“Hey, Brent! Everything is looking great for today’s launch. We all remember the disappointment NASA suffered two years ago, when the planetary alignment didn’t occur during a Sweeps Month, so you can bet they’re anxious to get underway today! Let’s check the McDonald’s® Mission Summary:

“The Hanes Wonderbra® liftoff is scheduled for 8:24 a.m., with the NAPA Auto Parts® Main Engine Cut-Off at 8:33 and the Tampon® orbit insertion at 8:37. In two days, the spacecraft will rendezvous and dock with the Domino’s® Mars Express transfer vehicle. Remember, Domino’s® gets you there in 30 weeks or the mission’s free!”

“Ha ha! Thanks, Cool Hand. Here’s a live shot of the vehicle, and she looks great painted with the Windows® logo and the external tank decked out in the likeness of a giant Mountain Dew® can.”

“She sure does, Brent–especially with those red-and-white Budweiser® strap-ons!”

“Indeed! Looks like we are ‘Go’ for launch! We have main engine start and–liftoff! Let’s go to our pad correspondent Britney Boufay.”

“Hi, guys! Lift-off was A-okay! All systems looking great! This liftoff summary brought to you by Viagra®–When failure is not an option!®”

“Thanks, Brit. We’re coming up on staging–and there they go! A clean separation of that Budweiser® solid-rocket twin-pack! Cool Hand?”

“Fantastic! And Budweiser® wants to remind all you young pilots, don’t drink and fly!”

“Good advice! The flight is going perfectly. This is a good time to remind our viewers to watch Survivor: Cleveland® tonight at eight p.m. Eastern, seven Central. Okay, we have MECO! And here’s a live shot of the external tank separation, brought to us by Horowitz and Brown divorce attorneys. Cool Hand?”

“Outstanding! You can even make out the mission motto, painted under the Mountain Dew® logo: ‘Mars–Just Dew It!®’”

“Right you are! It looks like the Frito-Lay® Orbital Maneuver Engines have finished firing so let’s check in with Britney for our Monistat® post-insertion update.”

“Hi, guys! Today’s insertion was, in NASA lingo, ‘perfect’! Back to you!”

“Thanks, Brit. Well viewers, that’s it from Gatorade’s® Kennedy Space Center. Be sure to tune in Thursday for the Rogaine® Rendezvous and Docking followed by the Trojan® Trans-Mars Insertion. Afterwards, stay tuned for a brand new episode of Who Wants to Marry Joe Astronaut?®

“From Cape Canaveral, this is Brent Costas–”

“–and Jim ‘Cool Hand’ Brandenmeyer–”

“–saying good bye and God speed!”

Copyright 2011 T. L. Burlison
All rights reserved

by Terry Burlison

“Moses.”

“Moses. You kinda threw me off, since you didn’t use a byline. Sure you don’t wanna use a byline?”

The elderly man shook his head gravely. “The words are God’s, not mine.”

“Uh, yeah. Okay, well it’s a decent story, requires a ton of suspension-of-disbelief, but I think it’ll sell. A bit wordy . . .”

Moses raised his bushy eyebrows.

“Don’t worry about it,” the Word-Man said, waving his hand. “That’s what you got me for, am I right? Lessee…it starts kinda weak, too. ‘Some fourteen billion years ago, God created the universe in a gigantic explosion–’ Say, what’s a ‘billion’? Never heard the word.”

“A thousand thousand thousands.”

“Um, that’s three thousand.”

“No, a thousand thousands, a thousand times.”

“Whoa! Okay, people aren’t gonna get that. What say we shorten this to something they can grasp–maybe six days. A–whaddyacallit–metaphor. Now, all this ‘inflation’ and ‘fundamental particle’ stuff. Nuh-unh. K‑I-S-S.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Keep It Simple, Shlemiel. Remember, your average Israelite reads at a twelve-year-old level.”

“But this is what the Creator told me! In the beginning–”

“There! That’s great! ‘In the beginning.’ Brief, succinct, to-the-point. Killer hook!”

Moses shifted uncomfortably.

“Let’s see, expansion, cooling, coalescing–it’s all out.”

“No! The Creator said . . .”

“Yeah, well, the Creator ain’t paying a quarter-shekel a page. Six days. Now where were we? We got your light, we got your land, your sea, your animals, yada yada yada. Hmm, gonna need a protagonist. Something simple. ‘Adam.’ ”

“But God guided Man’s evolution gradually, until he developed intellect and reason–”

“Man from animal? Try selling that to the Levites! Nope, he’s gotta be created. Maybe from mud or dirt or something. We’re gonna need some conflict, some kind of antagonist. Hmm . . . fantasy’s hot right now–maybe we go with some kind of talking animal. And we gotta have a love interest. Let’s see . . . ‘Eve.’ Yeah, ‘Adam and Eve.’ It sings, it’s got legs.” His eyes lit. “Brainstorm! They haven’t invented clothes! They’re naked, but with a purity slant so as not to offend the Fundies. Besides: leave it to the imagination–’world’s greatest aphrodisiac,’ am I right?”

Moses stood, robes a-flutter and eyes glinting. “ENOUGH! You dare despoil the true word of God? Infidel!” He turned and stomped off through the dust.

The Word-Man sighed. He started to toss the papyrus manuscript in the fire, then stopped and turned back to the first page. “Hmm, no byline. No legal copyright notice. Hey, if he doesn’t want the royalties . . .” Grinning, he slipped the manuscript into his robes.

And the rest is History.

Copyright 2011 T. L. Burlison
All rights reserved

Uh, this lake isn

My friend Kyle and I arrived after a grueling, but beautiful, 14-hour drive through four states. Since Kyle is an I.T. expert and I’m a “rocket scientist,” plus we had two GPS systems, we got lost only a couple of times, finally rolling into Reno, NV late Thursday night.

