the cat?") So I grabbed the book and began reading right there in the library isle. And it intrigued me. I did not encounter any foul language and as I skimmed through the book I didn't encounter any, shall we say, unbecoming behavior, or sorcery. So I took it home. And the story itself drew me in.
It wasn't long, however, before I encountered what my casual inspection had missed: the demons, and then the witches.
Even as I write, some part of me hesitates in being perfectly frank. Perhaps it's my conscience protesting my participation in "bad literature" or I am embarrassed of what my very good friends mom will think about me. But the truth is, I am not ashamed of having read the story. I actually learned something productive.
to be continued . . .
Saturday, February 21, 2009
AWOL
It is ironic that I should talk about Mike Tyson's Knock-Out and then promptly discover what I have been looking for for several years now.
Of course, I have to give Belle all the credit for my discovering.
Shortly after I left my New Years post, I came home and found Shannon labouring over Karsten's CarGame. Something she had discovered through her endless perusal of the blogosphere. Naturally I had to help her out. Which of course led me to playing some of his other games. Nibbly is kinda fun too. Trouble Underground is irritatingly fun. One mistake and you have to start over from the beginning. These three are puzzle solving. So, you won't feel like you're wasting any time if you play them. I never do anyway.
But naturally, I wasn't satisfied with these games. The challenges that they presented were stimulating . . . but one can only chase his tail so many times (a hint for Nibbly) before he grows tired.
So I did a query on the web for Nintendo Entertainment System Games Online, or something like that.
I struck gold, much to my surprise. A couple of years ago I did the same thing and found nothing. Butkis. Zip. Nada.
Not so at Everyvideogame.com. I discovered more NES games than I ever imagined existed.
And I was shocked at how lousy 1980s/90s Cutting Edge Video Game Technology was.
It is amazing how the mind embellishes memory. How we remember everything, good memories at least, as being much better than they really were. I wonder, with a great deal of certainty, if the same can be applied to "bad memories."
Granted there are those moments in our past that really are incredibly wonderful and incredibly horrible. But are there really, now, as many as we remember?
If you're curious to see what 1980's children's entertainment looked like, then follow the links.
This is Mike Tyson's Punch-Out!! the game that I talked about playing with my buddy Dan.
I never had an NES. But my neighbor James did. Our favorite game was Contra. He also had Double Dragon which ironically doesn't really have anything to do with dragons and everything to with street brawling and rescuing the kidnapped girl. AND it has, indisputably, the best score ever created for a video game.
He also had Ninja Gaiden my favorite single player game.
And last but not least, one of my brothers, who had an NES briefly, had Life Force which, I believe, pretty much sums up the list of games that I played as a child that I wanted to, as we called it then, flip. That is what we called beating games. "Did you flip that game?" "Dude, I totally flipped Ninja Gaiden last night!" You get the picture.
If you're familiar with gaming or like gaming then you have to check out these small tokens of all but buried history. And I have to say, if you think the games they make today are hard, then you have never played the old NES games. They are difficult to the point of inducing insanity. I don't know what kept us kiddies coming back. I have my opinion on the matter, but I'll save it for another post. Lets just say that I am totally grateful for saved games.
Of course, I have to give Belle all the credit for my discovering.
Shortly after I left my New Years post, I came home and found Shannon labouring over Karsten's CarGame. Something she had discovered through her endless perusal of the blogosphere. Naturally I had to help her out. Which of course led me to playing some of his other games. Nibbly is kinda fun too. Trouble Underground is irritatingly fun. One mistake and you have to start over from the beginning. These three are puzzle solving. So, you won't feel like you're wasting any time if you play them. I never do anyway.
But naturally, I wasn't satisfied with these games. The challenges that they presented were stimulating . . . but one can only chase his tail so many times (a hint for Nibbly) before he grows tired.
So I did a query on the web for Nintendo Entertainment System Games Online, or something like that.
I struck gold, much to my surprise. A couple of years ago I did the same thing and found nothing. Butkis. Zip. Nada.
Not so at Everyvideogame.com. I discovered more NES games than I ever imagined existed.
And I was shocked at how lousy 1980s/90s Cutting Edge Video Game Technology was.
It is amazing how the mind embellishes memory. How we remember everything, good memories at least, as being much better than they really were. I wonder, with a great deal of certainty, if the same can be applied to "bad memories."
Granted there are those moments in our past that really are incredibly wonderful and incredibly horrible. But are there really, now, as many as we remember?
