Ah, Hypocrisy
The following post comes not because I have any real interest in what happens in Alabama politics, and not because I personally have any interest in going to a country music-themed entertainment complex. I’m about to tell you this story because it’s an outrage which we all should be aware of, and that we should all fight to make sure doesn’t happen in areas where WE live, work, and play….
First, some background. Why? Because you need context. You need to understand why a not-so-humble blogger based in metro Atlanta is pretty annoyed at the governor of Alabama. You keep reading, and soon you’ll be annoyed by him as well.
Background Bit #1: Alabama has a number of anti-gambling laws on the books, which is understandable considering the number of highly religious people who live in Alabama, and the long-term anti-gambling stance that religious people tend to take. There is a bit of a loophole, however: while the usual staples of gambling (blackjack, poker, slots) are expressly forbidden, BINGO is not. Now, when you think of Bingo, you probably think of old blue-haired ladies playing with numbered cards on long fold-out tables at the local VFW. Well, welcome to the 21st century, chum! Electronics and digital technology have made the old models of all sorts of things obsolete, or nearly so. And that includes Bingo.
Background Bit #2: A couple of years ago, an ingenious entrepreneur named Ronnie Gilley saw an opportunity to turn the travel corridor in Southeast Alabama into a bona fide destination spot. For years, millions of people have traveled THROUGH the area, mostly on Highway 231, hellbent on getting to Biloxi or Florida. Gilley reasoned: why not turn a pasture that people would ordinarily drive right past into a multi-faceted entertainment complex that would make them want to stop? The idea came to fruition, and thus was born Country Crossing, a country music-themed multiplex featuring restaurants, hotels, concert halls, and a huge electronic Bingo parlor.
Background Bit #3: Playing Bingo at Country Crossing is just like playing Bingo at the VFW. Except you can play faster. Except it’s on a computer screen. You typically pay to play at the VFW. You pay to play at the Crossing. And just like at the VFW, the money you pay is eventually won by the players themselves or contributed to charity. This is unlike “real” gambling, where the “house” is ever-present and often wins. (Just so no one comes back and challenges me on this point, I have to state that Country Crossing does skim a very small percentage off the top to pay its overhead.)
Enter the Governor of Alabama, the illustrious Bob Riley, Republican Extraordinaire. Riley has opposed Country Crossing from the get-go, claiming that the venture constitutes an illegal gambling operation that will eventually spread like a virus across the Southeast, causing Alabama to become a crime-infested state run by disrespectable gambling bosses and the mob, who control the government and manage crime in all its nefarious manifestations: prostitution, drug-running, gun-running, murder, extortion.
Those of us who’ve studied debate and argumentative semantics recognize this as a “slippery slope” argument, where the most extreme possibility is immediately presented as the most likely scenario. Riley has no legitimate basis for his position. Sure, his vision of Alabama’s downward spiral COULD happen. But the likelihood is very, very small.
By assuming this position (heh), Riley has allied himself with a number of religious organizations in Southeast Alabama, most notably the Concerned Wiregrass Citizens. Now, while I may disagree with many of their convictions, and I may disagree with using politics as a pulpit for religious agendas, I refuse to outright blast people of a more religious tendency than myself, chiefly because I admire their conviction, short-sighted and misled as it may be. Religious conviction has led to some of the most deplorable situations in history (most wars are religious in nature, 9/11 was religious in nature, etc.), but being a person of some conviction myself, I still kind of identify with their fervor.
Even when they’re wrong. But I will not blast them for being misguided - in fact, one of the points of this post is to demonstrate how I sympathize for them. Still, here’s my argument against them.
Consider:
- The unemployment rate in Alabama is roughly 9%. Country Crossing employs 1300-1500 people by itself.
- Residual business - at places like the gas stations, motels, restaurants, and retail stores that exist in and around Houston County (where Country Crossing is located) - have seen an increase in revenue. They no doubt are hiring more people themselves, to handle the increase in business.
- In and around Houston County, there’s been a somewhat of an economic boom, flying in the face of all other negative economic data. Country Crossing contributed $1.8 million dollars to Houston County’s 2009 budget surplus. Dire warnings from the state’s budgetary officials still ring ominously, but surely Country Crossing, were it allowed to stay open, would have offset or even stopped the impending budget cuts. Hell, imagine the tax revenue a place like that would generate in the long term….
- One of the chief arguments against gambling is the tendency for crime to increase in areas where gambling takes place. Ironically, last year Dothan, the principle city in Houston County, saw a 30% DECREASE in the crime rate. You know why I believe that is? Because the correlation between a bad economy and crime is higher than the correlation between gambling and crime.
Now, if you equate crime to “sin”, then Country Crossing could actually be contributing to a decrease in sin. And if you equate gambling to sin, well…. Bingo isn’t exactly gambling, is it? And despite Riley’s impassioned wailing and gnashing, the Alabama law is at the very least vague about it all.
Basically, the benefits of Country Crossing’s existence far exceed the detriments. The owners and managers have worked hard to make sure Country Crossing provides a safe, family-friendly yet fun environment for the people of the area as well as for visitors. And the economic upside is undeniable.
So what’s the problem, really? Well, funny you should ask.
The problem with Country Crossing is that it has the potential to draw clientele away from the Native American casinos in the Southeast as well as from nearby Biloxi. So it APPEARS that some of the purveyors of those establishments took proactive steps to make sure that the threat of competition didn’t happen. Allegedly, a certain Governor received millions of dollars in campaign contributions in exchange for making sure that Alabama didn’t open up any thing that might attract business away from the existing establishments. Day after day reveals increasingly incriminating deals, that - while they aren’t necessarily illegal - do constitute a glaring conflict of interest.
As it stands right now, the Governor has threatened to enforce a raid on the establishment, with the raiding officials having pretty much carte blanche on what they do with all the confiscated machines. A raid, in fact, almost took place a few weeks ago, but a local judge stopped it with a court order - a court order which has, in turn, been overturned by the Alabama Supreme Court. So Country Crossing is closed. A legislative hearing and vote is upcoming that will allow the citizens of Alabama themselves decide on which side of the gambling law the Bingo machines stand.
