L.A. followup

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I’m here in L.A. Wifi is spotty and I don’t expect to have a lot of computer time. I can barely keep up with my emails, let alone read anyone’s blogs.

I spent much of the day talking about what Annalise’s tattoos will look like, and looking over the many copies of the ghost knife the prop guy made. Also Annalise’s ribbons.

Tomorrow is the first day of shooting, and they expect things to run very late. I expect to push myself very hard as money guy/production assistant’s assistant.

And I should have been asleep two hours ago. G’night. I expect to post again in a couple of days.

Out comes the bicycle

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Two years ago when I was picking out components for my new bicycle, I had several seats to choose from: The Glide Rider, the Tush Cushion, and the Prostate Bombarder. For the life of me, I can’t remember why I made the choice I did.

But! Now that my job is gone my bus pass is gone, too, so out comes the bike. Yesterday was my first actual pedal ride to the gym (in the dark, ‘natch, because of the time change) and it felt more than a little like punishment. Too bad we’re in a recession or I’d pressure the city to repave those bike paths. Still, it’s good to have worked out (tense choice deliberate), and afterwards I was a couple blocks from my regular Starbucks and library, letting me to a little post-exercise writing. I even met my daily goal and returned home well before my wife had to leave for work.

The downside of all this is that yesterday, for the first time in years–and I wasn’t planning to talk about this, but I’m all about the honesty–I wore sweat pants outside my home.

Yeah, it’s true. Not even a week after I left my job and I’ve already surrendered to fashion lameness. By Christmas I expect to be lazing around the coffee shop all day wearing a green velour track suit with my face half-shaved because I got bored partway through. It’s inevitable.

I’m not online all that much, though. Sorry if I’m not commenting on your posts–I’m falling way behind in my reading.

Things are good. Today or tomorrow I’m hoping to have the boy snap a photo of me in my new home office dress code. I’m sure it would make my former co-workers burn with jealousy.

In which I delight myself by sending an email.

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Yesterday, in the midst of all the usual family stuff, like washing the boy’s bedsheets to get the cracker crumbs out, sweeping the kitchen floor, cleaning the bathroom, and introducing my son to BIG TROUBLE IN LITTLE CHINA, I submitted a short story for the first time in three years.

First I polished it, then I checked the guidelines, then boom, out goes the email.

I don’t read as much short fiction as I used to, therefore I rarely write it. But it’s nice to have the time to focus on a side project once in a while.

Now back the the Auntie Mame Files.

Freedom report, day one

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I’m very mildly hung over from the two 22-oz beers I drank last night. Lindsey and Noelle, if you’re reading this, thank you again for those excellent going away gifts. They were complex, rich, and delicious, even if they did give me a bit of a headache today. I don’t want to think about how I’d feel if I hadn’t spread them out over four hours. At least I still have an area of my life where I can legitimately call myself a “lightweight.”

The whole family sat down to watch THE SECRET OF KELLS last night. My wife and son had no idea what to expect, but they were just as blown away as I’d expected them to be. Gorgeous movie. Highly recommended.

Also last night, I talked with the filmmakers making the book trailer. They received my drawing of the ghost knife sigil just fine, and I’ll post a link to imdb page for the actor playing Ray Lilly when they give me permission.

This morning I slept in until the late, late hour of 6:30 am. Luxury! I mailed off the last copies of GAME OF CAGES that I owed folks, and sent one each of my books to Pat Rothfuss for his charity auction. If you have something to donate, please consider doing so. It’s a good cause.

Then I did a bit of writing… but not much, because I’m enjoying this weekend. Next, I’m going to check out my library books and head out to meet a college buddy I barely ever see for a late lunch.

Hope you guys are having a day that’s just as nice.

In which I gag

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It’s Halloween, so I pulled one of these off the shelf (the one on the left). I peeled the foil and discovered it was a screw cap, not a cork. Opened it anyway. It’s bad, but what the hell, I drink bad red wine all the time.

