From the Mouths of Babes

Every once in a while, my son has a genuine moment of Zen wisdom.  Often I'm slow to appreciate those nuggets.  Sometimes it takes years.  Once when driving Spud (not his real name) home from daycare, I stopped at a light and noted his swiveling head.

"Do you know where you are?"  I thought I would see if he recognized anything along our daily route home.

"Daddy, I'm here," he said.

I started to name landmarks and estimate distances from the house and school.  Then I realized it for a profound moment of clarity on his part.  Buckaroo Banzai couldn't have said it better.

A few years later, we were driving to NY to see my family.  We had picked up Spud after school, and we planned to stop for the night in southern Pennsylvania.  The anticipation of a night spent in a motel room threatened to keep him from napping in the car.  Eventually the Dramamine kicked in and then snoring from the back seat, his head cocked at an angle that couldn't be comfortable.

By the time we arrived at the hotel, having endured hours of infamous PA road construction delays, we were beat.  Spud's enthusiasm energized us a bit.  My wife, Shmoopy (not her real name), had reserved a suite with a hot tub. Thoughts of soaking my aching back, the jets gently massaging out the knots, made me almost as excited as Spud.  We promised him he could try it before bed, and he could hardly stop talking about steam and bubbles.

There was nobody at the hotel desk, but I could hear talking from a room walled off from the counter. The motel was a recognizable chain, but I noticed a sign declaring that one to be independently managed.  The sign was foreshadowing.  Eventually somebody heard us talking and tore herself away from her giggling companion to welcome us.  There followed a monotone briefing on pool hours, check-out time, and the free continental breakfast, and we were on our way to the hot tub and blissful slumber.

We wheeled, wrestled, and juggled our luggage along the sidewalk to our room.  I noticed a crumbling concrete staircase, complete with bright yellow cautionary tape.  The over-chlorinated pool made my eyes water and nostrils tingle.  It was conveniently located close to our door and populated by a raucous bunch of people ignoring the posted closing time.  I comforted myself with the knowledge that the sound of hot tub jets would soon drown out their antics.

The odors from the pool were quickly replaced by the smell of cigarette smoke when we entered the non-smoking room.  I called the front desk to request a different room, but nobody answered.  We decided that maybe we were wrong, since we didn't see any ash trays in the room.  Maybe it was drifting in through a window or vent from outside.  Then we spotted the pile of ash in the corner of the room.  At least Spud would be sleeping in the second bedroom.

We opened the door to his room and found no bed.  There were, however, very good instructions for unfolding the couch.  Oh, well.  Spud could sleep just about anywhere once he was tired enough.  We dropped our things.  Shmoopy tried to cheer us by filling the hot tub at the edge of our bedroom.  The jets didn't work.  At least there was hot water, so Spud got to take a bath in a giant tub. We made bubbles for him with the hotel shampoo, and soon he was off to bed.

The next morning, I went to take a shower and noticed a pile of curly hair near the drain.  I wondered if the shower had been cleaned after the last guests had stayed in the room.  Obviously the ashes hadn't been vacuumed from the carpet.  I thought the sheets had been clean.  If they hadn't, it was too late.  I began to itch with just the thought of it, so I wiped up the hair with some toilet paper and took my shower with flip-flops on my feet.

The doors to the breakfast area were locked when we arrived.  We waited 15 minutes past the posted time for breakfast, and then I went to the front desk.  There was a different woman on duty, and she unlocked the door and began heating up water for tea.  There were packages of cereal, some granola bars, and the coffee wasn't yet made.  We were advised that it would probably take twenty minutes or so until that would be remedied.  We left, checked out, and went to McDonald's.

With every small disappointment, I felt bad for Spud.  I had stayed in some crappy motels in the past, but the online reviews of that one promised better accommodations.  I had been completely unprepared for the mess we encountered, and surely Spud had anticipated a veritable Magic Kingdom of hot tubs, huge beds, and fresh waffles.

