Today, I went and got a new driver's license and, when I did, I left with a card in which I looked like a thug. Five years ago, the same thing happened. At least bouncers treat me well.
On Thursday and Friday I am running a workshop again, so likely it will be quiet, though it has been quiet around here a little, mostly because I've been spending my spare time trying to get books into the hands of people, trying to write, trying to teach, and trying to deal with various personal issues and all that comes and goes with that. No one particularly wants to read blog posts about that kind of stuff. Fuck it, man, I don't particularly wish to be living half of it.
But, what you going to do?
The one thing I have been watching a little out of the corner of my eye is the debate over Triple J's hottest 100 of all time and it's lack of female representation. Even though the debate strikes my personal pet hate, which is that it's about the numbers, and not the actual artists (a road we've been down before where I've tried to express that just having faceless women to fill up a number quota so that you have equality doesn't actually make for equality)... even though it does that, I wonder if it's even worth having the fight over this particular list. Since it was a popular vote, a lot of other factors make or break the debate, and without knowing the gender split of the voters, the age groups, the occupations and so forth, there's not a lot that can be drawn from it except that, hey, there weren't many women there. And sure, excellent female musicians were ignored--no theredsunband, no Patti Smith, no Linda Perry, no Ani DiFranco, no Beth Orton, Portishead, Skunk Anansie, no Bettye Lavette, and so on and so forth--but without that extra information, what is it that can actually be said?
So, I dunno--it strikes me that there are better places to take the fight for the representation of women: festival line ups, promotion of female vs male artists, and so on and so forth. I suppose you can argue that all those things feed into popular vote lists, which is a valid point, but I just keep finding myself saying, "Well, who were the voters, and how'd they all vote? Was it that there was no women? Was the spread of female artists actually more diverse, and the male artists just more concentrated? Was it that there were no female artists in rural voters? Were all the voters in Queensland? Did no one in Sydney actually vote?"
Questions, questions.
(crossposted)
On Thursday and Friday I am running a workshop again, so likely it will be quiet, though it has been quiet around here a little, mostly because I've been spending my spare time trying to get books into the hands of people, trying to write, trying to teach, and trying to deal with various personal issues and all that comes and goes with that. No one particularly wants to read blog posts about that kind of stuff. Fuck it, man, I don't particularly wish to be living half of it.
But, what you going to do?
The one thing I have been watching a little out of the corner of my eye is the debate over Triple J's hottest 100 of all time and it's lack of female representation. Even though the debate strikes my personal pet hate, which is that it's about the numbers, and not the actual artists (a road we've been down before where I've tried to express that just having faceless women to fill up a number quota so that you have equality doesn't actually make for equality)... even though it does that, I wonder if it's even worth having the fight over this particular list. Since it was a popular vote, a lot of other factors make or break the debate, and without knowing the gender split of the voters, the age groups, the occupations and so forth, there's not a lot that can be drawn from it except that, hey, there weren't many women there. And sure, excellent female musicians were ignored--no theredsunband, no Patti Smith, no Linda Perry, no Ani DiFranco, no Beth Orton, Portishead, Skunk Anansie, no Bettye Lavette, and so on and so forth--but without that extra information, what is it that can actually be said?
So, I dunno--it strikes me that there are better places to take the fight for the representation of women: festival line ups, promotion of female vs male artists, and so on and so forth. I suppose you can argue that all those things feed into popular vote lists, which is a valid point, but I just keep finding myself saying, "Well, who were the voters, and how'd they all vote? Was it that there was no women? Was the spread of female artists actually more diverse, and the male artists just more concentrated? Was it that there were no female artists in rural voters? Were all the voters in Queensland? Did no one in Sydney actually vote?"
Questions, questions.
(crossposted)
I am writing this from my old notebook, because my desktop video card appears to have died. It has wonderful blue screens, red dots, green dots, and removing drivers and so forth seem not to solve this. Even safe mode appears not to be safe.
Wonderful.
At the moment, I'm currently describing life by how this keyboard works: sometimes the L sticks.
(crossposted)
Wonderful.
At the moment, I'm currently describing life by how this keyboard works: sometimes the L sticks.
(crossposted)
This morning, my mother came over. One of the first things she asked me if I had watched the Michael Jackson funeral.
I didn't, but she did. Apparently his coffin was golden.
That's John Niven, giving Jackson a send off.
Link.
(crossposted)
I didn't, but she did. Apparently his coffin was golden.
Anyone else fancy a refresher course on the kind of man Michael Jackson really was? Good. Let's go back a few years....
"The accuser, now 15, remarked that 'Sometimes Michael would also give wine' to the New Jersey siblings ... which Jackson called 'Jesus Juice'." As a novelist you know a linguistic bullseye when you see it and "Jesus Juice" is just too good. It is exactly what a quasi-religious paedophile would call wine he has transferred to a Coke can and is trying to get a child to drink. When I heard that detail during the trial it literally stopped me in my tracks.
