A Three Part Problem

When I was a wee nerdling, I once attended a meeting of The Bimetallic Question. It may sound like a sinister secret society, but it’s only the Montreal incarnation of the usual sort of Sherlock Holmes fan club you’ll find sprinkled throughout the world. To this day, they get together once every couple of months in someplace suitably stodgy, talk about Sherlock Holmes, and act all Victorian. Or, if they’re particularly progressively minded, Edwardian.

A highlight of the evening is a quiz about one of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s stories. They select a sample from the canon, encourage everyone to refresh their memory, and then ask trivia questions at the gathering. The winner gets a prize, as I recall. This was so long ago, I hadn’t finished reading all sixty of the original adventures. So when I was told we’d be questioned about the contents of The Veiled Lodger, I had to skip ahead and read that one early.

“It’s not very good,” the organizer on the phone warned me in advance.

Sacrilege from a Sherlockian. It was like hearing a Trekkie admit that one of the episodes of The Original Series kinda sucked.

He was right, of course. It wasn’t very good. Conan Doyle was slipping in those last years of his life. After killing off Sherlock Holmes and then bringing him back from the dead due to public demand, his heart often wasn’t in it. There are plenty of gems to be found in those final collections, but some of the stories are lazy rehashes of earlier, better work – or worse, dull original material that lacks the spark that made the characters successful in the first place.

A tasteful illustration rather than the lured money shot modern audience might prefer.

A tasteful illustration rather than the lurid money shot modern audiences might prefer.

The Veiled Lodger is one of those latter examples. It hardly even qualifies as a mystery. Holmes and Watson are summoned to hear a confession from a woman about a case the consulting detective once looked into but didn’t solve because he was never officially engaged. It all plays out as an excuse to get to the shocking finale where the veiled lady raises her veil to reveal what’s left of her face after it got chewed off by a lion. Where’s the accompanying Sidney Paget illustration for this one, I ask you? Okay, he was dead by the time it was published in 1927, but Frank Wiles, his successor, might have come up with something appropriately grisly. I blame The Strand editors for wussing out on the opportunity to horrify its readership.

As is often the case with many characters that endure long after the death of their creators, some of the most intriguing stories were written by subsequent authors. This will irritate purists, but my favourite adventures are often ones created by writers who were free to run with the groundwork Conan Doyle laid decades before them and make sense of his often egregious continuity errors. I’m particularly fond of Nicholas Meyer’s The Seven-Per-Cent Solution and what Billy Wilder accomplished as screenwriter and director of The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes (I will forever lament the hour that was cut and largely lost by the studio).

Those examples hardly scratch the surface of what’s out there. As copyrights expired and the property slipped into the public domain, tremendous numbers of pastiches were written and filmed, including far more novels and short stories than Conan Doyle ever managed in his career. I have a good number of them, big and small, in my library. Now I’m looking forward to adding The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories in the fall – for reasons both selfish and charitable. This record-breaking collection is the largest of its type ever assembled, and will feature sixty new adventures of Holmes and Watson set in their proper time period and fitting in with established continuity (tortured as it might sometimes be).

My story, The Song of the Mudlark, will be among the sixty in this three-volume set that will be available in hardcover, paperback and eBook. All royalties will go to the Undershaw Preservation Trust which is restoring the house Sir Arthur Conan Doyle built and lived in while he was writing certain notable tales like The Hound of the Baskervilles and The Empty House (the one that revived the detective after a long hiatus). The Undershaw property is being prepared as the new location for the Stepping Stones school for children with learning difficulties, and they’ll be moving in once the renovations are done.

Undershaw back in the day.

Undershaw back in the day.

If you’d like to put in an early order and get your copy before everybody else, there’s a Kickstarter page with the usual levels of contribution, depending on how flush you feel. They blew through the initial goal of £2000 within the first couple of days, but the preferred total is £10,000, which will help enormously with the shipping costs of all these heavy tomes.

