Carv's Thinky Blog I'm an author with a focus on satirical science fiction.

24Jan/120

The Devil in Ms. Jones?

When my book tour passed through Oklahoma in early 2010, I was surprised and delighted when Davee Jones turned up at one of my signings. She was a friend of many friends back in college--I dated several of her sorority sisters--and we'd run into each other again on Facebook. She told me she was looking forward to reading my novel, and that she was thinking about writing something of her own.

A scant two years later, Ms. Jones is on the verge of becoming a published author twice over. Her first book, Finless, comes out this spring. In the meantime, her novella On Ellicott Street will be released on 3 February. That's remarkable enough, but what really grabbed my attention is the genre she writes in: erotic romance.

For the uninitiated--I was one myself--erotic romance is a subgenre of romance novels in which the plot depends on vivid descriptions of the characters' sexuality and bedroom behavior. It's not a spicier version of a Harlequin throwaway, it's a detailed character study that takes into account the most private motivations of its randy protagonists.

Is erotic romance a classier name for chick porn? No (not that I have any objection to female-friendly adult material, mind you), but it depends on your definition, now, doesn't it? I know what porn is when I see it, I think. I've read multiple chapters of both Davee's books, and they don't qualify. They are, however, steamy as hell. If your taste in light reading doesn't include words like "semierection," then erotic romance may not be the genre for you. If, however, you're intrigued by the thought of modern romance salted with lessons in boudoir sadomasochism, then you'll find Davee's efforts surprisingly involving. Granted, standards aren't especially high for erotic romance, but I applied more rigorous criteria while evaluating her books. Trust me, Davee can write.

I was interested in her work because, while the novel I'm writing now isn't erotic fiction, it is, first and foremost, about American sexuality. It's about what we do under the sheets and what we wish we could do, and it tilts at the windmill of sexual taboo. I promised myself years ago that I'd write about religion, sex, and politics, and I plan to keep that promise. I interviewed Davee last week about her book and the challenge of writing sexy fiction.

I asked her how it felt to earn the title of "soon-to-be published author." "I literally jumped up and down," she said. After receiving the news by email, "I know it sounds crazy, but I had to read it three or four times before I understood what was happening...They took Finless first. That was in September...I was so nervous about it during the World Series that I wrote my other book."

To preorder On Ellicott Street, visit Davee's publisher, Secret Cravings. "At first it'll be electronically," Davee says, meaning released as downloadable e-book, "then, a few months later, in the print-on-demand format." Secret Cravings is not some rinky-dink, vanity publishing house, by the way. Thanks to the ease of electronic release, Davee's publisher can handle a wide variety of erotic romance novels without charging its authors a dime. If anything, her deal is better than my contract for Lightfall.

As for the sex in Davee's writing, "Most people do it," she shrugged. "God created it. It's a natural part of life, a very important part of life. The story I had to tell required it. Without it, the story would've been too bland."

I asked her what drew her to the subject of S&M. "That lifestyle fascinates me," she admitted. "The commitment involved is sometimes deeper than a traditional relationship." Was the novel based on her own experiences? "Some," she revealed carefully, "a small part, and other things were from people I knew or talked to. When you become interested in that lifestyle, you become friends with people who are involved."

"It changed me as I wrote it," she continued. "When you're involved as a personal experience, you can describe it better...There are some things I learned about that I'm not interested in, but someone else may be. Someone may read it and say, 'That's something I want to find out about, maybe even experience a bit deeper.' That does happen. And it's okay, as long as it happens behind closed doors."

Davee considers herself both a lover of God and a sexual free spirit. "People believe they've fallen because of certain things they've done," she says, "but if you believe in a loving God, then you have the opportunity to reconcile your relationship with Him." But she doesn't believe reconciliation has to come at the cost of a plain Jane, vanilla sex life. "I have an open mind. Open up your mind to a new experience, and you might learn something. You may not like what I have to say, but you might find some truth in there."

I asked Davee if her family already read her books. "My sisters have read it," she said. "My husband will not read it. He doesn't want to...I think it's because it's so revealing, he's not sure how much of it is my personal experience. I think that part bothers him, not knowing." But she's ready for the inevitable fallout when her work hits the street. "I was more disturbed by my family being embarrassed, not myself at all. I had something to say, and that's why I didn't write under an anonymous pen name." Indeed, her actual maiden name is Davee Jones, which should come in handy as she starts her publicity campaign--she already has the name of a rock star. She and I are from similar small towns in Oklahoma, where expectations are limited and people don't write about taboo subjects. But as Davee puts it--a sentiment with which I wholeheartedly agree--"I've got something to say, and I'm proud of what I have to say."

I admire Davee's courage. In coming months, I'll be attempting to share it. Like Davee, I know there are people, even people who know me relatively well, who'll assume if I write about a sexual act, then I must be revealing my personal history (or my wife's). Like Davee, I'll inject relevant experiences into my work, never saying what's what or who helped, and then draw the rest from conversations with close friends or pure imagination. Get ready to know me a little better than you probably intended to.

In the meantime, check out On Ellicott Street and Finless. You may be inspired to visit your friendly local purveyor of fur-lined handcuffs. If so, hold your head high. It's a free world, not-so-Gentle Reader, and you're free to find the love you want in it. If Davee's right, even God will understand.

