Writing

On pages 9 and 10 of his book Bagombo Snuff Box: Uncollected Short Fiction, Vonnegut listed eight rules for writing a short story:

1. Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.

2. Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.

3. Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.

4. Every sentence must do one of two things -- reveal character or advance the action.

5. Start as close to the end as possible.

6. Be a sadist. No matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them -- in order that the reader may see what they are made of.

7. Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.

8. Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as possible. To heck with suspense. Readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages.

So it Goes...

299792458 m / s

I've seriously got to stop drinking...

Caffeine.

What I Want RIGHT NOW...

I know, it's not very Buddhist of me but -

I WANT:

A bmx bike and a dirt track.
Launch ramp.
Lunch and/or drinks with Stephen King, Orson Scott Card, Joe Quesada, Warren Ellis and Zelda Fitzgerald.
Millions in VC funding.
The voice of James Earl Jones.
The Heigth of David Prowse.
A personal assistant.
A pet Hobbit, Ewok, Knobby and Snork.
A photographic memory.
Alan Moore's freedom.
Ernest Hemingway's skull.

And an un-cancerous cigarette and more powerful Bud Light.

Jane And Dick...

First book that I ever read was Dick And Jane. Last book I ever read was a graphic novel about a girl coming to grips with her lesbianism and forgiving her dead, closeted, gay father.

Same book, I think.

William Meets Debbie Meets The Dog Alien?

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. SPACE

Approach of a large ship.

The PING of homing radar.

ANGLE ON THE HULL

As it slides past, enormous letters: KANSAS CITY.

EXT. SPACE - ANGLE UP

From below Kansas City as a wide bay opens.

The interceptor comes INTO FRAME and is drawn up into the brightly-lit hold.

The bay closes.

EXT. SPACE

Kansas City. Receding. Gone.

The stars.

FADE OUT.




THE END

DVDA and OPP...

Self,

Just post a pic and go to sleep...

The Planet Mars Has How Many Moons?

I was at the beach for something work-related today. I haven't been to the beach in two years and before that was about two years also. This summer I want to learn how to surf. I tried before and I sucked bad. I am also pale, out-of-shape and scared of sharks.

I will let you know what I think of the beach when I'm there in 2009.

I Find Guilty Pleasure In Knowing Her Parents Are Coming Home...

Old Posts Become New Hosts...

Sometimes I wake up, and I'm falling asleep, And I think that maybe the curtains are closing on me, But I wake up, Yes I wake up, Smiling. Sometimes I feel that the chance is surprising, Surprisingly good to be moving around, So I wake up, Yes I wake up, Smiling. So what? I feel fine, I'm OK, I've seen the lighter side of life, I'm alright, I feel good, So I'll do, I'll try to stop moving, Sometimes I wake up, and I'm falling asleep, And I've got to get going so much that I wanted to do, Yes I wake up, Smiling. And this could be my last chance, This may be my only chance, Yeah this could be my last chance, No more keeping my feet on the ground. Sometimes I feel that the chance is surprising, Surprisingly good to be moving around, And I move, And I wake up, Smiling. So what? I feel fine, I'm OK, I've seen the lighter side of life, I'm alright, I feel good, So I'll do, well it's time to stop moving. And this could be my last chance, This may be my only chance, Yeah this could be my last chance, No more keeping my feet on the ground. There's nothing to keep me, Nothing to keep me.



I am convinced that someday, a team of historians will spend years going through every single toy, drawing, scrap of writing, piece of junk, etc. to somehow dissect my grand life. They'll categorize everything, hoping, someday, to put it all on display. "Kevynn Malone's Pez Collection", "Nudie Drawings", "Nail Polish"...things like that.

They'll read through those forty notebooks that I have molding away in the garage, they'll unearth every file on my computer. My clothing will be purchased by a young, snotty actor and worn to holo-movie premieres. Gothic teens will scribble away Malone verses on their holo-Pee Chee folders during Economics. My great, granddaughter will be an old woman and refuse to speak to historians, fans, and the press. She'll never leave her mansion and silently curse my existence for the burdens that my brilliance bestowed upon her.

My house will be declared a historical landmark, and through photographs - it will be painstakingly recreated to look like it does today. Maybe they'll even make a movie about me, but they'll get all of the facts wrong. They'll jumble things together and kind of throw in a galactic predicament to heighten the drama. Paper cuts, break ups, and fuck ups aren't enough, I guess. They'll throw in Satan and a gay interior decorator too. Just because.

