The Maztorphyl

I GOT NOTHIN'

2013-09-08T07:37:00.001-07:00

This is a piece about nothing. Why? No reason. Why not? Jerry Seinfeld, for good or ill, had a sitcom dedicated to nothing for 10 years, and Jean-Paul Sartre wrote a whole damn book about it, so I see no reason why I can’t put a little thing together about it, too.

Maybe, on the other hand, I just don’t feel like doing much today. I’ve been fighting a cold for more than a week now, which has as usual been passed on to Da Wife and perhaps one of my sons (too early to tell), so my ambition writing-wise isn’t what it could be. I’ve got a fair amount of ideas for real pieces; I just don’t feel like moving on them right now.

I think, though, I should at least do something. I took last week off from writing, after all. Again, why? It was Labor Day weekend of course, and, like so many other red-blooded Americans I felt like celebrating by doing, well, nothing. In fact, I was going to write this piece last week about that very thing, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Best thing really, in my opinion. Sometimes the best thing you can do for yourself is, well, nothing, to allow yourself to recharge and reinvigorate.

It’s a lost art, I think, in the US. We’ve become a nation of workaholics, with most of us pounding away just to keep our heads above water while the select few are driven by simple greed. Not a healthy way to live if you ask me. Hell, even the Romans finished their business by noon to make sure they had time for a trip to the baths or a good healthy orgy.

Where am I going with this? Nowhere! It’s a piece about nothing! And I’m gonna keep on writing until I’m done. Maybe I’m done now—no, I still have it in me. Time to keep going.

Makes me wonder, though, just why so many people have ascribed to it. Ever read “The Dead”? That’s a whole lot of nothing right there, which makes sense when you think about it. Yet, it’s considered one of Joyce’s best pieces.

Even today, when most professional philosophers scoff at modernist ideas like existentialism, people still somehow value the idea of nothing. What? You want examples? Sorry, I got nothing. I suppose I could think up a few, but I have neither the energy nor any inspiration to try.

Actually, I find the whole idea of nothing unnerving. A void, where there is no movement, no chaos, no diversity, it all sounds so very oppressive to me. As a child I used to have nightmares about being caught in nothingness and, in the process, I became nothing. I still have them, once in awhile, but I know them now for what they are: nothing, so they can’t possibly hurt me.

(Editor's note: Like what you read? No? Well, read something else on the blog. I'll wait ... Did you like that? Great! Tell your friends! Hell, tell your enemies! Tell your family, business acquaintances, your neighbors and that guy who talks to himself at the bus stop. Especially him. Let's see what we can do to make this the biggest blog EEVVVVVVAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRR! By the way, please contribute by clicking on the link above. Your financial help keeps The Maztorphyl up and running!)

GUEST WRITER: THE ARRIVAL OF THE TOA

2013-08-25T09:20:00.000-07:00

(Editor's note: This one is a bit of a departure for me, in that I did not write this. This was, in fact, written by my 11-year-old son, William. I've invited other writers to guest appear on the Maztorphyl, but I'm happy to say this one is the first.

(It is a work of fan fiction, or fanfic, as it is know in the field, based on Legos' Bionicle toy universe, of which my boy is a huge fan. As a crotchety old writer, I myself shy away from fanfic, but I defy anyone who has taken up the pen and not at first tried to emulate or outright copy the works of those they admire, especially in speculative fiction. At his age, I, myself, formulated many stories centered around the continuing adventures of Randolph Carter, Elric of Melniboné (NOT that other one), John Carter, Sydney Carton, and so many others while sipping dandelion wine. Sadly, most of these stories never went past the confines of my brain. As for the rest, well, who knows?

(Do I think it's a great work? Sure. Am I a little biased since he is my son? Perhaps. Am I very proud of his effort? Absolutely! Will I support his pursuit of a writing profession if that's what he wants to do with his life, up to and including studying it in college like I did? Of course. Other than several obviously immoral and/or illegal professions that immediately come to mind, I'll support him in whatever he does! At the same time, however, I'll also encourage him to do what I should have done, and study it in college just as a minor or the second of a double major. The first, I will advise him, should be for a day job that will give him a career an order of magnitude better than mine turned out to be! Anyway, here ya go...)

The Arrival of the Toa

By William Nagore

On the island of Mata Nui during the sunrise, six canisters like a meteor shower. Each one landed in a different place. One landed in the icy mountains, one landed in the sea, one landed in the volcano plains, one landed on the great stone, one landed in the trees of the Great Forrest and one landed straight in an abandoned snake tunnel. Then they all simultaneously opened with a click and twist.

Chapter One: Toa of Fire

As the Toa of Fire awoke from his sleep, he climbed out; however, he could not remember anything but his name: Tahu, Toa of Fire. As he realized this he climbed up one of the volcanoes and jumped into the lava. But then he climbed from the volcano’s lava and he was different, as if the lava had colored him orange, black and red. He also brought with him two things: the mask of shielding and a liquid five metal sword, and said, “I am Tahu.”

Chapter Two: Toa of Water

As the Toa of Water woke up, she popped off the lid. Then, as she did, the canister flipped upside-down and she realized she was in water. All of a sudden, the canister was flooding with water. She panicked and tried to escape but she couldn’t; it was too late, she was under water. As she fell out she stopped and thought, “Hey, how come I am not drowning and I am breathing?” She realized that she was the Toa of Water and her name was Gali, and she had the mask of peace.

Chapter Three: Toa of Air

During Gali’s awakening, another Toa was awoken: The Toa of Air. He sliced the lid off the canister and jumped out onto a branch like a cat running from a dog. Then the canister fell to the ground along with the branch that was holding it. He then said, “Boy, that was a close one.” As he said this, he leaped and landed safely on the ground. And he thought, “Lewa is my name, and I have the mask of air.”

Chapter Four: Toa of Earth

As the fourth canister opened the next Toa popped out with a thud. He thought, “Where am I, why is it so dark, and how do I get out?” Then he surprisingly saw his hands in the dark; however, they were not hands, they were claws. He freaked out and swung his hands over and over. When he was done, he realized he had dug his way out and said, “Say, I know who I am, Onua, and I have the mask of strength.”

Chapter Five: Toa of Stone

As he woke he felt strong. Then he kicked the lid off. But when he did, the lid hit the mountains hard! Then he jumped out and an avalanche started and buried him. However, he kicked his way out, and read the lid and it said Pohatu; and he said, “that is my name.”

Chapter Six: Toa of Ice

As he woke he sliced off the lid of the canister with his sword and jumped our and said in a low voice, “It’s cold, I like it.” Then he heard the avalanche and stopped it with his sword. He said, “That was not hard,” with a grin. Then he thought, “Hey, I am Kopaka, Toa of Ice.”

# # #

ECHOES IN THE DARK

2013-08-18T08:08:00.000-07:00

I am certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that except for a proliferation of stupid and cruel baby names, Hollywood doesn’t have a creative bone left in its rotting corpus.

Now, let me be clear. You may have noticed I did not say, “Out of ideas.” There is a subtle but important difference. If I had said the latter, I would be implying that it is still on the lookout for that next great idea. Well, as far as I can see, it’s not even trying.

Case in point: according to Den of the Geek, there are as many as 111 sequels at various stages of development within its gabled, crumbling halls. That’s right, 111! Try and grasp this. In 1980, Hollywood released just 43 films altogether, only five of which were sequels. It was a great year for cinema, too, with releases of such iconic films as The Blues Brothers, Caddyshack and yes, the original Friday the 13^th.

(Authors note: I picked these films as examples because—tragically—they suffered their own particularly agonizing sequel Hells in the form of horridly bad follow-ups and, in the case of FT13th, the lingering death of many sequels, each one worse than the previous.)

Think about that. Just 30 years ago, Hollywood put out less than a third of mostly original films it is now creating as sequels! Hell, in the earlier days of American cinema, sequels were almost nonexistent. Can you imagine a sequel to Metropolis or Citizen Kane? Ack! Ack! Sputter! Sputter!

Why this is happening is obvious to anyone bothering more than a transient look at the industry: greed. Yup, that Hammer of Order, that Root of All Evil, which comes so easily to an industry run by sociopath business executives and accountants, an industry so dysfunctional it uses marriages and divorces, drug abuse and its treatment, fashion ridicule and sexual orientation as part of its marketing plans.

People like the familiarity of characters they’ve already been exposed to, and are mentally and emotionally invested enough to want to share their new adventures. Hollywood knows this, and now exploits it to see just how much blood they can get by beating whatever dead horse they have on hand.

Do you think that Austin Powers would have spawned two sequels, with one the way, if studio execs didn’t want to squeeze every little ounce of marrow out of its spent bones? Come on! Except for that dialogue gag at the beginning of The Spy Who Shagged Me, it was manure!

The same could be said for Caddyshack II and Blues Brothers 2000: trash, both of them, but that didn’t stop the execs from making a few million bucks off a public hoping to relive the enjoyment they felt when they saw the originals. It’s a scam, really.

Well, now Hollywood’s sequel phenomenon has evolved. Now studios are planning multiple sequels without even bothering to wondering if the first sequel will even make it or not. The best example is James Cameron’s Avatar, or, as I like to call it, Dancing with Wolves in Spaaaaaaace!, which is now looking at three—yes, three—sequels! Whiskey tango foxtrot!

But before you say it, yes, I’ve been sucked into that sequel hole myself, many times, in fact, but I’m getting tired of the whole thing. You know, though, I guess I’d feel less strongly about sequels if the industry would just try making a good movie while using the previous film as a springboard. Far more often than not, a sequel is just a recycling of the first movie, same plot, same gags, and same cinematic approach, like what happened with The Hangover and Hangover II. Give me some slack, guys! If I’d known that I would have just watched the original again!

SENATUS POPULUSQUE MARICOPUS

2013-08-06T09:24:00.001-07:00

Okay, so, we make this big decision to move. In retrospect it was inevitable, but at the time it was a very difficult and big choice to make. After all, our families live in Tucson and Da Wife and I grew up there. Hell, I was born there! Still, we had to make the big leap.

Once the decision was made, I, like I’m sure a lot of people transitioning to a new area, conducted a little research about the area. I’d already had a fair amount of it under my belt, thanks to some freelance work I’d done in the past, but I wanted to focus on my specific area, to get as much information as I could in case I missed anything in the past.

One of the first things I found made me think I hit pay dirt. It turns out that Queen Creek, the town just north of San Tan Valley where we moved, has a very nice public library that any town of its size can be proud to have. As a writer I’m sure you can understand how this got me hot and bothered, but as a parent I also knew this would be a great place for Da Boys. In the manic whirlwind of the move we hadn’t even gotten around to building a summer reading list for the boys, and all the kids activities would have done a great job in rounding out the couple months of summer vacation until school started.

Would have. That’s right. I said, “Would have.”

As we approached the building I noted how nice it looked. Granted, I prefer classical motifs in architecture, but the library, while contemporary, didn’t seem to me to have that sterile slapped-on look like so many other new buildings. It actually gave me a vibrant, energetic feeling I found exciting. I just couldn’t wait to get inside!

Don’t get me wrong, this was no Main Branch of the New York Public Library System. I’m pretty sure the whole building could fit inside one of that library’s reading rooms. Still, especially for a town of this size it definitely was something of which to be proud. So, feeling frisky I lead Da Boys, who were feeling decidedly less so, into our first big adventure, the first stop being, of course, getting us all library cards.

That, in usual fashion, is where the bottom dropped out.

It’s time for a little local history lesson.

At some point in the recent past, San Tan Valley was actually part of Queen Creek. According to what I could find out so far, a bone of contention arose between San Tan and the rest of the town. I’m not sure if it was a series of issues or one big one, but in the end San Tan broke away from their cruel QC overlords, and to this day remains an unincorporated area in the northwestern region of Pinal County, while still technically remaining a part of the Phoenix Metro Area, at its extreme southeastern tip. It is important to note that most of the Metro Area sits in Maricopa County, for reasons that will soon become very clear.

