The field research team made it back safely from the Blasted Hellscape of the D/FW Metroplex with nary a scratch nor a scuff, and even the traffic was comparatively mild. I have it on good authority that the bands of chrome-faced road warriors and all of the delusional rednecks who are convinced they belong in a NASCAR race don’t start appearing on I-35 (aka “Fury Road”) until mid-March, so that’s to our advantage, I suppose.
The other option would be for everyone in the Metroplex to stop driving like they are playing for the high score in Spy Hunter and slow the hell down and stop zooming around the cars who are moving slower than you—slower being relative, since it’s not uncommon to see traffic moving along at a brisk 75 mph, only to be thwarted by some rando—Jason Bourne, apparently—who is weaving in and out of traffic at no less than 95 miles an hour. But that’s crazy talk, right, expecting other people in moving cars to be, you know, considerate.
Driving in Dallas always makes me feel like Sheriff Buford T. Justice, screaming in impotent rage at Burt Reynolds from the side of the road. That would be okay, too, but it’s never Burt Reynolds in a Pontiac, is it? No, it’s some chucklehead in a Kia Sorrento, which is diametrically opposite the Bandit in every conceivable metric.
FenCon XIX
This is one of my favorite local conventions. As a “regional guest” (which is convention-speak for “someone who will come talk that we don’t have to pay”) I have always enjoyed the people who put on the convention as well as the regular attendees, and this year was no exception. The con took a long pause to move venues and dates, slotting into the mid-February position previously occupied by the erstwhile ConDFW, a feat that took 18 months to pull off. As such, there’s always that little hitch when annual events try to shake things up, but that didn’t keep things from running smoothly and with no incidents or kerfuffles.
The North Texas Apocalypse Bunker was on hand, ready to trade for canned rations and shells and pelts. Instead, people just gave us money. We, in turn, gave most of the visitors to the table a goblin name, generated from the random tables in Gobsmack! Everyone had a ball rolling d20s and getting a name tag they invariably stuck to the back of their convention badges. I daresay we were one of the “things to do” in the dealer’s room.
We also kicked off phase two of the Literary Repatriation Project, whereby the Bunker Library’s surplus books are deaccessioned and then released into the wild—at random, no less—so that they would not end up in a landfill or sitting on the Buy Table at Half-Price Books for twenty-five cents. The books are a mix of odds and ends from Larry McMurtry’s legendary bookstore, Booked Up, Inc. and the overages and doubles (or triples) from our combined libraries. Who knows what you’ll get! And the book are all registered at Book Crossing, so you can continue their journey or keep them for yourself, either way. Did you get a weird, random book from us? Post a picture in the comments!
Of course, the regional conventions are where a lot of pros gather to talk shop, drink, laugh, and inevitably take on more work as they agree to do things at the bar that they otherwise would beg off, citing too many deadlines to begin with. Only, it’s harder to do that when the guy from your writing group is pitching you this new idea and he’s so stoked about it, and dammit, you want to be stoked, too, so you say yes. That’s how they get you.
Nevertheless, I’ve got a wide circle of fellow writers and artists in Texas and Oklahoma, and we all try to make time for each other after normal convention hours, hanging out at the bar or the lounge. My only regret is not having enough time to hang out with everyone. It’s occasionally stressful for me, because I genuinely like people and try to be a good friend in that respect, but I feel like I’m always letting someone down by not going to eat with them, or only chatting in passing as we walk to panels and other programming obligations.
Dune Part 2
I’m on the record as being not at all a fan of Denis Villeneuve, which makes the debut of Dune Part 2 even more depressing, and what’s worse, everyone is raving about it. Just like they did with Dune Part 1 and his god-awful Blade Runner sequel. I tried to watch Dune Part 1 three times—the first two times I fell asleep within 30 minutes, and I forced myself to finish it the third time. I don’t remember anything about it.
