Star Trek 365

So I got myself a present. 

It's a big, fat book full of Star Trek.

And I quite enjoyed it.

It bills itself as the "definitive" guide to Star Trek, but, as the owner of many Star Trek reference books, I beg to differ.

It's got a lot of interesting stuff, a lot of stuff I already knew, and a lot of photos. Sadly, most of the photos were really just frames from the episodes themselves, but they were well selected and well reproduced.

I found it very odd that third season producer Fred Freiberger, a figure universally shat upon by Trek fans as the one who killed the show (and similarly scorned by fans of Space: 1999, for which he served as producer for the hated second season) is not once mentioned by name in the entire book. That, to me, is simply spiteful and certainly not definitive. So bottom line is, if you're looking for a book that gives you a list of all the cast and crew, you need to look elsewhere.

But it does work as an overview of the production and life of the original series, with all its ups and downs.  It's handsomely put together and does contain a lot that was new and interesting to me, despite all the Trek non-fiction I've read over the years. Discussion of the disposition of the original Enterprise model, particularly, and photos of same, fascinated me. And it actually discussed the music, which is, unsurprisingly, a favorite topic of mine.

One of the most striking features of the book, though, is a completely unintentional reveal of the immense cultural divide that separates us from the 1960s. And I'm not talking about go go boots and short skirts and such.

There's a backstage photo from Amok Time featuring several actors getting Vulcan make up applied. And here's the thing. The make up artists are all men. And they're all wearing ties. You can even see fancy cuff links on the sleeves of chief make up artist Fred Phillips. What a shock! Can you imagine seeing anyone on a movie or tv set today actually wearing a tie? And, really, aren't almost all film/tv make up artists women these days? People in the sixties still dressed up to go to work at the movie studio. Being professionals meant dressing like a professional. And that meant a suit and tie. Sure, you can take off your jacket while actually gluing on ear tips, but by gum you're going to keep your tie on.

This all put me in mind of Jesse Thorn's web series about "dressing like an adult" and how unusual it is that director Paul Feig wears a suit and tie to the set every day.

Maybe I'll star wearing a tie whenever I write a blog post. There are worse ways to dress.

Reverse

I looked behind me. Just what I thought.

More flowers.

Dammit.

I pumped the handle seven more times and slammed the lever backward again. Backward, dammit, go backward!

The vibration shook the whole tub. I closed my eyes this time until the shaking stopped.

I took a deep breath.

I looked behind me.

More flowers.

Dammit!

I leapt out of the tub, kicked it over, then let myself topple, crushing my outline into the peonies.

I stared up at the sky. Empty. Empty as it will always be.

I was alone. Truly, utterly, inexcusably alone. No sign that humans had ever touched this planet. I’d wiped it out. Everything. Everyone. Even Laila.

Laila.

I did it for her. I swear, I just wanted to make it better for her. Better air. Less crowding. I didn’t want to empty the whole planet.

Really.

I’m sorry.

I’ll write a note. Stick it in this tub. And maybe, just maybe, millions of years from now, some hyperintelligent peony will see that once upon a time there was one single idiot, alone and adrift, regretting the day he left the instruction book on his desk.

This was written for Leah Petersen's 5 minute fiction contest.

Man From Atlantis - the Music

It's no secret that getting a release of Fred Karlin's music from forgotten 70's TV series Man From Atlantis is my original holy grail.

While it's wonderful that, thanks to the power of the internets, I can regularly listen to the section of music that I've been humming in my head since 1977, it's still not the same as having a proper CD release of it, in clear sound and without dialogue and sound effects. But here it is.




I don't know why this wistful, harpsichord-y tune cemented itself in my memory bank, but it did. I still retain such strong affection for the show and wouldn't mind seeing the series released on DVD, since I haven't seen it since its original run.

But it's the music that really haunts me.

Here's the main title sequence.



And here's a cover version of the theme that's suitably trippy.



I also love Austin Wintory's cover version, available as a single download.

And now here's a rockin' version of that wistful theme, accompanying Patrick Duffy's race with the dolphin.



The closest I've gotten to a CD release of this music is Fred Karlin's Futureworld, which is similar in tone.

And so concludes this random post of nostalgia.

Preview

I glanced down into the blue light. I could make out an image, maybe a person, but I was too scared to really focus. I looked back at Tommy.

