Moving

Few things compare to the emotional, psychological, and physical toll of having half of one's life consigned to boxes, with the other half still to be boxed. There are worse fates, of course; petty, unjust imprisonment, for one. But among life's more banal hardships, moving remains the king of White People Problems Mountain.

I've moved something over a half dozen times in my life (not counting in-and-out-of college dorms, which should never count). One trick I've learned to stave off the spiritual costs of moving is to have beloved television shows provide background noise for the packing marathon. Unfortunately, our DVDs were among the first things that were packed--I sure hope someone got fired for that blunder--depriving us of the first eleven seasons of The Simpsons (I consider anything after that to be fan fiction, at best). But Netflix streaming has sufficed. We started with Archer (you can add season three anytime, Netflix), before moving onto Parks and Recreation, which we're now through for the third or fourth time. Turns out Bob's Burgers is available for streaming, so that'll probably be next. We could shotgun Arrested Development again, but I seems a waste to stream a show I already have on DVD, even if the discs are presently confined to a box at the bottom of a mountain of boxes. It'd be nice if Party Down were still available; almost as nice as if Party Down had never gotten canceled

It'd be nicer still if my laptop's backlight hadn't given out, leaving me without a portable method with which to reach Netflix. My wife has a working laptop, of course, but she's been using it to feed her mild addiction to Bar Rescue (a show that's inspired a few thoughts, some of which may end up here soon).

I suppose I could watch the Republican National Convention while I finish packing (or the DNC, for the unpacking), but I don't hate myself that much. Sure, it means passing up a few scraps of semi-decent blog material, pried from the sickly muck of over-cooked tripe. And, yes, it means missing out on the handful of short-lived, shorter-traveled memes that will spring from the accidental belch of one professional bloviator or another during the otherwise uber-choreographed circle jerk. But, again, the required level of disregard for my basic well-being is a little beyond my reach at the moment. I'd like to be able to live to see my next apartment.

This is all longhand for saying that there may not be a lot of updates round here for a few more days. Enjoy the last weeks of summer, children. Fall will not be so kind.

How You Do A Justice League Movie, Part II

A while back, I wrote an obscenely long post about how Warner Brothers/DC Entertainment could do a Justice League film. This was predicated upon the understanding that a JL movie is now inevitable (however ill-conceived) and that since it's going to happen, they might as well try to do the project, erm... justice. My plan at the time was to return to the topic to discuss how the solo films could be built up to lead into JL. But as the chalk-slated 2015-16 release and the interest in signing Ben Affleck demonstrate--and aided by the speculation in Modern Myth Media's recent podcast--WB/DC may be more interested pushing for a JL movie first, capitalizing sooner rather than later and letting that film open the doors for the solo projects that, until now, have either fallen flat or failed to launch (the ones without Christopher Nolan, anyway).

Man Of Steel is due next summer--that much we know. And WB/DC seems to ready to move ahead with Wonder Woman. They may also dust off that old Flash project that was quietly canned after the dull thud of Green Lantern, a property they could try to reinvigorate (until further notice, I'm sticking with my character outlines from the first post, so I'd be hoping for a Jordan-Stewart team-up there). And a Batman reboot is inevitable, anyway. But this is a lot to do in a relatively short window, with little real news about any of it. Even WB seems content to merely speculate. I said in the previous post that not every character needs a solo film first, but there should be at least one or two. However, that's going to be harder for DC than it has been for Marvel.

Marvel Studios has the advantage of existing for the sole purpose of producing Marvel films (doesn't hurt to have Disney money, either). WB, on the other hand, has a whole lot of different things they want to be able to do. Harry Potter might be done and they might be in need of new tentpoles, but at least Harry Potter was a guaranteed property that could bankroll other projects. So on that level, it makes as much sense to go straight for JL now and see how that unfolds, rather than throw a bunch of smaller titles at the wall and hope something sticks. This means that MOS--still an unknown entity at this stage--may be our only glimpse at the DC Universe before going full-bore with the team-up.