Additional information about the project and Undershaw can be had in this recent article and this interview with the publisher and editor. Stepping Stones also has a page of their website devoted to the work on Undershaw as its new home.

Rogue Gallery

So apparently I’m an internationally renowned artist. Again.

Longshot Comics will be making an appearance in Talking Pictures Blue (Voices Rising) at the Songwon Art Centre in Seoul, South Korea this coming month, from June 12 to July 12.

I just wish someone had told me.

The only reason I know about it is that it came across my Facebook feed today. Nobody linked me to it, sent me an email, gave me a call or, you know, comped me plane tickets and a hotel stay overseas. It just sort of came up. I would have scrolled right past it if I hadn’t recognized some very familiar word balloons I toiled over twenty-two years ago.

songwon

The bottom right hand corner called out to me from the morass of Facebook updates about babies, pets, politics and the dumb meme-de-jour.

To quote the mission statement for this particular exhibit, “With its point of departure in the world-wide image industries of the 19th century, this exhibition focuses on a mythical structure in contemporary thinking about mediatised images: According to this myth, artists’ pictures must ‘talk’ by themselves, or they will be considered secondary, derivative, or even irrelevant.” There’s plenty more where that came from.

So, uh, I guess if you’re in the Buk-Chon neighbourhood in the coming weeks, drop by. Take some pictures. And email them to me so I can know what I’ve gotten myself involved in this time.

My Twitter project, 140 Fantastic Characters, wrapped up recently and is now collected on its appropriate sub-page. This past week has seen the next leg commence with 140 Super Characters – just in time for summer blockbuster season when we get swamped with superhero franchise films and news about what other superhero franchise films will be clogging up screens by this time next year.

It, too, will be collected on its own page bit by bit. Or you can read the daily thread by following me on Twitter.

Badge of Honour

There was a slight delay, but Locked and Loaded: Both Barrels Vol. 3 was released last week and is now available in physical and eBook forms. I haven’t received my pulp copies yet, but this new scan reveals the back cover for the first time and something I always like to see – a negative review.

“Nightmares written from the ghetto of life,” denounces the one-star Amazon review for the previous volume of the series.lalfrontandback

I looked it up, and this particular review (the only negative one for the book, in fact) came from one Betty Jonas, currently ranked number 30,511,827 on Amazon’s top reviewer list with only three reviews to her name. So, yeah, not exactly Roger Ebert. Checking out her other opinions, I was greatly amused by her summary of The Busy Writer’s Tips on Writing Mystery and Crime, which suggested, “You never know, you, or even I, might be the next Mike Hammer.” Classic, considering Mike Hammer is a fictional character. Mickey Spillane was the actual writer who created him.

Ron, the editor, expressed his sincere hope that the current volume will inspire similarly negative reviews. And I can see his point. Why print glowing reviews when the negative ones make a book sound so much more intriguing?

Why yes, as a matter of fact, I would like to read some nightmares from the ghetto of life. I would like to hang out with one despicable character after another. And if I’m going to read trash, it might as well be pure trash. Thanks for that glowing recommendation.

Order your copy today and give Betty a hug for me.

Calling Shotgun

It’s been eventful on the crime-fiction front for me lately. The Exile Book of New Canadian Noir is now on shelves (if, indeed, you can still find shelves with physical books for sale – otherwise you can buy it as an eBook from various outlets). Corey Redekop’s mini-interview with me about the anthology has been up for a while. I probably could have written a separate book answering the question “What does ‘noir’ mean to you?” but who has the time to read it, let alone write it? Some people have a very loose interpretation. Unsurprisingly, my definition is married to the concept of film noir which, itself, has been broadly and loosely defined by others. This may have to be a topic for a blog post at some future date because I get asked, far too often, by cinema luddites, “What’s film noir?” whenever I bring up the subject. Yeah, I’ll get around to that right after I try to explain what a spaghetti western is to everybody.

