It'll be a three dog night ...
Speak of the Devil: A Day In The Life Of A Dog: Some links before we get ourselves underway for the day. Yesterday was a Snippet Sunday, and we had a post at our joint blog. Eve had one...
Book Review: "The Unicorn's Daughter"
My review of “The
Unicorn’s Daughter”, by Norma Beishir:
fanfiction crossover: Ian Grant & Tony Stark in "Party Crasher"
As I
mentioned earlier, I’m going to post a new story every week or so about Ian
Grant’s journey to Indiana, where the events of The Notorious Ian Grant take place. The first one I posted some
time ago, and it records the moment he made that life-changing decision:
This one actually takes place a short time before that.
Ian, in keeping to his reputation, crashes a party—but not just anyone’s party.
It may be he’s there for more than living it up … but either way, he’s about to
meet his match in Tony Stark.
Title: Party Crasher
Author: ozma914
Summary: Tony Stark's parties often attract characters. Sometimes they're not invited ... and sometimes they don't even know why they came.
Rating: PG
Length: 1,900 words
Author: ozma914
Summary: Tony Stark's parties often attract characters. Sometimes they're not invited ... and sometimes they don't even know why they came.
Rating: PG
Length: 1,900 words
PARTY CRASHER
“Sir,
someone is climbing the cliff below the house.”
Over the
years – especially the last few – Tony Stark had seen so much that he often
thought he'd seen it all. Just as often, he was proven wrong. “Climbing—the
cliff? This cliff?” He gestured toward the overhang railing, which almost made
his martini spill. He stilled his hand just in time, preventing that tragedy.
The voice of
Jarvis, which should have sounded unemotional considering Jarvis was a
computer, held an edge of surprise. “Yes, sir. A small boat dropped off a male
subject, who is now working his way up the cliff face.”
“Huh.” There
was a time when Stark would have found that amusing. Well, he still did … but
these days he had to consider the possibility of a bad guy, in the
city-destroying sense of the word. “Any idea who it is? It's not Agent Coulson,
is it? He might wrinkle that suit.”
“Running facial
recognition software. He does happen to be wearing a dark suit.”
“Oh,
great—it is Coulson.”
Stark
glanced back into his home. Various starlets and captains of industry jockeyed
for the best place to be seen, or lined up for drinks, while the DJ set up his
equipment. He glimpsed Pepper Potts edging through the crowd, a foul look on
her face. He did tell her there'd be a party tonight. Didn't he?
“Sir, the
intruder is one Ian Grant. IMDB lists him as an actor and author ...”
“Never heard
of him.”
“He also had
one hit record, a novelty song called 'An Apple Byte Causes Mac Attack'.”
“Oh, yeah. I
hated that song.” With a few quick strides Stark stood at the railing, but he
couldn't look over far enough to see the cliff. “How's he doing?”
“Fair, with
the help of climbing gear. I've accessed police records: Mr. Grant is a
somewhat notorious party animal, with a history of complaints involving such
misdemeanors as drunk and disorderly, reckless driving, the occasional trespass
and, ahem, somewhat inappropriate public displays of affection. A few actual
arrests, one conviction for public intoxication. Your kind of fellow.”
“Hey!”
“Shall I
take the standard actions?”
Standard
actions? No one had ever climbed the cliff before. Why would this guy …?
Stark looked
back toward the house. Wet bar, loud music, women. Beyond that, guards at the
entrance to his driveway. Could it be? Would anyone be that crazy? He turned
toward the horizon, and saw the July sun had another couple of hours before
setting. “No. Let him come on up … I'm curious.”
“How
fortunate you're not a cat.”
Stark took a
remote earplug from his pocket and put it on, so he’d hear Jarvis’ updates over
the sound of the party. When he turned to go back inside, he found himself face
to face with a blond haired beauty whose looks were marred by a deep
frown. “Pepper! Hey, beautiful.”
“So. You're
having a party tonight?”
Oh, boy.
#
It took less
time than Stark thought before Jarvis called him back outside, just as Ian
Grant climbed over the railing. Ian picked an area by the side of the house,
where he wouldn't be faced with the underside of the home's overhang. It was
probably no coincidence that from there his entrance would be invisible to
anyone inside.
Ian took a
moment to smooth the wrinkles from his dark suit, dust off the suit and his
black sneakers, and smooth out his shaggy mane of dark brown hair.
