Great New Dog!

Here's our great new ex-Seeing Eye shepherd, named River. He's posing beside our stuffed shepherd "Buddy". 

Now we can say of our home, "A River runs through it."

He's very patient and understanding, and a fresh coating of his fur is everywhere in the home.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Silence Becomes Me

I've been writing "stuff"--stories, reportage, etc.--ever since I could spell, but in the past year or so I've been silenced. Our dear "keeper" Shepherd, Prudence, passed on in Feb. 2007 and I'm thinking perhaps that was the silencer put on my loud mouth. 

But yesterday a phone call from The Seeing Eye told us we could adopt a 5-yr-old Shepherd; it took us maybe half an hour to decide YES, and next week we drive down to NJ to claim him. 

As he helps us recover from our caninical loss, perhaps I'll recover my literary voice.

We shall see.

THE SEA IS A HARSH MISTRESS

The previous entry explained how I went scalloping with Bob Huss. I should have mentioned that each edible scallop is a finger-nail sized blob perhaps one-eighth inch thick. And how rich they are: eating a small portion of a morning's catch, fried in butter, was equivalent in latent energy to a buffalo steak.

This morning, which happens to be my birthdate anniversary, I retrieved a phone call from Bob Huss (after a great breakfast at The Black Dog) inviting me to join him and two other friends-- the noted how-to author Lynn Herrick and Steve Wilkerson, both initiates to the fine art.

On my wife's wise advice I dressed warmly: silk underwear, lined pants, warm shirtings, and a full rain suit, PLUS heavy rubber boots. 

We met at Bob's boat and after a few minutes, the engine cranked, we cast off mooring lines and were at sea in the bracing morning breeze at about 40 deg. F, and without shock absorbers, so that each time the boat hit the trough between two waves we felt it.

In about 15 minutes, we entered the lagoon, which is separated from Vineyard Haven hahbah by a draw bridge. Quieter waters and shallower. A few commercial scallopers were at work, so Bob guided our craft to an empty section of the lagoon and we cast off the heavy metal draggers. 

Results were disappointing, however, as we mostly got empty scallop shells. The crabs and starfish had been as busy as crows in a cornfield. We got some, though. Then the boat's engine shut itself off. Bob attempted restarts unsuccessfully. 

We were adrift. Fortunately the breeze blew us close to shore. There was a small sandy shelf. The boat entered two feet of water but wouldn't go closer, though Bob wanted her beached. Lynn was in the bow, but only wore sneakers, so I leaped gracefully up on the rail, dangled a leg and let most of my body follow. 

My left boot was in the water but my right foot was stuck on the rail.

Bob said, "Put both feet over, Don."

I said, "I understand the theory but the practice eludes me."

Steve reacted quickly, grabbed the foot and lifted it over the rail...at which point I dropped.

As I fell backwards all of 3 feet into the water below, I screamed "CALYPSO!!" in homage to the final Pirates of the Caribbean movie. 

"Are you okay?" Lynn asked.

"I'm fine, but soaked," I replied. Indeed I felt water inside all my clothing and my boots.

But I lurched to my feet and helped pull the boat onto the sandy shelf.

Shortly after that, Bob managed to restart the engine. They conveyed me to a boat dock near the drawbridge, and I squished along the dock and awaited my wife to come pick me up. Fortunately the water against my skin and inside the clothes acted like an insulator and kept me from freezing

After a hot shower and fresh clothes I felt invigorated by my Adventure at Sea and am ready for more. Next time, I'd like to stay dry. 

Old Man and the Sea

Yes, I've officially become a member of the hallowed fraternity of Scallopers.

Today, an Island friend took me on his small boat and we hunted bay scallops.

Yes, I wore special underwear as well as a fleece vest and my Black Dog cap. The temperature of outside air was moderate, but on the sea as we boated to Vineyard Haven Lagoon, it sank. Chilly. 

After arriving, my friend (Bob Huss) showed me what to do. He had two very heavy Draggers--heavy metal chains forming a basket, hooked to a heavy metal hook. Connected to the boat by long strong ropes. 

We threw the Draggers o'erboard and Bob advanced the boat a hundred yards or so, with the Draggers dragging on the bottom. Then he paused the boat and we hand-over-handed the ropes (like ringing a church bell) until the Draggers--even heavier now with content--were aboard. Then we dumped the contents and searched for Scallops.

We found many crabs, which eat the Scallops, and lots of other thingies from the bottom as well as seaweed aplenty. The catches were scarce on scallops so we had to do it about a dozen times. By that time, my arms were so weak I couldn't lift the Dragger to the boat without Bob's help. Finally we had about a bushel and headed for port.

Then Bob showed me how to shell the scallops. A bit like cutting oysters, using a similar knife. I wonder what the early Americans used since they lacked metal knives. Special stone tools?

The photo shows me with my portion of the catch, which was liberal since Bob easily shucked 4 times what I did. I plan to cook them with butter...

and they are delicious!

Real Magic

My hypothesis is: that books about magic are really about, in a broad sense, religion and about God or divine powers. Magic is a metaphor for spiritual power.

For example: in the book of Exodus, Moses confronts Egypt's Pharoah and does a trick that divine inspiration told him to do. Pharoah calls his court magicians and orders them to duplicate it. They do, but Moses trumps their tricks. Moses proceeds to do more "magic" that just dumfounds the Egyptians.

In more modern times, magicians often try to duplicate religious magic: for instance, turning water into wine was one that Christ Jesus did originally. Tricks of levitation were probably demonstrations again from the Bible of Jesus ascending. I think that these and other magics were part of theatrical presentations about the gospels.

In the super-popular Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings books, magic is a power that can be used for good or evil--like the "Force" in the Star Wars movies and as most religions hold, the eternal battle between God and the Devil. 

We all possess some "magical" or God-derived powers. Use them well.

Hippies on Martha's Vineyard

The longer we live here on Martha's Vineyard--one year, as of Halloween--the more pleased and surprised I am by the year-round inhabitants. Few easy characterizations except: 

In general, the voting adults seem "liberal" in the good, old-fashioned, sense. 

There are a lot of single moms. 

Lots of community activism and volunteers. 

Many people work two jobs. 

