Yarrr - I've been Robbed!

I will reserve my entire fault-finding mission of Pirates of the Carribean: At World's End for some other day.

Right now, I have one, count it UNO issue that has tugged at my psuedo-martial heart:

I will take this opportunity to offer you, dead reader a:

SPOILER WARNING
P
O
I
L
E
R

Alright, that's done with.

To set the stage, the two opposing fleets of pirates and the East India Trading Company have faced off in what was supposed to be the naval battle to put all other theatrical naval battles to shame wasn't happing. But that's ok, because in rides Lord Beckett aboard his multi-gunned, multi-decked warship Endeavor. From the pirate side we have the now-dwarfed Black Pearl and, unbeknownst to Beckett, the newly captained Flying Dutchman.

Our heros aboard the Pearl and the Dutchman flank the Endeavor, which to my mind is suicidal after seeing all those impressive cannons. I mean, paranormal powers asside, Endeavor has both ships out-gunned three to one. At the very least the Pearl is about to see and smell the wrong end of Davy Jones' gym shorts!

What happens?

Nothing.

No, that's being too kind. Beckett knows he has our heros cornered, out-manned, out-manuevered, out-gunned. His captain, lieutenant, whatever keeps shouting, "WHAT ARE YOUR ORDERS!?" at a shocked Beckett who can't even manage to say the word fire.

It's not tricky, is it? Fire? One word?

Say it in a crowded movie theater and you'll start a panic. Say it at the beach and you can roast hot dogs. Say it to archers, and they'll look at you blankly. Say it aboard a ship with two enemies in your broadsides and you can crush them beneath your black jack-booted heal!

I demand an inquiry. I demand justice. I demand my money back.

Thanks, But No Thanks

As I’m currently considering an offer of employment, I thought I would chronicle a humorous job-seeking moment in my life.

Nearly a year ago, reasonably tired of my three-plus-hour commute (and that hasn’t changed), I applied for a position that was exactly one minute from my house by car, and ten by foot. That’s ten minutes through the nearby park where I run on weekends. Despite this, at the time, I didn’t necessarily want to leave my current employ. I had only been marketing for a year, and I knew I still had much to learn. Ya know, like how to lick stamps without going all gummy in the tongue.

The big things.

The opportunity to really-really flesh out my resume and experience was too golden, but the appeal of a ten minute morning walk through grasses and trees to my employer deserved exploration.

The interview was great. I actually interview very well. In fact, I would say that I interview better than I am in my actual position. It’s a gift.

My college buddy, Quintilian, told me once that an orator was a good man, speaking well. I am not an orator. More like the Devil’s Advocate, or perhaps the Devil’s Advocate’s gopher-boy. In any case, I do know how to interview.

Usually, if I get an interview, I get an offer. No brag, just fact. I also know how to look good on paper. I am a writer, after all. Looking good on paper means they give me an interview to find out if I’m a real person.

What I do may seem like illegal misdirection and malicious deceit, but it’s really just marketing.

The offer from this company was less than I currently make. It was less than I had provided as a range of salaries which I would find acceptable in the interview itself. When a company asks you how much you’re looking for as salary, this is one of your moments to shine. Express to them that you know the current market trends for that particular position in that particular region (there’s a nice, easy and free calculater offered by Salary.com) and given that you’re a good, honest and hard-working employee with a stellar background and more experience than God, you would expect to be on the upper end of that scale.

At least, that’s what I do.

Anyhow, the offer was less and given that I didn’t really want to leave, and the job smelled exactly like a job I’d quit previously. I turned it down, politely of course. I then got a call from the man, the company’s attorney/volley-ball captain to “discuss” it. I kept saying that I simply wasn’t interested, but being an attorney, and something of an ass, he pressed me for details, perhaps under the misguided impression that my saying “no” was some kind of negotiation tactic. Finally, I stated that the base salary was below both what I make and what I thought was reasonable, and to be fair I was insulted by it since they had specifically asked for a salary range in the interview.

Amazingly, the attorney/volleyball captain asked me to prove, that’s right, to prove this salary range for the area. Using the site above, and a couple of others, I did. I thought this would be the end of it, but it wasn’t. I was asked what I thought would be a reasonable offer to bring me on board.

Evil grin.

Given that I didn’t really want to come “on board” I gave what I thought was a preposterous number. About a 33% more than my current level.