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23Dec/110

Jukebox

Every year, it seems, I write a new Christmas message, devoid of my usual cynicism and skepticism (they are different, by the way), replacing both with my heartfelt wish that you, Gentle Reader, have a marvelous holiday and a better new year. That was proving to be difficult this time around. I searched for inspiration all week. Not that I haven't had a terrific year myself, mind you; it's been one for the record books. Twelve months ago I had yet to pop the question to Amanda, sweat the answer, or celebrate the results. I'd just started writing for Cengage, a gig for which I felt I was still auditioning. Since then I've joined the middle class, so I'm the rare lucky schmuck who's come out of the recession in better shape than when it began. Instead of creepy roommate drama, I fall asleep each night in the embrace of a scrapper with a tender heart. I'm sitting in my office with the Waitresses rapping into my headphones, having just left a schmaltzy holiday revue. It's Christmas all up and down in my world, yet I haven't been able to shake a demoralizing case of the bah, humbugs.

I wasn't raised on Santa's lap. As most of you know, my parents were Jehovah's Witnesses, so I knew the fat man was a myth from day one. I also knew Jesus wasn't born in December, that his "birthday" is really just a glorified winter solstice party, and jolly Saint Nick may as well be a registered trademark of the Coca-Cola Company. Usually none of that matters, and I accept Christmas as a joyous time to chug eggnog and relax with family and friends in the warm glow of a shopping mall cineplex.

But this year, I couldn't pull myself out of a yuletide funk. It had nothing to do with anything anyone said or did. No one's been unkind to me, the creditors aren't baying at the door, the tree is all merrily a-twinkle. I should've been happy as a child with a Toys 'R' Us gift certificate. But when I tried to look ahead to Christmas, I could only look back. I remembered the afternoon Mom and I watched skaters in Rockefeller Center, reenacting Schoolhouse Rock's "Figure 8" while John Lennon wished us all a "Happy Christmas (War Is Over)" over loudspeakers. Meanwhile, our troops were headed into Iraq and Afghanistan, and the Twin Towers' footsteps were still ugly gashes in a heartbroken island. I couldn't get that memory out of my head. Why, you ask? I haven't a clue.

But here's the thing about late December: the days are too short, and the nights are damn cold. We need Christmas. We all need it, true believers and Grinches alike. So just for now, just for a little while, can't I leave all my usual hopelessnesses aside?

Let's pretend, just for now, we're neither Republicans nor Democrats, men nor women, gay nor straight, simply humans of no particular color. Let's pretend we're neither Christians nor Jews nor Muslims nor none-of-the-aboves. I know it's the Lord's special day, and I wish Him well on it, but Christmas is bigger than one religion these days. Every human needs Christmas. We need to feel blessed and loved. We need to feel we're part of a family, and we need that family to sing together, billions strong. We long to hear the music of a planet at peace.

So put on the music you love this starry night, hold that special someone close, and raise a glass to the sacrifices and lessons of so many who helped us arrive at this moment when all is calm, all is bright.

Merry Christmas, my friends. May this new year bring us perfect gifts of laughter, music, and love.

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24Nov/110

Thankfully…

Grammar purists look askance at casual usage of the word "thankfully," as in, "Thankfully, my car wasn't damaged." They point out that my car wasn't thankful at all, as it's an inanimate object. (Same goes for "hopefully.") And given that I'm agnostic, Christians could rightfully ask me to whom (or Whom) I'm grateful in a sentence like, "I'm thankful for the blessings I've received." Well, I don't know, friends, and frankly, I don't care much this Thanksgiving morning. Call it God, call it karma, personification of fate, or the light side of the Force, I know life hands me things I appreciate sometimes. I needn't be a Southern Baptist to take a moment to savor how good I have it.

Why, just look at my friends list on Facebook. I'm friends with over 500 people, some of whom I actually know. As I scan down the list, I'm reminded time and time again that--and I mean this sincerely--my close friendships are what I value most. My friends have stuck with me through thick and thin (well,...kinda thin...way back in college...it's been decades). So what am I thankful for, this rainy Washington Turkey Day? Very possibly you.

I'm thankful most of all for my beautiful, brilliant, hilarious, practical, sensitive, romantic, whimsical, sexy-ass wife. This has been the best year of my life, and it's almost entirely because of her. She's been my good luck charm for four years now, and I demand forty more. Also, I appreciate the fact that she won't give me too hard a time about the second helping of pie I intend to devour this afternoon, and I appreciate how gently she'll nag me back into the gym once this play I'm in staggers to its feet.

I'm thankful for a role I didn't get, the role of Richard Nixon at Tacoma Little Theater. Through Frost/Nixon, I made over a dozen amazing new friends and had one of the best times I've ever had performing in a show. I'm thankful to Brie Yost for casting me as Bob Zelnick, and for doing such a proficient and inspiring job as director. If you're an actor in the Tacoma/Olympia corridor, you should work with her as soon as humanly possible. I'm also thankful to Alleena, Anjelica, and Sarahann for letting me bunk on their side of the stage. I remember that show as a two-month undergraduate party, and it completely revitalized my enjoyment of acting.