“Are you sure it’s real?”

“Hell, yeah,” he said, grabbing the rock from my hands. “If you’re too chicken shit to look in it, I’ll give someone else a turn. You can have your five bucks back.”

“But where did you get it?”

“I told you, I found it, that’s all you need to know.” He hopped back onto his bike, the rock under his arm. “You want to find out or not?”

Shit.

“Okay,” I said.

Tommy smiled that devilish little grin of his and hopped back onto the grass.

“All right. Now just look in it until you see the picture. It will be there and it will tell you your destiny. Your best moment. The highlight of your life.”

“How do I know it’ll come true?”

“You’re such a chicken shit. Walt Greaney saw a bank vault and you know he’s a genius with money. And Sara Tomlinson saw herself at a beauty pageant – Miss damned America! It’s totally psychic, man. Just look!”

He stuck the rock out at me. I took it, sat down, cross-legged, and looked at the surface.

The blue light slowly grew and I could see an image. It was a person, definitely a person. It was me. I could tell it was me, but I looked so old, so bald and pudgy. I was holding a bowling trophy.

I threw the rock as hard as I could.

This was written for Leah Petersen's 5 minute fiction contest.

Contest! Win a copy of Essential Guide to Getting Your Book Published

Workman Publishing kindly provided me with an advance copy of The Essential Guide to Getting Your Book Published, and I'll be reading through it and commenting about it later this month.

In other news, Workman also offered to let me host a book giveaway contest here on my blog. Woo hoo!

So here it is, The Essential Guide to Getting Your Book Published.

And here's some blurbage about the book:

The best, most comprehensive book for writers is now completely revised and updated to address ongoing changes in publishing. Published in 2005 as Putting Your Passion Into Print, this is the book that’s been praised by both industry professionals (“Refreshingly honest, knowledgeable and detailed. . . . An invaluable resource”—Jamie Raab, publisher, Grand Central Publishing) and bestselling authors (“A must-have for every aspiring writer.”—Khaled Hosseini, author of The Kite Runner). With its extensive coverage of e-books, self-publishing, and online marketing, The Essential Guide to Getting Your Book Published is more vital than ever for anyone who wants to mine that great idea and turn it into a successfully published book.

Written by experts with thirteen books between them as well as many years’ experience as a literary agent (Eckstut) and a book doctor (Sterry), this nuts-and-bolts guide demystifies every step of the publishing process: how to come up with a blockbuster title, create a selling proposal, find the right agent, understand a book contract, develop marketing and publicity savvy, and, if necessary, self-publish. There’s new information on how to build up a following (and even publish a book) online; the importance of a search-engine-friendly title; producing a video book trailer; and e-book pricing and royalties. Includes interviews with hundreds of publishing insiders and authors, including Seth Godin, Neil Gaiman, Amy Bloom, Margaret Atwood, Larry Kirshbaum, Leonard Lopate, plus agents, editors, and booksellers; sidebars featuring real-life publishing success stories; sample proposals, query letters, and a feature-rich website and community for authors.

About the Authors

Arielle Eckstut, cofounder of Little MissMatched, the innovative clothing company, is a writer, entrepreneur, and agent-at-large for the Levine Greenberg Literary Agency. She is the author of Pride and Promiscuity: The Lost Sex Scenes of Jane Austen.

David Henry Sterry is the coeditor of Hos, Hookers, Call Girls, and Rent Boys (front page review, The New York Times Book Review) and author of Master of Ceremonies,Chicken, Satchel Sez, and the forthcoming The Glorious World Cup. He is also an actor, media coach, book doctor, and activist for at-risk youth. The authors are married and live in Montclair, New Jersey, with their daughter.

By the way, the authors can be located on the Twitters at http://twitter.com/TheBookDoctors. And you can find me on the Twitters, too: http://www.twitter.com/thatneilguy.

So how can you win? Easy!

HOW TO WIN

Just drop a comment into the comment field below. Make sure you've got an email address or twitter handle in there so I can contact you.

I'll draw a random winner on October 20. So you have until midnight eastern time on October 19, 2010, to enter. And you know what? If I get enough entries, I may just give away two copies. Because I'm a giver! And so is Workman Publishing!

The book doesn't actually get released into the wild until November 11. So this is your chance to SCORE EARLY! Woo hoo!