“The View from Inside the Pocket” is my latest short story to appear on Shotgun Honey. It makes its debut today. You can go there now to read it and heaping piles of other crime stories, including two more of my own.

Also from One Eye Press, the cover for Locked and Loaded: Both Barrels Volume 3 has been announced. This new anthology is slated for release on April 21, and will feature my story “Young Turks and Old Wives” among many others. It will be available from the usual suspects.

Shotgun Honey's official mascot (unofficially Frigga from Thriller: A Cruel Pictures AKA They Call Her One Eye AKA Hooker's Revenge) makes a return appearance for the cover of Volume Three.

Shotgun Honey’s official mascot (unofficially Frigga from Thriller: A Cruel Picture AKA They Call Her One Eye AKA Hooker’s Revenge) makes a return appearance for the cover of Volume Three.

Nobody’s Role Model

I first saw Raiders of the Lost Ark the day after my 13th birthday. In Quebec the film was rated 14-and-over for violent content, which means I shouldn’t have been allowed in. But the movie gods smiled on me that year and my school ID came back in its laminated plastic tomb badly cropped, with the last digit of my birth date missing. All I had to do (and do often) was lie to the ticket vendor about what that final number was supposed to be and they couldn’t deny me entry to this or any number of another inappropriately violent, gory or sexy films.

Much as I was a James Bond devotee, the adventures of Indiana Jones won me over instantly, and I’ve been along for the ride, through the ups and mostly downs of the series, ever since. To appreciate the Indiana Jones oeuvre, and its various incarnations in books, comics and tv shows, you have to understand two very important things about the character.

1)      He’s a complete prick.

2)      He’s a bad archaeologist.

Audiences let him get away with a lot of shit because he’s played by Harrison Ford, who happens to be a big star with a charming smile. But ignore the handsome face and just look at all his character moments, on screen and referenced by others, and you’ll quickly appreciate that he’s an unscrupulous treasure hunter, a mercenary for hire, a grave robber, and often a bit of a sadist. He’s also not very nice to the ladies. It’s why, as follow-up films go, I prefer Temple of Doom in which he openly cops to seeking fortune and glory, to Last Crusade that tries to (literally) paint him as a Boy Scout.

I just brutally murdered someone in the most violent way possible. It's a good day to be me!

I just brutally murdered someone in the most violent way possible. It’s a good day to be me!

The fact that Disney now owns the rights to the franchise and plans to recast and churn out a bunch of new adventures is fine by me. I know some fans are up in arms, but hey, maybe we’ll get another good movie or two out of it. It could happen. You can’t argue that all the Bond films since Connery left the role have been crap. You can’t even argue that all the Bond films starring Connery are great. Or that all the Indy films starring Ford are great. Or good. Or even adequate.

Yes, even the original Raiders of the Lost Ark, undisputed Hollywood classic that it is, has holes in it. The Big Bang Theory fired a major shot across its bow when one character proposed that Indiana Jones has no role in the outcome of his own film – that things would have played out, much as they did, with or without him. Putting aside the argument that the story is really about a guy reconciling with his old girlfriend (his statutory rape victim, in fact) after ruining her life, others have disputed the Big Bang interpretation.

One such recent article points out that Indiana Jones’s story arc in his first cinema outing is one of character rather than action. And I’m sure there are other defending essays to be found by the hundreds out there in the interwebsland.

They’re all wrong, of course. Here’s my version of the story, which is, quite obviously, the correct one.

The idea that Indiana Jones has no major impact on the plot of Raiders of the Lost Ark is ludicrous – that if he weren’t involved in the story at all, the Nazis would have found the Ark, opened it on the island, and been wiped out regardless. It’s a silly premise that ignores the facts. By attempting to thwart the nefarious Nazi plans throughout Raiders, not only did Indiana Jones have significant impact on the events surrounding the Ark of the Covenant, he actually managed to fuck up world history and condemn tens of millions of innocent people to death.