Then he
turned, took one step, and found himself face to face with Tony Stark.
Tony held
out one of the two martinis he carried. “You must be thirsty.”
To his
credit, it took Ian only a moment to adjust. Then he took the martini with a
nod, and sipped. “Finest kind, as Hawkeye would say.”
Stark tilted
his head. “I don't think Hawkeye drinks.”
“Oh, sorry.
I meant Hawkeye Pierce, from 'M*A*S*H'.” Ian glanced past Stark toward the
increasingly noisy party.
“Yeah, that Hawkeye drinks. So … hi. I'm Tony Stark.”
“Ian Grant.
I had an invitation.”
“Was there
something wrong with the road?”
“I usually
dress casual ... It must have gotten lost in my other pants.”
“The ones
you left behind when you had to flee the Playboy mansion in a rush, or the ones
you flung into the crowd at that One Direction concert?” Jarvis was a font of
information.
“They
invited me onto the stage ...”
“I'm a
little curious as to why you felt my party was important enough to risk your
neck climbing a cliff.”
“Well, you
throw the best parties. Or so they say.” Ian sipped the martini again. He had a
steady hand, and clear eyes. “Also, since I don't drink and drive I had to get
a ride here, and the only one available was my friend's boat.”
“Good call.”
Clearly, Ian Grant got by on charm, looks, and luck. “And good climb. I'll have
someone pick up that climbing gear you left below the house.”
“Oh,
thanks.” Ian didn't appear the least bit perturbed about being caught, and
Stark had a feeling the young actor knew full well his story was a cobbled
together mess.
Wait …
Grant? Stark studied the other man more closely. Yes, there was a resemblance:
The same square jaw, the same flinty, fearless gaze. “You're Charles Grant's
son.”
For the
first time since arriving, uncertainty flashed across Ian's face. “Well, I'm
one of his sons …”
“You wrote
that tell-all book about your old man.” Stark felt his face redden, and wasn't
sure why. He hadn't gotten along with his own father, after all. On the other
hand, he never sold their dirty laundry for $16.95 at Barnes and Noble.
“Yeah.” Ian
cast his gaze down into his half-empty drink. “My other two books were better.
And more … balanced.”
“That was …
were you drunk?”
“No.” Now
Ian looked back up at Tony. “Well, not most of the time—it took me six months
to churn that thing out. Usually I was just mad.”
Howard Stark
would have been a little older than Charles Grant, if he'd survived. Stark
shook his head. “Look, I've got daddy issues too, but you did a real hatchet
job on him. He must have been an awful father.”
“Heh.” Ian
drained the Martini, then carefully set the glass on the railing. “No. Well,
not always. Mostly he wasn't anything, but that's how it goes in show biz.” He
rested his arms on the rail, and gazed out toward the ocean.
“And you've
been drunk ever since.” As if Tony Stark could lecture anyone on drinking. Tony
also leaned against the railing, in time to see Ian's challenging expression.
“And you
haven't been?”
Stark
stiffened.
“I didn't climb
up come here for the party. Not just the party.”
I should
have seen that coming. Nobody scales hundreds of feet up a cliff wall just for
a free wet bar. “If you think we’ll bond over how awful our fathers were—“
“No, not
that. I've considered changing my name a thousand times. To make it on my own,
to avoid being connected … and lately, to keep from embarrassing them, which I
didn't used to care about. But it's too late for that, now.”
Them?
“Mr.
Stark--”
“Call me
Tony. All the trespassers do.”
“Tony,
you're a drunk.”
“Call me Mr.
Stark.”
“But you've
got all this.” Ian waved his arm, to take in the house, the workshop beneath,
the helicopter pad, swimming pool, crowds of admirers swilling Stark's booze.
“This didn't all come from Howard Stark's millions. He sure didn't fund that
costume you fly around in. Is it just because you're a genius that you run
around with generals and senators and Pepper Potts—really hot, by the way—or is
it luck, or are you a member of the Illuminati?”
Stark looked
down. His martini glass was still half full. He set it on the rail too, then
stepped back and crossed his arms. “What do you live in?”
“A hotel
room, at the moment. I got kicked out of my apartment after the cow incident.”
Stark felt
his eyebrows go up.
