Restaurant: Impossible Recap, Beware "Breakfast in a Can"

Restaurant: Impossible is a cable television show about professional chef (and also, professional black shirt wearer) Robert Irvine, who takes abysmal, failing restaurants that exist in every city (come on, you know that one place in town, right?), makes over the menu, chews out the staff, guts the whole damn place, and reopens it, “saved,” to a packed house that adores the new décor and the revamped menu.

There are too many good things about this show to list, chief among them, the chef himself, Robert Irvine. When I think of black shirt wearing, British TV personalities known for their sharp tongues and basic ability to not suffer fools or tolerate bullshit, I am not alone in thinking of Simon Cowell. Well take Simon Cowell, put him on an extremely demanding weightlifting program, teach him how to cook, and shape a whole show around him. RI is sort of like that.

The show opens with what can only be described as a “barely above the quality of claymation” green screen depiction of Irvine crossing his arms and walking about while a black car and sparks are generated at cartoonish levels (spies and Mission Impossible, get it?).

And then one of the best and perhaps least known quarter hours of television unfolds upon us, as Irvine surveys the current condition of the restaurant. There will be blood.

The only time I've seen him wearing not black.

In the episode I’m randomly recapping, Irvine describes a stumpy-looking owner who has a “Country Fare” restaurant that is completely failing. The owner is 520k in debt, has no formal training as a chef or manager, and has generated one profitable month in the restaurant’s 5.5 year existence. This is akin to me opening a rocket science and cold fusion combo business tomorrow. I don’t know what it is about the food industry, but everyone thinks they can do it, and they usually go broke trying. Imagine “that place” again in your hometown (again, seriously, you know the one). How many times has it reopened under another name? How many owners fail and sell to a new owner that DEFFINITELY thinks if they just served, say, Mexican fare instead, it would be a smashing success?  “The bottom line is, I don’t make good decisions,” says the owner, in a sort of understatement.

Observation: “Country Fare,” as a name, offers us insight into the creativity and “sizzle factor” that this particular owner can generate. I believe he chose this name over the others on his short list, including “Use Forks and Spoons to Eat” and “Menu of Things to Order.”

And just to note, I believe you have to sell a hell of a lot of hash browns to earn back 520k.

But our black clad hero rides to the rescue, but he enters through the kitchen, offering the beginning of what I call the “restaurant patron fantasy.” We have all had bad experiences at eating establishments, right? Bad service, bad food, rude employees, a hair in your taco, things of that nature. I don’t think a lot of us say much, we just bury it deep inside where our darkest pain resides, and decide to never eat there again.

Through Irvine, we fulfill the fantasy of stalking the restaurant, pointing out all the crap that’s wrong, and yelling at people about it. Maybe yelling isn’t the right word; he’s stern as hell, but you never get the feeling he’s trying to lambast anyone for drama’s sake. It’s a genuine frustration. The man truly expects more from these people. It’s sort of breathtaking.

In this episode, he enters through the kitchen and utters some combo of the following: “Yuck, dirt, flies, disgusting, smell, not hygienic, dirt, failure, abysmal, disgusting (again).” Talks to the owner: “Mess hall, cluster of crap, bland, dingy, yuck (again), drab.”

Now, onto his sampling of the menu. Something about hearing a guy order almost everything off the menu as a waitress scrawls it down is strangely entertaining. The funny thing is, the built-like-stone Irvine could eat it all. He interviews customers about the food as he waits. Customers (why are they there?) hate the food. He regards the food on his table. Sighs. Samples it all.

Here we have a professional chef eating “Pigs in a Blanket” and that itself is simply worth your time. The biscuits have the flavor and hardness of urinal pucks, if I am to believe the look on his face. As he samples the fried baloney (I refuse to spell it with a G) he simply . . . I don’t know . . . reacts. It looks like he’s having a stroke. On to the “Breakfast in a Cup.” (Interpolation: If this owner somehow originated the idea of putting as many disgusting foods as possible in one container, he could probably earn his money back by suing KFC since they stole his idea with their “famous bowls.”) Irvine tastes what appears to be a mixture of eggs, ham, and some sort of gravy-like product. I don’t know, it’s white, it looks like it wants to be gravy some day. He spits in the napkin. Now, this is television. You’re probably thinking, “He’s just being dramatic.” Look, I fucking believe this guy right now. He should simply walk out. He should say, “Yes, this is impossible” and get on with his life. That he is volunteering to spend 2 days dealing with this shit, he should get a medal. I’m completely serious.