"That hotel was cool, Dad."  That's what he said to me later that day.  Shmoopy and I were stunned. Hadn't he seen the ashes, busted hot tub, and hirsute shower drain?  Sure.  He'd experienced the exact same things we had, but he didn't get upset.  He just enjoyed being on vacation with his family.

Lesson learned, wise Spud.

Mother, Mother Ocean

I was lucky enough to spend Independence Day with family and friends at the beach this year. Despite thunderstorms that rolled through in the afternoon and early evening, we trekked out to the sand to watch fireworks on a distant pier.  Sunset is my favorite time to be on the beach, since I'm pasty of complexion.  I'm not so much a fan of the beach as I am awed and mesmerized by the ocean. As the light diminished, I watched the waves retreating until I could at last only hear them.  The smell of the brine still lingered in my nostrils as we rode back to the house.

The next day we spent most of the afternoon on the beach.  The kids ran around, dug holes, and fled from waves.  Sharks forced the sullen teen to leave her surfboard at home.  I had taken a book to read, but I never opened it even though it's been a tremendous read so far.  I watched the waves for hours, watched the colors shift green, blue, gray.  I watched the rip tides suck sand out to sea, watched the breakers pound the beach, and gulls skim the water where fish broke the surface.  I looked out to the horizon and imagined myself aboard a boat with nothing but water on all sides as far as I could see.

For the most part, the surf was calm and picturesque, a sharp contrast to the storms the previous day. I've been at sea when the waters have been angry, and I was elated to reach shore safely. There's nothing like the ocean to make one feel small, weak, and completely at the mercy of nature. Everyone I know who has spent any time in or on the ocean has memorable stories of close calls, times when they thought for sure they would drown.  Yet they still swim, boat, and surf.  It draws them back time and time again, more respectful of her mercurial power every time they witness it.  For me, it's enough to stand on the shore and let the tide tug at my legs, feeling that might and the appreciation for dry land.

It the novel I'm outlining, the aliens love Earth's oceans.  They live in the sea and in many ways are indistinguishable from it.  Its power is theirs.  They command the water cycle, the storms, and the lightning.  They thrive in the benthic pressure and are just as comfortable in the midst of storm clouds.  To most, their nature is as unknowable as mist and unpredictable as a hurricane.  Despite this, there is something about them that is essentially human, like the water in all of us, like the blood so close in its makeup to sea water.

I will miss the sound and smell of the surf, and I'll think about it often as I write my book.  My awe will no doubt appear on my characters' faces.  They will have their own stories of close calls before the book is done, and they will still be drawn to the ocean after experiencing them.

Worst Superhero Ever

If you're a fan of superhero media, you've probably wondered what it would be like to have extraordinary superhuman abilities of your own.  If you're a geek like I am, you've undoubtedly conversed at length on the subject with like-minded friends.  Maybe there's a hero with whom you particularly identify, one who inspires you as an example of selfless bravery, a righteous deliverer of justice.

For my money, the best superhero fiction doesn't stop when the capes come off.  I love to see the impacts of super powers on the heroes' lives.  For some of the characters, the negatives are trivial and easily overcome.  My favorites are the heroes whose lives are messy because they choose to use their powers, even when it makes them targets of animosity.  In no small part, it's that decision, despite the complications and even suffering it causes, that makes them heroes.  It's the reason this type of fiction still appeals to me 30 years after I started reading it.  I see it when I watch Batman don the persona of Bruce Wayne, while his need to dish out justice burns behind his smiling facade.  I see it when I flip the pages showing Spiderman agonize  over keeping his identity a secret from his friends and family. I see it when I watch extroverted Nightcrawler try to disguise his demonic appearance, so he can experience the simple joy of walking among other people, people who would fear or even attack him if they could see his pointy ears and tail.

Sometimes I read or watch this type of fiction and imagine myself in these same situations.  How must it feel to be shunned by the very people you risk your life to protect?  What must it be like to be hunted by the authorities even though you catch the bad guys too powerful for them to apprehend?  If I could teleport myself away on a whim, what inner reserve of nobility would I need to stick around people who vilified me?  Quickly I come to the conclusion that I'd be the worst superhero ever.