“Well, I
couldn't let it stay outside. A cow alone at night, in L.A.? Wouldn't last an
hour.”
“Right. Let
me ask you something: Do you enjoy what you're doing?”
“Enjoy?” Ian
looked confused, but Stark suspected it was an act.
“Yeah.
B-movies, cheap books, picking up women at clubs?”
“That last
part's not so bad.” Ian held a hand up as Stark started to protest. “I like the
work, and even the celebrity stuff. But I don't like this feeling that I'm not
going anywhere with it, or accomplishing anything. I'm not a bad entertainer;
I'm not a great entertainer; I'm average.” He leaned against the railing, his
eyes clouded as if he'd just come to a realization.
It would
have been so much more fun to trade zingers all night, but that could get
exhausting even for Stark. “Grant, if I accomplish anything, it's because I
love what I do. Invent stuff, tinker—even be super heroic-ish. Usually I don't
drink until the work is done … and then it's to celebrate, not to dull the
pain.” Well, not anymore. But why undermine the lesson by muddying his
point?
“You think
I'm dulling the pain.” Ian didn't look as if he was arguing.
“I can't
answer that. I'm just an inventor who got talent and luck.”
“Yeah, well
...” After a moment Ian blew out a long breath. “You know, I'm not in the party
mood, after all. I think I'm off my game tonight.” He glanced toward the end of
the railing, where he'd climbed onto the deck.
Yeah, you
already said you didn't come for the party. “I don't think you need to go
down that way. Unless it's some kind of college initiation.”
“Oh, I got
kicked out of college.”
“Do tell.”
“Couldn't
let those poor strippers wander around in the cold all night, could I?”
“Talk about
wildlife.” Stark jerked his thumb toward the house. “I'll arrange a ride home
for you. Just wait here.”
“Sure.
Thanks.” Ian turned back toward the railing. He looked, oddly, less happy and
more relaxed than when he first came up. As if he’d made a decision.
As he worked
his way through the party, Stark heard Jarvis on the earbud. “Sir, your
somewhat manic grin tells me you might be planning something that will require
a later cleanup.”
“Maybe.” He
headed downstairs. “Tell Pepper I'm taking a quick ride in the suit, and I'll
get everyone cleared out when I get back.”
“A ride in
the suit, sir?”
“Yep.”
Stark's smile got even wider. “Ian Grant seems to want to spread his wings and
try new things. Well, I'm going to give him a ride home he'll never forget.”
The Three Rs: Rants, Raves and (Occasional) Reflections: 9/11--Thirteen Years Later
It's still hard for me to talk about ... still a hard day to get through, all these years later.
The Three Rs: Rants, Raves and (Occasional) Reflections: 9/11--Thirteen Years Later: Who doesn't remember where they were on that Tuesday morning in 2001? Collin and I talked about it this morning before he left for work....
The Three Rs: Rants, Raves and (Occasional) Reflections: 9/11--Thirteen Years Later: Who doesn't remember where they were on that Tuesday morning in 2001? Collin and I talked about it this morning before he left for work....
Making Fun Of Terrorists (And Other Bad Ideas)
SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK
I made a
promise that I would attempt to go back to humor when I wrote my September 11th
column. The reasoning: This is a humor column.
Still, it’s
hard to forget that we’re at war.
Ha, see
what I did there? I made a joke already! Lots of people have forgotten we’re at
war. Extremists are cutting a swath across the Arab world, gaining power by the
second and threatening pretty much everyone, yet we’ve somehow managed to
convince ourselves that it has nothing to do with the rest of the world. If
Americans had this much self-denial in other areas, we’d all be well within our
body mass index goals. And I’d be off the M&M’s.
Still, it
occurs to me that humor is needed during bad times, even more than during good
times. Over in Iraq, the ISIS people hold a weekly comic open mike night, every
Wednesday at seven if they’re not busy beheading infidels.
On a
related note, if you go on the comedy stage over there, I suggest you be well
rehearsed. Believe me; it’s not a
good idea to bomb.
Anyway, I
was thinking maybe I could start making fun of the Muslim extremists who want
to convert or kill every human being on the planet, because how funny is that?
Plenty of room for belly laughs, there.
