Spoil the Child

(I am so getting lynched for that title.)

It has been my feeling, for some time, that children of the past 20-some years have been coddled.

Not that we've necessarily had it easy—but that their entertainment and media exposure has been watered down.

We have been Siddhartha's parents for too long. We have tried to protect children from basic facts of life, from unpleasantness that we see as somehow corrupting by the mere witnessing of it. We have watered down our fairy tales since the age of romanticism, and we have censored books we think are too bloody or morbid or harshly worded. We have produced children who are not challenged, who are not informed, who are not taught the basic disappointments of life; children who exist in bubbles, some of which may never burst.

I'm not saying speculative fiction is the light and the way as far as fixing this; but I am saying that children could damn well stand to be exposed to something a little darker than Arthur.

Which is why I am so pleased to see that Neil Gaiman's The Graveyard Book has been a Children's Bestseller for a year, and that the company it shares is, in many places, about the same shade of dark as Gaiman is.

It's not that I think that children should be allowed to read and watch whatever they want; certainly it requires a certain level of maturity to deal with some topics, and certainly there are topics that will be traumatic or just plain confusing if a child confronts them before they are ready. But let's let the kids make some of their own decisions. Let's treat our kids like little adults. Let's judge their maturity based on our knowledge of them, not some external rubric, and let's allow for the possibility that maybe our kids are ready to read about murder, or prostitution, or terrifying little monsters. Let's let 'em have a taste of the ugly stuff.

Jacket Weather

Some tiny, hungry, capitalist part of me feels like I should leave the post about the tip jar at the top of the page for a while—but that's not very trusting, is it? And besides, I walked out the door this morning and money was the last thing on my mind.

I live in Mountain View, which, as most California natives know, falls into the sun for three months out of every year. This year has been worse than many before it, thanks in part to that global warming some people insist isn't happening; as a result, my bedroom has been constant party to the hum of a fan for something like four months straight, punctuated by silence only for (extremely painful) phone calls. Having people stay over has been like sticking my head in an oven.

And then, last night...I didn't need a fan. I even had to close one of my windows. I did these things with no small amount of reflection, with no tiny bit of hope.

This morning, I wished I'd brought a jacket.

It was cold out on the streets near my house, just a little bite in the air, a little frosty quality to the light. I couldn't see my breath, but after a walk in a t-shirt and flannel I wasn't sweating, and I could feel the change in temperature along the hairs on my arm.

Autumn is coming.

I love the colder months; even prefer them. I was brought up in Marin County and San Francisco, and even Los Angeles had its late-year cold flashes. For all my adult years my family has lived in Fort Bragg, which is like San Francisco's rustic cousin that sometimes gets drunk at the family picnics. And I went to college in Santa Cruz, which is an infamous trap for Mendocino County natives

My point is, I am used to cold weather, because weather reminds me of my childhood and my youthful, ignorant freedom. When I suddenly realize I need a jacket, I remember being at Santa Cruz, looking up the cement slope of the hill outside Kresge College. When I feel the mist sticking to my clothes, I think of the bookstore and trips to Lush for soap I can't afford. When I see the way the sun changes in a cold atmosphere I think of the long and drowsy trips from Fort Bragg to the Mendocino Community High School and a weather-beaten picnic table where we cast pewter miniatures. I think of my parents, and pea coats, and mornings colored gray, and the warm pavement despite the promise of rain overhead. For me, the cold is home.

I know it's annoying to find your warm jackets, to unpack your flannel sheets; I know it's all a cycle and that later this year I'll be cursing the cold. But I'm welcoming the frost on my windows and the late-night hot showers, the bone-deep chills and the feeling of my eyeballs freezing in their sockets. I want every little ritual of autumn and I want it now.

Maybe it's because financial crises are finally dissolving; maybe it's because I'm stupid for an amazing woman; maybe it's because my creative juices are in high gear; but whatever it is, for me, the cold could not come soon enough. For me, it's proof I'm finally coming home.

Where My Mouth Is

I did some writing tonight. And then I attacked my website. And I did exactly as I said I would.

