It’s been a while since I’ve done an entry in support of my post-apocalyptic writing.  Let’s get that straightened out, shall we?

Most people don’t know Joe Rogan started out doing stand-up, and he’s hilarious.  He does a bit about how screwed the average person would be if the economy collapsed, and it highlights how you’d better get good at skills the average person hasn’t needed in forever.

So, in this post, let’s talk about the fine skill of armor manufacture.

First of all, let’s just toss the notion you’ll be able to get a hold of the good stuff:

People in towns near military bases might think they’ll just waltz right in and get a full set of gear, right?  Um…active-duty military personnel: I need your opinion here.  If the world drops into total anarchy, will you: A) Report in, await orders, and follow said orders, or Grab all your stuff and, banding together with your unit-mates, look after your well-being and that of your families as best you can? 

There is no C), by the way.  Even if there were, it sure as hell wouldn’t be “walk away from your weapon and equipment so some chump can grab it and use it to protect themselves at your expense”.

I suppose you can be one of those anarchist/private militia types that stocks up for doomsday.  Great for you.  You’re a tiny, tiny minority.

Being a post-societal armorer won’t be the same as being a medieval one.  So relax: you’re not going to spend your day bending wire into tiny little rings.  Your fingers will get sore, though.  All of the armor segments will need to be connected, whether it’s paper armor or a material you’re a little more comfortable with.

So: do you walk into the local Michael’s and get a few yards of Kevlar to sew up into a bulletproof garment?

Prrrrobably not.

Besides, even if you have a brother who’s the Quartermaster at the local National Guard, you know how that body armor works, correct?

“Enhanced Small Arms Protective Insert Plates”.

Ceramic plates that are designed to absorb the impact of a round.  Necessary, since most enemy combatants use AK-47’s, and not pistols like police are generally confronted with.

Let’s see one after it gets, uh, utilized:

And you don’t just go to your nearest Bass Pro or Cabela’s to pick up refills.  Not that there’d be a Bass Pro or Cabela’s that wouldn’t get mercilessly looted to its framework the second the trouble started.

So, is it back to banging on plates of steel to make thirteenth-century hauberks and breastplates?  No, there’s a reason people stopped using that kind of armor.  Doesn’t stop a bullet. 

The answer?  Emulate the military armor with what you’d have available:

I see that look you’re giving me.  No, really—stop it, it’s creepin’ me out.  Polyethylene, on top of being readily available and easy to work with at low temperatures, actually is used as body armor plate already.  And you can use very basic skills to create the plates, such as a single circular mold (so you don’t have to worry about custom-contoured plates) to make a dragon-skin style vest.  That kind of setup would allow for decent mobility as well.

The armor you choose would also have to fit your survival plan: are you going to fortify your town or city, and fight from a hardened defensive position?  Or are you moving out into the boondocks, far from main roads, where you’ll depend on stealth and being impossible to find?

One thing’s for certain.  You’ll have to do better than this:

I just read this interesting post about how Reality TV producers manipulate the people on their shows for entertainment value, and it reminded me of Tim Tebow. 

No, really. 

See, to say Tebow got a lot of coverage this fall would be like saying the Syrian government has a stern attitude toward its protestors.  And what’s the coverage been about?  His non-traditional approach to quarterbacking?  His youthful enthusiasm?

No, his beliefs.  How out front he is about his Christianity.  I noticed this earlier, in an article about Roy Helu, the rookie Washington running back who started finding success later in the year, adding ‘helped my fantasy team’ to ‘played for Nebraska’ to the reasons I like the guy.  He, to, was candid about his Christianity, and how he had difficulties in life before he went all-in with his faith.

So, shouldn’t this story about Adrian Peterson also include something about how, as a non-verbal evangelical, he’s going to recover from knee surgery whether God wants him to or not?

No, because that’s not entertaining.  It’s not an issue.  It doesn’t stimulate debate.

The networks make a big deal about Tebow, and to a lesser degree, Helu, because they appear to be good people.  Very good people.  Too good to be true people.  And, they know: the more attention they bring people who are so good, the more those newsmakers have to lose.

And, like hyenas circling a herd, ESPN and the rest are poised to strike at the first sign of a limp. Remember Eugene Robinson? Prior to the ‘White Bronco’ chase in 1994, people loved OJ Simpson.  How could you not love Nordberg from the Naked Gun movies?

ESPN is the central nexus of ‘rags to riches to rags’.  They slaver like Michael Vick’s dogs (yes, a tasteless reference, yet another example, true?) over an up-and-comer that they’re sure will go down.  This year, it was Clemson, then Oklahoma State.  They love Les Miles, who constantly tries to knock himself off his own pedestal.