Upon reflection, I was hasty in my initial opinion on the MOS teaser. From an artistic standpoint, it's actually a very good trailer that holds some promise about where this Superman story could be headed. We may finally have a team that understands that Clark is every bit as important as Superman. And I like that there were two different trailers out there, featuring different (and opposing) voiceovers from Kal-El's dual father figures. But I stand by my criticism that, from a business perspective, there's little to get the casual fan excited about Supes. And the business side will impact the artistic side if no one is interested in MOS; Green Lantern's quality was only part of the reason it tanked. So we'd go into the theoretical JL film with just one (admittedly very important) element established. That leaves a lot of work to do for the others. 

Why not start with a World's Finest/Trinity film, featuring Batman, Superman, and Wonder Woman? Structure the film around Diana as the audience-identification figure; we explore and learn about the larger DC Universe as she does. You then throw in Henry Cavill's established Superman, building on MOS's themes of heroism, etc. And everyone already knows Batman (he's the one who's better than all the others combined); Trinity could demonstrate how and why Batman gets to hang with superhumans. These three are the core of the League and letting them battle together paves the way for JL. It also gives WB time to launch another hero--or possibly rehabilitate Green Lantern--before delving into the larger team-up. This should also help stagger the schedule so that a relatively un-tested JL isn't sharing the summer with the Avengers sequel.

Just a thought, DC Entertainment.

We're With Nobody

"There are still people out there who are shocked to hear that a candiates hired "an investigator," as they put it, to "smear" their opponent. So much for our belief in political transparency." 
--Alan Huffman, We're With Nobody: Two Insiders Reveal the Dark Side of American Politics

Huffman and his co-author and business partner, Michael Rejebian, could've done without the subtitle. We're With Nobody spills no dark secrets and doesn't drop any bold, 16-point fonted names. It might've been reasonable to expect those things (Rejebian and Huffman briefly discuss the crestfallen publishers who may have entertained the project only for the visceral character assassinations they were expecting). But the opposition-research men thankfully deny us that guilty pleasure and instead take us on a lighter, though significantly more thoughtful, journey.

For anyone with more than a passing interest in campaigns (I'm not sure who else would be interested in the book), We're With Nobody contains no earth-shattering revelations. Yes, there are interesting tidbits about the process of oppo-research, the roll of the Internet in that process (spoiler: it doesn't help much), and how their work will be used or mis-used by the campaigns that pay them. But many of us are already aware of the capriciousness of aspiring-pols. We can already calculate the theoretical impact of un-closeted skeletons. And we already suspect the powerful of engaging in dark misdeeds and darker obfuscations. Even when the information is new, it immediately feels like old news--a feeling Rejebian and Huffman are likely familiar with.

The book is at its most entertaining when relaying nameless anecdotes, such as the Florida politician who didn't understand why he needed researchers to look into his own background, only to end up being skewered on some long-forgotten indiscretions. These anecdotes are inter-cut with observations from the authors' twenty-odd years in the business. Observations like the American public's unnecessarily antagonistic relationship with opposition research (the book repeats itself--almost ad nauseam--on the subject of so-called "smear campaigns" being a natural--if ugly--part of open democracy); and the media's roll in disseminating--or damning--the facts upon their reveal. And the authors clearly understand the manipulative roll campaigns take with their hard-found data, adding a few touches of sympathy to their lives' work ("A police detective who gets caught tampering with evidence will likely get his case thrown out of court," Huffman writes, "but in the realm of politics, that same practice may be rewarded").

We're With Nobody is several levels above political fluff, but neither is it a hard-hitting treatise on the industry which, admittedly, might be hard to do when the authors have judiciously declined to name names. For that professionalism alone, the book is kind of remarkable. And a refresher-course on how political idealism is often pummeled by political realism--delivered with a spoonful of sugar--may be just the antidote to the coming dark days of convention season and the general election.

Grade: B

In Brief: Pussy Riot

The upside here is that the media has to use the words "Pussy Riot" seriously and, when possible, with gravitas. Bring Brokaw in, he'll know what to do. 

The downside is a lot of other things that are more important than my juvenile glee in the face of grown-ups saying decidedly non-grown up things. But that's, of course, what Russia has wrought here: a non-grown up conviction of three members of a band with a non-grown up name over an offense that was actually grown up-neutral. 

