Remember that friend in the intelligence community who I turned on to “24?” He’s hooked. He did at least half of Season 1 yesterday.
Spy Guy via text: “this wasn’t the right show to watch when I have things to do!!”
But it got funner when he “dammitted” me: “DAMMIT DUDE I NEED TO TURN THIS OFF.” (Because spies have an abhorrence for commas.)
Wouldn’t it be funny if an intelligence professional were late for work because he stayed up watching “24?” I’m pretty sure that’s the definition of irony.
A … curious new trend on the Internet has been brought to my attention by Len Ornstein, and has been the source of some bemusement for a few Mary Washington College alumnae. Evidently, people are scanning and uploading yearbooks to the net? As I understand it, this is being done not by graduates or those depicted, but … just by random people who enjoy uploading yearbooks?
This strikes me as a totally random and bizarrely specific technology-related hobby. Then I remember arguing in the imdb.com chatrooms with 15-year-olds in Britain about the cultural implications of Wesley Snipes’ “Blade.” (The implications are more divisive than you might expect. That Brit Kid called me a “bellend.” Then everyone laughed at me on Facebook when I posted to ask what the term meant.)
At any rate, allow this to fuel your paranoia, as it has mine. Photos of you that were taken 20 years ago are now available via keyword search. Len, a schoolteacher in Arizona, had his mug brought to his attention by his students.
And if you suffer from the same apparent mutation that I do, pay attention to your mysteriously expanding head.
Exhibit A: Look at the first picture below, which is a page from the 1994 (?) Mary Washington College yearbook. Look at me in the top left corner. (Yes, I majored in psychology, and, no, the irony is not lost on me.) My head is small — and I mean TINY. I don’t think that this was a trick photography gag employed by the yearbook club, because Photoshop kind of wasn’t a thing yet. (My passing resemblance to Danger Mouse here is also a separate matter entirely.)
Exhibit B: Look at the second picture below, which was taken quite recently. My forehead is HUGE. I don’t have a receding hairline. I DON’T. But yet I cannot explain why my forehead appears to be growing at a geometric rate. Seriously, look at it. I should rent out space on that thing. It would go a long way toward supporting my poetry. This might be why Pete Buccellato (also the Class of 1994) has opined repeatedly that I look like “Guy Smiley” from Sesame Street.
I know that one of Green Lantern’s nemeses (Herman something …?) has a giant mutated cranium, but that developed with super-intelligence and telepathic abilities, neither of which I’ve seen evidence of in my life just yet. I keep telling myself that Morrisey also has a large forehead, and I’m pretty sure he gets all the girls, even if he blew it that time with Tori Amos.
Whatever. You can take your mind off your troubles by noting the affable face of a one Mr. Mike Merritt at the bottom right, with whom I am thankfully still friends. That smile informs us once again that he was a sublimely well adjusted kid. It was great knowing Mike back at school. I still remember encountering him on Campus Walk around The Fountain after partying in New Hall. If I was a bit deep in my cups, I would accost him with my endlessly repeated pun for his name: “Merritt Baaaaaaaaaadge!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” The law of diminishing returns apparently worked backward in my 20-year-old mind, because the joke just got funnier every time I hollered it.
In fact, if you are an alum in Virginia and you have occasion to see Mike, would you please yell it at him for me? That’d be just great.
Seriously. Dude has a full-time job in the intelligence community, and he’d never seen a single episode of the program.
So the joke always fell flat when I would call him on the phone and scream, “THERE’S NO TIME, JACK!!!!!!”
Last night he did a Season 1 marathon. And all because a chain-smoking liberal poet told him to.
“IRONY, CHLOE!!!”
Seriously. Like, right now. There are a ton of Payday wrappers down here. I thought I was the only one who was facing that challenge in life. (The first step is admitting you have a problem.) Also, that Mickey Mouse ankle sock you lost. (Tasteful.)
Don’t look so surprised. You knew I was a weirdo when you friended me on Facebook. And now I’ve used a public records search to find your house.