One caveat, to cover my ass legally: Riley vehemently denies any knowledge of any wrong-doing by his associate Michael Scanlon (famous for HIS involvement in the Jack Abramoff scandals). He also vehemently denies any knowledge that the anti-gambling organization which he supported, the U.S. Family Network, was funded by casino-owning Choctaws in Mississippi. Finally, he denies that his current stance on the Country Crossing issue is politically motivated. None of the allegations against him have been proven in court. Yet. But an investigation is underway, and the evidence is mounting.
Do I believe Riley has the best interests of the average Alabama citizen at heart? Here’s my answer:
He’s a politician.
And - IF Riley is indeed guilty of the charges laid at his feet - here’s why I am really, really pissed at him.
First of all, being a Republican, Riley probably claims to be a capitalist and economic conservative. Most Republicans I know stand adamantly behind the free market system, trusting that - if left alone and not tampered with - the market will correct any aberrances and fluctuations that occur within it. Competition drives prices down, etc. etc. Well, what if people in positions of power work behind the scenes to make sure there IS no competition? What if certain people stand up in front of us and claim that we should let the market act unimpeded, and yet they’re there, manipulating the market out of our line of sight?
Second, if this is all true, then Riley took advantage of local religious groups’ good intentions to help make good on his promises - promises he allegedly made to garner campaign contributions and monetary support for his election. I find the continued (mis)use of the fundamentalist Christian base as a means to further political gain deplorable. It’s bad enough to be disingenuous to the average person, but to be disingenuous to a person who truly holds the conviction you’re just giving lip service to?
It remains to be seen what will come of all this. Will Country Crossing reopen? Will Alabama be able to take advantage of the economic benefits that a place like that would surely generate? Are the Bingo machines a violation of Alabama’s anti-gambling law? Will Riley be exonerated?
Who knows. All I know (besides the fact that I’m annoyed by it all), is that there will only be one real loser in the struggle, no matter what happens: Riley will stay a rich Republican regardless. Ronnie Gilley, smart guy that he is, will find some other means of making his entrepreneurial dreams come true. The casinos in Mississippi will continue to operate and profit.
The losers will be the people of Alabama - the ones who would benefit from Country Crossing’s existence, and the religious ones opposed to its existence, who are once again seeing their convictions exploited and betrayed.
For more information, visit these sites. (Yes, some of them have an agenda. Reader beware, okay?)
http://www.usatoday.com/travel/destinations/2009-12-27-alabama-casinos_N.htm
http://www.wtvynews4.com/home/headlines/83844907.html
http://www.countrycrossingalabama.com/
http://www.wtvynews4.com/home/headlines/83012247.html
http://www.rileyswebofdeceit.com/bob-riley-fraud/riley-senate-investigations
Novel Podcast: A War Between States Compilation 2
The last time I did this, a couple of months ago, it was because I felt like there was simply too much of a lag between podcast posts, and so I made a compilation to serve as filler. Turns out, with the amount of content currently floating around on this site o’ mine, that a place which serves as a depot for all my currently posted Novel Podcasts was actually a PRACTICAL idea. Therefore, I’ve decided to do exactly that every 5 chapters or so from now on - that is, post a compilation of all the podcasts.
So here you go. For your convenience, and for all the newcomers to my site and to this podcast, here are direct links to each of the chapters, in order. So now you can just click and go, and maybe give a listen to the whole thing….
- Chapter 1, Part 1
- Chapter 1, Part 2
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3, Part 1
- Chapter 3, Part 2
- Chapter 4, Part 1
- Chapter 4, Part 2
- Chapter 5
- Interlude 1
- Chapter 6, Part 1
- Chapter 6, Part 2
- Chapter 7, Part 1
- Chapter 7, Part 2
- Chapter 8, Part 1
- Chapter 8, Part 2
- Chapter 9, Part 1
- Chapter 9, Part 2
- Chapter 10, Part 1
- Chapter 10, Part 2
- Interlude 2
Collin Kelley: The Prologue To Conquering Venus
Last October I had the pleasure of interviewing author Collin Kelley about his new novel, Conquering Venus - which, by the by, has been nominated ALREADY for a number of prizes. When I posted that interview - which you can find here - I told you all that I would soon be posting a reading by Collin himself of the Prologue to the book, a beautiful passage that sounds so much like poetry it’s easy to see why Collin is an award-winning poet as well as burgeoning novelist.
Well, I failed. Somehow that reading slipped through the cracks, and only last week did I wake up, breathless from the dream that Collin projected into my mind, and realized my omission.
So here I rectify that error.
This is a small podcast of the Prologue to Conquering Venus by Collin Kelley. Thanks for listening. Buy the book.
Conquering Venus Prologue:
Also, be sure and visit Collin’s web site to see the awards the book has been nominated for and to enjoy more of Collins’ writing.
Zombies Attack My Pride and Exacerbate My Prejudice
Toot toot toot my own horn: I’m fairly well read. Not as well read as a lot of people, and certainly not as well read as I’d like to be, but pretty well read. Somehow, though, I’ve never managed to read Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. I read Sense and Sensibility and even Northanger Abbey in college, but somehow missed out on what many claim is Austen’s masterpiece of class relations, romance, and wit.
Seth Grahame-Smith’s Pride and Prejudice and Zombies (2009) changed all that. Thanks to that particular best-selling piece of complete crap, I have finally read a book which I should have read a long, long time ago.
I also thank my friend Matt Link, who said he was going to read both books simultaneously - an idea which I promptly copied, rushing out to the bookstore to buy the classic novel as well as the supposedly zombie-infested parody/update. For the last couple of months, I’ve lain in bed at night and read a couple of chapters at a time of Austen’s classic, followed by the corresponding chapters of the zombie version. Yes, it was slow-going: I’m not a slow reader, but slogging through both books (while also reading Bill Willingham’s Fables AND War and Peace) was a bit of a chore - and not because of Austen’s book.