Some hero.

Don’t believe me? Look again. The whole idea of taking the Ark to the island for a sneak preview was Belloq’s, and only happened because Indy’s constant interference prevented the Ark from being shipped out of Egypt in a timely fashion. Until Indy’s penchant for violence and ineptitude blew the whole thing up, the plan was to send the Ark directly to Berlin on the Flying Wing. German high command would have had it safely out of the hands of any and all grubby archaeologists in short order, and Belloq, if he wanted to be present at the opening at all, would have been stuck trying to thumb a ride on the next plane out.

And what would have happened then? The Ark would have been opened, as originally intended, in front of Hitler and the entire senior staff of the Nazi Party, wiping them all off the face of the Earth via God’s wrath, ending their stranglehold on Germany in 1936 and preventing World War II (at least in the European Theatre) from happening at all. The Pacific war might have still been on, but then again, perhaps not. Would Japanese aggression against British holdings in the Pacific have been so bold if England and her navy weren’t occupied by the Blitz and the Battle of the North Atlantic? Yeah, maybe Indy fucked over everybody on that side of the world too, come to think of it.

This can hardly be construed as an isolated incident of Indiana Jones ruining the 20th century for the rest of us. If you take his historic interference in The Young Indiana Jones Chronicles to heart (in which we see our hero incapable of going to his front porch to collect the morning paper without running into five historic figures and shagging one or two of them) then there’s no end of misery and suffering this globetrotting asshole has inflicted on the world.

Regardless of who writes, directs or gets cast for future Indy outings, I look forward to them explaining how Indiana Jones personally crashed the Hindenburg, lost the Viet Nam war for America, and unleashed the AIDS epidemic, all while trying to get his greedy mitts on some antiquarian doohickey because “It belongs in a museum!” rather than the country and culture of origin.

Some hero. My hero.

You Waited Too Long

I haven’t been much use to anybody these last few days. I’m still trying to catch up on my sleep after staying up very late several nights in a row, trying to finish Breaking Bad. Yeah, Breaking Bad, a show that’s been over since 2012. I’d been making my way through the series slowly, successfully avoiding spoilers, but I knew I was pushing my luck. Somebody was bound to spoil something about the plot, especially with the spin-off show, Better Call Saul, now airing and already renewed.

Then I was watching Saturday Night Live last week, the one with Dakota Johnson promoting that newer, crappier version of Nine 1/2 Weeks for the 21st Century. There was one sketch featuring a character’s reaction to the mere mention of Breaking Bad – “No spoilers, I haven’t seen it yet.” At that moment, another character pops into frame and announces, “You waited too long.”

My Spidey sense was already tingling. I had my fingers in my ears, blotting out any residual sound by loudly exclaiming, “BLAH BLAH BLADDY BLAH!” because I knew the next words spoken on my television would be a HUGE spoiler. I dodged that bullet, but I took it as a sign. I had to get Breaking Bad off my plate once and for all, so I overdosed on it. Now I have Heisenberg and Pinkman on the brain and I’m walking around everywhere calling people “bitch” and telling them we need to cook. But at least I’m through it. I know what happens. You can’t spoil it for me anymore.

Which begs the question – which other TV series do I need to get through before somebody opens their big mouth? The Walking Dead is a spoiler time-bomb with every episode, as is Game of Thrones. The only solution there is to remain current. As for other shows that have already run their course, there’s a lot to choose from. Dexter already spoiled itself by ending badly, but I’ve seen that series finale and lived to regret it.

I think my next spoiler-free viewing binge should be Rome. I’ve been meaning to get back to that before it comes up in conversation and somebody in earshot says something stupid and ruins a surprise. Call me crazy, but I already suspect things don’t work out so well for Julius Caesar in the long run. Or Mark Antony either. And yet, somehow, I’m betting that Octavian kid goes on to bigger, better things. Just a hunch.