Cuffed

I wrote this yesterday for Leah Petersen's five minute fiction challenge.

I did not win, I was not even a finalist. But I liked what I came up with...

I first spotted her at the blood pressure machine, left arm cuffed. She wore sweatpants and a tank top. Her hair was unkempt at best. I shouldn’t have given her a second glance.

But there was something about her. Though I couldn’t even see her eyes, I couldn’t peel mine away. Maybe it was her skin, so smooth, pale, just the suggestion of freckles on the shoulders. I guess I’ll never know.

I stood, frozen, the cart still empty in front of me. I’d been heading for the pharmacy aisle with the intention of also making a quick trip through produce, but I couldn’t move. I listened, entranced, as the machine click click clicked, the cuff slowly releasing its grasp on her arm.

Finally, it relaxed, the reading done, and she withdrew her arm, satisfied, I think, with the result. She spotted me immediately and gave a sort of hesitant half-smile. Her face was extraordinary. Porcelain, the disheveled red hair serving to highlight her delicate features.

“It’s all yours,” she said.

Puzzled, I simply blinked a couple of times, then, broken from my reverie, realized what she meant.

“Oh, right,” I said. “Thanks.”

I had no desire to take my blood pressure – I’d fought hypertension for years and frankly feared the results – but my guilt at being caught staring got the best of me, and I took my seat in the machine.

She didn’t give me a second glance as she walked toward the front of the store. The cuff was already squeezing my arm, sending tingles into my forearm.

I cursed, disturbed with my utter inability to initiate even the most rudimentary conversation with her.

I pushed the button to interrupt the reading, pulled out my arm and, heart racing, rushed to the front door.

10

First I read Lisa Adams' version. Then Jennifer Mendelsohn's. And so I decided to join in. Because, you know, why not.

So here are ten favorite things, things that just make me happy, in no particular order. May include nerdity.

1. My wife's hair. Thick, deceptively curly and gifted with a mysterious, hard to name combination of blond, brown and red tones, depending on the light.

2. Sinatra. His voice, his style, his essence. It's still Frank's world. We just live in it.

3. My books. I have way too many of them, but I love them all. And I had the chilling thought yesterday that I may not actually get to read all of them. There are so many, and so many more come out every year, and there's only so much time in a day...

4. Autumn. I like the crispness in the air, the leaves, the sweaters, the time falling back, the hot beverages and Brach's autumn mix.

5. My glasses. Okay, I both love them and hate them. I hate them because I hate the fact that I need them. My eyesight is deteriorating, so I can't read small print anymore. And it's not just small print. It's small-ish print that gives me trouble now. Still great with regular vision and long distance. But reading is becoming a glasses-madatory event. Which brings me to the glasses themselves. I specifically chose them because they were as close as I could find to the pair worn by David Tennant as Doctor Who. At last, a sort of costume piece I can wear in the real world without anyone giving me a second glance. And not as uncomfortable as wearing my home made Spider-man costume under my regular clothes way back in fourth grade. Yes, I am a nerd.

6. Donuts. I talk about them a lot more than I actually eat them, but I love them. Torus of love. Frosting of light. Sprinkles of peace.

7. Jerry Goldsmith. His music continues to challenge and inspire me. Much more than any of the individual films he scored, I love his music. It's complex, rhythmic and filled with moments that make me smile, or pause, or simply shake my head in awe. Star Trek: The Motion Picture remains his masterpiece, and some thirty years later, I still find myself listening to it all-too-often.

8. My house. It's not the greatest place in the world, it's not my dreamhouse, there are plenty of things I'd change if I could. But I love to be at home. I love to be with my family and my stuff. I love being at home.

9. Pie. Cherry pie, especially, but I also like a nice sweet/tart blueberry pie. I love baking apple pies. Some of my fondest memories involve gathering with friends once a week to bake pie and watch Twin Peaks. My dad recently passed away, and his favorite was always cherry pie. He didn't really care for anything else. I inherited this love of cherry pie and I'm thinking I need to bake and consume one soon in his honor.

10. My kids. I know, a sentimental choice, but I love the way they make me smile, the way they already seem smarter than I am, the way they make me challenge myself to become a better person. And they're both cute as buttons.

Marian Call - My New Favorite Singer

I don't really know, anymore, how I found out about her.

