Monday, December 27, 2010

Pie and Sushi together at last.

Random Advisement #5,631:

No.  No, do not use the internets to make your own sushi.

Witty Observation #12:

A hostess who offers both apple and sweet potato pies to her guests is pie-partisan

*Thanks, L, for the pie idea! 

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Sanur 1, OO is for Stoolpigeon

One.

Liyane Harcourt relaxed hold on the trigger when she saw what Timothy had already done to himself. She relaxed hold of her sense, while molten spray offended the safety, and the shade-blade whirled round her wrist. The pink-and-black bow limbs revolved fast to catch every stray projectile. Liyane took shivering hand to curl fingers against warm collarbone. And the stitches there, smooth as silt. Like tasting her ribbons in a worry, as a girl. Weapon above knobbed wrist joint passed through her, generous.

Congratulations, you have marked a no-point buck! Better luck next time, spaghetti legs.

Only natural, to slam the bright pink plastic torc against the wall and shut it up. Rapport of firebomb outside. Quake. Now, Emperor Z'jai Chen was standing directly over her, and he said:

'The loving Emperor will feast on all dissidents.'

And Timothy still had the horns of the Ungulati though she'd shot his printed face full of holes.

A breath to listen, then Liyane got the whirling pastel device out in front of her again and ran for up the chill corridor.

The place was still clean from the night crew, and even smelled so crisp, like the snow outside. No. That is ash, burning, ending. Ungulates always made places smell like this. Liyane readied, then slammed her shoulder into a stuck door a few times, then slipped against it and fell backward. The door drifted open a beat later, when she tried the knob.

Wak, wak, waaaaaak!

This time, Liyane grimaced dry lips. She faced a two-way mirror beyond her old interrogation table. Yes, this time a dramatic heroine was needed, to smash through it. Liyane took a chair, raised it over her head, fantastic tailored breasts heaving and all, and then the wooden legs rebounded against the dark glass so that they both fell over.

A mirror is not an acceptable target, smartypants. Try Free Me's pretty princess game. In the land of Happy Sunshine Foreverland, Princess Angelica must stop the evil witch from using a flock of black geese--

"MIRROR MIRROR ON THE WALL, WHO'S THE UGLIEST OF THEM ALL?" Liyane stacked fists, moved them around in a circle, then shouted over the damned game.

A triumphant, You are the ugliest, Queen Evilmeana! Congratulations, you have freed your heart, the poor black geese, and saved the land of Happy Sunshine Foreverland!

One day, one beautiful day, Free Me would get dumped into a real bubbling cauldron. Then, grammar-checked with hot iron rods.

Free Me emitted a ray of black energy that caused the golden glass wall to gain racing silver hairlines, which deepened. Liyane clicked Free Mee back to the shade-blade, raised it, let it whirr and shield her from the sudden burst apart of glass shards. When it all stopped screaming, raining and cutting down, Liyane stepped through the shattered wall and found the station's XPS7-41 server in the next room.

A crouch, a reach at the solid box and several more artful clicks of Cheery-Cherry-Pink Free Me, Girls Only Edition. Liyane focused beyond that tight bracelet when layers of life’s colors and cold peeled away. The light woman stopped needing to see the spreadsheets and their windows, became entranced by dazzling calculation and linking to here, to here, to here, and deeper, so much deeper, seduced by the thrill knowing everything at heart’s first search. It began to feel as if she were truly reaching her arm deep into the machine, following the pomegranate seed sparks of near-sentience. She would find what could make her laugh and cry. Smart thing, to take technology in a more sensual direction. That was what sold bionic circuits, in the end:

“Ladies and Gentlemen, Sustainable IS Sexy.” Was how the voiced used to throb in those commercials. It sifted back to Liyane now. Pressed gently at the corneas of her eyes during the lull of search. We need a result now. No, no. Here comes start of a newsreel of cerulean advertisements. You want to get away from the snow and travel to Bermuda, don’t you? No deer, in Bermuda, dear. Shh, machine. Stop talking to me…

The palm of Liyane’s hand had the double 'oo' of stoolpigeon, it was that near to firing synapses, cruel milisecond, before her rigged-up efforts were forced to reveal their worth.

"Prisoner Numeral 47-G, Golga Rothschild, alias Liyane Harcourt. You are hereby under arrest, for crimes against the Milky Way Galactic Empire..." the nasal narration of life returned.

