| Introducing Happy Talk |
[Nov. 24th, 2009|12:40 pm] |
[I enjoy this far too much. Putting together descriptions of my novel-in-search-of-a-publisher. Here's the first draft of a 160-word synopsis.]
HAPPY TALK, a novel
By Richard Melo Gun-slinging American student nurses and boozy-New York-playwrights-turned-educational-filmmakers find themselves stuck in the Haiti of 1955 as part of a government plan to pump up tourism and turn the Magic Island into the next Hawaii. Voodoo is in the air in this dark comedy of so-called black magic from Richard Melo, the author of Jokerman 8. The story follows the travels of Culprit Clutch, who appears mostly through rumor and innuendo, and his strange encounters with people not acting like themselves. Side characters include spies; Haitian street magicians; a Scandinavian zombie; the ghost of an ancient Egyptian; a power-mad doctor bent on Culprit's destruction; a diplomat disguised as a swimming-pool salesman; Culprit's black sidekick who is tired of his role as a sidekick; and the headache-afflicted Josie, Culprit's paramour, who may or may not be channeling voodoo spirits. Driven by its ensemble cast and crackling Catch-22-style dialogue, it's an absurdist take on history in the style of a 60s-era postmodern, black humor novel. |
|
|
| The French Detective |
[Nov. 2nd, 2009|01:35 pm] |
There is a man who turns up in my neighborhood during social events, whether it's a block party or Halloween or whatnot. I don't think he's a neighbor but rather a friend or brother of a neighbor, but then again, I just don't know! He's just that mysterious!
The man looks French. I cannot describe why I think he looks French, but he just has that look. He also looks like a detective. He's not in a Sherlock Holmes hat or trench coat or any sort of dress that would make a detective. Rather it's in the character of his face. He has the type of face that makes it look like he's solved many crimes.
When you talk to him, he doesn't sound French. Nor does he begin sentences with "By Jove." He is quite insightful and pegged it that on Halloween I was dressed as a member of the band Dee Lite. That he doesn't sound French doesn't mean he isn't French, but rather he is a master of disguise! On Halloween, he didn't appear to be wearing a costume. Yet his was the most convincing costume of them all!
When I've mentioned to other people that he looks French, they agree with me. When I mention he looks like a detective, they agree with me. When I refer to the French Detective, people know who I'm talking about.
On Halloween, I lost my cell phone while trick or treating with the kids. Someone found it, started texting all her friends and took photos of herself which she then emailed to herself. She then deleted all of my email from the phone. Luckily she didn't delete the sent mail, which is how I found her. It was easy to track her down on Facebook and MySpace and to email her and call her friends and ask for the phone back. She wouldn't reply, so I had to call the police. Hopefully, the cops will get my phone back with minimal fuss.
The point of the story is I need to track down the French Detective. I have no idea when the next neighborhood mystery will come along, and my tired soul just doesn't have the energy to solve crimes myself. Nor do I want to get the police involved when all you need is a French Detective. |
|
|
| How many space operas can you name? |
[Oct. 29th, 2009|12:51 pm] |
|
For a new novel, I am researching a certain type of movie that I can only describe as 1970s Rock n' Roll Space Operas (often with amusement parks, haunted houses, and masked superheroes)
Here's the list I have so far, but if you can think of others please list them in the comment box:
- Rocky Horror Picture Show
- Phantom of the Paradise
- KISS Meets the Phantom of the Park
- Ziggy Stardust (concert film)
- Flash Gordon
|
|
|
| Lost chapter from a lost book |
[Oct. 14th, 2009|02:42 pm] |
[Here is a chapter from a book I was writing in the mid 1990s. When I see it now, I can remember what I was thinking and what I was going for. It still makes me cringe. --RM]
III. Coca-Cola ™
Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola.
Ommmm. Ommmm. Ommmm. Ommmm. Ommmm.
|
|
|
| Dressing down The Memoir |
[Oct. 5th, 2009|04:02 pm] |
Dear The Memoir:
I don't like you, and I don't love you.
