Hello Out there In Internet Land…
It’s been an interesting week. I mean nothing huge in the “I got a job and don’t have to worry about money” or “I won the Lottery” or even “We pay our respects to…” but still stuff going on. My book continues apace. The good news about my current job is the lunch hour as I have mentioned. I’m getting at least a good 500 words a lunch break. The bad news includes the duration limit for said job. And away I go. At least this will give me more time to write, while I look of another job lead.
The Adventures of Kor and Kara continue. If anyone knows a good and cheap cover artist, feel free to write me. I have one lead on an agent for their first book, and an editor I didn’t know I had, sent me back some edits. Some good, some, well, not so good. But what do you want in free editing, huh? Or to quote Dan Aykroyd “So I ask you, what y’all want for nothing? A Rubber biscuit?”
If you are reading me and have no idea what I’m talking about, go rent Blues Brothers. Don’t worry, I’ll wait. *hums softly to self.* Oh, you’re back. Good movie huh? Anyway, back to the blog.
I’m glad to write as much as I can, time permitting. I mean, you have to apply yourself to something in life, right? Can’t just go drifting. I say it like that rather than the current vernacular; “Always follow your dreams.” That little ditty rubs me the wrong way. Not for it’s message of hope and determination to find what you love best in this life, but because it always forgets that rent is an issue and Science fiction, until recently, was rarely a stable let alone prosperous career for anyone who didn’t met the Stephen King/Robert Heinlein/Guy-who-wrote-the-Martian level of exposure and consumption. So I continue what I love and deal with the rest later. So if someone HAPPENS to know a good agent, or HAPPENS to be creative director for a publishing house, or just so HAPPENS to be the continuity editor for a line of comics in desperate need of a good writer, I wouldn’t be adverse to a little conversation. Just saying.
Until then I keep this up, my word count when I can get it and otherwise keep by brain entertained. Someone once told me that no matter what I would be writing, if nothing else than to keep sane. I think there is a validity in that statement. I mean, it’s a calling and drive as much as some people put on the cape and sail around the city. Sometimes, it’s what you have to do. And like all those colorful names and costumes, and less colorful names and costumes, there is space for all, which in and of itself is a problem as well as a blessing.
I know everyone hates those “I’m a writer and you know what I hate about the writing industry” posts so I’m not going to say that at all. I have had some good experiences about writing and some bad experiences. I can say the same thing about being a computer game designer, another career if someone HAPPENS to need a good one… Each experience with each individual field is tailored to be positive or negative to that person based on the previous experience and outlook on life. There are days when I truly miss the long hours at a keyboard typing away at plots or technical manuals for a company that was producing magic of one form or another. The company I worked for, during my stay, produced two games with others coming in later years. One was hailed as a crowning achievement. The other almost caused a companywide collapse even after I told them not to keep the ending they created. I won’t name names or titles but let’s just say if you bought a certain horror game in the around the turn of the millennia and hated the ending, count your luck stars. At least the one released was boring and nonsensical. The original was much worse.
Did those experiences make me think about the industry differently? Yes. Was I completely destroyed and disillusioned about my career choice at the time? Not at all. In the end, I know it’s a tough market and there are plenty of people in it who will tell you they know what they are doing when the truth couldn’t be further. There are egos, ignorance, blind spots, and that need that America is so good at cultivating, to be the best at everything and screw anyone who says differently. I know this is true in all careers So in the meantime, I sit here, writing this blog, writing my novel, and despising the job hunt ahead of me.
Sigh. Maybe I should apply to GTI after all. I kind of hate them, but they would not be the most evil company I have ever worked for. That goes to a snack manufacturer where I worked for six months. I had to be part of a display project, organization, and networking, for something highly synthesized, strangely greesy, overly processed in chip form that was touted as a “full serving of vegetables for when your kid won’t eat.” The applauding during the rollout was thunderous and I was awestruck at the evil. Oh, well. Not my call. And how bad could GTI be? Sure they have made machines we know to have been hazardous before, but who can say they never had any screw ups? And yes, I have my own opinions of the Triscalers but they haven’t killed anyone… that I’m aware of.
But work has to happen, writing needs to be done, and life has to continue.
