On Being A Rat - a review

People deal differently with both the good and bad in life. Loss, pain, and doubt are often dealt with in prayer or in alcohol, in conversation or bad poetry.  Chila Woychik creates art. 

"On Being A Rat" is a tapestry of poetry and lyrical prose, masquerading as a collection of autobiographical essays.  The collection is expressive and raw: not as an open wound, but instead like the flesh of an arm which has been scrubbed too clean.  The result is fresh skin, peeled back and red, both stinging and refreshing in its exposure to the elements.

As I read, I couldn't help but be reminded by Douglas Coupland's "Life After God" (in quality and tone, if not in style), with hints of Galway Kinell's "Book of Nightmares."

The author peels back the curtain of normal human restraint and, in response to the innocently (if disingenuously) asked, "how's it going" rips out her own wounded heart, places it grumpily in your hand, and says, "THAT. Is how I'm doing."

That's part 1: The Observations. In this section, Chila looks at her own struggles with trauma, with loss and doubt, and with friendship where it is needed most. The book would be worthwhile even if that was all there was to it.  But then there are parts 2 and 3.

In the section section of "On Being A Rat," Chila explores writing, in the same vein as she explored her own psyche in part 1. She offers sage words of advice, sprinkled liberally throughout -- but mostly, it's an in-depth look at her own struggles and methods.  From practical information like looking for people to do book notices for you, to less material narratives on taming her personal muse, this section isn't a how-to, but a glimpse into the journey of one writer's life in words.

Part 3, Nature Notes, is somehow misleading in its title. From the first essay in the section, we see that Chila is not writing purely about nature, but about what those elements of nature do to a person, spiritually and physiologically. In part, the essays are about remembrances, and in part odes to the wonder of the Earth.  Each of the three pieces in part 3 are beautifully written, and in their own way a part of the whole that is "On Being a Rat."

Pick up the book -- and don't forget to keep turning those pages, past the acknowledgments, for her "Letters to Friends, on Writing." These are also instructive, in their own way.

In "On Being A Rat," Chila Woychik makes some assumptions, and takes some risks. She assumes, with this book, that, since you went to the trouble of picking it up, you are asking, "Hey, how's it going?"  More brazen still, she is giving you the benefit of the doubt: she is assuming you actually meant it.  Whether talking about doubt and trauma, or the writing spirit, or even nature, Chila takes the risk of baring her soul to any complete stranger who cares to look.

In short, any good author will inspire the creativity in others. As a writer, when I read a Stephen King, I am inspired to be more prolific.

When I read Chila Woychik, I want to be a better writer.

Buy this book at Amazon.

The Walking Dead: Bicyle Girl's Story

Yes, I'm more than a little excited about The Walking Dead premiering tonight -- even though I probably won't actually watch the episode for another day or two. In anticipation, I've been rereading Hardcovers one and two of the original comic series, watching Season One on the Blu Ray, and checking out the webisodes on AMC.

First, allow me to say, I love the webisode idea, particularly for a show like The Walking Dead. The beauty of AMC's series -- and the comic which inspired it -- is that, ultimately, it is a human story, even more than it is a horror story.  I've said it before, I know, but this really can't be reiterated enough: the driving force behind the best horror and suspense is not the scares, thrills, and guts -- but the lives of the characters involved.  Kirkman really seems to get this, as does everyone involved in creating the show.

Hannah.

With the Walking Dead webisodes, AMC and the show's producers are managing to do something that even Romero does only moderately well: They are reminding us that the show's titular monsters (I'm gonna get yelled at for that -- yes, I KNOW that the title refers to the survivors just as much as the zombies) were once human beings. That every ravenous creature is a tale of tragedy and loss.  And with their first collection of webisodes, AMC and The Walking Dead do just that.

Fans of the show know Bicycle Girl as one of the first zombies Rick encounters: a pathetic figure, tragic as it crawls along the ground, stretching and reaching to no avail. Even Rick, as shocked and as horrified as he is, remembers the creature, pities it, and ultimately, ends its "life" as an act of mercy. But as the webisodes remind us, Bicycle Girl, like each of the zombies, had a name. Hers was "Hannah."

Effects guru Greg Nicotero directed this piece, starting with episode 1, "A New Day," in which we experience the zombie nightmare early on, from the eyes of the pre-deceased, iconic Hannah. Like Rick, she wakes up to the apocalypse -- in a crashed car instead of a hospital -- and immediately begins the search for her family.