This is one of those moments where I have to stop and give America credit for not being this shitty. Sure, if a musician says something unpopular, they'll have their albums burned and sponsorships lost until they offer a lazy, mumbled apology.  Even that's not necessary if you keep your offense firmly within the Fox News acceptability scale. Ted Nugent (a walking, drooling example of why we should be less sad when rock stars die young) made explicit, just-short-of-threatening remarks about murdering the sitting President and Secretary of State on separate occasions and experienced no real consequences, beyond a Secret Service investigation (which will tend to happen when you appear to threaten the Commander-in-Chief; commie fascists, amirite?). More recently, Megadeth frontman Dave Mustaine accused Obama of staging the recent shootings in Colorado and Wisconsin. What's happened to him? The Internet called him some names. And... that's been it.

Because even when something really stupid and borderline offensive happens (and offering a prayer for God to remove the chief executive would fall firmly within those parameters if it happened here), the government rarely gets its panties in a bunch. That's not necessarily because we the American people are so confident in our Constitutional institutions (the Tea Party, for example, has no faith in the founding fathers or their documents or any of the concepts that they profess to revere). It's because our institutions happen to be strong enough to take those kind of insubstantial punches. And just enough of us are aware of that fact that we don't feel the need to come down on a punk band for, well, being a punk band.

You'd think that a man with a judo background who can hunt big game would be at least as secure in himself.

Shakespearean Board Games

 

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day

To the last syllable of recorded time,

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

And then is heard no more: it is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.

--Macbeth, Act V, Scene 5, 19-28

Hard Work: You're Using Those Words Wrong

Some of the oldest advice most of us can probably remember getting is that one has work hard to get ahead. Or, in many cases, to get anywhere. And it's good advice. Outside of a lucky few, none of us will get the things we want without first putting some kind of down payment of our energies into the pot. And hard work--done right and when remotely rewarding--often carries benefits that are purely for its own sake.

The trouble is that, as with any words in the English language, frequent repetition chips away at meaning and eventually relevance. The concept is replaced with a mantra. It becomes civic religion--a matter of unthinking faith. Before long, we're working ourselves to death and killing our own productivity for the sake of getting to say that we're working hard. We mistake being busy for being productive or, worse still, for being valuable and fulfilled human beings. How many monomaniacs do you know who are fully functional and satisfied people? Work--something we do for the benefits it brings in time of idleness--has become a raison d'etre unto itself. 

Hard work--divided from things like skill and knowledge and devotion--is only a partial virtue. It's sadly become a simplistic, almost solipsistic platitude. It is, of course, a part of the equation. Talent and know-how can get a person decently far on their own but to go much further, one needs to put in grunting, sweaty effort. That's what we mean most often. Physical application, what some still call "elbow grease." This must be paired with an investment of resources--time in particular, but also money and, yes, luck. These elements are what, boiled down, we call "work." And this is fine, as long as we bear this in mind when we talk about "work" and "achievement," rather than turning solid advice into derivative cant. 

As with most things, this misunderstanding was incubated by the Puritans. They loved work. Funny thing there is that the Puritans also liked punishment. Pleasure, that was a dirty word. Idleness, too; that's when the Devil found you. "Joy" in general--a wretched concept. But work and suffering and the banality of martyrdom: that was where salvation lay. We continue to embrace this philosophy long after we've developed things like central heating and indoor plumbing to ensure a quality of life the Puritans could never imagine (and would likely shun us for, anyway--witchcraft and all that). Work, in our language, is now separated from pleasure. They are different spheres entirely thanks to our deeply messed up fore-bearers and we, perhaps understandably, value the more productive sphere even at the expense of its natural balance.

It's become such a singular value that it's taken on meanings that are actually harmful: modern day corporate go-getters, whose eagerness can become catastrophically dangerous. The rest of us are told to keep up, whether we reasonably can or not. Now we have the phrase "workaholics;" how many cues do you take from other -aholics? Eventually "hard work" reaches the end-of-life-cycle for any phrase: political platitude, tailor made for all-star bloviators. It's become such a catch-all for any discussion on success and merit that it's taken on bizarre proportions, even being used to rehabilitate Auschwitz's original motivational poster. 