Day 1: Lines and buyers and bras, oh my!

Friday morning, we hit the beautiful Atlantis casino and hotel to start our Worldcon experience. If you’ve never attended a science fiction convention, they’re a blend of discussion panels, dealer rooms, art shows, and people wearing costumes ranging from accurate movie reproductions to outfits that would have gotten you thrown out of Sodom or Gommorah.

I hit panels on Understanding Publication (“Always read your final contract!”), Social Media (“Facebook is the high fructose corn syrup of social media”–Cory Doctorow), and The Solar System and SF, where I re-united with author Allen Steele. (At Worldcon 54 in Los Angeles, Allen critiqued one of my short stories with the words, “Gird your loins…” Despite everything he said over the next few minutes, he seemed to think there was some hope for me and took me under his Hugo-winning wing. He introduced me to Gregory Benford, David Brin, and others, stunning me by saying, with a perfectly straight face, “In a few years, he may be on the Hugo stage with us”–an observation that demonstrates why Allen is so successful at writing fiction.)

The pros ponder the future of SF

I also attended the Many Sides of Hard Science Fiction, where I got into a bit of a debate with panelists who believe science fiction has an obligation to depress our youth into Prozac addiction. I disagreed, stating that SF should occasionally inspire people to achieve a better world–and entertain them in the process. I’m not sure I changed any minds, but I did get a chance to talk to Toni Weisskopf of Baen Books who offered to read the first chapters of my recently-completed hard SF novel, Miner Misfortunes.

Finally, I hit the Space Opera panel, to be reunited with another friend from the 90′s convention scene, Lizzy Shannon, who is now a published novelist, whereas I am not. That’s fine. Really. I’m happy for her. I am.

Well, it IS a Fantasy convention...

I then walked through the Dealer’s Room and Art Show exhibits, which featured lots of cool stuff to buy with my dwindling resources. Nearby, a girl stood around in her underwear while guys attempted to draw her. I’m not sure what that had to do with Science Fiction, but I guess it does kinda fall in the Fantasy category. While there, a flashmob celebration broke out to support author Jay Lake in his battle against cancer. Although it was dubbed “World Jay Day,” another attendee suggested a better moniker might have been “Jay Pride Day.” I got to re-unite with another writing acquaintance, Patrick Swenson, publisher/editor of Fairwood Press.

World Jay Day

Friday night, Kyle and I attended the Masquerade (i.e., the costume contest) which featured many amazing outfits and a spectacular wardrobe malfunction. (Sorry, no pictures.) For laughtime entertainment, we witnessed the SF version of the British Game Show Just a Minute, hosted by the very funny Paul Cornell. Contestants must speak for a full minute “without hesitation, deviation, or repetition” on a variety of topics. Contestants were John Dowd, Lauren Beukes, Bill Willingham, and winner Seanan McGuire.

Afterwards, I got to stuff myself into the Science Fiction Writers of America (SWFA) suite and chat with my friend, Nebula-award winner Jerry Oltion and his lovely wife, Kathy, where we discussed the joys and hazards of writing, space flight, and SF conventions. Jerry and I once served on the same panel, “Dude, Where’s My Flying Car”–and we’re still wondering. It would have beat the hell out of a 14-hour drive in a Honda Civic.

Day 2: Things go from good to better

Saturday was a day to enjoy the convention, rather than sniff after agents and editors. I hit an enjoyable and informative panel on the Craft of Writing Short Fiction, with Connie Willis and Jay Lake, and a panel called A Glimpse at Underwear in Speculative Literature and Film (really). This included some of my favorite clips from some of my favorite films (e.g., Sigourney Weaver crawling into her spacesuit in Alien). Another highlight was a lovely young lady in attendance who wore a skirt that is illegal in most southern States. (Again sorry, no picture. I mean, really sorry.)

When geekdom goes funky

I bought a copy of my friend Lizzy’s book, Time Twist, at the dealer room, as well as presents for my wife and kids, then we headed over to the Hugo Awards, hosted by Jay Lake and Ken Scholes, who consistently worried us with threats of musical performances. (A threat they eventually made good on, but it wasn’t as painful as expected.)

I won’t list the Hugo winners, with one exception, since you can see them here or watch the video. The highlights of the evening (for me) were Robert Silverberg’s painfully hilarious introduction for the Best Novella award and my friend Allen Steele’s win for Best Novelette for his superb story, “The Emperor of Mars.” I’ve attended two Worldcons, and Allen’s won Hugos at both; therefore, I like to think I’m a good-luck charm. Of course, I like to think a lot of things.

And the Hugo goes to . . .

The night was capped when I ran into Allen afterwards and we had a delightful talk about writing, working at NASA, and the joys of trying to carry a bomb-shaped metal award onto an airliner.

Another short night’s sleep, and an uneventful 14-hour drive home, made possible by the fine folks in the pharmaceutical industry.

Next?

Next year’s Worldcon is in Chicago, not far from my home crib in Indiana. If I go, I hope it’ll be as a SFWA member, rather than a hanger-on. And if Allen’s nominated again, maybe I’ll find out if I really am his good luck charm.

Meanwhile, back to finishing revision 3 of Miner and getting it into submission. Maybe if the cover features a girl in her underwear . . .

(Addendum: my complete set of Worldcon/Hugo pix can be found here.)

glistening in the sunshine.

No, it’s 405.

