George Carlin

George Carlin is dead.

I suppose some sort of gushing tribute is in order; some homily about how the world's a less funny place now he's gone, how there'll never be another, just like we said about every comedian from Max Miller to Bill Hicks.

Sod that for a game of soldiers! If you think for a moment that I'm going to get all maudlin just because another comic icon's health finally let him down you've got another think coming. At what point did this become a tradition? To spend a few minutes crying into our beer just because some guy we probably never met and may have thought (quite rightly too) that we were a bunch of wankers finally popped his clogs? Nope. Sorry. When it comes to death, you won't get that sort of public wailing out of me any more. I've got better things to do.

There's a very good reason for this, believe it or not. And hopefully I've got some of you upset enough to read on. The reason I'm not going to post my own platitude is that various people in the (ptui!) blogosphere have posted their own tributes to George Carlin. People I know and like, too. Clever people, even. But I've come to think that their motives are dubious. What they say could be applied to any comedian, Hell, you could even say it if Carrot Top and Larry the Cable Guy died (unless they die in some kind of autoerotic asphyxiation experiment gone horribly, horribly right of course). It's sad, he was funny, now he's dead… because what they said was so damn generic, their mourning isn't about the guy who's dead at all. It's about themselves. Oh, look who's dead! Look who I'm mourning! Look how I'm validating my existence today! I'm not immune to this, of course. I've done it myself. I know you meant well, but you got it wrong. Time for us to learn our lesson, boys and girls. Pay attention. There will be a test later.

Let's bring a bit of culture into this rant, by quoting another famous George. Shaw had the best insight into this whole life and death business, bar none. Life does not cease to be funny when people die any more than it ceases to be serious when people laugh.

You want to mourn George Carlin? Fine. Do it some other way. Find an ego that needs puncturing. Find something ridiculous, and ridicule the fuck out of it. Find something wrong, and expose it to the harsh light of truth. Carlin, like so many others before him, died leaving a Hell of a lot of work unfinished. If you want, you can stay silent for a minute, but if you want a better way to spend that time, look for ways to carry that work on.

Originally posted to slacknhash.net on June 24th, 2008.

Seven Ages of Man, abridged.

So, this site's undergone a major reorganisation, has it? You do know that's one of the tell-tale signs that any organisation or business is doomed, don't you? I'm expecting a mission statement to be written any time soon. There may even be rationalisation or streamlining. Well, that's the way the biscuit disintegrates, ain't it? The more Phil learns, the more he transforms into something he despises.

Some might say that's a tragedy. A profound and searing satire on the human condition; as we grow old we all turn into something that, in our youths, we hated.

Not me, however. I just think it's bloody hilarious.

So, gentle reader, take a good long look at yourselves. Allow yourselves an hour of introspection; consider what you are, what you like about yourselves and write it down. Put it in a safe deposit box, bury it in a time capsule, whatever it takes: just make sure that a soul-searching record is preserved for a decade or so. Then, when that time's passed, look over your character once again, and compare and contrast it with the person you were.

And if by that time they've developed time machines, don't go back to your past unless you're armed. It's always the wasted opportunities we regret the most.

There was a point to this entry, but frankly I can't be arsed to remember what it was.

Originally posted to slacknhash.net on June 21st, 2008.

Interviews

Yes, after altogether too long of that box in the lower-left corner of the screen displaying a test message, I'm back. I know, I've done this before: I've declared my triumphant return then promptly vanished off the radar for another few months. But I'm here for you now, baby, I've changed, please take me back, please God take me back. Don't make me cry. You don't want to see me cry.

Still, for my latest brief but glorious return to the Intertubes, I figured I'd be better off for venting my spleen on a subject that's been bugging me for ages now. Those of you who enjoy writing, who are trying to harness the power of the Interweb 2.0 for the purposes of cramming your words into the eyes of people who previously wouldn't feel inclined to give half a shit for your work, those who are trying to make your way in an increasingly hostile literary world: this one's for you. Read on.

I hate interviews with writers. Everywhere I look now, there's an up-and-coming writer being interviewed. New book on the way? New website? Ooh, better get an interview with some other site that's low on the pecking order. They've got to fill their whatever-it-is-they-have-instead-of-pages now, haven't they? Every single HTML document on the web is now a mere six frigging clicks away from someone determined to share their thoughts about literature today, dropping names like some great butterfingers. Where do you get your ideas from? Who's your influence? Where are you answering these questions? What the Hell are you about?