An unsuccessful person must not have worked hard enough, it is said. But this conveniently ignores the fact that some people have to work a lot harder than others to get to the same ends--and that there's no scientific measure for "hardness" of work, anyway. It coldly dodges the reality that even the hardest fought battles can be undone with relative ease by an uncaring universe. And it just plain forgets that while hard work is the most egalitarian key to success, it is one among several necessary keys. 

One person endeavors to transport a boulder from a quarry in Colorado to Mars' Valles Marineris. Another creates a new, trendier, less invasive social networking site. By any measure, the boulder-moving was harder work while the network-building was smarter work. And the networker almost certainly reaped greater benefits from her task than did Sisyphus. So you see how the phrase "hard work" can lack real meaning when used inappropriately. A convenient phrase with vague applications and even vaguer implications.

Most of us have probably been told at one point or another that we've worked hard at something. And it might be true. But verifying hard work is awkward: different tolerances for work loads, tasks that look harder/easier than they are, extenuating circumstances, etc. I received such praise from family and friends when I finished Nos Populus. Trouble was, I rarely considered the book to be "work" while writing it. It only became such when it was hard-going and my output was either lousy (qualitatively) or negligible (quantitatively). When I was actually making progress on the book and proud of what I was doing, it was a hobby that I loved and so it never felt like "work." I may never be fortunate enough to experience something like that in what I do for a living. But at least I can supplement my day job with it, giving me the balance of productivity and joy that the 21st Century office job often eschews.

Mormon/Ayn Rand 2012

That's one way to split the ticket, I guess. 

You gotta respect the strategy of the timing of the announcement, though.  A third of the country's not even awake when the news breaks and by the time everyone's caught up, it's Monday and it's all old news.  Not only does it limit the dull thud of the Incredibly Boring White Guy announcement--giving people time to get used to the idea before they even know about it--it also takes the air out of the snarky analyses of the ever-bored commentariat.  It's Saturday morning; no one's reading this shit. 

But there'll be time for more as the months roll along: the conventions are coming up, the gaffes will continue.  In the meantime, I recommend this New Republic article about just why the Ryan pick confirms the dual images of Mittens as both an unfeeling corporate robot and a man sorely out of touch with the present needs of anyone beyond himself.  A man who always has been and still is banking on an Obama collapse rather than a Romney success.  A man who won't bother to win the presidency because he thinks he can safely default into it. 

Half-Drunken Blog Love

This post is just a blogger expressing his platonic love for some other bloggers.  Ain't nothin' wrong with that.

The Rude Pundit has been running one of the web's best liberal blogs for nearly nine years now.  His was the first blog I read even semi-regularly.  Somewhere in an alternate universe, where I'm a much more talented blogger, I'm still not as good as him.  His recent post about Mittens' campaign contains one of the most apt descriptions of the man's baffling lack of person-ability I've ever read:

Mitt Romney is not only not someone you'd want to have a beer with, but he's someone who, given the right circumstances and the right bar, you'd want to punch in the nose for being such a self-righteous cock.

The Doorman is one I've come across more recently, when he friended me on Facebook and started following me on Twitter as a kind of comedian-networking thing.  Not the sort of thing I usually go in for, but his work is funny and insightful enough (not to mention focused--what I would give for that kind of a consistency to my topics) to make it worth my while not to decline.  Declining a friend request, by the way, is a completely acceptable response to getting such a request from someone you don't know (wanting to decline someone you do know is another matter entirely).  This is not what someone recently did to the Doorman, who has now been blocked from friending anyone for thirty days.  So, you know: fuck you, guy who ratted to Zuckerberg. 

While I'm throwing blogs at you, you've probably seen Glove and Boots.  It's mostly dedicated to hyping their videos, so cut out the middle man and check out their YouTube page.  G+B is basically what Jim Henson would've been if he'd had the nerve to be balls-to-the-wall funny instead of safe and politely funny.  

Lastly, a friend of mine bakes some pretty goddamn delicious desserts--particularly the truffles.  She blogs about said desserts here sometimes. What's that, you think that truffles are gay?  First: no, in point of fact, they're not.  Second, even if they could be, so what?  They taste great.  Third: fuck you again, guy who I can only assume is the same douche who ratted on the Doorman.  Really, who else would be such a douche?  

Seasonal Beer Creep

I've long been a fan of the Boston Beer Company and I enjoy many of their beers.  The Octoberfest is one of their best and I look forward to it every year... to a point.  See, the problem is: I'm seeing it in stores already.  In early August.

