I know about the innernets!

I also wanted to get you to this thread, cause it's fjuckin' funny.

Noir Tales...From The Future! (part III)

I stuck my head into the black square of the hatch and, followed the flashlight beam along the crappy wires that led to the electrical system's computer. Since I didn't see anything resembling a broken feed, I reached in and tapped the reboot command on the dirty 10-digit console. My ancient hovercar ran on the Windows "Opulent" O.S., and any old car affectionado would call it "buggy" and probably be impressed anyone had kept the factory-issue software.

I wasn't a old car affectionado, I was just too poor to replace it. Tapping the console left black and oily smudges on my fingertips which I knew I shouldn't wipe on my suit, but I did anyways. As the thing ran thru it's startup code, I clicked off the light and stood there like an idiot, waiting to see what happened.

A few seconds later, the red beacon started spinning around, and the white strobe flashed, along with the reassuring hum as the car powered back up. I walked back to the driver's seat, and that's when I heard the stiletto "clip clip clip" of high-heeled footsteps. There was only one woman in that place that could make that sound.

"Wait!" Vicki Valise shouted. I did. As she came up, I looked at her like a stone.
"Why." I said. Not a question, a statement.
Her tears had made black streaks of her mascara, that went pretty far down her cheeks. Her hair was disheveled, and she did have the rich, totally beautiful, damsel in distress act down perfect.
"I didn't mean what I said."
"I figured as much."
"I..." Her voice caught for a second. "I didn't tell you everything."
"Oh." I said. "Hire me three hours before your husband was killed, with no leads, and then tell the cops I was the one that killed him. And now you're saying you didn't tell me everything?"

She grabbed the playbook, flipped to page three, and bit on her lower lip.

Damn.

Sometimes you know what the other team is doing, and are ready to stop it. And yet, sometimes, even when you know, their execution is so perfect...that nothing you can do, is good enough to stop it.

She turned her rich, totally beautiful, damsel in distress act, into a poor, adorable, naive street waif that just needed help.

"I didn't...but I couldn't." Vicki said. "But now...after what happened to Bruce, I can." She pushed back a cute lump in her throat before she revealed, "It was Eddie Valentine."

"Go to hell." I said.

I was so smart for saying that.

What wasn't smart was, I didn't mean it.

I should probly

drop a cool video I saw today (cause I spent a long time hidin' from the mothafjuckin' heat today an saw a few good ones...)

But instead, I'll give yas a link to what Cassini is up to around Saturn. (Some supa' amazing photos here.)


***Update***

If you'll catch comment #69 you'll see a really edited down comment of how I feel about this.

U-toobification...OF EVERYTHING!

A while ago, I realized I was using too many exclamation points in my post titles. Now I'm about to impose a moratorium on ellipses, which apparently I can't stop from appearing in every title I write.

Anyhoo - I was thinking about what makes a good you-tube channel, and there's not one thing that comes to mind. Now, a while back there was "lonelygirl" who apparently was a you-tube innernet superstar - until it was revealed she had some corporate backing. I've followed a couple of channels that uploaded stuff that was clearly/obviously not theirs to upload, but I watched because it was stuff I wanted to see! I wasn't so much saddened by their suspended accounts, as I was pissed I couldn't watch some WWII documentaries or Craig Ferguson shows that I missed.

But really, the idea that you could somehow make a you tube channel of your own popular - with visitor numbers like a website is obviously nuts. You could have a bitchin' video of something crazy-cool and get picked up on digg or reddit, and have 15,000 hits in a day, but those people are never coming back. Vloging was once thought to be the next big thing after blogs - but name one popular video-blogger. You could, (if your reading fjord - I know you could) rip off twenty-five actual blogs without much struggle.

It seems to me that you tube is like an on-line archive of video more than a fame generating machine - which is great, I mean, if you know the location of a cool-assed video, it'll be there for a hell of a long time, and you can access it whenever you want without storing it anywhere. It's like flickr (where user images have been actually saved in the Library of Congress - because some images are essentially "national history") where, strong flickr users might know other great flickr members, but really, that's a pretty small chunk of people.

Anywise, I'd say that the you tube is just a redundant blast-medium. By blast medium I mean, it has the potential to explode some small thing into something huge...it's easily accessible (no password or login to view) and it's easily transferable (copy the code and it's on yer joint for your audience to see what you just saw) You can post the footage you got of some police beating a protester and get it out to the world. If it strikes the right chord, it could be seen on 100,000 websites with an audience of billions! (this doesn't have to be cops beating protesters, it could be something really cute your cat did - it just has to strike the right chord) But whatever it is...the A.P. or NY Times, or Hollywood, ain't going to be calling and asking if you want a job. It's background radiation that only gets a spike when something crazy is caught on camera...but at least it does do that.

