I judge a competition

"It's the only sport I know of where the coach requires the team to wear makeup," I said. I knew it wasn't proper English, but sometimes I'm a rebel who likes to break the rules. She laughed at that-- the makeup observation, not the rebel thing--and had to agree. 

Saturday, daughter and her team of made up maidens, rouged rogues, painted performers, maquillaged mesdemoiselles--or, more accurately, highly talented and skilled troupe of beautiful young women--put on a spectacular display. To describe the exhibition as "super awesome" would be to damn with faint praise. 

I had never before been to such a competition. It was much more crowded than the wrestling tournaments that I used to attend with some frequency--actually it was with my son, but his name is not "some frequency."

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 Lack of knowledge about the requirements of the competition did not deter me from making my own knowing critique. I first contented myself with counting the number of participants on each team; I would tell my wife how many I had counted each time, and say something about whether I thought that was a small number for a school of that size--she was enthralled with my expertise. The team with the fewest members had 4--just under half of the student body (or bodies) for that school. ("Half of the student body" just seems morbidly wrong, perhaps giving the wrong impression of the nature of the event; it wasn't some CSI competition). The team with the most members had around 22-25 on the floor; about the time I had counted up to 20, they started their routine; it's very difficult to count them when they're racing about the floor, leaping, tumbling, bouncing, and crowding about one another. Often, they would come together like a pack of hounds fighting over a bacon-wrapped feline; suddenly, one of their members would be squirted, cartoon-like, into the air to spin, flip, and otherwise contort (like said bacon-wrapped feline in a frying pan) before landing safely in the arms of the team. (For the record, I am vehemently against the swaddling of cats in sowbelly, or any other pork products...it's a terrible waste of bacon...and very likely to result in a visit to the emergency room...I won't be trying that again).

The uniforms constituted another item on my critique list. Color: Some were too dark; some were too light; only a couple were just right. The teams probably weren't judged on their uniforms, but the color and contrast presented by the parts of the uniforms, and the pom-poms contributed to the spectacle of the presentation...and the visual spectacle was what it was all about for me. Style: I had some extremely detailed criteria in this category: Did I like it? The short version is that I liked some and not others. I could expound on that...but neither of us would be a better person my having done so. So, I won't, other than to say, that it had to do with whether the uniforms looked smart (a technical fashion term, I believe), and if they stayed in place during the routines. 

Finally, I declared myself chief judge of showmanship by critiquing the performances themselves. I judged the visual display, including how well the team appeared to know the routine; how synchronized and precise they were in their movements; how well the bases and fliers got into position; and how well the fliers and bases maintained balance and position as they went through those elevated exhibitions.

One team stood out in all of the categories that I had selected as being critical. (The number of members on the team did not factor into my judging). The actual judges must have agreed with my assessment; my daughter's team finished first in each of the routines it performed. 

You've probably figured out by now that I was attending the combined high school curling and skeet shooting championship. Maybe that wasn't it; it was something much better. Best of all, no one ate Tide pods, or tried to lecture me about the meaning of the Constitution.

It may not have been my idea of an ideal Saturday, sitting on hard benches in cramped crowded conditions, but I got to watch many talented youth perform. Their performances probably won't change the world, but the time and effort that they dedicate to the task certainly changes them for the better--and that does change the world. It was a competition. Not everyone could win. The hot, wet tears of disappointment stained many pretty faces. Tears dry; character abides. 

Fear in the Night - reframed - McCroy's Away Mission

Fear in the Night (1947), directed by Maxwell Shane, starring:

According to Wikipedia,this was Kelley's film debut.

The film concerns a bank teller, Vince Grayson, who dreams that he has killed a man in an octagonal room of mirrors --that makes the fight eight times more exciting, right? He awakes with marks on his throat, blood on his wrist, and he finds a mysterious key and a button in his pocket. Needless to say, but I'll say it anyway, he is troubled. He goes about trying to locate, by way of advertisement, a house with such an octagonal room. No luck.