There's no way I could maintain a dual identity.  I have enough trouble switching among father, employee, writer, and husband.  I space out thinking about what I'm writing when I should be doing other things.  And I get caught doing it all the time.  If I were Spiderman, I would show up to work in my spandex.  I could pretend I thought it was Halloween only a couple of times before I got fired or committed.  Work all day and fight crime by night?  Uh, no.  It's hard enough to find time to blog and get on the treadmill for an hour before I fall asleep.  I can't imagine patrolling the city for hooligans after a full day of work.  Unless I could sleep at work, I just couldn't do it.  Even if I had a super power, I would be too tired to use it.  Aaron Hamilton, part-time crime fighter when there's nothing good on TV.

The Daredevil series on Netflix did an excellent job of showing the physical punishment he received even when he walked away victorious from his scuffles with criminals.  The obsessive determination he employed to fight crime night after night, after each narrow escape of death, left me questioning my own resolve in much easier situations.  I heroically drove a car without air conditioning for two summer months.  Once I mowed the lawn when I didn't feel well.  That's about the limit of my perseverance in the face of adversity.  Even with superpowers, I have a feeling I would skip a lot of nights patrolling the city if I felt a cold coming on.

I expect my heroes to be better than I am, and I hope the world never tips on the brink of destruction with only me to save it.  I guess the only way to know for sure if I would suit up to save humanity is if I were the recipient of some kind of superhuman ability.  Pretty unlikely that will happen, I think, but you never know.  For everyone's benefit, I hope some nobler guy or gal gets bitten by the radioactive spider.

Making Sense of Sense8 (No Spoilers)

I noticed "Sense8" available to watch on Netflix a while ago, but I hadn't heard the buzz around it. Honestly, I don't hear a lot of buzz in general these days and normally rely on like-minded friends to fill me in about what they've been watching.  Then I usually add stuff to my Netflix queue and it piles up there, collecting digital dust until I have some time off from work.  As soon as I heard the Wachowski siblings of Matrix fame were involved, I knew I would find time to check it out.  Once the treadmill finished beeping at me to let me know I was up to speed, I pressed play and was mesmerized for the entire first episode.

Had it been a more convenient time, I might have watched half of the 12 episodes in one sitting like my wife did.  She devoured the series in several days, praising it and encouraging me to watch the rest.  I watched another episode, likewise while sweating in place on the torture belt of the treadmill. Afterward I hesitated to talk to her about it.  Obviously I wasn't as enamored with it as she felt.  I got the concept. I loved the diverse and very human characters.  The locations were beautifully shot, the dialogue excellently written, and the potential for my new favorite show in the world was just beyond my grasp.  And it stayed there, as I waited for the pace to quicken, for the magical moment to happen when the hook of the show, connecting all of the characters together, would explode into being.  I knew that the action would start and not let up for at least a few more episodes.  And it didn't.

I wanted to be compelled to watch the show far past my bedtime, like I was with Lost.  There were so many tidbits in Lost that I needed explained.  I spent most of each show in the first couple of seasons completely confused, and I loved every minute.  In Sense8, I know what's going on, for the most part. The viewer is given the knowledge of the strange experiences happening to the characters, but it's been painful to me that the characters haven't figured out what's going on.  I see the reason behind it, and I'm thankful that I'm getting a chance to know the characters well before the action surrounding the phenomenon really takes off.  But I'm not hooked.  I could walk away at any time after seeing 25 percent of the series, and I don't imagine I would think about the show with more than a passing curiosity over the coming weeks or months.

The pace did pick up in the third episode.  The characters started actively reaching out to each other, rather than being disoriented and afraid.  They've gotten past the feeling that they're insane or hallucinating and have begun what I hope will begin some really nerve-wracking episodes.  Sounds like I'll be watching the rest of the series, doesn't it?  I likely will, and I'll probably love it by the time I've finished.  I just wish I felt the least bit eager to do it.

