10 Minute Rule

I climbed out of the bush and looked back across the East River. The only evidence of my swift passage was a ripple in the water that, if I looked at it long enough, took on a vaguely humanoid shape. I signed a quick thank you to the form as it retreated back across the water. The next thing I did was to carefully remove the bags, making sure to get as little water on my suit as possible. The place along the river where I landed doubled as a park of sorts; mostly a lookout where people ran too using a dirt path underlaid with concrete in case weather conditions made the dirt unmanageable. All city parks were like that. They had a very natural look on the surface, but that look was crafted and curated and lined with enough artificial material that the park’s corporate owners could attest to park safety in case of lawsuit. Manhattan was like that in general.

I’d landed north of the Manhattan Bridge in an area sometimes referred to as the Pit. The area was slowly being torn down and rebuilt–gentrified in the same way old Harlem was transformed into Newtown and the people who look like me were pushed to the outer boroughs. I started up the steep road towards civilization, making sure I looked the part as I went. The Pit was a reconstruction area, but the parts that already were rebuilt represented the latest in technology and surveillance corporate scrip could buy. I’d be noticed sooner than later, and I needed to make sure I blended right in.

It took me ten minutes to slide into the flow of foot traffic on the east side. The streets felt like canyons due to the number of skyrakers packed closely together and jutting high into the morning sky. It was a wonder the city hadn’t collapsed on itself. It was an Island, after all, and what I knew of the underground suggested that most of the earth beneath the city was hollowed out up to nearly half a mile down.

Nobody paid me any notice, which was good. Time was running short for me to get to the appointment early. I wanted to case the place before I did.

I want to start by saying I’ve long been a fan of the Fast and Furious series. I came by it early on and loved the early interplay between Brian and Dom. I felt they worked hard to keep the memory of the actor and the character alive throughout. Vin Diesel believes in that kind of thing. Heck, he named his real daughter Pauline after Paul Walker. Is Diesel a good dude? I don’t know. Does he make good films? No. Does he make fun films. Usually. Is this one of them? Kind of, at least for a little while.

Fast 9 suffers from the bigger and better syndrome that impacts all blockbuster sequels. You can’t go small again… at least in theory. The promise and premise of 9 was a trip back to the roots of the franchise and we do get all of that raw early F1-esque storytelling through a series of extended flashbacks that introduce Dom’s brother, played by John Cena. Here is where we start to run into serious problems. For whatever reason, Cena is hard to take seriously as a tough guy. Maybe its the way he moves, or his comedic film history or the wrestling past. I don’t know what it is about the actor, but he’s not the guy who makes anyone say, yeah, he’s a tough guy bad ass. To quote a line directed at him in Trainwreck, “You not about that life.”

I didn’t believe it. I didn’t believe anything. My willing suspension of disbelief, key to any film enjoyment and key to staying locked into the story, vanished in the first 10 minutes. I mean entirely gone gone gone. Want a car that goes the distance in under 10? F9 is where to find it. Want a plot that falls apart in under 10? Same place.

All that being said, there is a great deal of fan service throughout, most of which seems to have been boiled up from the deepest fantasies of writer and director Justin Lin, whose character Han, was in his first film A Better Tomorrow, and continues through this film, defying death.

Go watch it on the big screen if you are in the market for big senseless action scenes that defy logic. Or, wait for the Bond movie. At least that will have those scenes in a ‘making sense’ variety.

I blame Dorothy.

No, I’m being serious here. I saw the Wizard of Oz. Everyone did in some version. It is where we get our concept of what tornadoes look like if we haven’t had the misfortune of seeing them in real life. When Jack conjures mana and calls upon the spirits of the rivers and the ocean to aid him he does so based on his mental representation of how that drek looks. To Jack it looks like the Wizard of Oz. Guess who I am in that scenario?

In a matter of seconds I was whipping across the East River like the ice cream sloshing around in the middle of a frothy cone of dark water. It was small enough that it slipped the notice of anyone who was directly paying attention. He cast a low fog over the water to further aid the illusion of invisibility. Inside the swirling water tornado (there’s an actual name for such things, isn’t there?) I was desperate to cling on to something but painfully aware that there was nothing to cling onto. So I wrapped my arms tightly around myself and tried very hard not to scream.

Being an off the books detective is not an easy life.

I landed in a bush. In reality I landed on a bed of pressed leaves and padding disguised to look like a bush just below the highway that runs along the edge of the FDR drive.

Did you know it has been 10 seasons since the Giants won the Super bowl? I’m reminded of this because they are reminding me. They are releasing merch and planning a 10 yr anniversary celebration on Oct. 17th when they host the Rams. Why? I guess because a generation of fans have no clue that the giants were a winning team. To be honest, none of my kids remember it. None of them were all that into pro football (or any football for more than half of them) when it went down. I was. I still am. I still think it is really sad that they need to remind all of us that they won once upon a time.

Ten years. Have they even seen the playoffs in the last decade? There was that wildcard back in 16′ half the distance, temporally, from the big win. Maybe they hope to cast a new light on the team and new hope that we can win right now… or at least get to the playoffs. But can we (they)?