The key is
that, so far as I can tell, extremists have absolutely no sense of humor. At
least, not about themselves. Sure, they think blowing up New Jersey is
hysterical, and who doesn’t? But make one joke about airdropping a pig farm on
Tehran, and they go hog wild. So I’m thinking I could do my part in this war by
poking fun at them until they get so mad they make a mistake, like accidentally
touching the red wire to the blue wire during terrorist training camp.
It’s hard
to come up with original material. The bad guys change, but the jokes remain
the same. Here’s one I’ve heard dozens of times, with different characters each
time:
Hitler and
Göring are standing atop the Berlin radio tower. Hitler says he wants to do
something to put a smile on Berliners’ faces. So Göring says: ‘Why don’t you
jump?’
I didn’t
make that up: It’s an actual WWII era joke, maybe the first version of that
one. The newer versions are usually in an airplane, though. I know what you’re
thinking: “What are they doing on a radio tower?” I don’t know … counting
swastikas? Don’t ask questions, it’s a joke.
See, it’s
funny and tasteless for the same reasons: Hitler was really evil. By the same
token, it’s okay to make jokes about extremists, who in the case of this
particular war happen to be Muslim. It is not okay to make jokes about Muslim
moderates, because they don’t want to kill everyone and take over the world.
The good news is, according to a Muslim website, 93% of Muslims are not
extremists. The bad news is, 7% of a billion people is … let’s see …
A lot of
people.
Actually,
if my calculator is correct, that’s a mere 70 million extremists. For
comparison, over the course of all of WWII the German military recruited a
whole 18 million, so not to worry. Of course, the Germans had the support of
the Italians. Sort of.
I don’t
follow this theory some people have that any Muslim is a bad Muslim. For one
thing, I have Muslim friends, and any friend of mine is automatically a good
person. For another thing, I’m a Christian—and I’m a way different person from
those evil morons at Westboro Baptist, who go around picketing funerals and
telling everyone they’re going to Hell for watching “Jersey Shores”.
Having said
that, I should point out that you are
going to hell if you watch “Jersey Shores”. At least, if you watch more than
two episodes.
Not wanting
to offend moderate Muslims led me to give up my original plan: to paint a giant
caricature of Muhammad wearing Groucho glasses on the side of my house. Well,
that, and the neighbors’ latest petition.
The more I
read about it, the more I realize the extremists over there don’t know any more
about Islam than Fred Phelps and his hysterical followers knew about
Christianity. Can all religions, and the non-religious, live in peace together?
Sure we can … as long as a group isn’t strapping bombs to their kids and
sending them into shops full of other kids because they think it will get them
72 virgins. How many virgins do you need, anyway?
By the way,
the specific idea 72 virgins for suicide bombers is a myth. We don’t need to
make up crazy things about extremists—they’re doing just fine all by
themselves. And if you’re thinking of blowing yourself up anyway, I’d point out
that there’s no guarantee the virgins are female, or even human. Maybe half are
male computer geeks, and the rest are hamsters. You could spend all eternity
picking up hamster droppings and Doctor Pepper cans.
The point
is, when a group of people decide they’re going to convert the whole world to
their way of thinking, or blow it up, you can’t just ignore them. Next thing
you know they’re on Main Street, burning your joke books and your whole
collection of Pauly Shore movies.
Oh, wait! I
just had a brilliant idea. Get information about terrorists by torturing
prisoners of war with … Pauly Shore movies!
After that we may still not admit we’re at war—but they’ll sure know it.
Ian Grant: Print him and book him
It looks like the print version of The Notorious Ian Grant is for sale on Amazon.com; shouldn't be too much longer before I have my shipment in, and can begin selling them through www.markrhunter.com.
Meanwhile, I'm awaiting word back from a publisher about a new project; fingers crossed!
Meanwhile, I'm awaiting word back from a publisher about a new project; fingers crossed!
Speak of the Devil: A Selection Of Ten Favourite Books
Great books, many of them about great history!
Speak of the Devil: A Selection Of Ten Favourite Books: Some links before I get myself started today. Yesterday was a Sunday, so we had a Snippet Sunday post at our joint blog. Krisztina had ...
Speak of the Devil: A Selection Of Ten Favourite Books: Some links before I get myself started today. Yesterday was a Sunday, so we had a Snippet Sunday post at our joint blog. Krisztina had ...
The Notorious Unknown Release Date
SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK
People may
think I brag too much about having written five books (some people think I
don’t brag enough, but they’re other writers). If I do, there are two good
reasons: First, hey—I wrote five books.