It's not because people have written tawdry fake memoirs (JT Leroy, Frey). It's not because the level of self-absorption it must take to think that stories from your life should be pushed onto readers; other types of writers are just as self-absorbed. It's not because of the intellectual laziness of not wanting to send your imagination away from home. It's not even because you grab so many of the book sales and movie deals.
The reason I don't like you and don't love you, Memoir, is that you're a breeding ground for bad writing. It has to do with that subtitle on all memoirs, stated or not, the one that goes: Based on a true story.
As soon as a writer sells to the reader the idea that the story is true, he can get away with murder. He can write the most turgid and stilted scenes and dialogue, and the readers are quick to forgive. The reader rationalizes with thoughts like, "That's how it really happened," and "That's what they really said."
Not only are you a genre where writers can get away with sloppy writing, you encourage it. You set the bar low. You discourage experiments with form and like to keep things chronological. You risk your credibility when you try to get too much inside heads other than your own.
What I like about you least is the influence you have over novelists who model their work after you, whose fiction gives off the air of personal essay even though it's made up. These novelists bring their form down to your level. It's okay to settle for ugly in your own genre, but you should leave the poor, wilting novel alone, but then you can't control yourself, can you?
Don't count on a birthday card from me this year, Memoir. You are a regular bad banana.
Not your fan,
Richard Melo |
|
|
| Second Book Blues |
[Oct. 2nd, 2009|12:44 pm] |
I wrapped up Novel 2 over Labor Day weekend, sent it to my agent, and am now waiting to hear back. I'm in no hurry to hear from her, but I'm checking email all the time, waiting to hear if she likes it or not.
This one took five years to write. I started in August walking out of a movie theatre (after seeing Napoleon Dynamite), and I remember I wanted to expand on an idea in Ishmael Reed's "Mumbo Jumbo" about how the U.S. Government always tries to suppress Haitian and African culture (especially dancing) every time it breaks out in the states. Like a virus. I wanted to set the book off shore, so I chose Haiti. I chose to set it in 1955, because that's the year William Gaddis' The Recognitions was published, and I knew that would be one of the models. (Many of the best scenes and characters are stolen adapted from Gaddis.) On a trip to Powell's that same day, I found the Maya Deren book on Haitian voudoun and dancing (which happened to be set in the 50s) and I was off. I read a Michael Chabon introduction to an anthology in which he says, tongue in cheek, that all stories should be nurse dramas. I don't agree, but couldn't shake the idea of creating an American nursing school in Haiti. I wanted to write an epilogue as long as the book itself that centers on the Skylab mutiny, the opening of SF-Oakland's BART communter train, the Mexico City Olympics, the Nation of Islam's concept of the Mother Plane, and the writing of the musical revue Godspell. The best chapter is about a car race across Mexico in 1950.
When I wrapped it up, it's as much like Mad Men and Roberto Bolano as any of the intended sources. That just happened, I hadn't seen Mad Men or read Bolano by the time I wrote the elements that most resemble those sources.
At times, I wish I could write books quickly and crank out one every year or two. I wouldn't be satisfied with that. I also have this strange idea that in my life I only want to write five novels. (The Police had five albums, and it seems like the right number for a career.) So in finishing a second, I felt another chunk of my life slip out from under me. But I'm glad it's finished and am using all the nervous energy waiting for my agent's reply to get a third novel going.
