May 25th, 2010
I estimate I spent nearly 60 hours untangling the 4-D web that was Lost. By the inglorious end, I surmised it amonted to the following:
Everyone gets off the Island vertically or horizontally. They all meet up in an unconscious Purgatio and have a group hug.
I feel used like a recycled condom. I’ve been disappointed by series finales before, but at lease BSG made some sense. I won’t overstate what has bugged other Lost refugees, but could we at least get an idea what the Island was? Let’s dispatch with the ‘its what you make of it’ crystal rubbing New Age-y drivel. Who built the temple and the 4-toed statue? What is the light?
By mid season, I had thought that the Island was a kind of Phantom Zone to imprison Smokey. Jacob was the warden and he was looking for someone to take over the next shift. Instead, we get a retelling of the Cain and Abel story and some Chronicles of Narnia riffs.
Sixty hours invested. Sixty hours Lost.
May 15th, 2010
Today, I had a pitch session with an agent at The Atlanta Writers Conference. I had expected a hard sell, but after my delivery the agent said he loved it. I feel like Charlie Brown after kissing the Red Headed Girl. Did that really just happen?
Now the hard work begins. I have a half-completed young adult novel called The Rapture Express to complete. I will send sample chapters within the week. For now on, my first job is writing. Everything else is just rent.
I’m starting to come back to normal gravity now. Getting an agent interested in your work is just one obstacle among many surreal twists and turns toward a published novel. To borrow a video game analogy, I’m at Level 2 in Super Mario Bros. I may get a chance to warp to the upper levels, but I still have a long ways before rescuing Princess Peach.
I will give more details once I have secure a copyright, but I will say it involves clowns, KISS, Paul Lynde and flatulence.
May 13th, 2010
About a month ago, I decided that it was time to call the Recession over. In response, the mainstream media and economists agreed and the Dow Jones surged 100 points.
Oh, recession. It’s been a bittersweet affair,but it’s time to take your chronic risk aversion, fear and dread somewhere else, along with your eight cats.
I have learned a few things, among them:
- Being broke sucks. If I hear about how an ex-CEO or other high paid professional exclaim how much happier they are now, I may torch a Whole Foods store. Suddenly unburdened from their salary and benefits, they’ve learned to enjoy free-range organic hamburger instead of Kobe Steak and to get to know that family they didn’t know they had. There is nothing romantic about poverty, especially when your mortgage is overdue and you’re repairing everything, clothing, furniture, flesh wounds, with duct tape.
- I was happier when I had money. It feels good to pay rent a week early, and still have enough money to go on a road trip or go on a DVD shopping spree. Although shelling out $500 to treat your diabetic cat is inconvenient, you’re not choosing between rent or a live cat.
- I have a legit reason to hate rich people. The WSJ says the mortgage meltdown is poor people’s fault, but who gave them the mortgage? The Wall Street douches who bundled mortgages, then stacked more bundled mortgages on top of that, then battered and deep fried them, then served them as appetizers at their parties are at fault. Remember, these guys are smarter than me and the Free Market works for my benefit, even when the “invisible hand” is begging for bailout money from taxpayers. Anyone who thinks differently should start humming the Internationale and reading Chomsky.
- Community grills rule. My condo community has one by the pool and I got my money’s worth from my association fees. Even if I just grilled two hot dogs, I was using the ‘community’ gas, not mine.
- Heavy Metal Rules. I wasted my teen years listening to synth rock and The Smiths. Youtube.com has just about every great aneurysm inducing metal video, including Judas Priest, Metallica and Warrant. Metal rules because no one plays air synthesizers.
- Depression can be fun. Sitting around, unshaven for days, watching Family Ties reruns doesn’t cost a thing. Also I found old DOS days video games like Duke Nukem and Doom II and played them till the hard drive smoked. If self-pity was an Olympic sport, I’d get the Bronze Medal because life is cruel and unfair.
- Be nice to people in retail/service industry. I had to do a stint at GameStop during the Christmas season. I thought it would be fun, but having to deal with customers having power hissies over why we don’t have Gears of War a day before the BUSIEST SHOPPING SEASON OF THE YEAR takes patience and understanding. I have neither, but I came out respecting anyone who deals with the needs of the human species.
- Sometimes a good cry makes you feel better. However, don’t have a crying jag in Publix or during a job interview. Trust me.
- Don’t let go of your dream. Stalk it. Have a “chance meeting” with it at the Starbucks or at its workplace. Rent an apartment across from its home and tape its every movement. Ignore the restraining order. Run it down till it collapses out of breath and submits to you willingly.
- God cares about your problems, everyone else doesn’t give a rats ass. God is a great listener, but for His sake stop bludgeoning your friends with your problems. People would rather listen to a skipping CD of Yodel to the Hits.
April 8th, 2010
With the passing of rock impresario Malcom McLaren, I recalled when I met him and offended him. Below is the text from a podcast about my misadventures with the famous.