Call it lazy reporting.  Call it some suit at the network deciding each game must have a story line.  This year’s Capitol One bowl was an almost farcical demonstration of this: the ‘Story Line’, since neither Nebraska nor South Carolina had a Robert Griffin The Third (Uttered, in full, about twice a minute in their coverage of the Alamo Bowl this year) they focused on the matchup between receiver Alshon Jeffery and corner Alfonzo Dennard, and would regularly show clips of their duel.  When they got into a fight that resulted in both their ejections—you could almost hear the producers in the trailer screaming “NOOOOOO” at their monitors.  No matter—they just spent the remainder of the game showing the clips they had, always ending with a rehash of the fight.  Score be damned, the storyline must be supported.

Thanks, Worldwide Leader.  Way to promote sportsmanship.

What makes me angriest about this?  Not so much the sports-as-theater rather than sports-as-sports aspect.  I could always go to the games, after all.  Rather, by people other than writers, both literary and media, employing the manipulation of the human psyche necessary to create a compelling story, the average person’s brain is going to be able to spot it.  Even the most unsophisticated person is going to say: “Oh, this guy seems nice—I bet he tries to molest the heroine somewhere around the halfway point.”

And, while I’m not necessarily lazy… I wouldn’t mind not having to work even harder than I already have to.

When I was younger, I had my fair share of benchwarming experiences in sports.    My favorite part of the game, therefore would be Garbage Time: that magical interval after the game had been settled, but there was still time on the clock.  Then, I’d join the other scrubs (usually from both teams) in a spirited minute or two of running around in our uniforms.

Garbage time was nice.  If it lasted long enough, I might even have to shower after the game, just like the starters.

Well, after reading some recent, less-than-stellar work, I’ve come to the realization that writers have Garbage Time, too.

Just like that minute of trotting up and down the floor at the end of a game that everyone but ten sets of parents had quit watching, writing in Garbage Time may seem pointless.  Or, if not that, at least something that’s unnecessary for everyone but the few participants who, though they worked just as much in practice, didn’t possess the talent needed to get on the floor when the game mattered.

I eventually got to see the floor when the game mattered.  It helped that by the time I was sixteen I was taller than six feet and had developed the ability to walk and chew gum at the same time.  And the first time I actually scored in a game, I wasn’t shocked.  Because I’d done it in practice, and I’d also been on that floor before.

To the less skilled, Garbage Time is more useful than originally thought in developing ability.  In getting one’s head right about playing in front of people.

Writing Garbage Time—this story, specifically—still enhanced some skills.  I had a few plot points to bully through, a few dead ends to escape, some character development to figure out.  Though the piece will never see the light of day, it served a purpose.  Even if it’s very understandable if it seems like the time invested was a waste.

I think one problem people have with continuing to write in Garbage Time is that most writers aren’t paid by their writing, and thus have to steal writing time away from all of the demands non-writers face.  If I’m going to give up time playing with the kids or sleeping, the thought goes, the stuff that comes out of my computer had better be gold.  The problem is, if the stuff that shot out of your fingertips through the keyboard (or, for you traditionalists, that flows with the ink from pen onto paper) was always incredible, you wouldn’t be normal and we’d already know your name. 

It’s easy to give up on something that isn’t working out.  Go ahead if this is you: give up.  Clears the market out for us more persistent writers.

A few months ago, it was a streak of a dozen straight trips with delays of at least half an hour.  Then, about four or five trips where I had a pleasant flight: nobody sitting next to me, reasonably calm air, arrival reasonably close to when they said they’d get me there.

Now? About four straight flights of extreme discomfort.

I’m not a small guy.  Even after losing a few pounds, I’m well north of 200 pounds.  And yet, I have consistently been the smallest in the pair of seats on the little commuter jet.

Now, one possible explanation: I’ve done the traditional ‘heavy’ flights lately: Monday morning, Friday night.  Highest percentage of business travelers.  And, if there’s ever a challenge to maintain physical fitness, it’s flying.  Lack of oxygen robs you of energy; stress burns through whatever you can fall back on to get going; a delay or extra-long layover has you headed for the Chili’s or TGI Friday’s for a cold one to wash away the disgust.

But there are a lot of us business travelers trying to make the most of our reduced workout opportunities.  I’ll just pace up and down those cartoonishly large terminals.  A lot more business travelers seem to get to the gym a little more regularly.  And now, alongside the chips and candy, many airport newsstands sell granola bars, dried fruit, and other snacks that at least try not to be horrible for you.

But this last batch of flights…man.  When I’ve already got to sit cranked-over because the other guy doesn’t fit in his seat so he’s got to borrow some of mine, it means I’m getting buttcheeks or buddha-boiler dragged across my aisle-facing shoulder.

I’ve got to harness this for fiction somehow.

I thought about calling this post How Big Ya Want It?  Then I decided that might make my posts show up too many times on the wrong kind of searches.

Often a writer sets out to make a short story.  Or an idea seems to cry out for full-length novel treatment.  That was certainly the genesis of Traffic Control.  But more often than not, I’ll start writing something just to see where it goes, to find out how fully an inspiration blossoms.  The worst thing that can happen at this point is exactly what’s happened to my latest project, Diaspora:

It got too big…but not big enough.