My image will be on t-shirts sold on the internet, people will dress like I do now, the glasses that I wear will finally come back in style. Poverty will be too. Fans will want to stay true to my works and live like a deaf, Chinese immigrant.

Somebody will write a book on Star Wars - but will write it based on what I thought about it. There will be Essays on Malone's Essays on Chewbacca's homosexuality. What'll happen to my comic book collection? Where will it end up? Why, at Leroy's Boy Home, that's where. Poor, beaten, disadvantaged children will be able to check out my issues only if they've been good and remember to not smear dirt on the pages of my old Amazing Spidermans.

They'll wonder, they'll write, ponder, theorize, oh, yes they will, as to what went on in my head, and how beautiful and adventurous it must've been to live my life - oh, what was it like to live his life? I wish my life was that exciting, they'll say...

Why did he have to die?, kids will cry! Young girls will do secret things to themselves after the lights have gone out and the parents are asleep. My face will lull their aching bodies into peaceful dreams. High school jocks will tell anybody with one of my books about how I was a necrophiliac, homo, and a pussy, and that only dorks read Malone. After practice, they'll read me quietly in their room and get the same feeling in their crotch that the young girls above this sentence did.

Bob Dylan will write a song about me - he'll still be alive. It won't reach the top of the charts, though... just because. People will drink my beer of choice just because I did, and because they're idiots. They'll pretend to like it too, even if it tastes just like water. People will unmotivate themselves on purpose and lie back and fantasize about some of the same things that I do. Simians, solitude, and secret passageways. They'll start losing their hair and starve themselves, they'll take up skateboarding and then break their ankles jumping out of cars when drunk so that they can't skate anymore. They'll also look up my sister Sindy, and read all of the stories that she published, they'll get tidbits about me here and there when reading her stuff and wonder what it must have been like to be the sibling of one so sad and mad all at the same time? What must of it of been like to share the same genes? To have all of that fire burning through your veins? His blood and thoughts were like the best heroin, his limbs were like silly putty. His grammatical syntax was shite.

I heard that he always longed for a dog, but ended up with countless homeless cats, I heard that he always wanted a bow and arrow set like he had when he was a kid, he always wanted a big, ol' box of toothpicks and a ton of wood glue too! That's just what I heard. I don't know why. He could never find enough time to do all of the things that he wanted, I read somewhere. Half of his time was spent daydreaming and being a kid while the other half accomplished smatterings of productivity sporadically. Sometimes he wrote weird sentences too!

I am convinced that someday, they will know me a little.

I am convinced that someday, I will too.

Welts

I'm going paintballing tomorrow with the guys at work.

I've never been before, but I shouldn't worry because all of the Indian guys in our tech department didn't even know what a paintballs was so...maybe that's an advantage for me.

AND I'm really skinny, so if I want to hide I can just throw a leaf over my head or stand behind a pole.

Also, found on a thumbdrive...

Five Dollar Boom Boom...

My mom's from Vietnam. Yup, I'm first-generation-born-somewhere-other-than-that-place-guy. My older brother was born there too. Why don't we have the obligatory X-Men-Cyclops eyes? Don't know. Don't care. I always look tired anyways, so it doesn't make much of a difference in the long run. I had a bad mother. She's nice and all, but sucks in a lot of departments when it comes down to the final inventory. No big deal. No bad feelings. No skin off of the Irish-Vietnamese back. Tonight at the bar, I was engaging in some type of conversation that I thought was important, when I heard my name being called...There was a small, smiling lady selling something. With my bad vision, I thought that it was roses. But it wasn't. She was lugging around a wooden display case full of bracelets. That was probably why the lady was brought to my attention. I'm one of the only guys left with a girlfriend. So everybody was directing the lady towards me. Nobody wanted anything. The bracelets were okay. Nothing special. What was special was that I bought one. That she was smiling, even though that she had to try to sell cheap trinkets of homemade beauty to a bunch or worthless kids. What was special was that she always had a smile on her face. What was special was that I could hear people making racist comments behind her back, even though two of them were black. What was special was that she danced to the live band that was playing as she left the bar. The only money that she had was what I gave her. She danced away with a smile on her face as people made fun of her. These are the same people who probably made fun of my mother years ago when she came to this country. The only reason that she was here, and the only reason that I exist is because she met a handsome white guy. A guy that gave up the job that he loved to shack up and do the nasty with a beautiful girl. Nothing mattered. All that my father wanted was what was best for the both of them. They asked why I bought the cheap bracelet. I half-joked that I was watching out for my own. I told them that that was my mother who just left. They said, why, because she was Vietnamese?