Liyane scrambled away from the crimson server and its smooth vapor. She aimed again through the broken frame of glass, this time, pretending to see. Lasers from enemy sights moved down from her forehead to settle in every place that mattered. One point of red light indicated the woman’s heart, the second wanted a kidney through her bones, and the last pointed ready to render any species sterile.

"Please..." Liyane begged, as she looked desperately for their hooves or antlers. Liyane clicked through all the different cycles of the Free Me: a tennis racket and ball, a guitar, frying pan, skis, until the limbs of the bow flipped up and deadly on either side of her forearm and she reset the game. "It was a long time ago, and I was afraid... How was I supposed to know a stupid smoke-and-skip group would ever manage to overthrow the fucking government?!” One last snorted behest from the soldiers, for her to desist.

Liyane fired several jubilant shots in defiant stead. The shade-colored bolts soared into the air, danced their trajectory and finally spelled out 'YOU LOSE' before white flickered everywhere, pain burst and her mind went stark as a page.

Free Me was a tool for punishing ignorance, and these weren't deer at all, but bipedal Ungulates. The machine had already warned her. No posters of deer. No half-deer. Only deer. The crossbow game was for animal-hunting only. Innocents learned so much faster that way, under the old regime.

These three armored Ungulates loped over to the Human woman, licking cold snub-noses. They knelt on springy haunches, flicked white tails with at the thought of reward.

That didn’t last long. Firebomb again, rifle plumes and bullets--real ones--burst their tall antlers at the joints. When the Ungulates turned to face the Rebels, the half-animals landed on faces and in triplicate. Chests, dead center. Everyone a kill shot.

A man in a wild orange jacket got down on one of his knees. “Golga. Mother-foyer…”

“Jeremie? Did you see that Tim… how did he get…”

“Him! How did you get—?”

“…San’ur Crush, he knows that we weren’t sleeping. And those yellow eyes… quite… wide awake.”

Real Jeremie, so him after all these years, he held on and helped her to sing the rest. Rich, bloodied hands stained Free Me.

The XPS7-41 server still rose in its whirr, as the real woman bled. It breathed scented light through its fans, at every off. There never was a more self-invested moan, in creation. Which was probably why man had been moved to make it. A her. Who would stand time, weather, and blood pooling over the floor, through revolution and revolution.

One sad swipe of the satin stitch across Liyane’s breast. These pretty, and evil things. What had they all come to? People had decided this? Don’t ever, never make me choose again.

And so a machine’s callous preening swallowed Liyane's last, reddest reminiscing.
. . .
Next:  Would an evil San'ur Crush really come to your town?  Or, would you have a one-way ticket blazoned onto your intergalactic, falsified criminal record somewheres?

(Randitty-O-Meter:  8, It's science fiction and it's all over the place.  Yum.)



Sunday, December 12, 2010

JBB, Fate and Basketball

Jawbreak Blue
by J. Ingram

Six:  Fate and Basketball

It was hard not to pass the Thanksgiving holiday struggling back across the Anacostia River after Gyra and Dansel got a chance to see what was on the other side of it.  Most of the makeshift town along those silvery shores was leaned up against the biggest Red-and-Gold-Reserve either of them had ever been presented with.  And, taking care to use his lesser known alias, Bartel Barrons guided his good woman-friend inside those crimson-colored glass doors.  Stinson the Boatman proudly read all the gilded gold signs for them once they all got inside. 

"George-Ton and Tourism Co: for your realest DC experience, Target Presents: Columbia Heights Generalist's Store, and The Side Hustle Intranet Lounge--for all your real-world needs when you aren't hangin' out and having a life's-time." the old man grinned gray stubble, and leaned on his boat's oar that he used as a walking-stick.  "Beyond this resort, my friends, are all points north-west.  This is the grand gate to it.  Now you two kids are glad you paid all this money to take me here, aren't you?"  Then, their only ride departed for the Uno tables, without explanation.  Gyra turned round again and flinched at where he now wasn't, wondering why the old man's voice seemed disembodied.

Gyra said, "I don't understand, Dansel.  We aren't even in Northwest yet?"

Dansel wriggled flat fingers imbetween the buttons of his tan vest.  He was watching something in particular and chewed lips on the far side of his mouth at wanting it.  "That's just it, Gyra.  Folks can come here, spend a lot less, and marvel that they've--kind of--been."