I'm thankful for my Oklahoma and Hollywood friends, and to Mark Zuckerberg, who keeps them all present in my life on an hourly basis. I'm thankful to Eric Moore for making the trek out here in September. I mean it, bro. That meant more to me than you probably realize, and it meant just as much to Amanda. You really are my best man.

I'm thankful to everyone who contributed to our wedding, our reception, and our honeymoon in Orlando. Each occasion was perfect. I'm a lifelong perfectionist, and I'm telling you without a trace of exaggeration that they were perfect from beginning to end. So thank you. Thanks again, and I hope you enjoyed the taco truck. California Tacos--try some today! The torta Cubana's especially awesome.

I'm thankful to my family for not being insufferable. Last night Amanda and I caught up on some holiday-week sitcom episodes, and every one of them was about squabbling families who dread seeing each other on Thanksgiving and Christmas. I don't feel that way. Granted, there have been bumps and bruises along the way, but that's to be expected. On this Thanksgiving morning, I got nothin' but love for y'all, on the real, yo. Peace.

Why am I writing like that? I have zero idea. It's fun, though. You should try it, homey.

I'm thankful for our circle of trust here in Washington, especially Linza Cook, the adopted brother who'll be leaving us soon for Sparklevampire Country. We're proud of you, Linza, and we'll miss you terribly. I know it's only a few hours away, but Jesus, man, Forks?! You know how I feel about Stephenie Meyer, that no-talent rag-pile of Mormon dryer lint. You could do so much better.

I'm thankful to John Munn and Josh Anderson for casting me in two very different shows, Oleanna and A Christmas Story. I'm proud to have both on my resume, and you have such an incredible range of talents. It's an honor to work with you.

I'm thankful to Amanda's family for swallowing their worries and accepting a left-leaning, snarky, hyperintellectual, agnostic, Hispanic sourpuss into the fold. I think the fact that I love their daughter as much as they do contributes to the success of our arrangement. Now I just hope you can overlook that novel I'm writing...

I'm thankful for gainful employment. I earned that, God knows, and I have to keep earning it every day, but so have a lot of other people who are spending this Thanksgiving in a panic over impending financial ruin. I'm so far ahead of last year, Gentle Reader, you have no earthly idea. It's a rags-to-relative-riches story, and I fall asleep many nights thanking my personal angels for the turnaround.

I'm thankful that I have a past worth feeling nostalgic about, a present that thrills me each day, and a future adventure I can hardly wait to experience. Five years ago, I identified with Hamlet, who decided on balance that life was not worth living. This year I think he was nuts, not just north-by-northwest mad but full-on bonkers.

If there is a God (maybe), if He pays any attention at all to life on Earth (by no means guaranteed), and if the Big Man Upstairs plays any part in the micromanagement of our lives (almost certainly not), then all I can say is He's done right by me this year. I didn't pray for any of it. Fundamentalists would say I deserve only death and despair. Yeah, they're wrong. God lets His rain fall on the just and the unjust alike, but guess what? He gives sunshine as well. Happy Thanksgiving, everybody. We've earned it, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't be grateful to receive it. Shalom.

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20Nov/110

O Imagineers!

I've been thinking a lot about theme parks these last few years.

Partly that's because I love them with all my heart and imagination. I grew up in L.A., and Disneyland was a regular part of my childhood. Years later, when I moved back from Illinois, I held a season pass to Universal Studios Hollywood and visited Six Flags Magic Mountain nearly as often. My family calls me "the park Nazi" because I have such definite ideas about the order in which theme park attractions should be visited. (Get there half an hour before the posted opening time, and then run to the most popular rides first. Eat meals at off-hours and go to shows from 1 to 4 p.m. I know it's annoying, but trust me, you'll spend far fewer hours in line. It's worth the hassle.) I also studied theme parks all this year because I knew my wife and I would be spending an expensive honeymoon week in Orlando. We got back two weeks ago, and man, did we have a fabulous time. I really can't say enough about it.

The newest theme park rides in Orlando this fall were Harry Potter's Forbidden Journey at Islands of Adventure and the updated Star Tours at Disney's Hollywood Studios. They're incredible. Here's a look at just part of the line for Harry Potter:

Yes, that's an animatronic Sorting Hat, reminding you to refrain from flash photography. The new Star Tours, meanwhile, consists of 54 possible series of adventures, each in high definition 3-D. It's exciting to watch theme parks adjust to new technology. As Amanda observed, rides built over the next few years will reflect a full generation of innovation beyond these, edging into what sci-fi writers used to call "virtual reality." Now, of course, we just call it "next year."

See, one of the most daunting challenges facing theme park engineers is to give you the same wonderful experience each time you visit, only brand new and right on the cutting edge of technology. Not one of the six parks we visited in Orlando let us down. Perhaps the best surprise was a projection show the Magic Kingdom at Disney World wedges in between the Main Street Electrical Light Parade and Wishes, its nightly fireworks extravaganza. The show is called "Magic, Memories, and You!" and uses sixteen projectors and some serious digital firepower to effectively resurface Cinderella's Castle:

The photos mapped onto the complex surface of the castle were taken earlier that day, then integrated into the display at the last minute. As stunning as the video is, it doesn't hold a candle to seeing it in person. I welled up. What Disney does better than anyone is marry high-tech Imagineering to big, fantastic ideas. As Arthur C. Clarke famously observed, "Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic."

