Back to the Futurist

Sure, I wrote a time-travel story once (link) but I think of the whole sub-category as a cheat. A writer sits in his/her garret (or more likely in front of a computer screen at work,) and tries to come up with an idea for a new story.

The muses – usually so chatty, are off by the pencil sharpener putting tips on the dry-erase markers.

Parenthetically () the reason all successful writers HATE the question, “where do you get all your ideas,” (non-successful don’t hate that question because nobody bothers to ask them,) is (still following me?) that most writers have no flicking idea where they get their ideas. Some writers have a tangible inspiration, a dog, a child, a 67 mustang,

but most writers get their ideas while waiting for the microwave, or while shampooing their facial hair, and that’s all they know.

“Yes, Oprah, my prize-winning novel came to me while I was conditioning my nose-hairs one day.”

So while his nose-hairs are sufficiently conditioned, and the muses are busy making mischief with the office supplies, the supposedly brilliant writer is left with the vacant vault known as his imagination.

“Oh!” he says to himself, thereby confirming the opinion among his coworkers that he is instable and creepy, “George Washington!” He then giggles to himself as he writes a crappy little story about going back in time to bring a 1973 Volkswagen Super beetle to George Washington at Valley Forge so the father of our country can zip around at amazing speeds to surprise the British at Trenton. Of course the beetle runs out of gas at the banks of the Delaware, and the next filling station is a hundred and thirty years away (even further is the VW takes unleaded,) so George gets into the boat to cross the river. The intrepid first-person-point-of-view character takes a picture of the scene with a Swinger Polaroid camera he finds in the back seat.

Not very original (except the Swinger camera bit.)

Then there’s the character that goes back in time to correct something – a murder, a missed opportunity, the acting career of Pauli Shore, and having thought he succeeded finds the world he returns to so changed that he longs to lose himself in Bio-Dome – or maybe Encino Man (a time travel story – in a way.)

Never saw that one coming.

Then there are the moving ahead time-travel stories that always place the character in either a Jean Luc Piccard utopia, or Mad Max dystopia. Of course, rather than utopia or dystopia the future is likely to be filled with boring office jobs, and insipid television programming on six million stations that you can watch on tiny Apple products.

But history is full of stories where the future encounters the past – the barbarians over-run Rome, the Europeans over-run the Americas, the missionaries over-run native cultures. These are all stories of violence, epidemic, lost culture, and suffering.

No wonder the muses want nothing to do with them. I’d rather have points on my dry-erase markers.

Does the Swinger ad count as a vid?  Did you notice Ali Macgraw, and recognize Barry Manilow before he became obnoxious?  Not good enough?  Okay, here's the most plausible time-travel story involving George Washington I know.

HHHH Inducts: Christopher Moore

HHHH Inducts: Christopher Moore

Headley Hauser Hall of Honor (pronounced Hawner) is contractually obligated to write something in this blog space. So I’m inducting Christopher Moore.

Moore (who I’d call Chris, I guess - if I knew him - and he hadn’t told me to get out of his kitchen at 3AM when I accidently picked the lock to his back door,) is the author of 14 novels (most of which don’t stink out loud,) and a graphic novel (which I haven’t had the opportunity to sniff as yet.)

He serendipitously, randomly, accidently or otherwise unaccountably authored the greatest novel of the 21rst century: LAMB: THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO BIFF, CHRIST’S CHILDHOOD PAL. Luckily for him he didn’t write it a few years earlier, ‘cause when it comes to the 20^th century, Harper Lee would’ve cleaned his clock.

From what I can gather from his writings his turn-ons seem to be demons, vampires, recreational medication, B movies, impressionist art, and the plastic ball pit at the local McDonalds.

No mention of his turn-offs appear in his novels or any description of his perfect date, unless it involves super-market frozen turkey bowling.

Thankfully, I am not required to include a centerfold photo in this write-up.

Moore enjoys weaving his characters from one story into another. Perhaps he gets a thrill from frustrating those who begin reading his work with say, THE STUPIDEST ANGEL: A HEARTWARMING TALE OF CHRISTMAS TERROR. The said unfortunate would find missing background relating to two characters introduced in ISLAND OF THE SEQUINED LOVE NUN, another character introduced in LAMB, and a host of characters from the fictional Pine Grove California.