So, the boys and I walked up to the main help desk and asked to get said cards. The librarian was all-too eager to help us, even when she found out that we lived in San Tan Valley, when she told us of the $60 annual registration fee.

That’s right. $60. Annual. As in I’d have to pay every year to go there.

Imagine this: I’m standing in a public building, financed by public funds, that should allow public access free-of-charge, in the United States of America, and I was being told I needed to fork over 60 bucks in order to enjoy any of its resources and services.

The reason, I was told, was because the Queen Creek Library was part of the Maricopa County Library District and funded by MCLP resources (ie, PUBLIC RESOURCES), and because San Tan Valley (where we live) sits inside Pinal County I had to pay the aforementioned 60 smackroos. It was free of course, but only to Maricopa County residents.

Nevermind that the Maricopa/Pinal County border is maybe five minutes south of the library, or that San Tan Valley, a bedroom community, is largely a residential area made up of thousands of people, many of whom might want access to a well-equipped library like this one.

As an incentive, the librarian told me the nearest library of its size in Pinal County was in Apache Junction, another half hour drive to the northwest. At least there I could get access free, right?

Granted, the $60 fee at Queen Creek is an annual one, so even broken down my month it only comes to about five bucks (you have to pay the entire amount up front). Still, the point I’m trying to make is, because it is a public resource, I SHOULDN’T HAVE TO PAY TO BEGIN WITH!

And I didn’t, partly because of my outrage, but also because, for the sake of full disclosure, we had just moved and had started experiencing acute post-move financial malaise, which for some reason is ongoing. In short, I didn’t have the cash. Still, even if I do it’s the principle of the thing that matters.

In case you’re wondering, I didn’t blow up at her or anything. I’ve been in situations like that before and I’ve found there’s nothing more futile than trying to argue with a beaurocracy. She was even very helpful in the end. She informed us that San Tan Valley actually has its own library that, it turned out, is just a stone’s throw, almost literally, from our new house. It turned out to be very small, like two portable buildings small, but it was close to home and we wouldn’t be swindled out of any money by being there.

At the San Tan Library, I struck up a conversation with one of the other visitors while filling out the library card applications. I told her what happened and she said something very revealing. “Yeah,” she advised, “they don’t want our riffraff up there.” Huh!

Well, it may not be big, but at least I feel more honest being there than at Queen Creek. I’ll keep my money and integrity, thank you.

You know though, while I’d probably be hard pressed to find a direct causal relation, I think this brings to light a much bigger and older problem with Arizona. Time for another history lesson.

Okay, not really a lesson. More of an analogy, really. In ancient times, Rome couldn’t care less about its vassal states and provinces as long as the tax money kept rolling in. Drought? Too bad. Give us our money. Faltering economy? Too bad. Give us our money. Revolt? Too bad. Give us our money. Need help? Too bad. Help yourself and give us our money.

Well, for years Phoenix Metro has acted like Ancient Rome and the rest of the state is its empire. You see it every day. Even on the TV on, say, ABC in the mornings, it’s not Good Morning Phoenix or Tempe or Scottsdale. No, it’s Good Morning Arizona, as if the entire state is encapsulated within the confines of Maricopa County and the Valley of the Sun.

That’s why you’ve seen me call the state legislature the Maricopa County State Legislature. Because historically the only people they are going to look out for are those in the immediate area. Granted, a majority of Arizona’s population lives in the Valley of the Sun, but that’s because living almost anywhere in the rest of the state sucks. Limited job markets, struggling economies, incompetent and delusional local governments, and the like. But most of our elected state officials are too busy taking care of their own, while those few representing the rest of the state are either rendered politically impotent or apathetic to the situation.

How do they get away with rendering this state a Maricopa County-only club? I don’t know, but as we saw with the Roman Empire, Arizona has already begun to crumble in the other counties, and it’s only a matter of time before the rot infects Phoenix Metro, too. Attila the Hun, anyone?

WE CHOOSE TO GO TO THE MOON

2013-07-29T09:07:00.001-07:00

And so here we are.

About a week ago I wrote another version of this post, announcing its closing. It was full of time-is-my-enemy-blah-blah-woe-is-me-blah-blah-no-pity-party-pity-party-etc-etc.

But before I posted it I had second thoughts, and finally figured, “Fuck it.”

I realized that I would be turning my back on the very premise that drives this blog, namely, to write without fear. As I recently told someone, it exists so I can write what I want when I want, an anarchist’s take on the First Amendment, if you will.

A lot has happened in the past 14 months, not the least of which was my inability to post anything—ANYTHING—on this wondrous, masturbatory bastion of the Freedom of Speech. In the words of my favorite quote from The Princess Bride, let me explain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up:

1) I changed my shift to nights, in part thinking it would open so much up in terms of creative time. Joke was on me, though. I’d stupidly forgotten that nights are a creative killer for me. Hence the vacant period of posts and so much else.

2) I took my own advice, and Da Family and I moved up to the Phoenix area.

3) Did I get a writing job, you ask? No; more phlebing it turns out, but it’s a good company and upward mobility, great benies and I am working the afternoon shift so the mornings, my best writing time, is now open for me to be crank out those posts for which I know you’ve been starving.

4) Did I look for a writing job? You betcha. I also had more writing job interviews in one month than the past decade in Tucson. No takers, though.

5) I have a sinking final that perhaps this blog was in part a reason for my lack of writing employment. In my pursuit to write without fear, I was perhaps less than prudent when picking my subject matter, particularly when talking about my past employment. Well, I’m sure many thought JFK was being imprudent when he promised the world to land a man on the moon in less than ten years, too. So suck it, straights!

Now that I am here, all I can do is make the best of what I have. What will I be doing as a writer? Frankly I’m not sure beyond this blog. I have a novel that is more than 100 pages into a rough draft, and several short stories, all of which exist at various stages of their beginnings. Having said that, I have no plans. I’m just taking this one step at a time. Let’s see what happens together, shall we?

RAY BRADBURY IS DEAD, ALAS

2012-06-24T09:21:00.002-07:00

(Author's note: As you will soon realize, I wrote this two weeks or so ago, and with the lightning speed of news and information these days, it's already dated. Well, due to my new day job's unusual schedule, I only just got around to it today. I don't have anything newer prepared, so screw it.)

About 15-20 years ago, I began a very short but intense interest in the works of writer Philip K Dick. Ever hear of him? I’m not surprised. In my experience, he’s one of those writers who made a huge impact in writing and speculative fiction in particular, but outside his sphere of influence he usually garners not much more than blank stares and cocked heads.

Ever see Blade Runner? Total Recall? Minority Report? Well then, you’ve heard of him, even if you didn’t realize it. His stories formed the basis of and inspired these and many other movies that have been produced since his death in 1982.

While I don’t think I could (or can) call myself a dickhead*, I nevertheless found his work very engrossing. At the tale end of my interest, I began to branch off to associated works, one of the more notable of which was Philip K Dick is Dead, Alas by Michael Bishop. In one of the first scenes of the book, the protagonist learns that Dick has just died and he is moved to poetry. He writes the eponymous lines, “Philip K Dick is dead, alas / Let’s all go and kick some ass.” Or something like that.

*(Author’s Note: In most circumstances, the term “dickhead" is an epithet of the most vile nature. In this case, however, it is not. Used in this context, it is an SF slang term that identifies devotees of the works and philosophy of the writer Philip K Dick, much in the same that “trekker/trekkie”identifies a fan of Star Trek. You get the picture.)

Why is this important? As I hope everyone who has not completely succumbed to the dumbing of America already knows, Ray Bradbury passed away last week. Of Bradbury I can say his impact on me as a reader and writer happened much earlier, and with much deeper effect. With his help I explored the dunes of Mars, ran through the soaked rainforests of Venus as well as developed an unhealthy suspicion of tattooed people and carousels that lasted well into my freshman year of high school. He also taught me the importance of metaphor and symbolism, and that writers aren't just storytellers. They are the makers and purveyors of myth in its purest, most Campbellian form.

When I heard that Bradbury died, I remembered the ...Alas scene above. I wasn’t sure why. Did my subconscious wanted me to spring into rhyme and metre? I doubted it. I finished my poetry phase long ago. Besides, all I ever did was free verse, a form Bradbury loathed. I heard him say as much when I heard him speak during a writer’s conference at the University of Arizona in the mid-1990’s.

I’m still not sure, why that scene came to mind. I am sure, though, that he lived along, fruitful life and raised a genre considered by many to be at best hack work to the heights of literature. He will be missed by me and countless others, many of whom have yet to be born.

So I mourned him, even as I marveled at images of Venus tracking across the sky between the Sun and Earth. I found it an odd coincidence, but fitting in the highest level, as if symbolically she was calling her wayward son home.

Dandylion wine, anyone?

THEY PULL ME BACK IN

2012-04-27T11:10:00.000-07:00

And here we are! I suppose some of you are wondering why there was another gap in my posts. Well, joy of joys, I got laid off, and as such I’ve spent most of my time looking for replacement work.

Why did I get laid off? Funny you should ask. The official propaganda was “reorganization,” but as you and everyone else who has spent more than a week in the workforce is well aware, that’s just doublespeak for, “We couldn’t find a good reason to fire you, but the big boss doesn’t like you anyway so bye-bye.”

Too bad. I really liked that job.

Well, that’s all I’ll say on that subject. Rather than sounding disgruntled, I’m choosing to take the high road in this matter and look ahead to the future.

(Author’s note: The word “disgruntled” has often fascinated me. Corporations and other large and wealthy organizations often use it to discredit whistleblowers, former employees and the like, but it seems no one ever considers the possiblity that something had to happen to make them disgruntled. Hmmm……)

Yes, I have gained new employment, back doing my “black hole” work as I have often described it. I suppose I should be thankful I have a second skillset on which to fall back. Still, I can’t help but feel a little defeated in my attempts to make writing my sole professional path.

(Another author’s note: A word of advice to all you aspiring writers and editors in the Tucson metro area—MOVE. Get the Hell out of here while you can. There is NOTHING for you here. Our job market is SHIT. Go someplace else that has a bigger market for our kind. And good luck.)

On the up side, right now my shifts fall during the afternoons and evenings, so my mornings—when I am most creative—are now open to work on my own writing work as well as my clients’. Of course, there is also that regular paycheck and the benies are pretty good, both of which are important, especially when you’re trying to keep in the home ownership business. Also, the idea of being without regular work again for eight months kinda sends a chill up my spin and my skin crawling, so I won’t have to deal with that anymore.

Another good thing is that I’m back to wearing scrubs, which, despite the awful departmental color, I much prefer over slacks and ties. Moreover, I can be myself more than if I were in an office environment, which requires a more stringent hold on one’s behavior.

(Yes, another author’s note: I firmly believe that, unless it’s a safety issue, scrubs should be acceptable professional apperal in any work envornment, all the way up to the executive level.)

So there you are. Keep in touch. Once again I will attempt to make this a weekly thing. By the way:

DAMN! IT’S TOO EARLY IN THE YEAR TO BE THIS HOT!

(Editor's note: Like what you read? No? Well, read something else on the blog. I'll wait ... Did you like that? Great! Tell your friends! Hell, tell your enemies! Tell your family, business acquaintances, your neighbors and that guy who talks to himself at the bus stop. Especially him. Let's see what we can do to make this the biggest blog EEVVVVVVAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRR! By the way, please contribute by clicking on the link above. Your financial help keeps The Maztorphyl up and running!)

INTO A MIRROR: A REFLECTION

2012-01-29T14:05:00.000-07:00

“I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me.” –-Hunter S. Thompson

As I write this, it is Friday and I am tired.