You see, Jane Austen penned a book which more than deserves its revered status as a literary classic - the book transcends time to deliver character-driven humor and romance in a way that those of us writing today would be hard-pressed to emulate and repeat. When you think about it, characters like Elizabeth Bennet, Darcy, Lydia Bennet, Mr. Bennet, Mrs. Bennet, William Collins, and Lady Catherine have become archetypes that we all know and anticipate in every comedy and romance we see or read in this modern era. Their situations have become universal. Their circumstances are immediately recognizable and fascinating at the same time. And the book they come from is almost 200 years old!
In contrast, Seth Grahame-Smith’s book came from an idea that Grahame-Smith himself didn’t even HAVE. Instead, the concept of doing a mash-up of zombie horror and a classic book in the public domain came from Quirk Books’s editor Jason Rekulak, who called up Grahame-Smith one day, told him the idea, and then left him to run with it.
Now, it is never my policy to say that so and so sucks as a writer (except for Dan Brown, who does indeed suck as a writer), so I looked into some of Grahame-Smith’s previous works to see if there was anything notably bad there, and there really isn’t. Grahame-Smith is a good writer, in fact, who got presented with an interesting but daunting project and handled it… adequately.
But handling something like Pride and Prejudice and Zombies only adequately means that he fell short of achieving something I really wished he’d have achieved - the book jacket claims that he transformed “a masterpiece of world literature into something you’d actually want to read.”
Not even close.
Naturally, as both a writer and a fan of zombie horror, I can’t just make that claim without substantiating it by telling you what I would have done differently - which is to say, here are the places where I feel Grahame-Smith failed.
First of all, he stuck too closely to the original. I don’t know where in the process he decided to hold back and let the original’s plot remain mostly intact, and I’ll grant that anyone would be walking a fine edge by letting too much of his own voice and style leak into the story - approaching it that way would mean a lot more work, and if you went too far, you could lose just enough of the original that it would cease to be the intended parody and instead become an animal all its own. But there are sooo many places where Grahame-Smith could have cut loose and just had fun with the horror, devastation, and violence of an 18th century zombie holocaust, and he just… didn’t. The problem is pretty basic, actually: you have a comedy about provincial British manners and a tale about a zombie infestation, and in the hands of Grahame-Smith, the two simply didn’t mix. Could someone else have done a better job? Perhaps.
The sheer language of the older book felt like a weight whenever Grahame-Smith inserted his deviations into the plot. For instance, there’s a passage late in the novel where two main characters have duel - in the original they “sparred” with words; in this version, they use swords and ninja kicks (more on this in a minute), and the whole scene, which should have been filled with hair-raising, high energy action, just wasn’t, because Grahame-Smith wrote the whole thing in passive voice. You just can’t write an action scene in passive voice and succeed. Austen herself didn’t really fall into the passive in the original - not much - but it’s easy for someone who’s trying to imitate “old” prose to slip into writing that way and think it’s okay.
Most importantly for me, though, and I’ve read other critics of the book who have said just about the same thing: if Grahame-Smith is a true fan of zombie fiction and zombie movies, it isn’t evident here. Man, I was wanting mayhem: guts spilled all over the place, decapitations, lumbering hordes of the undead surrounding people in their houses and bringing all holy hell down on those chumps living in the British countryside. Unfortunately, save for a few choice scenes, this doesn’t really happen. Grahame-Smith so modestly interspersed the “zombie” bits throughout the book that, for someone like me who gobbles this stuff up like candy, he might as well have not even bothered.
What he did insert a WHOLE LOT OF was a bunch of ninja/Asian martial artist bullshit. Elizabeth Bennet is not just a headstrong, stubborn girl - she’s a kung fu master and a vicious killer. Darcy isn’t just a reticent, dour elitist - he’s a crack shot and an expert swordsman. On pretty much every page, there’s some reference to martial arts. In fact, so many of the characters are so proficient in “the arts” that there’s little fear of any of them getting devoured by zombies - the zombies don’t stand a chance. And THAT, my friends, is the largest single failing of this book. There’s no tension in regard to the zombie outbreaks and attacks. They’re incidental to the plot and quickly passed over. The ninja stuff, however, is everywhere. Annoyingly so: the name of the book ISN’T Pride and Prejudice and Zombies and Ninjas.
The thing that truly amazes me about this book is this: it turned out to be such a huge seller that now there’s a movie deal for it and a whole bunch of follow-ups and prequels planned. Still, I guess that’s not SO surprising, consider the state of Hollywood, the insanity of the bestseller market, and the low standards of mainstream America. Let me be one to tell you, though: the classic novel Pride and Prejudice deserves every accolade ever given to it, and I’m grateful to the updated parody for enticing me to read the original.
As for the new book: Don’t believe the hype.
Novel Podcast: A War Between States, Part 20
A fun little Interlude? Well, the character of Elgin, with his incredible wit and candor, may amuse people somewhat, but hopefully you’ll get the sense of foreboding that his behavior and the situation merits. Why?
Because this is a portentious piece - an aside which will eventually become the crux of the novel.
There - I hope I’ve intrigued you. Now, on to Interlude 2, featuring my brother Daryl and my other brother Darrell (seriously).
A War Between States Part 20:
Interlude
“What we doin’ way the fuck out here?”
Terminius Green drove his white Mustang down the gravel path which the road sign had said was County Maintained 51. The road had two lanes, with barely discernible yellow streaks indicating the divide between northbound and southbound. But Terminius wouldn’t quite call them lanes — they were so narrow they could barely accommodate his car, and the endless washouts and potholes on either side forced him to drive right down the middle. Streaks of morning sunlight danced across his car as they came through the periodic gaps in the pines which lined either side of the road. It gave him the impression of someone turning a light on and off, on and off. The rhythm of the light, the dull roar of his tires as they cracked on the gravel of County Maintained 51, and the fact that he wasn’t used to getting up so early would have lulled him to sleep, except for Elgin Blalock beside him.