I feel more comfortable here than I have in some other places I've lived; tho I tend, as a writer who sits with his computer most of the time, to be fairly comfy everywhere, here I'm comfy when I'm away from the computer.

Couple weeks ago we went to a "Buy Local" fair at the Agricultural Hall up-Island in Tisbury. It's a semi-rural atmosphere, still, and many of the folks and especially the kids are comfortable in rural surroundings. Here's a young girl (named, as I recall, tho I didn't write it down, "Pearl") whose father let me photograph her long long hair.

New Cartoon

I did this today under a rush command from my wife. Done as a "special Day" card for a dear friend who teaches art classes. I wish wifey would give me orders for work more often. I was totally happy while doing it. And I think it's pretty good, though if it weren't a rush I would have worked more on it. If I ever get going on a graphic novel, this is probably the style I'll use.

You CAN'T be Apolitical!!?

But I think I am.  Well, maybe not. I'm kind of interested; I intend to vote. But what I hate about politics is taking sides and the hatred that seems to characterize each side's view of its opposing side.

So much of politics is an image game--trying to appear as if you're the desirable one. Isn't that just sucking up?

But it's the hate that inspires so many e-mails and online and newspaper columns and blogs that makes me almost despair. So I try to remain unattached politically. And I watch and observe.

Many friends who e-mail me send liberal messages about hate for McCain and Palin. If I respond in a non-supportive or critical way, they assume that means I'm a conservative, which in their thinking relegates me to the simpletons. On the other hand, a few conservative friends think I'm a traitor if I disagree with their stance of hatred and disgust for Obama/Biden.

I have no idea how many other Americans may feel as I do. Perhaps they're the ones listed as "Undecided" on the polls. If I don't hold to that thought I feel very lonely.

Love each other, people! Don't hate!

Whichever team gets elected, support them in their work and try to participate, rather than sniping, sabatoging and undercutting.

The Flying Elbows

The Flying Elbows are a small musical group, with the lead a violinist (or fiddler, as I'm learning to call the instrument when its played this way) who play on Martha's Vineyard. 

We first heard them years ago when we went "up-Island" to a contra dance. And, watching them play, we understood why the name: those elbows do fly because they're playing 90 miles/hour and no brakes. 

The tunes reminiscent of Irish and Southern music, rich in harmonies and thrills (at least I'm thrilled with it). I tried to describe it so I could write about it; as far as I can tell, there's no way to emulate in words that old-timey music with dashing dancing prancing instruments (fiddle, banjo, guitar, etc.) except with the instruments themselves. The first fiddle often leads with a kind of tune and the others play harmonies. No, that's inadequate. I'll think of another way to describe it....

A violin/fiddle can play only one note at a time (unlike, say, a piano); however, the fiddler overcomes this apparent limitation by playing extremely fast, so the notes tend to blur and blend into a recognizable tune that depends on clumps of notes rather than individuals. 

One of the players said this: "It's not bluegrass music; this music came before bluegrass."

He closed with this classic: "Old timey music is better than it sounds!"

Sadly, my explanation, while having the virtue that it sounds simple and easy (like so many theories abounding today) is incorrect. A reader, Elizabeth, sent me a corrective email, which I quote here:

"I play fiddle and I wanted to let you know that a violin/fiddle can play more than one note at a time. The violin has 4 strings and there are 4 fingers on the fingerboard. The bow can play on more than one string at a time. The fiddler can play chords using 2, 3 or even 4 strings at a time. Old-time New England fiddlers and dance callers could have the bridge of their fiddle altered to make it straight across instead of arched. This would make it possible for the fiddler to play 4 strings at a time so their instrument would be loud, as they had no amplification way back then. You mention the rich harmonies. A fiddler can harmonize a tune by using 'double stops', meaning they can play at least 2 notes at a time."

Let this be a warning to us. If anyone, especially some of the political bloggers, produces a theory that sounds as if it could be correct, it probably is not. Reality is more complex and therefore more interesting...

Evolution? Creative Design? We report, you decide

Here's the pitch: any intelligent designer, designing life, would include an algorithm for evolution. Comment?

Down in NJ

This weekend in NYC, we heard a lecture by astrophysicist Dr. Laurance Doyle, and he was brilliant. Pointed out that quantum physics and current physicists' experiments tend to agree that the universe is not material; in fact, matter does not really exist. The closer one looks at apparent matter, the less it appears to be. This leads to all kinds of fascinating developments in theory and practice.

HOWEVER, from that high point, we went over to NJ and spent the night in a new motel, one of those famous chains whose initials are BW... in Mt. Olive. First we discovered that only hot water came out of the bathroom sink tap. Fortunately this wasn't true of the shower! Then when I tried to use the internet, it asked for a password that the desk clerk didn't have. Crowning note: when Penny took a shower she smelled gas (not a human emission). 

Good thing, though, got to spend an afternoon with oldest daughter and her family. Her husband is a Non-Vegetarian: eats only meat, and he cooked up a couple of humongous chunks for dinner, of which I ate a bit more than my portion. It may not be real, an illusion, but the taste and satisfaction rates are pretty high. (Did you ever see the movie MATRIX? Same situation: can see through the illusion to the reality behind, but still like the illusion of a steak.)

Watchmen

Continuing my quest to read more graphic novels before I begin my own, I just finished Watchmen, a graphic novel by Alan Moore. Moore also authored V for Vendetta, and these two confirm me in determining that I shall never again read anything by him.  His work is filthy, degraded, bloody, amoral... I don't like it. 

But let me explain a bit more. Imagine a Quentin Tarantino movie with even more emphasis on blood, monotonous conversations, boredom broken by violent action in which nobody, NOBODY is safe from a horrible death.  And a twisted ending (as different from an ending with a twist) is mandatory.

However, I'm getting closer to starting my own graphic novel. This week I submitted portions of two separate novels to editors and agents. Waiting for their responses gives me time to think about doing my own graphic novel--writing and drawing it. Once I begin, I'll post pictures on this blog.

Bad Bond! Bad Bourne! Good Don?

I just finished a Bond novel by an Ian Fleming imitator --Sebastian Faulkes. It's called DEVIL MAY CARE. I guess I didn't realize before how very disagreeable Bond is--I found myself not caring whether he survived the bad guys or not. Constantly drinking, smoking, womanizing. When in foreign lands the only thing he thinks about is whether the hotel, cigarettes and booze are up to his standards. 