For those of you who were unlucky enough to read my last post, Life was good enough to recently throw an abscessed tooth my way. Well, on Monday I had it pulled. While a universally accepted unpleasant experience, the staff was great and the procedure itself comparatively quick and without complication, so I guess I can be thankful about that. Still, I left the clinic with a gaping hole in my mouth, a heavy case of sticker shock at the bill and the distinct feeling I’d been hit in the face by a baseball bat.

The next day I felt a little better. The pain was only as bad as being kicked in the face by a mule. Now, though, the pain is gone, replaced by an intermittent dull ache that can be taken care of by a good dose of over-the-counter pain meds if the spirit moves me. On the up side, the antibiotics prescribed to me haven’t been as nauseating as I had expected, but they sure have taken away my appetite. I consider this a happy accident, since I’m trying to drop the weight I packed on during my months of hermitage last year.

Speaking of which, I think that is going pretty well. I don’t know how much I’ve lost, but I’m pretty sure a few pounds have disappeared. I’m not really sure if it matters anyway. The scale at home is inaccurate at best and I find those contraptions very disheartening. So, I try to avoid them unless my curiosity gets the better of me, after which (usually) I make a bee line to the local Nico’s for a carne asada burrito! And rice.

Odd thing about the last post, though. Once I came down from the Vicodin (word to the wise: try not to take it on an empty stomach) and re-read what I wrote, I really struggled whether or not I should post it. Some of the stuff was really out there, even for me, but in the end I decided to hold true to the blogs mission so I posted it anyway. That being said, I make no apology nor any excuse for what I wrote. It is what it is.

Actually, in my drug-addled state, I found the whole exercise rather fun in a “freewriting gone horribly wrong” kind of way. I might even try it sober one day, although I doubt I’ll get the same kind of results. I used to do that all the time in my capricious youth, only then my drug of choice was alcohol. I don’t do that anymore, either, and without sounding too preachy I’m much better for it. Only now do I realize that weirdness and insanity is a way of life that can be maintained without the need of mind-altering substances. All you need for that is kids.

The tiredness is still here, perhaps even because it’s Friday. Or maybe my body is still not yet used to having its carbs and fat cut down so much. Or maybe I’m still recovering from the stress of the tooth extraction. It might even be the fact that I’ve restricted myself to just three caffeinated drinks a day (another of my goals). Hell, it could even be the kids. I think the most likely case is that it is a combination of everything. It’s been a tough couple of weeks, though not a mind-, body- and soul-wrenching as it could have been. At least I’m thankful for that. I’ve had far too many stretches that fit this description in the past few years, so you’ll have to excuse me if I say I think a deserve a break.

Still, I could use a beer.

RANDOM THOUGHTS FROM A RANDOM MIND

2012-01-13T18:54:00.002-07:00

You know, it’s amazing what the pain from an abscessed tooth and a little Vicodin can do to one’s thought process:

Saddam Hussein was a grade-A prick who deserved to go down even if we went in under false pretenses like we did. That being said, where was our moral indignation when it came to almost every other douche bag tyrant despot of the last hundred years?
My face hurts. Good thing I have—preanut butter and jelly sandwich!
All women are beautiful. What makes them beautiful is different and unique, but still they’re all beautiful. My wife and daughter, though, are more beautiful than the rest.
I want to shoot some pool, drink some beers and eat some wings with Gandalf the Grey. Not the White. He’s kind of a dick.
I once took an online quiz on whether or not I was a dork. It had 100 questions and said if you got 10 or more correct you were a dork. I got a 98. So suck it, straights!
Sometimes the grass really is greener on the other side, and not all the watering or fertilizer in the world is going to help your side get any better.
“Love, exciting and new. Come aboard. We’re expecting you!”
Do “reality” TV producers really believe that people can’t see that the crap they create is staged?
I admit it: I do watch “reality” TV. It’s called football and baseball, with some soccer and basketball thrown in. Oh yeah, and Mythbusters, if you can call it that.
Is anybody aware that Arizona’s AHCCS program is based on payscales that haven’t been accurate since the ‘70’s?
Do you think the marketing morons at General Motors had any idea what “Hummer” really meant when they went ahead and made that the name of cilivilian version of the Humvee?
I am one of the 99 percent. Except I regularly bathe.
Congress. The only place I’m aware of in the U.S. where bribes (or campaign contributions, if you please) are legal.
“God” and “evolution” are not mutually exclusive, much like “fundamentalist” and “crackpot”.
Life is a lot like being thrown out of an airplane at 10,000 feet without a patachute, so you might as well pop a beer and anjoy the view.
I once thought of moving to Phoenix to find work. Tragic, I know, but when you’re hungry enough you’ll eat about anything.
Teenage boys: testosterone-soaked perverts! All of them!
What happened to the good ‘ol days, when armies met in a valley and beat the crap out of each other the way God intended?
If I want to good laugh, I’ll just read an essay on Objectivism.
I recently found out that half the people I knew from growing up in the old neighborhood up are now either dead, in jail or died in jail. Or lesbians.
So THAT’S what pus tastes like! I suppose it’s acquired.
“Gimme a bottle of anything and a cherry cheese danish—TO GO!” Pop quiz: Where did this quote come from? ANSWER ME! ANSWER ME!
I was once part of the stage show for the speed metal band Atrophy during a gig in San Francisco. I don’t think I’ve ever done that many beer bongs in so short a time in my life!
Is Van Halen turning into The Partridge Family, or what? If it’s not Michael Anthony, IT’S CRAP!
Everyone should see Alice Cooper in concert at least once. For some, once is all they can handle!
How many books did YOU read last year? How many have you read so far this year?
When I walk fast, the swelling in my face jiggles.
I want to die with my boots on. One of my brothers wants to spontaneously combust.
Will the Democrats or Republicans be in the White House next term? Doesn’t matter. Either way there’ll be an idiot living there.
I’d say more things about sex, but my wife and father-in-law read this. I leave my mom off the mailing list entirely, though.
I never understood the whole thinking behind the “If men had the babies, there would be no (insert world problem here),” line of reasoning. If that were true, we’d be the women and the women, the men, and we’d be saying the same thing! Or maybe we already are….
A woman needs a man like a man needs a woman. (PLEASE don’t say this like Michael Bolton! I bet you already did, didn’t you?)
If the trick to holding your hand over a scorching flame is not minding, where’s the common sense not to do it in the first place?
Han shot first. That’s right! He made that green alien freak bitch a smear on the wall!
Speaking of which….So, a legion of the Emperor’s best troops got their asses kicked on Endor by a bunch of walking teddy bears wielding stone-age weapons—and he was in power HOW LONG?!
You know who your best friends are when they talk you out of dropping acid and attending a laser show.

NO REASON: A TRAGEDY IN THREE PARTS

2012-01-08T09:38:00.000-07:00

One year ago, a terrible tragedy occurred.

In every tragedy, there were no winners. As the curtain closed all involved had been scarred, and some died.

But I suppose relegating it to the metaphor of theater is insulting, to the victims who survived, to those who did not and even the perpetrator—that poor, sick kid whose calls for help went ignored or unnoticed, depending on your point of view. No matter how much the media dramatizes it, this was real life: raw, rough and unfettered, that creates in us all the illusion of control until of course it doesn’t.

I remember that morning very well. My brother and I had just picked up from my sister-in-law a futon for my daughter. Our route to and from her home took us along Ina, right by the Safeway where the shooting occurred. By some misstep of timing or providence, we managed to just miss the incident. I’d even glanced that way, noting the movement of signs and furniture around the store, perhaps for the Rep. Giffords’ meet-and-greet that, later on, went horribly wrong.

Shooting Scene

It sickened me, the senselessness of it all. Really, though, how can any of us attempt to reason out the motivations of the insane? I think what sickened me more was the political hollowness of the aftermath. Both sides, of course, took to their pulpits, decrying the violence and calling for bipartisanship.

But what were the results? As far as I can see, partisan haranguing has only gotten worse, if anything. The worst, though, were the parasites, who tried to use the incident to further their own agendas. They said it was about this or about that or about the other thing. How can you scumbags sleep at night? It wasn’t about anything, fools. It was a meaningless, awful act of senselessness in its most horrible form.

For the sake of full disclosure, I voted for Gabrielle Giffords. While I can’t say I agreed with all of her stances, I knew that I viewed Randy Graf as too rightwing and someone who would only contribute to the fascistic factionalism on Congress I so despise. Besides, foreshadowing things to come the local Republican Party just couldn’t get its act together and was more enmeshed with infighting than anything else.

Still, even if you didn’t agree with her politics, I think that to not feel for her, the victims and yes even the perpetrator Jared Loughner, to make out the shooting one year ago as anything but the meaningless act that it was, makes you something less than human. Should Loughner be made to take his meds? Should he spend the rest of his life in the loony bin or get the needle? Should we pray for him with the same earnestness that we have his victims? I don’t know. I think, though, that at the very least he deserves our pity.

In the end it’s all most of us have to give.

(Editor's note: Like what you read? No? Well, read something else on the blog. I'll wait ... Did you like that? Great! Tell your friends! Hell, tell your enemies! Tell your family, business acquaintances, your neighbors and that guy who talks to himself at the bus stop. Especially him. Let's see what we can do to make this the biggest blog EEVVVVVVAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRR! By the way, please contribute by clicking on the link above. Your financial help keeps The Maztorphyl up and running!)

2011 IN REVIEW

2011-12-29T19:32:00.001-07:00

Well here it is before us, 2012.

I considered doing a resolution piece, but thought better of it. I’m not a fan of the term; it always comes with the same two-faced defeatist connotation, as if to say, “My resolution this year is to (Insert Lame Idea Here), but you know what that means, so if it doesn’t happen then (wink-wink), oh well.”

I prefer the terms “objectives” or “goals” more. At least with them there is, philosophically speaking, a deeper sense of committal. Besides, my goals for 2012 are pretty mundane, anyway, and aren’t very much different than 2011’s, since I still didn’t do very well towards achieving them no matter what way I choose to describe them. But (wink-wink), oh well. Besides, I just don’t feel like it.

So then I thought, what did I learn this year? Therefore, my minions, that is the subject of this post.

I learned that…

…being unemployed really sucks.
Yep, it does, and the Tucson job market didn’t help that much either, especially when it comes writing jobs. There’s a reason why some people have come to call the Ol’ Pueblo, “The next Detroit.” Sobering, but true.

…being your own boss is awesome!
Even if it doesn’t work out in the end, I recommend the experience to everyone. Yes it didn’t work out in the end, but I think in this case it was more along the lines of the journey being more important than the destination. Still, between the unemployment-caused depression and the elation of when I had freelance work to do, things were a bit of an emotional rollercoaster for me. Almost bipolar, even. In the end, though, I don’t regret it at all.

…while getting fired is terrible, the ultimate revenge comes when you are re-hired, especially if the new job is a thousand times better than the old.
This goes double when you know the person who fired you is still there and just as miserable as you were. Of course, it would have been icing on the cake if any of those labor lawyers had called me back, too. Just sayin’. I don’t think I’ll ever get use to wearing a tie, though. It goes against my nature.

…JRR Tolkien didn’t create his fictional languages to fit into his stories. He wrote his stories to put his (already created) fictional languages in proper context.
ISN’T THAT ASWESOME?! There’s a reason why his languages sound and feel so real as well as why so many other fantasy writers’ fake languages sound so, well, fake. Tolkien’s great passion was linguistics, and it showed in his work. Everyone else is just trying to rip him off, and poorly at that. One of my own writing rules, especially when it comes to fantasy, is to NEVER fall into the hole that so many have done before and try to create a fictional language. I’d just as soon learn Klingon. jIH 'oH Maztor toy'wI''a' Daq jIH jIH Qaw' lIj qa'!