What it is, is a good platform for getting your video on the internet and having it easily accessible. Like this for instance...a dude who once wrote over here (under the pen-name Q-dog) doing some standup in a shitty club in NYC.




The point I'm driving at is, you tube won't ever make a stars, (well, it could, but the odds are super slim) but using it as a part of your media presence isn't a bad plan at all.

So I been compilin' a buncha old posts for my book

(okay, I'm not yet working on a book - but here's a great motha'fjuckin' post I found in October 2005)

It's nap time...

Now napping is all well and good, unless you have a recurring dream (such as myself) being on the debate team, making a wonderful - and debate winning argument, when a pack of weasels arrives to carry off your shoes.

"Sure," you say, "it doesn't sound that scary."

Of course, in that case, you've never found yourself in a vicious pack of weasels who want your shoes. They have very sharp teeth and claws, and move very very fast. On top of that, they really don't know where your shoes stop, and where your feet begin. This leads to a lot of stomping, kicking, and yelling - both in terror and agony.

Needless to say, this is not the way to win a debate, altho it does instill in the minds of the nerds yer debating (and who are watching said debate) a great deal of fear in your psychosis. The kind of fear that leads them to quickly move away from you when you say,
"Where the fuck did all those weasels come from?! DID YOU SEE THE WEASELS?!? Well fuck - they just ran off with my shoes- I suppose you didn't see that!?!"

Anyways, that's why I don't like talking naps.

Mothafuckin' Snakes

I have a hard time fathoming a snake big enough to grab a guy off the ground and haul him into a tree.

But they're out there...

Noir Tales...From The Future! (Part II)

She was standing there on her legs, and then she saw the body. She screamed, while dropping the mini-Schnauzer and her Gucci clutch to the floor, and ran as fast as she could in those Steve Maddens towards the body. They made little clip, clip, clip sounds across the tile that I thought sounded funny. I might have actually laughed while it happened, it just reeked of production.

She wrapped her arms around the corpse...yaknow, the one with the one-inch laser hole through his head...and proceeded to wail,

"No. NO! NO!! This can't be happening! Bruce come back! Bruce! Come Back! No! Bruce!"

She was dragged away by some bull-dyke in a uniform that had the same look in her eyes as every other guy in the room, only she acted on it first. The C.S.I. guys would have a hell of a time explaining the contamination of the crime scene to their boss - but hell, that wasn't my business. The Dame with the legs was my business.

So, like a dink, I followed the dyke cop that had my client in a headlock. I picked up her clutch as I walked past it, thinking she might want it later. I wasn't the kind of guy that would pick up a mini-schnauzer, besides, it was already sniffing at the shoes of the dead guy. Hell, the little rat would probably gnaw on the corpse if it had half a chance.

Anyways, I ended up in some parlor-side room, where the waterworks were already making a mess of her mascara. The dyke cop was making with the consoling, and I stood there for a bit, fiddling with her bag. Eventually, as I figured, she recovered a bit, and realized someone else was there. Vicki Valise looked up at me, and a look of realization hit her face. Between sniffles she practically yelled,

"See! You See! I hired you to protect him! Now look..." She let out a fairly convincing sob, "He's dead! A hell of a lot of good you did!"

I stood there and took it. What else could I do?

Then right out of the playbook, she sprung up, grabbed the flower vase on the side table, and threw it at me. I had good enough reflexes to dodge it, and it shattered against the wall. Flowers and water oozed down the wall behind me. She swayed there seething, and whispered,

"You killed him. You bastard."

I didn't really need this. I had a retainer that would cover my expenses for a while, and though I didn't like to leave a case like this, I wasn't helping matters any by being there. The dyke cop was a bit more shocked at what was happening than I was, so I said to her,

"Here's her bag."

I set Vicki's clutch on a chair next to me. "She's probably going to want it later. If you think there's anything to what she's just said," I made a gesture with my thumb over my shoulder at where I thought the kitchen would be, "Six guys in the other room have my information. I'm also in the internet."

I walked out of the room, not noticing anything else. I made my way through the mansion in a manly fashion, only getting turned around once, and ended up at the hoverpad. It was well past dark, and from where I was, the city was lit up to the horizon in awe inspiring grandeur and beauty. At that moment, however, I didn't give a rats ass about the city or anyone in it. Humanity could go fuck itself for all I cared.