|
|
|
| Beatles for sale |
[Jul. 21st, 2008|03:45 pm] |
|
We had a yard sale over the weekend, and on a whim, I decided to put out a bunch of old albums, a dollar a pop. Before I knew it, I had sold more than 100 records to at least 15 different people. Mostly, they were 80s postpunk/powerpop and 60s rock. I just sat there on the steps, and when someone was looking at an album, I would tell some crazy story about it, about Jonathan Richman or Let's Active or Klark Kent or the Replacements. To make a long story short, I met Uncle Mort from KBOO's Rockaholics Anonymous, and after telling him yarns about the Left Banke and Michael Brown (not the legendary FEMA "heckuva job, Brownie" Michael Brown), he invited me as a guest on his show in August to play some Left Banke and its spin-off groups (The Beckies, The Stories, Montage). I'm as pleased as punch. I will write something about "Walk Away Renee" soon and post it here, just for kicks (and to revive the journal). |
|
|
| Opening my own mattress store? |
[Jul. 10th, 2008|04:25 pm] |
Sure, why not? Then again, not for me so much. It's nice to see the mattress industry flourishing, though it's a shame there aren't waterbed stores in every strip mall like there were back in the 1980s. If I have a change of heart and decide to open my own mattress shop, I am torn between two different store names:
Mattress Loc (That's one of them)
Sleep Member (That's the other)
I just wish there were more hours in the day so I could open more stores. |
|
|
| Fun joke to play when in Portland |
[Jun. 30th, 2008|11:48 am] |
|
Downtown Portland these days is filled with nice people. For example, these people:  Who are they? They are Sidewalk Ambassadors, and they have been serving downtown since 2002. They are ready to greet anyone they see, and always they want to assist. They are particularly helpful if you are from out of town. If you are downtown, and can't find yourself a helpful Sidewalk Ambassador, surely you can find a canvass artist from Children's International, Greenplace, the DNC or other causes, and they just love to engage passersby in pleasant conversation. Here now is how to have some fun. Dress like an out-of-towner and drag downtown one of those suitcases with wheels on it across downtown and the Pearl District. Look up at all the tall buildings as much as possible, scratch your head, and broadcast an air of confusion. When you find someone willing to stop and help you, ask what's the quickest route to LAX.*
* For those readers of this blog who are not from Portland and of course, our readers overseas, LAX is an airport located in Los Angeles, CA. Portland has no LAX, and the nearest LAX is 1,000 miles away. By asking people in Portland how to get to LAX, you'll cause upheaval in their reality, and you can laugh about it later.
For those of you who are sticklers for the truth, the correct answer is head south on Interstate 5. Watch for the LAX exits. |
|
|
| Wedding bell blues |
[May. 5th, 2008|04:58 pm] |
So in a couple weeks, I will be married. Sigh. I wanted to put a little bit of the ol' Melo oomph into the ceremony, but so far my two best ideas have been squashed.
In the first idea, I wanted to order several thousand ping-pong balls, suspend them from the ceiling with netting, and in the moment when the marriage becomes official, have them rain upon the audience. It's a Ping-Pong Balls from Heaven type of effect.
My second idea was to borrow twenty or so pooches from the Humane Society. Someone would keep the pooches hidden, then right at the moment when the marriage becomes official, the pooches would run across the staging area. Someone suggested getting bats instead, but that's a little too Scooby Doo for my wedding.
Another idea might just work: I went to Portland's costume shop on Saturday, since I still don't know what I'm wearing and thought maybe I could find a good fez. What I did see were several larger than life bird head masks. All kinds of birds were represented: toucans, eagles, chickens. My hope is that tonight I have a dream on how these masks can work their way into the ceremony.
My brother owns a stage lighting business. Maybe we can get a set up like in the 1978 Superman movie when when the bad guys are banished to the Phantom Zone.
The ceremony is incredibly simple and involves the kids. When the kids come out, it will be to the theme from Rushmore. I am also trying to fit in the opening minute and a half of orchestration from the beginning of the bootleg version of Surf's Up from the Beach Boys' Smile album, because I think that's my all-time favorite piece of music. We're also hoping to squeeze in Lee Hazlewood and Nancy Sinatra singing "Some Velvet Morning," maybe during seating. |
|
|
| Jeremiah Wright |
[May. 1st, 2008|03:27 pm] |
|
The problem isn't with Jeremiah Wright, the problem isn't with Obama. None of it makes a difference on what kind of president Obama would make or what kind of human he is. All the hullabaloo is created by whites who don't want to vote for an African-American (even if they know he is the strongest candidate) and who are looking for some kind of excuse, so they can avoid voting for him and not feel guilty and not consider themselves racist. The problem is with anyone who thinks Obama's relationship with his pastor is a problem. |
|
|
| Books that end with views from space |
[Apr. 16th, 2008|11:55 am] |
[This is something of a test post to see if I can broadcast one entry to different blogs.]
