Year: 2012 (page 8 of 49)

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The toddler loves this show, Pocoyo.

Oh, fuck it, who am I kidding? We love it. Shut up. That cartoon kid’s cute. The duck’s awesome.

Don’t judge me, Judgey McJudgerson.

Anyway.

The above episode: I want you to watch it. I mean, I’m going to spoil it here anyway, but it’s worth your eyes. It’s like, five minutes long or something — just hunker down and commit the time.

Done?

Done.

If ever there’s been something that explains the mighty power of the imagination, it’s this episode. Pocoyo gets a key with the promise that it will open pirate’s treasure — the chest that he eventually discovers the key will open is in fact just filled with more keys.

More keys that open more treasure.

The key opens treasure and the treasure is MORE KEYS.

Holy crap. That’s it.

That is the endless bounty of the imagination.

That is the power of story. One key that leads to more keys — and each key the promise of a new journey, a new story lived, experienced, and then told. A series of doors and chests and the journey to get to them and get through them. Doors and chests that cannot merely be opened but must be unlocked. And what’s powerful is the story surrounding how we unlock those chests and doors.

Fuck yeah.

That is all. You may now go about your day. I just wanted to point you toward this.

We are, as a people, fairly smart folks.

It’s easy to think we’re all stupid — we do, as a whole, some profoundly stupid shit. (We invented the Slanket. We watch Honey Boo-Boo. We drink soda from a 7-11 “Thirst Aborter” cup that holds more liquid than an elephant’s gastrointestinal system. We eat Funions.)

But all in all, we’re pretty fucking snazzy in the smarts department. I mean, uhh, hello — we humans invented the Internet. And cat videos. AND MOTHERFUCKING DEMOCRACY.

So, let’s all just take a moment and high-five ourselves.

Done? Good.

Let’s also admit that, though we are smart, we’re also selfish. We tend to our own needs first — and, to a point, those needs extend to our self-identified tribes, which may be a unit as small as a marriage, or a family, or a town, state, country, religion, geek clique, whatever.

And yet. For selfish people, I notice that quite frequently, we vote against our own best interests. Which actually seems to defy the notion that we are selfish, but aye, here’s the rub: we are often convinced that our own best interests are something other than they are.

We are, in a sense, seduced.

Seduced by a kind of fantasy.

That fantasy is, quite frequently, that we are one day going to be the kings of the castle. That we will be wealthy-ass motherfuckers rolling on a gooshy-wooshy waterbed filled with Goldschlager and covered in cash. We will one day live in the big house on the hill. We’ll have investments out the pee-hole. Simply put —

We vote like we’re one day gonna be rich.

It’s not impossible, after all. Class mobility is a very real thing. We don’t have castes. Our economic status is flexible. We’ve heard countless stories of someone pulling themselves up by the bootstraps, even though nobody’s boots have fucking straps anymore and if they did we’re probably look at them like, “What the fuck is wrong with your boots? OH MY GOD TIME TRAVELER GET ME MY GUN.”

Funny enough, nobody ever seems to acknowledge that class mobility is a two-way street.

So, a suggestion:

Maybe it’s time to stop voting like you’re going to one day be rich.

Instead:

Vote as if one day you might be poor.

Get shut of the myth that being poor is automatically the fault of the person suffering. I’m not so naive as to say that our fortunes are never our own doing — I’ve known plenty of people who have shot themselves in the ass again and again, earning and owning their many misfortunes. But I’m also not so daft as to suggest that sometimes? Shit happens. A tree falls on your house. The company that has employed you for 20 years suddenly shits the bed and dies, leaving you without work. A loved one dies. Car crash. Identity theft.

Bad luck. Get fucked.

Tell me: do you want to vote for a candidate who only takes care of you in the boom times? Who is there when things are good? Who doesn’t offer you a hand up so much as a pat on the back for being successful? Or is it better instead to vote for a candidate who will help you stand up when you’ve fallen? Who tries to put in place a safety net for before you fall? Who recognizes that sometimes awful things happen to not-awful people and that we need to take care of those who cannot take care of themselves?

