Stupid Thing of the Week

So, I was working on a TV show this week, just as an extra, playing a soldier in 1963.  They had us change into our uniforms in the honey wagons (which are the restrooms that are part of trailers), and while getting into those awkward, scratchy outfits, a dude came into the mens room and took up the single unoccupied stall.  He then proceeded to pour several cans of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup into the toilet.

At least that's what it sounded like.

Oh wait, that's not what I wanted to write about.  Weird that I got on here and typed that.  Sort of gives all blogs everywhere a bad name.

So, what I wanted to complain about was, that while I was on the set, I ran into another extra who I had seen on a couple of other film shoots.  He was a dorky, depressing, gawpy, overweight, dumpy-looking, balding dude, and I became sad just looking at him.  Because we had worked together before, I ended up talking to him for a while, sitting by him at lunch, and sort of feeling sorry for the hand this guy was dealt.

And then, a crewmember came up to us and said, "Hey, are you two brothers, then? You look so much alike I knew you had to be related."

Sigh.

Gonna Get A Big Head Soon

So, a few days ago, Marshal Latham repodcast my short story reading of "The Scottish Scene," a little witches' curse story I wrote that lost the Masters of the Macabre contest during the summer.  Just yesterday, Hugh O'Donnell podcast my ghost story "Old Man River" on his podcast.  And then today, I got an acceptance letter from an online horror magazine for my possession romp "Overtaken."  It's really kind of wrong, this stuff happening to me.

The weird thing is, I submitted this story last month, and immediately got an email back saying the message was undeliverable.  I figured I'd sent it to the wrong email address, so I tried it again, and got the same email, saying I could not send the message as requested.  Well, I cursed and growled, and asked The Horned One to do his nasty mojo on the magazine in question . . . and then, somehow, I get an acceptance letter from 'em.*  Next thing you know, I'll be getting a call from an old would-be girlfriend telling me she had a dream about me, and it made her so happy she wanted to tell me allllllll about it.

But I have been on something of a writing bender over the last couple of days.  I finished my yearly "October Scary Story" on Friday, and immediately started on a new one.  Then yesterday, I finished that second story at work, and started on a third today.  But never fear, I later decided the second one isn't truly finished, so I could still fail miserably on that one.

Guess I should keep on keepin' on, and see if I can't get more positive out of it, since I appear to be in Bizarro Universe right now.

Fudge, I forgot to mention, I got a call today about a screenwriting project that could possibly bear fruit in the future.  Weird.

Me Am Rish Outfield

*Oh, and another strange thing is, I somehow got the title of my own story wrong in my introductory paragraph, and they STILL bought it.

He Keeps On Rolling Along

I have often accused myself of always writing the same kind of stories.  Who else is around to accuse me of it, after all?  But one of the subjects/topics/tropes I go back to time and time again is a story where somebody tells someone else a story.  Just such a tale is "Old Man River," which is being presented on the Way of the Buffalo podcast this week.

"Old Man River" is one of two stories I wrote last year with the same premise: an old man tells a young man a story about something strange that happened to him.  The other ("One Last Call For Alcohol") takes place in a bar, and this one takes place in a convenience store.  I purposely tried to have one old man whose motives were a pure as . . . well, I guess that awful clear goo my sister is always putting on her hands to kill germs, and the other who's got ulterior motives.  That way, I could tell myself that they weren't both the same story.

They weren't, I tell you.

Anyway, Sir Hugh O'Donnell over at http://wayofthebuffalopodcast.blogspot.com/2012/10/story-old-man-river-by-rish-outfield.html has kindly taken my story and produced it in audio, read by the lovely (presumably) Dave Robison of the Round Table Podcast (I couldn't have done a better old man voice than he did).  I really dug Dave's voice when I got to be interviewed on his show, and while I plan to take advantage of his vocal talents (and generous nature) soon, here's your chance to listen to his dulcet tones, and decide which old man story this one was.

Hugh also stuck some subtle music in there.  A good audio production and reading always seem to elevate any story, regardless of the quality.  At least that's been my experience.

