Tagged: "Double Meme-ing"

Two blogging pals of mine tagged me with me memes this week. Whenever I’m tagged, I consider it a compliment, and I take a bit of time to respond so I can do the meme justice. First, Eng Foo Tiam over at Beautiful World tagged me with a “Double Meme” asking “What are your three things to die for, and what are your top musical picks?” Mike French over at The View from Here tagged me with “All About Me.” If you visit’s Mike’s blog, you will see that he posted a really cool video response to the meme. Today, I will post my response to footiam’s (as he calls himself in the blogging world) meme. Then, later in the week I will post Mike French’s meme.

The “Double Meme” is: “Three things to die for” and “My Top Musical Picks.”

So, what are three things Mr. Grudge would die for? First and foremost, I’d die for family. My wife and two children come before anything else, then my father, siblings, and down the line to friends. I have several acquaintances who I see every day, those at work, or folks I see in the community where I live who I wouldn’t die for; yet, I might take a few bruises or scrapes for if they were in trouble. However, as far as the guy behind the counter at the 7-11 I chat with every morning about sports, you’re on your own, buddy.

The next thing I would die for is an ideal. I’m not exactly sure which ideal it is I would hold so dearly that I’d sacrifice my life to defend it, but it sounds very noble to announce that one would die for his principles and beliefs. So, let’s just say that conceptually, for the sake of fulfilling this meme, I’d die for my ideals. In real life, if the firing squad is lined up for all of the dissidents, I’ll most likely scale over the back fence with a sack full of cash, phony identity papers, and my “good” baseball cards.

The last thing I’d die for is to be published by a reputable, honest, traditional publisher. Yes, my dream, and the focus of this blog, is for folks everywhere to be able to read the wonderful, amazing, and truly great things I write and become enamored with me, a future, famous author. “But why, Mr. Grudge, would you die for that? Wouldn’t you want to stick around and enjoy the fruits of your fame and fortune after finally realizing your dream?” My answer? Of course I would. But, with my luck, the day I sign a lucrative contract for a multi-book deal with a top publishing house, I’ll step off a curb and in front of a moving bus. So, I could very easily die for a publishing contract so my wife and kids would benefit from my life insurance, the money from the book sale, the subsequent settlement with the bus company for my wrongful death, and years of royalties as a result of my novel being on the New York Times Best Seller List for a record number of years. It’s all about my family, you know. I’d die to make a better life for my wife, my daughter, my son, and my wife’s current boyfriend. Well, maybe not her boyfriend. He can keep his job at 7-11.

Now, my top musical picks? I can’t actually point to my top musical picks per se, but I can tell you about my musical tastes. This is a fun tag as very few folks can say that they don’t like music. In fact, I am going to write a post next week on how music helps shape ones memories and keeps one connected to past events. Who doesn’t remember what song was playing when you had your first kiss, or when you first made love, or when you maybe when someone close to you died. Perhaps the song was not playing at that moment, but certainly, you had a strong, emotional reaction to whatever was playing on the radio that day, depending on your mood or the power of your experience. You’ve heard folks say things like “Oh, this song reminds me of junior high school when me and my buddies went to the movies and saw Godzilla.” You get the idea.

The reason I bring this up is because I have two musical genres I enjoy. In my high school days, I was into the music which was prevalent among my peers. We were into Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Aerosmith, Lynyrd Skynyrd, and David Bowie (I graduated high school in 1981). I’ll always have a connection to these bands because whenever I hear “Stairway to Heaven” I feel young again. I’ll always be passionate about my hard rock/art rock/ southern rock tastes.

Then, there’s the “fusion jazz” Mr. Grudge who surprises everyone. Nobody believes that I love jazz. The older fusion works of bands like The Mahavishnu Orchestra, Return to Forever and Weather Report led the way to a harder, more modern jazz, with Weather Report leading the way with the heavy use of synthesizers in their long, extended jams.

Though these bands have long since disbanded, many of their band members have gone on to have solo careers, with Al DiMeola, Jaco Pastorius, Billy Cobham, John McLaughlin, and Chick Corea going on their own to create great music. There’s nothing like cruising the Northern State Parkway with the moon roof open in my Earth un-friendly, extended Chevy Trailblazer with “Gibraltar” by Weather report blasting on my stereo. The world is a great place then.