Provided all is going well and I am not currently hallucinating, you should see, atop the right sidebar, a link to my TipiT tip jar.

If you feel like tipping me, whether for the content I produce here, for content of mine you've seen elsewhere, or just because you want to feel like a patron of the arts, I would love it if you would do so. Just click on the tip jar and they will take care of the rest.

If you do not feel like tipping me, not a big deal; you are still invited to the party. I write first because I love it and second because I hope to do it professionally; if I'm getting to write I will be satisfied.

As an added incentive for those who are wavering on the tip issue: If you tip me and give me preferred contact info (via the TipiT comment field), I will tell you exactly how I will be spending the money you give me. It's like sponsoring an African child. An African child that enjoys Irish whiskey and the occasional hockey game.

Also, if you have a TipiT account, and want to feel like a part of The Future, TipiT supports tipping via Twitter (and thus via text). Just tweet @tipit @the_real_tyler followed by a number to donate that many dollars. Yes, I am also vague on the mechanics of this; the TipiT folks are a little bad at explaining how the variables in their syntax operate, so I am not sure how they handle contacting you about paying for that donation. I suspect they use a credit card you have set up with your aforementioned TipiT account—if I am wrong, somebody do comment so I can better explain how to experience the future. I just love this idea so much (the concept of being able to tweet a tip to a street busker with a tastefully displayed sign, or a speaker while they are still speaking) that I could not help but try to get in on it. Besides, this gives you a quick way to tip me for my tweets!

And yes, I know the tip jar is a little bit of a sore thumb right now; I'll be editing the template more fully soon, I swear, but life is a tad bit hectic right now. The point is, the tip jar has arrived, and the future with it; and now I am off to go watch Supernatural. Tip in good health!

The Future

I have a lot to do tonight, not the least of which is write. But first I have to make dinner. And before that, even, I have to share this link:

"why i am not afraid to take your money, by amanda fucking palmer".

Preach it, Miss Palmer. Preach it.

For those of you who agree, I'll be trying to install a tip jar on the site a little later this week. For those of you who do not agree: don't tip. Do what seems right to you. The posts and weekly updates and links and snark will all still be here for you, just as well planned out (and occasionally ill thought out) as always.

One request: Please, please do not spam me with drivel like what we found on Craigslist last week, telling us that artists do not deserve money and we out to be grateful for the pittance we receive. I'll come to your house and flog you with a Giger installation.

Not Providence: Upheaval

First of all, yes, I am late, and second of all, yes, Part Eleven is up, and I think some of last week's concluding nonsense is explained.

Second of all, you may find that Book One is no longer online. No, there's nothing wrong with the links—or rather, yes there is, but that's because I haven't had time to sweep the entire site and take the link down temporarily. I am doing this because I have a Super-Sekrit Project in the works, and I want Book One kept close to the chest while I deal with it. You will be able to get access again, and if you are someone I know personally and want to get caught up on the first book's conclusion, talk to me and we'll work out a delivery system. I will say no more for the moment.

Third of all, I want to know how many of you are actually reading this. My Google Analytics are not wholly informative about direct connections, you see, or about telling me where the unique hits are coming from. If nobody is reading, I won't say I won't be disappointed; but since I may have to take a couple-week break soon due to Real Life I want to know what my readership is like so I know what course of action to take. Thanks in advance.

The Recipes I Recommended

Both of these recipes are cooked in a standard American oven at 400 degrees Fahrenheit; I started preheating before I did any kitchen prep.

Spicy-Sweet Roasted Chicken
The only complicated part of this is the rub, and it's not that complicated.
In a large bowl, combine:
1 tbsp brown sugar
1/2 tbsp black pepper
1 tbsp sea salt
1/2 tbsp ancho chili powder
1/2 tbsp chili powder
1 tbsp oregano

Add around 1/4-1/3 cup of oil, whatever seems to make this look well-moistened when you stir it all together. Slap your chicken breasts into this bowl of exotic spices one at a time, making sure that you get an even coat. Roast the chicken on a pan (I used a griddle but that was a result of bachelorly desperation) for 10 minutes, turn and roast for about another 10 (I cannot swear to the second cooking time as I forgot to turn on the oven timer). Comes out very moist and with excellent flavor.