…there’s no shame in asking for help.
This is one of those lessons I’ve learned repeatedly over the course of my life, but for some reason it has never stuck for long. I can be pretty stubborn at times, even bullheaded I’m told, and sometimes I need a kick in the ass. Maybe it’ll stick this time.

…I’ve put off my fiction work far too long.
I’m 43 now, and I’m nowhere near where I wanted to be with my fiction career by this time. Hell, I’m nowhere near where I wanted to be at 33, for that matter! This includes both reading and writing, I’ve let both slide off to next to nothing. That is unacceptable.

…a burqa is a perfectly acceptable way for a teenage girl to dress, especially if she dresses in the alternative just to piss me off.
Don’t get me wrong. I consider the treatment of women in the Middle East to be just awful. Still, while I don’t condone it I have come to understand why women in ancient Rome were married off at 13!

…Hemingway sucks.
Granted, I’ve known and said this for a long time. It just bears repeating. As many times as possible.

…the best office I ever had was the library in Pima Community College’s Northwest Campus.
Having the kids at home during the summer, and all the yelling, arguing and fighting that goes with it, was not condusive to a proper creative environment. The library gave me great views, a small but thorough collection of reference material and a cafeteria downstairs. And it was close to the house. The staff gets a little pissy about food and drink, though.

…dealing with unemployment and food stamps is almost more trouble than it’s worth.
It edges ahead by just a nose. Do you think it’s deliberately set up like that?

…losing weight is harder than it seems.
I love food and have never had a bad body image. Together with the fact that I was self-medicating my depression by eating, they don’t exactly inspire one to drop the pounds. Oh, the irony! But really, it’s my metabolism. Yeah, that’s it.

…our elected officials just can’t seem to pull it off.
I’ve written about this before. Instead of getting better they only seem to get worse. No wonder their approval ratings are all in the tank! Of course, that didn’t stop Tucsonans from re-electing that ship of fools on the City Council. Maybe we do have the government we deserve.

…pro baseball is dead in Tucson.
I had hoped, when the Toros came back, things would turn around. Guess not. I wonder if the city will be as considerate (meaning, not!) with the Tucson Padres. Hell, does anyone know if they’ll even be here for the 2012 season?! And I won’t even start on Spring Training!

…our culture should take the tradition of the siesta with greater seriousness.
I’m willing to bet that people would be a lot less uptight and consumed with work, while at the same time more productive if they just took an afternoon nap.

…not being able to go out and have fun, even once in awhile, isn’t all that great.
Some people think I’m a hermit. I’m not. I’m broke. There’s a difference. It speaks to intent.

That’s all I can think of for now. I’m sure there’s more, so maybe I’ll write a follow up. Or not. Kinda depends on how I’m feeling at that moment.

(Editor's note: Like what you read? No? Well, read something else on the blog. I'll wait ... Did you like that? Great! Tell your friends! Hell, tell your enemies! Tell your family, business acquaintances, your neighbors and that guy who talks to himself at the bus stop. Especially him. Let's see what we can do to make this the biggest blog EEVVVVVVAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRR!)

HARRY POTTER: A LAMENT

2011-12-07T13:19:00.002-07:00

(Warning: Total geek-out and spoilers ahead. Read at your own risk.)

Back in 2006, I wrote a piece for Dumbledoreisnotdead.com, a special part of fantasy media officionado David Haber’s WizardNews.com family of Web sites. As you might have guessed, the site dealt mainly with the backlash caused when JK Rowling killed off that most-beloved character Albus Dumbledore in Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. Unlike a lot of people across the Internet, though, I didn’t waste my time hemming and hawing about how Rowling would bring him back to life. Rather, I talked about the malleability of death in myth and fantasy. Turns out I was pretty close to how Rowling planned it, after a fashion.

Anyway, as a great admirer of the books, that next year I said my final goodbyes like so many others when in July 2007 I read the last printed installment, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. I rather liked the flash-forward in the epilogue. It left me with a sense of open-ended finality I found very satisfying. I have this image of Harry, grown up and walking his beat as an auror, keeping the streets safe, perhaps using similar methods as another hard-assed cop named Harry. Maybe he’s calling some dark wizard troll shit (and, as you know, three things happen to troll shit), or regaling some old goblin with a tale about a certain wood nymph who specialized in helping old goblins grow mellow and more worldly. (Author’s note: If Rowling had Harry keep the Elder Wand, I probably could come up with more analogies along these lines. Just sayin’. “This is the Elder Wand, the most powerful wand in the world…”)

Still, I wasn’t quite done with the Harry Potter universe. After all, there were the movies. So yes, I fell into that rabbit hole as well and watched each as they came out to the best of my ability. Well, this past weekend I rented a copy of The Deathly Hallows: Part Two (No, I didn’t watch it in the theaters. Sue me.). Mind you, I view the splitting of a book-based movie into two segments a fairly lame and underhanded marketing gimmick meant to squeeze as much money out of a gullable public as possible. In the case of Deathly Hallows, though, I will grudgingly concede to its necessity. The book is just too damn long. Trying to compact it into one film would have had the same result as David Lynch’s Dune and Ralph Bakshi’s Lord of the Rings cliffnotesian nightmares.

I have to hand it to the cast and crew. Like the rest of movie series it remained remarkably true to the original book’s story line, much more than many other film adaptations. Still, of all the Harry Potter movies, Part Two seemed to deviate the most. Many of the scenes held true, but there still was a good measure of changes, shifting around and cutting out. On the whole, though, I guess I can forgive that.

On the whole, they made a good adaptation, but I didn’t have the kind of sense of sad finality I had when I finished reading the series, maybe because I’d already said my goodbyes. So, as I wait for the specfic media industry to fill the void left by the series’ conclusion in a manner that has nothing to do with hip, teenage vampires; eye-candy werewolves; zombies; warrior princesses; San Franciscan sister-witches; or stories that should start with, “A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away…,” I’ll just keep looking for that new reading fix. I understand Rowling has launched a kind of online continuation of the series, no new stories but little tidbits and factoids about the Harry Potter universe that never made it to the books. I think I’ll check that out, sooner or later.

(Editor's note: Like what you read? No? Well, read something else on the blog. I'll wait ... Did you like that? Great! Tell your friends! Hell, tell your enemies! Tell your family, business acquaintances, your neighbors and that guy who talks to himself at the bus stop. Especially him. Let's see what we can do to make this the biggest blog EEVVVVVVAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRR!)

FIRST ORDER OF BUSINESS

2011-11-13T09:34:00.003-07:00

Hey there all.

Thanks to everyone who helped me relaunch The Maztorphyl last month. And for those of you who are first-time visitors, welcome!

To be honest, I never really took it down. It’s always been here. When I put the blog on hiatus I had every intension of returning to it; I just didn’t think it would take so long! Well, as you might have guessed from my last post, things have been a little rough lately, but on the whole my life is moving more and more in a straight path, so I thought it would be a good time to bring it back.

But, like a lot of things like this, I thought a few changes to the site would be in order. I still liked the overall look, so that wasn’t going to change, but maybe, I thought, I could add a few things. I went through the very long list of gadgets that blogger.com had on file, and out of many many apps I came to realize most of them sucked. Still, a few caught me eye. Here they are:

Video
Unlike most people, I came to YouTube a little late in life. Oh well, no harm no foul. As those of you who saw my last post, I profiled the Almighty Led Zeppelin. I plan on changing it with every post, the only standard requirement being that it will be music-based. As you can see this time I’ve linked videos of professional operatic tenor Antonio Nagore. The last name similarity is no coincidence. In the name of full disclosure, he’s my brother, though I’m MUCH better looking. Anyway, he’s very good, so enjoy!

Advertising
Brought to you by Google’s Adsense pay-per-click system. I know what some of you are thinking, “Hey Dave, wassup? What about that whole writing-for-writing’s-sake you promised when you first launched it?! You’re a sellout, man!” First off, if you thought that last part, you can blow me. Second, the site’s initial mandate still stands. I still plan on writing whatever moves me with all the masturbatory self indulgence I can muster, so there. I just don’t see why I can’t make a few bucks while I’m doing it.

That’s the theory, anyway. So far I haven’t made squat. Then again, I just relaunched the vehicle, so I need to rebuild my audience. On the other hand, Adsense does come with a fair number of restrictions to which I must adhere to ensure any chance of making anything. For example, I myself can’t click on the ads. At all. Period. As I read the rules I can’t even if something catches my eye. I also can’t encourage people to click on the ads. There are other rules but these are the main ones. I wanted to put a text box next to them saying something like, “Like what I wrote? Awesome! Now tell Google to pay my by clicking on one of these ads!” But no, that’s not an option.

In theory there’s also a way to tell Google what kinds of ads appear, but so far I haven’t been able to figure that out. I’d hate to open the blog one day and see an ad for the latest Ann Coulter book or Al Franken's re-election campaign! Ugh! I’ll figure it out sooner or later.

On the other hand, if you actually like what I've written enough to contribute to the cause out of your own pocket, there's a app for that! It's at the bottom of the page.

“Don’t Click This!”
Instead of going with a new app, I just modified this one, made it more streamlined. Like the YouTube, I’ll change this periodically, though I won’t know what I’m doing until I actually do it.

Favorites List
I tried to avoid this kind of thing. Although I had one on the original Maztorphyl way back when, I later started seeing such things as somewhat provincial. Ya know, though? I figured, what the hell. This is only the start of the list. If you'd like to have your Web site appear in my blog, e-mail the link to me and, after careful consideration from the editorial board, it just might make it on the list.

What Do You Think?
So there it is. I’ll likely continue evolving the blog as I go along. I might even chage the look if it moves me. Anyway, this is the part where I ask for input from you. Are there any apps you’d like to see, any story ideas you’d like my thoughts on? Again, if you want, send me your questions and I’ll try to answer them, though you may not like what you read….

(Editor's note: Like what you read? No? Well, read something else on the blog. I'll wait ... Did you like that? Great! Tell your friends! Hell, tell your enemies! Tell your family, business acquaintances, your neighbors and that guy who talks to himself at the bus stop. Especially him. Let's see what we can do to make this the biggest blog EEVVVVVVAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRR!)

THAT HAS MADE ALL THE DIFFERENCE

2011-10-23T11:32:00.001-07:00

Author’s note: I first wrote this back in January.

I had just been let go from my last job, and I was feeling all the anger, resentment and low self esteem one would expect from such a predicament. I had no lifeline. None. And I was staring at a whole lot of bills in the face on top of it.

I thought of posting it back then, but thought better of it, mainly because at the time I was searching for representation for a wrongful termination suit. Later, though, I stopped, and again that decision was made for me in the form of zero call-backs from all the labor lawyers I tried to get ahold of.

So there I was. No job. No prospects. It didn’t take long before I faced the decision of sitting at home, doing nothing but wallowing in my self-pity, or taking charge of the situation. I decided to take charge by going into business for myself as a full-time freelance writer. Yet soon I was cruelly reminded of a truism to that kind of work: it is very sensitive to the state of the economy. Very sensitive. After what I guess were hundreds of queries and a whole lot of maybes I landed just one good client, and that was almost by blind luck. The person in the company to which I first queried no longer worked there, but the local and home office bigwigs turned out to be very receptive, and in the mean time we’ve developed a very good professional relationship.

As for the rest, well, I certainly bear no ill will. You can’t get blood from a stone, so to speak, and if the need isn’t there, well, it just isn’t, a common thread in this ailing economy. Still, my client list didn’t end up as full as I hoped. So I looked for full-time work and, after eight frustrating months, I finally landed one. I’m working on leaving my old life behind, so to speak, at least emotionally. I’m hoping by posting this I’ll achieve some sort of catharsis to score that end.

In freelance writing, the prevailing thinking in the vast majority of business models can be encapsulated in the trite but seemingly axiomatic aphorism of, “Don’t quit your day job.”