"Is that because it's so dangerous to go all the way out there on your own the way things are?" but Gyra found herself speaking to another ghost.  The next time she spied her friend Dansel, the back of his head was turned to a Redskins game blaring on the bar's flat screen, and he was flipping through some of his bluest dollar bills faster than ever.  Other men at the table smoked cigars and talked the talk.  Gyra wondered at how some people slipped into their old moods so fast.

Then, "Ohmigosh!  It's a real life fortune teller--please, Miss Mystic, can you tell me whether or not I'll finish college or at least grow up to be a DC Rollergirl?"

This merriment went on for days.  The three travelers rarely saw one another, but that they shared a suite helped--at least at the bottom of the night, they kept the same sleeping hours.  Later, that turned into two rooms done in faded bars-and-stars when Stinson lost his share of what Dansel had ultimately paid him for.  This dwindled to just one bed with them sleeping in shifts, once Dansel finally lost what was left of his money.  He gave them a spectacular Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings but it turned out to be his last good streak of luck at fantasy football.  "I'm down to my Fenty Greens.  Nobody'll want those." he frowned.  "I just can't understand these guys--they know about Redskins games I've never seen before.  And then I tried to bet on the Caps or DC United, but I hadn't a sense of those teams either.  Damn and more damn."

Gyra rubbed Dansel's shoulder.  She'd written to the Cannoneer of course, but he hadn't sent any money back or substantial correspondence other than to ask whether she and Dansel could stay away a little longer.  This made Gyra screw up her face now and again, imagining what foolishness her father had fallen into.

Old Stinson kicked his boots off and went from the breakfast table where their coins and scraggly bills were pooled together, then and lay down on the bed.  "Oh well, guess we'll have to just stay here forever, earnin' what we earn and lovin' what we love.  And never having to see another snot-nosed, 'can I have some money grandad' relatives, ever.'"

It was uncomfortable, learning the spooky Boatman's scheme all this time was to supplant his grandchildren.

"If it makes you feel better, Dansel, I've been going to a fortune teller this last month and she says we're on the verge of a breakthrough.  Just one more payment--and there's enough here for my last session."

"Why does it sound like you finally up and took yourself to therapy, Gyra?"

Gyra chose not to answer.  "Can I take what's here on the table and go?  I've spent the least money out of all of us, and I promise to bring back dinner later.  I bet this old bracelet will go for something at El Pollo Sabroso..."

"But I don't like peruvian chicken." Stinson complained absently.

"No, Gyra, we need the last of this money." Dansel rested chin in palm, then found a smile for her.  "Though I am glad you're getting help.  What is this Mystic woman telling you, by the way?"

"I have a case of urban despair, like we already talked about.  But she's also about to tell me what I have to do, to fix it.  I don't want to end up like my Momma did, Dansel."

"You won't end up like her.  But we don't have the money to entertain you either, nor myself, nor Stinson anymore.  And someone like that Mystic woman is probably no help anyway if she's so money-grubby.  Next thing you know, she'll want to introduce you to her friend the acupuncturist, or...  I don't know.  Let's all just breathe a moment and think about what we might do to get back home."

"Miss Mystic knows a real-life wizard, Dansel!   That's who I'm on the verge of meeting--I didn't want to say it, because look at you, you're already looking it, but I've almost earned the right to see him, a true wizard with the power to change everything.  Please don't deprive me of that, dear Sir!"

Stinson complained about their way of speaking, again.  Gyra became so incredulous that eventually she had to remove herself from the room, claiming that she would find the money for therapy and wizardry somewhere, somehow.

When her voice was done echoing down the hallway, Stinson raised up a little on his elbows. "Her Miss Mystic does know a real Wizard.  Dansel--how can you be so into fantasy sports and not catch it?"

Dansel wondered aloud between fingers folded before his mouth, "Who invited you to dip into my savings in the first place, or tag along with me and Gyra anyways?"

"You stupid boy--I'm talkin' about there being real celebrities downstairs, who play basketball!  What if you chat one of them up, then they go back to Downtown-civilization and throw a game or two... that could be our way out.  What if one of them even knows Michael Jordan?"

"Anybody could just call themselves a magician or whatever, especially out here.  And, that whole Michael Jordan owning the Wizards, and then playing on the team and then fleeing DC... we already did that and suffered from that.  Why would any professional athlete ever listen to me anyways?"

"Well, Dansel, if it can't be something so big, then it is about there bein' real people from behind the Beltway Wall way out here, in this part of the city.  Somebody's bound to have a tip on what's really going on out there--stuff that not even those friends of yours downstairs could know.  There must be scores and rosters nobody in this city has seen since the Near Revolution of 2010--if you don't get up right now, then I'm going to, and I don't know that I'll be so fast convinced about sharing my wealth when you're being so danged stubborn about a free lunch!"