Jordy Chandler, Jackson's first accuser, gave detectives a detailed description of Jackson's genital area, including distinctive "splotches" on his buttocks and one on his penis. The boy's information was so accurate he was able to locate where the splotch moved to when Jackson's penis became erect and the fact that he was circumcised. Jackson was brought in and his genitals duly photographed. Soon after this shoot (surely one of the stranger photo sessions endured by the singer) was matched up to Chandler's description, Jackson suddenly agreed to settle Chandler's civil claim out of court for somewhere north of $20m (£12.2m).
At this juncture, some details recounted in the affidavit of Gavin Arvizo, Jackson's second accuser, are also worth remembering: "Jackson told him [Arvizo] that boys have to masturbate or they go crazy, and related a story about a boy who had sex with a dog. Jackson, he said, then told him he wanted to show him how to masturbate."
...
Let us picture what was, by all accounts – that of the staff, of the parents and siblings of various young accusers – this grown man's idea of a good time. We descend into the chilled, darkened bowels of Neverland, passing the Mickey Mouse posters, the discreet alarm systems (rigged to give advance warning of anyone approaching his chambers), we punch in the keypad security code required for access to the inner sanctum and we find the King of Pop: he lies on an enormous bed, numbed by opiates, smudged with wine or bourbon ("Jim Bean" one of the boys called it, a malapropism that might be charming in other circumstances) and surrounded by half-naked pre-pubescent boys.
A laptop is showing pornography, opened bottles of Pinot Noir and SKYY vodka are strewn around. Jackson is watching Disney's Fantasia over and over again, drifting off up to the ceiling as a wave of the Dilaudid or Demerol hits him. He cuddles the nearest boy. His newest, most special friend. The medical bag in the corner glistens darkly, filled with brown tubs of prescription candy and pre-loaded hypodermics. Man, sweet dreams for the King of Pop.
That's John Niven, giving Jackson a send off.
Link.
(crossposted)
You know, it disturbs me that I'm making a second Michael Jackson post, but check out this:
It comes from a link to a story about Jackson's ghost strolling round his house, which is an obvious waste of brain space. But what's truly disturbing is the number of locks on his bedroom door, which is what they're looking at the moment before the ghost appears.
Now, I ask you, why would someone need that many locks on their bedroom door?
The children, I tell you, think of the children.
(crossposted)
It comes from a link to a story about Jackson's ghost strolling round his house, which is an obvious waste of brain space. But what's truly disturbing is the number of locks on his bedroom door, which is what they're looking at the moment before the ghost appears.
Now, I ask you, why would someone need that many locks on their bedroom door?
The children, I tell you, think of the children.
(crossposted)
Today's compliment comes from Rjurik Davidson:
Sometimes, it strikes me as strange the things people say about me. I've been a jealous bastard, I've been the next best thing, I've been a has been, and now I could possibly be great and ignored, though only time will prove, I suppose.
At any rate, it's still a nice compliment, and Davidson's comment that there is a divide in the speculative fiction scene is true, though I hardly think that it is a new one. In fact, I would go as far as to say the divide exists in fiction, no matter the genre, since there has always been the people who value plot, pacing, and suspension of disbelief over everything else. The number of people who read Dan Brown's Da Vinci Code and told me it was poorly written but an engrossing plot, for example, would be a key indication that this audience exists. Of course, this doesn't mean that you can't have a book that does both--but everyone likes a good divide, and me, I look forward to the day when all those people who want a cracking plot and taken to the wall and executed.
Viva la revolution, as they say.
(crossposted)
I suspect here we get an interesting example of a divide that runs right through the SF world: the differing aesthetics of readers who like traditional genre elements (plot, pace, sense of wonder) and those who are literary, concerned with deep character, theme, mood, language. Dave falls on the former side of the divide. And it seems to me that writing literary SF is probably not a great career move. It’s a form of marginalising yourself doubly. First, you marginalise yourself from the literary mainstream which often sneers as science fiction, then you marginalise yourself from the bulk of SF genre readers who are often attracted to its pulpish elements. You end up with a very small readership indeed, unless like Ballard, Le Guin and others, you can reconnect with the literary mainstream. Or if you’re really smart, you write science fiction which is able to hide the fact that it is science fiction (here I’m thinking of Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go or Margaret Atwood’s work). Otherwise you are likely to end up like Thomas M. Disch - a great and ignored writer.
It seems to me that there are a number of writers I know who run this risk: in terms of Australians, someone like Ben Peek (who has written for Overland), might be sitting in this space. Peek’s Twenty Six Lies One Truth is a smart novella which owes much to experimental or ‘postmodern’ fiction, and yet I suspect its main readership came from the SF community, the place where Peek made his name.