Considering that one has been off the air since 2007 and all the major plot lines were resolved over 2000 years ago, I really have waited too long.

The Exile Book of New Canadian Noir is now available for order through Amazon (.ca or .com). My story, “Choke the Chicken,” begins on page 116. Get to it before you hear any spoilers like, for example, that it really is about a chicken despite being a noir story. You wouldn’t want some asshole blurting out a thing like that anywhere near you before you’ve had a chance to read it for yourself.

Fear of a Black Cat

At last, there’s photographic evidence that The Exile Book of New Canadian Noir physically exists.

I did not take this photograph, this is not my copy of the book, that is not my cat.

Photo by (presumably) co-editor David Nickle.

Photo by (presumably) co-editor David Nickle.

But if the editors are getting theirs, my own contributor copy should be arriving in the post sometime soon. The anthology will be on bookstore shelves in March. My short story, “Choke the Chicken,” will be in each and every copy of the book. Cats are sold separately.

You Never Call, You Never Write

Sometimes I wonder why I still own a phone. You know, one of those landlines that plugs into the wall and only ever rings for wrong numbers, telemarketers and old people. I’d chuck it, but it’s the only phone I own. I don’t have a cell or a smart phone or one of those 1967 Star Trek communicator thingies – whatever the state of the art is. Never had one, never wanted one. I have enough things in my life trying to give me a brain tumour.

Sometimes, every few weeks, I’m reminded why I let this thing take up a few inches of valuable real estate on my desk. I get a call. A special call. One of THOSE calls.

A long distance ring, an unfamiliar number on the call display.

I answer. Say nothing.

Caller: Hello?

Me: Yes?

Caller (reading from a script with a heavily accented, halting call-center voice): Hello, my name is Melvin. I am calling because our records show that your computer is currently downloading an infection.

Me (instant full-volume screaming hysteria): OH MY GOD, AN INFECTION!!!!???!!!!

Pause. Silence on both ends. Momentarily shaken, “Melvin” returns to his script.

Caller: Yes, an infection. We wanted to let you know…

Me (instantly back to full-volume screaming hysteria): I’LL GET RIGHT ON IT!!!! THANKS MELVIN!!!!

I hang up.

My wife missed my performance because she was down the hall, behind a closed door, with the air conditioning and headphones on.

I’m afraid this moment was between you and me alone, Melvin. But it was good for me. Was it good for you?

These guys call at regular intervals. They’re not telemarketers, they’re criminals. Fishing for gullible tech-unsavvy rubes they can remotely manipulate into downloading a virus or malware under the guise of unsolicited technical assistance. What nefarious purpose lies in the code they so desperately want to get onto my computer, I don’t know. Maybe they’re after online banking information, identity-theft data. Or maybe they just want an algo running in the background that will get me to look at more ads for boner pills. I don’t know. I don’t want to find out.

They’re sitting in a call centre on the other side of the planet, safely out of any jurisdiction that might try to come after them, being paid a pittance for what amounts to cold-call sales of evil intent. I’d pity them if they weren’t trying to fuck up my life. But since they are trying to fuck up my life, I might as well milk them for some entertainment value.

Much as I enjoyed my interaction with “Melvin,” it was all over too quickly. I resolved to work on my stamina for the next time I got a call from one of his compatriots. The problem was, I never knew when they might come, when they might catch me. Would I be prepared, would I be on my game, would I be able to slip into character at an instant’s notice? Several weeks later, the phone rang again with another indecipherable number.

I had, I was told, downloaded a new virus that, fortunately, this anonymous stranger could attend to if only I followed his careful instructions.

Me: A virus?

Caller: Yes, I virus. You must take care of this or we will have to shut down your internet.

Me (giving a purposely stilted, absolutely flat line-reading): Please don’t shut down my internet! I sure wouldn’t want that!