I could swear she began following me on the twitters. And then I began following her. It could have been the other way around, but it's hard to recall now.

She is Marian Call, an Alaskan singer/songwriter/nerd. I got interested in her twitters because of the nerdliness factor. It was only incidental, to me, that she was an Alaskan folk musician. 

Over the past few months, however, I occasionally dropped by her website and listened to music samples and followed with interest her announcement of a self-funded, self-motivated, fan-driven 50 state tour. I figured she'd have to get to South Carolina at some point and I should do my best to make sure she showed up at a venue near me. I mean, how many times do you get to meet in person someone from Alaska that you only know via twitter?

I don't know how much I actually contributed to her choice of venue (although I was able to convince a local publication to run an interview with her), but last weekend she performed at Coffee Underground, a great space in our great downtown. And she was, well, great.

Marian Call's signature instrument is a typewriter. It serves as percussion during a couple of songs, including the delightful Nerd Anthem. It's a clever device and entirely fits in with the spirit of the song. And although she sings about spaceships and Firefly and Battlestar Galactica, you wouldn't necessarily know it by listening to the lyrics. Her songs are always smart, melodic and a delight to hear. She's also a performer who really shines on stage, bringing with her a lot of natural if unpolished style and wry charisma that make her a lot of fun to watch.

If she's coming to your area, she's absolutely worth checking out. Failing that, check out her debut CD, Vanilla, which contains the Volvo Song - a favorite of mine as it includes a reference to donuts.

But I don't want to leave you with the impression that she's some sort of geek novelty act. She's a smart songwriter and lovely performer and her songs are about much more than just geekery.  I can't wait for her to embark on another round-the-country tour and swing back through this area. She's just a delight. And so photogenic!

So one day, I'd like to write a song for her. Not that she needs my help, she's an excellent songwriter. But I'd love to write something in the vein of my two science-y songs (Love Theme from This Week in Science aka TWIS Theme and World Robot Domination, both of which can be heard here) and have her perform. Ah well. A boy can dream...

All the Way

Sammy Davis, Jr., stared into the cold, lizardlike eyes of the alien being sitting across from him, sighed, then tossed his cards onto the table.

“Man, I just cannot read this dude.”  Sammy finished off his highball and sighed.

            

Dean Martin threw a $100 chip in the pot.  “I’m in.”

            

Peter Lawford folded quickly and all eyes turned to Frank.

            

Sinatra exhaled a long plume of smoke and called the bet.  “All right, kid.  What’ve you got?”

            

The alien flipped its hole card with a long, spindly claw and attempted to grin as it exposed a fourth king.

           

“Read them and weep,” it said in a growling monotone.

“Dammit,” Sammy stood quickly, kicking away his chair. “We’re in deep trouble, cats.”

Lawford chimed in, “He’s right, Frank. There’s no stopping this guy.”

“Cool it.” Sinatra leaned forward, stared into the alien’s eyes. “I’m changing the deal."

Book Giveaway!

I don't know for sure how I first stumbled across his website, but it may very well have been related to Columbo. Tim King has written about his love for Columbo, and I, too, have a long history of loving the rumpled detective. (Speaking of which, have you seen the new Columbo Collection of short stories, written by William Link, one of Columbo's creator?)

But since that initial contact, I've gone on to find that I really enjoy and appreciate Tim's thoughts on writing, both on his regular blog and his specialized Be the Story site. I follow him on the twitters and I'm even friends with him on the Facebook.

And so I was pleased when Tim asked if I'd like to participate in his Big Book Giveaway. He's written two books so far, an autobiographical look at Love Through the Eyes of An Idiot and From the Ashes of Courage, a romantic novel. I have the second novel (and several other ebooks, including the sure-to-be-a-fun-read Shatnerquake) on my hard drive, ready to be read, but I still have trouble actually reading long-form works on my computer. One day, I will. I'm sure of it.

Meanwhile, I'm pleased to offer a (hardbound real-live book) copy of From the Ashes of Courage to one lucky reader.

About the book:

Gail Bishop is a headstrong, driven, single-minded businesswoman, a successful independent professional at only 29 years old. But she still feels empty. Eddie Chase is a fun-loving real-estate agent who made a mint in the boom market, now fast running out of money. And their friends set them up on a blind date, unaware that many years ago, they were once married to each other.