Outrageous.

They met it.

Now I had conundrum. Not just one of those that presents itself so you can use the word “conundrum” and sound smart. This wasn’t dilemma, predicament or even a quandary-level decision. This was a true conundrum, the type that JFK during the Cuban Missile Crisis would have been hard-pressed to resolve.

Fortunately, my would-be employer made the decision for me. Less than an hour later, as I was taking the second leg of my aforementioned three-hour-plus commute journey, I received a call from the attorney/volleyball captain.

“Hi there,” he said cheerfully. “We’ve found someone else who is more experienced and enthusiastic about the position. We’d like to withdraw our offer.”

I smiled what I’m certain was an evil, Devil’s Advocate smile.

“Certainly,” I said. “You’ve just told me everything I need to know about your company.”

In a bit of bravado, I then hung up. Sure, I probably shouldn’t have slammed that door, but it’s not often that you’re in the right place at the right time with the right comeback. That only happens in movies, sitcoms and staff meetings with my old boss Kellie.

So, I carpe diemed the hell out of the opportunity.

Can I use diem as a verb?

Probably I should have carped, but that sounds like it had something to do with fish. I'm sure my brother will set me straight.

An Immodest Proposal

Today, I came across this article which describes an online event where a girl offered up her body for a virtual "Epic Flying Mount".

Now, I've never really been that big into the MMORPG scene. In fact, I had to look up the term in order to use it here as some form of credibility in this particular article. That should establish my lack of involvement in such things. Back in my day, we only had MUDs and MUSHs. They were entirely text-based, your fingers would bleed just logging in and that's the way we liked it!

I did have friends who tried to lure me into EverQuest, and I played a monk who managed to get to level something, but then they changed the computer requirements and I wasn't willing to upgrade my computer just to play a game, so I cancelled.

Also, it annoyed me to have most conversations revolve around the playing of EverQuest. Terms like "camp" and "stack" "epic" and "non-melee damage" just didn't appeal to me for some reason. Apparently, I only hold a gold-level Nerd Card. Even now, Firefly is fading from the public conscious, which places my nerd skills on shaky ground.

Still, my faith in humanity, or rather lack-there-of, is once again renewed by the girl who had to have her flying mount. Proof that the Apocolypse came and went and now I'm living in Hell on Earth . . . with cookies.

Some Headlines

US defends actions of Lebanese troops - What the hell, we haven't invaded anyone recently. Let's back a government that is bombing refugees!

Dems set war bill without Iraq timeline - But it will include a recipe for waffles and fence-sitting.

Expert in Landis doping case calls evidence "sloppy data" - "But the French are still snappy dressers!"

Sharpton: Mormon friction 'fabricated' - "But those Latter Day Saints, now them I hate," Sharpton concluded.

Tale of the 'Idol' tape: Jordin vs Blake - Or, as I like to call it, "Proof the apocalypse came and went."

ToonDoo

To coin a phrase, "I'm cookoo for Cocoa Puffs!"

Except that instead of a sugary breakfast cereal lacking in most nutritional value including the milk once it sucks up all those chemical supplements and preservatives, I'm talking about building cartoons.

Some of the cartoons are really, really, really bad. Feel free to replace "really" with "damn" and you'll get the same concept. Scatalogical and base sexual/homophobic humor abounds, but there are the rare gems.

I'm still building my comic toolkit, and I've talked with the administrators of the site, so I hope to provide more than just the standard three poses I've been using. In the meantime, I've tried to keep my own humor in the mix, but I've done a couple of homages just for kicks.

Daddy, Where Do Nerds Come From?

Ok, bear with me, there will be prizes at the end.

First, go put in your copy of Star Wars: Return of the Jedi. You know you've got one, so go watch it, and we'll all wait here.

That Lando, what a character, eh?

Anyhow, let me draw your attention to this particular scene and information-drop in the movie:

The data brought to us by the Bothan spies pinpoints the exact location of the Emperor's new battle station. We also know that the weapon systems of this Death Star are not yet operational. With the Imperial Fleet spread throughout the galaxy in a vain effort to engage us, it is relatively unprotected. But, most important of all, we've learned that the Emperor himself is personally overseeing the final stages of the construction of this Death Star.