I’ve been to symposiums, heard panels and read many books on the subject, and they all reflect this line of thinking. It’s fairly easy to come to, really. From personal experience, one of the most acute downsides to working in a freelance setting is simply that, even when one attains that ubiquitously sought-after but rarely reached goal of being “established,” the income derived from such a line of work is far from being high or assured enough to pay the bills or put food on the table.

John Gardner, in his narcissistic treatise about the writing life, On Becoming a Novelist, even goes so far as to suggest the kinds of jobs hopeful writers should acquire to maximize their creative potential (with his, of course, being the best of the brood).

The only dissenting voice in the raucous mob of advice givers was Ray Bradbury, the elder statesman of American literature and speculative fiction in particular. His approach, perhaps inspired Cortes when he burned his own ships upon arriving to the New World, was (paraphrased) to go ahead and take the leap off that foreboding cliff of creativity, and make your parachute on the way down.

But what if, instead of jumping, you were pushed?

I admit that I am not as brave as Mr. Bradbury. I myself, saw the wisdom of keeping a day job while writing, though took a somewhat different path than Mr. Gardner. I chose healthcare. Depending upon my mood, I called it my day job, my fall-back job, my black hole or my mafia job (a la, “Every time I think I’m out, I get sucked back in!”).

Though I did find work writing full time for a local nonprofit for awhile, the horribly high cost of daycare (our kids were all very young at the time) and the imposition of time a job with “banker’s hours” had on my own writing helped me realize that I was working harder when I should have been working smarter. So, I returned to healthcare full time, working three 12-hour shifts on the weekends and leaving Monday through Thursday open so I could take care of the kids.

This worked pretty well, for awhile. Caring for the kids took much more time than I anticipated, but we saved a lot of money and my writing time did increase a bit. After a couple of years, the arrangement of “tag team parenting” between my wife and I started to cause more trouble than it was worth. At around the same time, my day job responsibilities began to call on me more and more to be there during the weekdays. The kids were older and in school, so the oppressive costs of daycare would at least be less than what they were as well as not as much of a handful, so I acquiesced to the inevitable and switched my hours. A big, but perhaps unavoidable mistake.

Not long after, the economy went south and most of my clients dropped me as a cost cutting measure. Before then my income from writing, as above, wasn’t great, but it still was a good enough side job to want to keep it going. Still, no one wanted to bring me on, and the demands of home cut further into my writing, which had by then devolved into a glorified hobby.

To make matters worse, the situation at my day job began to deteriorate. I began to feel the first affects of burnout, and I wanted to return to full-time writing, so I started looking for work along those lines. Well, as days became weeks became months became years, I found and applied for job after job, but when you’re in a sellers market and every writing/editing/communications job that becomes open gets an average of 200 responses, it becomes very hard to stand out. That being said, I felt (and still do) that I had the tools and the talent, and I most definitely qualified for the jobs for which I applied, yet something out there was holding me back from moving back into that part of my professional life. I have an idea what, in fact I am almost sure, but I have no proof, so that is as much as I will say. On the advice of counsel, anyway.

Then, as you may have guessed already, I got fired. In December. About 10 days before Christmas, in fact.

Yay me.

So became stuck with a decision. Should I curl up on my bed in the dark and mutter to myself uncontrollably, should I go gently into that good night and let the stupidity of others take me down? Well, those of you who know me also know that I just won’t let that happen. As I’ve said before, I won’t give the pricks the satisfaction.

I saw a wonderful opportunity here, in fact. And so, I set to work almost at once to live the dream, so to speak. As a writer, I’ve always had three basic goals, one of them being that I could support myself and my family just doing my own writing. I’m not saying I;m shooting for a house in The Hampton's, or own my own yacht (though that would be nice). No. I’d want just enough to pay the bills, have a little fun money, and put some aside so that when I’m old and retired the biggest worry I would have would be replacing my worn fishing line.

Well, I won’t bore you with the administrative details of the writing life. Those of you with your own businesses I’m sure will identify with the busywork of accounting, approaching potential clients and everything else that one must do to get the ball rolling. Suffice it to say that, four new clients and a potential full-time job later, things are moving along pretty well. I like being my own boss, and the chance to build something that positively contributed to my own sense of self worth, something that was greatly lacking at my last job due to the ineptitude of certain individuals higher up on the chain of command than myself.

Still, like with any business things move pretty slow in the beginning, and the cash flow isn’t optimal, at least yet. So, I have submitting to finding another day job in addition to the one I mentioned above. The idea of my family starving or being foreclose upon doesn’t sit well with me, for some reason. So I know I’ll need something until the cash does flow. Like Life it is a work in progress, and even though the path is dark in the end I can at least say that I took it, that I threw my pack on my back, laced up my slick black Cadillacs and started marching, rather than just stand there, too scared to step on a landmine. At least I can have the satisfaction in knowing that.

DON'T GIVE THE PRICKS THE SATISFACTION

2010-08-01T13:22:00.018-07:00

A year. One set of 365 days (More now, as of this writing.). The Maztorphyl has been up and running, to one or another degree, for that long now. Now I’m not going to waste too much of your and my time explaining my posts’ frequency, which I’ll admit rivals the inconsistency of the Highlander TV/movie franchise story arc. Still, I like to think that in the past year I’ve put out quality posts, even at the expense of quantity, and to me that’s much more important.

To be sure, I’ve started this post several times, but each time stopped for one reason or another. Suffice it to say that it boils down to the fact that I really haven’t done much writing for awhile now. The novel? Nope. My journal? Uh-uh. The odd pretentious quatrain? Not even a metre.

Why? I just haven’t had it in me. I wouldn’t call it writer’s block. I’ve had that nightmare before and this isn’t it. Granted, I’ve honored the odd freelance work I’ve managed to beg out of people, but other than that it’s been a bit of a creative wasteland for me.

There have been some technical difficulties with which I’ve had to contend, in the form of a series of viruses that disabled my computer sometimes for weeks at a time, with the coup de grace finally occurring just this week. But, as I mentioned to some friends, that’s why God created libraries.

So, what shall I do for this little contribution to my small, Chaotic corner of the Internet that won’t end a long, paranoid tirade of why the world is against me that will give the pricks of the world the satisfaction and others the opportunity to deluge me with messages of “Aw, everything will be okay,” (Those of you who read my “Angst” post know that I find far more annoyance than comfort in such trite expressions of fake sympathy.)?

I thought about doing a review of The Last Airbender, a movie I’ve been waiting to come out for a long time now. But there’s nothing I’d say that hasn’t been said already: while visually appealing, the acting was superficial, the casting in most cases was mismatched, and in the end I was left with the same sense of Cliffnotesian dissatisfaction I got from David Lynch’s version of Dune.

How could M. Night Shyamalan have solved at least some of these problems? By either adding another good two hours to the film or turning it into a miniseries a la SyFy’s Dune (I say the latter with some reservation, though, as anyone would who saw how badly that channel screwed the pooch with Ursula K. Le Guin’s already-mediocre Earthsea Trilogy. But then, SyFy’s been doing a lot of screwing the pooch lately, much like the Crackpot-Apocalypse-Conspiracy-Theory Channel—I mean—History.)

Or, I thought about doing a food review, but outside of Nico’s and McDonald’s I really haven’t been out to eat anywhere, so that’s a dead end.

Sociopolitical commentary, perhaps? Just did that and this blog is about Chaos and diversity.

Travel story? To where, the local Circle-K?

Maybe a light-hearted misadventure with the family would be good. Not.

So then I decided to just make this the next post, and call it good.

Whatcha think?

I FEAR FOR THE REPUBLIC

2010-03-27T13:53:00.024-07:00

Suppose you were an idiot. And suppose you were a member of Congress. But I repeat myself. –Mark Twain

Every country has the government it deserves. –Joseph de Maistre

Dirty. –Dee Snider, front man for the rock band Twisted Sister, describing how he felt after testifying before Congress during the PMRC hearings.

I see in the near future a crisis approaching that unnerves me and causes me to tremble for the safety of my country. Corporations have been enthroned, an era of corruption in high places will follow, and the money-power of the country will endeavor to prolong it's reign by working upon the prejudices of the people until the wealth is aggregated in a few hands and the Republic is destroyed. –Abraham Lincoln, 16th President of the United States

This is not the piece I originally planned to do. Nope. I started out with a concept by which I would use this whole debacle surrounding health care reform as a foil to shed light on a few things I saw through the entire sordid affair, things that went well beyond one legislative bill, and use them as an indictment of the dysfunctionality of our system as a whole.

I was going to start off giving a quick synopsis of my own Aristotelian sociopolitical worldview and how, in short, the more left OR right someone swings, the more full-of-shit I think they are, blah, blah, blah. Then I was going to detail how no one, left or right, Democrat or Republican, socialist or Tea Partier, or anyone else in between for that matter, is coming out of this mess with clean hands or an unstained soul.

Was I going to present some grand, epiphanic revelation on how this nightmare can be righted, and how everyone will go back to giving each other all sort of hugs and kisses and treating each other with the respect and good will that we Americans should express?

Uh, no.

Although my day job is in healthcare, I’m going to go out on a limb here and say, in contrast to the talking heads out there who say they have all the answers, I don’t. I have not the expertise, education nor experience. Besides, one of the down sides of working in healthcare’s trenches is that if I were to pop my head over the edge and take a look at no-man’s land, I’m liable to get it shot off.

I have had experience working in what, ironically enough, could be described as socialized medicine, that is, military medicine. I wasn’t impressed. On the other hand, military medicine isn’t the only industry model in the world, and philosophically I do believe in the right of everyone to have affordable, comprehensive healthcare. But will healthcare reform as it stands be the most effective for the American people? I have not a freaking clue.

In fact, I’m going to go out on another limb here and confess that my only resources for what current healthcare reform entails originated from clearly bent, hyperbolic and pretentious diatribes vomited out by fanatical, demagogic and self-righteous lawmakers (on both sides of the isle) so far down the back pockets of corporate and other special interest groups they can use the lint as comforters, as well as the blatant, yellow journalism crapped out by the squawk boxes on the radio and so-called cable “news” channels. So as you can imagine I’m taking both resources with a very large grain of salt.

(Author’s note: Yes, I know. You’re thinking that perhaps then I should not be speaking at all on this subject. But hey, I’m writing a novel, read The Golden Bough, working full time and trying to be some kind of good husband and father to my family, so something’s got to give. That being said, it’s not healthcare reform itself, philosophically speaking, that’s pissing me off. Rather, it’s the maladjusted culture surrounding it and the rest of the country that’s getting under my hide. I do hope to get to it eventually, in whatever form it takes.)

But then, as I reflected on what I would say and the chasm-like depth of this issue’s severity, I thought, why bother?

A new age has come to our country, one that has seen the final death-rattle of what I believe Woodrow Wilson described as a “community of power” and the rise of fascistic factionalism. From the conceited gloating of the Democrats to Sen. John McCain (R-AZ) promising no more non-partisan agreements to Tea Partiers spitting racial epithets to the vandalism of both Democrat and Republican congressional offices, why should I add my voice to this orgiastic cacophony of squabbling hate and ill will?

Those that agree with me may laud me, but fiery licks of insults and threats will surely come from those who don’t. And those who don’t care will just—not care. They’ll do nothing, even when the house is burning down around them. No one, NO ONE possesses mutual respect and consideration anymore. No one is willing to listen to the other guy and say, “Hey, you’ve got a point there. Maybe we can work things out. What do you think of my idea…?”

That’s right. I’m talking about you. So get up, go into your bathroom, take a good long look in the mirror and ask yourself, “Where do I stand?” And I blame myself. Even as I vent my spleen on this computer, I accept my share of the blame that the country I love has drifted so far from its ideals, that somehow, somewhere along the line, both political sides decided that their side knew what was best for the country, and the other camp was at best wrong and at worst treasonous. I don’t get that, and I fear for the Republic.

