GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #772: FUCK CONTENT

 I've gone on this anti-content rant before--many times--and I wish I had the time to actually go back and find some of it to show as examples, but it's late and I'm on the edge of being too high. It disgusts me whenever someone refers to art as content. And now that I think about it, IP is another term that can take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut.

I'm a huge Ed Brubaker fan. I've been reading his stuff since he did Scene of the Crime at Vertigo back in the 'Nineties. And his is one of the many newsletters I get, and in one he sent not too long ago he goes on a rant about referring to art as content or IP. It reminded me of me, so I thought I'd quote some of it.

I thought I'd open this time with how sick I am of the words 'content' and 'IP.'  They sound like scientific terms, like referring to a car as a "transportation device" or food as "processed nutrition." Which are both technically true, but you never see people actually calling them that like it's some cool industry jargon. 

Yet somehow in the last ten years, I've seen writers and filmmakers, some comics people even, start using the phrase IP regularly and not getting mocked for it. That lack of mocking was a mistake. IP is what the studios called what you did so they could say it was their property and go get a billion dollars from a bank. Banks don't like "comic characters" but "intellectual property" sounds like a real asset. 

And there we have it. Art is worthless, but IP and content are quantifiable things that corporations can make gobs of money off of. I get it. No one wants to take a chance on your art if it's not going to make money, but to reduce value to strictly financial terms is fucking horrible. No wonder the corporate greedheads have been fighting so hard to change the terminology. Art is something worth fighting over. Content doesn't sound like much of anything, does it?

And then he gets to this part:

You even hear about book publishers asking for media rights on novels sometimes now, after hundreds of years of them not doing that.

Aspiring writers, please take note. If a publisher says they're going to buy your book and also wants media rights like, say, for example, movie rights, then DON'T SIGN THAT CONTRACT. They're counting on you being overtaken by the thrill of getting a publishing contract that you won't think this is out of the ordinary. The only rights you should be selling them is the right to publish your book. The only way you should ever sign any other rights to them is to get your money's worth. Make it a price so high that they'll think you're crazy. My price is $100M. If they're willing to pay me that much money for the movie rights to a book, then they're welcome to it. But chances are, they won't. One of the good things about being an author is that you can sell OPTIONS to your work instead of the rights. Sometimes that's the gift that keeps on giving. I wish someone would option some of my books. They don't ever have to make the movie. I don't care. Because that, my good fuckers, is money for nothing. 

You'll have to get your chicks for free some other way, though.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #771: 1 YEAR AND 107 DAYS

 I've heard it for years. "If you really want to lose weight, quit drinking." And I said it time and again: "Drinking keeps me in reasonably trim shape." Note I didn't say "good" shape. Every goddam person I said this to said I was wrong. But guess who was actually wrong.

I weighed 242 pounds the night I had my last drink. Not great, but better than where I'm currently at. Now, a year and 107 days later, I weigh 276 pounds.

I also recall when I started consuming cannabis, trying to break away from booze, that everyone said that it would help me get into shape. I told them all it would make me fat. "Just get the edibles without sugar," I was told. Except people don't realize that the weight doesn't come from eating the fucking edible. It comes from eating EVERY FUCKING THING ELSE because the munchies are, indeed, real.

These days I can stick to one dinner, but that doesn't seem to matter because this weight is here to stay. I can't work out because of my bad leg. And no, I can't work out my upper body because of the pain in my hands. And dieting is out of the question. I've spent a lot of my life doing that, and I'm old enough that if I'm going to eat something, I want to enjoy it.

I'd really hoped the colonoscopy would help thin me out a bit. Considering all the liquid shit that passed out of me? I should have lost at least water weight. Nope, I didn't lose a single pound.

Booze kept me looking good. I'd tell people how much I weighed, and they'd be incredulous because I carry my weight really well. Even when I weighed 306 pounds. And I suppose I should get ready to weigh that much again, if the trend continues.

And I'm pretty sure it will. Getting old sucks. I don't recommend it. As your attorney I advise you to stop aging at 25.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #770: TOY CRIME STORY WRAP UP

 OK, after all that time, Toy Crime Story is over. I just posted the finale earlier tonight. When I first started posting these chapters I said I'd do a wrap up with a revelation I had recently about the work.