Mon Mothma - Star Wars: Return of the Jedi

So the Bothans brought three peices of important information:

1 - "The exact location" of the new Death Star
2 - The weapon's systems weren't operational
3 - The Emperor would be on board

That's not a bad days' spying. Even James Bond would be hard-pressed to deliver all that without an Astin Martin in sight!

Initially, this all seems well and good. The Rebels have some key intelligence, they have the means and will to take advantage and exploit this. Clearly, things are coming to an exciting and dramatic conclusion in a galaxy far, far away.

And yet . . .

Are the Rebel leaders idiots!?!

Ok, check this: From watching the movies, we, the audience, know that the weapons system on the second Death Star (DS2 as it was known around the Imperial Court) were actually functional, it appears that the Emperor was moving the peices the entire time (which he was), and the Rebellion was playing straight into his hands (which they did). These crucial peices of information gained by the Bothans were likely deliberately leaked in order to draw the entire might of the Rebellion to Endor so that the Emperor could finish them off and turn or kill Luke.

Which nearly happened!

So, to the question: If, as Mon Mothma stated, "many Bothans died to bring us this information" (which she did), why would, in the name of all that is good and holy, would the Rebellion believe this information was still viable? The fact that Bothans were killed suggests very-damn-strongly, correctly, that the Empire was on to them. Knowing that, the immediate assumption should be that the Empire would be expecting an attack on the "uncompleted" Death Star. Which they were!

All attack groups were surprised and shocked and awed that it was a trap, when the obvious and logical conclusion, given the Bothan deaths points directly to a trap.

I mean, c'mon, I'm no military strategist, but even I can figure out that if the spy is captured while transmitting information, as Han might say, "It's a good bet the Empire knows we're coming."

On the flip-side of this question is this:

Is the Emperor an idiot!?!

Why did the Empire kill the Bothan spies? I mean, yeah, I get the whole spying thing and capital punishment and what not, but feeding misinformation is hardly a new technique in espionage and military strategy, and killing the messenger, while time-honored, usually defeats the purpose. Killing the Bothans should have immediately alerted the Rebellion leadership that the Empire was on to them and their little spies too. Any information passed to them especially in the last couple of days, was probably compromised and useless or bait for a trap. If the Emperor wanted to lead the Rebellion into his trap, which he clearly did, he should have left the Bothans alone (i.e. not killed them) at least until the trap was sprung. Or had the Emperor already "forseen" that the Rebellion didn't have the sharpest tools in the shed, or rather any tools or even a shed to hold them. Clearly, offing the Bothans wouldn't mean anything except this information was pretty durn important!

Bothan Spy - Sir, I've just managed to steal this highly important and very secret information away from those Imperial slugs. You'll have to mobilize immediately to take advantage of it
Rebel Leader - Excellent, transmit it.
Bothan Spy - Alright, done. Arrrggghhhh . . .
Rebel Leader - What happened?
Stormtrooper 1 - We just shot and killed this guy for spying.
Stormtrooper 2 - Yeah, we shot him alot too, because we're bad aims and he didn't move!
Rebel Leader - Dead you say?
Stormtrooper 1 - Dead as a doorknob.
Rebel Leader - For spying?
Stomtrooper 2 - Yeah, and telling secret stuff too!
Rebel Leader - Oh, very good then. Carry on. We'll just go ahead and mobilize as if nothing had happened.
Emperor [rubbing his hands together] - Exxxcellent!

Seriously, am I the only one who figured this out? Were there no CIA operatives, or twelve year-old kids who put this together and said, "Umm, hey, Mr. Lucas, sir, you can write this in, but it really doesn't make sense."

Well, the downside on this is that I fully expect to hear the title line on the playground while watching my son instructs other children on the proper self-destruct sequence for a Constitution class starship and why it requires at least two command officers to initiate.

Kinna makes ya feel bad for the unborn boy, don't it?

Life With Wife

I found this fun little program for making your own cartoon strips. It's a little limited in expression choices, but overall it gives guys like me who think they are funny, but totally lack drawing ability, to make their own name in the world of the internet cartoon strip.

Unfortunately, I'm not blog/tech-savvy enough to put the actual image here, and have it be readable without it messing up the frames for the blog. If someone knows how to help, it would be appreciated.

Beatle Bailey, eat your heart out!