It takes some effort, even to write a bad one.
Writing a
good one is harder, of course. What I don’t often mention is that I didn’t
write five books—I’ve finished lots more. The others are the bad ones. In the
business they’re called “trunk books”, because that’s where they need to stay.
Other occupations would call such a thing “training”.
The other
reason I brag about them is because I want to sell them. I want to sell them so
I can write more, which I guess makes writing a kind of addiction.
More and
more, publishers ask authors for a business plan, along with their book
submission. It’s pretty much what you think it is: a written plan for how you’ll
help promote and sell your stories once they’re published.
The problem
is, most authors are horrible business people. Have you ever heard the term
“starving artist”? I rest my case.
I came up
with a business plan for a submission, back in August of 2013. I told the
editor of Whiskey Creek Press that I had a heavy presence in social media,
which isn’t exactly unusual these days. I also pointed out that The Notorious Ian Grant had a built-in
audience, since it was a sequel. Also, I explained, I was a really nice guy,
and almost everyone liked me.
I had no
idea if any of that was true, but this is advertising. I must have said it
right, because they offered me a contract in October. It was the first time I
ever liked October.
In January I
got paperwork with a confirmation, and WCP announced a release date of October,
2014. Then I really liked October, as I began planning a book launch.
Unknown to
me, my wife began planning a book launch party, for September. Meanwhile, I
began searching for ideas to bring attention to the book.
Getting
local people interested seemed easy. The book’s set mostly here in Noble
County, just as Storm Chaser was,
with some other scenes in the Fort Wayne area. We would revisit the fictional
town of Hurricane, and add fun stuff like car chases, fires, explosions, bad
guys, and puns. I brought in a new character (hint: His name is Ian Grant) who
I thought carried the story with a great sense of fun.
By late
July, with increasing anticipation, I began planning. There would be a cover
reveal, a press release, maybe some flyers. Maybe I’d rent a billboard, or have
the title tattooed to my back and go around shirtless. I began working on a
series of short stories featuring Ian, which would follow him on his road trip
from California to the book’s opening near Albion. As we got closer to October,
I’d contact some people about book signings and displays, and make arrangements
for the print version to come out near the same time. There would be problems
if the release should be delayed for some reason, but overall it was a great
plan.
You know
what happens when I plan things.
As I mentioned
in an earlier column, once in a while I check the internet to see how my sales
are doing. On August 16th I went on my Amazon author’s page (I have
an author’s page!) There were all my books, plus the one I had a humor piece
printed in: Storm Chaser; My Funny
Valentine; Storm Chaser Shorts; Smoky Days and Sleepless Nights; The
No-Campfire Girls; The Notorious Ian Grant … wow. Five books of my own,
plus …
Wait.
What?
I looked again. Yep, there it was for
sale as an e-book. My book, the one being released in October. Next October. It
had come out on August Fourteenth, a Thursday. It was now Saturday.
I went over
to the Barnes and Noble website. There it was, released on Friday. There was my
cover, unannounced by me.
I went over
to my publisher’s website. There it was.
$3.99 as an
e-book, a buck less than what Storm
Chaser was selling for. This should have made me very happy, as it might
mean more sales, but for the moment I was too stunned to think about it.
I’d never
imagined that it might come out early. No cover reveal! No big buildup! No
airplane with a banner flying behind it! No sneaking the title into a
Presidential speech! And once my wife found out, she had to fess up to the book
launch party plan.
I suppose
the mix-up was related to my publisher being bought out by a larger company,
Start Publishing. After some wailing and gnashing of teeth, which takes more
skill than you might imagine, I realized it wasn’t really so bad. The book
could have been delayed until February, the month from the depths of Hell. The
contract could have been canceled altogether. I might never have been
contracted at all.
Instead, I still have the comic capers
of B-list celebrity (and need I say notorious) Ian Grant, running riot over
northeast Indiana. It’s kind of hard to complain about that. (Come to think of
it, showing up early is exactly the kind of thing he’d do.)
Plus, once arrangements are made
for the print version to come out, I get a chance to publicize it all over
again. Definitely a good news/bad news kind of thing.
I won’t even try to predict when that will be.
 |
| But at least my publisher made me this nice graphic! |
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