Elgin was used to getting up this early. Elgin barely slept anymore, on his diet of Red Bull, rum, amphetamines, and cocaine. Terminius figured the man, barely in his twenties, had maybe two good years left before he’d OD or have a heart attack.
He wouldn’t die in a car accident, probably, because he’d already lost his license three years back, and he never drove. Strangely enough, it was a rule he took seriously.
“We jus’ doin’ what we told,” Elgin said. He fidgeted in the bucket seat beside Terminius, twisting this way, then that. He undid his seatbelt, and then, when he caught Terminius’s sidelong, uneasy glance, he put it back on — but not without offering a little verbal abuse.
“Fuckin’ fuck. Fuck yo’ old stupid fuckin’ rules about yo’ fuckin’ car.”
“They ain’t my rules. They my mama’s.”
“Fuck yo’ mama.”
Terminius let his foot off the gas and the car slowed. He reached into the pocket of the car door beside him and felt the handle of the .22 there. He’d use it, by God, if this asshole beside him gave him any more shit — especially about his mama. He dared not slam on the brakes the way he wanted to — not on the loose gravel, not in his new car. But he’d stop the car and take care of Elgin.
Elgin noticed the car slowing and grinned.
“I’m jus’ kiddin’, man,” he said. “Don’t need to slow down and start no trouble. I o-pologizzze.” The zzz was accompanied by a huge flash of Elgin’s gold-plated front teeth.
Terminius grunted and accelerated, accepting the o-pology. For now.
“‘Sides,” Elgin said, still grinning,” I’d fuck yo’ ass UP!”
Elgin didn’t know about the gun in the car door.
They came to a place where County Maintained 51 veered off, banking steeply against the rows of pines. An unpaved road of red clay dirt continued straight ahead. The pines also lined the left side of the dirt road, but an open field filled the space to the right. In the middle of the field stood a lone, off-white trailer on the top of a low hill that started at the dge of the dirt road and plunged away out of sight. A rough driveway led from the trailer’s grassless yard to the dirt road, and a forlorn pole with a transformer clinging to it towered over it all. Wires hung low over the driveway, connecting the transformer to the power lines on the side of County Maintained 51.
“Turn in there,” Elgin said and pointed at the dirt road and the driveway.
“What’s that?” Terminius asked.
“That there is a little white trailer in the middle of a fuckin’ field out in the middle of bumfuck,” Elgin said and flashed his teeth.
“I can see that. But why are we here?”
“You’ll see.”
Terminius slowed down again, pulled onto the dirt road, and then onto the driveway leading to the trailer. Rocks crunched under his tires. He was glad it hadn’t rained recently, or he’d have to wash his car.
Elgin popped his seatbelt loose before they stopped, opened his door and tumbled out before Terminius had a chance to shift into park and turn off the car. He strolled quickly across the barren yard, his skinny legs looking strikingly black in contrast to his ultra white shorts. Despite all the money Elgin had, he refused to wear shorts like Terminius — baggy, with lots of pockets, just like their heroes on BET. Instead, Elgin wore super tight coach’s shorts, kind of like the ones Coach Williams sometimes wore. Only Coach Williams’s legs always looked especially large and more muscular in his clothes. Elgin’s just looked… funny.
Terminius climbed out of the car and clicked on the alarm with his keychain. A beep let him know it was armed. He followed Elgin to the trailer, mounted the steps, and entered the door that Elgin had left open.
Inside, the trailer was musty and devoid of any furniture, save a fold-out card table in the front room and two matching chairs. Elgin was already in the kitchen, his movements echoing through the empty trailer. Terminius walked into the kitchen to find Elgin opening the cabinets and pulling out stacks of plates and glass after empty glass.
“What is this place?”
Elgin chuckled. “It belongs to one of Coach’s girlfriends. She don’t live here no more, though.”
Then Elgin pulled out an airtight brick of something wrapped in green plastic. He reached into the cabinet and pulled out another one, this one wrapped in black plastic.
“What’s that?” Terminius asked.
Elgin smirked. “What the fuck you think it is? That,” he said, pointing at the green package, “is smack.” He pointed at the other. “That… is crack. Smack and crack. Crack and smack. What the fuck you think?”
The Cast
- Terminius Green - Darrell Collins
- Elgin Blalock - Daryl Funn
- Narrator - Will Kenyon
Where Do Poems Come From?
You MIGHT ask that question from time to time: where do poets and authors get the ideas/inspiration for their work? And every poet or student of poetry will tell you that just about any situation, emotion, or circumstance might wake the Muse and make her tell you to SIDDOWN, SHADDUP, and put pen to paper. The “places” from which poems come from are almost as numerous as the number of poems out there (I say almost because every teenage angst poem pretty much comes from the same place).
I thought it’d be interesting to share with you the etiology of one of my poems. It’s called ‘Create Me Again’, and here’s where it came from:
Strangely, I came up with the title first. You see, I used to pass time when I was bored in class coming up with what I thought were cool titles for songs that didn’t exist. I never wrote an actual song, but I organized the track listings for a whole lotta albums released by imaginary bands. You laugh. Whatever.
Anyway, several of those titles to songs which didn’t exist actually resonated with me; they were bits of poetry in and of themselves - wordplays that, were they expanded on successfully, might have meant something. ‘Create Me Again’ was one such title. Think about it: it has a fairly resonating implication to it, doesn’t it?
Then, sometime in the early to mid nineties, I had a crisis of faith - I didn’t so much begin to wonder if God existed (I don’t think THAT happened until I was in my 30s) as I began to wonder if God had died or gone on vacation or written us off as unsalvageable and gone off to reinvent Moses as a four-armed blue-skinned alien on some faraway planet in a different galaxy. So, with that I had the theme of a poem which I wanted to write. All I needed was something to solidly tie it all together and give me the solid ground I needed to build from.
And then, somewhere in there, I recalled the story in the book of Daniel about Nebudchadnezzar’s dream of the statue made of precious metals but with feet of clay.
Everything clicked, and I had a poem. One day I wrote the whole thing in a single sitting, and several years later the Snake Nation Review published it. At the center of it is that multi-metaled statue, standing as a symbol of… what? Me? The nation? The planet?
