Which is beside the point. Bill sent this picture of a Livy Cottontail. I love the feet.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
A Picture by way of Hong Kong
William "Bill" Taysom has been following Fat Tony from Hong Kong, but apparently Blogger hates all people who live in Hong Kong--and really, can you blame Blogger? Um. Actually, I guess you can. Stupid Blogger. Maybe we should move the blog to Wordpress, since Bill isn't the only one who has had problems posting.
Which is beside the point. Bill sent this picture of a Livy Cottontail. I love the feet.
Which is beside the point. Bill sent this picture of a Livy Cottontail. I love the feet.
Monday, December 21, 2009
A Fat Tony milestone!
Fat Tony is now as long as Pete and The Dog. That's right, over 59,000 words. And I'm sorry I'm not posting more of those words right here right now. But I thought this was worth celebrating. So here's the celebration:
Yay.
Now back to writing Fat Tony.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Old Love, New Love
[I've decided to write an apocalyptic love story on the side for a few days. I'll keep at Fat Tony, but this is a fun experiment for me. I'm fascinated by all the doomed-love fantasy stories around, but vampires have been done to death (HA!) and I wanted to try something different. So, if you don't want an incomplete story, DON'T READ THIS SECTION. The whole thing will be done in a few days.]
I drove until the car coughed and coasted to a stop. I got thirty miles after the gas light blinked on, so I couldn’t complain. Good efficiency for an American car. Then I threw the door open and started running. Three years of cross country in high school kept me moving at a solid pace, breathing in rhythm with my steps. Boom-chakka-boom-chakka-boom.
College freshman, that’s me. In physics, English, multicultural studies, and love. At least, that’s what I thought. The love part. I thought I was in love. I’m definitely in English and unfortunately definitely in multicultural studies where we’re constantly talking about how tolerant we need to be of each other. Seems to me we should be spending less time talking about tolerance and more time on the streets putting tolerance to work, but I guess you can’t grade ‘nice.’ I’m big on respecting differences, but bigger on doing something about it.
Which is what put me on the streets that night when the stars went red, shed bloody tears, and fell from the sky. Blankets for homeless—residentially challenged, I suppose—and I did it every year when the temperature started diving near freezing. Mom and Dad started it with us kids when I was too young to know it wasn’t part of the holidays, something that went along with turkey and Christmas lights hot enough to burn your house down. Those old lights went away, but we stuck with the blankets, so when I went away to college, I took the tradition with me and that had me out in the cold that night. When I saw the stars, one lady got my last three blankets and I started walking.
I wasn’t sure where I was going, but it was close. I knew it. Like an itch was waiting for me, just ahead, just in front of my skull, and I had to go catch the itch so I could have something to scratch. Maybe I was the only one who saw the sky weeping that night. I was the only one looking up, at least that I could see. The people walking by had their eyes on the ground, their eyes trapped in the cracks and pits, but maybe that wasn’t it. Maybe I was the only one who could see. Maybe the stars were bleeding just for me. I started running.
She was standing in shadow next to one of those sculptures they put downtown to confuse you—a block of twisting metal that might be a flame and might be the end of the world. She was shorter than me by an inch or two, her figure hidden in a heavy winter coat that took on the color of dried blood in the street lights. Her back was to me, her head bare, her dark hair falling straight to her shoulders. Ah, I thought. I’m not the only one. She’s looking at the stars, too.
I stopped, twenty feet behind her and three words away. Words I knew I’d be saying, because I’d been waiting to say them every year since I’d heard what it was to fall in love. I never wanted to say them before, never found anyone who wasn’t like pale cream in a pale world, whitewash on a colorless society. I ached for something real and powerful, someone that would demand me. All of me. Someone that would call me into commitment like a leap from the towering buildings that huddled around me—around her. She was my crusade, I knew, and I still hadn’t seen her face.
“I lo—”
“Don’t,” she said, not turning, her eyes still on the heavens. “It’s not time yet.”
I swallowed, put the words away, put my hands in my pockets.
“What’s your name?” she asked. Her voice was quiet, alto, a voice like smoke
“Gabriel,” I said.