I said no...because she was a person, you fucking idiots.

Found On Thumbdrive...

The donut shop was the only place in my suburban town that was open twenty-four hours. Sometimes Tony, Chris, and I would end up there anyway because we all had no cars and little money to do anything anyway. We could smoke, talk, laugh or end up bored with the boring boredom and leave to go sit bored at the boring park. It would suck whenever they had to go home because that would mean I’d have to entertain myself. Which was okay for the first couple of hours, but then you’d start to go crazy knowing that you wouldn’t be able to see anyone until at least eleven am or by noon. They had homes with parents. Warm beds. Showers. Music, TV, etc. I had a yellow-tinted 24-hour donut shop with distant Mexican music playing in the background.

All of the pictures were faded. Donuts and croissants. I used to laugh at the one that described their croissants as creamery and buttery. Creamery? I still don’t know if that’s really a word. I haven’t checked.

I would start reading the newspaper at about two or three in the morning. Making it last, reading every inch and every word of it except for the classifieds, sports, and opinion sections. I would write a lot in notebooks. Nobody would mistake me for a fledgling screenwriter or a young insomniac putting down The Great American Novel because they don’t have backpacks. I don’t know, maybe they do.

Occasionally people would come in. Usually to buy smokes. The guy who worked there and couldn’t speak much English was cool and never kicked me out because I’d been buying cigarettes there since I was fourteen and always bought a coke and a creamery ham and cheese croissant. It was the only item that they had that had actual food in it and not a bunch of sickeningly sweet shit. Donuts are like candy. If I want candy, I’ll eat it. Blagh. I needed to eat somehow. So when I die of a heart attack by the age of thirty – you know whom to blame.

One time a good friend of mine that I hadn’t seen since we graduated high school came in. She gave me a big old hug and asked me a bunch of questions about what I’d been doing since we graduated, what was I doing here, etc? I must’ve looked like I was on drugs because I felt uncomfortable and my eyes kept on darting around looking for an escape. I didn’t want her to know that I was homeless. Even though she was a friend, I didn’t want anybody to know that my father had kicked me out right after I graduated and by the time that my senior class was taking Tequila shots in Mexico, I was dodging cockroaches and sleeping in Elementary schools. I lied and told her that I was waiting for Tony to come home from a party and that I should leave. She offered me a ride but I didn’t take it because then I would have to let her drop me off in front Tony’s house and then have to pretend to go up to the door and then wait for her to leave. Fuck all of that. Last thing that I remember was her looking at me confused and concerned as she drove away.

I walked around the block, smoked a cigarette and then came back to the donut store. I had to buy another coke too because I had thrown out my last one to make it look like I was leaving.

There were only a small handful of homeless people in the town that I lived in. I knew them all by sight and some I used to give money to when I was in high school. After I got kicked out, I always used to see the Vietnam vet guy sleeping at one of the elementary schools that I did. He was nice. I used to buy him a coke and a small bag of chips every time I saw him outside of the Blockbuster Video. When I was sleeping at the school, he was always cool to me and I never thought that he’d try to fuck me up or steal my shit. That still didn’t keep me from wrapping the straps of my backpack around my arms though. I learned that trick on Greyhound bus trips. I had a wallet with a chain on it too. I used to shorten the length of it so that nobody could try to unlatch it without me feeling it.

The one that I saw the most was the big fat guy. He was fat fat. Really fat. He looked Hawaiian or something, maybe in his forties, and wore shorts, a t-shirt and flip-flops all the time. I would always see him leaning against a shopping cart and strolling along like that. Like his weight was too heavy for him to bear and that he needed help. One time he asked me to buy him a bottle of cherry brandy. I told him how young I was. He said that it was only four bucks. I told him again how old I was. He acted disgusted at me. Whatever. Anyway he was fucking huge. Sometimes he would come into the donut shop too. He’d buy a coffee and would start to nod off. He snored. Sometimes I would have to wake him up because the cigarette in between his fingers would look like it was going to drop on the floor or burn his fingers. Sometimes he’d knock over his coffee and the donut guy would kick him out.