And so, the two men went off to find Gyra, her Mystic, or the Mystic's Wizard, himself.

It took a whole night of sneaking around, asking questions without letting on that real people from beyond the Beltway Wall were someplace in the Red-and-Gold resort.  Dansel and Stinson schemed their way backstage of a live junkyard band concert, they shuffled at bachata to navigate around a discotec dance floor unnoticed, while peering in people's faces for any celebrity they recognized.  Stinson chatted up an old woman in broken Vietnamese that Dansel didn't think him capable of, and then later came Stinson's turn to cringe while Dansel attempted to pass off elementary French as Haitian Creole to a woman who put hands on her hips and left when she realized that, no, he wasn't flirting with her and not even selling anything.  This polished off young man was going crazy after some kind of Wizard.

"I just realized, I don't know what in the world this guy looks like, and we can't even call him by name since we haven't seen a new anything-kind-of-game in two years.  It really is pointless."

"But he'd be tall, and he'd have on sneakers, right?"

Dansel broke down and laughed.  Or, was he crying?  Something about Stinson was as sweet as an old man could get, but also tragic.  If that was all his cohort had aimed for, then they'd surely wasted all these hours of search.

This latest miserable ruminating was about when a tall man in sneakers and wearing a bathrobe covered in gold stars stopped in front of them and waved a large hand across their faces.  Dansel and Stinson frightened up straight, thinking some spell was cast.  But, no, that was just the difference in height.  The robed stranger had been waving hello.  They also noticed his costume was really some standard-issue team gear the Wizards probably gave their players to use in the locker rooms.  And, well, the Red-and-Gold-Reserve was a hotel and resort, wasn't it?

"I hear that you two are looking for a Wizard."  Dansel tried to speak up, but he was snapped at.  "I already know what you men seek.  I have here, in the palm of this great hand, something that will grant you access to all of your dreams, anything you would have desired in life, I can make it, I can shoot it from all over the court, but only for those fans who are worthy.  If you can answer my riddle, what is in my very hand, right now, can be yours--"

"No, I don't think so.  You've got as many holes in your shoes as I did before I painted over them." Dansel said.  "We just want an inside take on any of the sports teams out there in downtown DC right now.  I've got guys down at the bar forecasting a season ahead of me, and it's not like anybody can look it up on the intranet."

"Ah yes, the intranet.  So different from our... internet.  I really miss being able to check my Facebook." said the Wizard.  "I'm Howard Lanier, by the way.  They had me at point guard before I decided to protest the latest section of wall and got banished from Downtown.  Out here in the real city, though, nobody knows who I am--I wasn't on the team in 2010.  So, I ended up speaking out for people who not only couldn't have asked for it, maybe they don't even deserve it."

Dansel wasn't or chose not to be offended.  "Did you help the Wizards win anything, while you played with them?"

Howard shrugged, and the toll of dealing with more disinterested people seemed to wear in his voice.  "My girlfriend Shandrea once did, but she won't speak about it.  And, I never see her because she's lost her mind pretending to be a real mystic.  Shandrea only tells fortunes these days.  We got banished together."

So, they all were going to be stuck in paradise with no way to enjoy it.  Dansel was also secretly horrified at the Cannoneer leaving Gyra entirely to him without any paternal restriction in his letters--the romantic hope and reason for their delay being so obvious in that sense, though it couldn't have been written.  And then, Stinson having adopted he and Gyra so fast was still more frightening.  Now that they three were broke together, perhaps he and Gyra even owed Stinson as much money as his real relatives, wherever they were.

When Dansel looked so dismayed, the Wizard Howard seized upon it.  "Now then, I know you guys want to guess, what it is that I have in my hand?"

"That's not a riddle by the way."

"Fine, I'll just show it to you."  and Howard uncurled long, strong fingers to reveal a rubber banded set of thin paper slips.  The power latent in those small cards was suggested by the strange writing embossed everyhere--or was it an enchanted code, blacker than night itself?  And then also, a soapsud metallic gleam smiled back at Dansel when he recognized it.  "So, can I sell you guys some superbowl tickets?"

"How much?" Stinson srutinized.

"WHO'S PLAYING?" Dansel covered his mouth.  He was shouting, anyone might hear and rush over... when he'd already seen, he already sensed it.