Another reason I've been studying theme parks and theme park design is that novel I'm brewing. Yes, it's still knocking around in my head, even louder since my week in Orlando, and I've resolved to finally get it on by paper by the end of 2012. The novel takes place in a theme park designed specifically for adults of a sexually free-thinking nature. To be honest, I'm surprised such a place doesn't exist somewhere already, as plans for one often appear in the press (usually in Scandinavia). If I don't write the book soon, I'll be competing with reality, and I'll probably lose. I like to call my concept for the novel "Jurassic Park with nookie."

It's hard to sit and write on spec, though, when I could get paid real money instead to solve math problems for Cengage Learning. My technical writing job has eclipsed my writing hobby. There's also still the nagging issue of how a book about sex will be greeted, and what folks will think of me for writing it. I know that shouldn't worry me, but it does. If I wrote a book about a serial killer, I doubt anyone would wonder if I slaughter housewives on weekends. But if write a novel about Western sexuality, most of my readers will assume there's a sex dungeon somewhere in my condo. I'll be held somehow responsible for all my characters' questionable decisions.

Still...that's the book inside me, and eventually, I assure you, it will come out. The chips will have to fall where they may.

Just as Uncle Walt's plans for Disneyland were inspired and informed by his experiences in the movie business, my adventures in theme parks have enriched my skills in theatre directing. I learned from Disneyland that what you see before the ride begins is almost as important as the ride itself. As you can tell from the Sorting Hat video above, Universal has learned from Disney and stepped up its game with regard to queue design over the last few years. Whereas even an attraction as recently designed as Jurassic Park: The Ride once had nothing but occasional misters in its back-and-forth, utilitarian queue, now almost every line at Universal offers some kind of pre-show entertainment to make it feel less exhausting. As readers of my theatre criticism are constantly reminded, I judge a director's work by the lobby displays and house music before the curtain ever opens. It all needs to fit into the same world and get us ready for the ride.

When I was pitching Lightfall to agents a few years ago, the feedback I received most frequently was that it lacked forward momentum. I still believe that assessment to be a bit harsh, but I'm trying to keep it in mind as I ponder my novel to come. If an adult theme park novel isn't paced briskly, I know it'll never sell in this market, to an agent, a publisher, or readers scanning the shelves in Barnes & Noble. That means fun on every page, which means keeping it alive and sexy for three hundred pages and change. It's a tall order, but I think I've learned enough from the Lightfall experience--a hell of a roller coaster in its own right--to make it happen. I'm not through with the fiction game yet, Gentle Reader, and that strange erotic theme park design in my office will not go to waste. I hope you can handle the dynamic ride I plan to take you on when it's finished.

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16Oct/110

Love (In the Name of Pride)

I spent many hours this week on a project to transfer our old, disintegrating VHS tapes onto DVD. I found a tape my mom made of several of my old TV appearances from 1997-98, the year I spent doing extra work in L.A. I wasn't planning to transfer them, but my wife chided me until I relented. She wanted to show off my fleeting performances on George & Leo, in which I shared a soundstage with Bob Newhart, Jason Bateman, and Julia Sweeney, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer, in which a demonic character named The Judge shot lightning through my eyes into a shopping mall movie theater. (You can find it on Hulu; it's in an episode called "Innocence, Part 1," the highest-rated installment in series history. Coincidence? You be, no pun intended, the judge.) Personally, I just view those clips as physical evidence that I held a minimum-wage job, but she finds them glamorous.

Ah, well. We all have achievements we're proud of. I do, too, though my extra work isn't among them. Similarly, I take no pride in my few speaking roles on TV or in features; the work wasn't challenging, and the finished products were, please trust me on this, laughable. You won't even find them on Netflix. My largest speaking role was in a feature called Dead Air, which IMDB says debuted on Scandinavian television. I was basically cast as the Pig Vomit character from Private Parts, a film which doesn't exactly merit imitation. Good stuff, right? Yikes!

I'd feel prouder of Lightfall's publication if its distribution hadn't been so irreparably bungled. I hope to feel better about it someday, but for now it's wrapped up in too much drama. Contributing to my attitude is the fact that I was only paid $105 for it, a check I received only because it was returned from my publisher's deserted office.

So where do I find my pride? I felt enormous satisfaction with the first full-length play I directed, Tom Griffin's The Boys Next Door, back in 1993, and I felt it again as I immortalized its video on disc. Same goes for my starring role as Norman Thayer, Jr. in On Golden Pond. I was a 20-year-old playing an 80-year-old, and believe it or not, it worked. I'm proud of several of my characters on stage. I feel I've demonstrated impressive range over the years, despite my recent typecasting as Unlovable Old Man. I've played a werewolf, a gnome author, a fastidious skeleton, a concentration camp survivor, the greatest tenor in the world, a gay man, a lovestruck girl, a Southern preacher, a Northern Irish raconteur, the Devil himself, and both Feste the Clown and Sir Toby Belch. In a month and a half, I get to play the Old Man in A Christmas Story--so while he is an old man, at least he's lovable. Baby steps, people, baby steps.