Sometimes, it strikes me as strange the things people say about me. I've been a jealous bastard, I've been the next best thing, I've been a has been, and now I could possibly be great and ignored, though only time will prove, I suppose.
At any rate, it's still a nice compliment, and Davidson's comment that there is a divide in the speculative fiction scene is true, though I hardly think that it is a new one. In fact, I would go as far as to say the divide exists in fiction, no matter the genre, since there has always been the people who value plot, pacing, and suspension of disbelief over everything else. The number of people who read Dan Brown's Da Vinci Code and told me it was poorly written but an engrossing plot, for example, would be a key indication that this audience exists. Of course, this doesn't mean that you can't have a book that does both--but everyone likes a good divide, and me, I look forward to the day when all those people who want a cracking plot and taken to the wall and executed.
Viva la revolution, as they say.
(crossposted)
I made a twitter account. Strangely, my name was taken, and so I called it nosubstance.
I don't know what to do with it yet. I added a bunch of people and a lot of it is a wall of text, so I figure I'll have to cut that back, and then I'll figure out what use it has.
(crossposted)
I don't know what to do with it yet. I added a bunch of people and a lot of it is a wall of text, so I figure I'll have to cut that back, and then I'll figure out what use it has.
(crossposted)
From Deb Layne (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
wheatland_press)
Wheatland Press is the publisher of 26lies and a bunch of other fine books, so you could do worse than going over there and picking up a couple of books. In fact, you should, so you can make her rich as a Nazi, and then she can fund my experiments.
Yes.
(crossposted)
wheatland_press)Starting right now and ending on July 31, 2009 at midnight (Pacific Time), buy any two Wheatland Press titles and get a third title absolutely free. Just specify the title of your free book choice in the comment box of the PayPal form.
As always, if you prefer not to use Paypal, you may email your order to me directly (inquiries(at)wheatlandpress.com).
Wheatland Press.
Thank you for your support!
Wheatland Press is the publisher of 26lies and a bunch of other fine books, so you could do worse than going over there and picking up a couple of books. In fact, you should, so you can make her rich as a Nazi, and then she can fund my experiments.
Yes.
(crossposted)
The other day I got an email from Sean Wallace who told me that there was a sudden spike in Black Sheep sales in June. He had no idea why, and neither did I, though I figured it had everything to do with German students who read the excerpt in their exam.
I found the information somewhat frustrating, actually. Ever since I found out that the book was used in the exam, I've had this half idea of a notion that there's a touch of a potential audience within the country, and I'd like to try getting the book to a publisher there, either in English or German. It feels like an opportunity, though if it is one or not, time will show--but at the moment, I have no way of getting into the market. I don't know it well, obviously, and my attempts to find someone interested in representing the book have met with silence. I can't rely on a current agent either to press the matter, since I left mine a couple of months ago. There's really no gossip to be had. I'd been there for a while and it just wasn't working out for me: A Year in the City was too Australian and the contacts weren't there, and in eight months, one publisher read Beneath the Red Sun. It's a bad time in publishing, but I'd like to be working more, so I figured I'd try my luck, picked up my bags, and went looking round for what was out there. No harm, no foul: nothing works out all the time, and they were nice guys. Others had success, but it wasn't mine.
So now, I'm out on my lonesome, and there's things I know, and things I don't, and one of the latter is the German market, and it frustrates me some. It feels like I'm cut off from being able to try my luck, and that's the suck, as they say.
That's probably the worse part of being a writer, actually. The publishing industry is its own little community, much in the way that any job is, but after you've written the work, you can feel as if there's no real time or place for you. It can be made worse by the fact that it can feel so large and so fractured, divided by the boundaries of genre, place, commercial interests, personal quirks, and country. This, of course, is no different to how any job out there is, but then I was never a fan of that in other jobs, and it's part of the reason that I work for myself.
Ah well.
Time to look round some more, say hi, and see how I go. Drop me a note if you know a person or place in Germany worth trying.
(crossposted)
I found the information somewhat frustrating, actually. Ever since I found out that the book was used in the exam, I've had this half idea of a notion that there's a touch of a potential audience within the country, and I'd like to try getting the book to a publisher there, either in English or German. It feels like an opportunity, though if it is one or not, time will show--but at the moment, I have no way of getting into the market. I don't know it well, obviously, and my attempts to find someone interested in representing the book have met with silence. I can't rely on a current agent either to press the matter, since I left mine a couple of months ago. There's really no gossip to be had. I'd been there for a while and it just wasn't working out for me: A Year in the City was too Australian and the contacts weren't there, and in eight months, one publisher read Beneath the Red Sun. It's a bad time in publishing, but I'd like to be working more, so I figured I'd try my luck, picked up my bags, and went looking round for what was out there. No harm, no foul: nothing works out all the time, and they were nice guys. Others had success, but it wasn't mine.