Simple Roasted Yams
Take 6 Medium Beauregard yams (more or as you prefer, I make 2 per meal I plan to eat them at) and one small Walla-Walla onion. Cut into smallish chunks. Mix onions and yams in a roasting pan, and toss with oil, black pepper, sea salt, and paprika. Cook for about 60 minutes, stirring about every 15-20. Let cool a tiny bit before serving.

For those of you who like to pretend to snobbery and also cut into the health quotient of the meal, I recommend a good dark beer or brown ale with this meal. But then I always recommend those things. And all food is always better when shared.

Recipes and Recommendations

I have some suggestions for you.

I suggest you try cooking spicy-sweet roasted chicken and roasted yams for dinner (recipes to follow in the next post). I also suggest you tell me if you see any way to improve the recipes.

I suggest that you enjoy your meal with someone whose company you are becoming increasingly fond of.

I then suggest that you sit down together in the comfortable room of your choice, and spend the evening editing one of your short pieces, while the above-mentioned company edits another. That done, you should curl up together and discuss your company's feedback. If you can get into a debate about artistic vs. grammatical use of the comma, it will only heighten the experience.

After that, I recommend you have a long night's sleep. Even if you don't actually get eight hours, you will find that in the morning the sun is brighter, the air is crisper, and the world just doesn't get to you as much.

The short and less poetic version: I'm happy. And I may have to blog about the commas.

Not Providence: Revenge of the Witty Title

Late, but still here: Part Ten, in which motors are a sliding signifier.

As to my concerns about delays, it looks like Part 11 will be in the can this week, and Part 12 is coalescing in my head; so we are back down to orange on the Skip Week Level.

Nothing further to report. Annotations available on request. Enjoy!

More from the Unfit for Society Files

Sometimes, one might be daydreaming about one's plans for this week, which include dinner out; and one might be imagining how the conversations therein might occur, and thus begin gesturing excitedly to one's imaginary interlocutors.

Under these circumstances, one is perfectly allowed to gesture even though one is carrying a cup in one hand, particularly if the cup is plastic to begin with, and being taken to the kitchen to be rinsed; however, one should be certain before gesturing that the cup is not in fact still an eighth full of milk, lest one suddenly take a money shot to the side of one's head from Clo the Cow.

Fortunately, most kitchens are equipped with paper towels, just in case of such an incident.

The more you know. ::rainbow::

Your helpful example,
Tyler

A Tiny Dose of Fanboyism

Ladies and gentlemen...I think Neil Patrick Harris has stolen my heart away.



(And if you were wondering, yes, they won.)

Review: 9

Very short version: Wow. I mean, wow. Wait, what?

Short version: A visually stunning, beautifully crafted, highly imaginative movie with a plot that would put even a five-year-old to sleep. Deeply enjoyable but almost doesn't need sound.

Long version, MIT SPOILER:

The summary: Nine unnerving and adorable rag dolls awaken to a world reduced to trash and rubble, and over the course of an hour and a half's storytelling uncover the truth about the world they have fallen into and their existence. One among them digs deeper than the others, unleashing something ancient and horrible and then righting his own wrong as best it can be righted, all leading to a conclusion that no-one understands but somehow involves Paracelsus.

I will start with the good: 9 is beautiful. Not traditional, statuesque, my-pants-are-tight beautiful, nor the kind that makes you warm inside; Shane Acker's vision is dark and alluring in a very unique way, a little steampunk, a little cyberpunk, a little good-old-fashioned punk. The movie turns everyday objects into fantastic creatures and contraptions—the only thing I couldn't identify, my girlfriend identified for me—and invests it all with a life and a horror that never seems to step outside the bounds of the objects thus incorporated.

The cinematography, likewise, must be praised. The backgrounds in this film are phenomenal, the action sequences exquisitely choreographed to make full use of the settings the characters are placed in, and the level of detail in everything is astounding without looking cluttered—or rather, without looking the bad kind of cluttered; 9's world is definitely way past its quota for junk.

