Depth of a Puddle

Forgive me readers, for I have slacked. It has been one hundred physicists and a children’s book since my last post.

I finished writing Sam, the book about the little bat who loses his colony to a cave in and then travels the world looking for a new family.

Microsoft Word hates it when I use “who” instead of “that” to describe my wee Sam, because MS Word is a cold-hearted bitch. I bet Word Perfect would have understood.

I finished the book while watching the French play pool and table tennis in a lodge on the Monterey coast. Oddly, I was writing a chapter about French bats, but I didn’t dare interrupt the game to ask questions.

I’ve worked for physicists for seven years. I’m surrounded by PhDs, trade emails with Nobel Laureates, attend talks, and just recently, planned a symposium that I think went pretty well. It’s an odd day job for a writer. I should perhaps be writing copy for an ad agency, or hiding out in academia, getting a PhD of my own and teaching Comp II to bored Freshmen who never learned to write in high school and see no value in it beyond texting lulz to other bored Freshmen. Where was I? Monterey.

The symposium was held at an odd little conference ground on the beach. No televisions in the sleeping rooms, no telephones, no internet anywhere but the main lodge. It was crazy-making for me, a media whore who needs a constant stream of noise. I’m not a country mouse at all. I wish I had recorded some LA traffic and sirens and homeless people shouting obscenities so I could sleep. I was constantly worried about a hockey mask-wearing psycho bursting through the slider window in my room with a hatchet.

Therefore, I spent a great deal of time in the lodge writing and listening to physicists laugh and play pool and speak to each other in languages I don’t understand because I failed French, Spanish, and German. I do know how to ask, “Do you have a mushroom?” in German, but it’s never come up in casual conversation.

Physicists have a tendency to be sexy and oddly charming, if I may make a gross generalization. They’re creative, as a rule. They spend a lot of time thinking, which leads them all to have a constant furrowed brow. Alternately aloof and gracious in five minute intervals, well-traveled, politically savvy, comfortable in their skin. There’s a joke often told about engineers, “I’m an engineer, FLIRT HARDER.” Physicists know when you’re flirting. Less Asperger’s, more lechery (see Feynman).

It should be noted that after all of these years of working in science, I have a good understanding of physicists, but have very little understanding at all about physics. It’s a sad state of affairs. I read Cosmic Variance and Cocktail Party Physics regularly, and understand why the LHC didn’t suck us into a black hole, I’ve held Aerogel in my hand and have won arguments on whether it would be better to use a railgun or catapult to throw rocks at the earth from the moon. But that’s about it. I should have a better understanding through osmosis, but really, I just know when a Class B laser shits the bed by the number of times a Russian hollers, “NYET!” in the lab. I’m pathetic.

Spending so much time surrounded by the devastatingly brilliant has made me less starstruck by the random celebrity sightings in LA. I was waiting at a crosswalk when Keiffer Sutherland creeped up behind me and hit the WALK button, in case I didn’t hit it correctly, I guess. But Jack Bauer never sketched out string theory for me on butcher paper at a bistro table so I could understand it better. So fuck him, you know?

At the symposium, other guests would ask me to point out the physicists in the room, as if I were a park ranger helping them identify rare birds. Seemed odd to me, but seriously, how many times have you been surrounded by dozens of rocket scientists?

So I’d play ranger and point them out: The group of handsome men playing pool? Physicists. The lovely young women sitting and laughing by the fire? Physicists. The group of gentlemen arguing about fountain clocks? Well, yeah.

There was the physicist who grew up on a dairy farm, the physicist who was in a wetsuit surfing every morning at ass o’clock, the physicist double-fisting bottles of Monterey’s finest red and four plastic cups. I adore them all, and pointing them out to tourists who found themselves tripping over science on the beach was lovely. I was insanely proud to be with them.

At the end of the symposium, I went to my room, took a hot bath, and cried. I’d spent years emailing and phone-conversationing with a lot of the scientists who attended, but until last week I’d never shared a bottle of wine with them face-to-face and it’s unlikely that I’ll ever see them again. I’ll miss them terribly.