I discovered this when my nine-year-old daughter, Emily, announced she was going out for the track team. I ran track back in Junior High School and figured that experience could be of some value. My team consisted of about two dozen adolescent boys ranging in body hair from Sasquatch to Naked Mole Rat. I learned to accelerate like a cheetah, run like a gazelle, and leap like a kangaroo, mostly in a shower room filled with burley upperclassmen snapping towels at us Mole Rats. If you couldn’t run or jump, the coach or natural selection removed you from the team.

At Emily’s first practice I realized I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. “Going out” for the team is now taken literally: to make the team, one must qualify by going out and finding the track. Consequently, ninety-eight kids were proud members of the Mustang track team. That’s out of a school of 300–and the team is limited to fourth through sixth grades.

After two grueling practices of trotting in approximately counter-clockwise ovals then going out for ice cream, the kids had their first meet. In my day, a meet was usually between two schools. We each ran our events then sat on a wooden bench and pretended to pull for our teammates while actually watching cheerleading practice. Emily’s meet included a dozen schools–a thousand kids all wearing gray, blue, or red. Emily’s team wears gray with purple letters to distinguish them from the teams wearing gray with blue letters or gray with purplish-blue letters. I dropped her off, parked the car, and spent most of the meet trying to find her again.

I located a harried-looking woman with a clipboard barking out instructions to a swirling cloud of pre-teens. She pointed me to the start of the seventy-five yard dash, where Emily was waiting in a line longer than Space Mountain’s. After several dozen heats, she lined up for her very first race.

My old school track was composed of black cinders glittering with razor sharp edges that weeded out the fallers. Running on it conjured race-memories of our ancestors fleeing over the earth’s freshly cooled magma pursued by giant dinosaurs. Emily’s race was run on grass with pastel lines. Not even real grass: we’re talking the green plastic stuff that comes in Easter baskets.

The kids lined up and the Starter explained the complex rules to them (“Go when I say, ‘Go!’”). Our starters used miniature pistols; they fired blanks that made a crisp crack everyone in the stadium could hear. In today’s gun-phobic world, people fear the Starter might load it with tiny bullets and gun down kids for false starts. Consequently, today’s Starter uses a device that looks like a Star Trek prop. Rather than a politically incorrect bang, it emits a trilling, musical chirp. It’s designed to provide a relaxing, yet self-empowering signal for the runners to embark on their journey.

Emily and her competitors lined up. The Starter yelled, “On your marks, set–” at which point a third of the group raced off in the general direction of the finish line. The Starter, to avoid a lawsuit from parents of the “rules-impaired,” let them go. Emily thought she had missed the starting chirp and took off in pursuit. Realizing her mistake, she was returning to the starting line just as the Starter yelled “Go!” and triggered his device, prompting half the remaining kids to check their waists to see if their cell phones had rung. Eventually they realized what had happened and raced off after the others, who by now were eating sno-cones in the parking lot.

When I finally found Emily again, she was in good spirits, not the least bothered by the cheating little bastards that had beaten her. She was happy and the other kids were happy, so maybe all this touchy-feely new age stuff is okay. It’s not like people have to obey rules, improve their skills, or learn discipline to function in today’s society.

Okay, maybe they do–for now. But by the time Emily is an adult perhaps Political Correctness will have taken care of that, too.

Copyright 2011 T. L. Burlison
All rights reserved

I’ll occasionally add choice tidbits from the book to this post.

“The only people I know who possess the proper equipment for becoming a writer are professors of literature and literary critics–and they seldom write much. I am told this is a great pity.”

“If you have come to writing for anything but a desire to see your name in print and make some easy money without any work; if you have come to it with the determination to write and sell what you write, you certainly will–nothing but your own laziness will prevent you. No amount of stupidity will prevent you from writing to sell; no amount of ignorance. A total lack of inspiration will have, if anything, cash value for you as a writer.”

“Don’t go around asking writers where they get their ideas. You’ll embarrass and infuriate them. And don’t worry if you haven’t got any ideas; you’re far better off without them if you are going to write to sell.”

“Remember, nothing counts but the determination to write to sell; if you really have that you’ll get by–there’s not the slightest question of that.”

On Revision:

“If you get the revision habit, after you practice it long enough, you won’t be able to write even a note to the milkman, telling him you’ll surely pay him Saturday if he’ll leave another quart today, without revising several times.”

On Editors:

“Editors lose stories, spill gin on them, and burn holes in them with cigarettes. Technically, they ‘lose’ them; you’re not told about the gin and cigarettes.”

“Never try to pass judgment on your own work–let editors do it. They don’t know anything about good and bad short stories either; but they know what they want.”

“The cultured reader would detect only one essential difference between the fiction in slick magazines and the fiction in pulp magazines. He would find in the former consciously and intentionally bad writing, and in the latter unconsciously and naively bad writing.”

“A story is always a concentration to a given point–in this it resembles a waterspout: two vortices of opposite forces drawn toward each other until–hey presto! for a moment the thing stands whirring, fused, and, topmost pleasure, seemingly alive throughout. If you write something like that and send it to a commercial editor, even though it be a masterpiece, his reaction will be one of dismay and fright, followed by anger and suspicion.”

On Vocabulary:

“Whenever you catch yourself using a long word, one that would offend and afright the wife of a gas meter reader, truncate the word somehow.”

“If you have been to college, you already know at least fifty thousand too many words for the equipment of a free lance writer in the commercial fiction racket. If you have been to high school, you will know at least ten thousand words to many. If you have finished eighth grade at grammar school, you will still know far too many words for use in this racket.”

“Read only the magazines to which you intend to contribute; read only the kind of novels that you are going to write. Read them even if they gag and bore you to the point of desperation.”