In addition to the visuals, I have to praise this movie's vision. The dark future it depicts is archetypal enough for everyone to recognize it, but occupies a weird anachronistic space all its own; the process for creating the rag dolls and the history of the world up to the beginning of the narrative are clearly well-thought out; and the real-world ideas seem well-researched and brilliantly applied, and all of this background is only shoved down our throats when needed—there is plenty that is left tacit and implied for the viewer to unpack. All throughout the movie are little touches that show just how much thought and care went into this film. Acker clearly has a monumental imagination, and I look forward to seeing more from him.

However, this level of detail and thought is exactly why the one weak point is so overwhelming, and that weak point: the movie's story. Not the background, mind you—the background has a great deal of hidden depth—the actual plot of what occurs in the course of the movie. The plot is so basic that it can be predicted more or less from the get-go; it's like someone took Campbell's Hero's Journey and glued the contents of a junk drawer to it. We recognize the narrative elements as soon as they are introduced, watch for their usual applications, and are never once surprised at how things turn out.

There are twists, I suppose, in the form of unraveling the mysteries of what occurred prior to the rag dolls being created, and their creator's intentions for them, but those are never fully explored. What's more, the ending is unsatisfying in the extreme. While the triumph over the Big Bad and the release of those put into, as far as we can tell, perpetual torment are certainly a good denouement, the dark science and cool alchemical ideas of the rest of the movie suddenly become strange fairytale hand-waves. The movie clearly intends us to ask ourselves what happens next for the surviving rag dolls, but it doesn't care to explain why the talisman is unleashing some but not all of their souls into the air, nor why that makes it rain, nor why the raindrops are teeming with little green soul-bits. (As one of my co-viewers put it, "What I learned today is that bacteria are the souls of old people." If you're reading this despite spoiler warnings, you have to watch to understand; I can't make it make sense.)

END SPOILERS.

But the weak plot aside, 9 is in no way a bad movie. The visuals and imagination that went into it are stunning, and while the story's progression is weak the ideas behind it are so originally executed, if not wholly original, that I can't see fit to have much complaint with the movie overall. I give it four out of five scissor-beaked creatures from my nightmares. I enjoyed it greatly, and gasped in wonder in some places, and I fully plan on owning this baby on DVD.

Yes, I will be the terrible parent who shows this to their children. Did you expect anything less from me?

Yes, Virginia, There Is an Internet

I often wonder how people do and say some of the things they do on the Interwebs: the people who betray confidences in public LiveJournal posts, or post naked pictures of themselves doing drugs on Facebook accounts linked to their boss's. It's always seemed like some sort of yawning, hungry pit underneath the soft underbelly of the Internet, this strange trap of self-centeredness and assumption that leads us to think it's no less private than the sweat-stained journal under our pillow. My theory of mind allows me to assume this, but I've never been able to understand it.

Today, I think I glimpsed that chasm.

Some of you might remember my review of Inglourious Basterds. In it, I made a certain comment near the end (now edited out) about a certain Google Ad for a cookbook I saw while discussing the movie. My comment was snide, as my comments are wont to be; just a little parting shot on my way out of the review.

Last night, I got a four paragraph email from the book's author.

Seems I forgot about Google Alerts; seems my phrasing was exactly right for any alerts he may have orbiting about the book's title to have started screaming that I said something. Regardless, I received a long, involved, and surprisingly kind email, letting me know why my statement was incorrect, and how much good the profits from that book have done (it seems all of them are donated to families of Holocaust survivors).

I'm not saying I feel like a bad person—I think my reaction is understandable, and besides that I like to think it made a few people smirk. But the author's reaction is also understandable, and it clearly did do some good in this world, so for the time being I'm going to spare him that snide comment and edit it out of the review. He gets a reprieve from wit until the book is famous enough for him to become an acceptable celebrity target.

But let that be a lesson to you, folks, when you post something of even slightly dubious content: People really do read what you write.

In a way, that's actually kind of a comfort...