The fat homeless guy would talk to me sometimes. I tried not to speak to anybody because It’s hard to be in a place that’s your last resort and to engage in a conversation that you’re not interested in because you don’t really have an escape route if you have no where else to go.

I remember that he said that he grew up next to Hank Ketchum and used to play with him. He was the guy who created the Dennis The Menace comic strip. Hank Ketchum – not the fat guy. Maybe he was bullshitting. He used to tell me all kind of stories in between his bouts of narcoleptic sleep. I drew pictures of him sometimes in my notebook. One time I left early because he noticed that my shoes had silver duct tape wrapped around them. He started laughing hysterically and pointing at my shoes. My face burned red. I tried to explain to him that I usually did that to my shoes because of skateboarding, but he was too busy laughing/choking. Tears rolled down his big, red cheeks and he kept on pointing at my shoes. So I gathered my shit up and then slept in the park.

It all sucked. I hated that fucking place but was grateful for it’s existence. I hated my life. I hated when the sun came out and the occasional passing car became a constant drone because then more people started to come in before work. Then I would leave. Too crowded. Too loud. Too many people looking at me. Too many people going and doing things. Nobody knew or cared who the hell I was and that was how I liked to keep it. By that time I could maybe wait for Carls Jr. to open and then I could grab a burger or some fries. I stretched that out too. I had nothing to read because I didn’t want to read the paper. I would have to save that for the night. If I was lucky I could maybe watch a little TV. I wish that they’d had a TV in the donut shop - that would’ve made it easier. I’d waste an hour or two at Carls and then go to the park for a quick nap. Tony was in continuation school and would get home at noon, maybe at 1 p.m. if he was smoking pot with somebody. Then I would get to use his shower, maybe change my clothes. Try not to bug him or his parents too much because I might get to spend the night there on the weekends. I stayed there for a couple weeks once until his father asked me what my plans were – so I left. And I didn’t want to do that to Tony or Chris because it was hard enough for them to live with their parents, they didn’t need me to put a strain on all of that shit. Anyways, people’s parents like you a lot better the less they see you. Trust me on this.

And if there was a point to this story, then I’ve forgotten it. I wanted to tell you about the fat man, but it really doesn’t do it justice unless you get to see how huge he was. No, I’m not trying to whine – but if it sounds like it and you don’t like it – then you have my permission to leave, you loser. Don’t ever come back. I wrote this story last week and now and forgot about it. I have to fire up the barbecue now.

I hate donuts.

Thanks.

Found This In A Thumbdrive...

7 a.m. fucking cute ass dog licking his goddamn feet all of the fucking goddamn time.
7:17 a.m. fucking cute ass cat biting my nose, trying to be affectionate. Killing me like humans do bunnies in chocolate form.
8:01 Caffeinated girlfriend almost gets killed as she walks into the bedroom to talk about the days forthcoming events. Kevynn abruptly/sleep-deprived/nightmare-plagued, lunges at her. She screams and gives him the “maybe we should increase the sedation dosage of our prized research primate” look.
8:05 first of many bass-thumping cars rattles the windows.

ATM, Comic Book Store, Get Paint, Get Shelves...

Been sick, feverish, eyes tired, muscles aching, frustrated not being able to do anything productive.

So, sick or not - things are the same with me.

Hennery products...

The last time that I submitted to an open Marvel Comics call for writers/artists, I submitted a story about a widowed father who shows his children the house that he grew up in.

Yeah - my thoughts exactly.

Warcraft, Warhammer, Guild Wars, Warren Buffet...

Just got done reading a Wiki entry in regards to World of Warcraft because I'm old and needed to read about what I don't know. I used to play Star wars Galaxies for a tiny bit (I received it as a present) but even then I didn't have time. My computer's too old to play games anyway. I have an XBOX that I rarely play but I did play last week. I played The Godfather game and it's pretty darn good but when 4:30 a.m. rolled around - I remembered why I stopped playing video games much.

So, here the question: If I DO want to play video games at least a little, but still read, write my movies/stories/blog/work projects, do ebay stuff, organize comics, do household stuff and spend time with my girlfriend (which involves TV and movie watching, eating and touching each other and stuff) - How does one manage to do it?

Did all of that make sense?

Anyway - tell me now...I'm waiting.

Long Xuyen, S. Viet Nam, in the Delta, near Can Tho.

How long before a guy creates a pornographic game to use the Wii controllers with?

Lincess Preia...