Or maybe it's just this author's "take" on Bond. Bad. 

This is the second book by an imitator I've read; the other was a followup on Robt. Ludlum's BOURNE series. It also wasn't very good for me because I didn't care about any of the characters, even Bourne himself. 

But why am I reading so much cheap fiction? Is it the need to escape from my own work? Which is, of course, deeply serious, great literature???

Tai Chi and Kill Hitler!

Tai Chi camp: Penny and I just returned from our visit to tai chi camp in the Catskills. Our teacher, Master Yu, is older than we are, and amazingly strong at 130 pounds. He customarily gestures to the biggest guy in our class, says, "touch me here" and when the hand approaches, Master Yu moves quickly and before you can say, "wha hoppen?" he pushes the guy gently or not so away. He needs to use demonstrations because his English is, to put it nicely, lousy. When we started his classes (back in NJ, about Y2000), I could understand only maybe 1/20th of what he said. Now my average is double that, maybe 1/5th. So I'm almost able to hold a conversation with him, though when I speak, he sometimes says, "What?" But he's a great guy and he even believes in me, that I somehow can learn to do all four forms (108 "chapters or movements") that he teaches. I was at it for 2 years before I learned the first one, and then let it drop because he could no longer come to NJ to teach and his NYC lessons were too difficult for us to get to.

Penny, however, is much better at it than I; she does all 4 forms and additional stuff too. I'm beginning to wonder if I'm just lazy... However, being at camp I got enthusiastic about it again and intend to practice more. (Another) however, my current list of duties and obligations is enough to use up 26 hours at my current rate of accomplishment. 

I finally managed to get my website for the Kill Hitler book registered with Google, but each time I try a search on some of the specific phrases listed in the website, NOTHING, ZILCH turns up. Despite the title it's a good book if I do say so myself; some other people have thought so too. Now I'll go back and work some more at it. I really want kids (boys, mostly, since four 10-year-old boys are the protagonists) to find the site and download the FREE BOOK. No catch, no games, no fooling.

add later: I finally think my website is indexed by Google. But I googled the phrase "Kill Hitler" and got 111,000 replies!!! How to make my site jump to top of the queue???

More, later, probably...

Shakespeare (and Me) in Love

Hot at last. Over 80 in the shade. Inside the house is slightly cooler. Need to head for the beach soon.

I just completed a novel that I didn't want to read: The Bourne Legacy, by Eric v Lustbader, taking Robert Ludlum's character Jason Bourne and extending his adventures. Although very professionally done, in research on the different foreign locales and in the hand-to-hand combat and in the many deaths, I was unmoved by any of the characters or events.

I also read the script for SHAKESPEARE IN LOVE and it reminded me how much I love that movie. Need to watch it again. Strange to me that several of the women in my life don't find it compelling.

Grandkids coming this weekend for a week's stay. We'll put them in a camp for the mornings and in the afternoons hope to take them to the beach, finish up with supper, a ride on the Flying Horses, ice cream and... bed!

"Blogger(s) Call For Immediate..."

Today, in the NYTimes email that I receive that lists stories, was one that said two bloggers had called for "immediate withdrawal" from Iraq. 

This makes me suspicious because that's the same stance taken by the editorial writers (and, apparently, most of the columnists, etc.) at the Times.

So I wondered, if I post an opposite opinion, will that attract the Times' attention and will they feature me?

So this is an experiment. I call for the armed forces of the United States to remain in Iraq until the mission is truly accomplished: that a free and stable Iraq is able to govern itself. 

I LIKE Crows

First, a recent news report: 

(Reuters) Patna, India: Train services were disrupted in parts of eastern India...after flocks of agitated crows snapped overhead powerlines when railway workers tried to clear their nests.

Penny, my wife, is a devoted bird watcher. Due mostly to her, we have bird feeders in front and back of our rental house. It falls to me to keep them filled with tasty seeds. In the act, I somehow found myself actually looking at the different birds and growing involved with them. Especially with crows. The crows on Martha's Vineyard are larger than crows in New Jersey; I thought they were ravens. We have one who sits on the edge of the bird bath and drops in tasty crumpets he's seized from some workingman's lunch bag, to soften them, then flies off. 

Crows in general are full of behavior. When they walk, they strut. When they get together to chat, they go chit-chit-chit. When they sing up the dawn like roosters, it's a kawww, kawww. When they swoop, other birds get out of the way. I have grown to like/love them. 

However, this guy, an outdoors columnist no less, doesn't understand crows. Or birds, apparently!  http://www.meridianstar.com/outdoors/local_story_040002917.html.

Hard to fathom how he can be so puzzled...

The 1-Minute Pitch

Ah, the joys of going to a conference. Last Thursday I drove down to Princeton, NJ, to the Theological Seminary, where the NJ branch of the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI) hosted a conference for those of us who Truly Believe that some child will want to read what we have written. 

 It was a gorgeous couple days. Over 200 fellow TBs plus editors and agents--all of them wiser beyond their years (I think wisdom is thrust on those who must sit in judgment on our works... hmm, perhaps that could be an educational tool, eh?) We were fed well and I had a bed in a spartan little dorm room with a shared bath. 

 I tried to keep up with my exercises, but the second day felt too early for me and simply showered and dressed and showed up for the initial session. I didn't write anything new, but had some interesting comments from an agent on something I'd submitted in advance. He liked part of it and didn't like another. I may revise after I think about it some more.

 But the nicest surprise was the 1-Minute Pitch at the last. This was an opportunity to capture an editor's interest with a Quick Pitch: a coherent but fast summary of a book I'm working on. It was a bit like fast dating. I took a chair in front of an editor, handed her my (outdated) greeting card, and started spieling. She listened and responded. Then a whistle blew and I jumped to the next chair and the next editor and repeated the process, changing slightly what I said because of the experience of the first one. 

 Three editors in about 6 minutes. And all of them were interested and told me to submit more of the project. 

 Ah, love!

In the Oughties

In the movie "The Music Man", starring Robert Preston, Prof. Harold Hill claims to have graduated in the class of "ought-five." Sounds good to me - we're living in the Oughts.