Now, both are taken aback by their feelings for each other at a romantic, seaside cottage on Ardor Point, and by the impact this will have on the rest of their lives. This long-languishing relationship that Gail thought was surely dead, could it hold the secret, the meaning of life that she’s looking for?

A heart-wrenching story of human kindness and love without strings.

TO ENTER THE DRAWING simply add a comment to this post. I'll randomly select a winner on, oh, let's think, how about next Wednesday, September 8, 2010. So add a comment before Wednesday and you'll be eligible.

Thanks for playing. Tim will ship the book directly to the winner, with, I assume, a personalized inscription.

UPDATE: September 8

Thanks to random.org, the winner is (insert drum roll here) commenter #5, Wendy! Congrats! I'll be emailing you soon!

Syndication

I’m a Mark Harris now, a Man From Atlantis.  I was a Fonz until last season.   My parents are Bradfords.  Still.  Most of my friends are Starskys or Fonzies or Columbos.  Except for one guy who’s still a Gilligan.  He’ll never get an Angel that way.  You’ve got to move on.  We can’t all be Gilligans forever.  That’s what my Dad says.  He’s really more of a Ward than a Tom.  They’re all still living in syndication.  I like the new stuff.  Every season, something new comes up.  I like to pick my favorites early and take a chance that it will stay on for more than one season.  Though nowadays, some of the new shows don’t even last that long.  They disappear after a few episodes and we never see them again, not even in syndication.

Somebody, probably a Tom Snyder, figured out that word, syndication, from the Broadcasts.  For a long time we thought that when a show went away, the Broadcasts were angry with us.  Some go away very quickly.  But sometimes, they return, usually in between the games and daytimes but before the new episodes begin.  That’s syndication -- the time in between new shows.

All the Broadcasts tell us how life should be lived.  We try hard to follow the Broadcasts.  Most of them take place in a mythical world called Los Angeles.  It doesn’t really exist anywhere, or so the Sagans say.  But we all know that.  Nothing in the Broadcasts is real.  They’re simply messages, telling us what to do.  Messages from someone far away.

A Potsie kid told me once that the Broadcasts started millions of years ago on some long dead planet.  I told him, “Sit on it.”  That’s about the only thing a Potsie understands.

I found this short story on a floppy disc. A floppy disc. I wrote it in August 1996.

Breathe Easy

Frank grabbed the toaster out of my hand.

“Hey! I’ve got bread in there!”

“I don’t care.” He fingered the dangling cord. “I’ve got more to worry about than burnt bread.”

“I know, And I’m sorry, but, I can’t really help you. I’ve almost gone through my quota.”

Frank opened my trash can, tipped the toaster and shook my bread slices into the bin.

“Nice.”

“Hey,” he said, dropping the toaster in after the bread. “You brought this upon yourself, my friend.”

I gave up.

“Fine.” I said. “I will give you all the air you need.”

He smiled. “I thank you.” 

He grabbed the long hose and attached it to his breathing tank, then kicked on the compressor.

I watched his needle rise and my needle fall.

“Thanks again, buddy.” He wiped some condensation off his faceplate, stuck it over his head and took in a few deep breaths. Then he winked at me, slipped into the airlock and exited into the haze.

Stupid global warming.

Thanks for the writing prompt, @alphabete 

Untitled Five Minute Fiction

Leah Petersen hosts a weekly Five Minute Fiction contest on her blog. This week, I decided to play along. She posts a one-word writing prompt and you then have five minutes to write a story.

Here's what I came up with. Oh, and I won the contest. Woo hoo!

“Hungry?”

He cocked an eyebrow at me. Stupid Vulcan. He hasn’t got more than that one stupid expression. At least not that I’ve seen in these seven months.

“I found another bug under the mattress.”

He didn’t even glance at me, just sat there, meditating or whatever it is Vulcans do for hour upon hour, day in, day out.

“Fine, I’ll eat it.”

When they threw us both into this cell, I figured his super strength and logic would get us out in no time.

No such luck.

Green blooded bastard.

“Hey!”

He glanced over.

“Why don’t you work on a plan to get us out of here instead of just sitting there another day like a big, stupid pointy eared rock.”

He reached over, pinched my neck.

Sometimes, it’s the only way I can get to sleep.