Completely awesome bonus moment: Irvine forces the owner to taste the breakfast in a cup. Irvine says it’s almost pure salt. The owner takes a greedy bite, says that he tastes sausage gravy, sausage, and ham. Irvine mentions the salt. “My sense of smell and taste were completely destroyed in an oil fire,” is the owner’s response. It’s a sad moment, in a way, since he is a former Marine. But, I have to get this straight: they were destroyed just enough for you to taste the sausage and the gravy and the ham, but not the salt? Selective destruction? I’m sure there is a scientific reason for this. I’m not looking it up. And just to note, yes, a guy with no restaurant experience, no tastebuds, and no sense of smell decided to get into the business of selling people superior food. Okay then. Moving on.

Now comes the impossible part, the rebuild of the restaurant. Having seen this show at least twice before, I’m absolutely sure this “impossible” mission is truly mission “one hundred percent happening.” How much drama can they plug into this show when we know the ending? Well for one, the impossible is sort of a voluntary impossible, since the 2 day deadline is self-imposed to create drama. They schedule a “grand reopening” and work to meet the deadline. The budget is similarly constrained, capped at ten grand. If our owner could somehow borrow 520k, I’m pretty sure he could come up with an extra two grand if it came to that, right? Not on this show. Irvine treats that budget like a mom from one of those couponing shows.  

We get a half hour of our black-clad hero stalking about, instilling a sense of motivational panic in his designer, his home improvement expert, and the restaurant staff.  At no point does he sound forced. Either he’s the world’s best actor or the guy literally gives the ultimate shit about the places he’s trying to save.

Highlight: When Irvine shows the overmatched kitchen staff how to cook some new menu items. I imagine if I shot around with Michael Jordan, it would be sort of like this, only with cooking. The look in the kitchen staff’s face says, “How in the hell am I supposed to make this when you’re gone?” Our “breakfast in a can” crew is now staring at him as he makes bananas foster French toast at blinding speed with precision skill. I want to eat my TV at this point. He shows them how to cook a hamburger and how to bake an apple pie. Like anyone who’s the best at what they do, they make the difficult look easy and the easy look impressive. It’s not watching a pro cook a few basics that’s engrossing, it’s watching someone who will literally go broke if they don’t learn to cook watching a pro cook that’s engrossing. When they taste it, their face says “Oh my God this is actual food, now I remember.”

He forces them to call him “Chef,” as if it’s a military rank. In the culinary industry, I think it is. I hope so. The cries of “Yes, Chef!” bring a smile to my face.

Day 2 unfolds. He arrives in the morning, and it must be cold because instead of a black polo shirt he’s wearing a black fleece. This guy is taking the Johnny Cash dress code to the next level.

Of course everything is behind schedule. Of course things aren’t going right with the remodel. Of course we are shown how the kitchen staff completely fails at recreating his menu items as he cries out “This is garbage, do it again!” Yes, Chef. Of course there’s no way they’re going to be ready for the grand reopening. I wonder, will they somehow pull it all together at the last minute and save the place? Does a bear shit in the woods?

He explains the concept of a taster. Since the owner isn’t exactly good to go in that department, he tests the kitchen staff to see who has the best palette. He gives them a vinegarette. What do they taste? “Vinegar.” Brilliant. Shockingly, the gal who runs the kitchen is an idiot savant at food tasting. She picks up capers at one point. I’m not sure I could identify a caper if you gave me capers to eat and told me they were capers.

Robert’s big marketing hook is to implement a pie eating contest for the restaurant. Eat the whole pie in 5 minutes, get your name on a wall. Can’t eat it? Pay for the whole thing. He calls it a win-win. I agree, since I’d be eating pie either way. Say what you will about snooty cooks from Britain, they know how to appeal to middle America.

By some miracle of television editing, the diner goes from 30 percent complete to 100 percent perfect within minutes of the opening.

The owners are literally blown away by the remodel. You can tell when someone’s shitting you, and they’re not. Just like the staff was blown away by real food, this guy’s shocked that his diner now looks like an actual diner.

The line is out the door. Something tells me this is less about the Country Fare reopening and more about the fact that Irvine is inside and they might get on television.

Do I really have to mention that everyone loves the remodel, loves the food, would come here again, et al?

But what happens after Irvine leaves the restaurant in the owner’s hands again? A white-lettered crawl updates us. County Fare is still open and is moving in a positive direction, a footnote happy ending that is about as vague as you can get. I should call Country Fare right now and ask for Breakfast in a Can, just to see if they bite.