The short answer is yes. The division is junk and they were an Eagles surrender away from making it as is. I expect all four squads to be better, but I fully expect Dallas to struggle in the run as a result of the coaching style, and that was their strength. The improved secondary for the G-men should allow our line to get back there enough to at least split with the Cowboys, and the strength of schedule favors our style of play more than theirs. I can be surprised still. The Washington Football Team (whose perspective list of names includes bombs such as, Anchors, Archers, Beacons, Griffins, Redwolves, Razorbacks, Swifts, Wayfarers, and 32FC) is a hot mess of potential. They found a solid QB and they have a rising defense, but honestly, I think the poor media coverage is where they sink or swim. Either they band together against the coming hate (those names tho…32FC? WTF-C!) or they collapse beneath it. Lets not forget the culture of the team and office has already been in question and nobody is really talking about all the crap that needs to be cleaned up from the top down. As for the Eagles? No. They suck. Full stop.

All of that being said, I’m saying we have a chance to do more than just celebrate that time we won… back before the world moved on and our poor play let it.

Some Thoughts:

1. This website is not free. I’m reminded of that each time that massive Site5 bill rolls out…

When you hear ‘Shaman’ do you think of an old school medicine man with feathers in his long black hair and caramel skin. Do you imagine him in a loincloith or maybe a tophat? You’re definitely a racist. Jack is caucasian and would probably be mistaken for a bum on a good day, a corpse on any other. He’s a pale fellow and his skin has a sickly sheen that reminds me of someone who drowned a long time ago and was left in the water after. He’s skinny though–not bloated at all. He was in fact wearing a top hat. Some things from the very old days don’t go away. Jack was shirtless today, his chest a grafitti board of tattoos, each of which had some special meaning to him. He was wearing what I refer to as hobo pants. They were brown from lack of washing and had at least six pockets all overflowing with what looked like junk. I knew from experience that these were fetishes; infused trinkets he used in order to summon his spirits and spells.

Jack greeted me with a friendly, “Hoi, chummer. Come to ride the tide?”

I nodded in response, my expression tight with anticipation. We were standing in what used to be a shoreside park on the edge of the river facing Manhattan Isle. There were a few homeless people poking their heads out of the boxes and tents that turned this park into a makeshift village. It was early enough that having a visitor, especially one in a suit, was unusual. Jack had worked this spot for a long time, so as soon as they saw me talking to him they went back about their business–whatever that was.

“Just the one this time, neh?”

“Yeah, but I need it clean, so ka?” I gestured towards my suit.

He made a tsk tsk sound and dug in one of his many pockets. He pulled out two clear garbage bags and unraveled them. Then he handed them to me. I stepped into the first and cinched it around my waist. I stuck my head through the second but hesitated before I pulled the second over my body. “Same account?”

“Always, omae.”

I typed in a code into my commlink. That number transferred funds to a private account. I always fantasized that Jack’s account fed the dozen or so people that lived in this tiny park come makeshift community. For all I knew he could be stashing the money away for a rainy day or even a quick getaway to parts unknown. Heck, he could have a woman or a kid somewhere he was feeding nuyen to. I’d always wanted to ask, but there are lines you don’t cross when you need the person on the other side of them.

He seemed to know the transaction went through and nodded in appreciation. He said, “On to it then.” He squatted down cross-legged as I finished cinching the top bag around myself. It wouldn’t keep me completely dry during the coming experience, but it was better than nothing.

“Here goes nothing.” I said, and we went.

I’ll get back to the Bloganovella tomorrow. I’ve been thinking a lot about the new story I’m working on; how I’m outlining a chapter a day in the way I did with the last one and expecting to go back through the thing again and again–also as I did with the last one. I believe this process works for me. It is hard, because I don’t quite know what I want this story to be. I wrote a very pretty 1000 wd opening scene and now I have the weight of that to carry forward throughout this thing. Only, I only had that one full scene and the rest is glimpses like the space of a blink only when I close my eyes I see the world of this story and I love what I see.

I’m trying to move towards writing more and more in this fashion. I am trying to give more of myself to the words and the worlds and to create as much as I can and see what sticks. As part of the writing time I started a folder of short stories that included the place keeper for a short version of this novel and I don’t really even know what that would look like. I am excited by that. I am hoping to see my aspirations made material.

Some Thoughts:

1. So, here we are on a monday and at the start of this new week I feel refreshed and happy and as if the world around me doesn’t hate me so much right now.
2. Knock on wood, right?

There is a neighborhood in Houston called Nottingham Forest. I’m sure the people who came up with that presumed they were clever. I’d be willing to go so far as saying they thought they were building something wonderful that would harken back to old wealth and interests. Instead they made a place for rich people that reinforces the idea that rich people don’t really have any good ideas outside of how to stay rich and get richer. All of it feels like someone else’s fantasy that they get off by living in. Why else give your kid a sports car he didn’t earn? Why else live in Nottingham Forest… in the United States. Yes, there is a real place of the same name in the so-called old country and yes, there is a Robin Hood school there, and that is dumb too.

My, I’m a testy one this Father’s day. I’m like a less funny Jon Oliver with cleaner language and worse teeth.