On Sex and Writing:

“Because writers do not view sex as sin, they are reputed to be more promiscuous than most Americans, merely because they are less hypocritical and not inclined to sneak while about their ‘sinning.’ “

“The magnetism of sex has everything to do either with an author’s inspiration, or with his perspiration. Either can be work up to an astonishing degree by sexual abstinence.”

“[A sexually frustrated writer] is just diverting her temporary unspentness into another channel. She does so, of necessity, because she, too, suffers for a short time from the universal delusion that the transitive sex verb can take only one object.”

“Unless you are far undersexed, if you sit down to write the morning after a lot of sexual acrobatics, you will not write as well as you will when you are a trifle in need…As a general rule, in writing a novel, if you will abstain sexually for some time before beginning, and all during it, you will write a far better novel…But don’t carry the thing too far; and when you have your novel or stories done, for the good of your mental and physical health throw yourself into a sex ‘debauch,” if you can stand it and are not irritated and bored by it.”

On Ghost Writing:

“Ghost writers do speeches and every other imaginable material for illiterates and half wits who have somehow achieved notoriety sufficient to cause magazine and book publishers to feel that something ‘written by them’ might be unloaded upon a credulous public.”

On Screenwriting:

“The ideal motion picture is one that could be shot as a silent picture. Dialogue should be lagniappe.”

“If there is a story at all, it is told in action, and the dialogue is merely a decoration, and not at all the min thing. Action is movement that tells something.”

“It is the damndest job in the world to write a story motion picture length wholly in terms of actions; but if you can do it, and then after you’ve written add the decoration of brilliant dialogue, or even reasonably intelligent dialogue, Hollywood will have a place for you…an all around writer worth a lot of money to somebody and capable of entertaining the millions all over the world, instead of merely a handful of critics in New York.”

On Writing Novels:

“There is no form of creative fiction easier to accomplish than the novel.”

“For some reason the amateur, who ought to view short stories with fear and trembling, is afraid, instead, of the novel.”

“All publishers are simply miserable if they can’t cut something out of a novel. There is not a publisher in the Unite States who has the slightest faith in an author’s ability to write a better novel himself than the publishing house can write with the redactor’s blue pencil.”

“If you write one thousand words a day on a novel–and any dumb cluck can do that–you will have your first novel finished in seventy-five days, theoretically. If you can’t write five hundred words a day regularly, you’re hopeless; go do something else–you’re not fitted for commercial writing. Even a college professor of literature could write five hundred words a day, and there is nobody on earth more helpless facing writing.”

“Novel writing is a gamble, a downright gamble. But a fascinating one. It is never much fun to write short stories; but it is almost always great fun to write a novel.”

“And then one day the book is published. It will not occur to the publisher that you have the slightest interest in this fact, or the least curiosity to see what your book looks like in format.”

“Nine times out of ten your book will be the last one on his list that season which he had expected would do anything ; all of those he thought were going to make him rich will as usual have acquired creeping paralysis shortly after leaving the presses and gone into a coma on bookstore shelves. Your book will pay for all of these.”

“But remember, the average sale of a novel is eight hundred copies. I’m sorry.”

On Critics:

“Only by the barest chance will a majority of them feel that your novel has been written the way ‘it ought to be written.’ Only the very egotistical height of cold nerve could dictate such delineation on the part of a given individual who is colored in his judgment not by any Golden Mean of literary mensuration but simply by his silly prejudices, behaviorist bias, and complex matters surrounding his early environment.”

It's not an exaggeration!

Pirates have conquered the Magic Kingdom.

I first noticed this while walking down Main Street. In lieu of mouse ears or fairy wings, kids now stalked the grounds wearing cutlasses and eye patches. I know pirates have always been one of the popular themes at Disney, due to their famous “Pirates of the Caribbean” ride. But with the overwhelming popularity of the recent movie series, it’s clear that Mickey and the other traditional characters have one foot, paw, or wing in the unemployment line.

The “Pirates” ride itself, formerly a rambunctious romp to the hearty strains of “Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me!” is now a paean to drug-addled gay pirate Jack Sparrow. While one can understand Disney’s cashing in on the popularity of the movies and updating the ride to form a closer tie-in, what is not so clear is why the Disney overlords also decided to change Tom Sawyer’s Island to The Pirates’ Lair. Perhaps midwestern Tom was too Americana for California. Or perhaps they were attracted to another tie-in, with those lovable Somali scalawags that have been in the news of late. Sure, throughout history pirates have been murderous thieves and rapists, but that’s better than associating the Disney label with some middle-America kid from a red state with his capitalist, white-washing notions. To hammer this in further, they even have Tom’s grave on the island! (I couldn’t find the marker for the spot where the pirates no doubt brutally raped and murdered Becky Thatcher, but maybe I just missed it.)

Rest in peace, Tom

So there we have it. Kids are turning aside from Tinkerbell face paint in favor of Jack Sparrow bandanas and heavy eyeliner. Mickey Mouse ears have been replaced with bloodstained swords, and the Jolly Roger will soon be fluttering over Sleeping Beauty’s Castle.

But I, for one, miss good ol’ Tom. Rest in peace, lad. Maybe Disney will make a series of blockbuster movies about your adventures some day, and you’ll be allowed back in your old haunts. Or maybe the Disney executives will realize that Mark Twain’s all-American boy deserves better homage than the most villainous scum of the earth, and they’ll put family values over greedy corporate profit.

But probably not.

Snaggletooth brooked no nonsense from us kids. He whipped Bus 13 across the Indiana countryside with all the joy of man on work-release, one eye on the road (if we were lucky), the other peering into his wide, all-seeing rearview mirror. No Stalag inmate feared the watchful gaze of a Nazi guard more than we feared Snaggletooth.