Maybe we're in the Ought-to's. As in, we ought to...

-use our incredible affluence to feed the world's hungry instead of buying expensive disposables...

- explain to our kids how to distinguish between right and wrong instead of letting relativism muddy the moral air...

- realize that entertainment, like sugar candy, is only healthy according to its quality and scarcity...

- stop holding up the President of USA up as a role model, hero-big-brother who's gonna take care of us; instead, treat him as what he or she is--a guy in an 8-year job with limited powers and then she's outta there, and that anyone who's a citizen can and should perform the job as a duty, not an ego trip...

- stop worshipping celebrities...

- de-sensualize our culture.

My Graphic Novels Presentation

I just got home after making a Keynote (Macintosh version of PowerPoint) presentation at the Oak Bluffs library, on graphic novels. I've been researching this since about January and so I feel a sense of completion, asking myself 'what next?' 

The research was fun and interesting. I presented a variety of different works by different artists, but definitely made my favorites known. About 15 people attended and the library provided snacks and drinks. 

I had some technical issues to overcome. This was my first time using a projector; I *thought* I knew what to do, but surprises popped up and I had to handle them. 

Also a page from a Donald Duck comic. And another cover of a Korean manga. And one of The Rabbi's Cat, which is the best of the lot in my humble opinion (IMHO) and very encouraging to me when I begin my own graphic novel. More later...

The Baltimore Oriole and the Barn Owl

Raining today on the Vineyard, but we visited our house under construction and took photographs of the interior to show electric and plumbing wires and pipes. Because insulation will be going in next week. 

Later we went to Felix Neck, wildlife sanctuary, for a bird walk to spot Baltimore Orioles. With the rain heavy at times, there wasn't a big turnout, but the small group went anyway. The sanctuary's birdfolk had salted the area with orange halves, a favorite for the birds. 

None were in sight, so we ambled around an acre or so, looking at what we could see. I felt like an unworthy hangeron, because my wife and the other participants were experienced bird watchers, could identify birds by their calls. Sometimes I couldn't even hear the call because I haven't yet learned how to focus my ears, as it were.

Then, as we returned to the main cabin, one of our group said "There!"

And there it was, feeding on an orange atop a post. We fixed our binoculars and fed our eyes on its wonderful orange colors.

We didn't have our camera but I found a shot online that's very like what we saw.

Then we went inside the cabin and watched a computer screen that showed video feed from a barn owl nest atop the cabin. Several small barn owls huddled together, one preening.

And here's a barn owl photo.

A very satisfactory day, all in all. 

A Movie By Me

and wife Penny contributed to it too, as did our daughter Debbie, who was the camera person. The Zen story I found somewhere, storyboarded it (a piece of that is at the end) and then persuaded wife and daughter to join me in making the movie. I apologize for my really hammy acting. You can see it here:

Where's Home?

For 30+ years the we lived in one house in Green Village, NJ. A year ago we sold that house and (by November) moved to Martha's Vineyard. Our house here is still under construction. So, last week we drove down to visit friends in Green Village and after 5 days we said, "...ready to go Home now" meaning on the Vineyard. Didn't take long to make the mental switch. Perhaps because in our fantasies we've been living fulltime on the Vineyard for many years.

We loved the visit. Springtime hit while we were there and everything was gorgeous. We stayed in a friend's cottage (Thanks, Judy!) beside a lovely pond, visited by Canada Geese and some ducks. Even (maybe especially) during the frequent rains, the scene outside was great to look at. The geese were funny because they take themselves so seriously (like humans). (The geese have adopted New Jersey as their "Palm Beach", no longer choosing to migrate back to the Northern Wilds of Canada.)

One guy goose honked almost continually as if asserting he was Lord of the Pond. He seemed to be saying that his mate was the most gorgeous goose on Earth and no other male better make eyes at her. (They mate for life.) Once I saw him do a Threatening Rush--wings outstretched, neck snapping--at another goose who turned away.

And then, on our last morning, we saw two geese sail out, followed by 4 goslings. Nice trip. But we're back Home now.

Singing ELIJAH

Penny and I just returned from singing in the Island Chorus (about 100 voices), doing Mendelsohnn’s ELIJAH. We were joined by a small orchestra, mostly imported from off-island, as well as some soloists.

We’ve been practicing this complex and long piece for months, since January, when a friend enticed us into the group. There were times of deep disappointment for me, because it was the first time I ever sang bass and because I know so little about reading music on clefs below Middle C (I did take piano lessons as a kid, but really only could read the right hand parts). And the timing! Don’t forget that! The timing was particularly difficult because the composer uses it creatively. So I came close to dropping out several times.

Results? Glorious music and we felt grateful to be a part of it, but it was a bit like being part of a sophisticated drill team and yet not having proper instruction in all the complexities of its moves.

Somehow we got through. At several points today during the singing I almost broke down: tears popped into my eyes and my throat clutched and I had to just wait until I had emotional control enough to proceed.

It is a gorgeous piece of music, deeply spiritual and moving. Listen to Neville Mariner’s version on CD (because it’s in English rather than German). It will bring a thrill.

ADD ON NEXT DAY
Neither Pen nor I slept well last night. Both of us had vibrant memories of the songs echoing through us, but perhaps it was more than that, something we don't quite understand yet perhaps. Just now, taking a shower, I tried to sing the last section, a building set of crescendos of which a main repetition is "Lord our Creator, how excellent thy name is...in all the nations," repeating with more emphasis on a rising scale of what I think would be called contrapuntal melodies. Again and again I tried and again and again I choke up on it. Tremendous is too small a word for the feelings it engenders.
Don't give up on anything worthwhile. I am so grateful that I stuck with this.

Amen.

Harry Potter's First Job Application

Name: Harry Potter
Whereabouts secret, Contact me by Owl

I most recently attended Hogwart’s School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, leaving after my 6th year with several N.E.W.T.’s to pursue a course of independent study designed by the late headmaster of Hogwarts, the much-admired Albus Dumbledore.