The Munich festival for which the style is named doesn't start until late September (September 22nd, this year).  The Oktoberfest, or "Märzenbier," style is a traditional one for the autumn months: it's toasty, to welcome in the cooling weather, and heavier-bodied than the lagers and lighter ales that dominate the summer; it's also darker and richer, prepping the body and the palate for the richer winter beers that follow.  The average temperature here in DC is still in the upper 80s/low 90s and it's not much better through most of the contiguous United States (including in Boston and Cincinnati--where most Samuel Adams beers are brewed).  This can be expected to last through August and probably into September, when it'll rarely dip below 70 or 65. 

In sum, it's too damn early for Octoberfest.

You'll reply, "Well, you'll still drink it."  Yes, I will.  But only because it won't be there when I actually want it, replaced by Christmas beers in time for Halloween.  And I have no interest in drinking Old Fezziwig on Veteran's Day.

I understand that the Boston Beer Company is not the only guilty party; I saw Blue Moon's Harvest Moon (a beer I don't care for when it is the right time of year) in a store just the other day.  But Boston is, in some ways, the exemplar of what microbreweries can be--and what many of them strive to be.  It's larger than the other guys, of course, and it's continuing status as a "micro-brew" was as much a mutually-beneficial political decision as anything else, but they do set the trend.  It won't be long before we start seeing Bell's Oktoberfest and Brooklyn's Oktoberfest and other fall beers like DFH's Punkin Ale, all before their ideal time.  Because no one can afford to be last to the shelves. 

Something is very wrong here, Sam Adams.  Fix it.

Now, Rex, Don't You Eat That Pie

The New York Jets bring Jesus in to challenge for the starting QB job and promptly experience breakouts of fisticuffs.  Mixing religious fervor and a sport designed around violence.  Truly no one could've foreseen this outcome. 

Now, my sources tell me that--despite some previous public words to the contrary--QB Mark Sanchez resented having his starting spot challenged by someone even more mediocre than he.  To underscore this, the former GQ cover-man ripped the head off Tim Tebow's Mr. Honeybunny doll.  Tim, still completely unaware how douchey many people find his schtick, cheerfully countered that Mr. Honeybunny was actually Mark's cherished childhood toy.  Mark eventually relented and agreed to leave the locker room, but on his way he'd be, quote "doing this"--here beginning to windmill his arms around and around--and warned that "if anyone got hit, it would be their own fault."  Tim replied in kind and said he would "start kicking air like this" and is rumored to have said that if anyone got hit, it would be Satan's their own fault.  The Jets locker room was then suddenly full of swinging arms and kicking legs slowly advancing on one another, revealing a previously unknown locker room split over Mr. Honeybunny the starting QB position. 

As coaches made their way toward the brawling players, someone remembered to scold Head Coach Rex Ryan not to, quote, "eat that pie."  I'm still awaiting word on how exactly Coach Ryan received the concussion that landed him in a nearby medical facility, but the NFL has promised to look into all pie-related injuries. 

Samuel Adams Utopias

The Boston Beer Company does exceedingly well with balanced, accessible beers.  Along with the ubiquitous Boston Lager, seasonals like Octoberfest and the more recently crafted Noble Pils are all very good, refreshing brews that are near-perfect for any beer crowd.  However, their experimental projects tend to fall flat.  The Coastal Wheat fails to deliver anything interesting with its lemony attributes.  Even Infinium--their joint venture with Germany's legendary Weihenstephan brewery--is an intriguing concept that works better on paper.  So on first consideration, Sam Adams Utopias seems destined to have little to redeem it beyond an handful of cheap bragging points among the beer snobs.  Happily, though, they nail it with this one. 

Utopias pours dark but not too thick--almost golden around the edges. 

Even holding the glass a foot or so away, Utopias hits the nose more like a brandy than a beer, a reminder of its 27% ABV.  On closer inspection, the booziness seems to be cut with newly ripe plums (some say raisins). 

The aforementioned 27% ABV reasserts itself on the first taste, attacking the front of the tongue before a soft silkiness follows to take some of the bite off.  There aren't a lot of successful rollercoaster beers out there, but Utopias achieves it when a distinctive tanginess rises from the ashes of the alcohol, one last punch in the mouth. 