While on an outing with his girl Betty; and his sister Lil and brother-in-law Cliff (a police detective), some memories surface, leading him to his dream home -- or nightmare mansion. He finds blood in the closet behind one of the mirrors--the same place he had stashed the body in the dream, and to which the mysterious key fits--fits the closet, not the body.

When a local law enforcement officer who's keeping an eye on the place detains them, they learn that a woman was killed at the house--her description matches his recollection of a woman in his dream. Vince becomes seriously disturbed, almost even suicidal. His brother-in-law stymies his attempt to execute a double gainer into the roof of Cliff's new car from 20 floors up.

Detective Cliff (who makes me think of a half-price Dan Duryea) puts some clues together and does some detectivey stuff; he suspects that Vince has been hypnotized into committing murder. They prove it all by having the hypnotist do his thing once again to Vince, who is narrowly saved from drowning himself at the hypnotist's suggestion, or at the lake, or both, depending on how you look at it.

After all this, Vince still has to go to court to defend himself against a murder rap. We don't get to discover the outcome; it's just  sort of, "Thanks for helping us resolve this case, and good luck with the jury on that self-defense and hypnosis Hail Mary angle you've got going; we're behind you all the way."

This film is entirely forgettable. It presses several of the obligatory film noir buttons (not to be confused with Red Buttons, who didn't like to be pushed at all): a stairway, window-blind shadows, fedoras, a good man made to do bad things... But it lacks a great film noir femme. The film hops along on one leg without this crucial element of the genre. I had hoped that the woman in the dream would prove to be the come-over-to-the-dark-side dame; we never see her again. Instead, we learn that she succumbed to a bad case of Pontiac's disease, communicated to her by a steel bumper and a set of whitewall tires.

Since this film stars not just a tree, but DeForest Kelley, it reminded me of a TOS mashup. It's "The City on the Edge of Forever" meets "A Piece of the Action" and "Return of the Archons" with a touch of "The Lights of Zetar."

I call the reframe: "Who's Lying Now" as told by Dr. Lemmy McCroy.

I had had a rough night. Captain Kork and his first officer Spirk had insisted on watching video clips of old ship's logs for some reason. I'm afraid I drowned my boredom in Cromulan ale, and bit of brandy from some backwater system where the fruit has naturally hallucinogenic properties. The last thing I remember was Scootty, who had taken the shape of an enormous red walrus, bragging about how he could transport the earrings off a Krigellian dancing girl without her even knowing it. Spirk, or a blue python hanging from a lavender tree that sounded like him, wondered why he should attempt such an endeavor. Then I passed out.

I woke up with a headache the size of Galaxy, a 1965 Ford Galaxy; my head was throbbing like the U.S.S. Interlude's impulse engines at maximum power. I looked around and knew immediately that I wasn't in my quarters. A strange familiarity pervaded the room. My first thought was that we had struck a time vortex, or a time guardian large enough to fly a star ship through...except, I didn't seem to be on the ship.

I found a strange religious symbol, and button on the table next to my bed, or maybe it was two religious symbols. I didn't know. For all I knew, they could be some powerful alien artifacts capable of warping time and space. Had these apparent trifles transported me through space and time? If so, to what?

I dressed in the clothes that I found in the room. No one stopped me. I went down to the street. I wandered into another building. I found a doll there with two names. She looked more like a Betty than a Vince to me. I decided to call her Betty. She told me about a guy who might be able to help me.

He was great at making dollhouse furniture. He wasn't so sure that he could construct a communicator, but he was willing to give it a try.

While he worked, I showed Betty how I could fold my hat to look almost like a bundle of old rags. She was real impressed, and started making eyes at me. I told her I had something in my eye.

I had her look into my eyes, and I did that trick I had learned on Ceti Alpha Bravo Delta. It made her scream and go into convulsions until she passed out; it works every time.

I felt badly about that, but it was hilarious...totally worth it. But I wrote her an apology. I also took out an ad in the local daily paper seeking information about the Interlude. If there were other members of the ship stranded on this planet, maybe I could reach them with a well-written personal ad.

I got a lot of calls on the ad, and even a couple swell dates...but I didn't find anyone from the ship.

