Showing posts with label I'm just talking to myself here folks. Show all posts
Showing posts with label I'm just talking to myself here folks. Show all posts

Tuesday, February 07, 2012

Help I'm slipping into the Twilight Zone...

Place is a mad house, feels like being cloned
My beacon's been moved under moon and stars - 
Where am I to go, now that I've gone too far?
And you will come to know -
When the bullet hits the bone...


The following rant contains spoilers for Psych season 6, Castle season 4, and Firefly, episode 1. Reader discretion is advised.

Here's another one of those gun related media cliches that annoys the bejesus out of me. Our hero (or one of our heroes) has his weapon drawn; facing him is a villain, also with their weapon drawn. Villain may have a hostage at which they are pointing their weapon, or they may be pointing it at the hero; either way, we have a Mexican Standoff, that great dramatic cliche. Except these particular scenes are inevitably examples of both "Fridge Logic" and "The Idiot Ball," and often times require out of character behavior as our hero inevitably surrenders to the villain, or allows them to escape, thus increasing the dramatic stakes of the story. This is cheap, and smacks of creative and intellectual laziness; more bad messages from Hollywood storytellers.

The first example to pop up here is the recent Psych episode, "Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat". Carlton Lassiter, ace detective and semi-psychotic gunbunny, walks into the hotel room of a suspect to find said suspect holding two of his ("friends" is a mighty strong word to use involving Lassie, so we'll merely say "more than casual acquaintances") at gunpoint. Lassie has his weapon drawn and on the aggressor rapidly, and orders him to drop the gun. The suspect instead instructs Lassie to drop his gun, and to show he's serious, cocks the hammer on his weapon - which looks to be a 1911 or Hi-Power, both of which are single action firearms (it's also possible it's a Dan Koonan - the gun was explicitly mentioned to be .38 Special, which is an incredibly rare caliber to find in a semiautomatic. The Koonan, a 1911 derivative, is the only one I know. It's far more likely that a writer botched his research when he tried to be special, and the gun in question is a 1911 in .38 Super. In all of these cases, though, it's a single action firearm and cannot be fired unless - tada! - the hammer is cocked.) Lassiter lives to shoot people - it's perhaps the defining aspect of his character, save perhaps for the fact that he will always be upstaged by Shawn - and yet, one scene break later, we find Shawn and Juliet freeing their two friends (and Lassie) from a steam room, having surrendered to the enemy.

When I point out that the weapon is single action, and therefore must be cocked, and therefore was not ready to fire without a gross movement of the thumb that requires breaking the proper firing grip (and also, on most 1911s, will result in disengaging the grip safety while you do so), I both refer to my earlier entry where I waxed eloquent on how hammers and slides are not "drama switches," and I also point out that Lassie would have recognized this - probably on sight, as he's more gun obsessed than I am - and should have taken appropriate action.

And at the risk of contradicting an earlier comment I made to a friend, where I remarked on the extreme difficulty of aiming for non-vital points as opposed to the often lethal center of mass, and how more people should visit a range and actually shoot a gun rather than demanding cops perform ridiculously difficult, nigh on impossible, trick shots to the weapon or arm rather than shooting to stop and winding up with dead offenders - Lassie was all of five feet from the guy. He could easily have put a slug in his shoulder before he cocked the hammer, thus ending the episode quickly. Which, of course, is why he didn't.

A second example, the season four episode of Castle, "Cuffed". Detectives Ryan and Esposito have discovered their friends and partners, main characters Beckett and Castle, imprisoned beneath the floor in a suspect facility. As they go to rescue their friends, who are in danger of being immediately eaten (it makes sense in context), the criminal foe throw down on them. Words are exchanged, including the dramatic pump of a shotgun. This situation has a little more leeway than the last; the risk of getting shot in a confrontation is higher, the reward of immediate capture of the criminals that much less. There are three bad guys, and only two police detectives, and the cops are armed with handguns whereas at least one criminal has a shotgun. Letting them go makes a little more sense in context, especially since they can be caught later - which, of course, they are. Except...