IT'S TIME

2010-02-07T12:05:00.027-07:00

You know, I love the Holidays. I just freaking LOVE them! And no, before you misread into it I am not being sarcastic. I don’t know what it is that makes them just so stupendous in my mind. Yes, it’s hectic to the point of exhausting, time-sucking mania at times (Author’s note: Owing to the lateness of this post. Sorry everybody.), as well as expensive and frustrating and many more potentially negative traits besides, but something about it still makes me count the days every year until it comes.

A lot of people hate it, loath its arrival and celebrate its departure. It’s all good and well for them. I can’t help, however, to wonder if they are missing the point of it all, the togetherness, goodwill and charity that seem so lacking in our world for the rest of the year.

Maybe it’s the food. As some of you are no doubt aware, food holds a special place in my heart. Growing up in a large, loud, food-friendly family I guess it means much more to me than just something to eat. To me it is symbolic of good times, of family togetherness and stopping to take a few minutes to pay attention to what is really important in life. But more on that later.

My foodiness aside, I’m lucky enough to have my birthday smack in the middle of “the most wonderful time of the year.” In my youth and as a twin, it served as a constant reminder of what a bunch of cheap bastards some of my relatives could be. But now that I’m older it seems all I want is a good day: to see my kids’ faces light up, to reconnect with family and friends as well as enjoy, of course, the mountains of holiday food. This drives my family crazy. My refusal to create a Christmas gift list beyond the, “all I want is a good day,” just sends their lips a-snarling and their eyes a-twitching! During one flustered moment, Mom just wouldn’t take no for an answer, so I broke down and said, “underwear and socks,” which is code for “No Mom. All I want is a GOOD DAY!” She showed me up, though. On Christmas morning she handed me two industrial-sized gift bags packed with tightie-whities and tubers.

My daughter got me good as well. Before going to the mall for gift shopping, she asked me what book I would like to get. Thinking myself very clever and cunning, I picked a book I really wanted to read for reasons that will be explained later, but ignorantly thought out-of-print: Miyamoto Musasahi’s The Book of Five Rings. You can imagine my surprise when BAM! there it was under the tree.

And now that we are out of the holiday season and have begun a new year, I consider it an ideal time for a little retrospection and introspection, as well as resolve to make our lives better in the coming year.

No, this is not an article about my New Years resolutions. I’ve long made a point to stay clear of that trite Bandwagon of Journalistic Death. Besides, now that the first month of the year is already behind us, that ship sailed a while ago. My resolutions aren’t all that unique anyway: get in the gym more, lose 50 pounds and get my cholesterol below critical mass by the 2010 Holidays so I can gain it all back again; finally return to my calling full-time in a town (Tucson) where there isn’t very much of a calling for my calling, to be quickly followed by an angry monkey flying out of my butt; and spend more quality time with the family.

No, this has to do with that Heaven and Hell of every writer: my next novel.

This will be my second novel. After some seven years of writing, rewriting and searching high and low for an agent or publishing house to help it into print, my first attempt at extended literature now sits in a box inside my garage, slowly collecting dust. I don’t consider it a waste, though. Every step to its creation was an invaluable learning experience that will serve me well in the development of the next work.

I can’t say writing the next novel was a New Years resolution, either. I’m a little quirky like that. My creative process in part lends itself to a little schizophrenia at times. For a long time now, I’ve viewed the images and heard voices in my head that will make up parts of the new work, discarding some, changing others, connecting the fragments into a general whole. Here and there, I’d come across or research a random vignette I felt would make a good addition to the work’s flavor, and put it aside for safe keeping until that voice in my head would say that it’s time. But as for actually putting some real time and effort I’m sad to say it hasn’t happened yet, until now, because just a few days after Christmas, I opened my eyes to the alarm clock and heard those two words in my head, “It’s time.”

And what is the story about, you ask? I can’t tell you. It’s one of those I’m-sorry-you-found-out-now-I’ll-have-to-kill-you-it’s-nothing-personal-it’s-business-you-understand things. I will say that it is a heroic fantasy and, had the first novel been published, it would have been second in the saga. I’ve gotten the ball rolling pretty well so far, too. I’ve just started reading The Golden Bough by James Frazer, a work I’ve only sampled in the past, and I’ve already finished reading both Rings and Sun Tzu’s The Art of War.

(Another Author’s Note: You ever been taught or read something by someone who strikes you instantly as someone who just KNOWS, that what they are imparting to you isn’t just some information they in turn were taught beforehand, but rather is, in fact, a part of them, that every sentence they speak/write is followed by the rolling chant of Gregorian monks? That’s what I felt while reading both Rings and War, and I’m rapidly developing that feeling again with Bough.)

The just-writing part I am beginning in earnest as well, but with a novel things are a little more complicated that a short story or blog post. While the overall story arc is on place in my head, the actual scene-by-scene plotlines are as full of holes as a politician’s campaign promises. My creative process isn’t like, say, Terry Brooks, a lawyer by training who writes in a very lawyerly way, with copious notes ending in just a couple drafts of prose (Sometimes the Magic Works). On the other hand, I’m not someone like Steven King, either, who writes what comes to him while in the moment (On Writing), although I do admit I am very envious of the prolific nature of his works. I think I fall somewhere in the middle, as well as borrow a little bit of both. What I have in my head will be easy enough, but to solve the holes will require the lion’s share of the research and plot outlining.

Still, once I’ve got the rough draft written (a feat I hope to accomplish by the end of the year) the work has only just begun. As I’ve mentioned, my creative process doesn’t work in a lawyerly fashion. The best analogy I can come up with is that of a sculptor. After all the research, plot-note taking and writing, I have my rough draft, a lump of clay on my workbench. And so begins the revisions and rewrites and editing. I’ll carve a chunk off here, add a sliver there, reshape and reform the work Chaos-knows how many times until I have something of which I’m reasonably not ashamed. Then, maybe I’ll let a few select people take a look at it and polish/refine it further until I feel comfortable with the idea of looking for representation.

Sounds like a lot of work? It is. Remember, it took me seven years the last time I made the Great Leap. But, that might be a bit misleading. In real time it was seven years, but take away working through college, taking on two jobs at once, giving myself a much-needed break from the literary toil and the like, I can say actual work time came out to be between 1.5-2 years, give or take. But I’d rather not wait that long for this one, so I’ve cleared the decks, as it were, to focus more completely on it. I’m not actively looking for new clients anymore, and have put other projects on the backburner, except for the blog, of course. I might even post novel update notes here, but in keep with the “whatever the hell I want” approach, I’m not going to make it the only subject I cover.

That’s it for now, my minions. Have a great Superbowl Sunday!

FICTION POST #1

2009-12-07T18:58:00.006-07:00

Okay everybody, after promising it months ago, I’m finally announcing my first fiction post on FictionPress.com. Just click on the following link and it will take you right there:

http://www.fictionpress.com/s/2747024/1/

You know, every artist has an idealized image of how their career will turn out. Whether it is a packed house at Carnegie Hall, a main exhibit at the Guggenheim or a filled auditorium hanging on every word of a book reading, artists see this as a goal and strive to reach it. Then of course, Reality sticks its greasy fingers into the cake, and takes them for a ride....

ANGST

2009-11-07T06:47:00.009-07:00

The majority of men lead lives of quiet desperation. –Henry David Thoreau

Take a deep breath and let your body settle into the present. Anchor it; engage it to your chair, the walls around you and the ceiling above. You won’t need it.

Now let your mind drift back, back to, let’s say, when you were in college: five, 10, 15, 20 years ago, whenever you walked through those hallowed halls of learning. For those of you who never went to college, just play along and pretend.

And just suppose that one day, while you’re at your college job, flipping burgers or scooping ice cream or changing the sparkplugs, someone walks up to you from out of the blue and tells you that five, 10, 15, 20 years from now you’ll still be flipping burgers or scooping ice cream or changing sparkplugs. Would you laugh? Dismiss the person off hand? Get angry?

After all, you just don’t want to live day-to-day like all those the mindless sycophants out there, you have a CALLING! All your life you could feel it, all the way down to your bones. You were put on this planet for one glorious purpose. You are good at it and, more importantly, practicing it is the only time in your whole misbegotten, frustrating life that you actually feel whole and at peace.

Then, throw yourself to the present. You wake up. It’s early. Your spouse is still sleeping beside you. As wakefulness brushes aside the incoherence of your sleep while you watch the ceiling fan above you rotating in its eternal, circular dance, you realize today is another day of ice cream scooping.

You don’t arrive here at once, though. There were diversions and pit stops and illusions that fill this long expanse of time, cluttering your worldview with needless glamour that threatened to blind you from your calling.

Yet, in the beginning at least, somehow you manage to hang on to the vision of your calling, keep it in focus despite the distractions, from trivial to malign, in your way. Perhaps because you were raised to be a good person, to work hard, to be honest, put others’ needs before your own and speak your mind when you saw something at fault. With that upbringing came the karmic promise that, in the end, good things would happen to you in return.

But life, you find out as you grow older, isn’t like that. It’s a god-eat-dog world out there, so to speak, filled with those who would gladly stab you in the back or otherwise take advantage of you and your ideals for their own selfish needs. Even those you least expect, those closest to you gladly twist that knife as the opportunity presents itself. They view your ideals with contempt, as a weakness, making you unworthy of their respect.

Yet still you stubbornly hang on to your code of honor, hoping that in some bigger picture things will straighten out sooner or later and your search for your calling will end happily.

Still, in the searching you learn some hard lessons that contradict everything you originally thought. Why? Because this is The Ol’ Pueblo, kiddo, a seller’s market for employment even when the economy is good. And let the buyer beware, because the employers know it; they take every possible advantage over you with the backing of the Maricopa County State Legislature, that conservative enclave representing the few, rich, business-owning upper class, and everything bad that implies.

After awhile of banging your head against this employment wall in search of your calling, nothing happens and you begin to wonder if you are being too narrow in your search. So, in addition to looking for this, your calling, you decide you might as well look at that as a career as well. After all, it’s close to what you were originally looking for, isn’t it? At that moment, though you don’t realize it at the time, the compromising of your dreams and the slow desiccation of your spirit begins.

Eventually, after investing years of your precious time and attention, as well as several false starts, some more terrifying than the last, you do land something that suits your taste. It has good deal of “this,” at least enough so that what is possesses of “that” is at least tolerable and at times even interesting. Besides, in all realism you shouldn’t expect to hit the ball out of the park the first time you step up to the plate, right? So you make this job where you’ll cut your teeth, as it were, and at least keep your eyes peeled for something that would be a home run.

But your chance at playing Babe Ruth never comes. Sure, things come by, and you present yourself for them. But in the end you are ignored, just as you were before. Not that it matters too much. You’re not trying too hard, and you’re learning a lot at the “that” job that will make things much easier later on. Though the longer you stay makes it harder to handle the “that,” it is still well within your comfort zone and you feel you can still go on for a good while.

One thing you don’t understand is that how long “a good while” is isn’t entirely up to you. In fact, you have very little control over its definition, or the quality of its end result. Suddenly, your circumstances are removed from your control and, like it or not, leaving the “this/that” job and returning to ice cream scooping is your only option.

You’re not worried. Sure, you’re back where you were, but it was the best thing for your spouse and kids as well as a chance to put your drive more fully into taking an even larger step forward. Unlike before, you now have street cred; you’ve got the tools AND the talent; you can stand up and say, “This is what I’ve done. I’m great at my calling and I’m a true believer, and you’d be a fool not to hire me.” Rhetorically speaking, of course.

Somehow, though, time still goes by without the drop of acceptance to slack your thirst for your calling. In fact, before you know it even more time has passed than before you landed your interim position, on the scale of years, and all you can show for it are a handful of initial interviews, followed by the ubiquitous sense that, for some reason ignorant to you, everyone is ignoring you.