I'm proud of my directing career, especially the aforementioned Boys Next Door, plus Galileo, Proof, and Fuddy Meers. I'm proud to make my living by writing, even when the output is solutions to basic algebra problems. I'm proud of my work as a theatre critic; I think it's brought depth, both welcome and unwelcome, to a field that, until recently, consisted mostly of uninformed backslapping in this region as it has in many others. I'm proud of my novel itself, regardless of how it was dribbled into bookstores. I like what I wrote and feel it speaks to my better nature.

I'm proud of my marriage to Amanda. I'm proud of my education, all eight years and three degrees of it, subsidized in no part whatsoever by my (then) financially strapped parents. I'm proud of my employment at Warner Bros. Sure I was just an administrative assistant, another perk for my department president boss, but I was a glorified perk under the Warner Bros. shield. I attended the premiere of a Harry Potter movie. I partied with celebrities and walked the red carpet. I couriered multimillion-dollar checks and roamed the backlot unescorted. I was part of the Hollywood machine, and who'd have predicted that for a husky bookworm of a Jehovah's Witness kid in a Crowder, Oklahoma trailer park?

Proverbs 16:18 warns us pride goeth before destruction, and I'm sure there's something to that. But achievements of any kind must be preceded by self-esteem, so I suggest to you that a fair bit of pride goes a long way. It's no sin to find needed smiles in your own successes. You pay for those smiles with a lifetime of failures and withering embarrassments. As I like to say, I've spent 43 years failing my way to the middle. But I like it here, Gentle Reader, and I hope it lasts a while.

So what makes you extra special, dear friends? Where do you find your pride?

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19Jul/110

Remember Me?

Hi, I'm Christian Carvajal. You may know me from such blogs as this one, last updated several months ago.

I've been busy. For example...

As most of you know, I got married on 28 May. The bride was beautiful, I was presentable, and the weather was unexpectedly gorgeous. In fact, and I say this as an absolute perfectionist, our wedding was perfect. If you follow me on Facebook, and most of you do, you've already seen some of the pictures. Didn't Jamie Howland do an amazing job shooting them? I'm really quite high on the whole thing. We hosted an overwhelming eight-course Italian wedding feast for two dozen people and got blissfully drunk on custom wines. Chef Amadeus, who'll appear as a contestant on Extreme Chef any day now, outdid himself, as did his talented sous chef (whose name I wish I could remember). We had such a great time that I guess my mom decided to repeat the experience--the feast was held in her home--because her reception party will be held in the same place next Sunday. Hell, yes! And I dig my new stepdad, too, which is awesome.

Amanda and I spent our first honeymoon in Seabrook, Washington, not far from Ocean Shores. The weather stayed perfect, which allowed us to host another party in our rented beach house. The next day, we ate fish and chips in a seaside restaurant. Pure heaven! My phone rang: it was director John Munn, asking me to be in his production of David Mamet's Oleanna. I was really on the fence about it, because I hate that script. Also, there are only two characters in it, so I'd have to memorize 45 full minutes of Mametspeak in about three and a half weeks. I wasn't sure it could be done. But John said my costar would be Deya Ozburn, and I think the world of Deya Ozburn, so I reluctantly accepted.

Fast forward through four grueling weeks of self-doubt and one loudly ticking clock. I don't know how many hours it took to memorize the part, but I can tell you it was even more than I expected. Doing the play feels like bullriding; the lines want to bolt out from under me. It's all I can do to keep them jittering in place, but according to everyone who's seen it, I acquit myself well. Fellow critic Alec Clayton called it 'some of the best acting he's seen all year,' and he sees everything. Of course, Deya still shows me up every night, and our audiences have been pitifully small. Last Sunday we did the show for five people, including the house manager. So why do I do it? Beats me. I'm starting to seriously believe it's addictive behavior. This is not rational behavior, and I have other things to do, right? I mean no disrespect to the company or David Mamet when I say that; I'd just rather be home with my wife.

At least my life is going well on all other fronts. I enjoy getting paid to write for Cengage, and I look forward to doing videos for that fine company any day now. (I need equipment they haven't shipped yet.) My marriage is, well, perfect. It really is. Even our few arguments are productive and reasonable, especially now that we received matching GPS units as wedding presents from my family.

You may have noticed the phrase "first honeymoon" above. See, we're spending a full week in Orlando beginning 30 October. Oh, man, am I stoked for that! This vacation will include visits to all four parks in Disney World as well as both Universal parks (including The Wizarding World of Harry Potter). We'll also catch Blue Man Group and, most likely, a gourmet restaurant or two. Any recommendations? And it's already paid for! Thanks, all three concurrent jobs!

By the way, I have a special surprise planned for Amanda's birthday in two weeks. More on that later, I suspect.

So yeah: I'm healthy, happy, and back in the middle class. I'm enjoying wedded bliss. I bet people who spent decades getting used to surly, cynical Carv are baffled right now. "Who's this guy?" Well, relax, friends, I'll be back to annoying you with long entries about Jesus any day now. I really do want to write that entry on the Gospel According to Mark, but this report had to come first. As I said, I've been busy, busy, busy...and I love it.