Drawing Inspiration from Glen Cook's Black Company

I was 15 and animatedly recounting the "Apprentice Adept" series to a friend, when he thrust a paperback at me as his response.  The cover depicted a masked figure holding a dagger.  Said dagger's business end rested embedded in a table carved with arcane symbols.  It was "The Black Company" by Glen Cook, and it forever influenced my reading preferences and the way I would write in the fantasy genre.

The Black Company mixed fantasy with military realism, depicting the life of a mercenary band and eschewing romanticism.  Ironically many of the novels in the series were narrated by the company's physician, who grudgingly admitted to a romantic streak when recounting the history of his world and his martial brotherhood.  Doubling as the company's historian, he chronicled their deeds, including losses of brothers-in-arms and insights into the world's locales and cultures.

Cook created characters that were memorable for their contrasting personalities and even more so for their failings.  Most were less than admirable, if not criminal, but they had formed a close family of misfits with whom I found no difficulty sympathizing.  They were men who had long ago come to terms with hard realities, chief among them that nobody else would have them except their fellow soldiers. They didn't fight for honor or nation, only hard currency and each other.

I had never considered the price of magical power until I read what Cook's characters experienced, especially the feared "Lady" and "Ten Who Were Taken", gifted sorcerers compelled to serve the Lady and her husband.  Some bore horrible deformities, others were insane, and even those who appeared less so were scarred in ways not easily discerned.  The corrupting influence of magical power was clearly evident in the greatest wizards who took every opportunity to sabotage each other's plans.  To mere mortals, like the narrator, it was at once terrifying and captivating to witness the results of the magic unleashed upon the world.

The novels dispelled all of my preconceptions about heroes, since he frequently portrayed the characters as disappointingly human.  Sure, they were capable of decency and honor, but those things often turned out to be low priorities when the lives of their brothers or fortunes were in the balance. Those who paid with their lives were mourned.  Then life went on, and the survivors seldom wished they had traded places with their deceased brethren.

The novels spanned decades within the over-arcing tale, and that allowed for some remarkable character transformations.  Age took a toll on some.  One central character even grew from childhood fostered among the mercenaries, and Cook artfully steered her from a scared child to a gifted commander.

I was lucky in many ways to discover Cook's novels at that age.  My brain and imagination were still malleable during those formative years.  He dispelled my preconceptions about the fantasy genre before I knew I'd formed them, and I'll be forever grateful.

Father's Day

I have a ton of great memories of my dad.  Growing up, he was my friend, but there was never any ambiguity about his role as a parent.  It was comforting because I always knew where I stood.  I was always clear on his expectations of me as a person, student, and a future adult. He was there to teach me about responsibility, priorities, integrity, and accountability.  He set an example for me by leading his life the way he wanted me to live mine, and I couldn't have had a better role model.  Of course, one of the things I loved most about my dad was that he loved to have fun and believed it was a just reward for working hard.

Dad loved the outdoors.  From a young age, I accompanied him to fishing holes all up and down the river and streams that ran through my home town.  When I got big enough to help carry the canoe, we drifted downstream, casting our bait into promising pools along the river.  He told me about similar hours fishing when he was a boy, same river but miles away from where I grew up. Later I would see black and white photos of him in cut-off shorts as a boy, pole in hand, and that same smile on his face that spoke of his eagerness to bring home trout.

We shared a love of tennis, too, and I can remember weekends when we rose early to arrive at the courts before they got crowded.  Sometimes we left early enough that dew still sparkled on the nets. We would have the courts to ourselves, at least for a little while, long enough for us to be sweaty and hungry for breakfast when we got home.  Sometimes we had to hurry to shower in time for church, and we left the house with the snap in our steps that early morning exercise still brings me, when I can manage it before a cup of coffee.