Snag had inflexible rules for riding his bus: no running, playing, smiling, thinking happy thoughts, or breathing too loudly. And most of all, no toys. He was not above pat-down searches if he suspected us of smuggling contraband. I don’t recall the penalty if someone got caught; most likely I’d need regression hypnosis to uncover those memories. But he never caught me, because I had a secret weapon: I was poor.

On those frigid Indiana winter mornings, my mom sent me to school wearing an old hand-me-down winter coat. This was a huge, bulky thing, a mattress with sleeves. I don’t recall where we found it; probably abandoned on the roadside by some train-riding hobo who got tired of being ridiculed by the other hobos. It was worn. It was threadbare. The pockets had eroded completely through on the inside. The lining was not attached to the shell anywhere except at the zipper and along the bottom. This meant anything I put in my pocket would fall into the lining and eventually work its way around to my back, where I had to dislocate my shoulders to retrieve it.

But then I realized this could work to my advantage.

In what was probably my first act of civil disobedience, I snuck a couple of toy cowboy revolvers into the lining and clambered aboard Ol’ Number 13. No FBI informant was more nervous smuggling a wire into a mafia den. Snaggletooth patted me down, checked my pockets–and waved me in.

Dawn rose on a world of possibilities. Soon, I was smuggling every toy I owned onto the bus. Had Snag ever looked at me from behind, he would have thought Quasimodo had moved into the Muncie school district.

One day, I took my usual seat near the back of the bus and deployed my green plastic army. A chubby kid with a buzz-cut was sitting in front of me. He heard the carnage and turned around to see, as he later put it, “The entire invasion of Anzio” spread out on my seat. (That’s ridiculous, of course. It was the invasion of Sicily.)

“How did you get those on the bus?” he whispered, glancing fearfully at Snag’s omniscient mirror.

I showed him my “undergarment railroad.”

“Wow! Hey, my name’s Phil. Can I play, too?”

“Sure,” I said–and a lifelong friendship was formed.

Over the years, Phil and I saved Hoosierland from numerous German invasions. We stoutly protected hearth and home from Japanese and Koreans, rescued the earth from Martians, Klingons, and other aliens too horrible to describe. We built elaborate settlements in corn and wheat fields, erected fortresses from logs, snow, or just our imaginations. In later years we graduated to cars, girls, careers, and the Senior discount at Dennys. Through eleven presidents, four marriages, and thousands of miles of separation we have endured. It has been a friendship for the ages. And we owe it all to one mean man with bad dental work.

Snag disappeared the next year, never to be heard from again. We had many other bus drivers over the years, all of them nicer but none as memorable–and none who left me such a legacy. So thank-you, Snaggletooth, wherever you’re incarcerated. I hope they’re treating you well. And if you ever need anything, let me know. You see, I have this coat . . .

Copyright 2011 T. L. Burlison
All rights reserved

Skyline is a low-budget breath of fresh air. In today’s Hollywood, where filmmakers routinely spend $100 million dollars only to make a really crappy movie, it’s good to know that for a tenth of that they can make one just as bad.

Somewhere in Southern California, after a viewing of Cloverfield, I figure the two Strause brothers (aka, “The Brothers Strause”) turned to each other and said something like:

“Dude! Instead of music videos, we should make a Cloverfield movie–but about aliens!”

“Dude, you’re right! Kinda like Independence Day!”

“And The Matrix!”

“With stuff like from Aliens!”

“Dude!!”

Too bad it didn’t occur to them to use the good parts from those movies.

Plot Summary: Our heroic couple, Jarrod (Eric Balfour) and Elaine (Scottie Thompson) arrive in L.A. to visit their rich friend Terry (no relation to me), played by Scrubs alum Donald Faison. They all get eaten.

The Story: Skyline has a terrific opening. Eschewing Hollywood’s trend of starting with a ton of backstory, it jumps right into action, suspense, and Scottie Thompson wandering around in her underwear. For about three minutes, that is. Then comes the “Fifteen hours earlier” flashback with a ton of backstory.

The flashback begins with Jarrod and Elaine landing in L.A. to visit Jarrod’s old pal Terry. Elaine complains of being nauseated, probably because she just finished reading the script. They’re picked up by a limo and scooted away to a flat of luxury condos, where Terry lives in the penthouse with his bevy of babes and sycophants. Terry has made it big doing something with robots of some kind. Or maybe music. Or drugs. I’m not really sure, but the point is, he’s rich. He wants Jarrod to move out to L.A., but Jarrod isn’t so sure, especially after Elaine pulls that tired old, “Hey, I’m pregnant” gambit on him.

After a day of living the L.A. lifestyle of responsible drinking and low-key partying, the friends and sycophants pass out in Terry’s apartment. At 4:27 a.m., mysterious lights appear through the blinds. Ray, aka Sycophant #1, gazes at the lights and a special effect from the X-files suddenly crawls over his face. He opens the door to the balcony and disappears, to the horror of Sycophant #2 (Denise) to whom he must have owed money or something, because otherwise, I didn’t see a problem.

Denise’s screaming causes Jarrod and Elaine to meander into the mis-named “living room” to see what’s up. Jarrod nearly succumbs to the same special effect as Ray, but is pulled away from the light just in time. Clearly, however, he is infected, which would have foreshadowed something of great plot significance if either of the Brothers Strause had attended film school.

The lights disappear and, this being L.A., everyone in the city goes back to their sex, drugs, and rock and roll.

The next day dawns, and since the U.S. military and FEMA are nowhere in sight, everyone is caught off-guard when the lights return! Jarrod and Terry go up to the roof, armed with a Baretta 9mm (no doubt legally registered), to confront the situation. Alien ships descend from the sky and like airborne Roombas start vacuuming up residents. Jarrod and Terry escape from the roof with Elaine’s help–but she gazes into the light and is also infected. This, too, would lead to great repercussions later had the Brothers Strause known anything about film making.