I got around the four shiny black police cruisers that were parked around my rust-bucket, and got in. I fired it up, and the cockpit displays gave my eyes their information in blue LED light. The exterior beacons ran a red cone around the hover-pad, and the white strobe kicked in at two-second intervals making mirrors of the cop-cars around me. I jammed on the lifters to get the hell out of there.

I was up about five feet when the whole thing lost power, everything went back to night-black, and my hover-car dropped back to the pad. There was one thought in my brain. It was, "Damn."

I popped the hatch over the electrical systems, grabbed a flashlight, and got out of the darkened cockpit to have a look. In hindsight, I should have just walked as fast as I could away from that house, Vicki Valise, the whole scene, and called the impound lot two weeks later. A DMV hassle, towing fee, and impound fine would have been a gift compared to what happened next.

This is...really good

It's not pornographic per-se (tho there is boobies!) it's just super erotic. In one of those super-quiet rooms, a woman puts on clothes and you hear the way-amplified sound they make. It's not like you're unfamiliar with these sounds, it's just cool to have them so in-your-face.

(you gotta click on the picks to get to a quicktime recording)

Noir Tales...From The Future!

He was dead. And I was looking at the wound that killed him. Actually, I was looking through the wound that killed him...a one-inch laser hole burned right through his head. Even though the high-end killers had been using lasers for five years or so, it still caught me off-guard seeing the type of damage they did. Entry and exit holes exactly the same size, and the flesh in-between seared and cauterized so you could see the pattern of the hand made, and hand laid, Mexican tile he dropped dead on. Right through the hole in his head.

It happened in the kitchen. At least that's the word they used - even though any kitchen you've had personal experience with was about fifteen times smaller, and eighty times more practical. It was a room an architect designed to ooze "I'm too rich to ever cook." An interior designer had taken that theme, and ran with it. The things in the kitchen were selected for the off-hand chance a guest got lost in the house, and ended up there. They would be impress as hell. There was a computer interface in the coffee maker that told me the oven sold for three million retail. Seriously.

I thought to myself, "what the fuck does someone do with a three million dollar oven?" Of course the answer was, get lasered in the head and drop dead next to it - or should I say in-between it and your six million dollar walk-in refrigerator. Nobody would even notice the quarter-million dollar dishwasher fifteen yards away that offered hydrosonic cleaning technology, mass spectrometer linked to the computer (to ensure the best cleaning cycle for when you jammed Italian wine glasses, French porcelain plates and German cutlery in the same load), and U.V. bacteria and virus killing rays for every wash. I found that out from the interface on the cutting board after the C.S.I. team shooed me away from the coffee maker.

The cops all gave me dirty looks as I wandered around, but I was there on business, and they had no right to kick me out. The guy was the husband of my client, Vicky Valise, and she had hired me because she was worried about her husbands safety. Of course, you'd be right to say I wasn't very good at my job. But in my defense, I was hired only three hours before, didn't have a single lead to work on, and I spent an hour after that getting the oil changed on my beat-up flying car.

Anyways, she walked in wearing a red silk floral print blouse that wasn't buttoned up enough, a small Gucci clutch in one hand, and one of those mini-Schnauzer dogs in the other. The rest of her was wrapped in a short, tight, black mini-skirt, which let you know where her real assets were. There are legs, and then there are legs. She wore some sexy Steve Madden number on her feet with an understated bow that was a great excuse to start somewhere...if you were the kind of guy that needed an excuse to start somewhere when a woman wears a tight mini-skirt, and she's got a pair of legs that are, yaknow, legs that are legs.

Did I mention why I got into this business in the first place? We P.I.'s get to see a lot of legs.




(see what I did there? used the second of my "ways to begin" to start this little story! Totally works)

Ways to Begin

Here are some helpful ideas for starting your writing project...any of these will work just fine as your opening!

(using he/she/it)
She was
He was
It was

(using the ever popular "there")
There was
There were
There is

(using they/we)
They were
We were

(using time*)
Once upon a time
Yesterday
Today
*or any specific date in the past, usually prefaced with On, such as, "On January 13, 1078"

(Using my/her/his/their)
My dog/car/spaceship/horse/computer/apartment/(any person,place, or thing, really)
Her dog/car/spaceship/horse/computer/apartment/(any person,place, or thing, really)
His dog/car/spaceship/horse/computer/apartment/(any person,place, or thing, really)
Their dog/car/spaceship/horse/computer/apartment/(any person,place, or thing, really)

(using onomatopoeia?*)
Bang!
Crash!
Clank!
*Possible, but the author agrees with conventional wisdom that writers who use this opening are hacks.

Well there ya go! A few easy ways to get started...and thanks to this little post, literary (or internet) fame is right around the corner!