Long time no post. Long illness followed by busted blog. But thanks to the lovely Jacqui at Fangeek, I’m back up and running. 

A lot has happened. I’ve moved (still in Los Feliz), my family made the news in Boston, and I started a new book.

I’m mostly unpacked, my family is doing well, and I’m having a nervous breakdown about the book. I’ve got a writing partner on this one, Sam Beizai, who came to me with a scheme to sell something to Pixar. I talked him down from the insane-o ledge and pitched a children’s book, instead. So we’re splitting the writing duties.

My agent adored the outline, thought the first two chapters were gold, and so here we are, closing in on an October 1st deadline.

Everything sort of came together in the most serendipitous of ways with this one. Take this crazy story for example…

So Sam and I were flipping through graphic novels and checking out illustrations to get a good bead on how our hero should look. Our hero is a baby Mexican free-tail bat, no bigger than a marshmallow.

We argued a bit about what we liked, since I’m a big Edward Gorey fan and Sam thought we should be heading more toward a doe-eyed disneyesque bat. Stalemate.

And then the weirdest thing happened.

When I got home that night, I had an email from Denise Dorman about a project she’s been working on. I had never met her, spoken to her…and there she was, Dave Dorman’s wife.

I told her about my book, and the weird serendipity of her email, since I had been looking at her husband’s art, earlier in the day. CRAZY, RIGHT?

She told me his rates were reasonable, and I had a good laugh, since I’m a po’ writer and couldn’t afford more than $100 and some pocket lint for an original piece. And you know, he’s DAVE FREAKIN DORMAN. I almost peed my fangirl pants.

Long story sort, yes, we’re getting some original artwork from Dave for my $100 and pocket lint, and we’ll be able to include it with the manuscript and make MILLIONS OF DOLLARS.

Or, you know, 5 bucks and a six pack of schlitz, which is what small authors like me make nowadays.

My love for the Dormans is epic. And so I plug! Go here and check out his DVDs for those of you interested in learning to paint in oils and mixed media.

Denise says:

These are DIY DVDs of Dave doing pencil illustration and traditional
oil painting, available through The Gnomon Workshop, a division of
Hollywood’s Gnomon School of Visual Effects in Hollywood, where Dave
occasionally does weekend panels. 20% of the proceeds will go to
mlitary families who wish to attend this school (expensive at
$30k/year). Dave is an Air Force brat, so he knows the struggle of
financing art school as a military kid.

It’s an amazingly good cause, and I’d love it if you all would carry the message far and wide.

I’m so grateful.

As it turns out, the MPTV Work Stoppage Fund is now just emailing receipts, so if you forward me your receipt, remember to delete the bottom portion with the amount donated and which card you slapped it on.

Unless you’re Peter Chernin. I totally want to know how much money Peter Chernin is donating. C’mon, Peter. It’s tax deductible! I totally want to see you AMPTP people donating to the Crew Fund.

How can you keep accusing the writers of being greedy without boasting about how much you guys REALLY care? And if you forward your donation proof to me, I’ll be able to back you up and say, “wow, those fortune 500 people sure do care about gaffers!”

As an added bonus, I’ll pass the word on about your generosity and you’ll never have to worry about being caught in bad lighting, again. At least not on teevee.

A few years back I hosted a party for Angel fans, and invited the cast and crew of the show. By all accounts, a fabulous time was had by all. At the end of the night, when we were packing up the decorations, some of Angel’s crew stayed behind, jumping up onto ladders and taking hot gels off lights, wrapping up the sound equipment, all while wearing suits and despite protests that guests shouldn’t be working on clean up.

The universal responses from the crew was full of gratitude, telling us that they do this all the time, and were happy to be able to help us out in some way.

I’ve been thinking of them often, hoping that they were able to save up a bit before the WGA strike.

The shut down of my city’s most lucrative export, television and film, means that thousands of carpenters, costumers, painters, set designers, sound engineers, drivers, editors, gaffers, and that guy who holds the boom are all out of work during the holidays. These are the Below the Line crew members caught in the storm caused by six of the world’s richest and most powerful men not wanting to give up 2.5% of their internet riches to the people writing their content.