The bottom line is, America is addicted to reality television, most of which isn’t real. Chef Robert Irvine is about the most genuine reality TV star you’re ever going to encounter, and in today’s cultural landscape, that means something.

Heroes Save Cats

At the beginning of the film "Our Idiot Brother," we meet Ned at an organic fruit stand. A father is buying veggies there, his daughter in tow. Dad pays for the veggies even though Ned looks like he'd just as soon give them away for free. The daughter grabs a strawberry and eats it. Dad scolds her a little bit, saying they didn't pay for the strawberry. Dad walks away, the girl follows, but Ned calls her back to the vegetable stand and gives her an entire bowl of strawberries for free, a smile across both their faces.

I started paying attention to "Save the Cat" scenes after I read a great craft book of the same name. The book's by Blake Snyder and I recommend it for aspiring screenwriters, movie lovers, or anyone who wants to put a few more tools in the storytelling toolbox.

The crux of the "Save the Cat" scene is basically, have your hero do something great to immediately get the audience on board with them. A good save the cat scene creates an immediate connection with the hero. And in my execution of it, I've found it doesn't necessarily mean the hero has to be a likable person, but a good STC scene builds up some capital--the audience will hang with the hero through a few rough patches if they're on board with a good STC scene.

Think Pulp Fiction, where these guys don't necessarily save any cats, but rather, engage in a funny and unique conversation about hamburgers and France and whatnot. Aren't you sort of on board with these guys before they start blowing people away? Don't they seem fun to hang out with before they pull those guns out of the trunk?

Action movies typically start by putting the hero in an action-packed save the cat scene, where we not only get a dose of the action we bought our ticket for, but it establishes the heroes skills and morals. I think of Bruce Willis in Die Hard with a Vengeance, popping aspirins after a hangover, talking lotto numbers and smalltalk with the cops in the back of the truck with him, even though he's about to put himself in a life-threatening situation.

It works in books as well. In my novel The Samaritan, I didn't set out to create an STC scene, but I recognized where to start the book by asking one simple question--at what point would a reader instantly connect with my narrator? It was the chapter where he lets the cool girls in the grade school put him through a mean prank because it meant he had their attention.

No matter what the story medium, getting your audience to "go along for the ride" with your protagonist is truly an area where actions speak louder than words. And since most films contain a scene like this, usually in the first ten minutes, you can impress the hell out of your friends by keeping an eye out for it.

5 Horror Films You Probably Haven't Seen. And Probably Still Shouldn't. You've Been Warned.

Disclaimer: the films discussed briefly in this list of five are not in any particular order. Nor does their inclusion mean any sort of endorsement for quality. Selections were made in the following scientific process--sit in chair, think of the first five horror movies that most people haven't seen. The fact that they popped into my head is symbolic of their lasting impression for various reasons including their decided lack of quality or gratuitous depravity.

1 - Chaos, 2005. Ebert dropped a zero-star rating on this film and the director, David DeFalco, took offense and debated the issue, calling this a "cautionary tale." The back and forth became so heated, I rented the damn thing and haven't forgotten it since. It is unforgettable in a brutal way, with violence piled on top of grimace-inducing violence dripping from a tired film that earned its zero star rating. 

Interpolation: the next day, slightly shaken from the film, I described my physical reaction in watching it to a friend at work. He asked to borrow the DVD and returned it in almost the same physical state as I was. This film is sort of like that VHS from "The Ring," it stains you. Do not under any circumstances watch this film. Which means you probably will. 

2 - Antichrist, 2009. Lars Von Trier is known for artsy films that provoke. This one is like someone dared him to made the most cringe-inducing art film possible. If you ever want to utter the words, "I watched this critically-acclaimed artsy movie last night where Willem Dafoe get his nuts bashed with a board, and that's not the worst that happens," this is the movie for you. Comparing the violence in this film with Chaos, I asked Roger Ebert why ANTICHRIST could be unforgettable and violent and full of despair and is a good movie, and CHAOS is a bad one. He answered, "This is a good and perhaps imponderable question. I think because ANTICHRIST has a larger idea behind it." 

3 - The Descent, 2005. Saw this at a theater, thinking it was like "Open Water" only with caves. The humanoid creatures in said caves were surprising, and the lighting and claustrophobia made me want to take a shower when this one was over. I'm shocked that more people haven't seen this; I think it's one of the most effective horror films of the last decade. 