I wrote this one a few years back because I wanted to see if I could do a darker version of Toy Story. I wanted the kid to be murdered and the story would be about whodunit. I didn't realize one thing, however, until I reread the whole thing in preparation for posting it online.

I had no idea why I'd named the kid Joey and the dad Wally until a few months ago. I've mentioned it here before, but the first friend I ever had was a kid named Joey. His dad Wally was friends with my stepdad, which was how we met. I think it explains a lot about me that the first friend I ever had died when I was a child. Joey was chewing on a pencil and accidentally broke a piece off and choked on it. Wally tried to save his life but couldn't do it.

It's how I learned about death and that I would someday die. I asked what happens after death, and mom said, "You go in the ground, and the worms eat you."

Yeah, if you have kids, don't tell them that. It scarred me for life and probably helped make me the way I am today. Maybe that's not entirely bad, but I wasn't off to a good start.

So here I am, probably around my 40th birthday, writing a story about a kid named Joey who dies, and his dad Wally is powerless to save him. How did I not notice that at the time? I mean, I was drinking heavily back in those days. I could put away nearly an entire handle of cheap whiskey a night. But I don't think I was that booze-addled when I wrote this. I don't write while drunk.

Weird, right? Although as I look at Toy Crime Story now, I feel like I was exorcising something, but I have no idea what it was. I think about the Catacombs and Man-E-Faces and wonder if maybe the specter of death was trying to get out of my system, but that seems too obvious. To quote an asshole owl, "The world may never know."

No, not Close Encounters. UHF, pal.

TOY CRIME STORY EPILOGUE

 

FIRST EPILOGUE

That Christmas season, Wally and Mimi chose to get a divorce. They couldn’t stay in this place, and the memories of Joey were too strong. It grew to the point where they couldn’t stand to look at each other. They still loved each other, but the reminders were too strong. A divorce seemed to be the only solution.

It was very amiable, as much as it could be. They argued over nothing, and the lawyers breezed through it. They split the price of the house and after they packed everything up, they went their separate ways. They sent each other cards for the holidays and their birthdays, and every once in a while talked to each other on the phone, but they never saw each other again.

Wally couldn’t bear to hold on to the toys. He packed up the remaining ones. When he put Felix in the box, the cat seemed almost sad. The first movie he’d ever owned was a Felix the Cat cartoon on VHS. He felt tempted to hold on to this one, but he just couldn’t. He could see Joey reflected in Felix’s pitch black eyes.

He closed the box. It eventually wound up at Goodwill. In the back room, they deemed several of the toys were too dirty for kids, so they were tossed. Among them was Felix. His wives and kids found new homes, though.

They puzzled over the Donald Duck stuffed animal with a paper bag face. It was a topic of discussion over many lunches, but they tore the face off, and he wound up being a birthday present for a five year old.

Angel and Spike were in good condition, so they sold them as a pair to a thirty-one year old geek who never took them out of their boxes. Spike continued being a pain in Angel’s ass.

No one lived happily ever after.

SECOND EPILOGUE

Cat glided into the Catacombs, ecstatic over how everything ended. He couldn’t be more pleased with himself. His machinations worked out perfectly, just like always.

He went down the stairs, eager to fuck with the dead toys that Man-E-Faces watched over. He jaunted until he saw what remained of Man-E-Faces. He’d been torn limb from limb, his remains scattered on the cold stone. Cat stopped, tail twitching. Who could have beaten Death?

He eased down the steps until he saw that the dead toys were more plentiful. One of them, however, stood out from the rest.

Nightbeat.

He’d been put together hastily, but he was still Nightbeat. Cat should have seen this coming.

“Oh hello!” he said. “Nightbeat! How unexpected!”

“Cat,” Nightbeat said. “Enough with the pleasantries. You know why I’m here.”

“No, I assure you I don’t.” Backing away slightly.

“Come on. You can’t possibly think I would overlook what you did with Don Snowy and the goombas. You tore us apart.”

“Not I. You’ll have to prove it, detective. Beyond a reasonable doubt, naturally.”