This last year was extremely dangerous and required me to learn much more about magic and, indeed, about human nature, than any prescribed set of courses could. I was to pursue and, if possible, slay before he killed me the Dark Lord who called himself Lord Voldemort. That I succeeded is due in great measure to the continuing advice I received from Professor Dumbledore, from the steadfast support of friends who more than once saved my life, and from some erstwhile enemies who at least temporarily aligned themselves with my pursuit.

But the full story has yet to be told. Tired of notoriety, weary of being blamed for things that I haven’t done or that aren’t my fault, bored by gossip and impoverished by celebrity, pursued by vengeful Death Eaters, I’m eager to find a steady occupation in this unsteady world, in which I may — in some sort of disguise — continue to grow, meet challenges and rescue others from death or worse.

In short, I seek a position in which I may continue to battle evil.

I understand that I do not have the formal credentials to qualify as an Auror, but it is my hope, as it was the hope of Professors Dumbledore and the current headmistress of Hogwarts, Professor McGonigal, that my extracurricular activities and independent study may prove sufficient.

Short List of Achievements: Using a powerful counter-hex (i.e., Mother-Love), I thwarted Voldemort’s desperate attempt to kill me as a baby. Ten years later, thwarted the weakened Voldemort’s desperate attempt to regain human form by stealing the Sorceror’s Stone. A year later, confronted and defeated the Monster in the Chamber of Secrets and saved the life of Ginny Weasley. A year later, saved Sirius Black from Dementors and a Hippogriff from false accusation and beheading. Won the Tri-Wizard cup in my fourth year at Hogwarts and engaged the reanimated Voldemort in a duel. A year later, thwarted Voldemort again by denying him a prophecy that concerned him. Also assembled and led a group of students in battling Death-Eaters. In my sixth year, I started a private course of study with Professor Dumbledore and accompanied him on what turned out to be his final mission in an effort to defeat Voldemort.

Family: I am a Serial Orphan Boy, first by my parents James and Lily Potter, who were killed by Voldemort when I was one year old. Then, by my godfather Sirius Black, who died when I was 14, lastly by surrogate parental figure, Professor Dumbledore. Lived for some years with a Muggle family, but by mutual agreement that attachment has been severed. Now, age 18, I wish to have no more family because I cannot abide the pangs of loss. I wish just to have friends and occasional romantic attachments, which seems the way of witches and wizards.

Job Experience: Taught Defense Against the Dark Arts as an unpaid instructor while at Hogwarts. Could be persuaded to teach same as an intermediate step toward my ultimate goal. Captained Hogwarts Quidditch Team as Seeker, and led it to win the House Cup in my 6th year. I would of course willingly accept assignment to a professional team.

Recommendations: Please interview Prof. Dumbledore’s portrait in the Headmaster’s office at Hogwarts.

In Case of Disappearance or Demise, please notify: Prof. McGonagall, Headmistress, and Dobby, House Elf, Hogwarts; Remus Lupin, itinerant teacher; Hermione Granger, Apprentice, Department of Mysteries; and Ronald Weasley, Keeper, Worcester Warlocks.

Country Going Bad

The NYTimes today had this lead on a story about the national mood:
"Americans are more dissatisfied with the country’s direction than at any time since the New York Times/CBS News poll began asking about the subject in the early 1990s, according to the latest poll.
In the poll, 81 percent of respondents said they believed that “things have pretty seriously gotten off on the wrong track,” up from 69 percent a year ago and 35 percent in early 2003.
Although the public mood has been darkening since the early days of the war in Iraq, it has taken a new turn for the worse in the last few months, as the economy has seemed to slip into recession. There is now nearly a national consensus that the country faces significant problems.
A majority of nearly every demographic and political group — Democrats and Republicans, men and women, residents of cities and rural areas, college graduates and those who finished only high school — say that the United States is headed in the wrong direction. Seventy-eight percent of respondents said the country was worse off than five years ago; just 4 percent said it was better off.
The dissatisfaction is especially striking because public opinion usually hits its low point only in the months and years after an economic downturn, not at the beginning of one. Today, however, Americans report being deeply worried about the country even though many say their own personal finances are still in fairly good shape."

Well, yes...and no.
Of course, part of the problem here is that the dangum pollsters only list a number of possible responses, all dictated by the media, and "the economy" is on top and "spiritual awareness" is nowhere on the list.
I've been thinking for some time that the USA is on the wrong track, but my thought is not based on economics. It's on spirit. If you ask me what track America should be on, I reply: "There should be more spiritual awareness. I'm not talking about hunting for ghosts, I mean of each person's spiritual identity and goals, which have nothing to do with economics."
So that people know that God doesn't send guilt and punishment, or economic misfortune, but that NOT respecting God causes those things and worse. With true spiritual awareness of the true source of all good, we will be fearless, contented, and, despite the Rolling Stones song, satisfied.

Ode to Bacon Sandwich

(for Miss Carleton, my 10th grade English teacher)

I shall sing the pleasures of a bacon sandwich,
Than which,
Tho Peanut Butter is hastier,
There is nothing Tastier.

The Movie Rant from the Grump

We were watching ENCHANTED on the night before Easter, when I suddenly exclaimed “I hate this movie!” to the amazement of wife and daughter. I walked out. This is almost unheard of for me.
Here’s the substance of my dislike of what was highly acclaimed as a great Disney family movie: For me it trashed some of the great movies in Disney’s past production.
If I were a shareholder in Disney I would demand the disemployment of every one who worked on the movie as well as anyone who okayed it for release after it was made.
Because it trashes the idea and charisma of Disney and says, “OK, we’re all about the money,” which it never was in Walt Disney’s day. If they can’t regain some of that spirit that animated (pun intentional) the company when he was alive, then they should sell off intellectual and real property and disband the corporation now: it has no more to contribute.
Yes, the SHREK movie(s) trashed Disney and got away with it and made millions. So what? I am not a big fan of those movies although they had one or two decent ideas; Eddie Murphy as the donkey was one of the best.
But SHREK was not made by Disney; in fact, it was made by a major competitor of Disney, Dreamworks. Which lists on its board a former Disney Powerful Guy.
Most of its trashing was aimed at generic cartoon characters because otherwise they would have had copyright problems.
However, that doesn’t apply to the people who made ENCHANTED and apparently had license to do whatever they wanted with beloved characters and situations from past Disney movies.
As such, it was a very cheap attempted-suicide.
Redeemed by humor? It wasn’t funny enough. (The one point in which the movie had a touch of redemption was that it turned the actor of "Peter Pettigrew" in the Harry Potter movies and let him become a good guy after all. He must have paid Disney money to let him do that.)
The point where I walked out is the one where the Princess says she needs a new dress for the ball and can’t find a fairy godmother. The 6-year-old girl-friend produces a credit card with an upbeat burst of music.
And they go shopping.
HOWEVER, nothing was made of the “magic” of using the credit card in real life (i.e., shots of simply waving the card and getting the goods). It was just to depict a fantasy shopping trip for girl viewers. Bah, humbug!
I might go on listing the things I despised about it. But why bother? Either you saw it and got your own opinions or you didn’t. If the latter, I advise you to keep your distance. NEVER show it to your own 6-year-old. Never, never, never, never...