Let me elaborate.  I got up to 15,000 words with this monster, and it still needs a denouement.  I’ve had difficulty selling short stories—some of my best work—when they bloated to over 5000 words.  Trimmed to a leaner meaner version of itself, such a story has sold, but I felt like I sanded away a bit of its luster by stripping it down.  Most publishers that take short stories say if it’s over ten grand, forget it—they’re not interested.

If you get a story over 25,000 words or so, you can start thinking about pushing the story a little farther, developing the characters’ backstories here and there, and with a few extra action scenes you can get yourself a novel.

But 15,000?  Ugh.

“But what about a novella?”  You ask.

Unless your name is Stephen King, you’re not going to have much luck with getting a novella published.  They’re too unwieldy for the short story markets, and not worth binding into a book.  At least, in this day and age, electronic media gives you more flexibility, but it’s too big for a “hook ‘em” free piece, and too long to charge for.

So now it’s time for a decision.  Do I push for a novel with this thing, maybe risking a waste of a ton of effort when it falls short of 80,000 post-cutdown words?  Or do I try slashing the crap out of it and still distilling it down to a short story that isn’t a mere splinter of itself?

At least I like the story…I certainly don’t want to abandon it.

Had to wake up early this morning to catch a flight from Montreal to Toronto.  Two nights in a row that involved social drinking…I’m getting too old for it.

Of course, I’m not in too bad of shape, because I followed my ‘rules of drinking.’

Everybody has their own rules, I suppose.  At least, those of us that don’t drink our livers into steak tartare before Age 30.  While everyone customizes their rules to fit their particular physiology, and a significant portion of the population has only one rule (don’t drink at all!) most rules have a common element.  My particular set goes as follows:

1. Never go to sleep hammered.  Better to stay up ‘til 4AM and straighten out.
2. The last thing you should drink is at least 24 ounces of water.
3. If you plan on going with the hard stuff, stick to the clear booze.  Ideally high-end Vodka.  (Uhhh…high end, guys.)
4. If you don’t feel like being a sissy and want to match the guys with tequila shots…just remember it’s harder for them to find you if you wait ‘til after the second or third one to dodge ‘em.
5. Beer late, booze early.  Not the other way around.  (Why do people have such a hard time figuring this out?)

What do I consider the biggest mistake made by the young folks who haven’t figured out their own set of rules?

Simple: Even when the party is rollin’, it still takes 15-20 minutes for a drink to hit your system.  Don’t do a shot, say five minutes later:  “What’s up?  I’m not drunk!” and then decide you need to do two more shots. 

I could say: “Don’t overdo it”, but I know better than that.

I can’t wait to get home to play Skyrim—er, I mean, to see my family.  Who is currently playing Skyrim.

This isn’t a video game review site, but I’ve always enjoyed Bethesda games.  Very open-ended environments.  Choose to follow the quests, or just choose to wander around and immerse yourself in the world they’ve created.

Bethesda had a hand in Fallout III, taking over the franchise after the maker of the original two had gone defunct.  So they inherited, rather than created, one of the little annoyances I have with the game.  Not annoying enough to make me not enjoy playing it, of course, but it’s there nonetheless.

Bottlecaps?  Are you serious?  I only bring this up because, as a writer of fiction that sometimes wanders into the apocalyptic, the worlds I’ve created have to depend on some kind of currency…and I just can’t, even at my most creative, see how that would involve little disks of stamped, painted steel.

So imagine some catastrophe destroys not only electronic money, but also the backing of the paper currency we can still use—though much less than before.  People who find their greenbacks (or, whatever “colour” back the Canadians use based on denomination) useful only as bookmarks, tinder, and very rough, scratchy toilet paper won’t quit buying things.  How can they?  A barter economy depends on trading value for value, and a lot of people don’t really have much of value that doesn’t depend on electricity.

Yes, the exchange of two chickens for piano lessons will be part of the economy.  As will bootleg hooch ‘stilled up on the woods, although the looser the grip a central authority has, the less ‘bootleg’ such booze becomes.

But money won’t end.  Money can’t end; people on a run of good fortune have always wanted to convert their success into something both portable and hoardable.  Money just go back to what it was for thousands of years before the early 20th Century—bank notes and continental dollars notwithstanding: hard currency.  Coinage based on precious metals.  Gems.  Jewelry.  

Bottlecaps?  

I like collecting things, by the way.  Hard to be a nerd and not have the bug.    And I’ve switched from the football and baseball cards of my youth (don’t start me on a tangent in that direction) to coins.  Because they’re shiny.  They look good.  They’re really cool.  Oh, and there are so many different kinds out there, I’ll never be able to say ‘I have one of each’.

I’m not collecting bottlecaps.  Who do you think I am?