4 - The Human Centipede 2, 2011. Good God, I hate you Richard DeBrobander, the friend and culprit behind telling me the stories of the most brutal, depraved, thoughtless, pointless, destructive piece of torture porn ever put together. "It's banned in the UK," he said. I caught an advance screening with a TON of cuts made (to make it not banned anymore) and I wish I could get a mental mulligan on this one. The worst, worst, worst horror film I've ever seen. I found myself--me, Mr. Horror Movie Guy--looking away from the screen and at a few points getting queasy. I don't recommend it. Seriously. Don't see it.  "But what's it about?" Well, a parking lot attendant obsessed with the first human centipede film decides to capture 12 people and attach them, mouth to behind, to form one long . . . thing. This "surgery" is performed with rusty tools in an old warehouse. The camera does not pan away for much of it. The games he plays with his contraption are depraved and evil and make me fear for mankind, since an actual human thought of these things and put it on film.  If you watch it, you will hate me. And Richard DeBrobander. 

5 - We Need to Talk About Kevin, 2011. You haven't seen this because it's not out yet. Dark, effective, disturbing in psychological ways. A modern horror film of epic proportions that will give many parents a dark night of the soul.  

The Blacksmith of Midwestern Spirit, or, a Meditation on Illinois Heat Some May Classify as Complaint

The cliché thing to call heat is oppressive.  This is the “dark and stormy night” of heat adjectives.  Still it fits our precious, familiar, pure-evil Illinois heat.  We assign it the adjective reserved for dictators.  So be it, but there’s far more to hate and admire. 

The melt-the-road-tar days sometimes come in June, they’re always around in July, they start to accumulate come August.  Around here, there’s days you can go outside and it feels like you just opened that preheated oven to stuff in a sheet of cookies—and I hope to Christ you aren’t baking in this Godforsaken heat. 

At first, there’s a feeling out process.  We want to like it outside.  It’s not so hot in the shade, we say.  If I take it easy, I can get this lawn mowed.  I’m just washing the car, the water will help keep me cool.  I’ve seriously got to water the garden.

Not so bad, we think.  Five minutes later, when the tack of sweat starts its thin spread from your chest, your brow, the small of your back, the honeymoon’s over and you’re sick and tired of being outside—not from what you feel now, but what it’s going to be in a half hour when your shirt needs wringed out and the second shower of the day is necessary. 

The hot days have a rhythm, a sound.  When you have to turn on the air conditioner at six in the morning on your way to work, well, that’s just the heat being a pretentious prick.  The sky spans like stretched and faded denim, mostly cloudless, and what little wisps there are look tired and thirsty.  If there’s big clouds, it’s probably the purple ones on the horizon, one of those lovely heat-fed summer storms that will test your gutters and grading. 

The heat is best experienced near some genuine Illinois corn.  Listen—there’s no wind to tickle your ears, and if a glorious breeze does whimper along, it rustles the corn and you feel like you’re in some Midwestern state of Zen.  Then, you hear the bugs, a constant whine of insects singing.  I do not know what they are, but there are a lot of them, and they don’t take a breath.  They seem to love the damn heat.  Your other senses start to engage—a mouth that wants water, a tongue that tastes the salt that gathers from your needs-mopped face full of perspiration.  The humidity settles on your skin like a butterfly, present, but barely there.  Maybe not a butterfly—too gentle.  Imagine fiberglass rolls of insulation soaked with hot water.  Make a coat out of that shit, put it on, go for a jog.  That’s some sweet Illinois heat and humidity.  Forget those pussies out west with that dry heat.  They can have the butterfly metaphor, I suppose.  For our purposes, we’ll go with the heat and itch of good old fashioned pink insulation that you find in old attics and crawlspaces. 

Watch the people fight it, rebel against it.  Screw you heat, I’m playing in this charity softball tournament.  Suck my toes heat, I’m going to run this 5k race.  Kiss my ass heat, I get paid thirty bucks an hour to hold this stop sign at the construction site.  Go somewhere with a lot of people and smell the heat, the sunscreen wafting from mothers basting their children with big green bottles of No-Ad, the SPF so high it could potentially cause an eclipse if the bottle spills.  Brave souls will oil themselves, inviting UV damage, laying out on beaches, cooking like strips of bacon on a griddle of sand, hoping to make themselves look healthy and attractive by enhancing their skin cancer risk.  These are invariably 18 to 35 year old females.  Men that sunbath in this fashion are typically metrosexuals or terrible at sports, swimming, and beach games.