Work or Something Like It

Sitting in the house with a nice fire going (in the fireplace, yes, for you literalists) and working on transcribing a novel I wrote into a movie script.
I pitched the concept to a movie producer and he liked it enough to ask to read the script...which I didn't have at the point I pitched it. I don't exactly obey the dicta of "Only a fool writes for anything but money" but I think the days are past when I would do work like this without some encouragement from a potential buyer.
Yes, writing is work. It's not HARD work or I wouldn't do it, but it's harmonious with my temperament.
I am a writer.
When people to whom I declare that ask, "what have you written?", I confess that very little of what I've written has actually been published.

Here's the opening scene of the script:

CRAZY LIKE MOM
FADE IN:
MIDWEST FARM COUNTRY--LATE AFTERNOON
A small town surrounded by cultivated fields and scattered homes. On the outskirts, a small indoor mall with a WAL-MART and a 5-screen cinema.
SMALL MALL--INT. -- CONTINUOUS
On the edge of an imitation marble fountain sits JEREMIAH KRUBBS, about 15. Wearing a backpack, Legs crossed, trying to look cool, eyes swiveling behind dark glasses. He watches the passing human traffic. Intently.
He zooms in on eyes, mouths, tension in shoulders, bags. A variety of people pass, displaying different attitudes.

JEREMIAH
I'm watching for people who love death and hate. They're the most likely terrorists. I can spot them if they make me irritated or angry.

Sound of laughter. A group of teens approaches. In the front is a lovely black-skinned AmerIndian girl, 15. She's giggling with two girlfriends, and texting on her cellphone.

JEREMIAH
But why kid myself? I can't help but notice the cool peeps and the hotties. One and the same when Elvinholm sashays by. X percent Native American, X percent Black, all gorgeous, she's cool and hot.

His eyes follow Elvinholm as she passes by without a glance at him.
Then, coming from the opposite direction, one man--looks Middle Eastern, a Potential Terrorist, scowling, carrying an anonymous gym bag.
Jeremiah rises, follows the man about 15 feet behind, dodging oncoming walkers.
Potential Terrorist stops at the Food Court. It's packed with families, kids. He looks all around, then moves inside.
Jeremiah closes in and bumps him hard. Potential Terrorist drops the bag.
Jeremiah swoops, GRABS the bag and STARTS RUNNING away from the Food Court and the crowds.
Potential Terrorist shouts, angrily pursues Jeremiah. Feet pounding, Jeremiah heads for the Exit, the Potential Terrorist closing fast on him.
Jeremiah bursts through the Exit door into the drizzle and closing darkness outside. He THROWS the bag away from the building and drops to the sidewalk.
The Potential Terrorist stops beside the prone Jeremiah.

POTENTIAL TERRORIST
What the hell wrong with you, man? Why you steal my stuff?

He walks into the street, picks up the bag, walks back to where Jeremiah is sitting up.

POTENTIAL TERRORIST
You crazy?

Jeremiah scoots on his butt away from the man. The man stares at him, then slowly nods.
He unzips the bag and dumps out of it--sweaty gym clothes, sneakers, a racquetball racquet, can of balls. He tosses bag at Jeremiah.

Woody Allen Leaves NYC!

[Let me make this very clear:I wrote this in 2000 and in no way was Woody Allen or anyone else involved...a word of fantasy fiction.]

It was a surprise move by an American icon who has been known for his crochets and favorites. Woody Allen moved last week out of Manhattan to a small rural community in New Jersey. He explains the move in this interview:

Woody: I know, I know, everyone calls me a traitor, a backstabber, the Wandering Jew. Hey, I was faithful to Manhattan for years! Years! I put that city on the map after millions of Americans had given up on it. I think I’ve paid my dues and what did I get in return? OK, I got good bagels, but what else? Did anyone think I deserve a tax break? Or at least a mayoral nomination? But I’m not bitter. Don’t say I’m bitter.

Interviewer: So your move was not to make a point? Then what did initiate it? And why the secrecy?

Woody: What secrecy? We hired a limo and got a couple guys with a truck and they came and packed our stuff and moved us out. I didn’t stop any of the paparazzi from shooting pictures...

Interv: ...that appeared on the various morning shows and sparked phone calls from all areas of New York.

Woody: We had talked about this for some time. I’ve never been across the Hudson you know. I mean--I could visit once or twice, but never inhabited any part of it. You have to inhabit somewhere to really get to know it. I flew over Jersey sometimes and we drove through it and I thought: there are places down there that I could go and live and that would be different.

Interv: So you wanted to change your life in some dramatic meaningful way.

Woody: Well, if you want to be banal about it you could say that. I’m not wearing boots and a cowboy hat. I still dress the same, I hang out...

Interv: Do you sneak back into the City on weekends?

Woody: I’ve been back a few times.

Interv: And?

Woody: Same ol same ol. I go to the old places and they’re still there, but I don’t feel anything you know? I look at the skyline of New York across the Hudson and say, “There’s a big city.” I don’t feel the music, those great ol Gershwin tunes, I don’t hear them when I look at it.

Interv: Hard to believe. Have you had a checkup lately?

Woody: Oh now it’s the brain scan thing, is it? Listen, I could hang up you know. This is so typical of you big-city guys, putting a negative spin on someone who has simply chosen to live a simpler life. If you could see this house. It’s huge! We could fit any New York apartment inside this house and have a condo left over. Really. Some mornings I just get up and run through the rooms, up and down stairs...into the basement. We have a ping pong table there and a pool table and a little area for playing music...we have a hot tub too.