Interesting and heart-wrenching, Nicotero presents us with a vignette of another group of people affected by the apocalypse.  The webisodes are relentlessly paced, and I'm thankful they were posted at the same time, because the 2-minute pieces by themselves would have been frustrating instead of entertaining -- but as they were, it was far easier to take Hannah's story as a whole, and it was better for it.

If you haven't watched them, give it a shot. Be aware that, like the show, it contains adult language and graphic -- very graphic -- violence. In a few short minutes, we get to know Hannah, to understand her, and to care about her.  Enough so that, even though you know she's going to come to an end -- a gruesome end, if the resulting look of Bicycle Girl is any indication -- there is still more than a little shock and sadness when you see it happen.

How I almost got strip-searched in Canada (and why it would totally have been worth it, anyway)



Thing o' beauty, isn't it? (image borrowed... or
outright stolen... from  A Good Beer Blog)

 Post payday weekend at my house often means a trip to CJ's in Potsdam to try out another craft brew selection. While they may not have the gigantic selection of stores in more metro areas, the variety of local and micro brews makes it well worth braving the occasional group of hipster douchebags from the local college.

When I got there last night, I was thinking IPA.  There were a couple black IPAs I had wanted to try out, and was examining bottles when my wandering eyes saw a familiar logo.

Could it be? It was! A 1.9 pint of Hobgoblin from Wychwood Breweries. I looked over to the left, and to my delight, found an entire 6-pack (and a half: one of the nice things about CJ's is that you can mix and match to try out new brews). Granted, the import was a bit pricier than one of the local brews... but you know, I don't actually indulge all that often, and by golly, it was the Hobgoblin. 

Sure, I COULD have just taken
this picture myself. But I didn't.

A little smokey, with notes of chocolate and toffee, this is a deep ruby ale that pours with a thick, creamy head.  It's also as smooth -- and heavy -- as Guinness. A pint will fill you, but you won't notice it until you get there. 

It's also an excellent accompaniment for various meat dishes like Bangers and Mash - which is how I was first introduced to the brew.  But I'm getting ahead of myself.  I actually discovered this beer as a happy accident, after a long, drawn out ordeal, and a last minute decision.

Going to Canada

When my friend Randy (that he and I share the same name will become important to this story) told me he was flying from Colorado to Upstate New York to umpire a Little League Tournament in Cooperstown, we immediately made plans to meet. 

Fellow political bloggers at the time (we've both since begun our road to recovery, and are one another's sponsors in Politics Anonymous), we'd never actually met in person.  And, though he was something of a world traveller (he'd been everywhere from Italy to Japan as part of his job - and again, this is kind of important), he'd never actually been to Canada.  As a resident of Northern New York, and working at a radio station serving a market that spans both Northern New York and Eastern Ontario, Parts of Canada's Seaway are practically my backyard; but I'd never gotten the chance to just tour around and appreciate the area. Plus, we both kind of wanted a Cuban cigar.



The Ogdensburg-Prescott International Bridge
Go here.


After several calls, the cigar thing was kind of turning into a bust, but we decided to cross over anyway. I had my passport card; Randy had his stamped-up passport, and we were good to go.  We crossed the bridge in the late afternoon, and it was then, as we waited in line for Customs, that I started piecing together our predicament. 

"Y'know," I said, "I've never actually been pulled into Canadian Customs before."

"Is anyone?" Actually, it was a valid question.

"We're about to be,"

It had occurred to me that we were two guys, about 20 years apart in age, with almost the same first name. In fact, our names are slightly different in spelling (my "Randall" has two 'l's to his one). It wasn't much, I thought, but taken as a part of the whole picture, it could be an issue.  On top of that, he was, as I mentioned previously, from Colorado, and had a passport full of fun and interesting stamps.  Stamps from places like Malaysia. 


Plus, I was wearing a shirt
similar to this one.

 Sure enough, it didn't take many questions before the guard at the window nicely asked us to pull the car over and come inside. FYI: as much as I will always champion honesty as the best policy, the correct answer to "how do you know each other" is apparently NOT "the internet."

At least we could honestly tell them we weren't coming to meet anyone. I'm also extremely happy we had presence of mind to say, when asked, that we were coming over to hang out and hit a bar with decent beer, and NOT to that we wanted to get Cuban cigars.