It was somewhere in my early teens when we became rabid roller coaster enthusiasts.  Dad loved a road trip, eagerly plotting routes with his Rand McNally road atlas, something he would request for Christmas every year.  To him, getting lost always seemed like part of the adventure, a challenge to overcome with a keen sense of direction and the ability to instinctively smell a short-cut.  The drives were filled with classic tunes from the time when he drank vanilla Cokes at the soda shop, and I knew the catchiest tracks on the cassette tapes from hours of listening.  As I grew older, I even earned the right to play some of my hair metal, though we always seemed to compromise with Credence Clearwater Revival.

Dad and I had our differences.  He was always a practical guy who seemed grounded in the tangible and logical.  When I discovered science fiction, fantasy, and horror novels, spending more and more time with my face in books, I can never remember him belittling time spent with my imagination. When I started writing my own stories about fantastical adventure and nightmarish creatures, it was something that we didn't share but something that he never discouraged.  Of all the memories I have of my father, it was this unconditional support that I remember most fondly, the encouragement and reminder that hard work can be applied to anything with remarkable results.  It's something I try my best to show my son.

Happy Father's Day, Dad.  We miss you. 

The Magic of the Muppets

Like most kids, I was treated to many episodes of Sesame Street and loved all the characters.  There was also some learning involved, but I don't think I realized it at the time.  I loved the way the characters interacted with children and adults, just other people in the neighborhood learning alongside the kids on the show and me at home.  Inevitably I got "too old" for Sesame Street, but there was that void that couldn't be filled by The Electric Company or Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood. Enter the "most sensational, inspirational, celebrational, Muppetational" show ever created.

My whole family watched, though it was the biggest hit with me, my mom, and my younger sister. I had no idea who most of the guests even were.  Years later I would see Sylvester Stallone, Steve Martin, or James Coburn and say:  "Hey, it's that guy from the Muppet Show!"  The Muppets were real to me, and they seemed even more lifelike when I watched famous adults interact with them like they were people.  I anxiously awaited the recurring sketches, like "Pigs in Space" and "Animal Hospital". What would Nurse Piggy say to make everyone laugh?  How would Dr. Strangepork's scientific knowledge save the crew?  The fact that Kermit was a completely frazzled theater manager really sold it, too, as a place you could just stumble into downtown with the guest's name on the marquis out front.  Even better was the way that Kermit and most of the cast were completely aware of the Muppet Theater's place in the entertainment world.  It kept me sympathetic with the characters, watching them try their best to amuse a small, sometimes hostile, audience because they loved to create and perform. The musical numbers were some of most memorable parts of the show.  Who could forget Alice Cooper performing "School's Out"?  What about the drum duel between Animal and Buddy Rich?

There have been many movies made over the years featuring the Muppets.  Aside from A Muppet Christmas Carol, I wasn't a huge fan of them.  They never seemed to capture the magic of the regular show, and though I liked them, they just couldn't compete.  I still have a soft spot for the first movie though.  I even surprised my mom on my wedding day, by selecting "Rainbow Connection" for our traditional dance at the reception.

Probably my favorite Muppet spin-off, and Christmas special, is "Emmet Otter's Jug Band Christmas". To this day I catch myself singing "Ain't No Hole in the Washtub" in the car.  Emmet, along with his friends and mother, enters a talent contest in the movie.  At first, it's a way to try to win enough money to buy Christmas presents, but it becomes much more.  It's about sacrifice, generosity, love, and family.  It portrays poor folks trying to make a living, always a glimmer of hope just around the bend for a better life.  Most importantly to me, it was about people, in the forms of otters and other critters, using their talents together to change their lives.

Finally, if it weren't for The Muppet Show, I might not have listened to all of the hype about Farscape, produced and populated with fantastic creatures by The Jim Henson Company.  It's given me hours of "wow" over the years.  My son decided early that The Muppet Show was "for little kids". So far, I haven't been able to convince him otherwise.  Maybe it's just too rooted in my own childhood and he couldn't develop the appreciation for it that I did when he watched it on DVD.  He is at least enjoying Farscape a great deal.  Maybe he'll enjoy The Muppet Show as an adult someday, like I do now.  Needless to say, I'm psyched for its return on ABC, even if I have to watch it by myself.