The WGA offers loans and emergency funds to its members, but those Below the Line are pretty much screwed.

Let’s help ‘em out, shall we? The Work Stoppage Relief Fund has been set up to help those hard workers who are in need due to the production shut downs.

If you make a donation to the fund anytime between now and January 31st, 2008, forward your donation receipt on to me (remember to delete the bottom portion with the amount donated and which card you slapped it on) and I’ll enter you into a raffle for whatever autographed scripts I receive from those super-hot striking writers before January 31st.

My email addie is Allyson000@aol.com (those are three zeroes, yo).

When you make your donation, please type: Cash for the Crew in the notes field so that the MPTV Fund can keep a running tally of the awesome generosity of fandom.

I’ll post a list of signed scripts as they come in.

If you’re a writer or actor and want to donate a signed script or signed headshot to the raffle, drop me an email and I’ll send you my sooper secret LA location (my home address) for mailing.

And thanks in advance for your continued awesomeness.

Questions? Email or comment!

PS: If you’re an AMPTP member and would like to prove you’re not the Montgomery Burns I’m assuming you are, please consider donating to the Fund as well.

Come on, Chernin, I’ve heard good things. Seriously, I’d even take a signed headshot. Or you could donate your brass ring.

Another year passed, and I thought of Sars and Don. I’ve no idea why this is the story that I always remember, something about it grabbed onto to my spine and won’t let go. Sars posted today that maybe, you know, Don doesn’t want to be found. But just in case, and because it’s such a mystery, help Sars find Don.

Tonight I’m going to be on The Eclectic Word with Victor Infante, sharing the spotlight with Ms. Jillian Ventures of Gothic Charm School.

I’ll be reading excerpts from Will the Vampire People Please Leave the Lobby? and answering whatever questions Victor lobs at my skull.

Tonight! Friday, Sept. 7th, at 7 p.m. EST/4 p.m.

Short note to Scientologists. Dude. We know. So stop leaving your shit on my car and in my mailbox. I’m totally okay with the dead alien in my head. His name is Bob, and on Sundays, he makes me chicken dinner. Shoo. Shoo!!

The jig is also up about astrology, numerology, santa jeebus riding a fluffy unicorn down from heaven and sprinkling us with pink sparkly fairy dust in exchange for our sins, auras, The Secret, The Force, and anything else magical that you keep trying to convince me is Totally For Reals.

Thank you for your consideration.

No Love,

Allyson

Phil Plait at Bad Astromomy has a post about the recent lawsuit filed by some employees at JPL.

If you check out the comments in Wired and at Phil’s journal, there’s a goodly amount of people in the world that would allow the government to attach electrodes to their genitals to monitor their masturbation habits “in the name of national security.”

People working on issues of national security at JPL were people who voluntarily went through high level security checks and got their Secret Level Clearances to do so. JPL provides work spaces that are specifically cleared for this purpose. It isn’t just scientists, there are secretaries who have gone through the process, because, you know, you can’t expect scientists to file their own shit. They’re paid to do science, not order copy paper, right? Which is as it should be. People not wishing to sign any scrap of privacy away to the guvmint could go work on some other project, and there are extraordinarily few cases of national security-type projects goiing on at JPL, as far as I’m aware. I mean, if there were, they’d need a SCIF bigger than the average pantry. Or perhaps a lot of lubricant to accomodate all the bodies needing private time with their natiional security thoughts. But I digress.

I was a secretary at JPL and got out right before the badging creepiness began, and was thankfully offered a great job at a new company working for lovely humans who treat me like gold and don’t require me to give up the date of my last PAP smear to order office supplies.

I was absolutely NOT a government employee at JPL. My benefits and paycheck came from Caltech. My retirement plan is with TIAA-CREF, yo. I was a government contractor.

I did not have access to any sort of sensitive data or documents. I had no access to any sort of information that would be in any way helpful to Osama, unless he needed a large supply of graph paper.

I made travel arrangements. I ordered glue sticks.

It was never made clear who would have access to our information. I wouldn’t have trusted the security office with my Ralph’s Club Card, let alone my medical records, and they were the folks collecting the paperwork.