Our heroes return to the penthouse and decide the safest course of action would be to abandon the giant concrete structure they’re in and flee across open ground to the marina, where they can spend the morning finding a boat, getting it started, and scooting out onto the water where it’s just gotta be safe. Plus, the girls can work on their tans.

Announcing to his girlfriend, Candice, that he “has everything under control,” Terry rushes over to an elderly neighbor’s apartment to either save him or steal his car–it was a bit ambiguous. An alien ship that has escaped from the Matrix attacks them, and the neighbor’s stupid little yap dog gets himself and his kindly owner killed. (Yet another reason not to own a dog.)

Terry rushes back to the penthouse where he discovers his girlfriend Candice has found pictures of him and Suckophant, er, Sycophant #2 gettin’ all jiggy wit’ it. Since the world’s ending and all, they put the discussion on hold and the gang makes their way to the parking garage. Terry hops in his Ferrari F430 Spider and leads the convoy to the exit. Given that alien hover ships are sucking people up off the street I would have put the top up, but that’s just me.

However, turns out not to make a hell of a lot of difference as a giant alien transformer monster creature is awaiting just such a foolish move. It stomps the car into a CGI pancake as soon is it clears the entrance, instantly killing Sycophant #2. Before Terry can escape, he is grabbed by the alien’s giant Japanese tentacle appendages and sucked into oblivion in the creature’s maw. Candice is still pissed about the pictures, though.

This stream of events leads the survivors to reconsider their escape plan, and they rush back up to the penthouse with the help of the building superintendent, Oliver.

By now, someone at NORAD has figured out something is amiss and launches a massive airstrike of Unmanned Aerial Vehicles (UAVs), since the Obama administration has eliminated funding for our manned fighters. A UAV fires a missile at one of the hovering motherships. The missile goes directly into the ship’s thermal exhaust port and detonates in a massive mushroom cloud of thermonuclear death. The ship crashes into the ground, showing that mankind has a fighting chance. Until it rises back up and begins reassembling itself, showing that mankind is doomed.

Our heroes are faced with a conundrum: choose between certain, horrible death in the street or stay in an apartment building full of food and drinks and places to hide. They decide to try escaping again.

At this point the Army rapid deployment forces show up,  a scant day or so after the invasion. Helicopters drop snipers armed with .50 caliber rifles and shoulder-mounted rockets. Jarrod and Elaine leave Oliver and Candice and rush to the roof to call for help. This, of course, alerts the aliens to the presence of the squad, and they promptly descend on the roof and start scarfing up soldiers like a bunch of camouflaged chiclets. Having never seen Cloverfield, Jarrod and Elaine wave to a passing helicopter to come rescue them. Alerted now to the helicopter’s presence as well, an alien fires his Japanese anteater-like tentacle tongue and destroys it, since someone forgot to provide air support.

Aliens now roam the streets of L.A., sucking up stragglers with their tentacles. (“Dude, War of the Worlds!”) The critters have glowing LED eyeballs, subtly displaying the Brothers’ Strause environmental awareness. One of them leaps onto the roof and attacks Jarrod (an alien, not a Brother Strause). Elaine swoops in from behind it and kills it with an ax. But before they can escape, it comes back to life and jumps on Elaine, screeching “Who’s your boyfriend now?” in its native language. Jarrod attacks the creature with a concrete block and kills it. Instead of using million-dollar nukes, Stinger missiles, and UAVs, the Department of Defense should have just rolled some trucks into Home Depot, picked up same day laborers and bricks, and gone medieval on the aliens’ ass.

Back in the abandoned penthouse, Oliver and Candice are busy surviving by not going outside. Candice finds the telescope Terry uses for spying on his gay neighbors and watches everything unfold over the city, sadly forgetting that looking at the aliens causes you to get possessed. Oops. She walks out onto the balcony and lets herself get sucked up (and not in the good way). Oliver realizes all is lost and turns on the gas (gas?) in the penthouse and within seconds has flooded it to exactly combustion mixture. He then puts a hollow cigarette in his mouth (don’t ask me), picks up his lighter and waits. An alien floats into his room and he suavely clicks the lighter, which doesn’t work.

By this time, I’m fully on the aliens’ side, since none of these people deserve to live.

Oliver struggles with the creature, regains his lighter, and divining that it will now function, looks the creature in the LEDs and says, “Via con Dios,” which is superintendent for “Yippie ki yay, mother–” and clicks his Bic. The penthouse explodes, killing Oliver and probably not hurting the creature at all since a gas explosion is significantly cooler than a nuclear detonation.

Meanwhile on the roof, Jarrod and Elaine know the game is up. Surrendering to the inevitable, they allow themselves to be sucked up to a mothership. As they disappear into the light, they share one last kiss, conveying the message that love is eternal and can never truly die. The screen fades to white and the movie is over. And none too soon, since there was no way the Brothers Strause could possibly have made anything stupider.

Then the white screen faded into the next scene.

We’re now in the bowels of the alien ship, where Elaine awakens in a dark, nasty tomb filled with debris and other humans. Alien tentacle creatures are floating around, popping the heads off people and pulling out their glowing (?) brain stem, Pez-style. Elaine sees one pick up Jarrod, who awakens, defeats the creature and makes good their escape.

Ha ha. Not really. The creature pulls off Jarrod’s head, sucks out his intact brain, and puts it into its own body.

Naturally, Elaine finds this a mite disturbing and screams. Another critter grabs her, starts to pop off her head but then . . . it sends a tentacle probing over her body (“I’m not touching you!”). It finds the baby! Well, it can’t very well kill her now. (Note: if you’re a pregnant woman captured by decapitating, brain-eating aliens, hope they’re pro-life.)

