Man vs. Machine. The eternal struggle. Being president doesn't make you immune to its dangers.
Friday, June 13, 2003
Whoops
Man vs. Machine. The eternal struggle. Being president doesn't make you immune to its dangers.
Thursday, June 12, 2003
Attention all bloggers!
Stop what you are doing and look at your keyboard. On the second row from the bottom do you see keys on either side that are rectangles instead of squares?
They are called “shift keys”. When you hold one down and press a letter at the same time it makes the little letters big letters. This comes in very handy for starting out sentences. USE THEM. I don’t know when the memo went out, I must have missed it, but it seems you’ve collectively decided that capitalization is no longer required. I didn’t spend all that time in school diagramming sentences and being yelled at over comma splices for you to come in and arbitrarily eliminate one of grammar’s most basic rules.
Stop!
And, for the record, an ellipsis has only three dots. Not eight, not two and certainly not random numbers. It is not Morse Code.
They are called “shift keys”. When you hold one down and press a letter at the same time it makes the little letters big letters. This comes in very handy for starting out sentences. USE THEM. I don’t know when the memo went out, I must have missed it, but it seems you’ve collectively decided that capitalization is no longer required. I didn’t spend all that time in school diagramming sentences and being yelled at over comma splices for you to come in and arbitrarily eliminate one of grammar’s most basic rules.
Stop!
And, for the record, an ellipsis has only three dots. Not eight, not two and certainly not random numbers. It is not Morse Code.
Wednesday, June 11, 2003
Talent Shows
Although you could really trace everything back to the seminal 80s television show, “Real People” (and some would argue “The Gong Show”), reality talent shows are all the rage.
Last night we watched a show about comedians competing for a show on Comedy Central and an exclusive contract with NBC (translation: We’ll give you bit gimmick parts on shitty shows and not pay you.) The surprising thing was how funny these guys actually were. I laughed harder at them that I do at most “established” comics outside of George Carlin. These amateurs could kick Carrot Top’s ass and leave him dead behind the comedy club. In fact, I almost wish they would . . .
American Idol set the stage. Part car wreck, part High School talent show, every episode is filled with suspense. Who will be voted off? Will they cry? What songs will they butcher this week? Oh good, it’s a Rick Ashley songbook tonight. Yay! That’s a short episode. I do like to watch the show to see what Simon will say to people. The man is cruel and I love it. (Anyone who thinks he’s too cruel to the “talent” has obviously never been involved in a writer’s workshop in any way, shape or form.)
In fact, I’m a little upset that there is no talent show for writers. We have singers, comedians, gold diggers, survivors and even pet stars. Why not writers? We can call it “American Novelist” and invite 10 writers to compete for a publishing contract and a good ranking on Amazon.
Each week the writers would submit a short story to the panel and have portions read live on the air. Then the panel of judges, Kurt Vonnegut, Alice Walker, David Sedaris and George Plimpton tear their work apart and make them cry.
Again, if you’ve never been involved in a workshop, you have no idea how humiliating and funny this would be. It would be great!
Our first contestant, John Wheeler, reads a passage from his work “Poet.”
John reads: “The window hung over his head like the dust in a dying poet’s apartment.”*
Vonnegut: “Stop. What the hell is that?”
John: “It’s my opening line.”
Plimpton: “What exactly are you trying to say?”
John: “That he was looking out the window.”
Sedaris: “Then say that.”
Vonnegut: “That’s not writing. That’s not even a story. That’s bad poetry. Say what you mean. Don’t give me this shit about dying poets and dust. If you want someone to read your work then make it interesting. You don’t win. Next!”
Cynthia Johnson then reads her story about a woman who lives in the scary house at the end of the road. The woman, who somehow lives in the city and the country at the same time because she not only lives at the end of the block but also has a corn field, is named Thelma Wildthong.**
Walker: “Wait, what’s her name?”
Cynthia: “Thelma Wildthong.”
Sedaris: “And this is comedy?”
Cynthia: “No, this is a drama about how this woman was misunderstood and the children in the neighborhood can actually learn a lot from her experiences and eccentricities.”
