You can’t go ROM again

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One of my childhood thrills was going to the Royal Ontario Museum (ROM) in Toronto, and by childhood, I mean lifelong, never-too-old eternal childhood. Visiting those familiar hallways and displays has always been like wrapping myself in a comfortable blanket of love.

Until yesterday.

I spent 3.5 hours wandering many of those same exhibits with my camera and left somewhat depressed. So much of that familiar charm feels gone or is relegated to a back corner of the hallowed halls.

Back in 2007, as part of the museum’s revitalization and expansion program, the ROM unveiled The Crystal, which the museum describes as:

“Considered to be one of the most challenging construction projects in North America for its engineering complexity and innovative methods, the Lee-Chin Crystal is composed of five interlocking, self-supporting prismatic structures that co-exist but are not attached to the original ROM building, except for the bridges that link them.”

Depending on whom you ask, this structure is either the most beautiful addition to Toronto architecture ever or the biggest monstrosity of ill-conceived architectural hubris.

I tend to fall into the latter category, as the addition feels like something that was slapped onto the old façade rather than something that is an organic extension of the pre-existing structure. And to make matters worse, although there has been some nod to design on the outside of the building, the inside still displays unfinished work that looks like particle board held together with visible screws and grated flooring. Only the lack of builders’ chalk marks signal that this is not a work in progress but rather is the final product.

But back to my depression.

As I ate lunch in the ROM cafeteria, I realized that I hadn’t been through a couple old familiar displays, including the old dinosaur dioramas that I loved as a child. Flipping through the museum guide, I suddenly realized: they were gone. The dinos of the Crystal were all that remained. A significant part of my childhood was gone.

Sigh.

Of the 170+ photos I took yesterday, I will likely only keep a dozen or so…and of that dozen, I may only be happy with 2 or 3.

Apparently, the camera was willing but the spirit was gone.

 

Additional note: While I am unlikely to wander the ROM’s halls much in the future, I will still visit on occasion when a new exhibit comes to town. The present show—Wildlife Photographer of the Year—is stunning.

The day I killed my friend

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I’ve had bad days throughout my life. Watching loved ones get hospitalized. Attending funerals and giving eulogies. The break-up of my marriage. Suffering pain from illness. But none of them compare to the day I killed my friend.

Before I go any further, this isn’t a drunk driving story. This wasn’t an accident with a hand gun. This wasn’t a childhood dare gone wrong. All of those would be horrific and I count myself fortunate never to have experienced anything remotely like that.

This was the day I euthanized my beloved collie Rebel.

Rebel had started life as my family’s pet, a puppy we bought from a breeder friend of ours. Although he was a thoroughbred who won his modest share of ribbons, he was a pet first, show dog second. As my mother’s living arrangements changed, she could not take Rebel to her new apartment and so I became his host (we both knew he was the master).

He lived with me for several years in my boxy one-bedroom apartment while I did my graduate training, spending almost as much time with my grandparents who lived in the same building, as he did with me. He was a constant companion for my grandfather throughout the day, and my roommate throughout the evening and morning.

Eventually, I bought a house not far from my grandparents, which was a bit of an adjustment for me and an even bigger adjustment for Rebel, who now spent his days on his own. When I got home from then work, he would be waiting anxiously by the door, doing his best to wag his tail while keeping his legs crossed to keep from urinating.

In the evenings, while I would read or listen to music, he would lie by my side. While cooking dinner, he would sprawl across the kitchen floor, a perpetual tripping hazard. And when I would sleep, he would take up two-thirds of the bed, preferring to sleep diagonally so that I learned to sleep with my feet dangling off the bed.

And when he wasn’t sleeping on the bed, snoring in my ear, I could find him sleeping with his head in my closet. It took me quite some time to figure that one out, but eventually I realized he was sleeping on my discarded clothes that awaited a trip to the laundry. He was immersed in my scent, which made him hardier than most people I knew. His security blanket was my old jeans.

As with all of us, pets grow older, and soon, Rebel was unable to make it up the stairs to the bedroom. Accidents increased as no doubt his anxiety increased, and I found myself spending more nights on my couch than in my bed…we had a partnership, after all.