So now, I'm out on my lonesome, and there's things I know, and things I don't, and one of the latter is the German market, and it frustrates me some. It feels like I'm cut off from being able to try my luck, and that's the suck, as they say.
That's probably the worse part of being a writer, actually. The publishing industry is its own little community, much in the way that any job is, but after you've written the work, you can feel as if there's no real time or place for you. It can be made worse by the fact that it can feel so large and so fractured, divided by the boundaries of genre, place, commercial interests, personal quirks, and country. This, of course, is no different to how any job out there is, but then I was never a fan of that in other jobs, and it's part of the reason that I work for myself.
Ah well.
Time to look round some more, say hi, and see how I go. Drop me a note if you know a person or place in Germany worth trying.
(crossposted)
Apparently, every second adult in Australia will have bought an Oz Lotto ticket for the 90 million jackpot tonight.
You may refer to me as number 2 for the rest of the day.
(Arts grants are due today, but I've been a little too fucked up and all over the place for that of late, so this is how I am compensating. Given my previous attempts to get Arts Money, I suspect my chances are much greater with lotto.)
(crossposted)
You may refer to me as number 2 for the rest of the day.
(Arts grants are due today, but I've been a little too fucked up and all over the place for that of late, so this is how I am compensating. Given my previous attempts to get Arts Money, I suspect my chances are much greater with lotto.)
(crossposted)
Well, I thought that was alright.
I got a few.
I'm not going to write a list or anything.
Michael Bay?
The plot of the first film was that giant robots help you get hot girls.
The plot of the new film isn't even that different. Giant robots help you keep your hot girl. I wish I had a giant robot.
What else are people complaining about?
You have a list with you?
You need a hobby.
As a hobby?
They're racist?
Why don't they just say they're a negative representation of British royalty?
Well, I don't give a shit about this one. There's real issues of racism to be addressed in the world. Turn on the TV, see the white people. Look at the way prose doesn't describe white skin, just leaves it as natural, Steven Spielberg's portrayal of Germans... the green and blue robot twins in Transformers is pretty low on my needs to be addressed list for the representations of race.
Why?
What else you got?
Yeah, I laughed there too.
Really?
Look, if you stayed after the dog fucking scene, complaining about the giant dangling balls of a giant robot that John Turturro was forced to gaze upon is somewhat redundant.
Okay, okay, that's enough. Gimme that list.
It's gone.
Fine, just what's the point of these complaints? The first Transformers film wasn't art by any means--it just didn't suck, which given the standards of films lately, makes it seem like high fucking art, but it wasn't that at all. It was just this amusing, expensive waste of time about giant robots and a guy who wants a girl. The characterisation was minor, the action scenes nothing special, and the giant robots giant. This one felt the same to me. A lot of money that could've gone towards giving people, I dunno, medicine, or water, or something like that; but it kept me entertained enough and it was what you could expect from a director who made Bad Boys, the Island, and all those other expensive, stupid films he's made. You're getting what you're getting with him so why bother complaining? He's what we made him, and his film is what society has made films into: dumb, expensive pieces of rubbish with giant robot balls bashing together in some eight year olds attempt of humour.
Complaining is useless. Just enjoy the ride. You made it.
Are we even talking about art?
Then I think we should just leave the building.
(crossposted)
Yeah, I got no complaints.
I got a few.
Yeah?
I'm not going to write a list or anything.
I seen people writing them lists. They think Michael Bay raped them.
Michael Bay?
Yeah, man, they say the plot isn't as good.
The plot of the first film was that giant robots help you get hot girls.
Yeah, I honestly can't tell you what the plot of the first film was. I think it was giant robots crash on Earth, intergalactic war, and why isn't John Turturro the star of this film?
The plot of the new film isn't even that different. Giant robots help you keep your hot girl. I wish I had a giant robot.
And John Turturro is still not the star.
What else are people complaining about?
Let me check the list.
You have a list with you?
I was kind've hoping you didn't like it and I could go through the check list, saying what a tool you were, and how you were like everyone else. Unless I hated it, in which case I was just going to tick off the ones I agreed with.
You need a hobby.
Okay, how about the racism?
As a hobby?
No, in the film. Those twin robots, Mudflap and Skids.
They're racist?
They are, I quote here, stereotypical representations of a negative African American image in which black men look a little like gorillas, have buck teeth, one of which is gold, big earns, and cannot read nor write.
Why don't they just say they're a negative representation of British royalty?
Cause they don't sound British, I guess.
Well, I don't give a shit about this one. There's real issues of racism to be addressed in the world. Turn on the TV, see the white people. Look at the way prose doesn't describe white skin, just leaves it as natural, Steven Spielberg's portrayal of Germans... the green and blue robot twins in Transformers is pretty low on my needs to be addressed list for the representations of race.
You got that list on you?
Why?