If there is one thing I can reflect on with positivity it is that I’ve gone through this day with nearly all of the people I truly love and have left in this world. I connected with all but one of them. The last I reached out to, casting messages into void with no response. He’ll come around. We’ll talk. It will be as it always is. Beyond the one the rest of us were all connected in some fashion and I am glad that my circle, however small, remains unbroken. Overall, I am glad. I am fortunate. There are ups and downs. There is light and darkness. Through it all I continue to love and be loved. Through it all I cast out words onto the emptiness of the digital paper and try to form worlds out of what lands there and lands here for it is the one true purpose beyond love I’ve ever believed. In of itself the words are a form of love as this blog is a form of love. On days like this it is easy to remember that because of the love sent back towards me powering me up and allowing me to see beyond my cynicism towards what is and what could be.

I am grateful. Grateful that I am not alone.

I’ve been doing these later and later at night largely because after the morning chunk of writing I want to be doing anything else but write for a spell. However, I am transitioning between projects today and that felt like a perfect time to start things off with a blog. Many things to say, but not about a specific subject, so I will collect them all under the banner of…

Some Thoughts:

1. I am in a better headspace with the writing and thinking through a spiritual connection to the words and the worlds being created. For a long time I’d lost touch with that, which is a terrible thing because my writing comes from a place of connection and without it I am just a dude trying to imitate the best parts of what I see.
2. I see a lot of junk. I watch a great deal of bad tv, including TV I thought was great at the time. I was thinking about that last night after watching another episode of Lisey’s Story. The way Apple TV constructs their menu is interesting. The have a page dedicated to Stephen King which includes the things he watched in the 80s. He watched a lot of really badly done horror. Almost kitch level stuff. Me? I watched Fringe. At least I watched 3 seasons of the stuff. Apparently there are 5 and I’ve been slowly rewatching the entirety of my childhood including Fringe, and it is not as sharp and bright as I remembered. Still, there are gems. JJ Abrams is a specific sort of dude, BTW. Easy to source.
3. I’ve been thinking about the blog and how many words hit a page, so at the end of this I will do a wordcount so I know what I came up with in this particular state of mind. I do wonder how long the Bloganovella will be. 12 chapters in and we have not even gotten to the heart of the thing.
4. Getting to the heart of this thing, I am starting (resuming) a new (previously shelved) project that I am excited (relieved) about getting (back) into. This is going towards the edge of science fiction–not the far edge but that near edge of what could be possible right now. I feel like sci-fi has two edges, one being the possible and one being the limits of what we can imagine. I remember watching Babylon 5 and thinking about the order of technomancers whose claim to fame was to dream beyond what was possible and from that create the impossible. I think that is our role as futurists…
5. Out of time… just under 500 words this time.

I found a coffin motel near the shore close enough to a skimmer I know named Jack that I’d be able to count on him in the morning to get me over. The job called for me to be on Manhattan Island. When I was a kid I saw this flatvid called Escape from New York. I thought it was hilarious how bad the CGI was, but facts being as they are, the flick was damn near prescient about the rotten apple. It isn’t a prison per say, but it is locked up tighter than the crown jewels. The fake ID fed me the juice to get in, supposedly, but I wasn’t ready to test that theory until I absolutely had to. From my limited time with the cops I knew that IDs worked like show tickets. Every time you ran it you left a mark there that built a file that tallied somewhere and people who had nothing better to do would look at those tallies and figure out who you were and where you’d been. With this being the first tally for the ident, I’m guessing those bored folks on the other end of the digital feed might pop up and ask the wrong kind of questions if I went from no hits to several in one day.

That’s what led me to Jack.

He and I had done work before. His professional title is skimmer. in times past they called his type coyotes or the nonspecific trafficker tag that made people so uncomfortable. He got people across the dark waters separating Manhattan from everywhere else. Others like him did it with various technologies that skimmed folks across the surface, giving the job it’s cute and fluffy name. Jack was different. He worked with magic and spirits. When he sent you across the water it was just you, shooting out over the East River, barely touching the black surface of the water as his mana powered you from point A to point B. Cool. Crazy. Flat out exhilarating. Also, scary as hell. That being said, I was looking forward to the trip.

When I was a kid, my mom was all about language. She’d teach me a new word every day and tell me to use it in a sentence. Some of them stuck. Calumny stuck. There’s something about the way it rolls off your tongue. cal-ummmm-neee. I liked it. I didn’t entirely understand what it meant until the 5th grade at shitty corporate academy #3 when a kid tried to roll me for my backpack and when I beat him back he told everyone I’d jumped him in the bathroom and wanted to touch his wee. Bullies can be really irritating when they lose. By shitty corporate academy #4 I fully understood the word and how to use it to my advantage. I didn’t have to fight another bully again until, well, tonight I suppose.

I spent the back half of the evening casing the Executive Body Enhancements storefront where Choi was scheduled to have surgery the following morning. I was on the list too. Tojiro Suziki. Deeply unoriginal cover, but they provided a deep enough set of paperwork that it would pass inspection with a Delta level cyber clinic. That was almost payment enough itself.