Eventually, though, my life grew more complicated and it was getting increasingly difficult to get home in a timely manner. As ashamed of it as I am, Rebel became less of a priority. There were times I considered him a burden. But he was my friend. My beloved companion.

I wish I could say I made the appointment with the vet because Rebel had a fatal or severely debilitating illness. I wish I could say that I merely wished to put him out of his misery and that his cries in the night were from something other than loneliness and confusion.

I can’t.

The appointment was made more for me than for him.

I was fortunate to have a friend staying with me on the day of the appointment. He drove Rebel and me to the vet’s and waited outside.

I lifted Rebel onto the metal table, and while he never much liked the gripless surface, he settled quickly. The vet came in and had me sign some forms, and then as Rebel lie quietly, the vet injected him.

I stayed with Rebel throughout the final moments. All I could do was cry and tell him how sorry I was. Rebel didn’t flinch, never moved, never whined. He merely stopped breathing.

I waited a few minutes with him, knowing any attempt to pull myself together was futile. I didn’t want to leave and I couldn’t stay.

Eventually, I made my way out of the examining room and handed Rebel’s leash and brush to the vet’s assistant. They understood…the bill would be sent later.

My friend took me home and plied me with food and beer as I wept on the front porch all night.

The next day at work, I started the day as usual reading the Toronto Star comics, but today was different. I got to Lynne Johnston’s strip For Better or For Worse…the day beloved sheepdog Farley died saving the daughter April from a river. Within two frames, I could see what was coming and I wept. This was definitely for worse.

To this day, I feel the guilt of my decision. To this day, I want to apologize to my mother and to my brother Scott, who was particularly close to Rebel, for my selfish decision.

And rare is the day that I do not wish I could hear the gentle snoring of Rebel next to the couch or feel his chin resting on my lap as I read.

His photo sits on my bedroom dresser as a reminder of a love I have not experienced since.

 

Earlier today, an acquaintance of mine put down his beloved friend of several years, in this case, because of inoperable and untreatable cancer. My friend is hurting in ways he may never have thought possible and my thoughts go out to him, and to anyone else who has been through a similar experience.

I wish I could say, 18 years later, that the pain goes away. What I can say is that the loving memories remain.

Do you feel a draft? It’s time to revise your manuscript

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Because the only thing more tedious than a reblog is a reblog of a reblog, but at least this time, it is someone else’s voice (although in fairness, I have never heard Ned speak, so he may actually use my voice).

Ned's Blog's avatarNed's Blog

Do you feel a draft? Hey, it’s Friday! What? Still not good enough? What if I also told you it’s time for Ned’s Nickel’s Worth on Writing! Okay fine. But it’s still Friday and you should be happy. I know I am. Especially after Publisher’s Weekly recently called my Nickel’s Worth “…writing tips that are worth every penny, unless you factor in the cost of inflation.” So we obviously both have a lot to be thankful for today. However, before we get to this week’s NWOW, I’d like to point out how the image accompanying this post is…

Uhhh ladies? Eyes over here please.

Thank you. As I was saying, the image is one I’m sure many of you remember — some in amazing detail. Although my wife still isn’t completely convinced, I’d like to clarify those are not my actual cheeks. Sorry. But as a journalist, I felt the need to explain that…

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Focus – a 400th blog entry

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400 celebration monument

Well, it has taken about 10 months, but I have managed to reach my 400th blog entry. Now, admittedly, a few of these were reposts from someone else’s blogs, but the majority were the ramblings of li’l ol’ me.

So, first, thank you all for your patience and support. You have been victim of a seemingly ceaseless assault of verbal and visual abuse that bordered on the ludicrous with two or more posts as day for several months.

But, second, you may have noticed I have slowed down in that onslaught for the past month or so. I promise, it is not for lack of ideas but more for volume and variety of media with which I deal on a daily basis. And it is this volume that has had me thinking lately (and I hate thinking).

I have spread myself too thin…I am trying to do too many things such that I don’t know that I’m doing anything. Thus, for the next little while, at least, I am going to focus my efforts on just a few projects that I think will have the greatest impact.

This is not a resolution—I don’t do those anymore—but an admission that if I don’t finalize something, I will never get out of the basement apartment and will perpetually be tied to my previous careers as sources of $$$.