Names

I decided I’d make my fortune with a science fiction novel, maybe an epic saga, not unlike Asimov’s Foundation series.  He often claimed that he merely cribbed The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire.  Change the names, add atomic powered spaceships and bang, instant classic.

I was going to do it with the story of Lyndon Johnson. In space.

Start with a backwater planet, a place fiercely independent and proud of its own heritage, yet saddled with vast regions of dirt poor farmers and ranchers. And a young boy who grows up there, lying to his friends and neighbors, possessing an instinctive genius for political manuevering, ends up in the galactic council or whatever I ended up calling it.  Round about volume three or four I’d have to come up with the Vietnam of space, but that was much later.  And the space Kennedys.  It just all seemed to fall into place in my head.  Sketchy, but doable.

First I had to come up with the planet.  I wanted to name the planet first.  I mean Texas produced LBJ, was instrumental in producing him, so my space Texas had to be just as unique.  Then I had to name spaceboy himself, little Lyndon.  In fact, maybe I needed his name first, then work backwards to the name of the planet.

Drebbin. Nope.

Shamlet Walker.Maybe

Initials! That was it. Maybe give him the initials LBJ, but don't use them. That would help future academicians to help understand my underlying metaphor. "A ha!" one would say. "The hero has the same initials as LBJ! It must be some sort of parable. I shall write my thesis on it!"

Okay, so future doctorates depended on this. Let's see. Had to be subtle, but strong.

Lipid. Lipid Behrans Joculan. Yes. A good space name.

So young Lipid, who'd be given the nickname of "cowboy" as a kid (genius!) would grow up a backwoods space farmer, then go on to bring the glory of galactic civilization back to his homeworld, then rise to patriarchal overlord of the imperial senate, then ascend the throne to become the Great Space Emperor.

It would practically write itself!

Yes, and the great space Vietnam would loom over Emperor Lipid's reign, even as he continued to make strides toward equality for aliens and humans.

Oh yeah, baby.

So, next I needed the name of the planet. Lodestar. Yes! It was like saying Lone Star when you had a stuffy nose, and Lone Star, of course, is the nickname of Texas. So subtle! So perfect! The future doctoral dissertations were piling up!

So Lipid B. Joculan of the planet Lodestar. Right. Now an opening sentence.

An opening sentence.

Well, that could wait until tomorrow. I had the actual hard work done. Names. Naming a thing gives it power. I had the power.

I took the power and stuck it in the back of my brain. It short circuited, spun me around. I wobbled, fell back on my bed.

The ceiling spiralled. My feet floated. I could see the light. Rising. Rising.

Then a hat. And a face. A familiar face. Scowling. And then a voice. A familiar voice.

"Don't screw with me, boy."

I closed my eyes, trying to shut out the giant head of Lyndon Johnson now consuming my depth of field. But he burned through my eyelids, pried them open with the force of his will.

"Listen to me, boy. I will not stand for this. Do you understand?"

I nodded.

"I said, do you understand?"

"Y-yes."

"Good. And don't try to recast it with Jack, either. Get your own damned ideas."

"Yes, sir."

And he began to fade, and I relaxed, and then he was back.

"Wait. Use Dick. Skewer the son of a bitch."

And with that, he was gone.

I sat up.

Let's see.

Dixon. Flitchart Dixon of the planet Lorbayinda...

Numb

I wrecked my car during high school. Ran into a tree. What a moron.

I broke my ankle, split my lip open, but otherwise came through it okay.

Or did I?

Ever since then, I feel like part of my face, around my upper lip especially, has been less sensitive. It's not that it's numb, or has no feeling at all, just, maybe, less than there should be.

And, maybe, I'm emotionally less sensitive as well. Sometimes I think I'm practically Vulcan. Is it a result of trauma, is it a reaction to moving so many places, starting over so many times over the course of my life, is it some sort of coping strategy that evolved? I don't know. But sometimes, I feel like I'm emotionally numb.

The protagonist of Sean Ferrell's debut novel, Numb, arrives into the world literally numb. His first remembered moments are of stumbling through a sandstorm into a circus somewhere in the backwaters of Texas. He's numb, has no feeling at all, and soon becomes part of the circus sideshow. Nails are driven through his skin and he doesn't feel it. So begins his journey through popular culture, first as a freak, then as a, well, more high class freak. Numb, as he's called, experiences life without physical pain. And, in a way, he seems to have trouble relating to emotional pain as well. Yet he's certainly capable of causing - or at least bearing witness to - a tremendous amount of pain in himself and those who get too close to him.