So add the scent of oil, maybe some fresh lakewater, of barbecue jockeys dripping sweat onto bratwurst, the brats in turn dripping fat into open flame.  Add a pinch of body odor, of armpits and musty groins, of greasy hair, and the heat carries an olfactory spice that is Illinois signature.  Other places will have their own heat-fueled stench, I was just picking out a beach because no matter what the temperature, people will be there.  Especially on holidays. 

Fourth of July holiday is typically a showdown—us and our barbecues and family outings and fairs and sports oriented outdoor activities versus July heat.  It’s a staring contest.  Who’s going to blink first?  Who’s going to pass out?  Maybe exhibit heat exhaustion?  I’ll give you a hint concerning the winner—heat doesn’t get heat exhaustion.

Heat effects are cumulative.  Look at your grass.  It doesn’t go dormant and brown right away.  It takes a few days, maybe a couple weeks.  Heat brings its lunchbucket and hardhat for weeks at a time in Illinois summers.

After a few days, spouses will snap at each other a little more quickly.  Heat causes male PMS, that cranky shortness because the heat doesn’t respond to bullying, so you have to take it out on someone.  Right?  Men are not alone. Heat changes traditional “Pre-Menstrual Syndrome” in women into the summer variety where they are capable of acts of domestic terrorism, such as giving you the silent treatment because you didn’t like her chosen “America’s Got Talent” contestant. 

A few days, you’ll find yourself groggy more often.  Wanting to sleep in more.  It tires you, beats you down, dehydrates you.  Unfortunately for Illinois, beer and coffee do not rehydrate. 

Also—not everyone can afford climate control, and several people die.  Ask any survivalist what kills you when shit hits the fan—it’s not starvation, or animal attacks.  It’s “exposure,” the generic term for being incapable of regulating one’s body temperature.  We’re fickle, us humans, wanting that seventy degree range more times than not.  How the hell did we survive this long on this planet?  How did we not skip the Midwest and figure on settling in everywhere else?  The answer is our fertile farmland, but that’s another story.

I ask people about the heat, and the consistent answer I receive is that “You get used to it.”  I have lived here my entire life, and when I go outside in heat of this caliber, I’m immediately upset because I must be wired wrong.  I’m not used to it at all.

At a softball tournament, I watched the beer garden—dirty men wrapping their heads in wet towels, drinking plastic cups of light beer, scurrying for shade as predictably as a flock of birds flies south in formation.  Some of these men lived a mere ten minutes away, but would sit for an hour, two hours, maybe three in the yes, oppressive heat, drinking those tiny beers that got warm quickly (I timed it, the beers stayed cold for probably six minutes before they were merely “cool,” and about three minutes after that would classify as “warm as piss”) and wiping the steady, constant stream of sweat, replacing their vital fluids with alcohol, the afternoon games featuring grown men pulling muscles and cramping from their bodies revolting against the heat like a damn bucking horse sick of the bridle, the slow runs to first, the non-hustle between innings as wet hats were wrung out from being soaked. 

A few smart ones drank Gatorade and water and knew the fight they were in.  Still didn’t stop the scores from staying low and a steady stream of weak hits for fast innings.  These men were worn down far before the late games started.  I must add that a few men wore visors—why they would admit that the sun was problematic by needing a visor, and then exposing the top of their head to said sun, I cannot figure out.  The visor-wearing men somehow, maintained a gel-induced sheen in their hair.  Perhaps the hairdo was so damn pretty, they couldn’t bring themselves to stifle it in a full hat, but still wanted to shield their eyes from deadly UV rays.  “But Fred,” someone is saying out there in reader land, “It’s so hot, those visor-lovers want to ventilate their heads.”  And I have seen dozens of hats with perforated holes that both ventilate and protect the full head from full sun exposure.  And also, do not make the wearer look like total douchebags.  Yes, I’m talking to you every single Division I college football coach. 

I have discussed our heat on many occasions, and it generally follows the same scripts as most weather conversations in Illinois.  There are only a few of them, and as they say there are no new stories, there are no new weather conversations.  You must take into account the quality of weather that just preceded the conversation (a few days, say, three days to a week) the current state of the weather, and the forecast for the immediate future.

A full discussion of the weather, on, say, a long elevator ride, will touch upon all three.  Let’s say, for example, we just had some good weather, not too hot, a dry 80 degree high.  But today, it’s oppressively hot, and it’s going to stay that way for a few more days.  We call this good / bad / bad, one of the finite number of weather scripts to follow.  The rule of thumb is, talk as much shit as you can about the crappy weather, and wish for the glorious state of good weather to return.  How might this sound? (This is a good time to stop and write out this dialogue yourself, as an exercise.  Did you do it?  There.  Good.  Time to check your work now). 