Finishes with a maple-y dryness that almost makes you forget the ABV.  It'll get you drunk, as a man once said.  

Utopias is not a restrained beer.  It is, however a restrained drink.  Where many another brewery would be tempted to throw everything they have into Utopias, the more balance-minded Boston Beer Company checks itself at every conceivable wrong turn to deliver a heady yet even Strong Ale.

Grade: A-

How It Works Now

Patton Oswalt is a comedian.  A very funny one.  Here he is taking time out from a very solid bit in order to tear a heckler a new scream hole.  Last week, Oswalt gave the keynote address at the Just For Laughs Comedy Conference, which is a thing.  You can read his address here.  And I recommend reading it in full, but I want to highlight this:

I need to decide more career stuff for myself and make it happen for myself, and I need to stop waiting to luck out and be given... I’m seeing this notion take form in a lot of my friends. A lot of you out there. You, for instance, the person I’m writing to. Your podcast is amazing. Your videos on your YouTube channel are getting better and better every single one that you make, just like when we did open mics, better and better every week. Your Twitter feed is hilarious.

Now, Oswalt is on a much higher plane than I.  Even aside from his being in a different artistic field, he is so much more talented and successful than I am that it's insulting for me to even make a comparison that ends in his favor.  In fact, I think I have to retract the "plane" analogy.  He's scaling a redwood in California while I'm floundering around the mouth of the Mariana Trench.  And, no, he's not directly speaking to me here.  I've not done a podcast.  I don't have a YouTube channel.  My Twitter feed is not that hilarious.  And, as already mentioned, I'm not a comedian and the things that are useful for up-and-coming comedians aren't necessarily useful for me (though there is some overlap). 

That said, it hits home.  I've covered this previously when talking about my decision to self-publish.  More generally, it's about the niche-ification of pop culture as a whole.  Closer to home, it's about publishers having a harder go of it than they'd gotten used to and there's not a lot of reason to suspect the good times will return.  Not exactly as they were, anyway.  And as with everything else do to with the wrecking ball that is the Internet, this is simultaneously depressing and hope-inspiring. 

In deciding to self-publish, I accepted that my dreams of glory quitting my job to write full-time may be just that: a dream.  I tested my mettle against the gatekeepers and wound up on the same side from which I started.  That's not to say I'll never try again.  Or that some kindly gatekeeper won't give me another shot--a vanishingly small possibility, that one.  The end of "luck" that Oswalt speaks of is a little overblown; there's always a pinch of luck in any successful (or unsuccessful) venture.  But luck is a smaller part of the equation than it used to be.  Or, at least, luck's focus has shifted and the concept of "being given" opportunities doesn't mean what it used to.  The odds of my being magically transported into Writer-dom's Great Beyond are dimmer than they might have been ten-to-fifteen years ago.  And I'm fine with that.

Nos Populus has sold a few copies.  That means a few people have been interested enough to check it out and that they've absorbed at least some of what I had to say there, if I did my job right.  And that may not be humbling in the way that a few thousand readers might be, but it's pretty cool nonetheless.  It's not about money.  It can't be.  I'd drive myself mad if it were.

This blog is getting strong, mostly-steady readership.  I don't know why my stats say that I'm especially popular in Russia, but who am I to complain?  Thanks for the support, Russia!  And if a few people like what I have to say here on THDS, that's also pretty bloody fantastic.

The Internet requires everyone to shift their expectations.  There will still be superstars whose success stories fuel writers all around the globe, most of whom will never taste that kind of notoriety.  But those who believe in what they do and who genuinely love doing it will persist.  Because they want to make it and know that they can.  Because they know that writing--done well--is its own reward.  The impetus will be both.

If all I ever amount to is a decently read blogger with a miniature cult-following in Russia and a couple dozen book sales to his name then, well, this is a damn fun hobby.

Half-Drunken Housekeeping

The keys to the Fortress of Solitude fell into a sewer grate.  I'm going to have to fish them out before Superman gets back.  Dude is gonna pissed enough about this.