Please — nobody say “Yeah, but at least you’re out of the closet.” Because I’ve been getting a lot of those jokes lately, and I’m not sure how to respond to them. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.)
Seriously, though — what I mean is that I am a contributing writer for the May 2014 issue of Under The Bed Magazine, available at the link below for just $3.99. (And if you love the mag as much as I do, you might consider getting a subscription in which each issue is only $1.99.) My horror story is entitled “The Song of the Wheat,” and visits a dark, sprawling Kansas farm where children need never be lonely. For those of you who’ve enjoyed my science fiction-horror, this is my foray into supernatural horror. Think of it as an empiricist’s walk on the wild side.
I can’t describe how fun and cool it is to be able to contribute to Under The Bed. Check out the magazine’s caveat: “Under the Bed contains gruesome violence, adult situations, freaky sex, unconsequenced drug use, and stuff that will almost certainly give you nightmares. Under the Bed is intended for mature audiences. Keep out of reach of children. Please indulge responsibly.”
I am so pleased at the opportunity to work with Managing Editor Wednesday Lee Friday, and I am honored to see my story featured alongside Under The Bed’s talented other horror writers.
Enjoy!! 🙂
http://www.fictionmagazines.com/shop/u-t-b/under-the-bed-vol-02-no-08/
Pictured here is my sophomore year college roommate, Dave, celebrating International Star Wars Day. Perched on his back, quite capably instructing him in the ways of The Force, is his son, Dashiell. I am not sure why Dave also appears to be carrying a small Easter basket, though I might just return to Catholicism again if it were made known that Jedi hid the Easter eggs.
The photo arouses insecurity in me because *I* wanna be the sci-fi movie geek in this town (“this town” being the entire Internet — I’m prone to delusions of grandeur). And now I find out that my old roommie Dave has way better sci-fi flick fan street cred than I do. So I have a whole new mid-life crisis to contend with.
I actually HAVE done cosplay, after a fashion. For years, I purchased my suits for work based on what members of The Syndicate wore in “The X-Files.” Nobody picked up on how awesome I was being. To enhance the effect and better represent Mulder’s nemeses, I spoke vaguely and elliptically to every question asked of me at the office, to conceal a nefarious underlying motive. No one appreciated the flourish, because, let’s face it, I pretty much do that most the time anyway.
Oh, well. I wish Dave well in his fandom, even if I resent the way he’s outshined me here. One, he was a sublimely nice guy in college, and his good nature was an effective counterpoint for my budding sociopathy. He was also a smart fella. After my mother gave me a small used bookcase for academic purposes, it was Dave who suggested that we turn it sideways against the wall to turn it into a bar. Jedi, indeed.
Two, I am also not quite as into Star Wars as many of my friends are. When I roomed with Dave at the age of 19 at Mary Washington College, I was neck deep in an obsession with “2001: A Space Odyssey” — both Arthur C. Clarke’s novel and Stanley Kubrick’s film adaptation. Of course I annoyed my moral better by endlessly quoting the movie at him. (His name, after all, is DAVE.)
“Just what do you think you’re doing, Dave? Dave, stop. Stop, Dave, won’t you? WHY DON’T YOU TAKE A STRESS PILL AND RELAX.”
The harassment finally ended when Dave stopped one day, and gave me a long, hard look, suggesting the ass-kicking I never got but probably deserved since a week after classes started. He told me, “You are TOO into that movie.”
Oh, well. Happy Star Wars Day, everyone. And Dave? You are NOT too into that movie. You rock.
Head on over to “What I am Reading,” where 4-LAN the Friendly Book-Bot shared a very nice review for Dagda Publishing’s dystopian science fiction short story collection, “All Hail the New Flesh.” He was also kind enough to specifically mention my story in the anthology, “At the End of the World, My Daughter Wept Metal.”