Old Man Rish Outfield

Old Dog, New Trick

My niece has a little white dog that has gotten old, and pretty much outlived its usefulness. It used to want to play, run around, have fun, go for rides, chase a sock, bite the toddlers, but now it's about to be thirteen, and it mostly wants to sleep now. Or whine. I recognize that this is going to happen to everybody, but the dog is not so great to have around anymore, you know?*

My niece still lives in my hometown, which is a farming community forty minutes away, so I rarely see the dog. But this week, we had the dog here, because it had an appointment or a date or something, so I've had to put up with the scratching to go outside, and the whining to be let in, and the begging for whatever I happen to be eating, and the watching of "Adventure Time," which really has to stop.

Tonight, the dog wanted to go out to use the bathroom, but I was busy with something (okay, it was just wasting time, but it was my choice to waste it, you know what I mean? I didn't want that interrupted), and I resented having to walk twelve feet to let the dog out the back door. It was dark, and I put the string on the dog (it's a little rope tied to the back step so the dog can only go so far and we don't have to go hunting for it), and let it go about its business.

Not one minute later, I hear the dog barking outside the window. I understand that as a person gets older, it takes longer to go to the bathroom, but apparently this doesn't apply to dogs. I sat there for a minute or three, hoping somebody else would bring the dog back into the house. My sister had just gotten home from work, and had three hours of reality shows to catch up on, so she couldn't get off the couch.**

The dog was barking furiously, and I'll be honest, it made me furious. Finally, I got up out of my comfy chair, crossed out of my room, into the kitchen, and opened the back door. The dog wasn't at the door, but was on the lawn, still barking up a storm. It was agitated about something out there, so I flipped on the porch light to see.

It was the boogeyman. The dog was doing its best to keep it away, and it apparently didn't dare approach beyond the edge of the lawn. I called the dog up to me, took off the string, and angrily closed the door behind us. "Stupid dog," I said.

Rish Outfield

*Oh, by the way, the dog is female, and should be referred to as "she." I recognize this, but my faux hatred for the dog bit only works if I refer to her as "it." You understand.

**I say this as though I'm so much better, but I did about two hours of work this whole day (while she was off doing sickening nurse activities like medicating bedsores, changing adult diapers, and applying leeches), and I'm in no real position to complain.

Whosoever Wieldeth This Hammer...

My four year old nephew is going to be Thor for Halloween, so I've been scouring costume sales for the best way to do it.  I got him one of those muscle costumes, a blond pageboy wig, and we've been trying to find a helmet (they're noplace due to him not wearing the helmet in AVENGERS) and cheap hammer. 

Today, I took him to a costume shop, where I looked in the adult costumes for a Loki outfit I could wear to compliment him.  I found a huge, scary-looking adult Thor hammer and handed it to my nephew.

"What do you think of that?" I asked.

He promptly swung it through the air and hit me in the chicharon with it.

Babysitter of the Year 667

My nephew (the one year old) wanted a drink, so I got him a little cup (apparently, it's called a "sippy cup," though I feel a bit inane referring to it that way, similar to how I do when I catch myself saying "potty" instead of bathroom) of water.  I figured I'd only put a tiny bit of water in it, knowing he tends to spill if I give him too much. 

Then I left him alone, as I am wont to do (some folks never learn), but came back in when I heard a splash.

He had pushed a chair up to the fishtank, climbed up, and was using the cup to scoop water out to pour on himself, the chair, and the floor.  As I watched in mounting horror, he took a big drink of the fishwater.

I did not tell his mother.

Unrelated.

But it could've been worse, right?  Could've been the toilet.

Babysitter of the Year Part 666

September 13, 2012

My sister got a new job this week, so I've been taking care of the monsters during the mornings.  The four year old just started preschool, so I dropped him off and was alone with the one year old.  We went out to eat at Wendy's, and I was impressed with his ability to actually eat the food placed before him, instead of make up excuses why he wouldn't eat. 

Before...

Unfortunately, once I got him home, I trusted him to just play without much supervision.  Almost immediately, the one year old somehow got hold of the food coloring, and thought it was .  . what, food?  Soda?  Poison?  I'm not sure, but he managed to get the lid off one (blue) when I saw him playing with something.  I did nothing for a minute or so, but when I looked in on him again, he had gotten the lid off the green, and poured it all over himself. 