Thanks footiam. I appreciate being tagged. Like I said, I am going to write Mike French’s tag next. I suppose now I must pass along the favor and tag someone else. I believe I’d like to know more about a certain guy named Andrew over at Andrew Ruth the blog. So, I’m tagging you, Andrew, if you’d like to participate. Andrew’s a terrific, vibrant writer who does not nearly get the amount of exposure he deserves. Check out his blog, as well as footiam’s and Mike French’s blogs. These guys are terrific writers, good blogging pals, and they all have my respect and gratitude for their kinship with this blog.

meme Blog blogger publishing house music jazz fusion hard rock art rock southern rock High School Sports junior high school ideals

November 13, 2007 Update on "It's a Movie!"

Recently I posted about a young director and her cinematographer who both are making a short story I wrote over twenty years ago into a movie. This will be a lengthy process expected to take several months and I didn't expect to get an update in so soon. However, I am happy to report that I met with the writer/director today, and she said she was well on her way into writing the first draft of the script. Wow, this is actually happening!

movie cinematographer director script short story

My Characters And Me

It's that instant when you get a great idea for a story; you're in the shower, in a meeting at work, or waiting for someone to quit talking to you so you can nod and walk away. Yes, we writers are always writing, even when we're not in front of our computers. For me, when that moment of inspiration hits, and I'm able to ditch my responsibilities and scurry off to find a pen and a scrap of paper to jot my ideas on, my characters begin to come to life.

In my head, their personalities are formed first. I'll imagine someone with the fortitude to rescue an entire nation, or merely reach for a ball in a sewer, or whatever the plot calls for. I’ll then see that person's human shape assemble itself in that section of the brain reserved for a writer's special talents. For me, it's the character’s behavior and traits which dictate their physical characteristics.

In my latest story, my protagonist, Roger, is a former police officer in the process of grieving. He's not very active because he finds it difficult to get out of bed everyday because he does not have a whole lot to live for. He does not work and lives off his police pension. He becomes overweight because of his sedentary lifestyle and the fact that he does not take care of himself. Later, he takes a job as his life and spirits improve. After a few months he begins to lose weight and gain some muscle tone. Roger's emotions dictate his physical appearance in this example. As the writer, I had to be true to Roger and describe him as was necessary based on his emotional state of being; heavy at first, but then slim and in shape, only because he changed as a person and became active again.

That is just one example of how my characters form. There are, however, shortcuts to my characterizations. In my first novel, Sergeant Fukes is based on a sergeant I had in the police department, physically, and psychologically only by half. His personality is an amalgam of both my squad sergeant’s and another sergeant I knew at one time in my career. The two were dissimilar in looks and persona, and I thought is would be ideal to combine their mannerisms into one person because they both would have handled certain situations in the story very differently. I thought their dissimilar habits would make for an interesting character. One sergeant was a brown nose who never would question a superior, and the other was a stickler for department regulations which very often were obscure and rarely used. The man I created was a rigid, rule worshipping nebbish who also could not say no to anyone who outranked him or was senior to him. This created friction as there were policies to be obeyed, but he did not have the fortitude to enforce them with anyone who wasn’t below him in rank. As a result, he was ineffective as a supervisor.

Finally, instead of shaping characters from my imagination, or basing them on other people, more than once I based a protagonist on myself. Writing is indeed therapy, and using the space of entire novel to reconcile my religious faith or my misspent youth does have a healing effect. Also, I hope it may be enticing material for someone to read. Another benefit of using me as inspiration for a character is that it is less likely that someone would think I wrote about them.

These are just a few examples of how I create characters. Once my central character is born, he needs family, friends, co-workers, etc, and they seem to spring up around him and fill in the spaces in the story neatly along the way through each chapter as I write them. Notice how I said “they spring up around him.” That’s because I have yet to write a story completely around a woman. Maybe it’s because I’m still writing about myself, or maybe it’s because the only story I want to tell about a woman will be based entirely on someone I’m very close to and I don’t think I want her to read it yet. It’ll be tough to keep that manuscript from her because my wife reads every one of my stories. Oh great, she’s going to read this post too.

characters story protagonist plot Writing police officer imagination novel

Special Announcement: It's A Movie!

I have a special announcement to make which has been in the making for a few months now. One of my short stories is going to be made into an independent, short film. The filmmaker, a young woman who graduated from a respected college for film, read two of my short stories and selected one for her next independent project. Her cinematographer, a young man who won an award for a short film of his own production, will work with her on the filming of the story, as well as in post-production.

