When I Upgrade…

I have never been a fan of the BMW.  It’s not that I don’t admire the vehicle in any way, but it seems to me every other car on the road is a BMW… which completely de-values it as a brand (at least in my eyes).  Couple that with the fact that they are only technically “German” now, and I’m not impressed.

Until…

Enter the brand-new concept car, the 328 Hommage, a 75th anniversary edition designed to pay tribute to the roots of BMW.  To this I say… are you shitting me?

Those straps emerging from chrome slats on the side and top?  Weatherproofed leather… matching the interior.  This car has an actual six pack… it has abs.  Kidney shaped grills and round headlights with “knock-out” graphic Xs. That body, so gorgeously molded, is carbon-reinforced shell.

This is one of those times when “price upon request” makes me whimper.  But… damn.  I mean… DAMN!

Peter Nimble is My New Hero!

I would KILL to have this title on Kindle, so if you are listening, Amulet Books, get on that! This title-- which is available in hardcover for a reasonable $17, is the most charming thing written for kids I've come across since Harry. Jonathan Auxier has created an incredibly charming adventure with this novel. Peter, the title character and hero, is a blind orphan. At the tender age of ten he must learn to survive, and does so by becoming an unlikely thief. He steals a box filled with three sets of magical eyes. From the blurb on on amazon.com:

One fateful afternoon, he steals a box from a mysterious traveling haberdasher—a box that contains three pairs of magical eyes. When he tries the first pair, he is instantly transported to a hidden island where he is presented with a special quest: to travel to the dangerous Vanished Kingdom and rescue a people in need. Along with his loyal sidekick—a knight who has been turned into an unfortunate combination of horse and cat—and the magic eyes, he embarks on an unforgettable, swashbuckling adventure to discover his true destiny.

Pick this one up. Absolutely adorabe, genuinely new ideas, and beautifully crafted. This is why kids fall in love with books!

Philippa Ballantine's Order Series

I just picked up Philippa Ballantine's second ORDER book, Spectyr. The first book in the series, Geist, was a delightful surprise and one of the first books I double-purchased for my Kindle. The world she has built is rich, but I really liked the fact that it was both familiar in an old-school-fantasy craft sense, but with a completely new story.

One of the things I liked most? If you, like me, find the zombie movement intriguing, but overdone, this may appeal. Ballantine's "geists" are fantasy-fied and have a much more folkloric feel, but they push similar buttons.

There's a bit of romance, but only as an element. There's some wonderfully subtle handling of religion, faith, and power. Some of the magic elements, such as the "air ships" have an almost steampunk feel, giving the books wonderful and unexpected layers. Which, let's face it, is exactly what fantasy fans look for. We want our stories to feel like fantasy without being rote or cliche.

Ballantine delivers just that. Don't miss this series, it's really worth your investment. Perfect summer escapism!

Dude… we’re gettin’ the band back together…

Long, long ago in a land known as Green Habah, there was a small group of nerds who loved music and one another.  They were called THE BEACH RATS.  Actually, the kids were called beach rats because they hung out at the beach almost year-round.  It took serious sub-zero temps to force them indoors.  The BAND was initially called The Beach Rat Blues Review, but nobody was willing to  say that many words in a go… it was the 80s.

So the kids went minimalist and struck out on a magic carpet ride of ear-splitting (initially) loudness.  After a year or so it all blended away to soul-strumming smoothness in the tradition of Bob Seger, Bonnie Raitt, and Tom Petty.  Only teenagers… so yeah, not as good.

Why do you care?  You probably don’t.  But I’m excited because I was the lead singer for that band, wrote all the lyrics for their songs, and am now a writer of a different sort.  But when several of my besties-- who were also band-mates, boyfriends, best-friends, and blood-siblings and still are—heard me mention that there would be a bar with a house-band in the second installment of my Maggie Gallagher Mystery series, genius struck.

Since The Beach Rats inspired the idea, and since I intended to use my own lyrics here and there in the novel, why not record some of those old songs and give them away as a promo?

So we’re gonna.  We’ve already laid down a few tracks and dug out the old notebooks.  I can even read my handwriting.  This feels like promotional genius, but know what?

It’s just an excuse to have fun.  DUDE!!  WE’RE GETTIN’ THE BAND BACK TOGETHER!!!!

Imagine how RAWKIN AWESOME we’ll sound clean and sober!!!

If I Blog It, Will They Come?

Since The Sceptics' Tank has always been a private, members-only group, we decided to give up the website this past year.  It was stupid to have a domain and presence for absolutely no reason.  We have our IRC channels and the mail loop, so what was the point?