He enjoyed my frantic attempts to clean it off his fingers, clothes, and face, but in trying to help, it got on my clothes, hands, the sink, bathtub, and floor.  The carpet has seen better days.

The only thing I did right was think to take a picture before attempting to remove it all.

...After

Choose Life?

I first saw TRAINSPOTTING in 1995.  I remember the experience fairly well.  First off, I couldn't understand a darn word being said, and it was the very first time I ever used the Closed Caption option on a television to read the dialogue in a programme.  Secondly, the poor sod who soils his girlfriend's bed?  The lesson I took from that scene was that if you didn't have sex for an extended period of time, that would happen.

The third thing was this sense of superiority I felt, thinking I was so much better than these people, with their disgusting habits and laundry list of sinful activities.  I could look down on them in 1995, and I would look down on them when the trump blew and they all burned in ever-lasting hellfire.*  Sickening junkie pervert losers.

Well, here it is 2012, and I just watched TRAINSPOTTING for the second time.  And it was a remarkably different experience for me.    First off, I understood everything, even the slang, and even Robert Carlysle's crazy rants.  My constant exposure to BBC television and the Scottish movies Jeff has made me watch has opened up my ears to various previously-foreign dialects.**  Heck, I believe the VHS version was even the American dub, where they attempted to make the dialogue more palatable for folks in Lawrence and Des Moines.

Secondly, well, yeah, I've had it explained to me.

Thirdly, though, was what a remarkable change in attitude I've had over the past near two decades.  In watching it again, I actually found myself envying Renton, Sick Boy, Spud, and the others.

Yes, they are heroin-addicts, but they have drive, they live for something, they wake up in the morning with a goal, a tangible, real goal.  And it's something they can achieve.  They live for something, have an obsession that they'll do anything for, which I really don't have.  The lifestyle seemed kind of romantic, worst toilet in Scotland notwithstanding.

Plus, I really responded to the soundtrack this time, and didn't even notice it back then.

I'd be crazy if I said the dead baby scene still didn't bother me, but I still thought, "Heroin.  That's something I never considered.  But I should."  Why not?  Could it possibly screw up my life any more than it already is?  And hey, maybe I'd have something exciting to look forward to every morning (or more likely, afternoon) when I woke up.

Rish "Spraintotter" Outfield

*Okay, this is a huge exaggeration.  I may have been a different type of person in those days, but I was never a fucking asshole.

**All those faces were so new to me when the movie was new (or "new," since I saw it on video), but so many of them are familiar now.

August 29th again

Today is 8-29.  If the date, August 29th, 1997 doesn't have any significance to you . . . thank Sarah, John, and "Uncle Bob."

Neil Armstrong R.I.P.

On Monday, Big and I recorded an episode of the Dunesteef to accompany a story by Michael Anthony called "Remember Mars," in which an elderly ex-astronaut is spending his twilight years in a facility in which nobody recognizes that he landed on Mars. In fact, the people around him don't believe that America even actually landed on Mars. It's a sad, melancholy, depressing, but ultimately uplifting little tale, and afterward, Big and I talked a bit about the space program, the space shuttle and Apollo missions, and how nobody really cares about that sort of thing anymore (Curiosity notwithstanding).

We talked briefly about Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin, and what it must have been like to watch the moon mission, then decided to halt all that and go look at the stars (Big lives in the end area of his town, with much land undeveloped, so you can usually see quite a few stars and clear sky, and we tend to do a mile and a half walk every Monday, just for fun).
Well, yesterday, I saw the announcement that Neil Armstrong had died. He was 82, and I responded to the sad news, but my niece had no idea who he was, and my uncle thought it was Lance Armstrong I was talking about.

I often think about the space race, and what it would have been like to be a kid when Apollo 11 landed on the moon, and what an experience that might have been. What do I have that is equal to that? Baby Jessica being rescued? When Haley's Comet went overhead and I couldn't see it from my front yard? The release of the Michael Keaton Batman film? The year that dead guy won the election over the actual, living candidate?
 

I don't know, really.  But Neil Armstrong (as a concept more than as a man) is really fascinating to me.  That a man, at thirty-eight years of age, would accomplish something no one had ever done before (and only a half-dozen would ever do) . . . where do you go from there?

 

It's kind of like Harry Potter defeating the forces of evil when he was only, what, eighteen?