Vote like you’re one day going to be poor.

Vote like one day you might lose your health insurance and then get sick.

Vote like one day you might get hit by an earthquake. Or a tidal wave.

Or, I dunno, I’m spitballing here — a hurricane.

Because it can happen to you. And it can happen to your friends. And family. And neighbors. And strangers.

It can happen to any of us.

Needless to say, I’m voting to re-elect President Obama. Because I think out of the two candidates, he’s the guy who’s going to help this country when it’s down. And that’s where we were four years ago. We were tumbling down, down, down the rabbit hole of recession and, at the bottom, depression. Things are, by my eyes and by most metrics, better now than they were four years ago. More to the point: our country didn’t crash into the wall and leave a trail of smoking economic wreckage littering the ground.

I’m not some Big Government guy — but I recognize that government has its place. And I believe that place is to help us when we need it — it’s easy to bemoan socialism or government programs and hand-outs when you’re not a person who can benefit from them. It’s easy to say the government should stay out of our way — but then one day you need Medicare for our aging parents, or unemployment, or ten gallons of free gasoline from FEMA so you can keep generators on for just one more night.

I’m also in favor of Obamacare. I’m a writer and a freelancer. I look forward to having real choice and cost control when it comes to my health care and health decisions.

Has Obama been the perfect president? Did he make good on all that Hopey Changey goodness? Maybe not. Certainly our president has fallen down on the job a number of times. But I still think he answered more of his campaign promises than anyone ever expected. And I don’t think he should be punished for not taking this country from zero to 60 in terms of the economy — any improvement is good improvement. Four years ago we were hurting. Four years later we shouldn’t expect everything to be an economic boomtown.

Now: if you feel that the one who will help you when the chips are down is Mitt Romney, more power to you. Message is still the same: go out and vote. Let democracy have its place. As wildly imperfect as it may be.

Oh, and do read up on your local elections, too. The economy may not trickle down as many once said — but politics sure as hell trickle up. And yes, I know, things don’t technically trickle up but let’s pretend there’s no gravity. SHUT UP WITH YOUR ACCURSED WITCH SCIENCE. We’re playing with metaphors over here.

What I’m trying to say is —

Get out and vote.

(Thanks to my wife for helping crystallize some of these thoughts.)

I am a storyteller and I will finish the tale I am telling.

The gods have chosen me as its speaker.

My story has weight and value. It is worth more than a chest of gold, more than a pair of magic boots, more than a cool laser gun that goes pyoo pyoo pyoo, more than a ride on the back of a surfboard unicorn. My story’s merit cannot be measured. All that matters is that it matters.

It matters to me. This is my story. This is my jam. One of many that live inside my heart. My heart is a bell: I ring it and you listen to its mighty peal. My heart is a geode: I crack the stone with the heavy hammer of my effort and you are captivated by the crystal within. My heart is a heart: bloody and pulsing and an engine of life driven by the drum-beat of one story after the next, and then, and then, and then.

(And then.)

I am the story’s master.

I am the story’s partner.

I am the story’s slave.

No part of the story may hide from me. I know this story like I know the back of my hand. Like the back of my hand as it strikes the gum out of my enemy’s mouth. Like the back of my hand as it gently caresses the cheek of my lover, who may be a man, who may be a woman, or who may be some hermaphroditic moon-person whose body is a hundred quivering pseudopods and dripping orifices.

I know this story like I know a moon-person’s pseudopods and orifices.

I control the measure of this tale. I pull the levers. I thumb-punch the buttons. I have all the keycards and access codes, all the blueprints and treasure maps. I can keep them close. Or I can throw them into a campfire and laugh as they crackle and burn and turn to char.

I see all the pieces of the story. The characters dance when I say dance. They fight, they fuck, they forgive.