Hey, who knows? Maybe things will HAPPEN in a good way and for the best of reason. It could HAPPEN.
Keep dreaming, I know I will.
Daniel
First off some good news. For those of you following me, you might be astute enough to see the new image. Yes, it’s my new Quantum mug! Regrettably, it’s not an official one, not licensed by the Quantum LLC for purposes of branding. I wish it was. I was at my local comic shop when the vinyl decals came in. I grabbed the first one I found and a nice (huge) mug from an art supply store and slapped it on. I can’t wash it very often or the decal will go bye-bye but it’s a nice pencil holder until I can get a new one. I’ll have to rely on my other titanic mugs I use, the DC comics Justice League mug I got when the WB still had a store and a “Wisconsin” mug I got from my brother on his wedding day. The later was filled with cheese curds when I received it. It’s nice having reliable dishes for your coffee and tea respectively, doubly so when they can hold entire meals worth of hot beverages
[Edit: Bonus points for my regular follower Electropop for pointing out that this is in fact a Kid Quantum/Quantum Queen logo. A standard Dr. Quantum/Questor symbol is inversed in color. 200 points but you can risk everything in the speed round….]
If anyone is interested I’m still looking for several pieces to
complete my set. If you happen to find mugs, t-shirts, or official action figures (mint condition not required) for any of the following, please let me know:
Dr. Quantum or any of the regulars of the Quantum Family or Quantum’s Questors (save for the Spot, Raguel, Vixen, or Slipstream. I have Webgirl and Dr Quantum but they barely survived the move and need repair. I lost the entire visor to Dr. Quantum. Very important as the nation’s most prominent near sighted hero.)
Paramericans: Most of the standard team I think still has action figures and they only made the logo for Glory, Columbia, and Slammer. Turns out Nightshift’s moon emblem they are unable to copyright and as far as I can tell they don’t want Omen or Infernal to be common household names. So I don’t expect to find a huge mug for them, let alone a T-Shirt. I mean Omen was supposed to be a state secret until he informed minds of the entire DC area. As for Infernal, when a guy carries a battle ax that looks like a pitchfork, teleports through fire and dress like Lucifer and Wolverine had a very bad child, then i can understand the hesitation. The phrase "american devil" still has weight in certain parts of the world, no sense on making a 6 inch plastic version of that icon of american hatred... except it would have been cool! I have an old prototype for a Glory action figure but it’s seen better days. I got a Glory shirt for Kay a while ago. What can I say? I like the shirt on her, partly because of the colors and emblem looks so good on her and partly because the lines show off her curves. Win Win right? Shut up!
Flight of Champions: These get tricky as almost all of them are unofficial reproductions thanks to an injunction filled by the Illuminator on behalf of the team. They still deny any sort of knowledge of the Green Man. Come one people, we have all seen the footage. I have no idea where he came from but stop ignoring him. However, I have seen fan done figures. The best was an Illuminator where someone found not only but the 3M light fabric for the sleeveless coat, but also the reflective paint they use on roadways. It‘s a great looking figure even if the picture is barely more than a shine.
GTI: OK here is where I draw the line. I like some of the figures they released, and of all the major super teams out there, they have released the most, even going to far as to use their government connections to get the rights to convicted criminals for purposes of merchandising villains. Now their villain series is amazing and far more extensive than my wallet can handle (though if someone does find a Tom Foolery and Rag Doll Playtime Combo Pack and accessory under $100, I’m willing to make a deal. First check the figures though. They haven’t found all the trapped ones let alone the series V. The robotic figures that come to life have been the bane of Targets for three years now and I can only imagine what would happen if they managed to end up in this house.)
There are other I wouldn’t mind getting or making. I’m still looking for the El Magnifico vs. El Terrible Arena set. I don’t care that he’s a Mexican wrestler and the set looks cheesier than fondue set made of parmesan. In the mean time, as I write this and another chapter of my Sci-fi saga, I will look over at my collection of heroes and take the joy and hope that heroes bring.