I just finished Mark Kurlansky's 1968: The Year that Rocked the World, and it had a dramatic, poignant ending. In December 1968, after a full year of commotion, people following current events saw photos of Earth taken by Apollo 8 from the perspective of the moon.
It reminded me of the ending of Mark Davis' The Ecology of Fear, which shows satellite images of the LA area taken during the Rodney King-verdict riots that show excessive heat.
Just an observation, nothing else. |
|
|
| Strange forms of plagiarism |
[Mar. 10th, 2008|03:52 pm] |
Something about writing is I always feel like an amateur. I mean, I am almost forty and made my first attempts at writing novels more than twenty years ago, and though I don't have much to show for it, I've never stopped, and I'd like to think that I have a handle on the basics. Some days it feels like I never started.
My newest technique is to buddy up with a notebook to watch movies (mostly old movies) that have a loose (very loose) connection to whatever it is I'm writing. I end up writing strange notes that I can no longer connect whatsoever to the movie, but they slip easily into my manuscript:
Here's an example: Webbed driftwood
Here's another example: Setting his sights on stealing the train conductor's hole punch
Another: A shop with the words Black Swan embossed on the window glass
Another: Peeking out from behind a plant in the lobby, keeping out of the sight of the hotel detective
Lastly, a scrap of dialogue, which I modified: "Joe is nuts about you, but Stillman will kill you, if he finds out. If he finds out." |
|
|
| No writers were harmed in the creation of this post |
[Feb. 8th, 2008|01:49 pm] |
|
Here's something fun to do while waiting for the writer's strike to end, maybe sooner than later. This is work-safe, because people in the next cubicle over like to laugh just as much as you do. . . . . .  DIRECTIONS: 1. Start this music file. 2. When the music begins, count out six seconds. When that time has elapsed, read aloud (very loud) this text in your best TV announcer voice: From Hollyrock U.S.A., it's the Tonite Show, starring Fred Flintstone. This is Ed McMeteor along with Roc Severson and the Bedrock Orchestra inviting you to join Freddy and his guests, Magmalina Jolie and Jason Quartzman ... and now ladies and gentlemen, here's Freddy! 3. If it doesn't turn out so great the first time, try again! . . . . . Special bonus: Fred Flintstone driving his car with his fat little feet! |
|
|
| Funny joke to pull at crosswalks |
[Jan. 28th, 2008|04:01 pm] |
For this joke, you will need to use four hippie friends*. Preferably, two of them will have long hair and beards. The other two can be less hippie but still should have something of the hippie about them.
On a sunny day, take your friends to a suburban crosswalk, the type made of solid white bars where cars are lawfully bound to stop. When a car approaches, the four hippie friends should cross the street, one after the other, with equal space between them. Drivers will gasp, because it will appear as if the Beatles' Abbey Road album cover has just taken form right in front of them. It's the last thing anyone expects to see while out driving, especially here in America.
This is a much funnier joke than riding mass transit without pants.
*I neglected to mention that the prank is far more effective if the hippie friends resemble the Beatles. |
|
|
| Prank to pull on friends who drive |
[Jan. 28th, 2008|03:54 pm] |
I know in this post-Al Gore world, many people do not have cars. I applaud them, but this joke is for people who still do have cars. What you do is get some big, ol stickers that spell out the word FLEXCAR. I imagine it would work if you even get the decal letters that work on T-shirts. It doesn't matter so much how the letters look so much as as long as the letters spell out FLEXCAR.
What you do is attach the FLEXCAR stickers to your friends' car. They won't notice right away, because when they go out to their car, it will be gone. Then just when they are ready to do something about it, the car will be back. Then it will be gone again. Then it will be back.
This is a very funny prank to pull. |
|
|
| I typically avoid pictures of me |
[Oct. 8th, 2007|02:24 pm] |
just because I do, and when there are photos, I am even less likely to post them here.
But here is a photo of Grover and me, taken about a month ago. (I got hair like Richard Burton.)
|
|
|
| navigation |
| [ |
viewing |
| |
most recent entries |
] |
| [ |
go |
| |
earlier |
] |
| |
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
onda_dog's journal