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1Mar/110

The Big Get

Thursday, February 17, was huge for The Weekly Volcano, as it celebrated the debut of our Best of Olympia edition. Far more important to me, however, was the impending arrival of a certain long-awaited piece of bling. My girlfriend Amanda and I planned to celebrate a postponed Valentine's Day the following night, Friday, with a steak dinner, home cooked by yours truly. Unbeknownst to Amanda but benknownst to just about everyone else in our lives including Rep. Dennis Kucinich, I meant to propose to her after dinner. I've been incredibly stressed this month, so much so that my face has broken out like that of a high school sophomore in dire need of Proactiv, but my most harrowing worry was that something would happen to the engagement ring in transit. I was cutting it down to the wire, and my luck this year has been atrocious.

Amanda and I left the Volcano party at The Brotherhood Lounge early, but we wound up getting into, well, not a fight--we seldom fight--but a rather intense conversation. The subject was marriage. After a conversation with her father earlier that day, a conversation prompted by his awareness of my imminent proposal, she was so freaked out she could barely focus. Her Spidey sense was tingling. Something was afoot! So why wouldn't I talk about it? She couldn't get anyone to tell her what was going on, and she assumed it was bad. In her anxiety, she warned me that I'd better not think of proposing anytime soon, because she wasn't prepared to pull the trigger.

Terrific.

So after a few angst-ridden emails and phone calls the next morning, I went to pick up her ring. Much to my surprise and relief, the ring had arrived and looked amazing. I decided to take my shot and risk the rejection she'd already warned me I'd receive. I cooked her the steak, drenched it in Roquefort butter, poured some wine and tried to get her to relax. It wasn't easy. She was still awfully tense.

I told her to dress up, as we were going out for dessert. She didn't know where and wasn't happy about that. What did I mean by dessert? Was it going to be messy? Would she need special shoes? What was going on?!

I surreptitiously texted her sister to say we were on our way. I drove Amanda to Cascadia Grill, the former Plenty, the downtown Olympia eatery where she and I had our first date three years and a month ago. Amanda noticed immediately that her brother and sister were there. They tried to play it off as a coincidence, but Amanda wasn't buying it. I got down on one knee, withdrew the ring from my coat pocket, and asked Amanda Stevens to be my wife and partner for life.

I said on Facebook last week that my interview with Dennis Kucinich was my "get of the month." Of course, that wasn't even remotely true. He came in second and far behind, because my fiancee Amanda Stevens said yes.

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9Feb/110

Wizard!

I was killing time in the library yesterday when I passed a copy of Wizard magazine and leafed through it. If you're not familiar with Wizard, it started as a glorified comics guide twenty years ago, then expanded to cover all of Western pop culture. Sadly, both Wizard and its sister publication, ToyFare, ended publication last month, though there is an online version at WizardWorld.com.

Anyway, as I read the magazine, I was struck by how many of its obscure references I got. I'm 42 years old and very much a product of pop culture. I learned how to read from Sesame Street and The Electric Company. I probably learned how to converse by watching David Letterman. My generation's bonding experience was Star Wars, and I'm still a fan after all these years of crappy Kevin Smith comedies and prequel remorse. Amanda can roll her eyes all she wants, but I still wake up to Clone Wars on the DVR every Saturday morning.

Here, then, with no real comment or justification needed, are a random list of pop culture moments and products that were pivotal to my development as the proud geek I am today. Feel free to add your favorites in a comment below. If there's not a Lone Ranger or Gone With the Wind in your responses somewhere, I'll be awfully surprised.

Frank Miller's The Dark Knight. The OUTATIME. The T. rex shoving through the electric fence. The Vogon Constructor Fleet that hung in the air in much the same way that bricks don't. The demise of Colonial Space Marine William Hudson. "One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them." The need for a bigger boat. "There are many copies. And they have a plan." Tawny Kitaen, especially in The Perils of Gwendoline in the Land of the Yik Yak. Paulina Porizkova, especially on her poster with the leopard bikini. "I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration..." Spawn. "The Killing Joke." "They're heeeere." "You want to talk to God? Let's go see him together. I've got nothing better to do." "Fill your hand, you son of a bitch!"

Mr. Bernstein remembers the girl in the white dress. The care and feeding of Mogwai. The Call of Cthulhu. "Maltz! Jol yIchu!'" "Call Mr. Plow, that's my name / That name again is Mr. Plow." Abbey Road. The Muppets. Easy Reader. "Lay Lady Lay." Cyberdyne Systems model T-101. Pennywise the Clown. Drew Barrymore wishes David Letterman a happy birthday. "Hey Now" Hank Kingsley. The Seaward. Trinity runs from the cops. Alan Arkin and/or Dianne Wiest as parents in pretty much anything. "These are the voyages of the starship...Enterprise." The bike scenes in E.T. The untimely death of Salvatore Bonpensiero. The Neighborhood of Make-Believe. "These effects aren't very special."

"Part of Your World." "Somewhere That's Green." (Same song, really.) The Wicked Witch of the West. Remo Williams. Cyrano de Bergerac. The Dwead Piwate Wobe'ts. "I hate it when that happens." The seven words you can't say on television. Rubik's Cube. Alex Trebek. Kunta Kinte. Jessica Rabbit. Akira. Venom. Snow Crash. "Something is rotten in the state of Denmark." Of Mice and Men.

I could go on and on, of course. What are your ongoing childhood favorites?

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13Jan/110

TMI!