"Well the Redskins are, of course.  Didn't I just explain to you guys that I got fired for protesting them moving the Beltway Wall, in order to build a stadium down on the National Mall?  That's what Superbowl 2012 is--a sham.  And the city practically bought the game.  Meanwhile, so many of its residents are being disenfranchised.  The people can't leave the city, most of them don't even have access to proper schools or even the internet..."

"...and they have no idea that the Redskins are back in the Superbowl." Dansel was amazed.

"Yep, and their chance of winning is pretty damned good too.  You know, because so much money got thrown at the team these last two years."

Dansel clamped fingers down over the Wizard's palm, smiled hard while he possibly crushed the man's hand.  "I will sell you, the clothes off of my back and go crawling through the city naked for these.  How much?"

How much?
How much? 
How much? 
To trudge penitent through the streets of DC,
To smuggle across the Beltway Wall to see,
Something right,
Something just,
How much?

But Dansel didn't have any money.

"Well," said Howard the Wizard, "I'm finding that these aren't really worth anything to folks here, you know, if you think about how impossible it is to get past any of the stilt-bridges or beyond the Beltway Wall.  But if you two guys want them so bad that you'd actually take them off my hands and rid of me these stale memories in exchange for something... you can have this set of ten for a song if you just get your crazed friend Gyro-whatever away from my Shandrea so I can finally have an evening alone with her.  I don't care if God himself comes to DC and sets up his throne on the National Mall, you couldn't pay me to go back Downtown again."

And so, when not even the Wizard would, Dansel was going to find a way.

...

To Be Continued, in 2011...

Next:  San'ur Crush is almost in town, kids!  Hope you're nice and ready with your riot gear on...



Saturday, December 11, 2010

Balm for Writers' Blues #1

Whenever you feel down because it seems you'll never finish that story... or you've been waiting on that offer letter forever, please consider this striking mockumentary:



Remember, one day you will get there... in a court room with silver cuffs on.  And when you do, tell the judge that Eddie Murphy sent you.

:)

Saturday, December 4, 2010

It's been a good year for story art, more to come

Before we get to the finale story for this year, let's take a moment and reflect on the madness which is Randitty's ever-changing blog art:

Each feature story on this blog is planned with a corresponding page design.  The banner, backgrounds, and even positioning of the sidebar and main wrapper change for every flight of fiction, since I think it's far more fun for the entire reading experience to be thought of as a work of art.  At present, I'm working on code that will unite blog posts with their monthly templates, so that it will possible to enjoy feature stories in their shiny, natural habitats.  In the meantime, you can always view all the blog designs for previous feature stories on the new Story Artseses page.

And why all the strange slang?  I'm not amused with anything that doesn't sound DC-street-fabulous, on this blog.


...

Next:  Jawbreak Blue takes a great big, dramatic breath (when the Redskins do something unthinkable), and then holds it for... I have no idea how long it will take, honestly.  So, please don't try holding your breath for the duration of fictional plot-tension at home, folks.

Friday, November 26, 2010

Paperclip Safari, 5 The Blackest Friday

Randiddles
by J. Ingram


 Five:  The Blackest Friday, part 1

And so, the mighty Silverback Titan emerged from the frozen earth, looking for his lost pack (of paperclips).  Titan missed his mate Strawberry the most.  And the cub, little Pipa.  The two juveniles he could leave--and Titan grated silvery metal jaw as he hopped along, enjoying the thought of finally being able to put out the irrascible twins.  Joba and Boba were not his own, he sensed, but Strawberry insisted on keeping them along...

Titan had been following his pack's scent trail for many long months.  Through summer and fall, over forest trail, in street gutters, and also through an elementary school cupboard... Titan hadn't figured that part out yet.  Had Strawberry gone to hibernate someplace around people?  How desperate of a situation were they in?

It would be necessary to get to them before true winter set in, because DC winters can be mild and had been for some time before the big blizzard last year.  Among paperclips it was called Clipageddon Three.  The first had been a hundred years ago, when there was a tornado in DC that blew apart any manner of survival chains they had formed to hold onto trees, car antennae, or so very many government buildings.