In the meantime, a few quick notes:

I've been spending the week talking up Nos Populus.  Excerpts, as always, can be found here, here, and here.  For more, check out the "Nos Populus" label below.  The Nos Populus Facebook page is here.  My adventures in self-publishing here and here.  I can also be followed on Twitter @IRobertsWriter. 

And, for unrelated fun, my most viewed post (by far, for some reason), about Matt Groening's Life In Hell. No, really, I know people say this kind of thing to sound modest, but I truly just rubbed that one out one afternoon and it took off.  As long as people like it, I guess. 

Back tomorrow with some more thoughts on self-publishing and why I love Patton Oswalt.

President Dennis Ward

I've talked about James Reso before.  And I likely will again.  Something I've neglected, though, is James' rival.  President Dennis Ward is the impetus for most of the events of Nos Populus (villains, for lack of a better word, have a tendency to do that in their stories).  In fact, friends who have read the book have asked me more about Ward than they have James.  Most of the questions draw comparisons to George W. Bush and his eight years of misrule.  Short name, authoritarian, moral clarity.  And those comparisons have some merit.

In fact, Ward was named (rather subconsciously) for American University's Ward Circle Building, itself named for the traffic circle bordering the eastern corner of the main campus.  I'll probably never be able to list all the influences--conscious and otherwise--AU had on Nos Populus, but that's one of them.  The authoritarian Republican part is only half true because Ward's not even a true "Republican" during the events of the book.  And authoritarianism is kind of the point of the unapologetic neo-fascist; even ignoring his politics, a live-and-let-live antagonist is a rare thing in fiction.  Much the same can be said for the moral clarity bit.  However, what Ward has isn't so much moral clarity as it is philosophical clarity; the desire for an ideal outcome (think of what Bush wanted in Iraq) versus having the means and ability to achieve an outcome--idealism be damned (think of what Bush got in Iraq). 

Whatever truth those comparisons hold, though, they still don't have enough to compare Ward to Bush.  Working on later drafts (during which time the Bush presidency withered), I realized that Bush would've been a horrible model for Ward.  For one thing, I needed the Ward Administration to be basically competent.  Better still: hyper-competent--a machine so well-oiled that it would make Karl Rove weep for exposing his myriad shortcomings.  The Patriot Act would be a milquetoast accomplishment by Ward's standards, commendable in spirit but woefully mediocre in execution.  Some of this goes back to the clarity Ward brings.  For example, Ward's vice-president, Daniel Pomeroy, has the experience to demand some allusions to Dick Cheney, but instead plays the traditional VP role that Cheney never did.  And why should Pomeroy step to the fore and gum up the works the way Bush's cabinet often could?  Ward projects himself as a clear leader with enough vision to satiate would-be successors.  Until James Reso throws a few wrenches into the works. 

Cliche though it may be, if you're going to write a totalitarian leader you might as well take some plays from the book of Western history's most revered tyrant.  By promising to not only rid the country of its enemies outside and within, but also to eliminate the headaches of democratic government in a scary, modern world, Ward manages to gloss over his less palatable aims that will be hard to justify until after they've already taken hold.  So, with Caesar, I had something of a start. 

But it wasn't until I read Rick Perlstein's fantastic Nixonland that I finally got the last piece of the Ward puzzle.  The willingness--even the need--to exploit partisan rancor and cultural division.  The resigned acquiescence to issues he otherwise didn't care about just so he could further his own goals (in Nixon's case, civil rights as the key to making decisions in foreign affairs; for Ward, social conservatism giving him cover for national security projects).  And the staggering political genius that, in the end, wasn't quite large enough to hide the out-sized paranoia and insecurity that drove his rise to the Oval Office (there was sometimes a temptation to make Ward kind of a cartoon).  The state of the nation as created by Nixon--fractured, anxious, suspicious--is the perfect playground for Ward's own democratic experiments.

It's true that the post-9/11 security apparatuses and the red state-blue state squabbles that resulted were huge inspirations for Nos Populus, but those ingredients don't exist without Nixon's guiding hand.  A president in the Bush-mold would only squander the opportunities that such a political ecosystem presents.  For James Reso's mission to have any meaning or relevance, I needed Dennis Ward to be grounded and identifiable--not as a villain, but as president with his own vision of A More Perfect Union that just so happens to clash with that of our protagonist.