For the record, and I know you will all ask about it. My wife is ok with this little hobby of mine on three conditions. 1) it doesn’t get out of hand. 2) I keep her supplied with Star Wars figures as well, and 3) I’m not allowed to complain about her knitter/spinner stash. We have an entire closet filled with nothing but new and strange types of wool and other fibers that has exploded on more than one occasion. Each time it does, I am told not to say one word. So peace is maintained. This has also led to a notice that I take to heart. Thanks to her obsessions, I have something to get me out of trouble if I need it. No roses or chocolates for my girl! (though I’m told they are perfectly acceptable and probably should be applied more often). We joke a couple of ounces of qiviut will get me off the hook for anything up to but not including adultery. So far I have never needed to find out if how accurate it is, nor do I plan to.
However, if, and this is a titanic “if,” I can get my hands of at least three ounces of wool from Enrique the Sheep himself, then any and all is forgiven. Of course getting clippings from the Big Horned Battle Stag, a risk of almost certain battery if not death by the hands and hooves of the the Baa-Baa Bounty Hunter, so I could obtain a sample for my dear wife to weave into some spinning wasn’t a sign of my love I have no idea what is. Though I might try to get him drunk first…
Anyway, speaking of fiber, I got a note from the so called “Costumer to the Gods” herself. She asked for space on my blog for her blog. How cool is that?! We will see how this goes.
In the meantime work beckons. And I have massive return from an editor for my new book. More on that as events warrant.
More later
Keep Dreaming
Daniel
Hey all, I fixed the font problem. If there still are issues, let me know.
So I mentioned I ran into a few people while I was asking for applications and talking to managers at the Golden Grog and other places. I forgot to follow up on that. Sorry, all.
That being said, I can now say I have had at least two such encounters though I didn’t know it at first. There are two stories to tell here, one involving, of all things, one of the Untouchables who tells me that an Academy is imminent, most possibly on the Hill. But I’ll get to that one next time, assuming I don’t have any other issues pop up between now and then. Sorry, Jingles. Your story is amazing. I have to get the fresh one down before I forget it…you know, when someone comes to wipe my memory of what I witnessed. I can hear it now, Semper. You don’t have to remind me.
So, defeated after several days of hammering over databases and spreadsheets, not my best aptitude I can tell you, I decide to treat myself to something, anything, from the Grog on my way home. It helps that traffic has exploded recently and my supposed 20 minute commute to an almost full hour slogfest, and this is before the recent politicians deciding to shut down the public transportation system for a few weeks for “much needed repair.” It was just simpler to head into town than deal with the onrush of outgoing motorists, bicycles and people who didn’t really know how to operate either of them. What was the quote? “No matter who we are and our collective differences, we can unite in the belief that we are above average drivers.” Yeah, there is something to that.
Anyway, The grog was cold and the room smelled of mead and honeysuckle without being overpowering. I thought me might add some Jasmine and freshly mowed grass into the mix to make the client feel as if they had been transported back to a medieval time. Then it occurred to me that it might be what was in the brewery vats and decided that such thoughts were for another time, a long distant time.
Grabbing my drink, Bobbi, the young redhead girl they did hire motioned for me to her.
“You’re that writer guy, right?” She asked. How she had known any of that, I hadn’t a clue and didn’t think to inquire at that time.
“Yep, that’s me.” I said, bringing my arms to my hips in my most heroic. “Writer Guy, scourge of grammar and sentence structure.”
That made her giggle a chortled polite chitter that reminded me of elementary school crushes. I tried not to think about it. “They you want to talk to Penelope over there.”
She pointed a brunette girl, barely old enough to drive, hunched over her cappuccino, and spinning a little orange die on it’s corner, never letting it fall.
“OK, I’ll bite.” I said. “Why should I talk to her?”
“I know her from High school.” Bobbi explained. “I think she could use a strangers ear and I know you won’t try to hit on her being married and all.”
“How do you know so much about me?” My eyebrow shot up.
She shrugged. “I read your blog.”
“Huh.” Well, that explained a lot. “You aren’t my Friday appointment, are you?” I did card readings for extra cash.
She giggled again.
“”Fine, whatever.” I said and grabbed my drink. “Thanks for the tip.”
“Nice Kid Quantum shirt, by the way!” She threw over my shoulder. I raised my cup in salute as I made my way to the sitting girl.
“Penelope?” I asked when I approached. She barely raised her head, her arm propping her up as she continued to spin the die, a 12 sider I could now see.