  Not that I'll ever achieve something comparable, but it is a question.  Maybe there's a story in that.

Walk of the Living Dead

My friend Big works in the news, and he mentioned to me a couple of years ago that there had been a zombie walk in the state capitol.  A zombie walk is a strange sort of gathering where strangers dress as the undead and have a kind of parade for no real reason I can think of.  He and I thought it would be fun to participate in the next zombie walk, then forgot about it until the following year, when Big found out about it on the news just as he had the year before.  We had missed that one too.  So, when 2012 came along, we became a bit more careful, vowing we'd go to it this year.

I had spoken about it with my eleven year old niece, and she was excited about the prospect.  My four year old nephew was timid at first, but then became thrilled with the idea of going.  In fact, when I got to work on that zombie movie earlier this summer, and came home to show off my makeup, he was disappointed that I hadn't taken him along, thinking it had been that zombie walk I had promised him.

Well, if you know me at all, you know that I wanted to dress the kids up as zombies and take them along more than I even wanted to go myself.  We went to thrift stores, and picked out clothes we could tear up and soil for this outing, and I went to the party supply store to get makeup for us and Big's children.  I was even tempted to dress up the one year old, but that probably wouldn't have been wise.  We tested the makeup on him last week, and he wouldn't stand still and rubbed off what little I got on him.  Ah well, next year.

I was pretty disappointed and upset today when Big told me his kids no longer wanted to go, and very nearly told him to force them to participate and get a divorce.  In the end, though, his youngest daughter changed her mind, and rose in my estimation tenfold.  My niece did her own makeup, my sister made up my nephew, and I did what I could to create a unique zombie look for myself.  It felt a great deal like Halloween a couple of months early.

An army of zombies gathered in the city park, some with only minor ornamentation, and some with amazing, disgusting, or darned attractive costumes.  Weirdly, the split between male and female zombies was way off, and not in the way I would have anticipated.  And many of those undead girls were young and attractive.

We began in the park, the made a procession down the sidewalk, looping around downtown streets, amusing many, making some uncomfortable, then finally crossing in front of the capitol building and back to the park.  My nephew really got into it, reaching for onlookers and moaning, and though there were a couple of babies spattered with fake blood in strollers, I'm certain he was the cutest kid there.

There were hundreds of photographers and many journalists there tonight, so I went to one of the newspaper websites to see if any of our group got in the shots they used (we didn't).  Unfortunately, I also made the (oft-made) mistake of reading the comments at the bottom of the story.  The second one down read, "It disgusts me that in this difficult time of recession and hardship that so many would choose to waste their time on this worthless endeavor."  Because all of the words were spelled correctly, I can't rule out the possibility that it was my father who wrote the comment.

Now, my first inclination was to yell "Oh, eff you" at the computer.  Actually, my first inclination was to chastise myself for having read the story comments, because that never ceases to bum me out, shock my senses, or piss me off.  But my second thought was to close the website and go onto Facebook, where people who had participated were commenting on how much fun they had.  They shared their pictures, and I found myself, my nephew, and Big's daughter in some of them. 

I took a long shower, managing to get nearly all of the makeup and blood off of me, tried to get a bit of work done, then decided to go to bed a bit early (for some crazy reason, I couldn't go to sleep until after five last night).  I turned out the light and closed my eyes, and suddenly remembered the criticism of that one comment on the Tribune website.  And I had to consider his words (or her words, I suppose assholes can be female too).  We are in a time of hardship and recession, and I could have been spending my evening either making some money, writing (I have a handful of stories still in progress that need constant care, or they'll die on the vine), or editing my podcast.  Instead, I spent quite a bit of money (what with the makeup, the costumes, the gas spent, and the meal afterward), and have little to show for my August 12th but an expanding waistline and a handful of photographs.

But you know, who cares what some troll on the internet thinks?  I went somewhere with my friend, and made a memory (hopefully a good one) with my nephew and niece.  I actually exercised, carrying the lad until my back started to bug me, and enjoyed the fresh air of a warm summer evening.  I had had a good time, and I had shared it with people that mean something to me.  One man's "waste of time" is another man's "new positive experience."

Glass half full, boys and girls.  Half full.

Rish "of the Living Dead" Outfield