I have some horrible news, boys and girls: no-one really gives a shit. Not the reader, not the interviewer, and — deep down you know this, guys — you. It's not because of you, really; you're (usually) regular people, nothing wrong with that. It's because of the interview. What the Hell is the point? That's what I'd like to know. You've got a website, a blog, a mySpace, a facebook, a twitter, and a metric crapton of other minor things that all amount to a pretty comprehensive web presence. And what do you do with all this? You blog. You write about your lives, often in exhaustive detail, so when interview time finally rolls around, we're all bored shitless with you before you put fingers to keyboard. You've told us all there is to know, and the novelty of having some other bugger ask you about specific bits and pieces soon wears off.

Now, you are, I'd hope, intelligent people. This can't have escaped your notice, can it? Next time, try and do something original. Make sure your next interviews are complete fabrications from start to finish. Total and utter lies. Or do something other than just talk about yourselves! Act like the raconteurs and raconteuses you're supposed to be, and take the reader, the interviewer and yourselves somewhere interesting for a change.

Don't make me say 'please', folks. I'd never live it down.

Originally posted to slacknhash.net on June 5, 2008.

Open Letter to Nickolaus Pacione

Dear Princess,

You've got yourself in a lather again, haven't you? Recent videos have seen you metamorphose from Horror's Self-Proclaimed Bad Boy into the bastard offspring of Joe Pesci and Beaker from the Muppets. The only reason I bring this up is because your health really looks like it's taken a downturn: you spew and froth about 'yellow journalists', but your waxy skin, illuminated only by the orange glare from your desk lamp makes you look like you blew all your benefits money on cheap self-tan again. Your diction's gone to pot too: your latest slurred rants are so incoherent that I'm forced to wonder if you've been forced to sniff the cheaper generic brand of Superglue. You've gained weight, I could carry a week's shopping in the bags under your eyes and your posture's so bad you seem to be permanently tilted over at a 45° angle. For the good of your health, Princess, give it a rest before your lifestyle catches up with you!

With sales so low that you're even trying to sell your jeans on the Internet, I've just got to ask you this question, Princess Pixie: who do you have left to blame? Over the past decade, you've blamed all your ills on your ex-roommates, your ex-girlfriend, other writers, liberals, communists, nazis, liberal communist feminazis, homosexuals, pirates, e-pirates, f-pirates, some guy who was looking at you funny, some guy one of your few remaining mates made up. Pixie-Wixie Princess, your retreat from fame and fortune has been outstripped only by your retreat from reality.

During that time you've issued dozens of PayPal demands for increasing amounts: $100, $400, $1,000, $4,000. What's the matter, Pixie-Wixie Princess Peaches? Are you really that hard up? Worried that the benefits payments could dry up any day now? But, you know something, Pixie-Wixie Princess Peachy-poo, I'm prepared to help you. I'm prepared to buy something from you. Something that, later on, you can't claim was e-pirated. The income will be yours, yours alone, some lovely lovely money all of your very own! So how about it?

I'd like to buy your jeans. They've been up for sale for more than two months now, and they're still not taken. I imagine they're smelling a bit musty by now, even if you washed them before you stuck a price tag on them. I don't suppose you could knock a couple of bucks off for that? And they've shrunk. That's got to be another dollar off there, surely. The colour's faded a bit too, that's got to be worth another reduction…

Originally posted to slacknhash.net on February 22, 2008.

Beep beep beep beep beep

Hurrah for the gallant NYPD, guardians of the state and liberty.

I think you know where this is going, don't you?

If there's one thing people need, it's more regulation. It's for their own good. After all, in this post-9/11 climate, the last thing we need is more worry. After all, that might cause panic. And how do you stop people from worrying? Keep 'em dumb, that's how!

And what is it that's the latest potential cause of panic? What is it that threatens to get the locals so steamed up that their panic could paralyse the city with undue stress, worry, turmoil and anxiety?

Geiger counters.

I'm afraid so. Do you have any instruments that could detect the presence of radioactive, biological or chemical agents? Gotta have a permit. After all, you might get a false alarm, so unless the cops know where it is and know you're allowed to have one chances are you're going to cause widespread panic and the terrists win. This measure, they claim, is to ensure the devices are properly set up and that they conform to standards of quality and reliability.

For once, though, I'm going to stop this snark halfway through. Why? Because an article that consists solely of sarcasm is predictable, boring, and lazy. Even by my standards, and I can't even be arsed to get out of bed most days. I actually think the idea of this law is a good thing and I hope it gets voted through. Oh, some might say that if you want to ensure that the devices are properly calibrated and are suitably fit for purpose, then the first responsibility belongs to the manufacturers rather than the owners, but to such people I say this: who cares?

Regulate them out the ass. Make sure that every time someone wants one of these potentially panic-inducing devices, someone has to fill in an inch-thick wad of forms. More importantly, make sure that someone reads it.