“Man, how about this heat?”

“I would say I was used to it, but not after that gorgeous week we had last week.”

“Yeah, they say we’re in for a few more hot days like this one, but I hope it gets back to last week’s weather real quick.”

If you tacked on the following sentence, which takes into account weather not experienced in a long time, award yourself a bonus: “We sure could use some rain” (One Point) or “It makes me wish we had those damn winter storms again,” (Insert chuckle, Two Points). 

America is lucky to have Illinois guarding the center of the country.  And my Illinois, I mean Illinois—not Chicago.  Everyone who lives here knows they are two separate entities.  It just so happens that the Emerald City of Chicago gets to elect all the officials and make all the laws, etc.  Now I love the Blackhawks and the Bulls and the Bears, I love the city, and I would love to shake my pom pom’s and have everyone get along so we could have a little state solidarity, but that’s just not going to happen, and I’m going to cast my lot with the southern portion of the state should the following hypothetical occur: 

Let’s say we get invaded.  Let’s say some enemy does themselves a hell of a job getting through the coast and start marching on the heart of America, not in a clunky Red Dawn sort of way, but a real blow-out-the-coast, we’re-marching-for-the-middle now invasion.  They would simply not be ready for the militia that lurks here, for the guerrilla warfare that would take place—could you imagine the sheer number of guns that people carry illegally in Illinois, combined with all the hunting gear, combined with the ability to fish and farm, combined with a good old sense of “This is America, Jack!”  Could you imagine these forces in the woods, angry, and the heat comes down like a scorching guillotine?  Do you want to be Invading Forces Batallion X marching through the backwoods near the Kaskaskia River, getting nailed by mosquitoes and primal screams and buckshot?  And did I mention it would be oppressively hot during this particular march, and Illinois would not give a shit?  We eat funnel cakes and ribs in this weather, motherfuckers, and that’s in the smack middle of the open sun during our countless county fairs.  This is the shade and you’re crying for a canteen of water to run up the supply line?  Game over, invasion over.

Perhaps, reader, you are from a Midwestern state and wonder why my discussion of heat is limited to Illinois, when I can throw a rock to Missouri, where the heat index is also brutalizing, and where the spirit of rebellion might be just as strong.  I am from Illinois, and journalistic integrity (along with the laziness and lack of hydration making me hesitant to do field research for this diatribe that not many will actually read all the way through) dictates that I comment only on what I have experienced, and that is within the wonderful borders of the Land of Lincoln.  

So heat can engage us in a variety of ways, and consume our minds and bodies and conversations and passions.  Yes, passions—as my invasion hypothetical above reveals, this is our land, our heat.  We own it, just like those pussies in Phoenix own their “It’s a dry heat” tagline.  My fascination with this subject is rooted in the rebellious spirit I have observed in these hot and humid times, the spirit that drives us out into the heat, consequences and comforts be damned. 

We will live and thrive and smile, and yes, I don’t give a shit how hot it is, I’m going to set fire to the fuse of this explosive fireworks bomb and watch it blow the fuck up in the sky in my backyard and hope the cops don’t come (because this is illegal in Illinois, just like carrying a handgun, we are the last state to call this an illegal act because of those Chicago democrats, no doubt) and in the morning I will walk out into the brutal and dense blanket of hot that descends from the heavens in order to clean up all the little papers and sticks from those fireworks, and I’ll break me a good goddam sweat and then cut the grass just to give the heat the middle finger. 

It’s human spirit like this that delights me, seeing it on display.  Makes me hope for another string of 108 on the heat index, just to see the resilient and joyous abandon of my fellow humans frolicking as if to ridicule our cosmic climate masters.

Global warming?  Bring it on.  Illinoisans are used to it and there aren’t any icecaps for miles around.

Blog Tour De Troops - And a Story About a Fallen Soldier

Before I get to my story, let me tell you about the bright and shining purpose of this blog—on this day, this weekend, my blog is part of a “Blog Tour De Troops” blog hop.  Home plate for the blog tour is the Indie Book Collective.  You probably just “hopped” from Rachel Thompson's blog, and the next stop is Stacey Kennedy's blog.

Thing is, I have joined forces with dozens of other authors who are doing their part to give free books and Kindles to the troops—all you have to do is comment on this blog (be sure to include your email address) and you will receive a FREE e-book of my novel, “The Samaritan,” you will be entered to win a free Amazon Kindle, and better yet—these books and Kindles aren’t just free for you, they’re free for the troops as well.  