Then, you notice that your hope has mutated into something else. It is no longer a guiding beacon. Rather, it has transformed into a burden, a weight around your neck held fast by an unbreakable chain, a personal hell of doubt and shattered self-esteem. “You’re good, but not good enough,” becomes the mantra of those who dare hold you in judgment. “Not good enough—not good enough—not good enough.” It plays in your head every time your entreaties are ignored or forgotten in the din of the needy and disdained.

And as for those who should be there for you in your time of angst? They no longer care. They’ve abandoned you, in thought if not in deed. Either because your plight reminds them of their complicities in your state, or they are just tired of hearing your whining. They cease listening to you, and even turn away when you bring it up.

Not that what they say is supportive to you anymore. Those trite catchphrases, like, “Something will happen soon,” and “It’s their loss,” or “Keep it up. I know you can do it,” have lost their meaning to the point of cliché. You now find them condescending and patronizing, and you have bite your lip to keep yourself from saying some other cliché back at them, like, “Fuck off.”

In the end you know that, even in the unlikely circumstance that you get back into your calling, even if it is the “dream job” you’ve looked for from the beginning, you know you will hate it. That smoldering anger within has charred itself deep within your psyche and will never leave, because no calling is worth the time; the blood, sweat and tears; the anxiety of not knowing; and the final, climactic dread of being told, “no,” if it comes at all. Every day you arrive at your place of work, perhaps until you die, you will never shake the contempt you hold for your co-workers, your bosses, your family and your friends for not being there when you needed them, even as you were there for them.

THE SKY IS FALLING! THE SKY IS FALLING!

2009-10-19T18:56:00.020-07:00

There is a plague coming. In medical circles it is known as the H1N1 virus, but its common name is uttered with hushed whispers inside darkened barbeque restaurants everywhere. If you contract it, you will suffer. Oh, will you suffer! Your throat will constrict and you will drown with fever. It will sap your strength even as it becomes stronger. It will force you to run up your credit; consort with the morally depraved; donate what little of your life savings is left to the Democratic or Republican parties; watch cable news channels; and read magazines that publish best/worst dressed lists, horoscopes and perfume ads that smell like five-dollar whores!

Run, my friends. Run far and run fast! Or, as is often said on Fark.com, EVERBODY PANIC!

Can someone PLEASE give me one fucking break?

Okay people, let me explain something and try to make it very clear. The Swine flu is exactly that, THE FLU! You prevent it the same way and you get it the same way. If you do get it, you treat it the same way. Despite what public officials, media demagogues and other crackpot kooks want you to believe, the Four Horsemen are NOT coming to trample your lawn, nor will any of us be pushing carts chanting, “Bring out yer dead!” Okay?

Don’t get me wrong. It is a tragic and eventual fact that people will die from the Swine flu, but no more or less than the A/B flu strains whose annual seasons humanity has weathered for many decades. In fact, I’m willing to put good money on the probability that A LOT more people will kick the bucket from the A/B than H1N1, just like every season. I mean come on! Didn’t these assess learn their lesson with the Avian Flu a couple years back? Can’t these people just shut up?

I’m not going to waste my time to encourage everyone to get their shots, wash their hands, eat right and get plenty of rest. It’s everyone’s individual choice, and if anyone is stupid enough to think they’ll be better off not doing so, that the shots will cause them to grow an extra head or turn their kids into flesh-eating zombies, well, that’s their problem. And they will pay in the form of long days of misery and yes, perhaps death, no matter what form they contract. I don’t have time to worry about those whose one contribution to humanity is diluting the gene pool. I have enough to worry about on my own.

That being said, don’t let the dipshits on the airwaves play on your fears. It’s obvious they just don’t know.

CARTE BLANCHE AND OTHER FOIBLES

2009-09-17T05:50:00.026-07:00

Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.
Water, water, everywhere,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, everywhere,

Nor any drop to drink.
--Samuel Taylor Coleridge
"The Rime of the Ancient Mariner"

Y’know, I’m living a dream. It’s neither very lucrative nor filled with fanfare, but it’s a dream nevertheless. I’m writing what I want, when I want and how I want, without the like-an-asshole-everyone’s-got-one-and-it-stinks opinion of creativity-killing bureaucrats who dare to think they know better than I or, for that matter, think at all. At least in this little corner of the Internet, I am The Maztor of my domain, without the dictatorial oppression of others. I am the living embodiment of the First Amendment and all the glorious freedom it bestows.

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

See, by writing this blog, I took the one step that so many other working writers out there dream, sometimes their whole lives, and never attain. As I mentioned in my original post, I am assuming a stance of carte blanche concerning the subject matter of my posts. When I made this decision, I considered it a watershed. I could write whatever I wanted, so long as it wasn’t too crappy. My only inescapable fear in this commitment was of the trite yet dreaded writers’ block.

That was about the time I was blindsided by something I would not have expected in a million, billion years.

After my first two posts, I began to feel the creative engine in me really start to growl, and by that I’m taking a 351 Cleveland large-bore piece of power-ridden American engineering, not some rice-burning four-banger. The ideas really began to flow, and I was bound and ready to gun that engine and hit that literary road running.

Then, the engine seized up.

The problem wasn’t writers block. After all, I had so many ideas. Quite the opposite. I had too many. Day after day something would pop in my head and I’d scream in a loud, clear voice, “That’s it!” (A somewhat embarrasing prospect, especially while at my day job and in a patient’s room.) Then, I’d scrap my previous idea—whatever it was—and push forward with the new one.

But soon the ideas were coming so hard, so fast, the synapses in my brain were firing with such verocity that, like some really bad Robin Williams biopic, I suddenly and without warning stopped. Which idea should I write about? The question pounded through my skull over and over again. I just couldn’t decide. And when you add to the mix the usual stark mania perpetrated by the beginning of school and other difficulties I won’t mention here, you end up with one really inconsequential goober, like the kind I’d become. And then, before I knew it, almost two months passed since my last post and I had nothing, NOTHING to show for it.

I began to identify with and gain a greater appreciation for the protagonist of a story I’d been playing with on-and-off for awhile now. Through giftedness and training, he is imbued with great power, only to have his teacher suddenly and tragically killed before the protagonist learns to harness it. In fact, any magickal expression beyond the rudimentaries causes it to run amuck. So, in the face of great adversity, the story revolves around his baby steps in learning for himself the presence of mind needed to tap his gift without his head blowing up. In desparation, I did the same and looked for a method by which I could break my stalemate and push forward.

To my surprise, it came quickly enough in the form of a brief, simple whisper of a memory barely heard in the din of my brainwaves.

Perhaps by luck, and certainly by privilage I once for a time had the opportunity to call iconic outdoor writer Steve Comus “boss.” On a particularly frustating day of limited creativity, the crusty old newsman gave me a little advice, in his usual laid back, almost mumbling diction. “Think straight, write straight,” he said.

And so here I am. It’s 5:00 a.m., and I’m trying to reinstitute a long-atrophied practice by just thinking straight and writing straight. No predispositions. No pretensions. No grand designs to muck up the mix. Just one word in front of the other, like my feet on a long forced march, keeping them moving because the only end is at the end, and what happens in the mean time is the essence and pain of creativity. My only companions are the house cat and, in the words of Simon and Garfunkle, the sweet sound of silence. My only distraction is the slight twinge in my back, the remnant of a three-week-old muscle pull I exacerbated last weekend. A warm cup of coffee sets at my side, and above me the ceiling fan twirls.

I don’t intend on giving up on my ideas. On the contrary, I’ll likely make a list and explore them, one at a time at my discretion, thinking and writing as straight as I can until those journeys end as well.

Except maybe that gay midget porn concept.

HOMETOWNER HUNGRIES

2009-08-05T09:24:00.014-07:00

Preface: As my understanding of the software that drives this blog continues to evolve, so to will its presentation. For example, some of you, especially those who signed up, will notice that I removed the “followers” application. I deeply thank those of you who signed up, but for some reason(s) I still don’t understand the site stopped showing you, as well as the method by which others can follow suit and join my legion of minions. I attempted to use the “help” site, which did nothing but run me around in circles without any solution to the problem whatsoever. So I took it off, with the hopes that in the future I can resolve the problem and repost this call to arms.

Also, I dropped off the fence, so to speak, in terms of my fiction. In the future, I will be posting stories, but not here. Instead, I’ll use FictionPress.com, a site much like my original Maztorphyl in its purpose, but on a scope far, far surpassing it (Very special thanks to another slave to the Word Muse, Bob Bogle, for turning me on to it, along with this blog service). Notices of my stories will come in the same way as the posts for this Maztorphyl, as well as here.

Anyway, on to the post.

And so it came to be that I, The Maztor, and my mate decided we needed a little “personal” time, that the post-postmodern world’s everyday dysfunction was getting the better of us and we needed to get out of Tucson for a short husband-and-wife getaway.

She already had a business trip arranged to Las Vegas, Nev. where, as an HOA manager, she was to learn how to better withstand the harsh psychic assaults focused at her by the godless HOA hordes. Based on that, we decided to dovetail our getaway after her class, a good strategy we’ve used before.

She left first by air and, two days and uncounted replays of Queensryche’s “Jet City Woman” and “Without You” later, I assumed possession of my avatar, tossed some reasonably wearable underwear into a suitcase and followed by car.

Mad, you say? Mad that I took the car and not flown, travelled that long way alone where the inner demons were so free to exit my id and play havoc with my higher brain functions? Mad with method, says I! As cheap as airfare is nowadays, driving is still less expensive, to say nothing of eliminating the extra expense of renting a car.

Still, I had alterior motives beyond practicing some good travel sense. Thanks to to wonders of the Internet, not too long ago I stumbled upon another Swampdog, a fellow Chaos Lord whom I considered a very close chum, but with the intervening years we’d drifted apart and sadly lost touch at some point in the timestreams: the Great and Powerful MARZ!

In his human form, Lord Marz had done pretty well for himself during the epochs since our last meeting. He found a great mate himself, became the editorial director for Overland Journal and basically turned every backwoods trail and out-of-the-way patch of nowhere on the planet into his own personal playground. Going well beyond the “let’s toss a couple cases of beer into the jeep and piss off the ranchers around Patagonia” concept of offroading, he’s can certainly walk the walk when it comes to vehicle-based outdoor adventure. Hell, he’s even done the four-month Baja run with his lovely wife and owns a Tacoma outfitted with a snorkel and an integral tent, for Chaos’ sake!

After a little back-and-forthing on Facebook, we settled on hooking up while I was enroute to Vegas. I’d take a short detour and swing into his current lair of Prescott.

“I haven't been (there) since I was six or so,” I explained. “Hence, I'm not sure how to get around. If lunch still sounds good to you, we can meet some place at least initially. Pick a place only a hometowner would know about, nothing touristy or chain, and send me the address so I can map it out on Expedia.”

“Ok, you asked for it,” he warned. “We'll eat lunch at a liquor store.”

Well, okay then.

So I braved the I-10 badlands between Tucson and Phoenix (which actually wasn’t so bad, except for that exploding semi), squeezed through the labrythine quagmire that is the Phoenix highway system and bolted up I-17 to Prescott.

As I arrived, it occurred to me at once that Prescott was not the small town I visited in my childhood. Dispersed between the native flora grew blot after blot of subdivisions, marring the landscape and providing ample evidence that embryonic sprawl, now epidemic in Phoenix, Tucson and countless other places across the United States, had infected the area.

Aside from a minor misstep, we hooked up at Park Plaza Liquors, a quaint little place as much eatery as booze emporium. Whatever supernatural pact Marz made many years ago still held. Aside from a faint shade of manly stubble, he retained his youthful good looks, even much of his curly blonde locks, damn him.