My friend who was trying to build the communicator for me stopped by and told me to join him in his new vehicle. I thought that it was a strange craft, but I'm a doctor, not an automotive critic. I got inside to discover Betty and another gal.

The frail in the front seat told me that they had been working together on the transmitter. Unfortunately, the technology was forbidden, and monitored closely by some nefarious government agency. They had been forced to hide the tiny transmitter in Betty's back tooth, for secrecy's sake, of course. 

We stopped out in the woods. Betty and I wandered away from the road to avoid possible monitoring by the government. There I did my best to activate the device and get a message to the Interlude. Capt. Kork would've been proud of my efforts. That dame on the hollow spaceship planet had nothing on Betty.

I was still working on transmitting a rather lengthy message when the others came and told us that we had to leave. We walked to house where we hoped to be able to get a better signal.

I walked around the joint until I found a what looked like a primitive transporter room. However, I feared that any attempt to use it would send me to the mirror universe.

I was talking it over with my local contact. He was telling me that he didn't think that room was a transporter. He thought that it was a cloning machine capable of spitting out eight copies at a time. 

We didn't get very far into our discussion before some tough from the government burst in waving a rod authoritatively. Turns out that hiding the transmitter in Betty's molar had not been as covert as we had believed. He took us to a mousey little man smoking a pipe in front of a battery of filing cabinets.

"Betty," he said, "vas not so impressed vith that little trick you did ven you had her look into your eyes. She has been having nightmares. Ve had her examined veeeerry thoroughly, and ve discovered the transmitting device secreted in her molar. Also, Betty says dat you are not a very good kisser."

I wasn't sure which of his statements hurt me most. Probably that last one. I was about to explain that I was distracted by the whole attempt at sending a message, and that I had never had any complaints before. I didn't get the chance. Some kind of energy device dropped me on the spot. 

When I came to, my contact was trying to pry something from one of my teeth. We were back at the room where I had awoke earlier.

He backed away, slightly embarrassed about the situation. He claimed that he was trying to remove a tracking device that the government had placed in my tooth.

He suggested that suicide would be the only way out now. I grabbed a razor blade...but couldn't do it. I ran for the window. I figured that would be easier. 

He saw my move. "Not on my car, you don't!" he screamed, leaping to prevent my auto-defenestration attempt.

I wasn't sure whether he was trying to stop me, or strangle me before I took the drop. 

He dragged me back inside and started pounding out "Oh Susanna" on my sternum. Apparently the singing disturbed one of the neighbors.

He ordered my contact to leave. Then he explained to me that he wasn't there about the singing. He said that he had been in contact with another member of the Interlude. I needed to go with him immediately. 

He told me that the agency goons might be listening. I showed the guy my tooth. He took one look, and motioned for me to follow him.

Once we hit the street, we took off running. 

He took me to a lake. He put a tag on my suit. "It's a super-powerful flotation device," he whispered. "Step into the lake and it will float you across to your crew mate. 

"Who?" I asked. 

"An Ensign..."

Right at that moment, a car roared up to the dock. It was my prior contact with a guy who had a spotlight for a face. Spotlight man pointed the gun at the new guy and administered a lethal dosage.

My contact explained that the guy was actually one of the agency men who made people disappear. He took me to a large stone building, but he made me pay the cab fare. Betty and the other frail were waiting there.

He said, "Betty's really sorry about the remark about your poor kissing. She wasn't herself."

I looked at Betty. She smiled apologetically. "I've got this new antenna on my hat that might help...if you would like to try again," she said.

"That won't be necessary," my contact said. "Just walk through these arches. It will take you back to your own place and time...after give the girl at the counter the two religious symbols you found when you first arrived. She'll give a quarter pounder with cheese and let you play the scratch game...but don't get the fries, no matter how nicely she offers; If you do, you'll loose the desire to leave, and be stranded here forever."