I think the cast of Lost is actually stranded on the island from Jurassic Park. Or Doctor Moureau's island. Or Fantasy or the place where all of the boys went and then that fox turned them into donkeys in Pinnochio.

Strawberry Hill...

I'm supposed to put together two shelves tonight.

Progress report?

Jackass Number 2 was funny.

What's even funnier is laughing in an empty house by yourself.

I love watching movies with me.

Me writing this fodder, flotsam, jetsam and seedless grapes.

How in the heck can I wash my neck...

I prayed to The Rain Gods to give more than the sporadic, half-arsed effort that they presented to us earlier today and thought that if I was a god, I'd want to be a Rain God because, I mean - who would really want to be an important god, you know? Like, one responsible for people's luck, salvation, punishment, revenge, and answering the pleas of perverts that swear that if they get away with this, they swear they'll never, ever do it again.

Dude, a Rain God only produces rain. That's it. And it's either a yes or no answer that you ponder over, and if you DO decide to answer a prayer and make it rain, you've only got ten options from that point on - you can make it rain on a Level One Intensity up to Level Ten.

That's it. If you're a Rain God, the rest of your days are spent drinking light beer and playing super Mario Brothers on the original Nintendo system. Word to that, brutha.

Pitfall...

I am writing so much on work-related things that aren't The Great American Novel - that my Tom Sawyer feels like it's going to Catcher In The Rye out of my To Kill A Mockingbird.

oooooo

Wrote "Replay". Mormon master of Sci-Fi. Even better with her new nose. Where is he? Used to be cool. My oldest buddy. Could beat up Butler Jarvis in a fight. Writing genius. R.I.P. R.I.P. Soon to fight The Marvel Zombies. Duck, duck - DRUNK! M.I.A. R.I.P. R.I.P. Never finished the four books I've had at my disposal. Miss her. R.I.P. Drank aplle juice on stage. Gummy Bear-y juice. Hot. Went down like a bitch. Genius. Donde esta el Panchen Lama, chintos? D.L.M. es yr berfday. Wil Wheaton and I talked blogs b4 They Might Be Giants played. Iron Fist. Still can't find that book. (sigh). The Four. Ugly behind an iron mask. Bck in black, Spidey. Sederra. Love. Juliette and The Licks. Porno. Jae Lee. Rodney Mullen. Lincoln. The Diviners. Sarah Brown. Obesity meets Crispin Glover. Where are you? Beer. Where are you? Minotaur. R.I.P. Dee. Dharamsala. David Greybeard. Drexel. Rob Lowe. Ramona. Elmore Leonard. Frank Miller. Free staring tomorrow. Zod. Ghost Rider. Che Guevara. Shemp. For Better Or For Worse. Choamsky. Roge. Adderral. Marriage. Foghorn Leghorn. Soup. Lycanthropes. Black Pepper. People. Hard-to-do. Ritalin.

......

Kenneth Grimwood. Orson Scott Card. Ashlee Simpson. Adam Langlois. Selina Kyle. George Little. Alfred Pennyworth. Warren Ellis. Charles Bukowski. Gladys Horn. Ash. Grey Goose. Man Or Astroman. Wrist Action. Hannah The Cat. Fight Club. Sindy. Kerouac. Dean Martin. Gummy Worms. Hermione. Kit Fisto. Charlie Kaufman. The Dalai Lama. D.L.M. Shawdy. Wesley Crusher. Bruce Lee. The Trolley Car Family. Hunter S. Thompson. Elijah Snow. Victor Von Doom. Mary Jane getting shot by a sniper. Sedera. Elizabeth Hurley. Mallory Knox. Irvine Welsh. Stephen King. Roney Mullen. Large Mouth Bass. Precipitation. Egon Spangler. Willy Wonka. David Hammamoto. Anti-antiobiotics. Shane Brooks. Theseus. Carl Sagan. Joe. Buddha. Gombe National Preserve. Clarence Whorley. Demi Moore. Beezus. Hokey Pokey Elmo. Las Vegas. Beer. Boz. Benjamin Grimm. Sonny Chiba. Bruce Campbell. Calvin And Hobbes. Socrates. Dee. Flintstones Vitamins. Marvin Gaye. Daffy Duck. Sundried Tomato Deviled Eggs. Werewolves. Blank Paper. Tomorrow. Sleep. And Restless Leg Syndrome.

Find The Panchen Lama....

Fuck Waldo.