The reviews at “What I Am Reading” are always fun to read, and it’s great being able to interact with other people via the blog who have so much enthusiasm for books. 4-LAN is rather affable for a machine — he is hell of a lot nicer than the Cylons who gave Starbuck and Adama so much trouble (especially that Leoben guy — it’s years later and I STILL get creeped out by the way he insisted on “playing house” with Starbuck).
Thanks for sharing, 4-LAN, and, once again, it’s terrific engaging with you and your friends at “What I Am Reading!”
http://thebookmarketingnetwork.com/profiles/blogs/what-i-am-reading-13
As much as I would like to succeed as a writer, my primary existential goal in life is to finally inform everyone that I am not, in fact, actor James Woods.
I’ve heard about the likeness since I was 16 or so, and even I can admit that the resemblance is quite strong. It is incredibly cool watching John Carpenter’s “Vampires” and seeing … myself fight the title monsters.
But I’m not him. Really.
Anyway, I do have Facebook friends who love to exacerbate my neuroses — here is a “separated at birth” -type comparison of me and the actor. My MOM initially couldn’t tell the difference, and asked why I “looked so funny in the second picture.”
Thanks, Mom.
Sigh.
Celebrate National Poetry Month — here is a link to my most popular poem to date, “Confession,” which was published in Dead Beats Literary Blog in October 2013. So many readers liked this one. Just last night I was chatting with a friend in Las Vegas who is a voice actor — he told me that he is actually making a recording of the poem, and will share his own reading of it when he’s created a recording that he’s happy with.
I was initially surprised at the positive reader feedback for “Confession.” The first people I’d shown it to after writing it disliked it; the first publisher to which I’d submitted it emphatically rejected it. Its critical message and sexual imagery are not for everyone.
I remain grateful to Dead Beats for sharing it, and to their readers for letting me know that this piece indeed has a receptive audience. (Dead Beats is such a terrific publisher for edgier or darker poetry.) And thanks, of course, to the generous readers who occasionally drop me a note to let me know they liked the poem.
http://www.deadbeats.eu/post/63481494199/confession-by-eric-robert-nolan
Shown below is the pedestrian bridge over Route 1 in Fredericksburg, Virginia, linking Mary Washington College’s main campus with … a student apartment complex now? There are those of us who remember when Giant Supermarket occupied that space, along with a huge crafts store that was popular with the girls, and a Domino’s Pizza managed by none other than my great old friend and alumnus, Sanjeev Malhotra.
You know what makes a guy feel old? Seeing photos of his alma mater and noting the bridge and buildings that he cannot recognize because they have been erected in his absence. Thank you, Janet Walbroehl Winston and Russell Morgan, for adding to my insecurities by sharing these pictures.
The second photo down is of Virginia Hall, which housed Freshmen women when I attended school. I and my friend Jeff once went Christmas caroling there … in April. “Milwaukee’s Best” beer was a contributing factor in our holiday spirit, which was lively and well intentioned, if not timely. If that cheap beverage was truly Milwaukee’s best, I shudder to think of what the city’s worst might have tasted like. Hell, even its average might have been poison.
The third photo down is of Trinkle Hall. It is here where I took Philosophy 101 with Dr. Cynthia M. Grund, an immeasurably talented educator who often employed science fiction films and books as a starting point for discussing philosophical concepts. I first read Philip K. Dick’s “Do Androids Dream Of Electric Sheep” under Dr. Grund’s guidance, and watched and first gained a genuine understanding of Ridley Scott’s “Blade Runner.” The class was pure fun, enhanced by a wonderfully creative educational approach — it was one of my favorites.
Dammit … now I am hungry for Domino’s Pizza.
The bridge over Route 1.
Virginia Hall.
Trinkle Hall.
Ball Hall.
Chandler Hall with Virginia Hall at right?
Had a list of considered titles for the sequel to “The Dogs Don’t Bark In Brooklyn Any More;” ran them past my Girl Friday.
Her response?
“No. No. No. NO.”
So, in other words, my early creative efforts have met with hearty approbation.
You can’t say she isn’t concise.
Eric Robert Nolan, Author 