Caller: I need you to press a key on your keyboard.

Me: Which key is that?

Caller: You see the key next to the control button on the left-hand side? What is it?

Me: “W.”

Caller: That’s the Windows key.

Me: No, it’s the “W” key. I have a custom keyboard.

I actually don’t, but this throws him.

Caller: Do you have Windows?

Me: I sure do! Box-frame, crank. You can see right through them.

This also throws him.

Caller: What do you see on your screen?

Me: Well, this is rather embarrassing, but it’s pornography.

Caller: What is it?

Me: Porn.

Caller: I am going to get my supervisor. Please hold.

Me: Okey-dokey!

Apparently pornography issues were reserved for a higher pay grade. The next voice that came on the line was a little more polished, a little less accented. By this time I had relocated to my wife’s office so she could listen in on my tech-support call. She’s a tech professional of the less-malignant type, so this shit amuses the hell out of her.

Unfortunately, having her listen to me do an improve workshop with an unsuspecting tele-scammer gave us both the giggles. Chortling into the ear of my long-distance confidence trickster might have spoiled the solemn mood of my serious computer problems and I nearly choked myself trying to supress a laugh. This led to a horrible coughing fit I was more content to direct into the phone’s mouthpiece.

Me (apologizing earnestly): I’m sorry, I have tuberculosis.

Despite upgrading to a “supervisor,” the quality of the crackling phone line remained poor.

Me: You know, for a telecommunications company, this is a terrible connection.

Supervisor: What?

Me (louder, so he can hear over the static): The connection is really bad!

Supervisor: We are having problems with our central communications hub.

Me: That must be very embarrassing.

Supervisor: I will call you back.

Me: Sure thing.

We were reconnected a minute later. The phone line was hardly improved.

Supervisor: Is that better?

Me: No.

Supervisor (undeterred): What do you see on your screen?

Me: As I mentioned earlier, it’s pornography.

Supervisor (unfazed – which is probably why he was the “supervisor”): Press the Windows and R key as in “Roger.”

Me (not doing it): Okay.

Supervisor: What do you see?

Me: I see…The Matrix.

Supervisor: What?

Me: It’s all ones and zeroes and they’re floating up the screen.

Supervisor (baffled): What do you see?

Me: The Matrix. It’s green.

Supervisor: Green, sir?

Me: Yup.

Supervisor: You need to restart your computer.

Me: Oh yeah?

Supervisor: Restart your computer and let me know when it comes back on. I’ll hold.

Me: Okay.

When in doubt, reboot. He sure knew his stuff. I carried the phone extension into the next room.

Me: Are you still holding?

Supervisor: Yes, sir.

Me: Okay, hold the line and I’ll let you know as soon as it comes back on.

Supervisor: Yes, sir.

I set the phone down and returned to my office to continue work. I checked back twenty minutes later.

Me: Still there?

He wasn’t. So I hung up the phone.

They haven’t called back since, and I find myself missing these interactions terribly. It’s been four months since our last exchange, and so far, nothing. Did my sarcasm break through the language/culture barrier and land me on the “Do not call this asshole” list? The possibility has troubled me. I miss Melvin and the rest of the call-centre crew, I really do. Every time an unrecognized or blocked number appears on my call display, I snatch up the phone eagerly, hoping for a repeat performance from my favourite gang of international compu-criminals. But it’s never them. It’s just some routine telemarketer, a wrong number, a robocall. Or family.

How utterly disappointing.

Even as I was in the middle of writing this, the phone rang. It was a local number, but one I didn’t know. I picked up, hoping it was somebody trying to rob me or con me or waste my time.

It was my old university, trying to solicit a donation from me. So I guess it was a little of all of the above.

It’s something. I’ll take it.

“Come Back, Shane!”

A line from a movie I’m named after keeps haunting me. Mostly because it gets parroted by people of a certain generation whenever I’m introduced – as happened again just last month. Serves me right for attending a party dominated by baby boomers.