The second devastating Clipageddon was during the formative years of the Nation's most popular Office Supply Chain, which is having ALL KINDS OF SALES TODAY--BLACK FRIDAY, ALL YELLOW LEGAL PADS 50% OFF, STAPLES 500 FOR $1, AND PAPERCLIPS, WE'LL SHOWER YOU WITH THE HUSKS OF THOUSANDS UPON THOUSANDS OF SPIRIT-BROKEN PAPERCLIPS: MOTHERS, BABY CLIPS, WHATEVER YOU WANT, AS SOON AS YOU WALK IN OUR DOORS!!!

And so, you see how terrible it was.

As Titan recalled the old stories (mostly, they were the shiny gesticulations of his grandsire's upper fang), the gray clouds parted over a field in Rock Creek Park and the steely silverback saw what he'd been hunting for.

Strawberry and the cub Pipa were nearby, their scents were unmistakeable.  But if he did not see them, then they were upwind somewhere, perhaps very upwind, hiding out in the safety of treetops.  No sign of her majestic red, oblong curve...

In the winter clearing, two full grown males stood with fangs fully unfolded and bared, each on his own hindleg (clips have but two ends, when you unfold them).  Joba and Boba had grown from juveniles to full silverbacks. 
A dramatic DC winter sky.  So dramatic!
Titan did not like their aggression, he approached from the side, going two-dimensional and less intimidating.  They did not heed.  The foolishness of youth, to approach him like this, with no respect for what he had done for them!  Protecting them, raising them as his own, even if they were vastly annoying and constantly hungry, and launching onto the loose shoestrings of passerby with no regard for the safety of the family pack... and even if Titan didn't enjoy their company... well, he was planning to confront them anyways.  But not so dishonorably!

Strawberry had been right to hide.  These rogue youths had cruel intent, indeed. Titan only hoped that the cub Pipa was safe, as he began to unwind and refold himself, into something that was all fang.

Titan is all fang, baby.  And, some clear tape.
 There had been three Clipageddons in paperclip history.  Titan intended to make sure, for Joba and Boba's ruthlessness and complete disregard for the safety of the pack, this would feel like Clipageddon Number Four:  The Blackest Friday.

...

Next:  Teeny, tiny, tinny battle of the Stripey Link Clan!



(Randitty-o-Meter:  10.  Those paperclips are so adorable.)



Monday, November 15, 2010

From DC to Hollywood and back

Have you seen Outsourced yet?

The show isn't just funny, it's groundbreaking on many levels.  Outsourced is opening doors, windows--and one also gets the sense that it may one day lower something of an iron-clad drawbridge for up-and-coming artists of my generation who have been hungry for more cultural diversity in the media and popular artistic genres since before Obama.  In Outsourced, we finally have a program that is doing well, by doing right:  making a conscious attempt at showing an authentic India in all its religious and ethnic complexities.  Which, if you can imagine, is only a sliver of what the entire world, of which the United States has always been a part, truly is--a brilliant and often painfully-beautiful multicutural reality.

Consider that, for so long, having a black president on a television show was a hard and fast way to establish setting, as did actor Dennis Haysbert's, President David Palmer on 24, or Avery Brooks' Captain Benjamin Sisko on Star Trek:  Deep Space Nine.  Both iconic roles, cast as racially distinct characters, served to help establish the sense of a future where many of humanity's problems were already resolved, and then it was easier for these shows to focus on conveying greater moral battles to the audience.  (It's also tempting to make the connection here, that fiction, in a fantasy setting, is ruthlessly effective at managing the same thing, by leaving what is a human struggle the only familiar element in exotic universes.)  And these days, we're living in that very world where real diversity is right on our flat-screens.  Freaky, huh?

Well, it's really a more intimate, progressive future we're living in than even that:

In an interview that appeared on online magazine Religion Dispatches just last Friday, November 11, a background actress on Outsourced, Sara Zerina Usmen, spoke eloquently about what the show has been able to gift fellow Americans:

"Outsourced is navigating uncharted waters and proving it can be done in today’s climate. American society is more than ready to discuss hot topics in comedy in good measure... In fact, I think we need shows like Outsourced. America is in an identity crisis, and trying to reconcile its past isolation with a rapidly changing global present. There’s a lot of tension in society around race, religion, and economics in recent years spiking in election seasons. If we can’t laugh about difficult things, how can we get through them?"

Sarah is also, herself, the real deal--She's not just a unique, recurring presence on the show, as  possibly the first character in a while on television to regularly wear a hijab.  Sarah is a talented young director and writer working on the ground right now in Hollywood to start her film career.  She's already seen some success too, through Queens of Waban Entertainment, namely for her award-winning documentary Muslims in Love.