I laugh.

I set the tempo. I control the pace. I make the mood. I state my case. I speak my heart.

I control it.

It controls me.

I do this because I must. Because my soul is an ungoverned stagecoach, the horses galloping toward the cliff’s edge. My fingers yearn to put words on a page — the itch and desire lives in the hinge of each knuckle. My tongue wants to touch the roof of my mouth, my lips want to form the grunts and clicks and susurrations of this myth, this memoir, this comedy, this drama, this dramedy — I am driven to do it, obsessed with its shape, compelled to know what can never be known. Drama is my lord. Conflict my lady.

I am story’s whelp. Its cur. Its sub. Its bitch.

Story is loa. Story is spirit, ghost, god. It rides me like I am its goddamn and god-chosen horse.

No one owns my story but me. But my story owns all who hear its telling.

My story is a cardboard box that could be anything.

My story is a knife slipped between your ribs.

My story is the sweet juice of an overripe fruit flowing over your lips. Down your chin.

My story is a spaceship burning up as it punches through the hot intangible shell of a planet’s atmosphere, a glacial shelf cracking and sliding into the ocean, a gorilla on bath salts loose in a preschool.

My story is nipples and tongues, fire and ice, tits and ass, heaven and hell, this and that.

My story is a blasphemous ululation that forms chaos into order and breaks order into chaos.

My story is want, need, fear, hope, hate, truths, lies, coffee, whiskey, earth, space, diamonds, death, life, fluids, flux capacitors, cats, fire, sugar, pancakes, batteries, floodwaters, twist-ties, flavored lubricants, throat songs, scrambled eggs, severed heads, newborn babies, hungry goats, lusty satyrs, worms in the dirt, birds in the sky, clouds that become rabbits, rabbits that become were-rabbits, were-rabbits that sit down at a breakfast nook and point guns at our hearts and demand that we tell them a story, story within story, story creating another story, story spinning into the pieces of a hundred other tiny little stories —

I don’t know what the fuck my story is.

But I know that it is more than ink on a page.

It’s blood. And spit. And sweat. And milk.

The story is whatever I want it to be.

Anything at all. Open season. Empty page. Tabula rasa. Solve-for-X.

I am a storyteller and I swim in possibilities.

I am a storyteller and I command the ideas to get in line and march as I say.

I am a storyteller and the audience belongs to me as much as I belong to them.

I am a storyteller and I will nail this narrative to the wall.

I am a storyteller and I will write the tits off this motherfucker.

I am a storyteller and this is my sexy party, yo.

I am a storyteller and I am the story told.

I am a storyteller and I will finish the tale I am telling.

Typing this on a phone, so forgive my brevity.

It appears as if Amazon thinks — likely as a result of the sockpuppet scandal and the “buying reviews” thing — that authors should not be allowed to review other authors.

The troubling assertion here is a patently false and dangerous one: that writers compete with writers. We do not. We compete with other forms of media, perhaps. We compete with ourselves. But one book is not an enemy of another book. One author does not enter Thunderdome with another. We are part of a community. Sometimes on purpose. Sometime by dint of having our books enjoyed by the readers of another’s books.

This policy has the subtlety of a drone strike — taking out an office building of innocents to kill one dude. Got a rat problem? BURN THE HOUSE DOWN.

A better policy would be to HAVE a policy that can be regulated and enforced. Like, say: no sock puppet reviews. No abuse. Allow reviews to be flagged, investigated, and handled one to one.

I like Amazon as my new publisher. And yes, abuse exists and must be curtailed. But this is a rough policy. May I suggest we all write to them and suggest sanity and scalpels instead of a giant orbital laser? This has all the delicateness of the US “drug war.”

(Writing this post on my phone — forgive its brevity.)

Your story this week?

Gotta be about hiding a body.

That’s the only limitation.

1000 words or less.

Due by 11/9 at noon EST. Post at your online space. Link back here.

Now go and write.