If there's an expression that crawls under my skin faster than "Too Much Information!" I find myself at a loss to recall it. I'd rather be called a racial slur any day of the week than have "TMI!" thrown in my face. Just when the conversation gets interesting, some insensitive dimwit has to pipe up with "TMI!" and ruin our entertainment. Generally, he or she waits until the exact microsecond I start paying keen attention to what's being said. If Katie wants to tell us about her triple nipple, that's her business. Who is this a-hole to laugh at her candor?

We need a word for jokes that aren't even jokes anymore. You know what I mean. I'm thinking of non-quips like "Hot enough for ya?" or "Halloween Sale prices so low they're scary!" or "Dunlap's Disease" or "senior moment" or "pi aren't square, cornbread are square." Somebody said "TMI!" once at the water cooler (they do still have water coolers, right? I work from home), people asked what it meant, the abbreviater answered, and Gladys--oh, you know, that muffin-topped lady from the cubicle with all the cat pictures--well, she just laughed for an hour and happily emailed everyone in her contact list about it. Then it became a meme, and now we're all stuck with it. Hell. It was barely funny the first time, so why do people bother to smile at it now? I guess they're just being polite. Well, phooey on that.

Man, it's tough for people to be themselves. It takes courage for them to reveal their vulnerable, personal natures. If you were to take advantage of this rare honesty and listen, really listen, you might hear something poignantly revealing about the human condition. You might see we share a common thread of bittersweet nobility. Heck, you might even find yourself moved to share your own secret self. But no, Jerry, you nimrod from Accounts Payable, you had to screw it up for everybody. You had to stifle the brightest moment of shared humanity we've seen in weeks because you were happier talking about the Seahawks. "TMI!" Thanks a googolplex, Jerry. You're a jerk.

We hate you, Jerry. That's what I'm trying to say. Seriously. No one asked you to butt into this conversation anyway.

Y'know who else should get hit by a school bus and die under the wheels? Bloggers who overreact, that's who. I flippin' hate those guys.

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15Dec/100

All Hail Our New Computer Overlords

My research for Novel 2.0 has taken me down some colorful paths, but none more bizarre than a 2006 book by David Levy called Love and Sex With Robots: The Evolution of Human-Robot Relationships. In some ways, this topic is an extension of previous reading, especially The Singularity Is Near (2005) by Ray Kurzweil, an influence on my previous novel. Kurzweil is a software engineer and computer trend prognosticator who believes artificial intelligence will surpass human intelligence some time around 2045, an event he calls the Singularity. It's a paradigm shift on a global scale, which means we can't see past it to its ramifications. Of course, always in motion is the future, and prophets tend to look foolish only a few years down the road. But Kurzweil's been making predictions for decades, and at least until now, they've been remarkably accurate. I think the most conservative possible view save one is that he's off by only a decade or two at most.

How could this be? Surely human consciousness is a magical state far beyond the capacity of any computer? To a person of faith, all intelligence is artificial intelligence, in that it was created and imbued by divine spirit. When such a person defends his or her beliefs in the light of all scientific data that contradicts them, he or she often points to two grand cosmic mysteries as indisputable evidence. First, the universe is so majestic that it could not have come to be without help. Second, life is so intricate, and the human mind so specifically complex, that it could not have evolved through merely physical processes. These arguments are not without merit. I'm swayed by them myself. But consider: What if we were to invent a computer with all the speed, power, memory, and basic knowledge (call it software) of the human brain and turn it on? What would happen? Would it talk like us, think like us, perhaps even love like us? Would it be artificially aware, or just intelligent? Sure, it could do difficult square roots in the blink of an eye. It might understand or even create knock-knock jokes. But would they be funny? Could it write an affecting sonnet on the subject of beauty? Could it write a satirical novel about what fools these mortal users be? What's the difference, fundamentally, between us and the equivalent computer? Would it be intelligent, even emotional, but in an alien way? Or would it be the "person" we instructed it to be?

First things first. How close are we, really, to building such a machine? The human brain is the single most complex volume of real estate in the known universe. It holds terabytes (trillions of bytes, or thousands of gigabytes) of memory and runs at somewhere around ten teraflops (trillions of operations per second), yet requires only 24 watts of energy a day. Even subtracting value for the high failure rate of human memory, that's still enough to dwarf any silicon computer ever made, in a fraction of the volume. Using current technology, any computer in the world would overheat in the blink of an eye if we tried to run it at the speed of a human brain. Impressive, right? Score one for the Maker.

But wait! IBM is building a computer called SuperMUC for the Bavarian Academy of Science that will come online in 2012 and run at a maximum of three petaflops. Of course, that's less than a third of human brain speed, but it's clear we've come a long way in less than a century of computational engineering. Check it out:

This oft-cited graph, created by Hans Moravec in 2002, seems to show a nice steady climb toward artificial intelligence. A closer look reveals the graph is actually logarithmic, a structure that compresses steep exponential curves into straight lines. Applicable here is "Moore's law," a computer engineering principle that can be grossly oversimplified to say computer power doubles every 18-24 months. That's not a flat geometric line, it's a skyrocketing curve into infinity. If you're wondering how far we've come since 2002, the Intel Core i7 Extreme 965 CPU costs about $1000 (in equivalent dollars, that is) but sits above the "1995 Trend" projection. We're doing better than expected, in other words, symptomatic of an exponential curve. Here's another useful graph for comparison:

That's still a logarithmic graph, but it projects its curve into the future and compares it to four key brain-related markers (in terms of pure calculations per second). On that predictive graph, a computer worth $1000 in present-day value will reach the level of human intelligence in the 2020s. The same money could buy you a computer as "intelligent" as the entire human race by 2060. Yikes!