I'm going through a bit of a list moment.
What else you got?
The dangling balls on Devastator.
Yeah, I laughed there too.
People hated that.
Really?
The dog fucking scene, too.
Look, if you stayed after the dog fucking scene, complaining about the giant dangling balls of a giant robot that John Turturro was forced to gaze upon is somewhat redundant.
There's also some feel that the characterisation--
Okay, okay, that's enough. Gimme that list.
It's my list!
It's gone.
I'll make another one.
Fine, just what's the point of these complaints? The first Transformers film wasn't art by any means--it just didn't suck, which given the standards of films lately, makes it seem like high fucking art, but it wasn't that at all. It was just this amusing, expensive waste of time about giant robots and a guy who wants a girl. The characterisation was minor, the action scenes nothing special, and the giant robots giant. This one felt the same to me. A lot of money that could've gone towards giving people, I dunno, medicine, or water, or something like that; but it kept me entertained enough and it was what you could expect from a director who made Bad Boys, the Island, and all those other expensive, stupid films he's made. You're getting what you're getting with him so why bother complaining? He's what we made him, and his film is what society has made films into: dumb, expensive pieces of rubbish with giant robot balls bashing together in some eight year olds attempt of humour.
Complaining is useless. Just enjoy the ride. You made it.
You've so changed. Where's the anger? The fire? The art?
Are we even talking about art?
No one else does.
Then I think we should just leave the building.
(crossposted)
In the Philippines, the inmates of the Cebu Provincial Detention and Rehabilitation Center did a performance of Michael Jackson's 'Thriller' to honour him in his death.
Here's Lucius Shepard (lucius_t at ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif)
theinferior4) writing about the same man's death:
Me?
I thought his life was somewhat tragic, but then I enjoyed the spectacle that it became. Other than that, I'm not particularly moved to state or write anything about it other than he probably did fuck those kids.
Which is why the prison tribute is not only funny, but fitting.
(crossposted)
Here's Lucius Shepard (
lucius_t at theinferior4) writing about the same man's death:My reaction to Jackson’s death is, hey, put on your party hat, because I don’t ever think it’s bad news when a pedophile bites the dust, especially one whom I believe was a child molester. I don’t care if he was sad or confused. Fuck that. The media trots out that bullshit line every some Holllywood trainwreck dies before his or her time, and people can’t wait to echo it. I don’t care if his mommy and daddy were mean to him—plenty of people are fucked up by their parents, plenty suffer abuse and grow up cursed with self-hatred and work their way out of it and don’t end up as pathetic deviants and drug addicts surrounded by a coterie of users.
I don’t put any credence in the idea that our consensual adulation helped doom this beautiful young mutant, at least no more so than it ruins the average run of spoiled, self-involved asshole rock stars. Jackson stands out for me in that his death trip was the most grotesque and the most reeking-of-corruption of any to which I’ve been witness. He was a pharaoh-like figure, flaunting his eerie perversity behind a screen of wealth and the trappings of his estate…yet without the bucks, he would have been just another chicken hawk. He succeeded in avoiding accountability for his sins in life by paying out tens of millions of dollars, but he certainly should be held accountable in death. Iconic? Sure, but an icon of dissolution and decay, his life a weird riff on Dorian Gray that carried a taint of putrefaction. His legacy to pop culture? He invented the moonwalk and helped to popularize the music video? Stop it! I mean, seriously.
Me?
I thought his life was somewhat tragic, but then I enjoyed the spectacle that it became. Other than that, I'm not particularly moved to state or write anything about it other than he probably did fuck those kids.
Which is why the prison tribute is not only funny, but fitting.
(crossposted)
There will be enough jokes made about 'Drop' that I don't have to do any, but I have to say, it's an awesome idea:
Link.
From Nick Kaufmann (nick_kaufmann).
(crossposted)
A Japanese author famous for his horror stories, including cult Japanese and eventually Hollywood film The Ring, has bizarrely produced a novel to be printed on rolls of toilet paper by manufacturer, Hayashi Paper.
The Koji Suzuki novel called "Drop" will be printed in short form on millions of rolls of toilet paper in a marketing coup for the Hayashi toilet roll company
Each roll will carry several copies of the new nine-chapter novella "Drop" by Koji Suzuki. Who knows the story may even be made into a cult film.
"Drop," is appropriately set in a public restroom. The Drop toilet paper novella takes up about three feet or 90 centimeters of a toilet roll. Koji Suzuki's "Drop" can be read in just a few minutes, according to manufacturer Hayashi Paper.
Hayashi promotes the toilet paper, which will sell for 210 yen or US$2.20 a roll, as "a horror experience in the toilet."
Link.
From Nick Kaufmann (
nick_kaufmann).(crossposted)
Lately, I've been seeing a little bit about Bookscan being talked about. Bookscan is, or so it sells itself, a tool that monitors the sales of books in the marketplace. What's interesting about it, however, is the complaints:
Link.