Plimpton: “I didn’t get that.”
Cynthia: “It’s a coming of age story.”
Vonnegut: “I thought it was about an old woman named Thelma Wildfart.”
Cynthia: “Thong. Wildthong.”
Vonnegut: “Who cares. It’s bad writing that’s not even suitable for an ABC After School Special. Get off my stage and sell your computer. You may never write again.”
Cynthia: Cries.
Next up is Simon Watercress who reads a convoluted story about vampires who are really responsible for the assassination of JFK.**
Plimpton: “Go away.”
Sedaris: “I’m gay and even I don’t want to be like Anne Rice. Your story made me want to kill myself with a knitting needle, a cheese grater and a garlic press.”
Vonnegut: “If all my years of smoking had been successful and I had died on schedule I would have been spared this pain. Being a prisoner of war in World War II was more pleasant than that.”
The best part would be the final interviews with the losers.
Cynthia: “Clearly these so-called authors don’t understand what I was trying to do. They wouldn’t know good symbolism or narrative if it landed in their laps like a dead pigeon.”
Simon: “I don’t want to be Anne Rice. I want to better her work. I want to take it up a notch and invent a new form of politically tinged horror. I’ll keep writing. I don’t value their opinions at all. What’s a few honors from the Pulitzer Prize and the American Society of Arts and Letters. They just don’t get me. I’ve been drinking as much as possible, just like any good writer. I have to go home and beat my girlfriend just like Faulkner did.”
John: “I’m a sensitive soul and they have to understand that. Words are like daggers that tear through my flesh, which is like rice paper that has Chinese calligraphy written in the blood of thousands of starving children. Perhaps they didn’t understand my dénouement.”
On second thought . . . it would never make it to a second episode because half the authors would kill themselves after being rejected. It’s a shame too, because I’d love to see it. You’d see more people crying than during the elimination round of Miss America. Sweet.
*Taken from an actual story I heard critiqued in a workshop in which Kurt Vonnegut participated.
**Taken from an actual story I read in a workshop.
Discuss
Last night we watched a show about comedians competing for a show on Comedy Central and an exclusive contract with NBC (translation: We’ll give you bit gimmick parts on shitty shows and not pay you.) The surprising thing was how funny these guys actually were. I laughed harder at them that I do at most “established” comics outside of George Carlin. These amateurs could kick Carrot Top’s ass and leave him dead behind the comedy club. In fact, I almost wish they would . . .
American Idol set the stage. Part car wreck, part High School talent show, every episode is filled with suspense. Who will be voted off? Will they cry? What songs will they butcher this week? Oh good, it’s a Rick Ashley songbook tonight. Yay! That’s a short episode. I do like to watch the show to see what Simon will say to people. The man is cruel and I love it. (Anyone who thinks he’s too cruel to the “talent” has obviously never been involved in a writer’s workshop in any way, shape or form.)
In fact, I’m a little upset that there is no talent show for writers. We have singers, comedians, gold diggers, survivors and even pet stars. Why not writers? We can call it “American Novelist” and invite 10 writers to compete for a publishing contract and a good ranking on Amazon.
Each week the writers would submit a short story to the panel and have portions read live on the air. Then the panel of judges, Kurt Vonnegut, Alice Walker, David Sedaris and George Plimpton tear their work apart and make them cry.
Again, if you’ve never been involved in a workshop, you have no idea how humiliating and funny this would be. It would be great!
Our first contestant, John Wheeler, reads a passage from his work “Poet.”
John reads: “The window hung over his head like the dust in a dying poet’s apartment.”*
Vonnegut: “Stop. What the hell is that?”
John: “It’s my opening line.”
Plimpton: “What exactly are you trying to say?”
John: “That he was looking out the window.”
Sedaris: “Then say that.”
Vonnegut: “That’s not writing. That’s not even a story. That’s bad poetry. Say what you mean. Don’t give me this shit about dying poets and dust. If you want someone to read your work then make it interesting. You don’t win. Next!”
Cynthia Johnson then reads her story about a woman who lives in the scary house at the end of the road. The woman, who somehow lives in the city and the country at the same time because she not only lives at the end of the block but also has a corn field, is named Thelma Wildthong.**
Walker: “Wait, what’s her name?”