However you want to apply it, you can. That’s what poetry’s for, if you ask me.
Finally, here’s the poem in question. Thanks for reading:
Create Me Again
The little multi-metalled statue
With baby soft clay feet
Stood on his tiny pedestal
And cried:
“Create me again
Oh Lord
In the likeness of another image
For if what I am is what you are
Then one of us is falling short
Of every expectation.”
A tear ran down his golden cheek
Along his silver belly
Splashed erosively in a hole
That was forming in the clay.
(Image from http://blackinkdesigns.com/diagrams.htm)
And… BTW, the crisis of faith is over. (God exists. Neener neener.)
Blog Sale! Some Assembly Required Magazine
I’ve been reticent about writing this particular post for some time. Two reasons why:
1) I don’t want to use this forum to sell stuff to people. I’m not Billy Mays shouting at you about Oxyclean or cool screwdrivers. I may promote my friends’ and colleagues’ work, and the whole idea of this blog is to increase my exposure, but I don’t like the idea of selling actual products.
Still, people sell products online everyday, so I guess I need to get over that. I promise you, though, that I won’t do this sort of shameless hard sell often – I don’t even foresee having another “product” available for a long time. It’s just this one thing.
2) The bigger reason for my hesitation, though, is that every time I start to write this, or even think about it, it just gets soooo long. I needed to sit down and narrow it down to its most salient points, despite the fact that this thing means so much to me, and needs – I feel – a lot of explanation.
But I think I’ve got it now.
THIS POST is my attempt to sell you an issue of a literary magazine that I published and contributed to 3 years ago. The following is a description of the magazine – called Some Assembly Required – and what I intended it to do, presented in as few words as possible.
What it is. SAR is a magazine published 3 years ago with contributions and help – a little time, money, heart, and soul – from several of my friends, including the contributing writers, the cover artist, the masthead designer, and my technical support. Definitely a labor of love.
What it was meant to be. There’s a brief essay at the front of the book that describes my intent in greater detail (I may publish that essay in a future post), but here’s the gist: SAR was my attempt to open a niche in the community of literary magazines and crack that shell by publishing a magazine that, rather than publishing individuals the way most magazines do, would publish entire literary groups – MFA classes, critique groups, etc. They could contribute as a whole and I would dedicate each issue to their group.
Seemed like a pretty good idea at the time.
What it turned out to be. I’m not the most successful writer in the world, but I don’t have a lot of things that I’d count as outright failures. This, however, would be one.
This magazine never saw a second issue. Ironically, the magazine sold enough issues to mostly pay for itself, so I was encouraged in that regard, and would have happily gone through the whole process – the investment of time and money – to publish a subsequent issue. But you can’t publish a magazine without content and you can’t have content without contributors, and simply put – I got no submissions.
I believe that the reasons for not receiving submissions are twofold.
First, I guess I miscalculated how hard it might be to get a group to come to a consensus on something like this, especially with no one to guide them through the process the way I did the group that I DID publish. (BTW, if there’s anyone out there who was part of group that saw this opportunity and ended up passing on it, I’d love for you to e-mail me and tell me why you didn’t submit. I’d appreciate the feedback. All I got back then was silence.)
Another reason is that I didn’t anticipate potential resistance from the literary community (at least as it was 3 years ago when social media wasn’t making the inroads it is today). Suffice it to say that I found the literary magazine community resistant to change, ambivalent to newcomers who didn’t jump through the same hoops as they did, and outright hostile to anyone who might encroach on their (diminishing) audience. I might be wrong on this point – it is just my perception – but I don’t think so.
What this magazine could be to you. I think everybody out there would get a kick out of at least one of the 7 stories contained in it. The variety of content is high, mostly because of the diversity among the members of the group I published – the variety in tastes, styles, and world outlooks translated into a lot of different stories and voices. Some will no doubt appeal to you, and some won’t.
Also, the artwork is sublime, the magazine is well put together, and regardless of the success or failure of it, I still think the premise - the idea behind it - is pretty fucking cool.
So, all that said at last, I’d like to sell you a copy of the magazine.
Here’s how we’ll go about it: you set the price you want to pay, and I’ll send you an issue. You have to pay the minimum shipping, which is $1.65, but beyond that, I don’t care. You pay a penny + shipping, you get an issue. You pay full cover ($14.95) + shipping, you get an issue. You pay anything in between (or above, heh heh), you get an issue.
Just send the amount you’re willing to spend to my Paypal account at kenyon7@mindspring.com or in the mail to:
SAR
P.O. Box 904
Fort Gaines, GA 39851
and I’ll send you an issue.
Hell, it worked for Radiohead. It probably won’t work as well as for me, but even if it works a little, I can start moving this project over from the failure category to the success category.
In return, you’ll get a pretty decent magazine that’ll entertain you, even if just a little. You get to see a little bit more of what I’m all about. And who knows? The magazine might be an inspiration to a writer or literary magazine that YOU know, to show them what is possible.
Novel Podcast: A War Between States, Part 19
Years have passed since I first wrote this chapter, and as I was reading over it in preparation of recording it for this podcast, I noticed Raymond Bernardt’s long speech about the Reverend Fowler, which you’ll see below. Toot, toot, toot my own horn, but I think his speech is one of the most vibrantly authorative things I’ve ever written. He’s right, you know….
Also, Oz Pizza really does exist, and it proved perfect as a tie-in to all my Wizard of Oz allusions here. They make really excellent pizza, too - just FYI. No wizards involved.
A War Between States Part 19:
Chapter 10, Part Two: Campaign: Nate
August 20, 2003
Nate couldn’t speak immediately, only blink, open-mouthed, as the man made his little speech. And as Raymond Bernhardt talked, Nate had the impression that the man was singing and dancing a happy jig at the same time — a kind of musical number like in the elaborate Gene Kelly movies that sometimes aired on Turner.