Podcast link: http://www.diabeticincandyland.com/2008/06/08/dic-17-brushes-with-fame/
Prague, 1994
In the summer of 1994 I worked as a barback at Radost FX, an exclusive disco in Prague. Yes, in Europe they call it a disco without a sneer of irony. This was the kind of place designed to keep people like me far behind the velvet rope. Yet, the generous Serbian couple that owned the place allowed all well-behaved staff to attend any function.
That summer Malcolm McLaren held his launch party for his album Paris in the disco. McLaren put the Sex Pistols into the public eye with the subtlety of a shot of mace. By then, he had moved onto his own projects, yet his contorversial presence made the event. I trudged my way downstairs, past the two Serbian doormen each with glock 9mm’s holstered on their belts. In the main bar, techno music raced and chugged and the waiters carried trays of champagne in thin, test tube like glasses, all dressed in orange dayglow southern belle hoop skirts embroidered with Christmas lights. The crowd were either dressed in smart suits and dresses or like me, in whatever rags I could stitch together after crawling out of a junkie den on all fours.
The Australian woman I had crush on, her hair in that girlish bob and who treated everyone like she was their #1 fan, stood at the far end of the bar. She was old enough to be my mother, which fascinated me even more. Her equally beautiful daughter worked in the coffee bar, yet she lacked the grace and sweetness of her mother. So I walked up and she turned to me, her bob swishing in my direction and smiled, put her arms on my shoulders and stood on her toes and kissed my cheek. I turned into a warm puddle on the floor. We talked some and McLaren’s entourage floated around the disco on currents of curiosity. Then I saw his bright red fro and hawkish face look toward the Australian Goddess and his entourage floated toward her like a school of tuna spotting fresh prawns. He stepped up to her, introduced himself and started talking to her. I turned to the bar and ordered two Pilsner Urquells then drank them before they turned bitter-warm.
What I did next was witnessed trough a haze of beer foam, but I sidled next to the Australian Goddess and tired to stake a claim. The C-block is likened to a military maneuver – it can be either a sniper shot or an air strike. I think I went for the carpet bomb and insulted him somehow and he turned away from us and herd him squeak “Cunt” as his entourage floated away. My Australian goddess slipped away into the crowd and I didn’t see her again that night.
April 6th, 2010
In last few weeks, well known podcasters J.C Hutchins (7th Son Trilogy) and Patrick E. McLean (The Seanachai) have hung up their mics and retired from podcasting. With two pioneering podcasters leaving the feed, will others follow?
J.C. Hutchins announced his official retirement from podcasting, shortly after he was dropped by his publishing company. He attempted to mute his disappointment, but it was obvious from his blog articles he is jaded against New Media. According to JC, he has put hundreds of hours into recording and writing ,on top of a 40 hour day job and family obligations, with little financial payoff.
I am a fan of Hutchins and his arch rival/contemporary Scott Sigler, yet I have been skeptical of the efficacy of podiobooks. Every time I attended DragonCon, fans donning official clone or Kraken’s shirts milled among the Klingons and Stormtroopers. However, these legions of cloying fans did not generate income. I often wondered how many of them have bought the book which they have listened too several times pro bono. I know my experience from designing promotional gear, that giving away T-shirts and other swag has about 1-10% return on investment.
I too had podiobook dreams. I imagined swarming legions donning my paraphernalia and packing rooms for a glimpse of the newest podiobooking pioneer – me. The enormous investment in time and money just did not seem worth it. I felt my time would be better spent becoming a better writer and tuning my own voice.
The sameness of the podiobooking community is discouraging. After four DragonCons and seeing the same panelists, and same fans, on the podcast track, I’ve realized that the next wave haven’t even begun to ripple media waters. If I were to create a podiobook, sacrifice whatever spare time I have, it would take three times the effort to gain listenership. Unless the podiobook is exellent, fans would be hard won. 10,000 listeners means little. The sound of Big Media not-giving-a-shit would be deafening.
The parochial publishing mafia is still very risk adverse and feels no threat from the pioneers leaving wagon ruts on their firmament. Steven King and James Patterson will release new titles this year, they will suck, and they will sell. We may have next Nor’Eastern educated young so-called genius like Johnathan Foer breaking the hearts of the critics. The sad fact is that Big Publishing only cares about tried and true hitters and novels about and set in NYC by people of their class and Ivy background.
However, there is a molecule of hope. E-booking and small publishing houses are taking off where Big Publishing fears to tread. While I don’t think podcasting will arise again, at least in the same way, it still has promise as a promotional tool, a way to interact with fans and a low-risk teaser for would-be fans.
Anthony Elmore is based out the Atlanta burbs, but has lived in Tampa Bay and Prague. When not writing, he’s Internet version of the all-purpose handyman. Please don’t call him an “Internet Guru.” 