So the creature drops her, but then it or maybe another one climbs on top of her or maybe threatens to do something, I dunno, but she screams again alerting–

The alien that took Jarrod’s brain! (A much better title than Skyline, by the way.)

It rushes to her aid, beats the living snot out of the creature threatening her, then looms over her, running its clawed tentacle tenderly over her face. Terrified at first, Elaine then gazes longingly into the hideous creature’s love-filled LEDs and whispers, “Jarrod?”

And presumably they lived happily ever after. Not counting the lifetime of horrible nightmares of this entire experience, that is.

I’m talking about mine, not Elaine’s.

Then I moved out of state and to the Big City. The first Saturday morning, I tucked my ball under my arm and headed for the nearest court to find some fresh blood. I followed the sound of a bouncing basketball to a chain-link fence, where I stood slack-jawed, a single thought rebounding through my mind: What the hell are these people doing?

I was entering the world of hoops.

Hoops (or b-ball or just “ball”) is related to basketball in the same way 50 Cent is related to Mozart–that is, they originated on the same planet. This guide can save you embarrassment (and worse). Because if you wanna be ballin’, you gotta know the score.

Hoops is best played on an inner city playground, although any black-topped surface will suffice. Gravel and broken concrete surfaces are marginally acceptable–even hardwood (if nothing else is available).

The game may be played either “half-court” or “full-court.” In either case, the court can measure anywhere between ten and one hundred feet in width. In half-court, the court length is unimportant, since only the first fifteen feet is typically used. For full-court games, the length is best kept under forty feet so less time is wasted in transition and more time can be spent shooting.

The rim is a standard, eighteen-inch diameter basketball rim secured on a metal, fan-shaped backboard loosely mounted to its pole by two or three rusted bolts. The rim should sit no more than eight feet above the court, as higher rims require actual jumping ability to dunk. The rim will most likely slope downward at an angle of at least forty degrees (see “Bad-ass Moves,” below).

No net is used in hoops, as this not only slows the pace of the game, but also makes it more difficult to convince an opponent that his perfect shot was, in fact, an airball. (NOTE: A stylish fragment of chain is sometimes permitted to dangle from one edge of the rim.)

The ball may be any regulation-sized basketball, once it has been properly broken in, i.e., used until all the nubs are worn down and the ball looks like a black striped, orange bowling ball. Women’s regulation basketballs are especially appreciated, as it enables more players to palm the ball (again, see “Bad-ass Moves”).

First impressions are important in a job interview or a Presidential primary; in hoops, they are critical.

An official NBA basketball jersey with a player’s name on the back is de rigueur when playing hoops. Currently, the following jerseys are acceptable: Shaquille O’Neal (Celtics), Kobe Bryant (Lakers), LeBron James (Heat), and the perennial Michael Jordan (Bulls). Showing up with a Jason Kidd or Steve Nash jersey will likely cause confusion among the other players, or–in the unlikely event someone recognizes the name–could result in bodily harm to the wearer.

(Keep in mind that NBA players have far less loyalty than a cat in heat or the French, so teams names have probably changed by the time you read this.)

Shorts must have legs that fall to a point at least midway between the knee and the ankle. Ideally, the crotch should hang halfway to the thighs. If you have no such garment in your wardrobe, and cannot afford to buy one, ask your mother if she has something called “coulottes” from when she was younger.

Socks are legal, but frowned upon, as that money could have been better spent elsewhere (see “Air Jordans,” below).

Shoes must be Nikes. Period. Preferably all-black, and should be “Air Jordans” if you are to be taken seriously, although any Nike basketball shoe costing over one hundred dollars (U.S.) is acceptable.

Jewelry is not only allowed, but mandatory on many courts. Do not be deceived into thinking that wearing earrings, gold necklaces, and lots of rings makes you any less masculine.

No surviving hoops player is named Larry or Ed. Your nickname should be one that produces terror (“Icepick,” “Chainsaw,” “Glock”), admiration (“Air,” “Slam,” “Dr.”), or something wintery (“Chill,” “Ice,” “Freeze”). Feel free to incorporate elements or initials from your birth certificate. For instance, if your given name is Duane Lambert Pickford, you could go with “D-Dog,” “Cool-L” or “Ice-Pick.” Avoid “Du,” “Lamb” or “Picky.”

Hoops is played loosely along the same rules as standard basketball, but with a number of modifications. (WARNING: Actual modifications vary from court to court and even game to game, so be sure to observe for a while before venturing onto the court.)

Scoring: Each basket is worth a single point, unless one can inflate his own score (or reduce his opponent’s) without getting caught. Typically, games run to fifteen.

Make-it-take-it: Unlike basketball, hoops requires that whichever person scores a basket maintains possession of the ball. This keeps the emphasis of the game on individual scoring, where it belongs.

Loser’s Outs: Whoever loses a game typically gets the ball to start the next game. This helps to alleviate the need to play something known as “defense,” since you will eventually get the ball back in any case.

Traveling: This sissy call is unknown on hoops courts.

Palming the ball (or double dribble): See “Traveling” (above).

Three seconds: Attempting this call will get you severely beaten up, even if the man you’re guarding has grown visible roots in the lane and is unable to move without the help of construction equipment.

Goal-tending: You have got to be kidding.

Fouling: If the shooter is behind in the score, a foul is committed on every missed shot, even if said shot was a missed breakaway one-on-zero lay-up. Prior to the shot, however, leaning one’s entire body weight on an opponent, rendering him paralyzed below the shoulders due to fractured vertebrae, is legal.