“You had a run-in with a bastard of a man,” Bernhardt continued, “whose been a thorn in my side for going on twenty years. The Reverend Kenneth Fowler is and has been the pastor of the church where my family — and me by default — chose to attend. I go there now. My daddy and my mama went there before they passed. I go there now. And if I had children — which I most likely won’t — they would go there until they were old enough to choose otherwise. Evangeline Baptist is a good place, full of kind people. And most times, Fowler is a decent man. But over the years, he and I have come to… disapprove of each other. I don’t like his politics — don’t like the fact that he has more than a passing interest in politics at all. There’s a reason God gave the kingship of Israel to Judah and the priesthood to the tribe of Levi, and a reason our founding fathers made so much of the separation of church and state. The pulpit ain’t the place to bash Democrats from, and the church’s influence should not be used to interfere with the affairs of men like you. Fowler had no right to do what he did to you. No right at all.”
Nate blinked again. He thought he saw an after-image surrounding the man’s penny-loafered feet — like sparkles kicking up from dancing feet. Like the glint of glitter on Dorothy’s red shoes.
“Did you come here by coincidence and decide to talk to me on the spur of the moment?” Nate asked. “Or were you on your way to see me all along?”
“The latter.” Bernhardt cracked a conspiratorial smile. “Nate, I know your plight. In fact, most of the folks I hang around with in East Point and Midtown know your plight. And so I’ve come to introduce myself and make you an offer.”
“Come again?”
Bernhardt laughed again, a giddy, resounding chuckle that made Nate grin despite himself.
“C’mon, Nathan Wells. Let’s step into Oz Pizza and I’ll buy you a soda — or a beer if you like. Even a slice. You got time on your hands, I know. And I know you’re just dyin’ to hear what I’ve got to say.”
“You’ve said quite a lot already,” Nate replied.
Bernhardt only chuckled softly and stepped past Nate on his way to Oz. Nate followed, looking down at the sidewalk as he went, searching for yellow bricks.
A song by The Clash was playing inside the pizzeria. Pieces of art hung on the walls, along with a bulletin board full of real estate posts and business cards. The room smelled deliciously of garlic and baking bread.
Raymond Bernhardt sidled up to the counter and ordered a glass of wine. Nate decided what the hell and ordered a beer. When he did, Bernhardt nodded approvingly. They sat at a table in a relatively quiet side room and sipped their drinks for a couple of minutes in silence.
Finally, Nate spoke. “You said you had an offer.”
Bernhardt put his glass of red wine down and leaned back in his plastic chair. “I told you that Fowler doesn’t approve of me,” he said. “You wanna know why?”
“I’m dying to.”
“Because I am two things which Fowler can’t abide, both of which start with the letters G and A.”
Nate took a sip of his beer to mask whatever look was on his face. He didn’t want to offend the man if his guess was wrong as to what one of those things was.
“I’m a professional gambler,” Bernhardt said — that was the one Nate probably couldn’t have guessed. “And I’m gay.”
Yep, Nate thought. Would have got that one right.
“Unfortunately for Fowler,” Bernhardt continued, “I’m also outspokenly Christian. I just don’t think some of the things Fowler preaches are so absolute.” He took a sip of wine as if to emphasize his point. “And I’m rich. The first creates countless compromises for me to deal with. The latter presents a few for Fowler. You see, he likes my tithes to his church.” Bernhardt laughed again, and Nate couldn’t help but join him. It was a sublime bit of irony, something Nate would have loved to written a story about — if he ever got the chance again.
“Now I can’t really influence Fowler,” Bernhardt said. Then he drained his glass and leaned forward, folding his hands together — Nate noticed the man had a ring on nearly every finger. “As generous as I am to his church, I am an abomination…. But I can undo what he’s done to you. And it would give me great pleasure to.”
“What do you mean, Mr. Bernhardt?”
“Oh, come now. Ray. You must call me Ray.”
“Okay, Ray. What do you mean?”
“How much money would it take to get you out of the financial straits you’re in?”
“Well,” Nate said, thinking hard, his excitement building, “I’m not a hundred percent sure.”
“That’s fine,” Bernhardt said, standing. “Think about it while I fetch myself another glass of the vino.”
After he left, Nate sat and thought about the little man’s implied offer. He stared into his beer and did a quick tally so that he could at least give Bernhardt an estimate. Did the man really mean to imply that he would spot Nate — a man he didn’t even know, regardless of his “education” — cash to get out of debt? What was the catch? Was Bernhardt the Wizard at the end of the Yellow Brick Road, or was he just a Munchkin? He kind of looked like a Munchkin. Or was he worse than a Munchkin — was he a Rumpelstiltskin type, and this some sort of Faustian plot?
Suddenly Bernhardt was sitting down in front of him, swirling wine in a glass. “Well?” the little man asked.
Nate raised his eyes from his beer. “Thirty grand,” he said.
Bernhardt’s grin nearly split his face in two. “Is that all?” he said. “Thirty large will get the Atlanta Scribe afloat again? All the way?”
“Well, that’s just the debt. If we reopened, we’d immediately start plunging into the red again, since we’ve got holes in our advertising revenue, thanks to Reverend Fowler.”
“Bah,” Bernhardt said and waved one bejeweled hand at Nate dismissively. “You can use the extra space for additional editorial.” Nate noticed that the man’s second glass of wine had just about disappeared. “Nathan Wells, I would like to offer you a loan in the amount of SEVENTY-FIVE THOUSAND dollars, to pay your debt and keep you operating until the Fowler tempest blows over.”
“I — I could never pay that back,” Nate stammered.
“Don’t be silly. I’ll put no time limit on it, and I won’t charge any interest. Bible says not to charge your brother interest.”
“But —”
“We’ll call it a sponsorship.”
“But… why?”
Bernhardt finished his wine again and raised the empty glass in the gesture of a toast. “The Atlanta Scribe was a fair voice in an unfair world. It gave equitable coverage to the gay community, the Christian community, the you-name-it community. Few publications can claim that level of non-bias. It would a shame to see it go. But besides that, I told you, Nate Wells: it would give me great pleasure to be a thorn in Fowler’s side. And, like I said, I am a gambler.”