HIPPA is a federal law, and it doesn’t seem clear to me why the government needs access to my health records to check on whether I’m good to go ahead and restock the toner cartridges.

There are about five thousand employees at JPL. A large number of them aren’t scientists and engineers with the access codes to the uranium PU-36 Space Modulator.

These are the folks who think that the internet is a series of tubes…and I’m to trust them with storing my most personal information? Seriously?

To JPL’s credit, they fought tooth and nail on both this and the random drug tests, from what I’ve heard on the rumor circuit. (You can totally handle a class B laser while doing keg stands, but if you smoked pot while on vacation in Amsterdam last month, you’re toast).

Ironically, JPL was founded by a guy who blew himself up in his garage while on a peyote vacation, and a guy who was persecuted by McCarthy during the red scare.

I would never have had the pleasure of working for JPL had this been in place when I first applied for the job. I simply wouldn’t have surrendered the information and found employment elsewhere.

If another job hadn’t come my way, they would have had to fire me.

It isn’t silly, it isn’t nothing, it isn’t “no big deal.” It’s a slippery slope that can very easily, quietly, evolve into the Frito-Lay company making such demands on the woman who seals the bags of Flamin’ Hot Cheetohs because they get their corn from a farm which receives federal subsidies.

Then you end up with the McSecurity Guards filing the paperwork and having conversations like, “Hey Bill, Maureen has bipolar and got an abortion in 1992! And Louis filed for bankruptcy and joined Gamblers Anonymous last year! Awesome!”

These things are not my employer’s business, not even if my employer gets a chunk of cash from the government (which, by the way, is also me last I checked with the by the people and the for the people and MY tax dollars, too, pal), not even if my employer IS the goverment.

Someone has to push back, and I’m glad that these folks are doing that. It’s a brave thing. I’m grateful to them.

Allow me to be very clear, if your job affects national security, you need a secret clearance. If your job involves thinking about the origins of the universe, Michael Griffin can try to keep that shiteating grin on his face while the theorist shoves a security badge up his doesn’tbelieveinglobalwarming ass.

I just posted this over at Whedonesque, forgive me for the laziness.

I did my first big reading today at Comic Con, and I have no idea how it went. I left the room before I could get sick, and all I could really hear was my heart pounding in my ears.

I also made a complete JACKASS out of myself. I saw Joss in the marketplace area of the con, where all the vendors are. I told him that I wrote this book, and there was a chapter about his cat. I think maybe he thought I was insane, but he was kind, anyway. Then I said (like a complete asshole) “someday, maybe you’ll ask for my autograph.”

Seriously. I said that. And was immediately embarassed by my own complete stupidity.

And he handed back to me with his sharpie and said, “can I have your autograph?”

Completely diffusing my total embarassment.

I signed it, and then he wandered off holding it, face out, so people could see the title.

Then I felt guilt because he had to carry my dumbass book around.

I’m in Entertainment Weekly and Huffington Post this week, and I’m still a dumbass of a wreck just trying to get a simple noun, verb, maybe a couple of adjectives out of my mouth to Joss Whedon.

It doesn’t matter how many times I tell myself he’s just another person who like, poops and stubs his toe on his kids’ tubby toys and maybe says dumb things to his heroes.

I’m still an asshat who trips on her tongue everytime I try to just say “hello.”

What’s UP with that?

It was another one of those situations where I think it all would have gone much more smoothly if I drank, and had a shot of something beforehand.

Anyway. I’m grateful that he let me escape with at least the illusion of some dignity.

I’m told that there will be a review of my book in Entertainment Weekly, available at fine news stands everywhere this Friday.

I’ve no idea if the review is good or bad or apathetic, but it matters not, since, you know, Entertainment Fucking Weekly!

I have a bunch of radio interviews scheduled, I’ll post about that, later.

I’m going to be reading from Will the Vampire People Please Leave the Lobby? at Comic Con on Sunday at 3pm in room 24A, and will hang out to sign in my own blood for the two of you who aren’t my family or friends who’ve purchased the book.

Secret message to Gracie: Be strong, baby girl. I love you.