“Bobbi sent you, didn’t she?” I was surprised a voice that sounded so cheery could carry such gloom.
“Yeah.” I admitted. “Can I sit?”
She shrugged. “This isn’t Terraq. It’s a free country.” How a kid so young would know about Cheveron’s Meta Nation of Terraq blew me away. Hell, I had been a kid when it was founded and barely got a blip on the news. Like Jonestown, before the tragedy.
I took the chair next to her and let her spin for a few minutes as I settled, placing my backpack on an adjacent chair. The view before her was nice, a full glass window projecting over the riverside park. Joggers and homeless people milled about as traffic flowed steadily if slowly forth across the bridge.
I took a moment to look at her die. “Gamer, huh?” I said, trying to crack a smile. “And a Barbarian fan, I’m guessing.”
“You know.” She said. “We used to love gaming, we really did.” She spun the die on the polished oak, catching it before it could settle on a number, just as it was about to tumble. “Back before, god, everything else.”
Her jaw shuddered for a split second so I brought the conversation around to something else.
“How do you know Bobbi?” I asked.
“She likes us.” She actually smiled. “We go the same school with Jingles, so I think she’s infatuated.”
“School?” I asked. I started feeling like a therapist or a reporter and put on my most receptive face. I’m told it’s good, but I have no idea. When I try it in the mirror it looks kind of pathetic to me. “What school do you go to?”
She spun the die, using the time to jerk her thumb over her shoulder and grab a sip of over overly sugary drink. “Up the Hill.” She said as she caught the die. Spin.
“PTHS?” I asked. She nodded. Pacific Teaching Hospital and Study. I’m told a good place to learn to me a medic of any type. Why they put it on top of a huge hill, practically a mountain, I’ll never know. Most of the ways up, one lane roads over twisting terrain made me wonder if ambulances made it up there at all or did they need to hire sherpas. I did the drive up there a couple of times, something of a tradition I’m told. The view was stunning. The hospital had been made in the early 30s and continued to grow until modernist architecture and cathedral style edifices collided with trams and walkways. To me it always looked like an asylum from a bad gothic cartoon that I would more than likely watch religiously.
“So where do they keep the Riddler up there?” The joke exploded on impact.
“You think we don’t know what it looks like?” She brought her voice up as her cheeks reddened, yet she kept staring at her randomizer. “You have no idea do you? We thought it would be fun, seeing them up there. Hell, I was excited, I mean like really excited. We were going up the hill to be like, well, everyone. All because of that damned wizard.”
“Now you lost me.” I said finally. There were only so many out of context sentences a person should endure. “Wizard?”
She sighed. “I helped guy once. Nice guy, old codger. He kind of looked like Dumbledore vacationing in the Bahamas. He kept asking for help at the Con. I thought he was another panhandler or some homeless guy off his meds or something. We get them up here all the time, especially around convention season, you know? I don’t think about it, much, I had just gotten a signed poster from Wil Weaton and Glory. Glory, man. Do you have any idea how rare it is to get her autograph?”
I didn’t want to tell her I had three.
“So, I was going nutzoid over my haul. Then the old guy slips and falls. Right into the tracks. Like Boom! Down. Just as I hear the Max horn going. This guy was going to be street pizza and made into a train roll in like ten seconds flat.” She blushes at her own unintentional pun. “Sorry.” I motion for her to continue.
“I don’t even think about what I’m doing, I’m just running off instinct, you know? And I drop my bag full of goodies and grab him by the arm. I pull him on the platform just as the train zipped by. Stupid conductor didn’t even see him or my bag as it rolled under. He starts thanking me and like not letting go of my hand. I tell him it was ok and let the fuck go. Mostly I was shocked I lost the posters. He starts mumbling about waiting so long to find me. I’m about halfway ready to think he’s going to hit on me when he leaps of the now open train and promptly disappears in the crowd. Voom, gone, you know? I feel something in my hand and I think he’s given me some sort of reward, like a ring or a stone or something, maybe a few coins that got stuck together.”
“What was it?” I asked. She looks down and spins it again.
“What I got was 12 different characters.” She grumbled. “Each important in its own way.”
“Did you get your bag back?” I asked.