The Cast
- Nate Wells - Jay ‘Hot Thang’ Elgin
- Raymond Bernhardt - Jeff Jarvis, Sorceror’s Apprentice
- Narrator - Will Kenyon
Novel Podcast: A War Between States, Part 18
It’s been since before the holidays that I posted a podcast of the novel I’m podcasting. But don’t worry - I haven’t forgotten it, just neglected it! Still, here’s a new installation, which will be followed later this week by another installation. In this one, we return to Nate Wells, now after the closing of his magazine. Here Nate meets a mysterious stranger, and hopefully you’ll soon be wondering the same thing Nate is….
A War Between States Part 18:
Chapter 10, Part One: Campaign: Nate
August 20, 2003
Deanna was the last one to leave. She walked across the tiled floors of the office with a cardboard box cradled in her arms. From its top protruded the peak of the goofy alarm clock/art piece she’d bought at the Lakewood Antique show — the goofy alarm clock/art piece her girlfriend wouldn’t let her keep in their apartment. It looked like a flamingo, with long yellow legs holding up a blue cuckoo clock house from which the flamingo’s elongated pink neck thrust, and from which an orange pendulum hung like a silly neck tie.
The peak of the blue house caught Nate’s eye as Deanna bustled by. She’d already said good-bye, so she didn’t say anything else to him as she left, only stared straight ahead, jaw clenched and blue eyes shiny with tears. Nate didn’t blame her — they’d both nearly burst into crying when they’d met in his office three hours ago to exchange future contact information and say farewell. Deanna wanted to hang around and help Nate finalize his plans for the business, but the bankruptcy lawyers and accountants insisted that they needed no help.
Nate watched her open the front door with extended fingers, watched her thrust her foot in to open it further, and watched her bump through the opening with her hips. Sunshine outlined her briefly and then she was gone. The door closed behind her.
Nate sat at a desk in the rear of the main office and gazed out across the room. He realized that, without its tell-tale decorations and desktop knick-knacks, he couldn’t remember whose desk this had been. All of the desks were void of computers. Nate had already purged their memories, downloaded all the stored articles and copies of the Scribe to CD. He’d already sold them all to subsidize the final paychecks for his former employees — a move the bankruptcy lawyers had balked at when they found out he’d done it. Still, Nate stood by his decision.
“They stuck with me through it all,” he told the stern-faced lawyers — one bald, droopy-cheeked man, the other a younger, swarthy-looking man who blatantly ignored Brylcreem’s insistence that ‘a little dab’ll do ya.’ “I can’t give them a decent severance package. The least I can do is give them the money I owe them for putting out our last issue.”
The computers were gone, and with Deanna’s departure, all the decorations — the posters, the toys, the shelves of books — were gone as well. Nate’s own Lego robot and his North By Northwest poster were in the back of his Blazer, which was itself newly restored and still not paid for.
And so the white-washed walls appeared starkly white-washed, except for the tiny tack holes which the building management’s work crew would start to spackle that week. The tiled floor seemed so much brighter now under the flourescents, even with the office furniture still intact. There was a slight echo throughout the few rooms.
“It looks so empty,” he said out loud to test the echo again, and wondered how empty it would look when the office furniture rental guys came and took all the desks and filing cabinets away.
He sighed and stood, went to his office for one last look — one final check to make sure that he’d gotten everything.
He stared at the empty, dusty corners of his tiny office and sighed again. For six years, ever since he’d started the Scribe, he’d happily come to this office and did what he was most passionate about: he’d bathed in information, in facts and conjectures, in opinions and statistics.
In words.
Every day, immersed in words.
“All struck a finishing blow by one ignorant man’s whimsy,” he said to the dust.
The dust gave no reply.
So Nate spun on his loafered heel and headed the way Deanna had gone — out the front door. He switched off the flourescents, stood in the dark a moment, then opened the front door and stepped into the morning sunlight.
Outside, the street was mostly empty. Deanna’s Civic was gone, and someone in a pickup truck was pulling into her spot in front of the building. A man in Bermuda shorts and a polo shirt was walking toward him on the sidewalk. A line of people in vehicles waited to use the automated teller at the bank across the street. The air around all of them was hot and oppressive — the sun too bright, the Atlanta smog noticeably thick. The atmosphere reminded him of Marionville.
Then he heard a bird chirp in the maple tree to his left and he smiled. It was so hot in Marionville during August, even the birds didn’t chirp.
“Well, hell,” he said, “at least I’m not there.”
“Not where?” a voice asked in reply, and Nate started.
He whipped his head around to see that the man who’d been approaching on the sidewalk was standing beside him, smiling, a pencil-thin mustache perched under his small, sharp nose.
“Oh, nowhere,” he said to the man and smiled automatically — a friendly I-don’t-know-you-but-how-are-you-have-a-nice-day smile.
The man smiled back. He was a good head shorter than Nate and he beamed up at him with genuine — could it have been? — affection. Nate was tall, but the man was diminutive, only coming up to the bottom of Nate’s chest.
“Marionville,” the man said through his smile. His uneven but ultra white teeth flashed in the sun.
Nate turned to face the man full on. He gaped down, even as the man gazed up. The man rocked back on his penny loafers and chuckled softly.
“How did you know that?” Nate asked.
The man licked his thin, pale lips. “You’re Nathan Wells, the editor and publisher of the Atlanta Scribe. I recognize you from your headshot in the paper.”
Nate nodded, a little flattered but unsurprised. He wasn’t famous really, but people recognized him now and then. That still didn’t explain how the man knew he was thinking about Marionville just then.
“I remember a little editorial you wrote about how you grew up,” the small, smiling man continued. “First in Marionville, Georgia, then in Opelika, Alabama. Although the piece was a bit nostalgic, you didn’t paint the prettiest picture of Marionville. So, I figured if you were glad you weren’t somewhere, there was a fair chance that there was Marionville.”
Nate frowned and furrowed his eyebrows at the man. “Good guess,” he said.
