Author: Brendan

Bing bong bing

January 21, 2008 /

I downloaded LCD Soundsystem’s 45:33 because it’s the first album I’d heard of that was specifically designed to be run to. Unfortunately it’s way too slow for that, but it’s still pretty good music. I had been rating everything on it three or four stars on iTunes, and suddenly–halfway through a song I’d already rated–I found my mouse hovering over the five-star button. Because somebody had started playing chimes.

This is a serious problem and I don’t know what to do about it. As soon as a song incorporates chimes, handbells or tone bars of any kind–especially, as they are often used, in counterpoint–I will unconsciously decide that it is the greatest song ever and listen to it ten times in a row. I can’t help it!

I would say that this is a flaw in my musical taste, but it is widely agreed that my musical taste already consists largely of flaws. This is a crack in the very foundations of my aesthetic sensibilities. It is a metaflaw. Chimes are a sloppy exploit for the kernel of my brain.

Someone recommend a song that will ruin chimes for me forever. I want to change.

Pirateball

January 17, 2008 /

It’s time to canonize the rules of Pirateball. I would put this on Wikipedia but we all know how that would go.

Pirateball was developed by myself, Jon Brasfield, Darren Hudson and McKinley Moore. Fellow contributors and playtesters included Tim Downing and Will Johnston, and possibly other people I don’t remember; this was developed at Centre College between 2001 and 2003.

There are no pirates involved.

Pirateball is like baseball in aspect, and ideally is played on a baseball diamond, but is an individual sport. The minimum number of players is three, comprising a batter, a pitcher and a first baseman. If you have more players, you can put them in the outfield or have a catcher, but too many fielders makes the game pretty much impossible, so if you have six or more players you should just start a batting queue. After each at-bat, players rotate through positions (with a minimal crew, it goes batter to first baseman to pitcher to batter and so on).

You will need two wiffle bats, a wiffle ball and a beach ball or one of those big latex balls you get at K-Mart. If you don’t have a second wiffle bat you can just use an umbrella or something.

Here is how an at-bat works:

  • The pitcher throws the ball in the batter’s general direction. Don’t be a dick about this.
  • The batter swings at the ball. There aren’t any balls, only strikes, so you might as well swing. Foul balls count as strikes.
    • You get four tries to at hitting the ball to get it into play. It says something about our collective athletic ability that we had to allow four strikes with a wiffle ball.
    • If you miss all four, the pitcher throws a fifth pitch, using the beach ball.
    • If you miss the beach ball, not only are you out, you lose a point and don’t get to have sex for five years.
      • I’m really glad it’s 2008.
  • Once you hit the ball, you run to first base, HOLDING ONTO YOUR BAT. If you drop it out of habit you’ll have to go back for it.
  • You will need your bat because when you get to first base you will have to fight the baseman, who has the second bat. Luckily for you, the rules specify that he is “kind of a wuss” at this.
  • Having touched first base, you head directly to third, over the pitcher’s mound (literally over: you have to jump), and then head for home.
  • The pitcher and fielders, if any, are spending this time getting the ball and trying to get you out with it. Catching the ball does not count as an out, nor does tagging: you have to be hit by a thrown ball. If one player throws and misses, a different player has to take the next throw. This is why the game gets a lot harder with more players.
  • If you reach home untagged, you score a point for yourself, and you can be pretty proud of it because almost nobody ever scores.

The game continues to cycle through batters until it is dark and everybody is tired. The winner is the player with the most points, or, more specifically, not me.

You’ll note that I have used masculine forms in the description above, but of course pirateball is a coed sport. If you’re in the Winston-Salem or Triad areas of NC and would like to experience the majesty of pirateball, let us know! You will have to provide the diamond or equivalent playing field. You will also have to provide the balls, bats or batlike self-defense weapon.

We will be glad to provide the sexy.

Lawrence

January 8, 2008 /

He stumbles out of the house and falls to his knees, wiping his hands over and over on his bloody jeans. Smoke’s pouring out of the basement. It smells of hickory, myrrh and scorched wiring.

“Jesus, Lawrence,” says Marti, hollow around the eyes. “Tell me what happened, give me some reason I don’t have to arrest you…”

“You don’t understand!” says Lawrence. “The spell went all wrong–those aren’t them in there. Those aren’t my girls!”

“Not anymore,” says Marti sadly, and pulls out his cuffs.

From the house across the street, the doppelgang watches, hair in pigtails, eyes like wounds.

Yesterday a man was arrested for murdering his stepdaughters in some kind of ritual. It’s a horrible story. It also sounds way too much like a Clive Barker ripoff novel.

The Cryptid Epiphany

January 7, 2008 /

I know this is the kind of thing you’re supposed to smugly bury, when you’re writing, but I have this obsession with transparency? So here’s an example of how sometimes the world just drops stuff into your lap.

Almost a year ago I started writing stories about Proserpina, another name for Persephone, probably most well-known for the thing with Hades. In the very first one I threw in a remark about “her faded black tattoos.”

Later I decided to add an Australian of European descent, and only later did it occur to me that I’d set up her semi-suitor as an older man from “down there.” Right?

Then last week I decided to bring the tattoo thing back in, so I had to come up with a rationale for it. Poking around on Wikipedia led me to tā moko, traditional Maori tattooing; apparently New Zealand was becoming more economically entwined with Australia toward the end of the 19th century, so that’s a reasonable connection. Then I looked up the origin story of tā moko.

It’s about a man who descends into the underworld to find the wife he drove away. Persephone inverted.