For that reason, I was humbled and greatly honored that Sarah Zerina Usmen mentioned me, when asked who her favorite author was:

"And my favorite authors are as of yet unpublished! I would look out for the upcoming fantasy novels of Janica Ingram, whose vivid imagination for characters and storytelling far surpasses mine."

Sarah is familiar with so many random stories I've been telling and writing over the years about talking horses, elephant men who win crowns not for their illegal mating dances but by pretending to be cursed with having to listen to a woman, Muslim princesses who enchant Christian kings through a kind of medieval political satire of their polarized policies, and interracial love triangles that reincarnate themselves from an ancient time to enforce encore apocalypses on worlds that didn't want to discover one another--all in what only at first seem to be your regular fantasy-fiction settings.  Sarah has also read the first chapter of my novel manuscript-in-progress, which is slated to complete late this year.

Likely, this won't be the last time you see a cross-country artistic connection as intriguing as this one, between a black DC native and a South Asian-American Muslim in Hollywood.  It shouldn't be so surprising in this country.  Mostly because, there are so many similar, bright and committed people already in the U.S. who have been wanting a voice too, for a long time now.  As I've already said, the future of story-telling is here.  It's on television in Outsourced, it's already in films like Muslims in Love--and it's only a matter of time before the future is on your bookshelves or clogging up the mysterious innerworkings of newfangled iPads too, with shining gold, bisexual dragons from the ancient Ghananian Empire.

I'm electric that there are artists out there in my generation who are trying to open doors to diversity for all of us, especially in film, where our voices are needed.  Whatever could be next?

Here, I'm tempted to say 'Yo Momma.'  But I don't dare waste this rare opportunity to tell the world about another amazing development and end this article on an intellectual high note--Ah, screw it.

YO MOMMA is next.

...That was so worth it.
...

 We love our hijabi jedi: 
Outsourced
, Thursdays 9:30/8:30c, NBC

Saturday, November 13, 2010

JBB, No such thing as transitional musak after the Apocalypse

Jawbreak Blue
by J. Ingram



Five: November 13, 2012

After a few days of waiting for ‘better winds’ (during which one of Mister Stimpson’s ‘cousins’ showed up with some money he owed) and ‘a restock of supplies’ (wherein, Dansel was sent with the shotgun for two-day’s journey to the nearest corner store, to fetch Stimpson some lottery tickets, a can of Pringles and then Dansel secretly checked the latest Red-and-Gold-Reserve Presents Our Fair Federal District’s Fantasy Football Scores), then at last, finally waiting for another nightfall itself, (and neither young person was courageous enough to ask why Mister Stimpson wanted to wait that long), the three black Washingtonians walked down a crooked dock and descended into that rickety boat ride the old Boatman Stimpson had promised.

It wasn’t a very large or impressive dingy, and things were also shaky at first while Dansel was made to understand that, no, he couldn’t pace or peer over the edge at starlit-everything.

“Sit.” Said Boatman Stimpson.

“But then, what?” and Dansel grumbled privately, until at the end he exploded, “I just know the Redskins are out there winning, somewhere on TV.  Damn that Cannoneer for making me hope like this.  I swear!  All over my body, it feels as though it itches--”

“Young man, you hurry up and wait.” Stimpson confirmed, flaring knobbed fingers at him.  Then he turned the motor off, now that they were halfway across the Anacostia River.  Next, the Boatman hoisted a sail—which surprised Dansel most, because the young man had financed this journey, personally, with several blue Marion Barry Bills.  And that looked to be the way their night would pass on, rocking gently over the quicksilver Anacostia, until Gyra began singing.

All along, the young lady had been biting her lip at sight of the exquisite full moon, and now she was giving into her own sort of itches.  Gyra opened her mouth to let out something that definitely confirmed she hadn’t finished any kind of schooling—least of all for her voice.  The trembling instrument of hers was too high and off-key at times.  Worse, it appeared capable of catching itself not able to get a certain note, and save the poor hearer by going down an octave... but then not in all such instances.  Gyra got ruddy, she got inventive—she seemed impressed with herself for making up good lyrics so fast, except for at one point in the middle, where she clearly forgot her next line.  She was constantly running out of breath.  Also, for all the two men could guess, she miscalculated by a sixth at one point, but whatever--In the end, Dansel Darrons and the Boatman Stimpson found themselves completely exposed to something sweet but hurt that the young woman must have secretly lullabied herself with, far too often:

Never in DC by randomwitty

Never in DC
song and lyrics by J. Ingram
Boom crash'a boom-boom.  Crash.
Boom crash'a boom-boom.  Roar.
Boom crash'a boom-boom.  Crash. 
Boom crash'a boom-boom.  Roar.