Musical memory missives

I was pole vaulting in the Louvre, or maybe it was Versailles, and using the pole, an ornate blue and gold thing, to balance as I ran upon the walls about a circular room while making important announcements. This was after an earlier bit of slogging through a drying marsh of black mud and tall, desiccated yellow grass; I can't remember if I was chasing or being chased--I remember contemplating that the journey had not been very well planned, and I noticed a lack of insects or other wildlife. I suppose these weird dreams from last night are the product of several days at a professional conference where I logged a steady two to four hours of sleep per night, followed by a return home to a good night's rest on a pungently new pillow whose odor made a merry strange stew of the subconscious sorting system which had been thrust back online after a few days on unpaid leave. (I love those long sentences stitched together by descriptive clauses. I really have to make an effort to break ideas into short, simple sentences; however, I remain confident that anyone who reads this page regularly has probably completed the fifth grade, and can comprehend complex, albeit poorly written, sentences).

While those are fake, dream-memories, my conscious self treated me to some pleasant memories during the drive home from the conference. Music, perhaps, is second only to smell in stimulating memory. I'll mention two memory missives I received.

When the opening bars of "Who's Crying Now" by Journey started playing over the radio, I was transported back to high school days. We were gathered at Aaron's house to revel in a few hours of smart talk, chips, shared escapist adventure, and sweaty-palmed dice rolling. A D&D day. These guys weren't my usual playing partners, but we did get together a few times over the course of a month or two for a good dungeon crawl. I don't remember anything about that campaign (except this song playing on the radio), or even whether we completed it before we were no longer able to convene, drawn back into our separate spheres of life that seldom overlapped. Aaron was really the only one of the group that I knew well. He was a year or two behind me in school, but I knew him from band, wrestling, and cross-country. I think he played either trombone or trumpet--you know, the manly, brass instruments, not one of those sissy woodwinds. I played the trumpet--but I wish that I had also learned to play the flute because 1) they were easier to carry, and 2) Jethro Tull. 

Thinking of band brings back memories of trumpet and flugelhorn--with only one or two French horns in the band, Mr. Johnson, the band director, had the three lead trumpet players switch to flugelhorns for one season of marching band to create what he called a darker more mellow brass sound. I don't remember the songs we played on those horns, but I remember painstakingly transposing the music, carefully adjusting the notes and writing them on the sheets of music paper in company with David and Lyle (I think), the other trumpeters turned flugelmeisters. 

The drum line stood right behind the trumpets in the band room. I could reach behind my chair and flip the snare release on Colleen's drum when she wasn't looking--transforming it from snare to regular drum. Colleen, of course, would be unaware of the change until she started to play, reacting with anger and embarrassment. I'm not sure why she didn't bust a drum stick over my head, but I remain glad that she didn't. I think that I learned rather early in life that best results in playful insults, teasing, and friendly harassment are achieved when the target has a generally pleasant disposition, and can be depended upon not to use one's head as snare drum or one's body as a Stretch Armstrong doll. Of course, the wiser (and less hazardous) path would have been to just be a better person...and that's still an option that I'm considering...at least from time to time.

But I digress...because that's what I do. I do it well. We should all do what we do well. Memory is a crazy crumpled string of the past; following the thread may lead one down its length, or careen one in another direction where the string is crushed against another byte bight in the line, giving a simple trip down memory lane the potential to transform into an exhilarating roller coaster ride of rapid recollections. 

As for the other memories. Two songs made me think of a high school sweetheart. She was also in marching and stage bands. Among other things, she played the piano. She frequently played (and sang) Billy Joel's "Piano Man." The hotel where the conference took place had a piano in the lobby. As I walked through the lobby one night after a conference session, a talented guy tickled that tune from the ivories. Another immediate and pleasant trip down the memory tube ensued. The other song came from my own playlist after my preset radio stations disappointed me with nonstop talk and commercials. This particular playlist is heavily laden with songs from ELO and Styx. Maybe the earlier song from the hotel lobby setup this little time travel trip. When "Babe" by Styx started playing, the mental Wayback Machine launched the recollection app which opened at a dance. I was with that same sweetheart, and Wayne was asking me what song I would request for the DJ to play. I thought of two songs at the time. "Babe," and "Don't Bring Me Down." I find it interesting that although I chose the latter, the former is the one that throws the lever on the Wayback Machine for me. Sherman and Mr. Peabody might have some insight into that phenomenon. 