As for Park Plaza Liquors, while much of it was devoted to isles of many different kinds of distilled spirits and kisses of brewed heaven, its front and patio adjacent to the main entrance were reserved for locals wishing to wash away their hunger rather than sorrows. Most of the tables were on the small side, fit only to sit three people comfortably, four for those not minding coziness. Ordering food, on the other hand, took place in the back through a large window that exposed the kitchen’s inner guts.

As small eateries go, the menu was both predictable, with salads, soups, burgers, finger foods and especially sandwiches populating its pages, and surprisingly diverse with each category containing many individual dishes from which to choose.

I asked about the signature dish, and was given several choices (always a good sign), from which I settled on the green chile chicken sandwich and fries. Marz’s wife, Sharon, decided upon the avocado sandwich, while Lord Marz himself ordered the meatball, his usual according to Sharon.

We sat down, our order flag proudly presented at its center and chatted, getting caught up on old times. It was great seeing him and meeting Sharon, and he seemed livened by my presence as well, until I revealed how much of a botched job Tucson’s Rio Nuevo Project was becoming, and he got downright depressed when I informed him of the Rialto Theater’s impending doom (Author’s note: Anybody know that happened with that? Let me know.) and the mismanagement of the Fox Theater. Good thing the dishes arrived just about then.

I grew up in a large, boisterous family, and few things quieted us faster than a good meal. This very thing occurred. The chatting remained, but dimmed as we dug in.

Good manners blocked me from asking for bites of their respective sandwiches, but I can’t say I wasn’t tempted. Looking at Sharon’s, I could tell that merely calling it an “avocado sandwich” was a misnomer. Rather it appeared to be veritable salad squeezed between two pieces of bread! Rich colors flourished at it core in the form of fresh greens, orange slices and other vegatarian goodness, mouthwaterinly accenting the avocados. I’m willing to guess even Ted Nugent would put down his bow, just for a little while, to savor its cornucopic goodness.

Lord Marz delayed little in diving into his own meatball goodness. Slathered in rich, bright marinara sauce, the plump balls lined up in their bun like a Roman legion. Earlier, Sharon remarked they often split this particular dish, as it was so large, but Marz seemed to expect little such trouble as he devoured it.

Then, there was my dish. It was wonderful! The grilled breast sported the three traits that make good chicken great: plump, juicy and flavorful. The diced green chiles provided a mild accent (a trait I’ve found common in non-ethnic dishes where this miraculous ingredient is used) to the breast, as did the melted white cheese. The ciabatta bun in which it all nestled bore a texture I enjoy with this kind of roll: crunchy enough on the outside not to lacerate gums, soft enough on the inside to, as the cliché goes, melt in my mouth.

The fries surprised me. Cut thin and straight, they lacked the thickness I enjoy, but made up for it in, like the ciabatta, their softness/crunchiness ratio. Also, the fries were seasoned, but only slightly, unlike the ostentatious caking one finds at the chains. There was enough not to hide, but rather add complexity to the fries’ rich earthy potato flavor.

I wished I could have stayed longer, but Vegas and my mate still called. We said our goodbyes, along with sincere promises to keep in touch, and I was on the road once again with a satisfied belly and just a little hopeful sadness that our reunion was too fleeting, but with more to come.

And what about Vegas, you ask? Well, we burned through our gambling money in about a half hour, ate a lot, walked A LOT, slept and napped a lot (At least I did; apparently I was experiencing certain high-volume nocturnal nasal and GI issues that kept my wife awake.), viewed the most numerous collection of breasts I have ever seen (Oh come on, people! They’re everywhere!) and took the long drive home together.

Park Plaza Liquor and Deli is located at 402 W Goodwin Street in (presently) beautiful Prescott, Arizona. They can be reached via phone at 928-541-9867. I have been told an official Web site is forthcoming, but as of this writing nothing yet.

For those into high-end offroading and the outdoors, check out Overland Journal, a five-issue-per-year publication dedicated to “…environmentally responsible, worldwide vehicle-dependent expedition and adventure travel,” at http://www.overlandjournal.com/.

ONCE MORE UNTO THE BREACH

2009-07-20T09:12:00.000-07:00

There once was a man named Gregory Daniel High. Two years ago today, he died. He was my friend.

To describe him, to encapsulate his being into a few meaningless lines of restrictive text, would prove complicated at best. Yet if pressed I suppose I could quote the great (and also dead) Hunter S. Thompson, and say he was, “…One of God's own prototypes. Some kind of high powered mutant never even considered for mass production. Too weird to live, and too rare to die.” (The Banshee Screams for Buffalo Meat)

He craved life, devouring it every day. Swampdog, glutton, pervert, intellectual, techno-wizard, outdoorsman, crack broomballer, chain smoker, unrelenting debater, shock master extraordinaire, voracious reader and much more described him equally, but each alone failed to grasp him in his entirety.

Only his closest friends could see past his many Campbellian masks to his true self: the pure-hearted Percival, lonely and alone, most likely of us all to find the Holy Grail if he’d get off his fat, nightmarishly terrifying ass and try। Only in Greg’s case, the quest would involve in some way a minigun, claymore mines and K-Y, lots and lots of K-Y.

Despite this, or perhaps because of it, Greg felt burdened by one curse: his epilepsy. For one who reveled in the art and wit of the argument, where all Life’s facets were free range, it was his only untouchable subject. Even alluding to his condition would send him off in a rage too acute for one to ever want to bring it up again. He hated it, the brain-numbing meds he took and the ubiquitous dread that, no matter what he did or where he was, a grand mal seizure still could take him.

Then, two years ago, one did forever.

To this day I prefer to think of him as he lived, the better times. In the mid- to late-ninties, we lived together with my brother. Greg, known to us as The One-Eyed Scary Guy, was on the local fast track at corporate-giant-turned-waste-of-space Internet provider America Online, engineering various programs for AOL’s corporate clients. Ever seditious, under its auspices he discreetly developed a lovely little treasure trove of Swampdog wisdom known as Instigator.com.

At the same time, I was working my way through college and beginning my life as a struggling writer (a phase I’m still eagerly waiting to end). A bit more self-important, pretentious and, perhaps, passionate than I am now, I myself was making my own initial foray into cyberspace.

For awhile, I’d been churning out a respectable number of short stories as well as, like all struggling writers, collecting an ever-growing pile of rejection letters. I’d been playing around on AOL as a customer, and struck on the idea of self-publishing those stories that had been rejected more than 10 times online. I hoped to elicit feedback on, and ensure a continued life for, my work.

And so the original Maztorphyl was born. Using software I’d downloaded from AOL, I created The Maztorphyl and populated it with the usual crap in addition to the stories: a favorite site list, a hit counter, its purpose statement, an e-mail link, that sort of thing.

As both developed, we’d talk informally about them, throwing around this idea or that, considering the next steps. Then we settled on an idea we both liked, a page that acted as both sick-and-twisted advice column and social commentary, and ran with it. Before long we launched the “Ask The Maztor” section of Instigator. At first he posted a few of my tirades to set the page’s mood, while I, at the same time, queried initial letters from some close friends.

It didn’t take long before things were running at a good, smooth place. The scope of people grew steadily until we began getting messages from across the US. I received the e-mails, wordsmith an answer, and forward them to Greg who, as editor-in-chief and webmaster, did his posting thing. We didn’t always agree on my responses—like a few disparaging remarks I once made about G. Gordon Liddy that prompted Greg to add a disclaimer—but for the most part he left them all but untouched. As Web sites go, the number of hits it garnered was unimpressive, but doing better than we first envisioned.

It was when things looked like they were taking off that, of course, the bottom fell out.

While at work, Greg made a minor error in the form of a slight departure from company protocol. Namely, while testing beta software in a small, secure network, he chose as his password, “AnalPusBubbles.” Apparently, this violated some subclaus of AOL’s Orwellian decency policy. Prudes.

He was disciplined in what amounted to a slap on the wrist. Then, the bungholes at corporate caught wind of it, and Greg became another victim of one of AOL’s Stalinesque purges for which it was so well known back then. As he disappeared from the building, so too did Instigator.

As the years rolled by, I’d bring up the possibility of relaunching Instigator again as an independent site, but Greg wasn’t interested. Either its memory was too painful, he didn’t have time or he just moved on; he never made his reasons clear. Greg’s death pretty much closed the door on it.

As for The Maztorphyl, it lingered over much of my college career, but things were changing. I was dating my future wife while working hard at my job and school, and the time necessary for maintaining the number of short stories I was writing as well as the page’s upkeep fell away. So, acquiesing to the inevitable, I shut it down. Looking back, it didn’t succeed at its mission, anyway. It received far fewer hits than even Instigator, and responses were negligable at best.

Recently, I got to thinking about Greg. Had it really been two years? Where’d it all go? Life has a way of keeping you occupied with other things while the important stuff gets away. I wondered about it, rolled it over in my head, reminisced about him and all the Chaos-ridden things we all used to do, like on the Internet…

And so I decided to bring The Maztorphyl back from the dead, as a blog, to honor his memory and the twisted logic and ideals for which it and Instigator stood.

Now, fair reader, we come to the present. Since we’re all feeling so upbeat, I shall explain to you the guidelines by which I will run this half-rotted carcass that is the reborn Maztorphyl!

What will I write about? Pretty much whatever the hell I feel like. My whims will dictate the literary and journalistic pleasures you will enjoy. Political commentary, a restaurant review, an in-depth description of my athletes foot, if the mood strikes me, it will end up here. There’s even a chance I’ll talk about epilepsy. I’ll try posting something every other week. If it works out well enough, I may increase it to every week, but we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.

If you need advice, particularly of the freakish kind, my ear is open at Maztorphyl@msn.com. I believe that everyone, EVERYONE, is a freak to one degree or another. From the straight-laced housewife with the extensive S&M paraphenalia collection stored in her armior, to the half-drunk college student eating his pizza crust first, I laud the weirdness of humanity. It’s the spice of life, people.

Fair warning, though. My no-holds-barred approach and stance, as well as my subject matter, will no doubt frustrate, anger, shock and even outrage some of you. In fact, if I don’t piss off a few of you from time to time I won’t be doing my job. But you know, there hasn’t been a single time I’ve had a great time off-roading that I didn’t get jostled around like a limp rag doll, that my perceptions weren’t challenged even as I tried to keep my eyes on the road.

Still, if you don’t find my vignettes your cup of tea, that’s fine, too. This is still the United States, last time I checked. So kick my dust from your sandals and ne’er turn back, fair wanderers.

There are some out-of-bounds subjects, though. As best I can I will steer away from my family. Unlike those celebrity pimps in Hollywood and New York, I consider parading my family before the public like a brothel lineup physically, mentally, morally and emotionally nauseating. That being said, my wife and kids make up so much of my life I can’t say they won’t make cameos or supporting appearances. I just won’t make them a story’s focus.

My poetry also is a no-no. To me its more of a hobby and besides, I’m not that good. As for fiction, I’m still on the fence. My productivity lately, in quality and quantity, hasn’t been that great, but I may brush off an old story, run it through the editorial grinder once or twice, and post it if I have nothing else. Still, like I said, the jury’s still out on that one.

Not wishing to add to the feeding frenzies, I will pay little attention to the wanton, idiotic antics, and in particular the deaths, of those talentless, camera-whore pop culture “icons” we Americans so enjoy placing on pedestals, except perhaps as inspiration for indictments against the tabliodization of the media, as well as the provincial tastelessness and dumbing of America.

So I invite you all to jump in the back seat, fasten your seat belts, enjoy the ride and, above all, stay with me. Don’t jump out in the middle of the trip because you’re feeling ill. You might get left behind. Just rest assured knowing that, unlike the idiot talking heads and moron pundits on tabloid news shows and channels, everything I post, no matter how moving or vitriolic, will still have behind it the same philosophy of another socio-political observer, Dennis Miller: “Of course, that’s my opinion. I might be wrong.”