Reactions under stress are variable; different people react differently, and the same person will react differently to two different situations, even when they're outwardly the same. There was a police officer murdered during a traffic stop whose name I sadly forget, who could only scream "drop the gun! Drop the gun!" as the perp retrieved a rifle from his vehicle, loaded it, and began shooting. It wasn't until the murderer actually began to fire that the officer took steps to return fire and defend himself, and by that time he was quickly overwhelmed - all of this caught on tape. Similarly, one of the four victims of the 1970 Newhall Massacre was found with spent shells in his pocket - when he reloaded, rather than dumping the empties he'd caught them and pocketed them, a habit learned in training, which may have cost him precious seconds - and his life.

With all of this caveated, it still raises the question of why Detectives Ryan and, most especially, former Special Forces combat veteran Esposito - both of whom have been in numerous shootouts in the past, just over the course of the four previous seasons - would stand idly by and allow themselves to be threatened; more to the point, would move their weapons to allow the criminals to flee, blindly trusting that they wouldn't simply be gunned down by the desperate to flee villains who had already murdered at least one person. It defies belief - except, of course, that it doesn't move the story along, or allow the next scene to play out.

That most notorious gun writer, researcher, and advocate Colonel Jeff Cooper said, in his book Principles of Personal Defense, "Speed is the absolute essence of any form of combat... on the very instant that we know that our assailant intends us serious physical harm, we must work just as fast as we can. If he has shot at us, we must hit him before he can shoot again. If he is holding us by threat of force, we have the edge of reaction time over him... the perfect fight is one that is over before the loser really understands what is going on."

A great example of this is the pilot episode of Firefly, and one of the reasons that I adore the show. Federal agent Dobson, who has already demonstrated his ruthlessness, lack of professionalism, and ineptitude by shooting adorable engineer Kaylee, is attempting to escape the Serenity and has taken crazy girl River hostage. As he stands there, gun on the girl, monologuing about how anyone who attempts to stop him will have the girl's death on his head, returning captain Malcolm Reynolds shoots him. No hesitation, no speech, he simply draws and plugs the man on his way up the cargo ramp; immediate reaction, immediate result. One can argue that this scene is a demonstration of Mal's recklessness, and that's entirely possible. Had he missed, had he failed to stop Dobson with that one shot, River might have been killed, or another crewmember; on the other hand, had Dobson escaped, the whole crew would have been imperiled, River might have been killed anyway, and by the by, there's a ship full of cannibalistic rapacious and rapist Reivers about to descend, and can we get this ship in the sky now?

This is probably one of the reasons Firefly was cancelled so quickly; as with so many things Joss Whedon, it delighted in turning the cliches upon their heads. And it is for this reason that it is so gravely missed and needed on today's television.

Thursday, February 02, 2012

Walk with me, my children...


Walk into the sea
I can give no reason
For you to follow me
I come without conscience
And I don't have a name
Those crazy little voices
They walk with me and say...
They say...

I'm having another one of those days where I simply can't think of anything to write. I get the feeling there are going to be a lot of these; I'm going from writing rarely, when the mood strikes, to writing as a daily phenomenon. Despite having a fantastic NaNoWriMo last year (finishing my 50,000 words - and most of the novel - in half the allotted time), I'm still rather out of shape when it comes to exercising the writing muscles, especially that most important one of all, the brain.

So it's unsurprising that I should find myself, once again, flailing for subject matter. Add in a fairly busy day, with the morning spent shifting berths one pier over and the afternoon spent draining down a fire main and replacing a valve, a filling dinner of spaghetti and a dessert of banana, peanut butter, and various sugar filled additions (mmm... dark chocolate syrup...) and I suppose it's totally expected that I should find myself coming up blank when it comes time to pound out a thousand words on any possible topic.