Do the things that make you think of someone, make them think of you? I doubt it; at least not usually--but sometimes..maybe.

Casting Call

Having been cast recently in the role of a dashing young man of half my age for a local play, my thoughts turned, like milk past its expiration date, to wondering who I would cast to play the characters in my books -- assuming of course that I wasn't available to play the protagonist myself.

(Some) Imaginary Casting for Justice in Season:

Victor McBride - He's the young protagonist. He's well-read, but hardened by his experiences in the war. I see him as something of a Tyrone Powers. A young Michael Landon would fit. I suppose Chris Pine would be a good modern actor for the part. For an interesting twist, a young Michael J. Fox, or Matthew Broderick might give the part a interesting flavor that I had not anticipated when I wrote the character.

Ted Vaughn - He is McBride's poetic best friend. He is Sam to McBride's Frodo...sort of. The Goose to McBride's Maverick...somewhat. I could see Chris Pratt playing this character who is both humorous and intuitive, but doesn't take himself too seriously. It's a great side-kick part, so there are many great character actors from which to choose. Would Johnny Depp bring too much Capt. Jack Sparrow to the role?

Carl Parker - He is McBride's business partner and friend. He doesn't speak much. He is the Athos to McBride's D'Artagnan. Maybe Karl Urban would have the presence this role requires.

Shorty - Mostly because every western has to have a character named Shorty. It's right in the rules of the Western Writer's Guild (and if such an organization doesn't exist, it should). He is impetuous and not entirely predictable, except that he will always see things through to the end. He's the Montgomery Scott to McBride's Kirk. A young Bruce Willis, or a young Val Kilmer would bring an interesting flavor to this role. If Johnny Galecki could play an intense cowboy who is good with the lariat and pistols, that would be a role that I would like to see just for kicks.

Clarence Fortune - He is a storyteller, and an able and willing hand with a gun or a hammer. He is more of a Danny Glover than a Denzel Washington.

Bill Longhurst - The calm voice of reason. He is older and well respected, even though he is only a ranch hand. Robert Duvall would fit this part.

Sheriff Upton - He is one of the villains that McBride must face. He is tall, dark and devious. Peter Weller might be my first choice to play the role, but there are some other great actors like Christopher Lee, Corbin Bernsen, and Billy Drago who would (or could've) been great in this part. If I wanted to give a bit of a surreal flavor to the story, Christopher Walken would do the trick.

Jack Butterfield - He is one of the saloon owners who figures prominently in the story. If I couldn't play McBride, I would play Butterfield.

Luther Griffith - The other saloon owner in the story. He also owns an important horse. There is only one man who could have played this part like I imagined it in my head when I wrote it: Keenan Wynn. His unavailability since 1986 being a problem, I can imagine Kurt Russell bringing the intensity this part requires.

Harmony Rivers - This beautiful red-head might be the most difficult part to cast. She's a real stunner who can sing. She can soften (and steal) the hardest heart. I picture her rather like Jill St. John in her glory days, but with a presence that I don't recall in the characters that St. John usually played. Christina Hendricks doesn't seem to fit. Rita Hayworth being unavailable, someone else will have to dye their hair for the role.

Emily Bastion - This lovely girl is much more demure than Harmony Rivers. Who could play this seemingly fragile but quite strong woman? Natalie Wood is out. Heather Lind might be right for the part. A young Alyssa Milano, Kate Beckinsale, or Terri Hatcher? Ashley Greene? I don't know. I thought this role would be easier to fill...I was wrong.


Besides the fact that I've left out at least one important role, there is another problem with this casting: Almost everyone I've chosen usually plays the lead. What a mess it could turn out to be if everyone thought that they were the star. On the other hand, don't we all play the starring role in our own story? I'm going with that. Everyone's a star; at least I am, regardless of the role; sometimes I'm in a supporting role, but those can be the most fun parts to play.