 So to recap—if you comment, free e-book for you, free Kindle entry for you, free book for the troops, and yes, the troops are getting some Kindles as well.  And if you’re “hopping” along these blogs, you can collect dozens of diverse books for yourself and the troops, so it’s worth sharing with a few friends.

Okay, so, now onto my story of gratitude on this Memorial Day weekend.  

Memorial Day is a three-day weekend packed with folks planning barbecues and boat rides, full of images of sunshine and the unofficial start of summer.  And you’ll see a few news pieces and some Facebook posts about the true nature of the holiday—the remembrance of those troops that have died in defense of our country.  

I don’t need a special day to remember.  There’s a boy I once knew, and I think of him often.  Probably more often than I should; more often than anyone will ever realize.  His name is Torrey, and I refer to him in the past tense because he is no longer with us.

We lived in a small town of about 600 people called Patoka.  When I met Torrey, hell, he couldn’t have been any older than fourteen.  I was five years older, just getting started in college.  For a few months one summer, he was over at my house all the time (I had a younger sister—you do the math) and while I had often heard of his issues with behavior and grades in school, he always seemed bright and warm to me.  He was sniffing around my sister and my big-brother duty was to dislike him, but I couldn’t.  We would talk about music and wrestling.  He was funny, engaging, and loved Insane Clown Posse.  

There was also a period in Patoka where everyone, at the same time, seemed to want to box each other.  A few car trunks (mine included) would have pairs of gloves and headgears and there would be unsanctioned matches in parking lots, lit by headlights, those lucky enough to not be fighting getting their entertainment while the young and stupid brawlers left with headaches and ringing ears.

The circumstances of the time Torrey and I boxed isn't important.  Let’s just say I was upholding my duty as a brother, but, in almost playful fashion, I gave him a choice—we could box in my backyard or I could just give him a whipping.  He chose to box, and we did.  Torrey never threw a punch.  After about thirty seconds, I was gassed and felt the wrongness of it, and let him be.  We ate Doritos and watched television when it was over, sweaty and not saying a word, the silence meaning that the matter was settled.  

Soon, I was back to college, and as teens are prone to do, he and my sister drifted apart.  I never saw much of him after that, even after I graduated college, as I had moved out of Patoka by then.

In April 2004, Torrey died in Iraq.  He died Lance Cpl. Torrey Stoffel Gray.  I hardly recognized his picture in the paper.  It was the picture of a man, not the boy I had known.  I learned that whatever problems plagued him in his checkered past were far behind him, as he had enrolled in military school, finished his high school equivalency, and had become a Marine.  They say the events of September 11, 2001, inspired him to this course of action. They say he had blossomed into a role model, a responsible young man who planned to propose to his long-time girlfriend upon his return.

He had pushed himself to the maximum of his potential, become a Marine, become a hero, a galvanizing force for his small community.  And my lasting memory will be the time we had a boxing match in my backyard, a moment that sickens me with regret because even then, I knew the light he had inside of him.  I would have wagered that he would overcome and defeat the problems he was going through, that he would change into the exact person he would change into.  I knew this in my bones, but didn’t allow myself to believe it, not really, and still treated him badly that day.  

And he didn’t punch back.  As was his nature—he saved his action for when it was important.  His non-action spoke volumes—he and I were both dumb young boys at the time, believing in some sort of goofy masculine code, one that he was honoring by never lifting a fist to me. 

Even then, on that day, he was a soldier.  And years later, as a writer, I have written stories and journal entries trying to discover the lessons learned that day, and maybe alleviate some of the guilt I feel. I’m still discovering lessons, still feeling guilt, but the one thing I know for sure after all these years is that our men and women aren’t just “troops,” they have names and families, hometowns and backgrounds, they call came from something, threads of America that bind tightly to unify us.

On Memorial Day and many others, I think of Torrey—he is my flashpoint to feel the sacrifices of all of our troops, and a reminder to thank them for their service and sacrifice.  

Semper Fi, Torrey.  And thank you . . . you are not forgotten.   

Fred's Author Commandments

In interviews and discussions, I’ve talked about how, as a new author, I want to use it as an opportunity to really engage with people.  I’ve said a few times that “I’m a fan of readers.”  It sounds strange to some, but it is a one line summary of what I consider to be my “author commandments” when it comes  to having my book out there for the masses to consume.  Just to be clear, here is a list of some of my self-imposed commandments. 