“Flattened by yeah.” She smiled. “Glory heard about what happened and sent me a couple spare autographs. Wil Wheaton sent me a personalized letter and shout out. It was nice of them. Really, it was! But that was all before I rolled up the characters.”
“So are you a writer too?” I was getting lost in the conversation and words sort of avoided my comprehension, pretending to be somewhere else. “What’s with the characters?”
“I’m kind of more of an actor, I guess.” She said. “You know how they say every actor has to reach deep inside himself to find something really meaningful in a performance and the good ones just, I don’t know, channel the voice they are looking for.”
“I hear that a lot for writers.” I said. “J. Michael Straczynski used to talk about how he still has conversations with characters he hasn’t written about in years. I still have a few that keep demanding to be in stories even if they are completely the wrong genre. I was hoping to be more sympathetic than boasting but it’s so hard to judge these sorts of things.
“That’s how it is for us.” Her eyes squinted, neck tensing, locking back something. “I think it is anyway. Oh, god. The nights I think to myself, I remember just playing an elven paladin or Halfling wizard. Not that I ever played anything that simple. Always with the dark elf and the half demon or some other crazy thing that only looks good on a deviantart account. I could be anyone for a little while, pretend away and make a good story. They tell me we are making a good story now, but I’m not sure I believe them anymore. They tell me I can control it soon enough, that we can be…oh Jesus, something more. I’m not even sure there is a term for it. We aren’t, like, going to integrate or anything. We just… you know… are.”
She let her eyes collapse and her head sink, nearly forgetting the fluorescent orange die spinning. It made a bee line for the edge of the table. With well trained reflexes from years at the gaming table, I scooped it up before it crashed to the ground. I put my hand on her shoulder. I know I should probably ask first but I wasn’t sure what else to do. Stupid I know.
“It’s ok. Really.” I meant it. I had no idea why other than to make a girl feel better about her situation and, I guess, it’s what the Good Doctor Quantum would do. Just try to make the world a little better when someone’s world was crashing for a moment. Sometimes lives are held together with duct tape and bailing wire. She started to sob a little, quietly. She let herself go for probably all of fifteen seconds, but we all know what those sorts of seconds are really like.
“This is why they came here, I think.” She said, snorting through post release runny nose. “They wanted another school for us.”
She actually lifted her head and looked at me. “I wanted to go. More than anything I wanted to go. Now we can. We really like it there, and here. We can, you know, help people. People like…” she sobbed again. “Me.”
“Kid, you are going to be fine.” I said almost laughably. “Don’t worry.”
I was about to hand her die back when old gamer instincts kicked in. Before she could scream, “Wait,” I had already rolled the dice to her hands. She looked over in horror as the twelve sider, bounced and folded over, until the predominate number ‘8’ stood proud, black on orange. She was gone. The die was gone. No flash or lightning. No explosion or even a whooshing noise. Reality folded in on itself choosing another Schrödinger possibility and she was gone.
The Sensorite stood. Garbed in black, cloaked and hooded, twin pistols are her side, she stood. Under the hood and covering the top half of her face a solid and smooth golden eyeless mask stared back at me. At her lapel, the only bit of color of her entire uniform shouted back at me. I knew that symbol well, a stylized ‘Q’ of grey and blue.
“You have done us a kindness, Daniel.” How she knew my name I just attributed to her abilities. This was the Sensorite, after all. “We will not forget that. But you must excuse us. There is trouble at the tower. Soon Thunderclap and Cloudburst will disrupt the students and I am needed.”
She didn’t exactly run or fly so much as flowed out of the restaurant, her cloak billowing behind her and around her, swelling and washing over the crowd as they watch another noted superhero leave to save someone. I watched that form flow and flutter right up the Hill.
Behind me, Edgar the Ettin cursed from his upstairs office about not getting a good pick before the Sensorite’s departure. To my side, behind the counter, Bobbi gave a fan squeal of delight asked me what number was that. I waved four fingers twice, fanning the question away, I watched the door finally close, filling the void she left. It had been a while since I was that close to a hero and it would not be the last, I would guarantee. I wished her luck, gathered her spare drink and bussed her table before I finished mine and grabbed my gag-bag.
And that is how I found out that Bridgeton got its own Quantum Academy, up on the Hill.
More soon.
Keep Dreaming
Daniel