The final run time for the film version of my short story “Hello Neighbor” will run approximately 7-10 minutes and most likely be entered into various independent film festivals. This is not a million dollar production, but professional actors and actresses will be used as well as state of the art studios and equipment. I don’t expect this project to be completed any time soon, as the young writer/director/filmmaker just picked up my draft of the story yesterday. She has to create a script, cast the actors and actresses, scout a location for the exteriors, budget the film, story board, etc, etc, etc. In addition, I’ve noticed that the world of filmmaking comes with many variables that us lay people aren’t privy to. When I saw both her and her cinematographer yesterday, their cell phones were ringing and they were busy giving instructions to others who were assisting them in another production they currently have underway. Still, she was excited about making this particular film because as she put it: “I absolutely love this story.” Hopefully, if this works out, she will absolutely love some of my lengthier works.

This is very exciting for me, and I am extremely flattered by this. I’ve been to screenings of films made by these two talented individuals and have been impressed by the professional quality of their filmmaking as well as their writing. They are up and coming stars in their field and their current workload proves this. This is something which I hope will happen to every writer out there who pours their heart and soul into their work. I am flattered beyond words.

film cinematographer filmmaker actors production independent film short story

When Life Turns To Stone

There’s a little something in my writing which the reader has no way of picking up on. In my novels, I honor my best friend who died when he was only twenty one years old way back in 1985. The Wade Thompson I knew would have scoffed at anyone doing something so trite; but, the way I see it, he may have changed his mind if he was alive today.

In my first novel, I have a character with the initials W.T. In my second novel, the protagonist buries a suitcase full of stolen cash in three feet of snow at a cemetery, in front of the headstone of Robert Wade Thompson. In my last novel one of the characters based solely on his personality. My visits to him in my stories are my homage to his life, and they don’t necessarily reflect my actual visits to his grave.

Frozen in my mind as an athletic, young, long haired man with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his lips, the Wade Thompson I knew remained someone I could visit even after death. He listened quietly, I imagined, as I told him about my life when I stopped by the cemetery. He’s buried just miles outside our hometown in a small, quiet, private graveyard next to his mother. She had passed away a few years after he did. Over the years, I’d make a side trip to see him while on the way to my parent’s home.

Last August when my mother was dying, I went there once more to pay my respects before I headed to see my mom for maybe the last time before she passed away. As I always did, I kept him up to date with the events in my life and I told him about what was happening to my mother. This visit was different, though. Suddenly, when for all these years I’d been able to have my gratifying little graveside chats with my buddy, it lost its meaning.

I stooped over his headstone, looking at the inscribed words “Loving Son, Brother, and Friend” and was no longer able to attribute them to Wade. My head spun. My mom was going to be buried soon, and we made her funeral arrangements the day before. I didn’t want her to go, yet I knew it as inevitable. Still, there I was, asking my deceased friend for help with my grief. It was time I came to terms with the fact that he was dead.

Wade was twenty one years old when he died suddenly from complications due to Juvenile Diabetes. We knew he was getting sicker, yet that didn’t stop the two of us from wanting to go to school for computer science together. Also, it didn’t hold up our plans to share an apartment and split the rent as two pals would. After his death, the reflection of his friendship stayed with me all the way through my acceptance to the New York City Police Academy, my marriage to my wife, the births of my two children, and up until the moment when my mom faced her own mortality. Then, in one moment of clarity, he was gone.

This was not his fault. I was the one who glorified him, both in my writing, and in the way I kept him alive by seeking him out for “chats” at the graveyard. My other friends over the years all learned about him, saw his photos and tried to understand as I explained how much of an influence he had on my existence. There was always the question in my mind when I faced a problem “What would Wade have done?” That day, a little over a year ago on that tiny plot of grass, I couldn’t find my friend anymore. There was just a gray, carved stone. Dirt filled the crevices of the chiseled letters which formed his name. I don’t know how it happened, but I believe he wanted to go on. There had to be a point where I needed to grow up and face my problems without relying on a friend who died twenty one years earlier.

Wade never went to college, never got married, did not have children, never had a career, and he died before his mother did. Maybe he couldn’t be there for me. Perhaps he was never around the way I belived he was and I couldn’t, or wouldn’t realize it. I walked away from his headstone that day and went to my parent’s house, around the corner from where my friend grew up, and watched my mother leave us the next afternoon. It’s okay, they are both gone now, and we are all going to meet the same fate. I’ll continue to hide secrets about my buddy in the paragraphs of my novels and short stories. He’d like that, if he was still alive.



cemetery death friend grave graveyard headstone Juvenile Diabetes New York City novels Police Academy, Writing

"I'm Not From Lawn-Guy-Land"

There's a list going around the internet which has been compiled by, added to, and passed around by Long Islanders. This list is called (you guessed it) "You Know You're From Long Island When..." One of my favorite items on that list is "You never realize you have an accent until you leave." This has happened to me, numerous times.