In fact, since it's our civic duty (well, your civic duty; I don't live over there!) to keep ourselves (well, yourselves) informed and act responsibly, everyone should try to get hold of some of these devices: pollution detectors, Geiger counters, the lot. Apply for permits for everything. If the cops want control of all this equipment and want to regulate everything, let them. Give 'em so much paperwork that they'll damn well choke on it. And in fact, why not extend the brief? Fires cause panic! London burned down once, after all. Don't want people to be unduly worried by a few false positives on that front, so make sure that everyone who wants a smoke detector has to go through this.

Do it. Do it now. Even if they're just informal requests for information or permission. Sometimes, if you want a bad law to be prevented, you have to obey it with extreme prejudice.

Originally posted to slacknhash.net on January 28, 2008.

Reaching out to the fans.

Hang on. I've forgotten who I was supposed to be mocking in this blog. The writers or the fans? Oh, what the Hell. There's room enough for everybody. Spread a little happiness, that's my motto. Still, let's try to bridge this divide. At heart, every fan is a frustrated writer, after all. Why? Because art's difficult and technical stuff is boring. Writing on the other hand is easy: just look at all the fanfiction out there!

1. If you want to get ahead as a writer, you need to contact writers. Don't bother with submissions editors: magazines fold all the time! Writers stay around for ages. They know if a story works or not: it's their job. Google around and send them manuscripts. Make sure yours stand out from the others: different coloured text, strange fonts: all of these can help mark you out as an individual.
2. Writers are always in need of ideas. Send them some. They'll be glad of the help, and they'll give you a writing credit too! Remember, completed manuscripts are easy: it's ideas that are hard. Most don't have them. If you do, you've got it made!
3. Writers are naturally sociable creatures. Offer to collaborate with them. If you supply the idea and they do the donkey work, you could split the money with them 50/50!
4. The market isn't big enough to accomodate many new universes. Make sure the first five manuscripts you send out used established fictional worlds: Star Trek is a good idea. So is Star Wars. That's very big right now. Right now I can think of no novels published that cross the Star Wars and Star Trek universes. You could be the first person to write that!
5. Of course, some writers don't like those big franchises. So try personalising your offer by substituting their characters for Luke Skywalker, Captain Picard and what have you. Granted, the fit won't be perfect, but it's the idea that counts. As a rough guide, 'impulse power' means 'lots of horses' and 'warp 9' means 'lots and lots of horses'.
6. People respond better to novels that engage them on a personal level. You're a great guy, so make sure you're in the story somehow. This is a sort of in-joke, like Alfred Hitchcock's cameos in his films. If you adopt that too, the readers will go for that in a big way.
7. Your material is new and different. Make sure they know how. List other authors by name and show how yours is more original.
8. Writers are notoriously competitive and harbour grudges against their rivals. Show you're on their side by bad-mouthing a few when you drop your manuscript in their lap.
9. Remember that some people are naturally forgetful. If they haven't replied to your email at length, be sure to remind them. Play it cool, though: if you do it more than twenty times a day they'll start thinking they're dealing with some sort of nutter.
10. J.R.R. Tolkien didn't start writing The Lord of the Rings until he was 45. It wasn't published until he was 62. You're younger than that and you've just started on your magnum opus. I think that says something. Make sure they know that!
11. All writers feel a certain degree of fellowship because of their trade. Be sure to use the term 'fellow writer'.

So, fandom, now you know all you need to know about getting that multi-part fantasy / sci-fi epic out there. Your idols will know you're one of them at heart. Now get out there and prove it!

Originally posted to slacknhash.net on January 14, 2008.

Mike Read's Got Beautiful Breath

Just a quick post today. I thought I'd sing the praises of fandom, because not enough people do. They're an underappreciated bunch, all told, and the most fascinating sociopolitical group. Where else will you find a group that's very quick to point out its own intelligence and academic aptitude, and yet is still dumb enough to spout movie, video game and TV series catchphrases and drop Cube-knows-how much money on tie-in crap?

Hooray for fans! If it wasn't for fans, you science fiction writers wouldn't be where you are today.

No, stop laughing. You wouldn't be where you are today without them. Think about that, and all that that implies. Every pasty-faced tit who insists on cornering you at conventions and telling you at length about their fanfiction? That seventeen-stone packet of instant ennui (just add water! …and soap, preferably) is the core audience for your merchandise. That person has probably had a swift one off the wrist while wearing a t-shirt with the label of the franchise on it. While reading 'erotic' fanfiction based on your stories.

It'd be nice if the reward somehow matched up to that knowledge, wouldn't it? If the odour of cat piss actually guaranteed you'd earn out and get some income from those books besides the advance on royalties.

And if you producers of material for fandom consumption are feeling a bit depressed, just let me weigh in with the following point: I wish I had some fans too. Just a couple. Just so I could look at them and feel superior. That'd be great. Someone who'd lap up all this bullshit and see me for the genius I am. Any takers?

Originally posted to slacknhash.net on January 13, 2008.