“Really,” she said. I could hear the smile in her words. “That’s funny.”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
She sighed, still staring at the stars, then turned. The shadows around her erupted into black wings and dark eyes, a murder of crows taking to the air with a chatter of wings, their voices strangely silent. I saw pale eyes and pale skin beneath the dark hair that swept around her doll-like face—young, no older than me, but much older. She was beautiful and beyond beautiful, of course, the way the edge of a knife is lovely, the way the teeth of a dog are graceful. Her eyes met mine and my hands were fists in my pockets, my mind casting around me for a weapon—any weapon—that I could take up to fight for her. The armies of Babylon were with me, the walls of Jerusalem before me, and Hell was waiting for the sound of her call to set it loose.
She looked away, the feeling faded and I staggered, hopping on one foot and jerking my hands out of my pockets to catch my balance. My heart was racing but I could see the city streets around me again, the drunken laughter of bar hoppers making its way to my ears. I almost ran right then, fled like the runner from Marathon, but without any message of victory. Run, I would shout, escape, hide away. She’s coming. The only woman I will ever love is coming.
Instead I looked at her shoulder, not quite daring to find her eyes again with mine, as I asked, “Is there anything I can do for you? You know, until it’s time. I mean, I don’t want to pressure you or anything, but this is really new for me, and I don’t know how to—I want to do something for you. Please.”
I could feel her eyes on me and I knew I wasn’t good enough for her. I was fake leather and polyester, when she needed silk. I scrunched up my face against the cold, cold she almost didn’t seem to feel.
“This is new for me, too, Gabriel,” she said finally, and for the first time she sounded as young as she looked. “You could take me to dinner. I still need to eat, I think.”
“Sure,” I said.
I drove until the car coughed and coasted to a stop. I got thirty miles after the gas light blinked on, so I couldn’t complain. Good efficiency for an American car. Then I threw the door open and started running. Three years of cross country in high school kept me moving at a solid pace, breathing in rhythm with my steps. Boom-chakka-boom-chakka-boom.
College freshman, that’s me. In physics, English, multicultural studies, and love. At least, that’s what I thought. The love part. I thought I was in love. I’m definitely in English and unfortunately definitely in multicultural studies where we’re constantly talking about how tolerant we need to be of each other. Seems to me we should be spending less time talking about tolerance and more time on the streets putting tolerance to work, but I guess you can’t grade ‘nice.’ I’m big on respecting differences, but bigger on doing something about it.
Which is what put me on the streets that night when the stars went red, shed bloody tears, and fell from the sky. Blankets for homeless—residentially challenged, I suppose—and I did it every year when the temperature started diving near freezing. Mom and Dad started it with us kids when I was too young to know it wasn’t part of the holidays, something that went along with turkey and Christmas lights hot enough to burn your house down. Those old lights went away, but we stuck with the blankets, so when I went away to college, I took the tradition with me and that had me out in the cold that night. When I saw the stars, one lady got my last three blankets and I started walking.
I wasn’t sure where I was going, but it was close. I knew it. Like an itch was waiting for me, just ahead, just in front of my skull, and I had to go catch the itch so I could have something to scratch. Maybe I was the only one who saw the sky weeping that night. I was the only one looking up, at least that I could see. The people walking by had their eyes on the ground, their eyes trapped in the cracks and pits, but maybe that wasn’t it. Maybe I was the only one who could see. Maybe the stars were bleeding just for me. I started running.
She was standing in shadow next to one of those sculptures they put downtown to confuse you—a block of twisting metal that might be a flame and might be the end of the world. She was shorter than me by an inch or two, her figure hidden in a heavy winter coat that took on the color of dried blood in the street lights. Her back was to me, her head bare, her dark hair falling straight to her shoulders. Ah, I thought. I’m not the only one. She’s looking at the stars, too.
I stopped, twenty feet behind her and three words away. Words I knew I’d be saying, because I’d been waiting to say them every year since I’d heard what it was to fall in love. I never wanted to say them before, never found anyone who wasn’t like pale cream in a pale world, whitewash on a colorless society. I ached for something real and powerful, someone that would demand me. All of me. Someone that would call me into commitment like a leap from the towering buildings that huddled around me—around her. She was my crusade, I knew, and I still hadn’t seen her face.
“I lo—”
“Don’t,” she said, not turning, her eyes still on the heavens. “It’s not time yet.”