Now the man laughed out loud. “Actually, it was an educated guess, and I should hope it was good — making good, educated guesses is what I do for a living.” The man shuffled back a step so that he could offer his hand to Nate and perform a little bow. “My name is Raymond Bernhardt. And now you’re wondering why I’m educated — even in the slightest — about Nathan Wells and his recently, dearly departed Atlanta Scribe.”
The Cast
- Nate Wells - Jay Elgin
- Raymond Bernhardt - Jeff Jarvis
- Narrator - Will Kenyon
Just Because It’s Cold, Doesn’t Mean It’s Not Getting Warmer
One thing most of us in the U.S. can agree on: it’s cold outside. While we’re all freezing our collective asses off, though, some of us are taking the extra step to use the unusually low temperatures to debunk the reality of global warming.
“Oh shit,” some of you are saying now, “Will’s gonna give us an earful about how we need to save the environment. He’s gonna transform into Al Gore and preach to us about our responsibility to the planet.”
Well, I’m not. Not quite. Because it’s probably pointless to try and argue facts vs. “facts” with most non-believers. It’s kind of like a person who believes in God arguing with a devout athiest – regardless of how well either side presents his argument, in the end only stubbornness wins.
To the extent that I feel I need to defend the facts, I’ll only cite three things. The first is a quote lifted directly from the web site of the Environmental Defense Fund: “Furthermore, a single year of cold weather in one region of the globe is not an indication of a trend in the global climate, which refers to a long-term average over the entire planet.”
Let’s say you have a desert. And one summer it rains in that desert for a week, when ordinarily it’s dry as a bone. That doesn’t mean the place is no longer a desert – you just have an isolated weather phenomenon that flies in the face of the overall conditions. Same with this cold snap and global warming. I don’t think that’s hard to understand, but some people seem to have a problem grasping the concept.
For further edification, here’s a second citation – I’ll simply refer you to the Voice of America article titled “Meteorologists: Global Warming and Cold Weather Go Hand-In Hand.” The title says it all, but you should still take the time to read it.
Finally, I’ll cite this quote, also lifted from the EDF web site: “The most respected scientific bodies have stated unequivocally that global warming is occurring, and people are causing it by burning fossil fuels (like coal, oil and natural gas) and cutting down forests. The U.S. National Academy of Sciences, which in 2005 the White House called ‘the gold standard of objective scientific assessment,’ issued a joint statement with 10 other National Academies of Science saying “the scientific understanding of climate change is now sufficiently clear to justify nations taking prompt action.”
The only debate in the science community about global warming is about how much and how fast warming will continue as a result of heat-trapping emissions. Scientists have given a clear warning about global warming, and we have more than enough facts — about causes and fixes — to implement solutions right now.”
Given all that, I think I’d rather spend my time here ruminating over WHY someone would deny something that I think’s undeniable. I have three theories, all or none of which might pertain to “non-believers” out there. I invite you to bring forth other theories – if they’re viable and interesting, I’ll certainly post them.
Oh, and I’m not talking about those scientists, politicians, policy-makers, and pundits who are actively debunking global warming. I KNOW why they’re doing it. Money. They’re getting paid, re-elected, or whatever, to say the words put into their mouths by those who see the changes that need to be made as a threat to the bottom line.
I’m talking about the average person who, for whatever reason, chooses to disbelieve the truth.
OK. Here we go with theory one:
Some people hop on the anti-global warming bandwagon because of its nonconformist appeal. For some, because of the dogma they USUALLY have to adhere to in their workaday, do-what-you’re-supposed-to-or-God’s-gonna-get-you lives, it’s cool to FINALLY be able to cling to a “rebellious” notion, one that flies in the face of long-accepted facts and established trends. Disbelieving the facts of global warming is a way for them to “buck the system.”
Theory two:
Others feel the need to toe the party line – if it’s what their favorite pundit or their Sunday preacher says, then it must be true. Ironically, it bears pointing out that the scientific community mentioned in the EDF quote above was lauded by the Bush Administration, and that the VOA article I linked to emanated from the Bush White House – the same Administration and White House which rejected the Kyoto Protocol and had a notorious reputation for being pro-industry and anti-environmental. So, if THAT administration is unwilling to dispute facts, well….
The sad thing to me is that the threat of global warming OUGHT to transcend party politics. Alas, though, for some that’s all there is….
Theory three:
Finally, I think it’s a way for some people to alleviate the guilt they feel for “contributing” to global warming by driving, cooking with gas, spraying aerosols, and farting. If it’s not real, then they’re not guilty of anything, right?
Well, I have another solution for their guilt.
In New York there’s a famous “National Debt Clock” which continually ticks off the increasing amount of money our government owes. I don’t know if the subsection of the clock is still active which displayed the amount each individual family owed; it was still there when I left the city.
I remember that every time I passed the clock, I’d see how much I personally “owed” and I’d laugh. Sure, no doubt I owned some of that debt, being a beneficiary of a variety of government programs, but I always felt that my portion had to be significantly lower than the posted average.
That may or may not be true, but what IS true is that you and I, average individuals who go about our daily lives just like most average individuals, do not “own” a relatively significant portion of the global warming “debt.” There are a vast array of other entities who are MUCH higher contributors to global warming – your morning commute is NOTHING compared to them.
There. Feel better?
You see, you really don’t need to change your behavior that much. All you have to do is BELIEVE. I think that if enough people begin to accept the facts that have been in front of them for a long, long time, then eventually that belief will insinuate itself into politics and industry leaders, who are the ones who can REALLY affect change. And then they, in turn, will act on their beliefs.
Now, there are those who think that this sort of slow evolution is too slow – that we need to ACT NOW to save the planet. They may be right – evidence does point to the possibility that climate change is a ticking time bomb.
And it IS a given, too, that if people would take the time and energy they waste arguing against the facts, and instead use that time and energy to do the little-bitty things they COULD do to help slow the effects of global warming, then they’d discover yet another way to alleviate their guilt.
We gotta start somewhere, and believing is a start. Change your attitude. Save the world.