So, my completion priorities for early 2014 (in no particular order):

  1. Re-evaluate, rewrite and sell/option my screenplay Tank’s.
  2. Rewrite and sell/option my Santa screenplay The Naughty List (working title).
  3. Establish a screenplay reading/coverage service to make money now!
  4. Generate a book on creativity and writing from my blog entries.

That last one was actually one of the motivating factors for creating the blog in the first place…to finally make myself write down my thoughts, experiences and understanding of the creative process with particular focus on writing. This is not to say the postings will disappear from my blog, but my plan is to assemble the most salient ones, with editing, into a book format for sale.

For all of those with whom I am working on projects not listed above as a priority, I have not forsaken you and will continue to work on those projects…just not as a top priority. I can only hope you understand (and suspect you all will).

And again, to my blog followers, I thank you for your patronage and hope to continue to amuse, intrigue or stimulate you…just at a more leisurely pace for both of us.

Love to you all…Randy

From perspective to perception

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A railway track is perspective trying to make a point

A railway track is perspective trying to make a point

What makes your writing unique from all others is your perspective, the way thoughts, words and actions are interpreted in your mind.

If 10 people witness the same collision between two cars, each one will recount a slightly varied story from another. Some may gauge the speeds of the vehicles differently or not remember the same car braking first.

Less what you remember and more how you remember is influenced consciously and unconsciously by your personal experiences, your beliefs and your moods. As good a reason as any for the police and court system not to rely on a single eye witness account whenever possible.

The same is true for your writing.

Although our imaginations give us some ability to write fanciful stories and characters outside our day-to-day scope, a close examination of our oddest creations will show that they are largely reinterpretations of things we have read or experienced in other stories.

Dragons, for example, are likely an amalgamation of flying raptors (e.g., eagles), strange lizards (e.g., monitors) and giant fossilized remains that humans have dug up for millennia. How else to explain the similarity of a T. rex skull and monitor lizards?

How to make a dragon with 3 simple ingredients!

How to make a dragon with 3 simple ingredients!

At the same time, it was the unique experience of these three factors in combination that may have resulted in the first dragon description. A truly unique perspective.

To consider it another way, think on the meaning of perspective in the visual arts:

The art of drawing solid objects on a two-dimensional surface so as to give the right impression of their height, width, depth, and position in relation to each other when viewed from a particular point.

Giving the right impression of [facts]…from a particular point [of view].

But what if you changed that point of view?

3-Point Perspective

Changing perspectives is perhaps the easiest way to approach cliché writing and makes the predictable unexpected.

If you want to tell a love story that is essentially Romeo & Juliet, tell it from the perspective of rival street gangs in New York. Oh, but wait; they already made that one.

Then how about from the perspective of fish in a pet shop and instead of rival families, it is the divide between fresh and salt water? Crazy, hunh? (NOTE: I already wrote this one, so please go write something else.)

The same holds true whether you’re considering an entire story, a single scene, an individual line of dialogue or a character trait.

How might the floor of a dance club look if you changed your perspective from that of an evening reveller to that of an observer seated on a ceiling rafter? Probably like one of those wild life documentaries describing the mating habits of some ridiculous animal.

Or what might your backyard “look” like if your only sense was touch?

By changing your perspective in even the smallest of ways (you don’t have to blind yourself), you can dramatically alter your perception of the world.

So, the next time you find yourself stuck for an idea or facing a cliché moment in your writing, try looking at your world upside-down or through another character’s eyes.

Take a new perspective and you’ll reach a whole new point.

(Drawing is property of owner and is used here without permission because I take a different perspective on these things.)

Irish Eyes

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fassbender-guinness-commercial_01182012_192420

A few weeks back, I wrote a stupid opening line to a story that was never written. A friend of mine was intrigued and suggested that each of us should write a story based on that opening line. Below is my version.

 

That human semen would curdle when added to a pint of Guinness was not a fact that Jeffrey ever thought he would learn.

“Well, are you going to drink it or do you give up?” Tom asks, a shit-eating grin halving his face.

Jeffrey just stared at the glass, watching small white chunks rise and drop beneath the head. Impossible, he knew, but he swore he could see the individual sperm, wriggling through the darkness in drunken ecstasy.

