Did you ever wonder why Pluto is Mickey's dog, but Goofy, who's also a dog, is on a more or less equal footing? (This what you get when I wake up with insomnia.) When I was a kid, this used to bug the hell out of me. I count it as one of the triumphs of my life that I was eventually able to learn the answer straight from the mouse's mouth, as it were. Once I was working for Disney animation I had to climb a surprisingly long way up the chain of command to find out; eventually Jeffrey Katzenberg himself told me. And, as is the case with most things Disney, there's a certain twisted logic to it.
It seems that, among the various sentient beings of the Disneyverse, (by which I mean those created by the studio, not purchased as outside properties such as Baloo the Bear or Winnie-the-Pooh -- who's also a bear, come to think [I prefer to read into this merely the fact that I'm typing this at 6 AM]), anyway, among the inhabitants of Duckburg (and before you ask, I have no fucking idea if Mickey lives in Duckburg or the neighboring hamlet of Mouseville [which I believe I just made up]. For all I know, he lives in Secaucus), so anyway, the way it works is simply thus:
It doesn't matter what kind of animal you are in a Disney cartoon; if you are bipedal, can talk and wear clothes, then PETA be damned; you can own "lower" animals and do with them as you will.
This answers a lot of questions. Goofy, for instance, is nominally a dog. But he's bipedal (albeit with horrendous posture), wears clothes (sort of; interestingly, he's one of the few inhabitants whose ensemble includes pants), and speaks a colorful patois of English. All of which evidence his canine antecedents while simultaneously showcasing his cultural and evolutionary superiority over Pluto, who's also a dog, but who goes on all fours and wears naught but a dog collar (and to all those with fingers poised gleefully over their keyboards who live in West Hollywood, the Castro District, or other places like them -- you're only muddying the waters; shut up).
As I said, this clears up a lot of questions. But it also opened -- for me, anyway -- a veritable Matryoshka of Pandora's boxes. None of which I intend to go into now, save to note that I'm still not at peace -- and most likely never will be -- with the horror I felt as a seven-year old when I opened an Uncle Scrooge comic and witnessed the entire McDuck clan -- Scrooge, Donald, Daisy, and the trifecta of nephews -- sitting down with drooling beaks, utensils firmly gripped in feathered fists, and napkins knotted around wattled necks, to a turkey dinner with all the trimmings.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Universal Thoughts
It has always amazed me that, considering what pale, insubstantial wraiths we are, we can still feel as intensely as we do. We are all of us, less than the faintest wisps of ephemerality; 99.99999999% of our bodies are, quite literally nothing -- nothing at all, not even air. consider the simplest of all atoms: hydrogen. the nucleus is a lone proton, orbited by a solitary electron. If that nucleus were the size of your thumbnail, the electron would orbit it a quarter mile away, making that single hydrogen atom roughly the size of a baseball stadium, and the vast majority of it -- nothing.
And yet, we feel.
We are revenants, but at least we occupy a world of comforting solidity, right? Wrong. When the Big Bang blew, it created matter and antimatter in very close to equal amounts, and thus both atoms and anti-atoms immediately and enthusiastically launched into wholesale mutual slaughter. When the dust settled, one atom out of every two billion was left whole. In other words, for every billion atoms of antimatter, the primordial explosion had created a billion and one atoms of matter. So right from the start all the cosmic matter was dramatically thinned. Now, nearly fifteen billion years later, the universe is still an anemic shadow of a far more robust initial state. Furthermore, even those pale scraps of plasma and interstellar gas make up only a tiny part of the "real" universe.
And yet, we care.
Ghosts we indeed are, living in a universe just as ghostly, a world that makes the pink, fluffy clouds of Heaven itself look like a WWII concrete pillbox. The matter we interact with (baryonic matter, it's called), comprises less than 5% of reality. The overwhelming majority consists of two other matter/energy states, called, with stunning originality, dark matter and dark energy. We can't touch, see, hear or smell the reality of the material universe, because the stuff doesn't interact with electromagnetism. it only shows up indirectly, through gravitational waves.
And yet, we love.
On top of all this, we are truly creatures of a day; our time spent in this world is no longer than a breath, a blink, a barely noticeable instant when held against the turnings of the cosmos. It seems impossible to have and hold anything, so quickly do we go from wombs of flesh to wombs of dust.