I swallowed, put the words away, put my hands in my pockets.
“What’s your name?” she asked. Her voice was quiet, alto, a voice like smoke
“Gabriel,” I said.
“Really,” she said. I could hear the smile in her words. “That’s funny.”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
She sighed, still staring at the stars, then turned. The shadows around her erupted into black wings and dark eyes, a murder of crows taking to the air with a chatter of wings, their voices strangely silent. I saw pale eyes and pale skin beneath the dark hair that swept around her doll-like face—young, no older than me, but much older. She was beautiful and beyond beautiful, of course, the way the edge of a knife is lovely, the way the teeth of a dog are graceful. Her eyes met mine and my hands were fists in my pockets, my mind casting around me for a weapon—any weapon—that I could take up to fight for her. The armies of Babylon were with me, the walls of Jerusalem before me, and Hell was waiting for the sound of her call to set it loose.
She looked away, the feeling faded and I staggered, hopping on one foot and jerking my hands out of my pockets to catch my balance. My heart was racing but I could see the city streets around me again, the drunken laughter of bar hoppers making its way to my ears. I almost ran right then, fled like the runner from Marathon, but without any message of victory. Run, I would shout, escape, hide away. She’s coming. The only woman I will ever love is coming.
Instead I looked at her shoulder, not quite daring to find her eyes again with mine, as I asked, “Is there anything I can do for you? You know, until it’s time. I mean, I don’t want to pressure you or anything, but this is really new for me, and I don’t know how to—I want to do something for you. Please.”
I could feel her eyes on me and I knew I wasn’t good enough for her. I was fake leather and polyester, when she needed silk. I scrunched up my face against the cold, cold she almost didn’t seem to feel.
“This is new for me, too, Gabriel,” she said finally, and for the first time she sounded as young as she looked. “You could take me to dinner. I still need to eat, I think.”
“Sure,” I said.
Apologies to Google
I'm on my knees, I'm that sorry. It's my own fault. I didn't read the instructions, and then I blamed Google. I apologize, oh information giant. Don't take my blog out of your index.
Turns out the file I was trying to upload was 46k too large.
So here's the first twenty sections of Fat Tony. Enjoy, if you haven't already, or enjoy again...for the very first time.
Fat Tony -- Sections 1-20
Turns out the file I was trying to upload was 46k too large.
So here's the first twenty sections of Fat Tony. Enjoy, if you haven't already, or enjoy again...for the very first time.
Fat Tony -- Sections 1-20
A pocs on Google Docs!
I'm trying to post a complete Fat Tony as it stands now, sections one through twenty-four, but apparently the (usually generous and kind) people at Google hate me now. In fact, they came to over to my apartment, knocked on the door, and spit on me when I opened it.
I might be stretching the truth here.
But it is true that I can't get anything to upload or save on Google Docs, so anyone who's starting late and doesn't feel like reading every post on the blog, I apologize. I'll get up a full document as soon as I can, but meanwhile, if you want Fat Tony so far as a word document, send me an email.
Now, back to writing!
I might be stretching the truth here.
But it is true that I can't get anything to upload or save on Google Docs, so anyone who's starting late and doesn't feel like reading every post on the blog, I apologize. I'll get up a full document as soon as I can, but meanwhile, if you want Fat Tony so far as a word document, send me an email.
Now, back to writing!
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Dish Detergent
Andrew's sister, Adria, asked me to tell this story, so here goes. And no, it's not the story about the parrot and mayonnaise, so you can all get your hopes back down again. This one is much less embarrassing.
See, I'd just succeeded at a complete magical inversive transferal.
"What does that mean?" asked Morgan.
"It means he successfully reversed and externalized the primary property of a particular substance--probably a small quantity, I'm assuming," said my dad, who was drawing something on a napkin at the table. "What did you manage it with, Pete?"
"Dish detergent," I said, "and what's that look for, Dog?"
He narrowed his eyes at me. "Let's say that a bandwagon were to pull up in front of our house," he said.
"What actually is a bandwagon?" asked Morgan.
"And," continued The Dog, "that bandwagon had a sign on the side. And say that the sign said 'This is a bad idea, Pete,' in large, blue-and-red striped letters. And suppose that bandwagon was accepting new passengers. I would climb on that bandwagon."