But, yes, it’s true, I’ve been AWOL, AFK, Gone Baby Gone for the last little while. Working on finishing stuff and letting my blogging duties slide. Important and laughable stories have gone by without me offering my own take on them. I’ve had to fill my usual quota of snide, condescending remarks by directing them at friends instead, which is always so appreciated. But perhaps it’s better not to have added to the endless onslaught of jabs and disinformation over the whole Sony-Hacking-Interview-International-Incident fiasco. One or two more articles might yet tip the balance of web content away from cat videos and porn and break the entire internet. And not just for North Korea this time.

It’s too late in the year to try to make up for missed opportunities, so better to concentrate on accomplishing more in 2015. Until then, I’ll mention that my Twitter project 140 Horrible Characters has been concluded and collected. I’m now on to 140 Fantastic Characters which will carry me well into next year. What genre comes after that? Follow me and find out.

A photo from earlier this year where I was, apparently, walking point along the Ho Chi Minh trail. Or maybe it was just an overgrown path in Montreal. Yes, come to think of it, I don’t remember travelling to south-east Asia or participating in the Viet Nam war lately.

A photo from earlier this year where I was, apparently, walking point along the Ho Chi Minh trail. Or maybe it was just an overgrown path in Montreal. Yes, come to think of it, I don’t remember travelling to south-east Asia or participating in the Viet Nam war lately.

The Usual Suspects

Last week, Montreal thespian Tristan D. Lalla got pulled off a city bus by the cops, surrounded by squad cars, placed in handcuffs, searched and questioned. All this in the middle of a busy street, in front of all sorts of strangers, to his great embarrassment. His crime? He matched a vague description of somebody who had just committed a crime. Our intrepid police force, always on the vanguard of criminology, decided their armed-robbery suspect might be fleeing the scene, one stop at a time, on a bus.

You can read the account of his fun commute here. Spoiler alert: he wasn’t the armed robber they were looking for.

It got me thinking: hey, I got detained by the cops once because I matched the description of a suspect they were looking for. No backup squad cars converged. I wasn’t handcuffed or searched. My questioning consisted of a few polite inquiries as to where I was heading, followed by a computer search of my I.D. to confirm there were no warrants or arrest records. After about twenty minutes of waiting, which I’m sure was mostly a test to see if I’d make a run for it, they decided I wasn’t the guy they were looking for and sent me on my way.

It was a very different experience, worlds apart. I wonder why. Well, here’s a hint: the last time I saw Tristan, he was on stage playing Othello.

That’s right, he got hassled because he’s an actor. You, see they’re considered a much greater potential threat than writers. It’s a good thing Tristan didn’t tell them he performed in some of Ubisoft’s Assassin’s Creed games or he would have gotten the taser.

We simply must stop this shameless profiling of actors by the police. I know they have a reputation for being coked-up sexual deviants who deliver bad dialogue in terrible movies, but they’re not all bad. I swear I’ve met some good ones from time to time, and they’re just like the rest of us. More or less. I wouldn’t want one marrying my daughter, but I’d be cool with them being friends. Maybe not best friends but, you know, friendly.

So please, Montreal cops, cops everywhere, stop this persecution of our acting underclass. The deck is already stacked against them and they have enough to contend with. If it’s not you and your petty prejudices, it’s film and theatre critics. Must they face your bullets as well as their barbs? Thank you.

ADDENDUM: This just in. Tristan was not cuffed and searched because he’s an actor. Huh. Well then why else…

Oh.

Oh dear.

Sigh.

Mike Stamm, director of Ashes to Ashes, has a Kickstarter project going for his short animated film, The Ottoman. I’ve been following this story for years and it looks like the crew just needs that final financial push to bring it home. Fans of Steampunk and mechs smashing each other to bits should take note and check out the production blog and the existing footage.

ottoman