(crossposted)
"Our rule of thumb is that Bookscan captures about 70% of retail sales, give or take. In this case, Bookscan shows sales of just over 7,200 copies for the ___________________ book, so it seems that the accepted formula may be a bit low here. 14,000 copies is a strong performance for this title, and it’s great that this one has earned out for the publisher."
A bit low?! Bookscan is reporting half of what the author's own royalty statements show and, in the case of the author's second book, Bookscan is reporting approximately ten percent of what the statements show.
Are publishers really so dense that they haven't compared Bookscan's figures with their own sales figures? Surely if they have, then they would have stopped paying Bookscan for its clearly and outrageously wrong data and put it out of business for lack of subscribers. Because, you see, Bookscan is pretty much only of use to publishers and to, say, news organizations writing about publishing. Sure, it's supposed to be the Nielsen Ratings of books, but Nielsen Ratings for TV and radio have a purpose: they tell advertisers where it's worth spending money on what shows. But books have no ads, so what is the purpose of Bookscan? To prove that the NEW YORK TIMES best-seller list is wrong? That the number one book this week is not RELENTLESS, by Dean Koontz? That the number two book isn't THE PHYSICK BOOK OF DELIVERANCE DANE? (Really? That's the number two book?) Do we need some ultimate decider beyond the NYT or Barnes & Noble or Amazon? I don't think so.
I am one-hundred-percent sure that if Bookscan were reporting higher numbers than publishers, publishers would pull their subscriptions and put them out of business. Why? Because agents and authors would be hammering publishers and demanding to know why the publishers are reporting lower numbers and where the hell are our royalties?! But because Bookscan reports lower numbers, publishers happily use its data to crush authors and insist that they can't pay what the author or agent believes a book is worth because Bookscan says the author isn't selling as many copies as the author says he or she is. Even presented with actual royalty figures, publishers seem to still favor Bookscan, which I think puts a burden on publishers to ensure that Bookscan gets it right.
Link.
(crossposted)
Harry Joy was to die three times, but it was his first death which was to have the greatest effect on him, and it is his first death which we shall now witness.
So begins Peter Carey's first novel, Bliss, which I began reading tonight.
It's not the first Carey book I've read. I'm, perhaps oddly since I'm not usually a fan of novels that win awards, rather fond of his The True History of the Kelly Gang, in which Carey showed how well he could mutate his style to capture the voice that he needed. He did a similar thing in Theft, where he switched between voices, though I didn't like the voice of the mentally challenged brother and I thought the crime aspect of it to be somewhat lacking. But, even then, Carey had a fine stylist touch to his writing and the book was engaging. And Care';s voice has always been strong and defined throughout his other novels. That voice is there at the start of Bliss, and I'll be curious to see how it plays out over the book, whether it stands up throughout, or if it has rough patches, if some of the finesse is missing, and so forth. Take from it what you will, but there's a certain enjoyment to be had in early novels when you can compare them to later ones. You get to see the author's ticks, tricks, and twitches, and how he or she has used or abused them throughout the years.
Of course, sometimes it's the early novels that are the strongest, and the author, in his or her later novels, tends to just repeat themselves. To a degree, I think Haruki Murakami has done that. Of course, with that said, Murakami's first novels aren't very good--it wasn't until Hard Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World and the Wind Up Bird Chronicle that he became interesting, at least to me (it was Norwegian Wood that reportedly made his name, though I think it's a very simple and uninteresting novel).
Anyhow, random connection between the two, but I enjoy both authors, and that's good enough for me.
(crossposted)
It's always good to see my HECS debt. I could never afford to pay for Univeristy, so I did the deferred payment method, which was HECS. I believe it might be called HELP now. Either way, I did my BA and my honours on it, though my PhD was oddly enough free if I did it in four years. Anyhow, the HECS debt that I have is addressed to Dr Peek and it keeps gaining interest every year. Perhaps one day I'll be in a position to begin paying it off, but until then, it's like an old friend, growing fatter with the passing of time.
In other news, Placebo released an album that sounded like Placebo, which is both good and bad. I liked Meds more.
(crossposted)
In other news, Placebo released an album that sounded like Placebo, which is both good and bad. I liked Meds more.
(crossposted)
In India, they say, "David Carradine was murdered by gender-bender hookers."
Now, personally, we can only hope that Carradine was killed by a pair of lady boys, because that would be strange and awesome. However, I think it's unlikely, for, as the Australian Daily Telegraph reports, Carradine "was a man of contradictions."
Now, I don't know exactly what the line about the dog and the change and the lack of shoes has to do with anything, but it's somewhat sinister, isn't it? And the basket of flowers? How does that have anything to do with this story. I mean, it's a funeral, people bring...
Wait.