Ah, but let's not grab our torches and mob the Microsoft campus just yet. The fact is these graphs contain plenty of wiggle room, and there's more to intelligence than processing speed or memory. But we are on that path. For a while there, it looked as if the overheating problem might put the kibosh to Moore's law in the next few years, but an IBM project called silicon nanophotonics has found a detour around it. I won't bore you (or myself) with the details, but suffice it to say it reduces overheating significantly and opens a new door to progress. This year saw the beginning of an international "Exascale" project to build a computer that can run at a quintillion (10 to the 18th power) operations per second, or a hundred times faster than a human brain, by 2018. You know: eight years from now. The Internet already contains more information than any organic brain ever could, so a simple wi-fi connection gets around the memory hurdle. Since 1984, the Cyc (short for "encyclopedia") Knowledge Base has been compiling a list of "common sense" factoids a computer must know before it can converse on a variety of subjects with a human being. But according to the famous Turing test, if a human exchanging text messages with a computer can't tell he or she is conversing with a computer, then guess what--that computer is artificially intelligent.

Now, think about that. When you and I write to each other, I accept that you're an intelligent person, a mind, because you know what I know about life, you understand what I say, and you respond logically in real time. I'm not privy to all your internal mental meanderings, what theologians and philosophers call your "soul." In practical terms, I don't need to hear or read any of that stuff before I can accept your validity as a person of intelligence. I just need the outer results of such internal processes; you behave like a person so I believe you're a person. Heck, most pet owners don't even need that much.

Do we each have a "soul" per se, or are our thoughts and emotions the output of an amazing biological computer? Is there a ghost in that machine? Until now, any definition of the soul was purely mystical. We might even say it's defined by necessity, in that it fills open plot holes: The soul is whatever a human being (plus maybe animals, especially the cute furry ones) can think or feel but which cannot be generated by human biochemical processes alone.

If we build a supercomputer as capable, in both hardware and software terms, as a human brain, and we turn it on, and it seems to reason and have emotions and plan the way we do, we must then accept that computer as intelligent. Even if we know it has no soul beyond the physics, we cannot argue that such a magical property is required before a being can think. And if the computer behaves as if it feels emotions (for example, if it behaves as if it cares about us), we must then accept it has an "emotional life." Philosophers and other spiritual thinkers may debate whether emotions and "emotional" behavior are the same thing, but they'll be arguing semantics. The practical results will be the same. After all, I don't know my girlfriend really loves me. Some days she may not. But she acts as if she does, and that's the best I can reasonably hope for.

We live in an amazing time, when one of the key hypotheses proposed by religion, that only God can make a "soul," is about to be decided once and for all. I think it's the most important claim made by religion. It proposes a trans-Newtonian, even trans-quantum, place in the universe: the human mind. Such a spiritual soul would indeed be miraculous and could not have evolved. But if an Exascale computer with all the knowledge in Cyc and the memory of a cloud network at its disposal can't write original haiku, then the philosophers were right: We are metaphysical. If not, well...

If we discover a soul is unnecessary to explain human consciousness, and no physical evidence for a soul is ever found--after all, it never has been before--then surely we can conclude human beings don't have souls? And if we don't have souls, then mustn't it logically follow that there is no possibility of an afterlife? And if we have no afterlife, then mustn't it mean every religion ever devised is pure hokum? And if that were, in fact, true, would we really want to know it?

Clearly, these are earth-shattering questions, but that's not the half of it. Given the existence in my lifetime of a computer as smart as any human being, we'll have far more practical matters to consider; and despite decades of warning, they'll probably catch us with our pants down. Perhaps even literally: Will human beings have sexual relations, dare we say relationships, with artificial intelligences? I love my computer, but one day, will I love my computer? Will it love me, or just "love" me, and will I care about the difference? Or what if it doesn't love me at all--not because it can't love anyone, but because it hates me personally? Talk about rejection!

If I have sex with an artificial intelligence, am I cheating on my human relationship? What if my fembot and I claim to love each other?

What if my intelligent computer decides not to work for me? Is it right to require devotion and labor from another intelligence for free, or is that a pretty fair definition of slavery?

What if an intelligent computer wants the vote? What if that computer is as wise, or at least as intelligent, as an entire culture put together? Should it get a culture's worth of votes? Is emotion a strength or a liability in a voting booth?

Large parts of the country are still squeamish about certain kinds of human marriages. What about humans and computers who wish to tie the knot? It's possible to imagine adoptive parents who exist "only" as artificial intelligences manifesting through some virtual reality incarnation. The mind reels.

I know it sounds like science fiction, and at this point, it is. But it isn't fantasy. It's based on actual research and development, happening now, and it will almost certainly come to pass in the next forty years...

...if, that is, it doesn't take more than hardware and software to make a person. Things are about to get interesting. Call me crazy, but I'm looking forward to it.

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