The first time I saw the moon, girl, she was full.

Crash’a boom-boom.  Crash.

Holding my lover's hand, Mamma Luna pulled on us, and it was, a thrill.

Crash’a boom-boom.  Roar.

Then my love, he explained to me that white stone was pullin' on that sea.
Mrs. Moon was pulling him and us, and all the world, but especially me.

Roar.

Then he said, "Girl, what's this dumb look I see?  Hadn't you learned girl, about these scientific things?"

And I said, "No, only in my dreams.”  And I said, “No, we never learned that in DC.”

Boom crash'a boom-boom.  Crash.
Boom crash'a boom-boom.  Roar.
Boom crash'a boom-boom.  Crash. 
Boom crash'a boom-boom.  Roar.

The first time I went to college, girl, they made me feel, a fool.

Crash’a boom-boom.  Crash.

Learnin' all kinds of things about that-there white stone.

Crash’a boom-boom.  Roar.

They said Mrs. Moon, made me to even bleed on her time.
Then why hadn't nobody fixed my watch to hers before?  I still didn't know.

Roar.

Teacher said, "Girl, what is this silly frown I see?  Hadn't you learned girl, about these mathematical things?"

And I said, "No, only from a boy I used to see.”  Raised my hand and said, “No, he didn’t get--kids never really learn that, in DC."

Boom crash'a boom-boom.  Crash.
Boom crash'a boom-boom.  Roar.
Boom crash'a boom-boom.  Crash. 
Boom crash'a boom-boom.  Roar.

Summertime came 'round, and for all my hard-thinkin' I was now alone.

Crash’a boom-boom.  Crash.

Just me, the sand, my perplexities, the water and that big roar.

Roar.

That was when, Mrs. Moon, herself, finally turned to me, and she said—“Lookit here, my old girl-friend, I’m gonna fix you up, like I never fixed anyone before.”

And in that white-night beam, I saw some mother's son, like I never saw the Man in the Moon before.  Roar.

And this fine stranger he said, "Girl, what is this bewilderment I see?  Hadn't you learned girl, about astronomical men like me?"

And I said, "No, learning was never this effective for me.  And I said, no, the school system is not THIS GOOD in DC!  Ha ha ha!"

And he heel-kicked his boots going,
Summer world-white like it was snowin’,
My heart moved, I feared it was showin’,
Anacostia River turned to ice, and suddenly I was flowin'

He heel-kicked his boots still goin,
I felt our friction, it was slowin'
But then my heart blasted off and we were racin’
How many light years had I been waitin?

On, the Moon,
He heel-kicked his moon boots still goin’,
Said we may fall in love light and slow, but never at a rate less than 1/6 of 9.8 meters per second. 
Same gravitational pull that made-the-tides, then we fell back-to-Earth-again.

And, let me tell you he said, "Girl.  Haven't you ever danced, with the Man in the Moon before?"

And I said, "No, I’d lost my heart in DC.”  And I said, “No, I learned, but I never did dare dream."

This was fate, Mamma Moon was waitin’.  And fatin' hard, all for me...

To get up out of wherever folks said I was,
And fight, and learn, and love myself, like he loved me...

Boom crash'a boom-boom.  Crash.
Boom crash'a boom-boom.  Roar.

And now I go about, with Mrs. Moon herself as my mother-in-law.

Crash'a boom-boom.  Crash.

We three get to go where all the other stars do, and you need to get on an A-list just to hear educated-me speak. 

Crash'a boom-boom.  Roar.

And her little man and I,
we stay on the shore alone sometimes,
measure gravitational pull together,
then we fall into a very satisfied sleep.
Cause now I know what I'm capable of and I feel complete.

Roar.

Woe, woe, I once feared I could never reach.

Oh, woah, isn't so nice when a woman realizes DC dreams?

In a very odd way, it made them like Gyra a little less (wouldn’t anyone?), but yet love her a painful-great deal more.*

*Pending whether or not readers quit this blog/my singing, entirely.

...

Next:  I think I should stop telling folks what's next, only to come up with something random--especially within the context of this particular blog.

(Randitty-o-Meter:  10, because the only thing more random than the poorly-sung song, might just be the goofiness of the lyrics, themselves.)