The most surprising thing of this self imposed task, actually, is that it hasn't been harder. I know several people who have set themselves a five hundred per diem goal; many of them end up /averaging/ that, as opposed to completing it. Many of them complain about finding the time, or the motivation, to write. Published authors have been known to recommend as few as three hundred words a day to start with, since the major point is to get the butt in the chair and make the words come out; it's more important to write anything and everything than agonize over the exact number (or, at least to start with, the quality). So the fact that I've managed to pound out a thousand words or more over the last thirty three days, just about each and every day, is fantastic. Astounding. Wonderful. And all sorts of other adjectives that I could use to puff up today's word count, but I'm not going to... right now, at least. I've noticed a couple of times where the goal just seemed to fly on by, especially when I'm working on blog posts (and believe me, I'd have my fingers crossed for that to be today's case, if typing with crossed fingers weren't actually physically painful). Many's the time when I've been in the middle of a point, or the story is moving along particularly pleasantly, and I've glanced down at that ongoing word count meter that is a grand part of why I prefer to write in Q10 (the typewriter sound is easily another third to half of the reason) and found that it's clicked over to four numbers, without warning. Amazing. Astounding. Oftentimes, so fast that it could make my head spin. My average NaNo word speed is about one thousand words an hour; since starting this project, I've pounded out a grand in as little as twenty minutes. Literally, triple my previous best speed. Admittedly, that speed has adjusted some; I remember doing two grand over the course of an hour and a half, and thousand word sprints on coffee breaks during NaNoWriMo 2011 (which, by the by, I still need a title for... and a satisfying ending, since right now it's just kind of hanging there with the heroine shooting somebody. Which is definitely an ending, but not a very good one for the story.)

As my friend Allison says, "Wait, you're telling me practice actually helps? What?"

But just having the ability to physically transfer the thoughts from head to keyboard (to computer screen to internet site to reader's ocular units, hopefully) isn't enough; I need to get the thought up there in the first place. Some days, this is easier than others; I'm working on three "current" stories right now, two for my cooperative writing project (Spire) and one as part of a personal series that had been nagging at me for a while, and I finally set out to get it down. Of course, no sooner did I get about four thousand words in than I felt the urge to get it out diminish... in large part, helped along by the subject matter. Writing erotica is awkward. The fact that nobody seems interested in reading it doesn't help with the inspiration much, either.

On the flip side, the story that people do seem interested in, a fanfic I was very fired up about and which represents pretty much my sole non-NaNo writing in 2011, doesn't particularly appeal to me right now.

Although, I could justify playing Rage as research for said 'fic's post-apocalyptic setting...

Yes, you read that right, I have stopped playing Skyrim - I finished the main quest, Companions, Wizard's College, and Thieves Guild storylines (although I have one more city and "special mission" to do for the Guild before I become Guild Master for real), and I have only storming Windhelm left in the Civil War storyline. There are dozens, if not hundreds, of miscellaneous other quests I could tackle, more shouts to acquire, and no doubt more dragons to slaughter - but I've reached a point where the magic has, at least for the moment, stilled. Given my tendency to want what I can't have, I anticipate going crazy with desire to play the moment we deploy overseas... an event descending upon me with all the inevitability of an overloaded freight train. On a downhill slope, in the snow.

Rage is fascinating; my wife says it reminds her of Borderlands, and I have to agree, although I also get a strong vibe of Fallout from it. Unsurprising, seeing how it's (partially) made by Bethesda; it doesn't quite have the humor of either game, at least not yet, but the driving aspects are interesting (what little I've experienced), and I adore wingsticks, the sharpened boomerangs that are the (current) best stealth weapon. I was given the "Anarchy" edition for Christmas, which gave me a double-barreled shotgun as a starting weapon; helpful, for the early missions, but soon overshadowed by other guns, like the combat shotgun. On the other hand, the Anarchy edition also included "Crimson Elite Armor," a "Rat Buggy", and something else I can't recall at the moment and can't be arsed to Google - and none of those have made an appearance, yet. On the gripping hand, I also haven't played very far into the game - one session, really, a few hours long. Unlike Skyrim, I can't just cover Squeak's eyes, or put her under a blanket, while I'm playing. She has to be in another room, thanks to the language, and I don't feel comfortable banishing her from a room in her house just because I'm playing a game. There's also the fact that banishing her from a room is an invitation to her making unexpected visits, asking for hugs and the like, and then trying to stick around. The child, she is a stubborn one. (Takes after her mother).

And hey, look... that's a thousand words, and I haven't even talked about everything I've been reading, lately. Maybe that can be tomorrow's entry.

(I fully expect all five of my readers, whom only started following this because I wrote a story about the Mighty Mighty MJ, to realize that most of my stuff isn't really YA related, and stop reading from here on out. )