I have traditionally viewed with skepticism the English-lit platform of divorcing the author from the work, but man, I could not have done this on purpose. The title of this entry comes from a discussion I had with Leonard a while back about his writing process; apparently this kind of thing happens to him all the damn time. I understood the sensation of epiphanic writing when he described it, but I couldn’t find any examples to hold up from my own corpus. This is about as close as I’ve come.

Mild ethical issues here: there’s a growing concern among Maori that moko is being appropriated by whites who have neither full grasp of nor entitlement to the art form, and, well, I’m kind of doing that. My defense is that I do plan to set it up with an explicit Maori connection, somehow, and to respect the source. I’m not sure whether recontextualization of a minority culture’s mythology is inherently evil or not, but I do think it’s inevitable. Origin stories are virulently memetic because they’re supposed to be. Eventually I’ll have to do a theme-post about how often I rip off and mash up mythology I don’t really understand.

I always thought Rowling gave arithmancy short shrift

December 28, 2007 /

Stories I have written that revolve around invented or reinterpreted methods of divination: Stella, Jaboullei, Rob, Shekel and Jewel. I was kind of surprised it was this few–I feel like it’s one of the structures to which I keep returning. There’s another one coming Monday, if you hadn’t guessed.

I think the reason I keep coming back to this is a variation on the existential dread I feel when considering the persistence of objects (eg the lives of sapient dishes): the amount of potential information in the world, and how quickly our ability to capture and interpret it is growing, and how insignificant that capability will always be–in an obscure way, these things terrify me. They also thrill me. Look at what we can discover! If time and distance are the universe’s crypto, divination is the original side channel attack.

I also live in constant fear of side channel attacks, by the way, to the point where I have resigned myself to much-more-likely primary channel attacks. I kind of never want to be even mildly famous, as that would destroy what flimsy comfort I take in anonymity.

Anyway, you’ll know I’ve gutted the shark on this theme when I write the one about logymancy. Meanwhile I want to do more of these little collect-and-explain entries; I think they’d be a better point of entry to Anacrusis for new or hesitant readers than just the sheer blank mass of the archives. When one of my best friends refers to my writing corpus as “a stupid amount” and my own mother is too intimidated to read them, I am pretty much failing to sell my product.

Harder Better Fitter Stronger

December 28, 2007 /

Oh yeah! I got a car! It’s a little black Honda Fit (yes, I know you’ve never heard of it) and, three hundred miles in, I love it more than I will ever love my children. My children, for instance, will not get thirty-five miles to the gallon on mostly-vertical Garrard County roads. They’ll be lucky to get ten.

I told this to my uncle Dennis, who reads this blog, and he immediately asked whether I had painted a big “FUCK YOU” on the side of it. I said: not yet!

Okay look I finally wrote my fanfic post

December 21, 2007 /

Every two weeks I post a new bit of what is, I must reluctantly admit, Star Wars fan fiction. This week I made Han Solo a girl. Andy really liked that, and this started as a response to his commentary.

Luke and Leia hold at least as much mythic significance most people of our generation as, say, Theseus and Ariadne would have held to your typical Athenian. Putting them onstage applies a certain pressure of reader expectation to your plot; twisting that can have the same effect as subverting other, more generalized social norms, and has the benefit of coming from an unexpected direction. Sumana’s excellent post about slash and subversion points out that such twists can “disorient and reorient” your experience of the original work. It’s exactly what Euripides did with Medea, and Virgil with Aeneas (and Dante with Virgil).

But since our high-information society allows–indeed, legally requires–traceback to the writer who first introduced any given character into our awareness, we no longer have stories that seem to have spontaneously informed our culture. When every dollar has a serial number, there is no common coin. The consensus-approved solution is to wait until the story you want to rewrite is a) old and respectable and b) in the public domain, and right now, the former still takes longer. The problem is that the rate at which we produce stories is accelerating, and a story that fills the Western imagination one year will likely have been forgotten in the tide of newcomers eighty years later. This is what fanfic tries to solve.

My basic conceptual issue with fanfic is that it caters mostly to niche audiences; it tends to reinforce cliques and generate closed language instead of transcending boundaries and bringing together disparate audiences (props again to Sumana for illuminating that distinction, although at the time it was in the context of neo-web projects). Cross-genre fiction appeals to a unity of two groups, where crossover fanfic appeals only to an intersection. In that way I actually have more sympathy for stories written in the context of ultra-popular milieu: you can parse and enjoy Star Wars fanfic without being a Star Wars fan. If you’re alive and reading English in 2007, it very likely has connotations and relevance to you.

Of course, by the same token, the word “fanfic” has enormous connotations (and connotations of enormity) to people who’ve been internetting for a while. It’s usually either a sniveling kleptomania that must be stamped out or a persecuted child who must be defended. I maintain that fanfic is a gradient based on how well you hide your influences, that authors who deride fanfic as stealing could use a strong dose of self-examination, and that I personally prefer work on the better-hidden end of the scale because that means you had to do the work of hiding it. Lazy fiction is not good fiction, and I say that as someone who is pretty lazy, pretty often.

This is just so my grandmother doesn’t have to see the word “fuck” as soon as she opens my journal page. Wait! Fuck!

November 28, 2007 /

So I opened Facebook and saw this much of an ad on my screen:

Jennifer Aniston's face, over the text 'Help Save Her Life.'

And I was like, “What, does she need emergency reverse liposuction? I mean, obviously she DOES, but is that going to save her–oh.” Because by this point I had copied the image out and could see the first frame of the animated gif, to which it apparently never resets:

Little bald Madelyn is fighting CANCER. ASS.

Hi! St. Jude? Call me. We need to talk about this concept called “above the fold.”