Granted, I’m not a Dune fan to begin with. I read the book; it was in my formative years, and I remember thinking that David Lynch sure took a lot of liberties with his movie, which I found much more watchable, by the way. A lot of people I know love the book and consider it one of their all-time favorites. I don’t share their enthusiasm, but I don’t begrudge it, either. I don’t like being the negative guy in the room, and I’m really over being a contrarian hipster and being the only one who thinks exactly the opposite of what everyone else thinks.
Still, I will watch it, all two hours and fortyfive minutes of the damn thing. I’m not hopeful, but I would love to be wrong about this, I really would. I will give up three hours so that when I write my scathing review of a six-hour two-part movie, I will bat away that initial softball pitch of criticism and say, “Yeah, I watched it. Twice.” Stay tuned, I suppose.
Mail Call
I’m fortunate to have a number of people in my life who, for no particular reason, just up and send me things in the mail from time to time. Some of these people are fellow creatives and fans and others are old friends I don’t get to see very often. Also, being somewhat out “in public” as I am, my passions and peccadillos are laid out there for everyone to see, it creates a “saw this and thought of you” situation.
This is both terribly flattering and, occasionally, baffling, as well. I’ve gotten stuff from people and thought, “Really? This reminded you of me?” Things like banana scented soap in the shape of a monkey. My only takeaway from that was that I need to bathe more, and this fun shape would be encouraging, like how you trick a toddler into eating vegetables.
The vast majority of these surprise packages are just the opposite—jaw-droppingly cool, or weirdly interesting, or some combination of the two. Take this, for example.
My good friend James sent this to me, most likely rescued from an Ohio thrift shop. This was a title I’d not seen before, but the cover is wonderful, both front and back. The story inside feels like it was written by someone trying to sell hunting rifles—lots of focus on what they are using to hunt elusive beasts. Not a worldview I endorse, to say the least, but as an artifact and a weird comic, it’s two thumbs up. Thanks, James!
Weekly Report from the N.T.A.B. Division of Media Review
Note: we in the DMR would like to be very clear about this: even though the administrator has admitted, in writing, that he is horribly biased against the brilliant director Denis Villeneuve and his incredible body of work, we intend to watch the forthcoming movie with alacrity in our hearts and do our earnest best to provide you with a review that is both accurate and actionable. More on this next week.
Mr. & Mrs. Smith (Amazon Prime)
Two strangers are paired up by a mysterious organization to do spy stuff. Their cover is simple—they are married. But navigating an intimate life with a stranger and also a working partner has its own challenges that keep them both wondering who’s who and what’s what.
Donald Glover and Maya Erskine might not seem like an obvious match up, but both of them have comedic chops (from Community and PEN15, respectively) and frankly, the two of them and their chemistry help spackle over a lot of awkwardness and nerve-wracking apprehension in the first few episodes. I’ve only seen Erskine in PEN15 so I don’t know her range, but she has been really great in the first four episodes. As for Glover, well, I’m suspicious of anyone who says they don’t like him, regardless of their reasoning, because I think he’s a serious triple threat, and this series lets him show off all of his skills.
Mr. & Mrs. Smith might draw a comparison to The Americans, a show about two Russian agents forced into being married so as to be deep undercover, and all of the complications that the two separate relationships cause. That isn’t completely unfair, but most of those earmarks are found in the first three episodes, whereupon it seems to settle into territory that the original film explored. It’s enjoyable for being a light-to-medium weight espionage that is also heavy on character interaction. There’s also an undercurrent of suspense in the fact that both of these people, whom we find charming and interesting, were picked for a mission where they’d have to do dangerous stuff and cut off all ties with their other lives—which they willingly do. Makes you wonder when and if that bill is going to come due. Definitely worth a look, so long as you don’t expect it to be exactly like the movie.
Did not expect to have the Spyhunter theme as an earworm this morning, but here we are. One of my favorite games at the arcade. I should probably also start randomizing all the decisions in my life. You know, to mix things up a little bit.
As a fellow denizen of the DFW hellscape, my idea of hell would be being trapped on 635 for all of eternity and every other car is either an Altima with a paper plate and no insurance or an F-250 that has never gone off road and had its hi beams on.