And yet we feel.
And yet we care.
And yet we love.
And yet, we feel.
We are revenants, but at least we occupy a world of comforting solidity, right? Wrong. When the Big Bang blew, it created matter and antimatter in very close to equal amounts, and thus both atoms and anti-atoms immediately and enthusiastically launched into wholesale mutual slaughter. When the dust settled, one atom out of every two billion was left whole. In other words, for every billion atoms of antimatter, the primordial explosion had created a billion and one atoms of matter. So right from the start all the cosmic matter was dramatically thinned. Now, nearly fifteen billion years later, the universe is still an anemic shadow of a far more robust initial state. Furthermore, even those pale scraps of plasma and interstellar gas make up only a tiny part of the "real" universe.
And yet, we care.
Ghosts we indeed are, living in a universe just as ghostly, a world that makes the pink, fluffy clouds of Heaven itself look like a WWII concrete pillbox. The matter we interact with (baryonic matter, it's called), comprises less than 5% of reality. The overwhelming majority consists of two other matter/energy states, called, with stunning originality, dark matter and dark energy. We can't touch, see, hear or smell the reality of the material universe, because the stuff doesn't interact with electromagnetism. it only shows up indirectly, through gravitational waves.
And yet, we love.
On top of all this, we are truly creatures of a day; our time spent in this world is no longer than a breath, a blink, a barely noticeable instant when held against the turnings of the cosmos. It seems impossible to have and hold anything, so quickly do we go from wombs of flesh to wombs of dust.
And yet we feel.
And yet we care.
And yet we love.
Friday, February 10, 2012
East Meets West
Here's the thing: I have Parkinson's Disease.
Had it for about 20 years. I've been able to slow its progress considerably by a combination of medicine and electrodes placed deep in my sub-thalamus. But I'm running out of options that western medicine can provide, and so I'm considering alternatives.
I've read numerous articles on the therapeutic effects of Tai Chi, Qi Gong and the like. Although I'm a writer of fantastic fiction (used to be mostly TV; now it's mostly movies and books), I'm a dyed-in-the-wool skeptic, pragmatist and atheist. These might seem contradictory positions, but they're really not. (Think of it as cognitive dissidence.) I make a decent living writing about little green men, vampires, ghosts, etc. But it's all make believe. I don't believe any of it. I'm just grateful for whatever genetic quirk gave me the ability to make up stories and get paid to do it.
But the wonderful thing about science is that, unlike dogmatism, it thrives on being proven wrong. We learn from doing, screwing up, doing a face-palm and trying again -- until we get it right. I have no vested interest in believing in God, but on the other hand, I have nothing against being proven wrong. If Jesus Christ staged his big comeback tonight, I'd probably think -- well, probably at first I'd think he was, as John Lennon said, someone dressed up like Jesus, but after he'd, say, produced a few thousand loaves and fishes out of a bag of Long John Silver's, I might be inclined to admit that he was working some decent mojo. And if he finished up the evening's entertainment by lobbing a few lightning bolts up the collective asses of Messrs Romney, Gingrich and Santorum, I might have to admit that I may have misjudged Son'o'God.
I'm not planning on losing any sanity points over it, however. In terms of cosmic horror Jesus can't hold a votive candle to Cthulhu, and in terms of sheer cosmic silliness it's hard to imagine any religion that rises in risability higher than Scientology, though evangelical Christianity comes about as close as any belief can. Where else but in churches deep within the Mason-Dixon singularity can one find nominal adults willing to fight for their belief that The Flintstones is a documentary?
So, as I've said, I intend to give the East a shot. There's a Tai Chi class within five minutes of my place (of course there is; this is California.) I'll let you know how it all works out.
Had it for about 20 years. I've been able to slow its progress considerably by a combination of medicine and electrodes placed deep in my sub-thalamus. But I'm running out of options that western medicine can provide, and so I'm considering alternatives.
I've read numerous articles on the therapeutic effects of Tai Chi, Qi Gong and the like. Although I'm a writer of fantastic fiction (used to be mostly TV; now it's mostly movies and books), I'm a dyed-in-the-wool skeptic, pragmatist and atheist. These might seem contradictory positions, but they're really not. (Think of it as cognitive dissidence.) I make a decent living writing about little green men, vampires, ghosts, etc. But it's all make believe. I don't believe any of it. I'm just grateful for whatever genetic quirk gave me the ability to make up stories and get paid to do it.
