My Sister, call her Bastion

I had to share this with my readers: a short story penned by my sis on her blog, offering a window into her life. All content copyright Courtney Rice, Super Hero LLC. If you would like to read her wonderful blog, you can find it at http://www.xanga.com/courtkicksbutt.

Once upon a time...

...there lived three crabs. Ser Grendal Bedivere, the gallant, led the crabs in never ending games of chivalry, including the joust, the melee, and of course, the digging in the rock and sand contest which culminated with throwing said rock on top of the vanquished foe. The small, yet deeply ponderous Richard Wagner oft sat by himself, brooding over the meaning of life and what it is to be hermit crab. His compositions would one day rock the world, but this day, he burrowed down into the rocks for want of privacy. And then, there was the Nameless One. Ominous of shell and long of leg, the Nameless One went blow for blow with Ser Bedivere. One might look and behold that the Nameless One and Ser Bedivere were mortal enemies, but not so. They spurred one another on towards greatness.

A day came when these three brave crabs were transported. Transported from visions of crably splendor to unknown lands. For some, the journey opened endless opportunities for glory. For others, the journey would mark great turning points in their lives. And yet, for still others, it would mean the ultimate price.

To the imminent woe of Richard Wagner, Ser Bedivere and the Nameless One settled immediately into their new stations of rulership over the Great Bureau. They came, they crawled, they conquered rocks. For Wagner, the fear of the unknown halted his composing. He could no more come out of his shell than pick up quill and staff paper. Late in the night as Ser Bedivere and the Nameless One continued in their epic combat, Wagner realized that without his compositions, he was nothing (although an untruthful worldview, it must be said that Ser Bedivere and the Nameless One were locked in their combat and were not attentive to dissuade Wagner from his mounting thoughts of worthlessness). Late in the night, whilst no one looked on, Richard Wagner ventured out of his shell and into the unknown. He journeyed into the light.

And on that morn, I found him there. Shell-less as his name day. A sad but telling look upon his face.





*And that is how the hermit crab that I possessed for less than 12 hours died. The end.*

Don't Mess with Texas

And he's one of my good buddies.

Zombies and the Men Who Love Them

Last weekend, Garthifer and I drove through the snowy streets of Groveport to audition as extras in a low-budget zombie film. As it turned out, Garth and I even auditioned for speaking roles in the movie (not much of a stretch for me - I read for the part of Bobby, a mid-20 something redneck) and Garth for an uppity scientist’s assistant. We thought it would be something fun to try, and it’s looking like we’re actually going to do it (they need at least 100 people to play zombies) and Jenn and I might even help out with the zombie makeup for the extras!

But I thought this might be a good springboard to write a blog about why I’m so obsessed with the entire zombie thing, as most of my friends are painfully aware. I’ve begun to notice my friends (including some of you reading this) have begun to look at me a little oddly with the whole thing, so I thought I might try to justify it to myself by writing it down. Ok, here goes.

I think to start off, zombie movies are the only kind that truly frighten me. I can watch any other horror flick, be it monsters, aliens, or your typical slasher film, and while they might be entertaining, they don’t really scare me. Not so with the zedd word - when done right, ala George Romero, they scare the living bejeezus out of me, which is really fun. Oh yeah, and then there’s Jaws (which I find terrifying) but that’s another story. So in a nutshell, I like to be scared by movies, and zombie movies are about the only ones that do the trick.

Also, the idea of zombies themselves have so much capacity to be used as a metaphor by a writer. If done correctly, a zombie horde can be a symbol of loss of identity (you become a mindless, soulless automaton that’s been assimilated by the group) a question of the afterlife (is there life after death? These things had to come from somewhere), and even the fast zombies from 28 Days Later, one can’t help but be reminded of any television footage ever seen about rioting (this is what happens when large groups of people become truly enraged).

If you have a good writer, a zombie movie also is a great opportunity to examine human characters and what they would do in a true survival situation. Who becomes a natural leader? Why and how does a character decide to only care about his own skin? Why does a particular guy cave under pressure and completely lose it? A great example is a comic series called The Walking Dead. The zombies themselves, while playing a major part of the story, are mainly out of the frame. The story itself is primarily about the survivors, and how they try to pull their lives together after tragedy.

Oh yeah, another good reason - zombie movies give me hope as a writer. Explanation: any of you writer friends of mine out there, watch the majority of the crappy zombie movies I have in my collection (there’s almost 40 now), and you’ll say to yourself, ‘Shit, I can write a better script than this!’ If movies like that are getting made with such terrible scripts, I think my chances of someday penning something better are pretty damned good.