I wonder who else I can almost offend...

Not Providence for Breakfast!

Yes, I used that title already. It's been a busy week.

May I introduce Part Nine, or "Holy crap quote marks".

For those of you who have been paying attention, yes, the rewrite for the anthology is almost done; and yes, this is the last new update for Not Providence I had in the can. Since I am sending the rewrite out on Wednesday, I hope to have time to write and edit Part Ten before next Tuesday; if that just isn't going to happen you will receive an update this weekend to that effect. But for now: Enjoy!

Not Providence Time, Again

Here you are, everybody: Part Eight, right on schedule. How about that paranoia, huh?

An update re: buffers: the buffer for this series currently does not exist. I have Part Nine in the can and that's it. Given how things are going with my other projects I suspect I'll get Ten done on schedule and maybe even Eleven, but the chances of me having to take a skip week are becoming greater and greater. All I can promise is that if it happens you'll get a warning before Tuesday morning of that week.

For now, though, enjoy the update!

An Assortment

It was brought to my attention last night via email that I have not been blogging. Looking back, it's true; I really, really haven't. You got your little Not Providence update, and that's it.

It's weird how in a way that's a good thing. It's not that I don't enjoy the Notes from the Underworld—I won't pay website fees to do something I hate. But if I'm not writing here, it's usually because I'm writing something else; my busiest periods of fiction writing are my dead periods here online.

Which is precisely where I've been. An editor came back to me requesting a rewrite (which, I tell myself, is a greater opportunity than a rejection, even if I loved what they wanted gone), and I decided to suck up the instinct to defend MY ARRRRRRRRT! and go ahead and take another crack at it. Since I have two weeks to get said bonesawing completed, I have been mostly busy with that. It turns out, the new version of the project is going extremely well. I wonder if this ever happened to Homer.

In other news, I have been watching The Venture Bros. For those not in the know, it's an Adult Swim cartoon, and one of the finer examples of its kind. Though I'm enjoying it, it is highlighting a thing about my brain and a thing about the world that I am really wondering about. It's often been joked that Literature majors like myself have trouble just reading a book or watching a show; that we always have to "unpack" everything, try to figure out the subtext, watching for the world behind the show. And I am fascinated by how solid the ideas and world-building are behind some of the shows I've been watching recently. Transformers Animated was impressive detailed without clubbing the viewer over the head with it, and The Venture Bros. is actually a very clever deconstruction of the super-science, pulp-hero genre. Unfortunately this also means that I get annoyed at the episodes that feature too much about Dr. Venture's sociopathic selfishness. And it's always possible that I'm wrong about these shows and have finally gone insane.

In other other news, I have been thinking about silence. It's no big secret that I'm a talker, always have been, always will be. But it was something I never really reflected on until recently, and I've found that I am a bigger talker the less comfortable I am. I enjoy good, long conversations, but only when we have something to discuss and are really engaged on the topic; a lot of the time, conversation is me making mouth-noise about whatever strikes me brain first, so I don't have to admit that secretly I am worried the people around me are incredibly bored and would rather be doing anything else, anything in the world that doesn't involve being near me.

For the last two days, I barely talked. I mostly drank vodka (good, real, quality Russian vodka) from a CCCP shot glass, watched Buffy, and talked about what we wanted to eat for dinner. In the company of one of my oldest friends and one of my newest but best. And it was really, very good.

And now, it's time to post this little ramble (or as I prefer, this assortment of miniature blog posts, like a Twitter stream with Tourette's) and get on to my big Labor Day plans: tri-tip steak, mashed potatoes, Mirror Pond ale, and Supernatural. (Which also has very solid world-building, and is impressively deconstructionist. Yeah, I said it.)

So yeah. That's what's happening in my world lately. How about you?

Not Providence Has Arrived

In which drinking is bad for you.

Also, I am getting my buffer of completed updates a bit larger now that work for the anthology is done, so I am not currently anticipating missing a week. I'm glad it's working out, it was touch and go for a bit there, and I'm sorry if anyone was alarmed.

Excelsior!