“That’s nasty,” Jeffrey mutters under his breath. “And it’s a shitty way to treat a Guinness.”

“What did you think was in an Irish Blowjob?” Tom retorts.

“Baileys! Whipped cream! Something normal,” Jeffrey decries.

“So, you’re not going to drink it?”

Jeffrey swirls the glass a couple of times before sliding it away and flopping back in his chair.

“That can’t be legal,” he fumes. “It’s got to be a health hazard.

Tom shakes his head as he takes another long draw of his own pint.

“I don’t even know whose spunk it is,” Jeffrey adds.

“Would it help if I told you?”

“No.”

“Then what does it matter?”

Jeffrey runs a fork through the glass, trying to scoop out the floaters, but all he does is break them into smaller pieces that quickly dissipate in the murky fluid.

“What if he had hepatitis or AIDS?”

“Then you’ve already been infected from the five other drinks you’ve ordered.”

Jeffrey’s eyes widen and his chin drops.

Tom simply nods, as Jeffrey turns to the bar tended by a bronzed Adonis.

“Luis?” Jeffrey says to himself, his tone a church-like hush.

“I guess if you want to get technical about it, it’s an Irish-Costa Rican Blowjob,” Tom smiles, adding a raised eyebrow. “Mui caliente!”

Jeffrey wrinkles his nose in disgust but continues to stare at Luis.

“Look, if you’re not going to drink it, I will,” Tom snaps, grabbing the glass as Jeffrey wheels about.

“Throw it out!”

“Fuck that,” Tom responds. “Cum or no cum, it’s a Guinness.”

And with that, he tilts his head back and practically pours the pint down his throat. Jeffrey is mesmerized despite his revulsion.

Tom slams the empty glass on the table, running his tongue across his foamy lips.

“The man knows how to pull a pint,” Tom says appreciatively. “A little salty, but nice and thick.”

He smiles at Jeffrey and then rolls his eyes.

“Oh would you fucking grow up,” he yells. “It tasted like a Guinness. Everything in Guinness tastes like Guinness.”

Jeffrey turns back to the bar, staring without staring.

“How do you think he does it?”

“Going out on a limb here, but I assume the same way you do it,” Tom whispers conspiratorially, motioning with his wrist. “You do do it, don’t you?”

“No, I… Yes, I do it,” Jeffrey blusters. “I meant, how do you think he preps the drink? Not exactly a ton of privacy back there.”

As his words dissipate, he sees Luis pressed against the bar, smiling at a customer.

A movement catches Jeffrey’s eye, as Donna, the bar’s chef, suddenly appears from beneath the counter, sliding up Luis’s leg.

She puts a can of Clamato on the bar.

“You suck,” Jeffrey complains, rounding on Tom. “You have totally ruined this bar for me.”

“I didn’t tell you to order that drink,” Tom protests his innocence.

“But you knew what was it in when I ordered it,” Jeffrey presses.

“Maybe you wanted to explore your latent homosexual tendencies.”

“I don’t have any latent homosexual tendencies,” Jeffrey responds. “I’m gay. All of my homosexual tendencies are the opposite of latent.”

“Active?” Tom offers. “Flagrant? Flamboyant?”

“Okay, now you’re just being an asshole,” Jeffrey snarls, rising to his feet and pocketing his phone.

Tom jumps up and puts a hand on Jeffrey’s shoulder.

“C’mon. We’re just having a bit of fun,” he placates. “I’m sorry. I should have said something. I just thought…”

Jeffrey raises his eyebrows as if to ask “really?”

Tom throws his hands up.

“You’re right, I didn’t think at all.”

Tom plunks back into his chair and points to the one across from him.

“Please sit. I’ll buy the next round and I promise, no novelty drinks.”

Jeffrey reluctantly drops his coat on his chair and sits, as the waitress arrives.

“Another round?” she asks.

“Dos Dos Equis,” Tom says, looking for a nod from Jeffrey, who does.

“You guys ordering food, as well?”

Tom waits for Jeffrey, who considers the menu.

His face lights up.

“Hey, Donna’s egg drop soup!”

Tom slowly raises a hand in protest.

(Image is property of owner and is used here without permission because I’ve had too much Guinness.)