Interv: And you can’t take the subway. How do you get anywhere?

Woody: I’m taking driving lessons. It’s not easy out here, you know, they’re not all egg farmers in pickup trucks...these gigantic vehicles speeding along with little women sitting up there talking on their cellphones...it’s scary. You have to learn how to protect yourself. I’m learning tai chi too.

Interv: So you intend to make this a permanent move? You didn’t hold your lease here?

Woody: A big change. I can breathe. My chest has expanded a quarter inch in a month since the move. I always had this squinchy little chest. I was afraid to breathe too deep because I could imagine all those particles in the air filling my lungs. Now I breathe deep (makes a big inhaling sound, followed by a whoosh). Holding it I don’t do too well. I’m learning how to hold my breath so I can swim underwater.
###

Character or Charisma?

I started thinking about the power of charisma back in the Sixties, when JFK was running for President. (Sidenote: I wanted to write about it for my master's paper, but my advisor set me onto Puerto Rican juvenile delinquents instead. Ah well, my career in journalism was doomed from the start it seems.)

Anyway: Charisma. It rises again today in the person of Barack Obama, who seems able to get women hopping just as JFK did. Young folk, the kind we hope embody the future of our nation and the world, seem entranced by Obama. In my estimation, it's pure charisma.

Who else had it? Franklin D. Roosevelt had it, with his patrician airs and that jaunty cigarette holder and his winning grin. Harry Truman? No, he didn't have it, but he was a good President without it. He just needed to do the right thing and take the blame if he did or didn't. Eisenhower had it, but not because he was homely and bald; he had it because he'd been a hero, a general who led our armies to victory in WW2. Then JFK followed him, and the dream of Camelot, that a great leader could be handsome and intelligent and honorable. After him, LBJ (another politician thrust into office); he didn't have charisma, what he did have was power and the tools to wield it. Then Nixon. Poor Nixon. He knew he didn't have charisma, and people hated him for the lack, and that twisted him, so everything he did was to get even with those who had it. Then, skipping over Gerald Ford, we got Jimmy Carter. He had a homespun, aw shucks air about him that might have passed for charisma in some places, but not enough. Ronald Reagan had it and knew how to use it to convince people of his principles. Even his enemies liked him. Bill Clinton had/has it, and there's the problem for Hillary, where their calculations went awry. She doesn't seem to have it. Barack does.

Should we elect leaders on the basis of who has It and who does not? I'd say no, but history insists that some of our worst Presidents have been those without grace, which is another word for charisma.

But my biggest concern is about the uses to which personal charisma is put. We have to know as we vote that the individual character behind the charisma is strong enough to deflect the inevitable corruptions of power--the temptation to weasel and use the power in the service of something that, once clear thought is established, is not honorable enough to justify it. Like if you have a blackbelt in kung fu and use it to beat up the coach of the opposing team in your kid's soccer league.

Island Escape, Return to the Island

For the second time in our married lives, Penny and I have returned to cold winter from a tropical escape. The first time was in 2001 when we stayed at a friend's house on Oahu for 5 weeks. That time we landed in a typical icy landscape at Kennedy airport; our pores were wide open and our clothing minimal and our tans were no defense at all. And at the wrong terminal to catch the bus to Manhattan. Damn near froze before we got on the bus. Ah, memories!

This time, we had been to St. Croix (say-croy, a piece of literature advised) for 6 days. in a little cottage on the west side, with a small group of friends. (The green arrow below is provided by Google and has nothing to do with where we were.)




The flight back on Thursday from San Juan was cloudy most of the way until we looked out and saw Nantucket and Martha's Vineyard below us, as clear as if from a satellite--our view was of course from an angle as the plane descended--the green arrow in Google image below is pointing at Nantucket and I can't figure out how to eliminate it.

As soon as we landed the snow started--"Welcome back to the winter reality you only thought you'd escaped, ha ha!"

I said to Penny: "I feel as if we've been evicted from Eden."

We both had to fight off colds.

What exactly is the point of an escape to a beautiful warm sunny place with turquoise waters, colorful little fish, frigate birds and pelicans, dolphins swimming past about 50 yards from your front door--if it doesn't shield you from the awful shock of return?

This: I'd do it again.
Remember when winter was fun? See: http://www.gocomics.com/calvinandhobbes/2008/02/24/

The Pig Did It

THE PIG DID IT

That's the title of a novel by Joseph Caldwell, first of a trilogy about "the pig". It's one of the funniest and weirdest books I've read in a long time. Highly recommended. Outrageous things happen as if they are commonplace. I can't even begin to describe it without giving away some of its secrets. It takes place in Ireland, and the author reproduces, I'm sure, Irish speech as it's spoken today (not one "Shur and begorra" to be read). But I'll give a sample that gives away none of the substance of the story because I'm in love with the language in this book:

...just the thought of climbing the pastures up past the heather, through the furze and the rocks and the muddied paths to the waiting heights, had given him again the sight of his great-aunt, tall, indomitable, astride the summit, gesturing with an arm grand enough in its sweep to include all the lands below and speak to him the words that had struck into his soul and made him Irish forever, no matter what other allegiances he might claim. "It was surely at this height,"

Aunt Molly had said, "it was at this height and at this place that the devil brought the proud powers of England and, speaking, said to them: 'All this will I give you' " -- and here the gesture came--" 'All this will I give you if you will but bow down and worship me.' And no sooner had the devil spoken these words than their knees, their English knees, buckled under them--and who would blame the poor hoors, such a height and such a wonder as was laid out before them? And so we fight not only to free ourselves but to free them too, don't forget. To get them up off their knees at last so they can stand and walk upright in the lovely land, free of the tempter's thrall. It's for them, for the kneeling English too, that we fight, poor hoors. And so it goes and goes and goes until we've freed them for good."
But then she would laugh a great laugh and add: "Or for evil. For with them, you never know." Then she would sigh a heavy sigh and repeat, by way of an amen, "Poor hoors."

Sure and begorra I may find meself talkin or writin again in my own poor faux Irish brogue.

