Below is mine. Yesterday I ran 9.5 miles while listening to it on repeat. Today I feel like the apocalypse happened.
Monday? Bring. It. On.
Okay, probably not. But still, I just appeared on TV. HBO just aired two documentaries -- TRUE BLOODLINES: VAMPIRE LEGENDS and A NEW TYPE -- in conjunction with their upcoming True Blood series. I'm very excited. If you have HBO, write in and tell me how I did.
In other news, you can now get a full copy of the notes Bram Stoker wrote while preparing Dracula. They're fascinating, and I highly recommend.
BRAM STOKER'S NOTES FOR DRACULA: A FACSIMILE EDITION was edited by Elizabeth Miller and Robert Eighteen-Bisang.
Miller's page, with an overview:
I've interviewed both of these people, and they're good eggs. The book should be excellent, and I'm getting my copy pronto.
If you read my book, you'll also recognize Tray White and his documentary, IMPALER, about Jonathon Sharkey. That's coming out to Amazon and other online retailers October 22, but you can preorder it now.
The movie is wild. Wild. You will see things you can't unsee. I thought I made that clear in my writing, but if I didn't... now you know.
Sorry I haven't blogged atcha people. I've been entangled in some freelancing craziness involving spies, chili powder, and tax audits. No one got hurt.
But there's a new essay over at the project by a guy named Joel Emerson.
Check it out:
I hope your various holiday celebrations -- whether they involved Menorahs, Christmas trees, or dramatic readings of Richard Dawkins -- went well, and that you're all ready to face the year.
I actually love this part the best. The neighbors are grumbling as they take down their tacky lights. The dark and cold has settled in, like winter has finally gotten its act together. And the whole next year is a blank slate. And with few trips, parties, or errands to distract you, you have absolutely no excuse not to do the things you really, really want to do with your life.
What are they? I'd love to hear from you.
My goals are simple. I want to keep at this whole husband-and-dad thing. It's working for me. But I also want to write a book proposal for a nonfiction project -- I'm going to roll the dice again, and hopefully get another book deal this year. I have a great idea to start with, and the story begins in a cryonic vat out in Arizona. And in my evening hours, I also want to write a novel. It takes place in Virginia Beach, and it involves monsters of all kinds, along with an unseasonable blizzard. Some crazy stuff. Golly, I hope it doesn't suck!
Anyway, good luck to you all.
I love that guy.
What was the worst part of the 1970's in
Was it the hostage crisis? Watergate? The rise of Soviet power in the third world?
It was none of those things. The exact worst moment of that terrible, terrible decade happened November 17, 1978. Below I have embedded a shortened version of the TV special -- yes, it is a TV special -- that appeared in homes across my country, and utterly broke its spirit. In one sense the clip below doesn't do the show justice. The bizarre appearances by cheesey variety show regulars, the brown-acid-weirdness of it all, and of course the wookie porn (Really. Wookie Porn.) don't appear in enough detail for one to grasp how awesome and terrifying it was to behold.
The show was an omen, a strange portent of doom like some terrible warning from an angry God about to smite. Five minutes of Youtube footage doesn't cut it. On the other hand, if you watched the entire show... well, I just don't want to be responsible for what would happen to you.
David Broder's most recent article argues that the Iranian government really has significantly curtailed its nuclear program. So does the US intelligence community, sort of. Bob Baer, a former CIA officer with serious Middle East credentials and a deep distrust of the Bush administration argues in Time that Iranian nuke activities are a "black hole."
But none of this is going to stop people with limited knowledge -- bloggers, pundits, screechy Ann Coulter, DailyKos evangelicals, the guy in the next cubicle -- from trotting out the little bits and pieces of these scary, complicated subjects and ranting about them as if they had all the answers. And you'll probably notice that the amateur global warming skeptics and global warming alarmists often seem to line up their opinions on the same ideological spectrum as how they feel about gun control, the Bush administration, Iran, and gay marriage.
I'm a conservative, therefore I believe that Iran has a nuke program, humans don't cause global warming, and Steve and Keith registering at Bed, Bath and Beyond is an abomination before the Lord.
I'm a liberal, and I believe the exact opposite.
Now, I personally believe Steve and Keith should be able to get married, but Bed, Bath, and Beyond itself is an abomination before the Lord. The other, complicated stuff is, well... complicated. But we have a tendency to try to line everything up, so we can agree with all our friends, distance ourselves from anyone not in our group, and generally treat the great issues of the day as if they were a giant shirts-v-skins game. I do it too, so I'm not criticizing.
My point is never in human history have people with such a breathtaking access to communication and information technology devoted so much of that technology to coccooning themselves so they don't have to confront an ugly thought or a fact that doesn't fit.
So, for today, say it with me:
"I don't know."
That's not the end, of course. If you're a citizen of a democracy you have a responsibility to do your homework, have an opinion, and vote accordingly. But it does start with that one statement, that first step. Let's not skip it.
Some of my LJ compadres are getting their snow on, and it makes me jealous. So I dug up this old poem I wrote during the blizzard we had in January 1996 along the east coast of the US. It paralyzed cities like DC and also NYC where I happened to be living. Mayor Giuliani was on TV telling everyone to stay home, many of the subway lines were down, and the streets were packed with huge drifts. And for some crazy reason I wanted to see if I could make it into work. I had a wonderful day as one of the very few people in an office building in Midtown Manhattan. I made a couple phone calls and faxes for my boss (who was safely back on Long Island), but mostly I drank coffee alone and looked out on the quiet and beautiful business district from our 14th floor balcony. One of the coolest things was watching how the heat from the buildings caused the snow to actually fall upward in places. And so I wrote a poem about it.
by Paul Bibeau
A heat from thousands of radiators
and huffing men scraping their shovels.
The updraft lifting the snow from out of its fall,
and it is changing its mind,
dawdling its way up
to blanket the sky.
We would like to imagine an angel there,
one solitary grumbling thing
with a jacket cut in the back
to accommodate wings.
We would like to ask him questions,
but he can only complain
at having to shovel this stuff
off the underside of paradise.
We would ask God instead,
but the angel hasn’t even touched his work,
and no one in heaven can hear us.