Numb, the novel, sucked me right in. I received it Friday afternoon and found myself grabbing it at every available opportunity. By Sunday morning I had devoured it. Could it be that I detected myself in the way Numb, the protagonist, stumbles through the world?

The book put me in mind of Paul Auster, whose novels contain a similar feeling of detachment from their narrators. In Numb, Ferrell creates a sort of avatar of and commentary on contemporary culture. Numb, the character, begins life fully grown, aware of and knowledgeable about everything except his own past. He starts his life in obscurity, grows a following, and, by the power of others more than any steps he takes himself, gets dragged up the ladder of success. He ends up in the spotlight, both figuratively and literally, as Ferrell casts his glare at the absurdity of celebrity. 

But these kind of metaphorical overtones aren't shoved in your face. It's a very open, deceptively easy to read work. I found it to be engrossing, entertaining and, in a few places, disturbing. Ferrell's voice is assured, his writing crisp and engaging. As I mentioned, I zoomed through it, caught up in Numb's strange journey.

I loved little observations. "Living for more than a few days in a hotel is like being dead and resting in a morgue. Everything you need is at your disposal, but you need nothing." I appreciated the way Numb, the character, acknowledges and understands and is affected by the internet but never directly interacts with it. I loved the irony of Numb being a man who lets every one else make decisions for him, the complete opposite of every Hollywood hero, while Hollywood courts him and tries to tell his story - a story that Numb himself doesn't even know. It's funny because it's true.

As I sit here thinking about the novel, I discover more and more interesting layers. There's a Christ story in there (is Mal, Numb's friend and sometime savior, a John the Baptist, paving Numb's way in the wilderness?), lots of digs at celebrity culture and Hollywood, and a parable about someone like me, someone who can feel that the world spins so fast, that life goes by so quickly, that things are so strange as to leave him numb.

Souvenir

She keeps it in her dresser drawer. The top drawer, with her jewelry and stockings and souvenir matchbooks.

Sometimes, when she feels truly alone, she unseals the plastic bag and takes a long sniff. His scent is still there. Or so she tells herself.

It’s soothing. Comforting. It makes her feel like he’s still here.

She only saw him once. In Atlantic City. She’d been so young. He seemed so old.

She’d gone to the concert with her friend Beverly. Whatever happened to Beverly? Hope she didn’t marry a lout like Mike.

Mike. Ugh.

She risks another whiff. This time she touches it, just for a moment, letting her fingertips brush the silk.

He’d been so electric. Sure, in retrospect, he looked a little unhealthy, sometimes he even forgot the words of the songs, but he was so alive, so vital, so important.

And he’d whisked that scarf from around his neck and walked to the edge of the stage, and she caught his eye, and she began shaking, she couldn’t stand up, it was so hard, and he looked at her, and he touched her hand, and he gave her the scarf.

Beverly never spoke to her again.

She seals the bag, sticks it back in her drawer, safely tucked in the very back, on top of her 45 rpm record of “Can’t Help Falling in Love With You.”

“Thank you,” she says to no one. “Thankyouverymuch.”

Wireless

Just finished reading Wireless by Charles Stross. Here's a review of it I posted on Amazon.


It's the worlds he creates. Layered, fascinating worlds. In stories like Missile Gap, A Colder War and Palimpsest, he creates strangely familiar yet utterly cold and different realities from our own, worlds so textured I wanted to spend more time exploring them. This was my first Stross book and it's a mixed bag. I loved the world-building stories mentioned above, but felt left out of some others due to my utter lack of knowledge of Lovecraft. And one story, Trunk and Disorderly, never pulled me in at all - I finally just skipped over it. Stross plays with some wonderful recurring themes - cold war angst, "meta" character names, slide presentations and terraforming - throughout the collection that kept me engaged and, sometimes, smiling. Other conventions, such as the Lovecraftian nature undergiding some of the stories, completely put me off. And his favorite words seem to be caul and lour. Overall, I'd recommend this book. It's, as the cover blurb brags, "a lively collection" and makes me want to seek out more of his work. Though I'll definitely be skipping the "laundry" novels, if the story here is any indication of their general nature. Just not my cup of tea.