Only kung fu assassins bring a basket of flowers to your funeral!
(crossposted)
The actor's movie producer pal has claimed. David Winters, who produced three of the actor's less-known martial arts movies, insists that he was the victim of Bangkok's Lady Boys, reports Contactmusic.
He tells America's Globe, "David Carradine was murdered... I strongly believe Lady Boys are responsible. Lady Boys operate in pairs. David would not have stood a chance. They can be very brutal."
Going by his belief, Winters is now calling for authorities to release hotel surveillance video. He says, "I want to see those tapes. My suspicion is they've already been doctored."
A retired FBI agent, who has been hired by the Globe to look into the matter, agrees with Winters' theory. Ted Gunderson says, "I believe he (Carradine) met two Lady Boys in the hotel bar... They are flirtatious, desperate for money and would have zeroed in on a celebrity like Carradine."
Now, personally, we can only hope that Carradine was killed by a pair of lady boys, because that would be strange and awesome. However, I think it's unlikely, for, as the Australian Daily Telegraph reports, Carradine "was a man of contradictions."
The New York Post investigation reported that in his final days Carradine was a creature of habit both in his obsession with drinking and smoking - and visiting his regular sex shop.
Once a month, Carradine frequented Suzie's Delights, a sex shop on Ventura Boulevard, near his Tarzana home.
He became a regular six years ago, around the time he married Annie, said Suzie's owner Shoshana Arazy.
"David would come in to pick out things for himself and pretty lingerie for Annie," she told the New York Post. "Always pretty, soft things for his wife. He'd say, ''This would look so nice on my Annie.' "
The last time Carradine visited the shop was a week before he died. He placed an order for bondage DVDs and lingerie and told Arazy he'd pick them up when he got back from Thailand, she said.
Carradine said Annie wasn't into bondage, according to Arazy. Men who enjoy the kinky sex play, but are in a relationship with someone who doesn't, often bring in a "specialist" to help tie them up, she added.
"There must have been someone else in the room," Arazy said, referring to Carradine's final night in Bangkok.
Carradine also liked to walk around his US neighbourhood barefoot, jangling change in his pocket, his dog Thunder at his side.
...
Athletic yet a heavy smoker and drinker. Devoted to his fifth wife Annie Bierman but was still hung up on his former spouse Marina Anderson who accused him of deviant sexual behaviour. Rich but wanted to appear broke.
His days - according to the New York Post - consisted of kissing his wife goodbye as she went to pray at the Hollywood Scientology Centre then he would go off to buy two packs of Lucky Strikes cigarettes and $20 worth of newspapers at the Daily Planet kiosk and then head to his favourite bar, Prizzi's Piazza, for his "usual" - a digestif liqueur and a double espresso.
Prizzi's bartender Darryl Rodela, who served Carradine for the past six years, told the Post: "He'd always sit at the same stool and order a double of Averna and a double espresso. If he was in a foul mood, he'd also have a double (vodka) with it," Rodela said.
"He'd throw down the shots, then go outside on the patio to smoke and do the crossword puzzles from the papers."
Carradine - who would spend $60 to $80 on tips but leave just a $2 tip which is low by US standards, was often sullen and always on his own.
Carradine's secret fortune came from ongoing "Kung Fu" residual payments, ads for the Yellow Pages and his high asking price for movie roles - he had done 20 movies in the past two years, the New York Post reported.
...
Carradine's funeral was held yesterday in Los Angeles, and among more than 400 people were numerous actors, including Michael Madsen, Jane Seymour, Tom Selleck, Frances Fisher, Daryl Hannah, Lucy Liu, Edward James Olmos, Ali Larter, and James Cromwell. Rob Schneider also attended, carrying a basket of flowers.
Now, I don't know exactly what the line about the dog and the change and the lack of shoes has to do with anything, but it's somewhat sinister, isn't it? And the basket of flowers? How does that have anything to do with this story. I mean, it's a funeral, people bring...
Wait.
Only kung fu assassins bring a basket of flowers to your funeral!
(crossposted)
From Lucius Shepard (lucius_t in the theinferior4) comes the trailer to District Nine:
I actually think it looks really cool.
(crossposted)
lucius_t in the theinferior4) comes the trailer to District Nine:I actually think it looks really cool.
(crossposted)
Show your gangster signs.
Tessa read 26lies a year ago and wrote about it because the world was too fucking cold and she wanted to burn it for warmth, most likely:
Link.
I am listening to Taken by Trees do a cover of Guns N Roses 'Sweet Child O Mine' which is actually quite good. You know, once upon a time, I wanted to be a musician. I just didn't have any rhythm to me and I gave up on it. It's still true, you know.