But the wonderful thing about science is that, unlike dogmatism, it thrives on being proven wrong. We learn from doing, screwing up, doing a face-palm and trying again -- until we get it right. I have no vested interest in believing in God, but on the other hand, I have nothing against being proven wrong. If Jesus Christ staged his big comeback tonight, I'd probably think -- well, probably at first I'd think he was, as John Lennon said, someone dressed up like Jesus, but after he'd, say, produced a few thousand loaves and fishes out of a bag of Long John Silver's, I might be inclined to admit that he was working some decent mojo. And if he finished up the evening's entertainment by lobbing a few lightning bolts up the collective asses of Messrs Romney, Gingrich and Santorum, I might have to admit that I may have misjudged Son'o'God.
I'm not planning on losing any sanity points over it, however. In terms of cosmic horror Jesus can't hold a votive candle to Cthulhu, and in terms of sheer cosmic silliness it's hard to imagine any religion that rises in risability higher than Scientology, though evangelical Christianity comes about as close as any belief can. Where else but in churches deep within the Mason-Dixon singularity can one find nominal adults willing to fight for their belief that The Flintstones is a documentary?
So, as I've said, I intend to give the East a shot. There's a Tai Chi class within five minutes of my place (of course there is; this is California.) I'll let you know how it all works out.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
#1 In A Very Occasional Series: "How To Tell If You're Really A Writer"
One huge and undeniable difference between men and women can be summed up in a single word: shopping. With only rare exceptions (which sometimes, but not always, are linked to sexual preference), women love to shop, and men hate it. Give a woman a credit card with an asymptotic limit and parachute her onto Rodeo Drive, and you might as well have dynamited the Pearly Gates for her. On the other hand, point out to a man that the seat of his jeans has been worn to gossamer transparency, or that his T-shirt has so many rips and holes in it that one can barely make out the IMPEACH NIXON slogan it sports, and insist that he come along for at least an attempt at building a new wardrobe, and chances are that he'll cling to every doorjamb and article of furniture within reach with the howling desperation of a Warner Bros. cartoon cat about to be thrown from his place on the warm hearth out into the unforgiving night.
Myself, I belong to the latter tribe. I have at least one sweater that I bought in Wales over 30 years ago that's still intermittently wearable, and two pairs of Levi's 501s with 32" waists that still fit -- as long as I don't breathe. The Southern California climate is such that I can get by with shorts and a T-shirt, and I'm perfectly happy to do so, as long as I can avoid any stores that contain primarily cotton and denim. This anathema extends to just about any product -- with the notable exception of CDs, DVDs, and other media, which I usually buy online. In short, I hate shopping for just about anything.
With one notable exception -- and that leads us back to the slugline to this piece.
Put me in Staples, Office Depot, or just about any stationery store or anyplace where they sell writing or office supplies, and I immediately become a ten-year old in a candy store. I've been known to actually drool in such places (although that's probably the Parkinson's). I've literally had palpitations standing in the various aisles. It's not a pretty sight.
But it seems to me a fairly good indication that, at least as far as physical accoutrements are concerned, I love the trappings of a writer. I even love actually venturing physically from my lair and going to such stores.
And, best of all, it's all deductible.
Myself, I belong to the latter tribe. I have at least one sweater that I bought in Wales over 30 years ago that's still intermittently wearable, and two pairs of Levi's 501s with 32" waists that still fit -- as long as I don't breathe. The Southern California climate is such that I can get by with shorts and a T-shirt, and I'm perfectly happy to do so, as long as I can avoid any stores that contain primarily cotton and denim. This anathema extends to just about any product -- with the notable exception of CDs, DVDs, and other media, which I usually buy online. In short, I hate shopping for just about anything.
With one notable exception -- and that leads us back to the slugline to this piece.
Put me in Staples, Office Depot, or just about any stationery store or anyplace where they sell writing or office supplies, and I immediately become a ten-year old in a candy store. I've been known to actually drool in such places (although that's probably the Parkinson's). I've literally had palpitations standing in the various aisles. It's not a pretty sight.
But it seems to me a fairly good indication that, at least as far as physical accoutrements are concerned, I love the trappings of a writer. I even love actually venturing physically from my lair and going to such stores.