As a public service (and because I’m trying to reach 500 words,) I will now list his books in order:

1) PRACTICAL DEMONKEEPING (the first Pine Grove book)

2) COYOTE BLUE (nothin’ to do with nothin’ as far as I can tell)

3) BLOODSUCKING FIENDS (A LOVE STORY) (the first vampire/San Francisco book)

4) ISLAND OF THE SEQUINED LOVE NUN

5) THE LUST LIZARD OF MELANCHOLY COVE (the second Pine Grove book)

6) LAMB

7) FLUKE: OR, I KNOW WHY THE WINGED WHALE SINGS (clearly written while on a Pacific cruise where the liquor was unlimited – I’d skip this one)

8) THE STUPIDEST ANGEL (the third Pine Grove book)

9) YOU SUCK: A LOVE STORY (the second vampire/San Francisco book)

10) A DIRTY JOB (the third San Francisco, but NOT primarily a vampire book – sneaky Pete)

11) FOOL (obligatory Shakespeare homage bit)

12) BITE ME: A LOVE STORY (the third vampire and fourth San Francisco book)

13) SACRE BLEU: A COMEDY D’ART (largely 19^th century, Paris, France book)

14) THE SERPENT OF VENICE (no idea as it has yet to appear in the Barnes and Noble dumpster with its cover torn off.)

And of course, the currently unscented graphic novel: THE GRIFF: A GRAPHIC NOVEL (WITH IAN CORSON.)

I have been accused of stealing his style in my novella TROUBLE IN TAOS. LINK That doesn’t concern me because like tens of thousands of my fellow writing wanna-bes, I can’t get arrested in this town.

Wanna know more? Check his website: WWW.CHRISMOORE.COM, LINK cause I’m way over 500 words.

For the video, I thought I'd celebrate the release of Mr. Peabody (though I won't see it till it gets to the cheap theater,) with this vid of how he adopted Sherman.

There's even a bonus fractured fairy tale.

Pop-up Heaven

When I was nine years old, we had a pop-up trailer. It spent a lot of time sitting in the yard, snow – sometimes several feet of it, piled up on its fiberglass roof. It didn’t move till spring – usually late spring, and while our Clark Griswold station wagon got its share of roof snow, we always brushed it off, or let it blow off as we drove it to school or the grocery store.

The trailer just sat there – cold, snowbound, forgotten.

Except by our dog. Copy, whose name was a shortened form of a pretentious French phrase (he was a poodle after all,) regularly made winter pilgrimages to our little pop-up. He rubbed along the trailer’s side, jumped over the connecting tongue, and peed on it. That may seem like an action of distain, but to the brain of a poodle (or a nine-year-old boy,) it was an act of respect and commiseration.

Copy loved summer vacations with the pop-up. We’d throw our stuff into the Griswold, hook up the trailer, and pile in. Copy and I got in the back, or as we called it in deference to The Adventures of Mr. Peabody and His Boy, Sherman, the way-back machine.

The way-back was our special part of the Griswold for two reasons, a) we were the only two agile enough to climb back there, and b) the way-back machine was reliably full of exhaust fumes and our smaller size meant that Copy and I produced the least amount of vomit.

From the way-back machine, we watched the pop-up trailer come to life. First, the trailer hobbled up and down as the flat side of the tires rediscovered their round identity. Then, the leaves and pine needles impressed by months of snow and repeated applications of bird poop worked their way free and flew joyously onto the windshields of cars behind us. Finally, the connecting chain, carefully wrapped around the tongue unraveled and sagged enough to strike sparks from the roadside, bathing the Griswold gas tank with pyro-splendor.

Copy and I eyed each other in those first stages of our carbon-monoxide highs and knew that summer vacation had begun.

And in that state of rapidly diminished brain activity, we knew the pop-up, so long cold and neglected, was happy as well.

There are those that tell me inanimate objects like pop-up trailers have no moods, no hopes, no disappointments, no desires. That the glow we saw bathing the trailer’s smiling front was just a combination of partial asphyxiation augmented by the flames intermittently expelled by the Griswold exhaust system.

Maybe they’re right; maybe little pop-up trailers have no souls; they don’t go to heaven when they die. But if one did, a pop-up’s heaven would be a place where it is always the first day of summer vacation, the leaves and pine needles of depressing winter are stripped away, and oxygen-deprived dogs and children constantly appreciate the roundness of its tires, the gleam of its fiberglass, and sparking majesty of its camp-providing glory.

Kind of like time machines.