Cynthia: “Thelma Wildthong.”
Sedaris: “And this is comedy?”
Cynthia: “No, this is a drama about how this woman was misunderstood and the children in the neighborhood can actually learn a lot from her experiences and eccentricities.”
Plimpton: “I didn’t get that.”
Cynthia: “It’s a coming of age story.”
Vonnegut: “I thought it was about an old woman named Thelma Wildfart.”
Cynthia: “Thong. Wildthong.”
Vonnegut: “Who cares. It’s bad writing that’s not even suitable for an ABC After School Special. Get off my stage and sell your computer. You may never write again.”
Cynthia: Cries.
Next up is Simon Watercress who reads a convoluted story about vampires who are really responsible for the assassination of JFK.**
Plimpton: “Go away.”
Sedaris: “I’m gay and even I don’t want to be like Anne Rice. Your story made me want to kill myself with a knitting needle, a cheese grater and a garlic press.”
Vonnegut: “If all my years of smoking had been successful and I had died on schedule I would have been spared this pain. Being a prisoner of war in World War II was more pleasant than that.”
The best part would be the final interviews with the losers.
Cynthia: “Clearly these so-called authors don’t understand what I was trying to do. They wouldn’t know good symbolism or narrative if it landed in their laps like a dead pigeon.”
Simon: “I don’t want to be Anne Rice. I want to better her work. I want to take it up a notch and invent a new form of politically tinged horror. I’ll keep writing. I don’t value their opinions at all. What’s a few honors from the Pulitzer Prize and the American Society of Arts and Letters. They just don’t get me. I’ve been drinking as much as possible, just like any good writer. I have to go home and beat my girlfriend just like Faulkner did.”
John: “I’m a sensitive soul and they have to understand that. Words are like daggers that tear through my flesh, which is like rice paper that has Chinese calligraphy written in the blood of thousands of starving children. Perhaps they didn’t understand my dénouement.”
On second thought . . . it would never make it to a second episode because half the authors would kill themselves after being rejected. It’s a shame too, because I’d love to see it. You’d see more people crying than during the elimination round of Miss America. Sweet.
*Taken from an actual story I heard critiqued in a workshop in which Kurt Vonnegut participated.
**Taken from an actual story I read in a workshop.
Discuss
Tuesday, June 10, 2003
Yeah, I Actually Am Busy . . .
But screw it. I need to write. Everyone who is clamoring for my time can just sit tight. Why? Because I’m doing nothing of my own. Not a damn thing. I’ve got novels that have to be written. Yes, actual novels. But by the time I’m done working, doing my other stuff, getting the kids in bed and reminding my wife that I still can recognize her by sight and, quite possibly, by name, there’s no time for my stuff.
I guess I fancy myself a writer, though it’s hard to tell by the dreck I publish here. I have actual ideas and things to say. One of my unwritten novels deals with technology and religion. I’d like to write that. Another deals with political unrest and business. I’d like to write that too. Another one deals with the mere concept of what human life actually is. Guess what? I wouldn’t mind writing that as well.
But, instead, I spend my days working on other people’s projects. I don’t have one of my own damn it. I’d like to spend some part of my time actually doing something that benefits me.
Perhaps I’m being selfish. Maybe I am selfish, I don’t know. But I keep signing on to more and more projects that are the brainchild of other people. Nothing that comes from my own head.
What really hurt was when I wrote about animation last week. At the heart of that little piece was something about creativity. Something that I fancy that I have. But I don’t use it. Not in the least.
I’m tired, I guess. Tired and restless. Or something.
The highlight of my day today? Seeing Cory Doctorow on The Screen Savers talking about privacy. Oooh. Exciting. But, one of my favorite authors and Cyberactivitsts talking to Leo Laporte is pretty cool, I guess.
But even my wife is starting to worry about my TechTV watching. She told me the other day that I talk as if the hosts of the shows are my friends. That’s not a good sign is it? I mean, they don’t talk directly to me. That would be silly. Besides, it’s not my fault that the only shows on TV that talk about what I’m interested in are on TechTV. It’s not like there’s MTV: Indie Pop. The world isn’t exactly beating down Robert Schneider to do his own TV show.