And, best of all, it's all deductible.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Call Any Vegetable ...
(Which is pretty much how I'm feeling these days) ... Or ask any writer who's freelance about the joys of freelancery. And they'll tell you, if they're honest, about the phenomenon known as "feast or famine."
There are times when the phone doesn't ring. (Or vibrate, or squeal like a pig, or play the opening from Ravel's Bolero, or do any one of a thousand other bizarre novelty tones that are supposed to charm other people, but instead generally just ensure that you get the entire seat to yourself even during rush hour.) No one wants to talk to you, to hear you pitch those great ideas in your head, like Neville Chamberlain being trapped in the bunker with Hitler or King Arthur revived as a 21st Century superhero, or even General U.S. Grant getting a talking horse just before Shiloh, which is comic GOLD, those Philistines! (especially with Justin Timberlake as Grant, trust me, it's not like he's fending off casting agents with a pointed stick these days.)
And no one calls. And no one calls. And no one calls, day after day, until you're perfectly willing your own self to squeal like a pig if it'll guarantee you an assignment. You're at the point of desperation where you'll stand on a street corner and hold up a sign that says "Will
work for Disney."
And then the phone rings. It's not much money, and even less time, but you'll do it, if only to alleviate the boredom. And then the phone rings again. And again. And you grab all the work you can, because who knows when it stops this time it might never ring again, and finally,
when the smoke clears you realize you're standing atop a mountain of assignments like Conan, only that ain't a naked Brythunian slave girl wrapped around your leg; it's a killer deadline.
So -- guesss which state I'm in right now.
There are times when the phone doesn't ring. (Or vibrate, or squeal like a pig, or play the opening from Ravel's Bolero, or do any one of a thousand other bizarre novelty tones that are supposed to charm other people, but instead generally just ensure that you get the entire seat to yourself even during rush hour.) No one wants to talk to you, to hear you pitch those great ideas in your head, like Neville Chamberlain being trapped in the bunker with Hitler or King Arthur revived as a 21st Century superhero, or even General U.S. Grant getting a talking horse just before Shiloh, which is comic GOLD, those Philistines! (especially with Justin Timberlake as Grant, trust me, it's not like he's fending off casting agents with a pointed stick these days.)
And no one calls. And no one calls. And no one calls, day after day, until you're perfectly willing your own self to squeal like a pig if it'll guarantee you an assignment. You're at the point of desperation where you'll stand on a street corner and hold up a sign that says "Will
work for Disney."
And then the phone rings. It's not much money, and even less time, but you'll do it, if only to alleviate the boredom. And then the phone rings again. And again. And you grab all the work you can, because who knows when it stops this time it might never ring again, and finally,
when the smoke clears you realize you're standing atop a mountain of assignments like Conan, only that ain't a naked Brythunian slave girl wrapped around your leg; it's a killer deadline.
So -- guesss which state I'm in right now.
Friday, December 23, 2011
A Long, Long Receding Crawl Ago, In A Bookstore Not Terribly Far (I Hope) Away ...
The latest STAR WARS book (STAR WARS: Shadow Games), has been out for a month, and is already on the NYT Bestseller list. This, obviously, makes me happy. I just got Maya's 1st draft of The Last Jedi, which is reading great so far (about halfway through). And another book project is going quite well also.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Say Something
Just post something, damnit. What's the point of having a bloody blog if you're not going to use it?
Problem is, I can't just dash something off quickly. It takes a ridiculously long time to enter data; it's taken nearly four minutes just to type this much. As I've said before, the operative word is triage.
I simply have no time to write anything that doesn't have money at the other end. Even with Medicare, the bills are outrageous. Everything takes so much longer ....
And, of course, all this leads inevitably to a black hole of depression bigger and deeper than Sagittarius A.
Sigh ...
Ten minutes.
Problem is, I can't just dash something off quickly. It takes a ridiculously long time to enter data; it's taken nearly four minutes just to type this much. As I've said before, the operative word is triage.
I simply have no time to write anything that doesn't have money at the other end. Even with Medicare, the bills are outrageous. Everything takes so much longer ....
And, of course, all this leads inevitably to a black hole of depression bigger and deeper than Sagittarius A.
Sigh ...
Ten minutes.
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