"Come on, Dog. The theory is completely sound. Dish detergent works by binding to the dirt and carrying it away in the dishwater, right? So now, through a complete magical inversive transferal, I make the detergent repel the dirt, getting it off the dishes even more effectively. The dirt will be like rats on a sinking ship. They'll be running, screaming, saying, 'Oh no! Dish detergent! Aaaaaah!" I hate to admit it, but this is where I made little ratty, running-in-panic motions with my hands, and my 'aaaaaah' trailed off weakly.
"Nice," said Morgan. "I didn't even have to say anything that time. You made fun of yourself for me."
"Anyway," I said, "I'm starting the dishwasher now, and you'll see how awesome my complete magical inversive transferal is." I finished filling the little flap that opens up with dish detergent, closed the dishwasher, and pushed the button. I could hear the water filling inside, or whatever it does first, and I smiled. I was confident. I was certain. I was, of course, doomed.
The flap did its flappy-open-thing and my transferal kicked in. Something shattered inside the dishwasher. Lots of somethings. Then we all jumped back as the front of the dishwasher's door dented out with a metallic clang.
"I think that was the pot," said Morgan.
"Huh," said Dad, as he looked at the water leaking out of the dishwasher and pooling around my feet. "I guess it repelled more than just the dirt."
See, I'd just succeeded at a complete magical inversive transferal.
"What does that mean?" asked Morgan.
"It means he successfully reversed and externalized the primary property of a particular substance--probably a small quantity, I'm assuming," said my dad, who was drawing something on a napkin at the table. "What did you manage it with, Pete?"
"Dish detergent," I said, "and what's that look for, Dog?"
He narrowed his eyes at me. "Let's say that a bandwagon were to pull up in front of our house," he said.
"What actually is a bandwagon?" asked Morgan.
"And," continued The Dog, "that bandwagon had a sign on the side. And say that the sign said 'This is a bad idea, Pete,' in large, blue-and-red striped letters. And suppose that bandwagon was accepting new passengers. I would climb on that bandwagon."
"Come on, Dog. The theory is completely sound. Dish detergent works by binding to the dirt and carrying it away in the dishwater, right? So now, through a complete magical inversive transferal, I make the detergent repel the dirt, getting it off the dishes even more effectively. The dirt will be like rats on a sinking ship. They'll be running, screaming, saying, 'Oh no! Dish detergent! Aaaaaah!" I hate to admit it, but this is where I made little ratty, running-in-panic motions with my hands, and my 'aaaaaah' trailed off weakly.
"Nice," said Morgan. "I didn't even have to say anything that time. You made fun of yourself for me."
"Anyway," I said, "I'm starting the dishwasher now, and you'll see how awesome my complete magical inversive transferal is." I finished filling the little flap that opens up with dish detergent, closed the dishwasher, and pushed the button. I could hear the water filling inside, or whatever it does first, and I smiled. I was confident. I was certain. I was, of course, doomed.
The flap did its flappy-open-thing and my transferal kicked in. Something shattered inside the dishwasher. Lots of somethings. Then we all jumped back as the front of the dishwasher's door dented out with a metallic clang.
"I think that was the pot," said Morgan.
"Huh," said Dad, as he looked at the water leaking out of the dishwasher and pooling around my feet. "I guess it repelled more than just the dirt."
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Assumptions Must Be Made!
I want, need, must, desire, no parallel structure, crave, will move ahead with Fat Tony!
But we must make some assumptions. So here is what has ACTUALLY been happening in the story, but you just didn't see it there before:
Governmental wheels are in motion. Losing thirty-six-million people is a big deal. Last time this threat arose, Fat Tony was part of the emergency response team, the first responders, and they did away with the spell, quick-and-dirty. Everyone cheered (at least those who knew about it), and medals all around. Quiet medals, though, the kind that they don't put in newspapers, because no one wants to admit how close they were to losing California.
This time, though, as much as the people at ART respect Lieutenant Anthony Adams (Retired), he's not on the team anymore, and the government wants their best people on the job. They're flying in those people, and have been ever since they found out that there might be a problem. They're on the way, including a team down from Phoenix, and they want to take over. Important figures are being quietly evacuated from danger zones in CA, the price of gasoline has already gone up, and there is a gathering storm of governmental activity. (I think the gas idea was a joke.)