If you're curious to see what 1980's children's entertainment looked like, then follow the links.
This is Mike Tyson's Punch-Out!! the game that I talked about playing with my buddy Dan.
I never had an NES. But my neighbor James did. Our favorite game was Contra. He also had Double Dragon which ironically doesn't really have anything to do with dragons and everything to with street brawling and rescuing the kidnapped girl. AND it has, indisputably, the best score ever created for a video game.
He also had Ninja Gaiden my favorite single player game.
And last but not least, one of my brothers, who had an NES briefly, had Life Force which, I believe, pretty much sums up the list of games that I played as a child that I wanted to, as we called it then, flip. That is what we called beating games. "Did you flip that game?" "Dude, I totally flipped Ninja Gaiden last night!" You get the picture.
If you're familiar with gaming or like gaming then you have to check out these small tokens of all but buried history. And I have to say, if you think the games they make today are hard, then you have never played the old NES games. They are difficult to the point of inducing insanity. I don't know what kept us kiddies coming back. I have my opinion on the matter, but I'll save it for another post. Lets just say that I am totally grateful for saved games.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
His True Talent Exposed
So we saw this on TV the other week. I don't normally watch SNL, but after they did the Sarah Palin skits I started just checking in.
It was a re-run of a Ben Affleck hosted episode. Now, I have come to call Ben Affleck what Thomas Sowell calls him: Ben Afflicted, or what I call him Ben Can't-Act-fleck. I think he is a horrible actor, and I couldn't tell you why. Unlike his buddy Matt, I just don't believe him. But I think that you will all come to agree with me that the following parody is brilliant and brilliantly performed. Well worth watching over and over and over. Perhaps sketch comedy is where his true talent lies.
That, and I love it when the left lampoons itself, when someone has become so obnoxious that even his cohorts can't help but ridicule him.
Enjoy
It was a re-run of a Ben Affleck hosted episode. Now, I have come to call Ben Affleck what Thomas Sowell calls him: Ben Afflicted, or what I call him Ben Can't-Act-fleck. I think he is a horrible actor, and I couldn't tell you why. Unlike his buddy Matt, I just don't believe him. But I think that you will all come to agree with me that the following parody is brilliant and brilliantly performed. Well worth watching over and over and over. Perhaps sketch comedy is where his true talent lies.
That, and I love it when the left lampoons itself, when someone has become so obnoxious that even his cohorts can't help but ridicule him.
Enjoy
Thursday, January 1, 2009
New Years Resolution
2008, which was over just as quickly as it began, went out with a whimper, like every other year since Sep. 11, 2001. Thank God.
Why did I say that?
Because I haven't forgotten the day that 3000 Mothers, Fathers, Brothers, Sisters, Grandparents, and Cousins, got brutally blown into the next life by the Religion of Peace.
Every New Years since, I hold my breath as the hours and minutes tick down.
It's not like when I was a kid and would spend the night at my buddy Dan's. His parents always had way cool New Years Eve Parties. All those parents and kids filling up the house with warm conversation. The Mike Tyson's Knock Out tourneys with all the kids; the monster game of hide and seek outside. And staying up past midnight, AND the parents knew and were not only cool about it, but encouraging it! *Gasp!*.
You know that feeling you get when you've just had the best day ever? All full and warm and fuzzy inside? That's what the memory's like for me.
But now, that I'm verging on 1850's middle age-edness, I hold my breath and pray. 1 million merry makers revelling in the new year: a terrorist's supreme fantasy. Don't get the wrong impression, I'm not on my knees interceding for humanity and this country, though I should be. But I'm just observing, asking God for his mercy.
Thank God for our President, who is willing to be the butt of the entire worlds jokes if it means he saves one innocent life. American or otherwise.
Thank God for our Volunteer Warriors who lay their lives on the line everyday, not because they are ordered to, but because if they lose their life saving one innocent life, it was worth it.
IF you ever need some perspective on this world that we live in, read the stories about the Medal of Honor recipients coming out of Iraq and Afghanistan. I'm a grown man and I get choked up when I hear about men falling on grenades to protect their comrades; women, who should not be in combat, going into hot zones to take medicine, school supplies, and candy to children who have never seen medicine, school supplies, or candy. You should look into the Lionesses.