“We’re beyond that,” Nightbeat said. “Waaaaay beyond that.”

“Oh my,” Cat said. He turned and ran.

And Nightbeat followed.

THE END

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #769: THE LAST POETRY OF CAPITALISM

 

It's been a while since I went to Anderson's in Naperville, so I thought I'd go down there today to get something. I snagged a copy of the book you see above because I think Werner Herzog is a fascinating man. A lot of people think he's very dry and intimidating and feel the need to take the piss out of him with memes like this:

And this:

To be fair, when you look at films of his like Nosferatu, The Vampyre, I can see why people would think that. Although when I look at something like Grizzy Man, I can't help but think that only someone with a massive sense of humor could make that one. And my theory bears out. Because, well, remember the time he showed up on The Mandalorian?

I'm not a big Simpsons guy, so I won't go too much into that, but yes, he was a voice on the Simpsons, too. If you watch him in interviews you'll see that he's actually a pretty funny guy. In fact, I encourage you to watch this interview by Seth Meyers, which is where I got the title of tonight's GF. Yes, that image on the cover of his book is of him standing on the ledge of not only an active volcano, but a volcano that was in the process of erupting. I don't know much about the hypnotizing thing, but I do know for a fact that he was shot during a live BBC interview. Granted, not by a bullet, but getting shot with an air rifle is still no picnic. And yes, apparently he wears paisley boxers.

But the reason I bring him up is because he managed to do something that I never thought possible. For one brief moment he made capitalism seem beautiful.  When he mentions the "last poetry of capitalism," he's talking about auctioneers. I've been told I speak pretty swiftly, but these guys are otherworldly with their ability to speak that fast. Remember the Micro Machines guy?

And what do they use this remarkable skill for? Selling shit. Not just selling shit, but getting people to buy shit for top dollar. Which is decidedly not beautiful, but at the same time Herzog made me feel this odd thrill about something I couldn't give two shits about ordinarily.

That's the power of a truly creative person. And to have it spoken in English by someone whose birth tongue is German? Herzog never ceases to amaze me and inspire me.

Perhaps I should finally read the other book I picked up by him, The Twilight World. I've always been interested in the Japanese soldiers who continued fighting WWII well into the 'Seventies, and here is Herzog's book about one of them. It is one of the few books I didn't pack up.

I'm reading too many right now. We'll see.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #768: PALIMPSEST

 

There's been an odd confluence of Gore Vidal going on with me right now. I've gotten into three conversations about him this week, so I thought maybe now would be a good time to bring this up.

You may recall that when I went to the psych ward the previous occupant of my room had left behind several books, and I'd picked up Empire by Gore Vidal. I was hooked immediately and went on to get the rest of his Narratives of the Empire series, and that sent me off looking for the rest of his work.

After having read quite a bit, I think Vidal is a fascinating author, and I very much enjoy his style. When I saw that he'd written an autobiography, I knew I had to get it. But when it comes to older books these days, I'm loath to get them the new way. It's so easy to go on Amazon or some such site to get them, and there's none of the thrill of the hunt. So a while back I decided I was going to find Palimpsest the old fashioned way: by hanging out in bookstores.

After a couple of years of searching, my efforts were finally rewarded last Thursday. I found it at the Half Price Books in Bloomingdale on Army Trail. And yes, I did feel that rush of success after a long search. I'd forgotten what that was like. It reminded me of the lengths I used to go to in getting rare movies back in the VHS era. Anyone else do that? Remember going through catalogs looking for your prize? Those weren't professionally printed back then. They were fucking mimeographed. Do you remember that shit?

The universe further rewarded me by putting another book next to Palimpsest.

I didn't know that his memoirs continued into another book, so now I have that one, too. To quote Denny Crane from Boston Legal, "Already my penis feels bigger."

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #767: BOSTON LEGAL

 

Over the weekend I watched the series finale of Boston Legal. It never seemed like a show that I would be interested in. Lawyers and courtrooms and such. Not my cuppa. But I was hanging out with a friend of mine, talking about how much I loved James Spader on The Blacklist, and he said I should watch Boston Legal. He mentioned one scene in particular. Spader is in the men's room taking a piss, and Candice Bergen walks in. She's one of the name partners, and he's fairly new at the firm. Moments after he zips up, he offers his hand to shake. She says that he should wash his hands first, and he replies, "I assure you I keep an extremely clean penis." Which is such a Spader thing to say.