Weirdly, members missed having logs and other nonsense on a web page.  I still don’t really know why.  But you asked, and I am all about the love. So we have a blog. Any members who want to be able to post on the blog are welcome to apply for a google account so they can be added as members. 

Are you happy now?  http://thescepticstank.blogspot.com/… it’s what’s for dinner.

Cut or Save?

As many of you know, I am in fierce edits for CRY UNCLE, and one of the things I am trying to do is edit with minimal damage.

When I first wrote this scene it was meant as a way to show-not-tell things about the character, who is sort of a New England combo of Paris Hilton and Casey Anthony with a lower IQ.  It’s the readers’ first encounter with Emily, the character in question, who has just lost her father: the world’s biggest dirtbag.

This is the scene… my beta reader has threatened to kill me if I cut it.  She is also scouring shelters for a Dorkie, so take that into consideration:

From CRY UNCLE, by Chrissy Olinger

    I glanced up and noticed my cousin, Emily, standing in the kitchen with a tiny creature in her arms. It was covered in wild tufts of brown and black hair that appeared to be infested with both static cling and hair gel. It was wearing a pink sweater. Emily maneuvered around the table and headed in our direction.
    Shit.
    It's possible the only person alive I hated more than Denny was his daughter.
    Justin greeted her first. "Hey, Emily, how are you?"
    She didn't appear to have been crying. She shrugged and dug her fingers into the fuzz escaping from its pink confinement.
    "What is that?" Jackie never had a filter installed.
    "She is my dog, Princess." Emily sniffed and adjusted Princess. "I got one of those kits you can send away to get a genealogy for her. The report said she was half Dachshund and half Yorkie."
    Jackie gaped. "You have a Dorkie?"
    Emily glared back at him, tightening her hold on the tiny dog. It wheezed and made a rough hacking sound. One of the eyes flickered in spasm.
    "She's a Yorksund."
    "I thought that was a kind of Scandinavian furniture." Justin reached a hand toward Princess. Princess wheezed again and curled her lip. Justin growled at the Dorkie.

Anatomy of a Brateopath

This may be the most hated face in America today, and I’m certainly no exception.  But one of the things that has bothered me the most about watching the Casey Anthony trial is the defense, by so many in the media and even on the street, of George, Cindy, and even Lee.

I started following this trial because of my “other” job.  Reviewing Casey’s journal entries and jailhouse letters—penned in a scrawl that is eerily similar to her father’s weirdly effeminate script in the suicide note—a riveting personality emerged.  Casey is the ultimate example of what I have come to call a “brateopath.”  She is sociopathic, narcissistic, and a result of indulgence that spoils, quite literally, a human being.  In other words, when we hear the phrase “spoiled brat,” we don’t look terribly closely at the term.  But this was a human being who was literally spoiled—ruined, broken, and damaged— by her entire family’s refusal to make her face consequences.

• She didn’t graduate high school, but her mother threw her a party.
• She lied about her pregnancy, and her mother indulged the denial.
• She stole money from her own grandparents, and when confronted, Cindy defended her and asked that she not face charges.
• She lied about jobs, people, and a nanny… to a family who knew she lied, knew she was a criminal, and knew she expected others to cover for her.

Are we really supposed to believe that anyone in that house was surprised?  When we hear the panic and terror in Cindy’s voice during the 911 call, are we really supposed to indulge yet another lie, and believe her when she claims she didn’t IMMEDIATELY know something was wrong, and that Casey was behind it?

No, and that’s why I ask everyone to consider that Cindy, George, Lee, and anyone else who indulged her when they knew she was the broken creature they’d helped create, are partially responsible. 

Believe it or not, seeing a criminal indulged throughout my childhood is precisely what encouraged me to get involved in LLVF (language, literary, and verbal forensics).  It also inspired a lot of my written work.  I know how this sort of thing damages… and how long… and how deeply.

Casey was guilty, no matter what the jury says.  If they feel they didn’t have the evidence, I do understand, whatever my own opinion may be.

You know who DID have the evidence?  Her family.  And they had it BEFORE that innocent angel was thrown into a swamp to rot.

Think about it.

Pyrotechnics and Other Junk

So… a local tv channel claims that a certain other town has the best July 4th celebration.

Look... safety and tax sponsored activities aside... how can you possibly top watching a moron set himself on fire, run around like a chicken sans-noggin, and hurl himself into the harbor to avoid the illegal fireworks fine he'll pay if he has to call 911 and tip off the authorities?

I'm callin' BS and sticking with Marshvegas, home of hot dogs and beer, mom and apple pie, and third degree burns for our summer enjoyment.  Yeah, find the drawer your wife hid your testicles in, screw em back on, and man up, Duxbury!

It’s tradition, people. Nobody LIKES it, but SOMEBODY has to get set on fire.  Deal with it!