Fortunately, since Canada customs almost never brings people in (they rarely need to: by the time you leave the booth, they already know whether you've ever committed a crime, the last time you were in Canada, and how long it's been since you've had sex), we didn't have to wait long before being called to the desk. While officials ran our passports through an alphabet of national and international agencies (and possibly our parents), we were treated to live entertainment in the form of an impromptu Q&A session to determine our continued presence in the country.

"You met on the internet?"
"Yes."
"On a website for political activists."
(crap.)
"Where are you from?"

"New York"
"Colorado"

"Have you always lived there?"
"Yes."
"No."
"Crap! Neither have I!"

The interview was over. We waited.

This waiting has interesting effects on people. I knew darn well I didn't have anything on me that would be illegal or get me in any kind of trouble. Yet, I still had to stop myself from checking. At least in front of the guy. I'm pretty sure I checked my pockets when he turned his head, though.

We get on with it

The check came back. We were deemed harmless. We went on our way. After that was pretty uneventful. We drove through downtown Prescott, ON, continued up King Street, left Prescott, went through various towns with "welcome" signs informing you that, if you fail to change the battery on your smoke detector, you are sure to die a fiery, suffocating death. Evidently this is a real problem, and if I may, I'd like to take this opportunity to suggest that Canadians consider not only batteries, but also to stop building their houses out of match heads and gasoline. At some point, we landed in Brockville.



This is what it looks like. Find it as fast as you can.

 For various reasons, largely having to do with my not knowing my way around and unwillingness to look at a map, the cigar thing was indeed a bust, so we parked and walked downtown Brockville looking for a place to eat. My companion had his heart set on fish and chips, and I was determined to find good beer. What we found was an English Style Pub called The Georgian Dragon. Fish and Chips? Why, yes.  Yes there was.

A tiny little place with a mostly brick interior and friendly staff, The Georgian Dragon ("The Dragon?" I should ask the locals what they call it for short. Or is it too cool to shorten?) is the perfect place for a quiet drink and excellent food.

And yes, the food is excellent. My friend got his fish, and I asked the waiter what he recommended. He said Bangers and Mash, and I took him up on it.  For drinks, my friend asked for and received something local: a pale ale, I believe. I asked for something dark.



While you can google pics of
Bangers and Mash, they're made
a little different everywhere... and
nothing on Google does them justice.

 "You want the Hobgoblin," the waiter said.

And yes. Yes, I did.

I've visited many restaurants, pubs, taverns and bars. I've found something to enjoy about each of them. But for the overall atmosphere, the ambiance, the food (my Heavens, the fricking food!), and the beer selection, The Georgian Dragon may well be my new favorite place.  The fact that they also introduced me to a new favorite beer doesn't hurt either.

Sad, when it comes right down to it, that I haven't been back since. But I'm looking for an excuse. So, you know, if you're ever in the area, and need somebody to show you around...

You are not a beautiful snowflake...

This has been bugging me a lot lately -- probably because I so often find myself having to deal with it.  "It" is the issue of incompetence.  Now, before you start rolling your eyes and thinking I think I'm better than anyone else ("just the ones I'm better than," as a certain Captain would say), hear me out.  What I'm talking about here is willful incompetence.  Or, more passively, the simple lack of enough give-a-damn to do one's job correctly.

As much as we like to think of ourselves as wonderful and unique human beings (and we are), the cold truth is that, whether you're an actor, an astronaut, or even a fry cook, your identity -- and your reputation -- is tied up in the work you do.  If I suck at my job, my reputation suffers.  I'm not saying I don't make mistakes.  I'm saying that, when I do, it's a lot of ground to try to regain in the eyes of those who noticed.

To your parents and your girlfriend, you may be Timmy or Johnny or Bill.  To the rest of the people with whom you come into contact, though, you're just another idiot who can't make a latte.

Or, you could be "the very helpful person at (insert business here), who smiled and seemed to know what s/he was talking about/doing."

I experience a lot of this willful incompetence at my real job.  From third-party agencies who simply stopped trying decades ago to vendors who are simply unwilling to take the extra few seconds to do a job right the first time, it's easy to wonder when things in our industry started to go so wrong.  I'm not saying I'm a shining example of self-motivation by any standard, but compared to some of these individuals, I'm Henry freakin' Ford.

See, to me, having a job in this economy is enough motivation to try as hard as I can to do my job well.  That I'd someday like to get paid more for the work I do is motivation enough to push myself and try to excel.  I guess I have a hard time understanding the mental processes of somebody -- let alone entire companies of people -- who would happily stamp their name on third-rate crap and send it off to a client... not just once, but several times a week.