My Wife Is A Better Woman Than I Am

Any doubts I may have had about electing a woman for President were either alleviated...or aggravated...by what happened on New Year's Day. In New England. At something like 10 a.m. my wife and two other ladies went for a quick dip. In the Atlantic ocean. I and the other husbands stood by, bundled up, and photographed them. To my eyes, the waves looked a bit sluggish as if they were on the verge of freezing their white tips, but the women went in anyway. I might have marked that off as just feminine highjinks, but since then, my wife has taken to following her hot shower with a cold one. I tried it, once, and shrieked.

Mystery: Why Do People Read Mysteries & Detective Stories?

I have developed a theory about it and I'll let you in on that soon if not later. I just finished a detective mystery: THE FALLEN by T. Jefferson Parker (funny how many people surnamed Parker write mysteries? Robert B. Parker, for instance.). A detective who has a fairly foolproof technique to discern if people are lying solves the assassination of a cop and helps clean up San Diego's crime problem...a bit. In the process however, he's thrown from a sixth- floor window and survives, then loses his beloved wife because she's just unsatisfied and "falls out of love with him." Weird. The cop who was killed had lost his 3 year old daughter by drowning and then his wife moves away from him. And they were reuniting when he's killed. So--sadness and despair, drinking and loss of sleep and betrayal and false friendship and corruption and obsession permeate this book.

In thinking about it, I realize that characterizes the tougher kind of mysteries. There are nicer ones, of course, called "cozies" in the trade; the TV version was MURDER SHE WROTE, with "Jessica Fletcher" as played by Angela Lansbury; the murdered victims were, without exception, unlikable people and nobody really missed or mourned them. My friend Carolyn Hart can write similar stories in her Death on Demand mysteries, but she also writes tougher ones (the Henrie O mysteries). But in the really tough stories (think THE MALTESE FALCON), someone nice is murdered in an awful way and as the detective (nearly always a friend or best friend or lover) traces through the history of the mystery, he or she always uncovers more slime and awful critters who skitter away at the first touch of light. The endings are not "happy," so much as they resolve in some way the mystery and leave the living participants just a teensy bit better off than they were.

Why is this?

I think it's because these stories appeal most to the despairing and depressed, readers who feel their lives are tossed, turned, destroyed. This may not be a universal truth; I could be wrong. Let me know. If you're a happy person and yet you enjoy reading such stories I'd like to know more about you.

There Will Be Blood

The other day, for work-related reasons, I read the shooting script for the movie THERE WILL BE BLOOD. Like too many scripts these days (LUCKY # SLEVIN is another), they include a cast of amoral, immoral, hate-filled, revengeful sleazebags, some of which usually get ripped- off and/or killed by the others. In ...BLOOD, the supposedly God- filled, prophet-preacher turns out to be as hate-filled and revengeful as the bad guy who is the main protagonist. Seems as if movies (and TV) project the world as worse than the way I see and live in it. Having our media image a violent world influences some people to behave hatefully rather than lovingly. "Monkey see, monkey do" kind of influence. It is possible, as some hope, that seeing such bad behavior in the various media has the opposite influence: that of encouraging people to be really nice to themselves and to others. I guess it is possible but I have yet to see any serious study that indicates this. Not that I rely on polls or studies to tell me what or how to think.

Great Graphic Novel! By Feiffer!

Ah, the excitement of having a blog, even if nobody visits...If you have time, press the NextBlog button at top of screen and you'll see some other blogs that are, at present, more visually interesting than this one. But I hope to change that, starting with this issue.
GRAPHIC NOVELS.I've been writing books for years, and drawing cartoons, and recently I thought about starting a graphic novel. I mentioned this to a local librarian and that I wanted to research other graphic novels. He pointed me to several collections. Here's one that's from the 1970s but very funny and worth finding a copy to read. It's TANTRUM by Jules Feiffer.





The story is simple. A middle-aged man is unhappy and wishes he were two years old again and, presto, he is. His wife and teenage kids are distraught. He runs away and pursues pleasures that should make him feel young again. Finally... well, I won't spoil it for you. Here's more of Feiffer's drawings. It looks scribbled and not worked-over, as if he made the whole book in a feverish burst of creativity. Ah! To have a feverish burst again! (I once wrote a short novel in two weekends. It's no good, of course, but every once in a while I think of it again and may revise it.)

The Grumpy Curmudgeon Blogs

A daughter has set this blog up for me so that I can, as she puts it, "rant". I do not think of myself as a ranter. Rather, I'm an older person who has some things to say and no other outlet. If you discern any shadows of wisdom in the occasional pieces I put here, please let me know.

I'm unsure what I'll write about. Perhaps, since I'm reading a lot, I'll discuss some of the books I read, the thoughts and ideas in them and what they may stimulate in me.

book crit:"gods behaving badly" a novel by marie phillips. I like this novel. Lotsa fun and surprises. It's got the old Greek gods, from Athena to Zeus. Aphrodite is here too, and as sexy and flighty as Madonna or Paris Hilton. Apollo the sun god is a handsome selfish libertine. The thing is, that since people stopped believing in them, this set of gods have grown weaker, had to leave Mt. Olympus and now live in a London house. It's not a good house and it's in a run-down neighborhood and because the gods are not accustomed to cleaning up after themselves, the house is a mess. Artemis (you may remember her as Diana the Huntress) decides they need a cleaning lady, so she hires Alice, a modest and shy young woman who has a modest and shy suitor named Neil. Troubles begin when Apollo gets the hots for Alice. Madly, passionately, because he's been shot with an arrow by Eros, at the instigation of naughty Aphrodite. I won't tell you what happens, but the world almost comes to an end, and several characters visit the Underworld, which is a fairly bleak but well thought-out piece of eternity.

Complaint: the author rules out the existence of any other God and to me that's a cheap shot; I'd have liked to see the gods in this book cope with the God of Christianity, which is the one I understand best. However, she had to limit the players and the landscape or the book would have been twice as long. Or maybe impossible to write.
Anyway, it's fun.

OK, what next? Upcoming are reviews of graphic novels I've read recently. It's a new focus for me because I want to make a graphic novel, so I'm studying the best of what I can find available and I'll talk about them and put up illustrations where I can.