So I watch TechTV. Only because DirecTV doesn’t carry NASA. I watch that on the web.
Even my life hasn’t been that exciting. At least, not exciting enough to write about. The kids are as cute as ever. But, really, writing about how Matilda read 320 minutes on her summer reading program yesterday isn’t all that interesting to the rest of the world. True, every morning Gertrude refuses to eat her breakfast only to run and get a spoon, climb on my lap and then eat my cereal. That’s damn cute. But not worth a page of writing.
I need to get out of this creative rut I’m in. Or, the lack of creative rut I’m in. I’m just in a rut. I need a mental tow truck.
But, instead, I’m going to rewrite someone else’s case studies. I quiver with excitement.
Maybe my buddy Leo Laporte will come over and help.
Crap. TechTV hosts are not my friends. TechTV hosts are not my friends*
*DISCLAIMER: Gary O’Brien fully understands that TechTV hosts are not his friends. He is in no way deluded or dangerous. His wife made this comment in jest because he has been trying to get caught up on all the TechTV he hasn’t gotten to see since Todd moved back to Oregon. Gary would, however, like everyone to know that Quickdraw McGraw and Hong Kong Fuey are his friends and that they are coming over for dinner tonight.
I guess I fancy myself a writer, though it’s hard to tell by the dreck I publish here. I have actual ideas and things to say. One of my unwritten novels deals with technology and religion. I’d like to write that. Another deals with political unrest and business. I’d like to write that too. Another one deals with the mere concept of what human life actually is. Guess what? I wouldn’t mind writing that as well.
But, instead, I spend my days working on other people’s projects. I don’t have one of my own damn it. I’d like to spend some part of my time actually doing something that benefits me.
Perhaps I’m being selfish. Maybe I am selfish, I don’t know. But I keep signing on to more and more projects that are the brainchild of other people. Nothing that comes from my own head.
What really hurt was when I wrote about animation last week. At the heart of that little piece was something about creativity. Something that I fancy that I have. But I don’t use it. Not in the least.
I’m tired, I guess. Tired and restless. Or something.
The highlight of my day today? Seeing Cory Doctorow on The Screen Savers talking about privacy. Oooh. Exciting. But, one of my favorite authors and Cyberactivitsts talking to Leo Laporte is pretty cool, I guess.
But even my wife is starting to worry about my TechTV watching. She told me the other day that I talk as if the hosts of the shows are my friends. That’s not a good sign is it? I mean, they don’t talk directly to me. That would be silly. Besides, it’s not my fault that the only shows on TV that talk about what I’m interested in are on TechTV. It’s not like there’s MTV: Indie Pop. The world isn’t exactly beating down Robert Schneider to do his own TV show.
So I watch TechTV. Only because DirecTV doesn’t carry NASA. I watch that on the web.
Even my life hasn’t been that exciting. At least, not exciting enough to write about. The kids are as cute as ever. But, really, writing about how Matilda read 320 minutes on her summer reading program yesterday isn’t all that interesting to the rest of the world. True, every morning Gertrude refuses to eat her breakfast only to run and get a spoon, climb on my lap and then eat my cereal. That’s damn cute. But not worth a page of writing.
I need to get out of this creative rut I’m in. Or, the lack of creative rut I’m in. I’m just in a rut. I need a mental tow truck.
But, instead, I’m going to rewrite someone else’s case studies. I quiver with excitement.
Maybe my buddy Leo Laporte will come over and help.
Crap. TechTV hosts are not my friends. TechTV hosts are not my friends*
*DISCLAIMER: Gary O’Brien fully understands that TechTV hosts are not his friends. He is in no way deluded or dangerous. His wife made this comment in jest because he has been trying to get caught up on all the TechTV he hasn’t gotten to see since Todd moved back to Oregon. Gary would, however, like everyone to know that Quickdraw McGraw and Hong Kong Fuey are his friends and that they are coming over for dinner tonight.
Still Busy Today . . .
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