(crossposted)
Tessa read 26lies a year ago and wrote about it because the world was too fucking cold and she wanted to burn it for warmth, most likely:
Regardless of where this book is pigeon-holed, it remains fucking OARSUM, a little book of brilliance. Ben is a master at playing with structure, and has done so to great effect here, striding through the alphabet and giving the reader a neat catalog of his life and thoughts and opinions. The mosaic is superbly balanced, and the pieces bounce of each other with an ever-growing resonance.
People often talk about the next Great Australian Novel. When I'd finished it, I sat on the train, full of all the meat contained in this slim volume, and thinking of everything it had to say about Australia here, now. I think this is that long awaited Great Australian Novel.
It is only fitting it be written by a white heterosexual middle class male, one who recognises how he fits in the world around him. It is only fitting that this book not be published or available within Australia, and as with the majority of Australia's culture, must be imported.
Link.
I am listening to Taken by Trees do a cover of Guns N Roses 'Sweet Child O Mine' which is actually quite good. You know, once upon a time, I wanted to be a musician. I just didn't have any rhythm to me and I gave up on it. It's still true, you know.
(crossposted)
Over the last couple of days I've seen a couple of films, the first being Fernando Meirelles' 2002 City of God, and the second David Gordon Green's Pineapple Express, released last year. One film was good and the other had funny moments, but was otherwise very forgettable.
Unsurprisingly, Pineapple Express was the latter. It's a film in which Seth Rogen reprises his stoner, never amount to anything role as a stoner who witnesses a murder and then runs straight to the apartment of his dealer, played by James Franco. Having recently purchased some a-grade pot from the dealer--the 'pineapple express'--Rogen's character leaves a roach on the road that drug lord and recent killer Gary Cole tracks him down with and a series of errors and paranoia ensue. There are some funny moments, such as when Franco drives a squad car down the road with his foot stuck in the front window, or when Rogen visits his High School girlfriend and later, her parents, but mostly it's a lot of scenes in which the two main characters smoke, do something stupid, and then end up with guns and fighting Chinese and American drug gangs.
Perhaps if Neil Patrick Harris had been in it.
Anyhow.
City of God was pretty decent, however, and I enjoyed it. It's firmly directed and nicely shot and focuses on the rise of gangs from the slums of Rio through the eyes of the narrator, Rocket. For the most part, Rocket is a figure on the edges of the gang war that erupts between Lil Ze and Knockout Ed, and the use of him as a point of view character allows the film to examine both sides, as well as to show the contrast between the rich and poor (or white and non-white, one could argue). Meirelles uses the socio-economic culture of the slums (the City of God that the title refers too) to provide the reason for the crime life in the slums: it's the way to make a living, and one of the few ways to make something of yourself in the crippling poverty that the slums exist in. I seem to remember that when the film came out it was fairly popular, and caught a lot of attention, and I remember thinking that I should watch it after catching Merielles' next film, The Constant Gardner . His latest film is Blindness, a flick I haven't bothered to track down because I thought I'd read the novel first, but maybe I will, after this, especially since I've enjoyed both his films.
In fact, here's the trailer for Blindness, which looks pretty decent:
Anyone see it?
(crossposted)
Unsurprisingly, Pineapple Express was the latter. It's a film in which Seth Rogen reprises his stoner, never amount to anything role as a stoner who witnesses a murder and then runs straight to the apartment of his dealer, played by James Franco. Having recently purchased some a-grade pot from the dealer--the 'pineapple express'--Rogen's character leaves a roach on the road that drug lord and recent killer Gary Cole tracks him down with and a series of errors and paranoia ensue. There are some funny moments, such as when Franco drives a squad car down the road with his foot stuck in the front window, or when Rogen visits his High School girlfriend and later, her parents, but mostly it's a lot of scenes in which the two main characters smoke, do something stupid, and then end up with guns and fighting Chinese and American drug gangs.
Perhaps if Neil Patrick Harris had been in it.
Anyhow.
City of God was pretty decent, however, and I enjoyed it. It's firmly directed and nicely shot and focuses on the rise of gangs from the slums of Rio through the eyes of the narrator, Rocket. For the most part, Rocket is a figure on the edges of the gang war that erupts between Lil Ze and Knockout Ed, and the use of him as a point of view character allows the film to examine both sides, as well as to show the contrast between the rich and poor (or white and non-white, one could argue). Meirelles uses the socio-economic culture of the slums (the City of God that the title refers too) to provide the reason for the crime life in the slums: it's the way to make a living, and one of the few ways to make something of yourself in the crippling poverty that the slums exist in. I seem to remember that when the film came out it was fairly popular, and caught a lot of attention, and I remember thinking that I should watch it after catching Merielles' next film, The Constant Gardner . His latest film is Blindness, a flick I haven't bothered to track down because I thought I'd read the novel first, but maybe I will, after this, especially since I've enjoyed both his films.
In fact, here's the trailer for Blindness, which looks pretty decent:
Anyone see it?
(crossposted)
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