I suppose there’s also the whole pioneer mind set that appeals to me as well. Come on, how many of you wouldn’t find the idea of living in a society where you could basically do whatever you want at least a little interesting? Maybe it’s because I’m a libertarian, or there’s a little Mad Max living in me. But, the government’s gone. The police are gone. Your boss is dead. The stores are empty. Just like the scene in Dawn of the Dead when the survivors go on a giddy shopping spree in the mall, us living would have free rein to do whatever we wanted, with no one telling us otherwise.

And of course, the country boy in me wonders if I could survive in the world of one of these movies. I mean, I know how to shoot a gun and I own several, I know how to survive in places where there aren’t McDonald’s and Starbucks... I’ve always wondered if I have what it takes to survive in a world full of zombies.

Well I know there’s more, but for now I doubt even the most devoted readers have gotten this far, so I’ll cut it short. There may be more, however... my obsession knows no bounds.

Humping the American Dream

"What was I doing here? What was the meaning of this trip? Was I just roaming around in a drug frenzy of some kind? Or had I really come out here to Las Vegas to work on a story? Who are these people, these faces? Where do they come from? They look like caricatures of used car dealers from Dallas, and sweet Jesus, there were a hell of a lot of them at 4:30 on a Sunday morning, still humping the American dream, that vision of the big winner somehow emerging from the last minute pre-dawn chaos of a stale Vegas casino. " Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

There are few places that I've been to that offer such a weird, disturbing cross-reference of humanity as a second-rate casino. The fact that the Argosy Riverboat Casino rests at anchor less than two hours' drive from my front porch has given me the opportunity to go there multiple times, and the mixture of expressions on its shuffling, mind-numbed occupants has me constantly checking my back pocket to make sure no one's lifted my wallet.

Of course, in a mega-building boasting as many video cameras as New York City, anyone trying to steal a wallet would have to be really dumb... or desperate. And it seems like there's plenty of those.

I have never seen a room with so many people in wheel chairs gathered at once, with wrinkly old women with purple hair and Dale Earnhardt t-shirts constantly switching hands to drag along their oxygen tanks while sucking on Camel Lights. Many of my friends tease me for being a little too into zombie movies, so believe me... I know zombies. Walking through the Argosy Riverboat Casino at 10 o'clock on a Sunday night had me casing the place for escape routes and security guards who might have a gun.

I'll go there because I like to play poker. The thought that my putting a little more R & D into a game than the guy beside me paying off with an extra couple hundred in my wallet makes my mouth water. Not surprising that I sat at the hold 'em table for almost six hours without so much as a bathroom break. But all of these obese Midwesterners with that thousand-mile-stare, a little swipe card clipped to their collar as they pump quarter after quarter into the slot machines... God it makes me depressed to be human.

The last time I went to the riverboat, I was sitting at a poker table when I heard a massive 'thud.' Turning around, a fat man in a suit and cowboy hat had fallen right off of his chair in front of the Blackjack table, and was having some sort of attack right there in the middle of the casino. No one did anything to help him - the pit boss got on his little phone and immediately some house medics swooped in, secured the area and whisked him out, clean as clockwork. The people sitting at his table never stopped playing blackjack, and I think someone else had snagged his seat before they even hauled him away.

Hats off to the Peanut Gallery

Well put on your city boots, strike up the band, muster the goombas, and slap my gramma - I actually have some readers! I've even been informed by a few that they check my blog on a daily basis, sadly seeing no new posts for weeks, dare we say it, months at a time. Well, this one's for you, kids. And once I remember how to add links to this thing, I'll add you to the circle.

IF YOU SEE THIS, PLEASE ASSIST.

So here's what's up. Lately I find myself questioning a few things. I'm not going to say I question my sexuality - that would be going in the wrong direction, but I think I might be putting out the wrong image lately. I mean, it's one thing to be secure in one's self and not be homophobic, but come on, Merlin! Singing Elton John songs in a gay bar, after getting your picture taken with the handlebar mustachioed bartender, his arms wrapped around you from behind while he nuzzles your neck? Geesh. I need to clear this up a bit.

Just to set the record straight, I am a hetro-kinda-guy. Just one big hairy American winnin' machine. Why do I do these things when I'm in my cups? I think part of it is to show off just how not homophobic I am and shock my friends, but that's just what it is - showing off. I need to cut that one from my repetoire.

So from now on, friends and neighbors, if you see me hitting on a male bartender to get my drink quicker, or giving a fake phone number to a bald guy and his boyfriend for kicks, step up to the plate. Say Merlin, you need to cut that shit out.

And always remember, check the signs. I drive a pick-up truck. I wear cowboy boots. I have guns and knives stashed all the hell over my house, and there's an NRA sticker on the back of that pick-up.

Oh yeah... and I wear flannel.