But we had Captain I Know and his first mate the expectant Mail Order Bride over last night. I bought scrabble earlier in the fall. I remember my mom playing it when I was a child, and decided that I wanted it too. It's been great! We've had more people over in the last month than in the last 8 years. Scrabble is a great ice breaking attractant. And if you have a sense of humor, it makes for a blast. Especially when your wife and your best friend are actively, openly engaged in Scrabble War. Doggedly determined to get the highest score. And me? I didn't even break fifty points, after penalties, on the second round. (I had lousy tiles! And I was first, which we all know, The First Shall Be Last.) But it is kinda sad when the non-native English speaking player beats you. Thems the breaks.
They left about 1: or so; me popping up every now and then the whole night to check in on Fox News, just to make sure that nothing had happened. Nothing happened. Belle went to bed about 1:30 almost 2: Bizarrely abnormal for her. She's normally narcoleptic after 8, but she drank some coffee at 9, that and the sweet thrill of victorious scrabble combat was still coursing through her veins.
I went to bed a little later, okay, a lot later. Late enough to be early enough for Shorty to get up and ask for a pre-breakfast snack. She had cold meatloaf by computer monitor light. I thought it was an hour earlier than it really was.
So, I helped Shorty finish her snack, hey, I was hungry too, and then as I was on my way to bed, I thought of some new years resolutions:
I resolve to:
Eat More Peanuts
Eat More Li'l Porgey's
Eat More . . . wait, I wonder if I was hungry
Why did I say that?
Because I haven't forgotten the day that 3000 Mothers, Fathers, Brothers, Sisters, Grandparents, and Cousins, got brutally blown into the next life by the Religion of Peace.
Every New Years since, I hold my breath as the hours and minutes tick down.
It's not like when I was a kid and would spend the night at my buddy Dan's. His parents always had way cool New Years Eve Parties. All those parents and kids filling up the house with warm conversation. The Mike Tyson's Knock Out tourneys with all the kids; the monster game of hide and seek outside. And staying up past midnight, AND the parents knew and were not only cool about it, but encouraging it! *Gasp!*.
You know that feeling you get when you've just had the best day ever? All full and warm and fuzzy inside? That's what the memory's like for me.
But now, that I'm verging on 1850's middle age-edness, I hold my breath and pray. 1 million merry makers revelling in the new year: a terrorist's supreme fantasy. Don't get the wrong impression, I'm not on my knees interceding for humanity and this country, though I should be. But I'm just observing, asking God for his mercy.
Thank God for our President, who is willing to be the butt of the entire worlds jokes if it means he saves one innocent life. American or otherwise.
Thank God for our Volunteer Warriors who lay their lives on the line everyday, not because they are ordered to, but because if they lose their life saving one innocent life, it was worth it.
IF you ever need some perspective on this world that we live in, read the stories about the Medal of Honor recipients coming out of Iraq and Afghanistan. I'm a grown man and I get choked up when I hear about men falling on grenades to protect their comrades; women, who should not be in combat, going into hot zones to take medicine, school supplies, and candy to children who have never seen medicine, school supplies, or candy. You should look into the Lionesses.
But we had Captain I Know and his first mate the expectant Mail Order Bride over last night. I bought scrabble earlier in the fall. I remember my mom playing it when I was a child, and decided that I wanted it too. It's been great! We've had more people over in the last month than in the last 8 years. Scrabble is a great ice breaking attractant. And if you have a sense of humor, it makes for a blast. Especially when your wife and your best friend are actively, openly engaged in Scrabble War. Doggedly determined to get the highest score. And me? I didn't even break fifty points, after penalties, on the second round. (I had lousy tiles! And I was first, which we all know, The First Shall Be Last.) But it is kinda sad when the non-native English speaking player beats you. Thems the breaks.
They left about 1: or so; me popping up every now and then the whole night to check in on Fox News, just to make sure that nothing had happened. Nothing happened. Belle went to bed about 1:30 almost 2: Bizarrely abnormal for her. She's normally narcoleptic after 8, but she drank some coffee at 9, that and the sweet thrill of victorious scrabble combat was still coursing through her veins.
I went to bed a little later, okay, a lot later. Late enough to be early enough for Shorty to get up and ask for a pre-breakfast snack. She had cold meatloaf by computer monitor light. I thought it was an hour earlier than it really was.
So, I helped Shorty finish her snack, hey, I was hungry too, and then as I was on my way to bed, I thought of some new years resolutions:
I resolve to:
Eat More Peanuts
Eat More Li'l Porgey's
Eat More . . . wait, I wonder if I was hungry
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