Yes, we do speak funny, and it is typically arrogant of us New Yawkers to think we speak like Harvard law professors. In Florida a few years ago, I took my family to Disney World. At Typhoon Lagoon, I was sitting poolside when my then three year old son began to play with the sand. Actually, he was tossing handfulls of it into the air. I told him to knock it off, and the burly man behind me said something that sounded like "Arf nargle eeg offay ay nad." Huh?

Not wanting to be rude, I smiled in much the same way one does when we don't want to aggitate the man holding the bloody meat cleaver. I ordered my son once more to quit throwing sand in the air or I'd bury him in it (or words to that effect).

The big hairy guy with the marbles in his mouth walked over. He was with his family, a wife, two little ones (boy and girl) who were playing peacefully in the sand with buckets and shovels.

"It's alright, mate. he's just being a lad. It's just sand, ya know." he said. Oh, he's from England, I thought. Whew, I though I had to whisk my family away and call the Mouse Police.
"Yeah, thanks," I said "I still don't want him to get sand all over." I offered. Really, It was none of his business what I said to my son, but it was obvious that this guy wanted to talk. So, we did.

His wife sidled over to him and smiled as he introduced "Aubremary", or whatever the hell he said her name is, to me. I searched the pool frantically for my wife and daughter so I would have an excuse to grab my kid by the waistband of his shorts and say "Gotta go, wifey's calling..." and hurry off into the artificial surf with my boy flailing helplessy in my grip. But no, my wife only comes around when I'm relaxing and she has something for me to do.

They talked and gushed about how friendly and lovely Americans are, and that everywhere they went, people are just so friendly and want to talk and talk and talk. Ouch. I continued to grin like an idiot as I realized that they didn't visit New York, or more specifically, Long Island, where I was born, raised, and continue to be miserable.

Friendly people? There's a deli I go to every morning for coffee and a newspaper before I go to work. I've been a regular customer there for about fifteen years and I don't think I've exchanged more then three words with anyone behind the counter, and I'm okay with that. I show you what I want, you get it for me, take my money, and then I leave. End of transaction. I've noticed that outside of the New York, New Jersey, Connecticut region, people change. There's something pathological about all of these nice folks who want to know how you're doing, and tell you to have a nice day. In a way, I was glad that this happy English family landed in "nice country." If they came to Long Island, I'd be appalled.

Anyway, I did my best to look interested and tried hard to decipher their language. They had accents, heavy ones. These were hard working commoners from Manchester who saved up all of their pounds and pence to visit Disney World where families toss around fifty dollar bills with reckless abandon and wind up with nothing to show for it. That morning, they found themsleves in Typhoon Lagoon, talking to me.

At one point, after they told me everything about themsleves, their family, the dream vacation they were on, and how happy they were to be in the United States, they asked about me. They wanted to know if this was our first trip to Disney.
"Well, no. My wife and I came here a long time ago after we were first married. We didn't have kids then."
"Did you fly down, mate?"

"Uh, no. We drove. I have a thing against flying." I don't really, we just thought we'd save money. We're never doing that again.

"How long did it take you to drive down?" Did he say "drive down"? I thought, how would he know where I came from?

"Well, I live on Long Island..." I started to say.

"Long Island?" The wife said. She smiled and looked over at her husband as if she'd won a bet. He had a knowing grin on his face too. "Oh yes, Long Island." he said. "We can tell."
It didn't matter what he told me after that. I felt duped, like they were leading me on in an effort to fulfill their own curiosity.

"That bloke is from New York, don't you think Aubremary?"
"Oh no, Simon, he sounds like he must be from Long Island. Let's talk to him and find out."

There you have it. Even folks who hail from jolly old England have us Long Islanders pegged. Oh, and another thing. We don't say Lawn-Guy-Land. Only people who are trying to make fun of Long Islanders say Lawn-Guy-Land. Thanks for reading. I have to go now and drive my caw to the mawl and get some cawfee. Afta dat, I have ta take da famlee to that restront faw dinnuh.



Long Island England Disney World New York language accents Florida deli Typhoon Lagoon