Then I got to the bottom of the bottle and gagged on the “solids” there. I don’t know what the hell it was, but it was grit and chunks and whoa did I come close to chunking right into my sink.

Thank you, R Wines of Eastwood, Australia and importer The Grateful Palate of Oxnard, California, for bringing some real horror to my Halloween. The slogan on your bottle (“It’s Just Wrong”) was accurate on more levels that I would ever have expected.

The awesomeness of my holiday vacation

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You know what’s funny? It’s cheaper to take Amtrak from Seattle to Rochester, NY to visit my in-laws than to fly there. It’s not a lot cheaper, because it costs extra to have a private room for most of that trip, but it’s still cheaper.

And that’s what I’m doing. When I visit my wife’s family for Opressmas this year, I’m going by rail. I leave in the late afternoon of the 20th and arrive on the morning of the 23rd, and I’m taking my son with me.

Yep, my eight-year-old son and I are taking a train ride across the country.

I don’t know how that sounds to you, but I think it’s going to be a fantastic trip. I’m really looking forward to it.

After the holidays, I’ll be heading back on the train alone so he can spend a little extra time with the family. Besides, I’m not sure he’s ready for two 64-hour trips; he’ll fly home with his mom. However, that means I’ll have a few internet-less days to do nothing but read, write, and watch the country pass by. It’s going to be amazing.

Plus, I should have a lunch-time layover in Chicago (barring delays). Anyone in the Chicago area want to get together for lunch on 12/28?

The Bullying Problem

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Lots of folks are writing about bullies lately, but as far as I can tell (I won’t try to claim I’ve read every article/blog post on the subject) they’re not saying what I want them to, so I’ll have to say it myself.

I’m not one to be particularly worked up over what happened to me in school. My school sucked, but it wasn’t until I grew up and ventured out into the world that I realized it was not the normal thing. As it turns out, most schools don’t have kids who attack other kids with claw hammers in the hall. Most schools don’t have kids who carry huge serrated bread knives in paper towel and scotch tape sheaths. Most high schools don’t have kids doing bong hits in class while the teacher is lecturing.

And so on. I probably would have been better off if I’d dropped out but whatever. Let’s just say that there was a lot of bullying in my schools.

And I perpetrated some of it. Not a lot, because I was pretty freaking low on the social totem pole, but some, because no matter how low I was, it was just unacceptable for me to be lower that that guy.

There was a bit of churn at the bottom of the social ladder, actually. Victims of one kind or another were always searching for someone to be superior to, for someone they could treat with contempt. For someone to be bullied. And while it was one thing to be pushed around or punched by a HS kid who was on the football team and looked like he was twenty-five years old, it was unacceptable to take a punch from another victim, unacceptable to have someone so low on the social ladder get his foot on your neck.

But whatever. Everything back then was bellum omnium contra omnes. My school. My home life (especially). Even my friends–who I loved and will continue to love, who are fantastic people–was a constant sting of insults and put downs. That’s pretty much all we ever said to each other.

I’m going to skip the story about my son in kindergarten because this is getting long. I will say this: Victims of bullying need help. There’s no doubt about that. But the bullies need help, too.

I’m not just taking about assholes like me, who made sure three out of every four words I said were some kind of supposedly-funny insult, or the kids who were bullies just so they wouldn’t be at the absolute bottom. I’m also not just talking about kids with problems that would make good afternoon specials: kids from broken families, or who have abuse or addiction problems at home.

I’m talking about every bully, even the ones who are athletic, good-looking, and smart, the kids from good families with nice clothes. All of them. Because if a kid, any kid, bullies someone, that kid has a problem. The best way to deal with bullying is to protect the victims and care for the bullies. You have to help them get over their shit so they can live like decent human beings.

Because they’re just kids.

Writers do it while sitting

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But not this time. I’ve stacked a table on top of a table and I’m working on my wip while standing. The usual pain I’ve been used to has become much too intense lately. I’m hoping a change in position will make things easier on my legs.

Which puts me in the odd position of reducing knee, ankle, and muscle pain by getting up. What the hell. Variety is the spice, right?