Are you not in the least concerned that, as both a client and a peer (as I also do similar work as part of my job), you've done nothing but reveal yourself to me as somebody with whom, had I the choice, I would never -- ever -- do business?  Are you not worried at all about your reputation in the industry that puts food on your table?

I've made mention before of what a big fan I am of trying to excel.  Mediocrity makes me angry, because it is almost always avoidable.  But sometimes, it's not even about excellence.  It would just be nice, sometimes, to know that people still have at least a little pride in their work.

By the way, as this is also a writing and publishing blog, this will all be tied in.  At some point this week, I'll be doing a post on self-publishing, and shopping publishers.  Keep this post in mind until then. 

Goodreads review: The Crow graphic novel

The Crow by James O'Barr

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Though I saw (and loved) the film the year it came out, I had never read the original graphic novel until a few days ago, after buying it at the Borders closeout sale.

I'm glad I did.

The book is a different experience than the movie. While both are dark and violent, the book is more passionate. It's a love letter of sorts, but filled with pain and loss. The author spends as much time coming to terms with the fact of having a loved one ripped from his life as he does imagining bloody revenge on those who caused it. And the book is better for it.

While some reviewers have decried the simplistic storyline and lack of development of villains and peripheral characters, I think these rather miss the point. The story isn't about these characters. Eric isn't on a quest of absolution and forgiveness; he doesn't (and by extension, we don't) really give a damn about who his murderers are as people, or even why they did what they did.

As O'Barr deftly illustrates, revenge isn't about those upon whom we seek revenge. It isn't about current and future victims. Honestly, it isn't even necessarily about the victim for whom we are seeking vengeance. It's about us. Eric's revenge -- and the story itself -- is about Eric. Eric's rampage is itself a love letter written in blood to his dead fiance, and to their life together -- but ultimately it's a letter about his own pain, and his own loss.



At the same time, though, there are those touches of humanity -- not only in Eric, but even in the villains. While they have no real backstory (and again, who needs it?), those upon whom Eric is seeking revenge do often start to come to grips with their own evil. They never apologize for it, but they recognize it. They don't seek -- and Eric doesn't offer -- forgiveness; instead they respond either with rage and indignation or else quiet acceptance.



There are also small touches of realism in the story, which serve to make it that much more poignant. For me, it's often the little things which make or break a story, and O'Barr's attention to minor details really served the story here. One such detail was during the killing of Tom Tom. During the fight between Eric and Tom Tom, Eric used his sword to literally slice the feet out from under his enemy. As Eric gently grills him for information, Tom Tom looks over and says, "those are my boots," failing, in his shock, to realize that his feet are still in them. Minutes later, he asks Eric in an almost childlike way, "my feet are cold. Can I have my boots?" It's almost funny, and a lesser writer would have played the moment for laughs (and, I suppose, some readers will read it that way anyway). In O'Barr's hands, however, the moment is deadpanned and morose. It's not a joke at the villain's expense, but a simple fact of life: this is what shock is.



There are going to be readers who are rather hidebound, and will rail against the non-traditional story structure and the lack of character development for all but the main character. And even with Eric, those same readers will likely complain about the complete lack of character arc. But as I said up top, it's simply not that kind of story. Eric is dead. And, as he explains more than once, those who killed Shelly are also dead already. The story isn't about those characters... it's about Eric's loss, and what he does about it. If he makes a friend or two along the way, those brief glimpses, too, are not about those characters, but about Eric.

The Detroit of "The Crow" is a wasteland of crime and corruption. Ultimately, Eric's rampage isn't going to change anything for anyone. He's not setting out to be a superhero and rid the city of the festering rot that clings to its very soul. He's not going to make Cpt. Hook's life easier, or get Albrect a promotion. If later glimpses into her life tell us anything, not even Sherri -- the one living person with whom Eric has a nonviolent, semi-personal relationship -- will have her life dramatically improved by his brief entry into it. This is why, I believe, these other characters aren't more fully developed: they are more landscape than they are actual characters. They don't change Eric and, ultimately, he has little impact on them. It's both a realistic choice on the part of O'Barr and non-realistic. Sometimes, we change peoples' lives; sometimes we do not. O'Barr's depiction here is bleak, but not without accuracy.

Don't look for a pleasing conclusion here; for answers on life and death. That's not what "The Crow" is. Instead, "The Crow" is a brooding rumination on loss, and on pain, and on love.

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