But, you say, isn't Fat Tony the best person for the job? He clearly has an understanding of the magical theory and the personal power reserves to apply it. Why would they take it from him?
The answer is, of course, no one really knows what Fat Tony can do. Lack of ambition after the last crisis left his own horn thoroughly un-tooted. He was a good man, yes, give him a medal, but no one really understood the skill required to accomplish what he did.
There you have it. That's been going on.
As a matter of warning, one or two of the Livy Cottontails might die before the end of the book. I'm sorry in advance. And, as a matter of promise, the two plot problems Kimbooly (Kimberly) brought up are already solved in my head. What do you do with the rabbits and what do you do with the remains of the spell? I have to say, I have both worked out at least decently well, and I hope the solutions are clever, and I'll get to them as soon as I can.
Thanks for sticking with Fat Tony!
But we must make some assumptions. So here is what has ACTUALLY been happening in the story, but you just didn't see it there before:
Governmental wheels are in motion. Losing thirty-six-million people is a big deal. Last time this threat arose, Fat Tony was part of the emergency response team, the first responders, and they did away with the spell, quick-and-dirty. Everyone cheered (at least those who knew about it), and medals all around. Quiet medals, though, the kind that they don't put in newspapers, because no one wants to admit how close they were to losing California.
This time, though, as much as the people at ART respect Lieutenant Anthony Adams (Retired), he's not on the team anymore, and the government wants their best people on the job. They're flying in those people, and have been ever since they found out that there might be a problem. They're on the way, including a team down from Phoenix, and they want to take over. Important figures are being quietly evacuated from danger zones in CA, the price of gasoline has already gone up, and there is a gathering storm of governmental activity. (I think the gas idea was a joke.)
But, you say, isn't Fat Tony the best person for the job? He clearly has an understanding of the magical theory and the personal power reserves to apply it. Why would they take it from him?
The answer is, of course, no one really knows what Fat Tony can do. Lack of ambition after the last crisis left his own horn thoroughly un-tooted. He was a good man, yes, give him a medal, but no one really understood the skill required to accomplish what he did.
There you have it. That's been going on.
As a matter of warning, one or two of the Livy Cottontails might die before the end of the book. I'm sorry in advance. And, as a matter of promise, the two plot problems Kimbooly (Kimberly) brought up are already solved in my head. What do you do with the rabbits and what do you do with the remains of the spell? I have to say, I have both worked out at least decently well, and I hope the solutions are clever, and I'll get to them as soon as I can.
Thanks for sticking with Fat Tony!
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
A Short Break
I joked about it, but I think I actually need one. Fat Tony is going to take a break for a couple days for two reasons:
One, I need the mental rest. I think that's all I can say about that.
Two, in consultation with my dad, I realized that having California drop into the ocean is a really big deal. Kinda huge. So considering that they've discovered what the problem is (the Livy Cottontails) and located the problem (the Livy Cottontails), why not just get rid of the problem (i.e. kill the Livy Cottontails)? No matter how cute they are, 20 rabbits versus 36-million people? You do the math.
So I have to do a couple things in the story to really acknowledge the magnitude of what is going on. I can see what those things are, but they're going to make the story bigger. And better, I believe, and more exciting.
In other words, the story (which was feeling stale to me) is getting a shot of life. I just need a couple days away from it before I jump back in. Now, what other writing project do I work on while I give myself a rest....
One, I need the mental rest. I think that's all I can say about that.
Two, in consultation with my dad, I realized that having California drop into the ocean is a really big deal. Kinda huge. So considering that they've discovered what the problem is (the Livy Cottontails) and located the problem (the Livy Cottontails), why not just get rid of the problem (i.e. kill the Livy Cottontails)? No matter how cute they are, 20 rabbits versus 36-million people? You do the math.
So I have to do a couple things in the story to really acknowledge the magnitude of what is going on. I can see what those things are, but they're going to make the story bigger. And better, I believe, and more exciting.
In other words, the story (which was feeling stale to me) is getting a shot of life. I just need a couple days away from it before I jump back in. Now, what other writing project do I work on while I give myself a rest....
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