Crushed - Again

I don't know why, but every time I receive an actual rejection letter, it crushes my heart beneath a jackbooted heal. Not one of the form letters that I could almost, but not quite, wallpaper a room with.

Those are easy.

Those mean that no one actually read my brilliant opus. It is, of course, brilliant, in the same way that every parent's child is beautiful, talented, gifted and of above-average intelligence. Those rejections are a simple cog in the wheel of the machine for writers who don't have an agent or have never before been published. An automated car wash has more personal attention than these rejections do to actual efforts and I treat them as such:

A necessary evil that uses up a precious resource in order to not offend others with too much grime and dirt.

But personal rejections - that's a different Balrog altogether. That stands on the Bridge of Khazad Dum and screams, "You shall not pass!"

Alright, that allusion is all wrong, but I'm a rejected author and now you can see why!

Perhaps it's a mark that my skills as a storyteller are growing to the point that I am now actually receiving rejections on the basis of my work, rather than as just a matter of course for some kid no one has ever heard of. Or perhaps, as I've always suspected, I'm more of a one-note one-line writer, rather than someone who has the talent and ability to maintain a reader beyond the second page. Someone who can come up with an interesting opening, like, "People think they want to meet an angel, but they really don't." But then blathers on and on about nothing in general for another 70,000 words.

Stephen King, in a recent Entertainment Weekly article mentioned, only in passing, that he has mediocre talent which he parlayed into piles of cash. I agree completely with him. That gives me hope, since I've always considered him something of a kindred soul, if only from the view point that we both write words and mostly use English. (Try reading King's book 7 The Dark Tower without reading any of the previous books, and see if you can wade through his crafted slang and terminology. Go ahead, I'll wait here.) I've always considered him in the ranks of David Gemmell (RIP) and Michael Crichton: second-rate talents with the first-rate gift of gab. But to have him actually state it, and in print no less, gives me hope. You know what you're getting when you pick up a King, Gemmell or Crichton book, and you have this unsigned contract that he will provide a modicum of action and thrills that will entertain for a good eight to ten hours of sustained reading without actually causing you to think or react too much.

I'm all for that kind of escapism writing. So much so that I fancy myself a teller of those kinds of tales. Like King, I am totally willing to sell out my mediocre-talent for a little of the green stuff and the thrill of seeing my name underneath my title with an actual publisher (no vanity publishing, thanks).

Alas, again, this is not to be.

But this is not an attempt to gain pity. I just found it remarkable that after twenty some years of submitting admittedly immature and sophmoric works, that one more rejection still had the power to stomp my hope into bantha fodder.

The upstroke of this, though, was that when I did the "thank you so much for your effort" response and requested a little feedback, the agent insisted she had no time for a critique.

With a wolfish grin, that suggests she didn't even read it, and I'm back on the cog of the machine. I don't know why that pleases me no end, but it certainly does.

We writers would prefer a rejection without having been read, than a rejection based on the work itself. Yes, we're that weird.

A Womb with a View

It's supposed to be a joke, but as with most jokes, it's the painful reality of the situation that makes us laugh.

Yesterday, we went in for our ultrasound. If you want to know the result without trying to read through all the lame jokes, well, too damn bad. I've hidden the answer as an acrostic somewhere within the text of my writing, using a random numbering code based on a Ceaser cipher. So ha!

Lil's orders were simple: drink 32 ounces of water about an hour before her scheduled appointment and then don't go to the bathroom.

Sounds simple enough . . . if you've never been a pregnant woman or a small child. Constant vigilance for bathrooms, akin to marines looking for snipers, is the only correlation. Thus it was that my wife turned to me while we're waiting and said:

"This is sheer torture."

Thinking she was referencing being pregnant, I offered my, "Well, it's only until September."

It was at this point I was very grateful that we were only 100 yards from the emergency room. I woke up missing several teeth and unable to see through either eye.

"Cut me, Mick" I groaned at Burgess Meredith.

Apparently, my wife wasn't bemoaning her pregnant state, but rather the forced forstalling of her bathroom break. You see, keeping clear fluid in the bladded allows a window into the womb. This gives you a clear-er view of the child inside, and let's you know that you're having a boy, or a girl.

Ha!

Now you know how the audiences at Patriot Games felt. I'll never forgive Phillip Noyce for that peice of editing. That and Blind Freedom, although Rutger Hauer always rocks!