I had no idea that everyone on this show is Spader-crazy in their own individual ways, and the show gets crazier and crazier the longer you watch it. At many points over the course of its five seasons, characters mention that they're on a TV show. At one point a new character is introduced, and William Shatner insists that he's no one important, or he would be in the opening credits. Then, when we get the opening credits, there's the new guy! Or when Spader wonders what they're going to get up to next season. There's a scene where one of the characters actually sings along to the Boston Legal theme song, which is weird because there are no lyrics. He just makes the sounds and bops his head. And in yet another scene, a character talks about a great show that is currently on the air and barely stops short of actually saying "Boston Legal."

I really wish I'd watched this show when it was actually live on TV. Spader's courtroom speeches are monologue masterpieces because it's not all about sheer lunacy. It's about injustice and how the system is geared against regular people in favor of corporations and government. So you can see how the moral message of the show really appealed to me.

But what I really want to talk about is the friendship between Alan Shore (Spader) and Denny Crane (Shatner). It explores a side of male friendship that often goes unexplored. These are two men who genuinely love each other, and it has nothing to do with sex or romance.

Yes, it is possible for two men to love each other, and it's not about sex or romance. Not only is it possible, it happens a lot.

And for fuck's sake, don't call it a bromance. What a cheap way of referring to something quite beautiful.

They tell each other of their love for one another. They have sleepovers. (You think I'm kidding about the sleepovers?) When Denny is afraid to have his head scanned for Alzheimers, Alan gets the test done first to show there's nothing to be frightened of. They have matching Halloween costumes (my favorite is the flamingos). When they realized they were too old for military duty, they broke their backs trying to get into any branch of the military that would let them in (and the National Guard took them!). They even hold hands sometimes.

Those of you who know how the show ends might mention one thing to me. It's a SPOILER, so tread lightly.

Denny does has Alzheimers, but he's been calling it Mad Cow Disease since season one because the alternative is unthinkable. He wants to make sure that when he's gone, Alan gets everything. So in a frantic moment Denny asks Alan to marry him. Alan would get every penny, no taxes taken out. At first Alan is reluctant, but then he figures, what the hell? And after a legal battle, they actually do get married. The show ends with them dancing on the balcony they usually end each show on, drinking Scotch and smoking cigars. And that's when I wish one of them had said to the other, just before the credits rolled, "Sleepover?"

There's a thing going around about male loneliness. I suppose I can sympathize, but I can't empathize. I have never been lonely a day in my life. Alone? Plenty. But I like being alone. So I have no idea what loneliness is like. I've been blessed with a lot of friends, which is really weird because that was not always the case. The first 20 years of my life? Not many friends. Very few. I could count them all on the fingers of one hand.

Sometimes I wonder if maybe I should start a business and teach people how to be alone. Or maybe do a self-help thing where I teach people how to attract friends. It's not that difficult. I have never tried to attract more friends, and I have an abundance of them. I think it's a matter of not coming off as miserable, that's all.

But I think a shortcut to that kind of thing is to simply watch Spader and Shatner on Boston Legal. I find it interesting that, politically, they're opposites. This was back in the old days when the left and the right weren't constantly at each others throats and denigrating each other and not giving a fucking inch to the other side under any circumstances. They disagree on those kinds of things all the time, but it doesn't hurt the love they have for each other. Alan often defends the poor, which Denny finds appalling. Denny often has at least five guns on him at any given time (and the means to turn his flatulence into a flamethrower if needed, and I am absolutely not kidding about that) and has shot people, sometimes on accident, which Alan thinks is insanely irresponsible.

But these two men love each other.

Of all the fucking shows that get reunions, why not Boston Legal? It's the only show I can think of that I would like to find out what happened to these characters. Reunion shows are almost always a waste of time. I don't like them on principle. But I would make an exception for this one.

Are Alan and Denny still dancing? I like to think so.