1 – Thou shalt respond.  I’m easy to find on Twitter, Facebook, and a Google search yields my hometown, website, and email address. Every Tweet, FB message / post, email, text, call shall receive a response.  Not just about the book, but about books, writing, publishing, or anything else in general.

2 – Thou shalt be a resource.  Do you have a book club, a local library, a convention, a classroom?  I’m game.  Some writers dig the introverted style, but I like to get out there and I have no qualms speaking in public about a variety of topics.  Even if it’s just you and a friend and you want to talk shop over a beer, if I’m nearby, I’m available.  And if you’re in California or New York, today’s technology makes it easy to make things happen.  Facetime anyone? 

3 – Thou shalt keep writing.  I’m trying to keep up with blogs and tweets and Facebook, and I’m also working on my next book.  My novel’s release is not a destination, it’s a signpost on a longer journey, and one never knows where the next turn will take us. 

4 – Thou shalt appreciate.  I got to write an acknowledgments page for the novel, but the truth is, I have a deep appreciation of every single reader, whether I knew them or not, who picked up the book.  I’m also including every single person who showed up at an author event to support me.  While not all readers will try to correspond with me, I’m there for them, and I recognize that without those rabid readers out there, books would be dead and my hobby would have no outlet.  It would be incomplete.  Writing isn’t writing if there is no audience to connect with. 

5 – Thou shalt learn. The book has afforded me opportunities I never would have imagined, such as chatting and networking with so many talented and insightful authors, readers, editors, publishers, agents, producers from all walks of life.  Every encounter is an opportunity to learn and use that knowledge to further myself and my work.

Well, there’s five I can think of.  I know there’s supposed to be ten commandments, but I wouldn’t want these to get confused with the other, more popular set of ten. 

What do you think?  Do feel free to let me know if I’m missing something or totally insane.  Or cash in on the commandments I’ve set upon myself.  Look forward to hearing from you.  

The Horror, the Horror: WHC 2011

There's a scene in Rocky III when Mick sees Clubber Lang (the Mr. T character) fighting in a boxing match. Mick sees an unpolished fighter, but a hungry fighter--a fighter who wants it. What he lacks in technical skill or talent he makes up for with sheer will and desire. It's enough to make Mick remark to Rocky that he simply can't win; Clubber is too hungry, wants it too bad.

I met a lot of Clubber Langs of the author variety at the 2011 World Horror Convention in Austin, Texas.

That's not to say there weren't some incredibly polished and talented authors there, the Rockys that already wear title belts in the form of an established and successful writing career.  Only at a convention like this can you sit down after a day of gleefully soaking up useful and insightful panel discussions, ready to refresh yourself with a Texas-sized Shiner Bock, and Peter Straub sits down next to you. Being new to writing conventions like this one, I took every opportunity to chat with the Rockys--the Straubs, Jack Ketchums, Joe Hills, and many others.

Yet it was the Clubbers that I found interesting. They had a swagger to them, an incredible light in their eyes (eye of the tiger, perhaps?) and passion and enthusiasm as they spoke about their expectations. I'm thirty, yet many were younger than me--they're the next wave, full of big ideas for the future of the book and for their own futures in the world of horror and publishing in general. Conversations like this were big highlights for me. Perhaps one day, I'll be able to say, "I had a beer with that guy back when he was on the verge of busting out."

So the networking and conversations and general fanboy goodness (I love me some Stephen Graham Jones, and to chat with him and Paul Tremblay was pretty awesome) was all great, but the panels were useful and entertaining as all hell.

The panel on writing realistic violence had an array of badasses telling you how streetfights and gunfights and knifefights really went down, complete with funny stories of broken bones, blackouts, and gunfire.  A panel on horror's place in the academic world made me yearn to enroll in Stephen Graham Jones's zombie class he carries at his university.  Speaking of zombies, how about a zombie mega-panel discussion?  Enough said.  And the panel I sat on about the future of the book was an eclectic mix of folks: the established (Joe Hill, Sarah Langan), the agents and publishing types (Robert Fleck, Jeff Burk) and the "who the hell is he and what's he doing up there?" (Fred Venturini). Without rehashing the hour discussion on the matter, the future of the book is unclear but exciting.  They're not going to die, they're going to evolve.  The frontier is upon us.  Who will the pioneers be?

My money is on the Clubber Langs of the world, and their passionate pursuit for their own championship belt--that effort is going to have a big impact on the future of the book.  I count myself lucky to be in that batch, trying to make a breakthrough.  The only thing missing is a booming Survivor anthem to motivate the effort.  I suppose Eye of the Tiger will have to do.