Out-of-bounds: A moot rule, since stepping or dribbling the ball out-of-bounds has never happened in the history of hoops.

Take the ball to the basket. Ideally, you should first stand outside the free throw line for at least ten seconds, dribbling the ball back and forth between your legs. This particular move has absolutely no value in basketball, but in hoops can score you serious “style points” with your bros, which is far more important than the actual score.

Once you have completed the above move, consider laughing at the man “guarding” you, and saying something like: “Shee, man, don’t know what th’ fug you lookin’ at, you ’bout to be used, mutha!” Combined with the between-the-legs move, this should convince your opponent he has no chance of stopping you, and is about to be “faced.” (See “Dictionary of Terms,” below.)

At this point, “juke” toward the basket, jump as high as you can, and hurl the ball in the general vicinity of the rim, much as you’ve seen NBA players do, only without any of the skill. This offensive strategy remains exactly the same whether playing one-on-one, five-on-five, or warming up.

In the unlikely event the ball goes through the basket, stare at your opponent in pity and say something like, “Cain’t stop me, cain’t nobody stop me, foo’!” Saunter (do NOT walk) back to the top of the key and wait for your crestfallen opponent to return the ball to you.

(LINGUISTIC NOTE: Mastering the dialect of hoops is important as the tomahawk dunk, regardless of your race, creed, or color. It doesn’t matter if you’re a six-foot-four dude from Watts or a five-five kid from Hong Kong: don’t step up if you ain’t got the word.)

Hitting two or more consecutive shots will usually convince your opponent to save “face” by giving up, and you can drive unimpeded for lay-ups for the remainder of the game, after which he will get a chance to play.

If your shot misses, and you are behind in the score, immediately yell, “Foul!” or “I got it!” or “Shee, man, why don’t you break my fuggin’ arm next time?” This will stop play immediately while you and your opponent discuss the incident for the next fifteen or twenty minutes, by which time no one will remember the score or, possibly, who had the ball in the first place. At this point, start a new game (see “I Got Next Game” in the Dictionary of Terms).

If you are in the lead when you miss the shot, it is considered good form to let the foul go, just to show what a good sport you are. This is optional, however.

(NOTE: Never, ever, say to your teammates “Sorry, bad shot,” even if your attempt flew over the backboard like a point after touchdown. Remember, it cannot have been a “bad” shot: you took it.)

If you decide to shoot from closer to the basket, for example after having missed twenty-five or thirty consecutive shots, you may use two techniques:

Technique One: Back slowly toward the basket while dribbling. If you lack actual ball-handling skills you can use the Magic Johnson method to protect the ball, i.e., use your free hand to slap away any arms that reach toward it. If you’re a big guy, use the Shaquille O’Neal method of slamming backwards into your opponent like an M1 Abrams tank stuck in reverse until you’re close enough to dunk.

Technique Two: This is for quicker players. Cut towards the basket, juking as much as possible without incurring spinal injury, and dunk if your man lets you get past him. If he doesn’t, hurl yourself into the air flinging the ball wildly in the general compass direction as the basket (see “Foul”).

Whenever possible, impress your opponents–and any onlookers–by peppering your offense with the following:

Work on these moves mentally, as any form of physical “practice” is fodder for ridicule.

If your teammate has the ball, stay away from the lane so he can drive. Stand off to the side and listen to the banter between him and the man “guarding” him. If you pick up some good jargon, your time isn’t completely wasted.

If you are guarding the man with the ball, stand a few feet away from him so he doesn’t accidentally hit you with the ball while dribbling it between his legs. Grin at him and ridicule his skill, his hair (assuming he has any), his jersey, his shoes, his mama, or just yell out unintelligible jibberish to distract him: “Fug, man, whazzat? Whazzat ‘sposed be, ain’ got shee, man, ain’ got nuthin’ I ain’ seen, c’mon, lessee whachu got, ain’ got nuthin’” or other sounds to that effect.

When your man drives on you, back up until he gets within ten feet of the basket. He should have shot by then; if not, you now have the right to lean your entire upper body over his back, drape your arms around him like a mating orangutan, and grab him bodily when he tries to shoot.

If by random chance his shot goes in, shake your head as though you had just witnessed a Biblical miracle, slump your shoulders, close your ears to your opponent’s ranting, and gather your wits to assail him with another round of ridicule once he regains the ball (see “Make-it-take-it,” above). It might be worth trying the “airball” gambit here, if your opponent’s shot went in clean, without hitting the rim or backboard.

After your opponent hits his first shot, it is acceptable to try much harder on the next possession by using harsher language, ridiculing things you let pass last time, hanging onto him more fiercely, or even (if you can’t think of anything else) raising your arms from your sides. Should he score again he has earned the right to play out that game unimpeded, so stand aside when he drives to the basket. Odds are he’ll miss a lay-up at some point anyway, and you can go for the rebound and turn the tables.

Once a player scores and yells out, “That’s GAME!” (meaning he believes–or wishes you to believe–that he now has enough points to win), all play ceases until the ensuing argument concludes. Your correct response would be something along the lines of, “Game? Boo-shee, ain’ no fuggin’ game, whatth’ fug you talkin’ ’bout, you rollin’ or wha’, it’s twelve-ten OURS!”

If both opponents are equally devastating arguers, this debate could rage until dark. It might well be the most exciting–and most skilled–competition of the day, so watch closely.

You’re now prepared to step onto any playground and announce you “got game.” Drain a few three-pointers while the argument from the previous game winds down, slam some reverse dunks, then wait until you decipher which team you’re on. Once the game starts, you can now play with the best of them–as soon as someone passes you the ball.

Don’t hold your breath.

Copyright 2010 T. L. Burlison
All rights reserved